week—Wednesday, we believe—which never fails to bring a number of our
veterans to the old bridge, wet or dry, cloud or sunshine, westling
wind or downright nor’-easter. On such occasions they have company in
the shape of a limited number of widows, most of them also well up in
years, who, let us remark, deserve a full share of whatever sympathy
we may be disposed to grant to our cronies of the other sex. The
occasion of this special weekly gathering is one which a stranger would
consider eminently sad and painful. They are waiting to receive their
dole from the relieving officer, who, having many districts to visit,
and no sheltered stations at any of them, is compelled to perform his
interesting duty in the open air. The poor old souls, especially in bad
weather, look anxiously down the road for the appearance of the gig
and gray pony which conveys their ‘father,’ as, with a kind of grim
humour, they have styled the official. Knowing them as we do, however,
and their general cheerfulness and contentment, we are not disposed
to claim any undue commiseration for their lot in this respect. The
distressing side of such a scene presents itself to the reflecting
onlooker rather than to themselves. They have drifted gradually—in
almost every case be it said by sheer stress of circumstances—into the
condition of outdoor paupers, and their wants have vanished one by one
with the decrease of their means. Besides, none of them is altogether
dependent on the parochial allowance. One has several grandchildren who
earn a little; another has a married daughter who struggles to spare a
trifle; and a third has a wife, younger and stronger than himself, who
goes out as nurse or charwoman; while all of them are the objects of
many small kindnesses at the hands of their better-off and sympathetic
neighbours. Their actual aliment indeed contrasts favourably with
that of several others, whose pinched incomes, derived from their own
savings, place them outside the pale of both public and private charity.
The humble annals of some veterans of the latter class are, when
rightly read, the record of doughty deeds, of amazing fortitude, and
unwavering self-respect. Their old age is beset with petty cares that
might daunt the hearts of younger men and women. Some are entirely
alone in the world, having outlived kith and kin. They have to pinch
and scrape, in the sternest and least lovely sense of that phrase, to
make ends meet. Their daily anxiety is to keep out of debt; a dinner
here and a supper there are ceded in the struggle, but there is no
thought of surrender while life lasts. One old lady (we use the title
advisedly, although she is only the widow of a jobbing carpenter) is
now in her eighty-second year. She has buried all her family except
one son, who is the village scapegrace and a sad thorn in his mother’s
side. The cottage she occupies is her own; but her entire income from
several other small properties is, when cleared of charges, only some
seventeen pounds a year. She has no word of complaint to make, however,
and her philosophy may be summed up in the few words she said to us
the other day: ‘I am hearty for my years, sir. I have been able to pay
my way all along and, God willing, I shall to the end. My only trouble
is about Harry, and who knows but he may alter yet?’ Brave old heart
and brave old comrades, who thus stand firm and undaunted in the last
assault of the world and its cares!
But whatever their lot and whatever claim some may have to special
interest and regard, the mere fact that they are all veterans in the
great human array, entitles them without distinction to the sympathy of
a younger generation. What need to pry too closely into their careers?
To what purpose the reflection, that this one or that one did not
acquit himself according to the strict standards of thrift, prudence,
or perseverance? Let us accept the helplessness of age, which may have
been reached through failures and weaknesses, in the same tender spirit
that we do the helplessness of childhood, whose inherent weaknesses are
yet untried. They are all under the wall now whose shadow lengthens
across their forms in the setting of the sun. May the light of human
sympathy also linger with them to the end, till veteran after veteran
has quitted the old bridge for his long home, and his earthly haunts
know him no more.
* * * * *
Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
* * * * *
_All Rights Reserved._
* * * * *
[Transcriber’s note—the following changes have been made to this text:
Page 348: beaf to beef—“corned beef”.]