applicants who, after long residence in this country, had fallen into a
distressed condition at an age when they were unable any longer to
maintain themselves by their own exertions, the society instituted the
almshouses at Lower Norwood. There is now an impression among the
directors of the charity that their intentions may be carried out in
future by some better method than placing a number of aged and
frequently infirm persons in a comparatively remote group of dwellings,
where they are peculiarly lonely, and lack frequent personal attention
and general sympathy. There can be no doubt that almshouses have
frequently been associated a little too closely with that monastic or
conventual practice with which they mostly originated, and that the
retirement, almost amounting to seclusion, into which the inmates of
such places are removed, may be very far from affording to the aged the
kind of asylum which they most desire. Alas, in many instances, to be
placed in an almshouse is to be put out of the way,--to be conveniently
disposed of; with the inference that every possible provision has been
made for comfortable maintenance. Thus, susceptibilities are quieted.
The aged pensioners are supposed to be periodically visited; their wants
attended to by somebody or other who "sees that they are all right," and
the whole matter is conveniently forgotten, except when a casual
traveller passes a quaint, ancient, mouldy-looking, but still
picturesque block of buildings, and inquires to what charity they
belong; not without a kind of uneasy fancy that there is a custom in
this country of burying certain old people before their time--shutting
them out of the light and warmth of every-day companionship; or, to
change the metaphor, making organised charity a kind of Hooghly, on the
tide of which the aged, who are supposed to be nearing the end of their
mortal life, are floated into oblivion until the memory of them is
revived by death.
It is no part of my intention to represent that the almshouses at Lower
Norwood bore such a significance, but the conditions to which I have
referred appear to be so inevitable where places like these are
concerned, that I cannot question the good sense of the directors of the
Charity in determining to supersede them, and to carry on the work by
annual or monthly pensions only. On behalf of the few remaining inmates
of these queer, half-deserted, and failing tenements, it was desirable
that the proposition should be acted on at once, and a more comfortable
provision be made, at least, for those who wait on, with constantly
deferred hope, doubly heart-sickening when so little time is to be
counted on, in which something will be done before the houses
themselves, crumbling to decay, become but a type of their own forlorn
old age.
It is with some such thoughts as these that I stand at the entrance to
the green, with last year's weedy aftermath still dank and tangled with
wind and rain. The queer little one-storied dark-red houses of the
quadrangle bear a melancholy resemblance to a set of dilapidated and
discarded toys, the box for which has been lost. They are built, too, on
a kind of foreign-toy pattern, with queer outside staircases, leading to
street-doors under a portico, which is the only entrance to the upper
storey, the lower doors in the quadrangle communicating only with the
ground-floor. The crunch of my footsteps along the moist path, gives no
echo; the place seems to be too dull and lifeless even for that kind of
response. The left wing and far the greater portion of the centre block
are still with the silence of desertion. Peering through the dim leaden
casements, I see only small, bare, empty rooms. There is a sense of
mildew and of damp plaster peeling from the walls,--of leaky
water-pipes, and a humid chill, which no glowing hearth nor bright July
weather could utterly subdue. Such is the feeling with which the whole
place strikes me on this leaden wintry day, when the vapour from the
engine on the railway trails slowly upward to meet the ragged edge of
the dun cloud that streams slowly downward; when a big, black dog
crouches on the threshold of the village chandler's shop, to get out of
the drizzle; and the butcher, who has sold out, closes his half-hatch,
with the certainty that he may take his afternoon nap by the fire,
undisturbed by customers.
Even when I pause before one of the little narrow portals to which I
have been directed, there are few more signs of life, except that at the
same moment I hear other footsteps behind me, and a baker stop to
deliver a loaf. This is promising, as far as it goes, and enables me to
present myself unostentatiously, under cover of the baker's basket, to a
lady who opens the door. Unless I am greatly mistaken, that lady has a
French face, and as it is a French lady for whom I am to inquire, I
begin to think I have come to the end of my quest. It is evident,
however, from the surprised questioning look which greets my appearance,
that visits from strangers are not of very frequent occurrence there. I
can trace in the rather shrinking recognition accorded to my request to
see the lady to whom I bring an introduction, the sensitiveness that
belongs to that kind of poverty which has learned to endure in seclusion
reverses that would be less bearable if they were exposed to a too
obtrusive expression of sympathy. It is a positive relief to be left
alone for a minute, standing in that narrow lobby, looking into a room
which has the appearance of a disused scullery, while my errand is made
known in another room on the right, to which I am presently bidden. It
is a poor little place enough; poor, and little, and dim, even for an
almshouse, and scarcely suggestive of comfort though a bright fire is
burning in a grate, which somewhat resembles a reduced kitchen-range,
and though the table which stands beneath the casement bears some
preparations for the evening meal, and the cheap luxury of a cut orange
on a plate. The walls are dim, the ceiling cracked and discoloured by
the evident overflow of water in the room overhead; the furniture
consists of a kind of couch which may do duty for a bed by night, and of
two or three Windsor chairs, one of which has already been placed for
me. It is a poor place enough; and yet the lady to whom I am at once
introduced is ready to do its honours with a grace and dignity that well
become her appearance and her name. Madame Gracieuse B----, for more
than forty years resident in England, and speaking English with a purity
of accent that is only rivalled by the more perfect music of the French
in which she addresses me, has passed the threescore years and ten which
are counted as old age. Yet seeing her sweet, calm face; her smooth,
broad, intelligent brow; the mild, penetrating scrutiny of her gentle
eyes; the soft hair put back under the quaint French cap, shaped like a
hood; those years remain uncounted; until, with a pleasant smile, only
just too placid for vivacity, she tells how she came to this country in
1830, after the ruin of the fortunes of her house by the revolution
which dethroned Charles X., and made her a governess in England, where
so many of the old nobility sought a refuge and a home.
But before this is said, she has presented me to a third lady--to whom,
indeed, my original introduction extended--already long past the limit
of that short period which we call long life; for she is more than
eighty years old, and by reason of the infirmity which has lately come
upon her, does not rise to receive me, but remains seated in the couch
by the fire. It is a very limited space in which to be ceremonious; but
were this lady sitting in one of a suite of grand rooms in some
aristocratic mansion, with all the surroundings to which her birth, her
high connections, and the recollection of her own personal
accomplishments entitle her, she might not lack the homage which too
often only simulates respect.
It is possible that she may long ago have learned to assess it at its
true value, for she has seen it at a court where it could not save a
king from banishment; and if we may judge from a face with strong
determined lineaments, a brow of concentrated power, and eyes the light
of which even the recent paralysis of age has not extinguished, she has
been one who could undergo exile, poverty, and even the sadder calamity
of being forgotten, with a wonderful endurance.
Yes, Madame la Comtesse Maria de Comoléra, friend and fellow-student of
that Madame Adelaide whose name has become historical, when your father
was Monsieur l'Intendant of the Duc d'Orléans, and when you lived within
the atmosphere of the French court, spending quiet days at the easel in
your painting-room, or preparing the delicate _pâte_ of Sèvres
porcelain, on which to paint the roses and lilies that you loved, the
grim visions of exile and poverty may never have troubled you. When the
house of Bourbon crumbled, and you escaped from the ruin it had made,
you had still your art left to solace, if not to gladden you; and for a
time at least you lived by it, and took a new rank by the work that you
could do. There were flowers in England, and your hands could still
place their glowing hues on canvas. Witness those pictures of yours that
now hang on the walls of the gallery of the Crystal Palace, or adorn
some private collections. Witness, too, the recognition of some of our
own painters when Sir Charles Eastlake was president of the Royal
Academy, and when you found a friendly patron in Queen Adelaide of
gentle memory. Alas, the hand has lost its cunning; and if its work is
not altogether forgotten, those who look upon it are unaware that you
are living here in this poor room--pensioner of a charity which, were it
but supported as it might be, could better lighten your declining years.
Yet I will not call you desolate, madame. Two faithful friends are with
you yet. The sunset of your calm life, whereof the noon was broken by so
terrible a storm, is dim enough; but it goes not down in complete
darkness. Gentle and admiring regard survives even in this dull place;
and with it the love that can bring tears to eyes not over ready to weep
on account of selfish sorrows, and can move ready hands to tend you now
that your own grow heavy and feeble.[2]
As I become more accustomed to the subdued light of the room, I note
that amidst the confusion of some old pieces of furniture or lumber
there are pictures, unframed and dim, leaning against the walls. One of
them--a large painting of some rare plant, formerly a curiosity in the
Botanical Gardens at Regent's Park, while the rest are groups of flowers
and fruit. Just opposite me, on the high mantel-piece, the canvas broken
here and there near the edges, obscured by the dust and smoke that have
dulled their surface, are two oil-paintings which I venture to take down
for a nearer inspection. Surely they must have been finished when madame
was yet in the prime of her art. Exquisite in drawing, delicate in
colour, and with a subtle touch that gives to each petal the fresh
crumple that bespeaks it newly-blown, and to fruit the dewy down that
would make even a _gourmet_ linger ere he pressed the juice. It is
almost pain to think that they are left here uncared for; and yet, who
knows what influence their presence above that dingy shelf may have upon
the wandering thoughts and waning dreams of her who painted them when
every new effort of her skill was a keen delight?
Nay, even as I hold them to the light, and in a pause of our chat
(wherein Madame la Comtesse speaks slowly and with some difficulty) say
some half-involuntary words of appreciation, she has risen, and stands
upright by the fire with an earnest look in her face and a sudden
gesture of awakened interest. The artistic instinct is there still,
after more than eighty years of life, and the appreciation of the work
animates her yet. Not with a mere vulgar love of praise (for Madame is
still la Comtesse Comoléra even though she spends her days in an
almshouse), but with a recognition that I have distinguished the best of
the work that is left to her to show. I shall not readily forget the
sudden look of almost eager interest, the effort to speak generous words
of thanks, as I bow over her hand to say farewell, and feel that I have
been as privileged a visitor as though madame had received me in a
gilded _salon_, at the door of which a powdered lacquey stood to
"welcome the coming--speed the parting guest."
And so with some pleasant leave-takings, and not without permission to
see them again, I leave these ladies--the fitting representatives of an
old nobility and an old _régime_--to the solitude to which they have
retired from a world too ready to forget.
If by any means for the solitude could be substituted a pleasant
retirement, and for the sense of desolation and poverty a modest
provision that would yet include some grace and lightness to light their
declining days, it would be but little after all.
[1] Since this was written the Almshouses have been closed, and their
two or three remaining inmates "lodged out."
[2] Since these lines were written, Madame Comoléra has gone to her rest.
_WITH THEM THAT GO DOWN TO THE SEA IN SHIPS._
It is possible that those portions of the sacred history which have
reference to the association of our Lord Jesus Christ with ships, and
the wonderful portions of the great narrative where the Divine Voice
seems, as it were, to come from the sea, may have a special attraction
for us who live in an island and claim a kind of maritime dominion.
Surely the words "Lord, save me, or I perish," and the instant response
of the outstretched hand of the Saviour of men, must have been read with
an awful joy by many a God-fearing sailor on the homeward voyage. "It is
I, be not afraid," must have come with an intensity of meaning to many a
heart which has known the peril of the storm, wherein the voice of man
to man has been almost inaudible.
There is something very solemn in the prayers we send up for those at
sea. Most of us feel a heart-throb when we lie awake listening to the
mighty murmurs of the wind, and waiting for the shrill shriek with which
each long terrible blast gathers up its forces--a throb which comes of
the sudden thought of lonely ships far out upon the ocean, where men are
wrestling with the elements, and looking with clenched lips and
straining eyes for the lingering dawn.
Yet, with all this, it is a national reproach to us that until a
comparatively recent date we have done little or nothing for our
sailors--little for those who have been ready to maintain the old
supremacy of our fleet--almost nothing for that greater navy of the
mercantile marine to which we are indebted for half the necessaries and
for nearly all the luxuries which we enjoy.
A national reproach, because not only have charitable provisions for
destitute, sick, infirm, or disabled sailors been neglected, but
subscriptions demanded by the State from seamen of the merchant service
were never properly applied to relieve the distress of those for whom
they were professedly received. Considerably over a million of money has
been contributed by merchant seamen, by deductions of sixpences from
their monthly pay for the maintenance of Greenwich Hospital, and in
addition to this there have been accumulated in the hands of the
Government the examination fees of masters and mates passing the Board
of Trade examination, and the penny fees paid by common seamen on
shipment and unshipment, while the unclaimed wages and effects of seamen
dying abroad are calculated at about £8000 a year.
Now there can be no doubt that Greenwich Hospital was originally
intended to include merchant seamen in its provisions, for the preamble
to the original scheme of William III. recites, "Whereas the King's most
excellent Majesty being anxiously desirous to promote the Trade,
Navigation, and Naval strength of this Kingdom, and to invite greater
numbers of his subjects to betake themselves to the sea, hath determined
to erect a hospital," &c. For this purpose sixpence per man per month
was to be paid out of the wages of all mariners to the support of the
Hospital, and every seaman was to be registered. Why? That the charity
might be "for the relief, benefit, or advantage of such the said
registered Marines, or Seamen, Watermen, Fishermen, Lightermen,
Bargemen, Keelmen, or Seafaring Men, who by age, wounds, or other
accidents shall be disabled for future service at sea, and shall not be
in a condition to maintain themselves comfortably; and the children of
such disabled seamen; and the widows and children of such of them as
shall happen to be slain, killed, or drowned in sea service, so far
forth as the Hospital shall be capable to receive them, and the revenue
thereof will extend."
So far as words went, therefore--and subsequent Acts of Parliament
confirmed them--Greenwich Hospital was open to all registered seamen.
The fact has always been, however, that it was barely able to meet the
claims made by the disabled and infirm sailors of the Navy alone, and
therefore the mercantile marine was practically excluded, while the
payments were still demanded.
Now let us see what past Governments did for the relief of those old,
infirm, or disabled men who having "seen wonders on the great deep,"
came home and sought help.
A charitable trust, called the "Merchant Seamen's Fund," had been
established by merchants and shipowners of the City of London, who gave
large sums to it, in order to try to make up for the injustice by which
these sailors were virtually excluded from Greenwich Hospital, to which
the men of the mercantile marine still had to pay sixpence a month. By a
remarkably knowing piece of legislation, an Act was passed (the 20th of
George II.) which incorporated the Merchant Seamen's Fund, appointed
president and governors, and gave authority to purchase land for
building a hospital, to help pay for which another sixpence a month was
claimed from the pay of merchant seamen and masters of merchant vessels.
Not till the year 1834, by an Act passed in the reign of William IV.,
were the merchant sailors relieved from compulsory payment to Greenwich.
They had contributed to the hospital for 138 years without having
derived any direct benefit from it; and though they were not unwilling
to subscribe for their brethren in the Royal Navy, the injustice which
demanded their contributions, though their own fund was inadequate to
pay for the promised building for which it was intended, became too
glaring to be continued. It was therefore determined that a grant of
£20,000 should be made to Greenwich Hospital out of the Consolidated
Fund, and that the merchant sailors should go on paying their shilling a
month for their own benefit (masters paying two shillings), and that a
provision for widows and children should be included in the charity, the
benefits of which were to be extended to Scotland and Ireland.
The hospital never was built. The Board of Trade taking the management
of the contributions, appointed trustees, who were altogether
incompetent, and did their duty in a perfunctory or careless manner. In
1850, only £20,000 was distributed among old, infirm, and disabled
seamen, while £41,000 was bestowed on widows and children; the
allowances varying at different ports from £1 to £7, each place having
its own local government. Of course a collapse came. The fund was
bankrupt; and in the following year an Act was passed for winding it
up--for, says the Board of Trade Report, "the Government has had no
control over the matter. The London Corporation and the trustees of
outports could not by any management have prevented the insolvency of
the fund, as long as they were guided by the principles which the
several Acts of Parliament laid down ... the whole system was vicious."
By the winding-up Act of 1851 compulsory contributions ceased; but those
who chose to continue to subscribe voluntarily might do so. It is hardly
to be wondered at that the merchant seamen lost confidence in the
paternal protection of the Board of Trade. A few thousand pounds were
left from the compulsory contributions, and when this came to be
inquired for, nobody knew anything about it. It had somehow slipped out
of the estimates, and nobody could tell what had become of it.
That is what past governments have done for poor mercantile Jack.
What has the great British public done for him? Not so very much after
all. The truth is, that the sailor, who has always been spoken of as "so
dreadfully improvident," has been practically regarded as being most
self-helpful. All the time that we have been shaking our solemn heads,
and lifting up our hands at the improvidence, the folly, and the
extravagance of these frequently underpaid and sometimes overworked men,
we have made even the help that we were willing to extend to them in
their deeper necessities partially dependent on their own constant and
regular subscription to the same end.
Poor improvident Jack!--poor thoughtless, incorrigible fellow!--it was
necessary for the Government of his country to look after him, in order
to protect him against his own want of forethought, and the result has
been to run the ship into shoal water, and go hopelessly to wreck
without so much as salvage money.
Jack ashore! Don't we all still look at the sailor in the light of the
evil war-times, when the king's men were said to draw pocketsful of
prize-money and to spend it in low debauchery or wild wanton folly? Even
now we repeat the stories of frying watches along with beefsteaks and
onions, or eating bank-note sandwiches. Nay, to this day in the
fo'c's'le of merchant vessels some of the melancholy old songs in which
sailors are wont to satirise themselves are occasionally sung, telling
how
"When his money is all spent,
And there's nothing to be borrowed and nothing to be lent,
In comes the landlord with a frown,
Saying, 'Jack! get up, and let _John_ sit down,
For you are _outward_ bound.'"
There's a world of meaning in that grim suggestive summary; but, thank
God! it has less meaning now than it once had. Until quite lately,
sailors of merchant ships could be kept for days waiting to be paid,
and, sickened with lingering for long weary hours about the office of
the broker or agent who withheld their money, fell into the hands of the
harpies who were, and still are constantly on the look-out to plunder
them. Men with all the pure natural longing for home and reunion with
those near and dear to them, were compelled to loiter about the foul
neighbourhood of the dock where their ship discharged its cargo, lodging
in some low haunt with evil company, and liable to every temptation that
is rife in such places, till too often so large a portion of their
hardly-earned wages had been forestalled, that in a dreary and desperate
madness of dissipation they were tempted to fling away the small balance
remaining to them, and to awake to reason only when, naked and nearly
destitute, they were compelled to go to sea again, with a slender stock
of clothes, and a week's board and lodging paid for with advance notes.
From long confinement and monotony on shipboard, the sailor even now
comes to a sense of temporary freedom, giddy with the unaccustomed sense
of solid ground and the wild toss and uproar of the ocean of life in a
great city. What are still the influences which in many seaports await
him directly his foot touches the shore, and sometimes even before he
has come over the vessel's side? With a boy's recklessness, a man's
passions, and the unwonted excitement of possessing money and boundless
opportunities for spending it, a shoal of landsharks are lying ready to
batten on him. The tout, the crimp, and all the wretches, male and
female, who look upon him as their prey, will never leave him from the
time when they watch him roll wonderingly on to the landing-stage, till
that desperate minute when he flings his last handful of small change
across the tavern counter, and calls for its worth in drink, since
"money is no use at sea."