The following is a chip from a block whence we have already taken a few
shavings:—“Kohl’s Travels in the Netherlands.” It describes the National
Hospital for the Aged at Brussels. Some of the inmates whom he found in
it, though still alive, belong to history. It must have been with a sort
of archaic emotion that our inquisitive friend found himself speaking to
a man who had escorted Marie Antoinette from Vienna to Paris, on the
occasion of her marriage!
“The magnitude of the _Hospice des Vieillards_ in Brussels,” says Mr.
Kohl, “fully realises the idea of a National establishment. The building
itself fulfils all the required conditions of extent, solidity, and
convenience. The gardens, court-yards, and apartments are spacious and
well arranged. The sleeping and eating rooms are large, and well
furnished; and it is pleasing to observe, here and there, the walls
adorned with pictures painted in oil-colours. The inmates of this
_Hospice_ pass their latter days in the enjoyment of a degree of
happiness and comfort which would be unattainable in their own homes.
The chapel is situated only at the distance of a few paces from the main
building, and is connected with it by means of a roofed corridor; thus
obviating the difficulties which prevent old people from attending
places of public worship when, as it frequently happens, they are
situated at long and inaccessible distances from their dwellings. In
winter the Chapel of the _Hospice_ is carefully warmed and secured
against damp.
“At the time of my visit to the _Hospice des Vieillards_ in Brussels,
the establishment contained about seven hundred inmates, of both sexes,
between the ages of seventy and eighty. Of this number six hundred and
fifteen were maintained at the charge of the establishment, and
seventy-five, being in competent circumstances, defrayed their own
expenses. That the number of those able to maintain themselves should
bear so considerable a relative proportion to the rest, is a fact which
bears strong testimony in favour of the merits of the establishment.
Those who support themselves live in a style more or less costly,
according to the amount of their respective payments. Some of the
apartments into which I was conducted certainly presented such an air of
comfort that persons, even of a superior condition of life, could
scarcely have desired better.
“I learned from the Governor of the _Hospice_ that the average cost of
the maintenance of each individual was about seventy-five centimes per
day, making a total diurnal expenditure of six hundred francs, or of two
hundred thousand francs per annum. But as this estimate includes the
wages of attendants and the expenses consequent on repairs of the
building, it may fairly be calculated that each individual costs about
three hundred francs per annum. The _Hospice_ frequently receives
liberal donations and bequests from opulent private persons.
“For such of the pensioners as are able to work, employment is provided:
others are appointed to fill official posts in the veteran Republic. Now
and then a little task-work is imposed; but the _Hospice_ being rich,
this duty is not exacted with the precision requisite in establishments
for the young, where the inmates having a long worldly career before
them, it is desirable that they should be trained in habits of
regularity and industry. The pensioners of the Brussels _Hospice des
Vieillards_, enjoy much freedom; and they are even allowed some
amusements and indulgences, which it might not be proper to concede to
young persons. For example, they are permitted to play at cards; but it
will scarcely be said there is anything objectionable in such an
indulgence to old persons who have run out their worldly course; for
even were they fated once more to enter into society, their example
could neither be very useful nor very dangerous. Here and there I
observed groups of the pensioners, male and female, seated at cards,
staking their pocket-money, of which each has a small allowance, on the
hazard of the game. The penalties assigned for misdemeanours are very
mild, consisting merely in the offending party being prohibited from
going out, or, as it is called, _la privée de la sortie_. In extreme
cases the delinquent is confined to his or her own apartment.
“It has seldom been my lot to visit a charitable institution, which
created in my mind so many pleasing impressions as those I experienced
in the Hospital for the Old in Brussels. It was gratifying to observe in
the spacious court-yards the cheerful and happy groups of grey-haired
men and women, sunning themselves in the open air. Some were playing at
cards, whilst here and there the females were seated at work, and men
sauntering about smoking their pipes and gossiping. Every now and then I
met an old man whistling or singing whilst he paced to and fro. More
than one of these veterans had been eye-witnesses of interesting
historical events, which now belong to a past age. Several of them had
served as soldiers during the Austrian dominion in Belgium. Of these the
porter of the Hospital was one.
“The most remarkable character in the whole establishment was an old
Dutchman, named Jan Hermann Jankens, who was born at Leyden in the year
1735. At the time when I saw him, he was one hundred and nine years of
age; or, to quote his own description of himself, he was ‘_leste,
vaillant, et sain_.’”
“Il nous rapelle en vain
Apres un siècle de séjour,
Ses plaisirs ainsi que ses amertumes.”
“These lines were inscribed beneath his portrait, which hung in his own
apartment. I remarked that the painter had not flattered him. ‘You are
right, Sir,’ replied he; ‘the fact is, I am much younger than my
portrait,’ and to prove that he was making no vain boast, he sprang up,
and cut several capers, with surprising agility. His faculties were
unimpaired, and he was a remarkable example of that vigorous
organisation which sometimes manifests itself in the human frame; and
which excites our wonder when we find that such delicate structures as
the nerves of sight and hearing may be used for the space of a century
without wearing out. Until within two years of the time when I saw
Jankens, he had been able to work well and actively. His hand was firm
and steady, and he frequently wrote letters to his distant friends. When
in his one hundred and seventh year, he thought, very reasonably, that
he might give up work. ‘And what do you do now?’ I enquired. ‘I enjoy my
life,’ replied he; ‘I saunter about the whole day long, singing,
smoking, and amusing myself. I spend my time very gaily!’
“‘Yes, Sir; he dances, drinks, and sings all day long!’ exclaimed, in a
half-jeering, half-envious tone, another veteran, named Watermans, who
had joined us, and who, though _only_ ninety years of age, was much more
feeble than Jankens.
“I learned from the latter that he had had fifteen children; but that of
all his large family, only one survived, though most of them had lived
to a goodly age. His memory was stored with recollections of events
connected with the marriage of Louis the Sixteenth; for, when a soldier
in the Austrian service, he had formed one of the military escort which
conducted Marie Antoinette into France. He sang me an old song, which
had been composed in honour of the Royal nuptials, and which he said was
very popular at the time. It was in the usual style of such effusions; a
mere string of hyperbolic compliments, in praise of the ‘beauteous
Princess,’ and the ‘illustrious Prince.’ It sounded like an echo from
the grave of old French loyalty. Jankens sang this song in a remarkably
clear, strong voice; but nevertheless, the performance did not give
satisfaction to old Watermans, who, thrusting his fingers into his ears,
said peevishly, ‘What a croaking noise!’
“Heedless of this discouraging remark, the venerable centenarian was
preparing to favour me with another specimen of his vocal ability, when
the great bell in the court-yard rang for supper. ‘Pardon, Sir,’ said
Jankens, with an apologetic bow, ‘but—supper.’ Whereupon he hurried off
in the direction of the refectory, with that sort of eager yearning with
which it might be imagined he turned to his mother’s breast one hundred
and nine years before.
“‘It is amazing that that old fellow should have so sharp an appetite,’
observed the petulant Watermans, hobbling after him in a way which
showed that he too was not altogether unprepared to do honour to the
evening meal.”
This Hospital for the Aged is a sort of National Almshouse not solely
peculiar to Belgium. Private munificence does in England what is done
abroad by Governments; but it is to be deplored that a more general
provision for the superannuated does not exist in this country.
Workhouses are indeed asylums for the old; but for those who are also
decayed in worldly circumstances, they cannot afford those comforts
which old age requires. Except Greenwich Hospital for sailors, and
Chelsea Hospital for soldiers, we have no national institution for old
people.