inefficient. She is, perhaps in rather a rough way, but as well as she knows how, kind to her helpless charges, and she is certainly popular with them. For she is bright and lively, with a ready laugh, and a droll tongue, and "the old ladies do like to be put in Hannah's ward," we were once told. Hannah advanced to meet us that day with a broad smile of welcome, and greeted us with the exclamation— "There! to be sure! Ain't I glad you be come to-day!" And as we advanced to the fireplace the others endorsed the sentiment with various more or less energetic expressions of satisfaction. "Yes, Hannah was just a saying," observed one, "that she did wish you might happen to chance to come to-day." "So I was," put in Hannah, rather quickly (she is a favorite of ours, but we must confess she did rather like to keep the lead in the conversation), "but I wasn't expectin' of 'ee much, 'cause don't 'ee see, 'tis such heavenly weather! I thought you'd be goin' out into the country somewhere. I would, I know, if I was a lady! Now I'll tell 'ee, ma'am, why I did want for 'ee to come. 'Tis 'cause o' the peartree in the master's garden. He's out in blossom, ma'am, and he do look that beautiful, I thought if you could but see it!" What an answer to our thoughts! Did spring make no difference in a work-house ward? Arrogant fancy! Why, every wrinkled countenance before us was looking brighter than usual merely because of the blossom on one pear-tree. Of course we said we should like of all things to see it. "So you shall, ma'am, if you don't mind standing up upon a chair. You can see un from these very windows if you do squeeze yourself against the wall a little, an' look sideways." Who would not mount a chair and look sideways at such an invitation? We did so at once, and we saw the pear-tree -or rather part of him, for his full glory was not visible from that point of view. And when we descended from that exalted position, all the old faces were looking quite pleased and eager, and the most phlegmatic old woman in the room, who rarely opened her lips, or showed any interest in anything, astonished us by being the first to say, "Ain't he beautiful ?" "Ah, but you can't see un so well as he did ought to be seen, not therefrom you can't," said Hannah regretfully; "you can't see but a part of un therefrom. But he do look lovely from the men's yard. Do 'ee know what I did do this mornin', ma'am? The door were open, so I just slipped in an' had a good look at un. I hadn' no business there, you know, but nobody didn' see me." Hannah had a real love for flowers. Those three geraniums standing on one of the window ledges are hers, and she shows them to us every time we come, and points out every fresh leaf or bud with pride and satisfaction. She has her pet name for each of them. There is her beauty, her great beauty, and her little beauty, the last being a little slip of a plant growing in an old tin mug. Once she was threatened with the loss of her plants. Somebody, at this moment I forget who, made an official progress through the wards, and the unlucky plants caught his eye, standing, as they did, on an unauthorized bit of board which Hannah had somehow contrived to add to the narrow window-sill to make it wide enough to support her pots, and he pronounced them to be untidy, and desired that they should be removed. Hannah was furious! The plants untidy! The chief ornament of the room untidy! The chief ornament of the room to be removed! But as to that, they should never be removed; she should stand in front of her beauties and not let anyone touch them. Poor Hannah! She well knew her own impotence, even whilst talking defiant nonsense, and every now and then wiped away a tear at the thought that if her flowers must go, they must. But somehow or other that order for their removal was never executed. Perhaps the official personage who gave it relented when he saw how much pain it would cause. At any rate, Hannah's plants were never touched, and continued to beautify the window-sill for many a long day after. PART II. WHAT WE TALKED ABOUT. SOME years ago when we used to be in the habit of visiting the old women [in H-Workhouse rather frequently, we used to notice, with some amusement, how curiously apt our conversation was to repeat itself; how, time after time, we found ourselves saying almost exactly the same things, and that, not from wearisome lack of matter, but because the old familiar topics recurred more naturally and pleasantly than any others. Thus, after the chapter in the Bible, that used to be asked for as soon as the first greetings were over, had been read, first one and then another would almost always begin to inquire whether we had lately chanced to visit any of those neighboring villages in which their homes used to be, and, if we had, they would proceed to name any families with whom they knew we were, or thought it within the limits of possibility that we might be acquainted, and ask, did we know them, and when had we seen them last, and so on. There was one frail old woman-she is gone to the Home beyond the grave now— who used to look so wistfully at us, if we answered her question whether we had been to E lately, in the affirmative! We do not think that anyone near and dear to her was still living in her old birthplace, but she had acquaintance there, and now and then she used to ask leave to go out, and would make a pilgrimage there, perhaps to look at the graves of her dead in the village churchyard-who knows? The last time she went was in early spring. All the winter she had talked of going to E-when the fine weather came, but when it arrived it found her so weak and failing, that Hannah and the others tried to persuade her that she was not fit for the exertion. But go she would. "I shan't get no stronger if I do wait," she said, "an' I do want to go there once again." So she went; but the eight-mile walk, four miles out and four back, was too much for her little strength. It was all she could do to creep back to the workhouse, and, once there, she took to her bed, and, we believe, never left it till her death, which occurred some months later. Poor Rachel! If we had but heard of her intentions beforehand, we might have helped her; but we knew nothing of it till we chanced to visit the workhouse a few days after her return, and found her in bed, not greatly concerned at her exhausted condition, but full of triumph at having accomplished her wish of seeing E again. She had not meant to walk the whole way back, but, by some mistake, the friendly cart in which she had reckoned on obtaining a place, started without her, and she set out on foot, thinking, however, that she would most likely be overtaken by some conveyance or other before she had gone far, and get the offer of a lift. "But I'd bad luck," she said; "every conveyance as went past me were full. 'Twas such a disappointment to me every time I heard wheels, and thought I'd get took up. I could ha' cried last time I did hear summat comin', an' 'twas Squire M's carriage. I know if they'd known how tired I were they'd ha' took I up, for they be kind folk-an' there was room on the box, but they went by at a gallop." Perhaps it will raise a smile when we go on to say that another favorite subject of conversation amongst these old women, was the Queen and the Royal Family! We do not know what private sources of information we were supposed to have respecting the doings of these august personages; but we were generally asked whether the Queen was quite well, and how all the Royal Family were going on, as though, as a matter of course, we must know all about them. Somebody or other had once given them a portrait of Her Majesty, taken out of some cheap illustrated paper, and this Hannah had fastened up over the fireplace, and regarded with great pride. Afterwards, when in the course of time the royal picture became defaced with smoke and dust, it was replaced by two smaller portraits of the Queen and the Prince Consort, and, the last time we saw the room, its bare white walls were further adorned with the likenesses of the Prince and Princess of Wales, and, if we recollect right, of Princess Alice. How well we remember going to see them once, about a week before the Prince of Wales's wedding, and telling them of the various festivities with which it was proposed to celebrate that event. "Well, I declare," said Hannah, "I wish I was twenty years younger, to enjoy it all! But I'll tell 'ee a secret, ma'am. We. bain't goin' to be left out. Us old women is going to have our 'lumination so well as the rest! We be savin' up all our candleends out of our 'lowance o' candles, an' the messenger (you do know th' old man what do go out wi' messages-gets us our snuff an' such when we've a few pence to lay out), he's a-goin' to bring us in some large pertaters; an' what do 'ee think we be goin' to do? I be goin' to scoop out them pertaters, an' stick the candle-ends in 'em, an' range 'em on the ledges o' the window. Ha! ha! ha! ha! I wonder what the Queen 'ould think if she knowed us old women was goin' to have our 'lumination too." And she burst into a hearty fit of laughter at the idea, in which almost everybody joined. "Nor we ain't goin' to want (i. e. lack) our feast neither," Hannah continued. "I don't mean the doin's they be goin' to have for all the workhouse folk, that ain't much good to me. My dear soul! when you be goin' on for threescore an' ten, an' not a sound tooth in your head, roast beef isn't much enjoyment to you. You do know what we do like, don't you? 'Tis our cup o'tay. We've got some of Mrs.'s tay, which we do consider the best tay we do ever get-I be very choice over it, I do assure 'ee. An' we be goin' to drink the health of the Prince an' Princess in a cup of tay, an' long life to 'em both, I say." The ordinary workhouse beverage is coffee, which is, we believe, more economical than tea. We never heard the old women make any complaint about it, but we do not think they can have liked it much because of the jubilation with which a present of tea was always received. But don't you think that half the satisfaction of the cup that "cheers but not inebriates" must have been neutralised to them by having to drink it out of a tin mug? We appeal to any lady who reads this paper. Would you not, madam, reject with scorn that five-o'clock cup of tea which is your pet luxury, if it were offered to you in any such vessel? And supposing reAnd supposing refractory paupers have a tendency to break everything that is provided for them which necessitates tin in their case, is that a valid reason why quiet old people should go without cups and saucers ? These old women, too, have a rooted detestation of communism, and establish their little rights of property, unacknowledged by authority, but not the less strictly respected amongst themselves, to every individual thing they use. Exactly alike as those tin mugs appear to your inexperienced eyes, we believe that each old woman could, and would, swear to the personal appearance of her own particular mug in any court of justice. They like to play at having something of their own; and why not? What instinct more natural to old age! And would any deeply essential rule of poverty be outraged if they did actually possess a few trifles of their very own ?-if, for instance, each old women had her especial cup and saucer, saved, it may be, out of the wreck of her household goods, or the gift of some friend or visitor. Nor do we suppose that it would be against any imaginable principle of justice or prudence, if a few arm-chairs and footstools, perhaps even a bright-colored rug to lie in front of the fireplace, were to find their way into the infirm wards of our workhouses. We do not mean that the Board of Guardians should provide these articles; but we see no reason why the gifts of kindly-disposed persons to the poor should not sometimes take this shape. There is a fashion, however, even in doing good, and somehow or other the aged poor are not favorite objects of popular benevolence. It is rather a curious circumstance that in the conspectus of London charities published some time ago in the Times, the sum annually expended on the relief of the aged fell short of that spent on any other kind of charity; and, only the other day, we heard of a sug gestion on the part of a most estimable kind-hearted gentleman, who, we feel confidant, never in his life intentionally dealt hardly by anybody, that it would be a very desirable reform to divert to the pet object of the day, "educational purposes," a certain bequest which was being wasted (according to the intentions of the testator, of course; but who at this enlightened period cares about the intentions of the testator?) in pensions to the aged poor. Well! we must not quarrel with nature. We cannot help feeling more interest in the little child just starting on life's journey, for whom we think we can do so much, than it is possible for us to do in the travelstained old pilgrim, on the very brink of another world, for whom we know we can do so little. Nevertheless, the little we can do should at least be done; and does it not strike one that if to the sturdy tramp, who wilfully encumbers the rates, the workhouse should be made more of a prison than a refuge, to the aged poor, who have come there to die, it should no less certainly be made more of a refuge than a prison? There are the windows, for example; Proba perhaps some one, reading the first part of this paper, may have exclaimed at the idea of having to mount a chair to see out of window, "Windows are not usually placed at such an inconvenient elevation." Yes; in workhouses they are. bly the very first thing that would strike a stranger on entering such a ward as I have been describing, would be the curious anomaly that all its four windows are situated so much nearer to the ceiling than to the floor, that they look like windows down to the ground reversed, and turned into windows up to the ceiling. They are, of course, as useful, as mechanical contrivances for admitting light, as any other windows; but beyond that, people who by the laws of gravitation are compelled to reside, not upon the ceiling but upon the floor, cannot possibly derive much pleasure or advantage from looking out of them. Of course, there are reasons, and, we doubt not, sufficient reasons, for this peculiar style of architecture. A great many very unruly and troublesome inmates are apt to find their way into workhouses, and inaccessible windows may, very likely, be a wise arrangement as far as they are concerned. Another reason, perhaps, may be that when the windows are thus packed up aloft, more space to arrange the rows of beds is acquired, and more certain freedom from draughts obtained; but it is a plan that makes a room look uncommonly dull, and often have we wished that we could drag down even a single one from its lofty situation to a height at which it would be possible for the old people to look out, as well as for the light of day to come in. Might not such a sin against outward uniformity be forgiven in consideration of the letting in of a little more brightness upon some very monotonous lives? Women of sixty-five and upwards are not the material out of which refractory paupers are made. They have been driven to the workhouses by the pressure of extreme poverty and the infirmities of age: should we not try to make the refuge in which their short remaining span of life is to be spent as pleasant to them as we can? The "smile of home," indeed, we cannot give them; but such minor adjuncts to happiness as a bright room, with cheerful windows, and exemption, as far as is consistent with good order, from such workhouse regulations as have somewhat of a NEW SERIES.-VOL. XVI., No. 6 penal aspect, do lie in human power to withhold or to bestow. Hannah's invincible liveliness always seemed to us to have a sensible effect on the spirits of those around her. There was quite a marked contrast between the tone of her ward and the next, where the woman who held a corresponding post to hers was depressed and querulous, and generally talked about her rheumatism. Yet even in Hannah's ward, the element of melancholy was not absent. Far from it. It was but thrown a little into the background. For example: to take ten or a dozen old people and shut them up together in a large room may be the only way of sheltering them when utterly destitute, and does not work badly on the whole; for, in spite of the universal dislike to coming in, they do not appear unhappy, and are often wonderfully cheerful and contented; but it does not strike one as the natural mode of providing for the comfort of the aged, whose infirmities have a tendency to unfit them for social life, and to render them irritable, querulous, and exacting; so there is nothing very astonishing in the fact that many mope and fret for weeks after their first entrance, and some never get over their misery at being parted from their relations, and their intense dislike to being herded with others. I remember one old woman of this description, who used to sit in the corner on one side of the fireplace in Hannah's ward. Her right arm was paralysed, but that was not the grief that caused the ready tears that used to spring forth at the mere question, " How are you to-day, Jemima ?" "I don't know how I be, an' I don't seem I cares! They haven't been to see me this week. They puts me in here, an' forgets me. Oh, ma'am, I be so unhappy here!" "There, that's how you do always go on," interposes Hannah. The words sound harsh, but they are not spoken unkindly, and, oddly enough, do not seem to offend. "Your daughter-law can't be for ever runnin' over to see an old woman like you. Don't be so unreasonable; I dare say she'll come to-morrow. I declare you ain't a bit reconciled, though you've been here two years." "No, I ain't a bit reconciled, an' I never shan't be," weeps poor Jemima, lifting her apron, with her unmaimed left hand, to wipe away her tears. 48 754 Here is another instance of the same feeling, pitiable enough, though it does not Look at excite the same compassion. that stately old woman, propped up in bed with pillows, who makes an imperative sign that the lady is to come and speak to her. What an expression of settled discontent there is in her face! a "I'm very glad to see you come in, ma'am," she says in a complaining tone, "I'm sure 'tis a pleasure to see anybody come in. I'm not treated as I ought to be, ma'am,"-lowering her voice to whisper-"I oughtn't to be here at all. I've paid rates myself, I have, an' had 'Tis harder on me things so different. I'm sure I feel than 'tis on any of them! quite ashamed that a lady should see me in such a place." It is curious to see how often people get what they claim. We used to fancy we could perceive that this self-asserting personage received quite the lion's share of attention and respect from the others. They addressed her as Mrs. H-, instead of calling her by her Christian name, and even Hannah seemed to defer to her. Do you hear a faint, catching sigh from the other side of the room-a sigh that would have been a groan if the expression of suffering had not been checked by the consciousness of the presence of others? Let us go to the bed from whence it comes. There lies a woman, younger, perhaps, than some of the rest, but chained to her couch by some acutely painful, lingering disease. What a patient, pain-drawn countenance! The pale lips absolutely smile an answer to your greeting, though the voice is so faint you must bend down to catch the words. I "It is rather a bad day with me to-day, ma'am; but I suffer always. I seem sometimes I can't hardly bear myself. hope the Lord 'll send for me soon but I seem 'tis so long to wait." ... Ah, yes! two or three years of utter helplessness, of almost constant pain in a workhouse ward amongst strangers, with everybody she cares for either far away or gone to a better land, must seem long indeed. "God grant her speedy release," you say in your heart as you turn away, pained at the sight of pain that you can neither relieve nor alleviate. But it is time to say good-bye and leave the workhouse; perhaps, indeed, you may even now be murmuring against the tediousness of having been kept there so long a time. But do not grudge it! In the They used to talk to me of the doctor as if he were a personal friend of their own, and the kindly interest which he took in all their little concerns was evident, by the way in which his opinion used to be quoted, à-propos to almost everything. As to Hannah's plants, we think he must have come to regard them as supplementary patients, so continually did he appear to be asked to prescribe for their health. 66 And then there was nurse!" If you were to ask the old women if "nurse were kind to them, they would be almost indignant at so cold a question. "Kind!" we think we hear out-spoken Hannah "Kind! why, she's just a ejaculate. mother to us!" As we write, there rises before our mind the recollection of one of the very kindest faces that it has ever been our happiness to behold; the face of a woman who has grown old amidst the toilsome duties of her post, but who, in all the years she has spent in the workhouse, has never ceased to put such a warm, loving heart into the performance of those duties, that for her they have never stiffened and hardened into an official routine. Hers was that service of the heart which money cannot buy, but which springs unbidden wherever there is an unfailing fount of that divine pity for the sorrowing and the suffering which is, indeed, “akin to love.” The touch of her kind hand, the sound of her kind voice-these are the last impressions that we carry away with us, as we retrace our steps through the long brick passages; and glad indeed we are to |