LETTER XVIII.

THE POOR AND THEIR DWELLINGS.

Bene paupertas

Humili tecto contenta latet.

Seneca [Octavia, Act V. vv. 895-6].

Omnes quibu' res sunt minu' secundæ, magi' sunt, nescio quo modo,

Suspiciosi; ad contumeliam omnia accipiunt magis;

Propter suam impotentiam se semper credunt negligi.

Terent. in Adelph. Act 4. Sc. 3 [vv. 12-4].

Show not to the poor thy pride,

Let their home a cottage be;

Nor the feeble body hide

In a palace fit for thee;

Let him not about him see

Lofty ceilings, ample halls,

Or a gate his boundary be,

Where nor friend or kinsman calls.

Let him not one walk behold,

That only one which he must tread,

Nor a chamber large and cold,

Better far his humble shed,

Where the aged and sick are led;

Humble sheds of neighbours by,

And the old and tatter'd bed,

Where he sleeps and hopes to die.

To quit of torpid sluggishness the [lair],

And from the pow'rful arms of sloth [get] free,

'Tis rising from the dead—Alas! it cannot be.

Thomson's Castle of Indolence [Canto II. ll. 59-61].

The Method of treating the Borough Paupers—Many maintained at their own Dwellings—Some Characters of the Poor—The School-mistress, when aged—The Idiot—The poor Sailor—The declined Tradesman and his Companion—This contrasted with the Maintenance of the Poor in a common Mansion erected by the Hundred—The Objections to this Method: not Want, nor Cruelty, but the necessary Evils of this Mode—What they are—Instances of the Evil—A Return to the Borough Poor—The Dwellings of these—The Lanes and By-ways—No Attention here paid to Convenience—The Pools in the Path-ways—Amusements of Sea-port Children—The Town-Flora—Herbs on Walls and vacant Spaces—A female Inhabitant of an Alley—A large Building let to several poor Inhabitants—Their Manners and Habits.

LETTER XVIII.

THE POOR AND THEIR DWELLINGS.

Yes! we've our Borough-vices, and I know

How far they spread, how rapidly they grow;

Yet think not virtue quits the busy place,

Nor charity, the virtues' crown and grace.

"Our poor how feed we?"—To the most we give

A weekly dole, and at their homes they live;—

Others together dwell—but when they come

To the low roof, they see a kind of home,

A social people whom they've ever known,

With their own thoughts and manners like their own.

At her old house, her dress, her air the same,

I see mine ancient letter-loving dame:

"Learning, my child," said she, "shall fame command;

Learning is better worth than house or land—

For houses perish, lands are gone and spent;

In learning then excel, for that's most excellent."

"And what her learning?"—'Tis with awe to look

In every verse throughout one sacred book;

From this her joy, her hope, her peace is sought:

This she has learn'd, and she is nobly taught.

If aught of mine have gain'd the public ear;

If Rutland deigns these humble Tales to hear;

If critics pardon what my friends approved,

Can I mine ancient widow pass unmoved?

Shall I not think what pains the matron took,

When first I trembled o'er the gilded book?

How she, all patient, both at eve and morn,

Her needle pointed at the guarding horn;

And how she soothed me, when, with study sad,

I labour'd on to reach the final zad?

Shall I not grateful still the dame survey,

And ask the muse the poet's debt to pay?

Nor I alone, who hold a trifler's pen,

But half our bench of wealthy, weighty men,

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Who rule our Borough, who enforce our laws,

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They own the matron as the leading cause,

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And feel the pleasing debt, and pay the just applause:

To her own house is borne the week's supply;

There she in credit lives, there hopes in peace to die.

With her a harmless idiot we behold,

Who hoards up silver shells for shining gold;

These he preserves, with unremitted care,

To buy a seat, and reign the Borough's mayor:

Alas!—who could th' ambitious changeling tell,

That what he sought our rulers dared to sell?

Near these a sailor in that hut of thatch

(A fish-boat's cabin is its nearest match)

Dwells, and the dungeon is to him a seat,

Large as he wishes—in his view complete.

A lockless coffer and a lidless hutch

That hold his stores, have room for twice as much;

His one spare shirt, long glass, and iron box,

Lie all in view; no need has he for locks.

Here he abides, and, as our strangers pass,

He shows the shipping, he presents the glass;

He makes (unask'd) their ports and business known,

And (kindly heard) turns quickly to his own.

Of noble captains—heroes every one—

You might as soon have made the steeple run:

And then his messmates, if you're pleased to stay,

He'll one by one the gallant souls display;

And as the story verges to an end,

He'll wind from deed to deed, from friend to friend;

He'll speak of those long lost, the brave of old,

As princes gen'rous and as heroes bold;

Then will his feelings rise, till you may trace

Gloom, like a cloud, frown o'er his manly face—

And then a tear or two, which sting his pride,

These he will dash indignantly aside,

And splice his tale;—now take him from his cot,

And for some cleaner [berth] exchange his lot,

How will he all that cruel aid deplore?

His heart will break, and he will fight no more.

Here is the poor old merchant: he declined,

And, as they say, is not in perfect mind;

In his poor house, with one poor maiden friend,

Quiet he paces to his journey's end.

Rich in his youth, he traded and he fail'd;

Again he tried, again his fate prevail'd;

His spirits low and his exertions small,

He fell perforce, he seem'd decreed to fall:

Like the gay knight, unapt to rise was he,

But downward sank with sad alacrity.

A borough-place we gain'd him—in disgrace

For gross neglect, he quickly lost the place;

But still he kept a kind of sullen pride,

Striving his wants to hinder or to hide.

At length, compell'd by very need, in grief

He wrote a proud petition for relief.

"He did suppose a fall, like his, would prove

Of force to wake their sympathy and love;

Would make them feel the changes all may know,

And stir them up a new regard to show."

His suit was granted;—to an ancient maid,

Relieved herself, relief for him was paid.

Here they together (meet companions) dwell,

And dismal tales of man's misfortunes tell:

"'Twas not a world for them, God help them! they

Could not deceive, nor flatter, nor betray;

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But there's a happy change, a scene to come,

And they, God help them! shall be soon at home."

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If these no pleasures nor enjoyments gain,

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Still none their spirits nor their speech restrain;

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They sigh at ease, 'mid comforts they complain.

The poor will grieve, the poor will weep and sigh,

Both when they know, and when they know not why;

But we our bounty with such care bestow,

That cause for grieving they shall seldom know.

Your plan I love not;—with a number you

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Have placed your poor, your pitiable few;

There, in one house, throughout their lives to be—

The pauper-palace which they hate to see;

That giant-building, that high-bounding wall,

Those bare-worn walks, that lofty thund'ring hall!

That large loud clock, which tolls each dreaded hour;

Those gates and locks, and all those signs of power:

It is a prison, with a milder name,

Which few inhabit without dread or shame.

Be it agreed—the poor who hither come

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Partake of plenty, seldom found at home;

That airy rooms and decent beds are meant

To give the poor by day, by night, content;

That none are frighten'd, once admitted here,

By the stern looks of lordly overseer;

Grant that the guardians of the place attend,

And ready ear to each petition lend;

That they desire the grieving poor to show

What ills they feel, what partial acts they know,

Not without promise, nay desire to heal

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Each wrong they suffer and each wo they feel.—

Alas! their sorrows in their bosoms dwell;

They've much to suffer, but have nought to tell;

They have no evil in the place to state,

And dare not say, it is the house they hate:

They own, there's granted all such place can give,

But live repining, for 'tis there they live.

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Grandsires are there, who now no more must see,

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No more must nurse upon the trembling knee,

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The lost loved daughter's infant progeny:

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Like death's dread mansion, this allows not place

For joyful meetings of a kindred race.

Is not the matron there, to whom the son

Was wont at each declining day to run;

He (when his toil was over) gave delight,

By lifting up the latch, and one "good night"?

Yes, she is here; but nightly to her door

The son, still lab'ring, can return no more.

Widows are here, who in their huts were left,

Of husbands, children, plenty, ease bereft;

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Yet all that grief within the humble shed

Was soften'd, soften'd in the humble bed;—

But here, in all its force, remains the grief,

And not one soft'ning object for relief.

Who can, when here, the social neighbour meet?

Who learn the story current in the street?

Who to the long-known intimate impart

Facts they have learn'd or feelings of the heart?—

They talk indeed; but who can choose a friend,

Or seek companions at their journey's end?

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Here are not those whom they, when infants, knew;

Who, with like fortune, up to manhood grew;

Who, with like troubles, at old age arrived;

Who, like themselves, the joy of life survived;

Whom time and custom so familiar made,

That looks the meaning in the mind convey'd:

But here, to strangers, words nor looks impart

The various movements of the suffering heart;

Nor will that heart with those alliance own,

To whom its views and hopes are all unknown.

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What, if no grievous fears their lives annoy,

Is it not worse no prospects to enjoy?

'Tis cheerless living in such bounded view,

With nothing dreadful, but with nothing new;

Nothing to bring them joy, to make them weep—

The day itself is, like the night, asleep;

Or, on the sameness if a break be made,

'Tis by some pauper to his grave convey'd;

By smuggled news from neighb'ring village told,

News never true, or truth a twelvemonth old;

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By some new inmate doom'd with them to dwell,

Or justice come to see that all goes well;

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Or change of room, or hour of leave to crawl

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On the black footway winding with the wall,

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Till the stern bell forbids, or master's sterner call.

Here too the mother sees her children train'd,

Her voice excluded and her feelings pain'd.

Who govern here, by general rules must move,

Where ruthless custom rends the bond of love.

Nations, we know, have nature's law transgressed.

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And snatch'd the infant from the parent's breast;

But still for public good the boy was train'd,

The mother suffer'd, but the matron gain'd:

Here nature's outrage serves no cause to aid;

The ill is felt, but not the Spartan made.

Then too, I own, it grieves me to behold

Those ever virtuous, helpless now and old,

By all for care and industry approved,

For truth respected, and for temper loved;

And who, by sickness and misfortune tried,

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Gave want its worth and poverty its pride:

I own it grieves me to behold them sent

From their old home; 'tis pain, 'tis punishment,

To leave each scene familiar, every face,

For a new people and a stranger race;

For those who, sunk in sloth and dead to shame,

From scenes of guilt with daring spirits came;

Men, just and guileless, at such manners start,

And bless their God that time has fenced their heart,

Confirm'd their virtue, and expell'd the fear

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Of vice in minds so simple and sincere.

Here the good pauper, losing all the praise

By worthy deeds acquired in better days,

Breathes a few months; then, to his chamber led,

Expires, while strangers prattle round his bed.

The grateful hunter, when his horse is old,

Wills not the useless favourite to be sold;

He knows his former worth, and gives him place

In some fair pasture, till he runs his race.

But has the labourer, has the seaman done

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Less worthy service, thought not dealt to one?

Shall we not, then, contribute to their ease,

In their old haunts, where ancient objects please;

That, till their sight shall fail them, they may trace

The well-known prospect and the long-loved face?

The noble oak, in distant ages seen,

With far-stretch'd boughs and foliage fresh and green,

Though now its bare and forky branches show

How much it lacks the vital warmth below—

The stately ruin yet our wonder gains,

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Nay, moves our pity, without thought of pains;

Much more shall real wants and cares of age

Our gentler passions in their cause engage.—

Drooping and burthen'd with a weight of years,

What venerable ruin man appears!

How worthy pity, love, respect, and grief—

He claims protection—he compels relief;—

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And shall we send him from our view, to brave

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The storms abroad, whom we at home might save,

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And let a stranger dig our ancient brother's grave?

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No!—we will shield him from the storm he fears,

And when he falls, embalm him with our tears.

Farewell to these; but all our poor to know,

Let's seek the winding lane, the narrow row—

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Suburbian prospects, where the traveller stops

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To see the sloping tenement on props,

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With building yards immix'd, and humble sheds and shops;

Where the Cross-Keys and Plumber's-Arms invite

Laborious men to taste their coarse delight;

Where the low porches, stretching from the door,

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Gave some distinction in the days of yore—

Yet now, neglected, more offend the eye

By gloom and ruin than the cottage by.

Places like these the noblest town endures,

The gayest palace has its sinks and sewers.

Here is no pavement, no inviting shop,

To give us shelter when compell'd to stop;

But plashy puddles stand along the way,

Fill'd by the rain of one tempestuous day;

And these so closely to the buildings run,

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That you must ford them, for you cannot shun;

Though here and there convenient bricks are laid,

And door-side heaps afford their dubious aid.

Lo! yonder shed; observe its garden-ground,

With the low paling, form'd of wreck, around:

There dwells a fisher; if you view his boat,

With bed and barrel—'tis his house afloat;

Look at his house, where ropes, nets, blocks, abound,

Tar, pitch, and oakum—'tis his boat aground:

That space enclosed but little he regards,

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Spread o'er with relics of masts, sails, and yards;

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Fish by the wall on spit of elder rest,

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Of all his food the cheapest and the best,

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By his own labour caught, for his own hunger dress'd.

Here our reformers come not; none object

To paths polluted, or upbraid neglect;

None care that ashy heaps at doors are cast,

That coal-dust flies along the blinding blast;

None heed the stagnant pools on either side,

Where new-launch'd ships of infant sailors ride:

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Rodneys in rags here British valour boast,

And lisping Nelsons fright the Gallic coast.

They fix the rudder, set the swelling sail,

They point the bowsprit, and they blow the gale.

True to her port, the frigate scuds away,

And o'er that frowning ocean finds her bay:

Her owner rigg'd her, and he knows her worth,

And sees her, fearless, gunwale-deep go forth;

Dreadless he views his sea, by breezes curl'd,

When inch-high billows vex the watery world.

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There, fed by food they love, to rankest size

Around the dwellings docks and wormwood rise;

Here the strong mallow strikes her slimy root,

Here the dull night-shade hangs her deadly fruit;

On hills of dust the henbane's faded green,

And pencil'd flower of sickly scent is seen;

At the wall's base the fiery nettle springs,

With fruit globose and fierce with poison'd stings;

Above (the growth of many a year) is spread

The yellow level of the stone-crop's bed;

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In every chink delights the fern to grow,

With glossy leaf and tawny bloom below[64]:

These, with our sea-weeds, rolling up and down,

Form the contracted Flora[65] of the town.

Say, wilt thou more of scenes so sordid know?

Then will I lead thee down the dusty row,

By the warm alley and the long close lane—

There mark the fractured door and paper'd pane,

Where flags the noon-tide air, and, as we pass,

We fear to breathe the putrefying mass.

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But fearless yonder matron; she disdains

To sigh for zephyrs from ambrosial plains;

But mends her meshes torn, and pours her lay

All in the stifling fervour of the day.

Her naked children round the alley run,

And, roll'd in dust, are bronzed beneath the sun;

Or gambol round the dame, who, loosely dress'd,

Woos the coy breeze, to fan the open breast.

She, once a handmaid, strove by decent art

To charm her sailor's eye and touch his heart;

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Her bosom then was veil'd in kerchief clean,

And fancy left to form the charms unseen.

But, when a wife, she lost her former care,

Nor thought on charms, nor time for dress could spare;

Careless she found her friends who dwelt beside;

No rival beauty kept alive her pride:

Still in her bosom virtue keeps her place;

But decency is gone, the virtues' guard and grace.

See that long boarded building!—By these stairs

Each humble tenant to that home repairs—

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By one large window lighted; it was made

For some bold project, some design in trade.

This fail'd—and one, a humorist in his way,

(Ill was the humour), bought it in decay;

Nor will he sell, repair, or take it down;

'Tis his—what cares he for the talk of town?

"No! he will let it to the poor—a home

Where he delights to see the creatures come."

"They may be thieves;"—"Well, so are richer men;"—

"Or idlers, cheats, or prostitutes;"—"What then?"—

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"Outcasts pursued by justice, vile and base;"—

"They need the more his pity and the place,"

Convert to system his vain mind has built,

He gives asylum to deceit and guilt.

In this vast room, each place by habit fix'd,

Are sexes, families, and ages mix'd—

To union forced by crime, by fear, by need,

And all in morals and in modes agreed:

Some ruin'd men, who from mankind remove;

Some ruin'd females, who yet talk of love;

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And some grown old in idleness—the prey

To vicious spleen, still railing through the day;

And need and misery, vice and danger bind

In sad alliance each degraded mind.

That window view!—oil'd paper and old glass

Stain the strong rays, which, though impeded, pass,

And give a dusty warmth to that huge room,

The conquer'd sunshine's melancholy gloom;

When all those western rays, without so bright,

Within become a ghastly glimmering light,

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As pale and faint upon the floor they fall,

Or feebly gleam on the opposing wall.

That floor, once oak, now pieced with fir unplaned

Or, where not pieced, in places bored and stain'd;

That wall, once whiten'd, now an odious sight,

Stain'd with all hues, except its ancient white;

The only door is fastened by a pin

Or stubborn bar, that none may hurry in:

For this poor room, like rooms of greater pride,

At times contains what prudent men would hide.

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Where'er the floor allows an even space,

Chalking and marks of various games have place;

Boys, without foresight, pleased in halters swing,

On a fix'd hook men cast a flying ring;

While gin and snuff their female neighbours share,

And the black beverage in the fractured ware.

On swinging shelf are things incongruous stored—

Scraps of their food; the cards and cribbage-board,

With pipes and pouches; while on peg below

Hang a lost member's fiddle and its bow,

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That still reminds them how he'd dance and play,

Ere sent untimely to the convicts' bay.

Here by a curtain, by a blanket there,

Are various beds conceal'd, but none with care;

Where some by day and some by night, as best

Suit their employments, seek uncertain rest;

The drowsy children at their pleasure creep

To the known crib, and there securely sleep.

Each end contains a grate, and these beside

Are hung utensils for their boil'd and fried—

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All used at any hour, by night, by day,

As suit the purse, the person, or the prey.

Above the fire, the mantel-shelf contains

Of china-ware some poor unmatch'd remains;

There many a tea-cup's gaudy fragment stands,

All placed by vanity's unwearied hands;

For here she lives, e'en here she looks about,

To find some small consoling objects out.

Nor heed these Spartan dames their house, nor sit

'Mid cares domestic—they nor sew nor knit;

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But of their fate discourse, their ways, their wars,

With arm'd authorities, their 'scapes and scars:

These lead to present evils, and a cup,

If fortune grant it, winds description up.

High hung at either end, and next the wall,

Two ancient mirrors show the forms of all,

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In all their force;—these aid them in their dress,

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But, with the good, the evils too express,

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Doubling each look of care, each token of distress.

NOTES TO LETTER XVIII.

[64] Note 1, p. 456, line 301.

With glossy leaf and tawny bloom below.

This scenery is, I must acknowledge, in a certain degree like that heretofore described in the Village; but that also was a maritime country:—if the objects be similar, the pictures must (in their principal features) be alike, or be bad pictures. I have varied them as much as I could, consistently with my wish to be accurate.

[65] Note 2, page 456, line 303.

Form the contracted Flora of the town.

The reader unacquainted with the language of botany is informed, that the Flora of a place means the vegetable species it contains, and is the title of a book which describes them.