WORKHOUSE VIEWS ON PENSIONS.

Marlborough Express, Volume XLII, Issue 93, 21 April 1908, Page 2

WORKHOUSE VIEWS ON PENSIONS.

-.-■.. — ♦t- .- . (By Harold Spender.) •,, Two otd men sitting at the entrance waiting for a chance of errands—an old man in brown corduroys carrying a pail—an old woman in grey, tottering across the courtyard —i-and, under the eaves, a group of old men, also in brown corduroys, feebly gossiping! Always old people. No .saving sunshine of youth or infancy—no prattle of babies or, laughter of childhood. Always old people —for it is one of. our workhouses for the old. This .is England's way. If you want to know, in our modern English homes, where are the old people, here is,the answer. Here they are, safely stowed away. WAITING FOR THE REAPER. Old; age in every possible form and shape. Wards where they sit in silent, helpless rows, some deaf, some blind, some senseless, all beyond life I "and interest—a living cemetery.

"Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans everything.' Waiting for the Reaper who delays his coming, feeling perhaps that England deserves little help in her grim and inhuman task;

Then, other rooms where they lift their heads as you come in, and return your salute—pathetically rising to greet you, as old people, in a healthy /state; should never rise to greet tne young. %bok round on them—old gaffers who should be sitting in the ingle-rieck, old grannies who should be still moving about English households, rejoicing in $ie patter of little feet, guarding the grandchild when the mother is out, perhaps even tempering the discipline j of the parent with the fond affection of the old. knows? Perhaps even handing on some wisdom from the past, some caution from their own store of living? But all 'that has' past. The gay confusion—the shifting interests—the loving worry—of the home is all behind them. The shutter has fallen. Life has gone silent for them. Nothing but this long, whitewashed ward, this terrible cleanliness, this fearful orderliness, this life in a hated, shameful, uniformed emptiness. No .wonder that in this atmosphere the best are so often silent, and it is only the worst who break the vacancy with their harsh laughter and ribald jest. - " NO ONE IN THE WORLD." How will old age pensions affect these old people! What is their view of the question which we are so hotfy debating outside? That.is what I have come to ask them on this grey February day. I put it to one old bootmaker, who wears that " sorrow's crown'of sorrow," remembering happier days. What could he do with five shillings a week? "I have no one in the world," he replied sadly. "Five shillings a week would npt be eno' to live on alone. I might try, but I would have to come back." Another brightens up:—"l have a wife. Give us each five shillings a week, and we go out together." A third shakes his head:—" Might do it in the country. No good in London. Would hardly pay the rent.'' t A fourth takes a brighter view: — '' I could do a job now and again— the wife could do a job. We would face it." On one thing all of these skilled men seemed agreed. They were eager to get out. We pass to the outhouses, where long rows of unskilled old men are in one place sawmg up planks, and in another chopping them up into firewood. Here, indeed, is work without hope. The grating of the saws and the multitudinous "chop, chop" of the axes fill the place with dreary, crushing noise. The presence of an uniformed official gives a touch of prison discipline. The men work on monotonously. One v younger man—a recent comer—stops to inquire anxiously after a parted wife and children. The old men look up with vacant, hopeless eyes. " Come out?" says one we speak to. "Gome out? Five shillings a week? Ain't got no cue to go to in the world." And he resumes his task. THE WIVES. We pass fco the married quarters. There is more lightness here—a brightness that seems some kind of glint from the home life outside. Here, at any rate, is human companionship, and love even in misfortune. Here is some respect for the individual soul—some guard for the precious treasure of human virtue —some peace at the last. It is not the poet's picture: An old age serene and bright, And lovely as a Lapland night —but it is something nearer to it. The old men are at work; but the' old ladies receive us cheerfully in , their common room, and soon fall into talk. They even joke with us. "Get out? . I shoul dthink we did ! want to get out—if we could."

That is the universal verdict. But when we come to discuss ways and means, there is a difference. "I'd go out with anything," says one gay old heart. "And come back, again with nothing," says another. "Five'■■shillings each? That's ftve for me—and five for Bill. We could manage on;that," says a third. We hint that there might be a reduction on a.quantity—that-for two married people the pension might be only eight shillings. " That ain't fair," is the unanimous verdict. " That's a reward to the couples that don't stick together." " Husbands takes a lot of money," , says a sunny-faced old Joan, " more than half." WOMEN FIRST ?—" NO:" Then, very slowly and cautiously^! we lay before them a proposal that has been suggested by a great philanthropist: Why not. women first? To our surprise, it is met with a cry of dismay. ' "What, leave my old man behind? We that have been together these twenty -years? Part now? I'd far rather stay in." We pass along the line, questioning them, with no better result* It is not the view of one alone. It is the view of all. They are quite indignant in behalf of their husbands. "Call thnt justice! Why should they be left out?" No, with one accord, they all say tliat they would rather be left in the "House!" Just as we had agreed, a thinfaced, white-haired, sweet-faced old man comes to the door. He looks anxiously round the room, heeds not cur voices, scans every face, until at last he sees the one he wants.

Then he walks across the room straight to his wife. He is rather deaf, and leans towards her, perhaps a' little astonished at this display. She shouts in his ear: ,

" They want me to leave you behind—and I say—no, never!"— Daily Chronicle.