Punch (94.1888)

16

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON

CHARIVARI. [Januabt 14, 1888.

THE HOME AND "THE HOUSE;"

Or, Darby and Joan To-day.

"An administration of the law by which the old and the helpless are removed from
their children and their kindred into the workhouse, as a condition of relief . . . the
refusal of out-door relief, except on the same condition, wherehy a family is sold up, their
home broken up, in all probability never to be reconstituted, and the -whole family, old
and young, charged for ever upon the rates. This condition is known at this time to be
absolutely refused by an immense multitude of our suffering and deserving poor ; they
will endure any privation of hunger and cold rather than break up their home."—From
"A Note on Out-door Relief," by Cardinal Manning. Fortnightly Review for
January, 1888.

Darby to Mr. Bumble, loquitur:—

" Comb into the House!" is your cry; "it's the Law, it's the Regular Rule,"
And I shrink, as I always have shrunk, and you call me a stubborn old fool;

And old I am surely
enough, and per-
haps I amfoolish,
who knows ?
But we've borne it
a weary long
while, and we '11
bear it, I hope, to
the close.

Darby and Joan
they call us, my
foolish old
woman and me,
Because of our
clinging to-
gether; we're
sixty years wed
do you see,
And parting this
side of the
churchyard is
what we can
neither abide;

And all of them say it is folly, and some of them swear it is pride.

Pride! "Well, we did know it once in our own little long-ago' way,
Sixty years Bince, Mr. Bumble, when I was in work, with good pay,
And yonder old bedstead was new, and the eldest of seven just born,
And Joan had the light in her eyes, and a cheek like the breaking of morn.

But pride in these rubbishing rags, in our lonely half-sightless old selves,
The hearth that is empty of fuel, the bareness of cupboards and shelves ?
Nay, nay, but it's foolish to think on; the pride that the parsons so blame,
"Was long ago banished by hunger, burnt out of our bosoms by shame.

But obstinate ?—yes, I suppose so, for love is the stubbornest thing,
The weaker they grow, our old arms, why the closer and. tighter they cling.
Our children are dead or are fled, I am eighty years odd and nigh blind,
And—you bid us " Come into the House!" and no doubt you consider it's
kind.

"Sweet Home!" we have sung in our time,—eh, Joan, you remember, my
dear ?—■

But that music, no doubt you will tell us, would sound like mere mockery here.
Home ! when there isn't a crumb-feast to tempt the lean scuttering mouse!
Little of home-feel is here, but we doubt there'd be less in the House.

Ah, you may argue, and argue! Co argue the bird from its nest,
The dog from the side of its master, the babe from its mother's warm breast.
The nest may be torn, and the man may be poor, and the mother ill-clad,
But the instinct that clings is too strong for the reason that rates it as mad.

I'm mad, without doubt, in your eyes; and the Poor Law, of course that is
sane,

To crouch by the Union fire, nothing empty, save bo3om and brain,
No hunger, but that of the heart, no fear save that terror untold,
That creeps at the thought of "the House" to the breast of the helpless and
old: —

The fear that to you is as foolish as babyhood's dread of a ghost,
To linger unloved and alone 'midst an alien uniformed host
Of strangers alone and unloved, broken waifs that the world cannot miss ;—
You will tell us—and how shall we answer him, Joan P—must be better than
this !

Joan, my Joan, who would then be but little more mine than the dress,
They would wrap round these rag-covered limbs, can we hope to make gentle-
folk guess,

The terror, the tearing asunder, the wrenching from love's latest hold,
The void that's more awful than hunger, the palsy more dreadful than cold ?
Our friend here is getting impatient. Perhaps, were no memories ours
Of the sunlight that shone on our prime, we should slink from the shadow that
lours

Into any retreat. We were taxed in our prosperous

days like the best,
And pride would scarce stay our old feet from the road to

a haven of rest.

But who calls the House such a haven ? Not those who

have herded therein,
"Keep out of it, Dabby," they cry, "whilst a coin or a

crust you can win."
Badged, brow-beaten, ranked without heed to the links

of a lifetime ? No, no !
The road to the grave, though 'tis hard, is a road we

would far rather go.

So help to the helpless must come, say our Masters, or

come not at all.
A choice between heart-break and hunger for those fate

has thrust to the wall.
Is that a wise Country's last word to its aged ones ?

Well, you have mine;
And you call me a stubborn old fool! Joan ! Joan ! be

content, I decline!

No, Joan, I am not to be taken. Be comforted, wife, I

am here, [then, my dear.

We scarcely can see one another; take hold of my hand,
Nay, I'm not yielding, not yet; though perhaps were

you warm, and well fed-

Ah! pardon, old wife; we 're together, the word that

should part us unsaid.
* « » * *

Mr. Bumble loquitur: —
Dead! In each other's thin arms clasped close, as they

wished, to the end!
Yes, I called him a stubborn old fool, and the fool

wouldn't know his beBt friend.
Pah! but the poor are as mulish all round, as though

beggars might choose.
If a voice could awake in him now, I suppose it would

wake—to refuse.

Maddening, folly like this, to a mind that's official and
clear! [for many a year!

Dead, in the damp, chilly den where they've huddled
Whilst the Union gates are ajar, and the Union pallets
are spread,

With a Poor Law shaped all for their good, and they
spurned at its help, and they 're dead!

Wouldn't be parted, forsooth! Could not argue them
free of that scare,*

With talk of indulgence for age, or of Guardians' dis-
cretion. The pair,

Like hundreds of couples, seemed crazed on the point,
and persuasion was vain.

Bogey tales of the House are the creed of the credulous
poor, and their bane.

Darby and Joan ! It is dismal. What good has it done
them to die, [but here, in this stye ?

Clasped close, but with famine-pinched faces, together,
It's folly; it's worse, it's a nuisance. And yet they

look peaceful-like. Come !
They've escaped from the House, after all, and, poor
fools, let us trust they 're—at Home!
* "With reason or without, it is commonly impossible to per-
suade the aged poor that they have any assurance of r, ot being
separated when once in " the House ;" that the Guardians have
any discretion in the matter, or, having it, are likely to use it
in their favour. The old couple whom the -writer has in his
mind were impervious to argument on this point.—Ed.

" Dot and go One," is Mr. Toole's motto in reviving
this effective Christmassy piece, which is far from being
in its dot-age. Dot and go like one o'clock it probably
will, until the new piece by the Partners Merivale has
been sufficiently rehearsed. Mr. Toole as Caleb Plum-
met- (whiohin one paper's notice was misprinted ' Cable"
Plummer, thus giving the comedian plenty of rope) is
seen to great advantage, and naturally considering that
the old Dickens-Boucicault drama would draw money
during the Christmas holidays, looks upon this Dot as a
"spec."___

The Theatrical G-ovebning Body.—The Board of
Fire-Works.