A Real Casual on Casual Wards - Gray's Inn Road, Holborn (1866).

Gray's Inn Road (Holborn).— This workhouse takes them in at six o'clock. The porter (a paid official) is a very jovial fellow, and scatters "chaff" in all directions. He is known by the name of "Old Gunn." Coming out to the door smiling and esp[y]ing some old friend casual, he says: "Now, you stand back; I am not like some people. Some men like to see old friends, but I don't. I like new faces." Then, turning to the policeman standing near, he "chaffs" him. "Oh! want a lodging, old fellow. I can accommodate you. Put you into the best bed along o'some o'these. Can warrant a good deal of them to be nice bed-fellows, as I have known them a long time." At last "old Gunn" has got all his "old" friends in and allows them to sit in a room until eight o'clock. I think this must be done in order that they may have plenty to time to get perfectly cool. The room is perfectly without fire, and might as well be in the open air. Three large holes, evidently meant for windows, are opened wide. At eight o'clock the supper is brought, which consists of bread (small pieces, weight about 4 ounces) in a basin. In a few minutes some kind of liquid is brought steaming hot, which I have wondered at, and what could be the article used in its preparation. Water I know there is — but the other? Anyway, it is called tea. It certainly has some resemblance to that beverage in its look, but none whatever in its taste. This is one of the mysteries that I can't make out, and never shall, I suspect. In a few minutes after this "supper" is demolished, a pauper inmate conducts us, by the aid of lanthorn, down some stone-stairs, and at the bottom puts us in a room, and, closing the door after him, not forgetting to lock it, leaves us in darkness. I do not know how my companions fared, the night I was in this workhouse, but I reckon it about the most miserable I ever passed. I was laid among two more on a mattress on the floor, with nothing to cover us but a piece of sacking. It was a cold night in the latter part of November, and I never in all my life suffered more from cold. My two companions and myself were perfectly naked — not even our shirts on (no one who knows workhouses will ever sleep in them with their shirts on, for fear of catching certain insects); and as I laid in the middle between the two, you may judge my position was not very pleasant. I might have been a little warmer if I had choosed to cling up to my companions, as they wanted me; but I would sooner have borne more than I did than do so, for two dirtier or more repulsive men I never saw. Not a wink of sleep did I have that night. The usual talk about "mumping" (begging) and thieving composed the conversation. I was very glad to get up about seven o'clock in the morning, and walk up-stairs, and wait in that cold room until "breakfast" was announced at eight o'clock. I could see no difference in the liquid brought for that meal, although it was dignified by a name more in accordance with the meal. "Cocoa," as I live! Two gentlemen — guardians perhaps — came to look at us, in the morning during breakfast, and examined us all intently, like so many wild beasts in an exhibition. They appeared, by approving "ums" to be satisfied. One gentleman, a lawyer's clerk he told me he was, was there that night, and in the morning the "regulars" took an especial delight in teasing this man, calling him "shirt-neck," "paper-collar," "tough out of collar," and the like. He looked upon them all with the most unmitigated contempt, cursed the food, and (bless him! I was very hungry) gave me his breakfast. I hope he is in a better position now, for he deserved better things than passing his existence in workhouses. In Gray's Inn Road Workhouse you have no work to do, and get out about eight o'clock in the morning. This accounts, perhaps, for the indifferent food and lodging. I would like to warn any luckless Wight who contemplates passing a night in this workhouse. It was in November when I was in; and only a few days before I came down to ——, I was told by a friend whom I can rely upon, placed in the same unfortunate position, that it is even worse than it was. Of course if Mr. Parnell, or Mr. Anybody-else, were to go there, everything would be found most comfortable. It is only by sleeping in these dens that you realise the uncomfortableness of your position. Yet this workhouse is far from been disliked by the majority of casuals. Some of them would endure anything to get off doing any work in the morning; and, as Gray's Inn Road turns them out at such a nice time in the morning, it is liked. Eight o'clock is a very nice time to go out; you can then get anywhere to the West-End before nine o'clock, and pick up a little "hard-up" going, and come in for the first "cant " at No. So-and-so in Belgrave Square, or in any other square; and if you get there first, you stand a good chance of having as much to eat as will last you all day, &c., &c. This is the talk. I will at the end, after the workhouses, just give you a little insight into how the casual pauper spends the seven or eight hours he has to spare in the day. Wet and fine, he always finds something to do; his appetite is the great master that makes him trudge about for food.