A Real Casual on Casual Wards - Strand (1866).

Strand Union Workhouse (Cleveland Street, Fitzroy Square).— To get into this workhouse, which is comparatively aristocratic, you are obliged to get an order at Bow Street Police Court. Orders are given generally about 8 o'clock, and anyone who likes to walk past there at that hour of any evening, but more especially on Saturday, will be sure to see fifteen or twenty men standing against the area railings of the police court. If he is of a curious turn of mind, same as women are generally, he would think something exciting was going on inside, and would eagerly inquire "What's up?" After being told, perhaps, he would shrug his shoulders, and with a glance of contempt, rather than pity, would continue his walk. This I have seen many a time. Only once did I receive any mark of sympathy standing at this place, and that was by a stylishly-dressed prostitute. Now, these women invariably have a kind heart, to anyone that is destitute; I have received many a kind word, and something more substantial from them. You will not accuse me of hypocrisy when I say, I loathe them and their disgraceful calling, but admire the many generous acts I have seen them do in private. This lady came to me in Bow Street, and asked what we were all standing there for. I told her at once. She said, "It's a great pity, a young man like you come to this. I wish I could help you — but a penny is all I have, take it, I wish it was more." Suddenly recollecting, she added as she was going away, "Oh, I have a cigar that was given me, will you have that?"

Sometimes a little before eight, and sometimes a little aftewards, just regulated by the business inside, the policeman at the door lets each of the applicants go in after one another. I have been here three times, and always very close to each other. The first time I went Inspector West gave me the order, the two last, Inspector Breeman [Brennan?]. There is too much business transacted at this police station, to allow of their being very particular, or asking too many questions; so quick's the word and action. Having got the order, which empowers the Guardians, etc., of the Strand Workhouse to supply the bearer with supper, bed, and breakfast, you make all speed towards the place, and after ringing the bell, are admitted. A porter, the last time I was there, dressed in livery, in a small office, took my order and copied it (it merely gives the name and age), and in a bullying manner asked me my "occupation." I replied "Draughtsman." He looked, put the end of the quill pen in his mouth and very earnestly contemplated the gas.

I thought the poor man perhaps didn't know how to spell it, and forthwith began — D r a u g h t s m a n. He wrote it down as I spelt it slowly, and then imagine my astonishment at these words, spoken very sharply: "Did you think I didn't know how to spell? I do; and I consider it a piece of [blank] impudence, you telling me how to spell such a word." I replied, respectfully, that seeing him hesitate it was very natural for me to suppose so. "The guardians wouldn't have put me here if I didn't know how to spell." I said nothing, but thought all the more. Down some steps and into a very snug place, where a man gives you a basin of very good gruel, and a piece of bread. As soon as this is devoured, a voice on the top shouts out "six more." The first six run up the steps, and find a man with a moustache, who takes you into a small place. At one end of this place is a bath made of four slabs of slate. You undress at the other, and as soon as that is done, mount a small ladder and jump into the bath. The bath is not large, but the whole six of you get in together, which, to say the least, is not very enviable. The water is about a foot deep, and is never changed, consequently in a short time it becomes of the "mutton broth," brothish. So crowded are we in this bath that all kinds of imprecations are uttered on one another. One [blank] his fellow for pushing his "ugly" legs on the top of his; another wants to know what "the [blank]" his companion is doing so long with the soap. The attendant interferes — "Now, then, you'll do; come out," and out they get accordingly. Oh, those towels again! Wet as dish-cloths. No drying; so on with a rough shirt and go in to the next room, where you get into a bunk. This bunk has a bed in all respects like Lambeth, together with pillow; the covering is difficult. You perhaps never heard of leather sheets, leather blankets, and leather counterpanes. But here they are, and very warm things too. Yes; the wider-covering is a piece of thin leather, and the two outer-coverings are thicker brown leather. The advantage of this is, they harbour no vermin, same as the rugs do. They last a long time, and are also very warm. I may say I always slept at this place as well as in any other workhouse in London — better, perhaps. The same conversation as usual, and out of bed at seven o'clock. All walk across the yard, and are put in a long, wooden shed, where unmistakeable smells of oakum pervade. At eight breakfast is brought (just the same as supper), and then pick a pound and a half of oakum, or in default be imprisoned until twelve o'clock at noon.