Holmes Street Casual Ward
'By seven o’clock we were called away to bathe and go to bed. We stripped our clothes, wrapping them up in our coats and buckling our belts about them, and deposited them in a heaped rack and on the floor—a beautiful scheme for the spread of vermin. Then, two by two, we entered the bathroom. There were two ordinary tubs, and this I know: the two men preceding had washed in that water, we washed in the same water, and it was not changed for the two men that followed us. This I know; but I am also certain that the twenty-two of us washed in the same water [...] Many hours passed before I won to sleep. It was only seven in the evening, and the voices of children, in shrill outcry, playing in the street, continued till nearly midnight. The smell was frightful and sickening, while my imagination broke loose, and my skin crept and crawled till I was nearly frantic. Grunting, groaning, and snoring arose like the sounds emitted by some sea monster, and several times, afflicted by nightmare, one or another, by his shrieks and yells, aroused the lot of us. Toward morning I was awakened by a rat or some similar animal on my breast. In the quick transition from sleep to waking, before I was completely myself, I raised a shout to wake the dead. At any rate, I woke the living, and they cursed me roundly for my lack of manners [...] But morning came, with a six o’clock breakfast of bread and skilly, which I gave away, and we were told off to our various tasks. Some were set to scrubbing and cleaning, others to picking oakum, and eight of us were convoyed across the street to the Whitechapel Infirmary where we were set at scavenger work. This was the method by which we paid for our skilly and canvas, and I, for one, know that I paid in full many times over.' - Jack London, The People of The Abyss
St Martins in the Field Crypt
'I sometimes went in search of wandering parishioners in St Martin-in-the-Fields and even tried to sleep there myself; I saw, when dawn came, the pallid figures struggle up from the benches in the crypt and tidy their dishevelled clothes; and I watched the lilies take no thought for themselves upon the illumined altar, but greet dawn with fragrant loveliness' - The Reverend Desmond Morse-Boycott, A Golden Legend of the Slums
'He who elects to walk the streets of London, particularly the central streets round theatre-land, Trafalgar Square, late at night badly dressed – whatever may be his position in life – is in peril of being spirited away to some crypt or other refuge to be cared for and comforted, so complete and thorough is the official and philanthropic machinery for the care of the homeless “down and outs” in the Metropolitan area. ][ That is one picture. Another is: Walk through the central streets of London on any night, wet or fine, winter or summer, and there may be found, in large numbers, the derelicts of society – huddled forms in dark archways, on the benches of the Embankment, and on the doorsteps and porches of the rich.' - Frank Gray The Tramp: His Meaning and Being
‘Spending the night in the streets, 60 men, 18 women. ][ In shelters and homes not licensed as common lodging houses 1, 057 men, 137 women. ][ In the crypt of St Martin’s-in-the-Fields Church, 88 men, 12 women. ][ In LCC casual wards and hostels, 647 men, 15 women.’ - George Orwell, Down and Out in Paris and London
'He who elects to walk the streets of London, particularly the central streets round theatre-land, Trafalgar Square, late at night badly dressed – whatever may be his position in life – is in peril of being spirited away to some crypt or other refuge to be cared for and comforted, so complete and thorough is the official and philanthropic machinery for the care of the homeless “down and outs” in the Metropolitan area. ][ That is one picture. Another is: Walk through the central streets of London on any night, wet or fine, winter or summer, and there may be found, in large numbers, the derelicts of society – huddled forms in dark archways, on the benches of the Embankment, and on the doorsteps and porches of the rich.' - Frank Gray The Tramp: His Meaning and Being
‘Spending the night in the streets, 60 men, 18 women. ][ In shelters and homes not licensed as common lodging houses 1, 057 men, 137 women. ][ In the crypt of St Martin’s-in-the-Fields Church, 88 men, 12 women. ][ In LCC casual wards and hostels, 647 men, 15 women.’ - George Orwell, Down and Out in Paris and London
St Pancras Poorhouse Infirmary
In 1856, an investigation was carried out for the Poor Law Board by Dr Henry Bence Jones, into conditions in the workhouse. Dr Jones had found that workhouse was severely overcrowded with patients in the infirmary having to be placed on the floor. Ventilation throughout the building was deficient, with fetid air from privies, sinks, drains, urinals and foul patients permeating many of the wards and producing sickness, headaches and dysentery amongst the inmates. The staff also complained of nausea, giddiness, sickness and loss of appetite. A lying-in room, also used as a sleeping room by night nurses, had a smell that was 'enough to knock you down'. In the women's receiving wards, more than eighty women and children slept in two rooms which provided a mere 164 cubic feet of space per adult. Worst of all were the underground 'pens' where between 300 and 900 applicants for out-relief crowded each day, sometimes waiting until 7 p.m. without food. The poor ventilation and smell in the pens was so poor as to cause women to faint and windows to be broken to obtain fresh air. The union's relieving officer reported that his predecessor had died of typhus, thought to be contracted from the foul air. Dr Jones' heartfelt conclusion was that 'such a state of things ought not to be tolerated by the Government.' - www.workhouse.org.uk
Camden Town Rowton House
‘On my return I paid fivepence for a “cabin”, took my receipt for the same room … and went upstairs to the smoking room. Here, a couple of small billiard tables and several checkerboards were being used by young workmen, who waited in relays for their turn at the games, while many men were sitting around, smoking, reading, and mending their clothes… But no more than two cellar rooms did this room convey the remotest suggestion of home. Certainly there could be nothing homelike about it to you and me, who know what a home really is. On the walls were the most preposterous and insulting notices regulating the conduct of the guests, and at ten o’clock the lights were put out, and nothing remained but bed [...] The “cabins” were the best accommodation, each cabin allowing space for a tiny bed and room alongside of it in which to undress. The bedding was clean, and with neither it nor the bed do I find fault. But there was no privacy about it, not being alone [...] There are no ceilings to the pigeon holes, the walls are thin, and the snores from all the sleepers and every move and turn of your nearer neighbours come plainly to your ears [...] There is no door at all, only a doorway. If you care to remain a guest in this poor man’s hotel, you must put up with all of this, and with prison regulations which impress upon you constantly that you are nobody, with little soul of your own and less to say about it.’ Jack London, The People of the Abyss
'Above this come the common lodging-houses, with charges varying between sevenpence and one and a penny a night. The best are the Rowton Houses, where the charge is a shilling, for which you get a cubicle to yourself, and the use of excellent bathrooms. You can also pay half a crown for a ‘special’, which is practically hotel accommodation. The Rowton Houses are splendid buildings, and the only objection to them is the strict discipline, with rules against cooking, card-playing, etc. Perhaps the best advertisement for the Rowton Houses is the fact that they are always full to overflowing. The Bruce Houses, at one and a penny, are also excellent.' George Orwell, Down and Out in Paris and London
'Above this come the common lodging-houses, with charges varying between sevenpence and one and a penny a night. The best are the Rowton Houses, where the charge is a shilling, for which you get a cubicle to yourself, and the use of excellent bathrooms. You can also pay half a crown for a ‘special’, which is practically hotel accommodation. The Rowton Houses are splendid buildings, and the only objection to them is the strict discipline, with rules against cooking, card-playing, etc. Perhaps the best advertisement for the Rowton Houses is the fact that they are always full to overflowing. The Bruce Houses, at one and a penny, are also excellent.' George Orwell, Down and Out in Paris and London
The Embankment
‘I had been informed that there were very few homeless wanderers of the night to be seen on the embankment in these days, that the police were under orders to gather them up and sheperhd them gently into the Casual Wards. I soon discovered that such a statement was devoid of all truth. In my first walk along the whole of the embankment length I counted twenty-nine men and six women, all of them, seemingly, abject and miserable specimens of vagrancy, sitting mutely and dejectedly or dozing on the seats’ - Frank L. Jennings, In London’s Shadows
'The Embankment. Here is the account that Paddy gave me of sleeping on the Embankment: "De whole t’ing wid de Embankment is gettin’ to sleep early. You got to be on your bench by eight o’clock, because dere ain’t too many benches and sometimes dey’re all taken. And you got to try to get to sleep at once. ’Tis too cold to sleep much after twelve o’clock, an’ de police turns you off at four in de mornin’. It ain’t easy to sleep, dough, wid dem bloody trams flyin’ past your head all de time, an’ dem sky-signs across de river flickin’ on an’ off in your eyes. De cold’s cruel. Dem as sleeps dere generally wraps demselves up in newspaper, but it don’t do much good. You’d be bloody lucky if you got t’ree hours’ sleep." [...] I have slept on the Embankment and found that it corresponded to Paddy’s description. It is, however, much better than not sleeping at all, which is the alternative if you spend the night in the streets, elsewhere than on the Embankment. According to the law in London, you may sit down for the night, but the police must move you on if they see you asleep; the Embankment and one or two odd corners (there is one behind the Lyceum Theatre) are special exceptions. This law is evidently a piece of wilful offensiveness. Its object, so it is said, is to prevent people from dying of exposure; but clearly if a man has no home and is going to die of exposure, die he will, asleep or awake. In Paris there is no such law. There, people sleep by the score under the Seine bridges, and in doorways, and on benches in the squares, and round the ventilating shafts of the Metro, and even inside the Metro stations. It does no apparent harm. No one will spend a night in the street if he can possibly help it, and if he is going to stay out of doors he might as well be allowed to sleep, if he can.' - George Orwell, Down and Out in Paris and London
'The Embankment. Here is the account that Paddy gave me of sleeping on the Embankment: "De whole t’ing wid de Embankment is gettin’ to sleep early. You got to be on your bench by eight o’clock, because dere ain’t too many benches and sometimes dey’re all taken. And you got to try to get to sleep at once. ’Tis too cold to sleep much after twelve o’clock, an’ de police turns you off at four in de mornin’. It ain’t easy to sleep, dough, wid dem bloody trams flyin’ past your head all de time, an’ dem sky-signs across de river flickin’ on an’ off in your eyes. De cold’s cruel. Dem as sleeps dere generally wraps demselves up in newspaper, but it don’t do much good. You’d be bloody lucky if you got t’ree hours’ sleep." [...] I have slept on the Embankment and found that it corresponded to Paddy’s description. It is, however, much better than not sleeping at all, which is the alternative if you spend the night in the streets, elsewhere than on the Embankment. According to the law in London, you may sit down for the night, but the police must move you on if they see you asleep; the Embankment and one or two odd corners (there is one behind the Lyceum Theatre) are special exceptions. This law is evidently a piece of wilful offensiveness. Its object, so it is said, is to prevent people from dying of exposure; but clearly if a man has no home and is going to die of exposure, die he will, asleep or awake. In Paris there is no such law. There, people sleep by the score under the Seine bridges, and in doorways, and on benches in the squares, and round the ventilating shafts of the Metro, and even inside the Metro stations. It does no apparent harm. No one will spend a night in the street if he can possibly help it, and if he is going to stay out of doors he might as well be allowed to sleep, if he can.' - George Orwell, Down and Out in Paris and London