Waterloo50
Major
- Joined
- Jul 7, 2015
- Location
- England
A short tribute to my relative Mary Eliza Russell (1827-1899)
I was working on my family tree again today and found a very sad story about a relative of mine, she died in the Union Work House in Bath England. I didn't know very much about the work house and what I found shocked me.
Life was meant to be much tougher inside the workhouse than outside, and the buildings themselves were deliberately grim & intimidating - they were designed to look like prisons. They were full of illness & disease brought about by over-crowding & the starvation diet. When you were admitted to the workhouse, you were stripped, searched, washed & had your hair cropped. You were made to wear a prison-style uniform. Women were at all times kept separate from the men, including their husbands. Children were kept separately from adults - even from their own parents. A well known story tells how a labourer gave notice to leave the workhouse with his wife & children - only to be told: "You cannot take your wife out. We buried her three weeks ago". In one instance, a girl aged 15 years died in the workhouse. Her records showed that she was born in the workhouse & had never been outside the place.
After rising at 5am (in summer), an inmate worked 7-12am and 1-6pm; which is a 10 hour working day. Bed was 8pm. As well as gardening, cooking & sewing, there was corn milling, sack making, oakum picking (unravelling short lengths of rope) & crushing stone. Bones were crushed by hand to make fertiliser. Sometimes the inmates were so hungry that they would pick scraps of flesh off the bones and eat it. The bones were not all animal bones either! all meals were taken in silence, and no cutlery was provided - inmates had to use their fingers. And the meals were kept dull, predictable & tasteless. There were 6 official diets which were so meagre that they were described as "a slow process of starvation".
A poem written by a lady in the Union Work House.
Since I cannot, dear sister, with you hold communion,
I'll give you a sketch of our life in the union.
But how to begin I don't know, I declare:
Let me see: well, the first is our grand bill of fare.
We've skilly for breakfast; at night bread and cheese,
And we eat it and then go to bed if you please.
Two days in the week we have puddings for dinner,
And two, we have broth, so like water but thinner;
Two, meat and potatoes, of this none to spare;
One day, bread & cheese - and this is our fare.
And now then my clothes I will try to portray;
They're made of coarse cloth and the colour is grey,
My jacket and waistcoat don't fit me at all;
My shirt is too short, or I am too tall;
My shoes are not pairs, though of course I have two,
They are down at heel and my stockings are blue ...
A sort of Scotch bonnet we wear on our heads,
And I sleep in a room where there are fourteen beds.
Some are sleeping, some are snoring, some talking, some playing,
Some fighting, some swearing, but very few praying.
Here are nine at a time who work on the mill;
We take it in turns so it never stands still:
A half hour each gang, so 'tis not very hard,
And when we are off we can walk in the yard ...
I sometimes look up at the bit of blue sky
High over my head, with a tear in my eye.
Surrounded by walls that are too high to climb,
Confined like a felon without any crime,
Not a field nor a house nor a hedge I can see -
Not a plant, not a flower, nor a bush nor a tree ...
But I'm getting, I find, too pathetic by half,
And my object was only to cause you to laugh;
So my love to yourself, your husband and daughter,
I'll drink to your health with a tin of cold water:
Of course, we've no wine, not porter, nor beer,
So you see that we all are teetotallers here.
I was working on my family tree again today and found a very sad story about a relative of mine, she died in the Union Work House in Bath England. I didn't know very much about the work house and what I found shocked me.
Life was meant to be much tougher inside the workhouse than outside, and the buildings themselves were deliberately grim & intimidating - they were designed to look like prisons. They were full of illness & disease brought about by over-crowding & the starvation diet. When you were admitted to the workhouse, you were stripped, searched, washed & had your hair cropped. You were made to wear a prison-style uniform. Women were at all times kept separate from the men, including their husbands. Children were kept separately from adults - even from their own parents. A well known story tells how a labourer gave notice to leave the workhouse with his wife & children - only to be told: "You cannot take your wife out. We buried her three weeks ago". In one instance, a girl aged 15 years died in the workhouse. Her records showed that she was born in the workhouse & had never been outside the place.
After rising at 5am (in summer), an inmate worked 7-12am and 1-6pm; which is a 10 hour working day. Bed was 8pm. As well as gardening, cooking & sewing, there was corn milling, sack making, oakum picking (unravelling short lengths of rope) & crushing stone. Bones were crushed by hand to make fertiliser. Sometimes the inmates were so hungry that they would pick scraps of flesh off the bones and eat it. The bones were not all animal bones either! all meals were taken in silence, and no cutlery was provided - inmates had to use their fingers. And the meals were kept dull, predictable & tasteless. There were 6 official diets which were so meagre that they were described as "a slow process of starvation".
A poem written by a lady in the Union Work House.
Since I cannot, dear sister, with you hold communion,
I'll give you a sketch of our life in the union.
But how to begin I don't know, I declare:
Let me see: well, the first is our grand bill of fare.
We've skilly for breakfast; at night bread and cheese,
And we eat it and then go to bed if you please.
Two days in the week we have puddings for dinner,
And two, we have broth, so like water but thinner;
Two, meat and potatoes, of this none to spare;
One day, bread & cheese - and this is our fare.
And now then my clothes I will try to portray;
They're made of coarse cloth and the colour is grey,
My jacket and waistcoat don't fit me at all;
My shirt is too short, or I am too tall;
My shoes are not pairs, though of course I have two,
They are down at heel and my stockings are blue ...
A sort of Scotch bonnet we wear on our heads,
And I sleep in a room where there are fourteen beds.
Some are sleeping, some are snoring, some talking, some playing,
Some fighting, some swearing, but very few praying.
Here are nine at a time who work on the mill;
We take it in turns so it never stands still:
A half hour each gang, so 'tis not very hard,
And when we are off we can walk in the yard ...
I sometimes look up at the bit of blue sky
High over my head, with a tear in my eye.
Surrounded by walls that are too high to climb,
Confined like a felon without any crime,
Not a field nor a house nor a hedge I can see -
Not a plant, not a flower, nor a bush nor a tree ...
But I'm getting, I find, too pathetic by half,
And my object was only to cause you to laugh;
So my love to yourself, your husband and daughter,
I'll drink to your health with a tin of cold water:
Of course, we've no wine, not porter, nor beer,
So you see that we all are teetotallers here.
Last edited:
Forum Host
That's why he went into the freak show business even though it was being outlawed at the time.
Isn't that what the mutinies at Spithead were about? That and edible food. Probably thought getting some cheese that didn't make indestructible buttons might be nice!
Bringing the