A letter from a Victorian Workhouse

Wednesday, 10 September 1810

Hackney, London

Dear Matron,

I am writing this letter as a plea for you to consider letting me leave this miserable workhouse. It is like hell on earth. Although I should be grateful that you have put a shelter over my head, I cannot spend another sleepless night of fear and terror here. As the cold, misty nights turn into long, bleak days, I regularly question how long it has been since I arrived through the doors of this soul-destroying prison. Maybe it has been a month. Maybe a year. It feels like a lifetime. If I stay much longer my future is doomed.

The workhouse is unbearable. Every time tears flood my eyes, I get whipped with a belt. It is like lightening striking my body. The food is horrendous, even the thought of it makes me heave. I am living in a nightmare, the fear and terror flooding my mind like the deep, dark, Atlantic Ocean.

I am only in the workhouse because my beloved family have all deceased. Living on the rough, bustling streets of London, without a penny to my name, I had no other choice but to steal. I was ravenous. One single waft of the sweet smelling bread from the bakery. I could not resist! My stomach was crying out, wild with hunger! Unfortunately, one day I was caught by the bobbies and forced into this treacherous workhouse.

I beg you, with all my heart, to take your time to consider letting me leave. I am asking in desperation. Please let me walk to freedom so I can hear the cries of the city again.

Yours Sincerely,

Spinly

Thomas, 5C