“Our first introduction was to the centenarian Mary Ann Bradley, who looked quite healthy and well in her white cap and shawl.”

Extracted from NWN of 1st January 1891 which reports a Christmas-day visit to the Newbury Workhouse by the editor and the Mayor's son.

NEWBURY

Dinner to the Workhouse Inmates.

The senior inmates of the Newbury Union were, in accordence with annual custom, invited to partake dinner at the Guildhall Coffee House, on Saturday, by Mrs Godwin, of the Lawn, Speen.  The meal, which was well served, consisted of roast mutton, plum pudding, and minoe pies, and the guests, among whom was Mary Bradley, in her 101st year, appeared to thoroughly appreciate the generosity of the lady who had provided such a substantial fare. Before leaving, tea and Chelsea buns were handed round, and hearty vote of thanks accorded to Mrs. Godwin, proposed Mr J. Palmer, seconded by Mr Hawkes, and vigorously carried.

LOCAL CHIT-CHAT.

Door of the opening year!

We stand before thy portal strait,

As at some dim mysterlous gate,

And half in hope and half fear,

We strive to question fate,

"Christmas Day in the Workhouse."

The very mention of the Workhouse sends a shudder through the average Englishman, and how many poor people' endure hardship and privation rather than undergo such an experience. But even in the Workhouse it is possible to spend a happy Christmas, for, happily, we have outlived the austerity of Bumbledom such as obtained in the days of Oliver Twist, and the " old pensioners of society" have cause for thankfulness that they are not subjected to the rigorous government of a Board of Guardians of the type described by Charles Dickens.

Christmas in a time when people can afford to display a little generosity towards those who have been thrown into the vortex of indignecy by a turn in Fortune's wheel and no one begrudges the inmates of our workhouses such bounties as are characteristic of this festive season. It is gratifying to see and learn that the work of humanizing our workhouse administration has been attended with such beneficial effect. Indeed, the comparative social comforts which are extended to the inmates of local workhouses now would astonish such august advocates of drudgery as the Mudfog Board of Guardians, and would certainly make poor old Bumble turn in his grave.

I accepted an invitation to visit the Newbury Workhouse, and haring enjoyed my own Christmas dinner I made my way thither, in company with the son of the Mayor, who was on a similar errand, to represent his Worship. When we arrived dinner was over, and the inmates had returned to their wards. As we passed through the dining hall we saw what great preparations had been made for the day, every available point being decorated. It reminded me of the opening lines of Sims' dramatic poem:—

It is Christmas Day in the Workhouse,

And the cold bare walls are bright

With garlands of green and holly.

And the plate is pleasant sight,

Presently we came across the master and matron and officers, going the round of the infirmary, with a cheery word for the sick and a little gift for the convalescent. Our first introduction was to the centenarian, Mary Ann Bradley, who is in her 102nd birthday. The old lady sat in her armchair by the fireside, and looked quite healthy and well in her white cap and comfortable shawl. A pair of spectacks by her side are now and again used, but the sight is not 'yet dim, nor is all her natural force abated. In fact, she look almost juvenile beside her neighbour, a white-haired old woman of 75, but quite blind and suffering from a number of delusions, among which is the fact that she has to work all night long in a gold mine underneath her bed. Still, she is very nimble, and enjoys a little run up and down the ward on the arm of the master. She is in charge of the centenarian, who is quite proud of her responsibility. In the same ward are one or two old women, evidently in extremist, but there is a comfortable and even happy look on their faces.

In the next ward a group of younger women are sitting around the fire, but among them is an elderly lady possessed of vocal talents. She sings, and ends her song by a desire to kiss somebody. Being bashful, I retire into the background, and the Mayor's son claims the honour. As we journey through the wards we are joined by Councillor Lovell, a Guardian, who has a cheery word of recognition for nearly all the inmates, who welcome him gladly. We pass on through wards, all gaily adorned with evergreens and Christmas mottoes, and everywhere both young and old are enjoying themselves.

Then we come to the men's wards. Here we discover a party of some ten or twelve old fogies sitting round a fire spinning yarns. One sings a song with a roll of the R that would not do discredit to a heavy tragedian. In another ward most of them are in bed. But sitting by the fireplace is swell-known face, none other than old Barber Matthews. How pleased he is to see somebody from the old town, and hear what is going on. Lately he has been confined to his chair, but still he is as cheerful as ever. "You know," he remarked with a merry twinkle, " I am eighty-one, but never was happier in my life. All I have to do is to smoke my pipe and read my Bible. I have no worries, no rates and taxes, and you know I am the oldest tradesman in Newbury." Barber is certainly a wonderful old man, and bears both his troubles and age very lightly. Away in the corner was poor old Joe Moss, the fisherman, whose mind wanders and his memory fails. To him I appeared as the familiar friend of his youth, a certain " John Chago," and who appeared to recall many reminiscences of early life. There was a lucid interval when I asked after his old pony, and Joe dropped a tear to the memory of the faithful old animal that he drove so many years. In another ward was an old man fast approaching his hundredth birthday, by the name of Shaw, whose daughter met with such a mournful end some 24 years ago her murder and the subsequent suicide of the murderer causing such a painful sensation. The poor old fellow happily has not much recollection of the past, although he can talk of many old Newbury people whom he knew in his earlier days. he hardly expects to see another Christmas Day.

In the boys' ward there was a merry little party. Did you have a good dinner" "Yes air, couldn't eat anymore."" Did you find anything in your stocking this morning " "Yea sir." "How did it get there " " Please sir, it flewed there in the night." Another bright-eyed boy, with a little more knowledge of the ways of Santa Claus, informed me in an undertone that " Master did It while we was asleep." And he was right. " I have children of my own " afterwards said the genial Master, " and I know what their feelings are." In another ward the children were singing a carol, and for our special edification one of the women favoured us with a rendering of the "Little Brown Jag," a song with a decided oldfashioned flavour.

But the men's day ward presented the most striking spectacle. Imagine a low apartment some 50 or 60 feet long, filled with the dense fumes from 40 or 50 pipes, and when your eyes get accustomed to the gloom, men of all sorts and conditions are to be discerned sitting on seats placed against the wall. The gas is lighted, and you can distinguish features. What a study for the physiognomist. Faces worn with privation and hardship. distorted by dissipation and drink, bodies enfeebled and senses deadened. Yet they are happy in their way. At one end of the ward a young felllow, once the leader of a band in the town is playing some lively airs on a piccolo, being accompanied by another on a side-drum, while a third joins in with a whistle-pipe, and a fourth manipulates the bones with wonderful dexterity. Armed with a walking-stick for a baton, the celebrated "Johnto Rose" conducts the orchestral performance, varying it by an occasional dance on his own account.  Johnto was a famous character in his day, and his voice on a clear frosty eight, us he proclaimed his potatoes to be " All 'ot," was a welcome sound to many. Johnto, however, retired from the business many years ago, and confesees that he is not equal to it, although he remarked with a sigh," It's fine weather for 'em just now." A bit of tobacco however, raises his spirits, and he returns to his orchestral duties with renewed vigour. As one looks around and sees many well known faces a feeling of regret is experienced that who have had splendid chances, have not done better. There is at least consolation that there is even this refuge for them in their day of trouble, where food, shelter, warmth and clothing, enable them to spend the latter days of their life in some comfort.

As we cross the courtyard we encouuter another Miriam, who laughs and cries almost In the same breath. Eventually we find ourselves in the dining-ball witnessing the distribution of a big plumcake for tea.  Finally there is a short conversationwith the Master in his office, and we incidentally learn that he and his wife have forgone their own Christmas dinner in order to the more completely attend to the enjoyment of those placed under their care. Then with thanks for the courtesy shown we pass out once more into the snowy world outside and having spent nearly three hours in making the rounds arrive at the conviction that it is possible to spend a happy Christmas Day even in the workhouse.