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[Illustration: THE WHITE SLAVES OF ENGLAND.]




  FIFTH THOUSAND.


  THE WHITE SLAVES

  OF

  ENGLAND.


  COMPILED FROM OFFICIAL DOCUMENTS.

  WITH TWELVE SPIRITED ILLUSTRATIONS.


  BY JOHN C. COBDEN.


  AUBURN AND BUFFALO:
  MILLER ORTON & MULLIGAN.
  1854.




  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand eight
    hundred and fifty-three, by

  DERBY AND MILLER,

  In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Northern District
    of New-York.




PREFACE.


The following pages exhibit a system of wrong and outrage equally
abhorrent to justice, civilization and humanity. The frightful abuses
which are here set forth, are, from their enormity, difficult of
belief; yet they are supported by testimony the most impartial, clear
and irrefutable. These abuses are time-honored, and have the sanction
of a nation which prides itself upon the _freedom of its Constitution_;
and which holds up its government to the nations of the earth as a
model of _regulated liberty_. Vain, audacious, _false_ assumption! Let
the refutation be found in the details which this volume furnishes,
of the want, misery and starvation—the slavish toil—the menial
degradation of nineteen-twentieths of her people. Let her _miners_, her
_operatives_, _the tenants of her workhouses_, her _naval service_, and
the millions upon millions in the _Emerald Isle_ and in farther India
attest its fallacy.

These are the legitimate results of the laws and institutions of Great
Britain; and they reach and affect, in a greater or less degree, all
her dependencies. Her _church and state_, and her _laws of entail
and primogeniture_, are the principal sources of the evils under
which her people groan; and until these are changed there is no just
ground of hope for an improvement in their condition. The tendency of
things is, indeed, to make matters still worse. The poor are every
year becoming poorer, and more dependent upon those who feast upon
their sufferings; while the wealth and power of the realm are annually
concentrating in fewer hands, and becoming more and more instruments
of oppression. The picture is already sufficiently revolting. "Nine
hundred and ninety-nine children of the same common Father, suffer from
destitution, that the thousandth may revel in superfluities. A thousand
cottages shrink into meanness and want, to swell the dimensions of a
single palace. The tables of a thousand families of the industrious
poor waste away into drought and barrenness, that one board may be
laden with surfeits."

From these monstrous evils there seems to be little chance of escape,
except by flight; and happy is it for the victims of oppression, that
an asylum is open to them, in which they can fully enjoy the rights
and privileges, from which, for ages, they have been debarred. Let
them come. The feudal chains which so long have bound them can here be
shaken off. Here they can freely indulge the pure impulses of the mind
and the soul, untrammeled by political or religious tyranny. Here they
can enjoy the beneficent influences of humane institutions and laws,
and find a vast and ample field in which to develop and properly employ
all their faculties.

The United States appear before the eyes of the down-trodden whites of
Europe as a land of promise. Thousands of ignorant, degraded wretches,
who have fled from their homes to escape exhausting systems of
slavery, annually land upon our shores, and in their hearts thank God
that he has created such a refuge. This is the answer—the overwhelming
answer—to the decriers of our country and its institutions. These
emigrants are more keenly alive to the superiority of our institutions
than most persons who have been bred under them, and to their care we
might confidently intrust our defence.

We design to prove in this work that the oligarchy which owns Great
Britain at the present day is the best friend of human slavery, and
that its system is most barbarous and destructive. Those feudal
institutions which reduced to slavery the strong-minded race of
whites, are perpetuated in Great Britain, to the detriment of freedom
wherever the British sway extends. Institutions which nearly every
other civilized country has abolished, and which are at least a century
behind the age, still curse the British islands and their dependencies.
This system of slavery, with all its destructive effects, will be found
fully illustrated in this volume.

Our plan has been to quote English authorities wherever possible. Out
of their own mouths shall they be condemned. We have been much indebted
to the publications of distinguished democrats of England, who have
keenly felt the evils under which their country groans, and striven,
with a hearty will, to remove them. They have the sympathies of
civilized mankind with their cause. May their efforts soon be crowned
with success, for the British masses and oppressed nations far away in
the East will shout loud and long when the aristocracy is brought to
the dust!




" • • • • • AS WE HAVE BEEN GREAT IN CRIME, LET US BE EARLY IN
REPENTANCE. THERE WILL BE A DAY OF RETRIBUTION, WHEREIN WE SHALL HAVE
TO GIVE ACCOUNT OF ALL THE TALENTS, FACULTIES, AND OPPORTUNITIES WHICH
HAVE BEEN INTRUSTED TO US. LET IT NOT THEN APPEAR THAT OUR SUPERIOR
POWER HAS BEEN EMPLOYED TO OPPRESS OUR FELLOW CREATURES, AND OUR
SUPERIOR LIGHT TO DARKEN THE CREATION OF OUR GOD."—_Wilberforce._




CONTENTS.


  CHAPTER I.
  General Slavery proceeding from the existence of the British
    Aristocracy                                              _Page_ 13


  CHAPTER II.
  Slavery in the British Mines                                       28


  CHAPTER III.
  Slavery in the British Factories                                  104


  CHAPTER IV.
  Slavery in the British Workshops                                  168


  CHAPTER V.
  The Workhouse System of Britain                                   206


  CHAPTER VI.
  Impressment, or Kidnapping White Men for Slaves in the
    Naval Service                                                   257


  CHAPTER VII.
  Irish Slavery                                                     284


  CHAPTER VIII.
  The Menial Slaves of Great Britain                                370


  CHAPTER IX.

  Mental and Moral Condition of the White Slaves in Great Britain   379


  CHAPTER X.
  Coolie Slavery in the British Colonies                            433


  CHAPTER XI.
  Slavery in British India                                          441


  CHAPTER XII.
  The Crime and the Duty of the English Government                  489




THE

WHITE SLAVES OF ENGLAND.




CHAPTER I.

GENERAL SLAVERY PROCEEDING FROM THE EXISTENCE OF THE BRITISH
ARISTOCRACY.


What is slavery? A system under which the time and toil of one person
are compulsorily the property of another. The power of life and death,
and the privilege of using the lash in the master, are not essential,
but casual attendants of slavery, which comprehends all involuntary
servitude without adequate recompense or the means of escape. He
who can obtain no property in the soil, and is not represented in
legislation, is a slave; for he is completely at the mercy of the
lord of the soil and the holder of the reins of government. Sometimes
slavery is founded upon the inferiority of one race to another; and
then it appears in its most agreeable garb, for the system may be
necessary to tame and civilize a race of savages. But the subjection
of the majority of a nation to an involuntary, hopeless, exhausting,
and demoralizing servitude, for the benefit of an idle and luxurious
few of the same nation, is slavery in its most appalling form. Such a
system of slavery, we assert, exists in Great Britain.

In the United Kingdom, the land is divided into immense estates,
constantly retained in a few hands; and the tendency of the existing
laws of entail and primogeniture is to reduce even the number of these
proprietors. According to McCulloch, there are 77,007,048 acres of
land in the United Kingdom, including the small islands adjacent. Of
this quantity, 28,227,435 acres are uncultivated; while, according to
Mr. Porter, another English writer, about 11,300,000 acres, now lying
waste, are fit for cultivation. The number of proprietors of all this
land is about 50,000. Perhaps, this is a rather high estimate for the
present period. Now the people of the United Kingdom number at least
28,000,000. What a tremendous majority, then, own not a foot of soil!
But this is not the worst. Such is the state of the laws, that the
majority never can acquire an interest in the land. Said the London
_Times_, in 1844, "_Once a peasant in England, and the man must remain
a peasant for ever_;" and, says Mr. Kay, of Trinity College, Cambridge—

     "Unless the English peasant will consent to tear himself from his
     relations, friends, and early associations, and either transplant
     himself into a town or into a distant colony, he has no chance of
     improving his condition in the world."

Admit this—admit that the peasant must remain through life at the
mercy of his lord, and of legislation in which his interests are not
represented—and tell us if he is a freeman?

To begin with England, to show the progress and effects of the land
monopoly:—The Rev. Henry Worsley states that in the year 1770, there
were in England 250,000 freehold estates, in the hands of 250,000
different families; and that, in 1815, the whole of the lands of
England were concentrated in the hands of only 32,000 proprietors!
So that, as the population increases, the number of proprietors
diminishes. A distinguished lawyer, who was engaged in the management
of estates in Westmoreland and Cumberland counties in 1849, says—

     "The greater proprietors in this part of the country are
     buying up all the land, and including it in their settlements.
     Whenever one of the small estates is put up for sale, the great
     proprietors outbid the peasants and purchase it at all costs. The
     consequence is, that for some time past, the number of the small
     estates has been rapidly diminishing in all parts of the country.
     In a short time none of them will remain, but all be merged in
     the great estates. * * * The consequence is, that the peasant's
     position, instead of being what it once was—one of hope—is
     gradually becoming one of despair. Unless a peasant emigrates,
     there is now no chance for him. It is impossible for him to rise
     above the peasant class."

The direct results of this system are obvious. Unable to buy land, the
tillers of the soil live merely by the sufferance of the proprietors.
If one of the great landholders takes the notion that grazing will
be more profitable than farming, he may sweep away the homes of his
labourers, turning the poor wretches upon the country as wandering
paupers, or driving them into the cities to overstock the workshops and
reduce the wages of the poor workman. And what is the condition of the
peasants who are allowed to remain and labour upon the vast estates?
Let Englishmen speak for Englishmen.

Devon, Somerset, Dorset, and Wiltshire are generally regarded
as presenting the agricultural labourer in his most deplorable
circumstances, while Lincolnshire exhibits the other extreme. We
have good authority for the condition of the peasantry in all these
counties. Mr. John Fox, medical officer of the Cerne Union, in
Dorsetshire, says—

     "Most of the cottages are of the worst description; some mere
     mud-hovels, and situated in low and damp places, with cesspools
     or accumulations of filth close to the doors. The mud floors of
     many are much below the level of the road, and, in wet seasons,
     are little better than so much clay. In many of the cottages, the
     beds stood on the ground floor, which was damp three parts of
     the year; scarcely one had a fireplace in the bedroom; and one
     had a single small pane of glass stuck in the mud wall as its
     only window. Persons living in such cottages are generally very
     poor, very dirty, and usually in rags, living almost wholly on
     bread and potatoes, scarcely ever tasting any animal food, and,
     consequently, highly susceptible of disease, and very unable to
     contend with it."

Very often, according to other equally good authority, there is not
more than one room for the whole family, and the demoralization of
that family is the natural consequence. The _Morning Chronicle_ of
November, 1849, said of the cottages at Southleigh, in Devon—

     "One house, which our correspondent visited, was almost a ruin.
     It had continued in that state for ten years. The floor was of
     mud, dipping near the fireplace into a deep hollow, which was
     constantly filled with water. There were five in the family—a
     young man of twenty-one, a girl of eighteen, and another girl of
     about thirteen, with the father and mother, all sleeping together
     up-stairs. And what a sleeping-room! 'In places it seemed falling
     in. To ventilation it was an utter stranger. The crazy floor
     shook and creaked under me as I paced it.' Yet the rent was 1_s._
     a week—the same sum for which apartments that may be called
     luxurious in comparison may be had in the model lodging-houses.
     And here sat a girl weaving that beautiful Honiton lace which our
     peeresses wear on court-days. Cottage after cottage at Southleigh
     presented the same characteristics. Clay floors, low ceilings
     letting in the rain, no ventilation; two rooms, one above and
     one below; gutters running through the lower room to let off the
     water; unglazed window-frames, now boarded up, and now uncovered
     to the elements, the boarding going for firewood; the inmates
     disabled by rheumatism, ague, and typhus; broad, stagnant, open
     ditches close to the doors; heaps of abominations piled round
     the dwellings; such are the main features of Southleigh; and it
     is in these worse than pig-styes that one of the most beautiful
     fabrics that luxury demands or art supplies is fashioned. The
     parish houses are still worse. 'One of these, on the borders of
     Devonshire and Cornwall, and not far from Launceston, consisted
     of two houses, containing between them four rooms. In each room
     lived a family night and day, the space being about twelve feet
     square. In one were a man and his wife and eight children; the
     father, mother, and two children lay in one bed, the remaining
     six were huddled 'head and foot' (three at the top and three at
     the foot) in the other bed. The eldest girl was between fifteen
     and sixteen, the eldest boy between fourteen and fifteen.' Is it
     not horrible to think of men and women being brought up in this
     foul and brutish manner in civilized and Christian England! The
     lowest of savages are not worse cared for than these children of
     a luxurious and refined country."

Yet other authorities describe cases much worse than this which so
stirs the heart of the editor of the _Morning Chronicle_. The frightful
immorality consequent upon such a mode of living will be illustrated
fully in another portion of this work.

In Lincolnshire, the cottages of the peasantry are in a better
condition than in any other part of England; but in consequence of the
lowness of wages and the comparative enormity of rents, the tillers of
the soil are in not much better circumstances than their rural brethren
in other counties. Upon an average, a hard-working peasant can earn
five shillings a week; two shillings of which go for rent. If he can
barely live when employed, what is to become of him when thrown out of
employment? Thus the English peasant is driven to the most constant and
yet hopeless labour, with whips more terrible than those used by the
master of the <DW64> slave.

In Wales, the condition of the peasant, thanks to the general system of
lord and serf, is neither milder nor more hopeful than in England. Mr.
Symonds, a commissioner who was sent by government to examine the state
of education in some of the Welsh counties, says of the peasantry of
Brecknockshire, Cardiganshire, and Radnorshire—

     "The people of my district are almost universally poor. In some
     parts of it, wages are probably lower than in any part of Great
     Britain. The evidence of the witnesses, fully confirmed by other
     statements, exhibits much poverty, but little amended in other
     parts of the counties on which I report. _The farmers themselves
     are very much impoverished, and live no better than English
     cottagers in prosperous agricultural counties._

     "The cottages in which the people dwell are miserable in the
     extreme in nearly every part of the country in Cardiganshire, and
     every part of Brecknockshire and Radnorshire, except the east.
     I have myself visited many of the dwellings of the poor, and my
     assistants have done so likewise. _I believe the Welsh cottages
     to be very little, if at all, superior to the Irish huts in the
     country districts._

     "Brick chimneys are very unusual in these cottages; those which
     exist are usually in the shape of large cones, the top being of
     basket-work. _In very few cottages is there more than one room_,
     which serves the purposes of living and sleeping. A large dresser
     and shelves usually form the partition between the two; and where
     there are separate beds for the family, a curtain or low board is
     (if it exists) the only division with no regular partition. And
     this state of things very generally prevails, even where there
     is some little attention paid to cleanliness; but the cottages
     and beds are frequently filthy. The people are always very dirty.
     In all the counties, the cottages are generally destitute of
     necessary outbuildings, including even those belonging to the
     farmers; and both in Cardiganshire and Radnorshire, except near
     the border of England, the pigs and poultry have free run of the
     joint dwelling and sleeping rooms."

In Scotland, the estates of the nobility are even larger than in
England. Small farms are difficult to find. McCulloch states that there
are not more than 8000 proprietors of land in the whole of Scotland;
and, as in England, this number is decreasing. In some districts,
the cottages of the peasantry are as wretched as any in England or
Wales. For some years past, the great landholders, such as the Duke
of Buccleuch and the Duchess of Sutherland, have been illustrating
the glorious beneficence of British institutions by removing the
poor peasantry from the homes of their fathers, for the purpose of
turning the vacated districts into deer-parks, sheep-walks, and large
farms. Many a Highland family has vented a curse upon the head of the
remorseless Duchess of Sutherland. Most slaveholders in other countries
feed, shelter, and protect their slaves, in compensation for work;
but the Duchess and her barbarous class take work, shelter, food, and
protection from their serfs all at one fell swoop, turning them upon
the world to beg or starve. Scotland has reason—strong reason—to
bewail the existence of the British aristocracy.

Next let us invoke the testimony of Ireland—the beautiful and the
wretched—Ireland, whose people have been the object of pity to the
nations for centuries—whose miseries have been the burden of song and
the theme of eloquence till they have penetrated all hearts save those
of the oppressors—whose very life-blood has been trampled out by the
aristocracy. Let us hear her testimony in regard to the British slave
system.

Ireland is splendidly situated, in a commercial point of view,
commanding the direct route between Northern Europe and America,
with some of the finest harbours in the world. Its soil is rich
and fruitful. Its rivers are large, numerous, and well adapted
for internal commerce. The people are active, physically and
intellectually, and, everywhere beyond Ireland, are distinguished
for their energy, perseverance, and success. Yet, in consequence of
its organized oppression, called government, Ireland is the home of
miseries which have scarcely a parallel upon the face of the earth.
The great landlords spend most of their time in England or upon the
continent, and leave their lands to the management of agents, who
have sub-agents for parts of the estates, and these latter often have
still inferior agents. Many of the great landlords care nothing for
their estates beyond the receipt of the rents, and leave their agents
to enrich themselves at the expense of the tenantry. Everywhere in
Ireland, a traveller, as he passes along the roads, will see on the
roadsides and in the fields, places which look like mounds of earth and
sods, with a higher heap of sods upon the top, out of which smoke is
curling upward; and with two holes in the sides of the heap next the
road, one of which is used as the door, and the other as the window of
the hovel. These are the homes of the peasantry! Entering a hovel, you
will find it to contain but one room, formed by the four mud walls;
and in these places, upon the mud floor, the families of the peasant
live. Men, women, boys, and girls live and sleep together, and herd
with the wallowing pig. Gaunt, ragged figures crawl out of these hovels
and plant the ground around them with potatoes, which constitute the
only food of the inmates throughout the year, or swarm the roads and
thoroughfares as wretched beggars. The deplorable condition of these
peasants was graphically described by no less a person than Sir Robert
Peel, in his great speech on Ireland, in 1849; and the evidence quoted
by him was unimpeachable. But not only are the majority of the Irish
condemned to exist in such hovels as we have sketched above—their
tenure of these disgusting cabins is insecure. If they do not pay the
rent for them at the proper time, they are liable to be turned adrift
even in the middle of the night. No notice is necessary. The tenants
are subject to the tender mercies of a bailiff, without any remedy
or appeal, except to the court of Heaven. Kay states that in 1849,
more than 50,000 families were evicted and turned as beggars upon the
country. An Englishman who travelled through Ireland in the fall of
1849, says—

     "In passing through some half dozen counties, Cork, (especially
     in the western portions of it,) Limerick, Clare, Galway, and
     Mayo, you see thousands of ruined cottages and dwellings of the
     labourers, the peasants, and the small holders of Ireland. You
     see from the roadside twenty houses at once with not a roof upon
     them. I came to a village not far from Castlebar, where the
     system of eviction had been carried out only a few days before.
     Five women came about us as the car stopped, and on making
     inquiry, they told us their sorrowful story. They were not badly
     clad; they were cleanly in appearance; they were intelligent;
     they used no violent language, but in the most moderate terms
     told us that on the Monday week previously those five houses
     had been levelled. They told us how many children there were
     in their families: I recollect one had eight, another had six;
     that the husbands of three of them were in this country for the
     harvest; that they had written to their husbands to tell them
     of the desolation of their homes. And, I asked them, 'What did
     the husbands say in reply?' They said 'they had not been able
     to eat any breakfast!' It is but a simple observation, but it
     marks the sickness and the sorrow which came over the hearts of
     those men, who here were toiling for their three or four pounds,
     denying themselves almost rest at night that they might make a
     good reaping at the harvest, and go back that they might enjoy it
     in the home which they had left. All this is but a faint outline
     of what has taken place in that unhappy country. Thousands of
     individuals have died within the last two or three years in
     consequence of the evictions which have taken place."

The great loss of life in the famine of 1847 showed that the peasantry
had a miserable dependence upon the chances of a good potato crop for
the means of keeping life in their bodies. Crowds of poor wretches,
after wandering about for a time like the ghosts of human beings,
starved to death by the roadside, victims of the murderous policy
of the landed aristocracy. Since that period of horror, the great
proprietors, envious of the lurid fame achieved by the Duchess of
Sutherland in Scotland, have been evicting their tenants on the most
extensive scale, and establishing large farms and pasturages, which
they deem more profitable than former arrangements. In despair at
home, the wretched Irish are casting their eyes to distant lands for a
refuge from slavery and starvation. But hundreds of thousands groan
in their hereditary serfdom, without the means of reaching other and
happier countries. The dearest ties of family are sundered by the force
of want. The necessity of seeking a subsistence drives the father to
a distant land, while the child is compelled to remain in Ireland a
pauper. The husband can pay his own passage to America, perchance, but
the wife must stay in the land of misery. Ask Ireland if a slave can
breathe in Great Britain! The long lamentation of ages, uniting with
the heart-broken utterances of her present wretched bondsmen, might
touch even the British aristocracy in its reply.

So much for the general condition of the peasantry in the United
Kingdom. The miserable consequences of the system of lord and serf do
not end here. No! There are London, Manchester, Birmingham, Glasgow,
Dublin, and many other cities and towns, with their crowds of slaves
either in the factories and workshops, or in the streets as paupers and
criminals. There are said to be upward of four millions of paupers in
the United Kingdom! Can such an amount of wretchedness be found in any
country upon the face of the globe? To what causes are we to attribute
this amount of pauperism, save to the monopolies and oppressions of the
aristocracy? Think of there being in the United Kingdom over eleven
million acres of good land uncultivated, and four millions of paupers!
According to Kay, more than two millions of people were kept from
starving in England and Wales, in 1848, by relief doled out to them
from public and private sources. So scant are the earnings of those
who labour day and night in the cities and towns, that they may become
paupers if thrown out of work for a single week. Many from town and
country are driven by the fear of starvation to labour in the mines,
the horrors of which species of slavery shall be duly illustrated
farther on in this work.

Truly did Southey write—

     "To talk of English happiness, is like talking of Spartan
     freedom; the _helots_ are overlooked. In no country can such
     riches be acquired by commerce, but it is the one who grows
     rich by the labour of the hundred. The hundred human beings
     like himself, as wonderfully fashioned by nature, gifted with
     the like capacities, and equally made for immortality, are
     sacrificed _body and soul_. Horrible as it must needs appear,
     the assertion is true to the very letter. They are deprived in
     childhood of all instruction and all enjoyment—of the sports
     in which childhood instinctively indulges—of fresh air by day
     and of natural sleep by night. Their health, physical and moral,
     is alike destroyed; they die of diseases induced by unremitting
     task-work, by confinement in the impure atmosphere of crowded
     rooms, by the particles of metallic or vegetable dust which
     they are continually inhaling; or they live to grow up without
     decency, without comfort, and without hope—without morals,
     without religion, and without shame; and bring forth _slaves_
     like themselves to tread in the same path of misery."

Again, the same distinguished Englishman says, in number twenty-six of
Espriella's Letters—

     "The English boast of their liberty, but there is _no liberty in
     England for the poor_. They are no longer sold with the soil,
     it is true; but they cannot quit the soil if there be any
     probability or suspicion that age or infirmity may disable them.
     If, in such a case, they endeavour to remove to some situation
     where they hope more easily to maintain themselves, where work is
     more plentiful or provisions cheaper, the overseers are alarmed,
     the intruder is apprehended, as if he were a criminal, and sent
     back to his own parish. Wherever a pauper dies, that parish must
     bear the cost of his funeral. Instances, therefore, have not
     been wanting of wretches, in the last stage of disease, having
     been hurried away in an open cart, upon straw, and dying upon
     the road. Nay, even women, in the very pains of labour, have
     been driven out, and have perished by the wayside, because the
     birthplace of the child would be its parish!"

The sufferings of the rural labourers—the peasantry of Great Britain
and Ireland—are to be attributed to the fact that they have no
property in the land, and cannot acquire any. The law of primogeniture,
on which the existence of the British aristocracy depends, has, as we
have already shown, placed the land and those who labour on it—the
soil and the serfs—at the disposal of a few landed proprietors. The
labourers are not attached to the soil, and bought and sold with it,
as in Russia. The English aristocrat is too cunning to adopt such a
regulation, because it would involve the necessity of supporting his
slaves. They are _called_ freemen, in order to enable their masters
to detach them from the soil, and drive them forth to starve, when it
suits their convenience, without incurring any legal penalty for their
cruelty, such as the slaveholders of other countries would suffer. The
Russian, the Spanish, the North American slaveholder must support his
slaves in sickness and helpless old age, or suffer the penalties of the
law for his neglect. The British slaveholder alone may drive his slaves
forth to starve in the highway by hundreds and thousands; and no law
of Great Britain affords the means of punishing him for his murderous
cruelty. His Irish slaves may be saved from starvation by American
bounty, but he cannot be punished until he shall meet his Judge at the
day of final account.




CHAPTER II.

SLAVERY IN THE BRITISH MINES.


In proceeding to speak more particularly of the various forms of
British slavery, we will begin with labour in the mines—the horrors
of which became known to the world through reports made to Parliament
in the summer of 1840. Pressed by the fear of general execration,
Parliament appointed a commission of inquiry, which, after a thorough
examination of all the mines in the United Kingdom, made a voluminous
report. So shocking were the accounts of labour in the mines given
by this commission, that the delicate nerves of several perfumed
lords were grievously pained, and they denounced the commissioners as
being guilty of exaggeration. Nevertheless, the evidence adduced by
the officers was unimpeachable, and their statements were generally
received as plain truth.

[Illustration: COAL GETTER AT WORK.]

The mining industry of the kingdom is divided into two distinct
branches—that of the coal and iron mines, and that of the mines of
tin, copper, lead, and zinc. The "coal measures," as the geological
formations comprising the strata of coal are designated, are variously
dispersed in the middle, northern, and western portions of South
Britain, and in a broad belt of country which traverses the centre
of Scotland, from the shores of Ayrshire to those of the Firth of
Forth. There are, also, some coal-tracts in Ireland, but they are
of comparatively small importance. In all these districts, the coal
is found in beds, interstratified for the most part with various
qualities of gritstone and shale, in which, in some of the districts,
occur layers of ironstone, generally thin, but sometimes forming large
masses, as in the Forest of Dean. When the surface of the coal country
is mountainous and intersected by deep ravines, as in South Wales,
the mineral deposites are approached by holes driven into the sides
of the hills; but the common access to them is by vertical shafts, or
well-holes, from the bottoms of which horizontal roadways are extended
in long and confined passages through the coal strata, to bring all
that is hewn to the "pit's eye," or bottom of the shaft, for winding
up. It is requisite to have more than one shaft in the same workings;
but where the coal lies so deep that the sinking of a distinct shaft
requires an enormous outlay of capital, only one large shaft is sunk;
and this is divided by wooden partitions, or brattices, into several
distinct channels. There must always be one shaft or channel, called
the "downcast pit," for the air to descend; and another, called the
"upcast pit," for the return draught to ascend. The apparatus for
lowering and drawing up is generally in the upcast shaft. This is
either a steam-engine, a horse-gin, or a hand-crank. The thickness
of the seams that are wrought varies from the eighteen-inch seams of
the Lancashire and Yorkshire hills, to the ten-yard coal of South
Staffordshire. But two, three, and four feet are the more common
thicknesses of the beds that are wrought. When there is a good roof,
or hard rock immediately over the coal, with a tolerably solid floor
beneath it, thin coal-seams can be worked with advantage, because the
outlay of capital for propping is then very limited; but the very
hardness of the contiguous strata would require an outlay almost as
great to make the roadways of a proper height for human beings of any
age to work in.

By the evidence collected under the commission, it is proved that there
are coal-mines at present at work in which some passages are so small,
that even the youngest children cannot move along them without crawling
on their hands and feet, in which constrained position they drag the
loaded carriages after them; and yet, as it is impossible by any outlay
compatible with a profitable return, to render such coal-mines fit for
human beings to work in, they never will be placed in such a condition,
and, consequently, they never can be worked without this child slavery!
When the roads are six feet high and upward, there is not only ample
space for carrying on the general operations of the mine, but the coals
can be drawn direct from the workings to the foot of the shaft by
the largest horses; and when the main roads are four feet and a half
high, the coals may be conveyed to the foot of the shaft by ponies or
asses. But when the main ways are under four feet, the coals can only
be conveyed by children. Yet, in many mines, the main gates are only
from twenty-four to thirty inches high. In this case, even the youngest
children must work in a bent position of the body. When the inclination
of the strata causes all the workings out of the main ways to be on
inclined plains, the young labourers are not only almost worked to
death, but exposed to severe accidents in descending the plains with
their loads, out of one level into another. In many of the mines, there
is such a want of drainage and ventilation, that fatal diseases are
contracted by the miners.

According to the report of the Parliamentary commission, about
one-third of the persons employed in the coal-mines were under eighteen
years of age, and much more than one-third of this number were under
thirteen years of age. When the proprietor employs the whole of the
hands, not only will his general overseer be a respectable person,
but his underlookers will be taken from the more honest, intelligent,
and industrious of the labouring colliers. Elsewhere, the rulers in
pits are such as the rudest class is likely to produce. The great
body of the children and young persons are, however, of the families
of the adult work-people employed in the pits, or belong to the poor
population of the neighbourhood. But, in some districts, there are
numerous defenceless creatures who pass the whole of their youth in
the most abject slavery, into which they are thrown chiefly by parish
authorities, under the name of apprenticeship. Said the Parliamentary
commissioners in their report—

     "There is one mode of engaging the labour of children and young
     persons in coal-mines, peculiar to a few districts, which
     deserves particular notice, viz. that by apprenticeship. The
     district in which the practice of employing apprentices is
     most in use, is South Staffordshire; it was formerly common
     in Shropshire, but is now discontinued; it is still common in
     Yorkshire, Lancashire, and the West of Scotland; in all the
     other districts, it appears to be unknown. In Staffordshire,
     the sub-commissioner states that the number of children and
     young persons working in the mines as apprentices is exceedingly
     numerous; that these apprentices are paupers or orphans, and
     are wholly in the power of the butties;[1] that such is the
     demand for this class of children by the butties, that there
     are scarcely any boys in the union workhouses of Walsall,
     Wolverhampton, Dudley, and Stourbridge; that these boys are sent
     on trial to the butties between the ages of eight and nine, and
     at nine are bound as apprentices for twelve years, that is, to
     the age of twenty-one years complete; that, notwithstanding
     this long apprenticeship, there is nothing whatever in the
     coal-mines to learn beyond a little dexterity, readily acquired
     by short practice; and that even in the mines of Cornwall, where
     much skill and judgment is required, there are no apprentices,
     while, in the coal-mines of South Staffordshire, the orphan whom
     necessity has driven into a workhouse, is made to labour in the
     mines until the age of twenty-one, solely for the benefit of
     another."

Thomas Moorhouse, a collier boy, who was brought to the notice of the
Parliamentary commissioners, said—

     "I don't know how old I am; father is dead; I am a chance child;
     mother is dead also; I don't know how long she has been dead;
     'tis better na three years; I began to hurry[2] when I was nine
     years old for William Greenwood; I was apprenticed to him till
     I should be twenty-one; my mother apprenticed me; I lived with
     Greenwood; I don't know how long it was, but it was a goodish
     while; he was bound to find me in victuals and drink and clothes;
     I never had enough; he gave me some old clothes to wear, which
     he bought at the rag-shop; the overseers gave him a sovereign to
     buy clothes with, but he never laid it out; the overseers bound
     me out with mother's consent from the township of Southowram; I
     ran away from him because he lost my indentures, for he served me
     very bad; he stuck a pick into me twice."

Here the boy was made to strip, and the commissioner, Mr. Symonds,
found a large cicatrix likely to have been occasioned by such an
instrument, which must have passed through the glutei muscles, and have
stopped only short of the hip-joint. There were twenty other wounds,
occasioned by hurrying in low workings, upon and around the spinous
processes of the vertebræ, from the sacrum upward. The boy continued—

     "He used to hit me with the belt, and mawl or sledge, and fling
     coals at me. He served me so bad that I left him, and went about
     to see if I could get a job. I used to sleep in the cabins upon
     the pit's bank, and in the old pits that had done working. I
     laid upon the shale all night. I used to get what I could to
     eat. I ate for a long time the candles that I found in the pits
     that the colliers left over night. I had nothing else to eat. I
     looked about for work, and begged of the people a bit. I got to
     Bradford after a while, and had a job there for a month while a
     collier's lad was poorly. When he came back, I was obliged to
     leave."

Another case was related by Mr. Kennedy, one of the commissioners.
A boy, named Edward Kershaw, had been apprenticed by the overseers
of Castleton to a collier of the name of Robert Brierly, residing at
Balsgate, who worked in a pit in the vicinity of Rooley Moor. The boy
was examined, and from twenty-four to twenty-six wounds were found upon
his body. His posteriors and loins were beaten to a jelly; his head,
which was almost cleared of hair on the scalp, had the marks of many
old wounds upon it which had healed up. One of the bones in one arm
was broken below the elbow, and, from appearances, seemed to have been
so for some time. The boy, on being brought before the magistrates,
was unable either to sit or stand, and was placed on the floor of the
office, laid on his side on a small cradle-bed. It appears from the
evidence, that the boy's arm had been broken by a blow with an iron
rail, and the fracture had never been set, and that he had been kept at
work for several weeks with his arm in the condition above described.
It further appeared in evidence, and was admitted by Brierly, that he
had been in the habit of beating the boy with a flat piece of wood, in
which a nail was driven and projected about half an inch. The blows had
been inflicted with such violence that they penetrated the skin, and
caused the wounds above mentioned. The body of the boy presented all
the marks of emaciation. This brutal master had kept the boy at work as
a wagoner until he was no longer of any use, and then sent him home in
a cart to his mother, who was a poor widow, residing in Church lane,
Rochdale. And yet it is said that a slave cannot breathe the air of
England!

The want of instruction, and the seclusion from the rest of the world,
which is common to the colliers, give them a sad pre-eminence over
every other class of labourers, in ignorance and callousness; and
when they are made masters, what can be expected? In all cases of
apprenticeship, the children are bound till they attain the age of
twenty-one years. If the master dies before the apprentice attains the
age of twenty-one years, the apprentice is equally bound as the servant
of his deceased master's heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns.
In fact, the apprentice is part of the deceased master's goods and
chattels!

But, to speak more particularly of the labour of the children:—The
employment of the adult collier is almost exclusively in the "getting"
of the coal from its natural resting-place, of which there are various
methods, according to the nature of the seams and the habits of the
several districts. That of the children and young persons consists
principally either in tending the air-doors where the coal-carriages
must pass through openings, the immediately subsequent stoppage of
which is necessary to preserve the ventilation in its proper channels,
or in the conveyance of the coal from the bays or recesses in which
it is hewn, along the subterranean roadways, to the bottom of the
pit-shaft; a distance varying from absolute contiguity even to miles,
in the great coal-fields of the North of England, where the depth
requires that the same expensive shaft shall serve for the excavation
of a large tract of coal. The earliest employment of children in the
pits is generally to open and shut the doors, upon the proper custody
of which the ventilation and safety of the whole mine depends. These
little workmen are called "trappers." Of the manner in which they pass
their earlier days, Dr. Mitchell, a distinguished Englishman, has given
a very interesting sketch, which deserves to be quoted here entire:—

     "The little trapper, of eight years of age, lies quiet in bed.
     It is now between two and three in the morning, and his mother
     shakes him and desires him to rise, and tells him that his father
     has an hour ago gone off to the pit. He turns on his side, rubs
     his eyes, and gets up, and comes to the blazing fire and puts on
     his clothes. His coffee, such as it is, stands by the side of
     the fire, and bread is laid down for him. The fortnight is now
     well advanced, the money all spent, and butter, bacon, and other
     luxurious accompaniments of bread, are not to be had at breakfast
     till next pay-day supply the means. He then fills his tin bottle
     with coffee and takes a lump of bread, sets out for the pit, into
     which he goes down in the cage, and walking along the horse-way
     for upward of a mile, he reaches the barrow-way, over which the
     young men and boys push the trams with the tubs on rails to the
     flats, where the barrow-way and horse-way meet, and where the
     tubs are transferred to rolleys or carriages drawn by horses.

     [Illustration: THRUSTERS AND TRAPPER.]

     "He knows his place of work. It is inside one of the doors called
     trap-doors, which is in the barrow-way, for the purpose of
     forcing the stream of air which passes in its long, many-miled
     course from the down-shaft to the up-shaft of the pit; but
     which door must be opened whenever men or boys, with or without
     carriages, may wish to pass through. He seats himself in a little
     hole, about the size of a common fireplace, and with the string
     in his hand; and all his work is to pull that string when he has
     to open the door, and when man or boy has passed through, then to
     allow the door to shut of itself. Here it is his duty to sit, and
     be attentive, and pull his string promptly as any one approaches.
     He may not stir above a dozen steps with safety from his charge,
     lest he should be found neglecting his duty, and suffer for the
     same.

     "He sits solitary by himself, and has no one to talk to him; for
     in the pit the whole of the people, men and boys, are as busy
     as if they were in a sea-fight. He, however, sees now and then
     the putters urging forward their trams through his gate, and
     derives some consolation from the glimmer of the little candle
     of about 40 to the pound, which is fixed on their trams. For he
     himself has no light. His hours, except at such times, are passed
     in total darkness. For the first week of his service in the pit
     his father had allowed him candles to light one after another,
     but the expense of three halfpence a day was so extravagant
     expenditure out of tenpence, the boy's daily wages, that his
     father, of course, withdrew the allowance the second week, all
     except one or two candles in the morning, and the week after the
     allowance was altogether taken away; and now, except a neighbour
     kinder than his father now and then drop him a candle as he
     passes, the boy has no light of his own.

     "Thus hour after hour passes away; but what are hours to him,
     seated in darkness, in the bowels of the earth? He knows nothing
     of the ascending or descending sun. Hunger, however, though
     silent and unseen, acts upon him, and he betakes to his bottle
     of coffee and slice of bread; and, if desirous, he may have the
     luxury of softening it in a portion of water in the pit, which is
     brought down for man and beast.

     "In this state of sepulchral existence, an insidious enemy gains
     upon him. His eyes are shut, and his ears fail to announce the
     approach of a tram. A deputy overman comes along, and a smart cut
     of his yardwand at once punishes the culprit and recalls him to
     his duty; and happy was it for him that he fell into the hands of
     the deputy overman, rather than one of the putters; for his fist
     would have inflicted a severer pain. The deputy overman moreover
     consoles him by telling him that it was for his good that he
     punished him; and reminds him of boys, well known to both, who,
     when asleep, had fallen down, and some had been severely wounded,
     and others killed. The little trapper believes that he is to
     blame, and makes no complaint, for he dreads being discharged;
     and he knows that his discharge would be attended with the loss
     of wages, and bring upon him the indignation of his father, more
     terrible to endure than the momentary vengeance of the deputy and
     the putters all taken together.

     "Such is the day-work of the little trapper in the barrow-way.

     "At last, the joyful sound of 'Loose, loose,' reaches his ears.
     The news of its being four o'clock, and of the order, 'Loose,
     loose,' having been shouted down the shaft, is by systematic
     arrangement sent for many miles in all directions round the
     farthest extremities of the pit. The trapper waits until the last
     putter passes with his tram, and then he follows and pursues his
     journey to the foot of the shaft, and takes an opportunity of
     getting into the cage and going up when he can. By five o'clock
     he may probably get home. Here he finds a warm dinner, baked
     potatoes, and broiled bacon lying above them. He eats heartily
     at the warm fire, and sits a little after. He dare not go out to
     play with other boys, for the more he plays the more he is sure
     to sleep the next day in the pit. He, therefore, remains at home,
     until, feeling drowsy, he then repeats the prayer taught by our
     blessed Lord, takes off his clothes, is thoroughly washed in hot
     water by his mother, and is laid in his bed."

[Illustration: HURRIER AND THRUSTER.]

The evidence of the Parliamentary commissioners proves that Dr.
Mitchell has given the life of the young trapper a somewhat softened
colouring. Mr. Scriven states that the children employed in this way
become almost idiotic from the long, dark, solitary confinement. Many
of them never see the light of day during the winter season, except on
Sundays.

The loaded corves drawn by the hurriers weigh from two to five
hundred-weight. These carriages are mounted upon four cast-iron wheels
of five inches in diameter, there being, in general, no rails from the
headings to the main gates. The children have to drag these carriages
through passages in some cases not more than from sixteen to twenty
inches in height. Of course, to accomplish this, the young children
must crawl on their hands and feet. To render their labour the more
easy, the sub-commissioner states that they buckle round their naked
person a broad leather strap, to which is attached in front a ring and
about four feet of chain, terminating in a hook. As soon as they enter
the main gates, they detach the harness from the corve, change their
position by getting behind it, and become "thrusters." The carriage is
then placed upon the rail, a candle is stuck fast by a piece of wet
clay, and away they run with amazing swiftness to the shaft, pushing
the loads with their heads and hands. The younger children thrust in
pairs.

     "After trapping," says the report of the commissioners, "the
     next labour in the ascending scale to which the children are
     put, is 'thrutching,' or thrusting, which consists in being
     helper to a 'drawer,' or 'wagoner,' who is master, or 'butty,'
     over the 'thrutcher,' In some pits, the thrutcher has his head
     protected by a thick cap, and he will keep on his trousers and
     clogs; but in others, he works nearly naked. The size of the
     loads which he has to thrutch varies with the thickness of the
     seam; and with the size, varies his butty's method of proceeding,
     which is either as a drawer or a wagoner. The drawers are those
     who use the belt and chain. Their labour consists in loading,
     with the coals hewn down by the 'getter,' an oblong tub without
     wheels, and dragging this tub on its sledge bottom by means of a
     girdle of rough leather passing round the body, and a chain of
     iron attached to that girdle in front, and hooked to the sledge.
     The drawer has, with the aid of his thrutcher, to sledge the
     tub in this manner from the place of getting to the mainway,
     generally down, though sometimes up, a brow or incline of the
     same steepness as the inclination of the strata; in descending
     which he goes to the front of his tub, where his light is fixed,
     and, turning his face to it, regulates its motion down the hill,
     as, proceeding back foremost, he pulls it along by his belt. When
     he gets to the mainway, which will be at various distances not
     exceeding forty or fifty yards from his loading-place, he has to
     leave this tub upon a low truck running on small iron wheels, and
     then to go and fetch a second, which will complete its load, and
     with these two to join with his thrutcher in pushing it along
     the iron railway to the pit bottom to have the tubs successively
     hooked on to the drawing-rope. Returning with his tubs empty, he
     leaves the mainway, first with one, and then with the other tub,
     to get them loaded, dragging them up the 'brow' by his belt and
     chain, the latter of which he now passes between his legs, so as
     to pull, face foremost, on all fours. In the thin seams, this
     labour has to be performed in bays, leading from the place of
     getting to the mainways, of scarcely more than twenty inches in
     height, and in mainways of only two feet six inches, and three
     feet high, for the seam itself will only be eighteen inches thick.

     "Wagoning is a form of drawing which comes into use with the
     more extensive employment of railways in the thicker seams.
     The tubs here used are large, and all mounted on wheels. From
     the place of getting, the loads are pushed by the wagoners with
     hands and heads to the bottom of the pit along the levels; and
     where they have to descend from one level into another, this is
     generally done by a cut at right angles directly with the dip,
     down the 'brow' which it makes. Here there is a winch or pinion
     for jigging the wagons down the incline, with a jigger at the top
     and a hooker-on at the bottom of the plane, where it is such as
     to require these. The jiggers and the hookers-on are children of
     twelve or thirteen. Sometimes the descent from one line of level
     into another is by a diagonal cutting at a small angle from the
     levels, called a slant, down which the wagoners can, and do,
     in some instances, take their wagons without jigging, by their
     own manual labour; and a very rough process it is, owing to the
     impetus which so great a weight acquires, notwithstanding the
     scotching of the wheels."

Mr. Kennedy thus describes the position of the children, in the
combined drawing and thrutching:—

     "The child in front is harnessed by his belt or chain to the
     wagon; the two boys behind are assisting in pushing it forward.
     Their heads, it will be observed, are brought down to a level
     with the wagon, and the body almost in the horizontal position.
     This is done partly to avoid striking the roof, and partly to
     gain the advantage of the muscular action, which is greatest in
     that position. It will be observed, the boy in front goes on his
     hands and feet: in that manner, the whole weight of his body is,
     in fact, supported by the chain attached to the wagon and his
     feet, and, consequently, his power of drawing is greater than it
     would be if he crawled on his knees. These boys, by constantly
     pushing against the wagons, occasionally rub off the hair from
     the crowns of their heads so much as to make them almost bald."

In Derbyshire, some of the pits are altogether worked by boys. The
seams are so thin, that several have only a two-feet headway to all
the workings. The boy who gets the coal, lies on his side while at
work. The coal is then loaded in a barrow, or tub, and drawn along the
bank to the pit mouth by boys from eight to twelve years of age, on
all fours, with a dog-belt and chain, the passages being very often
an inch or two thick in black mud, and neither ironed nor wooded.
In Mr. Barnes's pit, these boys have to drag the barrows with one
hundred-weight of coal or slack, sixty times a day, sixty yards, and
the empty barrows back, without once straightening their backs, unless
they choose to stand under the shaft and run the risk of having their
heads broken by coal falling.

In some of the mines, the space of the workings is so small that the
adult colliers are compelled to carry on their operations in a stooping
posture; and, in others, they are obliged to work lying their whole
length along the uneven floor, and supporting their heads upon a board
or short crutch. In these low, dark, heated, and dismal chambers, they
work perfectly naked. In many of the thin-seam mines, the labour of
"getting" coal, so severe for adults, was found by the commissioners to
be put upon children from nine to twelve years of age.

If the employment of boys in such a way be, as a miner said to the
commissioners, "barbarity, barbarity," what are we to think of the
slavery of female children in the same abyss of darkness? How shall
we express our feelings upon learning that females, in the years
of opening womanhood, are engaged in the same occupations as their
male companions, in circumstances repugnant to the crudest sense of
decency? Yet we have unimpeachable evidence that, at the time of the
investigations of the commissioners, females were thus employed; and
there is reason to believe that this is still the case.

[Illustration: COAL GETTER.]

The commissioners found females employed like the males in the labours
of the mines in districts of Yorkshire and Lancashire, in the East
of Scotland, and in Wales. In great numbers of the pits visited, the
men were working in a state of entire nakedness, and were assisted
by females of all ages, from girls of six years old to women of
twenty-one—these females being themselves quite naked down to the
waist. Mr. Thomas Pearce says that in the West Riding of Yorkshire—

     "The girls hurry with a belt and chain, as well as thrust. There
     are as many girls as boys employed about here. One of the most
     disgusting sights I have ever seen, was that of young females,
     dressed like boys in trousers, crawling on all fours, with belts
     around their waists and chains passing between their legs, at
     day-pits at Thurshelf Bank, and in many small pits near Holmfirth
     and New Mills. It exists also in several other places."

In the neighbourhood of Halifax, it is stated that there is no
distinction whatever between the boys and girls in their coming up the
shaft and going down; in their mode of hurrying or thrusting; in the
weight of corves; in the distance they are hurried; in wages or dress;
that the girls associate and labour with men who are in a state of
nakedness, and that they have themselves no other garment than a ragged
shift, or, in the absence of that, a pair of broken trousers, to cover
their persons.

Here are specimens of the evidence taken by the commissioners:—

     "Susan Pitchforth, aged eleven, Elland: 'I have worked in this
     pit going two years. I have one sister going of fourteen, and she
     works with me in the pit. I am a thruster.'

     "'This child,' said the sub-commissioner, 'stood shivering before
     me from cold. The rags that hung about her waist were once
     called a shift, which was as black as the coal she thrust, and
     saturated with water—the drippings of the roof and shaft. During
     my examination of her, the banksman, whom I had left in the pit,
     came to the public-house and wanted to take her away, because,
     as he expressed himself, it was not decent that she should be
     exposed to us.'

     "Patience Kershaw, aged seventeen: 'I hurry in the clothes I have
     now got on, (trousers and ragged jacket;) the bald place upon my
     head is made by thrusting the corves; the getters I work for are
     naked except their caps; they pull off their clothes; all the men
     are naked.'

     "Mary Barrett, aged fourteen: 'I work always without stockings,
     or shoes, or trousers; I wear nothing but my shift; I have to go
     up to the headings with the men; they are all naked there; I am
     got well used to that, and don't care much about it; I was afraid
     at first, and did not like it.'"

     In the Lancashire coal-fields lying to the north and west of
     Manchester, females are regularly employed in underground labour;
     and the brutal policy of the men, and the abasement of the women,
     is well described by some of the witnesses examined by Mr.
     Kennedy.

     "Peter Gaskill, collier, at Mr. Lancaster's, near Worsley:
     'Prefers women to boys as drawers; they are better to manage,
     and keep the time better; they will fight and shriek and do
     every thing but let anybody pass them; and they never get to be
     coal-getters—that is another good thing.'

     [Illustration: GIRL WITH COAL CART IN THIN SEAM.]

     "Betty Harris, aged thirty-seven, drawer in a coal-pit, Little
     Bolton: 'I have a belt round my waist and a chain passing between
     my legs, and I go on my hands and feet. The road is very steep,
     and we have to hold by a rope, and when there is no rope, by any
     thing we can catch hold of. There are six women and about six
     boys and girls in the pit I work in; it is very hard work for
     a woman. The pit is very wet where I work, and the water comes
     over our clog-tops always, and I have seen it up to my thighs; it
     rains in at the roof terribly; my clothes are wet through almost
     all day long. I never was ill in my life but when I was lying-in.
     My cousin looks after my children in the daytime. I am very tired
     when I get home at night; I fall asleep sometimes before I get
     washed. I am not so strong as I was, and cannot stand my work so
     well as I used to do. I have drawn till I have had the skin off
     me. The belt and chain is worse when we are in the family-way. My
     feller (husband) has beaten me many a time for not being ready. I
     were not used to it at first, and he had little patience; I have
     known many a man beat his drawer.'

     "Mary Glover, aged thirty-eight, at Messrs. Foster's, Ringley
     Bridge: 'I went into a coal-pit when I was seven years old, and
     began by being a drawer. I never worked much in the pit when I
     was in the family-way, but since I have gave up having children,
     I have begun again a bit. I wear a shift and a pair of trousers
     when at work. I always will have a good pair of trousers. I have
     had many a twopence given me by the boatmen on the canal to show
     my breeches. I never saw women work naked, but I have seen men
     work without breeches in the neighbourhood of Bolton. I remember
     seeing a man who worked stark naked.'"

In the East of Scotland, the business of the females is to remove
the coals from the hewer who has picked them from the wall-face, and
placing them either on their backs, which they invariably do when
working in edge-seams, or in _little carts_ when on levels, to carry
them to the main road, where they are conveyed to the pit bottom,
where, being emptied into the ascending basket of the shaft, they
are wound by machinery to the pit's mouth, where they lie heaped for
further distribution. Mr. Franks, an Englishman, says of this barbarous
toil—

     "Now when the nature of this horrible labour is taken into
     consideration; its extreme severity; its regular duration of from
     twelve to fourteen hours daily; the damp, heated, and unwholesome
     atmosphere of a coal-mine, and the tender age and sex of the
     workers, a picture is presented of deadly physical oppression and
     systematic slavery, of which I conscientiously believe no one
     unacquainted with such facts would credit the existence in the
     British dominions."

The loads of coal carried on the backs of females vary in weight from
three-quarters of a hundred-weight to three hundred-weight. In working
edge-seams, or highly inclined beds, the load must be borne to the
surface, or to the pit-bottom, up winding stairs, or a succession of
steep ladders. The disgrace of this peculiar form of oppression is said
to be confined to Scotland, "where, until nearly the close of the last
century, the colliers remained in a state of legal bondage, and formed
a degraded caste, apart from all humanizing influences and sympathy."
From all accounts, they are not much improved in condition at the
present time.

A sub-commissioner thus describes a female child's labour in a Scottish
mine, and gives some of the evidence he obtained:—

     "She has first to descend a nine-ladder pit to the first rest,
     even to which a shaft is sunk, to draw up the baskets or tubs of
     coals filled by the bearers; she then takes her creel (a basket
     formed to the back, not unlike a cockle-shell, flattened toward
     the back of the neck, so as to allow lumps of coal to rest on
     the back of the neck and shoulders,) and pursues her journey to
     the wall-face, or, as it is called here, the room of work. She
     then lays down her basket, into which the coal is rolled, and
     it is frequently more than one man can do to lift the burden on
     her back. The tugs or straps are placed over the forehead, and
     the body bent in a semicircular form, in order to stiffen the
     arch. Large lumps of coal are then placed on the neck, and she
     then commences her journey with her burden to the bottom, first
     hanging her lamp to the cloth crossing her head. In this girl's
     case, she has first to travel about fourteen fathoms (eighty-four
     feet) from wall-face to the first ladder, which is eighteen feet
     high; leaving the first ladder, she proceeds along the main road,
     probably three feet six inches to four feet six inches high, to
     the second ladder, eighteen feet high; so on to the third and
     fourth ladders, till she reaches the pit-bottom, where she casts
     her load, varying from one hundred-weight to one hundred-weight
     and a half, in the tub. This one journey is designated a rake;
     the height ascended, and the distance along the roads added
     together, exceed the height of St. Paul's Cathedral; and it not
     unfrequently happens that the tugs break, and the load falls
     upon those females who are following. However incredible it may
     be, yet I have taken the evidence of fathers who have ruptured
     themselves from straining to lift coal on their children's backs.

     "Janet Cumming, eleven years old, bears coals: 'I gang with
     the women at five, and come up with the women at five at
     night; work _all night_ on Fridays, and come away at twelve
     in the day. I carry the large bits of coal from the wall-face
     to the pit-bottom, and the small pieces called chows in a
     creel. The weight is usually a hundred-weight, does not know
     how many pounds there are in a hundred-weight, but it is some
     weight to carry; it takes three journeys to fill a tub of four
     hundred-weight. The distance varies, as the work is not always on
     the same wall; sometimes one hundred and fifty fathoms, whiles
     two hundred and fifty fathoms. The roof is very low; I have to
     bend my back and legs, and the water comes frequently up to the
     calves of my legs. Has no liking for the work; father makes me
     like it. Never got hurt, but often obliged to scramble out of the
     pit when bad air was in.'

     "William Hunter, mining oversman, Arniston Colliery: 'I have been
     twenty years in the works of Robert Dundas, Esq., and had much
     experience in the manner of drawing coal, as well as the habits
     and practices of the collier people. Until the last eight months,
     women and lasses were wrought below in these works, when Mr.
     Alexander Maxton, our manager, issued an order to exclude them
     from going below, having some months prior given intimation of
     the same. Women always did the lifting or heavy part of the work,
     and neither they nor the children were treated like human beings,
     nor are they where they are employed. Females submit to work
     in places where no man or even lad could be got to labour in;
     they work in bad roads, up to their knees in water, in a posture
     nearly double; they are below till the last hour of pregnancy;
     they have swelled haunches and ankles, and are prematurely
     brought to the grave, or, what is worse, lingering existence.
     Many of the daughters of the miners are now at respectable
     service. I have two who are in families at Leith, and who are
     much delighted with the change.'

     "Robert Bald, Esq., the eminent coal-viewer, states that, 'In
     surveying the workings of an extensive colliery under ground, a
     married woman came forward, groaning under an excessive weight
     of coals, trembling in every nerve, and almost unable to keep
     her knees from sinking under her. On coming up, she said, in a
     plaintive and melancholy voice, "Oh, sir, this is sore, sore,
     sore work. I wish to God that the first woman who tried to bear
     coals had broke her back, and none would have tried it again."

The boxes or carriages employed in putting are of two kinds—the
hutchie and the slype; the hutchie being an oblong, square-sided
box with four wheels, which usually runs on a rail; and the slype a
wood-framed box, curved and shod with iron at the bottom, holding
from two and a quarter to five hundred-weight of coal, adapted to the
seams through which it is dragged. The lad or lass is harnessed over
the shoulders and back with a strong leathern girth, which, behind, is
furnished with an iron-hook, which is attached to a chain fastened to
the coal-cart or slype. The dresses of these girls are made of coarse
hempen stuff, fitting close to the figures; the coverings to their
heads are made of the same material. Little or no flannel is used,
and their clothing, being of an absorbent nature, frequently gets
completely saturated shortly after descending the pit. We quote more
of the evidence obtained by the commissioners. It scarcely needs any
comment:—

     "Margaret Hipps, seventeen years old, putter, Stoney Rigg
     Colliery, Stirlingshire: 'My employment, after reaching the
     wall-face, is to fill my bagie, or slype, with two and a half to
     three hundred-weight of coal. I then hook it on to my chain and
     drag it through the seam, which is twenty-six to twenty-eight
     inches high, till I get to the main road—a good distance,
     probably two hundred to four hundred yards. The pavement I drag
     over is wet, and I am obliged at all times to crawl on hands
     and feet with my bagie hung to the chain and ropes. It is sad
     sweating and sore fatiguing work, and frequently maims the women.'

     "Sub-commissioner: 'It is almost incredible that human beings
     can submit to such employment, crawling on hands and knees,
     harnessed like horses, over soft, slushy floors, more difficult
     than dragging the same weights through our lowest common sewers,
     and more difficult in consequence of the inclination, which is
     frequently one in three to one in six.'

     "Agnes Moffatt, seventeen years old, coal-bearer: 'Began working
     at ten years of age; father took sister and I down; he gets our
     wages. I fill five baskets; the weight is more than twenty-two
     hundred-weight; it takes me twenty journeys. The work is o'er
     sair for females. It is no uncommon for women to lose their
     burden, and drop off the ladder down the <DW18> below; Margaret
     McNeil did a few weeks since, and injured both legs. When the
     tugs which pass over the forehead break, which they frequently
     do, it is very dangerous to be under with a load.'

     "Margaret Jacques, seventeen years of age, coal-bearer: 'I have
     been seven years at coal-bearing; it is horrible sore work; it
     was not my choice, but we do our parents' will. I make thirty
     rakes a day, with two hundred-weight of coal on my creel. It is a
     guid distance I journey, and very dangerous on parts of the road.
     The distance fast increases as the coals are cut down.'

     "Helen Reid, sixteen years old, coal-bearer: 'I have wrought five
     years in the mines in this part; my employment is carrying coal.
     Am frequently worked from four in the morning until six at night.
     I work night-work week about, (alternate weeks.) I then go down
     at two in the day, and come up at four and six in the morning.
     I can carry near two hundred-weight _on_ my back. I do not like
     the work. Two years since the pit closed upon thirteen of us,
     and we were two days without food or light; nearly one day we
     were up to our chins in water. At last we got to an old shaft,
     to which we picked our way, and were heard by people watching
     above. Two months ago, I was filling the tubs at the pit bottom,
     when the gig clicked too early, and the hook caught me by my
     pit-clothes—the people did not hear my shrieks—my hand had fast
     grappled the chain, and the great height of the shaft caused me
     to lose my courage, and I swooned. The banksman could scarcely
     remove my hand—the deadly grasp saved my life.'

     "Margaret Drysdale, fifteen years old, coal-putter: 'I don't like
     the work, but mother is dead, and father brought me down; I had
     no choice. The lasses will tell you that they all like the work
     fine, as they think you are going to take them out of the pits.
     My employment is to draw the carts. I have harness, or draw-ropes
     on, like the horses, and pull the carts. Large carts hold seven
     hundred-weight and a half, the smaller five hundred-weight and a
     half. The roads are wet, and I have to draw the work about one
     hundred fathoms.'

     "Katherine Logan, sixteen years old, coal-putter: 'Began to work
     at coal-carrying more than five years since; works in harness
     now; draw backward with face to tubs; the ropes and chains go
     under my pit-clothes; it is o'er sair work, especially where we
     crawl.'

     "Janet Duncan, seventeen years old, coal-putter: 'Works
     at putting, and was a coal-bearer at Hen-Muir Pit and New
     Pencaitland. The carts I push contain three hundred-weight of
     coal, being a load and a half; it is very severe work, especially
     when we have to stay before the tubs, on the braes, to prevent
     them coming down too fast; they frequently run too quick, and
     knock us down; when they run over fast, we fly off the roads and
     let them go, or we should be crushed. Mary Peacock was severely
     crushed a fortnight since; is gradually recovering. I have
     wrought above in harvest time; it is the only other work that
     ever I tried my hand at, and having harvested for three seasons,
     am able to say that the hardest daylight work is infinitely
     superior to the best of coal-work.'

     "Jane Wood, wife of James Wood, formerly a coal-drawer and
     bearer: 'Worked below more than thirty years. I have two
     daughters below, who really hate the employment, and often prayed
     to leave, but we canna do well without them just now. The severe
     work causes women much trouble; they frequently have premature
     births. Jenny McDonald, a neighbour, was laid idle six months;
     and William King's wife lately died from miscarriage, and a vast
     of women suffer from similar causes.'

     "Margaret Boxter, fifty years old, coal-hewer: 'I hew the coal;
     have done so since my husband failed in his breath; he has been
     off work twelve years. I have a son, daughter, and niece working
     with me below, and we have sore work to get maintenance. I go
     down early to hew the coal for my girls to draw; my son hews
     also. The work is not fit for women, and men could prevent it
     were they to labour more regular; indeed, men about this place
     don't wish wives to work in mines, but the masters seem to
     encourage it—at any rate, the masters never interfere to prevent
     it.'"

     "The different kinds of work to which females are put in South
     Wales, are described in the following evidence:—

     "Henrietta Frankland, eleven years old, drammer: 'When
     well, I draw the drams, (carts,) which contain four to five
     hundred-weight of coal, from the heads to the main road; I make
     forty-eight to fifty journeys; sister, who is two years older,
     works also at dramming; the work is very hard, and the long hours
     before the pay-day fatigue us much. The mine is wet where we
     work, as the water passes through the roof, and the workings are
     only thirty to thirty-three inches high.'

     "Mary Reed, twelve years old, air-door keeper: 'Been five years
     in the Plymouth mine. Never leaves till the last dram (cart) is
     drawn past by the horse. Works from six till four or five at
     night. Has run home very hungry; runs along the level or hangs on
     a cart as it passes. Does not like the work in the dark; would
     not mind the daylight work.'

     "Hannah Bowen, sixteen years old, windlass-woman: 'Been down two
     years; it is good hard work; work from seven in the morning till
     three or four in the afternoon at hauling the windlass. Can draw
     up four hundred loads of one hundred-weight and a half to four
     hundred-weight each.'

     "Ann Thomas, sixteen years old, windlass-woman: 'Finds the work
     very hard; two women always work the windlass below ground. We
     wind up eight hundred loads. Men do not like the winding, _it is
     too hard work for them_.'"

The commissioners ascertained that when the work-people were in
full employment, the regular hours for children and young persons
were rarely less than eleven; more often they were twelve; in some
districts, they are thirteen; and, in one district, they are
generally fourteen and upward. In Derbyshire, south of Chesterfield,
from thirteen to sixteen hours are considered a day's work. Of the
exhausting effects of such labour for so long a time, we shall scarcely
need any particular evidence. But one boy, named John Bostock, told the
commissioners that he had often been made to work until he was so tired
as to lie down on his road home until twelve o'clock, when his mother
had come and led him home; and that he had sometimes been so tired that
he could not eat his dinner, but had been beaten and made to work until
night. Many other cases are recorded:—

     "John Rawson, collier, aged forty: 'I work at Mr. Sorby's
     pit, Handsworth. I think the children are worked overmuch
     sometimes.'—_Report_, No. 81, p. 243, 1. 25.

     "Peter Waring, collier, Billingby: 'I never should like my
     children to go in. They are not beaten; it is the work that hurts
     them; it is mere slavery, and nothing but it.'—Ibid. No. 125, p.
     256, 1. 6.

     "John Hargreave, collier, Thorpe's Colliery: 'Hurrying is heavy
     work for children. They ought not to work till they are twelve
     years old, and then put two together for heavy corves.'—Ibid.
     No. 130, p. 256, 1. 44.

     "Mr. Timothy Marshall, collier, aged thirty-five, Darton: 'I
     think the hurrying is what hurts girls, and it is too hard work
     for their strength; I think that children cannot be educated
     after they once get to work in pits; they are both tired and even
     disinclined to learn when they have done work.'—Ibid. No. 141,
     p. 262, 1. 39.

     "A collier at Mr. Travis's pit: 'The children get but little
     schooling; six or seven out of nine or ten know nothing. They
     never go to night-schools, except some odd ones. When the
     children get home, they cannot go to school, for they have to be
     up so early in the morning—soon after four—and they cannot do
     without rest.'—Ibid. No. 94, p. 246, 1. 33.

     "Mr. George Armitage, aged thirty-six, formerly collier at
     Silkstone, now teacher at Hayland School: 'Little can be learnt
     merely on Sundays, and they are too tired as well as indisposed
     to go to night-schools. I am decidedly of opinion that when trade
     is good, the work of hurriers is generally continuous; but when
     there are two together, perhaps the little one will have a rest
     while the big one is filling or riddling.'—Ibid., No. 138, p.
     261, 1. 24.

     "William Firth, between six and seven years old, Deal Wood
     Pit, Flockton: 'I hurry with my sister. I don't like to be in
     pit. I was crying to go out this morning. It tires me a good
     deal.'—Ibid. No. 218, p. 282, 1. 11.

     "John Wright, hurrier in Thorpe's colliery: 'I shall be nine
     years old next Whitsuntide. It tires me much. It tires my arms.
     I have been two years in the pit, and have been hurrying all the
     time. It tries the small of my arms.'—Ibid. No. 129, p. 256, 1.
     31.

     "Daniel Dunchfield: 'I am going in ten; I am more tired in the
     forenoon than at night; it makes my back ache; I work all day
     the same as the other boys; I rest me when I go home at night; I
     never go to play at night; I get my supper and go to bed.'—Ibid.
     No. 63, p. 238, 1. 32.

     "George Glossop, aged twelve: 'I help to fill and hurry, and am
     always tired at night when I've done.'—Ibid. No. 50, p. 236, 1.
     21.

     "Martin Stanley: 'I tram by myself, and find it very hard work.
     It tires me in my legs and shoulders every day.'—Ibid. No. 69,
     p. 240, 1. 27.

     "Charles Hoyle: 'I was thirteen last January. I work in the thin
     coal-pit. I find it very hard work. We work at night one week,
     and in the day the other. It tires me very much sometimes. It
     tires us most in the legs, especially when we have to go on our
     hands and feet. I fill as well as hurry.'—Ibid. No. 78, p. 242,
     1. 41.

     "Jonathan Clayton, thirteen and a half years old, Soap Work
     Colliery, Sheffield: 'Hurrying is very hard work; when I got home
     at night, I was knocked up.'—Ibid. No. 6, p. 227, 1. 48.

     "Andrew Roger, aged seventeen years: 'I work for my father, who
     is an undertaker. I get, and have been getting two years. I find
     it very hard work indeed; it tires me very much; I can hardly get
     washed of a night till nine o'clock, I am so tired.'—Ibid. No.
     60, p. 237, 1. 49.

     ["'This witness,' says the sub-commissioner, 'when examined in
     the evening after his work was over, ached so much that he could
     not stand upright.']—Ibid. s. 109; App. pt. i. p. 181.

     "Joseph Reynard, aged nineteen, Mr. Stancliffe's pit, Mirfield:
     'I began hurrying when I was nine; I get now; I cannot hurry,
     because one leg is shorter than the other. I have had my hip bad
     since I was fifteen. I am very tired at nights. I worked in a wet
     place to-day. I have worked in places as wet as I have been in
     to-day.'

     ["'I examined Joseph Reynard; he has several large abscesses in
     his thigh, from hip-joint disease. The thigh-bone is dislocated
     from the same cause; the leg is about three inches shorter; two
     or three of the abscesses are now discharging. No appearance of
     puberty from all the examinations I made. I should not think him
     more than eleven or twelve years of age, except from his teeth. I
     think him quite unfit to follow any occupation, much less the one
     he now occupies.

               Signed,                        "'U. BRADBURY, Surgeon.']

     "'This case,' says the sub-commissioner, 'is one reflecting the
     deepest discredit on his employers.'—_Symons, Evidence_, No.
     272; App. pt. i. p. 298, 1. 29.

     "Elizabeth Eggley, sixteen years old: 'I find my work very much
     too hard for me. I hurry alone. It tires me in my arms and back
     most. I am sure it is very hard work, and tires us very much; it
     is too hard work for girls to do. We sometimes go to sleep before
     we get to bed.'—Ibid. No. 114, p. 252, 1. 44.

     "Ann Wilson, aged ten and a half years, Messrs. Smith's colliery:
     'Sometimes the work tires us when we have a good bit to do;
     it tires we in my back. I hurry by myself. I push with my
     head.'—Ibid. No. 229, p. 224, 1. 12.

     "Elizabeth Day, hurrier, Messrs. Hopwood's pit, Barnsley: 'It
     is very hard work for us all. It is harder work than we ought
     to do, a deal. I have been lamed in my back, and strained in my
     back.'—Ibid. No. 80, p. 244, 1. 33.

     "Mary Shaw: 'I am nineteen years old. I hurry in the pit you were
     in to-day. I have ever been much tired with my work.'—Ibid. No.
     123, p. 249, 1. 38.

     "Ann Eggley, hurrier in Messrs. Thorpe's colliery: 'The work is
     far too hard for me; the sweat runs off me all over sometimes. I
     am very tired at night. Sometimes when we get home at night, we
     have not power to wash us, and then we go to bed. Sometimes we
     fall asleep in the chair. Father said last night it was both a
     shame and a disgrace for girls to work as we do, but there was
     nought else for us to do. The girls are always tired.'—Ibid. No.
     113, p. 252, 1. 17.

     "Elizabeth Coats: 'I hurry with my brother. It tires me a great
     deal, and tires my back and arms.'—Ibid. No. 115, p. 252, 1. 59.

     "Elizabeth Ibbitson, at Mr. Harrison's pit, Gomersel: 'I don't
     like being at pit; I push the corf with my head, and it hurts me,
     and is sore.'—Ibid. No. 266, p. 292, 1. 17.

     "Margaret Gomley, Lindley Moor, aged nine: 'Am very
     tired.'—_Scriven, Evidence_, No. 9; App. pt. ii. p. 103, 1. 34.

     "James Mitchell, aged twelve, Messrs. Holt and Hebblewaite's: 'I
     am very tired when I get home; it is enough to tire a horse; and
     stooping so much makes it bad.'—Ibid. No. 2, p. 101, 1. 32.

     "William Whittaker, aged sixteen, Mr. Rawson's colliery: 'I am
     always very tired when I go home.'—Ibid. No. 13, p. 104, 1. 55.

     "George Wilkinson, aged thirteen, Low Moor: 'Are you tired now?
     Nay. Were you tired then? Yea. What makes the difference? I can
     hurry a deal better now.'—_W. R. Wood, Esq., Evidence_, No. 18,
     App. pt. ii. p. _h_ 11, 1. 30.

     "John Stevenson, aged fourteen, Low Moor: 'Has worked in a
     coal-pit eight years; went in at six years old; used to rue to go
     in; does not rue now; it was very hard when he went in, and "I
     were nobbud a right little one." Was not strong enough when he
     first went; had better have been a little bigger; used to be very
     tired; did not when he first went. I waur ill tired.'—Ibid. No.
     15, p. _h_ 10, 1. 39.

     "Jabez Scott, aged fifteen, Bowling Iron Works: 'Work is very
     hard; sleeps well sometimes; sometimes is very ill tired and
     cannot sleep so well.'—Ibid. No. 38, p. _h_ 10, 1. 29.

     "William Sharpe, Esq., F. R. S., surgeon, Bradford, states: 'That
     he has for twenty years professionally attended at the Low Moor
     Iron Works; that there are occasionally cases of deformity, and
     also bad cases of scrofula, apparently induced by the boys being
     too early sent into the pits, by their working beyond their
     strength, by their constant stooping, and by occasionally working
     in water.'"—Ibid. No. 60, p. _h_ 27, 1. 45.

The statements of the children, as will be seen, are confirmed by the
evidence of the adult work-people, in which we also find some further
developments:—

     "William Fletcher, aged thirty-three, collier, West Hallam:
     'Considers the collier's life a very hard one both for man and
     boy, the latter full as hard as the former.'—_Report_, No. 37,
     p. 279, 1. 17.

     "John Beasley, collier, aged forty-nine, Shipley: 'He has known
     instances where the children have been so overcome with the
     work, as to cause them to go off in a decline; he has seen those
     who could not get home without their father's assistance, and
     have fallen asleep before they could be got to bed; has known
     children of six years old sent to the pit, but thinks there are
     none at Shipley under seven or eight; it is his opinion a boy is
     too weak to stand the hours, even to drive between, until he is
     eight or nine years old; the boys go down at six in the morning,
     and has known them kept down until nine or ten, until they are
     almost ready to exhaust; the children and young persons work the
     same hours as the men; the children are obliged to work in the
     night if the wagon-road is out of repair, or the water coming on
     them; it happens sometimes two or three times in the week; they
     then go down at six P.M. to six A.M., and have from ten minutes
     to half an hour allowed for supper, according to the work they
     have to do; they mostly ask the children who have been at work
     the previous day to go down with them, but seldom have to oblige
     them; when he was a boy, he has worked for thirty-six hours
     running many a time, and many more besides himself have done
     so.'—Ibid. No. 40, p. 274, 1. 23.

     "William Wardle, aged forty, Eastwood: 'There is no doubt
     colliers are much harder worked than labourers; indeed, it is the
     hardest work under heaven.'—Ibid. No. 84, p. 287, 1. 51.

     "Samuel Richards, aged forty, Awsworth: 'There are Sunday-schools
     when they will go; but when boys have been beaten, knocked about,
     and covered with sludge all the week, they want to be in bed to
     rest all day on Sunday.'—Ibid. No. 166, p. 307, 1. 58.

     "William Sellers, operative, aged twenty-two, Butterley Company:
     'When he first worked in the pit, he has been so tired that he
     slept as he walked.'—Ibid. No. 222, p. 319, 1. 35.

     "William Knighton, aged twenty-four, Denby: 'He remembers "mony"
     a time he has dropped asleep with the meat in his mouth through
     fatigue; it is those butties—they are the very devil; they
     impose upon them in one way, then in another.'—Ibid. No. 314, p.
     334, 1. 42.

     "— —, engine-man, Babbington: 'Has, when working whole
     days, often seen the children lie down on the pit-bank and go to
     sleep, they were so tired.'—Ibid. No. 137, p. 300, 1. 10.

     "John Attenborough, schoolmaster, Greasley: 'Has observed that
     the collier children are more tired and dull than the others, but
     equally anxious to learn.'—Ibid. No. 153, p. 304, 1. 122.

     "Ann Birkin: 'Is mother to Thomas and Jacob, who work in Messrs.
     Fenton's pits; they have been so tired after a whole day's
     work, that she has at times had to wash them and lift them into
     bed.'—Ibid. No. 81, p. 285, 1. 59.

     "Hannah Neale, Butterley Park: 'They come home so tired that they
     become stiff, and can hardly get to bed; Constantine, the one
     ten years old, formerly worked in the same pit as his brothers,
     but about a half a year since his toe was cut off by the bind
     falling; notwithstanding this, the loader made him work until the
     end of the day, although in the greatest pain. He was out of work
     more than four months owing to this accident.'—Ibid. No. 237, p.
     320, 1. 51.

     "Ellen Wagstaff, Watnall: 'Has five children, three at Trough
     lane and two at Willow lane, Greasley; one at Trough lane is
     eighteen, one fourteen, one thirteen years of age; and those
     at Willow lane are sixteen and nineteen; they are variously
     employed; the youngest was not seven years old when he first went
     to the pits. The whole have worked since they were seven or seven
     and a half; they have worked from six to eight; from six to two
     for half days, no meal-time in half days; she has known them when
     at full work so tired when they first worked, that you could not
     hear them speak, and they fell asleep before they could eat their
     suppers; it has grieved her to the heart to see them.'—Ibid. No.
     104, p. 292, 1. 18.

     "Ann Wilson, Underwood: 'Is stepmother to Matthew Wilson and
     mother to Richard Clarke. Has heard what they have said, and
     believes it to be true; has known them when they work whole days
     they have come home so tired and dirty, that they could scarcely
     be prevented lying down on the ashes by the fireside, and could
     not take their clothes off; has had to do it for them, and take
     them to the brook and wash them, and has sat up most of the night
     to get their clothes dry. The next morning they have gone to work
     like bears to the stake.'—Ibid. No. 112, p. 294, 1. 5.

     "Hannah Brixton, Babbington: 'The butties slave them past any
     thing. Has frequently had them drop asleep as soon as they have
     got in the house, and complain of their legs and arms aching very
     bad.'—Ibid. No. 149, p. 302, 1. 44.

     "Michael Wilkins: 'Never has a mind for his victuals; never feels
     himself hungry.'

     "John Charlton: 'Thinks the stythe makes him bad so that he
     cannot eat his bait, and often brings it all home with him again,
     or eats very little of it.'

     "Michael Richardson: 'He never has much appetite; and the dust
     often blacks his victuals. Is always dry and thirsty.'


     "William Beaney: 'Has thrown up his victuals often when he came
     home; thinks the bad air made him do this.'

     "John Thompson: 'Often throws up his food.'

     "Thomas Newton: 'Threw up his victuals last night when he came
     home. Never does so down in the pit, but often does when he comes
     home.'

     "Moses Clerk: 'Throws up his victuals nearly every day at home
     and down in the pit.'

     "Thomas Martin: 'Many times feels sick, and feels headache, and
     throws up his food. Was well before he went down in the pit.'

     "Thomas Fawcett: 'Many a night falls sick; and he many times
     throws up his meat when he is in bed. Sometimes feels bad and
     sick in the morning.'

     "George Alder: 'Has been unwell of late with the hard work. Has
     felt very sick and weak all this last week.' (Looks very pale and
     unwell.)

     "John Charlton: 'Often obliged to give over. Has been off five
     days in the last month. Each of these days was down in the pit
     and obliged to come up again.'

     "John Laverick and others: 'Many times they fell sick down in the
     pit. Sometimes they have the heart-burn; sometimes they force
     up their meat again. Some boys are off a week from being sick;
     occasionally they feel pains.'

     "Six trappers: 'Sometimes they feel sick upon going to work in
     the morning. Sometimes bring up their breakfasts from their
     stomachs again. Different boys at different times do this.'

     "George Short: 'It is bad air where he is, and makes him bad;
     makes small spots come out upon him, (small pimples,) which he
     thinks is from the air, and he takes physic to stop them. His
     head works very often, and he feels sickish sometimes.'

     "Nichol Hudderson: 'The pit makes him sick. Has been very bad in
     his health ever since he went down in the pit. Was very healthy
     before. The heat makes him sick. The sulphur rising up the shaft
     as he goes down makes his head work. Often so sick that he cannot
     eat when he gets up, at least he cannot eat very much. About a
     half a year since, a boy named John Huggins was very sick down in
     the pit, and wanted to come up, but the keeper would not let him
     ride, (come up,) and he died of fever one week afterward.'

     ["The father of this lad and his brother fully corroborate this
     statement, and the father says the doctor told him that if he
     (the boy) had not been kept in the pit, he might have been,
     perhaps, saved. This boy never had any thing the matter with him
     before he went down into the pit."—_Leifchild, Evidences_, Nos.
     156, 169, 270, 83, 110, 142, 143, 374, 194, 364, 135, 100, 101;
     App. pt. i. p. 582 _et seq._ See also the statement of witnesses,
     Nos. 315, 327, 351, 359, 360, 361, 362, 363, 365, 377, 381, 382,
     384, 403, 434, 454, 455, 457, 464, 465, 466.]

Similar statements are made by all classes of witnesses in some other
districts. Thus, in Shropshire:—

     "A surgeon who did not wish his name to be published: 'They
     are subject to hypertrophy of the heart, no doubt laying the
     foundation of such disease at the early age of from eight to
     thirteen years.'—_Mitchell, Evidence_, No. 45; App. pt. i. p.
     81, 1. 16.

     "Mr. Michael Thomas Sadler, surgeon, Barnsley: 'I have found
     diseases of the heart in adult colliers, which it struck me arose
     from violent exertion. I know of no trade about here where the
     work is harder.'—_Symons, Evidence_, No. 139; App. pt. i. p.
     261, 1. 36.

     "Mr. Pearson, surgeon to the dispensary, Wigan: 'They are very
     subject to diseases of the heart.'—_Kennedy, Report_, 1. 304;
     App. pt. ii. p. 189.

     "Dr. William Thompson, Edinburgh: 'Workers in coal-mines
     are exceedingly liable to suffer from irregular action, and
     ultimately organic diseases of the heart.'—_Franks, Evidence_,
     App. pt. i. p. 409.

     "Scott Alison, M. D., East Lothian: 'I found diseases of the
     heart very common among colliers at all ages, from boyhood up
     to old age. The most common of them were inflammation of that
     organ, and of its covering, the pericardium, simple enlargement
     or hypertrophy, contraction of the auriculo-ventricular
     communications, and of the commencement of the aorta. These
     symptoms were well marked, attended for the most part with
     increase of the heart's action, the force of its contraction
     being sensibly augmented, and, in many cases, especially those
     of hypertrophy, much and preternaturally extended over the
     chest.'—Ibid. p. 417.

     "Mr. Thomas Batten, surgeon, Coleford: 'A boy about thirteen
     years of age, in the Parkend Pits, died of _hæmorrhagia
     purpurea_, (a suffusion of blood under the cuticle,) brought on
     by too much exertion of the muscles and whole frame.'—_Waring,
     Evidence_, No. 36; App. pt. ii. p. 24, 1. 21.

To this list of diseases arising from great muscular exertion, must be
added rupture:—

     "Dr. Farell, Sheffield: 'Many of them are ruptured; nor is this
     by any means uncommon among lads—arising, in all probability,
     from over-exertion.'—_Symons, Evidence_, No. 47, App. pt. i. p.
     286, 1. 2.

     "Mr. Pearson, surgeon to the dispensary, Wigan: 'Colliers are
     often ruptured, and they often come to me for advice.'—_Kennedy,
     Report_, 1. 304; App. pt. ii. p. 189.

     "Andrew Grey: 'Severe ruptures occasioned by lifting coal. Many
     are ruptured on both sides. I am, and suffer severely, and a vast
     number of men here are also.'—_Franks, Evidence_, No. 147; App.
     pt. i. p. 463, 1. 61.

But employment in the coal-mines produces another series of diseases
incomparably more painful and fatal, partly referable to excessive
muscular exertion, and partly to the state of the place of work—that
is, to the foul air from imperfect ventilation, and the wetness
from inefficient drainage. Of the diseases of the lungs produced by
employment in the mines, asthma is the most frequent.

     "Mr. William Hartell Baylis: 'The working of the mines brings on
     asthma.'—_Mitchell, Evidence_, No. 7; App. pt. i. p. 65, 1. 31.

     "A surgeon who does not wish his name to be published: 'Most
     colliers, at the age of thirty, become asthmatic. There are
     few attain that age without having the respiratory apparatus
     disordered.'—Ibid. No. 45, p. 81, 1. 15.

     "Mr. George Marcy, clerk of the Wellington Union: 'Many
     applications are made from miners for relief on account of
     sickness, and chiefly from asthmatic complaints, when arrived
     at an advanced age. At forty, perhaps, the generality suffer
     much from asthma. Those who have applied have been first to the
     medical officer, who has confirmed what they said.'—Ibid. No.
     46, p. 81, 1. 44.

     "'I met with very few colliers above forty years of age, who, if
     they had not a confirmed asthmatic disease, were not suffering
     from difficult breathing.'—_Fellows, Report_, s. 57; App. pt.
     ii. p. 256.

     "Phœbe Gilbert, Watnall, Messrs. Barber and Walker: 'She
     thinks they are much subject to asthma. Her first husband,
     who died aged 57, was unable to work for seven years on that
     account.'—_Fellows, Evidence_, No. 105; App. pt. ii. p. 256.

     "William Wardle, collier, forty years of age, Eastwood: 'There
     are some who are asthmatical, and many go double.'—Ibid. No. 84,
     p. 287, 1. 40.

     "Mr. Henry Hemmingway, surgeon, Dewsbury: 'When children are
     working where carbonic acid gas prevails, they are rendered more
     liable to affections of the brain and lungs. This acid prevents
     the blood from its proper decarbonization as it passes from
     the heart to the lungs. It does not get properly quit of the
     carbon.'—_Symons, Evidence_, No. 221; App. pt. i. p. 282, 1. 38.

     "Mr. Uriah Bradbury, surgeon, Mirfield: 'They suffer from
     asthma.'—Ibid. No. 199, p. 278, 1. 58.

     "Mr. J. B. Greenwood, surgeon, Cleckheaton: 'The cases which have
     come before me professionally have been chiefly affections of the
     chest and asthma, owing to the damp underfoot, and also to the
     dust which arises from the working of the coal.'—Ibid. No. 200,
     p. 279, 1. 8.

     "J. Ibetson, collier, aged fifty-three, Birkenshaw: 'I have
     suffered from asthma, and am regularly knocked up. A collier
     cannot stand the work regularly. He must stop now and then, or he
     will be mashed up before any time.'—Ibid. No. 267, p. 292, 1. 42.

     "Joseph Barker, collier, aged forty-three, Windybank Pit: 'I have
     a wife and two children; one of them is twenty-two years old; he
     is mashed up, (that is, he is asthmatical,) he has been as good a
     worker as ever worked in a skin.'—_Scriven, Evidence_, No. 14;
     App. pt. ii. p. 104, 1. 60.

     "Mr. George Canney, surgeon, Bishop Aukland: 'Do the children
     suffer from early employment in the pits?' Yes, seven and
     eight is a very early age, and the constitution must suffer in
     consequence. It is injurious to be kept in one position so long,
     and in the dark. They go to bed when they come home, and enjoy
     very little air. I think there is more than the usual proportion
     of pulmonary complaints.'—_Mitchell, Evidence_, No. 97; App. pt.
     i. p. 154, 1. 2.

     "Mr. Headlam, physician, Newcastle: 'Diseases of respiration
     are more common among pit-men than among others, distinctly
     referable to the air in which they work. The air contains a great
     proportion of carbonic gas, and carburetted hydrogen. These
     diseases of the respiratory organs arise from the breathing of
     these gases, principally of the carbonic acid gas.—_Leifchild,
     Evidence_, No. 499; App. pt. i. p. 67, 1. 11.

     "Mr. Heath, of Newcastle, surgeon: 'More than usually liable to
     asthma; mostly between thirty and forty years of age. A person
     always working in the broken would be more liable to asthma.
     Asthma is of very slow growth, and it is difficult to say when it
     begins. Custom and habit will not diminish the evil effects, but
     will diminish the sensibility to these evils.'—Ibid. No. 497, p.
     665, 1. 10-14.

     "Matthew Blackburn, driver, fifteen years of age, Heaton
     Colliery: 'Has felt shortness of breath. Helps up sometimes,
     but is bound to drive. Cannot help up sometimes for shortness
     of breath. His legs often work, (ache;) his shoulders work
     sometimes. Working in a wet place.'—Ibid. No. 27, p. 573, 1. 34.

     "Dr. S. Scott Alison, East Lothian: 'Between the twentieth and
     thirtieth year the colliers decline in bodily vigour, and become
     more and more spare; the difficulty of breathing progresses,
     and they find themselves very desirous of some remission from
     their labour. This period is fruitful in acute diseases, such
     as fever, inflammation of the lungs, pleura, and many other
     ailments, the product of over-exertion, exposure to cold and wet,
     violence, insufficient clothing, intemperance, and foul air. For
     the first few years chronic bronchitis is usually found alone,
     and unaccompanied by disease of the body or lungs. The patient
     suffers more or less difficulty of breathing, which is affected
     by changes of the weather, and by variations in the weight of
     the atmosphere. He coughs frequently, and the expectoration
     is composed, for the most part, of white frothy and yellowish
     mucous fluid, occasionally containing blackish particles of
     carbon, the result of the combustion of the lamp, and also of
     minute coal-dust. At first, and indeed for several years, the
     patient, for the most part, does not suffer much in his general
     health, eating heartily, and retaining his muscular strength in
     consequence. The disease is rarely, if ever, entirely cured; and
     if the collier be not carried off by some other lesion in the
     mean time, this disease ultimately deprives him of life by a
     slow and lingering process. The difficulty of breathing becomes
     more or less permanent, the expectoration becomes very abundant,
     effusions of water take place in the chest, the feet swell, and
     the urine is secreted in small quantity; the general health
     gradually breaks up, and the patient, after reaching premature
     old age, slips into the grave at a comparatively early period,
     with perfect willingness on his part, and no surprise on that of
     his family and friends.'—_Franks, Evidence_, App. pt. i. p. 412,
     415, Appendix A.

     "John Duncan, aged fifty-nine, hewer, Pencaitland: 'Mining has
     caused my breath to be affected, and I am, like many other
     colliers, obliged to hang upon my children for existence. The
     want of proper ventilation in the pits is the chief cause. No
     part requires more looking to than East Lothian; the men die off
     like rotten sheep.'—Ibid. No. 150, p. 464, 1. 28.

     "George Hogg, thirty-two years of age, coal-hewer, Pencaitland:
     'Unable to labour much now, as am fashed with bad breath; the air
     below is very bad; until lately no ventilation existed.'—Ibid.
     No. 153, p. 406, 1. 46. See also Witnesses, Nos. 4, 36, 53, 131,
     152, 155, 175, 275, 277, &c.: 'The confined air and dust in which
     they work is apt to render them asthmatic, as well as to unfit
     them for labour at an earlier period of life than is the case in
     other employments.'—_Tancred, Report_, s. 99, App. pt. i. p. 345.

     "Dr. Adams, Glasgow: 'Amongst colliers, bronchitis or asthma is
     very prevalent among the older hands.'—_Tancred, Evidence_, No.
     9; App. pt. i. p. 361, 1. 44.

     "Mr. Peter Williams, surgeon, Holiwell, North Wales: 'The chief
     diseases to which they are liable are those of the bronchiæ.
     Miners and colliers, by the age of forty, generally become
     affected by chronic bronchitis, and commonly before the age of
     sixty fall martyrs to the disease. The workmen are, for the most
     part, very healthy and hardy, until the symptoms of affections of
     the bronchial tubes show themselves.'—_H. H. Jones, Evidence_,
     No. 95; App. pt. ii. p. 407, 1. 8.

     "Jeremiah Bradley, underground agent, Plaskynaston: 'The men are
     apt to get a tightness of breath, and become unfit for the pits,
     even before sixty.'—Ibid. No. 30, p. 383, 1. 8.

     "Amongst colliers in South Wales the diseases most prevalent are
     the chronic diseases of the respiratory organs, especially asthma
     and bronchitis.'—_Franks, Report_, s. 64; App. pt. ii. p. 484.

     "David Davis, contractor, Gilvachvargoed colliery,
     Glamorganshire: 'I am of opinion that miners are sooner disabled
     and off work than other mechanics, for they suffer from shortness
     of breath long before they are off work. Shortness of breath may
     be said to commence from forty to fifty years of age.'—_Franks,
     Evidence_, No. 178; App. pt. ii. p. 533, 1. 32.

     "Richard Andrews, overseer, Llancyach, Glamorganshire:
     'The miners about here are very subject to asthmatic
     complaints.'—Ibid. No. 152; p. 529, 1. 7.

     "Mr. Frederick Evans, clerk and accountant for the Dowlais
     Collieries, Monmouthshire: 'Asthma is a prevalent disease among
     colliers.'—_R. W. Jones, Evidence_, No. 121; App. pt. ii. p.
     646, 1. 48.

     "Mr. David Mushet, Forest of Dean: 'The men generally become
     asthmatic from fifty to fifty-five years of age.'—_Waring,
     Evidence_, No. 37; App. pt. ii. p. 25, 1. 3.

     "'Asthmatic and other bronchial affections are common among the
     older colliers and miners.'—_Waring, Report_, s. 72; App. pt.
     ii. p. 6.

     "Mr. W. Brice, clerk, Coal Barton and Vobster Collieries, North
     Somersetshire: 'The work requires the full vigour of a man, and
     they are apt, at this place, to get asthmatical from the gas and
     foul air.'—_Stewart, Evidence_, No. 7; App. pt. ii. p. 50, 1. 49.

     "James Beacham, coal-breaker, Writhlington, near Radstock: 'Many
     of the miners suffer from "tight breath."'—Ibid. No. 32; p. 56,
     1. 31."

Of that disease which is peculiar to colliers, called "black spittle,"
much evidence is given by many medical witnesses and others:—

     "Mr. Cooper, surgeon, of Bilston, gives the following account
     of this malady when it appears in its mildest form: 'Frequently
     it occurs that colliers appear at the offices of medical men,
     complaining of symptoms of general debility, which appear to
     arise from inhalation of certain gases in the mines, (probably an
     excess of carbonic.) These patients present a pallid appearance,
     are affected with headache, (without febrile symptoms,) and
     constriction of the chest; to which may be added dark bronchial
     expectoration and deficient appetite. Gentle aperients, mild
     stomachics, and rest from labour above ground, restore them in
     a week or so, and they are perhaps visited at intervals with a
     relapse, if the state of the atmosphere or the ill ventilation of
     the mine favour the development of deleterious gas.'—_Mitchell,
     Evidence_, No. 3; App. pt. i. p. 62, 1. 48."

In other districts this disease assumes a much more formidable
character:—

     "Dr. Thompson, of Edinburgh, states that, 'The workmen in coal
     mines occasionally die of an affection of the lungs, accompanied
     with the expectoration of a large quantity of matter of a deep
     black colour, this kind of expectoration continuing long after
     they have, from choice or illness, abandoned their subterranean
     employment; and the lungs of such persons are found, on
     examination after death, to be most deeply impregnated with black
     matter. This black deposition may occur to a very considerable
     extent in the lungs of workers in coal-mines, without being
     accompanied with any black expectoration, or any other phenomena
     of active disease, and may come to light only after death has
     been occasioned by causes of a different nature, as by external
     injuries.'—_Franks_, Appendix A, No. 1; App. pt. i. p. 409.

     "Dr. S. Scott Alison: 'Spurious melanosis, or "black spit" of
     colliers, is a disease of pretty frequent occurrence among the
     older colliers, and among those men who have been employed
     in cutting and blasting stone <DW18>s in the collieries. The
     symptoms are emaciation of the whole body, constant shortness
     and quickness of breath, occasional stitches in the sides, quick
     pulse, usually upward of one hundred in the minute, hacking cough
     day and night, attended by a copious expectoration, for the most
     part perfectly black, and very much the same as thick blacking in
     colour and consistence, but occasionally yellowish and mucous,
     or white and frothy; respiration is cavernous in some parts,
     and dull in others; a wheezing noise is heard in the bronchial
     passages, from the presence of an inordinate quantity of fluid;
     the muscles of respiration become very prominent, the neck is
     shortened, the chest being drawn up, the nostrils are dilated,
     and the countenance is of an anxious aspect. The strength
     gradually wasting, the collier, who has hitherto continued at his
     employment, finds that he is unable to work six days in the week,
     and goes under ground perhaps only two or three days in that
     time; in the course of time, he finds an occasional half-day's
     employment as much as he can manage, and when only a few weeks'
     or months' journey from the grave, ultimately takes a final leave
     of his labour. This disease is never cured, and if the unhappy
     victim of an unwholesome occupation is not hurried off by some
     more acute disease, or by violence, it invariably ends in the
     death of the sufferer. Several colliers have died of this disease
     under my care.'—Ibid. Appendix A, No. 2; App. pt. i. p. 415, 416.

     "Dr. Makellar, Pencaitland, East Lothian: 'The most serious and
     fatal disease which I have been called to treat, connected with
     colliers, is a carbonaceous infiltration into the substance of
     the lungs. It is a disease which has long been overlooked, on
     account of the unwillingness which formerly existed among that
     class of people to allow examination of the body after death; but
     of late such a prejudice has in a great measure been removed.
     From the nature of Pencaitland coal-works, the seams of coal
     being thin when compared with other coal-pits, mining operations
     are carried on with difficulty, and, in such a situation, there
     is a deficiency in the supply of atmospheric gas, thereby causing
     difficulty in breathing, and, consequently, the inhalation of
     the carbon which the lungs in exhalation throw off, and also
     any carbonaceous substance floating in this impure atmosphere.
     I consider the pulmonary diseases of coal-miners to be excited
     chiefly by two causes, viz. first, by running stone-mines with
     the use of gunpowder; and, secondly, coal-mining in an atmosphere
     charged with lamp-smoke and the carbon exhaled from the lungs.
     All who are engaged at coal-pits here, are either employed
     as coal or stone miners; and the peculiar disease to which
     both parties are liable varies considerably according to the
     employment.'—Ibid. Appendix A, No. 3, p. 422. See also witnesses
     Nos. 7, 44, 112, 144, 146. For a full account of this disease,
     see reports of Drs. Alison, Makellar, and Reid, in the Appendix
     to the sub-commissioner's report for the East of Scotland."

Dr. Makellar gives the following remarkable evidence as to the efficacy
of ventilation in obviating the production of this disease:—

     "The only effectual remedy for this disease is a free admission
     of pure air, and to be so applied as to remove the confined
     smoke, both as to stone-mining and coal-mining, and also the
     introduction of some other mode of lighting such pits than by
     oil. I know many coal-pits where there is no _black-spit_, nor
     was it ever known, and, on examination, I find that there is and
     ever has been in them a free circulation of air. For example, the
     Penstone coal-works, which join Pencaitland, has ever been free
     of this disease; but many of the Penstone colliers, on coming
     to work at Pencaitland pit, have been seized with, and died of,
     this disease. Penstone has always good air, while it is quite the
     contrary at Pencaitland.'—Ibid. Appendix A, No. 3; App. pt. i.
     p. 422."

Other diseases, produced by employment in coal-mines, less fatal, but
scarcely less painful, are rheumatism and inflammation of the joints.

Mr. William Hartell Baylis states that working in the cold and wet
often brings on rheumatism. "More suffer from this than from any other
complaint."[3] Asthma and rheumatism, which are so prevalent in other
districts, are very rare in Warwickshire and Leicestershire.[4] But, in
Derbyshire, "rheumatism is very general. I believe you will scarcely
meet a collier, and ask him what he thinks of the weather, but he will
in reply say, 'Why, his back or shoulders have or have not pained him
as much as usual.'"[5]

George Tweddell, surgeon, Houghton-le-Spring, South Durham, says, in
answer to the question—Are miners much subject to rheumatism?—"Not
particularly so. Our mines are dry; but there is one mine which is wet,
where the men often complain of rheumatism."[6]

Similar evidence is given by the medical and other witnesses in all
other districts. Wherever the mines are not properly drained, and are,
therefore, wet and cold, the work-people are invariably afflicted with
rheumatism, and with painful diseases of the glands.

The sub-commissioner for the Forest of Dean gives the following account
of a painful disease of the joints common in that district:—

     "'The men employed in cutting down the coal are subject to
     inflammation of the _bursæ_, both in the knees and elbows, from
     the constant pressure and friction on these joints in their
     working postures. When the seams are several feet thick, they
     begin by kneeling and cutting away the exterior portion of the
     base. They proceed undermining till they are obliged to lie down
     on their sides, in order to work beneath the mass as far as the
     arm can urge the pick, for the purpose of bringing down a good
     head of coal. In this last posture the elbow forms a pivot,
     resting on the ground, on which the arm of the workman oscillates
     as he plies his sharp pick. It is easy to comprehend how this
     action, combined with the pressure, should affect the delicate
     cellular membrane of this joint, and bring on the disease
     indicated. The thin seams of coal are necessarily altogether
     worked in a horizontal posture.'—_Waring, Report_, s. 63-66;
     App. pt. ii. p. 5, 6.

     "Twenty boys at the Walker Colliery: 'The twenty witnesses,
     when examined collectively, say, that the way is so very
     dirty, and the pit so warm, that the lads often get tired very
     soon.'—_Leifchild, Evidence_, No. 291; App. pt. i. p. 627, 1.
     661.

     "Nineteen boys examined together, of various ages, of whom the
     spokesman was William Holt, seventeen years old, putter: 'The
     bad air when they were whiles working in the broken, makes them
     sick. Has felt weak like in his legs at those times. Was weary
     like. Has gone on working, but very slowly. Many a one has had to
     come home before having a fair start, from bad air and hard work.
     Hours are too long. Would sooner work less hours and get less
     money.'—Ibid. No. 300; p. 629, 1. 1.

     "Twenty-three witnesses assembled state: 'That their work is
     too hard for them, and they feel sore tired; that some of them
     constantly throw up their meat from their stomachs; that their
     heads often work, (ache;) the back sometimes; and the legs feel
     weak.'—Ibid. No. 354; p. 639, 1. 18.

     "John Wilkinson, aged thirteen, Piercy Main Colliery: 'Was in for
     a double shift about five weeks ago, and fell asleep about one
     o'clock P.M., as he was going to lift the limmers off to join
     the rolleys together, and got himself lamed by the horse turning
     about and jamming one of his fingers. Split his finger. Was off
     a week from this accident. Sometimes feels sick down in the pit;
     felt so once or twice last fortnight. Whiles his head works,
     (aches,) and he has pains in his legs, as if they were weak.
     Feels pains in his knees. Thinks the work is hard for foals, more
     so than for others.'—Ibid. No. 60; p. 579, 1. 22.

     "John Middlemas: 'Sometimes, but very rarely, they work double
     shift; that is, they go down at four o'clock A.M. and do not
     come up until four o'clock P.M. in the day after that, thus
     stopping down thirty-six hours, without coming up, sometimes; and
     sometimes they come up for half an hour, and then go down again.
     Another worked for twenty-four hours last week, and never came up
     at all. Another has stopped down thirty-six hours, without coming
     up at all, twice during the last year. When working this double
     shift they go to bed directly they come home.'—Ibid. No. 98; p.
     588, 1. 42.

     "Michael Turner, helper-up, aged fourteen and a half, Gosforth
     Colliery: 'Mostly he puts up hill the full corves. Many times
     the skin is rubbed off his back and off his feet. His head works
     (aches) very often, almost every week. His legs work so sometimes
     that he can hardly trail them. Is at hard work now, shoving
     rolleys and hoisting the crane; the former is the hardest work.
     His back works very often, so that he has sometimes to sit down
     for half a minute or so.'—Ibid. No. 145; p. 598, 1. 58.

     "George Short, aged nearly sixteen: 'Hoists a crane. His head
     works very often, and he feels sickish sometimes, and drowsy
     sometimes, especially if he sits down. Has always been drowsy
     since he went there. Twice he has worked three shifts following,
     of twelve hours each shift; never came up at all during the
     thirty-six hours; was sleepy, but had no time to sleep. Has many
     times worked double shift of nineteen hours, and he does this now
     nearly every pay Friday night. A vast of boys work in this shift,
     ten or eleven, or sometimes more. The boys are very tired and
     sleepy.'—Ibid. No. 191; p. 606, 1. 41.

     "John Maffin, sixteen years old, putter, Gosforth Colliery: 'Was
     strong before he went down pits, but is not so now, from being
     overhard wrought, and among bad air.'—Ibid. No. 141; p. 598, 1.
     2.

     "Robert Hall, seventeen years old, half marrow, Felling Colliery:
     'The work of putting makes his arms weak, and his legs work
     all the day; makes his back work. Is putting to the dip now
     in a heavy place. Each one takes his turn to use the "soams,"
     (the drawing-straps;) one pulls with them, and the other shoves
     behind. Both are equally hard. If it is a very heavy place there
     are helpers-up, but not so many as they want. Has known one sore
     strained by putting.'

     "John Peel, aged thirteen: 'Is now off from this. Is healthy in
     general, but is now and then off from this work.'—Ibid. No. 325;
     p. 634, 1. 11.

     "Michael Richardson, fifteen years old, putter, St. Lawrence Main
     Colliery: 'About three quarters of a year since he wrought double
     shift every other night; or, rather, he worked three times in
     eleven days for thirty-six hours at a time, without coming up the
     pit. About six months ago he worked three shifts following, of
     twelve hours each shift, and never stopped work more than a few
     minutes now and then, or came up the pit till he was done. There
     was now and then some night-work to do, and the overman asked
     him to stop, and he could not say no, or else he (the overman)
     would have frowned on him, and stopped him, perhaps, of some
     helpers-up. Thinks the hours for lads ought to be shortened, and
     does not know whether it would not be better even if their wages
     were less.'—Ibid. No. 270; p. 623, 1. 32.

     "James Glass, eighteen years old, putter, Walbottle: 'Puts a tram
     by himself. Has no helper-up, and no assistance. Mostly puts a
     full tram up. Is putting from a distance now. Mostly the trams
     are put up by one person. Was off work the week before last three
     days, by being sick. Was then putting in the night shift, and had
     to go home and give over. Could not work. His head works nearly
     every day. He is always hitting his head against stone roofs. His
     arms work very often. Has to stoop a good deal. The weight of his
     body lies upon his arms when he is putting. The skin is rubbed
     off his back very often.'—Ibid. No. 244; p. 619, 1. 27.

     "Mr. James Anderson, a Home Missionary, residing in Easington
     Lane, Hetton-le-Hole, in reply to queries proposed, handed in the
     following written evidence: 'The boys go too soon to work: I have
     seen boys at work not six years of age, and though their work
     is not hard, still they have long hours, so that when they come
     home they are quite spent. I have often seen them lying on the
     floor, fast asleep. Then they often fall asleep in the pit, and
     have been killed. Not long ago a boy fell asleep, lay down on the
     way, and the wagons killed him. Another boy was killed; it was
     supposed he had fallen asleep when driving his wagon, and fallen
     off, and was killed.'—Ibid. No. 446; p. 655, 1. 62."

The children employed in the mines and collieries are distinguished by
a remarkable muscular development, which, however, is unhealthy, as it
is premature, obtained at the expense of other parts of the body, and
of but short duration. The muscles of the arms and the back become very
large and full.

With the great muscular development, there is commonly a proportionate
diminution of stature. All classes of witnesses state that colliers,
as a body—children, young persons, and adults—are stunted in growth.
There are only two exceptions to this in Great Britain, namely,
Warwickshire and Leicestershire. It is to be inferred from the
statements of the sub-commissioner for Ireland, that that country
forms a third exception for the United Kingdom. Of the uniformity of
the statements as to the small stature and the stunted growth of the
colliers in all other districts, the following may be regarded as
examples:—

In Shropshire, the miners, as a body, are of small stature; this is
abundantly obvious even to a casual observer, and there are many
instances of men never exceeding the size of boys.[7] Andrew Blake, M.
D., states of the colliers in Derbyshire, that he has observed that
many of them are not so tall as their neighbours in other employments;
this, in a degree, he considers is owing to their being worked so
young.[8] In the West Riding of Yorkshire, also, there is in stature
an "appreciable difference in colliers' children, manifest at all ages
after they have been three years constantly in the pits; there is
little malformation, but, as Mr. Eliss, a surgeon constantly attending
them, admits, they are somewhat stunted in growth and expanded in
width."[9]

     "Mr. Henry Hemmingway, surgeon, Dewsbury: 'I am quite sure that
     the rule is that the children in coal-pits are of a lower stature
     than others.'—_Symons, Evidence_, No. 221; App. pt. i. p. 282,
     1. 47.

     "Mr. Thomas Rayner, surgeon, Bristall: 'I account for the
     stunted growth from the stooping position, which makes them
     grow laterally, and prevents the cartilaginous substances from
     expanding.'—Ibid. No. 268, p. 292, 1. 52.


     "Henry Moorhouse, surgeon, Huddersfield: 'I may state, from my
     own personal examination of many of them, that they are much less
     in stature, in proportion to their ages, than those working in
     mills.'—Ibid. No. 273, p. 293, 1. 49.

     "Mr. Jos. Ellison, Bristall: 'The employment of children
     decidedly stunts their growth.'—Ibid. No. 249, p. 288, 1. 8."

Mr. Symons, in Appendix to p. 212 of his Report, has given in detail
the names, ages, and measurement, both in stature and in girth of
breast, of a great number of farm and of colliery children of both ages
respectively. By taking the first ten collier boys, and the first ten
farm boys, of ages between twelve and fourteen, we find that the former
measured in the aggregate forty-four feet six inches in height, and two
hundred and seventy-four and a half inches around the breast; while
the farm boys measured forty-seven feet in height, and two hundred and
seventy-two inches round the breast. By taking the ten first collier
girls and farm girls, respectively between the ages of fourteen and
seventeen, we find that the ten collier girls measured forty-six feet
four inches in height, and two hundred and ninety-three and a half
inches round the breast; while the ten farm girls measured fifty feet
five inches in height, and two hundred and ninety-seven inches round
the breast; so that in the girls there is a difference in the height of
those employed on farms, compared with those employed in collieries, of
eight and a half per cent. in favour of the former; while between the
colliery and farm boys of a somewhat younger age, and before any long
period had been spent in the collieries, the difference appears to be
five and a half per cent. in favour of the farm children.

In like manner, of sixty children employed as hurriers in the
neighbourhood of Halifax, at the average ages of ten years and nine
months, Mr. Scriven states that the average measurement in height was
three feet eleven inches and three-tenths, and, in circumference, three
feet two inches; while of fifty-one children of the same age employed
on farms, the measurement in height was four feet three inches, the
circumference being the same in both, namely, two feet three inches.
In like manner, of fifty young persons of the average of fourteen
years and eleven months, the measurement in height was four feet five
inches, and in circumference two feet three inches; while of forty-nine
young persons employed on farms, of the average of fifteen years and
six months, the measurement in height was four feet ten inches and
eight-elevenths, and, in circumference, two feet three inches, being a
difference of nearly six inches in height in favour of the agricultural
labourers.

In the district of Bradford and Leeds, there is "in stature an
appreciable difference, from about the age at which children begin to
work, between children employed in mines and children of the same age
and station in the neighbourhood not so employed; and this shortness
of stature is generally, though to a less degree, visible in the
adult."[10]

In Lancashire, the sub-commissioner reports that—"It appeared to him
that the average of the colliers are considerably shorter in stature
than the agricultural labourers."[11] The evidence collected by the
other gentlemen in this district is to the same effect. Mr. Pearson,
surgeon to the dispensary, Wigan, states, with regard to the physical
condition of the children and young persons employed in coal-mining,
as compared with that of children in other employments, that they
are smaller and have a stunted appearance, which he attributes to
their being employed too early in life.[12] And Mr. Richard Ashton,
relieving-officer of the Blackburn district, describes the colliers
as "a low race, and their appearance is rather decrepit."[13] Though
some remarkable exceptions have been seen in the counties of Warwick
and Leicester, the colliers, as a race of men, in some districts, and
in Durham among the rest, are not of large stature.[14] George Canney,
medical practitioner, Bishop Aukland, states, "that they are less in
weight and bulk than the generality of men."[15]

Of the collier boys of Durham and Northumberland, the sub-commissioner
reports that an inspection of more than a thousand of these boys
convinced him that "as a class, (with many individual exceptions,)
their stature must be considered as diminutive."[16] Mr. Nicholas Wood,
viewer of Killingworth, &c., states "that there is a very general
diminution of stature among pit-men."[17] Mr. Heath, of Newcastle,
surgeon to Killingworth, Gosforth, and Coxlodge collieries, "thinks the
confinement of children for twelve hours in a pit is not consistent
with ordinary health; the stature is rather diminished, and there is an
absence of colour; they are shortened in stature."[18] And J. Brown,
M. D., Sunderland, states "that they are generally stunted in stature,
thin and swarthy."[19]

Of the collier population in Cumberland, it is stated that "they are
in appearance quite as stunted in growth, and present much the same
physical phenomena as those of Yorkshire, comparing, of course, those
following similar branches of the work."[20] Thomas Mitchell, surgeon,
Whitehaven, says, "their stature is partly decreased."[21]

Of the deteriorated physical condition of the collier population in
the East of Scotland, as shown, among other indications, by diminished
stature, Dr. S. Scott Alison states that "many of the infants in a
collier community are thin, skinny, and wasted, and indicate, by their
contracted features and sickly, dirty-white or faint-yellowish aspect,
their early participation in a deteriorated physical condition. From
the age of infancy up to the seventh or eighth year, much sickliness
and general imperfection of physical development is observable. The
physical condition of the boys and girls engaged in the collieries is
much inferior to that of children of the same age engaged in farming
operations, in most other trades, or who remain at home unemployed.
The children are, upon the whole, prejudicially affected to a material
extent in their growth and development. Many of them are short for
their years."[22]

In South Wales, "the testimony of medical gentlemen, and of managers
and overseers of various works, in which large numbers of children
as well as adults are employed, proves that the physical health and
strength of children and young persons is deteriorated by their
employment at the early ages and in the works before enumerated."[23]
Mr. Jonathan Isaacs, agent of the Top Hill colliery:—"I have noticed
that the children of miners, who are sent to work, do not grow as they
ought to do; they get pale in their looks, are weak in their limbs,
and any one can distinguish a collier's child from the children of
other working people."[24] Mr. P. Kirkhouse, oversman to the Cyfarthfa
collieries and ironstone mines, on this point observes—"The infantine
ages at which children are employed cranks (stunts) their growth, and
injures their constitution."[25] John Russell, surgeon to the Dowlais
Iron Works:—"In stature, I believe a difference to exist in the male
youth from twelve to sixteen, employed in the mines and collieries,
compared with those engaged in other works, the former being somewhat
stunted; and this difference (under some form or other) seems still
perceptible in the adult miners and colliers."[26]

A crippled gait, often connected with positive deformity, is one of the
frequent results of slaving in the mines.

In Derbyshire, the children who have worked in the collieries from a
very early age are stated to be bow-legged.[27]

In the West Riding of Yorkshire, "after they are turned forty-five or
fifty, they walk home from their work almost like <DW36>s; stiffly
stalking along, often leaning on sticks, bearing the visible evidences
in their frame and gait of overstrained muscles and over-taxed
strength. Where the lowness of the gates induces a very bent posture,
I have observed an inward curvature of the spine; and chicken-breasted
children are very common among those who work in low, thin
coal-mines."[28] Mr. Uriah Bradbury, surgeon, Mirfield:—"Their knees
never stand straight, like other people's."[29] Mr. Henry Hemmingway,
surgeon, Dewsbury:—"May be distinguished among crowds of people, by
the bending of the spinal column."[30] Mr. William Sharp, surgeon,
Bradford:—"There are occasionally cases of deformity."[31]

In Lancashire district, John Bagley, about thirty-nine years of age,
collier, Mrs. Lancaster's, Patricroft, states, that "the women drawing
in the pits are generally crooked. Can tell any woman who has been
in the pits. They are rarely, if ever, so straight as other women
who stop above ground."[32] Mr. William Gaulter, surgeon, of Over
Darwen, says—"Has practised as a surgeon twenty-four years in this
neighbourhood. Those who work in collieries at an early age, when
they arrive at maturity are not generally so robust as those who work
elsewhere. They are frequently crooked, (not distorted,) bow-legged,
and stooping."[33] Betty Duxberry, whose children work in the pits,
asserts that "colliers are all crooked and short-legged, not like other
men who work above ground; but they were always colliers, and always
will be. This young boy turns his feet out and his knees together;
drawing puts them out of shape."[34]

Evidence collected in Durham and Northumberland, shows that the
underground labour produces similar effects in that district.

Mr. Nicholas Wood, viewer of Killingworth, Hetton, and other
collieries:—"The children are perhaps a little ill-formed, and the
majority of them pale, and not robust. Men working in low seams are
bent double and bow-legged very often."[35] J. Brown, M. D. and J. P.,
Sunderland:—"They labour more frequently than other classes of the
community under deformity of the lower limbs, especially that variety
of it described as being 'in-kneed.' This I should ascribe to yielding
of the ligaments, owing to long standing in the mines in a constrained
and awkward position."[36] Mr. Thomas Greenshaw, surgeon, Walker
colliery:—"Their persons are apt to be somewhat curved and cramped. As
they advance in life, their knees and back frequently exhibit a curved
appearance, from constant bending at their work."[37] Mr. W. Morrison,
surgeon of Pelaw House, Chester le street, Countess of Durham's
collieries:—"The 'outward man' distinguishes a pit-man from any other
operative. His stature is diminished, his figure disproportionate
and misshapen; his legs being much bowed; his chest protruding, (the
thoracic region being unequally developed.) His countenance is not less
striking than his figure—his cheeks being generally hollow, his brow
over-hanging, his cheek-bones high, his forehead low and retreating.
Nor is his appearance healthful—his habit is tainted with scrofula.
I have seen agricultural labourers, blacksmiths, carpenters, and even
those among the wan and distressed-looking weavers of Nottinghamshire,
to whom the term 'jolly' might not be inaptly applied; but I never saw
a 'jolly-looking' pit-man. As the germ of this physical degeneration
may be formed in the youthful days of the pit-man, it is desirable to
look for its cause."[38]

Ruptures, rheumatism, diseases of the heart and of other organs, the
results of over-exertion in unhealthy places, are common among the
persons employed in the mines, as many intelligent persons testified
before the commissioners.

An employment often pursued under circumstances which bring with
them so many and such formidable diseases, must prematurely exhaust
the strength of ordinary constitutions; and the evidence collected
in almost all the districts proves that too often the collier is a
disabled man, with the marks of old age upon him, while other men have
scarcely passed beyond their prime.

The evidence shows that in South Staffordshire and Shropshire, many
colliers are incapable of following their occupation after they are
forty years of age; others continue their work up to fifty, which is
stated by several witnesses to be about the general average. Mr. Marcy,
clerk to the Wellington Union, Salop, states, that "at about forty the
greater part of the colliers may be considered as disabled, and regular
old men—as much as some are at eighty."[39]

Even in Warwickshire and Leicestershire, in which their physical
condition is better than in any other districts, Mr. Michael Parker,
ground bailiff of the Smithson collieries, states that "some of the
men are knocked up at forty-five and fifty, and that fifty may be the
average; which early exhaustion of the physical strength he attributes
to the severe labour and bad air."[40] Mr. Dalby, surgeon of the Union
of Ashby-de-la-Zouch, says—"The work in the pit is very laborious,
and some are unable for it as early as fifty, others at forty-five,
and some at sixty; I should say the greater part at forty-five."[41]
And Mr. Davenport, clerk of the Union of Ashby-de-la-Zouch, gives a
higher average, and says that "a collier may wear from sixty-five
to seventy, while an agricultural labourer may wear from seventy to
seventy-five."[42]

Of Derbyshire the sub-commissioner reports—"I have not perceived that
look of premature old age so general amongst colliers, _until they are
forty years of age_, excepting in the loaders, who evidently appear
so at _twenty-eight or thirty_, and this I think must arise from the
hardness of their labour, in having such great weights to lift, and
breathing a worse atmosphere than any other in the pit."[43] Phoebe
Gilbert states—"The loaders are, as the saying is, 'old men before
they are young ones.'"[44] Dr. Blake says—"He has also noticed that
when a collier has worked from a child, and becomes forty, he looks
much older than those of the same age above ground."[45]

In Yorkshire "the collier of fifty is usually an aged man; he looks
overstrained and stiffened by labour."[46] "But whilst both the
child and the adult miner appear to enjoy excellent health, and to
be remarkably free from disease, it nevertheless appears that their
labour, at least that of the adult miner, is, in its general result,
and in the extent to which it is pursued, of a character more severe
than the constitution is properly able to bear. It is rare that a
collier is able to follow his calling beyond the age of from forty to
fifty, and then, unless he be fortunate enough to obtain some easier
occupation, he sinks into a state of helpless dependence. Better
habits with regard to temperance might diminish, but would not remove,
this evil; and the existence of this fact, in despite of the general
healthiness of the collier population, gives rise to the question
whether, apart from all considerations of mental and moral improvement,
a fatal mistake is not committed in employing children of tender
years to the extent that their strength will bear, instead of giving
opportunity, by short hours of labour, for the fuller and more perfect
physical development which would better fit them to go through the
severe labour of their after-life."[47]

In the coal-fields of North Durham and Northumberland, Dr. Elliott
states "that premature old age in appearance is common; men of
thirty-five or forty years may often be taken for ten years older than
they really are."[48] Mr. Thomas Greenhow, surgeon, Walker Colliery,
North Durham, says "they have an aged aspect somewhat early in
life."[49] Of the effect of employment in the coal-mines of the East
of Scotland, in producing an early and irreparable deterioration of
the physical condition, the sub-commissioner thus reports: "In a state
of society such as has been described, the condition of the children
may be easily imagined, and its baneful influence on the health cannot
well be exaggerated; and I am informed by very competent authorities,
that six months labour in the mines is sufficient to effect a very
visible change in the physical condition of the children; and indeed
it is scarcely possible to conceive of circumstances more calculated
to sow the seeds of future disease, and, to borrow the language of
the Instructions, to prevent the organs from being fully developed,
to enfeeble and disorder their functions, and to subject the whole
system to injury which cannot be repaired at any subsequent stage of
life."[50] In the West of Scotland, Dr. Thompson, Ayr, says—"A collier
at fifty generally has the appearance of a man ten years older than he
is."[51]

The sub-committee for North Wales reports—"They fail in health and
strength early in life. At thirty a miner begins to look wan and
emaciated, and so does a collier at forty; while the farming labourer
continues robust and hearty."[52] John Jones, relieving officer for
the Holywell district, states—"Though the children and young persons
employed in these works are healthy, still it is observable that they
soon get to look old, and they often become asthmatic before they are
forty."[53]

In the Forest of Dean, Mr. Thomas Marsh, surgeon, states that "colliers
usually become old men at fifty to fifty-five years of age."[54] In
North Somersetshire, William Brice, clerk and manager, says "there are
very few at work who are above fifty years of age."[55]

Early death is the natural consequence of the premature decrepitude
thus described to those whom ever-imminent casualities have not
brought to the grave during the years of their vigour. The medical
evidence shows that even in South Staffordshire and Shropshire,
comparatively few miners attain their fifty-first year. In Warwickshire
and Leicestershire it is not uncommon for the men to follow their
occupation ten years longer; but all classes of witnesses in the other
districts uniformly state that it is rare to see an old collier.

In Derbyshire, William Wardle "does not think colliers live as long as
those above ground; very few live to be sixty."[56]

In Yorkshire, "colliers have harder work than any other class of
workmen, and the length of time they work, as well as the intense
exertion they undergo, added to the frequent unhealthiness of
the atmosphere, decidedly tend to shorten their lives."[57] Mr.
Henry Hemmingway, surgeon, Dewsbury, states—"I only knew one old
collier."[58] Mr. Thomas Rayner, surgeon, Bristall, says—"I have had
twenty-seven years' practice, and I know of no old colliers—their
extreme term of life is from fifty-six to sixty years of age."[59] In
Lancashire, states Mr. Kennedy, "it appeared to me that the number of
aged men was much smaller than in other occupations."[60]

After stating that the colliers of South Durham are a strong and
healthy race, Dr. Mitchell adds—"The work, however, is laborious and
exhausting; and the colliers, though healthy, are not long-lived."[61]
John Wetherell Hays, clerk of the Union, Durham, states, "that the
colliers are not long-lived; that they live well, and live fast."[62]
And George Canney, medical practitioner, Bishop Auckland, says "they
are generally short-lived."[63]

The sub-commissioner for the East of Scotland reports, that after a
careful consideration of all the sources of information which could
assist him in the object of his inquiry, he arrives at the following
conclusion:—"That the labour in the coal-mines in the Lothian and
River Forth districts of Scotland is most severe, and that its severity
is in many cases increased by the want of proper attention to the
economy of mining operations; whence those operations, as at present
carried on, are extremely unwholesome, and productive of diseases which
have a manifest tendency to shorten life."[64] Mr. Walter Jarvie,
manager to Mr. Cadell, of Banton, states that "in the small village
of Banton there are nearly forty widows; and as the children work
always on parents' behalf, it prevents them having recourse to the
kirk-session for relief."[65] Elsper Thompson says, "Most of the men
begin to complain at thirty to thirty-five years of age, and drop off
before they get the length of forty."[66] Henry Naysmith, sixty-five
years of age, collier, who says he has wrought upward of fifty years,
adds that "he has been off work nearly ten years, and is much afflicted
with shortness of breath: it is the bane of the colliers, and few men
live to my age."[67]

In North Wales, it is said that "few colliers come to the age of sixty,
and but still fewer miners. This I believe to be the fact, though I met
with many, both miners and colliers, who had attained the age of sixty;
yet they were few compared with the number _employed_ in these branches
of industry."[68] Mr. John Jones, relieving-officer for the Holywell
district, "thinks they are not as long-lived as agriculturists."[69]
James Jones, overman, Cyfarthfa Works, states "that the colliers are
generally very healthy and strong up to the age of forty or fifty; they
then often have a difficulty of breathing, and they die at younger ages
than agricultural labourers or handicraftsmen."[70] Mr. John Hughes,
assistant underground agent, says "they do not appear to live long
after fifty or sixty years old."[71]

In South Wales, the sub-commissioner reports that he "has not been able
to ascertain, for want of sufficient data, the average duration of a
collier's life in the counties either of Glamorgan or Monmouth, but it
is admitted that such average duration is less than that of a common
labourer. In the county of Pembroke, however, Mr. James Bowen, surgeon,
Narbeth, in that county, informs me—"The average life of a collier is
about forty; they rarely attain forty-five years of age; and in the
entire population of Begelly and East Williamson, being 1163, forming,
strictly speaking, a mining population, there are not six colliers of
sixty years of age."

The Rev. Richard Buckby, rector of Begelly, in answer to one of the
queries in the Educational Paper of the Central Board, writes—"The
foul air of the mines seriously affects the lungs of the children and
young persons employed therein, and shortens the term of life. In a
population of one thousand, there are not six colliers sixty years of
age."

There are certain minor evils connected with employment in the worst
class of coal-mines, which, though not perhaps very serious, are
nevertheless sources of much suffering, such as irritation of the
head, feet, back, and skin, together with occasional strains. "The
upper parts of their head are always denuded of hair; their scalps are
also thickened and inflamed, sometimes taking on the appearance _tinea
capitis_, from the pressure and friction which they undergo in the act
of pushing the corves forward, although they are mostly defended by a
padded cap."[72] "It is no uncommon thing to see the hurriers bald,
owing to pushing the corves up steep board gates, with their heads."[73]

Mr. Alexander Muir, surgeon: "Are there any peculiar diseases to which
colliers are subject? No, excepting that the hurriers are occasionally
affected by a formation of matter upon the forehead, in consequence of
pushing the wagons with their head. To what extent is such formation of
matter injurious to the general health? It produces considerable local
irritation. When the matter is allowed to escape, it heals as perfectly
as before. Do you conceive this use of the head to be a necessary or
unnecessary part of their occupation? I should think it not necessary.
Does it arise from any deficiency of strength, the head being used
to supply the place of the arms? I should think it does."[74] David
Swallow, collier, East Moor: "The hair is very often worn off bald,
and the part is swollen so that sometimes it is like a bulb filled
with spongy matter; so very bad after they have done their day's work
that they cannot bear it touching."[75] William Holt: "Some thrutched
with their heads, because they cannot thrutch enough with their hands
alone. Thrutching with their heads makes a gathering in the head, and
makes them very ill."[76]

In running continually over uneven ground, without shoes or stockings,
particles of dirt, coal, and stone get between the toes, and are
prolific sources of irritation and lameness, of which they often
complain; the skin covering the balls of the toes and heels becomes
thickened and horny, occasioning a good deal of pain and pustular
gathering."[77] James Mitchell: "I have hurt my feet often; sometimes
the coals cut them, and they run matter, and the corves run over them
when I stand agate; I an't not always aware of their coming."[78]
Selina Ambler: "I many times hurt my feet and legs with the coals and
scale in gate; sometimes we run corve over them; my feet have many a
time been blooded."[79] Mrs. Carr: "Has known many foals laid off with
sore backs, especially last year and the year before, when the putting
was said to be very heavy in the Flatworth pit. Some foals had to lay
off a day or two, to get their backs healed, before they could go to
work again."[80] William Jakes: "His back is often skinned; is now sore
and all red, from holding on or back against the corf."[81] George
Faction: "In some places he bends quite double, and rubs his back so as
to bring the skin off, and whiles to make it bleed, and whiles he is
off work from these things."[82] Mr. James Probert, surgeon: "Chronic
pain in the back is a very common complaint among colliers, arising
from overstrained tendonous muscles, and it is the source of much
discomfort to the colliers."[83] Mr. William Dodd, surgeon: "As to the
'boils,' when a fresh man comes to the colliery he generally becomes
affected by these 'boils,' most probably from the heat in the first
instance, and subsequently they are aggravated by the salt water."[84]
James Johnson: "Sometimes when among the salt water, the heat, etc.,
brings out boils about the size of a hen's egg upon him, about his legs
and thighs, and under his arms sometimes. A vast of boys, men, and all,
have these boils at times. These boils perhaps last a fortnight before
they get ripe, and then they burst. A great white thing follows, and is
called a 'tanner'."[85] Dr. Adams, Glasgow: "An eruption on the skin
is very prevalent among colliers."[86] William Mackenzie: "Had about
twenty boils on his back at one time, about two years since. These
lasted about three months. He was kept off work about a week. If he
touched them against any thing they were like death to him. But few of
the boys have so many at a time; many of the boys get two or three at a
time. The boys take physic to bring them all out; then they get rid of
them for some time. If the salt water falls on any part of them that is
scotched, it burns into the flesh like; it is like red rust. It almost
blinds the boys if it gets into their eyes."[87]

Accidents of a fatal nature are of frightful frequency in the mines.
In one year there were three hundred and forty-nine deaths by violence
in the coal-mines of England alone. Of the persons thus killed,
fifty-eight were under thirteen years of age; sixty-two under eighteen,
and the remainder over eighteen. One of the most frequent causes of
accidents is the want of superintendence to see the security of the
machinery for letting down and bringing up the work-people, and the
restriction of the number of persons who ascend or descend at the same
time. The commissioners observed at Elland two hurriers, named Ann
Ambler and William Dyson, cross-lapped upon a clutch-iron, drawn up by
a woman. As soon as they arrived at the top the handle was made fast by
a bolt. The woman then grasped a hand of both at the same time, and by
main force brought them to land.

From all the evidence adduced, the commissioners came to the following
conclusions:—

     "In regard to coal-mines—

     "That instances occur in which children are taken into these
     mines to work as early as four years of age, sometimes at five,
     and between five and six; not unfrequently between six and seven,
     and often from seven to eight; while from eight to nine is the
     ordinary age at which employment in these mines commences.

     "That a very large proportion of the persons employed in carrying
     on the work of these mines is under thirteen years of age; and a
     still larger proportion between thirteen and eighteen.

     "That in several districts female children begin to work in these
     mines at the same early ages as the males.

     "That the great body of the children and young persons employed
     in these mines are of the families of the adult work-people
     engaged in the pits, or belong to the poorest population in the
     neighbourhood, and are hired and paid in some districts by the
     work-people, but in others by the proprietors or contractors.

     "That there are in some districts, also, a small number of
     parish apprentices, who are bound to serve their masters until
     twenty-one years of age, in an employment in which there is
     nothing deserving the name of skill to be acquired, under
     circumstances of frequent ill-treatment, and under the oppressive
     condition that they shall receive only food and clothing, while
     their free companions may be obtaining a man's wages.

     "That, in many instances, much that skill and capital can effect
     to render the place of work unoppressive and healthy and safe,
     is done, often with complete success, as far as regards the
     healthfulness and comfort of the mines; but that to render them
     perfectly safe does not appear to be practicable by any means yet
     known; while, in great numbers of instances, their condition in
     regard both to ventilation and drainage is lamentably defective.

     "That the nature of the employment which is assigned to the
     youngest children—generally that of 'trapping'—requires
     that they should be in the pit as soon as the work of the day
     commences, and, according to the present system, that they should
     not leave the pit before the work of the day is at an end.

     "That although this employment scarcely deserves the name of
     labour, yet, as the children engaged in it are commonly excluded
     from light, and are always without companions, it would, were it
     not for the passing and repassing of the coal-carriages, amount
     to solitary confinement of the worst sort.

     "That in those districts where the seams of coal are so thick
     that horses go direct to the workings, or in which the side
     passages from the workings to the horseways are not of any great
     length, the lights in the main way render the situation of the
     children comparatively less cheerless, dull, and stupefying; but
     that in some districts they are in solitude and darkness during
     the whole time they are in the pit; and, according to their
     own account, many of them never see the light of day for weeks
     together during the greater part of the winter season, except
     on those days in the week when work is not going on, and on the
     Sundays.

     "That, at different ages from six years old and upward, the hard
     work of pushing and dragging the carriages of coal from the
     workings to the main ways, or to the foot of the shaft, begins; a
     labour which all classes of witnesses concur in stating requires
     the unremitting exertion of all the physical power which the
     young workers possess.

     "That, in the districts in which females are taken down into the
     coal-mines, both sexes are employed together in precisely the
     same kind of labour, and work for the same number of hours; that
     the girls and boys, and the young men and young women, and even
     married women and women with child, commonly work almost naked,
     and the men, in many mines, quite naked; and that all classes of
     witnesses bear testimony to the demoralizing influence of the
     employment of females under ground.

     "That, in the East of Scotland, a much larger proportion of
     children and young persons are employed in these mines than in
     any other districts, many of whom are girls; and that the chief
     part of their labour consists in carrying the coal on their backs
     up steep ladders.

     "That, when the work-people are in full employment, the regular
     hours of work for children and young persons are rarely less than
     eleven, more often they are twelve; in some districts they are
     thirteen, and in one district they are generally fourteen and
     upward.

     "That, in the great majority of these mines, night-work is a
     part of the ordinary system of labour, more or less regularly
     carried on according to the demand for coals, and one which the
     whole body of evidence shows to act most injuriously both on
     the physical and moral condition of the work-people, and more
     especially on that of the children and young persons.

     "That the labour performed daily for this number of hours, though
     it cannot strictly be said to be continuous, because, from the
     nature of the employment, intervals of a few minutes necessarily
     occur during which the muscles are not in active exertion, is,
     nevertheless, generally uninterrupted by any regular time set
     apart for rest or refreshment; what food is taken in the pit
     being eaten as best it may while the labour continues.

     "That in all well-regulated mines, in which in general the hours
     of work are the shortest, and in some few of which from half an
     hour to an hour is regularly set apart for meals, little or no
     fatigue is complained of after an ordinary day's work, when the
     children are ten years old and upward; but in other instances
     great complaint is made of the feeling of fatigue, and the
     work-people are never without this feeling, often in an extremely
     painful degree.

     "That in many cases the children and young persons have little
     cause of complaint in regard to the treatment they receive from
     the persons of authority in the mine, or from the colliers; but
     that in general the younger children are roughly used by their
     older companions, while in many mines the conduct of the adult
     colliers to the children and adult persons who assist them
     is harsh and cruel; the persons in authority in these mines,
     who must be cognizant of this ill-usage, never interfering to
     prevent it, and some of them distinctly stating that they do not
     conceive that they have any right to do so.

     "That, with some exceptions, little interest is taken by the
     coal-owners in the children or young persons employed in their
     works after the daily labour is over; at least, little is done
     to afford them the means of enjoying innocent amusement and
     healthful recreation.

     "That in all the coal fields accidents of a fearful nature are
     extremely frequent; and that the returns made to our own queries,
     as well as the registry tables, prove that, of the work-people
     who perish by such accidents, the proportion of children and
     young persons sometimes equals and rarely falls much below that
     of adults.

     "That one of the most frequent causes of accidents in these mines
     is the want of superintendence by overlookers or otherwise,
     to see to the security of the machinery for letting down and
     bringing up the work-people, the restriction of the number of
     persons that ascend and descend at a time, the state of the
     mine as to the quantity of noxious gas in it, the efficiency of
     the ventilation, the exactness with which the air-door keepers
     perform their duty, the places into which it is safe or unsafe to
     go with a naked lighted candle, the security of the proppings to
     uphold the roof, &c.

     "That another frequent cause of fatal accidents is the almost
     universal practice of intrusting the closing of the air-doors to
     very young children.

     "That there are many mines in which the most ordinary precautions
     to guard against accidents are neglected, and in which no money
     appears to be expended with a view to secure the safety, much
     less the comfort, of the work-people.

     "There are, moreover, two practices, peculiar to a few districts,
     which deserve the highest reprobation, namely,—first, the
     practice, not unknown in some of the smaller mines in Yorkshire,
     and common in Lancashire, in employing ropes that are unsafe
     for letting down and drawing up the work-people; and second,
     the practice occasionally met with in Yorkshire, and common in
     Derbyshire and Lancashire, of employing boys at the steam-engines
     for letting down and drawing up the work-people."—_First Report,
     Conclusions_, p. 255-257.

Well, what did the British Government do when the heart-rending report
of the commissioners was received? It felt the necessity of a show of
legislative interference. Lord Ashley introduced a bill into the House
of Commons, having for its object the amelioration of the condition
of the mining women and children. Much discussion occurred. The bill
passed the House of Commons, and was taken to the House of Lords, the
high court of British oppression. Some lords advocated the measure,
whereupon Lord Londonderry and some others spoke of them as "bitten
with a humanity mania." Modifications were made in the bill to suit
the pockets of the luxurious proprietors, and then it was grumblingly
adopted. What did the bill provide? That no child under _ten_ years of
age, and no woman or girl, of any age, should be allowed to work in a
mine. Now, children may be ten years of age, and above that, and yet
they are still tender little creatures. The majority of the sufferers
who came to the notice of the commissioners were above ten years of
age! In that point, at least, the bill was worse than a nullity—it was
a base deceit, pouring balm, but not upon the wound!

The same bill provided that no females should be allowed to work in
the mines. But then the females were driven to the mines by the dread
of starvation. Soon after the passage of the bill, petitions from the
mining districts were sent to Parliament, praying that females might be
allowed to work in the mines. The petitioners had no means of getting
bread. If they had, they would never have been in the mines at all.
The horrors of labour in the mines were consequences of the general
slavery. Well, there were many proprietors of mines in Parliament, and
their influence was sufficient to nullify the law in practice. There is
good authority for believing that the disgusting slavery of the British
mines has been ameliorated only to a very limited extent.




CHAPTER III.

SLAVERY IN THE BRITISH FACTORIES.


Great Britain has long gloried in the variety and importance of her
manufactures. Burke spoke of Birmingham as the toyshop of Europe; and,
at this day, the looms of Manchester and the other factory towns of
England furnish the dry-goods of a large portion of the world. Viewed
at a distance, this wonder-working industry excites astonishment and
admiration; but a closer inspection will show us such corrupt and
gloomy features in this vast manufacturing system as will turn a
portion of admiration into shrinking disgust. Giving the meed of praise
to the perfection of machinery and the excellence of the fabrics, what
shall we say of the human operatives? For glory purchased at the price
of blood and souls is a vanity indeed. Let us see!

The number of persons employed in the cotton, wool, silk, and flax
manufactures of Great Britain is estimated at about two millions. Mr.
Baines states that about one and a half million are employed in the
cotton manufactures alone. The whole number employed in the production
of all sorts of iron, hardware, and cutlery articles is estimated
at 350,000. In the manufacture of jewelry, earthen and glass ware,
paper, woollen stuffs, distilled and fermented liquors, and in the
common trades of tailoring, shoemaking, carpentering, &c., the numbers
employed are very great, though not accurately known. We think the
facts will bear us out in stating that this vast body of operatives
suffer more of the real miseries of slavery than any similar class upon
the face of the earth.

In the first place, admitting that wages are as high in Great Britain
as in any continental country, the enormous expenses of the church and
aristocracy produce a taxation which eats up so large a portion of
these wages, that there is not enough left to enable the workman to
live decently and comfortably. But the wages are, in general, brought
very low by excessive competition; and, in consequence, the operative
must stretch his hours of toil far beyond all healthy limits to earn
enough to pay taxes and support himself. It is the struggle of drowning
men, and what wonder if many sink beneath the gloomy waves?

When C. Edwards Lester, an author of reputation, was in England, he
visited Manchester, and, making inquiries of an operative, obtained the
following reply:—

     "I have a wife and nine children, and a pretty hard time we have
     too, we are so many; and most of the children are so small, they
     can do little for the support of the family. I generally get from
     two shillings to a crown a day for carrying luggage; and some of
     my children are in the mills; and the rest are too young to work
     yet. My wife is never well, and it comes pretty hard on her to do
     the work of the whole family. We often talk these things over,
     and feel pretty sad. We live in a poor house; we can't clothe
     our children comfortably; not one of them ever went to school:
     they could go to the Sunday-school, but we can't make them look
     decent enough to go to such a place. As for meat, we never taste
     it; potatoes and coarse bread are our principal food. We can't
     save any thing for a day of want; almost every thing we get for
     our work seems to go for taxes. We are taxed for something almost
     every week in the year. We have no time to ourselves when we are
     free from work. It seems that our life is all toil; I sometimes
     almost give up. Life isn't worth much to a poor man in England;
     and sometimes Mary and I, when we talk about it, pretty much
     conclude that we all should be better off if we were dead. I have
     gone home at night a great many times, and told my wife when she
     said supper was ready, that I had taken a bite at a chophouse
     on the way, and was not hungry—she and the children could eat
     my share. Yes, I have said this a great many times when I felt
     pretty hungry myself. I sometimes wonder that God suffers so many
     poor people to come into the world."

And this is, comparatively, a mild case. Instances of hard-working
families living in dark, damp cellars, and having the coarsest food,
are common in Manchester, Birmingham, and other manufacturing towns.

Mrs. Gaskell, in her thrilling novel, "Mary Barton, a Tale of
Manchester Life," depicts without exaggeration the sufferings of the
operatives and their families when work is a little slack, or when,
by accident, they are thrown out of employment for a short period.
A large factory, belonging to a Mr. Carson, had been destroyed by
fire, and about the same time, as trade was had, some mills shortened
hours, turned off hands, and finally stopped work altogether. Almost
inconceivable misery followed among the unemployed workmen. In the
best of times they fared hardly; now they were forced to live in damp
and filthy cellars, and many perished, either from starvation or from
fevers bred in their horrible residences. One cold evening John Barton
received a hurried visit from a fellow-operative, named George Wilson.

     "'You've not got a bit o' money by you, Barton?' asked he.

     "'Not I; who has now, I'd like to know? Whatten you want it for?'

     "'I donnot want it for mysel, tho' we've none to spare. But don
     ye know Ben Davenport as worked at Carson's? He's down wi' the
     fever, and ne'er a stick o' fire, nor a cowd potato in the house.'

     "'I han got no money, I tell ye,' said Barton. Wilson looked
     disappointed. Barton tried not to be interested, but he could
     not help it in spite of his gruffness. He rose, and went to the
     cupboard, (his wife's pride long ago.) There lay the remains
     of his dinner, hastily put there ready for supper. Bread, and
     a slice of cold, fat, boiled bacon. He wrapped them in his
     handkerchief, put them in the crown of his hat, and said—'Come,
     let's be going.'

     "'Going—art thou going to work this time o' day?'

     "'No, stupid, to be sure not. Going to see the fellow thou
     spoke on.' So they put on their hats and set out. On the way
     Wilson said Davenport was a good fellow, though too much of
     the Methodee; that his children were too young to work, but
     not too young to be cold and hungry; that they had sunk lower
     and lower, and pawned thing after thing, and that now they
     lived in in a cellar in Berry-street, off Store-street. Barton
     growled inarticulate words of no benevolent import to a large
     class of mankind, and so they went along till they arrived in
     Berry-street. It was unpaved; and down the middle a gutter
     forced its way, every now and then forming pools in the holes
     with which the street abounded. Never was the Old Edinburgh
     cry of 'Gardez l'eau,' more necessary than in this street. As
     they passed, women from their doors tossed household slops of
     _every_ description into the gutter; they ran into the next
     pool, which overflowed and stagnated. Heaps of ashes were the
     stepping-stones, on which the passer-by, who cared in the least
     for cleanliness, took care not to put his foot. Our friends were
     not dainty, but even they picked their way till they got to some
     steps leading down into a small area, where a person standing
     would have his head about one foot below the level of the street,
     and might, at the same time, without the least motion of his
     body, touch the window of the cellar and the damp, muddy wall
     right opposite. You went down one step even from the foul area
     into the cellar, in which a family of human beings lived. It was
     very dark inside. The window panes were many of them broken and
     stuffed with rags, which was reason enough for the dusky light
     that pervaded the place even at mid-day. After the account I have
     given of the state of the street, no one can be surprised that,
     on going into the cellar inhabited by Davenport, the smell was
     so fetid as almost to knock the two men down. Quickly recovering
     themselves, as those inured to such things do, they began to
     penetrate the thick darkness of the place, and to see three or
     four little children rolling on the damp, nay, wet, brick floor,
     through which the stagnant, filthy moisture of the street oozed
     up; the fireplace was empty and black; the wife sat on her
     husband's lair, and cried in the dank loneliness.

     "'See, missis, I'm back again. Hold your noise, children, and
     don't mither (trouble) your mammy for bread, here's a chap as has
     got some for you.'

     "In that dim light, which was darkness to strangers, they
     clustered round Barton, and tore from him the food he had brought
     with him. It was a large hunch of bread, but it had vanished in
     an instant.

     "'We maun do summut for 'em,' said he to Wilson. 'Yo stop here,
     and I'll be back in half an hour.'

     "So he strode, and ran, and hurried home. He emptied into the
     ever-useful pocket-handkerchief the little meal remaining in the
     mug. Mary would have her tea at Miss Simmonds'; her food for
     the day was safe. Then he went up-stairs for his better coat,
     and his one, gay, red and yellow silk pocket-handkerchief—his
     jewels, his plate, his valuables these were. He went to the
     pawn-shop; he pawned them for five shillings; he stopped not,
     nor stayed, till he was once more in London Road, within five
     minutes' walk of Berry-street—then he loitered in his gait, in
     order to discover the shops he wanted. He bought meat, and a
     loaf of bread, candles, chips, and from a little retail yard he
     purchased a couple of hundredweights of coals. Some money yet
     remained—all destined for them, but he did not yet know how best
     to spend it. Food, light, and warmth, he had instantly seen, were
     necessary; for luxuries he would wait. Wilson's eyes filled with
     tears when he saw Barton enter with his purchases. He understood
     it all, and longed to be once more in work, that he might help in
     some of these material ways, without feeling that he was using
     his son's money. But though 'silver and gold he had none,' he
     gave heart-service and love-works of far more value. Nor was
     John Barton behind in these. 'The fever' was (as it usually is
     in Manchester) of a low, putrid, typhoid kind; brought on by
     miserable living, filthy neighbourhood, and great depression of
     mind and body. It is virulent, malignant, and highly infectious.
     But the poor are fatalists with regard to infection; and well for
     them it is so, for in their crowded dwellings no invalid can be
     isolated. Wilson asked Barton if he thought he should catch it,
     and was laughed at for his idea.

     "The two men, rough, tender nurses as they were, lighted the
     fire, which smoked and puffed into the room as if it did not
     know the way up the damp, unused chimney. The very smoke seemed
     purifying and healthy in the thick clammy air. The children
     clamoured again for bread; but this time Barton took a piece
     first to the poor, helpless, hopeless woman, who still sat by
     the side of her husband, listening to his anxious, miserable
     mutterings. She took the bread, when it was put into her hand,
     and broke a bit, but could not eat. She was past hunger. She fell
     down on the floor with a heavy, unresisting bang. The men looked
     puzzled. 'She's wellnigh clemmed, (_starved_,)' said Barton.
     'Folk do say one musn't give clemmed people much to eat; but,
     bless us, she'll eat naught.'

     'I'll tell you what I'll do,' said Wilson, I'll take these two
     big lads, as does naught but fight, home to my missis's for
     to-night, and I will get a jug o' tea. Them women always does
     best with tea and such slop.'

     "So Barton was now left alone with a little child, crying,
     when it had done eating, for mammy, with a fainting, dead-like
     woman, and with the sick man, whose mutterings were rising up to
     screams and shrieks of agonized anxiety. He carried the woman to
     the fire, and chafed her hands. He looked around for something
     to raise her head. There was literally nothing but some loose
     bricks: however, those he got, and taking off his coat, he
     covered them with it as well as he could. He pulled her feet to
     the fire, which now began to emit some faint heat. He looked
     round for water, but the poor woman had been too weak to drag
     herself out to the distant pump, and water there was none. He
     snatched the child, and ran up the area steps to the room above,
     and borrowed their only saucepan with some water in it. Then
     he began, with the useful skill of a working man, to make some
     gruel; and, when it was hastily made, he seized a battered iron
     table-spoon, kept when many other little things had been sold in
     a lot, in order to feed baby, and with it he forced one or two
     drops between her clenched teeth. The mouth opened mechanically
     to receive more, and gradually she revived. She sat up and looked
     round; and, recollecting all, fell down again in weak and passive
     despair. Her little child crawled to her, and wiped with its
     fingers the thick-coming tears which she now had strength to
     weep. It was now high time to attend to the man. He lay on straw,
     so damp and mouldy no dog would have chosen it in preference to
     flags; over it was a piece of sacking, coming next to his worn
     skeleton of a body; above him was mustered every article of
     clothing that could be spared by mother or children this bitter
     weather; and, in addition to his own, these might have given as
     much warmth as one blanket, could they have been kept on him; but
     as he restlessly tossed to and fro, they fell off, and left him
     shivering in spite of the burning heat of his skin. Every now and
     then he started up in his naked madness, looking like the prophet
     of wo in the fearful plague-picture; but he soon fell again in
     exhaustion, and Barton found he must be closely watched, lest
     in these falls he should injure himself against the hard brick
     floor. He was thankful when Wilson reappeared, carrying in both
     hands a jug of steaming tea, intended for the poor wife; but when
     the delirious husband saw drink, he snatched at it with animal
     instinct, with a selfishness he had never shown in health.

     "Then the two men consulted together. It seemed decided without
     a word being spoken on the subject, that both should spend the
     night with the forlorn couple; that was settled. But could no
     doctor be had? In all probability, no. The next day an infirmary
     order might be begged; but meanwhile the only medical advice
     they could have must be from a druggist's. So Barton, being the
     moneyed man, set out to find a shop in London Road.

     "He reached a druggist's shop, and entered. The druggist,
     whose smooth manners seemed to have been salved over with his
     own spermaceti, listened attentively to Barton's description
     of Davenport's illness, concluded it was typhus fever, very
     prevalent in that neighbourhood, and proceeded to make up a
     bottle of medicine—sweet spirits of nitre, or some such innocent
     potion—very good for slight colds, but utterly powerless to stop
     for an instant the raging fever of the poor man it was intended
     to relieve. He recommended the same course they had previously
     determined to adopt, applying the next morning for an infirmary
     order; and Barton left the shop with comfortable faith in the
     physic given him; for men of his class, if they believe in physic
     at all, believe that every description is equally efficacious.

     "Meanwhile Wilson had done what he could at Davenport's home.
     He had soothed and covered the man many a time; he had fed and
     hushed the little child, and spoken tenderly to the woman, who
     lay still in her weakness and her weariness. He had opened a
     door, but only for an instant; it led into a back cellar, with a
     grating instead of a window, down which dropped the moisture from
     pig-styes, and worse abominations. It was not paved; the floor
     was one mass of bad-smelling mud. It had never been used, for
     there was not an article of furniture in it; nor could a human
     being, much less a pig, have lived there many days. Yet the 'back
     apartment' made a difference in the rent. The Davenports paid
     threepence more for having two rooms. When he turned round again,
     he saw the woman suckling the child from her dry, withered breast.

     "'Surely the lad is weaned!' exclaimed he, in surprise. 'Why, how
     old is he?'

     "'Going on two year,' she faintly answered. 'But, oh! it keeps
     him quiet when I've naught else to gi' him, and he'll get a bit
     of sleep lying there, if he's getten naught beside. We han done
     our best to gi' the childer food, howe'er we pinched ourselves.'

     "'Han ye had no money fra th' town?'

     "'No; my master is Buckinghamshire born, and he's feared the
     town would send him back to his parish, if he went to the board;
     so we've just borne on in hope o' better times. But I think
     they'll never come in my day;' and the poor woman began her weak,
     high-pitched cry again.

     "'Here, sup this drop o' gruel, and then try and get a bit o'
     sleep. John and I'll watch by your master to-night.'

     "'God's blessing be on you!'

     "She finished the gruel, and fell into a dead sleep. Wilson
     covered her with his coat as well as he could, and tried to move
     lightly for fear of disturbing her; but there need have been no
     such dread, for her sleep was profound and heavy with exhaustion.
     Once only she roused to pull the coat round her little child.

     "And now, all Wilson's care, and Barton's to boot, was wanted
     to restrain the wild, mad agony of the fevered man. He started
     up, he yelled, he seemed infuriated by overwhelming anxiety. He
     cursed and swore, which surprised Wilson, who knew his piety in
     health, and who did not know the unbridled tongue of delirium.
     At length he seemed exhausted, and fell asleep; and Barton and
     Wilson drew near the fire, and talked together in whispers. They
     sat on the floor, for chairs there were none; the sole table
     was an old tub turned upside down. They put out the candle and
     conversed by the flickering fire-light.

     "'Han yo known this chap long?' asked Barton.

     "'Better nor three year. He's worked wi' Carsons that long, and
     were always a steady, civil-spoken fellow, though, as I said
     afore, somewhat of a Methodee. I wish I'd gotten a letter he
     sent to his missis, a week or two agone, when he were on tramp
     for work. It did my heart good to read it; for yo see, I were a
     bit grumbling mysel; it seemed hard to be sponging on Jem, and
     taking a' his flesh-meat money to buy bread for me and them as
     I ought to be keeping. But, yo know, though I can earn naught,
     I mun eat summut. Well, as I telled ye, I were grumbling, when
     she,' indicating the sleeping woman by a nod, 'brought me
     Ben's letter, for she could na read hersel. It were as good as
     Bible-words; ne'er a word o' repining; a' about God being our
     father, and that we mun bear patiently whate'er he sends.'

     "'Don ye think he's th' masters' father, too? I'd be loth to have
     'em for brothers.'

     "'Eh, John! donna talk so; sure there's many and many a master as
     good nor better than us.'

     "'If you think so, tell me this. How comes it they're rich, and
     we're poor? I'd like to know that. Han they done as they'd be
     done by for us?'

     "But Wilson was no arguer—no speechifier, as he would have
     called it. So Barton, seeing he was likely to have his own way,
     went on—

     "'You'll say, at least many a one does, they'n getten capital,
     an' we'n getten none. I say, our labour's our capital, and we
     ought to draw interest on that. They get interest on their
     capital somehow a' this time, while ourn is lying idle, else how
     could they all live as they do? Besides, there's many on 'em as
     had naught to begin wi'; there's Carsons, and Duncombes, and
     Mengies, and many another as comed into Manchester with clothes
     to their backs, and that were all, and now they're worth their
     tens of thousands, a' gotten out of our labour; why the very
     land as fetched but sixty pound twenty years agone is now worth
     six hundred, and that, too, is owing to our labour; but look at
     yo, and see me, and poor Davenport yonder. Whatten better are
     we? They'n screwed us down to th' lowest peg, in order to make
     their great big fortunes, and build their great big houses, and
     we—why, we're just clemming, many and many of us. Can you say
     there's naught wrong in this?'"

These poor fellows, according to the story, took care of Davenport till
he died in that loathsome cellar, and then had him decently buried.
They knew not how soon his fate would overtake them, and they would
then want friends. In the mean time, while disease and starvation were
doing their work among the poor operatives, their masters were lolling
on sofas, and, in the recreations of an evening, spending enough to
relieve a hundred families. Perhaps, also, the masters' wives were
concocting petitions on the subject of <DW64>-slavery—that kind of
philanthropy costing very little money or self-sacrifice.

It may be said that the story of "Mary Barton" is a fiction; but it
must not be forgotten that it is the work of an English writer, and
that its scenes are professedly drawn from the existing realities of
life in Manchester, where the author resided. In the same work, we
find an account of an historical affair, which is important in this
connection, as showing how the wail of the oppressed is treated by the
British aristocracy:—

     "For three years past, trade had been getting worse and worse,
     and the price of provisions higher and higher. This disparity
     between the amount of the earnings of the working classes,
     and the price of their food, occasioned, in more cases than
     could well be imagined, disease and death. Whole families went
     through a gradual starvation. They only wanted a Dante to record
     their sufferings. And yet even his words would fall short of
     the awful truth; they could only present an outline of the
     tremendous facts of the destitution that surrounded thousands
     upon thousands in the terrible years 1839, 1840, and 1841. Even
     philanthropists, who had studied the subject, were forced to
     own themselves perplexed in the endeavour to ascertain the real
     causes of the misery; the whole matter was of so complicated
     a nature, that it became next to impossible to understand it
     thoroughly. It need excite no surprise, then, to learn that a bad
     feeling between working men and the upper classes became very
     strong in this season of privation. The indigence and sufferings
     of the operatives induced a suspicion in the minds of many of
     them, that their legislators, their managers, their employers,
     and even their ministers of religion, were, in general, their
     oppressors and enemies; and were in league for their prostration
     and enthralment. The most deplorable and enduring evil that arose
     out of the period of commercial depression to which I refer,
     was this feeling of alienation between the different classes of
     society. It is so impossible to describe, or even faintly to
     picture, the state of distress which prevailed in the town at
     that time, that I will not attempt it; and yet I think again that
     surely, in a Christian land, it was not known even so feebly as
     words could tell it, or the more happy and fortunate would have
     thronged with their sympathy and their aid. In many instances
     the sufferers wept first, and then they cursed. Their vindictive
     feelings exhibited themselves in rabid politics. And when I hear,
     as I have heard, of the sufferings and privations of the poor, of
     provision-shops where ha'porths of tea, sugar, butter, and even
     flour, were sold to accommodate the indigent—of parents sitting
     in their clothes by the fireside during the whole night, for
     seven weeks together, in order that their only bed and bedding
     might be reserved for the use of their large family—of others
     sleeping upon the cold hearth-stone for weeks in succession,
     without adequate means of providing themselves with food or fuel
     (and this in the depth of winter)—of others being compelled to
     fast for days together, uncheered by any hope of better fortune,
     living, moreover, or rather starving, in a crowded garret or damp
     cellar, and gradually sinking under the pressure of want and
     despair into a premature grave; and when this has been confirmed
     by the evidence of their care-worn looks, their excited feelings,
     and their desolate homes—can I wonder that many of them, in such
     times of misery and destitution, spoke and acted with ferocious
     precipitation!

     "An idea was now springing up among the operatives, that
     originated with the Chartists, but which came at last to be
     cherished as a darling child by many and many a one. They could
     not believe that government knew of their misery; they rather
     chose to think it possible that men could voluntarily assume the
     office of legislators for a nation, ignorant of its real state;
     as who should make domestic rules for the pretty behaviour of
     children, without caring to know that these children had been
     kept for days without food. Besides, the starving multitudes
     had heard that the very existence of their distress had been
     denied in Parliament; and though they felt this strange and
     inexplicable, yet the idea that their misery had still to be
     revealed in all its depths, and that then some remedy would be
     found, soothed their aching hearts, and kept down their rising
     fury.

     "So a petition was framed, and signed by thousands in the
     bright spring days of 1839, imploring Parliament to hear
     witnesses who could testify to the unparalleled destitution of
     the manufacturing districts. Nottingham, Sheffield, Glasgow,
     Manchester, and many other towns, were busy appointing delegates
     to convey this petition, who might speak, not merely of what
     they had seen and had heard, but from what they had borne and
     suffered. Life-worn, gaunt, anxious, hunger-stamped men were
     those delegates."

The delegates went in a body to London, and applied at the Parliament
House for permission to present their petition upon the subject nearest
their hearts—the question of life and death. They were haughtily
denied a hearing. The assemblage of the "best gentlemen in Europe,"
were, perhaps, discussing the best means of beautifying their parks
and extending their estates. What had these rose-pink legislators to
do with the miseries of the base-born rabble—the soil-serfs of their
chivalric Norman ancestors? The delegates returned in despair to their
homes, to meet their starving relatives and friends, and tell them
there was not a ray of hope. In France such a rejection of a humble
petition from breadless working-men would have been followed by a
revolution. In Great Britain the labourers seem to have the inborn
submission of hereditary slaves. Though they feel the iron heel of
the aristocracy upon their necks, and see their families starving
around them, they delay, and still delay, taking that highway to
freedom—manly and united rebellion.

The workmen employed in the factories are subjected to the cruel
treatment of overlookers, who have the power of masters, and use it
as tyrants. If an operative does not obey an order, he is not merely
reproved, but kicked and beaten as a slave. He dare not resent, for
if he did he would be turned forth to starve. Such being the system
under which he works, the operative has the look and air of a degraded
Helot. Most of them are unhealthy, destitute of spirit, and enfeebled
by toil and privation. The hand-loom weavers, who are numerous in some
districts, are the most miserable of the labourers, being hardly able
to earn scant food and filthy shelter.

The hundreds of thousands of tender age employed in all the various
branches of manufacture are in all cases the children of the poor.
When the father goes to the workhouse he has no longer any control
over his children. They are at the mercy of the parish, and may be
separated, apprenticed to all sorts of masters, and treated, to all
intents and purposes, as slaves. The invention of labour-saving
machinery has brought the services of children into great demand in the
manufacturing towns. They may be _bought_ at the workhouse at a cheap
rate, and then they must trust to God alone for their future welfare.
There is scarcely an instance in which the law ever interferes for
their protection. The masters and overlookers are allowed to beat their
younger operatives with impunity.

The following evidence contains instances of a treatment totally
barbarous, and such are very frequent, according to the report of the
commissioners:—

     "When she was a child, too little to put on her ain claithes,
     the overlooker used to beat her till she screamed again. Gets
     many a good beating and swearing. They are all very ill-used. The
     overseer carries a strap. Has been licked four or five times.
     The boys are often severely strapped; the girls sometimes get
     a clout. The mothers often complain of this. Has seen the boys
     have black and blue marks after strapping. Three weeks ago the
     overseer struck him in the eye with his clenched fist, so as to
     force him to be absent two days. Another overseer used to beat
     him with his fist, striking him so that his arm was black and
     blue. Has often seen the workers beat cruelly. Has seen the girls
     strapped; but the boys were beat so that they fell to the floor
     in the course of the beating with a rope with four tails, called
     a cat. Has seen the boys black and blue, crying for mercy.

     "The other night a little girl came home cruelly beaten; wished
     to go before a magistrate, but was advised not. That man is
     always strapping the children. The boys are badly used. They
     are whipped with a strap till they cry out and shed tears; has
     seen the managers kick and strike them. Has suffered much from
     the slubbers' ill treatment. It is the practice of the slubbers
     to go out and amuse themselves for an hour or so, and then make
     up their work in the same time, which is a great fatigue to
     the piecers, keeping them 'on the run' for an hour and a half
     together, besides kicking and beating them for doing it badly,
     when they were so much tired. The slubbers are all brutes to the
     children; they get intoxicated, and then kick them about; they
     are all alike. Never complained to the master; did once to his
     mother, and she gave him a halfpenny not to mind it, to go back
     to work like a good boy. Sometimes he used to be surly, and would
     not go, and then she always had that tale about the halfpenny;
     sometimes he got the halfpenny, and sometimes not.

     "He has seen the other children beaten. The little girls standing
     at the drawing-head. They would run home and fetch their mothers
     sometimes.

     "Hears the spinners swear very bad at their piecers, and sees
     'em lick 'em sometimes; some licks 'em with a strap, some licks
     'em with hand; some straps is as long as your arm, some is very
     thick, and some thin; don't know where they get the straps. There
     is an overlooker in the room; he very seldom comes in; they
     won't allow 'em if they knows of it. (Child volunteered the last
     observation. Asked how she knew that the overlookers would not
     allow the spinners to lick the little hands; answers, 'Because
     I've heard 'em say so.') Girls cry when struck with straps; only
     one girl struck yesterday; they very seldom strike 'em.

     "There is an overlooker in the room, who is a man. The doffer
     always scolds her when she is idle, not the overlooker; the
     doffer is a girl. Sometimes sees her hit the little hands; always
     hits them with her hands. Sometimes the overlooker hits the
     little hands; always with her hand when she does. Her mother is
     a throstle-spinner, in her room. The overseer scolds the little
     hands; says he'll bag 'em; sometimes swears at 'em. Sometimes
     overseer beats a 'little hand;' when he does it, it is always
     with his open hand; it is not so very hard; sometimes on the
     face, sometimes on the back. He never beats her. Some on 'em
     cries when they are beat, some doesn't. He beats very seldom;
     didn't beat any yesterday, nor last week, nor week before;
     doesn't know how long it is ago since she has seen him strike a
     girl. If our little helper gets careless we may have occasion to
     correct her a bit. Some uses 'em very bad; beats 'em; but only
     with the hand; and pulls their ears. Some cry, but not often.
     Ours is a good overlooker, but has heard overlookers curse
     very bad. The women weavers themselves curse. Has never cursed
     herself. Can say so honestly from her heart.

     "Drawers are entirely under the control of the weavers, said
     a master; they must obey their employer; if they do not they
     are sometimes beat and sometimes discharged. _I chastise them
     occasionally with alight whip_; do not allow it by my workmen;
     sometimes they are punished with a fool's-cap, sometimes with a
     _cane_, but not severely."

     "William M. Beath, of Mr. Owen's New Lanark Mills, deposed:
     'Thinks things improved under Mr. Owen's management. Recollects
     seeing children beaten very severe at times. He himself has
     been beaten very sore, so bad that his head was not in its
     useful state for several days. Recollects, in particular, one
     boy—James Barry—who was very unfond of working in the mill,
     who was always beaten to his work by his father, with his hands
     and feet; the boy was then beaten with a strap by the overseers,
     for being too late, and not being willing to come. Has seen him
     so beaten by Robert Shirley, William Watson, and Robert Sim. The
     boy, James Barry, never came properly to manhood. It was always
     conjectured that he had too many beatings. He was the cruellest
     beat boy ever I saw there. There was a boy, whose name he does
     not recollect, and while he (W. M. B.) was working as a weaver
     at Lanark, having left the mill, and his death was attributed by
     many to a kick in the groin from Peter Gall, an overseer. Does
     not recollect whether the ill usage of the children above alluded
     to took place in Mr. Owen's time, or before he came; but there
     was certainly a great improvement, in many respects, under his
     management, particularly in cleanliness, shorter hours, and the
     establishment of schools. Has been three years employed in his
     present situation. Has two children of his own in the mill. Does
     not believe (and he has every opportunity of knowing) that the
     children of this mill have been tampered with by anybody, with a
     view to their testimony before the commissioners, and that they
     are not afraid to tell the truth. He himself would, on account
     of his children, like a little shorter hours and a little less
     wages; they would then have a better opportunity of attending a
     night-school.'

     "Henry Dunn, aged twenty-seven, a spinner: 'Has been five years
     on this work. Went at eight years of age to Mr. Dunn's mill at
     Duntochar; that was a country situation, and much healthier
     than factories situated in town. They worked then from six to
     eight; twelve hours and a half for work, and one hour and a
     half for meals. Liked that mill as well as any he ever was in.
     Great attention was paid to the cleanliness and comfort of the
     people. The wages were lower there at that time than they were
     at Glasgow. After leaving Duntochar, he came into town to see
     Mr. Humphrey's, (now Messrs. Robert Thompson,) which was at that
     time one continued scene of oppression. A system of cruelty
     prevailed there at that time, which was confined almost entirely
     to that work. The wheels were very small, and young men and women
     of the ages of seventeen and eighteen were the spinners. There
     was a tenter to every flat, and he was considered as a sort of
     whipper-in, to force the children to extra exertion. Has seen
     wounds inflicted upon children by tenters, by Alexander Drysdale,
     among others, with a belt or stick, or the first thing that came
     uppermost. Saw a kick given by the above-mentioned Alexander
     Drysdale, which broke two ribs of a little boy. Helped to carry
     the boy down to a surgeon. The boy had been guilty of some very
     trifling offence, such as calling names to the next boy. But the
     whole was the same; all the tenters were alike. Never saw any
     ill-treatment of the children at this mill. Mr. Stevenson is a
     very fine man. The machinery in the spinning department is quite
     well boxed in—it could not be better; but the cards might be
     more protected with great advantage. It is very hot in winter,
     but he can't tell how hot. There is no thermometer.'

     "Ellen Ferrier, aged thirteen; carries bobbins: 'Has been three
     years in this mill. Was one year before in another mill in this
     town; doesn't like neither of them very well, because she was
     always very tired from working from half-past five o'clock in
     the morning until half-past seven, with only two intervals of
     half an hour each. She sometimes falls asleep now. She worked
     formerly in the lower flat. When Charles Kennedy was the overseer
     he licked us very bad, beat our heads with his hand, and kicked
     us very bad when the ends were down. He was aye licking them, and
     my gademother (stepmother) has two or three times complained to
     Mr. Shanks, (senior,) and Mr. S. always told him about it, but
     he never minded. Does not know what he left the mill for. A good
     many folks went away from this mill just for Kennedy. Can read;
     cannot write.'

     "Mary Scott, aged fourteen: 'Has been here two years. Was here
     with Charles Kennedy. When he has seen us just speaking to one
     another, he struck us with his hands and with his feet. He beat
     us when he saw any of the ends down. Has seen him strike Ellen
     Ferrier (the last witness) very often, just with his hands; and
     has seen him strike Betty Sutherland; can't tell how often, but
     it was terrible often.'

     "Euphemia Anderson, aged twenty: 'Has been three years at this
     mill; has been in different mills since she was seven years old.
     About six years ago she was taken ill with pains in the legs,
     and remained ill for three years. I wasn't able to stand. Thinks
     it was the standing so long that made her ill. She is now again
     quite in good health, except that she is sair-footed sometimes.
     They have seats to sit down upon. When the work is bad, we cannot
     get time to sit down. When the flax is good we have a good deal
     of time. Has never seen children beat by Charles Kennedy, but has
     heard talk of it; has often heard them complain of him, never of
     anybody else. Can read; cannot write. Never went to a school;
     never had muckle time. She would give up some of her wages to
     have shorter hours. Her usual dinner is broth and potatoes.'"

The next evidence is particularly valuable, as it came from a person
who had left the factory work; and having an independent business, he
may be presumed to have spoken without fear or favour:—

     "William Campbell, aged thirty-seven: 'Is a grocer, carrying on
     business in Belfast. Was bred up a cotton-spinner. Went first
     as a piecer to his father, who was a spinner at Mr. Hussy's
     mill, Graham Square, Glasgow, and afterward to several mills
     in this place, among which was Mr. John McCrackan's, where
     he was, altogether, piecer and spinner between four and five
     years, (1811-1818.) There was a regulation at that time there,
     that every hand should be fined if five minutes too late at any
     working hour in the morning and after meals—the younger 5_d._,
     which amounted to the whole wages of some of the lesser ones; the
     older hands were fined as high as 10_d._ The treatment of the
     children at that time was very cruel. Has seen Robert Martin,
     the manager, continually beating the children—with his hands
     generally, sometimes with his clenched fist. Has often seen his
     sister Jane, then about fourteen, struck by him; and he used to
     pinch her ears till the blood came, and pull her hair. The faults
     were usually very trifling. If on coming in he should find any
     girl combing her hair, that was an offence for which he would
     beat her severely, and he would do so if he heard them talking to
     one another. He never complained of the ill-usage of his sister,
     because he believed if he did, his father and two sisters, who
     were both employed in the mill, would have been immediately
     dismissed. A complaint was made by the father of a little girl,
     against Martin, for beating a child. Mr. Ferrer, the police
     magistrate, admonished him. He was a hot-headed, fiery man, and
     when he saw the least fault, or what he conceived to be a fault,
     he just struck them at once. Does not recollect any child getting
     a lasting injury from any beating here. The treatment of the
     children at the mill was the only thing which could be called
     cruelty which he had witnessed. One great hardship to people
     employed in the factories is the want of good water, which
     exists in most of them. At only one of the mills which he worked
     at was there water such as could be drunk brought into the flats,
     and that was Mr. Holdsworth's mill, Anderson, Glasgow. From what
     he recollects of his own and his sister's feelings, he considers
     the hours which were then and are still commonly occupied in
     actual labour—viz. twelve hours and a half per day—longer
     than the health of children can sustain, and also longer than
     will admit of any time being reserved in the evening for their
     instruction.'"

These instances of steady, systematic cruelty, in the treatment of
children, go far beyond any thing recorded of slave-drivers in other
countries. If an American overseer was to whip a slave to death, an
awful groan would express the horror of English lords and ladies. But
in the factories of Great Britain we have helpless children not only
kicked and beaten, but liable at any moment to receive a mortal wound
from the billy-roller of an exasperated slubber. Here is more evidence,
which we cannot think will flag in interest:—

     "John Gibb, eleven years old, solemnly sworn, deposes, 'that he
     has been about three years a piecer in one of the spinning-rooms;
     that the heat and confinement makes his feet sair, and makes him
     sick and have headaches, and he often has a stitch in his side;
     that he is now much paler than he used to be; that he receives
     4_s._ 6_d._ a week, which he gives to his mother; that he is very
     desirous of short hours, that he might go to school more than he
     can do at present; that the spinners often lick him, when he is
     in fault, with taws of leather.'

     "Alexander Wylie, twenty-six years old, solemnly sworn, deposes,
     'that he is a spinner in one of the spinning departments; that
     most of the spinners keep taws to preserve their authority, but
     he does not; that he has seen them pretty severely whipped,
     when they were in fault; that he has seen piecers beat by the
     overseers, even with their clenched fists; that he has seen both
     boys and girls so treated; that he has seen John Ewan beating his
     little piecers severely, even within these few weeks; that when
     he had a boy as a piecer, he beat him even more severely than the
     girls; that he never saw a thermometer in his flat, till to-day,
     when, in consequence of a bet, the heat was tried, and it was
     found to be 72°, but that they are spinning coarser cotton in
     his flat than in some of the other flats, where greater heat is
     requisite.'

     "Bell Sinclair, thirteen years old, solemnly sworn, deposes,
     'that she has been about four years in the same flat with John
     Gibb, a preceding witness; that all the spinners in the apartment
     keep a leather strap, or taws, with which to punish the piecers,
     both boys and girls—the young ones chiefly when they are
     negligent; that she has been often punished by Francis Gibb and
     by Robert Clarke, both with taws and with their hands, and with
     his open cuff; that he has licked her on the side of the head and
     on her back with his hands, and with the strap on her back and
     arms; that she was never much the worse of the beating, although
     she has sometimes cried and shed tears when Gibb or Clarke was
     hitting her sair.' Deposes that she cannot write.

     "Mary Ann Collins, ten years old, solemnly sworn, deposes,
     'that she has been a year in one of the spinning-rooms in which
     John Ewan is a spinner; that yesterday he gave her a licking
     with the taws; that all the spinners keep taws except Alexander
     Wylie; that he beat her once before till she grat; that she has
     sometimes a pain in her breast, and was absent yesterday on that
     account.' Deposes that she cannot write.

     "Daniel McGinty, twenty-two years old, solemnly sworn, deposes,
     'that he has been nearly two years a spinner here; that he
     notices the piecers frequently complain of bad health; that he
     was a petitioner for short hours, so that the people might have
     more time for their education as well as for health; that he had
     a strap to punish the children when they were in fault, but he
     has not had one for some time, and the straps are not so common
     now as they were formerly; that he and the other spinners prefer
     giving the piecers a lick on the side of the head with their
     hands, than to use a strap at all; that he has seen instances of
     piecers being knocked down again and again, by a blow from the
     hand, in other mills, but not since he came to this one; that he
     has been knocked down himself in Barrowfield mill, by Lauchlin
     McWharry, the spinner to whom he was a piecer.'

     "Isabella Stewart, twenty-two years old, solemnly sworn, deposes,
     'that she has been four years at this mill, and several years
     at other mills; that she is very hoarse, and subject to cough,
     and her feet and ankles swell in the evening; that she is very
     anxious for short hours—thirteen hours are real lang hours—but
     she has nothing else to find fault with; that Alexander Simpson
     straps the young workers, and even gives her, or any of the
     workers, if they are too late, a lick with the strap across the
     shoulders; that he has done this within a week or two; that he
     sometimes gives such a strap as to hurt her, but it is only when
     he is in a passion.' Deposes that 'she cannot write. In the long
     hours they canna get time to write nor to do nae thing.'

     "James Patterson, aged sixty years, solemnly sworn, deposes,
     'that he is an overseer in Messrs. James and William Brown's
     flax-spinning mill, at Dundee, and has been in their employment
     for about seven years; that he was previously at the spinning
     mill at Glamis for twelve years, and there lost his right hand
     and arm, caught by the belt of the wheels, in the preparing
     floor; that he is in the reeling flat, with the women, who are
     tired and sleepy; one of them—Margaret Porter—at present in
     bed, merely from standing so long for a fortnight past; that it
     would be God's blessing for every one to have shorter hours;
     that he has been about forty years in spinning-mills, and has
     seen the young people so lashed with a leather belt that they
     could hardly stand: that at Trollick, a mill now given up, he
     has seen them lashed, skin naked, by the manager, James Brown;
     that at Moniferth he has seen them taken out of bed, when they
     did not get up in time, and lashed with horsewhips to their work,
     carrying their clothes, while yet naked, to the work, in their
     arms with them.'

     "William Roe, (examined at his own request:) 'I am constable
     of Radford. I was in the army. I went to work with Mr. Wilson
     in 1825. I had been with Strutts, at Belper, before that. The
     reason I left was this: I was told the overlooker was leathering
     one of my boys. I had two sons there. The overlooker was Crooks.
     I found him strapping the boy, and I struck him. I did not stop
     to ask whether the boy had done any thing. I had heard of his
     beating him before. Smith came up, and said I should work there
     no more till I had seen Mr. Wilson. My answer was, that neither
     I nor mine should ever work more for such a mill as that was. It
     was but the day before I took the boy to Smith, to show him that
     he had no time to take his victuals till he came out at twelve.
     There was no satisfaction, but he laughed at it. That was the
     reason I took the means into my own hands. Crooks threatened
     to fetch a warrant for me, but did not. I told him the master
     durst not let him. The boy had been doing nothing, only could
     not keep up his work enough to please them. I left the mill, and
     took away my sons. One was ten, the other was between eight and
     nine. They went there with me. The youngest was not much past
     eight when he went. I heard no more of it. I put all my reasons
     down in a letter to Mr. Wilson, but I heard no more of it. Smith
     was sent away afterward, but I don't know why. I have heard it
     was for different ill-usages. Crooks is there now. Hogg was the
     overlooker in my room. I have often seen him beat a particular
     boy who was feeding cards. One day he pulled his ear till he
     pulled it out of the socket, and it bled very much. I mean he
     tore the bottom of the ear from the head. I went to him and said,
     if that boy was mine I'd give him a better threshing than ever
     he had in his life. It was reported to Mr. S. Wilson, and he
     told me I had better mind my own business, and not meddle with
     the overlookers. I never heard that the parents complained. Mr.
     S. Wilson is dead now. Mr. W. Wilson said to me afterward, I
     had made myself very forward in meddling with the overlookers'
     business. I was to have come into the warehouse at Nottingham,
     but in consequence of my speaking my mind I lost the situation.
     I never had any complaint about my work while I was there, nor
     at Mr. Strutt's. I left Mr. Strutt's in hopes to better myself.
     I came as a machine smith. I went back to Mr. Strutt's, at
     Milford, after I left Wilson, for two years. The men never had
     more than twenty-five minutes for their dinner, and no extra pay
     for stopping there. I dressed the top cards, and ground them. I
     never heard that Mr. Wilson proposed to stop the breakfast hour,
     and that the hands wished to go on. I don't think such a thing
     could be. Whilst I worked there we always went in at half-past
     five, and worked till nigh half-past seven. We were never paid
     a farthing overtime. At Strutt's, if ever we worked an hour
     overtime, we were paid an hour and a half. I have seen Smith
     take the girls by the hair with one hand, and slap them in the
     face with the other; big and little, it made no difference. He
     worked there many years before he was turned away. He works in
     the mill again now, but not as an overlooker. I never knew of any
     complaint to the magistrate against Smith. I had 12_s._ when I
     was there for standing wages. It was about nine in the morning my
     boy was beat. I think it was in the middle of the day the boy's
     ear was pulled. The work was very severe there while it lasted. A
     boy generally had four breakers and finisher-cards to mind. Such
     a boy might mind six when he had come on to eleven or twelve; I
     mean finishers. A boy can mind from three to four breakers. Any
     way they had not time to get their victuals. I don't know what
     the present state of the mill is as to beating. Men will not
     complain to the magistrates while work is so scarce, and they are
     liable to be turned out; and if they go to the parish, why there
     it is, 'Why, you had work, why did you not stay at it?'"

Robert Blincoe, a small manufacturer, once an apprentice to a cotton
mill, and one who had seen and suffered much in factories, was sworn
and examined by Dr. Hawkins, on the 18th of May, 1833. In the evidence,
which follows, it will be noted that most of the sufferers mentioned
were parish children, without protectors of any kind:—

     "'Do you know where you were born?' 'No; I only know that I came
     out of St. Pancras parish, London.'

     "'Do you know the name of your parents?' 'No. I used to be
     called, when young, Robert Saint; but when I received my
     indentures I was called Robert Blincoe; and I have gone by that
     name ever since.'

     "'What age are you?' 'Near upon forty, according to my
     indentures."

     "'Have you no other means of knowing your age but what you find
     in your indentures?' 'No, I go by that.'

     "'Do you work at a cotton mill?' 'Not now. I was bound apprentice
     to a cotton mill for fourteen years, from St. Pancras parish;
     then I got my indentures. I worked five or six years after, at
     different mills, but now I have got work of my own. I rent power
     from a mill in Stockport, and have a room to myself. My business
     is a sheet wadding manufacturer.'

     "'Why did you leave off working at the cotton mills?' 'I got
     tired of it, the system is so bad; and I had saved a few pounds.
     I got deformed there; my knees began to bend in when I was
     fifteen; you see how they are, (showing them.) There are many,
     many far worse than me at Manchester.'

     "'Can you take exercise with ease?' 'A very little makes me sweat
     in walking. I have not the strength of those who are straight.'

     "'Have you ever been in a hospital, or under doctors, for your
     knees or legs?' 'Never in a hospital, or under doctors for that,
     but from illness from over-work I have been. When I was near
     Nottingham there were about eighty of us together, boys and
     girls, all 'prenticed out from St. Pancras parish, London, to
     cotton mills; many of us used to be ill, but the doctors said it
     was only for want of kitchen physic, and want of more rest.'

     "'Had you any accidents from machinery?' 'No, nothing to signify
     much; I have not myself, but I saw, on the 6th of March last,
     a man killed by machinery at Stockport; he was smashed, and he
     died in four or five hours; I saw him while the accident took
     place; he was joking with me just before; it was in my own room.
     I employ a poor sore <DW36> under me, who could not easily get
     work anywhere else. A young man came good-naturedly from another
     room to help my <DW36>, and he was accidentally drawn up by the
     strap, and was killed. I have known many such accidents take
     place in the course of my life.'

     "'Recollect a few.' 'I cannot recollect the exact number, but
     I have known several: one was at Lytton Mill, at Derbyshire;
     another was the master of a factory at Staley Bridge, of the name
     of Bailey. Many more I have known to receive injuries, such as
     the loss of a limb. There is plenty about Stockport that is going
     about now with one arm; they cannot work in the mills, but they
     go about with jackasses and such like. One girl, Mary Richards,
     was made a <DW36>, and remains so now, when I was in Lowdham
     mill, near Nottingham. She was lapped up by a shaft underneath
     the drawing-frame. That is now an old-fashioned machinery.'

     "'Have you any children?' 'Three.'

     "'Do you send them to factories?' 'No. I would rather have them
     transported. In the first place, they are standing upon one leg,
     lifting up one knee a greater part of the day, keeping the ends
     up from the spindle. I consider that that employment makes many
     <DW36>s; then there is the heat and dust; then there are so
     many different forms of cruelty used upon them; then they are
     so liable to have their fingers catched, and to suffer other
     accidents from the machinery; then the hours is so long that I
     have seen them tumble down asleep among the straps and machinery,
     and so get cruelly hurt; then I would not have a child of mine
     there, because there is not good morals; there is such a lot of
     them together that they learn mischief.'

     "'What do you do with your children?' 'My eldest of thirteen has
     been to school, and can teach me. She now stays at home, and
     helps her mother in the shop. She is as tall as me, and is very
     heavy. Very different from what she would have been if she had
     worked in a factory. My two youngest go to school, and are both
     healthy. I send them every day two miles to school. I know from
     experience the ills of confinement.'

     "'What are the forms of cruelty that you spoke of just now as
     being practised upon children in factories?' 'I have seen the
     time when two hand-vices, of a pound weight each, more or less,
     have been screwed to my ears at Lytton mill, in Derbyshire. Here
     are the scars still remaining behind my ears. Then three or four
     of us have been hung at once to a cross-beam above the machinery,
     hanging by our hands, without shirts or stockings. Mind, we were
     apprentices, without father or mother, to take care of us; I
     don't say they often do that now. Then, we used to stand up, in a
     skip, without our shirts, and be beat with straps or sticks; the
     skip was to prevent us from running away from the strap.'

     "'Do you think such things are done now in Manchester?' 'No,
     not just the same things; but I think the children are still
     beaten by overlookers; not so much, however, in Manchester,
     where justice is always at hand, as in country places. Then they
     used to tie on a twenty-eight pounds weight, (one or two at
     once,) according to our size, to hang down on our backs, with
     no shirts on. I have had them myself. Then they used to tie one
     leg up to the faller, while the hands were tied behind. I have
     a book written about these things, describing my own life and
     sufferings. I will send it to you.'[88]

     "'Do the masters know of these things, or were they done only by
     the overlookers?' 'The masters have often seen them, and have
     been assistants in them.'

The work is so protracted that the children are exhausted, and many
become crippled from standing too long in unhealthy positions:—

     "John Wright, steward in the silk factory of Messrs. Brinsley and
     Shatwell, examined by Mr. Tufnell.

     "'What are the effects of the present system of labour?' 'From my
     earliest recollections, I have found the effects to be awfully
     detrimental to the well-being of the operative; I have observed,
     frequently, children carried to factories, unable to walk,
     and that entirely owing to excessive labour and confinement.
     The degradation of the work-people baffles all description;
     frequently have two of my sisters been obliged to be assisted
     to the factory and home again, until by and by they could go no
     longer, being totally crippled in their legs. And in the next
     place, I remember some ten or twelve years ago working in one of
     the largest firms in Macclesfield, (Messrs. Baker and Pearson,)
     with about twenty-five men, where they were scarce one-half fit
     for his majesty's service. Those that are straight in their limbs
     are stunted in their growth, much inferior to their fathers in
     point of strength. 3dly. Through excessive labour and confinement
     there is often a total loss of appetite; a kind of languor
     steals over the whole frame, enters to the very core, saps the
     foundation of the best constitution, and lays our strength
     prostrate in the dust. In the fourth place, by protracted
     labour there is an alarming increase of <DW36>s in various
     parts of this town, which has come under my own observation and
     knowledge.'"

Young sufferers gave the following evidence to the commissioners:—

     "'Many a time has been so fatigued that she could hardly take
     off her clothes at night, or put them on in the morning; her
     mother would be raging at her, because when she sat down she
     could not get up again through the house.' 'Looks on the long
     hours as a great bondage.' 'Thinks they are not much better than
     the Israelites in Egypt, and their life is no pleasure to them.'
     'When a child, was so tired that she could seldom eat her supper,
     and never awoke of herself.'—'Are the hours to be shortened?'
     earnestly demanded one of these girls of the commissioner who was
     examining her, 'for they are too long.'"

The truth of the account given by the children of the fatigue they
experience by the ordinary labour of the factory is confirmed by the
testimony of their parents. In general, the representation made by
parents is like the following:—

     "'Her children come home so tired and worn out they can hardly
     eat their supper.' 'Has often seen his daughter come home in the
     evening so fatigued that she would go to bed supper-less,' 'Has
     seen the young workers absolutely oppressed, and unable to sit
     down or rise up; this has happened to his own children.'

These statements are confirmed by the evidence of the adult operatives.
The depositions of the witnesses of this class are to the effect, that
"the younger workers are greatly fatigued;" that "children are often
very severe (unwilling) in the mornings;" that "children are quite
tired out;" that "the long hours exhaust the workers, especially the
young ones, to such a degree that they can hardly walk home;" that "the
young workers are absolutely oppressed, and so tired as to be unable
to sit down or rise up;" that "younger workers are so tired they often
cannot raise their hands to their head;" that "all the children are
very keen for short hours, thinking them now such bondage that they
might as well be in a prison;" that "the children, when engaged in
their regular work, are often exhausted beyond what can be expressed;"
that "the sufferings of the children absolutely require that the hours
should be shortened."

The depositions of the overlookers are to the same effect, namely,
that "though the children may not complain, yet that they seem tired
and sleepy, and happy to get out of doors to play themselves. That,
"the work over-tires the workers in general." "Often sees the children
very tired and stiff-like." "Is entirely of opinion, after real
experience, that the hours of labour are far too long for the children,
for their health and education; has from twenty-two to twenty-four boys
under his charge, from nine to about fourteen years old, and they are
generally much tired at night, always anxious, asking if it be near the
mill-stopping." "Never knew a single worker among the children that
did not complain of the long hours, which prevent them from getting
education, and from getting health in the open air."

The managers in like manner state, that "the labour exhausts the
children;" that "the workers are tired in the evening;" that "children
inquire anxiously for the hour of stopping." And admissions to the same
effect, on the part of managers and proprietors, will be found in every
part of the Scotch depositions.

In the north-eastern district the evidence is equally complete that the
fatigue of the young workers is great.

     "'I have known the children,' says one witness, 'to hide
     themselves in the store among the wool, so that they should not
     go home when the work was over, when we have worked till ten or
     eleven. I have seen six or eight fetched out of the store and
     beat home; beat out of the mill however; I do not know why they
     should hide themselves, unless it was that they were too tired to
     go home.'

     "'Many a one I have had to rouse in the last hour, when the
     work is very slack, from fatigue.' 'The children were very much
     jaded, especially when we worked late at night.' 'The children
     bore the long hours very ill indeed.' 'Exhausted in body and
     depressed in mind by the length of the hours and the height of
     the temperature.' 'I found, when I was an overlooker, that,
     after the children from eight to twelve years had worked eight,
     nine, or ten hours, they were nearly ready to faint; some were
     asleep; some were only kept to work by being spoken to, or by
     a little chastisement, to make them jump up. I was sometimes
     obliged to chastise them when they were almost fainting, and it
     hurt my feelings; then they would spring up and work pretty well
     for another hour; but the last two or three hours were my hardest
     work, for they then got so exhausted,' 'I have never seen fathers
     carrying their children backward nor forward to the factories;
     but I have seen children, apparently under nine, and from nine
     to twelve years of age, going to the factories at five in the
     morning almost asleep in the streets.'"

     "Ellen Cook, card-filler: 'I was fifteen last winter. I worked
     on then sometimes day and night;—may be twice a week; I used to
     earn 4_s._ a week; I used to go home to dinner; I was a feeder
     then; I am a feeder still. We used to come at half-past eight at
     night, and work all night till the rest of the girls came in the
     morning; they would come at seven, I think. Sometimes we worked
     on till half-past eight the next night, after we had been working
     all the night before. We worked on meal-hours, except at dinner.
     I have done that sometimes three nights a week, and sometimes
     four nights. It was just as the overlooker chose. John Singleton;
     he is overlooker now. Sometimes the slubbers would work on all
     night too; not always. The pieceners would have to stay all night
     then too. It was not often though that the slubbers worked all
     night. We worked by ourselves. It was when one of the boilers
     was spoiled; that was the reason we had to work all night. The
     engine would not carry all the machines. I was paid for the
     over-hours when we worked day and night; not for meal-hours. We
     worked meal-hours, but were not paid for them. George Lee is
     the slubber in this room. He has worked all night; not often, I
     think; not above twice all the time we worked so; sometimes he
     would not work at all. The pieceners would work too when he did.
     They used to go to sleep, poor things! when they had over-hours
     in the night. I think they were ready enough to sleep sometimes,
     when they only worked in the daytime. I never was a piecener;
     sometimes I go to help them when there are a good many cardings.
     We have to get there by half-past five, in the morning, now. The
     engine begins then. We don't go home to breakfast. Sometimes we
     have a quarter of an hour; sometimes twenty minutes; sometimes
     none. Them in the top-room have a full half hour. We can't take
     half an hour if we like it; we should get jawed; we should have
     such a noise, we should not hear the last of it. The pieceners in
     this room (there were four) have the same time as we do. In some
     of the rooms they forfeit them if they are five minutes too late;
     they don't in this room. The slubber often beats the pieceners.
     He has a strap, and wets it, and gives them a strap over the
     hands, poor things! They cry out ever so loud sometimes; I don't
     know how old they are.'"

     "James Simpson, aged twenty-four, solemnly sworn, deposes: 'That
     he has been about fifteen years in spinning mills; that he has
     been nearly a year as an overseer in Mr. Kinmond's mill here,
     and was dismissed on the 2d of May, for supporting, at a meeting
     of the operatives, the Ten Hours Bill; that he was one of the
     persons to receive subscriptions, in money, to forward the
     business, and was dismissed, not on a regular pay-day, but on a
     Thursday evening, by James Malcolm, manager, who told him that
     he was dismissed for being a robber to his master in supporting
     the Ten Hours Bill; that by the regulations of the mill he was
     entitled to a week's notice, and that a week's wages were due to
     him at the time, but neither sum has been paid; that he was two
     or three times desired by the overseer to strike the boys if he
     saw them at any time sitting, and has accordingly struck them
     with a strap, but never so severely as to hurt them; that he
     is not yet employed.' And the preceding deposition having been
     read over to him, he was cautioned to be perfectly sure that it
     was true in all particulars, as it would be communicated to the
     overseer named by him, and might still be altered if, in any
     particular, he wished the change of a word; but he repeated his
     assertion, on oath, that it was.

     "Ann Kennedy, sixteen years old, solemnly sworn, deposes: 'That
     she has been nearly a year a piecer to James McNish, a preceding
     witness; that she has had swelled feet for about a year, but she
     thinks them rather better; that she has a great deal of pain,
     both in her feet and legs, so that she was afraid she would not
     be able to go on with the work; that she thought it was owing to
     the heat and the long standing on her feet; that it is a very
     warm room she is in; that she sometimes looks at the thermometer
     and sees it at 82°, or 84, or 86°; that all the people in the
     room are very pale, and a good deal of them complaining.'
     Deposes, that she cannot write.

     "Joseph Hurtley, aged forty-four: 'Is an overlooker of the
     flax-dressing department. Has been there since the commencement.
     Thinks, from what he observes, that the hours are too long for
     children. Is led to think so from seeing the children much
     exhausted toward the conclusion of the work. When he came here
     first, and the children were all new to the work, he found that
     by six o'clock they began to be drowsy and sleepy. He took
     different devices to keep them awake, such as giving them snuff,
     &c.; but this drowsiness partly wore off in time, from habit, but
     he still observes the same with all the boys, (they are all boys
     in his department,) and it continues with them for some time.
     Does not know whether the children go to school in the evening,
     but he thinks, from their appearance, that they would be able to
     receive very little benefit from tuition.

     "'The occupation of draw-boys and girls to harness hand-loom
     weavers, in their own shops, is by far the lowest and least
     sought after of any connected with the manufacture of cotton.
     They are poor, neglected, ragged, dirty children. They seldom
     are taught any thing, and they work as long as the weaver, that
     is, as long as they can see, standing on the same spot, always
     barefooted, on an earthen, cold, damp floor, in a close, damp
     cellar, for thirteen or fourteen hours a day.

     "'The power-loom dressers have all been hand-loom weavers, but
     now prevent any more of their former companions from being
     employed in their present business.

     "'They earn 2_s._ per week, and eat porridge, if their parents
     can afford it; if not, potatoes and salt. They are, almost
     always, between nine and thirteen years of age, and look healthy,
     though some have been two or three years at the business; while
     the weaver, for whom they draw, is looking pale, squalid, and
     underfed.

     "'There are some hundreds of children thus employed in the
     immediate neighbourhood of Glasgow.'"

In Leicester, Mr. Drinkwater, of the Factory Commission, found that
great cruelty was practised upon the children employed in some of
the factories, by the workmen called "slubbers," for whom the young
creatures act as piecers. Thomas Hough, a trimmer and dyer, who had
worked at Robinson's factory, deposed—

     "'The children were beaten at the factory; I complained, and they
     were turned away. If I could have found the man at the time there
     would have something happened, I am sure. I knew the man; it was
     the slubber with whom they worked. His name was Smith. Robinson
     had the factory then. I had my second son in to Mr. Robinson,
     and stripped him, and showed him how cruelly he had been beaten.
     There were nineteen bruises on his back and posteriors. It was
     not with the billy-roller. It was with the strap. He has often
     been struck with the billy-roller at other times, over the head.
     Robinson rebuked the man, and said he should not beat them any
     more. The children were beat several times after that; and on
     account of my making frequent complaints they turned the children
     away. They worked with Smith till they left. Smith was of a nasty
     disposition, rather. I would say of the slubbers generally, that
     they are a morose, ill-tempered set. Their pay depends on the
     children's work. The slubbers are often off drinking, and then
     they must work harder to get the cardings up. I have seen that
     often. That is in the lamb's-wool trade. Mr. Gamble is one of the
     most humane men that ever lived, by all that I hear, and he will
     not allow the slubbers to touch the children, on any pretence;
     if they will not work, he turns them away. There gets what they
     call flies on the cardings, that is, when the cardings are not
     properly pieced; and it is a general rule to strike the children
     when that happens too often. They allow so many ratched cardings,
     as they call them, in a certain time; and if there are more, they
     call the children round to the billy-gate and strap them. I have
     seen the straps which some of them use; they are as big as the
     strap on my son's lathe yonder, about an inch broad, (looking
     at it.) Oh, it is bigger than this, (it measured 7-8ths.) It is
     about an inch. I have seen the children lie down on the floor,
     and the slubber strike on them as they lay. It depends entirely
     on the temper of the man; sometimes they will only swear at them,
     sometimes they will beat them. They will be severe with them
     at one time, and very familiar at another, and run on with all
     sorts of debauched language, and take indecent liberties with the
     feeders and other big girls, before the children. That is the
     reason why they call the factories hell-holes. There are some
     a good deal different. The overlookers do not take much notice
     generally. They pick out bullies, generally, for overlookers. It
     is very necessary to have men of a determined temper to keep the
     hands in order.

     "'I have known my children get strapped two or three times
     between a meal. At all times of the day. Sometimes they would
     escape for a day or two together, just as it might happen. Then
     they get strapped for being too late. They make the children
     sum up, that is, pick up the waste, and clean up the billies
     during the meal-time, so that the children don't get their time.
     The cruelty complained of in the factories is chiefly from the
     slubbers. There is nobody so closely connected with the children
     as the slubbers. There is no other part of the machinery with
     which I am acquainted where the pay of the man depends on the
     work of the children so much.'"

     "Joseph Badder, a slubber, deposed: 'Slubbing and spinning is
     very heavy. Those machines are thrown aside now. The spinners did
     not like them, nor the masters neither. They did not turn off
     such stuff as they expected. I always found it more difficult
     to keep my piecers awake the last hours of a winter's evening.
     I have told the master, and I have been told by him that I did
     not half hide them. This was when they were working from six to
     eight. I have known the children hide themselves in the store
     among the wool, so that they should not go home when the work was
     over, when we have worked till ten or eleven. I have seen six or
     eight fetched out of the store and beat home; beat out of the
     mill. However, I do not know why they should hide themselves,
     unless it was they were too tired to go home. My piecers had
     two hours for meals. Other parts of the work I have known them
     work children, from seven to twelve in age, from six in the
     morning till ten or eleven at night, and give no time for meals;
     eat their victuals as they worked; the engines running all the
     time. The engine never stopped at meal-times; it was just as the
     spinner chose whether the children worked on or not. They made
     more work if they went on. I never would allow any one to touch
     my piecers. The foreman would come at times, and has strapped
     them, and I told him I would serve him the same if he touched
     them. I have seen the man who worked the other billy beat his
     piecers. I have seen children knocked down by the billy-rollers.
     It is a weapon that a man will easily take up in a passion. I
     do not know any instance of a man being prosecuted for it. The
     parents are unwilling, for fear the children should lose their
     work. I know Thorpe has been up before the magistrate half a
     dozen times or more, on the complaint of the parents. He has been
     before the bench, at the Exchange, as we call it, and I have seen
     him when he came back, when the magistrates have reprimanded
     Thorpe, and told the parents they had better take the children
     away. After that he has been sometimes half drunk, perhaps, and
     in a passion, and would strap them for the least thing, more
     than he did before. I remember once that he was fined; it was
     about two years and a half ago; it was for beating a little
     girl; he was fined 10_s._ I have seen him strap the women when
     they took the part of the children. The master complained he was
     not strict enough. I know from Thorpe that the master always
     paid his expenses when he was before the magistrate. I believe
     they generally do in all the factories. I have frequently had
     complaints against myself by the parents of the children, for
     beating them. I used to beat them. I am sure no man can do
     without it who works long hours; I am sure he cannot. I told them
     I was very sorry after I had done it, but I was forced to do it.
     The master expected me to do my work, and I could not do mine
     unless they did theirs. One lad used to say to me frequently,
     (he was a jocular kind of lad,) that he liked a good beating at
     times, it helped him to do his work. I used to joke with them to
     keep up their spirits. _I have seen them fall asleep, and they
     have been performing their work with their hands while they were
     asleep, after the billy had stopped, when their work was done. I
     have stopped and looked at them for two minutes, going through
     the motions of piecening, fast asleep, when there was really
     no work to do, and they were really doing nothing._ I believe,
     when we have been working long hours, that they have never been
     washed, but on a Saturday night, for weeks together.

     "Thomas Clarke, (examined at request of Joseph Badder:) 'I am
     aged eleven, I work at Cooper's factory; the rope-walk. I spin
     there. I earn 4_s._ a week there. I have been there about one
     year and a half. I was in Ross's factory before that. I was
     piecener there. I piecened for Joseph Badder one while, then
     for George Castle. I piecened for Badder when he left. Badder
     told me I was wanted here. We have not been talking about it. I
     remember that Jesse came to the machine, and Badder would not let
     him go nigh, and so they got a scuffling about it. I was very
     nigh nine years of age when I first went to piecen. I got 2_s._
     6_d._ a week, at first. I think I was a good hand at it. When I
     had been there half a year I got 3_s._ Badder used to strap me
     some odd times. Some odd times he'd catch me over the head, but
     it was mostly on the back. He made me sing out. He has taken
     the billy-roller to me sometimes; about four times, I think. He
     used to take us over the shoulders with that; he would have done
     us an injury if he had struck us over the head. I never saw any
     one struck over the head with a billy-roller. He would strap us
     about twelve times at once. He used to strap us sometimes over
     the head. He used to strap us for letting his cards run through.
     I believe it was my fault. If we had had cardings to go on with
     we would have kept it from running through. It was nobody's fault
     that there were no cardings, only the slubber's fault that worked
     so hard. I have had, maybe, six stacks of cardings put up while
     he was out. When he came in, he would work harder to work down
     the stacks. Sometimes he would stop the card. He used to strap
     us most when he was working hardest. He did not strap us more at
     night than he did in the daytime. He would sometimes stay half a
     day. When he was away, as soon as we had six stacks of cardings
     up, the rule was to stop, and then we'd pick up the waste about
     the room, and take a play sometimes, but very seldom. Mr. Ross
     paid me. Badder never paid me when he was out. I never got any
     money from Badder. I used sometimes to fall asleep. The boy next
     to me used often to fall asleep: John Breedon; he got many a
     stroke. That was when we were working for Castle; that would be
     about six o'clock. He was about the size of me; he was older than
     I was. They always strapped us if we fell asleep. Badder was a
     better master than Castle. Castle used to get a rope, about as
     thick as my thumb, and double it, and put knots in it, and lick
     us with that. That was a good bit worse than the strap. I was to
     no regular master afterward; I used to do bits about the room.
     I ran away because Thorpe used to come and strap me. He did not
     know what he was strapping me for; it was just as he was in his
     humours. I never saw such a man; he would strap any one as did
     not please him. I only worked for him a week or two. I didn't
     like it, and I ran away. He would strap me if even there was a
     bit of waste lying about the room. I have had marks on my back
     from Castle's strapping me.'"

In Nottingham, also, there is much cruelty shown in the treatment of
the children, as will appear from the following evidence taken by Mr.
Power:—

     "Williamson, the father: 'My two sons, one ten, the other
     thirteen, work at Milnes's factory, at Lenton. They go at
     half-past five in the morning; don't stop at breakfast or
     tea-time. They stop at dinner half an hour. Come home at a
     quarter before ten. They used to work till ten, sometimes
     eleven, sometimes twelve. They earn between them 6_s._ 2_d._ per
     week. One of them, the eldest, worked at Wilson's for 2 years
     at 2_s._ 3_d._ a week. He left because the overlooker beat him
     and loosened a tooth for him. I complained, and they turned him
     away for it. They have been gone to work sixteen hours now;
     they will be very tired when they come home at half-past nine.
     I have a deal of trouble to get 'em up in the morning. I have
     been obliged to beat 'em with a strap in their shirts, and to
     pinch 'em, in order to get them well awake. It made me cry to be
     obliged to do it.'

     "'Did you make them cry?' 'Yes, sometimes. They will be home
     soon, very tired, and you will see them.' I preferred walking
     toward the factory to meet them. I saw the youngest only, and
     asked him a few questions. He said, 'I'm sure I shan't stop to
     talk to you; I want to go home and get to bed; I must be up at
     half-past five again to-morrow morning.'

     "G— — and A— —, examined. The boy: 'I am going fourteen: my
     sister is eleven. I have worked in Milnes's factory two years.
     She goes there also. We are both in the clearing-room. I think we
     work too long hours; I've been badly with it. We go at half-past
     five, give over at half-past nine. I'm now just come home. We
     sometimes stay till twelve. We are obliged to work over-hours. I
     have 4_s._ a week; that is, for staying from six till seven. They
     pay for over-hours besides. I asked to come away one night,
     lately, at eight o'clock, being ill; I was told if I went I must
     not come again. I am not well now. I can seldom eat any breakfast;
     my appetite is very bad. I have had a bad cold for a week.'

     "Father: 'I believe him to be ill from being over-worked. My
     little girl came home the other day, cruelly beaten. I took her
     to Mr. Milnes; did not see him, but showed Mrs. Milnes the marks.
     I thought of taking it before a magistrate, but was advised
     to let it drop. They might have turned both my children away.
     That man's name is Blagg; he is always strapping the children.
     I shan't let the boy go to them much longer; I shall try to
     apprentice him; it's killing him by inches; he falls asleep
     over his food at night. I saw an account of such things in the
     newspaper, and thought how true it was of my own children.'

     "Mother: 'I have worked in the same mills myself. The same man
     was there then. I have seen him behave shocking to the children.
     He would take 'em by the hair of the head and drag 'em about the
     room. He has been there twelve years. There's a many young ones
     in that hot room. There's six of them badly now, with bad eyes
     and sick-headache. This boy of ours has always been delicate
     from a child. His appetite is very bad now; he does not eat his
     breakfast sometimes for two or three days together. The little
     girl bears it well; she is healthy. I should prefer their coming
     home at seven, without additional wages. The practice of working
     over-hours has been constantly pursued at Milnes's factory.'

     "John Fortesque, at his own house, nine P.M. 'I am an overlooker
     in this factory. We have about one hundred hands. Forty quite
     children; most of the remainder are young women. Our regular
     day is from six to seven. It should be an hour for dinner, but
     it is only half an hour. I don't know how it comes so. We have
     had some bad men in authority who made themselves big; it is
     partly the master. No time is allowed for tea or breakfast;
     there used to be a quarter of an hour for each; it's altered
     now. We call it twelve hours a day. Over-time is paid for extra.
     When we are busy we work over-hours. Our present time is till
     half-past nine. It has been so all winter, and since to this
     time. We have some very young ones; as young as eight. I don't
     like to take them younger; they're not able to do our work. We
     have three doubling-rooms, a clearing-room, and a gassing-room.
     We have about forty in the clearing-room. We occasionally find
     it necessary to make a difference as to the time of keeping
     some of the children. We have done so several times. Master has
     said: Pick out the youngest, and let them go, and get some of
     the young women to take their places. I am not the overlooker
     to the clearing-room. Blagg is overlooker there; there has been
     many complaints against him. He's forced to be roughish in order
     to keep his place. If he did not keep the work going on properly
     there would be some one to take his place who would. There are
     some children so obstinate and bad they must be punished. A strap
     is used. Beating is necessary, on account of their being idle.
     We find it out often in this way: we give them the same number
     of bobbins each; when the number they ought to finish falls off,
     then they're corrected. They would try the patience of any man.
     It is not from being tired, I think. It happens as often in the
     middle of the day as at other times. I don't like the beating
     myself; I would rather there were little deductions in their
     earnings for these offences. I am sure the children would not
     like to have any of their earnings stopped; I am sure they would
     mind it. From what I have heard parents say about their children
     when at work, I am sure they (the parents) would prefer this
     mode of correction; and, I think, it would have an effect on the
     children. At the factory of Messrs. Mills and Elliot they go on
     working all the night as well as day. I believe them to have done
     so for the last year and a half; they have left it off about a
     week. (_A respectable female here entered with a petition against
     <DW64>-slavery; after she was gone, Mr. Fortesque continued._) I
     think home slavery as bad as it can be abroad; worst of anywhere
     in the factories. The hours we work are much too long for young
     people. Twelve hours' work is enough for young or old, confined
     in a close place. The work is light, but it's standing so long
     that tires them. I have been here about two years; I have seen
     bad effects produced on people's health by it, but not to any
     great degree. It must be much worse at Mills and Elliot's;
     working night as well as day, the rooms are never clear of
     people's breaths. We set our windows open when we turn the hands
     out. The gas, too, which they use at night, makes it worse.'"

The italicised parenthesis is, _bonâ fide_, a part of the Report,
as may be proved by consulting the parliamentary document. The
_respectable female_ was probably the original of Dickens's Mrs.
Jellaby.

Read these references to a case of barbarity in a factory at Wigan:—

     _Extract from a speech made by Mr. Grant, a Manchester spinner,
     at a meeting held at Chorlton-upon-Medlock; reported in the
     Manchester Courier of 20th April, 1833._

     "Much was said of the black slaves and their chains. No doubt
     they were entitled to freedom, but were there no slaves except
     those of sable hue? Has slavery no sort of existence among
     children of the factories? Yes, and chains were sometimes
     introduced, though those chains might not be forged of iron. He
     would name an instance of this kind of slavery, which took place
     at Wigan. A child, not ten years of age, having been late at
     the factory one morning, had, as a punishment, a rope put round
     its neck, to which a weight of twenty pounds was attached; and,
     thus burdened like a galley-slave, it was compelled to labour
     for a length of time in the midst of an impure atmosphere and a
     heated room. [Loud cries of, Shame!] The truth of this has been
     denied by Mr. Richard Potter, the member for Wigan; but he (the
     speaker) reiterated its correctness. He has seen the child; and
     its mother's eyes were filled with tears while she told him this
     shocking tale of infant suffering."

     _Extract from a speech made by Mr. Oastler, on the occasion of a
     meeting at the City of London Tavern; reported in the Times, of
     the 25th of February, 1833._

     "In a mill at Wigan, the children, for any slight neglect, were
     loaded with weights of twenty pounds, passed over their shoulders
     and hanging behind their backs. Then there was a murderous
     instrument called a billy-roller, about eight feet long and one
     inch and a half in diameter, with which many children had been
     knocked down, and in some instances murdered by it."

     _Extract from a speech made by Mr. Oastler, at a meeting held in
     the theatre at Bolton, and reported in the Bolton Chronicle, of
     the 30th of March, 1833._

     "In one factory they have a door which covers a quantity of cold
     water, in which they plunge the sleepy victim to awake it. In
     Wigan they tie a great weight to their backs. I knew the Russians
     made the Poles carry iron weights in their exile to Siberia, but
     it was reserved for Christian England thus to use an infant."

Rowland Detroiser deposed before the Central Board of Commissioners,
concerning the treatment of children in the cotton factories:—

     "'The children employed in a cotton-factory labour, are not
     all under the control or employed by the proprietor. A very
     considerable number is employed and paid by the spinners and
     stretchers, when there are stretchers. These are what are called
     piecers and scavengers; the youngest children being employed
     in the latter capacity, and as they grow up, for a time in the
     scavengers and piecers. In coarse mills, that is, mills in which
     low numbers of yarn are spun, the wages of the scavengers is
     commonly from 1_s._ 6_d._ to 2_s._ 6_d._, according to size and
     ability. The men do not practise the system of fining, generally
     speaking, and especially toward these children. The sum which
     they earn is so small it would be considered by many a shame to
     make it less. They do not, however, scruple to give them a good
     bobbying, as it is called; that is, beating them with a rope
     thickened at one end, or, in some few brutal instances, with the
     combined weapons of fist and foot.'

     "'But this severity, you say, is practised toward the children
     who are employed by the men, and not employed by the masters?'
     'Yes.'

     "'And the men inflict the punishment?' 'Yes.'

     "'Not the overlookers?' 'Not in these instances.'

     "'But how do you reconcile your statement with the fact that
     the men have been the principal complainers of the cruelties
     practised toward the children, and also the parties who are most
     active in endeavouring to obtain for the children legislative
     protection?' 'My statement is only fact. I do not profess to
     reconcile the apparent inconsistency. The men are in some measure
     forced by circumstances into the practice of that severity of
     which I have spoken.'

     "'Will you explain these circumstances?' 'The great object in a
     cotton mill is to turn as much work off as possible, in order
     to compensate by quantity for the smallness of the profit. To
     that end every thing is made subservient. There are two classes
     of superintendents in those establishments. The first class are
     what are called managers, from their great power and authority.
     Their especial business is to watch over the whole concern, and
     constantly to attend to the quantity and quality of the yarn,
     &c. turned off. To these individuals the second class, called
     overlookers, are immediately responsible for whatever is amiss.
     The business of overlookers is to attend to particular rooms and
     classes of hands, for the individual conduct of which they are
     held responsible. These individuals, in some mills, are paid in
     proportion to the quantity of work turned off; in all, they are
     made responsible for that quantity, as well as for the quality;
     and as the speed of each particular machine is known, nothing
     is more easy than to calculate the quantity which it ought to
     produce. This quantity is the maximum; the minimum allowed is
     the least possible deficiency, certain contingencies being
     taken into account. In those mills in which the overlookers are
     paid in proportion to the quantity of work turned off, interest
     secures the closest attention to the conduct of every individual
     under them; and in other mills, fear of losing their places
     operates to produce the same effect. It is one continual system
     of driving; and, in order to turn off as great a quantity of
     work as is possible, the manager drives the overlookers, and
     the overlookers drive the men. Every spinner knows that he must
     turn off the average quantity of work which his wheels are
     capable of producing, or lose his place if deficiencies are
     often repeated; and consequently, the piecers and scavengers are
     drilled, in their turns, to the severest attention. On their
     constant attention, as well as his own, depends the quantity of
     work done. So that it is not an exaggeration to say, that their
     powers of labour are subjected to the severity of an undeviating
     exaction. A working man is estimated in these establishments
     in proportion to his physical capacity rather than his moral
     character, and therefore it is not difficult to infer what must
     be the consequences. It begets a system of debasing tyranny in
     almost every department, the most demoralizing in its effects.
     Kind words are godsends in many cotton factories, and oaths
     and blows the usual order of the day. The carder must produce
     the required quantity of drawing and roving; the spinner, the
     required quantity of yarn; a system of overbearing tyranny is
     adopted toward everybody under them; they are cursed into the
     required degree of attention, and blows are resorted to with the
     children when oaths fail, and sometimes even before an oath
     has been tried. In short, the men must do work enough, or lose
     their places. It is a question between losing their places and
     the exercise of severity of discipline in all cases; between
     starvation and positive cruelty, in many. There are exceptions,
     but my conviction is that they are comparatively few indeed. To
     me the whole system has always appeared one of tyranny."

Mr. Abraham Whitehead, clothier, of Scholes, near Holmfirth, examined
by Parliamentary Committee:—

     "'What has been the treatment which you have observed that these
     children have received at the mills, to keep them attentive for
     so many hours, at so early ages?' 'They are generally cruelly
     treated; so cruelly treated that they dare not, hardly for their
     lives, be too late at their work in the morning. When I have
     been at the mills in the winter season, when the children are at
     work in the evening, the very first thing they inquire is, "What
     o'clock is it?" If we should answer, "Seven," they say, "Only
     seven! it is a great while to ten, but we must not give up till
     ten o'clock, or past." They look so anxious to know what o'clock
     it is that I am convinced the children are fatigued, and think
     that, even at seven, they have worked too long. My heart has
     been ready to bleed for them when I have seen them so fatigued,
     for they appear in such a state of apathy and insensibility as
     really not to know whether they are doing their work or not. They
     usually throw a bunch of ten or twelve cordings across the hand,
     and take one off at a time; but I have seen the bunch entirely
     finished, and they have attempted to take off another, when they
     have not had a cording at all; they have been so fatigued as not
     to know whether they were at work or not.'

     "'Do they frequently fall into errors and mistakes in piecing
     when thus fatigued?' 'Yes; the errors they make when thus
     fatigued are, that instead of placing the cording in this way,
     (describing it,) they are apt to place them obliquely, and that
     causes a flying, which makes bad yarn; and when the billy-spinner
     sees that, he takes his strap, or the billy-roller, and says,
     "Damn thee, close it; little devil, close it;" and they strike
     the child with the strap or billy roller.'

     "'You have noticed this in the after part of the day more
     particularly?' 'It is a very difficult thing to go into a mill in
     the latter part of the day, particularly in winter, and not to
     hear some of the children crying for being beaten for this very
     fault.'

     "'How are they beaten?' 'That depends on the humanity of the
     slubber or billy-spinner. Some have been beaten so violently that
     they have lost their lives in consequence of being so beaten;
     and even a young girl has had the end of a billy-roller jammed
     through her cheek.'

     "'What is the billy-roller?' 'A heavy rod of from two to three
     yards long, and of two inches in diameter, and with an iron
     pivot at each end. It runs on the top of the cording, over the
     feeding-cloth. I have seen them take the billy-roller and rap
     them on the head, making their heads crack so that you might have
     heard the blow at a distance of six or eight yards, in spite of
     the din and rolling of the machinery. Many have been knocked down
     by the instrument. I knew a boy very well, of the name of Senior,
     with whom I went to school; he was struck with a billy-roller
     on the elbow; it occasioned a swelling; he was not able to work
     more than three or four weeks after the blow; and he died in
     consequence. There was a woman in Holmfirth who was beaten very
     much: I am not quite certain whether on the head; and she lost
     her life in consequence of being beaten with a billy-roller.
     That which was produced (showing one) is not the largest size;
     there are some a foot longer than that; it is the most common
     instrument with which these poor little pieceners are beaten,
     more commonly than with either stick or strap.'

     "'How is it detached from the machinery?' 'Supposing this to be
     the billy-frame, (describing it,) at each end there is a socket
     open; the cording runs underneath here, just in this way, and
     when the billy-spinner is angry, and sees the little piecener has
     done wrong, he takes off this and says, "Damn thee, close it."'

     "'You have seen the poor children in this situation?' 'I have
     seen them frequently struck with the billy-roller; I have seen
     one so struck as to occasion its death; but I once saw a piecener
     struck in the face by a billy-spinner with his hand, until its
     nose bled very much; and when I said, "Oh dear, I would not
     suffer a child of mine to be treated thus," the man has said "How
     the devil do you know but what he deserved it? What have you to
     do with it?"'"

But the most complete evidence in regard to the slavery in the
factories was that given to the Parliamentary Committee, by a man
named Peter Smart, whose experience and observation as a slave and a
slave-driver in the factories of Scotland, enabled him to substantiate
all the charges made against the system. His history possesses the
deepest interest, and should be attentively perused:—

     "'Where do you reside?' 'At Dundee.'

     "'What age are you?' 'Twenty-seven.'

     "'What is your business?' 'An overseer of a flax-mill.'

     "'Have you worked in a mill from your youth?' 'Yes, since I was
     five years of age.'

     "'Had you a father and mother in the country at that time?' 'My
     mother stopped in Perth, about eleven miles from the mill, and my
     father was in the army.'

     "'Were you hired for any length of time when you went?' 'Yes, my
     mother got 15_s._ for six years, I having my meat and clothes.'

     "'At whose mill?' 'Mr. Andrew Smith's, at Gateside.'

     "'Is that in Fifeshire?' 'Yes.'

     "'What were your hours of labour, do you recollect, in that
     mill?' 'In the summer season we were very scarce of water.'

     "'But when you had sufficient water, how long did you work?' 'We
     began at four o'clock in the morning, and worked till ten or
     eleven at night; as long as we could stand upon our feet.'

     "'You hardly could keep up for that length of time?' 'No, we
     often fell asleep.'

     "'How were you kept to your work for that length of time; were
     you chastised?' 'Yes, very often, and very severely.'

     "'How long was this ago?' 'It is between twenty-one and
     twenty-two years since I first went.'

     "'Were you kept in the premises constantly?' 'Constantly.'

     "'Locked up?' 'Yes, locked up.'

     "'Night and day?' 'Night and day; I never went home while I was
     at the mill.'

     "'Was it possible to keep up your activity for such a length of
     time as that?' 'No, it was impossible to do it; we often fell
     asleep.'

     "'Were not accidents then frequently occurring at that mill
     from over-fatigue?' 'Yes, I got my hands injured there by the
     machinery.'

     "'Have you lost any of your fingers?' 'Yes, I have lost one, and
     the other hand is very much injured.'

     "'At what time of the night was that when your hands became thus
     injured?' 'Twilight, between seven and eight o'clock.'

     "'Do you attribute that accident to over-fatigue and drowsiness?'
     'Yes, and to a want of knowledge of the machinery. I was only
     five years old when I went to the mills, and I did not know the
     use of the different parts of the machinery.'

     "'Did you ever know any other accident happen in that mill?'
     'Yes, there was a girl that fell off her stool when she was
     piecing; she fell down and was killed on the spot.'

     "'Was that considered by the hands in the mill to have been
     occasioned by drowsiness and excessive fatigue?' 'Yes.'

     "'How old were you at the time this took place?' 'I don't
     know, for I have been so long in the mills that I have got no
     education, and I have forgot the like of those things.'

     "'Have you any recollection of what the opinions of the people in
     the mill were at that time as to the cause of the accident?' 'I
     heard the rest of them talking about it, and they said that it
     was so. We had long stools that we sat upon then, old-fashioned;
     we have no such things as those now.'

     "'Is that the only accident that you have known to happen in that
     mill?' 'There was a boy, shortly before I got my fingers hurt,
     that had his fingers hurt in the same way that I had.'

     "'Was there any other killed?' 'There was one killed, but I could
     not say how it was; but she was killed in the machinery.'

     "'Has any accident happened in that mill during the last twelve
     years?' 'I could not say; it is twelve years since I left it.'

     "'Is that mill going on still?' 'Yes.'

     "'Speaking of the hours that you had to labour there, will you
     state to this committee the effect it had upon you?' 'It had a
     very great effect upon me; I was bad in my health.'

     "'Were you frequently much beaten, in order to keep you up to
     your labour?' 'Yes; very often beat till I was bloody at the
     mouth and at the nose, by the overseer and master too.'

     "'How did they beat you?' 'With their hands and with a leather
     thong.'

     "'Were the children, generally speaking, treated as you have
     stated you were?' 'Yes; generally; there are generally fifteen
     boys in one, and a number of girls in the other; they were kept
     separately.'

     "'You say you were locked up night and day?' 'Yes.'

     "'Do the children ever attempt to run away?' 'Very often.'

     "'Were they pursued and brought back again?' 'Yes, the overseer
     pursued them, and brought them back.'

     "'Did you ever attempt to run away?' 'Yes, I ran away twice.'

     "'And you were brought back?' 'Yes; and I was sent up to the
     master's loft, and thrashed with a whip for running away.'

     "'Were you bound to this man?' 'Yes, for six years.'

     "'By whom were you bound?' 'My mother got 15_s._ for the six
     years.'

     "'Do you know whether the children were, in point of fact,
     compelled to stop during the whole time for which they were
     engaged?' 'Yes, they were.'

     "'By law?' 'I cannot say by law; but they were compelled by the
     master; I never saw any law used there but the law of their own
     hands.'

     "'Does that practice of binding continue in Scotland now?' 'Not
     in the place I am in.'

     "'How long since it has ceased?' 'For the last two years there
     has been no engagement in Dundee.'

     "'Are they generally engagements from week to week, or from month
     to month?' 'From month to month.'

     "'Do you know whether a practice has prevailed of sending poor
     children, who are orphans, from workhouses and hospitals to that
     work?' 'There were fifteen, at the time I was there, came from
     Edinburgh Poorhouse.'

     "'Do you know what the Poorhouse in Edinburgh is?' 'It is just a
     house for putting poor orphans in.'

     "'Do you know the name of that establishment?' 'No.'

     "'Do you happen to know that these fifteen came to the mill from
     an establishment for the reception of poor orphans?' 'Yes.'

     "'How many had you at the mill?' 'Fifteen.'

     "'At what ages?' 'From 12 to 15.'

     "'Were they treated in a similar manner to yourself?' 'Yes, we
     were all treated alike; there was one treatment for all, from the
     oldest to the youngest.'

     "'Did not some of you attempt, not merely to get out of the
     mill, but out of the country?' 'Yes; I have known some go down
     to the boat at Dundee, in order to escape by that means, and the
     overseer has caught them there, and brought them back again.'

     "'Is there not a ferry there?' 'Yes.'

     "'When persons disembark there, they may embark on the ferry?'
     'Yes.'

     "'Did your parents live in Dundee at this time?' 'No.'

     "'Had you any friends at Dundee?' 'No.'

     "'The fact is, that you had nobody that could protect you?' 'No,
     I had no protection; the first three years I was at the mill I
     never saw my mother at all; and when I got this accident with my
     hand she never knew of it.'

     "'Where did she reside at that time?' 'At Perth.'

     "'You say that your master himself was in the habit of treating
     you in the way you have mentioned?' 'Yes.'

     "'Describe what the treatment was?' 'The treatment was very bad;
     perhaps a box on the ear, or very frequently a kick with his
     foot.'

     "'Were you punished for falling asleep in that mill?' 'Yes, I
     have got my licks for it, and been punished very severely for it.'

     "'Where did you go to then?' 'I went to a mill in Argyleshire.'

     "'How many years were you in this mill of Mr. Andrew Smith's, of
     Gateside?' 'Eleven years.'

     "'What age were you, when you went to this mill in Argyleshire?'
     'About 16.'

     "'You stated that you were bound to stay with Mr. Smith for six
     years; how came you then to continue with him the remaining five
     years?' 'At the end of those six years I got 3_l._ a year from my
     master, and found my own clothes out of that.'

     "'Were you then contented with your situation?' 'No, I cannot say
     that I was; but I did not know any thing of any other business.'

     "'You had not been instructed in any other business, and you did
     not know where you could apply for a maintenance?' 'No.'

     "'To whose mill did you then remove?' 'To Messrs. Duff, Taylor &
     Co., at Ruthven, Forfarshire.'

     "'What were your hours of labour there?' 'Fourteen hours.'

     "'Exclusive of the time for meals and refreshment?' 'Yes.'

     "'Was that a flax mill?' 'Yes.'

     "'Did you work for that number of hours both winter and summer?'
     'Yes, both winter and summer.'

     "'How old were you at this time?' 'Sixteen.'

     "'Are you aware whether any increase was made in the number of
     hours of work, in the year 1819, by an agreement between the
     masters and the workmen?' 'No, I cannot say as to that.'

     "'You think there could not be much increase of your previous
     labour, whatever agreement might have been made upon the
     subject?' 'No, there could have been no increase made to that; it
     was too long for that.'

     "'Were the hands chastised up to their labour in that mill?'
     'Yes.'

     "'That was the practice there also?' 'Yes.'

     "'Do you mean to state that you were treated with great cruelty
     at the age of 16, and that you still remain in the mill?' 'I was
     not beaten so severely as I was in Fifeshire.'

     "'You were not so beaten as to induce you to leave that mill?'
     'If I had left it, I did not know where to go.'

     "'Did you try to get into any other occupation?' 'Yes, I went
     apprentice to a flax-dresser at that time.'

     "'What was the reason that you did not keep at it?' 'My hand was
     so disabled, that it was found I was not able to follow that
     business.'

     "'You found you could not get your bread at that business?' 'Yes.'

     "'Consequently, you were obliged to go back to the mills?' 'Yes.'

     "'Was it the custom, when you were 16 years of age, for the
     overseer to beat you?' 'Yes, the boys were often beaten very
     severely in the mill.'

     "'At this time you were hired for wages; how much had you?'
     'Half-a-crown a week.'

     "'And your maintenance?' 'No, I maintained myself.'

     "'Is not that much lower than the wages now given to people of
     sixteen years of age?' 'I have a boy about sixteen that has 4_s._
     6_d._ a week, but he is in a high situation; he is oiler of the
     machinery.'

     "'Besides, you have been injured in your hand by the accident to
     which you have alluded, and that probably might have interfered
     with the amount of your wages?' 'Yes.'

     "'What duty had you in the mill at this time, for the performance
     of which you received 2_s._ 6_d._ a week, when you were at Duff,
     Taylor & Co.'s?' 'I was a card-feeder.'

     "'Did your hand prevent you working at that time as well as other
     boys of the same age, in feeding the cards?' 'Yes, on the old
     system; I was not able to feed with a stick at that time; it is
     done away with now.'

     "'How long did you stay there?' 'About fifteen months.'

     "'How many hours did you work there?' 'Fourteen.'

     "'Do you mean that you worked fourteen hours actual labour?'
     'Yes.'

     "'Was it a water-mill?' 'Yes.'

     "'Were you ever short of water?' 'We had plenty of water.'

     "'How long did you stop for dinner?' 'Half an hour.'

     "'What time had you for breakfast, or for refreshment in the
     afternoon?' 'We had no time for that.'

     "'Did you eat your breakfast and dinner in the mill then?' 'No,
     we went to the victualling house.'

     "'Was that some building attached to the mill?' 'Yes, at a a
     small distance from the mill.'

     "'Was it provided for the purpose of the mill?' 'Yes, we got our
     bread and water there.'

     "'Did you sleep in a bothy at Duff & Taylor's?' 'Yes.'

     "'Were you locked up in a bothy?' 'No.'

     "'What is a bothy?' 'It is a house with beds all round.'

     "'Is it not the practice for farm-servants, and others, who are
     unmarried, to sleep in such places?' 'I could not say as to that;
     I am not acquainted with the farm system.'

     "'To what mill did you next go?' 'To Mr. Webster's, at Battus
     Den, within eleven miles of Dundee.'

     "'In what situation did you act there?' 'I acted as an overseer.'

     "'At 17 years of age?' 'Yes.'

     "'Did you inflict the same punishment that you yourself had
     experienced?' 'I went as an overseer; not as a slave, but as a
     slave-driver.'

     "'What were the hours of labour in that mill?' 'My master told
     me that I had to produce a certain quantity of yarn; the hours
     were at that time fourteen; I said that I was not able to produce
     the quantity of yarn that was required; I told him if he took
     the timepiece out of the mill I would produce that quantity, and
     after that time I found no difficulty in producing the quantity.'

     "'How long have you worked per day in order to produce the
     quantity your master required?' 'I have wrought nineteen hours.'

     "'Was this a water-mill?' 'Yes, water and steam both.'

     "'To what time have you worked?' 'I have seen the mill going till
     it was past 12 o'clock on the Saturday night.'

     "'So that the mill was still working on the Sabbath morning.'
     'Yes.'

     "'Were the workmen paid by the piece, or by the day?' 'No, all
     had stated wages.'

     "'Did not that almost compel you to use great severity to the
     hands then under you?' 'Yes; I was compelled often to beat them,
     in order to get them to attend to their work, from their being
     overwrought.'

     "'Were not the children exceedingly fatigued at that time?' 'Yes,
     exceedingly fatigued.'

     "'Were the children bound in the same way in that mill?' 'No;
     they were bound from one year's end to another, for twelve
     months.'

     "'Did you keep the hands locked up in the same way in that mill?'
     'Yes, we locked up the mill; but we did not lock the bothy.'

     "'Did you find that the children were unable to pursue their
     labour properly to that extent?' 'Yes; they have been brought to
     that condition, that I have gone and fetched up the doctor to
     them, to see what was the matter with them, and to know whether
     they were able to rise, or not able to rise; they were not at all
     able to rise; we have had great difficulty in getting them up.'

     "'When that was the case, how long have they been in bed,
     generally speaking?' 'Perhaps not above four or five hours in
     their beds. Sometimes we were very ill-plagued by men coming
     about the females' bothy.'

     "'Were your hands principally girls?' 'Girls and boys all
     together; we had only a very few boys.'

     "'Did the boys sleep in the girls' bothy?' 'Yes, all together.'

     "'Do you mean to say that there was only one bothy for the girls
     and for the boys who worked there?' 'Yes.'

     "'What age were those girls and boys?' 'We had them from 8 to 20
     years of age; and the boys were from 10 to 14, or thereabouts.'

     "'You spoke of men who came about the bothy; did the girls expect
     them?' 'Yes; of course they had their sweethearts.'

     "'Did they go into the bothy?' 'Yes; and once I got a sore
     beating from one of them, for ordering him out of the bothy.'

     "'How long were you in that mill?' 'Three years and nine months.'

     "'And where did you go to next?' 'To Messrs. Anderson & Company,
     at Moneyfieth, about six miles from Dundee.'

     "'What were your hours of labour there?' 'Fifteen hours.'

     "'Exclusive of the hour for refreshment?' 'Yes; we seldom stopped
     for refreshment there.'

     "'You worked without any intermission at all, frequently?' 'Yes;
     we made a turn-about.'

     "'Explain what you mean by a turn-about?' 'We let them out by
     turns in the days.'

     "'How long did you let one go out?' 'Just as short a time as they
     could have to take their victuals in.'

     "'What were the ages of the children principally employed in that
     place?' 'From about 12 to 20; they were all girls that I had
     there, except one boy, and I think he was 8 years of age.'

     "'Was this a flax-mill?' 'Yes, all flax.'

     "'Did you find that the children there were exceedingly
     distressed with their work?' 'Yes; for the mill being in the
     country, we were very scarce of workers, and the master often
     came out and compelled them by flattery to go and work half the
     night after their day's labour, and then they had only the other
     half to sleep.'

     "'You mean that the master induced them by offering them extra
     wages to go to work half the night?' 'Yes.'

     "'Was that very prejudicial to the girls so employed?' 'Yes; I
     have seen some girls that were working half the night, that have
     fainted and fallen down at their work, and have had to be carried
     out.'

     "'Did you use severity in that mill?' 'No, I was not very severe
     there.'

     "'You find, perhaps, that the girls do not require that severity
     that the boys do?' 'Yes.'

     "'How large was that mill?' 'There were only eighteen of us
     altogether.'

     "'From what you have seen, should you say that the treatment of
     the children and the hours of labour are worse in the small or in
     the large mills?' 'I could not answer that question.'

     "'Have you ever been in any large mill?' 'Yes, I am in one just
     now, Mr. Baxter's.'

     "'Is the treatment of the children better in that large mill than
     in the smaller mills in which you have been usually?' 'There is
     little difference; the treatment is all one.'

     "'To whose mill did you next go?' 'To Messrs. Baxter & Brothers,
     at Dundee.'

     "'State the hours of labour which you worked when you were there,
     when trade was brisk?' 'Thirteen hours and twenty minutes.'

     "'What time was allowed for meals?' 'Fifty minutes each day.'

     "'Have you found that the system is getting any better now?' 'No,
     the system is getting no better with us.'

     "'Is there as much beating as there was?' 'There is not so much
     in the licking way.'

     "'But it is not entirely abolished, the system of chastisement?'
     'No, it is far from that.'

     "'Do you think that, where young children are employed, that
     system ought, or can be, entirely dispensed with, of giving
     some chastisement to the children of that age?' 'They would not
     require chastisement if they had shorter daily work.'

     "'Do you mean to state that they are only chastised because
     through weariness they are unable to attend to their work, and
     that they are not chastised for other faults and carelessness as
     well?' 'There may be other causes besides, but weariness is the
     principal fault.'

     "'Does not that over-labour induce that weariness and incapacity
     to do the work, which brings upon them chastisement at other
     parts of the day as well as in the evening?' 'Yes; young girls,
     if their work go wrong, if they see me going round, and my
     countenance with the least frown upon it, they will begin crying
     when I go by.'

     "'Then they live in a state of perpetual alarm and suffering?'
     'Yes.'

     "'Do you think that those children are healthy?' 'No, they are
     far from that; I have two girls that have been under me these
     two years; the one is 13 years, the other 15, and they are both
     orphans and sisters, and both one size, and they very seldom are
     working together, because the one or the other is generally ill;
     and they are working for 3_s._ 6_d._ a week.'

     "'Have you the same system of locking up now?' 'Yes, locking up
     all day.'

     "'Are they locked up at night?' 'No; after they have left their
     work we have nothing more to do with them.'

     "'What time do they leave their work in the evening now?' 'About
     20 minutes past 7.'

     "'What time do they go to it in the morning?' 'Five minutes
     before 5.'

     "'Do you conceive that that is at all consistent with the health
     of those children?' 'It is certainly very greatly against their
     health.'

     "'Is not the flax-spinning business in itself very unwholesome?'
     'Very unwholesome.'

So much for the slavery of the factories—a slavery which destroys
human beings, body and soul. The fate of the helpless children
condemned to such protracted, exhausting toil, under such demoralizing
influences, with the lash constantly impending over them, and no
alternative but starvation, is enough to excite the tears of all
humane persons. That such a system should be tolerated in a land
where a Christian church is a part of the government, is indeed
remarkable—proving how greatly men are disinclined to practise what
they profess.

We cannot close this chapter upon the British factories without making
a quotation from a work which, we fear, has been too little read in
the United Kingdom—a fiction merely in construction, a truthful
narrative in fact. We allude to "The Life and Adventures of Michael
Armstrong, the Factory Boy," by Frances Trollope. Copious editions of
this heart-rending story should be immediately issued by the British
publishers. This passage, describing the visit of Michael Armstrong
to the cotton factory, in company with Sir Matthew Dowling and Dr.
Crockley, is drawn to the life:—

     "The party entered the building, whence—as all know who have
     done the like—every sight, every sound, every scent that kind
     nature has fitted to the organs of her children, so as to render
     the mere unfettered use of them a delight, are banished for ever
     and for ever. The ceaseless whirring of a million hissing wheels
     seizes on the tortured ear; and while threatening to destroy
     the delicate sense, seems bent on proving first, with a sort
     of mocking mercy, of how much suffering it can be the cause.
     The scents that reek around, from oil, tainted water, and human
     filth, with that last worst nausea arising from the hot refuse of
     atmospheric air, left by some hundred pairs of labouring lungs,
     render the act of breathing a process of difficulty, disgust, and
     pain. All this is terrible. But what the eye brings home to the
     heart of those who look round upon the horrid earthly hell, is
     enough to make it all forgotten; for who can think of villanous
     smells, or heed the suffering of the ear-racking sounds, while
     they look upon hundreds of helpless children, divested of every
     trace of health, of joyousness, and even of youth! Assuredly
     there is no exaggeration in this; for except only in their
     diminutive size, these suffering infants have no trace of it.
     Lean and distorted limbs, sallow and sunken cheeks, dim hollow
     eyes, that speak unrest and most unnatural carefulness, give to
     each tiny, trembling, unelastic form, a look of hideous premature
     old age.

     "But in the room they entered, the dirty, ragged, miserable
     crew were all in active performance of their various tasks; the
     overlookers, strap in hand, on the alert; the whirling spindles
     urging the little slaves who waited on them to movements as
     unceasing as their own; and the whole monstrous chamber redolent
     of all the various impurities that 'by the perfection of our
     manufacturing system' are converted into 'gales of Araby' for
     the rich, after passing, in the shape of certain poison, through
     the lungs of the poor. So Sir Matthew proudly looked about him
     and approved; and though it was athwart that species of haughty
     frown in which such dignity as his is apt to clothe itself, Dr.
     Crockley failed not to perceive that his friend and patron was
     in good humour, and likely to be pleased by any light and lively
     jestings in which he might indulge. Perceiving, therefore, that
     little Michael passed on with downcast eyes, unrecognised by any,
     he wrote upon a slip of paper, for he knew his voice could not be
     heard—'Make the boy take that bare-legged scavenger wench round
     the neck, and give her a kiss while she is next lying down, and
     let us see them sprawling together.'

     "Sir Matthew read the scroll, and grinned applause.

     "The miserable creature to whom the facetious doctor pointed, was
     a little girl about seven years old, whose office as 'scavenger'
     was to collect incessantly, from the machinery and from the
     floor, the flying fragments of cotton that might impede the work.
     In the performance of this duty, the child was obliged, from time
     to time, to stretch itself with sudden quickness on the ground,
     while the hissing machinery passed over her; and when this is
     skilfully done, and the head, body, and outstretched limbs
     carefully glued to the floor, the steady-moving but threatening
     mass may pass and repass over the dizzy head and trembling body
     without touching it. But accidents frequently occur; and many are
     the flaxen locks rudely torn from infant heads, in the process.

     "It was a sort of vague hope that something comical of this kind
     might occur, which induced Dr. Crockley to propose this frolic to
     his friend, and probably the same idea suggested itself to Sir
     Matthew likewise.

     "'I say, Master Michael!' vociferated the knight, in a scream
     which successfully struggled with the din, 'show your old
     acquaintance that pride has not got the upper hand of you in
     your fine clothes. Take scavenger No. 3, there, round the neck;
     now—now—now, as she lies sprawling, and let us see you give her
     a hearty kiss.'

     "The stern and steady machinery moved onward, passing over the
     body of the little girl, who owed her safety to the miserable
     leanness of her shrunken frame; but Michael moved not.

     "'Are you deaf, you little vermin?' roared Sir Matthew. 'Now
     she's down again. Do what I bid you, or, by the living God, you
     shall smart for it!'

     "Still Michael did not stir, neither did he speak; or if he
     did, his young voice was wholly inaudible, and the anger of Sir
     Matthew was demonstrated by a clenched fist and threatening brow.
     'Where the devil is Parsons?' he demanded, in accents that poor
     Michael both heard and understood. 'Fine as he is, the strap will
     do him good.'

     "In saying this, the great man turned to reconnoitre the space
     he had traversed, and by which his confidential servant must
     approach, and found that he was already within a good yard of him.

     "'That's good—I want you, Parsons. Do you see this little
     rebel here, that I have dressed and treated like one of my own
     children? What d'ye think of his refusing to kiss Miss No. 3,
     scavenger, when I bid him?'

     "'The devil he does?' said the manager, grinning: 'we must see if
     we can't mend that. Mind your hits, Master Piecer, and salute the
     young lady when the mules go back, like a gentleman.'

     "Sir Matthew perceived that his favourite agent feared to enforce
     his first brutal command, and was forced, therefore, to content
     himself with seeing the oiled and grimy face of the filthy little
     girl in contact with that of the now clean and delicate-looking
     Michael. But he felt he had been foiled, and cast a glance upon
     his _protégé_, which seemed to promise that he would not forget
     it."

Nor is the delineation, in the following verses, by Francis M. Blake,
less truthful and touching:—

THE FACTORY CHILD.

    Early one winter's morning,
      The weather wet and wild,
    Some hours before the dawning,
      A father call'd his child;
    Her daily morsel bringing,
      The darksome room he paced,
    And cried, "The bell is ringing—
      My hapless darling, haste."

    "Father, I'm up, but weary,
      I scarce can reach the door,
    And long the way and dreary—
      Oh, carry me once more!
    To help us we've no mother,
      To live how hard we try—
    They kill'd my little brother—
      Like him I'll work and die!"

    His feeble arms they bore her,
      The storm was loud and wild—
    God of the poor man, hear him!
      He prays, "Oh, save my child!"
    Her wasted form seem'd nothing—
      The load was in his heart;
    The sufferer he kept soothing,
      Till at the mill they part.

    The overlooker met her,
      As to the frame she crept,
    And with the thong he beat her,
      And cursed her as she wept.
    Alas! what hours of horror
      Made up her latest day!
    In toil, and pain, and sorrow,
      They slowly pass'd away.

    It seem'd, as she grew weaker,
      The threads the oftener broke,
    The rapid wheels ran quicker,
      And heavier fell the stroke.
    The sun had long descended,
      But night brought no repose:
    _Her_ day began and ended
      As her task-masters chose.

    Then to her little neighbour
      Her only cent she paid,
    To take her last hour's labour,
      While by her frame she laid.
    At last, the engine ceasing,
      The captives homeward flee,
    One thought her strength increasing—
      Her parent soon to see.

    She left, but oft she tarried,
      She fell, and rose no more,
    But by her comrades carried,
      She reach'd her father's door.
    All night with tortured feeling,
      He watch'd his speechless child;
    While close beside her kneeling,
      She knew him not, nor smiled.

    Again the loud bell's ringing,
      Her last perceptions tried,
    When, from her straw bed springing,
      "'Tis time!" she shriek'd, and—died.
    That night a chariot pass'd her,
      While on the ground she lay,
    The daughters of her master
      An evening visit pay;
    Their tender hearts were sighing,
      As <DW64> wrongs were told,
    While the white slave was dying,
      Who gain'd their father's gold!




CHAPTER IV.

SLAVERY IN THE BRITISH WORKSHOPS.


When Captain Hugh Clapperton, the celebrated English traveller,
visited Bello, the sultan of the Felatahs, at Sackatoo, he made
the monarch some presents, in the name of his majesty the king of
England. These were—two new blunderbusses, a pair of double-barrelled
pistols, a pocket compass, an embroidered jacket, a scarlet bornonse,
a pair of scarlet breeches, thirty-four yards of silk, two turban
shawls, four pounds of cloves, four pounds of cinnamon, three cases
of gunpowder with shot and balls, three razors, three clasp-knives,
three looking-glasses, six snuff-boxes, a spy-glass, and a large
tea-tray. The sultan said—"Every thing is wonderful, but you are the
greatest curiosity of all!" and then added, "What can I give that is
most acceptable to the king of England?" Clapperton replied—"The
most acceptable service you can render to the king of England is to
co-operate with his majesty in putting a stop to the slave-trade on the
coast, as the king of England sends large ships to cruise there, for
the sole purpose of seizing all vessels engaged in this trade, whose
crews are thrown into prison, and of liberating the unfortunate slaves,
on whom lands and houses are conferred, at one of our settlements in
Africa." "What!" exclaimed the sultan, "have you no slaves in England?"
"No: whenever a slave sets his foot in England, he is from that moment
free," replied Clapperton. "What do you then do for servants?" inquired
the sultan. "We hire them for a stated period, and give them regular
wages; nor is any person in England allowed to strike another; and the
very soldiers are fed, clothed, and paid by the government," replied
the English captain. "God is great!" exclaimed the sultan. "You are
a beautiful people." Clapperton had succeeded in putting a beautiful
illusion upon the sultan's imagination, as some English writers have
endeavoured to do among the civilized nations of the earth. If the
sultan had been taken to England, to see the freedom of the "servants"
in the workshops, perhaps he would have exclaimed—"God is great!
Slaves are plenty."

The condition of the apprentices in the British workshops is at
least as bad as that of the children in the factories. According to
the second report of the commissioners appointed by Parliament, the
degrading system of involuntary apprenticeship—in many cases without
the consent of parents—and merely according to the regulations of the
brutal guardians of the workhouses, is general. The commissioners say—

     "That in some trades, those especially requiring skilled workmen,
     these apprentices are bound by legal indentures, usually at the
     age of fourteen, and for a term of seven years, the age being
     rarely younger, and the period of servitude very seldom longer;
     but by far the greater number are bound _without any prescribed
     legal forms_, and in almost all these cases they are required to
     serve their masters, _at whatever age they may commence their
     apprenticeship, until they attain the age of twenty-one_, in some
     instances in employments in which there is nothing deserving
     the name of skill to be acquired, and in other instances in
     employments in which they are taught to make only one particular
     part of the article manufactured: _so that at the end of their
     servitude they are altogether unable to make any one article of
     their trade in a complete state_. That a large proportion of
     these apprentices consist of orphans, or are the children of
     widows, or belong to the very poorest families, and frequently
     are apprenticed by boards of guardians.

     "That in these districts it is common for parents to borrow money
     of the employers, and to stipulate, by express agreement, to
     repay it from their children's wages; a practice which prevails
     likewise in Birmingham and Warrington: in most other places no
     evidence was discovered of its existence."—_Second Report of the
     Commissioners_, p. 195, 196.

Here we have a fearful text on which to comment. In these few sentences
we see the disclosure of a system which, if followed out and abused,
must produce a state of slavery of the very worst and most oppressive
character. To show that it _is_ thus abused, here are some extracts
from the Reports on the Wolverhampton district, to which the Central
Board of Commissioners direct special attention:—

     "The peculiar trade of the Wolverhampton district, with the
     exception of a very few large proprietors, is in the hands of
     a great number of small masters, who are personally known only
     to some of the foremen of the factors to whom they take their
     work, and scarcely one of whom is sufficiently important to have
     his name over his door or his workshop in front of a street.
     In the town of Wolverhampton alone there are of these small
     masters, for example, two hundred and sixty locksmiths, sixty
     or seventy key-makers, from twenty to thirty screwmakers, and a
     like number of latch, bolt, snuffer, tobacco-box, and spectacle
     frame and case makers. Each of these small masters, if they have
     not children of their own, generally employ from one to three
     apprentices."—_Horne, Report_; App. pt. ii. p. 2. s. 13 et seq.

The workshops of the small masters are usually of the dirtiest, most
dilapidated, and confined description, and situated in the most filthy
and undrained localities, at the back of their wretched abodes.

     "There are two modes of obtaining apprentices in this district,
     namely, the legal one of application to magistrates or boards of
     guardians for sanction of indentures; and, secondly, the illegal
     mode of taking the children to be bound by an attorney, without
     any such reference to the proper authorities. There are many more
     bound by this illegal mode than by the former.

     "In all cases, the children, of whatever age, are bound till
     they attain the age of twenty-one years. If the child be only
     seven years of age, the period of servitude remains the same,
     however simple the process or nature of the trade to be learnt.
     During the first year or two, if the apprentice be very young,
     he is merely used to run errands, do dirty household work, nurse
     infants, &c.

     "If the master die before the apprentice attain the age of
     twenty-one years, the apprentice is equally bound as the servant
     of his deceased master's heirs, executors, administrators,
     and assigns—in fact, the apprentice is part of the deceased
     master's goods and chattels. Whoever, therefore, may carry on
     the trade, he is the servant of such person or persons until his
     manumission is obtained by reaching his one-and-twentieth year.
     The apprentice has no regular pocket-money allowed him by the
     master. Sometimes a few halfpence are given to him. An apprentice
     of eighteen or nineteen years of age often has 2_d._ or 3_d._ a
     week given him, but never as a rightful claim."—_Second Report
     of Commissioners._

     "Among other witnesses, the superintendent registrar states that
     in those trades particularly in which the work is by the piece,
     the growth of the children is injured; that in these cases more
     especially their strength is over-taxed for profit. One of the
     constables of the town says that 'there are examples without
     number in the place, of deformed men and boys; their backs or
     their legs, and often both, grow wrong; the backs grow out and
     the legs grow in at the knees—hump-backed and knock-kneed.
     There is most commonly only one leg turned in—a K leg; it is
     occasioned by standing all day for years filing at a vice; the
     hind leg grows in—the leg that is hindermost. Thinks that among
     the adults of the working classes of Willenhall, whose work is
     all forging and filing, one-third of the number are afflicted
     with hernia,' &c."—_Horne, Evidence_, p. 28, No. 128.

As the profits of many of the masters are small, it may be supposed
that the apprentices do not get the best of food, shelter, and
clothing. We have the evidence of Henry Nicholls Payne, superintendent
registrar of Wolverhampton, Henry Hill, Esq., magistrate, and Paul Law,
of Wolverhampton, that it is common for masters to buy offal meat, and
the meat of animals that have died from all manner of causes, for the
food of apprentices. The clothing of these poor creatures is but thin
tatters for all seasons. The apprentices constantly complain that they
do not get enough to eat.

     "They are frequently fed," says the sub-commissioner, "especially
     during the winter season, on red herrings, potatoes, bread with
     lard upon it, and have not always sufficient even of this.

     "Their living is poor; they have not enough to eat. Did not know
     what it was to have butcher's meat above once a week; often a red
     herring was divided between two for dinner. The boys are often
     clemmed, (almost starved;) have often been to his house to ask
     for a bit of pudding—are frequent complaints. In some trades,
     particularly in the casting-shops of founderies, in the shops in
     which general forge or smith's work is done, and in the shops
     of the small locksmiths, screwmakers, &c., there are no regular
     meal-hours, but the children swallow their food as they can,
     during their work, often while noxious fumes or dust are flying
     about, and perhaps with noxious compositions in their unwashed
     hands."

The apprentices employed in nail-making are described as so many
poorly fed and poorly clad slaves. Almost the whole population of
Upper Sedgley and Upper Gormal, and nearly one-half of the population
of Coseley, are employed in nail-making. The nails are made at forges
by the hammer, and these forges, which are the workshops, are usually
at the backs of the wretched hovels in which the work-people reside.
"The best kind of forges," says Mr. Horne, "are little brick shops, of
about fifteen feet long and twelve feet wide, in which seven or eight
individuals constantly work together, with no ventilation except the
door, and two slits, or loopholes, in the wall; but the great majority
of these work-places are very much smaller, (about ten feet long by
nine wide,) filthily dirty; and on looking in upon one of them when
the fire is not lighted, presents the appearance of a dilapidated
coal-hole, or little black den." In these places children are first put
to labour from the ages of seven to eight, where they continue to work
daily, from six o'clock in the morning till seven or eight at night;
and on weigh-days—the days the nails are taken to the factors—from
three or four in the morning till nine at night. They gradually advance
in the number of nails they are required to make per day, till they
arrive at the _stint_ of one thousand. A girl or boy of from ten to
twelve years of age continually accomplishes this arduous task from day
to day, and week to week. Their food at the same time is, in general,
insufficient, their clothing miserable, and the wretchedness of their
dwellings almost unparalleled.

     "Throughout the long descent of the main roadway, or rather
     sludgeway, of Lower Gormal," says Mr. Horne, "and throughout the
     very long winding and straggling roadway of Coseley, I never saw
     one abode of a working family which had the least appearance of
     comfort or wholesomeness, while the immense majority were of
     the most wretched and sty-like description. The effect of these
     unfavourable circumstances is greatly to injure the health of the
     children, and to stop their growth; and it is remarkable that
     the boys are more injured than the girls, because the girls are
     not put to work as early as the boys by two years or more. They
     appear to bear the heat of the forges better, and they sometimes
     even become strong by their work."

The children employed in nail-making, in Scotland, evince the nature
of their toil by their emaciated looks and stunted growth. They are
clothed in apparel in which many paupers would not dress; and they are
starved into quickness at their work, as their meals depend on the
quantity of work accomplished.

In the manufacture of earthenware there are many young slaves employed.
The mould-runners are an especially pitiable class of workmen; they
receive on a mould the ware as it is formed by the workmen, and carry
it to the stove-room, where both mould and ware are arranged on shelves
to dry. The same children liberate the mould when sufficiently dry,
and carry it back to receive a fresh supply of ware, to be in like
manner deposited on the shelves. They are also generally required by
the workmen to "wedge their clay;" that is, to lift up large lumps of
clay, which are to be thrown down forcibly on a hard surface to free
the clay from air and to render it more compact. Excepting when thus
engaged, they are constantly "on the run" from morning till night,
always carrying a considerable weight. These children are generally
pale, thin, weak, and unhealthy.

In the manufacture of glass the toil and suffering of the apprentices,
as recorded in the evidence before the commissioners, are extreme. One
witness said—

     "From his experience he thinks the community has no idea of what
     a boy at a bottle-work goes through; 'it would never be allowed,
     if it were known;' he knows himself; he has been carried home
     from fair fatigue; and on two several occasions, when laid in
     bed, could not rest, and had to be taken out and laid on the
     floor. These boys begin work on Sabbath evenings at ten o'clock,
     and are not at home again till between one and three on Monday
     afternoon. The drawing the bottles out of the arches is a work
     which no child should be allowed, on any consideration, to do;
     he himself has been obliged several times to have planks put in
     to walk on, which have caught fire under the feet; and a woollen
     cap over the ears and always mits on the hands; and a boy cannot
     generally stop in them above five minutes. There is no man that
     works in a bottle-work, but will corroborate the statement that
     such work checks the growth of the body; the irregularity and the
     unnatural times of work cause the boys and men to feel in a sort
     of stupor or dulness from heavy sweats and irregular hours. The
     boys work harder than any man in the works; all will allow that.
     From their experience of the bad effect on the health, witness
     and five others left the work, and none but one ever went to a
     bottle-work after."

The young females apprenticed to dressmakers suffer greatly from
over-work and bad treatment, as has long been known. John Dalrymple,
Esq., Assistant Surgeon, Royal London Ophthalmic Hospital, narrates the
following case:—

     "A delicate and beautiful young woman, an orphan, applied at
     the hospital for very defective vision, and her symptoms were
     precisely as just described. Upon inquiry it was ascertained that
     she had been apprenticed to a milliner, and was in her last year
     of indentureship. Her working hours were eighteen in the day,
     occasionally even more; her meals were snatched with scarcely an
     interval of a few minutes from work, and her general health was
     evidently assuming a tendency to consumption. An appeal was made,
     by my directions, to her mistress for relaxation; but the reply
     was that, in the last year of her apprenticeship, her labours had
     become valuable, and that her mistress was entitled to them as a
     recompense for teaching. Subsequently a threat of appeal to the
     Lord Mayor, and a belief that a continuation of the occupation
     would soon render the apprentice incapable of labour, induced the
     mistress to cancel the indentures, and the victim was saved."

Frederick Tyrrell, Esq., Surgeon to the London Ophthalmic Hospital, and
to St. Thomas's Hospital, mentions a case equally distressing:—

     "A fair and delicate girl, about seventeen years of age, was
     brought to witness in consequence of total loss of vision. She
     had experienced the train of symptoms which have been detailed,
     to the fullest extent. On examination, both eyes were found
     disorganized, and recovery therefore was hopeless. She had been
     an apprentice as a dress-maker at the west end of the town; and
     some time before her vision became affected, her general health
     had been materially deranged from too close confinement and
     excessive work. The immediate cause of the disease in the eyes
     was excessive and continued application to making mourning. She
     stated that she had been compelled to remain without changing
     her dress for nine days and nights consecutively; that during
     this period she had been permitted only occasionally to rest on a
     mattrass placed on the floor, for an hour or two at a time; and
     that her meals were placed at her side, cut up, so that as little
     time as possible should be spent in their consumption. Witness
     regrets that he did not, in this and a few other cases nearly as
     flagrant and distressing, induce the sufferers to appeal to a
     jury for compensation."

It may be asserted, without fear of successful contradiction, that,
in proportion to the numbers employed, there are no occupations in
which so much disease is produced as in dress-making. The report of a
sub-commissioner states that it is a "serious aggravation of this evil,
that the unkindness of the employer very frequently causes these young
persons, when they become unwell, to conceal their illness, from the
fear of being sent out of the house; and in this manner the disease
often becomes increased in severity, or is even rendered incurable.
Some of the principals are so cruel, as to object to the young women
obtaining medical assistance."

[Illustration: SLAVES OF THE NEEDLE.]

The London Times, in an exceedingly able article upon "Seamstress
Slavery," thus describes the terrible system:—

     "Granting that the <DW64> gangs who are worked on the cotton
     grounds of the Southern States of North America, or in the sugar
     plantations of Brazil, are slaves, in what way should we speak
     of persons who are circumstanced in the manner we are about
     to relate? Let us consider them as inhabitants of a distant
     region—say of New Orleans—no matter about the colour of their
     skins, and then ask ourselves what should be our opinion of a
     nation in which such things are tolerated. They are of a sex
     and age the least qualified to struggle with the hardships of
     their lot—young women, for the most part, between sixteen and
     thirty years of age. As we would not deal in exaggerations, we
     would promise that we take them at their busy season, just as
     writers upon American slavery are careful to select the season
     of cotton-picking and sugar-crushing as illustrations of their
     theories. The young female slaves, then, of whom we speak, are
     worked in gangs, in ill-ventilated rooms, or rooms that are not
     ventilated at all; for it is found by experience that if air
     be admitted it brings with it "blacks" of another kind, which
     damage the work upon which the seamstresses are employed. Their
     occupation is to sew from morning till night and night till
     morning—stitch, stitch, stitch—without pause, without speech,
     without a smile, without a sigh. In the gray of the morning they
     must be at work, say at six o'clock, having a quarter of an hour
     allowed them for breaking their fast. The food served out to them
     is scanty and miserable enough, but still, in all probability,
     more than their fevered system can digest. We do not, however,
     wish to make out a case of starvation; the suffering is of
     another kind, equally dreadful of endurance. From six o'clock
     till eleven it is stitch, stitch. At eleven a small piece of dry
     bread is served to each seamstress, but still she must stitch
     on. At one o'clock, twenty minutes are allowed for dinner—a
     slice of meat and a potato, with a glass of toast-and-water to
     each workwoman. Then again to work—stitch, stitch, until five
     o'clock, when fifteen minutes are again allowed for tea. The
     needles are then set in motion once more—stitch, stitch, until
     nine o'clock, when fifteen minutes are allowed for supper—a
     piece of dry bread and cheese and a glass of beer. From nine
     o'clock at night until one, two, and three o'clock in the
     morning, stitch, stitch; the only break in this long period being
     a minute or two—just time enough to swallow a cup of strong tea,
     which is supplied lest the young people should 'feel sleepy.' At
     three o'clock A.M., to bed; at six o'clock A.M., out of it again
     to resume the duties of the following day. There must be a good
     deal of monotony in the occupation.

     "But when we have said that for certain months in the year these
     unfortunate young persons are worked in the manner we describe,
     we have not said all. Even during the few hours allotted
     to sleep—should we not rather say to a feverish cessation
     from toil—their miseries continue. They are cooped up in
     sleeping-pens, ten in a room which would perhaps be sufficient
     for the accommodation of two persons. The alternation is from the
     treadmill—and what a treadmill!—to the Black Hole of Calcutta.
     Not a word of remonstrance is allowed, or is possible. The
     seamstresses may leave the mill, no doubt, but what awaits them
     on the other side of the door?—starvation, if they be honest;
     if not, in all probability, prostitution and its consequence.
     They would scarcely escape from slavery that way. Surely this
     is a terrible state of things, and one which claims the anxious
     consideration of the ladies of England who have pronounced
     themselves so loudly against the horrors of <DW64> slavery in the
     United States. Had this system of oppression against persons of
     their own sex been really exercised in New Orleans, it would
     have elicited from them many expressions of sympathy for the
     sufferers, and of abhorrence for the cruel task-masters who could
     so cruelly over-work wretched creatures so unfitted for the toil.
     It is idle to use any further mystification in the matter. The
     scenes of misery we have described exist at our own doors, and in
     the most fashionable quarters of luxurious London. It is in the
     dress-making and millinery establishments of the 'West-end' that
     the system is steadily pursued. The continuous labour is bestowed
     upon the gay garments in which the 'ladies of England' love to
     adorn themselves. It is to satisfy their whims and caprices that
     their wretched sisters undergo these days and nights of suffering
     and toil. It is but right that we should confess the fault
     does not lie so much at the door of the customers as with the
     principals of these establishments. The milliners and dressmakers
     of the metropolis will not employ hands enough to do the work.
     They increase their profits from the blood and life of the
     wretched creatures in their employ. Certainly the prices charged
     for articles of dress at any of the great West-end establishments
     are sufficiently high—as most English heads of families know to
     their cost—to enable the proprietors to retain a competent staff
     of work-people, and at the same time to secure a very handsome
     profit to themselves. Wherein, then, lies the remedy? Will the
     case of these poor seamstresses be bettered if the ladies of
     England abstain partially, or in great measure, from giving their
     usual orders to their usual houses? In that case it may be said
     some of the seamstresses will be dismissed to starvation, and
     the remainder will be over-worked as before. We freely confess
     we do not see our way through the difficulty; for we hold the
     most improbable event in our social arrangements to be the fact,
     that a lady of fashion will employ a second-rate instead of a
     first-rate house for the purchase of her annual finery. The
     leading milliners and dressmakers of London have hold of English
     society at both ends. They hold the ladies by their vanity and
     their love of fine clothes, and the seamstresses by what appears
     to be their interest and by their love of life. Now, love of fine
     clothes and love of life are two very strong motive springs of
     human action."

In confirmation of this thrilling representation of the seamstress
slavery in London, the following letter subsequently appeared in the
Times:—

     "_To the Editor of the Times_:

     "Sir,—May I beg of you to insert this letter in your valuable
     paper at your earliest convenience, relative to the letters of
     the 'First Hand?' I can state, without the slightest hesitation,
     that they are perfectly true. My poor sister was apprenticed to
     one of those fashionable West-end houses, and my father paid the
     large sum of £40 only to procure for his daughter a lingering
     death. I was allowed to visit her during her illness; I found her
     in a very small room, which two large beds would fill. In this
     room there were six children's bedsteads, and these were each to
     contain three grown-up young women. In consequence of my sister
     being so ill, she was allowed, on payment of 5_s._ per week, a
     bed to herself—one so small it might be called a cradle. The
     doctor who attended her when dying, can authenticate this letter.

     "Apologizing for encroaching on your valuable time, I remain your
     obedient servant,

                                        A POOR CLERK."

Many witnesses attest the ferocious bodily chastisement inflicted upon
male apprentices in workshops:—

     "In Sedgley they are sometimes struck with a red-hot iron, and
     burned and bruised simultaneously; sometimes they have 'a flash
     of lightning' sent at them. When a bar of iron is drawn white-hot
     from the forge it emits fiery particles, which the man commonly
     flings in a shower upon the ground by a swing of his arm, before
     placing the bar upon the anvil. This shower is sometimes directed
     at the boy. It may come over his hands and face, his naked arms,
     or on his breast. If his shirt be open in front, which is usually
     the case, the red-hot particles are lodged therein, and he has
     to shake them out as fast as he can."—_Horne, Report_, p. 76, §
     757. See also witnesses, p. 56, 1. 24; p. 59, 1. 54.

     "In Darlaston, however, the children appear to be very little
     beaten, and in Bilston there were only a few instances of cruel
     treatment: 'the boys are kicked and cuffed abundantly, but not
     with any vicious or cruel intention, and only with an idea that
     this is getting the work done.'"—Ibid. p. 62, 65, §§ 660, 688.

     "In Wednesbury the treatment is better than in any other town in
     the district. The boys are not generally subject to any severe
     corporal chastisement, though a few cases of ill-treatment
     occasionally occur. 'A few months ago an adult workman broke a
     boy's arm by a blow with a piece of iron; the boy went to school
     till his arm got well; his father and mother thought it a good
     opportunity to give him some schooling.'"—Ibid. _Evidence_, No.
     331.

     "But the class of children in this district the most abused and
     oppressed are the apprentices, and particularly those who are
     bound to the small masters among the locksmiths, key and bolt
     makers, screwmakers, &c. Even among these small masters, there
     are respectable and humane men, who do not suffer any degree of
     poverty to render them brutal; but many of these men treat their
     apprentices not so much with neglect and harshness, as with
     ferocious violence, the result of unbridled passions, excited
     often by ardent spirits, acting on bodies exhausted by over-work,
     and on minds which have never received the slightest moral or
     religious culture, and which, therefore, never exercise the
     smallest moral or religious restraint."—Ibid.

Evidence from all classes,—masters, journeymen, residents,
magistrates, clergymen, constables, and, above all, from the mouths of
the poor oppressed sufferers themselves, is adduced to a heart-breaking
extent. The public has been excited to pity by Dickens's picture of
Smike—in Willenhall, there are many Smikes.

     "— —, aged sixteen: 'His master stints him from six in
     the morning till ten and sometimes eleven at night, as much as
     ever he can do; and if he don't do it, his master gives him no
     supper, and gives him a good hiding, sometimes with a big strap,
     sometimes with a big stick. His master has cut his head open
     five times—once with a key and twice with a lock; knocked the
     corner of a lock into his head twice—once with an iron bolt, and
     once with an iron shut—a thing that runs into the staple. His
     master's name is — —, of Little London. There is another
     apprentice besides him, who is treated just as bad.'"—Ibid. p.
     32, 1. 4.

     "— —, aged fifteen: 'Works at knob-locks with — —.
     Is a fellow-apprentice with — —. Lives in the house of his
     master. Is beaten by his master, who hits him sometimes with
     his fists, and sometimes with the file-haft, and sometimes with
     a stick—it's no matter what when he's a bit cross; sometimes
     hits him with the locks; has cut his head open four or five
     times; so he has his fellow apprentice's head. Once when he cut
     his head open with a key, thinks half a pint of blood run off
     him.'"—Ibid. p. 32, 1. 19.

     "— —, aged fourteen: 'Has been an in-door apprentice three
     years. Has no wages; nobody gets any wages for him. Has to serve
     till he is twenty-one. His master behaves very bad. His mistress
     behaves worse, like a devil; she beats him; knocks his head
     against the wall. His master goes out a-drinking, and when he
     comes back, if any thing's gone wrong that he (the boy) knows
     nothing about, he is beat all the same.'"—Ibid. p. 32, 1. 36.

     "— —, aged sixteen: 'His master sometimes hits him with his
     fist, sometimes kicks him; gave him the black eye he has got;
     beat him in bed while he was asleep, at five in the morning,
     because he was not up to work. He came up-stairs and set about
     him—set about him with his fist. Has been over to the public
     office, Brummagem, to complain; took a note with him, which was
     written for him; his brother gave it to the public office there,
     but they would not attend to it; they said they could do no good,
     and gave the note back. He had been beaten at that time with a
     whip-handle—it made wales all down his arms and back and all;
     everybody he showed it to said it was scandalous. Wishes he could
     be released from his master, who's never easy but when he's
     a-beating of me. Never has enough to eat at no time; ax him for
     more, he won't gie it me.'"—Ibid. p. 30, 1. 5.

     "— —, aged seventeen: 'Has no father or mother to take his
     part. His master once cut his head open with a flat file-haft,
     and used to pull his ears nearly off; they bled so he was obliged
     to go into the house to wipe them with a cloth,'"—Ibid. p. 37,
     1. 7.

     "— —, aged fifteen: 'The neighbours who live agen the shop
     will say how his master beats him; beats him with a strap, and
     sometimes a nut-stick; sometimes the wales remain upon him for a
     week; his master once cut his eyelid open, cut a hole in it, and
     it bled all over his files that he was working with,'"—Ibid. p.
     37, 1. 47.

     "— —, aged 18: 'His master once ran at him with a hammer,
     and drove the iron-head of the hammer into his side—he felt it
     for weeks; his master often knocks him down on the shop-floor;
     he can't tell what it's all for, no more than you can; don't
     know what it can be for unless it's this, his master thinks he
     don't do enough work for him. When he is beaten, his master
     does not lay it on very heavy, as some masters do, only beats
     him for five minutes at a time; should think that was enough,
     though.'"—_Horne, Evidence_, p. 37, 1. 57.

All this exists in a Christian land! Surely telescopic philanthropists
must be numerous in Great Britain. Wonderful to relate, there are many
persons instrumental in sustaining this barbarous system, who profess
a holy horror of slavery, and who seldom rise up or lie down without
offering prayers on behalf of the African bondsmen, thousands of miles
away. Verily, there are many people in this motley world so organized
that they can scent corruption "afar off," but gain no knowledge of the
foulness under their very noses.

Henry Mayhew, in his "London Labour and the London Poor," gives some
very interesting information in regard to the workshops in the great
metropolis of the British Empire. "In the generality of trades,
the calculation is that one-third of the hands are fully employed,
one-third partially, and one-third unemployed throughout the year." The
wages of those who are regularly employed being scant, what must be
the condition of those whose employment is but casual and precarious?
Mayhew says—

     "The hours of labour in mechanical callings are usually twelve,
     two of them devoted to meals, or seventy-two hours (less by the
     permitted intervals) in a week. In the course of my inquiries for
     the _Chronicle_, I met with slop cabinet-makers, tailors, and
     milliners, who worked sixteen hours and more daily, their toil
     being only interrupted by the necessity of going out, if small
     masters, to purchase materials, and offer the goods for sale; or,
     if journeymen in the slop trade, to obtain more work and carry
     what was completed to the master's shop. They worked on Sundays
     also; one tailor told me that the coat he worked at on the
     previous Sunday was for the Rev. Mr. —, who 'little thought
     it,' and these slop-workers rarely give above a few minutes to
     a meal. Thus they toil forty hours beyond the hours usual in an
     honourable trade, (112 hours instead of 72,) in the course of a
     week, or between three and four days of the regular hours of work
     of the six working days. In other words, two such men will in
     less than a week accomplish work which should occupy three men a
     full week; or 1000 men will execute labour fairly calculated to
     employ 1500 at the least. A paucity of employment is thus caused
     among the general body, by this system of over-labour decreasing
     the share of work accruing to the several operatives, and so
     adding to surplus hands.

     "Of over-work, as regards excessive labour, both in the general
     and fancy cabinet trade, I heard the following accounts, which
     different operatives concurred in giving; while some represented
     the labour as of longer duration by at least an hour, and some by
     two hours a day, than I have stated.

     "The labour of the men who depend entirely on 'the
     slaughter-houses' for the purchase of their articles is usually
     seven days a week the year through. That is, seven days—for
     Sunday-work is all but universal—each of thirteen hours, or
     ninety-one hours in all; while the established hours of labour
     in the 'honourable trade' are six days of the week, each of ten
     hours, or sixty hours in all. Thus fifty per cent. is added to
     the extent of the production of low-priced cabinet work, merely
     from 'over-hours'; but in some cases I heard of fifteen hours for
     seven days in the week, or 105 hours in all.

     "Concerning the hours of labour in this trade, I had the
     following minute particulars from a garret-master who was a
     chair-maker:—

     "'I work from six every morning to nine at night; some work
     till ten. My breakfast at eight stops me for ten minutes. I can
     breakfast in less time, but it's a rest. My dinner takes me say
     twenty minutes at the outside; and my tea eight minutes. All
     the rest of the time I'm slaving at my bench. How many minutes'
     rest is that, sir? Thirty-eight; well, say three-quarters of an
     hour, and that allows a few sucks at a pipe when I rest; but I
     can smoke and work too. I have only one room to work and eat in,
     or I should lose more time. Altogether, I labour fourteen and a
     quarter hours every day, and I must work on Sundays—at least
     forty Sundays in the year. One may as well work as sit fretting.
     But on Sundays I only work till it's dusk, or till five or six in
     summer. When it's dusk I take a walk. I'm not well dressed enough
     for a Sunday walk when it's light, and I can't wear my apron on
     that day very well to hide patches. But there's eight hours that
     I reckon I take up every week, one with another, in dancing about
     to the slaughterers. I'm satisfied that I work very nearly 100
     hours a week the year through; deducting the time taken up by the
     slaughterers, and buying stuff—say eight hours a week—it gives
     more than ninety hours a week for my work, and there's hundreds
     labour as hard as I do, just for a crust.'

     "The East-end turners generally, I was informed, when inquiring
     into the state of that trade, labour at the lathe from six
     o'clock in the morning till eleven and twelve at night, being
     eighteen hours' work per day, or one hundred and eight hours
     per week. They allow themselves two hours for their meals. It
     takes them, upon an average, two hours more every day fetching
     and carrying their work home. Some of the East-end men work on
     Sundays, and not a few either,' said my informant. 'Sometimes
     I have worked hard,' said one man, 'from six one morning till
     four the next, and scarcely had any time to take my meals in the
     bargain. I have been almost suffocated with the dust flying down
     my throat after working so many hours upon such heavy work too,
     and sweating so much. It makes a man drink where he would not.'

     "This system of over-work exists in the 'slop' part of almost
     every business; indeed, it is the principal means by which the
     cheap trade is maintained. Let me cite from my letters in the
     _Chronicle_ some more of my experience on this subject. As
     regards the London mantuamakers, I said:—'The workwomen for good
     shops that give fair, or tolerably fair wages, and expect good
     work, can make six average-sized mantles in a week, _working from
     ten to twelve hours a day_; but the slop-workers by toiling from
     thirteen to sixteen hours a day, will make _nine_ such sized
     mantles in a week. In a season of twelve weeks, 1000 workers for
     the slop-houses and warehouses would at this rate make 108,000
     mantles, or 36,000 more than workers for the fair trade. Or, to
     put it in another light, these slop-women, by being compelled, in
     order to live, to work such over-hours as inflict lasting injury
     on the health, supplant, by their over-work and over-hours, the
     labour of 500 hands, working the regular hours."

Mr. Mayhew states it as a plain, unerring law, that "over-work makes
under-pay, and under-pay makes over-work." True; but under-pay in the
first place gave rise to prolonged hours of toil; and in spite of all
laws that may be enacted, as long as a miserable pittance is paid to
labourers, and that, too, devoured by taxes, supporting an aristocracy
in luxury, so long will the workman be compelled to slave for a
subsistence.

The "strapping" system, which demands an undue quantity of work from a
journeyman in the course of a day, is extensively maintained in London.
Mr. Mayhew met with a miserable victim of this system of slavery, who
appeared almost exhausted with excessive toil. The poor fellow said—

     "'I work in what is called a strapping-shop, and have worked
     at nothing else for these many years past in London. I call
     "strapping" doing as much work as a human being or a horse
     possibly can in a day, and that without any hanging upon the
     collar, but with the foreman's eyes constantly fixed upon you,
     from six o'clock in the morning to six o'clock at night. The shop
     in which I work is for all the world like a prison; the silent
     system is as strictly carried out there as in a model jail. If a
     man was to ask any common question of his neighbour, except it
     was connected with his trade, he would be discharged there and
     then. If a journeyman makes the least mistake he is packed off
     just the same. A man working at such places is almost always in
     fear; for the most trifling things he's thrown out of work in an
     instant. And then the quantity of work that one is forced to get
     through is positively awful; if he can't do a plenty of it he
     don't stop long where I am. No one would think it was possible
     to get so much out of blood and bones. No slaves work like we
     do. At some of the strapping shops the foreman keeps continually
     walking about with his eyes on all the men at once. At others
     the foreman is perched high up, so that he can have the whole of
     the men under his eye together. I suppose since I knew the trade
     that a _man does four times the work that he did formerly_. I
     know a man that's done four pairs of sashes in a day, and one is
     considered to be a good day's labour. What's worse than all, the
     men are every one striving one against the other. Each is trying
     to get through the work quicker than his neighbours. Four or
     five men are set the same job, so that they may be all pitted
     against one another, and then away they go, every one striving
     his hardest for fear that the others should get finished first.
     They are all tearing along, from the first thing in the morning
     to the last at night, as hard as they can go, and when the time
     comes to knock off they are ready to drop. It was hours after I
     got home last night before I could get a wink of sleep; the soles
     of my feet were on fire, and my arms ached to that degree that I
     could hardly lift my hand to my head. Often, too, when we get up
     of a morning, we are more tired than when we went to bed, for we
     can't sleep many a night; but we musn't let our employers know
     it, or else they'd be certain we couldn't do enough for them,
     and we'd get the sack. So, tired as we may be, we are obliged to
     look lively, somehow or other, at the shop of a morning. If we're
     not beside our bench the very moment the bell's done ringing,
     our time's docked—they won't give us a single minute out of the
     hour. If I was working for a fair master, I should do nearly
     one-third, and sometimes a half, less work than I am now forced
     to get through; and, even to manage that much, I shouldn't be
     idle a second of my time. It's quite a mystery to me how they
     _do_ contrive to get so much work out of the men. But they are
     very clever people. They know how to have the most out of a man,
     better than any one in the world. They are all picked men in the
     shop—regular "strappers," and no mistake. The most of them are
     five foot ten, and fine broad-shouldered, strong-backed fellows
     too—if they weren't they wouldn't have them. Bless you, they
     make no words with the men, they sack them if they're not strong
     enough to do all they want; and they can pretty soon tell, the
     very first shaving a man strikes in the shop, what a chap is
     made of. Some men are done up at such work—quite old men and
     gray, with spectacles on, by the time they are forty. I have
     seen fine strong men, of thirty-six, come in there, and be bent
     double in two or three years. They are most all countrymen at
     the strapping shops. If they see a great strapping fellow, who
     they think has got some stuff about him that will come out, they
     will give him a job directly. We are used for all the world like
     cab or omnibus-horses. Directly they've had all the work out
     of us, we are turned off, and I am sure, after my day's work
     is over, my feelings must be very much the same as one of the
     London cab-horses. As for Sunday, it is _literally_ a day of rest
     with us, for the greater part of us lay a-bed all day, and even
     that will hardly take the aches and pains out of our bones and
     muscles. When I'm done and flung by, of course I must starve.'"

It may be said that, exhausting as this labour certainly is, it is not
slavery; for the workman has a will of his own, and need not work if
he does not choose to do it. Besides, he is not held by law; he may
leave the shop; he may seek some other land. These circumstances make
his case very different from the <DW64> slave of America. True, but the
difference is in favour of the <DW64> slave. The London workman has only
the alternative—such labour as has been described, the workhouse, or
starvation. The <DW64> slave seldom has such grinding toil, is provided
for whether he performs it or not, and can look forward to an old age
of comfort and repose. The London workman may leave his shop, but he
will be either consigned to the prison of a workhouse or starved. He
might leave the country, if he could obtain the necessary funds.

Family work, or the conjoint labour of a workman's wife and children,
is one of the results of the wretchedly rewarded slavery in the various
trades. Mr Mayhew gives the following statement of a "fancy cabinet"
worker upon this subject:—

     "The most on us has got large families; we put the children to
     work as soon as we can. My little girl began about six, but about
     eight or nine is the usual age. 'Oh, poor little things,' said
     the wife, 'they are obliged to begin the very minute they can
     use their fingers at all.' The most of the cabinet-makers of the
     East end have from five to six in family, and they are generally
     all at work for them. The small masters mostly marry when they
     are turned of twenty. You see our trade's coming to such a pass,
     that unless a man has children to help him he can't live at all.
     I've worked more than a month together, and the longest night's
     rest I've had has been an hour and a quarter; ay, and I've been
     up three nights a week besides. I've had my children lying ill,
     and been obliged to wait on them into the bargain. You see we
     couldn't live if it wasn't for the labour of our children, though
     it makes 'em—poor little things!—old people long afore they are
     growed up.'

     "'Why, I stood at this bench,' said the wife, 'with my child,
     only ten years of age, from four o'clock on Friday morning till
     ten minutes past seven in the evening, without a bit to eat or
     drink. I never sat down a minute from the time I began till I
     finished my work, and then I went out to sell what I had done.
     I walked all the way from here [Shoreditch] down to the Lowther
     Arcade to get rid of the articles.' Here she burst out into
     a violent flood of tears, saying, 'Oh, sir, it is hard to be
     obliged to labour from morning till night as we do, all of us,
     little ones and all, and yet not be able to live by it either.'

     "'And you see the worst of it is, this here children's labour is
     of such value now in our trade, that there's more brought into
     the business every year, so that it's really for all the world
     _like breeding slaves_. Without my children I don't know how we
     should be able to get along.' 'There's that little thing,' said
     the man, pointing to the girl ten years of age, before alluded
     to, as she sat at the edge of the bed, 'why she works regularly
     every day from six in the morning till ten at night. She never
     goes to school; we can't spare her. There's schools enough about
     here for a penny a week, but we could not afford to keep her
     without working. If I'd ten more children I should be obliged to
     employ them all the same way, and there's hundreds and thousands
     of children now slaving at this business. There's the M—'s;
     they have a family of eight, and the youngest to the oldest of
     all works at the bench; and the oldest a'n't fourteen. I'm sure,
     of the two thousand five hundred small masters in the cabinet
     line, you may safely say that two thousand of them, at the very
     least, have from five to six in family, and that's upward of
     twelve thousand children that's been put to the trade since
     prices have come down. Twenty years ago I don't think there was a
     child at work in our business; and I am sure there is not a small
     master now whose whole family doesn't assist him. But what I want
     to know is, what's to become of the twelve thousand children when
     they're growed up and come regular into the trade? Here are all
     my ones growing up without being taught any thing but a business
     that I know they must starve at.'

     "In answer to my inquiry as to what dependence he had in case
     of sickness, 'Oh, bless you,' he said, 'there's nothing but the
     parish for us. I _did_ belong to a benefit society about four
     years ago, but I couldn't keep up my payments any longer. I was
     in the society above five-and-twenty years, and then was obliged
     to leave it after all. I don't know of one as belongs to any
     friendly society, and I don't think there is a man as can afford
     it in our trade now. They must all go to the workhouse when
     they're sick or old.'"

The "trading operatives," or those labourers who employ subordinate and
cheaper work-people, are much decried in England; but they, also, are
the creations of the general system. A workman frequently ascertains
that he can make more money with less labour, by employing women or
children at home, than if he did all of his own work; and very often
men are driven to this resource to save themselves from being worked
to death. The condition of those persons who work for the "trading
operatives," or "middlemen," is as miserable as imagination may
conceive.

In Charles Kingsley's popular novel, "Alton Locke," we find a vivid and
truthful picture of the London tailor's workshop, and the slavery of
the workmen, which may be quoted here in illustration:—

     "I stumbled after Mr. Jones up a dark, narrow iron staircase,
     till we emerged through a trap-door into a garret at the top
     of the house. I recoiled with disgust at the scene before me;
     and here I was to work—perhaps through life! A low lean-to
     room, stifling me with the combined odours of human breath and
     perspiration, stale beer, the sweet sickly smell of gin, and the
     sour and hardly less disgusting one of new cloth. On the floor,
     thick with dust and dirt, scraps of stuff and ends of thread, sat
     some dozen haggard, untidy, shoeless men, with a mingled look
     of care and recklessness that made me shudder. The windows were
     tight closed to keep out the cold winter air; and the condensed
     breath ran in streams down the panes, checkering the dreary
     outlook of chimney-tops and smoke. The conductor handed me over
     to one of the men.

     "'Here Crossthwaite, take this younker and make a tailor of
     him. Keep him next you, and prick him up with your needle if he
     shirks.'

     "He disappeared down the trap-door, and mechanically, as if in a
     dream, I sat down by the man and listened to his instructions,
     kindly enough bestowed. But I did not remain in peace two
     minutes. A burst of chatter rose as the foreman vanished, and a
     tall, bloated, sharp-nosed young man next me bawled in my ear—

     "'I say, young 'un, fork out the tin and pay your footing at
     Conscrumption Hospital!'

     "'What do you mean?'

     "'An't he just green?—Down with the stumpy—a tizzy for a pot of
     half-and-half.'

     "'I never drink beer.'

     "'Then never do,' whispered the man at my side; 'as sure as
     hell's hell, it's your only chance.'

     "There was a fierce, deep earnestness in the tone, which made me
     look up at the speaker, but the other instantly chimed in.

     "'Oh, yer don't, don't yer, my young Father Mathy! then yer'll
     soon learn it here if yer want to keep your victuals down.'

     "'And I have promised to take my wages home to my mother.'

     "'Oh criminy! hark to that, my coves! here's a chap as is going
     to take the blunt home to his mammy.'

     "'Ta'nt much of it the old un'll see,' said another. 'Ven yer
     pockets it at the Cock and Bottle, my kiddy, yer won't find much
     of it left o' Sunday mornings.'

     "'Don't his mother know he's out?' asked another; 'and won't she
     know it—

         Ven he's sitting in his glory
         Half-price at the Vic-tory.

     Oh no, ve never mentions her—her name is never heard. Certainly
     not, by no means. Why should it?'

     "'Well, if yer won't stand a pot,' quoth the tall man, 'I will,
     that's all, and blow temperance. 'A short life and a merry one,'
     says the tailor—

         The ministers talk a great deal about port,
           And they makes Cape wine very dear,
         But blow their hi's if ever they tries
           To deprive a poor cove of his beer.

     Here, Sam, run to the Cock and Bottle for a pot of half-and-half
     to my score.'

     "A thin, pale lad jumped up and vanished, while my tormentor
     turned to me:

     "I say, young 'un, do you know why we're nearer heaven here than
     our neighbours?'

     "'I shouldn't have thought so,' answered I with a _naïveté_ which
     raised a laugh, and dashed the tall man for a moment.

     "'Yer don't? then I'll tell yer. Acause we're atop of the house
     in the first place, and next place yer'll die here six months
     sooner nor if yer worked in the room below. A'n't that logic and
     science, Orator?' appealing to Crossthwaite.

     "'Why?' asked I.

     "'Acause you get all the other floors' stinks up here, as well
     as your own. Concentrated essence of man's flesh, is this here
     as you're a-breathing. Cellar work-room we calls Rheumatic Ward,
     because of the damp. Ground-floor's, Fever Ward—them as don't
     get typhus gets dysentery, and them as don't get dysentery
     gets typhus—your nose 'd tell yer why if you opened the back
     windy. First floor's Ashmy Ward—don't you hear 'um now through
     the cracks in the boards, a-puffing away like a nest of young
     locomotives? And this here more august and upper-crust cockloft
     is the Conscrumptive Hospital. First you begins to cough, then
     you proceed to expectorate—spittoons, as you see, perwided free
     gracious for nothing—fined a kivarten if you spits on the floor—

         Then your cheeks they grow red, and your nose it grows thin,
         And your bones they sticks out, till they comes through
              your skin:

     and then, when you've sufficiently covered the poor dear
     shivering bare backs of the hairystocracy,

         Die, die, die,
         Away you fly,
         Your soul is in the sky!

     as the hinspired Shakspeare wittily remarks.'

     "And the ribald lay down on his back, stretched himself out, and
     pretended to die in a fit of coughing, which last was alas! no
     counterfeit, while poor I, shocked and bewildered, let my tears
     fall fast upon my knees.

     "'Fine him a pot!' roared one, 'for talking about kicking the
     bucket. He's a nice young man to keep a cove's spirits up, and
     talk about "a short life and a merry one." Here comes the heavy.
     Hand it here to take the taste of that fellow's talk out of my
     mouth.'

     "'Well, my young 'un,' recommenced my tormentor, 'and how do you
     like your company?'

     "'Leave the boy alone,' growled Crossthwaite: 'don't you see he's
     crying?'

     "'Is that any thing good to eat? Give me some on it, if it
     is—it'll save me washing my face.' And he took hold of my hair
     and pulled my head back.

     "'I'll tell you what, Jemmy Downes,' said Crossthwaite, in a
     voice that made him draw back, 'if you don't drop that, I'll give
     you such a taste of my tongue as shall turn you blue.'

     "'You'd better try it on, then. Do—only just now—if you please.'

     "'Be quiet, you fool!' said another. 'You're a pretty fellow to
     chaff the orator. He'll slang you up the chimney afore you can
     get your shoes on.'

     "'Fine him a kivarten for quarrelling,' cried another; and
     the bully subsided into a minute's silence, after a _sotto
     voce_—'Blow temperance, and blow all Chartists, say I!' and then
     delivered himself of his feelings in a doggrel song:

               Some folks leads coves a dance,
               With their pledge of temperance,
         And their plans for donkey sociation;
               And their pocket-fulls they crams
               By their patriotic flams,
         And then swears 'tis for the good of the nation.

               But I don't care two inions
               For political opinions,
         While I can stand my heavy and my quartern;
               For to drown dull care within,
               In baccy, beer, and gin,
         Is the prime of a working-tailor's fortin!

     "'There's common sense for you now; hand the pot here.'

     "I recollect nothing more of that day, except that I bent
     myself to my work with assiduity enough to earn praises from
     Crossthwaite. It was to be done, and I did it. The only virtue
     I ever possessed (if virtue it be) is the power of absorbing my
     whole heart and mind in the pursuit of the moment, however dull
     or trivial, if there be good reason why it should be pursued at
     all.

     "I owe, too, an apology to my readers for introducing all this
     ribaldry. God knows it is as little to my taste as it can be to
     theirs, but the thing exists; and those who live, if not by,
     yet still beside such a state of things, ought to know what the
     men are like, to whose labour, ay, life-blood, they owe their
     luxuries. They are 'their brothers' keepers,' let them deny it as
     they will."

As a relief from misery, the wretched workmen generally resort to
intoxicating liquors, which, however, ultimately render them a
hundredfold more miserable. In "Alton Locke," this is illustrated with
an almost fearful power, in the life and death of the tailor Downes.
After saving the wretched man from throwing himself into the river,
Alton Locke accompanies him to a disgusting dwelling, in Bermondsey.
The story continues:—

     "He stopped at the end of a miserable blind alley, where a dirty
     gas-lamp just served to make darkness visible, and show the
     patched windows and rickety doorways of the crazy houses, whose
     upper stories were lost in a brooding cloud of fog; and the pools
     of stagnant water at our feet: and the huge heap of cinders which
     filled up the waste end of the alley—a dreary black, formless
     mound, on which two or three spectral dogs prowled up and down
     after the offal, appearing and vanishing like dark imps in and
     out of the black misty chaos beyond.

     "The neighbourhood was undergoing, as it seemed, 'improvements,'
     of that peculiar metropolitan species which consists in pulling
     down the dwellings of the poor, and building up rich men's houses
     instead; and great buildings, within high temporary palings,
     had already eaten up half the little houses; as the great fish
     and the great estates, and the great shopkeepers, eat up the
     little ones of their species—by the law of competition, lately
     discovered to be the true creator and preserver of the universe.
     There they loomed up, the tall bullies, against the dreary sky,
     looking down with their grim, proud, stony visages, on the misery
     which they were driving out of one corner, only to accumulate and
     intensify it in another.

     "The house at which we stopped was the last in the row; all its
     companions had been pulled down; and there it stood, leaning
     out with one naked ugly side into the gap, and stretching out
     long props, like feeble arms and crutches, to resist the work of
     demolition.

     "A group of slatternly people were in the entry, talking loudly,
     and as Downes pushed by them, a woman seized him by the arm.

     "'Oh! you unnatural villain!—To go away after your drink, and
     leave all them poor dead corpses locked up, without even letting
     a body go in to stretch them out!'

     "'And breeding the fever, too, to poison the whole house!'
     growled one.

     "'The relieving-officer's been here, my cove,' said another; 'and
     he's gone for a peeler and a search-warrant to break open the
     door, I can tell you!'

     "But Downes pushed past unheeding, unlocked a door at the end
     of the passage, thrust me in, locked it again, and then rushed
     across the room in chase of two or three rats, who vanished into
     cracks and holes.

     "And what a room! A low lean-to with wooden walls, without a
     single article of furniture; and through the broad chinks of the
     floor shone up as it were ugly glaring eyes, staring at us. They
     were the reflections of the rushlight in the sewer below. The
     stench was frightful—the air heavy with pestilence. The first
     breath I drew made my heart sink, and my stomach turn. But I
     forgot every thing in the object which lay before me, as Downes
     tore a half-finished coat off three corpses laid side by side on
     the bare floor.

     "There was his little Irish wife;—dead—and naked—the wasted
     white limbs gleamed in the lurid light; the unclosed eyes stared,
     as if reproachfully, at the husband whose drunkenness had brought
     her there to kill her with the pestilence; and on each side of
     her a little, shrivelled, impish, child-corpse—the wretched man
     had laid their arms round the dead mother's neck—and there they
     slept, their hungering and wailing over at last for ever: the
     rats had been busy already with them—but what matter to them now?

     "'Look!' he cried; 'I watched 'em dying! Day after day I saw
     the devils come up through the cracks, like little maggots and
     beetles, and all manner of ugly things, creeping down their
     throats; and I asked 'em, and they said they were the fever
     devils.'

     "It was too true; the poisonous exhalations had killed them.
     The wretched man's delirium tremens had given that horrible
     substantiality to the poisonous fever gases.

     "Suddenly Downes turned on me almost menacingly. 'Money! money! I
     want some gin!'

     "I was thoroughly terrified—and there was no shame in feeling
     fear, locked up with a madman far my superior in size and
     strength, in so ghastly a place. But the shame, and the folly
     too, would have been in giving way to my fear; and with a
     boldness half assumed, half the real fruit of excitement and
     indignation at the horrors I beheld, I answered—

     "'If I had money, I would give you none. What do you want with
     gin? Look at the fruits of your accursed tippling. If you had
     taken my advice, my poor fellow,' I went on, gaining courage as I
     spoke, 'and become a water-drinker, like me'—

     "'Curse you and your water-drinking! If you had had no water to
     drink or wash with for two years but that—that,' pointing to the
     foul ditch below—'If you had emptied the slops in there with one
     hand, and filled your kettle with the other'—

     "'Do you actually mean that that sewer is your only drinking
     water?'

     "'Where else can we get any? Everybody drinks it; and you shall
     too—you shall!' he cried, with a fearful oath, 'and then see if
     you don't run off to the gin-shop, to take the taste of it out of
     your mouth. Drink! and who can help drinking, with his stomach
     turned with such hell-broth as that—or such a hell's blast as
     this air is here, ready to vomit from morning till night with the
     smells? I'll show you. You shall drink a bucket-full of it, as
     sure as you live, you shall.'

     "And he ran out of the back door, upon a little balcony, which
     hung over the ditch.

     "I tried the door, but the key was gone, and the handle
     too. I beat furiously on it, and called for help. Two gruff
     authoritative voices were heard in the passage.

     "'Let us in; I'm the policeman!'

     "'Let me out, or mischief will happen!'

     "The policeman made a vigorous thrust at the crazy door; and just
     as it burst open, and the light of his lantern streamed into the
     horrible den, a heavy splash was heard outside.

     "'He has fallen into the ditch!'

     "'He'll be drowned, then, as sure as he's a born man,' shouted
     one of the crowd behind.

     "We rushed out on the balcony. The light of the policeman's
     lantern glared over the ghastly scene—along the double row of
     miserable house-backs, which lined the sides of the open tidal
     ditch—over strange rambling jetties, and balconies, and sleeping
     sheds, which hung on rotting piles over the black waters, with
     phosphorescent scraps of rotten fish gleaming and twinkling out
     of the dark hollows, like devilish gravelights—over bubbles
     of poisonous gas, and bloated carcases of dogs, and lumps of
     offal, floating on the stagnant olive-green hell-broth—over the
     slow sullen rows of oily ripple which were dying away into the
     darkness far beyond, sending up, as they stirred, hot breaths
     of miasma—the only sign that a spark of humanity, after years
     of foul life, had quenched itself at last in that foul death. I
     almost fancied that I could see the haggard face staring up at me
     through the slimy water; but no—it was as opaque as stone."

Downes had been a "sweater," and before his death was a "sweater's
slave."

When the comparatively respectable workshop in which Alton Locke
laboured was broken up, and the workmen were told by the heartless
employer that he intended to give out work, for those who could labour
at home, these toil-worn men held a meeting, at which a man named John
Crossthwaite, thus spoke for his oppressed and degraded class:—

     "We were all bound to expect this. Every working tailor must come
     to this at last, on the present system; and we are only lucky in
     having been spared so long. You all know where this will end—in
     the same misery as fifteen thousand out of twenty thousand of
     our class are enduring now. We shall become the slaves, often
     the bodily prisoners, of Jews, middlemen, and sweaters, who draw
     their livelihood out of our starvation. We shall have to face, as
     the rest have, ever-decreasing prices of labour, ever-increasing
     profits made out of that labour by the contractors who will
     employ us—arbitrary fines, inflicted at the caprice of
     hirelings—the competition of women, and children, and starving
     Irish—our hours of work will increase one-third, our actual pay
     decrease to less than one-half; and in all this we shall have no
     hope, no chance of improvement in wages, but ever more penury,
     slavery, misery, as we are pressed on by those who are sucked by
     fifties—almost by hundreds—yearly, out of the honourable trade
     in which we were brought up, into the infernal system of contract
     work, which is devouring our trade and many others, body and
     soul. Our wives will be forced to sit up night and day to help
     us—our children must labour from the cradle, without chance of
     going to school, hardly of breathing the fresh air of heaven—our
     boys as they grow up must turn beggars or paupers—our daughters,
     as thousands do, must eke out their miserable earnings by
     prostitution. And, after all, a whole family will not gain what
     one of us had been doing, as yet, single-handed. You know there
     will be no hope for us. There is no use appealing to government
     or Parliament. I don't want to talk politics here. I shall keep
     them for another place. But you can recollect as well as I can,
     when a deputation of us went up to a member of Parliament—one
     that was reputed a philosopher, and a political economist,
     and a liberal—and set before him the ever-increasing penury
     and misery of our trade and of those connected with it; you
     recollect his answer—that, however glad he would be to help us,
     it was impossible—he could not alter the laws of nature—that
     wages were regulated by the amount of competition among the men
     themselves, and that it was no business of government, or any
     one else, to interfere in contracts between the employer and
     employed, that those things regulated themselves by the laws of
     political economy, which it was madness and suicide to oppose.
     He may have been a wise man. I only know that he was a rich one.
     Every one speaks well of the bridge which carries him over. Every
     one fancies the laws which fill his pockets to be God's laws. But
     I say this: If neither government nor members of Parliament can
     help us, we must help ourselves. Help yourselves, and Heaven will
     help you. Combination among ourselves is the only chance. One
     thing we can do—sit still.'

     "'And starve!' said some one."

Crossthwaite is represented as having preferred to endure want rather
than work under the sweating system. But there are few men who possess
such spirit and determination. Men with families are compelled, by
considering those who are dependent upon them, to work for whatever
prices the masters choose to pay. They are free labourers—if they do
not choose to work—they are perfectly free—to starve!

The government took the initiative in the sweating system. It set the
example by giving the army and navy clothes to contractors, and taking
the lowest tenders. The police clothes, the postmen's clothes, the
convict's clothes, are all contracted for by sweaters and sub-sweaters,
till government work is the very last, lowest resource to which a poor,
starved-out wretch betakes himself, to keep body and soul together.
Thus is profit made from the pauperism of men, the slavery of children,
and the prostitution of women, in Great Britain.

Some years ago the following announcement appeared in the Village
Gazette:—

     "Peter Moreau and his wife are dead, aged twenty-five years. Too
     much work has killed them and many besides. We say—Work like a
     <DW64>, like a galley-slave: we ought to say—Work like a freeman."

Work like <DW64> slaves, indeed! There is no such work in America, even
among the slaves; all day long, from Monday morning till Saturday
night, week after week, and year after year, till the machine is worn
out. American slaves and convicts in New South Wales are fat and happy,
compared with the labourers of England. It frequently happens that
Englishmen commit crimes for the purpose of becoming galley-slaves in
New South Wales. They do not keep their purpose secret; they declare
it loudly with tears and passionate exclamations to the magistrate who
commits them for trial, to the jury who try them, and to the judge who
passes sentence on them. This is published in the newspapers, but so
often that it excites no particular comment.

The parish apprentices are the worst-treated slaves in the world. They
are at the mercy of their masters and mistresses during their term of
apprenticeship, without protectors, and without appeal against the most
cruel tyranny. In the reign of George III., one Elizabeth Brownrigg was
hanged for beating and starving to death her parish apprentices. In
1831, another woman, Esther Hibner by name, was hanged in London for
beating and starving to death a parish apprentice. Two instances of
punishment, for thousands of cases of impunity!

     "The evidence in the case of Esther Hibner proved that a number
     of girls, pauper apprentices, were employed in a workshop; that
     their victuals consisted of garbage, commonly called hog's-wash,
     and that of this they never had enough to stay the pains of
     hunger; that they were kept half-naked, half-clothed in dirty
     rags; that they slept in a heap on the floor, amid filth and
     stench; that they suffered dreadfully from cold; that they were
     forced to work so many hours together that they used to fall
     asleep while at work; that for falling asleep, for not working
     as hard as their mistress wished, they were beaten with sticks,
     with fists, dragged by the hair, dashed on to the ground,
     trampled upon, and otherwise tortured; that they were found, all
     of them more or less, covered with chilblains, scurvy, bruises,
     and wounds; that one of them died of ill-treatment; and—mark
     this—that the discovery of that murder was made in consequence
     of the number of coffins which had issued from Esther Hibner's
     premises, and raised the curiosity of her neighbours. For this
     murder Mrs. Hibner was hanged; but what did she get for all the
     other murders which, referring to the number of coffins, we have
     a right to believe that she committed? She got for each £10.
     That is to say, whenever she had worked, starved, beaten, dashed
     and trampled a girl to death, she got another girl to treat in
     the same way, with £10 for her trouble. She carried on a trade
     in the murder of parish apprentices; and if she had conducted
     it with moderation, if the profit and custom of murder had not
     made her grasping and careless, the constitution, which protects
     the poor as well as the rich, would never have interfered with
     her. The law did not permit her to do what she liked with her
     apprentices, as Americans do with their slaves; oh no. Those
     free-born English children were merely bound as apprentices, with
     their own consent, under the eye of the magistrate, in order
     that they might learn a trade and become valuable subjects. But
     did the magistrate ever visit Mrs. Hibner's factory to see how
     she treated the free-born English girls? never. Did the parish
     officers? no. Was there any legal provision for the discovery of
     the woman's trade in murder? none."

     "You still read on the gates of London poorhouses, 'strong,
     healthy boys and girls,' &c.; and boys or girls you may obtain
     by applying within, as many as you please, free-born, with the
     usual fee. Having been paid for taking them, and having gone
     through the ceremonies of asking their consent and signing bonds
     before a magistrate, you may make them into sausages, for any
     thing the constitution will do to prevent you. If it should be
     proved that you kill even one of them, you will be hanged; but
     you may half-starve them, beat them, torture them, any thing
     short of killing them, with perfect security; and using a little
     circumspection, you may kill them too, without much danger.
     Suppose they die, who cares? Their parents? they are orphans, or
     have been abandoned by their parents. The parish officers? very
     likely, indeed, that these, when the poorhouse is crammed with
     orphan and destitute children, should make inquiries troublesome
     to themselves; inquiries which, being troublesome to you, might
     deprive them of your custom in future. The magistrate? he asked
     the child whether it consented to be your apprentice; the child
     said 'Yes, your worship;' and there his worship's duty ends. The
     neighbours? of course, if you raise their curiosity like Esther
     Hibner, but not otherwise. In order to be quite safe, I tell you
     you must be a little circumspect. But let us suppose that you are
     timid, and would drive a good trade without the shadow of risk.
     In that case, half-starve your apprentices, cuff them, kick them,
     torment them till they run away from you. They will not go back
     to the poorhouse, because there they would be flogged for having
     run away from you: besides, the poorhouse is any thing but a
     pleasant place. The boys will turn beggars or thieves, and the
     girls prostitutes; you will have pocketed £10 for each of them,
     and may get more boys and girls on the same terms, to treat in
     the same way. This trade is as safe as it is profitable."[89]




CHAPTER V.

THE WORKHOUSE SYSTEM OF BRITAIN.


The English writers generally point to the poor-laws of their country
as a proud evidence of the merciful and benevolent character of the
government. Look at those laws! so much have we done in the cause of
humanity. See how much money we expend every year for the relief of the
poor! Our workhouses are maintained at an enormous expense. Very well;
but it takes somewhat from the character of the doctor, to ascertain
that he gave the wound he makes a show of healing. What are the sources
of the immense pauperism of Britain? The enormous monopoly of the soil,
and the vast expense of civil and ecclesiastical aristocracy. The first
takes work from one portion of the people, and the latter takes the
profits of work from the other portion. The "glorious institutions" of
Britain crowd the workhouses; and we are now going to show the horrible
system under which paupers are held in these establishments.

The labouring classes are constantly exposed to the chance of going to
the workhouse. Their wages are so low, or so preyed upon by taxes, that
they have no opportunity of providing for a "rainy day." A few weeks'
sickness, a few weeks' absence of work, and, starvation staring them
in the face, they are forced to apply to the parish authorities for
relief. Once within the gate of the workhouse, many never entertain the
idea of coming out until they are carried forth in their coffins.

Each parish has a workhouse, which is under the control of several
guardians, who, again, are under the orders of a Board of Commissioners
sitting at London. Many—perhaps a majority—of the guardians of the
parishes are persons without those humane feelings which should belong
to such officials, and numerous petty brutalities are added to those
which are inherent in the British workhouse system.

Robert Southey says—

     "When the poor are incapable of contributing any longer to their
     own support, they are removed to what is called the workhouse.
     I cannot express to you the feelings of hopelessness and
     dread with which all the decent poor look on to this wretched
     termination of a life of labour. To this place all vagrants are
     sent for punishment; unmarried women with child go here to be
     delivered; and poor orphans and base-born children are brought
     up here until they are of age to be apprenticed off; the other
     inmates are of those unhappy people who are utterly helpless,
     parish idiots and madmen, the blind and the palsied, and the
     old who are fairly worn out. It is not in the nature of things
     that the superintendents of such institutions as these should be
     gentle-hearted, when the superintendence is undertaken merely
     for the sake of the salary. To this society of wretchedness
     the labouring poor of England look as their last resting-place
     on this side of the grave; and, rather than enter abodes so
     miserable, they endure the severest privations as long as it is
     possible to exist. A feeling of honest pride makes them shrink
     from a place where guilt and poverty are confounded; and it is
     heart-breaking for those who have reared a family of their own
     to be subjected, in their old age, to the harsh and unfeeling
     authority of persons younger than themselves, neither better born
     nor better bred."

This is no less true, than admirable as a specimen of prose. It was
true when Southey penned it, and it is true now. Let us look at some of
the provisions of the poor-laws of England, which form the much-lauded
system of charity.

One of these provisions refuses relief to those who will not accept
that relief except in the character of inmates of the workhouse, and
thus compels the poor applicants to either perish of want or tear
asunder all the ties of home. To force the wretched father from the
abode of his family, is a piece of cruelty at which every humane breast
must revolt. What wonder that many perish for want of food, rather than
leave all that is dear to them on earth? If they must die, they prefer
to depart surrounded by affectionate relatives, rather than by callous
"guardians of the poor," who calculate the trouble and the expense
of the burial before the breath leaves the body. The framers of the
poor-laws forgot—perchance—that, "Be it ever so humble, there's no
place like home."

Another provision of the poor-laws denies the consolations of religion
to those whose conscientious scruples will not allow them to worship
according to the forms of the established church. This is totally at
variance with the spirit of true Christianity, and a most barbarous
privation. One would think that British legislators doubted the supreme
efficacy of the Christian faith in saving souls from destruction. Why
should not the balm be applied, regardless of the formal ceremonies, if
it possesses any healing virtues? But the glory of the English Church
is its iron observance of forms; and, rather than relax one jot, it
would permit the souls of millions to be swept away into the gloom of
eternal night.

Then, there is the separation regulation, dragging after it a long
train of horrors and heart-rending sufferings—violating the law of
holy writ—"Whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder"—and
trampling upon the best feelings of human nature.

A thrilling illustration of the operation of this law is narrated by
Mr. James Grant.[90] We quote:—

     "Two persons, man and wife, of very advanced years, were at
     last, through the infirmities consequent on old age, rendered
     incapable of providing for themselves. Their friends were like
     themselves, poor; but, so long as they could, they afforded
     them all the assistance in their power. The infirmities of the
     aged couple became greater and greater; so, as a necessary
     consequence, did their wants. The guardians of the poor—their
     parish being under the operation of the new measure—refused to
     afford them the slightest relief. What was to be done? They had
     no alternative but starvation and the workhouse. To have gone to
     the workhouse, even had they been permitted to live together,
     could have been painful enough to their feelings; but to go there
     to be separated from each other, was a thought at which their
     hearts sickened. They had been married for nearly half a century;
     and during all that time had lived in the greatest harmony
     together. I am speaking the language of unexaggerated truth when
     I say, that their affection for each other increased, instead
     of suffering diminution, as they advanced in years. A purer or
     stronger attachment than theirs has never, perhaps, existed in a
     world in which there is so much of mutability as in ours. Many
     were the joys and many were the sorrows which they had equally
     shared with each other. Their joys were increased, because
     participated in by both: their sorrows were lessened, because of
     the consolations they assiduously administered to each other when
     the dispensations of Providence assumed a lowering aspect. The
     reverses they had experienced, in the course of their long and
     eventful union, had only served to attach them the more strongly
     to each other, just as the tempestuous blast only serves to
     cause the oak to strike its roots more deeply in the earth. With
     minds originally constituted alike, and that constitution being
     based on a virtuous foundation, it was, indeed, to be expected
     that the lapse of years would only tend to strengthen their
     attachment. Nothing, in a word, could have exceeded the ardour
     of their sympathy with each other. The only happiness which this
     world could afford them was derived from the circumstance of
     being in each other's company; and the one looked forward to the
     possibility of being left alone, when the other was snatched away
     by death, with feelings of the deepest pain and apprehension.
     Their wish was, in subordination to the will of the Supreme
     Being, that as they had been so long united in life, so in death
     they might not be divided. Their wish was in one sense realized,
     though not in the sense they had desired. The pressure of want,
     aggravated by the increasing infirmities of the female, imposed
     on her the necessity of repairing to the workhouse. The husband
     would most willingly have followed, had they been permitted
     to live together when there, in the hope that they should,
     even in that miserable place, be able to assuage each other's
     griefs, as they had so often done before. That was a permission,
     however, which was not to be granted to them. The husband
     therefore determined that he would live on a morsel of bread and
     a draught of cold water, where he was, rather than submit to
     the degradation of a workhouse, in which he would be separated
     from her who had been the partner of his joys and griefs for
     upward of half a century. The hour of parting came; and a sad
     and sorrowful hour it was to the aged couple. Who shall describe
     their feelings on the occasion? Who can even enter into those
     feelings? No one. They could only be conceived by themselves.
     The process of separation was as full of anguish to their mental
     nature as is the severance of a limb from the body to the
     physical constitution. And that separation was aggravated by the
     circumstance, that both felt a presentiment, so strong as to have
     all the force of a thorough conviction, that their separation was
     to be final as regarded this world. What, then, must have been
     the agonies of the parting hour in the case of a couple whose
     mental powers were still unimpaired, and who had lived in the
     most perfect harmony for the protracted period of fifty years?
     They were, I repeat, not only such as admit of no description,
     but no one, who has not been similarly circumstanced, can even
     form an idea of them. The downcast look, the tender glances
     they emitted to each other, the swimming eye, the moist cheek,
     the deep-drawn sigh, the choked utterance, the affectionate
     embrace—all told, in the language of resistless eloquence, of
     the anguish caused by their separation. The scene was affecting
     in the extreme, even to the mere spectator. It was one which must
     have softened the hardest heart, as it drew tears from every
     eye which witnessed it; what, then, must the actual realization
     of it in all its power have been to the parties themselves? The
     separation did take place; the poor woman was wrenched from the
     almost death-like grasp of her husband. She was transferred to
     the workhouse; and he was left alone in the miserable hovel in
     which they had so long remained together. And what followed?
     What followed! That may be soon told: it is a short history. The
     former pined away, and died in three weeks after the separation;
     and the husband only survived three weeks more. Their parting was
     thus but for a short time, though final as regarded this world.
     Ere six weeks had elapsed they again met together—

         Met on that happy, happy shore,
         Where friends do meet to part no more."

Here was an outrage, shocking to every heart of ordinary sensibility,
committed by authority of the British government, in due execution
of its "charitable enactments." In searching for a parallel, we can
only find it among those savage tribes who kill their aged and infirm
brethren to save trouble and expense. Yet such actions are sanctioned
by the government of a civilized nation, in the middle of the
nineteenth century; and that, too, when the government is parading its
philanthropy in the face of the world, and, pharisaically, thanking God
that it is not as other nations are, authorizing sin and wrong.

It was said by the advocates of this regulation of separation, that
paupers themselves have no objection to be separated from each other;
because, generally speaking, they have become old and unable to
assist each other, before they throw themselves permanently on the
parish—in other words, that the poor have not the same affection for
relatives and friends that the wealthy have. Well, that argument was
characteristic of a land where the fineness of a man's feelings are
assumed to be exactly in proportion to the position of his ancestry
and the length of his purse—perfectly in keeping, as an artist would
say. A pauper husband and wife, after living together, perhaps for
thirty years, become old and desire to be separated, according to the
representations of the British aristocrat. His iron logic allows no
hearts to the poor. To breathe is human—to feel is aristocratic.

Equally to be condemned is the regulation which prohibits the visits
to the workhouse of the friends of the inmates. The only shadow of a
reason for this is an alleged inconvenience attending the admission
of those persons who are not inmates; and for such a reason the wife
is prevented from seeing her husband, the children from seeing their
father, and the poor heart-broken inmate from seeing a friend—perhaps
the only one he has in the world. We might suppose that the authors
of this regulation had discovered that adversity multiplies friends,
instead of driving them away from its gloom. Paupers must be blessed
beyond the rest of mankind in that respect. Instances are recorded in
which dying paupers have been refused the consolation of a last visit
from their children, under the operation of this outrageous law. Mr.
James Grant mentions a case that came to his notice:—

     "An instance occurred a few months since in a workhouse in the
     suburbs of the metropolis, in which intelligence was accidentally
     conveyed to a daughter that her father was on his death-bed; she
     hurried that moment to the workhouse, but was refused admission.
     With tears in her eyes, and a heart that was ready to break, she
     pleaded the urgency of the case. The functionary was deaf to
     her entreaties; as soon might she have addressed them to the
     brick wall before her. His answer was, 'It is contrary to the
     regulations of the place; come again at a certain hour,' She
     applied to the medical gentleman who attended the workhouse, and
     through his exertions obtained admission. She flew to the ward
     in which her father was confined: he lay cold, motionless, and
     unconscious before her—his spirit was gone; he had breathed
     his last five minutes before. Well may we exclaim, when we hear
     of such things, 'Do we live in a Christian country? Is this a
     civilized land?'"

Certainly, Mr. Grant, it is a land of freedom and philanthropy unknown
upon the rest of the earth's surface.

From a survey of the poor-laws it appears that poverty is considered
criminal in Great Britain. The workhouses, which are declared to have
been established for the relief of the poor, are worse than prisons for
solitary confinement; for the visits of friends and the consolations
of religion, except under particular forms, are denied to the unhappy
inmates, while they are permitted to the criminal in his dungeon.

What an English pauper is may be learned from the following description
of the "bold peasantry," which we extract from one of the countless
pamphlets on pauperism written by Englishmen.

     "What is that defective being, with calfless legs and stooping
     shoulders, weak in body and mind, inert, pusillanimous and
     stupid, whose premature wrinkles and furtive glance tell of
     misery and degradation? That is an English peasant or pauper;
     for the words are synonymous. His sire was a pauper, and his
     mother's milk wanted nourishment. From infancy his food has been
     bad, as well as insufficient; and he now feels the pains of
     unsatisfied hunger nearly whenever he is awake. But half-clothed,
     and never supplied with more warmth than suffices to cook his
     scanty meals, cold and wet come to him, and stay by him, with
     the weather. He is married, of course; for to this he would have
     been driven by the poor-laws, even if he had been, as he never
     was, sufficiently comfortable and prudent to dread the burden
     of a family. But, though instinct and the overseer have given
     him a wife, he has not tasted the highest joys of husband and
     father. His partner and his little ones being, like himself,
     often hungry, seldom warm, sometimes sick without aid, and always
     sorrowful without hope, are greedy, selfish, and vexing; so,
     to use his own expression, he 'hates the sight of them,' and
     resorts to his hovel only because a hedge affords less shelter
     from the wind and rain. Compelled by parish law to support his
     family, which means to join them in consuming an allowance from
     the parish, he frequently conspires with his wife to get that
     allowance increased, or prevent its being diminished. This brings
     begging, trickery, and quarrelling; and ends in settled craft.
     Though he has the inclination he wants the courage to become,
     like more energetic men of his class, a poacher or smuggler on
     a large scale; but he pilfers occasionally, and teaches his
     children to lie and steal. His subdued and slavish manner toward
     his great neighbours shows that they treat him with suspicion
     and harshness. Consequently he at once dreads and hates them;
     but he will never harm them by violent means. Too degraded to be
     desperate, he is only thoroughly depraved. His miserable career
     will be short; rheumatism and asthma are conducting him to the
     workhouse, where he will breathe his last without one pleasant
     recollection, and so make room for another wretch, who may live
     and die in the same way. This is a sample of one class of English
     peasants. Another class is composed of men who, though paupers
     to the extent of being in part supported by the parish, were not
     bred and born in extreme destitution, and who, therefore, in so
     far as the moral depends on the physical man, are qualified to
     become wise, virtuous, and happy. They have large muscles, an
     upright mien, and a quick perception. With strength, energy, and
     skill, they would earn a comfortable subsistence as labourers,
     if the modern fashion of paying wages out of the poor-box did
     not interfere with the due course of things, and reduce all
     the labourers of a parish, the old and the young, the weak
     and the strong, the idle and the industrious, to that lowest
     rate of wages, or rather of weekly payment to each, which, in
     each case, is barely sufficient for the support of life. If
     there were no poor-laws, or if the poor-laws were such that
     labour was paid in proportion to the work performed, and not
     according to a scale founded on the power of gastric juice under
     various circumstances, these superior men would be employed in
     preference to the inferior beings described above, would earn
     twice as much as the others could earn, and would have every
     motive for industry, providence, and general good conduct. As
     it is, their superior capacity as labourers is of no advantage
     to them. They have no motive for being industrious or prudent.
     What they obtain between labour and the rate is but just enough
     to support them miserably. They are tempted to marry for the
     sake of an extra allowance from the parish: and they would be
     sunk to the lowest point of degradation but for the energy of
     their minds, which they owe to their physical strength. Courage
     and tenderness are said to be allied: men of this class usually
     make good husbands and affectionate parents. Impelled by want of
     food, clothes, and warmth, for themselves and their families,
     they become poachers wherever game abounds, and smugglers when
     opportunity serves. By poaching or smuggling, or both, many of
     them are enabled to fill the bellies of their children, to put
     decent clothes on the backs of their wives, and to keep the
     cottage whole, with a good fire in it, from year's end to year's
     end. The villains! why are they not taken up? They are taken up
     sometimes, and are hunted always, by those who administer rural
     law. In this way they learn to consider two sets of laws—those
     for the protection of game, and those for the protection of
     home manufactures—as specially made for their injury. Be just
     to our unpaid magistrates! who perform their duty, even to the
     shedding of man's blood, in defence of pheasants and restrictions
     on trade. Thus the bolder sort of husbandry labourers, by
     engaging in murderous conflicts with gamekeepers and preventive
     men, become accustomed to deeds of violence, and, by living
     in jails, qualified for the most desperate courses. They also
     imbibe feelings of dislike, or rather of bitter hatred, toward
     the rural magistracy, whom they regard as oppressors and natural
     enemies; closely resembling, in this respect, the defective
     class of peasants from whom they differ in so many particulars.
     Between these two descriptions of peasantry there is another,
     which partakes of the characteristics of both classes, but in
     a slighter degree, except as regards their fear and hatred of
     the rural aristocracy. In the districts where paupers and game
     abound, it would be difficult to find many labourers not coming
     under one of these descriptions. By courtesy, the entire body
     is called the bold peasantry of England. But is nothing done by
     the 'nobility, clergy, and gentry,' to conciliate the affection
     of the pauper mass, by whose toil all their own wealth is
     produced? Charity! The charity of the poor-laws, which paupers
     have been taught to consider a right, which operates as a curse
     to the able-bodied and well-disposed, while it but just enables
     the infirm of all ages to linger on in pain and sorrow. Soup!
     Dogs'-meat, the paupers call it. They are very ungrateful; but
     there is a way of relieving a man's necessities which will make
     him hate you; and it is in this way, generally, that soup is
     given to the poor. Books, good little books, which teach patience
     and submission to the powers that be! With which such paupers
     as obtain them usually boil their kettles, when not deterred by
     fear of the reverend donor. Of this gift the design is so plain
     and offensive, that its effect is contrary to what was intended,
     just as children from whom obedience is very strictly exacted are
     commonly rebels at heart. What else? is nothing else done by the
     rural rich to win the love of the rural poor? Speaking generally,
     since all rules have exceptions, the privileged classes of our
     rural districts take infinite pains to be abhorred by their
     poorest neighbours. They enclose commons. They stop footpaths.
     They wall in their parks. They set spring-guns and man-traps.
     They spend on the keep of high-bred dogs what would support half
     as many children, and yet persecute a labouring man for owning
     one friend in his cur. They make rates of wages, elaborately
     calculating the minimum of food that will keep together the soul
     and body of a clodhopper. They breed game in profusion for their
     own amusement, and having thus tempted the poor man to knock
     down a hare for his pot, they send him to the treadmill, or the
     antipodes, for that inexpiable offence. They build jails, and
     fill them. They make new crimes and new punishments for the poor.
     They interfere with the marriages of the poor, compelling some,
     and forbidding others, to come together. They shut up paupers in
     workhouses, separating husband and wife, in pounds by day and
     wards by night. They harness poor men to carts. They superintend
     alehouses, decry skittles, deprecate beer-shops, meddle with
     fairs, and otherwise curtail the already narrow amusements of
     the poor. Even in church, where some of them solemnly preach
     that all are equal, they sit on cushions, in pews boarded,
     matted, and sheltered by curtains from the wind and the vulgar
     gaze, while the lower order must put up with a bare bench on a
     stone floor, which is good enough for them. Everywhere they are
     ostentatious in the display of wealth and enjoyment; while, in
     their intercourse with the poor, they are suspicious, quick at
     taking offence, vindictive when displeased, haughty, overbearing,
     tyrannical, and wolfish; as it seems in the nature of man to be
     toward such of his fellows as, like sheep, are without the power
     to resist."

In London, a species of slavery pertains to the workhouse system which
has justly excited much indignation. This is the employment of paupers
as scavengers in the streets, without due compensation, and compelling
them to wear badges, as if they were convicted criminals. Mr. Mayhew
has some judicious remarks upon this subject:—

     "If pauperism be a disgrace, then it is unjust to turn a man into
     the public thoroughfare, wearing the badge of beggary, to be
     pointed at and scorned for his poverty, especially when we are
     growing so particularly studious of our criminals that we make
     them wear masks to prevent even their faces being seen.[91] Nor
     is it consistent with the principles of an enlightened national
     morality that we should force a body of honest men to labour
     upon the highways, branded with a degrading garb, like convicts.
     Neither is it _wise_ to do so, for the shame of poverty soon
     becomes deadened by the repeated exposure to public scorn; and
     thus the occasional recipient of parish relief is ultimately
     converted into the hardened and habitual pauper. "Once a pauper
     always a pauper," I was assured was the parish rule; and here
     lies the _rationale_ of the fact. Not long ago this system of
     employing _badged_ paupers to labour on the public thoroughfares
     was carried to a much more offensive extent than it is even at
     present. At one time the pauper labourers of a certain parish
     had the attention of every passer-by attracted to them while at
     their work, for on the back of each man's garb—a sort of smock
     frock—was marked, with sufficient prominence, 'CLERKENWELL.
     STOP IT!' This public intimation that the labourers were not
     only paupers, but regarded as thieves, and expected to purloin
     the parish dress they wore, attracted public attention, and was
     severely commented upon at a meeting. The 'STOP IT!' therefore
     was cancelled, and the frocks are now _merely_ lettered
     'CLERKENWELL.' Before the alteration the men very generally wore
     the garment inside out."

The pauper scavengers employed by the metropolitan parishes are
divided into three classes: 1. The in-door paupers, who receive no
wages whatever, their lodging, food, and clothing being considered to
be sufficient remuneration for their labour; 2. The out-door paupers,
who are paid partly in money and partly in kind, and employed in some
cases three days, and in others six days in the week; 3. The unemployed
labourers of the district, who are set to scavenging work by the
parish and paid a regular money-wage—the employment being constant,
and the rate of remuneration varying from 1_s._ 3_d._ to 2_s._ 6_d._ a
day for each of the six days, or from 7_s._ 6_d._ to 15_s._ a week.

The first class of pauper-scavengers, or those who receive nothing for
their labour beyond their lodging, food, and clothing, are treated as
slaves. The labour is compulsory, without inducements for exertion,
and conducted upon the same system which the authorities of the
parish would use for working cattle. One of these scavengers gave the
following account of this degrading labour to Mr. Mayhew:—

     "'Street-sweeping,' he said, 'degrades a man, and if a man's poor
     he hasn't no call to be degraded. Why can't they set the thieves
     and pickpockets to sweep? they could be watched easy enough;
     there's always idle fellers as reckons theirselves real gents,
     as can be got for watching and sitch easy jobs, for they gets
     as much for them as three men's paid for hard work in a week. I
     never was in a prison, but I've heerd that people there is better
     fed and better cared for than in workusses. What's the meaning of
     that, sir, I'd like to know. You can't tell me, but I can tell
     you. The workus is made as ugly as it can be, that poor people
     may be got to leave it, and chance dying in the street rather.'
     [Here the man indulged in a gabbled detail of a series of pauper
     grievances which I had a difficulty in diverting or interrupting.
     On my asking if the other paupers had the same opinion as to the
     street-sweeping as he had, he replied:—] 'To be sure they has;
     all them that has sense to have a 'pinion at all has; there's
     not two sides to it anyhow. No, I don't want to be kept and do
     nothink. I want _proper_ work. And by the rights of it I might
     as well be kept with nothink to do as — or —' [parish
     officials]. 'Have they nothing to do?' I asked. 'Nothink, but to
     make mischief and get what ought to go to the poor. It's salaries
     and such like as swallers the rates, and that's what every poor
     family knows as knows any think. Did I ever like my work better?
     Certainly not. Do I take any pains with it? Well, where would be
     the good? I can sweep well enough, when I please, but if I could
     do more than the best man as ever Mr. Drake paid a pound a week
     to, it wouldn't be a bit better for me—not a bit, sir, I assure
     you. We all takes it easy whenever we can, but the work _must_ be
     done. The only good about it is that you get outside the house.
     It's a change that way certainly. But we work like horses and is
     treated like asses.'"

The second mode of pauper scavenging, viz. that performed by out-door
paupers, and paid for partly in money and partly in kind, is strongly
condemned, as having mischievous and degrading tendencies. The men
thus employed are certainly not independent labourers, though the
means of their subsistence are partly the fruits of their toil.
Their exceedingly scant payment keeps them hard at work for a very
unreasonable period. Should they refuse to obey the parish regulations
in regard to the work, the pangs of hunger are sure to reach them and
compel them to submit. Death is the only door of escape. From a married
man employed by the parish in this work, Mr. Mayhew obtained the
following interesting narrative, which is a sad revelation of pauper
slavery:—

     "'I was brought up as a type-founder; my father, who was one,
     learnt me his trade; but he died when I was quite a young man,
     or I might have been better perfected in it. I was comfortably
     off enough then, and got married. Very soon after that I was
     taken ill with an abscess in my neck, you can see the mark of it
     still,' [He showed me the mark.] 'For six months I wasn't able
     to do a thing, and I was a part of the time, I don't recollect
     how long, in St. Bartholomew's Hospital. I was weak and ill when
     I came out, and hardly fit for work; I couldn't hear of any work
     I could get, for there was a great bother in the trade between
     master and men. Before I went into the hospital, there was money
     to pay to doctors; and when I came out I could earn nothing, so
     every thing went; yes, sir, every thing. My wife made a little
     matter with charing for families she'd lived in, but things are
     in a bad way if a poor woman has to keep her husband. She was
     taken ill at last, and then there was nothing but the parish
     for us. I suffered a great deal before it come to that. It was
     awful. No one can know what it is but them that suffers it. But I
     didn't know what in the world to do. We lived then in St. Luke's,
     and were passed to our own parish, and were three months in the
     workhouse. The living was good enough, better than it is now,
     I've heard, but I was miserable.' ['And I was _very_ miserable,'
     interposed the wife, 'for I had been brought up comfortable; my
     father was a respectable tradesman in St. George's-in-the-East,
     and I had been in good situations.'] 'We made ourselves,' said
     the husband, 'as useful as we could, but we were parted of
     course. At the three months' end, I had 10_s._ given to me to
     come out with, and was told I might start costermongering on it.
     But to a man not up to the trade, 10_s._ won't go very far to
     keep up costering. I didn't feel master enough of my own trade by
     this time to try for work at it, and work wasn't at all regular.
     There were good hands earning only 12_s._ a week. The 10_s._
     soon went, and I had again to apply for relief, and got an order
     for the stone-yard to go and break stones. Ten bushels was to be
     broken for 15_d._ It was dreadful hard work at first. My hands
     got all blistered and bloody, and I've gone home and cried with
     pain and wretchedness. At first it was on to three days before
     I could break the ten bushels. I felt shivered to bits all over
     my arms and shoulders, and my head was splitting. I then got to
     do it in two days, and then in one, and it grew easier. But all
     this time I had only what was reckoned three days' work in a
     week. That is, you see, sir, I had only three times ten bushels
     of stones given to break in a week, and earned only 3_s._ 9_d._
     Yes, I lived on it, and paid 1_s._ 6_d._ a week rent, for the
     neighbours took care of a few sticks for us, and the parish or a
     broker wouldn't have found them worth carriage. My wife was then
     in the country with a sister. I lived upon bread and dripping,
     went without fire or candle (or had one only very seldom) though
     it wasn't warm weather. I can safely say that for eight weeks
     I never tasted one bite of meat, and hardly a bite of butter.
     When I couldn't sleep of a night, but that wasn't often, it was
     terrible, very. I washed what bits of things I had then, myself,
     and had sometimes to get a ha'porth of soap as a favour, as the
     chandler said she 'didn't make less than a penn'orth.' If I ate
     too much dripping, it made me feel sick. I hardly know how much
     bread and dripping I ate in a week. I spent what money I had
     in it and bread, and sometimes went without. I was very weak,
     you may be sure, sir; and if I'd had the influenza or any thing
     that way, I should have gone off like a shot, for I seemed to
     have no constitution left. But my wife came back again and got
     work at charing, and made about 4_s._ a week at it; but we were
     still very badly off. Then I got to work on the roads every day,
     and had 1_s._ and a quartern loaf a day, which was a rise. I
     had only one child then, but men with larger families got two
     quartern loaves a day. Single men got 9_d._ a day. It was far
     easier work than stone-breaking too. The hours were from eight
     to five in winter, and from seven to six in summer. But there's
     always changes going on, and we were put on 1_s._ 1½_d._ a
     day and a quartern loaf, and only three days a week. All the
     same as to time of course. The bread wasn't good; it was only
     cheap. I suppose there was twenty of us working most of the
     times as I was. The gangsman, as you call him, but that's more
     for the regular hands, was a servant of the parish, and a great
     tyrant. Yes, indeed, when we had a talk among ourselves, there
     was nothing but grumbling heard of. Some of the tales I've heard
     were shocking; worse than what I've gone through. Everybody was
     grumbling, except perhaps two men that had been twenty years in
     the streets, and were like born paupers. They didn't feel it,
     for there's a great difference in men. They knew no better. But
     anybody might have been frightened to hear some of the men talk
     and curse. We've stopped work to abuse the parish officers as
     might be passing. We've mobbed the overseers; and a number of
     us, I was one, were taken before the magistrate for it: but we
     told him how badly we were off, and he discharged us, and gave us
     orders into the workhouse, and told 'em to see if nothing could
     be done for us. We were there till next morning, and then sent
     away without any thing being said.'"

     "'It's a sad life, sir, is a parish worker's. I wish to God I
     could get out of it. But when a man has children he can't stop
     and say, "I can't do this," and "I won't do that." Last week,
     now, in costering, I lost 6_s._ [he meant that his expenses, of
     every kind, exceeded his receipts by 6_s._,] and though I can
     distil nectar, or any thing that way, [this was said somewhat
     laughingly,] it's only when the weather's hot and fine that any
     good at all can be done with it. I think, too, that there's
     not the money among working-men that there once was. Any thing
     regular in the way of pay must always be looked at by a man with
     a family.

     "'Of course the streets must be properly swept, and if I can
     sweep them as well as Mr. Dodd's men, for I know one of them very
     well, why should I have only 1_s._ 4½_d._ a week and three
     loaves, and he have 16_s._, I think it is. I don't drink, my
     wife knows I don't, [the wife assented,] and it seems as if in a
     parish a man must be kept down when he is down, and then blamed
     for it. I may not understand all about it, but it looks queer."'

The third system of parish work, where the labourer is employed
regularly, and paid a certain sum out of the parochial fund, is
superior to either of the other modes; but still, the labourers are
very scantily paid, subjected to a great deal of tyranny by brutal
officers, and miserably provided. They endure the severest toil for a
wretched pittance, without being able to choose their masters or their
employment. No slaves could be more completely at the mercy of their
masters.

The common practice of apprenticing children born and reared in
workhouses, to masters who may feed, clothe, and beat them as they
please, is touchingly illustrated in Dickens's famous story of Oliver
Twist. After Oliver had been subjected for some time to the tender
mercies of guardians and overseers in the workhouse, it was advertised
that any person wanting an apprentice could obtain him, and five
pounds as a premium. He narrowly escaped being apprenticed to a sweep,
and finally fell into the hands of Mr. Sowerberry, an undertaker. In
the house of that dismal personage, he was fed upon cold bits, badly
clothed, knocked about unmercifully, and worked with great severity.
Such is the common fate of parish apprentices; and we do not think
a more truthful conception of the _beauties_ of the system could be
conveyed than by quoting from the experience of Dickens's workhouse
boy:—

     "Oliver had not been within the walls of the workhouse a quarter
     of an hour, and had scarcely completed the demolition of a second
     slice of bread, when Mr. Bumble, who had handed him over to the
     care of an old woman, returned, and, telling him it was a board
     night, informed him that the board had said he was to appear
     before it forthwith.

     "Not having a very clearly defined notion what a live board was,
     Oliver was rather astounded by this intelligence, and was not
     quite certain whether he ought to laugh or cry. He had no time
     to think about the matter, however; for Mr. Bumble gave him a
     tap on the head with his cane to wake him up, and another on his
     back to make him lively, and, bidding him follow, conducted him
     into a large whitewashed room, where eight or ten fat gentlemen
     were sitting round a table, at the top of which, seated in an
     armchair rather higher than the rest, was a particularly fat
     gentleman with a very round, red face.

     "'Bow to the board,' said Bumble. Oliver brushed away two or
     three tears that were lingering in his eyes, and seeing no board
     but the table, fortunately bowed to that.

     "'What's your name, boy?' said the gentleman in the high chair.

     "Oliver was frightened at the sight of so many gentlemen, which
     made him tremble: and the beadle gave him another tap behind,
     which made him cry; and these two causes made him answer in a
     very low and hesitating voice; whereupon a gentleman in a white
     waistcoat said he was a fool, which was a capital way of raising
     his spirit, and putting him quite at his ease.

     "'Boy,' said the gentleman in the high chair: 'listen to me. You
     know you're an orphan, I suppose?'"

     "'What's that, sir?" inquired poor Oliver.

     "'The boy _is_ a fool—I thought he was,' said the gentleman
     in the white waistcoat in a very decided tone. If one member
     of a class be blessed with an intuitive perception of others
     of the same race, the gentleman in the white waistcoat was
     unquestionably well qualified to pronounce an opinion on the
     matter.

     "'Hush!' said the gentleman who had spoken first. 'You know
     you've got no father or mother, and that you are brought up by
     the parish, don't you?'

     "'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver, weeping bitterly.

     "'What are you crying for?' inquired the gentleman in the white
     waistcoat; and to be sure it was very extraordinary. What _could_
     he be crying for?

     "'I hope you say your prayers every night,' said another
     gentleman in a gruff voice, 'and pray for the people who feed
     you, and take care of you, like a Christian.'

     "'Yes, sir,' stammered the boy. The gentleman who spoke last was
     unconsciously right. It would have been _very_ like a Christian,
     and a marvellously good Christian, too, if Oliver had prayed for
     the people who fed and took care of _him_. But he hadn't, because
     nobody had taught him.

     "'Well you have come here to be educated, and taught a useful
     trade,' said the red-faced gentleman in the high chair.

     "'So you'll begin to pick oakum to-morrow morning at six
     o'clock,' added the surly one in the white waistcoat.

     "For the combination of both these blessings in the one simple
     process of picking oakum, Oliver bowed low by the direction of
     the beadle, and was then hurried away to a large ward, where,
     on a rough hard bed, he sobbed himself to sleep. What a noble
     illustration of the tender laws of this favoured country! they
     let the paupers go to sleep!

     "Poor Oliver! he little thought, as he lay sleeping in happy
     unconsciousness of all around him, that the board had that very
     day arrived at a decision which would exercise the most material
     influence over all his future fortunes. But they had. And this
     was it:—

     "The members of this board were very sage, deep, philosophical
     men; and when they came to turn their attention to the workhouse,
     they found out at once, what ordinary folks would never have
     discovered,—the poor people liked it! It was a regular place
     of public entertainment for the poorer classes,—a tavern where
     there was nothing to pay,—a public breakfast, dinner, tea, and
     supper, all the year round,—a brick and mortar elysium, where
     it was all play and no work. 'Oho!' said the board, looking very
     knowing; 'we are the fellows to set this to rights; we'll stop
     it all in no time.' So they established the rule, that all poor
     people should have the alternative (for they would compel nobody,
     not they,) of being starved by a gradual process in the house,
     or by a quick one out of it. With this view, they contracted
     with the water-works to lay on an unlimited supply of water, and
     with a corn-factor to supply periodically small quantities of
     oat-meal: and issued three meals of thin gruel a-day, with an
     onion twice a week, and half a roll on Sundays. They made a great
     many other wise and humane regulations having reference to the
     ladies, which it is not necessary to repeat; kindly undertook to
     divorce poor married people, in consequence of the great expense
     of a suit in Doctors' Commons; and, instead of compelling a
     man to support his family, as they had theretofore done, took
     his family away from him, and made him a bachelor! There is no
     telling how many applicants for relief under these last two heads
     would not have started up in all classes of society, if it had
     not been coupled with the workhouse. But they were long-headed
     men, and they had provided for this difficulty. The relief was
     inseparable from the workhouse and the gruel; and that frightened
     people.

     "For the first three months after Oliver Twist was removed, the
     system was in full operation. It was rather expensive at first,
     in consequence of the increase in the undertaker's bill, and the
     necessity of taking in the clothes of all the paupers, which
     fluttered loosely on their wasted, shrunken forms, after a week
     or two's gruel. But the number of workhouse inmates got thin, as
     well as the paupers; and the board were in ecstasies. The room
     in which the boys were fed was a large stone hall, with a copper
     at one end, out of which the master, dressed in an apron for
     the purpose, and assisted by one or two women, ladled the gruel
     at meal-times; of which composition each boy had one porringer,
     and no more,—except on festive occasions, and then he had two
     ounces and a quarter of bread besides. The bowls never wanted
     washing—the boys polished them with their spoons, till they
     shone again; and when they had performed this operation, (which
     never took very long, the spoons being nearly as large as the
     bowls,) they would sit staring at the copper with such eager
     eyes, as if they could devour the very bricks of which it was
     composed; employing themselves meanwhile in sucking their fingers
     most assiduously, with the view of catching up any stray splashes
     of gruel that might have been cast thereon. Boys have generally
     excellent appetites: Oliver Twist and his companions suffered
     the tortures of slow starvation for three months; at last they
     got so voracious and wild with hunger, that one boy, who was
     tall for his age, and hadn't been used to that sort of thing,
     (for his father had kept a small cook's shop,) hinted darkly to
     his companions, that unless he had another basin of gruel _per
     diem_, he was afraid he should some night eat the boy who slept
     next him, who happened to be a weakly youth of tender age. He had
     a wild, hungry eye, and they implicitly believed him. A council
     was held; lots were cast who should walk up to the master after
     supper that evening, and ask for more; and it fell to Oliver
     Twist.

     The evening arrived: the boys took their places; the master, in
     his cook's uniform, stationed himself at the copper; his pauper
     assistants ranged themselves behind him; the gruel was served
     out, and a long grace was said over the short commons. The gruel
     disappeared, and the boys whispered to each other and winked at
     Oliver, while his next neighbours nudged him. Child as he was,
     he was desperate with hunger, and reckless with misery. He rose
     from the table, and, advancing, basin and spoon in hand, to the
     master, said, somewhat alarmed at his own temerity—

     "'Please, sir, I want some more.'

     "The master was a fat, healthy man, but he turned very pale.
     He gazed in stupefied astonishment on the small rebel for some
     seconds, and then clung for support to the copper. The assistants
     were paralyzed with wonder, and the boys with fear.

     "'What!' said the master at length, in a faint voice.

     "'Please, sir,' replied Oliver, 'I want some more.'

     "The master aimed a blow at Oliver's head with the ladle,
     pinioned him in his arms, and shrieked aloud for the beadle.

     "The board were sitting in solemn conclave, when Mr. Bumble
     rushed into the room in great excitement, and addressing the
     gentleman in the high chair, said—

     "'Mr. Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir;—Oliver Twist has asked
     for more.' There was a general start. Horror was depicted on
     every countenance.

     "'For _more_!' said Mr. Limbkins. 'Compose yourself, Bumble, and
     answer me distinctly. Do I understand that he asked for more,
     after he had eaten the supper allotted by the dietary?'

     "'He did, sir,' replied Bumble.

     "'That boy will be hung,' said the gentleman in the white
     waistcoat; 'I know that boy will be hung.'

     "Nobody controverted the prophetic gentleman's opinion. An
     animated discussion took place. Oliver was ordered into instant
     confinement; and a bill was next morning pasted on the outside of
     the gate, offering a reward of five pounds to anybody who would
     take Oliver Twist off the hands of the parish; in other words,
     five pounds and Oliver Twist were offered to any man or woman who
     wanted an apprentice to any trade, business, or calling.

     "'I never was more convinced of any thing in my life,' said the
     gentleman in the white waistcoat, as he knocked at the gate and
     read the bill next morning,—'I never was more convinced of any
     thing in my life, than I am that that boy will come to be hung.'

     "For a week after the commission of the impious and profane
     offence of asking for more, Oliver remained a close prisoner in
     the dark and solitary room to which he had been consigned by the
     wisdom and mercy of the board. It appears, at first sight, not
     unreasonable to suppose, that, if he had entertained a becoming
     feeling of respect for the prediction of the gentleman in the
     white waistcoat, he would have established that sage individual's
     prophetic character, once and for ever, by tying one end of his
     pocket-handkerchief to a hook in the wall, and attaching himself
     to the other. To the performance of this feat, however, there was
     one obstacle, namely, that pocket-handkerchiefs being decided
     articles of luxury, had been, for all future times and ages,
     removed from the noses of paupers by the express order of the
     board in council assembled, solemnly given and pronounced under
     their hands and seals. There was a still greater obstacle in
     Oliver's youth and childishness. He only cried bitterly all day;
     and when the long, dismal night came on, he spread his little
     hands before his eyes to shut out the darkness, and crouching in
     the corner, tried to sleep, ever and anon waking with a start and
     tremble, and drawing himself closer and closer to the wall, as if
     to feel even its cold hard surface were a protection in the gloom
     and loneliness which surrounded him.

     "Let it not be supposed by the enemies of 'the system,' that,
     during the period of his solitary incarceration, Oliver was
     denied the benefit of exercise, the pleasure of society, or the
     advantages of religious consolation. As for exercise, it was nice
     cold weather, and he was allowed to perform his ablutions every
     morning under the pump, in a stone yard, in the presence of Mr.
     Bumble, who prevented his catching cold, and caused a tingling
     sensation to pervade his frame, by repeated applications of the
     cane; as for society, he was carried every other day into the
     hall where the boys dined, and there sociably flogged, as a
     public warning and example; and, so far from being denied the
     advantages of religious consolation, he was kicked into the same
     apartment every evening at prayer-time, and there permitted to
     listen to, and console his mind with, a general supplication of
     the boys, containing a special clause therein inserted by the
     authority of the board, in which they entreated to be made good,
     virtuous, contented, and obedient, and to be guarded from the
     sins and vices of Oliver Twist, whom the supplication distinctly
     set forth to be under the exclusive patronage and protection
     of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct from the
     manufactory of the devil himself.

     "It chanced one morning, while Oliver's affairs were in
     this auspicious and comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield,
     chimney-sweeper, was wending his way adown the High-street,
     deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying
     certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become rather
     pressing. Mr. Gamfield's most sanguine calculation of funds
     could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired
     amount; and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was
     alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when, passing
     the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate.

     "'Woo!' said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey.

     "The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction—wondering,
     probably, whether he was destined to be regaled with a
     cabbage-stalk or two, when he had disposed of the two sacks of
     soot with which the little cart was laden; so, without noticing
     the word of command, he jogged onward.

     "Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey
     generally, but more particularly on his eyes; and running after
     him, bestowed a blow on his head which would inevitably have
     beaten in any skull but a donkey's; then, catching hold of the
     bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of gentle reminder
     that he was not his own master; and, having by these means turned
     him round, he gave him another blow on the head, just to stun him
     until he came back again; and, having done so, walked to the gate
     to read the bill.

     "The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the
     gate with his hands behind him, after having delivered himself
     of some profound sentiments in the board-room. Having witnessed
     the little dispute between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled
     joyously when that person came up to read the bill, for he saw
     at once that Mr. Gamfield was just exactly the sort of master
     Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfield smiled, too, as he perused
     the document, for five pounds was just the sum he had been
     wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it was encumbered,
     Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse was,
     well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing
     for register stoves. So he spelt the bill through again, from
     beginning to end; and then, touching his fur cap in token of
     humility, accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

     "'This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to 'prentis,' said Mr.
     Gamfield.

     "'Yes, my man,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a
     condescending smile, 'what of him?'

     "'If the parish vould like him to learn a light, pleasant
     trade, in a good 'spectable chimbley-sweepin bisness,' said Mr.
     Gamfield, 'I wants a 'prentis, and I'm ready to take him.'

     "'Walk in,' said the gentleman with the white waistcoat. And Mr.
     Gamfield having lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow
     on the head, and another wrench of the jaw, as a caution not to
     run away in his absence, followed the gentleman in the white
     waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first seen him.

     "'It's a nasty trade,' said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again
     stated his case.

     "'Young boys have been smothered in chimeys, before now,' said
     another gentleman.

     "'That's acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the
     chimbley to make'em come down again,' said Gamfield; 'that's
     all smoke, and no blaze: vereas smoke a'n't o' no use at all in
     makin' a boy come down; it only sinds him to sleep, and that's
     wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy, gen'lm'n,
     and there's nothink like a good hot blaze to make em come down
     vith a run; it's humane, too, gen'lm'n, acause, even if they've
     stuck in the chimbley, roastin' their feet makes 'em struggle to
     hextricate theirselves.'

     "The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused
     with this explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a
     look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse
     among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a tone that
     the words, 'saving of expenditure,' 'look well in the accounts,'
     'have a printed report published,' were alone audible; and
     they only chanced to be heard on account of their being very
     frequently repeated with great emphasis.

     "At length the whispering ceased, and the members of the board
     having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said,

     "'We have considered your proposition, and we don't approve of
     it.'

     "'Not at all,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

     "'Decidedly not,' added the other members.

     "As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation
     of having bruised three or four boys to death already, it
     occurred to him that the board had perhaps, in some unaccountable
     freak, taken it into their heads that this extraneous
     circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was very
     unlike their general mode of doing business, if they had; but
     still, as he had no particular wish to revive the rumour, he
     twisted his cap in his hands, and walked slowly from the table.

     "'So you won't let me have him, gen'lmen,' said Mr. Gamfield,
     pausing near the door.

     "'No,' replied Mr. Limbkins; 'at least, as it's a nasty business,
     we think you ought to take something less than the premium we
     offered.'

     "Mr. Gamfield's countenance brightened, as with a quick step he
     returned to the table, and said,

     "'What'll you give, gen'lmen? Come, don't be too hard on a poor
     man. What'll you give?'

     "'I should say three pound ten was plenty,' said Mr. Limbkins.

     "'Ten shillings too much,' said the gentleman in the white
     waistcoat.

     "'Come,' said Gamfield, 'say four pound, gen'lmen. Say four
     pound, and you've got rid of him for good and all. There!'

     "'Three pound ten,' repeated Mr. Limbkins, firmly.

     "'Come, I'll split the difference, gen'lmen,' urged Gamfield.
     'Three pound fifteen.'

     "'Not a farthing more,' was the firm reply of Mr. Limbkins.

     "'You're desp'rate hard upon me, gen'lmen,' said Gamfield,
     wavering.

     "'Pooh! pooh! nonsense!' said the gentleman in the white
     waistcoat. 'He'd be cheap with nothing at all as a premium. Take
     him, you silly fellow! He's just the boy for you. He wants the
     stick now and then; it'll do him good; and his board needn't come
     very expensive, for he hasn't been overfed since he was born. Ha!
     ha! ha!'

     "Mr. Gamfield gave an arch look at the faces round the table,
     and, observing a smile on all of them, gradually broke into
     a smile himself. The bargain was made, and Mr. Bumble was at
     once instructed that Oliver Twist and his indentures were to be
     conveyed before the magistrate for signature and approval, that
     very afternoon.

     "In pursuance of this determination, little Oliver, to his
     excessive astonishment, was released from bondage, and ordered to
     put himself into a clean shirt. He had hardly achieved this very
     unusual gymnastic performance, when Mr. Bumble brought him with
     his own hands, a basin of gruel, and the holiday allowance of two
     ounces and a quarter of bread; at sight of which Oliver began to
     cry very piteously, thinking, not unnaturally, that the board
     must have determined to kill him for some useful purpose, or they
     never would have begun to fatten him up in this way.

     "'Don't make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat your food, and be
     thankful,' said Mr. Bumble, in a tone of impressive pomposity.

     'You're a-going to be made a 'prentice of, Oliver.'

     "'A 'prentice, sir!' said the child, trembling.

     "'Yes, Oliver,' said Mr. Bumble. 'The kind and blessed gentlemen
     which is so many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none
     of your own, are a-going to 'prentice you, and to set you up
     in life, and make a man of you, although the expense to the
     parish is three pound ten!—three pound ten, Oliver!—seventy
     shillin's!—one hundred and forty sixpences!—and all for a
     naughty orphan which nobody can love.'

     "As Mr. Bumble paused to take breath after delivering this
     address, in an awful voice, the tears rolled down the poor
     child's face, and he sobbed bitterly.

     "'Come,' said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pompously; for it was
     gratifying to his feelings to observe the effect his eloquence
     had produced. 'Come, Oliver, wipe your eyes with the cuffs of
     your jacket, and don't cry into your gruel; that's a very foolish
     action, Oliver.' It certainly was, for there was quite enough
     water in it already.

     "On their way to the magistrate's, Mr. Bumble instructed Oliver
     that all he would have to do would be to look very happy,
     and say, when the gentleman asked him if he wanted to be
     apprenticed, that he should like it very much indeed; both of
     which injunctions Oliver promised to obey, the more readily as
     Mr. Bumble threw in a gentle hint, that if he failed in either
     particular, there was no telling what would be done to him. When
     they arrived at the office he was shut up in a little room by
     himself, and admonished by Mr. Bumble to stay there until he came
     back to fetch him.

     "There the boy remained with a palpitating heart for half an
     hour, at the expiration of which time Mr. Bumble thrust in his
     head, unadorned with the cocked hat, and said aloud,

     "'Now, Oliver, my dear, come to the gentleman.' As Mr. Bumble
     said this, he put on a grim and threatening look, and added in a
     low voice, 'Mind what I told you, you young rascal.'

     "Oliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble's face at this somewhat
     contradictory style of address; but that gentleman prevented his
     offering any remark thereupon, by leading him at once into an
     adjoining room, the door of which was open. It was a large room
     with a great window; and behind a desk sat two old gentlemen with
     powdered heads, one of whom was reading the newspaper, while the
     other was perusing, with the aid of a pair of tortoise-shell
     spectacles, a small piece of parchment which lay before him. Mr.
     Limbkins was standing in front of the desk, on one side; and Mr.
     Gamfield, with a partially washed face, on the other; while two
     or three bluff-looking men in top-boots were lounging about.

     "The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over
     the little bit of parchment; and there was a short pause after
     Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk.

     "'This is the boy, your worship,' said Mr. Bumble.

     "The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head
     for a moment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve,
     whereupon the last-mentioned old gentleman woke up.

     "'Oh, is this the boy?' said the old gentleman.

     "'This is him, sir,' replied Mr. Bumble. 'Bow to the magistrate,
     my dear.'

     "Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had
     been wondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrate's powder,
     whether all boards were born with that white stuff on their
     heads, and were boards from thenceforth, on that account.

     "'Well,' said the old gentleman, 'I suppose he's fond of
     chimney-sweeping?'

     "'He dotes on it, your worship,' replied Bumble, giving Oliver a
     sly pinch, to intimate that he had better not say he didn't.

     "'And he _will_ be a sweep, will he?' inquired the old gentleman.

     "'If we was to bind him to any other trade to-morrow, he'd run
     away simultaneously, your worship,' replied Bumble.

     "'And this man that's to be his master,—you, sir,—you'll treat
     him well, and feed him, and do all that sort of thing,—will
     you?' said the old gentleman.

     "'When I says I will, I means I will,' replied Mr. Gamfield,
     doggedly.

     "'You're a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an honest,
     open-hearted man,' said the old gentleman, turning his spectacles
     in the direction of the candidate for Oliver's premium, whose
     villanous countenance was a regular stamped receipt for cruelty.
     But the magistrate was half blind, and half childish, so he
     couldn't reasonably be expected to discern what other people did.

     "'I hope I am, sir,' said Mr. Gamfield with an ugly leer.

     "'I have no doubt you are, my friend,' replied the old gentleman,
     fixing his spectacles more firmly on his nose, and looking about
     him for the inkstand.

     "It was the critical moment of Oliver's fate. If the inkstand
     had been where the old gentleman thought it was, he would have
     dipped his pen into it and signed the indentures, and Oliver
     would have been straightway hurried off. But, as it chanced to be
     immediately under his nose, it followed as a matter of course,
     that he looked all over his desk for it, without finding it; and
     happening in the course of his search to look straight before
     him, his gaze encountered the pale and terrified face of Oliver
     Twist, who, despite of all the admonitory looks and pinches of
     Bumble, was regarding the very repulsive countenance of his
     future master with a mingled expression of horror and fear, too
     palpable to be mistaken even by a half-blind magistrate.

     "The old gentleman stopped, laid down his pen, and looked from
     Oliver to Mr. Limbkins, who attempted to take snuff with a
     cheerful and unconcerned aspect.

     "'My boy,' said the old gentleman, leaning over the desk. Oliver
     started at the sound,—he might be excused for doing so, for
     the words were kindly said, and strange sounds frighten one. He
     trembled violently, and burst into tears.

     "'My boy,' said the old gentleman, 'you look pale and alarmed.
     What is the matter?'

     "'Stand a little away from him, beadle,' said the other
     magistrate, laying aside the paper and leaning forward with
     an expression of some interest. 'Now, boy, tell us what's the
     matter; don't be afraid.'

     "Oliver fell on his knees, and, clasping his hands together,
     prayed that they would order him back to the dark room—that they
     would starve him—beat him—kill him if they pleased, rather than
     send him away with that dreadful man.

     "'Well!' said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most
     impressive solemnity—'Well! of _all_ the artful and designing
     orphans that ever I see, Oliver, you are one of the most
     bare-facedest.'

     "'Hold your tongue, beadle,' said the second old gentleman, when
     Mr. Bumble had given vent to this compound adjective.

     "'I beg your worship's pardon,' said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of
     his having heard aright—'did your worship speak to me?'

     "'Yes—hold your tongue.'

     "Mr. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment. A beadle ordered to
     hold his tongue! A moral revolution.

     "The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles looked at his
     companion; he nodded significantly.

     "'We refuse to sanction these indentures,' said the old
     gentleman, tossing aside the piece of parchment as he spoke.

     "'I hope,' stammered Mr. Limbkins—'I hope the magistrates will
     not form the opinion that the authorities have been guilty of any
     improper conduct, on the unsupported testimony of a mere child.'

     "'The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion on
     the matter,' said the second old gentleman, sharply. 'Take the
     boy back to the workhouse and treat him kindly; he seems to want
     it.'

     "That same evening the gentleman in the white waistcoat most
     positively and decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be
     hung, but that he would be drawn and quartered into the bargain.
     Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomy mystery, and said he wished
     he might come to good: to which Mr. Gamfield replied that he
     wished he might come to him, which, although he agreed with the
     beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a totally
     opposite description.

     "The next morning the public were once more informed that Oliver
     Twist was again to let, and that five pounds would be paid to
     anybody who would take possession of him.

     "In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be
     obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or
     expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very
     general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation
     of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on
     the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist in some small
     trading-vessel bound to a good unhealthy port, which suggested
     itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with
     him; the probability being that the skipper would either flog him
     to death in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or knock his
     brains out with an iron bar, both pastimes being, as is pretty
     generally known, very favourite and common recreations among
     gentlemen of that class. The more the case presented itself to
     the board in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages
     of the step appeared; so they came to the conclusion that the
     only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to
     sea without delay.

     "Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary
     inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other
     who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning
     to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission,
     when he encountered just at the gate no less a person than Mr.
     Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker.

     "Mr. Sowerberry was a tall, gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in
     a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the
     same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally
     intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather
     given to professional jocosity; his step was elastic, and his
     face betokened inward pleasantry as he advanced to Mr. Bumble and
     shook him cordially by the hand.

     "'I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night,
     Mr. Bumble,' said the undertaker.

     "'You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,' said the beadle, as
     he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box
     of the undertaker, which was an ingenious little model of a
     patent coffin. 'I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,'
     repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder in a
     friendly manner with his cane.

     "'Think so?' said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted
     and half disputed the probability of the event. 'The prices
     allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble.'

     "'So are the coffins,' replied the beadle, with precisely as near
     an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in.

     "Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this, as of course he ought
     to be, and laughed a long time without cessation. 'Well, well,
     Mr. Bumble,' he said at length, 'there's no denying that, since
     the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something
     narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have
     some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive
     article, sir; and all the iron handles come by canal from
     Birmingham.'

     "'Well, well,' said Mr. Bumble, 'every trade has its drawbacks,
     and a fair profit is of course allowable.'

     "'Of course, of course,' replied the undertaker; 'and if I don't
     get a profit upon this or that particular article, why I make it
     up in the long run, you see—he! he! he!'

     "'Just so,' said Mr. Bumble.

     "'Though I must say,'—continued the undertaker, resuming
     the current of observations which the beadle had
     interrupted,—'though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to
     contend against one very great disadvantage, which is, that all
     the stout people go off the quickest—I mean that the people who
     have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are
     the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell
     you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation
     makes a great hole in one's profits, especially when one has a
     family to provide for, sir.'

     "As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of
     an ill-used man, and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended
     to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish, the latter
     gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject; and Oliver
     Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme.

     "'By-the-by,' said Mr. Bumble, 'you don't know anybody who
     wants a boy, do you—a parochial 'prentis, who is at present
     a dead-weight—a millstone, as I may say—round the parochial
     throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry—liberal terms;' and, as
     Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him and
     gave three distinct raps upon the words 'five pounds,' which were
     printed therein in Roman capitals of gigantic size.

     "'Gadso!' said the undertaker, taking Mr. Bumble by the
     gilt-edged lappel of his official coat; 'that's just the very
     thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know—dear me, what
     a very elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble; I never noticed it
     before.'

     "'Yes, I think it is rather pretty,' said the beadle, glancing
     proudly downward at the large brass buttons which embellished
     his coat. 'The die is the same as the parochial seal—the Good
     Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presented
     it to me on New-year's morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on,
     I remember, for the first time to attend the inquest on that
     reduced tradesman who died in a doorway at midnight.'

     "' I recollect,' said the undertaker. 'The jury brought in—Died
     from exposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of
     life—didn't they?'

     "Mr. Bumble nodded.

     "'And they made it a special verdict, I think,' said the
     undertaker, 'by adding some words to the effect, that if the
     relieving officer had'—

     'Tush—foolery!' interposed the beadle, angrily. 'If the board
     attended to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they'd
     have enough to do.'

     "'Very true,' said the undertaker; 'they would indeed.'

     "'Juries,' said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his
     wont when working into a passion—'juries is ineddicated, vulgar,
     grovelling wretches.'

     "'So they are,' said the undertaker.

     "'They haven't no more philosophy or political economy about 'em
     than that,' said the beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously.

     "'No more they have,' acquiesced the undertaker.

     "'I despise 'em,' said the beadle, growing very red in the face.

     "'So do I,' rejoined the undertaker.

     "'And I only wish we'd a jury of the independent sort in the
     house for a week or two,' said the beadle; 'the rules and
     regulations of the board would soon bring their spirit down for
     them.'

     "'Let'em alone for that,' replied the undertaker. So saying, he
     smiled approvingly to calm the rising wrath of the indignant
     parish officer.

     "Mr. Bumble lifted off his cocked-hat, took a handkerchief from
     the inside of the crown, wiped from his forehead the perspiration
     which his rage had engendered, fixed the cocked hat on again,
     and, turning to the undertaker, said in a calmer voice, 'Well,
     what about the boy?'

     "'Oh!' replied the undertaker; 'why, you know, Mr. Bumble, I pay
     a good deal toward the poor's rates.'

     "'Hem!' said Mr. Bumble. 'Well?'

     "'Well,' replied the undertaker, 'I was thinking that if I pay so
     much toward 'em, I've a right to get as much out of 'em as I can,
     Mr. Bumble; and so—and so—I think I'll take the boy myself.'

     "Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm and led him into
     the building. Mr. Sowerberry was closeted with the board for five
     minutes, and then it was arranged that Oliver should go to him
     that evening 'upon liking'—a phrase which means, in the case of
     a parish apprentice, that if the master find, upon a short trial,
     that he can get enough work out of a boy without putting too much
     food in him, he shall have him for a term of years to do what he
     likes with.

     "When little Oliver was taken before 'the gentlemen' that
     evening, and informed that he was to go that night as general
     house-lad to a coffin-maker's, and that if he complained of his
     situation, or ever came back to the parish again, he would be
     sent to sea, there to be drowned or knocked on the head, as the
     case might be, he evinced so little emotion, that they by common
     consent pronounced him a hardened young rascal, and ordered Mr.
     Bumble to remove him forthwith."

Some years ago an investigation into the treatment of the poor in St.
Pancras workhouse was made. It originated in the suicide of a girl,
who, having left her place, drowned herself rather than return to the
workhouse to be confined in the "shed"—a place of confinement for
refractory and ill-disposed paupers. The unanimous verdict of the
coroner's jury was to this effect, and had appended to it an opinion
that the discipline of the shed was unnecessarily severe. This verdict
led to an investigation.

Mr. Howarth, senior churchwarden, a guardian, and a barrister,
explained that the shed was used for separating able-bodied, idle, and
dissolute paupers from the aged and respectable inmates of the house.
The shed was not, he declared, a place of confinement any more than
the workhouse itself. The place in question consists of two rooms, a
day-room and a dormitory, on the basement of the main building, two
feet below the level of the soil, each about thirty-five feet long by
fifteen wide and seven high. The bedroom contains ten beds, occupied
sometimes by sixteen, sometimes by twenty or twenty-four paupers.
According to the hospital calculation of a cube of nine feet to an
occupant, the dormitory should accommodate six persons. The damp from
an adjoining cesspool oozes through the walls. This pleasant apartment
communicates with a yard forty feet long, and from fifteen to twenty
broad, with a flagged pavement and high walls. This yard is kept always
locked. But it is not a place of confinement. Oh no! it is a place of
separation.

Let us see the evidence of James Hill, who waits on the occupants of
the shed:—"They are locked up night and day. They frequently escape
over the walls. They are put in for misconduct."

Mr. Lee, the master of the workhouse, declares that if the persons in
the shed make application to come out, they are frequently released.
He is "not aware if he has any legal right to refuse them, but does
sometimes exercise that authority." One of the women is there for
throwing her clothes over the wall; another for getting "overtaken
in liquor" while out of the house, and losing her pail and brush. A
third inmate is a girl of weak intellect, who went out for a day, was
made drunk and insensible by a male pauper, and suffered dreadful
maltreatment.

All the pauper witnesses represent the shed as a place of punishment.
The six ounces of meat given three times a week by the dietary, is
reduced to four ounces for the shed paupers. Still all this, in Mr.
Howarth's eyes, neither constitutes the shed a place of confinement
nor of punishment. It is a place of separation. So is a prison. It is
a prison in a prison; a lower depth in the lowest deep of workhouse
wretchedness and restraint.

Are we to be told that this is "classification," (as the report of the
directors impudently calls it,) by which the young and old, imbecile
and drunken, sickly and turbulent, are shut up together day and night
picking oakum; looking out through the heavy day on the bare walls of
their wretched yard—at night breathing their own fœtid exhalations
and the miasma of a cesspool, twenty-four of them sometimes in a space
only fit to accommodate six with due regard to health and decency? And
all this at the arbitrary will of master or matron, unchecked by the
board! One poor creature had been there for three years. She had not
come out because "she was in such bad health, and had nowhere to go."
Yet she was shut up, because she was considered able bodied and fit for
work, when her appearance belied it, and spoke her broken spirit and
shattered constitution.

Mr. W. Lee, guardian, seemed blessed with an unusual amount of
ignorance as to his legal powers and responsibilities. He kept no
account of persons confined in the black-hole, for forty-eight hours
sometimes, and without directions from the board. He thought the
matron had power to put paupers in the strong room. On one point he
was certain: he "had no doubt that persons have been confined without
his orders." He "had no doubt that he had received instructions from
the board about the refractory ward, but he does not know where to
find them." "If any paupers committed to the ward feel aggrieved,
they can apply to be released, and he had no doubt he would release
them." He made no weekly report of punishments. He reigned supreme,
monarch of all he surveyed, wielding the terrors of shed and black-hole
unquestioned and unchecked.

In Miss Stone, the matron, he had a worthy coadjutrix. The lady felt
herself very much "degraded" by the coroner's jury. They asked her
some most inconvenient questions, to which she gave awkwardly ready
answers. She confined to the shed a girl who returned from place,
though she admitted the work of the place was too much for her. She
confessed she might have punished Jones (the suicide) by putting her
in the black-hole; but it was a mere trifle—"only a few hours" in an
underground cell, "perhaps from morning till night, for refusing to
do some domestic service." Jones was helpless; her mistress brought
her back to the workhouse. Jones cried, and begged to be taken back
to service, offering to work for nothing. Her recollections of the
workhouse do not seem to have been pleasant. Hard work, unpaid;
suicide; any thing rather than the shed.

A precious testimony to the St. Pancras system of "classification!"
These paupers in the shed are clearly a refractory set. "They complain
of being shut up so long." "They say they would like more bread and
more meat." Audacious as Oliver Twist! They even complain of the damp
and bad smell. Ungrateful, dainty wretches! On the whole, as Mr.
Howarth says, it is evidently "unjust to suppose that the system of
separation adopted in the house is regarded as a mode of punishment."
The directors issued a solemn summons to the members of the parochial
medical board. District surgeons and consulting surgeons assembled,
inspected the shed, and pronounced it a very pleasant place if the roof
were higher, and if the ventilation were better, and if the damp were
removed, and if fewer slept in a bed, and six instead of twenty-four in
the room. They then examined the dietary, and pronounced it sufficient
if the allowances were of full weight, if the meat were of the best
quality, if there were plenty of milk in the porridge, and if the broth
were better. Great virtue in an "if!" Unhappily, in the present case,
the allowances were not full weight; the meat not of the best quality;
there is not milk enough in the porridge; and the broth might be very
much better, and yet not good.

Mr. Cooper, the parish surgeon, was a special object of antipathy
to the worthy and humane Howarth; he was one of those ridiculously
particular men, unfit to deal with paupers. He actually objected to
the pauper women performing their ablutions in the urinals, and felt
aggrieved when the master told him to "mind his shop," and Howarth
stood by without rebuking the autocrat! Mr. Cooper, too, admits that
the dietary would be sufficient with all the above-mentioned "ifs." But
he finds that the milk porridge contains one quart of milk to six of
oat-meal; that the meat is half fat, and often uneatable from imperfect
cooking; and that the frequent stoppages of diet are destructive of
the health of the younger inmates. His remonstrances, however, have
been received in a style that has read him a lesson, and he ceases to
remonstrate accordingly, and the guardians have it as they would—a
silent surgeon and an omnipotent master.

The saddest part of the farce, however, was that of the last day's
proceedings. The quality and quantity of the diet had been discussed;
the directors felt bound to examine into both; so they proceeded to
the house. Of course the master knew nothing of the intended visit. Who
can suspect the possibility of such a thing after the previous display
of Howarth's impartiality and determination to do justice? So to the
house they went. They took the excellent Lee quite by surprise, and
enjoyed parish pot-luck. Dr. Birmingham's description makes one's mouth
water:—

     "He came to the house on Saturday, in order to examine the food;
     he found that, on that day, the inmates had what was called
     ox-cheek soup; he tasted it, and he was so well satisfied with
     it that he took all that was given to him. He then went into the
     kitchen, and saw the master cutting up meat for the sick and
     infirm. He tasted the mutton, and found it as succulent and as
     good as that which he purchased for his own consumption."

The picture of this patriarchal and benevolent master "cutting up meat
for the sick and infirm," is perfectly beautiful. Howarth, too, did his
duty, and was equally lucky.

     "Mr. Howarth stated that he had visited the house yesterday, and
     had examined the food, with the quality of which he was perfectly
     satisfied. He tasted the soup, and was so well pleased with it
     that he obtained an allowance. (A laugh.)"

But not satisfied with this, that Rhadamanthus of a Birmingham proposed
a crucial test.

     "He begged to move that the master of the workhouse be desired to
     bring before the board the ordinary rations allowed the paupers
     for breakfast, dinner, and supper; and that any gentleman present
     be allowed to call and examine any of the paupers as to whether
     the food they usually received was of the same quality, and in
     the same quantity."

The rations were produced; "and, lo! the porridge smoked upon the
board." Thus it was, in tempting and succulent array—the pauper bill
of fare:—

                     Soup.

  Cheese.      Pease porridge.      Potatoes.

          Meat.                Beer.

Nothing can be more tempting; who would not be a pauper of St. Pancras?
Six paupers are called in, and one and all testify that the rations of
meat, potatoes, soup, and porridge are better in quality and greater
in quantity than the workhouse allowance. There is a slight pause.
Birmingham looks blank at Howarth, and Howarth gazes uneasily on
Birmingham; but it is only for a minute: ready wits jump:—

     "_Dr. Birmingham._ This is the allowance for Sunday.

     "_Mr. Marley._ I understand there is no difference between the
     allowance on Sunday and on any other day.

     "_Mr. Howarth._ They have better meat on Sundays."

What follows this glaring exposure? Impeachment of the master, on this
clear proof of malversation in the house and dishonesty before the
board? So expects Mr. Halton, and very naturally suggests that Mr.
Lee be called on for an explanation. Mr. Lee is not called on, and no
explanation takes place. The room is cleared, and, after an hour and a
half's discussion, a report is unanimously agreed to. Our readers may
anticipate its tenour. It finds that there is no place deserving to
be called the shed; that the rooms so called are very admirable places
of "separation" for refractory paupers; that the diet is excellent;
that every thing is as it ought to be. It recommends that reports of
punishments be more regularly made to the board, that classification of
old and young be improved, and that some little change be made in the
ventilation of the refractory wards!

And so concludes this sad farce of the St. Pancras investigation. One
more disgraceful to the guardians cannot be found even in the pregnant
annals of workhouse mismanagement.[92]

"Farming out" paupers, especially children, is one of the most prolific
sources of misery among the English poor who are compelled to appeal
to the parish authorities. This practice consists of entering into
contracts with individuals to supply the paupers with food, clothing,
and lodging. The man who offers to perform the work for the smallest
sum commonly gets the contract, and then the poor wretches who look to
him for the necessaries of life must submit to all kinds of treatment,
and be stinted in every thing. During the last visit of that scourge,
the cholera, to England, a large number of farmed pauper children were
crowded, by one Mr. Drouet, a contractor, into a close and filthy
building, where they nearly all perished. An investigation was
subsequently held, but influential persons screened the authors of this
tragedy from justice. During the investigation, it was clearly shown
that the children confided to the care of Mr. Drouet were kept in a
state of filth and semi-starvation.

So much for the boasted charity of the dominant class in Great Britain!
By its enormous drain upon the public purse, and its vast monopoly of
that soil which was given for the use of all, it creates millions of
paupers—wretches without homes, without resources, and almost without
hope; and then, to prevent themselves from being hurled from their high
and luxurious places, and from being devoured as by ravenous wolves,
they take the miserable paupers in hand, separate families, shut them
up, as in the worst of prisons, and give them something to keep life in
their bodies. Then the lords and ladies ask the world to admire their
charitable efforts. What they call charity is the offspring of fear!

A member of the humbler classes in England no sooner begins to exist,
than the probability of his becoming a pauper is contemplated by the
laws. A writer in Chambers's Journal says, in regard to this point—

     "Chargeability is the English slave system. The poor man cannot
     go where he lists in search of employment—he may become
     chargeable. He cannot take a good place which may be offered to
     him, for he cannot get a residence, lest he become chargeable.
     Houses are pulled down over the ears of honest working-men, and
     decent poor people are driven from Dan to Beersheba, lest they
     become chargeable. There is something infinitely distressing in
     the whole basis of this idea—that an English peasant must needs
     be regarded from his first breath, and all through life, as a
     possible pauper. But the positive hardships arising from the idea
     are what we have at present to deal with.

     "These are delineated in a happy collection of facts lately
     brought forward by Mr. Chadwick at a meeting of the Farmers'
     Club in London. It appears that the company assembled, who, from
     their circumstances, were all qualified to judge of the truth of
     the facts and the soundness of the conclusions, gave a general
     assent to what was said by the learned poor-law secretary.
     Unfortunately, we can only give a few passages from this very
     remarkable speech.

     "Mr. Chadwick first referred to the operation of the existing
     law upon _unsettled_ labouring men. 'The lower districts of
     Reading were severely visited with fever during the last year,
     which called attention to the sanitary condition of the labouring
     population. I was requested to visit it. While making inquiries
     upon the subject, I learned that some of the worst-conditioned
     places were occupied by agricultural labourers. Many of them, it
     appeared, walked four, six, seven, and even eight miles, in wet
     and snow, to and from their places of work, after twelve hours'
     work on the farm. Why, however, were agricultural labourers in
     these fever-nests of a town? I was informed, in answer, that they
     were driven in there by the pulling down of cottages, to avoid
     parochial settlements and contributions to their maintenance in
     the event of destitution. Among a group, taken as an example
     there, in a wretched place consisting of three rooms, ten feet
     long, lived Stephen Turner, a wife, and three children. He
     walked to and from his place of work about seven miles daily,
     expending two hours and a half in walking before he got to his
     productive work on the farm. His wages are 10_s._ a week, out
     of which he pays 2_s._ for his wretched tenement. If he were
     resident on the farm, the two and a half hours of daily labour
     spent in walking might be expended in productive work; his labour
     would be worth, according to his own account, and I believe to
     a farmer's acknowledgment, 2_s._ 6_d._ per week more. For a
     rent of £5 5_s._, such as he now pays, he would be entitled
     to a good cottage with a garden; and his wife and children
     being near, would be available for the farm labour. So far as
     I could learn there are between one hundred and two hundred
     agricultural labourers living in the borough of Reading, and the
     numbers are increasing. The last week brought to my notice a
     fact illustrative of the present unjust state of things, so far
     as regards the labourer. A man belonging to Maple-Durham lived
     in Reading; walked about four miles a day to his work, the same
     back, frequently getting wet; took fever, and continued ill some
     time, assisted by the Reading Union in his illness; recovered,
     and could have returned to his former employment of 10_s._ per
     week, but found he was incapable of walking the distance; the
     consequence was, he took work that only enabled him to earn 5_s._
     per week; he is now again unable to work. Even in Lincolnshire,
     where the agriculture is of a high order, and the wages of the
     labourer consequently not of the lowest, similar displacements
     have been made, to the prejudice of the farmer as well as the
     labourer, and, as will be seen, of the owner himself. Near
     Gainsborough, Lincoln, and Louth, the labourers walk even longer
     distances than near Reading. I am informed of instances where
     they walk as far as six miles; that is, twelve miles daily, or
     seventy-two miles weekly, to and from their places of work. Let
     us consider the bare economy, the mere waste of labour, and what
     a state of agricultural management is indicated by the fact that
     such a waste can have taken place. Fifteen miles a day is the
     regular march of infantry soldiers, with two rest-days—one on
     Monday, and one on Thursday; twenty-four miles is a forced march.
     The man who expends eight miles per diem, or forty-eight miles
     per week, expends to the value of at least two days' hard labour
     per week, or one hundred in the year, uselessly, that might be
     expended usefully and remuneratively in production. How different
     is it in manufactories, and in some of the mines, or at least in
     the best-managed and most successful of them! In some mines as
     much as £2000 and £3000 is paid for new machinery to benefit the
     labourers, and save them the labour of ascending and descending
     by ladders. In many manufactories they have hoists to raise
     them and their loads from lower to upper rooms, to save them the
     labour of toiling up stairs, to economize their strength for
     piece-work to mutual advantage. It is not in county and borough
     towns only that this unwholesome over-crowding is going on. I am
     informed that from the like cause the evil of over-crowding is
     going on in the ill-conditioned villages of open parishes. It is
     admitted, and made manifest in extensive evidence given before a
     committee of the house of lords by practical farmers, that when
     an agricultural labourer applies for work, the first question
     put to him is, not what has been his experience, what can he do,
     but to what parish does he belong. If he do not belong to the
     parish of the occupier, the reply is usually an expression of
     regret that he can only employ the labourer of his own parish. To
     the extent to which the farmer is directly liable to the payment
     of rates, by the displacement of a settled parish labourer, he
     is liable to a penalty for the employment of any other labourer
     who is not of the parish. To the same extent is he liable to a
     penalty if he do not employ a parish labourer who is worthless,
     though a superior labourer may be got by going farther a-field,
     to whom he would give better wages. This labourer who would go
     farther is thus driven back upon his parish; that is to say,
     imposed, and at the same time made dependent, upon the two or
     three or several farmers, by whom the parish is occupied. He
     then says, 'If this or that farmer will not employ me, one of
     them must; if none of them will, the parish must keep me, and
     the parish pay is as good as any.' Labour well or ill, he will
     commonly get little more, and it is a matter of indifference to
     him: it is found to be, in all its essential conditions, labour
     without hope—slave labour; and he is rendered unworthy of his
     hire. On the other hand, in what condition does the law place
     the employer? It imposes upon him the whole mass of labourers of
     a narrow district, of whatsoever sort, without reference to his
     wants or his capital. He says, 'I do not want the men at this
     time, or these men are not suitable to me; they will not do the
     work I want; but if I must have them, or pay for keeping them in
     idleness if I do not employ them, why, then, I can only give them
     such wages as their labour is worth to me, and that is little.'
     Hence wages are inevitably reduced. What must be the effect upon
     the manufacturer if he were placed in the same position as tenant
     farmers are in the smaller parishes in the southern counties,
     if he were restricted to the employment only of the labourers
     in the parish?—if, before he engaged a smith, a carpenter, or
     a mason, he were compelled to inquire, 'To what parish do you
     belong?' Why, that the 24_s._ a week labour would fall to 12_s._
     or 10_s._, or the price of agricultural labour. Agriculturists
     from northern districts, who work their farms with 12_s._ and
     15_s._ a week free labour, have declined the temptation of low
     rents, to take farms in parishes where the wages are 7_s._ or
     8_s._ a week. While inspecting a farm in one of these pauperized
     districts, an able agriculturist could not help noticing the
     slow, drawling motions of one of the labourers there, and said,
     'My man, you do not sweat at that work,' 'Why, no, master,' was
     the reply; 'seven shillings a week isn't sweating wages,' The
     evidence I have cited indicates the circumstances which prevent
     the adoption of piece-work, and which, moreover, restrict the
     introduction of machinery into agricultural operations, which,
     strange though it may appear to many, is greatly to the injury of
     the working classes; for wherever agricultural labour is free,
     and machinery has been introduced, there more and higher-paid
     labour is required, and labourers are enabled to go on and earn
     good wages by work with machines long after their strength has
     failed them for working by hand. In free districts, and with high
     cultivation by free and skilled labour, I can adduce instances
     of skilled agricultural labourers paid as highly as artisans. I
     could adduce an instance, bordering upon Essex, where the owner,
     working it with common parish labour at 1_s._ 6_d._, a day,
     could not make it pay; and an able farmer now works it with free
     labour, at 2_s._ 6_d._, 3_s._, and 3_s._ 6_d._, and even more,
     per day, for task-work, and, there is reason to believe, makes it
     pay well. A farmer, who died not long ago immensely wealthy, was
     wont to say that 'he could not live upon poor 2_s._ a day labour;
     he could not make his money upon less than half-crowners.' The
     freedom of labour, not only in the northern counties, but in
     some places near the slave-labour districts of the southern
     counties, is already attended with higher wages—at the rate
     of 12_s._, 14_s._, and 15_s._ weekly. In such counties as Berks
     and Bedford, the freedom of the labour market, when it came into
     full operation, could not raise wages less than 2_s._ a week;
     and 2_s._ a week would, in those counties, represent a sum of
     productive expenditure and increased produce equal to the whole
     amount of unproductive expenditure on the poor-rates.'"

By this arrangement of parochial settlement, the English agricultural
labourer has a compulsory residence, like that of the American slave
upon the plantation where he is born. This, therefore, is one of the
most striking manifestations of the peasant being a serf. A free and
beautiful system is that of the English Unions!




CHAPTER VI.

IMPRESSMENT, OR KIDNAPPING WHITE MEN FOR SLAVES IN THE NAVAL SERVICE.


One of the most repulsive features of the general system of slavery in
Great Britain, is called impressment. It is the forcible removal of
seamen from their ordinary employment, and compelling them to serve,
against their will, in the ships of war. Long ago, some of the maritime
nations condemned men to the galleys for crime. But Great Britain dooms
peaceable and unoffending men to her vessels of war, severs all the
ties of home and kindred, and outrages every principle of justice,
in this practice of impressment. The husband is torn from his wife,
the father from his children, the brother from the sister, by the
press-gangs—the slave-hunters of Britain.

[Illustration: KIDNAPPING OF WILLIE MORRISON.]

This practice is not expressly sanctioned by any act of Parliament, but
it is so, indirectly, by the numerous statutes that have been passed
granting exemptions from it. According to Lord Mansfield, it is "a
power founded upon immemorial usage," and is understood to make a part
of the common law. All _seafaring_ men are liable to impressment,
unless specially protected by custom or statute. Seamen executing
particular services for government, not unfrequently get protections
from the Admiralty, Navy Board, &c. Some are exempted by local custom;
and _ferrymen_ are everywhere privileged from impressment. The
statutory exemptions are as follows:—

     I. _Every ship in the coal-trade_ has the following persons
     protected, viz. two able seamen (such as the master shall
     nominate) for every ship of one hundred tons, and one for every
     fifty tons for every ship of one hundred tons and upward; and
     every officer who presumes to impress any of the above, shall
     forfeit, to the master or owner of such vessel, £10 for every man
     so impressed; and such officers shall be incapable of holding any
     place, office, or employment in any of his majesty's ships of
     war.—6 and 7 Will. 3, c. 18, § 19.[93]

     II. _No parish apprentice_ shall be compelled or permitted to
     enter into his majesty's sea-service, until he arrives at the age
     of eighteen years.—2 and 3 Anne, c. 6, § 4.

     III. Persons voluntarily binding themselves apprentices to
     sea-service, shall not be impressed for three years from the date
     of their indentures. [This is a protection for the master—not
     for the parish apprentice.] But no persons above eighteen
     years of age shall have any exemption or protection from his
     majesty's service, if they have been at sea before they became
     apprentices.—2 and 3 Anne, c. 6, § 15; 4 Anne, c. 19, § 17; and
     13 Geo. 2, c. 17, § 2.

     IV. _Apprentices._—The act 4 Geo. 4, c. 25, enacts some new
     regulations with respect to the number of apprentices that ships
     must have on board, according to their tonnage, and grants
     protection to such apprentices till they have attained the age of
     twenty-one years.

     V. _Persons employed in the fisheries._—The act 50 Geo. 3, c.
     108, grants the following exemptions from impressment, viz.:

     1. _Masters of fishing vessels or boats_, who, either themselves
     or their owners, have, or within six months before applying for a
     protection shall have had, one apprentice or more, under sixteen
     years of age, bound for five years, and employed in the business
     of fishing.

     2. All such apprentices, not exceeding _eight_ to every master
     or owner of any fishing vessel of fifty tons or upward; not
     exceeding _seven_ to every vessel or boat of thirty-five
     tons, and under fifty; not exceeding _six_ to every vessel of
     thirty tons, or under thirty-five; and not exceeding _four_
     to every boat under thirty tons burden, during the time of
     their apprenticeship, and till the age of twenty years; they
     continuing, for the time, in the business of fishing only.

     3. _One mariner_, besides the master and apprentices, to every
     fishing vessel of one hundred tons or upward, employed on the
     sea-coast, during his continuance in such service.

     4. _Any landsman_, above the age of eighteen, entering and
     employed on board such vessel for two years from his first going
     to sea and to the end of the voyage then engaged in, if he so
     long continue in such service. [The ignorance of a landsman seems
     to be the only reason for this exemption.]

     An affidavit sworn before a justice of the peace, containing
     the tonnage of such fishing vessel or boat, the port or place
     to which she belongs, the name and description of the master,
     the age of every apprentice, the term for which he is bound and
     the date of his indenture, and the name, age, and description of
     every such mariner and landsman respectively, and the time of
     such landsman's first going to sea, is to be transmitted to the
     Admiralty; who, upon finding the facts correctly stated, grant
     a separate protection to every individual. In case, however,
     "_of an actual invasion of these kingdoms, or imminent danger
     thereof_," such protected persons may be impressed; but except
     upon such an emergency, any officer or officers impressing
     such protected person, shall respectively forfeit £20 to the
     party impressed, if not an apprentice, or to his master if he
     be an apprentice.—§§ 2, 3, 4 [The phrase, "imminent danger
     of invasion," is susceptible of a wide interpretation for the
     purposes of tyranny.]

     VI. _General exemptions._—All persons fifty-five years of age
     and upward, and under eighteen years. Every person being a
     foreigner, who shall serve in any merchant ship, or other trading
     vessels or privateers, belonging to a subject of the crown of
     Great Britain; and all persons, of what age soever, who shall
     use the sea, shall be protected for two years, to be computed
     from the time of their first using it.—13 Geo. 2, c. 17. [The
     impressment of American seamen, before the war of 1812, shows how
     easily these exemptions may be disregarded.]

     VII. _Harpooners_, line-managers, or boat-steerers, engaged in
     the Southern whale fishery, are also protected.—26 Geo. 3, c. 50.

     VIII. _Mariners employed in the herring fisheries_ are exempted
     while actually employed.—48 Geo. 3, c. 110.

     "The practice of impressment," says McCulloch, "so subversive of
     every principle of justice, is vindicated on the alleged ground
     of its being absolutely necessary to the manning of the fleet.
     But this position, notwithstanding the confidence with which it
     has been taken up, is not quite so tenable as has been supposed.
     The difficulties experienced in procuring sailors for the fleet
     at the breaking out of a war are not natural, but artificial,
     and might be got rid of by a very simple arrangement. During
     peace, not more than a fourth or fifth part of the seamen are
     retained in his majesty's service that are commonly required
     during war; and, if peace continue for a few years, the total
     number of sailors in the king's and the merchant service is
     limited to that which is merely adequate to supply the reduced
     demand of the former and the ordinary demand of the latter. When,
     therefore, war is declared, and 30,000 or 40,000 additional
     seamen are wanted for the fleet, they cannot be obtained, unless
     by withdrawing them from the merchant service, which has not
     more than its complement of hands. But to do this by offering
     the seamen higher wages would be next to impossible, and would,
     supposing it were practicable, impose such a sacrifice upon the
     public as could hardly be borne. And hence, it is said, the
     necessity of impressment, a practice which every one admits can
     be justified on no other ground than that of its being absolutely
     essential to the public safety. It is plain, however, that a
     necessity of this kind may be easily obviated. All, in fact, that
     is necessary for this purpose, is merely to keep such a number of
     sailors in his majesty's service during peace, as may suffice,
     with the ordinary proportion of landsmen and boys, to man the
     fleet at the breaking out of a war. Were this done, there would
     not be the shadow of a pretence for resorting to impressment; and
     the practice, with the cruelty and injustice inseparable from it,
     might be entirely abolished.

     "But it is said that, though desirable in many respects, the
     _expense_ of such a plan will always prevent its being adopted.
     It admits, however, of demonstration, that instead of being
     dearer, this plan would be actually cheaper than that which is
     now followed. Not more than 1,000,000_l._ or 1,200,000_l._ a year
     would be required to be added to the navy estimates, and that
     would not be a real, but merely a nominal advance. The violence
     and injustice to which the practice of impressment exposes
     sailors operates at all times to raise their wages, by creating
     a disinclination on the part of many young men to enter the
     sea-service; and this disinclination is vastly increased during
     war, when wages usually rise to four or five times their previous
     amount, imposing a burden on the commerce of the country,
     exclusive of other equally mischievous consequences, many times
     greater than the tax that would be required to keep up the peace
     establishment of the navy to its proper level. It is really,
     therefore, a vulgar error to suppose that impressment has the
     recommendation of cheapness in its favour; and, though it had,
     no reasonable man will contend that that is the only, or even
     the principal, circumstance to be attended to. In point of fact,
     however, it is as costly as it is oppressive and unjust."

These remarks are creditable to the good sense and humanity of
McCulloch; but are too much devoted to the _expediency_ of outrage. To
speak more clearly, the discussion is conducted in too cool-blooded a
style. We defy any man of ordinary sensibility to read the accounts of
scenes attending many cases of impressment, without feeling the deepest
pity for the enslaved seaman and his bereaved relatives and friends,
and burning with indignation at the heartless tyranny displayed by the
government. After a long and laborious voyage in a merchant vessel, the
sun-burned seamen arrives in sight of home. His wife and children, who
have long bewailed his absence and feared for his fate, stand, with
joyous countenances, upon the shore, eager to embrace the returned
wanderer. Perhaps a government vessel, on the search for seaman, then
sends its barbarous press-gang aboard the merchantman, and forces the
husband and father once more from the presence of the beloved ones. Or,
he is permitted to land. He visits his home, and is just comfortably
settled, resolved to pass the rest of his days with his family, when
the gang tears him from their arms—and years—long, dragging years
will pass away before he will be allowed to return. Then, the wife
may be dead, the children at the mercy of the parish. This is English
freedom! A gang of manacled <DW64>s shocks humanity, and calls down the
vengeance of heaven upon the head of the slave-driver; but a press-gang
may perform its heart-rending work in perfect consistency with the
free and glorious institutions of Britain.

By far the most thrilling narrative of the scenes attending
impressments, with which we are acquainted, is to be found in the
romance of "Katie Stewart," published in Blackwood's Magazine, without
the author's name. We quote:—

     "The next day was the Sabbath, and Willie Morison, with his
     old mother leaning on his arm, reverently deposited his silver
     half-crown in the plate at the door of West Anster Church, an
     offering of thankfulness, for the parish poor. There had been
     various returns during the previous week; a brig from the Levant,
     and another from Riga—where, with its cargo of hemp, it had been
     frozen in all the winter—had brought home each their proportion
     of welcome family fathers, and young sailor men, like Willie
     Morison himself, to glad the eyes of friends and kindred. One of
     these was the son of that venerable elder in the lateran, who
     rose to read the little notes which the thanksgivers had handed
     to him at the door; and Katie Stewart's eyes filled as the old
     man's slow voice, somewhat moved by reading his son's name just
     before, intimated to the waiting congregation before him, and to
     the minister in the pulpit behind, also waiting to include all
     these in his concluding prayer, that William Morison gave thanks
     for his safe return.

     "And then there came friendly greetings as the congregation
     streamed out through the churchyard, and the soft, hopeful
     sunshine of spring threw down a bright flickering network of
     light and shade through the soft foliage on the causewayed
     street;—peaceful people going to secure and quiet
     homes—families joyfully encircling the fathers or brothers for
     whose return they had just rendered thanks out of full hearts,
     and peace upon all and over all, as broad as the skies and as
     calm.

     "But as the stream of people pours again in the afternoon from
     the two neighbour churches, what is this gradual excitement
     which manifests itself among them? Hark! there is the boom of
     a gun plunging into all the echoes; and crowds of mothers and
     sisters cling about these young sailors, and almost struggle
     with them, to hurry them home. Who is that hastening to the
     pier, with his staff clenched in his hand, and his white 'haffit
     locks' streaming behind him? It is the reverend elder who to-day
     returned thanks for his restored son. The sight of him—the sound
     of that second-gun pealing from the Firth puts the climax on the
     excitement of the people, and now, in a continuous stream from
     the peaceful churchyard gates, they flow toward the pier and the
     sea.

     "Eagerly running along by the edge of the rocks, at a pace which,
     on another Sabbath, she would have thought a desecration of
     the day, clinging to Willie Morison's arm, and with an anxious
     heart, feeling her presence a kind of protection to him, Katie
     Stewart hastens to the Billy Ness. The gray pier of Anster is
     lined with anxious faces, and here and there a levelled telescope
     under the care of some old shipmaster attracts round it a still
     deeper, still more eager knot of spectators. The tide is out,
     and venturous lads are stealing along the sharp low ranges of
     rock, slipping now and then with incautious steps into the little
     clear pools of sea-water which surround them; for their eyes are
     not on their own uncertain footing, but fixed, like the rest, on
     that visible danger up the Firth, in which all feel themselves
     concerned.

     "Already there are spectators, and another telescope on the Billy
     Ness, and the whole range of 'the braes' between Anstruther and
     Pittenweem is dotted with anxious lookers-on; and the far away
     pier of Pittenweem, too, is dark with its little crowd.

     "What is the cause! Not far from the shore, just where that
     headland, which hides you from the deep indentation of Largo Bay,
     juts out upon the Firth, lies a little vessel, looking like a
     diminutive Arabian horse, or one of the aristocratic young slight
     lads who are its officers, with high blood, training, and courage
     in every tight line of its cordage and taper stretch of its
     masts. Before it, arrested in its way, lies a helpless merchant
     brig, softly swaying on the bright mid-waters of the Firth, with
     the cutter's boat rapidly approaching its side.

     "Another moment and it is boarded; a very short interval of
     silence, and again the officer—you can distinguish him with that
     telescope, by his cocked hat, and the flash which the scabbard
     of his sword throws on the water as he descends the vessel's
     side—has re-entered the cutter's boat. Heavily the boat moves
     through the water now, crowded with pressed men—poor writhing
     hearts, whose hopes of home-coming and peace have been blighted
     in a moment; captured, some of them, in sight of their homes, and
     under the anxious, straining eyes of wives and children, happily
     too far off to discern their full calamity.

     "A low moan comes from the lips of that poor woman, who, wringing
     her hands and rocking herself to and fro, with the unconscious
     movement of extreme pain, looks pitifully in Willie Morison's
     face, as he fixes the telescope on the scene. She is reading the
     changes of its expression, as if her sentence was there; but he
     says nothing, though the very motion of his hand, as he steadies
     the glass, attracts, like something of occult significance, the
     agonized gaze which dwells upon him.

     "'Captain, captain!' she cried at last, softly pulling his coat,
     and with unconscious art using the new title: 'Captain, is't the
     Traveller? Can ye make her out? She has a white figure-head at
     her bows, and twa white lines round her side. Captain, captain!
     tell me for pity's sake!'

     "Another long keen look was bent on the brig, as slowly and
     disconsolately she resumed her onward way.

     "'No, Peggie,' said the young sailor, looking round to meet her
     eye, and to comfort his companion, who stood trembling by his
     side: 'No, Peggie—make yourself easy; it's no the Traveller.'

     "The poor woman seated herself on the grass, and, supporting her
     head on her hands, wiped from her pale cheek tears of relief and
     thankfulness.

     "'God be thanked! and oh! God pity thae puir creatures, and their
     wives, and their little anes. I think I have the hardest heart in
     a' the world, that can be glad when there's such misery in sight.'

     "But dry your tears, poor Peggie Rodger—brace up your trembling
     heart again for another fiery trial; for here comes another white
     sail peacefully gliding up the Firth, with a flag fluttering
     from the stern, and a white figure-head dashing aside the
     spray, which seems to embrace it joyfully, the sailors think,
     as out of the stormy seas it nears the welcome home. With a
     light step the captain walks the little quarter-deck—with
     light hearts the seamen lounge amidship, looking forth on the
     green hills of Fife. Dark grows the young sailor's face, as he
     watches the unsuspicious victim glide triumphantly up through
     the blue water into the undreaded snare; and a glance round,
     a slight contraction of those lines in his face which Katie
     Stewart, eagerly watching him, has never seen so strongly marked
     before, tells the poor wife on the grass enough to make her
     rise hysterically strong, and with her whole might gaze at the
     advancing ship; for, alas! one can doubt its identity no longer.
     The white lines on its side—the white figure-head among the
     joyous spray—and the Traveller dashes on, out of its icy prison
     in the northern harbour—out of its stormy ocean voyage—homeward
     bound!

     "Homeward bound! There is one yonder turning longing looks to
     Anster's quiet harbour as the ship sails past; carefully putting
     up in the  foreign baskets those little wooden toys which
     amused his leisure during the long dark winter among the ice, and
     thinking with involuntary smiles how his little ones will leap
     for joy as he divides the store. Put them up, good seaman, gentle
     father!—the little ones will be men and women before you look on
     them again.

     "For already the echoes are startled, and the women here on
     shore shiver and wring their hands as the cutter's gun rings out
     its mandate to the passenger; and looking up the Firth you see
     nothing but a floating globe of white smoke, slowly breaking
     into long streamers, and almost entirely concealing the fine
     outline of the little ship of war. The challenged brig at first
     is doubtful—the alarmed captain does not understand the summons;
     but again another flash, another report, another cloud of white
     smoke, and the Traveller is brought to.

     "There are no tears on Peggie Rodger's haggard cheeks, but a
     convulsive shudder passes over her now and then, as, with intense
     strained eyes, she watches the cutter's boat as it crosses the
     Firth toward the arrested brig.

     "'God! an' it were sunk like lead!' said a passionate voice
     beside her, trembling with the desperate restraint of impotent
     strength.

     "'God help us!—God help us!—curse na them,' said the poor woman
     with an hysteric sob. 'Oh, captain, captain! gie _me_ the glass;
     if they pit him in the boat _I'll_ ken Davie—if naebody else
     would, I can—gie me the glass.'

     "He gave her the glass, and himself gladly turned away, trembling
     with the same suppressed rage and indignation which had dictated
     the other spectator's curse.

     "'If ane could but warn them wi' a word,' groaned Willie Morison,
     grinding his teeth—'if ane could but lift a finger! but to see
     them gang into the snare like innocents in the broad day—Katie,
     it's enough to pit a man mad!'

     "But Katie's pitiful compassionate eyes were fixed on Peggie
     Rodger—on her white hollow cheeks, and on the convulsive
     steadiness with which she held the telescope in her hand.

     "'It's a fair wind into the Firth—there's another brig due.
     Katie, I canna stand and see this mair!'

     "He drew her hand through his arm, and unconsciously grasping
     it with a force which at another time would have made her cry
     with pain, led her a little way back toward the town. But the
     fascination of the scene was too great for him, painful as it
     was, and far away on the horizon glimmered another sail.

     "'Willie!' exclaimed Katie Stewart, 'gar some of the Sillardyke
     men gang out wi' a boat—gar them row down by the coast, and then
     strike out in the Firth, and warn the men.'

     "He grasped her hand again, not so violently. 'Bless you, lassie!
     and wha should do your bidding but myself? but take care of
     yourself, Katie Stewart. What care I for a' the brigs in the
     world if any thing ails you? Gang hame, or'—

     "'I'll no stir a fit till you're safe back again. I'll never
     speak to you mair if ye say anither word. Be canny—be canny—but
     haste ye away.'

     "Another moment, and Katie Stewart stands alone by Peggie
     Rodger's side, watching the eager face which seems to grow old
     and emaciated with this terrible vigil, as if these moments were
     years; while the ground flies under the hounding feet of Willie
     Morison, and he answers the questions which are addressed to him,
     as to his errand, only while he himself continues at full speed
     to push eastward to Cellardyke.

     "And the indistinct words which he calls back to his comrades,
     as he 'devours the way,' are enough to send racing after him
     an eager train of coadjutors; and with his bonnet off, and
     his hands, which tremble as with palsy, clasped convulsively
     together, the white-haired elder leans upon the wall of the pier,
     and bids God bless them, God speed them, with a broken voice,
     whose utterance comes in gasps and sobs; for he has yet another
     son upon the sea.

     "Meanwhile the cutter's boat has returned from the Traveller with
     its second load; and a kind bystander relieves the aching arms
     of poor Peggie Rodger of the telescope, in which now she has no
     further interest.

     "'Gude kens, Gude kens,' said the poor woman slowly, as Katie
     strove to comfort her. 'I didna see him in the boat; but ane
     could see nothing but the wet oars flashing out of the water, and
     blinding folks e'en. What am I to do? Miss Katie, what am I to
     think? They maun have left some men in the ship to work her. Oh!
     God grant they have ta'en the young men, and no heads of families
     wi' bairns to toil for. But Davie's a buirdly man, just like
     ane to take an officer's ee. Oh, the Lord help us! for I'm just
     distraught, and kenna what to do.'

     "A faint cheer, instantly suppressed, rises from the point of
     the pier and the shelving coast beyond; and yonder now it glides
     along the shore, with wet oars gleaming out of the dazzling sunny
     water, the boat of the forlorn hope. A small, picked, chosen
     company bend to the oars, and Willie Morison is at the helm,
     warily guiding the little vessel over the rocks, as they shelter
     themselves in the shadow of the coast. On the horizon the coming
     sail flutters nearer, nearer—and up the Firth yonder there is a
     stir in the cutter as she prepares to leave her anchor and strike
     into the mid-waters of the broad highway which she molests.

     "The sun is sinking lower in the grand western skies, and
     beginning to cast long, cool, dewy shadows of every headland and
     little promontory over the whole rocky coast; but still the Firth
     is burning with his slanting fervid rays, and Inchkeith far away
     lies like a cloud upon the sea, and the May, near at hand, lifts
     its white front to the sun—a Sabbath night as calm and full of
     rest as ever natural Sabbath was—and the reverend elder yonder
     on the pier uncovers his white head once more, and groans within
     himself, amid his passionate prayers for these perilled men upon
     the sea, over the desecrated Sabbath-day.

     "Nearer and nearer wears the sail, fluttering like the snowy
     breast of some sea-bird in prophetic terror; and now far off
     the red fishing-boat strikes boldly forth into the Firth with a
     signal-flag at its prow.

     "In the cutter they perceive it now; and see how the anchor
     swings up her shapely side, and the snowy sail curls over the
     yards, as with a bound she darts forth from her lurking-place,
     and flashing in the sunshine, like an eager hound leaps forth
     after her prey.

     "The boat—the boat! With every gleam of its oars the hearts
     throb that watch it on its way; with every bound it makes
     there are prayers—prayers of the anguish which will take no
     discouragement—pressing in at the gates of heaven; and the
     ebbing tide bears it out, and the wind droops its wings, and
     falls becalmed upon the coast, as if repenting it of the evil
     service it did to those two hapless vessels which have fallen
     into the snare. Bravely on as the sun grows lower—bravely out as
     the fluttering stranger sail draws nearer and more near—and but
     one other strain will bring them within hail.

     "But as all eyes follow these adventurers, another flash from
     the cutter's side glares over the shining water; and as the
     smoke rolls over the pursuing vessel, and the loud report again
     disturbs all the hills, Katie's heart grows sick, and she
     scarcely dares look to the east. But the ball has ploughed the
     water harmlessly, and yonder is the boat of rescue—yonder is
     the ship within hail; and some one stands up in the prow of the
     forlorn hope, and shouts and waves his hand.

     "It is enough. 'There she goes—there she tacks!' cries exulting
     the man with the telescope, 'and in half an hour she'll be safe
     in St. Andrew's Bay.'

     "But she sails slowly back—and slowly sails the impatient
     cutter, with little wind to swell her sails, and that little in
     her face; while the fisherboat, again falling close inshore with
     a relay of fresh men at the oars, has the advantage of them both.

     "And now there is a hot pursuit—the cutter's boat in full chase
     after the forlorn hope; but as the sun disappears, and the long
     shadows lengthen and creep along the creeks and bays of the rocky
     coast so well known to the pursued, so ill to the pursuer, the
     event of the race is soon decided; and clambering up the first
     accessible landing-place they can gain, and leaving their boat on
     the rocks behind them, the forlorn hope joyously make their way
     home.

     "'And it's a' Katie's notion and no a morsel of mine,' says
     the proud Willie Morison. But alas for your stout heart,
     Willie!—alas for the tremulous, startled bird which beats
     against the innocent breast of little Katie Stewart, for no
     one knows what heavy shadows shall vail the ending of this
     Sabbath-day.

       *       *       *       *       *

     "The mild spring night has darkened, but it is still early, and
     the moon is not yet up. The worship is over in John Stewart's
     decent house, and all is still within, though the miller and
     his wife still sit by the 'gathered' fire, and talk in half
     whispers about the events of the day, and the prospects of 'the
     bairns.' It is scarcely nine yet, but it is the reverent usage
     of the family to shut out the world earlier than usual on the
     Sabbath; and Katie, in consideration of her fatigue, has been
     dismissed to her little chamber in the roof. She has gone away
     not unwillingly, for, just before, the miller had closed the door
     on the slow, reluctant, departing steps of Willie Morison, and
     Katie is fain to be alone.

     "Very small is this chamber in the roof of the Milton, which
     Janet and Katie used to share. She has set down her candle on the
     little table before that small glass in the dark carved frame,
     and herself stands by the window, which she has opened, looking
     out. The rush of the burn fills the soft air with sound, into
     which sometimes penetrates a far-off voice, which proclaims the
     little town still awake and stirring: but save the light from
     Robert Moulter's uncurtained window—revealing a dark gleaming
     link of the burn, before the cot-house door—and the reddened
     sky yonder, reflecting that fierce torch on the May, there is
     nothing visible but the dark line of fields, and a few faint
     stars in the clouded sky.

     "But the houses in Anster are not yet closed or silent. In
     the street which leads past the town-house and church of West
     Anster to the shore, you can see a ruddy light streaming out
     from the window upon the causeway, the dark churchyard wall, and
     over-hanging trees. At the fire stands a comely young woman,
     lifting 'a kettle of potatoes' from the crook. The 'kettle' is
     a capacious pot on three feet, formed not like the ordinary
     'kail-pat,' but like a little tub of iron; and now, as it is
     set down before the ruddy fire, you see it is full of laughing
     potatoes, disclosing themselves, snow-white and mealy, through
     the cracks in their clear dark coats. The mother of the household
     sits by the fireside, with a volume of sermons in her hand; but
     she is paying but little attention to the book, for the kitchen
     is full of young sailors, eagerly discussing the events of the
     day, and through the hospitable open door others are entering
     and departing with friendly salutations. Another such animated
     company fills the house of the widow Morison, 'aest the town,'
     for still the afternoon's excitement has not subsided.

     "But up this dark leaf-shadowed street, in which we stand, there
     comes a muffled tramp as of stealthy footsteps. They hear nothing
     of it in that bright warm kitchen—fear nothing, as they gather
     round the fire, and sometimes rise so loud in their conversation
     that the house-mother lifts her hand, and shakes her head, with
     an admonitory, 'Whist bairns; mind, it's the Sabbath-day.'

     "Behind backs, leaning against the sparkling panes of the window,
     young Robert Davidson speaks aside to Lizzie Tosh, the daughter
     of the house. They were 'cried' to-day in West Anster kirk, and
     soon will have a blithe bridal—'If naething comes in the way,'
     says Lizzie, with her downcast face; and the manly young sailor
     answers—'Nae fear.'

     "'Nae fear!' But without, the stealthy steps come nearer; and if
     you draw far enough away from the open door to lose the merry
     voices, and have your eyes no longer dazzled with the light, you
     will see dim figures creeping through the darkness, and feel that
     the air is heavy with the breath of men. But few people care to
     use that dark road between the manse and the churchyard at night,
     so no one challenges the advancing party, or gives the alarm.

     "Lizzie Tosh has stolen to the door; it is to see if the moon
     is up, and if Robert will have light on his homeward walk to
     Pittenweem; but immediately she rushes in again, with a face as
     pale as it had before been blooming, and alarms the assembly. 'A
     band of the cutter's men;—an officer, with a sword at his side.
     Rin, lads, rin, afore they reach the door.'

     "But there is a keen, eager face, with a cocked hat surmounting
     it, already looking in at the window. The assembled sailors make
     a wild plunge at the door; and, while a few escape under cover of
     the darkness, the cutter's men have secured, after a desperate
     resistance, three or four of the foremost. Poor fellows! You
     see them stand without, young Robert Davidson in the front, his
     broad, bronzed forehead bleeding from a cut he has received in
     the scuffle, and one of his captors, still more visibly wounded,
     looking on him with evil, revengeful eyes: his own eye, poor lad,
     is flaming with fierce indignation and rage, and his broad breast
     heaves almost convulsively. But now he catches a glimpse of the
     weeping Lizzie, and fiery tears, which scorch his eyelids, blind
     him for a moment, and his heart swells as if it would burst. But
     it does not burst, poor desperate heart! until the appointed
     bullet shall come, a year or two hence, to make its pulses quiet
     for ever.

     "A few of the gang entered the house. It is only 'a but and a
     ben;' and Lizzie stands with her back against the door of the
     inner apartment, while her streaming eyes now and then cast a
     sick, yearning glance toward the prisoners at the door—for her
     brother stands there as well as her betrothed.

     "'What for would you seek in there?' asked the mother, lifting up
     her trembling hands. 'What would ye despoil my chaumer for, after
     ye've made my hearthstane desolate. If ye've a license to steal
     men, ye've nane to steal gear. Ye've dune your warst: gang out o'
     my house ye thieves, ye locusts, ye'—

     "'We'll see about that, old lady,' said the leader:—'put the
     girl away from that door. Tom, bring the lantern.'

     "The little humble room was neatly arranged. It was their best,
     and they had not spared upon it what ornament they could attain.
     Shells far travelled, precious for the giver's sake, and many
     other heterogeneous trifles, such as sailors pick up in foreign
     parts, were arranged upon the little mantel-piece and grate.
     There was no nook or corner in it which could possibly be used
     for a hiding-place; but the experienced eye of the foremost
     man saw the homely counterpane disordered on the bed; and
     there indeed the mother had hid her youngest, dearest son. She
     had scarcely a minute's time to drag him in, to prevail upon
     him to let her conceal him under her feather-bed, and all its
     comfortable coverings. But the mother's pains were unavailing,
     and now she stood by, and looked on with a suppressed scream,
     while that heavy blow struck down her boy as he struggled—her
     youngest, fair-haired, hopeful boy.

     "Calm thoughts are in your heart, Katie Stewart—dreams of
     sailing over silver seas under that moon which begins to rise,
     slowly climbing through the clouds yonder, on the south side of
     the Firth. In fancy, already, you watch the soft Mediterranean
     waves rippling past the side of the Flower of Fife, and see
     the strange beautiful countries of which your bridegroom has
     told you shining under the brilliant southern sun. And then the
     home-coming—the curious toys you will gather yonder for the
     sisters and the mother; the pride you will have in telling them
     how Willie has cared for your voyage—how wisely he rules the one
     Flower of Fife, how tenderly he guards the other.

     "Your heart is touched, Katie Stewart, touched with the calm
     and pathos of great joy; and tears lie under your eyelashes,
     like the dew on flowers. Clasp your white hands on the sill of
     the window—heed not that your knees are unbended—and say your
     child's prayers with lips which move but utter nothing audible,
     and with your head bowed on the moonbeam, which steals into your
     window like a bird. True, you have said these child's prayers
     many a night, as in some sort a charm, to guard you as you slept;
     but now there comes upon your spirit an awe of the great Father
     yonder, a dim and wonderful apprehension of the mysterious Son
     in whose name you make those prayers. Is it true, then, that he
     thinks of all our loves and sorrows, this One, whose visible
     form realizes to us the dim, grand, glorious heaven—knows us by
     name—remembers us with the God's love in his wonderful human
     heart;—_us_, scattered by myriads over his earth, like the motes
     in the sunbeam? And the tears steal over your cheeks, as you end
     the child's prayer with the name that is above all names.

     "Now, will you rest? But the moon has mastered all her hilly way
     of clouds, and from the full sky looks down on you, Katie, with
     eyes of pensive blessedness like your own. Tarry a little—linger
     to watch that one bright spot on the Firth, where you could
     almost count the silvered waves as they lie beneath the light.

     "But a rude sound breaks upon the stillness—a sound of
     flying feet echoing over the quiet road; and now they become
     visible—one figure in advance, and a band of pursuers
     behind—the same brave heart which spent its strength to-day
     to warn the unconscious ship—the same strong form which Katie
     has seen in her dreams on the quarter-deck of the Flower of
     Fife;—but he will never reach that quarter-deck, Katie Stewart,
     for his strength flags, and they gain upon him.

     "Gain upon him, step by step, unpitying bloodhounds!—see him
     lift up his hands to you, at your window, and have no ruth
     for his young hope, or yours;—and now their hands are on his
     shoulder, and he is in their power.

     "'Katie!' cries the hoarse voice of Willie Morison, breaking the
     strange fascination in which she stood, 'come down and speak
     to me ae word, if ye wouldna break my heart. Man—if ye are a
     man—let me bide a minute; let me say a word to her. I'll maybe
     never see her in this world again.'

     "The miller stood at the open door—the mother within was wiping
     the tears from her cheeks. 'Oh Katie, bairn, that ye had been
     sleeping!' But Katie rushed past them, and crossed the burn.

     "What can they say?—only convulsively grasp each other's
     hands—wofully look into each other's faces, ghastly in the
     moonlight; till Willie—Willie, who could have carried her like
     a child, in his strength of manhood—bowed down his head into
     those little hands of hers which are lost in his own vehement
     grasp, and hides with them his passionate tears.

     "'Willie, I'll never forget ye,' says aloud the instinctive
     impulse of little Katie's heart, forgetting for the moment that
     there is any grief in the world but to see his. 'Night and day
     I'll mind ye, think of ye. If ye were twenty years away, I would
     be blither to wait for ye, than to be a queen. Willie, if ye must
     go, go with a stout heart—for I'll never forget ye, if it should
     be twenty years!'

     "Twenty years! Only eighteen have you been in the world yet,
     brave little Katie Stewart; and you know not the years, how they
     drag their drooping skirts over the hills when hearts long for
     their ending, or how it is only day by day, hour by hour, that
     they wear out at length, and fade into the past.

     "'Now, my man, let's have no more of this,' said the leader of
     the gang. 'I'm not here to wait your leisure; come on.'

     "And now they are away—truly away—and the darkness settles down
     where this moment Katie saw her bridegroom's head bowing over the
     hands which still are wet with his tears. Twenty years! Her own
     words ring into her heart like a knell, a prophecy of evil—if he
     should be twenty years away!"

There is no exaggeration in the above narrative. Similar scenes have
occurred on many occasions, and others of equally affecting character
might be gathered from British sailors themselves. In the story of
"Katie Stewart," ten years elapse before Willie Morison is permitted to
return to his betrothed. In many cases the pressed seamen never catch
a glimpse of home or friends again. Sometimes decoys and stratagems
are used to press the seamen into the service of the government. Such
extensive powers are intrusted to the officers of men-of-war, that
they may be guilty of the grossest violations of right and justice with
impunity, and even those "protections" which the government extends to
certain persons, are frequently of no effect whatever. In the novel of
"Jacob Faithful," Captain Marryatt has given a fine illustration of
the practice of some officers. The impressment of Jacob and Thomas the
waterman, is told with Marryatt's usual spirit. Here it is:—

     "'I say, you watermen, have you a mind for a good fare?' cried
     a dark-looking, not over clean, square built, short young man
     standing on the top of the flight of steps.

     "'Where to, sir?'

     "'Gravesend, my jokers, if you a'n't afraid of salt water.'

     "'That's a long way, sir!' replied Tom, 'and for salt water we
     must have salt to our porridge.'

     "'So you shall, my lads, and a glass of grog into the bargain.'

     "'Yes, but the bargain a'n't made yet, sir. Jacob, will you go?'

     "'Yes, but not under a guinea.'

     "'Not under two guineas,' replied Tom, aside.

     "'Are you in a great hurry, sir?' continued he, addressing the
     young man.

     "'Yes, in a devil of a hurry; I shall lose my ship. What will you
     take me for?'

     "'Two guineas, sir.'

     "'Very well. Just come up to the public-house here, and put in my
     traps.'

     "We had brought down his luggage, put it into the wherry
     and started down the river with the tide. Our fare was very
     communicative, and we found out that he was master's mate of
     the Immortalité, forty-gun frigate, lying off Gravesend, which
     was to drop down the next morning, and wait for sailing orders
     at the Downs. We carried the tide with us, and in the afternoon
     were close to the frigate, whose blue ensign waved proudly over
     the taffrail. There was a considerable sea arising from the wind
     meeting the tide, and before we arrived close to her, we had
     shipped a great deal of water; and when we were alongside, the
     wherry, with the chest in her bows, pitched so heavily, that
     we were afraid of being swamped. Just as a rope had been made
     fast to the chest, and they were weighing it out of the wherry,
     the ship's launch with water came alongside, and whether from
     accident or wilfully I know not, although I suspect the latter,
     the midshipman who steered her, shot her against the wherry,
     which was crushed in, and immediately filled, leaving Tom and
     me in the water, and in danger of being jammed to death between
     the launch and the side of the frigate. The seamen in the boat,
     however, forced her off with their oars, and hauled us in, while
     our wherry sank with her gunnel even with the water's edge, and
     floated away astern.

     "As soon as we had shaken ourselves a little, we went up the
     side and asked one of the officers to send a boat to pick up our
     wherry.

     "'Speak to the first lieutenant—there he is,' was the reply.

     "I went up to the person pointed out to me: 'If you please
     sir'—

     "'What the devil do you want?'

     "'A boat, sir, to'—

     "'A boat! the devil you do!'

     "'To pick up our wherry, sir,' interrupted Tom.

     "'Pick it up yourself,' said the first lieutenant, passing us
     and hailing the men aloft. 'Maintop there, hook on your stay.
     Be smart. Lower away the yards. Marines and afterguard, clear
     launch. Boatswain's-mate.'

     "'Here, sir.'

     "'Pipe marines and afterguard to clear launch.'

     "'Ay, ay, sir.'

     "'But we shall lose our boat, Jacob,' said Tom, to me. 'They
     stove it in, and they ought to pick it up.' Tom then went up to
     the master's-mate, whom we had brought on board, and explained
     our difficulty.

     "'Upon my soul, I dar'n't say a word. I'm in a scrape for
     breaking my leave. Why the devil didn't you take care of your
     wherry, and haul ahead when you saw the launch coming.'

     "'How could we when the chest was hoisting out?'

     "'Very true. Well, I'm very sorry for you, but I must look after
     my chest.' So saying, he disappeared down the gangway ladder.

     "'I'll try it again, any how,' said Tom, going up to the first
     lieutenant. 'Hard case to lose our boat and our bread, sir,' said
     Tom, touching his hat.

     "The first lieutenant, now that the marines and afterguard were
     at a regular stamp and go, had, unfortunately, more leisure
     to attend to us. He looked at us earnestly, and walked aft to
     see if the wherry was yet in sight. At that moment up came the
     master's-mate who had not yet reported himself to the first
     lieutenant.

     "'Tom,' said I, 'there's a wherry close to; let us get into it,
     and go after our boat ourselves.'

     "'Wait one moment to see if they will help us—and get our money,
     at all events,' replied Tom; and we walked aft.

     "'Come on board, sir,' said the master's mate, touching his hat
     with humility.

     "'You've broke your leave, sir,' replied the first lieutenant,
     'and now I've to send a boat to pick up the wherry through your
     carelessness.'

     "'If you please, they are two very fine young men,' observed the
     mate. 'Make capital foretop-men. Boat's not worth sending for,
     sir.'

     "This hint, given by the mate to the first lieutenant, to regain
     his favour, was not lost. 'Who are you, my lads?' said the first
     lieutenant to us.

     "'Watermen, sir.'

     "'Watermen, hey! was that your own boat?'

     "'No, sir,' replied I, 'it belonged to the man that I serve with.'

     "'Oh! not your own boat? Are you an apprentice then?'

     "Yes, sir, both apprentices.'

     "'Show me your indentures.'

     "'We don't carry them about with us.'

     "'Then how am I to know that you are apprentices?'

     "'We can prove it, sir, if you wish it.'

     "'I do wish it; at all events, the captain will wish it.'

     "'Will you please to send for the boat, sir? she's almost out of
     sight.'

     "'No, my lads, I can't find king's boats for such service.'

     "'Then, we had better go ourselves, Tom,' said I, and we went
     forward to call the waterman who was lying on his oars close to
     the frigate.

     "'Stop—stop—not so fast. Where are you going, my lads?'

     "'To pick up our boat, sir.'

     "'Without my leave, hey!'

     "'We don't belong to the frigate, sir.'

     "'No; but I think it very likely that you will, for you have no
     protections.'

     "'We can send for them and have them down by to-morrow morning.'

     "'Well, you may do so, if you please, my lads; you cannot expect
     me to believe every thing that is told me. Now, for instance, how
     long have you to serve, my lad?' said he, addressing Tom.

     "'My time is up to-morrow, sir.'

     "'Up to-morrow. Why, then, I shall detain you until to-morrow,
     and then I shall press you.'

     "'If you detain me now, sir, I am pressed to-day.'

     "'Oh no! you are only detained until you prove your
     apprenticeship, that's all.'

     "'Nay, sir, I certainly am pressed during my apprenticeship.'

     "'Not at all, and I'll prove it to you. You don't belong to
     the ship until you are victualled on her books. Now, I shan't
     _victual_ you to-day, and therefore, you won't be _pressed_.'

     "'I shall be pressed with hunger, at all events,' replied Tom,
     who never could lose a joke.

     "'No, you shan't; for I'll send you both a good dinner out of
     the gun-room, so you won't be pressed at all,' replied the
     lieutenant, laughing at Tom's reply.

     "You will allow me to go, sir, at all events,' replied I; 'for I
     knew that the only chance of getting Tom and myself clear was by
     hastening to Mr. Drummond for assistance.

     "'Pooh! nonsense; you must both row in the same boat as you have
     done. The fact is, my lads, I've taken a great fancy to you both,
     and I can't make up my mind to part with you.'

     "'It's hard to lose our bread, this way,' replied I.

     "'We will find you bread, and hard enough you will find it,'
     replied the lieutenant, laughing; 'it's like a flint.'

     "'So we ask for bread, and you give us a stone,' said Tom;
     'that's 'gainst Scripture.'

     "'Very true, my lad; but the fact is, all the scriptures in the
     world won't man the frigate. Men we must have, and get them how
     we can, and where we can, and when we can. Necessity has no law;
     at least it obliges us to break through all laws. After all,
     there's no great hardship in serving the king for a year or two,
     and filling your pockets with prize-money. Suppose you volunteer?'

     "'Will you allow us to go on shore for half an hour to think
     about it?' replied I.

     "'No; I'm afraid of the crimps dissuading you. But, I'll give you
     till to-morrow morning, and then I shall be sure of one, at all
     events.'

     "'Thanky, for me,' replied Tom.

     "'You're very welcome,' replied the first lieutenant, as,
     laughing at us, he went down the companion ladder to his dinner.

     "'Well, Jacob, we are in for it,' said Tom, as soon as we were
     alone. 'Depend upon it, there's no mistake this time.'

     "'I'm afraid not,' replied I, 'unless we can get a letter to your
     father, or Mr. Drummond, who, I am sure, would help us. But that
     dirty fellow, who gave the first lieutenant the hint, said the
     frigate sailed to-morrow morning; there he is, let us speak to
     him.'

     "'When does the frigate sail?' said Tom to the master's-mate, who
     was walking the deck.

     "'My good fellow, it's not the custom on board of a man-of-war
     for men to ask officers to answer such impertinent questions.
     It's quite sufficient for you to know that when the frigate
     sails, you will have the honour of sailing in her.'

     "'Well, sir,' replied I, nettled at his answer, 'at all events,
     you will have the goodness to pay us our fare. We have lost our
     wherry, and our liberty, perhaps, through you; we may as well
     have our two guineas.'

     "'Two guineas! It's two guineas you want, heh?'

     "'Yes, sir, that was the fare agreed upon.'

     "'Why, you must observe, my men,' said the master's-mate, hooking
     a thumb into each arm-hole of his waistcoat, 'there must be a
     little explanation as to that affair. I promised you two guineas
     as watermen; but now that you belong to a man-of-war, you are no
     longer watermen. I always pay my debts honourably when I can find
     the lawful creditors; but where are the watermen?'

     "'Here we are, sir.'

     "'No, my lads, you are men-of-war's men now, and that quite
     alters the case."

     "'But we are not so yet, sir: even if it did alter the case, we
     are not pressed yet.'

     "'Well, then, you will be to-morrow, perhaps; at all events we
     shall see. If you are allowed to go on shore again, I owe you two
     guineas as watermen; and if you are detained as men-of-war's men,
     why then you will only have done your duty in pulling down one of
     your officers. You see, my lads, I say nothing but what's fair.'

     "'Well, sir, but when you hired us, we were watermen,' replied
     Tom.

     "'Very true, so you were; but recollect the two guineas were not
     due until you had completed your task, which was not until you
     came on board. When you came on board you were pressed and became
     men-of-war's men. You should have asked for your fare before the
     first lieutenant got hold of you. Don't you perceive the justice
     of my remarks?'

     "'Can't say I do, sir; but I perceive that there is very little
     chance of our being paid,' said Tom.

     "'You are a lad of discrimination,' replied the master's-mate;
     'and now I advise you to drop the subject, or you may induce me
     to pay you man-of-war fashion.'

     "'How's that, sir?'

     "'Over the face and eyes, as the cat paid the monkey,' replied
     the master's-mate, walking leisurely away.

     "No go, Tom,' said I, smiling at the absurdity of the arguments.

     "'I'm afraid it's _no go_, in every way, Jacob. However, I don't
     care much about it. I have had a little hankering after seeing
     the world, and perhaps now's as well as any other time; but I'm
     sorry for you, Jacob.'

     "'It's all my own fault,' replied I; and I fell into one of
     those reveries so often indulged in of late as to the folly of
     my conduct in asserting my independence, which had now ended in
     my losing my liberty. But we were cold from the ducking we had
     received, and moreover very hungry. The first lieutenant did not
     forget his promise: he sent us up a good dinner, and a glass of
     grog each, which we discussed under the half-deck between two
     of the guns. We had some money in our pockets, and we purchased
     some sheets of paper from the bumboat people, who were on the
     main-deck supplying the seamen; and I wrote to Mr. Drummond and
     Mr. Turnbull, as well as to Mary and old Tom, requesting the
     two latter to forward our clothes to Deal, in case of our being
     detained. Tom also wrote to comfort his mother, and the greatest
     comfort he could give was, as he said, to promise to keep sober.
     Having intrusted these letters to the bumboat women, who promised
     faithfully to put them into the post-office, we had then nothing
     else to do but to look out for some place to sleep. Our clothes
     had dried on us, and we were walking under the half-deck, but
     not a soul spoke to, or even took the least notice of us. In
     a newly manned ship, just ready to sail, there is a universal
     feeling of selfishness prevailing among the ship's company. Some,
     if not most, had, like us, been pressed, and their thoughts
     were occupied with their situation, and the change in their
     prospects. Others were busy making their little arrangements with
     their wives or relations; while the mass of the seamen, not yet
     organized by discipline, or known to each other, were in a state
     of dis-union and individuality, which naturally induced every
     man to look after himself, without caring for his neighbour. We
     therefore could not expect, nor did we receive any sympathy;
     we were in a scene of bustle and noise, yet alone. A spare
     topsail, which had been stowed for the present between two of the
     guns, was the best accommodation which offered itself. We took
     possession of it, and, tired with exertion of mind and body, were
     soon fast asleep."

In the mean time, doubtless, there was weeping and wailing at the
homes of the pressed seamen. Parents, tottering on the verge of the
grave, and deprived of their natural support—wives and children at the
fireside uncheered by the presence of the head of the family—could
only weep for the absent ones, and pray that their government might one
day cease to be tyrannical.




CHAPTER VII.

IRISH SLAVERY.


For centuries the Irish nation has groaned under the yoke of England.
The chain has worn to the bone. The nation has felt its strength
depart. Many of its noblest and fairest children have pined away in
dungeons or starved by the roadside. The tillers of the soil, sweating
from sunrise to sunset for a bare subsistence, have been turned from
their miserable cabins—hovels, yet homes—and those who have been
allowed to remain have had their substance devoured by a government
seemingly never satisfied with the extent of its taxation. They have
suffered unmitigated persecution for daring to have a religion of their
own. Seldom has a conquered people suffered more from the cruelties
and exactions of the conquerors. While Clarkson and Wilberforce were
giving their untiring labours to the cause of emancipating <DW64> slaves
thousands of miles away, they overlooked a hideous system of slavery
at their very doors—the slavery of a people capable of enjoying the
highest degree of civil and religious freedom. Says William Howitt—

[Illustration: IRISH TENANT ABOUT TO EMIGRATE.]

     "The great grievance of Ireland—the Monster Grievance—is just
     England itself. The curse of Ireland is bad government, and
     nothing more. And who is the cause of this? Nobody but England.
     Who made Ireland a conquered country? England. Who introduced all
     the elements of wrangling, discontent, and injustice? England.
     Who set two hostile churches, and two hostile races, Celts and
     Saxons, together by the ears in that country? England, of course.
     Her massacres, her military plantations, her violent seizure of
     ancient estates, her favouritism, her monstrous laws and modes
     of government, were the modern emptying of Pandora's box—the
     shaking out of a bag-full of Kilkenny cats on the soil of that
     devoted country. The consequences are exactly those that we have
     before us. Wretched Saxon landlords, who have left one-fourth of
     the country uncultivated, and squeezed the population to death
     by extortion on the rest. A great useless church maintained on
     the property of the ejected Catholics—who do as men are sure to
     do, kick at robbery, and feel it daily making their gall doubly
     bitter. And then we shake our heads and sagely talk about race.
     If the race be bad, why have we not taken pains to improve it?
     Why, for scores of years, did we forbid them even to be educated?
     Why do we complain of their being idle and improvident, and
     helpless, when we have done every thing we could to make them so?
     Are our ministers and Parliaments any better? Are they not just
     as idle, and improvident, and helpless, as it regards Ireland?
     Has not this evil been growing these three hundred years? Have
     any remedies been applied but those of Elizabeth, and the Stuarts
     and Straffords, the Cromwells, and Dutch William's? Arms and
     extermination? We have built barracks instead of schools; we have
     sown gunpowder instead of corn—and now we wonder at the people
     and the crops. The wisest and best of men have for ages been
     crying out for reform and improvement in Ireland, and all that we
     have done has been to augment the army and the police."

The condition of the Irish peasantry has long been most miserable.
Untiring toil for the lords of the soil gives the labourers only
such a living as an American slave would despise. Hovels fit for
pig-styes—rags for clothing—potatoes for food—are the fruits of the
labour of these poor wretches. A vast majority of them are attached to
the Roman Catholic Church, yet they are compelled to pay a heavy tax
for the support of the Established Church. This, and other exactions,
eat up their little substance, and prevent them from acquiring any
considerable property. Their poor homes are merely held by the
sufferance of grasping agents for landlords, and they are compelled to
submit to any terms he may prescribe or become wandering beggars, which
alternative is more terrible to many of them than the whip would be.

O'Connell, the indomitable advocate of his oppressed countrymen, used
the following language in his repeal declaration of July 27, 1841:—

     "It ought to sink deep into the minds of the English aristocracy,
     that no people on the face of the earth pay to another such a
     tribute for permission to live, as Ireland pays to England in
     absentee rents and surplus revenues. There is no such instance;
     there is nothing like it in ancient or modern history. There is
     not, and there never was, such an exhausting process applied
     to any country as is thus applied to Ireland. It is a solecism
     in political economy, inflicted upon Ireland alone, of all the
     nations that are or ever were."

Surely it is slavery to pay such a price for a miserable existence. We
cannot so abuse terms as to call a people situated as the Irish are,
free. They are compelled to labour constantly without receiving an
approach to adequate compensation, and they have no means of escape
except by sundering the ties of home, kindred, and country.

The various repulsive features of the Irish system can be illustrated
much more fully than our limits will permit. But we will proceed to a
certain extent, as it is in Ireland that the results of British tyranny
have been most frightfully manifested.

The population of Ireland is chiefly agricultural, yet there are no
agricultural labourers in the sense in which that term is employed in
Great Britain. A peasant living entirely by hire, without land, is
wholly unknown.

The persons who till the ground may be divided into three classes,
which are sometimes distinguished by the names of small farmers,
cottiers, and casual labourers; or, as the last are sometimes called,
"con-acre" men.

The class of small farmers includes those who hold from five to twelve
Irish acres. The cottiers are those who hold about two acres, in return
for which they labour for the farmer of twenty acres or more, or for
the gentry.

Con-acre is ground hired, not by the year, but for a single crop,
usually of potatoes. The tenant of con-acre receives the land in time
to plant potatoes, and surrenders it so soon as the crop has been
secured. The farmer from whom he receives it usually ploughs and
manures the land, and sometimes carts the crop. Con-acre is taken by
tradesmen, small farmers, and cottiers, but chiefly by labourers,
who are, in addition, always ready to work for hire when there is
employment for them. It is usually let in roods, and other small
quantities, rarely exceeding half an acre. These three classes, not
very distinct from each other, form the mass of the Irish population.

     "According to the census of 1831," says Mr. Bicheno, "the
     population of Ireland was 7,767,401; the 'occupiers employing
     labourers' were 95,339; the 'labourers employed in agriculture,'
     (who do not exist in Ireland as a class corresponding to that
     in England,) and the 'occupiers not employing labourers,'
     amounted together to 1,131,715. The two last descriptions pretty
     accurately include the cottier tenants and cottier labourers;
     and, as these are nearly all heads of families, it may be
     inferred from hence how large a portion of the soil of Ireland
     is cultivated by a peasant tenantry; and when to these a further
     addition is made of a great number of little farmers, a tolerably
     accurate opinion may be formed of the insignificant weight and
     influence that any middle class in the rural districts can have,
     as compared with the peasants. Though many may occupy a greater
     extent of land than the 'cottiers,' and, if held immediately
     from the proprietor, generally at a more moderate rent, and may
     possess some trifling stock, almost all the inferior tenantry of
     Ireland belong to one class. The cottier and the little farmer
     have the same feelings, the same interests to watch over, and
     the same sympathies. Their diet and their clothing are not very
     dissimilar, though they may vary in quantity; and the one cannot
     be ordinarily distinguished from the other by any external
     appearance. Neither does the dress of the children of the little
     farmers mark any distinction of rank, as it does in England;
     while their wives are singularly deficient in the comforts of
     apparel."—_Report of Commissioners of Poor Inquiry._

The whole population, small farmers, cottiers, and labourers, are
equally devoid of capital. The small farmer holds his ten or twelve
acres of land at a nominal rent—a rent determined not by what the
land will yield, but by the intensity of the competition to obtain
it. He takes from his farm a wretched subsistence, and gives over the
remainder to his landlord. This remainder rarely equals the nominal
rent, the growing arrears of which are allowed to accumulate against
him.

The cottier labours constantly for his landlord, (or master, as he
would have been termed of old,) and receives, for his wages as a serf,
land which will afford him but a miserable subsistence. Badly off as
these two classes are, their condition is still somewhat better than
that of the casual labourer, who hires con-acre, and works for wages at
seasons when employment can be had, to get in the first place the means
of paying the rent for his con-acre.

Mr. Bicheno says—

     "It appears from the evidence that the average crops of con-acre
     produce about as much or a little more, (at the usual price of
     potatoes in the autumn,) than the amount of the rent, seed, and
     tenant's labour, say 5_s._ or 10_s._ Beyond this the labourer
     does not seem to derive any other direct profit from taking
     con-acre; but he has the following inducements. In some cases
     he contracts to work out a part, or the whole, of his con-acre
     rent; and, even when this indulgence is not conceded to him by
     previous agreement, he always hopes, and endeavours to prevail on
     the farmer to be allowed this privilege, which, in general want
     of employment, is almost always so much clear gain to him. By
     taking con-acre he also considers that he is _securing_ food to
     the extent of the crop for himself and family at the low autumn
     price; whereas, if he had to go to market for it, he would be
     subject to the loss of time, and sometimes expense of carriage,
     to the fluctuations of the market, and to an advance of price in
     spring and summer."

Of the intensity of the competition for land, the following extracts
from the evidence may give an idea:—

     "_Galway_, F. 35.—'If I now let it be known that I had a farm
     of five acres to let, I should have fifty bidders in twenty-four
     hours, and all of them would be ready to promise any rent that
     might be asked.'—_Mr. Birmingham._ The landlord takes on account
     whatever portion of the rent the tenant may be able to offer;
     the remainder he does not remit, but allows to remain over. A
     remission of a portion of the rent in either plentiful or scarce
     seasons is never made as a matter of course; when it does take
     place, it is looked upon as a favour.

     'The labourer is, from the absence of any other means of
     subsisting himself and family, thrown upon the hire of land, and
     the land he must hire at any rate; the payment of the promised
     rent is an after consideration. He always offers such a rent as
     leaves him nothing of the produce for his own use but potatoes,
     his corn being entirely for his landlord's claim.'—_Rev. Mr.
     Hughes_, P. P., and _Parker_.

     "_Leitrim_, F. 36 and 37.—'So great is the competition for small
     holdings, that, if a farm of five acres were vacant, I really
     believe that nine out of every ten men in the neighbourhood would
     bid for it if they thought they had the least chance of getting
     it: they would be prepared to outbid each other, _ad infinitum_,
     in order to get possession of the land. _The rent which the
     people themselves would deem moderate, would not in any case
     admit of their making use of any other food than potatoes_; there
     are even many instances in this barony where the occupier cannot
     feed himself and family off the land he holds. In his anxiety to
     grow as much oats (his only marketable produce) as will meet
     the various claims upon him, he devotes so small a space to the
     cultivation of potatoes, that he is obliged to take a portion of
     con-acre, and to pay for it by wages earned at a time when he
     would have been better employed on his own account.'—_Rev. T.
     Maguire_, P. P."

The land is subdivided into such small portions, that the labourer has
not sufficient to grow more than a very scanty provision for himself
and family. The better individuals of the class manage to secrete some
of its produce from the landlord, to do which it is of course necessary
that they should not employ it on their land: but if land is offered to
be let, persons will be found so eager for it as to make compliments to
some one of the family of the landlord or of his agent.

The exactions of agents and sub-agents are the most frequent causes
of suffering among the peasantry. These agents are a class peculiar
to Ireland. They take a large extent of ground, which they let out in
small portions to the real cultivator. They grant leases sometimes, but
the tenant is still in their power, and they exact personal services,
presents, bribes; and draw from the land as much as they can, without
the least regard for its permanent welfare. That portion of the poor
peasant's substance which escapes the tithes and tax of government is
seized by the remorseless agents, and thus the wretched labourer can
get but a miserable subsistence by the severest toil.

In general the tenant takes land, promising to pay a "nominal rent,"
in other words, a rent he never can pay. This rent falls into arrear,
and the landlord allows the arrear to accumulate against him, in the
hope that if he should chance to have an extraordinary crop, or if he
should obtain it from any unexpected source, the landlord may claim it
for his arrears.

The report of Poor-Law Commissioners states that "Agricultural wages
vary from 6_d._ to 1_s._ a day; that the average of the country in
general is about 8½_d._; and that the earnings of the labourers, on
an average of the whole class, are from 2_s._ to 2_s._ 6_d._ a week, or
thereabout."

     "Thus circumstanced, it is impossible for the able-bodied, in
     general, to provide against sickness or the temporary absence of
     employment, or against old age or the destitution of their widows
     and children in the contingent event of their own premature
     decease.

     "A great portion of them are insufficiently provided at any time
     with the commonest necessaries of life. Their habitations are
     wretched hovels; several of a family sleep together upon straw
     or upon the bare ground, sometimes with a blanket, sometimes not
     even so much to cover them; their food commonly consists of dry
     potatoes, and with these they are at times so scantily supplied
     as to be obliged to stint themselves to one spare meal in the
     day. There are even instances of persons being driven by hunger
     to seek sustenance in wild herbs. They sometimes get a herring,
     or a little milk, but they never get meat, except at Christmas,
     Easter, and Shrovetide."

The peasant finds himself obliged to live upon the cheapest food,
_potatoes_, and potatoes of the worst quality, because they yield
most, and are consequently the cheapest. These potatoes are "little
better than turnips." "Lumpers" is the name given to them. They are two
degrees removed from those which come ordinarily to our tables, and
which are termed "apples." Mr. Bicheno says, describing the three sorts
of potatoes—apples, cups, and lumpers—

     "The first named are of the best quality, but produce the least
     in quantity; the cups are not so good in quality as the apples,
     but produce more; and the lumpers are the worst of the three
     in quality, but yield the heaviest crop. For these reasons
     the apples are generally sent to Dublin and other large towns
     for sale. The cups are grown for the consumption of smaller
     towns, and are eaten by the larger farmers, and the few of the
     small occupiers and labourers who are in better circumstances
     than the generality of their class; and the lumpers are grown
     by large farmers for stall-feeding cattle, and by most of the
     small occupiers and all the labourers (except a few in constant
     employment, and having but small families) for their own food.
     Though most of the small occupiers and labourers grow apples and
     cups, they do not use them themselves, with the few exceptions
     mentioned, except as holiday fare, and as a little indulgence
     on particular occasions. They can only afford to consume the
     lumpers, or coarsest quality, themselves, on account of the much
     larger produce and consequent cheapness of that sort. The apples
     yield 10 to 15 per cent. less than the cups, and the cups 10 to
     15 per cent. less than the lumpers, making a difference of 20
     to 30 per cent. between the produce of the best and the worst
     qualities. To illustrate the practice and feeling of the country
     in this respect, the following occurrence was related by one of
     the witnesses:—'A landlord, in passing the door of one of his
     tenants, a small occupier, who was in arrears with his rent, saw
     one of his daughters washing potatoes at the door, and perceiving
     that they were of the apple kind, asked her if they were intended
     for their dinner. Upon being answered that they were, he entered
     the house, and asked the tenant what he meant by eating _apple_
     potatoes when they were fetching so good a price in Dublin, and
     while he did not pay him (the landlord) his rent?'"

Lumpers, dry, that is, without milk or any other addition to them, are
the ordinary food of the people. The pig which is seen in most Irish
cabins, and the cow and fowls kept by the small farmers, go to market
to pay the rent; even the eggs are sold. Small farmers, as well as
labourers, rarely have even milk to their potatoes.

The following graphic description of an Irish peasant's home, we quote
from the Pictorial Times, of February 7, 1846. Some districts in
Ireland are crowded with such hovels:—

     "_Cabin of J. Donoghue._—The hovel to which the eye is now
     directed scarcely exceeds Donoghue's length. He will have almost
     as much space when laid in his grave. He can stand up in no part
     of his cabin except the centre; and yet he is not an aged man,
     who has outlived all his connections, and with a frame just ready
     to mingle with its native dust. Nor is he a bachelor, absolutely
     impenetrable to female charms, or looking out for some damsel
     to whom he may be united, 'for better or for worse.' Donoghue,
     the miserable inmate of that hovel, on the contrary, has a wife
     and three children; and these, together with a dog, a pig, and
     sundry fowls, find in that cabin their common abode. Human beings
     and brutes are there huddled together; and the motive to the
     occupancy of the former is just the same as that which operates
     to the keeping of the latter—what they produce. Did not the
     pig and the fowls make money, Donoghue would have none; did not
     Donoghue pay his rent, the cabin would quickly have another
     tenant. Indeed, his rent is only paid, and he and his family
     saved from being turned adrift into the wide world, by his pig
     and his fowls.

     "But the cabin should be examined more particularly. It has a
     hole for a door, it has another for a window, it has a third
     through which the smoke may find vent, and nothing more. No
     resemblance to the door of an English cottage, however humble,
     nor the casement it is never without, nor even the rudest chimney
     from which the blue smoke arises, suggesting to the observer many
     ideas of comfort for its inmates, can possibly be traced. The
     walls, too, are jet black; and that which ought to be a floor is
     mud, thick mud, full of holes. The bed of the family is sod. The
     very cradle is a sort of swing suspended from the roof, and it is
     set in motion by the elbow of the wretched mother of the wretched
     child it contains, if she is not disposed to make use of her
     hands.

     "The question may fairly be proposed—What comfort can a man have
     in such circumstances? Can he find some relief from his misery,
     as many have found and still find it, by conversing with his
     wife? No. To suppose this, is to imagine him standing in a higher
     class of beings than the one of which he has always formed a
     part. Like himself, too, his wife is oppressed; the growth of her
     faculties is stunted; and, it may be, she is hungry, faint, and
     sick. Can he talk with his children? No. What can he, who knows
     nothing, tell them? What hope can he stimulate who has nothing to
     promise? Can he ask in a neighbour? No. He has no hospitality to
     offer him, and the cabin is crowded with his own family. Can he
     accost a stranger who may travel in the direction of his hovel,
     to make himself personally acquainted with his condition and that
     of others? No. He speaks a language foreign to an Englishman
     or a Scotchman, and which those who hate the 'Saxon,' whatever
     compliments they may pay him for their own purposes, use all the
     means they possess to maintain. Can he even look at his pig with
     the expectation that he will one day eat the pork or the bacon it
     will yield? No; not he. He knows that not a bone of the loin or
     a rasher will be his. That pig will go, like all the pigs he has
     had, to pay his rent. Only one comfort remains, which he has in
     common with his pig and his dog, the warmth of his peat fire.
     Poor Donoghue! thou belongest to a race often celebrated as 'the
     finest peasantry in the world,' but it would be difficult to find
     a savage in his native forest who is not better off than thou!"

There is one other comfort besides the peat fire, which Donoghue may
have, and that is an occasional gill of whisky—a temporary comfort,
an ultimate destruction—a new fetter to bind him down in his almost
brutal condition. In Ireland, as in England, intoxication is the Lethe
in which the heart-sick labourers strive to forget their sorrows.
Intemperance prevails most where poverty is most generally felt.

The Pictorial Times thus sketches a cabin of the better class,
belonging to a man named Pat Brennan:—

     "We will enter it, and look round with English eyes. We will do
     so, too, in connection with the remembrance of an humble dwelling
     in England. There we find at least a table, but here there is
     none. There we find some chairs, but here there are none. There
     we find a cupboard, but here there is none. There we find some
     crockery and earthenware, but here there is none. There we find
     a clock, but here there is none. There we find a bed, bedstead,
     and coverings, but here there are none. There is a brick, or
     stone, or boarded floor, but here there is none. What a descent
     would an English agricultural labourer have to make if he changed
     situations with poor Pat Brennan, who is better off than most
     of the tenants of Derrynane Beg, and it may be in the best
     condition of them all! Brennan's cabin has one room, in which he
     and his family live, of course with the fowls and pigs. One end
     is partitioned off in the manner of a loft, the loft being the
     potato store. The space underneath, where the fire is kindled,
     has side spaces for seats. In some instances, the turf-bed is
     on one side and the seats on the other. The other contents of
     the dwelling are—a milk-pail, a pot, a wooden bowl or two, a
     platter, and a broken ladder. A gaudy picture of the Virgin Mary
     may sometimes be seen in such cabins."

The eviction of the wretched peasantry has caused an immense amount of
misery, and crowds of the evicted ones have perished from starvation.
The tillers of the soil are mere tenants at will, and may ejected
from their homes without a moment's notice. A whim of the landlord,
the failure of the potato crop, or of the ordinary resources of the
labourers, by which they are rendered unable to pay their rent for a
short time, usually results in an edict of levelling and extermination.
A recent correspondent of the London Illustrated News, thus describes
the desolation of an Irish village:—

     "The village of Killard forms part of the Union of Kilrush, and
     possesses an area of 17,022 acres. It had a population, in 1841,
     of 6850 souls, and was valued to the poor-rate at £4254. It is
     chiefly the property, I understand, of Mr. John McMahon Blackall,
     whose healthy residence is admirably situated on the brow of a
     hill, protected by another ridge from the storms of the Atlantic.
     His roof-tree yet stands there, but the people have disappeared.
     The village was mostly inhabited by fishermen, who united with
     their occupation on the waters the cultivation of potatoes. When
     the latter failed, it might have been expected that the former
     should have been pursued with more vigour than ever; but boats
     and lines were sold for present subsistence, and to the failure
     of the potatoes was added the abandonment of the fisheries. The
     rent dwindled to nothing, and then came the leveller and the
     exterminator. What has become of the 6850 souls, I know not; but
     not ten houses remain of the whole village to inform the wayfarer
     where, according to the population returns, they were to be found
     in 1841. They were here, but are gone for ever; and all that
     remains of their abodes are a few mouldering walls, and piles of
     offensive thatch turning into manure. Killard is an epitome of
     half Ireland. If the abodes of the people had not been so slight,
     that they have mingled, like Babylon, with their original clay,
     Ireland would for ages be renowned for its ruins; but, as it is,
     the houses are swept away like the people, and not a monument
     remains of a multitude, which, in ancient Asia or in the wilds of
     America, would numerically constitute a great nation."

The same correspondent mentions a number of other instances of the
landlord's devastation, and states that large tracts of fertile land
over which he passed were lying waste, while the peasantry were
starving by the roadside, or faring miserably in the workhouses. At
Carihaken, in the county of Galway, the levellers had been at work, and
had tumbled down eighteen houses. The correspondent says—

     "In one of them dwelt John Killian, who stood by me while I made
     a sketch of the remains of his dwelling. He told me that he and
     his fathers before him had owned this now ruined cabin for ages,
     and that he had paid £4 a year for four acres of ground. He owed
     no rent; before it was due, the landlord's drivers cut down his
     crops, carried them off, gave him no account of the proceeds,
     and then tumbled his house. The hut made against the end wall
     of a former habitation was not likely to remain, as a decree
     had gone forth entirely to clear the place. The old man also
     told me that his son having cut down, on the spot that was once
     his own garden, a few sticks to make him a shelter, was taken
     up, prosecuted, and sentenced to two months' confinement, for
     destroying trees and making waste of the property.

     "I must supply you with another sketch of a similar subject,
     on the road between Maam and Clifden, in Joyce's County, once
     famous for the Patagonian stature of the inhabitants, who are now
     starved down to ordinary dimensions. High up on the mountain,
     but on the roadside, stands the scalpeen of Keillines. It is
     near General Thompson's property. Conceive five human beings
     living in such a hole: the father was out, at work; the mother
     was getting fuel on the hills, and the children left in the hut
     could only say they were hungry. Their appearance confirmed their
     words—want was deeply engraved in their faces, and their lank
     bodies were almost unprotected by clothing.

     "From Clifden to Ouchterade, twenty-one miles, is a dreary drive
     over a moor, unrelieved except by a glimpse of Mr. Martin's house
     at Ballynahinch, and of the residence of Dean Mahon. Destitute
     as this tract is of inhabitants, about Ouchterade some thirty
     houses have been recently demolished. A gentleman who witnessed
     the scene told me nothing could exceed the heartlessness of
     the levellers, if it were not the patient submission of the
     sufferers. They wept, indeed; and the children screamed with
     agony at seeing their homes destroyed and their parents in tears;
     but the latter allowed themselves unresistingly to be deprived of
     what is to most people the dearest thing on earth next to their
     lives—their only home.

     "The public records, my own eyes, a piercing wail of wo
     throughout the land—all testify to the vast extent of the
     evictions at the present time. Sixteen thousand and odd persons
     unhoused in the Union of Kilrush before the month of June in
     the present year; seventy-one thousand one hundred and thirty
     holdings done away in Ireland, and nearly as many houses
     destroyed, in 1848; two hundred and fifty-four thousand holdings
     of more than one acre and less than five acres, put an end to
     between 1841 and 1848: six-tenths, in fact, of the lowest class
     of tenantry driven from their now roofless or annihilated cabins
     and houses, makes up the general description of that desolation
     of which Tullig and Mooven are examples. The ruin is great and
     complete. The blow that effected it was irresistible. It came in
     the guise of charity and benevolence; it assumed the character
     of the last and best friend of the peasantry, and it has struck
     them to the heart. They are prostrate and helpless. The once
     frolicksome people—even the saucy beggars—have disappeared,
     and given place to wan and haggard objects, who are so resigned
     to their doom that they no longer expect relief. One beholds
     only shrunken frames, scarcely covered with flesh—crawling
     skeletons, who appear to have risen from their graves, and are
     ready to return frightened to that abode. They have little other
     covering than that nature has bestowed on the human body—a
     poor protection against inclement weather; and, now that the
     only hand from which they expected help is turned against them,
     even hope is departed, and they are filled with despair. Than
     the present Earl of Carlisle there is not a more humane nor a
     kinder-hearted nobleman in the kingdom; he is of high honour and
     unsullied reputation; yet the poor-law he was mainly the means of
     establishing for Ireland, with the best intentions, has been one
     of the chief causes of the people being at this time turned out
     of their homes, and forced to burrow in holes, and share, till
     they are discovered, the ditches and the bogs with otters and
     snipes.

     "The instant the poor-law was passed, and property was made
     responsible for poverty, the whole of the land-owners, who
     had before been careless about the people, and often allowed
     them to plant themselves on untenanted spots, or divide their
     tenancies—delighted to get the promise of a little additional
     rent—immediately became deeply interested in preventing that,
     and in keeping down the number of the people. Before they had
     rates to pay, they cared nothing for them; but the law and their
     self-interest made them care, and made them extirpators. Nothing
     less than some general desire like that of cupidity falling
     in with an enactment, and justified by a theory—nothing less
     than a passion which works silently in all, and safely under
     the sanction of a law—could have effected such wide-spread
     destruction. Even humanity was enlisted by the poor-law on the
     side of extirpation. As long as there was no legal provision
     for the poor, a landlord had some repugnance to drive them
     from every shelter; but the instant the law took them under its
     protection, and forced the land-owner to pay a rate to provide
     for them, repugnance ceased: they had a legal home, however
     inefficient, to go to; and eviction began. Even the growth
     of toleration seems to have worked to the same end. Till the
     Catholics were emancipated, they were all—rich and poor, priests
     and peasants—united by a common bond; and Protestant landlords
     beginning evictions on a great scale would have roused against
     them the whole Catholic nation. It would have been taken up as a
     religious question, as well as a question of the poor, prior to
     1829. Subsequent to that time—with a Whig administration, with
     all offices open to Catholics—no religious feelings could mingle
     with the matter: eviction became a pure question of interest; and
     while the priests look now, perhaps, as much to the government as
     to their flocks for support, Catholic landlords are not behind
     Protestant landlords in clearing their estates."

The person from whom we make the above quotation visited Ireland after
the famine consequent upon the failure of the potato crop had done its
worst—in the latter part of 1849. But famine seems to prevail, to a
certain extent, at all times, in that unhappy land—and thus it is
clear that the accidental failure of a crop has less to do with the
misery of the people than radical misgovernment.

     "To the Irish, such desolation is nothing new. They have long
     been accustomed to this kind of skinning. Their history, ever
     since it was written, teems with accounts of land forcibly taken
     from one set of owners and given to another; of clearings and
     plantings exactly similar in principle to that which is now
     going on; of driving men from Leinster to Munster, from Munster
     to Connaught, and from Connaught into the sea. Without going
     back to ancient proscriptions and confiscations—all the land
     having been, between the reign of Henry II. and William III.
     confiscated, it is affirmed, three times over—we must mention
     that the clearing so conspicuous in 1848 has now been going on
     for several years. The total number of holdings in 1841, of above
     one acre, and not exceeding five acres each, was 310,375; and,
     in 1847, they had been diminished to 125,926. In that single
     class of holdings, therefore, 184,449, between 1841 and 1847
     inclusive, had been done away with, and 24,147 were extinguished
     in 1848. Within that period, the number of farms of five acres
     and upward, particularly of farms of thirty acres and upward, was
     increased 210,229, the latter class having increased by 108,474.
     Little or no fresh land was broken up; and they, therefore,
     could only have been formed by amassing in these larger farms
     numerous small holdings. Before the year 1847, therefore,
     before 1846, when the potato rot worked so much mischief, even
     before 1845, the process of clearing the land, of putting down
     homesteads and consolidating farms, had been carried to a great
     extent; before any provision had been made by a poor-law for the
     evicted families, before the turned-out labourers and little
     farmers had even the workhouse for a refuge, multitudes had
     been continually driven from their homes to a great extent, as
     in 1848. The very process, therefore, on which government now
     relies for the present relief and the future improvement of
     Ireland, was begun and was carried to a great extent several
     years before the extremity of distress fell upon it in 1846.
     We are far from saying that the potato rot was caused by the
     clearing system; but, by disheartening the people, by depriving
     them of security, by contributing to their recklessness, by
     paralyzing their exertions, by promoting outrages, that system
     undoubtedly aggravated all the evils of that extraordinary
     visitation."—_Illustrated News_, October 13, 1849.

The correspondent of the News saw from one hundred and fifty to one
hundred and eighty funerals of victims to the want of food, the whole
number attended by not more than fifty persons. So hardened were the
men regularly employed in the removal of the dead from the workhouse,
that they would drive to the churchyard sitting upon the coffins, and
smoking with apparent enjoyment. These men had evidently "supped full
of horrors." A funeral was no solemnity to them. They had seen the
wretched peasants in the madness of starvation, and death had come as a
soothing angel. Why should the quieted sufferers be lamented?

[Illustration: MULLIN'S HUT AT SCULL.]

A specimen of the in-door horrors of Scull may be seen in the sketch
of a hut of a poor man named Mullins, who lay dying in a corner, upon
a heap of straw supplied by the Relief Committee, while his three
wretched children crouched over a few embers of turf, as if to raise
the last remaining spark of life. This poor man, it appears, had buried
his wife about five days before, and was, in all probability, on the
eve of joining her, when he was found out by the efforts of the vicar,
who, for a few short days, saved him from that which no kindness could
ultimately avert. The dimensions of Mullins's hut did not exceed ten
feet square, and the dirt and filth was ankle-deep upon the floor.

     "Commander Caffin, the captain of the steam-sloop _Scourge_, on
     the south coast of Ireland, has written a letter to a friend,
     dated February 15, 1847, in which he gives a most distressing
     and graphic account of the scenes he witnessed in the course of
     his duty in discharging a cargo of meal at Scull. After stating
     that three-fourths of the inhabitants carry a tale of wo in their
     countenances, and are reduced to mere skeletons, he mentions the
     result of what he saw while going through the parish with the
     rector, Dr. Traill. He says—

     "'Famine exists to a fearful degree, with all its horrors. Fever
     has sprung up, consequent upon the wretchedness; and swellings
     of limbs and body, and diarrhœa, upon the want of nourishment,
     are everywhere to be found. Dr. Traill's parish is twenty-one
     miles in extent, containing about eighteen thousand souls, with
     not more than half a dozen gentlemen in the whole of it. He drove
     me about five or six miles; but we commenced our visits before
     leaving the village, and in no house that I entered was there not
     to be found the dead or dying. In particularizing two or three,
     they may be taken as the features of the whole. There was no
     picking or choosing, but we took them just as they came.

     "'The first which I shall mention was a cabin, rather above the
     ordinary ones in appearance and comfort; in it were three young
     women, and one young man, and three children, all crouched over
     a fire—pictures of misery. Dr. Traill asked after the father,
     upon which one of the girls opened a door leading into another
     cabin, and there were the father and mother in bed; the father
     the most wretched picture of starvation possible to conceive, a
     skeleton with life, his power of speech gone; the mother but a
     little better—her cries for mercy and food were heart-rending.
     It was sheer destitution that had brought them to this. They had
     been well to do in the world, with their cow, and few sheep, and
     potato-ground. Their crops failed, and their cattle were stolen;
     although, anticipating this, they had taken their cow and sheep
     into the cabin with them every night, but they were stolen in the
     daytime. The son had worked on the road, and earned his 8_d._ a
     day, but this would not keep the family, and he, from work and
     insufficiency of food, is laid up, and will soon be as bad as his
     father. They had nothing to eat in the house, and I could see no
     hope for any one of them.

     "'In another cabin we went into, a mother and her daughter were
     there—the daughter emaciated, and lying against the wall—the
     mother naked upon some straw on the ground, with a rug over
     her—a most distressing object of misery. She writhed about, and
     bared her limbs, in order to show her state of exhaustion. She
     had wasted away until nothing but the skin covered the bones—she
     cannot have survived to this time.

     "'Another that I entered had, indeed, the appearance of
     wretchedness without, but its inside was misery! Dr. Traill, on
     putting his head inside the hole which answered for a door, said,
     'Well, Philis, how is your mother to-day?—he having been with
     her the day before—and was replied to, 'Oh, sir, is it you?
     Mother is dead!' and there, fearful reality, was the daughter,
     a skeleton herself, crouched and crying over the lifeless body
     of her mother, which was on the floor, cramped up as she had
     died, with her rags and her cloak about her, by the side of a
     few embers of peat. In the next cabin were three young children
     belonging to the daughter, whose husband had run away from
     her, all pictures of death. The poor creature said she did not
     know what to do with the corpse—she had no means of getting
     it removed, and she was too exhausted to remove it herself:
     this cabin was about three miles from the rectory. In another
     cabin, the door of which was stopped with dung, was a poor woman
     whom we had taken by surprise, as she roused up evidently much
     astonished. She burst into tears upon seeing the doctor, and said
     she had not been enabled to sleep since the corpse of the woman
     had lain in her bed. This was a poor creature who was passing
     this miserable cabin, and asked the old woman to allow her to
     rest herself for a few moments, when she had laid down, but never
     rose up again; she died in an hour or so, from sheer exhaustion.
     The body had remained in this hovel of six feet square with the
     poor old woman for four days, and she could not get anybody to
     remove it.'

     "The letter proceeds:—

     "'I could in this manner take you through the thirty or more
     cottages we visited; but they, without exception, were all
     alike—the dead and the dying in each; and I could tell you
     more of the truth of the heart-rending scene were I to mention
     the lamentations and bitter cryings of each of these poor
     creatures on the threshold of death. Never in my life have I
     seen such wholesale misery, nor could I have thought it so
     complete.'"—_Illustrated News_, February 20, 1847. [At this
     period, famine prevailed throughout Ireland.]

At the village of Mienils, a man named Leahey perished during the great
famine, with many circumstances of horror. When too weak, from want of
food, to help himself, he was stretched in his filthy hovel, when his
famished dogs attacked and so mangled him that he expired in intense
agony. Can the history of any other country present such terrible
instances of misery and starvation? The annals of Ireland have been
dark, indeed; and those who have wilfully cast that gloom upon them,
must emancipate Africans, and evangelize the rest of mankind, for a
century, at least, to lay the ghosts of the murdered Irish.

An Irish funeral of later days, with its attendant circumstances of
poverty and gloom, is truly calculated to stir the sensitive heart of a
poet. The obsequies display the meagre results of attempts to bury the
dead with decency. The mourners are few, but their grief is sincere;
and they weep for the lost as they would be wept for when Death, who
is ever walking by their side, lays his cold hand on them. During the
great famine, some poor wretches perished while preparing funerals for
their friends. In the following verses, published in Howitt's Journal,
of the 1st of April, 1847, we have a fine delineation of an Irish
funeral, such as only a poet could give:—




  AN IRISH FUNERAL.

  BY THE AUTHOR OF "ORION."


     "Funerals performed."—_London_ Trades.

     "On Wednesday, the remains of a poor woman, who died of hunger,
     were carried to their last resting-place by three women, and a
     blind man the son-in-law of the deceased. The distance between
     the wretched hut of the deceased and the grave-yard was nearly
     three miles."—_Tuam Herald._


                    Heavily plod
                    Highroad and sod,
                    With the cold corpse clod
                    Whose soul is with God!

                  An old door's the hearse
                  Of the skeleton corpse,
                  And three women bear it,
                  With a blind man to share it:
                      Over flint, over bog,
                      They stagger and jog:—
        Weary, and hungry, and hopeless, and cold,
        They slowly bear onward the bones to the mould.
                    Heavily plod
                    Highroad and sod,
                    With the cold corpse clod,
                    Whose soul is with God!

                  Barefoot ye go,
                  Through the frost, through the snow;
                  Unsteady and slow,
                  Your hearts mad with woe;
        Bewailing and blessing the poor rigid clod—
        The dear dead-and-cold one, whose soul is with God.
                    Heavily plod
                    Highroad and sod,
                    This ruin and rod
                    Are from man—and not God!

                  Now out spake her sister,—
                    "Can we be quite sure
                  Of the mercy of Heaven,
                    Or that Death is Life's cure?
        A cure for the misery, famine, and pains,
        Which our cold rulers view as the end of their gains?"
                    Heavily plod
                    Highroad and sod,
                    With the cold corpse clod,
                    Whose soul is with God!

                  "In a land where's plenty,"
                    The old mother said,—
                  "But not for poor creatures
                    Who pawn rags and bed—
        There's plenty for rich ones, and those far away,
        Who drain off our life-blood, so thoughtless and gay!"
                    Heavily plod
                    Highroad and sod,
                    With the cold corpse clod,
                    Whose soul is with God!

                  Then wailed the third woman—
                    "The darling was worth
                  The rarest of jewels
                    That shine upon earth.
        When hunger was gnawing her—wasted and wild—
        She shared her last morsel with my little child."
                      Heavily plod
                      Highroad and sod,
                      With the cold corpse clod,
                      Whose soul is with God!

                    "O Christ!" pray'd the blind man,
                      "We are not so poor,
                    Though we bend 'neath the dear weight
                      That crushes this door;
        For we know that the grave is the first step to Heaven,
        And a birthright we have in the riches there given."
                      Heavily plod,
                      Highroad and sod,
                      With the cold corpse clod,
                      Whose soul is with God!

What wonder if the evicted peasants of Ireland, made desperate by the
tyranny of the landlords, sometimes make "a law unto themselves,"
and slay their oppressors! Rebellion proves manhood under such
circumstances. Instances of landlords being murdered by evicted tenants
are numerous. In the following sketch we have a vivid illustration of
this phase of Irish life:—

     "The moorland was wide, level, and black; black as night, if you
     could suppose night condensed on the surface of the earth, and
     that you could tread on solid darkness in the midst of day. The
     day itself was fast dropping into night, although it was dreary
     and gloomy at the best; for it was a November day. The moor, for
     miles around, was treeless and houseless; devoid of vegetation,
     except heather, which clad with its gloomy frieze coat the
     shivering landscape. At a distance you could discern, through the
     misty atmosphere, the outline of mountains apparently as bare
     and stony as this wilderness, which they bounded. There were no
     fields, no hedgerows, no marks of the hand of man, except the
     nakedness itself, which was the work of man in past ages; when,
     period after period, he had tramped over the scene with fire
     and sword, and left all that could not fly before him, either
     ashes to be scattered by the savage winds, or stems of trees,
     and carcasses of men trodden into the swampy earth. As the Roman
     historians said of other destroyers, 'They created solitude, and
     called it peace.' That all this was the work of man, and not of
     Nature, any one spot of this huge and howling wilderness could
     testify, if you would only turn up its sable surface. In its
     bosom lay thousands of ancient oaks and pines, black as ebony;
     which told, by their gigantic bulk, that forests must have once
     existed on this spot, as rich as the scene was now bleak. Nobler
     things than trees lay buried there; but were, for the most part,
     resolved into the substance of the inky earth. The dwellings of
     men had left few or no traces, for they had been consumed in
     flames; and the hearts that had loved, and suffered, and perished
     beneath the hand of violence and insult, were no longer human
     hearts, but slime. If a man were carried blindfold to that place,
     and asked when his eyes were unbandaged where he was, he would
     say—'Ireland!'

     "He would want no clue to the identity of the place, but the
     scene before him. There is no heath like an Irish heath. There
     is no desolation like an Irish desolation. Where Nature herself
     has spread the expanse of a solitude, it is a cheerful solitude.
     The air flows over it lovingly: the flowers nod and dance in
     gladness; the soil breathes up a spirit of wild fragrance, which
     communicates a buoyant sensation to the heart. You feel that you
     tread on ground where the peace of God, and not the 'peace' of
     man created in the merciless hurricane of war, has sojourned:
     where the sun shone on creatures sporting on ground or on tree,
     as the Divine Goodness of the Universe meant them to sport: where
     the hunter disturbed alone the enjoyment of the lower animals by
     his own boisterous joy: where the traveller sang as he went over
     it, because he felt a spring of inexpressible music in his heart:
     where the weary wayfarer sat beneath a bush, and blessed God,
     though his limbs ached with travel, and his goal was far off.
     In God's deserts dwells gladness; in man's deserts, death. A
     melancholy smites you as you enter them. There is a darkness from
     the past that envelopes your heart, and the moans and sighs of
     ten-times perpetrated misery seem still to live in the very winds.

     "One shallow and widely spread stream struggled through the
     moor; sometimes between masses of gray stone. Sedges and
     the white-headed cotton-rush whistled on its margin, and on
     island-like expanses that here and there rose above the surface
     of its middle course.

     "I have said that there was no sign of life; but on one of those
     gray stones stood a heron watching for prey. He had remained
     straight, rigid, and motionless for hours. Probably his appetite
     was appeased by his day's success among the trout of that dark
     red-brown stream, which was  by the peat from which it
     oozed. When he did move, he sprang up at once, stretched his
     broad wings, and silent as the scene around him, made a circuit
     in the air; rising higher as he went, with slow and solemn
     flight. He had been startled by a sound. There was life in the
     desert now. Two horsemen came galloping along a highway not far
     distant, and the heron, continuing his grave gyrations, surveyed
     them as he went. Had they been travellers over a plain of India,
     an Austrian waste, or the pampas of South America, they could not
     have been grimmer of aspect, or more thoroughly children of the
     wild. They were Irish from head to foot.

     "They were mounted on two spare but by no means clumsy horses.
     The creatures had marks of blood and breed that had been
     introduced by the English to the country. They could claim, if
     they knew it, lineage of Arabia. The one was a pure bay, the
     other and lesser, was black; but both were lean as death, haggard
     as famine. They were wet with the speed with which they had been
     hurried along. The soil of the damp moorland, or of the field
     in which, during the day, they had probably been drawing the
     peasant's cart, still smeared their bodies, and their manes flew
     as wildly and untrimmed as the sedge or the cotton-rush on the
     wastes through which they careered. Their riders, wielding each
     a heavy stick instead of a riding-whip, which they applied ever
     and anon to the shoulders or flanks of their smoking animals,
     were mounted on their bare backs, and guided them by halter
     instead of bridle. They were a couple of the short frieze-coated,
     knee-breeches and gray-stocking fellows who are as plentiful
     on Irish soil as potatoes. From beneath their narrow-brimmed,
     old, weather-beaten hats, streamed hair as unkemped as their
     horses' manes. The Celtic physiognomy was distinctly marked—the
     small and somewhat upturned nose; the black tint of skin; the
     eye now looking gray, now black; the freckled cheek, and sandy
     hair. Beard and whiskers covered half the face, and the short
     square-shouldered bodies were bent forward with eager impatience,
     as they thumped and kicked along their horses, muttering curses
     as they went.

     "The heron, sailing on broad and seemingly slow vans, still kept
     them in view. Anon, they reached a part of the moorland where
     traces of human labour were visible. Black piles of peat stood on
     the solitary ground, ready, after a summer's cutting and drying.
     Presently patches of cultivation presented themselves; plots of
     ground raised on beds, each a few feet wide, with intervening
     trenches to carry off the boggy water, where potatoes had grown,
     and small fields where grew more stalks of ragwort than grass,
     inclosed by banks cast up and tipped here and there with a brier
     or a stone. It was the husbandry of misery and indigence. The
     ground had already been freshly manured by sea-weeds, but the
     village—where was it? Blotches of burnt ground, scorched heaps
     of rubbish, and fragments of blackened walls, alone were visible.
     Garden-plots were trodden down, and their few bushes rent up,
     or hung with tatters of rags. The two horsemen, as they hurried
     by with gloomy visages, uttered no more than a single word:
     'Eviction!'

     "Further on, the ground heaved itself into a chaotic confusion.
     Stony heaps swelled up here and there, naked, black, and barren:
     the huge bones of the earth protruded themselves through her
     skin. Shattered rocks arose, sprinkled with bushes, and smoke
     curled up from what looked like mere heaps of rubbish, but which
     were in reality human habitations. Long dry grass hissed and
     rustled in the wind on their roofs, (which were sunk by-places,
     as if falling in;) and pits of reeking filth seemed placed
     exactly to prevent access to some of the low doors; while to
     others, a few stepping-stones made that access only possible.
     Here the two riders stopped, and hurriedly tying their steeds to
     an elder-bush, disappeared in one of the cabins.

     "The heron slowly sailed on to the place of its regular roost.
     Let us follow it.

     "Far different was this scene to those the bird had left. Lofty
     trees darkened the steep <DW72>s of a fine river. Rich meadows
     lay at the feet of woods and stretched down to the stream. Herds
     of cattle lay on them, chewing their cuds after the plentiful
     grazing of the day. The white walls of a noble house peeped, in
     the dusk of night, through the fertile timber which stood in
     proud guardianship of the mansion; and broad winding walks gave
     evidence of a place where nature and art had combined to form a
     paradise. There were ample pleasure-grounds. Alas! the grounds
     around the cabins over which the heron had so lately flown, might
     be truly styled pain-grounds.

     "Within that home was assembled a happy family. There was the
     father, a fine-looking man of forty. Proud you would have deemed
     him, as he sate for a moment abstracted in his cushioned chair;
     but a moment afterward, as a troop of children came bursting into
     the room, his manner was instantly changed into one so pleasant,
     so playful, and so overflowing with enjoyment, that you saw him
     only as an amiable, glad, domestic man. The mother, a handsome
     woman, was seated already at the tea-table; and, in another
     minute, sounds of merry voices and childish laughter were mingled
     with the jocose tones of the father, and the playful accents of
     the mother; addressed, now to one, now to another of the youthful
     group.

     "In due time the merriment was hushed, and the household
     assembled for evening prayer. A numerous train of servants
     assumed their accustomed places. The father read. He had
     paused once or twice, and glanced with a stern and surprised
     expression toward the group of domestics, for he heard sounds
     that astonished him from one corner of the room near the door.
     He went on—Remember the children of Edom, O Lord, in the day of
     judgment, how they said, Down with it, down with it, even to the
     ground. O daughter of Babylon, wasted with misery, yea, happy
     shall he be who rewardeth thee, as thou hast served us!"

     "There was a burst of smothered sobs from the same corner, and
     the master's eye flashed with a strange fire as he again darted a
     glance toward the offender. The lady looked equally surprised, in
     the same direction; then turned a meaning look on her husband—a
     warm flush was succeeded by a paleness in her countenance, and
     she cast down her eyes. The children wondered, but were still.
     Once more the father's sonorous voice continued—'Give us this
     day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive
     them that trespass against us.' Again the stifled sound was
     repeated. The brow of the master darkened again—the mother
     looked agitated; the children's wonder increased; the master
     closed the book, and the servants, with a constrained silence,
     retired from the room.

     "'What _can_ be the matter with old Dennis?' exclaimed the lady,
     the moment that the door had closed on the household.—'Oh! what
     _is_ amiss with poor old Dennis!' exclaimed the children.

     "'Some stupid folly or other,' said the father, morosely. 'Come!
     away to bed, children. You can learn Dennis's troubles another
     time.' The children would have lingered, but again the words,
     'Away with you!' in a tone which never needed repetition, were
     decisive: they kissed their parents and withdrew. In a few
     seconds the father rang the bell. 'Send Dennis Croggan here.'

     "The old man appeared. He was a little thin man, of not less
     than seventy years of age, with white hair and a dark spare
     countenance. He was one of those nondescript servants in a large
     Irish house, whose duties are curiously miscellaneous. He had,
     however, shown sufficient zeal and fidelity through a long life,
     to secure a warm nook in the servants' hall for the remainder of
     his days.

     "Dennis entered with an humble and timid air, as conscious that
     he had deeply offended; and had to dread at least a severe
     rebuke. He bowed profoundly to both the master and mistress.

     "'What is the meaning of your interruptions during the prayers,
     Dennis?' demanded the master abruptly. 'Has any thing happened to
     you?'

     "'No, sir.'

     "'Any thing amiss in your son's family?'

     "'No, your honour.'

     "The interrogator paused; a storm of passion seemed slowly
     gathering within him. Presently he asked in a loud tone, 'What
     does this mean? Was there no place to vent your nonsense in, but
     in this room, and at prayers?'

     "Dennis was silent. He cast an imploring look at the master, then
     at the mistress.

     "'What is the matter, good Dennis?' asked the lady, in a kind
     tone. 'Compose yourself, and tell us. Something strange must have
     happened to you.'

     "Dennis trembled violently; but he advanced a couple of paces,
     seized the back of a chair as if to support him, and, after a
     vain gasp or two, declared, as intelligibly as fear would permit,
     that the prayer had overcome him.

     "'Nonsense, man!' exclaimed the master, with fury in the same
     face, which was so lately beaming with joy on the children.
     'Nonsense! Speak out without more ado, or you shall rue it.'

     "Dennis looked to the mistress as if he would have implored her
     intercession; but as she gave no sign of it, he was compelled to
     speak; but in a brogue that would have been unintelligible to
     English ears. We therefore translate it:

     "'I could not help thinking of the poor people at Rathbeg, when
     the soldiers and police cried, "Down with them! down with them,
     even to the ground!" and then the poor bit cabins came down all
     in fire and smoke, amid the howls and cries of the poor creatures.

     "'Oh! it was a fearful sight, your honour—it was, indeed—to
     see the poor women hugging their babies, and the houses where
     they were born burning in the wind. It was dreadful to see the
     old bedridden man lie on the wet ground among the few bits of
     furniture, and groan to his gracious God above. Oh, your honour!
     you never saw such a sight, or—you—sure a—it would never have
     been done!'

     "Dennis seemed to let the last words out as if they were jerked
     from him by a sudden shock.

     "The master, whose face had changed during this speech to a livid
     hue of passion, his eyes blazing with rage, was in the act of
     rushing on old Dennis, when he was held back by his wife, who
     exclaimed, 'Oswald! be calm; let us hear what Dennis has to say.
     Go on, Dennis, go on.'

     "The master stood still, breathing hard to overcome his rage. Old
     Dennis, as if seeing only his own thoughts, went on: 'O, bless
     your honour, if you had seen that poor frantic woman when the
     back of the cabin fell and buried her infant, where she thought
     she had laid it safe for a moment while she flew to part her
     husband and a soldier who had struck the other children with the
     flat of his sword, and bade them to troop off. Oh, your honour,
     but it was a killing sight. It was that came over me in the
     prayer, and I feared that we might be praying perdition on us
     all, when we prayed about our trespasses. If the poor creatures
     of Rathbeg should meet us, your honour, at Heaven's gate (I was
     thinking) and say—These are the heathens that would not let us
     have a poor hearth-stone in poor ould Ireland.—And that was all,
     your honour, that made me misbehave so; I was just thinking of
     that, and I could not help it.'

     "'Begone, you old fool!' exclaimed the master; and Dennis
     disappeared with a bow and an alertness that would have done
     credit to his earlier years.

     "There was a moment's silence after his exit. The lady turned to
     her husband, and clasping his arm with her hands and looking into
     his darkened countenance with a look of tenderest anxiety, said:—

     "'Dearest Oswald, let me, as I have so often done, once more
     entreat that these dreadful evictions may cease. Surely there
     must be some way to avert them and to set your property right,
     without such violent measures.'

     "The stern proud man said, 'Then why, in the name of Heaven,
     do you not reveal some other remedy? why do you not enlighten
     all Ireland? why don't you instruct Government? The unhappy
     wretches who have been swept away by force are no people, no
     tenants of mine; they squatted themselves down, as a swarm of
     locusts fix themselves while a green blade is left; they obstruct
     all improvement; they will not till the ground themselves, nor
     will they quit it to allow me to provide more industrious and
     provident husbandmen to cultivate it. Land that teems with
     fertility, and is shut out from hearing and bringing forth food
     for man, is accursed. Those who have been evicted not only rob
     me, but their more industrious fellows.'

     "'They will murder us,' said the wife, 'some day for these
     things. They will—'

     "Her words were cut short suddenly by her husband starting, and
     standing in a listening attitude. 'Wait a moment,' he said, with
     a peculiar calmness, as if he had just got a fresh thought; and
     his lady, who did not comprehend what was the cause, but hoped
     that some better influence was touching him, unloosed her hands
     from his arm. 'Wait just a moment,' he repeated, and stepped from
     the room, opened the front door, and, without his hat, went out.

     "'He is intending to cool down his anger,' thought his wife;
     'he feels a longing for the freshness of the air,' But she had
     not caught the sound which had startled his quicker, because
     more excited ear; she had been too much engrossed by her own
     intercession with him; it was a peculiar whine from the mastiff,
     which was chained near the lodge-gate, that had arrested his
     attention. He stepped out. The black clouds which overhung the
     moor had broken, and the moon's light straggled between them.

     "The tall and haughty man stood erect in the breeze and listened.
     Another moment-there was a shot, and he fell headlong upon the
     broad steps on which he stood. His wife sprang with a piercing
     shriek from the door and fell on his corpse. A crowd of servants
     gathered about them, making wild lamentations and breathing vows
     of vengeance. The murdered master and the wife were borne into
     the house.

     "The heron soared from its lofty perch, and wheeled with
     terrified wings through the night air. The servants armed
     themselves, and, rushing furiously from the house, traversed the
     surrounding masses of trees; fierce dogs were let loose, and
     dashed frantically through the thickets: all was, however, too
     late. The soaring heron saw gray figures, with blackened faces,
     stealing away—often on their hands and knees—down the hollows
     of the moorlands toward the village, where the two Irish horsemen
     had, in the first dusk of that evening, tied their lean steeds
     to the old elder bush.

     "Near the mansion no lurking assassin was to be found. Meanwhile
     two servants, pistol in hand, on a couple of their master's
     horses, scoured hill and dale. The heron, sailing solemnly on the
     wind above, saw them halt in a little town. They thundered with
     the butt-ends of their pistols on a door in the principal street;
     over it there was a coffin-shaped board, displaying a painted
     crown and the big-lettered words, 'POLICE STATION.' The mounted
     servants shouted with might and main. A night-capped head issued
     from a chamber casement with—'What is the matter?'

     "'Out with you, police! out with all your strength, and lose not
     a moment. Mr. FitzGibbon, of Sporeen, is shot at his own door.'

     "The casement was hastily clapped to, and the two horsemen
     galloped forward up the long, broad street, now flooded with the
     moon's light. Heads full of terror were thrust from upper windows
     to inquire the cause of that rapid galloping, but ever too late.
     The two men held their course up a steep hill outside of the
     town, where stood a vast building overlooking the whole place; it
     was the barracks. Here the alarm was also given.

     "In less than an hour a mounted troop of police in olive-green
     costume, with pistols at holster, sword by side, and carbine
     on the arm, were trotting briskly out of town, accompanied
     by the two messengers, whom they plied with eager questions.
     These answered, and sundry imprecations vented, the whole party
     increased their speed, and went on, mile after mile, by hedgerow
     and open moorland, talking as they went.

     "Before they reached the house of Sporeen, and near the village
     where the two Irish horsemen had stopped the evening before,
     they halted and formed themselves into more orderly array. A
     narrow gully was before them on the road, hemmed in on each
     side by rocky steeps, here and there overhung with bushes. The
     commandant bade them be on their guard, for there might be danger
     there. He was right; for the moment they began to trot through
     the pass, the flash and rattle of firearms from the thickets
     above saluted them, followed by a wild yell. In a second,
     several of their number lay dead or dying in the road. The fire
     was returned promptly by the police, but it was at random; for,
     although another discharge and another howl announced that the
     enemy were still there, no one could be seen. The head of the
     police commanded his troops to make a dash through the pass; for
     there was no scaling the heights from this side, the assailants
     having warily posted themselves there, because at the foot of
     the eminence were stretched on either hand impassable bogs. The
     troop dashed forward, firing their pistols as they went, but were
     met by such deadly discharges of firearms as threw them into
     confusion, killed and wounded several of their horses, and made
     them hastily retreat.

     "There was nothing for it but to await the arrival of the
     cavalry; and it was not long before the clatter of horses' hoofs
     and the ringing of sabres were heard on the road. On coming
     up, the troop of cavalry, firing to the right and left on the
     hillsides, dashed forward, and, in the same instant, cleared the
     gully in safety, the police having kept their side of the pass.
     In fact, not a single shot was returned, the arrival of this
     strong force having warned the insurgents to decamp. The cavalry,
     in full charge, ascended the hills to their summits. Not a foe
     was to be seen, except one or two dying men, who were discovered
     by their groans.

     "The moon had been for a time quenched in a dense mass of clouds,
     which now were blown aside by a keen and cutting wind. The heron,
     soaring over the desert, could now see gray-coated men flying
     in different directions to the shelter of the neighbouring
     hills. The next day he was startled from his dreamy reveries
     near the moorland stream, by the shouts and galloping of mingled
     police and soldiers, as they gave chase to a couple of haggard,
     bare-headed, and panting peasants. These were soon captured, and
     at once recognised as belonging to the evicted inhabitants of the
     recently deserted village.

     "Since then years have rolled on. The heron, who had been
     startled from his quiet haunts by these things, was still
     dwelling on the lofty tree with his kindred, by the hall of
     Sporeen. He had reared family after family in that airy lodgment,
     as spring after spring came round; but no family, after that
     fatal time, had ever tenanted the mansion. The widow and
     children had fled from it so soon as Mr. FitzGibbon had been laid
     in the grave. The nettle and dock flourished over the scorched
     ruins of the village of Rathbeg; dank moss and wild grass tangled
     the proud drives and walks of Sporeen. All the woodland rides and
     pleasure-grounds lay obstructed with briers; and young trees in
     time grew luxuriantly where once the roller in its rounds could
     not crush a weed; the nimble frolics of the squirrel were now the
     only merry things where formerly the feet of lovely children had
     sprung with elastic joy.

     "The curse of Ireland was on the place. Landlord and tenant,
     gentleman and peasant, each with the roots and the shoots of many
     virtues in their hearts, thrown into a false position by the
     mutual injuries of ages, had wreaked on each other the miseries
     sown broadcast by their ancestors. Beneath this foul spell men
     who would, in any other circumstances, have been the happiest and
     the noblest of mankind, became tyrants; and peasants, who would
     have glowed with grateful affection toward them, exulted in being
     their assassins. As the traveller rode past the decaying hall,
     the gloomy woods, and waste black moorlands of Sporeen, he read
     the riddle of Ireland's fate, and asked himself when an Œdipus
     would arise to solve it."

A large number of the peasantry of Connemara, a rocky and romantic
region, are among the most recent evictions.

     "These hardy mountaineers, whose lives, and the lives of their
     fathers and great-grandfathers have been spent in reclaiming
     the barren hills where their hard lot has been cast, were the
     victims of a series of oppressions unparalleled in the annals
     of Irish misrule. They were thickly planted over the rocky
     surface of Connemara for political purposes. In the days of
     the 40_s._ freeholder, they were driven to the hustings like
     a flock of sheep, to register not alone one vote, but in many
     instances three or four votes each; and it was no uncommon thing
     to see those unfortunate serfs evicted from their holdings when
     an election had terminated— not that they refused to vote
     according to the wish of their landlords, but because they did
     not go far enough in the sin of perjury and the diabolical crime
     of impersonation. When they ceased to possess any political
     importance, they were cast away like broken tools. It was no
     uncommon thing, in the wilds of Connemara, to see the peasantry,
     after an election, coming before the Catholic Archbishop, when
     holding a visitation of his diocese, to proclaim openly the crime
     of impersonation which their landlords compelled them to commit,
     and implore forgiveness for such. Of this fact we have in the
     town of Galway more than one living witness; so that, while every
     thing was done, with few exceptions, to demoralize the peasantry
     of Connemara, and plant in their souls the germs of that slavery
     which is so destructive to the growth of industry, enterprise,
     or manly exertion—no compassion for their wants was ever
     evinced—no allowance for their poverty and inability to meet the
     rack-renting demands of their landlords was ever made."

Perhaps, it requires no Œdipus to tell what will be the future of the
Irish nation, if the present system of slavery is maintained by their
English conquerors. If they do not cease to exist as a people, they
will continue to quaff the dark waters of sorrow, and to pay a price,
terrible to think of, for the mere privilege of existence.

During the famine of 1847, the heartlessness of many Irish landlords
was manifested by their utter indifference to the multitudes starving
around their well-supplied mansions. At that period, the Rev. A. King,
of Cork, wrote to the Southern Reporter as follows:—

     "The town and the surrounding country for many miles are
     possessed by twenty-six proprietors, whose respective yearly
     incomes vary from one hundred pounds, or less, to several
     thousands. They had all been respectfully informed of the
     miserable condition of the people, and solicited to give relief.
     Seventeen of the number had not the politeness to answer the
     letters of the committee, four had written to say they would not
     contribute, and the remaining five had given a miserable fraction
     of what they ought to have contributed. My first donation from
     a small portion of a small relief fund, received from English
     strangers, exceeded the aggregate contributions of six-and-twenty
     landed proprietors, on whose properties human beings were
     perishing from famine, filth, and disease, amid circumstances of
     wretchedness appalling to humanity and disgraceful to civilized
     men! I believe it my sacred duty to gibbet this atrocity in
     the press, and to call on benevolent persons to loathe it as a
     monster crime. Twenty-one owners of property, on which scores,
     nay hundreds, of their fellow-creatures are dying of hunger, give
     nothing to save their lives! Are they not virtually guilty of
     wholesale murder? I ask not what human law may decide upon their
     acts, but in the name of Christianity I arraign them as guilty of
     treason against the rights of humanity and the laws of God!"

It is to escape the responsibility mentioned by Mr. King, as well as
to avoid the payment of poor-rates, that the landlords resort to the
desolating process of eviction. To show the destructive nature of the
tyrannical system that has so long prevailed in Ireland, we will take
an abstract of the census of 1841 and 1851.

                                    1841.             1851.

  Houses: Inhabited               1,328,839         1,047,935
     "    Uninhabited, built         52,203            65,159
     "        "        building       3,318             2,113
                                 —        —
               Total              1,384,360         1,115,207

  Families                        1,472,287         1,207,002

  Persons: Males                  4,019,576         3,176,727
     "     Females                4,155,548         3,339,067
                                 —        —
              Total               8,175,124         6,515,794

           Population in 1841              8,175,124
                "        1851              6,515,794
                                          —
                Decrease                   1,659,330

  Or, at the rate of 20 per cent.

       Population in 1821                  6,801,827
            "        1831                  7,767,401
            "        1841                  8,175,124
            "        1851                  6,515,794

  Or, 286,030 souls fewer than in 1821, thirty years ago.

     "We shall impress the disastrous importance of the reduction in
     the number of the people on our readers, by placing before them a
     brief account of the previous progress of the population. There
     is good reason to suppose, that, prior to the middle of the last
     century, the people continually, though slowly, increased; but
     from that time something like authentic but imperfect records
     give the following as their numbers at successive periods:—

       1754       2,372,634
       1767       2,544,276    Increase per cent.  7·2
       1777       2,690,556             "          5·7
       1785       2,845,932             "          5·8
       1805       5,359,456             "         84·0
       1813       5,937,858             "         10·8
       1821       6,801,829             "         14·6
       1831       7,767,401             "         14·9
       1841       8,175,124             "          5·3
       1851       6,515,794    Decrease           20·0

     "Though there are some discrepancies in these figures, and
     probably the number assigned to 1785 is too small, and that
     assigned to 1805 too large, they testify uniformly to a continual
     increase of the people for eighty-seven years, from 1754 to 1841.
     Now, for the first time in nearly a century, a complete change
     has set in, and the population has decreased in the last ten
     years 20 per cent. It is 1,659,330 less than in 1841, and less by
     286,033 than in 1821.

     "But this is not quite all. The census of 1851 was taken 68
     days earlier than the census of 1841; and it is obvious, if the
     same rate of decrease continued through those 68 days, as has
     prevailed on the average through the ten years, that the whole
     amount of decrease would be so much greater. Sixty-eight days is
     about the 54th part of ten years—say the 50th part; and the 50th
     part of the deficiency is 33,000 odd—say 30,000. We must add
     30,000, therefore, to the 1,659,330, making 1,689,330, to get the
     true amount of the diminution of the people in ten years.

     "Instead of the population increasing in a healthy manner,
     implying an increase in marriages, in families, and in all the
     affections connected with them, and implying an increase in
     general prosperity, as for nearly a century before, and now
     amounting, as we might expect, to 8,600,000, it is 2,000,000
     less. This is a disastrous change in the life of the Irish. At
     this downward rate, decreasing 20 per cent. in ten years, five
     such periods would suffice to exterminate the whole population
     more effectually than the Indians have been exterminated from
     North America. Fifty years of this new career would annihilate
     the whole population of Ireland, and turn the land into an
     uninhabited waste. This is a terrible reverse in the condition of
     a people, and is the more remarkable because in the same period
     the population of Great Britain has increased 12 per cent., and
     because there is no other example of a similar decay in any part
     of Europe in the same time, throughout which the population has
     continued to increase, though not everywhere equally, nor so fast
     as in Great Britain. Indeed, it may be doubted whether the annals
     of mankind can supply, in a season of peace—when no earthquakes
     have toppled down cities, no volcanoes have buried them beneath
     their ashes, and no inroads of the ocean have occurred—such
     wholesale diminution of the population and desolation of the
     country.

     "The inhabited houses in Ireland have decreased from 1,328,839
     in 1841 to 1,047,735 in 1851, or 281,104, (21·2 per cent.,) and
     consequently more than the population, who are now worse lodged
     and more crowded in relation to houses than they were in 1841.
     As the uninhabited houses have increased only 12,951, no less
     than 268,153 houses must have been destroyed in the ten years.
     That informs us of the extent of the 'clearances' of which we
     have heard so much of late; and the 1,659,300 people less in the
     country is an index to the number of human beings who inhabited
     the houses destroyed. We must remember, too, that within the
     period a number of union workhouses have been built in Ireland,
     capable of accommodating 308,885 persons, and that, besides the
     actual diminution of the number of the people, there has been a
     change in their habits, about 300,000 having become denizens of
     workhouses, who, prior to 1841, lived in their own separate huts.
     With distress and destruction pauperism has also increased.

     "The decrease has not been equal for the males and females; the
     numbers were as follows.—

                        1841.       1851.

       Males          4,019,576   3,176,124 Decrease 20·9 per cent.
       Females        4,155,548   3,336,067    "     29·6    "

     "The females now exceed the males by 162,943, or 2 per cent. on
     the whole population. It is not, however, that the mortality has
     been greater among the males than the females, but that more of
     the former than of the latter have escaped from the desolation.

     "Another important feature of the returns is the increase of
     the town population:—Dublin, 22,124, or 9 per cent.; Belfast,
     24,352, or 32 per cent.; Galway, 7422, or 43 per cent.; Cork,
     5765, or 7 per cent. Altogether, the town population has
     increased 71,928, or nearly 1 per cent., every town except
     Londonderry displaying the same feature; and that increase makes
     the decrease of the rural population still more striking. The
     whole decrease is of the agricultural classes: Mr. O'Connell's
     'finest pisantry' are the sufferers."

The London Illustrated News, in an article upon the census, says—

     "The causes of the decay of the people, subordinate to
     inefficient employment and to wanting commerce and manufactures,
     are obviously great mortality, caused by the destruction of the
     potatoes and the consequent want of food, the clearance system,
     and emigration. From the retarded increase of the population
     between 1831 and 1841—only 5·3 per cent., while in the previous
     ten years it had been nearly 15 per cent.—it may be inferred
     that the growth of the population was coming to a stand-still
     before 1841, and that the late calamities only brought it down to
     its means of continued subsistence, according to the distribution
     of property and the occupations of the people. The potato rot,
     in 1846, was a somewhat severer loss of that root than had
     before fallen on the Irish, who have suffered occasionally from
     famines ever since their history began; and it fell so heavily
     on them then, because they were previously very much and very
     generally impoverished. Thousands, and even millions, of them
     subsisted almost exclusively on lumpers, the very worst kind
     of potatoes, and were reduced in health and strength when they
     were overtaken by the dearth of 1846. The general smallness of
     their consumption, and total abstinence from the use of tax
     paying articles, is made painfully apparent by the decrease of
     the population of Ireland having had no sensible influence in
     reducing the revenue. They were half starved while alive. Another
     remarkable fact which we must notice is, that, while the Irish
     population have thus been going to decay, the imports and exports
     of the empire have increased in a much more rapid ratio than the
     population of Great Britain. For them, therefore, exclusively,
     is the trade of the empire carried on, and the Irish who have
     been swept away, without lessening the imports and exports, have
     had no share in our commerce. It is from these facts apparent,
     that, while they have gone to decay, the population of Great
     Britain have increased their well-being and their enjoyments
     much more than their numbers. We need not remind our readers of
     the dreadful sufferings of the Irish in the years 1847, 1848,
     and 1849; for the accounts we then published of them were too
     melancholy to be forgotten. As an illustration, we may observe
     that the Irish Poor-law Commissioners, in their fourth report,
     dated May 5, 1851, boast that the 'worst evils of the famine,
     such as the occurrence of _deaths by the wayside_, a high rate of
     mortality in the workhouses, and the prevalence of dangerous and
     contagious diseases in or out of the workhouse, have undergone
     a very material abatement.' There have been, then, numerous
     deaths by the wayside, alarming contagious diseases, and great
     mortality in the workhouses."

The Poor-law Commissioners kept a most mysterious silence during the
worst period of the famine; and, it was only when the horrors of that
time were known to the whole civilized world that they reported the
"abatement of the evils." Perhaps, they had become so accustomed to
witnessing misery in Ireland that even the famine years did not startle
them into making a humane appeal to the British government upon behalf
of the sufferers.

The Illustrated News, in the same article we have quoted above, says,
quite sensibly, but with scarcely a due appreciation of the causes of
Ireland's decay—

     "The decline of the population has been greatest in Connaught;
     now the Commissioners tell us that in 1847 the maximum rate of
     mortality in the workhouses of that province was 43.6 per week
     in a thousand persons, so that in about 23 weeks at this rate
     the whole 1000 would be dead. The maximum rate of mortality in
     all the workhouses in that year was 25 per 1000 weekly, or the
     whole 1000 would die in something more than 39 weeks. That was
     surely a very frightful mortality. It took place among that part
     of the population for which room was found in the workhouses;
     and among the population out of the workhouses perishing by the
     wayside, the mortality must have been still more frightful. We
     are happy to believe, on the assurance of the commissioners, that
     matters are now improved, that workhouse accommodation is to
     be had—with one exception, Kilrush—for all who need it; that
     the expense of keeping the poor is diminished; that contagious
     disorders are less frequent, and that the rate of mortality has
     much declined. But the statement that such improvements have
     taken place, implies the greatness of the past sufferings. There
     can be no doubt, therefore, that the decay of the population
     has partly arisen from increased mortality on the one hand, and
     from decreasing marriages and decreasing births on the other.
     Now that the Irish have a poor-law fairly administered, we may
     expect that, in future, such terrible scenes as were witnessed
     in 1847-49 will not again occur. But the state which authorized
     the landlords, by a law, to clear their estates of the peasantry,
     as if they were vermin, destroying, as we have seen, 268,153
     dwellings, without having previously imposed on those landlords
     the obligation of providing for the people, did a great wrong,
     and the decay of the people now testifies against it.

     "With reference to emigration—the least objectionable mode
     of getting rid of a population—there are no correct returns
     kept of the number of Irish who emigrate, because a great part
     of them go from Liverpool, and are set down in the returns as
     emigrants from England. It is supposed by those best acquainted
     with the subject, that more than nine-tenths of the emigrants
     from Liverpool are Irish. Taking that proportion, therefore, and
     adding it to the emigrants who proceed direct from Ireland, the
     number of Irish emigrants from 1842 to the present year was—

       1843              39,549 │ 1847               214,970
       1844              55,910 │ 1848               177,720
       1845              76,523 │ 1849               208,759
       1846             106,767 │ 1850               207,853
                       — │                   —
        Total, 4 years, 278,749 │    Total, 4 years, 809,302
                 Total, 8 years      1,088,051.

     "If we add 70,000 for the two first years of the decennial period
     not included in the return, we shall have 1,158,051 as the total
     emigration of the ten years. It was probably more than that—it
     could not well have been less. To this we must add the number of
     Irish who came to England and Scotland, of whom no account is
     kept. If we put them down at 30,000 a year, we shall have for
     the ten years 300,000; or the total expatriation of the Irish in
     the ten years may be assumed at 1,458,000, or say 1,500,000. At
     first sight this appears a somewhat soothing explanation of the
     decline of the Irish population; but, on being closely examined,
     it diminishes the evil very little in one sense, and threatens to
     enhance it in another.

     "So far as national strength is concerned, it is of no
     consequence whether the population die out or emigrate to another
     state, except that, if the other state be a rival or an enemy, it
     may be worse for the parent state that the population emigrate
     than be annihilated. In truth, the Irish population in the United
     States, driven away formerly by persecution, have imbittered the
     feelings of the public there against England. Emigration is only
     very beneficial, therefore, when it makes room for one at home
     for every one removed. Such is the emigration from England to her
     colonies or to the United States, with which she has intimate
     trade relations; but such is not the case with the emigration
     from Ireland, for there we find a frightful void. No one fills
     the emigrant's place. He flies from the country because he cannot
     live in it; and being comparatively energetic, we may infer
     that few others can. In the ordinary course, had the 1,500,000
     expatriated people remained, nearly one-third of them would have
     died in the ten years; they would have increased the terrible
     mortality, and, without much adding to the present number of the
     people, would have added to the long black catalogue of death.

     "For the emigrants themselves removal is a great evil, a mere
     flying from destruction. The Poor-law Commissioners state that
     the number of pauper emigrants sent from Ireland in 1850 was
     about 1800, or less than one per cent. of the whole emigration;
     the bulk of the emigrants were not paupers, but persons of some
     means as well as of some energy. They were among the best of the
     population, and they carried off capital with them—leaving the
     decrepit, the worn-out, and the feeble behind them; the mature
     and the vigorous, the seed of future generations, went out of
     the land, and took with them the means of future increase. We
     doubt, therefore, whether such an emigration as that from Ireland
     within the last four years will not be more fatal to its future
     prosperity than had the emigrants swelled the mortality at
     home. All the circumstances now enumerated tend to establish the
     conclusion, that, for the state, and for the people who remain
     behind, it is of very little consequence whether a loss of
     population, such as that in Ireland, be caused by an excessive
     mortality or excessive emigration.

     "To the emigrants themselves, after they have braved the pain of
     the separation and the difficulties of the voyage, and after they
     are established in a better home, the difference is very great;
     but it may happen that, to Ireland as a state, their success
     abroad will be rather dangerous than beneficial. On the whole,
     emigration does not account for the decrease of people; and if it
     did account for it, would not afford us the least consolation."

In the above article, the Kilrush Union is mentioned as an exception
to the general improvement in Ireland, in respect to workhouse
accommodation. Mr. Sidney Godolphin Osborne, the able and humane
correspondent of the London Times, can enlighten us in regard to the
treatment of the poor of Kilrush in 1851.

     "I am sorry to be compelled again to call public attention to
     the state of things in the above ill-fated union. I do not
     dispute the interest which must attach to the transactions of the
     Encumbered Estates Court, the question of the so-called Godless
     Colleges, the campaign now commencing against the national
     schools, and the storm very naturally arising against the Papal
     Aggression Bill, in a country so Catholic as Ireland. But I must
     claim some interest upon the part of the British public on the
     question of life and death now cruelly working out in the West of
     Ireland.

     "The accommodation for paupers in the Kilrush union-houses was,
     in the three weeks ending the 8th, 15th, and 22d of this month,
     calculated for 4654; in the week ending the 8th of March there
     were 5005 inmates, 56 deaths!—in the week ending the 15th of
     March, 4980 inmates, 68 deaths!—in the week ending the 22d of
     March, 4868 inmates, 79 deaths! That is to say, _there were 203
     deaths in 21 days_. I last week called your attention to the
     fact of the over-crowding and the improper feeding of the poor
     creatures in these houses, as proved by a report made by the
     medical officer on the 1st of February, repeated on the 22d,
     and, at the time of my letter, evidently unheeded. Behold the
     result—79 deaths in a population of under 5000 in one week! I
     have, I regret to say, besides these returns, a large mass of
     returns of deaths outside the house, evidently the result of
     starvation; on some, coroners' juries have admitted it to be so.

     "Eye-witnesses of the highest respectability, as well as my own
     paid agent, report to me the state of the town and neighbourhood
     of the workhouse on the admission-days in characters quite
     horrifying: between 100 and 200 poor, half-starved, almost naked
     creatures may be seen by the roadside, under the market-house—in
     short, wherever the famished, the houseless, and the cold can get
     for a night's shelter. Many have come twelve Irish miles to seek
     relief, and then have been refused, though their sunken eyes and
     projecting bones write the words 'destitute' and 'starving' in
     language even the most callous believers in pauper cunning could
     not misunderstand. I will defy contradiction to the fact, that
     the business of the admission-days is conducted in a way which
     forbids common justice to the applicants; it is a mere mockery
     to call the scene of indecent hurry and noisy strife between
     guardians, officers, and paupers, which occupies the few hours
     weekly given to this work, a hearing of applicants.

     "I have before me some particulars of a visit of inspection paid
     to these houses a short time since by a gentleman whose position
     and whose motives are above all cavil for respectability and
     integrity; I have a mass of evidence, voluntarily given me, from
     sources on which I can place implicit confidence, all tending
     to one and the same point. The mortality so fast increasing can
     only be ascribed to the insufficiency of the out-relief given to
     the destitute, and the crowding and improper diet of the in-door
     paupers. From the published statement of the half-year ending
     September 29, 1850, signed 'C. M. Vandeleur, chairman,' I find
     there were 1014 deaths in that said half-year. Average weekly
     cost per head—food, 11¼_d._; clothing, 2_d._ I shall look
     with anxiety for the return of the half-year just ended; it will
     be a curious document, as emanating from a board the chairman
     of which has just trumpeted in your columns with regard to this
     union, 'that the lands, with little exception, are well occupied,
     and a spirit of industry visible among all classes.' It will at
     least prove a more than usual occupation of burying-land, and a
     spirit of increased energy in the grave-digging class.

     "With regard to the diet of the old and infirm, I can conceive it
     possible that since the publication of my last letter there may
     be some improvement, though I am not yet aware of it. I am now
     prepared to challenge all contradiction to the fact that the diet
     has been not only short of what it ought to be by the prescribed
     dietary, but, in the case of the bread, it has frequently been
     unfit for human food—such as very old or very young people could
     only touch under the pressure of famine, and could not, under any
     circumstances, sustain health upon.

     "Let the authorities investigate the deaths of the last six
     weeks, taking the cause of death from the medical officers, and
     how soon after admission each individual died; they will then,
     with me, cease to wonder that the poor creatures who come in
     starving should so soon sink, when the sanatory condition of the
     law's asylum is just that which would tell most severely even
     on the most healthy. I admit, sir, that Kilrush market may be
     well supplied with cheap food, but the evicted peasantry have
     no money, and vendors do not give. I admit that the season for
     the growth of nettles, and cornkale, and other weeds, the of
     late years normal food of these poor creatures, has not yet set
     in, and this I do not deny is all against them. I leave to the
     British public the forming any conclusion they like from this
     admission.

     "What I now contend for is this—that in a particular part of
     Great Britain there are certain workhouses, asylums for the
     destitute, supervised by salaried inspectors, directly under the
     cognizance of the Government, in which the crowding of the sick
     is most shameful, the diet equally so. The mortality for the
     weeks ending January 25 to March 22—484, upon a population which
     in those weeks never exceeded 5200 souls! I believe these to be
     facts which cannot be disputed, and I claim on them the immediate
     interference of the Government, and the more especially as the
     chairman of this union makes a public favourable comparison
     between it and the union of Ennistymon, in the same county. I
     am myself prepared, on very short notice, to go over at my own
     expense with any person of respectability from this country,
     appointed by Government, and I have no doubt we shall prove that
     I have, if any thing, understated matters; if so, am I wrong,
     sir, in saying, that such a state of things, within a twenty
     hours' journey from London, is in a sad and shameful contrast
     to the expected doings of the 'World's Fair' on English ground?
     _When, the other day, I looked on the Crystal Palace, and thought
     of Kilrush workhouse, as I have seen it and now know it to be,
     I confess I felt, as a Christian and the subject of a Christian
     Government, utter disgust._ Again, sir, I thank you from my heart
     for your indulgence to these my cries for justice for Ireland."

Alas! poor country, where each hour teems with a new grievance; where
tyranny is so much a custom that the very institutions which have
charity written upon their front are turned to dangerous pest-houses,
slaving shops, or tombs; where to toil even to extremity is to be
rewarded with semi-starvation in styes, and, perhaps, by sudden
eviction, and a grave by the wayside; where to entertain certain
religious convictions is to invite the whips of persecution, and
the particular tyranny of the landlord who adheres to the Church of
England; where to speak the faith of the heart, the opinions of the
mind, is to sacrifice the food doled out by the serf-holders; where to
live is to be considered a glorious mercy—to hope, something unfit for
common men.

The struggles and achievements of Con McNale, as related in "Household
Words," give us a tolerably truthful representation of the milder
features of Irish peasant life. Con had better luck than most of his
class, and knew better how to improve it. Yet the circumstances of his
existence were certainly not those of a freeman:—

     "My father," said he, "lived under ould Squire Kilkelly, an'
     for awhile tinded his cattle; but the Squire's gone out iv this
     part iv the counthry, to Australia or some furrin part, an' the
     mentioned house (mansion-house) an' the fine property was sould,
     so it was, for little or nothin', for the fightin' was over in
     furrin parts; Boney was put down, an' there was no price for corn
     or cattle, an' a jontleman from Scotland came an' bought the
     istate. We were warned by the new man to go, for he tuk in his
     own hand all the in-land about the domain, bein' a grate farmer.
     He put nobody in our little place, but pulled it down, an' he guv
     father a five-guinea note, but my father was ould an' not able to
     face the world agin, an' he went to the town an' tuk a room—a
     poor, dirty, choky place it was for him, myself, and sisther to
     live in. The neighbours were very kind an' good though. Sister
     Bridget got a place wid a farmer hereabouts, an' I tuk the world
     on my own showlders. I had nothin' at all but the rags I stud up
     in, an' they were bad enuf. Poor Biddy got a shillin' advanced iv
     her wages that her masther was to giv her. She guv it me, for I
     was bent on goin' toward Belfast to look for work. All along the
     road I axed at every place; they could giv it me, but to no good;
     except when I axed, they'd giv me a bowl iv broth, or a piece iv
     bacon, or an oaten bannock, so that I had my shillin' to the fore
     when I got to Belfast.

     "Here the heart was near lavin' me all out intirely. I went
     wandtherin' down to the quay among the ships, and what should
     there be but a ship goin' to Scotland that very night wid pigs.
     In throth it was fun to see the sailors at cross-purposes wid
     'em, for they didn't know the natur iv the bastes. I did. I
     knew how to coax 'em. I set to an' I deludhered an' coaxed the
     pigs, an' by pullin' them by the tail, knowing that if they took
     a fancy I wished to pull 'em back out of the ship they'd run
     might an' main into her, and so they did. Well, the sailors were
     mightily divarted, an' when the pigs was aboord I wint down to
     the place; an' the short iv it is that in three days I was in
     Glasgow town, an' the captain an' the sailors subscribed up tin
     shillins an' guv it into my hand. Well, I bought a raping-hook,
     an' away I trudged till I got quite an' clane into the counthry,
     an' the corn was here and there fit to cut. At last I goes an' ax
     a farmer for work. He thought I was too wake to be paid by the
     day, but one field havin' one corner fit to cut, an' the next
     not ready, 'Paddy,' says he, 'you may begin in that corner, an'
     I'll pay yees by the work yees do,' an' he guv me my breakfast
     an' a pint of beer. Well, I never quit that masther the whole
     harvest, an' when the raping was over I had four goolden guineas
     to carry home, besides that I was as sthrong as a lion. Yees
     would wonder how glad the sailors was to see me back agin, an'
     ne'er a farthin' would they take back iv their money, but tuk me
     over agin to Belfast, givin' me the hoighth of good thratemint of
     all kinds. I did not stay an hour in Belfast, but tuk to the road
     to look afther the ould man an' little Biddy. Well, sorrows the
     tidins I got. The ould man had died, an' the grief an' disthress
     of poor little Biddy had even touched her head a little. The
     dacent people where she was, may the Lord reward 'em, though they
     found little use in her, kep her, hoping I would be able to come
     home an' keep her myself, an' so I was. I brought her away wid
     me, an' the sight iv me put new life in her. I was set upon not
     being idle, an' I'll tell yees what I did next.

     "When I was little _bouchaleen_ iv a boy I used to be ahead on
     the mountain face, an' 'twas often I sheltered myself behind
     them gray rocks that's at the gable iv my house; an' somehow it
     came into my head that the new Squire, being a grate man for
     improvin' might let me try to brake in a bit iv land there; an'
     so I goes off to him, an' one iv the sarvints bein' a sort iv
     cousin iv mine, I got to spake to the Squire, an' behould yees
     he guv me lave at onst. Well, there's no time like the prisint,
     an' as I passed out iv the back yard of the mentioned (mansion)
     house, I sees the sawyers cutting some Norway firs that had been
     blown down by the storm, an' I tells the sawyers that I had got
     lave to brake in a bit iv land in the mountains, an' what would
     some pieces iv fir cost. They says they must see what kind of
     pieces they was that I wished for; an' no sooner had I set about
     looking 'em through than the Squire himself comes ridin' out of
     the stable-yard, an' says he at onst, 'McNale,' says he, 'you may
     have a load iv cuttins to build your cabin, or two if you need
     it.' 'The Heavens be your honour's bed,' says I, an' I wint off
     to the room where I an' Biddy lived, not knowin' if I was on my
     head or my heels. Next day, before sunrise, I was up here, five
     miles up the face of Slieve-dan, with a spade in my fist, an'
     I looked roun' for the most shiltered spot I could sit my eyes
     an. Here I saw, where the house an' yard are stan'in', a plot
     iv about an acre to the south iv that tall ridge of rocks, well
     sheltered from the blast from the north an' from the aste, an'
     it was about sunrise an' a fine morning in October that I tuk
     up the first spadeful. There was a spring then drippin' down
     the face iv the rocks, an' I saw at once that it would make
     the cabin completely damp, an' the land about mighty sour an'
     water-_slain_; so I determined to do what I saw done in Scotland.
     I sunk a deep drain right under the rock to run all along the
     back iv the cabin, an' workin' that day all alone by myself, I
     did a grate dale iv it. At night it was close upon dark when I
     started to go home, so I hid my spade in the heath an' trudged
     off. The next morning I bargained with a farmer to bring me up a
     load iv fir cuttins from the Squire's, an' by the evenin' they
     were thrown down within a quarter iv a mile iv my place, for
     there was no road to it then, an' I had to carry 'em myself for
     the remainder of the way. This occupied me till near nightfall;
     but I remained that night till I placed two upright posts of fir,
     one at each corner iv the front iv the cabin.

     "I was detarmined to get the cabin finished as quickly as
     possible, that I might be able to live upon the spot, for much
     time was lost in goin' and comin'. The next day I was up betimes,
     an' finding a track iv stiff blue clay, I cut a multitude of
     thick square sods iv it, an' having set up two more posts at
     the remainin' two corners iv the cabin, I laid four rows iv one
     gable, rising it about three feet high. Havin' laid the rows, I
     sharpind three or four straight pine branches, an' druv them down
     through the sods into the earth, to pin the wall in its place.
     Next day I had a whole gable up, each three rows iv sods pinned
     through to the three benathe. In about eight days I had put up
     the four walls, makin' a door an' two windows; an' now my outlay
     began, for I had to pay a thatcher to put on the sthraw an' to
     assist me in risin' the rafthers. In another week it was covered
     in, an' it was a pride to see it with the new thatch an' a wicker
     chimbly daubed with clay, like a pallis undernathe the rock. I
     now got some turf that those who had cut 'em had not removed, an'
     they sould 'em for a thrifle, an' I made a grate fire an' slept
     on the flure of my own house that night. Next day I got another
     load iv fir brought to make the partitions in the winter, an' in
     a day or two after I had got the inside so dhry that I was able
     to bring poor Biddy to live there for good and all. The Heavens
     be praised, there was not a shower iv rain fell from the time I
     began the cabin till I ended it, an' when the rain did fall, not
     a drop came through—all was carried off by my dhrain into the
     little river before yees.

     "The moment I was settled in the house I comminced dhraining
     about an acre iv bog in front, an' the very first winter I sowed
     a shillin's worth of cabbidge seed, an' sold in the spring a
     pound's worth of little cabbidge plants for the gardins in the
     town below. When spring came, noticin' how the early-planted
     praties did the best, I planted my cabbidge ground with praties,
     an' I had a noble crap, while the ground was next year fit for
     the corn. In the mane time, every winther I tuk in more and more
     ground, an' in summer I cut my turf for fewel, where the cuttins
     could answer in winther for a dhrain; an' findin' how good the
     turf were, I got a little powney an' carried 'em to the town to
     sell, when I was able to buy lime in exchange an' put it on my
     bog, so as to make it produce double. As things went on I got
     assistance, an' when I marrid, my wife had two cows that guv me a
     grate lift.

     "I was always thought to be a handy boy, an' I could do a turn
     of mason-work with any man not riglarly bred to it; so I took
     one of my loads of lime, an' instead of puttin' it on the land,
     I made it into morthar—and indeed the stones being no ways
     scarce, I set to an' built a little kiln, like as I had seen down
     the counthry. I could then burn my own lime, an' the limestone
     were near to my hand, too many iv 'em. While all this was goin'
     on, I had riz an' sould a good dale iv oats and praties, an'
     every summer I found ready sale for my turf in the town from one
     jontleman that I always charged at an even rate, year by year.
     I got the help of a stout boy, a cousin iv my own, who was glad
     iv a shilter; an' when the childher were ould enough, I got some
     young cattle that could graze upon the mountain in places where
     no other use could be made iv the land, and set the gossoons to
     herd 'em.

     "There was one bit iv ground nigh han' to the cabin that puzzled
     me intirely. It was very poor and sandy, an' little better than
     a rabbit burrow; an' telling the Squire's Scotch steward iv it,
     he bade me thry some flax; an' sure enuf, so I did, an' a fine
     crap iv flax I had as you might wish to see; an' the stame-mills
     being beginnin' in the counthry at that time, I sould my flax
     for a very good price, my wife having dhried it, beetled it, an'
     scutched it with her own two hands.

     "I should have said before that the Squire himself came up here
     with a lot iv fine ladies and jontlemen to see what I had done;
     an' you never in your life seed a man so well plased as he was,
     an' a mimber of Parlimint from Scotland was with him, an' he
     tould me I was a credit to ould Ireland; an' sure didn't Father
     Connor read upon the papers, how he tould the whole story in
     the Parlimint house before all the lords an' quality. But faix,
     he didn't forgit me; for a month or two after he was here, an'
     it coming on the winter, comes word for me an' the powney to go
     down to the mentioned (mansion) house, for the steward wanted
     me. So away I wint, an' there, shure enuf, was an illigant
     Scotch plough, every inch of iron, an' a lot of young Norroway
     pines—the same you see shiltering the house an' yard—an' all
     was a free prisint for me from the Scotch jontleman that was the
     mimber of Parlimint. 'Twas that plough that did the meracles iv
     work hereabouts; for I often lint it to any that I knew to be
     a careful hand, an' it was the manes iv havin' the farmers all
     round send an' buy 'em. At last I was able to build a brave snug
     house; and, praised be Providence, I have never had an hour's ill
     health nor a moment's grief, but when poor Biddy, the cratur,
     died from us. It is thirty years since that morning that I tuk up
     the first spadeful from the wild mountain side; an' twelve acres
     are good labour land, an' fifteen drained an' good grazin'. I
     have been payin' rint twinty years, an' am still, thank God, able
     to take my own part iv any day's work—plough, spade, or flail."

     "Have you got a lease?" said I.

     "No, indeed, nor a schrape of a pin; nor I never axed it. Have I
     not my _tinnant-rite_?"

At any moment the labours of poor Con might have been rendered of no
benefit to him. He held the wretched hovel and the ground he tilled
merely by the permission of the landlord, who could have desolated all
by the common process of eviction; and Con would then have been driven
to new exertions or to the workhouse. The rugged ballad of "Patrick
Fitzpatrick's Farewell," presents a case more common than that of Con
McNale:—

    "Those three long years I've labour'd hard as any on Erin's isle,
      And still was scarcely able my family to keep;
    My tender wife and children three, under the lash of misery,
      Unknown to friends and neighbours, I've often seen to weep.
    Sad grief it seized her tender heart, when forced her only cow
          to part,
      And canted[94] was before her face, the poor-rates for to pay;
    Cut down in all her youthful bloom, she's gone into her
          silent tomb;
      Forlorn I will mourn her loss when in America."

In the same ballad we have an expression of the comparative paradise
the Irish expect to find—and do find, by the way—in that land which
excites so much the pity of the philanthropic aristocracy:—

    "Let Erin's sons and daughters fair now for the promised
          land prepare,
      America, that beauteous soil, will soon your toil repay;
    _Employment, it is plenty there, on beef and mutton you can fare,
      From five to six dollars is your wages every day_.
    Now see what money has come o'er these three years from
          Columbia's shore;
      But for it numbers now were laid all in their silent clay;
    California's golden mines, my boys, are open now to crown our joys,
      So all our hardships we'll dispute when in America."

As an illustration of the manner in which eviction is sometimes
effected by heartless landlords in Ireland, and the treatment which the
lowly of Great Britain generally receive from those who become their
masters, we may quote "Two Scenes in the Life of John Bodger," from
"Dickens's Household Words." The characters in this sketch are English;
but the incidents are such as frequently occur in Ireland:—

     "In the year 1832, on the 24th of December, one of those clear
     bright days that sometimes supersede the regular snowy, sleety
     Christmas weather, a large ship lay off Plymouth; the Blue Peter
     flying from her masthead, quarters of beef hanging from her
     mizzen-booms, and strings of cabbages from her stern rails;
     her decks crowded with coarsely-clad blue-nosed passengers, and
     lumbered with boxes, barrels, hen-coops, spars, and chain-cables.
     The wind was rising with a hollow, dreary sound. Boats were
     hurrying to and fro, between the vessel and the beach, where
     stood excited groups of old people and young children. The
     hoarse, impatient voices of officers issuing their commands, were
     mingled with the shrill wailing of women on the deck and the
     shore.

     "It was the emigrant ship 'Cassandra,' bound for Australia
     during the period of the 'Bounty' system, when emigration
     recruiters, stimulated by patriotism and a handsome percentage,
     rushed frantically up and down the country, earnestly entreating
     'healthy married couples,' and single souls of either sex,
     to accept a free passage to 'a land of plenty.' The English
     labourers had not then discovered that Australia was a country
     where masters were many and servants scarce. In spite of
     poverty and poorhouse fare, few of the John Bull family could
     be induced to give heed to flaming placards they could not
     read, or inspiring harangues they could not understand. The
     admirable education which in 1832, at intervals of seven days,
     was distributed in homœopathic doses among the agricultural
     olive-branches of England, did not include modern geography, even
     when reading and writing were imparted. If a stray Sunday-school
     scholar did acquire a faint notion of the locality of Canaan, he
     was never permitted to travel as far as the British Colonies.

     "To the ploughman out of employ, Canaan, Canada, and Australia
     were all '_furrin parts_;' he did not know the way to them; but
     he knew the way to the poorhouse, so took care to keep within
     reach of it.

     "Thus it came to pass that the charterers of the good ship
     'Cassandra' were grievously out in their calculations; and
     failing to fill with English, were obliged to make up their
     complement with Irish; who, having nothing to fall upon, but
     the charity of the poor to the poorer, are always ready to go
     anywhere for a daily meal.

     "The steamers from Cork had transferred their ragged, weeping,
     laughing, fighting cargoes; the last stray groups of English
     had been collected from the western counties; the Government
     officers had cleared and passed the ship. With the afternoon
     tide two hundred helpless, ignorant, destitute souls were to
     bid farewell to their native land. The delays consequent on
     miscalculating the emigrating taste of England had retarded until
     midwinter, a voyage which should have been commenced in autumn.

     "In one of the shore-boats, sat a portly man—evidently neither
     an emigrant nor a sailor—wrapped in a great coat and comforters;
     his broad-brimmed beaver secured from the freezing blast by a
      bandanna tied under the chin of a fat, whiskerless face.
     This portly personage was Mr. Joseph Lobbit, proprietor of 'The
     Shop,' farmer, miller, and chairman of the vestry of the rich
     rural parish of Duxmoor.

     "At Duxmoor, the chief estate was in Chancery, the manor-house in
     ruins, the lord of it an outlaw, and the other landed proprietors
     absentees, or in debt; a curate preached, buried, married, and
     baptized, for the health of the rector compelled him to pass the
     summer in Switzerland, and the winter in Italy; so Mr. Lobbit was
     almost the greatest, as he was certainly the richest, man in the
     parish.

     "Except that he did not care for any one but himself, and did not
     respect any one who had not plenty of money, he was not a bad
     sort of man. He had a jolly hearty way of talking and shaking
     hands, and slapping people on the back; and until you began to
     count money with him, he seemed a very pleasant, liberal fellow.
     He was fond of money, but more fond of importance; and therefore
     worked as zealously at parish-business as he did at his own farm,
     shop, and mill. He centred the whole powers of the vestry in one
     person, and would have been beadle, too, if it had been possible.
     He appointed the master and matron of the workhouse, who were
     relations of his wife; supplied all the rations and clothing for
     'the house,' and fixed the prices in full vestry (viz. himself,
     and the clerk, his cousin,) assembled. He settled all the
     questions of out-door relief, and tried hard, more than once, to
     settle the rate of wages too.

     "Ill-natured people did say that those who would not work on
     Master Lobbit's farm, at _his_ wages, stood a very bad chance
     if they wanted any thing from the parish, or came for the doles
     of blankets, coals, bread, and linsey-woolsey petticoats,
     which, under the provisions of the tablets in Duxmoor church,
     are distributed every Christmas. Of course, Mr. Lobbit supplied
     these gifts, as chief shopkeeper, and dispensed them, as senior
     and perpetual churchwarden. Lobbit gave capital dinners; plenty
     smoked on his board, and pipes of <DW64>-head with jorums of gin
     punch followed, without stint.

     "The two attorneys dined with him—and were glad to come, for
     he had always money to lend, on good security, and his gin was
     unexceptionable. So did two or three bullfrog farmers, very rich
     and very ignorant. The doctor and curate came occasionally; they
     were poor, and in his debt at 'The Shop,' therefore bound to
     laugh at his jokes—which were not so bad, for he was no fool—so
     that, altogether, Mr. Lobbit had reason to believe himself a very
     popular man.

     "But there was—where is there not?—a black drop in his
     overflowing cup of prosperity.

     "He had a son whom he intended to make a gentleman; whom he
     hoped to see married to some lady of good family, installed in
     the manor-house of Duxmoor, (if it should be sold cheap, at the
     end of the Chancery suit,) and established as the squire of the
     parish. Robert Lobbit had no taste for learning, and a strong
     taste for drinking, which his father's customers did their best
     to encourage. Old Lobbit was decent in his private habits; but,
     as he made money wherever he could to advantage, he was always
     surrounded by a levee of scamps, of all degrees—some agents and
     assistants, some borrowers, and would-be borrowers. Young Lobbit
     found it easier to follow the example of his father's companions
     than to follow his father's advice. He was as selfish and greedy
     as his father, without being so agreeable or hospitable. In the
     school-room he was a dunce, in the play-ground a tyrant and
     bully; no one liked him; but, as he had plenty of money, many
     courted him.

     "As a last resource his father sent him to Oxford; whence, after
     a short residence, he was expelled. He arrived home drunk, and in
     debt; without having lost one bad habit, or made one respectable
     friend. From that period he lived a sot, a village rake, the
     king of the taproom, and the patron of a crowd of blackguards,
     who drank his beer and his health; hated him for his insolence,
     and cheated him of his money.

     "Yet Joseph Lobbit loved his son, and tried not to believe the
     stories good-natured friends told of him.

     "Another trouble fell upon the prosperous churchwarden. On
     the north side of the parish, just outside the boundaries of
     Duxmoor Manor, there had been, in the time of the Great Civil
     Wars, a large number of small freehold farmers: each with from
     forty to five acres of land; the smaller, fathers had divided
     among their progeny; the larger had descended to eldest sons
     by force of primogeniture. Joseph Lobbit's father had been one
     of these small freeholders. A right of pasture on an adjacent
     common was attached to these little freeholds; so, what with
     geese and sheep, and a cow or so, even the poorest proprietor,
     with the assistance of harvest work, managed to make a living,
     up to the time of the last war. War prices made land valuable,
     and the common was enclosed; though a share went to the little
     freeholders, and sons and daughters were hired, at good wages,
     while the enclosure was going on, the loss of the pasture for
     stock, and the fall of prices at the peace, sealed their fate.
     John Lobbit, our portly friend's father, succeeded to his little
     estate, of twenty acres, by the death of his elder brother, in
     the time of best war prices, after he had passed some years as a
     shopman in a great seaport. His first use of it was to sell it,
     and set up a shop in Duxmoor, to the great scandal of his farmer
     neighbours. When John slept with his fathers, Joseph, having
     succeeded to the shop and savings, began to buy land and lend
     money. Between shop credit to the five-acred and mortgages to
     the forty-acred men, with a little luck in the way of the useful
     sons of the freeholders being constantly enlisted for soldiers,
     impressed for sailors, or convicted for poaching offences, in
     the course of years Joseph Lobbit became possessed, not only of
     his paternal freehold, but, acre by acre, of all his neighbours'
     holdings, to the extent of something like five hundred acres.
     The original owners vanished; the stout and young departed, and
     were seen no more; the old and decrepit were received and kindly
     housed in the workhouse. Of course it could not have been part
     of Mr. Lobbit's bargain to find them board and lodging for the
     rest of their days at the parish expense. A few are said to have
     drunk themselves to death; but this is improbable, for the cider
     in that part of the country is extremely sour, so that it is more
     likely they died of colic.

     "There was, however, in the very centre of the cluster of
     freeholds which the parochial dignitary had so successfully
     acquired, a small barren plot of five acres with a right of road
     through the rest of the property. The possessor of this was a
     sturdy fellow, John Bodger by name, who was neither to be coaxed
     nor bullied into parting with his patrimony.

     "John Bodger was an only son, a smart little fellow, a capital
     thatcher, a good hand at cobhouse building—in fact a handy man.
     Unfortunately, he was as fond of pleasure as his betters. He sang
     a comic song till peoples' eyes ran over, and they rolled on
     their seats: he handled a singlestick very tidily; and, among the
     light weights, was not to be despised as a wrestler. He always
     knew where a hare was to be found; and, when the fox-hounds were
     out, to hear his view-halloo did your heart good. These tastes
     were expensive; so that when he came into his little property,
     although he worked with tolerable industry, and earned good wages
     for that part of the country, he never had a shilling to the
     fore, as the Irish say. If he had been a prudent man, he might
     have laid by something very snug, and defied Mr. Lobbit to the
     end of his days.

     "It would take too long to tell all Joseph Lobbit's ingenious
     devices—after plain, plump offers—to buy Bodger's acres had
     been refused. John Bodger declined a loan to buy a cart and
     horse; he refused to take credit or a new hat, umbrella, and
     waistcoat, after losing his money at Bidecot Fair. He went on
     steadily slaving at his bit of land, doing all the best thatching
     and building jobs in the neighbourhood, spending his money, and
     enjoying himself without getting into any scrapes; until Mr.
     Joseph Lobbit, completely foiled, began to look on John Bodger as
     a personal enemy.

     "Just when John and his neighbours were rejoicing over the defeat
     of the last attempt of the jolly parochial, an accident occurred
     which upset all John's prudent calculations. He fell in love. He
     might have married Dorothy Paulson, the blacksmith's daughter—an
     only child, with better than two hundred pounds in the bank, and
     a good business—a virtuous, good girl, too, except that she was
     as thin as a hurdle, with a skin like a nutmeg-grater, and rather
     a bad temper. But instead of that, to the surprise of every
     one, he went and married Carry Hutchins, the daughter of Widow
     Hutchins, one of the little freeholders bought out by Mr. Lobbit,
     who died, poor old soul, the day after she was carried into the
     workhouse, leaving Carry and her brother Tom destitute—that is
     to say, destitute of goods, money, or credit, but not of common
     sense, good health, good looks, and power of earning wages.

     "Carry was nearly a head taller than John, with a face like a
     ripe pear. He had to buy her wedding gown, and every thing else.
     He bought them at Lobbit's shop. Tom Hutchins—he was fifteen
     years old—a tall, spry lad, accepted five shillings from his
     brother-in-law, hung a small bundle on his bird's-nesting stick,
     and set off to walk to Bristol, to be a sailor. He was never
     heard of any more at Duxmoor.

     "At first all went well. John left off going to wakes and fairs,
     except on business; stuck to his trades; brought his garden
     into good order, and worked early and late, when he could spare
     time, at his two fields, while his wife helped him famously. If
     they had had a few pounds in hand, they would have had 'land and
     beeves.'

     "But the first year twins came—a boy and girl; and the next
     another girl, and then twins again, and so on. Before Mrs. Bodger
     was thirty she had nine hearty, healthy children, with a fair
     prospect of plenty more; while John was a broken man, soured,
     discontented, hopeless. No longer did he stride forth eagerly to
     his work, after kissing mother and babies; no longer did he hurry
     home to put a finishing-stroke to the potato-patch, or broadcast
     his oat crop; no longer did he sit whistling and telling stories
     of bygone feats at the fireside, while mending some wooden
     implement of his own, or making one for a neighbour. Languid and
     moody, he lounged to his task with round shoulders and slouching
     gait; spoke seldom—when he did, seldom kindly. His children,
     except the youngest, feared him, and his wife scarcely opened her
     lips, except to answer.

     "A long, hard, severe winter, and a round of typhus fever, which
     carried off two children, finished him. John Bodger was beaten,
     and obliged to sell his bit of land. He had borrowed money on it
     from the lawyer; while laid up with fever he had silently allowed
     his wife to run up a bill at 'The Shop.' When strong enough for
     work there was no work to be had. Lobbit saw his opportunity,
     and took it. John Bodger wanted to buy a cow, he wanted seed, he
     wanted to pay the doctor, and to give his boys clothes to enable
     them to go to service. He sold his land for what he thought
     would do all this and leave a few pounds in hand. He attended to
     sign the deed and receive money; when instead of the balance of
     twenty-five pounds he had expected, he received one pound ten
     shillings, and a long lawyer's bill _receipted_.

     "He did not say much; for poor countrymen don't know how to talk
     to lawyers, but he went toward home like a drunken man; and, not
     hearing the clatter of a horse behind him that had run away, was
     knocked down, run over, and picked up with his collar-bone and
     two ribs broken.

     "The next day he was delirious; in the course of a fortnight he
     came to his senses, lying on a workhouse bed. Before he could
     rise from the workhouse bed, not a stick or stone had been left
     to tell where the cottage of his fathers had stood for more
     than two hundred years, and Mr. Joseph Lobbit had obtained, in
     auctioneering phrase, a magnificent estate of five hundred acres
     within a ring fence.

     "John Bodger stood up at length a ruined, desperate, dangerous
     man, pale, and weak, and even humble. He said nothing; the fever
     seemed to have tamed every limb—every feature—except his eyes,
     which glittered like an adder's when Mr. Lobbit came to talk to
     him. Lobbit saw it and trembled in his inmost heart, yet was
     ashamed of being afraid of a _pauper_!

     "About this time Swing fires made their appearance in the
     country, and the principal insurance companies refused to insure
     farming stock, to the consternation of Mr. Lobbit; for he had
     lately begun to suspect that among Mr. Swing's friends he was not
     very popular, yet he had some thousand pounds of corn-stacks in
     his own yards and those of his customers.

     "John Bodger, almost convalescent, was anxious to leave the
     poorhouse, while the master, the doctor, and every official,
     seemed in a league to keep him there and make him comfortable,
     although a short time previously the feeling had been quite
     different. But the old rector of Duxmoor having died at the early
     age of sixty-six, in spite of his care for his health, had been
     succeeded by a man who was not content to leave his duties to
     deputies; all the parish affairs underwent a keen criticism, and
     John and his large family came under investigation. His story
     came out. The new rector pitied and tried to comfort him; but his
     soothing words fell on deaf ears. The only answer he could get
     from John was, 'A hard life while it lasts, sir, and a pauper's
     grave, a pauper widow, pauper children; Parson, while this is all
     you can offer John Bodger, preaching to him is of no use.'

     "With the wife the clergyman was more successful. Hope and belief
     are planted more easily in the hearts of women than of men, for
     adversity softens the one and hardens the other. The rector was
     not content with exhorting the poor; he applied to the rich
     Joseph Lobbit on behalf of John Bodger's family, and as the
     rector was not only a truly Christian priest, but a gentleman of
     good family and fortune, the parochial ruler was obliged to hear
     and to heed.

     "Bland and smooth, almost pathetic, was Joseph Lobbit: he was
     'heartily sorry for the poor man and his large family; should be
     happy to offer him and his wife permanent employment on his Hill
     farm, as well as two of the boys and one of the girls.'

     "The eldest son and daughter, the first twins, had been for some
     time in respectable service. John would have nothing to do with
     Mr. Lobbit.

     "While this discussion was pending, the news of a ship at
     Plymouth waiting for emigrants, reached Duxmoor.

     "The parson and the great shopkeeper were observed in a long warm
     conference in the rectory garden, which ended in their shaking
     hands, and the rector proceeding with rapid strides to the
     poorhouse.

     "The same day the lately established girls' school was set to
     work sowing garments of all sizes, as well as the females of
     the rector's family. A week afterward there was a stir in the
     village; a wagon moved slowly away, laden with a father, mother,
     and large family, and a couple of pauper orphan girls. Yes, it
     was true; John and Carry Bodger were going to 'furrin parts,'
     'to be made slaves on.' The women cried, and so did the children
     from imitation. The men stared. As the emigrants passed the Red
     Lion there was an attempt at a cheer from two tinkers; but it
     was a failure; no one joined in. So staring and staring, the men
     stood until the wagon crept round the turn of the lane and over
     the bridge, out of sight; then bidding the 'wives' go home and be
     hanged to 'em, their lords, that had twopence, went in to spend
     it at the Red Lion, and those who had not, went in to see the
     others drink, and talk over John Bodger's 'bouldness,' and abuse
     Muster Lobbit quietly, so that no one in top-boots should hear
     them;—for they were poor ignorant people in Duxmoor—they had
     no one to teach them, or to care for them, and after the fever,
     and a long hard winter, they cared little for their own flesh
     and blood, still less for their neighbours. So John Bodger was
     forgotten almost before he was out of sight.

     "By the road-wagon which the Bodgers joined when they reached the
     highway, it was a three days' journey to Plymouth.

     "But, although they were gone, Mr. Lobbit did not feel quite
     satisfied; he felt afraid lest John should return and do him
     some secret mischief. He wished to see him on board ship, and
     fairly under sail. Besides his negotiation with Emigration
     Brokers had opened up ideas of a new way of getting rid, not
     only of dangerous fellows like John Bodger, but of all kinds of
     useless paupers. These ideas he afterward matured, and although
     important changes have taken place in our emigrating system,
     even in 1851, a visit to government ships, will present many
     specimens of parish inmates converted, by dexterous diplomacy,
     into independent labourers.

     "Thus it was, that contrary to all precedent, Mr. Lobbit left his
     shopman to settle the difficult case of credit with his Christmas
     customers, and with best horse made his way to Plymouth; and now
     for the first time in his life floated on salt water.

     "With many grunts and groans he climbed the ship's side; not
     being as great a man at Plymouth as at Duxmoor, no chair was
     lowered to receive his portly person. The mere fact of having to
     climb up a rope-ladder from a rocking boat on a breezy, freezing
     day, was not calculated to give comfort or confident feelings to
     an elderly gentleman. With some difficulty, not without broken
     shins, amid the sarcastic remarks of groups of wild Irishmen, and
     the squeaks of barefooted children—who not knowing his awful
     parochial character, tumbled about Mr. Lobbit's legs in a most
     impertinently familiar manner—he made his way to the captain's
     cabin, and there transacted some mysterious business with the
     Emigration Agent over a prime piece of mess beef and a glass of
     Madeira. The Madeira warmed Mr. Lobbit. The captain assured him
     positively that the ship would sail with the evening tide. That
     assurance removed a heavy load from his breast: he felt like
     a man who had been performing a good action, and also cheated
     himself into believing that he had been spending _his own_ money
     in charity; so, at the end of the second bottle, he willingly
     chimed in with the broker's proposal to go down below and see how
     the emigrants were stowed, and have a last look at his 'lot.'

     "Down the steep ladder they stumbled into the misery of a
     'bounty' ship. A long, dark gallery, on each side of which were
     ranged the berths; narrow shelves open to every prying eye;
     where, for four months, the inmates were to be packed like
     herrings in a barrel, without room to move, almost without air
     to breathe; the mess table, running far aft the whole distance
     between the masts, left little room for passing, and that little
     was encumbered with all manner of boxes, packages, and infants,
     crawling about like rabbits in a warren.

     "The groups of emigrants were characteristically employed.
     The Irish 'coshering,' or gossiping; for, having little or
     no baggage to look after, they had little care; but lean and
     ragged, monopolized almost all the good-humour of the ship. Acute
     cockneys, a race fit for every change, hammering, whistling,
     screwing and making all snug in their berths; tidy mothers,
     turning with despair from alternate and equally vain attempts to
     collect their numerous children out of danger, and to pack the
     necessaries of a room into the space of a small cupboard, wept
     and worked away. Here, a ruined tradesman, with his family,
     sat at the table, dinnerless, having rejected the coarse, tough
     salt meat in disgust: there, a half-starved group fed heartily
     on rations from the same cask, luxuriated over the allowance of
     grog, and the idea of such a good meal daily. Songs, groans,
     oaths: crying, laughing, complaining, hammering and fiddling
     combined to produce a chaos of strange sounds; while thrifty
     wives, with spectacle on nose, mended their husband's breeches,
     and unthrifty ones scolded.

     "Amid this confusion, under the authoritative guidance of the
     second mate, Mr. Lobbit made his way, inwardly calculating how
     many poachers, pauper refractories, Whiteboys, and Captain
     Rocks, were about to benefit Australia by their talents, until
     he reached a party which had taken up its quarters as far as
     possible from the Irish, in a gloomy corner near the stern. It
     consisted of a sickly, feeble woman, under forty, but worn,
     wasted, retaining marks of former beauty in a pair of large,
     dark, speaking eyes, and a well-carved profile, who was engaged
     in nursing two chubby infants, evidently twins, while two little
     things, just able to walk, hung at her skirts; a pale, thin boy,
     nine or ten years old, was mending a jacket; an elder brother, as
     brown as a berry, fresh from the fields, was playing dolefully on
     a hemlock flute. The father, a little, round-shouldered man, was
     engaged in cutting wooden buttons from a piece of hard wood with
     his pocket-knife; when he caught sight of Mr. Lobbit he hastily
     pulled off his coat, threw it into his berth, and, turning his
     back, worked away vigorously at the stubborn bit of oak he was
     carving.

     "'Hallo, John Bodger, so here you are at last,' cried Mr. Lobbit;
     'I've broken my shins, almost broken my neck, and spoilt my coat
     with tar and pitch, in finding you out. Well, you're quite at
     home, I see: twins all well?—both pair of them? How do you find
     yourself, Missis?'

     "The pale woman sighed, and cuddled her babies—the little man
     said nothing, but sneered, and made the chips fly faster.

     "'You're on your way now to a country where twins are no object;
     your passage is paid, and you've only got now to pray for the
     good gentlemen that have given you a chance of earning an honest
     living.'

     "No answer.

     "'I see them all here except Mary, the young lady of the family.
     Pray, has she taken rue, and determined to stay in England, after
     all; I expected as much'—

     "As he spoke, a young girl, in the neat dress of a parlour
     servant, came out of the shade.

     "'Oh! you are there, are you, Miss Mary? So you have made up your
     mind to leave your place and Old England, to try your luck in
     Australia; plenty of husbands there: ha, ha!'

     "The girl blushed, and sat down to sew at some little garments.
     Fresh, rosy, neat, she was as great a contrast to her brother,
     the brown, ragged ploughboy, as he was to the rest of the family,
     with their flabby, bleached complexions.

     "There was a pause. The mate, having done his duty by finding
     the parochial dignitary's _protegés_, had slipped away to more
     important business; a chorus of sailors 'yo heave ho-ing' at a
     chain cable had ceased, and for a few moments, by common consent,
     silence seemed to have taken possession of the long, dark gallery
     of the hold.

     "Mr. Lobbit was rather put out by the silence, and no answers; he
     did not feel so confident as when crowing on his own dunghill,
     in Duxmoor; he had a vague idea that some one might steal behind
     him in the dark, knock his hat over his eyes, and pay off old
     scores with a hearty kick: but parochial dignity prevailed, and,
     clearing his throat with a 'hem,' he began again—

     "'John Bodger, where's your coat?—what are you shivering there
     for, in your sleeves?—what have you done with the excellent coat
     generously presented to you by the parish—a coat that cost, as
     per contract, fourteen shillings and fourpence—you have not
     dared to sell it, I hope?'

     "'Well, Master Lobbit, and if I did, the coat was my own, I
     suppose?'

     "'What, sir?'

     "The little man quailed; he had tried to pluck up his spirit,
     but the blood did not flow fast enough. He went to his berth and
     brought out the coat.

     "It was certainly a curious colour, a sort of yellow brown, the
     cloth shrunk and cockled up, and the metal buttons turned a dingy
     black.

     "Mr. Lobbit raved; 'a new coat entirely spoiled, what had he
     done to it?' and as he raved he warmed, and felt himself at
     home again, deputy acting chairman of the Duxmoor Vestry. But
     the little man, instead of being frightened, grew red, lost his
     humble mien, stood up, and at length, when his tormentor paused
     for breath, looked him full in the face, and cried, 'Hang your
     coat!—hang you!—hang all the parochials of Duxmoor! What have
     I done with your coat? Why, I've dyed it; I've dipped it in a
     tan-yard; I was not going to carry your livery with me. I mean
     to have the buttons off before I'm an hour older. Gratitude you
     talk of;—thanks you want, you old hypocrite, for sending me
     away. I'll tell you what sent me,—it was that poor wench and
     her twins, and a letter from the office, saying they would not
     insure your ricks, while lucifer matches are so cheap. Ay, you
     may stare—you wonder who told me that; but I can tell you more.
     Who is it writes so like his father the bank can't tell the
     difference?'

     "Mr. Lobbit turned pale.

     "'Be off!' said the little man; 'plague us no more. You have
     eaten me up with your usury; you've got my cottage and my bit of
     land; you've made paupers of us all, except that dear lass, and
     the one lad, and you'd wellnigh made a convict of me. But never
     mind. This will be a cold, drear Christmas to us, and a merry,
     fat one to you; but, perhaps, the Christmas may come when Master
     Joseph Lobbit would be glad to change places with poor, ruined
     John Bodger. I am going where I am told that sons and daughters
     like mine are better than "silver, yea, than fine gold." I leave
     you rich on the poor man's inheritance, and poor man's flesh and
     blood. You have a son and daughter that will revenge me. "Cursed
     are they that remove landmarks, and devour the substance of the
     poor!"'

     "While this, one of the longest speeches that John Bodger
     was ever known to make, was being delivered, a little crowd
     had collected, who, without exactly understanding the merits
     of the case, had no hesitation in taking side with their
     fellow-passenger, the poor man with the large family. The Irish
     began to inquire if the stout gentleman was a tithe-proctor or
     a driver? Murmurs of a suspicious character arose, in the midst
     of which, in a very hasty, undignified manner, Mr. Lobbit backed
     out, climbed up to the deck with extraordinary agility, and,
     without waiting to make any complaints to the officers of the
     ship, slipped down the side into a boat, and never felt himself
     safe, until called to his senses by an attempt on the part of the
     boatman to exact four times the regular fare.

     "But a good dinner at the Globe (at parochial expense) and a
     report from the agent that the ship had sailed, restored Mr.
     Lobbit's equanimity; and by the time that, snugly packed in the
     mail, he was rattling along toward home by a moonlight Christmas,
     he began to think himself a martyr to a tender heart, and to
     console himself by calculating the value of the odd corner of
     Bodger's acres, cut up into lots for his labourers' cottages. The
     result—fifty per cent.—proved a balm to his wounded feelings.

     "I wish I could say that at the same hour John Bodger was
     comforting his wife and little ones; sorry am I to report that he
     left them to weep and complain, while he went forward and smoked
     his pipe, and sang, and drank grog with a jolly party in the
     forecastle—for John's heart was hardened, and he cared little
     for God or man.

     "This old, fond love for his wife and children seemed to have
     died away. He left them, through the most part of the voyage, to
     shift for themselves—sitting forward, sullenly smoking, looking
     into vacancy, and wearying the sailors with asking, 'How many
     knots to-day, Jack? When do you think we shall see land?' So that
     the women passengers took a mortal dislike to him; and it being
     gossiped about that when his wife was in the hospital he never
     went to see her for two days, they called him a brute. So 'Bodger
     the Brute' he was called until the end of the voyage. Then they
     were all dispersed, and such stories driven out of mind by new
     scenes.

     "John was hired to go into the far interior, where it was
     difficult to get free servants at all; so his master put up with
     the dead-weight encumbrance of the babies, in consideration
     of the clever wife and string of likely lads. Thus, in a
     new country, he began life again in a blue jersey and ragged
     corduroys, but with the largest money income he had ever known."

The second scene is a picture of John Bodger's prosperity in Australia,
where eviction and workhouses are forgotten. If Australia had not
been open to John as a refuge, most probably he would have become a
criminal, or a worthless vagrant. Here is the second scene:—

     "In 1842, my friend Mrs. C. made one of her marches through the
     bush with an army of emigrants. These consisted of parents with
     long families, rough, country-bred single girls, with here and
     there a white-handed, useless young lady—the rejected ones of
     the Sydney hirers. In these marches she had to depend for the
     rations of her ragged regiment on the hospitality of the settlers
     on her route, and was never disappointed, although it often
     happened that a day's journey was commenced without any distinct
     idea of who would furnish the next dinner and breakfast.

     "On one of these foraging excursions—starting at day-dawn on
     horseback, followed by her man Friday, an old _lag_, (prisoner,)
     in a light cart, to carry the provender—she went forth to look
     for the flour, milk, and mullet, for the breakfast of a party
     whose English appetites had been sharpened by travelling at the
     pace of the drays all day, and sleeping in the open air all night.

     "The welcome smoke of the expected station was found; the light
     cart, with the complements and empty sack despatched; when
     musing, at a foot-pace, perhaps on the future fortune of the
     half-dozen girls hired out the previous day, Mrs. C. came upon a
     small party which had also been encamping on the other side of
     the hills.

     "It consisted of two gawky lads, in docked smock frocks, woolly
     hats, rosy, sleepy countenances—fresh arrivals, living monuments
     of the care bestowed in developing the intelligence of the
     agricultural mind in England. They were hard at work on broiled
     mutton. A regular, hard-dried bushman had just driven up a pair
     of blood mares from their night's feed, and a white-headed, brisk
     kind of young old man, the master of the party, was sitting
     by the fire, trying to feed an infant with some sort of mess
     compounded with sugar. A dray, heavily laden, with a bullock-team
     ready harnessed, stood ready to start under the charge of a
     bullock-watchman.

     "The case was clear to a colonial eye; the white-headed man had
     been down to the port from his bush-farm to sell his stuff, and
     was returning with two blood mares purchased, and two emigrant
     lads hired; but what was the meaning of the baby? We see strange
     things in the bush, but a man-nurse is strange even there.

     "Although they had never met before, the white-headed man almost
     immediately recognised Mrs. C.,—for who did not know her, or of
     her, in the bush?—so was more communicative than he otherwise
     might have been; so he said—

     "'You see, ma'am, my lady, I have only got on my own place these
     three years; having a long family, we found it best to disperse
     about where the best wages was to be got. We began saving the
     first year, and my daughters have married pretty well, and my
     boys got to know the ways of the country. There's three of them
     married, thanks to your ladyship; so we thought we could set up
     for ourselves. And we've done pretty tidy. So, as they were all
     busy at home, I went down for the first time to get a couple of
     mares, and see about hiring some lads out of the ships to help
     us. You see I have picked up two newish ones; I have docked
     their frocks to a useful length, and I think they'll do after a
     bit; they can't read, neither of them—no more could I when I
     first came—but our teacher (she's one my missis had from you)
     will soon fettle them; and I've got a power of things on the
     dray; I wish you could be there at unloading; for it being my
     first visit, I wanted something for all of them. But about this
     babby is a curious job. When I went aboard the ship to hire my
     shepherds, I looked out for some of my own country; and while
     I was asking, I heard of a poor woman whose husband had been
     drowned in a drunken fit on the voyage, that was lying very ill,
     with a young babby, and not likely to live.

     "'Something made me go to see her; she had no friends on board,
     she knew no one in the colony. She started, like, at my voice;
     one word brought on another, when it came out she was the wife of
     the son of my greatest enemy.

     "'She had been his father's servant, and married the son
     secretly. When it was found out, he had to leave the country;
     thinking that once in Australia, the father would be reconciled,
     and the business that put her husband in danger might be settled.
     For this son was a wild, wicked man, worse than the father, but
     with those looks and ways that take the hearts of poor lasses.
     Well, as we talked, and I questioned her—for she did not seem so
     ill as they had told me—she began to ask me who I was, and I did
     not want to tell; when I hesitated, she guessed, and cried out,
     'What, John Bodger, is it thee!'—and with that she screamed, and
     screamed, and went off quite light-headed, and never came to her
     senses until she died.

     "'So, as there was no one to care for the poor little babby,
     and as we had such a lot at home, what with my own children and
     my grandchildren, I thought one more would make no odds, so the
     gentleman let me take it, after I'd seen the mother decently
     buried.

     "'You see this feeding's a very awkward job, ma'am—and I've been
     five days on the road. But I think my missis will be pleased as
     much as with the gown I've brought her.'

     "'What,' said Mrs. C., 'are you the John Bodger that came over in
     the 'Cassandra,'—the John B.?'

     "'Yes, ma'am.'

     "'John, the Brute?'

     "'Yes, ma'am. But I'm altered, sure-_ly_.'

     "'Well,' continued John, 'the poor woman was old Joseph Lobbit's
     daughter-in-law. Her husband had been forging, or something, and
     would have been lagged if he'd staid in England. I don't know but
     I might have been as bad if I had not got out of the country when
     I did. But there's something here in always getting on; and not
     such a struggling and striving that softens a poor man's heart.
     And I trust what I've done for this poor babby and its mother
     may excuse my brutish behaviour. I could not help thinking when
     I was burying poor Jenny Lobbit, (I mind her well, a nice little
     lass, about ten years old,) I could not help thinking as she lay
     in a nice, cloth-covered coffin, and a beautiful stone cut with
     her name and age, and a text on her grave, how different it is
     even for poor people to be buried here. Oh, ma'am! a man like
     me, with a long family, can make ahead here, and do a bit of
     good for others worse off. We live while we live; when we die we
     are buried with decency. I remember, when my wife's mother died,
     the parish officers were so cross, and the boards of the coffin
     barely stuck together, and it was terrible cold weather, too. My
     Carry used to cry about it uncommonly all the winter. The swells
     may say what they like about it, but I'll be blessed if it be'ent
     worth all the voyage to die in it.'

     "Not many days afterward, Mrs. C. saw John at home, surrounded
     by an army of sons and daughters; a patriarch, and yet not sixty
     years old; the grandchild of his greatest enemy the greatest pet
     of the family.

     "In my mind's eye there are sometimes two pictures. John Bodger
     in the workhouse, thinking of murder and fire-raising in the
     presence of his prosperous enemy; and John Bodger, in his happy
     bush-home, nursing little Nancy Lobbit.

     "At Duxmoor the shop has passed into other hands. The
     ex-shopkeeper has bought and rebuilt the manor-house. He is the
     squire, now, wealthier than ever he dreamed; on one estate a
     mine has been found; a railway has crossed and doubled the value
     of another; but his son is dead; his daughter has left him,
     and lives, he knows not where, a life of shame. Childless and
     friendless, the future is, to him, cheerless and without hope."

Poor-law guardians are characters held in very low esteem by the Irish
serfs, who are not backward in expressing their contempt. The feeling
is a natural one, as will appear from considering who those guardians
generally are, and how they perform their duties:—

     "At the introduction of the poor-law into Ireland, the workhouses
     were built by means of loans advanced by the Government on the
     security of the rates. Constructed generally in that style of
     architecture called 'Elizabethan,' they were the most imposing
     in the country in elevation and frequency, and, placed usually
     in the wretched suburbs of towns and villages, formed among the
     crumbling and moss-grown cottages, a pleasing contrast in the
     eye of the tourist. They were calculated to accommodate from
     five hundred to two thousand inmates, according to the area and
     population of the annexed district; but some of them remained for
     years altogether closed, or, if open, nearly unoccupied, owing
     to the ingenious shifts of the 'Guardians,' under the advice
     of the 'Solicitor of the Board,' Their object was to economize
     the resources of the Union, to keep the rates down, and in some
     instances they evaded the making of any rate for years after the
     support of the destitute was made nominally imperative by the law
     of the land.

     "As there was a good deal of patronage in a small way placed at
     the disposal of the 'Guardians,' great anxiety was manifested
     by those eligible to the office. Most justices of the peace
     were, indeed, _ipso facto_, Guardians, but a considerable
     number had to be elected by the rate-payers, and an active
     canvass preceded every election. A great deal of activity and
     conviviality, if not gayety, was the result, and more apparently
     important affairs were neglected by many a farmer, shopkeeper,
     and professional man, to insure his being elected a 'Guardian,'
     while the unsuccessful took pains to prove their indifference, or
     to vent their ill-humour in various ways, sometimes causing less
     innocuous effects than the following sally:—

     "At a certain court of quarter sessions, during the dog-day heat
     of one of these contests, a burly fellow was arraigned before
     'their worships' and the jury, charged with some petty theft; and
     as he perceived that the proofs were incontestably clear against
     him, he fell into a very violent trepidation. An attorney of the
     court, not overburdened with business, and fond of occupying his
     idle time in playing off practical jokes, perceiving how the case
     stood, addressed the prisoner in a whisper over the side of the
     dock, with a very ominous and commiserating shake of his head:

     "'Ah, you unfortunate man, ye'll be found guilty; and as sure
     as ye are, ye'll get worse than hangin' or thransportation. As
     sure as ever the barristher takes a pinch of snuff, that's his
     intention; ye'll see him put on the black cap immaydiately. Plaid
     guilty at once, and I'll tell ye what ye'll say to him afther.'

     "The acute practitioner knew his man; the poor half-witted
     culprit fell into the snare; and after a short and serious
     whispering between them, which was unobserved in the bustle of
     the court-house usual on such occasions, the prisoner cried out,
     just as the issue-paper was going up to the jury, 'Me lord, me
     lord, I plaid guilty; I beg your wortchip's an' their honours'
     pardon.

     "'Very well,' said the assistant barrister, whose duty it was to
     advise upon the law of each case, and preside at the bench in
     judicial costume; 'very well, sir. Crier, call silence.'

     "Several voices immediately called energetically for silence,
     impressing the culprit with grave ideas at once of his worship's
     great importance, and the serious nature of the coming sentence.

     "'Withdraw the plea of not guilty, and take one of guilty to the
     felony,' continued the assistant barrister, taking a pinch of
     snuff and turning round to consult his brother magistrates as to
     the term of intended incarceration.

     "'Don't lose yer time, ye omodhaun!' said the attorney, with an
     angry look at the prisoner.

     "'Will I be allowed to spake one word, yer wortchips?' said the
     unfortunate culprit.

     "'What has he to say?' said the assistant barrister with
     considerable dignity.

     "'Go on, ye fool ye,' urged the attorney.

     "'My lord, yer wortchips, and gintlemin av the jury,' exclaimed
     the culprit, 'sind me out o' the counthry, or into jail, or
     breakin' stones, or walkin' on the threadmill, or any thing else
     in the coorse o' nature, as yer wortchips playses; but for the
     love o' the Virgin Mary, _don't make me a Poor-Law Gargin_.'"[95]

The most recent legislation of the British government in regard to
Ireland, the enactment of the Poor-law and the Encumbered Estates Act,
has had but one grand tendency—that of diminishing the number of the
population, which is, indeed, a strange way to improve the condition
of the nation. The country was not too thickly populated; far from it:
great tracts of land were entirely uninhabited. The exterminating acts
were, therefore, only measures of renewed tyranny. To enslave a people
is a crime of sufficient enormity; but to drive them from the homes
of their ancestors to seek a refuge in distant and unknown lands, is
such an action as only the most monstrous of governments would dare to
perform.

We have thus shown that Ireland has long endured, and still endures, a
cruel system of slavery, for which we may seek in vain for a parallel.
It matters not that the Irish serf may leave his country; while he
remains he is a slave to a master who will not call him property,
chiefly because it would create the necessity of careful and expensive
ownership. If the Irish master took his labourer for his slave in the
American sense, he would be compelled to provide for him, work or not
work, in sickness and in old age. Thus the master reaps the benefits,
and escapes the penalties of slave-holding. He takes the fruits of
the labourer's toil without providing for him as the <DW64> slaves of
America are provided for; nay, very often he refuses the poor wretch
a home at any price. In no other country does the slaveholder seem so
utterly reckless in regard to human life as in Ireland. After draining
all possible profit from his labourer's service he turns him forth as
a pauper, to get scant food if workhouse officials choose to give it,
and if not, to starve by the wayside. The last great famine was the
direct result of this accursed system of slavery. It was oppression
of the worst kind that reduced the mass of the people to depend for
their subsistence upon the success or failure of the potato crop; and
the horrors that followed the failure of the crop were as much the
results of misgovernment as the crimes of the French Revolution were
the consequences of feudal tyranny, too long endured. Can England ever
accomplish sufficient penance for her savage treatment of Ireland?

Some English writers admit that the degradation of the Irish and the
wretched condition of the country can scarcely be overdrawn, but
seek for the causes of this state of things in the character of the
people. But why does the Irishman work, prosper, and achieve wealth
and position under every other government but that of Ireland? This
would not hbe the case if there was any thing radically wrong in the
Irish nature. In the following extract from an article in the Edinburgh
Review, we have a forcible sketch of the condition of Ireland, 
somewhat to suit English views:—

     "It is obvious that the insecurity of a community in which the
     bulk of the population form a conspiracy against the law, must
     prevent the importation of capital; must occasion much of what is
     accumulated there to be exported; and must diminish the motives
     and means of accumulation. Who will send his property to a place
     where he cannot rely on its being protected? Who will voluntarily
     establish himself in a country which to-morrow may be in a state
     of disturbance? A state in which, to use the words of Chief
     Justice Bushe, 'houses and barns and granaries are levelled,
     crops are laid waste, pasture-lands are ploughed, plantations are
     torn up, meadows are thrown open to cattle, cattle are maimed,
     tortured, killed; persons are visited by parties of banditti,
     who inflict cruel torture, mutilate their limbs, or beat them
     almost to death. Men who have in any way become obnoxious to the
     insurgents, or opposed their system, or refused to participate
     in their outrages, are deliberately assassinated in the open
     day; and sometimes the unoffending family are indiscriminately
     murdered by burning the habitation.'[96] A state in which even
     those best able to protect themselves, the gentry, are forced to
     build up all their lower windows with stone and mortar; to admit
     light only into one sitting-room, and not into all the windows
     of that room; to fortify every other inlet by bullet-proof
     barricades; to station sentinels around during all the night
     and the greater part of the day, and to keep firearms in all
     the bedrooms, and even on the side-table at breakfast and
     dinner-time.[97] Well might Bishop Doyle exclaim, 'I do not blame
     the absentees; I would be an absentee myself if I could.'

     "The state of society which has been described may be considered
     as a proof of the grossest ignorance; for what can be a greater
     proof of ignorance than a systematic opposition to law, carried
     on at the constant risk of liberty and of life, and producing
     where it is most successful, in the rural districts, one level
     of hopeless poverty, and in the towns, weeks of high wages and
     months without employment—a system in which tremendous risks
     and frightful sufferings are the means, and general misery is
     the result? The ignorance, however, which marks the greater
     part of the population in Ireland, is not merely ignorance of
     the moral and political tendency of their conduct—an ignorance
     in which the lower orders of many more advanced communities
     participate—but ignorance of the businesses which are their
     daily occupations. It is ignorance, not as citizens and subjects,
     but as cultivators and labourers. They are ignorant of the proper
     rotation of crops, of the preservation and use of manure—in a
     word, of the means by which the land, for which they are ready
     to sacrifice their neighbours' lives, and to risk their own, is
     to be made productive. Their manufactures, such as they are, are
     rude and imperfect, and the Irish labourer, whether peasant or
     artisan, who emigrates to Great Britain, never possesses skill
     sufficient to raise him above the lowest ranks in his trade.

     "Indolence—the last of the causes to which we have attributed
     the existing misery of Ireland—is not so much an independent
     source of evil as the result of the combination of all others.
     The Irishman does not belong to the races that are by nature
     averse from toil. In England, Scotland, or America he can work
     hard. He is said, indeed, to require more overlooking than the
     natives of any of these countries, and to be less capable, or, to
     speak more correctly, to be less willing to surmount difficulties
     by patient intellectual exertion; but no danger deters, no
     disagreeableness disgusts, no bodily fatigue discourages him.

     "But in his own country he is indolent. All who have compared
     the habits of hired artisans or of the agricultural labourers in
     Ireland with those of similar classes in England or Scotland,
     admit the inferiority of industry of the former. The indolence
     of the great mass of the people, the occupiers of land, is
     obvious even to the passing traveller. Even in Ulster, the
     province in which, as we have already remarked, the peculiarities
     of the Irish character are least exhibited, not only are the
     cabins, and even the farm-houses, deformed within and without by
     accumulations of filth, which the least exertion would remove,
     but the land itself is suffered to waste a great portion of its
     productive power. We have ourselves seen field after field in
     which the weeds covered as much space as the crops. From the time
     that his crops are sowed and planted until they are reaped the
     peasant and his family are cowering over the fire, or smoking, or
     lounging before the door, when an hour or two a day employed in
     weeding their potatoes, oats, or flax, would perhaps increase the
     produce by one-third.

     "The indolence of the Irish artisan is sufficiently accounted for
     by the combinations which, by prohibiting piece-work, requiring
     all the workmen to be paid by the day and at the same rate,
     prohibiting a good workman from exerting himself, have destroyed
     the motives to industry. 'I consider it,' says Mr. Murray, 'a
     very hard rule among them, that the worst workman that ever took
     a tool in his hand, should be paid the same as the best, but that
     is the rule and regulation of the society; and that there was
     only a certain quantity of work allowed to be done; so that, if
     one workman could turn more work out of his hands, he durst not
     go on with it. There is no such thing as piece-work; and if a bad
     man is not able to get through his work, a good workman dare not
     go further than he does.'[98]

     "The indolence of the agricultural labourer arises, perhaps,
     principally from his labour being almost always day-work, and
     in a great measure a mere payment of debt—a mere mode of
     working out his rent. That of the occupier may be attributed
     to a combination of causes. In the first place, a man must be
     master of himself to a degree not common even among the educated
     classes, before he can be trusted to be his own task-master. Even
     among the British manufacturers, confessedly the most industrious
     labourers in Europe, those who work in their own houses are
     comparatively idle and irregular, and yet they work under the
     stimulus of certain and immediate gain. The Irish occupier,
     working for a distant object, dependent in some measure on the
     seasons, and with no one to control or even to advise him, puts
     off till to-morrow what need not necessarily be done to-day—puts
     off till next year what need not necessarily be done this year,
     and ultimately leaves much totally undone.

     "Again, there is no damper so effectual as liability to taxation
     proportioned to the means of payment. It is by this instrument
     that the Turkish government has destroyed the industry, the
     wealth, and ultimately the population of what were once the most
     flourishing portions of Asia—perhaps of the world. It is thus
     that the _taille_ ruined the agriculture of the most fertile
     portions of France. Now, the Irish occupier has long been subject
     to this depressive influence, and from various sources. The
     competition for land has raised rents to an amount which can be
     paid only under favourable circumstances. Any accident throws
     the tenant into an arrear, and the arrear is kept a subsisting
     charge, to be enforced if he should appear capable of paying it.
     If any of the signs of prosperity are detected in his crop, his
     cabin, his clothes, or his food, some old demand may be brought
     up against him. Again, in many districts a practice prevails of
     letting land to several tenants, each of whom is responsible
     for the whole rent. It is not merely the consequence, but the
     intention, that those who can afford to pay should pay for those
     who cannot. Again, it is from taxation, regulated by apparent
     property, that all the revenues of the Irish Catholic Church
     are drawn. The half-yearly offerings, the fees on marriages and
     christenings, and, what is more important, the contributions
     to the priests made on those occasions by the friends of the
     parties, are all assessed by public opinion, according to the
     supposed means of the payer. An example of the mode in which this
     works, occurred a few months ago, within our own knowledge. £300
     was wanted by a loan fund, in a Catholic district in the North
     of Ireland. In the night, one of the farmers, a man apparently
     poor, came to his landlord, the principal proprietor in the
     neighbourhood, and offered to lend the money, if the circumstance
     could be kept from his priest. His motive for concealment was
     asked, and he answered, that, if the priest knew he had £300 at
     interest, his dues would be doubled. Secrecy was promised, and a
     stocking was brought from its hiding-place in the roof, filled
     with notes and coin, which had been accumulating for years until
     a secret investment could be found. Again, for many years past a
     similar taxation has existed for political purposes. The Catholic
     rent, the O'Connell tribute, and the Repeal rent, like every
     other tax that is unsanctioned by law, must be exacted, to a
     larger or smaller amount, from every _cottier_, or farmer, as he
     is supposed to be better or worse able to provide for them.

     "Who can wonder that the cultivator, who is exposed to these
     influences, should want the industry and economy which give
     prosperity to the small farmer in Belgium? What motive has he
     for industry and economy? It may be said that he has the same
     motive in kind, though not in degree, as the inhabitants of a
     happier country; since the new demand to which any increase of
     his means would expose him probably would not exhaust the whole
     of that increase. The same might be said of the subjects of the
     Pasha. There are inequalities of fortune among the cultivators
     of Egypt, just as there were inequalities in that part of France
     which was under the _taille_. No taxation ever exhausted the
     whole surplus income of all its victims. But when a man cannot
     calculate the extent to which the exaction may go—when all he
     knows is, that the more he appears to have the more will be
     demanded—when he knows that every additional comfort which he is
     seen to enjoy, and every additional productive instrument which
     he is found to possess, may be a pretext for a fresh extortion,
     he turns careless or sulky—he yields to the strong temptation of
     indolence and of immediate excitement and enjoyment—he becomes
     less industrious, and therefore produces less—he becomes less
     frugal, and therefore, if he saves at all, saves a smaller
     portion of that smaller product."

For the turbulence of the Irish people, the general indolence of the
labourers and artisans, and the misery that exists, the writer of the
above sketch has causes worthy of the acuteness of Sir James Graham, or
some other patent political economist of the aristocracy of England.
We need not comment. We have only made the above quotation to show to
what a condition Ireland has been reduced, according to the admissions
of an aristocratic organ of England, leaving the reader acquainted with
the history of English legislation in regard to the unhappy island to
make the most natural inferences.

The ecclesiastical system of Ireland has long been denounced as an
injury and an insult. As an insult it has no parallel in history.
Oppression and robbery in matters connected with religion have been
unhappily frequent; but in all other cases the oppressed and robbed
have been the minority. That one-tenth of the population of a great
country should appropriate to themselves the endowment originally
provided for all their countrymen; that, without even condescending
to inquire whether there were or were not a congregation of their own
persuasion to profit by them, they should seize the revenues of every
benefice, should divert them from their previous application, and
should hand them over to an incumbent of their own, to be wasted as a
sinecure if they were not wanted for the performance of a duty—this is
a treatment of which the contumely stings more sharply even than the
injustice, enormous as that is.[99]

The tax of a tithe for the support of a church in which they have no
faith is a grievance of which Irish Catholics, who compose nine-tenths
of the population of Ireland, complain with the greatest reason.
Of what benefit to them is a church which they despise? The grand
reason for the existence of an established church fails under such
circumstances. The episcopal institutions can communicate no religious
instruction, because the creed which they sustain is treated with
contempt. But where is the use of argument in regard to this point. The
Established Church affords many luxurious places for the scions of the
aristocracy, and there lies the chief purpose of its existence. The
oppressive taxation of Catholics to support a Protestant church will
cease with the aristocracy.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE MENIAL SLAVES OF GREAT BRITAIN.


The spirit of British institutions is nowhere more plainly and
offensively manifested than in the treatment which domestic servants
receive. The haughty bearing, the constant display of supreme contempt,
and the frequency of downright cruelty on the part of the master or
mistress, and the complete abasement and submission of the servant,
have been repeatedly subjects of observation, and show clearly that the
days of "lord and thrall" are vividly remembered in Great Britain. In
Miss Martineau's "Society in America," we find some observations to the
point. She says—

     "However fascinating to Americans may be the luxury,
     conversational freedom, and high intellectual cultivation of
     English society, they cannot fail to be disgusted with the
     aristocratic insolence which is the vice of the whole. The
     puerile and barbaric spirit of contempt is scarcely known in
     America; the English insolence of class to class, of individuals
     toward each other, is not even conceived of, except in the one
     highly disgraceful instance of the treatment of people of colour.
     Nothing in American civilization struck me so forcibly and so
     pleasurably as the invariable respect paid to man, as man.
     Nothing since my return to England has given me so much pain as
     the contrast there. Perhaps no Englishman can become fully aware,
     without going to America, of the atmosphere of insolence in
     which he dwells; of the taint of contempt which infects all the
     intercourses of his world. He cannot imagine how all he can say
     that is truest and best about the treatment of people of colour
     in America, is neutralized on the spot by its being understood
     how the same contempt is spread over the whole of society here,
     which is there concentrated upon the blacks."

It has been remarked that those who are most submissive as serfs are
the most arrogant and tyrannical as lords. In Great Britain, from dukes
down to workhouse officials, the truth of this remark is obvious. Each
class treats its superior with abject deference, and its inferior
with overbearing insolence. The corollary of our quotation from Miss
Martineau is that the treatment masters give to their <DW64> slaves in
America, in their common intercourse, is what masters give to their
servants in Great Britain. In the free States of America a master may
command his servant, and if obedience is refused he may deduct from
his wages or give him a discharge, but the laws prevent all violence;
the man is never forgotten in the servant. Another state of affairs
is to be found in Great Britain. The laws are inadequate in their
construction and too costly in their administration to protect the poor
servant. Should he refuse obedience, or irritate his master in any way,
his punishment is just as likely to be kicks and blows as a discharge
or a reduction of wages. Englishmen have frequently complained, while
doing business in the United States, because they were prevented from
striking refractory persons in their employ. In attempting to act out
their tyrannical ideas, such employers have been severely chastised by
their free, republican servants.

What the serf of the feudal baron in the twelfth century was, the
servant of modern days is, in the eyes of the lords and ladies of Great
Britain. Between these aristocrats and their retainers there exists
no fellow-feeling; the ties of our common brotherhood are snapped
asunder, and a wide and startling gap intervenes. "Implicit obedience
to commands, and a submissive, respectful demeanour on the one hand,
are repaid by orders given in the most imperative tone, to perform the
most degrading offices, and by a contemptuous, haughty demeanour on the
other hand. In the servant the native dignity of our nature is for the
time broken and crushed. In the master the worst passion of our nature
is exhibited in all its hideous deformity. The spirit that dictated
the expression, 'I am the porcelain, you are only the common clay,'
is not confined to the original speaker, but, with few exceptions,
is very generally participated in. It is not, however, solely by the
aristocratic class that the servant is treated with such contumely, the
fault is largely participated in by the middle and working classes.
The feelings of the English people are essentially aristocratic."[100]

Until recently an order was placed at the entrance to Kensington
Gardens, which read as follows:—"_No Dogs or Livery Servants
admitted_." What more conclusive evidence of the degraded condition
of menial servants in Great Britain could be obtained. A fellow-man,
of good character—a necessary conclusion from his being in a
situation—is placed on a level with brutes. The livery seems as much
the badge of slavery in the nineteenth century as the collar of iron
was in the days of baron and villain. It is a bar to the reception of
a servant in any genteel society, and thus constantly reminds him of
his debased condition. He can have but little hope of improving that
condition, when all intercourse with persons of superior fortune or
attainments is so effectually prevented. A menial he is, and menials
must his children be, unless they should meet with extraordinary
fortune. The following letter of a footman recently appeared in the
"Times" newspaper. It is manly, and to the point.

     "Many articles having appeared in your paper under the term
     'Flunkeyana,' all depreciatory of poor flunkeys, may I be allowed
     to claim a fair and impartial hearing on the other side? I am
     a footman, a liveried flunkey, a pampered menial—terms which
     one Christian employs to another, simply because he is, by
     the Almighty Dispenser of all things, placed, in his wisdom,
     lower in life than the other. Not yet having seen any defence
     of servants, may I trust to your candour and your generosity
     to insert this humble apology for a set of men constrained by
     circumstances to earn their living by servitude? The present
     cry seems to be to lower their wages. I will state simply a few
     broad facts. I am a footman in a family in which I have lived
     thirteen years. My master deems my services worth 24 guineas
     a year. The question is, is this too much? I will strike the
     average of expenditure. I am very economical, it is considered. I
     find for washing I pay near £6 a year; shoes, £4 10_s._; tea and
     sugar, £2 12_s._; wearing apparel, say £4 4_s._; for books—I am
     a reader—I allow myself £1 7_s._ You will see this amounts to
     £18 7_s._ each year. I include nothing for amusement of any kind,
     but say 13_s._ yearly. I thus account for £19 yearly, leaving £6
     for savings. One or two other things deserve, I think, a slight
     notice. What is the character required of a mechanic or labourer?
     None. What of a servant? Is he honest, sober, steady, religious,
     cleanly, active, industrious, an early riser? Is he married? Wo
     be to the poor fellow who does not answer yes to this category
     of requests, save the last! The answer is, Your character does
     not suit; you will not do for me. Again: does a servant forget
     himself for once only, and get tipsy?—he is ruined for life. In
     a word, sir, a thorough servant must be sober, steady, honest,
     and single; 'he must never marry, must never be absent from his
     duties, must attend to his master in sickness or in health, must
     be reviled and never reply, must be young, able, good-tempered,
     and willing, and think himself overpaid, if at the year's end he
     has 5_s._ to put in his pocket. In old age or sickness he may go
     to the workhouse, the only asylum open. In youth he has plenty
     of the best, and can get one service when he leaves another, if
     his character is good; but when youth deserts him, and age and
     sickness creep on, what refuge is there for him? No one will have
     him. He is too old for service, that is his answer. In service
     he is trusted with valuable articles of every description; and
     in what state of life, whether servant or artisan, surely he
     who is placed in situations of trust deserves a trifle more of
     recompense than is sufficient to pay his way and no more."

We have mentioned, in other chapters, some instances of the cruel
treatment of parish children apprenticed to trades. We have also
evidence that those who are hound out as servants are subjected to the
most brutal tyranny. Occasionally, when the cases become so outrageous
as to be noised abroad, investigations are held; but these instances
are few compared with the vast number of cases of cruel treatment of
which the public are permitted to hear nothing.

In the latter part of December, 1850, one Mr. Sloane, a special
pleader, residing in the Middle Temple, was guilty of the most
frightful cruelty to a servant-girl named Jane Wilbred, formerly an
inmate of the West London Union. The girl, or some of her friends,
complained, and Mr. Sloane was brought before Alderman Humphrey,
at Guildhall. During the examination, evidence of the most brutal
treatment of the poor girl was given, and such was the nature of the
statements made on oath that the fury of the people was aroused. Mr.
Sloane was committed for trial. When he was conveyed to the Compter the
mob attacked the cab, and seemed determined to apply Lynch law. But the
wretch was safely deposited in prison, through the exertions of the
police. He was tried, convicted, and sentenced to imprisonment; but
whether he served out his sentence we are not informed. This was one
case of punishment for a thousand of impunity.

So great was the indignation of the people at the developments made
upon the trial of Sloane, that some measure of alleviation in regard
to parish apprentices and servants was deemed necessary. The Earl
of Carlisle, (late Lord Morpeth), brought in a bill in the House of
Commons, the object of which was to compel the parish guardians and the
binding magistrates to watch over and protect the helpless servants and
apprentices. The bill was passed by Parliament; but it is inoperative
and ineffectual. Parish guardians are too glad to get the children
off their hands to take any steps which might <DW44> the desired
consummation; and the children can easily be prevented from making
complaints to magistrates by the threats of masters and mistresses, and
the common fear of consequences. In this case, as in all legislation
concerning the poor, the Parliament of Great Britain has proceeded upon
the same principle as the physician who applies external remedies for
diseases which have internal causes. Instead of endeavouring to remove
the great causes of pauperism—the monopolies of the aristocracy—it
only seeks to render the paupers easier in their condition.

Mr. Mayhew, in his "London Labour and the London Poor," shows that a
large number of the vagrants of London and other English cities, are
young persons who have been servants, and have run away in consequence
of ill-treatment. Rather than be constantly treated as slaves, the
boys prefer to be vagabonds and the girls prostitutes. They then enjoy
a wild kind of freedom, which, with all its filth and vice, has some
share of pleasure, unknown to those who move at the beck of a master or
mistress, and live in constant dread of the rod.

In those countries where society is untainted with aristocracy, the
servant when performing duties is respected as a human being—with a
mind to think and a heart to feel—one to be reprimanded or discharged
from service for neglect or positive wrong, but never beaten as a
soulless beast. In England, the servant, to hold a place, must be a
most abject, cringing, and submissive slave. In some countries, the
taint of <DW64> blood keeps a man always in the position of an inferior.
In England, the man of "serf blood," though he be a Celt or Saxon, is
ever treated as a hind by the man of "noble blood;" and the possession
of this same "noble blood" justifies the most infamous scoundrel in
treating his domestics, not only with contempt, but positive cruelty.
Americans have been charged with having an undying horror of the <DW64>
taint. In England, the _common_ blood is just as steadily abhorred by
the dominant class. The slavery of servants—their hopeless, abject,
and demoralizing condition—is the result, direct and unmistakable, of
the existence of the aristocracy. When the serfs are completely freed;
when the country is no longer ruled by a few thousand persons; when
a long line of ancestry and magnificent escutcheons cease to dignify
imbeciles and blackguards; in short, when England takes a few steps
upon that glorious path which the great American republic has hewn for
the nations of the earth—there will be sure respect for man, as man;
and the servants may have some hope of improving their condition.




CHAPTER IX.

MENTAL AND MORAL CONDITION OF THE WHITE SLAVES IN GREAT BRITAIN.


The moral degradation and mental darkness of the labouring classes in
Great Britain in the middle of the Nineteenth century, are appalling to
contemplate. Beneath the wing of a government professedly Christian,
there is sheltered a vast number of people who must be characterized
as heathen—as fit subjects of missionary labours, such as are freely
given to the dark sons of India and Africa. They know nothing of God
but his prevailing name; and the Bible's light is hid from them as
completely as if its pages were inscribed with Egyptian hieroglyphics.
Their code of morals is the creature of their sensual inclinations;
their intelligence seemingly the superior instinct of the animal.
Scotland is far beyond other portions of Great Britain in the moral and
mental cultivation of its people; but there is a large class in that
country to which the above observations may be justly applied.

According to Kay, more than half the poor in England and Wales cannot
read and write, while the majority of the remainder know nothing of
science, history, geography, music, or drawing, and very little of the
Scripture history. In the great mercantile and manufacturing towns,
it is true that poor men, if they defer their marriage, and have no
extraordinary encumbrances, may improve their condition; but scarcely
any facilities are offered for their acquiring the intelligence
necessary for the control of passion. The schools in the towns are
wretchedly arranged and managed. Many are nothing more than "dame
schools," conducted often in cellars or garrets, by poor women, who
know how to read, but who often know nothing else. The schools for the
peasants are still fewer in number, and inefficient in character; and
hence the result, that the English peasantry are more ignorant and
demoralized, less capable of helping themselves, and more pauperized,
than those of any other country in Europe, if we except Russia, Turkey,
South Italy, and some parts of the Austrian Empire. A writer in a
recent number of "Household Words," makes some remarkable statements in
regard to the ignorance of the English masses:—

     "Wherever we turn, ignorance, not always allied to poverty,
     stares us in the face. If we look in the Gazette, at the list
     of partnerships dissolved, not a month passes but some unhappy
     man, rolling perhaps in wealth, but wallowing in ignorance,
     is put to the _experimentum crucis_ of 'his mark,' The number
     of petty jurors—in rural districts especially—who can only
     sign with a cross is enormous. It is not unusual to see parish
     documents of great local importance defaced with the same
     humiliating symbol by persons whose office shows them to be
     not only 'men of mark,' but men of substance. We have printed
     already specimens of the partial ignorance which passes under
     the ken of the post-office authorities, and we may venture to
     assert, that such specimens of penmanship and orthography are
     not to be matched in any other country in Europe. A housewife
     in humble life need only turn to the file of her tradesmen's
     bills to discover hieroglyphics which render them so many
     arithmetical puzzles. In short, the practical evidences of the
     low ebb to which the plainest rudiments of education in this
     country has fallen, are too common to bear repetition. We cannot
     pass through the streets, we cannot enter a place of public
     assembly, or ramble in the fields, without the gloomy shadow
     of Ignorance sweeping over us. The rural population is indeed
     in a worse plight than the other classes. We quote—with the
     attestation of our own experience—the following passage from
     one of a series of articles which have recently appeared in
     a morning newspaper: 'Taking the adult class of agricultural
     labourers, it is almost impossible to exaggerate the ignorance in
     which they live and move and have their being. As they work in
     the fields, the external world has some hold upon them through
     the medium of their senses; but to all the higher exercises of
     intellect they are perfect strangers. You cannot address one of
     them without being at once painfully struck with the intellectual
     darkness which enshrouds him. There is in general neither
     speculation in his eyes nor intelligence in his countenance. The
     whole expression is more that of an animal than of a man. He is
     wanting, too, in the erect and independent bearing of a man. When
     you accost him, if he is not insolent—which he seldom is—he
     is timid and shrinking, his whole manner showing that he feels
     himself at a distance from you greater than should separate any
     two classes of men. He is often doubtful when you address, and
     suspicious when you question him; he is seemingly oppressed with
     the interview while it lasts, and obviously relieved when it is
     over. These are the traits which I can affirm them to possess as
     a class, after having come in contact with many hundreds of farm
     labourers. They belong to a generation for whose intellectual
     culture little or nothing was done. As a class, they have no
     amusements beyond the indulgence of sense. In nine cases out of
     ten, recreation is associated in their minds with nothing higher
     than sensuality. I have frequently asked clergymen and others, if
     they often find the adult peasant reading for his own or others'
     amusement? The invariable answer is, that such a sight is seldom
     or never witnessed. In the first place, _the great bulk of them
     cannot read_. In the next, a large proportion of those who can,
     do so with too much difficulty to admit of the exercise being
     an amusement to them. Again, few of those who can read with
     comparative ease, have the taste for doing so. It is but justice
     to them to say that many of those who cannot read have bitterly
     regretted, in my hearing, their inability to do so. I shall never
     forget the tone in which an old woman in Cornwall intimated to
     me what a comfort it would now be to her could she only read her
     Bible in her lonely hours.'"

From statistics given by Kay, it is apparent that the proportional
amount of crime to population, calculated in two years, 1841 and 1847,
was greater in almost all the agricultural counties of England than it
was in the mining and manufacturing districts. The peasants of England
must be subjected to a singularly demoralizing system to produce so
terrible a result. The extreme poverty of the agricultural labourers
is the great stimulant to crime of all kinds; but the darkness of
ignorance is also a powerful agent. Poverty renders the peasants
desperate, and they are too ignorant to see the consequences of crime.

In a former part of this work, it was mentioned that the miserable
cottages in which the peasants are compelled to reside have
considerable influence in demoralizing them. This deserves to be fully
illustrated. The majority of the cottages have but two small rooms;
in one of which husband and wife, young men and young women, boys and
girls, and, very often, a married son and his wife all sleep together.
Kay says—

     "The accounts we receive from all parts of the country show
     that these miserable cottages are crowded to an extreme, and
     that the crowding is progressively increasing. People of both
     sexes, and of all ages, both married and unmarried—parents,
     brothers, sisters, and strangers—sleep in the same rooms and
     often in the same beds. One gentlemen tells us of six people of
     different sexes and ages, two of whom were man and wife, sleeping
     in the same bed, three with their heads at the top and three
     with their heads at the foot of the bed. Another tells us of
     adult uncles and nieces sleeping in the same room close to each
     other; another, of the uncles and nieces sleeping in the same
     bed together; another, of adult brothers and sisters sleeping
     in the same room with a brother and his wife just married; many
     tell us of adult brothers and sisters sleeping in the same beds;
     another tells us of rooms so filled with beds that there is no
     space between them, but that brothers, sisters, and parents
     crawl over each other half naked in order to get to their
     respective resting-places; another, of its being common for men
     and women, not being relations, to undress together in the same
     room, without any feeling of its being indelicate; another, of
     cases where women have been delivered in bedrooms crowded with
     men, young women, and children; and others mention facts of
     these crowded bedrooms much too horrible to be alluded to. Nor
     are these solitary instances, but similar reports are given by
     gentlemen writing in ALL parts of the country."

The young peasants from their earliest years are accustomed to sleep
in the same bedrooms with people of both sexes; and they lose all
sense of the indecency of such a life, taking wives before they are
twenty years of age to sleep in the same room with their parents. The
policy now pursued by the aristocratic landlords, of clearing their
estates, tends to crowd the cottages which are allowed to remain, and
thus the demoralization of the peasantry is stimulated. Adultery is the
very mildest form of the vast amount of crime which it is engendering.
Magistrates, clergymen, surgeons, and parish-officers bear witness
that cases of incest are increasing in all parts of the country.
An eminent writer represents the consequences of the state of the
peasant's cottages in England and Wales in the following startling, but
unexaggerated terms:—

     "A man and woman intermarry, and take a cottage. In eight cases
     out of ten it is a cottage with but two rooms. For a time, so
     far as room at least is concerned, this answers their purpose;
     but they take it, not because it is at the time sufficiently
     spacious for them, but because they could not procure a more
     roomy dwelling, even if they desired it. In this they pass with
     tolerable comfort, considering their notions of what comfort
     is, the first period of married life; but, by-and-by they have
     children, and the family increases, until, in the course of a few
     years, they number, perhaps, from eight to ten individuals. But
     in all this time there has been no increase to their household
     accommodation. As at first, so to the very last, there is but the
     ONE SLEEPING-ROOM. As the family increases, additional beds are
     crammed into this apartment, until at last it is so filled with
     them, that there is scarcely room left to move between them. _I
     have known instances in which they had to crawl over each other
     to get to their beds._ So long as the children are very young,
     the only evil connected with this is the physical one arising
     from crowding so many people together into what is generally
     a dingy, frequently a damp, and invariably an ill-ventilated
     apartment. But years steal on, and the family continues thus
     bedded together. Some of its members may yet be in their infancy,
     but others of both sexes have crossed the line of puberty. But
     there they are, still together in the same room—the father and
     mother, the sons and the daughters—young men, young women,
     and children. Cousins, too, of both sexes, are often thrown
     together into the same room, _and not unfrequently into the
     same bed_. I have also known of cases in which uncles slept in
     the same room with their grown-up nieces, and newly-married
     couples occupied the same chamber with those long married, and
     with others marriageable but unmarried. A case also came to my
     notice, already alluded to in connection with another branch of
     the subject, in which two sisters, who were married on the same
     day, occupied adjoining rooms in the same hut, with nothing but
     a thin board partition, which did not reach the ceiling, between
     the two rooms, and a door in the partition which only partly
     filled up the doorway. For years back, in these same two rooms,
     have slept twelve people of both sexes and all ages. Sometimes,
     when there is but one room, a praiseworthy effort is made for
     the conservation of decency. But the hanging up of a piece of
     tattered cloth between the beds, which is generally all that is
     done in this respect, and even that but seldom, is but a poor
     set-off to the fact, that a family, which, in common decency,
     should, as regards sleeping accommodations, be separated at
     least into three divisions, occupy, night after night, but one
     and the same chamber. This is a frightful position for them
     to be in when an infectious or epidemic disease enters their
     abode. But this, important though it be, is the least important
     consideration connected with their circumstances. That which
     is most so, is the effect produced by them upon their habits
     and morals. In the illicit intercourse to which such a position
     frequently gives rise, _it is not always that the tie of blood
     is respected_. Certain it is, that when the relationship is even
     but one degree removed from that of brother and sister, that tie
     is frequently overlooked. And when the circumstances do not lead
     to such horrible consequences, the mind, particularly of the
     female, is wholly divested of that sense of delicacy and shame,
     which, so long as they are preserved, are the chief safeguards of
     her chastity. She therefore falls an early and an easy prey to
     the temptations which beset her beyond the immediate circle of
     her family. People in the other spheres of life are but little
     aware of the extent to which this precocious demoralization of
     the female among the lower orders in the country has proceeded.
     But how could it be otherwise? The philanthropist may exert
     himself in their behalf, the moralist may inculcate even the
     worldly advantages of a better course of life, and the minister
     of religion may warn them of the eternal penalties which they
     are incurring; but there is an instructor constantly at work,
     more potent than them all—an instructor in mischief, of which
     they must get rid ere they can make any real progress in their
     laudable efforts—and that is, _the single bedchamber in the
     two-roomed cottage_."

But such cottages will continue to be the dwellings of the peasantry
until the system of lord and serf is abolished, until they can obtain
ground of their own, and have no fear of eviction at a moment's notice.
It has often been a matter of wonder that there is less discontent and
murmuring among the miserable peasants than among the workmen in the
manufacturing towns. The reason lies upon the surface. The workmen in
the factories are generally more intelligent than the agricultural
labourers, and have a keen feeling of their degradation. It requires a
certain degree of elevation to render a man discontented. The wallowing
pig is satisfied.

We need not be surprised to find that where so much misery prevails
crime is frightfully frequent. The "Times" of the 30th of November,
1849, shows the terrible increase of crime in the last few years in
Dorsetshire. The "Times" says—

     "We yesterday published, in a very short compass, some grave
     particulars of the unfortunate county of Dorset. It is not
     simply the old story of wages inadequate for life, hovels unfit
     for habitation, and misery and sin alternately claiming our
     pity and our disgust. This state of things is so normal, and
     we really believe so immemorial in that notorious county, that
     we should rather deaden than excite the anxiety of the public
     by a thrice-told tale. What compels our attention just now is
     a sudden, rapid, and, we fear, a forced aggravation of these
     evils, measured by the infallible test of crime. Dorsetshire is
     fast sinking into a slough of wretchedness, which threatens the
     peace and morality of the kingdom at large. The total number of
     convictions, which

       "In 1846 was 798, and
       "In 1847 was 821, mounted up,
       "In 1848, to 950;

     "and up to the special general session, last Tuesday, (Dec.
     1849,) for less than eleven months of the present year, to the
     astonishing number of 1193, being at the rate of 1300 for the
     whole year! Unless something is done to stop this flood of crime,
     or the tide happily turns of itself, the county will have more
     than _doubled_ its convictions within four years! Nor is it
     possible for us to take refuge in the thought that the increase
     is in petty offences. In no respect is it a light thing for a
     poor creature to be sent to jail, whatever be the offence. He
     has broken the laws of his country, and forfeited his character.
     His name and his morals are alike tainted with the jail. He is
     degraded and corrupted. If his spirit be not crushed, it is
     exasperated into perpetual hostility to wealth and power.

       *       *       *       *       *

     "It is, then, no light affair that a rural county, the abode of
     an ancient and respectable aristocracy, somewhat removed from
     the popular influences of the age, with a population of 175,043
     by the late census, should produce in four years near 4000
     convictions, being at the rate of one conviction in that period
     for every sixty persons, or every twelve householders."

We might express our doubts of the real respectability of the ancient
aristocracy of Dorsetshire. They do not injure society in a way of
which the laws take notice; but had they nothing to do with the making
of the 4000 criminals? In 1834, an English writer estimated that about
120,000 of the people were always in jail. At the present time the
number is still greater.

The humane and able author of "Letters on Rural Districts," published
in the "Morning Chronicle" of London, thus speaks of the frightful
immorality among the agricultural population of Norfolk and Suffolk
counties:—

     "One species of immorality, which is peculiarly prevalent in
     Norfolk and Suffolk, is that of bastardy. With the exception
     of Hereford and Cumberland, there are no counties in which the
     percentage of bastardy is so high as it is in Norfolk—being
     there 53.1 per cent. above the average of England and Wales; in
     Suffolk it is 27 per cent. above, and in Essex 19.1 per cent.
     below the average. In the two first-named counties, and even in
     the latter one, though not to the same extent, _there appears to
     be a perfect want of decency among the people_. 'The immorality
     of the young women,' said the rector of one parish to me, 'is
     literally horrible, and I regret to say it is on the increase in
     a most extraordinary degree. When I first came to the town, the
     mother of a bastard child used to be ashamed to show herself. The
     case is now quite altered; no person seems to think any thing at
     all of it. When I first came to the town, there was no such thing
     as a common prostitute in it; now there is an enormous number
     of them. When I am called upon to see a woman confined with an
     illegitimate child, I endeavour to impress upon her the enormity
     of the offence; and there are no cases in which I receive more
     insult from those I visit than from such persons. They generally
     say they'll get on as well, after all that's said about it; and
     if they never do any thing worse than that, they shall get to
     heaven as well as other people.' Another clergyman stated to me,
     that he never recollected an instance of his having married a
     woman who was not either pregnant at the time of her marriage,
     or had had one or more children before her marriage. Again, a
     third clergyman told me, that he went to baptize the illegitimate
     child of one woman, who was thirty-five years of age, and it
     was absolutely impossible for him to convince her that what she
     had done was wrong. 'There appears,' said he, 'to be among the
     lower orders a perfect deadness of all moral feeling upon this
     subject.' Many of the cases of this kind, which have come under
     my knowledge, evince such horrible depravity, that I dare not
     attempt to lay them before the reader. Speaking to the wife of a
     respectable labourer on the subject, who had seven children, one
     of whom was then confined with an illegitimate child, she excused
     her daughter's conduct by saying, 'What was the poor girl to do!
     The chaps say that they won't marry 'em first, and then the girls
     give way. I did the same myself with my husband.' There was one
     case in Cossey, in Norfolk, in which the woman told me, without a
     blush crimsoning her cheek, that her daughter and self had each
     had a child by a sweep, who lodged with them, and who promised
     to marry the daughter. The cottage in which these persons slept
     consisted of but one room, and there were two other lodgers who
     occupied beds in the same room; in one of which 'a young woman
     occasionally slept with the young man she was keeping company
     with.' The other lodger was an old woman of seventy-four years
     of age. To such an extent is prostitution carried on in Norwich,
     that out of the 656 licensed public-houses and beer-shops in the
     city, there are not less than 220, which are known to the police
     as common brothels. And, although the authorities have the power
     of withholding the licenses, nothing is done to put a stop to the
     frightful vice."

A want of chastity is universal among the female peasants of Wales,
arising chiefly from the herding of many persons in the small cottages.
In the vicinity of the mines, the average of inhabitants to a house is
said to be nearly twelve. The Rev. John Griffith, vicar of Aberdare,
says—

     "Nothing can be lower, I would say more degrading, than the
     character in which the women stand relative to the men. The men
     and the women, married as well as single, live in the same house,
     _and sleep in the same room_. The men do not hesitate to wash
     themselves naked before the women; on the other hand, the women
     do not hesitate to change their under garments before the men.
     Promiscuous intercourse is most common, is thought of as nothing,
     and the women do not lose caste by it."

The Welsh are peculiarly exempt from the guilt of great crimes.
But petty thefts, lying, cozening, every species of chicanery and
drunkenness are common among the agricultural population, and are
regarded as matters of course.

Infanticide is practised to a terrible extent in England and Wales. In
most of the large provincial towns, "burial clubs" exist. A small sum
is paid every year by the parent, and this entitles him to receive from
£3 to £5 from the club on the death of the child. Many persons enter
their children in several clubs; and, as the burial of the child does
not necessarily cost more than £1, or at the most £1 10_s._, the parent
realizes a considerable sum after all the expenses are paid. For the
sake of this money, it has become common to cause the death of the
children, either by starvation, ill-usage, or poison. No more horrible
symptom of moral degradation could be conceived.

     "Mr. Chadwick says,[101] 'officers of these burial societies,
     relieving officers, and others, whose administrative duties put
     them in communication with the lowest classes in these districts,
     (the manufacturing districts,) express their moral conviction
     of the operation of such bounties to produce instances of the
     visible neglect of children of which they are witnesses. They
     often say—You are not treating that child properly, it will not
     live; _is it in the club_? And the answer corresponds with the
     impression produced by the sight.

     "'Mr. Gardiner, the clerk of the Manchester union, while
     registering the causes of death, deemed the cause assigned by
     a labouring man for the death of a child unsatisfactory, and
     staying to inquire, found that popular rumour assigned the death
     to wilful starvation. The child (according to a statement of the
     case) had been entered in at least _ten_ burial clubs; _and its
     parents had had six other children, who only lived from nine to
     eighteen months respectively_. They had received from several
     burial clubs twenty pounds for _one_ of these children, and they
     expected at least as much on account of this child. An inquest
     was held at Mr. Gardiner's instance, when several persons, who
     had known the deceased, stated that she was a fine fat child
     shortly after her birth, but that she soon became quite thin, was
     badly clothed, and seemed as if she did not get a sufficiency of
     food.... The jury, having expressed it as their opinion that the
     evidence of the parents was made up for the occasion and entitled
     to no credit, returned the following verdict:—Died through want
     of nourishment, but whether occasioned by a deficiency of food,
     or by disease of the liver and spine brought on by improper food
     and drink or otherwise, does not appear.

     "'Two similar cases came before Mr. Coppock, the clerk and
     superintendent-registrar of the Stockport union, in both of which
     he prosecuted the parties for murder. In one case, where three
     children had been poisoned with arsenic, the father was tried
     with the mother and convicted at Chester, and sentenced to be
     transported for life, but the mother was acquitted. In the other
     case, where the judge summed up for a conviction, the accused,
     the father, was, to the astonishment of every one, acquitted.
     In this case the body was exhumed after interment, and _arsenic
     was detected in the stomach_. In consequence of the suspicion
     raised upon the death on which the accusation was made in the
     first case, the bodies of two other children were taken up and
     examined, when _arsenic was found in their stomachs_. In all
     these cases payments on the deaths of the children were insured
     from the burial clubs; the cost of the coffin and burial dues
     would not be more than about one pound, and the allowance from
     the club is three pounds.

     "'It is remarked on these dreadful cases by the
     superintendent-registrar, _that the children who were boys, and
     therefore likely to be useful to the parents, were not poisoned_;
     the female children were the victims. It was the clear opinion
     of the medical officers that infanticides have been committed in
     Stockport to obtain the burial money.'"

Such parents must be placed upon a level with the swine that devour
their farrow. We are led to doubt whether they could sink much lower
in the animal scale; poverty and ignorance seem to have thoroughly
quenched the spark of humanity. The author of "Letters on Labour, and
the Poor in the Rural Districts," writing of the burial clubs in the
eastern counties, says:

     "The suspicion that a great deal of 'foul play' exists with
     respect to these clubs is supported, not only by a comparison
     of the different rates of mortality, but it is considerably
     strengthened by the facts proved upon the trial of Mary May.
     The Rev. Mr. Wilkins, the vicar of Wickes, who was mainly
     instrumental in bringing the case before a court of justice,
     stated to me that, from the time of Mary May coming to live in
     his parish, he was determined to keep a very strict watch upon
     her movements, as he had heard that _fourteen of her children had
     previously died suddenly_.

     "A few weeks after her arrival in his parish, she called upon
     him to request him to bury one of her children. Upon his asking
     her which of the children it was, she told him that it was
     Eliza, a fine healthy-looking child of ten years old. Upon his
     expressing some surprise that she should have died so suddenly,
     she said, 'Oh, sir, she went off like a snuff; all my other
     children did so too.' A short time elapsed, and she again waited
     upon the vicar to request him to bury her brother as soon as
     he could. His suspicions were aroused, and he endeavoured to
     postpone the funeral for a few days, in order to enable him to
     make some inquiries. Not succeeding in obtaining any information
     which would warrant further delay in burying the corpse, he most
     reluctantly proceeded in the discharge of his duty.

     "About a week after the funeral, Mary May again waited upon him
     to request him to sign a certificate to the effect that her
     brother was in perfect health a fortnight before he died, that
     being the time at which, as it subsequently appeared, she had
     entered him as nominee in the Harwich Burial Club. Upon inquiring
     as to the reason of her desiring this certificate, she told him
     that, unless she got it, she could not get the money for him from
     the club. This at once supplied the vicar with what appeared
     to be a motive for 'foul play' on the part of the woman. He
     accordingly obtained permission to have the body of her brother
     exhumed; doses of arsenic were detected, and the woman was
     arrested. With the evidence given upon the trial the reader is,
     no doubt, perfectly conversant, and it will be unnecessary for
     me to detail it. She was convicted. Previously to her execution
     she refused to make any confession, but said, 'If I were to tell
     all I know, it would give the hangman work for the next twelve
     months.' Undue weight ought not to be attached to the declaration
     of such a woman as Mary May; but, coupled with the disclosures
     that took place upon the trial with respect to some of her
     neighbours and accomplices, and with the extraordinary rate of
     mortality among the clubs, it certainly does appear that the
     general opinion with respect to the mischievous effects of these
     societies is not altogether without foundation.

     "Although there are not in Essex, at present, any burial clubs
     in which children are admitted under fourteen years of age as
     members or nominees, still, as illustrating the evils arising
     from these clubs, I may state that many persons who are fully
     conversant with the working of such institutions have stated that
     they have frequently been shocked by hearing women of the lower
     classes, when speaking of a neighbour's child, make use of such
     expressions as, 'Oh, depend upon it, the child'll not live; it's
     in the burial club.' When speaking to the parents of a child who
     may be unwell, it is not unfrequently that they say, 'You should
     do so and so,' or, 'You should not do so and so;' '_You should
     not treat it in that way; is it in the burial club_?' Instances
     of the most culpable neglect, if not of graver offences, are
     continually occurring in districts where clubs exist in which
     children are admitted. A collector of one of the most extensive
     burial societies gave it as his opinion, founded upon his
     experience, that it had become a constant practice to neglect the
     children for the sake of the allowance from the clubs; and he
     supported his opinion by several cases which had come under his
     own observation."

A vast number of other facts, of equally shocking character, have
been ascertained. The Rev. J. Clay, chaplain of the Preston House of
Correction, in a sanitary report, makes some statements of a nature to
startle:—

     "It appears, on the unimpeachable authority of a burial-club
     official, that '_hired nurses speculate on the lives of infants
     committed to their care, by entering them in burial clubs_;' that
     'two young women proposed to enter a child into his club, and
     to pay the weekly premium alternately. Upon inquiring as to the
     relation subsisting between the two young women and the child, he
     learned that the infant was placed at nurse with the mother of
     one of these young women,' The wife of a clergymen told me that,
     visiting a poor district just when a child's death had occurred,
     instead of hearing from the neighbours the language of sympathy
     for the bereaved parent, she was shocked by such observations
     as—'Ah! it's a fine thing for the mother, the child's in two
     clubs!'

     "As regards one town, I possess some evidence of the amount of
     burial-club membership and of infant mortality, which I beg to
     lay before you. The reports of this town refer to 1846, when
     the population of the town amounted to about 61,000. I do not
     name the town, because, as no actual burial-club murders are
     known to have been committed in it, and as such clubs are not
     more patronized there than in other places, it is, perhaps, not
     fair to hold it up to particular animadversion; indeed, as to
     its general character, this very town need not fear comparison
     with any other. Now this place, with its sixty-one thousand
     people of all classes and ages, maintains at least eleven burial
     clubs, the members of which amount in the aggregate to nearly
     fifty-two thousand; nor are these all. Sick clubs, remember, act
     as burial clubs. Of these there are twelve or fourteen in the
     town, mustering altogether, probably, two thousand members. Here,
     then, we have good data for comparing population with '_death
     lists_;' but it will be necessary, in making the comparison, to
     deduct from the population all that part of it which has nothing
     to do with these clubs, viz. all infants under two months old,
     and all persons of unsound health, (both of these classes being
     excluded by the club rules;) all those also of the working
     classes, whose sound intelligence and feeling lead them to abhor
     burial-club temptations; and all the better classes, to whom five
     or twenty pounds offer no consolation for the death of a child.
     On the hypothesis that these deductions will amount to one-sixth
     of the entire population, it results that the _death lists_
     are more numerous by far than the entire mass—old, young, and
     infants—which support them; and, according to the statement of a
     leading death-list officer, _three-fourths_ of the names on these
     catalogues of the doomed are the names of children. Now, if this
     be the truth—and I believe it is—hundreds, if not thousands
     of children must be entered each into _four_, _five_, or even
     _twelve_ clubs, their chances of life diminishing, of course,
     in proportion to the frequency with which they are entered. Lest
     you should imagine that such excessive addiction to burial clubs
     is only to be found in one place, I furnish you with a report for
     1846, of a single club, which then boasted thirty-four thousand
     one hundred members, _the entire population of the town to which
     it belongs having been, in 1841, little more than thirty-six
     thousand_!"

The authorities from whom these statements are derived are of the
highest respectability; they hear witness to a state of affairs
scarcely to be conceived by people of other civilized countries.
Hundreds of thousands of human beings seem to be driven into an awful
abyss of crime and misery by the iron rule of the aristocracy—an
abyss where mothers forget maternal feelings, where marriage vows are
scoffed, and where the momentary gratification of brutal passions is
alone esteemed. There, indeed, there is no fear of God, and heathenism
spreads its upas shade to poison and destroy.

The only amusement which the English poor possess in many parts of the
country, is to visit taverns. In the towns the "gin-palaces" and the
beer-houses are very numerous; and whenever the poor have leisure,
these places are thronged by drunken men and abandoned women. In all
the rural districts there is a frightful amount of drunkenness. British
legislation has increased the number of these hot-beds of crime and
pauperism.

     "In the beginning of the revolutionary war the duties on malt
     were _augmented_, and in 1825 the duties on spirits were
     _decreased_. It was thus that whisky was substituted for ale as
     the beverage of the Scotch, and that gin and brandy began to be
     generally drunk by the English poor.

     "The consumption of spirits immediately increased in a tremendous
     proportion. From 4,132,263 gallons, the consumption in 1825, it
     rose in one year to 8,888,648 gallons; that is, the consumption
     was _in one year_ more than _doubled_ by the change; and from
     that period, with the exception of the year next following, viz.
     1827, the consumption has been progressively augmenting.

     "Since that time the noted beer-shop act has been passed. By that
     act, any one was enabled to obtain a license to enable him to
     sell beer, whether the person desirous of doing so was a person
     of respectable character or not.

     "But this was the least of the evils which were effected by that
     act. A clause, which was still more injurious, was that which
     prescribed that the liquor _must be drunk upon the premises of
     the beer-house_, i. e. either in the beer-house or on a bench
     just outside the door.

     "This has the effect in many cases, where the poor would
     otherwise take the beer home to their own cottages, of forcing
     the young men who wish to have a little to drink, to sit down and
     take it in the society of the worst people of the neighbourhood,
     who always, as a matter of course, spend their leisure in the
     tavern. I am convinced that nothing can be more injurious in its
     effects upon the poor than this clause. It may be said to _force_
     the honest labourers into the society and companionship of the
     most depraved, and so necessarily to demoralize the young and
     honest labourer.

     "The following is the number of gallons of _native_ proof spirits
     on which duty was paid for home consumption in the United
     Kingdom, in the undermentioned years:—

       Years.       Gallons.

       1843        18,841,890
       1844        20,608,525
       1845        23,122,588
       1846        24,106,697


     "To the above must be added the number of gallons of foreign and
     colonial spirits retained for home consumption, as follows:—

      ┌───────┬────────────────────────┬──────────────────────────────┐
      │       │                        │   No. of Gallons of Home     │
      │ Years.│    No. of Gallons of   │ and Foreign Spirits consumed │
      │       │  Foreign, &c. Spirits. │   in the United Kingdom.     │
      ├———————┼————————————————————————┼——————————————————————————————┤
      │ 1843  │        3,161,957       │       22,026,289             │
      │ 1844  │        3,242,606       │       22,042,905             │
      │ 1845  │        3,549,889       │       26,672,477             │
      │ 1846  │        4,252,237       │       28,360,934             │
      └———————┴————————————————————————┴——————————————————————————————┘

     "From the above statistics it appears that the consumption of
     spirits in the United Kingdom is increasing much more rapidly
     than the population!

     "The number of licenses granted to retailers of spirits or beer
     amounted, in 1845, to 237,345; that is, there was to be found,
     in 1845, a retailer of beer or spirits in every 115 of the
     population! Of the beer licenses, 68,086 were for dwellings rated
     under £20 per annum, and 35,340 were licenses for premises rated
     under £10 per annum! This shows how large a proportion of the
     beer-shops are situated in the poorest districts, for the use of
     the poorest classes.[102]

There is a section of London, which in 1847 had 2000 inhabitants, one
butcher's shop, two bakers' shops, and seventeen beer-houses. The total
cost of the spirits and beer consumed in the United Kingdom was, in
1848, estimated at £65,000,000, a sum greater, by several millions,
than the whole revenue of the government. The inimitable Dickens has
given us a vivid sketch of a London gin-palace and its attendants. He
says—

     "The extensive scale on which these places are established,
     and the ostentatious manner in which the business of even the
     smallest among them is divided into branches, is most amusing.
     A handsome plate of ground glass in one door directs you 'To
     the Counting-house;' another to the 'Bottle Department;' a
     third to the 'Wholesale Department,' a fourth to the 'Wine
     Promenade;' and so forth, until we are in daily expectation
     of meeting with a 'Brandy Bell,' or a 'Whisky Entrance.' Then
     ingenuity is exhausted in devising attractive titles for the
     different descriptions of gin; and the dram-drinking portion of
     the community, as they gaze upon the gigantic black and white
     announcements, which are only to be equalled in size by the
     figures beneath them, are left in a state of pleasing hesitation
     between 'The Cream of the Valley,' 'The Out and Out,' 'The No
     Mistake,' 'The Good for Mixing,' 'The real Knock-me-down,' 'The
     celebrated Butter Gin,' 'The regular Flare-up,' and a dozen other
     equally inviting and wholesome _liqueurs_. Although places of
     this description are to be met with in every second street, they
     are invariably numerous and splendid in precise proportion to the
     dirt and poverty of the surrounding neighbourhood. The gin-shops
     in and near Drury-lane, Holborn, St. Giles's, Covent-garden, and
     Clare-market, are the handsomest in London. There is more of
     filth and squalid misery near those great thoroughfares than in
     any part of this mighty city.

     "We will endeavour to sketch the bar of a large gin-shop, and its
     ordinary customers, for the edification of such of our readers as
     may not have had opportunities of observing such scenes; and on
     the chance of finding one well suited to our purpose we will make
     for Drury-lane, through the narrow streets and dirty courts which
     divide it from Oxford street, and that classical spot adjoining
     the brewery at the bottom of Tottenham-court-road, best known to
     the initiated as the 'Rookery.'

     "The filthy and miserable appearance of this part of London
     can hardly be imagined by those (and there are many such) who
     have not witnessed it. Wretched houses with broken windows
     patched with rags and paper, every room let out to a different
     family, and in many instances to two or even three; fruit
     and 'sweet-stuff' manufacturers in the cellars, barbers and
     red-herring venders in the front parlours, and cobblers in the
     back; a bird-fancier in the first floor, three families on the
     second, starvation in the attics, Irishmen in the passage; a
     'musician' in the front kitchen, and a charwoman and five hungry
     children in the back one—filth everywhere—a gutter before the
     houses and a drain behind them—clothes drying and slops emptying
     from the windows; girls of fourteen or fifteen with matted hair,
     walking about barefooted, and in white great-coats, almost their
     only covering; boys of all ages, in coats of all sizes and no
     coats at all; men and women, in every variety of scanty and dirty
     apparel, lounging, scolding, drinking, smoking, squabbling,
     fighting, and swearing.

     "You turn the corner, what a change! All is light and brilliancy.
     The hum of many voices issues from that splendid gin-shop which
     forms the commencement of the two streets opposite, and the
     gay building with the fantastically ornamented parapet, the
     illuminated clock, the plate-glass windows surrounded by stucco
     rosettes, and its profusion of gas-lights in richly gilt burners,
     is perfectly dazzling when contrasted with the darkness and dirt
     we have just left. The interior is even gayer than the exterior.
     A bar of French polished mahogany, elegantly carved, extends the
     whole width of the place; and there are two side-aisles of great
     casks, painted green and gold, enclosed within a light brass
     rail, and bearing such inscriptions as 'Old Tom, 549;' 'Young
     Tom, 360;' 'Samson, 1421.' Beyond the bar is a lofty and spacious
     saloon, full of the same enticing vessels, with a gallery running
     round it, equally well furnished. On the counter, in addition
     to the usual spirit apparatus, are two or three little baskets
     of cakes and biscuits, which are carefully secured at the top
     with wicker-work, to prevent their contents being unlawfully
     abstracted. Behind it are two showily-dressed damsels with large
     necklaces, dispensing the spirits and 'compounds.' They are
     assisted by the ostensible proprietor of the concern, a stout
     coarse fellow in a fur cap, put on very much on one side, to give
     him a knowing air, and display his sandy whiskers to the best
     advantage.

     "It is growing late, and the throng of men, women, and children,
     who have been constantly going in and out, dwindles down to
     two or three occasional stragglers—cold, wretched-looking
     creatures, in the last stage of emaciation and disease. The knot
     of Irish labourers at the lower end of the place, who have been
     alternately shaking hands with, and threatening the life of, each
     other for the last hour, become furious in their disputes, and
     finding it impossible to silence one man, who is particularly
     anxious to adjust the difference, they resort to the infallible
     expedient of knocking him down and jumping on him afterward.
     The man in the fur cap and the potboy rush out; a scene of riot
     and confusion ensues; half the Irishmen get shut out, and the
     other half get shut in; the potboy is knocked among the tubs
     in no time; the landlord hits everybody, and everybody hits
     the landlord; the barmaids scream; the police come in; and the
     rest is a confused mixture of arms, legs, staves, torn coats,
     shouting, and struggling. Some of the party are borne off to the
     station-house, and the remainder slink home to beat their wives
     for complaining, and kick the children for daring to be hungry."

The neglected and frightfully wretched condition of a great part of
the juvenile population in the British towns has frequently excited
the attention of philanthropic Englishmen. On the 6th of June, 1848,
Lord Ashley made a speech on juvenile destitution in the House of
Commons, in which he drew an awful picture of misery and degradation.
He showed that in the midst of London there is a large and continually
increasing number of lawless persons, forming a separate class, having
pursuits, interests, manners, and customs of their own. These are quite
independent of the number of mere pauper children who crowd the streets
of London, and who never attend a school. The lawless class were
estimated by Lord Ashley to number thirty thousand.

     "Of 1600 who were examined, 162 confessed that they had been in
     prison, not merely once, or even twice, but some of them several
     times; 116 had run away from their homes; 170 slept in the
     'lodging houses;' 253 had lived altogether by beggary; 216 had
     neither shoes nor stockings; 280 had no hat or cap, or covering
     for the head; 101 had no linen; 249 had never slept in a bed;
     many had no recollection of ever having been in a bed; 68 were
     the children of convicts.

     "In 1847 it was found that of 4000 examined, 400 confessed that
     they had been in prison, 660 lived by beggary, 178 were the
     children of convicts, and 800 had lost one or both their parents.
     Now, what was the employment of these people? They might be
     classed as street-sweepers; vendors of lucifer matches, oranges,
     cigars, tapes, and ballads; they held horses, ran errands,
     jobbed for 'dealers in marine stores,' that being the euphonious
     term for receivers of stolen goods—an influential race in the
     metropolis, but for whose agency a very large proportion of
     juvenile crime would be extinguished. It might be asked, how did
     the large number who never slept in bed pass the night? In all
     manner of places: under dry arches of bridges and viaducts, under
     porticos, sheds, carts in outhouses, sawpits, or staircases, or
     in the open air, and some in lodging-houses. Curious, indeed, was
     their mode of life. One boy, during the inclement period of 1847,
     passed the greater part of his nights in the large iron roller in
     the Regent's Park. He climbed over the railings, and crept to the
     roller, where he lay in comparative security.

     "Lord Ashley says, 'many of them were living in the dry arches
     of houses not finished, inaccessible except by an aperture,
     only large enough to admit the body of a man. When a lantern
     was thrust in, six or eight, ten or twelve people might be
     found lying together. Of those whom we found thus lodged, we
     invited a great number to come the following day, and there
     an examination was instituted. The number examined was 33.
     Their ages varied from 12 to 18, and some were younger. 24 had
     no parents, 6 had one, 3 had stepmothers, 20 had no shirts, 9
     no shoes, 12 had been once in prison, 3 twice, 3 four times, 1
     eight times, and 1 (only 14 years old) twelve times. The physical
     condition of these children was exceedingly bad; they were a
     prey to vermin, they were troubled with itch, they were begrimed
     with dirt, not a few were suffering from sickness, and two or
     three days afterward several died from disease and the effects
     of starvation. I privately examined eight or ten. I was anxious
     to obtain from them the truth. I examined them separately,
     taking them into a room alone. I said, "I am going to ask you
     a variety of questions, to which I trust you will give me true
     answers, and I will undertake to answer any question you may
     put." They thought that a fair bargain. I put to several of
     them the question, "How often have you slept in a bed during
     the last three years?" One said, perhaps twelve times, another
     three times, another could not remember that he ever had. I
     asked them, how they passed the night in winter. They said, "We
     lie eight or ten together, to keep ourselves warm." I entered
     on the subject of their employments and modes of living. They
     fairly confessed they had no means of subsistence but begging
     and stealing. The only way of earning a penny in a legitimate
     way was by picking up old bones. But they fairly acknowledged
     for themselves and others scattered over the town, with whom
     they professed themselves acquainted, that they had not and
     could not have any other means of subsistence than by begging
     and stealing. A large proportion of these young persons were at
     a most dangerous age for society. What was the moral condition
     of those persons? A large proportion of them (it was no fault
     of theirs) did not recognise the distinctive rights of _meum_
     and _tuum_. Property appeared to them to be only the aggregate
     of plunder. They held that every thing which was possessed was
     common stock; that he who got most was the cleverest fellow, and
     that every one had a right to abstract from that stock what he
     could by his own ingenuity. Was it matter of surprise that they
     entertained those notions, which were instilled into their minds
     from the time they were able to creep on all fours—that not only
     did they disregard all the rights of property, but gloried in
     doing so, unless they thought the avowal would bring them within
     the grasp of the law. To illustrate their low state of morality,
     and to show how utterly shameless they were in speaking on these
     subjects, I would, mention what had passed at a ragged school
     to which fourteen or fifteen boys, having presented themselves
     on a Sunday evening, were admitted as they came. They sat down,
     and the lesson proceeded. The clock struck eight. They all rose
     with the exception of one little boy. The master took him by the
     arm and said, "You must remain; the lesson is not over." The
     reply was, "We must go to business." The master inquired what
     business? "We must all go to catch them as they come out of the
     chapels." It was necessary for them, according to the remark of
     this boy, to go at a certain time in pursuit of their calling.
     They had no remorse or shame, in making the avowal, because they
     believed that there were no other means of saving themselves
     from starvation. I recollect a very graphic remark made by one
     of those children in perfect simplicity, but which yet showed
     the horrors of their position. The master had been pointing out
     to him the terrors of punishment in after-life. The remark of
     the boy was, "That may be so, but I don't think it can be any
     worse than this world has been to me." Such was the condition of
     hundreds and thousands.'"

A large number of the depraved children live in what are called the
"lodging-houses." Most Americans have heard of the "Old Brewery" at the
Five Points in New York city, where more than two hundred persons of
all ages and sexes were crowded together. Such lodging-houses as this,
(which fortunately has been destroyed,) are common in London and the
provincial towns of Great Britain. Mr. Mayhew, in his "London Labour
and the London Poor," has given us very full information concerning
them. He obtained much of it from one who had passed some time among
the dens of infamy. He says of these lodging-houses—

     "'They have generally a spacious, though often ill-ventilated
     kitchen, the dirty, dilapidated walls of which are hung with
     prints, while a shelf or two are generally, though barely,
     furnished with crockery and kitchen utensils. In some places
     knives and forks are not provided, unless a penny is left with
     the "deputy," or manager, till they are returned. A brush of any
     kind is a stranger, and a looking-glass would be a miracle. The
     average number of nightly lodgers is in winter seventy, in the
     summer (when many visit the provinces) from forty to forty-five.
     The general charge is, if two sleep together, 3_d._ per night, or
     4_d._ for a single bed. In either case, it is by no means unusual
     to find eighteen or twenty in one small room, the heat and horrid
     smell from which are insufferable; and, where there are young
     children, the staircases are the lodgment of every kind of filth
     and abomination. In some houses there are rooms for families,
     where, on a rickety machine, which they dignify by the name of a
     bedstead, may be found the man, his wife, and a son or daughter,
     perhaps eighteen years of age; while the younger children, aged
     from seven to fourteen, sleep on the floor. If they have linen,
     they take it off to escape vermin, and rise naked, one by one,
     or sometimes brother and sister together. This is no ideal
     picture; the subject is too capable of being authenticated to
     need any meaningless or dishonest assistance called "allowable
     exaggeration." The amiable and deservedly popular minister of a
     district church, built among lodging-houses, has stated that he
     has found twenty-nine human beings in one apartment; and that
     having with difficulty knelt down between two beds to pray with a
     dying woman, his legs became so jammed that he could hardly get
     up again.

     "'Out of some fourscore such habitations,' continues my
     informant, 'I have only found _two_ which had any sort of garden;
     and, I am happy to add, that in neither of these two was there
     a single case of cholera. In the others, however, the pestilence
     raged with terrible fury.'"

There are other lodging-houses still lower in character than those
described above, and where there is a total absence of cleanliness
and decency. A man who had slept in these places, gave the following
account to Mr. Mayhew:—

     "He had slept in rooms so crammed with sleepers—he believed
     there were thirty where twelve would have been a proper
     number—that their breaths in the dead of night and in the
     unventilated chamber, rose (I use his own words) 'in one foul,
     choking steam of stench.' This was the case most frequently a
     day or two prior to Greenwich Fair or Epsom Races, when the
     congregation of the wandering classes, who are the supporters of
     the low lodging-houses, was the thickest. It was not only that
     two or even three persons jammed themselves into a bed not too
     large for one full-sized man; but between the beds—and their
     partition one from another admitted little more than the passage
     of a lodger—were placed shakedowns, or temporary accommodation
     for nightly slumber. In the better lodging-houses the shakedowns
     are small palliasses or mattrasses; in the worst they are bundles
     of rags of any kind; but loose straw is used only in the country
     for shakedowns. Our informant saw a traveller, who had arrived
     late, eye his shakedown in one of the worst houses with any thing
     but a pleased expression of countenance; and a surly deputy,
     observing this, told the customer he had his choice, 'which,' the
     deputy added, 'is not as all men has, or I shouldn't have been
     waiting here on you. But you has your choice, I tell you;—sleep
     there on that shakedown, or turn out and be—; that's fair.'
     At some of the busiest periods, numbers sleep on the kitchen
     floor, all huddled together, men and women, (when indecencies are
     common enough,) and without bedding or any thing but their scanty
     clothes to soften the hardness of the stone or brick floor. A
     penny is saved to the lodger by this means. More than two hundred
     have been accommodated in this way in a large house. The Irish,
     in harvest-time, very often resort to this mode of passing the
     night.

     "I heard from several parties, of the surprise, and even fear or
     horror, with which a decent mechanic—more especially if he were
     accompanied by his wife—regarded one of these foul dens, when
     destitution had driven him there for the first time in his life.
     Sometimes such a man was seen to leave the place abruptly, though
     perhaps he had prepaid his last halfpenny for the refreshment
     of a night's repose. Sometimes he was seized with sickness. I
     heard also from some educated persons who had 'seen better days,'
     of the disgust with themselves and with the world, which they
     felt on first entering such places. 'And I have some reason to
     believe,' said one man, 'that a person, once well off, who has
     sunk into the very depths of poverty, often makes his first
     appearance in one of the worst of those places. Perhaps it is
     because he keeps away from them as long as he can, and then, in
     a sort of desperation fit, goes into the cheapest he can meet
     with; or if he knows it's a vile place, he very likely says to
     himself—as I did—"I may as well know the worst at once."'

     "Another man, who had moved in good society, said, when asked
     about his resorting to a low lodging-house: 'When a man's lost
     caste in society, he may as well go the whole hog, bristles and
     all, and a low lodging-house is the entire pig.'

     "Notwithstanding many abominations, I am assured that the
     lodgers, in even the worst of these habitations, for the most
     part, sleep soundly. But they have, in all probability, been
     out in the open air the whole of the day, and all of them may
     go to their couches, after having walked, perhaps, many miles,
     exceedingly fatigued, and some of them half drunk. 'Why, in
     course, sir,' said a 'traveller,' whom I spoke to on this
     subject, 'if you is in a country town or village, where there's
     only one lodging-house, perhaps, and that a bad one—an old hand
     can always suit hisself in London—you _must_ get half drunk, or
     your money for your bed is wasted. There's so much rest owing
     to you, after a hard day; and bugs and bad air'll prevent its
     being paid, if you don't lay in some stock of beer, or liquor
     of some sort, to sleep on. It's a duty you owes yourself; but,
     if you haven't the browns, why, then, in course, you can't pay
     it.' I have before remarked, and, indeed, have given instances,
     of the odd and sometimes original manner in which an intelligent
     patterer, for example, will express himself.

     "The information I obtained in the course of this inquiry into
     the condition of low lodging-houses, afforded a most ample
     corroboration of the truth of a remark I have more than once
     found it necessary to make before—that persons of the vagrant
     class will sacrifice almost any thing for warmth, not to say
     heat. Otherwise, to sleep, or even sit, in some of the apartments
     of these establishments would be intolerable.

     "From the frequent state of weariness to which I have alluded,
     there is generally less conversation among the frequenters of
     the low lodging-houses than might be expected. Some are busy
     cooking, some (in the better houses) are reading, many are drowsy
     and nodding, and many are smoking. In perhaps a dozen places
     of the worst and filthiest class, indeed, smoking is permitted
     even in the sleeping-rooms; but it is far less common than it
     was even half-a-dozen years back, and becomes still less common
     yearly. Notwithstanding so dangerous a practice, fires are and
     have been very unfrequent in these places. There is always some
     one awake, which is one reason. The lack of conversation, I ought
     to add, and the weariness and drowsiness, are less observable in
     the lodging-houses patronized by thieves and women of abandoned
     character, whose lives are comparatively idle, and whose labour
     a mere nothing. In their houses, if their conversation be at all
     general, it is often of the most unclean character. At other
     times it is carried on in groups, with abundance of whispers,
     shrugs, and slang, by the members of the respective schools of
     thieves or lurkers."

       *       *       *       *       *

     "The licentiousness of the frequenters, and more especially the
     juvenile frequenters, of the low lodging-houses, must be even
     more briefly alluded to. In some of these establishments, men
     and women, boys and girls,—but perhaps in no case, or in very
     rare cases, unless they are themselves consenting parties, herd
     together promiscuously. The information which I have given from a
     reverend informant indicates the nature of the proceedings, when
     the sexes are herded indiscriminately, and it is impossible to
     present to the reader, in full particularity, the records of the
     vice practised.

     "Boys have boastfully carried on loud conversations, and from
     distant parts of the room, of their triumphs over the virtue of
     girls, and girls have laughed at and encouraged the recital.
     Three, four, five, six, and even more boys and girls have been
     packed, head and feet, into one small bed; some of them perhaps
     never met before. On such occasions any clothing seems often
     enough to be regarded as merely an encumbrance. Sometimes there
     are loud quarrels and revilings from the jealousy of boys and
     girls, and more especially of girls whose 'chaps' have deserted
     or been inveigled from them. At others, there is an amicable
     interchange of partners, and next day a resumption of their
     former companionship. One girl, then fifteen or sixteen, who had
     been leading this vicious kind of life for nearly three years,
     and had been repeatedly in prison, and twice in hospitals—and
     who expressed a strong desire to 'get out of the life' by
     emigration—said: 'Whatever that's bad and wicked, that any one
     can fancy could be done in such places among boys and girls
     that's never been taught, or won't be taught, better, _is_ done,
     and night after night.' In these haunts of low iniquity, or
     rather in the room into which the children are put, there are
     seldom persons above twenty. The young lodgers in such places
     live by thieving and pocket-picking, or by prostitution. The
     charge for a night's lodging is generally 2_d._, but smaller
     children have often been admitted for 1_d._ If a boy or girl
     resort to one of these dens at night without the means of
     defraying the charge for accommodation, the 'mot of the ken'
     (mistress of the house) will pack them off, telling them plainly
     that it will be no use their returning until they have stolen
     something worth 2_d._ If a boy or girl do not return in the
     evening, and have not been heard to express their intention of
     going elsewhere, the first conclusion arrived at by their mates
     is that they have 'got into trouble,' (prison.)

     "The indiscriminate admixture of the sexes among adults, in many
     of these places, is another evil. Even in some houses considered
     of the better sort, men and women, husbands and wives, old and
     young, strangers and acquaintances, sleep in the same apartment,
     and if they choose, in the same bed. Any remonstrance at some act
     of gross depravity, or impropriety, on the part of a woman not so
     utterly hardened as the others, is met with abuse and derision.
     One man who described these scenes to me, and had long witnessed
     them, said that almost the only women who ever hid their faces or
     manifested dislike of the proceedings they could not but notice,
     (as far as he saw,) were poor Irishwomen, generally those who
     live by begging: 'But for all that,' the man added, 'an Irishman
     or Irishwoman of that sort will sleep anywhere, in any mess, to
     save a halfpenny, though they may have often a few shillings, or
     a good many, hidden about them.'"

The recent report of Captain Hays, "on the operation of the Common
Lodging-house Act," presents some appalling facts:—

     "Up to the end of February, it was ascertained that 3100 persons,
     mostly Irishmen, in the very heart of the metropolis, lodged
     every night, 84,000 individuals in 3712 rooms. The instances
     enumerated are heart sickening. In a small room in Rosemary
     lane, near the Tower, fourteen adults were sleeping on the floor
     without any partition or regard to decency. In an apartment
     in Church lane, St. Giles, not fifteen feet square, were
     thirty-seven women and children, all huddled together on the
     floor. There are thousands of similar cases. The eastern portion
     of London, comprising Whitechapel, Spitalfields, and Mile-end—an
     unknown land to all of the decent classes—is filled with a
     swarming population of above 300,000 beggars, costermongers,
     thieves, ragsellers, Jews, and the like. A single court is a fair
     example of this whole district. It contains eight houses of two
     rooms each. Three hundred persons—men, women, and children—live
     there. There is only one place of convenience; and one hydrant,
     which is served half an hour each day. The condition of this
     court may be imagined; it is too filthy to describe. Decayed
     matter, stagnant water, refuse fish, vegetables, broken baskets,
     dead cats, dogs, and rats, are strewed everywhere around. The
     prices of various kinds of provision in these neighbourhoods give
     a forcible notion of the condition of the population. You can
     purchase for a halfpenny fish or meat enough for a dinner.

     "In this neighbourhood is Rag Fair. It is worth a visit.
     Thousands of persons are assembled in the streets, which are so
     thickly covered with merchandise that it is difficult to step
     along without treading on heaps of gowns, shawls, bonnets, shoes,
     and articles of men's attire. There is no conceivable article of
     dress that may not be purchased here. It is not without danger
     that one even visits the place at noonday. You are in the midst
     of the refuse of all London,—of a whole race, whose chief
     employment is to commit depredations upon property, and whose
     lives are spent in the midst of a squalor, filth, deprivation
     and degradation, which the whole world cannot probably parallel.
     One of the London missionaries says—'Persons who are accustomed
     to run up heavy bills at the shops of fashionable tailors and
     milliners will scarcely believe the sums for which the poor are
     able to purchase the same kind of articles. I have recently
     clothed a man and woman, both decently, for the sum of nine
     shillings. There is as great a variety of articles in pattern,
     shape, and size, as could be found in any draper's shop in
     London. The mother may go to _Rag Fair_, with the whole of her
     family, both boys and girls—yes, and her husband, too—and for
     a very few shillings deck them out from top to toe. I have no
     doubt that a man and his wife, and five or six children, with £1
     would purchase for themselves an entire change. This may appear
     an exaggeration; but I actually overheard a conversation, in
     which two women were trying to bargain for a child's frock; the
     sum asked was 1½_d._, and the sum offered was 1_d._, and they
     parted on the difference.'

     "The following is a bill delivered by a dealer to one of the
     missionaries, who was requested to supply a suit of clothes for a
     man and woman whom he had persuaded to get married several years
     after the right time:—

                                                              _s._ _d._
       A full linen-fronted shirt, very elegant                  0    6
       A pair of warm worsted stockings                          0    1
       A pair of light- trousers                         0    6
       A black cloth waistcoat                                   0    3
       A pair of white cotton braces                             0    1
       A pair of low shoes                                       0    1
       A black silk velvet stock                                 0    1
       A black beaver, fly-fronted, double-breasted paletot coat,
         lined with silk, a very superior article                1    6
       A cloth cap, bound with a figured band                    0    1
       A pair of black cloth gloves                              0    1
                                                                 —    —
                                                                 3    3

     "The man had been educated, and could speak no fewer than five
     languages; by profession he was, however, nothing but a dusthill
     raker.

     "The bill delivered for the bride's costume is as follows:

       A shift                                                   0    1
       A pair of stays                                           0    2
       A flannel petticoat                                       0    4
       A black Orleans ditto                                     0    4
       A pair of white cotton stockings                          0    1
       A very good light- cotton gown                    0   10
       A pair of single-soled slippers, with spring heels        0    2
       A double-dyed bonnet, including a neat cap                0    2
       A pair of white cotton gloves                             0    1
       A lady's green silk paletot, lined with crimson silk,
         trimmed with black                                      0   10
                                                                 —   ——
                                                                 3    1"

Throughout the country there are low lodging-houses, which do not
differ much in character from those of London. In all of them the most
disgusting immorality is practised to an extent scarcely conceivable by
those who do not visit such dens of vice and misery.

The story of the Jew Fagan, and his felonious operations, in Dickens's
Oliver Twist, is a true representation of a most extensive business
in London. There are a large number of notorious receivers of stolen
goods. Some of them keep a number of boys, who are instructed in
stealing, and beaten severely when unsuccessful. Mayhew mentions one
notorious case in George-yard. A wooden-legged Welshman, named Hughes,
and commonly called <DW75>, was the miscreant. Two little boys were his
chief agents in stealing, and when they did not obtain any thing, he
would take the strap off his wooden leg, and beat them through the
nakedness of their rags. He boarded and lodged about a dozen Chelsea
and Greenwich pensioners. These he followed and watched closely until
they were paid. Then, after they had settled with him, he would make
them drunk and rob them of the few shillings they had left.

The brutal treatment of servants, which we have already touched, drives
many of them to the low lodging-houses, and to the commission of crime.
In the following narrative, which a girl communicated to Mr. Mayhew,
we have an illustration of this assertion, as well as some awful
disclosures in regard to "life among the lowly:"—

     "'I am an orphan. When I was ten I was sent to service as a maid
     of all-work, in a small tradesman's family. It was a hard place,
     and my mistress used me very cruelly, beating me often. When I
     had been in place three weeks, my mother died; my father having
     died twelve years before. I stood my mistress's ill-treatment
     about six months. She beat me with sticks as well as with her
     hands. I was black and blue, and at last I ran away. I got
     to Mrs. —, a low lodging-house. I didn't know before that
     there was such a place. I heard of it from some girls at the
     Glasshouse, (baths and wash-houses,) where I went for shelter.
     I went with them to have a halfpenny worth of coffee, and they
     took me to the lodging-house. I then had three shillings, and
     stayed about a month, and did nothing wrong, living on the three
     shillings and what I pawned my clothes for, as I got some pretty
     good things away with me. In the lodging-house I saw nothing but
     what was bad, and heard nothing but what was bad. I was laughed
     at, and was told to swear. They said, 'Look at her for a d—
     modest fool'—sometimes worse than that, until by degrees I
     got to be as bad as they were. During this time I used to see
     boys and girls from ten to twelve years old sleeping together,
     but understood nothing wrong. I had never heard of such places
     before I ran away. I can neither read nor write. My mother was a
     good woman, and I wish I'd had her to run away to. I saw things
     between almost children that I can't describe to you—very often
     I saw them, and that shocked me. At the month's end, when I was
     beat out, I met with a young man of fifteen—I myself was going
     on to twelve years old—and he persuaded me to take up with him.
     I stayed with him three months in the same lodging-house, living
     with him as his wife, though we were mere children, and being
     true to him. At the three months' end he was taken up for picking
     pockets, and got six months. I was sorry, for he was kind to
     me; though I was made ill through him; so I broke some windows
     in St. Paul's churchyard to get into prison to get cured. I had
     a month in the Compter, and came out well. I was scolded very
     much in the Compter, on account of the state I was in, being so
     young. I had 2_s._ 6_d._ given to me when I came out, and was
     forced to go into the streets for a living. I continued walking
     the streets for three years, sometimes making a good deal of
     money, sometimes none, feasting one day and starving the next.
     The bigger girls could persuade me to do any thing they liked
     with my money. I was never happy all the time, but I could
     get no character, and could not get out of the life. I lodged
     all this time at a lodging-house in Kent-street. They were all
     thieves and bad girls. I have known between three and four dozen
     boys and girls sleep in one room. The beds were horrid filthy and
     full of vermin. There was very wicked carryings on. The boys, if
     any difference, was the worst. We lay packed, on a full night, a
     dozen boys and girls squeedged into one bed. That was very often
     the case—some at the foot and some at the top—boys and girls
     all mixed. I can't go into all the particulars, but whatever
     could take place in words or acts between boys and girls did take
     place, and in the midst of the others. I am sorry to say I took
     part in these bad ways myself, but I wasn't so bad as some of the
     others. There was only a candle burning all night, but in summer
     it was light great part of the night. Some boys and girls slept
     without any clothes, and would dance about the room that way. I
     have seen them, and, wicked as I was, felt ashamed. I have seen
     two dozen capering about the room that way; some mere children,
     the boys generally the youngest. * * * There were no men or women
     present. There were often fights. The deputy never interfered.
     This is carried on just the same as ever to this day, and is
     the same every night. I have heard young girls shout out to one
     another how often they had been obliged to go to the hospital,
     or the infirmary, or the workhouse. There was a great deal of
     boasting about what the boys and girls had stolen during the
     day. I have known boys and girls change their 'partners,' just
     for a night. At three years' end I stole a piece of beef from a
     butcher. I did it to get into prison. I was sick of the life I
     was leading, and didn't know how to get out of it. I had a month
     for stealing. When I got out I passed two days and a night in
     the streets doing nothing wrong, and then went and threatened to
     break Messrs. —'s windows again. I did that to get into prison
     again; for when I lay quiet of a night in prison I thought things
     over, and considered what a shocking life I was leading, and how
     my health might be ruined completely, and I thought I would stick
     to prison rather than go back to such a life. I got six months
     for threatening. When I got out I broke a lamp next morning for
     the same purpose, and had a fortnight. That was the last time
     I was in prison. I have since been leading the same life as I
     told you of for the three years, and lodging at the same houses,
     and seeing the same goings on. I hate such a life now more than
     ever. I am willing to do any work that I can in washing and
     cleaning. I can do a little at my needle. I could do hard work,
     for I have good health. I used to wash and clean in prison, and
     always behaved myself there. At the house where I am it is 3_d._
     a night; but at Mrs. —'s it is 1_d._ and 2_d._ a night, and
     just the same goings on. Many a girl—nearly all of them—goes
     out into the streets from this penny and twopenny house, to get
     money for their favourite boys by prostitution. If the girl can
     not get money she must steal something, or will be beaten by her
     'chap' when she comes home. I have seen them beaten, often kicked
     and beaten until they were blind from bloodshot, and their teeth
     knocked out with kicks from boots as the girl lays on the ground.
     The boys, in their turn, are out thieving all day, and the
     lodging-house keeper will buy any stolen provisions of them, and
     sell them to the lodgers. I never saw the police in the house. If
     a boy comes to the house on a night without money or sawney, or
     something to sell to the lodgers, a handkerchief or something of
     that kind, he is not admitted, but told very plainly, 'Go thieve
     it, then,' Girls are treated just the same. Anybody may call in
     the daytime at this house and have a halfpenny worth of coffee
     and sit any length of time until evening. I have seen three dozen
     sitting there that way, all thieves and bad girls. There are
     no chairs, and only one form in front of the fire, on which a
     dozen can sit. The others sit on the floor all about the room,
     as near the fire as they can. Bad language goes on during the
     day, as I told you it did during the night, and indecencies too,
     but nothing like so bad as at night. They talk about where there
     is good places to go and thieve. The missioners call sometimes,
     but they're laughed at often when they're talking, and always
     before the door's closed on them. If a decent girl goes there to
     get a ha'porth of coffee, seeing the board over the door, she is
     always shocked. Many a poor girl has been ruined in this house
     since I was, and boys have boasted about it. I never knew boy or
     girl do good, once get used there. Get used there, indeed, and
     you are life-ruined. I was an only child, and haven't a friend
     in the world. I have heard several girls say how they would
     like to get out of the life, and out of the place. From those I
     know, I think that cruel parents and mistresses cause many to
     be driven there. One lodging-house keeper, Mrs. —, goes out
     dressed respectable, and pawns any stolen property, or sells it
     at public-houses.'

     "As a corroboration of the girl's statement, a wretched-looking
     boy, only thirteen years of age, gave me the following additional
     information. He had a few rags hanging about him, and no
     shirt—indeed, he was hardly covered enough for purposes of
     decency, his skin being exposed through the rents in his jacket
     and trousers. He had a stepfather, who treated him very cruelly.
     The stepfather and the child's mother went 'across the country,'
     begging and stealing. Before the mother died, an elder brother
     ran away on account of being beaten.

     "'Sometimes,' I give his own words, 'he (the stepfather) wouldn't
     give us a bit to eat, telling us to go and thieve for it. My
     brother had been a month gone (he's now a soldier in Gibraltar)
     when I ran away to join him. I knew where to find him, as we
     met sometimes. We lived by thieving, and I do still—by pulling
     flesh, (stealing meat.) I got to lodge at Mrs. —, and have
     been there this eight months. I can read and write a little.'
     This boy then confirmed what the young girl had told me of the
     grossest acts night by night among the boys and girls, the
     language, &c., and continued:—'I always sleep on the floor for
     1_d._, and pay ½_d._ besides for coke. At this lodging-house
     cats and kittens are melted down, sometimes twenty a day. A quart
     pot is a cat, and pints and half-pints are kittens. A kitten
     (pint) brings 3_d._ from the rag-shops, and a cat 6_d._ There's
     convenience to melt them down at the lodging-house. We can't sell
     clothes in the house, except any lodger wants them; and clothes
     nearly all go to the Jews in Petticoat-lane. Mrs. — buys the
     sawney of us; so much for the lump, 2_d._ a pound about; she
     sells it again for twice what she gives, and more. Perhaps 30
     lbs. of meat every day is sold to her. I have been in prison six
     times, and have had three dozen; each time I came out harder. If
     I left Mrs. —'s house I don't know how I could get my living.
     Lots of boys would get away if they could. I never drink. I don't
     like it. Very few of us boys drink. I don't like thieving, and
     often go about singing; but I can't live by singing, and I don't
     know how I could live honestly. If I had money enough to buy a
     stock of oranges, I think I could be honest.'"

Mr. Mayhew called a meeting of thieves and beggars at the Bristol
Union School-room, Shakspeare Walk, Shadwell. One hundred and fifty
of them—all under twenty years of age—attended. It may be doubted
whether such a meeting could have been brought about in any other
city. The young thieves and beggars were very fair samples of their
numerous class. Of professed beggars, there were fifty; and sixty-six
acknowledged themselves habitual thieves. The announcement that the
greater number present were thieves, pleased them exceedingly, and was
received with three rounds of applause! Fourteen of them had been in
prison over twenty times, and twenty stated that they had been flogged
in prison. Seventy-eight of them regularly roamed through the country
every year; sixty-five slept regularly in the casual wards of the
Unions; and fifty-two occasionally slept in trampers' lodging-houses
throughout the country.

The ignorance prevailing among the vast number of street-sellers in
London, is rather comically illustrated by Mr. Mayhew, in the following
instance:—

     "One boy gave me his notions of men and things. He was a
     thick-limbed, red-cheeked fellow; answered very freely, and
     sometimes, when I could not help laughing at his replies, laughed
     loudly himself, as if he entered into the joke.

     "Yes, he had heer'd of God who made the world. Couldn't exactly
     recollec' when he'd heerd on him, but he had, most sarten-ly.
     Didn't know when the world was made, or how anybody could do it.
     It must have taken a long time. It was afore his time, 'or yourn
     either, sir.' Knew there was a book called the Bible; didn't
     know what it was about; didn't mind to know; knew of such a book
     to a sartinty, because a young 'oman took one to pop (pawn)
     for an old 'oman what was on the spree—a bran new 'un—but
     the cove wouldn't have it, and the old 'oman said he might be
     d—d. Never heer'd tell on the deluge, of the world having
     been drownded; it couldn't, for there wasn't water enough to do
     it. He weren't a going to fret hisself for such things as that.
     Didn't know what happened to people after death, only that they
     was buried. Had seen a dead body laid out; was a little afeared
     at first; poor Dick looked so different, and when you touched his
     face he was so cold! oh, so cold! Had heer'd on another world;
     wouldn't mind if he was there hisself, if he could do better, for
     things was often queer here. Had heer'd on it from a tailor—such
     a clever cove, a stunner—as went to 'Straliar, (Australia,)
     and heer'd him say he was going into another world. Had never
     heer'd of France, but had heer'd of Frenchmen; there wasn't half
     a quarter so many on 'em as of Italians, with their ear-rings
     like flash gals. Didn't dislike foreigners, for he never saw
     none. What was they? Had heer'd of Ireland. Didn't know where
     it was, but it couldn't be very far, or such lots wouldn't come
     from there to London. Should say they walked it, ay, every bit
     of the way, for he'd seen them come in all covered with dust.
     Had heer'd of people going to sea, and had seen the ships in the
     river, but didn't know nothing about it, for he was very seldom
     that way. The sun was made of fire, or it wouldn't make you feel
     so warm. The stars was fire, too, or they wouldn't shine. They
     didn't make it warm, they was too small. Didn't know any use they
     was of. Didn't know how far they was off; a jolly lot higher
     than the gas lights some on 'em was. Was never in a church; had
     heer'd they worshipped God there; didn't know how it was done;
     had heer'd singing and praying inside when he'd passed; never was
     there, for he hadn't no togs to go in, and wouldn't be let in
     among such swells as he had seen coming out. Was a ignorant chap,
     for he'd never been to school, but was up to many a move, and
     didn't do bad. Mother said he would make his fortin yet.

     "Had heer'd of the Duke of Wellington; he was Old Nosey; didn't
     think he ever seed him, but had seen his statty. Hadn't heer'd
     of the battle of Waterloo, nor who it was atween; once lived
     in Webber-row, Waterloo-road. Thought he had heer'd speak of
     Bonaparte; didn't know what he was; thought he'd heer'd of
     Shakspeare, but didn't know whether he was alive or dead, and
     didn't care. A man with something like that name kept a dolly
     and did stunning; but he was sich a hard cove that if _he_ was
     dead it wouldn't matter. Had seen the queen, but didn't recollec'
     her name just at the minute; oh! yes, Wictoria and Albert. Had
     no notion what the queen had to do. Should think she hadn't such
     power [he had first to ask me what 'power' was] as the lord
     mayor, or as Mr. Norton as was the Lambeth beak, and perhaps is
     still. Was never once before a beak, and didn't want to. Hated
     the crushers; what business had they to interfere with him if he
     was only resting his basket in a street? Had been once to the
     Wick, and once to the Bower; liked tumbling better; he meant to
     have a little pleasure when the peas came in."

The vagabond propensities of the street-children are thus described by
Mr. Mayhew:—

     "As soon as the warm weather commences, boys and girls, but more
     especially boys, leave the town in shoals, traversing the country
     in every direction; some furnished with trifling articles (such
     as I have already enumerated) to sell, and others to begging,
     lurking, or thieving. It is not the street-sellers who so much
     resort to the tramp, as those who are devoid of the commonest
     notions of honesty; a quality these young vagrants sometimes
     respect when in fear of a jail, and the hard work with which such
     a place is identified in their minds—and to which, with the
     peculiar idiosyncrasy of a roving race, they have an insuperable
     objection.

     "I have met with boys and girls, however, to whom a jail had no
     terrors, and to whom, when in prison, there was only one dread,
     and that a common one among the ignorant, whether with or without
     any sense of religion—superstition. 'I lay in prison of a night,
     sir,' said a boy who was generally among the briskest of his
     class, 'and think I shall see things.' The 'things' represent
     the vague fears which many, not naturally stupid, but untaught
     or ill-taught persons, entertain in the dark. A girl, a perfect
     termagant in the breaking of windows and suchlike offences, told
     me something of the same kind. She spoke well of the treatment
     she experienced in prison, and seemed to have a liking for the
     matron and officials; her conduct there was quiet and respectful.
     I believe she was not addicted to drink.

     "Many of the girls, as well as the boys, of course trade as
     they 'tramp.' They often sell, both in the country and in town,
     little necklaces composed of red berries strung together upon
     thick thread, for dolls and children; but although I have asked
     several of them, I have never yet found one who collected the
     berries and made the necklaces themselves; neither have I met
     with a single instance in which the girl vendors knew the name
     of the berries thus used, nor indeed even that they _were_
     berries. The invariable reply to my questions upon this point
     has been that they 'are called necklaces;' that 'they are just
     as they sells 'em to us;' that they 'don't know whether they are
     made or whether they grow;' and in most cases, that they 'gets
     them in London, by Shoreditch;' although in one case a little
     brown-complexioned girl, with bright sparkling eyes, said that
     'she got them from the gipsies.' At first I fancied, from this
     child's appearance, that she was rather superior in intellect to
     most of her class; but I soon found that she was not a whit above
     the others, unless, indeed, it were in the possession of the
     quality of cunning."

The regular "tramps," or wandering vagabonds, are very numerous
throughout Great Britain. At certain periods they issue from all the
large towns, and prey upon the rural districts like swarms of locusts.
In no other country can be found so constant a class of vagrants. The
gipsies form but a small portion of the "tramps." These vagrants are
miserably clothed, filthy, covered with vermin, and generally very
much diseased—sometimes from debauchery, and sometimes from want
of food and from exposure. Very few of them are married. The women
are nearly all prostitutes. The manner of life of these wanderers is
curious. They beg during the day in the towns, or along the roads;
and they so arrange their day's tramp as to arrive, most nights, in
the neighbourhood of the workhouses. They then hide the money they
have collected by begging, and present themselves, after sunset, at
the gates of the workhouse, to beg a night's lodging. To nearly every
workhouse there are attached vagrant wards, or buildings which are
specially set apart for the reception of tramps such as those we have
described. These wards are commonly brick buildings, of one story
in height. They have brick floors and guard-room beds, with loose
straw and rugs for the males, and iron bedsteads, with straw, for the
females. They are badly ventilated, and unprovided with any means for
producing warmth. All holes for ventilation are sure to be stopped up
at night, by the occupants, with rags or straw, so that the stench
of these sleeping-places is disgusting in the extreme. Guards are
appointed for these wards, but such is the immorality and indecency
of the vagrants, that the most disgusting scenes are common in them.
The wards resound with the vilest songs and the foulest language; and
so numerous are the "tramps" that the guardians find it impossible
to separate the sexes. This vast evil of vagrancy is constantly
increasing, and is a natural result of the monopolies and oppressions
of the aristocracy. It is stated that on the 25th of March, 1848, the
626 Unions of England and Wales relieved 16,086 vagrants. But this
scarcely gives an idea of the magnitude of the evil. Between 40,000
and 50,000 "tramps" infest the roads and streets of England and Wales
every day. The majority of them are thieves, and nearly all are almost
brutally ignorant.

In London there are large numbers of small dealers, called
costermongers and patterers. Persons belonging to these classes seldom
or never rise above their trade, and they seem to have a kind of
hereditary pride in their degraded position. Many of the costermongers
and patterers are thieves, and the general character of these classes
is very debased; ignorance and immorality prevail to a fearful
extent. The patterers are more intelligent than the costermongers,
but they are also more immoral. They help off their wares, which are
chiefly stationery and quack medicines, by long harangues, while the
costermongers merely cry their fish, greens, &c. about the streets.
The number of people dependent upon costermongering in London is about
thirty thousand. The patterers are not so numerous.

Concubinage is the rule and marriage the exception among both
costermongers and patterers. Mr. Mayhew estimates that only one-tenth
of the couples living together and carrying on the costermongering
trade are married. There is no honour attached to the marriage state
and no shame to concubinage. In good times the women are rigidly
faithful to their paramours, but in the worst pinch of poverty a
departure from fidelity is not considered heinous. About three out of
a hundred costermongers ever attend a church, and the majority of them
have no knowledge of Christianity; they associate the Church of England
and aristocracy, and hate both. Slang is acquired very rapidly, and
some costermongers will converse in it by the hour. The women use it
sparingly; the girls more than the women; the men more than the girls;
and the boys most of all. Pronouncing backward is the simple principle
upon which the costermonger slang is founded.

The patterers, though a vagrant, are an organized class. Mr. Mayhew
says—

     "There is a telegraphic despatch between them, through the
     length and breadth of the land. If two patterers (previously
     unacquainted) meet in the provinces, the following, or something
     like it, will be their conversation:—Can you 'voker romeny'
     (can you speak cant?) What is your 'monekeer?' (name.) Perhaps
     it turns out that one is 'White-headed Bob,' and the other
     'Plymouth Ned,' They have a 'shant of gatter' (pot of beer)
     at the nearest 'boozing ken,' (ale-house,) and swear eternal
     friendship to each other. The old saying, that 'When the
     liquor is in the wit is out,' is remarkably fulfilled on these
     occasions, for they betray to the 'flatties' (natives) all their
     profits and proceedings.

     "It is to be supposed that in country districts, where there are
     no streets, the patterer is obliged to call at the houses. As
     they are mostly without the hawker's license, and sometimes find
     wet linen before it is lost, the rural districts are not fond
     of their visits; and there are generally two or three persons
     in a village reported to be 'gammy,' that is, unfavourable. If
     a patterer has been 'crabbed,' that is, offended, at any of the
     'cribs,' (houses,) he mostly chalks a signal on or near the door.
     I give one or two instances:—

     "'Bone,' meaning good.

     "'Cooper'd,' spoiled by the imprudence of some other patterer.

     "'Gammy,' likely to have you taken up.

     "'Flummut,' sure of a month in quod.

     "In most lodging-houses there is an old man who is the guide to
     every 'walk' in the vicinity, and who can tell every house on
     every round that is 'good for a cold 'tater.' In many cases there
     is over the kitchen mantel-piece a map of the district, dotted
     here and there with memorandums of failure or success.

     "Patterers are fond of carving their names and avocations about
     the houses they visit. The old jail at Dartford has been some
     years a 'padding-ken.' In one of the rooms appear the following
     autographs:—

     "'Jemmy, the Rake, bound to Bristol; bad beds, but no bugs. Thank
     God for all things.'

     "'Razor George and his moll slept here the day after Christmas;
     just out of "stir," (jail,) for "muzzling a peeler."'

     "'Scotch Mary, with "driz," (lace,) bound to Dover and back,
     please God.'

     "Sometimes these inscriptions are coarse and obscene; sometimes
     very well written and orderly. Nor do they want illustrations.

     "At the old factory, Lincoln, is a portrait of the town beadle,
     formerly a soldier; it is drawn with different- chalks,
     and ends with the following couplet:—

         'You are a B for false swearing,
         In hell they'll roast you like a herring.'

     "Concubinage is very common among patterers, especially on
     their travels; they have their regular rounds, and call the
     peregrination 'going on circuit.' For the most part they are
     early risers; this gives them a facility for meeting poor girls
     who have had a night's shelter in the union workhouses. They
     offer such girls some refreshments, swear they are single men,
     and promise comforts certainly superior to the immediate position
     of their victims. Consent is generally obtained; perhaps a girl
     of fourteen or fifteen, previously virtuous, is induced to
     believe in a promise of constant protection, but finds herself,
     the next morning, ruined and deserted; nor is it unlikely that,
     within a month or two, she will see her seducer in the company of
     a dozen incidental wives. A gray-headed miscreant, called 'Cutler
     Tom,' boasts of five hundred such exploits; and there is too
     great reason to believe that the picture of his own drawing is
     not greatly overcharged."

A reverend gentleman, who had enjoyed the best opportunities for
observing the patterers, gave Mr. Mayhew the following information:—

     "I have seen fathers and mothers place their boys and girls in
     positions of incipient enormity, and command them to use language
     and gestures to each other which would make a harlot blush, and
     almost a heathen tremble. I have hitherto viewed the patterer
     as a salesman, having something in his hand, on whose merits,
     real or pretended, he talks people out of their money. By slow
     degrees prosperity rises, but rapid is the advance of evil. The
     patterer sometimes gets 'out of stock,' and is obliged, at no
     great sacrifice of conscience, to 'patter' in another strain. In
     every large town, sham official documents, with crests, seals,
     and signatures, can be got for half-a-crown. Armed with these,
     the patterer becomes a 'lurker,' that is, an impostor; his papers
     certify any and every 'ill that flesh is heir to.' Shipwreck is
     called a 'shake lurk;' loss by fire is a 'glim.' Sometimes the
     petitioner has had a horse which has dropped dead with the mad
     staggers; or has a wife ill or dying, and six or seven children
     at once sickening of the small-pox. Children are borrowed to
     support the appearance; the case is certified by the minister and
     churchwardens of a parish which exists only in imagination; and
     as many people dislike the trouble of investigation, the patterer
     gets enough to raise a stock in trade, and divides the spoil
     between the swag-shop and the gin-palace. Sometimes they are
     detected, and get a 'drag,' (three months in prison.)

     "They have many narrow escapes; one occurs to me of a somewhat
     ludicrous character:—A patterer and lurker (now dead) known
     by the name of 'Captain Moody,' unable to get a 'fakement'
     written or printed, was standing almost naked in the streets
     of a neighbouring town. A gentleman stood still and heard his
     piteous tale, but, having been 'done' more than once, he resolved
     to examine the affair, and begged the petitioner to conduct
     him to his wife and children, who were in a garret on a bed
     of languishing, with neither clothes, food, nor fire, but, it
     appeared, with faith enough to expect a supply from 'Him who
     feedeth the ravens,' and in whose sacred name even a cold 'tater
     was implored. The patterer, or half-patterer and half-beggar,
     took the gentleman (who promised a sovereign if every thing was
     square) through innumerable and intricate windings, till he came
     to an outhouse or sort of stable. He saw the key outside the
     door, and begged the gentleman to enter and wait till he borrowed
     a light of a neighbour to show him up-stairs. The illumination
     never arrived, and the poor charitable man found that the
     miscreant had locked him into the stable. The patterer went to
     the padding-ken, told the story with great glee, and left that
     locality within an hour of the occurrence."

Liverpool, Manchester, Birmingham, and other provincial cities possess
an ignorant and immoral population quite equal, in proportion to the
entire population of each city, to that of London. In each may be found
a degraded class, with scarcely any ideas of religion or morality,
living in the most wretched manner, and practising every species
of vice. The cellar-houses, in which many of them live, have been
described in another chapter. They are the filthy abodes of a people
almost reduced to a brutish condition. In Liverpool parish there is a
_cellar-population of 20,000_, a large number of whom are continually
engaged in criminal practices. There are portions of the city of
Glasgow which a stranger could scarcely traverse safely at night,
and where an amount of vice and misery may be witnessed which is not
exceeded in either London or Liverpool.

In the mining and manufacturing districts of England there is much
ignorance and more vice. In both, there are schools of a miserable
character, but those young persons who can find time to attend them
learn nothing beyond reading, writing, and the simplest rules of
arithmetic. The mining labour, as carried on in the mines of England,
is extremely demoralizing in its tendency, as we have shown in another
part of this work. The report of parliamentary commissioners contains
some statements in regard to the darkness of mind and corruption
of heart among young persons employed in the various trades and
manufactures.

The following facts are quoted from the Second Report of the
"Children's Employment Commission."

The moral and religious state of the children and young persons
employed in the trades and manufactures of Birmingham, is described by
the sub-commissioners as very unfavourable. The social and domestic
duties and affections are but little cultivated and practised; great
numbers never attend any place of public worship; and of the state of
juvenile crime some conception may be formed by the statement, that of
the total number of known or suspected offenders in this town, during
the twelve last months—namely, 1223—at least one-half were under
fifteen years of age.

As to illicit sexual intercourse, it seems to prevail almost
universally, and from a very early period of life; to this common
conclusion witnesses of every rank give testimony.

WOLVERHAMPTON.—Of the moral condition of the youthful population in
the Wolverhampton district, Mr. Horne says—"Putting together all
I elicited from various witnesses and conversations with working
people, abroad and at home, and all that fell under my observation, I
am obliged to come to the conclusion, that the moral virtues of the
great majority of the children are as few in number and as feeble in
practice as can well be conceived in a civilized country, surrounded by
religious and educational institutions, and by individuals anxious for
the improvement of the condition of the working classes."

He adds of WITTENHALL—"A lower condition of morals, in the fullest
sense of the term, could not, I think, be found. I do not mean by this
that there are many more prominent vices among them, but that moral
feelings and sentiments do not exist among them. They have no morals."

SHEFFIELD.—In all the Sheffield trades, employing large numbers of
children, it is stated that there is a much closer intermixture of the
younger children with the elder youths, and with the men, than is usual
in the cotton, woollen, and flax factories; and that the conversation
to which the children are compelled to listen, would debase their minds
and blunt their moral feelings even if they had been carefully and
virtuously educated, but that of course this result takes place more
rapidly and completely in the case of those who have had little or no
religious culture, and little but bad example before their eyes from
their cradle upward.

Habits of drinking are formed at a very early age, malt liquor being
generally introduced into the workshops, of which the youngest children
are encouraged to partake. "Very many," say the police-officers,
"frequent beer-shops, where they play at dominoes, bagatelle, &c. for
money or drink." Early intemperance is assigned by the medical men as
one cause of the great mortality of Sheffield. "There are beer-houses,"
says the Rev. Mr. Farish, "attended by youths exclusively, for the
men will not have them in the same houses with themselves. In these
beer-houses are youths of both sexes encouraged to meet, and scenes
destructive of every vestige of virtue or morality ensue.

But it is stated by all classes of witnesses, that "the most revolting
feature of juvenile depravity in this town is early contamination
from the association of the sexes," that "juvenile prostitution is
exceedingly common." "The evidence," says the sub-commissioner, "might
have been doubled which attests the early commencement of sexual and
promiscuous intercourse among boys and girls."

SEDGLEY.—At Sedgley and the neighbouring villages, the number of girls
employed in nail-making considerably exceeds that of the boys. Of these
girls Mr. Horne reports—"Their appearance, manners, habits, and moral
natures (so far as the word _moral_ can be applied to them) are in
accordance with their half-civilized condition. Constantly associating
with ignorant and depraved adults and young persons of the opposite
sex, they naturally fall into all their ways; and drink, smoke, swear,
throw off all restraint in word and act, and become as bad as a man.
The heat of the forge and the hardness of the work renders few clothes
needful in winter; and in summer, the six or seven individuals who are
crowded into these little dens find the heat almost suffocating. The
men and boys are usually naked, except a pair of trousers and an open
shirt, though they very often have no shirt; and the women and girls
have only a thin ragged petticoat, and an open shirt without sleeves."

In the mining districts, there is even more ignorance and depravity
than in the places where factories and workshops abound. The nature of
the work, and various wants, such as no freemen would suffer from—want
of proper schools and proper amusements—induce this state of things.
An American visiting any of these mining districts, would be astounded
at the dulness, ignorance, and viciousness that prevails among the
labourers—men and women, boys and girls. Many of them are perfect
heathens—never hearing of God except when his awful name is "taken in
vain." Of Christ and his mission they hear somewhat, but know nothing
positively. Newspapers—those daily and weekly messengers that keep
Americans fully informed of the affairs of the world—they seldom see.
The gin-shop and the brothel are their common resorts.

Missionaries are wanted in Great Britain. Alas! that in the middle of
the nineteenth century, there should be so many hundreds of thousands
of people, in the vicinity of a costly church establishment, without
any knowledge of the Bible!—that a professedly Christian government
should keep so many souls in ignorance of Christianity!—that a country
boasting of its civilization and enlightenment should contain so much
darkness and depravity!




CHAPTER X.

COOLIE SLAVERY IN THE BRITISH COLONIES.


The British government emancipated the <DW64> slaves held under its
authority in the West Indies, thereby greatly depreciating the value of
the islands, permitting a half-tamed race to fall back into a state of
moral and mental darkness, and adding twenty millions to the national
debt, to be paid out of the sweat and blood of her own white serfs.
This was termed a grand act of humanity; those who laboured for it have
been lauded and laurelled without stint, and English writers have been
exceedingly solicitous that the world should not "burst in ignorance"
of the achievement.

[Illustration: COOLIES.]

Being free, the <DW64>s, with the indolence inherent in their nature,
would not work. Many purses suffered in consequence, and the purse is
a very tender place to injure many persons. It became necessary to
substitute other labourers for the free <DW64>s, and the Coolies of
India were taken to the Antilles for experiment. These labourers were
generally sober, steady, and industrious. But how were they treated? A
colonist of Martinique, who visited Trinidad in June, 1848, thus writes
to the French author of a treatise on free and slave labour:—

     "If I could fully describe to you the evils and suffering endured
     by the Indian immigrants (Coolies) in that horribly governed
     colony, I should rend the heart of the Christian world by a
     recital of enormities unknown in the worst periods of colonial
     slavery.

     "Borrowing the language of the prophet, I can truly say,'The
     whole head is sick, and the whole heart is sad; from the sole of
     the foot to the top of the head nothing is sound;' wounds, sores,
     swollen ulcers, which are neither bandaged, nor soothed, nor
     rubbed with oil.

     "My soul has been deeply afflicted by all that I have seen.
     How many human beings lost! So far as I can judge, in spite of
     their wasting away, all are young, perishing under the weight of
     disease. Most of them are dropsical, for want of nourishment.
     Groups of children, the most interesting I have ever seen, scions
     of a race doomed to misfortune, were remarkable for their small
     limbs, wrinkled and reduced to the size of spindles—and not a
     rag to cover them! And to think that all this misery, all this
     destruction of humanity, all this waste of the stock of a ruined
     colony, might have been avoided, but has not been! Great God!
     it is painful beyond expression to think that such a neglect of
     duty and of humanity on the part of the colonial authorities,
     as well of the metropolis as of the colony—a neglect which
     calls for a repressive if not a retributive justice—will go
     entirely unpunished, as it has hitherto done, notwithstanding
     the indefatigable efforts of Colonel Fagan, the superintendent
     of the immigrants in this colony, an old Indian officer of large
     experience, of whom I have heard nothing but good, and never any
     evil thing spoken, in all my travels through the island.

     "I am told that Colonel Fagan prepared a regulation for the
     government and protection of the immigrants—which regulation
     would probably realize, beyond all expectation, the object aimed
     at; but scarcely had he commenced his operations when orders
     arrived from the metropolis to suppress it, and substitute
     another which proceeded from the ministry. The Governor, Mr.
     Harris, displeased that his own regulation was thus annulled,
     pronounced the new order impossible to be executed, and it was
     withdrawn without having been properly tried. The minister sent
     another order in regard to immigration, prepared in his hotel in
     Downing street; but Governor Harris pronounced it to be still
     more difficult of execution than the first, and it, too, failed.
     It is in this manner that, from beginning to end, the affairs of
     the Indian immigrants have been conducted. It was only necessary
     to treat them with justice and kindness to render them—thanks
     to their active superintendent—the best labourers that could
     be imported into the colony. They are now protected neither
     by regulations nor ordinances; no attention is paid to the
     experienced voice of their superintendent—full of benevolence
     for them, and always indefatigably profiting by what can be of
     advantage to them. If disease renders a Coolie incapable of work,
     he is driven from his habitation. This happens continually; he
     is not in that case even paid his wages. What, then, can the
     unfortunate creature do? Very different from the Creole or the
     African; far distant from his country, without food, without
     money; disease, the result of insufficient food and too severe
     labour, makes it impossible for him to find employment. He drags
     himself into the forests or upon the skirts of the roads, lies
     there and dies!

     "Some years since, the unfortunate Governor (Wall) of Gorea was
     hung for having pitilessly inflicted a fatal corporal punishment
     on a <DW64> soldier found guilty of mutiny; and this soldier,
     moreover, was under his orders. In the present case, I can prove
     a neglect to a great extent murderous. The victims are Indian
     Coolies of Trinidad. In less than one year, as is shown by
     official documents, _two thousand_ corpses of these unfortunate
     creatures have furnished food to the crows of the island; and
     a similar system is pursued, not only without punishment, but
     without even forming the subject of an official inquest. Strange
     and deplorable contradiction! and yet the nation which gives us
     this example boasts of extending the ægis of its protection over
     all its subjects, without distinction! It is this nation, also,
     that complacently takes to itself the credit of extending justice
     equally over all classes, over the lordly peer and the humblest
     subject, without fear, favour, or affection!"

In the Mauritius, the Coolies who have been imported are in a miserable
condition. The planters have profited by enslaving these mild and
gentle Hindoos, and rendering them wretched.

     "By aid of continued Coolie immigration," says Mr. Henry C.
     Carey,[103] "the export of sugar from the Mauritius has been
     doubled in the last sixteen years, having risen from seventy to
     one hundred and forty millions of pounds. Sugar is therefore very
     cheap, and the foreign competition is thereby driven from the
     British market. 'Such conquests,' however, says, very truly, the
     London Spectator, 'don't always bring profit to the conqueror;
     nor does production itself prove prosperity. Competition for
     the possession of a field may be carried so far as to reduce
     prices below prime cost; and it is clear, from the notorious
     facts of the West Indies—from the change of property, from the
     total unproductiveness of much property still—that the West
     India production of sugar has been carried on not only without
     replacing capital, but with a constant sinking of capital.' The
     'free' Coolie and the 'free' <DW64> of Jamaica have been urged
     to competition for the sale of sugar, and they seem likely to
     perish together; but compensation for this is found in the fact
     that 'free trade has, in reducing the prices of commodities
     for home consumption, enabled the labourer to devote a greater
     share of his income toward purchasing clothing and luxuries,
     and has increased the home trade to an enormous extent.' What
     effect this reduction of 'the prices of commodities for home
     consumption' has had upon the poor Coolies, may be judged from
     the following passage:—'I here beheld, for the first time, a
     class of beings of whom we have heard much, and for whom I have
     felt considerable interest. I refer to the Coolies imported by
     the British government to take the places of the _faineant_
     <DW64>s, when the apprenticeship system was abolished. Those I
     saw were wandering about the streets, dressed rather tastefully,
     but always meanly, and usually carrying over their shoulder a
     sort of _chiffonnier's_ sack, in which they threw whatever refuse
     stuff they found in the streets or received as charity. Their
     figures are generally superb, and their Eastern costume, to which
     they adhere as far as their poverty will permit of any clothing,
     sets off their lithe and graceful forms to great advantage. Their
     faces are almost uniformly of the finest classic mould, and
     illuminated by pairs of those dark, swimming, and propitiatory
     eyes which exhaust the language of tenderness and passion at
     a glance. But they are the most inveterate mendicants on the
     island. It is said that those brought from the interior of India
     are faithful and efficient workmen, while those from Calcutta
     and its vicinity are good for nothing. Those that were prowling
     about the streets of Spanish Town and Kingston, I presume were
     of the latter class, for there is not a planter on the island,
     it is said, from whom it would be more difficult to get any work
     than from one of them. They subsist by begging altogether. They
     are not vicious nor intemperate, nor troublesome particularly,
     except as beggars. In that calling they have a pertinacity before
     which a Northern mendicant would grow pale. They will not be
     denied. They will stand perfectly still and look through a window
     from the street for a quarter of an hour, if not driven away,
     with their imploring eyes fixed upon you like a stricken deer,
     without saying a word or moving a muscle. They act as if it were
     no disgrace for them to beg, as if an indemnification which they
     are entitled to expect, for the outrage perpetrated upon them in
     bringing them from their distant homes to this strange island, is
     a daily supply of their few and cheap necessities, as they call
     for them. I confess that their begging did not leave upon my mind
     the impression produced by ordinary mendicancy. They do not look
     as if they ought to work. I never saw one smile; and though they
     showed no positive suffering, I never saw one look happy. Each
     face seemed to be constantly telling the unhappy story of their
     woes, and, like fragments of a broken mirror, each reflecting in
     all its hateful proportions the national outrage of which they
     are the victims.'"[104]

English writers have frequently charged the citizens of the United
States with being sordid, and caring more for pecuniary profit than
honourable principle. No national measure of the great North American
Republic, however, is so deeply tainted with avaricious motives as the
colonial enactments and commercial schemes of Great Britain. Witness
the government of British India, and the infamous traffic in opium
forced upon the Chinese. In the conveyance of Coolies to the West
Indies, and their treatment while toiling in those islands, we see the
same base spirit displayed. All considerations of humanity have been
sacrificed to calculations of profit. A people, naturally mild and
intelligent, have been taken from their native land to distant islands,
to take the place of the fierce and barbarous Africans, to whose
civilization slavery seems almost necessary; and in their new land of
bondage these poor creatures have been deprived of the inducements to
steady exertion, and left to beg or starve.

After the passage of the act abolishing <DW64> slavery, an arrangement
was sanctioned by the colonial government for the introduction of
Indian labourers into the Mauritius, under a species of apprenticeship.
The Coolies were engaged at five rupees, equal to ten shillings a
month, for five years, with also one pound of rice, a quarter of a
pound of dhall, or grain—a kind of pulse—and one ounce of butter, or
ghee, daily. But for every day they were absent from their work they
were to return two days to their masters, who retained one rupee per
month to pay an advance made of six months' wages, and to defray the
expense of their passage. If these men came into Port Louis to complain
of their masters, they were lodged in the Bagne prison till their
masters were summoned! Before the magistrates the masters had a great
advantage over their servants. The latter being foreigners, but few of
them could speak French, and they had no one to assist them in pleading
their cause. They generally represented themselves as having been
deceived with respect to the kind of labour to be required of them.[105]

A large number of Indian convicts have been transported to the
Mauritius, and their slavery is deplorable. Backhouse, who visited the
island when these poor wretches were not so numerous as they now are,
says—"Among the Indian convicts working on the road, we noticed one
wearing chains; several had a slight single ring round the ankle. They
are lodged in huts with flat roofs, or in other inferior dwellings near
the road. There are about seven hundred of them in the island. What
renders them peculiarly objects of sympathy is, that they were sent
here for life, and no hope of any remission of sentence is held out to
them for good conduct. Theirs is a hopeless bondage; and though it is
said by some that they are not hard worked, yet they are generally,
perhaps constantly, breaking stones and mending the roads, and under
a tropical sun. There are among them persons who were so young when
transported that, in their offences, they could only be looked on
as the dupes of those who were older, and many of them bear good
characters."

The hopeless slavery of these convicts is a doom which displays, in
a striking light, the characteristics of British philanthropy. Death
would be preferable to such a punishment, in the estimation of many
of the Hindoos; but the British authorities are determined to make
the punishment pay! After the "eternal blazon" concerning the act of
emancipating <DW64>s, for which the pauperized labourers of Great
Britain had to pay by their slavery, the colonial government created
another system, attended with the misery and degradation of a people
better fitted for freedom than the <DW64>s. The civilized world is
requested to look on and admire!




CHAPTER XI.

SLAVERY IN BRITISH INDIA.


The extensive, populous, and wealthy peninsula of Hindostan has
suffered greatly from the crushing effects of the British slave system.
From the foundation of the empire in India by Clive, conquest and
extortion seem to have been the grand objects of the aristocratic
government. There unscrupulous soldiers have fought, slaughtered,
enslaved, and plundered. There younger sons, with rank, but without
fortune, have filled their purses. There vast and magnificent tracts
of country have been wasted with fire and sword, in punishment for
the refusal of native princes to become slaves. There the fat of the
land has been garnered up for the luxury of the conquerors, while
famine has destroyed the people by thousands. There, indeed, has the
British aristocracy displayed its most malignant propensities—rioting
in robbery and bloodshed—setting all religion at defiance, while
upholding the Christian standard—and earning to the full the continued
execration of mankind.

In a powerful work, called "The Aristocracy of England: a History for
the People, by John Hampden, Jun.," a book we commend to the people of
England, we have the following passage:—

     "From the hour that Clive and his coadjutors came into the
     discovery of the vast treasures of the native princes, whence
     he himself obtained, besides his jaghire of £30,000 per annum,
     about £300,000; and he and his fellows altogether, between
     1759 and 1763, no less than £5,940,498, exclusive of this said
     jaghire, the cupidity of the aristocracy became excited to the
     highest degree; and from that period to the present, India has
     been one scene of flights of aristocratic locusts, of fighting,
     plundering, oppression, and extortion of the natives. We will not
     go into these things; they are fully and faithfully written in
     Mills's 'History of British India;' in Howitt's 'Colonization and
     Christianity;' and, above all, in the letters of the Honourable
     Frederick Shore, brother of Lord Teignmouth, a man who passed
     through all offices—from a clerk to that of a judge—and saw
     much of the system and working of things in many parts of India.
     He published his letters originally in the India papers, that
     any one on the spot might challenge their truth; and, since his
     death, they have been reprinted in England. The scene which
     that work opens up is the most extraordinary, and demands the
     attention of every lover of his country and his species. It fully
     accounts for the strange facts, that India is now drained of
     its wealth; that its public works, especially the tanks, which
     contributed by their waters to maintain its fertility, are fallen
     to decay; that one-third of the country is a jungle inhabited
     by tigers, who pay no taxes; that its people are reduced to the
     utmost wretchedness, and are often, when a crop fails, swept away
     by half a million at once by famine and its pendant, pestilence,
     as in 1770, and again in 1838-9. To such a degree is this
     reduction of the wealth and cultivation of India carried, that
     while others of our colonies pay taxes to the amount of a pound
     or thirty shillings per head, India pays only four shillings.

     "At the renewal of its charter in 1834, its income was about
     _twenty millions_, its debt about _forty millions_. Since then
     its income has gradually fallen to about _seventeen millions_,
     and its debt we hear now whispered to be about _seventy
     millions_. Such have been the effects of exhausted fields and
     physical energies on the one hand, and of wars, especially that
     of Afghanistan, on the other. It requires no conjurer, much less
     a very profound arithmetician, to perceive that at this rate we
     need be under no apprehension of Russia, for a very few years
     will take India out of our hands by mere financial force.

     "Our aristocratic government, through the Board of Control, keep
     up and exert a vast patronage in India. The patronage of the
     president of this board alone, independent of his salary of £5000
     a year, is about _twenty-one_ thousand pounds. But the whole
     aristocracy have an interest in keeping up wars in India, that
     their sons as officers, especially in these times of European
     peace, may find here both employment and promotion. This, then,
     the Company has to contend against; and few are they who are
     aware of the formidable nature of this power as it is exerted
     in this direction, and of the strange and unconstitutional
     legislative authority with which they have armed themselves for
     this purpose. How few are they who are aware that, while the
     East India Company has been blamed as the planners, authors,
     and movers of the fatal and atrocious invasion of Caboul,
     that the Directors of the Company only first, and to their
     great amazement, learned the outbreak of that war from the
     public Indian papers. So far from that war being one of their
     originating, it was most opposed to their present policy, and
     disastrous to their affairs. How then came this monstrous war
     about, and _who_ then did originate it? To explain this requires
     us to lay open a monstrous stretch of unconstitutional power
     on the part of our government—a monstrous stratagem for the
     maintenance of their aristocratic views in India, which it is
     wonderful could have escaped the notice and reprehension of the
     public. Let the reader mark well what follows.

     "In the last charter, granted in 1834, a clause was introduced,
     binding a secret committee of the East India Company, consisting
     of three persons only, the chairman, deputy chairman, and senior
     director, who are solemnly sworn to this work, to receive
     private despatches from the Board of Control, and without
     communicating them to a single individual besides themselves, to
     forward them to India, where the receivers are bound, _without
     question or appeal_, to enforce their immediate execution. By
     this inquisitorial system, this worse than Spanish or Venetian
     system of secret decrees, government has reserved to itself a
     direction of the affairs of India, freed from all constitutional
     or representative check, and reduced the India Company to a mere
     cat's-paw. By the sworn secrecy and implicit obedience of this
     mysterious triumvirate, the Company is made the unconscious
     instrument of measures most hostile to its own views, and most
     fatal to its best interests. It may at any hour become the
     medium of a secret order which may threaten the very destruction
     of its empire. Such was the case with the war of Caboul. The
     aristocratic government at home planned and ordered it; and the
     unconscious Company was made at once to carry out a scheme so
     atrocious, so wicked and unprincipled, as well as destructive
     to its plans of civil economy, and to bear also the infamy of
     it. Awaking, therefore, to the tremendous nature of the secret
     powers thus introduced into their machinery by government, the
     Company determined to exercise also a power happily intrusted to
     _them_. Hence the recall of Lord Ellenborough, who, in obedience
     to aristocratic views at home, was not only running headlong
     over all their plans of pacific policy, but with his armies
     and elephants was treading under foot their cotton and sugar
     plantations. Hence, on the other hand, the favour and support
     which this warlike lord finds with the great martial duke, and
     the home government."

The policy of the European conquerors of India was fully illustrated
during the gubernatorial term of Warren Hastings. Of his extortion the
eloquent Macaulay says—


     "The principle which directed all his dealings with his
     neighbours is fully expressed by the old motto of one of the
     great predatory families of Teviotdale—'Thou shalt want ere
     I want,' He seems to have laid it down, as a fundamental
     proposition which could not be disputed, that when he had not
     as many lacs of rupees as the public service required, he was
     to take them from anybody who had. One thing, indeed, is to
     be said in excuse for him. The pressure applied to him by his
     employers at home was such as only the highest virtue could have
     withstood—such as left him no choice except to commit great
     wrongs, or to resign his high post, and with that post all his
     hopes of fortune and distinction. It is perfectly true, that the
     directors never enjoined or applauded any crime. Far from it.
     Whoever examines their letters at that time will find there many
     just and humane sentiments, many excellent precepts; in short, an
     admirable circle of political ethics. But every exhortation is
     modified or annulled by a demand for money. 'Govern leniently,
     and send more money; practise strict justice and moderation
     toward neighbouring powers, and send more money;' this is, in
     truth, the sum of almost all the instructions that Hastings ever
     received from home. Now these instructions, being interpreted,
     mean simply, 'Be the father and the oppressor of the people; be
     just and unjust, moderate and rapacious.' The directors dealt
     with India as the church, in the good old times, dealt with a
     heretic. They delivered the victim over to the executioners,
     with an earnest request that all possible tenderness might be
     shown. We by no means accuse or suspect those who framed these
     despatches of hypocrisy. It is probable that, writing fifteen
     thousand miles from the place where their orders were to be
     carried into effect, they never perceived the gross inconsistency
     of which they were guilty. But the inconsistency was at once
     manifest to their lieutenant at Calcutta, who, with an empty
     treasury, with an unpaid army, with his own salary often in
     arrear, with deficient crops, with government tenants daily
     running away, was called upon to remit home another half million
     without fail. Hastings saw that it was absolutely necessary for
     him to disregard either the moral discourses or the pecuniary
     requisitions of his employers. Being forced to disobey them in
     something, he had to consider what kind of disobedience they
     would most readily pardon; and he correctly judged that the
     safest course would be to neglect the sermons and to find the
     rupees."

How were the rupees found? By selling provinces that had never belonged
to the British dominions; by the destruction of the brave Rohillas
of Rohilcund, in the support of the cruel tyrant, Surajah Dowlah,
sovereign of Oude, of which terrible act Macaulay says—

     "Then the horrors of Indian war were let loose on the fair
     valleys and cities of Rohilcund; the whole country was in a
     blaze. More than a hundred thousand people fled from their
     homes to pestilential jungles, preferring famine and fever and
     the haunts of tigers to the tyranny of him to whom an English
     and a Christian government had, for shameful lucre, sold their
     substance and their blood, and the honour of their wives and
     daughters. Colonel Champion remonstrated with the Nabob Vizier,
     and sent strong representations to Fort William; but the governor
     had made no conditions as to the mode in which the war was to
     be carried on. He had troubled himself about nothing but his
     forty lacs; and, though he might disapprove of Surajah Dowlah's
     wanton barbarity, he did not think himself entitled to interfere,
     except by offering advice. This delicacy excites the admiration
     of the reverend biographer. 'Mr. Hastings,' he says, 'could not
     himself dictate to the Nabob, nor permit the commander of the
     Company's troops to dictate how the war was to be carried on.'
     No, to be sure. Mr. Hastings had only to put down by main force
     the brave struggles of innocent men fighting for their liberty.
     Their military resistance crushed, his duties ended; and he had
     then only to fold his arms and look on while their villages were
     burned, their children butchered, and their women violated."

By such a course of action, Warren Hastings made the British empire in
India pay. By such means did the aristocrats, of whom the governor was
the tool, obtain the money which would enable them to live in luxury.

     "The servants of the Company obtained—not for their employers,
     but for themselves—a monopoly of almost the whole internal
     trade; they forced the natives to buy dear and sell cheap; they
     insulted with perfect impunity the tribunals, the police, and
     the fiscal authorities of the country; they covered with their
     protection a set of native dependants, who ranged through the
     provinces spreading desolation and terror wherever they appeared.
     Every servant of a British factor was armed with all the power
     of his master, and his master was armed with all the power of
     the Company. Enormous fortunes were thus rapidly accumulated at
     Calcutta, while thirty millions of human beings were reduced to
     the last extremity of wretchedness. They had been accustomed
     to live under tyranny, but never under tyranny like this; they
     found the little finger of the Company thicker than the loins
     of Surajah Dowlah. Under their old masters they had at least
     one resource; when the evil became insupportable, they rose and
     pulled down the government. But the English government was not
     to be so shaken off. That government, oppressive as the most
     oppressive form of barbarian despotism, was strong with all the
     strength of civilization; it resembled the government of evil
     genii rather than the government of human tyrants." * * *

     "The foreign lords of Bengal were naturally objects of hatred
     to all the neighbouring powers, and to all the haughty
     race presented a dauntless front; their armies, everywhere
     outnumbered, were everywhere victorious. A succession of
     commanders, formed in the school of Clive, still maintained
     the fame of their country. 'It must be acknowledged,' says
     the Mussulman historian of those times, 'that this nation's
     presence of mind, firmness of temper, and undaunted bravery are
     past all question. They join the most resolute courage to the
     most cautious prudence; nor have they their equal in the art of
     ranging themselves in battle array and fighting in order. If to
     so many military qualifications they knew how to join the arts of
     government—if they exerted as much ingenuity and solicitude in
     relieving the people of God as they do in whatever concerns their
     military affairs, no nation in the world would be preferable to
     them or worthier of command; but the people under their dominion
     groan everywhere, and are reduced to poverty and distress. O God!
     come to the assistance of thine afflicted servants, and deliver
     them from the oppressions they suffer.'"

From the earliest times the "village system," with its almost
patriarchal regulations, seems to have prevailed in Hindostan. Each
village had its distinct organization, and over a certain number of
villages, or a district, was an hereditary chief and an accountant,
both possessing great local influence and authority, and certain
estates.[106] The Hindoos were strongly attached to their native
villages, and could only be forced to abandon them by the most constant
oppressions. Dynasties might change and revolutions occur, but so
long as each little community remained undisturbed, the Hindoos were
contented. Mohammedan conquerors left this beautiful system, which
had much more of genuine freedom than the British institutions at the
present day, untouched. The English conquerors were not so merciful,
although they were acquainted with Christianity. The destruction of
local organizations and the centralization of authority, which is
always attended with the increase of slavery,[107] have been the aims
of English efforts. The principle that the government is the sole
proprietor of the land, and therefore entitled to a large share of
the produce, has been established, and slavery, to escape famine and
misery, has become necessary to the Hindoos.

Exhaustion was the result of the excessive taxation laid upon the
Hindoos by the East India Company. As the government became stinted
for revenue, Lord Cornwallis was instructed to make a permanent
settlement, by means of which all the rights of village proprietors
over a large portion of Bengal were sacrificed in favour of the
Zemindars, or head men, who were thus at once constituted great landed
proprietors—masters of a large number of poor tenants, with power to
punish at discretion those who were not able to pay whatever rent was
demanded.[108] From free communities, the villages were reduced to the
condition of British tenants-at-will. The Zemindaree system was first
applied to Bengal. In Madras another system, called the Ryotwar, was
introduced. This struck a fatal blow at the local organizations, which
were the sources of freedom and happiness among the Hindoos. Government
assumed all the functions of an immediate landholder, and dealt with
the individual cultivators as its own tenants, getting as much out of
them as possible.

The Zemindars are an unthrifty, rack-renting class, and take the
uttermost farthing from the under-tenants. Oppressions and evictions
are their constant employments; and since they have been constituted
a landed aristocracy, they have fully acted out the character in the
genuine British fashion.

Another tenure, called the Patnee, has been established of late
years, by some of the great Zemindars, with the aid of government
enactments, and it is very common in Bengal. The great Zemindar,
for a consideration, makes over a portion of his estate in fee to
another, subject to a perpetual rent, payable through the collector,
who receives it on behalf of the zemindar; and if it is not paid, the
interests of the patneedar are sold by the collector. These, again,
have sub-patneedars, and the system has become very much in vogue in
certain districts. The parties are like the Irish middlemen, and the
last screws the tenant to the uttermost.[109]

During the British government of Bengal, wealth has been accumulated by
a certain superior class, and population, cultivation, and the receipts
from rent of land, have largely increased; but, as in England, the mass
of the people are poor and degraded. In the rich provinces of Upper
India, where the miserable landed system of the conquerors has been
introduced, the results have been even more deplorable. Communities,
once free, happy, and possessed of plenty, are now broken up, or
subjected to such excessive taxation that their members are kept in
poverty and slavery.

Colonel Sleeman, in his "Rambles and Recollections of an Indian
Official," records a conversation which he held with the head
landholder of a village, organized under the Zemindar system. During
the dialogue, some statements were made which are important for our
purpose.

The colonel congratulated himself that he had given satisfactory
replies to the arguments of the Zemindar, and accounted naturally for
the evils suffered by the villagers. The reader will, doubtless, form a
different opinion:—

     "In the early part of November, after a heavy fall of rain, I
     was driving alone in my buggy from Garmuktesin on the Ganges,
     to Meerut. The roads were very bad, the stage a double one, and
     my horse became tired and unable to go on. I got out at a small
     village to give him a little rest and food; and sat down under
     the shade of one old tree upon the trunk of another that the
     storm had blown down, while my groom, the only servant I had with
     me, rubbed down and baited my horse. I called for some parched
     grain from the same shop which supplied my horse, and got a
     draught of good water, drawn from the well by an old woman, in a
     brass jug lent to me for the purpose by the shopkeeper.

     "While I sat contentedly and happily stripping my parched grain
     from its shell, and eating it grain by grain, the farmer, or head
     landholder of the village, a sturdy old Rajpoot, came up and sat
     himself, without any ceremony, down by my side, to have a little
     conversation. [To one of the dignitaries of the land, in whose
     presence the aristocracy are alone considered entitled to chairs,
     this easy familiarity seems at first strange and unaccountable;
     he is afraid that the man intends to offer him some indignity,
     or what is still worse, mistakes him for something less than a
     dignitary! The following dialogue took place:—]

     "'You are a Rajpoot, and a Zemindar?' (landholder.)

     "'Yes; I am the head landholder of this village.'


     "'Can you tell me how that village in the distance is elevated
     above the ground; is it from the debris of old villages, or from
     a rock underneath?'

     "'It is from the debris of old villages. That is the original
     seat of all the Rajpoots around; we all trace our descent from
     the founders of that village, who built and peopled it many
     centuries ago.'

     "'And you have gone on subdividing your inheritances here as
     elsewhere, no doubt, till you have hardly any of you any thing to
     eat?'

     "'True, we have hardly any of us enough to eat; but that is the
     fault of the government, that does not leave us enough—that
     takes from us as much when the season is bad as when it is good!'

     "'But your assessment has not been increased, has it?'

     "'No; we have concluded a settlement for twenty years upon the
     same footing as formerly.'

     "'And if the sky were to shower down upon you pearls and
     diamonds, instead of water, the government would never demand
     more from you than the rate fixed upon?'

     'No.'

     "'Then why should you expect remissions in bad seasons?'

     "'It cannot be disputed that the _burkut_ (blessing from above)
     is less under you than it used to be formerly, and that the lands
     yield less from our labour.'

     "'True, my old friend, but do you know the reason why?'

     "'No.'

     "'Then I will tell you. Forty or fifty years ago, in what you
     call the times of the _burkut_, (blessing from above,) the
     cavalry of Seikh, free-booters from the Punjab, used to sweep
     over this fine plain, in which stands the said village from which
     you are all descended; and to massacre the whole population of
     some villages; and a certain portion of that of every other
     village; and the lands of those killed used to lie waste for want
     of cultivators. Is not this all true?'

     "'Yes, quite true.'

     "'And the fine groves which had been planted over this plain by
     your ancestors, as they separated from the great parent stock,
     and formed independent villages and hamlets for themselves, were
     all swept away and destroyed by the same hordes of free-booters,
     from whom your poor imbecile emperors, cooped up in yonder large
     city of Delhi, were utterly unable to defend you?'

     "'Quite true,' said the old man with a sigh. 'I remember when
     all this fine plain was as thickly studded with fine groves of
     mango-trees as Rohilcund, or any other part of India.'

     "'You know that the land requires rest from labour, as well as
     men and bullocks; and that if you go on sowing wheat, and other
     exhausting crops, it will go on yielding less and less returns,
     and at last not be worth the tilling?'

     "'Quite well.'

     "'Then why do you not give the land rest by leaving it longer
     fallow, or by a more frequent alternation of crops relieve it?'

     "'Because we have now increased so much, that we should not get
     enough to eat were we to leave it to fallow; and unless we tilled
     it with exhausting crops we should not get the means of paying
     our rents to government.'

     "'The Seikh hordes in former days prevented this; they killed off
     a certain portion of your families, and gave the land the _rest_
     which you now refuse it. When you had exhausted one part, you
     found another recovered by a long fallow, so that you had better
     returns; but now that we neither kill you, nor suffer you to be
     killed by others, you have brought all the cultivable lands into
     tillage; and under the old system of cropping to exhaustion, it
     is not surprising that they yield you less returns.'

     "By this time we had a crowd of people seated around us upon the
     ground, as I went on munching my parched grain and talking to the
     old patriarch. They all laughed at the old man at the conclusion
     of my last speech, and he confessed I was right.

     "'This is all true, sir, but still your government is not
     considerate; it goes on taking kingdom after kingdom and adding
     to its dominions, without diminishing the burden upon us its old
     subjects. Here you have had armies away taking Afghanistan, but
     we shall not have one rupee the less to pay.'

     "'True, my friend, nor would you demand a rupee less from those
     honest cultivators around us, if we were to leave you all your
     lands untaxed. You complain of the government—they complain of
     you. [Here the circle around us laughed at the old man again.]
     Nor would you subdivide the lands the less for having it rent
     free; on the contrary, it would be every generation subdivided
     the more, inasmuch as there would be more of local ties, and a
     greater disinclination on the part of the members of families to
     separate and seek service abroad.'

     "'True, sir, very true; that is, no doubt, a very great evil.'

     "'And you know it is not an evil produced by us, but one arising
     out of your own laws of inheritance. You have heard, no doubt,
     that with us the eldest son gets the whole of the land, and the
     younger sons all go out in search of service, with such share as
     they can get of the other property of their father?'

     "'Yes, sir; but where shall we get service—you have none to give
     us. I would serve to-morrow, if you would take me as a soldier,'
     said he, stroking his white whiskers.

     "The crowd laughed heartily, and some wag observed, 'that perhaps
     I should think him too old.'

     "'Well,' said the old man, smiling, 'the gentleman himself is
     not very young, and yet I dare say he is a good servant of his
     government.'

     "This was paying me off for making the people laugh at his
     expense. 'True, my old friend,' said I, 'but I began to serve
     when I was young, and have been long learning.'

     "'Very well,' said the old man; 'but I should be glad to serve
     the rest of my life upon a less salary than you got when you
     began to learn.'

     "'Well, my friend, you complain of our government; but you must
     acknowledge that we do all we can to protect you, though it is
     true that we are often acting in the dark.'

     "'Often, sir? you are always acting in the dark; you hardly any
     of you know any thing of what your revenue and police officers
     are doing; there is no justice or redress to be got without
     paying for it; and it is not often that those who pay can get it.'

     "'True, my old friend, that is bad all over the world. You cannot
     presume to ask any thing even from the Deity himself, without
     paying the priest who officiates in his temples; and if you
     should, you would none of you hope to get from your deity what
     you asked for.'

     "Here the crowd laughed again, and one of them said 'that there
     was certainly this to be said for our government, that the
     European gentlemen themselves never took bribes, whatever those
     under them might do.'

     "'You must not be too sure of that neither. Did not the Lal
     Beebee (red lady) get a bribe for soliciting the judge, her
     husband, to let go Ameer Sing, who had been confined in jail?'

     "'How did this take place?'

     "'About three years ago Ameer Sing was sentenced to imprisonment,
     and his friends spent a great deal of money in bribes to the
     native officers of the court, but all in vain. At last they were
     recommended to give a handsome present to the red lady. They did
     so, and Ameer Sing was released.'

     "'But did they give the present into the lady's own hand?'

     "'No, they gave it to one of her women.'

     "'And how do you know that she ever gave it to her mistress, or
     that her mistress ever heard of the transaction?'

     "'She might certainly have been acting without her mistress's
     knowledge; but the popular belief is, that Lal Beebee got the
     present.'

     "I then told them the story of the affair at Jubbulpore, when
     Mrs. Smith's name had been used for a similar purpose, and the
     people around us were highly amused; and the old man's opinion of
     the transaction evidently underwent a change.[110]

     "We became good friends, and the old man begged me to have my
     tents, which he supposed were coming up, pitched among them, that
     he might have an opportunity of showing that he was not a bad
     subject, though he grumbled against the government.

     "The next day, at Meerut, I got a visit from the chief native
     judge, whose son, a talented youth, is in my office. Among other
     things, I asked him whether it might not be possible to improve
     the character of the police by increasing the salaries of the
     officers, and mentioned my conversation with the landholder.

     "'Never, sir,' said the old gentleman; 'the man that now gets
     twenty-five rupees a month, is contented with making perhaps
     fifty or seventy-five more; and the people subject to his
     authority pay him accordingly. Give him a hundred, sir, and he
     will put a shawl over his shoulders, and the poor people will be
     obliged to pay him at a rate which will make up his income to
     four hundred. You will only alter his style of living, and make
     him a greater burden to the people; he will always take as long
     as he thinks he can with impunity.'

     "'But do you not think that when people see a man adequately paid
     by government, they will the more readily complain at any attempt
     at unauthorized exactions?'

     "'Not a bit, sir, as long as they see the same difficulties in
     the way of prosecuting them to conviction. In the administration
     of civil justice (the old gentleman is a civil judge) you may
     occasionally see your way, and understand what is doing; but in
     revenue and police you have never seen it in India, and never
     will, I think. The officers you employ will all add to their
     incomes by unauthorized means; and the lower their incomes, the
     less their pretensions, and the less the populace have to pay.'"

In the "History of the Possessions of the Honourable East India
Company," by R. Montgomery Martin, F. S. S., the following statements
occur:—

     "The following estimate has been made of the population of the
     allied and independent states:—Hydrabad, 10,000,000; Oude,
     6,000,000; Nagpoor, 3,000,000; Mysore, 3,000,000; Sattara,
     1,500,000; Gurckwar, 2,000,000; Travancore and Cochin, 1,000,000;
     Rajpootana, and various minor principalities, 16,500,000;
     Sciudias territories, 4,000,000; the Seiks, 3,000,000; Nepál,
     2,000,000; Cashmere, etc., 1,000,000; Scinde, 1,000,000; total,
     51,000,000. This, of course, is but a rough estimate by Hamilton,
     (Slavery in British India.) For the last forty years the East
     India Company's government have been gradually, but safely,
     abolishing slavery throughout their dominions; they began in
     1789 with putting down the maritime traffic, by prosecuting any
     person caught in exporting or importing slaves by sea, long
     before the British government abolished that infernal commerce
     in the Western world, and they have ever since sedulously sought
     the final extinction of that domestic servitude which had long
     existed throughout the East, as recognised by the Hindoo and
     Mohammedan law. In their despatches of 1798, it was termed
     '_an inhuman commerce and cruel traffic_.' French, Dutch, or
     Danish subjects captured within the limit of their dominions in
     the act of purchasing or conveying slaves were imprisoned and
     heavily fined, and every encouragement was given to their civil
     and military servants to aid in protecting the first rights of
     humanity.

     "Mr. Robertson,[111] in reference to Cawnpore,
     observes:—'Domestic slavery exists; but of an agricultural slave
     I do not recollect a single instance. When I speak of _domestic_
     slavery, I mean that _status_ which I must call slavery for want
     of any more accurate designation. It does not, however, resemble
     that which is understood in Europe to be slavery; it is the
     mildest species of servitude. The domestic slaves are certain
     persons purchased in times of scarcity; children purchased
     from their parents; they grow up in the family, and are almost
     entirely employed in domestic offices in the house; not liable to
     be resold.

     "'There is a certain species of slavery in South Bahar, where
     a man mortgages his labour for a certain sum of money; and this
     species of slavery exists also in Arracan and Ava. It is for his
     life, or until he shall pay the sum, that he is obliged to labour
     for the person who lends him the money; and if he can repay the
     sum, he emancipates himself.

     "'Masters have no power of punishment recognised by our laws.
     Whatever may be the provision of the Mohammedan or Hindoo
     codes to that effect, it is a dead letter, for we would not
     recognise it. The master doubtless may sometimes inflict
     domestic punishment; but if he does, the slave rarely thinks
     of complaining of it. Were he to do so his complaint would be
     received.' This, in fact, is the palladium of liberty in England.

     "In Malabar, according to the evidence of Mr. Baber, slavery, as
     mentioned by Mr. Robertson, also exists, and perhaps the same
     is the case in Guzerat and to the north; but the wonder is, not
     that such is the case, but that it is so partial in extent, and
     fortunately so bad in character, approximating indeed so much
     toward the feudal state as to be almost beyond the reach as well
     as the necessity of laws which at present would be practically
     inoperative. The fact, that of 100,000,000 British inhabitants,
     [or allowing five to a family, 20,000,000 families,] upward of
     16,000,000 are landed proprietors, shows to what a confined
     extent even domestic slavery exists. A commission has been
     appointed by the new charter to inquire into this important but
     delicate subject.'"

We have quoted this passage from a writer who is a determined advocate
of every thing _British_, whether it be good or had, in order to show
by his own admission that chattel slavery, that is the precise form
of slavery of which the British express such a holy horror, exists in
British India under the sanction of British laws. Nor does it exist to
a small extent only, as he would have us believe. It has always existed
there, and must necessarily be on the increase, from the very cause
which he points out, viz. famine. No country in the world, thanks to
British oppression, is so frequently and so extensively visited by
famine as India; and as the natives can escape in many instances from
starving to death by selling themselves, and can save their children
by selling them into slavery, we can readily form an estimate of the
great extent to which this takes place in cases of famine, where the
people are perishing by thousands and tens of thousands. As to the
statement that the government of the East India Company have been
endeavouring to abolish this species of slavery, it proves any thing
rather than a desire to benefit the natives of India. Chattel slaves
are not desired by British subjects because the ownership of them
involves the necessity of supporting them in sickness and old age. The
kind of slavery which the British have imposed on the great mass of
their East Indian subjects is infinitely more oppressive and inhuman
than chattel slavery. Indeed it would not at all suit the views of
the British aristocracy to have chattel slavery become so fashionable
in India as to interfere with their own cherished system of political
slavery, which is so extensively and successfully practised in England,
Scotland, Ireland, and the West and East Indies. The money required for
the support of chattel slaves could not be spared by the aristocratic
governments in the colonies. The object is to take the fruits of the
labourer's toil without providing for him at all. When labourers are
part of a master's capital, the better he provides for them the more
they are worth. When they are not property, the character of their
subsistence is of no importance; but they must yield the greater part
of the results of their toil.

The "salt laws" of India are outrageously oppressive. An account of
their operation will give the reader a taste of the character of the
legislation to which the British have subjected conquered Hindoos. Such
an account we find in a recent number of "Household Words," which Lord
Shaftesbury and his associates in luxury and philanthropy should read
more frequently than we can suppose they do:—

     "Salt, in India, is a government monopoly. It is partially
     imported, and partially manufactured in government factories.
     These factories are situated in dreary marshes—the workers
     obtaining certain equivocal privileges, on condition of following
     their occupation in these pestiferous regions, where hundreds of
     these wretched people fall, annually, victims to the plague or
     the floods.

     "The salt consumed in India must be purchased through the
     government, at a duty of upward of two pounds per ton, making the
     price to the consumer about eight pence per pound. In England,
     salt may be purchased by retail, three pounds, or wholesale, five
     pounds for one penny; while in India, upward of thirty millions
     of persons, whose average incomes do not amount to above three
     shillings per week, are compelled to expend one-fourth of that
     pittance in salt for themselves and families.

     "It may naturally be inferred, that, with such a heavy duty upon
     this important necessary of life, that underhand measures are
     adopted by the poor natives for supplying themselves. We shall
     see, however, by the following severe regulations, that the
     experiment is too hazardous to be often attempted. Throughout
     the whole country there are numerous 'salt chokies,' or police
     stations, the superintendents of which are invested with powers
     of startling and extraordinary magnitude.

     "When information is lodged with such superintendent that salt is
     stored in any place without a '_ruwana_,' or permit, he proceeds
     to collect particulars of the description of the article, the
     quantity stated to be stored, and the name of the owner of the
     store. If the quantity stated to be stored exceeds seventy
     pounds, he proceeds with a body of police to make the seizure.
     If the door is not opened to him at once, he is invested with
     full power to break it open; and if the police-officers exhibit
     the least backwardness in assisting, or show any sympathy with
     the unfortunate owner, they are liable to be heavily fined. The
     owner of the salt, with all persons found upon the premises,
     are immediately apprehended, and are liable to six months'
     imprisonment for the first offence, twelve for the second, and
     eighteen months for the third; so that if a poor Indian was to
     see a shower of salt in his garden, (there _are_ showers of
     salt sometimes,) and to attempt to take advantage of it without
     paying duty, he would become liable to this heavy punishment.
     The superintendent of police is also empowered to detain and
     search trading vessels, and if salt be found on board without
     a permit, the whole of the crew may be apprehended and tried
     for the offence. Any person erecting a distilling apparatus in
     his own house, merely to distil enough sea-water for the use
     of his household, is liable to such a fine as may ruin him.
     In this case, direct proof is not required, but inferred from
     circumstances at the discretion of the judge.

     "If a person wishes to erect a factory upon his own estate,
     he must first give notice to the collector of revenue of all
     the particulars relative thereto, failing which, the collector
     may order all the works to be destroyed. Having given notice,
     officers are immediately quartered upon the premises, who
     have access to all parts thereof, for fear the company should
     be defrauded of the smallest amount of duty. When duty _is_
     paid upon any portion, the collector, upon giving a receipt,
     specifies the name and residence of the person to whom it is to
     be delivered, to whom it _must_ be delivered within a stated
     period, or become liable to fresh duty. To wind up, and make
     assurance doubly sure, the police may seize and detain any load
     or package which may pass the stations, till they are satisfied
     such load or package does not contain contraband salt.

     "Such are the salt laws of India; such the monopoly by which
     a revenue of three millions sterling is raised; and such the
     system which, in these days of progress and improvement, acts as
     an incubus upon the energies, the mental resources, and social
     advancement of the immense population of India.

     "Political economists of all shades of opinion—men who have well
     studied the subject—deliberately assert that nothing would tend
     so much toward the improvement of that country, and to a more
     complete development of its vast natural resources, than the
     abolition of these laws; and we can only hope, without blaming
     any one, that at no distant day a more enlightened policy will
     pervade the councils of the East India Company, and that the poor
     Hindoo will be emancipated from the thraldom of these odious
     enactments.

     "But apart from every other consideration, there is one,
     in connection with the Indian salt-tax, which touches the
     domestic happiness and vital interest of every inhabitant in
     Great Britain. It is decided, by incontrovertible medical
     testimony, that cholera (whose ravages every individual among
     us knows something, alas! too well about) is in a great measure
     engendered, and its progress facilitated, by the prohibitory
     duties on salt in India, the very cradle of the pestilence. Our
     precautionary measures to turn aside the plague from our doors,
     appear to be somewhat ridiculous, while the plague itself is
     suffered to exist, when it might be destroyed—its existence
     being tolerated only to administer to the pecuniary advantage
     of a certain small class of the community. Let the medical men
     of this country look to it. Let the people of this country
     generally look to it; for there is matter for grave and solemn
     consideration, both nationally and individually, in the Indian
     salt-tax."

Yes, the salt-tax is very oppressive; but it _pays_ those who
authorized its assessment, and that is sufficient for them. When they
discover some means of obtaining its equivalent—some oppression quite
as cruel but not so obvious—we may expect to hear of the abolition of
the odious salt monopoly.

Famines (always frightfully destructive in India) have become
more numerous than ever, under the blighting rule of the British
aristocrats. Vast tracts of country, once the support of busy
thousands, have been depopulated by these dreadful visitations.

     "The soil seems to lie under a curse. Instead of yielding
     abundance for the wants of its own population and the inhabitants
     of other regions, it does not keep in existence its own children.
     It becomes the burying-place of millions who die upon its bosom
     crying for bread. In proof of this, turn your eyes backward upon
     the scenes of the past year. Go with me into the North-west
     provinces of the Bengal presidency, and I will show you the
     bleaching skeletons of five hundred thousand human beings, who
     perished of hunger in the space of a few short months. Yes,
     died of hunger, in what has been justly called the granary of
     the world. Bear with me, if I speak of the scenes which were
     exhibited during the prevalence of this famine. The air for miles
     was poisoned by the effluvia emitted from the putrefying bodies
     of the dead. The rivers were choked with the corpses thrown
     into their channels. Mothers cast their little ones beneath the
     rolling waves, because they would not see them draw their last
     gasp and feel them stiffen in their arms. The English in the
     cities were prevented from taking their customary evening drives.
     Jackals and vultures approached, and fastened upon the bodies
     of men, women, and children before life was extinct. Madness,
     disease, despair stalked abroad, and no human power present to
     arrest their progress. It was the carnival of death. And this
     occurred in British India—in the reign of Victoria the First.
     Nor was the event extraordinary and unforeseen. Far from it:
     1835-36 witnessed a famine in the Northern provinces; 1833 beheld
     one to the eastward; 1822-23 saw one in the Deccan."

The above extract from one of George Thompson's "Lectures on India,"
conveys an idea of the horrors of a famine in that country. What then
must be the guilt of that government that adopts such measures as
tend to increase the frequency and swell the horror of these scenes!
By draining the resources of the people, and dooming them to the most
pinching poverty, the British conquerors have greatly increased the
dangers of the visitations of famine, and opened to it a wide field for
destruction. The poor Hindoos may be said to live face to face with
starvation. The following account of the famine of 1833 is given by
Colonel Sleeman, in his "Rambles and Recollections:"—

     "During the famine of 1833, as on all similar occasions, grain
     of every kind, attracted by high prices, flowed up in large
     streams from this favoured province (Malwa) toward Bundelcund;
     and the population of Bundelcund, as usual in such times of
     dearth and scarcity, flowed off toward Malwa against the stream
     of supply, under the assurance that the nearer they got to the
     source the greater would be their chance of employment and
     subsistence. Every village had its numbers of the dead and the
     dying; and the roads were all strewed with them; but they were
     mostly concentrated upon the great towns, and civil and military
     stations, where subscriptions were open for their support by
     both the European and native communities. The funds arising from
     these subscriptions lasted till the rain had fairly set in, when
     all able-bodied persons could easily find employment in tillage
     among the agricultural communities of the villages around.
     After the rains have fairly set in, the _sick_ and _helpless_
     only should be kept concentrated upon large towns and stations,
     where little or no employment is to be found; for the oldest
     and youngest of those who are able to work can then easily find
     employment in weeding the cotton, rice, sugar-cane, and other
     fields under autumn crops, and in preparing the land for the
     reception of the wheat, grain, and other spring seeds; and get
     advances from the farmers, agricultural capitalists, and other
     members of the village communities, who are all glad to share
     their superfluities with the distressed, and to pay liberally for
     the little service they are able to give in return.

     "At large places, where the greater numbers are concentrated, the
     scene becomes exceedingly distressing, for in spite of the best
     dispositions and greatest efforts on the part of government and
     its officers, and the European and native communities, thousands
     commonly die of starvation. At Saugor, mothers, as they lay in
     the streets unable to walk, were seen holding up their infants,
     and imploring the passing stranger to take them in slavery,
     that they might at least live—hundreds were seen creeping into
     gardens, courtyards, and old ruins, concealing themselves under
     shrubs, grass, mats, or straw, where they might die quietly,
     without having their bodies torn by birds and beasts before the
     breath had left them! Respectable families, who left home in
     search of the favoured land of Malwa, while yet a little property
     remained, finding all exhausted, took opium rather than beg, and
     husband, wife, and children died in each other's arms! Still more
     of such families lingered on in hope until all had been expended;
     then shut their doors, took poison, and died all together,
     rather than expose their misery, and submit to the degradation
     of begging. All these things I have myself known and seen; and
     in the midst of these and a hundred other harrowing scenes which
     present themselves on such occasions, the European cannot fail to
     remark the patient resignation with which the poor people submit
     to their fate; and the absence of almost all those revolting
     acts which have characterized the famines of which he has read
     in other countries—such as the living feeding on the dead,
     and mothers devouring their own children. No such things are
     witnessed in Indian famines; here all who suffer attribute the
     disaster to its real cause, the want of rain in due season; and
     indulge in no feelings of hatred against their rulers, superiors,
     or more fortunate equals in society, who happen to live beyond
     the influence of such calamities. They gratefully receive the
     superfluities which the more favoured are always found ready to
     share with the afflicted in India; and though their sufferings
     often subdue the strongest of all pride—the pride of caste,
     they rarely ever drive people to acts of violence. The stream of
     emigration, guided as it always is by that of the agricultural
     produce flowing in from the more favoured countries, must
     necessarily concentrate upon the communities along the line it
     takes a greater number of people than they have the means of
     relieving, however benevolent their dispositions; and I must say,
     that I have never either seen or read of a nobler spirit than
     seems to animate all classes of these communities in India on
     such distressing occasions."

The same writer has some judicious general remarks upon the causes of
famine in India, which are worthy of quotation. We have only to add,
that whatever may be found in the climate and character of the country
that expose the people to the frequency of want, the conquerors have
done their best to aggravate natural evils:—

     "In India, unfavourable seasons produce much more disastrous
     consequences than in Europe. In England, not more than one-fourth
     of the population derive their incomes from the cultivation of
     the land around them. Three-fourths of the people have incomes,
     independent of the annual returns from those lands; and with
     these incomes they can purchase agricultural produce from other
     lands when the crops upon them fail. The farmers, who form so
     large a portion of the fourth class, have stock equal in value
     to _four times the amount of the annual rent of their lands_.
     They have also a great variety of crops; and it is very rare
     that more than one or two of them fail, or are considerably
     affected, the same season. If they fail in one district or
     province, the deficiency is very easily supplied to people who
     have equivalents to give for the produce of another. The sea,
     navigable rivers, fine roads, all are open and ready at all times
     for the transport of the super-abundance of one quarter to supply
     the deficiencies of another. In India the reverse of all this
     is unhappily everywhere to be found; more than three-fourths of
     the whole population are engaged in the cultivation of the land,
     and depend upon its annual returns for subsistence. The farmers
     and cultivators have none of them stock equal in value to more
     than _half the amount of the annual rents of their lands_. They
     have a great variety of crops; but all are exposed to the same
     accidents, and commonly fail at the same time. The autumn crops
     are sown in June and July, and ripen in October and November;
     and if seasonable showers do not fall in July, August, and
     September, all fail. The spring crops are sown in October and
     November, and ripen in March; and if seasonable showers do not
     happen to fall during December or January, all, save what are
     artificially irrigated, fail. If they fail in one district or
     province, the people have few equivalents to offer for a supply
     of land produce from any other. Their roads are scarcely anywhere
     passable for wheeled carriages at _any season_, and nowhere _at
     all seasons_—they have nowhere a navigable canal, and only in
     one line a navigable river. Their land produce is conveyed upon
     the backs of bullocks, that move at the rate of six or eight
     miles a day, and add one hundred per cent. to the cost for every
     hundred miles they carry it in the best seasons, and more than
     two hundred in the worst. What in Europe is felt merely as a
     _dearth_, becomes in India, under all these disadvantages, a
     _scarcity_; and what is there a _scarcity_ becomes here a famine."

Another illustration of the truth that poverty is the source of crime
and depravity is found in India. Statistics and the evidence of recent
travellers show that the amount of vice in the different provinces is
just in proportion to the length of time they have been under British
rule. No stronger proof of the iniquity of the government—of its
poisonous tendencies as well as positive injustice—could be adduced.

The cultivation and exportation of the pernicious drug, opium, which
destroys hundreds of thousands of lives annually, have latterly been
prominent objects of the East Indian government. The best tracts
of land in India were chosen for the cultivation of the poppy. The
people were told that they must either raise this plant, make opium,
or give up their land. Furthermore, those who produced the drug were
compelled to sell it to the Company. In the Bengal Presidency, the
monopoly of the government is complete. It has its establishment for
the manufacture of the drug. There are two great agencies at Ghazeepore
and Patna, for the Benares and Bahar provinces. Each opium agent has
several deputies in different districts, and a native establishment.
They enter into contracts with the cultivator for the supply of opium
at a rate fixed to suit the demand. The land-revenue authorities do
not interfere, except to prevent cultivation without permission. The
land cultivated is measured, and all the produce must be sold to the
government. At the head agency the opium is packed in chests and sealed
with the Company's seal.[112]

The imperial government of China, seeing that the traffic in opium was
sowing misery and death among its subjects, prohibited the introduction
of the drug within the empire in 1839. But the British had a vast
amount of capital at stake, and the profits of the trade were too
great to be relinquished for any considerations of humanity. War was
declared; thousands of Chinese were slaughtered, and the imperial
government forced to permit the destructive traffic on a more extensive
scale than ever, and to pay $2,000,000 besides for daring to protest
against it!

The annual revenue now realized from the opium traffic amounts to
£3,500,000. It is estimated that about 400,000 Chinese perish every
year in consequence of using the destructive drug, while the amount
of individual and social misery proceeding from the same cause is
appalling to every humane heart. Among the people of India who have
been forced into the cultivation and manufacture of opium, the use of
it has greatly increased under the fostering care of the government.
The Company seems to be aware that a people enervated by excessive
indulgence will make little effort to throw off the chains of slavery.
Keep the Hindoo drunk with opium and he will not rebel.

The effects of this drug upon the consumer are thus described by a
distinguished Chinese scholar:—"It exhausts the animal spirits,
impedes the regular performance of business, wastes the flesh and
blood, dissipates every kind of property, renders the person
ill-favoured, promotes obscenity, discloses secrets, violates the laws,
attacks the vitals, and destroys life." This statement is confirmed by
other natives, and also by foreign residents; and it is asserted that,
as a general rule, a person does not live more than ten years after
becoming addicted to the use of this drug.

The recent Burmese war had for one of its objects the opening of
a road to the interior of China, for the purpose of extending the
opium trade. And for such an object thousands of brave Burmese were
slaughtered, fertile and beautiful regions desolated, and others
subjected to the peculiar slave-system of the East India Company. The
extension of British dominion and the accumulation of wealth in British
hands, instead of the spread of Christianity and the development of
civilization, mark all the measures of the Company.

William Howitt, one of the ablest as well as the most democratic
writers of England, thus confirms the statements made above:—

     "The East India Company exists by monopolies of the land, of
     opium, and of salt. By their narrow, greedy, and purblind
     management of these resources, they have contrived to reduce
     that once affluent country to the uttermost depths of poverty
     and pauperism. The people starve and perish in famine every
     now and then by half a million at a time. One-third of that
     superb peninsula is reduced to waste and jungle. While other
     colonies pay from twenty to thirty shillings per head of revenue,
     India yields only four shillings per head. The income of the
     government at the last renewal of the charter was _twenty
     millions_; it is now reduced to about _seventeen millions_; and
     even to raise this, they have been obliged to double the tax
     on salt. The debt was _forty millions_; it is now said to be
     augmented by constant war, and the payment of the dividends,
     which, whatever the real proceeds, are always kept up to
     the usual height, to _seventy millions_. This is a state of
     things which cannot last. It is a grand march toward financial
     inanition. It threatens, if not arrested by the voice of the
     British people, the certain and no very distant loss of India.

     "We have some glimpses of the treatment of the people in the
     collection of the land-tax, as it is called, but really the rent.
     The government claims not the mere right of governing, but, as
     conquerors, the fee-simple of the land. Over the greater part of
     India there are no real freeholders. The land is the Company's,
     and they collect, not a tax, but a rent. They have their
     collectors all over India, who go and say as the crops stand, 'We
     shall take so much of this.' It is seldom less than one-half—it
     is more commonly sixty, seventy, and eighty per cent! This is
     killing the goose to come at the golden egg. It drives the people
     to despair; they run away and leave the land to become jungle;
     they perish by famine in thousands and tens of thousands.

     "This is why no capitalists dare to settle and grow for us
     cotton, or manufacture for us sugar. There is no security—no
     fixity of taxation. It is one wholesale system of arbitrary
     plunder, such as none but a conquered country in the first
     violence of victorious license ever was subjected to. But this
     system has here continued more than a generation; the country is
     reduced by it to a fatal condition—the only wonder is that we
     yet retain it at all.

     "The same system is pursued in the opium monopoly. The finest
     lands are taken for the cultivation of the poppy; the government
     give the natives what they please for the opium, often about as
     many shillings as they get paid for it guineas per pound, and
     ship it off to curse China with it. 'In India,' says a writer
     in the Chinese Repository, 'the extent of territory occupied
     with the poppy, and the amount of population engaged in its
     cultivation and the preparation of opium, are far greater than
     in any other part of the world.'

     "Turkey is said to produce only 2000 chests of opium annually;
     India produces 40,000 of 134 lbs. each, and yielding a revenue of
     about £4,000,000 sterling.

     "But perhaps worse than all is the salt monopoly. It is well
     known that the people of India are a vegetable diet people.
     Boiled rice is their chief food, and salt is an absolute
     necessary of life. With a vegetable diet in that hot climate,
     without plenty of salt, putrid diseases and rapid mortality are
     inevitable. Nature, or Providence, has therefore given salt
     in abundance. The sea throws it up already crystallized in
     many places; in others it is prepared by evaporation; but the
     Company steps in and imposes _two hundred per cent._ on this
     indispensable article, and guards it by such penalties that the
     native dare not stoop to gather it when it lies at his feet. The
     consequence is that mortality prevails, to a terrific extent
     often, among the population. Officers of government are employed
     to destroy the salt naturally formed; and government determines
     how much salt shall be annually consumed.

     "Now, let the people of England mark one thing. _The cholera
     originates in the East._ It has visited us once, and is on its
     march once more toward us. We have heard through the newspapers
     of its arrival in Syria, in Turkey, in Russia, at Vienna. In a
     few months it will probably be again among us.

     "_Has any one yet imagined that this scourge may possibly be the
     instrument of Divine retribution for our crimes and cruelties?_
     Has any one imagined that we have any thing to do with the
     creation of this terrible pestilence? Yet there is little, there
     is scarcely the least doubt, that this awful instrument of death
     is occasioned by this very monopoly of salt—that it is the
     direct work of the four-and-twenty men in Leadenhall-street.
     The cholera is found to arise in the very centre of India.
     It commences in the midst of this swarming population, which
     subsists on vegetables, and which is deprived by the British
     government of the necessary salt! In that hot climate it acquires
     a deadly strength—thousands perish by it as by the stroke of
     lightning, and it hence radiates over the globe, travelling at
     the speed of a horse in full gallop. Thus it is that God visits
     our deeds upon our heads.

     "Such is a brief glance at the mal-administration, the abuse,
     and the murderous treatment of India, permitted by great and
     Christian England to a knot of mere money-making traders. We
     commit the lives and happiness of one hundred and fifty millions
     of souls—the well-being, and probably the chance of retention,
     of one of the finest countries in the world, and the comfort and
     prosperity of every human creature in Great Britain, to the hands
     of those who are only, from day to day, grasping at the vitals
     of this glorious Eastern region to increase their dividends.
     This is bad enough, but this is not all. As if we had given them
     a charter in the most effectual manner to damage our dominions
     and blast all our prospects of trade, we have allowed these
     four-and-twenty men of Leadenhall-street not only to <DW36>
     India, but to exasperate and, as far as possible, close China
     against us. Two millions of people in India and three millions of
     people in China—all waiting for our manufactures, all capable
     of sending us the comforts and necessaries that we need—it
     would seem that to us, a nation especially devoted to trade, as
     if Providence had opened all the gorgeous and populous East to
     employ and to enrich us. One would have thought that every care
     and anxiety would have been aroused to put ourselves on the best
     footing with this swarming region. It has been the last thing
     thought of.

     "The men of Leadenhall-street have been permitted, after having
     paralyzed India, to send to China not the articles that the
     Chinese wanted, but the very thing of all others that its
     authorities abhorred—that is, opium.

     "It is well known with what assiduity these traders for years
     thrust this deadly drug into the ports of China; or it may be
     known from 'Medhurst's China,' from 'Thelwall's Iniquities of
     the Opium Trade,' from 'Montgomery Martin's Opium in China,'
     and various other works. It is well known what horrors, crimes,
     ruin of families, and destruction of individuals the rage of
     opium-smoking introduced among the millions of the Celestial
     Empire. Every horror, every species of reckless desperation,
     social depravity, and sensual crime, spread from the practice
     and overran China as a plague. The rulers attempted to stop the
     evil by every means in their power. They enacted the severest
     punishments for the sale of it. These did not avail. They
     augmented the punishment to death. Without a stop to it the whole
     framework of society threatened to go to pieces. 'Opium,' says
     the Imperial edict itself, 'coming from the distant regions of
     barbarians, has pervaded the country with its baneful influence.'
     The opium-smoker would steal, sell his property, his children,
     the mother of his children, and finally commit murder for it. The
     most ghastly spectacles were everywhere seen; instead of healthy
     and happy men, the most repulsive scenes. 'I visited one of the
     opium-houses,' said an individual quoted by Sir Robert Inglis,
     in the House of Commons, in 1843, 'and shall I tell you what I
     saw in this antechamber of hell? I thought it impossible to find
     anything worse than the results of drinking ardent spirits; but
     I have succeeded in finding something far worse. I saw Malays,
     Chinese, men and women, old and young, in one mass, in one common
     herd, wallowing in their filth, beastly, sensual, devilish, and
     this under the eyes of a Christian government.'

     "They were these abominations and horrors that the Emperor of
     China determined to arrest. They were these which our East India
     Company determined to perpetuate for this base gain. When the
     emperor was asked to license the sale of opium, as he could not
     effect its exclusion, and thus make a profit of it, what was his
     reply? '_It is true I cannot prevent the introduction of the
     flowing poison. Gain-seeking and corrupt men will, for profit
     and sensuality, defeat my wishes, but nothing will induce me to
     derive a benefit from the vice and misery of my people._'

     "These were the sentiments of the Chinese monarch; what was the
     conduct of the so-called Christian Englishmen? They determined to
     go on poisoning and demoralizing China, till they provoked the
     government to war, and then massacred the people to compel the
     continuance of the sale of opium."

Howitt evidently has as ardent a sympathy for those who have
suffered from the tyranny of British rule as Edmund Burke himself.
The wholesale degradation of the Hindoos, which has resulted from
the measures of the East India Company, calls loudly indeed for
the denunciations of indignant humanity. The crime must have its
punishment. The ill-gotten gains of the Company should be seized to
carry out an ameliorating policy, and all concerned in enforcing the
system of oppression should be taught that justice is not to be wounded
with impunity.

The burdens imposed upon the Hindoos are precisely of the character and
extent of those that have reduced Ireland to poverty and her people to
slavery. Besides the enormous rents, which are sufficient of themselves
to dishearten the tillers of the soil, the British authorities seem to
have exhausted invention in devising taxes. So dear a price to live
was never paid by any people except the Irish. What remains to the
cultivator when the rent of the land and almost forty different taxes
are paid?

Those Hindoos who wish to employ capital or labour in any other way
than in cultivation of land are deterred by the formidable array
of taxation. The chief taxes are styled the Veesabuddy, or tax on
merchants, traders, and shopkeepers; the Mohturfa, or tax on weavers,
carpenters, stonecutters, and other mechanical trades; and the
Bazeebab, consisting of smaller taxes annually rented out to the
highest bidder. The proprietor of the Bazeebab is thus constituted a
petty chieftain, with power to exact fees at marriages and religious
ceremonies; to inquire into and fine the misconduct of females in
families, and other misdemeanours—in fact, petty tyrants, who
can at all times allege engagements to the government to justify
extortion.[113] These proprietors are the worst kind of slaveholders.

The mode of settling the Mohturfa on looms is remarkable for the
precision of its exaction. Every circumstance of the weaver's family
is considered; the number of days which he devotes to his loom, the
number of his children, the assistance which he receives from them, and
the number and quality of the pieces which he can produce in a year;
so that, let him exert himself as he will, his industry will always be
taxed to the highest degree.[114] This method is so detailed that the
servants of the government cannot enter into it, and the assessment
of the tax is therefore left to the heads of the villages. It is
impossible for a weaver to know what he is to pay to the government for
being allowed to carry on his business till the yearly demand is made.
If he has worked hard, and turned out one or two pieces of cloth more
than he did the year before, his tax is increased. The more industrious
he is the more he is forced to pay.

The tax-gatherers are thorough inquisitors. According to Rikards,
upward of seventy different kinds of buildings—the houses, shops,
or warehouses of different castes and professions—were ordered to be
entered into the survey accounts; besides the following implements of
professions, which were usually assessed to the public revenue, viz.:
"Oil-mills, iron manufactory, toddy-drawer's stills, potter's kiln,
washerman's stone, goldsmith's tools, sawyer's saw, toddy-drawer's
knives, fishing-nets, barber's hones, blacksmith's anvils,
pack-bullocks, cocoa-nut safe, small fishing-boats, cotton-beater's
bow, carpenter's tools, large fishing-boats, looms, salt-storehouses.
If a landlord objects to the assessment on trees, as old and past
bearing, they are, one and all, ordered to be cut down—a measure as
ridiculous as unjust—as it not only inflicts injury upon the landlord,
but takes away the chance of future profit for the government. Mr.
Rikards bears witness, as a collector of Malabar, that lands and
produce were sometimes inserted in the survey account which absolutely
did not exist, while other lands were assessed to the revenue at more
than their actual produce. From all this, it is obvious that the Hindoo
labourer or artisan is the slave of the tax-collector, who, moreover,
has no interest in the life of his victim.

Labour being almost "dirt cheap" in India, whenever speculating
companies of Englishmen wish to carry out any particular scheme
for which labourers are required, they hire a number of Hindoo
Coolies, induce them to visit any port of the country, and treat them
abominably, knowing that the poor wretches have no protection. The
operations of the Assam Tea Company illustrate this practice:—

     "An inconsiderate expenditure of capital placed the Assam Tea
     Company in great jeopardy, and at one time it was feared the
     scheme would be abandoned. The number of managers and assistants
     appointed by the Assam Company to carry on their affairs and
     superintend their tea gardens, on large salaries, was quite
     unnecessary; one or two experienced European superintendents
     to direct the native establishment would have answered every
     purpose. A vast number of Coolies (or labourers) were induced
     to proceed to Upper Assam to cultivate the gardens; but bad
     arrangements having been made to supply them with proper,
     wholesome food, many were seized with sickness. On their
     arrival at the tea-plantations, in the midst of high and dense
     tree jungle, numbers absconded, and others met an untimely
     end. The rice served out to the Coolies from the Assam Tea
     Company's store-rooms, was so bad as not to be fit to be given
     to elephants, much less to human beings. The loss of these
     labourers, who had been conveyed to Upper Assam at a great
     expense, deprived the company of the means of cultivating so
     great an extent of country as would otherwise have been insured;
     for the scanty population of Upper Assam offered no means of
     replacing the deficiency of hands. Nor was the improvidence of
     the company in respect to labourers the only instance of their
     mismanagement. Although the company must have known that they
     had no real use or necessity for a steamer, a huge vessel was
     nevertheless purchased, and frequently sent up and down the
     Burrampooter river from Calcutta; carrying little else than a few
     thousand rupees for the payment of their establishment in Upper
     Assam, which might have been transmitted through native bankers,
     and have saved the company a most lavish and unprofitable
     expenditure of capital."[115]

Ay, and the expense is all that is thought worthy of consideration.
The miserable victims to the measures of the company might perish like
brutes without being even pitied.

On the verge of starvation, as so many of the Hindoo labourers
generally are, it does not excite surprise that they are very ready
to listen to the offers of those who are engaged in the "Cooley
slave-trade." In addition to the astounding facts given by us in the
previous chapter, in regard to this traffic in men, we quote the
following from the London Spectator of October, 1838:—

     "Under Lord Glenelg's patronage, the Eastern slave-trade prospers
     exceedingly. The traffic in Hill Coolies promises to become one
     of the most extensive under the British flag. A cargo arrived
     in Berbice about the beginning of May, in prime condition: and
     the Berbice Advertiser, one of the most respectable of the West
     India journals, states, that out of 289, conveyed in the Whitby,
     only eight died on the passage, and very few were ill. Only one
     circumstance was wanting to make them the happiest of human(?)
     beings—only eight women were sent as companions for the 280
     men; and the deficiency of females was the more to be regretted
     because it was 'probable they would be shunned by the <DW64>s
     from jealousy and speaking a different language.'

     "The same newspaper contains a very curious document respecting
     the Hill Cooley traffic. It is a circular letter, dated the 8th
     January, 1838, from Henley, Dowson, and Bethel, of Calcutta, the
     agents most extensively engaged in the shipment of labourers from
     India to the Mauritius and British Guiana. These gentlemen thus
     state their claims to preference over other houses in the same
     business:—

     "'We have within the last two years procured and shipped
     upward of 5000 free agricultural labourers for our friends at
     Mauritius; and, from the circumstance of nearly 500 of the
     number being employed on estates in which we possess a direct
     interest, we can assure you that a happier and more contented
     labouring population is seldom to be met with in any part of the
     world, than the Dhargas or mountain tribes sent from this vast
     country.'

     "Five thousand within two years to the Mauritius alone! This
     is pretty well, considering that the trade is in its infancy.
     As to the statement of the happiness and contentment of the
     labourers, rather more impartial evidence than the good word of
     the exporters of the commodity advertised would be desirable.
     If Englishmen could fancy themselves Hill Coolies for an
     instant—landed in Berbice, in the proportion of 280 men to 8 of
     the gentler sex, 'speaking a different language,' and shunned by
     the very <DW64>s—we are inclined to think they would not, even
     in that imaginary and momentary view, conceit themselves to be
     among the happiest of mankind.

     "We proceed with the Calcutta circular:—

     "'The labourers hitherto procured by us have cost their
     employers, _landed at the Mauritius_, about one hundred rupees
     (or 10_l._ sterling) per man; which sum comprises six months'
     advance of wages, provisions and water for the voyage, clothing,
     commission, passage, insurance, and all incidental charges.'

     "'The expense attending the shipment of Indian labourers to the
     West India Colonies would be necessarily augmented—firstly, by
     the higher rate of passage-money, and the increased quantity of
     provisions and water; and, secondly, from the necessity of making
     arrangements, indispensable to the health and comfort of native
     passengers, on a voyage of so long a duration, in the course of
     which they would be exposed to great vicissitude of climate.

     "'On making ample allowance for these charges, we do not
     apprehend that a labourer, sent direct from this country to
     Demerara, and engaged to work on your estates for a period of
     five consecutive years, would cost, landed there, above two
     hundred and ten rupees, or 21_l._ sterling.'

     "This sum of 210 rupees includes _six months' wages_—at what
     rate does the reader suppose? Why, five rupees, or ten shillings
     sterling a month—half-a-crown a week—in Demerara! The passage
     is 10_l._, and the insurance 12_s._; for they are insured at so
     much a head, like pigs or sheep.

     "It is manifest that after their arrival in Demerara, the Indians
     will not, unless on compulsion, work for five years at the
     rate of 10_s._ a month, while the <DW64>s receive much higher
     wages. They are therefore placed under strict control, and are
     just as much slaves as the Redemptioners, whom the virtuous
     Quakers inveigled into Pennsylvania a century or more ago. The
     Indians bind themselves to work in town or country, wherever
     their consignee or master may choose to employ them. One of the
     articles of their agreement is this:—

     "'In order that the undersigned natives of India may be fully
     aware of the engagement they undertake, it is hereby notified,
     that they will be required to do _all such work as the object
     for which they are engaged necessitates_; and that, as labourers
     attached to an estate, they will be required to clear forest and
     extract timber, carry manure, dig and prepare land for planting,
     also to take charge of horses, mules, and cattle of every
     description; _in short, to do all such work as an estate for the
     cultivation of sugar-cane and the manufacture of sugar demands_,
     or any branch of agriculture to which they may be destined.'

     "In case of disobedience or misconduct—that is, at the caprice
     of the master—they may be 'degraded,' and sent back at their own
     charge to Calcutta. They are to receive no wages during illness;
     and a rupee a month is to be deducted from their wages—thereby
     reducing them to 2_s._ a week—as an indemnity-fund for the
     cost of sending them back. What security there is for the kind
     treatment of the labourers does not appear: there is nothing in
     the contract but a promise to act equitably.

     "Now, in what respect do these men differ in condition from
     <DW64> slaves, except very much for the worse? They must be more
     helpless than the <DW64>s—if for no other reason, because of
     their ignorance of the language their masters use. They will not,
     for a long period certainly, be formidable from their numbers.
     How easily may even the miserable terms of the contract with
     their employers be evaded! Suppose the Indian works steadily for
     four years, it may suit his master to describe him as refractory
     and idle during the fifth, and then he will be sent back at his
     own cost; and the whole of his earnings may be expended in paying
     for his passage to Calcutta, where, after all, he is a long way
     from home.

     "It is impossible to contemplate without pain the inevitable lot
     of these helpless beings; but the conduct of the government,
     which could sanction the infamous commerce of which the Hill
     Cooley will be the victims, while professing all the while
     such a holy horror of dealing in <DW64>s, should rouse general
     indignation.

     Is it only a certain shade of black, and a peculiar physical
     conformation, which excites the compassion of the Anti-Slavery
     people? If it is cruelty, oppression, and fraud which they abhor
     and desire to prevent, then let them renew their agitation in
     behalf of the kidnapped natives of India, now suffering, probably
     more acutely, all that made the lot of the <DW64> a theme for
     eloquence and a field for Christian philanthropy."

This is written in the right spirit. The trade described has increased
to an extent which calls for the interference of some humane power.
Should the British government continue to sanction the traffic, it must
stand responsible for a national crime.

Oppressive and violent as the British dominion in India undoubtedly
is, the means devised to extend it are even more worthy of strong
condemnation. The government fixes its eyes upon a certain province,
where the people are enjoying peace and plenty, and determines to
get possession of it. The Romans themselves were not more fertile
in pretences for forcible seizure of territory than these British
plunderers. They quickly hunt up a pretender to the throne, support his
claims with a powerful army, make him their complete tool, dethrone
the lawful sovereign, and extend their authority over the country. The
course pursued toward Afghanistan in 1838 illustrates this outrageous
violation of national rights.

The following account of the origin and progress of the Afghanistan war
is given by an English writer in the Penny Magazine:—

     "In 1747, Ahmeed Shah, an officer of an Afghan troop in the
     service of Persia, refounded the Afghan monarchy, which was
     maintained until the death of his successor in 1793. Ahmeed
     was of the Douranee tribe, and the limits over which his sway
     extended is spoken of as the Douranee empire. Four of the sons of
     Ahmeed's successor disputed, and in turn possessed, the throne;
     and during this civil war several of the principal chiefs threw
     off their allegiance, and the Douranee empire ceased to exist,
     but was split up into the chiefships of Candahar, Herat, Caboul,
     and Peshawur. Herat afterward became a dependency of Persia, and
     Shah Shooja ool Moolook, the chief of Peshawur, lost his power
     after having enjoyed it for about six years. Dost Mohammed Kahn,
     the chief of Caboul, according to the testimony of the late
     Sir Alexander Burnes, writing in 1832, governed his territory
     with great judgment, improved its internal administration and
     resources, and became the most powerful chief in Afghanistan.
     Shah Shooja was for many years a fugitive and a pensioner of the
     British government. He made one unsuccessful attempt to regain
     his territory, but Peshawur eventually became a tributary to the
     ruler of the Punjab. Such was the state of Afghanistan in 1836.

     "In the above year the Anglo-Indian government complained that
     Dost Mohammed Khan, chief of Caboul, had engaged in schemes of
     aggrandizement which threatened the stability of the British
     frontier in India; and Sir Alexander Burnes, who was sent with
     authority to represent to him the light in which his proceedings
     were viewed, was compelled to leave Caboul without having
     effected any change in his conduct. The siege of Herat, and the
     support which both Dost Mohammed and his brother, the chief of
     Candahar, gave to the designs of Persia in Afghanistan, the
     latter chief especially openly assisting the operations against
     Herat, created fresh alarm in the Anglo-Indian government as to
     the security of our frontier. Several minor chiefs also avowed
     their attachment to the Persians. As our policy, instead of
     hostility, required an ally capable of resisting aggression on
     the western frontier of India, the Governor-general, from whose
     official papers we take these statements, 'was satisfied,' after
     serious and mature deliberation, 'that a pressing necessity, as
     well as every consideration of policy and justice, warranted
     us in espousing the cause of Shah Shooja ool Moolk;' and it
     was determined to place him on the throne. According to the
     Governor-general, speaking from the best authority, the testimony
     as to Shah Shooja's popularity was unanimous. In June, 1838,
     the late Sir William Macnaghten formed a tripartite treaty with
     the ruler of the Punjab and Shah Shooja; the object of which
     was to restore the latter to the throne of his ancestors. This
     policy it was conceived would conduce to the general freedom and
     security of commerce, the restoration of tranquillity upon the
     most important frontier of India, and the erection of a lasting
     barrier against hostile intrigue and encroachment; and, while
     British influence would thus gain its proper footing among the
     nations of Central Asia, the prosperity of the Afghan people
     would be promoted.

     "Troops were despatched from the Presidencies of Bengal and
     Bombay to co-operate with the contingents raised by the Shah and
     our other ally, the united force being intended to act together
     under the name of the 'Army of the Indus.' After a march of
     extraordinary length, through countries which had never before
     been traversed by British troops, and defiles which are the
     most difficult passes in the world, where no wheeled carriage
     had ever been, and where it was necessary for the engineers in
     many places to construct roads before the baggage could proceed,
     the combined forces from Bengal and Bombay reached Candahar in
     May, 1839. According to the official accounts, the population
     were enthusiastic in welcoming the return of Shah Shooja. The
     next step was to advance toward Ghiznee and Caboul. On the 23d
     July, the strong and important fortress and citadel of Ghiznee,
     regarded throughout Asia as impregnable, was taken in two hours
     by blowing up the Caboul gate. The army had only been forty-eight
     hours before the place. An 'explosion party' carried three
     hundred pounds of gunpowder in twelve sand-bags, with a hose
     seventy-two feet long, the train was laid and fired, the party
     having just time to reach a tolerable shelter from the effects
     of the concussion, though one of the officers was injured by
     its force. On the 7th of August the army entered Caboul. Dost
     Mohammed had recalled his son Mohammed Akhbar from Jellalabad
     with the troops guarding the Khyber Pass, and their united forces
     amounted to thirteen thousand men; but these troops refused to
     advance, and Dost Mohammed was obliged to take precipitate fight,
     accompanied only by a small number of horsemen. Shah Shooja made
     a triumphant entry into Caboul, and the troops of Dost Mohammed
     tendered their allegiance to him. The official accounts state
     that in his progress toward Caboul he was joined by every person
     of rank and influence in the country. As the tribes in the Bolan
     Pass committed many outrages and murders on the followers of the
     army of the Indus, at the instigation of their chief, the Khan
     of Khelat, his principal town (Khelat) was taken on the 13th
     of November, 1839. The political objects of the expedition had
     now apparently been obtained. The hostile chiefs of Caboul and
     Candahar were replaced by a friendly monarch. On the side of
     Scinde and Herat, British alliance and protection were courted.
     All this had been accomplished in a few months, but at an expense
     said to exceed three millions sterling."

The _expense_ of national outrage is only of importance to the sordid
and unprincipled men who conceived and superintended the Afghanistan
expedition. In the first part of the above extract, the writer
places the British government in the position of one who strikes in
self-defence. It was informed that Dost Mohammed entertained schemes
of invasion dangerous to the British supremacy—informed by the
exiled enemy of the chief of Caboul. The information was seasonable
and exceedingly useful. Straightway a treaty was formed, by which the
British agreed to place their tool for the enslavement of the Afghans
upon the throne from which he had been driven. Further on, it is
said, that when Shah Sooja appeared in Afghanistan he was joined by
every person of rank and influence in the country. Just so; and the
followers and supporters of Dost Mohammed nearly all submitted to the
superior army of the British general. But two years afterward, the
strength of the patriotic party was seen, when Caboul rose against Shah
Sooja, drove him again from the throne, and defeated and massacred a
considerable British garrison. Shah Sooja was murdered soon afterward.
But the British continued the war against the Afghans, with the object
of reducing them to the same slavery under which the remainder of
Hindostan was groaning. The violation of national rights, the massacre
of thousands, and the enslavement of millions were the glorious aims of
British policy in the Afghan expedition. The policy then carried out
has been more fully illustrated since that period. Whenever a territory
was thought desirable by the government, neither national rights,
the principles of justice and humanity, nor even the common right of
property in individuals has been respected. Wealth has been an object
for the attainment of which plunder and massacre were not considered
unworthy means.

Said Mr. John Bright, the radical reformer of Manchester, in a speech
delivered in the House of Commons:—"It cannot be too universally
known that the cultivators of the soil (in India) are in a very
unsatisfactory condition; that they are, in truth, in a condition of
almost extreme and universal poverty. All testimony concurred upon
that point. He would call the attention of the House to the statement
of a celebrated native of India, the Rajah Rammohun Roy, who, about
twenty years ago, published a pamphlet in London, in which he pointed
out the ruinous effects of the Zemindaree system, and the oppressions
experienced by the ryots in the Presidencies of Bombay and Madras.
After describing the state of affairs generally, he added, 'Such was
the melancholy condition of the agricultural labourers, that it always
gave him the greatest pain to allude to it.' Three years afterward, Mr.
Shore, who was a judge in India, published a work which was considered
as a standard work till now, and he stated 'that the British government
was not regarded in a favourable light by the native population
of India—that a system of taxation and extortion was carried on
unparalleled in the annals of any country.'"

From all quarters we receive unimpeachable evidence that the locust
system has performed its devouring work on the broadest scale in
India; and that the Hindoos are the victims of conquerors, slower,
indeed, in their movements, than Tamerlane or Genghis Khan, but more
destructive and more criminal than either of those great barbarian
invaders.




CHAPTER XII.

THE CRIME AND THE DUTY OF THE ENGLISH GOVERNMENT.


It remains to sum up the charges against the English oligarchy, and to
point out the path which justice, humanity, and the age require the
government to pursue. In so doing, we shall go no farther than the
facts previously adduced will afford us sure ground, nor speak more
harshly than our duty to our oppressed fellow-men will demand. We pity
the criminal even while we pass sentence upon her.

A government originating in, and suited for, a barbarous age must
necessarily be unfit for one enjoying the meridian of civilization. The
arrangement of lord and serf was appropriate to the period when war
was regarded as the chief employment of mankind, and when more respect
was paid to the kind of blood flowing in a man's veins than to his
greatness or generosity of soul. But, in the nineteenth century, war
is regarded as an evil to be avoided as long as possible. Peace is the
rule, and conflict the exception. Christianity has taught us, also,
that the good and the great in heart and mind—wherever born, wherever
bred—are the true nobility of our race. It is the sin of the English
government that it works against the bright influence of the times and
throws the gloomy shadow of feudalism over some of the fairest regions
of the earth. It legislates for the age of William the Conqueror
instead of the reign of Victoria.

The few for hereditary luxury and dominion, the many for hereditary
misery and slavery, is the grand fundamental principle of the English
system. For every gorgeous palace there are a thousand hovels, where
even beasts should not be forced to dwell. For every lord who spends
his days in drinking, gambling, hunting, horse-racing, and indulging
himself in all the luxuries that money can purchase, a thousand
persons, at least, must toil day and night to obtain the most wretched
subsistence. In no country are the few richer than in England, and
in no country are the masses more fearfully wretched. The great bulk
of the property of England, both civil and ecclesiastical, is in the
grasp of the aristocracy. All offices of church and state, yielding
any considerable emolument, are monopolized by the lords and their
nominees. The masses earn—the lords spend. The lords have all the
property, but the masses pay all the taxes, and slave and starve that
the taxes may be paid.

Without such a system, is it possible that there could be millions of
acres of good land lying waste, and millions of paupers who dare not
cultivate it?—that the workhouses could be crowded—that men, women,
and children could be driven to all kinds of work, and yet by the most
exhausting toil not earn enough to enable them to live decently and
comfortably—that honest and industrious people could starve by the
wayside, or die of disease engendered in dirty hovels—that vice and
crime could be practised to an appalling extent—that whole villages
could be swept away and the poor labourers either driven into the
crowded cities, or to a distant land, far from kindred and friends?

The aristocrats of England are the most extensive slaveholders in the
world. In England, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland, they have the entire
labouring mass for their slaves—men, women, and children being doomed
to the most grinding toil to enable their masters to live in luxurious
ease. In India and the other colonies they have treated the natives
as the conquered were treated in the Middle Ages. They have drained
their resources, oppressed them in every way, and disposed of tribes
and nations as if they had been dealing with cattle. Add the slaves
of India to the slaves of the United Kingdom, and we may count them
by tens of millions. These slaves are not naturally inferior to their
masters. They belong to races fertile in great and good men and women.
Poets, artists, philosophers, historians, statesmen, and warriors of
the first magnitude in genius have sprung from these down-trodden
people. They have fully proved themselves capable of enjoying the
sweets of freedom. They remain slaves because their masters find it
profitable, and know how to cozen and bully them into submission.

The following description of France before the great revolution of
1789, by M. Thiers, is strikingly applicable to the condition of Great
Britain at the present day:—

     "The condition of the country, both political and economical, was
     intolerable. There was nothing but privilege—privilege vested
     in individuals, in classes, in towns, in provinces, and even in
     trades and professions. Every thing contributed to check industry
     and the natural genius of man. All the dignities of the state,
     civil, ecclesiastical, and military, were exclusively reserved
     to certain individuals. No man could take up a profession
     without certain titles and the compliance with certain pecuniary
     conditions. Even the favours of the crown were converted into
     family property, so that the king could scarcely exercise his
     own judgment, or give any preference. Almost the only liberty
     left to the sovereign was that of making pecuniary gifts, and he
     had been reduced to the necessity of disputing with the Duke of
     Coigny for the abolition of a useless place. Every thing, then,
     was made immovable property in the hands of a few, and everywhere
     these few resisted the many who had been despoiled. The burdens
     of the state weighed on one class only. The noblesse and the
     clergy possessed about two-thirds of the landed property; the
     other third, possessed by the people, paid taxes to the king,
     a long list of feudal _droits_ to the noblesse, tithes to the
     clergy, and had, moreover, to support the devastations committed
     by noble sportsmen and their game. The taxes upon consumption
     pressed upon the great multitude, and consequently on the people.
     The collection of these imposts was managed in an unfair and
     irritating manner; the lords of the soil left long arrears with
     impunity, but the people, upon any delay in payment, were harshly
     treated, arrested, and condemned to pay in their persons, in
     default of money to produce. The people, therefore, nourished
     with their labour and defended with their blood the higher
     classes of society, without being able to procure a comfortable
     subsistence for themselves. The townspeople, a body of citizens,
     industrious, educated, less miserable than the people, could
     nevertheless obtain none of the advantages to which they had a
     right to aspire, seeing that it was their industry that nourished
     and their talents that adorned the kingdom."

The elements of revolution are all to be found in Great Britain. A
Mirabeau, with dauntless will and stormy eloquence, could use them with
tremendous effect. Yet the giant of the people does not raise his voice
to plead the cause of the oppressed, and to awaken that irresistible
enthusiasm which would sweep away the pampered aristocracy.

The armorial escutcheons of the aristocracy are fearfully significant
of its character. Says John Hampden, Jun.:[116]—

     "The whole emblazonment of aristocracy is one manifesto of savage
     barbarism, brute force, and propensity to robbery and plunder.
     What are these objects on their shields? Daggers, swords, lions'
     heads, dogs' heads, arrow-heads, boars' heads, cannon balls,
     clubs, with a medley of stars, moons, and unmeaning figures.
     What are the crests of these arms? Lascivious goats, rampant
     lions, fiery dragons, and griffins gone crazed: bulls' heads,
     block-heads, arms with uplifted daggers, beasts with daggers,
     and vultures tearing up helpless birds. What, again, are the
     supporters of these shields? What are the emblems of the powers
     by which they are maintained and upheld? The demonstration is
     deeply significant. They are the most singular assemblage of
     all that is fierce, savage, rampageous, villanous, lurking,
     treacherous, blood-thirsty, cruel, and bestial in bestial
     natures. They are infuriated lions, boars, and tigers; they
     are raging bulls, filthy goats, horrid hyenas, snarling dogs,
     drunken bears, and mad rams; they are foxes, wolves, panthers,
     every thing that is creeping, sneaking, thievish, and perfidious.
     Nay, nature cannot furnish emblems extensive enough, and so
     start up to our astonished sight the most hideous shapes of
     fiendlike dragons and griffins, black, blasted as by infernal
     fires; the most fuliginous of monsters; and if the human shape
     is assumed for the guardians and supporters of aristocracy, they
     are wild and savage men, armed with clubs and grim with hair,
     scowling brute defiance, and seeming ready to knock down any man
     at the command of their lords. Ay, the very birds of prey are
     called in; and eagles, vultures, cormorants, in most expressive
     attitudes, with most ludicrous embellishments of crowned heads,
     collared necks, escutcheoned sides, and with hoisted wings and
     beaks of open and devouring wrath, proclaim the same great
     truth, that aristocracy is of the class of what the Germans call
     _Raub-thieren_, or robber-beasts—in our vernacular, _beasts of
     prey_."

And the character thus published to the world has been acted out to the
full from the days of the bastard Duke of Normandy and his horde of
ruffians to the time of the "Iron Duke" and his associates in title and
plunder. The hyenas and vultures have never been satisfied.

The crime of England lies in maintaining the slavery of a barbarous
age in the middle of the nineteenth century; in keeping her slaves in
physical misery, mental darkness, moral depravity, and heathenism;
in carrying fire and sword into some of the loveliest regions of
the earth, in order to gratify that thirst for wealth and dominion
ever characteristic of an aristocracy; in forcing her slaves in
India to cultivate poison, and her weak neighbours of China to buy
it; in plundering and oppressing the people of all her colonies; in
concentrating the wealth of the United Kingdom and the dependencies
in the purses of a few persons, and thus dooming all others beneath
her iron rule to constant, exhausting, and unrewarded toil! We arraign
her before the tribunal of justice and humanity, as the most powerful
and destructive of tyrannies; as the author of Ireland's miseries,
and a course of action toward that island compared with which the
dismemberment of Poland was merciful; as the remorseless conqueror of
the Hindoos; as a government so oppressive that her people are flying
by thousands to the shores of America to escape its inflictions! Though
most criminals plead "not guilty," she cannot have the front to do so!
The general judgment of civilized mankind has long ago pronounced a
verdict of conviction.

Yet, guilty as is the English oligarchy, certain of its members
have taken to lecturing the world about the duties of Christians
and philanthropists. This, we suppose, in charity, is done upon the
principle given by Hamlet to his mother—

  "Assume a virtue if you have it not."

But a loftier authority than Shakspeare tells us to remove the beam
from our own eye before we point to the mote that is in the eye of
a brother. Example, also, is more powerful than precept. Pious
exhortations from a villain are usually disregarded. A preacher should
never have the blood of slaughtered victims on his hands.

We think it not difficult to show that England is the best friend of
slavery, while professing an aversion to it, and dictating to other
governments to strive for its abolition. At an enormous expense, she
maintains men-of-war upon the coast of Africa, with the object of
suppressing the trade in <DW64> slaves. This expense her white slaves
are taxed to pay; while the men-of-war have not only not suppressed
the slave-trade, but have doubled its horrors, by compelling the
slave-traders to inflict new tortures upon the <DW64>s they capture
and conceal. In the mean time, the government is doing all in its
power to impoverish and enslave (for the slavery of a people follows
its poverty) the more intelligent races of the world. England prides
herself upon her efforts to destroy the trade in African savages and
chattel slavery. Her philanthropy is all black; miserable wretches with
pale faces have no claims upon her assisting hand; and she refuses to
recognise the only kind of slavery by which masters are necessitated
to provide well for their slaves, while she enforces that system which
starves them! England is the best friend of the most destructive
species of slavery, and has extended it over tens of millions of human
beings.

Justice, humanity, and the age demand the abolition of this exhausting,
famine-breeding, and murderous system. It is hostile to every principle
of right—to civilization, and to the loving spirit of Christianity.
Starving millions groan beneath the yoke. From the crowded factories
and workshops—from the pestilential hovels—from the dark and
slave-filled coal-pits—from the populous workhouses—from the vast
army of wandering beggars in England and Scotland—from the perishing
peasantry of Ireland—from the wretched Hindoos upon the Ganges and the
Indus—from the betrayed Coolies in the West-India Islands—arises the
cry for relief from the plunderers and the oppressors. "How long, O
Lord, how long!"

A few thousand persons own the United Kingdom. They have robbed and
reduced to slavery not only their own countrymen, but millions in
other lands. They continue to rob wherever they find an opportunity.
They spend what their crime has accumulated in all kinds of vice and
dissipation, and rear their children to the same courses. Money raised
for religious purposes they waste in luxurious living. They trade in
all the offices of church and state. They persecute, by exclusion,
all who do not subscribe to "thirty-nine articles" which they wish to
force upon mankind. In brief, the oligarchy lies like an incubus upon
the empire, and the people cannot call themselves either free or happy
until the aristocrats be driven from their high places. Burst, then,
the chains, ye countrymen of Hampden and Vane! Show to the world that
the old fire is not yet quenched! that the spirits of your martyrs to
liberty are yet among you, and their lessons in your hearts! Obtain
your freedom—peaceably, if you can—_but obtain it_, for it expands
and ennobles the life of a nation! In the air of liberty alone can
a people enjoy a healthy existence. A day of real freedom is worth
more than years in a dungeon. What have you to dread? Do you not know
your strength? Be assured, this aristocracy could not stand an hour,
were you resolved against its existence! It would be swept away as a
feather before a hurricane. Do you fear that much blood would flow in
the struggle? Consider the hundreds of thousands who are crushed out of
existence every year by this aristocracy, and ask yourselves if it is
not better that the system should be over-thrown, even at the expense
of blood, than that it should continue its destructive career? Had
not men better make an effort to secure freedom and plenty for their
posterity, than starve quietly by the wayside? These are the questions
you should take home to your hearts. One grand, determined, glorious
effort, and you are free.

  "Hereditary bondsmen, know ye not
  Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow?"




FOOTNOTES:

[1] The butties are the men who superintend the conveyance of the coal
from the digger to the pit-shaft.

[2] To _hurry_ is to draw or push the coal-cars.

[3] Mitchell, Evidence, No. 7; App. pt. i. p. 65, 1. 31.

[4] Ibid. in loco.

[5] Fellows, Report, s. 58; App. pt. ii. p. 256.

[6] Mitchell, Evidence, No. 99; App. pt. i. p. 155, 1. 8.

[7] Dr. Mitchell, Report, s. 314; App. pt. i. p. 39.

[8] Fellows, Evidence, No. 10; App. pt. ii. p. 266, 1. 10.

[9] Symons, Report, s. 200; App. pt. i. p. 193.

[10] Wood, Report, s. 36; App. pt. ii. p. H 7. Also Evidence, Nos. 60,
75, 76.

[11] Kennedy, Report, s. 296; App. pt. ii. p. 188.

[12] Ibid. s. 304; p. 188.

[13] Austin, Evidence, No. 1; App. pt. ii. p. 811; i. 12. See also the
remarks by Mr. Fletcher on the vicinity of Oldham, App. pt. ii. s. 59,
p. 832.

[14] Mitchell, Report, s. 214; App. pt. i. p. 143.

[15] Mitchell, Evidence, No. 97; App. pt. i. p. 154, 1. 19.

[16] Leifchild, Report, s. 72; App. pt. i. p. 252.

[17] Leifchild, Evidence, No. 97; App. pt. i. p. 587, 1. 39.

[18] Ibid. No. 497, p. 665, 1. 7.

[19] Ibid. No. 504, p. 672, 1. 22.

[20] Symons, Report, s. 22; App. pt. i. p. 302.

[21] Symons, Evidence, No. 312; App. pt. i. p. 305, 1. 59.

[22] Franks, Report, App. A, No. 2; App. pt. i. p. 410, 411.

[23] Franks, Report, s. 85; App. pt. ii. p. 485.

[24] Franks, Evidence, No. 144; App. pt. ii. p. 582, 1. 4.

[25] Ibid. No. 2, p. 503, 1. 21.

[26] R. W. Jones, Evidence, No. 102; App. pt. ii. p. 64, 1. 28.

[27] Fellows, Report, s. 45; App. pt. ii. p. 255.

[28] Symons, Report, s. 110; App. pt. i. p. 181.

[29] Symons, Evidence, No. 199; App. pt. i. p. 279, 1. 3.

[30] Ibid. No. 21; p. 282, 1. 246.

[31] Wood, Evidence, No. 60; App. pt. ii. p. h 27, 1. 46.

[32] Kennedy, Evidence, No. 30; App. pt. ii. p. 218, 1. 6.

[33] Austin, Evidence, No. 7; App. pt. ii. p. 812. 1. 160.

[34] Ibid. No. 17; p. 815, 1. 53.

[35] Leifchild, Evidence, No. 97; App. pt. i. p. 587, 1. 32.

[36] Leichfield, Evidence, No. 504; p. 672, 1. 22.

[37] Ibid. No. 498; p. 665, 1. 50.

[38] Ibid. No. 496; p. 662, 1. 62.

[39] Mitchell, Evidence, No. 46; App. pt. i. p. 81, 1. 47.

[40] Mitchell, Evidence, No. 77; p. 113, 1. 6.

[41] Ibid. No. 81; p. 114, 1. 22.

[42] Ibid. No. 82; p. 114, 1. 61.

[43] Fellows, Report, s. 49; App. pt. ii. p. 256.

[44] Fellows, Evidence, No. 105; p. 292, 1. 48.

[45] Fellows, Evidence, No. 10; p. 262, 1. 8.

[46] Symons, Report, s. 209; App. pt. i. p. 193.

[47] Wood, Report, s. 42; App. pt. ii. p. 167.

[48] Leifchild, Evidence, No. 499; App. pt. i. p. 668, 1. 44.

[49] Ibid. No. 498; p. 665, 1. 52.

[50] Franks, Report, s. 68; App. pt. i. p. 396.

[51] Tancred, Evidence, No. 34; App. pt. i. p. 371, 1. 58.

[52] H. H. Jones, Report, s. 83; App. pt. ii. p. 375.

[53] H. H. Jones, Evidence, No. 96; App. pt. ii. p. 407, 1. 51.

[54] Waring, Evidence, No. 38; App. pt. ii. p. 25, 1. 57.

[55] Stewart, Evidence, No. 7; App. pt. ii. p. 50, 1. 48.

[56] Fellows, Evidence, No. 84; App. pt. ii. p. 287, 1. 38.

[57] Symons, Report, s. 110, App. pt. i. p. 181.

[58] Symons, Evidence, No. 221; App. pt. i. p. 282, 1. 45.

[59] Ibid. No. 268; p. 292, 1. 51.

[60] Kennedy, Report, s. 299; App. pt. ii. p. 188.

[61] Mitchell, Report, s. 212; App. pt. i. p. 143.

[62] Mitchell, Evidence, No. 96; App. pt. i. p. 153, 1. 57.

[63] Ibid. No. 97; p. 153, 1. 64.

[64] Franks, Report, s. 121; App. pt. i. p. 408.

[65] Franks, Evidence, No. 273; App. pt. i. p. 487, 1. 25.

[66] Franks, Evidence, No. 73; p. 450, 1. 31.

[67] Ibid. No. 83; p. 452, 1. 29.

[68] H. H. Jones, Report, s. 84; App. pt. ii. p. 375.

[69] H. H. Jones, Evidence, No. 96; App. pt. ii. p. 407, 1. 53.

[70] Ibid. No. 2; p. 378, 1. 35.

[71] Ibid. No. 3; p. 379, 1. 34.

[72] Scriven, Report, s. 83; App. pt. ii. p. 72.

[73] Symons, Evidence, s. 96; App. pt. i. p. 187.

[74] Wood, Evidence, No. 76; App. pt. ii. p. _h_ 32, 1. 18.

[75] Symons, Evidence, No. 197; App. pt. i. p. 277, 1. 68.

[76] Austin, Evidence, No. 9; App. pt. ii. p. 813, 1. 40.

[77] Scriven, Report, s. 82; App. pt. ii. p. 72.

[78] Scriven, Evidence, No. 2; App. pt. ii. p. 101, 1. 33.

[79] Ibid. No. 79, p. 124, 1. 28. See also Nos. 12, 13, 18, 25.

[80] Leifchild, Evidence, No. 86; App. pt. i. p. 583, 1. 27.

[81] Leifchild, Evidence, No. 201; p. 610, 1. 52.

[82] Ibid. No. 267, p. 623, 1. 11.

[83] Franks, Evidence, No. 31; App. pt. ii. p. 510, 1. 49.

[84] Leifchild, Evidence, No. 385; App. pt. i. p. 645, 1. 35.

[85] Ibid. No. 375, p. 644, 1. 48.

[86] Tancred, Evidence, No. 9; App. pt. i. p. 361, 1. 45.

[87] Leifchild, Evidence, No. 376; App. pt. i. p. 644, 1. 54.

[88] Enclosed for the inspection of the Central Board. It is entitled,
"A Memoir of Robert Blincoe, &c., Manchester." J. Doherty. 1852.

[89] _England and America_, Harpers & Brothers, publishers, 1834.

[90] Every-day Life in London.

[91] This is done at the Model Prison, Pentonville.

[92] London Daily News.

[93] In order that these men shall be thus protected, it is necessary
for the master TO NAME THEM, before they are impressed; this is to
be done by going before the mayor or other chief magistrate of the
place, who is to give the master a certificate, in which is contained
the names of the particular men whom he thus nominates; and this
certificate will be their protection.

[94] Auctioned.

[95] Household Words.

[96] Charge on the Marlborough Commission, p. 5. Cited in Lewis's Irish
Disturbances, p. 227.

[97] See the evidence of Mr. Blacker, House of Commons' Report on the
State of Ireland, 1824, p. 75; that of Mr. Griffiths, _ibid._ 232; and
that of Mr. Blacker, House of Lords' Report, 1824, p. 14.

[98] House of Commons' Committee on Combinations, 1838. Questions
5872-5876.

[99] Edinburgh Review.

[100] Servants and Servitude, in Howitt's Journal.

[101] Sanitary Inquiry Report, 1843, p.64.

[102] Kay.

[103] The Slave Trade, Domestic and Foreign.

[104] Bigelow's Jamaica in 1850.

[105] Backhouse's Visit to the Mauritius.

[106] Brigg's Historical Fragments.

[107] Carey.

[108] Carey.

[109] Campbell's Modern India.

[110] "Some of Mr. Smith's servants entered into a combination to
defraud a suitor in his court of a large sum of money, which he was to
pay to Mrs. Smith as she walked in the garden. A dancing-girl from the
town of Jubbulpore was made to represent Mrs. Smith, and a suit of Mrs.
Smith's clothes were borrowed for her from the washer-woman. The butler
took the suitor into the garden and introduced him to the supposed Mrs.
Smith, who received him very graciously, and condescended to accept his
offer of five thousand rupees in gold mohurs. The plot was afterward
discovered, and the old butler, washer-woman and all, were sentenced to
labour in a rope on the roads."

[111] Lords' Evidence, 1687.

[112] Campbell's Modern India.

[113] Rikards.

[114] Collector's Report.

[115] Sketch of Assam.

[116] The Aristocracy of England.




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  "American Mahomet," 12 illustrations, muslin, 399 pp., 12mo.,    1 25


  =HISTORY AND CONDITION OF OREGON=,

  Including a Voyage round the World, by Rev. G. HINES of the
  Oregon Mission, muslin, 437 pp., 12mo.                           1 25


  =FROST'S PICTORIAL HISTORY OF CALIFORNIA=,

  From the period of the Conquest by Spain, to the formation of
  a State; containing an account of the Gold Mines, Resources,
  and Adventures among the Miners, etc.; also Advice to
  Emigrants:  frontispiece and other illustrations,
  muslin, 508 pp., 12mo.                                           1 50


  =SIDNEY'S HISTORY OF AUSTRALIA,=

  The Three Colonies of Australia, New South Wales, Victoria,
  South Australia, their Pastures, Copper Mines and Gold Fields,
  by SAMUEL SIDNEY, 10 illustrations, muslin, 408 pp., 12mo.       1 25


  =PICTORIAL FAMILY ENCYCLOPEDIA=,

  Of History, Biography and Travels, comprising prominent Events
  in the History of the World, Biographies of Eminent Men, and
  interesting Accounts of Distinguished Travelers, by JOHN FROST,
  LL. D., 360 illustrations, muslin, 648 pp., 8vo.                 2 00

  THE SAME—embossed morocco, marble edges,                        2 50


  *=TWELVE YEARS A SLAVE=,

  The Narrative of SOLOMON NORTHUP, a citizen of New-York
  kidnapped in Washington City in 1841, and rescued in 1853, from
  a Cotton Plantation near the Red River, in Louisiana,
  7 illustrations, muslin, 336 pp., 12mo.                          1 00


  *=WILD SCENES OF A HUNTER'S LIFE=,

  Including Cummings' Adventures among the Lions, Elephants and
  other wild Animals of Africa, by JOHN FROST, LL. D., with 8
   and 300 letter-press illustrations, muslin, 467 pp.,
  12mo.                                                            1 50


  =LIFE ON THE PLAINS=,

  And among the Diggings, being Scenes and Adventures of an
  Overland Journey to California, with particular Incidents of
  the Route, Sufferings of Emigrants, Indian Tribes, &c., by
  A. DELANO, illustrated, 384 pp., 12mo.                           1 25


  =THE AUSTRALIAN CAPTIVE=,

  Or, Fifteen Years' Adventures of William Jackman, including his
  Residence among the Cannibals of Nuyts' Land, with portraits
  and other illustrations, edited by Rev. I. CHAMBERLAIN, muslin,
  392 pp., 12mo.                                                   1 25


  =FRONTIER LIFE=,

  Or Scenes and Adventures in the South-west, by F. HARDMAN,
  illustrated, muslin, 376 pp., 12mo.                              1.25


  =THRILLING ADVENTURES=,

  By Land and Sea, being remarkable Facts from Authentic Sources,
  edited by J. O. BRAYMAN, illustrated, muslin, 504 pp., 12mo.     1 25


  =DARING DEEDS OF AMERICAN HEROES=,

  With Biographical Sketches, by J. O. BRAYMAN, illustrated, 12mo.
  450 pp.                                                          1 25


  =LIFE AT THE SOUTH=,

  Being Narratives, Scenes, and Incidents in Slave Life, by W.
  L. G. SMITH, illustrated, muslin, 519 pp., 12mo.                 1 25


  =BORDER WARS OF THE WEST=,

  Comprising the Frontier Wars of Pennsylvania, Virginia,
  Kentucky, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Tennessee and Wisconsin, and
  embracing the Individual Adventures among the Indians, and
  Exploits of Boone, Kenton, Clark, Logan, and other Border
  Heroes of the West, by PROFESSOR FROST, 300 illustrations,
  muslin, 608 pp., muslin, 8vo.                                    2 50


  =WESTERN SCENES=,

  And Reminiscences, together with thrilling Legends and
  Traditions of the Red Man of the Forest, illustrated, muslin,
  8vo.                                                             2 00


  =GIFT BOOK FOR YOUNG MEN=,

  Or Familiar Letters on Self-knowledge, Self-education, Female
  Society, Marriage, &c., by Dr. WM. A. ALCOTT, frontispiece,
  muslin, 312 pp., 12mo.                                             84

  THE SAME—muslin, gilt edges and full gilt sides,                1 50


  =GIFT BOOK FOR YOUNG LADIES=,

  Or Woman's Mission; being Familiar Letters to a Young Lady on
  her Amusements, Employments, Studies, Acquaintances, male and
  female, Friendships, &c., by Dr. WM. A. ALCOTT, frontispiece
  on steel, muslin, 307 pp., 12mo.                                   84

  THE SAME—muslin, gilt edges and full gilt sides,                1 50


  =YOUNG MAN'S BOOK=,

  Or, Self-Education, by Rev. WM. HOSMER, frontispiece on
  steel, muslin, 291 pp., 12mo.                                      84

  THE SAME—muslin, gilt edges and full gilt sides,                1 50


  =YOUNG LADY'S BOOK=,

  Or, Principles of Female Education, by Rev. WM. HOSMER,
  frontispiece on steel, muslin, 301 pp., 12mo.                      84

  THE SAME—muslin, gilt edges and full gilt sides,                1 50


  =GOLDEN STEPS FOR THE YOUNG=,

  To Usefulness, Respectability and Happiness, by JOHN MATHER
  AUSTIN, author of "Voice to Youth," frontispiece on steel,
  muslin, 243 pp., 12mo.                                             84

  THE SAME—muslin, gilt edges and full gilt sides,                1 50


  =VOICE TO THE YOUNG=,

  Or, Lectures for the Times, by W. W. PATTON, muslin, 213 pp.,
  12mo.                                                              75


  =THE YOUTH'S BOOK OF GEMS=,

  By F. C. WOODWORTH, with 100 illustrations, muslin, 386 pp.,
  8vo.                                                             1 25


  =THE STRING OF PEARLS=,

  For Boys and Girls, by T. S. ARTHUR and F. C. WOODWORTH, with
  many illustrations, muslin, 288 pp., 16mo.                         84


  =STORIES ABOUT BIRDS=,

  By F. C. WOODWORTH, with illustrative engravings, muslin,
  336 pp., 16mo.                                                     84


  =STORIES ABOUT ANIMALS=,

  By F. C. WOODWORTH, with illustrative engravings, muslin,
  336 pp., 16mo.                                                     84


  =WONDERS OF THE INSECT WORLD=,

  By F. C. WOODWORTH, with illustrative engravings, muslin,
  336 pp., 16mo.                                                     84




  ┌───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
  │ Transcriber's Note:                                               │
  │                                                                   │
  │ Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.      │
  │                                                                   │
  │ Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant  │
  │ form was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.     │
  │                                                                   │
  │ Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained.             │
  │                                                                   │
  │ Footnotes were moved to the end of the book and numbered in one   │
  │ continuous sequence.                                              │
  │                                                                   │
  │ Italicized words are surrounded by underline characters, _like    │
  │ this_. Words in bold characters are surrounded by equal signs,    │
  │ =like this=.                                                      │
  │                                                                   │
  │ Other notes:                                                      │
  │ p. 26: be at changed to bear. (...that parish must bear the       │
  │   cost....)                                                       │
  │ p. 29: Frith → Firth. (Firth of Forth.)                           │
  │ p. 84: Chesterle → Chester le. (Chester le Street.)               │
  │ p. 336: an → on. (I could sit my eyes on.)                        │
  └───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘





End of Project Gutenberg's The White Slaves of England, by John C. Cobden

*** 