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 [pg 169] 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 [pg 170]—
"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 [pg 171] 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 [pg 172] 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 2d. or 3d. 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.
[pg 173]
"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 [pg 174] 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 [pg 175] 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 [pg 176] 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 [pg 177] 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 [pg 178] 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."
slaves of the needle.
the london times, in an exceedingly able article upon "seamstress slavery," thus describes the terrible system:—
"granting that the negro 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 [pg 179] 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 negro 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 [pg 180] 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."
[pg 181]
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 5s. 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 [pg 182] 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, [pg 183] 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.
[pg 184]
"—— ——, 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 [pg 185] 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.
[pg 186]
"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 [pg 187] 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 [pg 188] 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 [pg 189] 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 [pg 190] 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 negro slave of america. true, but the difference is in favour of the negro slave. the london workman has only the alternative—such labour as has been described, the workhouse, or starvation. the negro 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 [pg 191] 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 [pg 192] 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 [pg 193] 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.'
[pg 194]
"'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 na?veté 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 [pg 195] 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?'
[pg 196]
"'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.
[pg 197]
"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 [pg 198] 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 [pg 199] 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.
[pg 200]
"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 [pg 201] 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 [pg 202] 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.
[pg 203]
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 negro, like a galley-slave: we ought to say—work like a freeman."
work like negro 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 [pg 204] 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 [pg 205] 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."
