White Slaves of England

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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 1s. 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."

"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 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."

"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."

"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!"

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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.

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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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.'

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.'"

"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."

"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."

"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 dyke 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.'"

"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.

"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.]

"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.

"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.

"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."

"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."

"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 dykes 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."

"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."

"'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."

"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."

"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.

"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."

"'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?'"

"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."

"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.'"

"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 5d., which amounted to the whole wages of some of the lesser ones; the older hands were fined as high as 10d. 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.'"

"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 4s. 6d. 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 12s. 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?'"

"'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 cripple under me, who could not easily get work anywhere else. A young man came good-naturedly from another room to help my cripple, 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 cripple, 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 cripples; 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.'

"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 cripples in various parts of this town, which has come under my own observation and knowledge.'"

"'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.'"

"'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.'

"'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 4s. 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 2s. 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.'"

"'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 10s. 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 4s. 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 2s. 6d. a week, at first. I think I was a good hand at it. When I had been there half a year I got 3s. 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.'"

"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 6s. 2d. per week. One of them, the eldest, worked at Wilson's for 2 years at 2s. 3d. 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 4s. 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 negro-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.'"

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."

"'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 1s. 6d. to 2s. 6d., 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."

"'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?"'"

"'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 15s. 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 15s. 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 3l. 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 4s. 6d. 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 2s. 6d. 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 3s. 6d. 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.'

"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."

"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.

"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.

"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 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.

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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 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 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."

"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:—

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.

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—

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—

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 "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:—

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:—

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:—

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:—

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 beating and starving to death a parish apprentice. Two instances of punishment, for thousands of cases of impunity!

"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."

"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—

"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?'"

"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."

"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."

"'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.'"

"'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 10s. 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, 10s. 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 12s. a week. The 10s. 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 15d. 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 3s. 9d. Yes, I lived on it, and paid 1s. 6d. 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 4s. a week at it; but we were still very badly off. Then I got to work on the roads every day, and had 1s. 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 9d. 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 1s. 1½d. 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 6s. [he meant that his expenses, of every kind, exceeded his receipts by 6s.,] 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 1s. 4½d. a week and three loaves, and he have 16s., 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."'

"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."

"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."

"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.)"

"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."

"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."

"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 10s. a week, out of which he pays 2s. 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, 2s. 6d. per week more. For a rent of £5 5s., 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 10s. per week, but found he was incapable of walking the distance; the consequence was, he took work that only enabled him to earn 5s. 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 24s. a week labour would fall to 12s. or 10s., or the price of agricultural labour. Agriculturists from northern districts, who work their farms with 12s. and 15s. a week free labour, have declined the temptation of low rents, to take farms in parishes where the wages are 7s. or 8s. 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 1s. 6d., a day, could not make it pay; and an able farmer now works it with free labour, at 2s. 6d., 3s., and 3s. 6d., 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 2s. 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 12s., 14s., and 15s. 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 2s. a week; and 2s. 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.'"

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 1,000,000l. or 1,200,000l. 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."

"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 coloured 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!"

"'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."

"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."

"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."

"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.

"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 5s. or 10s. 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."

"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."

"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 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?'"

"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!"

"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 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."

"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."

"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.

"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 8d. 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.]

"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.

"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 coloured 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 slopes 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."

"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 40s. 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."

"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!"