Chapter III: Slavery in the British Factories (1)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'God's blessing be on you!'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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