early factory reformers, graphically described the practices of the
apprentice system. He told how, with a bankrupt’s effects, a gang of
workhouse children were put up for sale and publicly advertised as a
part of the property; how a number of boys apprenticed by a parish
in London to one manufacturer, had been transferred to another and
in the process were left in a starving condition; how an agreement
had been made between a London parish and a Lancashire manufacturer
by which it was stipulated that with every twenty sound children one
idiot should be taken.
Among the master manufacturers who had been incredulous concerning
these conditions until the alarm of contagion arose, was the
first Sir Robert Peel. He made a personal investigation and saw
the abominations of the system; he declared his convictions and
introduced into Parliament the first legislative measure for the
protection of children. This was in the year 1802, and after many
reverses he ultimately obtained the act known as the 42d Geo. III,
“for the preservation of the Health and Morals of Apprentices and
others, employed in Cotton and other mills.”
This act is chiefly interesting because it established the principle
of factory legislation, a principle which later in the century
was greatly to promote the welfare of the masses. His first bill,
however, referred only to apprentices and after its enactment
children instead of being imported from the workhouses as formerly
were nevertheless hired from their parents. Their services were
dignified by the name of free labor, but because they were not
accorded the protection given to apprentices their condition was
little better than that of actual slavery.
The next step in the progress of factory legislation was to extend
the protection to young persons engaged in manual employment whether
apprentices or not. Time does not permit us to follow the interesting
history of factory legislation, under the devoted leadership of Mr.
Horner, Sir John Hobhouse (afterwards Lord Broughton), Mr. Saddler,
and Lord Astley (afterwards the Earl of Shaftesbury). But the
evidences of the social condition of the toilers brought out by the
Parliamentary debates of 1816, 1818, 1819, and 1832, are all of the
same nature and reveal a state of human misery without a parallel in
history.
We turn now from child labor to the sanitary conditions of the
manufacturing towns. The report printed by Doctor Kay in 1832,
is an astounding document; it shows that out of six hundred and
eighty-seven streets inspected, more than one half contained
heaps of refuse or stagnant pools; and of nearly seven thousand
houses inspected, more than one third were out of repair, damp, or
ill-ventilated, and an equally large proportion lacked all sanitary
conveniences, even of the most primitive kind.
The population lived on the simplest diet. Breakfast consisted of tea
or coffee with a little bread, while sometimes the men had oatmeal
porridge; dinner consisted generally of boiled potatoes heaped into
one large dish over which melted lard was poured and sometimes a few
pieces of fried fat bacon were added. Those who obtained higher wages
or families whose aggregate income was large added a greater portion
of animal food to this meal at least three times a week, but the
quantity of meat consumed by the laboring population was not large.
The typical family sat around the table, plunging their spoons into
the common dish and with animal eagerness satisfied the cravings of
their appetite. The evening meal consisted of tea, often mingled
with spirits and accompanied by a little bread. The population
thus scantily nourished was crowded in one dense mass in cottages,
separated by narrow, unpaved streets, in an atmosphere loaded with
smoke. Engaged in an employment which unremittingly exhausted their
physical energies, these men and women lacked every moral and
intellectual stimulus; living in squalid wretchedness and on meagre
food it was small wonder that their superfluous gains were spent
in debauchery. With domestic economy neglected, domestic comfort
unknown, home had no other relation to the factory operative than
that of a shelter. At this period the number of operatives above the
age of forty was incredibly small.
In a pamphlet printed during a great turnout in 1831, we find
certain very interesting statistics concerning 1665 persons whose
ages ranged between fifteen and sixty. Of these 1584 were under
forty-five years of age, only fifty-one between forty-five and
fifty were counted as fit for work, while only three had lived to
be sixty years old. Such figures make it evident that large numbers
of workers, prematurely unfitted for labor, came to live upon the
toil of their own children. Nor was this all, for “puny and sickly
parents gave birth to puny and sickly children, and thus the mischief
continued its progress, one generation transmitting its accumulated
evils to the next.”
VI
CHARTISM
Such was the condition of the manufacturing population of England
in the early days of the factory system. It is evident that these
conditions must inevitably give rise to a deep social discontent
which sooner or later must become articulate, and we find from the
very beginning of the factory system the records of innumerable riots.
The history of these disturbances begins with the opposition to the
introduction of new machinery. Rebellious craftsmen bound themselves
by fearful oaths into secret organizations, the members of which were
known as Luddites, from the name of their legendary leader—Ben Ludd.
His name was the password to their secret meetings, at which plans
were made for the destruction of property, plans afterwards carried
out with open violence. Then followed innumerable riots arising
from that growing social discontent which led in the beginning to
factory legislation, and later to Parliamentary reform. It must not
be thought that only the factory folk were discontented. The unrest
was general throughout the lower classes; it was felt, moreover, in
the ranks of the rapidly growing middle class, and the justice of the
demand for better conditions was admitted now and then by individuals
in the governing class—men of the broader vision. I have in my
possession an interesting pamphlet containing the proceedings in the
trial of indictment against Thomas Walker, a merchant of Manchester,
and others, for a conspiracy to overthrow the constitution and
government and to assist the French, the King’s enemies, should they
invade the Kingdom. The case was tried at the Assizes at Lancaster,
in 1794, and the account throws light upon the true state of the
public mind in Manchester at that time.
Thomas Walker, so it appeared to his accusers, was a pernicious,
seditious, and ill-disposed person, greatly disaffected to the King,
and who did in the hearing of divers liege subjects utter the words:
“What are kings! Damn the King!” Moreover, Mr. Thomas Walker was a
member of the Manchester Reformation Society, a body composed chiefly
of working people. They met at a public house—the Old Boar’s Head,
where the works of Tom Paine were read aloud over innumerable pots
of ale; and a correspondence was carried on with the Society of the
Friends of the People in London and with other more questionable
organizations. The publican, warned by the magistrates that he must
no longer give entertainment to this society, turned the reformers
into the streets, whereupon they sought shelter in the warehouse
of Mr. Walker. Here it was alleged they were trained in the use of
firearms; and here one night they were attacked by members of the
Church and King Club, and a riot ensued. The Reformation Society,
however, maintained that the sole object of their meetings was to
obtain, by constitutional means, an adequate representation of the
people in Parliament.
Discontent continues rife in Manchester, increasing with each year,
and at last we come to an event which typifies to all time this
upward struggle of toiling humanity—the massacre on St. Peter’s Field
which occurred on the 16th of August, 1819. Throughout the whole
preceding summer, on account of the distressed condition of trade,
discontent had been rife in the manufacturing towns; agitation was
at white heat; and the voice of the demagogue was heard with that of
the conscientious reformer. It was proposed to hold at Manchester on
the 9th of August an immense meeting to consider the election by the
unrepresented inhabitants of Manchester of a Parliamentary delegate;
but the purpose of this meeting was declared illegal and it was
prohibited by the authorities. Then another meeting was advertised to
take place on the 16th of August, the stated object being to consider
the most legal and effectual means of obtaining Parliamentary reform.
It was said that this meeting was attended by over one hundred
thousand persons.
Several of the divisions that composed the assembly came upon the
field in regular military formations, accompanied by bands of music
and preceded by banners bearing such mottoes as “Equal Representation
or Death.” Many of the marchers were armed with bludgeons. Most of
the columns, however, marched in silence; and except for the loud
shouts of defiance on the appearance of the yeomen cavalry, sent to
disperse the meeting, there was no disturbance on the part of the
populace.
The assembly was in charge of Henry Hunt, the famous radical, who,
mounting the platform which had been erected upon a cart had just
commenced his opening speech when the civil authorities attempted
to arrest him. This the mob resisted, whereupon the yeoman cavalry
shouting, “Have down with their banners!” charged upon the field, put
the crowds to flight, and in the disorder which followed, a number
were killed and many were wounded.
Says Carlyle: “Who shall compute the waste and loss, the obstruction
of every sort, that was produced in the Manchester region by Peterloo
alone. Some thirteen unarmed men and women cut down—the number of the
slain and maimed is very countable; but the treasury of rage, burning
hidden or visible in all hearts ever since, is of unknown extent.
‘How ye came among us, in your cruel armed blindness, ye unspeakable
County Yeomanry, sabres flourishing, hoofs prancing, and slashed us
down at your brute pleasure; deaf, blind to all our claims, and woes
and wrongs; of quick sight and sense to your own claims only. There
lie poor sallow, workworn weavers, and complain no more now; women
themselves are slashed and sabred, howling terror fills the air; and
ye ride prosperous, very victorious,—ye unspeakable: Give us sabres
too and then come on a little!’”
The treasury of rage burning hidden became visible to all.
Chartism—the demand of the people for equal political rights—sprang
into being; the outward and visible sign of inward suppressed
discontent filled the manufacturing towns with unrestrained
murmurings, and government felt the castle of privilege trembling at
its foundation. Some days later Sidmouth, writing from Whitehall,
congratulated the yeomanry in the name of the Prince Regent for
their effective services in preserving public tranquillity. Public
tranquillity indeed! The cries of those stricken weavers shall yet
shake the empire of Britain.
Peterloo was typical of the discontent which had spread throughout
the laboring population of England. Parliament was assembled in
special session to consider the state of the country and to enact
measures for the suppression of disorder. Lord Grenfell in a
brilliant speech discussed sedition, declaring that the whole nation
was inundated with inflammatory publications intended to stimulate
the multitude to acts of savage violence against all who were eminent
for birth or rank, for talent or virtue. Mr. Canning placed the blame
entirely upon discontented radicals, underrating the wide-spread
demand for parliamentary reform, and advocated the acts which were
passed prohibiting meetings like the one held in Manchester, and in
other ways restricting the liberties of the masses in discussing
social conditions. All of these acts tended to increase the
discontent and hasten forward that reform which alone could save
England from revolution.
All famous Englishmen, however, did not view Peterloo with the eyes
of Lord Grenfell or Mr. Canning. Writing to Thomas Love Peacock,
Shelley said: “Many thanks for your attention in sending the papers
which contained the terrible and important news of Manchester. These
are, as it were, the distant thunders of the terrible storm which
is approaching. The tyrants here, as in the French Revolution, have
first shed blood. May their execrable lessons not be learnt with
equal docility.” Inspired by the Manchester massacre, Shelley wrote
“The Masque of Anarchy,” the spirit of which is summed up in these
stanzas:—
“Men of England, heirs of Glory,
Heroes of unwritten story,
Nurselings of one mighty Mother,
Hopes of her, and one another;
“Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number,
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep has fallen on you—
Ye are many—they are few.”
And in the same year he wrote:—
“Men of England, wherefore plough
For the Lords who lay ye low?
Wherefore weave with toil and care
The rich robes your tyrants wear?
“Wherefore feed, and clothe, and save,
From the cradle to the grave,
Those ungrateful drones who would
Drain your sweat—nay, drink your blood?
“The seed ye sow, another reaps;
The wealth ye find, another keeps;
The robes ye weave, another wears;
The arms ye forge, another bears.
“Sow seed,—but let no tyrant reap;
Find wealth,—let no impostor heap;
Weave robes,—let not the idle wear;
Forge arms,—in your defense to bear.”
Fortunately the appeal to arms was unnecessary. The working classes
of England were destined to exemplify Shelley’s lesson,—but by
peaceful means,—were destined to teach the world the great truth that
the many, if accordant and resolute, can always control the few. And
this peaceful conquest is recorded in the history of Chartism.
I have known many labor agitators living in the City of the Dinner
Pail, and almost without exception these men were the sons of English
Chartists. From them I had learned to honor the early British
labor agitator, and to give to the name of pothouse politician
something more than a contemptuous meaning. At the Old Boar’s Head,
in Manchester, and at many another less famous public house in the
manufacturing cities, groups of workingmen gathered, evening after
evening to discuss their wrongs; and over many a pot of ale, and
through many a cloud of tobacco smoke, there emerged at last certain
definite demands for reform.
Workingmen and radicals joined hands; liberal leaders combined with
working-class leaders, and presently there was issued the famous
Charter with its six points,—manhood suffrage, annual parliaments,
the ballot, abolition of property qualifications, payment of members,
and equality of electoral districts. A very sober programme this, but
popular leaders like Fergus O’Connor and Ernest Jones with incendiary
oratory gave it a revolutionary aspect.
So the discontent grew year by year, and year by year it gathered
force. Events in France and elsewhere on the continent excited the
imagination of the governing classes, and every meeting place of
workingmen appeared to be bristling with firearms, but still the
movement grew, and at last the workingmen were ready with their
petition to Parliament. When, on the morning of the 10th of April,
1848, bands of Chartists began to gather on Kennington Common,
carrying red banners and tricolors, all London was astir with
excitement. Government had taken precaution for its defense; the guns
of the Tower were manned and loaded; the employees of the post-office
were supplied with two thousand rifles; the bank was surrounded with
artillery; and behind sand-bags piled upon its roof stood a regiment
of infantry. The bridges and approaches to Westminster were defended
by an army of ten thousand horse, foot, and artillery, while the six
thousand police of London lined the streets, supported by an army of
special constables. And in command of this elaborate defense of the
city against four thousand unarmed workingmen assembled on Kennington
Common to bear a petition to Parliament, was none other than the Iron
Duke himself—Wellington. Surely the voice of the pothouse politicians
had been heard throughout England; it had penetrated the halls of
government—what need had the reformers for powder and shot? And
must we not believe that when five years later the great reform
was enacted, credit for that event was in some measure due to the
resolute and accordant factory folk? Yes, the wheels and spindles of
which Arkwright dreamed brought something more than material wealth
to England; his vision made the nation rich and powerful and his
vision likewise gave to the masses equal political rights.
VII
THE FACTORY AND SOCIAL PROGRESS
We have now traced the history of the factory, from its beginning
with the inventions of Arkwright down to its permanent establishment
in the first half of the last century, and we have noted its
influence upon the social life of England. We have seen how, as early
as the fifteenth century, the introduction of manufactures assisted
in breaking down the feudal system, and how, by making possible the
accumulation of wealth by men of humble birth, it contributed to the
rise of the middle class. We have further seen that at the close of
the eighteenth century the introduction of machinery intensified
these tendencies and exerted a powerful influence on the development
of our modern democracy.
We have, however, confined our attention to a single industry as it
developed in a particular nation,—we have taken the cotton factory as
typical of all factories and its growth in England as typical of its
growth throughout the Western world. But the factory has developed
differently in each industry and its social influence has never been
quite alike in any two nations. When, for instance, Samuel Slater
introduced cotton manufacturing into America, he set up in Rhode
Island an exact counterpart of the English factory. When, later,
other factories were built in New England there took place the same
transition of a vast laboring population from the rural districts
to the manufacturing towns;—but this population was very unlike the
manufacturing population of England. The American factories were
operated by the sons and daughters of Yankee farmers, reared in the
atmosphere of democracy and springing from a race unaffected by the
traditions of feudalism; for them political equality had been already
won, yet even in America the factory became an instrument for social
progress. In the rapidly growing manufacturing towns these country
folk found a new life of opportunity for social advancement; they
did not remain operatives long, but advanced to higher callings;
and to take the places which they left, thousands of workers came
from Lancashire here to enjoy that civic freedom for which their
brothers in the Old World were still contending. To-day in our
Southern States we see a similar process at work,—another race of
men advancing in the social scale by means of the factory; from the
mountains of the Carolinas thousands of young men and women, reared
in a civilization almost unbelievably primitive, are flocking to the
manufacturing towns, there to enjoy the advantages of modern life.
But however varied have been the phases of the development of the
factory in different parts of the world there has always been this
common phenomenon—the concentration of the laboring population in
manufacturing cities and the development of social discontent leading
to social progress.
The nineteenth century was the age of Power Discovered; mechanical
inventions, the concentration of industry, the extension of the
factory system, new means of transportation destroyed the last
vestige of the feudal world and left the democratic ideal triumphant
but unfulfilled: a new century dawns,—the age of Power Humanized.
The industrial world in which we live, with all its peculiar
characteristics, has been built upon the ruins of the feudal order,
and in due time will give place to a newer and better civilization.
Radicals of to-day see visions of to-morrow; reformers fired by the
visions seek to make them real; while conservatives, clinging to the
traditions of a dead past, strive to stay the inevitable progress of
mankind. Truth never changes, but the knowledge of truth grows deeper
with each age; no political institution, no social institution is
sacred unless it is founded upon some eternal truth, and all human
institutions must change with the increasing knowledge of mankind.
Everywhere in the Western world the condition of the laboring
population is vastly better to-day than when, a century and a half
ago, the factory was established; vastly better than when, sixty
years ago, the governments of Europe trembled before a working-class
revolt,—when British Chartism triumphed in reform; when Karl Marx,
exiled from Prussia, called upon the workingmen of the world to
unite; when Mazzini, another exile in London, preached to the toilers
of Italy the gospel of God and humanity, of progress through
education. But the evolution is incomplete, and the discontent of
the laboring population still remains a vital force in the upward
progress of mankind.
To-day we in America are confronted by the amazing spread of
Socialism; Socialism which the radicals preach, the reformers seek
to establish, and the conservatives fear. We cannot evade its
issues, for Socialism is something more than a political creed,—it
is the modern expression of that same spirit of human progress which
destroyed slavery in the ancient world, serfdom in the middle ages
and, creating modern democracy, cannot rest until it has guaranteed
to all men not only equal political rights but equal social rights.
Two men, smoke-room companions of mine during a Pacific voyage, stand
for the contending ideals of the feudal and the modern world. One
was a noble earl, the other a British tea merchant; both were men
of wealth,—the one of large but unproductive estates, the other of a
great business giving employment to thousands of men. Of the two, the
tea merchant, though lacking in fine manners, was the more important
person; yet he would not have exchanged those hours of familiar
gossip with the noble earl for more chests of tea than would fill the
hold of the ship. And there was a reason for this feeling, because
the Groom of the Bedchamber stood for that aristocracy of culture and
good manners which has an important value in any society. Under the
militant structure of society this value belonged to the few; in our
present democracy it has become increasingly the privilege of the
many. Public education, public libraries, public art galleries, the
perfected art of printing have opened the highest culture to children
of the humblest birth. May we not, then, look forward to the time
when “the best that has anywhere been in the world shall be the lot
of every man born into it”—that is to say, the lot of every man who
desires the best?