CHAPTER V.

THE WORKHOUSE SYSTEM OF BRITAIN.

The English writers generally point to the poor-laws of their country

as a proud evidence of the merciful and benevolent character of the

government. Look at those laws! so much have we done in the cause of

humanity. See how much money we expend every year for the relief of the

poor! Our workhouses are maintained at an enormous expense. Very well;

but it takes somewhat from the character of the doctor, to ascertain

that he gave the wound he makes a show of healing. What are the sources

of the immense pauperism of Britain? The enormous monopoly of the soil,

and the vast expense of civil and ecclesiastical aristocracy. The first

takes work from one portion of the people, and the latter takes the

profits of work from the other portion. The "glorious institutions" of

Britain crowd the workhouses; and we are now going to show the horrible

system under which paupers are held in these establishments.

The labouring classes are constantly exposed to the chance of going to

the workhouse. Their wages are so low, or so preyed upon by taxes, that

they have no opportunity of providing for a "rainy day." A few weeks'

sickness, a few weeks' absence of work, and, starvation staring them

in the face, they are forced to apply to the parish authorities for

relief. Once within the gate of the workhouse, many never entertain the

idea of coming out until they are carried forth in their coffins.

Each parish has a workhouse, which is under the control of several

guardians, who, again, are under the orders of a Board of Commissioners

sitting at London. Many—perhaps a majority—of the guardians of the

parishes are persons without those humane feelings which should belong

to such officials, and numerous petty brutalities are added to those

which are inherent in the British workhouse system.

Robert Southey says—

"When the poor are incapable of contributing any longer to their

own support, they are removed to what is called the workhouse.

I cannot express to you the feelings of hopelessness and

dread with which all the decent poor look on to this wretched

termination of a life of labour. To this place all vagrants are

sent for punishment; unmarried women with child go here to be

delivered; and poor orphans and base-born children are brought

up here until they are of age to be apprenticed off; the other

inmates are of those unhappy people who are utterly helpless,

parish idiots and madmen, the blind and the palsied, and the

old who are fairly worn out. It is not in the nature of things

that the superintendents of such institutions as these should be

gentle-hearted, when the superintendence is undertaken merely

for the sake of the salary. To this society of wretchedness

the labouring poor of England look as their last resting-place

on this side of the grave; and, rather than enter abodes so

miserable, they endure the severest privations as long as it is

possible to exist. A feeling of honest pride makes them shrink

from a place where guilt and poverty are confounded; and it is

heart-breaking for those who have reared a family of their own

to be subjected, in their old age, to the harsh and unfeeling

authority of persons younger than themselves, neither better born

nor better bred."

This is no less true, than admirable as a specimen of prose. It was

true when Southey penned it, and it is true now. Let us look at some of

the provisions of the poor-laws of England, which form the much-lauded

system of charity.

One of these provisions refuses relief to those who will not accept

that relief except in the character of inmates of the workhouse, and

thus compels the poor applicants to either perish of want or tear

asunder all the ties of home. To force the wretched father from the

abode of his family, is a piece of cruelty at which every humane breast

must revolt. What wonder that many perish for want of food, rather than

leave all that is dear to them on earth? If they must die, they prefer

to depart surrounded by affectionate relatives, rather than by callous

"guardians of the poor," who calculate the trouble and the expense

of the burial before the breath leaves the body. The framers of the

poor-laws forgot—perchance—that, "Be it ever so humble, there's no

place like home."

Another provision of the poor-laws denies the consolations of religion

to those whose conscientious scruples will not allow them to worship

according to the forms of the established church. This is totally at

variance with the spirit of true Christianity, and a most barbarous

privation. One would think that British legislators doubted the supreme

efficacy of the Christian faith in saving souls from destruction. Why

should not the balm be applied, regardless of the formal ceremonies, if

it possesses any healing virtues? But the glory of the English Church

is its iron observance of forms; and, rather than relax one jot, it

would permit the souls of millions to be swept away into the gloom of

eternal night.

Then, there is the separation regulation, dragging after it a long

train of horrors and heart-rending sufferings—violating the law of

holy writ—"Whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder"—and

trampling upon the best feelings of human nature.

A thrilling illustration of the operation of this law is narrated by

Mr. James Grant.[90] We quote:—

"Two persons, man and wife, of very advanced years, were at

last, through the infirmities consequent on old age, rendered

incapable of providing for themselves. Their friends were like

themselves, poor; but, so long as they could, they afforded

them all the assistance in their power. The infirmities of the

aged couple became greater and greater; so, as a necessary

consequence, did their wants. The guardians of the poor—their

parish being under the operation of the new measure—refused to

afford them the slightest relief. What was to be done? They had

no alternative but starvation and the workhouse. To have gone to

the workhouse, even had they been permitted to live together,

could have been painful enough to their feelings; but to go there

to be separated from each other, was a thought at which their

hearts sickened. They had been married for nearly half a century;

and during all that time had lived in the greatest harmony

together. I am speaking the language of unexaggerated truth when

I say, that their affection for each other increased, instead

of suffering diminution, as they advanced in years. A purer or

stronger attachment than theirs has never, perhaps, existed in a

world in which there is so much of mutability as in ours. Many

were the joys and many were the sorrows which they had equally

shared with each other. Their joys were increased, because

participated in by both: their sorrows were lessened, because of

the consolations they assiduously administered to each other when

the dispensations of Providence assumed a lowering aspect. The

reverses they had experienced, in the course of their long and

eventful union, had only served to attach them the more strongly

to each other, just as the tempestuous blast only serves to

cause the oak to strike its roots more deeply in the earth. With

minds originally constituted alike, and that constitution being

based on a virtuous foundation, it was, indeed, to be expected

that the lapse of years would only tend to strengthen their

attachment. Nothing, in a word, could have exceeded the ardour

of their sympathy with each other. The only happiness which this

world could afford them was derived from the circumstance of

being in each other's company; and the one looked forward to the

possibility of being left alone, when the other was snatched away

by death, with feelings of the deepest pain and apprehension.

Their wish was, in subordination to the will of the Supreme

Being, that as they had been so long united in life, so in death

they might not be divided. Their wish was in one sense realized,

though not in the sense they had desired. The pressure of want,

aggravated by the increasing infirmities of the female, imposed

on her the necessity of repairing to the workhouse. The husband

would most willingly have followed, had they been permitted

to live together when there, in the hope that they should,

even in that miserable place, be able to assuage each other's

griefs, as they had so often done before. That was a permission,

however, which was not to be granted to them. The husband

therefore determined that he would live on a morsel of bread and

a draught of cold water, where he was, rather than submit to

the degradation of a workhouse, in which he would be separated

from her who had been the partner of his joys and griefs for

upward of half a century. The hour of parting came; and a sad

and sorrowful hour it was to the aged couple. Who shall describe

their feelings on the occasion? Who can even enter into those

feelings? No one. They could only be conceived by themselves.

The process of separation was as full of anguish to their mental

nature as is the severance of a limb from the body to the

physical constitution. And that separation was aggravated by the

circumstance, that both felt a presentiment, so strong as to have

all the force of a thorough conviction, that their separation was

to be final as regarded this world. What, then, must have been

the agonies of the parting hour in the case of a couple whose

mental powers were still unimpaired, and who had lived in the

most perfect harmony for the protracted period of fifty years?

They were, I repeat, not only such as admit of no description,

but no one, who has not been similarly circumstanced, can even

form an idea of them. The downcast look, the tender glances

they emitted to each other, the swimming eye, the moist cheek,

the deep-drawn sigh, the choked utterance, the affectionate

embrace—all told, in the language of resistless eloquence, of

the anguish caused by their separation. The scene was affecting

in the extreme, even to the mere spectator. It was one which must

have softened the hardest heart, as it drew tears from every

eye which witnessed it; what, then, must the actual realization

of it in all its power have been to the parties themselves? The

separation did take place; the poor woman was wrenched from the

almost death-like grasp of her husband. She was transferred to

the workhouse; and he was left alone in the miserable hovel in

which they had so long remained together. And what followed?

What followed! That may be soon told: it is a short history. The

former pined away, and died in three weeks after the separation;

and the husband only survived three weeks more. Their parting was

thus but for a short time, though final as regarded this world.

Ere six weeks had elapsed they again met together—

Met on that happy, happy shore,

Where friends do meet to part no more."

Here was an outrage, shocking to every heart of ordinary sensibility,

committed by authority of the British government, in due execution

of its "charitable enactments." In searching for a parallel, we can

only find it among those savage tribes who kill their aged and infirm

brethren to save trouble and expense. Yet such actions are sanctioned

by the government of a civilized nation, in the middle of the

nineteenth century; and that, too, when the government is parading its

philanthropy in the face of the world, and, pharisaically, thanking God

that it is not as other nations are, authorizing sin and wrong.

It was said by the advocates of this regulation of separation, that

paupers themselves have no objection to be separated from each other;

because, generally speaking, they have become old and unable to

assist each other, before they throw themselves permanently on the

parish—in other words, that the poor have not the same affection for

relatives and friends that the wealthy have. Well, that argument was

characteristic of a land where the fineness of a man's feelings are

assumed to be exactly in proportion to the position of his ancestry

and the length of his purse—perfectly in keeping, as an artist would

say. A pauper husband and wife, after living together, perhaps for

thirty years, become old and desire to be separated, according to the

representations of the British aristocrat. His iron logic allows no

hearts to the poor. To breathe is human—to feel is aristocratic.

Equally to be condemned is the regulation which prohibits the visits

to the workhouse of the friends of the inmates. The only shadow of a

reason for this is an alleged inconvenience attending the admission

of those persons who are not inmates; and for such a reason the wife

is prevented from seeing her husband, the children from seeing their

father, and the poor heart-broken inmate from seeing a friend—perhaps

the only one he has in the world. We might suppose that the authors

of this regulation had discovered that adversity multiplies friends,

instead of driving them away from its gloom. Paupers must be blessed

beyond the rest of mankind in that respect. Instances are recorded in

which dying paupers have been refused the consolation of a last visit

from their children, under the operation of this outrageous law. Mr.

James Grant mentions a case that came to his notice:—

"An instance occurred a few months since in a workhouse in the

suburbs of the metropolis, in which intelligence was accidentally

conveyed to a daughter that her father was on his death-bed; she

hurried that moment to the workhouse, but was refused admission.

With tears in her eyes, and a heart that was ready to break, she

pleaded the urgency of the case. The functionary was deaf to

her entreaties; as soon might she have addressed them to the

brick wall before her. His answer was, 'It is contrary to the

regulations of the place; come again at a certain hour,' She

applied to the medical gentleman who attended the workhouse, and

through his exertions obtained admission. She flew to the ward

in which her father was confined: he lay cold, motionless, and

unconscious before her—his spirit was gone; he had breathed

his last five minutes before. Well may we exclaim, when we hear

of such things, 'Do we live in a Christian country? Is this a

civilized land?'"

Certainly, Mr. Grant, it is a land of freedom and philanthropy unknown

upon the rest of the earth's surface.

From a survey of the poor-laws it appears that poverty is considered

criminal in Great Britain. The workhouses, which are declared to have

been established for the relief of the poor, are worse than prisons for

solitary confinement; for the visits of friends and the consolations

of religion, except under particular forms, are denied to the unhappy

inmates, while they are permitted to the criminal in his dungeon.

What an English pauper is may be learned from the following description

of the "bold peasantry," which we extract from one of the countless

pamphlets on pauperism written by Englishmen.

"What is that defective being, with calfless legs and stooping

shoulders, weak in body and mind, inert, pusillanimous and

stupid, whose premature wrinkles and furtive glance tell of

misery and degradation? That is an English peasant or pauper;

for the words are synonymous. His sire was a pauper, and his

mother's milk wanted nourishment. From infancy his food has been

bad, as well as insufficient; and he now feels the pains of

unsatisfied hunger nearly whenever he is awake. But half-clothed,

and never supplied with more warmth than suffices to cook his

scanty meals, cold and wet come to him, and stay by him, with

the weather. He is married, of course; for to this he would have

been driven by the poor-laws, even if he had been, as he never

was, sufficiently comfortable and prudent to dread the burden

of a family. But, though instinct and the overseer have given

him a wife, he has not tasted the highest joys of husband and

father. His partner and his little ones being, like himself,

often hungry, seldom warm, sometimes sick without aid, and always

sorrowful without hope, are greedy, selfish, and vexing; so,

to use his own expression, he 'hates the sight of them,' and

resorts to his hovel only because a hedge affords less shelter

from the wind and rain. Compelled by parish law to support his

family, which means to join them in consuming an allowance from

the parish, he frequently conspires with his wife to get that

allowance increased, or prevent its being diminished. This brings

begging, trickery, and quarrelling; and ends in settled craft.

Though he has the inclination he wants the courage to become,

like more energetic men of his class, a poacher or smuggler on

a large scale; but he pilfers occasionally, and teaches his

children to lie and steal. His subdued and slavish manner toward

his great neighbours shows that they treat him with suspicion

and harshness. Consequently he at once dreads and hates them;

but he will never harm them by violent means. Too degraded to be

desperate, he is only thoroughly depraved. His miserable career

will be short; rheumatism and asthma are conducting him to the

workhouse, where he will breathe his last without one pleasant

recollection, and so make room for another wretch, who may live

and die in the same way. This is a sample of one class of English

peasants. Another class is composed of men who, though paupers

to the extent of being in part supported by the parish, were not

bred and born in extreme destitution, and who, therefore, in so

far as the moral depends on the physical man, are qualified to

become wise, virtuous, and happy. They have large muscles, an

upright mien, and a quick perception. With strength, energy, and

skill, they would earn a comfortable subsistence as labourers,

if the modern fashion of paying wages out of the poor-box did

not interfere with the due course of things, and reduce all

the labourers of a parish, the old and the young, the weak

and the strong, the idle and the industrious, to that lowest

rate of wages, or rather of weekly payment to each, which, in

each case, is barely sufficient for the support of life. If

there were no poor-laws, or if the poor-laws were such that

labour was paid in proportion to the work performed, and not

according to a scale founded on the power of gastric juice under

various circumstances, these superior men would be employed in

preference to the inferior beings described above, would earn

twice as much as the others could earn, and would have every

motive for industry, providence, and general good conduct. As

it is, their superior capacity as labourers is of no advantage

to them. They have no motive for being industrious or prudent.

What they obtain between labour and the rate is but just enough

to support them miserably. They are tempted to marry for the

sake of an extra allowance from the parish: and they would be

sunk to the lowest point of degradation but for the energy of

their minds, which they owe to their physical strength. Courage

and tenderness are said to be allied: men of this class usually

make good husbands and affectionate parents. Impelled by want of

food, clothes, and warmth, for themselves and their families,

they become poachers wherever game abounds, and smugglers when

opportunity serves. By poaching or smuggling, or both, many of

them are enabled to fill the bellies of their children, to put

decent clothes on the backs of their wives, and to keep the

cottage whole, with a good fire in it, from year's end to year's

end. The villains! why are they not taken up? They are taken up

sometimes, and are hunted always, by those who administer rural

law. In this way they learn to consider two sets of laws—those

for the protection of game, and those for the protection of

home manufactures—as specially made for their injury. Be just

to our unpaid magistrates! who perform their duty, even to the

shedding of man's blood, in defence of pheasants and restrictions

on trade. Thus the bolder sort of husbandry labourers, by

engaging in murderous conflicts with gamekeepers and preventive

men, become accustomed to deeds of violence, and, by living

in jails, qualified for the most desperate courses. They also

imbibe feelings of dislike, or rather of bitter hatred, toward

the rural magistracy, whom they regard as oppressors and natural

enemies; closely resembling, in this respect, the defective

class of peasants from whom they differ in so many particulars.

Between these two descriptions of peasantry there is another,

which partakes of the characteristics of both classes, but in

a slighter degree, except as regards their fear and hatred of

the rural aristocracy. In the districts where paupers and game

abound, it would be difficult to find many labourers not coming

under one of these descriptions. By courtesy, the entire body

is called the bold peasantry of England. But is nothing done by

the 'nobility, clergy, and gentry,' to conciliate the affection

of the pauper mass, by whose toil all their own wealth is

produced? Charity! The charity of the poor-laws, which paupers

have been taught to consider a right, which operates as a curse

to the able-bodied and well-disposed, while it but just enables

the infirm of all ages to linger on in pain and sorrow. Soup!

Dogs'-meat, the paupers call it. They are very ungrateful; but

there is a way of relieving a man's necessities which will make

him hate you; and it is in this way, generally, that soup is

given to the poor. Books, good little books, which teach patience

and submission to the powers that be! With which such paupers

as obtain them usually boil their kettles, when not deterred by

fear of the reverend donor. Of this gift the design is so plain

and offensive, that its effect is contrary to what was intended,

just as children from whom obedience is very strictly exacted are

commonly rebels at heart. What else? is nothing else done by the

rural rich to win the love of the rural poor? Speaking generally,

since all rules have exceptions, the privileged classes of our

rural districts take infinite pains to be abhorred by their

poorest neighbours. They enclose commons. They stop footpaths.

They wall in their parks. They set spring-guns and man-traps.

They spend on the keep of high-bred dogs what would support half

as many children, and yet persecute a labouring man for owning

one friend in his cur. They make rates of wages, elaborately

calculating the minimum of food that will keep together the soul

and body of a clodhopper. They breed game in profusion for their

own amusement, and having thus tempted the poor man to knock

down a hare for his pot, they send him to the treadmill, or the

antipodes, for that inexpiable offence. They build jails, and

fill them. They make new crimes and new punishments for the poor.

They interfere with the marriages of the poor, compelling some,

and forbidding others, to come together. They shut up paupers in

workhouses, separating husband and wife, in pounds by day and

wards by night. They harness poor men to carts. They superintend

alehouses, decry skittles, deprecate beer-shops, meddle with

fairs, and otherwise curtail the already narrow amusements of

the poor. Even in church, where some of them solemnly preach

that all are equal, they sit on cushions, in pews boarded,

matted, and sheltered by curtains from the wind and the vulgar

gaze, while the lower order must put up with a bare bench on a

stone floor, which is good enough for them. Everywhere they are

ostentatious in the display of wealth and enjoyment; while, in

their intercourse with the poor, they are suspicious, quick at

taking offence, vindictive when displeased, haughty, overbearing,

tyrannical, and wolfish; as it seems in the nature of man to be

toward such of his fellows as, like sheep, are without the power

to resist."

In London, a species of slavery pertains to the workhouse system which

has justly excited much indignation. This is the employment of paupers

as scavengers in the streets, without due compensation, and compelling

them to wear badges, as if they were convicted criminals. Mr. Mayhew

has some judicious remarks upon this subject:—

"If pauperism be a disgrace, then it is unjust to turn a man into

the public thoroughfare, wearing the badge of beggary, to be

pointed at and scorned for his poverty, especially when we are

growing so particularly studious of our criminals that we make

them wear masks to prevent even their faces being seen.[91] Nor

is it consistent with the principles of an enlightened national

morality that we should force a body of honest men to labour

upon the highways, branded with a degrading garb, like convicts.

Neither is it _wise_ to do so, for the shame of poverty soon

becomes deadened by the repeated exposure to public scorn; and

thus the occasional recipient of parish relief is ultimately

converted into the hardened and habitual pauper. "Once a pauper

always a pauper," I was assured was the parish rule; and here

lies the _rationale_ of the fact. Not long ago this system of

employing _badged_ paupers to labour on the public thoroughfares

was carried to a much more offensive extent than it is even at

present. At one time the pauper labourers of a certain parish

had the attention of every passer-by attracted to them while at

their work, for on the back of each man's garb—a sort of smock

frock—was marked, with sufficient prominence, 'CLERKENWELL.

STOP IT!' This public intimation that the labourers were not

only paupers, but regarded as thieves, and expected to purloin

the parish dress they wore, attracted public attention, and was

severely commented upon at a meeting. The 'STOP IT!' therefore

was cancelled, and the frocks are now _merely_ lettered

'CLERKENWELL.' Before the alteration the men very generally wore

the garment inside out."

The pauper scavengers employed by the metropolitan parishes are

divided into three classes: 1. The in-door paupers, who receive no

wages whatever, their lodging, food, and clothing being considered to

be sufficient remuneration for their labour; 2. The out-door paupers,

who are paid partly in money and partly in kind, and employed in some

cases three days, and in others six days in the week; 3. The unemployed

labourers of the district, who are set to scavenging work by the

parish and paid a regular money-wage—the employment being constant,

and the rate of remuneration varying from 1_s._ 3_d._ to 2_s._ 6_d._ a

day for each of the six days, or from 7_s._ 6_d._ to 15_s._ a week.

The first class of pauper-scavengers, or those who receive nothing for

their labour beyond their lodging, food, and clothing, are treated as

slaves. The labour is compulsory, without inducements for exertion,

and conducted upon the same system which the authorities of the

parish would use for working cattle. One of these scavengers gave the

following account of this degrading labour to Mr. Mayhew:—

"'Street-sweeping,' he said, 'degrades a man, and if a man's poor

he hasn't no call to be degraded. Why can't they set the thieves

and pickpockets to sweep? they could be watched easy enough;

there's always idle fellers as reckons theirselves real gents,

as can be got for watching and sitch easy jobs, for they gets

as much for them as three men's paid for hard work in a week. I

never was in a prison, but I've heerd that people there is better

fed and better cared for than in workusses. What's the meaning of

that, sir, I'd like to know. You can't tell me, but I can tell

you. The workus is made as ugly as it can be, that poor people

may be got to leave it, and chance dying in the street rather.'

[Here the man indulged in a gabbled detail of a series of pauper

grievances which I had a difficulty in diverting or interrupting.

On my asking if the other paupers had the same opinion as to the

street-sweeping as he had, he replied:—] 'To be sure they has;

all them that has sense to have a 'pinion at all has; there's

not two sides to it anyhow. No, I don't want to be kept and do

nothink. I want _proper_ work. And by the rights of it I might

as well be kept with nothink to do as — or —' [parish

officials]. 'Have they nothing to do?' I asked. 'Nothink, but to

make mischief and get what ought to go to the poor. It's salaries

and such like as swallers the rates, and that's what every poor

family knows as knows any think. Did I ever like my work better?

Certainly not. Do I take any pains with it? Well, where would be

the good? I can sweep well enough, when I please, but if I could

do more than the best man as ever Mr. Drake paid a pound a week

to, it wouldn't be a bit better for me—not a bit, sir, I assure

you. We all takes it easy whenever we can, but the work _must_ be

done. The only good about it is that you get outside the house.

It's a change that way certainly. But we work like horses and is

treated like asses.'"

The second mode of pauper scavenging, viz. that performed by out-door

paupers, and paid for partly in money and partly in kind, is strongly

condemned, as having mischievous and degrading tendencies. The men

thus employed are certainly not independent labourers, though the

means of their subsistence are partly the fruits of their toil.

Their exceedingly scant payment keeps them hard at work for a very

unreasonable period. Should they refuse to obey the parish regulations

in regard to the work, the pangs of hunger are sure to reach them and

compel them to submit. Death is the only door of escape. From a married

man employed by the parish in this work, Mr. Mayhew obtained the

following interesting narrative, which is a sad revelation of pauper

slavery:—

"'I was brought up as a type-founder; my father, who was one,

learnt me his trade; but he died when I was quite a young man,

or I might have been better perfected in it. I was comfortably

off enough then, and got married. Very soon after that I was

taken ill with an abscess in my neck, you can see the mark of it

still,' [He showed me the mark.] 'For six months I wasn't able

to do a thing, and I was a part of the time, I don't recollect

how long, in St. Bartholomew's Hospital. I was weak and ill when

I came out, and hardly fit for work; I couldn't hear of any work

I could get, for there was a great bother in the trade between

master and men. Before I went into the hospital, there was money

to pay to doctors; and when I came out I could earn nothing, so

every thing went; yes, sir, every thing. My wife made a little

matter with charing for families she'd lived in, but things are

in a bad way if a poor woman has to keep her husband. She was

taken ill at last, and then there was nothing but the parish

for us. I suffered a great deal before it come to that. It was

awful. No one can know what it is but them that suffers it. But I

didn't know what in the world to do. We lived then in St. Luke's,

and were passed to our own parish, and were three months in the

workhouse. The living was good enough, better than it is now,

I've heard, but I was miserable.' ['And I was _very_ miserable,'

interposed the wife, 'for I had been brought up comfortable; my

father was a respectable tradesman in St. George's-in-the-East,

and I had been in good situations.'] 'We made ourselves,' said

the husband, 'as useful as we could, but we were parted of

course. At the three months' end, I had 10_s._ given to me to

come out with, and was told I might start costermongering on it.

But to a man not up to the trade, 10_s._ won't go very far to

keep up costering. I didn't feel master enough of my own trade by

this time to try for work at it, and work wasn't at all regular.

There were good hands earning only 12_s._ a week. The 10_s._

soon went, and I had again to apply for relief, and got an order

for the stone-yard to go and break stones. Ten bushels was to be

broken for 15_d._ It was dreadful hard work at first. My hands

got all blistered and bloody, and I've gone home and cried with

pain and wretchedness. At first it was on to three days before

I could break the ten bushels. I felt shivered to bits all over

my arms and shoulders, and my head was splitting. I then got to

do it in two days, and then in one, and it grew easier. But all

this time I had only what was reckoned three days' work in a

week. That is, you see, sir, I had only three times ten bushels

of stones given to break in a week, and earned only 3_s._ 9_d._

Yes, I lived on it, and paid 1_s._ 6_d._ a week rent, for the

neighbours took care of a few sticks for us, and the parish or a

broker wouldn't have found them worth carriage. My wife was then

in the country with a sister. I lived upon bread and dripping,

went without fire or candle (or had one only very seldom) though

it wasn't warm weather. I can safely say that for eight weeks

I never tasted one bite of meat, and hardly a bite of butter.

When I couldn't sleep of a night, but that wasn't often, it was

terrible, very. I washed what bits of things I had then, myself,

and had sometimes to get a ha'porth of soap as a favour, as the

chandler said she 'didn't make less than a penn'orth.' If I ate

too much dripping, it made me feel sick. I hardly know how much

bread and dripping I ate in a week. I spent what money I had

in it and bread, and sometimes went without. I was very weak,

you may be sure, sir; and if I'd had the influenza or any thing

that way, I should have gone off like a shot, for I seemed to

have no constitution left. But my wife came back again and got

work at charing, and made about 4_s._ a week at it; but we were

still very badly off. Then I got to work on the roads every day,

and had 1_s._ and a quartern loaf a day, which was a rise. I

had only one child then, but men with larger families got two

quartern loaves a day. Single men got 9_d._ a day. It was far

easier work than stone-breaking too. The hours were from eight

to five in winter, and from seven to six in summer. But there's

always changes going on, and we were put on 1_s._ 1½_d._ a

day and a quartern loaf, and only three days a week. All the

same as to time of course. The bread wasn't good; it was only

cheap. I suppose there was twenty of us working most of the

times as I was. The gangsman, as you call him, but that's more

for the regular hands, was a servant of the parish, and a great

tyrant. Yes, indeed, when we had a talk among ourselves, there

was nothing but grumbling heard of. Some of the tales I've heard

were shocking; worse than what I've gone through. Everybody was

grumbling, except perhaps two men that had been twenty years in

the streets, and were like born paupers. They didn't feel it,

for there's a great difference in men. They knew no better. But

anybody might have been frightened to hear some of the men talk

and curse. We've stopped work to abuse the parish officers as

might be passing. We've mobbed the overseers; and a number of

us, I was one, were taken before the magistrate for it: but we

told him how badly we were off, and he discharged us, and gave us

orders into the workhouse, and told 'em to see if nothing could

be done for us. We were there till next morning, and then sent

away without any thing being said.'"

"'It's a sad life, sir, is a parish worker's. I wish to God I

could get out of it. But when a man has children he can't stop

and say, "I can't do this," and "I won't do that." Last week,

now, in costering, I lost 6_s._ [he meant that his expenses, of

every kind, exceeded his receipts by 6_s._,] and though I can

distil nectar, or any thing that way, [this was said somewhat

laughingly,] it's only when the weather's hot and fine that any

good at all can be done with it. I think, too, that there's

not the money among working-men that there once was. Any thing

regular in the way of pay must always be looked at by a man with

a family.

"'Of course the streets must be properly swept, and if I can

sweep them as well as Mr. Dodd's men, for I know one of them very

well, why should I have only 1_s._ 4½_d._ a week and three

loaves, and he have 16_s._, I think it is. I don't drink, my

wife knows I don't, [the wife assented,] and it seems as if in a

parish a man must be kept down when he is down, and then blamed

for it. I may not understand all about it, but it looks queer."'

The third system of parish work, where the labourer is employed

regularly, and paid a certain sum out of the parochial fund, is

superior to either of the other modes; but still, the labourers are

very scantily paid, subjected to a great deal of tyranny by brutal

officers, and miserably provided. They endure the severest toil for a

wretched pittance, without being able to choose their masters or their

employment. No slaves could be more completely at the mercy of their

masters.

The common practice of apprenticing children born and reared in

workhouses, to masters who may feed, clothe, and beat them as they

please, is touchingly illustrated in Dickens's famous story of Oliver

Twist. After Oliver had been subjected for some time to the tender

mercies of guardians and overseers in the workhouse, it was advertised

that any person wanting an apprentice could obtain him, and five

pounds as a premium. He narrowly escaped being apprenticed to a sweep,

and finally fell into the hands of Mr. Sowerberry, an undertaker. In

the house of that dismal personage, he was fed upon cold bits, badly

clothed, knocked about unmercifully, and worked with great severity.

Such is the common fate of parish apprentices; and we do not think

a more truthful conception of the _beauties_ of the system could be

conveyed than by quoting from the experience of Dickens's workhouse

boy:—

"Oliver had not been within the walls of the workhouse a quarter

of an hour, and had scarcely completed the demolition of a second

slice of bread, when Mr. Bumble, who had handed him over to the

care of an old woman, returned, and, telling him it was a board

night, informed him that the board had said he was to appear

before it forthwith.

"Not having a very clearly defined notion what a live board was,

Oliver was rather astounded by this intelligence, and was not

quite certain whether he ought to laugh or cry. He had no time

to think about the matter, however; for Mr. Bumble gave him a

tap on the head with his cane to wake him up, and another on his

back to make him lively, and, bidding him follow, conducted him

into a large whitewashed room, where eight or ten fat gentlemen

were sitting round a table, at the top of which, seated in an

armchair rather higher than the rest, was a particularly fat

gentleman with a very round, red face.

"'Bow to the board,' said Bumble. Oliver brushed away two or

three tears that were lingering in his eyes, and seeing no board

but the table, fortunately bowed to that.

"'What's your name, boy?' said the gentleman in the high chair.

"Oliver was frightened at the sight of so many gentlemen, which

made him tremble: and the beadle gave him another tap behind,

which made him cry; and these two causes made him answer in a

very low and hesitating voice; whereupon a gentleman in a white

waistcoat said he was a fool, which was a capital way of raising

his spirit, and putting him quite at his ease.

"'Boy,' said the gentleman in the high chair: 'listen to me. You

know you're an orphan, I suppose?'"

"'What's that, sir?" inquired poor Oliver.

"'The boy _is_ a fool—I thought he was,' said the gentleman

in the white waistcoat in a very decided tone. If one member

of a class be blessed with an intuitive perception of others

of the same race, the gentleman in the white waistcoat was

unquestionably well qualified to pronounce an opinion on the

matter.

"'Hush!' said the gentleman who had spoken first. 'You know

you've got no father or mother, and that you are brought up by

the parish, don't you?'

"'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver, weeping bitterly.

"'What are you crying for?' inquired the gentleman in the white

waistcoat; and to be sure it was very extraordinary. What _could_

he be crying for?

"'I hope you say your prayers every night,' said another

gentleman in a gruff voice, 'and pray for the people who feed

you, and take care of you, like a Christian.'

"'Yes, sir,' stammered the boy. The gentleman who spoke last was

unconsciously right. It would have been _very_ like a Christian,

and a marvellously good Christian, too, if Oliver had prayed for

the people who fed and took care of _him_. But he hadn't, because

nobody had taught him.

"'Well you have come here to be educated, and taught a useful

trade,' said the red-faced gentleman in the high chair.

"'So you'll begin to pick oakum to-morrow morning at six

o'clock,' added the surly one in the white waistcoat.

"For the combination of both these blessings in the one simple

process of picking oakum, Oliver bowed low by the direction of

the beadle, and was then hurried away to a large ward, where,

on a rough hard bed, he sobbed himself to sleep. What a noble

illustration of the tender laws of this favoured country! they

let the paupers go to sleep!

"Poor Oliver! he little thought, as he lay sleeping in happy

unconsciousness of all around him, that the board had that very

day arrived at a decision which would exercise the most material

influence over all his future fortunes. But they had. And this

was it:—

"The members of this board were very sage, deep, philosophical

men; and when they came to turn their attention to the workhouse,

they found out at once, what ordinary folks would never have

discovered,—the poor people liked it! It was a regular place

of public entertainment for the poorer classes,—a tavern where

there was nothing to pay,—a public breakfast, dinner, tea, and

supper, all the year round,—a brick and mortar elysium, where

it was all play and no work. 'Oho!' said the board, looking very

knowing; 'we are the fellows to set this to rights; we'll stop

it all in no time.' So they established the rule, that all poor

people should have the alternative (for they would compel nobody,

not they,) of being starved by a gradual process in the house,

or by a quick one out of it. With this view, they contracted

with the water-works to lay on an unlimited supply of water, and

with a corn-factor to supply periodically small quantities of

oat-meal: and issued three meals of thin gruel a-day, with an

onion twice a week, and half a roll on Sundays. They made a great

many other wise and humane regulations having reference to the

ladies, which it is not necessary to repeat; kindly undertook to

divorce poor married people, in consequence of the great expense

of a suit in Doctors' Commons; and, instead of compelling a

man to support his family, as they had theretofore done, took

his family away from him, and made him a bachelor! There is no

telling how many applicants for relief under these last two heads

would not have started up in all classes of society, if it had

not been coupled with the workhouse. But they were long-headed

men, and they had provided for this difficulty. The relief was

inseparable from the workhouse and the gruel; and that frightened

people.

"For the first three months after Oliver Twist was removed, the

system was in full operation. It was rather expensive at first,

in consequence of the increase in the undertaker's bill, and the

necessity of taking in the clothes of all the paupers, which

fluttered loosely on their wasted, shrunken forms, after a week

or two's gruel. But the number of workhouse inmates got thin, as

well as the paupers; and the board were in ecstasies. The room

in which the boys were fed was a large stone hall, with a copper

at one end, out of which the master, dressed in an apron for

the purpose, and assisted by one or two women, ladled the gruel

at meal-times; of which composition each boy had one porringer,

and no more,—except on festive occasions, and then he had two

ounces and a quarter of bread besides. The bowls never wanted

washing—the boys polished them with their spoons, till they

shone again; and when they had performed this operation, (which

never took very long, the spoons being nearly as large as the

bowls,) they would sit staring at the copper with such eager

eyes, as if they could devour the very bricks of which it was

composed; employing themselves meanwhile in sucking their fingers

most assiduously, with the view of catching up any stray splashes

of gruel that might have been cast thereon. Boys have generally

excellent appetites: Oliver Twist and his companions suffered

the tortures of slow starvation for three months; at last they

got so voracious and wild with hunger, that one boy, who was

tall for his age, and hadn't been used to that sort of thing,

(for his father had kept a small cook's shop,) hinted darkly to

his companions, that unless he had another basin of gruel _per

diem_, he was afraid he should some night eat the boy who slept

next him, who happened to be a weakly youth of tender age. He had

a wild, hungry eye, and they implicitly believed him. A council

was held; lots were cast who should walk up to the master after

supper that evening, and ask for more; and it fell to Oliver

Twist.

The evening arrived: the boys took their places; the master, in

his cook's uniform, stationed himself at the copper; his pauper

assistants ranged themselves behind him; the gruel was served

out, and a long grace was said over the short commons. The gruel

disappeared, and the boys whispered to each other and winked at

Oliver, while his next neighbours nudged him. Child as he was,

he was desperate with hunger, and reckless with misery. He rose

from the table, and, advancing, basin and spoon in hand, to the

master, said, somewhat alarmed at his own temerity—

"'Please, sir, I want some more.'

"The master was a fat, healthy man, but he turned very pale.

He gazed in stupefied astonishment on the small rebel for some

seconds, and then clung for support to the copper. The assistants

were paralyzed with wonder, and the boys with fear.

"'What!' said the master at length, in a faint voice.

"'Please, sir,' replied Oliver, 'I want some more.'

"The master aimed a blow at Oliver's head with the ladle,

pinioned him in his arms, and shrieked aloud for the beadle.

"The board were sitting in solemn conclave, when Mr. Bumble

rushed into the room in great excitement, and addressing the

gentleman in the high chair, said—

"'Mr. Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir;—Oliver Twist has asked

for more.' There was a general start. Horror was depicted on

every countenance.

"'For _more_!' said Mr. Limbkins. 'Compose yourself, Bumble, and

answer me distinctly. Do I understand that he asked for more,

after he had eaten the supper allotted by the dietary?'

"'He did, sir,' replied Bumble.

"'That boy will be hung,' said the gentleman in the white

waistcoat; 'I know that boy will be hung.'

"Nobody controverted the prophetic gentleman's opinion. An

animated discussion took place. Oliver was ordered into instant

confinement; and a bill was next morning pasted on the outside of

the gate, offering a reward of five pounds to anybody who would

take Oliver Twist off the hands of the parish; in other words,

five pounds and Oliver Twist were offered to any man or woman who

wanted an apprentice to any trade, business, or calling.

"'I never was more convinced of any thing in my life,' said the

gentleman in the white waistcoat, as he knocked at the gate and

read the bill next morning,—'I never was more convinced of any

thing in my life, than I am that that boy will come to be hung.'

"For a week after the commission of the impious and profane

offence of asking for more, Oliver remained a close prisoner in

the dark and solitary room to which he had been consigned by the

wisdom and mercy of the board. It appears, at first sight, not

unreasonable to suppose, that, if he had entertained a becoming

feeling of respect for the prediction of the gentleman in the

white waistcoat, he would have established that sage individual's

prophetic character, once and for ever, by tying one end of his

pocket-handkerchief to a hook in the wall, and attaching himself

to the other. To the performance of this feat, however, there was

one obstacle, namely, that pocket-handkerchiefs being decided

articles of luxury, had been, for all future times and ages,

removed from the noses of paupers by the express order of the

board in council assembled, solemnly given and pronounced under

their hands and seals. There was a still greater obstacle in

Oliver's youth and childishness. He only cried bitterly all day;

and when the long, dismal night came on, he spread his little

hands before his eyes to shut out the darkness, and crouching in

the corner, tried to sleep, ever and anon waking with a start and

tremble, and drawing himself closer and closer to the wall, as if

to feel even its cold hard surface were a protection in the gloom

and loneliness which surrounded him.

"Let it not be supposed by the enemies of 'the system,' that,

during the period of his solitary incarceration, Oliver was

denied the benefit of exercise, the pleasure of society, or the

advantages of religious consolation. As for exercise, it was nice

cold weather, and he was allowed to perform his ablutions every

morning under the pump, in a stone yard, in the presence of Mr.

Bumble, who prevented his catching cold, and caused a tingling

sensation to pervade his frame, by repeated applications of the

cane; as for society, he was carried every other day into the

hall where the boys dined, and there sociably flogged, as a

public warning and example; and, so far from being denied the

advantages of religious consolation, he was kicked into the same

apartment every evening at prayer-time, and there permitted to

listen to, and console his mind with, a general supplication of

the boys, containing a special clause therein inserted by the

authority of the board, in which they entreated to be made good,

virtuous, contented, and obedient, and to be guarded from the

sins and vices of Oliver Twist, whom the supplication distinctly

set forth to be under the exclusive patronage and protection

of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct from the

manufactory of the devil himself.

"It chanced one morning, while Oliver's affairs were in

this auspicious and comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield,

chimney-sweeper, was wending his way adown the High-street,

deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying

certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become rather

pressing. Mr. Gamfield's most sanguine calculation of funds

could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired

amount; and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was

alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when, passing

the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate.

"'Woo!' said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey.

"The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction—wondering,

probably, whether he was destined to be regaled with a

cabbage-stalk or two, when he had disposed of the two sacks of

soot with which the little cart was laden; so, without noticing

the word of command, he jogged onward.

"Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey

generally, but more particularly on his eyes; and running after

him, bestowed a blow on his head which would inevitably have

beaten in any skull but a donkey's; then, catching hold of the

bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of gentle reminder

that he was not his own master; and, having by these means turned

him round, he gave him another blow on the head, just to stun him

until he came back again; and, having done so, walked to the gate

to read the bill.

"The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the

gate with his hands behind him, after having delivered himself

of some profound sentiments in the board-room. Having witnessed

the little dispute between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled

joyously when that person came up to read the bill, for he saw

at once that Mr. Gamfield was just exactly the sort of master

Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfield smiled, too, as he perused

the document, for five pounds was just the sum he had been

wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it was encumbered,

Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse was,

well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing

for register stoves. So he spelt the bill through again, from

beginning to end; and then, touching his fur cap in token of

humility, accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

"'This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to 'prentis,' said Mr.

Gamfield.

"'Yes, my man,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a

condescending smile, 'what of him?'

"'If the parish vould like him to learn a light, pleasant

trade, in a good 'spectable chimbley-sweepin bisness,' said Mr.

Gamfield, 'I wants a 'prentis, and I'm ready to take him.'

"'Walk in,' said the gentleman with the white waistcoat. And Mr.

Gamfield having lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow

on the head, and another wrench of the jaw, as a caution not to

run away in his absence, followed the gentleman in the white

waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first seen him.

"'It's a nasty trade,' said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again

stated his case.

"'Young boys have been smothered in chimeys, before now,' said

another gentleman.

"'That's acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the

chimbley to make'em come down again,' said Gamfield; 'that's

all smoke, and no blaze: vereas smoke a'n't o' no use at all in

makin' a boy come down; it only sinds him to sleep, and that's

wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy, gen'lm'n,

and there's nothink like a good hot blaze to make em come down

vith a run; it's humane, too, gen'lm'n, acause, even if they've

stuck in the chimbley, roastin' their feet makes 'em struggle to

hextricate theirselves.'

"The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused

with this explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a

look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse

among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a tone that

the words, 'saving of expenditure,' 'look well in the accounts,'

'have a printed report published,' were alone audible; and

they only chanced to be heard on account of their being very

frequently repeated with great emphasis.

"At length the whispering ceased, and the members of the board

having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said,

"'We have considered your proposition, and we don't approve of

it.'

"'Not at all,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

"'Decidedly not,' added the other members.

"As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation

of having bruised three or four boys to death already, it

occurred to him that the board had perhaps, in some unaccountable

freak, taken it into their heads that this extraneous

circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was very

unlike their general mode of doing business, if they had; but

still, as he had no particular wish to revive the rumour, he

twisted his cap in his hands, and walked slowly from the table.

"'So you won't let me have him, gen'lmen,' said Mr. Gamfield,

pausing near the door.

"'No,' replied Mr. Limbkins; 'at least, as it's a nasty business,

we think you ought to take something less than the premium we

offered.'

"Mr. Gamfield's countenance brightened, as with a quick step he

returned to the table, and said,

"'What'll you give, gen'lmen? Come, don't be too hard on a poor

man. What'll you give?'

"'I should say three pound ten was plenty,' said Mr. Limbkins.

"'Ten shillings too much,' said the gentleman in the white

waistcoat.

"'Come,' said Gamfield, 'say four pound, gen'lmen. Say four

pound, and you've got rid of him for good and all. There!'

"'Three pound ten,' repeated Mr. Limbkins, firmly.

"'Come, I'll split the difference, gen'lmen,' urged Gamfield.

'Three pound fifteen.'

"'Not a farthing more,' was the firm reply of Mr. Limbkins.

"'You're desp'rate hard upon me, gen'lmen,' said Gamfield,

wavering.

"'Pooh! pooh! nonsense!' said the gentleman in the white

waistcoat. 'He'd be cheap with nothing at all as a premium. Take

him, you silly fellow! He's just the boy for you. He wants the

stick now and then; it'll do him good; and his board needn't come

very expensive, for he hasn't been overfed since he was born. Ha!

ha! ha!'

"Mr. Gamfield gave an arch look at the faces round the table,

and, observing a smile on all of them, gradually broke into

a smile himself. The bargain was made, and Mr. Bumble was at

once instructed that Oliver Twist and his indentures were to be

conveyed before the magistrate for signature and approval, that

very afternoon.

"In pursuance of this determination, little Oliver, to his

excessive astonishment, was released from bondage, and ordered to

put himself into a clean shirt. He had hardly achieved this very

unusual gymnastic performance, when Mr. Bumble brought him with

his own hands, a basin of gruel, and the holiday allowance of two

ounces and a quarter of bread; at sight of which Oliver began to

cry very piteously, thinking, not unnaturally, that the board

must have determined to kill him for some useful purpose, or they

never would have begun to fatten him up in this way.

"'Don't make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat your food, and be

thankful,' said Mr. Bumble, in a tone of impressive pomposity.

'You're a-going to be made a 'prentice of, Oliver.'

"'A 'prentice, sir!' said the child, trembling.

"'Yes, Oliver,' said Mr. Bumble. 'The kind and blessed gentlemen

which is so many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none

of your own, are a-going to 'prentice you, and to set you up

in life, and make a man of you, although the expense to the

parish is three pound ten!—three pound ten, Oliver!—seventy

shillin's!—one hundred and forty sixpences!—and all for a

naughty orphan which nobody can love.'

"As Mr. Bumble paused to take breath after delivering this

address, in an awful voice, the tears rolled down the poor

child's face, and he sobbed bitterly.

"'Come,' said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pompously; for it was

gratifying to his feelings to observe the effect his eloquence

had produced. 'Come, Oliver, wipe your eyes with the cuffs of

your jacket, and don't cry into your gruel; that's a very foolish

action, Oliver.' It certainly was, for there was quite enough

water in it already.

"On their way to the magistrate's, Mr. Bumble instructed Oliver

that all he would have to do would be to look very happy,

and say, when the gentleman asked him if he wanted to be

apprenticed, that he should like it very much indeed; both of

which injunctions Oliver promised to obey, the more readily as

Mr. Bumble threw in a gentle hint, that if he failed in either

particular, there was no telling what would be done to him. When

they arrived at the office he was shut up in a little room by

himself, and admonished by Mr. Bumble to stay there until he came

back to fetch him.

"There the boy remained with a palpitating heart for half an

hour, at the expiration of which time Mr. Bumble thrust in his

head, unadorned with the cocked hat, and said aloud,

"'Now, Oliver, my dear, come to the gentleman.' As Mr. Bumble

said this, he put on a grim and threatening look, and added in a

low voice, 'Mind what I told you, you young rascal.'

"Oliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble's face at this somewhat

contradictory style of address; but that gentleman prevented his

offering any remark thereupon, by leading him at once into an

adjoining room, the door of which was open. It was a large room

with a great window; and behind a desk sat two old gentlemen with

powdered heads, one of whom was reading the newspaper, while the

other was perusing, with the aid of a pair of tortoise-shell

spectacles, a small piece of parchment which lay before him. Mr.

Limbkins was standing in front of the desk, on one side; and Mr.

Gamfield, with a partially washed face, on the other; while two

or three bluff-looking men in top-boots were lounging about.

"The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over

the little bit of parchment; and there was a short pause after

Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk.

"'This is the boy, your worship,' said Mr. Bumble.

"The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head

for a moment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve,

whereupon the last-mentioned old gentleman woke up.

"'Oh, is this the boy?' said the old gentleman.

"'This is him, sir,' replied Mr. Bumble. 'Bow to the magistrate,

my dear.'

"Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had

been wondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrate's powder,

whether all boards were born with that white stuff on their

heads, and were boards from thenceforth, on that account.

"'Well,' said the old gentleman, 'I suppose he's fond of

chimney-sweeping?'

"'He dotes on it, your worship,' replied Bumble, giving Oliver a

sly pinch, to intimate that he had better not say he didn't.

"'And he _will_ be a sweep, will he?' inquired the old gentleman.

"'If we was to bind him to any other trade to-morrow, he'd run

away simultaneously, your worship,' replied Bumble.

"'And this man that's to be his master,—you, sir,—you'll treat

him well, and feed him, and do all that sort of thing,—will

you?' said the old gentleman.

"'When I says I will, I means I will,' replied Mr. Gamfield,

doggedly.

"'You're a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an honest,

open-hearted man,' said the old gentleman, turning his spectacles

in the direction of the candidate for Oliver's premium, whose

villanous countenance was a regular stamped receipt for cruelty.

But the magistrate was half blind, and half childish, so he

couldn't reasonably be expected to discern what other people did.

"'I hope I am, sir,' said Mr. Gamfield with an ugly leer.

"'I have no doubt you are, my friend,' replied the old gentleman,

fixing his spectacles more firmly on his nose, and looking about

him for the inkstand.

"It was the critical moment of Oliver's fate. If the inkstand

had been where the old gentleman thought it was, he would have

dipped his pen into it and signed the indentures, and Oliver

would have been straightway hurried off. But, as it chanced to be

immediately under his nose, it followed as a matter of course,

that he looked all over his desk for it, without finding it; and

happening in the course of his search to look straight before

him, his gaze encountered the pale and terrified face of Oliver

Twist, who, despite of all the admonitory looks and pinches of

Bumble, was regarding the very repulsive countenance of his

future master with a mingled expression of horror and fear, too

palpable to be mistaken even by a half-blind magistrate.

"The old gentleman stopped, laid down his pen, and looked from

Oliver to Mr. Limbkins, who attempted to take snuff with a

cheerful and unconcerned aspect.

"'My boy,' said the old gentleman, leaning over the desk. Oliver

started at the sound,—he might be excused for doing so, for

the words were kindly said, and strange sounds frighten one. He

trembled violently, and burst into tears.

"'My boy,' said the old gentleman, 'you look pale and alarmed.

What is the matter?'

"'Stand a little away from him, beadle,' said the other

magistrate, laying aside the paper and leaning forward with

an expression of some interest. 'Now, boy, tell us what's the

matter; don't be afraid.'

"Oliver fell on his knees, and, clasping his hands together,

prayed that they would order him back to the dark room—that they

would starve him—beat him—kill him if they pleased, rather than

send him away with that dreadful man.

"'Well!' said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most

impressive solemnity—'Well! of _all_ the artful and designing

orphans that ever I see, Oliver, you are one of the most

bare-facedest.'

"'Hold your tongue, beadle,' said the second old gentleman, when

Mr. Bumble had given vent to this compound adjective.

"'I beg your worship's pardon,' said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of

his having heard aright—'did your worship speak to me?'

"'Yes—hold your tongue.'

"Mr. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment. A beadle ordered to

hold his tongue! A moral revolution.

"The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles looked at his

companion; he nodded significantly.

"'We refuse to sanction these indentures,' said the old

gentleman, tossing aside the piece of parchment as he spoke.

"'I hope,' stammered Mr. Limbkins—'I hope the magistrates will

not form the opinion that the authorities have been guilty of any

improper conduct, on the unsupported testimony of a mere child.'

"'The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion on

the matter,' said the second old gentleman, sharply. 'Take the

boy back to the workhouse and treat him kindly; he seems to want

it.'

"That same evening the gentleman in the white waistcoat most

positively and decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be

hung, but that he would be drawn and quartered into the bargain.

Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomy mystery, and said he wished

he might come to good: to which Mr. Gamfield replied that he

wished he might come to him, which, although he agreed with the

beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a totally

opposite description.

"The next morning the public were once more informed that Oliver

Twist was again to let, and that five pounds would be paid to

anybody who would take possession of him.

"In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be

obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or

expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very

general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation

of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on

the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist in some small

trading-vessel bound to a good unhealthy port, which suggested

itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with

him; the probability being that the skipper would either flog him

to death in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or knock his

brains out with an iron bar, both pastimes being, as is pretty

generally known, very favourite and common recreations among

gentlemen of that class. The more the case presented itself to

the board in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages

of the step appeared; so they came to the conclusion that the

only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to

sea without delay.

"Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary

inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other

who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning

to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission,

when he encountered just at the gate no less a person than Mr.

Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker.

"Mr. Sowerberry was a tall, gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in

a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the

same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally

intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather

given to professional jocosity; his step was elastic, and his

face betokened inward pleasantry as he advanced to Mr. Bumble and

shook him cordially by the hand.

"'I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night,

Mr. Bumble,' said the undertaker.

"'You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,' said the beadle, as

he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box

of the undertaker, which was an ingenious little model of a

patent coffin. 'I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,'

repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder in a

friendly manner with his cane.

"'Think so?' said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted

and half disputed the probability of the event. 'The prices

allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble.'

"'So are the coffins,' replied the beadle, with precisely as near

an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in.

"Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this, as of course he ought

to be, and laughed a long time without cessation. 'Well, well,

Mr. Bumble,' he said at length, 'there's no denying that, since

the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something

narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have

some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive

article, sir; and all the iron handles come by canal from

Birmingham.'

"'Well, well,' said Mr. Bumble, 'every trade has its drawbacks,

and a fair profit is of course allowable.'

"'Of course, of course,' replied the undertaker; 'and if I don't

get a profit upon this or that particular article, why I make it

up in the long run, you see—he! he! he!'

"'Just so,' said Mr. Bumble.

"'Though I must say,'—continued the undertaker, resuming

the current of observations which the beadle had

interrupted,—'though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to

contend against one very great disadvantage, which is, that all

the stout people go off the quickest—I mean that the people who

have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are

the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell

you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation

makes a great hole in one's profits, especially when one has a

family to provide for, sir.'

"As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of

an ill-used man, and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended

to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish, the latter

gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject; and Oliver

Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme.

"'By-the-by,' said Mr. Bumble, 'you don't know anybody who

wants a boy, do you—a parochial 'prentis, who is at present

a dead-weight—a millstone, as I may say—round the parochial

throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry—liberal terms;' and, as

Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him and

gave three distinct raps upon the words 'five pounds,' which were

printed therein in Roman capitals of gigantic size.

"'Gadso!' said the undertaker, taking Mr. Bumble by the

gilt-edged lappel of his official coat; 'that's just the very

thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know—dear me, what

a very elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble; I never noticed it

before.'

"'Yes, I think it is rather pretty,' said the beadle, glancing

proudly downward at the large brass buttons which embellished

his coat. 'The die is the same as the parochial seal—the Good

Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presented

it to me on New-year's morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on,

I remember, for the first time to attend the inquest on that

reduced tradesman who died in a doorway at midnight.'

"' I recollect,' said the undertaker. 'The jury brought in—Died

from exposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of

life—didn't they?'

"Mr. Bumble nodded.

"'And they made it a special verdict, I think,' said the

undertaker, 'by adding some words to the effect, that if the

relieving officer had'—

'Tush—foolery!' interposed the beadle, angrily. 'If the board

attended to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they'd

have enough to do.'

"'Very true,' said the undertaker; 'they would indeed.'

"'Juries,' said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his

wont when working into a passion—'juries is ineddicated, vulgar,

grovelling wretches.'

"'So they are,' said the undertaker.

"'They haven't no more philosophy or political economy about 'em

than that,' said the beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously.

"'No more they have,' acquiesced the undertaker.

"'I despise 'em,' said the beadle, growing very red in the face.

"'So do I,' rejoined the undertaker.

"'And I only wish we'd a jury of the independent sort in the

house for a week or two,' said the beadle; 'the rules and

regulations of the board would soon bring their spirit down for

them.'

"'Let'em alone for that,' replied the undertaker. So saying, he

smiled approvingly to calm the rising wrath of the indignant

parish officer.

"Mr. Bumble lifted off his cocked-hat, took a handkerchief from

the inside of the crown, wiped from his forehead the perspiration

which his rage had engendered, fixed the cocked hat on again,

and, turning to the undertaker, said in a calmer voice, 'Well,

what about the boy?'

"'Oh!' replied the undertaker; 'why, you know, Mr. Bumble, I pay

a good deal toward the poor's rates.'

"'Hem!' said Mr. Bumble. 'Well?'

"'Well,' replied the undertaker, 'I was thinking that if I pay so

much toward 'em, I've a right to get as much out of 'em as I can,

Mr. Bumble; and so—and so—I think I'll take the boy myself.'

"Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm and led him into

the building. Mr. Sowerberry was closeted with the board for five

minutes, and then it was arranged that Oliver should go to him

that evening 'upon liking'—a phrase which means, in the case of

a parish apprentice, that if the master find, upon a short trial,

that he can get enough work out of a boy without putting too much

food in him, he shall have him for a term of years to do what he

likes with.

"When little Oliver was taken before 'the gentlemen' that

evening, and informed that he was to go that night as general

house-lad to a coffin-maker's, and that if he complained of his

situation, or ever came back to the parish again, he would be

sent to sea, there to be drowned or knocked on the head, as the

case might be, he evinced so little emotion, that they by common

consent pronounced him a hardened young rascal, and ordered Mr.

Bumble to remove him forthwith."

Some years ago an investigation into the treatment of the poor in St.

Pancras workhouse was made. It originated in the suicide of a girl,

who, having left her place, drowned herself rather than return to the

workhouse to be confined in the "shed"—a place of confinement for

refractory and ill-disposed paupers. The unanimous verdict of the

coroner's jury was to this effect, and had appended to it an opinion

that the discipline of the shed was unnecessarily severe. This verdict

led to an investigation.

Mr. Howarth, senior churchwarden, a guardian, and a barrister,

explained that the shed was used for separating able-bodied, idle, and

dissolute paupers from the aged and respectable inmates of the house.

The shed was not, he declared, a place of confinement any more than

the workhouse itself. The place in question consists of two rooms, a

day-room and a dormitory, on the basement of the main building, two

feet below the level of the soil, each about thirty-five feet long by

fifteen wide and seven high. The bedroom contains ten beds, occupied

sometimes by sixteen, sometimes by twenty or twenty-four paupers.

According to the hospital calculation of a cube of nine feet to an

occupant, the dormitory should accommodate six persons. The damp from

an adjoining cesspool oozes through the walls. This pleasant apartment

communicates with a yard forty feet long, and from fifteen to twenty

broad, with a flagged pavement and high walls. This yard is kept always

locked. But it is not a place of confinement. Oh no! it is a place of

separation.

Let us see the evidence of James Hill, who waits on the occupants of

the shed:—"They are locked up night and day. They frequently escape

over the walls. They are put in for misconduct."

Mr. Lee, the master of the workhouse, declares that if the persons in

the shed make application to come out, they are frequently released.

He is "not aware if he has any legal right to refuse them, but does

sometimes exercise that authority." One of the women is there for

throwing her clothes over the wall; another for getting "overtaken

in liquor" while out of the house, and losing her pail and brush. A

third inmate is a girl of weak intellect, who went out for a day, was

made drunk and insensible by a male pauper, and suffered dreadful

maltreatment.

All the pauper witnesses represent the shed as a place of punishment.

The six ounces of meat given three times a week by the dietary, is

reduced to four ounces for the shed paupers. Still all this, in Mr.

Howarth's eyes, neither constitutes the shed a place of confinement

nor of punishment. It is a place of separation. So is a prison. It is

a prison in a prison; a lower depth in the lowest deep of workhouse

wretchedness and restraint.

Are we to be told that this is "classification," (as the report of the

directors impudently calls it,) by which the young and old, imbecile

and drunken, sickly and turbulent, are shut up together day and night

picking oakum; looking out through the heavy day on the bare walls of

their wretched yard—at night breathing their own fœtid exhalations

and the miasma of a cesspool, twenty-four of them sometimes in a space

only fit to accommodate six with due regard to health and decency? And

all this at the arbitrary will of master or matron, unchecked by the

board! One poor creature had been there for three years. She had not

come out because "she was in such bad health, and had nowhere to go."

Yet she was shut up, because she was considered able bodied and fit for

work, when her appearance belied it, and spoke her broken spirit and

shattered constitution.

Mr. W. Lee, guardian, seemed blessed with an unusual amount of

ignorance as to his legal powers and responsibilities. He kept no

account of persons confined in the black-hole, for forty-eight hours

sometimes, and without directions from the board. He thought the

matron had power to put paupers in the strong room. On one point he

was certain: he "had no doubt that persons have been confined without

his orders." He "had no doubt that he had received instructions from

the board about the refractory ward, but he does not know where to

find them." "If any paupers committed to the ward feel aggrieved,

they can apply to be released, and he had no doubt he would release

them." He made no weekly report of punishments. He reigned supreme,

monarch of all he surveyed, wielding the terrors of shed and black-hole

unquestioned and unchecked.

In Miss Stone, the matron, he had a worthy coadjutrix. The lady felt

herself very much "degraded" by the coroner's jury. They asked her

some most inconvenient questions, to which she gave awkwardly ready

answers. She confined to the shed a girl who returned from place,

though she admitted the work of the place was too much for her. She

confessed she might have punished Jones (the suicide) by putting her

in the black-hole; but it was a mere trifle—"only a few hours" in an

underground cell, "perhaps from morning till night, for refusing to

do some domestic service." Jones was helpless; her mistress brought

her back to the workhouse. Jones cried, and begged to be taken back

to service, offering to work for nothing. Her recollections of the

workhouse do not seem to have been pleasant. Hard work, unpaid;

suicide; any thing rather than the shed.

A precious testimony to the St. Pancras system of "classification!"

These paupers in the shed are clearly a refractory set. "They complain

of being shut up so long." "They say they would like more bread and

more meat." Audacious as Oliver Twist! They even complain of the damp

and bad smell. Ungrateful, dainty wretches! On the whole, as Mr.

Howarth says, it is evidently "unjust to suppose that the system of

separation adopted in the house is regarded as a mode of punishment."

The directors issued a solemn summons to the members of the parochial

medical board. District surgeons and consulting surgeons assembled,

inspected the shed, and pronounced it a very pleasant place if the roof

were higher, and if the ventilation were better, and if the damp were

removed, and if fewer slept in a bed, and six instead of twenty-four in

the room. They then examined the dietary, and pronounced it sufficient

if the allowances were of full weight, if the meat were of the best

quality, if there were plenty of milk in the porridge, and if the broth

were better. Great virtue in an "if!" Unhappily, in the present case,

the allowances were not full weight; the meat not of the best quality;

there is not milk enough in the porridge; and the broth might be very

much better, and yet not good.

Mr. Cooper, the parish surgeon, was a special object of antipathy

to the worthy and humane Howarth; he was one of those ridiculously

particular men, unfit to deal with paupers. He actually objected to

the pauper women performing their ablutions in the urinals, and felt

aggrieved when the master told him to "mind his shop," and Howarth

stood by without rebuking the autocrat! Mr. Cooper, too, admits that

the dietary would be sufficient with all the above-mentioned "ifs." But

he finds that the milk porridge contains one quart of milk to six of

oat-meal; that the meat is half fat, and often uneatable from imperfect

cooking; and that the frequent stoppages of diet are destructive of

the health of the younger inmates. His remonstrances, however, have

been received in a style that has read him a lesson, and he ceases to

remonstrate accordingly, and the guardians have it as they would—a

silent surgeon and an omnipotent master.

The saddest part of the farce, however, was that of the last day's

proceedings. The quality and quantity of the diet had been discussed;

the directors felt bound to examine into both; so they proceeded to

the house. Of course the master knew nothing of the intended visit. Who

can suspect the possibility of such a thing after the previous display

of Howarth's impartiality and determination to do justice? So to the

house they went. They took the excellent Lee quite by surprise, and

enjoyed parish pot-luck. Dr. Birmingham's description makes one's mouth

water:—

"He came to the house on Saturday, in order to examine the food;

he found that, on that day, the inmates had what was called

ox-cheek soup; he tasted it, and he was so well satisfied with

it that he took all that was given to him. He then went into the

kitchen, and saw the master cutting up meat for the sick and

infirm. He tasted the mutton, and found it as succulent and as

good as that which he purchased for his own consumption."

The picture of this patriarchal and benevolent master "cutting up meat

for the sick and infirm," is perfectly beautiful. Howarth, too, did his

duty, and was equally lucky.

"Mr. Howarth stated that he had visited the house yesterday, and

had examined the food, with the quality of which he was perfectly

satisfied. He tasted the soup, and was so well pleased with it

that he obtained an allowance. (A laugh.)"

But not satisfied with this, that Rhadamanthus of a Birmingham proposed

a crucial test.

"He begged to move that the master of the workhouse be desired to

bring before the board the ordinary rations allowed the paupers

for breakfast, dinner, and supper; and that any gentleman present

be allowed to call and examine any of the paupers as to whether

the food they usually received was of the same quality, and in

the same quantity."

The rations were produced; "and, lo! the porridge smoked upon the

board." Thus it was, in tempting and succulent array—the pauper bill

of fare:—

Soup.

Cheese. Pease porridge. Potatoes.

Meat. Beer.

Nothing can be more tempting; who would not be a pauper of St. Pancras?

Six paupers are called in, and one and all testify that the rations of

meat, potatoes, soup, and porridge are better in quality and greater

in quantity than the workhouse allowance. There is a slight pause.

Birmingham looks blank at Howarth, and Howarth gazes uneasily on

Birmingham; but it is only for a minute: ready wits jump:—

"_Dr. Birmingham._ This is the allowance for Sunday.

"_Mr. Marley._ I understand there is no difference between the

allowance on Sunday and on any other day.

"_Mr. Howarth._ They have better meat on Sundays."

What follows this glaring exposure? Impeachment of the master, on this

clear proof of malversation in the house and dishonesty before the

board? So expects Mr. Halton, and very naturally suggests that Mr.

Lee be called on for an explanation. Mr. Lee is not called on, and no

explanation takes place. The room is cleared, and, after an hour and a

half's discussion, a report is unanimously agreed to. Our readers may

anticipate its tenour. It finds that there is no place deserving to

be called the shed; that the rooms so called are very admirable places

of "separation" for refractory paupers; that the diet is excellent;

that every thing is as it ought to be. It recommends that reports of

punishments be more regularly made to the board, that classification of

old and young be improved, and that some little change be made in the

ventilation of the refractory wards!

And so concludes this sad farce of the St. Pancras investigation. One

more disgraceful to the guardians cannot be found even in the pregnant

annals of workhouse mismanagement.[92]

"Farming out" paupers, especially children, is one of the most prolific

sources of misery among the English poor who are compelled to appeal

to the parish authorities. This practice consists of entering into

contracts with individuals to supply the paupers with food, clothing,

and lodging. The man who offers to perform the work for the smallest

sum commonly gets the contract, and then the poor wretches who look to

him for the necessaries of life must submit to all kinds of treatment,

and be stinted in every thing. During the last visit of that scourge,

the cholera, to England, a large number of farmed pauper children were

crowded, by one Mr. Drouet, a contractor, into a close and filthy

building, where they nearly all perished. An investigation was

subsequently held, but influential persons screened the authors of this

tragedy from justice. During the investigation, it was clearly shown

that the children confided to the care of Mr. Drouet were kept in a

state of filth and semi-starvation.

So much for the boasted charity of the dominant class in Great Britain!

By its enormous drain upon the public purse, and its vast monopoly of

that soil which was given for the use of all, it creates millions of

paupers—wretches without homes, without resources, and almost without

hope; and then, to prevent themselves from being hurled from their high

and luxurious places, and from being devoured as by ravenous wolves,

they take the miserable paupers in hand, separate families, shut them

up, as in the worst of prisons, and give them something to keep life in

their bodies. Then the lords and ladies ask the world to admire their

charitable efforts. What they call charity is the offspring of fear!

A member of the humbler classes in England no sooner begins to exist,

than the probability of his becoming a pauper is contemplated by the

laws. A writer in Chambers's Journal says, in regard to this point—

"Chargeability is the English slave system. The poor man cannot

go where he lists in search of employment—he may become

chargeable. He cannot take a good place which may be offered to

him, for he cannot get a residence, lest he become chargeable.

Houses are pulled down over the ears of honest working-men, and

decent poor people are driven from Dan to Beersheba, lest they

become chargeable. There is something infinitely distressing in

the whole basis of this idea—that an English peasant must needs

be regarded from his first breath, and all through life, as a

possible pauper. But the positive hardships arising from the idea

are what we have at present to deal with.

"These are delineated in a happy collection of facts lately

brought forward by Mr. Chadwick at a meeting of the Farmers'

Club in London. It appears that the company assembled, who, from

their circumstances, were all qualified to judge of the truth of

the facts and the soundness of the conclusions, gave a general

assent to what was said by the learned poor-law secretary.

Unfortunately, we can only give a few passages from this very

remarkable speech.

"Mr. Chadwick first referred to the operation of the existing

law upon _unsettled_ labouring men. 'The lower districts of

Reading were severely visited with fever during the last year,

which called attention to the sanitary condition of the labouring

population. I was requested to visit it. While making inquiries

upon the subject, I learned that some of the worst-conditioned

places were occupied by agricultural labourers. Many of them, it

appeared, walked four, six, seven, and even eight miles, in wet

and snow, to and from their places of work, after twelve hours'

work on the farm. Why, however, were agricultural labourers in

these fever-nests of a town? I was informed, in answer, that they

were driven in there by the pulling down of cottages, to avoid

parochial settlements and contributions to their maintenance in

the event of destitution. Among a group, taken as an example

there, in a wretched place consisting of three rooms, ten feet

long, lived Stephen Turner, a wife, and three children. He

walked to and from his place of work about seven miles daily,

expending two hours and a half in walking before he got to his

productive work on the farm. His wages are 10_s._ a week, out

of which he pays 2_s._ for his wretched tenement. If he were

resident on the farm, the two and a half hours of daily labour

spent in walking might be expended in productive work; his labour

would be worth, according to his own account, and I believe to

a farmer's acknowledgment, 2_s._ 6_d._ per week more. For a

rent of £5 5_s._, such as he now pays, he would be entitled

to a good cottage with a garden; and his wife and children

being near, would be available for the farm labour. So far as

I could learn there are between one hundred and two hundred

agricultural labourers living in the borough of Reading, and the

numbers are increasing. The last week brought to my notice a

fact illustrative of the present unjust state of things, so far

as regards the labourer. A man belonging to Maple-Durham lived

in Reading; walked about four miles a day to his work, the same

back, frequently getting wet; took fever, and continued ill some

time, assisted by the Reading Union in his illness; recovered,

and could have returned to his former employment of 10_s._ per

week, but found he was incapable of walking the distance; the

consequence was, he took work that only enabled him to earn 5_s._

per week; he is now again unable to work. Even in Lincolnshire,

where the agriculture is of a high order, and the wages of the

labourer consequently not of the lowest, similar displacements

have been made, to the prejudice of the farmer as well as the

labourer, and, as will be seen, of the owner himself. Near

Gainsborough, Lincoln, and Louth, the labourers walk even longer

distances than near Reading. I am informed of instances where

they walk as far as six miles; that is, twelve miles daily, or

seventy-two miles weekly, to and from their places of work. Let

us consider the bare economy, the mere waste of labour, and what

a state of agricultural management is indicated by the fact that

such a waste can have taken place. Fifteen miles a day is the

regular march of infantry soldiers, with two rest-days—one on

Monday, and one on Thursday; twenty-four miles is a forced march.

The man who expends eight miles per diem, or forty-eight miles

per week, expends to the value of at least two days' hard labour

per week, or one hundred in the year, uselessly, that might be

expended usefully and remuneratively in production. How different

is it in manufactories, and in some of the mines, or at least in

the best-managed and most successful of them! In some mines as

much as £2000 and £3000 is paid for new machinery to benefit the

labourers, and save them the labour of ascending and descending

by ladders. In many manufactories they have hoists to raise

them and their loads from lower to upper rooms, to save them the

labour of toiling up stairs, to economize their strength for

piece-work to mutual advantage. It is not in county and borough

towns only that this unwholesome over-crowding is going on. I am

informed that from the like cause the evil of over-crowding is

going on in the ill-conditioned villages of open parishes. It is

admitted, and made manifest in extensive evidence given before a

committee of the house of lords by practical farmers, that when

an agricultural labourer applies for work, the first question

put to him is, not what has been his experience, what can he do,

but to what parish does he belong. If he do not belong to the

parish of the occupier, the reply is usually an expression of

regret that he can only employ the labourer of his own parish. To

the extent to which the farmer is directly liable to the payment

of rates, by the displacement of a settled parish labourer, he

is liable to a penalty for the employment of any other labourer

who is not of the parish. To the same extent is he liable to a

penalty if he do not employ a parish labourer who is worthless,

though a superior labourer may be got by going farther a-field,

to whom he would give better wages. This labourer who would go

farther is thus driven back upon his parish; that is to say,

imposed, and at the same time made dependent, upon the two or

three or several farmers, by whom the parish is occupied. He

then says, 'If this or that farmer will not employ me, one of

them must; if none of them will, the parish must keep me, and

the parish pay is as good as any.' Labour well or ill, he will

commonly get little more, and it is a matter of indifference to

him: it is found to be, in all its essential conditions, labour

without hope—slave labour; and he is rendered unworthy of his

hire. On the other hand, in what condition does the law place

the employer? It imposes upon him the whole mass of labourers of

a narrow district, of whatsoever sort, without reference to his

wants or his capital. He says, 'I do not want the men at this

time, or these men are not suitable to me; they will not do the

work I want; but if I must have them, or pay for keeping them in

idleness if I do not employ them, why, then, I can only give them

such wages as their labour is worth to me, and that is little.'

Hence wages are inevitably reduced. What must be the effect upon

the manufacturer if he were placed in the same position as tenant

farmers are in the smaller parishes in the southern counties,

if he were restricted to the employment only of the labourers

in the parish?—if, before he engaged a smith, a carpenter, or

a mason, he were compelled to inquire, 'To what parish do you

belong?' Why, that the 24_s._ a week labour would fall to 12_s._

or 10_s._, or the price of agricultural labour. Agriculturists

from northern districts, who work their farms with 12_s._ and

15_s._ a week free labour, have declined the temptation of low

rents, to take farms in parishes where the wages are 7_s._ or

8_s._ a week. While inspecting a farm in one of these pauperized

districts, an able agriculturist could not help noticing the

slow, drawling motions of one of the labourers there, and said,

'My man, you do not sweat at that work,' 'Why, no, master,' was

the reply; 'seven shillings a week isn't sweating wages,' The

evidence I have cited indicates the circumstances which prevent

the adoption of piece-work, and which, moreover, restrict the

introduction of machinery into agricultural operations, which,

strange though it may appear to many, is greatly to the injury of

the working classes; for wherever agricultural labour is free,

and machinery has been introduced, there more and higher-paid

labour is required, and labourers are enabled to go on and earn

good wages by work with machines long after their strength has

failed them for working by hand. In free districts, and with high

cultivation by free and skilled labour, I can adduce instances

of skilled agricultural labourers paid as highly as artisans. I

could adduce an instance, bordering upon Essex, where the owner,

working it with common parish labour at 1_s._ 6_d._, a day,

could not make it pay; and an able farmer now works it with free

labour, at 2_s._ 6_d._, 3_s._, and 3_s._ 6_d._, and even more,

per day, for task-work, and, there is reason to believe, makes it

pay well. A farmer, who died not long ago immensely wealthy, was

wont to say that 'he could not live upon poor 2_s._ a day labour;

he could not make his money upon less than half-crowners.' The

freedom of labour, not only in the northern counties, but in

some places near the slave-labour districts of the southern

counties, is already attended with higher wages—at the rate

of 12_s._, 14_s._, and 15_s._ weekly. In such counties as Berks

and Bedford, the freedom of the labour market, when it came into

full operation, could not raise wages less than 2_s._ a week;

and 2_s._ a week would, in those counties, represent a sum of

productive expenditure and increased produce equal to the whole

amount of unproductive expenditure on the poor-rates.'"

By this arrangement of parochial settlement, the English agricultural

labourer has a compulsory residence, like that of the American slave

upon the plantation where he is born. This, therefore, is one of the

most striking manifestations of the peasant being a serf. A free and

beautiful system is that of the English Unions!