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 [pg 207] 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 [pg 208] 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 [pg 209] 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, [pg 210] 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 [pg 211] 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 [pg 212] 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 [pg 213] 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 [pg 214] 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, [pg 215] 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 [pg 216] 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, [pg 217] 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 [pg 218] 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 [pg 219] 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 [pg 220] by the parish and paid a regular money-wage—the employment being constant, and the rate of remuneration varying from 1s. 3d. to 2s. 6d. a day for each of the six days, or from 7s. 6d. to 15s. 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 [pg 221] 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 [pg 222] taken ill with an abscess in my neck, you can see the mark of it still,' [he showed me the mark.] 'for six months i wasn't able to do a thing, and i was a part of the time, i don't recollect how long, in st. bartholomew's hospital. i was weak and ill when i came out, and hardly fit for work; i couldn't hear of any work i could get, for there was a great bother in the trade between master and men. before i went into the hospital, there was money to pay to doctors; and when i came out i could earn nothing, so every thing went; yes, sir, every thing. my wife made a little matter with charing for families she'd lived in, but things are in a bad way if a poor woman has to keep her husband. she was taken ill at last, and then there was nothing but the parish for us. i suffered a great deal before it come to that. it was awful. no one can know what it is but them that suffers it. but i didn't know what in the world to do. we lived then in st. luke's, and were passed to our own parish, and were three months in the workhouse. the living was good enough, better than it is now, i've heard, but i was miserable.' ['and i was very miserable,' interposed the wife, 'for i had been brought up comfortable; my father was a respectable tradesman in st. george's-in-the-east, and i had been in good situations.'] 'we made ourselves,' said the husband, 'as useful as we could, but we were parted of course. at the three months' end, i had 10s. given to me to come out with, and was told i might start costermongering on it. but to a man not up to the trade, 10s. won't go very far to keep up costering. i didn't feel master enough of my own trade by this time to try for work at it, and work wasn't at all regular. there were good hands earning only 12s. a week. the 10s. soon went, and i had again to apply for relief, and got an order for the stone-yard to go and break stones. ten bushels was to be broken for 15d. it was dreadful hard work at first. my hands got all blistered and bloody, and i've gone home and cried with pain and wretchedness. at first it was on to three days before i could break the ten bushels. i felt shivered to bits all over my arms and shoulders, and my head was splitting. i then got to do it in two days, and then in one, and it grew easier. but all this time i had only what was reckoned three days' work in a week. that is, you see, [pg 223] sir, i had only three times ten bushels of stones given to break in a week, and earned only 3s. 9d. yes, i lived on it, and paid 1s. 6d. a week rent, for the neighbours took care of a few sticks for us, and the parish or a broker wouldn't have found them worth carriage. my wife was then in the country with a sister. i lived upon bread and dripping, went without fire or candle (or had one only very seldom) though it wasn't warm weather. i can safely say that for eight weeks i never tasted one bite of meat, and hardly a bite of butter. when i couldn't sleep of a night, but that wasn't often, it was terrible, very. i washed what bits of things i had then, myself, and had sometimes to get a ha'porth of soap as a favour, as the chandler said she 'didn't make less than a penn'orth.' if i ate too much dripping, it made me feel sick. i hardly know how much bread and dripping i ate in a week. i spent what money i had in it and bread, and sometimes went without. i was very weak, you may be sure, sir; and if i'd had the influenza or any thing that way, i should have gone off like a shot, for i seemed to have no constitution left. but my wife came back again and got work at charing, and made about 4s. a week at it; but we were still very badly off. then i got to work on the roads every day, and had 1s. and a quartern loaf a day, which was a rise. i had only one child then, but men with larger families got two quartern loaves a day. single men got 9d. a day. it was far easier work than stone-breaking too. the hours were from eight to five in winter, and from seven to six in summer. but there's always changes going on, and we were put on 1s. 1?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. [pg 224] but anybody might have been frightened to hear some of the men talk and curse. we've stopped work to abuse the parish officers as might be passing. we've mobbed the overseers; and a number of us, i was one, were taken before the magistrate for it: but we told him how badly we were off, and he discharged us, and gave us orders into the workhouse, and told 'em to see if nothing could be done for us. we were there till next morning, and then sent away without any thing being said.'"

"'it's a sad life, sir, is a parish worker's. i wish to god i could get out of it. but when a man has children he can't stop and say, "i can't do this," and "i won't do that." last week, now, in costering, i lost 6s. [he meant that his expenses, of every kind, exceeded his receipts by 6s.,] and though i can distil nectar, or any thing that way, [this was said somewhat laughingly,] it's only when the weather's hot and fine that any good at all can be done with it. i think, too, that there's not the money among working-men that there once was. any thing regular in the way of pay must always be looked at by a man with a family.

"'of course the streets must be properly swept, and if i can sweep them as well as mr. dodd's men, for i know one of them very well, why should i have only 1s. 4?d. a week and three loaves, and he have 16s., i think it is. i don't drink, my wife knows i don't, [the wife assented,] and it seems as if in a parish a man must be kept down when he is down, and then blamed for it. i may not understand all about it, but it looks queer."'

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.

[pg 225]

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 [pg 226] 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.

[pg 227]

"'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 [pg 228] 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 [pg 229] 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.

[pg 230]

"'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 [pg 231] 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 [pg 232] 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 [pg 233] 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.

[pg 234]

"'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 [pg 235] 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 [pg 236] 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. [pg 237] 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 [pg 238] 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 [pg 239] 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.

[pg 240]

"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 [pg 241] 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 [pg 242] 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, [pg 243] 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 [pg 244] 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 f?tid 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, [pg 245] 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 [pg 246] 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 [pg 247] 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 [pg 248] 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 [pg 249] 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 [pg 250] 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. [pg 251] 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 [pg 252] beersheba, lest they become chargeable. there is something infinitely distressing in the whole basis of this idea—that an english peasant must needs be regarded from his first breath, and all through life, as a possible pauper. but the positive hardships arising from the idea are what we have at present to deal with.

"these are delineated in a happy collection of facts lately brought forward by mr. chadwick at a meeting of the farmers' club in london. it appears that the company assembled, who, from their circumstances, were all qualified to judge of the truth of the facts and the soundness of the conclusions, gave a general assent to what was said by the learned poor-law secretary. unfortunately, we can only give a few passages from this very remarkable speech.

"mr. chadwick first referred to the operation of the existing law upon unsettled labouring men. 'the lower districts of reading were severely visited with fever during the last year, which called attention to the sanitary condition of the labouring population. i was requested to visit it. while making inquiries upon the subject, i learned that some of the worst-conditioned places were occupied by agricultural labourers. many of them, it appeared, walked four, six, seven, and even eight miles, in wet and snow, to and from their places of work, after twelve hours' work on the farm. why, however, were agricultural labourers in these fever-nests of a town? i was informed, in answer, that they were driven in there by the pulling down of cottages, to avoid parochial settlements and contributions to their maintenance in the event of destitution. among a group, taken as an example there, in a wretched place consisting of three rooms, ten feet long, lived stephen turner, a wife, and three children. he walked to and from his place of work about seven miles daily, expending two hours and a half in walking before he got to his productive work on the farm. his wages are 10s. a week, out of which he pays 2s. for his wretched tenement. if he were resident on the farm, the two and a half hours of daily labour spent in walking might be expended in productive work; his labour would be worth, according to his own account, and i believe to a farmer's acknowledgment, 2s. 6d. per week more. for a rent of [pg 253] ￡5 5s., such as he now pays, he would be entitled to a good cottage with a garden; and his wife and children being near, would be available for the farm labour. so far as i could learn there are between one hundred and two hundred agricultural labourers living in the borough of reading, and the numbers are increasing. the last week brought to my notice a fact illustrative of the present unjust state of things, so far as regards the labourer. a man belonging to maple-durham lived in reading; walked about four miles a day to his work, the same back, frequently getting wet; took fever, and continued ill some time, assisted by the reading union in his illness; recovered, and could have returned to his former employment of 10s. per week, but found he was incapable of walking the distance; the consequence was, he took work that only enabled him to earn 5s. per week; he is now again unable to work. even in lincolnshire, where the agriculture is of a high order, and the wages of the labourer consequently not of the lowest, similar displacements have been made, to the prejudice of the farmer as well as the labourer, and, as will be seen, of the owner himself. near gainsborough, lincoln, and louth, the labourers walk even longer distances than near reading. i am informed of instances where they walk as far as six miles; that is, twelve miles daily, or seventy-two miles weekly, to and from their places of work. let us consider the bare economy, the mere waste of labour, and what a state of agricultural management is indicated by the fact that such a waste can have taken place. fifteen miles a day is the regular march of infantry soldiers, with two rest-days—one on monday, and one on thursday; twenty-four miles is a forced march. the man who expends eight miles per diem, or forty-eight miles per week, expends to the value of at least two days' hard labour per week, or one hundred in the year, uselessly, that might be expended usefully and remuneratively in production. how different is it in manufactories, and in some of the mines, or at least in the best-managed and most successful of them! in some mines as much as ￡2000 and ￡3000 is paid for new machinery to benefit the labourers, and save them the labour of ascending and descending by ladders. in many manufactories they have hoists to [pg 254] 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 [pg 255] are inevitably reduced. what must be the effect upon the manufacturer if he were placed in the same position as tenant farmers are in the smaller parishes in the southern counties, if he were restricted to the employment only of the labourers in the parish?—if, before he engaged a smith, a carpenter, or a mason, he were compelled to inquire, 'to what parish do you belong?' why, that the 24s. a week labour would fall to 12s. or 10s., or the price of agricultural labour. agriculturists from northern districts, who work their farms with 12s. and 15s. a week free labour, have declined the temptation of low rents, to take farms in parishes where the wages are 7s. or 8s. a week. while inspecting a farm in one of these pauperized districts, an able agriculturist could not help noticing the slow, drawling motions of one of the labourers there, and said, 'my man, you do not sweat at that work,' 'why, no, master,' was the reply; 'seven shillings a week isn't sweating wages,' the evidence i have cited indicates the circumstances which prevent the adoption of piece-work, and which, moreover, restrict the introduction of machinery into agricultural operations, which, strange though it may appear to many, is greatly to the injury of the working classes; for wherever agricultural labour is free, and machinery has been introduced, there more and higher-paid labour is required, and labourers are enabled to go on and earn good wages by work with machines long after their strength has failed them for working by hand. in free districts, and with high cultivation by free and skilled labour, i can adduce instances of skilled agricultural labourers paid as highly as artisans. i could adduce an instance, bordering upon essex, where the owner, working it with common parish labour at 1s. 6d., a day, could not make it pay; and an able farmer now works it with free labour, at 2s. 6d., 3s., and 3s. 6d., and even more, per day, for task-work, and, there is reason to believe, makes it pay well. a farmer, who died not long ago immensely wealthy, was wont to say that 'he could not live upon poor 2s. a day labour; he could not make his money upon less than half-crowners.' the freedom of labour, not only in the northern counties, but in some places near the slave-labour districts of the southern counties, is already attended [pg 256] with higher wages—at the rate of 12s., 14s., and 15s. weekly. in such counties as berks and bedford, the freedom of the labour market, when it came into full operation, could not raise wages less than 2s. a week; and 2s. a week would, in those counties, represent a sum of productive expenditure and increased produce equal to the whole amount of unproductive expenditure on the poor-rates.'"

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!