When Captain Hugh Clapperton, the celebrated1 English traveller, visited Bello, the sultan of the Felatahs, at Sackatoo, he made the monarch2 some presents, in the name of his majesty3 the king of England. These were—two new blunderbusses, a pair of double-barrelled pistols, a pocket compass, an embroidered4 jacket, a scarlet5 bornonse, a pair of scarlet breeches, thirty-four yards of silk, two turban shawls, four pounds of cloves6, four pounds of cinnamon, three cases of gunpowder7 with shot and balls, three razors, three clasp-knives, three looking-glasses, six snuff-boxes, a spy-glass, and a large tea-tray. The sultan said—"Every thing is wonderful, but you are the greatest curiosity of all!" and then added, "What can I give that is most acceptable to the king of England?" Clapperton replied—"The most acceptable service you can render to the king of England is to co-operate with his majesty in putting a stop to the slave-trade on the coast, as the king of England sends large ships to cruise there, for the sole purpose of seizing all vessels9 [Pg 169] engaged in this trade, whose crews are thrown into prison, and of liberating11 the unfortunate slaves, on whom lands and houses are conferred, at one of our settlements in Africa." "What!" exclaimed the sultan, "have you no slaves in England?" "No: whenever a slave sets his foot in England, he is from that moment free," replied Clapperton. "What do you then do for servants?" inquired the sultan. "We hire them for a stated period, and give them regular wages; nor is any person in England allowed to strike another; and the very soldiers are fed, clothed, and paid by the government," replied the English captain. "God is great!" exclaimed the sultan. "You are a beautiful people." Clapperton had succeeded in putting a beautiful illusion upon the sultan's imagination, as some English writers have endeavoured to do among the civilized12 nations of the earth. If the sultan had been taken to England, to see the freedom of the "servants" in the workshops, perhaps he would have exclaimed—"God is great! Slaves are plenty."
The condition of the apprentices14 in the British workshops is at least as bad as that of the children in the factories. According to the second report of the commissioners15 appointed by Parliament, the degrading system of involuntary apprenticeship16—in many cases without the consent of parents—and merely according to the regulations of the brutal17 guardians18 of the workhouses, is general. The commissioners say [Pg 170]—
"That in some trades, those especially requiring skilled workmen, these apprentices are bound by legal indentures19, usually at the age of fourteen, and for a term of seven years, the age being rarely younger, and the period of servitude very seldom longer; but by far the greater number are bound without any prescribed legal forms, and in almost all these cases they are required to serve their masters, at whatever age they may commence their apprenticeship, until they attain21 the age of twenty-one, in some instances in employments in which there is nothing deserving the name of skill to be acquired, and in other instances in employments in which they are taught to make only one particular part of the article manufactured: so that at the end of their servitude they are altogether unable to make any one article of their trade in a complete state. That a large proportion of these apprentices consist of orphans22, or are the children of widows, or belong to the very poorest families, and frequently are apprenticed24 by boards of guardians.
"That in these districts it is common for parents to borrow money of the employers, and to stipulate25, by express agreement, to repay it from their children's wages; a practice which prevails likewise in Birmingham and Warrington: in most other places no evidence was discovered of its existence."—Second Report of the Commissioners, p. 195, 196.
Here we have a fearful text on which to comment. In these few sentences we see the disclosure of a system which, if followed out and abused, must produce a state of slavery of the very worst and most oppressive character. To show that it is thus abused, here are some extracts from the Reports on the Wolverhampton district, to which the Central Board of Commissioners direct special attention:—
"The peculiar28 trade of the Wolverhampton district, with the exception of a very few large proprietors29, is in the hands of a [Pg 171] great number of small masters, who are personally known only to some of the foremen of the factors to whom they take their work, and scarcely one of whom is sufficiently30 important to have his name over his door or his workshop in front of a street. In the town of Wolverhampton alone there are of these small masters, for example, two hundred and sixty locksmiths, sixty or seventy key-makers31, from twenty to thirty screwmakers, and a like number of latch32, bolt, snuffer, tobacco-box, and spectacle frame and case makers. Each of these small masters, if they have not children of their own, generally employ from one to three apprentices."—Horne, Report; App. pt. ii. p. 2. s. 13 et seq.
The workshops of the small masters are usually of the dirtiest, most dilapidated, and confined description, and situated33 in the most filthy35 and undrained localities, at the back of their wretched abodes37.
"There are two modes of obtaining apprentices in this district, namely, the legal one of application to magistrates39 or boards of guardians for sanction of indentures; and, secondly41, the illegal mode of taking the children to be bound by an attorney, without any such reference to the proper authorities. There are many more bound by this illegal mode than by the former.
"In all cases, the children, of whatever age, are bound till they attain the age of twenty-one years. If the child be only seven years of age, the period of servitude remains42 the same, however simple the process or nature of the trade to be learnt. During the first year or two, if the apprentice13 be very young, he is merely used to run errands, do dirty household work, nurse infants, &c.
"If the master die before the apprentice attain the age of twenty-one years, the apprentice is equally bound as the servant of his deceased master's heirs, executors, administrators43, and assigns—in fact, the apprentice is part of the deceased master's goods and chattels44. Whoever, therefore, may carry on the trade, he is the servant of such person or persons until his manumission [Pg 172] is obtained by reaching his one-and-twentieth year. The apprentice has no regular pocket-money allowed him by the master. Sometimes a few halfpence are given to him. An apprentice of eighteen or nineteen years of age often has 2d. or 3d. a week given him, but never as a rightful claim."—Second Report of Commissioners.
"Among other witnesses, the superintendent45 registrar46 states that in those trades particularly in which the work is by the piece, the growth of the children is injured; that in these cases more especially their strength is over-taxed for profit. One of the constables47 of the town says that 'there are examples without number in the place, of deformed48 men and boys; their backs or their legs, and often both, grow wrong; the backs grow out and the legs grow in at the knees—hump-backed and knock-kneed. There is most commonly only one leg turned in—a K leg; it is occasioned by standing49 all day for years filing at a vice8; the hind50 leg grows in—the leg that is hindermost. Thinks that among the adults of the working classes of Willenhall, whose work is all forging and filing, one-third of the number are afflicted51 with hernia,' &c."—Horne, Evidence, p. 28, No. 128.
As the profits of many of the masters are small, it may be supposed that the apprentices do not get the best of food, shelter, and clothing. We have the evidence of Henry Nicholls Payne, superintendent registrar of Wolverhampton, Henry Hill, Esq., magistrate40, and Paul Law, of Wolverhampton, that it is common for masters to buy offal meat, and the meat of animals that have died from all manner of causes, for the food of apprentices. The clothing of these poor creatures is but thin tatters for all seasons. The apprentices constantly complain that they do not get enough to eat.
[Pg 173]
"They are frequently fed," says the sub-commissioner, "especially during the winter season, on red herrings, potatoes, bread with lard upon it, and have not always sufficient even of this.
"Their living is poor; they have not enough to eat. Did not know what it was to have butcher's meat above once a week; often a red herring was divided between two for dinner. The boys are often clemmed, (almost starved;) have often been to his house to ask for a bit of pudding—are frequent complaints. In some trades, particularly in the casting-shops of founderies, in the shops in which general forge or smith's work is done, and in the shops of the small locksmiths, screwmakers, &c., there are no regular meal-hours, but the children swallow their food as they can, during their work, often while noxious52 fumes53 or dust are flying about, and perhaps with noxious compositions in their unwashed hands."
The apprentices employed in nail-making are described as so many poorly fed and poorly clad slaves. Almost the whole population of Upper Sedgley and Upper Gormal, and nearly one-half of the population of Coseley, are employed in nail-making. The nails are made at forges by the hammer, and these forges, which are the workshops, are usually at the backs of the wretched hovels in which the work-people reside. "The best kind of forges," says Mr. Horne, "are little brick shops, of about fifteen feet long and twelve feet wide, in which seven or eight individuals constantly work together, with no ventilation except the door, and two slits54, or loopholes, in the wall; but the great majority of these work-places are very much smaller, (about ten feet long by nine wide,) filthily55 dirty; and on [Pg 174] looking in upon one of them when the fire is not lighted, presents the appearance of a dilapidated coal-hole, or little black den20." In these places children are first put to labour from the ages of seven to eight, where they continue to work daily, from six o'clock in the morning till seven or eight at night; and on weigh-days—the days the nails are taken to the factors—from three or four in the morning till nine at night. They gradually advance in the number of nails they are required to make per day, till they arrive at the stint56 of one thousand. A girl or boy of from ten to twelve years of age continually accomplishes this arduous57 task from day to day, and week to week. Their food at the same time is, in general, insufficient58, their clothing miserable59, and the wretchedness of their dwellings61 almost unparalleled.
"Throughout the long descent of the main roadway, or rather sludgeway, of Lower Gormal," says Mr. Horne, "and throughout the very long winding63 and straggling roadway of Coseley, I never saw one abode38 of a working family which had the least appearance of comfort or wholesomeness64, while the immense majority were of the most wretched and sty-like description. The effect of these unfavourable circumstances is greatly to injure the health of the children, and to stop their growth; and it is remarkable65 that the boys are more injured than the girls, because the girls are not put to work as early as the boys by two years or more. They appear to bear the heat of the forges better, and they sometimes even become strong by their work."
The children employed in nail-making, in Scotland, evince the nature of their toil66 by their emaciated67 looks [Pg 175] and stunted68 growth. They are clothed in apparel in which many paupers70 would not dress; and they are starved into quickness at their work, as their meals depend on the quantity of work accomplished71.
In the manufacture of earthenware72 there are many young slaves employed. The mould-runners are an especially pitiable class of workmen; they receive on a mould the ware73 as it is formed by the workmen, and carry it to the stove-room, where both mould and ware are arranged on shelves to dry. The same children liberate74 the mould when sufficiently dry, and carry it back to receive a fresh supply of ware, to be in like manner deposited on the shelves. They are also generally required by the workmen to "wedge their clay;" that is, to lift up large lumps of clay, which are to be thrown down forcibly on a hard surface to free the clay from air and to render it more compact. Excepting when thus engaged, they are constantly "on the run" from morning till night, always carrying a considerable weight. These children are generally pale, thin, weak, and unhealthy.
In the manufacture of glass the toil and suffering of the apprentices, as recorded in the evidence before the commissioners, are extreme. One witness said—
"From his experience he thinks the community has no idea of what a boy at a bottle-work goes through; 'it would never be allowed, if it were known;' he knows himself; he has been carried home from fair fatigue75; and on two several occasions, when laid in bed, could not rest, and had to be taken out and laid on [Pg 176] the floor. These boys begin work on Sabbath evenings at ten o'clock, and are not at home again till between one and three on Monday afternoon. The drawing the bottles out of the arches is a work which no child should be allowed, on any consideration, to do; he himself has been obliged several times to have planks76 put in to walk on, which have caught fire under the feet; and a woollen cap over the ears and always mits on the hands; and a boy cannot generally stop in them above five minutes. There is no man that works in a bottle-work, but will corroborate77 the statement that such work checks the growth of the body; the irregularity and the unnatural78 times of work cause the boys and men to feel in a sort of stupor79 or dulness from heavy sweats and irregular hours. The boys work harder than any man in the works; all will allow that. From their experience of the bad effect on the health, witness and five others left the work, and none but one ever went to a bottle-work after."
The young females apprenticed to dressmakers suffer greatly from over-work and bad treatment, as has long been known. John Dalrymple, Esq., Assistant Surgeon, Royal London Ophthalmic Hospital, narrates80 the following case:—
"A delicate and beautiful young woman, an orphan23, applied81 at the hospital for very defective82 vision, and her symptoms were precisely83 as just described. Upon inquiry84 it was ascertained85 that she had been apprenticed to a milliner, and was in her last year of indentureship86. Her working hours were eighteen in the day, occasionally even more; her meals were snatched with scarcely an interval87 of a few minutes from work, and her general health was evidently assuming a tendency to consumption. An appeal was made, by my directions, to her mistress for relaxation88; but the reply was that, in the last year of her apprenticeship, her labours had become valuable, and that her mistress was entitled to them as a recompense for teaching. Subsequently a threat of appeal to the Lord Mayor, and a belief that a continuation of the [Pg 177] occupation would soon render the apprentice incapable89 of labour, induced the mistress to cancel the indentures, and the victim was saved."
Frederick Tyrrell, Esq., Surgeon to the London Ophthalmic Hospital, and to St. Thomas's Hospital, mentions a case equally distressing90:—
"A fair and delicate girl, about seventeen years of age, was brought to witness in consequence of total loss of vision. She had experienced the train of symptoms which have been detailed91, to the fullest extent. On examination, both eyes were found disorganized, and recovery therefore was hopeless. She had been an apprentice as a dress-maker at the west end of the town; and some time before her vision became affected92, her general health had been materially deranged93 from too close confinement94 and excessive work. The immediate95 cause of the disease in the eyes was excessive and continued application to making mourning. She stated that she had been compelled to remain without changing her dress for nine days and nights consecutively96; that during this period she had been permitted only occasionally to rest on a mattrass placed on the floor, for an hour or two at a time; and that her meals were placed at her side, cut up, so that as little time as possible should be spent in their consumption. Witness regrets that he did not, in this and a few other cases nearly as flagrant and distressing, induce the sufferers to appeal to a jury for compensation."
It may be asserted, without fear of successful contradiction, that, in proportion to the numbers employed, there are no occupations in which so much disease is produced as in dress-making. The report of a sub-commissioner states that it is a "serious aggravation97 of this evil, that the unkindness of the employer very frequently causes these young persons, when they become [Pg 178] unwell, to conceal98 their illness, from the fear of being sent out of the house; and in this manner the disease often becomes increased in severity, or is even rendered incurable99. Some of the principals are so cruel, as to object to the young women obtaining medical assistance."
SLAVES OF THE NEEDLE.
The London Times, in an exceedingly able article upon "Seamstress Slavery," thus describes the terrible system:—
"Granting that the negro gangs who are worked on the cotton grounds of the Southern States of North America, or in the sugar plantations100 of Brazil, are slaves, in what way should we speak of persons who are circumstanced in the manner we are about to relate? Let us consider them as inhabitants of a distant region—say of New Orleans—no matter about the colour of their skins, and then ask ourselves what should be our opinion of a nation in which such things are tolerated. They are of a sex and age the least qualified101 to struggle with the hardships of their lot—young women, for the most part, between sixteen and thirty years of age. As we would not deal in exaggerations, we would promise that we take them at their busy season, just as writers upon American slavery are careful to select the season of cotton-picking and sugar-crushing as illustrations of their theories. The young female slaves, then, of whom we speak, are worked in gangs, in ill-ventilated rooms, or rooms that are not ventilated at all; for it is found by experience that if air be admitted it brings with it "blacks" of another kind, which damage the work upon which the seamstresses are employed. Their occupation is to sew from morning till night and night till morning—stitch, stitch, stitch—without pause, without speech, without a smile, without a sigh. In the gray of the morning they must be at work, say at six o'clock, having a quarter of an hour allowed them for breaking their fast. The food served out to them is scanty103 and miserable [Pg 179] enough, but still, in all probability, more than their fevered system can digest. We do not, however, wish to make out a case of starvation; the suffering is of another kind, equally dreadful of endurance. From six o'clock till eleven it is stitch, stitch. At eleven a small piece of dry bread is served to each seamstress, but still she must stitch on. At one o'clock, twenty minutes are allowed for dinner—a slice of meat and a potato, with a glass of toast-and-water to each workwoman. Then again to work—stitch, stitch, until five o'clock, when fifteen minutes are again allowed for tea. The needles are then set in motion once more—stitch, stitch, until nine o'clock, when fifteen minutes are allowed for supper—a piece of dry bread and cheese and a glass of beer. From nine o'clock at night until one, two, and three o'clock in the morning, stitch, stitch; the only break in this long period being a minute or two—just time enough to swallow a cup of strong tea, which is supplied lest the young people should 'feel sleepy.' At three o'clock A.M., to bed; at six o'clock A.M., out of it again to resume the duties of the following day. There must be a good deal of monotony in the occupation.
"But when we have said that for certain months in the year these unfortunate young persons are worked in the manner we describe, we have not said all. Even during the few hours allotted104 to sleep—should we not rather say to a feverish105 cessation from toil—their miseries106 continue. They are cooped up in sleeping-pens, ten in a room which would perhaps be sufficient for the accommodation of two persons. The alternation is from the treadmill107—and what a treadmill!—to the Black Hole of Calcutta. Not a word of remonstrance108 is allowed, or is possible. The seamstresses may leave the mill, no doubt, but what awaits them on the other side of the door?—starvation, if they be honest; if not, in all probability, prostitution and its consequence. They would scarcely escape from slavery that way. Surely this is a terrible state of things, and one which claims the anxious consideration of the ladies of England who have pronounced themselves so loudly against the horrors of negro slavery in the United States. Had this system of oppression against persons of their own sex been really exercised in New Orleans, it would have [Pg 180] elicited110 from them many expressions of sympathy for the sufferers, and of abhorrence111 for the cruel task-masters who could so cruelly over-work wretched creatures so unfitted for the toil. It is idle to use any further mystification in the matter. The scenes of misery112 we have described exist at our own doors, and in the most fashionable quarters of luxurious113 London. It is in the dress-making and millinery establishments of the 'West-end' that the system is steadily114 pursued. The continuous labour is bestowed115 upon the gay garments in which the 'ladies of England' love to adorn116 themselves. It is to satisfy their whims117 and caprices that their wretched sisters undergo these days and nights of suffering and toil. It is but right that we should confess the fault does not lie so much at the door of the customers as with the principals of these establishments. The milliners and dressmakers of the metropolis118 will not employ hands enough to do the work. They increase their profits from the blood and life of the wretched creatures in their employ. Certainly the prices charged for articles of dress at any of the great West-end establishments are sufficiently high—as most English heads of families know to their cost—to enable the proprietors to retain a competent staff of work-people, and at the same time to secure a very handsome profit to themselves. Wherein, then, lies the remedy? Will the case of these poor seamstresses be bettered if the ladies of England abstain119 partially120, or in great measure, from giving their usual orders to their usual houses? In that case it may be said some of the seamstresses will be dismissed to starvation, and the remainder will be over-worked as before. We freely confess we do not see our way through the difficulty; for we hold the most improbable event in our social arrangements to be the fact, that a lady of fashion will employ a second-rate instead of a first-rate house for the purchase of her annual finery. The leading milliners and dressmakers of London have hold of English society at both ends. They hold the ladies by their vanity and their love of fine clothes, and the seamstresses by what appears to be their interest and by their love of life. Now, love of fine clothes and love of life are two very strong motive121 springs of human action."
[Pg 181]
In confirmation122 of this thrilling representation of the seamstress slavery in London, the following letter subsequently appeared in the Times:—
"To the Editor of the Times:
"Sir,—May I beg of you to insert this letter in your valuable paper at your earliest convenience, relative to the letters of the 'First Hand?' I can state, without the slightest hesitation123, that they are perfectly124 true. My poor sister was apprenticed to one of those fashionable West-end houses, and my father paid the large sum of ￡40 only to procure125 for his daughter a lingering death. I was allowed to visit her during her illness; I found her in a very small room, which two large beds would fill. In this room there were six children's bedsteads, and these were each to contain three grown-up young women. In consequence of my sister being so ill, she was allowed, on payment of 5s. per week, a bed to herself—one so small it might be called a cradle. The doctor who attended her when dying, can authenticate126 this letter.
"Apologizing for encroaching on your valuable time, I remain your obedient servant,
A Poor Clerk."
Many witnesses attest127 the ferocious128 bodily chastisement129 inflicted130 upon male apprentices in workshops:—
"In Sedgley they are sometimes struck with a red-hot iron, and burned and bruised132 simultaneously133; sometimes they have 'a flash of lightning' sent at them. When a bar of iron is drawn134 white-hot from the forge it emits fiery135 particles, which the man commonly flings in a shower upon the ground by a swing of his arm, before placing the bar upon the anvil136. This shower is sometimes directed at the boy. It may come over his hands and face, his naked arms, or on his breast. If his shirt be open in front, which is usually the case, the red-hot particles are lodged137 therein, and he has to shake them out as fast as he can."—Horne, Report, p. 76, § 757. See also witnesses, p. 56, 1. 24; p. 59, 1. 54.
"In Darlaston, however, the children appear to be very little [Pg 182] beaten, and in Bilston there were only a few instances of cruel treatment: 'the boys are kicked and cuffed139 abundantly, but not with any vicious or cruel intention, and only with an idea that this is getting the work done.'"—Ibid. p. 62, 65, §§ 660, 688.
"In Wednesbury the treatment is better than in any other town in the district. The boys are not generally subject to any severe corporal chastisement, though a few cases of ill-treatment occasionally occur. 'A few months ago an adult workman broke a boy's arm by a blow with a piece of iron; the boy went to school till his arm got well; his father and mother thought it a good opportunity to give him some schooling140.'"—Ibid. Evidence, No. 331.
"But the class of children in this district the most abused and oppressed are the apprentices, and particularly those who are bound to the small masters among the locksmiths, key and bolt makers, screwmakers, &c. Even among these small masters, there are respectable and humane141 men, who do not suffer any degree of poverty to render them brutal; but many of these men treat their apprentices not so much with neglect and harshness, as with ferocious violence, the result of unbridled passions, excited often by ardent142 spirits, acting143 on bodies exhausted144 by over-work, and on minds which have never received the slightest moral or religious culture, and which, therefore, never exercise the smallest moral or religious restraint."—Ibid.
Evidence from all classes,—masters, journeymen, residents, magistrates, clergymen, constables, and, above all, from the mouths of the poor oppressed sufferers themselves, is adduced to a heart-breaking extent. The public has been excited to pity by Dickens's picture of Smike—in Willenhall, there are many Smikes.
"—— ——, aged10 sixteen: 'His master stints145 him from six in the morning till ten and sometimes eleven at night, as much as ever he can do; and if he don't do it, his master gives him no supper, and gives him a good hiding, sometimes with a big strap146, [Pg 183] sometimes with a big stick. His master has cut his head open five times—once with a key and twice with a lock; knocked the corner of a lock into his head twice—once with an iron bolt, and once with an iron shut—a thing that runs into the staple147. His master's name is —— ——, of Little London. There is another apprentice besides him, who is treated just as bad.'"—Ibid. p. 32, 1. 4.
"—— ——, aged fifteen: 'Works at knob-locks with —— ——. Is a fellow-apprentice with —— ——. Lives in the house of his master. Is beaten by his master, who hits him sometimes with his fists, and sometimes with the file-haft, and sometimes with a stick—it's no matter what when he's a bit cross; sometimes hits him with the locks; has cut his head open four or five times; so he has his fellow apprentice's head. Once when he cut his head open with a key, thinks half a pint148 of blood run off him.'"—Ibid. p. 32, 1. 19.
"—— ——, aged fourteen: 'Has been an in-door apprentice three years. Has no wages; nobody gets any wages for him. Has to serve till he is twenty-one. His master behaves very bad. His mistress behaves worse, like a devil; she beats him; knocks his head against the wall. His master goes out a-drinking, and when he comes back, if any thing's gone wrong that he (the boy) knows nothing about, he is beat all the same.'"—Ibid. p. 32, 1. 36.
"—— ——, aged sixteen: 'His master sometimes hits him with his fist, sometimes kicks him; gave him the black eye he has got; beat him in bed while he was asleep, at five in the morning, because he was not up to work. He came up-stairs and set about him—set about him with his fist. Has been over to the public office, Brummagem, to complain; took a note with him, which was written for him; his brother gave it to the public office there, but they would not attend to it; they said they could do no good, and gave the note back. He had been beaten at that time with a whip-handle—it made wales all down his arms and back and all; everybody he showed it to said it was scandalous. Wishes he could be released from his master, who's never easy but when he's a-beating of me. Never has enough to eat at no time; ax him for more, he won't gie it me.'"—Ibid. p. 30, 1. 5.
[Pg 184]
"—— ——, aged seventeen: 'Has no father or mother to take his part. His master once cut his head open with a flat file-haft, and used to pull his ears nearly off; they bled so he was obliged to go into the house to wipe them with a cloth,'"—Ibid. p. 37, 1. 7.
"—— ——, aged fifteen: 'The neighbours who live agen the shop will say how his master beats him; beats him with a strap, and sometimes a nut-stick; sometimes the wales remain upon him for a week; his master once cut his eyelid149 open, cut a hole in it, and it bled all over his files that he was working with,'"—Ibid. p. 37, 1. 47.
"—— ——, aged 18: 'His master once ran at him with a hammer, and drove the iron-head of the hammer into his side—he felt it for weeks; his master often knocks him down on the shop-floor; he can't tell what it's all for, no more than you can; don't know what it can be for unless it's this, his master thinks he don't do enough work for him. When he is beaten, his master does not lay it on very heavy, as some masters do, only beats him for five minutes at a time; should think that was enough, though.'"—Horne, Evidence, p. 37, 1. 57.
All this exists in a Christian150 land! Surely telescopic philanthropists must be numerous in Great Britain. Wonderful to relate, there are many persons instrumental in sustaining this barbarous system, who profess151 a holy horror of slavery, and who seldom rise up or lie down without offering prayers on behalf of the African bondsmen, thousands of miles away. Verily, there are many people in this motley world so organized that they can scent62 corruption152 "afar off," but gain no knowledge of the foulness154 under their very noses.
Henry Mayhew, in his "London Labour and the London Poor," gives some very interesting information in regard to the workshops in the great metropolis of [Pg 185] the British Empire. "In the generality of trades, the calculation is that one-third of the hands are fully155 employed, one-third partially, and one-third unemployed156 throughout the year." The wages of those who are regularly employed being scant102, what must be the condition of those whose employment is but casual and precarious157? Mayhew says—
"The hours of labour in mechanical callings are usually twelve, two of them devoted158 to meals, or seventy-two hours (less by the permitted intervals) in a week. In the course of my inquiries159 for the Chronicle, I met with slop cabinet-makers, tailors, and milliners, who worked sixteen hours and more daily, their toil being only interrupted by the necessity of going out, if small masters, to purchase materials, and offer the goods for sale; or, if journeymen in the slop trade, to obtain more work and carry what was completed to the master's shop. They worked on Sundays also; one tailor told me that the coat he worked at on the previous Sunday was for the Rev26. Mr. ——, who 'little thought it,' and these slop-workers rarely give above a few minutes to a meal. Thus they toil forty hours beyond the hours usual in an honourable160 trade, (112 hours instead of 72,) in the course of a week, or between three and four days of the regular hours of work of the six working days. In other words, two such men will in less than a week accomplish work which should occupy three men a full week; or 1000 men will execute labour fairly calculated to employ 1500 at the least. A paucity161 of employment is thus caused among the general body, by this system of over-labour decreasing the share of work accruing162 to the several operatives, and so adding to surplus hands.
"Of over-work, as regards excessive labour, both in the general and fancy cabinet trade, I heard the following accounts, which different operatives concurred163 in giving; while some represented the labour as of longer duration by at least an hour, and some by two hours a day, than I have stated.
[Pg 186]
"The labour of the men who depend entirely164 on 'the slaughter-houses' for the purchase of their articles is usually seven days a week the year through. That is, seven days—for Sunday-work is all but universal—each of thirteen hours, or ninety-one hours in all; while the established hours of labour in the 'honourable trade' are six days of the week, each of ten hours, or sixty hours in all. Thus fifty per cent. is added to the extent of the production of low-priced cabinet work, merely from 'over-hours'; but in some cases I heard of fifteen hours for seven days in the week, or 105 hours in all.
"Concerning the hours of labour in this trade, I had the following minute particulars from a garret-master who was a chair-maker:—
"'I work from six every morning to nine at night; some work till ten. My breakfast at eight stops me for ten minutes. I can breakfast in less time, but it's a rest. My dinner takes me say twenty minutes at the outside; and my tea eight minutes. All the rest of the time I'm slaving at my bench. How many minutes' rest is that, sir? Thirty-eight; well, say three-quarters of an hour, and that allows a few sucks at a pipe when I rest; but I can smoke and work too. I have only one room to work and eat in, or I should lose more time. Altogether, I labour fourteen and a quarter hours every day, and I must work on Sundays—at least forty Sundays in the year. One may as well work as sit fretting165. But on Sundays I only work till it's dusk, or till five or six in summer. When it's dusk I take a walk. I'm not well dressed enough for a Sunday walk when it's light, and I can't wear my apron166 on that day very well to hide patches. But there's eight hours that I reckon I take up every week, one with another, in dancing about to the slaughterers. I'm satisfied that I work very nearly 100 hours a week the year through; deducting167 the time taken up by the slaughterers, and buying stuff—say eight hours a week—it gives more than ninety hours a week for my work, and there's hundreds labour as hard as I do, just for a crust.'
"The East-end turners generally, I was informed, when inquiring into the state of that trade, labour at the lathe168 from six [Pg 187] o'clock in the morning till eleven and twelve at night, being eighteen hours' work per day, or one hundred and eight hours per week. They allow themselves two hours for their meals. It takes them, upon an average, two hours more every day fetching and carrying their work home. Some of the East-end men work on Sundays, and not a few either,' said my informant. 'Sometimes I have worked hard,' said one man, 'from six one morning till four the next, and scarcely had any time to take my meals in the bargain. I have been almost suffocated169 with the dust flying down my throat after working so many hours upon such heavy work too, and sweating so much. It makes a man drink where he would not.'
"This system of over-work exists in the 'slop' part of almost every business; indeed, it is the principal means by which the cheap trade is maintained. Let me cite from my letters in the Chronicle some more of my experience on this subject. As regards the London mantuamakers, I said:—'The workwomen for good shops that give fair, or tolerably fair wages, and expect good work, can make six average-sized mantles170 in a week, working from ten to twelve hours a day; but the slop-workers by toiling171 from thirteen to sixteen hours a day, will make nine such sized mantles in a week. In a season of twelve weeks, 1000 workers for the slop-houses and warehouses172 would at this rate make 108,000 mantles, or 36,000 more than workers for the fair trade. Or, to put it in another light, these slop-women, by being compelled, in order to live, to work such over-hours as inflict131 lasting173 injury on the health, supplant174, by their over-work and over-hours, the labour of 500 hands, working the regular hours."
Mr. Mayhew states it as a plain, unerring law, that "over-work makes under-pay, and under-pay makes over-work." True; but under-pay in the first place gave rise to prolonged hours of toil; and in spite of all laws that may be enacted175, as long as a miserable pittance176 is paid to labourers, and that, too, devoured177 by [Pg 188] taxes, supporting an aristocracy in luxury, so long will the workman be compelled to slave for a subsistence.
The "strapping178" system, which demands an undue179 quantity of work from a journeyman in the course of a day, is extensively maintained in London. Mr. Mayhew met with a miserable victim of this system of slavery, who appeared almost exhausted with excessive toil. The poor fellow said—
"'I work in what is called a strapping-shop, and have worked at nothing else for these many years past in London. I call "strapping" doing as much work as a human being or a horse possibly can in a day, and that without any hanging upon the collar, but with the foreman's eyes constantly fixed180 upon you, from six o'clock in the morning to six o'clock at night. The shop in which I work is for all the world like a prison; the silent system is as strictly181 carried out there as in a model jail. If a man was to ask any common question of his neighbour, except it was connected with his trade, he would be discharged there and then. If a journeyman makes the least mistake he is packed off just the same. A man working at such places is almost always in fear; for the most trifling182 things he's thrown out of work in an instant. And then the quantity of work that one is forced to get through is positively183 awful; if he can't do a plenty of it he don't stop long where I am. No one would think it was possible to get so much out of blood and bones. No slaves work like we do. At some of the strapping shops the foreman keeps continually walking about with his eyes on all the men at once. At others the foreman is perched high up, so that he can have the whole of the men under his eye together. I suppose since I knew the trade that a man does four times the work that he did formerly184. I know a man that's done four pairs of sashes in a day, and one is considered to be a good day's labour. What's worse than all, the men are every one striving one against the other. Each is trying to get through the work quicker than his neighbours. Four [Pg 189] or five men are set the same job, so that they may be all pitted against one another, and then away they go, every one striving his hardest for fear that the others should get finished first. They are all tearing along, from the first thing in the morning to the last at night, as hard as they can go, and when the time comes to knock off they are ready to drop. It was hours after I got home last night before I could get a wink185 of sleep; the soles of my feet were on fire, and my arms ached to that degree that I could hardly lift my hand to my head. Often, too, when we get up of a morning, we are more tired than when we went to bed, for we can't sleep many a night; but we musn't let our employers know it, or else they'd be certain we couldn't do enough for them, and we'd get the sack. So, tired as we may be, we are obliged to look lively, somehow or other, at the shop of a morning. If we're not beside our bench the very moment the bell's done ringing, our time's docked—they won't give us a single minute out of the hour. If I was working for a fair master, I should do nearly one-third, and sometimes a half, less work than I am now forced to get through; and, even to manage that much, I shouldn't be idle a second of my time. It's quite a mystery to me how they do contrive186 to get so much work out of the men. But they are very clever people. They know how to have the most out of a man, better than any one in the world. They are all picked men in the shop—regular "strappers," and no mistake. The most of them are five foot ten, and fine broad-shouldered, strong-backed fellows too—if they weren't they wouldn't have them. Bless you, they make no words with the men, they sack them if they're not strong enough to do all they want; and they can pretty soon tell, the very first shaving a man strikes in the shop, what a chap is made of. Some men are done up at such work—quite old men and gray, with spectacles on, by the time they are forty. I have seen fine strong men, of thirty-six, come in there, and be bent187 double in two or three years. They are most all countrymen at the strapping shops. If they see a great strapping fellow, who they think has got some stuff about him that will come out, they will give him a job directly. We are used for all the world like cab or omnibus-horses. Directly [Pg 190] they've had all the work out of us, we are turned off, and I am sure, after my day's work is over, my feelings must be very much the same as one of the London cab-horses. As for Sunday, it is literally188 a day of rest with us, for the greater part of us lay a-bed all day, and even that will hardly take the aches and pains out of our bones and muscles. When I'm done and flung by, of course I must starve.'"
It may be said that, exhausting as this labour certainly is, it is not slavery; for the workman has a will of his own, and need not work if he does not choose to do it. Besides, he is not held by law; he may leave the shop; he may seek some other land. These circumstances make his case very different from the negro slave of America. True, but the difference is in favour of the negro slave. The London workman has only the alternative—such labour as has been described, the workhouse, or starvation. The negro slave seldom has such grinding toil, is provided for whether he performs it or not, and can look forward to an old age of comfort and repose190. The London workman may leave his shop, but he will be either consigned191 to the prison of a workhouse or starved. He might leave the country, if he could obtain the necessary funds.
Family work, or the conjoint labour of a workman's wife and children, is one of the results of the wretchedly rewarded slavery in the various trades. Mr Mayhew gives the following statement of a "fancy cabinet" worker upon this subject:—
"The most on us has got large families; we put the children [Pg 191] to work as soon as we can. My little girl began about six, but about eight or nine is the usual age. 'Oh, poor little things,' said the wife, 'they are obliged to begin the very minute they can use their fingers at all.' The most of the cabinet-makers of the East end have from five to six in family, and they are generally all at work for them. The small masters mostly marry when they are turned of twenty. You see our trade's coming to such a pass, that unless a man has children to help him he can't live at all. I've worked more than a month together, and the longest night's rest I've had has been an hour and a quarter; ay, and I've been up three nights a week besides. I've had my children lying ill, and been obliged to wait on them into the bargain. You see we couldn't live if it wasn't for the labour of our children, though it makes 'em—poor little things!—old people long afore they are growed up.'
"'Why, I stood at this bench,' said the wife, 'with my child, only ten years of age, from four o'clock on Friday morning till ten minutes past seven in the evening, without a bit to eat or drink. I never sat down a minute from the time I began till I finished my work, and then I went out to sell what I had done. I walked all the way from here [Shoreditch] down to the Lowther Arcade192 to get rid of the articles.' Here she burst out into a violent flood of tears, saying, 'Oh, sir, it is hard to be obliged to labour from morning till night as we do, all of us, little ones and all, and yet not be able to live by it either.'
"'And you see the worst of it is, this here children's labour is of such value now in our trade, that there's more brought into the business every year, so that it's really for all the world like breeding slaves. Without my children I don't know how we should be able to get along.' 'There's that little thing,' said the man, pointing to the girl ten years of age, before alluded193 to, as she sat at the edge of the bed, 'why she works regularly every day from six in the morning till ten at night. She never goes to school; we can't spare her. There's schools enough about here for a penny a week, but we could not afford to keep her without working. If I'd ten more children I should be obliged to employ them all the same way, and there's hundreds and thousands of children [Pg 192] now slaving at this business. There's the M——'s; they have a family of eight, and the youngest to the oldest of all works at the bench; and the oldest a'n't fourteen. I'm sure, of the two thousand five hundred small masters in the cabinet line, you may safely say that two thousand of them, at the very least, have from five to six in family, and that's upward of twelve thousand children that's been put to the trade since prices have come down. Twenty years ago I don't think there was a child at work in our business; and I am sure there is not a small master now whose whole family doesn't assist him. But what I want to know is, what's to become of the twelve thousand children when they're growed up and come regular into the trade? Here are all my ones growing up without being taught any thing but a business that I know they must starve at.'
"In answer to my inquiry as to what dependence194 he had in case of sickness, 'Oh, bless you,' he said, 'there's nothing but the parish for us. I did belong to a benefit society about four years ago, but I couldn't keep up my payments any longer. I was in the society above five-and-twenty years, and then was obliged to leave it after all. I don't know of one as belongs to any friendly society, and I don't think there is a man as can afford it in our trade now. They must all go to the workhouse when they're sick or old.'"
The "trading operatives," or those labourers who employ subordinate and cheaper work-people, are much decried195 in England; but they, also, are the creations of the general system. A workman frequently ascertains196 that he can make more money with less labour, by employing women or children at home, than if he did all of his own work; and very often men are driven to this resource to save themselves from being worked to death. The condition of those persons who work for [Pg 193] the "trading operatives," or "middlemen," is as miserable as imagination may conceive.
In Charles Kingsley's popular novel, "Alton Locke," we find a vivid and truthful197 picture of the London tailor's workshop, and the slavery of the workmen, which may be quoted here in illustration:—
"I stumbled after Mr. Jones up a dark, narrow iron staircase, till we emerged through a trap-door into a garret at the top of the house. I recoiled198 with disgust at the scene before me; and here I was to work—perhaps through life! A low lean-to room, stifling199 me with the combined odours of human breath and perspiration200, stale beer, the sweet sickly smell of gin, and the sour and hardly less disgusting one of new cloth. On the floor, thick with dust and dirt, scraps201 of stuff and ends of thread, sat some dozen haggard, untidy, shoeless men, with a mingled202 look of care and recklessness that made me shudder203. The windows were tight closed to keep out the cold winter air; and the condensed breath ran in streams down the panes204, checkering the dreary205 outlook of chimney-tops and smoke. The conductor handed me over to one of the men.
"'Here Crossthwaite, take this younker and make a tailor of him. Keep him next you, and prick206 him up with your needle if he shirks.'
"He disappeared down the trap-door, and mechanically, as if in a dream, I sat down by the man and listened to his instructions, kindly207 enough bestowed. But I did not remain in peace two minutes. A burst of chatter208 rose as the foreman vanished, and a tall, bloated, sharp-nosed young man next me bawled209 in my ear—
"'I say, young 'un, fork out the tin and pay your footing at Conscrumption Hospital!'
"'What do you mean?'
"'An't he just green?—Down with the stumpy—a tizzy for a pot of half-and-half.'
"'I never drink beer.'
[Pg 194]
"'Then never do,' whispered the man at my side; 'as sure as hell's hell, it's your only chance.'
"There was a fierce, deep earnestness in the tone, which made me look up at the speaker, but the other instantly chimed in.
"'Oh, yer don't, don't yer, my young Father Mathy! then yer'll soon learn it here if yer want to keep your victuals210 down.'
"'And I have promised to take my wages home to my mother.'
"'Oh criminy! hark to that, my coves211! here's a chap as is going to take the blunt home to his mammy.'
"'Ta'nt much of it the old un'll see,' said another. 'Ven yer pockets it at the Cock and Bottle, my kiddy, yer won't find much of it left o' Sunday mornings.'
"'Don't his mother know he's out?' asked another; 'and won't she know it—
Ven he's sitting in his glory
Half-price at the Vic-tory.
Oh no, ve never mentions her—her name is never heard. Certainly not, by no means. Why should it?'
"'Well, if yer won't stand a pot,' quoth the tall man, 'I will, that's all, and blow temperance. 'A short life and a merry one,' says the tailor—
The ministers talk a great deal about port,
And they makes Cape109 wine very dear,
But blow their hi's if ever they tries
To deprive a poor cove27 of his beer.
Here, Sam, run to the Cock and Bottle for a pot of half-and-half to my score.'
"A thin, pale lad jumped up and vanished, while my tormentor212 turned to me:
"I say, young 'un, do you know why we're nearer heaven here than our neighbours?'
"'I shouldn't have thought so,' answered I with a na?veté which raised a laugh, and dashed the tall man for a moment.
"'Yer don't? then I'll tell yer. Acause we're atop of the house in the first place, and next place yer'll die here six months [Pg 195] sooner nor if yer worked in the room below. A'n't that logic214 and science, Orator215?' appealing to Crossthwaite.
"'Why?' asked I.
"'Acause you get all the other floors' stinks216 up here, as well as your own. Concentrated essence of man's flesh, is this here as you're a-breathing. Cellar work-room we calls Rheumatic Ward189, because of the damp. Ground-floor's, Fever Ward—them as don't get typhus gets dysentery, and them as don't get dysentery gets typhus—your nose 'd tell yer why if you opened the back windy. First floor's Ashmy Ward—don't you hear 'um now through the cracks in the boards, a-puffing away like a nest of young locomotives? And this here more august and upper-crust cockloft is the Conscrumptive Hospital. First you begins to cough, then you proceed to expectorate—spittoons, as you see, perwided free gracious for nothing—fined a kivarten if you spits on the floor—
Then your cheeks they grow red, and your nose it grows thin,
And your bones they sticks out, till they comes through your skin:
and then, when you've sufficiently covered the poor dear shivering bare backs of the hairystocracy,
Die, die, die,
Away you fly,
Your soul is in the sky!
as the hinspired Shakspeare wittily217 remarks.'
"And the ribald lay down on his back, stretched himself out, and pretended to die in a fit of coughing, which last was alas218! no counterfeit219, while poor I, shocked and bewildered, let my tears fall fast upon my knees.
"'Fine him a pot!' roared one, 'for talking about kicking the bucket. He's a nice young man to keep a cove's spirits up, and talk about "a short life and a merry one." Here comes the heavy. Hand it here to take the taste of that fellow's talk out of my mouth.'
"'Well, my young 'un,' recommenced my tormentor, 'and how do you like your company?'
[Pg 196]
"'Leave the boy alone,' growled220 Crossthwaite: 'don't you see he's crying?'
"'Is that any thing good to eat? Give me some on it, if it is—it'll save me washing my face.' And he took hold of my hair and pulled my head back.
"'I'll tell you what, Jemmy Downes,' said Crossthwaite, in a voice that made him draw back, 'if you don't drop that, I'll give you such a taste of my tongue as shall turn you blue.'
"'You'd better try it on, then. Do—only just now—if you please.'
"'Be quiet, you fool!' said another. 'You're a pretty fellow to chaff221 the orator. He'll slang you up the chimney afore you can get your shoes on.'
"'Fine him a kivarten for quarrelling,' cried another; and the bully222 subsided223 into a minute's silence, after a sotto voce—'Blow temperance, and blow all Chartists, say I!' and then delivered himself of his feelings in a doggrel song:
Some folks leads coves a dance,
With their pledge of temperance,
And their plans for donkey sociation;
And their pocket-fulls they crams224
By their patriotic225 flams,
And then swears 'tis for the good of the nation.
But I don't care two inions
For political opinions,
While I can stand my heavy and my quartern;
For to drown dull care within,
In baccy, beer, and gin,
Is the prime of a working-tailor's fortin!
"'There's common sense for you now; hand the pot here.'
"I recollect226 nothing more of that day, except that I bent myself to my work with assiduity enough to earn praises from Crossthwaite. It was to be done, and I did it. The only virtue227 I ever possessed228 (if virtue it be) is the power of absorbing my whole heart and mind in the pursuit of the moment, however dull or trivial, if there be good reason why it should be pursued at all.
[Pg 197]
"I owe, too, an apology to my readers for introducing all this ribaldry. God knows it is as little to my taste as it can be to theirs, but the thing exists; and those who live, if not by, yet still beside such a state of things, ought to know what the men are like, to whose labour, ay, life-blood, they owe their luxuries. They are 'their brothers' keepers,' let them deny it as they will."
As a relief from misery, the wretched workmen generally resort to intoxicating229 liquors, which, however, ultimately render them a hundredfold more miserable. In "Alton Locke," this is illustrated230 with an almost fearful power, in the life and death of the tailor Downes. After saving the wretched man from throwing himself into the river, Alton Locke accompanies him to a disgusting dwelling60, in Bermondsey. The story continues:—
"He stopped at the end of a miserable blind alley231, where a dirty gas-lamp just served to make darkness visible, and show the patched windows and rickety doorways232 of the crazy houses, whose upper stories were lost in a brooding cloud of fog; and the pools of stagnant233 water at our feet: and the huge heap of cinders234 which filled up the waste end of the alley—a dreary black, formless mound235, on which two or three spectral236 dogs prowled up and down after the offal, appearing and vanishing like dark imps237 in and out of the black misty238 chaos239 beyond.
"The neighbourhood was undergoing, as it seemed, 'improvements,' of that peculiar metropolitan240 species which consists in pulling down the dwellings of the poor, and building up rich men's houses instead; and great buildings, within high temporary palings, had already eaten up half the little houses; as the great fish and the great estates, and the great shopkeepers, eat up the little ones of their species—by the law of competition, lately discovered to be the true creator and preserver of the universe. There they loomed241 up, the tall bullies242, against the dreary [Pg 198] sky, looking down with their grim, proud, stony243 visages, on the misery which they were driving out of one corner, only to accumulate and intensify244 it in another.
"The house at which we stopped was the last in the row; all its companions had been pulled down; and there it stood, leaning out with one naked ugly side into the gap, and stretching out long props245, like feeble arms and crutches246, to resist the work of demolition247.
"A group of slatternly people were in the entry, talking loudly, and as Downes pushed by them, a woman seized him by the arm.
"'Oh! you unnatural villain248!—To go away after your drink, and leave all them poor dead corpses249 locked up, without even letting a body go in to stretch them out!'
"'And breeding the fever, too, to poison the whole house!' growled one.
"'The relieving-officer's been here, my cove,' said another; 'and he's gone for a peeler and a search-warrant to break open the door, I can tell you!'
"But Downes pushed past unheeding, unlocked a door at the end of the passage, thrust me in, locked it again, and then rushed across the room in chase of two or three rats, who vanished into cracks and holes.
"And what a room! A low lean-to with wooden walls, without a single article of furniture; and through the broad chinks of the floor shone up as it were ugly glaring eyes, staring at us. They were the reflections of the rushlight in the sewer250 below. The stench was frightful—the air heavy with pestilence251. The first breath I drew made my heart sink, and my stomach turn. But I forgot every thing in the object which lay before me, as Downes tore a half-finished coat off three corpses laid side by side on the bare floor.
"There was his little Irish wife;—dead—and naked—the wasted white limbs gleamed in the lurid252 light; the unclosed eyes stared, as if reproachfully, at the husband whose drunkenness had brought her there to kill her with the pestilence; and on each side of her a little, shrivelled, impish, child-corpse—the wretched man had laid their arms round the dead mother's neck—and there they slept, their hungering and wailing253 over at last [Pg 199] for ever: the rats had been busy already with them—but what matter to them now?
"'Look!' he cried; 'I watched 'em dying! Day after day I saw the devils come up through the cracks, like little maggots and beetles254, and all manner of ugly things, creeping down their throats; and I asked 'em, and they said they were the fever devils.'
"It was too true; the poisonous exhalations had killed them. The wretched man's delirium255 tremens had given that horrible substantiality to the poisonous fever gases.
"Suddenly Downes turned on me almost menacingly. 'Money! money! I want some gin!'
"I was thoroughly256 terrified—and there was no shame in feeling fear, locked up with a madman far my superior in size and strength, in so ghastly a place. But the shame, and the folly257 too, would have been in giving way to my fear; and with a boldness half assumed, half the real fruit of excitement and indignation at the horrors I beheld258, I answered—
"'If I had money, I would give you none. What do you want with gin? Look at the fruits of your accursed tippling. If you had taken my advice, my poor fellow,' I went on, gaining courage as I spoke259, 'and become a water-drinker, like me'——
"'Curse you and your water-drinking! If you had had no water to drink or wash with for two years but that—that,' pointing to the foul153 ditch below—'If you had emptied the slops in there with one hand, and filled your kettle with the other'——
"'Do you actually mean that that sewer is your only drinking water?'
"'Where else can we get any? Everybody drinks it; and you shall too—you shall!' he cried, with a fearful oath, 'and then see if you don't run off to the gin-shop, to take the taste of it out of your mouth. Drink! and who can help drinking, with his stomach turned with such hell-broth as that—or such a hell's blast as this air is here, ready to vomit260 from morning till night with the smells? I'll show you. You shall drink a bucket-full of it, as sure as you live, you shall.'
"And he ran out of the back door, upon a little balcony, which hung over the ditch.
[Pg 200]
"I tried the door, but the key was gone, and the handle too. I beat furiously on it, and called for help. Two gruff authoritative261 voices were heard in the passage.
"'Let us in; I'm the policeman!'
"'Let me out, or mischief262 will happen!'
"The policeman made a vigorous thrust at the crazy door; and just as it burst open, and the light of his lantern streamed into the horrible den, a heavy splash was heard outside.
"'He has fallen into the ditch!'
"'He'll be drowned, then, as sure as he's a born man,' shouted one of the crowd behind.
"We rushed out on the balcony. The light of the policeman's lantern glared over the ghastly scene—along the double row of miserable house-backs, which lined the sides of the open tidal ditch—over strange rambling263 jetties, and balconies, and sleeping sheds, which hung on rotting piles over the black waters, with phosphorescent scraps of rotten fish gleaming and twinkling out of the dark hollows, like devilish gravelights—over bubbles of poisonous gas, and bloated carcases of dogs, and lumps of offal, floating on the stagnant olive-green hell-broth—over the slow sullen264 rows of oily ripple265 which were dying away into the darkness far beyond, sending up, as they stirred, hot breaths of miasma—the only sign that a spark of humanity, after years of foul life, had quenched266 itself at last in that foul death. I almost fancied that I could see the haggard face staring up at me through the slimy water; but no—it was as opaque267 as stone."
Downes had been a "sweater," and before his death was a "sweater's slave."
When the comparatively respectable workshop in which Alton Locke laboured was broken up, and the workmen were told by the heartless employer that he intended to give out work, for those who could labour at home, these toil-worn men held a meeting, at which [Pg 201] a man named John Crossthwaite, thus spoke for his oppressed and degraded class:—
"We were all bound to expect this. Every working tailor must come to this at last, on the present system; and we are only lucky in having been spared so long. You all know where this will end—in the same misery as fifteen thousand out of twenty thousand of our class are enduring now. We shall become the slaves, often the bodily prisoners, of Jews, middlemen, and sweaters, who draw their livelihood268 out of our starvation. We shall have to face, as the rest have, ever-decreasing prices of labour, ever-increasing profits made out of that labour by the contractors269 who will employ us—arbitrary fines, inflicted at the caprice of hirelings—the competition of women, and children, and starving Irish—our hours of work will increase one-third, our actual pay decrease to less than one-half; and in all this we shall have no hope, no chance of improvement in wages, but ever more penury270, slavery, misery, as we are pressed on by those who are sucked by fifties—almost by hundreds—yearly, out of the honourable trade in which we were brought up, into the infernal system of contract work, which is devouring271 our trade and many others, body and soul. Our wives will be forced to sit up night and day to help us—our children must labour from the cradle, without chance of going to school, hardly of breathing the fresh air of heaven—our boys as they grow up must turn beggars or paupers—our daughters, as thousands do, must eke272 out their miserable earnings273 by prostitution. And, after all, a whole family will not gain what one of us had been doing, as yet, single-handed. You know there will be no hope for us. There is no use appealing to government or Parliament. I don't want to talk politics here. I shall keep them for another place. But you can recollect as well as I can, when a deputation of us went up to a member of Parliament—one that was reputed a philosopher, and a political economist274, and a liberal—and set before him the ever-increasing penury and misery of our trade and of those connected with it; you recollect his answer—that, however glad he would be to help us, it was impossible—he could not alter the laws of nature—that [Pg 202] wages were regulated by the amount of competition among the men themselves, and that it was no business of government, or any one else, to interfere275 in contracts between the employer and employed, that those things regulated themselves by the laws of political economy, which it was madness and suicide to oppose. He may have been a wise man. I only know that he was a rich one. Every one speaks well of the bridge which carries him over. Every one fancies the laws which fill his pockets to be God's laws. But I say this: If neither government nor members of Parliament can help us, we must help ourselves. Help yourselves, and Heaven will help you. Combination among ourselves is the only chance. One thing we can do—sit still.'
"'And starve!' said some one."
Crossthwaite is represented as having preferred to endure want rather than work under the sweating system. But there are few men who possess such spirit and determination. Men with families are compelled, by considering those who are dependent upon them, to work for whatever prices the masters choose to pay. They are free labourers—if they do not choose to work—they are perfectly free—to starve!
The government took the initiative in the sweating system. It set the example by giving the army and navy clothes to contractors, and taking the lowest tenders. The police clothes, the postmen's clothes, the convict's clothes, are all contracted for by sweaters and sub-sweaters, till government work is the very last, lowest resource to which a poor, starved-out wretch36 betakes himself, to keep body and soul together. Thus is profit made from the pauperism276 of men, the slavery of children, and the prostitution of women, in Great Britain.
[Pg 203]
Some years ago the following announcement appeared in the Village Gazette:—
"Peter Moreau and his wife are dead, aged twenty-five years. Too much work has killed them and many besides. We say—Work like a negro, like a galley-slave: we ought to say—Work like a freeman."
Work like negro slaves, indeed! There is no such work in America, even among the slaves; all day long, from Monday morning till Saturday night, week after week, and year after year, till the machine is worn out. American slaves and convicts in New South Wales are fat and happy, compared with the labourers of England. It frequently happens that Englishmen commit crimes for the purpose of becoming galley-slaves in New South Wales. They do not keep their purpose secret; they declare it loudly with tears and passionate277 exclamations278 to the magistrate who commits them for trial, to the jury who try them, and to the judge who passes sentence on them. This is published in the newspapers, but so often that it excites no particular comment.
The parish apprentices are the worst-treated slaves in the world. They are at the mercy of their masters and mistresses during their term of apprenticeship, without protectors, and without appeal against the most cruel tyranny. In the reign279 of George III., one Elizabeth Brownrigg was hanged for beating and starving to death her parish apprentices. In 1831, another woman, Esther Hibner by name, was hanged in London for [Pg 204] beating and starving to death a parish apprentice. Two instances of punishment, for thousands of cases of impunity280!
"The evidence in the case of Esther Hibner proved that a number of girls, pauper69 apprentices, were employed in a workshop; that their victuals consisted of garbage, commonly called hog's-wash, and that of this they never had enough to stay the pains of hunger; that they were kept half-naked, half-clothed in dirty rags; that they slept in a heap on the floor, amid filth34 and stench; that they suffered dreadfully from cold; that they were forced to work so many hours together that they used to fall asleep while at work; that for falling asleep, for not working as hard as their mistress wished, they were beaten with sticks, with fists, dragged by the hair, dashed on to the ground, trampled281 upon, and otherwise tortured; that they were found, all of them more or less, covered with chilblains, scurvy282, bruises283, and wounds; that one of them died of ill-treatment; and—mark this—that the discovery of that murder was made in consequence of the number of coffins284 which had issued from Esther Hibner's premises285, and raised the curiosity of her neighbours. For this murder Mrs. Hibner was hanged; but what did she get for all the other murders which, referring to the number of coffins, we have a right to believe that she committed? She got for each ￡10. That is to say, whenever she had worked, starved, beaten, dashed and trampled a girl to death, she got another girl to treat in the same way, with ￡10 for her trouble. She carried on a trade in the murder of parish apprentices; and if she had conducted it with moderation, if the profit and custom of murder had not made her grasping and careless, the constitution, which protects the poor as well as the rich, would never have interfered286 with her. The law did not permit her to do what she liked with her apprentices, as Americans do with their slaves; oh no. Those free-born English children were merely bound as apprentices, with their own consent, under the eye of the magistrate, in order that they might learn a trade and become valuable subjects. But did the magistrate ever visit Mrs. Hibner's factory to see how she treated the free-born English [Pg 205] girls? never. Did the parish officers? no. Was there any legal provision for the discovery of the woman's trade in murder? none."
"You still read on the gates of London poorhouses, 'strong, healthy boys and girls,' &c.; and boys or girls you may obtain by applying within, as many as you please, free-born, with the usual fee. Having been paid for taking them, and having gone through the ceremonies of asking their consent and signing bonds before a magistrate, you may make them into sausages, for any thing the constitution will do to prevent you. If it should be proved that you kill even one of them, you will be hanged; but you may half-starve them, beat them, torture them, any thing short of killing287 them, with perfect security; and using a little circumspection289, you may kill them too, without much danger. Suppose they die, who cares? Their parents? they are orphans, or have been abandoned by their parents. The parish officers? very likely, indeed, that these, when the poorhouse is crammed290 with orphan and destitute291 children, should make inquiries troublesome to themselves; inquiries which, being troublesome to you, might deprive them of your custom in future. The magistrate? he asked the child whether it consented to be your apprentice; the child said 'Yes, your worship;' and there his worship's duty ends. The neighbours? of course, if you raise their curiosity like Esther Hibner, but not otherwise. In order to be quite safe, I tell you you must be a little circumspect288. But let us suppose that you are timid, and would drive a good trade without the shadow of risk. In that case, half-starve your apprentices, cuff138 them, kick them, torment213 them till they run away from you. They will not go back to the poorhouse, because there they would be flogged for having run away from you: besides, the poorhouse is any thing but a pleasant place. The boys will turn beggars or thieves, and the girls prostitutes; you will have pocketed ￡10 for each of them, and may get more boys and girls on the same terms, to treat in the same way. This trade is as safe as it is profitable."
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1
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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cloves
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| n.丁香（热带树木的干花，形似小钉子，用作调味品，尤用作甜食的香料）( clove的名词复数 )；蒜瓣(a garlic ~|a ~of garlic) | |
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gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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liberating
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| 解放，释放( liberate的现在分词 ) | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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apprentices
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的名词复数 ) | |
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commissioners
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| n.专员( commissioner的名词复数 )；长官；委员；政府部门的长官 | |
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apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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indentures
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| vt.以契约束缚（indenture的第三人称单数形式） | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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apprenticed
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stipulate
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| vt.规定，（作为条件）讲定，保证 | |
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rev
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cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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makers
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| n.制造者，制造商（maker的复数形式） | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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41
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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administrators
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| n.管理者( administrator的名词复数 )；有管理（或行政）才能的人；（由遗嘱检验法庭指定的）遗产管理人；奉派暂管主教教区的牧师 | |
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chattels
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| n.动产，奴隶( chattel的名词复数 ) | |
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superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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registrar
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| n.记录员，登记员；(大学的)注册主任 | |
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constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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48
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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hind
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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noxious
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| adj.有害的，有毒的；使道德败坏的，讨厌的 | |
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53
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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54
slits
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| n.狭长的口子，裂缝( slit的名词复数 )v.切开，撕开( slit的第三人称单数 )；在…上开狭长口子 | |
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filthily
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| adv.污秽地，丑恶地，不洁地 | |
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56
stint
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| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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57
arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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60
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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61
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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62
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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63
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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64
wholesomeness
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| 卫生性 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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67
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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69
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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paupers
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| n.穷人( pauper的名词复数 )；贫民；贫穷 | |
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71
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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72
earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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73
ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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74
liberate
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| v.解放，使获得自由，释出，放出；vt.解放，使获自由 | |
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75
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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76
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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corroborate
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| v.支持，证实，确定 | |
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78
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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80
narrates
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| v.故事( narrate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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81
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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82
defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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83
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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84
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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85
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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indentureship
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| n.服务契约期间，学徒契约期间 | |
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87
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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88
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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90
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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93
deranged
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| adj.疯狂的 | |
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94
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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95
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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96
consecutively
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| adv.连续地 | |
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97
aggravation
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| n.烦恼，恼火 | |
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98
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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99
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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100
plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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101
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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102
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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103
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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104
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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106
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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107
treadmill
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| n.踏车；单调的工作 | |
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108
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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109
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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110
elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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112
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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113
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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114
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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115
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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117
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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118
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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119
abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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120
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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121
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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122
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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123
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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124
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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125
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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126
authenticate
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| vt.证明…为真，鉴定 | |
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127
attest
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| vt.证明，证实；表明 | |
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128
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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129
chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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130
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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132
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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133
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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134
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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135
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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136
anvil
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| n.铁钻 | |
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137
lodged
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|
| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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138
cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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139
cuffed
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|
| v.掌打，拳打( cuff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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141
humane
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|
| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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142
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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143
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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144
exhausted
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|
| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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145
stints
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| n.定额工作( stint的名词复数 )；定量；限额；慷慨地做某事 | |
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146
strap
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|
| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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147
staple
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|
| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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148
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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149
eyelid
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|
| n.眼睑，眼皮 | |
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150
Christian
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|
| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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151
profess
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|
| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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152
corruption
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|
| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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153
foul
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|
| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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154
foulness
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|
| n. 纠缠, 卑鄙 | |
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155
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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156
unemployed
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|
| adj.失业的，没有工作的；未动用的，闲置的 | |
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157
precarious
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|
| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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158
devoted
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|
| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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159
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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160
honourable
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|
| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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161
paucity
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|
| n.小量，缺乏 | |
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162
accruing
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|
| v.增加( accrue的现在分词 )；（通过自然增长）产生；获得；（使钱款、债务）积累 | |
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163
concurred
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| 同意（concur的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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164
entirely
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|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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165
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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166
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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167
deducting
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|
| v.扣除，减去( deduct的现在分词 ) | |
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168
lathe
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| n.车床，陶器，镟床 | |
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169
suffocated
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|
| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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170
mantles
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| vt.&vi.覆盖（mantle的第三人称单数形式） | |
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171
toiling
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|
| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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172
warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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173
lasting
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|
| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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174
supplant
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| vt.排挤；取代 | |
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175
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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176
pittance
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|
| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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177
devoured
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|
| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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178
strapping
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|
| adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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179
undue
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|
| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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180
fixed
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|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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181
strictly
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|
| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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182
trifling
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|
| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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183
positively
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|
| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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184
formerly
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|
| adv.从前，以前 | |
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185
wink
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|
| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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186
contrive
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|
| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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187
bent
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|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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188
literally
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|
| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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189
ward
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|
| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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190
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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191
consigned
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|
| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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192
arcade
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|
| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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193
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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194
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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195
decried
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| v.公开反对，谴责( decry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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196
ascertains
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|
| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的第三人称单数 ) | |
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197
truthful
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|
| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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198
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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199
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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200
perspiration
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|
| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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201
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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202
mingled
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|
| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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203
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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204
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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205
dreary
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|
| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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206
prick
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|
| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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207
kindly
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|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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208
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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209
bawled
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|
| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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210
victuals
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|
| n.食物；食品 | |
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211
coves
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|
| n.小海湾( cove的名词复数 )；家伙 | |
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212
tormentor
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| n. 使苦痛之人, 使苦恼之物, 侧幕 =tormenter | |
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213
torment
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|
| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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214
logic
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|
| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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215
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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216
stinks
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|
| v.散发出恶臭( stink的第三人称单数 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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217
wittily
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| 机智地，机敏地 | |
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218
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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219
counterfeit
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|
| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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220
growled
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|
| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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221
chaff
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|
| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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222
bully
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|
| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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223
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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224
crams
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| v.塞入( cram的第三人称单数 )；填塞；塞满；（为考试而）死记硬背功课 | |
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225
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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226
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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227
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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228
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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229
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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230
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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231
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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232
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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233
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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234
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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235
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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236
spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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237
imps
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| n.（故事中的）小恶魔( imp的名词复数 )；小魔鬼；小淘气；顽童 | |
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238
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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239
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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240
metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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241
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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242
bullies
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| n.欺凌弱小者, 开球 vt.恐吓, 威胁, 欺负 | |
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243
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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244
intensify
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| vt.加强；变强；加剧 | |
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245
props
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| 小道具； 支柱( prop的名词复数 )； 支持者； 道具； （橄榄球中的）支柱前锋 | |
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246
crutches
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| n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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247
demolition
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| n.破坏,毁坏,毁坏之遗迹 | |
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248
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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249
corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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250
sewer
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| n.排水沟，下水道 | |
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251
pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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252
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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253
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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254
beetles
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| n.甲虫( beetle的名词复数 ) | |
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255
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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257
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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258
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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259
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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260
vomit
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| v.呕吐，作呕；n.呕吐物，吐出物 | |
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261
authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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263
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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264
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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266
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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267
opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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268
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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269
contractors
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| n.（建筑、监造中的）承包人( contractor的名词复数 ) | |
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270
penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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271
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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272
eke
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| v.勉强度日，节约使用 | |
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273
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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274
economist
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| n.经济学家，经济专家，节俭的人 | |
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275
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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276
pauperism
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| n.有被救济的资格，贫困 | |
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277
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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278
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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279
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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280
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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281
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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282
scurvy
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| adj.下流的，卑鄙的，无礼的；n.坏血病 | |
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283
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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284
coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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285
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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286
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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287
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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288
circumspect
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| adj.慎重的，谨慎的 | |
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289
circumspection
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| n.细心，慎重 | |
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290
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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291
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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