Anthony Ashley Cooper was a British lord born in the early 1800s. In 1840, Lord Ashley organized an investigation of child labor in British coal mines. In 1842, he gathered testimony that was published in Parliamentary Papers, 1842, vols. XV-XVII, Appendix I, pp. 252, 258, 439, 461; Appendix II, pp. 107, 122, 205. The testimony led to the Mines Act of 1842. The selection below is testimony from that report. Use this reading selection in conjunction with the sample analysis in the Assignment 6 Lecture.

A sidenote recorded in the report was not very kind to Miss Kershaw: "This girl is an ignorant, filthy, ragged, and deplorable-looking object, and such an one as the uncivilized natives of the prairies would be shocked to look upon." Yikes!

(A collier was a person who worked in a mine. A getter was a person who dug out the coal. A hurrier was a person who pulled a coal tub, or corf, as shown in the illustration. The illustration is from the 1842 report.)

The Testimony of Patience Kershaw No. 26. — Patience Kershaw, aged 17, May 15.        My father has been dead about a year. My mother is living and has ten children, five lads and five lasses. The oldest is about thirty, and the youngest is four. Three lasses go to mill; all the lads are colliers, two getters and three hurriers. One lives at home and does nothing, and Mother does nought but look after home.        All my sisters have been hurriers, but three went to the mill. Alice went because her legs swelled from hurrying in cold water when she was hot. I never went to day-school. I go to Sunday-school, but I cannot read or write. I go to pit at five o'clock in the morning and come out at five in the evening. I get my breakfast of porridge and milk first. I take my dinner with me, a cake, and eat it as I go; I do not stop or rest any time for the purpose. I get nothing else until I get home, and then have potatoes and meat, not every day meat.        I hurry in the clothes I have now got on, trousers and ragged jacket. The bald place upon my head is made by thrusting the corves. My legs have never swelled, but my sisters' did when they went to mill. I hurry the corves a mile and more under ground and back; they weigh 300 pounds; I hurry 11 a-day. I wear a belt and chain at the workings, to get the corves out. The getters that I work for are naked except their caps; they pull off all their clothes. I see them at work when I go up. Sometimes they beat me, if I am not quick enough, with their hands; they strike me upon my back. The boys take liberties with me; sometimes they pull me about. I am the only girl in the pit; there are about 20 boys and 15 men; all the men are naked. I would rather work in mill than in coal-pit.

Now return to the Assignment 6 lecture to see how this article is used to complete Assignment 6.

The story of "The Whistle" comes from a letter that Franklin wrote to a friend in 1779.

The Whistle by Benjamin Franklin        When I was a child seven years old, my friends on a holiday filled my pocket with coppers. I went directly to a shop where they sold toys for children, and, being charmed with the sound of a whistle that I met by the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered and gave all my money for one. I then ran home and went whistling all over the house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family.        My brothers and sisters and cousins, understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth; put me in mind what good things I might have bought with the rest of the money; and laughed at me so much for my folly that I cried with vexation; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the whistle gave me pleasure.        This, however, was afterwards of use to me, the impression continuing on my mind; so that often when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, "Don't give too much for the whistle," and I saved my money.        As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the actions of men, I thought I met with many, very many, who gave too much for the whistle.

2The Whistle        When I saw one too ambitious of court favor, sacrificing his time in attendance on levees—his repose, his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps his friends, to attain it—I have said to myself, "This man gives too much for his whistle."        When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in political bustles, neglecting his own affairs, and ruining them by that neglect, "He pays indeed," said I, "too much for his whistle."        If I knew a miser who gave up every kind of comfortable living, all the pleasure of doing good to others, all the esteem of his fellow citizens, and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake of accumulating wealth, "Poor man," said I, "you pay too much for your whistle."        When I met with a man of pleasure, sacrificing every laudable improvement of the mind or of his fortune to mere corporeal sensations, and ruining his health in their pursuit, "Mistaken man," said I, "you are providing pain for yourself instead of pleasure; you give too much for your whistle."        If I see one fond of appearance, or fine clothes, fine houses, fine furniture, fine equipages, all above his fortune, for which he contracts debts and ends his career in a prison, "Alas!" say I, "he has paid dear, very dear, for his whistle."        In short, I conceive that a great part of the miseries of mankind are brought upon them by the false estimates they have made of the value of things, and by their giving too much for their whistles.

The Start

Nellie Bly (1862-1922) was the pseudonym of a famous news reporter in the late 1800s. She was born Elizabeth Jane Cochran in Pennysylvania. She took her pen name from a Stephen Foster song. She started writing for Joseph Pulitzer's New York World and became a pioneer in investigative reporting. In the late 1880s, she decided to challenge the around-the-world record set by the fictional character Phileas Fogg in Jules Verne's novel Around the World in 80 Days. Bly departed from New York City on November 14, 1889. No previous arrangements had been made for her journey. During her journey, Bly wrote daily articles about her adventures. The articles were accompanied in the newspaper by a map showing her location. Bly's articles were very popular. She returned to New York on January 25, 1890, completing her journey in 72 days.

Bly later wrote about her adventures in a book called Around the World in Seventy-Two Days. It was published by the Pictorial Weeklies Company in New York City in 1890. The excerpt below is from Chapter 2 of Bly's book.

The Start by Nellie Bly        ON Thursday, November 14, 1889, at 9.40.30 o'clock, I started on my tour around the world.        Those who think that night is the best part of the day and that morning was made for sleep, know how uncomfortable they feel when for some reason they have to get up with--well, with the milkman.        I turned over several times before I decided to quit my bed. I wondered sleepily why a bed feels so much more luxurious, and a stolen nap that threatens the loss of a train is so much more sweet, than those hours of sleep that are free from duty's call. I half promised myself that on my return I would pretend sometime that it was urgent that I should get up so I could taste the pleasure of a stolen nap without actually losing anything by it. I dozed off very sweetly over these thoughts to wake with a start, wondering anxiously if there was still time to catch the ship.        Of course I wanted to go, but I thought lazily that if some of these good people who spend so much time in trying to invent flying machines would only devote a little of the same energy towards promoting a system by which boats and trains would always make their start at noon or afterwards, they would be of greater assistance to suffering humanity.        I endeavored to take some breakfast, but the hour was too early to make food endurable. The last moment at home came. There was a hasty kiss for the dear ones, and a blind rush downstairs trying to overcome the hard lump in my throat that threatened to make me regret the journey that lay before me.

2The Start        "Don't worry," I said encouragingly, as I was unable to speak that dreadful word, goodbye; "only think of me as having a vacation and the most enjoyable time in my life."        Then to encourage myself I thought, as I was on my way to the ship: "It's only a matter of 28,000 miles, and seventy-five days and four hours, until I shall be back again."        A few friends who told of my hurried departure, were there to say good-bye. The morning was bright and beautiful, and everything seemed very pleasant while the boat was still; but when they were warned to go ashore, I began to realize what it meant for me.        "Keep up your courage," they said to me while they gave my hand the farewell clasp. I saw the moisture in their eyes and I tried to smile so that their last recollection of me would be one that would cheer them.        But when the whistle blew and they were on the pier, and I was on the Augusta Victoria, which was slowly but surely moving away from all I knew, taking me to strange lands and strange people, I felt lost. My head felt dizzy and my heart felt as if it would burst. Only seventy-five days! Yes, but it seemed an age and the world lost its roundness and seemed a long distance with no end, and--well, I never turn back.        I looked as long as I could at the people on the pier. I did not feel as happy as I have at other times in life. I had a sentimental longing to take farewell of everything.        "I am off," I thought sadly, "and shall I ever get back?"

My Escape from Slavery

Frederick Douglass (1818-1895) was the son of a slave woman and an unknown white man. From his stormy beginnings, he became a famous abolitionist and orator in the years leading up to the Civil War.

The following excerpt comes from his article "My Escape from Slavery." The article appeared in The Century Illustrated Magazine 23, n.s. 1 (Nov. 1881): 125-131. The photograph is circa 1879 and courtesy of the National Archives (ARC 558770).

My Escape from Slavery by Frederick Douglass        My free life began on the third of September, 1838. On the morning of the fourth of that month, after an anxious and most perilous but safe journey, I found myself in the big city of New York, a FREE MAN—one more added to the mighty throng which, like the confused waves of the troubled sea, surged to and fro between the lofty walls of Broadway. Though dazzled with the wonders which met me on every hand, my thoughts could not be much withdrawn from my strange situation.        For the moment, the dreams of my youth and the hopes of my manhood were completely fulfilled. The bonds that had held me to "old master" were broken. No man now had a right to call me his slave or assert mastery over me. I was in the rough and tumble of an outdoor world, to take my chance with the rest of its busy number.        I have often been asked how I felt when first I found myself on free soil. There is scarcely anything in my experience about which I could not give a more satisfactory answer. A new world had opened upon me. If life is more than breath and the "quick round of blood," I lived more in that one day than in a year of my slave life. It was a time of joyous excitement which words can but tamely describe.

2My Escape from Slavery        In a letter written to a friend soon after reaching New York, I said: "I felt as one might feel upon escape from a den of hungry lions." Anguish and grief, like darkness and rain, may be depicted; but gladness and joy, like the rainbow, defy the skill of pen or pencil. During ten or fifteen years I had been, as it were, dragging a heavy chain which no strength of mine could break; I was not only a slave, but a slave for life. I might become a husband, a father, an aged man, but through all, from birth to death, from the cradle to the grave, I had felt myself doomed.        All efforts I had previously made to secure my freedom had not only failed, but had seemed only to rivet my fetters the more firmly, and to render my escape more difficult. Baffled, entangled, and discouraged, I had at times asked myself the question, May not my condition after all be God's work, and ordered for a wise purpose, and if so, Is not submission my duty? A contest had in fact been going on in my mind for a long time, between the clear consciousness of right and the plausible make-shifts of theology and superstition. The one held me an abject slave—a prisoner for life, punished for some transgression in which I had no lot nor part; and the other counseled me to manly endeavor to secure my freedom. This contest was now ended; my chains were broken, and the victory brought me unspeakable joy.

Relatives

Lucy Larcom (1824-1893) spent most of her life in New England. A spinster for life, Larcom became well known as a poet and writer. This article is excerpted from her autobiographical A New England Girlhood published in 1889.

Relatives by Lucy Larcom        My mother had that sort of sunshiny nature which easily shifts to shadow, like the atmosphere of an April day. Cheerfulness held sway with her, except occasionally, when her domestic cares grew too overwhelming; but her spirits rebounded quickly from discouragement.        Her father was the only one of our grandparents who had survived to my time,--of French descent, piquant, merry, exceedingly polite, and very fond of us children, whom he was always treating to raisins and peppermints and rules for good behavior. He had been a soldier in the Revolutionary War,--the greatest distinction we could imagine. And he was also the sexton of the oldest church in town,--the Old South,--and had charge of the winding-up of the town clock, and the ringing of the bell on week-days and Sundays, and the tolling for funerals,--into which mysteries he sometimes allowed us youngsters a furtive glimpse. I did not believe that there was another grandfather so delightful as ours in all the world.

2Relatives        Uncles, aunts, and cousins were plentiful in the family, but they did not live near enough for us to see them very often, excepting one aunt, my father's sister, for whom I was named. She was fair, with large, clear eyes that seemed to look far into one's heart, with an expression at once penetrating and benignant. To my childish imagination she was an embodiment of serene and lofty goodness. I wished and hoped that by bearing her baptismal name I might become like her; and when I found out its signification (I learned that "Lucy" means "with light"), I wished it more earnestly still. For her beautiful character was just such an illumination to my young life as I should most desire mine to be to the lives of others.        My aunt, like my father, was always studying something. Some map or book always lay open before her, when I went to visit her, in her picturesque old house, with its sloping roof and tall well-sweep. And she always brought out some book or picture for me from her quaint old-fashioned chest of drawers. I still possess the "Children in the Wood," which she gave me, as a keepsake, when I was about ten years old.        Our relatives form the natural setting of our childhood. We understand ourselves best and are best understood by others through the persons who came nearest to us in our earliest years. Those larger planets held our little one to its orbit, and lent it their brightness. Happy indeed is the infancy which is surrounded only by the loving and the good!

The Angel of Death

Mary Ann Adams Maverick (1818-1898) was a famous Texas pioneer and diarist. Born in Alabama, she married Samuel A. Maverick in 1836. Samuel Maverick had been educated at Yale, had fought in the Texas Revolution, had acquired large areas of land in Texas, and had his name pass into the common vernacular to describe an orphaned calf. Mary and Samuel Maverick moved to Texas in 1838 and witnessed the tumultuous growth of the country. In 1880, Mary recalled her life experiences in The Memoirs of Mary A. Maverick, a marvelous chronicle of her association with many of the early leaders of Texas and a touching recount of her many personal tragedies, especially the loss of four of her ten children. The events in this excerpt occurred in 1848.

As noted, Mary Maverick wrote her memoirs in 1880. This excerpt is from Chapter XIV of the 1921 publication of those memoirs. The memoirs were published by Alamo Printing Company in San Antonio. The photo is from that 1921 publication.

The Angel of Death by Mary A. Maverick        Sunday, April 30th, my dear little Agatha took fever. Lizzie and I with the girls and Betsy with the baby were out walking and we were near the Mill Bridge when she first complained. I told Betsy to take baby and go home with her, when Agatha said: "O, if my papa was here he would carry me." At this time Agatha was a large and very beautiful child of seven years. She was the idol of her father, and in return for his devoted affection for her, she idolized him. The sentiment of love between Mr. Maverick and the sweet child was something extraordinary, something beautiful and touching to behold.        When I got home, I bathed her in tepid water and cared tenderly for her, but on the following day she grew much worse, and I called in the services of Dr. Cupples. He gave her an emetic and then powders and enemas, but nothing seemed to reduce the fever or overcome the stupor. Day by day, Dr. Cupples encouraged me to hope, but I lost my appetite and passed many sleepless nights, for a terrible fear took possession of me. My fears whispered in my heart, "Agatha is dying," and I lost hope.

2The Angel of Death        The poor child, with crimson cheek and shining eyes, sometimes raved wildly—once she screamed out in agonizing manner: "Oh, Sam," she thought she saw Indians about to kill Sam. When she took her medicine, (the first in her life)—she would say: "Mamma, will you tell papa I was good and took my medicine?"' Once she said, "Mamma, if I die——" but I could not bear it—I stopped her before she could speak another word. Ah, how often have I regretted my action, and fondly longed to know what the dear angel would have told me. Her father was still out on his surveying expedition on the Las Moras, and we had no means of communicating with him. On May 8th, the poor child breathed her last at two a.m., Tuesday, May 8th, 1848. Even now, in 1880, after thirty-two years, I cannot dwell on that terrible bereavement. The child was the perfection of sweetness and beauty and possessed such a glad and joyous disposition that her very presence was a flood of sunshine.        On May 12th, Augusta took the same bilious fever, which quite a number of people in the town had at the time. Dr. Sturgis came and treated her for two days, when she recovered and in a short while became quite well again. We now learned from the servants that our nurse Lavinia and Mrs. Bradley's nurse had taken Agatha and Augusta and Mrs. BradIey's girls Pauline and Ada, on April 25th, out walking and had allowed them to eat as many green mustang grapes as they would. I have always attributed Agatha's death and Augusta's deadly sickness to the grapes. Pauline and Ada had similar attacks about the same time but not as severe as Augusta's. . . .        Friday, May 26th, Mr. Maverick returned. Eleven miles west of town, he met an acquaintance who told him of Agatha's death! He went to the grave and threw himself down upon it, and remained there until it was dark. No one but God could tell the depth of his anguish. He was crushed and broken when he came home. He said he was striving "not to murmur at the will of God." He said we should humble ourselves in sack cloth and ashes—and he never removed that sack cloth in spirit whilst he lived—was ever after a sad changed man.

Ain't I A Woman?

Sojourner Truth (1797-1883) was born Isabella Baumfree to slave parents. She later became a leading activist for human rights. Her most famous speech (below) was delivered in 1851 at the Ohio Woman's Rights Convention in Akron, Ohio. The illustration is an engraving from White Side of a Black Subject, by Norman B. Wood, published in Chicago by American Publishing, 1897.

Ain't I A Woman? by Sojourner Truth        Well, children, where there is so much racket there must be something out of kilter. I think that 'twixt the negroes of the South and the women at the North, all talking about rights, the white men will be in a fix pretty soon. But what's all this here talking about?        That man over there says that women need to be helped into carriages, and lifted over ditches, and to have the best place everywhere. Nobody ever helps me into carriages, or over mud-puddles, or gives me any best place! And ain't I a woman? Look at me! Look at my arm! I have ploughed and planted, and gathered into barns, and no man could head me! And ain't I a woman? I could work as much and eat as much as a man—when I could get it—and bear the lash as well! And ain't I a woman? I have borne thirteen children, and seen most all sold off to slavery, and when I cried out with my mother's grief, none but Jesus heard me! And ain't I a woman?

2Ain't I A Woman?        Then they talk about this thing in the head; what's this they call it? [member of audience whispers, "intellect"] That's it, honey. What's that got to do with women's rights or negroes' rights? If my cup won't hold but a pint, and yours holds a quart, wouldn't you be mean not to let me have my little half measure full?        Then that little man in black there, he says women can't have as much rights as men, 'cause Christ wasn't a woman! Where did your Christ come from? Where did your Christ come from? From God and a woman! Man had nothing to do with Him. If the first woman God ever made was strong enough to turn the world upside down all alone, these women together ought to be able to turn it back, and get it right side up again! And now they is asking to do it, the men better let them.        Obliged to you for hearing me, and now old Sojourner ain't got nothing more to say.

The Coming End

Fritz Kreisler (1875-1962) was born in Vienna, Austria. By 1910, he had become one of the most important violinists of his day. When World War I broke out in 1914, he rejoined his former regiment and was sent to the front to fight the Russians. He was wounded in the Battle of Lemberg in the early days of the war and gained an honorable discharge. After the war, he lived in Berlin and France for several years before moving to the United States. He became an American citizen in 1943 and died in New York in 1962.

The excerpt about the Battle of Lemberg is from Chapter III of his book Four Weeks in the Trenches: The War Story of a Violinist. The book was published in Boston by the Houghton Mifflin Company in 1915.

The photo shows Kreisler in his uniform beside his wife, Harriet, who served as a nurse during the war.

The Coming End by Fritz Kreisler        On the evening of that third day, knowing that our ammunition was giving out, we felt that the next day would bring the end, and all our thoughts turned homewards and to the dear ones. We all wrote what we considered our parting and last farewell, each one pledging himself to deliver and take care of the letters of the others if he survived. It was a grave, sad, deeply touching moment, when we resigned ourselves to the inevitable, and yet somehow we all felt relieved and satisfied that the end might come and grimly resolved to sell our lives dearly.        Never before had I as much reason to admire the wonderful power of endurance and stoicism of our soldiers as on that night. Once resigned to the worst, all the old-time spirit returned, as if by magic. They sat together playing cards in as much moonlight as would fall into the deep trench, relating jokes and bolstering up one another's courage.

2The Coming End        The fourth day broke gloomy, with a drizzling rain. At ten o'clock one of our men became suddenly insane, jumped out of the trench, danced wildly and divested himself of every stitch of clothing while doing so. Strange to say, the Russians must have realized that the man was insane, for they never fired at him, neither did they at the two men who jumped out to draw him back. We succeeded in comforting and subduing him, and he soon fell into a stupor and remained motionless for some time. As soon as darkness fell we succeeded in conveying him back to the reserves and I understand that he got quite well again in a few days.        At five o'clock that afternoon we suddenly received orders through a running messenger, who was braving the incessant machine-gun fire, that our positions were about to be abandoned and that we were to evacuate our trench under the cover of darkness, at eleven o'clock. I cannot but confess that we all breathed more freely on the receipt of that information, but unfortunately the purpose could not be carried out.        The Russians by this time evidently had realized our comparatively defenseless condition and utter lack of ammunition, for that same night we heard two shots ring out, being a signal from our sentinels that they were surprised and that danger was near. I hardly had time to draw my sword, to grasp my revolver with my left hand and issue a command to my men to hold their bayonets in readiness, when we heard a tramping of horses and saw dark figures swooping down upon us. For once the Cossacks actually carried out their attack, undoubtedly owing to their intimate knowledge of our lack of ammunition. My next sensation was a crushing pain in my shoulder, struck by the hoof of a horse, and a sharp knife pain in my right thigh. I fired with my revolver at the hazy figure above me, saw it topple over and then lost consciousness.

Truth of Death

Lev (Leo) Tolstoy (1828-1910) was a Russian author and one of the great novelists. Tolstoy's masterwork was War and Peace. Tolstoy once said, "The one thing that is necessary, in life as in art, is to tell the truth."

The excerpt below is from A Confession. This book was first published in 1882.

Truth of Death by Lev (Leo) Tolstoy        There is an Eastern fable, told long ago, of a traveler overtaken on a plain by an enraged beast. Escaping from the beast he gets into a dry well, but sees at the bottom of the well a dragon that has opened its jaws to swallow him. And the unfortunate man, not daring to climb out lest he should be destroyed by the enraged beast, and not daring to leap to the bottom of the well lest he should be eaten by the dragon, seizes a twig growing in a crack in the well and clings to it. His hands are growing weaker and he feels he will soon have to resign himself to the destruction that awaits him above or below, but still he clings on.        Then he sees that two mice, a black one and a white one, go regularly round and round the stem of the twig to which he is clinging and gnaw at it. And soon the twig itself will snap and he will fall into the dragon's jaws. The traveler sees this and knows that he will inevitably perish; but while still hanging he looks around, sees some drops of honey on the leaves of the twig, reaches them with his tongue and licks them.

2Truth of Death        So I too clung to the twig of life, knowing that the dragon of death was inevitably awaiting me, ready to tear me to pieces; and I could not understand why I had fallen into such torment. I tried to lick the honey which formerly consoled me, but the honey no longer gave me pleasure, and the white and black mice of day and night gnawed at the branch by which I hung. I saw the dragon clearly and the honey no longer tasted sweet. I only saw the unescapable dragon and the mice, and I could not tear my gaze from them. And this is not a fable but the real unanswerable truth intelligible to all.        The deception of the joys of life which formerly allayed my terror of the dragon now no longer deceived me. No matter how often I may be told, "You cannot understand the meaning of life so do not think about it, but live," I can no longer do it: I have already done it too long. I cannot now help seeing day and night going round and bringing me to death. That is all I see, for that alone is true. All else is false.        The two drops of honey which diverted my eyes from the cruel truth longer than the rest: my love of family, and of writing—art as I called it—were no longer sweet to me.        "Family"…said I to myself. But my family—wife and children—are also human. They are placed just as I am: they must either live in a lie or see the terrible truth. Why should they live? Why should I love them, guard them, bring them up, or watch them? That they may come to the despair that I feel, or else be stupid? Loving them, I cannot hide the truth from them: each step in knowledge leads them to the truth. And the truth is death.