A Memoir of Robert Blincoe, an Orphan Boy: Sent from the workhouse of St. Pancras, London, at seven years of age, to endure the horrors of a cotton-mill, through his infancy and youth, with a minute detail of his sufferings, being the first memoir of the kind published. — John Shaqi
A Memoir of Robert Blincoe, an Orphan Boy: Sent from the workhouse of St. Pancras, London, at seven years of age, to endure the horrors of a cotton-mill, through his infancy and youth, with a minute detail of his sufferings, being the first memoir of the kind published.Brown, John
Philosophy
A Memoir of Robert Blincoe, an Orphan Boy: Sent from the workhouse of St. Pancras, London, at seven years of age, to endure the horrors of a cotton-mill, through his infancy and youth, with a minute detail of his sufferings, being the first memoir of the kind published.
Brown, John
Blincoe, Robert, approximately 1792-; Child labor -- England -- Derbyshire; Cotton manufacture -- England -- Derbyshire; Derbyshire (England) -- Biography; Textile workers -- England -- Derbyshire -- Biography
When it was supposed at St. Pancras, that these excitements had operated
sufficiently powerful to induce a ready acquiescence in the proposed
migration, all the children, male and female, who were seven years old,
or considered to be of that age, were assembled in the committee-room,
for the purpose of being publicly examined, touching their health, and
capacity, and what is almost incredible touching their _willingness_ to
go and serve as apprentices, in the way and manner required! There is
something so detestable, in this proceeding, that any one might conclude,
that Blincoe had been misled in his recollections of the particulars;
but so many other sufferers have corroborated his statement, that I can
entertain no doubt of the fact. This exhibition took place in August
1799, and eighty boys and girls as parish apprentices, and till they
had respectively acquired the age of twenty-one years, were made over
by the churchwardens and overseers of Saint Pancras parish, to Messrs.
Lamberts’, cotton-spinners, hosiers and lace-men, of St. Mary’s parish,
Nottingham, the owners of Lowdam Mill. The boys, during the latter part
of their time, were to be instructed in the trade of stocking weaving—the
girls in lace-making. There was no specification whatever, as to the time
their masters were to be allowed to work these poor children, although,
at this period, the most abhorrent cruelties were notoriously known to
be exercised, by the owners of cotton-mills, upon parish apprentices.
According to Blincoe’s testimony, so powerfully had the illusions,
purposely spread to entrap these poor children, operated, and so
completely were their feeble minds excited, by the blandishments held
out to them, that they almost lost their wits. They thought and talked
of nothing but the scenes of luxury and grandeur, in which they were to
move. Nor will the reflecting reader feel surprised at this credulity,
however gross, when he considers the poor infants imagined there were no
greater personages than the superiors, to whom they were, as paupers,
subjected, and that, it was those identical persons, by whom their weak
and feeble intellects had thus been imposed upon. Blincoe describes
his conduct to have been marked by peculiar extravagance. Such was his
impatience, he could scarcely eat or sleep, so anxiously did he wait the
hour of emancipation. The poor deluded young creatures were so inflated
with pride and vanity, that they strutted about like so many dwarfish
and silly kings and queens, in a mock tragedy. “We began” said Blincoe
“to treat our old nurses with airs of insolence and disdain—refused to
associate with children, who, from sickness, or being under age, had not
been accepted; they were commanded to keep their distance; told to know
their betters; forbidden to mingle in our exalted circle! Our little
coterie was a complete epitome of the effects of prosperity in the great
world. No sooner were our hearts cheered by a prospect of good fortune,
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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