This is the third letter that Ada Nield Chew sent to the Crewe Chronicle on the 9th June 1894. She describes the girls working in her factory:
I make my bow to the readers of the Chronicle, and beg to reintroduce myself as the ‘Crewe Factory Girl’ who has on two former occasions drawn their attention to the ‘living wage’ which she and her fellow-workers are at present enjoying. I ask them now, first, to make acquaintance with factory girls themselves, as the writer, who is one of them, knows them to be. Secondly, I ask them to come with me (in imagination) through the factory doors, and view for themselves the life the factory girl therein. It has on several occasions been the privilege (?) of the writer to see visitors of high degree conducted by the manager through the ranks of the workers in the factory of which she writes, all admiring evidently the apparent comfort and happiness of these factory girls. The writer has wondered on such occasions if the visitors’ opinions would have differed had they known the internal working of this phase of life on which they were looking as it is known to those who live the life. The visitors are shown some of the work done by these rows of women and girls. Are they informed of the price paid for it? No doubt a week’s wage of one of these girls is quoted to them (l have of course no proof of this) but not, I venture to say, Of the ‘average ordinary’ hands of which I have spoken exclusively hitherto, but of experts, of what I can best describe as the ‘clique’, known amongst ourselves as the ‘favourites’ (I hope to explain that fully). Are they informed of the hours worked to obtain that sum? These visitors look only on the outside of things, from the employers’ point of view. A band of happy girls, apparently working in greatest ease, whose comfort is the careful consideration of their employer. Now these visitors are only those of the employers, and are only a privileged few. The factory doors are closed on the general public, who know nothing of what takes place therein. But l, the factory girl, throw wide these doors. I invite the public, one and all, to come with me as my visitors, I will give them not the superficial view which the manager’s visitors get, but a thorough good look into everything, from the factory girl’s point of view. Thank God for the public press, which sheds its strong white light on all the dark corners of the earth! Like John Ploughman (pen name of another correspondent), I am thankful, too, that we have a good local paper in the Chronicle, which fearlessly publishes the opinions, however varying, of all classes of thinkers; and lends its powerful aid as willingly to the weary factory girl as to the peer of the realm.
When my readers have accompanied me and seen things for themselves, I am confident that my opinion will be theirs, namely that the condition of the factory girls is bad in nearly every particular, and really needs the helping hand of the Radical reformer. I unhesitatingly and emphatically affirm that the influence of her life on the factory girl is demoralising and debasing, and downward in its every tendency. And this, before I have finished, I will prove. I am aware that I cannot do so without revealing the identity of the factory of which I speak. I do not fear. What I have said so far has been proved to be irrefutable — surely receiving no contradiction may be taken as proof — and what I have said with regard to wages, especially, will apply to at least one other factory in Crewe (I know it to be a fact). And what I have to say now is only what these eyes and ears have seen and heard, so that I do not need to fear the consequences. When my readers and I have had a look into things, I will respectfully submit some ideas of my own for the improvement of the condition of my class. When I have finished, I hope that Mr. Editor and any of my readers will criticise my notions, and suggest any of their own which may prove to be better than mine. I shall not have space to-day to do more than make an introductory and explanatory sketch of the factory girl herself. That visit to the factory must be reserved till next week. I promise that it shall be an accurate, faithful and thorough one. All the dark places shall be made light.
Now we factory girls are aware of the public opinion of us. That we are regarded as quite the lowest class of female workers. As a noisy, cheeky, idle, ignorant, shallow class of girls. I do not wish to obtrude myself unnecessarily, but a little personal experience here in explanation and proof of the assertion I have just made may not be out of place. It is a fact, then, that I have myself, on more than one occasion, heard my class spoken of, and by those whose opinions I have valued, in such terms of contemptuous scorn, of such sneering sarcasm — milder language will not express my meaning — that the blood in my veins has boiled with indignation. I resolved, whenever opportunity served, or to make such opportunity for myself when possible, that I would vindicate, with all the energy and power of conviction which intimate knowledge of the subject, and experience of the kind I have just quoted may be calculated to give me, the social position and general character of the class to which I am not ashamed to belong. There is no better way of doing this than by showing the life she lives, which tends to make the factory girl what she seems to be, and in a measure is.
As to her social position — improve these same conditions of her life and I venture to say that the factory girl will rise in the social status in the same degree — I admit that we have faults. I admit that we are essentially a noisy class of girls. I use the term ‘essentially’ advisedly, because I intend to prove in that visit to the factory next week, that on certain occasions it actually is essential to be noisy, if we must obtain a wage of any kind, whether ‘living’ or ‘dying’. Unfortunately, however, but not unnaturally, our noisy propensities do not end when the necessity for them ends, and we are noisy everywhere — we sit at work, in our general progress about the factory, and even outside, for we rush through the doors like a pack of wild Indians, hustling and jostling, and yelling and hooting at each other, and generally annoying everybody who comes in contact with us.
It is quite true, also, that we are an exceedingly ‘cheeky’ class of girls. But ‘cheek’ too, I shall show next week, is a necessary qualification for the obtaining of that living wage which we enjoy. It is well known amongst ourselves that to be at all shy is fatal to success in the particular line of life of which we are the ornaments. It is an interesting study to some of us when a somewhat quiet, shy girl enters our arena, to watch her gradual development into one of ourselves — as we are obliged to be. The writer is an example of the kind. She, however, has learnt the inevitable lesson — by painful degrees! — and is now well-known amongst her cheeky comrades as one able to hold her own.
I flatly deny that we are idle. There are exceptions, of course, but as a class we are hard-working and industrious. Anybody who carefully followed me through my second letter will understand that the factory girl absolutely must work. I shall not attempt to defend us against the charge of ignorance. To take an intelligent public through the factory as I propose to do, and show them that we meekly suffer oppression of all kinds without even a wish to alter things; and even show a spirit of resentment against any attempt at change for the better; and then to pretend that we are not ignorant would be an absurdity. Ignorance is no crime, however, and we shall improve. I shall have to admit that we are shallow, too. And we always shall be shallow as long as we are voracious readers of ‘penny dreadfuls’. I can hardly contain myself when speaking of those awful ‘novelettes’ — I see such fearful effects of their baneful influence — in place of reading of a broader, more substantial kind; and in our hours of leisure parade the streets in gangs (please excuse the word, I cannot just think of one of a more polite kind), talking empty twaddle with the equally silly of the opposite sex, instead of taking a lively interest in the doings of our fellow-men and women in the great world around us, and ourselves taking a part, however humble, therein.
Well, we have virtues too. And I think when the public have been with me next week, they will agree with me chat it is a wonder that we have. It is terribly hard to be good in a factory. Indeed, the grinding of the mill is so acute and never-ceasing that I am afraid some of us have given up trying to behave like Christians. I have myself wondered often, like John Ploughman, what the next life would be like after the training we are receiving here. Yet there are many evidences of generous impulse and self-sacrifice shown daily amongst these factory girls which go far to prove what I am persuaded is true — namely, that if the condition of the factory girl’s life were improved, she herself would improve. The writer, in her experience of factory life, has met with many such instances, and owes a debt of gratitude to some of her fellow-workers which she can never repay. I have now introduced the factory girl; next week, if I possibly can —certainly as soon as I can, I will ask my readers to accompany her to work.