13/09/2025
London, November 3, 1892
To whoever one day discovers this letter, hidden in an attic’s dust or buried among the ashes of some forgotten hearth:
My name is Thomas G. Hayworth. Today I am an old man—my lungs worn thin, my hands like brittle bark. But once, I was a boy small enough to slip into spaces where a grown man could not even kneel. I was a climbing boy, a chimney sweep, and later, a hurrier in the Yorkshire mines. I do not write this for myself, but for the children who never lived long enough to tell their story. Perhaps if their suffering is remembered, their bones may finally rest.
I entered my first chimney at the age of six. Some were no wider than eighteen inches—coffins turned upright. There was no light, no gloves, no voice to call out. We clawed soot with our bare nails as the bricks scraped raw lines into our knees and elbows. At times, the master would light a fire beneath us—“That will make them hurry,” he’d say. The smoke seared our eyes, our throats. Some fainted. Some never woke again.
At seven, I was taken into the mines. They chained a belt around my waist, and I became a hurrier—dragging carts of coal heavier than a horse, through tunnels no higher than sixteen inches. I crawled on all fours, skin torn, blood streaking my legs, while behind me a thruster—often another child—pushed with aching hands. From above, acidic water dripped, soaking our rags and burning our flesh. We began before dawn, four in the morning, often in total darkness. And in that black silence, I would hum to myself—just to keep from drowning in fear.