Home Life of the Lancashire Factory Folk during the Cotton Famine - Edwin Waugh
HOME-LIFE
OF THE
LANCASHIRE FACTORY FOLK
DURING THE COTTON FAMINE
BY
EDWIN WAUGH
Author of "Lancashire Sketches", "Poems and Lancashire Songs",
"Tufts of Heather from the Northern Moors", etc, etc.
"Hopdance cries in poor Tom's belly for two white herrings.
Croak not, black angel: I have no food for thee."
--King Lear.
CONTENTS
Chap. Page
I 1 Among the Blackburn Operatives
II 13 " "
III 23 Among the Preston Operatives
IV 32 " "
V 40 " "
VI 48 " "
VII 59 " "
VIII 69 " "
IX 79 " "
X 87 " "
XI 97 " "
XII 107 " "
XIII 115 " "
XIV 123 " "
XV 132 Among the Wigan Operatives
XVI 139 " "
XVII 147 " "
XVIII 155 " "
XIX 163 " "
XX 171 " "
XXI 179 " "
XXII 189 An Incident by the Wayside
XXIII 197 Wandering Minstrels; or, Wails of the Workless Poor
LETTERS AND SPEECHES UPON THE COTTON FAMINE
209 Letters of a Lancashire Lad
217 Mr Cobden's Speech
227 Speech of the Earl of Derby
253 Songs of Distress chiefly written during the Cotton
Famine
PREFACE
The following chapters are reprinted from the columns of the
Manchester Examiner and Times, to which Paper they were contributed
by the Author during the year 1862.
HOME LIFE OF THE LANCASHIRE FACTORY FOLK DURING THE COTTON FAMINE.
(Reprinted from the Manchester Examiner and Times of 1862)
CHAPTER I.
AMONG THE BLACKBURN OPERATIVES
"Poor Tom's a-cold. Who gives anything to poor Tom?"
--King Lear.
Blackburn is one of the towns which has suffered more than the rest
in the present crisis, and yet a stranger to the place would not see
anything in its outward appearance indicative of this adverse nip of
the times. But to any one familiar with the town in its prosperity,
the first glance shows that there is now something different on foot
there, as it did to me on Friday last. The morning was wet and raw,
a state of weather in which Blackburn does not wear an Arcadian
aspect, when trade is good. Looking round from the front of the
railway station, the first thing which struck me was the great
number of tall chimneys which were smokeless, and the unusual
clearness of the air. Compared with the appearance of the town when
in full activity, there is now a look of doleful holiday, an
unnatural fast-day quietness about everything. There were few carts
astir, and not so many people in the streets as usual, although so
many are out of work there. Several, in the garb of factory
operatives, were leaning upon the bridge, and others were trailing
along in twos and threes, looking listless and cold; but nobody
seemed in a hurry. Very little of the old briskness was visible.
When the mills are in full work, the streets are busy with heavy
loads of twist and cloth; and the workpeople hurry in blithe crowds
to and from the factories, full of life and glee, for factory labour
is not so hurtful to healthy life as it was thirty years ago, nor as
some people think it now, who don't know much about it. There were
few people at the shop windows, and fewer inside. I went into some
of the shops to buy trifling things of different kinds, making
inquiries about the state of trade meanwhile, and, wherever I went,
I met with the same gloomy answers. They were doing nothing, taking
nothing; and they didn't know how things would end. They had the
usual expenses going on, with increasing rates, and a fearfully
lessened income, still growing less. And yet they durst not
complain; but had to contribute towards the relief of their starving
neighbours, sometimes even when they themselves ought to be
receiving relief, if their true condition was known. I heard of
several shopkeepers who had not taken more across their counters for
weeks past than would pay their rents, and some were not doing even
so much as that. This is one painful bit of the kernel of life in
Blackburn just now, which is concealed by the quiet shell of outward
appearance. Beyond this unusual quietness, a stranger will not see
much of the pinch of the times, unless he goes deeper; for the
people of Lancashire never were remarkable for hawking their
troubles much about the world. In the present untoward pass, their
deportment, as a whole, has been worthy of themselves, and their
wants have been worthily met by their own neighbours. What it may
become necessary to do hereafter, does not yet appear. It is a
calamity arising, partly from a wise national forbearance, which
will repay itself richly in the long run. But, apart from that wide-
spread poverty which is already known and relieved, there is, in
times like the present, always a certain small proportion, even of
the poorest, who will "eat their cake to th' edge," and then starve
bitterly before they will complain. These are the flower of our
working population; they are of finer stuff than the common staple
of human nature. Amongst such there must be many touching cases of
distress which do not come to light, even by accident. If they did,
nobody can doubt the existence of a generous will to relieve them
generously. To meet such cases, it is pleasant to learn, however, as
I did, that there is a large amount of private benevolence at work
in Blackburn, industriously searching out the most deserving cases
of distress. Of course, this kind of benevolence never gets into the
statistics of relief, but it will not the less meet with its reward.
I heard also of one or two wealthy men whose names do not appear as
contributors to the public relief fund, who have preferred to spend
considerable sums of money in this private way. In my wanderings
about the town I heard also of several instances of poor people
holding relief tickets, who, upon meeting with some temporary
employment, have returned their tickets to the committee for the
benefit of those less fortunate than themselves. Waiving for the
present all mention of the opposite picture; these things are alike
honourable to both rich and poor.
A little past noon, on Friday, I set out to visit the great stone
quarries on the southern edge of the town, where upwards of six
hundred of the more robust factory operatives are employed in the
lighter work of the quarries. This labour consists principally of
breaking up the small stone found in the facings of the solid rock,
for the purpose of road-mending and the like. Some, also, are
employed in agricultural work, on the ground belonging to the fine
new workhouse there. These factory operatives, at the workhouse
grounds, and in the quarries, are paid one shilling a day--not much,
but much better than the bread of idleness; and for the most part,
the men like it better, I am told. The first quarry I walked into
was the one known by the name of "Hacking's Shorrock Delph." There I
sauntered about, looking at the scene. It was not difficult to
distinguish the trained quarrymen from the rest. The latter did not
seem to be working very hard at their new employment, and it can
hardly be expected that they should, considering the great
difference between it and their usual labour. Leaning on their
spades and hammers, they watched me with a natural curiosity, as if
wondering whether I was a new ganger, or a contractor come to buy
stone. There were men of all ages amongst them, from about eighteen
years old to white-headed men past sixty. Most of them looked
healthy and a little embrowned by recent exposure to the weather;
and here and there was a pinched face which told its own tale. I got
into talk with a quiet, hardy-looking man, dressed in soil-stained
corduroy. He was a kind of overlooker. He told me that there were
from eighty to ninety factory hands employed in that quarry. "But,"
said he, "it varies a bit, yo known. Some on 'em gets knocked up
neaw an' then, an' they han to stop a-whoam a day or two; an' some
on 'em connot ston gettin' weet through--it mays 'em ill; an' here
an' theer one turns up at doesn't like the job at o'--they'd rayther
clem. There is at's both willin' an' able; thoose are likely to get
a better job, somewheer. There's othersome at's willin' enough, but
connot ston th' racket. They dun middlin', tak 'em one wi' another,
an' considerin' that they're noan use't to th' wark. Th' hommer fo's
leet wi' 'em; but we dunnot like to push 'em so mich, yo known--for
what's a shillin' a day? Aw know some odd uns i' this delph at never
tastes fro mornin' till they'n done at neet,--an' says nought abeawt
it, noather. But they'n families. Beside, fro wake lads, sick as
yon, at's bin train't to nought but leet wark, an' a warm place to
wortch in, what con yo expect? We'n had a deeal o' bother wi 'em
abeawt bein' paid for weet days, when they couldn't wortch. They wur
not paid for weet days at th' furst; an' they geet it into their
yeds at Shorrock were to blame. Shorrock's th' paymaister, under th'
Guardians, But, then, he nobbut went accordin' to orders, yo known.
At last, th' Board sattle't that they mut be paid for weet and dry,-
-an' there's bin quietness sin'. They wortchen fro eight till five;
an', sometimes, when they'n done, they drilln o' together i'th road
yon--just like sodiurs--an' then they walken away i' procession. But
stop a bit;--just go in yon, an' aw'll come to yo in a two-thre
minutes." He returned, accompanied by the paymaster, who offered to
conduct me through the other delphs. Running over his pay-book, he
showed me, by figures opposite each man's name, that, with not more
than a dozen exceptions, they had all families of children, ranging
in number from two to nine. He then pointed out the way over a
knoll, to the next quarry, which is called "Hacking's Gillies'
Delph," saying that he would follow me thither. I walked on,
stopping for him on the nearest edge of the quarry, which commanded
a full view of the men below. They seemed to be waiting very hard
for something just then, and they stared at me, as the rest had
done; but in a few minutes, just as I began to hear the paymaster's
footsteps behind me, the man at the nearest end of the quarry called
"Shorrock!" and a sudden activity woke up along the line. Shorrock
then pointed to a corner of the delph where two of these poor
fellows had been killed the week before, by stones thrown out from a
fall of earth. We went down through the delph, and up the slope, by
the place where the older men were at work in the poorhouse grounds.
Crossing the Darwen road, we passed the other delphs, where the
scene was much the same as in the rest, except that more men were
employed there. As we went on, one poor fellow was trolling a snatch
of song, as he hammered away at the stones. "Thir't merry, owd mon,"
said I, in passing. "Well," replied he, "cryin' 'll do nought,
wilt?" And then, as I walked away, he shouted after me, with a sort
of sad smile, "It's a poor heart at never rejoices, maister."
Leaving the quarries, we waited below, until the men had struck work
for the day, and the whole six hundred came trooping down the road,
looking hard at me as they went by, and stopping here and there, in
whispering groups. The paymaster told me that one-half of the men's
wages was paid to them in tickets for bread--in each case given to
the shopkeeper to whom the receiver of the ticket owed most money--
the other half was paid to them in money every Saturday. Before
returning to town I learnt that twenty of the more robust men, who
had worked well for their shilling a day in the quarries, had been
picked out by order of the Board of Guardians, to be sent to the
scene of the late disaster, in Lincolnshire, where employment had
been obtained for them, at the rate of 3s. 4d. per day. They were to
muster at six o'clock next morning to breakfast at the soup kitchen,
after which they were to leave town by the seven o'clock train. I
resolved to be up and see them off. On retiring to bed at the "Old
Bull," a good-tempered fellow, known by the name of "Stockings,"
from the fact of his being "under-boots," promised to waken me by
six o'clock; and so I ended the day, after watching "Stockings"
write "18" on the soles of my boots, with a lump of chalk.
"Stockings" might as well have kept his bed on Saturday morning. My
room was close to the ancient tower, left standing in the parish
churchyard; and, at five o'clock, the beautiful bells of St Marie's
struck up, filling my little chamber with that heart-stirring music,
which, as somebody has well said, "sounds like a voice from the
middle ages." I could not make out what all this early melody meant;
for I had forgotten that it was the Queen's birthday. The old tower
was in full view from my bed, and I lay there a while looking at it,
and listening to the bells, and dreaming of Whalley Abbey, and of
old features of life in picturesque Blackburnshire, now passed away.
I felt no more inclination for sleep; and when the knock came to my
door, I was dressed and ready. There were more people in the streets
than I expected, and the bells were still ringing merrily. I found
the soup kitchen a lively scene. The twenty men were busy at
breakfast, and there was a crowd waiting outside to see them off.
There were several members of the committee in the kitchen, and
amongst them the Rev. Joseph V. Meaney, Catholic priest, went to and
fro in cheerful chat. After breakfast, each man received four pounds
of bread and one pound of cheese for the day's consumption. In
addition to this, each man received one shilling; to which a certain
active member of the committee added threepence in each case.
Another member of the committee then handed a letter to each of the
only three or four out of the twenty who were able to write,
desiring each man to write back to the committee,--not all at once,
but on different days, after their arrival. After this, he addressed
them in the following words:--"Now, I hope that every man will
conduct himself so as to be a credit to himself and an honour to
Blackburn. This work may not prove to be such as you will like, and
you must not expect it to be so. But, do your best; and, if you find
that there is any chance of employment for more men of the same
class as yourselves, you must write and let us know, so as to
relieve the distress of others who are left behind you. There will
be people waiting to meet you before you get to your journey's end;
and, I have no doubt, you will meet with every fair encouragement.
One-half of your wages will be paid over to each man there; the
other half will be forwarded here, for the benefit of your families,
as you all know. Now go, and do your duty to the best of your power,
and you will never regret it. I wish you all success." At half-past
six the men left the kitchen for the station. I lingered behind to
get a basin of the soup, which I relished mightily. At the station I
found a crowd of wives, children, and friends of those who were
going away. Amongst the rest, Dr Rushton, the vicar of Blackburn,
and his lady, had come to see them off. Here a sweet little young
wife stood on the edge of the platform, with a pretty bareheaded
child in her arms, crying as if her heart would break. Her husband
now and then spoke a consoling word to her from the carriage window.
They had been noticed sharing their breakfast together at the
kitchen. A little farther on, a poor old Irishwoman was weeping
bitterly. The Rev. Mr Meaney went up to her, and said, "Now, Mrs
Davis, I thought you had more sense than to cry." "Oh," said a young
Irishwoman, standing beside her, "sure, she's losin' her son from
her." "Well," said the clergyman, cheeringly, "it's not your
husband, woman." "Ah, thin," replied the young woman, "sure, it's
all she has left of him." On the door of one compartment of the
carriage there was the following written label:--"Fragile, with
care." " How's this, Dennis?" said the Catholic priest to a young
fellow nearest the door; "I suppose it's because you're all Irishmen
inside there." In another compartment the lads kept popping their
heads out, one after another, shouting farewells to their relatives
and friends, after which they struck up, "There's a good time
coming!" One wag of a fellow suddenly called out to his wife on the
platform, "Aw say, Molly, just run for thoose tother breeches o'
mine. They'n come in rarely for weet weather." One of his companions
replied, "Thae knows hoo cannot get 'em, Jack. Th' pop-shops are
noan oppen yet." One hearty cheer arose as the train started, after
which the crowd dribbled away from the platform. I returned to the
soup kitchen, where the wives, children, and mothers of the men who
had gone were at breakfast in the inner compartment of the kitchen.
On the outer side of the partition five or six pinched-looking men
had straggled in to get their morning meal.
When they had all done but one, who was left reared against the
wooden partition finishing his soup, the last of those going away
turned round and said, "Sam, theaw'rt noan as tickle abeawt thi mate
as thae use't to be." "Naw," replied the other, "it'll not do to be
nice these times, owd mon. But, thae use't to think thisel' aboon
porritch, too, Jone. Aw'll shake honds wi' tho i' thae's a mind, owd
dog." "Get forrud wi' that stuff, an' say nought," answered Jone. I
left Sam at his soup, and went up into the town. In the course of
the day I sat some hours in the Boardroom, listening to the relief
cases; but of this, and other things, I will say more in my next.
CHAPTER II.
A little after ten o'clock on Saturday forenoon, I went into the
Boardroom, in the hope of catching there some glimpses of the real
state of the poor in Blackburn just now, and I was not disappointed;
for amongst the short, sad complainings of those who may always be
heard of in such a place, there was many a case presented itself
which gave affecting proof of the pressure of the times. Although it
is not here where one must look for the most enduring and
unobtrusive of those who suffer; nor for the poor traders, who
cannot afford to wear their distress upon their sleeves, so long as
things will hold together with them at all; nor for that rare class
which is now living upon the savings of past labour--yet, there were
many persons, belonging to one or other of these classes, who
applied for relief evidently because they had been driven
unwillingly to this last bitter haven by a stress of weather which
they could not bide any longer. There was a large attendance of the
guardians; and they certainly evinced a strong wish to inquire
carefully into each case, and to relieve every case of real need.
The rate of relief given is this (as you will have seen stated by Mr
Farnall elsewhere):--"To single able bodied men, 3s. for three days'
work. To the man who had a wife and two children, 6s. for six days'
work, and he would have 2s. 6d. added to the 6s., and perhaps a pair
of clogs for one of his children. To a man who had a wife and four
children, 10s. was paid for six days' labour, and in addition 4s.,
and sometimes 4s. 6d., was given to him, and also bits of clothing
and other things which he absolutely wanted." Sitting at that Board
I saw some curious--some painful things. It was, as one of the Board
said to me, "Hard work being there." In one case, a poor, pale,
clean-looking, and almost speechless woman presented herself. Her
thin and sunken eyes, as well as her known circumstances, explained
her want sufficiently, and I heard one of the guardians whisper to
another, "That's a bad case. If it wasn't for private charity they'd
die of starvation." "Yes," replied another; "that woman's punished,
I can see." Now and then a case came on in which the guardians were
surprised to see a man ask for relief whom everybody had supposed to
be in good circumstances. The first applicant, after I entered the
room, was a man apparently under forty years of age, a beerhouse
keeper, who had been comparatively well off until lately. The tide
of trouble had whelmed him over. His children were all factory
operatives, and all out of work; and his wife was ill. "What; are
you here, John?" said the chairman to a decent-looking man who
stepped up in answer to his name. The poor fellow blushed with
evident pain, and faltered out his story in few and simple words, as
if ashamed that anything on earth should have driven him at last to
such an extremity as this. In another case, a clean old decrepid man
presented himself. "What's brought you here, Joseph?" said the
chairman. "Why; aw've nought to do,--nor nought to tak to." "What's
your daughter, Ellen, doing, Joseph?" "Hoo's eawt o' wark." "And
what's your wife doing?" "Hoo's bin bed-fast aboon five year." The
old man was relieved at once; but, as he walked away, he looked hard
at his ticket, as if it wasn't exactly the kind of thing; and,
turning round, he said, "Couldn't yo let me be a sweeper i'th
streets, istid, Mr Eccles?" A clean old woman came up, with a snow-
white nightcap on her head. "Well, Mary; what do you want?" "Aw
could like yo to gi mo a bit o' summat, Mr Eccles,--for aw need it"
"Well, but you've some lodgers, haven't you, Mary?" "Yigh; aw've
three." "Well; what do they pay you?" "They pay'n mo nought. They'n
no wark,--an' one connot turn 'em eawt."
This was all quite true. "Well, but you live with your son; don't
you?" continued the chairman. "Nay," replied the old woman, "HE
lives wi' ME; an' he's eawt o' wark, too. Aw could like yo to do a
bit o' summat for us. We're hard put to 't." "Don't you think she
would be better in the workhouse?" said one of the guardians. "Oh,
no," replied another; "don't send th' owd woman there. Let her keep
her own little place together, if she can." Another old woman
presented herself, with a threadbare shawl drawn closely round her
gray head. "Well, Ann," said the chairman, "there's nobody but
yourself and your John, is there?" "Nawe." "What age are you?" "Aw'm
seventy." "Seventy!" "Aye, I am." "Well, and what age is your John?"
"He's gooin' i' seventy-four." "Where is he, Ann ?" "Well, aw laft
him deawn i' th' street yon; gettin' a load o' coals in." There was
a murmur of approbation around the Board; and the old woman was sent
away relieved and thankful. There were many other affecting cases of
genuine distress arising from the present temporary severity of the
times. Several applicants were refused relief on its being proved
that they were already in receipt of considerably more income than
the usual amount allowed by the Board to those who have nothing to
depend upon. Of course there are always some who, having lost that
fine edge of feeling to which this kind of relief is revolting, are
not unwilling to live idly upon the rates as much and as long as
possible at any time, and who will even descend to pitiful schemes
to wring from this source whatever miserable income they can get.
There are some, even, with whom this state of mind seems almost
hereditary; and these will not be slow to take advantage of the
present state of affairs. Such cases, however, are not numerous
among the people of Lancashire. It was a curious thing to see the
different demeanours and appearances of the applicants--curious to
hear the little stories of their different troubles. There were
three or four women whose husbands were away in the militia; others
whose husbands had wandered away in search of work weeks ago, and
had never been heard of, since. There were a few very fine,
intelligent countenances among them. There were many of all ages,
clean in person, and bashful in manner, with their poor clothing put
into the tidiest possible trim; others were dirty, and sluttish, and
noisy of speech, as in the case of one woman, who, after receiving
her ticket for relief, partly in money and partly in kind, whipped a
pair of worn clogs from under her shawl, and cried out, "Aw mun ha'
some clogs afore aw go, too; look at thoose! They're a shame to be
sin!" Clogs were freely given; and, in several cases, they were all
that were asked for. In three or four instances, the applicants
said, after receiving other relief, "Aw wish yo'd gi' me a pair o'
clogs, Mr Eccles. Aw've had to borrow these to come in." One woman
pleaded hard for two pair, saying, "Yon chylt's bar-fuut; an' HE'S
witchod (wet-shod), an' as ill as he con be." "Who's witchod?" asked
the chairman. "My husban' is," replied the woman; "an' he connot
ston it just neaw, yo mun let HIM have a pair iv yo con." "Give her
two pairs of clogs," said the chairman. Another woman took her clog
off, and held it up, saying,
"Look at that. We're o' walkin' o'th floor; an' smoor't wi' cowds."
One decent-looking old body, with a starved face, applied. The
chairman said, "Why, what's your son doing now? Has he catched no
rabbits lately?" "Nay, aw dunnot know 'at he does. Aw get nought;
an' it's ME at wants summat, Mr Eccles," replied the old woman, in a
tremulous tone, with the water rising in her eyes. "Well, come; we
mustn't punish th' owd woman for her son," said one of the
guardians. Various forms of the feebleness of age appeared before
the Board that day. "What's your son John getting, Mary?" said the
chairman to one old woman. "Whor?" replied she. "What's your son
John getting?" The old woman put her hand up to her ear, and
answered,