Home Life of the Lancashire Factory Folk during the Cotton Famine - Edwin Waugh
"Aw'm rayther deaf. What say'n yo?" It turned out that her son was
taken ill, and they were relieved. In the course of inquiries I
found that the working people of Blackburn, as elsewhere in
Lancashire, nickname their workshops as well as themselves. The
chairman asked a girl where she worked at last, and the girl
replied, "At th' 'Puff-an'-dart.'" "And what made you leave there?"
"Whau, they were woven up." One poor, pale fellow, a widower, said
he had "worched" a bit at "Bang-the-nation," till he was taken ill,
and then they had "shopped his place," that is, they had given his
work to somebody else. Another, when asked where he had been
working, replied, "At Se'nacre Bruck (Seven-acre Brook), wheer th'
wild monkey were catched." It seems that an ourang-outang which once
escaped from some travelling menagerie, was re-taken at this place.
I sat until the last application had been disposed of, which was
about half-past two in the afternoon. The business had taken up
nearly four hours and a half.
I had a good deal of conversation with people who were intimately
acquainted with the town and its people; and I was informed that, in
spite of the struggle for existence which is now going on, and not
unlikely to continue for some time, there are things happening
amongst the working people there, which do not seem wise, under
existing circumstances. The people are much better informed now than
they were twenty years ago; but, still, something of the old
blindness lingers amongst them, here and there. For instance, at one
mill, in Blackburn, where the operatives were receiving 11s. a week
for two looms, the proprietor offered to give his workpeople three
looms each, with a guarantee for constant employment until the end
of next August, if they would accept one and a quarter pence less
for the weaving of each piece. This offer, if taken, would have
raised their wages to an average of 14s. 6d. a week. It was
declined, however, and they are now working, as before, only on two
looms each, with uncertainty of employment, at lls. a week. Perhaps
it is too much to expect that such things should die out all at
once. But I heard also that the bricklayers' labourers at Blackburn
struck work last week for an advance of wages from 3s. 6d. a day to
4s. a day. This seems very untimely, to say the least of it. Apart
from these things, there is, amongst all classes, a kind of cheery
faith in the return of good times, although nobody can see what they
may have to go through yet, before the clouds break. It is a fact
that there are more than forty new places ready, or nearly ready,
for starting, in and about Blackburn, when trade revives.
After dinner, I walked down Darwen Street. Stopping to look at a
music-seller's window, a rough-looking fellow, bareheaded and
without coat, came sauntering across the road from a shop opposite.
As he came near he shouted out, "Nea then Heaw go!" I turned round;
and, seeing that I was a stranger, he said, "Oh; aw thought it had
bin another chap." "Well," said I, "heaw are yo gettin' on, these
times?" "Divulish ill," replied he. "Th' little maisters are runnin'
a bit, some three, some four days. T'other are stopt o' together,
welly. . . . It's thin pikein' for poor folk just neaw. But th'
shopkeepers an' th' ale-heawses are in for it as ill as ony mak.
There'll be crashin' amung some on 'em afore lung." After this, I
spent a few minutes in the market-place, which was "slacker" than
usual, as might be expected, for, as the Scotch proverb says,
"Sillerless folk gang fast through the market." Later on, I went up
to Bank Top, on the eastern edge of the town, where many factory
operatives reside. Of course, there is not any special quarter where
they are clustered in such a manner as to show their condition as a
whole. They are scattered all round the town, living as near as
possible to the mills in which they are employed. Here I talked with
some of the small shopkeepers, and found them all more or less
troubled with the same complaint. One owner of a provision shop said
to me, "Wi'n a deeal o' brass owin'; but it's mostly owin' by folk
at'll pay sometime. An' then, th' part on 'em are doin' a bit yo
known; an' they bring'n their trifle o' ready brass to us; an' so
we're trailin' on. But folk han to trust us a bit for their stuff,
dunnot yo see,--or else it would be 'Wo-up!' soon." I heard of one
beerhouse, the owner of which had only drawn ls. 6d. during a whole
week. His children were all factory operatives, and all out of work.
They were very badly off, and would have been very glad of a few
soup tickets; but, as the man said, "Who'd believe me if aw were to
go an' ax for relief?" I was told of two young fellows, unemployed
factory hands, meeting one day, when one said to the other, "Thae
favvurs hungry, Jone." "Nay, aw's do yet, for that," replied Jone.
"Well," continued the other; "keep thi heart eawt of thi clogs, iv
thi breeches dun eawt-thrive thi carcass a bit, owd lad." "Aye,"
said Jone, "but what mun I do when my clogs gi'n way?" "Whaw, thae
mun go to th' Guardians; they'n gi tho a pair in a minute." "Nay, by
__," replied Jone, "aw'll dee furst!"
In the evening, I ran down to the beautiful suburb called
Pleasington, in the hope of meeting a friend of mine there; not
finding him, I came away by the eight o'clock train. The evening was
splendid, and it was cheering to see the old bounty of nature
gushing forth again in such unusual profusion and beauty, as if in
pitiful charity for the troubles of mankind. I never saw the country
look so rich in its spring robes as it does now.
CHAPTER III.
AMONG THE PRESTON OPERATIVES.
Proud Preston, or Priest-town, on the banks of the beautiful Ribble,
is a place of many quaint customs, and of great historic fame. Its
character for pride is said to come from the fact of its having
been, in the old time, a favourite residence of the local nobles and
gentry, and of many penniless folk with long pedigrees. It was here
that Richard Arkwright shaved chins at a halfpenny each, in the
meantime working out his bold and ingenious schemes, with patient
faith in their ultimate success. It was here, too, that the teetotal
movement first began, with Anderson for its rhyme-smith. Preston has
had its full share of the changeful fortunes of England, and, like
our motherland, it has risen strongly out of them all. War's mad
havoc has swept over it in many a troubled period of our history.
Plague, pestilence, and famine have afflicted it sorely; and it has
suffered from trade riots, "plug-drawings," panics, and strikes of
most disastrous kinds. Proud Preston--the town of the Stanleys and
the Hoghtons, and of "many a crest that is famous in story"--the
town where silly King Jamie disported himself a little, with his
knights and nobles, during the time of his ruinous visit to Hoghton
Tower,--Proud Preston has seen many a black day. But, from the time
when Roman sentinels kept watch and ward in their old camp at
Walton, down by the Ribble side, it has never seen so much wealth
and so much bitter poverty together as now. The streets do not show
this poverty; but it is there. Looking from Avenham Walks, that
glorious landscape smiles in all the splendour of a rich spring-
tide. In those walks the nursemaids and children, and dainty folk,
are wandering as usual airing their curls in the fresh breeze; and
only now and then a workless operative trails by with chastened
look. The wail of sorrow is not heard in Preston market-place; but
destitution may be found almost anywhere there just now, cowering in
squalid corners, within a few yards of plenty--as I have seen it
many a time this week. The courts and alleys behind even some of the
main streets swarm with people who have hardly a whole nail left to
scratch themselves with.
Before attempting to tell something of what I saw whilst wandering
amongst the poor operatives of Preston, I will say at once, that I
do not intend to meddle with statistics. They have been carefully
gathered, and often given elsewhere, and there is no need for me to
repeat them. But, apart from these, the theme is endless, and full
of painful interest. I hear on all hands that there is hardly any
town in Lancashire suffering so much as Preston. The reason why the
stroke has fallen so heavily here, lies in the nature of the trade.
In the first place, Preston is almost purely a cotton town. There
are two or three flax mills, and two or three ironworks, of no great
extent; but, upon the whole, there is hardly any variety of
employment there to lighten the disaster which has befallen its one
absorbing occupation. There is comparatively little weaving in
Preston; it is a town mostly engaged in spinning. The cotton used
there is nearly all what is called "Middling American," the very
kind which is now most scarce and dear. The yarns of Preston are
known by the name of "Blackburn Counts." They range from 28's up to
60's, and they enter largely into the manufacture of goods for the
India market. These things partly explain why Preston is more deeply
overshadowed by the particular gloom of the times than many other
places in Lancashire. About half-past nine on Tuesday morning last,
I set out with an old acquaintance to call upon a certain member of
the Relief Committee, in George's Ward. He is the manager of a
cotton mill in that quarter, and he is well known and much respected
among the working people. When we entered the mill-yard, all was
quiet there, and the factory was still and silent. But through the
office window we could see the man we wanted. He was accompanied by
one of the proprietors of the mill, turning over the relief books of
the ward. I soon found that he had a strong sense of humour, as well
as a heart welling over with tenderness. He pointed to some of the
cases in his books. The first was that of an old man, an overlooker
of a cotton mill. His family was thirteen in number; three of the
children were under ten years of age; seven of the rest were factory
operatives; but the whole family had been out of work for several
months. When in full employment the joint earnings of the family
amounted to 80s. a week; but, after struggling on in the hope of
better times, and exhausting the savings of past labour, they had
been brought down to the receipt of charity at last, and for sixteen
weeks gone by the whole thirteen had been living upon 6s. a week
from the relief fund. They had no other resource. I went to see them
at their own house afterwards, and it certainly was a pattern of
cleanliness, with the little household gods there still. Seeing that
house, a stranger would never dream that the family was living on an
average income of less than sixpence a head per week. But I know how
hard some decent folk will struggle with the bitterest poverty
before they will give in to it. The old man came in whilst I was
there. He sat down in one corner, quietly tinkering away at
something he had in his hands. His old corduroy trousers were well
patched, and just new washed. He had very little to say to us,
except that "He could like to get summat to do; for he wur tired o'
walkin' abeawt." Another case was that of a poor widow woman, with
five young children. This family had been driven from house to
house, by increasing necessity, till they had sunk at last into a
dingy little hovel, up a dark court, in one of the poorest parts of
the town, where they huddled together about a fireless grate to keep
one another warm. They had nothing left of the wreck of their home
but two rickety chairs, and a little deal table reared against the
wall, because one of the legs was gone. In this miserable hole--
which I saw afterwards--her husband died of sheer starvation, as was
declared by the jury on the inquest. The dark, damp hovel where they
had crept to was scarcely four yards square; and the poor woman
pointed to one corner of the floor, saying, "He dee'd i' that nook."
He died there, with nothing to lie upon but the ground, and nothing
to cover him, in that fireless hovel. His wife and children crept
about him, there, to watch him die; and to keep him as warm as they
could. When the relief committee first found this family out, the
entire clothing of the family of seven persons weighed eight pounds,
and sold for fivepence, as rags. I saw the family afterwards, at
their poor place; and will say more about them hereafter. He told me
of many other cases of a similar kind. But, after agreeing to a time
when we should visit them personally, we set out together to see the
"Stone Yard," where there are many factory hands at work under the
Board of Guardians.
The "Stone Yard" is close by the Preston and Lancaster Canal. Here
there are from one hundred and seventy to one hundred and eighty,
principally young men, employed in breaking, weighing, and wheeling
stone, for road mending. The stones are of a hard kind of blue
boulder, gathered from the land between Kendal and Lancaster. The
"Labour Master" told me that there were thousands of tons of these
boulders upon the land between Kendal and Lancaster. A great deal of
them are brought from a place called "Tewhitt Field," about seven
mile on "t' other side o' Lancaster." At the "Stone Yard" it is all
piece-work, and the men can come and go when they like. As one of
the Guardians told me, "They can oather sit an' break 'em, or kneel
an' break 'em, or lie deawn to it, iv they'n a mind." The men can
choose whether they will fill three tons of the broken stone, and
wheel it to the central heap, for a shilling, or break one ton for a
shilling. The persons employed here are mostly "lads an' leet-
timber't chaps." The stronger men are sent to work upon Preston
Moor. There are great varieties of health and strength amongst them.
"Beside," as the Labour Master said, "yo'd hardly believe what a
difference there it i'th wark o' two men wortchin' at the same heap,
sometimes. There's a great deal i'th breaker, neaw; some on 'em's
more artful nor others. They finden out that they can break 'em as
fast again at after they'n getten to th' wick i'th inside. I have
known an' odd un or two, here, that could break four ton a day,--an'
many that couldn't break one,--but then, yo' know, th' men can only
do accordin' to their ability. There is these differences, and there
always will be." As we stood talking together, one of my friends
said that he wished "Radical Jack" had been there. The latter
gentleman is one of the guardians of the poor, and superintendent of
the "Stone Yard." The men are naturally jealous of
misrepresentation; and, the other day, as "Radical Jack" was
describing the working of the yard to a gentleman who had come to
look at the scene, some of the men overheard his words, and,
misconceiving their meaning, gathered around the superintendent,
clamorously protesting against what he had been saying. "He's
lying!" said one. "Look at these honds!" cried another; "Wi'n they
ever be fit to go to th' factory wi' again?"
Others turned up the soles of their battered shoon, to show their
cut and stockingless feet. They were pacified at last; but, after
the superintendent had gone away, some of the men said much and
more, and "if ever he towd ony moor lies abeawt 'em, they'd fling
him into th' cut." The "Labour Master" told me there was a large
wood shed for the men to shelter in when rain came on. As we were
conversing, one of my friends exclaimed, "He's here now!" "Who's
here?" "Radical Jack." The superintendent was coming down the road.
He told me some interesting things, which I will return to on
another occasion. But our time was up. We had other places to see.
As we came away, three old Irishwomen leaned against the wall at the
corner of the yard, watching the men at work inside. One of them was
saying, "Thim guardians is the awfullest set o' min in the world! A
man had better be transpoorted than come under 'em. An' thin,
they'll try you, an' try you, as if you was goin' to be hanged." The
poor old soul had evidently only a narrow view of the necessities
and difficulties which beset the labours of the Board of Guardians
at a time like this. On our way back to town one of my friends told
me that he "had met a sexton the day before, and had asked him how
trade was with him. The sexton replied that it was "Varra bad--nowt
doin', hardly." "Well, how's that?" asked the other. "Well, thae
sees," answered the sexton, "Poverty seldom dees. There's far more
kilt wi' o'er-heytin' an' o'er-drinkin' nor there is wi' bein'
pinched."
CHAPTER IV.
Leaving the "Stone Yard," to fulfil an engagement in another part of
the town, we agreed to call upon three or four poor folk, who lived
by the way; and I don't know that I could do better than say
something about what I saw of them. As we walked along, one of my
companions told me of an incident which happened to one of the
visitors in another ward, a few days before. In the course of his
round, this visitor called upon a certain destitute family which was
under his care, and he found the husband sitting alone in the house,
pale and silent. His wife had been "brought to bed" two or three
days before; and the visitor inquired how she was getting on. "Hoo's
very ill," said the husband. "And the child," continued the visitor,
"how is it?" "It's deeod," replied the man; "it dee'd yesterday." He
then rose, and walked slowly into the next room, returning with a
basket in his hands, in which the dead child was decently laid out.
"That's o' that's laft on it neaw," said the poor fellow. Then,
putting the basket upon the floor, he sat down in front of it, with
his head between his hands, looking silently at the corpse. Such
things as these were the theme of our conversation as we went along,
and I found afterwards that every visitor whom it was my privilege
to meet, had some special story of distress to relate, which came
within his own appointed range of action. In my first flying visit
to that great melancholy field, I could only glean such things as
lay nearest to my hand, just then; but wherever I went, I heard and
saw things which touchingly testify what noble stuff the working
population of Lancashire, as a whole, is made of. One of the first
cases we called upon, after leaving the "Stone Yard," was that of a
family of ten--man and wife, and eight children. Four of the
children were under ten years of age,--five were capable of working;
and, when the working part of the family was in full employment,
their joint earnings amounted to 61s. per week. But, in this case,
the mother's habitual ill-health had been a great expense in the
household for several years. This family belonged to a class of
operatives--a much larger class than people unacquainted with the
factory districts are likely to suppose--a class of operatives which
will struggle, in a dumb, enduring way, to the death, sometimes,
before they will sacrifice that "immediate jewel of their souls"--
their old independence, and will keep up a decent appearance to the
very last. These suffer more than the rest; for, in addition to the
pains of bitter starvation, they feel a loss which is more
afflicting to them even than the loss of food and furniture ; and
their sufferings are less heard of than the rest, because they do
not like to complain. This family of ten persons had been living,
during the last nine weeks, upon relief amounting to 5s. a week.
When we called, the mother and one or two of her daughters were busy
in the next room, washing their poor bits of well-kept clothing. The
daughters kept out of sight, as if ashamed. It was a good kind of
cottage, in a clean street, called "Maudland Bank," and the whole
place had a tidy, sweet look, though it was washing-day. The mother
told me that she had been severely afflicted with seven successive
attacks of inflammation, and yet, in spite of her long-continued
ill-health, and in spite of the iron teeth of poverty which had been
gnawing at them so long, for the first time, I have rarely seen a
more frank and cheerful countenance than that thin matron's, as she
stood there, wringing her clothes, and telling her little story. The
house they lived in belonged to their late employer, whose mill
stopped some time ago. We asked her how they managed to pay the
rent, and she said, "Why, we dunnot pay it; we cannot pay it, an' he
doesn't push us for it. Aw guess he knows he'll get it sometime. But
we owe'd a deal o' brass beside that. Just look at this shop book.
Aw'm noan freetend ov onybody seein' my acceawnts. An' then, there's
a great lot o' doctor's-bills i' that pot, theer. Thoose are o' for
me. There'll ha' to be some wark done afore things can be fotched up
again. . . . Eh; aw'll tell yo what, William, (this was addressed to
the visitor,) it went ill again th' grain wi' my husband to goo
afore th' Board. An' when he did goo, he wouldn't say so mich. Yo
known, folk doesn't like brastin' off abeawt theirsel' o' at once,
at a shop like that. . . . Aw think sometimes it's very weel that
four ov eawrs are i' heaven,--we'n sich hard tewin' (toiling), to
poo through wi' tother, just neaw. But, aw guess it'll not last for
ever." As we came away, talking of the reluctance shown by the
better sort of working people to ask for relief, or even sometimes
to accept it when offered to them, until thoroughly starved to it, I
was told of a visitor calling upon a poor woman in another ward; no
application had been made for relief, but some kind neighbour had
told the committee that the woman and her husband were "ill off."
The visitor, finding that they were perishing for want, offered the
woman some relief tickets for food; but the poor soul began to cry,
and said; "Eh, aw dar not touch 'em; my husban' would sauce me so!
Aw dar not take 'em; aw should never yer the last on't!" When we got
to the lower end of Hope Street, my guide stopped suddenly, and
said, "Oh, this is close to where that woman lives whose husband
died of starvation. "Leading a few yards up the by-street, he turned
into a low, narrow entry, very dark and damp. Two turns more brought
us to a dirty, pent-up corner, where a low door stood open. We
entered there. It was a cold, gloomy-looking little hovel. In my
allusion to the place last week I said it was "scarcely four yards
square." It is not more than three yards square. There was no fire
in the little rusty grate. The day was sunny, but no sunshine could
ever reach that nook, nor any fresh breezes disturb the pestilent
vapours that harboured there, festering in the sluggish gloom. In
one corner of the place a little worn and broken stair led up to a
room of the same size above, where, I was told, there was now some
straw for the family to sleep upon. But the only furniture in the
house, of any kind, was two rickety chairs and a little broken deal
table, reared against the stairs, because one leg was gone. A quiet-
looking, thin woman, seemingly about fifty years of age, sat there,
when we went in. She told us that she had buried five of her
children, and that she had six yet alive, all living with her in
that poor place. They had no work, no income whatever, save what
came from the Relief Committee. Five of the children were playing in
and out, bare-footed, and, like the mother, miserably clad; but they
seemed quite unconscious that anything ailed them. I never saw finer
children anywhere. The eldest girl, about fourteen, came in whilst
we were there, and she leaned herself bashfully against the wall for
a minute or two, and then slunk slyly out again, as if ashamed of
our presence. The poor widow pointed to the cold corner where her
husband died lately. She said that "his name was Tim Pedder. His
fadder name was Timothy, an' his mudder name was Mary. He was a
driver (a driver of boat-horses on the canal); but he had bin oot o'
wark a lang time afore he dee'd." I found in this case, as in some
others, that the poor body had not much to say about her distress;
but she did not need to say much. My guide told me that when he
first called upon the family, in the depth of last winter, he found
the children all clinging round about their mother in the cold
hovel, trying in that way to keep one another warm. The time for my
next appointment was now hard on, and we hurried towards the shop in
Fishergate, kept by the gentleman I had promised to meet. He is an
active member of the Relief Committee, and a visitor in George's
ward. We found him in. He had just returned from the "Cheese Fair,"
at Lancaster. My purpose was to find out what time on the morrow we
could go together to see some of the cases he was best acquainted
with. But, as the evening was not far spent, he proposed that we
should go at once to see a few of those which were nearest. We set
out together to Walker's Court, in Friargate. The first place we
entered was at the top of the little narrow court. There we found a
good-tempered Irish-woman sitting without fire, in her feverish
hovel. "Well, missis," said the visitor, "how is your husband
getting on?" "Ah, well, now, Mr. T----," replied she, "you know,
he's only a delicate little man, an' a tailor; an' he wint to work
on the moor, an' he couldn't stand it. Sure, it was draggin' the
bare life out of him. So, he says to me, one morning, "Catharine,"
says he, "I'll lave off this a little while, till I see will I be
able to get a job o' work at my own trade; an' maybe God will rise
up some thin' to put a dud o' clothes on us all, an' help us to pull
through till the black time is over us." So, I told him to try his
luck, any way; for he was killin' himself entirely on the moor. An'
so he did try; for there's not an idle bone in that same boy's skin.
But, see this, now; there's nothin' in the world to be had to do
just now--an' a dale too many waitin' to do it--so all he got by the
change was losin' his work on the moor. There is himself, an' me,
an' the seven childer. Five o' the childer is under tin year old. We
are all naked; an' the house is bare; an' our health is gone wi' the
want o' mate. Sure it wasn't in the likes o' this we wor livin' when
times was good." Three of the youngest children were playing about
on the floor. "That's a very fine lad," said I, pointing to one of
them. The little fellow blushed, and smiled, and then became very
still and attentive. "Ah, thin," said his mother, "that villain's
the boy for tuckin' up soup! The Lord be about him, an' save him
alive to me,--the crayter ! . . . An' there's little curly there,--
the rogue! Sure he'll take as much soup as any wan o' them. Maybe he
wouldn't laugh to see a big bowl forninst him this day." "It's very
well they have such good spirits," said the visitor. "So it is,"
replies the woman, "so it is, for God knows it's little else they
have to keep them warm thim bad times."