Home Life of the Lancashire Factory Folk during the Cotton Famine - Edwin Waugh
CHAPTER V.
The next house we called at in Walker's Court was much like the
first in appearance--very little left but the walls, and that
little, such as none but the neediest would pick up, if it was
thrown out to the streets. The only person in the place was a pale,
crippled woman; her sick head, lapped in a poor white clout, swayed
languidly to and fro. Besides being a cripple, she had been ill six
years, and now her husband, also, was taken ill. He had just crept
off to fetch medicine for the two. We did not stop here long. The
hand of the Ancient Master was visible in that pallid face; those
sunken eyes, so full of deathly langour, seemed to be wandering
about in dim, flickering gazes, upon the confines of an unknown
world. I think that woman will soon be "where the weary are at
rest." As we came out, she said, slowly, and in broken, painful
utterances, that "she hoped the Lord would open the heavens for
those who had helped them." A little lower down the court, we peeped
in at two other doorways. The people were well known to my
companion, who has the charge of visiting this part of the ward.
Leaning against the door-cheek of one of these dim, unwholesome
hovels, he said, "Well, missis; how are you getting on?" There was a
tall, thin woman inside. She seemed to be far gone in some
exhausting illness. With slow difficulty she rose to her feet, and,
setting her hands to her sides, gasped out, "My coals are done." He
made a note, and said, I'll send you some more." Her other wants
were regularly seen to on a certain day every week. Ours was an
accidental visit. We now turned up to another nook of the court,
where my companion told me there was a very bad case. He found the
door fast. We looked through the window into that miserable man-
nest. It was cold, gloomy, and bare. As Corrigan says, in the
"Colleen Bawn," "There was nobody in--but the fire--and that was
gone out." As we came away, a stalwart Irishman met us at a turn of
the court, and said to my companion, "Sure, ye didn't visit this
house." " Not to-day;" replied the visitor. "I'll come and see you
at the usual time." The people in this house were not so badly off
as some others. We came down the steps of the court into the fresher
air of Friargate again.
Our next walk was to Heatley Street. As we passed by a cluster of
starved loungers, we overheard one of them saying to another,
"Sitho, yon's th' soup-maister, gooin' a-seein' somebry." Our time
was getting short, so we only called at one house in Heatley Street,
where there was a family of eleven--a decent family, a well-kept and
orderly household, though now stript almost to the bare ground of
all worldly possession, sold, bitterly, piecemeal, to help to keep
the bare life together, as sweetly as possible, till better days.
The eldest son is twenty-seven years of age. The whole family has
been out of work for the last seventeen weeks, and before that, they
had been working only short time for seven months. For thirteen
weeks they had lived upon less than one shilling a head per week,
and I am not sure that they did not pay the rent out of that; and
now the income of the whole eleven is under 16s., with rent to pay.
In this house they hold weekly prayer-meetings. Thin picking--one
shilling a week, or less--for all expenses, for one person. It is
easier to write about it than to feel what it means, unless one has
tried it for three or four months. Just round the corner from
Heatley Street, we stopped at the open door of a very little
cottage. A good-looking young Irishwoman sat there, upon a three-
legged stool, suckling her child. She was clean; and had an
intelligent look. "Let's see, missis," said the visitor, "what do
you pay for this nook?" "We pay eighteenpence a week--and they WILL
have it--my word." "Well, an' what income have you now?" "We have
eighteenpence a head in the week, an' the rent to pay out o' that,
or else they'll turn us out." Of course, the visitor knew that this
was true; but he wanted me to hear the people speak for themselves.
"Let's see, Missis Burns, your husband's name is Patrick, isn't it?"
" Yes, sir; Patrick Burns." "What! Patrick Burns, the famous foot-
racer?" The little woman smiled bashfully, and replied, "Yes, sir; I
suppose it is." With respect to what the woman said about having to
pay her rent or turn out, I may remark, in passing, that I have not
hitherto met with an instance in which any millowner, or wealthy
man, having cottage property, has pressed the unemployed poor for
rent. But it is well to remember that there is a great amount of
cottage property in Preston, as in other manufacturing towns, which
belongs to the more provident class of working men. These working
men, now hard pressed by the general distress, have been compelled
to fall back upon their little rentals, clinging to them as their
last independent means of existence. They are compelled to this,
for, if they cannot get work, they cannot get anything else, having
property. These are becoming fewer, however, from day to day. The
poorest are hanging a good deal upon those a little less poor than
themselves; and every link in the lengthening chain of neediness is
helping to pull down the one immediately above it. There is, also, a
considerable amount of cottage property in Preston, belonging to
building societies, which have enough to do to hold their own just
now. And then there is always some cottage property in the hands of
agents.
Leaving Heatley Street, we went to a place called "Seed's Yard."
Here we called upon a clean old stately widow, with a calm, sad
face. She had been long known, and highly respected, in a good
street, not far off, where she had lived for twenty-four years, in
fair circumstances, until lately. She had always owned a good
houseful of furniture; but, after making bitter meals upon the
gradual wreck of it, she had been compelled to break up that house,
and retire with her five children to lodge with a lone widow in this
little cot, not over three yards square, in "Seed's Yard," one of
those dark corners into which decent poverty is so often found now,
creeping unwillingly away from the public eye, in the hope of
weathering the storm of adversity, in penurious independence. The
old woman never would accept relief from the parish, although the
whole family had been out of work for many months. One of the
daughters, a clean, intelligent-looking young woman, about eighteen,
sat at the table, eating a little bread and treacle to a cup of
light-coloured tea, when we went in; but she blushed, and left off
until we had gone--which was not long after. It felt almost like
sacrilege to peer thus into the privacies of such people; but I hope
they did not feel as if it had been done offensively. We called next
at the cottage of a hand-loom weaver--a poor trade now in the best
of times--a very poor trade--since the days when tattered old "Jem
Ceawp" sung his pathetic song of "Jone o' Greenfeelt"--
"Aw'm a poor cotton weighver, as ony one knows;
We'n no meight i'th heawse, an' we'n worn eawt er clothes;
We'n live't upo nettles, while nettles were good;
An' Wayterloo porritch is th' most of er food;
This clemmin' and starvin',
Wi' never a farthin'--
It's enough to drive ony mon mad."
This family was four in number--man, wife, and two children. They
had always lived near to the ground, for the husband's earnings at
the loom were seldom more than 7s. for a full week. The wife told us
that they were not receiving any relief, for she said that when her
husband "had bin eawt o' wark a good while he turn't his hond to
shaving;" and in this way the ingenious struggling fellow had
scraped a thin living for them during many months. "But," said she,
" it brings varra little in, we hev to trust so much. He shaves four
on 'em for a haw-penny, an' there's a deal on 'em connot pay that.
Yo know, they're badly off--(the woman seemed to think her
circumstances rather above the common kind); an' then," continued
she, "when they'n run up a shot for three-hawpence or twopence or
so, they cannot pay it o' no shap, an' so they stoppen away fro th'
shop. They cannot for shame come, that's heaw it is; so we lose'n
their custom till sich times as summat turns up at they can raise a
trifle to pay up wi'. . . . He has nobbut one razzor, but it'll be
like to do." Hearken this, oh, ye spruce Figaros of the city, who
trim the clean, crisp whiskers of the well-to-do! Hearken this, ye
dainty perruquiers, "who look so brisk, and smell so sweet," and
have such an exquisite knack of chirruping, and lisping, and sliding
over the smooth edge of the under lip,--and, sometimes, agreeably
too,--"an infinite deal of nothing,"--ye who clip and anoint the
hair of Old England's curled darlings! Eight chins a penny; and
three months' credit! A bodle a piece for mowing chins overgrown
with hair like pin-wire, and thick with dust; how would you like
that? How would you get through it all, with a family of four, and
only one razor? The next place we called at was what my friend
described, in words that sounded to me, somehow, like melancholy
irony,--as "a poor provision shop." It was, indeed, a poor shop for
provender. In the window, it is true, there were four or five empty
glasses, where children's spice had once been. There was a little
deal shelf here and there; but there were neither sand, salt,
whitening, nor pipes. There was not the ghost of a farthing candle,
nor a herring, nor a marble, nor a match, nor of any other thing,
sour or sweet, eatable or saleable for other uses, except one small
mug full of buttermilk up in a corner--the last relic of a departed
trade, like the "one rose of the wilderness, left on its stalk to
mark where a garden has been." But I will say more about this in the
next chapter.
CHAPTER VI.
Returning to the little shop mentioned in my last--the "little
provision shop," where there was nothing left to eat--nothing,
indeed, of any kind, except one mug of buttermilk, and a miserable
remnant of little empty things, which nobody would buy; four or five
glass bottles in the window, two or three poor deal shelves, and a
doleful little counter, rudely put together, and looking as if it
felt, now, that there was nothing in the world left for it but to
become chips at no distant date. Everything in the place had a sad,
subdued look, and seemed conscious of having come down in the world,
without hope of ever rising again; even the stript walls appeared to
look at one another with a stony gaze of settled despair. But there
was a clean, matronly woman in the place, gliding about from side to
side with a cloth in her hands, and wiping first one, then another,
of these poor little relics of better days in a caressing way. The
shop had been her special care when times were good, and she clung
affectionately to its ruins still. Besides, going about cleaning and
arranging the little empty things in this way looked almost like
doing business. But, nevertheless, the woman had a cheerful, good-
humoured countenance. The sunshine of hope was still warm in her
heart; though there was a touch of pathos in the way she gave the
little rough counter another kindly wipe now and then, as if she
wished to keep its spirits up; and in the way she looked, now at the
buttermilk mug, then at the open door, and then at the four glass
bottles in the window, which had been gazed at so oft and so eagerly
by little children outside, in the days when spice was in them. . .
. The husband came in from the little back room. He was a hardy,
frank-looking man, and, like his wife, a trifle past middle age, I
thought; but he had nothing to say, as he stood there with his wife,
by the counter side. She answered our questions freely and simply,
and in an uncomplaining way, not making any attempt to awaken
sympathy by enlarging upon the facts of their condition. Theirs was
a family of seven--man, wife, and five children. The man was a
spinner; and his thrifty wife had managed the little shop, whilst he
worked at the mill. There are many striving people among the factory
operatives, who help up the family earnings by keeping a little shop
in this way. But this family was another of those instances in which
working people have been pulled down by misfortune before the
present crisis came on. Just previous to the mills beginning to work
short time, four of their five children had been lying ill, all at
once, for five months; and, before that trouble befell them, one of
the lads had two of his fingers taken off, whilst working at the
factory, and so was disabled a good while. It takes little
additional weight to sink those whose chins are only just above
water; and these untoward circumstances oiled the way of this
struggling family to the ground, before the mills stopped. A few
months' want of work, with their little stock of shop stuff oozing
away--partly on credit to their poor neighbours, and partly to live
upon themselves --and they become destitute of all, except a few
beggarly remnants of empty shop furniture. Looking round the place,
I said," Well, missis, how's trade?" "Oh, brisk," said she; and then
the man and his wife smiled at one another. "Well," said I, "yo'n
sowd up, I see, heawever." "Ay," answered she, "we'n sowd up, for
sure--a good while sin';" and then she smiled again, as if she
thought she had said a clever thing. They had been receiving relief
from the parish several weeks; but she told me that some ill-natured
neighbour had "set it eawt," that they had sold off their stock out
of the shop, and put the money into the bank. Through this report,
the Board of Guardians had "knocked off" their relief for a
fortnight, until the falsity of the report was made clear. After
that, the Board gave orders for the man and his wife and three of
the children to be admitted to the workhouse, leaving the other two
lads, who were working at the "Stone Yard," to "fend for theirsels,"
and find new nests wherever they could. This, however, was overruled
afterwards; and the family is still holding together in the empty
shop,--receiving from all sources, work and relief, about 13s. a
week for the seven,--not bad, compared with the income of very many
others. It is sad to think how many poor families get sundered and
scattered about the world in a time like this, never to meet again.
And the false report respecting this family in the little shop,
reminds me that the poor are not always kind to the poor. I learnt,
from a gentleman who is Secretary to the Relief Committee of one of
the wards, that it is not uncommon for the committees to receive
anonymous letters, saying that so and so is unworthy of relief, on
some ground or other. These complaints were generally found to be
either wholly false, or founded upon some mistake. I have three such
letters now before me. The first, written on a torn scrap of ruled
paper, runs thus:--"May 19th, 1862.--If you please be so kind as to
look after __ Back Newton Street Formerly a Resident of __ as i
think he is not Deserving Relief.--A Ratepayer." In each case I give
the spelling, and everything else, exactly as in the originals
before me, except the names. The next of these epistles says:--
"Preston, May 29th.--Sir, I beg to inform you that __, of Park Road,
in receipt from the Relief Fund, is a very unworthy person, having
worked two days since the 16 and drunk the remainder and his wife
also; for the most part, he has plenty of work for himself his wife
and a journeyman but that is their regular course of life. And the
S___s have all their family working full time. Yours respectfully."
These last two are anonymous. The next is written in a very good
hand, upon a square piece of very blue writing paper. It has a name
attached, but no address:--"Preston, June 2nd, 1862.--Mr. Dunn,--
Dear Sir, Would you please to inquire into the case of __, of __.
the are a family of 3 the man work four or more days per week on the
moor the woman works 6 days per week at Messrs Simpsons North Road
the third is a daughter 13 or 14 should be a weaver but to lasey she
has good places such as Mr. Hollins and Horrocks and Millers as been
sent a way for being to lasey. the man and woman very fond of drink.
I as a Nabour and a subscriber do not think this a proper case for
your charity. Yours truly, __." The committee could not find out the
writer of this, although a name is given. Such things as these need
no comment.
The next house we called at was inhabited by an old widow and her
only daughter. The daughter had been grievously afflicted with
disease of the heart, and quite incapable of helping herself during
the last eleven years. The poor worn girl sat upon an old tattered
kind of sofa, near the fire, panting for breath in the close
atmosphere. She sat there in feverish helplessness, sallow and
shrunken, and unable to bear up her head. It was a painful thing to
look at her. She had great difficulty in uttering a few words. I can
hardly guess what her age may be now; I should think about twenty-
five. Mr Toulmin, one of the visitors who accompanied me to the
place, reminded the young woman of his having called upon them there
more than four years ago, to leave some bedding which had been
bestowed upon an old woman by a certain charity in the town. He saw
no more of them after that, until the present hard times began, when
he was deputed by the Relief Committee to call at that distressed
corner amongst others in his own neighbourhood; and when he first
opened the door, after a lapse of four years, he was surprised to
find the same young woman, sitting in the same place, gasping
painfully for breath, as he had last seen her. The old widow had
just been able to earn what kept soul and body together in her sick
girl and herself, during the last eleven years, by washing and such
like work. But even this resource had fallen away a good deal during
these bad times; there are so many poor creatures like herself,
driven to extremity, and glad to grasp at any little bit of
employment which can be had. In addition to what the old woman could
get by a day's washing now and then, she received 1s. 6d. a week
from the parish. Think of the poor old soul trailing about the
world, trying to "scratch a living" for herself and her daughter by
washing; and having to hurry home from her labour to attend to that
sick girl through eleven long years. Such a life is a good deal like
a slow funeral. It is struggling for a few breaths more, with the
worms crawling over you. And yet I am told that the old woman was
not accustomed to "make a poor mouth," as the saying goes. How true
it is that "a great many people in this world have only one form of
rhetoric for their profoundest experiences, namely--to waste away
and die."
Our next visit was to an Irish family. There was an old woman in,
and a flaxen-headed lad about ten years of age. She was sitting upon
a low chair,--the only seat in the place,--and the tattered lad was
kneeling on the ground before her, whilst she combed his hair out.
"Well, missis, how are you getting on amongst it?" "Oh, well, then,
just middlin', Mr T. Ye see, I am busy combin' this boy's hair a
bit, for 'tis gettin' like a wisp o' hay." There was not a vestige
of furniture in the cottage, except the chair the old woman sat on.
She said, "I did sell the childer's bedstead for 2s. 6d.; an' after
that I sold the bed from under them for 1s. 6d., just to keep them
from starvin' to death. The childer had been two days without mate
then, an' faith I couldn't bear it any longer. After that I did sell
the big pan, an' then the new rockin' chair, an' so on, one thing
after another, till all wint entirely, barrin' this I am sittin' on,
an' they wint for next to nothin' too. Sure, I paid 9s. 6d. for the
bed itself, which was sold for 1s. 6d. We all sleep on straw now."
This family was seven in number. The mill at which they used to work
had been stopped about ten months. One of the family had found
employment at another mill, three months out of the ten, and the old
man himself had got a few days' work in that time. The rest of the
family had been wholly unemployed, during the ten months. Except the
little money this work brought in, and a trifle raised now and then
by the sale of a bit of furniture when hunger and cold pressed them
hard, the whole family had been living upon 5s. a week for the last
ten months. The rent was running on. The eldest daughter was twenty-
eight years of age. As we came away Mr Toulmin said to me, "Well, I
have called at that house regularly for the last sixteen weeks, and
this is the first time I ever saw a fire in the place. But the old
man has got two days' work this week--that may account for the
fire."
It was now close upon half-past seven in the evening, at which time
I had promised to call upon the Secretary of the Trinity Ward Relief
Committee, whose admirable letter in the London Times, attracted so
much attention about a month ago. I met several members of the
committee at his lodgings, and we had an hour's interesting
conversation. I learnt that, in cases of sickness arising from mere
weakness, from poorness of diet, or from unsuitableness of the food
commonly provided by the committee, orders were now issued for such
kind of "kitchen physic" as was recommended by the doctors. The
committee had many cases of this kind. One instance was mentioned,
in which, by the doctor's advice, four ounces of mutton chop daily
had been ordered to be given to a certain sick man, until further
notice. The thing went on and was forgotten, until one day, when the
distributor of food said to the committeeman who had issued the
order, "I suppose I must continue that daily mutton chop to so-and-
so?" "Eh, no; he's been quite well two months?" The chop had been
going on for ninety-five days. We had some talk with that class of
operatives who are both clean, provident, and "heawse-preawd," as
Lancashire folk call it. The Secretary told me that he was averse to
such people living upon the sale of their furniture; and the
committee had generally relieved the distress of such people, just
as if they had no furniture, at all. He mentioned the case of a
family of factory operatives, who were all fervent lovers of music,
as so many of the working people of Lancashire are. Whilst in full
work, they had scraped up money to buy a piano; and, long after the
ploughshare of ruin had begun to drive over the little household,
they clung to the darling instrument, which was such a source of
pure pleasure to them, and they were advised to keep it by the
committee which relieved them. "Yes," said another member of the
committee," but I called there lately, and the piano's gone at
last." Many interesting things came out in the course of our
conversation. One mentioned a house he had called at, where there
was neither chair, table, nor bed; and one of the little lads had to
hold up a piece of board for him to write upon. Another spoke of the
difficulties which "lone women" have to encounter in these hard
times. "I knocked so-and-so off my list," said one of the committee,
"till I had inquired into an ill report I heard of her. But she came
crying to me; and I found out that the woman had been grossly
belied." Another (Mr Nowell) told of a house on his list, where they
had no less than one hundred and fifty pawn tickets. He told, also,
of a moulder's family, who had been all out of work and starving so
long, that their poor neighbours came at last and recommended the
committee to relieve them, as they would not apply for relief
themselves. They accepted relief just one week, and then the man
came and said that he had a PROSPECT of work; and he shouldn't need
relief tickets any longer. It was here that I heard so much about
anonymous letters, of which I have given you three samples. Having
said that I should like to see the soup kitchen, one of the
committee offered to go with me thither at six o'clock the next
morning; and so I came away from the meeting in the cool twilight.
Old Preston looked fine to me in the clear air of that declining
day. I stood a while at the end of the "Bull" gateway. There was a
comical-looking little knock-kneed fellow in the middle of the
street --a wandering minstrel, well known in Preston by the name of
"Whistling Jack." There he stood, warbling and waving his band, and
looking from side to side,--in vain. At last I got him to whistle
the "Flowers of Edinburgh." He did it, vigorously; and earned his
penny well. But even "Whistling Jack" complained of the times. He
said Preston folk had "no taste for music." But he assured me the
time would come when there would be a monument to him in that town.
CHAPTER VII.
About half-past six I found my friend waiting at the end of the
"Bull" gateway. It was a lovely morning. The air was cool and clear,
and the sky was bright. It was easy to see which was the way to the
soup kitchen, by the stragglers going and coming. We passed the
famous "Orchard," now a kind of fairground, which has been the scene
of so many popular excitements in troubled times. All was quiet in
the "Orchard" that morning, except that, here, a starved-looking
woman, with a bit of old shawl tucked round her head, and a pitcher
in her hand, and there, a bare-footed lass, carrying a tin can,
hurried across the sunny space towards the soup kitchen. We passed a
new inn, called "The Port Admiral." On the top of the building there
were three life-sized statues--Wellington and Nelson, with the Greek
slave between them--a curious companionship. These statues reminded
me of a certain Englishman riding through Dublin, for the first
time, upon an Irish car. "What are the three figures yonder?" said
he to the car-boy, pointing to the top of some public building.
"Thim three is the twelve apostles, your honour," answered the
driver. "Nay, nay," said the traveller,"that'll not do. How do you
make twelve out of three?" "Bedad," replied the driver, "your honour
couldn't expect the whole twelve to be out at once such a murtherin'
wet day as this." But we had other things than these to think of
that day. As we drew near the baths and washhouses, where the soup
kitchen is, the stream of people increased. About the gate there was
a cluster of melancholy loungers, looking cold and hungry. They were
neither going in nor going away. I was told afterwards that many of
these were people who had neither money nor tickets for food--some
of them wanderers from town to town; anybody may meet them limping,
footsore and forlorn, upon the roads in Lancashire, just now--
houseless wanderers, who had made their way to the soup kitchen to
beg a mouthful from those who were themselves at death's door. In
the best of times there are such wanderers; and, in spite of the
generous provision made for the relief of the poor, there must be,
in a time like the present, a great number who let go their hold of
home (if they have any), and drift away in search of better fortune,
and, sometimes, into irregular courses of life, never to settle
more. Entering the yard, we found the wooden sheds crowded with
people at breakfast--all ages, from white-haired men, bent with
years, to eager childhood, yammering over its morning meal, and
careless till the next nip of hunger came. Here and there a bonny
lass had crept into the shade with her basin; and there was many a
brown-faced man, who had been hardened by working upon the moor or
at the "stone-yard." "Theer, thae's shap't that at last, as how?"
said one of these to his friend, who had just finished and stood
wiping his mouth complacently. "Shap't that," replied the other,
"ay, lad, aw can do a ticket and a hafe (three pints of soup) every
morning." Five hundred people breakfast in the sheds alone, every
day. The soup kitchen opens at five in the morning, and there is
always a crowd waiting to get in. This looks like the eagerness of
hunger. I was told that they often deliver 3000 quarts of soup at
this kitchen in two hours. The superintendent of the bread
department informed me that, on that morning, he had served out two
thousand loaves, of 3lb. 11oz. each. There was a window at one end,
where soup was delivered to such as brought money for it instead of
tickets. Those who came with tickets--by far the greatest number--
had to pass in single file through a strong wooden maze, which
restrained their eagerness, and compelled them to order. I noticed
that only a small proportion of men went through the maze; they were
mostly women and children. There was many a fine, intelligent young
face hurried blushing through that maze--many a bonny lad and lass
who will be heard of honourably hereafter. The variety of utensils
presented showed that some of the poor souls had been hard put to it
for things to fetch their soup in. One brought a pitcher; another a
bowl; and another a tin can, a world too big for what it had to
hold. "Yo mun mind th' jug," said one old woman; "it's cracked, an'
it's noan o' mine." "Will ye bring me some?" said a little, light-
haired lass, holding up her rosy neb to the soupmaster. "Aw want a
ha'poth," said a lad with a three-quart can in his hand. The
benevolent-looking old gentleman who had taken the superintendence
of the soup department as a labour of love, told me that there had
been a woman there by half-past five that morning, who had come four
miles for some coffee. There was a poor fellow breakfasting in the
shed at the same time; and he gave the woman a thick shive of his
bread as she went away. He mentioned other instances of the same
humane feeling; and he said, "After what I have seen of them here, I
say, 'Let me fall into the hands of the poor.'"