Home Life of the Lancashire Factory Folk during the Cotton Famine - Edwin Waugh
"They who, half-fed, feed the breadless, in the travail of distress;
They who, taking from a little, give to those who still have less;
They who, needy, yet can pity when they look on greater need;
These are Charity's disciples,--these are Mercy's sons indeed."
We returned to the middle of the town just as the shopkeepers in
Friargate were beginning to take their shutters down. I had another
engagement at half-past nine. A member of the Trinity Ward Relief
Committee, who is master of the Catholic school in that ward, had
offered to go with me to visit some distressed people who were under
his care in that part of the town. We left Friargate at the
appointed time. As we came along there was a crowd in front of
Messrs Wards', the fishmongers. A fine sturgeon had just been
brought in. It had been caught in the Ribble that morning. We went
in to look at the royal fish. It was six feet long, and weighed
above a hundred pounds. I don't know that I ever saw a sturgeon
before. But we had other fish to fry; and so we went on. The first
place we called at was a cellar in Nile Street. "Here," said my
companion, "let us have a look at old John." A gray-headed little
man, of seventy, lived down in this one room, sunken from the
street. He had been married forty years, and if I remember aright,
he lost his wife about four years ago. Since that time, he had lived
in this cellar, all alone, washing and cooking for himself. But I
think the last would not trouble him much, for "they have no need
for fine cooks who have only one potato to their dinner." When a
lad, he had been apprenticed to a bobbin turner. Afterwards he
picked up some knowledge of engineering; and he had been "well off
in his day." He now got a few coppers occasionally from the poor
folk about, by grinding knives, and doing little tinkering jobs.
Under the window he had a rude bench, with a few rusty tools upon
it, and in one corner there was a low, miserable bedstead, without
clothing upon it. There was one cratchinly chair in the place, too;
but hardly anything else. He had no fire; be generally went into
neighbours' houses to warm himself. He was not short of such food as
the Relief Committees bestow. There was a piece of bread upon the
bench, left from his morning meal; and the old fellow chirruped
about, and looked as blithe as if he was up to the middle in clover.
He showed us a little thing which he had done "for a bit ov a
prank." The number of his cellar was 8, and he had cut out a large
tin figure of 8, a foot long, and nailed it upon his door, for the
benefit of some of his friends that were getting bad in their
eyesight, and "couldn't read smo' print so low deawn as that."
"Well, John," said my companion, when we went in, "how are you
getting on?" "Oh, bravely," replied he, handing a piece of blue
paper to the inquirer, "bravely; look at that!" Why, this is a
summons," said my companion. "Ay, bigad is't, too," answered the old
man. "Never had sich a thing i' my life afore! Think o' me gettin' a
summons for breakin' windows at seventy year owd. A bonny warlock,
that, isn't it? Why, th' whole street went afore th' magistrates to
get mo off." "Then you did get off, John?" "Get off! Sure, aw did.
It wur noan o' me. It wur a keaw jobber, at did it. . . . Aw'll tell
yo what, for two pins aw'd frame that summons, an' hang it eawt o'
th' window; but it would look so impudent." Old John's wants were
inquired into, and we left him fiddling among his rusty tools. We
next went to a place called Hammond's Row--thirteen poor cottages,
side by side. Twelve of the thirteen were inhabited by people
living, almost entirely, upon relief, either from the parish or from
the Relief Committee. There was only one house where no relief was
needed. As we passed by, the doors were nearly all open, and the
interiors all presented the same monotonous phase of destitution.
They looked as if they had been sacked by bum-bailiffs. The topmost
house was the only place where I saw a fire. A family of eight lived
there. They were Irish people. The wife, a tall, cheerful woman, sat
suckling her child, and giving a helping hand now and then to her
husband's work. He was a little, pale fellow, with only one arm, and
he had an impediment in his speech. He had taken to making cheap
boxes of thin, rough deal, afterwards covered with paper. With the
help of his wife he could make one in a day, and he got ninepence
profit out of it--when the box was sold. He was working at one when
we went in, and he twirled it proudly about with his one arm, and
stammered out a long explanation about the way it had been made; and
then he got upon the lid, and sprang about a little, to let us see
how much it would bear. As the brave little tattered man stood there
upon the box-lid, springing, and sputtering, and waving his one arm,
his wife looked up at him with a smile, as if she thought him "the
greatest wight on ground." There was a little curly-headed child
standing by, quietly taking in all that was going on. I laid my hand
upon her head; and asked her what her name was. She popped her thumb
into her mouth, and looked shyly about from one to another, but
never a word could I get her to say. "That's Lizzy," said the woman;
"she is a little visitor belongin' to one o' the neighbours. They
are badly off, and she often comes in. Sure, our childer is very
fond of her, an' so she is of them. She is fine company wid
ourselves, but always very shy wid strangers. Come now, Lizzy,
darlin'; tell us your name, love, won't you, now?" But it was no
use; we couldn't get her to speak. In the next cottage where we
called, in this row, there was a woman washing. Her mug was standing
upon a stool in the middle of the floor; and there was not any other
thing in the place in the shape of furniture or household utensil.
The walls were bare of everything, except a printed paper, bearing
these words:
"The wages of sin is death. But the gift of God is eternal life,
through Jesus Christ our Lord." We now went to another street, and
visited the cottage of a blind chairmaker, called John Singleton. He
was a kind of oracle among the poor folk of the neighbourhood. The
old chairmaker was sitting by the fire when we went in; and opposite
to him sat "Old John," the hero of the broken windows in Nile
Street. He had come up to have a crack with his blind crony. The
chairmaker was seventy years of age, and he had benefited by the
advantage of good fundamental instruction in his youth. He was very
communicative. He said he should have been educated for the
priesthood, at Stonyhurst College. "My clothes were made, an'
everything was ready for me to start to Stonyhurst. There was a
stagecoach load of us going; but I failed th' heart, an' wouldn't
go--an' I've forethought ever sin'. Mr Newby said to my friends at
the same time, he said, 'You don't need to be frightened of him;
he'll make the brightest priest of all the lot--an' I should, too. .
. . I consider mysel' a young man yet, i' everything, except it be
somethin' at's uncuth to me." And now, old John, the grinder, began
to complain again of how badly he had been used about the broken
windows in Nile Street. But the old chairmaker stopped him; and,
turning up his blind eyes, he said, "John, don't you be foolish.
Bother no moor abeawt it. All things has but a time."
CHAPTER VIII.
A man cannot go wrong in Trinity Ward just now, if he wants to see
poor folk. He may find them there at any time, but now he cannot
help but meet them; and nobody can imagine how badly off they are,
unless he goes amongst them. They are biding the hard time out
wonderfully well, and they will do so to the end. They certainly
have not more than a common share of human frailty. There are those
who seem to think that when people are suddenly reduced to poverty,
they should become suddenly endowed with the rarest virtues; but it
never was so, and, perhaps, never will be so long as the world
rolls. In my rambles about this ward, I was astonished at the dismal
succession of destitute homes, and the number of struggling owners
of little shops, who were watching their stocks sink gradually down
to nothing, and looking despondingly at the cold approach of
pauperism. I was astonished at the strings of dwellings, side by
side, stript, more or less, of the commonest household utensils--the
poor little bare houses, often crowded with lodgers, whose homes had
been broken up elsewhere; sometimes crowded, three or four families
of decent working people in a cottage of half-a-crown a-week rental;
sleeping anywhere, on benches or on straw, and afraid to doff their
clothes at night time because they had no other covering. Now and
then the weekly visitor comes to the door of a house where he has
regularly called. He lifts the latch, and finds the door locked. He
looks in at the window. The house is empty, and the people are gone-
-the Lord knows where. Who can tell what tales of sorrow will have
their rise in the pressure of a time like this--tales that will
never be written, and that no statistics will reveal.
Trinity Ward swarms with factory operatives; and, after our chat
with blind John, the chairmaker, and his ancient crony the grinder
from Nile Street, we set off again to see something more of them.
Fitful showers came down through the day, and we had to shelter now
and then. In one cottage, where we stopped a few minutes, the old
woman told us that, in addition to their own family, they had three
young women living with them--the orphan daughters of her husband's
brother. They had been out of work thirty-four weeks, and their
uncle--a very poor man--had been obliged to take them into his
house, "till sich times as they could afford to pay for lodgin's
somewheer else." My companion asked whether they were all out of
work still. "Naw," replied the old woman, "one on 'em has getten on
to wortch a few days for t' sick (that is, in the place of some sick
person). Hoo's wortchin' i' th' cardreawn at 'Th' Big-un.'" (This is
the name they give to Messrs Swainson and Birley's mill.)
The next place we called at was the house of an old joiner. He was
lying very ill upstairs. As we drew up to the door, my companion
said, "Now, this is a clean, respectable family. They have struggled
hard and suffered a great deal, before they would ask for relief."
When we went in, the wife was cleaning her well-nigh empty house.
"Eh," said she," I thought it wur th' clubman comin', an' I wur just
goin' to tell him that I had nothin' for him." The family was seven
in number--man, wife, and five children. The husband, as I have
said, was lying ill. The wife told me that they had only 6s. a-week
coming in for the seven to live upon. My companion was the weekly
visitor who relieved them. She told me that her husband was sixty-
eight years old; she was not forty. She said that her husband was
not strong, and he had been going nearly barefoot and "clemmed" all
through last winter, and she was afraid he had got his death of
cold. They had not a bed left to lie upon. "My husband," said
she,"was a master joiner once, an' was doin' very well. But you see
how we are now." There were two portraits--oil paintings--hanging
against the wall. "Whose portraits are these?" said I. "Well; that's
my master--an' this is me," replied she. "He would have 'em taken
some time since. I couldn't think o' sellin' 'em; or else, yo see,
we've sold nearly everything we had. I did try to pawn 'em, too,
thinkin' we could get 'em back again when things came round; but, I
can assure yo, I couldn't find a broker anywhere that would tak' 'em
in." "Well, Missis," said my companion, "yo have one comfort; you
are always clean." "Eh, bless yo!" replied she, "I couldn't live
among dirt! My husban' tells me that I clean all the luck away; but
aw'm sure there's no luck i' filth; if there is, anybody may tak' it
for me."
The rain had stopt again; and after my friend had made a note
respecting some additional relief for the family, we bade the woman
good day. We had not gone far before a little ragged lass looked up
admiringly at two pinks I had stuck in my buttonhole, and holding up
her hand, said, "Eh, gi' me a posy!" My friend pointed to one of the
cottages we passed, and said that the last time he called there, he
found the family all seated round a large bowl of porridge, made of
Indian meal. This meal is sold at a penny a pound. He stopped at
another cottage and said, "Here's a house where I always find them
reading when I call. I know the people very well." He knocked and
tried the latch, but there was nobody in. As we passed an open door,
the pleasant smell of oatcake baking came suddenly upon me. It woke
up many memories of days gone by. I saw through the window a stout,
meal-dusted old woman, busy with her wooden ladle and baking-shovel
at a brisk oven. "Now, I should like to look in there for a minute
or two, if it can be done," said I. "Well," replied my friend, "this
woman is not on our books; she gets her own living in the way you
see. But come in; it will be all right; I know her very well." I was
glad of that, for I wanted to have a chat with her, and to peep at
the baking. "Good morning, Missis," said he; "how are you?" "Why,
just in a middlin' way." "How long is this wet weather going to
last, think you?" "Nay, there ye hev me fast;--but what brings ye
here this mornin'?" said the old woman, resting the end of her ladle
on the little counter; "I never trouble sic like chaps as ye." "No,
no," replied my friend; "we have not called about anything of that
kind." "What, then, pray ye?" "Well, my friend, here, is almost a
stranger in Preston; and as soon as ever he smelt the baking, he
said he should like to see it, so I took the liberty of bringing him
in." "Oh, ay; come in, an' welcome. Ye're just i' time, too; for
I've bin sat at t' back to sarra (serve) t' pigs." "You're not a
native of Lancashire, Missis," said I. "Why, wheer then? come, now;
let's be knowin', as ye're so sharp." "Cumberland," said I. "Well,
now; ye're reight, sewer enough. But how did ye find it out, now?"
"Why, you said that you had been out to sarra t' pigs. A native of
Lancashire would have said 'serve' instead of 'sarra.'" "Well,
that's varra queer; for I've bin a lang time away from my awn
country. But, whereivver do ye belang to, as ye're so bowd wi' me?"
said she, smiling, and turning over a cake which was baking upon the
oven. I told her that I was born a few miles from Manchester.
"Manchester! never, sewer;" said she, resting her ladle again; "why,
I lived ever so long i' Manchester when I was young. I was cook at
th' Swan i' Shudehill, aboon forty year sin." She said that, in
those days, the Swan, in Shudehill, was much frequented by the
commercial men of Manchester. It was a favourite dining house for
them. Many of them even brought their own beefsteak on a skewer; and
paid a penny for the cooking of it. She said she always liked
Manchester very well; but she had not been there for a good while.
"But," said she, "ye'll hev plenty o' oatcake theer--sartin." "Not
much, now," replied I; "it's getting out o' fashion." I told her
that we had to get it once a week from a man who came all the way
from Stretford into Manchester, with a large basketful upon his
head, crying "Woat cakes, two a penny!" "Two a penny!" said she;
"why, they'll not be near as big as these, belike." "Not quite,"
replied I. "Not quite! naw; not hauf t' size, aw warnd! Why, th'
poor fellow desarves his brass iv he niver gev a farthin' for th'
stuff to mak 'eni on. What! I knaw what oatcake bakin' is."
Leaving the canny old Cumberland woman at her baking, we called at a
cottage in Everton Gardens. It was as clean as a gentleman's
parlour; but there was no furniture in sight except a table, and,
upon the table, a fine bush of fresh hawthorn blossom, stuck in a
pint jug full of water. Here, I heard again the common story--they
had been several months out of work; their household goods had
dribbled away in ruinous sales, for something to live upon; and now,
they had very little left but the walls. The little woman said to
me, "Bless yo, there is at thinks we need'n nought, becose we keepen
a daycent eawtside. But, I know my own know abeawt that. Beside, one
doesn't like to fill folk's meawths, iv one is ill off."
It was now a little past noon, and we spent a few minutes looking
through the Catholic schoolhouse, in Trinity Ward--a spacious brick
building. The scholars were away at dinner. My friend is master of
the school. His assistant offered to go with us to one or two Irish
families in a close wynd, hard by, called Wilkie's Court. In every
case I had the great advantage of being thus accompanied by
gentlemen who were friendly and familiar with the poor we visited.
This was a great facility to me. Wilkie's Court is a little cul de
sac, with about half-a-dozen wretched cottages in it, fronted by a
dead wall. The inhabitants of the place are all Irish. They were
nearly all kept alive by relief from one source or other; but their
poverty was not relieved by that cleanliness which I had witnessed
in so many equally poor houses, making the best use of those simple
means of comfort which are invaluable, although they cost little or
nothing. In the first house we called at, a middle-aged woman was
pacing slowly about the unwholesome house with a child in her arms.
My friend inquired where the children were. "They are in the houses
about; all but the one poor boy." "And where is he?" said I. "Well,
he comes home now an' agin; he comes an' goes; sure, we don't know
how. . . . Ah, thin, sir," continued she, beginning to cry, "I'll
tell ye the rale truth, now. He was drawn away by some bad lads, an'
he got three months in the New Bailey; that's God's truth. . . . Ah,
what'll I do wid him," said she, bursting into tears afresh;
"what'll I do wid him? sure, he is my own!" We did not stop long to
intrude upon such trouble as this. She called out as we came away to
tell us that the poor crayter next door was quite helpless. The next
house was, in some respects, more comfortable than the last, though
it was quite as poor in household goods. There was one flimsy deal
table, one little chair, and two half-penny pictures of Catholic
saints pinned against the wall. "Sure, I sold the other table since
you wor here before," said the woman to my friend; "I sold it for
two-an'-aightpence, an' bought this one for sixpence." At the house
of another Irish family, my friend inquired where all the chairs
were gone. "Oh," said a young woman," the baillies did fetch
uvverything away, barrin' the one sate, when we were livin' in
Lancaster Street." "Where do you all sit now, then?" "My mother sits
there," replied she, "an' we sit upon the flure." "I heard they were
goin' to sell these heawses," said one of the lads, "but, begorra,"
continued he, with a laugh, "I wouldn't wonder did they sell the
ground from under us next." In the course of our visitation a
thunder storm came on, during which we took shelter with a poor
widow woman, who had a plateful of steeped peas for sale, in the
window. She also dealt in rags and bones in a small way, and so
managed to get a living, as she said, "beawt troublin' onybody for
charity." She said it was a thing that folk had to wait a good deal
out in the cold for.
It was market-day, and there were many country people in Preston. On
my way back to the middle of the town, I called at an old inn, in
Friargate, where I listened with pleasure a few minutes to the old-
fashioned talk of three farmers from the Fylde country. Their
conversation was principally upon cow-drinks. One of them said there
was nothing in the world like "peppermint tay an' new butter" for
cows that had the belly-ache. "They'll be reet in a varra few
minutes at after yo gotten that into 'em," said he. As evening came
on the weather settled into one continuous shower, and I left
Preston in the heavy rain, weary, and thinking of what I had seen
during the day. Since then I have visited the town again, and I
shall say something about that visit hereafter.
CHAPTER IX.
The rain had been falling heavily through the night. It was raw and
gusty, and thick clouds were sailing wildly overhead, as I went to
the first train for Preston. It was that time of morning when there
is a lull in the streets of Manchester, between six and eight. The
"knocker-up" had shouldered his long wand, and paddled home to bed
again; and the little stalls, at which the early workman stops for
his half-penny cup of coffee, were packing up. A cheerless morning,
and the few people that were about looked damp and low spirited. I
bought the day's paper, and tried to read it, as we flitted by the
glimpses of dirty garret-life, through the forest of chimneys,
gushing forth their thick morning fumes into the drizzly air, and
over the dingy web of Salford streets. We rolled on through
Pendleton, where the country is still trying to look green here and
there, under increasing difficulties; but it was not till we came to
where the green vale of Clifton open out, that I became quite
reconciled to the weather. Before we were well out of sight of the
ancient tower of Prestwich Church, the day brightened a little. The
shifting folds of gloomy cloud began to glide asunder, and through
the gauzy veils which lingered in the interspaces, there came a dim
radiance which lighted up the rain-drops "lingering on the pointed
thorns;" and the tall meadow grasses were swaying to and fro with
their loads of liquid pearls, in courtesies full of exquisite grace,
as we whirled along. I enjoyed the ride that raw morning, although
the sky was all gloom again long before we came in sight of the
Ribble.
I met my friend, in Preston, at half-past nine; and we started at
once for another ramble amongst the poor, in a different part of
Trinity Ward. We went first to a little court, behind Bell Street.
There is only one house in the court, and it is known as "Th' Back
Heawse." In this cottage the little house-things had escaped the
ruin which I had witnessed in so many other places. There were two
small tables, and three chairs; and there were a few pots and a pan
or two. Upon the cornice there were two pot spaniels, and two
painted stone apples; and, between them, there was a sailor waving a
union jack, and a little pudgy pot man, for holding tobacco. On the
windowsill there was a musk-plant; and, upon the table by the
staircase, there was a rude cage, containing three young throstles.
The place was tidy; and there was a kind-looking old couple inside.
The old man stood at the table in the middle of the floor, washing
the pots, and the old woman was wiping them, and putting them away.
A little lad sat by the fire, thwittling at a piece of stick. The
old man spoke very few words the whole time we were there, but he
kept smiling and going on with his washing. The old woman was very
civil, and rather shy at first; but we soon got into free talk
together. She told me that she had borne thirteen children. Seven of
them were dead; and the other six were all married, and all poor. "I
have one son," said she; "he's a sailmaker. He's th' best off of any
of 'em. But, Lord bless yo; he's not able to help us. He gets very
little, and he has to pay a woman to nurse his sick wife. . . . This
lad that's here,--he's a little grandson o' mine; he's one of my
dowter's childer. He brings his meight with him every day, an'
sleeps with us. They han bod one bed, yo see. His father hasn't had
a stroke o' work sin Christmas. They're badly off. As for us--my
husband has four days a week on th' moor,--that's 4s., an' we've 2s.
a week to pay out o' that for rent. Yo may guess fro that, heaw we
are. He should ha' been workin' on the moor today, but they've bin
rain't off. We've no kind o' meight i' this house bod three-ha'poth
o' peas; an' we've no firin'. He's just brokken up an owd cheer to
heat th' watter wi'. (The old man smiled at this, as if he thought
it was a good joke.) He helps me to wesh, an' sick like; an' yo'
know, it's a good deal better than gooin' into bad company, isn't
it? (Here the old man gave her a quiet, approving look, like a good
little lad taking notice of his mother's advice.) Aw'm very glad of
a bit o' help," continued she,"for aw'm not so terrible mich use,
mysel'. Yo see; aw had a paralytic stroke seven year sin, an' we've
not getten ower it. For two year aw hadn't a smite o' use all deawn
this side. One arm an' one leg trail't quite helpless. Aw drunk for
ever o' stuff for it. At last aw gat somethin' ov a yarb doctor. He
said that he could cure me for a very trifle, an' he did me a deal
o' good, sure enough. He nobbut charged me hauve-a-creawn. . . . We
never knowed what it was to want a meal's meight till lately. We
never had a penny off th' parish, nor never trouble't anybody till
neaw. Aw wish times would mend, please God! . . . We once had a pig,
an' was in a nice way o' gettin' a livin'. . . . When things began
o' gooin' worse an' worse with us, we went to live in a cellar, at
sixpence a week rent; and we made it very comfortable, too. We
didn't go there because we liked th' place; but we thought nobody
would know; an, we didn't care, so as we could put on till times
mended, an' keep aat o' debt. But th' inspectors turned us out, an'
we had to come here, an' pay 2s. a week. . . . Aw do NOT like to ask
for charity, iv one could help it. They were givin' clothin' up at
th' church a while sin', an' some o' th' neighbours wanted me to go
an' ax for some singlets, ye see aw cannot do without flannels,--but
aw couldn't put th' face on." Now, the young throstles in the cage
by the staircase began to chirp one after another. "Yer yo at that!
"said the old man, turning round to the cage; "yer yo at that!
Nobbut three week owd!" "Yes," replied the old woman; "they belong
to my grandson theer. He brought 'em in one day --neest an' all; an'
poor nake't crayters they were. He's a great lad for birds." "He's
no worse nor me for that," answered the old man; "aw use't to be
terrible fond o' brids when aw wur yung."