Home Life of the Lancashire Factory Folk during the Cotton Famine - Edwin Waugh
CHAPTER XVII.
"Lord! how the people suffer day by day
A lingering death, through lack of honest bread;
And yet are gentle on their starving way,
By faith in future good and justice led."
--BLACKBURN BARD.
It is a curious thing to note the various combinations of
circumstance which exist among the families of the poor. On the
surface they seem much the same; and they are reckoned up according
to number, income, and the like. But there are great differences of
feeling and cultivation amongst them; and then, every household has
a story of its own, which no statistics can tell. There is hardly a
family which has not had some sickness, some stroke of disaster,
some peculiar sorrow, or crippling hindrance, arising within itself,
which makes its condition unlike the rest. In this respect each
family is one string in the great harp of humanity--a string which,
touched by the finger of Heaven, contributes a special utterance to
that universal harmony which is too fine for mortal ears.
From the old weaver's house in "Coal Yard" we went to a place close
by, called "Castle Yard," one of the most unwholesome nooks I have
seen in Wigan yet, though there are many such in that part of the
town. It was a close, pestilent, little cul de sac, shut in by a
dead brick wall at the far end. Here we called upon an Irish family,
seven in number. The mother and two of her daughters were in. The
mother had sore eyes. The place was dirty, and the air inside was
close and foul. The miserable bits of furniture left were fit for
nothing but a bonfire. "Good morning, Mrs K_," said my friend, as we
entered the stifling house; "how are you geting on?" The mother
stood in the middle of the floor, wiping her sore eyes, and then
folding her hands in a tattered apron; whilst her daughters gazed
upon us vacantly from the background. "Oh, then," replied the woman,
"things is worse wid us entirely, sir, than whenever ye wor here
before. I dunno what will we do whin the winter comes." In reply to
me, she said, "We are seven altogether, wid my husband an' myself. I
have one lad was ill o' the yallow jaundice this many months, an'
there is somethin' quare hangin' over that boy this day; I dunno
whatever shall we do wid him. I was thinkin' this long time could I
get a ricommind to see would the doctor give him anythin' to rise an
appetite in him at all. By the same token, I know it is not a
convanient time for makin' appetites in poor folk just now. But
perhaps the doctor might be able to do him some good, by the way he
would be ready when times mind. Faith, my hands is full wid one
thing an' another. Ah, thin; but God is good, after all. We dunno
what is He goin' to do through the dark stroke is an' us this day."
Here my friend interrupted her, saying, "Don't you think, Mrs K_,
that you would be more comfortable if you were to keep your house
cleaner? It costs nothing, you know, but a little labour; and you
have nothing else to do just now." "Ah, then," replied she; "see
here, now. I was just gettin' the mug ready for that same, whenever
ye wor comin' into the yard, I was. "Here she turned sharply round,
and said to one of the girls, who was standing in the background,
"Go on, wid ye, now; and clane the flure. Didn't I tell ye many a
time this day?" The girl smiled, and shuffled away into a dingy
little room at the rear of the cottage. "Faith, sir," continued the
woman, beating time with her hand in the air; "faith, sir, it is not
aisy for a poor woman to manage unbiddable childer." "What part of
Ireland do you come from, Mrs K_?" said I. She hesitated a second or
two, and played with her chin; then, blushing slightly, she replied
in a subdued tone, "County Galway, sir." "Well," said I, "you've no
need to be ashamed of that." The woman seemed reassured, and
answered at once, "Oh, indeed then, sir, I am not ashamed--why would
I? I am more nor seventeen year now in England, an' I never
disguised my speech, nor disowned my country--nor I never will,
aither, plase God." She had said before that her husband was forty-
five years of age; and now I inquired what age she was. "I am the
same age as my husband," replied she. "Forty-five," said I. "No,
indeed, I am not forty-five," answered she; "nor forty naither."
"Are you thirty-eight?" "May be I am; I dunno. I don't think I am
thirty-eight naither; I am the same age as my husband." It was no
use talking, so the subject was dropped. As we came away, the woman
followed my friend to the door, earnestly pleading the cause of some
family in the neighbourhood, who were in great distress. "See now,"
said she, "they are a large family, and the poor crayters are
starvin'. He is a shoemaker, an' he doesn't be gettin' any work this
longtime. Oh, indeed, then, Mr Lea, God knows thim people is badly
off." My friend promised to visit the family she had spoken of, and
we came away. The smell of the house, and of the court altogether,
was so sickening that we were glad to get into the air of the open
street again.
It was now about half-past eleven, and my friend said, "We have
another workroom for young women in the schoolroom of St Catherine's
Church. It is about five minutes' walk from here; we have just time
to see it before they break up for dinner." It was a large, square,
brick building, standing by the road side, upon high ground, at the
upper end of Scholes. The church is about fifty yards east of the
schoolhouse. This workroom was more airy, and better lighted than
the one at the Mechanics' Institution. The floor was flagged, which
will make it colder than the other in winter time. There were four
hundred girls in this room, some engaged in sewing and knitting,
others in reading and writing. They are employed four days in the
week, and they are paid ninepence a day, as at the other two rooms
in the town. It really was a pleasant thing to see their clear,
healthy, blond complexions; their clothing, so clean and whole,
however poor; and their orderly deportment. But they had been
accustomed to work, and their work had given them a discipline which
is not sufficiently valued. There are people who have written a
great deal, and know very little about the influence of factory
labour upon health,--it would be worth their while to see some of
these workrooms. I think it would sweep cobwebs away from the
corners of their minds. The clothing made up in these workrooms is
of a kind suitable for the wear of working people, and is intended
to be given away to the neediest among them, in the coming winter. I
noticed a feature here which escaped me in the room at the
Mechanics' Institution. On one side of the room there was a flight
of wooden stairs, about six yards wide. Upon these steps were seated
a number of children, with books in their hands. These youngsters
were evidently restless, though not noisy; and they were not very
attentive to their books. These children were the worst clad and
least clean part of the assembly; and it was natural that they
should be so, for they were habitual beggars, gathered from the
streets, and brought there to be taught and fed. When they were
pointed out to me, I could not help thinking that the money which
has been spent upon ragged schools is an excellent investment in the
sense of world-wide good. I remarked to one of the ladies teaching
there, how very clean and healthy the young women looked. She said
that the girls had lately been more in the open air than usual.
"And," said she, speaking of the class she was superintending, "I
find these poor girls as apt learners as any other class of young
people I ever knew." We left the room just before they were
dismissed to dinner.
A few yards from the school, and by the same roadside, we came to a
little cottage at the end of a row. "We will call here," said my
friend; "I know the people very well. "A little, tidy, good-looking
woman sat by the fire, nursing an infant at the breast. The house
was clean, and all the humble furniture of the poor man's cottage
seemed to be still in its place. There were two shelves of books
hanging against the walls, and a pile of tracts and pamphlets, a
foot deep, on a small table at the back of the room. I soon found,
however, that these people were going through their share of the
prevalent suffering. The family was six in number. The comely little
woman said that her husband was a weaver of "Cross-over;" and I
suppose he would earn about six or seven shillings a week at that
kind of work; but he had been long out of work. His wife said, "I've
had to pop my husban's trousers an' waistcoat many a time to pay th'
rent o' this house." She then began to talk about her first-born,
and the theme was too much for her. "My owdest child was thirteen
when he died," said she. "Eh, he was a fine child. We lost him about
two years sin'. He was killed. He fell down that little pit o'
Wright's, Mr Lea, he did." Then the little woman began to cry, "Eh,
my poor lad! Eh, my fine little lad! Oh dear,--oh dear o' me!" What
better thing could we have done than to say nothing at such a
moment. We waited a few minutes until she became calm, and then she
began to talk about a benevolent young governess who used to live in
that quarter, and who had gone about doing good there, amongst "all
sorts and conditions of men," especially the poorest.
"Eh," said she; "that was a good woman, if ever there was one. Hoo
teached a class o' fifty at church school here, though hoo wur a
Dissenter. An' hoo used to come to this house every Sunday neet, an'
read th' Scripturs; an' th' place wur olez crammed--th' stairs an
o'. Up-groon fellows used to come an' larn fro her, just same as
childer--they did for sure--great rough colliers, an' o' mak's. Hoo
used to warn 'em again drinkin', an' get 'em to promise that they
wouldn't taste for sich a time. An' if ever they broke their
promise, they olez towd her th' truth, and owned to it at once. They
like as iv they couldn't for shame tell her a lie. There's one of
her scholars, a blacksmith--he's above fifty year owd--iv yo were to
mention her name to him just now, he'd begin a-cryin', an' he'd ha'
to walk eawt o'th heause afore he could sattle hissel'. Eh, hoo wur
a fine woman; an' everything that hoo said wur so striking. Hoo
writes to her scholars here, once a week; an' hoo wants 'em to write
back to her, as mony on 'em as con do. See yo; that's one ov her
letters!"
CHAPTER XVIII.
"Come, child of misfortune, come hither!
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear."
--TOM MOORE.
The weaver's wife spoke very feelingly of the young governess who
had been so good to the family. Her voice trembled with emotion as
she told of her kindnesses, which had so won the hearts of the poor
folk thereabouts, that whenever they hear her name now, their
tongues leap at once into heart-warm praise of her. It seems to have
been her daily pleasure to go about helping those who needed help
most, without any narrowness of distinction; in the spirit of that
"prime wisdom" which works with all its might among such elements as
lie nearest to the hand. Children and gray-haired working men
crowded into the poor cottages to hear her read, and to learn the
first elements of education at her free classes. She left the town,
some time ago, to live in the south of England; but the blessings of
many who were ready to perish in Wigan will follow her all her days,
and her memory will long remain a garden of good thoughts and
feelings to those she has left behind. The eyes of the weaver's wife
grew moist as she told of the old blacksmith, who could not bear to
hear her name mentioned without tears. On certain nights of the week
he used to come regularly with the rest to learn to read, like a
little child, from that young teacher. As I said in my last, she
still sends a weekly letter to her poor scholars in Wigan to
encourage them in their struggles, and to induce as many of them as
are able to write to her in return. "This is one of her letters,"
said the poor woman, handing a paper to me. The manner of the
handwriting was itself characteristic of kind consideration for her
untrained readers. The words stood well apart. The letters were
clearly divided, and carefully and distinctly written, in Roman
characters, a quarter of an inch long; and there was about three-
quarters of an inch of space between each line, so as to make the
whole easier to read by those not used to manuscript. The letter ran
as follows:--"Dear friends,--I send you with this some little books,
which I hope you will like to try to read; soon, I hope, I shall be
able to help you with those texts you cannot make out by yourselves.
I often think of you, dear friends, and wish that I could sometimes
take a walk to Scholefield's Lane. This wish only makes me feel how
far I am from you, but then I remember with gladness that I may
mention you all by name to our one Father, and ask Him to bless you.
Very often I do ask Him, and one of my strongest wishes is that we,
who have so often read His message of love together, may all of us
love the Saviour, and, through Him, be saved from sin. Dear friends,
do pray to Him. With kind love and best wishes to each one of you,
believe me always, your sincere friend, __." I have dwelt a little
upon this instance of unassuming beneficence, to show that there is
a great deal of good being done in this world, which is not much
heard of, except by accident. One meets with it, here and there, as
a thirsty traveller meets with an unexpected spring in the
wilderness, refreshing its own plot of earth, without noise or
ostentation.
My friend and I left the weaver's cottage, and came down again into
a part of Scholes where huddled squalor and filth is to be found on
all sides. On our way we passed an old tattered Irishwoman, who was
hurrying along, with two large cabbages clipt tight in her withered
arms. "You're doin' well, old lady," said I. "Faith," replied she,
"if I had a big lump ov a ham bone, now, wouldn't we get over this
day in glory, anyhow. But no matter. There's not wan lafe o' them
two fellows but will be clane out o' sight before the clock strikes
again." The first place we called at in this quarter was a poor
half-empty cottage, inhabited by an old widow and her sick daughter.
The girl sat there pale and panting, and wearing away to skin and
bone. She was far gone in consumption. Their only source of
maintenance was the usual grant of relief from the committee, but
this girl's condition needed further consideration. The old widow
said to my friend, "Aw wish yo could get me some sort o' nourishment
for this lass, Mr Lea; aw cannot get it mysel', an' yo see'n heaw
hoo is." My friend took a note of the case, and promised to see to
it at once. When great weltering populations, like that of
Lancashire, are thrown suddenly into such a helpless state as now,
it is almost impossible to lay hold at once of every nice
distinction of circumstances that gives a speciality of suffering to
the different households of the poor. But I believe, as this time of
trouble goes on, the relief committees are giving a more careful and
delicate consideration to the respective conditions of poor
families.
After leaving the old widow's house, as we went farther down into
the sickly hive of penury and dirt, called "Scholes," my friend told
me of an intelligent young woman, a factory operative and a Sunday-
school teacher, who had struggled against starvation, till she could
bear it no longer; and, even after she had accepted the grant of
relief, she "couldn't for shame" fetch the tickets herself, but
waited outside whilst a friend of hers went in for them. The next
house we visited was a comfortable cottage. The simple furniture was
abundant, and good of its kind, and the whole was remarkably clean.
Amongst the wretched dwellings in its neighbourhood, it shone "like
a good deed in a naughty world." On the walls there were several
Catholic pictures, neatly framed; and a large old-fashioned wooden
wheel stood in the middle of the floor, with a quantity of linen
yarn upon it. Old Stephen I__ and his cosy goodwife lived there. The
old woman was "putting the place to rights" after their noontide
meal; and Stephen was "cottering" about the head of the cellar steps
when we went in. There were a few healthy plants in the windows, and
everything gave evidence of industry and care. The good-tempered old
couple were very communicative. Old Stephen was a weaver of diaper;
and, when he had anything to do, he could earn about eight shillings
a week. "Some can get more than that at the same work," said he;
"but I am gettin' an old man, ye see. I shall be seventy-three on
the 10th of next October, and, beside that, I have a very bad arm,
which is a great hindrance to me." "He has had very little work for
months, now," said his wife; "an' what makes us feel it more, just
now, is that my son is over here on a visit to us, from Oscott
College. He is studying for the priesthood. He went to St John's,
here, in Wigan, for five years, as a pupil teacher; an' he took good
ways, so the principals of the college proposed to educate him for
the Church of Rome. He was always a good boy, an' a bright one, too.
I wish we had been able to entertain him better. But he knows that
the times are again us. He is twenty-four years of age; an' I often
think it strange that his father's birthday and his own fall on the
same day of the month--the 10th of October. I hope we'll both live
to see him an ornament to his profession yet. There is only the
girl, an' Stephen, an' myself left at home now, an' we have hard
work to pull through, I can assure ye; though there are many people
a dale worse off than we are."
From this place we went up to a street called "Vauxhall Road." In
the first cottage we called at here the inmates were all out of
work, as usual, and living upon relief. There happened to be a poor
old white-haired weaver sitting in the house,--an aged neighbour out
of work, who had come in to chat with my friend a bit. My friend
asked how he was getting on. "Yo mun speak up," said the woman of
the house, "he's very deaf." "What age are yo, maister?" said I.
"What?" "How old are yo?" "Aw'm a beamer," replied the old man, "a
twister-in,--when there's ought doin'. But it's nowt ov a trade
neaw. Aw'll tell yo what ruins me; it's these lung warps. They maken
'em seven an' eight cuts in, neaw an' then. There's so mony
'fancies' an' things i' these days; it makes my job good to nought
at o' for sich like chaps as me. When one gets sixty year owd, they
needen to go to schoo again neaw; they getten o'erta'en wi' so many
kerly-berlies o' one mak and another. Mon, owd folk at has to wortch
for a livin' cannot keep up wi' sich times as these,--nought o'th
sort." "Well, but how do you manage to live?" "Well, aw can hardly
tell,--aw'll be sunken iv aw can tell. It's very thin pikein'; but
very little does for me, an' aw've nought but mysel'. Yo see'n, aw
get a bit ov a job neaw an' then, an' a scrat amung th' rook, like
an owd hen. But aw'll tell yo one thing; aw'll not go up yon, iv aw
can help it,--aw'll not." ("Up yon" meant to the Board of
Guardians.) "Eh, now," said the woman of the house, "aw never see'd
sich a man as him i' my life. See yo, he'll sit an' clem fro mornin'
to neet afore he'll ax oather relief folk or onybody else for a
bite."
In the same street we called at a house where there was a tall, pale
old man, sitting sadly in an old arm-chair, by the fireside. The
little cottage was very sweet and orderly. Every window was cleaned
to its utmost nook of glass, and every bit of metal was brightened
up to the height. The flagged floor was new washed; and everything
was in its own place. There were a few books on little shelves, and
a Bible lay on the window-sill; and there was a sad, chapel-like
stillness in the house. A clean, staid-looking girl stood at a
table, peeling potatoes for dinner. The old man said, "We are five,
altogether, in this house. This lass is a reeler. I am a weighver;
but we'n bin out o' wark nine months, now. We'n bin force't to tak
to relief at last; an' we'n getten five tickets. We could happen ha'
manage't better,--but aw'm sore wi' rheumatism, yo see'n. Aw've had
a bit o' weighvin' i'th heawse mony a day, but aw've th' rheumatic
so bad i' this hond--it's hond that aw pick wi'--that aw couldn't
bide to touch a fither with it, bless yo. Aw have th' rheumatic all
o'er mo, nearly; an' it leads one a feaw life. Yo happen never had a
touch on it, had yo?" "Never." "Well; yo're weel off. When is this
war to end, thinken yo?" "Nay; that's a very hard thing to tell." "
Well, we mun grin an' abide till it's o'er, aw guess. It's a mad mak
o' wark. But it'll happen turn up for best i'th end ov o'."
CHAPTER XIX.
"Mother, heaw leets we han no brade,--
Heawever con it be?
Iv aw don't get some brade to eat,
Aw think 'at aw mun dee."
--Hungry Child.
It was about noon when we left the old weaver, nursing his rheumatic
limbs by the side of a dim fire, in his chapel-like little house.
His daughter, a tall, clean, shy girl, began to peel a few potatoes
just before we came away. It is a touching thing, just now, to see
so many decent cottages of thrifty working men brought low by the
strange events of these days; cottages in which everything betokens
the care of well-conducted lives, and where the sacred fire of
independent feeling is struggling through the long frost of
misfortune with patient dignity. It is a touching thing to see the
simple joys of life, in homes like these, crushed into a speechless
endurance of penury, and the native spirit of self-reliance writhing
in unavoidable prostration, and hoping on from day to day for better
times. I have seen many such places in my wanderings during these
hard days--cottages where all was so sweet and orderly, both in
person and habitation, that, but for the funereal stillness which
sat upon hunger-nipt faces, a stranger would hardly have dreamt that
the people dwelling there were undergoing any uncommon privation. I
have often met with such people in my rambles,--I have often found
them suffering pangs more keen than hunger alone could inflict,
because they arose from the loss of those sweet relations of
independence which are dear to many of them as life itself. With
such as these--the shy, the proud, the intelligent and uncomplaining
endurers--hunger is not the hardest thing that befalls:-
"When the mind's free,
The body's delicate; the tempest in their minds
Doth from their senses take all else,
Save what beats there."
People of this temper are more numerous amongst our working
population than the world believes, because they are exactly of the
kind least likely to be heard of. They will fight their share of the
battle of this time out as nobly as they have begun it; and it will
be an ill thing for the land that owns them if full justice is not
done to their worth, both now and hereafter.
In the same street where the old weaver lived, we called upon a
collier's family--a family of ten in number. The colliers of Wigan
have been suffering a good deal lately, among the rest of the
community, from shortness of labour. It was dinner-time when we
entered the house, and the children were all swarming about the
little place clamouring for their noontide meal. With such a rough
young brood, I do not wonder that the house was not so tidy as some
that I had seen. The collier's wife was a decent, good-tempered-
looking woman, though her face was pale and worn, and bore evidence
of the truth of her words, when she said, "Bless your life, aw'm
poo'd to pieces wi' these childer!" She sat upon a stool, nursing a
child at the breast, and doing her best to still the tumult of the
others, who were fluttering about noisily. "Neaw, Sammul," said she,
"theaw'll ha' that pot upo th' floor in now,--thae little pousement
thae! Do keep eawt o' mischief,--an' make a less din, childer, win
yo: for my yed's fair maddle't wi' one thing an' another . . .
Mary, tak' th' pon off th' fire, an' reach me yon hippin' off th'
oondur; an' then sit tho deawn somewheer, do,--thae'll be less bi
th' legs." The children ranged seemingly from about two months up to
fourteen years of age. Two of the youngest were sitting upon the
bottom step of the stairs, eating off one plate. Four rough lads
were gathered round a brown dish, which stood upon a little deal
table in the middle of the floor. These four were round-headed
little fellows, all teeming with life. "Yon catched us eawt
o'flunters, (out of order,)" said the poor woman when we entered;
"but what con a body do?" We were begging that she would not disturb
herself, when one of the lads at the table called out, "Mother; look
at eawr John. He keeps pushin' me off th' cheer!" "Eh, John,"
replied she; "I wish thy feyther were here! Thae'rt olez tormentin'
that lad. Do let him alone, wilto--or else aw'll poo that toppin' o'
thine, smartly--aw will! An' do see iv yo connot behave yorsels!"
"Well," said John; "he keeps takkin' my puddin'!" "Eh, what a
story," replied the other little fellow; "it wur thee, neaw!" "
Aw'll tell yo what it is," said the mother, "iv yo two connot agree,
an' get your dinner quietly, aw'll tak that dish away; an' yo'st not
have another bite this day. Heaw con yo for shame!" This quietened
the lads a little, and they went on with their dinner. At another
little table under the back window, two girls stood, dining off one
plate. The children were all eating a kind of light pudding, known
in Lancashire by the name of "Berm-bo," or, "Berm-dumplin'," made of
flour and yeast, mixed with a little suet. The poor woman said that
her children were all "hearty-etten," (all hearty eaters,)
especially the lads; and she hardly knew what to make for them, so
as to have enough for the whole. "Berm-dumplin'," was as satisfying
as anything that she could get, and it would "stick to their ribs"
better than "ony mak o' swill;" besides, the children liked it.
Speaking of her husband, she said, "He were eawt o' wark a good
while; but he geet a shop at last, at Blackrod, abeawt four mile off
Wigan. When he went a-wortchin' to Blackrod, at first, nought would
sarve but he would walk theer an' back every day, so as to save
lodgin' brass,--an sich like. Aw shouldn't ha' care't iv it had
nobbut bin a mile, or two even; for aw'd far rayther that he had his
meals comfortable awhoam, an' his bits o' clooas put reet; but Lord
bless yo,--eight mile a day, beside a hard day's wark,--it knocked
him up at last,--it were so like. He kept sayin', 'Oh, he could do
it,' an' sich like; but aw could see that he were fair killin'
hissel', just for the sake o' comin' to his own whoam ov a neet; an'
for th' sake o' savin' two or three shillin'; so at last aw turned
Turk, an' made him tak lodgin's theer. Aw'd summut to do to persuade
him at first, an' aw know that he's as whoam-sick as a chylt that's
lost its mother, just this minute; but then, what's th' matter o'
that,--it wouldn't do for mo to have him laid up, yo known. . . .
Oh, he's a very feelin' mon. Aw've sin him when he couldn't finish
his bit o' dinner for thinkin' o' somebody that were clemmin'."
Speaking of the hardships the family had experienced, she said, "Eh,
bless yo! There's some folk can sit i'th heawse an' send their
childer to prow eawt a-beggin' in a mornin', regilar,--but eawr
childer wouldn't do it,--an', iv they would, aw wouldn' let 'em,--
naw, not iv we were clemmin' to deeoth,--to my thinkin'."