Home Life of the Lancashire Factory Folk during the Cotton Famine - Edwin Waugh
The woman was quite right. Among the hard-tried operatives of
Lancashire I have seen several instances in which they have gone out
daily to beg; and some rare cases, even, in which they have stayed
moodily at home themselves and sent their children forth to beg; and
anybody living in this county will have noticed the increase of
mendicancy there, during the last few months. No doubt professional
beggars have taken large advantage of this unhappy time to work upon
the sympathies of those easy givers who cannot bear to hear the wail
of distress, however simulated--who prefer giving at once, because
it "does their own hearts good," to the trouble of inquiring or the
pain of refusing,--who would rather relieve twenty rogues than miss
the blessing of one honest soul who was ready to perish,--those
kind-hearted, free-handed scatterers of indiscriminate benevolence
who are the keen-eyed, whining cadger's chief support, his standing
joke, and favourite prey; and who are more than ever disposed to
give to whomsoever shall ask of them in such a season as this. All
the mendicancy which appears on our streets does not belong to the
suffering operatives of Lancashire. But, apart from those poor,
miserable crawlers in the gutters of life, who live by habitual and
unnecessary beggary, great and continued adversity is a strong test
of the moral tone of any people. Extreme poverty, and the painful
things which follow in its train--these are "bad to bide" with the
best of mankind. Besides, there are always some people who, from
causes within themselves, are continually at their wits' end to keep
the wolf from the door, even when employment is plentiful with them;
and there are some natures too weak to bear any long strain of
unusual poverty without falling back upon means of living which, in
easy circumstances, they would have avoided, if not despised. It is
one evil of the heavy pressure of the times; for there is fear that
among such as these, especially the young and plastic, some may
become so familiar with that beggarly element which was offensive to
their minds at first--may so lose the tone of independent pride, and
become "subdued to what they work in, like the dyer's hand,"--that
they may learn to look upon mendicancy as an easy source of support
hereafter, even in times of less difficulty than the present.
Happily, such weakness as this is not characteristic of the English
people; but "they are well kept that God keeps," and perhaps it
would not be wise to cramp the hand of relief too much at a time
like this, to a people who have been, and will be yet, the hope and
glory of the land.
CHAPTER XX.
"Poor Tom's a-cold! Who gives anything to poor Tom?"
--King Lear.
One sometimes meets with remarkable differences of condition in the
households of poor folk, which stand side by side in the same
street. I am not speaking of the uncertain shelters of those who
struggle upon the skirts of civilisation, in careless, uncared-for
wretchedness, without settled homes, or regular occupation,--the
miserable camp followers of life's warfare,--living habitually from
hand to mouth, in a reckless wrestle with the world, for mere
existence. I do not mean these, but the households of our common
working people. Amongst the latter one sometimes meets with striking
differences, in cleanliness, furniture, manners, intellectual
acquirements, and that delicate compound of mental elements called
taste. Even in families whose earnings have been equal in the past,
and who are just now subject alike to the same pinch of adversity,
these disparities are sometimes very great. And, although there are
cases in which the immediate causes of these differences are evident
enough in the habits of the people, yet, in others, the causes are
so obscure, that the wisest observer would be most careful in
judging respecting them. I saw an example of this in a little bye-
street, at the upper end of Scholes--a quarter of Wigan where the
poorest of the poor reside, and where many decent working people
have lately been driven for cheap shelter by the stress of the
times. Scholes is one of those ash-pits of human life which may be
found in almost any great town; where, among a good deal of despised
stuff, which by wise treatment might possibly be made useful to the
world, many a jewel gets accidentally thrown away, and lost. This
bye-street of mean brick cottages had an unwholesome, outcast look;
and the sallow, tattered women, lounging about the doorways, and
listlessly watching the sickly children in the street, evinced the
prevalence of squalor and want there. The very children seemed
joyless at their play; and everything that met the eye foretold that
there was little chance of finding anything in that street but
poverty in its most prostrate forms. But, even in this unpromising
spot, I met with an agreeable surprise.
The first house we entered reminded me of those clean, lone
dwellings, up in the moorland nooks of Lancashire, where the sweet
influences of nature have free play; where the people have a
hereditary hatred of dirt and disorder; and where, even now, many of
the hardy mountain folk are half farmers, half woollen weavers,
doing their weaving in their own quiet houses, where the smell of
the heather and the song of the wild bird floats in at the workman's
window, blent with the sounds of rindling waters,--doing their
weaving in green sequestered nooks, where the low of kine, and the
cry of the moorfowl can be heard; and bearing the finished "cuts"
home upon their backs to the distant town. All was so bright in this
little cottage,--so tidy and serene,--that the very air seemed
clearer there than in the open street. The humble furniture, good of
its kind, was all shiny with "elbow grease," and some parts of it
looked quaint and well-preserved, like the heirlooms of a careful
cottage ancestry. The well polished fire-irons, and other metal
things, seemed to gather up the diffuse daylight and fling it back
in concentrated radiances that illuminated the shady cottage with
cheerful beauty. The little shelf of books, the gleaming window,
with its healthy pot flowers, the perfect order, and the trim
sweetness of everything, reminded me, as I have said, of the better
sort of houses where simple livers dwell, up among the free air of
the green hills--those green hills of Lancashire, the remembrance of
which will always stir my heart as long as it can stir to anything.
This cottage, in comparison with most of those which I had seen in
Scholes, looked like a glimpse of the star-lit blue peeping through
the clouds on a gloomy night. I found that it was the house of a
widower, a weaver of diaper, who was left with a family of eight
children to look after. Two little girls were in the house, and they
were humbly but cleanly clad. One of them called her father up from
the cellar, where he was working at his looms. He was a mild,
thoughtful-looking man, something past middle age. I could not help
admiring him as he stood in the middle of the floor with his
unsleeved arms folded, uttering quiet jets of simple speech to my
friend, who had known him before. He said that he hardly ever got
anything to do now, but when he was at work he could make about 7s.
2d. a week by weaving two cuts. He was receiving six tickets weekly
from the Relief Committee, which, except the proceeds of a little
employment now and then, was all that the family of nine had to
depend upon for food, firing, clothes, and rent. He said that he was
forced to make every little spin out as far as it would; but it kept
him bare and busy, and held his nose "everlastingly deawn to th'
grindlestone." But he didn't know that it was any use complaining
about a thing that neither master nor man could help. He durst say
that he could manage to grin and bide till things came round, th'
same as other folk had to do. Grumbling, in a case like this, was
like "fo'in eawt wi' th' elements," (quarrelling with a storm.) One
of his little girls was on her knees, cleaning the floor. She
stopped a minute, to look at my friend and me. "Come, my lass," said
her father, "get on wi' thi weshin'." "I made application for th'
watchman's place at Leyland Mill," continued he, "but I wur to lat.
. . . There's nought for it," continued he, as we came out of the
house, "there's nought for it but to keep one's een oppen, an' do as
weel as they con, till it blows o'er."
A few yards from this house, we looked in at a slip of a cottage, at
the corner of the row. It was like a slice off some other cottage,
stuck on at the end of the rest, to make up the measure of the
street; for it was less than two yards wide, by about four yards
long. There was only one small window, close to the door, and it was
shrouded by a dingy cotton blind. When we first entered, I could
hardly see what there was in that gloomy cell; but when the eyes
became acquainted with the dimness within, we found that there was
neither fire nor furniture in the place, except at the far end,
where an old sick woman lay gasping upon three chairs, thinly
covered from the cold. She was dying of asthma. At her right hand
there was another rickety chair, by the help of which she raised
herself up from her hard bed. She said that she had never been up
stairs during the previous twelve months, but had lain there, at the
foot of the stairs, all that time. She had two daughters. They were
both out of the house; and they had been out of work a long time.
One of them had gone to Miss B_'s to learn to sew. "She gets her
breakfast before she starts," said the old woman, "an' she takes a
piece o' bread with her, to last for th' day." It was a trouble to
her to talk much, so we did not stop long; but I could not help
feeling sorry that the poor old soul had not a little more comfort
to smooth her painful passage to the grave. On our way from this
place, we went into a cottage near the "Coal Yard," where a tall,
thin Irishwoman was washing some tattered clothes, whilst her
children played about the gutter outside. This was a family of
seven, and they were all out of work, except the father, who was
away, trying to make a trifle by hawking writing-paper and
envelopes. This woman told us that she was in great trouble about
one of her children--the eldest daughter, now grown up to womanhood.
"She got married to a sailor about two year ago," said she, "an' he
wint away a fortnit after, an' never was heard of since. She never
got the scrape ov a pen from him to say was he alive or dead. She
never heard top nor tail of him since he wint from her; an' the girl
is just pinin' away."
Poor folk have their full share of the common troubles of life,
apart from the present distress. The next place we visited was the
"Fleece Yard," another of those unhealthy courts, of which there are
so many in Scholes--where poverty and dirt unite to make life doubly
miserable. In this yard we went up three or four steps into a little
disorderly house, where a family of eleven was crowded. Not one of
the eleven was earning anything except the father, who was working
for ls. 3d. a day. In addition to this the family received four
tickets weekly from the Relief Committee. There were several of the
children in, and they looked brisk and healthy, in spite of the dirt
and discomfort of the place; but the mother was sadly "torn down" by
the cares of her large family. The house had a sickly smell. Close
to the window, a little, stiff built, bullet-headed lad stood,
stript to the waist, sputtering and splashing as he washed himself
in a large bowl of water, placed upon a stool. By his side there was
another lad three or four years older, and the two were having a bit
of famous fun together, quite heedless of all else. The elder kept
ducking the little fellow's head into the water, upon which the one
who was washing himself sobbed, and spat, and cried out in great
glee, "Do it again, Jack!" The mother, seeing us laugh at the lads,
said, "That big un's been powin' tother, an' th' little monkey's
gone an' cut every smite o' th' lad's toppin' off. "" Well," said
the elder lad, "Aw did it so as nobody can lug him. "And it
certainly was a close clip. We could see to the roots of the little
fellow's hair all over his round, hard head. "Come," said the
mother, "yo two are makin' a nice floor for mo. Thae'll do, mon;
arto beawn to lother o' th' bit o' swoap away that one has to wash
wi'; gi's howd on't this minute, an' go thi ways an' dry thisel',
thae little pouse, thae." We visited several other places in Scholes
that day, but of these I will say something hereafter. In the
evening I returned home, and the thing that I best remember hearing
on the way was an anecdote of two Lancashire men, who had been
disputing a long time about something that one of them knew little
of. At last the other turned to him, and said, "Jem; does thae know
what it is that makes me like thee so weel, owd brid?" "Naw; what is
it?" "Why; it's becose thae'rt sich a ___ foo!" "Well," replied the
other, "never thee mind that;" and then, alluding to the subject
they had been disputing about, he said, "Thae knows, Joe, aw know
thae'rt reet enough; but, by th' men, aw'll not give in till
mornin'."
CHAPTER XXI.
"Here, take this purse, thou whom the Heaven's plagues
Have humbled to all strokes."
--King Lear.
In the afternoon of the last day I spent in Wigan, as I wandered
with my friend from one cottage to another, in the long suburban
lane called "Hardy Butts," I bethought me how oft I had met with
this name of "Butts "connected with places in or close to the towns
of Lancashire. To me the original application of the name seems
plain, and not uninteresting. In the old days, when archery was
common in England, the bowmen of Lancashire were famous; and it is
more than likely that these yet so-called "Butts" are the places
where archery was then publicly practised. When Sir Edward Stanley
led the war-smiths of Lancashire and Cheshire to Flodden Field, the
men of Wigan are mentioned as going with the rest. And among those
"fellows fearce and freshe for feight," of whom the quaint old
alliterative ballad describes the array:-
"A stock of striplings strong of heart,
Brought up from babes with beef and bread,
From Warton unto Warrington
From Wigan unto Wiresdale--"
and, from a long list of the hills, and cloughs, and old towns of
the county--the bowmen of Lancashire did their share of work upon
that field. The use of the bow lingered longer in Lancashire than in
some parts of the kingdom--longer in England generally than many
people suppose. Sir Walter Scott says, in a note to his "Legend of
Montrose:" "Not only many of the Highlanders in Montrose's army used
these antique missiles, but even in England the bow and quiver, once
the glory of the bold yeomen of that land, were occasionally used
during the great civil wars."
But I have said enough upon this subject in this place. My friend's
business, and mine, in Wigan, that day, was connected with other
things. He was specially wishful that I should call upon an
acquaintance of his, who lived in "Hardy Butts," an old man and very
poor; a man heavily stricken by fortune's blows, yet not much tamed
thereby; a man "steeped to the lips" in poverty, yet of a jocund
spirit; a humorist and a politician, among his humble companions. I
felt curious to see this "Old John," of whom I heard so much. We
went to the cottage where he lived. There was very little furniture
in the place, and, like the house itself, it was neither good nor
clean; but then the poverty-stricken pair were very old, and, so far
as household comfort went, they had to look after themselves. When
we entered, the little wrinkled woman sat with her back to us,
smoking, and gazing at the dirty grate, where a few hot cinders
glowed dimly in the lowmost bars. "Where's John?" said my friend.
"He hasn't bin gone eawt aboon five minutes," said she, turning
round to look at us, "Wur yo wantin' him?" "Yes, I should like to
see him." She looked hard at my friend again, and then cried out,
"Eh, is it yo? Come, an' sit yo deawn! aw'll go an' see iv aw can
root him up for yo!" But we thought it as well to visit some other
houses in the neighbourhood, calling at old John's again afterwards;
so we told the old woman, and came away.
My friend was well known to the poor people of that neighbourhood as
a member of the Relief Committee, and we had not gone many yards
down "Hardy Butts" before we drew near where three Irishwomen were
sitting upon the doorsteps of a miserable cottage, chattering, and
looking vacantly up and down the slutchy street. As soon as they
caught sight of my friend, one of the women called out, "Eh, here's
Mr Lea! Come here, now, Mr Lea, till I spake to ye. Ah, now;
couldn't ye do somethin' for old Mary beyant there? Sure the colour
of hunger's in that woman's face. Faith, it's a pity to see the way
she is,--neither husband nor son, nor chick nor child, nor bit nor
sup, barrin' what folk that has nothin' can give to her,--the
crayter." " Oh, indeed, then, sir," said another, "I'll lave it to
God; but that woman is starvin'. She is little more nor skin an'
bone,--and that's goin' less. Faith, she's not long for this world,
any how. . . . Bridget, ye might run an' see can she come here a
minute. . . . But there she is, standin' at the corner. Mary! Come
here, now, woman, till ye see the gentleman." She was a miserable-
looking creature; old, and ill, and thinly-clothed in rags, with a
dirty cloth tied round her head. My friend asked her some questions,
which she answered slowly, in a low voice that trembled with more
than the weakness of old age. He promised to see to the relief of
her condition immediately-- and she thanked him, but so feebly, that
it seemed to me as if she had not strength enough left to care much
whether she was relieved or not.
But, as we came away, the three Irishwomen, sitting upon the door-
steps, burst forth into characteristic expressions of gratitude.
"Ah! long life to ye, Mr Lea! The prayer o' the poor is wid ye for
evermore. If there was ony two people goin' to heaven alive, you'll
be wan o' them. . . That ye may never know want nor scant,--for the
good heart that's batein' in ye, Mr Lea." We now went through some
of the filthy alleys behind "Hardy Butts," till we came to the
cottage of a poor widow and her two daughters. The three were
entirely dependent upon the usual grant of relief from the
committee. My friend called here to inquire why the two girls had
not been to school during the previous few days; and whilst their
mother was explaining the reason, a neighbour woman who had seen us
enter, looked in at the door, and said, "Hey! aw say, Mr Lea!"
"Well, what's the matter?" " Whaw, there's a woman i'th next street
at's gettin' four tickets fro th' relief folk, reggilar, an' her
husban's addlin' thirty shillin' a week o' t' time, as a sinker--he
is for sure. Aw 'm noan tellin' yo a wort ov a lie. Aw consider sick
wark as that's noan reet--an' so mony folk clemmin' as there is i'
Wigan." He made a note of the matter; but he told me afterwards that
such reports were often found to be untrue, having their origin
sometimes in private spite or personal contention of some kind.
In the next house we called at, a widow woman lived, with her
married daughter, who had a child at the breast. The old woman told
her story herself; the daughter never spoke a word, so far as I
remember, but sat there, nursing, silent and sad, with half-averted
face, and stealing a shy glance at us now and then, when she thought
we were not looking at her. It was a clean cottage, though it was
scantily furnished with poor things; and they were both neat and
clean in person, though their clothing was meagre and far worn. I
thought, also, that the old woman's language, and the countenances
of both of them, indicated more natural delicacy of feeling, and
more cultivation, than is common amongst people of their condition.
The old woman said, "My daughter has been eawt o' work a long time.
I can make about two shillings and sixpence a-week, an' we've a
lodger that pays us two shillings a week; but we've three shillings
a-week to pay for rent, an' we must pay it, too, or else turn out.
But I'm lookin' for a less heawse; for we cannot afford to stop here
any longer, wi' what we have comin' in, --that is, if we're to live
at o'." I thought the house they were in was small enough and mean
enough for the poorest creature, and, though it was kept clean, the
neighbourhood was very unwholesome. But this was another instance of
how the unemployed operatives of Lancashire are being driven down
from day to day deeper into the pestilent sinks of life in these
hard times. "This child of my daughter's," continued the old woman,
in a low tone, "this child was born just as they were puttin' my
husband into his coffin, an' wi' one thing an' another, we've had a
deal o' trouble. But one half o'th world doesn't know how tother
lives. My husban' lay ill i' bed three year; an' he suffered to that
degree that he was weary o' life long before it were o'er. At after
we lost him, these bad times coom on, an' neaw, aw think we're poo'd
deawn as nee to th' greawnd as ony body can be. My daughter's
husband went off a-seekin' work just afore that child was born,--an'
we haven't heard from him yet." My friend took care that his visit
should result in lightening the weight of the old woman's troubles a
little.
As we passed the doors of a row of new cottages at the top end of
"Hardy Butts," a respectable old man looked out at one of the
doorways, and said to my friend, "Could aw spake to yo a minute?" We
went in, and found the house remarkably clean, with good cottage
furniture in it. Two neighbour children were peeping in at the open
door. The old man first sent them away, and then, after closing the
door, he pointed to a good-looking young woman who stood blushing at
the entrance of the inner room, with a wet cloth in her hands, and
he said, "Could yo do a bit o' summat to help this lass till sich
times as hoo can get wark again? Hoo's noather feyther nor mother,
nor nought i'th world to tak to, but what aw can spare for her, an'
this is a poor shop to come to for help. Aw'm uncle to her." "Well,"
said my friend, "and cannot you manage to keep her?" "God bless yo!"
replied the old man, getting warm, "Aw cannot keep mysel'. Aw will
howd eawt as lung as aw can; but, yo know, what'll barely keep one
alive 'll clem two. Aw should be thankful iv yo could give her a bit
o' help whol things are as they are." Before the old man had done
talking, his niece had crept away into the back room, as if ashamed
of being the subject of such a conversation. This case was soon
disposed of to the satisfaction of the old man; after which we
visited three other houses in the same block, of which I have
nothing special to say, except that they were all inhabited by
people brought down to destitution by long want of work, and living
solely upon the relief fund, and upon the private charity of their
old employers. Upon this last source of relief too little has been
said, because it has not paraded itself before the public eye; but I
have had opportunities for seeing how wide and generous it is, and I
shall have abundant occasion for speaking of it hereafter. On our
way back, we looked in at "Old John's" again, to see if he had
returned home. He had been in, and he had gone out again, so we came
away, and saw nothing of him. Farther down towards the town, we
passed through Acton Square, which is a cleaner place than some of
the abominable nooks of Scholes, though I can well believe that
there is many a miserable dwelling in it, from what I saw of the
interiors and about the doorways, in passing.
The last house we called at was in this square, and it was a
pleasing exception to the general dirt of the neighbourhood. It was
the cottage of a stout old collier, who lost his right leg in one of
Wright's pits some years ago. My friend knew the family, and we
called there more for the purpose of resting ourselves and having a
chat than anything else. The old man was gray-haired, but he looked
very hale and hearty--save the lack of his leg. His countenance was
expressive of intelligence and good humour; and there was a touch of
quiet majesty about his massive features. There was, to me, a kind
of rude hint of Christopher North in the old collier's appearance.
His wife, too, was a tall, strong-built woman, with a comely and a
gentle face --a fit mate for such a man as he. I thought, as she
moved about, her grand bulk seemed to outface the narrow limits of
the cottage. The tiny house was exceedingly clean, and comfortably
furnished. Everything seemed to be in its appointed place, even to
the sleek cat sleeping on the hearth. There were a few books on a
shelf, and a concertina upon a little table in the corner. When we
entered, the old collier was busy with the slate and pencil, and an
arithmetic before him; but he laid them aside, and, doffing his
spectacles, began to talk with us. He said that they were a family
of six, and all out of work; but he said that, ever since he lost
his leg, the proprietors of the pit in which the accident happened
(Wright's) had allowed him a pension of six shillings a week, which
he considered very handsome. This allowance just kept the wolf from
their little door in these hard times. In the course of our
conversation I found that the old man read the papers frequently,
and that he was a man of more than common information in his class.
I should have been glad to stay longer with him, but my time was up;
so I came away from the town, thus ending my last ramble amongst the
unemployed operatives of Wigan. Since then the condition of the poor
there has been steadily growing worse, which is sure to be heard of
in the papers.