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.'"
"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."