We talked with the old schoolmistress in Cunliffe Street till it was
"high twelve" at noon, and then the kind jailer of learning's little
prison-house let all her fretful captives go. The clamorous elves
rushed through the doorway into the street, like a stream too big
for its vent, rejoicing in their new-found freedom and the open face
of day. The buzz of the little teaching mill was hushed once more,
and the old dame laid her knitting down, and quietly wiped her weak
and weary eyes. The daughters of music were brought low with her,
but, in the last thin treble of second childhood, she trembled forth
mild complaints of her neighbours' troubles, but very little of her
own. We left her to enjoy her frugal meal and her noontide reprieve
in peace, and came back to the middle of the town. On our way I
noticed again some features of street life which are more common in
manufacturing towns just now than when times are good. Now and then
one meets with a man in the dress of a factory worker selling
newspapers, or religious tracts, or back numbers of the penny
periodicals, which do not cost much. It is easy to see, from their
shy and awkward manner, that they are new to the trade, and do not
like it. They are far less dexterous, and much more easily "said,"
than the brisk young salesmen who hawk newspapers in the streets of
Manchester. I know that many of these are unemployed operatives
trying to make an honest penny in this manner till better days
return. Now and then, too, a grown-up girl trails along the street,
"with wandering steps and slow," ragged, and soiled, and starved,
and looking as if she had travelled far in the rainy weather,
houseless and forlorn. I know that such sights may be seen at any
time, but not near so often as just now; and I cannot help thinking
that many of these are poor sheep which have strayed away from the
broken folds of labour. Sometimes it is an older woman that goes by,
with a child at the breast, and one or two holding by the skirt of
her tattered gown, and perhaps one or two more limping after, as she
crawls along the pavement, gazing languidly from side to side among
the heedless crowd, as if giving her last look round the world for
help, without knowing where to get it, and without heart to ask for
it. It is easy to give wholesale reasons why nobody needs to be in
such a condition as this; but it is not improbable that there are
some poor souls who, from no fault of their own, drop through the
great sieve of charity into utter destitution. "They are well kept
that God keeps." May the continual dew of Heaven's blessing gladden
the hearts of those who deal kindly with them!
After dinner I fell into company with some gentlemen who were
talking about the coming guild--that ancient local festival, which
is so clear to the people of Preston, that they are not likely to
allow it to go by wholly unhonoured, however severe the times may
be. Amongst them was a gray-haired friend of mine, who is a genuine
humorist. He told us many quaint anecdotes. One of them was of a man
who went to inquire the price of graves in a certain cemetery. The
sexton told him that they were 1 pound on this side, and 2 pounds on
the other side of the knoll. "How is it that they are 2 pounds on
the other side?" inquired the man. "Well, becose there's a better
view there," replied the sexton. There were three or four millowners
in the company, and, when the conversation turned upon the state of
trade, one of them said, "I admit that there is a great deal of
distress, but we are not so badly off yet as to drive the operatives
to work for reasonable wages. For instance, I had a labourer working
for me at 10s. a-week; he threw up my employ, and went to work upon
the moor for 1s. a-day. How do you account for that? And then,
again, I had another man employed as a watchman and roller coverer,
at 18s. a-week. I found that I couldn't afford to keep him on at
18s., so I offered him 15s. a-week; but he left it, and went to work
on the moor at 1s. a-day; and, just now, I want a man to take his
place, and cannot get one." Another said, "I am only giving low
wages to my workpeople, but they get more with me than they can make
on the moor, and yet I cannot keep them." I heard some other things
of the same kind, for which there might be special reasons; but
these gentlemen admitted the general prevalence of severe distress,
and the likelihood of its becoming much worse.
At two o'clock I sallied forth again, under convoy of another member
of the Relief Committee, into the neighbourhood of Messrs Horrocks,
Miller, and Co.'s works. Their mill is known as "Th' Yard Factory."
Hereabouts the people generally are not so much reduced as in some
parts of the town, because they have had more employment, until
lately, than has been common elsewhere. But our business lay with
those distressed families who were in receipt of relief, and, even
here, they were very easy to find. The first house we called at was
inhabited by a family of five--man and wife and three children. The
man was working on the moor at one shilling a-day. The wife was
unwell, but she was moving about the house. They had buried one girl
three weeks before; and one of the three remaining children lay ill
of the measles. They had suffered a great deal from sickness. The
wife said, "My husband is a peawer-loom weighver. He had to come
whoam ill fro' his wark; an' then they shopped his looms, (gave his
work to somebody else,) an' he couldn't get 'em back again. He'll
get 'em back as soon as he con, yo may depend; for we don't want to
bother folk for no mak o' relief no lunger than we can help." In
addition to the husband's pay upon the moor, they were receiving 2s.
a week from the Committee, making altogether 8s. a week for the
five, with 2s. 6d. to pay out of it for rent. She said, "We would
rayther ha' soup than coffee, becose there's moor heytin' in it." My
friend looked in at the door of a cottage in Barton Street. There
was a sickly-looking woman inside. "Well, missis," said my friend,
jocularly, "how are you? because, if you're ill, I've brought a
doctor here." "Eh," replied she, "aw could be ill in a minute, if aw
could afford, but these times winnot ston doctors' bills. Besides,
aw never were partial to doctors' physic; it's kitchen physic at aw
want. Han yo ony o' that mak' wi' yo?" She said," My husban' were
th' o'erlooker o' th'weighvers at "Owd Tom's.' They stopt to fettle
th' engine a while back, an' they'n never started sin'. But aw guess
they wi'n do some day." We had not many yards to go to the next
place, which was a poor cottage in Fletcher's Row, where a family of
eight persons resided. There was very little furniture in the place,
but I noticed a small shelf of books in a corner by the window. A
feeble woman, upwards of seventy years old, sat upon a stool tending
the cradle of a sleeping infant. This infant was the youngest of
five children, the oldest of the five was seven years of age. The
mother of the three-weeks-old infant had just gone out to the mill
to claim her work from the person who had been filling her place
during her confinement. The old woman said that the husband was "a
grinder in a card-room when they geet wed, an' he addled about 8s. a
week; but, after they geet wed, his wife larn't him to weighve upo'
th' peawer-looms." She said that she was no relation to them, but
she nursed, and looked after the house for them. "They connot afford
to pay mo nought," continued she, "but aw fare as they fare'n, an'
they dunnot want to part wi' me. Aw'm not good to mich, but aw can
manage what they wanten, yo see'n. Aw never trouble't noather teawn
nor country i' my life, an' aw hope aw never shall for the bit o'
time aw have to do on." She said that the Board of Guardians had
allowed the family 10s. a week for the two first weeks of the wife's
confinement, but now their income amounted to a little less than one
shilling a head per week.
Leaving this house, we turned round the corner into St Mary's Street
North. Here we found a clean-looking young working man standing
shivering by a cottage door, with his hands in his pockets. He was
dressed in well-mended fustian, and he had a cloth cap on his head.
His face had a healthy hunger-nipt look. "Hollo," said my friend, "I
thought you was working on the moor." "Ay," replied the young man,
"Aw have bin, but we'n bin rain't off this afternoon." "Is there
nobody in?" said my friend. "Naw, my wife's gone eawt; hoo'll not be
mony minutes. Hoo's here neaw." A clean little pale woman came up,
with a child in her arms, and we went in. They had not much
furniture in the small kitchen, which was the only place we saw, but
everything was sweet and orderly. Their income was, as usual in
relief cases, about one shilling a head per week. "You had some
lodgers," said my friend. "Ay," said she,"but they're gone." "How's
that?" "We had a few words. Their little lad was makin' a great
noise i' the passage theer, an' aw were very ill o' my yed, an' aw
towd him to go an' play him at tother side o' th' street,--so, they
took it amiss, an' went to lodge wi' some folk i' Ribbleton Lone."
We called at another house in this street. A family of six lived
there. The only furniture I saw in the place was two chairs, a
table, a large stool, a cheap clock, and a few pots. The man and his
wife were in. She was washing. The man was a stiff built, shock-
headed little fellow, with a squint in his eye that seemed to enrich
the good-humoured expression of his countenance. Sitting smiling by
the window, he looked as if he had lots of fun in him, if he only
had a fair chance of letting it off. He told us that he was a
"tackler" by trade. A tackler is one who fettles looms when they get
out of order. "Couldn't you get on at Horrocks's?" said my friend.
"Naw," replied he; "they'n not ha' men-weighvers theer." The wife
said," We're a deal better off than some. He has six days a week upo
th' moor, an' we'n 3s. a week fro th' Relief Committee. We'n 2s. 6d.
a week to pay eawt on it for rent; but then, we'n a lad that gets
4d. a day neaw an' then for puttin' bobbins on; an' every little
makes a mickle, yo known." "How is it that your clock's stopt?" said
I. "Nay," said the little fellow; "aw don't know. Want o' cotton,
happen,--same as everything else is stopt for." Leaving this house
we met with another member of the Relief Committee, who was
overlooker of a mill a little way off. I parted here with the
gentleman who had accompanied me hitherto, and the overlooker went
on with me.
In Newton Street he stopped, and said, "Let's look in here." We went
up two steps, and met a young woman coming out at the cottage door.
"How's Ruth?" said my friend. "Well, hoo is here. Hoo's busy bakin'
for Betty." We went in. "You're not bakin' for yourselves, then?"
said he. "Eh, naw," replied the young woman," it's mony a year sin'
we had a bakin' o' fleawr, isn't it, Ruth?" The old woman who was
baking turned round and said, "Ay; an' it'll be mony another afore
we han one aw deawt." There were three dirty-looking hens picking
and croodling about the cottage floor. "How is it you don't sell
these, or else eat 'em?" said he. "Eh, dear," replied the old woman,
"dun yo want mo kilt? He's had thoose hens mony a year; an' they
rooten abeawt th' heawse just th' same as greadley Christians. He
did gi' consent for one on 'em to be kilt yesterday; but aw'll be
hanged iv th' owd cracky didn't cry like a chylt when he see'd it
beawt yed. He'd as soon part wi' one o'th childer as one o'th hens.
He says they're so mich like owd friends, neaw. He's as quare as
Dick's hat-bant 'at went nine times reawnd an' wouldn't tee. . . .
We thought we'd getten a shop for yon lad o' mine t'other day. We
yerd ov a chap at Lytham at wanted a lad to tak care o' six
jackasses an' a pony. Th' pony were to tak th' quality to Blackpool,
and such like. So we fettled th' lad's bits o' clooas up and made
him ever so daycent, and set him off to try to get on wi' th' chap
at Lytham. Well, th' lad were i' good heart abeawt it; an' when he
geet theer th' chap towd him at he thought he wur very likely for
th' job, so that made it better,--an' th' lad begun o' wearin' his
bit o' brass o' summat to eat, an' sich like, thinkin' he're sure o'
th' shop. Well, they kept him there, dallyin', aw tell yo, an' never
tellin' him a greadley tale, fro Sunday till Monday o' th' neet, an'
then,--lo an' behold,--th' mon towd him that he'd hire't another;
and th' lad had to come trailin' whoam again, quite deawn i'th'
meawth. Eh, aw wur some mad! Iv aw'd been at th' back o' that chap,
aw could ha' punce't him, see yo!" "Well," said my friend, "there's
no work yet, Ruth, is there?" "Wark! naw; nor never will be no moor,
aw believe." "Hello, Ruth!" said the young woman, pointing through
the window, "dun yo know who yon is?" "Know? ay," replied the old
woman; "He's getten aboon porritch neaw, has yon. He walks by me
i'th street, as peart as a pynot, an' never cheeps. But, he's no
'casion. Aw know'd him when his yure stickt out at top ov his hat;
and his shurt would ha' hanged eawt beheend, too,--like a Wigan
lantron,--iv he'd had a shurt."