"Oh, reason not the deed; our basest beggars
Are in the poorest things superfluous:
Allow not nature more than nature needs,
Man's life is cheap as beast's."
--King Lear.
A short fit of rain came on whilst we were in the cottage in Newton
Street, so we sat a little while with Ruth, listening to her quaint
tattle about the old man and his feathered pets; about the children,
the hard times, and her own personal ailments;--for, though I could
not help thinking her a very good-hearted, humorous old woman,
bravely disposed to fight it out with the troubles of her humble
lot, yet it was clear that she was inclined to ease her harassed
mind now and then by a little wholesome grumbling; and I dare say
that sometimes she might lose her balance so far as to think, like
"Natterin' Nan," "No livin' soul atop o't earth's bin tried as I've
bin tried: there's nob'dy but the Lord an' me that knows what I've
to bide."
Old age and infirmity, too, had found Ruth out, in her penurious
obscurity; and she was disposed to complain a little, like Nan,
sometimes, of "the ills that flesh is heir to:"-
"Fro' t' wind i't stomach, rheumatism,
Tengin pains i't gooms,
An' coughs, an' cowds, an' t' spine o't back,
I suffer martyrdom.
"Yet nob'dy pities mo, or thinks
I'm ailin' owt at all;
T' poor slave mun tug an' tew wi't wark,
Wolivver shoo can crawl."
Old Ruth was far from being as nattle and querulous as the famous
ill-natured grumbler so racily pictured by Benjamin Preston, of
Bradford; but, like most of the dwellers upon earth, she was a
little bit touched with the same complaint. When the rain was over,
we came away. I cannot say that the weather ever "cleared up" that
day; for, at the end of every shower, the dark, slow-moving clouds
always seemed to be mustering for another downfall. We came away,
and left the "cant" old body "busy bakin' for Betty," and "shooing"
the hens away from her feet, and she shuffled about the house. A few
yards lower in Newton Street, we turned up a low, dark entry, which
led to a gloomy little court behind. This was one of those
unhealthy, pent-up cloisters, where misery stagnates and broods
among the "foul congregation of pestilential vapours" which haunt
the backdoor life of the poorest parts of great towns. Here, those
viewless ministers of health--the fresh winds of heaven--had no free
play; and poor human nature inhaled destruction from the poisonous
effluvia that festered there. And, in such nooks as this, there may
be found many decent working people, who have been accustomed to
live a cleanly life in their humble way in healthy quarters, now
reduced to extreme penury, pinching, and pining, and nursing the
flickering hope of better days, which may enable them to flee from
the foul harbour which strong necessity has driven them to. The dark
aspect of the day filled the court with a tomb-like gloom. If I
remember aright, there were only three or four cottages in it. We
called at two of them. Before we entered the first, my friend said,
"A young couple lives here. They are very decent people. They have
not been here long; and they have gone through a great deal before
they came here." There were two or three pot ornaments on the
cornice; but there was no furniture in the place, save one chair,
which was occupied by a pale young woman, nursing her child. Her
thin, intelligent face looked very sad. Her clothing, though poor,
was remarkably clean; and, as she sat there, in the gloomy, fireless
house, she said very little, and what she said she said very
quietly, as if she had hardly strength to complain, and was even
half-ashamed to do so. She told us, however, that her husband had
been out of work six months. "He didn't know what to turn to after
we sowd th' things," said she; "but he's takken to cheer-bottomin',
for he doesn't want to lie upo' folk for relief, if he can help it.
He doesn't get much above a cheer, or happen two in a week, one week
wi' another, an' even then he doesn't olez get paid, for folks ha'
not brass. It runs very hard with us, an' I'm nobbut sickly." The
poor soul did not need to say much; her own person, which evinced
such a touching struggle to keep up a decent appearance to the last,
and everything about her, as she sat there in the gloomy place,
trying to keep the child warm upon her cold breast, told eloquently
what her tongue faltered at and failed to express.
The next place we called at in this court was a cottage kept by a
withered old woman, with one foot in the grave. We found her in the
house, sallow, and shrivelled, and panting for breath. She had three
young women, out of work, lodging with her; and, in addition to
these, a widow with her two children lived there. One of these
children, a girl, was earning 2s. 6d. a week for working short time
at a mill; the other, a lad, was earning 3s. a week. The rest were
all unemployed, and had been so for several months past. This 5s.
6d. a week was all the seven people had to live upon, with the
exception of a trifle the sickly old woman received from the Board
of Guardians. As we left the court, two young fellows were lounging
at the entry end, as if waiting for us. One of them stepped up to my
friend, and whispered something plaintively, pointing to his feet. I
did not catch the reply; but my friend made a note, and we went on.
Before we had gone many yards down the street a storm of rain and
thunder came on, and we hurried into the house of an old Irishwoman
close by. My friend knew the old woman. She was on his list of
relief cases. "Will you let us shelter a few minutes, Mrs _?" said
he. "I will, an' thank ye," replied she. "Come in an' sit down.
Sure, it's not fit to turn out a dog. Faith, that's a great storm.
Oh, see the rain! Thank God it's not him that made the house that
made the pot! Dear, dear; did ye see the awful flash that time? I
don't like to be by myself, I am so terrified wi' the thunder. There
has been a great dale o' wet this long time." "There, has," replied
my friend; "but how have ye been getting on since I called before?"
"Well," said the old woman, sitting down, "things is quare with us
as ever they can be, an' that you know very well." There was a young
woman reared against the table by the window. My friend turned
towards her, and said, "Well, and how does the Indian meal agree
with you?" The young woman blushed, and smiled, but said nothing;
but the old woman turned sharply round and replied, "Well, now, it
is better nor starvation; it is chape, an' it fills up--an' that's
all." "Is your son working?" inquired my friend. "Troth, he is,"
replied she. "He does be gettin' a day now an' again at the breek-
croft in Ribbleton Lone. Faith, it is time he did somethin', too,
for he was nine months out o' work entirely. I am got greatly into
debt, an' I don't think I'll ever be able to get over it any more. I
don't know how does poor folk be able to spind money on drink such
times as thim; bedad, I cannot do it. It is bard enough to get mate
of any kind to keep the bare life in a body. Oh, see now; but for
the relief, the half o' the country would die out." "You're a native
of Ireland, missis," said I. "Troth, I am," replied she; "an' had a
good farm o' greawnd in it too, one time. Ah! many's the dark day I
went through between that an' this. Before thim bad times came on,
long ago, people were well off in ould Ireland. I seen them wid as
many as tin cows standin' at the door at one time. . . . Ah, then!
but the Irish people is greatly scattered now! . . . But, for the
matter of that, folk are as badly off here as anywhere in the world,
I think. I dunno know how does poor folk be able to spind money for
dhrink. I am a widow this seventeen year now, an' the divle a man or
woman uvver seen me goin' to a public-house. I seen women goin' a
drinkin' widout a shift to their backs. I dunno how the divvle they
done it. Begorra, I think, if I drunk a glass of ale just now, my
two legs would fail from under me immadiately--I am that wake." The
old woman was a little too censorious, I think. There is no doubt
that even people who are starving do drink a little sometimes. The
wonder would be if they did not, in some degree, share the follies
of the rest of the world. Besides, it is a well-known fact, that
those who are in employ, are apt, from a feeling of misdirected
kindness, to treat those who are out of work to a glass of ale or
two, now and then; and it is very natural, too, that those who have
been but ill-fed for a long time are not able to stand it well.
After leaving the old Irishwoman's house, we called upon a man who
had got his living by the sale of newspapers. There was nothing
specially worthy of remark in this case, except that he complained
of his trade having fallen away a good deal. "I used to sell three
papers where I now sell one," said he. This may not arise from there
being fewer papers sold, but from there being more people selling
them than when times were good. I came back to Manchester in the
evening. I have visited Preston again since then, and have spent
some time upon Preston Moor, where there are nearly fifteen hundred
men, principally factory operatives, at work. Of this I shall have
something to say in my next paper.