"Hopdance cries in Tom's belly for two white herrings.
Croak not, black angel; I have no food for thee."
--King Lear.
I lingered a little while in the work-room, at the Mechanics'
Institution, interested in the scene. A stout young woman came in at
a side door, and hurried up to the centre of the room with a great
roll of coarse gray cloth, and lin check, to be cut up for the
stitchers. One or two of the classes were busy with books and
slates; the remainder of the girls were sewing and knitting; and the
ladies of the committee were moving about, each in quiet
superintendence of her own class. The room was comfortably full,
even on the platform; but there was very little noise, and no
disorder at all. I say again that I never saw a more comely, clean,
and well conducted assembly than this of three hundred and fifty
factory lasses. I was told, however, that even these girls show a
kind of pride of caste amongst one another. The human heart is much
the same in all conditions of life. I did not stay long enough to be
able to say more about this place; but one of the most active and
intelligent ladies connected with the management said to me
afterwards, "Your wealthy manufacturers and merchants must leave a
great deal of common stuff lying in their warehouses, and perhaps
not very saleable just now, which would be much more valuable to us
here than ever it will be to them. Do you think they would like to
give us a little of it if we were to ask them nicely?" I said I
thought there were many of them who would do so; and I think I said
right.
After a little talk with the benevolent old superintendent, whose
heart, I am sure, is devoted to the business for the sake of the
good it will do, and the evil it will prevent, I set off with my
friend to see some of the poor folk who live in the quarter called
"Scholes." It is not more than five hundred yards from the
Mechanics' Institution to Scholes Bridge, which crosses the little
river Douglas, down in a valley in the eastern part of the town. As
soon as we were at the other end of the bridge, we turned off at the
right hand corner into a street of the poorest sort--a narrow old
street, called "Amy Lane." A few yards on the street we came to a
few steps, which led up, on the right hand side, to a little terrace
of poor cottages, overlooking the river Douglas. We called at one of
these cottages. Though rather disorderly just then, it was not an
uncomfortable place. It was evidently looked after by some homely
dame. A clean old cat dosed upon a chair by the fireside. The bits
of cottage furniture, though cheap, and well worn, were all there;
and the simple household gods, in the shape of pictures and
ornaments, were in their places still. A hardy-looking, brown-faced
man, with close-cropped black hair, and a mild countenance, sat on a
table by the window, making artificial flies, for fishing. In the
corner over his head a cheap, dingy picture of the trial of Queen
Catherine, hung against the wall. I could just make out the tall
figure of the indignant queen, in the well-known theatrical
attitude, with her right arm uplifted, and her sad, proud face
turned away from the judgment-seat, where Henry sits, evidently
uncomfortable in mind, as she gushes forth that bold address to her
priestly foes and accusers. The man sitting beneath the picture,
told us that he was a throstle-overlooker by trade; and that he had
been nine months out of work. He said, "There's five on us here when
we're i'th heawse. When th' wark fell off I had a bit o' brass
save't up, so we were forced to start o' usin' that. But month after
month went by, an' th' brass kept gettin' less, do what we would;
an' th' times geet wur, till at last we fund ersels fair stagged up.
At after that, my mother helped us as weel as hoo could,--why, hoo
does neaw, for th' matter o' that, an' then aw've three brothers,
colliers; they've done their best to poo us through. But they're
nobbut wortchin' four days a week, neaw; besides they'n enough to do
for their own. Aw make no acceawnt o' slotchin' up an' deawn o' this
shap, like a foo. It would sicken a dog, it would for sure. Aw go a
fishin' a bit neaw an' then; an' aw cotter abeawt wi' first one
thing an' then another; but it comes to no sense. Its noan like
gradely wark. It makes me maunder up an' deawn, like a gonnor wi' a
nail in it's yed. Aw wish to God yon chaps in Amerikey would play
th' upstroke, an' get done wi' their bother, so as folk could start
o' their wark again." This was evidently a provident man, who had
striven hard to get through his troubles decently. His position as
overlooker, too, made him dislike the thoughts of receiving relief
amongst the operatives whom he might some day be called upon to
superintend again.
A little higher up in Amy Lane we came to a kind of square. On the
side where the lane continues there is a dead brick wall; on the
other side, bounding a little space of unpaved ground, rather higher
than the lane, there are a few old brick cottages, of very mean and
dirty appearance. At the doors of some of the cottages squalid,
untidy women were lounging; some of them sitting upon the doorstep,
with their elbows on their knees, smoking, and looking stolidly
miserable. We were now getting near where the cholera made such
havoc during its last visit,--a pestilent jungle, where disease is
always prowling about, "seeking whom it can devour." A few sallow,
dirty children were playing listlessly about the space, in a
melancholy way, looking as if their young minds were already
"sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," and unconsciously
oppressed with wonder why they should be born to such a miserable
share of human life as this. A tall, gaunt woman, with pale face,
and thinly clad in a worn and much-patched calico gown, and with a
pair of "trashes" upon her stockingless feet, sat on the step of the
cottage nearest the lane. The woman rose when she saw my friend.
"Come in," said she; and we followed her into the house. It was a
wretched place; and the smell inside was sickly. I should think a
broker would not give half-a-crown for all the furniture we saw. The
woman seemed simple-minded and very illiterate; and as she stood in
the middle of the floor, looking vaguely round she said, "Aw can
hardly ax yo to sit deawn, for we'n sowd o' th' things eawt o'th
heawse for a bit o' meight; but there is a cheer theer, sich as it
is; see yo; tak' that." When she found that I wished to know
something of her condition--although this was already well known to
the gentleman who accompanied me--she began to tell her story in a
simple, off-hand way. "Aw've had nine childer," said she; "we'n
buried six, an' we'n three alive, an' aw expect another every day."
In one corner there was a rickety little low bedstead. There was no
bedding upon it but a ragged kind of quilt, which covered the
ticking. Upon this quilt something lay, like a bundle of rags,
covered with a dirty cloth. "There's one o' th' childer, lies here,
ill," said she. "It's getten' th' worm fayver." When she uncovered
that little emaciated face, the sick child gazed at me with wild,
burning eyes, and began to whine pitifully. "Husht, my love," said
the poor woman; "he'll not hurt tho'! Husht, now; he's noan beawn to
touch tho'! He's noan o'th doctor, love. Come, neaw, husht; that's a
good lass!" I gave the little thing a penny, and one way and another
we soothed her fears, and she became silent; but the child still
gazed at me with wild eyes, and the forecast of death on its thin
face. The mother began again, "Eh, that little thing has suffered
summat," said she, wiping her eyes; "an', as aw towd yo before, aw
expect another every day. They're born nake't, an' th' next'll ha'
to remain so, for aught that aw con see. But, aw dar not begin o'
thinkin' abeawt it. It would drive me crazy. We han a little lad o'
mi sister's livin' wi' us. Aw had to tak' him when his mother deed.
Th' little thing's noather feyther nor mother, neaw. It's gwon eawt
a beggin' this morning wi' my two childer. My mother lives with us,
too," continued she; "hoo's gooin' i' eighty-four, an' hoo's
eighteen pence a week off th' teawn. There's seven on us,
o'together, an' we'n had eawr share o' trouble, one way an' another,
or else aw'm chetted. Well, aw'll tell yo' what happened to my
husban' o' i' two years' time. My husban's a collier. Well, first he
wur brought whoam wi' three ribs broken--aw wur lyin' in when they
brought him whoam. An' then, at after that, he geet his arm broken;
an' soon after he'd getten o'er that, he wur nearly brunt to deeath
i' one o'th pits at Ratcliffe; an' aw haven't quite done yet, for,
after that, he lee ill o'th rheumatic fayver sixteen week. That o'
happen't i' two years' time. It's God's truth, maister. Mr Lea knows
summat abeawt it--an' he stons theer. Yo may have a like aim what
we'n had to go through. An' that wur when times were'n good; but
then, everything o' that sort helps to poo folk deawn, yo known.
We'n had very hard deed, maister--aw consider we'n had as hard deed
as anybody livin', takkin' o' together." This case was an instance
of the peculiar troubles to which colliers and their families are
liable; a little representative bit of life among the poor of Wigan.
From this place we went further up into Scholes, to a dirty square,
called the "Coal Yard." Here we called at the house of Peter Y_, a
man of fifty-one, and a weaver of a kind of stuff called, "broad
cross-over," at which work he earned about six shillings a week,
when in full employ. His wife was a cripple, unable to help herself;
and, therefore, necessarily a burden. Their children were two girls,
and one boy. The old woman said, "Aw'm always forced to keep one
o'th lasses a-whoam, for aw connot do a hond's turn." The children
had been brought up to factory labour; but both they and their
father had been out of work nearly twelve months. During that time
the family had received relief tickets, amounting to the value of
four shillings a week. Speaking of the old man, the mother said,
"Peter has just getten a bit o' wark again, thank God. He's hardly
fit for it; but he'll do it as lung as he can keep ov his feet."