"Come, child of misfortune, come hither!
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear."
--TOM MOORE.
The weaver's wife spoke very feelingly of the young governess who
had been so good to the family. Her voice trembled with emotion as
she told of her kindnesses, which had so won the hearts of the poor
folk thereabouts, that whenever they hear her name now, their
tongues leap at once into heart-warm praise of her. It seems to have
been her daily pleasure to go about helping those who needed help
most, without any narrowness of distinction; in the spirit of that
"prime wisdom" which works with all its might among such elements as
lie nearest to the hand. Children and gray-haired working men
crowded into the poor cottages to hear her read, and to learn the
first elements of education at her free classes. She left the town,
some time ago, to live in the south of England; but the blessings of
many who were ready to perish in Wigan will follow her all her days,
and her memory will long remain a garden of good thoughts and
feelings to those she has left behind. The eyes of the weaver's wife
grew moist as she told of the old blacksmith, who could not bear to
hear her name mentioned without tears. On certain nights of the week
he used to come regularly with the rest to learn to read, like a
little child, from that young teacher. As I said in my last, she
still sends a weekly letter to her poor scholars in Wigan to
encourage them in their struggles, and to induce as many of them as
are able to write to her in return. "This is one of her letters,"
said the poor woman, handing a paper to me. The manner of the
handwriting was itself characteristic of kind consideration for her
untrained readers. The words stood well apart. The letters were
clearly divided, and carefully and distinctly written, in Roman
characters, a quarter of an inch long; and there was about three-
quarters of an inch of space between each line, so as to make the
whole easier to read by those not used to manuscript. The letter ran
as follows:--"Dear friends,--I send you with this some little books,
which I hope you will like to try to read; soon, I hope, I shall be
able to help you with those texts you cannot make out by yourselves.
I often think of you, dear friends, and wish that I could sometimes
take a walk to Scholefield's Lane. This wish only makes me feel how
far I am from you, but then I remember with gladness that I may
mention you all by name to our one Father, and ask Him to bless you.
Very often I do ask Him, and one of my strongest wishes is that we,
who have so often read His message of love together, may all of us
love the Saviour, and, through Him, be saved from sin. Dear friends,
do pray to Him. With kind love and best wishes to each one of you,
believe me always, your sincere friend, __." I have dwelt a little
upon this instance of unassuming beneficence, to show that there is
a great deal of good being done in this world, which is not much
heard of, except by accident. One meets with it, here and there, as
a thirsty traveller meets with an unexpected spring in the
wilderness, refreshing its own plot of earth, without noise or
ostentation.
My friend and I left the weaver's cottage, and came down again into
a part of Scholes where huddled squalor and filth is to be found on
all sides. On our way we passed an old tattered Irishwoman, who was
hurrying along, with two large cabbages clipt tight in her withered
arms. "You're doin' well, old lady," said I. "Faith," replied she,
"if I had a big lump ov a ham bone, now, wouldn't we get over this
day in glory, anyhow. But no matter. There's not wan lafe o' them
two fellows but will be clane out o' sight before the clock strikes
again." The first place we called at in this quarter was a poor
half-empty cottage, inhabited by an old widow and her sick daughter.
The girl sat there pale and panting, and wearing away to skin and
bone. She was far gone in consumption. Their only source of
maintenance was the usual grant of relief from the committee, but
this girl's condition needed further consideration. The old widow
said to my friend, "Aw wish yo could get me some sort o' nourishment
for this lass, Mr Lea; aw cannot get it mysel', an' yo see'n heaw
hoo is." My friend took a note of the case, and promised to see to
it at once. When great weltering populations, like that of
Lancashire, are thrown suddenly into such a helpless state as now,
it is almost impossible to lay hold at once of every nice
distinction of circumstances that gives a speciality of suffering to
the different households of the poor. But I believe, as this time of
trouble goes on, the relief committees are giving a more careful and
delicate consideration to the respective conditions of poor
families.
After leaving the old widow's house, as we went farther down into
the sickly hive of penury and dirt, called "Scholes," my friend told
me of an intelligent young woman, a factory operative and a Sunday-
school teacher, who had struggled against starvation, till she could
bear it no longer; and, even after she had accepted the grant of
relief, she "couldn't for shame" fetch the tickets herself, but
waited outside whilst a friend of hers went in for them. The next
house we visited was a comfortable cottage. The simple furniture was
abundant, and good of its kind, and the whole was remarkably clean.
Amongst the wretched dwellings in its neighbourhood, it shone "like
a good deed in a naughty world." On the walls there were several
Catholic pictures, neatly framed; and a large old-fashioned wooden
wheel stood in the middle of the floor, with a quantity of linen
yarn upon it. Old Stephen I__ and his cosy goodwife lived there. The
old woman was "putting the place to rights" after their noontide
meal; and Stephen was "cottering" about the head of the cellar steps
when we went in. There were a few healthy plants in the windows, and
everything gave evidence of industry and care. The good-tempered old
couple were very communicative. Old Stephen was a weaver of diaper;
and, when he had anything to do, he could earn about eight shillings
a week. "Some can get more than that at the same work," said he;
"but I am gettin' an old man, ye see. I shall be seventy-three on
the 10th of next October, and, beside that, I have a very bad arm,
which is a great hindrance to me." "He has had very little work for
months, now," said his wife; "an' what makes us feel it more, just
now, is that my son is over here on a visit to us, from Oscott
College. He is studying for the priesthood. He went to St John's,
here, in Wigan, for five years, as a pupil teacher; an' he took good
ways, so the principals of the college proposed to educate him for
the Church of Rome. He was always a good boy, an' a bright one, too.
I wish we had been able to entertain him better. But he knows that
the times are again us. He is twenty-four years of age; an' I often
think it strange that his father's birthday and his own fall on the
same day of the month--the 10th of October. I hope we'll both live
to see him an ornament to his profession yet. There is only the
girl, an' Stephen, an' myself left at home now, an' we have hard
work to pull through, I can assure ye; though there are many people
a dale worse off than we are."
From this place we went up to a street called "Vauxhall Road." In
the first cottage we called at here the inmates were all out of
work, as usual, and living upon relief. There happened to be a poor
old white-haired weaver sitting in the house,--an aged neighbour out
of work, who had come in to chat with my friend a bit. My friend
asked how he was getting on. "Yo mun speak up," said the woman of
the house, "he's very deaf." "What age are yo, maister?" said I.
"What?" "How old are yo?" "Aw'm a beamer," replied the old man, "a
twister-in,--when there's ought doin'. But it's nowt ov a trade
neaw. Aw'll tell yo what ruins me; it's these lung warps. They maken
'em seven an' eight cuts in, neaw an' then. There's so mony
'fancies' an' things i' these days; it makes my job good to nought
at o' for sich like chaps as me. When one gets sixty year owd, they
needen to go to schoo again neaw; they getten o'erta'en wi' so many
kerly-berlies o' one mak and another. Mon, owd folk at has to wortch
for a livin' cannot keep up wi' sich times as these,--nought o'th
sort." "Well, but how do you manage to live?" "Well, aw can hardly
tell,--aw'll be sunken iv aw can tell. It's very thin pikein'; but
very little does for me, an' aw've nought but mysel'. Yo see'n, aw
get a bit ov a job neaw an' then, an' a scrat amung th' rook, like
an owd hen. But aw'll tell yo one thing; aw'll not go up yon, iv aw
can help it,--aw'll not." ("Up yon" meant to the Board of
Guardians.) "Eh, now," said the woman of the house, "aw never see'd
sich a man as him i' my life. See yo, he'll sit an' clem fro mornin'
to neet afore he'll ax oather relief folk or onybody else for a
bite."
In the same street we called at a house where there was a tall, pale
old man, sitting sadly in an old arm-chair, by the fireside. The
little cottage was very sweet and orderly. Every window was cleaned
to its utmost nook of glass, and every bit of metal was brightened
up to the height. The flagged floor was new washed; and everything
was in its own place. There were a few books on little shelves, and
a Bible lay on the window-sill; and there was a sad, chapel-like
stillness in the house. A clean, staid-looking girl stood at a
table, peeling potatoes for dinner. The old man said, "We are five,
altogether, in this house. This lass is a reeler. I am a weighver;
but we'n bin out o' wark nine months, now. We'n bin force't to tak
to relief at last; an' we'n getten five tickets. We could happen ha'
manage't better,--but aw'm sore wi' rheumatism, yo see'n. Aw've had
a bit o' weighvin' i'th heawse mony a day, but aw've th' rheumatic
so bad i' this hond--it's hond that aw pick wi'--that aw couldn't
bide to touch a fither with it, bless yo. Aw have th' rheumatic all
o'er mo, nearly; an' it leads one a feaw life. Yo happen never had a
touch on it, had yo?" "Never." "Well; yo're weel off. When is this
war to end, thinken yo?" "Nay; that's a very hard thing to tell." "
Well, we mun grin an' abide till it's o'er, aw guess. It's a mad mak
o' wark. But it'll happen turn up for best i'th end ov o'."