"Mother, heaw leets we han no brade,--
Heawever con it be?
Iv aw don't get some brade to eat,
Aw think 'at aw mun dee."
--Hungry Child.
It was about noon when we left the old weaver, nursing his rheumatic
limbs by the side of a dim fire, in his chapel-like little house.
His daughter, a tall, clean, shy girl, began to peel a few potatoes
just before we came away. It is a touching thing, just now, to see
so many decent cottages of thrifty working men brought low by the
strange events of these days; cottages in which everything betokens
the care of well-conducted lives, and where the sacred fire of
independent feeling is struggling through the long frost of
misfortune with patient dignity. It is a touching thing to see the
simple joys of life, in homes like these, crushed into a speechless
endurance of penury, and the native spirit of self-reliance writhing
in unavoidable prostration, and hoping on from day to day for better
times. I have seen many such places in my wanderings during these
hard days--cottages where all was so sweet and orderly, both in
person and habitation, that, but for the funereal stillness which
sat upon hunger-nipt faces, a stranger would hardly have dreamt that
the people dwelling there were undergoing any uncommon privation. I
have often met with such people in my rambles,--I have often found
them suffering pangs more keen than hunger alone could inflict,
because they arose from the loss of those sweet relations of
independence which are dear to many of them as life itself. With
such as these--the shy, the proud, the intelligent and uncomplaining
endurers--hunger is not the hardest thing that befalls:-
"When the mind's free,
The body's delicate; the tempest in their minds
Doth from their senses take all else,
Save what beats there."
People of this temper are more numerous amongst our working
population than the world believes, because they are exactly of the
kind least likely to be heard of. They will fight their share of the
battle of this time out as nobly as they have begun it; and it will
be an ill thing for the land that owns them if full justice is not
done to their worth, both now and hereafter.
In the same street where the old weaver lived, we called upon a
collier's family--a family of ten in number. The colliers of Wigan
have been suffering a good deal lately, among the rest of the
community, from shortness of labour. It was dinner-time when we
entered the house, and the children were all swarming about the
little place clamouring for their noontide meal. With such a rough
young brood, I do not wonder that the house was not so tidy as some
that I had seen. The collier's wife was a decent, good-tempered-
looking woman, though her face was pale and worn, and bore evidence
of the truth of her words, when she said, "Bless your life, aw'm
poo'd to pieces wi' these childer!" She sat upon a stool, nursing a
child at the breast, and doing her best to still the tumult of the
others, who were fluttering about noisily. "Neaw, Sammul," said she,
"theaw'll ha' that pot upo th' floor in now,--thae little pousement
thae! Do keep eawt o' mischief,--an' make a less din, childer, win
yo: for my yed's fair maddle't wi' one thing an' another . . .
Mary, tak' th' pon off th' fire, an' reach me yon hippin' off th'
oondur; an' then sit tho deawn somewheer, do,--thae'll be less bi
th' legs." The children ranged seemingly from about two months up to
fourteen years of age. Two of the youngest were sitting upon the
bottom step of the stairs, eating off one plate. Four rough lads
were gathered round a brown dish, which stood upon a little deal
table in the middle of the floor. These four were round-headed
little fellows, all teeming with life. "Yon catched us eawt
o'flunters, (out of order,)" said the poor woman when we entered;
"but what con a body do?" We were begging that she would not disturb
herself, when one of the lads at the table called out, "Mother; look
at eawr John. He keeps pushin' me off th' cheer!" "Eh, John,"
replied she; "I wish thy feyther were here! Thae'rt olez tormentin'
that lad. Do let him alone, wilto--or else aw'll poo that toppin' o'
thine, smartly--aw will! An' do see iv yo connot behave yorsels!"
"Well," said John; "he keeps takkin' my puddin'!" "Eh, what a
story," replied the other little fellow; "it wur thee, neaw!" "
Aw'll tell yo what it is," said the mother, "iv yo two connot agree,
an' get your dinner quietly, aw'll tak that dish away; an' yo'st not
have another bite this day. Heaw con yo for shame!" This quietened
the lads a little, and they went on with their dinner. At another
little table under the back window, two girls stood, dining off one
plate. The children were all eating a kind of light pudding, known
in Lancashire by the name of "Berm-bo," or, "Berm-dumplin'," made of
flour and yeast, mixed with a little suet. The poor woman said that
her children were all "hearty-etten," (all hearty eaters,)
especially the lads; and she hardly knew what to make for them, so
as to have enough for the whole. "Berm-dumplin'," was as satisfying
as anything that she could get, and it would "stick to their ribs"
better than "ony mak o' swill;" besides, the children liked it.
Speaking of her husband, she said, "He were eawt o' wark a good
while; but he geet a shop at last, at Blackrod, abeawt four mile off
Wigan. When he went a-wortchin' to Blackrod, at first, nought would
sarve but he would walk theer an' back every day, so as to save
lodgin' brass,--an sich like. Aw shouldn't ha' care't iv it had
nobbut bin a mile, or two even; for aw'd far rayther that he had his
meals comfortable awhoam, an' his bits o' clooas put reet; but Lord
bless yo,--eight mile a day, beside a hard day's wark,--it knocked
him up at last,--it were so like. He kept sayin', 'Oh, he could do
it,' an' sich like; but aw could see that he were fair killin'
hissel', just for the sake o' comin' to his own whoam ov a neet; an'
for th' sake o' savin' two or three shillin'; so at last aw turned
Turk, an' made him tak lodgin's theer. Aw'd summut to do to persuade
him at first, an' aw know that he's as whoam-sick as a chylt that's
lost its mother, just this minute; but then, what's th' matter o'
that,--it wouldn't do for mo to have him laid up, yo known. . . .
Oh, he's a very feelin' mon. Aw've sin him when he couldn't finish
his bit o' dinner for thinkin' o' somebody that were clemmin'."
Speaking of the hardships the family had experienced, she said, "Eh,
bless yo! There's some folk can sit i'th heawse an' send their
childer to prow eawt a-beggin' in a mornin', regilar,--but eawr
childer wouldn't do it,--an', iv they would, aw wouldn' let 'em,--
naw, not iv we were clemmin' to deeoth,--to my thinkin'."
The woman was quite right. Among the hard-tried operatives of
Lancashire I have seen several instances in which they have gone out
daily to beg; and some rare cases, even, in which they have stayed
moodily at home themselves and sent their children forth to beg; and
anybody living in this county will have noticed the increase of
mendicancy there, during the last few months. No doubt professional
beggars have taken large advantage of this unhappy time to work upon
the sympathies of those easy givers who cannot bear to hear the wail
of distress, however simulated--who prefer giving at once, because
it "does their own hearts good," to the trouble of inquiring or the
pain of refusing,--who would rather relieve twenty rogues than miss
the blessing of one honest soul who was ready to perish,--those
kind-hearted, free-handed scatterers of indiscriminate benevolence
who are the keen-eyed, whining cadger's chief support, his standing
joke, and favourite prey; and who are more than ever disposed to
give to whomsoever shall ask of them in such a season as this. All
the mendicancy which appears on our streets does not belong to the
suffering operatives of Lancashire. But, apart from those poor,
miserable crawlers in the gutters of life, who live by habitual and
unnecessary beggary, great and continued adversity is a strong test
of the moral tone of any people. Extreme poverty, and the painful
things which follow in its train--these are "bad to bide" with the
best of mankind. Besides, there are always some people who, from
causes within themselves, are continually at their wits' end to keep
the wolf from the door, even when employment is plentiful with them;
and there are some natures too weak to bear any long strain of
unusual poverty without falling back upon means of living which, in
easy circumstances, they would have avoided, if not despised. It is
one evil of the heavy pressure of the times; for there is fear that
among such as these, especially the young and plastic, some may
become so familiar with that beggarly element which was offensive to
their minds at first--may so lose the tone of independent pride, and
become "subdued to what they work in, like the dyer's hand,"--that
they may learn to look upon mendicancy as an easy source of support
hereafter, even in times of less difficulty than the present.
Happily, such weakness as this is not characteristic of the English
people; but "they are well kept that God keeps," and perhaps it
would not be wise to cramp the hand of relief too much at a time
like this, to a people who have been, and will be yet, the hope and
glory of the land.