Slow Advancing.
“You talk about sending black coats among the Indians; now we have no
such poor children among us; we have no such drunkards or people who
abuse the Great Spirit. Indians dare not do so. They pray to the
Great Spirit, and He is kind to them. Now, we think it would be
better for you teachers all to stay at home, and go to work right
here in your own streets, where all your good work is wanted. This
is my advice. I would rather not say any more.”—_Extract from Speech
of the Chief of the Ojibbeway Indians_.
AH this drink, this terrible drink, which still goes on slaying its
thousands and tens of thousands! No wonder that indignation has been so
roused against it, that many have banished it from their tables, and even
from their houses! Our poor Potteries have endured a full share of the
misery and destruction that ever follow it.
During the summer the brickmaker, with the assistance of the elder
members of his family, sometimes earns between £2 and £3 per week. One
man informed me that he and his family had earned £2, 18s. nearly every
week through the season; and yet that man’s wife and three children were
shivering at my door, one bitterly cold morning in December, and begging
for food and clothing. The effects of the hard work and hard drinking
had been to bring on a terrible illness, and not a sixpence was left of
all the money which they had earned “when the sun was shining.” After
enduring privation and suffering too terrible to contemplate, the man and
one of the children died, and the poor widow with the remaining children
went to the workhouse.
Were it not for this inveterate habit of drinking, few places would be
more independent of help from without than the Potteries; but long habits
of intemperance have so impoverished the people, that few can now afford
to _buy_ the pigs for themselves; they therefore fatten them “upon
commission,” and in this way can gain only a miserable livelihood.
Considerable sums of money, however, may be still earned by those who are
careful and prudent, both by pig-feeding and brick-making. The latter
work is not constant, but can be procured at only one particular time of
the year. Hence in the course of the same year may be seen, in the same
family, the extreme of prodigality and destitution. The effect of an
increased income, generally, is that more money goes to the public-house,
and the future is still unprovided for. I have often told these
labourers that their memories seemed much shorter than the bees’, birds’,
and ants’. These little creatures never forget that winter will return,
and make the most ample provision for it. But any stranger would think
that the present was the first winter which these human beings had ever
known; that it had come upon them unexpectedly, and found them unprepared
for it.
The only means by which many of them get food for the winter is by
pawning the little furniture that they have, or by “going on tick,”—in
other words, by getting trusted at the shops. Those, however, who manage
to pay for their things as they buy them, do it in such a manner as to be
little better off than under the “tick” system. The child is sometimes
sent to the shop three times a-day, to obtain the supplies for each meal
as it is wanted. Of course, the shopkeeper cannot give so much time,
paper, and string without being paid for them. After a careful
calculation, I feel convinced that, whether the poor man’s wants are
supplied through the “tick system,” or the “hand-to-mouth” system, in
either case he gets the value of only fourteen shillings for his pound.
This proves the justice of the saying, that poverty perpetuates itself.
The winter of 1856–57 was one of unusual distress. Less casual work than
usual turned up in the neighbourhood; and had it not been that several of
the women found employment as charwomen and laundresses, many would have
had no resource but the workhouse.
When the mother has to go out to work that she may obtain the necessary
food for herself and children, the effects to the family are often most
disastrous. On her return, wearied out in earning her hard-won
half-crown, she finds that the baby has been crying for hours (as well it
might, poor thing!); that another child has been scalded by hot water
from the kettle; that another, perhaps, has wandered away, and has not
come home, and that she herself must go and seek for it; while the
“little girl” left in charge of the whole is severely scolded, if not
beaten, for her many shortcomings. In the midst of all these annoyances,
the father returns for the hundredth time, without having found work,
exhausted and footsore in his fruitless search; and, sorer still in
spirit, as he feels that he is not wanted in the world, that the
labour-market has no demand for him, he enters the wretched hovel which
he is obliged to call “home.” He hears the crying of the children, the
scolding of the mother; and sees everywhere the destruction which
children left to themselves will cause. The wife throws her half-crown
at him as he enters, crying, “There! much good may that do yer. Here’s a
shilling’s worth of things broke,—Johnny’s coat is burnt, and Sally’s
pinafore; the children have eat up the tea out of the paper; and yer’ll
have to pay for a sight o’ doctoring afore this scalded leg is well.” A
man already angry would, with less aggravation than this, return railing
for railing; and so the angry words are given back again with interest.
Blows occasionally follow, according to the temper of the moment,
sometimes inflicted on the provoking wife, sometimes on the poor victim
whose negligence is supposed to have caused all these misfortunes. The
cravings of hunger oblige some one at last to pick up the half-crown, and
“the girl” is despatched with many threats to the nearest places where
bread and cheese and porter can be procured, and charged at the same time
to get “two penn’orth of gin,” to give to the baby to make it sleep.
This expensive food consumes the greater part of the half-crown. Three
pennyworth of bread, two pennyworth of vegetables, two pennyworth of
barley or rice, and four pennyworth of meat _well cooked_ would have
supplied all the family with a good nourishing supper, leaving something
for the mid-day meal of the morrow; but there has been no one at home to
cook, and in their excited and miserable state it is not food they care
for, so much as something that will dim the perception of their extreme
wretchedness—anything that will make them sleep and forget. So they
drink the porter, and the baby has the gin, and, in spite of the moan of
the scalded child, they sleep; but in such an atmosphere, surrounded with
such dirt within and stench without, that should they all awake with
burning fever the next morning, no one can wonder. They tell me that, on
the mornings after such nights, they suffer from intense depression, so
much so, that whatever remains of the half-crown is spent on drink, in
order to drag themselves up to a repetition of their daily toil.
Now, the earnings of the family just described (for I have drawn a
picture from real life) averaged for five months in the summer £2, 10s.
per week. They could, of course, have lived very well upon twenty-five
shillings. If we reckon ten shillings for paying off old scores, buying
new clothes, furniture, and sundries, there would still be fifteen
shillings left, which might have been put into the Savings’ Bank to meet
the demands of the ensuing winter. But instead of doing this, the man in
his distress confessed to me, that the cost of what he and his wife drank
each week of their prosperity would amount to at least a pound. The
usual quantity of beer that a brickmaker takes during the hours of work
is seven pints. This expenditure is looked upon simply as necessary: and
when money is plentiful, there must be the drinking for luxury as well as
necessity.
The only excuse which can be made for this recklessness is that the toil
of the brickmaker is excessive. In the summer, he is expected to work
from four or five o’clock in the morning till eight o’clock in the
evening. This pressure of work necessitates the drying of sand on Sunday
for the next week’s work. The Sabbath is no day of rest to him. He is
expected even on that day, and during his short night, to be watchful
over the bricks, and cover them up on the approach of rain. Should he
oversleep himself, (which is at least possible after such a day’s work,)
or be away at a place of worship on a Sunday, and the bricks in the
meantime be injured by wet, he would lose some part of his wages, of
which a portion is always kept back by the master.
I had a conversation, recently, with a man who has for the last seven or
eight years acted as a kind of leader in a brick-field. During all this
time he has been a “teetotaller;” and though his work has been as hard as
that of any man in the field, and sometimes even harder, he is in
perfectly good health, and what is still more unusual, retains the full
possession of his intellectual faculties. I say, unusual; for in most
cases when this hard work is accompanied with hard drinking, the
brickmaker does actually very nearly realise the old woman’s
complimentary description of, “He has no more sense than the clay he
works on.” His life thus literally resembles that of the brute: every
bone, muscle, and sinew is exerted to its utmost extent. The only change
from work is eating, drinking, and sleeping; and when this has gone on
for several years, all intellectual power seems extinct.
The man to whom I have just referred has for some years past rented a
house near the Potteries, for which he pays seven shillings per week.
The eldest girl, now fourteen years old, has been in a place for the last
four years, and is so fond of it, (the father tells me,) that when she
comes home for a holiday, nothing can induce her to stay a minute beyond
the time appointed for her return.
“I got a holiday,” said he, “last autumn, and I took my wife and children
to the Crystal Palace. We had a beautiful day there, and see’d enough in
that little time to give us something to talk about ever since. The only
trouble we had was, my girl was in a kind of a fidget, for fear she
shouldn’t get back to her place in time.”
I asked this man a great many questions about his mode of life. He
said:—
“Our trade would do very well, if it wasn’t for the number of hours we
have to work, and if we could get our Sundays to ourselves. There is
just now a strike among the men; they want to get sixpence a thousand
more upon the bricks than they at present receive: and as I know how to
reckon very well, I know that the masters could give us that, and still
get a handsome profit for themselves. If we could get that, then we
should only work from six to six; and we shouldn’t, in that case, have to
dry our sand on Sundays; we could then get all that we wanted ready on
Saturday evening. I don’t hold with these strikes, ma’am; they are not
the right sort of thing. It isn’t much use, either, for men to stand out
against their masters; for until they have learnt to save money, they
can’t hold out no time hardly without hurting themselves dreadful. The
day the men turned out, a gentleman was riding by, and he stopped and
asked me what it was all about; and so I told him. He says to me, ‘Do
you take any part in it?’ And I says, ‘No, sir, I don’t feel comfortable
about it at all; but, sir, for all that I don’t like this _way_ of doing
it, I don’t think the men are asking for more than they should; they only
want the masters to be as considerate of them as they are of their
horses.’ ‘What do you mean?’ the gentleman says. ‘Why, sir, I mean
this, that the horse employed in our brick-field is brought in at six
o’clock in the morning, he has a proper time for rest in the day, and he
is always taken off again at six in the evening; but the men must work
fifteen and sixteen hours to get a living out of it; and this hurts their
bodies and souls too, sir; for it isn’t many men can think much as works
like that. I am a stronger man than most, sir, and I save myself a deal
by not drinking; but it hurts me, I find, and as soon as I can get a
little money in hand, I shall try and get out of it, and take to selling
coals, or something of that kind.’ You know, ma’am,” the man continued,
“I think over all these things a deal, and I do wish masters would listen
to what we have got to say; for though we ain’t so wise, like, as they
are, we think we could make some things plainer to them. When this was
first talked of among the men, I did wish master would let me talk to him
about it. I think, if he would have heard how we ’splained all, things
wouldn’t have been as they are now. It seems to me, that God have
planned out this world for us all to depend upon one another, and we
ought never to stand to one another as we do now. You know, ma’am, when
we working-men look at all these fine houses and gardens about, and see
all the fine furniture that goes into them, we know that it is all done
by our labour, and that the great people couldn’t do without us, any more
than we could do without them. And it do seem to me, the world would be
a deal happier, and better, too, than it is, if we felt that sort of
thing to one another; felt, I mean, that we were all wanted, like, to
make the world go on right.”
I told him, I thought many masters of the present day felt just what he
said, and honoured and valued their servants, and wished very much that
they should have proper time for improving themselves, and making their
own homes comfortable; “but,” I said, “you know as well as I do, that
when men _get_ this time, they do not always make a right use of it.”
“Ah, that’s how it is, you see, ma’am; and I am always a-telling ’em how
they do stand in their own way, and hurt theirselves. Though we can’t
have everything we want to get, there is a good many of ’em needn’t be
half so bad off as they are; but you see, ma’am, there is a great deal of
bad management at home, sometimes, and that always keeps a man down. I
have looked after this thing so long, that I can pretty well tell whether
a man has got a good home or not, afore I ask him. He always holds up
his head, and doesn’t seem afraid of anybody; and if things do go cross
with him, he does not get reckless, like, about it, and he takes the
world kinder, like, than other people. I am so thankful to have this
nice place to myself here, and to be able to send my children to school,
and see ’em growing up the right way, that I never envies nobody. If
master were to offer me his carriage, and to change places with him, I
wouldn’t; for I know I’m happy now, and I mightn’t be then.”
I asked him what he supposed to be the cause why so many working-men had
such wretched homes.
“Why, ma’am,” he answered, “there is so many things, I hardly know what
to say. The drink seems the chief thing; but there is many a man that
wouldn’t drink, if he could bear himself without it. There are so many
women who don’t seem to know how to manage no more than nothing; and when
_they_ take to drinking and going to the pawn-shop, then there is nothing
but misery for them all. There’s many a woman in our place who has only
one decent gown, and that’s most always in the pawn-shop; she just gets
it out of a Saturday night, when the money comes in, and by Monday
sometimes the money is a’most gone, and she puts it in again. Some of
our poor fellows have got but one shirt; and I have known a man give it
to his wife on Monday morning to wash, and she has taken it off to the
pawn-shop, and got some drink with the money she got. Sometimes when the
wife does try to go on right, the man don’t; he takes to all the bad
ways, and leads her a dog’s life: it is only when they both pull one way
that it all goes right.”
After the distress of the winter, to which I have before referred, I
thought it a good time to endeavour to make some impression upon them as
to the urgent necessity of making provision for the future, so that there
might not be a constant repetition of such terrible calamities. I
therefore addressed the following letter to them, and sent a copy to each
man in the Potteries:—
“TO THE WORKING-MEN
OF THE
KENSINGTON POTTERIES.
“MY DEAR FRIENDS,—
“I have seen with much concern and sorrow, during the past winter,
how greatly most of you have suffered. Work has been unusually
scarce and difficult to obtain, and you have found it almost
impossible to maintain your families in any degree of comfort.
Perhaps you have been tempted sometimes to look with envy on your
richer neighbours, and have thought that they cared nothing for all
your sorrow and suffering; but, indeed, many of them have cared a
great deal about it, and have talked over it, and have tried to think
of some means to prevent this sad state of things from happening so
often.
“Some of you think, I dare say, that rich people should help you, by
giving you more of their money; and so they should, perhaps, in times
of sickness and calamity: but I have watched these things now for
many years, and I have not observed that those do best who have most
given to them; but the prosperous people are generally those who
resolutely set about to help themselves.
“Now, we have been thinking over various ways by which you could do
this better than you have hitherto done; and one thing that has
occurred to us is, that as many of you earn more money in the summer
than you actually need to spend, it would be a good plan to put by
some of it for your use during the winter. We all find it very
difficult to take care of our money ourselves, and most of us have
recourse to some bank or other to take care of it for us. It is much
to be regretted that there is no Savings’ Bank in this neighbourhood
nearer than Kensington, and it would take up too much of your time to
carry your money there often. The excellent Penny Savings’ Bank
established at the Notting Dale School-room is most valuable, but it
at present confines itself to rather small sums of money; and some of
you—young men especially, who have not yet begun the expense of
housekeeping—could, with good management, save a considerable sum of
money every week. If young men only knew what future misery,
degradation, and sorrow they would save themselves by being
determined not to involve themselves in the expense of a family until
they had at least fifty pounds in the Savings’ Bank, I am sure they
would try hard for it
“It would give me much pleasure to do something to help you over this
difficulty; and if you do not object to trust me with your money, I
propose being at the Infant School-room, Princes’ Place, every
Saturday evening, from eight till nine o’clock, to receive from you
any sum you may have to spare from your weekly earnings. You would
have a little book in which to keep your own account, which you could
at any time compare with mine. One of your kind friends in this
neighbourhood, Mr —, has kindly consented to take care of the money.
By giving a week’s notice, you can have out what you put in, at any
time you like.
“I think I can tell you of one way that would enable you to save a
good deal of money. There are thousands of workmen in this country
who are doing some of the hardest work that is ever done, such as
working at iron-foundries, &c., and who do it all without the aid of
intoxicating drink. With the money thus saved they are able to get
better food, better clothing, and more comfortable homes; and,
consequently, are better, stronger, and happier. I wish very much
that you would give this a trial. At the end of the week, you can
reckon how much you usually spend upon drink, and can bring that sum
to me. I am sure you would feel the benefit of it in the winter. I
have the pleasure of meeting some of your wives every week, and then
we talk a great deal about the best means of making your homes
comfortable; but the wife cannot do it all alone: it is her place to
learn to lay out the money to the best possible advantage,—it is
yours to obtain it; and it is when both husband and wife act wisely
and well, that the family is usually prosperous and happy.
“But above all these things I have mentioned, I want you to be in
earnest in seeking to obtain God’s blessing upon all you do. ‘Seek
first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things
shall be added unto you.’ Perhaps you think you should like to have
the good things promised without the trouble of seeking God; but
those who have tried, those who have really sought God, and found
Him, tell us that this is the best part of it, and that they would
rather give up every earthly possession than live again without God
in the world.
“You know, when Jesus came from heaven, He did not settle Himself in
a grand house, and have a number of people to wait upon Him; but He,
as the reputed son of a carpenter, worked as you do for the supply of
His own wants, and spent a great deal of time, besides, in helping
those who wanted help. However poor or neglected you may be, you
cannot be more so than Jesus was. I do not know of anything so
likely to cheer you in your daily toil, as to remember that God cares
for you; that He is watching you, and inviting you to come to Him,
weary and heavy laden as you are, and He will give you rest. I wish
you would come to this kind Friend every day, and ask Him to make you
wise to know how to manage your worldly affairs aright; and ask Him
to make you holy, that your worst enemy, sin, may not triumph over
you. Ask Him to make you fit for that ‘beautiful world He has gone
to prepare;’ so that when you have accomplished, as an hireling, your
day, and finished the work He has given you to do, you may find an
entrance into that kingdom, which is not meat and drink, ‘but
righteousness, and peace, and joy in the Holy Ghost.’
“I hope to meet many of you at the Infant Schoolroom, Princes’ Place,
on Saturday, the 1st of May. I intend to be there about a quarter
before eight o’clock; and if I can help you in this or in any other
way, it will give me much pleasure.
“I am,
“Your sincere friend.”
It did not surprise me at all, that for some weeks this letter seemed to
be taken no notice of. I went regularly to the place appointed, but no
one came. Among other reasons, no doubt the calamities of the past
winter had involved in debt nearly all of those to whom I had written,
and the money for the first few months after they obtained work went to
pay off old scores. But the principal obstacle was, that where people
have been so little accustomed to think and reason, any new proposition
would, in the first place, take some time to be comprehended; and then,
as the safety of their money was involved in the plan, it would require
to be received with great caution. When a month had passed, a few began
to bring me small sums. I had no large depositors during the summer, and
the whole of my receipts did not amount to more than £25. This, however,
was a beginning; and as the men received their money back again in the
winter, several of them remarked that it was “all as if it was given
them; the bits of money would all have been gone, if they had not been
saved up in this way.”
I found that a few of them had previously made some attempts at saving
money, and were much disappointed at the result. One woman told me she
had once with great difficulty managed to save up seven pounds; one day,
when she was absent, her little room was broken into, and all the money
stolen. They said they were too far off either from Kensington or
Paddington Savings’ Bank to deposit their money there; and “as to keeping
it in their own places, that was impossible,—_it never kept there_.”
A ragged boy, about thirteen years of age, came to the school-room one
evening, bringing a penny which he asked me to keep for him; and said, if
I would come for it, he would bring a penny there every evening. I told
him I had not time to do that; but if he would take care of it through
the week, I should be glad to receive sevenpence from him every Monday
evening. He said he couldn’t do that; for if he had it in his pocket, he
should play pitch and toss with it. I told him, if he would bring it in
the dinner-hour, the Infant School teacher would be so kind as to take
care of it for him till the night came for paying it in. This he agreed
to do. I asked him how it was he had just the penny every day to save.
He said he was earning ninepence a-day then; and that he told his mother
he earned only eightpence, and so saved a penny for himself. I said,
“You shouldn’t do it in that way. I dare say, if you told your mother
you wanted to save a penny a-day, she would not object to it.”
“Tell my mother, indeed!” said the boy. “Oh yes! and take her a stick at
the same time to beat me with; and then it would be the sooner over.”
He then asked me what I meant to do with all the money he brought me, or
rather meant to bring me.
“I shall put it in my desk, and take care of it till you want it.”
“But supposing now I should die, what would you do with it then?”
“Well, I have not thought of that. I hope you will live, and make a good
use of the money.”
“But suppose I don’t?”
“Well, when you have saved two or three shillings, you can make your
will, if you like, and leave it to somebody.”
“But I can’t write, and I’ve heard as how wills is ‘allus writed.’”
“Then you had better come to the Ragged School, as soon as it is opened,
and learn.”
“Well, I think I will. I have heard it takes a sight o’ money to bury
anybody. If I should die afore I can write, you can spend the money for
that.”
“Very well; but I hope you will live and learn to read and write, and
grow up to be a clever and good man.”
“And do yer now?” said he, walking off with one of those inimitable
whistles peculiar to ragged boys.