Part 5 (1/2)

there is somethin' quare hangin' over that boy this day; I dunno whatever shall we do wid him. I was thinkin' this long time could I get a ricommind to see would the doctor give him anythin' to rise an appet.i.te in him at all. By the same token, I know it is not a convanient time for makin' appet.i.tes in poor folk just now. But perhaps the doctor might be able to do him some good, by the way he would be ready when times mind. Faith, my hands is full wid one thing an' another. Ah, thin; but G.o.d is good, after all. We dunno what is He goin' to do through the dark stroke is an' us this day.”

Here my friend interrupted her, saying, ”Don't you think, Mrs K_, that you would be more comfortable if you were to keep your house cleaner? It costs nothing, you know, but a little labour; and you have nothing else to do just now.” ”Ah, then,” replied she; ”see here, now. I was just gettin' the mug ready for that same, whenever ye wor comin' into the yard, I was. ”Here she turned sharply round, and said to one of the girls, who was standing in the background, ”Go on, wid ye, now; and clane the flure. Didn't I tell ye many a time this day?” The girl smiled, and shuffled away into a dingy little room at the rear of the cottage. ”Faith, sir,” continued the woman, beating time with her hand in the air; ”faith, sir, it is not aisy for a poor woman to manage unbiddable childer.” ”What part of Ireland do you come from, Mrs K_?” said I. She hesitated a second or two, and played with her chin; then, blus.h.i.+ng slightly, she replied in a subdued tone, ”County Galway, sir.” ”Well,” said I, ”you've no need to be ashamed of that.” The woman seemed rea.s.sured, and answered at once, ”Oh, indeed then, sir, I am not ashamed--why would I? I am more nor seventeen year now in England, an' I never disguised my speech, nor disowned my country--nor I never will, aither, plase G.o.d.” She had said before that her husband was forty- five years of age; and now I inquired what age she was. ”I am the same age as my husband,” replied she. ”Forty-five,” said I. ”No, indeed, I am not forty-five,” answered she; ”nor forty naither.”

”Are you thirty-eight?” ”May be I am; I dunno. I don't think I am thirty-eight naither; I am the same age as my husband.” It was no use talking, so the subject was dropped. As we came away, the woman followed my friend to the door, earnestly pleading the cause of some family in the neighbourhood, who were in great distress. ”See now,”

said she, ”they are a large family, and the poor crayters are starvin'. He is a shoemaker, an' he doesn't be gettin' any work this longtime. Oh, indeed, then, Mr Lea, G.o.d knows thim people is badly off.” My friend promised to visit the family she had spoken of, and we came away. The smell of the house, and of the court altogether, was so sickening that we were glad to get into the air of the open street again.

It was now about half-past eleven, and my friend said, ”We have another workroom for young women in the schoolroom of St Catherine's Church. It is about five minutes' walk from here; we have just time to see it before they break up for dinner.” It was a large, square, brick building, standing by the road side, upon high ground, at the upper end of Scholes. The church is about fifty yards east of the schoolhouse. This workroom was more airy, and better lighted than the one at the Mechanics' Inst.i.tution. The floor was flagged, which will make it colder than the other in winter time. There were four hundred girls in this room, some engaged in sewing and knitting, others in reading and writing. They are employed four days in the week, and they are paid ninepence a day, as at the other two rooms in the town. It really was a pleasant thing to see their clear, healthy, blond complexions; their clothing, so clean and whole, however poor; and their orderly deportment. But they had been accustomed to work, and their work had given them a discipline which is not sufficiently valued. There are people who have written a great deal, and know very little about the influence of factory labour upon health,--it would be worth their while to see some of these workrooms. I think it would sweep cobwebs away from the corners of their minds. The clothing made up in these workrooms is of a kind suitable for the wear of working people, and is intended to be given away to the neediest among them, in the coming winter. I noticed a feature here which escaped me in the room at the Mechanics' Inst.i.tution. On one side of the room there was a flight of wooden stairs, about six yards wide. Upon these steps were seated a number of children, with books in their hands. These youngsters were evidently restless, though not noisy; and they were not very attentive to their books. These children were the worst clad and least clean part of the a.s.sembly; and it was natural that they should be so, for they were habitual beggars, gathered from the streets, and brought there to be taught and fed. When they were pointed out to me, I could not help thinking that the money which has been spent upon ragged schools is an excellent investment in the sense of world-wide good. I remarked to one of the ladies teaching there, how very clean and healthy the young women looked. She said that the girls had lately been more in the open air than usual.

”And,” said she, speaking of the cla.s.s she was superintending, ”I find these poor girls as apt learners as any other cla.s.s of young people I ever knew.” We left the room just before they were dismissed to dinner.

A few yards from the school, and by the same roadside, we came to a little cottage at the end of a row. ”We will call here,” said my friend; ”I know the people very well. ”A little, tidy, good-looking woman sat by the fire, nursing an infant at the breast. The house was clean, and all the humble furniture of the poor man's cottage seemed to be still in its place. There were two shelves of books hanging against the walls, and a pile of tracts and pamphlets, a foot deep, on a small table at the back of the room. I soon found, however, that these people were going through their share of the prevalent suffering. The family was six in number. The comely little woman said that her husband was a weaver of ”Cross-over;” and I suppose he would earn about six or seven s.h.i.+llings a week at that kind of work; but he had been long out of work. His wife said, ”I've had to pop my husban's trousers an' waistcoat many a time to pay th'

rent o' this house.” She then began to talk about her first-born, and the theme was too much for her. ”My owdest child was thirteen when he died,” said she. ”Eh, he was a fine child. We lost him about two years sin'. He was killed. He fell down that little pit o'

Wright's, Mr Lea, he did.” Then the little woman began to cry, ”Eh, my poor lad! Eh, my fine little lad! Oh dear,--oh dear o' me!” What better thing could we have done than to say nothing at such a moment. We waited a few minutes until she became calm, and then she began to talk about a benevolent young governess who used to live in that quarter, and who had gone about doing good there, amongst ”all sorts and conditions of men,” especially the poorest.

”Eh,” said she; ”that was a good woman, if ever there was one. Hoo teached a cla.s.s o' fifty at church school here, though hoo wur a Dissenter. An' hoo used to come to this house every Sunday neet, an'

read th' Scripturs; an' th' place wur olez crammed--th' stairs an o'. Up-groon fellows used to come an' larn fro her, just same as childer--they did for sure--great rough colliers, an' o' mak's. Hoo used to warn 'em again drinkin', an' get 'em to promise that they wouldn't taste for sich a time. An' if ever they broke their promise, they olez towd her th' truth, and owned to it at once. They like as iv they couldn't for shame tell her a lie. There's one of her scholars, a blacksmith--he's above fifty year owd--iv yo were to mention her name to him just now, he'd begin a-cryin', an' he'd ha'

to walk eawt o'th heause afore he could sattle hissel'. Eh, hoo wur a fine woman; an' everything that hoo said wur so striking. Hoo writes to her scholars here, once a week; an' hoo wants 'em to write back to her, as mony on 'em as con do. See yo; that's one ov her letters!”

CHAPTER XVIII.

”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 cla.s.ses. 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 s.p.a.ce between each line, so as to make the whole easier to read by those not used to ma.n.u.script. 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 una.s.suming 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, refres.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sed 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 la.s.s, 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 Lancas.h.i.+re, are thrown suddenly into such a helpless state as now, it is almost impossible to lay hold at once of every nice distinction of circ.u.mstances 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-fas.h.i.+oned wooden wheel stood in the middle of the floor, with a quant.i.ty 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 s.h.i.+llings 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 princ.i.p.als 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 a.s.sure 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 gla.s.s, 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 la.s.s 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'.”

CHAPTER XIX.

”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.”