Part 6 (1/2)
watchman's place at Leyland Mill,” continued he, ”but I wur to lat.
. . . There's nought for it,” continued he, as we came out of the house, ”there's nought for it but to keep one's een oppen, an' do as weel as they con, till it blows o'er.”
A few yards from this house, we looked in at a slip of a cottage, at the corner of the row. It was like a slice off some other cottage, stuck on at the end of the rest, to make up the measure of the street; for it was less than two yards wide, by about four yards long. There was only one small window, close to the door, and it was shrouded by a dingy cotton blind. When we first entered, I could hardly see what there was in that gloomy cell; but when the eyes became acquainted with the dimness within, we found that there was neither fire nor furniture in the place, except at the far end, where an old sick woman lay gasping upon three chairs, thinly covered from the cold. She was dying of asthma. At her right hand there was another rickety chair, by the help of which she raised herself up from her hard bed. She said that she had never been up stairs during the previous twelve months, but had lain there, at the foot of the stairs, all that time. She had two daughters. They were both out of the house; and they had been out of work a long time.
One of them had gone to Miss B_'s to learn to sew. ”She gets her breakfast before she starts,” said the old woman, ”an' she takes a piece o' bread with her, to last for th' day.” It was a trouble to her to talk much, so we did not stop long; but I could not help feeling sorry that the poor old soul had not a little more comfort to smooth her painful pa.s.sage to the grave. On our way from this place, we went into a cottage near the ”Coal Yard,” where a tall, thin Irishwoman was was.h.i.+ng some tattered clothes, whilst her children played about the gutter outside. This was a family of seven, and they were all out of work, except the father, who was away, trying to make a trifle by hawking writing-paper and envelopes. This woman told us that she was in great trouble about one of her children--the eldest daughter, now grown up to womanhood.
”She got married to a sailor about two year ago,” said she, ”an' he wint away a fortnit after, an' never was heard of since. She never got the sc.r.a.pe ov a pen from him to say was he alive or dead. She never heard top nor tail of him since he wint from her; an' the girl is just pinin' away.”
Poor folk have their full share of the common troubles of life, apart from the present distress. The next place we visited was the ”Fleece Yard,” another of those unhealthy courts, of which there are so many in Scholes--where poverty and dirt unite to make life doubly miserable. In this yard we went up three or four steps into a little disorderly house, where a family of eleven was crowded. Not one of the eleven was earning anything except the father, who was working for ls. 3d. a day. In addition to this the family received four tickets weekly from the Relief Committee. There were several of the children in, and they looked brisk and healthy, in spite of the dirt and discomfort of the place; but the mother was sadly ”torn down” by the cares of her large family. The house had a sickly smell. Close to the window, a little, stiff built, bullet-headed lad stood, stript to the waist, sputtering and splas.h.i.+ng as he washed himself in a large bowl of water, placed upon a stool. By his side there was another lad three or four years older, and the two were having a bit of famous fun together, quite heedless of all else. The elder kept ducking the little fellow's head into the water, upon which the one who was was.h.i.+ng himself sobbed, and spat, and cried out in great glee, ”Do it again, Jack!” The mother, seeing us laugh at the lads, said, ”That big un's been powin' tother, an' th' little monkey's gone an' cut every smite o' th' lad's toppin' off. ”” Well,” said the elder lad, ”Aw did it so as n.o.body can lug him. ”And it certainly was a close clip. We could see to the roots of the little fellow's hair all over his round, hard head. ”Come,” said the mother, ”yo two are makin' a nice floor for mo. Thae'll do, mon; arto beawn to lother o' th' bit o' swoap away that one has to wash wi'; gi's howd on't this minute, an' go thi ways an' dry thisel', thae little pouse, thae.” We visited several other places in Scholes that day, but of these I will say something hereafter. In the evening I returned home, and the thing that I best remember hearing on the way was an anecdote of two Lancas.h.i.+re men, who had been disputing a long time about something that one of them knew little of. At last the other turned to him, and said, ”Jem; does thae know what it is that makes me like thee so weel, owd brid?” ”Naw; what is it?” ”Why; it's becose thae'rt sich a ___ foo!” ”Well,” replied the other, ”never thee mind that;” and then, alluding to the subject they had been disputing about, he said, ”Thae knows, Joe, aw know thae'rt reet enough; but, by th' men, aw'll not give in till mornin'.”
CHAPTER XXI.
”Here, take this purse, thou whom the Heaven's plagues Have humbled to all strokes.”
--King Lear.
In the afternoon of the last day I spent in Wigan, as I wandered with my friend from one cottage to another, in the long suburban lane called ”Hardy b.u.t.ts,” I bethought me how oft I had met with this name of ”b.u.t.ts ”connected with places in or close to the towns of Lancas.h.i.+re. To me the original application of the name seems plain, and not uninteresting. In the old days, when archery was common in England, the bowmen of Lancas.h.i.+re were famous; and it is more than likely that these yet so-called ”b.u.t.ts” are the places where archery was then publicly practised. When Sir Edward Stanley led the war-smiths of Lancas.h.i.+re and Ches.h.i.+re to Flodden Field, the men of Wigan are mentioned as going with the rest. And among those ”fellows fearce and freshe for feight,” of whom the quaint old alliterative ballad describes the array:-
”A stock of striplings strong of heart, Brought up from babes with beef and bread, From Warton unto Warrington From Wigan unto Wiresdale--”
and, from a long list of the hills, and cloughs, and old towns of the county--the bowmen of Lancas.h.i.+re did their share of work upon that field. The use of the bow lingered longer in Lancas.h.i.+re than in some parts of the kingdom--longer in England generally than many people suppose. Sir Walter Scott says, in a note to his ”Legend of Montrose:” ”Not only many of the Highlanders in Montrose's army used these antique missiles, but even in England the bow and quiver, once the glory of the bold yeomen of that land, were occasionally used during the great civil wars.”
But I have said enough upon this subject in this place. My friend's business, and mine, in Wigan, that day, was connected with other things. He was specially wishful that I should call upon an acquaintance of his, who lived in ”Hardy b.u.t.ts,” an old man and very poor; a man heavily stricken by fortune's blows, yet not much tamed thereby; a man ”steeped to the lips” in poverty, yet of a jocund spirit; a humorist and a politician, among his humble companions. I felt curious to see this ”Old John,” of whom I heard so much. We went to the cottage where he lived. There was very little furniture in the place, and, like the house itself, it was neither good nor clean; but then the poverty-stricken pair were very old, and, so far as household comfort went, they had to look after themselves. When we entered, the little wrinkled woman sat with her back to us, smoking, and gazing at the dirty grate, where a few hot cinders glowed dimly in the lowmost bars. ”Where's John?” said my friend.
”He hasn't bin gone eawt aboon five minutes,” said she, turning round to look at us, ”Wur yo wantin' him?” ”Yes, I should like to see him.” She looked hard at my friend again, and then cried out, ”Eh, is it yo? Come, an' sit yo deawn! aw'll go an' see iv aw can root him up for yo!” But we thought it as well to visit some other houses in the neighbourhood, calling at old John's again afterwards; so we told the old woman, and came away.
My friend was well known to the poor people of that neighbourhood as a member of the Relief Committee, and we had not gone many yards down ”Hardy b.u.t.ts” before we drew near where three Irishwomen were sitting upon the doorsteps of a miserable cottage, chattering, and looking vacantly up and down the s.l.u.tchy street. As soon as they caught sight of my friend, one of the women called out, ”Eh, here's Mr Lea! Come here, now, Mr Lea, till I spake to ye. Ah, now; couldn't ye do somethin' for old Mary beyant there? Sure the colour of hunger's in that woman's face. Faith, it's a pity to see the way she is,--neither husband nor son, nor chick nor child, nor bit nor sup, barrin' what folk that has nothin' can give to her,--the crayter.” ” Oh, indeed, then, sir,” said another, ”I'll lave it to G.o.d; but that woman is starvin'. She is little more nor skin an'
bone,--and that's goin' less. Faith, she's not long for this world, any how. . . . Bridget, ye might run an' see can she come here a minute. . . . But there she is, standin' at the corner. Mary! Come here, now, woman, till ye see the gentleman.” She was a miserable- looking creature; old, and ill, and thinly-clothed in rags, with a dirty cloth tied round her head. My friend asked her some questions, which she answered slowly, in a low voice that trembled with more than the weakness of old age. He promised to see to the relief of her condition immediately-- and she thanked him, but so feebly, that it seemed to me as if she had not strength enough left to care much whether she was relieved or not.
But, as we came away, the three Irishwomen, sitting upon the door- steps, burst forth into characteristic expressions of grat.i.tude.
”Ah! long life to ye, Mr Lea! The prayer o' the poor is wid ye for evermore. If there was ony two people goin' to heaven alive, you'll be wan o' them. . . That ye may never know want nor scant,--for the good heart that's batein' in ye, Mr Lea.” We now went through some of the filthy alleys behind ”Hardy b.u.t.ts,” till we came to the cottage of a poor widow and her two daughters. The three were entirely dependent upon the usual grant of relief from the committee. My friend called here to inquire why the two girls had not been to school during the previous few days; and whilst their mother was explaining the reason, a neighbour woman who had seen us enter, looked in at the door, and said, ”Hey! aw say, Mr Lea!”
”Well, what's the matter?” ” Whaw, there's a woman i'th next street at's gettin' four tickets fro th' relief folk, reggilar, an' her husban's addlin' thirty s.h.i.+llin' a week o' t' time, as a sinker--he is for sure. Aw 'm noan tellin' yo a wort ov a lie. Aw consider sick wark as that's noan reet--an' so mony folk clemmin' as there is i'
Wigan.” He made a note of the matter; but he told me afterwards that such reports were often found to be untrue, having their origin sometimes in private spite or personal contention of some kind.
In the next house we called at, a widow woman lived, with her married daughter, who had a child at the breast. The old woman told her story herself; the daughter never spoke a word, so far as I remember, but sat there, nursing, silent and sad, with half-averted face, and stealing a shy glance at us now and then, when she thought we were not looking at her. It was a clean cottage, though it was scantily furnished with poor things; and they were both neat and clean in person, though their clothing was meagre and far worn. I thought, also, that the old woman's language, and the countenances of both of them, indicated more natural delicacy of feeling, and more cultivation, than is common amongst people of their condition.
The old woman said, ”My daughter has been eawt o' work a long time.
I can make about two s.h.i.+llings and sixpence a-week, an' we've a lodger that pays us two s.h.i.+llings a week; but we've three s.h.i.+llings a-week to pay for rent, an' we must pay it, too, or else turn out.
But I'm lookin' for a less heawse; for we cannot afford to stop here any longer, wi' what we have comin' in, --that is, if we're to live at o'.” I thought the house they were in was small enough and mean enough for the poorest creature, and, though it was kept clean, the neighbourhood was very unwholesome. But this was another instance of how the unemployed operatives of Lancas.h.i.+re are being driven down from day to day deeper into the pestilent sinks of life in these hard times. ”This child of my daughter's,” continued the old woman, in a low tone, ”this child was born just as they were puttin' my husband into his coffin, an' wi' one thing an' another, we've had a deal o' trouble. But one half o'th world doesn't know how tother lives. My husban' lay ill i' bed three year; an' he suffered to that degree that he was weary o' life long before it were o'er. At after we lost him, these bad times coom on, an' neaw, aw think we're poo'd deawn as nee to th' greawnd as ony body can be. My daughter's husband went off a-seekin' work just afore that child was born,--an'
we haven't heard from him yet.” My friend took care that his visit should result in lightening the weight of the old woman's troubles a little.
As we pa.s.sed the doors of a row of new cottages at the top end of ”Hardy b.u.t.ts,” a respectable old man looked out at one of the doorways, and said to my friend, ”Could aw spake to yo a minute?” We went in, and found the house remarkably clean, with good cottage furniture in it. Two neighbour children were peeping in at the open door. The old man first sent them away, and then, after closing the door, he pointed to a good-looking young woman who stood blus.h.i.+ng at the entrance of the inner room, with a wet cloth in her hands, and he said, ”Could yo do a bit o' summat to help this la.s.s till sich times as hoo can get wark again? Hoo's noather feyther nor mother, nor nought i'th world to tak to, but what aw can spare for her, an'
this is a poor shop to come to for help. Aw'm uncle to her.” ”Well,”
said my friend, ”and cannot you manage to keep her?” ”G.o.d bless yo!”
replied the old man, getting warm, ”Aw cannot keep mysel'. Aw will howd eawt as lung as aw can; but, yo know, what'll barely keep one alive 'll clem two. Aw should be thankful iv yo could give her a bit o' help whol things are as they are.” Before the old man had done talking, his niece had crept away into the back room, as if ashamed of being the subject of such a conversation. This case was soon disposed of to the satisfaction of the old man; after which we visited three other houses in the same block, of which I have nothing special to say, except that they were all inhabited by people brought down to dest.i.tution by long want of work, and living solely upon the relief fund, and upon the private charity of their old employers. Upon this last source of relief too little has been said, because it has not paraded itself before the public eye; but I have had opportunities for seeing how wide and generous it is, and I shall have abundant occasion for speaking of it hereafter. On our way back, we looked in at ”Old John's” again, to see if he had returned home. He had been in, and he had gone out again, so we came away, and saw nothing of him. Farther down towards the town, we pa.s.sed through Acton Square, which is a cleaner place than some of the abominable nooks of Scholes, though I can well believe that there is many a miserable dwelling in it, from what I saw of the interiors and about the doorways, in pa.s.sing.
The last house we called at was in this square, and it was a pleasing exception to the general dirt of the neighbourhood. It was the cottage of a stout old collier, who lost his right leg in one of Wright's pits some years ago. My friend knew the family, and we called there more for the purpose of resting ourselves and having a chat than anything else. The old man was gray-haired, but he looked very hale and hearty--save the lack of his leg. His countenance was expressive of intelligence and good humour; and there was a touch of quiet majesty about his ma.s.sive features. There was, to me, a kind of rude hint of Christopher North in the old collier's appearance.
His wife, too, was a tall, strong-built woman, with a comely and a gentle face --a fit mate for such a man as he. I thought, as she moved about, her grand bulk seemed to outface the narrow limits of the cottage. The tiny house was exceedingly clean, and comfortably furnished. Everything seemed to be in its appointed place, even to the sleek cat sleeping on the hearth. There were a few books on a shelf, and a concertina upon a little table in the corner. When we entered, the old collier was busy with the slate and pencil, and an arithmetic before him; but he laid them aside, and, doffing his spectacles, began to talk with us. He said that they were a family of six, and all out of work; but he said that, ever since he lost his leg, the proprietors of the pit in which the accident happened (Wright's) had allowed him a pension of six s.h.i.+llings a week, which he considered very handsome. This allowance just kept the wolf from their little door in these hard times. In the course of our conversation I found that the old man read the papers frequently, and that he was a man of more than common information in his cla.s.s.
I should have been glad to stay longer with him, but my time was up; so I came away from the town, thus ending my last ramble amongst the unemployed operatives of Wigan. Since then the condition of the poor there has been steadily growing worse, which is sure to be heard of in the papers.