Leaving the “Stone Yard,” to fulfil an engagement in another part of the town, we agreed to call upon three or four poor folk, who lived by the way; and I don’t know that I could do better than say something about what I saw of them. As we walked along, one of my companions told me of an incident which happened to one of the visitors in another ward, a few days before. In the course of his round, this visitor called upon a certain destitute family which was under his care, and he found the husband sitting alone in the house, pale and silent. His wife had been “brought to bed” two or three days before; and the visitor inquired how she was getting on. “Hoo’s very ill,” said the husband. “And the child,” continued the visitor, “how is it?” “It’s deeod,” replied the man; “it dee’d yesterday.” He then rose, and walked slowly into the next room, returning with a basket in his hands, in which the dead child was decently laid out.

“That’s o’ that’s laft on it neaw,” said the poor fellow. Then, putting the basket upon the floor, he sat down in front of it, with his head between his hands, looking silently at the corpse. Such things as these were the theme of our conversation as we went along, and I found afterwards that every visitor whom it was my privilege to meet, had some special story of distress to relate, which came within his own appointed range of action. In my first flying visit to that great melancholy field, I could only glean such things as lay nearest to my hand, just then; but wherever I went, I heard and saw things which touchingly testify what noble stuff the working population of Lancashire, as a whole, is made of. One of the first cases we called upon, after leaving the “Stone Yard,” was that of a family of ten man and wife, and eight children. Four of the children were under ten years of age, five were capable of working; and, when the working part of the family was in full employment, their joint earnings amounted to 61s. per week. But, in this case, the mother’s habitual ill-health had been a great expense in the household for several years. This family belonged to a class of operatives a much larger class than people unacquainted with the factory districts are likely to suppose a class of operatives which will struggle, in a dumb, enduring way, to the death, sometimes, before they will sacrifice that “immediate jewel of their souls”  their old independence, and will keep up a decent appearance to the very last. These suffer more than the rest; for, in addition to the pains of bitter starvation, they feel a loss which is more afflicting to them even than the loss of food and furniture ; and their sufferings are less heard of than the rest, because they do not like to complain. This family of ten persons had been living, during the last nine weeks, upon relief amounting to 5s. a week. When we called, the mother and one or two of her daughters were busy in the next room, washing their poor bits of well-kept clothing. The daughters kept out of sight, as if ashamed. It was a good kind of cottage, in a clean street, called “Maudland Bank,” and the whole place had a tidy, sweet look, though it was washing-day. The mother told me that she had been severely afflicted with seven successive attacks of inflammation, and yet, in spite of her long-continued ill-health, and in spite of the iron teeth of poverty which had been gnawing at them so long, for the first time, I have rarely seen a more frank and cheerful countenance than that thin matron’s, as she stood there, wringing her clothes, and telling her little story. The house they lived in belonged to their late employer, whose mill stopped some time ago. We asked her how they managed to pay the rent, and she said, “Why, we dunnot pay it; we cannot pay it, an’ he doesn’t push us for it. Aw guess he knows he’ll get it sometime. But we owe’d a deal o’ brass beside that. Just look at this shop book. Aw’m noan freetend ov onybody seein’ my acceawnts. An’ then, there’s a great lot o’ doctor’s-bills i’ that pot, theer. Thoose are o’ for me. There’ll ha’ to be some wark done afore things can be fotched up again. . . . Eh; aw’ll tell yo what, William, (this was addressed to the visitor,) it went ill again th’ grain wi’ my husband to goo afore th’ Board. An’ when he did goo, he wouldn’t say so mich. Yo known, folk doesn’t like brastin’ off abeawt theirsel’ o’ at once, at a shop like that. . . . Aw think sometimes it’s very weel that four ov eawrs are i’ heaven, we’n sich hard tewin’ (toiling), to poo through wi’ tother, just neaw. But, aw guess it’ll not last for ever.” As we came away, talking of the reluctance shown by the better sort of working people to ask for relief, or even sometimes to accept it when offered to them, until thoroughly starved to it, I was told of a visitor calling upon a poor woman in another ward; no application had been made for relief, but some kind neighbour had told the committee that the woman and her husband were “ill off.” The visitor, finding that they were perishing for want, offered the woman some relief tickets for food; but the poor soul began to cry, and said; “Eh, aw dar not touch ’em; my husban’ would sauce me so! Aw dar not take ’em; aw should never yer the last on’t!” When we got to the lower end of Hope Street, my guide stopped suddenly, and said, “Oh, this is close to where that woman lives whose husband died of starvation. “Leading a few yards up the by-street, he turned into a low, narrow entry, very dark and damp. Two turns more brought us to a dirty, pent-up corner, where a low door stood open. We entered there. It was a cold, gloomy-looking little hovel. In my allusion to the place last week I said it was “scarcely four yards square.” It is not more than three yards square. There was no fire in the little rusty grate. The day was sunny, but no sunshine could ever reach that nook, nor any fresh breezes disturb the pestilent vapours that harboured there, festering in the sluggish gloom. In one corner of the place a little worn and broken stair led up to a room of the same size above, where, I was told, there was now some straw for the family to sleep upon. But the only furniture in the house, of any kind, was two rickety chairs and a little broken deal table, reared against the stairs, because one leg was gone. A quiet-looking, thin woman, seemingly about fifty years of age, sat there, when we went in. She told us that she had buried five of her children, and that she had six yet alive, all living with her in that poor place. They had no work, no income whatever, save what came from the Relief Committee. Five of the children were playing in and out, bare-footed, and, like the mother, miserably clad; but they seemed quite unconscious that anything ailed them. I never saw finer children anywhere. The eldest girl, about fourteen, came in whilst we were there, and she leaned herself bashfully against the wall for a minute or two, and then slunk slyly out again, as if ashamed of our presence. The poor widow pointed to the cold corner where her husband died lately. She said that “his name was Tim Pedder. His fadder name was Timothy, an’ his mudder name was Mary. He was a driver (a driver of boat-horses on the canal); but he had bin oot o’ wark a lang time afore he dee’d.” I found in this case, as in some others, that the poor body had not much to say about her distress; but she did not need to say much. My guide told me that when he first called upon the family, in the depth of last winter, he found the children all clinging round about their mother in the cold hovel, trying in that way to keep one another warm. The time for my next appointment was now hard on, and we hurried towards the shop in Fishergate, kept by the gentleman I had promised to meet. He is an active member of the Relief Committee, and a visitor in George’s ward. We found him in. He had just returned from the “Cheese Fair,” at Lancaster. My purpose was to find out what time on the morrow we could go together to see some of the cases he was best acquainted with. But, as the evening was not far spent, he proposed that we should go at once to see a few of those which were nearest. We set out together to Walker’s Court, in Friargate. The first place we entered was at the top of the little narrow court. There we found a good-tempered Irish-woman sitting without fire, in her feverish hovel. “Well, missis,” said the visitor, “how is your husband getting on?” “Ah, well, now, Mr. T ,” replied she, “you know, he’s only a delicate little man, an’ a tailor; an’ he wint to work on the moor, an’ he couldn’t stand it. Sure, it was draggin’ the bare life out of him. So, he says to me, one morning, “Catharine,” says he, “I’ll lave off this a little while, till I see will I be able to get a job o’ work at my own trade; an’ maybe God will rise up some thin’ to put a dud o’ clothes on us all, an’ help us to pull through till the black time is over us.” So, I told him to try his luck, any way; for he was killin’ himself entirely on the moor. An’ so he did try; for there’s not an idle bone in that same boy’s skin. But, see this, now; there’s nothin’ in the world to be had to do just now an’ a dale too many waitin’ to do it so all he got by the change was losin’ his work on the moor. There is himself, an’ me, an’ the seven childer. Five o’ the childer is under tin year old. We are all naked; an’ the house is bare; an’ our health is gone wi’ the want o’ mate. Sure it wasn’t in the likes o’ this we wor livin’ when times was good.” Three of the youngest children were playing about on the floor. “That’s a very fine lad,” said I, pointing to one of them. The little fellow blushed, and smiled, and then became very still and attentive. “Ah, thin,” said his mother, “that villain’s the boy for tuckin’ up soup! The Lord be about him, an’ save him alive to me, the crayter ! . . . An’ there’s little curly there,  the rogue! Sure he’ll take as much soup as any wan o’ them. Maybe he wouldn’t laugh to see a big bowl forninst him this day.” “It’s very well they have such good spirits,” said the visitor. “So it is,” replies the woman, “so it is, for God knows it’s little else they have to keep them warm thim bad times.”