Returning to the little shop mentioned in my last the “little provision shop,” where there was nothing left to eat nothing, indeed, of any kind, except one mug of buttermilk, and a miserable remnant of little empty things, which nobody would buy; four or five glass bottles in the window, two or three poor deal shelves, and a doleful little counter, rudely put together, and looking as if it felt, now, that there was nothing in the world left for it but to become chips at no distant date. Everything in the place had a sad, subdued look, and seemed conscious of having come down in the world, without hope of ever rising again; even the stript walls appeared to look at one another with a stony gaze of settled despair. But there was a clean, matronly woman in the place, gliding about from side to side with a cloth in her hands, and wiping first one, then another, of these poor little relics of better days in a caressing way. The shop had been her special care when times were good, and she clung affectionately to its ruins still. Besides, going about cleaning and arranging the little empty things in this way looked almost like doing business. But, nevertheless, the woman had a cheerful, good-humoured countenance. The sunshine of hope was still warm in her heart; though there was a touch of pathos in the way she gave the little rough counter another kindly wipe now and then, as if she wished to keep its spirits up; and in the way she looked, now at the buttermilk mug, then at the open door, and then at the four glass bottles in the window, which had been gazed at so oft and so eagerly by little children outside, in the days when spice was in them. . . . The husband came in from the little back room. He was a hardy, frank-looking man, and, like his wife, a trifle past middle age, I thought; but he had nothing to say, as he stood there with his wife, by the counter side. She answered our questions freely and simply, and in an uncomplaining way, not making any attempt to awaken sympathy by enlarging upon the facts of their condition. Theirs was a family of seven man, wife, and five children. The man was a spinner; and his thrifty wife had managed the little shop, whilst he worked at the mill. There are many striving people among the factory operatives, who help up the family earnings by keeping a little shop in this way. But this family was another of those instances in which working people have been pulled down by misfortune before the present crisis came on. Just previous to the mills beginning to work short time, four of their five children had been lying ill, all at once, for five months; and, before that trouble befell them, one of the lads had two of his fingers taken off, whilst working at the factory, and so was disabled a good while. It takes little additional weight to sink those whose chins are only just above water; and these untoward circumstances oiled the way of this struggling family to the ground, before the mills stopped. A few months’ want of work, with their little stock of shop stuff oozing away partly on credit to their poor neighbours, and partly to live upon themselves  and they become destitute of all, except a few beggarly remnants of empty shop furniture. Looking round the place, I said,” Well, missis, how’s trade?” “Oh, brisk,” said she; and then the man and his wife smiled at one another. “Well,” said I, “yo’n sowd up, I see, heawever.” “Ay,” answered she, “we’n sowd up, for sure a good while sin’;” and then she smiled again, as if she thought she had said a clever thing. They had been receiving relief from the parish several weeks; but she told me that some ill-natured neighbour had “set it eawt,” that they had sold off their stock out of the shop, and put the money into the bank. Through this report, the Board of Guardians had “knocked off” their relief for a fortnight, until the falsity of the report was made clear. After that, the Board gave orders for the man and his wife and three of the children to be admitted to the workhouse, leaving the other two lads, who were working at the “Stone Yard,” to “fend for theirsels,” and find new nests wherever they could. This, however, was overruled afterwards; and the family is still holding together in the empty shop, receiving from all sources, work and relief, about 13s. a week for the seven, not bad, compared with the income of very many others. It is sad to think how many poor families get sundered and scattered about the world in a time like this, never to meet again. And the false report respecting this family in the little shop, reminds me that the poor are not always kind to the poor. I learnt, from a gentleman who is Secretary to the Relief Committee of one of the wards, that it is not uncommon for the committees to receive anonymous letters, saying that so and so is unworthy of relief, on some ground or other. These complaints were generally found to be either wholly false, or founded upon some mistake. I have three such letters now before me. The first, written on a torn scrap of ruled paper, runs thus: “May 19th, 1862. If you please be so kind as to look after  Back Newton Street Formerly a Resident of  as i think he is not Deserving Relief. A Ratepayer.” In each case I give the spelling, and everything else, exactly as in the originals before me, except the names. The next of these epistles says:  “Preston, May 29th. Sir, I beg to inform you that , of Park Road, in receipt from the Relief Fund, is a very unworthy person, having worked two days since the 16 and drunk the remainder and his wife also; for the most part, he has plenty of work for himself his wife and a journeyman but that is their regular course of life. And the Ss have all their family working full time. Yours respectfully.” These last two are anonymous. The next is written in a very good hand, upon a square piece of very blue writing paper. It has a name attached, but no address: “Preston, June 2nd, 1862. Mr. Dunn,  Dear Sir, Would you please to inquire into the case of , of . the are a family of 3 the man work four or more days per week on the moor the woman works 6 days per week at Messrs Simpsons North Road the third is a daughter 13 or 14 should be a weaver but to lasey she has good places such as Mr. Hollins and Horrocks and Millers as been sent a way for being to lasey. the man and woman very fond of drink. I as a Nabour and a subscriber do not think this a proper case for your charity. Yours truly, .” The committee could not find out the writer of this, although a name is given. Such things as these need no comment.

The next house we called at was inhabited by an old widow and her only daughter. The daughter had been grievously afflicted with disease of the heart, and quite incapable of helping herself during the last eleven years. The poor worn girl sat upon an old tattered kind of sofa, near the fire, panting for breath in the close atmosphere. She sat there in feverish helplessness, sallow and shrunken, and unable to bear up her head. It was a painful thing to look at her. She had great difficulty in uttering a few words. I can hardly guess what her age may be now; I should think about twenty-five. Mr Toulmin, one of the visitors who accompanied me to the place, reminded the young woman of his having called upon them there more than four years ago, to leave some bedding which had been bestowed upon an old woman by a certain charity in the town. He saw no more of them after that, until the present hard times began, when he was deputed by the Relief Committee to call at that distressed corner amongst others in his own neighbourhood; and when he first opened the door, after a lapse of four years, he was surprised to find the same young woman, sitting in the same place, gasping painfully for breath, as he had last seen her. The old widow had just been able to earn what kept soul and body together in her sick girl and herself, during the last eleven years, by washing and such like work. But even this resource had fallen away a good deal during these bad times; there are so many poor creatures like herself, driven to extremity, and glad to grasp at any little bit of employment which can be had. In addition to what the old woman could get by a day’s washing now and then, she received 1d. a week from the parish. Think of the poor old soul trailing about the world, trying to “scratch a living” for herself and her daughter by washing; and having to hurry home from her labour to attend to that sick girl through eleven long years. Such a life is a good deal like a slow funeral. It is struggling for a few breaths more, with the worms crawling over you. And yet I am told that the old woman was not accustomed to “make a poor mouth,” as the saying goes. How true it is that “a great many people in this world have only one form of rhetoric for their profoundest experiences, namely to waste away and die.”

Our next visit was to an Irish family. There was an old woman in, and a flaxen-headed lad about ten years of age. She was sitting upon a low chair, the only seat in the place, and the tattered lad was kneeling on the ground before her, whilst she combed his hair out. “Well, missis, how are you getting on amongst it?” “Oh, well, then, just middlin’, Mr T. Ye see, I am busy combin’ this boy’s hair a bit, for ‘tis gettin’ like a wisp o’ hay.” There was not a vestige of furniture in the cottage, except the chair the old woman sat on. She said, “I did sell the childer’s bedstead for 2d.; an’ after that I sold the bed from under them for 1d., just to keep them from starvin’ to death. The childer had been two days without mate then, an’ faith I couldn’t bear it any longer. After that I did sell the big pan, an’ then the new rockin’ chair, an’ so on, one thing after another, till all wint entirely, barrin’ this I am sittin’ on, an’ they wint for next to nothin’ too. Sure, I paid 9d. for the bed itself, which was sold for 1d. We all sleep on straw now.” This family was seven in number. The mill at which they used to work had been stopped about ten months. One of the family had found employment at another mill, three months out of the ten, and the old man himself had got a few days’ work in that time. The rest of the family had been wholly unemployed, during the ten months. Except the little money this work brought in, and a trifle raised now and then by the sale of a bit of furniture when hunger and cold pressed them hard, the whole family had been living upon 5s. a week for the last ten months. The rent was running on. The eldest daughter was twenty-eight years of age. As we came away Mr Toulmin said to me, “Well, I have called at that house regularly for the last sixteen weeks, and this is the first time I ever saw a fire in the place. But the old man has got two days’ work this week that may account for the fire.”

It was now close upon half-past seven in the evening, at which time I had promised to call upon the Secretary of the Trinity Ward Relief Committee, whose admirable letter in the London Times, attracted so much attention about a month ago. I met several members of the committee at his lodgings, and we had an hour’s interesting conversation. I learnt that, in cases of sickness arising from mere weakness, from poorness of diet, or from unsuitableness of the food commonly provided by the committee, orders were now issued for such kind of “kitchen physic” as was recommended by the doctors. The committee had many cases of this kind. One instance was mentioned, in which, by the doctor’s advice, four ounces of mutton chop daily had been ordered to be given to a certain sick man, until further notice. The thing went on and was forgotten, until one day, when the distributor of food said to the committeeman who had issued the order, “I suppose I must continue that daily mutton chop to so-and-so?” “Eh, no; he’s been quite well two months?” The chop had been going on for ninety-five days. We had some talk with that class of operatives who are both clean, provident, and “heawse-preawd,” as Lancashire folk call it. The Secretary told me that he was averse to such people living upon the sale of their furniture; and the committee had generally relieved the distress of such people, just as if they had no furniture, at all. He mentioned the case of a family of factory operatives, who were all fervent lovers of music, as so many of the working people of Lancashire are. Whilst in full work, they had scraped up money to buy a piano; and, long after the ploughshare of ruin had begun to drive over the little household, they clung to the darling instrument, which was such a source of pure pleasure to them, and they were advised to keep it by the committee which relieved them. “Yes,” said another member of the committee,” but I called there lately, and the piano’s gone at last.” Many interesting things came out in the course of our conversation. One mentioned a house he had called at, where there was neither chair, table, nor bed; and one of the little lads had to hold up a piece of board for him to write upon. Another spoke of the difficulties which “lone women” have to encounter in these hard times. “I knocked so-and-so off my list,” said one of the committee, “till I had inquired into an ill report I heard of her. But she came crying to me; and I found out that the woman had been grossly belied.” Another (Mr Nowell) told of a house on his list, where they had no less than one hundred and fifty pawn tickets. He told, also, of a moulder’s family, who had been all out of work and starving so long, that their poor neighbours came at last and recommended the committee to relieve them, as they would not apply for relief themselves. They accepted relief just one week, and then the man came and said that he had a prospect of work; and he shouldn’t need relief tickets any longer. It was here that I heard so much about anonymous letters, of which I have given you three samples. Having said that I should like to see the soup kitchen, one of the committee offered to go with me thither at six o’clock the next morning; and so I came away from the meeting in the cool twilight.

Old Preston looked fine to me in the clear air of that declining day. I stood a while at the end of the “Bull” gateway. There was a comical-looking little knock-kneed fellow in the middle of the street  a wandering minstrel, well known in Preston by the name of “Whistling Jack.” There he stood, warbling and waving his band, and looking from side to side, in vain. At last I got him to whistle the “Flowers of Edinburgh.” He did it, vigorously; and earned his penny well. But even “Whistling Jack” complained of the times. He said Preston folk had “no taste for music.” But he assured me the time would come when there would be a monument to him in that town.