AMONG THE PRESTON OPERATIVES

Proud Preston, or Priest-town, on the banks of the beautiful Ribble, is a place of many quaint customs, and of great historic fame. Its character for pride is said to come from the fact of its having been, in the old time, a favourite residence of the local nobles and gentry, and of many penniless folk with long pedigrees. It was here that Richard Arkwright shaved chins at a halfpenny each, in the meantime working out his bold and ingenious schemes, with patient faith in their ultimate success. It was here, too, that the teetotal movement first began, with Anderson for its rhyme-smith. Preston has had its full share of the changeful fortunes of England, and, like our motherland, it has risen strongly out of them all. War’s mad havoc has swept over it in many a troubled period of our history. Plague, pestilence, and famine have afflicted it sorely; and it has suffered from trade riots, “plug-drawings,” panics, and strikes of most disastrous kinds. Proud Preston the town of the Stanleys and the Hoghtons, and of “many a crest that is famous in story” the town where silly King Jamie disported himself a little, with his knights and nobles, during the time of his ruinous visit to Hoghton Tower, Proud Preston has seen many a black day. But, from the time when Roman sentinels kept watch and ward in their old camp at Walton, down by the Ribble side, it has never seen so much wealth and so much bitter poverty together as now. The streets do not show this poverty; but it is there. Looking from Avenham Walks, that glorious landscape smiles in all the splendour of a rich spring-tide. In those walks the nursemaids and children, and dainty folk, are wandering as usual airing their curls in the fresh breeze; and only now and then a workless operative trails by with chastened look. The wail of sorrow is not heard in Preston market-place; but destitution may be found almost anywhere there just now, cowering in squalid corners, within a few yards of plenty as I have seen it many a time this week. The courts and alleys behind even some of the main streets swarm with people who have hardly a whole nail left to scratch themselves with.

Before attempting to tell something of what I saw whilst wandering amongst the poor operatives of Preston, I will say at once, that I do not intend to meddle with statistics. They have been carefully gathered, and often given elsewhere, and there is no need for me to repeat them. But, apart from these, the theme is endless, and full of painful interest. I hear on all hands that there is hardly any town in Lancashire suffering so much as Preston. The reason why the stroke has fallen so heavily here, lies in the nature of the trade. In the first place, Preston is almost purely a cotton town. There are two or three flax mills, and two or three ironworks, of no great extent; but, upon the whole, there is hardly any variety of employment there to lighten the disaster which has befallen its one absorbing occupation. There is comparatively little weaving in Preston; it is a town mostly engaged in spinning. The cotton used there is nearly all what is called “Middling American,” the very kind which is now most scarce and dear. The yarns of Preston are known by the name of “Blackburn Counts.” They range from 28’s up to 60’s, and they enter largely into the manufacture of goods for the India market. These things partly explain why Preston is more deeply overshadowed by the particular gloom of the times than many other places in Lancashire. About half-past nine on Tuesday morning last, I set out with an old acquaintance to call upon a certain member of the Relief Committee, in George’s Ward. He is the manager of a cotton mill in that quarter, and he is well known and much respected among the working people. When we entered the mill-yard, all was quiet there, and the factory was still and silent. But through the office window we could see the man we wanted. He was accompanied by one of the proprietors of the mill, turning over the relief books of the ward. I soon found that he had a strong sense of humour, as well as a heart welling over with tenderness. He pointed to some of the cases in his books. The first was that of an old man, an overlooker of a cotton mill. His family was thirteen in number; three of the children were under ten years of age; seven of the rest were factory operatives; but the whole family had been out of work for several months. When in full employment the joint earnings of the family amounted to 80s. a week; but, after struggling on in the hope of better times, and exhausting the savings of past labour, they had been brought down to the receipt of charity at last, and for sixteen weeks gone by the whole thirteen had been living upon 6s. a week from the relief fund. They had no other resource. I went to see them at their own house afterwards, and it certainly was a pattern of cleanliness, with the little household gods there still. Seeing that house, a stranger would never dream that the family was living on an average income of less than sixpence a head per week. But I know how hard some decent folk will struggle with the bitterest poverty before they will give in to it. The old man came in whilst I was there. He sat down in one corner, quietly tinkering away at something he had in his hands. His old corduroy trousers were well patched, and just new washed. He had very little to say to us, except that “He could like to get summat to do; for he wur tired o’ walkin’ abeawt.” Another case was that of a poor widow woman, with five young children. This family had been driven from house to house, by increasing necessity, till they had sunk at last into a dingy little hovel, up a dark court, in one of the poorest parts of the town, where they huddled together about a fireless grate to keep one another warm. They had nothing left of the wreck of their home but two rickety chairs, and a little deal table reared against the wall, because one of the legs was gone. In this miserable hole  which I saw afterwards her husband died of sheer starvation, as was declared by the jury on the inquest. The dark, damp hovel where they had crept to was scarcely four yards square; and the poor woman pointed to one corner of the floor, saying, “He dee’d i’ that nook.” He died there, with nothing to lie upon but the ground, and nothing to cover him, in that fireless hovel. His wife and children crept about him, there, to watch him die; and to keep him as warm as they could. When the relief committee first found this family out, the entire clothing of the family of seven persons weighed eight pounds, and sold for fivepence, as rags. I saw the family afterwards, at their poor place; and will say more about them hereafter. He told me of many other cases of a similar kind. But, after agreeing to a time when we should visit them personally, we set out together to see the “Stone Yard,” where there are many factory hands at work under the Board of Guardians.

The “Stone Yard” is close by the Preston and Lancaster Canal. Here there are from one hundred and seventy to one hundred and eighty, principally young men, employed in breaking, weighing, and wheeling stone, for road mending. The stones are of a hard kind of blue boulder, gathered from the land between Kendal and Lancaster. The “Labour Master” told me that there were thousands of tons of these boulders upon the land between Kendal and Lancaster. A great deal of them are brought from a place called “Tewhitt Field,” about seven mile on “t’ other side o’ Lancaster.” At the “Stone Yard” it is all piece-work, and the men can come and go when they like. As one of the Guardians told me, “They can oather sit an’ break ’em, or kneel an’ break ’em, or lie deawn to it, iv they’n a mind.” The men can choose whether they will fill three tons of the broken stone, and wheel it to the central heap, for a shilling, or break one ton for a shilling. The persons employed here are mostly “lads an’ leet-timber’t chaps.” The stronger men are sent to work upon Preston Moor. There are great varieties of health and strength amongst them. “Beside,” as the Labour Master said, “yo’d hardly believe what a difference there it i’th wark o’ two men wortchin’ at the same heap, sometimes. There’s a great deal i’th breaker, neaw; some on ’em’s more artful nor others. They finden out that they can break ’em as fast again at after they’n getten to th’ wick i’th inside. I have known an’ odd un or two, here, that could break four ton a day, an’ many that couldn’t break one, but then, yo’ know, th’ men can only do accordin’ to their ability. There is these differences, and there always will be.” As we stood talking together, one of my friends said that he wished “Radical Jack” had been there. The latter gentleman is one of the guardians of the poor, and superintendent of the “Stone Yard.” The men are naturally jealous of misrepresentation; and, the other day, as “Radical Jack” was describing the working of the yard to a gentleman who had come to look at the scene, some of the men overheard his words, and, misconceiving their meaning, gathered around the superintendent, clamorously protesting against what he had been saying. “He’s lying!” said one. “Look at these honds!” cried another; “Wi’n they ever be fit to go to th’ factory wi’ again?”

Others turned up the soles of their battered shoon, to show their cut and stockingless feet. They were pacified at last; but, after the superintendent had gone away, some of the men said much and more, and “if ever he towd ony moor lies abeawt ’em, they’d fling him into th’ cut.” The “Labour Master” told me there was a large wood shed for the men to shelter in when rain came on. As we were conversing, one of my friends exclaimed, “He’s here now!” “Who’s here?” “Radical Jack.” The superintendent was coming down the road. He told me some interesting things, which I will return to on another occasion. But our time was up. We had other places to see. As we came away, three old Irishwomen leaned against the wall at the corner of the yard, watching the men at work inside. One of them was saying, “Thim guardians is the awfullest set o’ min in the world! A man had better be transpoorted than come under ’em. An’ thin, they’ll try you, an’ try you, as if you was goin’ to be hanged.” The poor old soul had evidently only a narrow view of the necessities and difficulties which beset the labours of the Board of Guardians at a time like this. On our way back to town one of my friends told me that he “had met a sexton the day before, and had asked him how trade was with him. The sexton replied that it was “Varrà bad nowt doin’, hardly.” “Well, how’s that?” asked the other. “Well, thae sees,” answered the sexton, “Poverty seldom dees. There’s far more kilt wi’ o’er-heytin’ an’ o’er-drinkin’ nor there is wi’ bein’ pinched.”