Loe raamatut: «Lancashire Sketches», lehekülg 24

Wandering Minstrels; or, Wails of the Workless Poor

 
For whom the heart of man shuts out,
Straightway the heart of God takes in,
And fences them all round about
With silence, 'mid the world's loud din.
And one of his great charities
Is music; and it doth not scorn
To close the lids upon the eyes
Of the weary and forlorn.
 

—James Russel Lowell.

There is one feature of the distress in Lancashire which was very remarkable upon the streets of our large towns during the year 1862. I allude to the wandering minstrelsy of the unemployed. Swarms of strange, shy, sad-looking singers and instrumental performers, in the work-worn clothing of factory operatives, went about the city, pleading for help, in touching wails of simple song,—like so many wild birds driven by hard weather to the haunts of man. There is something instructive, as well as affecting, in this feature of the troubled time. These wanderers are only a kind of representative overflow of a vast number whom our streets will never see. Any one well acquainted with Lancashire will know how wide-spread the study of music is among its working population. Even the inhabitants of our large towns know something more about this now than they knew a few months ago. I believe there is no part of England in which the practice of sacred music is so widely and lovingly pursued amongst the working people as in the counties of Lancashire and Yorkshire. There is no part of England where, until lately, there have been so many poor men's pianos, which have been purchased by a long course of careful savings from the workman's wages. These, of course, have mostly been sold during the hard times, to keep life in the owner and his family. The great works of Handel, Haydn, Beethoven, and Mozart, have solaced the toil of thousands of the poorest working people of Lancashire. Anybody accustomed to wander among the moorlands of the country will remember how common it is to hear the people practising sacred music in their lonely cottages. It is not uncommon to meet working men wandering over the wild hills, "where whin and heather grow," with their musical instruments, to take part in some village oratorio many miles away. "That reminds me," as tale-tellers say, of an incident among the hills, which was interesting, though far from singular in my experience. Up in the forest of Rosendale, between Derply Moor and the wild hill called Swinshaw, there is a lone valley,—a green cup in the mountains,—called "Dean." The inhabitants of this valley are so notable for their love of music, that they are known all through the vales of Rossendale as "Th' Deighn Layrocks," or "The Larks of Dean." In the twilight of a glorious Sunday evening, in the height of summer, I was roaming over the heathery waste of Swinshaw, towards Dean, in company with a musical friend of mine, who lived in the neighbouring clough, when we saw a little crowd of people coming down a moorland slope, far away in front of us. As they drew nearer, we found that many of them had musical instruments; and when we met, my friend recognised them as working people living in the district, and mostly well known to him. He inquired where they had been; and when they told him that they had "bin to a bit of a sing deawn i'th Deighn," "Well," said he, "can't we have a tune here?" "Sure, yo con, wi' o' th' pleasur' i'th world," replied he who acted as spokesman; and a low buzz of delighted consent ran through the rest of the company. They then ranged themselves in a circle around their conductor, and they played and sang several fine pieces of psalmody, upon the heather-scented mountain top. As those solemn strains floated over the wild landscape, startling the moorfowl untimely in his nest, I could not help thinking of the hunted Covenanters of Scotland. The all-together of that scene upon the mountains, "between the gloaming and the mirk," made an impression upon me which I shall not easily forget. Long after we parted from them we could hear their voices, softening in sound as the distance grew, chanting on their way down the echoing glen; and the effect was wonderfully fine. This little incident upon the top of Swinshaw is representative of things which often occur in the country parts of Lancashire, showing how wide-spread the love of music is among the working classes there. Even in great manufacturing towns, it is very common, when passing cotton mills at work, to hear some fine psalm tune streaming in chorus from female voices, and mingling with the spoom of thousands of spindles. The "Larks of Dean," like the rest of Lancashire operatives, must have suffered in this melancholy time; but I hope that the humble musicians of our county will never have occasion to hang their harps upon the willows.

Now, when fortune has laid such a load of sorrow upon the working people of Lancashire, it is a sad thing to see so many workless minstrels of humble life "chanting their artless notes in simple guise" upon the streets of great towns, amongst a kind of life they are little used to. There is something very touching, too, in their manner and appearance. They may be ill-shod and footsore; they may be hungry, and sick at heart, and forlorn in countenance; but they are almost always clean and wholesome-looking in person. They come singing in twos and threes, and sometimes in more numerous bands, as if to keep one another in countenance. Sometimes they come in a large family all together, the females with their hymn-books, and the men with their different musical instruments,—bits of pet salvage from the wrecks of cottage homes. The women have sometimes children in their arms, or led by the hand; and they sometimes carry music-books for the men. I have seen them, too, with little handkerchiefs of rude provender for the day. As I said before, they are almost invariably clean in person, and their clothing is almost always sound and seemly in appearance, however poor and scanty. Amongst these poor wanderers there is none of the reckless personal negligence and filth of hopeless reprobacy; neither is there a shadow of the professional ostentation of poverty amongst them. Their faces are sad, and their manners very often singularly shame-faced and awkward; and any careful observer would see at a glance that these people were altogether unused to the craft of the trained minstrel of the streets. Their clear, healthy complexion, though often touched with pallor,—their simple, unimportunate demeanour, and the general rusticity of their appearance, shows them to be

 
Suppliants who would blush
To wear a tatter'd garb, however coarse;
Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth;
Who ask with painful shyness, and refused,
Because deserving, silently retire.
 

The females, especially the younger ones, generally walk behind, blushing, and hiding themselves as much as possible. I have seen the men sometimes walk backwards, with their faces towards those who were advancing, as if ashamed of what they were doing. And thus they went wailing through the busy streets, whilst the listening crowd looks on them pityingly and wonderingly, as if they were so many hungry shepherds from the mountains of Calabria. This flood of strange minstrels partly drowned the slang melodies and the monotonous strains of ordinary street musicians for a while. The professional gleeman "paled his ineffectual fire" before these mournful songsters. I think there never was so much sacred music heard upon the streets of Manchester before. With the exception of a favourite glee now and then, their music consisted chiefly of fine psalm tunes,—often plaintive old strains, known and welcome to all, because they awaken tender and elevating remembrances of life. "Burton," "French," "Kilmarnock," "Luther's Hymn," the grand "Old Hundred," and many other fine tunes of similar character, have floated daily in the air of our city for months together. I am sure that this choice does not arise from the minstrels themselves having craft enough to select "a mournful muse, soft pity to infuse." It is the kind of music which has been the practice and pleasure of their lives; and it is a fortuitous thing that now, in addition to its natural plaintiveness, the sad necessity of the times lends a tender accompaniment to their simplest melody. I doubt very much whether Leech's minor tunes were ever heard upon our streets till lately. Leech was a working man, born near the hills, in Lancashire; and his anthems and psalm tunes are great favourites among the musical population, especially in the country districts. Leech's harp was tuned by the genius of sorrow. Several times, lately, I have heard the tender complaining notes of his psalmody upon the streets of the city. About three months ago I heard one of his most pathetic tunes sung in the market-place, by an old man and two young women. The old man's dress had the peculiar hue and fray of factory work upon it, and he had a pair of clogs upon his stockingless feet. They were singing one of Leech's finest minor tunes, to Wesley's hymn:—

 
And am I born to die,
To lay this body down?
And must my trembling spirit fly
Into a world unknown?
A land of deepest shade,
Unpierced by human thought;
The dreary country of the dead,
Where all things are forgot.
 

It is a tune often sung by country people in Lancashire at funerals; and, if I remember right, the same melody is cut upon Leech's gravestone, in the old Wesleyan chapelyard at Rochdale. I saw a company of minstrels of the same class going through Brown-street the other day, playing and singing,—

 
In darkest shades, if Thou appear,
My dawning is begun.
 

The company consisted of an old man, two young men, and three young women. Two of the women had children in their arms. After I had listened to them a little while, thinking the time and the words a little appropriate to their condition, I beckoned to one of the young men, who came "sidling" slowly up to me. I asked him where they came from, and he said, "Ash'n." In answer to another question, he said, "We're o' one family. Me an' yon tother's wed. That's his wife wi' th' chylt in her arms; an' hur wi' th' plod shawl on's mine" I asked if the old man was his father. "Ay," replied he; "we're o' here, nobbut two. My mother's ill i' bed, an' one o' my sisters is lookin' after her." "Well, an' heaw han yo getten on?" said I. "Oh, we'n done weel; but we's come no moor," replied he. Another day, there was an instrumental band of these operatives playing sacred music close to the Exchange lamp. Amongst the crowd around, I met with a friend of mine. He told me that the players were from Stalybridge. They played some fine old tunes, by desire, and, among the rest, they played one called "Warrington." When they had played it several times over, my friend turned to me and said, "That tune was composed by a Rev. Mr. Harrison, who was once minister of Cross-street Unitarian Chapel, in Manchester; and one day an old weaver, who had come down from the hills, many miles, staff in hand, knocked at the minister's door, and asked if there was 'a gentleman co'de Harrison lived theer?' 'Yes.' 'Could aw see him?' 'Yes." When the minister came to the door, the old weaver looked hard at him for a minute, and said, 'Are yo th' mon 'at composed that tune co'de Warrington?' 'Yes,' replied the minister, 'I believe I am.' 'Well,' said the old weaver, 'gi' me your hond! It's a good un!' He then shook hands with him heartily again; and, saying 'Well, good day to yo,' he went his way home again, before the old minister could fairly collect his scattered thoughts.

I do not know how it is that these workless minstrels are gradually becoming rarer upon the streets than they were a few months ago. Perhaps it is because the unemployed are more liberally relieved now than they were at first. I know that, now, many who have concealed their starving condition are ferreted out, and relieved as far as possible. Many of these street wanderers have gone home again, disgusted, to pinch out the hard time in proud obscurity; and there are some, no doubt, who have wandered away to other parts of England. Of these last, we may naturally expect that a few may become so reconciled to a life of wandering minstrelsy, that they may probably never return to settled labour again. But "there's a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will." Let us trust that the Great Creator may comfort and relieve them, "according to their several necessities, giving them patience under their sufferings, and a happy issue out of all their afflictions."

A Wayside Incident during the Cotton Famine

 
Take physic, pomp!
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel;
That thou may'st shake the superflux to them,
And show the heavens more just.
 

—King Lear.

One Saturday a little incident fell in my way, which I thought worth taking note of at the time. On that day I went up to Levenshulme, to spend the afternoon with an old friend of mine, a man of studious habits, living in a retired part of that green suburb. The time went pleasantly by whilst I was with the calm old student, conversing upon the state of Lancashire, and the strange events which were upheaving the world in great billows of change,—and drinking in the peaceful charm which pervaded everything about the man, and his house, and the scene which it stood in. After tea, he came with me across the fields to the Midway Inn, on Stockport Road, where the omnibuses call on their way to Manchester. It was a lovely evening, very clear and cool, and twilight was sinking upon the scene. Waiting for the next omnibus, we leaned against the long wooden watering-trough, in front of the inn. The irregular old building looked picturesque in the soft light of declining day; and all around was so still that we could hear the voices of bowlers who were lingering upon the green, off at the north side of the house, and retired from the highway by an intervening garden. The varied tones of animation, and the phrases uttered by the players on different parts of the green, came through the quiet air with a cheery ring. The language of the bowling-green sounds very quaint to people unused to the game.

"Too much land, James!" cries one.

"Bravo, bully-bowl! That's th' first wood! Come again for more!" cries another.

"Th' wrong bias, John!"

"How's that?"

"A good road, but it wants legs!"

"Narrow; narrow, o' to pieces!"

These, and such like phrases of the game, came distinctly from the green into the highway in that quiet evening. And here I am reminded, as I write, that the philosophic Dr. Dalton was a regular bowler upon Tattersall's green, at Old Trafford. These things, however, are all aside from the little story which I wish to tell.

As we stood by the watering-trough, listening to the voices of the bowlers, and to the occasional ringing of bells, mingled with a low buzz of merriment inside the house, there were many travellers walked by. They came, nearly all of them, from the Manchester side; sometimes three or four in company, and sometimes a lonely straggler. Some of them had poor-looking little bundles in their hands; and, with a few exceptions, their dress, their weary gait, and dispirited looks, led me to think that many of them were unemployed factory operatives, who had been wandering away to beg where they would not be known. I have met so many shame-faced, melancholy people in that condition during the last few months, that, perhaps, I may have somewhat overjudged the number of those who belong to that class. But, in two or three cases, little snatches of conversation, uttered by them as they went by, plainly told that, so far as the speakers went, it was so; and at last a little thing befel which, I am sure, represented the condition of many a thousand more in Lancashire just now. Three young women stopped on the footpath in front of the inn, close to the place where we stood, and began to talk together in a very free, open way; quite careless of being overheard. One of them was a stout, handsome young woman, about twenty-three. Her dress was of light printed stuff, clean and good. Her round, ruddy arms, her clear, blonde complexion, and the bright expression of her full, open countenance, all indicated health and good nature. I guessed from her conversation, as well as from her general appearance, that she was a factory operative, in full employ—though that is such a rare thing in these parts now. The other two looked very poor and downhearted. One was a short, thick-set girl, seemingly not twenty years of age; her face was sad, and she had very little to say. The other was a thin, dark-haired, cadaverous woman, about thirty years of age, as I supposed; her shrunk visage was the picture of want; and her frank, childlike talk showed great simplicity of character. The weather had been wet for some days previous; and the clothing of the two looked thin and shower-stained. It had evidently been worn a good while, and the colours were faded. Each of them wore a poor, shivery bit of shawl, in which their hands were folded, as if to keep them warm. The handsome lass, who seemed to be in good employ, knew them both; but she showed an especial kindness towards the eldest of them. As these two stood talking to their friend, we did not take much notice of what they were saying, until two other young women came slowly from townwards, looking poor, and tired, and ill, like the first. These last comers instantly recognised two of those who stood talking together in front of the inn, and one of them said to the other,—

"Eh, sitho; there's Sarah an' Martha here! Eh, lasses; han yo bin a-beggin', too?"

"Aye, lass; we han," replied the thin, dark-complexioned woman. "Aye, lass; we han. Aw've just bin tellin' Ann, here. Aw never did sich a thing i' my life afore,—never! But it's th' first time and th' last, for me,—it is that! Aw'll go whoam; an' aw'll dee theer, afore aw'll go a-beggin' ony moor,—aw will for sure! Mon, it's sich a nasty, dirty job; aw'd as soon clem!… See yo, lasses; we set off this mornin'—Martha an' me—we set eawt this mornin' to go to Gorton Tank, becose we yerd that it wur sich a good place. But one doesn't know wheer to go to these times; an' one doesn't like to go a-beggin' among folk at they known. Well, when we coom to Gorton we geet two-pence-hawpenny theer,—an' that wur o'. There's plenty moor beggin' beside us! Well, at after that twopence-hawpenny, we geet twopence moor; an' that's o' at we'n getten. But, eh, lasses, when aw coom to do it, aw hadn't th' heart to ax for nought,—aw hadn't for sure.... Martha an' me's walked aboon ten mile, if we'n walked a yard; an' we geet weet through th' first thing; an' aw wur ill when we set off, an' so wur Martha, too; aw know hoo wur; though hoo says nought mich abeawt it. Well; we coom back through t' teawn; an' we wur both on us fair stagged up. Aw never wur so done o'er i' my life, wi' one thing an' another. So we co'de a-seem' Ann here; an' hoo made us a good baggin'—th' lass did. See yo; aw wur fit to drop o'th flags afore aw geet that saup o' warm tay into mo,—aw wur for sure! An' neaw hoo's come'd a gate wi' us hitherto, an' hoo would make us have a glass o' warm ale a-piece at yon heawse, lower deawn a bit; an' aw dar' say it'll do mo good, aw getten sich a cowd; but, eh dear, it's made mo as mazy as a tup; an' neaw hoo wants us to have another, afore we starten off whoam. But it's no use; we mun be gooin'. Aw'm noan used to it, an' aw connot ston' it. Aw'm as wake as a kittlin' this minute."

Ann, who had befriended them in this manner, was the handsome young woman, who seemed to be in work; and now the poor woman who had been telling the story laid her hand upon her friend's shoulder and said,—

"Ann, thae's behaved very weel to us, o' roads; an' neaw, lass, go thi ways whoam, an' dunnot fret abeawt us, mon. Aw feel better neaw. We's be reet enough to-morn, lass. Mon, there's awlus some way shap't That tay's done me a deeol o' good.... Go thi ways whoam, Ann! Neaw do; or else aw shan't be yezzy abeawt tho!"

But Ann, who was wiping her eyes with her apron, replied, "Nawe, nawe; aw connot goo yet, Sarah!" … And then she began to cry, "Eh, lasses, aw dunnot like to see yo o' this shap,—aw dunnot for sure! Besides, yo'n bin far enough to-day. Come back wi' me! Aw connot find reawm for both on yo; but thee come back wi' me, Sarah! Aw'll find thee a good bed; an' thae'rt welcome to a share o' what there is—as welcome as th' flowers i' May—thae knows that.... Thae'rt th' owdest o'th two; an' thae'rt noan fit to trawnce up an' deawn o' this shap. Come back to eawr heawse; an' Martha'll go forrud to Stopput (Stockport)—winnot tho, Martha?… Thae knows, Martha," continued she, "thae knows, thae munnot think nought at me axin' Sarah, an' noan o' thee. Yo should both on yo go back if aw'd reawm,—but aw haven't. Beside, thae'rt younger an' strunger than hoo is."

"Eh, God bless tho, lass," replied Martha, "aw know o' abeawt it. Aw'd rayther Sarah would stop, for hoo'll be ill. Aw can go forrud by mysel', weel enough. It's noan so fur, neaw."

But here Sarah, the eldest of the three, laid her hand once more upon the shoulder of her friend, and said, in an earnest tone,—

"Ann! It will not do, my lass! Goo, aw mun! Aw never wur away fro whoam o' neet i' my life—never! Aw connot do it, mon! Beside, thae knows, aw've laft yon lad; an' never a wick soul wi' him! He'd fret hissel' to deeoth this neet, mon, if aw didn't go whoam! Aw couldn't sleep a wink for thinkin' abeawt him! Th' child would be fit to start eawt o'th heawse i'th deeod time o'th neet, a-seechin' mo—aw know he would!… Aw mun goo, mon! God bless tho, Ann; aw'm obleeged to thee o'th same! But thae knows heaw it is."

Here the omnibus came up, and I rode back to Manchester. The whole conversation took up very little more time than it will take to read it; but I thought it well worth recording, as characteristic of the people now suffering in Lancashire from no fault of theirs. I know the people well. The greatest number of them would starve themselves to that degree that they would not be of much more physical use in this world, before they would condescend to beg. But starving to death is hard work. What will winter bring them when severe weather begins to tell upon constitutions lowered in tone by a starvation diet—a diet so different to what they have been used to when in work?

What will their eighteen-pence a-head weekly do for them in that hard time? If something more than this is not done for them, when more food, clothing, and fire are necessary to everybody, calamities may arise which will cost England a hundred times more than a sufficient relief—a relief worthy of those who are suffering, and of the nation they belong to—would have cost. In the meantime, the cold wings of winter already begin to overshadow the land; and every day lost involves the lives, or the future usefulness, of thousands of our best population.