affirmed that no one contributed a larger personal share of duty at this critical period than Mr. Farnall, who had to a great extent succeeded in making the law popular without lessening its authority, and who, in the face of a critical and distressed population-whose reputation for disorder was far worse than they deserved-upheld with dignified moderation and successful amiability the great trust with which he was charged by the responsible Minister, who watched with anxious solicitude the development of this most important epoch in the administration of the Poor Laws.

CHAPTER VI.

JUNE JULY 1862.

DURING the first half of the year 1862 the condition of the operatives had been passing from bad to worse. The pawnshops were crammed with their furniture and clothing; their funds in benefit societies, in trade unions, and in savings-banks had been heavily drawn upon to support their necessities; and the prospect of the coming winter was not illumined by a single ray of hope. No one supposed that a revival of trade during the latter six months of the year was possible, but all had a firm faith in the charitable agencies which had been established for their relief, and the resources of these were every day increasing by the continuous influx of donations. There was terrible suffering among the operative class, and this was experienced most sorely by those who could not overcome their repugnance to place themselves among the applicants for relief. This distress was greatly alleviated as the local committees got to work, for these bodies could seek out such as needed their assistance in a manner which was not open to the boards of guardians, whose function it is to give relief only to those who apply for it. As a rule, the operatives greatly preferred to be the pensioners of the committees rather than of the guardians; and many, who would have borne even greater hunger and hardship sooner than descend to the low level of pauperism, were anxious to partake of the bounty of the Mansion House Committee. One reason which has induced many Lancashire men to advocate throughout the separate and independent existence of this committee, was that its grants had a peculiarly agreeable character in the estimation of the recipients. By many of the operatives this money was especially regarded as a sort of testimonial to their good conduct under these trying circumstances, and was received as an honorarium due to

their sufferings and forbearance. Generally speaking, it might be obtained without any labour being required in return; and justice compels the avowal, that this circumstance may have had something to do with its popularity. Still it was the odious rank of pauperism which made the board-room of the guardians the unwilling resort of the distressed; for as the men came to understand that the labour required of them in return was not a test, but rather a natural requirement on the part of those who administered public funds, honourable alike to both-and as the days were growing longer and the sunshine warmer, very many performed their outdoor tasks contentedly and well. Comparisons were sometimes made between the relative hardness of the stones they were set to break and the hearts of the guardians who put them to such work, not always complimentary to the latter; but these were mostly suggested by those who were desirous to take rank in that very doubtful class, the friends of the people,' or by some who, with scarcely less culpable ignorance, regarded this required work as a punishment of poverty, when it was really the redemption from pauperism. The following rhymes, taken from a local paper, express, in native dialect, 'The Operative's Lament:*

Eh, dear! What weary toimes are these,
When scores o' honest workin folk
Reawnd th' poor-law office dur one sees,
Loike cadgers, wi a cadgin poke;
It's bad to see 't, bo wus a dyeal,

When one's sel helps to make up th' lot;
We'n nowt to do, we darno stayl,
Nor con we beighl an empty pot.

Aw hate this pooing oakum wark,
An breakin stones for t' get relief;
To be a pauper-pity's mark—

U'll break an honest heart wi grief.
We're mixt wi th' stondin paupers, too,
Ut winno wark when wark's t' be had,

A scurvy, fawnin, whoinin crew

It's hard to clem, bo that's as bad.

An for mysel aw would no do 't,

Aw'd starve until aw sunk to th' floor;

Bo th' little childer bring me to 't,

An would do th' best i' th' lond ow'm sure.

*By Joseph Ramsbottom.

If folk han childer starvin theer,

An still keep eawt, they 're noan so good;
Aw 've mony a toime felt rayther queer,

Bo then aw knew they must ha food.

;

When wark fell off aw did my best
To keep mysel and fam❜ly clear
My wants aw've never forrud prest,
For pity is a thing aw fear.
My little savins soon were done,

Un then aw sowd my twoth'ry things-
My books and bookcase o' are gone,
My mother's picther, too, fun wings.

A bacco-box wi two queer lids,

Sent whoam fro Indy by Jim Bell,
My fuchsia plants and pots, my brids,
An cages, too, aw 'm forced to sell;
My feyther's rockin-cheer's gone,

My mother's corner cubbert too;
An th' eight-days' clock has followed, mon-
What con a hongry body do?

Aw 've gan my little garden up,
Wi mony a pratty flower and root,
Aw 've sowd my gronny's silver cup,
Aw've sowd my uncle Robin's flute;
Aw 've sowd my tables, sowd my beds,

My bedstocks, blankets, sheets as weel;
Each neet o' straw we rest eawr yeads,
And we an God known what we feel.

Aw've sowd until aw 've nowt to sell,
And heaw we 'n clem'd 's past o' belief;
What next for t' do aw couldno tell,
It wur degradin t' ax relief.

Ther wur no work, for th' mill wur stopt,
My childer couldno dee, you known;
Aw'm neaw a pauper cose aw 've dhropt
To this low state o' breakin stone.

Bo wonst aw knew a diff'rent day,

When every heawr ud comfort bring;
Aw earned my bread, aw paid my way,
Aw wouldno stoop to lord or king.
Aw felt my independence then,

My sad dependence neaw, aw know;
Aw ne'er shall taste those jeighs ogen—
Aw 'm sinkin wi my weight o' woe.

Such was the feeling of the operatives in their own lyrics, and a painful blush of shame visibly crossed the

faces of many of these men as they were ushered into the august presence of the board;' while sometimes, the half kind, half patronising-Sorry to see you here, only increased the applicant's discomfort. To many, the thought that with the revival of trade, and the resumption of their position, it might be said to them, 'Thee'st bin a pauper,' was a torture hard to be understood by those of superior rank. The better class of Lancashire operatives are perhaps as thin-skinned a race of beings as any among the subjects of Queen Victoria,—as keenly sensitive, as anxiously conservative of their rights and their position, as any that could be named. Of course this includes but a small minority; for the most part, they, like their masters, are busied with selling their labour in the dearest, and buying their wages in the cheapest market.

The following extract from one of the letters of the correspondent of the Manchester Examiner,' depicts a scene not unfamiliar to those who, through business or curiosity, were present at the meetings of the boards of guardians:

66

A clean, old, decrepit man presented himself. "What's brought you here, Joseph?" said the chairman. Why; aw 've nought to do,-nor nought to tak to." "What's your daughter, Ellen, doing, Joseph ?"-" Hoo's eawt o' work." "An' what's your wife doing?"-"Hoo's bin bedfast aboon five year.' The old man was relieved at once; but, as he walked away, he looked hard at his ticket, as if it was not exactly the kind of thing; and, turning round, he said, "Couldn't yo let me be a sweeper i' th' streets, istid, Mr. Eccles?" A clean old woman came up, with a snow-white nightcap on her head. "Well, Mary, what do you want?""Aw could like yo to gi' mo a bit o' summat, Mr. Eccles, for aw need it." "Well, but you've some lodgers, haven't you, Mary?"-" Yigh, aw've three." "Well; what do they pay you?"-"They pay'n mo nought. They'n no wark,-an' one connot turn 'em eawt." This was all quite true. "Well, but you live with your son, don't you?" continued the chairman. "Nay," replied the old woman, "he lives wi' me; an' he's eawt o' wark

too.

Aw could like yo to do a bit o' summat for us. We're hard put to't." "Don't you think she would be better in the workhouse?" said one of the guardians.