Hard Times
This true story is from the early 1860s and illustrates how Lancashire folk suffered because they refused to use imported American cotton until the slaves that gathered it had been liberated. It is told by a Methodist minister as he was going to tea at a home after preaching. John, whose home it was, had three children and normally earned 16/- per week when working:
I said to John, How long have you been stopped at the
mill where you work?
Oh,
he said, We have done little work for more than
eighteen months. What we have had has been bad. Shurat cotton, you know, Shurat
is dirty and has no staple in it. The looms will not run many pecks before
a
bunch of yarn breaks, every one of which, as you know, has to have a thrum put
to it and drawn in the healds before you can set the loom to work. No weaver
can
get more than 4/- or 5/- per week and must work hard at it for ten hours a day.
We have
been very poor now for nearly two years. My wife and have cried together as we
sit in our
desolate home. Coal we could not buy. I am glad, however, we are having relief
now, and have had it for some months.
I said How much do you get per week?
Eight shillings.
It is not much when you pay 2/6 for rent, but God is good and we are living.
It is all well for those who have plenty...good homes, good health, books
and the
ability if called on to help others to be joyful and happy; but, my dear friend; when
you have no background but charity, it takes all your time to keep from evil.
My eldest girl is but a shadow. Poor girl, she wants better food. We pray
Our Father which art in Heaven, but do not men reverse the order and in their
selfishness say,
Our Father, Give us our daily bread?
I think I should pray
better if I had better food for my family.
Arriving at the house, we entered in, and I found
everything clean and orderly. The table was in the centre. Three cups. Four or
five thin slices of bread with only the name of butter on them. A very small
jug
with skimmed milk in it. Sugar was out of the question. We sat down to tea:
John, his wife, and the invited guest. John asked the blessing... To
eat the
children's bread, is that right?
said a small voice within me. Look
at them...
They stood near the small fire, white pinafores, white faces pinched with hunger.
They watched every mouthful consumed. I drank my tea, and excused myself
as best I could, but it was of no use. The wife and mother began to weep. I
rendered the little help I could and returned home. I have often looked back,
revisiting that home, and have been taught the lesson of patience. As I write
this, I see in that home the heroism that is as true and great as any upon
historic fields of battle.
