fifty years of age, sat there,
when we went in. She told us that she had buried five of her
children, and that she had six yet alive, all living with her in
that poor place. They had no work, no income whatever, save what
came from the Relief Committee. Five of the children were playing in
and out, bare-footed, and, like the mother, miserably clad; but they
seemed quite unconscious that anything ailed them. I never saw finer
children anywhere. The eldest girl, about fourteen, came in whilst
we were there, and she leaned herself bashfully against the wall for
a minute or two, and then slunk slyly out again, as if ashamed of
our presence. The poor widow pointed to the cold corner where her
husband died lately. She said that "his name was Tim Pedder. His
fadder name was Timothy, an' his mudder name was Mary. He was a
driver (a driver of boat-horses on the canal); but he had bin oot o'
wark a lang time afore he dee'd." I found in this case, as in some
others, that the poor body had not much to say about her distress;
but she did not need to say much. My guide told me that when he
first called upon the family, in the depth of last winter, he found
the children all clinging round about their mother in the cold
hovel, trying in that way to keep one another warm. The time for my
next appointment was now hard on, and we hurried towards the shop in
Fishergate, kept by the gentleman I had promised to meet. He is an
active member of the Relief Committee, and a visitor in George's
ward. We found him in. He had just returned from the "Cheese Fair,"
at Lancaster. My purpose was to find out what time on the morrow we
could go together to see some of the cases he was best acquainted
with. But, as the evening was not far spent, he proposed that we
should go at once to see a few of those which were nearest. We set
out together to Walker's Court, in Friargate. The first place we
entered was at the top of the little narrow court. There we found a
good-tempered Irish-woman sitting without fire, in her feverish
hovel. "Well, missis," said the visitor, "how is your husband
getting on?" "Ah, well, now, Mr. T----," replied she, "you know,
he's only a delicate little man, an' a tailor; an' he wint to work
on the moor, an' he couldn't stand it. Sure, it was draggin' the
bare life out of him. So, he says to me, one morning, "Catharine,"
says he, "I'll lave off this a little while, till I see will I be
able to get a job o' work at my own trade; an'