Rags and Tatters [SSM21_1907]

Abstract

News article from Preston Guardian in 1907.

Transcript below:
RAGS AND TATTERS
SAD STORIES OF POVERTY AT PRESTON
WORK OF THE SHEPHERD-STREET MISSION

December 17 1907

BY OUR COMMISSIONER

I heard the bells on Christmas Day,
Their old familiar carols play:
And wild and sweet,
The words repeat,
Of peace on earth, goodwill to men
• Longfellow

Aye! Good will to men! Good will to everybody.
Good will to the poor. They need it most of all,
don’t they?
The world has its cares and crosses, its woes and
Losses. It has its healing balm of human sympathy.
The Infant Redeemer whose birthday we hail with
jubilant honour, opened out the rich well springs of
a Christian race, and taught us that charity which
is not puffed up. The strife of life, the whirl and
swirl of trade, all stop. And in the silence, men,
under the banner of the churches, bow reverent
heads, and think, thankfully, of all that Christ-
child taught. The helpers of the broken, those who
succour the pour and the fatherless, and clothe the
naked – those are the men who give what immortality
we can yield to human affairs!
Fishergate glitters with a blaze of lights. The
windows are full of Christmas gifts. The benches of
the butchers groan under huge barons and succulent
quarterings; well-dressed men and women briskly
move up and down with the holiday look up them,
and great motor cars pass swiftly with the Vere de
Veres in costly furs, snuggling in stately trappings.
It is the upper crust of life. Well-dressed, well-fed,
with barely a sorrow or care for the morrow. It is
Fishergate, with proud shops and proud people,
radiant and beautiful.

FROM COURTS AND ALLEYS
It is a frightfully cold night, this. The air almost
benumbs you, as you step from the glare and
glamour down into the dim shadows of a narrow
street you understand so well the words: “Blow,
blow thou winter wind; though are not so unkind as
man’s ingratitude.”
I hummed the old glee as I went along, nestling
my chin in my big coat collar, and stamping my
feet on the cobbles. Then I have to shelter, for a
cloud bursts, and rain and then hail descends, smack-
ing faces, and bounding off roofs.
It is all very nice to be by a roaring fire, with a
full pocket and a contented mind. But here! It is
of the earth earthy.
I must get on. I pass hard by the spot where
The generous-hearted Horrocks, fresh from Edgeworth,
Laid the first foundations of his fame into Avenham-
Land, the freezing wind shrieking out the gale. Past
The house – now a model lodging-house, owned by a
Preston philanthropist – where the spinning jenny
was invented by Arkwright.
Then I stop. Let the wind blow. I listen in a
porch, and hear a sweet voice like the angel of the
night, singing to weary pilgrims, “We thank Thee,
Lord, for this our food.” It is the Shepherd-street
Mission Room filled with the ragged children from
the courts and alleys of Preston.
Here is a work going on, day by day, night by
Night. Mr. and Mrs. Williamson, like the Apostles
Of old, work without money and without price,
Without fuss or demonstration. They don’t send
Up any rockets over a good deed done, but do the
Work with retiring modesty. They, morning and
Night, pray that men’s hearts may be stirred to
send what they can afford, however small, to find
food for hungry children.


WHAT HUNGER FEELS LIKE
And the responses to those high appeals are
wonderful. One grand old Preston doctor, who
lives in Winckley-square, takes, in his carriage,
every day, the little odds and ends left from his
table to help make up the soup for the score or
more of orphan or deserted children Mr. and Mrs.
Williamson are rearing in the house at the top of
Oxford-street.
The are some big hearts in Preston, and many
a widow’s mite, which will be fully accounted some
day, comes to help to keep the wolf of starvation
from the doors of the poor.
Hungry! Do you know what it is to be really
hungry – when the skin crumples on the ribs, and
there is the pale, snowy look of emaciation?
I had entered the mission room, passed a few jokes
with the children, who know me pretty well, and I
asked a wan, sad-faced, sore-eyed lad with rips in
his jacket and tattered trousers and a dirty face
had he ever been hungry.
“Yes, sir; many a time.”
“What does it feel like to be hungry?” I asked.
“Last time I was that way I had pains in my
stommick, and I felt I could have tekken anything,
and I bited at a shank bone.”
I thought that was as realistic a description of
hunger as I had ever heard.
I tried a girl this time – a begrimed little lassie,
with sweet, innocent, eyes, that lacked the lustre
of the Fishergate girls. She said to be hungry “was
awful, and you feel sick and tired, and want to
lie down.”

AN OASIS IN THE DESERT.
There are lasses and lads here from all churches.
It is not a matter of religion, save the ministration
to human wants. Not a child is asked to which
church he goes, If he is hungry he is fed five nights
a week. The soup and coffee are made hot in
boilers just put down and paid for, by Dr. R. C.
Brown, in a sweet and clean newly-covered shed, at
the back of the room.
This supper room, is an oasis in the desert. Not
far away are common lodging-houses and dens
of infamy, slums and alleys with dirty, dim, and
tarnished cottages filled with big families, for lots of
these poor people have eight or ten children.
In a visit I paid to the slums the other day I heard
such testimonies of gratitude to Mr. Williamson
for keeping children from starvation and prac-
tically rearing them, that I wondered whether
any other gentleman could equal this. I say I
wondered.
Here is a case in this very supper room. Close
to the porch was seated a woman, with a sad yet
comely face, a child on her knee, and two by her
side. She is the wife of a Preston joiner who has
been out of work for nine weeks. The family has
been on the verge of starvation. She had left two
children at home, resting, for they had been out
at work all day. The total earnings in the house
to keep father and mother and five children is 7s. 3d.
per week, and 3s. 9d. is paid for rent. I asked the
woman how they lived, and she said on bread and
bits. I solemnly believe she was denying herself so
that the children might have food.
“What have you in the house?” I asked her.
“What had you for tea?”
“I broke up my last bread among us at dinner-
time to-day, and none of us have had a bite since.”
The children by her side, with parched-looking
lips, were so hungry and restless that they ran for the
basins of soup, which was soon steaming in front of
each one of them. I could almost see, in the curling
steam which wreathed round about them, these
words, “As ye did it to the little ones.”
In anticipation that this message to send a trifle
will reach some hearts, Mr. Williamson, out of his
pocket, provided for her needs, and sent her some
stock fat to put on the bread. We hurried her off
and saw that her two elder children and her husband
had a supper that night so that they could sleep
without rocking.

LUXURY AND POVERTY.
And all this is under the very shadow of the spires,
and within a stone’s throw of luxury. Methinks
the Christmas bells will ring out some melancholy
knells in these alleys. But the tongues of the bells
shall not tell of a single starving child if we can
help it.
Frail, feeble sprites some of these children are.
The clogs given last winter are done, and the
piercing cold cracks their feet, which have to splash,
splash, splash through the sleet, and crunch, crunch,
crunch through the snows of winter.
“Please, sir, can I have a pair of clogs?”
I was asked this time after time. These children
are like motes dependent on the sunny beam. I
do believe they thought Santa Claus had turned
up. The clothing sent through the “Lancashire
Daily Post” last year and the money forwarded,
saved many a little life. The receipts from the
“Post” appeal, and the concert got up by Mr.
Makinson and Mr. Jackson last December, realised
enough to give suppers all winter to the hungry
children, to clothe and to clog or boot them. What
a joy to every giver! The supreme delight of the
ragged children over the coloured Christmas books
given last year was the feature of Christmas morn-
ing. They took them to the wretched homes, many
of them fireless and cheerless, and put on many an
hour with the delights of the fairy tales. In one
impoverished home I visited, the one book on the
shelf was the well preserved picture illustrated
story given last Christmas morning to the little girl.
This Shepherd street supper room is an Alladin’s
palace for poor hungry children.
We shall open to-day a Fund, to which we shall be
glad to receive subscription, and we hope they will
flow to receive subscription, and we hope they will
flow in a literality of last year, when they came
in freely from men and women of all ranks and
conditions.

SAD TALES OF POVERTY.
Sad tales I hear. In one house there were seven,
and the father was doing odd jobs. In another the
mother had been burned to death, and there were
three poor children. As one said, with a pitiful
look in her face, “Please sir, we’ve got no
mamma.” I walked off. They had had nothing
since dinner.
“What does your father do?” I said to another.
“I’ve not got no father, please, sir,” she said very
sadly. “Have you a mother?” “Yes, sir, and she
goes out cleaning sometimes.” “What had you to
tea?” “I’ve had no tea. I had some bread to my
dinner.”
“There are five in our house, and two working-
me and Bily, and he’s learning to be a moulder.
“We are very poor, sir.”
Another child said, “There are five of us. We
have no father. We never have our teas. We gets
it here.” A womanly little lass has to look after her
mother, who is at home in bed very ill, wasting away.
The children do their best, and have a good friend in
Mr. Williamson. One little cherub, who was per-
spiring after “filling his programme” with the hot
soup and bread, said his “feyther worked for his
grondfeyther, fettling squezers.”
In one house where there were eight children the
income is 9s. a week!
Four lads and lasses of one family sat in a row-
a quartette grimy and ragged. They had had their
late bite at 12.30, and they did reach to! One child
from a house of seven said her father was blind in
the hospital, and another’s father was in the asylum.
Will it be credited that there are children in
Preston who go to school without breakfast or with-
out dinner? There are some in this supper room
here who have to do that sometimes – an un-
speakably cruel circumstance in this rich and boast-
ful age.
Poor little hungry Prestonians! Thank goodness
there are men and women and youths and maidens
in Preston who, when the Christmas time comes
round, seek that self-satisfaction which comes to all
who give to the needs of the poor.
Shall these little divinities of the Preston slums
cry out downhearted? Never.

SHEPHERD-STREET MISSION
WORKERS.

The Assembly-room of the Public Hall, Preston,
was filled on Saturday evening with the workers
on behalf of the Shepherd-street Mission, many of
those present being from outlying places. Tea was
provided for the company, and at the subsequent
meeting MR. C. E. Grierson presided, supported by
members of the committee.
Mr. Gregson read a lengthy report on the work
of the mission during the past twelve months. It
was of a most encouraging character, progress
having been made all along the line and £600 wiped
off the mission debt account. Mr. Kenyon pre-
sented a statement relating to the one-day collection,
and this showed the total amount realised was £160,
marking a good advance upon last year. In appeal-
ing for increased support of the mission, Mr.
Kenyon emphasised the fact that the working ex-
penses in connection with this collection did not
reach more than 10 per cent.
The Chairman made an earnest appeal for con-
tinued assistance, and pointed out how the mission
might with advantage extend its sphere of useful-
ness if the funds available were increased. He
urged that it was everyone’s duty to give some-
thing of his time and talents to those outside his
own immediate circle. He asked those who desired
to know something of the work to visit the home,
and said that personally he always left the place
determined to do what he could to help on the
work.
The Rev. L. D. W. Spencer, of St. James’s, also
addressed the gathering, and during the evening
the choir rendered a number of selections, and
a cinematograph entertainment was given by Mr.
Wilding.

PRISON PROFITS.
According to the annual report from Chelmsford
Gaol the 1,561 prisoners serving “terms” had
earned £2,709 during the 12 months. The cost of
their maintenance during the same period was
£2,405, which shows a profit on the year of £304.

Preston Guardian
Oct 19th 1907