Wright's pits some years ago. My friend knew the family, and we
called there more for the purpose of resting ourselves and having a
chat than anything else. The old man was gray-haired, but he looked
very hale and hearty--save the lack of his leg. His countenance was
expressive of intelligence and good humour; and there was a touch of
quiet majesty about his massive features. There was, to me, a kind
of rude hint of Christopher North in the old collier's appearance.
His wife, too, was a tall, strong-built woman, with a comely and a
gentle face --a fit mate for such a man as he. I thought, as she
moved about, her grand bulk seemed to outface the narrow limits of
the cottage. The tiny house was exceedingly clean, and comfortably
furnished. Everything seemed to be in its appointed place, even to
the sleek cat sleeping on the hearth. There were a few books on a
shelf, and a concertina upon a little table in the corner. When we
entered, the old collier was busy with the slate and pencil, and an
arithmetic before him; but he laid them aside, and, doffing his
spectacles, began to talk with us. He said that they were a family
of six, and all out of work; but he said that, ever since he lost
his leg, the proprietors of the pit in which the accident happened
(Wright's) had allowed him a pension of six shillings a week, which
he considered very handsome. This allowance just kept the wolf from
their little door in these hard times. In the course of our
conversation I found that the old man read the papers frequently,
and that he was a man of more than common information in his class.
I should have been glad to stay longer with him, but my time was up;
so I came away from the town, thus ending my last ramble amongst the
unemployed operatives of Wigan. Since then the condition of the poor
there has been steadily growing worse, which is sure to be heard of
in the papers.