The Cotton Famine that caused misery in Lancashire in the early 1860s hit Blackburn harder than most towns. This was because about 90% of the population were either directly employed in mills, or they worked in trades that supported the cotton industry. That population had trebled in forty years - from 21,500 in 1821, through 36,629 in 1841, to 63,126 in 1861. Blackburn had been warned by economists that it needed to diversify, but who listens to warnings during the good times?

Briefly, there were two main reasons for the severe situation. Firstly, the area had seen such a boom during the 1850s that more and more factories were opened. By the autumn of 1860, however, Lancashire was producing more cotton fabric than people wanted; as a result, the price of finished cotton fell sharply. The millowners decided to cut production in an attempt to create a shortage and, therefore, push the price back up. Of course, cutting production meant reducing workers’ hours to three or four days a week instead of six. And that meant less pay.

“Blackburn has been particularly flourishing, but it had a check even before the cotton dearth: the eastern market trade was cramped nine months before the outbreak of hostilities in America.” [Daily Telegraph, 2nd June 1862]

In the end, the manufacturers need not have taken the action that they did. In April 1861, the American Civil War began, one of the main causes being the desire of the southern states to continue the practice of slavery. Much of the economic output of these states depended on exporting cotton. The Yankees, from the northern states, blockaded the major ports of the south, which meant that ships could not leave. The supply of raw cotton to Lancashire dwindled to next to nothing. More mills closed; more people were left without work.

By the winter of 1861-2, significant numbers of people were struggling to feed themselves. The first soup kitchen opened in the Cleaver Street end of Yates’s foundry in January. Some people paid one penny for a quart (a little more than a litre) of soup; others exchanged coupons handed out by the relief committee. In the second full week of operation, the Cleaver St kitchen was dishing out on average 2,300 quarts (about 2,600 litres) every day. Other soup kitchens opened, including ones at Dickinson’s Mill and the Old Bull Hotel; William Whitehead, a butcher, doled out 600 quarts every Monday from his shop in Church Street.

SOUP KITCHEN RECIPE - to make 160 gallons (640 quarts = 728 litres) of soup

To 130 gallons of water are added 120 lbs (54.5 kilos) of beef, 60 lbs of barley, 20 lbs of groats, 60 lbs of peas, 18 lbs of onions, 20 lbs of carrots, 10 lbs of turnips, 10 lbs of salt [!!!], 3 oz. (85g) of white pepper, and a little cayenne pepper.

More and more factories shut down or reduced their hours. At the end of May 1862, there were 7,499 people completely out of work; by the first week of August, that number had increased to 12,587; and at the end of October there were 17,337 totally without work, with a further 6,079 on short time.

A LONG WALK FOR BREAD

On Thursday 1st May 1862, the International Exhibition opened in South Kensington, London, on the site now occupied by the Natural History Museum and the Science Museum. One week later, a group of people were seen at the entrance by a newspaper reporter.

“In striking contrast with the wealthy visitors stood a group of women, without bonnets and slenderly attired generally, some of them holding children by the hand. They were from Blackburn, in Lancashire, and they had trudged up to London in the vague hope of obtaining bread for themselves and their children. One fine girl begged the policeman to let her stand within the door; and the man, for once civil to a poor person, consented. The little party entered, though, of course, they were not suffered to pass the turnstile.

On Monday, we saw four or five of the same persons begging to be allowed to enter the British Museum. They were refused and sent away, though on what principle it is not easy to understand. Surely, the absence of bonnets ought not to be a bar to the admission of any portion of the nation for establishments which all of us help to maintain.”

APPLYING FOR RELIEF

In Victorian Britain, there was no government money for people who found themselves without work. Financial help was given by the local Board of Guardians, who were also responsible for the Workhouse. In 1862, ‘relief’ was given on Saturday mornings, usually half in cash and half in coupons that could be exchanged in shops. A reporter from the Manchester Examiner described the scene.

“In one case, a poor, pale, clean-looking and almost speechless woman presented herself. Her thin and sunken eyes, as well as her known circumstances, explained her want sufficiently; and I heard one of the guardians whisper to another, “That’s a bad case. It if wasn’t for private charity, they’d die of starvation.”

Now and then, the guardians were surprised to see a man asking for relief whom everybody had supposed to be in good circumstances. The first applicant was a man apparently under forty, a beerhouse keeper, who had been well off until lately. The tide of trouble had overwhelmed him. His children were all factory operatives, and all out of work, and his wife was ill. “What, are you here, John?” the chairman asked. The poor fellow blushed with evident pain and faltered out his story in a few and simple words, as if ashamed that anything should have driven him to such an extremity as this.

A clean old man approached. “What’s brought you here, Joseph?” The man explained he had no work, nor any hope of finding any; his daughter was also unemployed; and his wife had been bedridden for five years. The old man was relieved at once; but, as he walked away, he looked hard at his ticket, as if it was not the kind of thing [he expected]; turning round, he said, “Couldn’t you let me be a sweeper in t’streets instead, Mr Eccles?”

A clean old woman, in a snow-white nightcap, was asked if she still had lodgers. “Aw’ve three,” she replied. ‘Well, what do they pay you?’ the chairman asked. “They pay’n mo nowt. They’n no wark an’ aw cannot turn ‘em eawt.” That was quite true. ‘But, you live with your son, don’t you?’ continued the chairman. “Nay,” she replied, “He lives wi’ me - and he’s eawt o’ wark too. Aw could like you to do a bit o’ summat for us. We’re hard put to it.”

“Don’t you think she would be better in the workhouse?” asked one of the guardians. “Oh no,” replied another, “Don’t send th’owd woman there. Let her keep her own little place together if she can.”

It was a curious thing to see the different demeanours of the applicants and to hear the stories of their troubles. Three or four of the women’s husbands were away in the militia; other women’s husbands had wandered away in search of work weeks ago and had never been heard of since. One woman, after receiving a ticket for relief, partly in money and partly in kind, whipped a pair of worn clogs from under her shawl, and cried out: “Aw mun ha’ some clogs afore aw go, too. Look at thoose! They’re a shame to be seen!” Clogs were freely given; and, in several cases, were all that was asked for.

(Manchester Examiner, quoted in Louth & North Lincolnshire Advertiser, 7th June 1862)