Scholes is the
"Little Ireland" of Wigan, the poorest quarter of the town. The
colliers and factory operatives chiefly live there. There is a
saying in Wigan --that, no man's education is finished until he has
been through Scholes. Having made my arrangements for the next day,
I went to stay for the night with a friend who lives in the green
country near Orrell, three miles west of Wigan.
Early next morning, we rode over to see the quaint town of
Upholland, and its fine old church, with the little ivied monastic
ruin close by. We returned thence, by way of "Orrell Pow," to Wigan,
to meet my engagement at ten in the forenoon. On our way, we could
not help noticing the unusual number of foot-sore, travel-soiled
people, many of them evidently factory operatives, limping away from
the town upon their melancholy wanderings. We could see, also, by
the number of decrepid old women, creeping towards Wigan, and now
and then stopping to rest by the wayside, that it was relief day at
the Board of Guardians. At ten, I met the gentleman who had kindly
offered to guide me for the day; and we set off together.
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