She was a familiar figure on the streets of Hamilton in 1886. Not many people knew why she had become so poor as to be begging from any and every passerby, not many even knew her name.
But a Spectator reporter did find out what her name was, and the story of her life. His column, with the headline, Molly, appeared in the Spectator of January 18, 1886:
“People about town see frequently on the streets a tottering, feeble
and bent Irish woman, who in rain and snow, in cloud or sunshine, trudges along
with a basket on one arm, a tattered
shawl drawn about her head, a quilted black petticoat doing duty for a skirt,
and her stockingless feet thrust into gaping boots. Where does she come from,
where does she live? Few know. More know how she lives, for the seamed,
wrinkled, careworn face, and faltering tongue that asks for charity, move many
hearts to pity, and oftimes, something better than the odd scraps from
yesterday’s dinner finds a way into her basket. For years, she has walked
around the streets apparently in the same clothes and looking the same then as
she does today. Time lately seems to have touched her with a gentle hand.
Someday she will disappear from the streets, and back doors will see her no
more. A few will miss her. They will wonder vaguely what has become of Molly,
but the Potter’s field will hold its secret, and they will soon forget her.
“A quarter of a
century ago, she gave where she now begs. In early life, she married a
prosperous Irish mechanic, and when a couple of years had passed and one child
had come to them, they came to Hamilton and settled in the more or less aristocratic
precincts of Corktown. He husband was skilled in his business and got on well,
and, if not rich, they were in prosperous circumstances and able to put
something by for a rainy day. The child grew to be twelve years of age, and
died of diphtheria. Her death almost broke her parents’ hearts. The husband
grew more morose and unsteady. He forsook his work for the sake of liquor. It
did not take him long to squander the little money they had saved, nor did it
take him long to break up his constitution. Violent and steady drinking brought
on delirium tremens. He was taken to the police cells, and from there to the
city hospital. And there he died.
“Thrown on her own
resources, she did washing and scrubbing, and being a faithful worker, managed
to keep herself well. Failing health, however, made it necessary for her at
last to restrict her operations. Age was creeping on, and she was getting
feeble. She struggled on as long as she could, but the strain was too much. Typhoid
fever called on her and stayed with her for weeks.
“A poor, but
tender-hearted physician, and kind neighbors, brought her around again all
right. Her bodily health came back, but her mental health went on a long
vacation. Trouble and sickness turned her brain. For a time she lived with the
people who had known her in her days of prosperity. They could not keep her
forever. It came about at last that she either had to beg for a living or
starve. The instinct of self-preservation told her to beg. Some good-natured
soul gave her the use of a tumble-down shanty, and put such odds and ends of
furniture in it as her humble requirements necessitated. There she lives. There
is nothing particularly strange in the story of this woman, yet perhaps the
recital of what has been and what is may make some people kinder when this
gray-haired human wreck comes begging for scraps.
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