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Chapter IX - Barton's London experiences
"A life of self-indulgence is for us,
A life of self-denial is for them;
For us the streets, broad-built and populous,
For them unhealthy corners, garrets dim,
And cellars where the water-rat may swim!
For us green paths refreshed by frequent rain,
For them dark alleys where the dust lies grim!
Not doomed by us to this appointed pain--
God made us rich and poor--of what do these complain?"
--MRS. NORTON'S Child of the Islands.
The next evening it was a warm, pattering, incessant rain--just the
rain to waken up the flowers. But in Manchester, where, alas! there
are no flowers, the rain had only a disheartening and gloomy effect;
the streets were wet and dirty, the drippings from the houses were
wet and dirty, and the people were wet and dirty. Indeed, most kept
within doors; and there was an unusual silence of footsteps in the
little paved courts.
Mary had to change her clothes after her walk home; and had hardly
settled herself before she heard some one fumbling at the door. The
noise continued long enough to allow her to get up, and go and open
it. There stood--could it be? yes it was, her father!
Drenched and wayworn, there he stood! He came in with no word to
Mary in return for her cheery and astonished greeting. He sat down
by the fire in his wet things, unheeding. But Mary would not let
him so rest. She ran up and brought down his working-day clothes,
and went into the pantry to rummage up their little bit of provision
while he changed by the fire, talking all the while as gaily as she
could, though her father's depression hung like lead on her heart.
For Mary, in her seclusion at Miss Simmonds',--where the chief talk
was of fashions, and dress, and parties to be given, for which such
and such gowns would be wanted, varied with a slight-whispered
interlude occasionally about love and lovers--had not heard the
political news of the day; that Parliament had refused to listen to
the working-men, when they petitioned, with all the force of their
rough, untutored words, to be heard concerning the distress which
was riding, like the Conqueror on his Pale Horse, among the people;
which was crushing their lives out of them, and stamping woe-marks
over the land.
When he had eaten and was refreshed, they sat for some time in
silence; for Mary wished him to tell her what oppressed him so, yet
durst not ask. In this she was wise; for when we are heavy-laden in
our hearts it falls in better with our humour to reveal our case in
our own way, and our own time.
Mary sat on a stool at her father's feet in old childish guise, and
stole her hand into his, while his sadness infected her, and she
"caught the trick of grief, and sighed," she knew not why.
"Mary, we mun speak to our God to hear us, for man will not hearken;
no, not now, when we weep tears o' blood."
In an instant Mary understood the fact, if not the details, that so
weighed down her father's heart. She pressed his hand with silent
sympathy. She did not know what to say, and was so afraid of
speaking wrongly, that she was silent. But when his attitude had
remained unchanged for more than half-an-hour, his eyes gazing
vacantly and fixedly at the fire, no sound but now and then a deep-
drawn sigh to break the weary ticking of the clock, and the
drip-drop from the roof without, Mary could bear it no longer.
Anything to rouse her father. Even bad news.
"Father, do you know George Wilson's dead?" (Her hand was suddenly
and almost violently compressed.) "He dropped down dead in Oxford
Road yester morning. It's very sad, isn't it, father?"
Her tears were ready to flow as she looked up in her father's face
for sympathy. Still the same fixed look of despair, not varied by
grief for the dead.
"Best for him to die," he said, in a low voice.
This was unbearable. Mary got up under pretence of going to tell
Margaret that she need not come to sleep with her to-night, but
really to ask Job Legh to come and cheer her father.
She stopped outside the door. Margaret was practising her singing,
and through the still night air her voice rang out, like that of an
angel--
"Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people, saith your God."
The old Hebrew prophetic words fell like dew on Mary's heart. She
could not interrupt. She stood listening and "comforted," till the
little buzz of conversation again began, and then entered and told
her errand.
Both grandfather and grand-daughter rose instantly to fulfil her
request.
"He's just tired out, Mary," said old Job. "He'll be a different
man to-morrow."
There is no describing the looks and tones that have power over an
aching, heavy-laden heart; but in an hour or so John Barton was
talking away as freely as ever, though all his talk ran, as was
natural, on the disappointment of his fond hope, of the forlorn hope
of many.
"Ay, London's a fine place," said he, "and finer folk live in it
than I ever thought on, or ever heerd tell on except in th'
storybooks. They are having their good things now, that afterwards
they may be tormented."
Still at the old parable of Dives and Lazarus! Does it haunt the
minds of the rich as it does those of the poor?
"Do tell us all about London, dear father," asked Mary, who was
sitting at her old post by her father's knee.
"How can I tell yo a' about it, when I never see'd one-tenth of it.
It's as big as six Manchesters, they telled me. One-sixth may be
made up o' grand palaces, and three-sixths o' middling kind, and th'
rest o' holes o' iniquity and filth, such as Manchester knows nought
on, I'm glad to say."
"Well, father, but did you see the Queen?"
"I believe I didn't, though one day I thought I'd seen her many a
time. You see," said he, turning to Job Legh, "there were a day
appointed for us to go to Parliament House. We were most on us
biding at a public-house in Holborn, where they did very well for
us. Th' morning of taking our petition we had such a spread for
breakfast as th' Queen hersel might ha' sitten down to. I suppose
they thought we wanted putting in heart. There were mutton kidneys,
and sausages, and broiled ham, and fried beef and onions; more like
a dinner nor a breakfast. Many on our chaps though, I could see,
could eat but little. Th' food stuck in their throats when they
thought o' them at home, wives and little ones, as had, maybe at
that very time, nought to eat. Well, after breakfast, we were all
set to walk in procession, and a time it took to put us in order,
two and two, and the petition, as was yards long, carried by the
foremost pairs. The men looked grave enough, yo may be sure and
such a set of thin, wan, wretched-looking chaps as they were!"
"Yourself is none to boast on."
"Ay, but I were fat and rosy to many a one. Well, we walked on and
on through many a street, much the same as Deansgate. We had to
walk slowly, slowly, for th' carriages an' cabs as thronged th'
streets. I thought by-and-bye we should maybe get clear on 'em, but
as the streets grew wider they grew worse, and at last we were
fairly blocked up at Oxford Street. We getten across it after a
while though, and my eyes! the grand streets we were in then!
They're sadly puzzled how to build houses though in London; there'd
be an opening for a good steady master builder there, as know'd his
business. For yo see the houses are many on 'em built without any
proper shape for a body to live in; some on 'em they've after
thought would fall down, so they've stuck great ugly pillars out
before 'em. And some on 'em (we thought they must be th' tailors'
sign) had getten stone men and women as wanted clothes stuck on 'em.
I were like a child, I forgot a' my errand in looking about me. By
this it were dinner-time, or better, as we could tell by the sun,
right above our heads, and we were dusty and tired, going a step now
and a step then. Well, at last we getten into a street grander nor
all, leading to th' Queen's palace, and there it were I thought I
saw th' Queen. Yo've seen th' hearses wi' white plumes, Job?"
Job assented.
"Well, them undertaker folk are driving a pretty trade in London.
Well-nigh every lady we saw in a carriage had hired one o' them
plumes for the day, and had it niddle noddling on her head. It were
the Queen's Drawing-room, they said, and the carriages went bowling
along towards her house, some wi' dressed-up gentlemen like circus
folk in 'em, and rucks* o' ladies in others. Carriages themselves
were great shakes too. Some o' the gentlemen as couldn't get inside
hung on behind, wi' nosegays to smell at, and sticks to keep off
folk as might splash their silk stockings. I wonder why they didn't
hire a cab rather than hang on like a whip-behind boy; but I suppose
they wished to keep wi' their wives, Darby and Joan like. Coachmen
were little squat men, wi' wigs like the oud-fashioned parsons'.
Well, we could na get on for these carriages, though we waited and
waited. Th' horses were too fat to move quick; they never known
want o' food, one might tell by their sleek coats; and police pushed
us back when we tried to cross. One or two of 'em struck wi' their
sticks, and coachmen laughed, and some officers as stood nigh put
their spy-glasses in their eye, and left 'em sticking there like
mountebanks. One o' th' police struck me. 'Whatten business have
you to do that?' said I.
*Rucks; a great quantity.
"'You're frightening them horses,' says he, in his mincing way (for
Londoners are mostly all tongue-tied, and can't say their a's and
i's properly, 'and it's our business to keep you from molesting the
ladies and gentlemen going to her Majesty's Drawing-room.'
"'And why are we to be molested?' asked I, 'going decently about our
business, which is life and death to us, and many a little one
clemming at home in Lancashire? Which business is of most
consequence i' the sight o' God, think yo, ourn or them grand ladies
and gentlemen as yo think so much on?'
"But I might as well ha' held my peace, for he only laughed."
John ceased. After waiting a little, to see if he would go on
himself, Job said--
"Well, but that's not a' your story, man. Tell us what happened
when you got to th' Parliament House."
After a little pause, John answered--
"If you please, neighbour, I'd rather say nought about that. It's
not to be forgotten, or forgiven either, by me or many another; but
I canna tell of our down-casting just as a piece of London news. As
long as I live, our rejection of that day will abide in my heart;
and as long as I live I shall curse them as so cruelly refused to
hear us; but I'll not speak of it no* more."
*A similar use of a double negative is frequent in Chaucer;
as in the "Miller's Tale":
"That of no wife toke he non offering
For curtesie, he sayd, he n'old non."
So, daunted in their inquiries, they sat silent for a few minutes.
Old Job, however, felt that some one must speak, else all the good
they had done in dispelling John Barton's gloom was lost. So after
a while he thought of a subject, neither sufficiently dissonant from
the last to jar on a full heart, nor too much the same to cherish
the continuance of the gloomy train of thought.
"Did you ever hear tell," said he to Mary, "that I were in London
once?"
"No!" said she with surprise, and looking at Job with increased
respect.
"Ay, but I were though, and Peg there too, though she minds nought
about it, poor wench! You must know I had but one child, and she
were Margaret's mother. I loved her above a bit, and one day when
she came (standing behind me for that I should not see her blushes,
and stroking my cheeks in her own coaxing way), and told me she and
Frank Jennings (as was a joiner lodging near us) should be so happy
if they were married, I could not find in my heart t' say her nay,
though I went sick at the thought of losing her away from my home.
However, she was my only child, and I never said nought of what I
felt, for fear o' grieving her young heart. But I tried to think o'
the time when I'd been young mysel, and had loved her blessed
mother, and how we'd left father and mother, and gone out into th'
world together, and I'm now right thankful I held my peace, and
didna fret her wi' telling her how sore I was at parting wi' her
that were the light o' my eyes."
"But," said Mary, "you said the young man were a neighbour."
"Ay, so he were, and his father afore him. But work were rather
slack in Manchester, and Frank's uncle sent him word o' London work
and London wages, so he were to go there, and it were there Margaret
was to follow him. Well, my heart aches yet at thought of those
days. She so happy, and he so happy; only the poor father as
fretted sadly behind their backs. They were married and stayed some
days wi' me afore setting off; and I've often thought sin',
Margaret's heart failed her many a time those few days, and she
would fain ha' spoken; but I knew fra' mysel it were better to keep
it pent up, and I never let on what I were feeling. I knew what she
meant when she came kissing, and holding my hand, and all her old
childish ways o' loving me. Well, they went at last. You know them
two letters, Margaret?"
"Yes, sure," replied his grand-daughter.
"Well, them two were the only letters I ever had fra' her, poor
lass. She said in them she were very happy, and I believe she were.
And Frank's family heard he were in good work. In one o' her
letters, poor thing, she ends wi' saying, 'Farewell, Grandad!' wi' a
line drawn under grandad, and fra' that an' other hints I knew she
were in th' family way; and I said nought, but I screwed up a
little money, thinking come Whitsuntide I'd take a holiday and go
and see her an' th' little one. But one day towards Whitsuntide,
comed Jennings wi' a grave face, and says he, 'I hear our Frank and
your Margaret's both getten the fever.' You might ha' knocked me
down wi' a straw, for it seemed as if God told me what th' upshot
would be. Old Jennings had gotten a letter, you see, fra' the
landlady they lodged wi'; a well-penned letter, asking if they'd no
friends to come and nurse them. She'd caught it first, and Frank,
who was as tender o'er her as her own mother could ha' been, had
nursed her till he'd caught it himsel; and she expecting her down-
lying* everyday. Well, t' make a long story short, old Jennings and
I went up by that night's coach. So you see, Mary, that was the way
I got to London."
*Down-lying; lying in.
"But how was your daughter when you got there?" asked Mary
anxiously.
"She were at rest, poor wench, and so were Frank. I guessed as much
when I see'd th' landlady's face, all swelled wi' crying, when she
opened th' door to us. We said, 'Where are they?' and I knew they
were dead, fra' her look; but Jennings didn't, as I take it; for
when she showed us into a room wi' a white sheet on th' bed, and
underneath it, plain to be seen, two still figures, he screeched out
as if he'd been a woman.
"Yet he'd other children and I'd none. There lay my darling, my
only one. She were dead, and there were no one to love me, no, not
one. I disremember* rightly what I did; but I know I were very
quiet, while my heart were crushed within me.
*Disremember; forget.
"Jennings could na' stand being in the room at all, so the landlady
took him down, and I were glad to be alone. It grew dark while I
sat there; and at last th' landlady came up again, and said, 'Come
here.' So I got up, and walked into the light, but I had to hold by
th' stair-rails, I were so weak and dizzy. She led me into a room,
where Jennings lay on a sofa fast asleep, wi' his pocket-
handkerchief over his head for a night-cap. She said he'd cried
himself fairly off to sleep. There were tea on th' table all ready;
for she were a kind-hearted body. But she still said, 'Come here,'
and took hold o' my arm. So I went round the table, and there were
a clothes-basket by th' fire, wi' a shawl put o'er it. 'Lift that
up,' says she, and I did; and there lay a little wee babby fast
asleep. My heart gave a leap, and th' tears comed rushing into my
eyes first time that day. 'Is it hers?' said I, though I knew it
were. 'Yes,' said she. 'She were getting a bit better o' the
fever, and th' babby were born; and then the poor young man took
worse and died, and she were not many hours behind.'
"Little mite of a thing! and yet it seemed her angel come back to
comfort me. I were quite jealous o' Jennings whenever he went near
the babby. I thought it were more my flesh and blood than his'n,
and yet I were afraid he would claim it. However, that were far
enough fra' his thoughts; he'd plenty other childer, and, as I found
out after, he'd all along been wishing me to take it. Well, we
buried Margaret and her husband in a big, crowded, lonely churchyard
in London. I were loath to leave them there, as I thought, when
they rose again, they'd feel so strange at first away fra'
Manchester, and all old friends; but it could na be helped. Well,
God watches o'er their graves there as well as here. That funeral
cost a mint o' money, but Jennings and I wished to do th' thing
decent. Then we'd the stout little babby to bring home. We'd not
overmuch money left; but it were fine weather, and we thought we'd
take th' coach to Brummagem, and walk on. It were a bright May
morning when I last saw London town, looking back from a big hill a
mile or two off. And in that big mass o' a place I were leaving my
blessed child asleep--in her last sleep. Well, God's will be done!
She's gotten to heaven afore me; but I shall get there at last,
please God, though it's a long while first.
"The babby had been fed afore we set out, and th' coach moving kept
it asleep, bless its little heart! But when th' coach stopped for
dinner it were awake, and crying for its pobbies.* So we asked for
some bread and milk, and Jennings took it first for to feed it, but
it made its mouth like a square, and let it run out at each o' the
four corners. 'Shake it, Jennings,' says I; 'that's the way they
make water run through a funnel, when it's o'er full; and a child's
mouth is broad end o' th' funnel, and th' gullet the narrow one.'
So he shook it, but it only cried th' more. 'Let me have it,' says
I, thinking he were an awkward oud chap. But it were just as bad
wi' me. By shaking th' babby we got better nor a gill into its
mouth, but more nor that came up again, wetting a' th' nice dry
clothes landlady had put on. Well, just as we'd gotten to th'
dinner-table, and helped oursels, and eaten two mouthful, came in
th' guard, and a fine chap wi' a sample of calico flourishing in his
hand. 'Coach is ready!' says one; 'Half-a-crown your dinner!' says
the other. Well, we thought it a deal for both our dinners, when
we'd hardly tasted 'em; but, bless your life, it were half-a-crown
apiece, and a shilling for th' bread and milk as were possetted all
over babby's clothes. We spoke up again** it; but everybody said it
were the rule, so what could two poor oud chaps like us do again it?
Well, poor babby cried without stopping to take breath, fra' that
time till we got to Brummagem for the night. My heart ached for th'
little thing. It caught wi' its wee mouth at our coat sleeves and
at our mouths, when we tried t' comfort it by talking to it. Poor
little wench! it wanted its mammy, as were lying cold in th' grave.
'Well,' says I, 'it'll be clemmed to death, if it lets out its
supper as it did its dinner. Let's get some woman to feed it; it
comes natural to women to do for babbies.' So we asked th'
chambermaid at the inn, and she took quite kindly to it; and we got
a good supper, and grew rare and sleepy, what wi' th' warmth and wi'
our long ride i' the open air. Th' chambermaid said she would like
t' have it t' sleep wi' her, only missis would scold so; but it
looked so quiet and smiling like, as it lay in her arms, that we
thought 't would be no trouble to have it wi' us. I says: 'See,
Jennings, how women folk do quieten babbies; it's just as I said.'
He looked grave; he were always thoughtful-looking, though I never
heard him say anything very deep. At last says he--
"'Young woman! have you gotten a spare nightcap?'
"'Missis always keeps nightcaps for gentlemen as does not like to
unpack,' says she, rather quick.
*"Pobbies," or "pobs," child's porridge.
**"Again," for against. "He that is not with me, he is ageyn me."
--Wickliffe's Version.
"'Ay, but young woman, it's one of your nightcaps I want. Th' babby
seems to have taken a mind to yo; and maybe in th' dark it might
take me for yo if I'd getten your nightcap on.'
"The chambermaid smirked and went for a cap, but I laughed outright
at th' oud bearded chap thinking he'd make hissel like a woman just
by putting on a woman's cap. Howe'er he'd not be laughed out on't,
so I held th' babby till he were in bed. Such a night as we had on
it! Babby began to scream o' th' oud fashion, and we took it turn
and turn about to sit up and rock it. My heart were very sore for
the little one, as it groped about wi' its mouth; but for a' that I
could scarce keep fra' smiling at th' thought o' us two oud chaps,
th' one wi' a woman's nightcap on, sitting on our hinder ends for
half the night, hushabying a babby as wouldn't be hushabied. Toward
morning, poor little wench! it fell asleep, fairly tired out wi'
crying, but even in its sleep it gave such pitiful sobs, quivering
up fra' the very bottom of its little heart, that once or twice I
almost wished it lay on its mother's breast, at peace for ever.
Jennings fell asleep too; but I began for to reckon up our money.
It were little enough we had left, our dinner the day afore had
ta'en so much. I didn't know what our reckoning would be for that
night lodging, and supper, and breakfast. Doing a sum always sent
me asleep ever sin' I were a lad; so I fell sound in a short time,
and were only wakened by chambermaid tapping at th' door, to say
she'd dress the babby before her missis were up if we liked. But
bless yo, we'd never thought o' undressing it the night afore, and
now it were sleeping so sound, and we were so glad o' the peace and
quietness, that we thought it were no good to waken it up to screech
again.
"Well! (there's Mary asleep for a good listener!) I suppose you're
getting weary of my tale, so I'll not be long over ending it. Th'
reckoning left us very bare, and we thought we'd best walk home, for
it were only sixty mile, they telled us, and not stop again for
nought, save victuals. So we left Brummagem (which is as black a
place as Manchester, without looking so like home), and walked a'
that day, carrying babby turn and turn about. It were well fed by
chambermaid afore we left, and th' day were fine, and folk began to
have some knowledge o' th' proper way o' speaking, and we were more
cheery at thought o' home (though mine, God knows, were lonesome
enough). We stopped none for dinner, but at baggin-time* we getten
a good meal at a public-house, an' fed th' babby as well as we
could, but that were but poorly. We got a crust too for it to
suck--chambermaid put us up to that. That night, whether we were
tired or whatten, I don't know, but it were dree** work, and th'
poor little wench had slept out her sleep, and began th' cry as wore
my heart out again. Says Jennings, says he--
"'We should na ha' set out so like gentlefolk a top o' the coach
yesterday.'
*Baggin-time; time of the evening meal.
**Dree; long and tedious. Anglo-Saxon, "dreogan," to suffer, to
endure.
"'Nay, lad! We should ha' had more to walk if we had na ridden, and
I'm sure both you and I'se* weary o' tramping.'
*"I have not been, nor IS, nor never schal."--Wickliffe's Apology,
p. I.
"So he were quiet a bit. But he were one o' them as were sure to
find out somewhat had been done amiss when there were no going back
to undo it. So presently he coughs, as if he were going to speak,
and I says to myself, 'At it again, my lad.' Says he--
"'I ax pardon, neighbour, but it strikes me it would ha' been better
for my son if he had never begun to keep company wi' your daughter.'
"Well! that put me up, and my heart got very full, and but that I
were carrying HER babby, I think I should ha' struck him. At last I
could hold in no longer, and says I--
"'Better say at once it would ha' been better for God never to ha'
made th' world, for then we'd never ha' been in it, to have had th'
heavy hearts we have now.'
"Well! he said that were rank blasphemy; but I thought his way of
casting up again th' events God had pleased to send, were worse
blasphemy. Howe'er, I said nought more angry, for th' little
babby's sake, as were th' child o' his dead son, as well as o' my
dead daughter.
"Th' longest lane will have a turning, and that night came to an end
at last; and we were footsore and tired enough, and to my mind the
babby were getting weaker and weaker, and it wrung my heart to hear
its little wail! I'd ha' given my right hand for one of yesterday's
hearty cries. We were wanting our breakfasts, and so were it too,
motherless babby! We could see no public-houses, so about six
o'clock (only we thought it were later) we stopped at a cottage,
where a woman were moving about near th' open door. Says I, 'Good
woman, may we rest us a bit?' 'Come in,' says she, wiping a chair,
as looked bright enough afore, wi' her apron. It were a cheery,
clean room; and we were glad to sit down again, though I thought my
legs would never bend at th' knees. In a minute she fell a noticing
th' babby, and took it in her arms, and kissed it again and again.
'Missis,' says I, 'we're not without money and if yo'd give us
somewhat for breakfast, we'd pay yo honest, and if yo would wash and
dress that poor babby, and get some pobbies down its throat, for
it's well-nigh clemmed, I'd pray for you till my dying day.' So she
said nought but gived me th' babby back, and afore you could say
Jack Robinson, she'd a pan on th' fire, and bread and cheese on th'
table. When she turned round, her face looked red, and her lips
were tight pressed together. Well! we were right down glad on our
breakfast, and God bless and reward that woman for her kindness that
day! She fed th' poor babby as gently and softly, and spoke to it
as tenderly as its own poor mother could ha' done. It seemed as if
that stranger and it had known each other afore, maybe in heaven,
where folk's spirits come from, they say; th' babby looked up so
lovingly in her eyes, and made little noises more like a dove than
aught else. Then she undressed it (poor darling! it were time),
touching it so softly; and washed it from head to foot; and as many
on its clothes were dirty, and what bits o' things its mother had
gotten ready for it had been sent by th' carrier fra' London, she
put 'em aside; and wrapping little naked babby in her apron, she
pulled out a key, as were fastened to a black ribbon, and hung down
her breast, and unlocked a drawer in th' dresser. I were sorry to
be prying, but I could na help seeing in that drawer some little
child's clothes, all strewed wi' lavender, and lying by 'em a little
whip an' a broken rattle. I began to have an insight into that
woman's heart then. She took out a thing or two and locked the
drawer, and went on dressing babby. Just about then come her
husband down, a great big fellow as didn't look half awake, though
it were getting late; but he'd heard all as had been said
downstairs, as were plain to be seen; but he were a gruff chap.
We'd finished our breakfast, and Jennings were looking hard at th'
woman as she were getting the babby to sleep wi' a sort of rocking
way. At length says he, 'I ha' learnt th' way now; it's two jiggits
and a shake, two jiggits and a shake. I can get that babby asleep
now mysel.'
"The man had nodded cross enough to us, and had gone to th' door,
and stood there, whistling wi' his hands in his breeches-pockets,
looking abroad. But at last he turns and says, quite sharp--
"'I say, missis, I'm to have no breakfast to-day, I s'pose.'
"So wi' that she kissed th' child, a long, soft kiss, and looking in
my face to see if I could take her meaning, gave me th' babby
without a word. I were loath to stir, but I saw it were better to
go. So giving Jennings a sharp nudge (for he'd fallen asleep), I
says, 'Missis, what's to pay?' pulling out my money wi' a jingle
that she might na guess we were at all bare o' cash. So she looks
at her husband, who said ne'er a word, but were listening with all
his ears nevertheless; and when she saw he would na say, she said,
hesitating, as if pulled two ways, by her fear o' him, 'Should you
think sixpence over much?' It were so different to public-house
reckoning, for we'd eaten a main deal afore the chap came down. So
says I, 'And, missis, what should we gi' you for the babby's bread
and milk?' (I had it once in my mind to say 'and for a' your
trouble with it,' but my heart would na let me say it, for I could
read in her ways how it had been a work o' love). So says she,
quite quick, and stealing a look at her husband's back, as looked
all ear, if ever a back did, 'Oh, we could take nought for the
little babby's food, if it had eaten twice as much, bless it.' Wi'
that he looked at her; such a scowling look! She knew what he
meant, and stepped softly across the floor to him, and put her hand
on his arm. He seem'd as though he'd shake it off by a jerk on his
elbow, but she said quite low, 'For poor little Johnnie's sake,
Richard.' He did not move or speak again, and after looking in his
face for a minute, she turned away, swallowing deep in her throat.
She kissed th' sleeping babby as she passed, when I paid her. To
quieten th' gruff husband, and stop him if he rated her, I could na
help slipping another sixpence under th' loaf, and then we set off
again. Last look I had o' that woman she were quietly wiping her
eyes wi' the corner of her apron, as she went about her husband's
breakfast. But I shall know her in heaven."
He stopped to think of that long ago May morning, when he had
carried his grand-daughter under the distant hedgerows and beneath
the flowering sycamores.
"There's nought more to say, wench," said he to Margaret, as she
begged him to go on. "That night we reached Manchester, and I'd
found out that Jennings would be glad enough to give up babby to me,
so I took her home at once, and a blessing she's been to me."
They were all silent for a few minutes; each following out the
current of their thoughts. Then, almost simultaneously, their
attention fell upon Mary. Sitting on her little stool, her head
resting on her father's knee, and sleeping as soundly as any infant,
her breath (still like an infant's) came and went as softly as a
bird steals to her leafy nest. Her half-open mouth was as scarlet
as the winter-berries, and contrasted finely with the clear paleness
of her complexion, where the eloquent blood flushed carnation at
each motion. Her black eye-lashes lay on the delicate cheek, which
was still more shaded by the masses of her golden hair, that seemed
to form a nest-like pillar for her as she lay. Her father in fond
pride straightened one glossy curl, for an instant, as if to display
its length and silkiness.
The little action awoke her, and, like nine out of ten people in
similar circumstances, she exclaimed, opening her eyes to their
fullest extent--
"I'm not asleep. I've been awake all the time."
Even her father could not keep from smiling, and Job Legh and
Margaret laughed outright.
"Come, wench," said Job, "don't look so gloppened* because thou'st
fallen asleep while an oud chap like me was talking on oud times.
It were like enough to send thee to sleep. Try if thou canst keep
thine eyes open while I read thy father a bit on a poem as is
written by a weaver like oursel. A rare chap I'll be bound is he
who could weave verse like this."
*Gloppened; amazed, frightened.
So adjusting his spectacles on nose, cocking his chin, crossing his
legs, and coughing to clear his voice, he read aloud a little poem
of Samuel Bamford's* he had picked up somewhere.
*The fine-spirited author of 'Passages in the Life of a Radical'--
a man who illustrates his order, and shows what nobility may be
in a cottage.
God help the poor, who, on this wintry morn,
Come forth from alleys dim and courts obscure.
God help yon poor pale girl, who droops forlorn,
And meekly her affliction doth endure;
God help her, outcast lamb; she trembling stands,
All wan her lips, and frozen red her hands
Her sunken eyes are modestly downcast,
Her night-black hair streams on the fitful blast;
Her bosom, passing fair, is half revealed,
And oh! so cold, the snow lies there congealed;
Her feet benumbed, her shoes all rent and worn,
God help thee, outcast lamb, who standst forlorn!
God help the poor!
God help the poor! An infant's feeble wail
Comes from yon narrow gateway, and behold!
A female crouching there, so deathly pale,
Huddling her child, to screen it from the cold;
Her vesture scant, her bonnet crushed and torn;
A thin shawl doth her baby dear enfold.
And so she 'bides the ruthless gale of morn,
Which almost to her heart hath sent its cold.
And now she, sudden, darts a ravening look,
As one, with new hot bread, goes past the nook;
And, as the tempting load is onward borne,
She weeps. God help thee, helpless one, forlorn!
God help the poor!
God help the poor! Behold yon famished lad,
No shoes, nor hose, his wounded feet protect;
With limping gait, and looks so dreamy sad,
He wanders onward, stopping to inspect
Each window stored with articles of food.
He yearns but to enjoy one cheering meal;
Oh! to the hungry palate viands rude
Would yield a zest the famished only feel!
He now devours a crust of mouldy bread;
With teeth and hands the precious boon is torn
Unmindful of the storm that round his head
Impetuous sweeps. God help thee, child forlorn!
God help the poor!
God help the poor! Another have I found--
A bowed and venerable man is he;
His slouch-ed hat with faded crape is bound;
His coat is grey, and threadbare too, I see.
"The rude winds" seem "to mock his hoary hair":
His shirtless bosom to the blast is bare.
Anon he turns and casts a wistful eye,
And with scant napkin wipes the blinding spray,
And looks around, as if he fain would spy
Friends he had feasted in his better day:
Ah! some are dead: and some have long forborne
To know the poor; and he is left forlorn!
God help the poor!
God help the poor, who in lone valleys dwell,
Or by far hills, where whin and heather grow;
Theirs is a story sad indeed to tell;
Yet little cares the world, and less 't would know
About the toil and want men undergo.
The wearying loom doth call them up at morn;
They work till worn-out nature sinks to sleep;
They taste, but are not fed. The snow drifts deep
Around the fireless cot, and blocks the door;
The night-storm howls a dirge across the moor;
And shall they perish thus--oppressed and lorn?
Shall toil and famine, hopeless, still be borne?
No! God will yet arise and help the poor!
"Amen!" said Barton, solemnly and sorrowfully. "Mary! wench,
couldst thou copy me them lines, dost think?--that's to say, if Job
there has no objection."
"Not I. More they're heard and read and the better, say I."
So Mary took the paper. And the next day, on a blank half-sheet of
a valentine, all bordered with hearts and darts--a valentine she had
once suspected to come from Jem Wilson--she copied Bamford's
beautiful little poem.
Content of Chapter IX - Barton's London experiences. [Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell's novel: Mary Barton]
_
Read next: Chapter X - Return of the prodigal.
Read previous: Chapter VIII - Margaret's debut as a public singer.
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