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Chapter XV - A violent meeting between the rivals
"What thoughtful heart can look into this gulf
That darkly yawns 'twixt rich and poor,
And not find food for saddest meditation!
Can see, without a pang of keenest grief,
Them fiercely battling (like some natural foes)
Whom God had made, with help and sympathy,
To stand as brothers, side by side, united!
Where is the wisdom that shall bridge this gulf,
And bind them once again in trust and love?"
--"LOVE-TRUTHS."
We must return to John Barton. Poor John! He never got over his
disappointing journey to London. The deep mortification he then
experienced (with, perhaps, as little selfishness for its cause as
mortification ever had) was of no temporary nature; indeed, few of
his feelings were.
Then came a long period of bodily privation; of daily hunger after
food; and though he tried to persuade himself he could bear want
himself with stoical indifference, and did care about it as little
as most men, yet the body took its revenge for its uneasy feelings.
The mind became soured and morose, and lost much of its equipoise.
It was no longer elastic, as in the days of youth, or in times of
comparative happiness; it ceased to hope. And it is hard to live on
when one can no longer hope.
The same state of feeling which John Barton entertained, if
belonging to one who had had leisure to think of such things, and
physicians to give names to them, would have been called monomania;
so haunting, so incessant, were the thoughts that pressed upon him.
I have somewhere read a forcibly described punishment among the
Italians, worthy of a Borgia. The supposed or real criminal was
shut up in a room, supplied with every convenience and luxury; and
at first mourned little over his imprisonment. But day by day he
became aware that the space between the walls of his apartment was
narrowing, and then he understood the end. Those painted walls
would come into hideous nearness, and at last crush the life out of
him.
And so day by day, nearer and nearer, came the diseased thoughts of
John Barton. They excluded the light of heaven, the cheering sounds
of earth. They were preparing his death.
It is true much of their morbid power might be ascribed to the use
of opium. But before you blame too harshly this use, or rather
abuse, try a hopeless life, with daily cravings of the body for
food. Try, not alone being without hope yourself, but seeing all
around you reduced to the same despair, arising from the same
circumstances; all around you telling (though they use no words or
language), by their looks and feeble actions, that they are
suffering and sinking under the pressure of want. Would you not be
glad to forget life, and its burdens? And opium gives forgetfulness
for a time.
It is true they who thus purchase it pay dearly for their oblivion;
but can you expect the uneducated to count the cost of their
whistle? Poor wretches! They pay a heavy price. Days of
oppressive weariness and languor, whose realities have the feeble
sickliness of dreams; nights, whose dreams are fierce realities of
agony; sinking health, tottering frames, incipient madness, and
worse, the CONSCIOUSNESS of incipient madness; this is the price of
their whistle. But have you taught them the science of
consequences?
John Barton's overpowering thought, which was to work out his fate
on earth, was rich and poor; why are they so separate, so distinct,
when God has made them all? It is not His will that their interests
are so far apart. Whose doing is it?
And so on into the problems and mysteries of life, until, bewildered
and lost, unhappy and suffering, the only feeling that remained
clear and undisturbed in the tumult of his heart, was hatred to the
one class, and keen sympathy with the other.
But what availed his sympathy? No education had given him wisdom;
and without wisdom, even love, with all its effects, too often works
but harm. He acted to the best of his judgment, but it was a
widely-erring judgment.
The actions of the uneducated seem to me typified in those of
Frankenstein, that monster of many human qualities, ungifted with a
soul, a knowledge of the difference between good and evil.
The people rise up to life; they irritate us, they terrify us, and
we become their enemies. Then, in the sorrowful moment of our
triumphant power, their eyes gaze on us with mute reproach. Why
have we made them what they are; a powerful monster, yet without the
inner means for peace and happiness?
John Barton became a Chartist, a Communist, all that is commonly
called wild and visionary. Ay! but being visionary is something.
It shows a soul, a being not altogether sensual; a creature who
looks forward for others, if not for himself.
And with all his weakness he had a sort of practical power, which
made him useful to the bodies of men to whom he belonged. He had a
ready kind of rough Lancashire eloquence, arising out of the fulness
of his heart, which was very stirring to men similarly
circumstanced, who liked to hear their feelings put into words. He
had a pretty clear head at times, for method and arrangement; a
necessary talent to large combinations of men. And what perhaps
more than all made him relied upon and valued, was the consciousness
which every one who came in contact with him felt, that he was
actuated by no selfish motives; that his class, his order, was what
he stood by, not the rights of his own paltry self. For even in
great and noble men, as soon as self comes into prominent existence,
it becomes a mean and paltry thing.
A little time before this, there had come one of those occasions for
deliberation among the employed, which deeply interested John
Barton, and the discussions concerning which had caused his frequent
absence from home of late.
I am not sure if I can express myself in the technical terms of
either masters or workmen, but I will try simply to state the case
on which the latter deliberated.
An order for coarse goods came in from a new foreign market. It was
a large order, giving employment to all the mills engaged in that
species of manufacture; but it was necessary to execute it speedily,
and at as low prices as possible, as the masters had reason to
believe that a duplicate order had been sent to one of the
continental manufacturing towns, where there were no restrictions on
food, no taxes on building or machinery, and where consequently they
dreaded that the goods could be made at a much lower price than they
could afford them for; and that, by so acting and charging, the
rival manufacturers would obtain undivided possession of the market.
It was clearly their interest to buy cotton as cheaply, and to beat
down wages as low as possible. And in the long run the interests of
the workmen would have been thereby benefited. Distrust each other
as they may, the employers and the employed must rise or fall
together. There may be some difference as to chronology, none as to
fact.
But the masters did not choose to make all these circumstances
known. They stood upon being the masters, and that they had a right
to order work at their own prices, and they believed that in the
present depression of trade, and unemployment of hands, there would
be no great difficulty in getting it done.
Now let us turn to the workmen's view of the question. The masters
(of the tottering foundation of whose prosperity they were ignorant)
seemed doing well, and, like gentlemen, "lived at home in ease,"
while they were starving, gasping on from day to day; and there was
a foreign order to be executed, the extent of which, large as it
was, was greatly exaggerated; and it was to be done speedily. Why
were the masters offering such low wages under these circumstances?
Shame upon them! It was taking advantage of their workpeople being
almost starved; but they would starve entirely rather than come into
such terms. It was bad enough to be poor, while by the labour of
their thin hands, the sweat of their brows, the masters were made
rich; but they would not be utterly ground down to dust. No! they
would fold their hands and sit idle, and smile at the masters, whom
even in death they could baffle. With Spartan endurance they
determined to let the employers know their power, by refusing to
work.
So class distrusted class, and their want of mutual confidence
wrought sorrow to both. The masters would not be bullied, and
compelled to reveal why they felt it wisest and best to offer only
such low wages; they would not be made to tell that they were even
sacrificing capital to obtain a decisive victory over the
continental manufacturers. And the workmen sat silent and stern
with folded hands, refusing to work for such pay. There was a
strike in Manchester.
Of course it was succeeded by the usual consequences. Many other
Trades' Unions, connected with different branches of business,
supported with money, countenance, and encouragement of every kind,
the stand which the Manchester power-loom weavers were making
against their masters. Delegates from Glasgow, from Nottingham, and
other towns, were sent to Manchester, to keep up the spirit of
resistance; a committee was formed, and all the requisite officers
elected; chairman, treasurer, honorary secretary;--among them was
John Barton.
The masters, meanwhile, took their measures. They placarded the
walls with advertisements for power-loom weavers. The workmen
replied by a placard in still larger letters, stating their
grievances. The masters met daily in town, to mourn over the time
(so fast slipping away) for the fulfilment of the foreign orders;
and to strengthen each other in their resolution not to yield. If
they gave up now, they might give up always. It would never do.
And amongst the most energetic of the masters, the Carsons, father
and son, took their places. It is well known, that there is no
religionist so zealous as a convert; no masters so stern, and
regardless of the interests of their workpeople, as those who have
risen from such a station themselves. This would account for the
elder Mr. Carson's determination not to be bullied into yielding;
not even to be bullied into giving reasons for acting as the masters
did. It was the employers' will, and that should be enough for the
employed. Harry Carson did not trouble himself much about the
grounds for his conduct. He liked the excitement of the affair. He
liked the attitude of resistance. He was brave, and he liked the
idea of personal danger, with which some of the more cautious tried
to intimidate the violent among the masters.
Meanwhile, the power-loom weavers living in the more remote parts of
Lancashire, and the neighbouring counties, heard of the masters'
advertisements for workmen; and in their solitary dwellings grew
weary of starvation, and resolved to come to Manchester. Foot-sore,
way-worn, half-starved looking men they were, as they tried to steal
into town in the early dawn, before people were astir, or in the
dusk of the evening. And now began the real wrong-doing of the
Trades' Unions. As to their decision to work, or not, at such a
particular rate of wages, that was either wise or unwise; all error
of judgment at the worst. But they had no right to tyrannise over
others, and tie them down to their own Procrustean bed. Abhorring
what they considered oppression in the masters, why did they oppress
others? Because, when men get excited, they know not what they do.
Judge, then, with something of the mercy of the Holy One, whom we
all love.
In spite of policemen set to watch over the safety of the poor
country weavers--in spite of magistrates, and prisons, and severe
punishments--the poor depressed men tramping in from Burnley,
Padiham, and other places, to work at the condemned "Starvation
Prices," were waylaid, and beaten, and left by the roadside almost
for dead. The police broke up every lounging knot of men:--they
separated quietly, to reunite half-a-mile out of town.
Of course the feeling between the masters and workmen did not
improve under these circumstances.
Combination is an awful power. It is like the equally mighty agency
of steam; capable of almost unlimited good or evil. But to obtain a
blessing on its labours, it must work under the direction of a high
and intelligent will; incapable of being misled by passion or
excitement. The will of the operatives had not been guided to the
calmness of wisdom.
So much for generalities. Let us now return to individuals.
A note, respectfully worded, although its tone of determination was
strong, had been sent by the power-loom weavers, requesting that a
"deputation" of them might have a meeting with the masters, to state
the conditions they must have fulfilled before they would end the
turn-out. They thought they had attained a sufficiently commanding
position to dictate. John Barton was appointed one of the
deputation.
The masters agreed to this meeting, being anxious to end the strife,
although undetermined among themselves how far they should yield, or
whether they should yield at all. Some of the old, whose experience
had taught them sympathy, were for concession. Others, white-headed
men too, had only learnt hardness and obstinacy from the days of the
years of their lives, and sneered at the more gentle and yielding.
The younger men were one and all for an unflinching resistance to
claims urged with so much violence. Of this party Harry Carson was
the leader.
But like all energetic people, the more he had to do the more time
he seemed to find. With all his letter-writing, his calling, his
being present at the New Bailey, when investigations of any case of
violence against knob-sticks* were going on, he beset Mary more than
ever. She was weary of her life for him. From blandishments he had
even gone to threats--threats that whether she would or not she
should be his; he showed an indifference that was most insulting to
everything which might attract attention and injure her character.
*Knob-sticks; those who consent to work at lower wages.
And still she never saw Jem. She knew he had returned home. She
heard of him occasionally through his cousin, who roved gaily from
house to house, finding and making friends everywhere. But she
never saw him. What was she to think? Had he given her up? Were a
few hasty words, spoken in a moment of irritation, to stamp her lot
through life? At times she thought that she could bear this meekly,
happy in her own constant power of loving. For of change or of
forgetfulness she did not dream. Then at other times her state of
impatience was such, that it required all her self-restraint to
prevent her from going and seeking him out, and (as man would do to
man, or woman to woman) begging him to forgive her hasty words, and
allow her to retract them, and bidding him accept of the love that
was filling her whole heart. She wished Margaret had not advised
her against such a manner of proceeding; she believed it was her
friend's words that seemed to make such a simple action impossible,
in spite of all the internal urgings. But a friend's advice is only
thus powerful, when it puts into language the secret oracle of our
souls. It was the whisperings of her womanly nature that caused her
to shrink from any unmaidenly action, not Margaret's counsel.
All this time, this ten days or so, of Will's visit to Manchester,
there was something going on which interested Mary even now, and
which, in former times, would have exceedingly amused and excited
her. She saw as clearly as if told in words, that the merry,
random, boisterous sailor had fallen deeply in love with the quiet,
prim, somewhat plain Margaret: she doubted if Margaret was aware
of it, and yet, as she watched more closely, she began to think some
instinct made the blind girl feel whose eyes were so often fixed
upon her pale face; that some inner feeling made the delicate and
becoming rose-flush steal over her countenance. She did not speak
so decidedly as before; there was a hesitation in her manner, that
seemed to make her very attractive; as if something softer, more
lovable than excellent sense, were coming in as a motive for speech;
her eyes had always been soft, and were in no ways disfigured by her
blindness, and now seemed to have a new charm, as they quivered
under their white, downcast lids. She must be conscious, thought
Mary--heart answering to heart.
Will's love had no blushings, no downcast eyes, no weighing of
words; it was as open and undisguised as his nature; yet he seemed
afraid of the answer its acknowledgment might meet with. It was
Margaret's angelic voice that had entranced him, and which made him
think of her as a being of some other sphere, that he feared to woo.
So he tried to propitiate Job in all manner of ways. He went over
to Liverpool to rummage in his great sea-chest for the flying-fish
(no very odorous present, by the way). He hesitated over a child's
caul for some time, which was, in his eyes, a far greater treasure
than any Exocetus. What use could it be of to a landsman? Then
Margaret's voice rang in his ears; and he determined to sacrifice
it, his most precious possession, to one whom she loved as she did
her grandfather.
It was rather a relief to him, when, having put it and the flying-
fish together in a brown paper parcel, and sat upon them for
security all the way in the railroad, he found that Job was so
indifferent to the precious caul that he might easily claim it
again. He hung about Margaret, till he had received many warnings
and reproaches from his conscience in behalf of his dear aunt
Alice's claims upon his time. He went away, and then he bethought
him of some other little word with Job. And he turned back, and
stood talking once more in Margaret's presence, door in hand, only
waiting for some little speech of encouragement to come in and sit
down again. But as the invitation was not given, he was forced to
leave at last, and go and do his duty.
Four days had Jem Wilson watched for Mr. Harry Carson without
success; his hours of going and returning to his home were so
irregular, owing to the meetings and consultations among the
masters, which were rendered necessary by the turn-out. On the
fifth, without any purpose on Jem's part, they met.
It was the workmen's dinner-hour, the interval between twelve and
one; when the streets of Manchester are comparatively quiet, for a
few shopping ladies and lounging gentlemen count for nothing in that
busy, bustling, living place. Jem had been on an errand for his
master, instead of returning to his dinner; and in passing along a
lane, a road (called, in compliment to the intentions of some future
builder, a street), he encountered Harry Carson, the only person, as
far as he saw, beside himself, treading the unfrequented path.
Along one side ran a high broad fence, blackened over by coal-tar,
and spiked and stuck with pointed nails at the top, to prevent any
one from climbing over into the garden beyond. By this fence was
the footpath. The carriage-road was such as no carriage, no, not
even a cart, could possibly have passed along without Hercules to
assist in lifting it out of the deep clay ruts. On the other side
of the way was a dead brick wall; and a field after that, where
there was a saw-pit and joiner's shed.
Jem's heart beat violently when he saw the gay, handsome young man
approaching, with a light buoyant step. This, then, was he whom
Mary loved. It was, perhaps, no wonder; for he seemed to the poor
smith so elegant, so well appointed, that he felt the superiority in
externals, strangely and painfully, for an instant. Then something
uprose within him, and told him, that "a man's a man for a' that,
for 'a that, and twice as much as a' that." And he no longer felt
troubled by the outward appearance of his rival.
Harry Carson came on, lightly bounding over the dirty places with
almost a lad's buoyancy. To his surprise the dark, sturdy-looking
artisan stopped him by saying respectfully--
"May I speak a word wi' you, sir?"
"Certainly, my good man," looking his astonishment; then finding
that the promised speech did not come very quickly, he added, "But
make haste, for I'm in a hurry."
Jem had cast about for some less abrupt way of broaching the subject
uppermost in his mind than he now found himself obliged to use.
With a husky voice that trembled as he spoke, he said--
"I think, sir, yo're keeping company wi' a young woman called Mary
Barton?"
A light broke in upon Henry Carson's mind, and he paused before he
gave the answer for which the other waited.
Could this man be a lover of Mary's? And (strange stinging thought)
could he be beloved by her, and so have caused her obstinate
rejection of himself? He looked at Jem from head to foot, a black,
grimy mechanic, in dirty fustian clothes, strongly built, and
awkward (according to the dancing-master); then he glanced at
himself, and recalled the reflection he had so lately quitted in his
bedroom. It was impossible. No woman with eyes could choose the
one when the other wooed. It was Hyperion to a Satyr. That
quotation came aptly; he forgot "That a man's a man for a' that."
And yet here was a clue, which he had often wanted, to her changed
conduct towards him. If she loved this man--if--he hated the
fellow, and longed to strike him. He would know all.
"Mary Barton! let me see. Ay, that is the name of the girl. An
arrant flirt the little hussy is; but very pretty. Ay, Mary Barton
is her name."
Jem bit his lips. Was it then so; that Mary was a flirt; the giddy
creature of whom he spoke? He would not believe it, and yet how he
wished the suggestive words unspoken. That thought must keep now,
though. Even if she were, the more reason for there being some one
to protect her; poor faulty darling,
"She's a good girl, sir, though maybe a bit set up with her beauty;
but she's her father's only child, sir, and"--he stopped; he did not
like to express suspicion, and yet he was determined he would be
certain there was ground for none. What should he say?
"Well, my fine fellow, and what have I to do with that? It's but
loss of my time, and yours, too, if you've only stopped me to tell
me Mary Barton is very pretty; I know that well enough."
He seemed as though he would have gone on, but Jem put his black,
working, right hand upon his arm to detain him. The haughty young
man shook it off, and with his glove pretended to brush away the
sooty contamination that might be left upon his light greatcoat
sleeve. The little action aroused Jem.
"I will tell you in plain words, what I have got to say to you,
young man. It's been telled me by one as knows, and has seen, that
you walk with this same Mary Barton, and are known to be courting
her; and her as spoke to me about it, thinks as how Mary loves you.
That may be or may not. But I'm an old friend of hers and her
father's; and I just wished to know if you mean to marry the girl.
Spite of what you said of her lightness, I ha' known her long enough
to be sure she'll make a noble wife for any one, let him be what he
may; and I mean to stand by her like a brother; and if you mean
rightly, you'll not think the worse on me for what I've now said;
and if--but no, I'll not say what I'll do to the man who wrongs a
hair of her head. He shall rue it to the longest day he lives,
that's all. Now, sir, what I ask of you is this. If you mean fair
and honourable by her, well and good: but if not, for your own
sake as well as hers, leave her alone, and never speak to her more."
Jem's voice quivered with the earnestness with which he spoke, and
he eagerly waited for some answer.
Harry Carson, meanwhile, instead of attending very particularly to
the purpose the man had in addressing him, was trying to gather from
his speech what was the real state of the case. He succeeded so far
as to comprehend that Jem inclined to believe that Mary loved his
rival; and consequently, that if the speaker were attached to her
himself, he was not a favoured admirer. The idea came into Mr.
Carson's mind, that perhaps, after all, Mary loved him in spite of
her frequent and obstinate rejections; and that she had employed
this person (whoever he was) to bully him into marrying her. He
resolved to try and ascertain more correctly the man's relation to
her. Either he was a lover, and if so, not a favoured one (in which
case Mr. Carson could not at all understand the man's motives for
interesting himself in securing her marriage); or he was a friend,
an accomplice, whom she had employed to bully him. So little faith
in goodness have the mean and selfish!
"Before I make you into my confidant, my good man," said Mr. Carson,
in a contemptuous tone, "I think it might be as well to inquire your
right to meddle with our affairs. Neither Mary, nor I, as I
conceive, called you in as a mediator." He paused: he wanted a
distinct answer to this last supposition. None came; so he began to
imagine he was to be threatened into some engagement, and his angry
spirit rose.
"And so, my fine fellow, you will have the kindness to leave us to
ourselves, and not to meddle with what does not concern you. If you
were a brother or father of hers, the case might have been
different. As it is, I can only consider you an impertinent
meddler."
Again he would have passed on, but Jem stood in a determined way
before him, saying--
"You say if I had been her brother, or her father, you'd have
answered me what I ask. Now, neither father nor brother could love
her as I have loved her--ay, and as I love her still; if love gives
a right to satisfaction, it's next to impossible any one breathing
can come up to my right. Now, sir, tell me! do you mean fair by
Mary or not? I've proved my claim to know, and, by G--, I will
know."
"Come, come, no impudence," replied Mr. Carson, who, having
discovered what he wanted to know (namely, that Jem was a lover of
Mary's, and that she was not encouraging his suit), wished to pass
on. "Father, brother, or rejected lover" (with an emphasis on the
word rejected) "no one has a right to interfere between my little
girl and me. No one shall. Confound you, man! get out of my way,
or I'll make you," as Jem still obstructed his path with dogged
determination.
"I won't, then, till you've given me your word about Mary," replied
the mechanic, grinding his words out between his teeth, and the
livid paleness of the anger he could no longer keep down covering
his face till he looked ghastly.
"Won't you?" (with a taunting laugh), "then I'll make you." The
young man raised his slight cane, and smote the artisan across the
face with a stinging stroke. An instant afterwards he lay stretched
in the muddy road, Jem standing over him, panting with rage. What
he would have done next in his moment of ungovernable passion, no
one knows; but a policeman from the main street, into which this
road led, had been sauntering about for some time, unobserved by
either of the parties, and expecting some kind of conclusion like
the present to the violent discussion going on between the two young
men. In a minute he had pinioned Jem, who sullenly yielded to the
surprise.
Mr. Carson was on his feet directly, his face glowing with rage or
shame.
"Shall I take him to the lock-ups for assault, sir?" said the
policeman.
"No, no," exclaimed Mr. Carson. "I struck him first. It was no
assault on his side: though," he continued, hissing out his words
to Jem, who even hated freedom procured for him, however justly, at
the intervention of his rival, "I will never forgive or forget
insult. Trust me," he gasped the words in excess of passion, "Mary
shall fare no better for your insolent interference." He laughed,
as if with the consciousness of power.
Jem replied with equal excitement--
"And if you dare to injure her in the least, I will await you where
no policeman can step in between. And God shall judge between us
two."
The policeman now interfered with persuasions and warnings. He
locked his arm in Jem's to lead him away in an opposite direction to
that in which he saw Mr. Carson was going. Jem submitted gloomily,
for a few steps, then wrenched himself free. The policeman shouted
after him--
"Take care, my man! there's no girl on earth worth what you'll be
bringing on yourself if you don't mind."
But Jem was out of hearing.
Content of Chapter XV - A violent meeting between the rivals [Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell's novel: Mary Barton]
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Read next: Chapter XVI - Meeting between masters and workmen.
Read previous: Chapter XIV - Jem's interview with poor Esther.
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