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Chapter XVI - Meeting between masters and workmen
"Not for a moment take the scorner's chair;
While seated there, thou know'st not how a word,
A tone, a look, may gall thy brother's heart,
And make him turn in bitterness against thee."
--"LOVE-TRUTHS."
The day arrived on which the masters were to have an interview with
a deputation of the workpeople. The meeting was to take place in a
public room, at an hotel; and there, about eleven o'clock, the
mill-owners, who had received the foreign orders, began to collect.
Of course, the first subject, however full their minds might be of
another, was the weather. Having done their duty by all the showers
and sunshine which had occurred during the past week, they fell to
talking about the business which brought them together. There might
be about twenty gentlemen in the room, including some by courtesy,
who were not immediately concerned in the settlement of the present
question; but who, nevertheless, were sufficiently interested to
attend. These were divided into little groups, who did not seem by
any means unanimous. Some were for a slight concession, just a
sugar-plum to quieten the naughty child, a sacrifice to peace and
quietness. Some were steadily and vehemently opposed to the
dangerous precedent of yielding one jot or one tittle to the outward
force of a turn-out. It was teaching the workpeople how to become
masters, said they. Did they want the wildest thing here-after,
they would know that the way to obtain their wishes would be to
strike work. Besides, one or two of those present had only just
returned from the New Bailey, where one of the turn-outs had been
tried for a cruel assault on a poor north-country weaver, who had
attempted to work at the low price. They were indignant, and justly
so, at the merciless manner in which the poor fellow had been
treated; and their indignation at wrong, took (as it often does) the
extreme form of revenge. They felt as if, rather than yield to the
body of men who were resorting to such cruel measures towards their
fellow-workmen, they, the masters, would sooner relinquish all the
benefits to be derived from the fulfilment of the commission, in
order that the workmen might suffer keenly. They forgot that the
strike was in this instance the consequence of want and need,
suffered unjustly, as the endurers believed; for, however insane,
and without ground of reason, such was their belief, and such was
the cause of their violence. It is a great truth that you cannot
extinguish violence by violence. You may put it down for a time;
but while you are crowing over your imaginary success, see if it
does not return with seven devils worse than its former self!
No one thought of treating the workmen as brethren and friends, and
openly, clearly, as appealing to reasonable men, stating exactly and
fully the circumstances which led the masters to think it was the
wise policy of the time to make sacrifices themselves, and to hope
for them from the operatives.
In going from group to group in the room, you caught such a medley
of sentences as the following--
"Poor devils! they're near enough to starving, I'm afraid. Mrs.
Aldred makes two cows' heads into soup every week, and people come
many miles to fetch it; and if these times last, we must try and do
more. But we must not be bullied into anything!"
"A rise of a shilling or so won't make much difference, and they
will go away thinking they've gained their point."
"That's the very thing I object to. They'll think so, and whenever
they've a point to gain, no matter how unreasonable, they'll strike
work."
"It really injures them more than us."
"I don't see how our interests can be separated."
"The d--d brute had thrown vitriol on the poor fellow's ankles, and
you know what a bad part that is to heal. He had to stand still
with the pain, and that left him at the mercy of the cruel wretch,
who beat him about the head till you'd hardly have known he was a
man. They doubt if he'll live."
"If it were only for that, I'll stand out against them, even if it
is the cause of my ruin."
"Ay, I for one won't yield one farthing to the cruel brutes; they're
more like wild beasts than human beings."
(Well, who might have made them different?)
"I say, Carson, just go and tell Duncombe of this fresh instance of
their abominable conduct. He's wavering, but I think this will
decide him."
The door was now opened, and the waiter announced that the men were
below, and asked if it were the pleasure of the gentlemen that they
should be shown up.
They assented, and rapidly took their places round the official
table; looking, as like as they could, to the Roman senators who
awaited the irruption of Brennus and his Gauls.
Tramp, tramp, came the heavy clogged feet up the stairs; and in a
minute five wild, earnest-looking men stood in the room. John
Barton, from some mistake as to time, was not among them. Had they
been larger-boned men, you would have called them gaunt; as it was,
they were little of stature, and their fustian clothes hung loosely
upon their shrunk limbs. In choosing their delegates, too, the
operatives had had more regard to their brains, and power of speech,
than to their wardrobes; they might have read the opinions of that
worthy Professor Teufelsdreck, in Sartor Resartus, to judge from the
dilapidated coats and trousers, which yet clothed men of parts and
of power. It was long since many of them had known the luxury of a
new article of dress; and air-gaps were to be seen in their
garments. Some of the masters were rather affronted at such a
ragged detachment coming between the wind and their nobility; but
what cared they.
At the request of a gentleman hastily chosen to officiate as
chairman, the leader of the delegates read, in a high-pitched,
psalm-singing voice, a paper, containing the operatives' statement
of the case at issue, their complaints, and their demands, which
last were not remarkable for moderation.
He was then desired to withdraw for a few minutes, with his
fellow-delegates, to another room, while the masters considered what
should be their definite answer.
When the men had left the room, a whispered earnest consultation
took place, every one re-urging his former arguments. The conceders
carried the day, but only by a majority of one. The minority
haughtily and audibly expressed their dissent from the measures to
be adopted, even after the delegates re-entered the room; their
words and looks did not pass unheeded by the quick-eyed operatives;
their names were registered in bitter hearts.
The masters could not consent to the advance demanded by the
workmen. They would agree to give one shilling per week more than
they had previously offered. Were the delegates empowered to accept
such offer?
They were empowered to accept or decline any offer made that day by
the masters.
Then it might be as well for them to consult among themselves as to
what should be their decision. They again withdrew.
It was not for long. They came back, and positively declined any
compromise of their demands.
Then up sprang Mr. Henry Carson, the head and voice of the violent
party among the masters, and addressing the chairman, even before
the scowling operatives, he proposed some resolutions, which he, and
those who agreed with him, had been concocting during this last
absence of the deputation.
They were, firstly, withdrawing the proposal just made, and
declaring all communication between the masters and that particular
Trades' Union at an end; secondly, declaring that no master would
employ any workman in future, unless he signed a declaration that he
did not belong to any Trades' Union, and pledged himself not to
assist or subscribe to any society, having for its object
interference with the masters' powers; and, thirdly, that the
masters should pledge themselves to protect and encourage all
workmen willing to accept employment on those conditions, and at the
rate of wages first offered. Considering that the men who now stood
listening with lowering brows of defiance were all of them leading
members of the Union, such resolutions were in themselves
sufficiently provocative of animosity: but not content with simply
stating them, Harry Carson went on to characterise the conduct of
the workmen in no measured terms; every word he spoke rendering
their looks more livid, their glaring eyes more fierce. One among
them would have spoken, but checked himself, in obedience to the
stern glance and pressure on his arm, received from the leader. Mr.
Carson sat down, and a friend instantly got up to second the motion.
It was carried, but far from unanimously. The chairman announced it
to the delegates (who had been once more turned out of the room for
a division). They received it with deep brooding silence, but spake
never a word, and left the room without even a bow.
Now there had been some by-play at this meeting, not recorded in the
Manchester newspapers, which gave an account of the more regular
part of the transaction.
While the men had stood grouped near the door, on their first
entrance, Mr. Harry Carson had taken out his silver pencil, and had
drawn an admirable caricature of them--lank, ragged, dispirited, and
famine-stricken. Underneath he wrote a hasty quotation from the fat
knight's well-known speech in Henry IV. He passed it to one of his
neighbours, who acknowledged the likeness instantly, and by him it
was sent round to others, who all smiled and nodded their heads.
When it came back to its owner he tore the back of the letter on
which it was drawn in two, twisted them up, and flung them into the
fireplace; but, careless whether they reached their aim or not, he
did not look to see that they fell just short of any consuming
cinders.
This proceeding was closely observed by one of the men.
He watched the masters as they left the hotel (laughing, some of
them were, at passing jokes), and when all had gone, he re-entered.
He went to the waiter, who recognised him.
"There's a bit on a picture up yonder, as one o' the gentlemen threw
away; I've a little lad at home as dearly loves a picture; by your
leave I'll go up for it."
The waiter, good-natured and sympathetic, accompanied him upstairs;
saw the paper picked up and untwisted, and then being convinced, by
a hasty glance at its contents, that it was only what the man had
called it, "a bit of a picture," he allowed him to bear away his
prize.
Towards seven o'clock that evening, many operatives began to
assemble in a room in the Weavers' Arms public-house, a room
appropriated for "festive occasions," as the landlord, in his
circular, on opening the premises, had described it. But, alas! it
was on no festive occasion that they met there this night. Starved,
irritated, despairing men, they were assembling to hear the answer
that morning given by the masters to their delegates; after which,
as was stated in the notice, a gentleman from London would have the
honour of addressing the meeting on the present state of affairs
between the employers and the employed, or (as he chose to term
them) the idle and the industrious classes. The room was not large,
but its bareness of furniture made it appear so. Unshaded gas
flared down upon the lean and unwashed artisans as they entered,
their eyes blinking at the excess of light.
They took their seats on benches, and awaited the deputation. The
latter, gloomily and ferociously, delivered the masters' ultimatum,
adding thereto not one word of their own; and it sank all the deeper
into the sore hearts of the listeners for their forbearance.
Then the "gentleman from London" (who had been previously informed
of the masters' decision) entered. You would have been puzzled to
define his exact position, or what was the state of his mind as
regarded education. He looked so self-conscious, so far from
earnest, among the group of eager, fierce, absorbed men, among whom
he now stood. He might have been a disgraced medical student of the
Bob Sawyer class, or an unsuccessful actor, or a flashy shopman.
The impression he would have given you would have been unfavourable,
and yet there was much about him that could only be characterised as
doubtful.
He smirked in acknowledgment of their uncouth greetings, and sat
down; then glancing round, he inquired whether it would not be
agreeable to the gentlemen present to have pipes and liquor handed
round, adding, that he would stand treat.
As the man who has had his taste educated to love reading, falls
devouringly upon books after a long abstinence, so these poor
fellows, whose tastes had been left to educate themselves into a
liking for tobacco, beer, and similar gratifications, gleamed up at
the proposal of the London delegate. Tobacco and drink deaden the
pangs of hunger, and make one forget the miserable home, the
desolate future.
They were now ready to listen to him with approbation. He felt it;
and rising like a great orator, with his right arm outstretched, his
left in the breast of his waistcoat, he began to declaim, with a
forced theatrical voice.
After a burst of eloquence, in which he blended the deeds of the
elder and the younger Brutus, and magnified the resistless might of
the "millions of Manchester," the Londoner descended to
matter-of-fact business, and in his capacity this way he did not
belie the good judgment of those who had sent him as a delegate.
Masses of people, when left to their own free choice, seem to have
discretion in distinguishing men of natural talent: it is a pity
they so little regard temper and principles. He rapidly dictated
resolutions, and suggested measures. He wrote out a stirring
placard for the walls. He proposed sending delegates to entreat the
assistance of other Trades' Unions in other towns. He headed the
list of subscribing Unions, by a liberal donation from that with
which he was especially connected in London; and what was more, and
more uncommon, he paid down the money in real, clinking, blinking,
golden sovereigns! The money, alas! was cravingly required; but
before alleviating any private necessities on the morrow, small sums
were handed to each of the delegates, who were in a day or two to
set out on their expeditions to Glasgow, Newcastle, Nottingham, etc.
These men were most of them members of the deputation who had that
morning waited upon the masters. After he had drawn up some
letters, and spoken a few more stirring words, the gentleman from
London withdrew, previously shaking hands all round; and many
speedily followed him out of the room, and out of the house.
The newly-appointed delegates, and one or two others, remained
behind to talk over their respective missions, and to give and
exchange opinions in more homely and natural language than they
dared to use before the London orator.
"He's a rare chap, yon," began one, indicating the departed delegate
by a jerk of his thumb towards the door. "He's getten the gift of
the gab, anyhow!"
"Ay! ay! he knows what he's about. See how he poured it into us
about that there Brutus. He were pretty hard, too, to kill his own
son!"
"I could kill mine if he took part with the masters; to be sure,
he's but a step-son, but that makes no odds," said another.
But now tongues were hushed, and all eyes were directed towards the
member of the deputation who had that morning returned to the hotel
to obtain possession of Harry Carson's clever caricature of the
operatives.
The heads clustered together, to gaze at and detect the likenesses.
"That's John Slater! I'd ha' known him anywhere, by his big nose.
Lord! how like; that's me, by G-d, it's the very way I'm obligated
to pin my waistcoat up, to hide that I've getten no shirt. That IS
a shame, and I'll not stand it."
"Well!" said John Slater, after having acknowledged his nose and his
likeness; "I could laugh at a jest as well as e'er the best on 'em,
though it did tell agen mysel, if I were not clemming" (his eyes
filled with tears; he was a poor, pinched, sharp-featured man, with
a gentle and melancholy expression of countenance), "and if I could
keep from thinking of them at home, as is clemming; but with their
cries for food ringing in my ears, and making me afeard of going
home, and wonder if I should hear 'em wailing out, if I lay cold and
drowned at th' bottom o' th' canal, there--why, man, I cannot laugh
at aught. It seems to make me sad that there is any as can make
game on what they've never knowed; as can make such laughable
pictures on men, whose very hearts within 'em are so raw and sore as
ours were and are, God help us."
John Barton began to speak; they turned to him with great attention.
"It makes me more than sad, it makes my heart burn within me, to see
that folk can make a jest of striving men; of chaps who comed to ask
for a bit o' fire for th' old granny, as shivers i' th' cold; for a
bit o' bedding, and some warm clothing to the poor wife who lies in
labour on th' damp flags; and for victuals for the childer, whose
little voices are getting too faint and weak to cry aloud wi'
hunger. For, brothers, is not them the things we ask for when we
ask for more wage? We donnot want dainties, we want bellyfuls; we
donnot want gimcrack coats and waistcoats, we want warm clothes; and
so that we get 'em, we'd not quarrel wi' what they're made on. We
donnot want their grand houses, we want a roof to cover us from the
rain, and the snow, and the storm; ay, and not alone to cover us,
but the helpless ones that cling to us in the keen wind, and ask us
with their eyes why we brought 'em into th' world to suffer?"
He lowered his deep voice almost to a whisper--
"I've seen a father who had killed his child rather than let it clem
before his eyes; and he were a tender-hearted man."
He began again in his usual tone. "We come to th' masters wi' full
hearts, to ask for them things I named afore. We know that they've
getten money, as we've earned for 'em; we know trade is mending, and
they've large orders, for which they'll be well paid; we ask for our
share o' th' payment; for, say we, if th' masters get our share of
payment it will only go to keep servants and horses--to more dress
and pomp. Well and good, if yo choose to be fools we'll not hinder
you, so long as you're just; but our share we must and will have;
we'll not be cheated. We want it for daily bread, for life itself;
and not for our own lives neither (for there's many a one here, I
know by mysel, as would be glad and thankful to lie down and die out
o' this weary world), but for the lives of them little ones, who
don't yet know what life is, and are afeard of death. Well, we come
before th' masters to state what we want, and what we must have,
afore we'll set shoulder to their work; and they say, 'No.' One
would think that would be enough of hard-heartedness, but it isn't.
They go and make jesting pictures on us! I could laugh at mysel, as
well as poor John Slater there; but then I must be easy in my mind
to laugh. Now I only know that I would give the last drop of my
blood to avenge us on yon chap, who had so little feeling in him as
to make game on earnest, suffering men!"
A low angry murmur was heard among the men, but it did not yet take
form or words. John continued--
"You'll wonder, chaps, how I came to miss the time this morning;
I'll just tell you what I was a-doing. Th' chaplain at the New
Bailey sent and gived me an order to see Jonas Higginbotham; him as
was taken up last week for throwing vitriol in a knob-stick's face.
Well, I couldn't help but go; and I didn't reckon it would ha' kept
me so late. Jonas were like one crazy when I got to him; he said he
could na get rest night or day for th' face of the poor fellow he
had damaged; then he thought on his weak, clemmed look, as he
tramped, footsore, into town; and Jonas thought, maybe, he had left
them at home as would look for news, and hope and get none, but,
haply, tidings of his death. Well, Jonas had thought on these
things till he could not rest, but walked up and down continually
like a wild beast in his cage. At last he bethought him on a way to
help a bit, and he got the chaplain to send for me; and he telled me
this; and that th' man were lying in the Infirmary, and he bade me
go (to-day's the day as folk may be admitted into th' Infirmary) and
get his silver watch, as was his mother's, and sell it as well as I
could, and take the money, and bid the poor knob-stick send it to
his friends beyond Burnley; and I were to take him Jonas's kind
regards, and he humbly axed him to forgive him. So I did what Jonas
wished. But, bless your life, none on us would ever throw vitriol
again (at least at a knob-stick) if they could see the sight I saw
to-day. The man lay, his face all wrapped in cloths, so I didn't
see that: but not a limb, nor a bit of a limb, could keep from
quivering with pain. He would ha' bitten his hand to keep down his
moans, but couldn't, his face hurt him so if he moved it e'er so
little. He could scarce mind me when I telled him about Jonas; he
did squeeze my hand when I jingled the money, but when I axed his
wife's name, he shrieked out, 'Mary, Mary, shall I never see you
again? Mary, my darling, they've made me blind because I wanted to
work for you and our own baby; O Mary, Mary!' Then the nurse came,
and said he were raving, and that I had made him worse. And I'm
afeard it was true; yet I were loth to go without knowing where to
send the money. . . . . So that kept me beyond my time, chaps."
"Did you hear where the wife lived at last?" asked many anxious
voices.
"No! he went on talking to her, till his words cut my heart like a
knife. I axed th' nurse to find out who she was, and where she
lived. But what I'm more especial naming it now for is this,--for
one thing I wanted you all to know why I weren't at my post this
morning; for another, I wish to say, that I, for one, ha' seen
enough of what comes of attacking knob-sticks, and I'll ha' nought
to do with it no more."
There were some expressions of disapprobation, but John did not mind
them.
"Nay! I'm no coward," he replied, "and I'm true to th' backbone.
What I would like, and what I would do, would be to fight the
masters. There's one among yo called me a coward. Well! every man
has a right to his opinion; but since I've thought on th' matter
to-day I've thought we han all on us been more like cowards in
attacking the poor like ourselves; them as has none to help, but mun
choose between vitriol and starvation. I say we're more cowardly in
doing that than in leaving them alone. No! what I would do is this.
Have at the masters!" Again he shouted, "Have at the masters!" He
spoke lower; all listened with hushed breath--
"It's the masters as has wrought this woe; it's the masters as
should pay for it. Him as called me coward just now, may try if I
am one or not. Set me to serve out the masters, and see if there's
aught I'll stick at."
"It would give the masters a bit on a fright if one of them were
beaten within an inch of his life," said one.
"Ay! or beaten till no life were left in him," growled another.
And so with words, or looks that told more than words, they built up
a deadly plan. Deeper and darker grew the import of their speeches,
as they stood hoarsely muttering their meaning out, and glaring with
eyes that told the terror their own thoughts were to them, upon
their neighbours. Their clenched fists, their set teeth, their
livid looks, all told the suffering which their minds were
voluntarily undergoing in the contemplation of crime, and in
familiarising themselves with its details.
Then came one of those fierce terrible oaths which bind members of
Trades' Unions to any given purpose. Then under the flaring
gaslight, they met together to consult further. With the distrust
of guilt, each was suspicious of his neighbour; each dreaded the
treachery of another. A number of pieces of paper (the identical
letter on which the caricature had been drawn that very morning)
were torn up, and one was marked. Then all were folded up again,
looking exactly alike. They were shuffled together in a hat. The
gas was extinguished; each drew out a paper. The gas was
re-lighted. Then each went as far as he could from his fellows, and
examined the paper he had drawn without saying a word, and with a
countenance as stony and immovable as he could make it.
Then, still rigidly silent, they each took up their hats and went
every one his own way.
He who had drawn the marked paper had drawn the lot of the assassin!
and he had sworn to act according to his drawing! But no one, save
God and his own conscience, knew who was the appointed murderer.
Content of Chapter XVI - Meeting between masters and workmen. [Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell's novel: Mary Barton]
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Read next: Chapter XVII - Barton's night errand.
Read previous: Chapter XV - A violent meeting between the rivals.
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