Mary Barton Page #11

Mary Barton: A Tale of Manchester Life is the first novel by English author Elizabeth Gaskell, published in 1848. The story is set in the English city of Manchester between 1839 and 1842, and deals with the difficulties faced by the Victorian working class.

• Novel

								

and me out to gather ling and heather for besoms, and it was such
pleasant work! We used to come home of an evening loaded so as you
could not see us, for all that it was so light to carry. And then
mother would make us sit down under the old hawthorn tree (where
we used to make our house among the great roots as stood above th'
ground), to pick and tie up the heather. It seems all like yesterday,
and yet it's a long long time agone. Poor sister Sally has been
in her grave this forty year and more. But I often wonder if the
hawthorn is standing yet, and if the lasses still go to gather
heather, as we did many and many a year past and gone. I sicken at
heart to see the old spot once again. May be next summer I may set
off, if God spares me to see next summer."

"Why have you never been in all these many years?" asked Mary.

"Why, lass! first one wanted me and then another; and I couldn't
go without money either, and I got very poor at times. Tom was a
scapegrace, poor fellow, and always wanted help of one kind or
another; and his wife (for I think scapegraces are always married
long before steady folk) was but a helpless kind of body. She were
always ailing, and he were always in trouble; so I had enough to do
with my hands and my money too, for that matter. They died within
twelvemonth of each other, leaving one lad (they had had seven, but
the Lord had taken six to Himself), Will, as I was telling you on;
and I took him myself, and left service to make a bit on a home-place
for him, and a fine lad he was, the very spit of his father as to
looks, only steadier. For he was steady, although nought would serve
him but going to sea. I tried all I could to set him again a sailor's
life. Says I, 'Folks is as sick as dogs all the time they're at sea.
Your own mother telled me (for she came from foreign parts, being a
Manx woman) that she'd ha thanked any one for throwing her into the
water.' Nay, I sent him a' the way to Runcorn by th' Duke's canal,
that he might know what th' sea were; and I looked to see him come
back as white as a sheet wi' vomiting. But the lad went on to
Liverpool and saw real ships, and came back more set than ever on
being a sailor, and he said as how he had never been sick at all, and
thought he could stand the sea pretty well. So I telled him he mun
do as he liked; and he thanked me and kissed me, for all I was very
frabbit [4] with him; and now he's gone to South America, at t'other
side of the sun, they tell me."


   [Footnote 4: "Frabbit," peevish.]


Mary stole a glance at Margaret to see what she thought of Alice's
geography; but Margaret looked so quiet and demure, that Mary was in
doubt if she were not really ignorant. Not that Mary's knowledge was
very profound, but she had seen a terrestrial globe, and knew where
to find France and the continents on a map.

After this long talking Alice seemed lost for a time in reverie; and
the girls, respecting her thoughts, which they suspected had wandered
to the home and scenes of her childhood, were silent. All at once she
recalled her duties as hostess, and by an effort brought back her
mind to the present time.

"Margaret, thou must let Mary hear thee sing. I don't know about fine
music myself, but folks say Margaret is a rare singer, and I know she
can make me cry at any time by singing 'Th' Owdham Weaver.' Do sing
that, Margaret, there's a good lass."

With a faint smile, as if amused at Alice's choice of a song,
Margaret began.

Do you know "The Oldham Weaver?" Not unless you are Lancashire born
and bred, for it is a complete Lancashire ditty. I will copy it for
you.


   THE OLDHAM WEAVER.

   I.

   Oi'm a poor cotton-weyver, as mony a one knoowas,
   Oi've nowt for t' yeat, an' oi've woorn eawt my clooas,
   Yo'ad hardly gi' tuppence for aw as oi've on,
   My clogs are boath brosten, an' stuckins oi've none,
      Yo'd think it wur hard,
      To be browt into th' warld,
   To be--clemmed, [5] an' do th' best as yo con.

   II.

   Owd Dicky o' Billy's kept telling me lung,
   Wee s'd ha' better toimes if I'd but howd my tung,
   Oi've howden my tung, till oi've near stopped my breath,
   Oi think i' my heeart oi'se soon clem to deeath,
      Owd Dicky's weel crammed,
      He never wur clemmed,
   An' he ne'er picked ower i' his loife. [6]

   III.

   We tow'rt on six week--thinking aitch day wur th' last,
   We shifted, an' shifted, till neaw we're quoite fast;
   We lived upo' nettles, whoile nettles wur good,
   An' Waterloo porridge the best o' eawr food,
      Oi'm tellin' yo' true,
      Oi can find folk enow,
   As wur livin' na better nor me.

   IV.

   Owd Billy o' Dans sent th' baileys one day,
   Fur a shop deebt oi eawd him, as oi could na pay,
   But he wur too lat, fur owd Billy o' th' Bent,
   Had sowd th' tit an' cart, an' ta'en goods fur th' rent,
      We'd neawt left bo' th' owd stoo',
      That wur seeats fur two,
   An' on it ceawred Marget an' me.

   V.

   Then t' baileys leuked reawnd as sloy as a meawse,
   When they seed as aw t' goods were ta'en eawt o' t' heawse,
   Says one chap to th' tother, "Aws gone, theaw may see;"
   Says oi, "Ne'er freet, mon, yeaur welcome ta' me."
      They made no moor ado
      But whopped up th' eawd stoo',
   An' we booath leet, whack--upo' t' flags!

   VI.

   Then oi said to eawr Marget, as we lay upo' t' floor,
   "We's never be lower i' this warld, oi'm sure,
   If ever things awtern, oi'm sure they mun mend,
   For oi think i' my heart we're booath at t' far eend;
      For meeat we ha' none;
      Nor looms t' weyve on,--
   Edad! they're as good lost as fund."

   VII.

   Eawr Marget declares had hoo cloo'as to put on,
   Hoo'd goo up to Lunnon an' talk to th' greet mon;
   An' if things were na awtered when there hoo had been,
   Hoo's fully resolved t' sew up meawth an' eend;
      Hoo's neawt to say again t' king,
      But hoo loikes a fair thing,
   An' hoo says hoo can tell when hoo's hurt.


   [Footnote 5: "Clem," to starve with hunger. "Hard is the
                choice, when the valiant must eat their arms
                or clem."--Ben Jonson.]

   [Footnote 6: To "pick ower," means to throw the shuttle in
                hand-loom weaving.]


The air to which this is sung is a kind of droning recitative,
depending much on expression and feeling. To read it, it may,
perhaps, seem humorous; but it is that humour which is near akin
to pathos, and to those who have seen the distress it describes,
it is a powerfully pathetic song. Margaret had both witnessed the
destitution, and had the heart to feel it; and withal, her voice was
of that rich and rare order, which does not require any great compass
of notes to make itself appreciated. Alice had her quiet enjoyment of
tears. But Margaret, with fixed eye, and earnest, dreamy look, seemed
to become more and more absorbed in realising to herself the woe she
had been describing, and which she felt might at that very moment be
suffering and hopeless within a short distance of their comparative
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