Mary Barton Page #18

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

								


"All? Are all safe, Margaret?" asked Mary.

"Ask yon fireman, and he'll tell you more about it than I can. But I
know they're all safe."

The fireman hastily corroborated Margaret's words.

"Why did you let Jem Wilson go twice?" asked Margaret.

"Let!--why we could not hinder him. As soon as ever he'd heard his
father speak (which he was na long a doing), Jem were off like a
shot; only saying he knowed better nor us where to find t'other man.
We'd all ha' gone, if he had na been in such a hurry, for no one can
say as Manchester firemen is ever backward when there's danger."

So saying, he ran off; and the two girls, without remark or
discussion, turned homewards. They were overtaken by the elder
Wilson, pale, grimy, and blear-eyed, but apparently as strong and
well as ever. He loitered a minute or two alongside of them, giving
an account of his detention in the mill; he then hastily wished
good-night, saying he must go home and tell his missis he was all
safe and well: but after he had gone a few steps, he turned back,
came on Mary's side of the pavement, and in an earnest whisper, which
Margaret could not avoid hearing, he said,

"Mary, if my boy comes across you to-night, give him a kind word or
two for my sake. Do! bless you, there's a good wench."

Mary hung her head and answered not a word, and in an instant he was
gone.

When they arrived at home, they found John Barton smoking his pipe,
unwilling to question, yet very willing to hear all the details
they could give him. Margaret went over the whole story, and it was
amusing to watch his gradually increasing interest and excitement.
First, the regular puffing abated, then ceased. Then the pipe was
fairly taken out of his mouth, and held suspended. Then he rose, and
at every further point he came a step nearer to the narrator.

When it was ended, he swore (an unusual thing for him) that if Jem
Wilson wanted Mary he should have her to-morrow, if he had not a
penny to keep her.

Margaret laughed, but Mary, who was now recovered from her agitation,
pouted, and looked angry.

The work which they had left was resumed: but with full hearts,
fingers never go very quickly; and I am sorry to say, that owing to
the fire, the two younger Miss Ogdens were in such grief for the loss
of their excellent father, that they were unable to appear before the
little circle of sympathising friends gathered together to comfort
the widow, and see the funeral set off.




CHAPTER VI.

POVERTY AND DEATH.


   "How little can the rich man know
     Of what the poor man feels,
   When Want, like some dark dæmon foe,
     Nearer and nearer steals!

   He never tramp'd the weary round,
     A stroke of work to gain,
   And sicken'd at the dreaded sound
     Telling him 'twas in vain.

   Foot-sore, heart-sore, he never came
     Back through the winter's wind,
   To a dark cellar, there no flame,
     No light, no food, to find.

   He never saw his darlings lie
     Shivering, the flags their bed;
   He never heard that maddening cry,
     'Daddy, a bit of bread!'"

   MANCHESTER SONG.


John Barton was not far wrong in his idea that the Messrs. Carson
would not be over much grieved for the consequences of the fire
in their mill. They were well insured; the machinery lacked the
improvements of late years, and worked but poorly in comparison with
that which might now be procured. Above all, trade was very slack;
cottons could find no market, and goods lay packed and piled in many
a warehouse. The mills were merely worked to keep the machinery,
human and metal, in some kind of order and readiness for better
times. So this was an excellent opportunity, Messrs. Carson thought,
for refitting their factory with first-rate improvements, for which
the insurance money would amply pay. They were in no hurry about
the business, however. The weekly drain of wages given for labour,
useless in the present state of the market, was stopped. The partners
had more leisure than they had known for years; and promised wives
and daughters all manner of pleasant excursions, as soon as the
weather should become more genial. It was a pleasant thing to be
able to lounge over breakfast with a review or newspaper in hand; to
have time for becoming acquainted with agreeable and accomplished
daughters, on whose education no money had been spared, but whose
fathers, shut up during a long day with calicoes and accounts, had
so seldom had leisure to enjoy their daughters' talents. There were
happy family evenings, now that the men of business had time for
domestic enjoyments. There is another side to the picture. There were
homes over which Carsons' fire threw a deep, terrible gloom; the
homes of those who would fain work, and no man gave unto them--the
homes of those to whom leisure was a curse. There, the family music
was hungry wails, when week after week passed by, and there was no
work to be had, and consequently no wages to pay for the bread the
children cried aloud for in their young impatience of suffering.
There was no breakfast to lounge over; their lounge was taken in bed,
to try and keep warmth in them that bitter March weather, and, by
being quiet, to deaden the gnawing wolf within. Many a penny that
would have gone little way enough in oatmeal or potatoes, bought
opium to still the hungry little ones, and make them forget their
uneasiness in heavy troubled sleep. It was mother's mercy. The
evil and the good of our nature came out strongly then. There were
desperate fathers; there were bitter-tongued mothers (O God! what
wonder!); there were reckless children; the very closest bonds of
nature were snapt in that time of trial and distress. There was Faith
such as the rich can never imagine on earth; there was "Love strong
as death;" and self-denial, among rude, coarse men, akin to that
of Sir Philip Sidney's most glorious deed. The vices of the poor
sometimes astound us here; but when the secrets of all hearts shall
be made known, their virtues will astound us in far greater degree.
Of this I am certain.

As the cold bleak spring came on (spring, in name alone), and
consequently as trade continued dead, other mills shortened hours,
turned off hands, and finally stopped work altogether.

Barton worked short hours; Wilson, of course, being a hand in
Carsons' factory, had no work at all. But his son, working at an
engineer's, and a steady man, obtained wages enough to maintain all
the family in a careful way. Still it preyed on Wilson's mind to be
so long indebted to his son. He was out of spirits and depressed.
Barton was morose, and soured towards mankind as a body, and the
rich in particular. One evening, when the clear light at six o'clock
contrasted strangely with the Christmas cold, and when the bitter
wind piped down every entry, and through every cranny, Barton sat
brooding over his stinted fire, and listening for Mary's step, in
unacknowledged trust that her presence would cheer him. The door was
opened, and Wilson came breathless in.

"You've not got a bit o' money by you, Barton?" asked he.
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