Mary Barton Page #19

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

								


"Not I; who has now, I'd like to know. Whatten you want it for?"

"I donnot [11] want it for mysel, tho' we've none to spare. But don
ye know Ben Davenport as worked at Carsons'? He's down wi' the fever,
and ne'er a stick o' fire, nor a cowd [12] potato in the house."


   [Footnote 11: "Don" is constantly used in Lancashire for "do;"
                 as it was by our older writers. "And that may
                 non Hors don."--Sir J. Mondeville. "But for
                 th' entent to don this sinne."--Chaucer.]

   [Footnote 12: "Cowd," cold. Teut., kaud. Dutch, koud.]


"I han got no money, I tell ye," said Barton. Wilson looked
disappointed. Barton tried not to be interested, but he could not
help it in spite of his gruffness. He rose, and went to the cupboard
(his wife's pride long ago). There lay the remains of his dinner,
hastily put by ready for supper. Bread, and a slice of cold fat
boiled bacon. He wrapped them in his handkerchief, put them in the
crown of his hat, and said--"Come, let's be going."

"Going--art thou going to work this time o' day?"

"No, stupid, to be sure not. Going to see the fellow thou spoke
on." So they put on their hats and set out. On the way Wilson said
Davenport was a good fellow, though too much of the Methodee; that
his children were too young to work, but not too young to be cold and
hungry; that they had sunk lower and lower, and pawned thing after
thing, and that now they lived in a cellar in Berry Street, off Store
Street. Barton growled inarticulate words of no benevolent import to
a large class of mankind, and so they went along till they arrived
in Berry Street. It was unpaved; and down the middle a gutter forced
its way, every now and then forming pools in the holes with which the
street abounded. Never was the Old Edinburgh cry of "Gardez l'eau"
more necessary than in this street. As they passed, women from their
doors tossed household slops of every description into the gutter;
they ran into the next pool, which overflowed and stagnated. Heaps of
ashes were the stepping-stones, on which the passer-by, who cared in
the least for cleanliness, took care not to put his foot. Our friends
were not dainty, but even they picked their way till they got to some
steps leading down into a small area, where a person standing would
have his head about one foot below the level of the street, and
might at the same time, without the least motion of his body, touch
the window of the cellar and the damp muddy wall right opposite.
You went down one step even from the foul area into the cellar in
which a family of human beings lived. It was very dark inside. The
window-panes were, many of them, broken and stuffed with rags, which
was reason enough for the dusky light that pervaded the place even at
mid-day. After the account I have given of the state of the street,
no one can be surprised that on going into the cellar inhabited by
Davenport, the smell was so foetid as almost to knock the two men
down. Quickly recovering themselves, as those inured to such things
do, they began to penetrate the thick darkness of the place, and to
see three or four little children rolling on the damp, nay wet, brick
floor, through which the stagnant, filthy moisture of the street
oozed up; the fire-place was empty and black; the wife sat on her
husband's lair, and cried in the dank loneliness.

"See, missis, I'm back again.--Hold your noise, children, and don't
mither [13] your mammy for bread; here's a chap as has got some for
you."


   [Footnote 13: "Mither," to trouble and perplex. "I'm welly
                 mithered"--I'm well nigh crazed.]


In that dim light, which was darkness to strangers, they clustered
round Barton, and tore from him the food he had brought with him. It
was a large hunch of bread, but it vanished in an instant.

"We mun do summut for 'em," said he to Wilson. "Yo stop here, and
I'll be back in half-an-hour."

So he strode, and ran, and hurried home. He emptied into the
ever-useful pocket-handkerchief the little meal remaining in the mug.
Mary would have her tea at Miss Simmonds'; her food for the day was
safe. Then he went up-stairs for his better coat, and his one, gay,
red-and-yellow silk pocket-handkerchief--his jewels, his plate, his
valuables, these were. He went to the pawn-shop; he pawned them for
five shillings; he stopped not, nor stayed, till he was once more
in London Road, within five minutes' walk of Berry Street--then he
loitered in his gait, in order to discover the shops he wanted. He
bought meat, and a loaf of bread, candles, chips, and from a little
retail yard he purchased a couple of hundredweights of coals. Some
money yet remained--all destined for them, but he did not yet know
how best to spend it. Food, light, and warmth, he had instantly seen
were necessary; for luxuries he would wait. Wilson's eyes filled with
tears when he saw Barton enter with his purchases. He understood
it all, and longed to be once more in work, that he might help in
some of these material ways, without feeling that he was using his
son's money. But though "silver and gold he had none," he gave
heart-service and love works of far more value. Nor was John Barton
behind in these. "The fever" was (as it usually is in Manchester) of
a low, putrid, typhoid kind; brought on by miserable living, filthy
neighbourhood, and great depression of mind and body. It is virulent,
malignant, and highly infectious. But the poor are fatalists with
regard to infection; and well for them it is so, for in their crowded
dwellings no invalid can be isolated. Wilson asked Barton if he
thought he should catch it, and was laughed at for his idea.

The two men, rough, tender nurses as they were, lighted the fire,
which smoked and puffed into the room as if it did not know the way
up the damp, unused chimney. The very smoke seemed purifying and
healthy in the thick clammy air. The children clamoured again for
bread; but this time Barton took a piece first to the poor, helpless,
hopeless woman, who still sat by the side of her husband, listening
to his anxious miserable mutterings. She took the bread, when it was
put into her hand, and broke a bit, but could not eat. She was past
hunger. She fell down on the floor with a heavy unresisting bang. The
men looked puzzled. "She's well-nigh clemmed," said Barton. "Folk
do say one mustn't give clemmed people much to eat; but, bless us,
she'll eat nought."

"I'll tell yo what I'll do," said Wilson. "I'll take these two big
lads, as does nought but fight, home to my missis's for to-night,
and I'll get a jug o' tea. Them women always does best with tea and
such-like slop."

So Barton was now left alone with a little child, crying (when it had
done eating) for mammy; with a fainting, dead-like woman; and with
the sick man, whose mutterings were rising up to screams and shrieks
of agonised anxiety. He carried the woman to the fire, and chafed her
hands. He looked around for something to raise her head. There was
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