Mary Barton Page #36

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

								

resting on her father's knee, and sleeping as soundly as any infant,
her breath (still like an infant's) came and went as softly as a bird
steals to her leafy nest. Her half-open mouth was as scarlet as the
winter-berries, and contrasted finely with the clear paleness of
her complexion, where the eloquent blood flushed carnation at each
motion. Her black eye-lashes lay on the delicate cheek, which was
still more shaded by the masses of her golden hair, that seemed to
form a nest-like pillow for her as she lay. Her father in fond pride
straightened one glossy curl, for an instant, as if to display its
length and silkiness. The little action awoke her, and, like nine out
of ten people in similar circumstances, she exclaimed, opening her
eyes to their fullest extent,

"I'm not asleep. I've been awake all the time."

Even her father could not keep from smiling, and Job Legh and
Margaret laughed outright.

"Come, wench," said Job, "don't look so gloppened [37] because
thou'st fallen asleep while an oud chap like me was talking on oud
times. It were like enough to send thee to sleep. Try if thou canst
keep thine eyes open while I read thy father a bit on a poem as is
written by a weaver like oursel. A rare chap I'll be bound is he who
could weave verse like this."


   [Footnote 37: "Gloppened," amazed, frightened.]


So adjusting his spectacles on nose, cocking his chin, crossing his
legs, and coughing to clear his voice, he read aloud a little poem of
Samuel Bamford's [38] he had picked up somewhere.


   [Footnote 38: The fine-spirited author of "Passages in the Life
                 of a Radical"--a man who illustrates his order,
                 and shows what nobility may be in a cottage.]


   God help the poor, who, on this wintry morn,
     Come forth from alleys dim and courts obscure.
   God help yon poor pale girl, who droops forlorn,
     And meekly her affliction doth endure;
   God help her, outcast lamb; she trembling stands,
   All wan her lips, and frozen red her hands;
   Her sunken eyes are modestly down-cast,
   Her night-black hair streams on the fitful blast;
   Her bosom, passing fair, is half revealed,
   And oh! so cold, the snow lies there congealed;
   Her feet benumbed, her shoes all rent and worn,
   God help thee, outcast lamb, who standst forlorn!
         God help the poor!

   God help the poor! An infant's feeble wail
     Comes from yon narrow gateway, and behold!
   A female crouching there, so deathly pale,
     Huddling her child, to screen it from the cold;
   Her vesture scant, her bonnet crushed and torn;
     A thin shawl doth her baby dear enfold:
   And so she 'bides the ruthless gale of morn,
     Which almost to her heart hath sent its cold.
   And now she, sudden, darts a ravening look,
   As one, with new hot bread, goes past the nook;
   And, as the tempting load is onward borne,
   She weeps. God help thee, helpless one, forlorn!
         God help the poor!

   God help the poor! Behold yon famished lad,
     No shoes, nor hose, his wounded feet protect;
   With limping gait, and looks so dreamy sad,
     He wanders onward, stopping to inspect
   Each window, stored with articles of food.
     He yearns but to enjoy one cheering meal;
   Oh! to the hungry palate, viands rude,
     Would yield a zest the famished only feel!
   He now devours a crust of mouldy bread;
     With teeth and hands the precious boon is torn;
   Unmindful of the storm that round his head
     Impetuous sweeps. God help thee, child forlorn!
         God help the poor!

   God help the poor! Another have I found--
     A bowed and venerable man is he;
   His slouched hat with faded crape is bound;
     His coat is gray, and threadbare too, I see.
   "The rude winds" seem "to mock his hoary hair;"
   His shirtless bosom to the blast is bare.
   Anon he turns and casts a wistful eye,
     And with scant napkin wipes the blinding spray;
   And looks around, as if he fain would spy
     Friends he had feasted in his better day:
   Ah! some are dead; and some have long forborne
   To know the poor; and he is left forlorn!
         God help the poor!

   God help the poor, who in lone valleys dwell,
     Or by far hills, where whin and heather grow;
   Theirs is a story sad indeed to tell,
     Yet little cares the world, and less 't would know
     About the toil and want men undergo.
   The wearying loom doth call them up at morn,
     They work till worn-out nature sinks to sleep,
     They taste, but are not fed. The snow drifts deep
     Around the fireless cot, and blocks the door;
     The night-storm howls a dirge across the moor;
   And shall they perish thus--oppressed and lorn?
   Shall toil and famine, hopeless, still be borne?
     No! God will yet arise, and help the poor.

"Amen!" said Barton, solemnly, and sorrowfully. "Mary! wench, couldst
thou copy me them lines, dost think?--that's to say, if Job there has
no objection."

"Not I. More they're heard and read and the better, say I."

So Mary took the paper. And the next day, on the blank half sheet
of a valentine, all bordered with hearts and darts--a valentine she
had once suspected to come from Jem Wilson--she copied Bamford's
beautiful little poem.




CHAPTER X.

RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL.


   "My heart, once soft as woman's tear, is gnarled
   With gloating on the ills I cannot cure."

   ELLIOTT.

   "Then guard and shield her innocence,
     Let her not fall like me;
   'Twere better, Oh! a thousand times,
     She in her grave should be."

   "THE OUTCAST."


Despair settled down like a heavy cloud; and now and then, through
the dead calm of sufferings, came pipings of stormy winds,
foretelling the end of these dark prognostics. In times of sorrowful
or fierce endurance, we are often soothed by the mere repetition of
old proverbs which tell the experience of our forefathers; but now,
"it's a long lane that has no turning," "the weariest day draws to an
end," &c., seemed false and vain sayings, so long and so weary was
the pressure of the terrible times. Deeper and deeper still sank the
poor; it showed how much lingering suffering it takes to kill men,
that so few (in comparison) died during those times. But remember! we
only miss those who do men's work in their humble sphere; the aged,
the feeble, the children, when they die, are hardly noted by the
world; and yet to many hearts, their deaths make a blank which long
years will never fill up. Remember, too, that though it may take much
suffering to kill the able-bodied and effective members of society,
it does not take much to reduce them to worn, listless, diseased
creatures, who thenceforward crawl through life with moody hearts and
pain-stricken bodies.

The people had thought the poverty of the preceding years hard to
bear, and had found its yoke heavy; but this year added sorely to
its weight. Former times had chastised them with whips, but this
chastised them with scorpions.

Of course, Barton had his share of mere bodily sufferings. Before he
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