Mary Barton Page #60

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

								

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 fire-place; 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 up-stairs;
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 on 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 thereunto 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 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
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