Mary Barton Page #7

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

								

kissed his hand. He took no notice at first, for his burst of grief
would not be controlled. But when her shriller sobs, her terrified
cries (which she could not repress), rose upon his ear, he checked
himself.

"Child, we must be all to one another, now she is gone," whispered
he.

"Oh, father, what can I do for you? Do tell me! I'll do any thing."

"I know thou wilt. Thou must not fret thyself ill, that's the first
thing I ask. Thou must leave me, and go to bed now, like a good girl
as thou art."

"Leave you, father! oh, don't say so."

"Ay, but thou must! thou must go to bed, and try and sleep; thou'lt
have enough to do and to bear, poor wench, to-morrow."

Mary got up, kissed her father, and sadly went up stairs to the
little closet, where she slept. She thought it was of no use
undressing, for that she could never, never sleep, so threw herself
on her bed in her clothes, and before ten minutes had passed away,
the passionate grief of youth had subsided into sleep.

Barton had been roused by his daughter's entrance, both from his
stupor and from his uncontrollable sorrow. He could think on what was
to be done, could plan for the funeral, could calculate the necessity
of soon returning to his work, as the extravagance of the past night
would leave them short of money, if he long remained away from the
mill. He was in a club, so that money was provided for the burial.
These things settled in his own mind, he recalled the doctor's words,
and bitterly thought of the shock his poor wife had so recently had,
in the mysterious disappearance of her cherished sister. His feelings
towards Esther almost amounted to curses. It was she who had brought
on all this sorrow. Her giddiness, her lightness of conduct, had
wrought this woe. His previous thoughts about her had been tinged
with wonder and pity, but now he hardened his heart against her for
ever.

One of the good influences over John Barton's life had departed that
night. One of the ties which bound him down to the gentle humanities
of earth was loosened, and henceforward the neighbours all remarked
he was a changed man. His gloom and his sternness became habitual
instead of occasional. He was more obstinate. But never to Mary.
Between the father and the daughter there existed in full force that
mysterious bond which unites those who have been loved by one who
is now dead and gone. While he was harsh and silent to others, he
humoured Mary with tender love; she had more of her own way than
is common in any rank with girls of her age. Part of this was the
necessity of the case; for, of course, all the money went through
her hands, and the household arrangements were guided by her will
and pleasure. But part was her father's indulgence, for he left her,
with full trust in her unusual sense and spirit, to choose her own
associates, and her own times for seeing them.

With all this, Mary had not her father's confidence in the matters
which now began to occupy him, heart and soul; she was aware that
he had joined clubs, and become an active member of a trades' union,
but it was hardly likely that a girl of Mary's age (even when two or
three years had elapsed since her mother's death) should care much
for the differences between the employers and the employed,--an
eternal subject for agitation in the manufacturing districts, which,
however it may be lulled for a time, is sure to break forth again
with fresh violence at any depression of trade, showing that in its
apparent quiet, the ashes had still smouldered in the breasts of a
few.

Among these few was John Barton. At all times it is a bewildering
thing to the poor weaver to see his employer removing from house to
house, each one grander than the last, till he ends in building one
more magnificent than all, or withdraws his money from the concern,
or sells his mill to buy an estate in the country, while all the time
the weaver, who thinks he and his fellows are the real makers of this
wealth, is struggling on for bread for their children, through the
vicissitudes of lowered wages, short hours, fewer hands employed,
&c. And when he knows trade is bad, and could understand (at least
partially) that there are not buyers enough in the market to purchase
the goods already made, and consequently that there is no demand for
more; when he would bear and endure much without complaining, could
he also see that his employers were bearing their share; he is, I
say, bewildered and (to use his own word) "aggravated" to see that
all goes on just as usual with the mill-owners. Large houses are
still occupied, while spinners' and weavers' cottages stand empty,
because the families that once occupied them are obliged to live in
rooms or cellars. Carriages still roll along the streets, concerts
are still crowded by subscribers, the shops for expensive luxuries
still find daily customers, while the workman loiters away his
unemployed time in watching these things, and thinking of the pale,
uncomplaining wife at home, and the wailing children asking in vain
for enough of food, of the sinking health, of the dying life of those
near and dear to him. The contrast is too great. Why should he alone
suffer from bad times?

I know that this is not really the case; and I know what is the truth
in such matters: but what I wish to impress is what the workman feels
and thinks. True, that with child-like improvidence, good times will
often dissipate his grumbling, and make him forget all prudence and
foresight.

But there are earnest men among these people, men who have endured
wrongs without complaining, but without ever forgetting or forgiving
those whom (they believe) have caused all this woe.

Among these was John Barton. His parents had suffered, his mother
had died from absolute want of the necessaries of life. He himself
was a good, steady workman, and, as such, pretty certain of steady
employment. But he spent all he got with the confidence (you may also
call it improvidence) of one who was willing, and believed himself
able, to supply all his wants by his own exertions. And when his
master suddenly failed, and all hands in that mill were turned back,
one Tuesday morning, with the news that Mr. Hunter had stopped,
Barton had only a few shillings to rely on; but he had good heart of
being employed at some other mill, and accordingly, before returning
home, he spent some hours in going from factory to factory, asking
for work. But at every mill was some sign of depression of trade;
some were working short hours, some were turning off hands, and for
weeks Barton was out of work, living on credit. It was during this
time his little son, the apple of his eye, the cynosure of all his
strong power of love, fell ill of the scarlet fever. They dragged him
through the crisis, but his life hung on a gossamer thread. Every
thing, the doctor said, depended on good nourishment, on generous
living, to keep up the little fellow's strength, in the prostration
in which the fever had left him. Mocking words! when the commonest
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