Mary Barton

‘Why have you never been in all these many years?’ asked Mary.

‘Why, lass! first one wanted me and then another; and I couldn’t go without money either, and I got very poor at times. Tom was a scapegrace, poor fellow, and always wanted help of one kind or other; and his wife (for I think scapegraces are always married long before steady folk) was but a helpless kind of body. She was always ailing, and he were always in trouble; so I had enough to do with my hands, and my money too, for that matter. They died within twelvemonth of each other, leaving one lad (they had had seven, but the Lord had taken six to hisself), Will, as I was telling you on; and I took him myself, and left service to make a bit on a home-place for him, and a fine lad he was, the very spit of his father as to looks, only steadier. For he was steady, although nought would serve him but going to sea. I tried all I could to set him again a sailor’s life. Says I, “Folks is as sick as dogs all the time they’re at sea. Your own mother telled me (for she came from foreign parts, being a Manx woman) that she’d ha’ thanked any one for throwing her into the water.” Nay, I sent him a’ the way to Runcorn by th’ Duke’s canal, that he might know what th’ sea were; and I looked to see him come back as white as a sheet wi’ vomiting. But the lad went on to Liverpool and saw real ships, and come back more set than ever on being a sailor, and he said as how he had never been sick at all, and thought he could stand the sea pretty well. So I told him he mun do as he liked; and he thanked me and kissed me, for all I was very frabbit* with him; and now he’s gone to South America, at t’other side of the sun, they tell me.’

Mary stole a glance at Margaret to see what she thought of Alice’s geography; but Margaret looked so quiet and demure, that Mary was in doubt if she were not really ignorant. Not that Mary’s knowledge was very profound, but she had seen a terrestrial globe, and knew where to find France and the continents on a map.

After this long talking Alice seemed lost for a time in reverie; and the girls, respecting her thoughts, which they suspected had wandered to the home and scenes of her childhood, were silent. All at once she recalled her duties as hostess, and by an effort brought back her mind to the present time.

‘Marget, thou must let Mary hear thee sing. I don’t know about fine music myself, but folks say Marget is a rare singer, and I know she can make me cry at any time by singing “Th’ Owdham Weaver.” Do sing that, Marget, there’s a good lass.’

With a faint smile, as if amused at Alice’s choice of a song, Margaret began.

Do you know ‘The Oldham Weaver’? Not unless you are Lancashire born and bred, for it is a complete Lancashire ditty. I will copy it for you.

The Oldham Weaver

I

Oi’m a poor cotton-weyver, as mony a one knoowas,

Oi’ve nowt for t’ yeat, an’ oi’ve worn eawt my clooas,

Yo’ad hardly gi’ tuppence for aw as oi’ve on,

My clogs are both brosten, an’ stuckings oi’ve none,

Yo’d think it wur hard,

To be browt into th’ warld,

To be – clemmed,* an’ do th’ best as yo con.

II

Owd Dicky o’ Billy’s kept telling me lung,

Wee s’d ha’ better toimes if I’d but howd my tung,

Oi’ve howden my tung, till oi’ve near stopped my breath,

Oi think i’ my heeart oi’se soon clem to deeath,

Owd Dicky’s weel crammed,

He never wur clemmed,

An’ he ne’er picked ower i’ his loife.*

III

We tow’rt on six week – thinking aitch day wur th’ last,

We shifted, an’ shifted, till neaw we’re quoite fast;

We lived upo’ nettles, whoile nettles wur good,

An’ Waterloo porridge the best o’ eawr food,

Oi’m tellin’ yo’ true,

Oi can find folk enow,

As wur livin’ na better nor me.

IV

Owd Billy o’ Dans sent th’ baileys one day,

Fur a shop deebt oi eawd him, as oi could na pay,

But he wur too lat, fur owd Billy o’ th’ Bent

Had sowd th’ tit an’ cart, an’ ta’en goods for th’ rent,

We’d neawt left bo’ tho’ owd stoo’,

That wur seeats fur two,

An’ on it ceawred Marget an’ me.

V

Then t’ baileys leuked reawnd as sloy as a meawse,

When they seed as aw t’ goods were ta’en eawt o’ t’ heawse,

Says one chap to th’ tother, ‘Aws gone, theaw may see’;

Says oi, ‘Ne’er freet, mon, yeaur welcome ta’ me.’

They made no moor ado,

But whopped up th’ eawd stoo’,

An’ we booath leet, whack – upo’ t’ flags!

VI

Then oi said to eawr Marget, as we lay upo’ t’ floor,

‘We’s never be lower i’ this warld, oi’m sure,

If ever things awtern, oi’m sure they mun mend,

For oi think i’ my heart we’re booath at t’ far eend;

For meeat we ha’ none,

Nor looms t’ weyve on, –

Edad! they’re as good lost as fund.’

VII

Eawr Marget declares, had hoo clooas to put on,

Hoo’d goo up to Lunnon an’ talk to th’ greet mon;

An’ if things were na awtered when there hoo had been,

Hoo’s fully resolved t’ sew up meawth an’ eend;

Hoo’s neawt to say again t’ king,

But hoo loikes a fair thing,

An’ hoo says hoo can tell when hoo’s hurt.

The air to which this is sung is a kind of droning recitative, depending much on expression and feeling. To read it, it may, perhaps, seem humorous; but it is that humour which is near akin to pathos, and to those who have seen the distress it describes it is a powerfully pathetic song. Margaret had both witnessed the destitution, and had the heart to feel it, and withal, her voice was of that rich and rare order, which does not require any great compass of notes to make itself appreciated. Alice had her quiet enjoyment of tears. But Margaret, with fixed eye, and earnest, dreamy look, seemed to become more and more absorbed in realising to herself the woe she had been describing, and which she felt might at that very moment be suffering and hopeless within a short distance of their comparative comfort.

Suddenly she burst forth with all the power of her magnificent voice, as if a prayer from her very heart for all who were in distress, in the grand supplication, ‘Lord, remember David.’ Mary held her breath, unwilling to lose a note, it was so clear, so perfect, so imploring. A far more correct musician than Mary might have paused with equal admiration of the really scientific knowledge with which the poor depressed-looking young needlewoman used her superb and flexile voice. Deborah Travers herself (once an Oldham factory girl, and afterwards the darling of fashionable crowds as Mrs Knyvett) might have owned a sister in her art.

She stopped; and with tears of holy sympathy in her eyes, Alice thanked the songstress, who resumed her calm, demure manner, much to Mary’s wonder, for she looked at her unweariedly, as if surprised that the hidden power should not be perceived in the outward appearance.

When Alice’s little speech of thanks was over, there was quiet enough to hear a fine, though rather quavering, male voice, going over again one or two strains of Margaret’s song.

‘That’s grandfather!’ exclaimed she. ‘I must be going, for he said he should not be at home till past nine.’

‘Well, I’ll not say nay, for I have to be up by four for a very heavy wash at Mrs Simpson’s; but I shall be terrible glad to see you again at any time, lasses; and I hope you’ll take to one another.’

As the girls ran up the cellar steps together, Margaret said: ‘Just step in, and see grandfather, I should like him to see you.’

And Mary consented.

* ‘Liefer’, rather. A.S. leof, dear. ‘There n’is no thing, sauf bred, that me were lever.’ – CHAUCER, Monk’s Tale.

* ‘Come to me, Tyrrel, soon, at after supper.’ – SHAKESPEARE, Richard III.

* ‘Frabbit’, peevish.

* ‘Clem’, to starve with hunger. ‘Hard is the choice, when the valiant must eat their arms or clem.’ – BEN JONSON.

* To ‘pick ower’ means to throw the shuttle in hand-loom weaving.

CHAPTER 5

The Mill on Fire – Jem Wilson to the Rescue

‘Learned he was; nor bird, nor insect flew,

But he its leafy home and history knew:

Nor wild-flower decked the rock, nor moss the well,

But he its name and qualities could tell.’

ELLIOTT

There is a class of men in Manchester, unknown even to many of the inhabitants, and whose existence will probably be doubted by many, who yet may claim kindred with all the noble names that science recognises. I said in ‘Manchester’, but they are scattered all over the manufacturing districts of Lancashire. In the neighbourhood of Oldham there are weavers, common hand-loom weavers, who throw the shuttle with unceasing sound, though Newton’s ‘Principia’ lies open on the loom, to be snatched at in work hours, but revelled over in meal times, or at night. Mathematical problems are received with interest, and studied with absorbing attention by many a broad-spoken, common-looking factory-hand. It is perhaps less astonishing that the more popularly interesting branches of natural history have their warm and devoted followers among this class. There are botanists among them, equally familiar with either the Linnæan or the Natural system, who know the name and habitat of every plant within a day’s walk from their dwellings; who steal the holiday of a day or two when any particular plant should be in flower, and tying up their simple food in their pocket-handkerchiefs, set off with single purpose to fetch home the humble-looking weed. There are entomologists, who may be seen with a rude looking net, ready to catch any winged insect, or a kind of dredge with which they rake the green and slimy pools; practical, shrewd, hard-working men, who pore over every new specimen with real scientific delight. Nor is it the common and more obvious divisions of Entomology and Botany that alone attract these earnest seekers after knowledge. Perhaps it may be owing to the great annual town-holiday of Whitsun-week so often falling in May or June, that the two great beautiful families of Ephemeridæ and Phryganidæ have been so much and so closely studied by Manchester workmen, while they have in a great measure escaped general observation. If you will refer to the preface to Sir J. E. Smith’s Life (I have it not by me, or I would copy you the exact passage), you will find that he names a little circumstance corroborative of what I have said. Being on a visit to Roscoe, of Liverpool, he made some inquiries from him as to the habitat of a very rare plant, said to be found in certain places in Lancashire. Mr Roscoe knew nothing of the plant; but stated, that if any one could give him the desired information, it would be a hand-loom weaver in Manchester whom he named. Sir J. E. Smith proceeded by boat to Manchester, and on arriving at that town, he inquired of the porter who was carrying his luggage if he could direct him to So-and-So.

‘Oh, yes,’ replied the man. ‘He does a bit in my way’; and, on further investigation, it turned out, that both the porter, and his friend the weaver, were skilful botanists; and able to give Sir J. E. Smith the very information which he wanted.

Such are the tastes and pursuits of some of the thoughtful, little understood, working-men of Manchester.

And Margaret’s grandfather was one of these. He was a little wiry-looking old man, who moved with a jerking motion, as if his limbs were worked by a string like a child’s toy, with dun-coloured hair lying thin and soft at the back and sides of his head; his forehead was so large it seemed to overbalance the rest of his face, which had, indeed, lost its natural contour by the absence of all the teeth. The eyes absolutely gleamed with intelligence; so keen, so observant, you felt as if they were almost wizard-like. Indeed, the whole room looked not unlike a wizard’s dwelling. Instead of pictures were hung rude wooden frames of impaled insects; the little table was covered with cabalistic books; and beside them lay a case of mysterious instruments, one of which Job Legh was using when his granddaughter entered.

On her appearance he pushed his spectacles up so as to rest midway on his forehead, and gave Mary a short, kind welcome. But Margaret he caressed as a mother caresses her first-born; stroking her with tenderness, and almost altering his voice as he spoke to her.

Mary looked round on the odd, strange things she had never seen at home, and which seemed to her to have a very uncanny look.

‘Is your grandfather a fortune-teller?’ whispered she to her new friend.

‘No,’ replied Margaret in the same voice; ‘but you are not the first as has taken him for such. He is only fond of such things as most folks know nothing about.’

‘And do you know aught about them too?’

‘I know a bit about some of the things grandfather is fond on; just because he’s fond on ’em, I tried to learn about them.’

‘What things are these?’ said Mary, struck with the weird-looking creatures that sprawled around the room in their roughly-made glass cases.

But she was not prepared for the technical names which Job Legh pattered down on her ear, on which they fell like hail on a skylight; and the strange language only bewildered her more than ever. Margaret saw the state of the case, and came to the rescue.

‘Look, Mary, at this horrid scorpion. He gave me such a fright: I am all of a twitter yet when I think of it. Grandfather went to Liverpool one Whitsun-week to go strolling about the docks and pick up what he could from the sailors, who often bring some queer thing or another from the hot countries they go to; and so he sees a chap with a bottle in his hand, like a druggist’s physic-bottle; and says grandfather, “What have ye gotten there?” So the sailor holds it up, and grandfather knew it was a rare kind o’ scorpion, not common even in the East Indies where the man came from; and says he, “How did you catch this fine fellow, for he wouldn’t be taken for nothing, I’m thinking?” And the man said as how when they were unloading the ship he’d found him lying behind a bag of rice, and he thought the cold had killed him, for he was not squashed nor injured a bit. He did not like to part with any of the spirit out of his grog to put the scorpion in, but slipped him into the bottle, knowing there were folks enow who would give him something for him. So grandfather gives him a shilling.’

‘Two shillings,’ interrupted Job Legh; ‘and a good bargain it was.’

‘Well! grandfather came home as proud as Punch, and pulled the bottle out of his pocket. But you see th’ scorpion were doubled up, and grandfather thought I couldn’t fairly see how big he was. So he shakes him out right before the fire; and a good warm one it was, for I was ironing, I remember. I left off ironing and stooped down over him, to look at him better, and grandfather got a book, and began to read how this very kind were the most poisonous and vicious species, how their bite were often fatal, and then went on to read how people who were bitten got swelled, and screamed with pain. I was listening hard, but as it fell out, I never took my eyes off the creature, though I could not ha’ told I was watching it. Suddenly it seemed to give a jerk, and before I could speak it gave another, and in a minute it was as wild as it could be, running at me just like a mad dog.’

‘What did you do?’ asked Mary.

‘Me! why, I jumped first on a chair, and then on all the things I’d been ironing on the dresser, and I screamed for grandfather to come up by me, but he did not hearken to me.’

‘Why, if I’d come up by thee, who’d ha’ caught the creature, I should like to know?’

‘Well, I begged grandfather to crush it, and I had the iron right over it once, ready to drop, but grandfather begged me not to hurt it in that way. So I couldn’t think what he’d have, for he hopped round the room as if he were sore afraid, for all he begged me not to injure it. At last he goes to th’ kettle, and lifts up the lid, and peeps in. What on earth is he doing that for, thinks I; he’ll never drink his tea with a scorpion running free and easy about the room. Then he takes the tongs, and he settles his spectacles on his nose, and in a minute he had lifted the creature up by th’ leg, and dropped him into the boiling water.’

‘And did that kill him?’ said Mary.

‘Ay, sure enough; he boiled for longer time than grandfather liked, though. But I was so afeard of his coming round again, I ran to the public-house for some gin, and grandfather filled the bottle, and then we poured off the water; and picked him out of the kettle, and dropped him into the bottle, and he were there above a twelvemonth.’

‘What brought him to life at first?’ asked Mary.

‘Why, you see, he were never really dead, only torpid – that is, dead asleep with the cold, and our good fire brought him round.’

‘I’m glad father does not care for such things,’ said Mary.

‘Are you! Well, I’m often downright glad grandfather is so fond of his books, and his creatures, and his plants. It does my heart good to see him so happy, sorting them all at home, and so ready to go in search of more, whenever he’s a spare day. Look at him now! He’s gone back to his books, and he’ll be as happy as a king, working away till I make him go to bed. It keeps him silent, to be sure; but so long as I see him earnest, and pleased, and eager, what does that matter? Then, when he has his talking bouts, you can’t think how much he has to say. Dear grandfather! you don’t know how happy we are!’

Mary wondered if the dear grandfather heard all this, for Margaret did not speak in an undertone; but no! he was far too deep and eager in solving a problem. He did not even notice Mary’s leave-taking, and she went home with the feeling that she had that night made the acquaintance of two of the strangest people she ever saw in her life. Margaret, so quiet, so commonplace, until her singing powers were called forth; so silent from home, so cheerful and agreeable at home; and her grandfather so very different from any one Mary had ever seen. Margaret had said he was not a fortune-teller, but she did not know whether to believe her.

To resolve her doubts, she told the history of the evening to her father, who was interested by her account, and curious to see and judge for himself. Opportunities are not often wanting where inclination goes before, and ere the end of that winter Mary looked upon Margaret almost as an old friend. The latter would bring her work when Mary was likely to be at home in the evenings and sit with her; and Job Legh would put a book and his pipe in his pocket and just step round the corner to fetch his grandchild, ready for a talk if he found Barton in; ready to pull out pipe and book if the girls wanted him to wait, and John was still at his club. In short, ready to do whatever would give pleasure to his darling Margaret.

I do not know what points of resemblance, or dissimilitude (for this joins people as often as that) attracted the two girls to each other. Margaret had the great charm of possessing good strong common sense, and do you not perceive how involuntarily this is valued? It is so pleasant to have a friend who possesses the power of setting a difficult question in a clear light; whose judgment can tell what is best to be done; and who is so convinced of what is ‘wisest, best’, that in consideration of the end, all difficulties in the way diminish. People admire talent, and talk about their admiration. But they value common sense without talking about it, and often without knowing it.

So Mary and Margaret grew in love one toward the other; and Mary told many of her feelings in a way she had never done before to any one. Most of her foibles also were made known to Margaret, but not all. There was one cherished weakness still concealed from every one. It concerned a lover, not beloved, but favoured by fancy. A gallant, handsome young man; but – not beloved. Yet Mary hoped to meet him every day in her walks, blushed when she heard his name, and tried to think of him as her future husband, and above all, tried to think of herself as his future wife. Alas! poor Mary! Bitter woe did thy weakness work thee.

She had other lovers. One or two would gladly have kept her company, but she held herself too high, they said. Jem Wilson said nothing, but loved on and on, ever more fondly; he hoped against hope; he would not give up, for it seemed like giving up life to give up thought of Mary. He did not dare to look to any end of all this; the present, so that he saw her, touched the hem of her garment, was enough. Surely, in time, such deep love would beget love.

He would not relinquish hope, and yet her coldness of manner was enough to daunt any man; and it made Jem more despairing than he would acknowledge for a long time even to himself.

But one evening he came round by Barton’s house, a willing messenger for his father, and opening the door saw Margaret sitting asleep before the fire. She had come in to speak to Mary; and worn-out by a long, working, watching night, she fell asleep in the genial warmth.

An old-fashioned saying about a pair of gloves came into Jem’s mind, and stepping gently up, he kissed Margaret with a friendly kiss.

She awoke, and perfectly understanding the thing, she said, ‘For shame of yourself, Jem! What would Mary say?’

Lightly said, lightly answered.

‘She’d nobbut* say, practice makes perfect.’ And they both laughed. But the words Margaret had said rankled in Jem’s mind. Would Mary care? Would she care in the very least? They seemed to call for an answer by night and by day; and Jem felt that his heart told him Mary was quite indifferent to any action of his. Still he loved on, and on, ever more fondly.

Mary’s father was well aware of the nature of Jem Wilson’s feeling for his daughter, but he took no notice of them to any one, thinking Mary full young yet for the cares of married life, and unwilling, too, to entertain the idea of parting with her at any time, however distant. But he welcomed Jem at his house, as he would have done his father’s son, whatever were his motives for coming; and now and then admitted the thought, that Mary might do worse, when her time came, than marry Jem Wilson, a steady workman at a good trade, a good son to his parents, and a fine manly spirited chap – at least when Mary was not by; for when she was present he watched her too closely, and too anxiously, to have much of what John Barton called ‘spunk’ in him.

It was towards the end of February, in that year, and a bitter black frost had lasted for many weeks. The keen east wind had long since swept the streets clean, though in a gusty day the dust would rise like pounded ice, and make people’s faces quite smart with the cold force with which it blew against them. Houses, sky, people, and everything looked as if a gigantic brush had washed them all over with a dark shade of Indian ink. There was some reason for this grimy appearance on human beings, whatever there might be for the dun looks of the landscape; for soft water had become an article not even to be purchased; and the poor washerwomen might be seen vainly trying to procure a little by breaking the thick grey ice that coated the ditches and ponds in the neighbourhood. People prophesied a long continuance to this already lengthened frost; said the spring would be very late; no spring fashions required; no summer clothing purchased for a short uncertain summer. Indeed, there was no end to the evil prophesied during the continuance of that bleak east wind.

Mary hurried home one evening, just as daylight was fading, from Miss Simmonds’, with her shawl held up to her mouth, and her head bent as if in deprecation of the meeting wind. So she did not perceive Margaret till she was close upon her at the very turning into the court.

‘Bless me, Margaret! is that you? Where are you bound to?’

‘To nowhere but your own house (that is, if you’ll take me in). I’ve a job of work to finish to-night; mourning, as must be in time for the funeral to-morrow; and grandfather has been out moss-hunting, and will not be home till late.’