“Thou never could abide the gentlefolk,” said Wilson, half amused at his
friend’s vehemence.
“And what good have they ever done me that I should like them?” asked
Barton, the latent fire lighting up his eye; and bursting forth, he
continued: “If I am sick, do they come and nurse me? If my child lies
dying (as poor Tom lay, with his white wan lips quivering, for want of
better food than I could give him), does the rich man bring the wine or
broth that might save his life? If I am out of work for weeks in the bad
times, and winter comes, with black frost, and keen east wind, and there
is no coal for the grate, and no clothes for the bed, and the thin bones
are seen through the ragged clothes, does the rich man share his plenty
with me, as he ought to do, if his religion wasn’t a humbug! When I lie
on my death-bed, and Mary (bless her!) stands fretting, as I know she
will fret,” and here his voice faltered a little, “will a rich lady come
and take her to her own home if need be, till she can look round and see
what best to do? No, I tell you it’s the poor, and the poor only, as
does such things for the poor. Don’t think to come over me with th’ old
tale, that the rich know nothing of the trials of the poor; I say, if
they don’t know, they ought to know. We’re their slaves as long as we
can work; we pile up their fortunes with the sweat of our brows, and yet
we are to live as separate as if we were in two worlds; ay, as separate
as Dives and Lazarus, with a great gulf between us; but I know who was
best off then;” and he wound up his speech with a low chuckle that had no
mirth in it.
* * * * *
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 his
children, through the vicissitudes of lowered wages, short hours, fewer
hands employed, etc. 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 words) “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 filled 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 the 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 that 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. Everything, 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 food in the house would not furnish one little meal. Barton
tried credit; but it was worn out at the little provision shops, which
were now suffering in their turn. He thought it would be no sin to steal,
and would have stolen; but he could not get the opportunity in the few
days the child lingered. Hungry himself, almost to an animal pitch of
ravenousness, but with the bodily pain swallowed up in anxiety for his
little sinking lad, he stood at one of the shop windows where all edible
luxuries are displayed; haunches of venison, Stilton cheeses, moulds of
jelly—all appetising sights to the common passer-by. And out of this shop
came Mrs. Hunter! She crossed to her carriage, followed by the shopman
loaded with purchases for a party. The door was quickly slammed to, and
she drove away; and Barton returned home with a bitter spirit of wrath in
his heart, to see his only boy a corpse!
You can fancy, now, the hoards of vengeance in his heart against the
employers. For there are never wanting those who, either in speech or in
print, find it their interest to cherish such feelings in the working
classes; who know how and when to rouse the dangerous power at their
command; and who use their knowledge with unrelenting purpose to either
party.