This is a description of the neighbourhood near Mrs.
Gaskell’s home at the time of writing _Mary Barton_, and it
was the accuracy with which she described Manchester and its
surroundings that led her readers to the conclusion that
“Cotton Malther Mills, Esq.,” the _nom de guerre_ under which
she hid her identity, was none other than Mrs. Gaskell. Writing
of _Mary Barton_ a few weeks after it was published, Miss
Winkworth said, “I knew by the first few words it was hers
(Mrs. Gaskell’s)—about Green Heys Fields, and the stile she was
describing to me.”
There are some fields near Manchester, well known to the inhabitants
as “Green Heys Fields,” through which runs a public footpath to a
little village about two miles distant. In spite of these fields being
flat and low, nay, in spite of the want of wood (the great and usual
recommendation of level tracts of land), there is a charm about them
which strikes even the inhabitant of a mountainous district, who sees
and feels the effect of contrast in these commonplace but thoroughly
rural fields, with the busy, bustling manufacturing town he left but
half an hour ago. Here and there an old black and white farm-house, with
its rambling outbuildings, speaks of other times and other occupations
than those which now absorb the population of the neighbourhood. Here in
their seasons may be seen the country business of haymaking, ploughing,
etc., which are such pleasant mysteries for townspeople to watch; and
here the artisan, deafened with noise of tongues and engines, may come
to listen awhile to the delicious sounds of rural life: the lowing of
cattle, the milkmaid’s call, the clatter and cackle of poultry in the old
farmyards. You cannot wonder, then, that these fields are popular places
of resort at every holiday time; and you would not wonder, if you could
see, or I properly describe, the charm of one particular stile, that it
should be, on such occasions, a crowded halting-place. Close by it is a
deep, clear pond, reflecting in its dark green depths the shadowy trees
that bend over it to exclude the sun. The only place where its banks are
shelving is on the side next to a rambling farmyard, belonging to one of
those old-world gabled black and white houses I named above, overlooking
the field through which the public footpath leads. The porch of this
farm-house is covered by a rose tree; and the little garden surrounding
it is crowded with a medley of old-fashioned herbs and flowers, planted
long ago, when the garden was the only druggist’s shop within reach, and
allowed to grow in scrambling and wild luxuriance—roses, lavender, sage,
balm (for tea), rosemary, pinks and wallflowers, onions and jessamine, in
most republican and indiscriminate order. This farm-house and garden are
within a hundred yards of the stile of which I spoke, leading from the
large pasture field into a smaller one, divided by a hedge of hawthorn
and blackthorn; and near this stile, on the farther side, there runs a
tale that primroses may often be found, and occasionally the blue sweet
violet on the grassy hedge bank.
I do not know whether it was on a holiday granted by the masters, or a
holiday seized in right of Nature and her beautiful spring-time by the
workmen, but one afternoon (now ten or a dozen years ago) these fields
were much thronged. It was an early May evening—the April of the poets;
for heavy showers had fallen all the morning, and the round, soft, white
clouds which were blown by a west wind over the dark blue sky, were
sometimes varied by one blacker and more threatening. The softness of the
day tempted forth the young green leaves, which almost visibly fluttered
into life; and the willows, which that morning had had only a brown
reflection in the water below, were now of that tender grey-green which
blends so delicately with the spring harmony of colours.
Groups of merry and somewhat loud-talking girls, whose ages might range
from twelve to twenty, came by with a buoyant step. They were most
of them factory girls, and wore the usual out-of-doors dress of that
particular class of maidens: namely, a shawl, which at midday or in fine
weather was allowed to be merely a shawl, but towards evening, or if the
day were chilly, became a sort of Spanish mantilla or Scotch plaid, and
was brought over the head and hung loosely down, or was pinned under the
chin in no unpicturesque fashion.
Their faces were not remarkable for beauty; indeed, they were below the
average, with one or two exceptions; they had dark hair, neatly and
classically arranged, dark eyes, but sallow complexions and irregular
features. The only thing to strike a passer-by was an acuteness
and intelligence of countenance, which has often been noticed in a
manufacturing population.
There were also numbers of boys, or rather young men, rambling among
these fields, ready to bandy jokes with any one, and particularly ready
to enter into conversation with the girls, who, however, held themselves
aloof, not in a shy, but rather in an independent way, assuming an
indifferent manner, to the noisy wit or obstreperous compliments of
the lads. Here and there came a sober, quiet couple, either whispering
lovers or husband and wife, as the case might be; and if the latter, they
were seldom unencumbered by an infant, carried for the most part by the
father, while occasionally even three or four little toddlers had been
carried or dragged thus far, in order that the whole family might enjoy
the delicious May afternoon together.