OLD ALICE'S HISTORY.
To envy nought beneath the ample sky;
To mourn no evil deed, no hour mis-spent;
And, like a living violet, silently
Return in sweets to Heaven what goodness lent,
Then bend beneath the chastening shower content.
ELLIOTT.
Another year passed on. The waves of time seemed long since to have
swept away all trace of poor Mary Barton. But her husband still
thought of her, although with a calm and quiet grief, in the silent
watches of the night: and Mary would start from her hard-earned
sleep, and think in her half-dreamy, half-awakened state, she saw
her mother stand by her bed-side, as she used to do "in the days
of long-ago;" with a shaded candle and an expression of ineffable
tenderness, while she looked on her sleeping child. But Mary rubbed
her eyes and sank back on her pillow, awake, and knowing it was a
dream; and still, in all her troubles and perplexities, her heart
called on her mother for aid, and she thought, "If mother had but
lived, she would have helped me." Forgetting that the woman's sorrows
are far more difficult to mitigate than a child's, even by the mighty
power of a mother's love; and unconscious of the fact, that she was
far superior in sense and spirit to the mother she mourned. Aunt
Esther was still mysteriously absent, and people had grown weary of
wondering and began to forget. Barton still attended his club, and
was an active member of a trades' union; indeed, more frequently
than ever, since the time of Mary's return in the evening was so
uncertain; and, as she occasionally, in very busy times, remained
all night. His chiefest friend was still George Wilson, although he
had no great sympathy on the questions that agitated Barton's mind.
Still their hearts were bound by old ties to one another, and the
remembrance of former times gave an unspoken charm to their meetings.
Our old friend, the cub-like lad, Jem Wilson, had shot up into the
powerful, well-made young man, with a sensible face enough; nay, a
face that might have been handsome, had it not been here and there
marked by the small-pox. He worked with one of the great firms of
engineers, who send from out their towns of workshops engines and
machinery to the dominions of the Czar and the Sultan. His father and
mother were never weary of praising Jem, at all which commendation
pretty Mary Barton would toss her head, seeing clearly enough that
they wished her to understand what a good husband he would make, and
to favour his love, about which he never dared to speak, whatever
eyes and looks revealed.
One day, in the early winter time, when people were provided with
warm substantial gowns, not likely soon to wear out, and when,
accordingly, business was rather slack at Miss Simmonds', Mary
met Alice Wilson, coming home from her half-day's work at some
tradesman's house. Mary and Alice had always liked each other;
indeed, Alice looked with particular interest on the motherless girl,
the daughter of her whose forgiving kiss had so comforted her in many
sleepless hours. So there was a warm greeting between the tidy old
woman and the blooming young work-girl; and then Alice ventured to
ask if she would come in and take her tea with her that very evening.
"You'll think it dull enough to come just to sit with an old woman
like me, but there's a tidy young lass as lives in the floor above,
who does plain work, and now and then a bit in your own line, Mary;
she's grand-daughter to old Job Legh, a spinner, and a good girl she
is. Do come, Mary! I've a terrible wish to make you known to each
other. She's a genteel-looking lass, too."
At the beginning of this speech Mary had feared the intended
visitor was to be no other than Alice's nephew; but Alice was too
delicate-minded to plan a meeting, even for her dear Jem, when one
would have been an unwilling party; and Mary, relieved from her
apprehension by the conclusion, gladly agreed to come. How busy Alice
felt! it was not often she had any one to tea; and now her sense of
the duties of a hostess were almost too much for her. She made haste
home, and lighted the unwilling fire, borrowing a pair of bellows to
make it burn the faster. For herself she was always patient; she let
the coals take their time. Then she put on her pattens, and went to
fill her kettle at the pump in the next court, and on the way she
borrowed a cup; of odd saucers she had plenty, serving as plates
when occasion required. Half an ounce of tea and a quarter of a
pound of butter went far to absorb her morning's wages; but this
was an unusual occasion. In general, she used herb-tea for herself,
when at home, unless some thoughtful mistress made her a present of
tea-leaves from her more abundant household. The two chairs drawn out
for visitors, and duly swept and dusted; an old board arranged with
some skill upon two old candle-boxes set on end (rather ricketty
to be sure, but she knew the seat of old, and when to sit lightly;
indeed the whole affair was more for apparent dignity of position
than for any real ease); a little, very little round table put
just before the fire, which by this time was blazing merrily; her
unlackered, ancient, third-hand tea-tray arranged with a black
tea-pot, two cups with a red and white pattern, and one with the
old friendly willow pattern, and saucers, not to match (on one
of the extra supply, the lump of butter flourished away); all
these preparations complete, Alice began to look about her with
satisfaction, and a sort of wonder what more could be done to add to
the comfort of the evening. She took one of the chairs away from its
appropriate place by the table, and putting it close to the broad
large hanging shelf I told you about when I first described her
cellar-dwelling, and mounting on it, she pulled towards her an old
deal box, and took thence a quantity of the oat bread of the north,
the clap-bread of Cumberland and Westmoreland, and descending
carefully with the thin cakes threatening to break to pieces in her
hand, she placed them on the bare table, with the belief that her
visitors would have an unusual treat in eating the bread of her
childhood. She brought out a good piece of a four-pound loaf of
common household bread as well, and then sat down to rest, really
to rest, and not to pretend, on one of the rush-bottomed chairs.
The candle was ready to be lighted, the kettle boiled, the tea was
awaiting its doom in its paper parcel; all was ready.
A knock at the door! It was Margaret, the young workwoman who lived
in the rooms above, who having heard the bustle, and the subsequent
quiet, began to think it was time to pay her visit below. She was a
sallow, unhealthy, sweet-looking young woman, with a careworn look;
her dress was humble and very simple, consisting of some kind of
dark stuff gown, her neck being covered by a drab shawl or large
handkerchief, pinned down behind and at the sides in front. The old
woman gave her a hearty greeting, and made her sit down on the chair
she had just left, while she balanced herself on the board seat, in
order that Margaret might think it was quite her free and independent
choice to sit there.
"I cannot think what keeps Mary Barton. She's quite grand with her
late hours," said Alice, as Mary still delayed.
The truth was, Mary was dressing herself; yes, to come to poor old
Alice's--she thought it worth while to consider what gown she should
put on. It was not for Alice, however, you may be pretty sure; no,
they knew each other too well. But Mary liked making an impression,
and in this it must be owned she was pretty often gratified--and
there was this strange girl to consider just now. So she put on her
pretty new blue merino, made tight to her throat, her little linen
collar and linen cuffs, and sallied forth to impress poor gentle
Margaret. She certainly succeeded. Alice, who never thought much
about beauty, had never told Margaret how pretty Mary was; and, as
she came in half-blushing at her own self-consciousness, Margaret
could hardly take her eyes off her, and Mary put down her long black
lashes with a sort of dislike of the very observation she had taken
such pains to secure. Can you fancy the bustle of Alice to make the
tea, to pour it out, and sweeten it to their liking, to help and help
again to clap-bread and bread-and-butter? Can you fancy the delight
with which she watched her piled-up clap-bread disappear before the
hungry girls, and listened to the praises of her home-remembered
dainty?
"My mother used to send me some clap-bread by any north-country
person--bless her! She knew how good such things taste when far away
from home. Not but what every one likes it. When I was in service my
fellow-servants were always glad to share with me. Eh, it's a long
time ago, yon."
"Do tell us about it, Alice," said Margaret.
"Why, lass, there's nothing to tell. There was more mouths at home
than could be fed. Tom, that's Will's father (you don't know Will,
but he's a sailor to foreign parts), had come to Manchester, and sent
word what terrible lots of work was to be had, both for lads and
lasses. So father sent George first (you know George, well enough,
Mary), and then work was scarce out toward Burton, where we lived,
and father said I maun try and get a place. And George wrote as how
wages were far higher in Manchester than Milnthorpe or Lancaster;
and, lasses, I was young and thoughtless, and thought it was a fine
thing to go so far from home. So, one day, th' butcher he brings us a
letter fra George, to say he'd heard on a place--and I was all agog
to go, and father was pleased, like; but mother said little, and that
little was very quiet. I've often thought she was a bit hurt to see
me so ready to go--God forgive me! But she packed up my clothes, and
some o' the better end of her own as would fit me, in yon little
paper box up there--it's good for nought now, but I would liefer live
without fire than break it up to be burnt; and yet it's going on for
eighty years old, for she had it when she was a girl, and brought all
her clothes in it to father's, when they were married. But, as I was
saying, she did not cry, though the tears was often in her eyes; and
I seen her looking after me down the lane as long as I were in sight,
with her hand shading her eyes--and that were the last look I ever
had on her."
Alice knew that before long she should go to that mother; and,
besides, the griefs and bitter woes of youth have worn themselves out
before we grow old; but she looked so sorrowful that the girls caught
her sadness, and mourned for the poor woman who had been dead and
gone so many years ago.
"Did you never see her again, Alice? Did you never go home while she
was alive?" asked Mary.
"No, nor since. Many a time and oft have I planned to go. I plan
it yet, and hope to go home again before it please God to take me.
I used to try and save money enough to go for a week when I was in
service; but first one thing came, and then another. First, missis's
children fell ill of the measles, just when th' week I'd ask'd for
came, and I couldn't leave them, for one and all cried for me to
nurse them. Then missis herself fell sick, and I could go less than
ever. For, you see, they kept a little shop, and he drank, and missis
and me was all there was to mind children, and shop, and all, and
cook and wash besides."
Mary was glad she had not gone into service, and said so.
"Eh, lass! thou little knows the pleasure o' helping others; I was as
happy there as could be; almost as happy as I was at home. Well, but
next year I thought I could go at a leisure time, and missis telled
me I should have a fortnight then, and I used to sit up all that
winter working hard at patchwork, to have a quilt of my own making
to take to my mother. But master died, and missis went away fra
Manchester, and I'd to look out for a place again."
"Well, but," interrupted Mary, "I should have thought that was the
best time to go home."
"No, I thought not. You see it was a different thing going home for
a week on a visit, may be with money in my pocket to give father a
lift, to going home to be a burden to him. Besides, how could I hear
o' a place there? Anyways I thought it best to stay, though perhaps
it might have been better to ha' gone, for then I should ha' seen
mother again;" and the poor old woman looked puzzled.
"I'm sure you did what you thought right," said Margaret, gently.
"Ay, lass, that's it," said Alice, raising her head and speaking more
cheerfully. "That's the thing, and then let the Lord send what He
sees fit; not but that I grieved sore, oh, sore and sad, when toward
spring next year, when my quilt were all done to th' lining, George
came in one evening to tell me mother was dead. I cried many a
night at after; [3] I'd no time for crying by day, for that missis
was terrible strict; she would not hearken to my going to th'
funeral; and indeed I would have been too late, for George set off
that very night by th' coach, and th' letter had been kept or summut
(posts were not like th' posts now-a-days), and he found the burial
all over, and father talking o' flitting; for he couldn't abide the
cottage after mother was gone."
[Footnote 3: A common Lancashire phrase. "Come to me, Tyrrel,
soon, _at after_ supper." SHAKSPEARE, Richard III.]
"Was it a pretty place?" asked Mary.
"Pretty, lass! I never seed such a bonny bit anywhere. You see there
are hills there as seem to go up into th' skies, not near may be, but
that makes them all the bonnier. I used to think they were the golden
hills of heaven, about which my mother sang when I was a child,
'Yon are the golden hills o' heaven,
Where ye sall never win.'
Something about a ship and a lover that should hae been na lover,
the ballad was. Well, and near our cottage were rocks. Eh, lasses!
ye don't know what rocks are in Manchester! Gray pieces o' stone as
large as a house, all covered over wi' moss of different colours,
some yellow, some brown; and the ground beneath them knee-deep in
purple heather, smelling sae sweet and fragrant, and the low music of
the humming-bee for ever sounding among it. Mother used to send Sally
and me out to gather ling and heather for besoms, and it was such
pleasant work! We used to come home of an evening loaded so as you
could not see us, for all that it was so light to carry. And then
mother would make us sit down under the old hawthorn tree (where
we used to make our house among the great roots as stood above th'
ground), to pick and tie up the heather. It seems all like yesterday,
and yet it's a long long time agone. Poor sister Sally has been
in her grave this forty year and more. But I often wonder if the
hawthorn is standing yet, and if the lasses still go to gather
heather, as we did many and many a year past and gone. I sicken at
heart to see the old spot once again. May be next summer I may set
off, if God spares me to see next summer."
"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
another; and his wife (for I think scapegraces are always married
long before steady folk) was but a helpless kind of body. She were
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 Himself), 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 came 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 telled him he mun
do as he liked; and he thanked me and kissed me, for all I was very
frabbit [4] with him; and now he's gone to South America, at t'other
side of the sun, they tell me."
[Footnote 4: "Frabbit," peevish.]
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.
"Margaret, thou must let Mary hear thee sing. I don't know about fine
music myself, but folks say Margaret is a rare singer, and I know she
can make me cry at any time by singing 'Th' Owdham Weaver.' Do sing
that, Margaret, 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 woorn eawt my clooas,
Yo'ad hardly gi' tuppence for aw as oi've on,
My clogs are boath brosten, an' stuckins oi've none,
Yo'd think it wur hard,
To be browt into th' warld,
To be--clemmed, [5] 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. [6]
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 fur th' rent,
We'd neawt left bo' th' 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 cloo'as 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.
[Footnote 5: "Clem," to starve with hunger. "Hard is the
choice, when the valiant must eat their arms
or _clem_."--_Ben Jonson._]
[Footnote 6: To "pick ower," means to throw the shuttle in
hand-loom weaving.]
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 needle-woman 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've 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.