BARTON'S LONDON EXPERIENCES.
"A life of self-indulgence is for us,
A life of self-denial is for them;
For us the streets, broad-built and populous,
For them unhealthy corners, garrets dim,
And cellars where the water-rat may swim!
For us green paths refreshed by frequent rain,
For them dark alleys where the dust lies grim!
Not doomed by us to this appointed pain--
God made us rich and poor--of what do these complain?"
MRS. NORTON'S "CHILD OF THE ISLANDS."
The next evening it was a warm, pattering, incessant rain, just the
rain to waken up the flowers. But in Manchester, where, alas! there
are no flowers, the rain had only a disheartening and gloomy effect;
the streets were wet and dirty, the drippings from the houses were
wet and dirty, and the people were wet and dirty. Indeed, most kept
within-doors; and there was an unusual silence of footsteps in the
little paved courts.
Mary had to change her clothes after her walk home; and had hardly
settled herself before she heard some one fumbling at the door. The
noise continued long enough to allow her to get up, and go and open
it. There stood--could it be? yes it was, her father!
Drenched and way-worn, there he stood! He came in with no word to
Mary in return for her cheery and astonished greeting. He sat down by
the fire in his wet things, unheeding. But Mary would not let him so
rest. She ran up and brought down his working-day clothes, and went
into the pantry to rummage up their little bit of provision while
he changed by the fire, talking all the while as gaily as she could,
though her father's depression hung like lead on her heart.
For Mary, in her seclusion at Miss Simmonds',--where the chief talk
was of fashions, and dress, and parties to be given, for which such
and such gowns would be wanted, varied with a slight whispered
interlude occasionally about love and lovers,--had not heard the
political news of the day: that Parliament had refused to listen to
the working-men, when they petitioned with all the force of their
rough, untutored words to be heard concerning the distress which was
riding, like the Conqueror on his Pale Horse, among the people; which
was crushing their lives out of them, and stamping woe-marks over the
land.
When he had eaten and was refreshed, they sat in silence for some
time; for Mary wished him to tell her what oppressed him so, yet
durst not ask. In this she was wise; for when we are heavy laden in
our hearts, it falls in better with our humour to reveal our case in
our own way, and our own time.
Mary sat on a stool at her father's feet in old childish guise, and
stole her hand into his, while his sadness infected her, and she
"caught the trick of grief, and sighed," she knew not why.
"Mary, we mun speak to our God to hear us, for man will not hearken;
no, not now, when we weep tears o' blood."
In an instant Mary understood the fact, if not the details, that so
weighed down her father's heart. She pressed his hand with silent
sympathy. She did not know what to say, and was so afraid of speaking
wrongly, that she was silent. But when his attitude had remained
unchanged for more than half-an-hour, his eyes gazing vacantly and
fixedly at the fire, no sound but now and then a deep drawn sigh to
break the weary ticking of the clock, and the drip-drop from the roof
without, Mary could bear it no longer. Any thing to rouse her father.
Even bad news.
"Father, do you know George Wilson's dead?" (Her hand was suddenly
and almost violently compressed.) "He dropped down dead in Oxford
Road yester morning. It's very sad, isn't it, father?"
Her tears were ready to flow as she looked up in her father's face
for sympathy. Still the same fixed look of despair, not varied by
grief for the dead.
"Best for him to die," he said, in a low voice.
This was unbearable. Mary got up under pretence of going to tell
Margaret that she need not come to sleep with her to-night, but
really to ask Job Legh to come and cheer her father.
She stopped outside their door. Margaret was practising her singing,
and through the still night air her voice rang out like that of an
angel.
"Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people, saith your God."
The old Hebrew prophetic words fell like dew on Mary's heart. She
could not interrupt. She stood listening and "comforted," till the
little buzz of conversation again began, and then entered and told
her errand.
Both grandfather and grand-daughter rose instantly to fulfil her
request.
"He's just tired out, Mary," said old Job. "He'll be a different man
to-morrow."
There is no describing the looks and tones that have power over an
aching, heavy laden heart; but in an hour or so John Barton was
talking away as freely as ever, though all his talk ran, as was
natural, on the disappointment of his fond hope, of the forlorn hope
of many.
"Ay, London's a fine place," said he, "and finer folk live in it than
I ever thought on, or ever heerd tell on except in th' story-books.
They are having their good things now, that afterwards they may be
tormented."
Still at the old parable of Dives and Lazarus! Does it haunt the
minds of the rich as it does those of the poor?
"Do tell us all about London, dear father," asked Mary, who was
sitting at her old post by her father's knee.
"How can I tell yo a' about it, when I never seed one-tenth of it.
It's as big as six Manchesters, they telled me. One-sixth may be made
up o' grand palaces, and three-sixths o' middling kind, and th' rest
o' holes o' iniquity and filth, such as Manchester knows nought on,
I'm glad to say."
"Well, father, but did you see th' Queen?"
"I believe I didn't, though one day I thought I'd seen her many a
time. You see," said he, turning to Job Legh, "there were a day
appointed for us to go to Parliament House. We were most on us biding
at a public-house in Holborn, where they did very well for us. Th'
morning of taking our petition we'd such a spread for breakfast as
th' Queen hersel might ha' sitten down to. I suppose they thought
we wanted putting in heart. There were mutton kidneys, and sausages,
and broiled ham, and fried beef and onions; more like a dinner nor
a breakfast. Many on our chaps though, I could see, could eat but
little. Th' food stuck in their throats when they thought o' them
at home, wives and little ones, as had, may be at that very time,
nought to eat. Well, after breakfast, we were all set to walk in
procession, and a time it took to put us in order, two and two, and
the petition as was yards long, carried by th' foremost pairs. The
men looked grave enough, yo may be sure; and such a set of thin, wan,
wretched-looking chaps as they were!"
"Yourself is none to boast on."
"Ay, but I were fat and rosy to many a one. Well, we walked on and
on through many a street, much the same as Deansgate. We had to walk
slowly, slowly, for th' carriages an' cabs as thronged th' streets.
I thought by-and-bye we should may be get clear on 'em, but as th'
streets grew wider they grew worse, and at last we were fairly
blocked up at Oxford Street. We getten across at last though, and my
eyes! the grand streets we were in then! They're sadly puzzled how
to build houses though in London; there'd be an opening for a good
steady master-builder there, as know'd his business. For yo see the
houses are many on 'em built without any proper shape for a body
to live in; some on 'em they've after thought would fall down, so
they've stuck great ugly pillars out before 'em. And some on 'em (we
thought they must be th' tailor's sign) had getten stone men and
women as wanted clothes stuck on 'em. I were like a child, I forgot
a' my errand in looking about me. By this it were dinner-time, or
better, as we could tell by th' sun, right above our heads, and we
were dusty and tired, going a step now and a step then. Well, at
last we getten into a street grander nor all, leading to th' Queen's
palace, and there it were I thought I saw th' Queen. Yo've seen th'
hearses wi' white plumes, Job?"
Job assented.
"Well, them undertaker folk are driving a pretty trade in London.
Wellnigh every lady we saw in a carriage had hired one o' them plumes
for the day, and had it niddle noddling on her head. It were th'
Queen's Drawing-room, they said, and th' carriages went bowling along
toward her house, some wi' dressed up gentlemen like circus folk in
'em, and rucks [28] o' ladies in others. Carriages themselves were
great shakes too. Some o' th' gentlemen as couldn't get inside hung
on behind, wi' nosegays to smell at, and sticks to keep off folk as
might splash their silk stockings. I wondered why they didn't hire a
cab rather than hang on like a whip-behind boy; but I suppose they
wished to keep wi' their wives, Darby and Joan like. Coachmen were
little squat men, wi' wigs like th' oud fashioned parsons. Well, we
could na get on for these carriages, though we waited and waited.
Th' horses were too fat to move quick; they'n never known want o'
food, one might tell by their sleek coats; and police pushed us
back when we tried to cross. One or two on 'em struck wi' their
sticks, and coachmen laughed, and some officers as stood nigh put
their spy-glasses in their eye, and left 'em sticking there like
mountebanks. One o' th' police struck me. 'Whatten business have yo
to do that?' said I.
[Footnote 28: "Rucks," a great quantity.]
"'You're frightening them horses,' says he, in his mincing way (for
Londoners are mostly all tongue-tied, and can't say their a's and
i's properly), 'and it's our business to keep you from molesting the
ladies and gentlemen going to her Majesty's Drawing-room.'
"'And why are we to be molested?' asked I, 'going decently about
our business, which is life and death to us, and many a little one
clemming at home in Lancashire? Which business is of most consequence
i' the sight o' God, think yo, our'n or them gran ladies and
gentlemen as yo think so much on?'
"But I might as well ha' held my peace, for he only laughed."
John ceased. After waiting a little to see if he would go on of
himself, Job said,
"Well, but that's not a' your story, man. Tell us what happened when
yo got to th' Parliament House."
After a little pause John answered,
"If yo please, neighbour, I'd rather say nought about that. It's not
to be forgotten or forgiven either by me or many another; but I canna
tell of our down-casting just as a piece of London news. As long as
I live, our rejection that day will bide in my heart; and as long as
I live I shall curse them as so cruelly refused to hear us; but I'll
not speak of it no [29] more."
[Footnote 29: A similar use of a double negative is not
unfrequent in Chaucer; as in the "Miller's Tale":
"That of no wife toke he non offering
For curtesie, he sayd, he n'old non."]
So, daunted in their inquiries, they sat silent for a few minutes.
Old Job, however, felt that some one must speak, else all the good
they had done in dispelling John Barton's gloom was lost. So after
awhile he thought of a subject, neither sufficiently dissonant from
the last to jar on the full heart, nor too much the same to cherish
the continuance of the gloomy train of thought.
"Did you ever hear tell," said he to Mary, "that I were in London
once?"
"No!" said she, with surprise, and looking at Job with increased
respect.
"Ay, but I were though, and Peg there too, though she minds nought
about it, poor wench! You must know I had but one child, and she were
Margaret's mother. I loved her above a bit, and one day when she
came (standing behind me for that I should not see her blushes, and
stroking my cheeks in her own coaxing way), and told me she and Frank
Jennings (as was a joiner lodging near us) should be so happy if they
were married, I could not find in my heart t' say her nay, though I
went sick at the thought of losing her away from my home. Howe'er,
she were my only child, and I never said nought of what I felt, for
fear o' grieving her young heart. But I tried to think o' the time
when I'd been young mysel, and had loved her blessed mother, and how
we'd left father and mother and gone out into th' world together,
and I'm now right thankful I held my peace, and didna fret her wi'
telling her how sore I was at parting wi' her that were the light o'
my eyes."
"But," said Mary, "you said the young man were a neighbour."
"Ay, so he were; and his father afore him. But work were rather slack
in Manchester, and Frank's uncle sent him word o' London work and
London wages, so he were to go there; and it were there Margaret was
to follow him. Well, my heart aches yet at thought of those days.
She so happy, and he so happy; only the poor father as fretted sadly
behind their backs. They were married, and stayed some days wi' me
afore setting off; and I've often thought sin' Margaret's heart
failed her many a time those few days, and she would fain ha' spoken;
but I knew fra' mysel it were better to keep it pent up, and I never
let on what I were feeling. I knew what she meant when she came
kissing, and holding my hand, and all her old childish ways o' loving
me. Well, they went at last. You know them two letters, Margaret?"
"Yes, sure," replied his grand-daughter.
"Well, them two were the only letters I ever had fra' her, poor lass.
She said in them she were very happy, and I believe she were. And
Frank's family heard he were in good work. In one o' her letters,
poor thing, she ends wi' saying, 'Farewell, Grandad!' wi' a line
drawn under grandad, and fra' that an' other hints I knew she were in
th' family way; and I said nought, but I screwed up a little money,
thinking come Whitsuntide I'd take a holiday and go and see her an'
th' little one. But one day towards Whitsuntide comed Jennings wi' a
grave face, and says he, 'I hear our Frank and your Margaret's both
getten the fever.' You might ha' knocked me down wi' a straw, for
it seemed as if God told me what th' upshot would be. Old Jennings
had gotten a letter, yo see, fra' the landlady they lodged wi'; a
well-penned letter, asking if they'd no friends to come and nurse
them. She'd caught it first, and Frank, who was as tender o' her as
her own mother could ha' been, had nursed her till he'd caught it
himsel; and she expecting her down-lying [30] every day. Well, t'
make a long story short, Old Jennings and I went up by that night's
coach. So you see, Mary, that was the way I got to London."
[Footnote 30: "Down-lying," lying-in.]
"But how was your daughter when you got there?" asked Mary,
anxiously.
"She were at rest, poor wench, and so were Frank. I guessed as much
when I see'd th' landlady's face, all swelled wi' crying, when she
opened th' door to us. We said, 'Where are they?' and I knew they
were dead, fra' her look; but Jennings didn't, as I take it; for
when she showed us into a room wi' a white sheet on th' bed, and
underneath it, plain to be seen, two still figures, he screeched out
as if he'd been a woman.
"Yet he'd other childer and I'd none. There lay my darling, my only
one. She were dead, and there were no one to love me, no, not one. I
disremember [31] rightly what I did; but I know I were very quiet,
while my heart were crushed within me.
[Footnote 31: "Disremember," forget.]
"Jennings could na' stand being in th' room at all, so th' landlady
took him down, and I were glad to be alone. It grew dark while I sat
there; and at last th' landlady come up again, and said, 'Come here.'
So I got up and walked into th' light, but I had to hold by th'
stair-rails, I were so weak and dizzy. She led me into a room, where
Jennings lay on a sofa fast asleep, wi' his pocket handkercher over
his head for a night-cap. She said he'd cried himself fairly off
to sleep. There were tea on th' table all ready; for she were a
kind-hearted body. But she still said, 'Come here,' and took hold o'
my arm. So I went round the table, and there were a clothes-basket by
th' fire, wi' a shawl put o'er it. 'Lift that up,' says she, and I
did; and there lay a little wee babby fast asleep. My heart gave a
leap, and th' tears comed rushing into my eyes first time that day.
'Is it hers?' said I, though I knew it were. 'Yes,' said she. 'She
were getting a bit better o' the fever, and th' babby were born; and
then the poor young man took worse and died, and she were not many
hours behind.'
"Little mite of a thing! and yet it seemed her angel come back to
comfort me. I were quite jealous o' Jennings whenever he went near
the babby. I thought it were more my flesh and blood than his'n, and
yet I were afeared he would claim it. However, that were far enough
fra' his thoughts; he'd plenty other childer, and as I found out at
after he'd all along been wishing me to take it. Well, we buried
Margaret and her husband in a big, crowded, lonely churchyard in
London. I were loath to leave them there, as I thought, when they
rose again, they'd feel so strange at first away fra Manchester, and
all old friends; but it couldna be helped. Well, God watches o'er
their grave there as well as here. That funeral cost a mint o' money,
but Jennings and I wished to do th' thing decent. Then we'd the stout
little babby to bring home. We'd not overmuch money left; but it were
fine weather, and we thought we'd take th' coach to Brummagem, and
walk on. It were a bright May morning when last I saw London town,
looking back from a big hill a mile or two off. And in that big mass
o' a place I were leaving my blessed child asleep--in her last sleep.
Well, God's will be done! She's gotten to heaven afore me; but I
shall get there at last, please God, though it's a long while first.
"The babby had been fed afore we set out, and th' coach moving kept
it asleep, bless its little heart. But when th' coach stopped for
dinner it were awake, and crying for its pobbies. [32] So we asked
for some bread and milk, and Jennings took it first for to feed it;
but it made its mouth like a square, and let it run out at each o'
th' four corners. 'Shake it, Jennings,' says I; 'that's the way they
make water run through a funnel, when it's o'er full; and a child's
mouth is broad end o' th' funnel, and th' gullet the narrow one.' So
he shook it, but it only cried th' more. 'Let me have it,' says I,
thinking he were an awkward oud chap. But it were just as bad wi' me.
By shaking th' babby we got better nor a gill into its mouth, but
more nor that came up again, wetting a' th' nice dry clothes landlady
had put on. Well, just as we'd gotten to th' dinner-table, and helped
oursels, and eaten two mouthful, came in th' guard, and a fine chap
wi' a sample o' calico flourishing in his hand. 'Coach is ready!'
says one; 'Half-a-crown your dinner!' says th' other. Well, we
thought it a deal for both our dinners, when we'd hardly tasted 'em;
but, bless your life, it were half-a-crown apiece, and a shilling
for th' bread and milk as were possetted all over babby's clothes.
We spoke up again [33] it; but every body said it were the rule, so
what could two poor oud chaps like us do again it? Well, poor babby
cried without stopping to take breath, fra' that time till we got
to Brummagem for the night. My heart ached for th' little thing. It
caught wi' its wee mouth at our coat sleeves and at our mouths, when
we tried t' comfort it by talking to it. Poor little wench! It wanted
its mammy, as were lying cold in th' grave. 'Well,' says I, 'it'll
be clemmed to death, if it lets out its supper as it did its dinner.
Let's get some woman to feed it; it comes natural to women to do for
babbies.' So we asked th' chamber-maid at the inn, and she took quite
kindly to it; and we got a good supper, and grew rare and sleepy,
what wi' th' warmth, and wi' our long ride i' th' open air. Th'
chamber-maid said she would like t' have it t' sleep wi' her, only
missis would scold so; but it looked so quiet and smiling like, as it
lay in her arms, that we thought 'twould be no trouble to have it wi'
us. I says: 'See, Jennings, how women-folk do quieten babbies; it's
just as I said.' He looked grave; he were always thoughtful-looking,
though I never heard him say any thing very deep. At last says he--
[Footnote 32: "Pobbies," or "pobs," child's porridge.]
[Footnote 33: "Again," for against. "He that is not with me,
he is ageyn me."--_Wickliffe's Version._]
"'Young woman! have you gotten a spare night-cap?'
"'Missis always keeps night-caps for gentlemen as does not like to
unpack,' says she, rather quick.
"'Ay, but young woman, it's one of your night-caps I want. Th' babby
seems to have taken a mind to yo; and may be in th' dark it might
take me for yo if I'd getten your night-cap on.'
"The chambermaid smirked and went for a cap, but I laughed outright
at th' oud bearded chap thinking he'd make hissel like a woman just
by putting on a woman's cap. Howe'er he'd not be laughed out on't, so
I held th' babby till he were in bed. Such a night as we had on it!
Babby began to scream o' th' oud fashion, and we took it turn and
turn about to sit up and rock it. My heart were very sore for th'
little one, as it groped about wi' its mouth; but for a' that I could
scarce keep fra' smiling at th' thought o' us two oud chaps, th' one
wi' a woman's night-cap on, sitting on our hinder ends for half th'
night, hushabying a babby as wouldn't be hushabied. Toward morning,
poor little wench! it fell asleep, fairly tired out wi' crying, but
even in its sleep it gave such pitiful sobs, quivering up fra' the
very bottom of its little heart, that once or twice I almost wished
it lay on its mother's breast, at peace for ever. Jennings fell
asleep too; but I began for to reckon up our money. It were little
enough we had left, our dinner the day afore had ta'en so much. I
didn't know what our reckoning would be for that night lodging, and
supper, and breakfast. Doing a sum alway sent me asleep ever sin' I
were a lad; so I fell sound in a short time, and were only wakened by
chambermaid tapping at th' door, to say she'd dress the babby afore
her missis were up if we liked. But bless yo', we'd never thought o'
undressing it th' night afore, and now it were sleeping so sound, and
we were so glad o' the peace and quietness, that we thought it were
no good to waken it up to screech again.
"Well! (there's Mary asleep for a good listener!) I suppose you're
getting weary of my tale, so I'll not be long over ending it. Th'
reckoning left us very bare, and we thought we'd best walk home,
for it were only sixty mile, they telled us, and not stop again for
nought, save victuals. So we left Brummagem, (which is as black a
place as Manchester, without looking so like home), and walked a'
that day, carrying babby turn and turn about. It were well fed by
chambermaid afore we left, and th' day were fine, and folk began to
have some knowledge o' th' proper way o' speaking, and we were more
cheery at thoughts o' home (though mine, God knows, were lonesome
enough). We stopped none for dinner, but at baggin-time [34] we
getten a good meal at a public-house, an' fed th' babby as well as
we could, but that were but poorly. We got a crust too, for it to
suck--chambermaid put us up to that. That night, whether we were
tired or whatten, I don't know, but it were dree [35] work, and poor
wench had slept out her sleep, and began th' cry as wore my heart out
again. Says Jennings, says he,
[Footnote 34: "Baggin-time," time of the evening meal.]
[Footnote 35: "Dree," long and tedious. Anglo-Saxon, "dreogan,"
to suffer, to endure.]
"'We should na ha' set out so like gentlefolk a top o' the coach
yesterday.'
"'Nay, lad! We should ha' had more to walk, if we had na ridden, and
I'm sure both you and I'se [36] weary o' tramping.'
[Footnote 36: "I have not been, nor _is_, nor never
schal."--_Wickliffe's "Apology," p. 1._]
"So he were quiet a bit. But he were one o' them as were sure to find
out somewhat had been done amiss, when there were no going back to
undo it. So presently he coughs, as if he were going to speak, and
I says to mysel, 'At it again, my lad.' Says he,
"'I ax pardon, neighbour, but it strikes me it would ha' been better
for my son if he had never begun to keep company wi' your daughter.'
"Well! that put me up, and my heart got very full, and but that I
were carrying _her_ babby, I think I should ha' struck him. At last
I could hold in no longer, and says I,
"'Better say at once it would ha' been better for God never to ha'
made th' world, for then we'd never ha' been in it, to have had th'
heavy hearts we have now.'
"Well! he said that were rank blasphemy; but I thought his way of
casting up again th' events God had pleased to send, were worse
blasphemy. Howe'er, I said nought more angry, for th' little babby's
sake, as were th' child o' his dead son, as well as o' my dead
daughter.
"Th' longest lane will have a turning, and that night came to an end
at last; and we were foot-sore and tired enough, and to my mind th'
babby were getting weaker and weaker, and it wrung my heart to hear
its little wail; I'd ha' given my right hand for one of yesterday's
hearty cries. We were wanting our breakfasts, and so were it too,
motherless babby! We could see no public-house, so about six o'clock
(only we thought it were later) we stopped at a cottage where a woman
were moving about near th' open door. Says I, 'Good woman, may we
rest us a bit?' 'Come in,' says she, wiping a chair, as looked bright
enough afore, wi' her apron. It were a cheery, clean room; and we
were glad to sit down again, though I thought my legs would never
bend at th' knees. In a minute she fell a noticing th' babby, and
took it in her arms, and kissed it again and again. 'Missis,' says I,
'we're not without money, and if yo'd give us somewhat for breakfast,
we'd pay yo honest, and if yo would wash and dress that poor babby,
and get some pobbies down its throat, for it's well-nigh clemmed, I'd
pray for yo' till my dying day.' So she said nought, but gived me th'
babby back, and afore yo' could say Jack Robinson, she'd a pan on th'
fire, and bread and cheese on th' table. When she turned round, her
face looked red, and her lips were tight pressed together. Well! we
were right down glad on our breakfast, and God bless and reward that
woman for her kindness that day; she fed th' poor babby as gently
and softly, and spoke to it as tenderly as its own poor mother could
ha' done. It seemed as if that stranger and it had known each other
afore, maybe in Heaven, where folk's spirits come from they say; th'
babby looked up so lovingly in her eyes, and made little noises more
like a dove than aught else. Then she undressed it (poor darling! it
were time), touching it so softly; and washed it from head to foot,
and as many on its things were dirty; and what bits o' things its
mother had gotten ready for it had been sent by th' carrier fra
London, she put 'em aside; and wrapping little naked babby in her
apron, she pulled out a key, as were fastened to a black ribbon, and
hung down her breast, and unlocked a drawer in th' dresser. I were
sorry to be prying, but I could na' help seeing in that drawer some
little child's clothes, all strewed wi' lavendar, and lying by 'em
a little whip an' a broken rattle. I began to have an insight into
that woman's heart then. She took out a thing or two; and locked the
drawer, and went on dressing babby. Just about then come her husband
down, a great big fellow as didn't look half awake, though it were
getting late; but he'd heard all as had been said down-stairs, as
were plain to be seen; but he were a gruff chap. We'd finished our
breakfast, and Jennings were looking hard at th' woman as she were
getting the babby to sleep wi' a sort of rocking way. At length says
he, 'I ha learnt th' way now; it's two jiggits and a shake, two
jiggits and a shake. I can get that babby asleep now mysel.'
"The man had nodded cross enough to us, and had gone to th' door, and
stood there whistling wi' his hands in his breeches-pockets, looking
abroad. But at last he turns and says, quite sharp,
"'I say, missis, I'm to have no breakfast to-day, I s'pose.'
"So wi' that she kissed th' child, a long, soft kiss; and looking in
my face to see if I could take her meaning, gave me th' babby without
a word. I were loath to stir, but I saw it were better to go. So
giving Jennings a sharp nudge (for he'd fallen asleep), I says,
'Missis, what's to pay?' pulling out my money wi' a jingle that she
might na guess we were at all bare o' cash. So she looks at her
husband, who said ne'er a word, but were listening wi' all his ears
nevertheless; and when she saw he would na say, she said, hesitating,
as if pulled two ways, by her fear o' him, 'Should you think sixpence
over much?' It were so different to public-house reckoning, for we'd
eaten a main deal afore the chap came down. So says I, 'And, missis,
what should we gie you for the babby's bread and milk?' (I had it
once in my mind to say 'and for a' your trouble with it,' but my
heart would na let me say it, for I could read in her ways how it had
been a work o' love.) So says she, quite quick, and stealing a look
at her husband's back, as looked all ear, if ever a back did, 'Oh, we
could take nought for the little babby's food, if it had eaten twice
as much, bless it.' Wi' that he looked at her; such a scowling look!
She knew what he meant, and stepped softly across the floor to him,
and put her hand on his arm. He seem'd as though he'd shake it off
by a jerk on his elbow, but she said quite low, 'For poor little
Johnnie's sake, Richard.' He did not move or speak again, and after
looking in his face for a minute, she turned away, swallowing deep in
her throat. She kissed th' sleeping babby as she passed, when I paid
her. To quieten th' gruff husband, and stop him if he rated her, I
could na help slipping another sixpence under th' loaf, and then we
set off again. Last look I had o' that woman she were quietly wiping
her eyes wi' the corner of her apron, as she went about her husband's
breakfast. But I shall know her in heaven."
He stopped to think of that long-ago May morning, when he had carried
his grand-daughter under the distant hedge-rows and beneath the
flowering sycamores.
"There's nought more to say, wench," said he to Margaret, as she
begged him to go on. "That night we reached Manchester, and I'd found
out that Jennings would be glad enough to give up babby to me, so I
took her home at once, and a blessing she's been to me."
They were all silent for a few minutes; each following out the
current of their thoughts. Then, almost simultaneously, their
attention fell upon Mary. Sitting on her little stool, her head
resting on her father's knee, and sleeping as soundly as any infant,
her breath (still like an infant's) came and went as softly as a bird
steals to her leafy nest. Her half-open mouth was as scarlet as the
winter-berries, and contrasted finely with the clear paleness of
her complexion, where the eloquent blood flushed carnation at each
motion. Her black eye-lashes lay on the delicate cheek, which was
still more shaded by the masses of her golden hair, that seemed to
form a nest-like pillow for her as she lay. Her father in fond pride
straightened one glossy curl, for an instant, as if to display its
length and silkiness. The little action awoke her, and, like nine out
of ten people in similar circumstances, she exclaimed, opening her
eyes to their fullest extent,
"I'm not asleep. I've been awake all the time."
Even her father could not keep from smiling, and Job Legh and
Margaret laughed outright.
"Come, wench," said Job, "don't look so gloppened [37] because
thou'st fallen asleep while an oud chap like me was talking on oud
times. It were like enough to send thee to sleep. Try if thou canst
keep thine eyes open while I read thy father a bit on a poem as is
written by a weaver like oursel. A rare chap I'll be bound is he who
could weave verse like this."
[Footnote 37: "Gloppened," amazed, frightened.]
So adjusting his spectacles on nose, cocking his chin, crossing his
legs, and coughing to clear his voice, he read aloud a little poem of
Samuel Bamford's [38] he had picked up somewhere.
[Footnote 38: The fine-spirited author of "Passages in the Life
of a Radical"--a man who illustrates his order,
and shows what nobility may be in a cottage.]
God help the poor, who, on this wintry morn,
Come forth from alleys dim and courts obscure.
God help yon poor pale girl, who droops forlorn,
And meekly her affliction doth endure;
God help her, outcast lamb; she trembling stands,
All wan her lips, and frozen red her hands;
Her sunken eyes are modestly down-cast,
Her night-black hair streams on the fitful blast;
Her bosom, passing fair, is half revealed,
And oh! so cold, the snow lies there congealed;
Her feet benumbed, her shoes all rent and worn,
God help thee, outcast lamb, who standst forlorn!
God help the poor!
God help the poor! An infant's feeble wail
Comes from yon narrow gateway, and behold!
A female crouching there, so deathly pale,
Huddling her child, to screen it from the cold;
Her vesture scant, her bonnet crushed and torn;
A thin shawl doth her baby dear enfold:
And so she 'bides the ruthless gale of morn,
Which almost to her heart hath sent its cold.
And now she, sudden, darts a ravening look,
As one, with new hot bread, goes past the nook;
And, as the tempting load is onward borne,
She weeps. God help thee, helpless one, forlorn!
God help the poor!
God help the poor! Behold yon famished lad,
No shoes, nor hose, his wounded feet protect;
With limping gait, and looks so dreamy sad,
He wanders onward, stopping to inspect
Each window, stored with articles of food.
He yearns but to enjoy one cheering meal;
Oh! to the hungry palate, viands rude,
Would yield a zest the famished only feel!
He now devours a crust of mouldy bread;
With teeth and hands the precious boon is torn;
Unmindful of the storm that round his head
Impetuous sweeps. God help thee, child forlorn!
God help the poor!
God help the poor! Another have I found--
A bowed and venerable man is he;
His slouched hat with faded crape is bound;
His coat is gray, and threadbare too, I see.
"The rude winds" seem "to mock his hoary hair;"
His shirtless bosom to the blast is bare.
Anon he turns and casts a wistful eye,
And with scant napkin wipes the blinding spray;
And looks around, as if he fain would spy
Friends he had feasted in his better day:
Ah! some are dead; and some have long forborne
To know the poor; and he is left forlorn!
God help the poor!
God help the poor, who in lone valleys dwell,
Or by far hills, where whin and heather grow;
Theirs is a story sad indeed to tell,
Yet little cares the world, and less 't would know
About the toil and want men undergo.
The wearying loom doth call them up at morn,
They work till worn-out nature sinks to sleep,
They taste, but are not fed. The snow drifts deep
Around the fireless cot, and blocks the door;
The night-storm howls a dirge across the moor;
And shall they perish thus--oppressed and lorn?
Shall toil and famine, hopeless, still be borne?
No! God will yet arise, and help the poor.
"Amen!" said Barton, solemnly, and sorrowfully. "Mary! wench, couldst
thou copy me them lines, dost think?--that's to say, if Job there has
no objection."
"Not I. More they're heard and read and the better, say I."
So Mary took the paper. And the next day, on the blank half sheet
of a valentine, all bordered with hearts and darts--a valentine she
had once suspected to come from Jem Wilson--she copied Bamford's
beautiful little poem.