A VIOLENT MEETING BETWEEN THE RIVALS.
"What thoughtful heart can look into this gulf
That darkly yawns 'twixt rich and poor,
And not find food for saddest meditation!
Can see, without a pang of keenest grief,
Them fiercely battling (like some natural foes)
Whom God had made, with help and sympathy,
To stand as brothers, side by side, united!
Where is the wisdom that shall bridge this gulf,
And bind them once again in trust and love?"
"LOVE-TRUTHS."
We must return to John Barton. Poor John! He never got over his
disappointing journey to London. The deep mortification he then
experienced (with, perhaps, as little selfishness for its cause as
mortification ever had) was of no temporary nature; indeed, few of
his feelings were.
Then came a long period of bodily privation; of daily hunger after
food; and though he tried to persuade himself he could bear want
himself with stoical indifference, and did care about it as little
as most men, yet the body took its revenge for its uneasy feelings.
The mind became soured and morose, and lost much of its equipoise.
It was no longer elastic, as in the days of youth, or in times of
comparative happiness; it ceased to hope. And it is hard to live on
when one can no longer hope.
The same state of feeling which John Barton entertained, if belonging
to one who had had leisure to think of such things, and physicians to
give names to them, would have been called monomania; so haunting, so
incessant, were the thoughts that pressed upon him. I have somewhere
read a forcibly described punishment among the Italians, worthy of a
Borgia. The supposed or real criminal was shut up in a room, supplied
with every convenience and luxury; and at first mourned little
over his imprisonment. But day by day he became aware that the
space between the walls of his apartment was narrowing, and then
he understood the end. Those painted walls would come into hideous
nearness, and at last crush the life out of him.
And so day by day, nearer and nearer, came the diseased thoughts of
John Barton. They excluded the light of heaven, the cheering sounds
of earth. They were preparing his death.
It is true, much of their morbid power might be ascribed to the use
of opium. But before you blame too harshly this use, or rather abuse,
try a hopeless life, with daily cravings of the body for food. Try,
not alone being without hope yourself, but seeing all around you
reduced to the same despair, arising from the same circumstances; all
around you telling (though they use no words or language), by their
looks and feeble actions, that they are suffering and sinking under
the pressure of want. Would you not be glad to forget life, and its
burdens? And opium gives forgetfulness for a time.
It is true they who thus purchase it pay dearly for their oblivion;
but can you expect the uneducated to count the cost of their whistle?
Poor wretches! They pay a heavy price. Days of oppressive weariness
and languor, whose realities have the feeble sickliness of dreams;
nights, whose dreams are fierce realities of agony; sinking health,
tottering frames, incipient madness, and worse, the _consciousness_
of incipient madness; this is the price of their whistle. But have
you taught them the science of consequences?
John Barton's overpowering thought, which was to work out his fate on
earth, was rich and poor; why are they so separate, so distinct, when
God has made them all? It is not His will, that their interests are
so far apart. Whose doing is it?
And so on into the problems and mysteries of life, until, bewildered
and lost, unhappy and suffering, the only feeling that remained clear
and undisturbed in the tumult of his heart, was hatred to the one
class and keen sympathy with the other.
But what availed his sympathy? No education had given him wisdom;
and without wisdom, even love, with all its effects, too often
works but harm. He acted to the best of his judgment, but it was a
widely-erring judgment.
The actions of the uneducated seem to me typified in those of
Frankenstein, that monster of many human qualities, ungifted with a
soul, a knowledge of the difference between good and evil.
The people rise up to life; they irritate us, they terrify us, and we
become their enemies. Then, in the sorrowful moment of our triumphant
power, their eyes gaze on us with a mute reproach. Why have we made
them what they are; a powerful monster, yet without the inner means
for peace and happiness?
John Barton became a Chartist, a Communist, all that is commonly
called wild and visionary. Ay! but being visionary is something. It
shows a soul, a being not altogether sensual; a creature who looks
forward for others, if not for himself.
And with all his weakness he had a sort of practical power, which
made him useful to the bodies of men to whom he belonged. He had a
ready kind of rough Lancashire eloquence, arising out of the fulness
of his heart, which was very stirring to men similarly circumstanced,
who liked to hear their feelings put into words. He had a pretty
clear head at times, for method and arrangement; a necessary talent
to large combinations of men. And what perhaps more than all made him
relied upon and valued, was the consciousness which every one who
came in contact with him felt, that he was actuated by no selfish
motives; that his class, his order, was what he stood by, not the
rights of his own paltry self. For even in great and noble men, as
soon as self comes into prominent existence, it becomes a mean and
paltry thing.
A little time before this, there had come one of those occasions for
deliberation among the employed, which deeply interested John Barton;
and the discussions concerning which had caused his frequent absence
from home of late.
I am not sure if I can express myself in the technical terms of
either masters or workmen, but I will try simply to state the case on
which the latter deliberated.
An order for coarse goods came in from a new foreign market. It was
a large order, giving employment to all the mills engaged in that
species of manufacture: but it was necessary to execute it speedily,
and at as low prices as possible, as the masters had reason to
believe a duplicate order had been sent to one of the continental
manufacturing towns, where there were no restrictions on food, no
taxes on building or machinery, and where consequently they dreaded
that the goods could be made at a much lower price than they could
afford them for; and that, by so acting and charging, the rival
manufacturers would obtain undivided possession of the market. It was
clearly their interest to buy cotton as cheaply, and to beat down
wages as low as possible. And in the long run the interests of the
workmen would have been thereby benefited. Distrust each other as
they may, the employers and the employed must rise or fall together.
There may be some difference as to chronology, none as to fact.
But the masters did not choose to make all these facts known. They
stood upon being the masters, and that they had a right to order work
at their own prices, and they believed that in the present depression
of trade, and unemployment of hands, there would be no great
difficulty in getting it done.
Now let us turn to the workmen's view of the question. The masters
(of the tottering foundation of whose prosperity they were ignorant)
seemed doing well, and like gentlemen, "lived at home in ease," while
they were starving, gasping on from day to day; and there was a
foreign order to be executed, the extent of which, large as it was,
was greatly exaggerated; and it was to be done speedily. Why were the
masters offering such low wages under these circumstances? Shame
upon them! It was taking advantage of their work-people being almost
starved; but they would starve entirely rather than come into such
terms. It was bad enough to be poor, while by the labour of their
thin hands, the sweat of their brows, the masters were made rich; but
they would not be utterly ground down to dust. No! they would fold
their hands, and sit idle, and smile at the masters, whom even in
death they could baffle. With Spartan endurance they determined to
let the employers know their power, by refusing to work.
So class distrusted class, and their want of mutual confidence
wrought sorrow to both. The masters would not be bullied, and
compelled to reveal why they felt it wisest and best to offer only
such low wages; they would not be made to tell that they were even
sacrificing capital to obtain a decisive victory over the continental
manufacturers. And the workmen sat silent and stern with folded
hands, refusing to work for such pay. There was a strike in
Manchester.
Of course it was succeeded by the usual consequences. Many other
Trades' Unions, connected with different branches of business,
supported with money, countenance, and encouragement of every kind,
the stand which the Manchester power-loom weavers were making against
their masters. Delegates from Glasgow, from Nottingham, and other
towns, were sent to Manchester, to keep up the spirit of resistance;
a committee was formed, and all the requisite officers elected;
chairman, treasurer, honorary secretary:--among them was John Barton.
The masters, meanwhile, took their measures. They placarded the walls
with advertisements for power-loom weavers. The workmen replied by
a placard in still larger letters, stating their grievances. The
masters met daily in town, to mourn over the time (so fast slipping
away) for the fulfilment of the foreign orders; and to strengthen
each other in their resolution not to yield. If they gave up now,
they might give up always. It would never do. And amongst the
most energetic of the masters, the Carsons, father and son, took
their places. It is well known, that there is no religionist so
zealous as a convert; no masters so stern, and regardless of the
interests of their work-people, as those who have risen from such a
station themselves. This would account for the elder Mr. Carson's
determination not to be bullied into yielding; not even to be bullied
into giving reasons for acting as the masters did. It was the
employer's will, and that should be enough for the employed. Harry
Carson did not trouble himself much about the grounds for his
conduct. He liked the excitement of the affair. He liked the attitude
of resistance. He was brave, and he liked the idea of personal
danger, with which some of the more cautious tried to intimidate the
violent among the masters.
Meanwhile, the power-loom weavers living in the more remote parts
of Lancashire, and the neighbouring counties, heard of the masters'
advertisements for workmen; and in their solitary dwellings grew
weary of starvation, and resolved to come to Manchester. Foot-sore,
way-worn, half-starved looking men they were, as they tried to steal
into town in the early dawn, before people were astir, or late in the
dusk of evening. And now began the real wrong-doing of the Trades'
Unions. As to their decision to work, or not, at such a particular
rate of wages, that was either wise or unwise; all error of judgment
at the worst. But they had no right to tyrannise over others, and
tie them down to their own procrustean bed. Abhorring what they
considered oppression in the masters, why did they oppress others?
Because, when men get excited, they know not what they do. Judge,
then, with something of the mercy of the Holy One, whom we all love.
In spite of policemen set to watch over the safety of the poor
country weavers,--in spite of magistrates, and prisons, and severe
punishments,--the poor depressed men tramping in from Burnley,
Padiham, and other places, to work at the condemned "Starvation
Prices," were waylaid, and beaten, and left almost for dead by the
road-side. The police broke up every lounging knot of men:--they
separated quietly, to reunite half-a-mile further out of town.
Of course the feeling between the masters and workmen did not improve
under these circumstances.
Combination is an awful power. It is like the equally mighty agency
of steam; capable of almost unlimited good or evil. But to obtain
a blessing on its labours, it must work under the direction of a
high and intelligent will; incapable of being misled by passion, or
excitement. The will of the operatives had not been guided to the
calmness of wisdom.
So much for generalities. Let us now return to individuals.
A note, respectfully worded, although its tone of determination was
strong, had been sent from the power-loom weavers, requesting that a
"deputation" of them might have a meeting with the masters, to state
the conditions they must have fulfilled before they would end the
turn-out. They thought they had attained a sufficiently commanding
position to dictate. John Barton was appointed one of the deputation.
The masters agreed to this meeting, being anxious to end the strife,
although undetermined among themselves how far they should yield, or
whether they should yield at all. Some of the old, whose experience
had taught them sympathy, were for concession. Others, white-headed
men too, had only learnt hardness and obstinacy from the days of the
years of their lives, and sneered at the more gentle and yielding.
The younger men were one and all for an unflinching resistance to
claims urged with so much violence. Of this party Harry Carson was
the leader.
But like all energetic people, the more he had to do the more time
he seemed to find. With all his letter-writing, his calling, his
being present at the New Bailey, when investigations of any case
of violence against knob-sticks [44] were going on, he beset Mary
more than ever. She was weary of her life for him. From blandishments
he had even gone to threats--threats that whether she would or
not she should be his; he showed an indifference that was almost
insulting to every thing that might attract attention and injure her
character.
[Footnote 44: "Knob-sticks," those who consent to work at
lower wages.]
And still she never saw Jem. She knew he had returned home. She heard
of him occasionally through his cousin, who roved gaily from house to
house, finding and making friends everywhere. But she never saw him.
What was she to think? Had he given her up? Were a few hasty words,
spoken in a moment of irritation, to stamp her lot through life? At
times she thought that she could bear this meekly, happy in her own
constant power of loving. For of change or of forgetfulness she did
not dream. Then at other times her state of impatience was such, that
it required all her self-restraint to prevent her from going and
seeking him out, and (as man would do to man, or woman to woman)
begging him to forgive her hasty words, and allow her to retract
them, and bidding him accept of the love that was filling her whole
heart. She wished Margaret had not advised her against such a manner
of proceeding; she believed it was her friend's words that seemed to
make such a simple action impossible, in spite of all the internal
urgings. But a friend's advice is only thus powerful, when it puts
into language the secret oracle of our souls. It was the whisperings
of her womanly nature that caused her to shrink from any unmaidenly
action, not Margaret's counsel.
All this time, this ten days or so, of Will's visit to Manchester,
there was something going on which interested Mary even now, and
which, in former times, would have exceedingly amused and excited
her. She saw as clearly as if told in words, that the merry, random,
boisterous sailor had fallen deeply in love with the quiet, prim,
somewhat plain Margaret: she doubted if Margaret was aware of it, and
yet, as she watched more closely, she began to think some instinct
made the blind girl feel whose eyes were so often fixed upon her
pale face; that some inner feeling made the delicate and becoming
rose-flush steal over her countenance. She did not speak so decidedly
as before; there was a hesitation in her manner, that seemed to make
her very attractive; as if something softer, more loveable than
excellent sense, were coming in as a motive for speech; her eyes had
always been soft, and were in no ways disfigured by her blindness,
and now seemed to have a new charm, as they quivered under their
white down-cast lids. She must be conscious, thought Mary,--heart
answering heart.
Will's love had no blushings, no downcast eyes, no weighing of words;
it was as open and undisguised as his nature; yet he seemed afraid
of the answer its acknowledgment might meet with. It was Margaret's
angelic voice that had entranced him, and which made him think of her
as a being of some other sphere, that he feared to woo. So he tried
to propitiate Job in all manner of ways. He went over to Liverpool to
rummage in his great sea-chest for the flying-fish (no very odorous
present by the way). He hesitated over a child's caul for some time,
which was, in his eyes, a far greater treasure than any Exocetus.
What use could it be of to a landsman? Then Margaret's voice rang
in his ears; and he determined to sacrifice it, his most precious
possession, to one whom she loved, as she did her grandfather.
It was rather a relief to him, when, having put it and the
flying-fish together in a brown paper parcel, and sat upon them
for security all the way in the railroad, he found that Job was so
indifferent to the precious caul, that he might easily claim it
again. He hung about Margaret, till he had received many warnings and
reproaches from his conscience in behalf of his dear aunt Alice's
claims upon his time. He went away, and then he bethought him of some
other little word with Job. And he turned back, and stood talking
once more in Margaret's presence, door in hand, only waiting for some
little speech of encouragement to come in and sit down again. But as
the invitation was not given, he was forced to leave at last, and go
and do his duty.
Four days had Jem Wilson watched for Mr. Harry Carson without
success; his hours of going and returning to his home were so
irregular, owing to the meetings and consultations among the masters,
which were rendered necessary by the turn-out. On the fifth, without
any purpose on Jem's part, they met.
It was the workmen's dinner-hour, the interval between twelve and
one; when the streets of Manchester are comparatively quiet, for
a few shopping ladies and lounging gentlemen count for nothing in
that busy, bustling, living place. Jem had been on an errand for his
master, instead of returning to his dinner; and in passing along a
lane, a road (called, in compliment to the intentions of some future
builder, a street), he encountered Harry Carson, the only person, as
far as he saw beside himself, treading the unfrequented path. Along
one side ran a high broad fence, blackened over by coal-tar, and
spiked and stuck with pointed nails at the top, to prevent any one
from climbing over into the garden beyond. By this fence was the
foot-path. The carriage road was such as no carriage, no, not even a
cart, could possibly have passed along, without Hercules to assist
in lifting it out of the deep clay ruts. On the other side of the
way was a dead brick wall; and a field after that, where there was a
sawpit, and joiner's shed.
Jem's heart beat violently when he saw the gay, handsome young man
approaching, with a light, buoyant step. This, then, was he whom Mary
loved. It was, perhaps, no wonder; for he seemed to the poor smith
so elegant, so well-appointed, that he felt his superiority in
externals, strangely and painfully, for an instant. Then something
uprose within him, and told him, that "a man's a man for a' that,
for a' that, and twice as much as a' that." And he no longer felt
troubled by the outward appearance of his rival.
Harry Carson came on, lightly bounding over the dirty places with
almost a lad's buoyancy. To his surprise the dark, sturdy-looking
artisan stopped him by saying respectfully,
"May I speak a word wi' you, sir?"
"Certainly, my good man," looking his astonishment; then finding that
the promised speech did not come very quickly, he added, "But make
haste, for I'm in a hurry."
Jem had cast about for some less abrupt way of broaching the subject
uppermost in his mind than he now found himself obliged to use. With
a husky voice that trembled as he spoke, he said,
"I think, sir, yo're keeping company wi' a young woman called Mary
Barton?"
A light broke in upon Harry Carson's mind, and he paused before he
gave the answer for which the other waited.
Could this man be a lover of Mary's? And (strange, stinging thought)
could he be beloved by her, and so have caused her obstinate
rejection of himself? He looked at Jem from head to foot, a black,
grimy mechanic, in dirty fustian clothes, strongly built, and awkward
(according to the dancing-master); then he glanced at himself, and
recalled the reflection he had so lately quitted in his bed-room.
It was impossible. No woman with eyes could choose the one when the
other wooed. It was Hyperion to a Satyr. That quotation came aptly;
he forgot "That a man's a man for a' that." And yet here was a clue,
which he had often wanted, to her changed conduct towards him. If she
loved this man. If-- he hated the fellow, and longed to strike him.
He would know all.
"Mary Barton! let me see. Ay, that is the name of the girl. An arrant
flirt, the little hussy is; but very pretty. Ay, Mary Barton is her
name."
Jem bit his lips. Was it then so; that Mary was a flirt, the giddy
creature of whom he spoke? He would not believe it, and yet how he
wished the suggestive words unspoken. That thought must keep now,
though. Even if she were, the more reason for there being some one to
protect her; poor, faulty darling.
"She's a good girl, sir, though may be a bit set up with her beauty;
but she's her father's only child, sir, and--" he stopped; he did
not like to express suspicion, and yet he was determined he would be
certain there was ground for none. What should he say?
"Well, my fine fellow, and what have I to do with that? It's but loss
of my time, and yours, too, if you've only stopped me to tell me Mary
Barton is very pretty; I know that well enough."
He seemed as though he would have gone on, but Jem put his black,
working, right hand upon his arm to detain him. The haughty young man
shook it off, and with his glove pretended to brush away the sooty
contamination that might be left upon his light great-coat sleeve.
The little action aroused Jem.
"I will tell you in plain words what I have got to say to you, young
man. It's been telled me by one as knows, and has seen, that you walk
with this same Mary Barton, and are known to be courting her; and her
as spoke to me about it, thinks as how Mary loves you. That may be,
or may not. But I'm an old friend of hers, and her father's; and I
just wished to know if you mean to marry the girl. Spite of what you
said of her lightness, I ha' known her long enough to be sure she'll
make a noble wife for any one, let him be what he may; and I mean
to stand by her like a brother; and if you mean rightly, you'll not
think the worse on me for what I've now said; and if--but no, I'll
not say what I'll do to the man who wrongs a hair of her head. He
shall rue it the longest day he lives, that's all. Now, sir, what
I ask of you is this. If you mean fair and honourable by her, well
and good; but if not, for your own sake as well as hers, leave her
alone, and never speak to her more." Jem's voice quivered with the
earnestness with which he spoke, and he eagerly waited for some
answer.
Harry Carson, meanwhile, instead of attending very particularly to
the purpose the man had in addressing him, was trying to gather from
his speech what was the real state of the case. He succeeded so far
as to comprehend that Jem inclined to believe that Mary loved his
rival; and consequently, that if the speaker were attached to her
himself, he was not a favoured admirer. The idea came into Mr.
Carson's mind, that perhaps, after all, Mary loved him in spite of
her frequent and obstinate rejections; and that she had employed this
person (whoever he was) to bully him into marrying her. He resolved
to try and ascertain more correctly the man's relation to her. Either
he was a lover, and if so, not a favoured one (in which case Mr.
Carson could not at all understand the man's motives for interesting
himself in securing her marriage); or he was a friend, an accomplice,
whom she had employed to bully him. So little faith in goodness have
the mean and selfish!
"Before I make you into my confidant, my good man," said Mr. Carson,
in a contemptuous tone, "I think it might be as well to inquire your
right to meddle with our affairs. Neither Mary nor I, as I conceive,
called you in as a mediator." He paused; he wanted a distinct answer
to this last supposition. None came; so he began to imagine he was to
be threatened into some engagement, and his angry spirit rose.
"And so, my fine fellow, you will have the kindness to leave us to
ourselves, and not meddle with what does not concern you. If you were
a brother, or father of hers, the case might have been different. As
it is, I can only consider you an impertinent meddler."
Again he would have passed on, but Jem stood in a determined way
before him, saying,
"You say if I had been her brother, or her father, you'd have
answered me what I ask. Now, neither father nor brother could love
her as I have loved her, ay, and as I love her still; if love gives a
right to satisfaction, it's next to impossible any one breathing can
come up to my right. Now, sir, tell me! do you mean fair by Mary or
not? I've proved my claim to know, and, by G----, I will know."
"Come, come, no impudence," replied Mr. Carson, who, having
discovered what he wanted to know (namely, that Jem was a lover of
Mary's, and that she was not encouraging his suit), wished to pass
on.
"Father, brother, or rejected lover" (with an emphasis on the word
rejected), "no one has a right to interfere between my little
girl and me. No one shall. Confound you, man! get out of my way,
or I'll make you," as Jem still obstructed his path with dogged
determination.
"I won't, then, till you've given me your word about Mary," replied
the mechanic, grinding his words out between his teeth, and the livid
paleness of the anger he could no longer keep down covering his face
till he looked ghastly.
"Won't you?" (with a taunting laugh), "then I'll make you." The young
man raised his slight cane, and smote the artisan across the face
with a stinging stroke. An instant afterwards he lay stretched in the
muddy road, Jem standing over him, panting with rage. What he would
have done next in his moment of ungovernable passion, no one knows;
but a policeman from the main street, into which this road led, had
been sauntering about for some time, unobserved by either of the
parties, and expecting some kind of conclusion like the present to
the violent discussion going on between the two young men. In a
minute he had pinioned Jem, who sullenly yielded to the surprise.
Mr. Carson was on his feet directly, his face glowing with rage or
shame.
"Shall I take him to the lock-ups for assault, sir?" said the
policeman.
"No, no," exclaimed Mr. Carson; "I struck him first. It was no
assault on his side; though," he continued, hissing out his words
to Jem, who even hated freedom procured for him, however justly, at
the intervention of his rival, "I will never forgive or forget your
insult. Trust me," he gasped the words in excess of passion, "Mary
shall fare no better for your insolent interference." He laughed, as
if with the consciousness of power.
Jem replied with equal excitement--"And if you dare to injure her in
the least, I will await you where no policeman can step in between.
And God shall judge between us two."
The policeman now interfered with persuasions and warnings. He locked
his arm in Jem's to lead him away in an opposite direction to that in
which he saw Mr. Carson was going. Jem submitted gloomily, for a few
steps, then wrenched himself free. The policeman shouted after him,
"Take care, my man! there's no girl on earth worth what you'll be
bringing on yourself if you don't mind."
But Jem was out of hearing.