IX. 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 therain to waken up the flowers. But in Manchester, where, alas! thereare no flowers, the rain had only a disheartening and gloomy effect;the streets were wet and dirty, the drippings from the houses werewet and dirty, and the people were wet and dirty. Indeed, most keptwithin doors; and there was an unusual silence of footsteps in thelittle paved courts.
Mary had to change her clothes after her walk home; and had hardlysettled herself before she heard some one fumbling at the door. Thenoise continued long enough to allow her to get up, and go and openit. There stood--could it be? yes it was, her father!
Drenched and wayworn, there he stood! He came in with no word toMary in return for her cheery and astonished greeting. He sat downby the fire in his wet things, unheeding. But Mary would not lethim so rest. She ran up and brought down his working-day clothes,and went into the pantry to rummage up their little bit of provisionwhile he changed by the fire, talking all the while as gaily as shecould, though her father's depression hung like lead on her heart.
For Mary, in her seclusion at Miss Simmonds',--where the chief talkwas of fashions, and dress, and parties to be given, for which suchand such gowns would be wanted, varied with a slight-whisperedinterlude occasionally about love and lovers--had not heard thepolitical news of the day; that Parliament had refused to listen tothe working-men, when they petitioned, with all the force of theirrough, untutored words, to be heard concerning the distress whichwas riding, like the Conqueror on his Pale Horse, among the people;which was crushing their lives out of them, and stamping woe-marksover the land.
When he had eaten and was refreshed, they sat for some time insilence; for Mary wished him to tell her what oppressed him so, yetdurst not ask. In this she was wise; for when we are heavy-laden inour hearts it falls in better with our humour to reveal our case inour own way, and our own time.
Mary sat on a stool at her father's feet in old childish guise, andstole 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 soweighed down her father's heart. She pressed his hand with silentsympathy. She did not know what to say, and was so afraid ofspeaking wrongly, that she was silent. But when his attitude hadremained unchanged for more than half-an-hour, his eyes gazingvacantly and fixedly at the fire, no sound but now and then a deep-drawn sigh to break the weary ticking of the clock, and thedrip-drop from the roof without, Mary could bear it no longer.Anything to rouse her father. Even bad news.
"Father, do you know George Wilson's dead?" (Her hand was suddenlyand almost violently compressed.) "He dropped down dead in OxfordRoad yester morning. It's very sad, isn't it, father?"
Her tears were ready to flow as she looked up in her father's facefor sympathy. Still the same fixed look of despair, not varied bygrief 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 tellMargaret that she need not come to sleep with her to-night, butreally to ask Job Legh to come and cheer her father.
She stopped outside the door. Margaret was practising her singing,and through the still night air her voice rang out, like that of anangel--
"Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people, saith your God."
The old Hebrew prophetic words fell like dew on Mary's heart. Shecould not interrupt. She stood listening and "comforted," till thelittle buzz of conversation again began, and then entered and toldher errand.
Both grandfather and grand-daughter rose instantly to fulfil herrequest.
"He's just tired out, Mary," said old Job. "He'll be a differentman to-morrow."
There is no describing the looks and tones that have power over anaching, heavy-laden heart; but in an hour or so John Barton wastalking away as freely as ever, though all his talk ran, as wasnatural, on the disappointment of his fond hope, of the forlorn hopeof many.
"Ay, London's a fine place," said he, "and finer folk live in itthan I ever thought on, or ever heerd tell on except in th'storybooks. They are having their good things now, that afterwardsthey may be tormented."
Still at the old parable of Dives and Lazarus! Does it haunt theminds of the rich as it does those of the poor?
"Do tell us all about London, dear father," asked Mary, who wassitting at her old post by her father's knee.
"How can I tell yo a' about it, when I never see'd one-tenth of it.It's as big as six Manchesters, they telled me. One-sixth may bemade up o' grand palaces, and three-sixths o' middling kind, and th'rest o' holes o' iniquity and filth, such as Manchester knows noughton, I'm glad to say."
"Well, father, but did you see the Queen?"
"I believe I didn't, though one day I thought I'd seen her many atime. You see," said he, turning to Job Legh, "there were a dayappointed for us to go to Parliament House. We were most on usbiding at a public-house in Holborn, where they did very well forus. Th' morning of taking our petition we had such a spread forbreakfast as th' Queen hersel might ha' sitten down to. I supposethey thought we wanted putting in heart. There were mutton kidneys,and sausages, and broiled ham, and fried beef and onions; more likea dinner nor a breakfast. Many on our chaps though, I could see,could eat but little. Th' food stuck in their throats when theythought o' them at home, wives and little ones, as had, maybe atthat very time, nought to eat. Well, after breakfast, we were allset 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 theforemost pairs. The men looked grave enough, yo may be sure andsuch 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 andon through many a street, much the same as Deansgate. We had towalk slowly, slowly, for th' carriages an' cabs as thronged th'streets. I thought by-and-bye we should maybe get clear on 'em, butas the streets grew wider they grew worse, and at last we werefairly blocked up at Oxford Street. We getten across it after awhile though, and my eyes! the grand streets we were in then!They're sadly puzzled how to build houses though in London there'dbe an opening for a good steady master builder there, as know'd hisbusiness. For yo see the houses are many on 'em built without anyproper shape for a body to live in; some on 'em they've afterthought would fall down, so they've stuck great ugly pillars outbefore 'em. And some on 'em (we thought they must be th' tailors'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. Bythis it were dinner-time, or better, as we could tell by the sun,right above our heads, and we were dusty and tired, going a step nowand a step then. Well, at last we getten into a street grander norall, leading to th' Queen's palace, and there it were I thought Isaw th' Queen. Yo've seen th' hearses wi' white plumes, Job?"
Job assented.
"Well, them undertaker folk are driving a pretty trade in London.Well-nigh every lady we saw in a carriage had hired one o' themplumes for the day, and had it niddle noddling on her head. It werethe Queen's Drawing-room, they said, and the carriages went bowlingalong towards her house, some wi' dressed-up gentlemen like circusfolk in 'em, and rucks* o' ladies in others. Carriages themselveswere great shakes too. Some o' the gentlemen as couldn't get insidehung on behind
, wi' nosegays to smell at, and sticks to keep offfolk as might splash their silk stockings. I wonder why they didn'thire a cab rather than hang on like a whip-behind boy; but I supposethey wished to keep wi' their wives, Darby and Joan like. Coachmenwere little squat men, wi' wigs like the oud-fashioned parsons'.Well, we could na get on for these carriages, though we waited andwaited. Th' horses were too fat to move quick; they never knownwant o' food, one might tell by their sleek coats; and police pushedus back when we tried to cross. One or two of 'em struck wi' theirsticks, and coachmen laughed, and some officers as stood nigh puttheir spy-glasses in their eye, and left 'em sticking there likemountebanks. One o' th' police struck me. 'Whatten business haveyou to do that?' said I.
*Rucks; a great quantity.
"'You're frightening them horses,' says he, in his mincing way (forLondoners are mostly all tongue-tied, and can't say their a's andi's properly, 'and it's our business to keep you from molesting theladies and gentlemen going to her Majesty's Drawing-room.'
"'And why are we to be molested?' asked I, 'going decently about ourbusiness, which is life and death to us, and many a little oneclemming at home in Lancashire? Which business is of mostconsequence i' the sight o' God, think yo, ourn or them grand ladiesand 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 onhimself, Job said--
"Well, but that's not a' your story, man. Tell us what happenedwhen you got to th' Parliament House."
After a little pause, John answered--
"If you please, neighbour, I'd rather say nought about that. It'snot to be forgotten, or forgiven either, by me or many another; butI canna tell of our down-casting just as a piece of London news. Aslong as I live, our rejection of that day will abide in my heart;and as long as I live I shall curse them as so cruelly refused tohear us; but I'll not speak of it no* more."
*A similar use of a double negative is frequent 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 goodthey had done in dispelling John Barton's gloom was lost. So aftera while he thought of a subject, neither sufficiently dissonant fromthe last to jar on a full heart, nor too much the same to cherishthe continuance of the gloomy train of thought.
"Did you ever hear tell," said he to Mary, "that I were in Londononce?"
"No!" said she with surprise, and looking at Job with increasedrespect.
"Ay, but I were though, and Peg there too, though she minds noughtabout it, poor wench! You must know I had but one child, and shewere Margaret's mother. I loved her above a bit, and one day whenshe 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 andFrank Jennings (as was a joiner lodging near us) should be so happyif 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.However, she was my only child, and I never said nought of what Ifelt, 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 blessedmother, 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, anddidna fret her wi' telling her how sore I was at parting wi' herthat 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 ratherslack in Manchester, and Frank's uncle sent him word o' London workand London wages, so he were to go there, and it were there Margaretwas to follow him. Well, my heart aches yet at thought of thosedays. She so happy, and he so happy; only the poor father asfretted sadly behind their backs. They were married and stayed somedays wi' me afore setting off; and I've often thought sin',Margaret's heart failed her many a time those few days, and shewould fain ha' spoken; but I knew fra' mysel it were better to keepit pent up, and I never let on what I were feeling. I knew what shemeant when she came kissing, and holding my hand, and all her oldchildish ways o' loving me. Well, they went at last. You know themtwo letters, Margaret?"
"Yes, sure," replied his grand-daughter.
"Well, them two were the only letters I ever had fra' her, poorlass. 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' herletters, poor thing, she ends wi' saying, 'Farewell, Grandad!' wi' aline drawn under grandad, and fra' that an' other hints I knew shewere in th' family way; and I said nought, but I screwed up alittle money, thinking come Whitsuntide I'd take a holiday and goand see her an' th' little one. But one day towards Whitsuntide,comed Jennings wi' a grave face, and says he, 'I hear our Frank andyour Margaret's both getten the fever.' You might ha' knocked medown wi' a straw, for it seemed as if God told me what th' upshotwould be. Old Jennings had gotten a letter, you see, fra' thelandlady they lodged wi'; a well-penned letter, asking if they'd nofriends to come and nurse them. She'd caught it first, and Frank,who was as tender o'er her as her own mother could ha' been, hadnursed her till he'd caught it himsel; and she expecting her down-lying* everyday. Well, t' make a long story short, old Jennings andI went up by that night's coach. So you see, Mary, that was the wayI got to London."
*Down-lying; lying in.
"But how was your daughter when you got there?" asked Maryanxiously.
"She were at rest, poor wench, and so were Frank. I guessed as muchwhen I see'd th' landlady's face, all swelled wi' crying, when sheopened th' door to us. We said, 'Where are they?' and I knew theywere dead, fra' her look; but Jennings didn't, as I take it; forwhen she showed us into a room wi' a white sheet on th' bed, andunderneath it, plain to be seen, two still figures, he screeched outas if he'd been a woman.
"Yet he'd other children and I'd none. There lay my darling, myonly one. She were dead, and there were no one to love me, no, notone. I disremember* rightly what I did; but I know I were veryquiet, while my heart were crushed within me.
*Disremember; forget.
"Jennings could na' stand being in the room at all, so the landladytook him down, and I were glad to be alone. It grew dark while Isat there; and at last th' landlady came up again, and said, 'Comehere.' So I got up, and walked into the light, but I had to hold byth' 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-handkerchief over his head for a night-cap. She said he'd criedhimself 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 werea clothes-basket by th' fire, wi' a shawl put o'er it. 'Lift thatup,' says she, and I did; and there lay a little wee babby fastasleep. My heart gave a leap, and th' tears comed rushing into myeyes first time that day. 'Is it hers?' said I, though I knew itwere. 'Yes,' said she. 'She were getting a bit better o' thefever, and th' babby were born; and then the poor young man tookworse and died, and she were not many hours behind.'
"Little mite of a thing! and yet it seemed her angel come back tocomfort me. I were quite jealous o' Jennings whenever he went nearthe babby. I thought it were more my flesh and blood than his'n,and yet I were afraid he would claim it. However, that were farenough fra' his thoughts; he'd plenty other childer, and, as I foundout after, he'd all along been wishing me to take it. Well, weburied Margaret and her husband in a big, crowded, lonely churchyardin London. I were loath to leave them there, as I thought, whenthey rose again, they'd feel so strange at first away fra'Manchester, and all old friends; but it could na be helped. Well,God watches o'er their graves there as well as here. That funeralcost a mint o' money, but Jennings and I wished to do th' thingdecent. Then we'd the stout little babby to bring home
. We'd notovermuch money left; but it were fine weather, and we thought we'dtake th' coach to Brummagem, and walk on. It were a bright Maymorning when I last saw London town, looking back from a big hill amile or two off. And in that big mass o' a place I were leaving myblessed 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 keptit asleep, bless its little heart! But when th' coach stopped fordinner it were awake, and crying for its pobbies.* So we asked forsome bread and milk, and Jennings took it first for to feed it, butit made its mouth like a square, and let it run out at each o' thefour corners. 'Shake it, Jennings,' says I; 'that's the way theymake water run through a funnel, when it's o'er full; and a child'smouth 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,' saysI, thinking he were an awkward oud chap. But it were just as badwi' me. By shaking th' babby we got better nor a gill into itsmouth, but more nor that came up again, wetting a' th' nice dryclothes landlady had put on. Well, just as we'd gotten to th'dinner-table, and helped oursels, and eaten two mouthful, came inth' guard, and a fine chap wi' a sample of calico flourishing in hishand. 'Coach is ready!' says one; 'Half-a-crown your dinner!' saysthe other. Well, we thought it a deal for both our dinners, whenwe'd hardly tasted 'em; but, bless your life, it were half-a-crownapiece, and a shilling for th' bread and milk as were possetted allover babby's clothes. We spoke up again** it; but everybody said itwere the rule, so what could two poor oud chaps like us do again it?Well, poor babby cried without stopping to take breath, fra' thattime 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 andat our mouths, when we tried t' comfort it by talking to it. Poorlittle 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 itssupper as it did its dinner. Let's get some woman to feed it; itcomes natural to women to do for babbies.' So we asked th'chambermaid at the inn, and she took quite kindly to it; and we gota good supper, and grew rare and sleepy, what wi' th' warmth and wi'our long ride i' the open air. Th' chambermaid said she would liket' have it t' sleep wi' her, only missis would scold so; but itlooked so quiet and smiling like, as it lay in her arms, that wethought 't would 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 neverheard him say anything very deep. At last says he--
"'Young woman! have you gotten a spare nightcap?'
"'Missis always keeps nightcaps for gentlemen as does not like tounpack,' says she, rather quick.
*"Pobbies," or "pobs," child's porridge. **"Again," for against. "He that is not with me, he is ageyn me." --Wickliffe's Version.
"'Ay, but young woman, it's one of your nightcaps I want. Th' babbyseems to have taken a mind to yo; and maybe in th' dark it mighttake me for yo if I'd getten your nightcap on.'
"The chambermaid smirked and went for a cap, but I laughed outrightat th' oud bearded chap thinking he'd make hissel like a woman justby 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 onit! Babby began to scream o' th' oud fashion, and we took it turnand turn about to sit up and rock it. My heart were very sore forthe little one, as it groped about wi' its mouth; but for a' that Icould scarce keep fra' smiling at th' thought o' us two oud chaps,th' one wi' a woman's nightcap on, sitting on our hinder ends forhalf the night, hushabying a babby as wouldn't be hushabied. Towardmorning, poor little wench! it fell asleep, fairly tired out wi'crying, but even in its sleep it gave such pitiful sobs, quiveringup fra' the very bottom of its little heart, that once or twice Ialmost 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 hadta'en so much. I didn't know what our reckoning would be for thatnight lodging, and supper, and breakfast. Doing a sum always sentme 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 sayshe'd dress the babby before her missis were up if we liked. Butbless yo, we'd never thought o' undressing it the night afore, andnow it were sleeping so sound, and we were so glad o' the peace andquietness, that we thought it were no good to waken it up to screechagain.
"Well! (there's Mary asleep for a good listener!) I suppose you'regetting 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, forit were only sixty mile, they telled us, and not stop again fornought, save victuals. So we left Brummagem (which is as black aplace as Manchester, without looking so like home), and walked a'that day, carrying babby turn and turn about. It were well fed bychambermaid afore we left, and th' day were fine, and folk began tohave some knowledge o' th' proper way o' speaking, and we were morecheery at thought o' home (though mine, God knows, were lonesomeenough). We stopped none for dinner, but at baggin-time* we gettena good meal at a public-house, an' fed th' babby as well as wecould, but that were but poorly. We got a crust too for it tosuck--chambermaid put us up to that. That night, whether we weretired or whatten, I don't know, but it were dree** work, and th'poor little wench had slept out her sleep, and began th' cry as woremy heart out again. Says Jennings, says he--
"'We should na ha' set out so like gentlefolk a top o' the coachyesterday.'
*Baggin-time; time of the evening meal. **Dree; long and tedious. Anglo-Saxon, "dreogan," to suffer, to endure.
"'Nay, lad! We should ha' had more to walk if we had na ridden, andI'm sure both you and I'se* weary o' tramping.'
*"I have not been, nor IS, nor never schal."--Wickliffe's Apology, p. I.
"So he were quiet a bit. But he were one o' them as were sure tofind out somewhat had been done amiss when there were no going backto undo it. So presently he coughs, as if he were going to speak,and I says to myself, 'At it again, my lad.' Says he--
"'I ax pardon, neighbour, but it strikes me it would ha' been betterfor 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 Iwere carrying HER babby, I think I should ha' struck him. At last Icould 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 ofcasting up again th' events God had pleased to send, were worseblasphemy. Howe'er, I said nought more angry, for th' littlebabby's sake, as were th' child o' his dead son, as well as o' mydead daughter.
"Th' longest lane will have a turning, and that night came to an endat last; and we were footsore and tired enough, and to my mind thebabby were getting weaker and weaker, and it wrung my heart to hearits little wail! I'd ha' given my right hand for one of yesterday'shearty cries. We were wanting our breakfasts, and so were it too,motherless babby! We could see no public-houses, so about sixo'clock (only we thought it were later) we stopped at a cottage,where a woman were moving about near th' open door. Says I, 'Goodwoman, 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 mylegs would never bend at th' knees. In a minute she fell a noticingth' 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 ussomewhat for breakfast, we'd pay yo honest, and if yo would wash anddress that poor babby, and get some pobbies down its throat, forit's well-nigh clemmed, I'd pray for you till my dying day.' So shesaid nought but gived me th' babby back, and afore you could
sayJack 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 lipswere tight pressed together. Well! we were right down glad on ourbreakfast, and God bless and reward that woman for her kindness thatday! She fed th' poor babby as gently and softly, and spoke to itas tenderly as its own poor mother could ha' done. It seemed as ifthat stranger and it had known each other afore, maybe in heaven,where folk's spirits come from, they say; th' babby looked up solovingly in her eyes, and made little noises more like a dove thanaught else. Then she undressed it (poor darling! it were time),touching it so softly; and washed it from head to foot; and as manyon its clothes were dirty, and what bits o' things its mother hadgotten ready for it had been sent by th' carrier fra' London, sheput 'em aside; and wrapping little naked babby in her apron, shepulled out a key, as were fastened to a black ribbon, and hung downher breast, and unlocked a drawer in th' dresser. I were sorry tobe prying, but I could na help seeing in that drawer some littlechild's clothes, all strewed wi' lavender, and lying by 'em a littlewhip an' a broken rattle. I began to have an insight into thatwoman's heart then. She took out a thing or two and locked thedrawer, and went on dressing babby. Just about then come herhusband down, a great big fellow as didn't look half awake, thoughit were getting late; but he'd heard all as had been saiddownstairs, 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 rockingway. At length says he, 'I ha' learnt th' way now; it's two jiggitsand a shake, two jiggits and a shake. I can get that babby asleepnow 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 inmy face to see if I could take her meaning, gave me th' babbywithout a word. I were loath to stir, but I saw it were better togo. So giving Jennings a sharp nudge (for he'd fallen asleep), Isays, 'Missis, what's to pay?' pulling out my money wi' a jinglethat she might na guess we were at all bare o' cash. So she looksat her husband, who said ne'er a word, but were listening with allhis ears nevertheless; and when she saw he would na say, she said,hesitating, as if pulled two ways, by her fear o' him, 'Should youthink sixpence over much?' It were so different to public-housereckoning, for we'd eaten a main deal afore the chap came down. Sosays I, 'And, missis, what should we gi' you for the babby's breadand milk?' (I had it once in my mind to say 'and for a' yourtrouble with it,' but my heart would na let me say it, for I couldread 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 lookedall ear, if ever a back did, 'Oh, we could take nought for thelittle 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 hemeant, and stepped softly across the floor to him, and put her handon his arm. He seem'd as though he'd shake it off by a jerk on hiselbow, but she said quite low, 'For poor little Johnnie's sake,Richard.' He did not move or speak again, and after looking in hisface for a minute, she turned away, swallowing deep in her throat.She kissed th' sleeping babby as she passed, when I paid her. Toquieten th' gruff husband, and stop him if he rated her, I could nahelp slipping another sixpence under th' loaf, and then we set offagain. Last look I had o' that woman she were quietly wiping hereyes wi' the corner of her apron, as she went about her husband'sbreakfast. But I shall know her in heaven."
He stopped to think of that long ago May morning, when he hadcarried his grand-daughter under the distant hedgerows and beneaththe flowering sycamores.
"There's nought more to say, wench," said he to Margaret, as shebegged him to go on. "That night we reached Manchester, and I'dfound 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 thecurrent of their thoughts. Then, almost simultaneously, theirattention fell upon Mary. Sitting on her little stool, her headresting 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 abird steals to her leafy nest. Her half-open mouth was as scarletas the winter-berries, and contrasted finely with the clear palenessof her complexion, where the eloquent blood flushed carnation ateach motion. Her black eye-lashes lay on the delicate cheek, whichwas still more shaded by the masses of her golden hair, that seemedto form a nest-like pillar for her as she lay. Her father in fondpride straightened one glossy curl, for an instant, as if to displayits length and silkiness.
The little action awoke her, and, like nine out of ten people insimilar circumstances, she exclaimed, opening her eyes to theirfullest extent--
"I'm not asleep. I've been awake all the time."
Even her father could not keep from smiling, and Job Legh andMargaret laughed outright.
"Come, wench," said Job, "don't look so gloppened* because thou'stfallen 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 keepthine eyes open while I read thy father a bit on a poem as iswritten by a weaver like oursel. A rare chap I'll be bound is hewho could weave verse like this."
*Gloppened; amazed, frightened.
So adjusting his spectacles on nose, cocking his chin, crossing hislegs, and coughing to clear his voice, he read aloud a little poemof Samuel Bamford's* he had picked up somewhere.
*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 downcast, 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 slouch-ed hat with faded crape is bound; His coat is grey, 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 fea
sted 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 Jobthere 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 a blank half-sheet ofa valentine, all bordered with hearts and darts--a valentine she hadonce suspected to come from Jem Wilson--she copied Bamford'sbeautiful little poem.