XV. 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 hisdisappointing journey to London. The deep mortification he thenexperienced (with, perhaps, as little selfishness for its cause asmortification ever had) was of no temporary nature; indeed, few ofhis feelings were.
Then came a long period of bodily privation of daily hunger afterfood; and though he tried to persuade himself he could bear wanthimself with stoical indifference, and did care about it as littleas 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 ofcomparative happiness; it ceased to hope. And it is hard to live onwhen one can no longer hope.
The same state of feeling which John Barton entertained, ifbelonging to one who had had leisure to think of such things, andphysicians 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 theItalians, worthy of a Borgia. The supposed or real criminal wasshut up in a room, supplied with every convenience and luxury; andat first mourned little over his imprisonment. But day by day hebecame aware that the space between the walls of his apartment wasnarrowing, and then he understood the end. Those painted wallswould come into hideous nearness, and at last crush the life out ofhim.
And so day by day, nearer and nearer, came the diseased thoughts ofJohn Barton. They excluded the light of heaven, the cheering soundsof earth. They were preparing his death.
It is true much of their morbid power might be ascribed to the useof opium. But before you blame too harshly this use, or ratherabuse, try a hopeless life, with daily cravings of the body forfood. Try, not alone being without hope yourself, but seeing allaround you reduced to the same despair, arising from the samecircumstances; all around you telling (though they use no words orlanguage), by their looks and feeble actions, that they aresuffering and sinking under the pressure of want. Would you not beglad to forget life, and its burdens? And opium gives forgetfulnessfor a time.
It is true they who thus purchase it pay dearly for their oblivionbut can you expect the uneducated to count the cost of theirwhistle? Poor wretches! They pay a heavy price. Days ofoppressive weariness and languor, whose realities have the feeblesickliness of dreams; nights, whose dreams are fierce realities ofagony; sinking health, tottering frames, incipient madness, andworse, the CONSCIOUSNESS of incipient madness; this is the price oftheir whistle. But have you taught them the science ofconsequences?
John Barton's overpowering thought, which was to work out his fateon 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 interestsare so far apart. Whose doing is it?
And so on into the problems and mysteries of life, until, bewilderedand lost, unhappy and suffering, the only feeling that remainedclear and undisturbed in the tumult of his heart, was hatred to theone 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 worksbut harm. He acted to the best of his judgment, but it was awidely-erring judgment.
The actions of the uneducated seem to me typified in those ofFrankenstein, that monster of many human qualities, ungifted with asoul, a knowledge of the difference between good and evil.
The people rise up to life; they irritate us, they terrify us, andwe become their enemies. Then, in the sorrowful moment of ourtriumphant power, their eyes gaze on us with mute reproach. Whyhave we made them what they are; a powerful monster, yet without theinner means for peace and happiness?
John Barton became a Chartist, a Communist, all that is commonlycalled wild and visionary. Ay! but being visionary is something.It shows a soul, a being not altogether sensual; a creature wholooks forward for others, if not for himself.
And with all his weakness he had a sort of practical power, whichmade him useful to the bodies of men to whom he belonged. He had aready kind of rough Lancashire eloquence, arising out of the fulnessof his heart, which was very stirring to men similarlycircumstanced, who liked to hear their feelings put into words. Hehad a pretty clear head at times, for method and arrangement; anecessary talent to large combinations of men. And what perhapsmore than all made him relied upon and valued, was the consciousnesswhich every one who came in contact with him felt, that he wasactuated by no selfish motives; that his class, his order, was whathe stood by, not the rights of his own paltry self. For even ingreat 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 fordeliberation among the employed, which deeply interested JohnBarton, and the discussions concerning which had caused his frequentabsence from home of late.
I am not sure if I can express myself in the technical terms ofeither masters or workmen, but I will try simply to state the caseon which the latter deliberated.
An order for coarse goods came in from a new foreign market. It wasa large order, giving employment to all the mills engaged in thatspecies of manufacture; but it was necessary to execute it speedily,and at as low prices as possible, as the masters had reason tobelieve that a duplicate order had been sent to one of thecontinental manufacturing towns, where there were no restrictions onfood, no taxes on building or machinery, and where consequently theydreaded that the goods could be made at a much lower price than theycould afford them for; and that, by so acting and charging, therival manufacturers would obtain undivided possession of the market.It was clearly their interest to buy cotton as cheaply, and to beatdown wages as low as possible. And in the long run the interests ofthe workmen would have been thereby benefited. Distrust each otheras they may, the employers and the employed must rise or falltogether. There may be some difference as to chronology, none as tofact.
But the masters did not choose to make all these circumstancesknown. They stood upon being the masters, and that they had a rightto order work at their own prices, and they believed that in thepresent depression of trade, and unemployment of hands, there wouldbe 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 wasa foreign order to be executed, the extent of which, large as itwas, was greatly exaggerated; and it was to be done speedily. Whywere the masters offering such low wages under these circumstances?Shame upon them! It was taking advantage of their workpeople beingalmost starved; but they would starve entirely rather than come intosuch terms. It was bad enough to be poor, while by the labour oftheir thin hands, the sweat of their brows, the masters were maderich; but they would not be utterly ground down to dust. No! theywould fold their hands and sit idle, and smile at the masters, whomeven in death they could baffle. With Spartan endurance theydetermined to let the employers know their power, by refusing towork.
So class distrusted class, and their want of mutual confidencewrought sorrow to both. The masters would not be bullied, andcompelled to reveal why they felt it wisest and best to offer onlysuch low wages; they would not be made to tell that they were evensacrificing capital to obtain a decisive victory over thecontinental manufacturers. And the workmen sat silent and sternwi
th folded hands, refusing to work for such pay. There was astrike in Manchester.
Of course it was succeeded by the usual consequences. Many otherTrades' 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 makingagainst their masters. Delegates from Glasgow, from Nottingham, andother towns, were sent to Manchester, to keep up the spirit ofresistance; a committee was formed, and all the requisite officerselected; chairman, treasurer, honorary secretary;--among them wasJohn Barton.
The masters, meanwhile, took their measures. They placarded thewalls with advertisements for power-loom weavers. The workmenreplied by a placard in still larger letters, stating theirgrievances. 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. Ifthey gave up now, they might give up always. It would never do.And amongst the most energetic of the masters, the Carsons, fatherand son, took their places. It is well known, that there is noreligionist so zealous as a convert; no masters so stern, andregardless of the interests of their workpeople, as those who haverisen from such a station themselves. This would account for theelder Mr. Carson's determination not to be bullied into yielding;not even to be bullied into giving reasons for acting as the mastersdid. It was the employers' will, and that should be enough for theemployed. Harry Carson did not trouble himself much about thegrounds for his conduct. He liked the excitement of the affair. Heliked the attitude of resistance. He was brave, and he liked theidea of personal danger, with which some of the more cautious triedto intimidate the violent among the masters.
Meanwhile, the power-loom weavers living in the more remote parts ofLancashire, and the neighbouring counties, heard of the masters'advertisements for workmen; and in their solitary dwellings grewweary of starvation, and resolved to come to Manchester. Foot-sore,way-worn, half-starved looking men they were, as they tried to stealinto town in the early dawn, before people were astir, or in thedusk of the evening. And now began the real wrong-doing of theTrades' Unions. As to their decision to work, or not, at such aparticular rate of wages, that was either wise or unwise; all errorof judgment at the worst. But they had no right to tyrannise overothers, and tie them down to their own Procrustean bed. Abhorringwhat they considered oppression in the masters, why did they oppressothers? Because, when men get excited, they know not what they do.Judge, then, with something of the mercy of the Holy One, whom weall love.
In spite of policemen set to watch over the safety of the poorcountry weavers--in spite of magistrates, and prisons, and severepunishments--the poor depressed men tramping in from Burnley,Padiham, and other places, to work at the condemned "StarvationPrices," were waylaid, and beaten, and left by the roadside almostfor dead. The police broke up every lounging knot of men:--theyseparated quietly, to reunite half-a-mile out of town.
Of course the feeling between the masters and workmen did notimprove under these circumstances.
Combination is an awful power. It is like the equally mighty agencyof steam; capable of almost unlimited good or evil. But to obtain ablessing on its labours, it must work under the direction of a highand intelligent will; incapable of being misled by passion orexcitement. The will of the operatives had not been guided to thecalmness of wisdom.
So much for generalities. Let us now return to individuals.
A note, respectfully worded, although its tone of determination wasstrong, had been sent by the power-loom weavers, requesting that a"deputation" of them might have a meeting with the masters, to statethe conditions they must have fulfilled before they would end theturn-out. They thought they had attained a sufficiently commandingposition to dictate. John Barton was appointed one of thedeputation.
The masters agreed to this meeting, being anxious to end the strife,although undetermined among themselves how far they should yield, orwhether they should yield at all. Some of the old, whose experiencehad taught them sympathy, were for concession. Others, white-headedmen too, had only learnt hardness and obstinacy from the days of theyears of their lives, and sneered at the more gentle and yielding.The younger men were one and all for an unflinching resistance toclaims urged with so much violence. Of this party Harry Carson wasthe leader.
But like all energetic people, the more he had to do the more timehe seemed to find. With all his letter-writing, his calling, hisbeing present at the New Bailey, when investigations of any case ofviolence against knob-sticks* were going on, he beset Mary more thanever. She was weary of her life for him. From blandishments he hadeven gone to threats--threats that whether she would or not sheshould be his; he showed an indifference that was most insulting toeverything which might attract attention and injure her character.
*Knob-sticks; those who consent to work at lower wages.
And still she never saw Jem. She knew he had returned home. Sheheard of him occasionally through his cousin, who roved gaily fromhouse to house, finding and making friends everywhere. But shenever saw him. What was she to think? Had he given her up? Were afew hasty words, spoken in a moment of irritation, to stamp her lotthrough life? At times she thought that she could bear this meekly,happy in her own constant power of loving. For of change or offorgetfulness she did not dream. Then at other times her state ofimpatience was such, that it required all her self-restraint toprevent her from going and seeking him out, and (as man would do toman, or woman to woman) begging him to forgive her hasty words, andallow her to retract them, and bidding him accept of the love thatwas filling her whole heart. She wished Margaret had not advisedher against such a manner of proceeding; she believed it was herfriend's words that seemed to make such a simple action impossible,in spite of all the internal urgings. But a friend's advice is onlythus powerful, when it puts into language the secret oracle of oursouls. It was the whisperings of her womanly nature that caused herto 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, andwhich, in former times, would have exceedingly amused and excitedher. 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 awareof it, and yet, as she watched more closely, she began to think someinstinct made the blind girl feel whose eyes were so often fixedupon her pale face; that some inner feeling made the delicate andbecoming rose-flush steal over her countenance. She did not speakso decidedly as before; there was a hesitation in her manner, thatseemed to make her very attractive; as if something softer, morelovable than excellent sense, were coming in as a motive for speech;her eyes had always been soft, and were in no ways disfigured by herblindness, and now seemed to have a new charm, as they quiveredunder their white, downcast lids. She must be conscious, thoughtMary--heart answering to heart.
Will's love had no blushings, no downcast eyes, no weighing ofwords; it was as open and undisguised as his nature; yet he seemedafraid of the answer its acknowledgment might meet with. It wasMargaret's angelic voice that had entranced him, and which made himthink 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 overto Liverpool to rummage in his great sea-chest for the flying-fish(no very odorous present, by the way). He hesitated over a child'scaul for some time, which was, in his eyes, a far greater treasurethan any Exocetus. What use could it be of to a landsman? ThenMargaret's voice rang in his ears; and he determined to sacrificeit, his most precious possession, to one whom she loved as she didher 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 forsecurity all the way in the railroad, he found that Job was soindifferent to the precious caul that he might easily claim itagain. He hung about Margaret,
till he had received many warningsand reproaches from his conscience in behalf of his dear auntAlice's claims upon his time. He went away, and then he bethoughthim of some other little word with Job. And he turned back, andstood talking once more in Margaret's presence, door in hand, onlywaiting for some little speech of encouragement to come in and sitdown again. But as the invitation was not given, he was forced toleave at last, and go and do his duty.
Four days had Jem Wilson watched for Mr. Harry Carson withoutsuccess; his hours of going and returning to his home were soirregular, owing to the meetings and consultations among themasters, which were rendered necessary by the turn-out. On thefifth, without any purpose on Jem's part, they met.
It was the workmen's dinner-hour, the interval between twelve andone; when the streets of Manchester are comparatively quiet, for afew shopping ladies and lounging gentlemen count for nothing in thatbusy, bustling, living place. Jem had been on an errand for hismaster, instead of returning to his dinner; and in passing along alane, a road (called, in compliment to the intentions of some futurebuilder, a street), he encountered Harry Carson, the only person, asfar 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 anyone from climbing over into the garden beyond. By this fence wasthe footpath. The carriage-road was such as no carriage, no, noteven a cart, could possibly have passed along without Hercules toassist in lifting it out of the deep clay ruts. On the other sideof the way was a dead brick wall; and a field after that, wherethere was a saw-pit and joiner's shed.
Jem's heart beat violently when he saw the gay, handsome young manapproaching, with a light buoyant step. This, then, was he whomMary loved. It was, perhaps, no wonder; for he seemed to the poorsmith so elegant, so well appointed, that he felt the superiority inexternals, strangely and painfully, for an instant. Then somethinguprose 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 felttroubled by the outward appearance of his rival.
Harry Carson came on, lightly bounding over the dirty places withalmost a lad's buoyancy. To his surprise the dark, sturdy-lookingartisan stopped him by saying respectfully--
"May I speak a word wi' you, sir?"
"Certainly, my good man," looking his astonishment; then findingthat the promised speech did not come very quickly, he added, "Butmake haste, for I'm in a hurry."
Jem had cast about for some less abrupt way of broaching the subjectuppermost 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 MaryBarton?"
A light broke in upon Henry Carson's mind, and he paused before hegave 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 obstinaterejection of himself? He looked at Jem from head to foot, a black,grimy mechanic, in dirty fustian clothes, strongly built, andawkward (according to the dancing-master); then he glanced athimself, and recalled the reflection he had so lately quitted in hisbedroom. It was impossible. No woman with eyes could choose theone when the other wooed. It was Hyperion to a Satyr. Thatquotation 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 changedconduct towards him. If she loved this man--if--he hated thefellow, and longed to strike him. He would know all.
"Mary Barton! let me see. Ay, that is the name of the girl. Anarrant flirt the little hussy is; but very pretty. Ay, Mary Bartonis her name."
Jem bit his lips. Was it then so; that Mary was a flirt; the giddycreature of whom he spoke? He would not believe it, and yet how hewished the suggestive words unspoken. That thought must keep now,though. Even if she were, the more reason for there being some oneto protect her; poor faulty darling,
"She's a good girl, sir, though maybe a bit set up with her beauty;but she's her father's only child, sir, and"--he stopped; he did notlike to express suspicion, and yet he was determined he would becertain there was ground for none. What should he say?
"Well, my fine fellow, and what have I to do with that? It's butloss of my time, and yours, too, if you've only stopped me to tellme 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 youngman shook it off, and with his glove pretended to brush away thesooty contamination that might be left upon his light greatcoatsleeve. 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, thatyou walk with this same Mary Barton, and are known to be courtingher; 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 herfather'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 enoughto be sure she'll make a noble wife for any one, let him be what hemay; and I mean to stand by her like a brother; and if you meanrightly, 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 ahair of her head. He shall rue it to the longest day he lives,that's all. Now, sir, what I ask of you is this. If you mean fairand honourable by her, well and good: but if not, for your ownsake as well as hers, leave her alone, and never speak to her more."Jem's voice quivered with the earnestness with which he spoke, andhe eagerly waited for some answer.
Harry Carson, meanwhile, instead of attending very particularly tothe purpose the man had in addressing him, was trying to gather fromhis speech what was the real state of the case. He succeeded so faras to comprehend that Jem inclined to believe that Mary loved hisrival; and consequently, that if the speaker were attached to herhimself, he was not a favoured admirer. The idea came into Mr.Carson's mind, that perhaps, after all, Mary loved him in spite ofher frequent and obstinate rejections; and that she had employedthis person (whoever he was) to bully him into marrying her. Heresolved to try and ascertain more correctly the man's relation toher. Either he was a lover, and if so, not a favoured one (in whichcase Mr. Carson could not at all understand the man's motives forinteresting himself in securing her marriage); or he was a friend,an accomplice, whom she had employed to bully him. So little faithin 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 yourright to meddle with our affairs. Neither Mary, nor I, as Iconceive, called you in as a mediator." He paused: he wanted adistinct answer to this last supposition. None came; so he began toimagine he was to be threatened into some engagement, and his angryspirit rose.
"And so, my fine fellow, you will have the kindness to leave us toourselves, and not to meddle with what does not concern you. If youwere a brother or father of hers, the case might have beendifferent. As it is, I can only consider you an impertinentmeddler."
Again he would have passed on, but Jem stood in a determined waybefore him, saying--
"You say if I had been her brother, or her father, you'd haveanswered me what I ask. Now, neither father nor brother could loveher as I have loved her--ay, and as I love her still; if love givesa right to satisfaction, it's next to impossible any one breathingcan come up to my right. Now, sir, tell me! do you mean fair byMary or not? I've proved my claim to know, and, by G--, I willknow."
"Come, come, no impudence," replied Mr. Carson, who, havingdiscovered what he wanted to know (namely, that Jem was a lover ofMary's, and that she was not encouraging his suit), wished to passon. "Father, brother, or rejected lover" (with an emphasis on theword rejected) "no one has a right to interfere between my littlegirl 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 doggeddetermination.
"I won't, then, till you've given me your word about Mary," repliedthe mechanic, grinding his words out between his teeth, and thelivid paleness of the anger he could no longer keep down coveringhis face till he looked ghastly.
"Won't you?" (with a taunting laugh), "then I'll make you." Theyoung man raised his slight cane, and smote the artisan across theface with a stinging stroke. An instant afterwards he lay stretchedin the muddy road, Jem standing over him, panting with rage. Whathe would have done next in his moment of ungovernable passion, noone knows; but a policeman from the main street, into which thisroad led, had been sauntering about for some time, unobserved byeither of the parties, and expecting some kind of conclusion likethe present to the violent discussion going on between the two youngmen. In a minute he had pinioned Jem, who sullenly yielded to thesurprise.
Mr. Carson was on his feet directly, his face glowing with rage orshame.
"Shall I take him to the lock-ups for assault, sir?" said thepoliceman.
"No, no," exclaimed Mr. Carson. "I struck him first. It was noassault on his side: though," he continued, hissing out his wordsto Jem, who even hated freedom procured for him, however justly, atthe intervention of his rival, "I will never forgive or forgetinsult. Trust me," he gasped the words in excess of passion, "Maryshall 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 whereno policeman can step in between. And God shall judge between ustwo."
The policeman now interfered with persuasions and warnings. Helocked his arm in Jem's to lead him away in an opposite direction tothat in which he saw Mr. Carson was going. Jem submitted gloomily,for a few steps, then wrenched himself free. The policeman shoutedafter him--
"Take care, my man! there's no girl on earth worth what you'll bebringing on yourself if you don't mind."
But Jem was out of hearing.