Mary Barton Part 3

"Was it a pretty place?" asked Mary.

"Pretty, la.s.s! I never seed such a bonny bit anywhere. You see there are hills there as seem to go up into th' skies, not near maybe, but that makes them all the bonnier. I used to think they were the golden hills of heaven, about which mother sang when I was a child--

"'Yon are the golden hills o' heaven, Where ye sall never win.'

"Something about a ship and a lover that should hae been na lover, the ballad was. Well, and near our cottage were rocks. Eh, la.s.ses!

ye don't know what rocks are in Manchester! Grey pieces o' stone as large as a house, all covered over wi' mosses of different colours, some yellow, some brown; and the ground beneath them knee-deep in purple heather, smelling sae sweet and fragrant, and the low music of the humming-bee for ever sounding among it. Mother used to send Sally and me out to gather ling and heather for besoms, and it was such pleasant work! We used to come home of an evening loaded so as you could not see us, for all that it was so light to carry. And then mother would make us sit down under the old hawthorn tree (where we used to make our house among the great roots as stood above th' ground), to pick and tie up the heather. It seems all like yesterday, and yet it's a long long time agone. Poor sister Sally has been in her grave this forty year and more. But I often wonder if the hawthorn is standing yet, and if the la.s.ses still go to gather heather, as we did many and many a year past and gone. I sicken at heart to see the old spot once again. May be next summer I may set off, if G.o.d spares me to see next summer."

"Why have you never been in all these many years?" asked Mary.

"Why, la.s.s! first one wanted me and then another; and I couldn't go without money either, and I got very poor at times. Tom was a scapegrace, poor fellow, and always wanted help of one kind or another; and his wife (for I think scapegraces are always married long before steady folk) was but a helpless kind of body. She were always ailing, and he were always in trouble; so I had enough to do with my hands, and my money too, for that matter. They died within twelvemonth of each other, leaving one lad (they had had seven, but the Lord had taken six to Hisself), Will, as I was telling you on; and I took him myself, and left service to make a bit of a home-place for him, and a fine lad he was, the very spit of his father as to looks, only steadier. For he was steady, although nought would serve him but going to sea. I tried all I could to set him again a sailor's life. Says I, 'Folks is as sick as dogs all the time they're at sea. Your own mother telled me (for she came from foreign parts, being a Manx woman) that she'd ha' thanked any one for throwing her into the water.' Nay, I sent him a' the way to Runcorn by th' Duke's ca.n.a.l, that he might know what th' sea were; and I looked to see him come back as white as a sheet wi' vomiting.

But the lad went on to Liverpool and saw real ships, and came back more set than ever on being a sailor, and he said as how he had never been sick at all, and thought he could stand the sea pretty well. So I told him he mun do as he liked; and he thanked me and kissed me, for all I was very frabbit* with him; and now he's gone to South America at t'other side of the sun, they tell me."

*Frabbit; peevish.

Mary stole a glance at Margaret to see what she thought of Alice's geography; but Margaret looked so quiet and demure, that Mary was in doubt if she were not really ignorant. Not that Mary's knowledge was very profound, but she had seen a terrestrial globe, and knew where to find France and the continents on a map.

After this long talking Alice seemed lost for a time in reverie; and the girls respecting her thoughts, which they suspected had wandered to the home and scenes of her childhood, were silent. All at once she recalled her duties as hostess, and by an effort brought back her mind to the present time.

"Margaret, thou must let Mary hear thee sing. I don't know about fine music myself, but folks say Marget is a rare singer, and I know she can make me cry at any time by singing 'Th' Owdham Weaver.' Do sing that, Marget, there's a good la.s.s."

With a faint smile, as if amused at Alice's choice of a song, Margaret began.

Do you know "The Oldham Weaver?" Not unless you are Lancashire born and bred, for it is a complete Lancashire ditty. I will copy it for you.

THE OLDHAM WEAVER.

I.

Oi'm a poor cotton-weyver, as mony a one knoowas, Oi've nowt for t' yeat, an' oi've worn eawt my clooas, Yo'ad hardly gi' tuppence for aw as oi've on, My clogs are both brosten, an' stuckings oi've none, Yo'd think it wur hard, To be browt into th' warld, To be--clemmed,* an' do th' best as yo con.

II.

Owd d.i.c.ky o' Billy's kept telling me long, Wee s'd ha' better toimes if I'd but howd my tung, Oi've howden my tung, till oi've near stopped my breath, Oi think i' my heeart oi'se soon clem to deeath, Owd d.i.c.ky's weel crammed, He never wur clemmed, An' he ne'er picked ower i' his loife,**

III.

We tow'rt on six week--thinking aitch day wur th' last, We shifted, an' shifted, till neaw we're quoite fast; We lived upo' nettles, whoile nettles wur good, An' Waterloo porridge the best o' eawr food, Oi'm tellin' yo' true, Oi can find folk enow, As wur livin' na better nor me.

IV.

Owd Billy o' Dans sent th' baileys one day, Fur a shop deebt oi eawd him, as oi could na pay, But he wur too lat, fur owd Billy o' th' Bent, Had sowd th' t.i.t an' cart, an' ta'en goods for th' rent, We'd neawt left bo' th' owd stoo', That wur seeats fur two, An' on it ceawred Marget an' me.

Then t' baileys leuked reawnd as sloy as a meawse, When they seed as aw t' goods were ta'en eawt o' t' heawse; Says one chap to th' tother, "Aws gone, theaw may see"; Says oi, "Ne'er freet, mon, yeaur welcome ta' me."

They made no moor ado But whopped up th' eawd stoo', An' we booath leet, whack--upo' t' flags

VI.

Then oi said to eawr Marget, as we lay upo' t' floor, "We's never be lower i' this warld oi'm sure, If ever things awtern, oi'm sure they mun mend, For oi think i' my heart we're booath at t' far eend; For meeat we ha' none, Nor looms t' weyve on,-- Edad! they're as good lost as fund."

VII.

Eawr Marget declares had hoo clooas to put on, Hoo'd goo up to Lunnon an' talk to th' greet mon An' if things were na awtered when there hoo had been, Hoo's fully resolved t' sew up meawth an' eend; Hoo's neawt to say again t' king, But hoo loikes a fair thing, An' hoo says hoo can tell when hoo's hurt.

*Clem; to starve with hunger.

"Hard is the choice, when the valiant must eat their arms or CLEM."--BEN JONSON.

**To "pick ower," means to throw the shuttle in hand-loom weaving.

The air to which this is sung is a kind of droning recitative, depending much on expression and feeling. To read it, it may, perhaps, seem humorous; but it is that humour which is near akin to pathos, and to those who have seen the distress it describes it is a powerfully pathetic song. Margaret had both witnessed the dest.i.tution, and had the heart to feel it, and withal, her voice was of that rich and rare order, which does not require any great compa.s.s of notes to make itself appreciated. Alice had her quiet enjoyment of tears. But Margaret, with fixed eye, and earnest, dreamy look, seemed to become more and more absorbed in realising to herself the woe she had been describing, and which she felt might at that very moment be suffering and hopeless within a short distance of their comparative comfort.

Suddenly she burst forth with all the power of her magnificent voice, as if a prayer from her very heart for all who were in distress, in the grand supplication, "Lord, remember David." Mary held her breath, unwilling to lose a note, it was so clear, so perfect, so imploring. A far more correct musician than Mary might have paused with equal admiration of the really scientific knowledge with which the poor depressed-looking young needlewoman used her superb and flexile voice. Deborah Travis herself (once an Oldham factory girl, and afterwards the darling of fashionable crowds as Mrs. Knyvett) might have owned a sister in her art.

She stopped; and with tears of holy sympathy in her eyes, Alice thanked the songstress, who resumed her calm, demure manner, much to Mary's wonder, for she looked at her unweariedly, as if surprised that the hidden power should not be perceived in the outward appearance.

When Alice's little speech of thanks was over, there was quiet enough to hear a fine, though rather quavering, male voice, going over again one or two strains of Margaret's song.

"That's grandfather!" exclaimed she. "I must be going, for he said he should not be at home till past nine."

"Well, I'll not say nay, for I have to be up by four for a very heavy wash at Mrs. Simpson's; but I shall be terrible glad to see you again at any time, la.s.ses; and I hope you'll take to one another."

As the girls ran up the cellar steps together, Margaret said--"Just step in and see grandfather, I should like him to see you."

And Mary consented.

V. THE MILL ON FIRE-JEM WILSON TO THE RESCUE.

"Learned he was; nor bird nor insect flew, But he its leafy home and history knew: Nor wild-flower decked the rock, nor moss the well, But he its name and qualities could tell."

--ELLIOTT.

There is a cla.s.s of men in Manchester, unknown even to many of the inhabitants, and whose existence will probably be doubted by many, who yet may claim kindred with all the n.o.ble names that science recognises. I said in "Manchester," but they are scattered all over the manufacturing districts of Lancashire. In the neighbourhood of Oldham there are weavers, common hand-loom weavers, who throw the shuttle with unceasing sound, though Newton's "Principia" lies open on the loom, to be s.n.a.t.c.hed at in work hours, but revelled over in meal times, or at night. Mathematical problems are received with interest, and studied with absorbing attention by many a broad- spoken, common-looking factory-hand. It is perhaps less astonishing that the more popularly interesting branches of natural history have their warm and devoted followers among this cla.s.s. There are botanists among them, equally familiar with either the Linnaean or the Natural system, who know the name and habitat of every plant within a day's walk from their dwellings; who steal the holiday of a day or two when any particular plant should be in flower, and tying up their simple food in their pocket-handkerchiefs, set off with single purpose to fetch home the humble-looking weed. There are entomologists, who may be seen with a rude-looking net, ready to catch any winged insect, or a kind of dredge, with which they rake the green and slimy pools; practical, shrewd, hard-working men, who pore over every new specimen with real scientific delight. Nor is it the common and more obvious divisions of Entomology and Botany that alone attract these earnest seekers after knowledge. Perhaps it may be owing to the great annual town-holiday of Whitsun-week so often falling in May or June, that the two great beautiful families of Ephemeridae and Phryganidae have been so much and so closely studied by Manchester workmen, while they have in a great measure escaped general observation. If you will refer to the preface to Sir J. E. Smith's Life (I have it not by me, or I would copy you the exact pa.s.sage), you will find that he names a little circ.u.mstance corroborative of what I have said. Being on a visit to Roscoe, of Liverpool, he made some inquiries of him as to the habitat of a very rare plant, said to be found in certain places in Lancashire. Mr.

Roscoe knew nothing of the plant; but stated, that if any one could give him the desired information, it would be a hand-loom weaver in Manchester, whom he named. Sir J. E. Smith proceeded by boat to Manchester, and on arriving at that town, he inquired of the porter who was carrying his luggage if he could direct him to So-and-So.

"Oh, yes," replied the man. "He does a bit in my way"; and, on further investigation, it turned out that both the porter and his friend the weaver were skilful botanists, and able to give Sir J. E.

Smith the very information which he wanted.

Such are the tastes and pursuits of some of the thoughtful, little understood, working-men of Manchester.

And Margaret's grandfather was one of these. He was a little wiry-looking old man, who moved with a jerking motion, as if his limbs were worked by a string like a child's toy, with dun-coloured hair lying thin and soft at the back and sides of his head; his forehead was so large it seemed to overbalance the rest of his face, which had, indeed, lost its natural contour by the absence of all the teeth. The eyes absolutely gleamed with intelligence; so keen, so observant, you felt as if they were almost wizard-like. Indeed, the whole room looked not unlike a wizard's dwelling. Instead of pictures were hung rude wooden frames of impaled insects; the little table was covered with cabalistic books; and beside them lay a case of mysterious instruments, one of which Job Legh was using when his grand-daughter entered.

On her appearance he pushed his spectacles up so as to rest midway on his forehead, and gave Mary a short, kind welcome. But Margaret he caressed as a mother caresses her first-born; stroking her with tenderness, and almost altering his voice as he spoke to her.

Mary looked round on the odd, strange things she had never seen at home, and which seemed to her to have a very uncanny look.

"Is your grandfather a fortune-teller?" whispered she to her new friend.