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Mary BartonA Tale of Manchester Lifeby Elizabeth Cleghorn GaskellStyled by LimpidSoft




The present document was derived from text provided by ProjectGutenberg (document 2153) whichwas made available free of charge.This document is also free ofcharge.iv

“‘How knowest thou,’ may the distressed Novel-wright exclaim, ‘thatI, here where I sit, am the Foolishest of existing mortals; that this myLong-ear of a fictitious Biographyshall not find one and the other,into whose still longer ears it maybe the means, under Providence, ofinstilling somewhat?’We answer, ‘None knows, none cancertainly know: therefore, writeon, worthy Brother, even as thoucanst, even as it is given thee.”’CARLYLEv

PREFACETHREE YEARS AGO I became anxious (fromcircumstances that need not be more fully alluded to) to employ myself in writing a workof fiction. Living in Manchester, but with adeep relish and fond admiration for the country, my first thought was to find a frame-workfor my story in some rural scene; and I had al-1

PREFACEready made a little progress in a tale, the period of which was more than a century ago, andthe place on the borders of Yorkshire, when Ibethought me how deep might be the romancein the lives of some of those who elbowed medaily in the busy streets of the town in whichI resided. I had always felt a deep sympathy with the care-worn men, who looked asif doomed to struggle through their lives instrange alternations between work and want;tossed to and fro by circumstances, apparentlyin even a greater degree than other men. A little manifestation of this sympathy, and a littleattention to the expression of feelings on thepart of some of the work-people with whom Iwas acquainted, had laid open to me the heartsof one or two of the more thoughtful amongthem; I saw that they were sore and irritableagainst the rich, the even tenor of whose seem-2

PREFACEingly happy lives appeared to increase the anguish caused by the lottery-like nature of theirown. Whether the bitter complaints made bythem, of the neglect which they experiencedfrom the prosperous–especially from the masters whose fortunes they had helped to buildup–were well-founded or no, it is not for meto judge. It is enough to say, that this beliefof the injustice and unkindness which they endure from their fellow-creatures, taints whatmight be resignation to God’s will, and turns itto revenge in too many of the poor uneducatedfactory-workers of Manchester.The more I reflected on this unhappy state ofthings between those so bound to each otherby common interests, as the employers andthe employed must ever be, the more anxious I became to give some utterance to the3

PREFACEagony which, from time to time, convulses thisdumb people; the agony of suffering withoutthe sympathy of the happy, or of erroneouslybelieving that such is the case. If it be an error,that the woes, which come with ever-returningtide-like flood to overwhelm the workmen inour manufacturing towns, pass unregarded byall but the sufferers, it is at any rate an errorso bitter in its consequences to all parties, thatwhatever public effort can do in the way of legislation, or private effort in the way of mercifuldeeds, or helpless love in the way of “widow’smites,” should be done, and that speedily, todisabuse the work-people of so miserable amisapprehension. At present they seem to meto be left in a state, wherein lamentations andtears are thrown aside as useless, but in whichthe lips are compressed for curses, and thehands clenched and ready to smite.4

PREFACEI know nothing of Political Economy, or thetheories of trade. I have tried to write truthfully; and if my accounts agree or clash withany system, the agreement or disagreement isunintentional.To myself the idea which I have formed ofthe state of feeling among too many of thefactory-people in Manchester, and which I endeavoured to represent in this tale (completedabove a year ago), has received some confirmation from the events which have so recently occurred among a similar class on the Continent.OCTOBER, 1848.5

CHAPTER IA MYSTERIOUSDISAPPEARANCEOh! ‘tis hard, ‘tis hard to beworkingThe whole of the live-long day,

CHAPTER IWhen all the neighbours about oneAre off to their jaunts and play.There’s Richard he carries hisbaby,And Mary takes little Jane,And lovingly they’ll be wanderingThrough field and briery lane.MANCHESTER SONG.THERE ARE SOME fields near Manchester,well known to the inhabitants as “Green HeysFields,” through which runs a public footpath to a little village about two miles distant. In spite of these fields being flat andlow, nay, in spite of the want of wood (thegreat and usual recommendation of level tractsof land), there is a charm about them whichstrikes even the inhabitant of a mountainous7

CHAPTER Idistrict, who sees and feels the effect of contrast in these common-place but thoroughly rural fields, with the busy, bustling manufacturing town he left but half-an-hour ago. Hereand there an old black and white farm-house,with its rambling outbuildings, speaks of othertimes and other occupations than those whichnow absorb the population of the neighbourhood. Here in their seasons may be seenthe country business of hay-making, ploughing, &c., which are such pleasant mysteriesfor townspeople to watch; and here the artisan, deafened with noise of tongues and engines, may come to listen awhile to the delicious sounds of rural life: the lowing of cattle, the milk-maids’ call, the clatter and cackleof poultry in the old farm-yards. You cannot wonder, then, that these fields are popularplaces of resort at every holiday time; and you8

CHAPTER Iwould not wonder, if you could see, or I properly describe, the charm of one particular stile,that it should be, on such occasions, a crowdedhalting-place. Close by it is a deep, clear pond,reflecting in its dark green depths the shadowytrees that bend over it to exclude the sun. Theonly place where its banks are shelving is onthe side next to a rambling farm-yard, belonging to one of those old-world, gabled, blackand white houses I named above, overlooking the field through which the public footpath leads. The porch of this farm-house iscovered by a rose-tree; and the little gardensurrounding it is crowded with a medley ofold-fashioned herbs and flowers, planted longago, when the garden was the only druggist’sshop within reach, and allowed to grow inscrambling and wild luxuriance–roses, lavender, sage, balm (for tea), rosemary, pinks and9

CHAPTER Iwallflowers, onions and jessamine, in most republican and indiscriminate order. This farmhouse and garden are within a hundred yardsof the stile of which I spoke, leading from thelarge pasture field into a smaller one, dividedby a hedge of hawthorn and black-thorn; andnear this stile, on the further side, there runsa tale that primroses may often be found, andoccasionally the blue sweet violet on the grassyhedge bank.I do not know whether it was on a holidaygranted by the masters, or a holiday seizedin right of Nature and her beautiful springtime by the workmen, but one afternoon (nowten or a dozen years ago) these fields weremuch thronged. It was an early May evening–the April of the poets; for heavy showers hadfallen all the morning, and the round, soft,10

CHAPTER Iwhite clouds which were blown by a west windover the dark blue sky, were sometimes varied by one blacker and more threatening. Thesoftness of the day tempted forth the younggreen leaves, which almost visibly flutteredinto life; and the willows, which that morning had had only a brown reflection in the water below, were now of that tender gray-greenwhich blends so delicately with the spring harmony of colours.Groups of merry and somewhat loud-talkinggirls, whose ages might range from twelve totwenty, came by with a buoyant step. Theywere most of them factory girls, and wore theusual out-of-doors dress of that particular classof maidens; namely, a shawl, which at mid-dayor in fine weather was allowed to be merelya shawl, but towards evening, or if the day11

CHAPTER Iwere chilly, became a sort of Spanish mantillaor Scotch plaid, and was brought over the headand hung loosely down, or was pinned underthe chin in no unpicturesque fashion.Their faces were not remarkable for beauty;indeed, they were below the average, with oneor two exceptions; they had dark hair, neatlyand classically arranged, dark eyes, but sallowcomplexions and irregular features. The onlything to strike a passer-by was an acutenessand intelligence of countenance, which has often been noticed in a manufacturing population.There were also numbers of boys, or ratheryoung men, rambling among these fields,ready to bandy jokes with any one, and particularly ready to enter into conversation withthe girls, who, however, held themselves aloof,12

CHAPTER Inot in a shy, but rather in an independent way,assuming an indifferent manner to the noisywit or obstreperous compliments of the lads.Here and there came a sober quiet couple, either whispering lovers, or husband and wife,as the case might be; and if the latter, they wereseldom unencumbered by an infant, carried forthe most part by the father, while occasionally even three or four little toddlers had beencarried or dragged thus far, in order that thewhole family might enjoy the delicious May afternoon together.Sometime in the course of that afternoon,two working men met with friendly greetingat the stile so often named. One was a thorough specimen of a Manchester man; born offactory workers, and himself bred up in youth,and living in manhood, among the mills. He13

CHAPTER Iwas below the middle size and slightly made;there was almost a stunted look about him;and his wan, colourless face gave you the idea,that in his childhood he had suffered from thescanty living consequent upon bad times andimprovident habits. His features were stronglymarked, though not irregular, and their expression was extreme earnestness; resolute eitherfor good or evil; a sort of latent, stern enthusiasm. At the time of which I write, the goodpredominated over the bad in the countenance,and he was one from whom a stranger wouldhave asked a favour with tolerable faith thatit would be granted. He was accompaniedby his wife, who might, without exaggeration,have been called a lovely woman, althoughnow her face was swollen with crying, and often hidden behind her apron. She had the freshbeauty of the agricultural districts; and some-14

CHAPTER Iwhat of the deficiency of sense in her countenance, which is likewise characteristic of therural inhabitants in comparison with the natives of the manufacturing towns. She wasfar advanced in pregnancy, which perhaps occasioned the overpowering and hysterical nature of her grief. The friend whom they metwas more handsome and less sensible-lookingthan the man I have just described; he seemedhearty and hopeful, and although his age wasgreater, yet there was far more of youth’s buoyancy in his appearance. He was tenderly carrying a baby in arms, while his wife, a delicate, fragile-looking woman, limping in hergait, bore another of the same age; little, feebletwins, inheriting the frail appearance of theirmother.The last-mentioned man was the first to15

CHAPTER Ispeak, while a sudden look of sympathydimmed his gladsome face. “Well, John, howgoes it with you?” and, in a lower voice, headded, “Any news of Esther, yet?” Meanwhilethe wives greeted each other like old friends,the soft and plaintive voice of the mother of thetwins seeming to call forth only fresh sobs fromMrs. Barton.“Come, women,” said John Barton, “you’veboth walked far enough. My Mary expectsto have her bed in three weeks; and as foryou, Mrs. Wilson, you know you’re but acranky sort of a body at the best of times.”This was said so kindly, that no offence couldbe taken. “Sit you down here; the grass iswell nigh dry by this time; and you’re neitherof you nesh1 folk about taking cold. Stay,”1 “Nesh;”Anglo-Saxon, nesc, tender.16

CHAPTER Ihe added, with some tenderness, “here’s mypocket-handkerchief to spread under you, tosave the gowns women always think so muchof; and now, Mrs. Wilson, give me the baby,I may as well carry him, while you talk andcomfort my wife; poor thing, she takes on sadlyabout Esther.”These arrangements were soon completed:the two women sat down on the blue cottonhandkerchiefs of their husbands, and the latter,each carrying a baby, set off for a further walk;but as soon as Barton had turned his back uponhis wife, his countenance fell back into an expression of gloom.“Then you’ve heard nothing of Esther, poorlass?” asked Wilson.“No, nor shan’t, as I take it. My mind is,she’s gone off with somebody. My wife frets,17

CHAPTER Iand thinks she’s drowned herself, but I tell her,folks don’t care to put on their best clothes todrown themselves; and Mrs. Bradshaw (whereshe lodged, you know) says the last time she seteyes on her was last Tuesday, when she camedown stairs, dressed in her Sunday gown, andwith a new ribbon in her bonnet, and gloveson her hands, like the lady she was so fond ofthinking herself.”“She was as pretty a creature as ever the sunshone on.”“Ay, she was a farrantly2 lass; more’s thepity now,” added Barton, with a sigh. “Yousee them Buckinghamshire people as comesto work in Manchester, has quite a differentlook with them to us Manchester folk. Yo


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