Chapter II: Articles and Sketches (8)

“It’s a caution to a man how he goes about beguiling. Some men do it as easily and innocent as cooing doves. Don’t you be none of ’em, my lad. Not that you’ve got the gifts to do it, either; you’re no great shakes to look at, neither for figure, nor yet for face, and it would need be a deaf adder to be taken in wi’ your words, though there may be no great harm in ’em.” A lad of nineteen or twenty is not flattered by such an outspoken opinion even from the eldest and ugliest of her sex; and I was only too glad to change the subject by my repeated injunctions to keep Phillis’s secret. The end of our conversation was this speech of hers:

“You great gaupus, for all you’re called cousin o’ th’ minister—many a one is cursed wi’ fools for cousins—d’ye think I can’t see sense except through your spectacles? I give you leave to cut out my tongue, and nail it up on th’ barn door for a caution to magpies, if I let out on that poor wench, either to herself, or anyone that is hers, as the Bible says. Now you’ve heard me speak Scripture language perhaps you’ll be content, and leave me my kitchen to myself.”

Descriptive

Green Heys Fields

From _Mary Barton_, 1848

This is a description of the neighbourhood near Mrs.
Gaskell’s home at the time of writing _Mary Barton_, and it
was the accuracy with which she described Manchester and its
surroundings that led her readers to the conclusion that
“Cotton Malther Mills, Esq.,” the _nom de guerre_ under which
she hid her identity, was none other than Mrs. Gaskell. Writing
of _Mary Barton_ a few weeks after it was published, Miss
Winkworth said, “I knew by the first few words it was hers
(Mrs. Gaskell’s)—about Green Heys Fields, and the stile she was
describing to me.”

There are some fields near Manchester, well known to the inhabitants as “Green Heys Fields,” through which runs a public footpath to a little village about two miles distant. In spite of these fields being flat and low, nay, in spite of the want of wood (the great and usual recommendation of level tracts of land), there is a charm about them which strikes even the inhabitant of a mountainous district, who sees and feels the effect of contrast in these commonplace but thoroughly rural fields, with the busy, bustling manufacturing town he left but half an hour ago. Here and there an old black and white farm-house, with its rambling outbuildings, speaks of other times and other occupations than those which now absorb the population of the neighbourhood. Here in their seasons may be seen the country business of haymaking, ploughing, etc., which are such pleasant mysteries for 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 milkmaid’s call, the clatter and cackle of poultry in the old farmyards. You cannot wonder, then, that these fields are popular places of resort at every holiday time; and you would not wonder, if you could see, or I properly describe, the charm of one particular stile, that it should be, on such occasions, a crowded halting-place. Close by it is a deep, clear pond, reflecting in its dark green depths the shadowy trees that bend over it to exclude the sun. The only place where its banks are shelving is on the side next to a rambling farmyard, belonging to one of those old-world gabled black and white houses I named above, overlooking the field through which the public footpath leads. The porch of this farm-house is covered by a rose tree; and the little garden surrounding it is crowded with a medley of old-fashioned herbs and flowers, planted long ago, when the garden was the only druggist’s shop within reach, and allowed to grow in scrambling and wild luxuriance—roses, lavender, sage, balm (for tea), rosemary, pinks and wallflowers, onions and jessamine, in most republican and indiscriminate order. This farm-house and garden are within a hundred yards of the stile of which I spoke, leading from the large pasture field into a smaller one, divided by a hedge of hawthorn and blackthorn; and near this stile, on the farther side, there runs a tale that primroses may often be found, and occasionally the blue sweet violet on the grassy hedge bank.

I do not know whether it was on a holiday granted by the masters, or a holiday seized in right of Nature and her beautiful spring-time by the workmen, but one afternoon (now ten or a dozen years ago) these fields were much thronged. It was an early May evening—the April of the poets; for heavy showers had fallen all the morning, and the round, soft, white clouds which were blown by a west wind over the dark blue sky, were sometimes varied by one blacker and more threatening. The softness of the day tempted forth the young green leaves, which almost visibly fluttered into life; and the willows, which that morning had had only a brown reflection in the water below, were now of that tender grey-green which blends so delicately with the spring harmony of colours.

Groups of merry and somewhat loud-talking girls, whose ages might range from twelve to twenty, came by with a buoyant step. They were most of them factory girls, and wore the usual out-of-doors dress of that particular class of maidens: namely, a shawl, which at midday or in fine weather was allowed to be merely a shawl, but towards evening, or if the day were chilly, became a sort of Spanish mantilla or Scotch plaid, and was brought over the head and hung loosely down, or was pinned under the chin in no unpicturesque fashion.

Their faces were not remarkable for beauty; indeed, they were below the average, with one or two exceptions; they had dark hair, neatly and classically arranged, dark eyes, but sallow complexions and irregular features. The only thing to strike a passer-by was an acuteness and intelligence of countenance, which has often been noticed in a manufacturing population.

There were also numbers of boys, or rather young men, rambling among these fields, ready to bandy jokes with any one, and particularly ready to enter into conversation with the girls, who, however, held themselves aloof, not in a shy, but rather in an independent way, assuming an indifferent manner, to the noisy wit 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 were seldom unencumbered by an infant, carried for the most part by the father, while occasionally even three or four little toddlers had been carried or dragged thus far, in order that the whole family might enjoy the delicious May afternoon together.

A Lancashire Tea-party in the Early Forties

From _Mary Barton_.

Mrs. Barton produced the key of the door from her pocket; and on entering the house-place it seemed as if they were in total darkness, except one bright spot, which might be a cat’s eye, or might be, what it was, a red-hot fire, smouldering under a large piece of coal, which John Barton immediately applied himself to break up, and the effect instantly produced was warm and glowing light in every corner of the room. To add to this (although the coarse yellow glare seemed lost in the ruddy glow from the fire), Mrs. Barton lighted a dip by sticking it in the fire, and having placed it satisfactorily in a tin candlestick, began to look further about her, on hospitable thoughts intent. The room was tolerably large, and possessed many conveniences. On the right of the door, as you entered, was a longish window, with a broad ledge. On each side of this hung blue-and-white check curtains, which were now drawn, to shut in the friends met to enjoy themselves. Two geraniums, unpruned and leafy, which stood on the sill, formed a further defence from out-door pryers. In the corner between the window and the fireside was a cupboard, apparently full of plates and dishes, cups and saucers, and some more nondescript articles, for which one would have fancied their possessors could find no use—such as triangular pieces of glass to save carving knives and forks from dirtying table-cloths. However, it was evident Mrs. Barton was proud of her crockery and glass, for she left her cupboard door open, with a glance round of satisfaction and pleasure. On the opposite side to the door and window was the staircase and two doors, one of which (the nearest to the fire) led into a sort of little back kitchen, where dirty work, such as washing up dishes, might be done, and whose shelves served as larder and pantry and store-room and all. The other door, which was considerably lower, opened into the coal-hole—the slanting closet under the stairs, from which to the fire-place there was a gay-coloured piece of oil-cloth laid. The place seemed almost crammed with furniture (sure sign of good times among the mills). Beneath the window was a dresser, with three deep drawers. Opposite the fire-place was a table, which I should call a Pembroke, only that it was made of deal, and I cannot tell how far such a name may be applied to such humble material. On it, resting against the wall, was a bright green japanned tea-tray, having a couple of scarlet lovers embracing in the middle. The fire-light danced merrily on this, and really (setting all taste but that of a child’s aside) it gave a richness of colouring to that side of the room. It was in some measure propped up by a crimson tea-caddy, also of japan ware. A round table on one branching leg, really for use, stood in the corresponding corner to the cupboard; and, if you can picture all this, with a washy, but clean stencilled pattern on the walls, you can form some idea of John Barton’s home.

The tray was soon hoisted down, and before the merry clatter of cups and saucers began, the women disburdened themselves of their out-of-door things, and sent Mary upstairs with them. Then came a long whispering, and chinking of money, to which Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were too polite to attend; knowing, as they did full well, that it all related to the preparations for hospitality: hospitality that, in their turn, they should have such pleasure in offering. So they tried to be busily occupied with the children, and not to hear Mrs. Barton’s directions to Mary.

“Run, Mary dear, just round the corner, and get some fresh eggs at Tipping’s (you may get one apiece, that will be fivepence), and see if he has any nice ham cut, that he would let us have a pound of.”

“Say two pounds, missis, and don’t be stingy,” chimed in the husband.

“Well, a pound and a half, Mary. And get it Cumberland ham, for Wilson comes from there-away, and it will have a sort of relish of home with it he’ll like—and Mary” (seeing the lassie fain to be off), “you must get a pennyworth of milk and a loaf of bread—mind you get it fresh and new—and, and—that’s all, Mary.”

“No, it’s not all,” said her husband. “Thou must get sixpennyworth of rum to warm the tea; thou’ll get it at the ‘Grapes.’ And thou just go to Alice Wilson; he says she lives just right round the corner, under 14, Barber Street” (this was addressed to his wife); “and tell her to come and take her tea with us; she’ll like to see her brother I’ll be bound, let alone Jane and the twins.”

“If she comes she must bring a tea-cup and saucer, for we have but half a dozen, and here’s six of us,” said Mrs. Barton.

“Pooh, pooh! Jem and Mary can drink out of one, surely.”

But Mary secretly determined to take care that Alice brought her tea-cup and saucer, if the alternative was to be her sharing anything with Jem.

Alice Wilson had but just come in. She had been out all day in the fields, gathering wild herbs for drinks and medicine, for, in addition to her invaluable qualities as a sick nurse and her worldly occupations as a washerwoman, she added a considerable knowledge of hedge and field simples; and on fine days, when no more profitable occupation offered itself, she used to ramble off into the lanes and meadows as far as her legs could carry her. This evening she had returned loaded with nettles, and her first object was to light a candle, and see to hang them up in bunches in every available place in her cellar room. It was the perfection of cleanliness; in one corner stood the modest-looking bed, with a check curtain at the head, the whitewashed wall filling up the place where the corresponding one should have been. The floor was bricked, and scrupulously clean, although so damp that it seemed as if the last washing would never dry up. As the cellar window looked into an area in the street, down which boys might throw stones, it was protected by an outside shutter, and was oddly festooned with all manner of hedgerow, ditch, and field plants, which we are accustomed to call valueless, but which have a powerful effect either for good or for evil, and are consequently much used among the poor. The room was strewn, hung, and darkened with these bunches, which emitted no very fragrant odour in their process of drying. In one corner was a sort of broad hanging shelf, made of old planks, where some old hoards of Alice’s were kept. Her little bit of crockery-ware was ranged on the mantelpiece, where also stood her candlestick and box of matches. A small cupboard contained at the bottom coals, and at the top her bread and basin of oatmeal, her frying-pan, teapot, and a small tin saucepan, which served as a kettle, as well as for cooking the delicate little messes of broth which Alice was sometimes able to manufacture for a sick neighbour.

After her walk she felt chilly and weary, and was busy trying to light her fire with the damp coals and half-green sticks, when Mary knocked.

“Come in,” said Alice, remembering, however, that she had barred the door for the night, and hastening to make it possible for anyone to come in.

“Is that you, Mary Barton?” exclaimed she, as the light from the candle streamed on the girl’s face. “How you are grown since I used to see you at my brother’s! Come in, lass, come in.”

“Please,” said Mary, almost breathless, “mother says you’re to come to tea, and bring your cup and saucer, for George and Jane Wilson is with us, and the twins, and Jem. And you’re to make haste, please.”

“I’m sure it’s very neighbourly and kind in your mother, and I’ll come, with many thanks. Stay, Mary; has your mother got any nettles for spring drink? If she hasn’t, I’ll take her some.”

“No, I don’t think she has.”

Mary ran off like a hare to fulfil what, to a girl of thirteen, fond of power, was the more interesting part of her errand—the money-spending part. And well and ably did she perform her business, returning home with a little bottle of rum and the eggs in one hand, while her other was filled with some excellent red-and-white, smoke-flavoured, Cumberland ham, wrapped up in paper.

She was at home, and frying ham, before Alice had chosen her nettles, put out her candle, locked the door, and walked in a very footsore manner as far as John Barton’s. What an aspect of comfort did his house-place present, after her humble cellar! She did not think of comparing; but for all that she felt the delicious glow of the fire, the bright light that revelled in every corner of the room, the savoury smells, the comfortable sounds of a boiling kettle, and the hissing, frizzling ham. With a little old-fashioned curtsey she shut the door, and replied with a loving heart to the boisterous and surprised greeting of her brother.

And now, all preparations being made, the party sat down; Mrs. Wilson in the post of honour, the rocking-chair, on the right-hand side of the fire, nursing her baby, while its father, in an opposite arm-chair, tried vainly to quieten the other with bread soaked in milk.

Mrs. Barton knew manners too well to do anything but sit at the tea-table and make tea, though in her heart she longed to be able to superintend the frying of the ham, and cast many an anxious look at Mary as she broke the eggs and turned the ham, with a very comfortable portion of confidence in her own culinary powers. Jem stood awkwardly leaning against the dresser, replying rather gruffly to his aunt’s speeches, which gave him, he thought, the air of being a little boy; whereas he considered himself as a young man, and not so very young neither, as in two months he would be eighteen. Barton vibrated between the fire and the tea-table, his only drawback being a fancy that every now and then his wife’s face flushed and contracted as if in pain.

At length the business actually began. Knives and forks, cups and saucers, made a noise, but human voices were still, for human beings were hungry and had no time to speak. Alice first broke silence; holding the tea-cup with the manner of one proposing a toast, she said, “Here’s to absent friends. Friends may meet, but mountains never.”

It was an unlucky toast or sentiment, as she instantly felt. Everyone thought of Esther, the absent Esther; and Mrs. Barton put down her food, and could not hide the fast-dropping tears. Alice could have bitten her tongue out.

It was a wet blanket to the evening; for though all had been said and suggested in the fields that could be said or suggested, everyone had a wish to say something in the way of comfort to poor Mrs. Barton, and a dislike to talk about anything else, while her tears fell fast and scalding. So George Wilson, his wife, and children set off early home, not before (in spite of _mal-à-propos_ speeches) they had expressed a wish that such meetings might often take place, and not before John Barton had given his hearty consent, and declared that as soon as ever his wife was well again they would have just such another evening.

“I will take care not to come and spoil it,” thought poor Alice; and going up to Mrs. Barton, she took her hand almost humbly, and said, “You don’t know how sorry I am I said it.”

To her surprise, a surprise that brought tears of joy into her eyes, Mary Barton put her arms round her neck, and kissed the self-reproaching Alice. “You didn’t mean any harm, and it was me as was foolish; only this work about Esther, and not knowing where she is, lies so heavy on my heart. Good-night, and never think no more about it. God bless you, Alice.”

Many and many a time, as Alice reviewed that evening in her after life, did she bless Mary Barton for these kind and thoughtful words. But just then all she could say was, “Good night, Mary, and may God bless _you_.”

Babby’s Journey from London to Manchester

From _Mary Barton_.

“Then we’d the stout little babby to bring home. We’d not overmuch money left; but it were fine weather, and we thought we’d take th’ coach to Brummagem, and walk on. It were a bright May morning when I last saw London town, looking back from a big hill a mile or two off. And in that big mass o’ a place I were leaving my blessed 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 kept it asleep, bless its little heart! But when th’ coach stopped for dinner it were awake, and crying for its pobbies. So we asked for some bread and milk, and Jennings took it first for to feed it; but it made its mouth like a square, and let it run out at each o’ the four corners. ‘Shake it, Jennings,’ says I; ‘that’s the way they make water run through a funnel, when it’s o’er full; and a child’s mouth 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,’ says I, thinking he were an awkward oud chap. But it were just as bad wi’ me. By shaking the babby we got better nor a gill into its mouth, but more nor that came up again, wetting a’ th’ nice dry clothes landlady had put on. Well, just as we’d gotten to th’ dinner-table, and help oursels, and eaten two mouthfuls, came in th’ guard, and a fine chap wi’ a sample o’ calico flourishing in his hand. ‘Coach is ready!’ says one; ‘Half a crown your dinner!’ says the other. Well, we thought it a deal for both our dinners, when we’d hardly tasted ’em; but, bless your life, it were half a crown apiece and a shilling for th’ bread and milk as were posseted all over babby’s clothes. We spoke up again it; but everybody said it were the rule, so what could two poor oud chaps like us do again’ it? Well, poor babby cried without stopping to take breath, fra’ that time till we got to Brummagem for the night. My heart ached for the little thing. It caught wi’ its wee mouth at our coat sleeves and at our mouths, when we tried t’ comfort it by talking to it. Poor little 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 its supper as it did its dinner. Let’s get some woman to feed it; it comes natural to women to do for babbies.’ So we asked for the chambermaid at the inn, and she took quite kindly to it; and we got a 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 like t’ have it t’ sleep wi’ her, only missis would scold so; but it looked so quiet and smiling like, as it lay in her arms, that we thought ’twould 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 never heard 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 to unpack,’ says she, rather quick.

“‘Aye, but, young woman, it’s one of your nightcaps I want. Th’ babby seems to have taken a mind to yo; and maybe in the dark it might take me for yo if I’d getten your nightcap on.’

“The chambermaid smirked and went for a cap, but I laughed outright at th’ oud bearded chap thinking he’d make hissel like a woman just by 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 on it! Babby began to scream o’ th’ oud fashion, and we took it turn and turn about to sit up and rock it. My heart were very sore for the little one, as it groped about wi’ its mouth; but for a’ that I could 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 for half the night, hushabying a babby as wouldn’t be hushabied. Toward morning, poor little wench! it fell asleep, fairly tired out wi’ crying, but even in its sleep it gave such pitiful sobs, quivering up fra’ the very bottom of its little heart, that once or twice I almost 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 had ta’en so much. I didn’t know what our reckoning would be for that night lodging, and supper, and breakfast. Doing a sum always sent me asleep ever sin’ I were a lad; so I fell sound in a short time, and were only awakened by chambermaid tapping at th’ door, to say she’d dress the babby before her missis were up if we liked. But bless yo’ we’d never thought o’ undressing it the night afore, and now it were sleeping so sound, and we were so glad o’ the peace and quietness, that we thought it were no good to waken it up to screech again.

“Well! (there’s Mary asleep for a good listener!) I suppose you’re getting 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, for it were only sixty mile, they telled us, and not stop again for nought save victuals. So we left Brummagem (which is as black a place as Manchester, without looking so like home), and walked a’ that day, carrying babby turn and turn about. It were well fed by chambermaid afore we left, and th’ day were fine, and folk began to have some knowledge o’ th’ proper way o’ speaking, and we were more cheery at thought o’ home (though mine, God knows, were lonesome enough). We stopped none for dinner, but at baggin-time we getten a good meal at a public-house, an’ fed th’ babby as well as we could, but that were but poorly. We got a crust too for it to suck—chambermaid put us up to that. That night, whether we were tired 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 wore my heart out again. Says Jennings, says he:

“‘We should na ha’ set out so like gentlefolk a top o’ the coach yesterday.’

“‘Nay, lad! We should ha’ had more to walk if we had na ridden, and I’m sure both you and I’se weary of tramping.’

“So he were quiet a bit. But he were one o’ them as were sure to find out somewhat had been done amiss when there were no going back to 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 better for 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 I were carrying _her_ babby, I think I should ha’ struck him. At last I could 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’ weary hearts we have now.’

“Well! he said that were rank blasphemy; but I thought his way of casting up again’ th’ events God had pleased to send, were worse blasphemy. Howe’er, I said nought more angry, for th’ little babby’s sake, as were th’ child o’ his dead son, as well as o’ my dead daughter.

“Th’ longest lane will have a turning, and that night came to an end at last; and we were footsore and tired enough, and to my mind the babby were getting weaker and weaker, and it wrung my heart to hear its little wail! I’d ha’ given my right hand for one of yesterday’s hearty cries. We were wanting our breakfasts, and so were it too, motherless babby! We could see no public-houses, so about six o’clock (only we thought it were later) we stopped at a cottage where a woman were moving about near th’ open door. Says I, ‘Good woman, 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 my legs would never bend at th’ knees. In a minute she fell a noticin’ the 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 us somewhat for breakfast, we’d pay yo honest, and if yo would wash and dress that poor babby, and get some pobbies down its throat, for it’s wellnigh clemmed, I’d pray for you till my dying day.’ So she said nought, but gived me th’ babby back, and afore you could say Jack 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 lips were tight pressed together. Well! we were right down glad on our breakfast, and God bless and reward that woman for her kindness that day! She fed th’ poor babby as gently and softly, and spoke to it as tenderly as its own poor mother could ha’ done. It seemed as if that stranger and it had known each other afore, maybe in heaven, where folks’ spirits come from, they say; th’ babby looked up so lovingly in her eyes, and made little noises more like a dove than aught else. Then she undressed it (poor darling! it were time), touching it so softly, and washed it from head to foot; and as many on its clothes were dirty, and what bits o’ things its mother had gotten ready for it had been sent by th’ carrier fra’ London, she put ’em aside; and wrapping little naked babby in her apron, she pulled out a key, as were fastened to a black ribbon, and hung down her breast, and unlocked a drawer in th’ dresser. I were sorry to be prying, but I could na’ help seeing in that drawer some little child’s clothes, all strewed wi’ lavender, and lying by ’em a little whip an’ a broken rattle. I began to have an insight into that woman’s heart then. She took out a thing or two, and locked the drawer, and went on dressing babby. Just about then come her husband down, a great big fellow as didn’t look half awake, though it were getting late; but he’d heard all as had been said downstairs, 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 rocking way. At length says he, ‘I ha’ learnt the way now; it’s two jiggits and a shake, two jiggits and a shake. I can get that babby asleep now myself.’

“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 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 in my face to see if I could take her meaning, gave me th’ babby without a word. I were loath to stir, but I saw it were better to go. So giving Jennings a sharp nudge (for he’d fallen asleep), I says, ‘Missis, what’s to pay?’ pulling out my money wi’ a jingle that she might na guess we were at all bare o’ cash. So she looks at her husband, who said ne’er a word, but were listening with all his ears nevertheless; and when she saw he would na say, she said, hesitatingly, as if pulled two ways, by her fear o’ him,’ Should you think sixpence over much?’ It were so different to public-house reckoning, for we’d eaten a main deal afore the chap came down. So says I, ‘And, missis, what should we gi’ you for the babby’s bread and milk?’ (I had it once in my mind to say ‘and for a’ your trouble with it,’ but my heart would na let me say it, for I could read 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 looked all ear, if ever a back did, ‘Oh, we could take naught for the little 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 he meant, and stepped softly across the floor to him, and put her hand on his arm. He seemed as though he’d shake it off by a jerk on his elbow, but she said quite low, ‘For poor little Johnnie’s sake, Richard.’ He did not move or speak again, and after looking in his face for a minute, she turned away, swallowing deep in her throat. She kissed the sleeping babby as she passed, when I paid her. To quieten th’ gruff husband, and stop him if he rated her, I could na help slipping another sixpence under th’ loaf, and then we set off again. Last look I had o’ that woman she were quietly wiping her eyes wi’ the corner of her apron, as she went about her husband’s breakfast. But I shall know her in heaven.”

A Dissenting Minister’s Household

From _Ruth_, 1853

George Eliot, writing of _Ruth_ just after it was published,
said, “Of course, you have read _Ruth_ by this time. Its style
was a great refreshment to me from its finish and fullness. How
pretty and graphic are the touches of description.… That little
attic in the minister’s vestry, for example, which, with its
pure white dimity bed-curtains, its bright green walls, and
the rich brown of its stained floor, reminded me of a snowdrop
springing out of the soil.”—_Life of George Eliot._

After tea Miss Benson took her upstairs to her room. The white dimity bed, and the walls, stained green, had something of the colouring and purity of effect of a snowdrop; while the floor, rubbed with a mixture that turned it into a rich dark brown, suggested the idea of the garden-mould out of which the snowdrop grows. As Miss Benson helped the pale Ruth to undress, her voice became less full-toned and hurried; the hush of approaching night subdued her into a softened, solemn kind of tenderness, and the murmured blessing sounded like granted prayer.

* * * * *

In the Bensons’ house there was the same unconsciousness of individual merit, the same absence of introspection and analysis of motive, as there had been in her mother; but it seemed that their lives were pure and good, not merely from a lovely and beautiful nature, but from some law, the obedience to which was, of itself, harmonious peace, and which governed them almost implicitly, and with as little questioning on their part, as the glorious stars which haste not, rest not, in their eternal obedience. This household had many failings: they were but human, and, with all their loving desire to bring their lives into harmony with the will of God, they often erred and fell short; but, somehow, the very errors and faults of one individual served to call out higher excellences in another, and so they re-acted upon each other, and the result of short discords was exceeding harmony and peace. But they had themselves no idea of the real state of things; they did not trouble themselves with marking their progress by self-examination; if Mr. Benson did sometimes, in hours of sick incapacity for exertion, turn inwards, it was to cry aloud with almost morbid despair, “God be merciful to me a sinner!” But he strove to leave his life in the hands of God, and to forget himself.

Ruth sat still and quiet through the long first day. She was languid and weary from her journey; she was uncertain what help she might offer to give in the household duties, and what she might not. And, in her languor and in her uncertainty, it was pleasant to watch the new ways of the people among whom she was placed. After breakfast, Mr. Benson withdrew to his study, Miss Benson took away the cups and saucers, and, leaving the kitchen door open, talked sometimes to Ruth, sometimes to Sally, while she washed them up. Sally had upstairs duties to perform, for which Ruth was thankful, as she kept receiving rather angry glances for her unpunctuality as long as Sally remained downstairs. Miss Benson assisted in the preparation for the early dinner, and brought some kidney-beans to shred into a basin of bright, pure spring-water, which caught and danced in the sunbeams as she sat near the open casement of the parlour, talking to Ruth of things and people which as yet the latter did not understand, and could not arrange and comprehend. She was like a child who gets a few pieces of a dissected map, and is confused until a glimpse of the whole unity is shown him.

The Chapel at Eccleston

From _Ruth_.

This is a beautiful description of the old Unitarian chapel at
Knutsford as it is to-day. In the burial-ground is the grave of
Mrs. Gaskell.

The chapel was up a narrow street, or rather _cul-de-sac_, close by. It stood on the outskirts of the town, almost in fields. It was built about the time of Matthew and Philip Henry, when the Dissenters were afraid of attracting attention or observation and hid their places of worship in obscure and out-of-the-way parts of the towns in which they were built. Accordingly, it often happened, as in the present case, that the buildings immediately surrounding, as well as the chapels themselves, looked as if they carried you back to a period a hundred and fifty years ago. The chapel had a picturesque and old-world look, for luckily the congregation had been too poor to rebuild it, or new face it in George the Third’s time. The staircases which led to the galleries were outside, at each end of the building, and the irregular roof and worn stone steps looked grey and stained by time and weather. The grassy hillock, each with a little upright headstone, were shaded by a grand old wych-elm. A lilac bush or two, a white rose tree, and a few laburnums, all old and gnarled enough, were planted round the chapel yard; and the casement windows of the chapel were made of heavy-leaded, diamond-shaped panes, almost covered with ivy, producing a green gloom, not without its solemnity, within. This ivy was the home of an infinite number of little birds, which twittered and warbled, till it might have been thought that they were emulous of the power of praise possessed by the human creatures within, with such earnest, long-drawn strains did this crowd of winged songsters rejoice and be glad in their beautiful gift of life. The interior of the building was plain and simple as plain and simple could be. When it was fitted up, oak timber was much cheaper than it is now, so the woodwork was all of that description; but roughly hewed, for the early builders had not much wealth to spare. The walls were whitewashed, and were recipients of the shadows of the beauty without; on their “white plains” the tracery of the ivy might be seen, now still, now stirred by the sudden flight of some little bird. The congregation consisted of here and there a farmer with his labourers, who came down from the uplands beyond the town to worship where their fathers worshipped, and who loved the place because they knew how much those fathers had suffered for it, although they never troubled themselves with the reason why they left the parish church; of a few shopkeepers, far more thoughtful and reasoning, who were Dissenters from conviction, unmixed with old ancestral association; and of one or two families of still higher worldly station. With many poor, who were drawn there by love for Mr. Benson’s character, and by a feeling that the faith which made him what he was could not be far wrong, for the base of the pyramid, and with Mr. Bradshaw for its apex, the congregation stood complete.

The country people came in sleeking down their hair, and treading with earnest attempts at noiseless lightness of step over the floor of the aisle; and by and by, when all were assembled, Mr. Benson followed unmarshalled and unattended. When he had closed the pulpit door, and knelt in prayer for an instant or two, he gave out a psalm from the dear old Scottish paraphrase, with its primitive inversion of the simple perfect Bible words; and a kind of precentor stood up, and, having sounded the note on a pitch-pipe, sang a couple of lines by way of indicating the tune; then all the congregation stood up, and sang aloud.

The Dawn of a Gala Day

From _Wives and Daughters_, 1866

To begin with the old rigmarole of childhood. In a country there was a shire, and in that shire there was a town, and in that town there was a house, and in that house there was a room, and in that room there was a bed, and in that bed there lay a little girl; wide awake and longing to get up, but not daring to do so for fear of the unseen power in the next room—a certain Betty, whose slumbers must not be disturbed until six o’clock struck, when she wakened of herself “as sure as clockwork,” and left the household very little peace afterwards. It was a June morning, and early as it was, the room was full of sunny warmth and light.

On the drawers opposite to the little white dimity bed in which Molly Gibson lay, was a primitive kind of bonnet stand, on which was hung a bonnet, carefully covered over from any chance of dust, with a large cotton handkerchief; of so heavy and serviceable a texture that, if the thing underneath it had been a flimsy fabric of gauze and lace and flowers, it would have been altogether “scomfished” (again to quote from Betty’s vocabulary). But the bonnet was made of solid straw, and its only trimming was a plain white ribbon put over the crown, and forming the strings. Still, there was a neat little quilling inside, every plait of which Molly knew, for had she not made it herself the evening before, with infinite pains? and was there not a little blue bow in this quilling, the very first bit of such finery Molly had ever had the prospect of wearing?

Six o’clock now! the pleasant, brisk ringing of the church bells told that; calling everyone to their daily work, as they had done for hundreds of years. Up jumped Molly, and ran with her bare little feet across the room, and lifted off the handkerchief and saw once again the bonnet—the pledge of the gay bright day to come. Then to the window, and after some tugging she opened the casement, and let in the sweet morning air. The dew was already off the flowers in the garden below, but still rising from the long hay-grass in the meadows directly beyond. At one side lay the little town of Hollingford, into a street of which Mr. Gibson’s front door opened; and delicate columns and little puffs of smoke were already beginning to rise from many a cottage chimney, where some housewife was already up, and preparing breakfast for the bread-winner of the family.

Molly Gibson saw all this, but all she thought about it was, “Oh! it will be a fine day! I was afraid it never, never would come; or that, if it ever came, it would be a rainy day!” Five-and-forty years ago, children’s pleasures in a country town were very simple, and Molly had lived for twelve long years without the occurrence of any event so great as that which was now impending. Poor child! it is true that she had lost her mother, which was a jar to the whole tenour of her life; but that was hardly an event in the sense referred to; and besides, she had been too young to be conscious of it at the time. The pleasure she was looking forward to to-day was her first share in a kind of annual festival in Hollingford.

The little straggling town faded away into country on one side, close to the entrance-lodge of a great park, where lived my Lord and Lady Cumnor: “the earl” and “the countess,” as they were always called by the inhabitants of the town, where a very pretty amount of feudal feeling still lingered, and showed itself in a number of simple ways, droll enough to look back upon, but serious matters of importance at the time. It was before the passing of the Reform Bill, but a good deal of liberal talk took place occasionally between two or three of the more enlightened freeholders living in Hollingford; and there was a great Whig family in the county who, from time to time, came forward and contested the election with the rival Tory family of Cumnor. One would have thought that the above-mentioned liberal-talking inhabitants of Hollingford would have, at least, admitted the possibility of their voting for the Hely-Harrison who represented their own opinions. But no such thing. “The earl” was lord of the manor, and owner of much of the land on which Hollingford was built; he and his household were fed, and doctored, and, to a certain measure, clothed by the good people of the town; their fathers’ grandfathers had always voted for the eldest son of Cumnor Towers, and following in the ancestral track, every man-jack in the place gave his vote to the liege lord, totally irrespective of such chimeras as political opinion.

This was no unusual instance of the influence of the great landowners over humbler neighbours in those days before railways, and it was well for a place where the powerful family, who thus overshadowed it, were of so respectable a character as the Cumnors. They expected to be submitted to, and obeyed; the simple worship of the townspeople was accepted by the earl and countess as a right; and they would have stood still in amazement and with a horrid memory of the French sansculottes who were the bugbears of their youth, had any inhabitant of Hollingford ventured to set his will or opinions in opposition to those of the earl. But, yielded all that obeisance, they did a good deal for the town, and were generally condescending, and often thoughtful and kind, in their treatment of their vassals. Lord Cumnor was a forbearing landlord, putting his steward a little on one side sometimes, and taking the reins into his own hands now and then, much to the annoyance of the agent, who was, in fact, too rich and independent to care greatly for preserving a post where his decisions might any day be overturned by my lord’s taking a fancy to go “pottering” (as the agent irreverently expressed it in the sanctuary of his own home), which, being interpreted, meant that occasionally the earl asked his own questions of his own tenants, and used his own eyes and ears in the management of the smaller details of his property. But his tenants liked my lord all the better for this habit of his. Lord Cumnor had certainly a little time for gossip, which he contrived to combine with the failing of personal intervention between the old land steward and the tenantry. But, then, the countess made up by her unapproachable dignity for this weakness of the earl’s. Once a year she was condescending. She and the ladies, her daughters, had set up a school; not a school after the manner of schools nowadays, where far better intellectual teaching is given to the boys and girls of labourers and work-people than often falls to the lot of their betters in worldly estate; but a school of the kind we should call “industrial,” where girls are taught to sew beautifully, to be capital housemaids, and pretty fair cooks, and, above all, to dress neatly in a kind of charity uniform devised by the ladies of Cumnor Towers—white caps, white tippets, check aprons, blue gowns, and ready curtsies, and “please ma’ams” being _de rigueur_.

Now, as the countess was absent from the Towers for a considerable part of the year, she was glad to enlist the sympathy of the Hollingford ladies in this school, with a view to obtaining their aid as visitors during the many months that she and her daughters were away. And the various unoccupied gentlewomen of the town responded to the call of their liege lady, and gave her their service as required; and along with it, a great deal of whispered and fussy admiration. “How good of the countess! So like the dear countess—always thinking of others!” and so on; while it was always supposed that no strangers had seen Hollingford properly, unless they had been taken to the countess’s school, and been duly impressed by the neat little pupils, and the still neater needlework there to be inspected. In return, there was a day of honour set apart every summer, when, with much gracious and stately hospitality, Lady Cumnor and her daughters received all the school visitors at the Towers, the great family mansion standing in aristocratic seclusion in the centre of the large park, of which one of the lodges was close to the little town. The order of this annual festivity was this. About ten o’clock one of the Towers’ carriages rolled through the lodge, and drove to different houses, wherein dwelt a woman to be honoured; picking them up by ones or twos, till the loaded carriage drove back again through the ready portals, bowled along the smooth tree-shaded road, and deposited its covey of smartly dressed ladies on the great flight of steps leading to the ponderous doors of Cumnor Towers. Back again to the town; another picking up of womankind in their best clothes, and another return, and so on till the whole party were assembled either in the house or in the really beautiful gardens. After the proper amount of exhibition on the one part, and admiration on the other, had been done, there was a collation for the visitors, and some more display and admiration of the treasures inside the house. Towards four o’clock coffee was brought round; and this was a signal of the approaching carriage that was to take them back to their own homes; whither they returned with the happy consciousness of a well-spent day, but with some fatigue at the long-continued exertion of behaving their best, and talking on stilts for so many hours. Nor were Lady Cumnor and her daughters free from something of the same self-approbation, and something, too, of the same fatigue; the fatigue that always follows on conscious efforts to behave as will best please the society you are in.

For the first time in her life, Molly Gibson was to be included among the guests at the Towers.

A Manchester Mill on Fire

From _Mary Barton_, 1848

Suddenly there were steps heard in the little paved court; person after person ran past the curtained window.

“Something’s up,” said Mary. She went to the door, and stopped the first person she saw, inquiring the cause of the commotion.

“Eh, wench! donna ye see the fire-light? Carsons’ mill is a blazing away like fun”; and away her informant ran.

“Come, Margaret, on wi’ your bonnet, and let’s go to see Carsons’ mill; it’s afire, and they say a burning mill is such a grand sight. I never saw one.”

“Well, I think it’s a fearful sight. Besides, I’ve all this work to do.”

But Mary coaxed in her sweet manner, and with her gentle caresses, promising to help with the gowns all night long, if necessary—nay, saying she should quite enjoy it.

The truth was, Margaret’s secret weighed heavily and painfully on her mind, and she felt her inability to comfort; besides, she wanted to change the current of Margaret’s thoughts; and in addition to these unselfish feelings, came the desire she had honestly expressed, of seeing a factory on fire.

So in two minutes they were ready. At the threshold of the house they met John Barton, to whom they told their errand.