“I’m not asleep. I’ve been awake all the time.”
Even her father could not keep from smiling, and Job Legh and Margaret laughed outright.
“Come, wench,” said Job, “don’t look so gloppened because thou’st fallen asleep while an oud chap like me was talking on oud times. It were like enough to send thee to sleep. Try if thou canst keep thine eyes open while I read thy father a bit on a poem as is written by a weaver like oursel. A rare chap I’ll be bound is he who could weave verse like this.”
So adjusting his spectacles on nose, cocking his chin, crossing his legs, and coughing to clear his voice, he read aloud a little poem of Samuel Bamford’s he had picked up somewhere.
God help the poor, who, on this wintry morn, Come forth from alleys dim and courts obscure. God help yon poor pale girl, who droops forlorn, And meekly her affliction doth endure; God help her, outcast lamb; she trembling stands, All wan her lips, and frozen red her hands Her sunken eyes are modestly downcast, Her night-black hair streams on the fitful blast; Her bosom, passing fair, is half revealed, And oh! so cold, the snow lies there congealed; Her feet benumbed, her shoes all rent and worn, God help thee, outcast lamb, who standst forlorn! God help the poor!
God help the poor! An infant’s feeble wail Comes from yon narrow gateway, and behold! A female crouching there, so deathly pale, Huddling her child, to screen it from the cold; Her vesture scant, her bonnet crushed and torn; A thin shawl doth her baby dear enfold. And so she ‘bides the ruthless gale of morn, Which almost to her heart hath sent its cold. And now she, sudden, darts a ravening look, As one, with new hot bread, goes past the nook; And, as the tempting load is onward borne, She weeps. God help thee, helpless one, forlorn! God help the poor!
God help the poor! Behold yon famished lad, No shoes, nor hose, his wounded feet protect; With limping gait, and looks so dreamy sad, He wanders onward, stopping to inspect Each window stored with articles of food. He yearns but to enjoy one cheering meal; Oh! to the hungry palate viands rude Would yield a zest the famished only feel! He now devours a crust of mouldy bread; With teeth and hands the precious boon is torn Unmindful of the storm that round his head Impetuous sweeps. God help thee, child forlorn! God help the poor!
God help the poor! Another have I found— A bowed and venerable man is he; His slouched hat with faded crape is bound; His coat is grey, and threadbare too, I see. “The rude winds” seem “to mock his hoary hair”: His shirtless bosom to the blast is bare. Anon he turns and casts a wistful eye, And with scant napkin wipes the blinding spray, And looks around, as if he fain would spy Friends he had feasted in his better day: Ah! some are dead: and some have long forborne To know the poor; and he is left forlorn! God help the poor!
God help the poor, who in lone valleys dwell, Or by far hills, where whin and heather grow; Theirs is a story sad indeed to tell; Yet little cares the world, and less ‘t would know About the toil and want men undergo. The wearying loom doth call them up at morn; They work till worn-out nature sinks to sleep; They taste, but are not fed. The snow drifts deep Around the fireless cot, and blocks the door; The night-storm howls a dirge across the moor; And shall they perish thus—oppressed and lorn? Shall toil and famine, hopeless, still be borne? No! God will yet arise and help the poor!
“Amen!” said Barton, solemnly and sorrowfully. “Mary! wench, couldst thou copy me them lines, dost think?— that’s to say, if Job there has no objection.”
“Not I. More they’re heard and read and the better, say I.”
So Mary took the paper. And the next day, on a blank half-sheet of a valentine, all bordered with hearts and darts—a valentine she had once suspected to come from Jem Wilson—she copied Bamford’s beautiful little poem.
X. RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL.
“My heart, once soft as woman’s tear, is gnarled With gloating on the ills I cannot cure.” —ELLIOTT.
“Then guard and shield her innocence, Let her not fall like me; ‘T were better, oh! a thousand times, She in her grave should be.” —The Outcast.
Despair settled down like a heavy cloud; and now and then, through the dead calm of sufferings, came pipings of stormy winds, foretelling the end of these dark prognostics. In times of sorrowful or fierce endurance, we are often soothed by the mere repetition of old proverbs which tell the experience of our forefathers; but now, “it’s a long lane that has no turning,” “the weariest day draws to an end,” etc., seemed false and vain sayings, so long and so weary was the pressure of the terrible times. Deeper and deeper still sank the poor. It showed how much lingering suffering it takes to kill men, that so few (in comparison) died during those times. But remember! we only miss those who do men’s work in their humble sphere; the aged, the feeble, the children, when they die, are hardly noted by the world; and yet to many hearts, their deaths make a blank which long years will never fill up. Remember, too, that though it may take much suffering to kill the able-bodied and effective members of society, it does NOT take much to reduce them to worn, listless, diseased creatures, who thenceforward crawl through life with moody hearts and pain-stricken bodies.
The people had thought the poverty of the preceding years hard to bear, and had found its yoke heavy; but this year added sorely to its weight. Former times had chastised them with whips, but this chastised them with scorpions.
Of course, Barton had his share of mere bodily sufferings. Before he had gone up to London on his vain errand, he had been working short time. But in the hopes of speedy redress by means of the interference of Parliament, he had thrown up his place; and now, when he asked leave to resume his work, he was told they were diminishing their number of hands every week, and he was made aware, by the remarks of fellow-workmen, that a Chartist delegate, and a leading member of a Trades’ Union, was not likely to be favoured in his search after employment. Still he tried to keep up a brave heart concerning himself. He knew he could bear hunger; for that power of endurance had been called forth when he was a little child, and had seen his mother hide her daily morsel to share it among her children, and when he, being the eldest, had told the noble lie, that “he was not hungry, could not eat a bit more,” in order to imitate his mother’s bravery, and still the sharp wail of the younger infants. Mary, too, was secure of two meals a day at Miss Simmonds’; though, by the way, the dressmaker too, feeling the effect of bad times, had left off giving tea to her apprentices, setting them the example of long abstinence by putting off her own meal till work was done for the night, however late that might be.
But the rent! It was half-a-crown a week—nearly all Mary’s earnings—and much less room might do for them, only two.—(Now came the time to be thankful that the early dead were saved from the evil to come.)—The agricultural labourer generally has strong local attachments; but they are far less common, almost obliterated, among the inhabitants of a town. Still there are exceptions, and Barton formed one. He had removed to his present house just after the last bad times, when little Tom had sickened and died. He had then thought the bustle of a removal would give his poor stunned wife something to do, and he had taken more interest in the details of the
