A life of self-indulgence is for us,
A life of self-denial is for them;
For us the streets, broad-built and populous1,
For them unhealthy corners, garrets dim,
And cellars where the water-rat may swim!
For us green paths refreshed by frequent rain,
For them dark alleys2 where the dust lies grim!
Not doomed3 by us to this appointed pain-
God made us rich and poor--of what do these complain? MRS NORTON, Child of the Islands.
The next evening it was a warm, pattering, incessant4 rain-just the rain to waken up the flowers. But in Manchester, where, alas5! there are no flowers, the rain had only a disheartening and gloomy effect; the streets were wet and dirty, the drippings from the houses were wet and dirty, and the people were wet and dirty. Indeed, most kept within doors; and there was an unusual silence of footsteps in the little paved courts.
Mary had to change her clothes after her walk home; and had hardly settled herself before she heard some one fumbling7 at the door. The noise continued long enough to allow her to get up, and go and open it. There stood--could it be? yes it was, her father!
Drenched8 and wayworn, there he stood! He came in with no word to Mary in return for her cheery and astonished greeting. He sat down by the fire in his wet things, unheeding. But Mary would not let him so rest. She ran up and brought down his working day clothes, and went into the pantry to rummage9 up their little bit of provision while he changed by the fire, talking all the while as gaily10 as she could, though her father's depression hung like lead on her heart.
For Mary, in her seclusion11 at Miss Simmonds',--where the chief talk was of fashions, and dress, and parties to be given, for which such and such gowns would be wanted, varied13 with a slight-whispered interlude occasionally about love and lovers,--had not heard the political news of the day: that Parliament had refused to listen to the working men, when they petitioned, with all the force of their rough, untutored words, to be heard concerning the distress14 which was riding, like the Conqueror15 on his Pale Horse, among the people; which was crushing their lives out of them, and stamping woe-marks over the land.
When he had eaten and was refreshed, they sat for some time in silence; for Mary wished him to tell her what oppressed him so, yet durst not ask. In this she was wise; for when we are heavy-laden in our hearts it falls in better with our humour to reveal our case in our own way, and our own time.
Mary sat on a stool at her father's feet in old childish guise16, and stole her hand into his, while his sadness infected her, and she "caught the trick of grief, and sighed," she knew not why.
"Mary, we 'nun17 speak to our God to hear us, for man will not hearken; no, not now, when we weep tears o' blood."
In an instant Mary understood the fact, if not the details, that so weighed down her father's heart. She pressed his hand with silent sympathy. She did not know what to say, and was so afraid of speaking wrongly, that she was silent. But when his attitude had remained unchanged for more than half-an-hour, his eyes gazing vacantly and fixedly19 at the fire, no sound but now and then a deep-drawn20 sigh to break the weary ticking of the clock, and the drip-drop from the roof without, Mary could bear it no longer. Any thing to rouse her father. Even bad news.
"Father, do you know George Wilson's dead?" (Her hand was suddenly and almost violently compressed.) "He dropped down dead in Oxford21 Road yester morning. It's very sad, isn't it, father?"
Her tears were ready to flow as she looked up in her father's face for sympathy. Still the same fixed18 look of despair, not varied by grief for the dead.
"Best for him to die," he said, in a low voice.
This was unbearable22. Mary got up under pretence23 of going to tell Margaret that she need not come to sleep with her to-night, but really to ask Job Legh to come and cheer her father.
She stopped outside the door. Margaret was practising her singing, and through the still night air her voice rang out, like that of an angel:
"Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people, saith your God."
The old Hebrew prophetic words fell like dew on Mary's heart. She could not interrupt. She stood listening and "comforted," till the little buzz of conversation again began, and then entered and told her errand.
Both grandfather and granddaughter rose instantly to fulfil her request.
"He's just tired out, Mary," said old Job. "He'll be a different man to-morrow."
There is no describing the looks and tones that have power over an aching, heavy-laden heart; but in an hour or so John Barton was talking away as freely as ever, though all his talk ran, as was natural, on the disappointment of his fond hope, of the forlorn hope of many.
"Ay, London's a fine place," said he, "and finer folk live in it than I ever thought on, or ever heerd tell on except in th' story-books. They are having their good things now, that afterwards they may be tormented24."
Still at the old parable25 of Dives and Lazarus! Does it haunt the minds of the rich as it does those of the poor?
"Do tell us all about London, dear father," asked Mary, who was sitting at her old post by her father's knee.
"How can I tell yo a' about it, when I never seed one-tenth of it. It's as big as six Manchesters, they telled me. Onesixth may be made up o' grand palaces, and three-sixth's o' middling kind, and th' rest o' holes o' iniquity26 and filth27, such as Manchester knows nought28 on, I'm glad to say.
"Well, father, but did you see the Queen?"
"I believe I didn't, though one day I thought I'd seen her many a time. You see, said he, turning to Job Legh, "there were a day appointed for us to go to Parliament House. We were most on us biding29 at a public-house in Holborn, where they did very well for us. Th' morning of taking our petition we had such a spread for breakfast as th' Queen hersel might ha' sitten down to. I suppose they thought we wanted putting in heart. There were mutton kidneys, and sausages, and broiled30 ham, and fried beef and onions; more like a dinner nor a breakfast. Many on our chaps though, I could see, could eat but little. Th' food stuck in their throats when they thought o' them at home, wives and little ones, as had, may be at that very time, nought to eat, Well, after breakfast, we were all set to walk in procession, and a time it took to put us in order, two and two, and the petition, as was yards long, carried by th' foremost pairs. The men looked grave enough, yo may be sure; and such a set of thin, wan12, wretched-looking chaps as they were!"
"Yourself is none to boast on."
"Aye, but I were fat and rosy31 to many a one. Well, we walked on and on through many a street, much the same as Deansgate. We had to walk slowly, slowly, for th' carriages an' cabs as thronged32 th' streets. I thought by and by we should may be get clear on 'em, but as the streets grew wider they grew worse, and at last we were fairly blocked up at Oxford Street. We getten across at last though, and my eyes I the grand streets we were in then! They're sadly puzzled how to build houses though in London; there'd be an opening for a good steady master builder there, as know'd his business. For yo see the houses are many on 'em built without any proper shape for a body to live in; some on em they've after thought would fall down, so they've stuck great ugly pillars out before 'em. And some on 'em (we thought they must be th' tailors' sign) had getten stone men and women as wanted clothes stuck on 'em. I were like a child, I forgot a my errand in looking about me. By this it were dinner-time, or better, as we could tell by the sun, right above our heads, and we were dusty and tired, going a step flow and a step then. Well, at last we getten into a street grander nor all, leading to th' Queen's palace, and there it were I thought I saw th' Queen. Yo've seen th' hearses wi' white plumes33, Job?"
"Well, them undertaker folk are driving a pretty trade in London. Wellnigh every lady we saw in a carriage had hired one o' them plumes for the day, and had it niddle noddling on her head. it were th' Queen's drawing-room, they said, and th' carriages went bowling35 along toward her house, some wi' dressed up gentlemen like circus folk in 'em, and rucks o' ladies in others. Carriages themselves were great shakes too. Some o' th' gentlemen as couldn't get inside hung on behind, wi' nosegays to smell at, and sticks to keep off folk as might splash their silk stockings. I wondered why they didn't hire a cab rather than hang on like a whip-behind boy; but I suppose they wished to keep wi' their wives, Darby and Joan like. Coachmen were little squat36 men, wi' wigs37 like th' oud-fashioned parsons'. Well, we could na get on for these carriages, though we waited and waited. Th' horses were too fat tonever known want o' food, one might tell their sleek38 coats; and police pushed us back when we tried to cross. One or two of 'em struck wi' their sticks, and coachmen laughed, and some officers as stood nigh put their spy-glasses in their eye, and left 'em sticking there like mountebanks. One o' th' police struck me. 'Whatten business have yo to do that?' said I.
"'You're frightening them horses,' says he, in his mincing39 way (for Londoners are mostly all tongue-tied, and can't say their a's and i's properly), 'and it's our business to keep you from molesting40 the ladies and gentlemen going to her Majesty's drawing-room.'
"'And why are we to be molested,"' asked I, "'going decently about our business, which is life and death to us, and many a little one clemming at home in Lancashire? Which business is of most consequence i' the sight o' God, think yo, our'n or them gran' ladies and gentlemen as yo think so much on?'
"But I might as well ha' held my peace, for he only laughed."
John ceased. After waiting a little, to see if he would go on himself, Job said,
"Well, but that's not a' your story, man. Tell us what happened when yo got to th' Parliament House."
After a little pause, John answered,
"If you please, neighbour, I'd rather say nought about that. It's not to be forgotten, or forgiven either, by me or many another; but I canna tell ofour down-casting just as a piece of London news. As long as I live, our rejection41 that day will bide42 in my heart; and as long as I live I shall curse them as so cruelly refused to hear us; but I'll not speak of it no more.
So, daunted43 in their inquiries44, they sat silent for a few minutes.
Old Job, however, felt that some one must speak, else all the good they bad done in dispelling45 John Barton's gloom was lost. So after a while he thought of a subject, neither sufficiently46 dissonant47 from the last to jar on the full heart, nor too much the same to cherish the continuance of the gloomy train of thought.
"Did you ever hear tell," said he to Mary, "that I were in London once?"
"No!" said she, with surprise, and looking at Job with increased respect.
"Aye, but I were though, and Peg48 there too, though she minds nought about it, poor wench! You must know I had but one child, and she were Margaret's mother. I loved her above a bit, and one day when she came (standing behind me for that I should not see her blushes, and stroking my cheeks in her own coaxing49 way), and told me she and Frank Jennings (as was a joiner lodging50 near us) should be so happy if they were married, I could not find in my heart t' say her nay51, though I went sick at the thought of losing her away from my home. However, she was my only child, and I never said nought of what I felt, for fear o' grieving her young heart. But I tried to think o' the time when I'd been young mysel', and had loved her blessed mother, and how we'd left father and mother, and gone out into th' world together, and I'm now right thankful I held my peace, and didna fret52 her wi' telling her how sore I was at parting wi' her that were the light o' my eyes."
"But," said Mary, "you said the young man were a neighbour."
"Aye, so he were, and his father afore him. But work were rather slack in Manchester, and Frank's uncle sent him word o' London work and London wages, so he were to go there, and it were there Margaret was to follow him. Well, my heart aches yet at thought of those days. She so happy, and he so happy; only the poor father as fretted53 sadly behind their backs. They were married and stayed some days wi' me afore setting off; and I've often thought sin', Margaret's heart failed her many a time those few days, and she would fain ha' spoken; but I knew fra' mysel it were better to keep it pent up, and I never let on what I were feeling; I knew what she meant when she came kissing, and holding my hand, and all her old childish ways o' loving me. Well, they went at last You know them two letters, Margaret?"
"Yes, sure," replied his granddaughter.
"Well, them two were the only letters I ever had fra' her, poor lass. She said in them she were very happy, and I believe she were. And Frank's family heard he were in good work. In one o' her letters, poor thing, she ends wi' saying, 'Farewell, Grandad!' wi' a line drawn under grandad, and fra' that an' other hints I knew she were in th' family way; and I said nought, but I screwed up a little money, thinking come Whitsuntide I'd take a holiday and go and see her an' th' little one. But one day towards Whitsun-tide, corned Jennings wi' a grave face, and says he, 'I hear our Frank and your Margaret's both getten the fever.' You might ha' knocked me down wi a straw, for it seemed as if God told me what th' upshot would be. Old Jennings had gotten a letter, yo see, fra' the landlady55 they lodged56 wi'; a wellpenned letter, asking if they'd no friends to come and nurse them. She'd caught it first, and Frank, who was as tender o'er her as her own mother could ha' been, had nursed her till he'd caught it himsel'; and she expecting her down-lying every day. Well, t' make a long story short, old Jennings and I went up by that night's coach. So you see, Mary, that was the way I got to London."
"But how was your daughter when you got there?" asked Mary, anxiously.
"She were at rest, poor wench, and so were Frank. I guessed as much when I see'd th' landlady's face, all swelled57 wi' crying, when she opened th' door to us. We said, 'Where are they?' and I knew they were dead; fra' her look; but Jennings didn't, as I take it; for when she showed us into a room wi' a white sheet on th' bed, and underneath58 it, plain to be seen, two still figures, he screeched60 out as if he'd been a woman.
"Yet he'd other childer and I'd none. There lay my darling, my only one. She were dead, and there were no one to love me, no not one. I disremember rightly what I did; but I know I were very quiet, while my heart were crushed within me.
"Jennings could na' stand being in the room at all, so the landlady took him down, and I were glad to be alone. It grew dark while I sat there; and at last th' landlady come up again, and said, 'Come here.' So I got up, and walked into th' light, but I had to hold by th' stair-rails, I were so weak and dizzy. She led me into a room, where Jennings lay on a sofa fast asleep, wi' his pocket handkerchief over his head for a night-cap. She said he'd cried himself fairly off to sleep. There were tea on th' table all ready; for she were a kindhearted body. But she still said, 'Come here,' and took hold o' my arm. So I went round the table, and there were a clothes-basket by th' fire, wi' a shawl put o'er it. 'Lift that up,' says she, and I did; and there lay a little wee babby fast asleep. My heart gave a leap, and th' tears comed rushing into my eyes first time that day. 'Is it hers?' said I, though I knew it were. 'Yes,' said she. 'She were getting a bit better o' the fever, and th' babby were born; and then the poor young man took worse and died, and she were not many hours behind.'
"Little mite62 of a thing I and yet it seemed her angel come back to comfort me. I were quite jealous o' Jennings, whenever he went near the babby. I thought it were more my flesh and blood than his'n, and yet I were afraid he would claim it. However, that were far enough fra' his thoughts; he'd plenty other childer, and, as I found out after, he'd all along been wishing me to take it. Well, we buried Margaret and her husband in a big, crowded, lonely churchyard in London. I were loath63 to leave them there, as I thought, when they rose again, they'd feel so strange at first away fra' Manchester, and all old friends; but it could na be helped. Well, God watches o'er their graves there as well as here. That funeral cost a mint o' money, but Jennings and I wished to do th' thing decent. Then we'd the stout64 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 it's 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 funnel65, 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 th' 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 helped 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 possetted all over babby's clothes. We spoke54 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 th' 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 th' chambermaid at the inn, and she took quite kindly66 to it; and we got a good supper, and grew rare and sleepy, what wi' th' warmth and
wi' our long ride i' th' 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; its 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 night cap?'
"'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 may be in th' dark it might take me for yo if I'd getten your nightcap on.'
"The chambermaid smirked67 and went for a cap, but I laughed outright68 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 th' 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 th' 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 sobs69, 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 wakened by chambermaid tapping at th' door, to say she'd dress the babby afore her missis were up if we liked. But bless yo, we'd never thought o' undressing it th' 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 screech59 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 on]y sixty mile, they telled us, and not stop again for nought, save victuals71. 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 chamber-maid 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 thoughts 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 o' 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 undo72 it. So presently be 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' heavy hearts we have now.'
"Well! he said that were rank blasphemy73; but J 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 wrung74 my heart to hear its little wail75! I'd ha' given my right hand for one of yesterday's hearty76 cries. We were wanting our breakfasts, and so were it too, motherless babby! We could see no public-house, 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 apron77. 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 noticing th' 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 well-nigh 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 Jack78 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, may be in Heaven, where folk's 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), touching79 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' L
ondon, 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 prying80, but I could na help seeing in that drawer some little child's clothes, all strewed81 wi' lavender, and lying by 'em a little whip an' a broken rattle82. 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 dressing70 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 down stairs, 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 mysel.'
"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 he turns and says, quite sharp:
"'I say, missis, I'm to have no breakfast to-day, I 'spose.
"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 jingle83 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, hesitating, 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 gie 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 nought for the little babby's food, if it had eaten twice as much, bless it.' Wi' that he looked at her; such a scowling84 look! She knew what he meant, and stepped softly across the floor to him, and put her hand on is arm. He seem'd as though he'd shake it off by a jerk on his elbow, but she said quite low, 'For poor little Johnny'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 th' 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."
He stopped to think of that long-ago May morning, when he had carried his granddaughter under the distant hedge-rows and beneath the flowering sycamores.
"There's nought more to say, wench," said he to Margaret, as she begged him to go on. "That night we reached Manchester, and I'd found out that Jennings would be glad enough to give up babby to me, so I took her home at once, and a blessing85 she's been to me."
They were all silent for a few minutes; each following out the current of their thoughts. Then, almost simultaneously86, their attention fell upon Mary. Sitting on her little stool, her head resting on her father's knee, and sleeping as soundly as any infant, her breath (still like an infant's) came and went as softly as a bird steals to her leafy nest. Her half-open mouth was as scarlet87 as the winter-berries, and contrasted finely with the clear paleness of her complexion88, where the eloquent89 blood flushed carnation90 at each emotion. Her black eye-lashes lay on the delicate cheek, which was still more shaded by the masses of her golden hair, that seemed to form a nest-like pillow for her as she lay. Her father in fond pride straightened one glossy91 curl, for an instant, as if to display its length and silkiness. The little action awoke her, and, like nine out of ten people in similar circumstances, she exclaimed, opening her eyes to their fullest extent,
"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 weaver92 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 forth93 from alleys dim and courts obscure.
God help yon poor pale girl, who droops94 forlorn,
And meekly95 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 bosom96, passing fair, is half revealed,
And oh! so cold, the snow lies there congealed97;
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 gateway98, and behold99!
A female crouching100 there, so deathly pale,
Huddling101 her child, to screen it from the cold,
Her vesture scant102, her bonnet103 crushed and torn;
A thin shawl doth her baby dear enfold:
And so she 'bides104 the ruthless gale105 of morn,
Which almost to her heart hath sent its cold,
And now she, sudden, darts106 a ravening107 look,
As one, with new hot bread, goes past the nook,
And, as the tempting108 load is onward109 home,
She weeps. God help thee, helpless one, forlorn! God help the poor!
God help the poor! Behold yon famished110 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 yearns111 but to enjoy one cheering meal;
Oh! to the hungry palate viands112 rude,
Would yield a zest113 the famished only feel!
He now devours114 a crust of mouldy bread,
With teeth and hands the precious boon115 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 hoary116 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 lone61 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 'twould know
About the toil117 and want men undergo.
The wearying loom6 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 dirge118 across the moor119;
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 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.
收听单词发音 |
1
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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rummage
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| v./n.翻寻，仔细检查 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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12
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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23
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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24
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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26
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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27
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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28
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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29
biding
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| v.等待，停留( bide的现在分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待；面临 | |
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30
broiled
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| a.烤过的 | |
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31
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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32
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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34
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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36
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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37
wigs
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| n.假发，法官帽( wig的名词复数 ) | |
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38
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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39
mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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40
molesting
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| v.骚扰( molest的现在分词 )；干扰；调戏；猥亵 | |
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41
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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42
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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43
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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45
dispelling
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的现在分词 ) | |
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46
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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47
dissonant
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| adj.不和谐的；不悦耳的 | |
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48
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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49
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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50
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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51
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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52
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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53
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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54
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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55
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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56
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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57
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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58
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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59
screech
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| n./v.尖叫；(发出)刺耳的声音 | |
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60
screeched
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的过去式和过去分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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61
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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62
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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63
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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65
funnel
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| n.漏斗；烟囱；v.汇集 | |
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66
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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67
smirked
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| v.傻笑( smirk的过去分词 ) | |
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68
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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69
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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70
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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71
victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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72
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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73
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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74
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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75
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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76
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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77
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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78
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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79
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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80
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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81
strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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82
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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83
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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84
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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85
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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86
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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87
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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88
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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89
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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90
carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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91
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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92
weaver
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| n.织布工；编织者 | |
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93
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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94
droops
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的名词复数 ) | |
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95
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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96
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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97
congealed
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| v.使凝结，冻结( congeal的过去式和过去分词 )；（指血）凝结 | |
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98
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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99
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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100
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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101
huddling
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| n. 杂乱一团, 混乱, 拥挤 v. 推挤, 乱堆, 草率了事 | |
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102
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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103
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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104
bides
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| v.等待，停留( bide的第三人称单数 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待；面临 | |
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105
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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106
darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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107
ravening
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| a.贪婪而饥饿的 | |
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108
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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109
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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110
famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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111
yearns
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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112
viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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113
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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114
devours
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| 吞没( devour的第三人称单数 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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115
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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116
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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117
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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118
dirge
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| n.哀乐，挽歌，庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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119
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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