Mary Barton. Элизабет Гаскелл

up the heather. It seems all like yesterday, and yet it’s a long long time agone. Poor sister Sally has been in her grave this forty year and more. But I often wonder if the hawthorn is standing yet, and if the lasses still go to gather heather, as we did many and many a year past and gone. I sicken at heart to see the old spot once again. May be next summer I may set off, if God spares me to see next summer.’

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

‘Why, lass! first one wanted me and then another; and I couldn’t go without money either, and I got very poor at times. Tom was a scapegrace, poor fellow, and always wanted help of one kind or other; and his wife (for I think scapegraces are always married long before steady folk) was but a helpless kind of body. She was always ailing, and he were always in trouble; so I had enough to do with my hands, and my money too, for that matter. They died within twelvemonth of each other, leaving one lad (they had had seven, but the Lord had taken six to hisself), Will, as I was telling you on; and I took him myself, and left service to make a bit on a home-place for him, and a fine lad he was, the very spit of his father as to looks, only steadier. For he was steady, although nought would serve him but going to sea. I tried all I could to set him again a sailor’s life. Says I, “Folks is as sick as dogs all the time they’re at sea. Your own mother telled me (for she came from foreign parts, being a Manx woman) that she’d ha’ thanked any one for throwing her into the water.” Nay, I sent him a’ the way to Runcorn by th’ Duke’s canal, that he might know what th’ sea were; and I looked to see him come back as white as a sheet wi’ vomiting. But the lad went on to Liverpool and saw real ships, and come back more set than ever on being a sailor, and he said as how he had never been sick at all, and thought he could stand the sea pretty well. So I told him he mun do as he liked; and he thanked me and kissed me, for all I was very frabbit* with him; and now he’s gone to South America, at t’other side of the sun, they tell me.’

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

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

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

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

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

      The Oldham Weaver

      I

      Oi’m a poor cotton-weyver, as mony a one knoowas,

      Oi’ve nowt for t’ yeat, an’ oi’ve worn eawt my clooas,

      Yo’ad hardly gi’ tuppence for aw as oi’ve on,

      My clogs are both brosten, an’ stuckings oi’ve none,

      Yo’d think it wur hard,

      To be browt into th’ warld,

To be – clemmed,* an’ do th’ best as yo con.

      II

      Owd Dicky o’ Billy’s kept telling me lung,

      Wee s’d ha’ better toimes if I’d but howd my tung,

      Oi’ve howden my tung, till oi’ve near stopped my breath,

      Oi think i’ my heeart oi’se soon clem to deeath,

      Owd Dicky’s weel crammed,

      He never wur clemmed,

An’ he ne’er picked ower i’ his loife.*

      III

      We tow’rt on six week – thinking aitch day wur th’ last,

      We shifted, an’ shifted, till neaw we’re quoite fast;

      We lived upo’ nettles, whoile nettles wur good,

      An’ Waterloo porridge the best o’ eawr food,

      Oi’m tellin’ yo’ true,

      Oi can find folk enow,

      As wur livin’ na better nor me.

      IV

      Owd Billy o’ Dans sent th’ baileys one day,

      Fur a shop deebt oi eawd him, as oi could na pay,

      But he wur too lat, fur owd Billy o’ th’ Bent

      Had sowd th’ tit an’ cart, an’ ta’en goods for th’ rent,

      We’d neawt left bo’ tho’ owd stoo’,

      That wur seeats fur two,

      An’ on it ceawred Marget an’ me.

      V

      Then t’ baileys leuked reawnd as sloy as a meawse,

      When they seed as aw t’ goods were ta’en eawt o’ t’ heawse,

      Says one chap to th’ tother, ‘Aws gone, theaw may see’;

      Says oi, ‘Ne’er freet, mon, yeaur welcome ta’ me.’

      They made no moor ado,

      But whopped up th’ eawd stoo’,

      An’ we booath leet, whack – upo’ t’ flags!

      VI

      Then oi said to eawr Marget, as we lay upo’ t’ floor,

      ‘We’s never be lower i’ this warld, oi’m sure,

      If ever things awtern, oi’m sure they mun mend,

      For oi think i’ my heart we’re booath at t’ far eend;

      For meeat we ha’ none,

      Nor looms t’ weyve on, –

      Edad! they’re as good lost as fund.’

      VII

      Eawr Marget declares, had hoo clooas to put on,

      Hoo’d goo up to Lunnon an’ talk to th’ greet mon;

      An’ if things were na awtered when there hoo had been,

      Hoo’s fully resolved t’ sew up meawth an’ eend;

      Hoo’s neawt to say again t’ king,

      But hoo loikes a fair thing,

      An’ hoo says hoo can tell when hoo’s hurt.

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