Shirley. Charlotte Bronte

the foolishness which seems to guide and guard your proceedings as a tradesman in this manufacturing part of the country. Hem! Sir, I would beg to allude that as a furriner, coming from a distant coast, another quarter and hemisphere of this globe, thrown, as I may say, a perfect outcast on these shores – the cliffs of Albion – you have not that understanding of huz and wer ways which might conduce to the benefit of the working classes. If, to come at once to partic’lars, you’d consider to give up this here miln, and go without further protractions straight home to where you belong, it ’ud happen be as well. I can see naught ageean such a plan. – What hev ye to say tull’t, lads?” turning round to the other members of the deputation, who responded unanimously, “Hear, hear!”

      “Brayvo, Noah o’ Tim’s!” murmured Joe Scott, who stood behind Mr. Moore. “Moses’ll niver beat that. Cliffs o’ Albion, and t’ other hemisphere! My certy! Did ye come fro’ th’ Antarctic Zone, maister? Moses is dished.”

      Moses, however, refused to be dished. He thought he would try again. Casting a somewhat ireful glance at “Noah o’ Tim’s,” he launched out in his turn; and now he spoke in a serious tone, relinquishing the sarcasm which he found had not answered.

      “Or iver you set up the pole o’ your tent amang us, Mr. Moore, we lived i’ peace and quietness – yea, I may say, in all loving-kindness. I am not myself an aged person as yet, but I can remember as far back as maybe some twenty year, when hand-labour were encouraged and respected, and no mischief-maker had ventured to introduce these here machines which is so pernicious. Now, I’m not a cloth-dresser myself, but by trade a tailor. Howsiver, my heart is of a softish nature. I’m a very feeling man, and when I see my brethren oppressed, like my great namesake of old, I stand up for ’em; for which intent I this day speak with you face to face, and advises you to part wi’ your infernal machinery, and tak on more hands.”

      “What if I don’t follow your advice, Mr. Barraclough?”

      “The Looard pardon you! The Looard soften your heart, sir!”

      “Are you in connection with the Wesleyans now, Mr. Barraclough?”

      “Praise God! Bless His name! I’m a joined Methody!”

      “Which in no respect prevents you from being at the same time a drunkard and a swindler. I saw you one night a week ago laid dead-drunk by the roadside, as I returned from Stilbro’ market; and while you preach peace, you make it the business of your life to stir up dissension. You no more sympathize with the poor who are in distress than you sympathize with me. You incite them to outrage for bad purposes of your own; so does the individual called Noah of Tim’s. You two are restless, meddling, impudent scoundrels, whose chief motive-principle is a selfish ambition, as dangerous as it is puerile. The persons behind you are some of them honest though misguided men; but you two I count altogether bad.”

      Barraclough was going to speak.

      “Silence! You have had your say, and now I will have mine. As to being dictated to by you, or any Jack, Jem, or Jonathan on earth, I shall not suffer it for a moment. You desire me to quit the country; you request me to part with my machinery. In case I refuse, you threaten me. I do refuse – point-blank! Here I stay, and by this mill I stand, and into it will I convey the best machinery inventors can furnish. What will you do? The utmost you can do – and this you will never dare to do – is to burn down my mill, destroy its contents, and shoot me. What then? Suppose that building was a ruin and I was a corpse – what then, you lads behind these two scamps? Would that stop invention or exhaust science? Not for the fraction of a second of time! Another and better gig mill would rise on the ruins of this, and perhaps a more enterprising owner come in my place. Hear me! I’ll make my cloth as I please, and according to the best lights I have. In its manufacture I will employ what means I choose. Whoever, after hearing this, shall dare to interfere with me may just take the consequences. An example shall prove I’m in earnest.”

      He whistled shrill and loud. Sugden, his staff and warrant, came on the scene.

      Moore turned sharply to Barraclough. “You were at Stilbro,’” said he; “I have proof of that. You were on the moor, you wore a mask, you knocked down one of my men with your own hand – you! a preacher of the gospel! – Sugden, arrest him!”

      Moses was captured. There was a cry and a rush to rescue, but the right hand which all this while had lain hidden in Moore’s breast, reappearing, held out a pistol.

      “Both barrels are loaded,” said he. “I’m quite determined! Keep off!”

      Stepping backwards, facing the foe as he went, he guarded his prey to the counting house. He ordered Joe Scott to pass in with Sugden and the prisoner, and to bolt the door inside. For himself, he walked backwards and forwards along the front of the mill, looking meditatively on the ground, his hand hanging carelessly by his side, but still holding the pistol. The eleven remaining deputies watched him some time, talking under their breath to each other. At length one of them approached. This man looked very different from either of the two who had previously spoken; he was hard-favoured, but modest and manly-looking.

      “I’ve not much faith i’ Moses Barraclough,” said he, “and I would speak a word to you myseln, Mr. Moore. It’s out o’ no ill-will that I’m here, for my part; it’s just to mak a effort to get things straightened, for they’re sorely a-crooked. Ye see we’re ill off – varry ill off; wer families is poor and pined. We’re thrown out o’ work wi’ these frames; we can get nought to do; we can earn nought. What is to be done? Mun we say, wisht! and lig us down and dee? Nay; I’ve no grand words at my tongue’s end, Mr. Moore, but I feel that it wad be a low principle for a reasonable man to starve to death like a dumb cratur. I willn’t do’t. I’m not for shedding blood: I’d neither kill a man nor hurt a man; and I’m not for pulling down mills and breaking machines – for, as ye say, that way o’ going on’ll niver stop invention; but I’ll talk – I’ll mak as big a din as ever I can. Invention may be all right, but I know it isn’t right for poor folks to starve. Them that governs mun find a way to help us; they mun make fresh orderations. Ye’ll say that’s hard to do. So mich louder mun we shout out then, for so much slacker will t’ Parliament-men be to set on to a tough job.”

      “Worry the Parliament-men as much as you please,” said Moore; “but to worry the mill owners is absurd, and I for one won’t stand it.”

      “Ye’re a raight hard un!” returned the workman. “Willn’t ye gie us a bit o’ time? Willn’t ye consent to mak your changes rather more slowly?”

      “Am I the whole body of clothiers in Yorkshire? Answer me that.”

      “Ye’re yourseln.”

      “And only myself. And if I stopped by the way an instant, while others are rushing on, I should be trodden down. If I did as you wish me to do, I should be bankrupt in a month; and would my bankruptcy put bread into your hungry children’s mouths? William Farren, neither to your dictation nor to that of any other will I submit. Talk to me no more about machinery. I will have my own way. I shall get new frames in tomorrow. If you broke these, I would still get more. I’ll never give in.”

      Here the mill bell rang twelve o’clock. It was the dinner-hour. Moore abruptly turned from the deputation and re-entered his counting house.

      His last words had left a bad, harsh impression; he, at least, had “failed in the disposing of a chance he was lord of.” By speaking kindly to William Farren – who was a very honest man, without envy or hatred of those more happily circumstanced than himself, thinking it no hardship and no injustice to be forced to live by labour, disposed to be honourably content if he could but get work to do – Moore might have made a friend. It seemed wonderful how he could turn from such a man without a conciliatory or a sympathizing expression. The poor fellow’s face looked haggard with want; he had the aspect of a man who had not known what it was to live in comfort and plenty for weeks, perhaps months, past, and yet there was no ferocity, no malignity in his countenance; it was worn, dejected, austere, but still patient. How could Moore leave him thus, with the words, “I’ll never give in,” and not a whisper of goodwill, or hope, or aid?

      Farren, as he went home to his cottage – once, in better