{"id":298,"date":"2021-05-20T12:57:19","date_gmt":"2021-05-20T16:57:19","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.ryerson.ca\/northandsouth\/chapter\/chapter-xvii\/"},"modified":"2022-02-03T10:48:08","modified_gmt":"2022-02-03T15:48:08","slug":"17","status":"publish","type":"chapter","link":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/northandsouth\/chapter\/17\/","title":{"raw":"Chapter XVII: What is a strike?","rendered":"Chapter XVII: What is a strike?"},"content":{"raw":"
\"<\/span>There are briars besetting every path,\r\nWhich call for patient care;<\/span>\r\nThere is a cross in every lot,\r\nAnd an earnest need for prayer.\"<\/span>\r\nAnon<\/span>.<\/span><\/blockquote>\r\nMargaret went out heavily and unwillingly enough. But the length of a street\u2014yes, the air of a Milton Street\u2014cheered her young blood before she reached her first turning. Her step grew lighter, her lip redder. She began to take notice, instead of having her thoughts turned so exclusively inward. She saw unusual loiterers in the streets: men with their hands in their pockets sauntering along; loud-laughing and loud-spoken girls clustered together, apparently excited to high spirits, and a boisterous independence of temper and behaviour. The more ill-looking of the men\u2014the discreditable minority\u2014hung about on the steps of the beer-houses and gin-shops, smoking, and commenting pretty freely on every passer-by. Margaret disliked the prospect of the long walk through these streets, before she came to the fields which she had planned to reach. Instead, she would go and see Bessy Higgins. It would not be so refreshing as a quiet country walk, but still it would perhaps be doing the kinder thing.\r\n\r\nNicholas Higgins was sitting by the fire smoking, as she went in. Bessy was rocking herself on the other side.\r\n\r\nNicholas took the pipe out of his mouth, and standing up, pushed his chair towards Margaret; he leant against the chimney piece in a lounging attitude, while she asked Bessy how she was.\r\n\r\n\u201cHoo's rather down i' th' mouth in regard to spirits, but hoo's better in health. Hoo doesn't like this strike. Hoo's a deal too much set on peace and quietness at any price.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cThis is th' third strike I've seen,\u201d said she, sighing, as if that was answer and explanation enough.\r\n\r\n\u201cWell, third time pays for all. See if we don't dang th' masters this time. See if they don't come, and beg us to come back at our own price. That's all. We've missed it afore time, I grant yo'; but this time we'n laid our plans desperate deep.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cWhy do you strike?\u201d asked Margaret. \u201cStriking is leaving off work till you get your own rate of wages, is it not? You must not wonder at my ignorance; where I come from I never heard of a strike.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cI wish I were there,\u201d said Bessy, wearily. \u201cBut it's not for me to get sick and tired o' strikes. This is the last I'll see. Before it's ended I shall be in the Great City\u2014the Holy Jerusalem.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cHoo's so full of th' life to come, hoo cannot think of th' present. Now I, yo' see, am bound to do the best I can here. I think a bird i' th' hand is worth two i' th' bush. So them's the different views we take on th' strike question.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cBut,\u201d said Margaret, \u201cif the people struck, as you call it, where I come from, as they are mostly all field labourers, the seed would not be sown, the hay got in, the corn reaped.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cWell?\u201d said he. He had resumed his pipe, and put his \u201cwell\u201d in the form of an interrogation.\r\n\r\n\u201cWhy,\u201d she went on, \u201cwhat would become of the farmers.\u201d\r\n\r\nHe puffed away. \u201cI reckon they'd have either to give up their farms, or to give fair rate of wage.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cSuppose they could not, or would not do the last; they could not give up their farms all in a minute, however much they might wish to do so; but they would have no hay, nor corn to sell that year; and where would the money come from to pay the labourers' wages the next?\u201d\r\n\r\nStill puffing away. At last he said:\r\n\r\n\u201cI know nought of your ways down South. I have heerd they're a pack of spiritless, down-trodden men; welly clemmed to death; too much dazed wi' clemming to know when they're put upon. Now, it's not so here. We known when we're put upon; and we'en too much blood in us to stand it. We just take our hands fro' our looms, and say, \u2018Yo' may clem us, but yo'll not put upon us, my masters!\u2019 And be danged to 'em, they shan't this time!\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cI wish I lived down South,\u201d said Bessy.\r\n\r\n\u201cThere's a deal to bear there,\u201d said Margaret. \u201cThere are sorrows to bear everywhere. There is very hard bodily labour to be gone through, with very little food to give strength.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cBut it's out of doors,\u201d said Bessy. \u201cAnd away from the endless, endless noise, and sickening heat.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cIt's sometimes in heavy rain, and sometimes in bitter cold. A young person can stand it; but an old man gets racked with rheumatism, and bent and withered before his time; yet he must just work on the same, or else go to the workhouse.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cI thought yo' were so taken wi' the ways of the South country.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cSo I am,\u201d said Margaret, smiling a little, as she found herself thus caught. \u201cI only mean, Bessy, there's good and bad in everything in this world; and as you felt the bad up here, I thought it was but fair you should know the bad down there.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cAnd yo' say they never strike down there?\u201d asked Nicholas, abruptly.\r\n\r\n\u201cNo!\u201d said Margaret; \u201cI think they have too much sense.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cAn' I think,\u201d replied he, dashing the ashes out of his pipe with so much vehemence that it broke, \u201cit's not that they've too much sense, but that they've too little spirit.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cO, father!\u201d said Bessy, \u201cwhat have ye gained by striking? Think of that first strike when mother died\u2014how we all had to clem\u2014you the worst of all; and yet many a one went in every week at the same wage, till all were gone in that there was work for; and some went beggars all their lives at after.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cAy,\u201d said he. \u201cThat there strike was badly managed. Folk got into th' management of it, as were either fools or not true men. Yo'll see, it'll be different this time.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cBut all this time you've not told me what you're striking for,\u201d said Margaret, again.\r\n\r\n\u201cWhy, yo' see, there's five or six masters who have set themselves again paying the wages they've been paying these two years past, and flourishing upon, and getting richer upon. And now they come to us, and say we're to take less. And we won't. We'll just clem them to death first; and see who'll work for 'em then. They'll have killed the goose that laid 'em the golden eggs, I reckon.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cAnd so you plan dying, in order to be revenged upon them!\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cNo,\u201d said he, \u201cI dunnot. I just look forward to the chance of dying at my post sooner than yield. That's what folk call fine and honourable in a soldier, and why not in a poor weaver-chap?\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cBut,\u201d said Margaret, \u201ca soldier dies in the cause of the Nation\u2014in the cause of others.\u201d\r\n\r\nHe laughed grimly. \u201cMy lass,\u201d said he, \u201cyo're but a young wench, but don't yo' think I can keep three people\u2014that's Bessy, and Mary, and me\u2014on sixteen shilling a week? Dun yo' think it's for mysel' I'm striking work at this time? It's just as much in the cause of others as yon soldier\u2014only m'appen, the cause he dies for is just that of somebody he never clapt eyes on, nor heerd on all his born days, while I take up John Boucher's cause, as lives next door but one, wi' a sickly wife, and eight childer, none on 'em factory age; and I don't take up his cause only, though he's a poor good-for-nought, as can only manage two looms at a time, but I take up th' cause o' justice. Why are we to have less wage now, I ask, than two year ago?\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cDon't ask me,\u201d said Margaret; \u201cI am very ignorant. Ask some of your masters. Surely they will give you a reason for it. It is not merely an arbitrary decision of theirs, come to without reason.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cYo're just a foreigner, and nothing more,\u201d said he, contemptuously. \u201cMuch yo' know about it. Ask th' masters! They'd tell us to mind our own business, and they'd mind theirs. Our business being, yo' understand, to take the bated' wage, and be thankful, and their business to bate us down to clemming point, to swell their profits. That's what it is.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cBut,\u201d said Margaret, determined not to give way, although she saw she was irritating him, \u201cthe state of trade may be such as not to enable them to give you the same remuneration.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cState o' trade! That's just a piece o' masters' humbug. It's rate o' wages I was talking of. Th' masters keep th' state o' trade in their own hands; and just walk it forward like a black bug-a-boo, to frighten naughty children with into being good. I'll tell yo' it's their part,\u2014their cue, as some folks call it,\u2014to beat us down, to swell their fortunes; and it's ours to stand up and fight hard,\u2014not for ourselves alone, but for them round about us\u2014for justice and fair play. We help to make their profits, and we ought to help spend 'em. It's not that we want their brass so much this time, as we've done many a time afore. We'n getten money laid by; and we're resolved to stand and fall together; not a man on us will go in for less wage than th' Union says is our due. So I say, \"hooray for the strike,\" and let Thornton, and Slickson, and Hamper, and their set look to it!\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cThornton!\u201d said Margaret. \u201cMr. Thornton of Marlborough Street?\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cAye! Thornton o' Marlborough Mill, as we call him.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cHe is one of the masters you are striving with, is he not? What sort of a master is he?\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cDid yo' ever see a bulldog? Set a bulldog on hind legs, and dress him up in coat and breeches, and yo'n just getten John Thornton.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cNay,\u201d said Margaret, laughing, \u201cI deny that. Mr. Thornton is plain enough, but he's not like a bulldog, with its short broad nose, and snarling upper lip.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cNo! not in look, I grant yo'. But let John Thornton get hold on a notion, and he'll stick to it like a bulldog; yo' might pull him away wi' a pitch-fork ere he'd leave go. He's worth fighting wi', is John Thornton. As for Slickson, I take it, some o' these days he'll wheedle his men back wi' fair promises; that they'll just get cheated out of as soon as they're in his power again. He'll work his fines well out on 'em, I'll warrant. He's as slippery as an eel, he is. He's like a cat,\u2014as sleek, and cunning, and fierce. It'll never be an honest up and down fight wi' him, as it will be wi' Thornton. Thornton's as dour as a door-nail; an obstinate chap, every inch on him,\u2014th' oud bulldog!'\r\n\r\n\u201cPoor Bessy!\u201d said Margaret, turning round to her. \u201cYou sigh over it all. You don't like struggling and fighting as your father does, do you?\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cNo!\u201d said she, heavily. \u201cI'm sick on it. I could have wished to have had other talk about me in my latter days, than just the clashing and clanging and clattering that has wearied a' my life long, about work and wages, and masters, and hands, and knobsticks.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cPoor wench! latter days be farred! Thou'rt looking a sight better already for a little stir and change. Beside, I shall be a deal here to make it more lively for thee.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cTobacco-smoke chokes me!\u201d said she, querulously.\r\n\r\n\u201cThen I'll never smoke no more i' th' house!\u201d he replied, tenderly. \u201cBut why didst thou not tell me afore, thou foolish wench?\u201d\r\n\r\nShe did not speak for a while, and then so low that only Margaret heard her:\r\n\r\n\u201cI reckon, he'll want a\u2019 the comfort he can get out o' either pipe or drink afore he's done.\u201d\r\n\r\nHer father went out of doors, evidently to finish his pipe.\r\n\r\nBessy said passionately,\r\n\r\n\u201cNow am not I a fool,\u2014am I not, Miss?\u2014there, I knew I ought for to keep father at home, and away fro' the folk that are always ready for to tempt a man, in time o' strike, to go drink,\u2014and there my tongue must needs quarrel with this pipe o' his'n,\u2014and he'll go off, I know he will,\u2014as often as he wants to smoke\u2014and nobody knows where it'll end. I wish I'd letten myself be choked first.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cBut does your father drink?\u201d asked Margaret.\r\n\r\n\u201cNo\u2014not to say drink,\u201d replied she, still in the same wild excited tone. \u201cBut what win ye have? There are days wi' you, as wi' other folk, I suppose, when yo' get up and go through th' hours, just longing for a bit of a change\u2014a bit of a fillip, as it were. I know I ha' gone and bought a four-pounder out o' another baker's shop to common on such days, just because I sickened at the thought of going on for ever wi' the same sight in my eyes, and the same sound in my ears, and the same taste i' my mouth, and the same thought (or no thought, for that matter) in my head, day after day, for ever. I've longed for to be a man to go spreeing, even it were only a tramp to some new place in search o' work. And father\u2014all men\u2014have it stronger in 'em than me to get tired o' sameness and work for ever. And what is 'em to do? It's little blame to them if they do go into th' gin-shop for to make their blood flow quicker, and more lively, and see things they never see at no other time\u2014pictures, and looking-glass, and such like. But father never was a drunkard, though maybe, he's got worse for drink, now and then. Only yo' see,\u201d and now her voice took a mournful, pleading tone, \u201cat times o' strike there's much to knock a man down, for all they start so hopefully; and where's the comfort to come fro'? He'll get angry and mad\u2014they all do\u2014and then they get tired out wi' being angry and mad, and maybe ha' done things in their passion they'd be glad to forget. Bless yo'r sweet pitiful face! but yo' dunnot know what a strike is yet.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cCome, Bessy,\u201d said Margaret, \u201cI won't say you're exaggerating, because I don't know enough about it: but, perhaps, as you're not well, you're only looking on one side, and there is another and a brighter to be looked to.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cIt's all well enough for yo\u201d to say so, who have lived in pleasant green places all your life long, and never known want or care, or wickedness either, for that matter.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cTake care,\u201d said Margaret, her cheek flushing, and her eye lightening, \u201chow you judge, Bessy. I shall go home to my mother, who is so ill\u2014so ill, Bessy, that there's no outlet but death for her out of the prison of her great suffering; and yet I must speak cheerfully to my father, who has no notion of her real state, and to whom the knowledge must come gradually. The only person\u2014the only one who could sympathise with me and help me\u2014whose presence could comfort my mother more than any other earthly thing\u2014is falsely accused\u2014would run the risk of death if he came to see his dying mother. This I tell you\u2014only you, Bessy. You must not mention it. No other person in Milton\u2014hardly any other person in England knows. Have I not care? Do I not know anxiety, though I go about well-dressed, and have food enough? Oh, Bessy, God is just, and our lots are well portioned out by Him, although none but He knows the bitterness of our souls.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cI ask your pardon,\u201d replied Bessy, humbly. \u201cSometimes, when I've thought o' my life, and the little pleasure I've had in it, I've believed that, maybe, I was one of those doomed to die by the falling of a star from heaven; \u2018And the name of the star is called \u2018Wormwood;\u2019 and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and men died of the waters, because they were made bitter.\u2019 One can bear pain and sorrow better if one thinks it has been prophesied long before for one: somehow, then it seems as if my pain was needed for the fulfilment; otherways it seems all sent for nothing.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cNay, Bessy\u2014think!\u201d said Margaret. \u201cGod does not willingly afflict. Don't dwell so much on the prophecies, but read the clearer parts of the Bible.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cI dare say it would be wiser; but where would I hear such grand words of promise\u2014hear tell o' anything so far different fro' this dreary world, and this town above a', as in Revelations? Many's the time I've repeated the verses in the seventh chapter to myself, just for the sound. It's as good as an organ, and as different from every day, too. No, I cannot give up Revelations. It gives me more comfort than any other book i' the Bible.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cLet me come and read you some of my favourite chapters.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cAy,\u201d said she, greedily, \u201ccome. Father will maybe hear yo'. He's deaved wi' my talking; he says it's all nought to do with the things o' to-day, and that's his business.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cWhere is your sister?\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cGone fustian-cutting. I were loth to let her go; but somehow we must live; and th' Union can't afford us much.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cNow I must go. You have done me good, Bessy.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cI done you good!\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cYes. I came here very sad, and rather too apt to think my own cause for grief was the only one in the world. And now I hear how you have had to bear for years, and that makes me stronger.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cBless yo'! I thought a' the good-doing was on the side of gentle folk. I shall get proud if I think I can do good to yo'.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cYou won't do it if you think about it. But you'll only puzzle yourself if you do, that's one comfort.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cYo're not like no one I ever seed. I dunno what to make of yo'.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cNor I of myself. Good-bye!\u201d\r\n\r\nBessy stilled her rocking to gaze after her.\r\n\r\n\u201cI wonder if there are many folk like her down South. She's like a breath of country air, somehow. She freshens me up above a bit. Who'd ha' thought that face\u2014as bright and as strong as the angel I dream of\u2014could have known the sorrow she speaks on? I wonder how she'll sin. All on us must sin. I think a deal on her, for sure. But father does the like, I see. And Mary even. It's not often hoo's stirred up to notice much.\u201d","rendered":"

“<\/span>There are briars besetting every path,
\nWhich call for patient care;<\/span>
\nThere is a cross in every lot,
\nAnd an earnest need for prayer.”<\/span>
\nAnon<\/span>.<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Margaret went out heavily and unwillingly enough. But the length of a street\u2014yes, the air of a Milton Street\u2014cheered her young blood before she reached her first turning. Her step grew lighter, her lip redder. She began to take notice, instead of having her thoughts turned so exclusively inward. She saw unusual loiterers in the streets: men with their hands in their pockets sauntering along; loud-laughing and loud-spoken girls clustered together, apparently excited to high spirits, and a boisterous independence of temper and behaviour. The more ill-looking of the men\u2014the discreditable minority\u2014hung about on the steps of the beer-houses and gin-shops, smoking, and commenting pretty freely on every passer-by. Margaret disliked the prospect of the long walk through these streets, before she came to the fields which she had planned to reach. Instead, she would go and see Bessy Higgins. It would not be so refreshing as a quiet country walk, but still it would perhaps be doing the kinder thing.<\/p>\n

Nicholas Higgins was sitting by the fire smoking, as she went in. Bessy was rocking herself on the other side.<\/p>\n

Nicholas took the pipe out of his mouth, and standing up, pushed his chair towards Margaret; he leant against the chimney piece in a lounging attitude, while she asked Bessy how she was.<\/p>\n

\u201cHoo’s rather down i’ th’ mouth in regard to spirits, but hoo’s better in health. Hoo doesn’t like this strike. Hoo’s a deal too much set on peace and quietness at any price.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThis is th’ third strike I’ve seen,\u201d said she, sighing, as if that was answer and explanation enough.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, third time pays for all. See if we don’t dang th’ masters this time. See if they don’t come, and beg us to come back at our own price. That’s all. We’ve missed it afore time, I grant yo’; but this time we’n laid our plans desperate deep.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy do you strike?\u201d asked Margaret. \u201cStriking is leaving off work till you get your own rate of wages, is it not? You must not wonder at my ignorance; where I come from I never heard of a strike.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI wish I were there,\u201d said Bessy, wearily. \u201cBut it’s not for me to get sick and tired o’ strikes. This is the last I’ll see. Before it’s ended I shall be in the Great City\u2014the Holy Jerusalem.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHoo’s so full of th’ life to come, hoo cannot think of th’ present. Now I, yo’ see, am bound to do the best I can here. I think a bird i’ th’ hand is worth two i’ th’ bush. So them’s the different views we take on th’ strike question.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut,\u201d said Margaret, \u201cif the people struck, as you call it, where I come from, as they are mostly all field labourers, the seed would not be sown, the hay got in, the corn reaped.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell?\u201d said he. He had resumed his pipe, and put his \u201cwell\u201d in the form of an interrogation.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy,\u201d she went on, \u201cwhat would become of the farmers.\u201d<\/p>\n

He puffed away. \u201cI reckon they’d have either to give up their farms, or to give fair rate of wage.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSuppose they could not, or would not do the last; they could not give up their farms all in a minute, however much they might wish to do so; but they would have no hay, nor corn to sell that year; and where would the money come from to pay the labourers’ wages the next?\u201d<\/p>\n

Still puffing away. At last he said:<\/p>\n

\u201cI know nought of your ways down South. I have heerd they’re a pack of spiritless, down-trodden men; welly clemmed to death; too much dazed wi’ clemming to know when they’re put upon. Now, it’s not so here. We known when we’re put upon; and we’en too much blood in us to stand it. We just take our hands fro’ our looms, and say, \u2018Yo’ may clem us, but yo’ll not put upon us, my masters!\u2019 And be danged to ’em, they shan’t this time!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI wish I lived down South,\u201d said Bessy.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere’s a deal to bear there,\u201d said Margaret. \u201cThere are sorrows to bear everywhere. There is very hard bodily labour to be gone through, with very little food to give strength.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut it’s out of doors,\u201d said Bessy. \u201cAnd away from the endless, endless noise, and sickening heat.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt’s sometimes in heavy rain, and sometimes in bitter cold. A young person can stand it; but an old man gets racked with rheumatism, and bent and withered before his time; yet he must just work on the same, or else go to the workhouse.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI thought yo’ were so taken wi’ the ways of the South country.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo I am,\u201d said Margaret, smiling a little, as she found herself thus caught. \u201cI only mean, Bessy, there’s good and bad in everything in this world; and as you felt the bad up here, I thought it was but fair you should know the bad down there.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd yo’ say they never strike down there?\u201d asked Nicholas, abruptly.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo!\u201d said Margaret; \u201cI think they have too much sense.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAn’ I think,\u201d replied he, dashing the ashes out of his pipe with so much vehemence that it broke, \u201cit’s not that they’ve too much sense, but that they’ve too little spirit.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cO, father!\u201d said Bessy, \u201cwhat have ye gained by striking? Think of that first strike when mother died\u2014how we all had to clem\u2014you the worst of all; and yet many a one went in every week at the same wage, till all were gone in that there was work for; and some went beggars all their lives at after.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAy,\u201d said he. \u201cThat there strike was badly managed. Folk got into th’ management of it, as were either fools or not true men. Yo’ll see, it’ll be different this time.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut all this time you’ve not told me what you’re striking for,\u201d said Margaret, again.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy, yo’ see, there’s five or six masters who have set themselves again paying the wages they’ve been paying these two years past, and flourishing upon, and getting richer upon. And now they come to us, and say we’re to take less. And we won’t. We’ll just clem them to death first; and see who’ll work for ’em then. They’ll have killed the goose that laid ’em the golden eggs, I reckon.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd so you plan dying, in order to be revenged upon them!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d said he, \u201cI dunnot. I just look forward to the chance of dying at my post sooner than yield. That’s what folk call fine and honourable in a soldier, and why not in a poor weaver-chap?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut,\u201d said Margaret, \u201ca soldier dies in the cause of the Nation\u2014in the cause of others.\u201d<\/p>\n

He laughed grimly. \u201cMy lass,\u201d said he, \u201cyo’re but a young wench, but don’t yo’ think I can keep three people\u2014that’s Bessy, and Mary, and me\u2014on sixteen shilling a week? Dun yo’ think it’s for mysel’ I’m striking work at this time? It’s just as much in the cause of others as yon soldier\u2014only m’appen, the cause he dies for is just that of somebody he never clapt eyes on, nor heerd on all his born days, while I take up John Boucher’s cause, as lives next door but one, wi’ a sickly wife, and eight childer, none on ’em factory age; and I don’t take up his cause only, though he’s a poor good-for-nought, as can only manage two looms at a time, but I take up th’ cause o’ justice. Why are we to have less wage now, I ask, than two year ago?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon’t ask me,\u201d said Margaret; \u201cI am very ignorant. Ask some of your masters. Surely they will give you a reason for it. It is not merely an arbitrary decision of theirs, come to without reason.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYo’re just a foreigner, and nothing more,\u201d said he, contemptuously. \u201cMuch yo’ know about it. Ask th’ masters! They’d tell us to mind our own business, and they’d mind theirs. Our business being, yo’ understand, to take the bated’ wage, and be thankful, and their business to bate us down to clemming point, to swell their profits. That’s what it is.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut,\u201d said Margaret, determined not to give way, although she saw she was irritating him, \u201cthe state of trade may be such as not to enable them to give you the same remuneration.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cState o’ trade! That’s just a piece o’ masters’ humbug. It’s rate o’ wages I was talking of. Th’ masters keep th’ state o’ trade in their own hands; and just walk it forward like a black bug-a-boo, to frighten naughty children with into being good. I’ll tell yo’ it’s their part,\u2014their cue, as some folks call it,\u2014to beat us down, to swell their fortunes; and it’s ours to stand up and fight hard,\u2014not for ourselves alone, but for them round about us\u2014for justice and fair play. We help to make their profits, and we ought to help spend ’em. It’s not that we want their brass so much this time, as we’ve done many a time afore. We’n getten money laid by; and we’re resolved to stand and fall together; not a man on us will go in for less wage than th’ Union says is our due. So I say, “hooray for the strike,” and let Thornton, and Slickson, and Hamper, and their set look to it!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThornton!\u201d said Margaret. \u201cMr. Thornton of Marlborough Street?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAye! Thornton o’ Marlborough Mill, as we call him.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe is one of the masters you are striving with, is he not? What sort of a master is he?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDid yo’ ever see a bulldog? Set a bulldog on hind legs, and dress him up in coat and breeches, and yo’n just getten John Thornton.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNay,\u201d said Margaret, laughing, \u201cI deny that. Mr. Thornton is plain enough, but he’s not like a bulldog, with its short broad nose, and snarling upper lip.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo! not in look, I grant yo’. But let John Thornton get hold on a notion, and he’ll stick to it like a bulldog; yo’ might pull him away wi’ a pitch-fork ere he’d leave go. He’s worth fighting wi’, is John Thornton. As for Slickson, I take it, some o’ these days he’ll wheedle his men back wi’ fair promises; that they’ll just get cheated out of as soon as they’re in his power again. He’ll work his fines well out on ’em, I’ll warrant. He’s as slippery as an eel, he is. He’s like a cat,\u2014as sleek, and cunning, and fierce. It’ll never be an honest up and down fight wi’ him, as it will be wi’ Thornton. Thornton’s as dour as a door-nail; an obstinate chap, every inch on him,\u2014th’ oud bulldog!’<\/p>\n

\u201cPoor Bessy!\u201d said Margaret, turning round to her. \u201cYou sigh over it all. You don’t like struggling and fighting as your father does, do you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo!\u201d said she, heavily. \u201cI’m sick on it. I could have wished to have had other talk about me in my latter days, than just the clashing and clanging and clattering that has wearied a’ my life long, about work and wages, and masters, and hands, and knobsticks.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPoor wench! latter days be farred! Thou’rt looking a sight better already for a little stir and change. Beside, I shall be a deal here to make it more lively for thee.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTobacco-smoke chokes me!\u201d said she, querulously.<\/p>\n

\u201cThen I’ll never smoke no more i’ th’ house!\u201d he replied, tenderly. \u201cBut why didst thou not tell me afore, thou foolish wench?\u201d<\/p>\n

She did not speak for a while, and then so low that only Margaret heard her:<\/p>\n

\u201cI reckon, he’ll want a\u2019 the comfort he can get out o’ either pipe or drink afore he’s done.\u201d<\/p>\n

Her father went out of doors, evidently to finish his pipe.<\/p>\n

Bessy said passionately,<\/p>\n

\u201cNow am not I a fool,\u2014am I not, Miss?\u2014there, I knew I ought for to keep father at home, and away fro’ the folk that are always ready for to tempt a man, in time o’ strike, to go drink,\u2014and there my tongue must needs quarrel with this pipe o’ his’n,\u2014and he’ll go off, I know he will,\u2014as often as he wants to smoke\u2014and nobody knows where it’ll end. I wish I’d letten myself be choked first.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut does your father drink?\u201d asked Margaret.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo\u2014not to say drink,\u201d replied she, still in the same wild excited tone. \u201cBut what win ye have? There are days wi’ you, as wi’ other folk, I suppose, when yo’ get up and go through th’ hours, just longing for a bit of a change\u2014a bit of a fillip, as it were. I know I ha’ gone and bought a four-pounder out o’ another baker’s shop to common on such days, just because I sickened at the thought of going on for ever wi’ the same sight in my eyes, and the same sound in my ears, and the same taste i’ my mouth, and the same thought (or no thought, for that matter) in my head, day after day, for ever. I’ve longed for to be a man to go spreeing, even it were only a tramp to some new place in search o’ work. And father\u2014all men\u2014have it stronger in ’em than me to get tired o’ sameness and work for ever. And what is ’em to do? It’s little blame to them if they do go into th’ gin-shop for to make their blood flow quicker, and more lively, and see things they never see at no other time\u2014pictures, and looking-glass, and such like. But father never was a drunkard, though maybe, he’s got worse for drink, now and then. Only yo’ see,\u201d and now her voice took a mournful, pleading tone, \u201cat times o’ strike there’s much to knock a man down, for all they start so hopefully; and where’s the comfort to come fro’? He’ll get angry and mad\u2014they all do\u2014and then they get tired out wi’ being angry and mad, and maybe ha’ done things in their passion they’d be glad to forget. Bless yo’r sweet pitiful face! but yo’ dunnot know what a strike is yet.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCome, Bessy,\u201d said Margaret, \u201cI won’t say you’re exaggerating, because I don’t know enough about it: but, perhaps, as you’re not well, you’re only looking on one side, and there is another and a brighter to be looked to.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt’s all well enough for yo\u201d to say so, who have lived in pleasant green places all your life long, and never known want or care, or wickedness either, for that matter.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTake care,\u201d said Margaret, her cheek flushing, and her eye lightening, \u201chow you judge, Bessy. I shall go home to my mother, who is so ill\u2014so ill, Bessy, that there’s no outlet but death for her out of the prison of her great suffering; and yet I must speak cheerfully to my father, who has no notion of her real state, and to whom the knowledge must come gradually. The only person\u2014the only one who could sympathise with me and help me\u2014whose presence could comfort my mother more than any other earthly thing\u2014is falsely accused\u2014would run the risk of death if he came to see his dying mother. This I tell you\u2014only you, Bessy. You must not mention it. No other person in Milton\u2014hardly any other person in England knows. Have I not care? Do I not know anxiety, though I go about well-dressed, and have food enough? Oh, Bessy, God is just, and our lots are well portioned out by Him, although none but He knows the bitterness of our souls.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI ask your pardon,\u201d replied Bessy, humbly. \u201cSometimes, when I’ve thought o’ my life, and the little pleasure I’ve had in it, I’ve believed that, maybe, I was one of those doomed to die by the falling of a star from heaven; \u2018And the name of the star is called \u2018Wormwood;\u2019 and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and men died of the waters, because they were made bitter.\u2019 One can bear pain and sorrow better if one thinks it has been prophesied long before for one: somehow, then it seems as if my pain was needed for the fulfilment; otherways it seems all sent for nothing.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNay, Bessy\u2014think!\u201d said Margaret. \u201cGod does not willingly afflict. Don’t dwell so much on the prophecies, but read the clearer parts of the Bible.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI dare say it would be wiser; but where would I hear such grand words of promise\u2014hear tell o’ anything so far different fro’ this dreary world, and this town above a’, as in Revelations? Many’s the time I’ve repeated the verses in the seventh chapter to myself, just for the sound. It’s as good as an organ, and as different from every day, too. No, I cannot give up Revelations. It gives me more comfort than any other book i’ the Bible.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLet me come and read you some of my favourite chapters.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAy,\u201d said she, greedily, \u201ccome. Father will maybe hear yo’. He’s deaved wi’ my talking; he says it’s all nought to do with the things o’ to-day, and that’s his business.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere is your sister?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGone fustian-cutting. I were loth to let her go; but somehow we must live; and th’ Union can’t afford us much.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNow I must go. You have done me good, Bessy.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI done you good!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. I came here very sad, and rather too apt to think my own cause for grief was the only one in the world. And now I hear how you have had to bear for years, and that makes me stronger.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBless yo’! I thought a’ the good-doing was on the side of gentle folk. I shall get proud if I think I can do good to yo’.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou won’t do it if you think about it. But you’ll only puzzle yourself if you do, that’s one comfort.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYo’re not like no one I ever seed. I dunno what to make of yo’.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNor I of myself. Good-bye!\u201d<\/p>\n

Bessy stilled her rocking to gaze after her.<\/p>\n

\u201cI wonder if there are many folk like her down South. She’s like a breath of country air, somehow. She freshens me up above a bit. Who’d ha’ thought that face\u2014as bright and as strong as the angel I dream of\u2014could have known the sorrow she speaks on? I wonder how she’ll sin. All on us must sin. I think a deal on her, for sure. But father does the like, I see. And Mary even. It’s not often hoo’s stirred up to notice much.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":299,"menu_order":17,"template":"","meta":{"pb_show_title":"on","pb_short_title":"","pb_subtitle":"","pb_authors":[],"pb_section_license":""},"chapter-type":[48],"contributor":[],"license":[],"class_list":["post-298","chapter","type-chapter","status-publish","hentry","chapter-type-numberless"],"part":3,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/northandsouth\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/298","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/northandsouth\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/northandsouth\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/chapter"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/northandsouth\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/299"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/northandsouth\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/298\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":518,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/northandsouth\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/298\/revisions\/518"}],"part":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/northandsouth\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/parts\/3"}],"metadata":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/northandsouth\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/298\/metadata\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/northandsouth\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=298"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"chapter-type","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/northandsouth\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapter-type?post=298"},{"taxonomy":"contributor","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/northandsouth\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/contributor?post=298"},{"taxonomy":"license","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/northandsouth\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/license?post=298"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}