Mary Barton

can the r

he poor m

ike some dar

nd neare

ramp'd the

of work

d at the dr

him 'twa

eart-sore, h

gh the win

ellar, ther

no food,

saw his d

the grass

ard that ma

of bread!" M

would amply pay. They were in no hurry about the business, however. The weekly drain of wages given for labour, useless in the present state of the market, was stopped. The partners had more leisure than they had known for ears; and promised wives and daughters all manner of pleasant excursions, as soon as the weather should become more genial. It was a pleasant thing to be able to lounge over breakfast with a review or newspaper in hand; to have time for becoming acquainted with agreeable and accomplished daughters, on whose education no money had been spared, but whose fathers, shut up during a long day with calicoes and accounts, had so seldom had leisure to enjoy their

r nature came out strongly then. There were desperate fathers; there were bitter-tongued mothers (Oh God! what wonder!); there were reckless children; the very closest bonds of nature were snapt in that time of trial and distress. There was Faith such as the rich can never imagine on earth; there was

d consequently as trade continued dead, other mills shortened

to be so long indebted to his son. He was out of spirits and depressed. Barton was morose, and soured towards mankind as a body, and the rich in particular. One evening, when the clear light at six o'clock contrasted strangely with the Christmas cold, an

it o' money by you,

I'd like to know. Wha

you know Ben Davenport as worked at Carsons'? He's down wi' the

is gruffness. He rose, and went to the cupboard (his wife's pride long ago). There lay the remains of his dinner, hastily put by ready for supper.

going to work t

eet abounded. Never was the old Edinburgh cry of "Gardez l'eau!" more necessary than in this street. As they passed, women from their doors tossed household slops of every description into the gutter; they ran into the next pool, which over-flowed and stagnated. Heaps of ashes were the stepping-stones, on which the passer-by, who cared in the least for cleanliness, took care not to put his foot. Our friends were not dainty, but even they picked their way, till they got to some steps leading down into a small area, where a person standing would have his head about one foot below the level of the street, and might at the same time, without the least motion of his body, touch

the stagnant, filthy moisture of the street oozed up; the fireplace was empty

se, children, and don't mither your mammy for

ed round Barton, and tore from him the food he had brought with

he, to Wilson. "Yo stop here, a

shops he wanted. He bought meat, and a loaf of bread, candles, chips, and from a little retail yard he purchased a couple of hundredweights of coal. Some money still remained--all destined for them, but he did not yet know how best to spend it. Food, light, and warmth, he had instantly seen were necessary; for luxuries he would wait. Wilson's eyes filled with tears when he saw Barton enter with his purchases. He understood it all, and longed to be once more in work that he might help in some of these material ways, without feeling that he was using his son's money. But tho

d again for bread; but this time Barton took a piece first to the poor, helpless, hopeless woman, who still sat by the side of her husband, listening to his anxious miserable mutterings. She took the bread, when it was put into her hand, and broke a bit

, as does nought but fight, home to my missis's for to-night, and I'll g

snatched the child, and ran up the area-steps to the room above, and borrowed their only saucepan with some water in it. Then he began, with the useful skill of a working-man, to make some gruel; and when it was hastily made, he seized a battered iron table-spoon (kept when many other little things had been sold in a lot), in order to feed baby, and with it he forced one or two drops between her clenched teeth. The mouth opened mechanically to receive more, and gradually she revived. She sat up and looked round; and recollecting all, fell down again in weak and passive despair. Her little child crawled to her, and wiped with its fingers the thick-coming tears which she now

lf against the bard brick floor. He was thankful when Wilson re-appeared, carrying in both hands a jug of steaming tea, intended for the p

orlorn couple; that was settled. But could no doctor be had? In all probability, no; the next day an infirmary order must be begged, but meanwh

in all the hurrying crowd had come from such a house of mourning. He thought they all looked joyous, and he was angry with them. But he could not, you cannot, read the lot of those who daily pass you by in the street. How do you know the wild romances of their lives; the trials, the temptations they are even now enduring, resisting, sinking under? You may be elbowed one instant by the girl desperate in her abandonment, laughing in mad merriment with her outward gesture, while her soul is longing for the rest of the dead, and bringing itself to think of the coldflowing river

; and proceeded to make up a bottle of medicine, sweet spirits of nitre, or some such innocent potion, very good for slight colds, but utterly powerless to stop, for an instant, the raging fever of the poor man it was intended to relieve. He recommended the same course t

ant; it led into a back cellar, with a grating instead of a window, down which dropped the moisture from pigsties, and worse abominations. It was not paved; the floor was one mass of bad smelling mud. It had never been used for there was not an article of furniture in it; no

!" exclaimed he, in surpr

ught else to gi' him, and he'll get a bit of sleep lying there, if he's getten nough

no money fra

parish, if he went to th' board; so we've just borne on in hope o' better times. But I thi

n try and get a bit o' sleep. John and

essing be

and tried to move lightly for fear of disturbing her; but there need have been no such dread, for her sl

e, which surprised Wilson, who knew his piety in health, and who did not know the unbridled tongue of delirium. At length he seemed exhausted, and fell asleep; and Barton and Wilson drew near the fire,

this chap long

rt good to read it; for, yo see, I were a bit grumbling mysel; it seemed bard to be spunging on Jem, and taking a' his flesh-meat money to buy bread for me and them as I ought to be keeping. But, yo know, though I can earn nought, I mun eat summut. Well, as I telled

ers' father, too? I'd be lo

e there's many and many a mas

ey're rich, and we're poor? I'd like to know th

he would have called it. So Barton, seeing

to begin wi'; there's Carsons, and Duncombes, and Mengies, and many another, as corned into Manchester with clothes to their back, and that were all, and now they're worth their tens of thousands, a' getten out of our labour; why the very land as fetched but sixty pound twenty years agone is now worth six hundred, and tha

e, and says he, 'I shall ha' to retrench, and be very careful in my expendi

heir'n die for want o' food?" as

ee such men as Davenport there dying away, for very clemming, I cannot stand it. I've but gotten Mary,

nd then, which seemed to have power over her, when far louder noises failed to disturb her. The watchers agreed, that as soon as it was likely Mr Carson would be up and visible, Wilson should go to his house, and keg for an infirmary order. At length

d house, and furnished with disregard to expense. But, in addition to lavish expenditure, there was much taste shown, and many articles chosen for their beauty and elegance adorned his rooms. As Wilson passed a window which a housemaid had thrown open, he saw pictures and gilding, at which he was tempted to stop and look; but then he thought it would not be respectful. So he hastened on to the kitchen door. The servants seemed very busy with preparations for breakfast; but good-nature

r the day before. If the servants had known this, they would have willingly given him meat and bread in abundance; but they were like the rest of us, and not feeling hunger

were last ni

e to be at the rooms by twelve; and there I was

ed the housemaid, who had done her work for the pre

ne if we'd stopped there. No! I put th' horses up in th' stables at th' Spread Eagle, and went mysel', and got a glass or two by th' fire. T

mas; you'll get a

nd not mine. Flesh and blood can't sit to be starved to death o

, semi-lady's-maid, now came do

n a pound for salmon for Tuesday; she's grumbling because trade's so bad. And she'll wa

aye, I

r P's and Q's, for she's very black t

l which had got the worst headaches; it was that Miss Jenkins left for; she would not g

dge as was left yesterday, and put plenty cream in her coffee, and s

attend to the young ladies' bell when they chose t

pared food. The father was a prepossessing looking old man; perhaps selfindulgent you might guess. The son was strikingly handsome, and knew it. His dress was neat and well appointed, and his manners far m

o young to go to assemblies, at which her father rejoiced, for he had little Amy with her pretty jokes, and her bird-like songs, and her playful caresses all

rough red face all over. She took his newspaper away after a little pretende

ing, papa, so you know you m

your own way always, whether

say that; but I'm sorry to say Harry is very naugh

raise and not blame; for did not I get you that eau de Portugal from to

f; you're almost as good as papa; but still you know you did go and f

ot the Rose, sans reproche; but do you know, little M

on't dear father? He knows his little daug

into acquiescence, saying she must have it, it was one of

her, "try and be content w

f-a-crown for a bunch of lilies of the valley at Yates', a month ago, and then would not let his p

is mouth, while his eyes had an irritated expression, an

g the room, "here's one of the mill people wa

rectly; stay, tell h

shed, unshaven weaver was ushered in. There he, stood at the door, sleeking his hair with old c

nd what do you w

e fever, and I'm come to know if yo

; who is the fellow?

r factory better no

he names of the men I employ; that I le

ad; we want to get him

er to spare at present; but I'll giv

red a minute, and then gave Wilson an out-patie

y days there we

ode away. He was anxious to be in time to have a look and a smile from lovely Mary Barton, as she went to Miss Simmonds'. But to-day he was to be disappointed. Wilson left the house, not knowing whether to be pleased or grieved. It was long to Monday, but they had all spoken kindly to him, and who could tell

lmost elated in his heart. But it fell when he opened the cellar-door, and saw Barto

ere's a change comed over him

gid. The fearful clay-colour of death was over all. But the eyes were o

moan; but he soon went off again, and we never knew he were awake till

ke to break. She held her child to her breast, to try and keep him quiet. Their eyes were all fixed on the yet living one, whose moments of life were passing so rapidly away. At len

hee, that the hard stru

ave you no thought for me? Oh, Ben! Ben!

he meant, and guided it to her head, bowed and hidden in her hands, when she had sunk in her woe. It rested there with a feeble pressure of endearment. The face grew beautiful, as the soul neared God. A peace beyond understanding came over it

r father, through a neighbour, telling herwhere he was; and she had set out early to come and have a word

t know what to say, or how to comfort; but she knelt down by her, and put her arm round her neck, and in a little while fell to cry

her anger, in the anxious desire to comfort the poor lone woman. Never had her sweet face looked more an

care again. Yes, I know how lonesome you must feel; but think of your children. Oh! we'll all help t

g herself as passionat

home with Mary? The latter brightened up as she urged this plan; but no! where the poor, fondly loved remains were, there would the mourner be; and all that they could do was to make her as comfortable as their fund

rue enough that Mary did not mind what she was about; she was too busy planning how her old black gown (her best when her mother died) might be sponged, and turned, and lengthened into something like decent mourning for the widow. And when she went home at night (though it was ver

otesque funeral pomp of respectable people. There was no "rattling the bones over the stones," ofthe pauper's funeral. Decently and patiently was he followed to the grave by one determined to endure her woe meekly for his sake. The only mark of pauperism attendant on the burial concerned the living and joyous, far more than the dead, or the sorrowful. When they arrived in the churchyard, they halted before a raised and han