North and South
Page 101'Why, 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.' 'And so you plan dying, in order to be revenged upon them!' 'No,' said he, 'I 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?' 'But,' said Margaret, 'a soldier dies in the cause of the
Nation--in the cause of others.' He laughed grimly. 'My lass,' said he, 'yo're but a young wench,
but don't yo' think I can keep three people--that's Bessy, and
Mary, and me--on 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--only 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
but I take up th' cause o' justice. Why are we to have less wage
now, I ask, than two year ago?' 'Don't ask me,' said Margaret; 'I 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.' 'Yo're just a foreigner, and nothing more,' said he,
contemptuously. 'Much 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.' 'But said Margaret, determined not to give way, although she saw
she was irritating him, 'the state of trade may be such as not to
enable them to give you the same remuneration.
'State 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,--their cue, as some folks call
stand up and fight hard,--not for ourselves alone, but for them
round about us--for 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!' 'Thornton!' said Margaret. 'Mr. Thornton of Marlborough Street?' 'Aye! Thornton o' Marlborough Mill, as we call him.' 'He is one of the masters you are striving with, is he not? What
sort of a master is he?' 'Did 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.' 'Nay,' said Margaret, laughing, 'I deny that. Mr. Thornton is
plain enough, but he's not like a bulldog, with its short broad
nose, and snarling upper lip.' 'No! 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
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,--as 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,--th' oud
bulldog!' 'Poor Bessy!' said Margaret, turning round to her. 'You sigh over
it all. You don't like struggling and fighting as your father
does, do you?' 'No!' said she, heavily. 'I'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.' 'Poor 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.' 'Tobacco-smoke chokes me!' said she, querulously.