He put his pipe in his mouth again, and redoubled his puffing, to make up for lost time.
“I’m afeard, neighbours,” said John Barton, “I’ve not much chance o’ telling ’em all yo say: what I think on, is just speaking out about the distress that they say is nought. When they hear o’ children born on wet flags, without a rag t’ cover ’em or a bit o’ food for th’ mother: when they hear of folk lying down to die i’ th’ streets, or hiding their want i’ some hole o’ a cellar till death come to set ’em free; and when they hear o’ all this plague, pestilence, and famine, they’ll surely do somewhat wiser for us than we can guess at now. Howe’er, I han no objection, if so be there’s an opening, to speak up for what yo say; anyhow, I’ll do my best, and yo see now, if better times don’t come after Parliament knows all.”
Meeting Between the Masters and their Employees
From Mary Barton, 1848
The day arrived on which the masters were to have an interview with the deputation of the workpeople. The meeting was to take place in a public room at an hotel; and there, about eleven o’clock, the mill-owners who had received the foreign orders began to collect.
Of course, the first subject, however full their minds might be of another, was the weather. Having done their duty by all the showers and sunshine which had occurred during the past week, they fell to talking about the business which brought them together. There might be about twenty gentlemen in the room, including some, by courtesy, who were not immediately concerned in the settlement of the present question; but who, nevertheless, were sufficiently interested to attend. These were divided into little groups, who did not seem by any means unanimous. Some were for a slight concession, just a sugar-plum to quieten the naughty child, a sacrifice to peace and quietness. Some were steadily and vehemently opposed to the dangerous precedent of yielding one jot or one tittle to the outward force of a turn-out. It was teaching the workpeople how to become masters, said they. Did they want the wildest thing hereafter, they would know that the way to obtain their wishes would be to strike work. Besides, one or two of those present had only just returned from the New Bailey, where one of the turn-outs had been tried for a cruel assault on a poor North-country weaver, who had attempted to work at the low price. They were indignant, and justly so, at the merciless manner in which the poor fellow had been treated; and their indignation at wrong took (as it often does) the extreme form of revenge. They felt as if, rather than yield to the body of men who were resorting to such cruel measures towards their fellow workmen, they, the masters, would sooner relinquish all the benefits to be derived from the fulfilment of the commission in order that the workmen might suffer keenly. They forgot that the strike was in this instance the consequence of want and need, suffered unjustly, as the endurers believed; for, however insane, and without ground of reason, such was their belief, and such was the cause of their violence. It is a great truth that you cannot extinguish violence by violence. You may put it down for a time; but while you are crowing over your imaginary success, see if it does not return with seven devils worse than its former self!
No one thought of treating the workmen as brethren and friends, and openly, clearly, as appealing to reasonable men, stating exactly and fully the circumstances which led the masters to think it was the wise policy of the time to make sacrifices themselves, and to hope for them from the operatives.
In going from group to group in the room, you caught such a medley of sentences as the following—
“Poor devils! they’re near enough to starving, I’m afraid. Mrs. Aldred makes two cows’ heads into soup every week, and people come many miles to fetch it; and if these times last, we must try and do more. But we must not be bullied into anything!”
“A rise of a shilling or so won’t make much difference, and they will go away thinking they’ve gained their point.”