Books & Authors
This is a list of other books and authors mentioned in Mary Barton with a note of reference.
Oh! ‘‘‘tis hard, ‘‘tis hard to be working
The whole of the live-long day,
When all the neighbours about one
Are off to their jaunts and play.
There’s Richard he carries his baby,
And Mary takes little Jane,
And lovingly they’ll be wandering
Through field and bribery lane.
Manchester Song.
But when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed -and she had
Another morn than ours
"How infinite the wealth of love and hope
Garnered in these same tiny treasure-houses!
And oh! what bankrupts in the world we feel,
When Death, like some remorseless creditor,
Seizes on all we fondly thought our own!"
"The Twins."
To envy nought beneath the ample sky;And, like a living violet, silently
Return in sweets to Heaven what goodness lent,
Then bend beneath the chastening shower content.
It is a pretty sight to walk through a street with lighted shops; the gas is so brilliant, the display of goods so much more vividly shown than by day, and of all shops a druggist's looks the most like the tales of our childhood, from Aladdin's garden of enchanted fruits to the charming Rosamond with her purple jar.
For three years past, trade had been getting worse and worse, and the price of provisions higher and higher. This disparity between the amount of the earnings of the working classes and the price of their food, occasioned, in more cases than could well be imagined, disease and death. Whole families went through a gradual starvation. They only wanted a Dante to record their sufferings.
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'An' ye shall walk in silk attire,
An' siller hae to spare.'"
"Nay, don't stop; or else give me something a bit more new, for somehow I never quite liked that part about thinking o' Donald mair."
"A life of self-indulgence is for us,
A life of self-denial is for them;
For us the streets, broad-built and populous,
For them unhealthy corners, garrets dim,
And cellars where the water-rat may swim!
For us green paths refreshed by frequent rain,
For them dark alleys where the dust lies grim!
Not doomed by us to this appointed pain—
God made us rich and poor—of what do these complain?"
"Child Of The Islands."
God help the poor, who, on this wintry morn,
Come forth from alleys dim and courts obscure.
God help yon poor pale girl, who droops forlorn,
And meekly her affliction doth endure;
God help her, outcast lamb; she trembling stands,
All wan her lips, and frozen red her hands;
Her sunken eyes are modestly down-cast,
Her night-black hair streams on the fitful blast;
Her bosom, passing fair, is half revealed,
And oh! so cold, the snow lies there congealed;
Her feet benumbed, her shoes all rent and worn,
God help thee, outcast lamb, who standst forlorn!
God help the poor!
God help the poor! An infant's feeble wail
Comes from yon narrow gateway, and behold!
A female crouching there, so deathly pale,
Huddling her child, to screen it from the cold;
Her vesture scant, her bonnet crushed and torn;
A thin shawl doth her baby dear enfold:
And so she 'bides the ruthless gale of morn,
Which almost to her heart hath sent its cold.
And now she, sudden, darts a ravening look,
As one, with new hot bread, goes past the nook;
And, as the tempting load is onward borne,
She weeps. God help thee, helpless one, forlorn!
God help the poor!
God help the poor! Behold yon famished lad,
No shoes, nor hose, his wounded feet protect;
With limping gait, and looks so dreamy sad,
He wanders onward, stopping to inspect
Each window, stored with articles of food.
He yearns but to enjoy one cheering meal;
Oh! to the hungry palate, viands rude,
Would yield a zest the famished only feel!
He now devours a crust of mouldy bread;
With teeth and hands the precious boon is torn;
Unmindful of the storm that round his head
Impetuous sweeps. God help thee, child forlorn!
God help the poor!
God help the poor! Another have I found—
A bowed and venerable man is he;
His slouched hat with faded crape is bound;
His coat is gray, and threadbare too, I see.
"The rude winds" seem "to mock his hoary hair;"
His shirtless bosom to the blast is bare.
Anon he turns and casts a wistful eye,
And with scant napkin wipes the blinding spray;
And looks around, as if he fain would spy
Friends he had feasted in his better day:
Ah! some are dead; and some have long forborne
To know the poor; and he is left forlorn!
God help the poor!
God help the poor, who in lone valleys dwell,
Or by far hills, where whin and heather grow;
Theirs is a story sad indeed to tell,
Yet little cares the world, and less 't would know
About the toil and want men undergo.
The wearying loom doth call them up at morn,
They work till worn-out nature sinks to sleep,
They taste, but are not fed. The snow drifts deep
Around the fireless cot, and blocks the door;
The night-storm howls a dirge across the moor;
And shall they perish thus—oppressed and lorn?
Shall toil and famine, hopeless, still be borne?
No! God will yet arise, and help the poor.
"O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?"
"I can like of the wealth, I must confess,
Yet more I prize the man, though moneyless;
I am not of their humour yet that can
For title or estate affect a man;
Or of myself one body deign to make
With him I loathe, for his possessions' sake."
I loved him not; and yet, now he is gone, I feel I am alone. I checked him while he spoke; yet could he speak, Alas! I would not check. For reasons not to love him once I sought, And wearied all my thought.
So the three girls were by themselves in the comfortable, elegant, well-lighted drawing-room; and, like many similarly-situated young ladies, they did not exactly know what to do to while away the time until the tea-hour. The elder two had been at a dancing-party the night before, and were listless and sleepy in consequence. One tried to read "Emerson's Essays," and fell asleep in the attempt; the other was turning over a parcel of new music, in order to select what she liked. Amy, the youngest, was copying some manuscript music. The air was heavy with the fragrance of strongly-scented flowers, which sent out their night odours from an adjoining conservatory.
"Deeds to be hid which were not hid,
Which, all confused, I could not know,
Whether I suffered or I did,
For all seemed guilt, remorse, or woe."
Their senses are ever and always on the qui-vive, and they enjoy the collecting and collating evidence, and the life of adventure they experience: a continual unwinding of Jack Sheppard romances, always interesting to the vulgar and uneducated mind, to which the outward signs and tokens of crime are ever exciting. Their senses are ever and always on the qui-vive, and they enjoy the collecting
“It’s a subpoena,” he replied, turning the parchment over with the art of a connoisseur; for Job loved hard words, and lawyer-like forms, and even esteemed himself slightly qualified for a lawyer, from the smattering of knowledge he had picked up from an odd volume of Blackstone that he had purchased once at a book-stall.
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