Shirley

neither kill a man nor hurt a man; and I'm not for pulling down mills and breaking machines: for, as ye say, that way o' going on'll niver stop invention; but I'll talk, – I'll mak' as big a din as ever I can. Invention may be all right, but I know it is n't right for poor folks to starve. Them that governs mun find a way to help us: they mun mak' fresh orderations. Ye'll say that's hard to do: – so mich louder mun we shout out then, for so much slacker will t' Parliament-men be to set on to a tough job.«
    »Worry the Parliament-men as much as you please,« said Moore; »but to worry the mill-owners is absurd; and I, for one, won't stand it.«
    »Ye're a raight hard 'un!« returned the workman. »Will n't ye gie us a bit o' time? – Will n't ye consent to mak' your changes rather more slowly?«
    »Am I the whole body of clothiers in Yorkshire? Answer me that!«
    »Ye're yourseln.«
    »And only myself; and if I stopped by the way an instant, while others are rushing on, I should be trodden down. If I did as you wish me to do, I should be bankrupt in a month: and would my bankruptcy put bread into your hungry children's mouths? William Farren, neither to your dictation, nor to that of any other, will I submit. Talk to me no more about machinery; I will have my own way. I shall get new frames in to-morrow: – If you broke these, I would still get more.
I'll never give in.
«
    Here the mill-bell rang twelve o'clock: it was the dinner hour. Moore abruptly turned from the deputation and re-entered his counting-house.
    His last words had left a bad, harsh impression: he, at least, had »failed in the disposing of a chance he was lord of.« By speaking kindly to William Farren, – who was a very honest man, without envy or hatred of those more happily circumstanced than himself; thinking it no hardship and no injustice to be forced to live by labour; disposed to be honourably content if he could but get work to do, – Moore might have made a friend. It seemed wonderful how he could turn from such a man without a conciliatory or a sympathizing expression. The poor fellow's face looked haggard with want: he had the aspect of a man who had not known what it was to live in comfort and plenty for weeks, perhaps months past; and yet there was no ferocity, no malignity in his countenance: it was worn, dejected, austere, but still patient. How could Moore leave him thus, with the words »I'll never give in,« and not a whisper of good-will, or hope, or aid?
    Farren, as he went home to his cottage, – once, in better times, a decent, clean, pleasant place, but now, though still clean, very dreary, because so poor – asked himself this question. He concluded that the foreign mill-owner was a selfish, an unfeeling, and, he thought, too, a foolish man. It appeared to him that emigration, had he only the means to emigrate, would be preferable to service under such a master. He felt much cast down, – almost hopeless.
    On his entrance, his wife served out, in orderly sort, such dinner as she had to give him and the bairns: it was only porridge, and too little of that. Some of the younger children asked for more when they had done their portion – an application which disturbed William much: while his wife quieted them as well as she could, he left his seat, and went to the door. He whistled a cheery stave, which did not, however, prevent a broad drop or two (much more like the ›first of a thunder-shower‹ than those which oozed from the wound of the gladiator) from gathering on the lids of his grey eyes, and plashing thence to the threshold. He cleared his vision with his sleeve, and the melting mood over, a very stern one followed.
    He still stood brooding in silence, when a gentleman in black came up – a clergyman, it might be seen at once; but neither Helstone, nor Malone, nor Donne, nor Sweeting. He might be forty years old; he was plain-looking, dark-complexioned, and already rather grey-haired. He stooped a little in walking. His countenance, as he came on, wore an abstracted and somewhat doleful air; but, in approaching Farren, he looked up, and then a hearty expression illuminated the preoccupied, serious face.
    »Is it you, William? How are you?« he asked.
    »Middling, Mr. Hall: how are
ye?
Will ye step in and rest ye?«
    Mr. Hall, whose name the reader has seen mentioned before, (and who, indeed, was vicar of Nunnely, of which parish Farren was a native, and from whence he had removed but three years ago to