Chapter 7. Henry Gaston Leaves Home With Sharp

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_ CHAPTER VII. HENRY GASTON LEAVES HOME WITH SHARP

AS little Henry, after parting with his mother, hurried on by the side of Mr. Sharp, who took his way directly across the bridge leading over to Charlestown, where he had left the chaise in which he had ridden from Lexington, a handsome carriage, containing a mother and three happy children, about the age of himself, Emma, and the sister who had just died, drove rapidly by. The children were full of spirits, and, in their thoughtless glee, called out gayly, but with words of ridicule, to the poor, meanly-clan child, who was hurrying on at almost a run beside the man who had become his master. Their words, however, were heeded not by the full-hearted boy. His thoughts were going back to his home, and to his much-loved mother.

This incident is mentioned here, as a striking illustration of the practical working of that system of grinding the poor, especially poor females, by which many men make fortunes, or at least acquire far more than a simple competence for life. That carriage belonged to Berlaps, and those happy children were his. But how could he buy a carriage and horses, and build fine houses, and yet not be able to pay more than the meagre pittance for his work that the reader has seen doled out to his half-starving workwomen? How could his children be fed and clothed sumptuously every day, and the widow, who worked for him from early dawn until the silent watches of midnight, not be able to get wholesome bread and warm garments for her little ones, _unless he took more than his just share_ of the profits upon his goods? If he could only afford to pay seven cents for coarse shirts, and so on, in proportion, up through the entire list of articles made, how came it that the profits on these very articles enabled him to live in elegance, build houses, and keep his own carriage and horses?

Such questions apply not alone to, the single instance of Berlaps, here introduced. They are pertinent in their application to all who add to their profits for the purpose of a grand aggregate, at the expense of reducing the pay, even a few cents, upon the hard-toiling workwoman, whose slender income, at best, is barely sufficient to procure the absolute necessaries of life. This cutting down of women's wages, until they are reduced to an incompetent pittance, is a system of oppression too extensive, alas! in this, as well as many other countries. It is one of the quiet and safe means by which the strong oppress the weak--by which the selfish build themselves up, cruelly indifferent to the sufferings of those who are robbed of a just compensation for their labor. The record of a conversation overheard between two of the class alluded to will illustrate this matter. They were tailors--or, rather, what are sometimes called slop-shop, or clothing men. Let it not be supposed that tailors alone are the oppressors of workwomen. In most of the employments at which females engage, especially such as admit of a competition in labor, advantage is taken of the eager demand for work, and prices reduced to the lowest possible standard. In the eager scramble for monopolizing more than a just share of custom, or to increase the amount of sales by the temptation of extremely moderate rates, the prices of goods are put down to the lowest scale they will bear. If, in doing this, the dealer was content with a profit reduced in some proportion to the increase of his sales, no one would have a right to complain. He would be free to sell his goods at cost, or even below cost, if that suited his fancy. Instead of this, however, the profits on his articles are often the same that they were when prices were ten or fifteen per cent. higher, and he reaps the advantage of a greatly increased sale, consequent upon the more moderate rates at which he can sell. The evil lies in his cutting down his operatives' wages; in taking off of them, while they make no party to his voluntary reduction of prices, the precise amount that he throws in to his customer as a temptation to buy more freely. But to the promised dialogue--

"Money don't come in hand-over-fist, as it ought to come," remarked Grasp, of the flourishing firm of Grasp & Co., Merchant Tailors, of Boston, to the junior partner of the establishment. "The nimble sixpence is better than the slow shilling, you know. We must make our shears eat up cloth a little faster, or we sha'n't clear ten thousand dollars this year by one-third of the sum."

"Although that would be a pretty decent business these times."

"I don't call any business a decent one that can be bettered," replied Grasp, contemptuously.

"But can ours be bettered?"

"Certainly!"

"How?"

"By selling more goods."

"How are we to do that?"

"By putting down the prices, and then making a confounded noise about it. Do you understand?"

"I do. But our prices are very low now."

"True. But we may reduce them still further, and, by so doing, increase our sales to an extent that will make our business net us beyond the present income quite handsomely. But, to do this, we must cut down the prices now paid for making up our clothes. In this way, we shall be able to greatly increase our sales, with but a slight reduction upon our present rates of profit."

"But will our workmen stand it? Our needlewomen, particularly, work very low now."

"They'll have to stand it!" replied Grasp; "most of them are glad to get work at any price. Women, with half a dozen hungry mouths around them, don't stand long to higgle about a few cents in a garment, when there are so many willing to step in and take their places. Besides, what are three or four cents to them on a vest, or pair of pants, or jacket? The difference in a week is small and will not be missed--or, at the worst, will only require them to economize with a little steadier hand; while upon the thousands of garments we dispose of here, and send away to other markets, it will make a most important aggregate on the right side of profit and loss."

"There is no doubt of that," replied the partner, the idea of the aggregate of three or four cents on each garment occupying his mind, and obscuring completely, for a time, every other idea. "Well, I'm with you," he said, after a little while, "in any scheme for increasing profits. Getting along at the rate of only some two or three thousand a year is rather slow work. Why, there's Tights, Screw, & Co., see how they're cutting into the trade, and carrying every thing before them. Tights told me that they cleared twenty thousand dollars last year."

"No doubt of it. And I'll make our house do the same before three years roll over, or I'm no prophet."

"If we are going to play this cutting-down game, we had better begin at once."

"Oh, certainly. The sooner the better. But first, we must arrange a reduced scale of prices, and then bring our whole tribe of workwomen and others down to it at once. It will not do to hold any parley with them. If we do, our ears will be dinned to death with trumped-up tales of poverty and distress, and all that sort of thing, with which we have no kind of concern in the world. These are matters personal to these individuals themselves, and have nothing to do with our business. No matter what prices we paid, we would have nothing but grumbling and complaint, if we allowed an open door on that subject."

"Yes, there is no doubt of that. But, to tell the truth, it is a mystery to me how some of these women get along. Very few make over two dollars a week, and some never go beyond a dollar. Many of them are mothers, and most of them have some one or more dependent upon them. Food, rent, clothes, and fuel, all have to come out of these small earnings By what hocus-pocus it is done, I must confess, puzzles me to determine."

"Oh, as to that," returned Grasp, "it is, no doubt, managed well enough. Provisions, and every thing that poor people stand in need of, are very cheap. The actual necessaries of life cost but little, you know. How far above the condition of the starving Irish, or the poor operatives in the manufacturing portions of England, is that of the people who work for us! Think of that for a moment."

"True-very true," replied the partner. "Well," ha continued, "I think we had better put the screws on to our workwomen and journeymen at once. I am tired of plodding on at this rate."

"So am I. To-night, then, after we close the store, we will arrange our new bill of prices, and next week bring all hands down to it."

And they were just as good as their word. And it happened just as they said--the poor workwomen had to submit.

But we must return from our digression.

The child who, under the practical operation of a system of which the above dialogue gives some faint idea, had to go out from his home at the tender age of ten years, because his mother, with all her hard toil, early and late, at the prices she obtained for her labor, could not earn enough to provide a sufficiency of food and clothes for her children--that child passed on, unheeding, and, indeed, unhearing the jibes of the happier children of his mother's oppressor; and endeavored, sad and sorrowful as he felt, to nerve himself with something of a manly feeling. At Charlestown, Mr. Sharp got into his chaise, and, with the lad he had taken to raise, drove home.

"Well, here is the youngster, Mrs. Sharp," he said, on alighting from his vehicle. "He is rather smaller and punier than I like, but I have no doubt that he will prove willing and obedient."

"What is his name?" asked Mrs. S., who had a sharp chin, sharp nose, and sharp features throughout; and, with all, rather a sharp voice. She had no children of her own--those tender pledges being denied her, perhaps on account of the peculiar sharpness of her temper.

"His name is Henry," replied her husband.

"Henry what?"

"Henry Gaston, I believe. Isn't that it, my boy?"

Henry replied in the affirmative. Mr. Sharp then said--

"You can go in with Mrs. Sharp, Henry. She will tell you what she wants you to do."

"Yes, come along." And Mrs. Sharp turned away as she spoke, and retired into the more interior portion of the house, followed by the boy.

"Mrs. Sharp will tell you what she wants you to do?" Yes, that' tells the story. From this hour the child is to become the drudge--the hewer of wood and drawer of water--for an unfeeling woman, whose cupidity and that of her husband have prompted them to get a little boy as a matter of saving--one who could do the errands for the shop and the drudgery for the house. There was no thought for, and regard toward the child to be exercised. He was to be to them only an economical little machine, very useful, though somewhat troublesome at times.

"I don't see that your mother has killed you with clothes," said Mrs. Sharp to him, after taking his bundle and examining it, and then surveying him from head to foot. "But I suppose she thinks they will do well enough; and I suppose they will. There, do you see that wooden pail there? Well, I want you to take it and go to the pump across the street, down in the next square, and bring it full of water."

Henry took the pail, as directed, and went and got the water. This was the beginning of his service, and was all well enough, as far as it went. But from that time he had few moments of relaxation, except what the night gave him, or the quiet Sabbath. All through the first day he was kept busy either in the house or shop, and, before night, had received two or three reprimands from Mrs. Sharp, administered in no very affectionate tones.

When night came, at last--it had seemed a very long day to him--and he was sent to bed alone, in the dark, he put off his clothes and laid himself down, unable, as he did so, to restrain the tears and sobs. Poor child! How sadly and yearningly did his heart go back to the narrow apartment, every nook and corner of which were dear to him, because his mother's presence made all sunshine there! And bow earnestly did he long to be with her again! But he soon sank away to sleep, from which he did not awaken until the half angry voice of Mrs. Sharp chided him loudly for "lazying it away" in bed until after sunrise. Quickly getting up and dressing himself, he went down and commenced upon a new day of toil. First he had to bring in wood, then to grind the coffee, afterward to bring water from the pump, and then to scour the knives for breakfast. When these were done, he was sent into the shop to see if Mr. Sharp didn't want him, where he found plenty to occupy his attention. The shop was to be sprinkled and swept out, the counter to be dusted, and various other little matters to be attended to, which occupied him until breakfast time. After he had finished this meal, Mrs. Sharp managed to find him plenty to do for some hours, and then her husband laid out work for him, at which he devoted himself all the rest of the day, except when he was wanted in the kitchen for some purpose or other. And so it continued, day after day, from morning until night. Not an hour's relaxation was allowed the child; and if, from weariness or disheartened feeling, he sometimes lingered over a piece of work, a severe scolding or some punishment from Mrs. Sharp was sure to follow.

Thus things went on, every day adding to the cold of a rapidly advancing northern winter. But Mrs. Sharp still thought, according to her first conclusions in regard to Henry's clothes, that "they would do." They were not very warm, it is true--that she could not help admitting. "But then he is used to wearing thinner clothes than other children," she reasoned, "or else his mother would have put warmer ones on him. And, any how, I see no use in letting him come right down as a dead expense upon our hands. He hasn't earned his salt yet, much less a winter suit of clothes."

But the poor little fellow was no more used to bearing exposure to the chilling winds of winter than she had been when a child. He therefore shrunk shiveringly in the penetrating air whenever forced to go beyond the door. This did not fail to meet the eye of Mrs. Sharp--indeed, her eye was rarely off of him when he was within the circle of its vision--and it always irritated her. And why? It reproved her for not providing warmer clothes for the child; and hurt her penurious spirit with the too palpable conviction that before many weeks had passed they would be compelled to lay out some money for "the brat," as she had begun frequently to designate him to her husband, especially when she felt called upon to complain of him for idleness, carelessness, dulness, stupidity, wastefulness, uncleanliness, hoggishness, or some other one of the score of faults she found in a child of ten years old, whom she put down to work as steadily as a grown person.

A single month made a great change in his external appearance; such a change as would have made him unfamiliar even to his mother's eye. While under her care, his clothes, though poor, had always been whole and clean--his skin well washed, and his hair combed smoothly. Now, the color of his thin jacket and trowsers could scarcely have been told for the dust and grease which had become imbedded in their texture. His skin was begrimed until it was many shades darker, and his hair stood stiffly about his head, in matted portions, looking as if a comb had not touched it for weeks. One would hardly have imagined that so great a change could have passed upon a boy in a few weeks as had passed over him. When he left his mother's humble abode, there was something about him that instantly attracted the eye of almost any one who looked at him attentively, and won for him favorable impressions. His skin was pure and white, and his mild blue eyes, with their expression of innocent confidence, looked every one in the face openly. Now there was something repulsive to almost every one about the dirty boy, who went moping about with soiled face and hands, a cowed look, and shrinking gait. Scarcely any one seemed to feel a particle of sympathy for him, either in or out of the house where he dwelt.

Time passed on, and New Year's day rapidly approached, the anxiously longed-for time, to which Henry had never ceased to look forward since he left his mother's presence. Every passing day seemed to render his condition more and more uncomfortable. The air grew colder and colder, and the snow lay all around to the depth of many inches. A suit of cloth clothes had been "cooked up" for him out of an old coat and trowsers that had long since been worn threadbare by Mr. Sharp. Thin though they were, they yet afforded a most comfortable substitute for those their welcome appearance had caused him to throw aside. But the pair of shoes he had worn when he left Boston were still considered good enough, if thought of at all, notwithstanding they gaped largely at the toes, and had been worn so thin in the soles that scarcely the thickness of a knife-blade lay between his feet and the snow-covered ground. In regard to sleeping, he was not much better off. His bed was of straw, upon the floor, in a large unplastered garret, and but scantily supplied with covering. Here he would creep away alone in the dark every night, on being driven away to bed from crouching beside the warm kitchen fire after his daily toil was done, and get under the thin covering with all his clothes on. There he would lie, all drawn up into a heap to keep warm, and think of his mother, and long for New Year's day to come, until sleep would lock up his senses in unconsciousness.

At last it was New Year's eve, but the poor child had heard no word about going home. He could sleep but little through that night for thinking about the promised return to his mother on the next day, and for the dread he felt lest Mr. Sharp had forgotten, or would disregard his promise. The bright morning of another new year at length arose, clear and piercingly cold, and Henry crept early from his bed, and went down stairs to make the fires as usual. When Mr. Sharp at length made his appearance, he looked wishfully and inquiringly into his face, but no notice whatever was taken of him, except to give him some order, in the usual short, rough tone in which he always addressed him.

"Ain't I going home to see my mother to-day, sir?" was on his tongue, but he feared to utter it.

After breakfast he watched every movement of Mr. Sharp, expecting each moment to see him go out and get the chaise ready to take him to Boston. But no such idea was in the mind of the thoughtless, unfeeling master. Nine, ten, and eleven o'clock came and went, and the poor child's anxious heart began to fail him. Several times he was on the point of recalling to the mind of Mr. Sharp, his promise to his mother that he should be sent home at New Year's, but as often his timid heart caused him to shrink back. At last dinner-time came, and yet nothing was said, nor were there any indications that the boy was to go home. The meal passed, and then Henry was directed to go on some errand about a mile away.

"But ain't I going home to-day, Mr. Sharp?" said he, with a sudden, despairing resolution, looking up with tearful eyes, as he spoke.

"What's that?" eagerly asked Mrs. Sharp, coming forward. "What's that, ha?"

The frightened boy slunk back, and stood with his eyes upon the floor.

"Go where, did he say, Mr. Sharp?"

"Go to see his mammy, to be sure!" replied the hatter, in a half-sneering tone of surprise.

"His mammy, indeed! And pray what put that into his head, I should like to know?"

"Mr. Sharp told mother he would send me home to see her on New Year's day," the child ventured to says in explanation.

"Clear out! Off with you, Mr. Assurance!" exclaimed Sharp, in an angry voice, at this, half raising his hand to strike the lad. "How dare you!"

Henry started back trembling, at once conscious that all hope of seeing her he had so pined to meet for many long and weary days of suffering and privation, was at an end. Slowly he left the house, shrinking in the cold blast, and went on his errand through the hard frozen snow.

"Did any one ever hear such impudence!" ejaculated Mrs. Sharp, in breathless surprise. "Sent home on New Year's day to his mammy! A pretty how-do-you-do, upon my word! the dirty little ill-conditioned brat!"

"I believe, now I come to think of it," said Sharp, "that I did say something of the kind to his mother, just to pacify her, though I had no thought of doing it; and, indeed, I don't suppose she cares any great deal about seeing him. She didn't look as if she could keep soul and body together long."

"If she wanted to see him so dreadful bad, why didn't she keep him at home with her tied all the while to her apron string?" said the unfeeling woman.

"She would have had to work a little harder to have done that. No doubt she was glad enough to get rid of the burden of supporting him."

"Well, all that I can say is, that any mother who is not willing to work to take care of her children, don't deserve to see them."

"So say I," returned the husband.

"And as to Henry's going home, I wouldn't hear to any such thing. He'd not be a bit too good to trump up any kind of stories about not being treated well, so as to prevails upon her not to let him come back. I know just how boys like him talk when they get a chance to run home. Even when they do come back, they're never worth a cent afterward."

"Oh, no! As to his going home, that is out of the question this winter," replied Sharp. "If his mother cares about seeing him, she'll find her way out here."

With a sadder heart than ever did poor Henry grope his way up into the cold garret that night, with but one thought and one image in his mind, the thought of home and the image of his mother. He dreamed of her all night. He was at home. Her tender voice was in his ear, and his head rested on her bosom. She clothed him in warmer garments, and set him beside her at the table, upon which was tempting food. But morning came at last, and he was awakened from visions of delight to a more painful consciousness of his miserable condition by the sharp, chiding voice of his cruel mistress. Slowly, with stiffened limbs and a reluctant heart did he arise, and enter upon the repulsive and hard duties of another day.

As he had not been permitted to go home, his next consolatory thought was that his mother would come out at once to see him. This hope he clung to day after day, but he clung to it in vain. It mattered not that, every-time the shop-door opened when he was in it, he turned with a quickened pulse to see if it were not his mother, or that he would pause and listen, when back in the house, to hear if the strange voice that came suddenly from the shop, were not the voice of her he so longed to see. She came not; nor was any word from her brought to him.

And thus passed the whole of the severe month of January, the long and cold winter adding greatly to his other causes of suffering. _

Read next: Chapter 8. Henry Gaston's Treatment By Sharp

Read previous: Chapter 6. Perkins' Narrative

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