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North and South

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In "North and South" by Elizabeth Gaskell, the story follows Margaret Hale as she transitions from London society to the industrial town of Milton. The book explores the conflict between the needs of the working class and the factory owners during a strike, with a focus on the Industrial Revolution. The novel delves into themes of integrity, social commentary, and the growth of characters like Margaret and Mr. Thornton as they navigate societal expectations and personal beliefs. Gaskell's writing style is praised for its detailed depiction of life in the fictional town of Milton and its sympathetic portrayal of both the mill owners and the workers.

Characters:

The characters are well-developed, notably Margaret Hale and John Thornton, each representing different social classes while going through personal and moral growth.

Writing/Prose:

The writing style is characterized by an omniscient narrator who offers detailed descriptions and insights into the characters' thoughts, effectively conveying the societal issues of the time.

Plot/Storyline:

The plot revolves around Margaret Hale's move from the countryside to a northern industrial town, exploring her experiences in the class struggle and her developing relationship with mill owner John Thornton.

Setting:

The setting contrasts the tranquil, pastoral South with the grim, industrial North, effectively illustrating the societal changes of the time.

Pacing:

The pacing starts slowly but gains momentum in the second half, though the conclusion feels hastily resolved after a long buildup.
But, as Margaret half suspected, Edith had fallen asleep. She lay curled up on the sofa in the back drawing room in Harley Street, looking very lovely in her white muslin and blue ribbons. If Titania ...

Notes:

North and South was first published as a magazine serial of twenty-two installments in Household Words, edited by Charles Dickens.
The novel was later expanded into book format and published in 1855.
It explores themes of social division and class struggles, as well as religious faith and doubt.
The story contrasts the idyllic life of the rural south of England with the harsh realities of industrial northern cities.
Margaret Hale, a 19-year-old protagonist, is raised in a wealthy family and must adjust to life in the working-class city of Milton.
The novel addresses the consequences of the Industrial Revolution on society, focusing on the lives of mill workers and their conditions.
John Thornton, a self-made mill owner, becomes a central character and love interest for Margaret Hale.
Gaskell's portrayal of both mill owners and workers is meant to be fair, showing the complexities of their struggles.
Major characters experience growth and transformation, particularly Margaret and Thornton, as they navigate their differing social backgrounds.
The book is often compared to Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice but deals more directly with social issues and economic inequalities.

Sensitive Topics/Content Warnings

The book includes content warnings for discussion of poverty, death, illness, and social injustice.

Has Romance?

The romance in North and South is a central element of the plot and is developed throughout the narrative.

From The Publisher:

Having grown up in London and rural southern England, Margaret Hale moves with her father to the northern industrial city of Milton. She is shocked by the poverty she encounters and dismayed by the unsympathetic attitude of the textile-mill owner John Thornton, whose factory workers are engaged in an acrimonious strike. Against this backdrop of social unrest, the relationship between the two is tumultuous, and it takes further upheaval and tragedy for them to see each other in a different light.

First serialized in Dickens's magazine Household Words in the same period as Hard Times, North and South shares its famous counterpart's concern with the inequality and hardship generated by the Industrial Revolution in northern England, while at the same time creating one of the nineteenth century's most memorable and engaging female protagonists in Margaret Hale.

Ratings (36)

Incredible (4)
Loved It (19)
Liked It (6)
It Was OK (4)
Did Not Like (3)

Reader Stats (121):

Read It (38)
Currently Reading (1)
Want To Read (65)
Did Not Finish (2)
Not Interested (15)

2 comment(s)

Loved It
2 weeks

Listened to this book on audio and I'm very glad I did. It was a long one but a very lovely and calming read to listen to. It's full of well developed characters and interesting plotline. Didn't feel as dramatic as the other books I've been listening to recently, where no sudden screaming but that doesn't mean stuff didn't happen. It was just more calmer and well put.

 
Loved It
6 months

He shook hands with Margaret. He knew it was the first time their hands had met, though she was perfectly unconscious of the fact.

North and South is an exceptionally competent novel that was both thought-provoking and enjoyable to read. It feels especially modern for the Victorian era. For me, though, it lacked any resonant emotional center, which keeps me from rating it five stars (though I certainly understand those who do).

In many ways, the novel is the Victorian precursor to modern YA romance. Not only is Margaret an extraordinarily beautiful, kind, intelligent young heroine pursued by multiple men who suffer much angst pining over her, but she endures trials and tribulations that reach an almost comical level of melodrama and continue up until the final page. The writing is quite readable—even the dialects that Gaskell throws in, which are often unintelligible in the hands of other authors—and the story is heavily plot-driven with more dramatic moments of danger than one might expect in a work of “realistic” Victorian fiction. The romance that does develop unfurls shockingly fast on Margaret’s part (though we readers, of course, have been shipping the happy couple for several hundred pages). If I’d hated the novel, I’d have quite a bit to complain about here, but as I didn’t, most of this is not so much a problem as it is an amusing observation.

As such, I have mixed feelings.

North and South is undeniably a good novel. Gaskell tackles the serious issue of the plight of the working class during industrialization, the way the mills change the lives of those who live near them, and the complex labor relations of Milton in a way that feels Dickensian. I found this aspect of the book utterly fascinating, and appreciate the depth it provided.

The plot itself is quite angsty. To start with, so,

so many characters die. Then there’s the Frederick storyline, which from start to finish (

though it remains frustratingly unresolved

) is quite sensational. And, of course, there’s the romance, with Margaret seeming to be completely uninterested until, quite literally, the last few pages (which is somewhat emotionally unsatisfying). Yet, somehow, Gaskell keeps it from ever feeling silly: it’s only when I look back that I roll my eyes a bit. I will say that the last section of the novel in which Margaret leaves Milton—which felt quite reminiscent of Jane Eyre’s visit to St. John—dragged a bit and generally went on too long. Otherwise, it’s a pretty pacey read for a Victorian novel…which is good because it’s

long.

However, as with Dickens, I found Gaskell’s characters somewhat lacking. While not quite as obnoxiously perfect as

A Little Princess’s Sara Crewe, Margaret does have a bit of that flavor, especially in her charitable friendships with some of the impoverished working class families; there seems to be at least a kernel of genuine feeling there, but it seems that Gaskell believes Margaret to be soundly superior to them and as such can only

give her friendship without

getting much in return. She just doesn’t seem to have much depth of feeling, which makes it hard to

really get caught up in her story. There were moments when I felt deeply connected with her—such as toward the end when she is overwhelmed with the realization that change is an inevitable and unrelenting part of life—but generally Gaskell seems to keep readers a bit on the outside. Thornton, on the other hand, is much more openly emotional (to the reader, that is) and therefore easier to empathize with, but his emotions are one-note and often exaggerated, and thus a bit unbelievable. The only character who felt real to me is Mr. Bell (I absolutely adore him!), who also happens to be the only one with a sense of humor in a novel that otherwise takes itself

very seriously.

I’ll definitely be reading more from Gaskell, but I’ll be surprised if any of her work makes it into my favorites. I enjoy her style, but I don’t quite love it.

Some favorite passages:

and with the soft violence of the west wind behind her, as she crossed some heath, she seemed to be borne onwards, as lightly and easily as the fallen leaf that was wafted along by the autumnal breeze.

Her eye caught on a bee entering a deep-belled flower: when that bee flew forth with his spoil she would begin—that should be the sign. Out he came.

The rooms had a strange echoing sound in them,—and the light came harshly and strongly in through the uncurtained windows,—seeming already unfamiliar and strange.

Oh, is there no going back?” “No, father,” said Margaret, looking straight at him, and speaking low and steadily. “It is bad to believe you in error. It would be infinitely worse to have known you a hypocrite.”

Now when I feel that in my own case it is no good luck, nor merit, nor talent,—but simply the habits of life which taught me to despise indulgences not thoroughly earned,—indeed, never to think twice about them,—I believe that this suffering, which Miss Hale says is impressed on the countenances of the people of Milton, is but the natural punishment of dishonestly-enjoyed pleasure, at some former period of their lives. I do not look on self-indulgent, sensual people as worthy of my hatred; I simply look upon them with contempt for their poorness of character.”

“If yo’d led the life I have, and getten as weary of it as I have, and thought at times, ‘maybe it’ll last for fifty or sixty years—it does wi’ some,’—and got dizzy and dazed, and sick, as each of them sixty years seemed to spin about me, and mock me with its length of hours and minutes, and endless bits o’ time—oh, wench! I tell thee thou’d been glad enough when th’ doctor said he feared thou’d never see another winter.”

The room altogether was full of knick-knacks, which must take a long time to dust; and time to people of limited income was money.

There are great trees standing all about it, with their branches stretching long and level, and making a deep shade of rest even at noonday. And yet, though every leaf may seem still, there is a continual rushing sound of movement all around—not close at hand.

And then in other parts there are billowy ferns—whole stretches of fern; some in the green shadow; some with long streaks of golden sunlight lying on them—just like the sea.”

You are quite prejudiced against Mr. Thornton, Margaret.” “He is the first specimen of a manufacturer—of a person engaged in trade—that I had ever the opportunity of studying, papa. He is my first olive: let me make a face while I swallow it.

Be a man, sir—a Christian. Have faith in the immortality of the soul, which no pain, no mortal disease, can assail or touch!” But all the reply he got was in the choked words, “You have never been married, Dr. Donaldson; you don’t know what it is,” and in the deep, manly sobs, which went through the stillness of the night like heavy pulses of agony.

She would fain have caught at the skirts of that departing time, and prayed it to return, and give her back what she had too little valued while it was yet in her possession. What a vain show Life seemed! How unsubstantial, and flickering, and flitting! It was as if from some aërial belfry, high up above the stir and jar of the earth, there was a bell continually tolling, “All are shadows!—all are passing!—all is past!” And when the morning dawned, cool and gray, like many a happier morning before—when Margaret looked one by one at the sleepers, it seemed as if the terrible night were unreal as a dream; it, too, was a shadow. It, too, was past.

MARGARET was shown into the drawing-room. It had returned into its normal state of bag and covering. The windows were half open because of the heat, and the Venetian blinds covered the glass,—so that a gray grim light, reflected from the pavement below, threw all the shadows wrong, and combined with the green-tinged upper light to make even Margaret’s own face, as she caught it in the mirrors, look ghastly and wan. She sat and waited; no one came. Every now and then, the wind seemed to bear the distant multitudinous sound nearer; and yet there was no wind! It died away into profound stillness between whiles.

How dared he say that he would love her still, even though she shook him off with contempt? She wished she had spoken more—stronger. Sharp, decisive speeches came thronging into her mind, now that it was too late to utter them. The deep impression made by the interview, was like that of a horror in a dream; that will not leave the room although we waken up, and rub our eyes, and force a stiff rigid smile upon our lips. It is there—there, cowering and gibbering, with fixed ghastly eyes, in some corner of the chamber, listening to hear whether we dare to breathe of its presence to any one. And we dare not; poor cowards that we are! And so she shuddered away from the threat of his enduring love. What did he mean? Had she not the power to daunt him? She would see. It was more daring than became a man to threaten her so.

Her mother was one of those who throw out terrible possibilities, miserable probabilities, unfortunate chances of all kinds, as a rocket throws out sparks; but if the sparks light on some combustible matter, they smoulder first, and burst out into a frightful flame at last.

“Some wishes crossed my mind and dimly cheered it,

And one or two poor melancholy pleasures,

Each in the pale unwarming light of hope,

Silvering its flimsy wing, flew silent by—

Moths in the moonbeam!”

COLERIDGE.

He thought that he disliked seeing one who had mortified him so keenly; but he was mistaken. It was a stinging pleasure to be in the room with her, and feel her presence. But he was no great analyser of his own motives and was mistaken, as I have said.

Says he, ‘Miss Dixon! who would ha’ thought of seeing you here? But perhaps I mistake, and you’re Miss Dixon no longer?’ So I told him he might still address me as an unmarried lady, though if I hadn’t been so particular, I’d had good chances of matrimony.

He was in the Charybdis of passion, and must perforce circle and circle ever nearer round the fatal centre.

You would not bear the dulness of the life; you don’t know what it is; it would eat you away like rust. Those that have lived there all their lives, are used to soaking in the stagnant waters. They labour on from day to day, in the great solitude of steaming fields—never speaking or lifting up their poor, bent, downcast heads. The hard spadework robs their brain of life; the sameness of their toil deadens their imagination; they don’t care to meet to talk over thoughts and speculations, even of the weakest, wildest kind, after their work is done; they go home brutishly tired, poor creatures! caring for nothing but food and rest.

The very falsehood that stained her, was a proof how blindly she loved another—this dark, slight, elegant, handsome man—while he himself was rough, and stern, and strongly made. He lashed himself into an agony of fierce jealousy.

But Mr. Hale resolved that he would not be disturbed by any such nonsensical idea; so he lay awake, determining not to think about it.

No,” said she, “that bubble was very pretty, and very dear to our hearts; but it has burst like many another;

NOT ALL A DREAM. […] Over babbling brooks they took impossible leaps, which seemed to keep them whole days suspended in the air. Time and space were not, though all other things seemed real. Every event was measured by the emotions of the mind, not by its actual existence, for existence it had none.

“It’s no use my trying to say how much I shall like it,” said Margaret, through her tears. “Well, then, prove your gratitude by keeping those fountains of yours dry for the next two days. If you don’t, I shall feel queer myself about the lachrymal ducts, and I don’t like that.” “I won’t cry a drop,” said Margaret, winking her eyes to shake the tears off her eyelashes, and forcing a smile.

“I did not think I had been so old,” said Margaret after a pause of silence; and she turned away sighing. “Yes!” said Mr. Bell. “It is the first changes among familiar things that make such a mystery of time to the young, afterwards we lose the sense of the mysterious. I take changes in all I see as a matter of course. The instability of all human things is familiar to me, to you it is new and oppressive.”

There was change everywhere; slight, yet pervading all. Households were changed by absence, or death, or marriage, or the natural mutations brought by days and months and years, which carry us on imperceptibly from childhood to youth, and thence through manhood to age, whence we drop like fruit, fully ripe, into the quiet mother earth.

“I begin to understand now what heaven must be—and, oh! the grandeur and repose of the words—‘The same yesterday, to-day, and for ever.’ Everlasting! ‘From everlasting to everlasting, Thou art God.’ That beautiful sky above me looks as though it could not change, and yet it will. I am so tired—so tired of being whirled on through all these phases of my life, in which nothing abides by me, no creature, no place; it is like the circle in which the victims of earthly passion eddy continually.

“And I too change perpetually—now this, now that—now disappointment and peevish because all is not exactly as I had pictured it, and now suddenly discovering that the reality is far more beautiful than I had imagined it.

She used to sit long hours upon the beach, gazing intently on the waves as they chafed with perpetual motion against the pebbly shore,—or she looked out upon the more distant heave, and sparkle against the sky, and heard, without being conscious of hearing, the eternal psalm, which went up continually.

But she had learnt, in those solemn hours of thought, that she herself must one day answer for her own life, and what she had done with it; and she tried to settle that most difficult problem for woman, how much was to be utterly merged in obedience to authority, and how much might be set apart for freedom in working.

MEANWHILE at Milton the chimneys smoked, the ceaseless roar and mighty beat and dazzling whirr of machinery struggled and strove perpetually. Senseless and purposeless were wood and iron and steam in their endless labours; but the persistence of their monotonous work was rivalled in tireless endurance by the strong crowds, who, with sense and with purpose, were busy and restless in seeking after—What?

 

About the Author:

Mrs Gaskell was born Elizabeth Stevenson in London in 1810. Her mother Eliza, the niece of the potter Josiah Wedgwood, died when she was a child. Much of her childhood was spent in Cheshire, where she lived with an aunt at Knutsford, a town she would later immortalise as Cranford. In 1832, she married a Unitarian minister, William Gaskell (who had a literary career of his own), and they settled in Manchester. The industrial surroundings offered her inspiration for her novels. The best-known of her other novels are Cranford (1853) and North and South (1855). Gaskell was also a skilled proponent of the ghost story. Her last novel, Wives and Daughters, said by many to be her most mature work, remained unfinished at the time of her death in 1865.

 
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