tragedy cast a shadow over the house at Ardwick, and they led very
retired lives. Then harp and piano were heard once more, visitors were
admitted, and the mansion that Kezia and Cicily united in declaring
“worse than a nunnery,” grew bright and cheerful, though the widow’s
weeds were not cast aside. (Kitty had been laid under the mould whilst
Augusta was yet a bride).
Almost two years had elapsed. Suitors in plenty had been attracted by
the wealthy young widow’s many charms, her old admirer, Mr. Marsland,
among the rest, yet Mrs. Aspinall showed no disposition to change her
state; and the one man who had loved her longest and best was not of
the number at her feet. He scorned to importune now in his widowerhood
for the love withheld when they were both young. He counted age by
events, not years.
It was for Augusta _now_, she who had been taught by her very husband’s
taunts and sneers to think upon the true man she had set aside, to
think of him daily and hourly with rapidly strengthening attachment,
and think of him as one who had dropped her from the book of his
life for ever. Her whole thought was how could she become worthy the
love of such a man; yet every day and hour the fear pressed heavily
upon her that the quiet virtues of Ellen had driven her out of his
heart altogether. Of all her guests he was the one most welcome, most
desired, but he was the one she received with most reserve, the one
whose stay was briefest, whose visits fewest. “Business” appeared to
have more imperative claims on him than when he had his way to make;
and Augusta, whose sables had long since been cast aside, seemed to
wear them on her heart. The vivacity which had never wholly forsaken
her in all her trials, forsook her now—she grew listless and melancholy.
Meanwhile Captain Richard Chadwick had come home on half-pay to
brighten up the somewhat dull house in George Street, and comfort the
old folk—to say nothing of astonishing Sim and Nelly, with his long
yarns and adventures. Sim always spent part of his vacations with
Mr. Clegg, who well paid back to Bess all her early care of him. He
indulged the boy’s craving for books and pencils, first implanted by
himself and in which he saw the dawn of his future career. That which
in his own case had been repressed and subordinated to trade and
money-making, should not be so checked in that boy; and old Simon, to
whom the lad appeared a marvel, never ceased to pride himself on his
forecast in pronouncing Jabez a “Godsend.”
It was during the second summer of her widowhood, when Augusta
accompanied her mother (not a whit the less stately than of yore)
to Carr Cottage for the first time since her attempted elopement,
that the feeling of all she had cast from her, and all that she had
brought upon herself, all that might have been, and now never would
be, pressed heaviest upon her. She had gone thoughtfully over the old
ground, had trod the nettle-grown Lovers’ Walk, and sat down on the
open window-ledge at the stair-foot as once before, and wept tears of
penitent bitterness. How long she sat there she could not tell; she
was weeping for a life lost and a love rejected. As once before, the
voice of Jabez (whom she imagined eighteen miles away) broke upon her
solitude, but now it thrilled through her.
There was a light touch upon her shoulder.
“Mrs. Aspinall?”
She shuddered.
“Oh! don’t call me by that name—_here!_” broke from her, imploringly.
“What name shall I call you by?” half wonderingly; then in a lower
semi-smothered tone of entreaty—“Augusta?”
Lower sank her head in her hands; but there was no answer save her
sobs. It was thus he had addressed her there once before.
“Augusta!”—and this time the hand on her shoulder shook—“Augusta—dear
Augusta, once on this very spot I found you weeping thus, and I begged
to be allowed to share your grief. I told you I would give my life to
serve you—what I said then I repeat now—I _would_ give my life to serve
you, and you _know_ it!” He gently drew one hand from her agitated
face. “Tell me your trouble, as you would tell it to a brother!”
A brother—ah, that was it! She drew her hand back, but she did not
rise, and her sobs seemed to choke her.
Again he took her hand, and his other arm went round her soothingly,
protectingly. “Oh, Augusta, this is inexpressibly painful to me. I love
you, as never man loved woman. Can you not tell me what troubles you?”
and the earnest tenderness of his voice made strange music in her ears.
He had seated himself on the narrow window-ledge beside her, and now he
thought she was about to punish his presumption and quit him haughtily
as before.
But no! She only slid from his arm to his very feet, and cried, with
still covered face—
“Oh, Jabez—_dear_ Jabez, forgive me all I made you suffer here; for oh!
I have repented bitterly.”
He was stunned, bewildered. His passionate declaration of love was made
as a claim to her confidence, not to her affection; and now—“_dear_
Jabez!” Did he hear aright? For an instant he was silent from very
incapacity to speak. Her bent head touched his knees.
Slowly, reverently, as if she had been a saint, with every nerve of his
strong frame trembling with emotion, he raised her from the ground;
but no arm went round her now. He held both her hands in his, and
looked steadfastly down upon her; but no answer made he to her plea for
pardon. Constraint in voice and words was apparent and painful, but
emotion grew too strong for control.
“Augusta, what is the meaning of this? For God’s sake do not mislead
me! I seem on the threshold of heaven or madness. Is it possible that
I, plain Jabez Clegg, can be ‘dear’ to you?”
“Dearer than life!”
Clear, full, and earnest came the words from her soul,
clear and truthful were the eyes that now sought his.
“Thank God!”
He held her in his arms with a straining clasp, which told how long
they had quivered to embrace her so. His eyes lit up with an intensity
of love she knew not he could feel, and never had his lips met woman’s
in such fond kisses as he pressed on hers.
The concentrated love of years seemed gathered to a focus then. “Life
of my life!” he called her, and she knew and felt it was so.
If the shade of the departed Ellen could have looked upon them there,
remembering how she had rushed to his embrace in that very spot, and
how different had been the kiss imprinted on her wifely brow, would she
have reproached him? I wis not.
Is it needful to add that, before the summer waned, the Manchester
Man, rapidly rising into public note and favour, entered into another
partnership; or that Jabez Clegg, in right of Augusta his wife, took
possession of the mansion at Ardwick, to the satisfaction of Mrs.
Ashton, who said, “Better late than never!” Or to tell how the trade of
Ashton, Chadwick, Clegg, and Co. continued to extend? Or that Travis
remained Co. to the end of the chapter—the children’s Co. never taking
a wife unto himself?
FOOTNOTES:
[1] See Appendix.
[2] Prior to the close of the Fourteenth Century, Manchester was
written Mamecester.
[3] Cradle.
[4] A sort of close pinafore.
[5] A short loose jacket.
[6] Ugliest.
[7] Inquired.
[8] See Appendix B.
[9] See Appendix B.
[10] Bleacher.
[11] Properly.
[12] 3 Chron. iv. 9, 10.
[13] Leaping-pole.
[14] Brooks.
[15] Heaps—impediments.
[16] See Appendix C.
[17] See Appendix.
[18] See Appendix.
[19] See Appendix.
[20] See Appendix.
[21] See Appendix.
THE END.
APPENDIX.
In the foregoing story of the “Manchester Man,” I have in a great
measure dealt with history, recorded and unrecorded, with absolute
people, events, and places.
I have not thought it advisable to break the narrative with cumbrous
foot-notes calculated to disturb the general reader; but I consider an
elucidating Appendix due alike to myself and all those who, in perusing
a work of this kind, care to discriminate fact from fiction.
Little of the Manchester I have depicted remains intact, a whirlwind
of improvement (!) has swept over the town, but old inhabitants will,
I think, recognise the faithfulness of my descriptions, as they will
remember many of the persons who come and go incidentally throughout.
CHAP. I.—After writing this chapter, I learned that a cradled
infant was washed down the Irwell from the Broughton, not the Smedley
and _Irk_ side, in the flood of 1837. I was familiar with the incident
I relate when I was quite a child myself, and I am now fifty-three.
The two cases are therefore distinct, yet equally facts. In 1771,
during the floods which swept away Tyne Bridge, Newcastle, a vessel
took up at sea a cradle in which was a child alive and well.
CHAP. III. (B).—The Rev. Joshua Brookes comes into my pages
naturally—no story of Manchester life at the commencement of this
century would be complete without him. I have endeavoured to do justice
to a little-understood man. Many of his eccentricities are on record.
At my own baptism and my mother’s churching, occurred the scene which
I have endeavoured to reproduce; that delicate lady pushed and pulled
about was a stranger to my mother and sponsors. A characteristic
anecdote, which I have not met with in print, may not be out of of
place here.
A printer, of republican tendencies, named Cowdroy, took his son
to the font, and on the child’s name being required, answered
“Citizen!”—“Citizen?” growled Joshua, “that’s no name. I shall not give
the child a name like that!” “I’ve a _right_ to call my child what name
I please, and I dare you to baptise him otherwise,” boldly asserted
Mr. Cowdroy. “Oh, you may call him Beelzebub if you like!” testily
responded the chaplain, and Citizen the boy was accordingly baptized:
and the large signboard of C. Cowdroy, Printer, overlooked the Old
Churchyard long after Joshua Brookes was laid low in dust and ashes.
His odd friendship with old Mrs. Clowes is matter of fact. Similar
scenes to those I have described took place at funerals and weddings
when he officiated; and his last contest with the Grammar School boys
may be found in Harland’s “Collectanea.”
CHAPS. IV. and V. (C)—The little girl who made her way into
the presence of Prince William, sat on his knee and amused him and his
suite with details of toilettes in progress at home, to be rewarded
with a plain shilling, the required information, and a bow as the
_cortége_ passed down Oldham Street, was Amelia Daniels, in after years
my own mother. The incident of the falling platform on Sale Moor is
noted in history.
CHAP. VII.—Mrs. Clowes was as eccentric in her way as Parson
Brookes; but beyond her dealings with the chaplain and school-boys,
her journey to Liverpool, her Sabbath dinners to the poor, and her
attire, her place in this story belongs to the region of fiction. Her
shop passed to a relative, but the date of her death is unknown to the
writer.
CHAPS. XVIII. and XIX.—Peterloo is rapidly passing out of
remembrance, and those who were not themselves eye-witnesses may accuse
me of exaggeration. To such I can only say that I have had my details
from actors or spectators. The house I have assigned to Mr. Chadwick in
Oldham Street, was occupied by my maternal grandfather, John Daniels,
and he was the paralysed old gentleman in charge of his servant Molly,
who, but for the timely interposition of a young man named Tomlinson,
one of his own weavers, and Mr. Mabbott, would have been cut down. His
daughters, anxious for his safety, looking out for his return home
from the warehouse, saw from their open window more than I describe;
for one thing—a woman passed with her breast cut off; the two vaunting
officers who reared their steeds against the house with threats, were
a cousin and a _fiancé_; the man who was shot down in Ancoats Lane,
whilst bidding _his_ girls to retire, was, I believe, my grandfather’s
tenant. The female sabred on the hustings was a Mrs. Fildes when I knew
her. Her son, Henry Hunt Fildes, was in my father’s employ; and either
that same son, or a grandson, is now an artist not altogether unknown
to the world. From Miss Hindley I had nine years ago the story of her
father’s fall. The author of the satire on the yeomanry was my paternal
grandfather, James Varley, of Pendleton.
For the purpose of my narrative, I have antedated an occurrence in the
Theatre Royal. I was myself the little miss who cried out in alarm
that Edmund Kean was “killing Mrs. McGibbon,” but it was a few years
later. Mrs. Broadbent’s school occupied the next box to our party
on that occasion. I need scarcely add that I have drawn that lady,
her school-room, &c., from information and observation. The broken
collar-bone is not an invention.
CHAPS. XXIX. and XXX.—The skating incident on Ardwick Green
Pond was an episode in the early life of the same John Daniels
before-named. Blindness followed his long immersion, and when all
remedies known in the last century failed, he regained his sight by
swimming across the Mersey, as related. I owe it to his memory to say
that he must not otherwise be confounded with the man whom I have
called Laurence Aspinall.
CHAP. XXXII.—The Act for widening Market Street was obtained
in 1821; but I find that the ancient houses did not begin to “crumble
into dust” until the following year.
CHAP. XXXVIII.—“I’ll please my eye if I plague my heart,” with
its answer and consequences, formed the original base of this story;
the wilful girl and her handsome savage of a husband being in _all_
respects but their names realities. They were both in their graves
before the period I assign to their union. The old Hall which witnessed
so many outrages and such sad catastrophes, may be found in the map of
Hardwicke’s History of Preston under its true name.
CHAP. XLVI.—For much information respecting the fatal launch
of the _Emma_, I am indebted to the courtesy of the Secretary of the
Bridgewater Navigation Company, and also to Mrs. Abel Heywood, who has
just presented to Manchester a statue of Oliver Cromwell, in the name
of her former husband, Mr. Goadsby, who had been Mayor of the city.
Mrs. Heywood was originally the Miss Grimes who christened the luckless
flat.
I cannot close this Appendix without acknowledging much kind assistance
from literary and and antiquarian friends in my researches. Of these
the late John Harland, Esq., antiquary and historian, the late Thomas
Jones, Esq., librarian of Chetham Hospital, and the Rev. J. Finch
Smith, M.A., R.D., must be placed foremost.
ISABELLA BANKS.
_London_, January, 1876.
APPENDIX No. II.
Since the publication of the last edition of “The Manchester Man,”
the following letter has appeared in the _Sheffield Daily Telegraph_,
April 5th, 1879. It is here reproduced in the hope that for some of
my readers it may have interest, since it adds a new feature to my
portrait of Madame Broadbent:—
_To the editor of the “Sheffield Daily Telegraph.”_
“Sir,—In your advertisement of the new tale by Mrs. Linnæus Banks,
about to appear in the pages of your journal, you quote some critiques
on ‘The Manchester Man,’ by the same author. One of the characters is
true to the very life. Hers was the first school I ever attended, and
I have a vivid recollection of the venerable, stately, little dame—a
rigid martinet, exacting the utmost deference from all who approached
her, and invariably addressed as ‘Madam’ Broadbent. I have often since
recalled my feelings of delight when for the first time I went with
her and my schoolfellows in great state to the theatre, as described
in the novel. She educated the daughters of most of the leading
Manchester merchants of that day, the wife of a recent mayor being one
of them.
“Madame Broadbent did not profess the innumerable subjects now
required, but all that was attempted was well taught. She inculcated
habits of the strictest order, neatness, and regularity. The
needlework was very beautiful, and would excite astonishment in these
sewing machine days. The punishment for talking was very ludicrous.
The delinquent was required to sit with her face to the wall—a hideous
contrivance of red cloth called the ‘red tongue’ hanging down her
back; it was considered a great disgrace. She succeeded in teaching a
deaf and dumb girl to speak—a feat of which she was justly proud.
“If you think the above remarks on a character well known in
Manchester during the early part of the present century are of
interest, they are at your service.”
C. B.
“Rotherham, March 30th, 1879.”
I regret that at the time this letter—of so much interest to
me—appeared I was too ill to communicate with the writer through
the medium of the newspaper, and so the opportunity for thanks or
correspondence was lost.
It is also possible that some of those who have followed the Rev.
Joshua Brookes through this narrative may be amused by the following
category of the Books in his library as advertised for sale after his
decease[,] it not only affording some insight into the inner self of
the man, but being characteristic of the advertising of the period:
“Library of the late Rev. Joshua Brookes, consisting of nearly six
thousand volumes.
“To be Sold by Auction by Mr. Thomas Dodd, at his Auction Repertory,
No. 28. King-street, Manchester, on Monday, May 13th, 1822, and nine
following days, Saturday and Sunday excepted. To commence precisely at
half-past ten in the forenoon and at three in the afternoon of each
day.
“The interesting Collection of Books is replete in the most valuable
works in Divinity and Ecclesiastical History, Classics, Lives,
Memoirs, History and Important Events, Voyages, Travels, Tours,
Poetry, Education, Bibliography, Magazines, Reviews, Tracts, and
a profusion of Miscellaneous Facetia of the most enlivening and
entertaining description, abounding in Prophetic Admonitions,
Solid Remarks, Comfortable Treatises, Learned Compendiums, Solid
Discourses, Pious Devotions, Moral Emblems, Profound Researches,
Happy Thoughts, Gospel Treasures, Choice Gleanings, Unerring Guides,
Divine Parables, Pleasant Reflections, Poetical Blossoms, Flowers of
Literature, Wonderful Predictions, Notable Discoveries, Desirable
Acquisitions, Remarkable Adventures, Profitable Pursuits, Diverting
Anecdotes, Lively Sallies, Singular Occurrences, Chronological
Details, Curious Paradoxes, Astonishing Conjurations, Strange Bubbles,
Elegant Epistles, Select Letters, Acute Criticisms, Charming Themes,
Delightful Novels, Old Romances, Comical Works, Droll Transactions,
Exquisite Epigrams, Smart Repartees, Fairy Tales, Facetious Puns,
Humourous Stories, Merry Lucubrations, Love Stratagems, Ingenious
Enigmas, Revealed Mysteries. Useful Hints, Magical Tricks, Whimsical
Customs, Odd Freaks, Queer Jokes, Flim Flams, Entertaining
Recreations, Experimental Philosophy, Classical Odes, Delphic
Oracles, Eloquent Orations, Keen Satires, Striking Incidents Happy
Intelligence, Tea Table Chat; and, lastly, Wine and Oil for Drooping
Souls.
“The Books may be viewed on Thursday, May 9th. and previous to the
Days of Sale, when Catalogues maybe had at one shilling each.”
It is only honest to add that I am indebted to a correspondent of the
_Manchester City News_ “Notes and Queries” for the above.
I. B.
_London_, April, 1881.
APPENDIX No. III.
When in Manchester last Autumn, at the house of a friend at Heaton
Moor, I was introduced to a lady whose father had occupied premises
as a tea-merchant at the New Cross end of Oldham Street, at the time
of the Peterloo disturbance, and from her obtained the following
particulars, which I have her sanction to put on record, and give in
her own words:—
“On that memorable 16th of August, my father was from home, my mother
ill in bed, when the household were startled by the entrance of
soldiers with drawn swords, or sabres, which they swept under sofas
or any place where fugitives might hide; the men were drunk. One
little girl ran into the sick room saying the soldiers were murdering
her sisters and brothers (the eldest of whom was a pupil of ‘Madame
Broadbent’.) The mob outside unpaved Oldham Street in an incredibly
short time to provide themselves with missiles wherewith to pelt their
pursuers. The blinds were drawn down, and all the children kept from
the windows lest any stones should be sent that way. The soldiers did
not go upstairs. Four volleys were fired at New Cross one down each
road.” And I may add that no one in Mr. W—— ’s house was sabred. What
the alarm was to the young mother (a second wife, the mother of my
informant), then in bed with her first baby, there is no telling. The
fright to the children of the first marriage was ineffaceable. The
eldest girl had seen the horrors in the street.
June, 1882. I. B.
[Illustration: ABEL HEYWOOD & SON MANCHESTER]