There is a class of men in Manchester, unknown even to many of the
inhabitants, and whose existence will probably be doubted by many, who
yet may claim kindred with all the noble names that science recognizes. I
said in “Manchester,” but they are scattered all over the manufacturing
district of Lancashire. In the neighbourhood of Oldham there are weavers,
common hand-loom weavers, who throw the shuttle with unceasing sound,
though Newton’s _Principia_ lies open on the loom, to be snatched at in
work hours, but revelled over in meal times, or at night. Mathematical
problems are received with interest, and studied with absorbing attention
by many a broad-spoken, common-looking factory-hand. It is perhaps less
astonishing that the more popularly interesting branches of natural
history have their warm and devoted followers among this class. There
are botanists among them, equally familiar with either the Linnæan or
the Natural system, who know the name and habitat of every plant within
a day’s walk from their dwellings; who steal the holiday of a day or two
when any particular plant should be in flower, and tying up their simple
food in their pocket-handkerchiefs, set off with single purpose to fetch
home the humble-looking weed. There are entomologists, who may be seen
with a rude-looking net, ready to catch any winged insect, or a kind
of dredge, with which they rake the green and slimy pools; practical,
shrewd, hard-working men, who pore over every new specimen with real
scientific delight. Nor is it the common and more obvious divisions of
Entomology and Botany that alone attract these earnest seekers after
knowledge. Perhaps it may be owing to the great annual town-holiday
of Whitsun-week so often falling in May or June, that the two great,
beautiful families of Ephemeridæ and Phryganidæ have been so much and so
closely studied by Manchester workmen, while they have in a great measure
escaped general observation. If you will refer to the preface to Sir
J. E. Smith’s Life (I have it not by me, or I would copy you the exact
passage), you will find that he names a little circumstance corroborative
of what I have said. Being on a visit to Roscoe, of Liverpool, he made
some inquiries from him as to the habitat of a very rare plant, said to
be found in certain places in Lancashire. Mr. Roscoe knew nothing of the
plant; but stated that if anyone could give him the desired information,
it would be a hand-loom weaver in Manchester, whom he named. Sir J. E.
Smith proceeded by boat to Manchester, and on arriving at that town he
inquired of the porter who was carrying his luggage if he could direct
him to So-and-So.
“Oh, yes,” replied the man. “He does a bit in my way”; and on further
investigation it turned out that both the porter and his friend the
weaver were both skilful botanists, and able to give Sir J. E. Smith the
very information which he wanted.
Such are the tastes and pursuits of some of the thoughtful,
little-understood working-men of Manchester.
And Margaret’s grandfather was one of these. He was a little,
wiry-looking old man, who moved with a jerking motion, as if his limbs
were worked by a string, like a child’s toy, with dun-coloured hair
lying thin and soft at the back and sides of his head; his forehead
was so large it seemed to overbalance the rest of his face, which had,
indeed, lost its natural contour by the absence of all the teeth. The
eyes absolutely gleamed with intelligence; so keen, so observant, you
felt as if they were almost wizard-like. Indeed, the whole room looked
not unlike a wizard’s dwelling. Instead of pictures were hung rude wooden
frames of impaled insects; the little table was covered with cabalistic
books; and beside them lay a case of mysterious instruments, one of which
Job Legh was using when his granddaughter entered.
On her appearance he pushed his spectacles up so as to rest midway on his
forehead, and gave Mary a short, kind welcome. But Margaret he caressed
as a mother caresses her first-born; stroking her with tenderness, and
almost altering his voice as he spoke to her.
Mary looked round on the odd, strange things she had never seen at home,
and which seemed to her to have a very uncanny look.
“Is your grandfather a fortune-teller?” whispered she to her new friend.
“No,” replied Margaret in the same voice; “but you are not the first as
has taken him for such. He is only fond of such things as most folks know
nothing about.”
“And do you know aught about them too?”
“I know a bit about some of the things grandfather is fond on; just
because he’s fond on ’em, I tried to learn about them.”
“What things are these?” said Mary, struck with the weird-looking
creatures that sprawled around the room in their roughly-made glass cases.
But she was not prepared for the technical names which Job Legh pattered
down on her ear, on which they fell like hail on a skylight; and the
strange language only bewildered her more than ever. Margaret saw the
state of the case, and came to the rescue.
“Look, Mary, at this horrid scorpion. He gave me such a fright: I am all
of a twitter yet when I think of it. Grandfather went to Liverpool one
Whitsun-week to go strolling about the docks and pick up what he could
from the sailors, who often bring some queer thing or another from the
hot countries they go to; and so he sees a chap with a bottle in his
hand, like a druggist’s physic-bottle; and says grandfather, ‘What have
ye gotten there?’ So the sailor holds it up, and grandfather knew it was
a rare kind o’ scorpion, not common even in the East Indies where the
man came from; and says he, ‘How did you catch this fine fellow, for he
wouldn’t be taken for nothing, I’m thinking?’ And the man said as how
when they were unloading the ship he’d found him lying behind a bag of
rice, and he thought the cold had killed him, for he was not squashed
nor injured a bit. He did not like to part with any of the spirit out
of his grog to put the scorpion in, but slipped him into the bottle,
knowing there were folks enow who would give him something for him. So
grandfather gives him a shilling.”
“Two shillings,” interrupted Job Legh; “and a good bargain it was.”
“Well, grandfather came home as proud as Punch, and pulled the bottle
out of his pocket. But, you see, th’ scorpion were doubled up, and
grandfather thought I couldn’t fairly see how big he was. So he shakes
him out right before the fire; and a good warm one it was, for I was
ironing, I remember. I left off ironing, and stooped down over him, to
look at him better, and grandfather got a book, and began to read how
this very kind were the most poisonous and vicious species, how their
bite were often fatal, and then went on to read how people who were
bitten got swelled, and screamed with pain. I was listening hard, but as
it fell out, I never took my eyes off the creature, though I could not
ha’ told I was watching it. Suddenly it seemed to give a jerk, and before
I could speak it gave another, and in a minute it was as wild as it could
be, running at me just like a mad dog.”
“What did you do?” asked Mary.
“Me! why, I jumped first on a chair, and then on all the things I’d been
ironing on the dresser, and I screamed for grandfather to come up by me,
but he did not hearken to me.”
“Why, if I’d come up by thee, who’d ha’ caught the creature, I should
like to know?”
“Well, I begged grandfather to crush it, and I had the iron right over
it once, ready to drop, but grandfather begged me not to hurt it in that
way. So I couldn’t think what he’d have, for he hopped round the room as
if he were sore afraid, for all he begged me not to injure it. At last he
goes to th’ kettle, and lifts up the lid, and peeps in. ‘What on earth is
he doing that for?’ thinks I; ‘he’ll never drink his tea with a scorpion
running free and easy about the room!’ Then he takes the tongs, and he
settles his spectacles on his nose, and in a minute he had lifted the
creature up by th’ leg, and dropped him into the boiling water.”
“And did that kill him?” said Mary.
“Ay, sure enough; he boiled for longer time than grandfather liked,
though. But I was so afeared of his coming round again, I ran to the
public-house for some gin, and grandfather filled the bottle, and then
we poured off the water, and picked him out of the kettle, and dropped
him into the bottle, and he were there above a twelvemonth.”
“What brought him to life at first?” asked Mary.
“Why, you see, he were never really dead, only torpid—that is, dead
asleep with the cold, and our good fire brought him round.”
“I’m glad father does not care for such things,” said Mary.
“Are you? Well, I’m often downright glad grandfather is so fond of his
books, and his creatures, and his plants. It does my heart good to see
him so happy, sorting them all at home, and so ready to go in search
of more, whenever he’s a spare day. Look at him now! he’s gone back to
his books, and he’ll be as happy as a king, working away till I make
him go to bed. It keeps him silent, to be sure; but so long as I see
him earnest, and pleased, and eager, what does that matter? Then, when
he has his talking bouts, you can’t think how much he has to say. Dear
grandfather! you don’t know how happy we are!”
Mary wondered if the dear grandfather heard all this, for Margaret did
not speak in an undertone; but no! he was far too deep and eager in
solving a problem. He did not even notice Mary’s leave-taking, and she
went home with the feeling that she had that night made the acquaintance
of two of the strangest people she ever saw in her life. Margaret so
quiet, so commonplace, until her singing powers were called forth; so
silent from home, so cheerful and agreeable at home; and her grandfather
so very different to anyone Mary had ever seen. Margaret had said he was
not a fortune-teller, but she did not know whether to believe her.
To resolve her doubts, she told the history of the evening to her
father, who was interested by her account, and curious to see and judge
for himself. Opportunities are not often wanting where inclination goes
before, and ere the end of that winter Mary looked upon Margaret almost
as an old friend. The latter would bring her work when Mary was likely to
be at home in the evenings, and sit with her; and Job Legh would put a
book and his pipe in his pocket, and just step round the corner to fetch
his grandchild, ready for a talk if he found Barton in; ready to pull out
pipe and book if the girls wanted him to wait, and John was still at his
club. In short, ready to do whatever would give pleasure to his darling
Margaret.
I do not know what points of resemblance or dissimilitude (for this joins
people as often as that) attracted the girls to each other. Margaret had
the great charm of possessing good strong common sense, and do you not
perceive how involuntarily this is valued? It is so pleasant to have a
friend who possesses the power of setting a difficult question in a clear
light; whose judgment can tell what is best to be done; and who is so
convinced of what is “wisest, best,” that in consideration of the end,
all difficulties in the way diminish. People admire talent, and talk
about their admiration. But they value common sense without talking about
it, and often without knowing it.
The Press-gang in Yorkshire during the latter part of the Eighteenth
Century