In a green valley of Lancaster, contiguous to that district of factories
on which we have already touched, a clear and powerful stream flows
through a broad meadow land. Upon its margin, adorned, rather than
shadowed, by some old elm-trees, for they are too distant to serve
except for ornament, rises a vast deep red brick pile, which though
formal and monotonous in its general character, is not without a
certain beauty of proportion and an artist-like finish in its occasional
masonry. The front, which is of great extent, and covered with many
tiers of small windows, is flanked by two projecting wings in the same
style, which form a large court, completed by a dwarf wall crowned
with a light, and rather elegant railing; in the centre, the principal
entrance, a lofty portal of bold and beautiful design, surmounted by a
statue of Commerce.
This building, not without a degree of dignity, is what is technically,
and not very felicitously, called a mill; always translated by the
French in their accounts of our manufacturing riots, ‘moulin;’ and which
really was the principal factory of Oswald Millbank, the father of that
youth whom, we trust, our readers have not quite forgotten.
At some little distance, and rather withdrawn from the principal stream,
were two other smaller structures of the same style. About a quarter of
a mile further on, appeared a village of not inconsiderable size, and
remarkable from the neatness and even picturesque character of its
architecture, and the gay gardens that surrounded it. On a sunny
knoll in the background rose a church, in the best style of Christian
architecture, and near it was a clerical residence and a school-house
of similar design. The village, too, could boast of another public
building; an Institute where there were a library and a lecture-room;
and a reading-hall, which any one might frequent at certain hours, and
under reasonable regulations.
On the other side of the principal factory, but more remote, about
half-a-mile up the valley, surrounded by beautiful meadows, and built
on an agreeable and well-wooded elevation, was the mansion of
the mill-owner; apparently a commodious and not inconsiderable
dwelling-house, built in what is called a villa style, with a variety
of gardens and conservatories. The atmosphere of this somewhat striking
settlement was not disturbed and polluted by the dark vapour, which,
to the shame of Manchester, still infests that great town, for Mr.
Millbank, who liked nothing so much as an invention, unless it were an
experiment, took care to consume his own smoke.
The sun was declining when Coningsby arrived at Millbank, and the
gratification which he experienced on first beholding it, was not a
little diminished, when, on enquiring at the village, he was informed
that the hour was past for seeing the works. Determined not to
relinquish his purpose without a struggle, he repaired to the principal
mill, and entered the counting-house, which was situated in one of the
wings of the building.
‘Your pleasure, sir?’ said one of three individuals sitting on high
stools behind a high desk.
‘I wish, if possible, to see the works.’
‘Quite impossible, sir;’ and the clerk, withdrawing his glance,
continued his writing. ‘No admission without an order, and no admission
with an order after two o’clock.’
‘I am very unfortunate,’ said Coningsby.
‘Sorry for it, sir. Give me ledger K. X., will you, Mr. Benson?’
‘I think Mr. Millbank would grant me permission,’ said Coningsby.
‘Very likely, sir; to-morrow. Mr. Millbank is there, sir, but very much
engaged.’ He pointed to an inner counting-house, and the glass doors
permitted Coningsby to observe several individuals in close converse.
‘Perhaps his son, Mr. Oswald Millbank, is here?’ inquired Coningsby.
‘Mr. Oswald is in Belgium,’ said the clerk.
‘Would you give a message to Mr. Millbank, and say a friend of his son’s
at Eton is here, and here only for a day, and wishes very much to see
his works?’
‘Can’t possibly disturb Mr. Millbank now, sir; but, if you like to sit
down, you can wait and see him yourself.’
Coningsby was content to sit down, though he grew very impatient at the
end of a quarter of an hour. The ticking of the clock, the scratching
of the pens of the three silent clerks, irritated him. At length, voices
were heard, doors opened, and the clerk said, ‘Mr. Millbank is coming,
sir,’ but nobody came; voices became hushed, doors were shut; again
nothing was heard, save the ticking of the clock and the scratching of
the pen.
At length there was a general stir, and they all did come forth, Mr.
Millbank among them, a well-proportioned, comely man, with a fair face
inclining to ruddiness, a quick, glancing, hazel eye, the whitest teeth,
and short, curly, chestnut hair, here and there slightly tinged with
grey. It was a visage of energy and decision.
He was about to pass through the counting-house with his companions,
with whom his affairs were not concluded, when he observed Coningsby,
who had risen.
‘This gentleman wishes to see me?’ he inquired of his clerk, who bowed
assent.
‘I shall be at your service, sir, the moment I have finished with these
gentlemen.’
‘The gentleman wishes to see the works, sir,’ said the clerk.
‘He can see the works at proper times,’ said Mr. Millbank, somewhat
pettishly; ‘tell him the regulations;’ and he was about to go.
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Coningsby, coming forward, and with an
air of earnestness and grace that arrested the step of the manufacturer.
‘I am aware of the regulations, but would beg to be permitted to
infringe them.’
‘It cannot be, sir,’ said Mr. Millbank, moving.
‘I thought, sir, being here only for a day, and as a friend of your
son--’
Mr. Millbank stopped and said,
‘Oh! a friend of Oswald’s, eh? What, at Eton?’
‘Yes, sir, at Eton; and I had hoped perhaps to have found him here.’
‘I am very much engaged, sir, at this moment,’ said Mr. Millbank; ‘I am
sorry I cannot pay you any personal attention, but my clerk will show
you everything. Mr. Benson, let this gentleman see everything;’ and he
withdrew.
‘Be pleased to write your name here, sir,’ said Mr. Benson, opening
a book, and our friend wrote his name and the date of his visit to
Millbank:
‘HARRY CONINGSBY, Sept. 2, 1836.’
Coningsby beheld in this great factory the last and the most refined
inventions of mechanical genius. The building had been fitted up by a
capitalist as anxious to raise a monument of the skill and power of his
order, as to obtain a return for the great investment.
‘It is the glory of Lancashire!’ exclaimed the enthusiastic Mr. Benson.
The clerk spoke freely of his master, whom he evidently idolised, and
his great achievements, and Coningsby encouraged him. He detailed to
Coningsby the plans which Mr. Millbank had pursued, both for the moral
and physical well-being of his people; how he had built churches,
and schools, and institutes; houses and cottages on a new system of
ventilation; how he had allotted gardens; established singing classes.
‘Here is Mr. Millbank,’ continued the clerk, as he and Coningsby,
quitting the factory, re-entered the court.
Mr. Millbank was approaching the factory, and the moment that he
observed them, he quickened his pace.
‘Mr. Coningsby?’ he said, when he reached them. His countenance was
rather disturbed, and his voice a little trembled, and he looked on our
friend with a glance scrutinising and serious. Coningsby bowed.
‘I am sorry that you should have been received at this place with
so little ceremony, sir,’ said Mr. Millbank; ‘but had your name been
mentioned, you would have found it cherished here.’ He nodded to the
clerk, who disappeared.
Coningsby began to talk about the wonders of the factory, but Mr.
Millbank recurred to other thoughts that were passing in his mind. He
spoke of his son: he expressed a kind reproach that Coningsby should
have thought of visiting this part of the world without giving them
some notice of his intention, that he might have been their guest, that
Oswald might have been there to receive him, that they might have made
arrangements that he should see everything, and in the best manner; in
short, that they might all have shown, however slightly, the deep sense
of their obligations to him.
‘My visit to Manchester, which led to this, was quite accidental,’ said
Coningsby. ‘I am bound for the other division of the county, to pay a
visit to my grandfather, Lord Monmouth; but an irresistible desire came
over me during my journey to view this famous district of industry. It
is some days since I ought to have found myself at Coningsby, and this
is the reason why I am so pressed.’
A cloud passed over the countenance of Millbank as the name of Lord
Monmouth was mentioned, but he said nothing. Turning towards Coningsby,
with an air of kindness:
‘At least,’ said he, ‘let not Oswald hear that you did not taste our
salt. Pray dine with me to-day; there is yet an hour to dinner; and
as you have seen the factory, suppose we stroll together through the
village.’