THE MILL ON FIRE--JEM WILSON TO THE RESCUE.
Learned he was; nor bird, nor insect flew,
But he its leafy home and history knew;
Nor wild-flower decked the rock, nor moss the well,
But he its name and qualities could tell.
ELLIOTT.
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
recognises. I said "in Manchester," but they are scattered all over
the manufacturing districts 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" lie 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. Sir J. E.
Smith, being on a visit to Roscoe, of Liverpool, 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 any one could give him the desired information,
it would be a hand-loom weaver in Manchester, whom he named. Sir J.
E. Smith proceeded by coach 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 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 a case of mysterious instruments
lay beside, one of which Job Legh was using when his grand-daughter
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're 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'm 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
ye 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 shilling," 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 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 afeard 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 under tone; 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 common place, until her singing powers were
called forth; so silent from home, so cheerful and agreeable at home;
and her grandfather so very different to any one 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 grand-child, 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 the
one joins people as often as the other) attracted the two 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.
So Mary and Margaret grew in love one toward the other; and Mary told
many of her feelings in a way she had never done before to any one.
Most of her foibles also were made known to Margaret, but not all.
There was one cherished weakness still concealed from every one. It
concerned a lover, not beloved, but favoured by fancy. A gallant,
handsome young man; but--not beloved. Yet Mary hoped to meet him
every day in her walks, blushed when she heard his name, and tried
to think of him as her future husband, and above all, tried to think
of herself as his future wife. Alas! poor Mary! Bitter woe did thy
weakness work thee.
She had other lovers. One or two would gladly have kept her company,
but she held herself too high, they said. Jem Wilson said nothing,
but loved on and on, ever more fondly; he hoped against hope; he
would not give up, for it seemed like giving up life to give up
thought of Mary. He did not dare to look to any end of all this; the
present, so that he saw her, touched the hem of her garment, was
enough. Surely, in time, such deep love would beget love.
He would not relinquish hope, and yet her coldness of manner was
enough to daunt any man; and it made Jem more despairing than he
would acknowledge for a long time even to himself.
But one evening he came round by Barton's house, a willing messenger
for his father, and opening the door saw Margaret sitting asleep
before the fire. She had come in to speak to Mary; and worn out by a
long working, watching night, she fell asleep in the genial warmth.
An old-fashioned saying about a pair of gloves came into Jem's mind,
and stepping gently up he kissed Margaret with a friendly kiss.
She awoke, and perfectly understanding the thing, she said, "For
shame of yourself, Jem! What would Mary say?"
Lightly said, lightly answered.
"She'd nobbut say, practice makes perfect." And they both laughed.
But the words Margaret had said rankled in Jem's mind. Would Mary
care? Would she care in the very least? They seemed to call for an
answer by night, and by day; and Jem felt that his heart told him
Mary was quite indifferent to any action of his. Still he loved on,
and on, ever more fondly.
Mary's father was well aware of the nature of Jem Wilson's feelings
for his daughter, but he took no notice of them to any one, thinking
Mary full young yet for the cares of married life, and unwilling,
too, to entertain the idea of parting with her at any time, however
distant. But he welcomed Jem at his house, as he would have done his
father's son, whatever were his motives for coming; and now and then
admitted the thought, that Mary might do worse when her time came,
than marry Jem Wilson, a steady workman at a good trade, a good son
to his parents, and a fine manly spirited chap--at least when Mary
was not by: for when she was present he watched her too closely, and
too anxiously, to have much of what John Barton called "spunk" in
him.
It was towards the end of February, in that year, and a bitter black
frost had lasted for many weeks. The keen east wind had long since
swept the streets clean, though on a gusty day the dust would rise
like pounded ice, and make people's faces quite smart with the cold
force with which it blew against them. Houses, sky, people, and every
thing looked as if a gigantic brush had washed them all over with
a dark shade of Indian ink. There was some reason for this grimy
appearance on human beings, whatever there might be for the dun looks
of the landscape; for soft water had become an article not even to
be purchased; and the poor washerwomen might be seen vainly trying
to procure a little by breaking the thick gray ice that coated the
ditches and ponds in the neighbourhood. People prophesied a long
continuance to this already lengthened frost; said the spring would
be very late; no spring fashions required; no summer clothing
purchased for a short uncertain summer. Indeed there was no end to
the evil prophesied during the continuance of that bleak east wind.
Mary hurried home one evening, just as daylight was fading, from Miss
Simmonds', with her shawl held up to her mouth, and her head bent
as if in deprecation of the meeting wind. So she did not perceive
Margaret till, she was close upon her at the very turning into the
court.
"Bless me, Margaret! is that you? Where are you bound to?"
"To nowhere but your own house (that is, if you'll take me in). I've
a job of work to finish to-night; mourning, as must be in time for
the funeral to-morrow; and grandfather has been out moss-hunting, and
will not be home till late."
"Oh, how charming it will be. I'll help you if you're backward. Have
you much to do?"
"Yes, I only got the order yesterday at noon; and there's three girls
beside the mother; and what with trying on and matching the stuff
(for there was not enough in the piece they chose first), I'm above
a bit behindhand. I've the skirts all to make. I kept that work till
candlelight; and the sleeves, to say nothing of little bits to the
bodies; for the missis is very particular, and I could scarce keep
from smiling while they were crying so, really taking on sadly I'm
sure, to hear first one and then t'other clear up to notice the sit
of her gown. They weren't to be misfits I promise you, though they
were in such trouble."
"Well, Margaret, you're right welcome as you know, and I'll sit down
and help you with pleasure, though I was tired enough of sewing
to-night at Miss Simmonds'."
By this time Mary had broken up the raking coal, and lighted her
candle; and Margaret settled herself to her work on one side of the
table, while her friend hurried over her tea at the other. The things
were then lifted _en masse_ to the dresser; and dusting her side of
the table with the apron she always wore at home, Mary took up some
breadths and began to run them together.
"Who's it all for, for if you told me I've forgotten?"
"Why for Mrs. Ogden as keeps the greengrocer's shop in Oxford Road.
Her husband drank himself to death, and though she cried over him and
his ways all the time he was alive, she's fretted sadly for him now
he's dead."
"Has he left her much to go upon?" asked Mary, examining the texture
of the dress. "This is beautifully fine soft bombazine."
"No, I'm much afeared there's but little, and there's several young
children, besides the three Miss Ogdens."
"I should have thought girls like them would ha' made their own
gowns," observed Mary.
"So I dare say they do, many a one, but now they seem all so busy
getting ready for the funeral; for it's to be quite a grand affair,
well-nigh twenty people to breakfast, as one of the little ones told
me; the little thing seemed to like the fuss, and I do believe it
comforted poor Mrs. Ogden to make all the piece o' work. Such a smell
of ham boiling and fowls roasting while I waited in the kitchen; it
seemed more like a wedding nor [7] a funeral. They said she'd spend a
matter o' sixty pound on th' burial."
[Footnote 7: "Nor," generally used in Lancashire for "than."
"They had lever sleep _nor_ be in
laundery."--_Dunbar_.]
"I thought you said she was but badly off," said Mary.
"Ay, I know she's asked for credit at several places, saying her
husband laid hands on every farthing he could get for drink. But th'
undertakers urge her on you see, and tell her this thing's usual,
and that thing's only a common mark of respect, and that every body
has t'other thing, till the poor woman has no will o' her own. I
dare say, too, her heart strikes her (it always does when a person's
gone) for many a word and many a slighting deed to him, who's stiff
and cold; and she thinks to make up matters, as it were, by a grand
funeral, though she and all her children, too, may have to pinch many
a year to pay the expenses, if ever they pay them at all."
"This mourning, too, will cost a pretty penny," said Mary. "I often
wonder why folks wear mourning; it's not pretty or becoming; and it
costs a deal of money just when people can spare it least; and if
what the Bible tells us be true, we ought not to be sorry when a
friend, who's been good, goes to his rest; and as for a bad man,
one's glad enough to get shut [8] on him. I cannot see what good
comes out o' wearing mourning."
[Footnote 8: "Shut," quit.]
"I'll tell you what I think th' fancy was sent for (Old Alice calls
every thing 'sent for,' and I believe she's right). It does do good,
though not as much as it costs, that I do believe, in setting people
(as is cast down by sorrow and feels themselves unable to settle to
any thing but crying) something to do. Why now I told you how they
were grieving; for, perhaps, he was a kind husband and father, in
his thoughtless way, when he wasn't in liquor. But they cheered up
wonderful while I was there, and I asked 'em for more directions than
usual, that they might have something to talk over and fix about; and
I left 'em my fashion-book (though it were two months old) just a
purpose."
"I don't think every one would grieve a that way. Old Alice
wouldn't."
"Old Alice is one in a thousand. I doubt, too, if she would fret
much, however sorry she might be. She would say it were sent, and
fall to trying to find out what good it were to do. Every sorrow in
her mind is sent for good. Did I ever tell you, Mary, what she said
one day when she found me taking on about something?"
"No; do tell me. What were you fretting about, first place?"
"I can't tell you just now; perhaps I may sometime."
"When?"
"Perhaps this very evening, if it rises in my heart; perhaps never.
It's a fear that sometimes I can't abide to think about, and
sometimes I don't like to think on any thing else. Well, I was
fretting about this fear, and Alice comes in for something, and finds
me crying. I would not tell her no more than I would you, Mary; so
she says, 'Well, dear, you must mind this, when you're going to fret
and be low about any thing, "An anxious mind is never a holy mind."'
Oh, Mary, I have so often checked my grumbling sin' [9] she said
that."
[Footnote 9: "Sin'," since. "_Sin_ that his lord was twenty
yere of age." _Prologue to Canterbury Tales._]
The weary sound of stitching was the only sound heard for a little
while, till Mary inquired,
"Do you expect to get paid for this mourning?"
"Why I do not much think I shall. I've thought it over once or twice,
and I mean to bring myself to think I shan't, and to like to do it as
my bit towards comforting them. I don't think they can pay, and yet
they're just the sort of folk to have their minds easier for wearing
mourning. There's only one thing I dislike making black for, it does
so hurt the eyes."
Margaret put down her work with a sigh, and shaded her eyes. Then she
assumed a cheerful tone, and said,
"You'll not have to wait long, Mary, for my secret's on the tip of
my tongue. Mary! do you know I sometimes think I'm growing a little
blind, and then what would become of grandfather and me? Oh, God help
me, Lord help me!"
She fell into an agony of tears, while Mary knelt by her, striving
to soothe and to comfort her; but, like an inexperienced person,
striving rather to deny the correctness of Margaret's fear, than
helping her to meet and overcome the evil.
"No," said Margaret, quietly fixing her tearful eyes on Mary; "I know
I'm not mistaken. I have felt one going some time, long before I ever
thought what it would lead to; and last autumn I went to a doctor;
and he did not mince the matter, but said unless I sat in a darkened
room, with my hands before me, my sight would not last me many years
longer. But how could I do that, Mary? For one thing, grandfather
would have known there was somewhat the matter; and, oh! it will
grieve him sore whenever he's told, so the later the better; and
besides, Mary, we've sometimes little enough to go upon, and what
I earn is a great help. For grandfather takes a day here, and a day
there, for botanising or going after insects, and he'll think little
enough of four or five shillings for a specimen; dear grandfather!
and I'm so loath to think he should be stinted of what gives him
such pleasure. So I went to another doctor to try and get him to say
something different, and he said, 'Oh, it was only weakness,' and
gived me a bottle of lotion; but I've used three bottles (and each of
'em cost two shillings), and my eye is so much worse, not hurting so
much, but I can't see a bit with it. There now, Mary," continued she,
shutting one eye, "now you only look like a great black shadow, with
the edges dancing and sparkling."
"And can you see pretty well with th' other?"
"Yes, pretty near as well as ever. Th' only difference is, that if
I sew a long time together, a bright spot like th' sun comes right
where I'm looking; all the rest is quite clear but just where I want
to see. I've been to both doctors again, and now they're both o' the
same story; and I suppose I'm going dark as fast as may be. Plain
work pays so bad, and mourning has been so plentiful this winter, I
were tempted to take in any black work I could; and now I'm suffering
from it."
"And yet, Margaret, you're going on taking it in; that's what you'd
call foolish in another."
"It is, Mary! and yet what can I do? Folk mun live; and I think I
should go blind any way, and I darn't tell grandfather, else I would
leave it off, but he will so fret."
Margaret rocked herself backward and forward to still her emotion.
"Oh Mary!" she said, "I try to get his face off by heart, and I stare
at him so when he's not looking, and then shut my eyes to see if I
can remember his dear face. There's one thing, Mary, that serves a
bit to comfort me. You'll have heard of old Jacob Butterworth, the
singing weaver? Well, I know'd him a bit, so I went to him, and said
how I wished he'd teach me the right way o' singing; and he says
I've a rare fine voice, and I go once a week, and take a lesson fra'
him. He's been a grand singer in his day. He's led th' chorusses at
the Festivals, and got thanked many a time by London folk; and one
foreign singer, Madame Catalani, turned round and shook him by th'
hand before the Oud Church [10] full o' people. He says I may gain
ever so much money by singing; but I don't know. Any rate it's sad
work, being blind."
[Footnote 10: "Old Church;" now the Cathedral of Manchester.]
She took up her sewing, saying her eyes were rested now, and for some
time they sewed on in silence.
Suddenly there were steps heard in the little paved court; person
after person ran past the curtained window.
"Something's up," said Mary. She went to the door and stopping the
first person she saw, inquired the cause of the commotion.
"Eh, wench! donna ye see the fire-light? Carsons' mill is blazing
away like fun;" and away her informant ran.
"Come, Margaret, on wi' your bonnet, and let's go to see Carsons'
mill; it's afire, and they say a burning mill is such a grand sight.
I never saw one."
"Well, I think it's a fearful sight. Besides I've all this work to
do."
But Mary coaxed in her sweet manner, and with her gentle caresses,
promising to help with the gowns all night long if necessary, nay,
saying she should quite enjoy it.
The truth was, Margaret's secret weighed heavily and painfully on her
mind, and she felt her inability to comfort; besides, she wanted to
change the current of Margaret's thoughts; and in addition to these
unselfish feelings, came the desire she had honestly expressed, of
seeing a factory on fire.
So in two minutes they were ready. At the threshold of the house they
met John Barton, to whom they told their errand.
"Carsons' mill! Ay, there is a mill on fire somewhere, sure enough,
by the light, and it will be a rare blaze, for there's not a drop
o' water to be got. And much Carsons will care, for they're well
insured, and the machines are a' th' oud-fashioned kind. See if they
don't think it a fine thing for themselves. They'll not thank them as
tries to put it out."
He gave way for the impatient girls to pass. Guided by the ruddy
light more than by any exact knowledge of the streets that led to the
mill, they scampered along with bent heads, facing the terrible east
wind as best they might.
Carsons' mill ran lengthways from east to west. Along it went one
of the oldest thoroughfares in Manchester. Indeed all that part of
the town was comparatively old; it was there that the first cotton
mills were built, and the crowded alleys and back streets of the
neighbourhood made a fire there particularly to be dreaded. The
staircase of the mill ascended from the entrance at the western end,
which faced into a wide dingy-looking street, consisting principally
of public-houses, pawn-brokers' shops, rag and bone warehouses,
and dirty provision shops. The other, the east end of the factory,
fronted into a very narrow back street, not twenty feet wide, and
miserably lighted and paved. Right against this end of the factory
were the gable ends of the last house in the principal street--a
house which from its size, its handsome stone facings, and the
attempt at ornament in the front, had probably been once a
gentleman's house; but now the light which streamed from its enlarged
front windows made clear the interior of the splendidly fitted up
room, with its painted walls, its pillared recesses, its gilded and
gorgeous fittings up, its miserable, squalid inmates. It was a gin
palace.
Mary almost wished herself away, so fearful (as Margaret had said)
was the sight when they joined the crowd assembled to witness the
fire. There was a murmur of many voices whenever the roaring of the
flames ceased for an instant. It was easy to perceive the mass were
deeply interested.
"What do they say?" asked Margaret, of a neighbour in the crowd, as
she caught a few words, clear and distinct, from the general murmur.
"There never is anyone in the mill, surely!" exclaimed Mary, as the
sea of upward-turned faces moved with one accord to the eastern end,
looking into Dunham Street, the narrow back lane already mentioned.
The western end of the mill, whither the raging flames were driven
by the wind, was crowned and turreted with triumphant fire. It sent
forth its infernal tongues from every window hole, licking the black
walls with amorous fierceness; it was swayed or fell before the
mighty gale, only to rise higher and yet higher, to ravage and roar
yet more wildly. This part of the roof fell in with an astounding
crash, while the crowd struggled more and more to press into Dunham
Street, for what were magnificent terrible flames, what were falling
timbers or tottering walls, in comparison with human life?
There, where the devouring flames had been repelled by the yet more
powerful wind, but where yet black smoke gushed out from every
aperture, there, at one of the windows on the fourth story, or
rather a doorway where a crane was fixed to hoist up goods, might
occasionally be seen, when the thick gusts of smoke cleared partially
away for an instant, the imploring figures of two men. They had
remained after the rest of the workmen for some reason or other, and,
owing to the wind having driven the fire in the opposite direction,
had perceived no sight or sound of alarm, till long after (if any
thing could be called long in that throng of terrors which passed by
in less time than half an hour) the fire had consumed the old wooden
staircase at the other end of the building. I am not sure whether it
was not the first sound of the rushing crowd below that made them
fully aware of their awful position.
"Where are the engines?" asked Margaret of her neighbour.
"They're coming, no doubt; but, bless you, I think it's bare ten
minutes since we first found out th' fire; it rages so wi' this wind,
and all so dry-like."
"Is no one gone for a ladder?" gasped Mary, as the men were
perceptibly, though not audibly, praying the great multitude below
for help.
"Ay, Wilson's son and another man were off like a shot, well nigh
five minute agone. But th' masons, and slaters, and such like, have
left their work, and locked up the yards."
Wilson! then, was that man whose figure loomed out against the ever
increasing dull hot light behind, whenever the smoke was clear,--was
that George Wilson? Mary sickened with terror. She knew he worked for
Carsons; but at first she had had no idea any lives were in danger;
and since she had become aware of this, the heated air, the roaring
flames, the dizzy light, and the agitated and murmuring crowd, had
bewildered her thoughts.
"Oh! let us go home, Margaret; I cannot stay."
"We cannot go! See how we are wedged in by folks. Poor Mary! ye won't
hanker after a fire again. Hark! listen!"
For through the hushed crowd, pressing round the angle of the mill,
and filling up Dunham Street, might be heard the rattle of the
engine, the heavy, quick tread of loaded horses.
"Thank God!" said Margaret's neighbour, "the engine's come."
Another pause; the plugs were stiff, and water could not be got.
Then there was a pressure through the crowd, the front rows bearing
back on those behind, till the girls were sick with the close ramming
confinement. Then a relaxation, and a breathing freely once more.
"'Twas young Wilson and a fireman wi' a ladder," said Margaret's
neighbour, a tall man who could overlook the crowd.
"Oh, tell us what you see?" begged Mary.
"They've gotten it fixed again the gin-shop wall. One o' the men i'
th' factory has fell back; dazed wi' the smoke, I'll warrant. The
floor's not given way there. God!" said he, bringing his eye lower
down, "th' ladder's too short! It's a' over wi' them, poor chaps. Th'
fire's coming slow and sure to that end, and afore they've either
gotten water, or another ladder, they'll be dead out and out. Lord
have mercy on them!"
A sob, as if of excited women, was heard in the hush of the crowd.
Another pressure like the former! Mary clung to Margaret's arm with
a pinching grasp, and longed to faint, and be insensible, to escape
from the oppressing misery of her sensations. A minute or two.
"They've taken th' ladder into th' Temple of Apollor. Can't press
back with it to the yard it came from."
A mighty shout arose; a sound to wake the dead. Up on high, quivering
in the air, was seen the end of the ladder, protruding out of a
garret window, in the gable end of the gin palace, nearly opposite to
the doorway where the men had been seen. Those in the crowd nearest
the factory, and consequently best able to see up to the garret
window, said that several men were holding one end, and guiding by
their weight its passage to the door-way. The garret window-frame had
been taken out before the crowd below were aware of the attempt.
At length--for it seemed long, measured by beating hearts, though
scarce two minutes had elapsed--the ladder was fixed, an aerial
bridge at a dizzy height, across the narrow street.
Every eye was fixed in unwinking anxiety, and people's very breathing
seemed stilled in suspense. The men were nowhere to be seen, but the
wind appeared, for the moment, higher than ever, and drove back the
invading flames to the other end.
Mary and Margaret could see now; right above them danced the ladder
in the wind. The crowd pressed back from under; firemen's helmets
appeared at the window, holding the ladder firm, when a man, with
quick, steady tread, and unmoving head, passed from one side to
the other. The multitude did not even whisper while he crossed the
perilous bridge, which quivered under him; but when he was across,
safe comparatively in the factory, a cheer arose for an instant,
checked, however, almost immediately, by the uncertainty of the
result, and the desire not in any way to shake the nerves of the
brave fellow who had cast his life on such a die.
"There he is again!" sprung to the lips of many, as they saw him at
the doorway, standing as if for an instant to breathe a mouthful of
the fresher air, before he trusted himself to cross. On his shoulders
he bore an insensible body.
"It's Jem Wilson and his father," whispered Margaret; but Mary knew
it before.
The people were sick with anxious terror. He could no longer balance
himself with his arms; every thing must depend on nerve and eye. They
saw the latter was fixed, by the position of the head, which never
wavered; the ladder shook under the double weight; but still he never
moved his head--he dared not look below. It seemed an age before the
crossing was accomplished. At last the window was gained; the bearer
relieved from his burden; both had disappeared.
Then the multitude might shout; and above the roaring flames, louder
than the blowing of the mighty wind, arose that tremendous burst of
applause at the success of the daring enterprise. Then a shrill cry
was heard, asking
"Is the oud man alive, and likely to do?"
"Ay," answered one of the firemen to the hushed crowd below. "He's
coming round finely, now he's had a dash of cowd water."
He drew back his head; and the eager inquiries, the shouts, the
sea-like murmurs of the moving rolling mass began again to be
heard--but for an instant though. In far less time than even that in
which I have endeavoured briefly to describe the pause of events, the
same bold hero stepped again upon the ladder, with evident purpose to
rescue the man yet remaining in the burning mill.
He went across in the same quick steady manner as before, and the
people below, made less acutely anxious by his previous success, were
talking to each other, shouting out intelligence of the progress of
the fire at the other end of the factory, telling of the endeavours
of the firemen at that part to obtain water, while the closely packed
body of men heaved and rolled from side to side. It was different
from the former silent breathless hush. I do not know if it were from
this cause, or from the recollection of peril past, or that he looked
below, in the breathing moment before returning with the remaining
person (a slight little man) slung across his shoulders, but Jem
Wilson's step was less steady, his tread more uncertain; he seemed to
feel with his foot for the next round of the ladder, to waver, and
finally to stop half-way. By this time the crowd was still enough;
in the awful instant that intervened no one durst speak, even to
encourage. Many turned sick with terror, and shut their eyes to avoid
seeing the catastrophe they dreaded. It came. The brave man swayed
from side to side, at first as slightly as if only balancing himself;
but he was evidently losing nerve, and even sense: it was only
wonderful how the animal instinct of self-preservation did not
overcome every generous feeling, and impel him at once to drop the
helpless, inanimate body he carried; perhaps the same instinct told
him, that the sudden loss of so heavy a weight would of itself be a
great and imminent danger.
"Help me! she's fainted," cried Margaret. But no one heeded. All eyes
were directed upwards. At this point of time a rope, with a running
noose, was dexterously thrown by one of the firemen, after the manner
of a lasso, over the head and round the bodies of the two men. True,
it was with rude and slight adjustment: but, slight as it was, it
served as a steadying guide; it encouraged the sinking heart, the
dizzy head. Once more Jem stepped onwards. He was not hurried by any
jerk or pull. Slowly and gradually the rope was hauled in, slowly and
gradually did he make the four or five paces between him and safety.
The window was gained, and all were saved. The multitude in the
street absolutely danced with triumph, and huzzaed and yelled till
you would have fancied their very throats would crack; and then with
all the fickleness of interest characteristic of a large body of
people, pressed and stumbled, and cursed and swore in the hurry to
get out of Dunham Street, and back to the immediate scene of the
fire, the mighty diapason of whose roaring flames formed an awful
accompaniment to the screams, and yells, and imprecations, of the
struggling crowd.
As they pressed away, Margaret was left, pale and almost sinking
under the weight of Mary's body, which she had preserved in an
upright position by keeping her arms tight round Mary's waist,
dreading, with reason, the trampling of unheeding feet.
Now, however, she gently let her down on the cold clean pavement; and
the change of posture, and the difference in temperature, now that
the people had withdrawn from their close neighbourhood, speedily
restored her to consciousness.
Her first glance was bewildered and uncertain. She had forgotten
where she was. Her cold, hard bed felt strange; the murky glare in
the sky affrighted her. She shut her eyes to think, to recollect.
Her next look was upwards. The fearful bridge had been withdrawn; the
window was unoccupied.
"They are safe," said Margaret.
"All? Are all safe, Margaret?" asked Mary.
"Ask yon fireman, and he'll tell you more about it than I can. But I
know they're all safe."
The fireman hastily corroborated Margaret's words.
"Why did you let Jem Wilson go twice?" asked Margaret.
"Let!--why we could not hinder him. As soon as ever he'd heard his
father speak (which he was na long a doing), Jem were off like a
shot; only saying he knowed better nor us where to find t'other man.
We'd all ha' gone, if he had na been in such a hurry, for no one can
say as Manchester firemen is ever backward when there's danger."
So saying, he ran off; and the two girls, without remark or
discussion, turned homewards. They were overtaken by the elder
Wilson, pale, grimy, and blear-eyed, but apparently as strong and
well as ever. He loitered a minute or two alongside of them, giving
an account of his detention in the mill; he then hastily wished
good-night, saying he must go home and tell his missis he was all
safe and well: but after he had gone a few steps, he turned back,
came on Mary's side of the pavement, and in an earnest whisper, which
Margaret could not avoid hearing, he said,
"Mary, if my boy comes across you to-night, give him a kind word or
two for my sake. Do! bless you, there's a good wench."
Mary hung her head and answered not a word, and in an instant he was
gone.
When they arrived at home, they found John Barton smoking his pipe,
unwilling to question, yet very willing to hear all the details
they could give him. Margaret went over the whole story, and it was
amusing to watch his gradually increasing interest and excitement.
First, the regular puffing abated, then ceased. Then the pipe was
fairly taken out of his mouth, and held suspended. Then he rose, and
at every further point he came a step nearer to the narrator.
When it was ended, he swore (an unusual thing for him) that if Jem
Wilson wanted Mary he should have her to-morrow, if he had not a
penny to keep her.
Margaret laughed, but Mary, who was now recovered from her agitation,
pouted, and looked angry.
The work which they had left was resumed: but with full hearts,
fingers never go very quickly; and I am sorry to say, that owing to
the fire, the two younger Miss Ogdens were in such grief for the loss
of their excellent father, that they were unable to appear before the
little circle of sympathising friends gathered together to comfort
the widow, and see the funeral set off.