Mary Barton. Элизабет Гаскелл

as if a prayer from her very heart for all who were in distress, in the grand supplication, ‘Lord, remember David.’ Mary held her breath, unwilling to lose a note, it was so clear, so perfect, so imploring. A far more correct musician than Mary might have paused with equal admiration of the really scientific knowledge with which the poor depressed-looking young needlewoman used her superb and flexile voice. Deborah Travers herself (once an Oldham factory girl, and afterwards the darling of fashionable crowds as Mrs Knyvett) might have owned a sister in her art.

      She stopped; and with tears of holy sympathy in her eyes, Alice thanked the songstress, who resumed her calm, demure manner, much to Mary’s wonder, for she looked at her unweariedly, as if surprised that the hidden power should not be perceived in the outward appearance.

      When Alice’s little speech of thanks was over, there was quiet enough to hear a fine, though rather quavering, male voice, going over again one or two strains of Margaret’s song.

      ‘That’s grandfather!’ exclaimed she. ‘I must be going, for he said he should not be at home till past nine.’

      ‘Well, I’ll not say nay, for I have to be up by four for a very heavy wash at Mrs Simpson’s; but I shall be terrible glad to see you again at any time, lasses; and I hope you’ll take to one another.’

      As the girls ran up the cellar steps together, Margaret said: ‘Just step in, and see grandfather, I should like him to see you.’

      And Mary consented.

* ‘Liefer’, rather. A.S. leof, dear. ‘There n’is no thing, sauf bred, that me were lever.’ – CHAUCER, Monk’s Tale.

* ‘Come to me, Tyrrel, soon, at after supper.’ – SHAKESPEARE, Richard III.

* ‘Frabbit’, peevish.

* ‘Clem’, to starve with hunger. ‘Hard is the choice, when the valiant must eat their arms or clem.’ – BEN JONSON.

* To ‘pick ower’ means to throw the shuttle in hand-loom weaving.

CHAPTER 5

       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’ 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 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 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 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