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Mary Barton: A Tale of Manchester Life is the first novel by English author Elizabeth Gaskell, published in 1848. The story is set in the English city of Manchester between 1839 and 1842, and deals with the difficulties faced by the Victorian working class.

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comfort.

Suddenly she burst forth with all the power of her magnificent voice,
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 needle-woman 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've 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.




CHAPTER V.

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
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