Chapter Twenty Three.
“Ould Crow,” the Knife-Grinder.
“Knives to grind!—scissors to grind!—tools to grind!—umbrels to mend!”
These words were being uttered in a prolonged nasal tone by an old grey-haired man of a rather comical cast of countenance in one of the streets in the outskirts of the town of Bolton. It was about a week after the sad death of Frank Oldfield that we come upon him. Certainly this approach to the town could not be said to be prepossessing. The houses, straggling up the side of a hill, were low and sombre, being built of a greyish stone, which gave them a dull and haggard appearance. Stone was everywhere, giving a cold, comfortless look to the dwellings. Stone-paved roads, stone curbs, stone pathways—except here and there, where coal-dust and clay formed a hard and solid footway, occasionally hollowed out by exceptional wear into puddles which looked like gigantic inkstands. High stone slabs also, standing upright, and clamped together by huge iron bolts, served instead of palings and hedges, and inflicted a melancholy, prison-like look on the whole neighbourhood.
It was up this street that the old knife-grinder was slowly propelling his apparatus, which was fitted to two large light wheels. A very neat and comprehensive apparatus it was. There was the well-poised grindstone, with its fly-wheel attached; a very bright oil-can, and pipe for dropping water on to the stone; various little nooks and compartments for holding tools, rivets, wire, etcetera. Everything was in beautiful order; while a brass plate, on which was engraved the owner’s name, blazed like gold when there was any sunshine to fall upon it. At present the day was drizzling and chilly, while the huge volumes of smoke from a whole forest of factory chimneys tended to impart a deeper shade of dismalness to the dispiriting landscape. The old man himself was plainly a character. No part of his dress seemed as if it could ever have been new, and yet all was in such keeping and harmony that every article in it appeared to have faded to a like degree of decay by a common understanding. Not that the component parts of this dress were such as could well have been contemporaries on their being first launched into the world, for the whole of the old man’s personal outward clothing might almost have been mapped off into divisions—each compartment representing a different era, as the zones on a terrestrial globe enclose differing races of plants and animals. Thus, his feet were shod with stout leather shoes, moderately clogged, and fastened, not by the customary clasps, but by an enormous pair of shoe-buckles of a century old at least. His lower limbs were enclosed in leathern garments, which fastened below the knee, leaving visible his grey worsted stockings. An immense waistcoat, the pattern of which was constantly being interrupted by the discordant figuring of a large variety of patches—inserted upside down, or sideways, or crossways, as best suited—hung nearly to his knees; and over this he wore a coat, the age and precise cut of which it would have puzzled the most learned in such things to decide upon. It probably had been two coats once, and possibly three may have contributed to its formation. It was clearly put together for use and not for ornament—as was testified by its extreme length, except in the sleeves, and by the patches of various colours, which stood out upon the back and skirts in startling contrast to the now almost colourless material of the originals. On his head the old man wore a sort of conical cap of felt, which looked as though it had done service more than once on the head of some modern representative of Guy Fawkes of infamous memory. And yet there was nothing beggarly about the appearance of the old knife-grinder. Not a rag disfigured his person. All was whole and neat, though quaint and faded. Altogether, he would have formed an admirable subject for an artist’s sketch-book; nor could any stranger pass him without being struck with pleasure, if he caught a glimpse of his happy face—for clearly there was sunshine there; yet not the full, bright sunshine of the cloudless summer, but the sunshine that gleams through the storm and lights up the rainbow.
“Knives to grind!—scissors to grind!”
The cry went on as the old man toiled along. But just now no one appeared to heed him. The rain kept pattering down, and he seemed inclined to turn out of his path and try another street. Just then a woman’s voice shouted out,—
“Ould Crow—Ould Crow! Here, sithee! Just grind me these scissors. Our Ralph’s been scraping the boiler lid with ’em, till they’re nearly as blunt as a broom handle.”
“Ay, missus, I’ll give ’em an edge; but you mustn’t let your Ralph have all his own way, or he’ll take the edge off your heart afore so long.”
The scissors-grinding proceeded briskly, and soon a troop of dirty children were gathered round the wheel, and began to teaze the old man.
“I’ll warm thee!” he cried to one of the foremost, half seriously and half in joke.
At last the scissors were finished.
“I’ll warm thee, Ould Crow!” shouted out the young urchin, in a mimicking voice, and running up close to him as he was returning to his wheel.
The long arm of the knife-grinder darted forward, and his hand grasped the lad, who struggled hard to get away; and at last, by a desperate effort, freed himself, but, in so doing, caused the old man to lose his balance. It was in vain that he strove to recover himself. The stones were slippery with the wet: he staggered a step or two, and then fell heavily forward on his face. Another moment, and he felt a strong arm raising him up.
“Are you much hurt, old friend?” asked his helper, who was none other than Jacob Poole.
“I don’t know—the Lord help me!—I’m afeerd so,” replied Old Crow, seating himself on the kerb stone with a groan.
“Those young rascals!” cried Jacob. “I’d just like to give ’em such a hiding as they’ve ne’er had in all their lives afore.”
“Nay, nay, friend,” said the other; “it wasn’t altogether the lad’s fault. But they’re a rough lot, for sure; not much respect for an old man. Most on ’em’s mayster o’ their fathers and mothers afore they can well speak plain. Thank ye kindly for your help; the Lord’ll reward ye.”
“You’re welcome, old gentleman,” said Jacob. “Can I do anything more for you?”
“Just lend me your arm for a moment; there’s a good lad. I shall have hard work, I fear, to take myself home, let alone the cart.”
“Never trouble about that,” said Jacob, cheerily. “I’ll wheel your cart home, if you can walk on slowly and show me the road.”
“Bless you, lad; that’ll be gradely help—‘a friend in need’s a friend indeed.’ If you’ll stick to the handles, I’ll make shift to hobble on by your side. I’m better now.”
They turned down a by-street; and after a slow walk of about a quarter of a mile—for the old man was still in considerable pain, and was much shaken—they arrived at a low but not untidy-looking cottage, with a little outbuilding by its side.
“Here we are,” said the knife-grinder. “Now come in, my lad. You shall have your tea, and we’ll have a chat together arterwards.”
Old Crow pulled a key out of his pocket, and opened the house door. The fire was burning all right, and was soon made to burst into a cheerful blaze. Then the old man hobbled round to the shed, and unbolting it from the inside, bade Jacob wheel in the cart. This done, they returned into the kitchen.
“Sit ye down, my lad,” said the knife-grinder. “Deborah’ll be back directly; the mills is just loosed.”
“Is Deborah your daughter?” asked Jacob.
The old man shook his head sorrowfully.
“No; I’ve never a one belonging me now.”
“That’s much same with myself,” said Jacob. “I’ve none as belongs me; leastways I cannot find ’em.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the other. “Well, we’ll talk more about that just now. Deborah, ye see, is widow Cartwright’s wench; and a good wench she is too, as e’er clapped clog on a foot. She comes in each morn, and sees as fire’s all right, and fills kettle for my breakfast. Then at noon she comes in again to see as all’s right. And after mill’s loosed, she just looks in and sets all straight. And then, afore she goes to bed, she comes in, and stretches all up gradely.”
“And are you quite alone now?”
“Quite. But I’ve a better Friend as never leaves me nor forsakes me—the Lord Jesus Christ. I hope, my lad, you know summat about him.”
“Yes; thank the Lord, I do,” replied Jacob. “I learned to love him when I was far away in Australia.”
“In Australia!” cried the old man. “Deborah’ll be glad to hear what you have to say about Australia, for she’s a brother there. And how long have you been come back from yon foreign land?”
“Not so very long; but I almost wish as I’d never been.”
“And why not?”
“’Cos I shouldn’t have knowed one as has caused me heavy sorrow.”
Poor Jacob hid his face in his hands, and, spite of himself; the tears would ooze out and trickle through his fingers.
“Come, my lad,” said his new friend, compassionately; “you mustn’t fret so. You say you love the Lord; well, he will not leave you comfortless.”
“It’s the drink, the cursed drink, as done it,” said the other, half to himself.
“Well, my lad; and if you have been led astray, and are gradely sorry for it, there’s room in the Lord’s heart for you still.”
“Nay, it isn’t that. I’m a total abstainer to the back-bone, and have been for years.”
“The Lord be praised!” cried Old Crow, rising from his seat, and grasping the hand of his companion with all his might. “I shall love you twice over now. I’m an old teetotaller myself; and have been these many years. Come, you tell me your tale; and when we’ve had our tea, I’ll tell you mine.”
Jacob then told his story, from his first encountering Captain Merryweather at Liverpool, till the time when he lost sight of his young master.
“And now, old friend,” he concluded, “I’m just like a ship afloat as don’t know which way to steer. I’m fair weary of the sea, an’ I don’t know what to turn myself to on land.”
“Perhaps we may set that right,” replied the old man. “But here’s Deborah; so we’ll just get our tea.”
The kitchen in which they were seated was a low but comfortable apartment. There was nothing much in the way of furniture there, but everything was clean and tidy; while the neat little window-curtain, the well-stuffed cushion in the old man’s rocking-chair, and the broad warm rug on the hearth, made of countless slips of cloth of various colours dexterously sewn together, showed that loving female hands had been caring for the knife-grinder’s comfort. Deborah was a bright, cheery-looking factory-girl, who evidently loved the old man, and worked for him with a will. The tea was soon set out, Deborah joining them by Old Crow’s invitation. Jacob had much to tell about Australia which deeply interested both his hearers, especially Deborah. When the tea-things were removed, and Old Crow and Jacob were left alone, the former said,—
“Come; friend Jacob, draw thy chair to the fire. Thou hast given me thy tale, and a sad one it is; now thou shalt hear mine.”
They drew closer up on to the hearth, and the old man proceeded with his story.
“I were born and reared in a village many miles from Bolton; it makes no odds where it were, my tale will be all the same. My fayther and mother were godly people, and taught me to love the Lord by precept and example too. I worked in the pit till I were about twenty; when one day, as my butty and me was getting coal a long way off from the shaft, the prop nearest me began to crack, and I knowed as the roof were falling in. I sung out to him, but it were too late. I’d just time to save myself, when down came a big stone a-top of him, poor lad. I shouted for help, and we worked away with our picks like mad; and by the help of crows we managed to heave off the stone. The poor young man were sadly crushed. We carried him home as softly as we could; but he were groaning awful all the way. He were a ghastly sight to look on as he lay on his bed; and I’d little hope for him, for he’d been a heavy drinker. I’d talked to him scores of times about it, but he never heeded. He used to say— ‘Well, you’re called a sober man, and I’m called a drunkard; but what’s the difference? You takes what you like, and I takes what I like. You takes what does you good, and I takes what does me good.’ ‘No,’ says I, ‘you takes what does you harm.’ ‘Ah, but,’ says he, ‘who’s to say just where good ends and harm begins? Tom Roades takes a quart more nor me, and yet he’s called to be a sober man; I suppose ’cos he don’t fuddle so soon.’ Well, but to come back to my poor butty’s misfortune. There he lay almost crushed out of all shape, with lots of broken bones. They sends for the doctor, and he says— ‘You must keep him quiet. Nurse him well; and whatever ye do, don’t let him touch a drop of beer or spirits till I give ye leave.’ Well—would ye believe it?—no sooner were doctor’s back turned than they pours some rum down the poor lad’s throat, sure as it’d do him good. And so they went on; and the end on it was, they finished him off in a few days, for the poor fellow died mad drunk. Arter that I couldna somehow take to the pit again, and I couldn’t have anything more to do with the drink. I said to myself; ‘No one shall take encouragement to drink from you any more.’ So I joined a Temperance Society, and signed the pledge. I’d saved a little money, and looked about for summat to do. I hadn’t larning enough to go into an office as a writer; and I wouldn’t have gone if I had, for I should have wasted to skin and bone if I’d sat up all the day on a high stool, scrat, scratting with a pen, and my nose almost growing to the papper. So I bethowt me as I’d larn to be a knife-grinder. It’d just suit me. I could wander about from place to place, and have plenty of fresh air, and my liberty too. So I paid a chap to teach me the trade, and set myself up with my cart and all complete. But after a bit, my fayther and mother died; and I felt there were one thing as I were short on, and that were a wife. My brothers and sisters had all gotten married; so I wanted a home. But I wasn’t going to take up with any sort; I meant to get a real good wife, or I’d have none at all. Well, I found one just the right make for me—a tidy, loving Christian she were. I loved my home, and were seldom off more nor two or three days at a time, when I took my cart a little further nor usual. We never had but one child; and she were a girl, and as likely a wench as were to be found in all the country round. She were a good daughter to me, Jacob, for many a long year; for her mother died when she were but ten year old, and I didn’t wed again. Poor Rachel! she were no ordinary wench, you may be sure. She were quite a little woman afore she were as high as my waistcoat. All the neighbours used to say, ‘He’ll get a good wife as gets your Rachel;’ and I used to say, ‘Well, I don’t want her to leave me, but I’ll ne’er say No if she keeps company with a fellow as loves his Bible and hates the drink.’ Well, there were an old widow in our village as made a great profession of religion. She were always at chapel and meeting, and as full of pious talk as an egg’s full of meat. Our Rachel thought her almost too good for this sinful world; but somehow I couldn’t take to her myself. I feared she were not the right side out. I had many a talk with Ruth Canters—for that were her name. She were always a-sighing o’er the wickedness of the neighbours, and wishing she knew where she could find a young woman as’d suit her son for a wife. I didn’t like her looks always, and I thought as there were a smell of spirits sometimes, as didn’t suit me at all. But she were ever clean and tidy, and I never see’d any drink in the house. There were always the Bible or some other good book at hand, and I couldn’t prove as all were not right. Howsever, her Jim took a fancy to our Rachel, and she to him. So they kept company, and were married: and the widow came to live with us, for Rachel wouldn’t hear of leaving me. Jim were a good young man, honest and true, and a gradely Christian. But now our Rachel began to suspect as summat was wrong. I were often away with my cart for three or four days together; and when I were at home I didn’t take so much notice of things, except it always seemed to me as widow Canter’s religion tasted more of vinegar nor sugar—there were plenty of fault-finding and very little love. Says I to Rachel one day, when we was by ourselves, ‘Thy mother-in-law’s religion has more of the “drive” nor the “draw” in’t.’ The poor thing sighed. I saw there were summat wrong; but I didn’t find it out then.”
“Ah,” interrupted Jacob, “it were the drink, of course. That’s at the bottom of almost all the crime and wickedness.”
“You’re right, my lad,” continued the other, with a deep sigh. “Ruth Canters drank, but it were very slily—so slily that her own son Jim wouldn’t believe it at first; but he were obliged to at last. Oh, what a cheating thing is the drink! She were never so pious in her talk as when she’d been having a little too much; and nothing would convince her but that she were safe for heaven. But I mustn’t go grinding on, or I shall grind all your patience away. Rachel had a little babe—a bonny little wench. Oh, how she loved it—how we both loved it! Poor Rachel!”
The old man paused to wipe away his tears.
“Well, it were about six months old, when Rachel had to go off for some hours to see an aunt as were sick. She wouldn’t take the babe with her, ’cos there were a fever in the court where her aunt lived, and she were feart on it for the child. Old Ruth promised to mind the babe gradely; and our Rachel got back as quick as she could, but it were later nor she intended. Jim were not coming home till late, and I were off myself for a day or two. When our Rachel came to the house door, she tried to open it, but couldn’t; it were fast somehow. She knocked, but no one answered. Again she tried the door; it were not locked, but summat heavy lay agen it. She pushed hard, and got it a bit open. She just saw summat as looked like a woman’s dress. Then she shrieked out, and fell down in a faint. The neighbours came running up. They went in by the wash-house door, and found Ruth Canters lying dead agen the house door inside, and the baby smothered under her. Both on ’em were stone dead. She’d taken advantage of our Rachel being off to drink more nor usual, and she’d missed her footing with the baby in her arms, and fallen down the stairs right across the house door. Our Rachel never looked up arter that; she died of a broken heart. And Jim couldn’t bear to tarry in the neighbourhood; nor I neither. Ah, the misery, the misery as springs from the cursed drink! Thank the Lord, Jacob, over and over again a thousand times, as he’s given you grace to be a total abstainer.”
There was a long pause, during which the old man wept silent but not bitter tears.
“Them as is gone is safe in glory,” he said at last; “our Rachel and her babe, I mean; and I’ve done fretting now. I shall go to them; but they will not return to me. And now, Jacob, my lad, what do ye say to learning my trade, and taking shares with me? I shan’t be good for much again this many a day, and I’ve taken a fancy to you. You’ve done me a good turn, and I know you’re gradely. I’m not a queer chap, though I looks like one. My clothes is only a whim of mine. They’ve been in the family so long, that I cannot part with ’em. They’ll serve out my time, though we’ve patched and patched the old coat till there’s scarce a yard of the old stuff left in him, and he looks for all the world like a map of England, with the different counties marked on it.”
“Well, Mayster Crow,” began Jacob in reply; but the other stopped him by putting up his hand.
“Eh, lad, you mustn’t call me Mayster Crow; leastwise, if you do afore other folks, they’ll scream all the wits out of you with laughing. I’m ‘Old Crow’ now, and nothing else. My real name’s Jenkins; but if you or any one else were to ask for Isaac Jenkins, there’s not a soul in these parts as’d know as such a man ever lived. No; they call me ‘Old Crow.’ Maybe ’cos I look summat like a scarecrow. But I cannot rightly tell. It’s my name, howsever, and you must call me nothing else.”
“Well, then, Old Crow,” said Jacob, “I cannot tell just what I’m going to do. You see I’ve no friends, and yet I should have some if I could only find ’em.”
“Have you neither fayther nor mother living then?” asked the old man.
“I cannot say. My mother’s dead. As for the rest—well, it’s just this way, Old Crow, I’m a close sort o’ chap, and always were. I left home a fugitive and a vagabond, and I resolved as I’d ne’er come back till I could come as my own mayster, and that I’d ne’er tell anything about my own home and them as belonged me, till I could settle where I pleased in a home of my own. But I learnt at the diggings as it were not right to run off as I did, for the Lord sent us a faithful preacher, and he showed me my duty; and I came back with my mind made up to tell them as owned me how God had dealt with me and changed my heart. But I couldn’t find nor hear anything about ’em at the old place. They’d flitted, and nobody could tell me where. So I’d rayther say no more about ’em till I’ve tried a bit longer to find ’em out. And if I cannot light on ’em arter all, why then, I’ll start again, as if the past had never been, for it were but a dark and dismal past to me.”
Old Crow did not press Jacob with further questions, as he was evidently not disposed to be communicative on the subject of his early history, but he said,—
“Well, and suppose you take to the grinding; you can drive the cart afore ye, from town to town, and from village to village, as I’ve done myself scores and scores of times, and maybe you’ll light on them as you’re seeking. It’s strange how many an old face, as I’d never thought to see no more, has turned up as I’ve jogged along from one place to another.”
“Ah,” exclaimed Jacob, “I think as that’d just suit me! I never thought of that. I’ll take your offer then, Old Crow, and many thanks to ye, and I hope you’ll not find me a bad partner.”
So it was arranged as the old man suggested, and Jacob forthwith began to learn his new trade.
It was some weeks before he had become at all proficient in the knife-grinding and umbrella-mending arts; and many a sly laugh and joke on the part of Deborah made him at times half-inclined to give up the work; but there was a determination and dogged resolution about his character which did not let him lightly abandon anything he had once undertaken. So he persevered, much to Old Crow’s satisfaction, for he soon began to love Jacob as a son, and the other was drawn to the old man as to a father. After a while Jacob’s education in his new art was pronounced complete, not only by the old knife-grinder himself but even by Deborah, critical Deborah, who declared that his progress was astonishing.
“Why,” she said, addressing Old Crow, “when he first took to it, nothing would serve him but he must have mother’s old scissors to point; and he grund and grund till the two points turned their backs t’one on t’other, and looked different ways, as if they was weary of keeping company any longer. And when he sharped yon old carving-knife of grandfather’s, you couldn’t tell arter he’d done which side were the back and which side were the edge. But he’s a rare good hand at it now.”
And, to tell the truth, Deborah greatly prized a new pair of scissors, a present from Jacob, with the keenest of edges, the result of his first thoroughly successful grinding; indeed, it was pretty clear that the young knife-grinder was by no means an object of indifference to her. The public proclaiming of his vocation in the open streets was the most trying thing to Jacob. The very prospect of it almost made him give up. Deborah was very merry at his expense, and told him, that “if he were ashamed, she wouldn’t mind walking in front of the cart, the first day, and doing all the shouting for him.” This difficulty, however, was got over by the old man himself going with Jacob on his first few journeys, and introducing him to his customers; after which he was able to take to his new calling without much trouble. But it was quite plain that Old Crow himself was too much injured by his fall to be able to resume the knife-grinding for many months to come, even if indeed, he were ever able to take to it again. But this did not distress him, for he had learned to trace God’s hand, as the hand of a loving Father, in everything. Though old and grey-headed, he was hearty and cheerful, for his old age was like a healthy winter, “kindly, though frosty;” for “he never did apply hot and rebellious liquors to his blood.” Spite of his accident, these were happy days for him, for he had found in Jacob Poole one thoroughly like-minded. Oh, the blessings of a home, however humble, where Christ is loved, and the drink finds no entrance; for in such a home there are seen no forced spirits, no unnatural excitements! It was a touching sight when the quaint old man, having finished his tea, would bring his rocking-chair nearer to the fire, and bidding Jacob draw up closer on the other side, would tell of God’s goodness to him in times past, and of his hopes of a better and brighter home on the other side of the dark river. Deborah would often make a third, and her mother would join them too at times, and then Jacob would tell of the wonders of the deep, and of the distant colony where he had sojourned. Then the old man would lay aside the tall cap which he wore even in the house, displaying his scattered white hairs, and would open his big Bible with a smile,—
“I always smile when I open the Bible,” he said one day to Jacob, “’cos it’s like a loving letter from a far-off land. I’m not afraid of looking into’t; for, though I light on some awful verses every now and then, I know as they’re not for me. I’m not boasting. It’s all of grace; but still it’s true ‘there is therefore now no condemnation to them that are in Christ Jesus,’ and I know that through his mercy I am gradely in him.”
Then they would sing a hymn, for all had the Lancashire gift of good ear and voice, after which the old man would sink on his knees and pour out his heart in prayer. Yes, that cottage was indeed a happy home, often the very threshold of heaven; and many a time the half-drunken collier, as he sauntered by, would change the sneer that curled his lip at those strains of heartfelt praise, into the tear that melted out of a smitten and sorrowful heart, a heart that knew something of its own bitterness, for it smote him as he thought of a God despised, a soul perishing, a Bible neglected, a Saviour trampled on, and an earthly home out of which the drink had flooded every real comfort, and from which he could have no well-grounded hope of a passage to a better.