‘Dead and buried,’ said the stranger, accompanying his words with that peculiar application of his thumb to his nose that signifies so eloquently that all is up.
‘You astonish me!’ said Coningsby.
‘It’s a booked place though,’ said the stranger, ‘and no mistake. We have all of us a very great respect for Manchester, of course; look upon her as a sort of mother, and all that sort of thing. But she is behind the times, sir, and that won’t do in this age. The long and short of it is, Manchester is gone by.’
‘I thought her only fault might be she was too much in advance of the rest of the country,’ said Coningsby, innocently.
‘If you want to see life,’ said the stranger, ‘go to Staleybridge or Bolton. There’s high pressure.’
‘But the population of Manchester is increasing,’ said Coningsby.
‘Why, yes; not a doubt. You see we have all of us a great respect for the town. It is a sort of metropolis of this district, and there is a good deal of capital in the place. And it has some firstrate institutions. There’s the Manchester Bank. That’s a noble institution, full of commercial enterprise; understands the age, sir; high-pressure to the backbone. I came up to town to see the manager to-day. I am building a new mill now myself at Staleybridge, and mean to open it by January, and when I do, I’ll give you leave to pay another visit to Mr. Birley’s weaving-room, with my compliments.’
‘I am very sorry,’ said Coningsby, ‘that I have only another day left; but pray tell me, what would you recommend me most to see within a reasonable distance of Manchester?’
‘My mill is not finished,’ said the stranger musingly, ‘and though there is still a great deal worth seeing at Staleybridge, still you had better wait to see my new mill. And Bolton, let me see; Bolton, there is nothing at Bolton that can hold up its head for a moment against my new mill; but then it is not finished. Well, well, let us see. What a pity this is not the 1st of January, and then my new mill would be at work! I should like to see Mr. Birley’s face, or even Mr. Ashworth’s, that day. And the Oxford Road Works, where they are always making a little change, bit by bit reform, eh! not a very particular fine appetite, I suspect, for dinner, at the Oxford Road Works, the day they hear of my new mill being at work. But you want to see something tip-top. Well, there’s Millbank; that’s regular slap-up, quite a sight, regular lion; if I were you I would see Millbank.’
‘Millbank!’ said Coningsby; ‘what Millbank?’