Now, X. had great riches.
An incredible story, isn’t it? But it is true, and it gives you the self-made Manchester man—at least, one side of him—in a nutshell.
. . . . . . . .
It used to be a great delight to me to see Dr J. Kendrick Pyne walking near the Cathedral or in Albert Square, for he used to suggest to me a bygone age and a remote place. His short, thick-set figure used to move with the utmost precision, unhurried, unperturbed. His plump, clean-shaven face, his well-shaped head, surmounted by a new silk hat of old-fashioned shape, his gold-rimmed spectacles with the peering eyes behind them, his inevitable umbrella, and his correct dress—all these conspired to make a figure of great dignity, a figure that always seemed to carry about with it the atmosphere of the Cathedral whose organ he played for so many smooth years. There hung about him the tradition of the famous Dr Wesley.
In character and disposition also he belonged to a different era. He never underestimated the importance of the position he held in the city as Cathedral organist, City organist, and Professor at the Manchester Royal College of Music, and wherever he went and in the execution of whatever work to which he set his mind, his word was law. A very fine type of Englishman. He would brook no interference from Bishop or Dean, [163] ]and his combative, upright spirit fought unceasingly to uphold the dignity of his art.
His childlike vanity was most alluring, and I used to love him for it and respect him for the way he clung to his belief in himself.
One day he took me to the town hall to look once more at the wonderful series of frescoes that Ford Madox Brown painted in the great hall. When he came to the fresco picturing the Duke of Bridgewater at the ceremonial “opening” of the Bridgewater Canal, he pointed to the features of the Duke, and inquired:
“Whom do you think he resembles?”
There was just a note of anxiety in his voice as though he were afraid I should not be able to answer his question. For the life of me I could not think of anyone who resembled Madox Brown’s Duke, and I stood silent. Pyne then turned his face full upon me, and again inquired, somewhat imperiously:
“Whom do you think he resembles?”