The workpeople are, with few exceptions, thrifty and persevering. Some of the spinners take advantage of their good wages to build cottages and become landlords. A walk through Batley shows you that thought has been taken for their spiritual and moral culture; and in fine weather they betake themselves for out-doors recreation to an ancient manor-house, which I was told is situate beyond the hill that rears its pleasant woods aloft in sight of the factories.
The folk of the surrounding districts are accustomed to make merry over the shoddy-makers, regarding them as Gibeonites, and many a story do they tell concerning these clever conjurors, and their transformations of old clothes into new. Once, they say, a portly Quaker walked into Batley, just as the ‘mill-hands’ were going to dinner: he came from the west, and was clad in that excellent broadcloth which is the pride of Gloucestershire. “Hey!” cried the hands, as he passed among them—“hey! look at that now! There’s a bit of real cloth. Lookey, lookey! we never saw the like afore:” and they surrounded the worthy stranger, and kept him prisoner until they had all felt the texture of his coat, and expressed their admiration.
Again, while waiting at Mirfield, was I struck by the frequency of trains, and counted ten in an hour and a half. In 1856, a million and quarter tons of iron ore were dug in the Cleveland and Whitby districts; and the quantity of pig-iron made in Yorkshire was 275,600 tons, of which the West Riding produced 96,000. In the same year 8986 tons of lead, and 302 ounces of silver were made within the county; and Yorkshire furnished 9,000,000 towards the sixty millions tons and a half of coal dug in all the kingdom.
I journeyed on to Wakefield; and, as it proved, to a disappointment. I had hoped for a sight of Walton Hall, and of the well-known naturalist, who there fulfils the rites of hospitality with a generous hand. Through a friend of his, Mr. Waterton had assured me of a welcome; but on arriving at Wakefield, I heard that he had started the day before for the Continent. So, instead of a walk to the Hall, I resolved to go on to Sheffield, by the last train. This left me time for a ramble. I went down to the bridge, and revived my recollections of the little chapel which for four hundred years has shown its rich and beautiful front to all who there cross the Calder, and I rejoiced to see that it had been restored and was protected by a railing. It was built—some say renewed—by Edward the Fourth to the memory of those who fell in the battle of Wakefield—a battle fatal to the House of York—and fatal to the victors; for the cruelties there perpetrated by Black Clifford and other knights, were repaid with tenfold vengeance at Towton. The place where Richard, Duke of York, fell, may still be seen: and near it, a little more than a mile from the town, the eminence on which stood Sandal Castle, a fortress singularly picturesque, as shown in old engravings.
After a succession of stony towns and smoky towns, there was something cheerful in the distant view of Wakefield with its clean red brick. It has some handsome streets; and in the old thoroughfares you may see relics of the mediæval times in ancient timbered houses. Leland describes it as “a very quick market town, and meatly large, the whole profit of which standeth by coarse drapery.” You will soon learn by a walk through the streets that “very quick” still applies.
Signs of manufactures are repeated as Wakefield, with its green neighbourhood, is left behind, and at Barnsley the air is again darkened by smoke. We had to change trains here, and thought ourselves lucky in finding that the Sheffield train had for once condescended to lay aside its surly impatience, and await the arrival from Wakefield. As we pushed through the throng on the platform, I heard many a specimen of the vernacular peculiar to Bairnsla, as the natives call it. How shall one who has not spent years among them essay to reproduce the sounds? Fortunately there is a Bairnsla Foaks’ Almanack in which the work is done ready to our hand; and here is a passage quoted from Tom Treddlehoyle’s Peep at T’ Manchister Exhebishan, giving us a notion of the sort of dialect talked by the Queen’s subjects in this part of Yorkshire.
Tom is looking about and “moralizin’,” when “a strange bussal cum on all ov a sudden daan below stairs, an foaks hurryin e wun dereckshan! ‘Wot’s ta do?’ thowt ah; an daan t’ steps ah clattard, runnin full bump agean t’ foaks a t’ bottom, an before thade time to grumal or get ther faces saard, ah axt, ‘Wot ther wor ta do?’—‘Lord John Russel’s cum in,’ sed thay. Hearin this, there diddant need anuther wurd, for after springin up on ta me teppytoes ta get t’ lattetude az ta whereabaats he wor, ah duckt me head underneath foaks’s airms, an away a slipt throo t’ craad az if ide been soapt all ovver, an gettin as near him az ah durst ta be manardly, ah axt a gentleman at hed a glass button stuck before his ee, in a whisperin soart of a tone, ‘Which wor Lord John Russel?’ an bein pointed aght ta ma, ah lookt an lookt agean, but cuddant believe at it wor him, he wor sich an a little bit ov an hofalas-lookin chap,—not much unlike a horse-jocky at wun’s seen at t’ Donkister races, an wot wor just getherin hiz crums up after a good sweatin daan for t’ Ledger,—an away ah went, az sharp az ah cud squeaze aght, thinkin to mesen, ‘Bless us, what an a ta-do there iz abaght nowt! a man’s but a man, an a lord’s na more!’ We that thowt, an hevin gottan nicely aght a t’ throng, we t’ loss a nobbat wun button, an a few stitches stretcht a bit e t’ coit-back, ah thowt hauf-an-haar’s quiat woddant be amiss.”
We went on a few miles to a little station called Wombwell, where we had again to change trains. But the train from Doncaster had not arrived; so while the passengers waited they dispersed themselves about the sides of the railway, finding seats on the banks or fences, and sat talking in groups, and wondering at the delay. The stars shone out, twinkling brightly, before the train came up, more than an hour beyond its time, and it was late when we reached Sheffield. I turned at a venture into the first decent-looking public-house in The Wicker, and was rewarded by finding good entertainment and thorough cleanliness.