A Month in Yorkshire

The walk to the town gives you such a view as can only be seen in a manufacturing district: hills, fields, meadows, and rough slopes, all bestrewn with cottages, factories, warehouses, sheds, clouded here and there by smoke; roads and paths wandering apparently anywhere; here and there a quarry, and piles of squared stone; heaps of refuse; wheat-fields among the houses; potato-plots in little levels, and everything giving you the impression of waiting to be finished. Add to all this, troops of men and women, boys and girls—the girls with a kerchief pinned over the head, the corner hanging behind—going home to dinner, and a mighty noise of clogs, and trucks laden with rags and barrels of oil, and you will have an idea of Batley, as I saw it on my arrival.

Having found the factory of which I was in search, I had to wait a few minutes for the appearance of the principal. A boy, who was amusing himself in the office, remarked, when he heard that I had never yet seen shoddy made: “Well, it’ll cap ye when ye get among the machinery; that’s all!” He himself had been capt once in his life: it was in the previous summer, when his uncle took him to Blackpool, and he first beheld the sea. “That capt me, that did,” he said, with the gravity of a philosopher.

Seeing that the principal hesitated, even after he had read my letter, I began to imagine that shoddy-making involved important secrets. “Come to see what you can pick up, eh?” he said. However, when he heard that I was in no way connected with manufactures, and had come, not as a spy, but simply out of honest curiosity, to see how old rags were ground into new cloth, he smiled, and led me forthwith into the devil’s den. There I saw a cylinder revolving with a velocity too rapid for the eye to follow, whizzing and roaring, as if in agony, and throwing off a cloud of light woolly fibres, that floated in the air, and a stream of flocks that fell in a heap at the end of the room. It took three minutes to stop the monster; and when the motion ceased, I saw the cylinder was full of blunt steel teeth, which, seizing whatever was presented to them in the shape of rags, tore it thoroughly to pieces; in fact, ground it up into flocks of short, frizzly-looking fibre, resembling negro-hair, yet soft and free from knots. The cylinder is fed by a travelling web, which brings a layer of rags continually up to the teeth. On this occasion, the quality of the grist, as one might call it, was respectable—nothing but fathoms of list which had never been defiled. So rapidly did the greedy devil devour it, that the two attendant imps were kept fully employed in feeding; and fast as the pack of rags diminished, the heap of flocks increased. And so, amid noise and dust, the work goes on day after day; and the man who superintends, aided by his two boys, earns four pounds a week, grinding the rags as they come, for thirty shillings a pack.

The flocks are carried away to the mixing-house. As we turned aside, the devil began to whirl once more; and before we had entered the other door, I heard the ferocious howl in full vigour. The road between the buildings was encumbered with oil-casks, pieces of cloth, lying in the dust, as if of no value, and packs of rags. “It will all come right by-and-by,” said the chief, as I pointed to the littery heaps; and, pausing by one of the packs which contained what he called ‘mungo,’ that is, shreds of such cloth as clergymen’s coats are made of, he made me aware that there is shoddy and shoddy. That which makes the longest fibre is, of course, the best; and some of the choice sorts are worked up into marketable cloth, without a fresh dyeing.

Great masses of the flocks, with passage-ways between, lay heaped on the stone floor of the mixing-house. Here, according to the quality required, the long fibre is mixed in certain proportions with the short; and to facilitate the subsequent operations, the several heaps are lightly sprinkled with oil. A dingy brown or black was the prevalent colour; but some of the heaps were gray, and would be converted into undyed cloth of the same colour. It seemed to me that the principal ingredient therein was old worsted stockings; and yet, before many days, those heaps would become gray cloth fit for the jackets and mantles of winsome maidens.

I asked my conductor if it were true, as I had heard, that shoddy-makers purchased the waste, begrimed cotton wads with which stokers and ‘engine-tenters’ wipe the machinery, or the dirty refuse of wool-sorters, or every kind of ragged rubbish. He did not think such things were done in Batley; for his part, he used none but best rags, and could keep two factories always going. He had heard of the man who spread greasy cotton-waste over his field, and who, when the land had absorbed all the grease, gathered up the cotton, and sold it to the shoddy-makers; but he doubted the truth of the story. True or not, it implies great toleration among a certain class of manufacturers. Rags, not good enough for shoddy, are used as manure for the hops in Kent; so we get shoddy in our beer as well as in our broadcloth.

In the next process, the flocks are intimately mixed by passing over and under a series of rollers, and come forth from the last looking something like wool. Then the wool, as we may now call it, goes to the ‘scribbling-machine,’ which, after torturing it among a dozen rollers of various dimensions, delivers it yard by yard in the form of a loose thick cable, with a run of the fibres in one direction. The carding-machine takes the cable lengths, subjects them to another course of torture, confirms the direction of the fibres, and reduces the cable into a chenille of about the thickness of a lady’s finger. This chenille is produced in lengths of about five feet, across the machine, parallel with the rollers, and is immediately transferred to the piecing-machine, by a highly ingenious process. Each length, as it is finished, drops into a long, narrow, tin tray; the tray moves forward; the next behind it receives a chenille; then the third; then the fourth; and so on, up to ten. By this time, they have advanced over a table on which lies what may be described as a wooden gridiron; there is a momentary pause, and then the ten trays, turning all at once upside down, drop the chenilles severally between the bars of the gridiron. At one side of the table is a row of large spindles, or rollers, on which the chenilles—cardings, is the factory word—are wound, and the dropping is so contrived that the ends of those which fall overlap the ends of the lengths on the spindles by about an inch. Now the gridiron begins to vibrate, and by its movement beats the ends together; joins each chenille, in fact, to the one before it; then the spindles whirl, and draw in the lengths, leaving only enough for the overlap; and no sooner is this accomplished than the ten trays drop another supply, which is treated in the same expeditious manner, until the spindles are filled. No time is lost, for the full ones are immediately replaced by empty ones.

Now comes the spinners’ turn. They take these full spindles, submit them to the action of their machinery by dozens at a time, and spin the large, loose chenilles into yarns of different degrees of strength and fineness, or, perhaps one should say, coarseness, ready for the weavers. And in this way those heaps of short, uncompliant negro-hair, in which you could hardly find a fibre three inches long, are transformed into long, continuous threads, able to bear the rapid jerks of the loom. I could not sufficiently admire its ingenuity. Who would have imagined that among the appliances of shoddy! Moreover, wages are good at Batley, and the spinners can earn from forty to forty-five shillings a week. The women who attend the looms earn nine or eighteen shillings a week, according as they weave one or two pieces.

Next comes the fulling process: the pieces are damped, and thumped for a whole day by a dozen ponderous mallets; then the raising of the pile on one or both sides of the cloth, either by rollers or by hand. In the latter case, two men stretch a piece as high as they can reach on a vertical frame, and scratch the surface downwards with small hand-cards, the teeth of which are fine steel wire. Genuine broadcloth can only be dressed by a teazel of Nature’s own growing; but shoddy, far less delicate, submits to the metal. So the men keep on, length after length, till the piece is finished. Then the dyers have their turn, and if you venture to walk through their sloppy, steamy department, you will see men stirring the pieces about in vats, and some pieces hanging to rollers which keep them for a while running through the liquor. From the dye-house the pieces are carried to the tenter-ground and stretched in one length on vertical posts; and after a sufficient course of sun and air, they undergo the finishing process—clipping the surface and hot-pressing.

From what I saw in the tenter-ground, I discovered that pilot cloth is shoddy; that glossy beavers and silky-looking mohairs are shoddy; that the Petershams so largely exported to the United States are shoddy; that the soft, delicate cloths in which ladies feel so comfortable, and look so graceful, are shoddy; that the ‘fabric’ of Talmas, Raglans, and paletots, and of other garments in which fine gentlemen go to the Derby, or to the Royal Academy Exhibition, or to the evening services in Westminster Abbey, are shoddy. And if Germany sends us abundance of rags, we send to Germany enormous quantities of shoddy in return. The best quality manufactured at Batley is worth ten shillings a yard; the commonest not more than one shilling.

Broadcloth at a shilling a yard almost staggers credibility. After that we may truly say that shoddy is a great leveller.

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.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Clouds of Blacks—What Sheffield was and is—A detestable Town—Razors and knives—Perfect Work, Imperfect Workmen—Foul Talk—How Files are Made—Good Iron, Good Steel—Breaking-up and Melting—Making the Crucibles—Casting—Ingots—File Forgers—Machinery Baffled—Cutting the Teeth—Hardening—Cleaning and Testing—Elliott’s Statue—A Ramble to the Corn-law Rhymer’s Haunt—Rivelin—Bilberry-gatherers—Ribbledin—The Poet’s Words—A Desecration—To Manchester—A few Words on the Exhibition.

When I woke in the morning and saw what a stratum of ‘blacks’ had come in at the window during the night, I admired still more the persevering virtue which maintains cleanliness under such very adverse circumstances. We commonly think the London atmosphere bad; but it is purity compared with Sheffield. The town, too, is full of strange, uncouth noises, by night as well as by day, that send their echo far. I had been woke more than once by ponderous thumps and sounding shocks, which made me fancy the Cyclops themselves were taking a turn at the hammers. Sheffield raised a regiment to march against the Sepoys; why not raise a company to put down its own pestiferous blacks?

Who would think that here grew the many-leagued oak forests in which Gurth and Wamba roamed; that in a later day, when the Talbots were lords of the domain, there were trees in the park under which a hundred horses might find shelter? Here lived that famous Talbot, the terror of the French; here George, the fourth Earl, built a mansion in which Wolsey lodged while on his way to die at Leicester; here the Queen of Scots was kept for a season in durance; here, as appears by a Court Roll, dated 1590, the Right Honorable George Earl of Shrewsbury assented to the trade regulations of “the Fellowship and Company of Cutlers and Makers of Knives,” whose handicraft was even then an ancient one, for Chaucer mentions the “Shefeld thwitel.” Now, what with furnaces and forges, rolling mills, and the many contrivances used by the men of iron and steel, the landscape is spoiled of its loveliness, and Silence is driven to remoter haunts.

On the other hand, Sheffield is renowned for its knives and files all over the world. It boasts a People’s College and a Philosophical Society. With it are associated the names of Chantrey, Montgomery, and Ebenezer Elliott. When you see the place, you will not wonder that Elliott’s poetry is what it is; for how could a man be expected to write amiable things in such a detestable town?

Ever since my conversation with the Mechaniker, while on the way to Prague, when he spoke so earnestly in praise of English files, my desire to see how files were made became impatiently strong. Sheffield is famous also for razors; so there was a sight of two interesting manufactures to be hoped for when I set out after breakfast to test my credentials. Fortune favoured me; and, in the works of Messrs. Rodgers, I saw the men take flat bars of steel and shape them by the aid of fire and hammer into razor-blades with remarkable expedition and accuracy. So expert have they become by long practice, that with the hammer only they form the blade and tang so nicely, as to leave but little for the grinders to waste. I saw also the forging of knife-blades, the making of the handles, the sawing of the buckhorn and ivory by circular saws, and the heap of ivory-dust which is sold to knowing cooks, and by them converted into gelatine. I saw how the knives are fitted together with temporary rivets to ensure perfect action and finish, before the final touches are given. And as we went from room to room, and I thought that each man had been working for years at the same thing, repeating the same movements over and over again, I could not help pitying them; for it seemed to me that they were a sacrifice to the high reputation of English cutlery. Something more than a People’s College and Mechanics’ Institute would be needed to counteract the deadening effect of unvarying mechanical occupation; and where there is no relish for out-door recreation in the woods and on the hills, hurtful excitements are the natural consequence.

I had often heard that Sheffield is the most foul-mouthed town in the kingdom, and my experience unfortunately adds confirmation. While in the train coming from Barnsley, and in my walks about the town, I heard more filthy and obscene talk than could be heard in Wapping in a year. Not to trust to the impressions of the day, I inquired of a resident banker, and he testified that the foul talk that assailed his ears, was to him, a continual affliction.

On the wall of the grinding-shop a tablet, set up at the cost of the men, preserves the name of a grinder, who by excellence of workmanship and long and faithful service, achieved merit for himself and the trade. At their work the men sit astride on a low seat in rows of four, one behind the other, leaning over their stones and wheels. For razors, the grindstones are small, so as to produce the hollow surface which favours fineness of edge. From the first a vivid stream of sparks flies off; but the second is a leaden wheel; the third is leather touched with crocus, to give the polish to the steel; and after that comes the whet. To carry off the dust, each man has a fan-box in front of his wheel, through which all the noxious floating particles are drawn by the rapid current of air therein produced. To this fan the grinders of the present generation owe more years of health and life than fell to the lot of their fathers, who inhaled the dust, earned high wages, and died soon of disease of the lungs. I was surprised by the men’s dexterity; by a series of quick movements, they finished every part of the blade on the stone and wheels.

From the razors I went to the files, at Moss and Gamble’s manufactory, in another part of the town. There is scarcely a street from which you cannot see the hills crowned by wood which environ the town—that is, at intervals only, through the thinnest streams of smoke. The town itself is hilly, and the more you see of the neighbourhood, the more will you agree with those who say, “What a beautiful place Sheffield would be, if Sheffield were not there!”

My first impression of the file-works, combined stacks of Swedish iron in bars; ranges of steel bars of various shape, square, flat, three-cornered, round, and half-round; heaps of broken steel, the fresh edges glittering in the sun; heaps of broken crucibles, and the roar of furnaces, noise of bellows, hammer-strokes innumerable, and dust and smoke, and other things, that to a stranger had very much the appearance of rubbish and confusion.

However, there is no confusion; every man is diligent at his task; so if you please, reader, we will try and get a notion of the way in which those bars of Swedish iron are converted into excellent files. Swedish iron is chosen because it is the best; no iron hitherto discovered equals it for purity and strength, and of this the most esteemed is known as ‘Hoop L,’ from its brand being an L within a hoop. “If you want good steel to come out of the furnace,” say the knowing ones, “you must put good iron in;” and some of them hold that, “when the devil is put into the crucible, nothing but the devil will come out:” hence we may believe their moral code to be sufficient for its purpose. The bars, at a guess, are about eight feet long, three inches broad, and one inch thick. To begin the process, they are piled in a furnace between alternate layers of charcoal, the surfaces kept carefully from contact, and are there subjected to fire for eight or nine days. To enable the workmen to watch the process, small trial pieces are so placed that they can be drawn out for examination through a small hole in the front of the furnace. In large furnaces, twelve tons of iron are converted at once. The long-continued heat, which is kept below the melting-point, drives off the impurities; the bars, from contact with the charcoal, become carbonized and hardened; and when the fiery ordeal is over, they appear thickly bossed with bubbles or blisters, in which condition they are described as ‘blistered steel.’

Now come the operations which convert these blistered bars into the finished bars of steel above-mentioned, smooth and uniform of surface, and well-nigh hard as diamond. The blistered bars are taken from the furnace and broken up into small pieces; the fresh edges show innumerable crystals of different dimensions, according to the quality of the iron, and have much the appearance of frosted silver. The pieces are carefully assorted and weighed. The weighers judge of the quality at a glance, and mix the sorts in due proportion in the scales in readiness for the melters, who put each parcel into its proper crucible, and drop the crucibles through holes in a floor into a glowing furnace, where they are left for about half a day.