Kitabı oku: «A Month in Yorkshire», sayfa 21
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.
The making of the crucibles is a much more important part of the operation than would be imagined. They must be of uniform dimensions and quality, or the steel is deteriorated, and they fail in the fire. They are made on the premises, for every melting requires new crucibles. In an underground chamber I saw men at work, treading a large flat heap of fire-clay into proper consistency, weighing it into lumps of a given weight; placing these lumps one after the other in a circular mould, and driving in upon them, with a ponderous mallet, a circular block of the same form and height as the mould, but smaller. As the block sinks under the heavy blows, the clay is forced against the sides of the mould; and when the block can descend no further, there appears all round it a dense ring of clay, and the mould is full. Now, with a dexterous turn, the block is drawn out; the crucible is separated from the mould, and shows itself as a smooth vase, nearly two feet in height. The mouth is carefully finished, and a lid of the same clay fitted, and the crucible is ready for its further treatment. When placed in the furnace, the lids are sealed on with soft clay. The man who treads the clay needs a good stock of patience, for lumps, however small, are fatal to the crucibles.
When the moment arrived, I was summoned to witness the casting. The men had tied round their shins pieces of old sacking, as protection from the heat; they opened the holes in the floor, knocked off the lid of the crucible, and two of them, each with tongs, lifted the crucible from the intensely heated furnace. How it quivered, and glowed, and threw off sparks, and diffused around a scorching temperature! It amazed me that the men could bear it. When two crucibles are lifted out, they are emptied at the same time into the mould; not hap-hazard, but with care that the streams shall unite, and not touch the sides of the mould as they fall. Neglect of this precaution injures the quality. Another precaution is to shut out cold draughts of air during the casting. To judge by the ear, you would fancy the men were pouring out gallons of cream.
The contents of two crucibles form an ingot, short, thick, and heavy. I saw a number of such ingots in the yard. The next process is to heat them, and to pass them while hot between the rollers which convert them into bars of any required form. I was content to forego a visit to the rolling-mill—somewhere in the suburbs—being already familiar with the operation of rolling iron.
We have now the steel in a form ready for the file-makers. Two forgers, one of whom wields a heavy two-handed hammer, cut the bars into lengths, and after a few minutes of fire and anvil, the future file is formed, one end at a time, from tang to point, and stamped. For the half-round files, a suitable depression is made at one side of the anvil. Then comes a softening process to prepare the files for the men who grind or file them to a true form, and for toothing. To cut the teeth, the man or boy lays the file on a proper bed, takes a short, hard chisel between the thumb and finger of his left hand, holds it leaning from him at the required angle, and strikes a blow with the hammer. The blow produces a nick with a slight ridge by its side; against this ridge the chisel is placed for the next stroke, and so on to the next, until, by multiplied blows, the file is fully toothed. The process takes long to describe, but is, in reality, expeditious, as testified by the rapid clatter. Some of the largest files require two men—one to hold the chisel, the other to strike. For the teeth of rasps, a pyramidal punch is used. The different kinds of files are described as roughs, bastard cut, second cut, smooth, and dead smooth; besides an extraordinary heavy sort, known as rubbers. According to the cut, so is the weight of the hammer employed. Many attempts have been made to cut files by machinery; but they have all failed. There is something in the varying touch of human fingers imparting a keenness to the bite of the file, which the machine with its precise movements cannot produce—even as thistle spines excel all metallic contrivances for the dressing of cloth. And very fortunate it is that machinery can’t do everything.
After the toothing, follows the hardening. The hardener lays a few files in a fire of cinders; blows the bellows till a cherry-red heat is produced; then he thrusts the file into a stratum of charcoal, and from that plunges it into a large bath of cold water, the cleaner and colder the better. The plunge is not made anyhow, but in a given direction, and with a varying movement from side to side, according to the shape of the file. The metal, as it enters the water, and for some seconds afterwards, frets and moans piteously; and I expected to see it fly to pieces with the sudden shock. But good steel is true; the man draws the file out, squints along its edge, and if he sees it too much warped, gives it a strain upon a fulcrum, sprinkling it at the same time with cold water. He then lays it aside, takes another from the fire, and treats it in a similar way.
The hardened files are next scrubbed with sand, are dried, the tangs are dipped into molten lead to deprive them of their brittleness; the files are rubbed over with oil, and scratched with a harder piece of metal to test their quality—that is, an attempt is made to scratch them. If the files be good, it ought to fail. They are then taken between the thumb and finger, and rung to test their soundness; and if no treacherous crack betray its presence, they are tied up in parcels for sale.
I shall not soon forget the obliging kindness with which explanations were given and all my questions answered by a member of the firm, who conducted me over the works. When we came to the end, and I had witnessed the care bestowed on the several operations, I no longer wondered that a Bohemian Mechaniker in the heart of the Continent, or artisans in any part of the world, should find reason to glory in English files. Some people are charitable enough to believe that English files are no unapt examples of English character.
Sheffield is somewhat proud of Chantrey and Montgomery, and honours Elliott by a statue, which, tall of stature and unfaithful in likeness, sits on a pedestal in front of the post-office. I thought that to ramble out to one of the Corn-Law Rhymer’s haunts would be an agreeable way of spending the afternoon and of viewing the scenery in the neighbourhood of the town. I paced up the long ascent of Broome Hill—a not unpleasing suburb—to the Glossop road, and when the town was fairly left behind, was well repaid by the sight of wooded hills and romantic valleys. Amidst scenery such as that you may wander on to Wentworth, to Wharncliff, the lair of the Dragon of Wantley, to Stanedge and Shirecliff, and all the sites of which Elliott has sung in pictured phrase or words of fire. We look into the valley of the Rivelin, one of the
“Five rivers, like the fingers of a hand,”
that converge upon Sheffield; and were we to explore the tributary brooks, we should discover grinding wheels kept going by the current in romantic nooks and hollows. What a glorious sylvan country this must have been
“–in times of old,
When Locksley o’er the hills of Hallam chas’d
The wide-horn’d stag, or with his bowmen bold
Wag’d war on kinglings.”
Troops of women and girls were busy on the slopes gathering bilberries, others were washing the stains from their hands and faces at a roadside spring, others—who told me they had been out six miles—were returning with full baskets to the town. How they chattered! About an hour’s walking brings you to a descent; on one side the ground falls away precipitously from the road, on the other rises a rocky cliff, and at the foot you come to a bridge bestriding a lively brook that comes out of a wooded glen and runs swiftly down to the Rivelin. This is the “lone streamlet” so much loved by the poet, to which he addresses one of his poems:
“Here, if a bard may christen thee,
I’ll call thee Ribbledin.”
I turned from the road, and explored the little glen to its upper extremity; scrambling now up one bank, now up the other, wading through rank grass and ferns, striding from one big stone to another, as compelled by the frequent windings, rejoiced to find that, except in one particular, it still answered to the poet’s description:
“Wildest and lonest streamlet!
Gray oaks, all lichen’d o’er!
Rush-bristled isles, ye ivied trunks
That marry shore to shore!
And thou, gnarl’d dwarf of centuries,
Whose snak’d roots twist above me!
Oh, for the tongue or pen of Burns,
To tell ye how I love ye!”
The overhanging trees multiply, and the green shade deepens, as you ascend. At last I came to the waterfall—the loneliest nook of all, in which the Rhymer had mused and listened to the brook, as he says:
“Here, where first murmuring from thine urn,
Thy voice deep joy expresses;
And down the rock, like music, flows
The wildness of thy tresses.”
It was just the place for a day-dream. I sat for nearly an hour, nothing disturbing my enjoyment but now and then the intrusive thought that my holiday was soon to end. However, there is good promise of summers yet to come. I climbed the hill in the rear of the fall, where, knee-deep in heath and fern, I looked down on the top of the oaken canopy and a broad reach of the valley; and intended to return to the town by another road. But the attractions of the glen drew me back; so I scrambled down it by the way I came, and retraced my outward route.
The one particular in which the glen differs from Elliott’s description is, that an opening has been made for, as it appeared to me, a quarry or gravel-pit, from which a loose slope of refuse extends down to the brook, and encroaches on its bed, creating a deformity that shocks the feelings by what seems a desecration. I thought that Ribbledin, at least, might have been saved from spade and mattock; and the more so as Sheffield, poisoned by smoke, can ill afford to lose any place of recreative resort in the neighbourhood. It may be that I felt vexed; for after my return to London, I addressed a letter on the subject to the editor of the Sheffield Independent, in the hope that by calling public attention thereto, the hand of the spoiler might be stayed.
As I walked down to the railway-station the next morning in time for the first train, many of the chimneys had just began to vent their murky clouds, and the smoke falling into the streets darkened the early sunlight; and Labour, preparing to “bend o’er thousand anvils,” went with unsmiling face to his daily task.
Away sped the train for Manchester; and just as the Art Treasures Exhibition was opening for the day, I alighted at the door.
Less than half an hour spent in the building sufficed to show that it was a work of the north, not of the south. There was a manifest want of attention to the fitness of things, naturally to be looked for in a county where the bulk of the population have yet so much to learn; where manufacturers, with a yearly income numbered by thousands, can find no better evening resort than the public-house; where so much of the thinking is done by machinery, and where steam-engines are built with an excellence of workmanship and splendour of finish well-nigh incredible.
For seven hours did I saunter up and down and linger here and there, as my heart inclined—longest before the old engravings. And while my eye roved from one beautiful object to another, I wondered more and more that the Times and some other newspapers had often expressed surprise that so few comparatively of the working-classes visited the Manchester Exhibition. Those best acquainted with the working-classes, as a mass, know full well how little such an exhibition as that appeals to their taste and feelings. To appreciate even slightly such paintings and curiosities of art as were there displayed, requires an amount of previous cultivation rare in any class, and especially so in the working-classes. For the cream of Manchester society, the Exhibition was a fashionable exchange, where they came to parade from three to five in the afternoon—the ladies exhibiting a circumference of crinoline far more ample than I have ever seen elsewhere; and of them and their compeers it would be safe to argue that those attracted by real love of art were but tens among the thousands who went for pastime and fashion.
To me it seems, that of late, we have had rather too much talk about art; by far too much flattery of the artist and artificer, whereby the one with genius and the one with handicraft feel themselves alike ill-used if they are not always before the eyes of the world held up to admiration. And so, instead of a heart working inspired by love, we have a hand working inspired by hopes of praise. The masons who carved those quaint carvings at Patrington worked out the thought that was in them lovingly, because they had the thought, and not the mere ambitious shadow of a thought. And their work remains admirable for all time, for their hearts were engaged therein as well as heads and hands. But now education and division of labour are to do everything; that is, if flattery fail not; and in wood-engraving we have come to the pass that one man cuts the clouds, another the trees, another the buildings, and another the animal figures; while on steel plates the clouds are “executed” by machinery. For my part, I would be willing to barter a good deal of modern art for the conscience and common honesty which it has helped to obscure.
We are too apt to forget certain conclusions which ought to be remembered; and these are, according to Mr. Penrose, that “No government, however imperial, can create true taste, or combine excellence with precipitation; that money is lavished in vain where good sense guides neither the design nor the execution; and that art with freedom, of which she is one manifestation, will not condescend to visit the land where she is not invited by the spontaneous instincts, and sustained by the unfettered efforts of the people.”
