CHAPTERXVIIIDEALING IN FUTURESDo I sleep? do I dream?Do I wonder and doubt?Are things what they seem?Or is visions about?Is our civilisation a failure?Or is the Caucasian played out?Bret Harte:“Further Language from Truthful James.”There are some who think that in Manchester the Caucasian is very much played out, but I am not of their number. I look back on the past history of the city and compare it with the present, and am still of opinion with Richard Cobden that Manchester is the place for all men of bargain and business. The gambling trade in bills no doubt belongs to London, but the real trade of making, collecting, and selling belongs to Manchester. For Manchester is the place where people do things.It is good to talk about doing things, but better still to do them. As a great teacher used to say to his art students: “Don’t talk about what you are going to do—do it.” That is the Manchester habit. And in the past through the manifestation of this quality the word Manchester became a synonymfor energy and freedom, and the right to do and to think without shackles.And as I say, there are some who think that the days of freedom and energy are gone, and that Manchester is “left as a cottage in a vineyard, as a lodge in a garden of cucumbers,” but I refuse to be of their party. For as I have read of the past, so I look round and see here to-day the old eternal fight going on, the contest between those who think anything is good enough for Manchester and those who think nothing is too good for Manchester. For these contending spirits are the Genii fighting over the soul and the body of the Master of the Event.And anon you find the good spirit in the ascendant, and a citizen raises an Owens College or a Whitworth Gallery or a Rylands Library that the name of Manchester may be magnified, and again the Evil Genie has gained the day and hardened the hearts of the rulers of the city, and they can only sit and talk and talk about necessary libraries and art galleries, having altogether lost the Manchester habit of doing them. And to those who are in despair about the hopelessness of the fight, let me recall that delightful American parable dear to my childhood, the Story of the two Frogs. There were, as I remember, two frogs who visited a dairy. One was an optimist and the other a pessimist. And the latter fell into a milk-can and swam about, gazing despondently at the shiny sides up which he could not crawl, and at last feebly ceased to struggle and sank to the bottom and was drowned. Now the optimist frog also fellinto a milk-can, and he too looked up at the shiny sides of the can, but he kept a good heart, and all through the night swam and kicked and struggled, until in the early dawn he found himself at the bottom of the can sitting on a pat of butter.That kind of spirit is not only to be found in frogdom. Richard Cobden had it, and calls it Bonapartian, “a feeling that spurs me on with the conviction that all the obstacles to fortune with which I am impeded will (nayshall) yield if assailed with energy.” That is the true Manchester spirit, and it is not dead to-day.And to my thinking, if you want to realise fully the wonderments that trade and commerce could produce if they would, turn into the real Manchester Cathedral—not the parish church which belongs to the past—but the Cathedral of to-day in Deansgate, the Rylands Library. Around you, seated in their stalls, are the great prophets and preachers of the world, clothed in glorious but perfectly legal vestments, not thrusting their messages uncivilly toward you, but waiting in dumb dignity until you feel worthy to approach and learn. And for my own part to reach one of those side niches, those pleasant pastures of study, harbours of letters in quiet creeks away from the main stream of the library, is to arrive at the haven where I would be. I do not grudge another his ritual and his music, and the sing-song of his priest. I only know that I feel better without them. For in this building I find an odour of sanctity not always to be found in churches.Here I have listened to sermons—voices from beyond—more eloquent in their wisdom than many preached in latter-day pulpits. Sitting in peace and at rest in this beautiful building, the dim ripple of the outer traffic just reaching my ear, I have often wondered whether all Manchester might not be builded and furnished in the same spirit of honour and worthiness. And being faintly imbued with the Manchester spirit myself, there are times when I believe that this will really be so. For my eyes refuse to see, even in nightmares, a picture of Manchester in ruins, with tourists tracking over the desert on hired camels to visit the remains of the Town Hall with its battered frescoes, and the shell of the Rylands Library, sole relics of a vanished city.My dreams and imagery are far otherwise, and I hold with the poet that eidolons are the entities of entities. And if I have ever appeared to the good librarians in Deansgate to have had my eyes closed in ecclesiastical slumber, it was not really so. I was seeing visions, dreaming dreams, or more truly perhaps, I had impelled my spirit into the future and had left my body, umbrella-wise, hypothecated in the safe keeping of the library officials. For in this method I have many times visited Manchester several hundred years hence, and my difficulty has always been to find the Rylands Library, or even the Town Hall, so many noble buildings of even finer proportions stood among the lawns and gardens and fountains of the city. And I had rather see visions of a New Manchester than a New Jerusalem.I know no prettier dream, if it be one, than to sail from Eastham up the pure waters of a wider canal and see the country folk resting after their day’s work in the dainty cabarets along the shores, and as the last lock gates close behind you and you swing into the great lagoon to the south of the city, the setting sun crimsons the clean stone and marble warehouses of a noble city. For this I can prophesy—it is information, not a tip—that if there is to be a Manchester at all some hundreds of years hence it will be a city without smoke, its people will be healthy and handsome, its Pharisees will be fewer, and all will breathe pure air and walk clean streets, and when a citizen’s day’s work is done he will be found angling for a trout in the church pool with a better chance of success than he would have to-day.But these futures depend on the good Genie of Manchester winning the battles of to-day. For when energy, freedom, and the power to do things depart from Manchester she will become “as an oak whose leaf fadeth, and as a garden that hath no water.”
Do I sleep? do I dream?Do I wonder and doubt?Are things what they seem?Or is visions about?Is our civilisation a failure?Or is the Caucasian played out?Bret Harte:“Further Language from Truthful James.”
Do I sleep? do I dream?Do I wonder and doubt?Are things what they seem?Or is visions about?Is our civilisation a failure?Or is the Caucasian played out?Bret Harte:“Further Language from Truthful James.”
Do I sleep? do I dream?
Do I wonder and doubt?
Are things what they seem?
Or is visions about?
Is our civilisation a failure?
Or is the Caucasian played out?
Bret Harte:
“Further Language from Truthful James.”
There are some who think that in Manchester the Caucasian is very much played out, but I am not of their number. I look back on the past history of the city and compare it with the present, and am still of opinion with Richard Cobden that Manchester is the place for all men of bargain and business. The gambling trade in bills no doubt belongs to London, but the real trade of making, collecting, and selling belongs to Manchester. For Manchester is the place where people do things.
It is good to talk about doing things, but better still to do them. As a great teacher used to say to his art students: “Don’t talk about what you are going to do—do it.” That is the Manchester habit. And in the past through the manifestation of this quality the word Manchester became a synonymfor energy and freedom, and the right to do and to think without shackles.
And as I say, there are some who think that the days of freedom and energy are gone, and that Manchester is “left as a cottage in a vineyard, as a lodge in a garden of cucumbers,” but I refuse to be of their party. For as I have read of the past, so I look round and see here to-day the old eternal fight going on, the contest between those who think anything is good enough for Manchester and those who think nothing is too good for Manchester. For these contending spirits are the Genii fighting over the soul and the body of the Master of the Event.
And anon you find the good spirit in the ascendant, and a citizen raises an Owens College or a Whitworth Gallery or a Rylands Library that the name of Manchester may be magnified, and again the Evil Genie has gained the day and hardened the hearts of the rulers of the city, and they can only sit and talk and talk about necessary libraries and art galleries, having altogether lost the Manchester habit of doing them. And to those who are in despair about the hopelessness of the fight, let me recall that delightful American parable dear to my childhood, the Story of the two Frogs. There were, as I remember, two frogs who visited a dairy. One was an optimist and the other a pessimist. And the latter fell into a milk-can and swam about, gazing despondently at the shiny sides up which he could not crawl, and at last feebly ceased to struggle and sank to the bottom and was drowned. Now the optimist frog also fellinto a milk-can, and he too looked up at the shiny sides of the can, but he kept a good heart, and all through the night swam and kicked and struggled, until in the early dawn he found himself at the bottom of the can sitting on a pat of butter.
That kind of spirit is not only to be found in frogdom. Richard Cobden had it, and calls it Bonapartian, “a feeling that spurs me on with the conviction that all the obstacles to fortune with which I am impeded will (nayshall) yield if assailed with energy.” That is the true Manchester spirit, and it is not dead to-day.
And to my thinking, if you want to realise fully the wonderments that trade and commerce could produce if they would, turn into the real Manchester Cathedral—not the parish church which belongs to the past—but the Cathedral of to-day in Deansgate, the Rylands Library. Around you, seated in their stalls, are the great prophets and preachers of the world, clothed in glorious but perfectly legal vestments, not thrusting their messages uncivilly toward you, but waiting in dumb dignity until you feel worthy to approach and learn. And for my own part to reach one of those side niches, those pleasant pastures of study, harbours of letters in quiet creeks away from the main stream of the library, is to arrive at the haven where I would be. I do not grudge another his ritual and his music, and the sing-song of his priest. I only know that I feel better without them. For in this building I find an odour of sanctity not always to be found in churches.Here I have listened to sermons—voices from beyond—more eloquent in their wisdom than many preached in latter-day pulpits. Sitting in peace and at rest in this beautiful building, the dim ripple of the outer traffic just reaching my ear, I have often wondered whether all Manchester might not be builded and furnished in the same spirit of honour and worthiness. And being faintly imbued with the Manchester spirit myself, there are times when I believe that this will really be so. For my eyes refuse to see, even in nightmares, a picture of Manchester in ruins, with tourists tracking over the desert on hired camels to visit the remains of the Town Hall with its battered frescoes, and the shell of the Rylands Library, sole relics of a vanished city.
My dreams and imagery are far otherwise, and I hold with the poet that eidolons are the entities of entities. And if I have ever appeared to the good librarians in Deansgate to have had my eyes closed in ecclesiastical slumber, it was not really so. I was seeing visions, dreaming dreams, or more truly perhaps, I had impelled my spirit into the future and had left my body, umbrella-wise, hypothecated in the safe keeping of the library officials. For in this method I have many times visited Manchester several hundred years hence, and my difficulty has always been to find the Rylands Library, or even the Town Hall, so many noble buildings of even finer proportions stood among the lawns and gardens and fountains of the city. And I had rather see visions of a New Manchester than a New Jerusalem.
I know no prettier dream, if it be one, than to sail from Eastham up the pure waters of a wider canal and see the country folk resting after their day’s work in the dainty cabarets along the shores, and as the last lock gates close behind you and you swing into the great lagoon to the south of the city, the setting sun crimsons the clean stone and marble warehouses of a noble city. For this I can prophesy—it is information, not a tip—that if there is to be a Manchester at all some hundreds of years hence it will be a city without smoke, its people will be healthy and handsome, its Pharisees will be fewer, and all will breathe pure air and walk clean streets, and when a citizen’s day’s work is done he will be found angling for a trout in the church pool with a better chance of success than he would have to-day.
But these futures depend on the good Genie of Manchester winning the battles of to-day. For when energy, freedom, and the power to do things depart from Manchester she will become “as an oak whose leaf fadeth, and as a garden that hath no water.”