The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 09Stevenson, Robert Louis
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The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 09
Stevenson, Robert Louis
English literature -- 19th century
A notion was current at the time that, in such a shop as Fairbairn's, a
pupil would never be popular unless he drank with the workmen and
imitated them in speech and manner. Fleeming, who would do none of these
things, they accepted as a friend and companion; and this was the
subject of remark in Manchester, where some memory of it lingers till
to-day. He thought it one of the advantages of his profession to be
brought in a close relation with the working classes; and for the
skilled artisan he had a great esteem, liking his company, his virtues,
and his taste in some of the arts. But he knew the classes too well to
regard them, like a platform speaker, in a lump. He drew, on the other
hand, broad distinctions; and it was his profound sense of the
difference between one working man and another that led him to devote so
much time, in later days, to the furtherance of technical education. In
1852 he had occasion to see both men and masters at their worst, in the
excitement of a strike; and very foolishly (after their custom) both
would seem to have behaved. Beginning with a fair show of justice on
either side, the masters stultified their cause by obstinate impolicy,
and the men disgraced their order by acts of outrage. "On Wednesday
last," writes Fleeming, "about three thousand banded round Fairbairn's
door at 6 o'clock: men, women, and children, factory boys and girls, the
lowest of the low in a very low place. Orders came that no one was to
leave the works; but the men inside (Knobsticks, as they are called)
were precious hungry and thought they would venture. Two of my
companions and myself went out with the very first, and had the full
benefit of every possible groan and bad language." But the police
cleared a lane through the crowd, the pupils were suffered to escape
unhurt, and only the Knobsticks followed home and kicked with clogs; so
that Fleeming enjoyed, as we may say, for nothing, that fine thrill of
expectant valour with which he had sallied forth into the mob. "I never
before felt myself so decidedly somebody, instead of nobody," he wrote.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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