Life in Manchester may seem monotonous to a Parisian or to a Londoner, but it has strong peculiarities; and among its varied phases there are some employments little known to the rest of the world. Many a stranger, whilst wandering through the back streets of the city, has been puzzled at sight of little signboards, here and there, over the doors of dingy cottages, or at the head of a flight of steps, leading to some dark cellar-dwelling, containing the words, "Knocking-Up Done Here." To the uninitiated this seems a startling, and unnecessary announcement, in such a world as ours; and all the more so, perhaps, on account of the gloom and squalid obscurity of the quarters where such announcements are generally found. Horrible speculations have haunted many an alien mind whilst contemplating these rude signboards, until they have discovered that the business of the Knocker-Up is simply that of awakening people who have to go to work early in a morning; and the number of these is very great in a city like ours, where manufacturing employments mingle so largely with commercial life. Another reason why this curious employment is so common in Manchester may be that there are so many things there to lure a working man into late hours of enjoyment,—so many wild excitements that help to "knock him up," after his ordinary work is over, and when his time is his own, so many temptations to "lengthen his days by stealing a few hours from the night," that the services of the morning "Knocker-Up" are essential. For the factory-bell, like death, is inexorable in its call; and when, in the stillness of the morning, the long wand of the awakener comes tapping at the workman's window, he knows that he must rise and go; no matter how ill-prepared,—no matter how mis-spent his night may have been. He must go; or he knows full well the unpleasant consequence. If he likes he may try to ease his mind by crooning the words of that quaint lyric, "Up in a morning, na for me;" but, in the meantime, he must get up and go. He may sing it as he goes, if he likes; but whether he does so or not, he must walk his chalks, or else it will be worse for him. Apart from factory-workers, there are other kinds of workmen who need awakening in a morning; especially those connected with the building trades, whose hours of rising are sometimes uncertain, because they may be employed upon a job here to-day, and then upon one two or three miles off, to-morrow. Factory workers, too, are compelled, in many cases, to reside at considerable distances from the mills at which they are employed. These two classes of working people, however, are the principal customers of the "Knocker-Up."

Whoever has seen Manchester in the solitary loveliness of a summer morning's dawn, when the outlines of the buildings stand clear against the cloudless sky, has seen the place in an aspect of great beauty. In that hour of mystic calm, when the houses are all bathing in the smokeless air,—when the very pavement seems steeped in forgetfulness, and an unearthly spell of peaceful rapture lies upon the late disturbed streets,—that last hour of nature's nightly reign, when the sleeping city wears the beauty of a new morning, and "all that mighty heart is lying still;"—that stillest, loveliest hour of all the round of night and day,—just before the tide of active life begins to turn back from its lowmost ebb, or, like the herald drops of a coming shower, begins to patter, here and there, upon the sleepy streets once more; whoever has seen Manchester at such a time, has seen it clothed in a beauty such as noontide never knew. It is, indeed, a sight to make the heart "run o'er with silent worship." It is pleasant, even at such a time, to open the window to the morning breeze, and to lie awake, listening to the first driblets of sound that stir the heavenly stillness of the infant day:—the responsive crowing of far-distant cocks; the chirp of sparrows about the eaves and neighbouring house-tops; the barking of dogs; the stroke of some far-off church clock, booming with strange distinctness through the listening air; a solitary cart, jolting slowly along, astonished at the noise it is making. The drowsy street—aroused from its slumbers by those rumbling wheels—yawns and scratches its head, and asks the next street what o'clock it is.... Then come the measured footsteps of the slow-pacing policeman, longing for six o'clock; solitary voices conversing in the wide world of morning stillness; the distant tingle of a factory bell; the dull boom of escaping steam, let off to awake neighbouring workpeople; the whistle of the early train; and then,—the hurried foot, and "tap, tap, tap!" of the Knocker-Up. Soon after this, shutters begin to rattle, here and there; and the streets gradually become alive again.

He who has wandered about the city, with observant eye, at dawn of morning, may have seen men—and sometimes a woman—hurrying along the street, hot-foot, and with "eyes right," holding aloft long taper wands, like fishing-rods. These are Knockers-Up, going their hasty rounds, from house to house, to rouse the workman to his labour. They are generally old men, who are still active on foot; or poor widows, who retain sufficient vigour to enable them to stand the work; for it is an employment that demands not only severe punctuality, but great activity: there is so much ground to cover in so little time. It is like a "sprint-race"—severe whilst it lasts, but soon over. And the aim of the Knocker-Up is to get as many customers as possible within as small a circle as possible,—which greatly lessens the labour. A man who has to waken a hundred people, at different houses, between five and six o'clock, needs to have them "well under hand," as coachmen say. With this view, Knockers-Up sometimes exchange customers with one another, so as to bring their individual work as close together as possible. The rate of pay is from twopence to threepence per week for each person awakened; and the employment is sometimes combined with the keeping of a coffee-stall at some street end, where night stragglers, and early workmen, can get their breakfast of coffee and bread-and-butter, at the rate of a halfpenny per cup, and a halfpenny per slice for bread-and-butter. Sometimes, also, the Knocker-Up keeps a little shop in some back street, where herbs, and nettle beer, and green grocery, or fish, or children's spices are sold; and, after this fashion, many poor, faded folk,—too proud for pauperism,—eke out a thin, unostentatious living, out of the world's eye. So much for the occupation of the Knocker-Up. And now for a little incident which led to all this preamble.

The other day, as I sat poring over my papers, a startling knock came to the street door. It was one, solid, vigorous bang,—with no nonsense about it. It was heavy, sharp, straightforward, and clean-cut at the edges,—like a new flat-iron. There was no lady-like delicacy about it,—there was no tremulous timidity, no flabbiness, nor shakiness, nor billiousness, nor any kind of indication of ill-condition about that rap. It was sound—wind, limb, and all over. It was short and decisive,—in the imperative mood, present tense, and first person,—very singular; and there was no mistake about its gender—it was, indeed, massively masculine—and it came with a tone of swift authority—like a military command. It reminded me of "Scarborough warning,"—a word and a blow—and the blow first. That rap could stand on its own feet in the world,—and it knew it. It came boldly, alone, "withouten any companie,"—not fluttering, lame and feeble, with feeble supporters about it,—like a man on ricketty stilts, that can only keep his feet by touching carefully all round. It shot into the house like a cannon-ball, cutting a loud tunnel of strange din through the all-pervading silence within. The sleepy air leaped, at once, into wakefulness,—and it smote its forehead with sudden amazement, and gazed around to see what was the matter. I couldn't tell whatever to make of the thing. My first thought was that it must be the man who examines the gas meters, and that he was behind with his work, and in a bad temper about something. And then I began to think of my debts: it might be an indignant creditor, or some ruthless bully of a dun—which is a good deal worse—and I began to be unhappy. I sighed, from the bottom of my heart, and looked round the room in search of comfort. Alas! there was nothing there to cheer my sinking spirits. The drowsy furniture had started from its long-continued trance; and the four somnolent walls were staring at one another with wild eyes, and whispering, "What's that?" The clock was muttering in fearful undertones to the frightened drawers; and the astonished ceiling, as it gazed down at the trembling carpet, whispered to its lowly friend, "Look out!" as if it thought the whole house was coming down. I looked at my watch—for, indeed, I hardly knew where to look—and I began to apprehend that the fatal hour had come, at last, when we should have to part,—perhaps for ever. I looked at my poor old watch.... It had stopped.... The fact is, the little thing was stunned. The numerals had tears of terror in their eyes; and it held out its tiny hands for protection,—like a frightened child, flying to its mother from a strange tumult. I felt sorry for the little thing; and I rubbed the case with my coat sleeve, and then wound it gently up, by way of encouragement; and—the grateful, willing creature—it only missed about half a dozen beats or so, and then began ticking again, in a subdued way, as if it was afraid of being overheard by the tremendous visitor who had so furiously disturbed "the even tenor of its way." The whole house was fairly aroused; tables, chairs, pictures,—all were in a state of extraordinary wonderment. The cat was the only thing that kept its senses. It rose from the hearth, and yawned, and stretched itself; and then it came and rubbed its glossy fur soothingly against my leg, and whispered, "All serene! Don't faint!" In the meantime, I could imagine that rap,—as soon as it had delivered the summons,—listening joyfully outside, and saying to itself; with a chuckle, "I've wakened that lot up, for once!" ... At last I mustered courage, and, shaking myself together, I went to the door.

A little, wiry old man stood at the door. His clothing was whole, but rough, and rather dirty. An old cloth cap was on his grey head; and he was in a state of curious disorder from head to toe. He had no braces on; and he was holding his trousers up with one hand. I couldn't tell what to make of him. He was a queer-looking mortal; and he had evidently "been dining," as the upper ten thousand say when any of their own set get drunk. At the first glance, I thought he was begging; but I soon changed my mind about that, for the hardy little fellow stood bolt upright, and there was not the shadow of anything like cringing or whining about him. The little fellow puzzled me. He looked foggy and dirty; but he had an unmistakable air of work and rugged independence. Steadying himself with one hand against the door-cheek, he muttered something that I couldn't make out.

"Well; what is it?" said I.

Again he muttered something that sounded like "Knocked Up;" to which I mildly replied that he certainly looked as if he was so; and then I inquired what I could do for him; but, to my astonishment, this seemed to vex him. At last I found that he was a Knocker-Up, and that he had called for his week's "brass." I saw at once that the old man was astray; and the moment I told him where he was, his eyes seemed to fill with a new light, and he exclaimed, "By th' mon, aw'm i'th wrang street!" And then, holding his trousers up, still, with one hand, away he ran, and was no more seen by me.