Gonepteryx RhamniBrimstonePieris BrassicæLarge White„RapæSmall White„NapiGreen–veined WhiteAnthocaris CardaminesOrange TipHipparchia JaniraMeadow Brown„JithonusLarge Heath„HyperanthusWood RingletCœnonympha PamphilusSmall HeathCynthia CarduiPainted LadyVanessa AtalantaRed Admiral„IoPeacock„UrticæSmall Tortoise–shellMelitœa ArtemisGreasy FritillaryChrysophanus PhlœasSmall CopperPolyommatus AlexisCommon BlueThanaos TagesDingy SkipperPamphila SylvanusLarge SkipperProcris StaticesGreen ForesterAnthrocera TrifoliiFive–spot Burnet„FilipendulæSix–spot BurnetSesia BombyliformisNarrow–bordered Bee HawkHeliodes ArbutiSmall Yellow UnderwingEuclidia MiMother Shipton„GlyphicaBurnet
The past twenty–five years, it is to be feared, have told as heavily upon the Lepidoptera as upon the primroses and the cowslips, the latter also now far between. The birds, likewise, have greatly diminished in numbers, partly in consequence of the extreme severity of the trio of hard winters which commenced with that of 1878–9. We have also to lament the death of Mr. Edleston.
When the month of MayIs come, and I can hear the small birds sing,And the fresh flourès have begun to spring,Good bye, my book! devotion, too, good bye!
When the month of MayIs come, and I can hear the small birds sing,And the fresh flourès have begun to spring,Good bye, my book! devotion, too, good bye!
CHAUCER.
THE path to the Ashley meadows offers the best point of departure also for far–famed Rostherne, for although the distance is somewhat less from the “Ashley” station, the old route past Bowdon vicarage remains the most enjoyable. Going behind it, through a little plantation, we proceed, with many curves, yet without perplexity, into the lane which looks down upon the eastern extremity of the mere; then, crossing the fields, into the immediate presence, as rejoiced in at the margin of the graveyard of the church, which last is without question one of the most charmingly placed in England, and in its site excites no wonder that it was chosen for the ancient Saxon consecration, as declared in the primitive name, Rodestorne,“the lake (or tarn) of the Holy Cross.” The peculiar charm of Rostherne Mere, compared with most other Cheshire waters of similar character, comes of its lying so much in a hollow, after the manner of many of the most delicious lakes of Westmoreland, Cumberland, and the romantic parts of Scotland; the area of the surface being at the same time so considerable that there is no suggestion, as sometimes with smaller meres when lying in hollows, of the gradual gathering there of the produce of rain–torrents, or even of the outcome of natural springs. At Rostherne one learns not only what calmness means, and what a broken fringe of diverse trees can do for still water. Contemplating it from the graveyard, we seem to have a fragment of the scenery of our beautiful world as it showed,—begging pardon of the geologists and the evolutionists,—“When the morning–stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy.” The depth of the water is remarkable. About a third of the distance across, from near the summer–house, it is over a hundred feet, thus as nearly as possible two–thirds of the depth of the English Channel at the Straits of Dover, where the lead sinks lowest; and a third of what it is anywhere between Dover and the Eddystone lighthouse, so that our lovely Rostherne Mere may well assert its claim to be of almost maritime profundity. The area of the surface is one hundred and fifteen statute acres. In the church there is a monument which it is worth all the journey to see,—Westmacott’s sculptured marble in memory of Miss Beatrix Egerton.
Rostherne, in turn, is the pleasantest way of pedestrian approach to Tatton Park, so liberally opened to visitors by Lord Egerton, on compliance with certain rules. Visitors bent on seeing Tatton only, should go part way from Bowdon by vehicle; for here, as at Cotterill, we want, as in a picture–gallery, every minute, and to let too much time be consumed in mere travel is a mistake. To make a too hasty and thoughtless use of our opportunities of pleasure is in any case to throw away the half of them; the pleasure of the country beyond all others requires a calm and unhurried step, a free and unwistful mind and eye, such as cannot possibly be if, by waste or extravagance, we are “tied to time,”—only when, by a wise economy of our resources in this respect, we liberate ourselves from care about trains and timebills, do we catch nature’s sweetest smiles. The boundary measurement of this beautiful park is upwards of ten miles, and of its two thousand one hundred and thirty–five acres no fewer than four hundred are occupied by woods and plantations, with seventy–nine acres of water. Here we may stroll beneath green vaults of foliage, and be reminded of the aisles of cathedrals. Here we may contemplate theviridis senectusof glorious old oaks that have watched the flow of generations. Here, in autumn, we learn, from a thousand old foresters—from beech, and chestnut, and elm—that brave men, though overtaken by inclemencies there is no withstanding, still put a good face upon their fallen fortunes, and, like Cæsar, who drew his purple around him, die royally; and at Christmas,when the wind seems to mourn amid the denuded boughs, here again we feel how grand is the contrasted life of the great, green, shining, scarlet–beaded hollies that in summer we took no note of. The gardens, including conservatories and fernery, access to all of which is likewise liberally permitted, are crowded with objects of interest—one hardly knows whether inside their gates, or outside, is the more delectable. The park was up till quite recently, the play–ground of nearly a thousand deer, and still (1882) contains many hundreds. The sight of them is one of the pleasures of the return walk to Knutsford, to which place Tatton Park more especially pertains.
Knutsford, an admirable centre, is reached immediately, by train. But it must not be overlooked that there is a very pleasant field–way thereto from Mobberley, and that the path to Mobberley itself, one of the most ancient of the Cheshire villages, is always interesting,—starting, that is to say, from Ashley station. Every portion of it is quiet and enjoyable, and those who love seclusion would scarcely find another so exactly suited to their taste. Soon after entering the fields, the path dives through a little dell threaded by the Birkin (an affluent of the Bollin), then goes on through lanes which in May are decked plenteously with primroses. The way, perhaps, is rather intricate,—so much the better for the exercise of our sagacity. Let not the “day of small things” be despised. The Birkin is one of the little streams that in the great concourse called theMersey does honour at last to the British Tyre. Drayton notices it in the Poly–olbion (1622) —
From hence he getteth Goyte down from her Peakish spring,And Bollen, that along doth nimbler Birkin bring.[7]
From hence he getteth Goyte down from her Peakish spring,And Bollen, that along doth nimbler Birkin bring.[7]
The church, as would be anticipated, presents much that is interesting to the ecclesiologist. Near the chancel stands the accustomed and here undilapidated old village graveyard yew, emblem of immortality, life triumphing over death, therefore so suitable,—this particular one at Mobberley the largest and most symmetrical within a circuit of many miles. Across the road, hard by, an ash–tree presents a singularly fine example of the habit of growth called “weeping,”—not the ordinary tent–form seen upon lawns, but lofty, and composed chiefly of graceful self–woven ringlets, a cupola of green tresses, beautiful at all seasons, and supplying, before the leaves are out, a capital hint to every one desirous of learning trees—as they deserve to be learned. For to this end trees must be contemplated almost every month in the year, when leafless as well as leafy. A grand tree is like a great poem—not a thing to be glanced at with a thoughtless “I have read it,” but to be studied, and with remembrance of what once happened on the summit of mount Ida.
On the Cotterill side of Mobberley, or Alderley way,the country resembles that in the vicinity of Castle Mill, consisting of gentle slopes and promontories, often wooded, and at every turn presenting some new and agreeable feature. The little dells and cloughs, each with its stream of clear water scampering away to the Bollin, are delicious. The botany of Cotterill is also recapitulated in its best features; mosses of the choicest kinds grow in profusion on every bank,—Hypna, with large green feathery branches, like ferns in miniature;Jungermanniasalso; and the noblest plants of the hart’s–tongue fern that occur in the district. One of the dells positively overflows with it, excepting, that is, where the ground is not pre–occupied by the prickly shield–fern. Burleyhurst Wood, close by, contains abundance of the pretty green–flowered true–love,Paris quadrifolia, more properlytrulove, the name referring not to the sentiment itself, but to the famous old four–fold symbol of engagement which in heraldry reappears in “quartering.” All the spring flowers open here with the first steps of the renewed season; and most inspiring is it, at a time when on the north side of the town there is nothing to be seen but an early coltsfoot, to find one’s self greeted in these sweet and perennially green woods, by the primrose, the anemone, the butter–bur, and the golden saxifrage,—and not as single couriers, but plentiful as the delight they give, mingling with the great ferns bequeathed by the autumn, as travellers tell us palms and fir–trees intermix on tropical mountains, while theMarchantiaadds another charm in its curious cones, and the smoothround cups of thePezizaglow like so many vases of deepest carnelian. In the aspect of vegetation in early spring, as it discloses itself at Mobberley and at equal distance north of the town, there is the difference of a full month. Such at least was the case in 1858, the year in which these lines were written. There is no occasion to return to Ashley by the same path. Mobberley station is scarcely more than a mile from the village, and of course would be preferred when the object is to reach the latter promptly.
Knutsford, celebrated as the scene of Mrs. Gaskell’s “Cranford,” commands many pleasant walks, and is the threshold not only to Tatton, but to several other parks and estates of great celebrity. Booth Hall, with its noble avenue of lindens, the winding sylvan wilderness called Spring Wood, and its ample sheet of ornamental water, decked with lilies, and in parts filled with that most curious aquatic, theStratiotes, is of considerable historic interest;—Toft, a mile to the south, with its stately avenue, now of elms, in triple rows;—and Tabley, about a mile to the west, the park once again with a spacious mere, also have high claims upon the attention of every one who has the opportunity of entering. Tabley is peculiarly interesting in its ancient hall, which stands upon an island in the upper portion of the mere, and dates from the time of Edward III. Only a remnant now exists, but being covered with ivy, it presents a most picturesque appearance. When will people see in that peerless evergreen not a foe, but an inestimable friend,such as it is when knives and shears, and the touch of the barbarian are forbidden? It is the ivy that has preserved for the archæologist many of the most precious architectural relics our country possesses. Where ivy defends the surface, nothing corrodes or breaks away.
Toft Park gives very agreeable access to Peover,—a place which may also be reached pleasantly from Plumbley, the station next succeeding Knutsford. Not “rich” botanically, the field–path is still one of the most inviting in the district. The views on either side, cheerful at all seasons, are peculiarly so in spring, when the trees are pouring their new green leaves into the sunshine, and the rising grass and mingled wild–flowers flood the ground with living brightness. In parts, towards the end of May, there is hereabouts an unwonted profusion of Shakspeare’s “Lady–smock.” We admit, admiringly, that it “paints the meadows with delight:”—to the first impression, when gathered and in the hand, it scarcely seems “silver–white.” A single spray in the hand is unquestionablylilac, faint and translucent, but still lilac, exquisitely veined. Beware. Shakspeare, when he talks of flowers may always be trusted. At all events his only error is that curious one inCymbeline.[8]Viewed from a little distance, and obliquely, the effect of a plentiful carpet of this lovely wild–flower is distinctly and decidedly “silver–white.” In all things a good deal depends upon the angleat which we look, and never is the rule more needed than when the subject is one of delicate tint. They were keen observers, depend upon it, who in the Middle Ages gave name and fame at the same moment to the pretty flowers that still preserve the ancient association with “Our Lady,” the Virgin Mary. Lower Peover church is one of the few examples extant of the old–fashioned timber structure, the greater portion of the interior being constructed of oak, while externally, excepting the stone Elizabethan tower, it is “magpie,” or black and white, like so many of the old Cheshire halls and ancient manor–houses. An epitaph in the graveyard is not without suggestiveness:—
Peaceable Mary Fairbrother,1766. Aged 90.
For the return walk there is a cheerful route through fields and lanes to Knutsford, entering the town behind the prison; or, for variety, there is Lostock Gralam station.
Pushing a few miles further, we find ourselves at Northwich, a place at which there is little occasion to delay, unless it be wished to inspect one of the salt mines, permission to do so being asked previously of the proprietors. At Whitsuntide the public are in a certain sense invited, and truly, a more interesting and wonderful spectacle than is furnished by the Marston mine it would be hard to provide for holiday pleasure. But at present we are seeking enjoyment upon the surface, and to this end the journey should now be continued to Hartford,the station for Vale Royal. “Vale Royal” is essentially the name of the immense expanse of beautiful, though nearly level, country over which the eye ranges when we stand amid the ruins of Beeston Castle. It is still worthy of the praise lavished on it in 1656. “The ayre of Vale Royall,” says the old historian of that date, “is verie wholesome, insomuch that the people of the country are seldom infected with Disease or Sicknesse, neither do they use the help of Physicians, nothing so much, as in other countries. For when any of them are sick, they make him a posset, and tye a kerchief on his head; and if that will not amend him, then God be mercifull to him! The people there live to be very old: some are Grandfathers, their fathers yet living, and some are Grandfathers before they be married.... They be very gentle and courteous, ready to help and further one another; in Religion very zealous, howbeit somewhat addicted to Superstition: otherwise stout, bold, and hardy: withal impatient of wrong, and ready to resist the Enemy or Stranger that shall invade their country.... Likewise be the women very friendly and loving, in all kind of Housewifery expert, fruitful in bearing Children after they be married, and sometimes before.... I know divers men which are but farmers that may compare therein with a Lord or Baron in some Countreys beyond the Seas.”—A considerable portion of this great expanse is represented in the still current appellation of Delamere Forest,—a term not to be understood as meaning that it was at any time covered by timber–trees, either indigenousor planted, but that it was “outside,”ad foras, a wild, uncultivated and comparatively barren tract as opposed to districts that were well farmed and sprinkled plentifully with habitations. Trees there were, doubtless, and in abundance, but thebonâ fidewoods occupied only a part of the “forest” in the aggregate. An idea of such a forest as Delamere was in the olden time is very easily formed. We need do no more than think of that imperishable one, “exempt from public haunt,” where Rosalind found her verses, with its stream–side where the
Poor sequester’d stag,That from the hunter’s aim had ta’en a hurtDid come to languish.
Poor sequester’d stag,That from the hunter’s aim had ta’en a hurtDid come to languish.
The “forest,” so late as two centuries ago, comprised no fewer than eleven thousand acres of wood and wilderness. Much has now been brought under cultivation, so that only about eight thousand acres remain untilled, and of these about one–half have been planted with Scotch fir, whence the peculiar and solemn aspect which masses of conifers alone can bestow.
Entering this part of the “Vale,” we are at once attracted to the beautiful park, woods, and waters, distinguished particularly as “Vale Royal,” or in full, Vale Royal Abbey, the mansion,—the ancient country seat of the Cholmondeley family—being nearly upon the site of the famous monastic home founded in 1277 by Edward I. Lord Delamere liberally permits access to the grounds, the approaches to which are eminently sweet and pleasant. The railway should be quitted atHartford, quiet lanes from which place lead into the valley of the Weaver.[9]Thence we move to the margin of Vale Royal Mere, with choice, upon arrival, of one of the most charming sylvan walks in Cheshire, obtained by going through the wood, or a more open path along the opposite shore. To take one path going, the other returning, and thus to secure the double harvest, of course is best. So, for the final homeward journey, which should not be by way of Hartford, butviâCuddington. A drive through the glorious fir–plantations which abut upon Vale Royal carries the privileged to another most beautiful scene,—Oulton Park, the country seat of the Grey–Egertons. Here again is a sheet of lilied water; here, too, are some of the noblest trees in Cheshire, including one of the most remarkable lindens the world contains.
For the visitor to Delamere Forest there is after all no scene more inspiring than is furnished by Eddisbury. Cuddington station will do for this, but the walk is rather too long; it is best to go direct to “Delamere,” thence along the road a short distance, and so to the foot of the hill. In the time of the Heptarchy, it was an important stronghold. Rising to the height of five hundred and eighty–four feet above the sea, when inA.D.914 thatadmirable lady, Ethelfleda, daughter of Alfred, and widow of Ethelred, king of Mercia, sought to establish herself in positions of great strength, her feminine sagacity at once pointed to Eddisbury as impregnable. Ethelfleda, says the old chronicler, was “the wisest lady in England, an heroic princess; she might have been called a king rather than a lady or a queen. King Edward, her brother, governed his life, in his best actions, by her counsels.” We have admirable women of our own living among us—women in every sense queenly by nature:—let us never forget, in our gratitude to God for the gift of them, that in the past there were prototypes of the best. Continued in her rule, by acclamation, after the death of her husband, Ethelfleda, “the lady of the Mercians,” reigned for eight years. Rather more than eleven acres of the green mound we are now speaking of were defensively enclosed by her, partly with palings, partly with earthworks, traces of which remain to this day. Frail and perishable in its materials, the “city of Eddisbury,” as historians call this once glorious though simple settlement, in the very nature of things could not last. A good river, essential to the prosperity of an inland town, it did not possess. After the death, moreover, of Ethelfleda, who went to her rest in 920, the subsidence of the Danish invasions reduced the importance of such fortresses, and so, by slow degrees, the famous old “city” disappeared. The name of Eddisbury occurs, it is true, in Domesday Book, but apparently as a name and nothing besides. Places like Eddisbury are to Englandwhat the sites of Nineveh and Palmyra are to the world. Standing upon their greensward, the memory of great things and greater people passes before the mind in long and animating procession. The once so great and powerful “Queen of the East,” proud, chaste, literary Zenobia, was not nobler in her way than Saxon Ethelfleda. Thinking of her, pleasant it is to note how the little wild–flowers, the milk–wort and the eyebright, the unchanged heritors of the ground, are virtually just as she left them. Upon these, in such a spot, Time lays no “effacing finger.” “States fall, arts fade, but Nature doth not die.” Not without interest, either, is the fact that from the name of the people or kingdom she ruled so well, comes that of our chief local river. The Mersey was the dividing line between Mercia and Northumbria, and of the former it preserves memorable tradition. All the way up the stream till we get to the hill country, the topographical names further illustrate the ancient Saxon presence. The view from storied Eddisbury is of course very extensive and delightful, including, to–day, the venerable Cathedral of Chester, Halton Castle, and the broad bosom of the river, not to mention the boundless champaign to the south and east, and afar off, in the quiet west, grey mountains that seem to lean against the sky.
The “Delamere Hotel,” to which all visitors to these regions very naturally bend their steps, is the place to enquire at for the exact way to the borders of Oakmere; most pleasing, after Rostherne, of the Cheshire waters.For here, in the autumnal sunshine, the soft wind is prone so to waft over the dimpling surface that it becomes covered with lucid ripples, while at the margin, if the “crimson weeds” of the mermaids’ country are not present, there are pretty green ones that “lie like pictures on the sands below,”
With all those bright–hued pebbles that the sunThrough the small waves so softly shines upon.
With all those bright–hued pebbles that the sunThrough the small waves so softly shines upon.
The borders of Oakmere abound with curious plants. One of the rarest of British grasses, theCalamagrostis stricta, grows here. The locality is also a noted one for theUtricularia minor, though we do not find that interesting fern of the Vale Royal wood, theLastrea Thelypteris.
Contemplating this lovely mere, whether from Eddisbury, or its own borders, and remembering the many similar waters close by,[10]a group, after that one to which Windermere leads the way, without parallel in our island, it is impossible not to feel curious as to their history. The simple fact appears to be that all, or nearly all the Vale Royal meres are referable to the existence, underneath, of great salt crystal beds which give occupation to the people of Northwich. The surface–soil of the Cheshire salt district consists of a few feet of drift–sand or clay. Below this there is a considerable depth of “New red marl,” and below this there is good reason tobelieve there is a nearly continuous bed or deposit of the crystal. The “new red sandstone” rock in which these deposits are embedded, is very porous and much jointed. Water is constantly filtering into them from above; the salt crystal, exposed to its action, slowly dissolves into brine, which, as the height is at least a hundred feet above the sea–level, slowly drains away. Then the overlying strata gradually sink; depressions are caused, of less or greater magnitude, and in course of time these become basins of water. Mr. Edw. Hull, the distinguished geologist, considers that should the process go on, the whole of the valley of the Weaver will some day be submerged. Most of the salt sent from Cheshire is prepared from this natural brine. To extract the crystal is not so cheap as to let the water do the mining, then to pump up the solution, and evaporate it.
“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the spider to the fly:“’Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.”
“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the spider to the fly:“’Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.”
OLD SONG.
SHOULD any of our unknown companions in these rambles be vegetarians, they will please here take notice that Carrington Moss is in the summer–time a scene of ravenous slaughter such as cannot but be exceedingly painful and shocking to them. It will appear the more repulsive from the high character for innocence ordinarily borne by the destroyers, who are the last beings in the world we should expect to find indulging in personal cruelty, much less acting the part of perfidious sirens. Having given this warning, our friends will of course have only themselves to blame should they persist in following us to the spectacle we are about to describe; and now it only remains to say that the perpetrators of the deeds alluded to areplants! People are apt to look upon plants simply as things thatjust grow up quietly and inoffensively, open their flowers, love the rain, in due time ripen their seeds, then wither and depart, leaving no more to be recorded of their life and actions than comes of the brief span of the little babe that melts unweaned from its mother’s arms. This is quite to mistake their nature. So far from being uniform, and unmarked by anything active, the lives of plants are full from beginning to end of the most curious and diversified phenomena. Not that they act knowingly, exercising consciousness and volition,—this has been the dream only of a few enthusiasts,—but taking one plant with another, the history of vegetable life is quite a romance, and scarcely inferior in wonderful circumstance to that of animals. So close is the general resemblance of plants to animals, as regards the vital processes and phenomena, that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to point out a single fact in connection with the one that has not a counterpart, more or less exact, among the other. The animal world is a repetition in finer workmanship of the vegetable. As for harmlessness and inoffensiveness in plants, these are the very last qualities to be ascribed to them. Pleasant are fragrant flowers, and sweet fruits, and wholesome herbs, but these tell only half the tale. No wild beast of the forest rends with sharper teeth than grow on thorn–trees of different kinds; if the wasp darts its poisoned sting into our flesh, so does the nettle; if snakes’ bites be mortal, so is the venomous juice of the deadly nightshade. Not in the least surprising is it, then, that weshould find certain plants indicating a propensity to prey. Animals of lower degree as regards every other disposition of life, why should they not participate in this one? That they do so is plain. Though as a rule, plants feed upon watery and gaseous matters, supplied by the earth and atmosphere, the members of at least two curious tribes, theSarracenias, and theDroseraceæor “Sundews,” depend not alone on solutions of manure, or other long–since–decayed organic substances, prepared by chemical action, but collect fresh animal food on their own behalf. The latter include the plants that may be seen engaged in their predatory work upon Carrington Moss.
Before entering upon the consideration of them, we may take the opportunity, furnished by this long wordDroseraceæ, of saying a little about the “hard names” so often charged upon botanical science. It is continually asked what need is there to call flowers by those excruciating Latin titles. Why cannot they have plain English names? Why must all our names be
Like the verbum Græcum,Spermagoraiolekitholakapolides,Words that should only be said upon holidays,When one has nothing else to do?
Like the verbum Græcum,Spermagoraiolekitholakapolides,Words that should only be said upon holidays,When one has nothing else to do?
Many make it a ground of abstaining from the study of botany altogether, that the names are so hard to learn, as if every other science and species of knowledge, including history and geography, were not equally full of hard words. But look now at the simple truth of the matter. Very many of the common or “English” names of flowers are in reality their botanical or Latin ones, asfuchsia, laburnum, camellia, geranium, iris, verbena, rhododendron, so that it is not a question of language after all. To be consistent, these names should be left to the professional man, and “English” ones be manufactured in their place; it is clear, however, that they can quite easily be learned and spoken, Latin though they are, and if some can be mastered and found simple enough, of course others can. Besides, what would it advantage us to substitute really English names for them? Nothing would be gained except a synonym, by saying, as we might, “crimson–drop” instead of fuchsia, or “golden–rain” instead of laburnum; while very much would be lost in precision by using a name of obscure and uncertain origin, and upon which even one’s own neighbours might not be agreed, instead of a term fixed by the great leaders in the science of botany, whose judgment all respect, and which is accepted by every nation of the civilised world. It is quite as necessary to call plants by determinate scientific names as to call a certain constellation Orion, and a certain island Spitzbergen. Botanists do not call plants by Latin names simply out of pedantry, or to make their science difficult, but for the sake of clearness and uniformity. None of the botanical names are so hard as it is fancied; the Lancashire botanists in humble life have no trouble with them; the real difficulty is in not caring anything about the objects they are applied to. We do not find those who make so much outcry about the Latin names particularly anxious to learn the English ones either. The English names arenot thrown overboard by their Latin companions. All true botanists, so far from rejecting or despising English names, love them and continually use them, substituting the Latin synonyms only when scientific accuracy requires.
Let us now proceed to the sundews, first describing the way to their habitation. All the mosses about Manchester possess these curious plants, but Carrington Moss is the most readily accessible, lying only a little distance south–west of Sale. From the station we go for about a mile in the direction of Ashton–upon–Mersey, then turn up one of the lanes upon the left, and look out for a grove of dark fir–trees, which, being close upon the borders of the moss, is an excellent guide. The edge of the moss is being drained and brought under cultivation; all this part, along with the ditches, must be crossed, and the higher, undisturbed portion ascended, and as soon as we are up here we find the objects of our search. Among the heather are numberless little marshes, filled with pea–greenSphagnum, and containing often a score or two of the sundews, some of them with round leaves, about a third of an inch across, and growing in flat rosettes of half–a–dozen; others, with long and slender leaves that grow erect. Every leaf is set round with bright red hairs, which spread from it like eyelashes, while similar but shorter hairs cover the surface. When the plant is full–grown and healthy, these hairs exude from their points little drops of sticky and limpid fluid, which, glittering like the diamonds of Aurora, show the reason of the poetical English name, sundew.Directly that any little fly or midge comes in contact with the sticky drops, the unfortunate creature is taken captive, just as birds are caught with bird–lime. Held fast in its jewelled trap, the poor prisoner soon expires; and then, either its juices or the gaseous products of the decomposition, appear to be absorbed by the plant, and thus to constitute a portion of its diet. This is rendered the more probable by the experiments of the late Mr. Joseph Knight, of Chelsea, who fed the large American flycatcher, theDionæa, with fibres of raw beef, and found the plant all the better for its good dinners. Certainly it cannot be asserted positively that the Drosera is nourished by its animal prey, but it is difficult to imagine that so extraordinary and successful an apparatus is given to these plants for the mere purpose of destroying midges, and that the higher purpose of food is not the primary one. On the larger leaves may generally be seen relics of the repast, shrivelled bodies, wings, and legs, reminding one of the picked bones that strew the entrance to the giant’s cavern in the fairy tale. Sundew plants may be kept in a parlour, by planting them in a dishful of green moss, which must be constantly flooded with water, and covering the whole with a glass shade. Exposed to the sunshine, their glittering drops come out abundantly, but the redness of the hairs diminishes sensibly, owing, perhaps, to their being denied their natural prey. The flowers of these singular plants are white, and borne on slender stalks that rise to the height of three or four inches. The roots survive the winter.
Carrington Moss is further remarkable for the profuse growth of that beautiful flower, the Lancashire asphodel, which, at the end of July and the beginning of August, lights it up with flambeaux of bright yellow. Here also grow theRhyncospora alba, the cranberry, the Andromeda, and the cotton–sedge, all in great abundance; and on the margin, among the ditches, luxuriant grasses peculiar to moorland, and the finest specimens of the purple heather that are anywhere to be seen so near Manchester. The rich sunset–like lustre of this sturdy but graceful plant renders it one of the loveliest ornaments of our country when summer begins to wane into autumn. Branches, gathered when in full bloom, and laid to dry in the shade, retain their freshness of form and pretty colour for many months, and serve very pleasingly to mix with honesty and everlastings for the winter decoration of the chimneypiece. Intermixed with the heather grows theErica tetralix, or blushing–maiden heath, an exceedingly elegant species, with light pink flowers, collected in dense clusters at the very summit of the stalk. The immediate borders of the moss, and the lanes approaching it, are prolific in curious plants. To go no further, indeed, quite repays a visit. July is the best time. Then the foxgloves lift their magnificent crimson spires, and the purple–tufted vetch trails its light foliage and delicate clusters beneath the woodbines; and the tall bright lotus in coronets of gold, and the meadow–sweet, smelling like hawthorn, make the lady–fern look its greenest, while in the fields alongside stands, in all its pride of yellowand violet, the great parti–coloured dead–nettle, which here grows in luxuriant perfection. Up to the very end of autumn this district is quite a garden to the practical botanist. Where cultivated and uncultivated land adjoin, just as where land and sea come in contact, there is always found the largest variety and plenty, alike of vegetable and of animal life; and nowhere is this more marked than on the borders of Carrington Moss. The cottages near the moss are but few. Tea may be procured nevertheless, if we are content to run the risk of there being no milk, which, like fish by the sea–side, is often a scarce thing even in the heart of the country; but on a pleasant summer evening, when everything else is fair and contenting, he must be a grumbler indeed who would letthisspoil his enjoyment. Half a loaf enjoyed with one’s friends, far away in the sweet silence of nature, and a happy walk home afterwards, with loving faces right and left, is better, ten times over, than a luxurious meal got by coming away prematurely. All this part of the country is remarkable also for the luxuriance of its culinary vegetables. The rhubarb is some of the finest grown near Manchester, and it is quite a treat to look at the beans.
Another way to the moss, available for residents at Bowdon, is through Oldfield, and by Seaman’s Moss Bridge, where we cross the Warrington railway, to Sinderland, looking out when thus far for a lane upon the right, bordered first by birch–trees and afterwards by oaks. All these lanes, like those on the Ashton side ofthe moss, are remarkably rich in wild–flowers and ferns, the latter including the royal fern, or Osmunda, and in early summer show great plenty of the white lychnis, called, from not opening its petals till evening, thevespertina. The pink–flowered lychnis, the “brid–e’en” or “bird’s eye” of the country people, is, like the telegraph office, “open always.” Here we may perceive the use of Latin or botanical names; for “bird’s eye” is applied to many different plants in different parts of England, so that a botanist at a distance who might chance to read these lines could not possibly tell what flower was meant, whereas, in “Lychnis vespertina” there is certainty for all. Whoever is fond of blackberries and wild raspberries would do well to make acquaintance with these pretty lanes; whoever, too, is fond of solitude—a state not fit for all, nor for any man too prolongedly, but a true friend to those who can use it. If we would thoroughly enjoy life, we should never overlook the value of occasional solitude. It is one of the four things which we should get a little of, if possible, every day of our lives, namely, reading, good music, sport with little children, and utter seclusion from the busy world.
The number of mosses and moors in the neighbourhood of Manchester makes it interesting—as in the case of the Cheshire meres, to know something of their origin. The wonderful discoveries of geology, with regard to the crust of the earth, and the successive deposition of the strata of which it is composed, claim our attention scarcely more than the history of the surface, which hasundergone changes quite as momentous to the welfare of man, and no part of that history is more curious, perhaps, than that of the mosses. Wherever a moss now extends in wet and dreary waste, it would seem that there was once a plain or expanse of tolerably dry land, more or less plentifully covered with trees and underwood, but subject, by reason of the depressed level, to frequent inundation, just as we see the fields at Sale and Stretford flooded every now and then at the present day. The falling of the older and weaker trees, in consequence of the long–continued wetness, and the want of a steady and complete outlet for the accumulated waters, would soon cause the place to assume the character of a marsh,—neither land nor lake,—and now semi–amphibious plants would not be slow to spring up, for wherever such conditions of surface are exchanged for dry ones, plants of that nature appear as if by magic. The morass thus formed and occupied, would in a single season become knee–deep in the very same kind of mixture as that which now forms the outer skin of Carrington Moss, viz., heather of different kinds, cotton–sedges, and bog–moss. Every successive year the original mass of roots and stems would be left deeper and deeper beneath by the new and upward growth of the vegetation above; till at last, saturated with wet, and pressed by the weight of the superincumbent matter, it would acquire the compact form which is now called “peat.” The original moisture of the place, instead of diminishing, would be incessantly reinforced from the clouds, and the lapse of a few centurieswould pile up on the surface of the once dry ground, a heap many yards in vertical thickness of half–decayed, half–living heath and moss, with sundews, cotton–sedges, and asphodels on the top. The branches of the trees drowned and entombed at the beginning, would remain where they fell, slowly decaying, but retaining their character well enough to be recognised, and hence wherever a moss is now drained, and portions of the original deposit are dug out, there are generally found mixed with it branches and fragments that in a measure may be likened to fossils. Carrington Moss, in parts where drained, is strewed with such bits of the silver birch, declared by the shining whiteness of the bark. The trees that these bits belonged to no doubt grew tall and leafy on the spot that is now their sepulchre and memorial. Flowers and seeds of bog plants are also found low down in the moss, almost as fresh as if newly fallen. In the middle, these vast vegetable tumuli are often twenty or thirty feet deep. In any part a walking–stick may be plunged in for its full length, and though by stepping and standing on the denser tufts of heather, it is quite easy to walk about dry–shod, it is quite as easy by uncarefulness, especially after wet weather, to be in a pool of water up to the ankle in a few minutes. There is nodangerin walking upon the mosses, merely this little risk of getting wet–footed, which is more than compensated by the curious objects that may be found upon them. In winter and dull weather they are desolate enough, but on a summerafternoon full of reward. Owing to their immense capacity for absorption, many mosses swell into mounds higher than the surrounding country, as happens at Carrington; and after heavy rains this enlargement is so much increased that distant objects are concealed from view until evaporation and drainage have caused subsidence to the ordinary level. Before Ashton Moss (between Droylsden and Ashton–under–Lyne) was drained, trees and houses were often lost to view for many days, by persons residing on the opposite side.
That this is the true origin of the mosses is rendered fairly certain by the circumstance of works of human art having often been found at the bottom. When Ashton Moss was drained, there were found under the peat a Celtic axe and some Roman coins;[11]and in another part, at the foot of one of the old stumps of trees, a quantity of charred wood, betokening that a fire had once been lighted there. The coins would naturally suggest that some old Roman soldier had had a hand in the kindling, and the well–known fact of the extensive felling of trees by the Romans, both in road–making, and to aid them in the subjugation of the country, has led to the belief with some, that to these people may partially be attributed the origination of the mosses. The trees and scattered branches encumbering the ground, are supposed to have checked the free passage of floods and other water, which, becoming stagnated, gradually destroyedthe growing timber, and eventually led to the results described above. Baines (History of Lancashire, iii. 131) says of Chat Moss, that it was originally the site of an immense forest, but was reduced to a bog by the Roman invaders, at a period coeval with the first promulgation of the Christian religion. It would probably be no error to assert with Whitaker, that the whole of the country round Manchester, and not merely the site of Chat Moss, was, at the time of the Romans, covered with trees. One thing is quite certain, namely, that the formation of the mosses is comparatively recent, and probably much within one thousand eight hundred years. They appear to rest universally on a clayey substratum, and it is very interesting to observe that where the peat is wholly removed, for the purpose of fuel, as upon Holford Moss, near Toft and Peover, the clay surface being then laid bare, birch–trees spring up unsown. The seeds of these trees must have been lying there since they ripened, unable to vegetate previously for want of air and the solar warmth. It is quite a familiar phenomenon for plants to spring up in this way from seeds that have been buried for ages, especially on earth laid bare by cuttings for railways and similar works; so in truth it is no more than would be expected in connection with the clearing away of peat, and the restoration of the under–surface. The tree next in frequency to the birch, as a denizen of the oldsilva, appears to have been the oak.
“Moors” are a more consolidated form of mosses. Seated, most usually, on higher and more easily drainedground than the mosses, they have in some cases preserved a drier nature from the first; in others, they have become drier in the course of time, through the escape of their moisture by runnels to lower levels; and in others again, they have allowed of easy artificial draining, and conversion to purposes of pasturage and tillage, or at least over a considerable portion of their surface, and have thus disappeared into farm–land. The most extensive and celebrated mosses about Manchester, still undrained, are Chat Moss, Carrington Moss, and Clifton Moss, near the Clifton railway station, on the left hand of the Bolton–road. Fifteen years ago (i.e.in 1843), White Moss and Ashton Moss might have been included in the list, but both of these are now largely brought under cultivation. The most celebrated moors are now nearly all under the power of the plough, as Baguley Moor and Sale Moor, while Newton Heath is covered with houses.
The above chapter was written in 1858. The story of the sundews has now become an old familiar one, having been placed prominently before the world by Dr. Hooker during the 1874 meeting of the British Association, when the novelty of the theme attracted universal attention to it. It has been dealt with also by Mr. Darwin and many of his disciples. The facts described have all been verified, though there is still considerable difference of opinion in regard to the digestive process. This question is one we cannot pretend to go further into at present; it remains for the rising generation of Manchester, and other local physiologists, to recognise the value of theopportunities they possess in having the plants themselves so close at hand. Upon Carrington, however, the Droseras seem to be less plentiful than they were forty years ago. The draining at the margins appears to have favoured the growth of the heather, as well as to have rendered the moss less swampy. If deficient here, there are plenty elsewhere, the sundews being to peat–bogs what daisies are to the meadows. Since 1858 the approaches to the moss from the Manchester side have also been a good deal altered, and enquiry must now be made of residents in the neighbourhood when seeking the most convenient means of access.
Extending so far in the direction of Dunham, the wooded slopes of which latter are plainly visible from all parts, wet Carrington,—