CHAPTER V.GATLEY CARRS.

Water, water, everywhere,And not a drop to drink,—

excites new relish for the shades of its beautiful park. Few are the inhabitants of our town to whom Dunham is unknown, and who fail upon every new visit to find in it a poem and a jubilee. The greater number of the trees were planted by George, second Earl of Warrington. He was born in 1675, and died in 1758, so that his exemplary work may be considered to date from the time, as to its beginning, of Queen Anne, and the oldest of the trees to have been growing for nearly two centuries, since, of course, it would not be acorns that were placed in the soil, but saplings, already stout and hearty. Wandering amid the rich glooms they now afford,occasional breaks and interspaces disclosing green hollows filled with sunlight, or crested knolls that seem like sanctuaries; delicate pencillings of lighter foliage throwing into grand relief the darker and heavier masses, in this sweet land there is never any sense of sameness,—we are awakened rather to the power there is in perfect sylvan scenery, as well as in that of the mountains, and the sea–margin, to elevate and refresh one’s entire spiritual nature. Very pleasant is it when we can simultaneously thank God for creating noble trees, and let the mind rest upon a fellow–creature as the immediate donor. Many of the old Dunham oaks date considerably further back than the time indicated. England is dotted all over with individual trees, the age of which is rightfully estimated by centuries, and Dunham Park is not without its reverend share.

Emerging from the park, past the old mill—beloved of sketching artists—there are pleasant footways across the meadows that conduct eventually to Lymm. To trace them was, in the bygones, a never–failing enjoyment. Now we go to Lymm direct by train, finding there, as of old, one of the most beautiful of the Cheshire waters; in this case, however, of origin very different from the Vale Royal meres. The water at Lymm, romantic and picturesque as are its surroundings, is simply a vast reservoir, brought into existence by the construction of the viaduct at the foot. The site now occupied by the water was originally a little vale, down which flowed a streamlet called the Dane. Becoming very narrow wherethe roadway now is, to throw a barricade across was easy. The construction of this gave distinctiveness also to the “dell,” the pretty hollow, full of trees, into which, when the water is high, the overplus, creeping under the road by a concealed channel, springs so cheerily. Ordinarily, it must be confessed, there is little more than a thin trickle, but after a day or two’s heavy rain, down it comes, with a joyous double leap, in great sheaves and waving veils, the more delectable since the cascade in question is the only one in this part of Cheshire, or anywhere upon the Cheshire side of the town.

The pleasantest time to visit this beautiful neighbourhood is the very end of July. The wild cherries are then ripe, and glisten like coral amid the green leaves; and in the water there is a rosy archipelago of persicaria blossom. Beyond the plantation, at the upper extremity, the surface is often so still and placid that every flower and leaf upon the banks finds its image beneath, the inverted foxgloves changing, as the calm gives way to ripples, into softly twining spirals of crimson light. When the shores are laid unusually bare through drought, they furnish abundance of the beautiful shells of the fresh–water mussel,Anodonta cygnea, often four inches in length, externally olive–green, and possessed inside of the pearly iridescence so much admired in sea–shells. Many, however, are broken, the swans being fond of the contents. To see the water to its full extent, visitors should continue along the hill–side, opposite the church, and as far as the grove of trees. With permission of theproprietor, it is a great gain, on arrival there, to cross by the rustic bridge, and, turning to the left, ascend the little valley called “Ridding’s Brook.” The botany of this part is truly rich,—in March the slopes are yellow with the wild daffodil, and in late summer the bank is gay with purple lythrum. The special interest of the valley lies, after all, in its curious dropping and petrifying spring. At the further extremity, upon the right, the steep clay bank, instead of receding, is hollowed underneath for the length of a hundred yards or so, the upper edge projecting to a considerable distance beyond the base, so as to overhang the stream, and form a sloping roof to it. The surface is completely covered with luxuriant moss, and from the land overhead comes an incessant filter of water, which at once nourishing the moss and entangled in it, causes it to hang down in long vegetable ringlets. At a distance they seem soft, but examination shows that every drop has brought along with it a particle of earth, which being deposited in the very substance of the moss, is gradually converting it into stone. Every cluster, externally so green and living, is in its heart a petrifaction.

Tho. Letherbrow.Oldfield, Dunham.Larger image(180 kB)

Tho. Letherbrow.Oldfield, Dunham.

Larger image(180 kB)

Very pleasant walks, of entirely different character, are to be found also, when at Lymm, along the great alluvial flat bordered by the river, and which reaches to Thelwall. Thelwall was once a port for ships! When founded by Edward the elder, about the year 923, the stream was so much wider and deeper that, according to tradition, the Danish invaders came this way in vessels,landed, and established a camp or fortress at Mickley Hill, the mound, now covered with fir–trees, which marks the point where the Bollin enters. Up to about 1855, or before the water was so defiled, the Mersey at this part, and more particularly near Statham, was to the sportsman supremely attractive. It was visited in the winter by many curious birds, including the sheldrake, the widgeon, the teal, and occasionally the wild swan. Lymm village contains several objects of archæological interest. Near the centre are the remains of an ancient cross, the lower steps of which are cut out of the solid rock; and close by, upon an eminence, is Lymm Hall, an ancient building, once, like most others of its kind, protected by a moat. Lymm church tower is as high above the sea–level at the base as Bowdon old tower is at the top. The shrubs in the gardens, owing to the altitude, are often reached, in tempestuous weather, by the salt of the Irish Sea. Near Lymm there are many other very interesting places. Oughtrington Hall and Agden Hall, in the Dunham direction; High Legh, with its ancient and beautiful little church, covered with ivy; and Warburton, again noted for its church, are all, in their respective ways, full of attraction. Warburton church is one of the three in Cheshire which, as at Peover, were built in the quaint old “black and white” or “magpie” style. Only a portion, however, of the original remains at Warburton, new structures, very odd in complexion, having been added at various times. The stone part is dated 1645,—the tower, about a century old, andfortunately now ivy–mantled, is ofbrick! The yews are no doubt contemporaneous with the foundation, say about seven hundred years of age.

Latchford, the station next beyond Thelwall, is a good point of departure for Hill Cliff, the lofty and beautiful eminence upon which Warrington so prides itself. The view from the summit is considered by many the most varied and extensive in Cheshire—justly so, perhaps, since upon the east it extends to Alderley, and upon the west to Moel Famma. Another route to Hill Cliff is by the original line to Warrington, through Eccles, from Victoria station, the same which leads on to Norton for Norton Priory, Norton Park, and Halton Castle; to Frodsham, for its glorious hills, and to Chester. The views from the Frodsham hills cover, like those from Hill Cliff, a most charming variety of scene,—Halton Castle, Weston Point, Rock Savage, the Aston Woods, and the winding Weaver, with its many craft, being all embraced at once. The best way of procedure, in order to enjoy the hills thoroughly, is to take the Helsby portion first, beginning at the station of that name, then to cross the valley and ascend the Overton part. If considered too much for a single day, there is amply enough for a couple of separate visits. Norton Park, made up of undulating and flowery glades, with the Priory in the centre, is little less enjoyable than Tatton, though the spectacle of the dire mischief wrought by the fumes from the adjacent alkali–works, apparently irreparable, is very sad; Halton Castle has its chief attraction in therecord, for the precincts, of well–known historical events; the interest of the river consists in its identification with one of the most important branches of the local commerce. Before going so far in search of enjoyment, it is wise to remember that long before reaching even Lymm, the lineviâBroadheath gives access to quiet fields that in summer evenings are rich in pleasant influence, those in particular which lie west of Dunham Massey. A very delightful rural neighbourhood, almost contiguous, has also now been opened up by the “Cheshire Midland.” Urmston, Flixton, and Glazebrook are centres from which it is difficult to move unprofitably. Very much of course depends upon the amount of disposition to be pleased that we carry with us, and upon one’s progress in the culture of that finest of the fine arts—the art of seeing.

We live by admiration, hope, and love,And even as these are well and wisely fixed,In dignity of being we ascend.

WORDSWORTH.

THERE is not a more delightful ride out of town, at any season of the year, than through Rusholme and Didsbury to Cheadle. The country is on either hand fertile and pleasantly wooded, and in many places embellished with handsome grounds, while gardens and shrubberies succeed one another so fast that the road seems completely edged with them. The variety of trees presented to view is greater than upon any other road out of Manchester. In the five miles between Ducie–street and Abney Hall, we have counted upwards of forty different species, some of them by no means frequent in these parts, while others are uncommonly fine examples of their kind. The finest sycamore, and, after the great horse–chestnut between Singleton and Besses–o’–th’–Barn, perhaps the finest tree of any sort near Manchester, as regards either symmetryor altitude, stands upon the lawn of Mr. T. H. Nevill’s house at Didsbury, the second on the Manchester side of the College. Oak, willow, elm, poplar in three different kinds, lime, ash, and beech, both green and purple, are also represented very fairly. There are examples, too, of walnut, of negundo, and of tulip trees. A noble specimen of the last–named stood not far from the Didsbury sycamore until about 1855, and was covered with flowers every season; but, like the cedar in the grounds adjoining Mr. Callender’s late residence at Rusholme, which was another of the finest trees on the road, fell a victim about that time to the axe of “improvement.” Each was a cruel case of what Miss Mitford well calls “tree murder.” Such trees cannot be replaced in less than three generations; the sycamore at Mr. Nevill’s is already over a hundred years old; so near to Manchester, it will probably be impossible ever to see the like of them again; let us hope, then, that what remain will be cherished. Cut them down when they become ruinous, if you will,—though nothing makes a more beautiful ornament of true pleasure–grounds than the torso of an ancient tree from which the living glory has departed,—but spare them as long as vigorous life endures. So numerous are the lilacs, laburnums, chestnuts, thorns, both white and red, and other gay–blossomed contributors to this charming arboretum, that from the end of May till the middle of June the road is one long flower–show. Before these commence their gala, there are the apple and pear trees; earlier yet the silverbirches, covered with their pendent catkins; and in the autumn we seem to have flowers over again in the scarlet berries of the holly and mountain ash.

Not only is the road beautiful in itself, but to residents upon the Greenheys and Chorlton side of the town, the opportunities which it provides of access to scenes of rural beauty are peculiarly advantageous. Stretford way, there is nothing worth mention till we reach Dunham. There are plenty of quiet lanes, it is true, and the farm–land is well cultivated; but in landscape, the whole of the great plain intersected by the Bowdon Railway is totally and admittedly deficient. With Didsbury, on the other hand, we enter a country fit for a Linnell. We may turn down by the church to the river–side, and follow the stream through pleasant fields to Northen; or we may push forward another mile, cross the Mersey at Cheadle Bridge, and strike into a scene of such singular and romantic beauty, and so thoroughly unique in its composition, that we know of nothing in the neighbourhood to liken it to. This is the place called “Gatley Carrs.” It is easily found. Immediately the bridge is crossed, take the broad path through the meadow on the right, and look out for the chimney of Mr. Jowett’s corn–mill. Go through the mill–yard, and over the brook, then through another field or two into a lane red with refuse from a tile–croft, and in a little while there will be seen, again upon the right, a cluster of cottages and barns. These surround a bit of sward called “Gatley Green,” which must be traversed, and after a hundredyards further walk by a runnel of water, we have the Carrs straight before us. The term “Carr” is of Gothic derivation, and denotes an expanse of level land, near a river, covered with alders or other water–loving trees. Such is the character of the scene here. An extensive and verdant plain, smooth and level as a bowling–green, stretches from our feet away to some undiscoverable boundary, its further portion covered with tall poplars, entirely bare of branches for half their height, and leafy only towards their summit, the trunks standing just near enough together to form a grove of pillared foliage, and just far enough apart for every tree to be seen in its integrity, and for the sunshine to penetrate and illuminate every nook. They are not the kind of poplar commonly understood by the name—the slender, spire–like tree, which is quite exceptional even among poplars—but one of the species with ample and spreading crowns. The number of trees is immense—at a rough guess, perhaps a thousand. They were planted by the late Mr. Worthington, of Sharston Hall; the timber, though almost useless to the joiner, being well adapted for cutting into the thin, narrow strips called “swords,” upon which it is customary to fold silks. The path commanding this beautiful view runs along the upper margin of the plain. It is somewhat elevated above the grass, and keeps company with a stream, the opposite bank of which rises still higher, and is covered with oaks and ferns. The superiority of position thus afforded, though trifling, gives to the plain the aspect of a vast amphitheatre, and so calm anddelicious is the whole scene, so tranquil and consecrated the look of the untrodden wood, that it seems surely one of the sacred groves of the Druids, and one can hardly think but that presently we shall see the priests enter in grand procession, in their white robes and ancient beards, and carrying the golden knife that is to sever the misletoe bough. In the evening there come effects of yet rarer charm, for then the declining sun casts long interlineations of shadow across the level, and lights up every leaf from underneath.

The botany of the Carrs corresponds in extent with that of Mobberley, though in many respects quite different. The greatest curiosity, perhaps, is the toothwort, orLathræa, that singular plant which, disliking the solar ray, lives recluse in woods and groves, often half–concealed in dead tree–leaves, and scarcely lifting its cadaverous bloom above the surface. Here also grows thePoa nemoralis. The meads yield occasional specimens of a pretty rose–coloured variety of the creeping bugle, and are so rich in wild–flowers in general as to form, along with the woods beside the stream, quite a natural botanic garden. The further part of the wood, towards Sharston, is, no doubt, the abode of many plants of interest, and only wants searching out. The reputation of a given locality for rare plants comes not infrequently of some one of ardour having gone to work upon it; innumerable places, were they thoroughly explored, would rise from unimportance into fame. Happily, as regards Gatley Carrs, Mr. Edward Stone, son of theable and well–known chemist, whose collection, both of indigenous and exotic plants, in his garden at Cheadle, has done so much good service to the cause of botany, is devoting himself to the task.

The stream above–mentioned curves, after a little while, to the right, and the path changes to the opposite side. It is at this point that the extent of the wood is developed, and that we turn to go homewards. If time permit, it is well to continue awhile along the middle path in front, and visit first the Upper Carrs, which, as seen from the terrace that runs all the way from Cheadle to Baguley, are remarkably beautiful. The wood, as here disclosed, is full of invitation, and where the branches stand asunder, we see great prairies, the green grass all a–glow with red sorrel blossom, and dotted with islands of radiant white, where that giant of field flowers, the great moon–daisy, shows its pride. This noble ornament of our meadow–land, called on the other side of the Tweed the “horse–gowan,” is one of the class of flowers called “compound,” being made up of some hundreds of “florets” or miniature flowers, enclosed in a kind of basket. An average specimen has been found to contain five hundred and sixty, and a fine one no fewer than eight hundred. The florets are disposed in exquisite curving lines, exactly resembling the back of an engine–turned watch. What has the ingenuity of man ever devised that has not its prototype somewhere in nature? The chalice holding this remarkable flower is of the most elegant construction,and in form like an acorn–cup. Moving on by the brookside, after crossing it at the bridge, we soon enter a spacious meadow upon the left, and find ourselves again in sight of the Mersey. On the bank of the stream, just before quitting it, may be seen the wild red–currant, making, with its neighbours, the wild raspberry and the wood strawberry, a show of native fruits without parallel in this neighbourhood. The meadow is of exuberant fertility, owing to the annual flood from the river. Leaving it, we come next to a rising ground, planted with white willows, and from this emerge into a lane, and so over the brow of the hill to Northen churchyard. Northen, of course, becomes a resting–place, and a very pleasant one it is. Both church and churchyard deserve examination. The former contains a neat monument to the memory of Mr. Worthington, the planter of the poplars in the Carrs, and another with an epitaph attributed to the pen of Alexander Pope.[12]Several pretty memorials of the dead occur likewise among the tombstones outside. On one fragment there is seemingly written with green moss, the graving in the stone being entirely filled up with the plant—

ANNE – DOVGHTAR – OF –HVMFREY – SAVAGE – DYED

On another are the following pretty lines:—

The cup of life just with her lips she pressed,Found the taste bitter, and declined the rest;Averse then turning from the face of day,She softly sighed her little soul away.

From Northen to Manchester the ways are many. One is to walk two miles and a half along the lanes to Sale Moor station; a second, to follow the southern bank of the river to Jackson’s boat; a third, is to cross the fields into the Cheadle road, and catch the townwards omnibus, a distance of less than a mile; and the last, to our own mind much the pleasantest—first along the northern bank for about a mile, and then across the fields towards Platt and Rusholme. The commencement of the last–named is exceedingly delightful, the water flowing on the left, woods and pastures upon the right, in the evening sweetly enlivened by the cuckoo. Nothing in the year’s round of pleasure is more heart–soothing than an hour in these quiet fields immediately after sunset, while it is too light for the stars, but the planets peer forth in their beautiful lustre, and the darkness quickens our ears to the slightest sound. The nightingale alone is wanting to complete the effect, but we have no nightingales near Manchester. There is nothing for them to eat, and they stay away. The bird sometimes mistaken for the nightingale, from its singing at the same hours, and running through a variety of notes, is the sedge–warbler.

Enjoying this sweet neighbourhood in early summer, and while it is yet broad day, one can hardly fail tonotice the tribe ofgrasses, at least up to the time of haymaking. No fewer than sixty–three different kinds may be collected about Manchester, and fully a third of these in the meadows. The remainder are inhabitants of the woods and ponds, while a few grow exclusively upon the moors. Attaining their perfection in May and June, easily collected, and not withering on the way home, the grasses are the very best plants to begin with in forming a collection of dried flowers. We have spoken before of the pleasure that attends this pursuit: the utility, to any one who takes the slightest interest in nature, is quite upon a par. How pleasant at Christmas to turn over the pages of one’sHortus Siccus, freshening our remembrance alike of the beautiful and diversified shapes of the plants, and of the days and scenes where they were gathered! A more interesting or instructive pursuit for a young person, of either sex, than to set about collecting specimens of the grasses, ferns, and wild–flowers in general, that they meet with in their country walks, is in truth scarcely to be found. The attraction it gives to the country is prodigious, and surely it is more sensible when out in the fields thus to employ one’s self than to wander along listlessly for want of an object, and perhaps get into mischief. The method to pursue is exceedingly simple. First get together a quantity of old newspapers, and fold them to about eighteen inches square. Then buy a few quires of Bentall’s botanical drying paper, and procure also three or four pieces of stout millboard. Such is the apparatus;nothing more is wanted; and next we must gather our specimens, selecting, to begin with, such as are of slender make and comparatively juiceless texture. Pieces of about a foot long are large enough, but if the plant be less than ten or twelve inches in height, it should be taken root and all. Having the boards and papers in readiness, lay one of the former as a foundation, and to serve as a tray; upon this place a folded newspaper, and upon this a sheet of Bentall, and then the specimen intended to be dried. Over the specimen should come a second sheet of Bentall, then another newspaper, and so on till the whole collecting is deposited. All being in order, it remains only to place a heavy weight upon the top of the pile, so as to press the plants flat, and prevent the air entering to shrivel them. The easiest weights to use are common red bricks, but, as bricks look untidy in a parlour, and are unpleasant to handle in their naked state, they should be tied up neatly and separately in smooth brown paper, and then not the most fastidious or weak–fingered can object to them. In this condition the pile should be left till the next day, when it should be turned over, layer by layer, and the specimens transferred into dry Bentall. The newspapers need not be changed unless the plants are succulent ones, and their moisture has penetrated. The weight should then be replaced, and the pile again be left to itself for three or four days, when the specimens will be found perfectly dry, their forms scarcely altered, and their colours, except in special cases, almost as bright aswhen growing. For very delicate plants, instead of Bentall, it is best to use sheets of clean white cotton–wadding, with tissue paper, to prevent the specimens clinging to the cotton when of adhesive nature. When quite deprived of their juices, the specimens should be transferred into sheets of white paper, and neatly fastened down, not with gum arabic, which is apt to smear and look untidy, but with a solution of caoutchouc in naphtha, sold in the shops under the name of “indiarubber cement.” The great advantage of this is that if any should exude from below the specimen, it may, when dry, be rubbed off like a pencil mark. The name of the plant, and the date and place where gathered, should be written underneath. Giving a summer to the work, it is surprising how soon a large and beautiful collection of plants will accumulate, and how rapidly we feel ourselves progressing in botanical knowledge. Taking ordinary care, there is no reason why plants should not look nearly as green and pretty when dried as when living. If an herbarium be only a heap of Latin hay, as sometimes happens, it is not that the art of preserving plants is deceptive, but that the collector has been clumsy or neglectful. Nor are dried plants, as some esteem them, mere vegetable mummies, wretched corpses devoid of all instructiveness or value, for they are far more lively than drawings, and answer all our questions with readiness. Many good botanists, it is true, have done without such collections, showing that they are by no means indispensable to the study ofbotany. But none who have taken the trouble to form them ever regret it, while all confess their inestimable service. Even if the herbarium served no scientific purpose whatever, there is always the pleasure of finding in it a garden all the year round.

Here spring perpetual leads the laughing hours,And winter wears a wreath of summer flowers.

ViâNorthen is the pleasantest route to the beautiful district of which the centre is Wythenshawe Hall, a remarkably fine building of the time of James the First, and at present the seat of Mr. Thomas Wm. Tatton. It is approached through a piece of ground called the “Saxfield,” upon which tradition says there was once a terrible fight between Saxons and Danes; old maps mark the place with crossed swords. We have not much of historical interest pertaining to the neighbourhood of Manchester, but what there is seems to concentrate about Northen. The Pretender, Prince Charles Edward, crossed the river in 1745, at a place not very far below Cheadle Bridge, and it is curious that the Prince Consort’s visit, in 1857, when he came to open the Art–Treasures Exhibition at Old Trafford, should have been made by way of the very bridge alluded to. In 1644 Wythenshawe was besieged by a party of Cromwell’s soldiers, who planted a battery on the side overlooking Northen, and threw many cannon–shots against the house. During some alterations in the garden a few years since, and the conversion of a pond–bottom into flower–beds, several of the balls were found; andanother, which entered by the drawing–room window, and smashed the wood–carving on the opposite wall, is shown to visitors privileged to view this beautiful hall. The carving was not replaced, so that the blank space preserves a distinct memorial of the attack. The siege was conducted by the celebrated Colonel Robert Dukenfield, the most conspicuous soldier, after Sir William Brereton, in the Cheshire history of the Civil War. It occupied some time, and was only brought to a close by getting two pieces of ordnance from Manchester, the same probably from which the balls above alluded to were discharged. During its progress, one of the maid–servants inside, for her amusement, took aim with a musket at an officer of the Parliamentary forces, who was carelessly lounging about, and managed to kill him. He is supposed to have been the “Captayne Adams,” stated in the Stockport register of burials to have been “slayne at Withenshawe, on Sunday, the 25th.” In the course of alterations in the grounds during the last century, six skeletons were discovered. They were lying close together, and are reasonably supposed to have been those of soldiers who perished during the siege. Cromwell afterwards stayed at the hall, and slept in a room still called, from his occupation of it, “Oliver Cromwell’s room.” The bed, which is dated 1619, is of elegantly carved wood, the furniture and mirrors matching it, and of the same age. The wood–carving at Lyme Hall is usually considered to show the best local work of the period, but that at Wythenshawe, in the opinion of many, is stillfiner. The gardens surrounding the hall are full of curious trees, many of them remarkably good and shapely specimens, especially anArbor vitæ, consisting of a tall green pyramid, surrounded by minarets, like a spire with pinnacles round the base, and exquisitely beautiful when swayed slopingly by the wind. In 1858 there sprang up in a piece of newly–turned land at the back of the hall, many hundreds of theRumex sanguineus, its large oval light–green leaves traced and pencilled in every direction with the richest crimson. The ordinary green–juiced form of the plant is common enough, but the crimson–juiced is one of the rarities of our Flora.

Further again, for those who care for rural pleasures and the legacies of the past, there is the interesting district of Baguley and its old hall. Only one large apartment of the latter remains, the greater portion of the structure having, at some remote period, been destroyed by fire; the buildings which surround and prop up the ancient piece are comparatively new. Baguley Old Hall is well worth a visit, and may be reached, if more convenient to excursionists, by way of Sale Moor station, and a walk of two or three miles along the lanes. In the interior, it will be observed that the doorways are formed of oaken boughs that were curved at one extremity, so that when sliced and reared on end, with the curved portions directed one towards the other, they would form arches. These arches are exceedingly curious, and, along with the numerous armorial bearings, form quite a noticeable feature of the place. A walkacross a few fields leads to Baguley Mill. The lanes are full of fragrant roses; the high hedges shelter innumerable veronicas; and by the sides of the little water–courses, close to the mill, grows abundance of the hart’s–tongue fern. To attempt the whole in the space of a single afternoon, of course is not practicable, especially if one is verging towards that inexorable period of life when gravitation begins to get the better of a man sooner than he has been accustomed to; nor is it intended to recommend so much. Gatley Carrs suffice for one walk; the immediate neighbourhood of Northen and the river–banks provide another; and BaguleyviâSale will pleasantly supply objects for a third. There is a fourth, moreover, well commenced at Didsbury, but keeping in the direction of Chorlton–cum–Hardy, so as eventually to reach Barlow Hall, the local residence of Mr. William Cunliffe Brooks. The archæological interest of Barlow Hall we have not room here to enlarge upon. It must suffice to invite attention to Mr. Letherbrow’s beautiful etching of the best fragment in preservation, the period of which is believed to be that of the reign of Henry VIII., when the hall was occupied by the very ancient and historical family of de Barlow, allied by marriage to the still more celebrated Stanleys, as shown by the heraldry of the window.

Tho. Letherbrow.Barlow Hall.Larger image(185 kB)

Tho. Letherbrow.Barlow Hall.

Larger image(185 kB)

No chapter of the original little volume of 1858 calls for so many obituary notices, now in 1882, as this one descriptive of Gatley Carrs. The magnificent, not to say unique, Didsbury sycamore was cut down a year or twoafter the publication. The great horse–chestnut, near Singleton has disappeared.[13]Mr. Callender died in 1872. Mr. Stone, sen., is also “with the majority,” and the Carrs themselves no longer deserve the ancient appellation, having been crossed by a railway embankment. A good deal remains no doubt that is pretty and pleasing, but the picture drawn above exists no longer. That a locality once so beautiful should have been thus rudely dealt with is unfortunate, few will deny. But nothing that contributes to the prosperity of a great nation, or to the public welfare, is at any time to be deplored. Such changes simply illustrate anew the primæval law that great purposes shall always demand some kind of sacrifice.

Oh, my lord, lie not idle:The chiefest action for a man of great spiritIs never to be out of action. We should thinkThe soul was never put into the body,Which has so many rare and curious piecesOf mathematical motion, to stand still.

WEBSTER.

BEFORE the opening of the “Manchester and Birmingham”—a title now forgotten, the line having been absorbed into the London and North–Western—the road through Rusholme, Didsbury, and Cheadle was the accustomed highway to Congleton,viâWilmslow, to which latter place the hand still points at certain corners within a mile or two of All Saints’ Church. The Cheadle people occasionally made use of it for pic–nic carriage parties to a fir–crowned steep just beyond Chorley, a wilderness scarcely inhabited, and, save for its checking the speed of travellers from Knutsford to Macclesfield, scarcely recognized in the local geography. How vast the revolution promoted in 1842! The wildernesssoon became decked with mansions and gardens; it blossomed as the rose; and “Alderley Edge” is now little less than a suburb of Manchester.

The old carriage–way being superseded by the rail, and much that is delightful being reached by train long before getting to Alderley, we will now accordingly make new departure for fair Cheshire by way of Stockport. Arrived at Wilmslow the old–fashioned, the Bollin reappears, this particular point being in truth the head of the valley through which the stream, as before–mentioned, pursues its sinuous and rapid course to Ashley. The country upon the right is full of quiet lanes and pretty meadows, none of which are more pleasing than those containing the path to the margin of Norcliffe. If permission can be obtained to visit the glenipsissima, they are like the vestibule of a temple. Norcliffe was laid out in 1830 by the late Mr. R. H. Greg. Selecting everything that he planted with consummate taste and judgment, the slopes are rich with trees which in point of value and variety have no equal in this part of England. Beautiful from the first, the scene at the present moment is more charming than ever before; for tree–planting is one of those essentially noble and generous works the glory of which a man can rarely expect to see unfolded in his own life–time:—like a great poem, it reaches afar, and covers the generations that succeed. The very striking feature of Norcliffe, the main and characteristic one, consists in the profusion of the Conifers. The pine, the fir, the cedar, in their many and always princelyforms, are represented in this delicious spot by upwards of forty species and varieties, many of them having very numerous examples, all presenting, in the best manner, the symmetrical outlines so remarkable in coniferous trees, and holding positions with regard to their immediate neighbours such as awaken the most agreeable ideas of harmony. There is no taller Deodara in the neighbourhood than one of the specimens near the lawn, nor is there anywhere in this neighbourhood a more comely Norway spruce, the top already seventy feet above the turf, and covered annually with cones, which the squirrels are glad of, the spring never finding one that the little creatures have overlooked.

Norcliffe is equally remarkable in respect of its rhododendrons, the purple splendour, early in June, tossed up like a floral surf. These last, being like the conifers, evergreens, Norcliffe, if nothing else, is a place of perennial verdure. Almost, as on the banks of old Clitumnus—

Hic ver assiduum, atque alienis mensibus æstas!

The walk through the sylvan part of the glen, tortuous, and rarely on level ground, brings many beautiful wild–flowers into view. Here, in the month of May, is the wood–millet—lightest and daintiest, after the Briza, of our native grasses—and yet more plentifully the sweet woodruff, holding up in every corner its little handfuls of snow–white crosses. Access to Norcliffe,—the grounds being strictly and in every portion private,—is, of course, only by favour. But the honoured name of Greg hasalways been a synonym for liberality, and leave to enter when properly sought is not likely to be refused. The same may be said of the picturesque and delightful grounds, a mile further down the valley, which appertain to Oversley Lodge, the residence of Mr. Arthur Greg. The treat here is the wilderness–walk, a portion of which was cut only in 1881, along the side of the principal cliff. During the progress of the clearing a new locality was found for the true–love.[14]So certain is the reward, not only in important shape, but in little and unexpected ways, of every man who first makes a path through the forest, whether with the axe or with the more subtle tools that are not wrought upon human forges. Spring is the time, above all others, if it can be managed, for these beautiful Oversley woods; for then we have the opening green leaves in a thousand artistic forms, and in endless shades; the violets also, and the satin–flower; and, full of promise, the so–comfortably–wrapped–up ferns that in September will show how nature revels in transformations. The Oversley woods abut very closely upon Cotterill, approaching which place there is scenery not inferior in its modest and singular sweetness to that of the vicinity of Castle Mill. The public approach is from Wilmslow, treading first the western margin of Lindow Common, then going through various lanes, and in front of “Dooley’s farm.” The greensward portion of the country now soon entered is generally distinguished by the name of the Morley Meadows, and thesylvan part by the somewhat odd title of “Hanging–banks Wood.” The phrase is designed, it would seem, to convey an idea analogous to that involved in the name of the famous “Hanging–gardens” of ancient Babylon, signifying terraces of wood and blossom disposed in parallel order upon some gentle slope. This is the part of the Bollin valley referred to in an early chapter(p. 27)as the asylum, it is to be hoped indefinitely, of the primrose. Here, too, Ophelia’s “long–purples” live again, while under the shadow of the trees we descry her “nettles,” those beautiful golden yellow ones that do not sting, and which blend so perfectly with the orchis and the crow–flower. One fears almost to descend to the edge of the stream, for willows are there that grow “aslant,” and that have “envious slivers” as of old. Once in these lovely meadows it is easy to find the way into the lower Bollin valley, and thence to Ashley and Bowdon. But the double walk is rather long, and prudence says return to Wilmslow. Norcliffe and Oversley, it should be added, are reached as regards carriage–way, by a nearly straight road from Handforth.

Lindow Common, famed from time immemorial for its bracing air, extends from Wilmslow to Brook Lane. There is nothing particular to be seen upon it, except by the naturalist, who, in one part or another, finds abundance to give him pleasure. The locality is remarkable alike for its sundews and the profusion of wild bees; it is one of the best known to entomologists for the class Andrenidæ.

Women, it has been remarked, need no eulogy, since they speak for themselves. Something similar, descriptively, might be said of Alderley Edge. Whatever smoke–engendered thoughts may occupy the mind for twenty minutes after contemplating Stockport, they are effectually dispelled by the sight of the piny hill, a medley of nature and art, that shows so proudly in front as soon as the train crosses the Bollin. A grand undulating mass of sandstone, rising boldly out of the plain, of considerable elevation,—the highest point being six hundred and fifty feet above the sea,—and, reckoning to the out–of–sight portion which overlooks Bollington, quite two miles in length, must needs be impressive. Alderley gathers charm also from its great smooth slants of green, rough and projecting rocks, and trees innumerable, three or four aged and wind–beaten firs upon the tip–top, giving admirable accentuation. Every portion in view from the railway is accessible by paths, usually easy, these introducing us to many a deep and sequestered glade that in autumn is crowded with ferns, or leading to the crest of the hill, the views from which compensate all possible fatigue of climbing. The simplest route to follow is that by the old road running to Macclesfield. From the lower part of this we may take one of the bye–roads that lie to the left, and thus get eventually to the somewhat rough and scrambling, but still quite practicable and pleasant, track which leads along the face of the great westward incline. This huge slope, called the “Hough,” may be ascended also from beneath, keeping along thefoot for about a mile, then turning up through a field. Green shades and leafy labyrinths here tempt to a never–slackening onward movement, especially in that part where a great curve in the mountain–mass gives rise to a kind of bay, grassy always, and that in spring teems with anemones. The prospect from the Hough is everywhere magnificent, extending to Delamere Forest and the Overton hills, which, like Coniston “alt maen,” have a profile never doubtful. The intermediate broad, flat space is the now familiar North Cheshire plain. Should a canopy of smoke be distinguishable, it will indicate Manchester. To enjoy this wonderful prospect perfectly, it is best to adventure to the edge of “Stormy Point,” or the Holywell Rock—that noted crag which, in case of need, would serve well for a new Tarpeian. Another quite different way to the top of the Edge is to proceed a short distance along the Congleton road, or that which leads, in the first instance, towards old Alderley village; then to turn up a lane upon the left, which, passing through a grove of fir–trees, terminates in the Macclesfield road, near the “Wizard.” It is behind this noted hostelry, commemorative in its name of the local legend, that the sylvan loveliness of Alderley Edge is felt most exquisitely, nature seeming here to have been left more to her own sweet wantonness; while the views, extending now over a totally different country, hills instead of a plain, add to our previous enjoyments the always welcome one of surprise. Curling round this glorious promontory, we gradually progress towards the “Beacon,” the highestpoint, and in a few minutes, descending thence, are once again in the public thoroughfare.

Alderley Park, the seat of Lord Stanley, lies near the village, upon the left of the turnpike road. Strangers very rarely enter the gates. The wonder to those who do is that so little should have been made of natural advantages scarcely excelled anywhere in Cheshire. The best features are the magnificent beech–trees and the sheet of ornamental water, called Radnor Mere, upon the margins of which grow two of the most interesting of the British sedges, theCarex ampullaceaand theCarex vesicaria. The gardens have long been noted for their mulberry trees.

Beyond this again is Birtles, the neighbourhood of which supplies a very pleasant walk. Mounting the hill on the southern side, or where the latter gently melts away into the level, the road in question leads eventually to the “Wizard,” at which point, if more convenient, the walk may be commenced. If begun at the base, we turn up by the four–armed guide–post, a little beyond Alderley church. The walk is somewhat long, therefore better deferred till winter, selecting a day when the frost is keen and the atmosphere bracing. A winter forenoon, when the atmosphere is motionless, and icicles hang from the little arches that bridge the water–courses, is every bit as enjoyable as the most brilliant of summer evenings, let only the heart be alive and the eyes trained to seeing. Over and above the rich healthfulness of this Birtles walk, all the way up to the crown of the Edge, and roundabout amid the trees in winter, for the artist of pre–Raphael vision, there is bijouterie;—the chaste and tender arabesque given to rock and aged bough by green moss and grey and golden lichen, gems of nature that when the trees are leafy are apt to be skipped, but when all else is cold and bare, like faithful affection, “make glad the solitary place.”

Between Alderley and Chelford, pushing still further along the Congleton road, we find yet another of the Cheshire meres, this one, in itself in the time of water–lilies, worth all the travel. Reeds Mere, famous in local fairy tale, is to the painter and the poet, when the lilies are out, a floral Venice. Virtually, it is in Capesthorne Park, the seat of one of the younger branches of the very ancient Davenport family. To get to the water’s edge, if time be short, the nearest point to start from is Chelford, but the road above indicated is so charmingly wooded, that not to go that way is distinctly a loss. Chelford village may be reached by a field walk, commenced first below Alderley church, crossing the meadow slantwise and leftwards, and so past Heywood Hall, going presently through a plantation of Scotch firs. Hard by there is another charming seat, with spacious park, rare trees, and ornamental water—Astle Hall, the residence of Captain Dixon. In the grounds we are reminded of Norcliffe, for here, too, is shown the love of Conifers which always indicates good taste.

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