CHAPTER VII.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,To the last syllable of recorded time;And all our yesterdays have lighted foolsThe way to dusty death.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death.

Shakspere.

I was a little disappointed at first to find that, wherever I went in the parish of Flixton, the inhabitants showed no strong interest in the quaint man of genius, whose early records I was in search of. But this is no wonder, when one considers what a thinly-inhabitedplace this must have been at the beginning of Queen Anne's reign; and remembering, also, that nearly the whole of Tim's long life was spent elsewhere; first, as an apprentice to Dutch-loom weaving, which was looked upon as a rather genteel occupation in those days. But, as his friend and biographer, Richard Townley, Esq., of Bellfield Hall, says, "such a sedentary employment not at all agreeing with his volatile spirits and eccentric genius, he prevailed upon his master to release him from the remainder of his servitude. Though then very young, he soon commenced itinerant schoolmaster; going about the country from one small town to another, to teach reading, writing, and accounts; and generally having a night-school as well as a day one." Now, seeing that the theatre of these obscure and honourable struggles of Tim's youth was the town of Oldham, and the villages thereabouts, it is not surprising that the scattered inhabitants of the lonely nook where he was born should have few traditional remembrances of him, who left them when he was yet but a child. Tim's father was only forty years old, when he was overtaken by total blindness; and, this, necessarily, changed the plan he had formed of bringing up his son, our hero, to the Church, for "he had conceived a favourable opinion of his abilities." Now, this calamity did not befall the elder Mr. Collier during the time that he was schoolmaster at Urmston in Flixton: and everything shows that he was not a native of that place, but came from some other part to teach there; remaining only for a short time—during which Tim and his brother Nathan were born—and then moving away again, with his young family of nine children, to another quarter. What Baines says, on the authority of the inhabitants of Flixton, of the elder Collier never being a clergyman, may be true, so far as it relates to Urmston, of which place there never was a curate; nor was he in holy orders during his residence there; and yet he may have been so elsewhere. This supposition is strengthened by Tim's own words: "In the reign of Queen Anne I was a boy, and one of the nine children of a poor Lancashire curate, whose stipend never amounted to thirty pounds a year; and consequently the family must feel the iron teeth of penury with a witness. These, indeed, were sometimes blunted by the charitable disposition of the good rector (the Rev. Mr. H——, of W—— n)." What an interesting glimpse this gives us of the home of Tim Bobbin's childhood! Now, it is just possible that the "goodrector" may have been the rector of Warrington of that time; whose name begins with the same initial letter. All things considered, I did not wonder that the family had left but little mark among the people of Flixton.

Seeing that so little was known by the inhabitants, I turned my thoughts towards the parish register, setting an afternoon apart for visiting the incumbent; who had invited me to look through it at his house. At the appointed time, I walked through the village of Flixton, a little way into the country beyond the village; and there, by the wayside, at the top of a little sloping lawn, partially screened by stunted trees and bushes, the "village preacher's modest mansion rose." The incumbent received me courteously, and entered kindly into my purpose. Ushering me into a little parlour at the front, he brought forth the two oldest register volumes of the parish from their hiding-place. The first thing which struck me was the difference in their condition. The oldest was perfectly sound, inside and outside. Its leaves were of vellum; and, with the exception of a slight discolouration in some places, they were as clear and perfect as ever they had been; and the entries in it were beautifully distinct, written in the old English character, and mostly in the Latin language. The change in the latter volume was very remarkable. Its binding was poor and shaky; and its leaves of the softest and most perishable writing paper, many of them quite loose in the book, and so worn, tattered, and crumbly, as to be scarcely touchable without damage. I could not help thinking that if any important question should arise a hundred years hence, the settling of which depended on such a mouldering record as this, is was just possible that decay might have forestalled the inquiry. After a careful examination of the register, I found the following entries relating to Tim's family, and, besides these, there is no mention of any other person of the name of Collier, for the space of half a century before, and a century after that date. First, under the head of "Births and Baptismes, in the year, 1706," appears "Nathan, ye son of John Collier, schoolmaster, borne May 17, baptised May 31."[15]Singularly, I found the same baptism entered a second time, three pages forward in the same year, with a slight variation, in the following manner:—"Baptised Nathan, the son ofMasterJohn Collier, schoolmaster, born May ye 18th." And then the last and only other mentionof the Colliers, is the register of the baptism of John, the renowned "Tim Bobbin," which is entered thus, among the baptisms of the year 1710: "John, son of Mr. John Collier, of Urmstone, baptised January the 6th." In Baines's "Lancashire," the baptism is given as occurring in 1709, which is a slight mistake. The origin of that mistake was evident to me, with the register before my eyes. The book seems to have been very irregularly kept in those days; and the baptisms in the year 1709 are entered under a headline, "Baptisms in the year 1709:" but at the end of the baptisms of that year, the list runs on into those of the following year, 1710, without any such headline to divide them; and this entry of Tim's baptism being one of the first, might easily be transcribed by a hasty observer, as belonging to the previous year. I thought there was something significant about the curious manner in which these three entries, relating to the Colliers, are made in the register. In the first entry of the baptism of Nathan, Tim's eldest brother, the father is called "John Collier, schoolmaster;" in the second entry of the same baptism, he is called "Master John Collier, schoolmaster;" and in the entry of Tim's baptism, three years later, the clerk, having written down the father's name as "John Collier of Urmstone," has, upon after-thought, made a caret between "the son of" and "John Collier of Urmstone," and carefully written "Mr." above it, making it read "Mr. John Collier, of Urmstone." This addition to the names of schoolmasters, or even of the wealthy inhabitants of the parish, occurs so very rarely in the register, that I could not help thinking this singular exception indicative of an honourable estimate of the character of Tim's father among his neighbours. Such was the result of my search; and it strengthens my conviction that old Mr. John Collier's family were not natives of Flixton, nor dwelt there long, but departed after a short residence to some other quarter, where the family were born, married, died, and buried; except the two before mentioned.

Whilst I was sitting in the incumbent's parlour, looking over these old books on that day, a little thing befell which pleased me, though the reader may think it trifling. The weather was very cold, and I happened to have on one of those red-and-black tartan wool shirts, which are comfortable wear enough in cold weather, though they look rather gaudy; and don't satisfy one's mind so well as a clean white shirt does. As I sat turning overthe leaves of these ancient records, in came the incumbent's son, a little, slim, intelligent boy, with large, thoughtful eyes. He watched me attentively for two or three minutes, and then, coming a little nearer, so as to get a good look at the wrists and front of my extraordinary under-gear, he called out, with unreserved astonishment, "Papa! he has got no shirt on!" The clergyman checked the lad instantly; though he could not help smiling at this little burst of frank, childish simplicity. The lad was evidently surprised to see me enjoy the thing so much.

I cannot dismiss this old parish register without noticing some other things in it which were interesting to me. And I can tell thee, reader, by the by, that there are worse ways of spending a few hours than in poring over such a record. How significantly the births, marriages, and deaths, tread upon one another's heels; as they do in the columns of newspapers! How solemnly the decaying pages represent the chequered pattern of our mortal estate! The exits and entrances of these ephemeral players in the drama of life continually interweave in the musty chronicle, as they do in the current of human action. There was a quaint tone running through the whole, which I could not well pass by. In the year 1688, the phrase, "buried in woollen only," first appears, and marks the date of an act for the encouragement of the woollen trade. This phrase is carefully added to every registration of burial, thenceforth for a considerable time; except in a few cases, where the phrase changes to "buried in sweet flowers only." What a world of mingled pathos and prettiness that phrase awakes in the mind! To a loving student of Shakspere, it might, not inaptly, call up that beautiful passage in Ophelia's burial scene:—

Laertes.Lay her i' the earth;—And from her fair and unpolluted fleshMay violets spring!Queen.Sweets to the sweet: Farewell!(Scattering Flowers.)

Sometimes an instance occurs where a burial takes place "in linen only." In this year of 1688, it is singular that there are only two marriages entered in the Flixton parish register. There was, perhaps, some particular reason for this at the time; but the fact will give the reader some idea of the smallness of the population in those days. From this time the phrase, "Sworn by so-and-so, before Justice so-and-so," is attached to some entriesof burial, as thus:—"Thomas, ye son of John Owen, of Carrington, buried in sweet floweres, attested by ye wife of George Twickins. Ye same day of burial, viz., 10th Oct. (1705), John, ye son of John Millatt, jun., of Carrington, an infant, buried in sweet floweres only." Then follows, "James Parren was not buried in any materiall contrary to a late act for Buryinge in Woollen.—Sworne by Mary Parren, before Justice Peter Egerton, Jan. 28th, 1705." The burials in the year 1706 are almost all in "sweet floweres only." This is the year when Nathan Collier was born, being the first mention of that family in the register. Three years after, his brother John (Tim Bobbin) was born; after which the Colliers disappear from the register altogether. Some of the burials occurring between 1720 and 1726, are remarkable for the manner of their entry, as, "Sarah, daughter of Schoolmaster Pony;" "James, Thomas Jaddock's father;" "John Swindell, taken out of ye river;" "Widow Peer's child, Aug. 5th;" and this is followed three days after by "Richd., son of Widow Peer's, Aug. 30th;" "Old Ralph Haslam, from Carrington;" "Old Henery Roile, from Stretford;" "Old Mrs. Starkey;" "Old John Groons;" "Moss's wife of Urmeston;" "Horox's child of Urmstone;" and "Hannah, daughter of one Dean, of Stretford." Then come these, in their proper order, entered in a clerkly hand:—"Thomas Willis, of Bleckly, in the county of Buckingham, Esq., and Mrs. Ann Hulme, Heiress of Davy Hulme, and of the lordship and manor of Urmston, were marry'd. Sept. 3rd, 1735;" and then "Anna Willis, the first daughter of Thomas Willis, Esq., born August the 11th, 1736, and baptised ye 14th Aug.—John Willis, clerk of Bleckley, in Bucks." I found the Christian name of Randal very common in this register. The names of Starkey, Holt, Rogers, and Egerton, ever accompanied by the title of gentleman; and for the rest, the names of Warburton, Taylor, Royle, Coupe, Darbishire, Shawcross, Gilbody, and Knight, form the staple of the list, with the addition of the Owens of Carrington Moss; who seem to have been a very prolific generation.

The evening comes, and brings the dew along,The rodie welkin sheeneth to the eyne,Around the alestake minstrels sing the song,Young ivy round the door-post doth entwine;I lay me down upon the grass, yet to my will,Albeit all is fair, there lacketh something still.

The evening comes, and brings the dew along,

The rodie welkin sheeneth to the eyne,

Around the alestake minstrels sing the song,

Young ivy round the door-post doth entwine;

I lay me down upon the grass, yet to my will,

Albeit all is fair, there lacketh something still.

Chatterton.

The people of southern England are apt to sneer at the enthusiasm with which Lancashire men speak of Tim Bobbin; and, if this imperfect sketch should fall into the hands of any such readers, it is not improbable that they may look upon the whole thing as a great fuss about next to nothing. One reason for this is, that, for the most part, they know next to nothing of the man—which is not much to be wondered at. But the greatest difficulty in their case is the remote character of the words and idioms used by Tim. To the majority of such readers, the dialogue of "Tummus and Mary" is little more than an unintelligible curiosity; and I believe, speaking generally, that it would be better understood by the natives of the metropolis if it had been written in French. The language in which the commanding genius of Chaucer wrought, five hundred years ago, and which was the common language of the London of those days, is, even in its most idiomatic part, very much the same as that used in all the country parts of Lancashire at this hour. But great changes have come round since the time of Chaucer; and though an Englishman is an Englishman in general characteristics, all the world over, there is as much difference now in the tone of manners and language in the North and South as there is between the tones of an organ and those of a piano. I have hardly ever met with a southern man able to comprehend the quaint, graphic wealth which hutches and chuckles with living fun and country humour, under the equally quaint garb of old language in which Tim clothes his story of "Tummus and Mary." But, on its first appearance, the people of his own district at once recognised an exquisite picture of themselves; and they hailed it with delight. He superintended several editions of his works during his lifetime—a time when the population of Lancashire was very scanty, and scattered over large, bleak spaces; and when publishing was a very different thing to what it is now.Since then, his principal story has continually grown in the estimation of scholars and students, as a valuable addition to the rich treasures of English philology, even apart from the genius which combined its humorous details with such masterly art, and finished and rounded it into the completeness of a literary dewdrop. That tale was calculated to command attention and awaken delight at once—and it will long be cherished with pride, by Lancashire men at least, as an exceedingly natural "glimpse of auld lang syne." But those who wish to understand the force of Tim's character, must look to his letters, and other prose fragments, such as "Truth in a Mask." These chiefly reveal the sterling excellence of the man. He was a clear-sighted, daring, independent politician—one of the strong old pioneers of human freedom in these parts. He had a curious audience in that secluded corner of Lancashire where he lived—in those days—a people who had worn their political shackles so long that they almost looked upon them as ornaments.

ButTimkent what was fu brawly;

and he was continually blurting out some startling truth or another, in vigorous, unmistakable English; and he gloried in the then disreputable and dangerous epithet of "Reforming John." This, too, in the teeth of patrons and friends whose political tendencies were in an entirely opposite direction. Let any man turn to the letter he writes to his friend, the Rev. Mr. Heap, of Dorking, who had desired him to "spare the levitical order," and then say whether there was any shadow of sycophancy in the soul of John Collier. Under the correction of magnifying the matter through the medium of one's native likings then, I will venture to declare a feeling akin to veneration for the spot where he was born; and I know that it is shared by the men of his native county, generally, even by those who find themselves at a difficult distance from his quaint tone of thought and language—for it takes a man thoroughly soaked with the Lancashire soil to appreciate him thoroughly. But, apart from all local inclinings, men of thought and feeling will ever welcome any spark of genuine creative fire, which glows with such genial human sympathies, and such an honourable sense of justice as John Collier evinces, however humble it may be in comparison with the achievements of those mighty spirits who have made the literature of our sea-girt island glorious in the earth. The waters of thelittle mountain stream, singing its lone, low song, as it struggles through its rocky channel, are dear and beautiful, and useful to that rugged solitude, as is the great ocean to the shores on which its surges play. Nay, what is that ocean, but the gathered chorus of these lonely waters, in which the individual voice is lost in one grand combination of varied tones. With this imperfect notice, I will, at present, leave our old local favourite; and just take another glance at Flixton, before I bid adieu to his birthplace.

The reader may remember that, on the day of my first visit to John Collier's birthplace, I lounged some time about the hamlet of Urmston, conversing with the inhabitants. Leaving that spot, I rambled leisurely along the high road to Flixton, hob-nobbing, and inquiring among different sorts of people, about him, whenever opportunity offered. When I drew near to Shaw Hall, I had traversed a considerable part of the length of the parish, which is only four miles, at most, by about two in breadth. There is nothing like a hill to be seen; but as one wanders on, the country rises and falls, in gentle undulations. Now and then, a pool of water gleamed afar off in the green fields, or, close by the road, rippled into wavelets by the keen wind, which came down steadily from the north that day, whistling shrill cadences among the starved thorns. I cannot give a better idea of the character of the soil than by borrowing the words of Baines, who says: "Much of the land in the parish of Flixton is arable, probably to the amount of nine-tenths of the whole. The farms are comparatively large, and the soil is in general a rich black, sandy, vegetable loam, producing corn, fruit, and potatoes in abundance." I believe the land is now in better cultivation than when these words were written. Shaw Hall is an important place in the history of Flixton. The lords of the land dwelt there in old times. At the time of my visit it was occupied, as a boarding-school, by Mr. James M'Dougall, who was kind enough to show me through the interior when I called there in my ramble. Baines says of Shaw Hall: "It is a venerable mansion, of the age of James I., with gables and wooden parapets on the S. W. and N. sides. The roof has a profusion of chimneys, and a cupola in the centre. In one of the apartments is a painting covering the principal part of the ceiling, which represents the family of Darius kneeling in supplication before Alexander the Great. This picture, though twohundred years old, is in fine preservation, and the faces and figures indicate the hand of a master. There are some smaller paintings and tapestry in the rooms, on one of which is represented a Persian chief at parley with Alexander, and, afterwards, submitting to the conqueror. Stained glass in the windows exhibit the arms of Asshawe and Egerton, successive lords of Flixton.... Adjoining the ample gardens and filbert grove was once a moat, which has partly disappeared. Shaw Hall is now used as a boarding-school, a purpose to which, by its situation, it seems well adapted." I cannot leave this place without mentioning, that the, then, tenant of the hall was a poet of no mean promise, who has contributed an interesting volume of poems and songs to the literature of this district. From the high road, a little beyond the hall, the most prominent and pleasing object in the landscape is the old parish church of Flixton, standing in its still more ancient graveyard, upon the brow of a green knoll, about an arrow's flight off; with the village of Flixton clustered behind it. At the foot of that green knoll, to the westward, where all the country beyond is one unbroken green,

The river glideth by the hamlet old.

The ground occupied by the church seemed to me the highest in the landscape; and the venerable fane stands there, looking round upon the quiet parish like a mother watching her children at play, and waiting till they come home, tired, to lie down and sleep with the rest. It was getting late in the evening when I sauntered about the churchyard, looking over the gravestones of Warburtons, Taylors, Cowpes, Gilbodys, Egertons, and Owens of Carrington. Among the rest, I found the following well-known epitaph, upon William Oldfield of Stretford, smith:—

My anvil and my hammer lie declined,My bellows have quite lost their wind;My coals are done, my debt is paid,My vices in the dust are laid.

This epitaph, which appears here in such an imperfect shape, is commonly attributed to Tim. In Rochdale parish churchyard, it appears in a much completer form on the gravestone of a blacksmith, who lived in Tim's time.

I rambled about the old village a while in the dusk. Now and then a villager lounged along in the direction of the inn, near the church; where I could hear several boisterous country fellowstalking together in high glee, while one of them sang snatches of an old ballad, called the "Golden Glove:"—

Coat, waistcoat, and breeches she then did put on,And a-hunting she went with her dog and gun;She hunted all around where the farmer did dwell,Because in her heart she did love him full well.

At length the horses were put to, and we got fairly upon the road, which took us back in another direction, round by Davy Hulme, the seat of the Norreys family. Immediately after clearing the village, Flixton House was pointed out to me; "a plain family mansion, with extensive grounds and gardens." The wind was cold, and the shades of night gathered fast around; and before we quitted Flixton parish, the birthplace of Tim Bobbin had faded from my view. I felt disappointed in finding that the place of his nativity yielded so little reminiscence of our worthy old local humorist; the simple reason for which is, that very little is known of him there. But there was compensating pleasure to me in meeting with so many interesting things there which I did not go in search of.

And so by many winding nooks he strays,With willing sport.

And so by many winding nooks he strays,

With willing sport.

—Shakspere.

Wellmay Englishmen cherish the memory of their forefathers, and love their native land. It has risen to its present power among the nations of the world through the efforts of many generations of heroic people; and the firmament of its biography is illumined by stars of the first magnitude. What we know of its history previous to the conquest by the Romans, is clouded by conjecture and romance; but we have sufficient evidence to show that, even then, this gem, "set in the silver sea," was known in distant regions of the earth, for its natural riches; and was inhabited by a brave and ingenious race of people. During the last two thousand years, the masters of the world have been fighting to win it, or to keep it. The woad-stained British savage, ardent, imaginative, and brave, roved through its woods and marshes, hunting the wild beasts of the island. He sometimes herded cattle, but was little given to tillage. He sold tin to the Phœnicians, and knew something about smelting iron ore, and working it into such shapes as were useful in a life of wild insecurity and warfare, such as his. In the slim coracle, he roamed the island's waters; and scoured its plains in battle, in his scythed car, a terror to the boldest foe. He worshipped, too, in an awful way, in sombre old woods, and colossal Stonehenges, under theblue, o'er-arching sky. On lone wastes, and moorland hills, we still have the relics of these ancient temples, frowning at time, and seeming to say, as they look on nature's ever-returning green,—in the words of their old Druids—

Everything comes out of the ground but the dead.

But destiny had other things in store for these islands. The legions of imperial Rome came down upon the wild Celt, who retired, fiercely contending, to the mountain fastnesses of the north and west. Four hundred years the Roman wrought and ruled in Britain; and he left the broad red mark of his way of living stamped upon the face of the country, and upon its institutions, when his empire declined. The steadfast Saxon followed,—"stubborn, taciturn, sulky, indomitable, rock-made,"—a farmer and a fighter; a man of sense, and spirit, and integrity; an industrious man, and a home-bird. The Saxon never loosed his hold; even though his wild Scandinavian kinsmen, the sea-kings, and jarls of the north, came rushing to battle, with their piratical multitudes, tossing their swords into the air, and singing heroic ballads, as they slew their foemen, under the banner of the Black Raven. Then came the military Norman,—a northern pirate, trained in France to the art of war,—led on by the bold Duke William, who landed his warriors at Pevensey, and burnt the fleet that brought them to the shore, in order to bind his soldiers to the necessity of victory or death. Duke William conquered, and Harold, the Saxon, fell at Hastings, with an arrow in his brain. Each of these races has left its peculiarities stamped upon the institutions of the country; but most enduring of all,—the Saxon. And now, the labours of twenty centuries of valiant men, in peace and war, have achieved a matchless power, and freedom for us, and have bestrewn the face of the land with "the charms which follow long history." The country of Caractacus and Boadicea, where Alfred ruled, and Shakspere and Milton sang, will henceforth always be interesting to men of intelligent minds, wherever they were born. It is pleasant, also, to the eye, as it is instructive to the mind. Its history is written all over the soil, not only in strong evidences of its present genius and power, but in thousands of relics of its ancient fame and characteristics. In a letter, written by Lord Jeffrey, to his sister-in-law, an American lady, respecting what Old England is like, and in what it differsmost from America, he says: "It differs mostly, I think, in the visible memorials of antiquity with which it is overspread; the superior beauty of its verdure, and the more tasteful and happy state and distribution of its woods. Everything around you here is historical, and leads to romantic or interesting recollections. Gray-grown church towers, cathedrals, ruined abbeys, castles of all sizes and descriptions, in all stages of decay, from those that are inhabited, to those in whose moats ancient trees are growing, and ivy mantling over their mouldering fragments; ... and massive stone bridges over lazy waters; and churches that look as old as Christianity; and beautiful groups of branchy trees; and a verdure like nothing else in the universe; and all the cottages and lawns fragrant with sweet briar and violets, and glowing with purple lilacs and white elders; and antique villages scattering round wide bright greens; with old trees and ponds, and a massive pair of oaken stocks preserved from the days of Alfred. With you everything is new, and glaring, and angular, and withal rather frail, slight, and perishable; nothing soft, and mellow, and venerable, or that looks as if it would ever become so." This charming picture is almost entirely compounded from the most interesting features of the rural and antique: and is, therefore, more applicable to those agricultural parts of England which have been little changed by the events of its modern history, than to those districts which have been so changed by the peaceful revolutions of manufacture in these days. But, even in the manufacturing districts, where forests of chimneys rear their tall shafts, upon ground once covered with the woodland shade, or sparsely dotted with quaint hamlets,—the venerable monuments of old English life peep out in a beautiful way, among crowding evidences of modern power and population. And the influences which have so greatly changed the appearance of the country there, have not passed over the people without effect. Wherever the genius of commerce may be leading us to, there is no doubt that the old controls of feudalism are breaking up; and in the new state of things the people of South Lancashire have found greater liberty to improve their individual qualities and conditions; fairer chances of increasing their might and asserting their rights; greater power to examine and understand all questions which come before them, and to estimate and influence their rulers, than they had under the unreasoning domination which is passing away.They are not a people inclined to anarchy. They love order as well as freedom, and they love freedom for the sake of having order established upon just principles.

The course of events during the last fifty years has been steadily upheaving the people of South Lancashire out of the thraldom of those orders which have long striven to conserve such things as tended to their own aggrandisement, at the expense of the rights of others. But even that part of the aristocracy of England which has not yet so far cast the slough of its hereditary prejudices as to see that the days are gone which nurtured such ascendancies, at least perceives that, in the manufacturing districts, it now walks in a world where few are disposed to accept its assumption of superiority, without inquiring into the nature of it. When a people who aspire to independence, begin to know how to get it, and how to use it wisely, the methods of rule that were made for slaves, will no longer answer their purpose; the pride of little minds in great places, begins to canker them, and they must give them the wall now and then, and look somewhere else for foot-lickers. The aristocracy of England are not all of them overwhelmed by the dignity of their "ancient descent." There are naturally-noble men among them, who can discern between living truth and dead tradition; men who do not think that the possession of a landed estate entitles its owner to extraordinary rights of domination over his acreless neighbours; or that, on that account alone, the rest of the world should fall down and worship at the feet of an ordinary person, more remarkable for an incomprehensible way of deporting himself, than for being a better man than his neighbours.

Through the streets of South Lancashire towns still, occasionally, roll the escutcheoned equipages of those exclusive families, who turn up the nose at the "lower orders;" and cherish a dim remembrance of the "good old times" when these lurdanes wore the collars of their ancestors upon the neck. To my thinking, the very carriage has a sort of lonely, unowned and unowning look, and never seems at home till it gets back to the coach-house; for the troops of factory lads, and other hard-working rabble, clatter merrily about the streets, looking villainously unconscious of anything particularly august in the nature of the show which is going by. On the driving-box sits a man with a beefy face, and a comically-subdued way of holdinghis countenance, grand over all with "horse-gowd," and gilt buttons, elaborate with heraldic device. Another such person, with silky calves, and a "smoke-jack" upon his hat, and breeches of plush, stands on the platform behind. It is all no use. There are corners of England where such a sight is still enough to throw a whole village into fits; but, in the manufacturing towns, a travelling instalment of Wombwell's menagerie, with the portrait of a cub rhinoceros in front, would create more stir. Inside the carriage there reclines,—chewing the cud of unacknowledged pride,—one of that rare brood of dignitaries, a man with "ancestors," who plumes himself upon the distinguished privilege of being the son of somebody or another, who was the son of somebody else, and so on;—till it gets to some burglarious person, who, in company with several others of the same kidney, once pillaged an old estate, robbed a church, and did many other such deeds, in places where the law was too weak to protect the weak; and there is an eternal blazon of armorial fuss kept up in celebration of it, on the family shield. But, admitting that these things were in keeping with the spirit and necessities of the time, and with "the right of conquest," and such like, why should their descendants take to themselves airs on that account, and consider themselves the supreme "somebodies" of the land, for such worn-out reasons? Let any landlord who still tunes his pride according to the feudal gamut of his forefathers, acquaint himself with the tone of popular feeling in the manufacturing districts. Let "John" lower the steps, and with earth-directed eyes hold the carriage door, whilst our son of a hundred fathers walks forth into the streets of a manufacturing town, to try the magic of his ancient name among the workmen as they hurry to dinner. Where are the hat-touchers gone? If he be a landlord, with nothing better than tracts of earth to recommend him, the mechanical rabble jostle him as if he was "only a pauper whom nobody owns," or some wandering cow-jobber. He goes worshipless on his way, unless he happens to meet with one of the servants from the hall, or his butcher, or the parish clerk, or the man who rings the eight o'clock bell, and they treat him to a bend sinister. As to the pride of "ancient descent," what does it mean, apart from the renown of noble deeds? The poor folk in Lancashire cherish an old superstition that "we're o' somebory's childer,"—which would befound very near the truth, if fairly looked into. And if Collop the cotton weaver's genealogy was correctly traced, it would probably run back to the year "one;" or, as he expresses it himself, to the time "when Adam wur a lad." Everything has its day. In some parts of Lancashire, the rattle of the railway train, and the bustle of traffic and labour, have drowned the tones of the hunting horn, and the chiming cry of the harriers. But whatever succeeds the decay of feudalism, the architectural relics of Old English life in Lancashire will always be interesting, and venerable as the head of a fine old man, on whose brow "the snow-fall of time" has long been stealing. May no ruder hand than the hand of time destroy these eloquent footprints of old thought which remain among us! Some men are like Burns's mouse,—the present only touches them; but any man who has the slightest title to the name of a creature of "large discourse," will be willing, now and then, to look contemplatively over his shoulder, into the grass-grown aisles of the past.

It was in that pleasant season of the year when fresh buds begin to shoot from the thorn: when the daisy and the little celandine, and the early primrose, peep from the ground, that I began to plot for another stroll through my native vale of the Roch, up to the top of "Blackstone Edge." Those mountain wastes are familiar to me. When I was a child, they rose up constantly in sight, with a silent, majestic look. The sun came from behind them in a morning, pouring its flood of splendour upon the busy valley, the winding river, and its little tributaries. I imbibed a strong attachment to those hills; and oft as opportunity would allow, I rushed towards them; for they were kindly and congenial to my mind. And now, in the crowded city, when I think of them and of the country they look down upon, it stirs within me a

Wide sea that one continuous murmur breaksAlong the pebbled shore of memory.

But at this particular time, an additional motive enticed me to my old wandering ground. The whole of the road leading to it was lined with interesting places, and associations. But, among the railways, and manifold other ways and means of travel, which now cover the country with an irregular net-work, I found, on looking over a recent map, a solitary line running in short, broken distances; and, on the approachof towns and habited spots, diving under, like a mole or an otter. It looked like a broken thread, here and there, in the mazy web of the map, and it was accompanied by the words "Roman Road," which had a little interest for me. I know there are people who would sneer at the idea of any importance being attached to an impracticable, out-of-the-way road, nearly two thousand years old, and leading to nowhere in particular, except, like the ways of the wicked, into all sorts of sloughs and difficulties. With them, one passable macadamised way, on which a cart could go to market, is worth all the ruined Watling-streets in Britain. And they are right, so far as their wisdom goes. The present generation must be served with market stuff, come what may of our museums. But still, everything in the world is full of manifold services to man, who is himself full of manifold needs. And thought can leave the telegraphic message behind, panting for breath upon the railway wires. The whole is either "cupboard for food," or "cabinet of pleasure;" therefore, let the hungry soul look round upon its estate and turn the universe to nutriment, if it can; for

There's not a breathWill mingle kindly with the meadow air,Till it has panted round, and stolen a shareOf passion from the heart.

And though the moorland pack-horse and the rambling besom-maker stumble and get entangled in grass, and sloughs, and matted brushwood, upon deserted roads, still that nimble Mercury, Thought, can flit over the silent waste, side by side with the shades of those formidable soldiers who have now slept nearly two thousand years in the cold ground.

It has not been my lot to see many of the vestiges of Roman life in Britain; yet, whatever the historians say about them has had interest for me; especially when it related to the connection of the Romans with my native district; for, in addition to its growing modern interest, I eagerly seized every fact of historical association calculated to enrich the vesture in which my mind had long been enrobing the place. I had read of the Roman station at Littleborough; of the Roman road in the neighbourhood; of interesting ancient relics, Roman and other, discovered thereabouts; and other matter of the like nature. My walks had been wide and frequent in the country about Rochdale; and many a time have I lingered and wondered at Littleborough, near the spot where history says that the Romansencamped themselves, at the foot of Blackstone Edge, at the entrance of what would, then, be the impassable hills, and woody glens, and swampy bottoms of the Todmorden district. Yet I have never met with any visible remnants of such historical antiquities of the locality; and though, when wandering about the high moors in that quarter, I have more than once crossed the track of the Roman road up there, and noticed a general peculiarity of feature about the place, I little thought that I was floundering, through moss and heather, upon one of these famous old highways. I endeavoured to hold the bit upon my own eagerness; and read of these things with a reservation of credence, lest I should delude myself into receiving the invention of a brain mad with ancientry for a genuine relic of the eld. But one day, early in the year, happening to call upon a young friend of mine, in Rochdale, whose tastes are a little congenial to my own, we talked of a stroll towards the hills; and he again showed me the line of the Roman road, on Blackstone Edge, marked in the recent Ordnance map. We then went forth, bare-headed, into the yard of his father's house, at Wardleworth Brow, from whence the view of the hills, on the east, is fine. The air was clear, and the sunshine so favourably subdued, that the objects and tints of the landscape were uncommonly distinct. He pointed to a regular stripe of land, of greener hue than the rest of the moorland, rising up the dark side of Blackstone Edge. The green stripe was the line of the Roman road. He had lately visited it, and traced its uniform width for miles, and the peculiarities of its pavement of native sandstone, overgrown with a thick tanglement of moss, and heather, and moorland lichens. He was an old acquaintance, of known integrity, and sound judgment, and, withal, more addicted to figures of arithmetic than figures of speech; so, upon his testimony, I resolved that I would bring my unstable faith to the ordeal of ocular proof, that I might, at once, draft it out of the region of doubt, or sweep it from the chambers of my brain, like a festoonery of cobwebs from a neglected corner, The prospect of another visit to the scenery of the "Edge," another snuff of the mountain air, and a little more talk with the old-world folk in the villages upon the road thither, rose up pleasantly in my mind, and the purpose took the shape of action about St. Valentine's tide.

Having arranged to be called up at five on the morning of myintended trip, I jumped out of bed when the knock came to my chamber-door, dressed, and started forth to catch the first train from Manchester. The streets were silent and still, except where one or two "early birds" of the city had gathered round a "saloop" stall; or a solitary policeman kept the lounging tenor of his way along the pavement; and here and there a brisk straggler, with a pipe in his mouth, his echoing steps contrasting strangely with the sleeping city's morning stillness. The day was ushered in with gusts of wind and rain, and, when I got to the station, both my coat and my expectations were a little damped by the weather. But, by the time the train reached Rochdale, the sky had cleared up, and the breeze had sunk down to a whisper, just cool enough to make the sunshine pleasant. The birds were twittering about, and drops of rain twinkled on the hedges and tufts of grass in the fields; where spring was quietly spreading out her green mantle again. I wished to have as wide a ramble at the farther end as time would allow; and, as moor-tramping is about the most laborious foot exercise that mortal man can bend his instep to, except running through a ploughed field, in iron-plated clogs,—an ordeal which Lancashire trainers sometimes put their foot-racers through,—it was considered advisable to hire a conveyance. We could go further, stop longer, and return at ease, when we liked, after we had tired ourselves to our heart's content upon the moors. I went down to the Reed Inn, for a vehicle. Mine host came out to the top of the steps which lead down into the stable-yard, and, leaning over the railings, called his principal ostler from the room below. That functionary was a broad-set, short-necked man, with a comely face, and a staid, laconic look. He told us, with Spartan brevity, that there had been a run upon gigs, but he could find us a "Whitechapel," and "Grey Bobby." "Grey Bobby" and the "Whitechapel" were agreed to at once, and in ten minutes I was driving up Yorkshire-street, to pick up my friends at Wardleworth Brow, on the eastern edge of the town. Giving the reins to a lad in the street, I went into the house, and took some refreshment with the rest of them, before starting; and, in a few minutes more, we were all seated, and away down the slope of Heybrook, on the Littleborough Road. Our tit had a mercurial trick of romping on his hind legs, at the start; but apart from this, he went a steady, telling pace, and we looked about us quite at ease as we sped along.

Heybrook, at the foot of Wardleworth Brow, is one of the pleasantest entrances to Rochdale town. There is a touch of suburban peace and prettiness about it; and the prospect, on all sides, is agreeable to the eye. The park-like lands of Foxholes and Hamer lie close by the north side of the road. The lower part of these grounds consists of rich, flat meadows, divided by a merry little brook, which flows from the hills on the north, above "Th' Syke." In its course from the moors, to the river Roch, it takes the name of each locality it passes through, and is called "Syke Brook," "Buckley Brook," and "Hey Brook;" and, on its way, it gathers tributary rindles of water from Clough House, Knowl, and Knowl Syke. As the Foxholes grounds recede from the high road, they undulate, until they rise into an expansive, lawny slope, clothed with a verdure which looks—when wet with summer rain or dew—"like nothing else in the universe," out of England. This slope is tastefully crowned with trees. Foxholes Hall is situated among its old woods and lawns, retiringly, upon the summit of this swelling upland, which rises from the level of Heybrook. It is a choice corner of the earth, and the view thence, between the woods, across the lawn and meadows, and over a picturesquely-varied country, to the blue hills in the south-east, is perhaps not equalled in the neighbourhood. Pleasant and green as much of the land in this district looks now, still the general character of the soil, and the whole of its features, shows that when nature had it to herself very much of it must have been sterile or swampy. Looking towards Foxholes, from the road-side at Heybrook, over the tall ancestral trees, we can see the still taller chimney of John Bright and Brothers' mill, peering up significantly behind; and the sound of their factory bell now mingles with the cawing of an ancient colony of rooks in the Foxholes woods. Foxholes is the seat of the Entwisles, a distinguished old Lancashire family. In the time of Camden, the historian, this family was seated at Entwisle Hall, near Bolton-le-Moors. George Entwisle de Entwisle left as heir his brother William, who married Alice, daughter of Bradshaw, of Bradshaw. His son Edmund, the first Entwisle of Foxholes, near Rochdale, built the old hall, which stood on the site of the present one. He married a daughter of Arthur Ashton, of Clegg; and his son Richard married Grace, the daughter of Robert Chadwick, of Healey Hall. In the parish church there is a tablet to the memory of Sir Bertin Entwisle, who fought atAgincourt, on St. Crispin's Day, in Henry the Fifth's time. When a lad, I used to con over this tablet, and I wove a world of romance around this mysterious "Sir Bertin," and connected him with all that I had heard of the prowess of old English chivalry. The tablet runs thus:—

To perpetuate a memorial erected in the church of St Peter's, St. Albans (perished by time), this marble is here placed to the memory of a gallant and loyal man—Sir Bertin Entwisle, Knt., viscount and baron of Brybeke, in Normandy, and some time bailiff of Constantine, in which office he succeeded his brother-in-law, Sir John Ashton, whose daughter first married Sir Richard le Byron, an ancestor of the Lords Byron, of Rochdale, and, secondly, Sir Bertin Entwisle, who, after repeated acts of honour in the service of his sovereigns, Henrys the Fifth and Sixth, more particularly at Agincourt, was killed in the first battle of St Albans, and on his tombstone was recorded in brass the follow inscription:—"Here lyeth Sir Bertin Entwisle, Knight, who was born in Lancastershyre, and was viscount and baron of Brybeke, in Normandy, and bailiff of Constantine, who died, fighting on King Henry the Sixth's party, the 28th May 1455, on whose soul Jesus have mercy."

Close by the stone-bridge at Heybrook, two large old trees stand in the Entwisle grounds, one on each bank of the stream, and partly overhanging the road; they stand there alone, as if to mark where a forest has been. The tired country weaver, carrying his piece to the town, lays down his burden on the parapet, wipes his brow, and rests under their shade. I have gone sometimes, on bright nights, to lean upon the bridge and look around there, and I have heard many a plaintive trio sung by these old trees and the brook below, while the moonlight danced among the leaves.

The whole valley of the Roch is a succession of green knolls, and dingles, and little receding vales, with now and then a barren stripe, like "Cronkeyshaw," or a patch of the once large mosses, like "Turf Moss;" and little holts and holms, no two alike in feature or extent, dotted, now and then, with tufts of stunted wood, with many a clear brook and silvery rill between. On the south side of the bridge at Heybrook, the streamlet from the north runs through the meadows a short distance, and empties itself into the Roch. The confluence of the waters there is known to the neighbour lads by the name of the "Greyt Meetin's," where, in past years, I have

Back to Index Next