For years has Dunham Park been the favourite resort of the Manchester
workpeople; for more years than I can tell; probably ever since “the
Duke,” by his canals, opened out the system of cheap travelling. Its
scenery, too, which presents such a complete contrast to the whirl
and turmoil of Manchester; so thoroughly woodland, with its ancestral
trees (here and there lightning-blanched); its “verdurous walls”; its
grassy walks leading far away into some glade, where you start at the
rabbit rustling among the last year’s fern, and where the wood-pigeon’s
call seems the only fitting and accordant sound. Depend upon it, this
complete sylvan repose, this accessible quiet, this lapping the soul
in green images of the country, forms the most complete contrast to a
town’s-person, and consequently has over such the greatest power of charm.
Presently Libbie found out she was very hungry. Now they were but
provided with dinner, which was, of course, to be eaten as near twelve
o’clock as might be; and Margaret Hall, in her prudence, asked a
working-man near to tell her what o’clock it was.
“Nay,” said he, “I’ll ne’er look at clock or watch to-day. I’ll not spoil
my pleasure by finding out how fast it’s going away. If thou’rt hungry,
eat. I make my own dinner-hour, and I have eaten mine an hour ago.”
So they had their veal pies, and then found out it was only half-past ten
o’clock; by so many pleasureable events had that morning been marked.
But such was their buoyancy of spirits, that they only enjoyed their
mistake, and joined in the general laugh against the man who had eaten
his dinner somewhere about nine. He laughed most heartily of all till,
suddenly stopping, he said:
“I must not go on at this rate; laughing gives one such an appetite.”
“Oh, if that’s all,” said a merry-looking man lying at full length, and
brushing the fresh scent out of the grass, while two or three little
children tumbled over him, and crept about him, as kittens or puppies
frolic with their parents, “if that’s all, we’ll have a subscription of
eatables for them improvident folk as have eaten their dinner for their
breakfast. Here’s a sausage pasty and a handful of nuts for my share.
Bring round the hat, Bob, and see what the company will give.”
Bob carried out the joke, much to little Franky’s amusement; and no one
was so churlish as to refuse, although the contributions varied from a
peppermint drop up to a veal pie and a sausage pasty.
“It’s a thriving trade,” said Bob, as he emptied his hatful of provisions
on the grass by Libbie’s side. “Besides, it’s tiptop, too, to live on the
public. Hark! what is that?”
The laughter and the chat were suddenly hushed, and mothers took their
little ones to listen—as, far away in the distance, now sinking and
falling, now swelling and clear, came a ringing peal of children’s
voices, blended together in one of those psalm tunes which we are all of
us so familiar with, and which bring to mind the old, old days, when we,
as wondering children, were first led to worship “Our Father,” by those
beloved ones who have since gone to the more perfect worship. Holy was
that distant choral praise, even to the most thoughtless; and when it,
in fact, was ended, in the instant’s pause, during which the ear awaits
the repetition of the air, they caught the noontide hum and buzz of the
myriads of insects who danced away their lives in the glorious day; they
heard the swaying of the mighty woods in the soft but resistless breeze,
and then again once more burst forth the merry jests and the shouts of
childhood; and again the elder ones resumed their happy talk, as they lay
or sat “under the greenwood tree.” Fresh parties came dropping in; some
laden with wild flowers—almost with branches of hawthorn, indeed; while
one or two had made prizes of the earliest dog-roses, and had cast away
campion, stitchwort, ragged robin, all to keep the lady of the hedges
from being obscured or hidden by the community.
One after another drew near to Franky, and looked on with interest as he
lay sorting the flowers given to him. Happy parents stood by, with their
household bands around them, in health and comeliness, and felt the sad
prophecy of those shrivelled limbs, those wasted fingers, those lamp-like
eyes, with their bright, dark lustre. His mother was too eagerly watching
his happiness to read the meaning of those grave looks, but Libbie saw
them and understood them; and a chill shudder went through her, even on
that day, as she thought on the future.
“Ay! I thought we should give you a start!”
A start they did give, with their terrible slap on Libbie’s back, as she
sat idly grouping flowers, and following out her sorrowful thoughts. It
was the Dixons. Instead of keeping their holiday by lying in bed, they
and their children had roused themselves, and had come by the omnibus
to the nearest point. For an instant the meeting was an awkward one, on
account of the feud between Margaret Hall and Mrs. Dixon, but there was
no long resisting of kindly mother Nature’s soothings, at that holiday
time, and in that lonely tranquil spot; or if they could have been
unheeded, the sight of Franky would have awed every angry feeling into
rest, so changed was he since the Dixons had last seen him; and since he
had been the Puck or Robin Goodfellow of the neighbourhood, whose marbles
were always rolling under other people’s feet, and whose top-strings were
always hanging in nooses to catch the unwary. Yes, he, the feeble, mild,
almost girlish-looking lad had once been a merry, happy rogue, and as
such often cuffed by Mrs. Dixon, the very Mrs. Dixon who now stood gazing
with the tears in her eyes. Could she, in sight of him, the changed, the
fading, keep up a quarrel with his mother?
“How long hast thou been here?” asked Dixon.
“Welly on for all day,” answered Libbie.
“Hast never been to see the deer, or the king and queen oaks? Lord! how
stupid!”
His wife pinched his arm, to remind him of Franky’s helpless condition,
which, of course, tethered the otherwise willing feet. But Dixon had a
remedy. He called Bob, and one or two others; and, each taking a corner
of the strong plaid shawl, they slung Franky as in a hammock, and thus
carried him merrily along, down the wood paths, over the smooth, grassy
turf, while the glimmering shine and shadow fell on his upturned face.
The women walked behind, talking, loitering along, always in sight of the
hammock; now picking up some green treasure from the ground, now catching
at the low-hanging branches of the horse-chestnut. The soul grew much on
this day, and in these woods, and all unconsciously, as souls do grow.
They followed Franky’s hammock-bearers up a grassy knoll, on the top of
which stood a group of pine trees, whose stems looked like dark red gold
in the sunbeams. They had taken Franky there to show him Manchester, far
away in the blue plain, against which the woodland foreground cut with
a soft clear line. Far, far away in the distance, on that flat plain,
you might see the motionless cloud of smoke hanging over a great town,
and that was Manchester—ugly, smoky Manchester—dear, busy, earnest,
noble-working Manchester; where their children had been born, and where,
perhaps, some lay buried; where their homes were, and where God had cast
their lives, and told them to work out their destiny.
“Hurrah! for oud smoke-jack!” cried Bob, putting Franky softly down on
the grass, before he whirled his hat round, preparatory to a shout.
“Hurrah! hurrah!” from all the men. “There’s the rim of my hat lying like
a quoit yonder,” observed Bob quietly, as he replaced his brimless hat on
his head with the gravity of a judge.
“Here’s the Sunday-school children a-coming to sit on this shady side,
and have their buns and milk. Hark! they’re singing the infant-school
grace.”
They sat close at hand, so that Franky could hear the words they sang,
in rings of children, making, in their gay summer prints, newly donned
for that week, garlands of little faces, all happy and bright upon that
green hill-side. One little “dot” of a girl came shyly behind Franky,
whom she had long been watching, and threw her half-bun at his side, and
then ran away and hid herself, in very shame at the boldness of her own
sweet impulse. She kept peeping from her screen at Franky all the time;
and he meanwhile was almost too pleased and happy to eat; the world was
so beautiful, and men, women, and children all so tender and kind; so
softened, in fact, by the beauty of this earth, so unconsciously touched
by the spirit of love, which was the Creator of this lovely earth. But
the day drew to an end; the heat declined; the birds once more began
their warblings; the fresh scents again hung about plant, and tree, and
grass, betokening the fragrant presence of the reviving dew, and—the boat
time was near. As they trod the meadow path once more, they were joined
by many a party they had encountered during the day, all abounding in
happiness, all full of the day’s adventures. Long-cherished quarrels had
been forgotten, new friendships formed. Fresh tastes and higher delights
had been imparted that day. We have all of us our look, now and then,
called up by some noble or loving thought (our highest on earth), which
will be our likeness in heaven. I can catch the glance on many a face,
the glancing light of the cloud of glory from heaven, “which is our
home.” That look was present on many a hard-worked, wrinkled countenance,
as they turned backwards to catch a longing, lingering look at Dunham
woods, fast deepening into blackness of night, but whose memory was
to haunt, in greenness and freshness, many a loom, and workshop, and
factory, with images of peace and beauty.
That night, as Libbie lay awake, revolving the incidents of the day, she
caught Franky’s voice through the open windows. Instead of the frequent
moan of pain, he was trying to recall the burden of one of the children’s
hymns:
“Here we suffer grief and pain,
Here we meet to part again;
In Heaven we part no more.
Oh! that will be joyful,” etc.
She recalled his question, the whispered question, to her in the happiest
part of the day. He asked Libbie: “Is Dunham like Heaven? The people
here are as kind as angels, and I don’t want Heaven to be more beautiful
than this place. If you and mother would but die with me, I should like
to die, and live always there!” She had checked him, for she feared he
was impious; but now the young child’s craving for some definite idea of
the land to which his inner wisdom told him he was hastening, had nothing
in it wrong, or even sorrowful, for—
“In Heaven we part no more.”