In sunshine and in shade, in wet and fair,
Drooping or blithe of heart, as might befall:
My best companions now the driving winds,
And now the "trotting brooks" and whispering trees,
And now the music of my own sad steps,
With many a short-lived thought that passed between,
And disappeared.
--WORDSWORTH.
A short walk from "Newcroft" brought me to a dip in the highway, at
a spot where four roads meet in the hollow, a "four-lone-eends,"
as country folk call it. Such places had an awful interest for the
simple hinds of Lancashire in old times; and, in remote parts of the
county, the same feeling is strong yet with regard to them. In ancient
days, robbers, and other malefactors, were sometimes buried at the
ends of four cross roads, unhallowed by "bell, book, or candle." The
old superstitions of the people, cherished by their manner of life,
dwelling, as they did, in little seclusions, scattered over the country
around, made these the meeting-places of witches, and all sorts of
unholy things, of a weird nature. It is a common belief now, among
the natives of the hills and solitary cloughs of Lancashire, that the
best way of laying a ghost, or quieting any unearthly spirit whose
restlessness troubles their lonely lives, is to sacrifice a cock to the
goblin, and, with certain curious ceremonies, to bury the same deep
in the earth at a "four-lone-eends," firmly pinned to the ground by a
hedge-stake, driven through its body. The coldly-learned, "lost in a
gloom of uninspired research," may sneer at these rustic superstitions;
yet, surely, he was wiser who said that he would rather decline to the
"traditionary sympathies of unlettered ignorance," than constantly see
and hear
The repetitions wearisome of sense,
Where soul is dead, and feeling hath no place;
Where knowledge, ill begun in cold remark
On outward things, in formal inference ends
Near this place stands the handsome mansion of J. T. Hibbert, Esq., the
president of the Mutual Improvement Society at Stretford, and a general
benefactor to the neighbourhood in which he resides. He seems to have
awakened that locality to the spirit of modern improvement, and is
making what was, comparatively, a desert nook before, now gradually
smile around him. The people thereabouts say that "it wur quite a lost
place afore he coom." We are now in the township of Urmston, though
not in the exact spot where "Tim Bobbin" was born. As I stood in the
hollow, looking round at the little cluster of dwellings, my friend
pointed to a large, sleepy-looking old brick house, with a slip of
greensward peeping through the paling in front, as the dwelling of
William Shore, Esq., an eminent local musician, the author of that
beautiful glee-arrangement of the music to Burns's matchless carousal
song, "Willie brewed a peck o' maut," so much admired by all lovers of
the concord of sweet sounds. And, certainly, if the musician had never
done anything more than that exquisite gem of harmony, it would have
added an interest to his dwelling-place. Who, that loved music, could
go by such a spot without noticing it? Not I; for, as Wordsworth says
of the pedlar who sometimes accompanied him in his mountain rambles,
so, partly, may I say--
Not a hamlet could we pass,
Rarely a house, that did not yield to him
Remembrances.
And yet I have a misgiving that the reader thinks I am lingering too
tediously on the way; but, really, wherever one goes in England, apart
from the natural beauty of the country, he finds the ground rich
as "three-pile velvet" in all sorts of interesting things. It is a
curiously-illuminated miscellany of the finest kind; and, in spite of
all it has gone through, thank Heaven, it is neither moth-eaten nor
mildewed, nor in any way weakened by age. Its history is written all
over the land in rich memorials, with a picturesque freshness which he
that runs may read, if he only have feeling and thought to accompany
him about the island, as he wades through the harvest of its historic
annals, strewn with flowers of old romance, and tale, and hoary legend,
and dewy with gems of native song.
Quitting the hamlet, we passed a mansion, half hidden by a brick wall,
and thinly shaded by trees; a few straggling cottages; a neat little
village school came next; one or two substantial English granges,
surrounded by large outhouses, and clean, spacious yards, with
glittering windows adorned with flowers, and a general air of comfort
and repose about them; and then the hamlet dribbled away with a few
more cottages, and we were in the open country, upon the high level
land; from whence we could look westward over the fields, below which
"the Cheshire waters,"
To their resting-place serene,
Came fresh'ning and refreshing all the scene.
In the recently published "History of Preston and its Environs," by
Mr. Charles Hardwick, the author of that admirable volume enters into
an ingenious dissertation upon the derivation of the name of this
river, and after suggesting that its name may be derived from "mere"
and "sea," or sea-lake, says, "South of Manchester, at this day, the
river is not known by many of the peasantry as the Mersey. It is
called by them the 'Cheshire Waters.' The modern name appears to have
been derived from the estuary, and not from the fresh-water stream."
Mr. Hardwick's remark is equally true of the people dwelling here by
that river, on the eastern side of Manchester. A few fields divide
the high road from the water, and then slope down to its margin. From
the road we could see the low, fertile expanse of Cheshire meadows
and woods spread away to the edge of the horizon in one beautiful
green level. When the river was swollen by long rains, the nearer
part of the Cheshire side used to present the appearance of a great
lake, before the embankment was thrown up to protect the fields from
inundation. In past times, that rich tract must have been a vast marsh.
But yonder stands Urmston Hall, upon a green bank, overlooking the
river. As I drew nearer the building, I was more and more struck with
its picturesque appearance, as seen from the high road, which goes by
it, at about a hundred yards' distance. It is a fine specimen of the
wood-and-plaster hall, once common in Lancashire, of which Hulme Hall
was an older, and perhaps the richest example, so near Manchester.
Urmston Hall is "of the age of Elizabeth, adorned by a gable, painted
in lozenges and trefoils." Baines says, "According to Seacombe, Sir
Thomas Lathom possessed the manor of Urmston, in this parish (Flixton),
and at his death, I Edward III., he settled upon his natural son, Sir
Oscatel, and his heirs, the manors of Irlam and Urmston, about the
time when the Stanleys, whose heir had married Lady Elizabeth Lathom,
assumed the crest of the Eagle and Child." He says further, "That
according to other and higher authorities, the lands and lordship of
Urmston have been the property of the Urmstons and Hydes in succession,
from the time of King John to the seventeenth century; and that the
Urmstons resided at Urmston Hall until they removed to Westleigh,
and were succeeded by the Hydes." The spacious carriage road still
preserves its old proportion, though now rutted by the farmers' carts
belonging to the present occupants of the place. A few tall relics of
the fine trees which once surrounded the hall are still standing about,
like faithful domestics clinging to the fallen fortunes of an ancient
master.
And now, I begin to think of the special errand which has brought
me to the place. There stands the old hall; and yonder is a row of
four or five raw-looking, new brick cottages, such as one sees spring
up at the edges of great factory towns, by whole streets at once,
almost in a night--like Jonah's gourd. They hold nothing--they cost
nothing--they are made out of nothing--they look nothing--and they
come to nothing--as a satirical friend of mine says, who is satisfied
with nothing. If it were not that one knows how very indifferently the
common people were housed in those old days when the hall was in its
glory, it really is enough to make one dissatisfied with the whole
thing. With the exception of the hall and these cottages, the green
country spreads out all around for some distance. When we came up to
the row, my friend said that the endmost house stood on the spot, three
years ago occupied by the old wood-and-plaster building in which "Tim
Bobbin" was born, and in which his father, John Collier the elder,
taught the children of Flixton parish, gathered from the rural folds in
the distance. The house was gone, but, nevertheless, I must make what
research I could, and to that end I referred to my note-book, and found
that Baines says: "In a small house, opposite (Urmston Hall), bearing
the name of 'Richard o' Jone's, was born John Collier, the renowned
'Tim Bobbin,' the provincial satirist of Lancashire, as appears from
the following document:--'Baptisms in the parish church of Flixton in
the year 1709--John, son of Mr. John Collier, of Urmston, baptised
January the 8th.[14]--I hereby certify this to be a true extract of
the parish register book at Flixton, as witness my hand, this 30th
November, 1824.--(Signed) THOMAS HARPER, parish clerk.'" This was all
clear and straightforward so far as it went, but I wanted to prove
the thing for myself, as far as possible, on the spot. I thought it
best to begin by inquiring at the nearest of these cottages, opposite
Urmston Hall. Inside I heard the dismal rattle of hand-looms at work,
and through the window I could see the web and the wooden beams of the
machine, and a pale gingham weaver, swaying back and forward as he
threw his shuttle to and fro. The door, which led into the other part
of the cottage, was open, and a middle-aged woman, with a thin, patient
face, was spinning there, on the wooden wheel still used in country
places. This was the first indication I had noticed of any part of the
population being employed in manufacture. I went to the open door, and
asked the woman if this was not the spot where "Tim Bobbin" was born,
expecting a ready and enthusiastic affirmative. She gazed at me for an
instant, with a kind of vague curiosity; and, to my astonishment, said
she really couldn't tell. She hardly seemed to know who "Tim Bobbin"
was. Poor as the inmates were, everything inside spoke of industry and
cleanliness, and simple, honest living. She called her husband from
his looms, in the other part of the cottage; but his answer was nearly
the same, except that he referred me to a person in the neighbourhood,
who was formerly master of the school kept in this old house, called
"Richard o' Jone's." I turned and left the spot with a feeling of
disappointment, but with a stronger desire to know whether anything was
known about the matter among the inhabitants of the locality. To this
end, I and my friend rambled on towards Flixton, inquiring of high and
low, and still nobody knew anything definite about it, though there was
a general impression among them that he was born at the old cottage
formerly standing opposite Urmston Hall; but they perpetually finished
by referring to "Jockey Johnson," "Owd Cottrill, th' pavor," "Owd
White-yed, th' saxton," and the parish schoolmaster before-mentioned.
The parish clerk, too, might know something, they said. And here, as
we wandered about in this way, a tall gentleman, a little past the
middle age, dressed in black, came quietly up the road. My friend, to
whom he was known, at once introduced me to the Rev. Mr. Gregory, the
incumbent of Flixton, and told him my errand. The incumbent kindly
invited me to look through the parish register, at his house, the first
convenient afternoon I had to spare; which I did very soon after.
Setting aside "Jockey Johnson," and "Owd Cottrill, th' pavor," and
the other authorities of the hamlet so oft referred to, till a better
opportunity, I thought that the schoolmaster, being a native man, and
having lived long in the very house where "Tim" is said to have been
born, would probably feel some pride in his celebrated predecessor,
and, perhaps, be a willing conservator of any tradition existing in the
hamlet respecting him. His house was a little more than a mile off;
and I started along the high road back to a point from whence an old
lane leads out, eastward, to the schoolmaster's solitary cottage in the
distant fields.
[14] This date is according to the 'Old Style,' which was then in use.