In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
--WORDSWORTH.
Leaving the high-road at the place I had been told of, I went up an
old lane, which soon led between a little fold of cottages. The first
of these were old rude buildings of stone, with the roofs fallen in,
and seemingly abandoned to decay. The others were of more modern
appearance, and partly tenanted by hand-loom weavers. Through the open
doors of one or two I saw that cheerful twinkle of humble comfort,
which is, perhaps, more delightful to meet with in such lowly nooks
than in prouder quarters; because it shows how much happiness may be
drawn out of little means, by wholesome minds. If the doors had been
closed, I could have guessed at the condition of the interior by the
clean door-step and windows, and by the healthy pot-flowers peeping
prettily through the panes. Folk who can make such places beautiful
by simple cleanliness and native taste, are the unlettered gentry of
nature, more blest in their low estate than they can understand, when
they compare it with the glitter of the fuming world in the distance.
Like the lark's nest, though near the ground, their homes are neat
and sweet, out of humble materials, and blithe with the neighbourhood
of nature. Some of these cottages were of duller aspect, though there
was nothing of that dirty sickliness about them which is so common
in the back quarters of city life. But I have noticed that, even in
the lowest parts of great towns, now and then there comes a cottage
all cleanliness and order, a sweet little household oasis amidst the
wilderness of filth around; shining in the gloom, "like a good deed in
a naughty world."
When I came to the end of the fold, I found that the lane went forward
in two directions; one right into the open green country, where I could
see no dwellings at hand, the other winding back towards the village
which I had left behind me, at the high-road side. An old woman was
looking from the cottage door at the corner, and I asked her the way
to the schoolmaster's house. Country folk are not always known in
Lancashire by their real name, even on their own ground, and she had
to consult somebody inside about the matter. In a minute or so, a
voice from the cottage called out, "Does he belung to th' owd body,
thinken yo?"--meaning the old body of Wesleyan Methodists. I said that
I thought he did. "Oh, ay," replied the voice, "it'll be William, sure
enough.... Yo mun go reet forrud up th' lone afore yo, till yo come'n
to a heawse i'th fields,--an' that'll be it. It stons a bit off th'
lone-side.... Yo'n ha' to pike yor gate, mind yo; for its nobbut a mak
o' durty under-fuut." On I went, between the hedge-rows, slipping and
stepping from pool to pool, down the miry cow-lane, for nearly half a
mile, slutching myself up to the collar as I went; and there, about a
stone's throw from the way-side, I saw the schoolmaster's low-built
cottage standing in a bit of sweet garden in the middle of the wide
green fields. Entering by a tiny wooden gate at the back, I went
along a narrow garden walk, between little piles of rockery, and rows
of shells, which ornamented the beds, till I came winding up to the
door in front; which was shaded, if I remember right, by some kind of
simple trellis-work. The wind was now still--everything was still, but
the cheerful birds fluttering about, and filling the evening silence
with their little melodies. The garden and the cottage looked sweet,
and sleepily-beautiful. The windows blazed in the sunset, which was
flooding all the level landscape with its departing splendour. I heard
no stir inside, but knocking at the door, it was opened by a quiet
middle-aged man, who asked me in. This was the schoolmaster himself;
and, by the fireside sat a taller, older man; who was his brother.
The only other inmate was a staid, elderly woman; whose dress, and
mild countenance, was in perfect keeping with the order and peace of
everything around. It was quite a sample of a quaint, comfortable
English cottage interior. As I glanced about, I could fancy that many
of the clean, little nick-nacks which I saw so carefully arranged,
were the treasured heirlooms of old country housekeepers. Everything
was in its right place, and cleaned up to its height. The house was
as serene, and the demeanour of the people as seemly and subdued as
if it had been a little chapel; and the setting sun streaming through
the front window, filled the cottage with a melting glory, which
no magnificence of wealth could imitate. Catching, unconsciously,
the spirit of the hour, my voice crept down nearer to the delicate
stillness of the scene; and I whispered my questions to the two
brothers, as if to speak at all was a desecration of that contemplative
silence which seemed to steep everything around, like a delicious
slumber, filled with holy dreams. We gradually got into conversation,
and in the course of our talk I gathered from the two brothers that
they had lived and kept school in the house where Baines says that Tim
Bobbin was born. They said that, though there was a general belief
that he was born in that house, yet they did not themselves possess
anything which clearly proved the fact. And yet it might be quite true,
they said; for they had often known artists come out there to sketch
the building as his birthplace. There were other people in the parish
who, they thought, might perhaps know more about the matter. They
said that there were many curious Latin mottoes and armorial bearings
painted on the walls and other parts of the school-house, which many
people attributed to Tim Bobbin--but they were not quite sure that
people were right in doing so. I agreed with the two brothers in this.
There is little doubt that Tim was a fair Latin scholar in after life;
I myself once possessed a pocket copy of Terence's "Comedies," which
had undoubtedly belonged to him; and in the margin of which he had
corrected the Latinity. But according to what is known of Tim's life
elsewhere, he must have left the place of his birth very early in
youth, probably with some migration of his father's family long before
he could be able to deal with such matters. The brothers did not know
whether these relics had been preserved or not when the house was taken
down--they thought not. The house had been occupied by them and their
fathers, as schoolmasters, for more than a hundred years gone by; but
they really could not tell much more about the matter. They thought,
however, that owd Tummus so and so would be likely to know something
about it--or owd Hannah Wood. They were "two o'th owd'st folk i'
Urmston; and that wur sayin' summat." Was I in the reporting line they
wondered.... Well, it was no matter--but Owd Tummus lived about half a
mile off; "o'er anent Cis Lone;" and I should be sure to find him in.
Thanking them for the information they had given me, I left the quiet
trio in their quiet cottage, and came away. The evening was cold and
clear, and the scattered birds were twittering out the last notes of
their vespers in secluded solos, about the hedges. In the far east,
the glimmering landscape was melting away; but the glory which hovered
on the skirts of the sunken sun dazzled my eyes as I came down the old
lane in the gloaming; and I was happy in my lonely walk, come of it
whatever might.
I came up to the old man's house, just as the evening candles were
beginning to twinkle through cottage windows by the way. He sat by
the fire; a little man, thin and bent, but with a face that spoke an
old age that was "frosty, but kindly." There were young people in
the house; seemingly belonging to the farm. After some preliminary
chat about weather and the like, I drew him in the direction of the
subject I had come about; asking whether he had ever heard that Tim
Bobbin was born in Urmston. He replied, "Well; aw have yerd it said
so, aw think--but my memory houds nought neaw.... Tim Bobbin, say'n
yo? Aw like as aw could mind summat abeawt that,--aw _do_.... Owd
Back'll know; if onybody does, he _will_.... He's a goodish age, is
th' owd lad,--he _is_; an' fause with it,--_very_.... Tim Bobbin! Tim
Bobbin!... Aw'st be eighty-three come th' time o'th year. Owd Back's a
quarter younger.... Aw've a pain taks me across here, neaw and then.
We're made o' stuff at winnut last for ever.... Ay, ay; we'n sin summat
i' eawr time, has Owd Back an me,--we _ban_.... Dun yo know Kit o'
Ottiwell's? Hoo lives at Davyhulme; ax hur; ax hur. Ho'll be likker
to leeten yo abeawt this job nor me. Yo see'n aw connut piece things
together neaw. If yo'd'n come'd fifty year sin, aw could ha' towd yo a
tale, an' bowdly too,--aw could. But th' gam's up. The dule's getten
th' porritch, an th' Lord's getten th' pon to scrape,--as usal." I
was inquiring further about his friend "Owd Back," when he stopped me
by saying, "Oh, there's Owd Hannah Wood; aw'd like to forgetten hur.
Eh, that aw should forget Owd Hannah! Hoo lives by the hee-gate, as
yo gwon to Stretford,--hoo _does_. What, are yo after property, or
summat?" "No." "Whau then.... Yo mun see Owd Hannah soon, yung mon;
or yo'n ha' to look for her i' Flixton graveyort; an' aw deawt that
would sarve yo'r turn but little.... Folk donnut like so mich talk
when they're getten theer.... My feyther an' mother's theer, an' o' th'
owd set;--aw'st be amoon 'em in a bit. Well, well; neighbour fare's
no ill fare, as th' sayin' is." In this way the old man wandered on
till I rose to go; when, turning to the old woman sitting near, he
said, "Aw've just unbethought mo. William---- will be the very mon
to ax abeawt this Tim Bobbin; an' so will their Sam. They liv't i'th
heawse 'at he's speykin' on; an' so did their on-setters (ancestors)
afore 'em. Beside they're a mak o' larnt folk. They're schoo maisters;
an' so then." The old man did not know that these were the men I had
just left. After resting a few minutes, he raised his head again, just
before I came away, to tell me, as others had done, that "Jockey
Johnson," an' "Cottril, th' pavor," were likely folk to sper on." In
this way I wandered to and fro; meeting, in most cases, with little
more than a glimmering remembrance of the thing, the dimness of which,
seeing that few seemed to take any strong interest in the matter, I
found afterwards was not difficult to account for. One old man said,
as soon as the name was mentioned to him, "Let's see. Aw'm just
thinkin'.... Ay, ay; it's yon heawse opposite th' owd ho'. They'n
bin built up again, lately. An' there wur writin' an' stuff upo' th'
woles; but it took somebory with a deeal o' larnin' to understond it"
When I called upon the parish-clerk, he told me that a few years ago
a gentleman had called to make inquiry upon the same subject, and
left instructions for everything in the register relating to Tim to
be extracted for him, which was done; but he never called to get the
manuscript, which was now lost or mislaid.