Such being the conditions laid down, and believed in by the three,

they resolved to venture, together, on the taking of Saint John's

Fern seed, with strict observance of the time and the cabalistic

ceremonials enjoined by "Limping Billy," the seer, of Radcliffe Bridge.

"Plant," the botanist, "knew where the finest clump of fern in the

country grew;" and he undertook to accompany "Chirrup" and "Bangle"

to the spot, at the time appointed, the eve of St. John the Baptist.

The remainder of the passage describes "Boggart Ho' Clough," the spot

in which St. John's Fern then grew in great abundance, and where the

botanists of the district still find the plant; it describes, also, the

fearful enterprise of the three at the witching hour of midnight, in

search of the enchanted seed:--

"On the left hand, reader, as thou goest towards Manchester, ascending

from Blackley, is a rather deep valley, green swarded, and embowered in

plantations and older woods. A driving path, which thou enterest by a

white gate hung on whale-jaw posts,[54] leads down to a grove of young

trees, by a modern and substantial farm-house, with green shutters,

sashed windows, and flowers peeping from the sills. A mantle of ivy

climbs the wall, a garden is in front, and an orchard, redolent of

bloom, and fruit in season, nods on the hill-top above. Here, at the

time Plant was speaking of, stood a very ancient house, built partly

of old-fashioned bricks, and partly of a timber frame, filled with

raddlings and daub (wicker-work plastered with clay). It was a lone

and desolate-looking house indeed; misty and fearful, even at noonday.

It was known as 'Boggart-ho',' or 'Fyrin'-ho';' and the gorge in which

it is situated, was, and is still, known as 'Boggart' or 'Fyrin-ho'

Kloof,' 'the glen of the hall of spirits.' Such a place, might we

suppose, had Milton in contemplation, when he wrote the passage of his

inimitable poem:--

"Tells how the drudging goblin sweat,

To earn his cream-bowl, duly set,

When, in one night, ere glimpse of morn,

His shadowy flail had thrash'd the corn

Which ten day-labourers could not end;

Then lies him down, the lubber fiend:

And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length,

Basks at the fire, his hairy strength;

And cropful, out of door he flings,

Ere the first cock his matin sings.

[54] Those somewhat remarkable posts have been removed of late years,

and stout pillars of stone occupy their places.

"By the side of the house, and through the whole length of the valley,

wends a sickly, tan-coloured rindle, which, issuing from the great

White Moss, comes down, tinged with the colour of its parent swamp.

Opposite the modern house, a forbidden road cuts through the plantation

on the right towards Moston Lane. Another path leads behind the house,

up precipitous banks, and through close bowers, to Booth Hall; and

a third, the main one, proceeds along the kloof, by the side of the

stream, and under sun-screening woods, until it forks into two roads:

one a cattle-track, to 'The Bell,' in Moston; and the other a winding

and precipitous footpath, to a farm-house at 'Wood-end,' where it gains

the broad upland, and emerges into unshaded day.

"About half way up this kloof, is an open, cleared space of green and

short sward: it is probably two hundred yards in length, by sixty

in width; and passing along it from Blackley, a group of fine oaks

appear, on a slight eminence, a little to the left. This part of

the grove was, at the time we are concerned with, much more crowded

with underwood than at present.[55] The bushes were then close and

strong; fine sprouts of 'yerth-groon' hazel and ash were common as

nuts; whilst a thick bush of bramble, wild rose, and holly, gave the

spot the appearance of a place inclosed and set apart for mysterious

concealment. Intermingled with these almost impervious barriers, where

tufts of tall green fern, curling and bending gracefully; and a little

separate from them and near the old oaks, might be observed a few fern

clumps of a singular appearance; of a paler green than the others--with

a flatter and a broader leaf--sticking up, rigid and expanded, like

something stark with mute terror. These were 'Saint John's Fern;' and

the finest of them was the one selected by Plant for the experiment now

to be described.

[55] Those oaks have been felled, and the kloof is now comparatively

denuded of timber; the underwood on the left side is nearly swept

away. Sad inroads on the ominous gloom of the place.

"A little before midnight, on the eve of St. John, Plant, Chirrup,

and Bangle, where at the whale-jaw gate before-mentioned; and, having

slightly scanned each other, they proceeded, without speaking, until

they had crossed the brook at a stepping-place, opposite the old

Fyrin-ho'. The first word spoken was--'What hast thou?'

"'Mine is breawn an' roof,'

said Plant, exhibiting a brown earthern dish. 'What hast thou?' he then

asked.

"'Mine is breet enough,'

said Chirrup, showing a pewter platter, and continued, 'What hast thou?'

"'Teed wi' web an' woof,

Mine is deep enough,'

said Bangle, displaying a musty, dun skull, with the cap sawn off above

the eyes, and left flapping like a lid by a piece of tanned scalp,

which still adhered. The interior cavities had also been stuffed with

moss and lined with clay, kneaded with blood from human veins, and

the youth had secured the skull to his shoulders by a twine of three

strands of unbleached flax, of undyed wool, and of woman's hair,

from which also depended a raven black tress, which a wily crone had

procured from the maid he sought to obtain.

"'That will do,'

said a voice, in a half whisper, from one of the low bushes they were

passing. Plant and Chirrup paused; but Bangle, who had evidently his

heart on the accomplishment of the undertaking, said, 'Forward!--if we

turn, now a spirit has spoken, we are lost. Come on!' and they went

forward.

"A silence, like that of death, was around them as they entered on the

opening platting. Nothing moved either in tree or brake. Through a

space in the foliage, the stars were seen pale in heaven, and a crooked

moon hung in a bit of blue amid motionless clouds. All was still

and breathless, as if earth, heaven, and the elements, were aghast.

Anything would have been preferable to that unnatural stillness and

silence--the hoot of the night owl, the larum of the pit sparrow, the

moan of the wind, the toll of a death-bell, or the howl of a ban-dog,

would, inasmuch as they are things of this world, have been welcome

sounds amid that horrid pause. But no sound came and no object moved.

"Gasping, and with cold sweat oozing on his brow, Plant recollected

that they were to shake the fern with a forked rod of witch hazel,

and by no means must touch it with their hands, and he asked, in a

whisper, if the others had brought one. Both said they had forgotten,

and Chirrup said they had better never have come; but Plant drew his

knife, and stepping into a moonlighted bush, soon returned with what

was wanted, and they went forward.

"The green knowe, the old oaks, the encircled space, and the fern, were

now approached; the latter stiff and erect in a gleamy light.

"'Is it deep neet?' said Bangle.

"'It is,' said Plant.

The star that bids the shepherd fold,

Now the top of heaven doth hold.

"And they drew near. All was still and motionless.

"Plant knelt on one knee, and held his dish under the fern.

"Chirrup held his broad plate next below, and

"Bangle knelt, and rested the skull directly under both on the green

sod; the lid being up.

"Plant said,--

'Good St John, this seed we crave,

We have dared; shall we have?'

"A voice responded:--

'Now the moon is downward starting,

Moon and stars are all departing;

Quick, quick; shake, shake;

He whose heart shall soonest break,

Let him take.'

"They looked, and perceived by a glance that a venerable form, in a

loose robe, was near them.

"Darkness came down like a swoop. The fern was shaken, the upper dish

flew into pieces--the pewter one melted; the skull emitted a cry, and

eyes glared in its sockets; lights broke--beautiful children were

seen walking in their holiday clothes, and graceful female forms sung

mournful and enchanting airs.

"The men stood terrified, and fascinated; and Bangle, gazing, bade,

'God bless 'em.' A crash followed as if the whole of the timber in

the kloof was being splintered and torn up; strange and horrid forms

appeared from the thickets; the men ran as if sped on the wind--they

separated, and lost each other. Plant ran towards the old house, and

there, leaping the brook, he cast a glance behind him, and saw terrific

shapes--some beastly, some part human, and some hellish, gnashing their

teeth, and howling, and uttering the most fearful and mournful tones,

as if wishful to follow him but unable to do so.

"In an agony of terror he arrived at home, not knowing how he

got there. He was, during several days, in a state bordering on

unconsciousness; and, when he recovered, he learned that Chirrup was

found on the White Moss, raving mad, and chasing the wild birds. As for

poor Bangle, he found his way home over hedge and ditch, running with

supernatural and fearful speed--the skull's eyes glaring at his back,

and the nether jaw grinning and jabbering frightful and unintelligible

sounds. He had preserved the seed, however, and, having taken it from

the skull, he buried the latter at the cross road from whence he had

taken it. He then carried the spell out, and his proud love stood one

night by his bed-side in tears. But he had done too much for human

nature--in three months after she followed his corpse, a real mourner,

to the grave!

"Such was the description my fellow-prisoner gave of what occurred in

the only trial he ever made with St John's Fern seed. He was full of

old and quaint narratives, and of superstitious lore, and often would

beguile time by recounting them. Poor fellow! a mysterious fate hung

over him also."

This description of "Boggart Ho' Clough," with its dramatic embodiment

of one of our strong local superstitions, is all the more interesting

from the pen of one who knew the place and the people so well. I

know no other writer who is so able to portray the distinctive

characteristics of the people of South Lancashire as Samuel Bamford.

It is now some years since I visited the scene of the foregoing

traditions. At that time I was wholly unacquainted with the last of

these legends, and I knew little more about "Boggart Ho' Clough," in

any way, than its name indicates. I sought the place, then, solely

on account of its natural attractions. Feeling curious, however,

respecting the import of its name, and dimly remembering Roby's

tradition, I made some inquiry in the neighbourhood, and found that,

although some attributed the name to the superstitious credulity of the

native people, there was one gentleman who nearly destroyed that theory

in my mind at the time, by saying that, a short time previous, he had

dined with a lawyer who informed him, in the course of a conversation

upon the same subject, that he had recently been at a loss how to

describe the place in question, having to prepare some notices to be

served on trespassers; and, on referring to the title-deeds of the

property, he found that a family of the name of "Bowker" had formerly

occupied a residence situated in the clough, and that their dwelling

was designated "Bowker's Hall." This he adopted as the origin of

the name, and described it accordingly. But the testimony of every

writer who notices the spot, especially those best acquainted with it,

inclines to the other derivation.

But the locality has other points of interest, besides this romantic

nook, and the tales of glamour connected with it. In it there is

many a boggart story, brought down from the past, many a spot of

fearful repute among native people. Apart from all these things, the

chapelry of Blackley is enriched with historic associations well worth

remembering, and it contains some interesting relics of the ancient

manner of life there. In former times the chapelry had in it several

fine old halls: Booth Hall, Nuthurst Hall, Lightbowne Hall, Hough Hall,

Crumpsall Hall, and Blackley Hall. Some of these still remain. Some

of them have been the homes or the birthplaces of men of eminence in

their day--eminent for worth as well as station--among whom there is

more than one who has left a long trail of honourable recollections

behind him. Such men were Humphrey Chetham, Bishop Oldham, and others.

Bradford the martyr, also, is said to have resided in this township.

William Chadderton, D.D., Bishop of Chester, and afterwards Bishop of

Lincoln, was born at Nuthurst Hall, about the year 1540. George Clarke,

the founder of the charity which bears his name, and one of Fuller's

Worthies, resided in Crumpsall. The following particulars respecting

the district and its notabilities I glean from the recently-published

"History of the Ancient Chapel of Blackley," by the Rev. John Booker,

B.A., of Magdalene College, Cambridge, curate of Prestwich. First, with

respect to the ancient state of Blackley, in the survey of Manchester,

as taken in the 15th Edward II. (1322), and preserved by Kuerden,[56]

the following official notice of the township occurs:--"The park of

Blakeley is worth, in pannage, aëry of eagles, herons and hawks,

honey-bees, mineral earths, ashes, and other issues, fifty-three

shillings and fourpence. The vesture of oaks, with the whole coverture,

is worth two hundred marks [£133. 6s. 8d.] in the gross. It contains

seven miles in circumference, together with two deer-leaps, of the

king's grant." This short but significant passage is sufficient to

give, the reader a glimpse of the appearance of Blackley township five

hundred years ago. From the same authority, we learn that Blackley

park (seven miles in circumference) was, at that time, surrounded

and fenced in by a wooden paling. "The two 'deer-leaps' were probably

cloughs or ravines, of which the most remarkable is the 'Boggart Hole

Clough,' a long cleft or dell between two rocks, the sides of which

rise abruptly and leave a narrow pass, widening a little here and

there, through which flows a small brook. This is the last stronghold

of Blackley's ancient characteristic features, where rural tranquility

still reigns, free from the bustle and turmoil of mercantile industry

around it."

[56] Kuerden's MS., fol. 274, Chetham Library.

The following particulars respecting the etymology of the name

"Blackley," will not be unacceptable to students of language:--"Its

etymology is yet a disputed point, owing to the various significations

of the Anglo-Saxon word, _blac_, _blæc_, _bleac_, which means not only

_black_, _dark_, _opaque_, and even _gloomy_, but also _pale_, _faded_,

_pallid_, from 'blæcan,' to bleach or make white. And, as if these

opposite meanings were not sufficiently perplexing, two other forms

present themselves, one of which means _bleak_, _cold_, _bare_, and the

other _yellow_; the latter syllable in the name, _ley_, _legh_, _leag_,

or _leah_, signifying a _field_ or place of _pasture_." On this point,

Whittaker says, in his "History of Manchester," "The Saxon _blac_,

_black_, or _blake_, frequently imports the deep gloom of trees; hence

we have so many places distinguished by the epithet in England, where

no circumstances of soil and no peculiarities of water give occasion

to it, as the villages of Blackburn and Blackrode in Lancashire,

Blakeley-hurst, near Wigan, and our own Blackley, near Manchester; and

the woods of the last were even seven miles in circuit as late as the

fourteenth century.

"Leland, who wrote about the year 1538, bears testimony to the

unaltered aspect of Blackley, under the influence of cultivation, and

to the changes incident to the disafforesting of its ancient woodlands.

He says:--'Wild bores, bulles, and falcons, bredde in times past at

Blakele, now for lack of woode the blow-shoppes decay there.'[57]

"Blackley had its resident minister as early as the reign of Edward

VI., in the person of Father Travis, a name handed down to us in the

pages of Fox and Strype. Travis was the friend and correspondent of

Bradford the martyr. In the succeeding reign he suffered banishment for

his Protestant principles, and his place was probably supplied by a

papist."

[57] Leland's "Itinerary" (Hearne's edit.), vol. vii. p. 42.

The site upon which, in 1815, stood the old hall of Blackley, is now

occupied by a print-shop. Blackley Hall "was a spacious black-and-white

half-timbered mansion, in the post and petrel style, and was

situated near to the junction of the lane leading to the chapel and

the Manchester and Rochdale turnpike road. It was a structure of

considerable antiquity, and consisted of a centre and two projecting

wings--an arrangement frequently met with in the ancient manor-houses

of this county--and bore evidence of having been erected at two periods.

"Like most other houses of similar pretensions and antiquity, it was

not without its traditionary legends, and the _boggart_ of Blackley

Hall was as well known as Blackley Hall itself. In the stillness of the

night it would steal from room to room, and carry off the bedclothes

from the couches of the sleeping, but now thoroughly aroused and

discomfited inmates."[58]

[58] The following note is attached to this passage in Mr. Booker's

volume:--"The annals of Blackley bear ample testimony to the

superstition of its inhabitants. It has had its nine days' wonder at

every period of its history. Hollingworth, writing of that age of

portents and prodigies which succeeded the Reformation, says:--'In

Blackley, neere Manchester, in one John Pendleton's ground, as one

was reaping, the corne being cut seemed to bleede; drops fell out of

it like to bloud; multitudes of people went to see it: and the straws

thereof, though of a kindly colour without, were within reddish, and

as it were bloudy!' Boggart-hole Clough, too, was another favourite

haunt of ghostly visitants, the legend of which has been perpetuated

by Mr. Roby in his "Traditions of Lancashire," vol. 2, pp. 295,

301. Nor has it ceased in our day: in 1852 one of its inhabitants

imperilled the safety of his family and neighbours, by undermining the

walls of his cottage, in his efforts to discover the hidden cause of

some mysterious noise that had disturbed him."

The township of Crumpsall bounds Blackley on the north side, and is

divided from it by the lively but now turbid little river Irk, or

Iwrke, or Irke, which means "Roebuck." "From time immemorial, for

ecclesiastical purposes, Crumpsall has been associated with Blackley."

The present Crumpsall Hall stands on the north side of the Irk, about

a mile and a half from "Boggart Ho' Clough." The earlier orthography

of the name was "Crumeshall, or Curmeshall. For its derivation we are

referred to the Anglo-Saxon, the final syllable 'sal' signifying in

that language a hall or place of entertainment, of which hospitable

abode the Saxon chief, whose name the first syllable indicates, was

the early proprietor. Thus, too, Ordsall in the same parish." Here,

in later days, Humphrey Chetham was born, at Crumpsall old hall. The

author of the "History of the Ancient Chapel of Blackley," from whose

book I gather all this information, also describes an old farm-house,

situated in a picturesque spot, in the higher part of Crumpsall, and

pointed out as the dwelling in which Hugh Oldham, Bishop of Exeter,

who founded the Manchester Grammar School, was born. About four years

ago, when rambling about the green uplands of Crumpsall, I called

at this farm to see a friend of mine, who lived in a cottage at the

back of the house. While there I was shown through this curious old

dwelling; and I remember that the tenants took especial pains to

acquaint me with its local importance, as the place of Bishop Oldham's

nativity. It is still known as "Oldham's tenement," and also as "Th'

Bongs (Banks) Farm." The following is a more detailed account of the

place, and the man:--

"It is celebrated as the reputed birthplace of Hugh Oldham, Bishop

of Exeter, who, according to tradition current in the neighbourhood,

was born there about the middle of the fifteenth century, and it is

stated to have been the residence of the Oldhams for the last four

hundred years. The house itself--a long narrow thatched building--bears

evidence of considerable antiquity; the walls appear to have been

originally of lath and plaster, which material has gradually, in many

places, given place to brick-work; and the whole exterior is now

covered with whitewash. A room on the ground-floor is still pointed out

as the domestic chapel; but there are no traces of it ever having been

devoted to such use.

"Hugh Oldham, LL.B., Bishop of Exeter, was descended from an ancient

family of that name. According to Dodsworth (MSS. folio 152), he was

born at Oldham, in a house in Goulbourne-street; but this assertion is

contradicted by the testimony of his other biographers: Wood and Godwin

state that he was born in Manchester, by which they mean not so much

Manchester town as Manchester parish; and Dugdale, in his Lancashire

visitation, states more definitely in what part of the parish,

correcting at the same time the misstatement of the others, 'not at

Oldham, but at Crumpsall, near Manchester.' In 1503 he was created

Archdeacon of Exeter, and in the following year was raised, through the

influence of the Countess of Richmond, to the see of Exeter. In 1515,

having founded the Grammar School of Manchester, he endowed it with the

corn-mills situate on the river Irk, which he purchased from Lord de la

Warre, as well as with other messuages and lands in Manchester."

In relation to Bishop Oldham, it may be worth notice that in the

_Manchester Guardian_ of Wednesday, January 10th, 1855, I found the

following letter respecting a descendant of this prelate. This brief

notice of an aged and poverty-stricken descendant of the bishop--a

soldier's wife, who has followed the fortunes of her husband, as a

prisoner of war, and through the disasters of battle, shipwreck, and

imprisonment in a foreign land--is not uninteresting:--"There is

now living in this city a poor, aged woman, who, it appears, is a

descendant of the founder of the Manchester Grammar School, and who was

also (in 1783) the first scholar in the first Sunday school opened in

Manchester. In subsequent years, as a soldier's wife, she followed the

fortunes of her husband in the tented field, as a prisoner of war, and

also in shipwreck. She is in full possession of her mental powers; and

though, in a certain sense, provided for, I am persuaded that many of

those whose _Alma Mater_ was the Grammar School, and the Sunday school

teachers and scholars, would be delighted to honour her."

Crumpsall, in the chapelry of Blackley, was also the birthplace of

Humphrey Chetham, one of Fuller's Worthies, and a man whom Manchester

has good reason to hold in remembrance. The following matter relative

to the man, and the place of his birth, is from the same volume:--

"He was born at his father's residence, Crumpsall Hall, and was

baptised at the Collegiate Church, Manchester, July 15th, 1580. He

probably received his education at the Grammar School of his native

town. Associated with his brothers, George and Ralph, he embarked in

trade as a dealer in fustians, and so prospered in his business that

in 1620 he purchased Clayton Hall, near Manchester, which he made

his residence, and subsequently, in 1628, Turton Tower. 'He signally

improved himself,' writes Fuller, 'in piety and outward prosperity,

and was a diligent reader of the scriptures, and of the works of sound

divines, and a respecter of such ministers as he accounted truly godly,

upright, sober, discreet, and sincere. He was high-sheriff of the

county in 1635, and again in 1648, discharging the place with great

honour, insomuch that very good gentlemen of birth and estate did wear

his cloth at the assize, to testify their unfeigned affection to him;

and two of them (John Hartley and Henry Wrigley, Esquires), of the same

profession with himself, have since been sheriffs of the county.'

"By his will, dated December 16th, 1651, he bequeathed £7,000 to

buy a fee-simple estate of £420 per annum, wherewith to provide for

the maintenance, education, and apprenticing of forty poor boys of

Manchester, between the ages of six and fourteen years--children of

poor but honest parents--no bastards, nor diseased at the time they

are chosen, nor lame, nor blind, 'in regard the town of Manchester

hath ample means already (if so employed) for the maintenance of such

impotents.' The hospital thus founded was incorporated by Charles II.

In 1700 the number of boys was increased to sixty, and from 1779 to

1826 eighty boys were annually maintained, clothed, and educated. In

the year 1718 the income of the hospital amounted to £517. 8s. 4d., and

in 1826 it had reached to £2,608. 3s. 11d.

"He bequeathed, moreover, the sum of £1,000 to be expended in books,

and £100 towards erecting a building for their safe deposit, intending

thus to lay the foundation of a public library; and the residue of his

estate (amounting to near £2,000) to be devoted to the increase of the

said library and the support of a librarian. In 1826 this fund was

returned at £542 per annum. The number of volumes is now about 20,000.

Mr. Chetham died, unmarried, September 20th, 1653, and was buried at

the Collegiate Church, where a monument has recently been erected to

his memory, at the cost of a former participator in his bounty."

The following description of the house, at Crumpsall, in which Humphrey

Chetham was born, is also given in Booker's "History of Blackley

Chapel:"--

"Crumpsall Hall, the residence of this branch of the Chethams, was

another specimen of the half-timbered mansions already described.

In design, the same arrangement seems to have been followed that is

met with in many of the halls erected during the fourteenth and two

succeeding centuries--an oblong pile forming the centre, with cross

gables at each end, projecting some distance outwards. The framework

consisted of a series of vertical timbers, crossed by others placed

transversely, with the exception of the gables, in the upper part of

which the braces sprang diagonally from the centre or king-post. The

roofs were of high pitch, and extended considerably beyond the outer

surface of the walls, thus not only allowing of a more rapid drain

of water, but also affording a greater protection from the weather.

The hall was of two stories, and lighted chiefly by bay-windows, an

occasional dormer-window in the upper story rising above the roof,

and adding to the effect of the building by destroying that lineal

appearance which it would otherwise have assumed. This mansion, though

never possessing any great pretensions to architectural excellence,

was, nevertheless, interesting from the picturesque arrangement of

its details, and may be considered a very creditable example of the

middle-class houses of the period to which it is referred. It occupied

a site distant nearly a quarter of a mile from that of the present

hall, and was taken down about the year 1825."

Well may Fuller, writing of Humphrey Chetham, say, "God send us more

such men!" The "poor boys" of Manchester may well repeat the prayer,

and pray also that heaven may send after them men who will look to the

righteous administration of the bequests which such men leave behind

them.

For the purpose of this sketch, I went down to the Chetham Library, to

copy, from Booker's "History of Blackley," the foregoing particulars.

The day was gloomy, and the great quadrangle of the college was as

still as a churchyard. Going up the old staircase, and treading as

lightly as I could with a heavy foot, as I went by the principal

librarian's room door, I entered the cloistral gloom of the old

library. All was silent, as I went through the dark array of book-laden

shelves. The sub-librarian was writing in some official volume, upon

the sill of a latticed window, in one of the recesses. Hearing an

approaching foot, he came out, and looked the usual quiet inquiry.

"'Booker's Blackley,'" said I. He went to one of the recesses, unlocked

the door, and brought out the book. "Will you enter it, sir?" said he,

pointing to the volume kept for that purpose. I did so, and walked on

into the reading room of the library; glancing, as I went in, at Oliver

Cromwell's sword, which hangs above the doorway. There was a good fire,

and I had that antique apartment all to myself. The old room looked

very clean and comfortable, and the hard oaken floor resounded to the

footstep. The whole furniture was of the most quaint and substantial

character. It was panelled all round with bright old black oak. The

windows were latticed, and the window-sills broad. The heavy tables

were of solid oak, and the chairs of the same, with leather-covered and

padded seats and backs, studded with brass nails. A curiously-carved

black oak bookstand stood near the door, and several antique mirrors,

and dusky portraits, hung around upon the dark panelling. Among these

is the portrait of Bradford the martyr, a native of Manchester. In the

library there is a small black-letter volume, entitled, "Letters of

Maister John Bradford, a faythful minister and a syngular pyllar of

Christe's Church: by whose great trauiles and diligence in preaching

and planting the syncerity of the Gospel, by whose most goodly and

innocent lyfe, and by whose long and payneful imprisonments for the

maintenance of the truth, the kingdom of God was not a little aduanced:

who also at last most valiantly and cheerfully gaue his blood for

the same. The 4th day of July. In the year of our Lord 1555." The

portrait of Humphrey Chetham, the founder, hangs immediately above

the old-fashioned fireplace, under the emblazoned arms of his family.

Sitting by the fire, at a little oak table covered with green baize,

I copied the particulars here given, relative to Chetham's bequest

to the people of his native locality. I could not but lift my eyes

now and then towards that solemn face, inwardly moved by a feeling

which reverently said, "Will it do?" The countenance of the fine old

merchant seemed to wear an expression of sorrow, not unmingled with

quiet anger, at the spectacle of twenty thousand books--intended as

a "Free Library," though now, in comparison with its possibilities,

free chiefly in name--twenty thousand books, packed together in gloomy

seclusion, yet surrounded by a weltering crowd of five hundred thousand

people, a great number of whom really hunger for the knowledge here,

in a great measure, consigned--with excellent registrative care and

bibliopolic skill--to dusty oblivion and the worm. It is true that

this cunningly-secreted "Free Library" is open six hours out of the

twenty-four, but these hours fall precisely within that part of the

day in which people who have to work for their bread are cooped up at

their occupations. At night, when the casino, the singing-room, and the

ale-house, and all the low temptations of a great city are open, and

actively competing for their prey, the Chetham Library has been locked

up for hours. I am not sure that the noble-hearted founder would be

satisfied with it all, if he saw the relations of these things now. It

seems all the more likely that he would not be so, when one observes

the tone in which, in his will, he alludes to the administration of

certain other local charities existing in his own time. After specially

naming the class of "poor boys" for whose benefit his hospital was

intended, he specially excludes certain others, "_in regard the town

of Manchester hath ample means already_, (IF SO EMPLOYED) _for the

maintenance of such impotents_." Judging, from the glimpse we have

in this passage, of his way of thinking upon matters of this kind, it

seems likely that, if it were possible to consult him upon the subject,

he would consider it a pity that the twenty thousand books in the

library, and the five hundred thousand people outside the walls, are

not brought into better acquaintance with each other. So, also, murmurs

many a thoughtful man, as he walks by the college gates, in his hours

of leisure, when the library is closed.

Rostherne Mere.

(A CHESHIRE SKETCH.)

Though much the centuries take, and much bestow,

Most through them all immutable remains--

Beauty, whose world-wide empire never wanes,

Sole permanence 'mid being's ceaseless flow.

These leafy heights their tiny temple owe

To some rude hero of the Saxon thanes,

Whom, slowly pricking from the neighbouring plains,

Rapt into votive mood the scene below.

Much, haply, he discerned, unseen by me--

Angels and demons hovering ever near;

But most he saw and felt, I feel and see--

Linking the "then" and "there" with "now" and "here,"

The grace serene that dwells on grove and lea,

The tranquil charm of little Rostherne Mere.

--F. ESPINASSE.

Rostherne Mere was a pet theme with a young friend of mine, and we

started together towards that place, at noon, one Sunday in June.

Walking up to the Oxford Road Station, we paid our sixpences, and got

our tickets to Bowdon, which is the nearest point to Rostherne Mere,

by rail; being four miles from the latter place. The day was fine, and

the sky clear, except where gauzy clouds floated across it with dreamy

grace; as if they had come out for a holiday. Everything seemed to feel

that it was Sunday. The fields and groves were drest in their best.

It was the Sabbath of the year with them. In a few minutes our fiery

steed had whirled us to Bowdon; and we walked up the wooden steps that

lead from the station. Turning to the left at the top, we struck into

a quiet road that leads in the direction of Rostherne. Bowdon bells

were ringing to church as we walked along, surrounded by singing birds,

and sunshine, and sweet odours from cottage-gardens by the wayside.

Now and then a young sylph, of graceful face and timid mien, tripped

past us, in the garb of a lady,--on her way to church, with her books

before her; then a knot of pretty, brown-faced village girls, with

wild flowers in their hands, going the same way, with all the innocent

vivacity of childhood in their look and gait; anon came slowly wending

up the path an old couple, bending with age,--the history of a simple

life of honourable toil written in their faces, and their attire

wearing that touching air which always marks the struggle which decent

poverty makes to put its best appearance on. The road, which seemed to

be little frequented, shortly brought us to Ashley Hall, a picturesque

woodland mansion. A fine avenue of ancestral trees shade the walk to

the porch of the old hall, which nestles behind the present modern

building. The outbuildings are antiquated and extensive. The house

still wears the appearance of an abode of comfort and elegance, bent

with that quaint charm which hangs about all fine, old-fashioned rural

dwellings. Nothing seemed to be stirring in or about the hall, but the

wind, the birds, and the trees; and the two large stone sphinxes in

front of the porch looked like petrified genii, so profound was the

repose of this green nook. Outside the house the grass was growing over

everything, even over the road we walked on, it was creeping. For some

distance the road-side was pleasantly soft to the foot with springy

verdure, and thick-leaved trees overhung the highway,

That faire did spred

Their armes abroad, with gray mosse overcaste;

And their green leaves, trembling with every blast,

Made a calm shadow far in compasse round,

until we began to descend into the green pastures of a little vale,

through which a clear river winds its murmuring way. A widow lady

stood in the middle of the path, waiting till her little orphan lad

and his sister drove a herd of cows from the field by the water-side.

There was the shade of grief on her pale face, and she returned our

salutation with pensive courtesy. We loitered a few minutes by the

gate, and helped the lad and his sister to gather the cattle, and then

went on, thinking of the affecting group we had left behind us. The

wild flowers were plentiful and fine by the way, especially that little

blue-eyed beauty, the "Forget-me-not," which grew in great profusion

about the hedges. A drove of hungry-looking Irish cattle came wearily

up the road, driven by a frieze-coated farmer, who rode upon a rough

pony, that never knew a groom; and behind him limped a bare-footed

drover, eagerly munching a lump of dry loaf, as he urged forward a

two-days-old calf by a twist in the tail,--an old application of the

screw-propelling principle, which is very effectual with all kinds of

dilatory animals, with tails on. He was the very picture of poverty,

and yet there was a gay-hearted archness on his brown face; and he

gave us the "good day" merrily. The very flutter of his rags seemed to

have imbibed the care-defying gaiety of the curious biped they hung

upon,--with such tender attachment. The whole country was one tranquil

scene of fertile verdure, frequently flat for the length of a mile or

two; but gently-undulated in some places; and picturesquely wooded.

In a vista of nearly two miles, not a human foot was on the road, but

ours; and every sight and sound that greeted the senses as we sauntered

along the blossomy hedge-side, in the hot sunshine, was serenely-sweet

and rural. Skirting the wall of Tatton Park, we came to a substantial

farmhouse, near the highway, and opening the gate, we walked up to it,

to get a few minutes rest, and a drink. At our request, a girl at the

door of the house brought us a large jug-full of churn-milk, which,

when she had reached us a seat in the garden, we drank as we sat in

the sun. In the yard, a little fat-legged urchin had crept, with his

"porritch-pot," under the nose of a large chained dog, about twice the

size of himself, and sat there, holding his spoon to the dog's mouth,

childishly beseeching him to "sup it." The good-natured brute kept a

steady eye on us while we were in sight, postponing any notice of his

little playmate. By direction of the goodwife, we took a by-path which

led towards the village. The country folk were returning from church,

and among them a number of little girls, wearing a head-dress of pure

white, but of a very awkward shape. What was the meaning, or what the

use, of the badge they wore, I could not exactly tell.

We found that, though the village had many pretty cottage homes,

dropped down irregularly among the surrounding green, it consisted

chiefly of one little street of rural houses, of very pleasant

appearance. Here and there, a latticed window was open to the front,

showing a small parlour, scrupulously clean and orderly; the furniture

old-fashioned, substantial, and carefully polished; and the Bible

"gleaming through the lowmost window-pane," under the shade of

myrtle-pots, and fuchsias in full flower. As we looked about us for

the church, a gentleman in the garb of a clergyman stepped out of

one of the houses, which, though a whitewashed dwelling, of simple

construction, and of no great size any way, still had something

peculiarly attractive in its retired position, and an air of

superiority about the taste and trimness of all its appurtenances.

He had a book in one hand, and leaned forward in his walk,--not from

infirmity, for he was hale and active,--but as if to give impetus to

his progress, which seemed to have an earnest purpose somewhere. This

gentleman was the Vicar of Rostherne. We inquired of him the way to

the church. "Come up this way," said he, in an agreeable tone, but

without stopping in his walk. "Have you never seen it before?" "Never."

"Here it is, then," he replied, as we entered the church-field at the

top of the knoll. The sudden appearance of the venerable fane, and

its picturesque situation, called forth an involuntary expression of

admiration from us. We walked on slowly, scanning the features of

the solemnly-beautiful scene. The vicar then inquired where we came

from, and when we answered "Manchester," he went on, "Well, now, I

don't at all wonder, nor much object to you Manchester gentlemen, pent

up as you are the whole week, coming out on a Sunday to breathe a

little country air, and to look on the woods and fields, but I should

be better pleased to see you come in time to attend divine worship,

which would be a double benefit to you. You might easily do it, and

it would enhance the pleasure of your ramble, for you would go home

again doubly satisfied with all that you had seen. Don't you think

you would, now?" It needed no Socratic effort on his part to obtain

our assent to such a sentiment, so kindly expressed. As we walked on,

he brought us dexterously to the north-west corner of the church, the

best point of view, looking down through the trees, from the summit

of the hill on which the church stands, upon Rostherne Mere in all

its beauty. There it lay, in the bosom of the valley below, as smooth

and bright as a plate of burnished silver, except towards the middle,

where the wind embossed it with fantastic ripples, which shimmered in

the sunlight; and it was all fringed round with the rich meadows, and

plumy woods,--sloping down to the edge of the water. From the farther

side, a finely-wooded country stretched away as far as we could see,

till the scene ended in a dim amphitheatre of moorland hills, rising

up, from east to west, on the horizon. In front of us, and about four

miles beyond the lake, the pretty village of Bowdon and its ancient

church were clearly in sight above the woods. It was, altogether, a

very beautiful English scene. And it is a pity that this lovely little

oasis is not better known to the jaded hearts that fret themselves to

death in Manchester, and rush here and there, in crowds, to fill all

the world's telescopes; the majority of them, perhaps, like me, little

dreaming of the existence of so sweet a spot so near them. By the side

of the mere, where the water was as placid as glass, being sheltered

from the wind by the woods on its shelvy banks, we were delighted with

a second edition of the scenery on the margin, and of the skies above,

clearly reflected in the seemingly unfathomable deeps of the water.

The vicar had left us, and gone into the church, requesting us, when

we had feasted our fill on the outside, to follow him, and look

through the inside of the church. We lifted the latch, but seeing him

addressing a number of young people, who sat round him in attentive

attitude, we shut the door quietly, and walking round to the porch

on the opposite side, went in, on tiptoe. Standing silent under the

organ-loft, we listened, while he impressed upon his young flock

the nature and intent of confirmation, and the necessity for their

understanding the solemn obligation implied thereby, and devoutly

wishing to undertake it, before they could be admitted to partake of

it. "And now," said he, "if any of you don't quite understand anything

I am saying to you, don't be afraid to say so. I shall be glad to

know it, that I may make it clear to you. For you must remember, that

it is not what I say to you that will be of use to you, but what you

understand of it." He then consulted them about the best times in the

following week for them to meet him, that he might assist such as were

wishful to prepare for the ceremony. He asked "Thomas," and "Mary,"

and "Martha," how four o'clock would suit them on certain days, and

when they whispered that "half-past seven would suit them better," he

replied, "I dare say it will; and let it be so, then." He then repeated

the pleasure it would give him to meet them at that or any other hour

on certain days next week, to help, and examine them. It was only

changing his dinner hour a little. We walked quietly out as he began

to catechise them, postponing our examination of the interior till a

fitter opportunity.

Rostherne churchyard is a singularly retired spot. A solemn repose

mingles with the natural charms of everything about it, increased by

the antiquity of its relics. Though near the village, it is approached

from it by a gentle ascent, from the head of which it slopes away,

clean out of sight of the village, and is bounded on the west side by

a row of sombre old trees, through which Rostherne Hall is seen, in

the midst of woods and gardens. No other building except the church

is in sight; and a sweeter spot for the life-wearied body to take its

last rest in, could hardly be imagined. As I walked about this quiet

grave-yard, which is environed by scenery of such a serene kind, that

nature itself seems afraid to disturb the repose of the sleepers, upon

whose bed the leaves tremble silently down; and where I could hear no

sounds but a drowsy rustle of the neighbouring trees,--I thought of

Gray's inimitable "Elegy written in a Country Churchyard:"--

Beneath these rugged elms, that yew tree's shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from her straw-built shed,

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For then no more the blazing heart shall burn,

Or busy housewife ply her evening care;

No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to the sickle yield;

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;

How jocund did they drive their team a-field!

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys and destiny obscure;

Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,

The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,

Await alike the inevitable hour;

The paths of glory lead--but to the grave.

* * * * *

Yet e'en these bones, from insult to protect,

Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by the unletter'd muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply;

And many a holy text around she strews,

That teach the rustic moralist to die.

This poem--the finest of the kind in the English language--might,

with equal fitness, have been written of this peaceful churchyard

of Rostherne village. Man, whom Quarles calls a "worm of five feet

long," is so liable to have his thoughts absorbed by the art of keeping

himself bodily alive, that he is none the worse for a hint from the

literature of the churchyard:--

Art is long, and life is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

We walked over the gravestones, reading the inscriptions, some of which

had a strain of simple pathos in them, such as the following:--

Ye that are young, prepare to die,

For I was young, and here I lie.

Others there were in this, as in many other burial-places, which were

either unmeaning, or altogether unsuitable to the situation they were

in. There were several half-sunken headstones in different parts of

the yard, mostly bemossed and dim with age. One or two were still

upright; the rest leaned one way or other. These very mementoes, which

pious care had set up, to keep alive the memories of those who lay

mouldering in the earth below, were sinking into the graves of those

they commemorated.

At the outside of the north-east entrance of the church, lies an

ancient stone coffin, dug up a few years ago in the graveyard. Upon the

lid of the coffin was sculptured the full-length figure of a knight,

in a complete suit of mail, with sword and shield. No further clue has

been obtained to the history of this antique coffin and its effigy,

than that it belonged to one of the Cheshire family of Venables,

whose crest and motto ("Sic Donec") it bears. The church contains

many interesting monuments, belonging to this and other families of

the old gentry of Cheshire. Several of these are of the sixteenth and

seventeenth centuries. But the finest and most interesting monuments in

the church, as works of art, are those belonging to the Egerton family,

of Tatton Park. At a suitable time, the sexton occasionally takes a

visitor up to the gate which separates the Egerton seat and monuments

from the rest of the church, and, carefully unlocking it, ascends two

steps with a softened footfall, and leads him into the storied sanctum

of the Lords of Tatton; where, among other costly monuments, he will

be struck by the chaste and expressive beauty of a fine modern one,

in memory of a young lady belonging to this family. On a beautiful

tomb, of the whitest marble, the figure of a young lady reclines upon

a mattress and pillow of the same, in the serenest grace of feature

and attitude: and "the rapture of repose" which marks the expression

of the countenance, is a touching translation, in pure white statuary,

of those beautiful lines in which Byron describes the first hours of

death:--

Before decay's effacing fingers

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers.

At the back of the recumbent lady, an exquisite figure of an angel

kneels, and leans forward with delicate grace, watching over the

reposing form, with half-opened wings, and one hand slightly extended

over the dead. The effect of the whole is exceedingly beautiful,

chaste, and saddening. The monument is kept carefully covered with

clean white handkerchiefs, except when the family is present, when it

is uncovered, until their departure. Before I was admitted to view

this beautiful memorial, I had heard something of the story which

it illustrates, and I inquired further of the sexton respecting it.

The old man said that the young lady had been unwell only a few days

previous to the evening of her death, and on that evening the family

physician thought her so much better, and felt so certainly-expectant

of a further improvement in her health, that he directed her attendants

to get her to repose, and then they might themselves safely retire to

rest for a little while. They did so; and returning soon, found her

still lying precisely as they had laid her, and looking so placid in

feature, that they did not know she was dead, until they came to find

her quite cold. The monument represents her as she was thus found. As

I stood looking upon this group of statuary, the evening sun shone

through the southern windows of the old church, and the sexton--who

evidently knew what the effect would be--lowered the crimson blind of

the window nearest to the monument. This threw a soft rich crimson hue

over the white marble tomb, the figures, and the sculptured drapery,

which gave it an inexpressibly-rich appearance. So white and clean was

the whole, that the white handkerchiefs which the sexton had taken off

the figures, and laid upon the white basement of the tomb, looked like

part of the sculpture.

The church is dedicated to St. Mary. It is proved to have existed

long prior to 1188. The present steeple was erected in 1741. There

is something venerable about the appearance of an old ecclesiastical

building, which continually and eloquently preaches, without offending.

Apart from all questions of doctrines, formulas, and governments, I

often feel a veneration for an old church, akin to that expressed by

him who said that he never passed one without feeling disposed to take

off his hat to it.

The sun was setting westward over the woods, and we began to think of

getting a quiet meal somewhere before we went back. There is generally

an old inn not far from an old church. "How it comes, let doctors

tell;" but it is so; and we begun to speculate upon the chance of

finding one in this case. Going out of the churchyard at the lowest

corner, through a quaint wicket gate, with a shed over it, a flight of

steps led us down into a green dingle, embosomed in tall trees, and

there, in front of us, stood a promising country "hostelrie," under the

screen of the woods. We looked an instant at its bright window, and its

homely and pleasant appurtenances, and then, with assured minds, darted

in, to make a lunge at the larder. "A well-conducted inn is a thing

not to be recklessly sneered at in this world of ours, after all,"

thought I. We sat down in a shady little room in front, and desired the

landlord to get us some tea, with any substantial stomach-gear that was

handy and plentiful. In a few minutes a snowy cloth was on the table,

followed by "neat-handed Phillis," with the tea things. A profusion

of strong tea, and toast, and fine cream, came next, in beautiful

china and glass ware; the whole crowned with a huge dish of ham and

poached eggs, of such amplitude, that I began to wonder who was to join

us. Without waste of speech, we fell to, with all the appetite and

enjoyment of Sancho at Camacho's wedding. The landlord kept popping in,

to see that we wanted nothing, and to urge us to the attack; which was

really a most needless though a generous office. After tea, we strolled

another hour by the edge of the water, then took the road home, just as

the sun was setting. The country was so pleasant, and we so refreshed,

that we resolved to walk to Manchester, and watch the sinking of the

summer twilight among the woods and fields by the way. Our route led

by the edge of Dunham Park, and through Bowdon, where we took a peep

at the church, and the expansive view from the churchyard. There is

a fine old yew tree in Bowdon churchyard, seated around. The road

from Bowdon to Manchester passes through a country which may be truly

characterised as the market-garden of Manchester. We went on, through

the villages of Altrincham, Sale Moor, and Stretford, thinking of his

words who said,--

One impulse from a vernal wood

Will teach thee more of man,

Of moral evil, and of good,

Than all the sages can.

It was midnight when I got to bed, and sank into a sound sleep, to wake

in the morning among quite other scenes. But while I live, I shall not

easily forget "the tranquil charm of little Rostherne Mere."

Oliver Fernleaf's Watch.

Oh thou who dost these pointers see,

That show the passing hour;

Say,--do I tell the time to thee,

And tell thee nothing more?

I bid thee mark life's little day

With strokes of duty done;

A clock may stop at any time--

But time will travel on.

--THE CHURCH CLOCK.

When I was first bound apprentice, I was so thick-set, and of such

short stature for my age, that I began to be afraid that I was doomed

to be a pigmy in size; and it grieved my heart to think of it, I

remember how anxiously I used to compare my own stunted figure with

the height of other lads younger than me; and seeing myself left so

much below them, I remember how much I longed for a rise in the world.

This feeling troubled me sorely for two or three years. It troubled

me so much, indeed, that, even at church, when I heard the words,

"Which of you, by taking thought, can add one cubit unto his stature?"

the question touched me with the pain of a personal allusion to my

own defect; and, in those days, I have many a time walked away from

service on a Sunday, sighing within myself, and wondering how much a

cubit was. But I had a great deal of strong life in my little body;

and, as I grew older, I took very heartily to out-door exercises, and

I carefully notched the progress of my growth, with a pocket-knife,

against a wooden partition, in the office where I was an apprentice. As

time went on, my heart became gradually relieved and gay as I saw these

notches rise steadily, one over the other, out of the low estate which

had given me so much pain. But, as this childish trouble died away from

my mind, other ambitions awoke within me, and I began to fret at the

tether of my apprenticeship, and wish for the time when I should be

five feet eight, and free. Burns's songs were always a delight to me;

but there was one of them which I thought more of then than I do now.

It was,--

Oh for ane-an'-twenty, Tam!

An', hey for ane-an'-twenty, Tam!

I'd learn my kin a rattlin' sang,

An' I saw ane-an'-twenty, Tam!

About two years before the wished-for day of my release came, I mounted

a long-tailed coat, and a chimney-pot hat, and began to reckon myself

among the sons of men. My whiskers, too--they never came to anything

grand--never will--but my whiskers began to show a light-coloured down,

that pleased the young manikin very much. I was anxious to coax that

silken fluz lower down upon my smooth cheeks; but it was no use. They

never grew strong; and they would not come low down; so I gave them up

at last, with many a sigh. The dainty ariels were timid, and did their

sprouting gently. This was one of my first lessons in resignation. I

remember, too, it was about the same time that I bought my first watch.

It was a second-hand silver verge watch, with large old-fashioned

numerals upon the face; and it cost twenty-one shillings. I had a

good deal ado to raise the price of it by small savings, by working

over-hours, and by the sale of an old accordian, and a sword-stick.

Long before I could purchase it, I had looked at it from time to time

as I passed by the watchmaker's window; which was on the way between my

home and the shop where I was an apprentice. At last I bore the prize

away. A few pence bought a steel chain; and my eldest sister gave me

an old seal, and a lucky sixpence, to wear upon the chain,--and I felt

for the time as if it was getting twelve o'clock with my fortunes.

A long-tailed coat; a chimney-pot hat; a watch; a mild promise of

whiskers; a good constitution; and a fair chance of being five feet

eight, or so. No wonder that I began to push out my shins as I went

about the streets. For some weeks after I became possessed of my watch,

I took great pleasure in polishing the case, looking into the works,

winding it up, and setting it right by public clocks, and by other

people's watches. I had a trick, too, of pulling it out in public

places, which commanded the range of some desired observation. But

after a year or so the novelty wore off, and I began to take less

interest in the thing. Besides, through carelessness and inexperienced

handling, I found that my watch began to swallow up a great deal of

pocket-money, in new glasses, and other repairs. I was fond of jumping,

too, and other rough exercises; and through this my watch got sadly

knocked about, and was a continual source of anxiety to me. At last I

got rid of it altogether. It had never gone well with me; but it went

from me--for good; and I was cured of the watch mania for a long while.

In fact, nearly twenty years passed away, during which I never owned a

watch; never, indeed, very much felt the want of one. When I look back

at those years, and remember how I managed to mark the time without

watch of my own, I find something instructive in the retrospect. In

a large town there are so many public clocks, and bells, and so many

varied movements of public life which are governed by the progress of

the hours, that there is little difficulty in the matter. But in the

country--in my lonely rambles--I learned, then, to read the march of

time, "indifferently well," in the indications of nature, as ploughmen

and shepherds do. The sights, and "shapes, and sounds, and shifting

elements," became my time-markers; and the whole world was my clock.

I can see many compensations arising from the lack of a watch with me

during that time.

And now, after so many years of sweet independence in this respect, I

find myself, unexpectedly, the owner of a watch once more. I became

possessed of it rather curiously, too. The way of it was this. I was

on a visit to a neighbouring town; and, in the afternoon, I called to

pass an hour with an old friend, before returning home. After the usual

hearty salutes, we sat down in a snug back parlour, lighted our pipes,

and settled into a dreamy state of repose, which was more delightful

than any strained effort at entertainment. We puffed away silently for

a while; and then we asked one another questions, in a drowsy way,

like men talking in their sleep; then we smoked on again, and looked

vacantly round about the room, and into the fire. At last, I noticed

that my friend began to gaze earnestly at my clothing; and, knowing him

to be a close observer, and a man of penetrative spirit, I felt it;

though I knew very well that it was all right, for he takes a kindly

interest in all I wear, or do, or say. Well; he began to look hard at

my clothing, beginning with my boots. I didn't care much about him

examining my boots; for, as it happened, they had just been soled, and

heeled, and welted afresh; with a bran new patch upon one side. If he

had seen them a week before, I should have been pained, for they were

in a ruinous state then; and, being rather a dandified pair originally,

they looked abominable. I think there is nothing in the world so

intensely wretched in outward appearance as shabby dandyism. Well; he

began with my boots; and, after he had scrutinised them thoroughly for

a minute or two, I felt, instinctively, that he was going to peruse

the whole of my garments from head to foot, like a tapestried story.

And so it was. When he had finished my boots, his eyes began to travel

slowly up my leg; and, as they did so, my mind ran anxiously ahead,

to see what the state of things was upon the road that his glance was

coming. "How are my trousers?" thought I. There was no time to lose;

for I felt his eye coming up my leg, like a dissecting knife. At last,

I bethought me that I had split my trousers across one knee, about a

fortnight before; and the split had only been indifferently stitched

up. "Now for it," thought I, giving myself a sudden twitch, with the

intention of throwing my other leg over that knee to hide the split.

But I was too late. His eye had already fastened upon the place like

a leech. I saw his keen glance playing slyly about the split, and my

nerves quivered in throes of silent pain all the while. At last, he

lifted up his eyes, and sighed, and then, looking up at the ceiling, he

sighed out the word, "Aye," very slowly; and then he turned aside to

light his pipe at the fire again; and, whilst he was lighting his pipe,

I very quietly laid the sound leg of my trousers over the split knee.

Pushing the tobacco into his pipe with the haft of an old penknife,

he now asked me how things were going on in town. I pretended to be

quite at ease; and I tried to answer him with the air of one who was

above the necessity of such considerations. But I knew that he had only

asked the question for the purpose of throwing me off my guard; and I

felt sure that his eyes would return to the spot where they had left

off at. And they did so. But he saw at once that the knee was gone;

so he travelled slowly upwards, with persistent gaze. In two or three

minutes he stopped again; it was somewhere about the third button of

my waistcoat--or rather the third button-hole, for the button was off.

He halted there; and his glance seemed to snuff round about the place,

like a dog that thinks it has caught the scent; and I began to feel

uncomfortable again; for, independent of the button being off, I had

only twopence-halfpenny, and a bit of blacklead pencil, and an unpaid

bill in my pocket; and somehow I thought he was finding it all out. So

I shifted a little round, and began to hum within myself,--

Take, oh take those eyes away!

But it was no use. He would do it. And I couldn't stand it any longer;

so I determined to bolt before he got up to my shirt front, or

"dickey,"--for I had a "dickey" on, and one side of it was bulging out

in a disorderly way, and I durst not try to put it right for fear of

drawing his attention to it. I determined to be rid of the infliction

at once, so I pretended to be in a hurry. Knocking the ashes out of my

pipe, I rose up and said, "Have you got a time-table?"

"Yes."

"There's a train about now, I think."

"Yes; but stop till the next. What's your hurry? You're not here every

day. Sit down and get another pipe."

"How's your clock?" said I, turning round and looking through the

window, so as to get a sly chance of pushing my "dickey" into its

place. "How's your clock?"

"Well, it's about ten minutes fast. Isn't it, Sarah?" said he to the

servant, who was coming in with some coals.

"No," replied she. "I put it right by th' blacksmith, this mornin'."

By "the blacksmith," she meant the figure of an old man with a hammer,

which struck the hours upon the bell of a public clock, a little higher

up the street.

"Well," said my friend, looking at the time-table, "in any case, you're

too late for this train now. Sit down a bit. I left my watch this

morning, to have a new spring put in it; but I'll keep my eye on the

clock, so that you shall be in time for the next. Sit you down, an'

let's have a chat about old times."

I gave a furtive glance at my "dickey," and seeing it was all right,

I sat down again with a sigh, laying the sound leg of my trousers

carefully over my split knee. I had no sooner sat down, than he looked

at my waistcoat pocket again, and said, "I say, old boy, why don't you

carry a watch? It would be a great convenience."

I explained to him that I had been so many years used to notice public

clocks, and to marking the time by the action of nature and by those

movements of human life that are regulated by clock-work, that I

felt very little need for a watch. Besides, it was as easy to ask

the time of day of people who had watches, as it would be to look at

one's own; and then, if I had a watch, I did not know whether the

convenience of the thing would compensate for the anxiety and expense

of it. He listened attentively, and then, after looking into the fire

musingly for a minute or two, as if he was interpreting my excuse in

some way of his own, he suddenly knocked his pipe upon the top bar of

the fire-grate, and said, "By Jupiter Ammon, I'll give you one!" My

friend never swears, except by that dissolute old Greek; or by a still

more mysterious deity, whom he calls "the Living Jingo!" Whenever he

mentions either of these, I know that he means something strong; so I

sat still and "watched the case," as lawyers say.

"Mary," said he, rising, and calling to his wife, who was in another

room; "Mary, wheer's that old watch?"

"I have it upstairs, in an old rosewood writing-desk," replied she.

"Just fetch it down; I want to look at it." He listened at the door,

until he heard her footsteps going upstairs; and then he turned to me,

chuckling and rubbing his hands; and, slapping me on the shoulder, he

said, "Now then, old fellow, fill your pipe again! By the Living Jingo,

you shall have the time o' day in your pocket before you leave this

house." She was a good while in returning; so he shouted up the stairs,

"Haven't you found it yet, Mary?"

"Yes," replied she, "it's here. I'll be down in a minute."

I began to puff very hard at my pipe; for I was getting excited. She

came at last, and said, as she laid the watch in his hand, "I have

thought of selling it many a time, for it is of no use lying yonder."

"Aye," replied my friend, pretending to look very hard at the works. As

long as she remained in the room, he still kept quietly saying, "Aye,

aye," at short intervals. But when she left the room, he earnestly

watched the closing door, and then, shutting the watch, he came across

to me, and, laying it in my hand, he said, "There, old boy, that's

yours. Keep it out of sight till you get out of the house." And I did

keep it out of sight. But I was more than ever anxious to get away by

the next train, so that I could fondle it freely. It was an old silver

lever watch, without fingers. It was silent, with a silence that had

continued long; its face was dusty; and the case wore the cloudy hue

of neglect. However, I bore my prize away at last; and, before the day

was over, I had spent eighteenpence upon new fingers, and sixpence

upon a yard-and-a-half of broad black watered silk ribbon for a guard.

Next day, after I had polished the case thoroughly with whitening, I

put on a clean shepherd's plaid waistcoat, in order to show the broad

black ribbon which led to my watch. Since then, I know not how oft I

have stopped to put it right by the cathedral clock; and I have found

sometimes, as the Irishman did, that "the little divul had bate that

big fellow by two hours in twelve." It is a curious thing, this old

watch of mine; and I like it: there is something so human about it. It

is full of

Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles.

Sometimes the fingers stand still, even when the works are going on.

Even when wound up, it has a strange trick of stopping altogether for

an hour or two now and then, as if smitten with a fit of idleness;

and then it will set off again of its own accord, like a living thing

wakening up from sleep. It stops oftener than it goes. It is not so

much a time-keeper as a standing joke; and looking at it from this

point of view, I am very fond of this watch of mine. Before I had it,

whenever I chanced to waken in the night time, I used to strike a

light, and read myself to sleep again. But now, when I waken in the

night, I suddenly remember, "Oh, my watch!" Then I listen, and say to

myself, "I believe it has stopped again!" and then, listening more

attentively, and hearing its little pulse beating, I say, "No: there

it goes. Bravo!" And I strike a light, and caress the little thing;

and wind it up. I have great fun with it, in a quiet way. I believe,

somehow, that it is getting used to me; and I shouldn't like to part

with it any more. There is a kind of friendship growing between us

that will last until my own pulse is stopped by the finger of death.

And what is death, after all; but the stopping of life's watch; to be

wound up again by the Maker? I should not like to lose this old watch

of mine now. It is company when I am lonely; it is diversion when I am

tired; and, though it is erratic, it is amiable and undemonstrative.

I will make it famous yet, in sermon or in song. I have begun once or

twice, "Oh thou!----" and then stopped, and tried, "When I behold----"

and then I have stopped again. But I will do it yet. If the little

thing had a soul, now, I fear that it would never be saved; for, "faith

without works is vain." But I have faith in it, though it has deceived

me oft. My quaint old monitor! How often has it warned me, that when

man goes "on tick," it always ends in a kind of "Tic douloureux." But

the hour approaches, when its tiny pulse and mine must both stand

still; for--

Owd Time,--he's a troublesome codger,--

Keeps nudgin' us on to decay;

An' whispers, you're nobbut a lodger;

Get ready for goin' away.

And when "life's fitful fever" is past, I hope they will not sell my

body to the doctors; nor my watch to anybody; but bury us together; and

let us rest when they have done so.

Norbreck:

_A SKETCH ON THE LANCASHIRE COAST_.

CHAPTER I.

Come unto these yellow sands,

Then take hands:

Court'sied when you have, and kissed,

The wild waves whist.

--THE TEMPEST.

At the western edge of that quiet tract of Lancashire, called "The

Fylde," lying between Wyre, Ribble, and the Irish Channel, the little

wind-swept hamlet of Norbreck stands, half asleep, on the brow of a

green ridge overlooking the sea. The windows of a whitewashed cottage

wink over their garden wall, as the traveller comes up the slope,

between tall hedgerows; and very likely he will find all so still,

that, but for wild birds that crowd the air with music, he could hear

his footsteps ring on the road as clearly as if he were walking on the

flags of a gentleman's greenhouse. In summer, when its buildings are

glittering in their annual suit of new whitewash, and when all the

country round looks green and glad, it is a pleasant spot to set eyes

upon--this quiet hamlet overlooking the sea. At that time of year it

smells of roses, and of "cribs where oxen lie;" and the little place is

so steeped in murmurs of the ocean, that its natural dreaminess seems

deepened thereby. I cannot find that any great barons of the old time,

or that any world-shaking people have lived there; or that any events

which startle a nation have ever happened on that ground; but the

tranquil charm that fills the air repays for the absence of historic

fame.

There is seldom much stir in Norbreck, except such as the elements

make. The inhabitants would think the place busy with a dozen people

upon its grass-grown road at once, whatever the season might be.

It is true that on a fine day in summer I have now and then seen

a little life just at the entrance of the hamlet. There, stands a

pretty cottage, of one story, consisting of six cosy rooms, that run

lengthwise; its white walls adorned with rose trees and fruit trees,

and its windows bordered with green trellis work. Two trim grass-plots,

with narrow beds of flowers, and neat walks, mosaically-paved with

blue and white pebbles from the sea, fill up the front garden, which

a low white wall and a little green gate enclose from the road. In

front of this cottage, I have sometimes seen a troop of rosy children

playing round a pale girl, who was hopelessly infirm, and, perhaps

on that account, the darling of the whole household. I have seen her

rocking in the sun, and, with patient melancholy, watching their

gambols, whilst they strove to please her with all kinds of little

artless attentions. Poor Lucy! Sometimes, after swaying to and fro

thoughtfully in her chair, she would stop and ask questions that sent

her father out of the room to wipe his eyes. "Papa, are people lame in

heaven?" "Papa, are angels poorly sometimes, like we are here?"...It

is one of those beautiful compensations that mingle with the mishaps

of life, that such a calamity has often the sweet effect of keeping

kind hearts continually kind. The poor Lancashire widow, when asked

why she seemed to fret more for the loss of her helpless lad than

for any of her other children, said she couldn't tell, except "it

were becose hoo'd had to nurse him moor nor o' tother put together."

Surely, "there is a soul of good in all things evil." About this pretty

cottage, where little Lucy lived, is the busiest part of the hamlet in

summer time. There may chance to be two or three visitors sauntering

in the sunshine; or, perhaps, old Thomas Smith, better known as "Owd

England," the sea-beaten patriarch of Norbreck, may paddle across the

road to look after his cattle, or, staff in hand, may be going down

to "low water" a-shrimping, with his thin hair playing in the breeze.

Perhaps Lizzy, the milkmaid, may run from the house to the shippon,

with her skirt tucked up, and the neb of an old bonnet pulled down to

shade her eyes; or Tom, the cow lad, may be leaning against a sunny

wall, whistling, and mending his whip, and wondering how long it wants

to dinner-time. There may be a fine cat dozing on the garden wall,

or gliding stealthily towards the outhouses. These are the common

features of life there. For the rest, the sounds heard are mostly the

cackle of poultry, the clatter of milk cans, the occasional bark of

a dog, the distant lowing of kine, a snatch of country song floating

from the fields, the wild birds' "tipsy routs of lyric joy," and that

all-embracing murmur of the surge which fills one's ears wherever we

go. In Norbreck everything smacks of the sea. On the grassy border of

the road, about the middle of the hamlet, there is generally a pile

of wreck waiting the periodical sale which takes place all along the

coast. I have sometimes looked at this pile, and thought that perhaps

to this or that spar some seaman might have clung with desperate

energy among the hungry waters, until he sank, overpowered, into his

uncrowded grave. The walls of gardens and farmyards are mostly built

of cobles from the beach, sometimes fantastically laid in patterns of

different hues. The garden beds are edged with shells, and the walks

laid with blue and white pebbles. Here and there are rockeries of

curiously-shaped stones from the shore. Every house has its little

store of marine rarities, which meet the eye on cornices and shelves

wherever we turn. Now and then we meet with a dead sea-mew on the road,

and noisy flocks of gulls make fitful excursions landward; particularly

in ploughing time, when they crowd after the plough to pick slugs and

worms out of the new furrows.

With a single exception, all the half-dozen dwellings in Norbreck

are on one side of the road, with their backs to the north. On the

other side there are gardens, and a few whitewashed outhouses, with

weatherbeaten walls. The main body of the hamlet consists of a great

irregular range of buildings, formerly the residence of a wealthy

family. This pile is now divided into several dwellings, in some of

which are snug retreats for such as prefer the seclusion of this

sea-nest to the bustle of a crowded watering place. A little enclosed

lawn, belonging to the endmost of the group, and then a broad field,

divides this main cluster from the only other habitation. The latter

seems to stand off a little, as if it had more pretensions to gentility

than the rest. It is a picturesque house, of different heights, built

at different times. At the landward end, a spacious yard, with great

wooden doors close to the road, contains the outbuildings, with an

old-fashioned weather-vane on the top of them. The lowmost part of the

dwelling is a combination of neat cottages of one story; the highest

part is a substantial brick edifice of two stories, with attics. This

portion has great bow windows, which sweep the sea view, from the coast

of Wales, round by the Isle of Man, to the mountains of Cumberland. In

summer, the white walls of the cottage part are covered with roses and

creeping plants, and there is an air of order and tasteful rusticity

about the whole; even to the neat coble pavement which borders the

wayside. On the top of the porch a stately peacock sometimes struts,

like a feathered showman, whilst his mate paces to and fro, cackling

on the field wall immediately opposite. There are probably a few

poultry pecking about the front; and, if it happens to be a sunny day,

a fine old English bear-hound, of the Lyme breed, called "Lion," and

not much unlike his namesake in the main, may be seen stretched in a

sphinx-like posture on the middle of the road, as if the whole Fylde

belonged to him, by right of entail; and slowly moving his head with

majestic gaze, as if turning over in his mind whether or not it would

be polite to take a piece out of the passing traveller for presuming to

walk that way. Perhaps in the southward fields a few kine are grazing

and whisking their tails in the sunshine, or galloping from gap to gap

under the influence of the gad-fly's spur; and it may happen that some

wanderer from Blackpool can be seen on the cliffs, with his garments

flapping in the breeze. Except these, and the rolling surge below,

all is still at this end of the hamlet, unless the jovial face of the

owner appear above the wall that encloses his outbuildings, wishing the

passer-by "the fortune of the day." Norbreck, as a whole, is no way

painfully genteel in appearances, but it is sweet and serene, and its

cluster of houses seems to know how to be comfortable, without caring

much for display. Dirt and destitution are unknown there; in fact, I

was told that this applies generally to all the scattered population

of that quiet Fylde country. Though there are many people there whose

means of existence are almost as simple as those of the wild bird and

the field mouse, yet squalor and starvation are strangers amongst them.

If any mischance happen to any of these Fylde folk, everybody knows

everybody else, and, somehow, they stick to one another, like Paddy's

shrimps,--if you take up one you take up twenty. The road, which comes

up thither from many a mile of playful meanderings through the green

country, as soon as it quits the last house, immediately dives through

the cliffs, with a sudden impulse, as if it had been reading "Robinson

Crusoe," and had been drawn all that long way solely by its love for

the ocean. The sea beach at this spot is a fine sight at any time; but

in a clear sunset the scene is too grand to be touched by any imperfect

words. Somebody has very well called this part of the coast "the region

of glorious sunsets." When the waters retire, they leave a noble

solitude, where a man may wander a mile or two north or south upon a

floor of sand finer than any marble, "and yet no footing seen," except

his own; and hear no sounds that mingle with the mysterious murmurs

of the sea but the cry of the sailing gull, the piping of a flock of

silver-winged tern, or the scream of the wild sea-mew. Even in summer

there are but few stragglers to disturb those endless forms of beauty

which the moody waves, at every ebb, leave printed all over that grand

expanse, in patterns ever new.

Such is little Norbreck, as I have seen it in the glory of the year. In

winter, when the year's whitewash upon its houses is getting a little

weather-worn, it looks rather moulty and ragged to the eye; and it is

more lonely and wild, simply because nature itself is so then; and

Norbreck and nature are not very distant relations.

CHAPTER II.

The wave shall flow o'er this lilye lea,

And Penny Stone fearfu' flee:

The Red Bank scar scud away dismay'd,

When Englond's in jeopardie.

--PENNY STONE: A TRADITION OF THE FYLDE.

It was a bonny day on the 5th of March, 1860, when I visited Norbreck,

just before those tides came on which had been announced as higher

than any for a century previous. This announcement brought thousands

of people from the interior into Blackpool and other places on that

coast. Many came expecting the streets to be invaded by the tide, and

a great part of the level Fylde laid under water; with boats plying

above the deluged fields, to rescue its inhabitants from the towers of

churches and the tops of farmhouses. Knowing as little of these things

as inland people generally do, I had something of the same expectation;

but when I came to the coast, and found the people going quietly about

their usual business, I thought that, somehow, I must be wrong. It is

true that one or two farmers had raised their stacks several feet, and

another had sent his "deeds" to Preston, that they might be high and

dry till the waters left his land again; and certain old ladies, who

had been reading the newspapers, were a little troubled thereby; but,

in the main, these seaside folk didn't seem afraid of the tide.

During the two days when the sea was to reach its height, Blackpool was

as gay, and the weather almost as fine, as if it had been the month of

June, instead of "March--mony weathers," as Fylde folk call it. The

promenade was lively with curious inlanders, who had left their "looms"

at this unusual season, to see the wonders of the great deep. But when

it came to pass that, because there was no wind to help in the water,

the tide rose but little higher than common, many people murmured

thereat, and the town emptied as quickly as it had filled. Not finding

a deluge, they hastened landward again, with a painful impression that

the whole thing was a hoax. The sky was blue, the wind was still, and

the sun was shining clearly; but this was not what they had come forth

to see.

Though some were glad of any excuse for wandering again by the

shores of the many-sounding ocean, and bathing soul and body in its

renovating charms, the majority were sorely disappointed. Among these,

I met one old gentleman, close on seventy, who declared, in a burst

of impassioned vernacular, that he wouldn't come to Blackpool again

"for th' next fifty year, sink or swim." He said, "Their great tide

were nowt i'th world but an arran' sell, getten up by lodgin'-heawse

keepers, an' railway chaps, an' newspapper folk, an sich like wastril

devils, a-purpose to bring country folk to th' wayter-side, an' hook

brass eawt o' their pockets. It were a lond tide at Blackpool folk

were after;--an they wanted to get it up i' winter as weel as summer.

He could see through it weel enough. But they'd done their do wi' him.

He'd too mich white in his e'en to be humbugged twice o'er i'th' same

gate, or else he'd worn his yed a greyt while to vast little end. But

he'd come no moor a seein' their tides, nor nowt else,--nawe, not if

the whole hole were borne't away,--folk an' o,' bigod! He did not blame

th' say so mich,--not he. Th' say would behave itsel' reet enough, iv

a rook o' thievin' devils would nobbut let it alone, an' not go an'

belie it shamefully, just for th' sheer lucre o' ill-getten gain, an'

nowt else.... He coom fro' Bowton, an' he're beawn back to Bowton by

th' next train; an' iv onybody ever see'd him i' Blackpool again,

they met tell him on't at th' time, an' he'd ston a bottle o' wine for

'em, as who they were. They had a little saup o' wayter aside o' whoam

that onsert their bits o' jobs i' Bowton reet enough. It're nobbut a

mak ov a bruck; but he'd be content wi' it for th' futur--tide or no

tide. They met tak their say, an' sup it, for him,--trashy devils!"

Of course, this was an extreme case, but there were many grumblers on

the same ground; and some amusement arising out of their unreasoning

disappointment.

Down at Norbreck, about four miles north of Blackpool, though there

was a little talk, here and there, about the curious throng at the

neighbouring watering-place, all else was still as usual. "Owd

England," the quaint farmer and fisherman of the hamlet, knew these

things well. He had lived nearly seventy-four years on that part of

the coast, and he still loved the great waters with the fervour of a

sea-smitten lad. From childhood he had been acquainted with the moods

and tenses of the ocean; and it was a rare day that didn't see him

hobble to "low water" for some purpose or other. He explained to me

that a tide of much lower register in the tables, if brought in by a

strong wind, would be higher in fact than this one with an opposite

wind; and he laughed at the fears of such as didn't know much about the

matter. "Thoose that are fleyed," said he, "had better go to bed i'

boats, an' then they'll ston a chance o' wakenin' aboon watter i'th'

mornin'.... Th' idea of a whol teawn o' folk comin' to't seea for this.

Pshaw! I've no patience wi' 'em!... Tide! There'll be no tide worth

speykin' on,--silly divuls,--what I knaw. I've sin a fifteen-fuut

tide come far higher nor this twenty-one foot eleven can come wi' th'

wind again it,--sewer aw hev. So fittin it should, too.... But some

folk knawn nowt o'th' natur o' things." Lame old Billy Singleton, a

weather-worn fisherman, better known by the name of "Peg Leg," sat

knitting under the window, with his dim eyes bent over a broken net.

"Owd England" turned to him and said, "It wur a fifteen-fuut tide,

Billy, at did o' that damage at Cleveless, where th' bevel-men are

at wark." Old "Peg Leg" lifted his head, and replied, "Sewer it wor,

Thomas; an', by the hectum, that wor a tide! If we'd hed a strang

sou'-west wind, this wad ha' played rickin' too. I've heeard as there

wor once a village, ca'd Singleton Thorpe, between Cleveless and

Rossall, weshed away by a heigh tide, abaat three hundred year sin'.

By the hectum, if that had happen't i' these days, Thomas, here wod ha'

bin some cheeop trips an' things stirrin' ower it." He then went on

mending his net.

Old bed-ridden Alice, who had spent most of the daylight of seven years

stretched upon a couch under the window, said, "But it never could

touch us at Norbreck,--nowt o't sooart. It's nearly th' heighest point

i't country; isn't it, uncle?" "Sartiny," said "Owd England;" "but,"

continued he, "iv ye want to see summat worth rememberin', ye mun go

to low watter. It'll be a rare seet. Th' seea 'll ebb far nor ever wor

knawn i'th' memory o' mon; an' here'll be skeers an' rocks eawt at

hesn't bin sin of a hundred year. Iv ye'd like to set fuut o' greawnd

at nobody livin' mun walk on again, go daan with us at five o'clock

o' Friday afternoon." I felt that this would indeed be an interesting

sight, and I agreed to accompany the old fisherman to low water.

It was a cloudless, summer-like evening, when our little company of

four set out from Norbreck, As we descended the cliffs, the track of

the declining sun's beams upon the sea was too glorious for eyes to

endure; and every little pool and rill upon the sands gleamed like

liquid gold. A general hush pervaded the scene, and we could hear

nothing but our own voices, and a subdued murmur of the distant waves,

which made the prevailing silence more evident to the senses. "Owd

England" led the way, with his favourite stick in hand, and a basket

on his arm for the collection of a kind of salt water snail, called

"whilks," which, he said, were "the finest heytin' of ony sort o' fish

i'th world for folk i' consumptions." "Ye happen wouldn't think it,"

said he, "bod I wor i' danger o' consumption when I were a young mon."

As we went on, now over a firm swelling sand-bank, now stepping from

stone to stone through a ragged "skeer," and slipping into pools and

channels left by the tide; or wading the water in reckless glee,--the

fine old man kept steadily ahead, muttering his wayward fancies as he

made towards the silver fringe that played upon the skirts of the sea.

Now and then he stopped to point out the rocks, and tell their names.

"That's th' Carlin' an' Cowt,--a common seet enough. Ye see, it's

not far eawt.... Yon's 'Th' Mussel Rock,' deawn to so'thard. Ther's

folk musselin' on it neaw, I believe. But we'll go that way on....

Tak raand bith sond-bank theer. Yaar noan shod for wadin'; an' this

skeer's a varra rough un.... That's 'Penny Stone,' reight afore you,

toward th' seea. Ye'll hev heeard o' 'Th' Penny Stone Rock,' mony a

time, aw warnd. There wor once a public-heawse where it stons, i'th owd

time; an' they sowd ale there at a penny a pot. Bod then one connot

tell whether it wor dear or cheeop till they knaw what size th' pot

wor--an' that I dunnot knaw. Mr. Thornber, o' Blackpool, hes written a

book abaat this 'Penny Stone;' an' I believe at Mr. Wood, o' Bispham

Schoo', hes one. He'll land it yo in a minute, aw warnd. Ye mun send

little Tom wi' a bit ov a note. I never see 'Penny Stone' eawt so as to

get raand it afore.... Neaw, yon far'ast, near low watter, is 'Th' Owd

Woman's Heyd.' I've oft heeard on it, an' sometimes sin a bit o't tip

aboon watter, bod I never see it dry i' my life afore,--an' I never mun

again,--never." He then paddled on, filling his basket, and muttering

to himself about this extraordinary ebb, and about the shortness of

human life. The sun began to "steep his glowing axle in the western

wave," and the scene was melting every moment into a new tone of

grandeur. As we neared the water, the skeers were more rugged and wet,

and, in a few minutes, we picked up a basketful of "whilks," and a

beautiful variety of the sea anemone. After the sun had dipped, his

lingering glory still crowded the western heavens, and seemed to deepen

in splendour as it died upon the scene; while the golden ripples of the

sea sang daylight down to rest. I never saw mild evening close over the

world with such dreamy magnificence. We wandered by the water, till

Golden Hesperus

Was mounted high in top of heaven sheen.

And warned his other brethren joyeous

To light their blessed lamps in Jove's eternall house.

The tide was returning, and the air getting cold; so we went homewards,

with wandering steps, in the wake of our old fisherman, by way of

"Penny Stone Rock." There is a tradition all over the Fyltle that

this rock, now only visible "on the utmost verge of the retired

wave," marks the locality of a once famous-hostelry. Doubtless the

tradition has some foundation in fact, as the encroachments of the sea

upon this coast have been great, and sometimes disastrous, as in the

destruction of the village of Singleton Thorpe, about a mile and a half

to northward, in 1555. In the Rev. W. Thornber's interesting little

volume, called "Penny Stone; or a Tradition of the Spanish Armada,"

he says of the old hostelry associated with this now submerged rock,

"It was situated in a vale, protected from the sea by a barrier of

sand-hills, at a short distance from a village called Singleton Thorpe,

in the foreland of the Fylde, Lancashire. The site of the homestead

was romantic, for it was in the very centre of a Druidical circle,

described in a former tradition of the country, one of the huge stones

of which reared its misshapen block near the porch. Into this stone

a ring had been inserted by the thrifty Jock, its host, to which he

was wont to attach the horses of his customers whilst they regaled

themselves with a penny pot of his far-famed ale. Hither the whole

country resorted on holidays, to spend them in athletic games, and

to quaff the beloved beverage; nay, so renowned was the hostel, that

'merrie days of hie away to Penny Stone' was common even to a proverb.

Here lay the secret enchantment of its popularity. The old distich tell

us that

Hops, reformation, bays, and beer,

Came into England all in a year.

Ale was a beverage which had been well known in England, but in the

reign of Henry VIII, it assumed a new name from the infusion of hops.

Now, Jock's father, a cunning lout, was the first to commence in the

Fylde this new, and at that time mysterious system of brewing, which

so pleased the palate of his customers, that, while others sold their

insipid malt liquor at twopence per gallon, he vended his ale at a

penny per pot. Hence his hostel became known by the name of Penny

Stone."

Such is the embodiment Mr. Thornber has given to the common tradition

of "Penny Stone," which we were now approaching on our homeward way.

As we drew near it, we saw five persons come over the shining sands

towards the same spot; and we heard merry voices ringing in the air.

I first made out my friend Hallstone, in his strong shooting-dress of

light-coloured tweed, and attended by two favourite terriers, "Wasp"

and "Snap." We met at the rock, and I found my friend accompanied by

three "brethren of the mystic tie," one of whom was Mr. Thornber, the

veritable chronicler of "Penny Stone." The latter had wandered thus

far, with his companions, mainly to avail himself of this rare chance

of climbing his pet legendary crag. His hands were full of botanical

specimens from the sea, and, in his fervid way, he descanted upon them,

and upon the geology of the coast, in a manner which, I am sorry to

say, was almost lost to my uninitiated mind. I took the opportunity of

inquiring where he found the materials for his tradition. He answered,

that there was no doubt of its fundamental truth; "but, as to the

details wrought into the story," said he, pointing to his forehead,

with a laugh, "I found them in a cellar, deep down in the rock there."

The gloomy mass was surrounded by a little moat of salt water, nearly

knee-deep, through which we passed; and then, clinging to its Triton

locks of sea-weeds, we climbed to the slippery peaks of "Penny Stone."

The stout lad in attendance drew a bottle from his basket; and then

each in his way celebrated this unexpected meeting in that singular

spot, where we should never meet together again.

I shall never forget the sombre splendour of the scene, nor the

striking appearance of the group upon that lonely rock, when the

rearward hues of day were yielding their room to "sad succeeding

night." We lingered there awhile; but the air was cold, and the sea

began to claim its own again. Four then returned by the cliffs to

Blackpool, and the rest crossed the sands hastily to Norbreck, where,

after an hour's chat by the old fisherman's great kitchen fire, I crept

to bed, with the sound of the sea in my ears.

CHAPTER III.

A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry. Now, good

Peter Quince, call forth your actors by the scroll: masters,

spread yourselves.

--MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.