Lancashire Sketches / Third Edition

by Edwin Waugh

CHAPTER II.

By the crackling fire,

We'll hold our little snug, domestic court,

Plying the work with song and tale between.

It was on a cold forenoon, early in the month of April, that I set off to see Urmston, in Flixton. The sky was gloomy, and the air chill; but the cold was bracing, and the time convenient, so I went towards Oxford Road Station in a cheerful temper. Stretford is the nearest point on the line, and I took my ticket to that village. We left the huge manufactories, and the miserable chimney tops of "Little Ireland," down by the dirty Medlock; we ran over a web of dingy streets, swarming with dingy people; we flitted by the end of Deansgate (the Ratcliffe Highway of Manchester), and over the top of Knott Mill, the site of the Roman Station,—now covered with warehouses and other buildings connected with the Bridgewater Trust; we left the black, stagnant canal, coiled in the hollow, and stretching its dark length into the distance, like a slimy snake. We cleared the cotton mills, and dyeworks, and chemical manufactories of Cornbrook. Pomona Gardens, too, we left behind, with the irregular carpentry of its great picture sticking up raggedly in the dun air, like the charred relics of a burnt woodyard. These all passed in swift panorama, and the train stopped at Old Trafford, the site of the "Art Exhibition," just closed. Three years ago the inhabitants did not dream that this was to be the gathering-place of the grandest collection of works of art the world ever saw, and the scene of more bustle and pomp than was ever known on any spot in the north of England, before. The building was up, but not opened, and as we went by we had a good view of the shapeless mass, and of many curious people tooting about the enclosure to see what was going on. Old Trafford takes its name from the Trafford family, or rather, I believe, gives its name to that family, whose ancient dwelling, Old Trafford Hall, stands in part of its once extensive gardens, near the railway. Baines says of this family, "The Traffords were settled here (at Trafford) at a period anterior to the Norman conquest, and ancient documents in possession of the family show that their property has descended to the present representative, not only by an uninterrupted line of male heirs, but without alienation, during the mutations in national faith, and the violence in civil commotions. Henry, the great-grandson of Ranulphus de Trafford, who resided at Trafford in the reign of Canute and Edward the Confessor, received lands from Helias de Pendlebury; in Chorlton, from Gospatrick de Chorlton; and in Stretford, from Hamo, the third baron of that name, of Dunham Massie; and from Pain of Ecborn (Ashburn) he had the whole of the lordship of Stretford." The whole of Stretford belongs to the Traffords still. "In the reign of Henry VI. Sir Edmund Trafford, of Trafford, assisted at the coronation of the king, and received the honour of Knight of the Bath on that occasion." A certain poet says truly—

Though much the centuries take, and much bestow,
Most through them all immutable remains;

but the mind sets out upon a curious journey when it starts from modern Manchester, with its industrialism and its political unions, its hearty workers and its wealthy traders, its charities and its poverties, its mechanics' institutions and its ignorance, its religions and its sins, and travels through the successive growths of change which have come over the life of man since the days of Canute (when Manchester must have been a rude little woodland town), speculating as it goes as to what is virtually changed, and what remains the same through the long lapse of time, linking the "then" and "there," with "now" and "here." But we are now fairly in the country, and the early grass is peeping out of the ground, making all the landscape look sweetly green. In a few minutes the whole distance had been run, and I heard the cry, "Out here for Stretford!" Leaving the station, I went to the top of the railway bridge, which carries the high road over the line. From that elevation I looked about me. It commands a good view of the village hard by, and of the country for miles around. This great tract of meadows, gardens, and pasture land, was once a thick woodland, famous, in the Withington district, for its fine oak trees. In Flixton the oak was never found, except of stunted growth. A few miles to westward, the parks of Dunham and Tatton show how grand the old growth of native trees must have been on the Cheshire border; and in the north-east, the woods of Trafford make a dark shadow on the scene. And here at hand is the old village of Stretford, the property of the Traffords of Trafford; whose arms give name to the principal inn of the village, as well as to one or two others on the road from Manchester. The man in motley, with a flail in his hand, and the mottos, "Now, thus;" "Gripe Griffin; hold fast!" greet the traveller with a kind of grim historic salutation as he goes by. These are household phrases with the inhabitants, many of whom are descendants of the ancient tenantry of the family. Quiet Stretford! close to the Cheshire border; the first rural village after leaving that great machine-shop called Manchester. Depart from that city in almost any other direction, and you come upon a quick succession of the same manufacturing features you have left behind, divided, of course, by many a beautiful nook of country green. But somehow, though a man may feel proud of these industrial triumphs, yet, if he has a natural love of the country, he breathes all the more freely when he comes out in this direction, from the knowledge that he is entering upon a country of unmixed rural quietness and beauty, and that the tremendous bustle of manufacture is entirely behind him for the time. Stretford is an agricultural village, but there is a kind of manufacture which it excels in. Ormskirk is famous for its gingerbread; Bury for its "simblins," or "simnels;" Eccles for those spicy cakes, which "Owd Chum"—the delight of every country fair in these parts—used to sell at the "Rushbearings" of Lancashire; but the mission of Stretford is black puddings. And, certainly, a Stretford black pudding would not be despised even by a famishing Israelite, if he happened to value a dinner more than the ancient faith of his fathers. Fruit, flowers, green market-stuff, black puddings, and swine's flesh in general—these are the pride of the village. Roast pork, stuffed in a certain savoury way, is a favourite dish here. The village folks call it the "Stretford Goose;" and it is not a bad substitute for that pleasant bird, as I found. Stretford is nearly all in one street, by the side of the highway going into Cheshire. It has grown very much in late years, but enow of its old features remain to give the place a quaint tone, and to show what it was fifty years ago, before Manchester merchants began to build mansions in the neighbourhood, and Manchester tradesmen began to go out there to lodge. There was once an old church in Stretford, of very simple architecture, built and endowed by the Trafford family. Nothing of it now remains but the graveyard, which is carefully enclosed. I looked through the rails into this weedy sanctuary of human decay. It had a still, neglected look. "The poor inhabitants below" had been gathering together there a long while, and their memories now floating down the stream of time, far away from the sympathies of the living, except in that honourable reverence for the dead, which had here enclosed their dust from unfeeling intrusion. It was useless for me to wonder who they were that lay there; how long they had been mouldering in company, or what manner of life they had led. Their simple annals had faded, or were fading away. The wind was playing with the grave-grass; the village life of Stretford was going on as blithe as ever round this quiet enclosure, and I walked forward. Even such is time—

Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days.

The "curfew" has "tolled the knell of parting day" over the woods and fields around this village ever since the time of William the Conqueror. I had agreed to call upon a friend of mine here before going down to Flixton, so I walked a little way farther down the village, and then turning through a certain orchard, as directed, I came into a green lane beyond. There stood the house, on the opposite side of the lane, at the top of a gentle slope of garden, shaded with evergreens, among which rose up one remarkably fine variegated holly. The hedgerows were trim, and the cottage on the knoll, with its bright windows "winking through their screen of leaves," looked very sweet, still, and nest-like. And then the little garden—

A garden faire, and in the corner set
Ane harbour grene, with wandis long and small
Railit about, and so with treis set
Was all the place, and hawthorn hegeis knet,
That lyf was non walking there forbye,
That might within scarce ony wight aspye.

I stood still a minute, for the place was pleasant to look upon, and then opening the gate, and starting the birds from every bush, went up through the little garden. I met with a hearty welcome, and mine host and myself soon had the snug tree-shaded parlour to ourselves. I was at home in a minute; but, as we chatted about the books on the shelves and the pictures on the walls, there came from somewhere in the house an aroma that "made my teeth shoot water." I was talking of books, but in my mind I was wondering what it was that sent forth such a goodly smell; for I was hungry. My friend either divined my thoughts, or else he was secretly affected in the same way, for he said, "We are going to have a 'Stretford Goose' to-day." Now, I was curious, and the smell was fine, and my appetite keen, and I was fain when the goose and its trimmings came in. When we fell to, I certainly was the hero of the attack, and the goose came down before our combined forces like a waste-warehouse in flames. It was a wholesome, bountiful English meal, "wi' no fancy wark abeawt it;" and since that April noontide I have always felt an inward respect for a "Stretford Goose."

When dinner was fairly over, I lost no time in starting for Flixton, which was only three miles off; with what some people call "a good road" to it. And it certainly is better than those terrible old roads of North Lancashire, of which Arthur Young writes with such graphic ferocity. "Reader," says he, "did'st thou ever go from Wigan to Preston? If not; don't. Go to the devil rather; for nothing can be so infernal as that road is." The hedges by the wayside were covered with little buds. The murky clouds had left the sky, and the day was fine. There was a wintry nip in the air, which was pleasant enough to me; but it gave the young grass and the thorn-buds a shrinking look, as if they had come out too soon to be comfortable. The ground was soft under foot, and I had to pick my way through the "slutch" now and then. There had been long and heavy rains, and I could see gleaming sheets of water left on the low-lying meadow lands on the Cheshire side of the river. But I was in no humour for grumbling, for the country was new to me, and I looked around with pleasure, though the land was rather bare and shrivelled,—like a fowl in the moult,—for it had hardly got rid of winter's bleakness, and had not fairly donned the new suit of spring green. But the birds seemed satisfied, for they chirruped blythely among the wind-beaten thorns, and hopped and played from bough to bough in the scant-leaved trees. If these feathered tremblers had weathered the hard winter, by the kindness of Providence, and amidst this lingering chill, could hail the drawing near of spring with such glad content, why should I repine? By the way, that phrase, "the drawing near of spring," reminds me of the burden of an ancient May song, peculiar to the people of this district. In the villages hereabouts, they have an old custom of singing in the month of May; and companies of musicians and "May-singers" go from house to house among their neighbours, on April nights, to sing under their chamber windows this old song about "the drawing near unto the merry month of May." An old man, known in Stretford as a "May-singer," an "herb-gatherer," and a "Yule-singer," who gets a scanty living out of the customs of each season of the year as it comes, furnished me with a rough copy of the words and music of this old "May Song." In one verse of the song, each member of the sleeping family is addressed by name in succession,—

Then rise up, Sarah Brundrit, all in your gown of green;

and as each appears at the window, they are saluted with a "Merry May." Since the time of my visit I have been enabled, through the kindness of John Harland, Esq., F.S.A., to give this old May song, in complete shape, as it appears in his first volume of "Lancashire Ballads," recently published by Mr. Edwin Slater, of Manchester:—

All in this pleasant evening together come are we,
For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay;
We'll tell you of a blossom that buds on every tree,
Drawing near unto the merry month of May.

Rise up the master of this house, put on your chain of gold,
For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay;
We hope you're not offended, (with) your house we make so bold,
Drawing near unto the merry month of May.

Rise up the mistress of this house, with gold along (upon) your breast,
For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay;
And if your body be asleep, I hope your soul's at rest,
Drawing near unto the merry month of May.

Rise up the children of this house, all in your rich attire
For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay;
For every hair upon your head shines like the silver wire,
Drawing near unto the merry month of May.

God bless this house and harbour, your riches and your store,
For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay;
We hope the Lord will prosper you, both now and evermore,
Drawing near unto the merry month of May.

So now we're going to leave you in peace and plenty here,
For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay;
We shall not sing you May again until another year,—
For to draw you the cold winter away.

About a mile on the road, I came to a green dingle, called "Gamershaw." A large brick dwelling-house now occupies the spot; which was formerly shaded by spreading trees,—a flaysome nook, of which the country folk were afraid at night-time, as the haunt of a goblin, called "Gamershaw Boggart." Every rustle of the trees at Gamershaw was big with terror to them half a century ago. Even now, when "Gamershaw Boggart" has hardly a leaf to shelter its old haunt, the place is fearful after dark, to the superstitious people of Flixton parish. And yet there seems to be some change working in this respect, for when I asked a villager whether "Gamershaw Boggart" was ever seen now, he said, "Naw; we never see'n no boggarts neaw; nobbut when th' brade-fleigh's (bread-rack) empty!"

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