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