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