We then pass Squire’s Brewery at the entrance to Lincoln Road, where the Liberal Club and Masonic Hall now stand, and we go to Boroughbury; all beyond the malting formed part of Squire’s Brewery, going past what is known as the “Square Pond.” The houses there, including a large part of the Catholic Church and other buildings, are actually built upon that which was, in 1833 (and many years afterwards), covered with water. I was intimate with Mr. Buckle, who succeeded Mr. Squire in that brewery, and I was permitted to fish in the pond as often as I pleased. I have stood upon that spot which is now a public road and have caught pike and eels, and used to have very capital sport there. In the winter time it was a favourite resort, not thrown open to the public altogether, but still, with great liberality, it was allowed to be used for skating. I was very unlucky one day. It was just after a gentleman had bought the house, afterwards Mrs. Willoughby’s (now shops erected by Mr. W. D. Nichols), and the grounds about it, was walking in his grounds, when he saw me pull out a large pike, and he was so enchanted with it, he thought it would be a great benefit to his property, and to my disgust, but the pleasure of Mr. Buckle, he bought the pond and merged it into his private grounds. I never caught any pike there again!
Passing the outskirts of the town, we pass the great Tithe Barn, Boroughbury, an interesting and attractive specimen of antiquity and a good specimen of that kind of barn. You go up that junction of Lincoln Road to Dogsthorpe, and there past the last house until you come to two or three cottages, then belonging to a retired tailor, named Mitchell, and people had been profane enough to christen those cottages “Cabbage Row.” What connection there is between a tailor and cabbage, I don’t know.
Crossing the fields now laid out by the great roads of the Land Company, and which at that time were the most secluded fields around Peterborough, and going down Crawthorne Lane you came to a junction—a little lane at the back of Boroughbury, now a wide street behind St. Mark’s Villas, which runs up to Park Road, and there four roads met, where there was a little tombstone which was known as the “Girls’ Grave.” A girl was buried there, with a stake through her body, without Christian burial. The place was very well known, and for long remained in the midst of a potato garden belonging to one of the cottages there.
You go as the crow flies to a place called Frog Hall, in front of St. Mary’s Vicarage, one of the cottages remained till 1904, and the place had a very unsavoury reputation. It was inhabited by squatters, gipsies, and travellers, and was one of the least desirable parts in that neighbourhood. Then came a row of cottages known as Burton’s Row, where Peterborough attempted to travel past its boundaries and get into the country.
Going back, we come to the Cemetery, but at that time all were grass fields let out as accommodation ground, and quite secluded. A little further on were the Gas Works. Now they ARE Gas Works. When I came they were, as compared with the present, in about the same proportion as a small kettle to a large steam engine boiler. A gentleman named Malam—a Hull man—used to supply all the little towns in the country, and used to contract with the inhabitants to supply gas for them. There was no Act of Parliament, or anything of that sort, but permission from the Local Authorities to break up the streets and roads was all that was required, and he chanced it. I think Mr. Sawyer used to give as much time as he could spare from his own business, until he became, as the town increased, by purchase, the owner of the works, and he then gave his whole time and attention to them, and a very nice property it developed into by the time the present company took it off Mr. Sawyer’s hands.
That is the history of gas in Peterborough. This brings us back to the Long Causeway and the Market Place. Not the market now, as I recollect it! Up to the year 1848 the farmers attending the market used to cool their heels in the open air in front of the Town Hall, hot or cold, wet or dry, rain or snow, blowing or still, there they stood, till the Theatre, now the Corn Exchange (since largely added to), became vacant, and it occurred to some agricultural gentleman that they could be much more comfortable in every way if they could form a company, and they did so, and I think no one will doubt that is an improvement. On the Long Causeway, the Cattle Market was the principal institution of the place, and I will tell you why. On Saturdays that place was wholly given up to them. There they were; nobody paid anything; anybody who had cows or horses to sell brought them there. They became the proprietors of the street for that day.
Our widest and best street was spoilt; because if there is one thing more certain than another it is that the female mind most intensely abhors anything approaching contact with horned animals. Somehow or other, it seems to disturb that equanimity which appears to be utterly indispensable to a lady when she is going what she calls “shopping,” and it would take away all her ideas to think she was going to meet a restless-looking cow or a doubtful looking ox. It takes away all notion of colour, shape, and measure, or whether the thing will wash or not. The consequence was, the Long Causeway was practically abandoned on market days, and it was not much more used on other days for shopping purposes, because in anything like changeable or damp weather the atmosphere of the street was what I have heard ladies describe (not meaning to be complimentary) as “smelly.” Therefore, naturally, there was great rejoicing among the inhabitants generally when that street was restored to a cleanly wholesome state by the construction of the Cattle Market.
The Wednesday Cattle Market had a very peculiar growth. It was set up without the smallest authority about 1845 or 1846 by an old gentleman named Dean, who was a retired farmer, and an enterprising auctioneer named Dowse, who kept the “Greyhound.” They suggested that fat stock should be brought, and it came more and more, until it grew into that excellent stock market, which became one of the best in the Kingdom. There was no foundation for it but that of custom. When the new market was proposed, the farmers invited the then authorities, the Improvement Commissioners, to construct it for them, but they made their bow and said, “If you want a market, make it for yourselves.” It was made by a limited company, and it has since fallen into the hands of the authorities, and Broadway constructed through it.
We have another market which has grown up, and that is the present Wednesday Market on the Market Place, which I think is one of the greatest curiosities that ever comes under one’s notice. It does no harm to anyone. I went there recently, and I saw an extraordinary medley of things exposed for sale. I wondered at first if they were to be given away! I could understand anybody wishing to sell them, but wondered who could wish to buy them. It is one of the things no one can understand. But it affords the means of getting rid of most undesirable things, call them furniture, or anything else! It puts me in mind of a shop in the Market Place at Great Yarmouth, where they say you may buy anything. A visitor, a clergyman, was told he could get anything he wanted. He said, “I want a pulpit.” “Well,” his friend said, “go in and try.” He went in and said, “Do you happen to have a pulpit?” and they said, “Well, we do happen to have a pulpit.” And I think I have seen everything in our Wednesday’s Market except that. I have not seen anything so useful as a pulpit!
I have spoken of our accommodation for the living. What do we do for the dead? We have the Cemetery, which has been considerably enlarged since it was first formed in 1852 or 1853, and the rapid increase of the Cemetery suggests the difficulty of the disposal of the dead in a creditable and satisfactory manner with our increasing population. The old burial ground was opened in the year 1802, and it is one of the peculiarities of this peculiar place, and of the old jurisdictions here, that the old Parish Church appears to have had in ancient times no burial ground belonging to it, a thing that very seldom happens, for the burial ground of the Parish of St. John the Baptist was outside the Minster, which is an extra parochial district. This remained up to 1802, when the burial ground in Cowgate was formed. If you go into it sometime (I am very fond of looking at the tombstones), you will find the oddest peculiarities of language and literature as inscriptions on the tombstones, but I cannot say I have ever found much to admire. You will find a collection of legends which are common all over the country, commencing with