“Abraham Darby and Thomas Luccuck, concluded and made this 13 day of June, 1714, between Abraham Darby, of the city of Bristol, Smith, in behalf of himself and rest of his co-partners in the ironworks of Coalbrookdale, in the County of Salop, on the one part; and Thomas Luccuck, of the parish of Norfield, in the County of Worcester, who agrees to serve in the art and mystery of making or casting of iron pots and kettles, &c.”
It then proceeds to state that
“Abraham Darby promises to pay the said Thomas Luccuck the sum of 6s. per week during the said term of the year. Thomas Luccuck also covenants not to divulge or make known the mystery of the art of moulding in sand, tools, or utensils, belonging to the said works; and that if he divulges he will agree to pay the sum of £5 for every pot or kettle made by another, &c., through him.”
The mystery alluded to, and which it was deemed then so important not to divulge, was an improvement introduced by one of the Thomases, an ancestor of the Bristol merchants of that name, which consisted in the substitution of green sand for the more expensive and laborious method of using clay and loam in the manufacture of cast pots. By this means, not only was the article cheapened, and the number multiplied, but a more suitable and economical form was obtained; the old one being now rarely seen, except in museums, or as an antiquated heir-loom in some remote cottage. One of the old pots with a neat border has the date 1717. These domestic utensils appear to have formed the staple manufacture at the time that the first Abraham Darby removed here from Bristol, in the year 1709.
One member of this old family of Dale workmen lived to the extraordinary age of 103; and an allusion to the venerable patriarch may serve to introduce at this stage of our history a notice of two local circumstances: the extreme age of an old Coalbrookdale workman of the above name, and the “Great Land Flood” of the Dale. An account of the latter appeared in the Philosophical Transactions of the time; but we prefer following the example of Southey who on an occasion we remember makes use of an old man’s memory to set forth his views of certain changes which had taken place; but at the same time with such toning down as becometh the thoughts of more sober age. Every village has incidents and events associated with it, which some old inhabitant is usually privileged to expound.
Beyond the venerable grey-beards and wrinkled grand-dames there is the village sage—vested with the dignity of a last appeal, and whose version of matters local is deemed truthful as the current coin. Age as a rule commands respect; and the wider the span that measures intervening space between the present and the past the greater the esteem. Coalbrookdale within our recollection boasted, not an octogenarian merely, or one whose claim to the honour was weakened by that of half-a-dozen others—but one, the “oldest inhabitant,” by being a quarter of a century in advance of the whole of the Coalbrookdale elders. He not only lived to celebrate the centenary of his natal day but—like a tree blanched by the storms of ages yet putting forth its leaves afresh—as showing the stamina that still remained—cut, at a still riper age his second set of wisdom teeth. Envy never sought to dim the lustre of his fame. At local festivals, when, unfettered for the day, the members of a club with flags and band met in gay summer time, he was brought to crown the presidential chair. Old Adam—such was his name—a name truly suggestive of the past and well fitted for a village sage—old Adam Luccock was widely known. He was a specimen of archæology in himself—the solitary link of a patriarchal chain that had fallen one by one—he the only one remaining. And old Adam’s cottage—perched upon a rock beneath the Rotunda, quaint, ancient, and impressed by the storms of passing time,—odorous from a narrow strip of garden sheltered by a grey limestone pile, catching the last lingering rays of the setting sun as it mantled with deep shadow the Dale below, and flooded with mellow light the uplands of the river’s western bank—was a counterpart of himself. Like the little vine that girdled its frail and wattled walls—tapping with wiry fingers at the diamond leaded window-panes—old Adam clung to the place long after his friends began to fear the two would disappear together. White as were these white-washed walls, Adam’s locks were whiter, and the accessories of dress and minor details of person and of place were in perfect keeping. A curious net-work of wrinkled smiles accompanied the delivery of one of the old man’s homilies; and amusing enough were the landmarks which memory set up for giving to each event its place in point of time. Of red-lettered ever-to-be-remembered occurrences in the village the more prominent were the phenomena of the land-slip at the Birches, and the land-flood at the Dale. We still see the old man drawing slowly from his mouth a long pipe, still more slowly letting out a wreath of fragrant smoke, as speaking of the latter he would say:—
“I remember well; it was autumn, the berries were ripe on the hedge, and fruits were mellow in the field; we had a funeral that day at Madeley, it was on the 6th of September, 1801. The air was close. A thin steamy vapour swam along the valley, and a dense, fog-looking cloud hung in the sky. The mist spread, and drops like ripe fruit when you shake a tree came down suddenly. The leaves on every tree trembled, we could hear them quake; and the cattle hung down their heads to their fetlocks. The wind blew by fits and starts in different directions, and waves of cold air succeeded warm. Dull rushing sounds, sharp crackling thunderclaps were heard, and streams of fire could be seen—like molten iron at casting time—running in and out among the clouds. Up the valley, driving dust and sticks and stones, came on a roaring wind with pelting rain. Another current moved in a different direction; they met where the black cloud stood, and striking it both sides at once, it dropped like a sponge filled with water, but large as the Wrekin. In a moment houses and fields and woods were flooded by a deluge, and a rushing torrent from the hills came driving everything before it with a roar louder than the great blast or the splash of the great wheel. Lightnings flashed, thunders roared, and before the echo of one peal died you heard another—as if it were the crack of doom. Down came the brooks, the louder where they met, snapping trees, carrying bridges, stones, and stacks of wood. Houses were inundated in an instant, gardens were swept away, and women and children were carried from windows through the boiling flood. Fiercer came the rush and higher swelled the stream, forcing the dam of the great pool; timber snapped like glass, stones were tossed like corks, and driven against buildings that in turn gave way. Steam then came hissing up from the furnace as the water neared and sought entrance to the works. The elements met; it was a battle for a time; the water driven with great force from behind was soon brought into contact with the liquid iron, and then came the climax! Thunders from below answered to those above; water converted into gas caused one loud terrific explosion that burst the strongest bars, shattered the stoutest walls, drove back the furious flood, and filled the air with heated cinders and red-hot scoria. The horrid lurid light and heat and noise were dreadful. Many said ‘The day of God’s wrath is come;’ ‘Let us fly to the rocks and to the hills.’”
After a pause, and re-lighting his pipe, he added:
“I think I forgot to say it was Sunday, and that the Darbys were at meeting; the Meeting-house was in Tea-kettle-row, it was before the neat little chapel at Sunnyside was built. It was a silent meeting,—outside among the elements there was noise enough—I mean among the members there had been no speaking, and if there had they may have heard plain enough what was going on outside. Well, when the furnace blew up they broke up and came down to see what was the matter. They never appear in a hurry, Quakers don’t, and did not then, though thousands of pounds of their property were going to rack every minute. ‘Is any one hurt?’ that was the first question by Miss Darby; she is now Mrs Rathbone. She was an angel of a woman; indeed, every one of the Miss Darbys have been. ‘Is there any one hurt, Adam;’ she said. I said ‘no, ma’am, there’s nobody hurt, but the furnace, and blowing mill, the pool dam, and the buildings are all gone.’ ‘Oh, I am so thankful,’ she said; ‘never mind the building, so no one’s hurt’; and they all looked as pleased—if you’ll believe—as if they had found a new vein of coal in the Dawley Field, instead of having lost an estate at Coalbrookdale.”
Old age sat as fittingly on Adam as glory upon the sun, or as autumnal bloom upon the mellow fruit ripened by the summer’s heat. Nature, in the old man, had completed her work, religion had not left him without its blessings; and, while lingering or waiting, rather, upon the verge of another world, he liked to live again the active past, and to amuse himself by talking of scenes with which he had been associated. He had none of the garrulous tendencies of age; and when once upon his favourite topic, he was all smiles immediately.