The number of mosses and moors in the neighbourhood of Manchester makes it interesting—as in the case of the Cheshire meres, to know something of their origin. The wonderful discoveries of geology, with regard to the crust of the earth, and the successive deposition of the strata of which it is composed, claim our attention scarcely more than the history of the surface, which has undergone changes quite as momentous to the welfare of man, and no part of that history is more curious, perhaps, than that of the mosses. Wherever a moss now extends in wet and dreary waste, it would seem that there was once a plain or expanse of tolerably dry land, more or less plentifully covered with trees and underwood, but subject, by reason of the depressed level, to frequent inundation, just as we see the fields at Sale and Stretford flooded every now and then at the present day. The falling of the older and weaker trees, in consequence of the long–continued wetness, and the want of a steady and complete outlet for the accumulated waters, would soon cause the place to assume the character of a marsh,—neither land nor lake,—and now semi–amphibious plants would not be slow to spring up, for wherever such conditions of surface are exchanged for dry ones, plants of that nature appear as if by magic. The morass thus formed and occupied, would in a single season become knee–deep in the very same kind of mixture as that which now forms the outer skin of Carrington Moss, viz., heather of different kinds, cotton–sedges, and bog–moss. Every successive year the original mass of roots and stems would be left deeper and deeper beneath by the new and upward growth of the vegetation above; till at last, saturated with wet, and pressed by the weight of the superincumbent matter, it would acquire the compact form which is now called “peat.” The original moisture of the place, instead of diminishing, would be incessantly reinforced from the clouds, and the lapse of a few centuries would pile up on the surface of the once dry ground, a heap many yards in vertical thickness of half–decayed, half–living heath and moss, with sundews, cotton–sedges, and asphodels on the top. The branches of the trees drowned and entombed at the beginning, would remain where they fell, slowly decaying, but retaining their character well enough to be recognised, and hence wherever a moss is now drained, and portions of the original deposit are dug out, there are generally found mixed with it branches and fragments that in a measure may be likened to fossils. Carrington Moss, in parts where drained, is strewed with such bits of the silver birch, declared by the shining whiteness of the bark. The trees that these bits belonged to no doubt grew tall and leafy on the spot that is now their sepulchre and memorial. Flowers and seeds of bog plants are also found low down in the moss, almost as fresh as if newly fallen. In the middle, these vast vegetable tumuli are often twenty or thirty feet deep. In any part a walking–stick may be plunged in for its full length, and though by stepping and standing on the denser tufts of heather, it is quite easy to walk about dry–shod, it is quite as easy by uncarefulness, especially after wet weather, to be in a pool of water up to the ankle in a few minutes. There is no danger in walking upon the mosses, merely this little risk of getting wet–footed, which is more than compensated by the curious objects that may be found upon them. In winter and dull weather they are desolate enough, but on a summer afternoon full of reward. Owing to their immense capacity for absorption, many mosses swell into mounds higher than the surrounding country, as happens at Carrington; and after heavy rains this enlargement is so much increased that distant objects are concealed from view until evaporation and drainage have caused subsidence to the ordinary level. Before Ashton Moss (between Droylsden and Ashton–under–Lyne) was drained, trees and houses were often lost to view for many days, by persons residing on the opposite side.
That this is the true origin of the mosses is rendered fairly certain by the circumstance of works of human art having often been found at the bottom. When Ashton Moss was drained, there were found under the peat a Celtic axe and some Roman coins;[11] and in another part, at the foot of one of the old stumps of trees, a quantity of charred wood, betokening that a fire had once been lighted there. The coins would naturally suggest that some old Roman soldier had had a hand in the kindling, and the well–known fact of the extensive felling of trees by the Romans, both in road–making, and to aid them in the subjugation of the country, has led to the belief with some, that to these people may partially be attributed the origination of the mosses. The trees and scattered branches encumbering the ground, are supposed to have checked the free passage of floods and other water, which, becoming stagnated, gradually destroyed the growing timber, and eventually led to the results described above. Baines (History of Lancashire, iii. 131) says of Chat Moss, that it was originally the site of an immense forest, but was reduced to a bog by the Roman invaders, at a period coeval with the first promulgation of the Christian religion. It would probably be no error to assert with Whitaker, that the whole of the country round Manchester, and not merely the site of Chat Moss, was, at the time of the Romans, covered with trees. One thing is quite certain, namely, that the formation of the mosses is comparatively recent, and probably much within one thousand eight hundred years. They appear to rest universally on a clayey substratum, and it is very interesting to observe that where the peat is wholly removed, for the purpose of fuel, as upon Holford Moss, near Toft and Peover, the clay surface being then laid bare, birch–trees spring up unsown. The seeds of these trees must have been lying there since they ripened, unable to vegetate previously for want of air and the solar warmth. It is quite a familiar phenomenon for plants to spring up in this way from seeds that have been buried for ages, especially on earth laid bare by cuttings for railways and similar works; so in truth it is no more than would be expected in connection with the clearing away of peat, and the restoration of the under–surface. The tree next in frequency to the birch, as a denizen of the old silva, appears to have been the oak.
“Moors” are a more consolidated form of mosses. Seated, most usually, on higher and more easily drained ground than the mosses, they have in some cases preserved a drier nature from the first; in others, they have become drier in the course of time, through the escape of their moisture by runnels to lower levels; and in others again, they have allowed of easy artificial draining, and conversion to purposes of pasturage and tillage, or at least over a considerable portion of their surface, and have thus disappeared into farm–land. The most extensive and celebrated mosses about Manchester, still undrained, are Chat Moss, Carrington Moss, and Clifton Moss, near the Clifton railway station, on the left hand of the Bolton–road. Fifteen years ago (i.e. in 1843), White Moss and Ashton Moss might have been included in the list, but both of these are now largely brought under cultivation. The most celebrated moors are now nearly all under the power of the plough, as Baguley Moor and Sale Moor, while Newton Heath is covered with houses.
The above chapter was written in 1858. The story of the sundews has now become an old familiar one, having been placed prominently before the world by Dr. Hooker during the 1874 meeting of the British Association, when the novelty of the theme attracted universal attention to it. It has been dealt with also by Mr. Darwin and many of his disciples. The facts described have all been verified, though there is still considerable difference of opinion in regard to the digestive process. This question is one we cannot pretend to go further into at present; it remains for the rising generation of Manchester, and other local physiologists, to recognise the value of the opportunities they possess in having the plants themselves so close at hand. Upon Carrington, however, the Droseras seem to be less plentiful than they were forty years ago. The draining at the margins appears to have favoured the growth of the heather, as well as to have rendered the moss less swampy. If deficient here, there are plenty elsewhere, the sundews being to peat–bogs what daisies are to the meadows. Since 1858 the approaches to the moss from the Manchester side have also been a good deal altered, and enquiry must now be made of residents in the neighbourhood when seeking the most convenient means of access.
Extending so far in the direction of Dunham, the wooded slopes of which latter are plainly visible from all parts, wet Carrington,—
Water, water, everywhere,
And not a drop to drink,—
excites new relish for the shades of its beautiful park. Few are the inhabitants of our town to whom Dunham is unknown, and who fail upon every new visit to find in it a poem and a jubilee. The greater number of the trees were planted by George, second Earl of Warrington. He was born in 1675, and died in 1758, so that his exemplary work may be considered to date from the time, as to its beginning, of Queen Anne, and the oldest of the trees to have been growing for nearly two centuries, since, of course, it would not be acorns that were placed in the soil, but saplings, already stout and hearty. Wandering amid the rich glooms they now afford, occasional breaks and interspaces disclosing green hollows filled with sunlight, or crested knolls that seem like sanctuaries; delicate pencillings of lighter foliage throwing into grand relief the darker and heavier masses, in this sweet land there is never any sense of sameness,—we are awakened rather to the power there is in perfect sylvan scenery, as well as in that of the mountains, and the sea–margin, to elevate and refresh one’s entire spiritual nature. Very pleasant is it when we can simultaneously thank God for creating noble trees, and let the mind rest upon a fellow–creature as the immediate donor. Many of the old Dunham oaks date considerably further back than the time indicated. England is dotted all over with individual trees, the age of which is rightfully estimated by centuries, and Dunham Park is not without its reverend share.
Emerging from the park, past the old mill—beloved of sketching artists—there are pleasant footways across the meadows that conduct eventually to Lymm. To trace them was, in the bygones, a never–failing enjoyment. Now we go to Lymm direct by train, finding there, as of old, one of the most beautiful of the Cheshire waters; in this case, however, of origin very different from the Vale Royal meres. The water at Lymm, romantic and picturesque as are its surroundings, is simply a vast reservoir, brought into existence by the construction of the viaduct at the foot. The site now occupied by the water was originally a little vale, down which flowed a streamlet called the Dane. Becoming very narrow where the roadway now is, to throw a barricade across was easy. The construction of this gave distinctiveness also to the “dell,” the pretty hollow, full of trees, into which, when the water is high, the overplus, creeping under the road by a concealed channel, springs so cheerily. Ordinarily, it must be confessed, there is little more than a thin trickle, but after a day or two’s heavy rain, down it comes, with a joyous double leap, in great sheaves and waving veils, the more delectable since the cascade in question is the only one in this part of Cheshire, or anywhere upon the Cheshire side of the town.
The pleasantest time to visit this beautiful neighbourhood is the very end of July. The wild cherries are then ripe, and glisten like coral amid the green leaves; and in the water there is a rosy archipelago of persicaria blossom. Beyond the plantation, at the upper extremity, the surface is often so still and placid that every flower and leaf upon the banks finds its image beneath, the inverted foxgloves changing, as the calm gives way to ripples, into softly twining spirals of crimson light. When the shores are laid unusually bare through drought, they furnish abundance of the beautiful shells of the fresh–water mussel, Anodonta cygnea, often four inches in length, externally olive–green, and possessed inside of the pearly iridescence so much admired in sea–shells. Many, however, are broken, the swans being fond of the contents. To see the water to its full extent, visitors should continue along the hill–side, opposite the church, and as far as the grove of trees. With permission of the proprietor, it is a great gain, on arrival there, to cross by the rustic bridge, and, turning to the left, ascend the little valley called “Ridding’s Brook.” The botany of this part is truly rich,—in March the slopes are yellow with the wild daffodil, and in late summer the bank is gay with purple lythrum. The special interest of the valley lies, after all, in its curious dropping and petrifying spring. At the further extremity, upon the right, the steep clay bank, instead of receding, is hollowed underneath for the length of a hundred yards or so, the upper edge projecting to a considerable distance beyond the base, so as to overhang the stream, and form a sloping roof to it. The surface is completely covered with luxuriant moss, and from the land overhead comes an incessant filter of water, which at once nourishing the moss and entangled in it, causes it to hang down in long vegetable ringlets. At a distance they seem soft, but examination shows that every drop has brought along with it a particle of earth, which being deposited in the very substance of the moss, is gradually converting it into stone. Every cluster, externally so green and living, is in its heart a petrifaction.