book I gather all this information, also describes an old farm-house,

situated in a picturesque spot, in the higher part of Crumpsall, and pointed out as the dwelling in which Hugh Oldham, Bishop of Exeter, who founded the Manchester Grammar School, was born. About four years ago, when rambling about the green uplands of Crumpsall, I called at this farm to see a friend of mine, who lived in a cottage at the back of the house. While there I was shown through this curious old dwelling; and I remember that the tenants took especial pains to acquaint me with its local importance, as the place of Bishop Oldham's nativity. It is still known as "Oldham's tenement," and also as "Th' Bongs (Banks) Farm." The following is a more detailed account of the place, and the man:--

"It is celebrated as the reputed birthplace of Hugh Oldham, Bishop of Exeter, who, according to tradition current in the neighbourhood, was born there about the middle of the fifteenth century, and it is stated to have been the residence of the Oldhams for the last four hundred years. The house itself--a long narrow thatched building--bears evidence of considerable antiquity; the walls appear to have been originally of lath and plaster, which material has gradually, in many places, given place to brick-work; and the whole exterior is now covered with whitewash. A room on the ground-floor is still pointed out as the domestic chapel; but there are no traces of it ever having been devoted to such use.

"Hugh Oldham, LL.B., Bishop of Exeter, was descended from an ancient family of that name. According to Dodsworth (MSS. folio 152), he was born at Oldham, in a house in Goulbourne-street; but this assertion is contradicted by the testimony of his other biographers: Wood and Godwin state that he was born in Manchester, by which they mean not so much Manchester town as Manchester parish; and Dugdale, in his Lancashire visitation, states more definitely in what part of the parish, correcting at the same time the misstatement of the others, 'not at Oldham, but at Crumpsall, near Manchester.' In 1503 he was created Archdeacon of Exeter, and in the following year was raised, through the influence of the Countess of Richmond, to the see of Exeter. In 1515, having founded the Grammar School of Manchester, he endowed it with the corn-mills situate on the river Irk, which he purchased from Lord de la Warre, as well as with other messuages and lands in Manchester."

In relation to Bishop Oldham, it may be worth notice that in the _Manchester Guardian_ of Wednesday, January 10th, 1855, I found the following letter respecting a descendant of this prelate. This brief notice of an aged and poverty-stricken descendant of the bishop--a soldier's wife, who has followed the fortunes of her husband, as a prisoner of war, and through the disasters of battle, shipwreck, and imprisonment in a foreign land--is not uninteresting:--"There is now living in this city a poor, aged woman, who, it appears, is a descendant of the founder of the Manchester Grammar School, and who was also (in 1783) the first scholar in the first Sunday school opened in Manchester. In subsequent years, as a soldier's wife, she followed the fortunes of her husband in the tented field, as a prisoner of war, and also in shipwreck. She is in full possession of her mental powers; and though, in a certain sense, provided for, I am persuaded that many of those whose _Alma Mater_ was the Grammar School, and the Sunday school teachers and scholars, would be delighted to honour her."

Crumpsall, in the chapelry of Blackley, was also the birthplace of Humphrey Chetham, one of Fuller's Worthies, and a man whom Manchester has good reason to hold in remembrance. The following matter relative to the man, and the place of his birth, is from the same volume:--

"He was born at his father's residence, Crumpsall Hall, and was baptised at the Collegiate Church, Manchester, July 15th, 1580. He probably received his education at the Grammar School of his native town. Associated with his brothers, George and Ralph, he embarked in trade as a dealer in fustians, and so prospered in his business that in 1620 he purchased Clayton Hall, near Manchester, which he made his residence, and subsequently, in 1628, Turton Tower. 'He signally improved himself,' writes Fuller, 'in piety and outward prosperity, and was a diligent reader of the scriptures, and of the works of sound divines, and a respecter of such ministers as he accounted truly godly, upright, sober, discreet, and sincere. He was high-sheriff of the county in 1635, and again in 1648, discharging the place with great honour, insomuch that very good gentlemen of birth and estate did wear his cloth at the assize, to testify their unfeigned affection to him; and two of them (John Hartley and Henry Wrigley, Esquires), of the same profession with himself, have since been sheriffs of the county.'

"By his will, dated December 16th, 1651, he bequeathed £7,000 to buy a fee-simple estate of £420 per annum, wherewith to provide for the maintenance, education, and apprenticing of forty poor boys of Manchester, between the ages of six and fourteen years--children of poor but honest parents--no bastards, nor diseased at the time they are chosen, nor lame, nor blind, 'in regard the town of Manchester hath ample means already (if so employed) for the maintenance of such impotents.' The hospital thus founded was incorporated by Charles II. In 1700 the number of boys was increased to sixty, and from 1779 to 1826 eighty boys were annually maintained, clothed, and educated. In the year 1718 the income of the hospital amounted to £517. 8s. 4d., and in 1826 it had reached to £2,608. 3s. 11d.

"He bequeathed, moreover, the sum of £1,000 to be expended in books, and £100 towards erecting a building for their safe deposit, intending thus to lay the foundation of a public library; and the residue of his estate (amounting to near £2,000) to be devoted to the increase of the said library and the support of a librarian. In 1826 this fund was returned at £542 per annum. The number of volumes is now about 20,000. Mr. Chetham died, unmarried, September 20th, 1653, and was buried at the Collegiate Church, where a monument has recently been erected to his memory, at the cost of a former participator in his bounty."

The following description of the house, at Crumpsall, in which Humphrey Chetham was born, is also given in Booker's "History of Blackley Chapel:"--

"Crumpsall Hall, the residence of this branch of the Chethams, was another specimen of the half-timbered mansions already described. In design, the same arrangement seems to have been followed that is met with in many of the halls erected during the fourteenth and two succeeding centuries--an oblong pile forming the centre, with cross gables at each end, projecting some distance outwards. The framework consisted of a series of vertical timbers, crossed by others placed transversely, with the exception of the gables, in the upper part of which the braces sprang diagonally from the centre or king-post. The roofs were of high pitch, and extended considerably beyond the outer surface of the walls, thus not only allowing of a more rapid drain of water, but also affording a greater protection from the weather. The hall was of two stories, and lighted chiefly by bay-windows, an occasional dormer-window in the upper story rising above the roof, and adding to the effect of the building by destroying that lineal appearance which it would otherwise have assumed. This mansion, though never possessing any great pretensions to architectural excellence, was, nevertheless, interesting from the picturesque arrangement of its details, and may be considered a very creditable example of the middle-class houses of the period to which it is referred. It occupied a site distant nearly a quarter of a mile from that of the present hall, and was taken down about the year 1825."

Well may Fuller, writing of Humphrey Chetham, say, "God send us more such men!" The "poor boys" of Manchester may well repeat the prayer, and pray also that heaven may send after them men who will look to the righteous administration of the bequests which such men leave behind them.

For the purpose of this sketch, I went down to the Chetham Library, to copy, from Booker's "History of Blackley," the foregoing particulars. The day was gloomy, and the great quadrangle of the college was as still as a churchyard. Going up the old staircase, and treading as lightly as I could with a heavy foot, as I went by the principal librarian's room door, I entered the cloistral gloom of the old library. All was silent, as I went through the dark array of book-laden shelves. The sub-librarian was writing in some official volume, upon the sill of a latticed window, in one of the recesses. Hearing an approaching foot, he came out, and looked the usual quiet inquiry. "'Booker's Blackley,'" said I. He went to one of the recesses, unlocked the door, and brought out the book. "Will you enter it, sir?" said he, pointing to the volume kept for that purpose. I did so, and walked on into the reading room of the library; glancing, as I went in, at Oliver Cromwell's sword, which hangs above the doorway. There was a good fire, and I had that antique apartment all to myself. The old room looked very clean and comfortable, and the hard oaken floor resounded to the footstep. The whole furniture was of the most quaint and substantial character. It was panelled all round with bright old black oak. The windows were latticed, and the window-sills broad. The heavy tables were of solid oak, and the chairs of the same, with leather-covered and padded seats and backs, studded with brass nails. A curiously-carved black oak bookstand stood near the door, and several antique mirrors, and dusky portraits, hung around upon the dark panelling. Among these is the portrait of Bradford the martyr, a native of Manchester. In the library there is a small black-letter volume, entitled, "Letters of Maister John Bradford, a faythful minister and a syngular pyllar of Christe's Church: by whose great trauiles and diligence in preaching and planting the syncerity of the Gospel, by whose most goodly and innocent lyfe, and by whose long and payneful imprisonments for the maintenance of the truth, the kingdom of God was not a little aduanced: who also at last most valiantly and cheerfully gaue his blood for the same. The 4th day of July. In the year of our Lord 1555." The portrait of Humphrey Chetham, the founder, hangs immediately above the old-fashioned fireplace, under the emblazoned arms of his family. Sitting by the fire, at a little oak table covered with green baize, I copied the particulars here given, relative to Chetham's bequest to the people of his native locality. I could not but lift my eyes now and then towards that solemn face, inwardly moved by a feeling which reverently said, "Will it do?" The countenance of the fine old merchant seemed to wear an expression of sorrow, not unmingled with quiet anger, at the spectacle of twenty thousand books--intended as a "Free Library," though now, in comparison with its possibilities, free chiefly in name--twenty thousand books, packed together in gloomy seclusion, yet surrounded by a weltering crowd of five hundred thousand people, a great number of whom really hunger for the knowledge here, in a great measure, consigned--with excellent registrative care and bibliopolic skill--to dusty oblivion and the worm. It is true that this cunningly-secreted "Free Library" is open six hours out of the twenty-four, but these hours fall precisely within that part of the day in which people who have to work for their bread are cooped up at their occupations. At night, when the casino, the singing-room, and the ale-house, and all the low temptations of a great city are open, and actively competing for their prey, the Chetham Library has been locked up for hours. I am not sure that the noble-hearted founder would be satisfied with it all, if he saw the relations of these things now. It seems all the more likely that he would not be so, when one observes the tone in which, in his will, he alludes to the administration of certain other local charities existing in his own time. After specially naming the class of "poor boys" for whose benefit his hospital was intended, he specially excludes certain others, "_in regard the town of Manchester hath ample means already_, (IF SO EMPLOYED) _for the maintenance of such impotents_." Judging, from the glimpse we have in this passage, of his way of thinking upon matters of this kind, it seems likely that, if it were possible to consult him upon the subject, he would consider it a pity that the twenty thousand books in the library, and the five hundred thousand people outside the walls, are not brought into better acquaintance with each other. So, also, murmurs many a thoughtful man, as he walks by the college gates, in his hours of leisure, when the library is closed.

Rostherne Mere.

(A CHESHIRE SKETCH.)

Though much the centuries take, and much bestow, Most through them all immutable remains-- Beauty, whose world-wide empire never wanes, Sole permanence 'mid being's ceaseless flow. These leafy heights their tiny temple owe To some rude hero of the Saxon thanes, Whom, slowly pricking from the neighbouring plains, Rapt into votive mood the scene below. Much, haply, he discerned, unseen by me-- Angels and demons hovering ever near; But most he saw and felt, I feel and see-- Linking the "then" and "there" with "now" and "here," The grace serene that dwells on grove and lea, The tranquil charm of little Rostherne Mere. --F. ESPINASSE.

Rostherne Mere was a pet theme with a young friend of mine, and we started together towards that place, at noon, one Sunday in June. Walking up to the Oxford Road Station, we paid our sixpences, and got our tickets to Bowdon, which is the nearest point to Rostherne Mere, by rail; being four miles from the latter place. The day was fine, and the sky clear, except where gauzy clouds floated across it with dreamy grace; as if they had come out for a holiday. Everything seemed to feel that it was Sunday. The fields and groves were drest in their best. It was the Sabbath of the year with them. In a few minutes our fiery steed had whirled us to Bowdon; and we walked up the wooden steps that lead from the station. Turning to the left at the top, we struck into a quiet road that leads in the direction of Rostherne. Bowdon bells were ringing to church as we walked along, surrounded by singing birds, and sunshine, and sweet odours from cottage-gardens by the wayside. Now and then a young sylph, of graceful face and timid mien, tripped past us, in the garb of a lady,--on her way to church, with her books before her; then a knot of pretty, brown-faced village girls, with wild flowers in their hands, going the same way, with all the innocent vivacity of childhood in their look and gait; anon came slowly wending up the path an old couple, bending with age,--the history of a simple life of honourable toil written in their faces, and their attire wearing that touching air which always marks the struggle which decent poverty makes to put its best appearance on. The road, which seemed to be little frequented, shortly brought us to Ashley Hall, a picturesque woodland mansion. A fine avenue of ancestral trees shade the walk to the porch of the old hall, which nestles behind the present modern building. The outbuildings are antiquated and extensive. The house still wears the appearance of an abode of comfort and elegance, bent with that quaint charm which hangs about all fine, old-fashioned rural dwellings. Nothing seemed to be stirring in or about the hall, but the wind, the birds, and the trees; and the two large stone sphinxes in front of the porch looked like petrified genii, so profound was the repose of this green nook. Outside the house the grass was growing over everything, even over the road we walked on, it was creeping. For some distance the road-side was pleasantly soft to the foot with springy verdure, and thick-leaved trees overhung the highway,

That faire did spred Their armes abroad, with gray mosse overcaste; And their green leaves, trembling with every blast, Made a calm shadow far in compasse round,

until we began to descend into the green pastures of a little vale, through which a clear river winds its murmuring way. A widow lady stood in the middle of the path, waiting till her little orphan lad and his sister drove a herd of cows from the field by the water-side. There was the shade of grief on her pale face, and she returned our salutation with pensive courtesy. We loitered a few minutes by the gate, and helped the lad and his sister to gather the cattle, and then went on, thinking of the affecting group we had left behind us. The wild flowers were plentiful and fine by the way, especially that little blue-eyed beauty, the "Forget-me-not," which grew in great profusion about the hedges. A drove of hungry-looking Irish cattle came wearily up the road, driven by a frieze-coated farmer, who rode upon a rough pony, that never knew a groom; and behind him limped a bare-footed drover, eagerly munching a lump of dry loaf, as he urged forward a two-days-old calf by a twist in the tail,--an old application of the screw-propelling principle, which is very effectual with all kinds of dilatory animals, with tails on. He was the very picture of poverty, and yet there was a gay-hearted archness on his brown face; and he gave us the "good day" merrily. The very flutter of his rags seemed to have imbibed the care-defying gaiety of the curious biped they hung upon,--with such tender attachment. The whole country was one tranquil scene of fertile verdure, frequently flat for the length of a mile or two; but gently-undulated in some places; and picturesquely wooded. In a vista of nearly two miles, not a human foot was on the road, but ours; and every sight and sound that greeted the senses as we sauntered along the blossomy hedge-side, in the hot sunshine, was serenely-sweet and rural. Skirting the wall of Tatton Park, we came to a substantial farmhouse, near the highway, and opening the gate, we walked up to it, to get a few minutes rest, and a drink. At our request, a girl at the door of the house brought us a large jug-full of churn-milk, which, when she had reached us a seat in the garden, we drank as we sat in the sun. In the yard, a little fat-legged urchin had crept, with his "porritch-pot," under the nose of a large chained dog, about twice the size of himself, and sat there, holding his spoon to the dog's mouth, childishly beseeching him to "sup it." The good-natured brute kept a steady eye on us while we were in sight, postponing any notice of his little playmate. By direction of the goodwife, we took a by-path which led towards the village. The country folk were returning from church, and among them a number of little girls, wearing a head-dress of pure white, but of a very awkward shape. What was the meaning, or what the use, of the badge they wore, I could not exactly tell.

We found that, though the village had many pretty cottage homes, dropped down irregularly among the surrounding green, it consisted chiefly of one little street of rural houses, of very pleasant appearance. Here and there, a latticed window was open to the front, showing a small parlour, scrupulously clean and orderly; the furniture old-fashioned, substantial, and carefully polished; and the Bible "gleaming through the lowmost window-pane," under the shade of myrtle-pots, and fuchsias in full flower. As we looked about us for the church, a gentleman in the garb of a clergyman stepped out of one of the houses, which, though a whitewashed dwelling, of simple construction, and of no great size any way, still had something peculiarly attractive in its retired position, and an air of superiority about the taste and trimness of all its appurtenances. He had a book in one hand, and leaned forward in his walk,--not from infirmity, for he was hale and active,--but as if to give impetus to his progress, which seemed to have an earnest purpose somewhere. This gentleman was the Vicar of Rostherne. We inquired of him the way to the church. "Come up this way," said he, in an agreeable tone, but without stopping in his walk. "Have you never seen it before?" "Never." "Here it is, then," he replied, as we entered the church-field at the top of the knoll. The sudden appearance of the venerable fane, and its picturesque situation, called forth an involuntary expression of admiration from us. We walked on slowly, scanning the features of the solemnly-beautiful scene. The vicar then inquired where we came from, and when we answered "Manchester," he went on, "Well, now, I don't at all wonder, nor much object to you Manchester gentlemen, pent up as you are the whole week, coming out on a Sunday to breathe a little country air, and to look on the woods and fields, but I should be better pleased to see you come in time to attend divine worship, which would be a double benefit to you. You might easily do it, and it would enhance the pleasure of your ramble, for you would go home again doubly satisfied with all that you had seen. Don't you think you would, now?" It needed no Socratic effort on his part to obtain our assent to such a sentiment, so kindly expressed. As we walked on, he brought us dexterously to the north-west corner of the church, the best point of view, looking down through the trees, from the summit of the hill on which the church stands, upon Rostherne Mere in all its beauty. There it lay, in the bosom of the valley below, as smooth and bright as a plate of burnished silver, except towards the middle, where the wind embossed it with fantastic ripples, which shimmered in the sunlight; and it was all fringed round with the rich meadows, and plumy woods,--sloping down to the edge of the water. From the farther side, a finely-wooded country stretched away as far as we could see, till the scene ended in a dim amphitheatre of moorland hills, rising up, from east to west, on the horizon. In front of us, and about four miles beyond the lake, the pretty village of Bowdon and its ancient church were clearly in sight above the woods. It was, altogether, a very beautiful English scene. And it is a pity that this lovely little oasis is not better known to the jaded hearts that fret themselves to death in Manchester, and rush here and there, in crowds, to fill all the world's telescopes; the majority of them, perhaps, like me, little dreaming of the existence of so sweet a spot so near them. By the side of the mere, where the water was as placid as glass, being sheltered from the wind by the woods on its shelvy banks, we were delighted with a second edition of the scenery on the margin, and of the skies above, clearly reflected in the seemingly unfathomable deeps of the water.

The vicar had left us, and gone into the church, requesting us, when we had feasted our fill on the outside, to follow him, and look through the inside of the church. We lifted the latch, but seeing him addressing a number of young people, who sat round him in attentive attitude, we shut the door quietly, and walking round to the porch on the opposite side, went in, on tiptoe. Standing silent under the organ-loft, we listened, while he impressed upon his young flock the nature and intent of confirmation, and the necessity for their understanding the solemn obligation implied thereby, and devoutly wishing to undertake it, before they could be admitted to partake of it. "And now," said he, "if any of you don't quite understand anything I am saying to you, don't be afraid to say so. I shall be glad to know it, that I may make it clear to you. For you must remember, that it is not what I say to you that will be of use to you, but what you understand of it." He then consulted them about the best times in the following week for them to meet him, that he might assist such as were wishful to prepare for the ceremony. He asked "Thomas," and "Mary," and "Martha," how four o'clock would suit them on certain days, and when they whispered that "half-past seven would suit them better," he replied, "I dare say it will; and let it be so, then." He then repeated the pleasure it would give him to meet them at that or any other hour on certain days next week, to help, and examine them. It was only changing his dinner hour a little. We walked quietly out as he began to catechise them, postponing our examination of the interior till a fitter opportunity.

Rostherne churchyard is a singularly retired spot. A solemn repose mingles with the natural charms of everything about it, increased by the antiquity of its relics. Though near the village, it is approached from it by a gentle ascent, from the head of which it slopes away, clean out of sight of the village, and is bounded on the west side by a row of sombre old trees, through which Rostherne Hall is seen, in the midst of woods and gardens. No other building except the church is in sight; and a sweeter spot for the life-wearied body to take its last rest in, could hardly be imagined. As I walked about this quiet grave-yard, which is environed by scenery of such a serene kind, that nature itself seems afraid to disturb the repose of the sleepers, upon whose bed the leaves tremble silently down; and where I could hear no sounds but a drowsy rustle of the neighbouring trees,--I thought of Gray's inimitable "Elegy written in a Country Churchyard:"--

Beneath these rugged elms, that yew tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from her straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For then no more the blazing heart shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care; No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to the sickle yield; Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team a-field! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour; The paths of glory lead--but to the grave.

* * * * *

Yet e'en these bones, from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by the unletter'd muse, The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.

This poem--the finest of the kind in the English language--might, with equal fitness, have been written of this peaceful churchyard of Rostherne village. Man, whom Quarles calls a "worm of five feet long," is so liable to have his thoughts absorbed by the art of keeping himself bodily alive, that he is none the worse for a hint from the literature of the churchyard:--

Art is long, and life is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

We walked over the gravestones, reading the inscriptions, some of which had a strain of simple pathos in them, such as the following:--

Ye that are young, prepare to die, For I was young, and here I lie.

Others there were in this, as in many other burial-places, which were either unmeaning, or altogether unsuitable to the situation they were in. There were several half-sunken headstones in different parts of the yard, mostly bemossed and dim with age. One or two were still upright; the rest leaned one way or other. These very mementoes, which pious care had set up, to keep alive the memories of those who lay mouldering in the earth below, were sinking into the graves of those they commemorated.

At the outside of the north-east entrance of the church, lies an ancient stone coffin, dug up a few years ago in the graveyard. Upon the lid of the coffin was sculptured the full-length figure of a knight, in a complete suit of mail, with sword and shield. No further clue has been obtained to the history of this antique coffin and its effigy, than that it belonged to one of the Cheshire family of Venables, whose crest and motto ("Sic Donec") it bears. The church contains many interesting monuments, belonging to this and other families of the old gentry of Cheshire. Several of these are of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. But the finest and most interesting monuments in the church, as works of art, are those belonging to the Egerton family, of Tatton Park. At a suitable time, the sexton occasionally takes a visitor up to the gate which separates the Egerton seat and monuments from the rest of the church, and, carefully unlocking it, ascends two steps with a softened footfall, and leads him into the storied sanctum of the Lords of Tatton; where, among other costly monuments, he will be struck by the chaste and expressive beauty of a fine modern one, in memory of a young lady belonging to this family. On a beautiful tomb, of the whitest marble, the figure of a young lady reclines upon a mattress and pillow of the same, in the serenest grace of feature and attitude: and "the rapture of repose" which marks the expression of the countenance, is a touching translation, in pure white statuary, of those beautiful lines in which Byron describes the first hours of death:--

Before decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers.

At the back of the recumbent lady, an exquisite figure of an angel kneels, and leans forward with delicate grace, watching over the reposing form, with half-opened wings, and one hand slightly extended over the dead. The effect of the whole is exceedingly beautiful, chaste, and saddening. The monument is kept carefully covered with clean white handkerchiefs, except when the family is present, when it is uncovered, until their departure. Before I was admitted to view this beautiful memorial, I had heard something of the story which it illustrates, and I inquired further of the sexton respecting it. The old man said that the young lady had been unwell only a few days previous to the evening of her death, and on that evening the family physician thought her so much better, and felt so certainly-expectant of a further improvement in her health, that he directed her attendants to get her to repose, and then they might themselves safely retire to rest for a little while. They did so; and returning soon, found her still lying precisely as they had laid her, and looking so placid in feature, that they did not know she was dead, until they came to find her quite cold. The monument represents her as she was thus found. As I stood looking upon this group of statuary, the evening sun shone through the southern windows of the old church, and the sexton--who evidently knew what the effect would be--lowered the crimson blind of the window nearest to the monument. This threw a soft rich crimson hue over the white marble tomb, the figures, and the sculptured drapery, which gave it an inexpressibly-rich appearance. So white and clean was the whole, that the white handkerchiefs which the sexton had taken off the figures, and laid upon the white basement of the tomb, looked like part of the sculpture.

The church is dedicated to St. Mary. It is proved to have existed long prior to 1188. The present steeple was erected in 1741. There is something venerable about the appearance of an old ecclesiastical building, which continually and eloquently preaches, without offending. Apart from all questions of doctrines, formulas, and governments, I often feel a veneration for an old church, akin to that expressed by him who said that he never passed one without feeling disposed to take off his hat to it.

The sun was setting westward over the woods, and we began to think of getting a quiet meal somewhere before we went back. There is generally an old inn not far from an old church. "How it comes, let doctors tell;" but it is so; and we begun to speculate upon the chance of finding one in this case. Going out of the churchyard at the lowest corner, through a quaint wicket gate, with a shed over it, a flight of steps led us down into a green dingle, embosomed in tall trees, and there, in front of us, stood a promising country "hostelrie," under the screen of the woods. We looked an instant at its bright window, and its homely and pleasant appurtenances, and then, with assured minds, darted in, to make a lunge at the larder. "A well-conducted inn is a thing not to be recklessly sneered at in this world of ours, after all," thought I. We sat down in a shady little room in front, and desired the landlord to get us some tea, with any substantial stomach-gear that was handy and plentiful. In a few minutes a snowy cloth was on the table, followed by "neat-handed Phillis," with the tea things. A profusion of strong tea, and toast, and fine cream, came next, in beautiful china and glass ware; the whole crowned with a huge dish of ham and poached eggs, of such amplitude, that I began to wonder who was to join us. Without waste of speech, we fell to, with all the appetite and enjoyment of Sancho at Camacho's wedding. The landlord kept popping in, to see that we wanted nothing, and to urge us to the attack; which was really a most needless though a generous office. After tea, we strolled another hour by the edge of the water, then took the road home, just as the sun was setting. The country was so pleasant, and we so refreshed, that we resolved to walk to Manchester, and watch the sinking of the summer twilight among the woods and fields by the way. Our route led by the edge of Dunham Park, and through Bowdon, where we took a peep at the church, and the expansive view from the churchyard. There is a fine old yew tree in Bowdon churchyard, seated around. The road from Bowdon to Manchester passes through a country which may be truly characterised as the market-garden of Manchester. We went on, through the villages of Altrincham, Sale Moor, and Stretford, thinking of his words who said,--

One impulse from a vernal wood Will teach thee more of man, Of moral evil, and of good, Than all the sages can.

It was midnight when I got to bed, and sank into a sound sleep, to wake in the morning among quite other scenes. But while I live, I shall not easily forget "the tranquil charm of little Rostherne Mere."

Oliver Fernleaf's Watch.

Oh thou who dost these pointers see, That show the passing hour; Say,--do I tell the time to thee, And tell thee nothing more? I bid thee mark life's little day With strokes of duty done; A clock may stop at any time-- But time will travel on. --THE CHURCH CLOCK.

When I was first bound apprentice, I was so thick-set, and of such short stature for my age, that I began to be afraid that I was doomed to be a pigmy in size; and it grieved my heart to think of it, I remember how anxiously I used to compare my own stunted figure with the height of other lads younger than me; and seeing myself left so much below them, I remember how much I longed for a rise in the world. This feeling troubled me sorely for two or three years. It troubled me so much, indeed, that, even at church, when I heard the words, "Which of you, by taking thought, can add one cubit unto his stature?" the question touched me with the pain of a personal allusion to my own defect; and, in those days, I have many a time walked away from service on a Sunday, sighing within myself, and wondering how much a cubit was. But I had a great deal of strong life in my little body; and, as I grew older, I took very heartily to out-door exercises, and I carefully notched the progress of my growth, with a pocket-knife, against a wooden partition, in the office where I was an apprentice. As time went on, my heart became gradually relieved and gay as I saw these notches rise steadily, one over the other, out of the low estate which had given me so much pain. But, as this childish trouble died away from my mind, other ambitions awoke within me, and I began to fret at the tether of my apprenticeship, and wish for the time when I should be five feet eight, and free. Burns's songs were always a delight to me; but there was one of them which I thought more of then than I do now. It was,--

Oh for ane-an'-twenty, Tam! An', hey for ane-an'-twenty, Tam! I'd learn my kin a rattlin' sang, An' I saw ane-an'-twenty, Tam!

About two years before the wished-for day of my release came, I mounted a long-tailed coat, and a chimney-pot hat, and began to reckon myself among the sons of men. My whiskers, too--they never came to anything grand--never will--but my whiskers began to show a light-coloured down, that pleased the young manikin very much. I was anxious to coax that silken fluz lower down upon my smooth cheeks; but it was no use. They never grew strong; and they would not come low down; so I gave them up at last, with many a sigh. The dainty ariels were timid, and did their sprouting gently. This was one of my first lessons in resignation. I remember, too, it was about the same time that I bought my first watch. It was a second-hand silver verge watch, with large old-fashioned numerals upon the face; and it cost twenty-one shillings. I had a good deal ado to raise the price of it by small savings, by working over-hours, and by the sale of an old accordian, and a sword-stick. Long before I could purchase it, I had looked at it from time to time as I passed by the watchmaker's window; which was on the way between my home and the shop where I was an apprentice. At last I bore the prize away. A few pence bought a steel chain; and my eldest sister gave me an old seal, and a lucky sixpence, to wear upon the chain,--and I felt for the time as if it was getting twelve o'clock with my fortunes. A long-tailed coat; a chimney-pot hat; a watch; a mild promise of whiskers; a good constitution; and a fair chance of being five feet eight, or so. No wonder that I began to push out my shins as I went about the streets. For some weeks after I became possessed of my watch, I took great pleasure in polishing the case, looking into the works, winding it up, and setting it right by public clocks, and by other people's watches. I had a trick, too, of pulling it out in public places, which commanded the range of some desired observation. But after a year or so the novelty wore off, and I began to take less interest in the thing. Besides, through carelessness and inexperienced handling, I found that my watch began to swallow up a great deal of pocket-money, in new glasses, and other repairs. I was fond of jumping, too, and other rough exercises; and through this my watch got sadly knocked about, and was a continual source of anxiety to me. At last I got rid of it altogether. It had never gone well with me; but it went from me--for good; and I was cured of the watch mania for a long while. In fact, nearly twenty years passed away, during which I never owned a watch; never, indeed, very much felt the want of one. When I look back at those years, and remember how I managed to mark the time without watch of my own, I find something instructive in the retrospect. In a large town there are so many public clocks, and bells, and so many varied movements of public life which are governed by the progress of the hours, that there is little difficulty in the matter. But in the country--in my lonely rambles--I learned, then, to read the march of time, "indifferently well," in the indications of nature, as ploughmen and shepherds do. The sights, and "shapes, and sounds, and shifting elements," became my time-markers; and the whole world was my clock. I can see many compensations arising from the lack of a watch with me during that time.

And now, after so many years of sweet independence in this respect, I find myself, unexpectedly, the owner of a watch once more. I became possessed of it rather curiously, too. The way of it was this. I was on a visit to a neighbouring town; and, in the afternoon, I called to pass an hour with an old friend, before returning home. After the usual hearty salutes, we sat down in a snug back parlour, lighted our pipes, and settled into a dreamy state of repose, which was more delightful than any strained effort at entertainment. We puffed away silently for a while; and then we asked one another questions, in a drowsy way, like men talking in their sleep; then we smoked on again, and looked vacantly round about the room, and into the fire. At last, I noticed that my friend began to gaze earnestly at my clothing; and, knowing him to be a close observer, and a man of penetrative spirit, I felt it; though I knew very well that it was all right, for he takes a kindly interest in all I wear, or do, or say. Well; he began to look hard at my clothing, beginning with my boots. I didn't care much about him examining my boots; for, as it happened, they had just been soled, and heeled, and welted afresh; with a bran new patch upon one side. If he had seen them a week before, I should have been pained, for they were in a ruinous state then; and, being rather a dandified pair originally, they looked abominable. I think there is nothing in the world so intensely wretched in outward appearance as shabby dandyism. Well; he began with my boots; and, after he had scrutinised them thoroughly for a minute or two, I felt, instinctively, that he was going to peruse the whole of my garments from head to foot, like a tapestried story. And so it was. When he had finished my boots, his eyes began to travel slowly up my leg; and, as they did so, my mind ran anxiously ahead, to see what the state of things was upon the road that his glance was coming. "How are my trousers?" thought I. There was no time to lose; for I felt his eye coming up my leg, like a dissecting knife. At last, I bethought me that I had split my trousers across one knee, about a fortnight before; and the split had only been indifferently stitched up. "Now for it," thought I, giving myself a sudden twitch, with the intention of throwing my other leg over that knee to hide the split. But I was too late. His eye had already fastened upon the place like a leech. I saw his keen glance playing slyly about the split, and my nerves quivered in throes of silent pain all the while. At last, he lifted up his eyes, and sighed, and then, looking up at the ceiling, he sighed out the word, "Aye," very slowly; and then he turned aside to light his pipe at the fire again; and, whilst he was lighting his pipe, I very quietly laid the sound leg of my trousers over the split knee. Pushing the tobacco into his pipe with the haft of an old penknife, he now asked me how things were going on in town. I pretended to be quite at ease; and I tried to answer him with the air of one who was above the necessity of such considerations. But I knew that he had only asked the question for the purpose of throwing me off my guard; and I felt sure that his eyes would return to the spot where they had left off at. And they did so. But he saw at once that the knee was gone; so he travelled slowly upwards, with persistent gaze. In two or three minutes he stopped again; it was somewhere about the third button of my waistcoat--or rather the third button-hole, for the button was off. He halted there; and his glance seemed to snuff round about the place, like a dog that thinks it has caught the scent; and I began to feel uncomfortable again; for, independent of the button being off, I had only twopence-halfpenny, and a bit of blacklead pencil, and an unpaid bill in my pocket; and somehow I thought he was finding it all out. So I shifted a little round, and began to hum within myself,--

Take, oh take those eyes away!

But it was no use. He would do it. And I couldn't stand it any longer; so I determined to bolt before he got up to my shirt front, or "dickey,"--for I had a "dickey" on, and one side of it was bulging out in a disorderly way, and I durst not try to put it right for fear of drawing his attention to it. I determined to be rid of the infliction at once, so I pretended to be in a hurry. Knocking the ashes out of my pipe, I rose up and said, "Have you got a time-table?"

"Yes."

"There's a train about now, I think."

"Yes; but stop till the next. What's your hurry? You're not here every day. Sit down and get another pipe."

"How's your clock?" said I, turning round and looking through the window, so as to get a sly chance of pushing my "dickey" into its place. "How's your clock?"

"Well, it's about ten minutes fast. Isn't it, Sarah?" said he to the servant, who was coming in with some coals.

"No," replied she. "I put it right by th' blacksmith, this mornin'."

By "the blacksmith," she meant the figure of an old man with a hammer, which struck the hours upon the bell of a public clock, a little higher up the street.

"Well," said my friend, looking at the time-table, "in any case, you're too late for this train now. Sit down a bit. I left my watch this morning, to have a new spring put in it; but I'll keep my eye on the clock, so that you shall be in time for the next. Sit you down, an' let's have a chat about old times."

I gave a furtive glance at my "dickey," and seeing it was all right, I sat down again with a sigh, laying the sound leg of my trousers carefully over my split knee. I had no sooner sat down, than he looked at my waistcoat pocket again, and said, "I say, old boy, why don't you carry a watch? It would be a great convenience."

I explained to him that I had been so many years used to notice public clocks, and to marking the time by the action of nature and by those movements of human life that are regulated by clock-work, that I felt very little need for a watch. Besides, it was as easy to ask the time of day of people who had watches, as it would be to look at one's own; and then, if I had a watch, I did not know whether the convenience of the thing would compensate for the anxiety and expense of it. He listened attentively, and then, after looking into the fire musingly for a minute or two, as if he was interpreting my excuse in some way of his own, he suddenly knocked his pipe upon the top bar of the fire-grate, and said, "By Jupiter Ammon, I'll give you one!" My friend never swears, except by that dissolute old Greek; or by a still more mysterious deity, whom he calls "the Living Jingo!" Whenever he mentions either of these, I know that he means something strong; so I sat still and "watched the case," as lawyers say.

"Mary," said he, rising, and calling to his wife, who was in another room; "Mary, wheer's that old watch?"

"I have it upstairs, in an old rosewood writing-desk," replied she.

"Just fetch it down; I want to look at it." He listened at the door, until he heard her footsteps going upstairs; and then he turned to me, chuckling and rubbing his hands; and, slapping me on the shoulder, he said, "Now then, old fellow, fill your pipe again! By the Living Jingo, you shall have the time o' day in your pocket before you leave this house." She was a good while in returning; so he shouted up the stairs, "Haven't you found it yet, Mary?"

"Yes," replied she, "it's here. I'll be down in a minute."

I began to puff very hard at my pipe; for I was getting excited. She came at last, and said, as she laid the watch in his hand, "I have thought of selling it many a time, for it is of no use lying yonder."

"Aye," replied my friend, pretending to look very hard at the works. As long as she remained in the room, he still kept quietly saying, "Aye, aye," at short intervals. But when she left the room, he earnestly watched the closing door, and then, shutting the watch, he came across to me, and, laying it in my hand, he said, "There, old boy, that's yours. Keep it out of sight till you get out of the house." And I did keep it out of sight. But I was more than ever anxious to get away by the next train, so that I could fondle it freely. It was an old silver lever watch, without fingers. It was silent, with a silence that had continued long; its face was dusty; and the case wore the cloudy hue of neglect. However, I bore my prize away at last; and, before the day was over, I had spent eighteenpence upon new fingers, and sixpence upon a yard-and-a-half of broad black watered silk ribbon for a guard. Next day, after I had polished the case thoroughly with whitening, I put on a clean shepherd's plaid waistcoat, in order to show the broad black ribbon which led to my watch. Since then, I know not how oft I have stopped to put it right by the cathedral clock; and I have found sometimes, as the Irishman did, that "the little divul had bate that big fellow by two hours in twelve." It is a curious thing, this old watch of mine; and I like it: there is something so human about it. It is full of

Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles.

Sometimes the fingers stand still, even when the works are going on. Even when wound up, it has a strange trick of stopping altogether for an hour or two now and then, as if smitten with a fit of idleness; and then it will set off again of its own accord, like a living thing wakening up from sleep. It stops oftener than it goes. It is not so much a time-keeper as a standing joke; and looking at it from this point of view, I am very fond of this watch of mine. Before I had it, whenever I chanced to waken in the night time, I used to strike a light, and read myself to sleep again. But now, when I waken in the night, I suddenly remember, "Oh, my watch!" Then I listen, and say to myself, "I believe it has stopped again!" and then, listening more attentively, and hearing its little pulse beating, I say, "No: there it goes. Bravo!" And I strike a light, and caress the little thing; and wind it up. I have great fun with it, in a quiet way. I believe, somehow, that it is getting used to me; and I shouldn't like to part with it any more. There is a kind of friendship growing between us that will last until my own pulse is stopped by the finger of death. And what is death, after all; but the stopping of life's watch; to be wound up again by the Maker? I should not like to lose this old watch of mine now. It is company when I am lonely; it is diversion when I am tired; and, though it is erratic, it is amiable and undemonstrative. I will make it famous yet, in sermon or in song. I have begun once or twice, "Oh thou!----" and then stopped, and tried, "When I behold----" and then I have stopped again. But I will do it yet. If the little thing had a soul, now, I fear that it would never be saved; for, "faith without works is vain." But I have faith in it, though it has deceived me oft. My quaint old monitor! How often has it warned me, that when man goes "on tick," it always ends in a kind of "Tic douloureux." But the hour approaches, when its tiny pulse and mine must both stand still; for--

Owd Time,--he's a troublesome codger,-- Keeps nudgin' us on to decay; An' whispers, you're nobbut a lodger; Get ready for goin' away.

And when "life's fitful fever" is past, I hope they will not sell my body to the doctors; nor my watch to anybody; but bury us together; and let us rest when they have done so.

Norbreck:

_A SKETCH ON THE LANCASHIRE COAST_.