Chapter V: Preface: To the Third Edition (4)

Some weeks afterwards I received a letter from Tim, that he had
some hopes of getting released from his vassalage; for, that the
father having found out what very high wages his son had agreed to
give him, was exceedingly angry with him for being so extravagant
in his allowance to a clerk; that a violent quarrel betwixt them
had been the consequence; and from that circumstance he meant--at
least hoped--to derive some advantage in the way of regaining his
liberty, which he lingered after, and panted for, as much as any
galley-slave upon earth.

Another letter announced that his master perceived that he was
dejected, and had lost his wonted spirits and cheerfulness;
had hinted to him, that if he disliked his present situation,
he should be released at the end of the year; concluding his
letter with a most earnest imploring that I would not dispose
of the school before that time. By the interposition of the old
gentleman, and some others, he got the agreement cancelled a
considerable time before the year expired; and the evening of the
day when the liberation took place, he hired a large Yorkshire
cart to bring away bag and baggage by six o'clock next morning, to
his own house, at Milnrow. When he arrived upon the west side of
Blackstone Edge, he thought himself once more a FREE MAN; and his
heart was as light as a feather. The next morning he came up to
Belfield, to know if he might take possession of his school again;
which being readily consented to, tears of gratitude instantly
streamed down his cheeks, and such a suffusion of joy illumined
his countenance, as plainly bespoke the heart being in unison with
his looks. He then declared his unalterable resolution never more
to quit the humble village of Milnrow; that it was not in the
power of kings, nor their prime ministers, to make him any offers,
if so disposed, that would allure him from his tottering elbow
chair, from humble fare, with liberty and contentment. A hint was
thrown out that he must work hard with his pencil, his brush, and
his pen, to make up the deficiency in income to his family; that
he promised to do, and was as good as his promise, for he used
double diligence, so that the inns at Rochdale and Littleborough
were soon ornamented, more than ever, with ugly grinning old
fellows, and mambling old women on broomsticks, &c., &c.

Tim's last literary productions, as I recollect, were "Remarks
upon the Rev. Mr. Whittaker's History of Manchester, in two
parts:" the "Remarks" will speak for themselves. There appears
rather too much seasoning and salt in some of them, mixed with a
degree of acerbity for which he was rather blamed.

Mr. Collier died in possession of his faculties, with his mental
powers but little impaired, at nearly eighty years of age, and
his eyesight was not so much injured as might have been expected
from such a severe use of it, during so long a space of time. His
wife died a few years before him, but he left three sons and two
daughters behind him.

In a sketch like this, it is not easy to select such examples from Collier's writings as will give an adequate idea of their manner and significance. His inimitable story, called "Tummus and Meary," will bear no mutilation. Of his rhymes, perhaps the best is the one called "The Blackbird." The following extract from Tim's preface to the third edition of his works, in the form of a dialogue between the author and his book, though far from the best thing he has written, contains some very characteristic touches:--

_Tim._ Well, boh we'n had enough o' this foisty matter; let's talk
o' summat elze; an furst tell me heaw thea went on eh thi last
jaunt.

_Book._ Gu on! Beladay, aw could ha' gwon on wheantly, an' bin
awhoam again wi' th' crap eh meh slop in a snift, iv id na met,
at oytch nook, thoose basthartly whelps sent eawt be _Stuart_,
_Finch_, an _Schofield_.

_Tim._ Pooh! I dunnot meeon heaw folk harbort'nt an cutternt o'er
tho; boh what thoose fause Lunnoners said'n abeawt te jump, at's
new o'er-bodyt.

_Book._ Oh, oh! Neaw aw ha't! Yo meeon'n thoose lung-seeted folk
at glooar'n a second time at books; an whooa awr fyert would rent
meh jump to chatters.

_Tim._ Reet mon, reet; that's it,--

_Book._ Whau then, to tello true, awr breeod wi' a gorse waggin';
for they took'n mo i'th reet leet to a yure.

_Tim._ Heaw's tat, eh Gods'num!

_Book._ Whau, at yoad'n donned mo o' thiss'n, like a meawntebank's
foo, for th' wonst, to mey th' rabblement fun.

_Tim._ Eh, law! An did'n th' awvish shap, an th' peckl't jump pan,
said'n they?

_Book._ Aye, aye: primely i'faith!--for they glooarn't sooar at
mo; turn't mo reawnd like a tayliur, when he mezzurs folk; chuckt
mo under th' chin; ga' mo a honey butter-cake, an said oppenly,
they ne'er saigh an awkert look, a quare shap, an a peckl't jump
gee better eh their live.

_Tim._ Neaw, e'en fair fa' um, say aw! These wur'n th' boggarts at
flayd'n tho! But aw'd olez a notion at tear'n no gonnor-yeds.

_Book._ Gonner-yeds! Naw, naw, not te marry! Boh, aw carry 't
mysel' meety meeverly too-to, an did as o bidd'n mo.

_Tim._ Then theaw towd um th' tale, an said th' rimes an aw, did
to?

_Book._ Th' tale an th' rimes! 'Sflesh, aw believe eh did; boh aw
know no moor on um neaw than a seawkin' pig.

_Tim._ 'Od rottle the; what says to? Has to foryeat'n th' tayliur
findin' th' urchon; an th' rimes?

_Book._ Quite, quite; as eh hope to chieve!

_Tim._ Neaw e'en the dule steawnd to, say aw! What a fuss mun aw
have to teytch um tho again!

_Book._ Come, come; dunna fly up in a frap; a body conno carry
oytch mander o' think eh their nob.

_Tim._ Whau boh, mind neaw, theaw gawmblin' tyke, at to can tell
th' tale an say th' rimes be rot tightly.

_Book._ "Fear me na," said Doton; begin.

_Tim._ A tayliur, eh Crummil's time, wur thrunk pooin' turmits in
his pingot, an fund an urchon i'th hadloont reean.[11] He glendurt
at't lung, boh could may nowt on't. He whoav't hi whisket o'ert,
runs whoam, an tells his neighbours he thowt in his guts at he'd
fund a think at God ne'er made eawt, for it'd nother yed nor tale,
nor hont nor hough, nor midst nor eend! Loath t' believe this,
hauve a dozen on um would gu t' see iv they could'n may shift t'
gawm it; boh it capt um aw; for they newer a one on um e'er saigh
th' like afore. Then theyd'n a keawncil, an th' eend on't wur at
teyd'n fotch a lawm, fause owd felly, het[12] an elder, at could
tell oytch think,--for they look'nt on him as th' hamil-scoance,
an thowt him fuller o' leet than a glow-worm's a--se. When they'n
towd him th' case, he stroke't his beeart; sowght; an order't th'
wheelbarrow wi' spon-new trindle t' be fotcht. 'Twur dun; an they
beawln't him away to th' urchon in a crack. He glooart at't a good
while; dried his beeart deawn, an wawtud it o'er with his crutch.
"Wheel me abeawt again, o'th tother side," said he, "for it sturs,
an by that, it should be wick." Then he dons his spectacles,
stare't at't again, an sowghin', said, "Breether, its summat:
boh feyther Adam nother did, nor could kersun it. Wheel mo whoam
again!"

[11] _Hadloont reean_--headland gutter.

[12] _Het_--hight, called

_Book._ Aw remember it neaw, weel enough: boh iv these viewers
could gawm it oytch body couldna; for aw find neaw at yo compare'n
me to a urchon, ut has nother yed nor tale; 'sflesh, is not it
like running mo deawn, an a bit to bobbersome.

_Tim._ Naw, naw, not it; for meeny o' folk would gawm th' rimes,
boh very lite would underston th' tayliur an his urchon.

_Book._ Th' rimes;--hum,--lemme see. 'Sblid, aw foryeat'n thoose,
too, aw deawt!

_Tim._ Whoo-who whoo! What a dozening jobberknow art teaw!

_Book._ Good lorjus o' me; a body conna do moor thin they con,
con they? Boh iv in teytch mo again, an aw foryeat um again, e'en
raddle meh hoyd tightly, say aw.

_Tim._ Mind te hits, then!

Some write to show their wit and parts, Some show you whig, some
tory hearts, Some flatter _knaves_, some _fops_, some _fools_, And
some are ministerial tools.

_Book._ Eigh, marry; oytch body says so; an gonnor-yeds they are
for their labbor.

_Tim._ Some few in virtue's cause do write, But these, alas! get
little by't.

_Book._ Indeed, aw can believe o! Weel rime't, heawe'er: gu on.

_Tim._ Some turn out maggots from their head, Which die before
their author's dead.

_Book._ Zuns! Aw Englanshire 'll think at yo'r glentin' at toose
fratchin', byzen, craddlinly tykes as write'n sich papers as th'
_Test_, an sich cawve-tales as _Cornish Peter_, at fund a new
ward, snyin' wi glums an gawries.

_Tim._ Some write such sense in prose and rhyme, Their works will
wrestle hard with Time.

_Book._ That'll be prime wrostlin', i'faith; for aw've yerd um
say, time conquers aw things.

_Tim._ Some few print _truth_, but many _lies_ On _spirits_, down
to _butterflies_.

_Book._ Reet abeawt boggarts; an th' tother ward; and th' mon i'th
moon, an sich like gear: get eendway; it's prime, i'faith.

_Tim._ Some write to _please_, some do't for _spite_, But want of
money makes me write.

_Book._ By th' mass, th' owd story again! Boh aw think eh me guts
at it's true. It'll do; yo need'n rime no moor, for it's better
t'in lickly. Whewt[13] on Tummus an Mary.

[13] _Whewt_--whistle.

To a liberal and observant stranger, one of the richest results of a visit to this quarter will arise from contemplation of the well-defined character of the people that live in it. The whole population is distinguished by a fine, strong, natural character, which would do honour to the refinements of education. A genteel stranger, who cannot read the heart of this people through their blunt manners, will, perhaps, think them a little boorish. But though they have not much bend in the neck, and their rough dialect is little blest with the set phrases of courtesy, there are no braver men in the world, and under their uncouth demeanour lives the spirit of true chivalry. They have a favourite proverb, that "fair play's a jewel," and are generally careful, in all their dealings, to act upon it. They feel a generous pride in the man who can prove himself their master in anything. Unfortunately, little has yet been done for them in the way of book-education, except what has been diffused by the Sunday-schools, since the times of their great apostle, John Wesley, who, in person, as well as by his enthusiastic early preachers, laboured much and earnestly among them, in many parts of South Lancashire. Yet nature has blest them with a fine vein of mother-wit, and has drilled some useful pages of her horn-book into them in the loom, the mine, and the farm, for they are naturally hard workers, and proud of honest labour. They are keen critics of character, too, and have a sharp eye to the nooks and corners of a stranger's attire, to see that, at least, whether rich or poor, it be sound, and, as they say, "bothomly cleeon," for they are jealous of dirty folk. They are accustomed to a frank expression of what is in them, and like the open countenance, where the time of day may be read in the dial, naturally abhorring "hudd'n wark, an' meawse-neeses." Among the many anecdotes illustrative of the character of this people, there is one which, though simple, bears a strong stamp of native truth upon it. A stalwart young fellow, who had long been employed as carter for a firm in this neighbourhood, had an irresistible propensity to fighting, which was constantly leading him into scrapes. He was an excellent servant in every other respect, but no admonition could cure him of this; and at length he was discharged, in hope to work the desired change. Dressing himself in his best, he applied to an eminent native merchant for a similar situation. After other necessary questions, the merchant asked whether he had brought his character with him. "My character!" replied our hero, "Naw, aw'm a damned deeol better beawt it!" This anecdote conveys a very true idea of the rough vigour and candour of the Lancashire country population. They dislike dandyism and the shabby-genteel, and the mere bandbox exquisite would think them a hopeless generation. Yet, little as they are tinctured with literature, a few remarkable books are very common among them. I could almost venture to prophesy before going into any substantial farmhouse, or any humble cottage in this quarter, that some of the following books might be found there: the Bible, Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, the Book of Common Prayer, and often Wesley's Hymn-book, Barclay's Dictionary, Culpepper's Herbal; and, sometimes, Thomas à Kempis, or a few old puritan sermons. One of their chief delights is the practice of sacred music; and I have heard the works of Haydn, Handel, Mozart, and Beethoven executed with remarkable correctness and taste, in the lonely farmhouses and cottages of South Lancashire. In no other part of England does such an intense love of sacred music pervade the poorer classes. It is not uncommon for them to come from the farthest extremity of South Lancashire, and even over the "Edge" from Huddersfield, and other towns of the West Riding of Yorkshire, to hear an oratorio at the Free Trade Hall, returning home again, sometimes a distance of thirty miles, in the morning.

I will now suppose that the traveller has seen Tim Bobbin's grave, and has strolled up by Silver Hills, through the scenery of Butterworth, and, having partly contemplated the character of this genuine specimen of a South Lancashire village, is again standing on the little stone bridge which spans the pretty river Beal. Let him turn his back to the Rochdale road a little while; we have not done with him yet. Across the space there, used as a fair ground at "Rushbearing time," stands an old-fashioned stone ale-house, called "Th' Stump and Pie Lad," commemorating, by its scabbed and weather-beaten sign, one of the triumphs of a noted Milnrow foot-racer, on Doncaster race-course. Milnrow is still famous for its foot-racers, as Lancashire, generally, is more particularly famous for foot-racers than any other county in the kingdom. In that building the ancient lords of Rochdale manor used to hold their court-leets. Now, the dry-throated "lads o' th' fowd" meet there nightly, to grumble at bad warps and low wages; and to "fettle th' nation," over pitchers of cold ale. And now, if the traveller loves to climb "the slopes of old renown," and worships old heraldries and rusty suits of mail, let him go to the other end of the village. I will go with him, if, like me, while he venerates old chronicles, whether of stone, metal, or parchment, because the spirit of the bygone sometimes streams upon us through them, he still believes in the proverb, that "every man is the son of his own works;" I will play the finger-post to him with right good will. There is something at the other end of Milnrow worth his notice.

Milnrow lies on the ground not unlike a tall tree laid lengthwise, in a valley, by a river side. At the bridge, its roots spread themselves in clots and fibrous shoots, in all directions; while the almost branchless trunk runs up, with a little bend, above half a mile, towards Oldham, where it again spreads itself out in an umbrageous way, at the little fold called "Butterworth Hall." In walking through the village, he who has seen a tolerably-built wooden mill will find no wonders of the architectural art at all. The houses are almost entirely inhabited by working people, and marked by a certain rough, comfortable solidity--not a bad reflex of the character of the inhabitants. At the eastern extremity, a road leads on the left hand to the cluster of houses called "Butterworth Hall." This old fold is worth notice, both for what it is, and what it has been. It is a suggestive spot. It is near the site once occupied by one of the homesteads of the Byrons, barons of Rochdale, the last baron of which family was Lord Byron, the poet. A gentleman in this township, who is well acquainted with the history and archæology of the whole county, lately met with a licence from the Bishop of Lichfield and Coventry, dated A.D. 1400, granting to Sir John Byron and his wife leave to have divine service performed within their oratories at Clayton and Butterworth, in the county of Lancashire. (Lane. MSS., vol. xxxii., p. 184.) This was doubtless the old _wooden chapel_ which traditionally is said to have existed at Butterworth Hall, and which is still pointed out by the names of two small fields, called "Chapel Yard" and "Chapel Meadow." These names occur in deeds at Pike House (the residence of the Halliwell family, about two miles off), in the time of Queen Elizabeth, and are known to this day. It is probable that the Byrons never lived at Butterworth Hall after the Wars of the Roses. They quitted Clayton, as a permanent residence, on acquiring Newstead, in the reign of Henry the Eighth, although "young Sir John," as he was called, lived at Royton Hall, near Oldham, another seat of the family, between 1592 and 1608.

At Butterworth Hall, the little river Beal, flowing down fresh from the heathery mountains, which throw their shadows upon the valley where it runs, divides the fold; and upon a green plot, close to the northern margin of its water, stands an old-fashioned stone hall, hard by the site of the ancient residence of the Byrons. After spending an hour at the other end of the village, with the rugged and comfortable generation dwelling there, among the memorials of "Tim Bobbin"--that quaint old schoolmaster, of the last century--who was "the observed of all observers," there, in his day, and who will be remembered long after some of the monumental brasses and sculptured effigies of his contemporaries are passed by with, incurious eyes--one thinks it will not be uninteresting, nor profitless, to come and muse a little upon the spot where the Byrons once lived in feudal state. But let not any contemplative visitor here lose his thoughts too far among antiquarian dreams, and shadows of the past, for there are factory-bells close by. However large the discourse of his mind may be, let him never forget that there is a strong and important present in the social life around him. And wherever he sets his foot, in South Lancashire, he will now find that there are shuttles flying where once was the council chamber of a baron; and that the people of these days are drying warps in the "shooting-butts" and tilt-yards of the olden time!

The following information respecting the Byron family, Barons of Rochdale, copied from an article in the _Manchester Guardian_, by the eminent antiquarian contributor to that journal, will not be uninteresting to some people:--

The Byrons, of Clayton and Rochdale, Lancashire, and Newstead
Abbey, Notts, are descended from Ralph de Buron, who, at the time
of the Conquest, and of the Doomsday Survey, held divers manors
in Notts and Derbyshire. Hugo de Buron, grandson of Ralph, and
feudal Baron of Horsetan, retiring _temp._ Henry III. from secular
affairs, professed himself a monk, and held the hermitage of
Kirsale or Kersal, under the priory of Lenton. His son was Sir
Roger de Buron. Robert de Byron, son of Sir Roger de Buron, in
the John 1st [1199-1200], married Cecilia, daughter and heiress
of Richard Clayton, of Clayton, and thus obtained the manor and
estates of Clayton. Failsworth and the township of Droylsden were
soon after added to their Lancashire estates. Their son, Robert
de Byron, lord of Clayton, was witness to a grant of Plying Hay
in this country, to the monks of Cockersand, for the souls of
Henry II. and Richard I. And his son, John de Byron, who was
seated at Clayton, 28th Edward I. [1299-30], was governor of
York, and had all his lands in Rochdale, with his wife Joan,
by gift of her father, Sir Baldwin Teutonicus, or Thies, or de
Tyas, who was conservator of the peace in Lancashire, 10th Edward
[1281-82]. Her first husband was Sir Robert Holland, secretary
of Thomas, Earl of Lancaster. Their son was Sir John de Byron,
knight, lord of Clayton, who was one of the witnesses to the
charter granted to the burgesses of Manchester, by Thomas Grelle,
lord of that manor, in 1301. The two first witnesses to that
document were "Sirs John Byron, Richard Byron, knights." These
were father and son. Sir John married Alice, cousin and heir
of Robert Bonastre, of Hindley, in this county. Their son, Sir
Richard, lord of Cadenay and Clifton, had grant of free warren
in his demesne lands in Clayton, Butterworth, and Royton, on the
28th June, 1303; he served in parliament for Lincolnshire, and
died before 21st Edward III. [1347-8]. His son was Sir James
de Byron, who died before 24th Edward III. [1350-51]. His son
and heir was Sir John de Byron, who was knighted by Edward III.
at the siege of Calais [1346-7], and dying without issue, was
succeeded by his brother, Sir Richard, before 4th Richard II.
[1380-81]. Sir Richard died in 1398, and was succeeded by his son,
Sir John _le_ Byron, who received knighthood before 3rd Henry
V. [1415-16], and as one of the knights of the shire, 7th Henry
VI. [1428-9]. He married Margery, daughter of John Booth, of
Barton. His eldest son, Richard le Byron, dying in his father's
lifetime, and Richard's son, James, dying without issue, the
estate passed to Richard's brother, Sir Nicholas, of Clayton,
who married Alice, daughter of Sir John Boteler, of Beausey or
Bewsey, near Warrington. Their son and heir was Sir John, who
was constable of Nottingham Castle, and Sheriff of Lancaster, in
1441 and 1442. Sir John fought in the Battle of Bosworth Field,
on the side of Henry VII., and was knighted on the field. Dying
without issue in 1488, he was succeeded by his brother (then 30),
Sir Nicholas, Sheriff of Lancaster, in 1459, who was made Knight
of the Bath in 1501, and died in January, 1503-4. This son and
heir, Sir John Byron (the one named in the above document), was
steward of the manors of Manchester and Rochdale, and, on the
dissolution of the monasteries, he had a grant of the priory of
Newstead, 28th May, 1540. From that time the family made Newstead
their principal seat, instead of Clayton. This will explain, to
some extent, the transfer of Clayton, in 1547, from this same Sir
John Byron to John Arderon or Arderne. Either this Sir John or
his son, of the same name, in the year 1560, inclosed 260 acres
of land on Beurdsell Moor, near Rochdale. His three eldest sons
dying without issue (and we may just note that Kuerden preserves
a copy of claim, without date, of Nicholas, the eldest, to the
serjeanty of the king's free court of Rochdale, and to have the
execution of all attachments and distresses, and all other things
which belong to the king's bailiff there), Sir John was succeeded
by his youngest son, Sir John, whom Baines states to have been
knighted in 1759--probably a transposition of the figures 1579.
This Sir John, in the 39th Elizabeth [1596-7], styles himself
"Farmer of the Manor of Rochdale," and makes an annual payment to
the Crown, being a fee farm rent to the honour of Rochdale. In
the 1st Charles I. [1625-6], the manor of Rochdale passed from
the Byrons; but in 1638 it was reconveyed to them; and, though
confiscated during the commonwealth, Richard, Lord Byron, held the
manor in 1660. Sir John's eldest son, Sir Nicholas, distinguished
himself in the wars in the Low Countries, and at the battle of
Edgehill (23rd October, 1642). He was general of Cheshire and
Shropshire. His younger brother, Sir John, was made K.B. at the
coronation of James I. and a baronet in 1603. Owing to the failure
of the elder line, this Sir John became ancestor of the Lords
Byron. Sir Nicholas was succeeded by his son, Sir John, who was
made K.B. at the coronation of Charles I.; was appointed by that
king Lieutenant of the Tower, in 1642, contrary to the wish of
parliament; commanded the body of reserve at Edgehill; and was
created Lord Byron of Rochdale, 24th October, 1643. In consequence
of his devotion to the royal cause (for he fought against Oliver
Cromwell at the battle of Preston, in August, 1648), his manor
of Rochdale was sequestered, and held for several years by Sir
Thomas Alcock, who held courts there in 1654, two years after Lord
Byron's death. So great was his lordship's royalist zeal, that he
was one of the seven specially exempted from the clemency of the
government in the "Act of Oblivion," passed by parliament on the
execution of Charles I. Dying at Paris, in 1652, without issue,
he was succeeded by his cousin, Richard (son of Sir John, the
baronet just mentioned), who became second Lord Byron, and died
4th October, 1679, aged 74. He was succeeded by his eldest son,
William, who died 13th November, 1695, and was succeeded by his
fourth son, William, who died August 8th, 1736, and was succeeded
by a younger son, William, fifth Lord Byron, born in November,
1722, killed William Chaworth, Esq., in a duel, in January, 1765,
and died 19th May, 1798. He was succeeded by his great nephew,
George Gordon, the poet, sixth Lord Byron, who was born 22nd
January, 1788, and died at Missolonghi, in April, 1824. In 1823,
he sold Newstead Abbey to James Dearden, Esq., of Rochdale; and
in the same year, he sold the manor and estate of Rochdale to the
same gentleman, by whose son and heir they are now possessed. The
manorial rights of Rochdale are reputed (says Baines) to extend
over 32,000 statute acres of land, with the privileges of court
baron and court leet in all the townships of the parish, including
that portion of Saddleworth which lies within the parish of
Rochdale; but excepting such districts as Robert de Lacy gave to
the abbots of Whalley, with right to inclose the same.

The article goes on to say that the manor of Rochdale was anciently held by the Ellands of Elland, and the Savilles, and that on the death of Sir Henry Saville, it appears to have merged in the possession of the Duchy of Lancaster; and Queen Elizabeth, in right of her duchy possessions, demised that manor to Sir John Byron, by letters patent, dated May 12th, 27th year of her reign (1585), from Lady-day, 1585, to the end of thirty-one years.

The eye having now satisfied itself with what was notable in and about Milnrow, I took my way home, with a mind more at liberty to reflect on what I had seen. The history of Lancashire passed in review before me; especially its latest history. I saw the country that was once thick with trees that canopied herds of wild animals, and thinnest of people, now bare of trees, and thickest of population; the land which was of least account of any in the kingdom in the last century, now most sought after; and those rude elements which were looked upon as "the riddlings of creation," more productive of riches than all the Sacramento's gold, and ministers to a spirit which is destined to change the social aspect of Britain. I saw the spade sinking in old hunting grounds, and old parks now trampled by the fast-increasing press of new feet. The hard cold soil is now made to grow food for man and beast. Masses of stone and flag are shaken from their sleep in the beds of the hills, and dragged forth to build mills and houses with. Streams which have frolicked and sung in undisturbed limpidity thousands of years, are dammed up, and made to wash and scour, and generate steam. Fathoms below the feet of the traveller, the miner is painfully worming his way in labyrinthine tunnels; and the earth is belching coals at a thousand mouths. The region teems with coal, stone, and water, and a people able to subdue them all to their purposes. These elements quietly bide their time, century after century, till the grand plot is ripe, and the mysterious signal given. Anon, when a thoughtful barber sets certain wheels spinning, and a contemplative lad takes a fine hint from his mother's tea-kettle, these slumbering powers start into astonishing activity, like an army of warriors roused to battle by the trumpet. Cloth is woven for the world, and the world buys it, and wears it. Commerce shoots up from a poor pedlar with his pack on a mule, to a giant merchant, stepping from continent to continent, over the ocean, to make his bargains. Railways are invented, and the land is ribbed with iron, for iron messengers to run upon, through mountains and over valleys, on business commissions; the very lightning turns errand-boy. A great fusion of thought and sentiment springs up, and Old England is in hysterics about its ancient opinions. A new aristocracy rises from the prudent, persevering working-people of the district, and threatens to push the old one from its stool. What is to be the upshot of it all? The senses are stunned by the din of toil, and the view obscured by the dust of bargain-making. But, through an opening in the clouds, hope's stars are shining still in the blue heaven that over-spans us. Take heart, ye toiling millions! The spirits of your heroic forefathers are watching to see what sort of England you leave to your sons!

The Birthplace of Tim Bobbin.