Lancashire Sketches / Third Edition

crackli

little snug,

k with song an

we left behind, with the irregular carpentry of its great picture sticking up raggedly in the dun air, like the charred relics of a burnt woodyard. These all passed in swift panorama, and the train stopped at Old Trafford, the site of the "Art Exhibition," just closed. Three years ago the inhabitants did not dream that this was to be the gathering-place of the grandest collection of works of art the world ever saw, and the scene of more bustle and pomp than was ever known on any spot in the north of England, before. The building was up, but not opened, and as we went by we had a good view of the shapeless mass, and of many curious people tooting about the enclosure to see what was going on. Old Trafford takes its name from the Trafford family, or rather, I believe, gives its name to that family, whose ancient dwelling, Old Trafford Hall, stands in part of its once extensive gardens, near the railway. Baines says of this family, "The Traffords we

centuries take,

them all immu

me to the principal inn of the village, as well as to one or two others on the road from Manchester. The man in motley, with a flail in his hand, and the mottos, "Now, thus;" "Gripe Griffin; hold fast!" greet the traveller with a kind of grim historic salutation as he goes by. These are household phrases with the inhabitants, many of whom are descendants of the ancient tenantry of the family. Quiet Stretford! close to the Cheshire border; the first rural village after leaving that great machine-shop called Manchester. Depart from that city in almost any other direction, and you come upon a quick succession of the same manufacturing features you have left behind, divided, of course, by many a beautiful nook of country green. But somehow, though a man may feel proud of these industrial triumphs, yet, if he has a natural love of the country, he breathes all the more freely when he comes out in this direction, from the knowledge that he is entering upon a country of unmixed rural quietness and beauty, and that the tremendous bustle of manufacture is entirely behind him for the time. Stretford is an agricultural village, but there is a kind of manufacture which it excels in. Ormskirk is famous for its gingerbread; Bury for its "simblins," or "simnels;" Eccles for those spicy cakes, which "Owd Chum"-the delight of every country fair in these parts-used to sell at the "Rushbearings" of Lancashire; but the mission of Stretford is black puddings. And, certainly, a Stretford black pudding would not be despised even by a famishing Israelite, if he happened to value a dinner more than the ancient faith of his

dark and si

e wandered

he story o

ay farther down the village, and then turning through a certain orchard, as directed, I came into a green lane beyond. There stood the house, on the opposite side of the lane, at the top of a gentle slope of garden, shaded with evergreens, amo

re, and in t

ne, with wandis

t, and so w

ace, and hawth

non walking

thin scarce o

me from somewhere in the house an aroma that "made my teeth shoot water." I was talking of books, but in my mind I was wondering what it was that sent forth such a goodly smell; for I was hungry. My friend either divined my thoughts, or else he was secretly affected in the same way, for he said, "We are going to have a 'Stretford Goose' to-day." Now, I was curious, and the smell was fin

lutch" now and then. There had been long and heavy rains, and I could see gleaming sheets of water left on the low-lying meadow lands on the Cheshire side of the river. But I was in no humour for grumbling, for the country was new to me, and I looked around with pleasure, though the land was rather bare and shrivelled,-like a fowl in the moult,-for it had hardly got rid of winter's bleakness, and had not fairly donned the new suit of spring green. But the birds seemed satisfied, for they chirruped blythely among the wind-beaten thorns, and hopped and played from bough to bough in the scant-leaved trees. If these feathered tremblers had weathered the hard winter, by the kindness of Providence, and amidst this lingering chill, could hail the drawing near of spring with such glad content, why shou

h Brundrit, all in

enabled, through the kindness of John Harland, Esq., F.S.A., to give this old May song, in complete shape, as

sant evening tog

prings so fresh,

a blossom that b

unto the merr

f this house, put on

prings so fresh,

fended, (with) your h

unto the merr

this house, with gold

prings so fresh,

e asleep, I hope y

unto the merr

n of this house, al

prings so fresh,

your head shines l

unto the merr

and harbour, your r

prings so fresh,

ll prosper you, bot

unto the merr

to leave you in pea

prings so fresh,

you May again un

you the cold

oblin, called "Gamershaw Boggart." Every rustle of the trees at Gamershaw was big with terror to them half a century ago. Even now, when "Gamershaw Boggart" has hardly a leaf to shelter its old haunt, the place is fearful after dark, to the superstitious peop