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CHAPTER VI

 
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death.
 

Shakspere.

I was a little disappointed at first to find that, wherever I went in the parish of Flixton, the inhabitants showed no strong interest in the quaint man of genius, whose early records I was in search of. But this is no wonder, when one considers what a thinly-inhabited place this must have been at the beginning of Queen Anne's reign; and remembering, also, that nearly the whole of Tim's long life was spent elsewhere; first, as an apprentice to Dutch-loom weaving, which was looked upon as a rather genteel occupation in those days. But, as his friend and biographer, Richard Townley, Esq., of Bellfield Hall, says, "such a sedentary employment not at all agreeing with his volatile spirits and eccentric genius, he prevailed upon his master to release him from the remainder of his servitude. Though then very young, he soon commenced itinerant schoolmaster; going about the country from one small town to another, to teach reading, writing, and accounts; and generally having a night-school as well as a day one." Now, seeing that the theatre of these obscure and honourable struggles of Tim's youth was the town of Oldham, and the villages thereabouts, it is not surprising that the scattered inhabitants of the lonely nook where he was born should have few traditional remembrances of him, who left them when he was yet but a child. Tim's father was only forty years old, when he was overtaken by total blindness; and, this, necessarily, changed the plan he had formed of bringing up his son, our hero, to the Church, for "he had conceived a favourable opinion of his abilities." Now, this calamity did not befall the elder Mr. Collier during the time that he was schoolmaster at Urmston in Flixton: and everything shows that he was not a native of that place, but came from some other part to teach there; remaining only for a short time—during which Tim and his brother Nathan were born—and then moving away again, with his young family of nine children, to another quarter. What Baines says, on the authority of the inhabitants of Flixton, of the elder Collier never being a clergyman, may be true, so far as it relates to Urmston, of which place there never was a curate; nor was he in holy orders during his residence there; and yet he may have been so elsewhere. This supposition is strengthened by Tim's own words: "In the reign of Queen Anne I was a boy, and one of the nine children of a poor Lancashire curate, whose stipend never amounted to thirty pounds a year; and consequently the family must feel the iron teeth of penury with a witness. These, indeed, were sometimes blunted by the charitable disposition of the good rector (the Rev. Mr. H–, of W– n)." What an interesting glimpse this gives us of the home of Tim Bobbin's childhood! Now, it is just possible that the "good rector" may have been the rector of Warrington of that time; whose name begins with the same initial letter. All things considered, I did not wonder that the family had left but little mark among the people of Flixton.

Seeing that so little was known by the inhabitants, I turned my thoughts towards the parish register, setting an afternoon apart for visiting the incumbent; who had invited me to look through it at his house. At the appointed time, I walked through the village of Flixton, a little way into the country beyond the village; and there, by the wayside, at the top of a little sloping lawn, partially screened by stunted trees and bushes, the "village preacher's modest mansion rose." The incumbent received me courteously, and entered kindly into my purpose. Ushering me into a little parlour at the front, he brought forth the two oldest register volumes of the parish from their hiding-place. The first thing which struck me was the difference in their condition. The oldest was perfectly sound, inside and outside. Its leaves were of vellum; and, with the exception of a slight discolouration in some places, they were as clear and perfect as ever they had been; and the entries in it were beautifully distinct, written in the old English character, and mostly in the Latin language. The change in the latter volume was very remarkable. Its binding was poor and shaky; and its leaves of the softest and most perishable writing paper, many of them quite loose in the book, and so worn, tattered, and crumbly, as to be scarcely touchable without damage. I could not help thinking that if any important question should arise a hundred years hence, the settling of which depended on such a mouldering record as this, is was just possible that decay might have forestalled the inquiry. After a careful examination of the register, I found the following entries relating to Tim's family, and, besides these, there is no mention of any other person of the name of Collier, for the space of half a century before, and a century after that date. First, under the head of "Births and Baptismes, in the year, 1706," appears "Nathan, ye son of John Collier, schoolmaster, borne May 17, baptised May 31."¹⁵ Singularly, I found the same baptism entered a second time, three pages forward in the same year, with a slight variation, in the following manner:—"Baptised Nathan, the son of Master John Collier, schoolmaster, born May ye 18th." And then the last and only other mention of the Colliers, is the register of the baptism of John, the renowned "Tim Bobbin," which is entered thus, among the baptisms of the year 1710: "John, son of Mr. John Collier, of Urmstone, baptised January the 6th." In Baines's "Lancashire," the baptism is given as occurring in 1709, which is a slight mistake. The origin of that mistake was evident to me, with the register before my eyes. The book seems to have been very irregularly kept in those days; and the baptisms in the year 1709 are entered under a headline, "Baptisms in the year 1709:" but at the end of the baptisms of that year, the list runs on into those of the following year, 1710, without any such headline to divide them; and this entry of Tim's baptism being one of the first, might easily be transcribed by a hasty observer, as belonging to the previous year. I thought there was something significant about the curious manner in which these three entries, relating to the Colliers, are made in the register. In the first entry of the baptism of Nathan, Tim's eldest brother, the father is called "John Collier, schoolmaster;" in the second entry of the same baptism, he is called "Master John Collier, schoolmaster;" and in the entry of Tim's baptism, three years later, the clerk, having written down the father's name as "John Collier of Urmstone," has, upon after-thought, made a caret between "the son of" and "John Collier of Urmstone," and carefully written "Mr." above it, making it read "Mr. John Collier, of Urmstone." This addition to the names of schoolmasters, or even of the wealthy inhabitants of the parish, occurs so very rarely in the register, that I could not help thinking this singular exception indicative of an honourable estimate of the character of Tim's father among his neighbours. Such was the result of my search; and it strengthens my conviction that old Mr. John Collier's family were not natives of Flixton, nor dwelt there long, but departed after a short residence to some other quarter, where the family were born, married, died, and buried; except the two before mentioned.

Whilst I was sitting in the incumbent's parlour, looking over these old books on that day, a little thing befell which pleased me, though the reader may think it trifling. The weather was very cold, and I happened to have on one of those red-and-black tartan wool shirts, which are comfortable wear enough in cold weather, though they look rather gaudy; and don't satisfy one's mind so well as a clean white shirt does. As I sat turning over the leaves of these ancient records, in came the incumbent's son, a little, slim, intelligent boy, with large, thoughtful eyes. He watched me attentively for two or three minutes, and then, coming a little nearer, so as to get a good look at the wrists and front of my extraordinary under-gear, he called out, with unreserved astonishment, "Papa! he has got no shirt on!" The clergyman checked the lad instantly; though he could not help smiling at this little burst of frank, childish simplicity. The lad was evidently surprised to see me enjoy the thing so much.

I cannot dismiss this old parish register without noticing some other things in it which were interesting to me. And I can tell thee, reader, by the by, that there are worse ways of spending a few hours than in poring over such a record. How significantly the births, marriages, and deaths, tread upon one another's heels; as they do in the columns of newspapers! How solemnly the decaying pages represent the chequered pattern of our mortal estate! The exits and entrances of these ephemeral players in the drama of life continually interweave in the musty chronicle, as they do in the current of human action. There was a quaint tone running through the whole, which I could not well pass by. In the year 1688, the phrase, "buried in woollen only," first appears, and marks the date of an act for the encouragement of the woollen trade. This phrase is carefully added to every registration of burial, thenceforth for a considerable time; except in a few cases, where the phrase changes to "buried in sweet flowers only." What a world of mingled pathos and prettiness that phrase awakes in the mind! To a loving student of Shakspere, it might, not inaptly, call up that beautiful passage in Ophelia's burial scene:—

 
Laertes.      Lay her i' the earth;—
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh
May violets spring!
Queen. Sweets to the sweet: Farewell!
(Scattering Flowers.)
 

Sometimes an instance occurs where a burial takes place "in linen only." In this year of 1688, it is singular that there are only two marriages entered in the Flixton parish register. There was, perhaps, some particular reason for this at the time; but the fact will give the reader some idea of the smallness of the population in those days. From this time the phrase, "Sworn by so-and-so, before Justice so-and-so," is attached to some entries of burial, as thus:—"Thomas, ye son of John Owen, of Carrington, buried in sweet floweres, attested by ye wife of George Twickins. Ye same day of burial, viz., 10th Oct. (1705), John, ye son of John Millatt, jun., of Carrington, an infant, buried in sweet floweres only." Then follows, "James Parren was not buried in any materiall contrary to a late act for Buryinge in Woollen.—Sworne by Mary Parren, before Justice Peter Egerton, Jan. 28th, 1705." The burials in the year 1706 are almost all in "sweet floweres only." This is the year when Nathan Collier was born, being the first mention of that family in the register. Three years after, his brother John (Tim Bobbin) was born; after which the Colliers disappear from the register altogether. Some of the burials occurring between 1720 and 1726, are remarkable for the manner of their entry, as, "Sarah, daughter of Schoolmaster Pony;" "James, Thomas Jaddock's father;" "John Swindell, taken out of ye river;" "Widow Peer's child, Aug. 5th;" and this is followed three days after by "Richd., son of Widow Peer's, Aug. 30th;" "Old Ralph Haslam, from Carrington;" "Old Henery Roile, from Stretford;" "Old Mrs. Starkey;" "Old John Groons;" "Moss's wife of Urmeston;" "Horox's child of Urmstone;" and "Hannah, daughter of one Dean, of Stretford." Then come these, in their proper order, entered in a clerkly hand:—"Thomas Willis, of Bleckly, in the county of Buckingham, Esq., and Mrs. Ann Hulme, Heiress of Davy Hulme, and of the lordship and manor of Urmston, were marry'd. Sept. 3rd, 1735;" and then "Anna Willis, the first daughter of Thomas Willis, Esq., born August the 11th, 1736, and baptised ye 14th Aug.—John Willis, clerk of Bleckley, in Bucks." I found the Christian name of Randal very common in this register. The names of Starkey, Holt, Rogers, and Egerton, ever accompanied by the title of gentleman; and for the rest, the names of Warburton, Taylor, Royle, Coupe, Darbishire, Shawcross, Gilbody, and Knight, form the staple of the list, with the addition of the Owens of Carrington Moss; who seem to have been a very prolific generation.

CHAPTER VII

 
The evening comes, and brings the dew along,
The rodie welkin sheeneth to the eyne,
Around the alestake minstrels sing the song,
Young ivy round the door-post doth entwine;
I lay me down upon the grass, yet to my will,
Albeit all is fair, there lacketh something still.
 

 Chatterton.

The people of southern England are apt to sneer at the enthusiasm with which Lancashire men speak of Tim Bobbin; and, if this imperfect sketch should fall into the hands of any such readers, it is not improbable that they may look upon the whole thing as a great fuss about next to nothing. One reason for this is, that, for the most part, they know next to nothing of the man—which is not much to be wondered at. But the greatest difficulty in their case is the remote character of the words and idioms used by Tim. To the majority of such readers, the dialogue of "Tummus and Mary" is little more than an unintelligible curiosity; and I believe, speaking generally, that it would be better understood by the natives of the metropolis if it had been written in French. The language in which the commanding genius of Chaucer wrought, five hundred years ago, and which was the common language of the London of those days, is, even in its most idiomatic part, very much the same as that used in all the country parts of Lancashire at this hour. But great changes have come round since the time of Chaucer; and though an Englishman is an Englishman in general characteristics, all the world over, there is as much difference now in the tone of manners and language in the North and South as there is between the tones of an organ and those of a piano. I have hardly ever met with a southern man able to comprehend the quaint, graphic wealth which hutches and chuckles with living fun and country humour, under the equally quaint garb of old language in which Tim clothes his story of "Tummus and Mary." But, on its first appearance, the people of his own district at once recognised an exquisite picture of themselves; and they hailed it with delight. He superintended several editions of his works during his lifetime—a time when the population of Lancashire was very scanty, and scattered over large, bleak spaces; and when publishing was a very different thing to what it is now. Since then, his principal story has continually grown in the estimation of scholars and students, as a valuable addition to the rich treasures of English philology, even apart from the genius which combined its humorous details with such masterly art, and finished and rounded it into the completeness of a literary dewdrop. That tale was calculated to command attention and awaken delight at once—and it will long be cherished with pride, by Lancashire men at least, as an exceedingly natural "glimpse of auld lang syne." But those who wish to understand the force of Tim's character, must look to his letters, and other prose fragments, such as "Truth in a Mask." These chiefly reveal the sterling excellence of the man. He was a clear-sighted, daring, independent politician—one of the strong old pioneers of human freedom in these parts. He had a curious audience in that secluded corner of Lancashire where he lived—in those days—a people who had worn their political shackles so long that they almost looked upon them as ornaments.

 
But Tim kent what was fu brawly;
 

and he was continually blurting out some startling truth or another, in vigorous, unmistakable English; and he gloried in the then disreputable and dangerous epithet of "Reforming John." This, too, in the teeth of patrons and friends whose political tendencies were in an entirely opposite direction. Let any man turn to the letter he writes to his friend, the Rev. Mr. Heap, of Dorking, who had desired him to "spare the levitical order," and then say whether there was any shadow of sycophancy in the soul of John Collier. Under the correction of magnifying the matter through the medium of one's native likings then, I will venture to declare a feeling akin to veneration for the spot where he was born; and I know that it is shared by the men of his native county, generally, even by those who find themselves at a difficult distance from his quaint tone of thought and language—for it takes a man thoroughly soaked with the Lancashire soil to appreciate him thoroughly. But, apart from all local inclinings, men of thought and feeling will ever welcome any spark of genuine creative fire, which glows with such genial human sympathies, and such an honourable sense of justice as John Collier evinces, however humble it may be in comparison with the achievements of those mighty spirits who have made the literature of our sea-girt island glorious in the earth. The waters of the little mountain stream, singing its lone, low song, as it struggles through its rocky channel, are dear and beautiful, and useful to that rugged solitude, as is the great ocean to the shores on which its surges play. Nay, what is that ocean, but the gathered chorus of these lonely waters, in which the individual voice is lost in one grand combination of varied tones. With this imperfect notice, I will, at present, leave our old local favourite; and just take another glance at Flixton, before I bid adieu to his birthplace.

The reader may remember that, on the day of my first visit to John Collier's birthplace, I lounged some time about the hamlet of Urmston, conversing with the inhabitants. Leaving that spot, I rambled leisurely along the high road to Flixton, hob-nobbing, and inquiring among different sorts of people, about him, whenever opportunity offered. When I drew near to Shaw Hall, I had traversed a considerable part of the length of the parish, which is only four miles, at most, by about two in breadth. There is nothing like a hill to be seen; but as one wanders on, the country rises and falls, in gentle undulations. Now and then, a pool of water gleamed afar off in the green fields, or, close by the road, rippled into wavelets by the keen wind, which came down steadily from the north that day, whistling shrill cadences among the starved thorns. I cannot give a better idea of the character of the soil than by borrowing the words of Baines, who says: "Much of the land in the parish of Flixton is arable, probably to the amount of nine-tenths of the whole. The farms are comparatively large, and the soil is in general a rich black, sandy, vegetable loam, producing corn, fruit, and potatoes in abundance." I believe the land is now in better cultivation than when these words were written. Shaw Hall is an important place in the history of Flixton. The lords of the land dwelt there in old times. At the time of my visit it was occupied, as a boarding-school, by Mr. James M'Dougall, who was kind enough to show me through the interior when I called there in my ramble. Baines says of Shaw Hall: "It is a venerable mansion, of the age of James I., with gables and wooden parapets on the S. W. and N. sides. The roof has a profusion of chimneys, and a cupola in the centre. In one of the apartments is a painting covering the principal part of the ceiling, which represents the family of Darius kneeling in supplication before Alexander the Great. This picture, though two hundred years old, is in fine preservation, and the faces and figures indicate the hand of a master. There are some smaller paintings and tapestry in the rooms, on one of which is represented a Persian chief at parley with Alexander, and, afterwards, submitting to the conqueror. Stained glass in the windows exhibit the arms of Asshawe and Egerton, successive lords of Flixton.... Adjoining the ample gardens and filbert grove was once a moat, which has partly disappeared. Shaw Hall is now used as a boarding-school, a purpose to which, by its situation, it seems well adapted." I cannot leave this place without mentioning, that the, then, tenant of the hall was a poet of no mean promise, who has contributed an interesting volume of poems and songs to the literature of this district. From the high road, a little beyond the hall, the most prominent and pleasing object in the landscape is the old parish church of Flixton, standing in its still more ancient graveyard, upon the brow of a green knoll, about an arrow's flight off; with the village of Flixton clustered behind it. At the foot of that green knoll, to the westward, where all the country beyond is one unbroken green,

 
The river glideth by the hamlet old.
 

The ground occupied by the church seemed to me the highest in the landscape; and the venerable fane stands there, looking round upon the quiet parish like a mother watching her children at play, and waiting till they come home, tired, to lie down and sleep with the rest. It was getting late in the evening when I sauntered about the churchyard, looking over the gravestones of Warburtons, Taylors, Cowpes, Gilbodys, Egertons, and Owens of Carrington. Among the rest, I found the following well-known epitaph, upon William Oldfield of Stretford, smith:—

 
My anvil and my hammer lie declined,
My bellows have quite lost their wind;
My coals are done, my debt is paid,
My vices in the dust are laid.
 

This epitaph, which appears here in such an imperfect shape, is commonly attributed to Tim. In Rochdale parish churchyard, it appears in a much completer form on the gravestone of a blacksmith, who lived in Tim's time.

I rambled about the old village a while in the dusk. Now and then a villager lounged along in the direction of the inn, near the church; where I could hear several boisterous country fellows talking together in high glee, while one of them sang snatches of an old ballad, called the "Golden Glove:"—

 
Coat, waistcoat, and breeches she then did put on,
And a-hunting she went with her dog and gun;
She hunted all around where the farmer did dwell,
Because in her heart she did love him full well.
 

At length the horses were put to, and we got fairly upon the road, which took us back in another direction, round by Davy Hulme, the seat of the Norreys family. Immediately after clearing the village, Flixton House was pointed out to me; "a plain family mansion, with extensive grounds and gardens." The wind was cold, and the shades of night gathered fast around; and before we quitted Flixton parish, the birthplace of Tim Bobbin had faded from my view. I felt disappointed in finding that the place of his nativity yielded so little reminiscence of our worthy old local humorist; the simple reason for which is, that very little is known of him there. But there was compensating pleasure to me in meeting with so many interesting things there which I did not go in search of.