WIDE as may be the circle covered by a great town, we come to the country at last. Let the bricks and mortar stride far as they will over the greensward, there are always sanctuaries beyond—sweet spots where we may yet listen to the singing of the birds, and pluck the early primrose and anemone. We need but take our survey from a sufficiently high point, to see that the vastest mass of houses ever heaped together by man is still only an encampment in the fields. Like the waves of the sea upon the shores of the islands, the surge of the yellow corn is still close upon our borders. We need but turn our faces fondly towards rural things and rural sights, and we shall find them.

Manchester itself, grim, flat, smoky Manchester, with its gigantic suburb ever on the roll further into the plain, and scouts from its great army of masons posted on every spot available for hostile purposes,—Manchester itself denies to no one of its five hundred thousand, who is blessed with health and strength, the amenities and genial influences of the country. True, we have no grand scenery; no Clyde, no Ben Lomond, no Leigh Woods, no St. Vincent’s Rocks, no Clevedon, no Durdham Down; our rivers are anything but limpid; our mountains are far away, upon the horizon; our lakes owe less to nature than to art; as for waterfalls, we have none but in our portfolios. Still is our town bosomed in beauty. Though the magnificent and the romantic be wanting, we have meadows trimmed with wild–flowers, the scent of the new–mown hay and the purple clover; we have many a sweet sylvan walk where we may hear

The burnie wimplin’ doon the glen,

and many a grateful pathway under the mingled boughs of beech and chestnut. Next to a fine woman, the most delightful object in creation is a noble and well–grown tree,—a group of such trees always reminds us of a bevy of fair ladies; and dull and unthankful must be the man who, in the tranquil and sacred shades of Alderley and Dunham, cannot realise to himself the most genuine and heartfelt pleasure that trees and woods can give. If they be not so sumptuous as the oaks of Worcestershire, or so stately as the elms of Surrey, our trees are as leafy and as green, and their shadows fall as softly on the summer afternoon. The great secret in the enjoyment of nature, as in our intercourse with society, is to look at its objects in a friendly light, to make the most of them, such as they are; not invidiously contrasting them with certain other objects at a distance, but recognising that absolute and positive beauty which is possessed by the very humblest. Superadd to this the habit of connecting our own feelings and emotions with the forms of nature, and, however wanting in attractions to the mere adulator of “fine scenery,” every little flower, every bend of the branches, and sweet concurrent play of light and shade, every pendent shadow in the stream, becomes animated with a meaning and a power of satisfying such as none but those who accustom themselves to look for it here, can find in the most favoured and spacious landscape. Justly to appreciate the wonderful and rare, we must first learn to regard with a tender and intimate affection the common and the unpretending; in the degree that we withdraw from the latter, treating it with indifference or contempt, as surely does our capacity diminish for the former. The common things of earth are the most gracious gifts of God. None of us extract their full value, yet every man holds it in his power to make himself tenfold happier by a wise use of them. For true and continuous enjoyment of life is not attained by the gratification of high–flown and artificial wants, connected in large measure with the idea of pounds, shillings, and pence. It is found in the culture of love for common things, the untaxed game that no man can deprive us of, and which constitute the chief part of the beauties of the country. Hence the worth of nature to the poor. If the rich have their gardens and hothouses, here are flower–beds and parks, fresh from God’s own hand, without money, and without price, and greater than the estates of all the nobles in the kingdom. Hence, too, coming close to home, we may see how little reason we have to lament the absence of the grand and wonderful, since nothing less than total nakedness of surface can take from a place its power to interest and please.

While adapted to give true pleasure, if looked for in a kindly spirit, no less fertile is our neighbourhood in materials for a large and practical culture of natural science. Most of the sciences may be cultivated by Manchester residents to perfection. For geology there are certainly fewer advantages than invite men to it in the neighbourhood of some other large inland towns. But what scope there is for botany and entomology is attested by the numbers of students of both these charming sciences who have adorned the ranks of our working men during the last half century.[1] Caley, Hobson, Crozier,[2] Crowther, Horsefield, among those no longer in this life; Percival, Carter, Evans,[3] still among us, have reflected honour upon Manchester as a spontaneous working men’s college of natural history, such as might deservedly be envied by the proudest institution in the land. These men acquired their knowledge in the scenes we speak of, and from nature’s “common things.” The plants of the fields and hedgerows, the insects of the moors, were their inspiration and instruction, the source at the same moment of a thorough and pure delight; for while they are the least expensive of pleasures, the naturalist’s are also the truest and most abiding. No one inexperienced in botany would imagine how many wild–flowers are found growing about Manchester. Taking the area which would be marked out by measuring a circle round the Exchange, fifteen miles from it in every direction, six hundred different species were catalogued in 1840.[4] Buxton’s “Guide,” printed in 1849, included one hundred and fifty others, mostly accidental omissions from the earlier list. Our own “Manchester Flora,” 1858, in which everything is brought up to that time, contains over twenty more, though, in consequence of the diversity of opinion as to what plants should legitimately be included, the figures are probably much about the same as in the “Guide,” namely, seven hundred and fifty. These seven hundred and fifty comprise the flowering plants, the trees, and the ferns. The number of mosses, fungi, lichens, and other flowerless plants, usually regarded as a separate subject of study, is in the aggregate probably quite as great, making a total of some one thousand five hundred perfectly distinct forms. Not that they are all equally abundant. We must distinguish between what botanists call the “Flora” of a given district, and its vegetation. The “Flora” may be large, and yet the mass of the vegetation consist of but few different kinds, the same plants repeated over and over again, as when hills are covered for miles together with heath and whortleberries. Such is the case with Manchester. Though there are seven hundred and fifty different kinds of flowers and ferns contained in our “Flora,” probably not half the number go to constitute the general herbage of the district. Some species are very rarely met with, only once in the season perhaps. But this is so much the more pleasing to the botanist, since it keeps his enthusiasm vigorously alive. In addition to the living objects of interest so freely supplied by the fields and woodlands, Manchester naturalists have a singular privilege in the local Free Libraries and museums. The museum at Peel Park is in many departments rich and extensive, and nowhere in the world can we consult books of greater value, or illustrated more magnificently, than are to be had for the asking in Camp Field,[5] at the Chetham College, and again at Peel Park. All three of these admirable libraries contain works on botany and entomology which it is really melancholy to think are so little known by the bulk of our town’s people, when they might contribute to an almost endless delight. Let it not be supposed that we are speaking of botany, entomology, etc., as proper to be made the chief business of life. “A man,” said Dr. Johnson, “is never so well employed as when he is earning money.” Yes. One of the best friends a man has in the world is a good round balance at his banker’s, the fruit and reward of his own toil. We speak of them as employments for the intervals of business, which it is quite as important to occupy carefully and diligently as the hours of business themselves. The more delight derived from the contemplation and study of nature a man can pack into his leisure moments, the keener, it is certain, will be his aptitude for his ordinary duties. It is not only delight of spirit either that comes of attention to nature; there are the salutary effects of it upon the body. Rambling in the fields, the town–cobwebs get dusted out of one’s lungs, and the whole frame becomes buoyant and elastic. Good as is a bathe in the cold water, scarcely inferior, when the skin is clean, is a good bathe in the blowing wind.

With these inducements and recommendations to the love of nature so amply spread before us, we purpose introducing our readers to the principal scenes of rural beauty in the immediate neighbourhood, those sweet side–chapels in the grand cathedral which no locality is absolutely without. The experience of half a life–time has shown us that no trifling source of pleasure is such familiarity with nature as we hope to encourage. Days gone by are made brighter to recollection; the present are filled with the same pleasures; for it is the peculiar property of the happiness induced by the love of nature, that if we are trained in youth to seek and find it, when we are old it will not depart from us;—even the future is made cheerful and inviting by the certainty that, leaving us our eyes, nature for her part will never grow old nor look shabby, not even in winter, which is decorated in its own way, but will always, like the Graces, be young and lovely. That which truly keeps life going is sensibility to the romance of nature. Youth and age are measured fictitiously if we count only by birthdays. Some things always find us young, and make us young, and though love and kindness may be the best known of these, none act more powerfully than does the sweet smile of living nature. It is in conversing with nature, moreover, that we learn how foolish are affectation and sentimentalism; how poor we are in leisure for mournful musing and fruitless reverie; that the truest and most precious pleasures are those which are the manliest; how rich we are in opportunities for affection and generosity. The facilities for reaching the most charming and sequestered spots are now so great and manifold that no one need be a stranger to them. It is not as some fifteen years ago,[6] when they were only to be reached by a long walk, which consumed the half of one’s time, or by a specially engaged conveyance, the expense of which compelled one’s excursions to be like the angels’ visits, few and far between. The railways, penetrating every nook and corner, now enable us to reach the very heart of the country in a very little while, fresh and nimble for our enjoyment, and, when over, the same will bring us home again. Honoured for ever be the name of Stephenson! It is in facilitating men’s intercourse with nature, and the purest and most ennobling recreations they can enjoy and are capable of, that the social blessings of railways have their highest realisation. Vast is their use to commerce, but still vaster their unreckoned friendship to health and healthy–mindedness. Now, also, there are more persons prepared to supply our wants in the way of “Tired nature’s sweet restorer, balmy tea.” Time was when the alehouse by the roadside, or the weary walk back to town, were the only choice open to our poor hunger and fatigue. But with the Saturday half–holiday, and the impetus it gave to rural visitings, there has sprung up a readiness on the part of country folks to open their doors in a hospitable spirit, which is quite tempting and delightful; and, most assuredly, nothing forms so pleasant a conclusion to an afternoon’s ramble as to sit down in a neat cottage to a comfortable farmhouse meal, with its huge broad piles of bread and butter, and inexhaustible store of green salad and new–laid eggs. There, with the sun shining aslant through the old–fashioned window, the doors open, and the breeze gently peeping in, the cows lowing in the pasture, and the very atmosphere redolent of the country, we realise the fine hearty pleasurableness of a good appetite, such as only the open air can induce, and learn the sweet savour of the plainest diet when wisely earned. And this not only because of the relish which comes of the exercise in the fresh air, but of the higher relish born of that mutual satisfaction and kind feeling which always follows a friendly visit to Dame Nature. People never feel more attached to one another than when they have been enjoying the charms of nature together; while the rose mounts to the cheek, the glow comes upon the heart. We should court nature therefore, not only for our own private and personal good, but if we would quicken our reciprocal affections. Especially with regard to this latter point, is it valuable to have some definite pursuit—something to attend to in particular when we go out for an afternoon’s or evening’s walk. A stroll in the fields is at all times good and healthful, but when two or three go out together to look for plants, or in search of curious insects, or to watch the movements, the manners and customs of the birds, quite unconsciously there get established new and pleasing links of sympathy, which lead to happiest results, both to head and heart. Some of the firmest friendships that we know of have had their origin in the exchange of ideas over a wild–flower. One of the noblest prerogatives of nature is to make men friends with one another. In the town we stand apart, excited and repelled by selfish and rival interests; but in the tranquillity of the fields and woods, united in delightful and invigorating pursuits, jealousies are forgotten, every man is an equal and a brother. Not the least useful end either, that flows from culture of love of the country, and particularly of some science having reference to natural objects, is the perennial employment it supplies for leisure hours at home. Half the mischief that boys commit comes of their having no intelligent and useful occupation for their playtime. As large a portion of the lax morality of their elders may be referred to the same cause. A naturalist never has any idle moments; if he be not at work in the country, he is busy with his curiosities indoors. Little private collections of natural objects, such as dried plants, insects, fossils, or shells, are always valuable, and always pretty, and a perpetual fund of interest and amusement. To gather together such things is not only highly instructive, and an agreeable pursuit, through the prolonged and intelligent observation which it demands; it is useful also as feeding the pleasure of possession—a noble and worthy one when well directed; and it has the yet higher recommendation of providing a diary and immortal record of past pleasures. A volume of dried plants, gathered on occasions of memorable enjoyment, becomes in a few years inexpressibly precious, an aid to memory, and thus to the perpetuity of those enjoyments, which even pictures give less perfectly, for here we have the very things themselves that were handled and looked at during those bright and fleeting moments. Such a volume of memorial–plants now lies on the table before us, spreading before the mind the souvenirs of forty years. In another part of this little book will be found instructions as to the method of commencing such collections. Meanwhile, we have cordially to recommend the idea to our readers, especially the young, and invite them to accompany us in these rambles.