THE following pages consist, in part, of a reprint of the little volume published in 1858 under the title of Manchester Walks and Wild–Flowers;—in part, of brief excerpta from the author’s accounts of trips made by the Field Naturalists’ Society, as given in their Annual Reports, 1860–1881. A very considerable amount of new matter will also be found.

Giving descriptions in a novel and welcome manner, of pretty places in the neighbourhood previously unknown to people in general, and indicating in various ways the pleasure to be derived from rambles in the country, the little volume spoken of is believed to have assisted, in no slight measure, to awaken and foster the present widespread local taste for rural scenes, and for recreation in the pursuit of practical natural history. It is in the hope that similar results may ensue among the present generation that the book is now partially republished. It has long been unprocurable, and is constantly enquired for. The reprinting presents also a curious and interesting picture of many local conditions now effaced.

The preface to the original work of 1858 contained the following passages:—“No grown–up person who has resided in Manchester even twenty years, is unacquainted with the mighty changes that have passed over its suburbs during that period; while those who have lived here thirty, forty, and fifty years tell us of circumstances and conditions almost incredible. Neighbourhoods once familiar as delightful rural solitudes, are now covered with houses, and densely crowded with population; the pleasant field–paths we trod in our youth have disappeared, and in their stead are long lines of pavement, lighted with gas, and paced by the policeman. In a few years it is not improbable that places described in the following pages as rustic and sylvan will have shared the same fate, and be as purely historical as Garratt Wood and Ordsall Clough. The Botany of the district will to a certain extent be similarly affected. No longer than fifteen years ago (i.e. in 1840) the fields by St. George’s Church, in the Chester Road, were blue every March and April with the spring crocus, and on the very spot where Platt Church now lifts its tall and graceful spire, there was a large pond filled with the Stratiotes, or water–aloe. If the past be a prognostic of the future, it is easy to guess what will happen to other things, and to understand how in half a century hence our present ‘Walks’ will have become as obsolete as their author, and the entire subject require a new and livelier treatment. A descriptive history of the suburbs of Manchester as they were fifty years ago, would be a most interesting and valuable item of our local literature. It would be as curious to the lover of bygones as this book of to–day may perhaps appear to the Manchester people of A.D. 1900. How extraordinary would be the facts may be judged from the following extracts from De Quincey, whose youth, it is well known, was passed in the neighbourhood of Manchester. Mark first what he says of the place he lived in. ‘And if, after the manner of the Emperor Aurelius, I should return thanks to Providence for all the separate blessings of my early situation, these four I would single out as worthy of special consideration,—that I lived in a rustic solitude; that this solitude was in England; that my infant feelings were moulded by the gentlest of sisters; and finally, that I and they were dutiful and loving members of a pure, and holy, and magnificent church.’ And now mark where lay this ‘rustic solitude.’ He is describing the expected return of his father:—‘It was a summer evening of unusual solemnity. The servants and four of us children were gathered for hours on the lawn before the house, listening for the sound of wheels. Sunset came, nine, ten, eleven o’clock, and nearly another hour had passed without a warning sound, for Greenhay, being so solitary a house, formed a “terminus ad quem,” beyond which was nothing but a cluster of cottages, composing the little hamlet of Greenhill; so that any sound of wheels coming from the country lane which then connected us with the Rusholme Road, carried with it of necessity, a warning summons to prepare for visitors at Greenhay.’ ‘Greenhay’ was the centre of the modern Greenheys, and the ‘hamlet of Greenhill’ the predecessor of the present Greenhill Terrace.”

The changes foreboded have to an extent not unimportant, already come to pass. Almost the whole of the great suburb which includes the Alexandra Park has grown up since about 1860, effacing meadows and corn–fields. In the contemplation of this new scene of busy life there is pleasure, since it signifies human welfare and enjoyment. In other directions, unhappily, the change has been for the worse, as indicated in the notes to the original portraiture of Boggart–hole Clough, Mere Clough, and the Reddish Valley. Before deciding to visit any particular place in the immediate neighbourhood of the town it will be prudent, accordingly, to read to the end. Never mind. Few things ever go absolutely. Against the losses we are able to put the opportunities for enjoyment in localities opened up by recent railway extensions,—places quite as charming as the extinguished ones—it is simply a question now of a little longer travel.

The present volume, be it remembered, is neither a gazetteer nor an itinerary. The limits are too narrow for its making pretensions even to be a Guide–book, though the style, often, I am aware, too swift and abbreviated, may give it the semblance of one;—it proposes only to supply hints as to where and how to secure country pastimes. While constrained to leave many places with only a touch, others have been treated so admirably by Mr. Earwaker, Mr. Croston, and Mr. Waugh, that to tread the same ground would, on my own part, be alike needless and ungraceful. Others again I have described only within these few months in the “Lancashire,” to which work I may be permitted to refer the reader for particulars not here given.

Except in some few instances, I have not cared either to give minute directions as to paths and gates. One of the grand charms of a rural ramble consists in the sensation, at times, of being slightly and agreeably lost; to say nothing of the pleasure which comes of being called upon to employ our own wits, instead of always asking, like a child, to be led by the hand.

If, when visited, some of the places seem over–praised, it must further be understood that the descriptions are of their appearance in pleasant weather, in sunshine, and when cherished companions help to make the hours glad. I can say no more than that the descriptions are faithful as regards my own experience, and that I hope earnestly they may become true to the experience of every one else. From this point of view the little book is a kind of record of what I have seen and felt during forty years.

Nothing has been written for mere “cheap–trippers.” The book is addressed to the intelligent, the peaceful, and the cultivated; those who, when they visit the country, desire to profit by its inestimable sweet lessons. In many parts it is addressed especially to the young, who have ductile material in them, and are the hope of the future for us all. Neither has it been written for learned botanists or antiquaries. The botanical details are simply such as it is hoped may encourage the beginner. My main desire is to be educational, and by this I would be judged.

Many of the places described or referred to are strictly private. Permission to view them must therefore be asked some days before. Common–sense and the courtesy of civilized beings will prescribe in every case the proper method of procedure.

I have, in conclusion, to express my thanks to the artists who have so pleasingly illustrated the work, Mr. W. Morton, and very particularly, Mr. Thos. Letherbrow.

By some odd lapsus calami the passage from Wordsworth on page 139 has been mis–written. The third line should read, “So was it when my life began.”

LEO H. GRINDON.

Manchester,
May 1st, 1882.