Читать книгу Historic Sites of Lancashire and Cheshire - James Croston - Страница 12

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OLD ALDERLEY AND ITS MEMORIES—THE STANLEYS—EDWARD STANLEY, PASTOR AND PRELATE—THE HOME OF DEAN STANLEY.

Men travel far to see the dwelling-places and the costly tombs of Kings and Conquerors in their desire to recall the memory and the mighty deeds of the great ones who have gone before, and surely the homes of those who have taught goodness by example to high and low, and shed a holy and a happy influence through their country, are shrines equally worthy of our homage. It is in that spirit, and with the desire to keep green within the sanctuary of the heart the memory of good men, that we enter upon our present pilgrimage. It is to the place where Bishop Stanley spent his happiest years, and where his son, Dean Stanley, passed his boyhood's days—the one, the "good bishop" who united in himself the apostolical charity of a Tillotson and the pastoral energy of a Burnet; and the other, that loving and large-hearted divine who so lately passed into his rest, and whose removal from our midst sent a thrill of sadness through the land, and moved the sensibilities not of Englishmen alone but of the world.

DEAN STANLEY.

Alderley, or Old Alderley as we prefer to call it in contradistinction to the aggregation of modern Swiss chalets, Italian villas, and imitation castles which Manchester's merchant princes have built for themselves on the wooded hill yclept Alderley Edge, is one of the most charmingly picturesque spots in the county—we had almost said in the kingdom; the sort of place where, if lowered with overwork and worry, you would wish to retire to for perfect peace and quietude—and of a truth the wearied toiler might wander hither and thither for many a day before he could find a retreat more to his liking. The country is rich and varied, and there is an air of wild and untrimmed prodigality in the woods and plantations that is delighting to the eye. It is not a village—it can hardly be called a hamlet, the houses are so few. On a little triangular spot where four roads meet is what is emphatically called "the Cross," and a little way above, standing by the wayside, may be seen an antiquated hostelry that might be called the house of many gables. Time was when the tired wayfarer might find within its cosy parlour a hearty welcome, and be able to refresh himself with nut-brown ale; but good things are oftentimes abused, and so, now-a-days, to enforce sobriety, though the traveller may receive the welcome he must content himself with tea and coffee or such harmless beverages as lemonade and ginger ale. Near the inn is the old corn mill, a building that, with its surroundings, has formed the subject for many a picture, as the walls of our local exhibitions testify; in the rear, half hidden among the trees, is the old-fashioned rectory, standing in the midst of its equally old-fashioned garden, in which the old mulberry trees still flourish. The garden reaches up to the churchyard, reminding us of Wordsworth's exquisite description—

Where holy ground begins, unhallowed ends,

Is marked by no distinguishable line.

The turf unites, the pathways intertwine,

And wheresoe'er the stealing footstep tends,

Garden, and that domain where kindred, friends,

And neighbours rest together, here confound

Their several features, mingled like the sound

Of many waters, or as evening blends

With shady night.

The place belongs entirely to the past; the shadows of bygone centuries seem to spread around, and everything bears the impress of hoar antiquity and undisturbed respectability; while even the few homesteads you see retain the picturesque features their builders imparted to them long ages ago. The church tower, grey and weather worn, and overgrown in places with ivy, looks with placid serenity over the broad pastures and the green country that stretches southwards and away to the west until it seems interminable, and the eye becomes wearied in trying to follow it to its furthest limits. A sombre-looking yew that has braved the winter's blasts through long centuries of time flanks the gateway; the tall trees that partly surround the churchyard throw their shadows across the grass-grown hillocks, the grasshopper skips about and the white moth flits to and fro, and above the blackbirds and the thrushes pour forth their sweetest music. The ancient fane itself is thoroughly English in its character, a church such as an artist loves to paint, and of which a true-hearted Englishman would carry away many a pleasant remembrance. It exhibits many architectural diversities; the tower is broad and massive, and nave, and chancel, and porch are picturesque in their grouping. On the north side a curious dormer window rises above the roof, and on the south the attention is arrested by the old stone staircase that leads up from the outside to the Stanley pew, a feature that may smack somewhat of exclusiveness, but quaint and pleasant to look upon notwithstanding. As you enter you see at a glance that the fabric has been cared for both within and without, for though the "restorer" has been at work he has dealt tenderly and lovingly with it, repairing only where repairs where needed. The old pews in which somnolent bucolics were wont to recline during sermon-time have been taken away; the flat painted ceiling has disappeared and the whitewash of a dozen generations of churchwardens has been removed from wall and pillar, but everything that was worth preserving has been carefully retained, and—

So absent is the stamp of modern days

That, in the quaint carved oak, and oriel stain'd

With saintly legend, to Reflection's gaze

The Star of Eld seems not yet to have waned.