assumed. This mansion, though never possessing any great pretensions to architectural excellence, was, nevertheless, interesting from the picturesque arrangement of its details, and may be considered a very creditable example of the middle-class houses of the period to which it is referred. It occupied a site distant nearly a quarter of a mile from that of the present hall, and was taken down about the year 1825." Well may Fuller, writing of Humphrey Chetham, say, “God send us more such men!" The "poor boys" of Manchester may well repeat the prayer, and pray also that heaven may send after them men who will look to the righteous administration of the bequests which such men leave behind them. 666 For the purpose of this sketch, I went down to the Chetham Library, to copy, from Booker's "History of Blackley," the foregoing particulars. The day was gloomy, and the great quadrangle of the college was as still as a churchyard. Going up the old staircase, and treading as lightly as I could with a heavy foot, as I went by the principal librarian's room door, I entered the cloistral gloom of the old library. All was silent, as I went through the dark array of book-laden shelves. The sub-librarian was writing in some official volume, upon the sill of a latticed window, in one of the recesses. Hearing an approaching foot, he came out, and looked the usual quiet inquiry. "Booker's Blackley,'" said I. He went to one of the recesses, unlocked the door, and brought out the book. "Will you enter it, sir?" said he, pointing to the volume kept for that purpose. I did so, and walked on into the reading room of the library; glancing, as I went in, at Oliver Cromwell's sword, which hangs above the doorway. There was a good fire, and I had that antique apartment all to myself. The old room looked very clean and comfortable, and the hard oaken floor resounded to the footstep. The whole furniture was of the most quaint and substantial character. It was panelled all round with bright old black oak. The windows were latticed, and the window-sills broad. The heavy tables were of solid oak, and the chairs of the same, with leather-covered and padded seats and backs, studded with brass nails. A curiously-carved black oak bookstand stood near the door, and several antique mirrors, and dusky portraits, hung around upon the dark panelling. Among these is the portrait of Bradford the martyr, a native of Manchester. In the library there is a small black-letter volume, entitled, "Letters of Maister John Bradford, a faythful minister and a syngular pyllar of Christe's Church: by whose great trauiles and diligence in preaching and planting the syncerity of the Gospel, by whose most goodly and innocent lyfe, and by whose long and payneful imprisonments for the maintenance of the truth, the kingdom of God was not a little aduanced: who also at last most valiantly and cheerfully gaue his blood for the same. The 4th day of July. In the year of our Lord 1555." The portrait of Humphrey Chetham, the founder, hangs immediately above the old-fashioned fireplace, under the emblazoned arms of his family. Sitting by the fire, at a little oak table covered. with green baize, I copied the particulars here given, relative to Chetham's bequest to the people of his native locality. I could not but lift my eyes now and then towards that solemn face, inwardly moved by a feeling which reverently said, "Will it do?" The countenance of the fine old merchant seemed to wear an expression of sorrow, not unmingled with quiet anger, at the spectacle of twenty thousand books-intended as a "Free Library," though now, in comparison with its possibilities, free chiefly in name-twenty thousand books, packed together in gloomy seclusion, yet surrounded by a weltering crowd of five hundred thousand people, a great number of whom really hunger for the knowledge here, in a great measure, consigned-with excellent registrative care and bibliopolic skill—to dusty oblivion and the worm. It is true that this cunningly-secreted "Free Library" is open six hours out of the twenty-four, but these hours fall precisely within that part of the day in which people who have to work for their bread are cooped up at their occupations. At night, when the casino, the singing-room, and the ale-house, and all the low temptations of a great city are open, and actively competing for their prey, the Chetham Library has been locked up for hours. I am not sure that the noble-hearted founder would be satisfied with it all, if he saw the relations of these things now. It seems all the more likely that he would not be so, when one observes the tone in which, in his will, he alludes to the administration of certain other local charities existing in his own time. After specially naming the class of "poor boys" for whose benefit his hospital was intended, he specially excludes certain others, "in regard the town of Manchester bath ample means already, (IF SO EMPLOYED) for the maintenance of such impotents." Judging, from the glimpse we have in this passage, of his way of thinking upon matters of this kind, it seems likely that, if it were possible to consult him upon the subject, he would consider it a pity that the twenty thousand books in the library, and the five hundred thousand people outside the walls, are not brought into better acquaintance with each other. So, also, murmurs many a thoughtful man, as he walks by the college gates, in his hours of leisure, when the library is closed. Rostherne Mere. (A CHESHIRE SKETCH.) Though much the centuries take, and much bestow, Whom, slowly pricking from the neighbouring plains, Much, haply, he discerned, unseen by me Angels and demons hovering ever near; But most he saw and felt, I feel and see Linking the "then" and "there" with "now" and "here," The tranquil charm of little Rostherne Mere. -F. ESPINASSE. OSTHERNE MERE was a pet theme with a young friend of mine, and we started together towards that place, at noon, one Sunday in June. Walking up to the Oxford Road Station, we paid our sixpences, and got our tickets to Bowdon, which is the nearest point to Rostherne Mere, by rail; being four miles from the latter place. The day was fine, and the sky clear, except where gauzy clouds floated across it with dreamy grace; as if they had come out for a holiday. Everything seemed to feel that it was Sunday. The fields and groves were drest in their best. It was the Sabbath of the year with them. In a few minutes our fiery steed had whirled us to Bowdon; and we walked up the wooden steps that lead from the station. Turning to the left at the top, we struck into a quiet road that leads in the direction of Rostherne. Bowdon bells were ringing to church as we walked along, surrounded by singing birds, and sunshine, and sweet odours from cottage-gardens by the wayside. Now and then a young sylph, of graceful face and timid mien, tripped past us, in the garb of a lady,-on her way to church, with her books before her; then a knot of pretty, brown-faced village girls, with wild flowers in their hands, going the same way, with all the innocent vivacity of childhood in their look and gait; anon came slowly wending up the path an old couple, bending with age,— the history of a simple life of honourable toil written in their faces, and their attire wearing that touching air which always marks the struggle which decent poverty makes to put its best appearance on. The road, which seemed to be little frequented, shortly brought us to Ashley Hall, a picturesque woodland mansion. A fine avenue of ancestral trees shade the walk to the porch of the old hall, which nestles behind the present modern building. The outbuildings are antiquated and extensive. The house still wears the appearance of an abode of comfort and elegance, bent with that quaint charm which hangs about all fine, old-fashioned rural dwellings. Nothing seemed to be stirring in or about the hall, but the wind, the birds, and the trees; and the two large stone sphinxes in front of the porch looked like petrified genii, so profound was the repose of this green nook. Outside the house the grass was growing over everything, even over the road we walked on, it was creeping. For some distance the road-side was pleasantly soft to the foot with springy verdure, and thick-leaved trees overhung the highway, That faire did spred Their armes abroad, with gray mosse overcaste; until we began to descend into the green pastures of a little vale, through which a clear river winds its murmuring way. A widow lady stood in the middle of the path, waiting till her little orphan lad and his sister drove a herd of cows from the field by the water-side. There was the shade of grief on her pale face, and she returned our salutation with pensive courtesy. We loitered a few minutes by the gate, and helped the lad and his sister to gather the cattle, and then went on, thinking of the affecting group we had left behind us. The wild flowers were plentiful and fine by the way, especially that little blue-eyed beauty, the "Forget-me-not," which grew in great profusion about the hedges. A drove of hungry-looking Irish cattle came wearily up the road, driven by a frieze-coated farmer, who rode upon a rough pony, that never knew a groom; and behind him limped a bare-footed drover, eagerly munching a lump of dry loaf, as he urged forward a two-days-old calf by a twist in the tail, an old application of the screw-propelling principle, which --- |