Unhurt From you my soul could fly, Nor drop one tear, nor heave one sigh; But forced, from C(elia)’s charms, to part, All joy, forsakes my drooping heart. 1797 This enriched pane is very carefully preserved from injury by being covered with wire, and thus the lover’s lament will probably remain so long as the house stands. The “Peacock,” resorted to by the “Peveril of the Peak”; the “Swan,” where the “Independent” pulled up; the “Star,” rendezvous of the “Manchester Telegraph,” are now merely names; and the times they belonged to are perhaps more thoroughly forgotten at Manchester than in any other city. Looking upon the maze of branching tramlines and the hundreds of swiftly running electric cars that begin at five o’clock in the morning and do not cease until after midnight, and are driven more recklessly and at a greater speed than elsewhere, you clearly perceive that Manchester has no time for the past and not much leisure to expend upon the present. X [Sidenote: _THE HUNDRED OF SALFORD_] Crossing the Irwell by Blackfriars Bridge, Salford is reached; a distinction, so far as the pilgrim is concerned, without a difference. Just as, to outward appearance, London and Southwark, and Brighton and Hove are one, so are Manchester and Salford. But in local politics they are all separate and independent, and if an observant eye is turned upon the very tramway cars here, it will be seen that there is not only a Corporation of Manchester but a Corporation also of Salford; and, if the comparative gorgeousness of the Salford tramcars were any criterion, Salford should be the more important place of the two. Their comparative rank is, however, to be judged by the fact that a Lord Mayor heads the Town Council of Manchester and a Mayor that of Salford; but the curious anomaly still exists that Manchester stands in the Hundred of Salford, and thus the larger is, in that respect at least, included within the smaller. This singular anachronism is a relic of those very ancient times when the Hundreds were formed. In that era Manchester itself was a place largely lying in ruin, the result of Norse fire and sword, and Salford, sprung up on the other side of the river, away from the scene of desolation, bid fair to be its successor in all the ages. The thunder of railway trains overhead, and the crash and rumble of heavy-laden lorries along the road, accompany the explorer along his way through Salford. But there is an oasis in all this at the Crescent, where the Irwell, in one of its far-flung loops, approaches and the extensive Peel Park appears. Beyond this again comes unlovely Pendleton, and then the Bolton Road and Irlam-o’-th’-Height—that is to say, Irwellham-on-the-Hill—not so romantic in appearance as in name. Here the road rises to those always grim uplands extending to Bolton and giving that place its old name of Bolton-le-Moors: more grim now than ever, for here is the great coal-field that has made Manchester possible.