L^ VSKETCHE
 
 ANCASHIRE W KETCHES. 
 
 EDWIN WAUGH. 
 
 TIIIKII K.I) IT 
 
 LONDON : SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO. 
 
 MANCHESTER: ALEXANDER IRELAND & CO. 
 
 1869.
 
 PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 T N this volume, relating to a district with which the writer 
 is intimately acquainted, he has gathered up a few points 
 of local interest, and t in connection with these, he has endeavoured 
 to embody something of the traits of present life in South Lanca- 
 shire with descriptions of its scenery, and with such gleanings 
 from its local history as bore upon the subject, and, under the 
 circumstances, were available to him. How far he has succeeded 
 in writing a book which may be instructive or interesting, he is 
 willing to leave to the judgment of those who know the country 
 and the people it deals with. He is conscious that, in comparison 
 with the fertile peculiarities which Lancashire presents to writers 
 who are able to gather them up, and to use them well, this volume 
 is fragmentary and discursive / yet he believes that, so far as it 
 goes, it will not be wholly unacceptable to native readers. 
 
 The historical information, interspersed throughout the volume, 
 has been gleaned from so many sources that it would be a 
 matter of considerable difficulty to give a complete and detailed 
 acknowledgment of it. In every important case, however, this 
 
 10S3S89
 
 iv Preface to First Edition. 
 
 acknowledgment has been given, with some degree of care, as fully 
 and clearly as possible, in the course of the work. Some of this 
 historical matter may prove to be ill-chosen, if not ill-used perhaps 
 in some cases it might have leen obtained in a better form, and 
 even more correctly given but the writer has, at least, the satis- 
 faction of knowing that, with such light as he had, and with such 
 elements as were convenient to him, he has been guided, in bis 
 selection of that kind of information, by a desire to obtain the most 
 correct and the most applicable matter which was available to him. 
 A book which is purely local in its character and bearing, as 
 this is, cannot be expected to have much interest for persons un- 
 connected with the district which it relates to. If there is any 
 hope of its being read at all, that hope is centred there. The 
 subjects it treats upon being local, and the language used in it 
 being often the vernacular of a particular part of the county, these 
 circumstances combine to narrow its circle of acquaintance. But, 
 in order to make that part of it which is given in the dialect as 
 intelligible as possible to all readers not intimate with that form 
 of native language, some care has been taken to explain such words 
 as are unusually ambiguous in form, or in meaning. And here it 
 may be noticed, that persons who know little or nothing of the 
 dialect of Lancashire, are apt to think of it as one in form and 
 sound throughout the county, and expect it to assume one unvaried 
 feature whenever it is represented in writing. This is a mistake, 
 for there often exist considerable shades of difference even in 
 places not more than eight or ten miles apart in the expression, 
 and ;';/ the form of words which mean the same thing; and, some- 
 times, the language of a very limited locality, though bearing the 
 same general characteristics as the dialect of the county in general,
 
 Preface to First Edition. v 
 
 is rendered still more perceptibly distinctive in features, Ay idioms 
 and proverbs peculiar to that particular spot. In this volume* 
 however, the writer has taken care to give the dialect, as well 
 as he could, in such a farm as would convey to the mind of the 
 general reader a correct idea of the mode of pronunciation, and 
 the signification of the idioms, used in the immediate locality which 
 he happens to be writing about. 
 
 Lancashire has had some learned writers who have written 
 upon themes generally and locally interesting. But the successful 
 delineation of the quaint and racy features of its bumble life has 
 fallen to the lot of very few. John Collier, our sound-hearted and 
 clear-headed native humourist of the last century, left behind him 
 some exquisite glimpses of the manner of life in his own nook of 
 Lancashire, at that time. The little which he wrote, although so 
 eccentric and peculiar in character as to be almost unintelligible to 
 the general reader, contains such evidence of genius, and so many 
 rare touches ef nature, that to those who can discern the riches 
 hidden under its quaint vernacular garb, it wears a perennial 
 (harm, in some degree akin to that which characterises the writings 
 of such men as Cervantes and De Foe. And, in our own day, 
 Samuel Bamford emphatically a native man has, with felicitous 
 truth, transferred to his pages some living pictures of Lancashire 
 life, which will probably be read with more interest even than 
 now, long after the writer has been gathered to his fathers. There 
 are others who have illustrated some of the conditions of social 
 existence in Lancashire, in a graphic manner, with more polish 
 and more learning ; but, for native force and truth, John Collier 
 and Samuel Bamford are, probably, the foremost of all genuine 
 expositors of the characteristics of the Lancashire people.
 
 vi Preface to First Edition. 
 
 In conclusion, all that has hitherto been done in this way is 
 small in amount, compared with that which is left undone. The 
 past, and still more the disappearing present, of this important 
 district teem with significant features, which, if caught up and 
 truthfully represented, might, perhaps, be useful to the next 
 generation. 
 
 . W. 
 
 Manchester.
 
 PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. 
 
 C*INCE the second issue of this volume, the matter it contained 
 has been revised and corrected; and considerable additions 
 have been made thereto. But, even yet, the writer is sensible 
 of many crudities remaining in this, bis first venture upon the 
 world of letters. And amongst the new matter which has been 
 added to the present edition, the reader will find, at least, one 
 article " Saint Catharines Chapel" which has no direct con- 
 nection with a volume of " Lancashire Sketches? He must now, 
 however, leave the book to such fate as awaits it ; hoping that, 
 if time and health be granted to him, he may yet do something 
 worthier of the recognition which his efforts have already met 
 with from the people of his native county. 
 
 E. W. 
 
 Manchester.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPEL ISLAND; OK, AN ADVENTURE on THE ULVEKSTONE SANDS 
 
 RAMBLE FROM BURY TO ROCHDALE 
 
 THE COTTAGE or TIM BOBBIN, AND THE VILLAGE OF MILKROW 
 THE BIRTHPLACE OP TIM BOBBIN ....... 
 
 RAMBLE FROM ROCHDALE TO THE TOP OF BLACKSTONE EDGB 
 
 THE TOWN OF HEVWOOD AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD 
 
 THE GRAVE OF GRISLEHURST BOGGART ...... 
 
 BOGGART Ho' CLOUGH 
 
 ROSTHERNE MERE . , ...... 
 
 OLIVER FERNLEAF'S WATCH ........ 
 
 NORBRECK : A SKETCH ON THE LANCASHIRE COAST . 
 WANDERING MINSTRELS; OR, WAILS OF THE WORKLES* POOR 
 A WAYSIDE INCIDENT, DURING THE COTTON FAMINB . . 
 SAINT CATHERINE'S CHAPEL; OR, THE PRETTY ISLAND BAY . 
 
 THE KNOCKER-UP 
 
 THE COMPLAINT OF A SAD COMPLAINT ...... 
 
 16 
 
 4' 
 70 
 
 . 104 
 1 60 
 
 . 198 
 214 
 
 233 
 =45 
 
 253 
 275
 
 LANCASHIRE SKETCHES. 
 
 Chapel Manfc; 
 
 OR, 
 
 gUrfwntuw on Hlbmtone 
 
 The wills above be done ! but I would fain die a dry death. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 HAVE spent many a pleasant day at the village of 
 Bardsea, three miles south of Ulverstone. It stands 
 close to Conishead Park, high upon a fertile elbow of 
 land, the base of which is washed on two sides by the 
 waters of Morecambe Bay. It is an old hamlet, of about fifty 
 houses, nearly all in one wandering street, which begins at the 
 bottom of a knoll, on the Ulverstone side, and then climbs to a 
 point near the summit, where three roads meet, and where the 
 houses on one side stand back a few yards, leaving an open 
 ground like a little market-place. Upon the top of the knoll, a 
 few yards east of this open space, the church stands, overlooking 
 sea and land all round. From the centre of the village the street 
 winds on towards the beach. At this end a row of neat houses 
 stands at a right angle, upon an eastward incline, facing the sea. 
 The tide washes up within fifty yards of these houses at high 
 water, At the centre of the village, too, half a dozen pleasant 
 cottages leave the street, and stand out, like the fin of a fish, in a 
 quiet lane, which leads down into a little shady glen at the foot
 
 2 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 of Birkrigg. The same lane leads, by another route, over the top 
 of that wild hill, into the beautiful vale of Urswick. Bardsea is 
 a pretty, out of the way place, and the country about it is very 
 picturesque and varied. It is close to the sea, and commands a 
 fine view of the bay, and of its opposite shores, for nearly forty 
 miles. About a mile west of the village, Birkrigg rises high 
 above green pastures and leafy dells that lap his feet in beauty. 
 Northward, the road to Ulverstone leads through the finest part 
 of Conishead Park, which begins near the end of the village. 
 This park is one of the most charming pieces of undulant wood- 
 land scenery I ever beheld. An old writer calls it " the Paradise 
 of Furness." On the way to Ulverstone, from Bardsea, the 
 Leven estuary shows itself in many a beautiful gleam through 
 the trees of the park; and the fells of Cartmel are in full view 
 beyond. It is one of the pleasantest, one of the quietest walks 
 in the kingdom. 
 
 The last time I saw Bardsea it was about the middle of July. 
 I had gone there to spend a day or two with a friend. There 
 had not been a cloud on the heavens for a week ; and the smell 
 of new hay came on every sigh that stirred the leaves. The 
 village looked like an island of sleepy life, with a sea of greenery 
 around it, surging up to the very doors of its white houses, and 
 flinging the spray of nature's summer harmonies all over the place. 
 The songs of birds, the rustle of trees, the ripple of the brook at 
 the foot of the meadows, and the murmur of the sea, all seem to 
 float together through the nest of man, making it drowsy with 
 pleasure. It was fairly lapped in soothing melody. Every breath 
 of air brought music on its wings ; and every song was laden 
 with sweet smells. Nature loved the little spot, for she caressed 
 it and croodled about it, like a mother singing lullabies to a tired 
 child. And Bardsea was pleased and still, as if it knew it all. 
 It seemed the enchanted ear of the landscape ; for everywhere 
 else the world was alive with the jocund restlessness of the 
 season. My friend and I wandered about from morning to 
 night. In the heat of the day the white roads glared in the 
 sun ; and, in some places, the air seemed to tremble at about a 
 man's height from the ground, as I have seen it tremble above a 
 burning kiln sometimes. But for broad day we had the velvet 
 glades and shady woods of Conishead to ramble in ; and many 
 a rich old lane, and some green dells, where little brooks ran 
 whimpling their tiny undersongs, in liquid trebles, between banks
 
 Chapel Island. 3 
 
 of nodding wild flowers. Our evening walks were more delight- 
 ful still ; for when soft twilight came, melting the distinctions 
 of the landscape in her dreamy loveliness, she had hardly time 
 to draw "a thin veil o'er the day" before sea and land began to 
 shine again under the radiance of the moon. Wandering among 
 such scenes, at such a time, was enough to touch any man's 
 heart with gratitude for the privilege of existence in this world 
 of ours. 
 
 My friend's house stands upon a buttressed shelf of land, half- 
 way up the slope which leads from the shore into Bardsea. It 
 is the most seaward dwelling of the place; and it is bowered 
 about on three sides with little plots of garden, one of them kept 
 as a playground for the children. It commands a glorious view 
 of the bay, from Hampsfell, all round by Arnside and Lancaster, 
 down to Fleet wood. Sometimes, at night, I have watched the 
 revolutions of the Fleetwood light, from the front of the house, 
 whilst listening to the surge of the tide along the shore, at the 
 foot of the hill. 
 
 One day, when dinner was over, we sat down to smoke at an 
 open window, which looked out upon the bay. It was about 
 the turning of the tide, for a fisherman's cart was coming slowly 
 over the sands, from the nets at low water. The day was un- 
 usually hot i hut, before we had smoked long, I felt as if I 
 couldn't rest any longer indoors. 
 
 "Where shall we go this afternoon?" said I, knocking the 
 ashes out of my pipe upon the outside sill. 
 
 "Well," replied my friend, "I have been thinking that we 
 couldn't do better than stroll into the park a while. What do 
 you say ?" 
 
 "Agreed," said I. "It's a bonny piece of woodland. I 
 dare say many a Roman soldier has been pleased with the place, 
 as he marched through it, sixteen centuries ago." 
 
 "Perhaps so," said he, smiling, and taking his stick from the 
 corner ; " but the scene must have been very different then. 
 Come along." 
 
 At the garden gate we found three of his flaxen-headed 
 children romping with a short-legged Scotch terrier, called 
 " Trusty." The dog's wild eyes shone in little slits of dusky 
 fire through the rusty thicket of gray hair which overhung them. 
 "Trusty" was beside himself with joy when we came into the 
 road; and he worried our shoes, and shook our trousers' slops
 
 4 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 in a sham fury, as if they were imaginary rats ; and he bounced 
 about and barked, till the quiet scene, from Bardsea to Birkrigg, 
 rang with his noisy glee. Some of the birds about us seemed to 
 stop singing for a few seconds, and, after they had taken an 
 admiring look sideway at the little fellow, they burst out again 
 louder than ever, and in more rollicking strains, heartily infected 
 with the frisky riot of that little four-legged marlocker. Both 
 the dog and the children clamoured to go with us. My friend 
 hesitated as first one, then another, tugged at him, and said : "Pa, 
 let me go." Turning to me, he scratched his head, and said : 
 "I've a good mind to take Willie." The lad instantly gave a 
 twirl round on one heel, and clapped his hands, and then laid 
 hold of his father's coat-lap, by way of clenching the bargain at 
 once. But, just then, his mother appeared at the gate, and said : 
 "Eh, no, Willie, you'd better not go. You'll be so tired. Come, 
 stay with me. That's a good boy." Willie let go his hold 
 slowly, and fell back with a disappointed look. "Trusty" 
 seemed to know that there was a hitch in the matter, for he 
 suddenly became quieter ; and, going up to Willie, he licked his 
 hands consolingly, and then, sitting down beside him, he looked 
 round from one to another, to see how the thing was to end. 
 
 " Don't keep tea waiting for us," said my friend , " we'll be 
 back in time for an early supper." 
 
 " Very well," replied his good wife ; " we'll have something 
 nice. Don't be late." 
 
 The dog was now whining and wrestling in the arms of Willie, 
 who was holding him back. We made our bows, and bade 
 " Good-bye" to the children and to their mother, and then turned 
 up the road. Before we had got many yards, she called out : 
 
 " I say, Chris., if you go as far as Ulverstone, call at Mrs. 
 Seatle's, and at Town and Fell's, for some things which I ordered. 
 Bella Rigg can bring them down in her cart. These children 
 want a new skipping rope, too : and you might bring something 
 for Willie.'' 
 
 The little girls begun to dance about, shaking their sunny locks, 
 and singing, "Eh, a new skipping rope ! a new skipping rope!" 
 Then the youngest seized her father's hand, and cocking up her 
 rosy button-hole of a mouth, she said, " Pa ! Pa ! lift me up ! I 
 want to tell you somefin." 
 
 "Well; what is it, pet?" said he, taking her in his arms. 
 
 Clipping his neck as far as she could, she said, " Div me a tis,
 
 Chapel Island. .- 
 
 first." And then she whispered in his ear, "If you'll buy 
 me a big doll, I'll sing, ' Down in a low and drassy bed,' four 
 times, when you turn home, now then. ' Trusty' eated my 
 odder doll, when we was playin' shop in de dardin." And then 
 he had to kiss them again, and promise I know not what. 
 
 Once more we said " Good bye," and walked up towards the 
 white village ; the chime of sweet voices sinking into a silvery 
 hum as we got farther off. Everything in Bardsea was unusually 
 still. Most of the doors and windows were open ~, and, now 
 and then, somebody peeped out as we passed by, and said it was 
 " a fine day." Turning round to look at the sands, we saw the 
 dumpy figure of " Owd Manuel," the fisherman, limping up 
 from the foot of the slope, with his coat slung upon his arm. 
 The old man stopped, and wiped his forehead, and gave his 
 crutch a flourish, by way of salutation. We waved our hats 
 in reply, and went on. At the centre of the village stands 
 the comfortable inn, kept by " Old Gilly," the quaint veteran 
 who, after spending the prime of manhood in hard service among 
 the border smugglers, has settled down to close the evening of 
 his life in this retired nest. Here, too, all was still, except the 
 measured sound of a shoemaker's hammer, ringing out from the 
 open door of a cottage, where "Cappel" sat at his bench, beating 
 time upon a leather sole to the tune of a country song. And, on 
 the shady side, next door to the yard wall, which partly encloses 
 the front of the old inn, the ruddy, snow-capped face and burly 
 figure of "Old Tweedler" was visible, as still as a statue. He 
 was in his shirt sleeves, leaning against the door-cheek of his little 
 grocery shop, smoking a long pipe, and looking dreamily at the 
 sunny road. "Tweedler" needs a good deal of wakening at any 
 time; but when he is once fairly wakened, he is a tolerable player 
 on the clarionet, and not a very bad fiddler; and he likes to talk 
 about his curious wanderings up and down the kingdom with 
 show-folk. When the old man had found us out, and had partly 
 succeeded in getting his heavy limbs into a mild disposition to 
 move, he sidled forth from his little threshold, and came towards 
 us, gurgling something from his throat that was not unlike the 
 low growl of an old hoarse dog. His gruff, slow-motioned voice 
 sounded clear all around, waking the echoes of the sleepy houses, 
 as he said, " Well, gen-tle-men. What ? Wheer are you for, 
 to-day r" We told him that we were going down to the Priory, 
 for a stroll; but we should like to call at "Gilly's" first, for a
 
 6 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 few minutes, if he would go in with us. " Well," said he ; " it's 
 a very het day. an' I don't mind hevin' an odd gill. In wi' ye, 
 an' I'll follow in a minute," and then he sidled back to his nest. 
 
 There was not a sound of life in "Old Gilly's" house; but 
 the trim cap of his kind dame was visible inside, bobbing to and 
 fro by the window of the little bar. " Gilly," in his kind-hearted 
 way, always calls her " Mammy." We looked in at the bar, and 
 the old lady gave us a cordial welcome. "My good-man has 
 just gone to lie down," said she; "but I'll go and tell him." 
 We begged that she would let him rest, and bring us three glasses 
 of her best ale. The sun shone in strongly at the open back door. 
 At the rear .of the house, there is a shady verandah, and a garden 
 in front of it. There we sat down, looking at the bright bay. 
 The city of Lancaster was very distinct, on the opposite side of 
 the water, more than twenty miles off. In a few minutes we 
 heard "Tweedler's cart-horse tread, as he came through the 
 lobby, with two books in his hand. 
 
 " There," said he, handing one of them to me ; " I've turned 
 that up amang a lot o' lumber i't house. I warnd it's just the 
 thing for ye. What the devil is't, think ye ? For it's past my skill." 
 
 It was an old, well-thumbed Latin Delectus, with one back 
 ofi^ and several leaves gone. It was not of much use to me ; 
 but when the old man said, "Now, that's a fine book, I'll 
 awarnd , an' -I'll mak' ye a present on't," I felt bound to receive 
 it thankfully ; and I did so. 
 
 r< An' this," said he, holding up the other; "is a book o' sangs. 
 Cummerlan' sangs." 
 
 It was a thin volume, in papered boards a cheap edition of 
 Anderson's ballads printed in double column, royal octavo. 
 
 "Ay," replied my friend ; I should like to look at that." 
 
 "Varra well," said Tweedler; "put it i' your pocket. I'll 
 land it ye." And then, as if half-repenting, he continued, "But 
 I set a deal o' store o' that book. I don't think as I could get 
 another for ony money." 
 
 "You shall have it back in a day or two," said my friend. 
 
 "Oh," replied Tweedler, "it's all reight wi' ye. But I 
 wouldn't ha' lant it onybody, mind ye." 
 
 My friend put the book in his pocket, promising to take 
 especial care of it ; and then we drank up, and came away ; and 
 Tweedler sauntered back to lean against the door-cheek, and 
 smoke
 
 Cbapel Island. 7 
 
 It was about half-past one when we walked out at the land- 
 ward end of the village. The only person we met was a 
 horseman, riding hastily up from the skirt of the park. As he 
 sped by I recognised the tall figure and benevolent face of Dr. 
 Anderson, of Ulverstone. Near Bardsea Hall an old lane leads 
 off at the right-hand of the road, down to the sea-beach, from 
 whence there is a pleasant walk along the shore of the Leven 
 estuary, to a little fishing village, called Sandside, and thence a 
 good road, between meadow lands, up into Ulverstone. After 
 a minute's conversation, at the end of this lane, we agreed to go 
 that way. When we came out upon the shore, my friend 
 stopped, and looked across the sands. 
 
 "Was you ever on Chapel Island?" said he, pointing 
 towards it. 
 
 " No," replied I ^ " but I should like to see that spot. Are 
 there any remains of the old chantry left ?" 
 
 "A few," said he j " mostly incorporated with the house of 
 a fisherman who lives on the island. But we'll go over to it. 
 There's nice time to get across before the tide comes in. It's 
 not much more than a mile." 
 
 I was pleased with the idea of seeing this little historic island, 
 of which I had read and heard so much ; so we strode out 
 towards it at once. The sands between looked as level as a 
 bowling-green, and perfectly dry ; and it did not seem to me 
 more than half the distance my friend had said. Before we had 
 gone many yards he began a story : 
 
 "The last time I was on the island there were several friends 
 But hold! we had better take something to eat and drink. They'll 
 have next to nothing there ; and we shall have to stop till the 
 next ebb. Wait here. I'll run back. I shan't be many minutes." 
 And away he went to the green lane. 
 
 There was an old black boat on the sands, close to where he 
 had left me. I got into it, and, pulling my hat over my eyes to 
 shade the sun away, I lay down on my back and listened to the 
 birds in Conishead Park. It was something more than a quarter 
 of an hour before he appeared at the end of the lane again, with 
 a brown bottle in one hand and with pockets well stored. 
 Without stopping an instant, he walked right out upon the 
 sands, wiping the perspiration from his brow as he went. 
 Staring straight at the island, he said, " Come on. We've no 
 time to lose, now. But we can manage it." I remember
 
 g Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 fancying that there was an unusual earnestness in the tone of his 
 voice ; but I did not think much more about it at the time, for 
 the sands still seemed quite dry between us and the island ; so I 
 followed him in silence, looking round at the beautiful scene, 
 with my mind at ease. My friend was a tall, lithe man, in the 
 prime of life, and a very good walker. I had not been well for 
 some days previous, and I began to feel that the rate he was 
 going at was rather too much for me. Besides, I had a pair of 
 heavy, double-soled boots on, and my thick coat was loaded with 
 books and papers. But I laboured on, perspiring freely. I 
 thought that I could manage well enough to keep up with him 
 for the distance we had to go. In a few minutes we began to 
 come to patches of wet sand, where the feet sank at every step, 
 and our progress was slower, though a good deal more difficult. 
 We did not seem to get much nearer the island, though we were 
 walking so hard. This tried me still more ; and, not seeing any 
 need for such a desperate hurry, I said, "Don't go so fast!" 
 But he kept up the pace, and, pointing to where a white sail 
 was gliding up the other side of the island, towards Ulverstone, 
 he said, " Come along ! The main channel's filling ! We've a 
 channel to cross on this side, yet. D'ye see yon white line ? It's 
 the tide rushing in ! Come on ! We can't turn back now !" 
 It was only then that I began to see how we were situated ; and 
 I tramped on at his heels, through the soft wet sand, perspiring 
 and panting, and still without seeming to get over much ground. 
 In a few minutes we came to a shallow channel, about eight or 
 ten yards across. We splashed through, without speaking. It 
 only took us a little above the knee ; but, I perceived that the 
 water was rising rapidly, Thinking that the danger was over, 
 I stammered out, " Stop ! Slacken a bit ! We're all right now ! " 
 But the tone, as well as the words of his reply, startled me, as 
 he shot ahead, crying, " This is not it ! This is nothing ! Come 
 on!" I was getting exhausted; and, when he cried out, 
 "Double !" and broke into a run, I had not breath to spare for 
 an answer ; but I struggled on desperately. The least false step 
 would have brought me down ; and, if I had fallen, I think that 
 even that delay would have been more than we had to spare. 
 Three or four minutes brought us up to the channel he had 
 spoken of. It was an old bed of the river Leven. It must have 
 been from fifteen to twenty yards wide at that moment, and the 
 tide was increasing it at a terrible rate. When we got to the
 
 Cbapel Island. 9 
 
 edge of the water, I was so done up that I panted out : " Stop ! 
 I can't go so fast !" But my friend turned half round, with a 
 wild look, and almost screamed : "But you must ! It's death 1" 
 Then we went into the water, without any more words. I was 
 a little on one side of him, and about two yards in the rear. It 
 is a wonder to me now how I got through that deep, strong, 
 tidal current. The water must have revived me a little, un- 
 consciously to myself, at the time. Before we had got to the 
 middle, I saw the book of ballads in the side pocket of my 
 friend's shooting coat disappearing in the water as he went 
 deeper into the channel. My clothes began to grow heavy, and 
 the powerful action of the tide swayed me about so much that 
 I could hardly keep my feet, and I expected every moment being 
 whelmed over. But somehow I strove oh, the water deepening 
 at every step. A thousand thoughts crowded into my mind 
 whilst wading that channel. I remember distinctly the terrible 
 stillness of the scene ; the frightful calm of the blue sky ; the 
 rocky island, with its little grove of trees, waving gracefully in 
 the sunshine all so beautiful, yet all looking down with such a 
 majestic indifference upon us, as we wrestled for life with the 
 rising tide. About mid-channel, when the water was high up 
 my breast, my friend gave a wild shout for help, and I instantly 
 did the same. The island was not much more than forty yards 
 off. As my friend turned his head, I caught a glimpse of his 
 haggard look, and I thought all was over The rocks re-echoed 
 our cries ; but everything was still as death, except the little 
 grove of trees waving in the sunshine. There was not a living 
 soul in sight. My heart sank, and I remember feeling, for an 
 instant, as if it was hardly worth while struggling any longer. 
 And here let me bear testimony to a brave act on the part of 
 my friend. In the deepest part of the channel, when the water 
 was near the top of my shoulders, he put out his stick sideway, 
 and said, " Get hold !" I laid only a feeble grasp upon it, for I 
 had enough to do to keep my feet. When we had waded about 
 three yards in this way, we began to see that we were ascending 
 the opposite bank rapidly, for it was steeper than the other one. 
 In two minutes more we were out upon the dry sands, with our 
 clothes clinging heavily about us, and our hearts beating wild 
 with mingled emotions. "Now/ 1 said I, panting for breath, 
 "let's sit down a minute." "No, no!" replied he in a resolute 
 tone, pushing on ; " come farther off." A walk of about thirty
 
 jo Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 yards brought us to the foot of the rocks. We clambered pain- 
 fully up from stone to stone, till we came upon a little footpath 
 which led through the grove and along the garden to the old 
 fisherman's cottage, on the north side of the island. As we 
 entered the grove I found that my friend had kept hold of the 
 brown bottle all the way. I did not notice this till we came to 
 the first patch of grassy ground, where he flung the bottle down 
 and walked on. He told me afterwards that he believed it had 
 helped to steady him whilst coming through the channel. 
 
 The fisherman's cottage is the only dwelling on the little island. 
 We found the door open, and the birds were singing merrily 
 among the green bushes about the entrance. There was nobody 
 in but the old fisherman's wife> and she was deaf. We might 
 have shouted long enough before she could have heard us ; and 
 if she had heard, the poor old body could hardly have helped us. 
 When we got to the door, she was busy with something at the 
 fire, and she did not hear our approach. But, turning round, 
 and seeing us standing there, she gazed a few seconds with a 
 frightened look, and then, lifting up both hands, she cried out, 
 "Eh, dear o' me; good folk ! Whativver's to do? Whereivver 
 han yo cum fra? Eh; heawivver han yo getten ower?" 
 
 We told our tale in a few words; and then she began again : 
 
 " Good lorjus days, childer ! What browt yo through t' 
 channel at sich an ill time as this ? It's a marcy 'at yo weren't 
 draan'd mony a time ower ' It mud ha' bin my awn lads ! Eh, 
 what trouble there'd ha' bin for someb'dy, What, ye'll ha' 
 mothers livin', likely; happen wives and childer? . , Eh, 
 dear o' me ! Bud cum in wi' ye ! Whativver are ye stonnin' 
 theer for? Cum in, an' get your claes off" do ! an' get into 
 bed this minute," said she, pointing to a little, low-roofed room 
 in the oldest part of the house. 
 
 The water from our clothes was running over the floor ; but 
 when we spoke about it in the way of apology, the old woman 
 said, " Nivver ye mind 't waiter. Ye've had watter enough for 
 yance, I should think. Get in theer, I tell ye ; an' tak' your weet 
 claes ofF. Now, don't stan' gabblin', but creep into bed, like 
 good lads ; an' I'll bring ye some het tea to drink. . . Eh, 
 but ye owt to be thankful 'at ye are wheer ye are ! . . Ye'd 
 better go into that inside room ; It'll be quieter. Leave your 
 claes i' this nar room, an' I'll hing 'em up to dry. An' put
 
 Chapel Island. II 
 
 some o' thoose aad shirts on. They're poor, but they're com- 
 fortable. Now, in vvi' ye ! ye can talk at efter." 
 
 The old woman had four grown-up sons, labourers and 
 fishermen; and there was plenty of working clothes belonging 
 to them, lying about the bedroom. After we had stript our 
 wet things, and flung them down, one after another, with a 
 splash, we put on a rough shirt a-piece, and crept into bed. In 
 a few minutes she came in with a quart pitcher full of hot tea, 
 and a cup to drink it from ; and, setting it down upon a chair at 
 the bedside, she said, " Now, get that into ye, and hev a bit of 
 a sleep. Eh, dear o' me ! It's a marcy ye warn't draan'd !" 
 
 We lay still, talking and looking about us ; but we could not 
 sleep. The excitement we had gone through had left a band of 
 intense pain across the lower part of my forehead, as if a hot 
 wire was burning into it. The walls of the room we lay in 
 were partly those of the ancient chapel which gives name to the 
 island. In fact, the little ragged, weed-grown belfrey still stood 
 above our heads, almost the only relic of the ruined chantry, 
 except the foundations, and some pieces of the old walls built up 
 into the cottage. This chapel was founded above five centuries 
 ago, by the monks of Furness. Here they prayed daily "for the 
 safety of the souls of such as crossed the sands with the morning 
 tide." The Priory of Conishead was charged with the main- 
 tenance of guides across this estuary, which is perhaps the most 
 dangerous part of the Morecambe Sands. Baines says of the 
 route across these sands : " The tract is from Holker Hall to 
 Plumpton Hall, keeping Chapel Island a little to the left ; and 
 the mind of a visitor is filled with a mixture of awe and gratitude 
 when, in a short time after he has traversed this estuary, almost 
 dry shod, he beholds the waters advancing into the bay, and 
 bearing stately vessels towards the harbour of Ulverstone, over 
 the very path which he has so recently trodden." I can imagine 
 how solemn the pealing of that little island chapel's bell must 
 have sounded upon the shores of the estuary, floating over those 
 dangerous waters its daily warning of the uncertainty of human 
 life. Perhaps the bodies of drowned men might have lain where 
 we were lying ; or travellers rescued from the tide by those 
 ancient ministers of religion might have listened with grateful 
 hearts to the prayers and thanksgivings offered up in that vene- 
 rable chantry. The chastening interest of old pious usage clings
 
 I2 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 to the little island still ; and it stands in the midst of the waters, 
 preaching in mute eloquence to every thoughtful mind. There 
 was something in the sacred associations of the place ; there was 
 something in the mouldering remnant of the little chapel, which 
 helped to deepen the interest of our eventful visit that day. We 
 could not sleep. The sun shone in aslant at the one tiny window 
 of our bedroom, and the birds were singing merrily outside. As 
 we lay there, thinking and talking about these things, my friend 
 said, " I feel thankful now that I did not bring Willie with me. 
 If I had done so, nothing could have saved us. The tide had 
 come in behind, and a minute more at the channel would have 
 been too much." 
 
 After resting about three hours, we got up, and put on some 
 of the cast-off clothes which had been worn by the old woman's 
 sons whilst working in the land. My trousers were a good deal 
 too long, and they were so stiff with dried slutch that they almost 
 stood up of themselves. When they were on, I felt as if I was 
 dressed in sheet-iron. I never saw two stranger figures than we 
 cut that day, as we entered the kitchen again, each amusing 
 himself with the other's comical appearance. 
 
 "Never ye mind," said the old woman; "there's naabody to 
 see ye bud mysel; ye may think varra weel "at ye're alive to 
 wear owt at all. But sart'ny ye looken two bonny baygles ! I 
 daat varra mich whether your awn folk would knaw ye. It 
 quite alters your fayturs. I should't tak ye to be aboon nine- 
 pence to t' shillin' at the varra most. As for ye," said she, 
 addressing myself, " ye'n na 'casion to talk , for ye're as complete 
 a flay-crow as ivver I set e'en on," 
 
 The kitchen was cleaned up, and the things emptied from 
 our pockets lay about. Here books and papers were opened 
 out to dry There stockings hung upon a line , and our boots 
 were reared against the fender, with their soles turned to the 
 fire. On the dresser two little piles of money stood, and on a 
 round table were the sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs which my 
 friend had brought in his pockets. 
 
 "What are ye for wi' this?" said the old woman, pointing to 
 the eatables. "One or two o't eggs are crushed a bit, but t' 
 hanrs naa warse, 'at I can see." 
 
 "Let us taste what it is like," said my friend. 
 
 "That's reight," replied she ; an' ye'll hev a cup o' het tea to 
 it. I have it ready here."
 
 Chapel Island. 13 
 
 The tea was very refreshing ; but we couldn't eat much, for 
 we had not quite recovered from the late excitement After a 
 little meal, we went out to walk upon the island- Our damp 
 clothes were fluttering upon the green bushes about the cottage. 
 They were drying fast ; for, though the sun was hot. a cool 
 breeze swept over the bay from the south-west. We wandered 
 through the grove, and about the garden, or rather the " kail- 
 yard," for the chief things grown in it were potatoes, cabbages, 
 brocoli, pot-herbs, and such like things, useful at dinner time. 
 There were very few flowers in it, and they were chiefly such 
 as had to take care of themselves. In the grove there were little 
 bowery nooks, and meandering footpaths, mostly worn by 
 visitors from the neighbouring shores The island has been 
 much larger than it is now. Great quantities of limestone rock 
 have been sold, and carried away to the mainland ; and it seems 
 as if this little interesting leaf of local history was fated to 
 ultimate destruction in that way. We walked all round it, and 
 then we settled down upon a grassy spot, at the south-western 
 edge, overlooking the channel we had waded through. There 
 was something solemn in the thought that, instead of gazing 
 upon the beautiful bay, we might have been lying at that 
 moment in the bed of the channel there, with the sunny waters 
 rippling above us, or drifting out with the retiring tide to an 
 uncrowded grave in the western sea. The thick woods of 
 Conishead looked beautiful on the opposite shore, with the white 
 turrets of the Priory rising out of their embowering shades. A 
 little south of that the spire of Bardsea church pointed heaven- 
 ward from the summit of a green hill, marking the spot where 
 the village stood hidden from our view. White sails were 
 gliding to and fro upon the broad bay, like great swans with 
 sunlit wings. It was a beautiful scene. We sat looking at it 
 till we began to feel chill, and then we went back to the cottage. 
 
 About six o'clock the old fisherman returned home from 
 Ulverstone ; and, soon after, two of his sons arrived from 
 Conishead Park, where they had been working at a deep drain. 
 They were tall, hardy-looking men, about middle-age. The old 
 fisherman, who knows the soundings of the sands all round, 
 seemed to think we had picked our way to the island as foolishly 
 as it was possible to do. He talked about the mattei as if we 
 had as good a knowledge of the sands as himself, and had set out 
 with the express intention of doing a dangerous exploit.
 
 14 
 
 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 "Now," said he, pointing a good way north of the way we 
 had crossed, ' if ye'd ha' come o'er by theer, ye mud ha' done 
 it easy. Bud, what the devil, ye took the varra warst nook o't 
 channel. / wonder as ye weren't draarid. I've helped to get 
 mony a ane aat o' that hole baith deead an' alive. I yence 
 pulled a captain aat by th' yure o't' yed, as had Bailed all ower 
 t* warld, nearly, An' we'd summat to do to bring him raand, 
 an' all. He was that far geean. . . Now, if ye'd ha' getten 
 upo' yon bank," continued he, "ye mud ha' managed to ha' 
 studden till help had come to ye. What, ye wadn't ha' bin 
 varra mich aboon t' middle. . . . But it's getten near law 
 watter. I mun be off to t' nets. Will ye go daan wi' me ?" 
 
 There were two sets of "stake nets" belonging to the island; 
 one on the north end, and the other on the western side, in our 
 own memorable channel. The sons went to those on the north; 
 and the old man took a stick in his hand, and a large basket on 
 his arm, and we followed him down the rocks to the other nets. 
 They are great cages of strong network, supported by lofty 
 poles, or stakes, from which they take their name. They are 
 so contrived that the fish can get into them at high water, but 
 cannot escape with the retiring tide. There was rather more 
 than a foot of water at the bottom of the nets ; but there was 
 not a fish visible, till the old man stepped in ; and then I saw 
 that flukes lay thick about the bottom, half-hidden in the sand. 
 We waded in, and helped to pick them up, till the great basket 
 was about half full. He then closed the net, and came away, 
 complaining that it was "nobbut a poor catch." When we got 
 to the cottage we put on our own clothes, which were quite 
 dry. And, after we had picked out two dozen of the finest 
 flukes, which the old man strung upon a stout cord for ease of 
 carriage, we bade adieu to the fisherman and his family, and we 
 walked away over the sands, nearly by the way we had come to 
 the island. 
 
 The sun had gone down behind old Birkrigg ; but his westering 
 splendour still empurpled the rugged tops of the Cartmel hills. 
 The woods of Conishead were darkening into shade; and the 
 low of cattle came, mellowed by distance, from the rich pastures 
 of Furness. It was a lovely evening. Instead of going up the 
 green lane which leads to the landward end of Bard sea, we 
 turned southward, along the shore, and took a grass-grown shady 
 path, which winds round the sea-washed base of the hill upon
 
 Chapel Island. I s; 
 
 which the church stands and so up into the village by a good 
 road from the beach The midges were dancing their airy 
 rounds ; the throstle's song began to ring clearer in the stilling 
 woods ; and the lone ouzel, in her leafy covert, chanted little fits 
 of complaining melody, as if she had lost something. There 
 were other feathered lingerers here and there in those twilight 
 woods, not willing yet to go to rest, through unwearied joyful- 
 ness of heart, and still singing on, like children late at play, who 
 have to be called in by their mothers as night comes on. When 
 we drew near my friend's house, he said, ' Now, we had better 
 not mention this little affair to our people." But, as we sat at 
 supper that night, I could not help feeling thankful that we 
 were eating fish instead of being eaten by them.
 
 itamble from 23urg to 
 
 ''Its hardly in a body's pow'r 
 To keep, at times' fra being sour. 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 jjNE fine afternoon, at the end of February, I had some 
 business to do in Bury, which kept me there till evening. 
 As twilight came on, the skies settled slowly into a 
 gorgeous combination of the grandest shapes and hues, 
 which appeared to canopy the country for miles around. The 
 air was clear, and it was nipping cold ; and every object 
 within sight stood out in beautiful relief in that fine trans- 
 parence, softened by the deepening shades of evening. The 
 world seemed to stand still and meditate, and inhale silently the 
 air of peace which pervaded that tranquil hour of closing day, 
 as if all things on earth had caught the spirit of " meek nature's 
 evening comments on the fuming shows and vanities of man." 
 The glare of daylight is naturally fitted for bustle and business, 
 but such an eventide as this looked the very native hour of 
 devout thought, and recovery from the details of worldly occu- 
 pation. It is said that the town of Bury takes its name from 
 the Saxon word byri, a burgh, or castle. One of the twelve 
 ancient Saxon fortresses of Lancashire stood in the place now 
 called "Castle Croft," close to the town, and upon the banks of 
 the old course of the river Irvvell. Immediately below the 
 eminence, upon which the castle once stood, a low tract of 
 ground, of considerable extent, stretches away from below the 
 semicircular ridge upon which the northern extremity of the 
 town is situated, up the valley of the Irwell. Less than fifty 
 years ago this tract was a great stagnant swamp, where, in 
 certain states of the weather the people of the neighbourhood
 
 Ramlle from Bury to Rochdale. 1 7 
 
 could see the weird antics of the "Wild Fire," or "Jack o' 
 Lantern," that fiend of morass and fen. An old medical gentle- 
 man, of high repute, who has lived his whole life in the town, 
 lately assured me that he remembers well that, during the existence 
 of that poisonous swamp, there was a remarkable prevalence of 
 fever and ague amongst the people living in its neighbourhood ; 
 which diseases have since then comparatively disappeared from 
 the locality. There is something rich in excellent suggestions in 
 the change which has been wrought in that spot. The valley, 
 so long fruitful of pestilences, is now drained and cleared, and 
 blooms with little garden allotments, belonging to the working 
 people thereabouts. Oft as I chance to pass that way, on 
 Saturday afternoons, or holidays, there they are, working in 
 their little plots, sometimes assisted by their children, or their 
 wives ; a very pleasant scene. 
 
 I lingered in the market-place a little while, looking at the 
 parish church, with its new tower and spire, and at the fine pile 
 of new stone buildings, consisting of the Derby Hotel, the Town 
 Hall, and the Athenaeum. South Lancashire has, for a very long 
 time past, been chiefly careful about its hard productive work, 
 and practicable places to do it in ; and has taken little thought 
 about artistic ornament of any sort ; but the strong old county 
 palatine begins to flower out a little here and there, and 
 this will increase as the wealth of the county becomes in- 
 fluenced by elevated taste. In this new range of buildings, there 
 was a stateliness and beauty, which made the rest of the town of 
 Bury look smaller and balder than ever it seemed to me before. 
 It looked like a piece of the west end of London, dropped among 
 a cluster of weavers' cottages. But my reflections took another 
 direction. At "The Derby," there, thought I, will be sup- 
 plied to anybody who can command ''the one thing needful" 
 sumptuous eating and drinking, fine linen, and downy beds, hung 
 with damask curtaining; together with grand upholstery, glittering 
 chandelier and looking-glass, and more than enough of other 
 ornamental garniture of all sorts ; a fine cook's shop and dormi- 
 tory, where a man might make shift to tickle a few of his five 
 senses very prettily, if he was so disposed. A beggar is not 
 likely to put up there; but a lord might chance to go to bed 
 there, and dream that he was a beggar. At the other end of 
 these fine buildings, the new Athenaeum was quietly rising into 
 the air. The wants to be provided for in that edifice were 
 c
 
 ,8 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 quite of another kind. There is in the town of Bury, as, more 
 or less, everywhere, a sprinkling of naturally active and noble 
 minds, struggling through the hard crust of ignorance and diffi- 
 culty, towards mental light and freedom. Such salt as this poor 
 world of ours has in it, is not unfrequently found among these 
 humble strugglers. I felt sure that such as these, at least, 
 would watch the laying of the stones of this new Athenaeum 
 with a little interest. That is their grand citadel, thought I; 
 and from thence, the artillery of a few old books shall help to 
 batter tyranny and nonsense about the ears; for there is a 
 reasonable prospect that there, the ample page of knowledge, 
 "rich with the poils of time," will be unfolded to all who desire 
 to consult it; and that from thence the seeds of thought may 
 yet be sown over a little space of the neighbouring mental soil. 
 This fine old England of ours will some day find, like the rest of 
 the world, that it is not mere wealth and luxury, and dexterous 
 juggling among the legerdemain of trade, that make and maintain 
 its greatness, but intelligent and noble-hearted men, in whatever 
 station of life they grow ; and they are, at least, sometimes found 
 among the obscure, unostentatious, and very poor. It will learn 
 to prize these, as the "pulse of the machine," and to cultivate 
 them as the chief hope of its future existence and glory ; and 
 will carefully remove, as much as possible, all unnecessary diffi- 
 culties from the path of those who, from a wise instinct of 
 nature, are impelled in the pursuit of knowledge by pure love of 
 it, for its own sake, and not by sordid aims. 
 
 The New Town Hall is the central building of this fine pile. 
 The fresh nap was not yet worn off it; and, of course, its 
 authorities were anxious to preserve its pristine Corinthian beauty 
 from the contaminations of " the unwashed." They had made 
 it nice, and they wanted none but nice people in it. At the 
 "free exhibition" of models for the Peel monument, a notice 
 was posted at the entrance, warning visitors, that " Persons in 
 Clogs" would not be admitted. There are some Town Halls 
 which are public property, in the management of which a kindred 
 solicitude prevails about mere ornaments of wood and stone, or 
 painting, gilding, and plaster work ; leading to such restrictions 
 as tend to lessen the service which they might afford to the 
 whole public. They are kept rather too exclusively for grandee- 
 festivals; and gatherings of those classes which are too much 
 sundered from the poor by a Chinese wall of exclusive feeling.
 
 Ramble from Bury to Rochdale. 19 
 
 I have known the authorities of such places make "serious 
 objections to evening meetings;" and yet, I have often seen the 
 farce of "public meetings" got up ostensibly for the discussion 
 of some important question then agitating the population, of the 
 neighbourhood, inviting public discussion, at eleven o'clock in 
 the forenoon, an hour when the heterodox multitude would be 
 secure enough at their labour ; and, in this way, many a pack 
 of fanatic hounds and there are some such in all parties have 
 howled out their hour with a clear stage and no foe ; and then 
 walked off glorying in a sham triumph, leaving nothing 
 beaten behind them but the air they have tainted with ex parte 
 denunciation. And, in my erroneous belief that this Town 
 Hall, into which "Persons in Clogs" were not to be admitted, was 
 public property, the qualification test seemed to be of a queer 
 kind, and altogether at the wrong end of the man. Alas, for 
 these poor lads who wear clogs and work-soiled fustian garments; 
 it takes a moral Columbus, every now and then, to keep the 
 world awake to a belief that there is something fine in them, 
 which has been running to waste for want of recognition 
 and culture. Blessed and beautiful are the feet, which for- 
 tune has encased in the neat " Clarence," of the softest calf or 
 Cordovan, or the glossy " Wellington," of fine French leather. 
 Even so ; the woodenest human head has a better chance in this 
 world, if it come before us covered with a good-looking hat. 
 But woe unto your impertinent curiosity, ye unfortunate clog- 
 wearing lovers of the fine arts ! (I was strongly assured that 
 there were several curious specimens of this strange animal extant 
 among the working people of Bury.) It was pleasant to hear, 
 however, that several of these ardent persons, of questionable 
 understanding, meeting with this warning as they attempted to 
 enter the hall, after duly contemplating it with humourous awe, 
 doffed their condemned clogs ijt once, and, tucking the odious 
 timber under their arms, ran up the steps in their stocking-feet. 
 It is a consolation to believe that these clogs of theirs are not the 
 only clogs yet to be taken off in this world of ours. But, as this 
 "Town Hall" is private property, and, as it has been .settled 
 by somebody in the north that "a man can do what he likes 
 with his o r ,vn," these reflections are, perhaps, more pertinent to 
 other public halls that I know of than to this one. 
 
 In one of the windows of "The Derby" was exhibited a 
 representation of " The Eagle and Child," or, as the country-
 
 20 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 folk in Lancashire sometimes call it, "Th' Brid and Bantlin'," 
 the ancient recognizance of the Stanleys, Earls of Derby, and 
 formerly kings of the Isle of Man, with their motto, "Sans 
 changer/' in a scroll beneath. This family still owns the manor 
 of Bury, and has considerable possessions there. They have 
 also large estates and great influence in the north and west of 
 Lancashire. In former times they have been accounted the most 
 powerful family of the county ; and in some of the old wars, 
 they led to the field all the martial chivalry of Lancashire and 
 Cheshire under their banner. As I looked on the Stanley's crest, 
 I thought of the fortunes of that noble house, and of the strange 
 events which it had shared with the rest of the kingdom. Of 
 James, Earl of Derby, who was beheaded at Bolton-le-Moors, in 
 front of the Man and Scythe Inn, in Deansgate, two centuries 
 since; and of his countess, Charlotte de Tremouille, who so 
 bravely defended Lathom House against the parliamentary forces 
 during the last civil wars. She was daughter to Claude, Duke 
 of Tremouille, and Charlotte Brabantin de Nassau, daughter of 
 William, Prince of Orange, and Charlotte de Bourbon, of the 
 royal house of France. Apart from the pride of famous 
 descent, both the earl and his lady were remarkable for certain 
 noble qualities of mind, which commanded the respect of 
 all parties in those troubled times. I sometimes think that if 
 it had pleased Heaven for me to have lived in those days, I 
 should have been compelled by nature to fall into some Round- 
 head rank, and do the best I could, for that cause. When a lad 
 at school I had this feeling : and, as I poured over the history of 
 that period, I well remember how, in my own mind, I shouted 
 the solemn battle-cry with great Cromwell and his captains, 
 and charged with the earnest Puritans, in their bloody struggles 
 against the rampant tyrannies of the time. Yet, even then, I 
 never read of this James, Earl of Derby the faithful soldier of 
 an infatuated king without a feeling of admiration for the 
 chivalry of his character. I lately saw, in Bolton, an antique 
 cup of " stone china," quaintly painted and gilt, out of which it 
 is said that he drank the communion immediately before his 
 execution. Greenhalgh, of Brandlesome, who was a notable 
 and worthy man, and who governed the Isle of Man for the 
 Earls of Derby, lived at Brandlesome Hall, near Bury. Re- 
 specting Edward, the third earl, Camden says : " With Edward, 
 Earl of Derby's death, the glory of hospitality seemed to fall
 
 Ramble from Bury to Rochdale. 2 1 
 
 asleep." Of his munificent housekeeping, too, he tells us: 
 how he fed sixty old people twice a day, every day s and all 
 comers twice a week; and every Christmas-day, for thirty-two 
 years, supplied two thousand seven hundred with meat, drink, 
 money, and money's worth; and how he offered to raise ten 
 thousand soldiers for the king. Also, that he had great reputa- 
 tion as a bone-setter, and was a learned man, a poet, and a man 
 of considerable talent in many directions. The present Lord 
 Stanley* is accounted a man of great ability as a politician and 
 orator, and of high and impetuous spirit ; and is the leader of the 
 Conservative party in parliament. A century ago, the influence 
 of great feudal families, like the Stanleys, was all but supreme in 
 Lancashire; but, since that time, the old landlord domination 
 has declined in the manufacturing districts ; and the people have 
 begun to set more value upon their independent rights as men, 
 than upon the painful patronage of feudal landlords. 
 
 I had no time to devote to any other of the notabilities of 
 Bury town; and I thought that "Chamber Hall," the birth- 
 place of the great departed statesman, Peel, would be worth a 
 special pilgrimage some Saturday afternoon.f I had finished my 
 business about seven o'clock, and, as the nightfall was fine and 
 clear, I resolved to walk over to Rochdale, about six miles off, 
 to see an old friend of mine there. Few people like a country 
 walk better than I do; and being in fair health and spirits, 
 I took the road at once, with my stick in hand, as brisk as a 
 Shetland pony, in good fettle. Striking out at the town-end, I 
 bethought me of an old herbalist, or " yarb doctor," who lived 
 somewhere thereabouts a genuine dealer in simples, bred up in 
 the hills, on Ashworth Moor, about three miles from the town, 
 and who had made the botany of his native neighbourhood a 
 life-long study Culpepper's "Herbal" was a favourite book 
 with him, as it is among a great number of the country people 
 of Lancashire, where there are, perhaps, more clever botanists 
 in humble life to be found than in any other part of the 
 
 * Succeeded his father, the thirteenth Earl ol Derby, in 1851. Has been Chief 
 Secretary for Ireland, and Secretary of State foi the Colonies. Accepted office af 
 Premier, in 1851. 
 
 t Since that time the people of Bury have erected a monument in their market' 
 place to the memory of this brave-hearted benefactor to his country. The statue 
 itself has a noble and simple appearance, but the pedestal on which it stands looks 
 an insignificant footing for a figure of such proportions, and is a little open to the 
 criticism of "Owd Collop," who said that it looked "like a giant trying to balance 
 hissel' upov a four-peawnd loaf."
 
 22 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 kingdom. Nature and he were familiar friends, for he was a 
 lonely rambler by hill, and clough, and field, at all seasons of die 
 year, and could talk by the hour about the beauties and medicinal 
 virtues of gentian, dandelion, and camomile, or tansy, mountain 
 flax, sanctuary, hyssop, buckbean, wood-betony, and "Robin- 
 run-i'-th'-hedge," and an endless catalogue of other herbs and 
 plants, a plentiful assortment of which he kept by him, either 
 green or in dried bundles, ready for his customers. The 
 country people in Lancashire have great faith in simples, and 
 in simple treatment foi their diseases. I well remember that 
 one of their recipes for a common cold is " a wot churn-milk 
 posset, weel sweet'nt, an' a traycle cake to't, at bed-time." 
 They are profound believers in the kindly doctrine expressed in 
 that verse of George Herbert's : 
 
 "More servants wait on man 
 Than he'll take notice of; in ev'ry path 
 
 He treads down what befriends him 
 
 When sickness makes him pale and wan. 
 Oh, mighty love ' man is one world, and hath 
 
 Another to attend him." 
 
 Therefore, our primitive old herb-doctor had in his time driven 
 what he doubtless considered, in his humble way, a pretty gainful 
 trade. And he was not exactly "a doctor-by-guess," as the Scotch 
 say, but a man of good natural parts, and of some insight into 
 human physiology, of great experience and observation in his 
 little sphere, and remarkable for strong common sense and 
 integrity. He was also well acquainted with the habits and the 
 peculiar tone of physical constitution among the people of his 
 neighbourhood. Like his pharmacopoeia, his life and manners 
 were simple, and his rude patients had great confidence in 
 him. It was getting dark, and I did not know exactly where to 
 find him, or I should have liked very well to see the old botanist, 
 of whom I had heard a very interesting account in my native 
 town. 
 
 When one gets fairly into the country it is fine walking by a 
 clear starlight, when the air is touched with frost, and the ground 
 hard under the foot. I enjoyed all this still more on that old 
 road, which is always rising some knoll, or descending into 
 some quiet clough, where all is so still that one can hear the 
 waters sing among fhe fields and stunted woods off the wayside. 
 The wind was blowing fresh and keen across Knowl Hill and 
 the heathery wastes of Ashworth and Rooley, those wild
 
 Ramble from Bury to Rod: dak. 23 
 
 heights which divide the vale of the Roach from the Forest of 
 Rossendale. I stood and looked upon the blue heavens, "fretted 
 with golden fire," and around me upon this impressive night- 
 scene, so finely still and solemn, the effect deepened by the 
 meanings of the wind among the trees. My mind reverted to 
 the crowded city, and I thought to myself this is rather different 
 to Market-street, in Manchester on a Tuesday forenoon, about 
 the time of "high change," as I listened to the clear "Wo-up!" 
 of a solitary carter to his horse on the top of the opposite knoll, 
 and heard the latch of a cottage-door lifted, and saw the light 
 from the inside glint forth into the trees below for an instant. 
 It was a homely glimpse, which contrasted beautifully with the 
 sombre grandeur of the night. The cottage-door closed again, 
 the fireside picture was gone; and I was alone on the silent road, 
 with the clear stars looking down. 
 
 I generally put off my meals till I get a hint from the inside ; 
 and, by the time that I reached the bottom of a lonely dell, about 
 three miles on the road, I began to feel hungry, and I stepped 
 into the only house thereabouts, a little roadside inn, to get a 
 bite of something. The house stands near to a narrow woody 
 ravine, which runs under the highway at that place. It is said 
 to have been entirely built by one man, who got the stone, 
 hewed it, cut the timber, and shaped it, and altogether built the 
 house, such as it is ; and it has an air of primitive rudeness about 
 it, which partly corroborates the story; The very hearth-flag 
 is an old gravestone, brought from the yard of some ancient 
 moorland chapel ; and part of the worn lettering is visible upon 
 it still It is known tc the scattered inhabitants of that district 
 by the name of "The house that Jack built.'' On entering the 
 place, I found the front room dark and quiet, and nothing stirring 
 but in the kitchen, where I saw the lighc of a candle, and heard 
 a little music among the pots, which somebody was washing. 
 The place did not seem promising, so far as 1 could see at all, 
 but I felt curious, and, walking forward, I found a very homely- 
 looking old woman bustling about there, with ? clean cap on, not 
 crimped nor frilled any way, but iust plainly adorned with a 
 broad border of those large, stiff, old-fashioned puffs, which I 
 used to watch my mother make on the end of the " Italian iron," 
 when I was a lad at home. Old Sam, the landlord, had just come 
 home from his work, and sat quietly smoking on the long settle, 
 in a nook by the fireside, while his wife, Mary, got some tea ready
 
 24 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 for her tired old man. The entrance of a customer seemed to be- 
 an important affair to them, and partly so, I believe, because 
 they were glad to have a little company in their quiet corner, 
 and liked to hear, now and then, how the world was wagging a 
 few miles off. I called for a glass of ale, and something like the 
 following conversation ensued : 
 
 Mary. Aw'll bring it, measter. See yo, tay this cheer. It's 
 as chep sittin' as stonnin'. An' poo up to th' fire, for it's noan 
 so warm to-neet. 
 
 Sam. Naw, it's nobbut cowdish, for sure ; draw up to th' hob, 
 an' warm yo, for yo look'n parish' t.* 
 
 "If you can bring me a crust of bread and cheese, or a bit of 
 cold meat, or anything, I shall be obliged to you," said I. 
 
 Mary. Ah, sure aw will. We'n a bit o' nice cowd beef; 
 an' I'll bring it eawt But it's bhoylt (boiled), mind yo ! Dun 
 yo like it bhoylt? Yo'n find it middlin' toothsome. 
 
 I told her that it would do very well ; and then the landlord 
 struck in : 
 
 Sam. Doesto yer, lass. There's a bit o' pickle theer, i'th 
 cubbort ; aw dar say he'd like some. Fot it eawt, an' let him 
 feel at it. 
 
 Mary. Oh, ay, sure there is; an' aw'll bring it, too. Aw 
 declare aw'd forgetten it ! Dun yo like pickle, measther? 
 
 "I do," said I, "just for a taste." 
 
 Mary. Well, well; aw meeon for a taste. But aw'll bring 
 it an' yo can help yorsel to't. Let's see, wi'n yo have hard 
 brade ? Which side dun yo come fro ? 
 
 : 'I come from Manchester," said I. 
 
 Mary. Fro Manchester, eh ! Whau, then, yo'd'n rather ha' 
 loaf-brade, aw'll uphowd yo. 
 
 " Nay, nay," said I, " I'm country-bred ; and I would rather 
 have a bit of oat-cake. I very seldom get any in Manchester ; 
 and, when I do, it tastes as if it was mismanaged, somehow ; so 
 a bit of good country bread will be a treat to me." 
 
 Mary. That's reet ; aw'll find yo some gradely good stuff! 
 
 An' it's a deeol howsomer nor loaf, too, mind yo 
 
 Neaw, wi'n nought uncuth to set afore yo; but yo'n find that 
 beefs noan sich bad takkin', if yor ony ways sharp set. 
 Theer, see yo ! Nea, may yoursel' awhom, an' spare nought, for 
 wi'n plenty moor. But houd! yo hannot o' vor tools yet 
 Aw'll get vo a fork in a crack. 
 
 * Parish' t perished.
 
 Ramble from Bury to Rochdale. 2 5 
 
 I fell to with a hearty good-will, for the viands before me 
 were not scanty, and they were both wholesome, and par- 
 ticularly welcome, after my sharp walk in the keen wind, which 
 came whistling over the moors that night. The first heat of 
 the attack was beginning to slacken a bit, and Old Sam, who 
 had been sitting in the corner, patient and pleased, all the 
 while, with an observant look, began to think that now there 
 might be room for him to put in a word or two. I, also, 
 began to feel as if I had no objection to taper off my meal with 
 a little country talk ; and the old man was just asking me what 
 the town's folk said about the parliamentary crisis, and the 
 rumour which had reached him, that there was an intention of 
 restoring the corn-laws again, when Mary interrupted him by 
 saying, "Husht, Sam; doesta yer nought?" He took the pipe 
 out of his mouth, and, quietly blowing the smoke from the 
 corner of his lips, held his head on one side in a- listening attitude. 
 Old Sam smiled, and lighting his pipe again, he said, "Ah, yen's 
 Jone o' JefFry's." "Its nought else, aw believe," said Mary; 
 "does ta think he'll co'?" "Co ! , ah," replied Sam; "does he 
 eves miss, thinks ta ? Tay thy cheer to th' tone side a bit, an' 
 may reawm for him, for he'll be i'th heawse in a minute." And 
 then, turning to me, he said, " Nea, then, measter, yo'n yer some 
 gam, if yor spare' t." He had scarcely done speaking, when a 
 loud " Woigh \ " was heard outside, as a cart stopped at the door, 
 and a heavy footstep came stamping up the lobby. The kitchen 
 door opened, and a full-blown Lancashire Cossack stood before 
 us. Large-limbed and broad-shouldered, with a great, frank, 
 good-tempered face, full of rude health and glee. He looked a 
 fine sample of simple manhood, with a disposition that seemed to 
 me, from the expression of his countenance, to be something 
 between that of an angel and a bull-dog. Giving his hands a 
 hearty smack, he rubbed them together, and smiled at the fire ; 
 and then, doffing his rough hat, and flinging it with his whip 
 upon the table, he shouted out, " Hello ! Heaw are yo o' on 
 yo ! Yo'r meeterly quiet again to-neet, Mary ! An' some ov a 
 a cowd neet it is. My nose sweats." The landlord whispered 
 to me, "Aw towd yo, didn't aw. Sit yo still; he's rare, com- 
 pany, is Jone." 
 
 Mary. Ah, we're quiet enough ; but we shannut be so long, 
 neaw at thir't come'd, Jone. 
 
 Jone. Well, well. Yor noan beawn to flyte mo, owd crayter, 
 are yo?
 
 2 6 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 Sam. Tay no notiz on hur, wilto, foo ; hoo meeons nougnt 
 
 Mary. Nut a\v! Sit to deawn, Jone. We'er olez fain to 
 sitho ; for thir't noan one o'th warst mak o' folk, as roof as to art. 
 
 Jone. Aw'st sit mo deawn, as what aw am ; an' aw'st warm 
 me too, beside ; an' aw'll ha' summat to sup too, afore aw darken 
 yon dur-hole again. . . . Owd woman, fill mo one o'th 
 big'st pots yo nan, an' let's be havin' houd, aw pray yo ; for 
 my throttle's as dry as a' kex. An' be as slippy as ever yo con, 
 or aw'st be helpin' mysel, for it's ill bidein' for dry folk arming 
 good drink ! 
 
 Mary. Nay, nay ; aw'll sarve tho, Jone, i' tho'll be patient 
 hauve a minute; an' theaw'st ha' plenty to start \vi', as 
 heaw't be. 
 
 Jone. " That's just reet," said Finder, when his wife bote hur 
 tung i' two ! Owd woman, yo desarv'n a comfortable sattle- 
 ment i'th top shop when yo dee'n; an' yo'st ha' one, too, iv 
 aw' ve ony say i'th matter. . . Eh, heaw quiet yo are, Sam ! 
 By th' mass, iv aw' re here a bit moor, aw'd may some rickin' 
 i' this cauve-cote, too. Whau, mon, yo'dd'n sink into a deeod 
 sleep, an' fair dee i'th shell, iv one didn't wakken yo up a bit, 
 neaw and then. 
 
 Mary. Eh, mon ! Thea sees, our Sam an' me's gettin owd, 
 an' wi'dd'n raythur be quiet, for th' bit o' time at wi' ha'n 
 to do on. Beside, aw could never do wi' roof wark. Raylee 
 o' me! It'd weary a grooin' tree to ha' th' din, an' th' 
 lumber, an' th' muck at te han i' some ale heawses. To my 
 thinkin', aw'd go as fur as othur grace* grew or wayter ran, 
 afore aw'd live amoon sich doin's. One could elthur manage 
 we't at th' for-end o' their days. But what, we hannot so lung 
 to do on neaw ; an' aw would e'en like to finish as quietly as aw 
 can. We hannot had a battle i' this heawse as let's see as 
 three year an' moor ; ha'n wi, Sam ? 
 
 Sam. Naw, aw dunnot think we han. But we soud'n a deeol 
 moor ale, just afore that time, too. 
 
 Jone. Three year, sen yo ! Eh, the dule, Mary ; heaw ha'n 
 yo shap'd that ! Whau owd Neddy at th' Hoo'senam yo 
 known owd Neddy, aw reckon, dunnot yo, Sam ? 
 Sam. Do I know Rachda' Church steps, thinksto ? 
 
 Jone. Aw dar say yo known th' steps a deeol better nor yo 
 known th' church, owd brid !
 
 "Ramble from Bury to Rochdale. 27 
 
 Sam. Whau, aw have been bin up thoose steps a time or two 
 i' my life; an thea knows, ony body at's bin up 'em a twothore* 
 times, '11 nut forget 'em so soon j for if thi'n tay 'em sharpish 
 fro' th' botham to th' top, it'll try their wynt up rarely afore they 
 getten to Tim Bobbin gravestone i'th owd church-yort. But, 
 aw've bin to sarvice theer as oft as theaw has, aw think. 
 
 Jone. Ah ! an' yo'n getten abeawt as mich good wi't, as aw 
 have, aw dar say; an' that's nought to crack on; but wi'n 
 say no moor upo' that footin'. Iv yo known ony body at 
 o', yo known owd Neddy at th' Hoo'senam; and aw'll be bund 
 for't, 'at i' three years time he's brunt mony a peawnd o' candles 
 wi' watchin' folk feight i' their heawse. Eh, aw've si'n him 
 ston o'er 'em, wi' a candle i' eyther hont, co'in eawt, "Nea lads. 
 Turn him o'er Turn ! Let 'em ha' reawm, chaps ; let 'em 
 ha' reawm! Nea lads ! Keep a lose leg, Jam! Nea lads !" 
 And then, when one on 'em wur done to th' lung-length, he'd 
 sheawt eawt, "Houd! he's put his hont up! Come, give 
 o'er, and ger up." And, afore they'd'n getten gradely wynded, 
 and put their clooas on, he'd offer "another quart for the next 
 battle." Eh, he's one o'th quarest chaps i' this nation, is owd 
 Ned, to my thinkin' ; an' he's some gradely good points in 
 him, too. 
 
 Sam. There isn't a quarer o' this countryside, as hea't be; an' 
 there's some crumpers amoon th' lot. 
 
 Jone. Aw guess yo known Bodle, too, dunnot yo, owd Sam ? 
 
 Sam. Yigh, aw do. He wortches up at th' col-pit yon, 
 doesn't he? 
 Jone. He does, owd craytur. 
 
 Mary. Let's see, isn't that him 'at skens a bit? 
 
 Sam. A bit, saysto, lass? It's aboon a bit, by Guy. He 
 skens ill enough to crack a looking-glass, welly (well-nigh). 
 
 Mary. Eh, do let th' lad alone, folk, win yo. Aw marvel 
 at yo'n no moor wit nor mayin foos o' folk at's wrang wheer 
 they connut help it. Yo met happen be strucken yorsels ! 
 Beside, he's somebory's chylt, an' somebory likes him too, aw'll 
 uphowd him ; for there never wur a feaw face i' this world, but 
 there wur a feaw fancy to match it, somewheer. 
 
 Jone. They may fancy him 'at likes, for me ; but there's noan 
 so mony folk at'll fancy Bodle, at after they'n smelled at him 
 once't. An', by Guy, he's hardly wit enough to keep fro'
 
 28 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 runnin' again woles i'th dayleet. But, aw see yo known him 
 weel enough; an' so aw'll tell yo a bit of a crack abeavvt him an' 
 Owd Neddy. 
 
 Mary. Well let's ha't; an' mind to tells no lies abeawt th' lad 
 i' thy talk. 
 
 Jone. Bith mon, Mary, aw connut do, beawt aw say at he s 
 other a pratty un or a good un. 
 
 Sam. Get forrud wi' thy tale, Jone, wilto: an' bother no 
 moor abeawt it. 
 
 Jone (Whispers to Owd Sam): Aw say. Who's that chap 
 at sits hutchin i' the nook theer, wi' his meawth oppen ? 
 
 Sam. Aw know not. But he's a nice quiet lad o' somebory's, 
 so tay no notice. Thae'll just meet plez him i' tho'll get forrud ; 
 thae may see that, i' tho'll look at him; for he stares like a ferret 
 at's sin a ratton. 
 
 Jone. Well, yo see'n, Sam, one mornin', after Owd Neddy 
 an' Bodle had been fuddlin' o' th' o'erneet, thi'dd'n just getten a 
 yure o' th' owd dog into 'em, an' they sit afore th' fire i' Owd 
 Neddy's kitchen, as quiet, to look at, as two pot dolls ; but they 
 didn't feel so, nother ; for thi'dd'n some of a yed-waache apiece, 
 i' th' treawth wur known. When thi'dd'n turn't things o'er a 
 bit, Bodle begun o' lookin' very yearn'stfully at th' fire-hole 
 o' at once't, and he said, "By th' mass, Ned, aw've a good 
 mind to go reet up th' chimbley." Well, yo known, Neddy 
 likes a spree as well as ony mon livin', an' he doesn't care so 
 mich what mak' o' one it is, nother; so as soon as he yerd that 
 he jumped up, an' said, "Damn it, Bodle, go up up wi' tho !" 
 Bodle stood still a minute, looking at th' chimbley, an' as he 
 double't his laps up, he said, " Well, neaw ; should aw rayley goo 
 up, thinksta, owd crayter?" "Go? ah; what elze?" said 
 Owd Ned "Up wi' tho; soot's good for th' bally-waach, mon; 
 an' aw'll gi' tho a quart ov ale when tho comes deawn again ! " 
 "Will ta, for sure?" said Bodle, prickin' his ears. "Am aw 
 lyin' thinks ta ?" onswer'd Owd Neddy. " Whau, then, aw'm 
 off, by th' mon, iv it's as lung as a steeple;" an' he made no moor 
 bawks at th' job, but set th' tone foot onto th' top-bar, an' up 
 he went into th' smudge-hole. Just as he wur crommin' hissel' 
 in at th' botham o'th chimbley, th' owd woman coom in to see 
 what they hadd'n agate ; an' as soon as Bodle yerd hur, he code 
 eawt, " Howd her back a bit, whol aw get eawt o'th sect, or 
 else hoo'll poo me deawn again." Hoo stare't a bit afore hoc.
 
 Ramble from Bury to Rochdale. 29 
 
 could may it eawt what it wur at're creepin up th' chimney-hole, 
 
 an' hoo said, " What mak o' lumber ha'n yo afoot neaw ? for 
 
 yo're a rook o'th big'st nowmuns at ever trode ov a floor ! Yo'n 
 
 some make o' divulment agate i'th chimbley, aw declare." As 
 
 soon as hoo fund what it wur, hoo sheawted, " Eh, thea greight 
 
 gawmless foo ! Wheer arto for up theer ! Thea'll be smoor't, 
 
 mon!" An, hoo would ha' darted forrud, an' getten howd on 
 
 him; but Owd Ned kept stonnin afore hur, an' sayin, "Let 
 
 him alone, mon ; it's nobbut a bit of a spree." Then he looked 
 
 o'er his shoulder at Bodle, an' said, "Get tee forrud, wilto, 
 
 nowmun; thae met a bin deawn again by neaw;" an, as soon 
 
 as he see'd at Bodle wur gettin meeterly weel up th' hole, he 
 
 leet her go ; but hoo wur to lat to get howd. An' o' at hoo 
 
 could do, wur to fot him a seawse or two o' th' legs wi' th' poker. 
 
 But he wur for up, an' nought else. He did just stop abeawt 
 
 hauve a minute when he feld hur hit his legs to co' eawt, 
 
 "Hoo's that at's hittin' mo?" "Whau," said hoo, "It's me, 
 
 thae greight leather-yed ; an' come deawn wi' tho ! Whatever 
 
 arto' doin' i'th chimbley ?" " Aw'm goin' up for ale." "Ale ! 
 
 There's no ale up theer, thae greight brawsen foo ! Eh, 
 
 aw wish yor Mally wur here!" "Aw wish hoo wur here, 
 
 istid o' me," said Bodle. "Come deawn witho this minute, 
 
 thae greight drunken hal !" "Not yet," said Bodle "but 
 
 aw'll not be lung, nothur, yo may depend ; for it's noan a nice 
 
 place this isn't. Eh ! there is some ov a smudge ! An' it 
 
 gwos wur as aw go fur ; a tscho o ! By Guy, aw con see 
 
 noan nor talk, nothur ; so ger off, an' let mo get it o'er afore 
 
 aw'm chauk't;" and then th' owd lad crope forrud, as hard as 
 
 he could, for he're thinkin' abeawt th' quart ov ale. Well, Owd 
 
 Neddy nearly skrike't wi' laughin', as he watched Bodle draw 
 
 his legs up eawt o' th' sect ; an' he set agate o' hommerin' th' 
 
 chimbley whole wi' his hont, an sheawtin' up, " Go on, 
 
 Bodle, owd lad ! Go on, owd mon ! Thir't a reet un ! 
 
 Thea'st have a quart o' th' beat ale i' this hole, i' tho lives till 
 
 tho comes deawn again, as hea 'tis, .owd brid ! An i' tho dees 
 
 through it, aw'll be fourpence or fi'pence toawrd thi berrin." 
 
 And then he went sheawting up an' deawn, " Hey ! Dun yo 
 
 yer, lads ; come here ! Owd Bodle's gone up th' chimbley ! 
 
 Aw never sprad my e'en upo th' marrow trick to this i' 
 
 my life." Well, yo may think, Sam, th' whole heawse wur 
 
 up i' no time ; an' some rare spwort they ha'dd'n ; an' Owd
 
 30 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 Neddy kept goin' to th' eawtside, to see if Bodle had getten 
 his yed eawt at th' top; an' then runnin' in again, an 
 bawlin' up th' flue, "Bodle, owd lad, heaw arto gettin' on? 
 Go throo wi't, owd cock!" But, whol he' re starin' and 
 sheawtin' up th' chimbley, Bodle lost his houd, somewheer 
 toawrd th' top, an' he coom shutter in' deawn again, an' o' th' 
 soot i' th' chimbley wi' him ; an' he let wi' his hinder-end 
 thump o'th top-bar, an' then roll't deawn upo th' har'stone. 
 An' a greadly blash-boggart he looked; yo may think. Th' owd 
 lad seem't as if he hardly knowed wheer he wur; so he lee 
 theer a bit, amoon a cloud o' soot, an' Owd Neddy stoode o'er 
 him, laughin', an' wipein' his e'en, an' co'in eawt, "Tay thy 
 wynt a bit, Bodle ; thir't safe londed, iv it be hard leetin' ! 
 Thir't a reet un; bi' th' mon arto, too. Tay thy wynt, owd 
 bird ! Thea'st have a quart, as hea 'tis, owd mon ; as soon 
 as ever aw con see my gate to th' bar eawt o' this smudge at 
 thea's brought wi' tho ! Aw never had my chimbley swept as 
 chep i' my life !" 
 
 Mary, Well, if ever! Whau, it' re enough to may th' 
 fellow's throttle up ! A greight, drunken leather-yed ! But, 
 he'd be some dry, mind yo ! 
 
 Jone. Yo'r reet, Mary ! Aw think mysel' at a quart ov ale 
 'ud come noan amiss after a do o' that mak. An' Bodle 
 wouldn't wynd aboon once wi' it, afore he see'd th' bottom 
 o' th' pot, noather. 
 
 Well, I had a good laugh at Jone's tale, and I enjoyed his 
 manner of telling it, quite a much as anything there was in the 
 story itself; for, he seemed to talk with every limb of his body, 
 and every feature of his face ; and told it, altogether, in such a 
 living way, with so much humour and earnestness, that it was 
 irresistible ; and as I was " giving mouth " a little, with my 
 face turned up toward the ceiling, he turned to me, and said 
 quickly, " Come, aw say ; are yo noan fleyed o' throwing yo'r 
 choles off th' hinges?". We soon settled down into a quieter 
 mood, and drew round the fire, for the night was cold ; when 
 Jone suddenly pointed out to the landlord, one of those little 
 deposits of smoke which sometimes wave about on the bars of 
 the fire-grate, and, after whispering to him, " See yo, Sam ; a 
 stranger upo th' bar, theer;" he turned to me, and said, 
 "That's yo, measther !" This is a little superstition, which is 
 common to the fire-sides of the poor in all England, I believe.
 
 Ramble from Bury to Rochdale. 3 1 
 
 Soon after this, Mary said to Jone, " Hasto gan thy horse 
 aught, Jone ? " " Sure, aw have," replied he, " Aw laft it 
 heytin', an plenty to go on wi', so then. Mon, aw reckon to 
 look after deawn-crayters a bit, iv there be aught stirrin'." 
 "Well," said she, "aw dar say thea does, Jone; an' mind 
 yo, thoose at winnut do some bit like to things at connut 
 talk for theirsels, they'n never ha' no luck, as hoo they are." 
 "Well," said Jone, "my horse wortches weel, an' he sleeps weel, 
 an' he heyts weel, an' he drinks weel, an' he parts wi't fearful 
 weel; so he doesn't ail mich yet." "Well," replied Mary, 
 " there isn't a wick thing i' this world can wortch as it should 
 do, if it doesn't heyt as it should do." Here I happened to take 
 a note-book out of my pocket, and write in it with my pencil, 
 when the conversation opened again. 
 
 Sam. (Whispering.) Sitho, Jone, he's bookin' tho ! 
 
 Jone. Houd, measther, houd ! What mak' o' marlocks are yo 
 after, neaw ! What're yo for wi' us, theer ! But aw caren't a 
 flirt abeawt it ; for thi' connot hang folk for talkin' neaw, as 
 thi' could'n once on a day ; so get forrud wi't, as what it is. 
 
 He then, also, began to inquire about the subject which was 
 the prevailing topic of conversation at that time, namely, the 
 parliamentary crisis, in which Lord John Russell had resigned 
 his office at the head of the government ; and the great likelihood 
 there seemed to be of a protectionist party obtaining power. 
 
 Jone. Han yo yerd aught abeawt Lord Stanley puttin' th' 
 Corn Laws on again ? There wur some rickin' abeawt it i* 
 Bury teawn, when aw coom off wi' th' cart to-neet. 
 
 Sam. They'n never do't, mon ! They connot do ! An' it's 
 very weel, for aw dunnut know what mut become o' poor folk 
 iv they did'n do. What think'n yo, measther ? 
 
 I explained to them the unsettled state of parliamentary affairs, 
 as it had reached us through the paper ; and gave them my firm 
 belief that the Corn Laws had been abolished once for all in this 
 country ; and that there was no political party in England who 
 wished to restore them, who would ever have the power to do so. 
 
 Jone. Dun yo think so ? Aw'm proud to yer it ! 
 
 Sam. An' so am aw too, Jone. But what, aw know'd it weel 
 enough. Eh, mon ; there's a deal moor crusts o' brade lyin' 
 abeawt i' odd nooks an' corners, nor there wur once't ov a day. 
 Aw've sin th' time when thi'd'n ha' bin cleeked up like lumps 
 o' gowd.
 
 Lancashire Sketches : 
 
 Jone. Aw think they'n ha' to fot Lord John back, to wheyve 
 (weave) his cut deawn yet. To my thinkin' he'd no business to lev 
 his looms. But aw dar say he knows his own job betther nor 
 me. He'll be as fause as a boggart, or elze he'd never ha' bin 
 i' that shop as lung as he has bin , not he. There's moor in his 
 yed nor a smo'-tooth comb con fot eawt What thinken yo, 
 owd brid ? 
 
 Sam. It's so like ; it's so like ! But aw dunnot care who's in, 
 Jone, i' thi'n nobbut do some good for poor folk ; an' that's one 
 o' th main jobs for thoose at's power to do't. But, iv they 
 wur'n to put th' Corn Bill on again, there's mony a theawsan' 
 would be clemmed to deeoth, o' ov a rook. 
 
 Jone. Ah, there would so, Sam, 'at I know on. But see yo; 
 there's a deal on 'em 'ud go deawn afore me. Aw'd may 
 somebody houd back whol their cale coom ! Iv they winnot gi' 
 me my share for wortchin' for, aw'll have it eawt o' some nook, 
 ov aw dunnot, damn Jone ! (striking the table heavily with his 
 fist.) They's never be clemmed at ir heawse, as aw ha' si'n folk 
 clemmed i' my time never, whol aw've a fist a th' end o' my 
 arm ! Neaw, what have aw towd yo ! 
 
 Sam. Thea'rt reet lad ! Aw houd te wit good, by th' mass ! 
 Whol they gi'n us some bit like ov a choance, we can either do. 
 At th' most o' times, we'n to kill 'ursels (ourselves) to keep 'ursels, 
 welly ; but, when it comes to scarce wark an' dear mheyt, th' 
 upstroke's noan so fur off. 
 
 Mary. Ay, ay. If it' re nobbut a body's sel', we met manage 
 to pinch a bit, neaw an' then; becose one could reayson abeawt 
 it some bit like. But it's th' childer, mon, it's th' childer ! 
 Th' little things at look'n for it reggelar ; an' wonder'n heaw it 
 is when it doesn't come. Eh, dear o' me! To see poor folk's 
 little bits o' childher yammerin' for a bite o' mheyt when 
 there's noan for 'em ; an' lookin' up i' folk's faces, as mich as to 
 say, "Connut yo help mo ?" It's enough to may (make) onybody 
 cry their shoon full ! 
 
 Here I took out my book to make another note. 
 
 Jone. Hello! yo'r agate again! What, are yo takkin th' 
 pickter on mo, or summat ? . . . Eh, Sam ; what a thing 
 this larnin' is. Aw should ha' bin worth mony a theawsan 
 peawnd if aw could ha' done o' that shap, see yo ! 
 
 Sam. Aw guess thea con write noan, nor read noather, con 
 ta, Jone ?
 
 Ramble from Bury to Rochdale, 33 
 
 Jone. Not aw ! Aw've no moor use for a book nor a duck 
 has for a umbrell. Aw : ve had to wortch hard sin aw're five 
 year owd, mon. Iv aw've aught o' that mak to do, aw go to 
 ovvd Silver-yed at th' lone-side wi't. It may's mo mad, mony a 
 time, mon ; one looks sich a foo ! 
 
 Sam. An' he con write noan mich, aw think, con he ? 
 
 Jone. Naw. He went no fur nor pot-hook an' ladles i' writin', 
 aw believe. But he can read a bit, an' that's moor nor a deeol 
 o' folk abeawt here can do. Aw know nobory upo this side at's 
 greadly larnt up, nobbut Ash'oth parson. But there's plenty o' 
 chaps i' Rachdaw teawn at's so brawsen wi' wit, whol noather 
 me, nor thee, nor no mon elze, con may ony sense on 'em. Yo 
 reckelect'n a 'torney co'in' here once't. What dun yo think o' him? 
 
 Sam. He favvurs a foo, Jone; or aw'm a foo mysel'. 
 
 Jone. He's far larnt i' aught but honesty, mon, that's heaw it 
 is. He'll do no reet, nor tay no wrang . So wi'n lap it up just 
 wheer it is ; for little pigs ha'n lung ears. 
 
 Sam. Aw'll tell tho what, Jone; he's a bad trade by th' hond, 
 for one thing ; an' a bad trade '11 mar a good mon sometimes. 
 
 Jone. It brings moor in nor mine does. But wi'n let it drop. 
 Iv aw'd his larnin, aw'd may summat on't. 
 
 Sam. Ah, well; it's a fine thing is larnin', Jone! It's a very 
 fine thing ! It tay's no reawm up, mon. An' then, th' bailies 
 connut fot it, thea sees. But what, poor folk are so taen up wi' 
 gettin' what they need'n for th' bally an' th' back, whol thi'n 
 noathur time nor inclination for nought but a bit ov a crack for 
 a leetenin', 
 
 Jone. To mijrfi so, owd Sam ! To mich so ! . , 
 
 Mary. Thae never tells one heaw th' wife is, Jone. 
 
 Jone. Whau, th' owd lass is yon ; an' hoo's noather sickly, 
 nor soory, nor sore, 'at aw know on. . . . Yigh, hoo's 
 trouble't wi' a bit ov a breykin'-eawt abeawt th' meawth, 
 sometimes. 
 
 Mary. Does hoo get nought for it ? 
 
 Jone. Nawe, nought 'at'll mend it. But, aw'm mad enough, 
 sometimes, to plaister it wi' my hond, iv aw could find i' my 
 heart. 
 
 Mary. Oh, aw see what to meeons, neaw. . . An' aw 
 dar say thea gi's her 'casion for't, neaw an' then. 
 
 Jone. Well, aw happen do ; for th' best o' folk need'n bidin' 
 wi' a bit sometimes; an' aw'm noan one o' th' best, yo known. 
 
 D
 
 34 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 Mary Nawe ; nor th' warst noathur, Jone. 
 
 Tone. Yo dunnut know o', mon. 
 
 Mary. Happen not , but, thi'rt tc good to brun, as hea't be. 
 
 Jone. Well, onybody'b so, Mary. But, we're_ o' God 
 Almighty's childer, mon; an ; aw feel fain on't, sometimes; for 
 he's th' best feyther at a chylt con have. 
 
 Mary. Ah, but thea'rr nobbut like other childer, Jone ; thea 
 doesn't tak as mich notice o' thy feyther, as thea should do. 
 
 Sam. Well, well ; let's o' on us be as good as we con be, iv 
 we aren't as good as we should be ; an' then wi's be better nor 
 
 we are. 
 
 Jone. Hello! that clock begins 'o givin' short 'lowance, as 
 soon as ever aw get agate o' talkin' ; aw'm mun be off again ! 
 
 Sam. Well ; thae'll co' a lookin' at us, when tho comes this 
 gate on, winnut to, Jone ? Iv tho doesn't, aw'st be a bit mad, 
 thae knows. 
 
 Jone. As lung as aw'm wick and weel, owd crayter, aw'st 
 keep comin' again, yo may depend, like Clegg Ho' Boggart. 
 
 Sam. Well neaw, mind tho does do; for aw'd sooner see 
 thee nor two fiddlers, ony time ; so good neet to tho, an' good 
 luck to tho, too, Jone ; wi' o' my heart ' 
 
 The night was wearing late, and, as I had yet nearly three 
 miles to go, I rose, and went my way. This road was 
 never so much travelled as some of the highways of the neigh- 
 bourhcvxl, but, since railways were made, it has been quieter 
 than before, and the grass has begun to creep over it a little in 
 some places. It leads through a district which has always been 
 a kind of weird region to me. And I have wandered among 
 those lonely moorland hills above Birtle, and Ashworth, and 
 Bagslate ; up to the crest of old Knowl, and over the wild top 
 of Rooley, from whence the greatest part of South Lancashire 
 that wonderful region of wealth and energy lies undei the eye, 
 from Blackstone Edge to the Irish Sea ; and [ have wandered 
 through the green valleys and silent glens, among those hills, 
 communing with the " shapes, and sounds, and shifting elements" 
 of nature, in many a quiet trance of meditative joy ; when the 
 serenity of the scene was unmixed with any ruder sounds than 
 the murmurs and gurglings of the mountain stream, careering 
 over its rocky bed through the hollow of the vale ; and the 
 music of small birds among the woods which lined the banks ; 
 or the gambols of the summer wind among the rustling green,
 
 Ramble from Bury to Rochdale, 35 
 
 which canopied the lonely stream, so thickly that the flood of 
 sunshine which washed the tree-tops in gold, only stole into 
 the deeps in fitful threads ; hardly giving a warmer tinge to the 
 softened light in cool grots down by the water side. Romantic 
 Spoddenlond ! Country of wild beauty ; of hardy, simple life; 
 of old-world manners, and of ancient tales and legends dim } 
 There was a time when the very air of the district seemed, to 
 my young mind, impregnated with boggart-lore, and all the wild 
 "gramerie" of old Saxon superstition, when I looked upon it 
 as the last stronghold of the fairies; where they would remain 
 impregnable, haunting wild "thrutches" and sylvan "chapels," 
 in lonely deeps of its cloughs and woods ; still holding their 
 mystic festivals there on moonlight nights, and tripping to the 
 music of its waters, till the crack of doom. And, for all 
 the boasted march of intellect, it is, even to this day, a district 
 where the existence of witches, and the power of witch-doctors, 
 wisemen, seers, planet-rulers, and prognosticators, find great 
 credence in the imaginations of a rude and unlettered people. 
 There is a little fold, called "Prickshaw," in this township 
 of Spotland, which fold was the home of a notable country 
 astrologer, in Tim Bobbin's time, called "Prickshaw Witch." 
 Tim tells a humourous story about an adventure he had with 
 this Prickshaw planet-ruler, at the Angel Inn, in Rochdale. 
 Prickshaw keeps up its old oracular fame in that moorland 
 quarter to this day, for it has its planet-ruler still; and, it 
 is not alone in such wild, outlying nooks of the hills that 
 these professors of the art of divination may yet be found; 
 almost every populous town in Lancashire has, in some corner 
 of it, one or more of these gifted star-readers, searching out the 
 hidden things of life, to all inquirers, at about a shilling a-head. 
 These country soothsayers mostly drive a sort of contraband 
 trade in their line, in as noiseless and secret a way as possible, 
 among the most ignorant and credulous part of the population. 
 And it is natural that they should flourish wherever there are 
 minds combining abundance of ignorant faith and imagination 
 with a plentiful lack of knowledge. But they are not all 
 skulkers these diviners of the skies, for now and then a bold 
 prophet stands forth, in distinct proportions, before the public 
 gaze, who has more lofty and learned pretentions; witness 
 the advertisement of Dr. Alphonso Gazelle, of No, 4, Sparth 
 Bottoms. Rochdale, which appears in the Rochdale Sentinel,
 
 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 of the 3 rd of December, 1853* Oh, departed Lilly and 
 
 Aerippa- your shadows are upon us still! But I must Con- 
 
 tinue my story of the lone old road, and its associations ; 
 
 and as I wandered on that cold and silent night, under the 
 
 blue sky, where night's candles were burning, so clear and 
 
 calm I remembered that this was the country of old Adam 
 
 de Scotland, who, many centuries since, piously bequeathed 
 
 certain broad acres of land, "for the cure of souls," in the parish 
 
 of Rochdale. He has, now, many centuries slept with his -fathers. 
 
 And as I walked down the road, in this sombre twilight, 
 
 with a hushed wind, and under the shade of the woody height 
 
 on which the homestead of the brave old Saxon stood, my foot- 
 
 steps sounding clear in the quiet air, and the very trees seeming 
 
 to bend over to one another, and commune in awful murmurs 
 
 on the approach of an intruder, how could I tell what the tramp 
 
 of my unceremonious feet might waken there ? The road crosses 
 
 a deep and craggy glen, called " Simpson Clough," which is 
 
 one of the finest pieces of ravine scenery in the county, little 
 
 as it is known. The entire length of this wild gorge is nearly 
 
 three miles, and it is watered by a stream from the hills, 
 
 called " Nadin Water," which, in seasons of heavy rain, rages 
 
 and roars with great violence, through its rocky channels. 
 
 There is many a strange old tale connected with this clough. 
 
 Half way up a shaley bank, which overhangs the river on 
 
 the western side of the clough, the mouth of an ancient lead 
 
 mine may still be seen, partly shrouded by brushwood. Upon 
 
 the summit of a precipitous steep of wildwood and rock, which 
 
 bounds the eastern side of the clough, stands Bamford Hall, 
 
 a handsome, modern building of stone, a few yards from the 
 
 site of the old hall of the Bamfords of Bamford, The new 
 
 building is a residence of one branch of the Fenton family, 
 
 '"Beneficial practical philosophy, No. 4, Sparth Bottoms, near Rochdale. 
 Prognostic astro-phrenology, or nature considered as a whole its matter, its 
 properties, its laws, physical, moral, and intellectual ; and the effect of their 
 influence on individual life, character, and ability. From these premises, and 
 nearly twenty years' experience, any lady or gentleman may have the most 
 valuable advice on matters of health, sickness, profession, trade, emigration, and 
 speculation ; also marriage its prospects to the inquirer, whether it will be attended 
 with happiness, the time of its occurrence, a full description and character of the 
 present or future partner, with copious instruction to the unmarried which offer 
 or party to take, and thus secure the fullest amount of happiness, shown to any 
 individual by this combination of science. The principal requisite points of informa- 
 tion for applying the science to the benefit of an inquirer are the precise date, place 
 of birth, and the station in life. Attendance every day except Mondays, at No 4, 
 Sparth Bottoms, Rochdale. .. Dr _ Au , HONSO GAZELLE .
 
 Ramble from Bury to Rochdale. 37 
 
 wealthy bankers and cotton spinners, and owners of large tracts 
 of land, here and elsewhere. On an elevated table-land, at the 
 western side of the clough, and nearly opposite to Bamford Hall, 
 stood the ancient mansion of Grizlehurst, the seat of the notable 
 family of Holt, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. The Holt 
 family were once the most powerful and wealthy landowners in 
 the parish of Rochdale. The principal seats of the family in 
 this parish were ?tubley Hall, in the township of Wardleworth, 
 and Castleton Hall, in the township of Castleton. The manoi 
 of Spotland was granted by Henry VIII., to Thomas Holt, who 
 was knighted in Scotland, by Edward, Earl of Hertford, in the 
 thirty-sixth year of the reign of that monarch. Part of a 
 neighbouring clough still bears the name of " Tyrone's Bed," 
 from the tradition that Hugh O'Neal, Earl of Tyrone and 
 King of Ulster, took shelter in these woody solitudes, after 
 his defeat in the great Irish Rebellion, in the reign of Queen 
 Elizabeth. Mr. John Roby, of Rochdale, has woven this legend 
 into an elegant romance, in his "Traditions of Lancashire." 
 
 I reached home about ten o'clock, and, thinking over the 
 incidents of my walk, I was a little impressed by one fact, 
 suggested by the conversation at the roadside public-house, with 
 " Jone o' Jeffrey's," and the old couple ; namely, that there is a 
 great outlying mass of dumb folk in this country, who 
 by low social condition, but more by lack of common edu- 
 cation among them are shut out from the chance of hear- 
 ing much, and still more from the chance of understanding 
 what little they do hear, respecting the political questions 
 of the time ; and, also, with respect to many other matters 
 which are of essential importance to their welfare. Whether 
 this ignorance which yet pervades a great proportion of the 
 poor of England, is chargeable upon that multitude itself, 
 or upon that part of the people whom more favourable cir- 
 cumstances have endowed with light and power, and who 
 yet withhold these elements from their less fortunate fellows, 
 or, whether it is chargeable upon neither, let casuists decide. 
 The fact that this ignorance does exist among the poor of 
 England, lies so plainly upon the surface of society, that it can 
 only be denied by those who are incurious as to the condition of 
 the humbler classes of this kingdom ; or, by those who move 
 in such exclusive circles of life, that they habitually ignore the 
 conditions of human existence which lie outside of their own
 
 jg Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 limits of society and sympathy; or, by such as wink their 
 eyes to the truth of this matter, in order to work out some 
 small purpose of their own. Wherever there is ignorance at all 
 there is too much of it; and it cannot be too soon removed, 
 especially by those who are wise enough to see the crippling 
 malignities of its nature. That portion of our population 
 which hears next to nothing, and understands less, of politics 
 and the laws any laws whatever is nevertheless compelled 
 to obey the laws, right or wrong, and whatever strange muta- 
 tions they may be subject to; and is thus continually drifted 
 to and fro by conflicting currents of legislation which it cannot 
 see ; currents of legislation which sometimes rise from sources 
 where there exists, unfortunately, more love for ruling than for 
 enlightening. Many changes come over the social condition of 
 this blind multitude, they know not whence, nor how, nor why. 
 The old song says 
 
 Remember, when the judgment's weak, 
 The prejudice is strong. 
 
 And, certainly, that part of the popular voice which is raised 
 upon questions respecting which it has little or no sound informa- 
 tion, must be considerably swayed by prejudice, and by that 
 erratic play of unenlightened feeling, which has no safer govern- 
 ment than the ephemeral circumstances which chase each other 
 off the field of time. Shrewd demagogues know well how 
 prostrate is the position of this uneducated "mass," as it is 
 called ; and they have a stock of old-fashioned tricks, by which 
 they can move it to their own ends "as easy as lying." He who 
 knows the touches of this passive instrument, can make it dis- 
 course the music he desires ; and, unhappily, that is not always 
 airs from heaven. 
 
 'Tis the time's plague, 
 When madmen lead the blind. 
 
 Now, the educated classes have all the wide field of ancient 
 learning open to them they can pasture where they will ; and, 
 the stream of present knowledge rushing by, they can drink as 
 they list. Whatever is doing in politics, too, they hear of, whilst 
 these things are yet matters of public dispute ; and, in some 
 degree, they understand and see the drift of them, and, therefore, 
 can throw such influence as in them lies into one or the other
 
 Ramble from Bury to Rochdale. 39 
 
 scale of the matter. This boasted out-door parliament this 
 free expression of public opinion in England, however, as I have 
 said before, goes no farther down among the people than education 
 goes. Below that point lies a land of fretful slaves, dungeoned off 
 by ignorance from the avenues which lead to freedom ; and they 
 drag >out their lives in unwilling subservience to a legislation 
 which is beyond their influence. Their ignorance keeps them 
 dumb ; and, therefore, their condition and wants are neither so 
 well known, nor so often nor so well expressed as those of the 
 educated classes. They seldom complain, however, until the 
 state of affairs drives them to great extremity, and then their 
 principal exponents are mobs, and uproars of desperation. It 
 is plain that where there is society there must be law, and 
 obedience to that law must be enforced, even among those 
 who know nothing of the law, as well as those who defy it ; but 
 my principal quarrel is with that ignorant condition of theirs 
 which shuts them out from any reasonable hope of exercising 
 their rights as men and citizens. And so long as that ignor- 
 ance is unnecessarily continued, the very enforcement of laws 
 among them, the nature of which they have no chance of 
 knowing, looks, to me, like injustice. I see a remarkable differ- 
 ence, however, between the majority of popular movements 
 which have agitated the people for some time past, and that 
 successful one the repeal of the corn-laws. The agitation 
 of that question, I believe, awakened and enlisted a greater 
 breadth of the understanding sympathy of the nation, among all 
 classes, than was ever brought together upon any one popular 
 question which has been agitated within the memory of man. 
 But it did more than this and herein lies one of the foundation- 
 stones which shall hold it firm awhile, I think; since it has 
 passed into law, its effects have most efficiently convinced that 
 uneducated multitude of the labouring poor, who could not 
 very well understand, and did not care much for the mere 
 disputation of the question. Everybody has a stomach of some 
 sort and it frequently happens that when the brain is not very 
 active the stomach is particularly so so that, where it could not 
 penetrate the understanding, it has by this time triumphantly 
 reached the stomach, and now sits there, smiling defiance to any 
 kind of sophistry that would coax it thenceforth again. The 
 loaves of free trade followed the tracts of the League, and the 
 hopes of protectionist philosoohers are likelv to be " adjourned
 
 40 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 sine die" for this generation at least perhaps for ever ; for the 
 fog is clearing up a little, and I think I see, in the distance, a 
 better education getting ready for the next generation. 
 
 O for the coming of that glorious time 
 
 When, prizing knowledge as her noblest wealth 
 
 And best protection, this imperial realm, 
 
 While she exacts allegiance, shall admit 
 
 An obligation on her part, to teach 
 
 Them who are born to serve her and obey 
 
 Binding herself by statute to secure 
 
 For all her children whom her soil maintains. 
 
 The rudiments of letters.
 
 
 Cottage of fm 33obbtn, anfc tfje 
 17iUage of Jttilnrofo. 
 
 If thou on men, their works and ways, 
 Canst throw uncommon light, man ; 
 
 Here lies wha weel had won thy praise, 
 For Matthew was a bright man. 
 
 If thou art staunch without a stain, 
 Like the unchanging blue, man ; 
 
 This was a kinsman o' thy ain, 
 For Matthew was a true man. 
 
 If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, 
 And ne'er good wine did fear, man ; 
 
 This was thy billie, dam, and sire, 
 - For Matthew was a queer man. 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 is not in its large towns that the true type of the 
 natives of Lancashire can be seen. The character of 
 its town population is greatly modified by mixture 
 with settlers from distant quarters. Not so in the 
 country parts, because the tenancy of land, and employment 
 upon it, are sufficiently competed by the natives; and while 
 temptations to change of settlement are fewer, the difficulties in 
 the way of changing settlement are greater there than in towns. 
 Country people, too, stick to their old sod, with hereditary love, 
 as long as they can keep soul and body together upon it, in any 
 honest way. As numbers begin to press upon the means of 
 living, the surplus fights its way in cities, or in foreign lands ; or 
 lingers out a miserable life in neglected corners, for want of 
 work, and want of means to fly, in time, to a market where it 
 might, at least, exchange its labour for its living. The growth 
 of manufacture and railways, and the inroads of hordes of 
 destitute, down-trodden Irish, are stirring up Lancashire, and
 
 42 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 changing its features, in a surprising way ; and this change is 
 rapidly augmenting by a varied infusion of new human elements, 
 attracted from all quarters of the kingdom by the immense 
 increase of capital, boldly and promptly embarked in new inven- 
 tions, and ever-developing appliances of science, by a people 
 remarkable for enterprise and industry. Still, he who wishes to 
 see the genuine descendants of those old Saxons who came over 
 here some fourteen hundred years ago, to help the Britons of that 
 day to fight for their land, and remained to farm it, and govern 
 in it, let them ramble through the villages on the western side 
 of Blackstone Edge. He will there find the open manners, the 
 independent bearing, the steady perseverance, and that manly 
 sense of right and wrong, which characterised their Teutonic 
 forefathers. There, too, he will find the fair comeliness, and 
 massive physical constitution of those broad-shouldered farmer- 
 warriors, who made a smiling England out of an island of forests 
 and bogs who felled the woods, and drained the marshes, and 
 pastured their quiet kine in the ancient lair of the wild bull, the 
 boar, and the wolf. 
 
 Milnrow is an old village, a mile and a half eastward from 
 the Rochdale station. The external marks of its antiquity are 
 now few, and much obscured by the increase of manufacture 
 there; but it is, for many reasons, well worth a visit. It is 
 part of the fine township of Butterworth, enriched with many a 
 scene of mountain beauty. A hardy moor-end race, half farmers, 
 half wo'ollen- weavers, inhabit the district ; and their rude, but 
 substantial cottages and farmsteads, often perch picturesquely 
 about the summhs and sides of the hills, or nestle pleasantly 
 in green holms and dells, which are mostly watered by rivu- 
 lets, from the moorland heights which bound the township 
 on the east. There is also a beautiful lake, three miles in 
 circumference, filling a green valley, up in the hills, about a 
 mile and a half from the village. Flocks of sea-fowl often rest 
 on this water, in their flight from the eastern to the western 
 seas. From its margin the view of the wild ridges of the "Back- 
 bone of England" is fine to the north, while that part of it 
 called "Blackstone Edge" slopes up majestically from the cart- 
 road that winds along the eastern bank. A massive cathedral- 
 looking crag frowns on the forehead of the mountain. This 
 rock is a great point of attraction to ramblers from the vales 
 below, and is called bv them "Robin Hood Bed." A square
 
 The Cottage of Tim Bobbin. 43 
 
 cavity in the lower part is called " Th' Cellar." Hundreds of 
 names are sculptured on the surface of the rock, some in most 
 extraordinary situations ; and often have the keepers of the mooi 
 been startled at peep of summer dawn by the strokes of an 
 adventurous chiseller, hammering his initials into its hard face 
 as stealthily as possible. But the sounds float, clear as a bell, 
 miles over the moor, in the quiet of the morning, and disturb 
 the game. One of the favourite rambles of my youth was 
 from Rochdale town, through that part of Butterworth which 
 leads by "Clegg Hall," commemorated in Roby's tradition of 
 "Clegg Ho' Boggart," and thence across the green hills, by 
 the old farmhouse, called "Peanock," and, skirting along the 
 edge of this quiet lake upon whose waters I have spent many a 
 happy summer day, alone up the lofty moorside beyond, to 
 this rock, called "Robin Hood Bed," upon the bleak summit 
 of Blackstone Edge. It is so large that it can be seen at a 
 distance of four miles by the naked eye, on a clear day. The 
 name of Robin Hood, that brave outlaw of the olden time 
 "The English ballad-singer's joy" is not only wedded to this 
 wild crag, but to at least one other congenial spot in this 
 parish ; where the rude traditions of the people point out 
 another rock, of several tons weight, as having been thrown 
 thither, by this king of the green-woods, from an opposite 
 hill, nearly seven miles off. The romantic track where the lake 
 lies, is above the level of Milnrow, and quite out of the ordinary 
 way of the traveller ; who is too apt to form his opinion of the 
 features of the whole district, from the sterile sample he sees on 
 the sides of the rail, between Manchester and Rochdale. But if 
 he wishes to know the country and its inhabitants, he must get 
 off that, " an' tak th' crow-gate," and he will find vast moors, 
 wild ravines, green cloughs, and dells, and 
 
 Shallow rivers, to whose falls, 
 Melodious birds sing madrigals, 
 
 which will repay him for his pains. And then, if he be a Lan- 
 cashire man, and a lover of genius, let him go to Milnrow it 
 was the dwelling-place of Tim Bobbin, with whose works I hope 
 he is not unacquainted. His written works are not much in 
 extent. He was a painter, and his rough brush was replete with 
 Hogarthian sketches, full of nature, and radiant with his own 
 broad, humourous originality. He also left a richly-humourous
 
 JA Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 dialectic tale, a few Hudibrastic poems and letters, characteristic 
 of the sterling quality of his heart and head, and just serving to 
 show us how much greater the man was than his book. . 
 
 I was always pioud of Tim, and in my early days have made 
 many a pilgrimage to the village where he used to live, wandering 
 home again through the green hills of Butterworth. Bent on 
 seeing the place once more, I went up to Hunt's Bank, one fine 
 day at the end of last hay-time, to catch the train to Rochdale. 
 I paid my shilling, and took my seat among a lot of hearty 
 workmen and country-folk coming back from Wales and the 
 bathing places on the Lancashire coast. The season had 
 been uncommonly fine, and the trippers looked brighter for 
 their out, and, to use their own phrase, felt " fain at they'rn 
 wick," and ready to buckle to work again, with fresh vig- 
 our. The smile of summer had got into the saddest of us a 
 little; and we were communicative and comfortable. A long- 
 limbed collier lad, after settling his body in a corner, began to 
 hum, in a jolting metre, with as much freedom of mind as if he 
 was at the mouth of a lonely "breast-hee" on his native moorside, 
 a long country ditty about the courtship of Phcebe and Colin : 
 
 Well met, dearest Phoebe, oh, why in such haste? 
 The fields and the meadows all day I have chased, 
 In search of the fair one who does me disdain , 
 You ought to reward me for all my past pain. 
 
 The late-comers, having rushed through the ticket-office into the 
 carriages, were wiping their foreheads, and wedging themselves 
 into their seats, in spite of many protestations about being " to 
 full o' ready." The doors were slammed, the bell rung, the 
 tickets were shown, the whistle screamed its shrill signal, and off 
 we went, like a street on wheels, over the little Irk, that makes 
 such a slushy riot under the wood bridge by the college wall. 
 Within the memory of living men, the angler used to come 
 down the bank, and settle himself among the grass, to fish 
 in its clear waters. But since Arkwright set this part of the 
 world so wonderfully astir with his practicable combination of 
 other men's inventions, the Irk, like the rest of South Lancashire 
 streams, has been put to work, and its complexion is now so 
 "subdued to what it works in," that the angler comes no more 
 to the banks of the Irk to beguile the delicate loach, and the 
 lordly trout in his glittering suit of silver mail. 
 
 The train is now nearly a mile past Miles Platting, and about 
 a mile over the fields, on the north side, lies the romantic dell
 
 The Cottage of Tim Eolbln. 45 
 
 called " Boggart Hole Clough," hard by the village of Blackley 
 a pleasant spot for an afternoon walk from Manchester. An 
 old Lancashire 'poet lives near it, too, in his country cottage. 
 It is a thousand to one that, like me, the traveller will see 
 neither the one nor the other from the train ; but, like me, let 
 him be thankful for both, and ride on. Very soon, now, appears, 
 on the south side of the line, the skirts of Oldham town, scat- 
 tered about the side and summit of a barren slope, with the 
 tower of the parish church, peeping up between the chimneys of 
 the cotton factories behind Oldham Edge. If the traveller can 
 see no fine prospective meaning in the manufacturing system, 
 he will not be delighted with the scene; for the country has a 
 monotonous look, and is bleak and sterile, with hardly anything 
 worthy of the name of a tree to be seen upon it. But now, 
 about a hundred yards past the Oldham Station, there is a little 
 of the picturesque for him to feast on. We are crossing a green 
 valley, running north and south. Following the rivulet through 
 the hollow, a thick wood waves on a rising ground to the south. 
 In that wood stands Chadderton Hall, anciently the seat of the 
 Chaddertons, some of whom were famous men; and since 
 then, the seat of the Horton family. The situation is very 
 pleasant, and the land about it looks richer than the rest of the 
 neighbourhood. There was a deer-park here in the time of the 
 Hortons. Chadderton is a place of some note in the history 
 of the county ; and it is said to have formerly belonged to one 
 of the old orders of knighthood. On the other side of the line, 
 about a mile and a half off, the south-east end of Middleton is 
 in sight ; with its old church on the top of a green hill. The 
 greater part of the parish of Middleton, with other posses- 
 sions in South Lancashire, belonging to the Ashetons from 
 before Richard III., when extraordinary powers were granted 
 to Randulph Asheton. The famous Sir Ralph Asheton, called 
 " The Black Lad," from his wearing black armour, is tradition- 
 ally said to have ruled in his territories in South Lancashire with 
 great severity. In the town of Ashton, one of the lordships of 
 this family, his name is' still remembered with a kind of hereditary 
 dislike; and till within the last five or six years he has been shot 
 and torn to pieces, in effigy, by the inhabitants, at the annual 
 custom of " The Riding of the Black Lad." The hero of the 
 fine ballad called "The Wild Rider," written by Bamford, the 
 Lancashire poet, was one of this family The Middleton estates,
 
 46 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 in 1776, failing male issue, passed by marriage into the noble 
 families of De Wilton and Suffield. Now, many a rich cotton 
 spinner, perhaps lineally descended from some of the villain-serfs 
 of the " Black Lad," has an eye to buying the broad lands of the 
 proud old Ashetons. 
 
 The train is now hard by Blue Pits Station, where H is not 
 impossible for the traveller to have to wait awhile. But he 
 may comfort himself with the assurance that it is not often 
 much more than half an hour or so. Let him amuse himself, 
 meanwhile, with the wild dins that fill his ears ; the shouting 
 and running of porters, the screams of engine-whistles, the jolts 
 and collisions on a small scale, and the perpetual fuff-fuff of 
 trains, of one kind or other, that shoot to and fro by his window, 
 then stop suddenly, look thoughtful, as if they had dropt some- 
 thing, and run back again. If he looks out, ten to one he will 
 see a red-hot monster making towards him from the distance 
 at a great speed, belching steam, and scattering sparks and 
 red-hot cinders ; and, in the timidity of the moment, he may 
 chance to hope it is on the right pair of rails. But time and a 
 brave patience delivers him from these terrors, unshattered in 
 everything if his temper holds good and he shoots ahead again. 
 The moorland hills now sail upon the sight, stretching from 
 the round peak of Knowl, on the north-west, to the romantic 
 heights of Saddleworth on the south-east. The train is three 
 minutes from Rochdale, but, before it reaches there, let the 
 traveller note that picturesque old mansion, on the green, above 
 Castleton Clough, at the left-hand side of the rail. His eye 
 must be active, for, at the rate he is going, the various objects 
 about him literally "come like shadows, so depart." This is 
 Castleton Hall, formerly a seat of the Holts, of Stubley, an 
 ancient and powerful family in this parish, in the reign of 
 Henry VIII. Castleton Hall came afterwards into the posses- 
 sion of Humphrey Chetham, the founder of Chetham College, 
 in Manchester. Since then it has passed into other hands ; 
 but the proverb, "as rich as a Chetham o' Castleton," is 
 often used by the people of this district, at this day ; and many 
 interesting anecdotes, characteristic of the noble qualities of this 
 old Lancashire worthy, are treasured up by the people of those 
 parts of the country where he lived ; especially in the neigh- 
 bourhoods of Clayton Hall, near Manchester, and Turton 
 Tower, near Bolton, his favourite residences. Castleton HalJ
 
 The Cottage of Tim Bobbin. 47 
 
 was an interesting place to me when I was a lad. As I pass by 
 it now I sometimes think of the day when I first sauntered down 
 the shady avenue, which leads to it from the highroad behind ; 
 and climbed up a mossy wall by the wayside, to look into the 
 green gloom of a mysterious wood, which shades the rear of the 
 building. Even now, I remember the flush of imaginations 
 which came over me then. I had picked up some scraps of 
 historic lore about the hall, which deepened the interest I felt in 
 it. The solemn old rustling wood ; the quaint appearance, and 
 serene dignity of the hall; and the spell of interest which 
 lingers around every decaying relic of the works and haunts 
 of men of bygone times, made the place eloquent to me. It 
 seemed to me, then, like a monumental history of its old 
 inhabitants, and their times. I remember, too, that I once 
 got a peep into a part of the hall, where, in those days, some 
 old armour hung against the wall, silent and rusty enough, but, 
 to me, teeming with tales of chivalry and knightly emprise. 
 But, here is Rochdale station, where he, who wishes to visit the 
 village of Milnrow, had better alight. 
 
 If the traveller had time and inclination to go down into 
 Rochdale town, he might see some interesting things, old and 
 new, there. The town is more picturesquely situated than most 
 of the towns of South Lancashire. It lines the sides of a deep 
 valley on the banks of the Roch, overlooked by moorland hills. In 
 Saxon times it was an insignificant village, called "Rocheddam," 
 consisting of a few rural dwellings in Church Lane, a steep and 
 narrow old street, which was, down to the middle of last 
 century, the principal street in the town, though now the 
 meanest and obscurest The famous John Bright, the Cromwell 
 of modern politicians a man of whom future generations of 
 Englishmen will be prouder even than his countrymen are now 
 was born in tliis town, and lives at " One Ash," on the north 
 side of it. John Roby, author of the "Traditions of Lancashire," 
 was a banker, in Rochdale, of the firm of Fenton and Roby. 
 The bank was next door to the shop of Thomas Holden, the 
 principal bookseller of the town, to whom I was apprentice. 
 For the clergy of the district, and for a certain class of politicians, 
 this shop was the chief rendezvous of the place. Roby used to 
 slip in at evening, to have a chat with my employer, and a knot 
 of congenial spirits who met him there. In the days when my 
 head was vet but a little way higher than the counter, I remember
 
 8 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 how I used to listen to his versatile conversations. Rochdaie 
 was one of the few places where the woollen manufacture 
 was first practised in England. It is still famous for its 
 flannel. The history of Rochdale is in one respect but the 
 counterpart of that of almost every other South Lancashire 
 town. With the birth of cotton manufacture, it shot up 
 suddenly into one of the most populous and wealthy country 
 towns in England. After the traveller has contemplated the 
 manufacturing might of the place, he may walk up the 
 quaint street from which the woollen merchants of old used 
 to dispatch their goods, on pack horses, to all parts of 
 the kingdom; and from which it takes the name of "Packer 
 Street." At the top, a flight of one hundred and twenty-two 
 steps leads into the churchyard; which commands an excel- 
 lent view of the town below. There, too, lies " Tim Bobbin." 
 Few Lancashire strangers visit the town without looking at the 
 old rhymer's resting-place. Bamford, author of " Passages in the 
 Life of a Radical," thus chronicles an imaginary visit to Tim's 
 grave, in happy imitation of the dialect of the neighbourhood: 
 
 Aw stood beside Tim Bobbin grave, 
 
 At looks o'er Rachda teawn, 
 An th j o\vd lad woke within his ycarth. 
 
 An sed, " Wheer arto beawn ?" 
 
 Awm gooin into th' Packer-street, 
 
 As far as th' Gowden Bell, 
 To taste o' Daniel Kesmus ale. 
 
 TIM : "Aw could like a saup myssl " 
 An by this hont o' my reet arm, 
 
 If fro that hole theawl reawk, 
 Theawst have a saup oth' best breawn ale 
 
 At ever lips did seawk. 
 The greawnd it sturrd beneath meh feet, 
 
 An then aw yerd a groan, 
 He shook the dust fro off his skull, 
 
 An rowlt away the stone. 
 Aw brought him op a deep breawn jug, 
 
 At a gallon did contain : 
 He took it at one blessed droight, 
 
 And laid him deawn again. 
 
 Some of the epitaphs on the grave-stones were written by Tim. 
 The following one, on Joe Green, the sexton., is published with 
 Tim's works: 
 
 Here lies Joe Green, who arch has been, 
 
 And drove a gainful trade, 
 With powerful Death, till out of breath, 
 
 He threw awav his spade. 
 When Death beheld his comrade yield, 
 
 He like a cunning knave, 
 Came, soft as wind, poor Joe behind, 
 
 Aud pushed him into his grave
 
 The Cottage of Tim Bobbin. 49 
 
 Near to this grave is the grave of Samuel Kershaw, blacksmith, 
 bearing an epitaph which is generally attributed to the pen of 
 Tim, though it does not appear among his writings : 
 
 My anvil and my hammer lie declined, 
 My bellows, too, have lost their wind , 
 My fire's extinct, my forge decayed, 
 And in the dust my vice is laid. 
 My coal is spent, my iron is gone, 
 My last nail driven, and my work is done. 
 
 "Blind Abraham," who rang the curfew, and who used to 
 imitate the chimes of Rochdale old church, in a wonderful 
 way, for the lads at the Grammar School, could lead a 
 stranger from any point of the churchyard, straight as an 
 arrow's flight, to Tim's gravestone. The Grammar School 
 was founded in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, by Archbishop 
 Parker. The parish church is an interesting old edifice, standing 
 on the edge of an eminence, which overlooks the town. Tra- 
 dition says its foundations were laid by "Goblin Builders." 
 The living was anciently dependent on the Abbey of Whalley. 
 It is now the richest vicarage in the kingdom A short walk 
 through the glebe lands, and past "Th' Cant-hill Well,"* west 
 of the vicarage, will bring the traveller to the hill on which, 
 in 1080, stood the castle of Gamel, the Saxon Thane, above the 
 valley called "Kill-Danes," where the northern pirates once lost 
 a great fight with the Saxon. 
 
 After spending a few days in the town, I set out for Miln- 
 row, one fine afternoon. The road leads by the "Railway 
 Inn," near the station. The hay was mostly gathered in, but 
 the smell of it still lingered on the meadows, and perfumed the 
 wind, which sung a low melody among the leaves of the hedges. 
 Along the vale of the Roch, to the left, lay a succession ot 
 manufacturing villages, with innumerable mills, collieries, farm- 
 steads, mansions, and cottages, clustering in the valley, and 
 running up into the hills in all directions, from Rochdale to 
 Littleborough, a distance of three miles. As I went on I was 
 reminded of " wimberry-time," by meeting knots of flaxen- 
 headed lads and lasses from the moors, with their baskets filled, 
 and mouths all stained with the juice of that delicious moorland 
 fruit. There are many pleasant customs in vogue here at this 
 season. The country-folk generally know something of local 
 
 * Properly, "Th' Camp-hill Well," a well m what is called "Th 'Broad Feelt," 
 where the Danes encamped, previously to their attack on the Saxon castle, and 
 their slaughter at Kill-lJaues. in the vale below. 
 E
 
 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 botany ; and gather in a stock of medicinal herbs to dry, for use 
 throughout the year. There is still some "spo'in"' at the 
 mineral springs in the hills Whether these springs are really 
 remarkable for peculiar mineral virtues, or what^ these peculiar 
 virtues are, I am not prepared to say; but it is certain that 
 many of the inhabitants of this district firmly believe in their 
 medicinal qualities, and, at set seasons of the year, go forth to 
 visit these springs, in jovial companies, to drink "spo wayter." 
 Some go with great faith in the virtues of the water, and, having 
 drunk well of it, they will sometimes fill a bottle with it, and 
 ramble back to their houses, gathering on their way edible herbs, 
 such as "payshun docks," and "green-sauce," or "a burn o' 
 nettles," to put in their broth, and, of which, they also make a 
 wholesome " yarb-puddin'," mixed with meal; or they scour 
 the hill-sides in search of "mountain flax," a "capital yarb for 
 a cowd ;" and for the herb called " tormental," which, I have 
 heard them say, grows oftenest " abeawt th' edge o' th' singing 
 layrock neest;" or they will call upon some country botanist to 
 beg a handful of "Solomon's seal," to "cure black e'en wi'." But 
 some go to these springs mainly for the sake of a pleasant stroll 
 and a quiet feast. One of the most noted of these "spo'in"' 
 haunts is " Blue Pots Spring," situated upon a lofty moorland, 
 at the head of a green glen, called "Long dough," about 
 three miles from the village of Littleborough, The ancient 
 Lancashire festival of " Rushbearing," and the hay-harvest, 
 fall together, in the month of August ; and make it a pleasant 
 time of the year to the folk of the neighbourhood, At about 
 a mile on the road to Milnrovv, the highway passes close by 
 a green dingle, called "Th* Gentlewoman's Nook," which is 
 someway connected with the unfortunate fate of a lady, once 
 belonging to an influential family, near Milnrow, Some of the 
 country people yet believe that the place is haunted ; and, when 
 forced to pass it after dark has come on, they steal fearfully 
 and hastily by. 
 
 About a mile on the road stands Belfield Hall_ on the site of 
 an ancient house, formerly belonging to the Knights of St. John 
 of Jerusalem. It is a large old building, belonging to the Townley 
 family. The estate has been much improved by its present 
 occupant, and makes a pleasant picture in the eye from the top 
 of a dinge in the road, at the foot of which a by-path leads up 
 to the old village of Newbold, on the brow of a green bank, at
 
 The Cottage of Tim Bobbin. 5 1 
 
 the right-hand side of the highway. I stood there a minute, and 
 tried to plant again the old woods, that must have been thick 
 there, when the squirrel leaped from tree to tree, from Castletor 
 Hall to Buckley Wood. I was trying to shape in imagination 
 what the place looked like in the old time, when the first rude 
 hall was built upon the spot, and the country around was a lone- 
 some tract, shrouded by primeval trees, when a special train 
 went snorting by the back of the hall, and shivered my delicate 
 endeavour to atoms. I sighed involuntarily ; but bethinking me 
 how imagination clothes all we are leaving behind in a drapery 
 that veils many of its rough realities, I went my way, thankful 
 for things as they are. A little further on, Fir Grove bridge 
 crosses the Rochdale canal, and commands a better view of the 
 surrounding country, I rested here a little while, and looked 
 back upon the spot which is for ever dear to my remembrance. 
 The vale of the Roch lay smiling before me, and the wide- 
 stretching circle of dark hills closed in the landscape, on all sides, 
 except the south-west Two weavers were lounging on the 
 bridge, bareheaded, and in their working gear, with stocking- 
 legs drawn on their arms. They had come out of the looms to 
 spend their "baggin-time" in the open air, and were humming 
 one of their favourite songs : 
 
 Hey Hal o' Nabs, an Sam, an Sue, 
 
 Hey Jonathan, art thea theer too, 
 
 We're o' alike, there's nought to do, 
 
 So bring a quart afore us. 
 Aw're at Tinker's gardens yester noon, 
 An' what aw see'd aw'll tell yo soon, 
 In a bran new sung ; it's to th' owd tune 
 ' ' o'n join chorus. 
 
 Fal, lal.de ral. 
 
 At the door of the Fir Grove ale-house, a lot of raw-boned 
 young fellows were talking with rude emphasis about the 
 exploits of a fighting-cock of great local renown, known by the 
 bland sobriquet of " Crash-Bwons." The theme was exciting, 
 and in the course of it they gesticulated with great vehemence, 
 and, in their own phrase, " swore like horse-swappers." Some 
 were colliers, and sat on the ground, in that peculiar squat, 
 with the knees up to a level with the chin, which is a favourite 
 resting-attitude with them. At slack times they like to sit 
 thus by the road side, and exchange cracks over their ale, 
 amusing themselves meanwhile by trying the wit and temper of 
 every passer by. These humourous road-side commentators are,
 
 C2 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 generally, the roughest country lads of the neighbourhood, who 
 have no dislike to anybody willing to accommodate them with 
 a tough battle ; for they, like the better regulated portion of the 
 inhabitants of the district, are hardy, bold, and independent; 
 and, while their manners are open and blunt, their training and 
 amusements are very rough. 
 
 I was now approaching Milnrow; and, here and there, a tenter- 
 field ribbed the landscape with lines of woollen webs, hung upon 
 the hooks to dry. Severe laws were anciently enacted for the 
 protection of goods thus necessarily exposed. Depredations on 
 such property were punished after the manner of that savage old 
 "Maiden" with the thin lip, who stood so long on the "Gibbet 
 Hill," at Halifax, kissing evil-doers out of the world. Much of 
 the famous Rochdale flannel is still woven by the country people 
 here, in the old-fashioned, independent way, at their own homes, 
 as the traveller will see by "stretchers," which are used for 
 drying their warps upon, so frequently standing at the doors of 
 the roomy dwelling-houses near the road. From the head of the 
 brow which leads down into the village, Milnrow chapel is full 
 in view on a green hill-side to the left, overlooking the centre of 
 the busy little hamlet. It is a bald-looking building from the 
 distance, having more the appearance of a little square factory 
 than a church. Lower down the same green eminence, which 
 slopes to the edge of the little river Beal, stands the pleasant and 
 tasteful, but modest residence of the incumbent of Milnrow, the 
 Rev. Francis Robert Raines, honorary canon of Manchester, a 
 notable archsologist and historian ; much beloved by the people 
 of the locality. 
 
 There are old people still living in Milnrow, who were 
 taught to read and write, and "do sums" in Tim Bobbin's school; 
 yet, the majority of the inhabitants seem unacquainted with his 
 residence. I had myself been misled respecting it ; but having 
 obtained correct information, and a reference from a friend in 
 Rochdale to an old relative of his who lived in the veritable 
 cottage of renowned Tim, I set about inquiring for him. As I 
 entered the village, I met a sturdy, good-looking woman, with 
 a chocolate-coloured silk kerchief tied over her snowy cap, in 
 that graceful way which is known all over the country-side as 
 a "Mildro Bonnet." She stopt me and said, "Meastur, hea fur 
 hanyocom'd?" " From Rochdale." "Han yo sin aught ov 
 a felley wi breeches on, an' rayther forrud, upo' th' gate, between
 
 The Cottage of Tim Bobbin. 53 
 
 an' th' Fir Grove?" I told her I had not; and I then in- 
 quired for Scholefield that lived in Tim Bobbin's cottage. She 
 reckoned up all the people she knew of that name, but none of 
 them answering the description, I went on my way. I next 
 asked a tall woollen-weaver, who was striding up the street with 
 his shuttle to the mending. Scratching his head, and looking 
 thoughtfully round among the houses, he said, " Scwofil ? Aw 
 know no Scwofils, but thoose at th' Tim Bobbin aleheawse; 
 yodd'n better ash (ask) theer." Stepping over to the Tim Bobbin 
 inn, Mrs. Schofield described to me the situation of Tim's cottage, 
 near the bridge. Retracing my steps towards the place, I went 
 into the house of an old acquaintance of my childhood. On 
 the strength of a dim remembrance of my features, he invited 
 me to sit down, and share the meal just made ready for th? 
 family. " Come, poo a cheer up," said he, " an' need no moo 
 lathein'."* After we had finished, he said, "Neaw, win yd 
 have a reech o' bacco ? Mally, reytch us some pipes, an th 1 
 pot out o'th nook. Let's see, who's lad are yo, sen yo ? for aw 
 welly forgetten, bith mass." After a fruitless attempt at en- 
 lightening him thereon in ordinary English, I took to the 
 dialect, and in the country fashion described my genealogy, on 
 the mother's side. I was instantly comprehended ; for he stopt 
 me short with " Whau then, aw'll be sunken iv yo are not 
 gron'son to 'Billy, wi' th' pipes, at th' Biggins.'" "Yo han it 
 neaw," said I. " Eh," replied he, " aw knowed him as weel as 
 aw knew my own feythur ! He're a terrible chap for music, an' 
 sich like ; an' he used to letter grave-stones, an' do mason-wark. 
 Eh, aw've bin to mony a orrytory wi' Owd Billy. Why, 
 let's see Owd Wesley preytched at his heawse, i' Wardle fowd 
 once't.t An' han yo some relations i' th' Mildro, then ?" I told 
 him my errand, and inquired for Scholefield, who lived in Tim 
 Bobbin's cottage. As he pondered, and turned the name over 
 in his mind, one of his lads shouted out, " By th' mon, feyther, 
 
 * Latheirf inviting. 
 
 t John Leach, of Wardle, was a notable man among the early Methodists, and 
 was one of Wesley's first preachers. He was my grandmother's uncle. In Southey's 
 Life of Wesley, I find the following note respecting him, under the head, " OUTCRY 
 AGAINST METHODISM. VIOLENCE OF MOBS, AND MISCONDUCT OF MAGISTRATES :" 
 When John Leach was pelted, near Rochdale, in those riotous days, and saw his 
 brother wounded in the forehead by a stone, he was mad enough to tell the rabble 
 that not one of them could hit him, if he were to stand preaching there till midnight. 
 Just then the mob began to quarrel among themselves, and, therefore, left off pelting 
 But the anecdote has been related by his brethren for his praise.
 
 ^ Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 it's ' Owd Mahogany/ Aw think he's code (called) Scwofil, an' 
 he lives i'th garden at th' botham o'th bonk, by th' waytur side." 
 It was generally agreed that this was the place, so I parted with 
 my friends and went towards it. The old man came out with- 
 out his hat, a short distance, to set me right. After bidding me 
 a hearty " good neet," he turned round as he walked away, and 
 shouted out, " Neaw tay care yo coan, th ; next time yo com'n 
 thiz gate, an' wi'n have a gradely do." 
 
 About twenty yards from the west end of the little stone 
 bridge that spans the river, a lane leads, between the ends of the 
 dwelling houses, down to the water side. There, still sweetly 
 secluded, stands the quaint, substantial cottage of John Collier, 
 in its old garden by the edge of the Beal, which, flowing through 
 the fields in front, towards the cottage, is there dammed up into 
 a reservoir for the use of the mill close by, and then tumbling 
 over in a noisy little fall under the garden edge, goes shouting 
 and frolicking along the north-east side of it, over water-worn 
 rocks, and under the bridge, till the cadence dies away in a low 
 murmur, beyond, where the bed of the stream gets smoother. 
 Lifting the latch, I walked through the garden, to the cottage, 
 where I found "Owd Mahogany" and his maiden sister, two 
 
 Elain, clean, substantial working-people, who were sitting in the 
 jw-roofed, but otherwise roomy apartment in front, used as a 
 kitchen. They entered heartily into the purpose of my visit, 
 and showed me everything about the house with a genial pride. 
 What made the matter more interesting was the fact, that 
 "Owd Mahogany had been, when a lad, a pupil of Collier's. 
 The house was built expressly for Tim, by his father-in-law; 
 and the uncommon thickness of the walls, the number and 
 arrangement of the rooms, and the remains of a fine old oak 
 staircase, showed that more than usual care and expense had 
 been bestowed upon it. As we went through the rooms on 
 the ground-floor, my ancient guide gave me a good deal of 
 anecdote conneted with each. Pointing to a clean, cold, white- 
 washed cell, with a great flag table in it, and a grid-window at 
 one end, he said, "This wur his buttery, wheer he kept pullen,* 
 an gam, an sich like ; for thir no mon i' Rachdaw parish liv't 
 betther nor Owd Tim, nor moor like a gentleman; nor one at 
 had moor friends, gentle an simple , Th' Teawnlo's took'n to him 
 
 PMen pDultry.
 
 The Cottage of Ttm Bobbin. 55 
 
 fearfully, an thir'n olez comin' to see him ,- or sendin' him 
 presents o' some mak'.' : He next showed me the parlour where 
 he used to write and receive company. A little oblong room, 
 low in the roof, and dimly lighted by a small window from the 
 garden. Tim used to keep this retiring sanctum tastefully adorned 
 with the flowers of each season, and one might have eaten his 
 dinner off the floor in his time. In the garden he pointed out 
 the corner where Tim had a roomy green arbor, with a smooth 
 stone table in the middle, on which lay his books, his flute, or 
 his meals, as he was in the mood. He would stretch himself 
 out here, and muse for hours together. The lads used to bring 
 their tasks from the school behind the house, to this arbor, 
 for Tim to examine. He had a green shaded walk from 
 the school into his garden. When in the school, or about 
 the house, he wore a silk velvet skull-cap. The famous 
 radical, William Cobbett, used to wear a similar one, occa- 
 sionally; and I have heard those who have seen both in this 
 trim, say that the likeness of the two men was then singularly 
 striking. "Owd Mahogany'' having now shown and told me 
 many interesting things respecting Tim's house and habits, 
 entered into a hearty eulogy upon his character as a man and a 
 schoolmaster. " He're a fine, straight-forrud mon, wi' no maffle 
 abeawt him; for o' his quare, cranky ways." As an author, he 
 thought him " Th' fine'st writer at Englan' bred, at that time o' 
 th' day." Of his caligraphy, too, he seemed particulary proud, 
 for he declared that " Tim could write a clear print hond, as 
 smo' as smithy smudge," He finished by saying, that he saw him 
 carried out of the door-way we were standing in, to his grave. 
 
 At the edge of dark, 1 bade adieu to Tim's cottage, and the 
 comfortable old couple that live in it. As I looked back from 
 the garden-gate, the house wore a plaintive aspect, in my imagi- 
 nation; as if it was thinking of its fine old tenant. Having heard 
 that there was something uncommon to be learnt of him at the 
 Tim Bobbin Inn, I went there again. It is the largest and most 
 respectable public-house in the village, kept in a fine state of 
 homely comfort by a motherly old widow. I found that she 
 could tell me something of the quaint schoolmaster and his wife 
 "Mary," who, as she said, "helped to bring her into th' world." 
 She brought out a folio volume of engravings from designs by 
 Tim, with many pieces of prose and verse of his, in engraved 
 fac-simile of his hand-writing. The book was bound in dark
 
 rg Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 morocco, with the author's name on the side, in gold. I turned 
 it over with pleasure, for there were things in it not found in 
 any edition of his works. The landlady shows this book with 
 some pride to Tim's admirers; by some she had been offered 
 large sums of money for it ; and once a party of curious visitors 
 had well-nigh carried it off by stealth in their carriage, after 
 making fruitless offers of purchase; but the plan was detected 
 in time, and the treasure restored to its proper custody. I read 
 in it one of his addresses to his subscribers, in which he says of 
 himself: " He's Lancashire born ; and, by the by, all his ac- 
 quaintance agree, his wife not excepted, that he's an odd-fellow. 
 . . . In the reign of Queen Anne he was a boy, and one of 
 the nine children of a poor curate in Lancashire, whose stipend 
 never amounted to thirty pounds a-year, and consequently the 
 family must feel the iron teeth of penury with a witness. These 
 indeed were sometimes blunted by the charitable disposition of 
 
 the good rector (the Rev. Mr. H. , of W n) : so this 
 
 T. B. lived as some other boys did, content with water-pottage, 
 buttermilk, and jannock, till he was between thirteen and four- 
 teen years of age, when Providence began to smile on him in his 
 advancement to a pair of Dutch looms, when he met with treacle 
 to his pottage, and sometimes a little in his buttermilk, or spread 
 on his jannock. However, the reflections of his father's circum- 
 stances (which now and then start up and still edge his teeth) 
 make him believe that Pluralists are no good Christians ; that he 
 who will accept of two or more places of one hundred a-year, 
 would not say I have enough, though he was Pope Clement, 
 Urban, or Boniface, could affirm himself infallible, and offer 
 his toe to kings : that the unequal distribution of Church emolu- 
 ments is as great a grievance in the ecclesiastic, as undeserved 
 pensions and places are in the state ; both of which, he presumes 
 to prophesy, will prove canker-worms at the roots of those 
 succulent plants, and in a few years cause leaf and branch to 
 shrivel up, and dry them to tinder." The spirit of this passage 
 seems the natural growth, in such a mind as his, of the curriculum 
 of study in the hard college of Tim's early days. In the thrifty 
 home of the poor Lancashire curate, though harrowed by " the 
 iron teeth of penury, 1 ' Tim inherited riches that wealth cannot 
 buy. Under the tuition of a good father, who could study his 
 reflective and susceptible mind, and teach him many excellent 
 things ; together with that hard struggle to keep the wolf from
 
 The Cottage of Tim Bobbin. 57 
 
 the door of his childhood, which pressed upon his thoughts, he 
 grew up contemplative, self-reliant, and manly, on oatmeal por- 
 ridge, and jannock, with a little treacle for a god-send. His 
 feelings were deepened, and his natural love of independence 
 strengthened there, with that hatred of all kinds of injustice, 
 which flashes through the rich humour and genial kindness of 
 his nature, for nature was strong in him, and he relished her 
 realities. Poverty is not pleasant, yet the world has more to 
 thank poverty for than it dreams of. With honourable pride 
 he fought his way to a pair of Dutch looms, where he learned to 
 win his jannock and treacle by honest weaving. Subsequently 
 he endeavoured to support himself honourably, by pursuits no 
 less useful, but more congenial to the bias of his faculties ; but, 
 to the last, his heart's desire was less to live in external plenty 
 and precedence among men, than to live conscientiously, in the 
 sweet relations of honourable independence in the world. This 
 feeling was strong in him, and gives dignity to his character. 
 As a politician, John Collier was considerably ahead of the time 
 he lived in, and especially of the simple, slow-minded race of 
 people dwelling, then, in that remote nook of Lancashire, 
 at the foot of Blackstone Edge. Among such people, and in 
 such a time, he spoke and wrote things, which few men dared 
 to write and speak. He spoke, too, in a way which was as 
 independent and pithy as it was quaintly-expressive. His words, 
 like his actions, stood upon their own feet, and looked up. Per- 
 haps, if he had been a man of a drier nature, of less genial and 
 attractive genius than he was, he might have had to suffer more 
 for the enunciation of truths, and the recognition of principles 
 which were unfashionable in those days. But Collier was not 
 only a man of considerable valour and insight, with a manly 
 mind and temper, but he was also genial and humourous, as he 
 was earnest and honest. He was an eminently human-hearted 
 man, who abhorred all kinds of cant and seeming. His life was 
 a greater honour to him even than his quaint pencil, or his pen ; 
 and the memory of his sayings and doings will be long and 
 affectionately cherished, at least, by Lancashire men. 
 
 Eh i Whoo-who-whoo ! What wofo wark ! 
 He's laft um aw, to lie i' th' dark. 
 
 The following brief memoir, written by his friend and patron,. 
 Richard Townley, Esq., of Belfield Hall, near Milnrow, for in- 
 sertion in Dr. Aiken's "History of the Environs of Manchester,'"
 
 5 8 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 contains the best and completest account of his life and character, 
 which has yet appeared : 
 
 Mr. JOHN COLLIER, alias TIM BOBBIN, was born near Warrington, in Lanca- 
 shire ; his father, a clergyman of the Established Church, had a small curacy, and 
 for several years taught a school. With the joint income of those, he managed so 
 as to maintain a wife and several children decently, and also to give them a tolerable 
 share of useful learning, until a dreadful calamity befel him, about his fortieth year 
 the total loss of sight. His former intentions of bringing up his son, John of whose 
 abilities he had conceived a favourable opinion to the church, were then over, and 
 he placed him out an apprentice to a Dutch loom-weaver, at which business he 
 worked more than a year ; but such a sedentary employment not at all according 
 with his volatile spirits and eccentric genius, he prevailed upon his master to lelease 
 him from the remainder of his servitude. Though then very young, he soon com- 
 menced itinerant schoolmaster, going about the country from one small town to 
 another, to teach reading, writing, and accounts; and generally having a night- 
 school (as well as a day one), for the sake of those whose necessary employments 
 would not allow their attendance at the usual school hours. 
 
 In one of his adjournments to the small but populous town of Oldham, he had 
 an intimation that the Rev. Mr. Pearson, curate and schoolmaster, of Milnrow, near 
 Rochdale, wanted an assistant in the school. To that gentleman he applied, and 
 after a short examination, was taken m by him to the school, and he divided his 
 salary, twenty pounds a year, with him. This Tim considered as a material advance 
 in the world, as he still could have a night-school, which answered very well in that 
 populous neighbourhood, and was considered by Tim, too, as a state of independency; 
 a favourite idea, ever afterwards, with his high spirits. Mr. Pearson, not very long 
 afterwards, falling a martyr to the gout, my honoured father gave Mr, Collier the 
 school, which not only made him happy in the thought of being more independent, 
 but made him consider himself as a rich man. 
 
 Having now more leisure hours by dropping his night-school there, though he 
 continued to teach at Oldham, and some other places, during the vacations of 
 Whitsuntide and Christmas, he began to instruct himself in music and drawing, 
 and soon was such a proficient in both as to be able to instruct others very well 
 in those amusing arts. 
 
 The hautboy and common flute were his chief instruments, and upon the former 
 he very much excelled ; the fine modulations that have since been acquired, or 
 introduced upon that noble instrument, being then unknown in England. He drew 
 landscapes in good taste, understanding the rules of perspective, and attempted some 
 heads in profile, with very decent success : but it did not hit his humour, for I have 
 heard him say, when urged to go on in that line, that "drawing heads and faces was 
 as dry and insipid as leading a life without frolic and fun, unless he was allowed to 
 steal in some leers of comic humour, or to give them a good dash of the caricature." 
 Very early in life he discovered some poetic talents, or rather an easy habit for 
 humourous rhyme, by several anonymous squibs he sent about in ridicule of some 
 notoriously absurd, or eccentric characters; these were fathered upon him very 
 justly, which created him some enemies, but more friends. I had once in my 
 possession some humourous relations in tolerable rhyme, of his own frolic and fun 
 with persons he met with, of the like description, in his hours of festive humour, 
 which was sure to take place when released for any time from school duty, and not 
 too much engaged in his lucrative employment of painting. The first regular poetic 
 composition which he published, was "The Blackbird," containing some spirited 
 ridicule upon a Lancashire Justice, more renowned for political zeal and ill-timed 
 loyalty than good sense and discretion. In point of easy, regular versification, 
 perhaps this was his best specimen, and it also exhibited some strokes of humour. 
 
 About this period of life he fell seriously in love with a handsome young woman, 
 a daughter of Mr. Clay, of Flockton, near Huddersfield, and soon after took her 
 unto him for a wife , or, as he used to style her, his crooked rib, who, in proper time, 
 increased his family, and proved to be a virtuous, discreet, sensible and prudent 
 woman, a good wife, and an excellent mother. His family continuing to increase 
 nearly every year the hautboy., flute, and amusing pencil were pretty much discarded, 
 .nd tlie_brush and pallet taken up seriously. He was chiefly engaged for some time 
 in painting altar-pieces for chapels and signs for publicans, which pretty well rewarded 
 the labours of his vacant hours from school attendance but after some time family 
 expenses increasing more with his family, he devised, 01 luckily hit upon,' a more
 
 The Cottage of Tim Bobbin. 59 
 
 lucrative employment for his leisure hours: this was copying Dame Nature in 
 some of her humourous performances, and grotesque sportings with the human face 
 (especially where the visage had the greatest share in those sportings), into which 
 his pencil contrived to throw some pointed features of grotesque humour, such as 
 were best adapted to excite risibility, as long as such strange objects had the advan- 
 tage of novelty to recommend them. These pieces he worked off with uncommon 
 celerity: a single portrait in the leisure hours of two days, at least, and a group of 
 three or four in a week. As soon as finishe^, he was wont to carry them to the first- 
 rate inns at Rochdale and Littleborough, in the great road to Yorkshire, with the 
 lowest prices fixed upon them, the innkeepers willingly becoming Tim's agents. 
 The droll humour, as well as singularity of style of those pieces, procured him a 
 most ready sale, from riders out, and travellers of other descriptions, who had heard 
 of Tim's character. These whimsical productions soon began to be in such general 
 repute, that he had large orders for them, especially from merchants in Liverpool, 
 who sent them, upon speculation, into the West Indies and America. He used, at 
 that time, to say, that "if Providence had ever meant him to be a rich man, that 
 would have been the proper time, especially if she had kindly bestowed upon him 
 two pair of hands instead of one ;" but when cash came in readily, it was sure to go 
 merrily: a cheerful glass with a joyous companion was so much in unison with his 
 own disposition, that a temptation of that kind could never be resisted by poor Tim; 
 so the season to grow rich never arrived, but Tim remained poor Tim to the end of 
 the chapter. 
 
 Collier had been for many years collecting, not only from the rustics in his own 
 neighbourhood, but also wherever he made excursions, all the awkward, vulgar, 
 obsolete words, and local expressions, which ever occurred to him in conversation 
 amongst the lower classes. A very retentive memory brought them safe back for 
 insertion in his vocabulary, or glossary, and from thence he formed and executed 
 the plan of his " Lancashire Dialect," which he exhibited to public cognizance in 
 the "Adventures of a Lancashire Clown." formed from some rustic sports and 
 gambols, and also some whimsical modes of circulating fun at the expense of silly, 
 credulous boobies amongst the then cheery gentlemen of that peculiar neighbour- 
 hood. This publication, from its novelty, together with some real strokes of comic 
 humour interlarded into it, took very much with the middle and lower class of people 
 in the northern counties (and I believe everywhere in the South, too, where it had 
 the chance of being noticed), so that a new edition was soon necessary. This was a 
 matter of exultation to Tim, but not of very long duration, for the rapid sale of the 
 second edition soon brought forth two or three pirated editions, which made the 
 honest, unsuspecting owner to exclaim with great vehemence, "that he did not be- 
 lieve there was one honest printer in Lancashire ;" and afterwards to lash some of 
 the most culpable of those insidious offenders with his keen, sarcastic pen, when 
 engaged in drawing up a preface to a future publication. The above-named per- 
 formances, with his pencil, his brush, and his pen, made Tim's name and repute for 
 whimsical archness pretty generally known, not only within his native county, but 
 also through the adjoining counties of Yorkshire and Cheshire : and his repute for a 
 peculiar species of pleasantry in his hours of frolic, often induced persons of much 
 higher rank to send for him to an inn (when in the neighbourhood of his residence), 
 to have a personal specimen of his uncommon drollery. Tim was seldom backward 
 in obeying a summons to good cheer, and seldom, I believe, disappointed the expec- 
 tations of his generous host, for he had a wonderful flow of spirits, with an inex- 
 haustible fund of humour, and that, too, of a very peculiar character. 
 
 Blest with a clear and masculine understanding, and a keen discernment into the 
 humours and foibles of others, he knew how to take the best advantage of those 
 occasional interviews in order to promote trade, as he was wont to call it, though his 
 natural temper was very far from being of a mercenary cast ; it was often rather too 
 free and generous ; more so than prudence, with respect to his family, would advise, 
 for he would sooner have had a lenten day or two at home, than done a shabby and 
 mean thing abroad. 
 
 Amongst other persons of good fortune, who often called upon him at Milnrow, 
 or sent for him to spend a few hours with him at Rochdale, was a Mr. Richard Hill, 
 of Kibroid and Halifax, in Yorkshire, then one of the greatest cloth merchants, and 
 also one of the most considerable manufacturers of baizes and shalloons in the north 
 of England. This gentleman was not only fond of his humourous conversation, but 
 also had taken up an opinion that he would be highly useful to him as his head clerk, 
 in business, from his being very ready at accounts, and writing a most beautiful 
 small hand, in any kind of type, but especially in imitation of printed characters
 
 60 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 After several fruitless attempts, he at last, by offers of an extravagant salary, pre- 
 vailed upon Mr. Collier to enter into articles of service for three years, certain, and 
 to take his family to Kibroid. After signing and sealing, he called upon me to give 
 notice that he must resign the school, and to thank me for my long-continued friend- 
 ship to him. At taking leave, he. like the honest Moor- 
 
 Albeit, unused to the melting mood, 
 Dropped tears as fast as the Arabian tree, 
 Their medicinal gum. 
 
 And in faltering accents, entreated me not to be too hasty in filling up the vacancy 
 in that school, where he had lived so many years contented and happy : for he had 
 alreadv some forebodings that he should never relish his new situation and new 
 occupation I granted his request, but hoped he would soon reconcile himself to his 
 new situation as it promised to be so advantageous both to himself and family. He 
 replied, that "it was for the sake of his wife and children, that he was at last induced 
 to accept Mr. Hill's very tempting offers , no other consideration whatever could 
 have made him give up Milnrow school, and independency." 
 
 About two months afterwards, some business of his master's bringing him to 
 Rochdale market, he took that opportunity of returning by Belfield. I instantly 
 perceived a wonderful change in his looks : that countenance which used ever to be 
 gay serene, or smiling, was then cove/ed, or disguised with a pensive, settled gloom. 
 On asking him how he liked his new situation at Kibroid, he replied, "Not at all ; " 
 then, enumerating several causes for discontent, concluded with an observation, that 
 "he never could abide the ways of that country, for they neither kept red-letter 
 days themselves nor allowed their servants to keep any." Before he left me, he 
 passionately entreated that I would not give away the school, for he should never be 
 happy again until he was seated in the crazy old elbow chair within his school. I 
 granted his request, being less anxious to fill up the vacancy, as there were two other 
 free schools for the same uses within the same townships, which have decent salaries 
 annexed to them. 
 
 Some weeks afterwards I received a letter from Tim, that he had some hopes of 
 getting released from his vassalage ; for, that the father having found out what very 
 high wages his son had agreed to give him, was exceedingly angry with him for 
 being so extravagant in his allowance to a clerk ; that a violent quarrel betwixt them 
 had been the consequence ; and from that circumstance he meant ai. 'east hoped 
 to derive some advantage in the way of regaining his liberty, which he lingered after, 
 and panted for, as much as any galley-slave upon earth. 
 
 Another letter announced that his master perceived that he was dejected, and 
 had lost his wonted spirits and cheerfulness ; had hinted to him, that if he disliked 
 his present situation, he should be released at the end of the year ; concluding his 
 letter with a most earnest imploring that I would not dispose of the school before 
 that time. By the interposition of the old gentleman, and some others, he got the 
 agreement cancelled a considerable time before the year expired ; and the evening of 
 the day when the liberation took place, he hired a large Yorkshire cart to bring away 
 bag and baggage by six o'clock next morning, to his own house, at Milnrow. When 
 he arrived upon the west side of Blackstone Edge, he thought himself once more a 
 FREE MAN ; and his heart was as light as a feather. The next morning he came up 
 to Belfield, to know if he might take possession of his school again ; which being 
 readily consented to, tears of gratitude instantly streamed down his cheeks, and 
 such a suffusion of joy illumined his countenance, as plainly bespoke the heart being 
 in unison with his looks. He then declared his unalterable resolution never more to 
 quit the humble village of Milnrow ; that it was not in the power of kings, nor their 
 prime ministers, to make him any offers, if so disposed, that would allure him from, 
 his tottering elbow chair, from humble fare, with liberty and contentment. A hint 
 was thrown out that he must work hard with his pencil, his brush, and his pen, to 
 make up the deficiency in income to his family ; that he promised to do, and was as 
 good as his promise, for he used double diligence, so that the inns at Rochdale and 
 Littleborough were soon ornamented, more than ever, with ugly grinning old fellows 
 and mambling old women on broomsticks, &C-, &c. 
 
 Tim's last literary productions, as I recollect, were " Remarks upon the Rev. 
 Mr. Whittaker's History of Manchester, in two parts:" the " Remarks" will speak 
 for themselves. There appears rather too much seasoning and salt in some of them 
 mixed with a degree of acerbity for which he was rather blamed. 
 
 Mr. Collier died in possession of his faculties, with his mental powers but little 
 impaired, at nearly eighty years of age, and his eyesight was not so much injured as
 
 The Cottage of Tim Bobbin. 61 
 
 might have been expected from such a severe use of it, during so long a space of 
 time. His wife died a few years before him, but he left three sons and two 
 daughters behind him. 
 
 In a sketch like this, it is not easy to select such examples 
 from Collier's writings as will give an adequate idea of their 
 manner and significance. His inimitable story, called " Tummus 
 and Meary," will bear no mutilation. Of his rhymes, perhaps 
 the best is the one called "The Blackbird." The following 
 extract from Tim's preface to the third edition of his works, in 
 the form of a dialogue between the author and his book, though 
 far from the best thing he has written, contains some very 
 characteristic touches : 
 
 Tim. Well, boh we'n had enough o' this foisty matter ; let's talk o' summat elze ; 
 an furst tell me heaw thea went on eh thi last jaunt. 
 
 Book. Gu on ! Beladay, aw could ha' gwon on wheantly, an' bin awhoam again 
 wi' th' crap eh meh slop in a snift, iv id na met, at oytch nook, thoose basthartly 
 whelps sent eawt be Stuart, Finch, an Schofield. 
 
 Tim. Pooh ! I dunnot meeon heaw folk harbort'nt an cutternt o'er-tho ; boh what 
 thoose fause Lunnoners said'n abeawt te jump, at's new o'er-bodyt. 
 
 Book. Oh, oh ! Neaw aw ha't ! Yo meeon'n thoose lung-seeted folk at glooar'n 
 a second time at books ; an \vhooa awr fyert would rent meh jump to chatters. 
 
 Tim. Reet mon, reel ; that's it, 
 
 Book. Whau then, to tello true, awr breeod wi' a gorse waggin' ; for they took'n 
 mo i'th reet leet to a yure. 
 
 Tim. Heaw's tat,, eh Gods'num ! 
 
 Book. Whau, at yoad'n donned mo o' thiss'n, like a meawntebank's foo, for th' 
 wonst, to mey th' rabblement fun. 
 
 Tim. Eh, law ! An did'n th' awvish shap, an th' peckl't jump pan, said'n they? 
 
 reawnd like a tayliur, when he mezzurs folk ; chuckt mo under th' chin ; ga' mo a 
 honey butter-cake, an said oppenly, they ne'er saigh an awkert look, a quare shap, 
 an a peckl't jump gee better eh their live. . 
 
 Tim. Neaw, e'en fair fa' urn, say aw ! These wur'n th' boggarts at flayd'n tho ! 
 But aw'd olez a notion at tear'n no gonnor-yeds. 
 
 Book. Gonner-yeds ! Naw, naw, not te marry ! Boh, aw carry 't mysel' meety 
 meeverly too-to, an did as o bidd'n mo. 
 
 Tim. Then theaw towd urn th' tale, an said th' rimes an aw, did to? 
 
 Book. Th' tale an th' rimes ! 'Sflesh, aw believe eh did ; boh aw know no moor 
 on um neaw than a seawkin' pig. 
 
 Tim. 'Od rottle the; what says to? Has to foryeat'n th' tayliur findin' th' 
 urchon ; an th' rimes ? 
 
 Book. Quite, quite ; as eh hope to chieve ! 
 
 Tim. Neaw e'en the dule steawnd to, say aw ! What a fuss mun aw have to 
 teytch um tho again ! 
 
 Book. Come, come ; dunna fly up in a frap ; a body conno carry oytch mander o' 
 think eh their nob. 
 
 Tim. Whau boh, mind neaw, theaw gawmblm' tyke, at to can tell th' tale an say 
 th' rimes be rot tightly. 
 
 Book. " Fear me na," said Doton ; begin. 
 
 Tim. A tayliur, eh Crummil's time, wur thrunk pooin' turmits in his pingot, an 
 fund an urchon i'th hadloont reean.* He glendurt at't lung, boh could may nowt 
 on't. He whoav't hi whisket o'ert, runs whoam, an tells his neighbours he thowt m 
 his guts at he'd fund a think at God ne'er made eawt, for it'd nother yed nor tale, 
 nor hont nor hough, nor midst nor eend ! Loath t' believe this, hauve a dozen on 
 um would gu t' see iv they could'n may shift t' gawm it ; boh it capt um aw ; for they 
 newer a one on um e'er saigh th' like afore. Then theyd'n a keawncil, an th' eend 
 
 * Hadloont reean headland gutter.
 
 6 2 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 on't wur at teyd'n fotch a lawm, fause owd felly, het* an elder, at could tell oytch 
 think-for they look'nt on him as th' harail-scoance, an thowt hun fuller o' leet than 
 elo'w-worm's a-se. When they'n towd him th' case, he stroke't his beeart; 
 sowghf an order't th' wheelbarrow wi' spon-new trindle t' be fotcht. 'Twur dun ; 
 an they beawln't him away to th' urchon in a-crack. . He glooart at't a good wh.le ; 
 dried his beeart deawn, an wawtud it o'er with his crutch. "Wheel me abeawt 
 azain o'th tother side," said he, " for it sturs, an by that, it should be wick." Then 
 he* dons his spectacles, stare't at't again, an sowghin', said, " Breether, its summat : 
 boh feyther Adam nother did, nor could kersun it. Wheel mo whoam again ! 
 
 Book. Aw remember it neaw, weel enough : boh iv these viewers could gawm it 
 oytch body couldna ; for aw find neaw at yo compare'n me to a urchon, ut has nother 
 yed nor tale ; 'sflesh, is not it like running mo deawn an a bit to bobbersome. 
 
 Tim. Naw, naw, not it ; for meeny o' folk would gawm th' rimes, boh very lite 
 would underston th' tayiiur an his urchon. 
 
 Book. Th' rimes ; hum, lemme see. 'Sbhd, aw foryeat'n thoose, too, aw deawt ! 
 Tim. Whoo-who whoo ! What a dozening jobberknow art teaw ! 
 Book. Good lorjus o' me ; a body conna do moor thin they con, con they? Boh 
 iv in teytch mo again, an aw foryeat urn again, e'en raddle men hoyd tightly, say aw. 
 Tim. Mind te hits, then ! 
 
 Some write to show their wit and parts, 
 Some show you whig, some tory hearts, 
 Some flatter knaves, some fops, some fools, 
 And some are ministerial tools. 
 
 Book. Eigh, marry; oytch body says so ; an gonnor-yeds they are for their labbor 
 Tim. Some few in virtue's cause do write, 
 
 But these, alas ! get little by't. 
 
 Book. Indeed, aw can believe o ! Weel rime't, heawe'er ; gu on. 
 Tim Some turn out maggots from their head, 
 
 Which die before their author's dead. 
 
 Book. Zuns ! Aw Englanshire '11 think at yo'r gientin' at loose fratchin'Jjyzen, 
 as write'n sich papers as th' Test, an sich < 
 
 craddlinly tykes as write'n sich papers as th' Test, an sich cawve-tales as Cornish 
 Peter, at fund a new ward, snyin' wi glums an gawries. 
 
 Tim. Some write such sense in prose and rhyme. 
 
 Their works will wrestle hard with Time. 
 
 Book. That'll be prime wrostlin'. i'faith ; for aw've yerd um say, time conquers 
 aw things. 
 
 Tim. Some few print truth, but many lies 
 
 On spirits, down to butter/lies. 
 
 Book. Reel abeawt boggarts ; an th' tother ward ; and th' mon i'th moon, an sich 
 like gear: get eendway ;* it's prime, i'faith. 
 
 Tim. Some write to please, some do't for spite, 
 
 But want of money makes me write. 
 
 Book. By th' mass, th' owd story again ! Boh aw think eh me guts at it's true. 
 It'll do, yo need'n rime no moor, for it's better t'in lickly. Whewtf on Tummus 
 an Mary. 
 
 To a liberal and observant stranger, one of the richest results 
 of a visit to this quarter will arise from contemplation of the 
 well-defined character of the people that live in it. The whole 
 population is distinguished by a fine, strong, natural character, 
 which would do honour to the refinements of education. A 
 genteel stranger, who cannot read the heart of this people through 
 their blunt manners, will, perhaps, think them a little boorish. 
 But though they have not much bend in the neck, and their 
 rough dialect is little blest with the set phrases of courtesy, there 
 are no braver men in the world, and under their uncouth de- 
 
 Het bight, called
 
 The Cottage of Tim Bobbin. 63 
 
 meanour lives the spirit of true chivalry. They have a favourite 
 proverb, that " fair play's a jewel," and are generally careful, in 
 all their dealings, to act upon it, They feel a generous pride 
 in the man who can prove himself their master in anything. 
 Unfortunately, little has yet been done for them in the way of 
 book-education, except what has been diffused by the Sunday- 
 schools, since the times of their great apostle, John Wesley, who, 
 in person, as well as by his enthusiastic early preachers, laboured 
 much and earnestly among them, in many parts of South Lanca- 
 shire. Yet nature has blest them with a fine vein of mother-wit, 
 and has drilled some useful pages of her horn-book into them in 
 the loom, the mine, and the farm, for they are naturally hard 
 workers, and proud of honest labour. They are keen critics of 
 character, too, and have a sharp eye to the nooks and corners of 
 a stranger's attire, to see that, at least, whether rich or poor, it 
 be sound, and, as they say, " bothomly cleeon," for they are 
 jealous of dirty folk. They are accustomed to a frank expression 
 of what is in them, and like the open countenance, where the 
 time of day may be read in the dial, naturally abhorring "hudd'rt 
 wark, an' meawse-neeses." Among the many anecdotes illustrative 
 of the character of this people, there is one which, though simple, 
 bears a strong stamp of native truth upon it. A stalwart young 
 fellow, who had long been employed as carter for a firm in this 
 neighbourhood, had an irresistible propensity to fighting, which 
 was constantly leading him into scrapes. He was an excellent 
 servant in every other respect, but no admonition could cure him 
 of this ; and at length he was discharged, in hope to work the 
 desired change. Dressing himself in his best, he applied to an 
 eminent native merchant for a similar situation. After other 
 necessary questions, the merchant asked whether he had brought 
 his character with him. "My character!" replied our hero, 
 ''Naw, aw'm a damned deeol better beawt it !" This anecdote 
 conveys a very true idea of the rough vigour and candour of the 
 Lancashire country population. They dislike dandyism and the 
 shabby-genteel, and the mere bandbox exquisite would think 
 them a hopeless generation. Yet, little as they are tinctured 
 with literature, a few remarkable books are very common among 
 them. I could almost venture to prophesy before going into any 
 substantial farmhouse, or any humble cottage in this quarter, 
 that some of the following books might be found there: the 
 Bible, Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, the Book of Common Prayer,
 
 b^. Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 and often Wesley's Hymn-book, Barclay's Dictionary, Culpepper s 
 Herbal ; and, sometimes, Thomas a Kempis, or a few old puritan 
 sermons. One of their chief delights is the practice of sacred 
 music ; and I have heard the works of Haydn, Handel, Mozart, 
 and Beethoven executed with remarkable correctness and taste, 
 in the lonely farmhouses and cottages of South Lancashire. 
 In no other part of England does such an intense love of sacred 
 music pervade the poorer classes. It is not uncommon for 
 them to come from the farthest extremity of South Lancashire, 
 and even over the " Edge " from Huddersfield, and other towns 
 of the West Riding of Yorkshire, to hear an oratorio at the 
 Free Trade Hall, returning home again, sometimes a distance 
 of thirty miles, in the morning. 
 
 I will now suppose that the traveller has seen Tim Bobbin's 
 grave, and has strolled up by Silver Hills, through the scenery of 
 Butterworth, and, having partly contemplated the character of 
 this genuine specimen of a South Lancashire village, is again 
 standing on the little stone bridge which spans the pretty 
 river Beal. Let him turn his back to the Rochdale road a 
 little while; we have not done with him yet. Across the 
 space there, used as a fair ground at "Rushbearing time," 
 stands an old-fashioned stone ale-house, called " Th' Stump and 
 Pie Lad," commemorating, by its scabbed and weather-beaten 
 sign, one of the triumphs of a noted Milnrow foot-racer, on 
 Doncaster race-course. Milnrow is still famous for its foot- 
 racers, as Lancashire, generally, is more particularly famous for 
 foot-racers than any other county in the kingdom. In that 
 building the ancient lords of Rochdale manor used to hold 
 their court-leets. Now, the dry-throated "lads o' th' fowd" 
 meet there nightly, to grumble at bad warps and low wages ; 
 and to "fettle th' nation," over pitchers of cold ale. And 
 now, if the traveller loves to climb " the slopes of old renown," 
 and worships old heraldries and rusty suits of mail, let him go to 
 the other end of the village. I will go with him, if, like me, 
 while he venerates old chronicles, whether of stone, metal, or 
 parchment, because the spirit of the bygone sometimes streams 
 upon us through them, he still believes in the proverb, that 
 "every man is the son of his own works;" I will play the 
 finger-post to him with right good will. There is something at 
 the other end of Milnrow worth his notice. 
 
 Milnrow lies on the ground not unlike a tall tree laid length-
 
 The C&ti&ge of Tim Bobbin. 65 
 
 wise, in a valley, by a river side. At the bridge, its roots spread 
 themselves in clots and fibrous shoots, in all directions; while 
 the almost branchless trunk runs up, with a little bend, above 
 half a mile, towards Oldham, where it again spreads itself out 
 in an umbrageous way, at the little fold called "Butterworth 
 Hall." In walking through the village, he who has seen a tole- 
 rably-built wooden mill will find no wonders of the architectural 
 art at all. The houses are almost entirely inhabited by working 
 people, and marked by a certain rough, comfortable solidity 
 not a bad reflex of the character of the inhabitants. At the 
 eastern extremity, a road leads on the left hand to the cluster 
 of houses called " Butterworth Hall." This old fold is worth 
 notice, both for what it is, and what it has been. It is a sug- 
 gestive spot. It is near the site once occupied by one of the 
 homesteads of the Byrons, barons of Rochdale, the last baron of 
 which family was Lord Byron, the poet. A gentleman in this 
 township, who is well acquainted with the history and archae- 
 ology of the whole county, lately met with a licence from the 
 Bishop of Lichfield and Coventry, dated A.D. 1400, granting 
 to Sir John Byron and his wife leave to have divine service 
 performed within their oratories at Clayton and Butterworth, in 
 the county of Lancashire. (Lane. MSS., vol. xxxii., p. 184.) 
 This was doubtless the old wooden chape! which traditionally 
 is said to have existed at Butterworth Hall, and which is still 
 pointed out by the names of two small fields, called "Chapel 
 Yard" and " Chapel Meadow." These names occur in deeds 
 at Pike House (the residence of the Hallivvell family, about two 
 miles ofF), in the time of Queen Elizabeth, and are known to this 
 day. It is probable that the Byrons never lived at Butterworth 
 Hall after the Wars of the Roses. They quitted Clayton, as a 
 permanent residence, on acquiring Newstead, in the reign of 
 Henry the Eighth, although " young Sir John," as he was called, 
 lived at Roy ton Hall, near Oldham, another seat of the family, 
 between 1592 and 1608. 
 
 At Butterworth Hall, the little river Beal, flowing down fresh 
 from the heathery mountains, which throw their shadows upon 
 the valley where it runs, divides the fold ; and upon a green plot, 
 close to the northern margin of its water, stands an old-fashioned 
 stone hall, hard by the site of the ancient residence of the Byrons. 
 After spending an hour at the other end of the village, with the 
 rugged and comfortable generation dwelling there, among the
 
 56 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 memorials of "Tim Bobbin" that quaint old schoolmaster, of 
 the last century who was "the observed of all observers," 
 there, in his day, and who will be remembered long after 
 some of the monumental brasses and sculptured effigies of his 
 contemporaries are passed by with incurious eyes one thinks 
 it will not be uninteresting, nor profitless, to come and muse a 
 little upon the spot where the Byrons once lived in feudal state. 
 But let not any contemplative visitor here lose his thoughts too 
 far among antiquarian dreams, and shadows of the past, for there 
 are factory-bells close by. However large the discourse of his 
 mind may be, let him never forget that there is a strong and 
 important present in the social life around him. And wherever 
 he sets his foot, in South Lancashire, he will now find that there 
 are shuttles flying where once was the council chamber of a 
 baron ; and that the people of these days are drying warps in 
 the " shooting-butts" and tilt-yards of the olden time ! 
 
 The following information respecting the Byron family, Barons 
 of Rochdale, copied from an article in the Manchester Guardian, 
 by the eminent antiquarian contributor to that journal, will not 
 be uninteresting to some people : 
 
 The Byrons, of Clayton and Rochdale, Lancashire, and Newstead Abbey, Notts, 
 are descended from Ralph de Buron, who, at the time of the Conquest, and of the 
 Doomsday Survey, held divers manors in Notts and Derbyshire. Hugo de Buron, 
 grandson of Ralph, and feudal Baron of Horsetan, retiring temp. Henry III. from 
 secular affairs, professed himself a monk, and held the hermitage of Kirsale or Ker- 
 sal, under the priory of Lenton. His son was Sir Roger de Buron. Robert de Byron, 
 son of Sir Roger de Buron, in the John ist [1199-1200], married Cecilia, daughter 
 and heiress of Richard Clayton, of Clayton, and thus obtained the manor and estates 
 of Clayton. Failsworth and the township of Droylsden were soon after added to 
 their Lancashire estates. Their son, Robert de Byron, lord of Clayton, was witness 
 to a grant of Plying Hay in this country, to the monks of Cockersand, for the souls 
 of Henry II. and Richard I. And his son, John de Byron, who was seated at 
 Clayton, 28th Edward I. [1299-30), was governor of York, and had all his lands in 
 Rochdale, with his wife Joan, by gift of her father, Sir Baldwin Teutonicus, or 
 Thies, or de Tyas, who was conservator of the peace in Lancashire, loth Edward 
 [1281-82]. Her first husband was Sir Robert Holland, secretary of Thomas, Earl of 
 Lancaster. Their son was Sir John de Byron, knight, lord of Clayton, who was one 
 of the witnesses to the charter granted to the burgesses of Manchester, by Thomas 
 Grelle, lord of that manor, in 1301. The two first witnesses to that document were 
 " Sirs John Byron, Richard Byron, knights." These were father and son. Sir John 
 married Alice, cousin and heir of Robert Bonastre, of Hindley, in this county. Their 
 son, Sir Richard, lord of Cadenay and Clifton, had grant of free warren in his de- 
 mesne lands in Clayton, Butterworth, and Royton, on the 28th June, 1303 ; he 
 served in parliament for Lincolnshire, and died before 2ist Edward III. [1347-8] 
 
 . 
 
 His son was Sir James de Byron, who died before 2 4 th Edward III. [1350-51]. H 
 son and heir was Sir John de Byron, who was knighted by Edward III. at the sie 
 of Calais [1346-7], and, dying without issue, was succeeded by his brother, S 
 Richard, before 4 th Richard II. [1380-81]. Sir Richard died in 1398, and was suc 
 
 , 
 
 ceeded by his son, Sir John le Byron, who received knighthood before 3rd Henry V. 
 [1415-16], and as one of the knights of the shire, ?th Henry VI [1428-9]. He married 
 Margery, daughter of John Booth, of Barton. His eldest son, Richard le Byron, 
 dying m his father's lifetime, and Richard's son, James, dying without issue, the
 
 The Cottage of Tim Bobbin. 67 
 
 estate passed to Richard's brother, Sir Nicholas, of Clayton, who married Alice, 
 daughter of Sir John Boteler, of Beausey or Bewsey, near Warrington. Their son 
 and heir was Sir John, who was constable of Nottingham Castle, and Sheriff of 
 Lancaster, in 1441 and 1442. Sir John fought in the Battle of Bosworth Field, on 
 the side of Henry VII., and was knighted on the field. Dying without issue in 
 1488, he was succeeded by his brother (then 30), Sir Nicholas, Sheriff of Lancaster, 
 in 1459, who was made Knight of the Bath in 1501, and died in January, 1503-4. 
 This son and heir, Sir John Byron (the one named in tne above document), was 
 steward of the manors of Manchester and Rochdale, and, on the dissolution of the 
 monasteries, he had a grant of the priory of Newstead, 28th May, 1540. From that 
 time the family made Newstead their principal seat, instead of Clayton. This will 
 explain, to some extent, the transfer of Clayton, in 1547, from this same Sir John 
 Byron to John Arderon or Arderne. Either this Sir John or his son, of the same 
 name, in the year 1560, inclosed 260 acres of land on Beurdsell Moor, near Rochdale. 
 His three eldest sons dying without issue (and we may just note that Kuerden pre- 
 serves a copy of claim, without date, of Nicholas, the eldest, to the serjeanty of the 
 king's free court of Rochdale, and to have the execution of all attachments and 
 distresses, and all other things which belong to the king's bailiff there), Sir John was 
 succeeded by his youngest son, Sir John, whom Baines states to have been knighted 
 in 1759 probably a transposition of the figures 1579. This Sir John, in the 3Qth 
 Elizabeth [1596-7], styles himself " Fanner of the Manor of Rochdale," and makes 
 an annual payment to the Crown, being a fee farm rent to the honour of Rochdale. 
 In the ist Charles I. [1625-6], the manor of Rochdale passed from the Byrons ; but in 
 1638 it was reconveyed to them ; and, though confiscated during the commonwealth, 
 Richard, Lord Byron, held the manor in 1660. Sir John's eldest son. Sir Nicholas, 
 distinguished himself in the wars in the Low Countries, and at the battle of Edgehill 
 '23rd October, 1642). He was general of Cheshire and Shropshire. His younger 
 brother, Sir John, was made K.B. at the coronation of James I. and a baronet in 
 1603. Owing to the failure of the elder line, this Sir John became ancestor of the 
 Lords Byron. Sir Nicholas was succeeded by his son, Sir John, who was made 
 K.B. at the coronation of Charles I. ; was appointed by that king Lieutenant of the 
 Tower, in 1642, contrary to the wish of parliament ; commanded the body of reserve 
 at Edgehill; and was created Lord Byron of Rochdale, 24th October, 1643. In 
 consequence of his devotion to the royal cause (for he fought against Oliver Cromwell 
 at the battle of Preston, in August, 1648), his manor of Rochdale was sequestered, 
 and held for several years by Sir Thomas Alcock, who held courts there in 1654, two 
 years after Lord Byron's death. So great was his lordship's royalist zeal, that he 
 was one of the seven specially exempted from the clemency of the government in the 
 "Act of Oblivion," passed by parliament on the execution of Charles I. Dying at 
 Paris, in 1652, without issue, he was succeeded by his cousin, Richard {son of Sir 
 John, the baronet just mentioned), who became second Lord Byron, and died 4th 
 October, 1679, aged 74. He was succeeded by his eldest son, William, who died 
 i3th November, 1695, and was succeeded by his fourth son, William, who died 
 August 8th, 1736, and was succeeded by a younger son, William, fifth Lord Byron, 
 born in November, 1722, killed William Chaworth, Esq., in a duel, in January, 1765, 
 and died iqth May, 1798. He was succeeded by his great nephew, George Gordon, 
 the poet, sixth Lord Byron, who was bom 22nd January, 1788, and died at Misso- 
 longhi, in April, 1824. In 1823, he sold Newstead Abbey to James Dearden, Esq., 
 of Rochdale ; and in the same year, he sold the manor and estate of Rochdale to the 
 same gentleman, by whose son and heir they are now possessed. The manorial 
 rights of Rochdale are reputed (says Baines) to extend over 32,000 statute acres of 
 land, with the privileges of court baron and court leet in all the townships of the 
 parish, including that portion of Saddleworth which lies within the parish of Roch- 
 dale ; but excepting such districts as Robert de Lacy gave to the abbots of Whalley, 
 with right to inclose the same. 
 
 The article goes on to say that the manor of Rochdale was 
 anciently held by the Ellands of Elland, and the Savilles, and 
 that on the death of Sir Henry Saville, it appears to have 
 merged in the possession of the Duchy of Lancaster; and Queen 
 Elizabeth, in right of her duchy possessions, demised that manor
 
 63 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 to Sir John Byron, by letters patent, dated May I2th, 2;th year 
 of her reign (1585), from Lady-day, 1585, to the end of thirty- 
 one years. 
 
 The eye having now satisfied itself with what was notable 
 in and about Milnrow, I took my way home, with a mind 
 more at liberty to reflect on what I had seen. _The_ history 
 of Lancashire passed in review before me; especially its latest 
 history. I saw the country that was once thick with trees that 
 canopied herds of wild animals, and thinnest of people, now 
 bare of trees, and thickest of population ; the land which was 
 of least account of any in the kingdom in the last century, now 
 most sought after ; and those rude elements which were looked 
 upon as " the riddlings of creation," more productive of riches 
 than all the Sacramento's gold, and ministers to a spirit which is 
 destined to change the social aspect of Britain. I saw the spade 
 sinking in old hunting grounds, and old parks now trampled by 
 the fast-increasing press of new feet. The hard cold soil is now 
 made to grow food for man and beast. Masses of stone and flag 
 are shaken from their sleep in the beds of the hills, and dragged 
 forth to build mills and houses with. Streams which have fro- 
 licked and sung in undisturbed limpidity thousands of years, are 
 dammed up, and made to wash and scour, and generate steam. 
 Fathoms below the feet of the traveller, the miner is painfully 
 worming his way in labyrinthine tunnels; and the earth is 
 belching coals at a thousand mouths. The region teems with 
 coal, stone, and water, and a people able to subdue them all to 
 their purposes. These elements quietly bide their time, century 
 after century, till the grand plot is ripe, and the mysterious sig- 
 nal given. Anon, when a thoughtful barber sets certain wheels 
 spinning, and a contemplative lad takes a fine hint from his 
 mother's tea-kettle, these slumbering powers start into astonishing 
 activity, like an army of warriors roused to battle by the trumpet. 
 Cloth is woven for the world, and the world buys it, and wears 
 it. Commerce shoots up from a poor pedlar with his pack on a 
 mule, to a giant merchant, stepping from continent to continent, 
 over the ocean, to make his bargains. Railways are invented, 
 and the land is ribbed with iron, for iron messengers to run upon, 
 through mountains and over valleys, on business commissions; 
 the very lightning turns errand-boy. A great fusion of thought 
 and sentiment springs up, and Old England is in hysterics about 
 its ancient opinions. A new aristocracv rises from the prudent,
 
 The Cottage of Tim Bobbin. 
 
 69 
 
 persevering working-people of the district, and threatens to push 
 the old one from its stool. What is to be the upshot of it all ? 
 The senses are stunned by the din of toil, and the view obscured 
 by the dust of bargain-making. But, through an opening in the 
 clouds, hope's stars are shining still in the blue heaven that over- 
 spans us. Take heart, ye toiling millions ! The spirits of your 
 heroic forefathers are watching to see what sort of England you 
 leave to your sons !
 
 23ittf)place of Sim 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A merrier man, 
 
 Within the limits of becoming mirth, 
 I never spent an hour's talk withaj : 
 His eye begets occasion for his wit: 
 For every object that the one doth catch, 
 The other turns to a mirth-moving jest: 
 Which his fair tongue (conceit's expositor) 
 Delivers in such apt and gracious words, 
 That aged ears play truant to his tales. 
 
 LOVE'S LABOUR LOST. 
 
 [HERE is a quiet tract of country on the eastern border 
 of Lancashire, lying in a corner, formed by the junction 
 of the rivers Mersey and Irwell, and having but little 
 intercourse with those great towns of the county which 
 boil with the industry of these days, a few miles off, to the north 
 and eastward. It is the green selvedge of our toilful district, in 
 that direction ; and the winding waters of the Mersey lace its 
 meadows, lengthwise, until that river joins the more soiled and 
 sullen Irwell, on the northern boundary of the parish. In all the 
 landscape there are no hills to break the view ; and, considering 
 the extent of land, trees are but sparsely scattered over it. It is 
 singular, also, that the oak will not flourish in this particular 
 spot ; although there are some fine specimens of the other trees 
 common to the English soil. But the country is generally fertile, 
 and prettily undulated in some places ; and it is a pleasant scene 
 in hay-time, "when leaves are large and long," and the birds 
 are singing with full-throated gladness in the green shade, while 
 the dewy swathe is falling to the mower's stroke, in the sun- 
 light of a June morning. Looking eastward, across the Mersey,
 
 The Birthplace of Tim Bobbin. 71 
 
 the park-like plains and rustling woods of Cheshire stretch away, 
 in unbroken beauty, as far as the eye can see. Indeed, the whole 
 of this secluded tract, upon the Lancashire side of the river, 
 may be naturally reckoned part of that fruitful Cheshire district 
 which has, not inappropriately, been called " the market-garden 
 of Manchester." The parish of Flixton occupies nearly the 
 whole of this border nook of Lancashire; and the scattered 
 hamlet of Urmston, in this parish, lays claim to the honour 
 of being the birthplace of our earliest and most popular native 
 humourist, the celebrated John Collier, better known by his self- 
 chosen name of " Tim Bobbin," 
 
 A lad whose fame did resound 
 Through every village and town around ; 
 For fun, for frolic, and for whim. 
 
 And, certainly, the hamlet of Urmston is a spot quite in 
 keeping with all we know of the general character, and all we 
 can imagine of the earliest training of a man who owed so much 
 to nature, and who described the manners of the country folk 
 of his day with such living truth, enriched with the quaint tinge 
 of a humorous genius, which was his, and his only. Fortune, 
 and his own liking, seem to have made him a constant dweller 
 in the country. He was, by fits, fond of social company, and 
 business led him into towns, occasionally; but whenever he 
 visited towns, he seems to have always turned again towards the 
 chimney-corner of his country home with an undying love, 
 which fairly glows in every allusion he makes to his dwelling- 
 place at the village of Milnrow, and even to the honest, uncouth 
 hinds, who were his neighbours there; and whose portraits he 
 has drawn for us, so inimitably, in his celebrated story of 
 " Tummus and Mary." He was " a fellow of infinite jest ; of 
 most excellent fancy." May his soul rest "in the bosom of 
 good old Abraham ! " 
 
 Here, then, in green Urmston, John Collier is said to have 
 been born ; and the almost unrecorded days of his childhood were 
 passed here. Even now, the scattered dwellers of the place 
 are mostly employed in agriculture, and their language and cus- 
 toms savour more of three centuries ago than those which we 
 are used to in manufacturing towns. From the cottage homes, 
 and old-fashioned farmhouses, which are dropped over the land- 
 scape, like birds' nests, "each in its nook of leaves," generation 
 after generation has come forth to wander through the same
 
 jz Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 grass-grown byeways, and brambly old lanes ; to weave the same 
 chequered web of simple joys and sorrows, and cares and toils ; 
 and to lie down at last in the same old churchyard, where the 
 "rude forefathers of the hamlet" are sleeping together so quietly. 
 It is a country well worth visiting by any lover of nature, for its 
 own sake. Its natural features, however, are those common 
 to English rural scenery in districts where there are no great 
 elevations, nor anything like thick woodlands ; and though such 
 scenery is always pleasing to my mind, it was not on account of 
 its natural charms, nor to see its ancient halls, with the interesting 
 associations of past generations playing about them ; nor the ivied 
 porches of its picturesque farmhouses ; nor to peep through the 
 flower-shaded lattices of its cottage nests ; nor even to scrape ac- 
 quaintance with the old-fashioned people who live in them, that 
 I first wandered out to Flixton ; though there is more than one 
 quaint soul down there that I would rather spend an hour 
 with than with any two fiddlers in the county. Particularly 
 "Owd Rondle," the market-gardener, who used to tell me the 
 richest country tales imaginable. He had a dog, which " wur 
 never quiet, but when it wur feightin." He was a man of cheer- 
 ful temper, and clear judgment, mingled with a warm under- 
 current of chuckling humour, which thawed away stiff manners 
 in an instant. The last time I saw him, a friend of his was com- 
 plaining of the gloom of the times, and saying that he thought 
 England's sun had set. "Set;" said Rondle, "not it! But iv 
 it wur set, we'd get a devilish good moon up ! Dunnut be so 
 ready to mout yor fithers afore th' time comes. Noather me 
 nor England mun last for ever. But Owd Englan's yung yet, 
 for oather peace or war, though quietness is th' best, an' th' 
 chepest; if they'n let us be quiet, on a daycent fuuting. So, 
 keep yor heart up ; for th' shell shall be brokken ; an' th' chicken 
 shall come forth ; an' it shall be a cock-chicken ; an' a feighter, 
 with a single kom!" But "Rondle" was not always in this 
 humour. He could doff his cap and bells at will ; and liked, 
 what he called, "sarviceable talk," when any really serious 
 matter was afoot. Yet, it was not to see curious " Old Rondle" 
 that I first went down to Flixton. The district is so far out 
 of the common " trod," as Lancashire people say, that I doubt 
 whether I should ever have rambled far in that direction if it had 
 not been for the oft-repeated assertion that Urmston, in Flixton, 
 was the birthplace of John Collier. And it was a desire to see
 
 The Birthplace of Tim Bobbin. 73 
 
 the reputed place of his nativity, and to verify the fact, as far as 
 I could, on the spot since the honour has been claimed by more 
 than one other place in Lancashire that first led me out there. 
 
 In my next chapter, gentle reader, if thou art minded so far 
 to do me pleasure, we will ramble down that way together: 
 and, I doubt not, that in the course of our journey thou wilt 
 hear or see something or other which may haply repay thee for 
 the trouble of going so far out of thy way with me. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 By the crackling fire, 
 We'll hold our little snug, domestic court, 
 Plying the work with song and tale between. 
 
 IT was on a cold forenoon, early in the month of April, that I 
 set off to see Urmston, in Flixton. The sky was gloomy, and 
 the air chill; but the cold was bracing, and the time con- 
 venient, so I went towards Oxford Road Station in a cheerful 
 temper. Stretford is the nearest point on the line, and I took 
 my ticket to that village. We left the huge manufactories, and 
 the miserable chimney tops of " Little Ireland," down by the 
 dirty Medlock; we ran over a web of dingy streets, swarming 
 with dingy people; we flitted by the end of Deansgate (the 
 Ratcliffe Highway of Manchester), and over the top of Knott 
 Mill, the site of the Roman Station, now covered with ware- 
 houses and other buildings connected with the Bridgewater 
 Trust; we left the black, stagnant canal, coiled in the hollow, 
 and stretching its dark length into the distance, like a slimy- 
 snake. We cleared the cotton mills, and dyeworks, and chemi- 
 cal manufactories of Cornbrook. Pomona Gardens, too, we left 
 behind, with the irregular carpentry of its great picture sticking 
 up raggedly in the dun air, like the charred relics of a burnt 
 woodyard. These all passed in swift panorama, and the train 
 stopped at Old Trafford, the site of the "Art Exhibition," just 
 closed. Three years ago the inhabitants did not dream that this 
 was to be the gathering-place of the grandest collection of works 
 of art the world ever saw, and the scene of more bustle and 
 pomp than was ever known on any spot in the north of England, 
 before. The building was up, but not opened, and as we went
 
 74 
 
 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 by we had a good view of the shapeless mass, and of many 
 curious people tooting about the enclosure to see what was going 
 on. Old Trafford takes its name from the Trafford family, or 
 rather, I believe, gives its name to that family, whose ancient 
 dwelling, Old Trafford Hall, stands in part of its once extensive 
 gardens, near the railway. Baines says of this family, "The 
 Traffords were settled here (at Trafford) at a period anterior to 
 the Norman conquest, and ancient documents in possession of 
 the family show that their property has descended to the present 
 representative, not only by an uninterrupted line of male heirs, 
 but without alienation, during the mutations in national faith, 
 and the violence in civil commotions. Henry, the great-grandson 
 of Ranulphus de Trafford, who resided at Trafford in the reign 
 of Canute and Edward the Confessor, received lands from Helias 
 de Pendlebury ; in Chorlton, from Gospatrick de Chorlton ; and 
 in Stretford, from Hamo, the third baron of that name, of Dun- 
 ham Massie ; and from Pain of Ecborn (Ashburn) he had the 
 whole of the lordship of Stretford." The whole of Stretford 
 belongs to the Traffords still. " In the reign of Henry VI. Sir 
 Edmund Trafford, of Trafford, assisted at the coronation of the 
 king, and received the honour of Knight of the Bath on that 
 occasion." A certain poet says truly 
 
 Though much the centuries take, and much bestow, 
 Most through them all immutable remains ; 
 
 but the mind sets out upon a curious journey when it starts from 
 modern Manchester, with its industrialism and its political unions, 
 its hearty workers and its wealthy traders, its charities and its 
 poverties, its mechanics' institutions and its ignorance, its religions 
 and its sins, and travels through the successive growths of change 
 which have come over the life of man since the days of Canute 
 (when Manchester must have been a rude little woodland town), 
 speculating as it goes as to what is virtually changed, and what 
 remains the same through the long lapse of time, linking the 
 "then" and "there," with "now" and "here." But we are 
 now fairly in the country, and the early grass is peeping out of 
 the ground, making all the landscape look sweetly green. In a 
 few minutes the whole distance had been run, and I heard the 
 cry, "Out here for Stretford!" Leaving the station, I went to 
 the top of the railway bridge, which carries the high road over 
 the line. From that elevation I looked about me. It commands 
 a good view of the village hard by, and of the country for miles
 
 The Birthplace of Tim Bobbin. 75 
 
 around. This great tract of meadows, gardens, and pasture land, 
 was once a thick woodland, famous, in the Withington district, 
 for its fine oak trees. In Flixton the oak was never found, ex- 
 cept of stunted growth. A few miles to westward, the parks of 
 Dunham and Tatton show how grand the old growth of native 
 trees must have been on the Cheshire border ; and in the north- 
 east, the woods of TrafFord make a dark shadow on the scene. 
 And here at hand is the old village of Stretford, the property 
 of the Traffords of TrafFord ; whose arms give name to the 
 principal inn of the village, as well as to one or two others on 
 the road from Manchester. The man in motley, with a flail in 
 his hand, and the mottos, "Now, thus;" "Gripe GrifEn; hold 
 fast !" greet the traveller with a kind of grim historic salutation 
 as he goes by. These are household phrases with the inhabitants, 
 many of whom are descendants of the ancient tenantry of the 
 family. Quiet Stretford ! close to the Cheshire border ; the 
 first rural village after leaving that great machine-shop called 
 Manchester. Depart from that city in almost any other direc- 
 tion, and you come upon a quick succession of the same manu- 
 facturing features you have left behind, divided, of course, by 
 many a beautiful nook of country green. But somehow, though 
 a man may feel proud of these industrial triumphs, yet, if he has 
 a natural love of the country, he breathes all the more freely 
 when he comes out in this direction, from the knowledge that 
 he is entering upon a country of unmixed rural quietness and 
 beauty, and that the tremendous bustle of manufacture is entirely 
 behind him for the time. Stretford is an agricultural village, but 
 there is a kind of manufacture which it excels in. Ormskirk 
 is famous for its gingerbread ; Bury for its " simblins," or 
 "simnels;" Eccles for those spicy cakes, which "Owd Chum" 
 the delight of every country fair in these parts used to sell at 
 the "Rushbearings" of Lancashire; but the mission of Stretford 
 is black puddings. And, certainly, a Stretford black pudding 
 would not be despised even by a famishing Israelite, if he hap- 
 pened to value a dinner more than the ancient faith of his fathers. 
 Fruit, flowers, green market-stuff, black puddings, and swine's 
 flesh in general these are the pride of the village. Roast pork, 
 stuffed in a certain savoury way, is a favourite dish here. The 
 village folks call it the " Stretford Goose ;" and it is not a bad 
 substitute for that pleasant bird, as I found. Stretford is nearly 
 all in one street, by the side of the highway going into Cheshire.
 
 76 Lancashire Sketches; 
 
 It has grown very much in late years, but enow of its old features 
 remain to give the place a quaint tone, and to show what it was 
 fifty years ago, before Manchester merchants began to build man- 
 sions in the neighbourhood, and Manchester tradesmen began to 
 go out there to lodge. There was once an old church in Stretford, 
 of very simple architecture, built and endowed by the Trafford 
 family. Nothing of it now remains but the graveyard, which 
 is carefully enclosed. I looked through the rails into this weedy 
 sanctuary of human decay. It had a still, neglected look. " The 
 poor inhabitants below" had been gathering together there a 
 long while, and their memories now floating down the stream of 
 time, far away from the sympathies of the living, except in that 
 honourable reverence for the dead, which had here enclosed 
 their dust from unfeeling intrusion. It was useless for me to 
 wonder who they were that lay there ; how long they had been 
 mouldering in company, or what manner of life they had led. 
 Their simple annals had faded, or were fading away. The wind 
 was playing with the grave-grass ; the village life of Stretford 
 was going on as blithe as ever round this quiet enclosure, and I 
 walked forward. Even such is time 
 
 Who in the dark and silent grave, 
 When we have wandered all our ways, 
 Shuts up the story of our days. 
 
 The "curfew" has "tolled the knell of parting day" over the 
 woods and fields around this village ever since the time of William 
 the Conqueror. I had agreed to call upon a friend of mine here 
 before going down to Flixton, so I walked a little way farther 
 down the village, and then turning through a certain orchard, 
 as directed, I came into a green lane beyond. There stood the 
 house, on the opposite side of the lane, at the top of a gentle 
 slope of garden, shaded with evergreens, among which rose up 
 one remarkably fine variegated holly. The hedgerows were 
 trim, and the cottage on the knoll, with its bright windows 
 "winking through their screen of leaves," looked very sweet, 
 still, and nest-like. And then the little garden 
 
 A garden faire, and in the corner set 
 
 Ane harbour grene, with wandis long and small 
 
 Railit about, and so with treis set 
 
 Was all the place, and hawthorn hegeis knet, 
 
 That lyf was non walking there forbye, 
 
 That might within scarce ony wight aspye. 
 
 I stood still a minute, for the place was pleasant to look upon, 
 and then opening the gate, and starting the birds from every
 
 The Birthplace of Tim Bobbin, 77 
 
 bush, went up through the little garden. I met with a hearty 
 welcome, and mine host and myself soon had the snug tree-shaded 
 parlour to ourselves. I was at home in a minute ; but, as we 
 chatted about the books on the shelves and the pictures on the 
 walls, there came from somewhere in the house an aroma that 
 "made my teeth shoot water." I was talking of books, but in 
 my mind I was wondering what it was that sent forth such a 
 goodly smell ; for I was hungry. My friend either divined my 
 thoughts, or else he was secretly affected in the same way, for 
 he said, "We are going to have a 'Stretford Goose' to-day." 
 Now, I was curious, and the smell was fine, and my appetite 
 keen, and I was fain when the goose and its trimmings came in. 
 When we fell to, I certainly was the hero of the attack, and the 
 goose came down before our combined forces like a waste-ware- 
 house in flames. It was a wholesome, bountiful English meal, 
 "wi' no fancy wark abeawt it;" and since that April noontide 
 I have always felt an inward respect for a " Stretford Goose." 
 
 When dinner was fairly over, I lost no time in starting for 
 Flixton, which was only three miles off; with what some people 
 call "a good road" to it. And it certainly is better than those 
 terrible old roads of North Lancashire, of which Arthur Young 
 writes with such graphic ferocity. "Reader," says he, "did'st 
 thou ever go from Wigan to Preston? If riot; don't. Go to 
 the devil rather; for nothing can be so infernal as that road is." 
 The hedges by the wayside were covered with little buds. The 
 murky clouds had left the sky, and the day was fine. There 
 was a wintry nip in the air, which was pleasant enough to me; 
 but it gave the young grass and the thorn-buds a shrinking look, 
 as if they had come out too soon to be comfortable. The ground 
 was soft under foot, and I had to pick my way through the 
 "slutch" now and then. There had been long and heavy rains, 
 and I could see gleaming sheets of water left on the low-lying 
 meadow lands on the Cheshire side of the river. But I was in 
 no humour for grumbling, for the country was new to me, and 
 I looked around with pleasure, though the land was rather bare 
 and shrivelled, like a fowl in the moult, for it had hardly got 
 rid of winter's bleakness, and had not fairly donned the new suit 
 of spring green. But the birds seemed satisfied, for they chirruped 
 blythely among the wind-beaten thorns, and hopped and played 
 from bough to bough in the scant-leaved trees. If these feathered 
 tremblers had weathered the hard winter, by the kindness of
 
 78 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 Providence, and amidst this lingering chill, could hail the drawing 
 near of spring with such glad content, why should I repine ? By 
 the way, that phrase, " the drawing near of spring," reminds me 
 of the burden of an ancient May song, peculiar to the people of 
 this district. In the villages hereabouts, they have an old custom 
 of singing in the month of May ; and companies of musicians 
 and "May-singers" go from house to house among their neigh- 
 bours, on April nights, to sing under their chamber windows 
 this old song about " the drawing near unto the merry month of 
 May." An old man, known in Stretford as a " May-singer," an 
 " herb-gatherer," and a " Yule-singer," who gets a scanty living 
 out of the customs of each season of the year as it comes, furnished 
 me with a rough copy of the words and music of this old " May 
 Song." In one verse of the song, each member of the sleeping 
 family is addressed by name in succession, 
 
 Then rise up, Sarah Brundrit, all in your gown of green ; 
 
 and as each appears at the window, they are saluted with a 
 " Merry May." Since the time of my visit I have been enabled, 
 through the kindness of John Harland, Esq., F.S.A., to give 
 this old May song, in complete shape, as it appears in his first 
 volume of "Lancashire Ballads," recently published by Mr. 
 Edwin Slater, of Manchester : 
 
 All in this pleasant evening together come are we, 
 
 For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay ; 
 We'll tell you of a blossom that buds on every tree, 
 
 Drawing near unto the merry month of May. 
 
 Rise up the master of this house, put on your chain of gold, 
 
 For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay ; 
 We hope you're not offended, (with) your house we make so bold, 
 
 Drawing near unto the merry month of May. 
 
 Rise up the mistress of this house, with gold along (upon; your 
 breast, 
 
 For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay ; 
 And if your body be asleep, I hope your soul's at rest, 
 
 Drawing near unto the merry month of May. 
 
 Rise up the children of this house, all in your rich attire 
 
 For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay ; 
 For every hair upon your head shines like the silver wire, 
 
 Drawing near unto the merry month of May. 
 
 God bless this house and harbour, your riches and your store, 
 
 For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay ; 
 We hope the Lord will prosper you, both now and evermore, 
 
 Drawing near unto the merry month of May. 
 
 So now we're going to leave you in peace and plenty here, 
 
 For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay; 
 We shall not sing you May again until another year, 
 For to draw you the cold winter away.
 
 The Birthplace of Tim Bobbin. 79 
 
 About a mile on the road, I came to a green dingle, called 
 " Gamershaw." A large brick dwelling-house now occupies 
 the spot; which was formerly shaded by spreading trees, 
 a flaysome nook, of which the country folk were afraid at 
 night-time, as the haunt of a goblin, called "Gamershaw 
 Boggart." Every rustle of the trees at Gamershaw was big 
 with terror to them half a century ago. Even now, when 
 "Gamershaw Boggart" has hardly a leaf to shelter its old 
 haunt, the place is fearful after dark, to the superstitious 
 people of Flixton parish. And yet there seems to be some 
 change working in this respect, for when I asked a villager 
 whether "Gamershaw Boggart" was ever seen now, he said, 
 "Nawj we never see'n no boggarts neaw; nobbut when th' 
 brade-fleigh's (bread-rack) empty ! " 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 I there wi' something did forgather, 
 That put me in an eerie swither. 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 LEAVING " Gamershaw," I "sceawrt eendway," as Collier says. 
 Here I had the advantage of an intelligent companion, with a 
 rich store of local anecdote in him. He was not a man inclined 
 to superstition: but he said he once had an adventure at this 
 spot, which startled him. Walking by "Gamershaw," on a 
 pitch-dark night, and thinking of anything but boggarts, he 
 heard something in the black gloom behind, following his 
 footsteps with a soft, unearthly trot, accompanied by an un- 
 mistakable rattle of chains. He stopt. It stopt. He went 
 on; and the fearful sounds dogged him again, with malignant 
 regularity. " Gamershaw Boggart, after all, and no mistake," 
 thought he : and in spite of all reason, a cold sweat began to come 
 over him. Just then the goblin made a fiendish dash by, and went 
 helter-skelter down the middle of the road, trailing the horrible 
 clang of chains behind it, with infernal glee; and then dived 
 into the midnight beyond. To his relief, however, he bethought 
 him that it was a large dog belonging to a farmer in the neigh- 
 bourhood. The dog had got loose, and was thus making night 
 hideous by unconsciously personifying " Gamershaw Boggart."
 
 8o Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 And now my companion and I vvhiled away the time from 
 Gamershaw with a pleasant interchange of country anecdote. I 
 have just room for one, which I remember hearing in some of 
 my rambles among the moorland folk of my native district. It 
 is a story of a poor hand-loom weaver, called " Thrum," trying 
 to sell his dog " Snap" to a moorland farmer. I have put it in 
 the form of a dialogue, that it may be the more understandable 
 to the general reader. It runs thus : 
 
 Thrum, Maister, dun yo want a nice bull-an-tarrier? 
 
 Farmer. A what? 
 
 Thrum. A bull-an-tarrier dog, wi' feet as white as snow ! 
 Brass wouldn't ha' parted me an' that dog, iv there hadn't bin 
 sich ill deed for weyvers just neaw, it wouldn't, for sure. 
 For aw'd taen to th' dog, an' the dog had taen to me, very mich, 
 for o' at it had nobbut thin pikein' sometimes. But poverty 
 parts good friends neaw and then, maister. 
 
 Farmer. A bull-an-tarrier, saysto? 
 
 Thrum. Ay; an' th' smartest o'th breed at ever ran at a 
 mon's heels ! It's brother to that dog o' Lolloper's, at stoole a 
 shoolder o' mutton, an' ran up a soof with it. 
 
 Farmer. Ay ; is it one o' that family ? 
 
 Thrum. It is for sure. They're prime steylers, o' on em. 
 
 Farmer. Has it a nick under its nose ? 
 
 Thrum. A nick, naw it hasn't. . . Houd; what mak 
 ov a nick dun yo meeon ? 
 
 Farmer. Has it a meawth? 
 
 Thrum. Ay; it's a grand meawth; an' a rock o'th prattiest 
 teeth at ever wur pegged into a pair o' choles ! A sharper, 
 seawnder set o' dog-teeth never snapt at a ration ! Then, look 
 at it e'en ; they're as breet as th' north star, ov a frosty neet ! 
 An' feel at it nose; it's as cowd as iccles ! That dog's some 
 sarviceable yelth (health) abeawt it, maister. 
 
 Farmer. Aw'll tell tho what, it looks hungry. 
 
 Thrum. Hungry! It's olez hungry! An' it'll heyt aught 
 i'th world, fro a collop to a dur latch. . . Oh, ay ; it's reet 
 enough for that. 
 
 Farmer. Well, owd mon; aw've nought again thi dog, but 
 that nick under it nose. To tell tho th' treawth, we may'n 
 meawths here faster nor we may'n mheyt. Look at yon woman ! 
 Aw would e'en ha' tho to tay thi doo- wheer they're noan as 
 thick upo th' clod as here.
 
 The Birthplace of Tim Bobbin. 8r 
 
 Thrum. Oh, aw see. . . Well, eawr Matty's just the 
 very same; nobbut her nose has rayther a sharper poynt to't 
 nor yor wife's. . . Yo see'n aw thought it wur time to sell 
 th' dog, when aw had to ax owd Thunge to lend mo a bite ov 
 his moufin whol aw'd deawn't my piece. But aw'll go fur on. 
 So good day to yo. . . Come, Snap, owd lad; aw'll find 
 thee a good shop, or else aw'll sweat. 
 
 Chatting about such things as these, we came up to a plain 
 whitewashed hall-house, standing a little off the road, called 
 " Newcroft." This was pointed out to me as the residence of a 
 gentleman related to the famous " Whitworth doctors." . The 
 place looked neat and homely, and had orderly grounds and 
 gardens about, but there was nothing remarkable in its general 
 appearance which would have stopt me, but for the interesting 
 fact just mentioned. It brought to my mind many a racy story 
 connected with that worthy old family of country doctors, and 
 their quaint independent way of life in the little moorland village 
 of Whitworth, near " Fairies Chapel," the scene of one of those 
 "Lancashire Traditions" which Mr. John Roby wrote about. 
 I found afterwards that this " Newcroft " was, in old time, the 
 homestead of the great Cheshire family of Warburton, of which 
 family R. E. E. Warburton, Esq., of Arley Hall, is the present 
 representative. I understand that the foundations of the old hall 
 are incorporated with the present building. There are very few 
 trees about the place now ; and these afford neither shade to the 
 house nor much ornament to the scene. The name of Warburton 
 is still common about here, both among the living, and on the 
 gravestones of Flixton churchyard. The saying, "Aw'll tear tho 
 limb fro Warbu'ton," is common all over Lancashire as well as 
 Cheshire. One side of its meaning is evident enough, but its 
 allusions used to puzzle me. I find that it has its origin in the 
 curiously-involved relations of the two Cheshire rectories of 
 Lymm and Warburton, and in some futile effort which was once 
 made to separate them. Written this way, " I'll tear tho limb 
 (Lymm) fro Warbu'ton (Warburton)," the saying explains itself 
 better. There is a ballad in Dr. Latham's work on "The 
 English Language," in which the present "Squire ov Arley Ha'" 
 is mentioned in a characteristic way. It is given in that work 
 as a specimen of the Cheshire dialect. It certainly is the raciest 
 modern ballad of its kind that I know of. The breeze of nature 
 has played in the heart of the writer, whoever he be. Its 
 
 G
 
 82 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 allusions and language have so much affinity with the Lancashire 
 side of the water, that I think the reader will forgive me for 
 introducing it, that he may judge of it for himself. The title is 
 "Farmer Dobbin; or, a Day wi' the Cheshire Fox Dogs." 
 Here it is ; and I fancy that a man with any blood in his body 
 will hunt as he reads it : 
 
 Theer's slutch upo thi coat, mon, theer's blood upo thi chin, 
 It's welly toim for milkin, now where ever 'ast ee bin ; 
 Oiv bin to see the gentlefolks o' Cheshire roid a run, 
 Owd wench ! oiv bin a hunting, an oiv seen some rattling fun. 
 
 Th' owd mare was in the smithy when the huntsman he trots through, 
 Black Bill agate o' 'ammerin the last nail in her shoe : 
 The cuvver laid so wheam like, and so jovial fine the day, 
 Says I, " Owd mare, we'll tak a fling, an' see 'em go away." 
 
 When up, and oi'd got shut ov aw the hackney pads an' traps, 
 Orse dealers and orse jockey lads, and such loike swaggering chaps, 
 Then what a power o' gentlefolk did oi set eyes upon ! 
 A-reining in their hunters, aw blood orses every one ! 
 
 They'd aw got bookskin leathers on, a fitten 'em so toight, 
 As roind an plump as turmits be, an just about as whoite : 
 Their spurs were made o' silver, and their buttons made o' brass, 
 Their coats wur red as carrots, an their collars green as grass. 
 
 A varment looking gemman on a woiry tit I seed, 
 
 An' another close beside him sittin noble on his steed ; 
 
 They ca' them both owd codgers, but as fresh as paint they look, 
 
 John Glegg, Esquoir, o' Withington, an bowd Sir Richard Brooke. 
 
 I seed Squoir Geffrey Shakerly, the best un o' that breed, 
 His smoiling face tould plainly how the sport wi' him agreed ; 
 I seed the Arl o' Grosvenor, a loikely lad to roid, 
 Aw seed a soight worth aw the rest, his farrently young broid. 
 
 Sir Umferry de Trafford, an the Squoir ov Arley Haw 
 
 His pockets full o' rigmarole, a rhoimin' on 'em aw; 
 
 Two members for the cointy, both aloike ca'd Egerton, 
 
 Squoir Henry Brooks and Tummus Brooks, they'd aw green collars on. 
 
 Eh ! what a mon be Dixon John, ov Astle Haw, Esquoir, 
 You wudna foind, an mezzur him, his marrow in the shoir! 
 Squoir \Vilbraham o' the forest, death and danger he defois 
 When his coat he toightly buttened up, an shut up both his oies. 
 
 The Honerable Lazzles, who from forrin parts be cum, 
 
 An a chip of owd Lord Delamere, the Honerable Turn ; 
 
 Squoir Fox an Booth and Worthington, Squoir Massey an Squoir Hame, 
 
 And many more big sportsmen, but their names I didna larn. 
 
 I seed that greet commander in the saddle, Captain Whoite, 
 An the pack as thrung'd about him was indeed a gradely soight ; 
 The dogs look'd foine as Satin, an himsel look'd hard as nails, 
 An' he giv the swells a caution not to roid upo their tails. 
 
 Says he, "Yung men o' Manchester an Liverpoo cum near, 
 Oiv just a word, a warning word, to whisper in your ear; 
 When, starting from the cuvver soide, ye see bowd Reynard burst, 
 We canna 'ave no 'untin, if the gemmen go it first."
 
 The Birthplace of Tim Bobbin. 83 
 
 Tom Ranee has got a single oie worth many another's two, 
 
 He held his cap abuv his yed to show he'd had a view ; ' 
 
 Tom's voice was loik th' owd raven's when he shriek'd out "Tallyho!" 
 
 For when the fox had seen Tom's feace he thought it time to go. 
 
 Eh moy ! a pratty jingle then went ringing through the skoy, 
 First Victory, then Villager began the merry croy ; 
 Then every maith was open, from the owd 'un to the pup, 
 An' aw the pack together took the swelling chorus up. 
 
 Eh moy ! a pratty scouver then was kick'd up in the vale, 
 
 They skimm'd across the running brook, they topp'd the post an' rail, 
 
 They didna stop for razzur cop, but play'd at touch and go, 
 
 An' them as miss'd a footin there, lay doubled up below. 
 
 I seed the 'ounds a crossing Farmer Flareup's boundary loin, 
 Whose daughter plays the peany and drinks whoit sherry worn : 
 Gowd rings upon her ringers, and silk stockings on her feet ; 
 Says I, "It won't do him no harm to roid across his wheat." 
 
 So, toightly houdin on by th' yed, I hits th' owd mare a whop, 
 Hoo plumps into the middle o' the wheatfield neck and crop ; 
 An when hoo floinder'd out on it I catch'd another spin, 
 An, missis, that's the cagiou o" the blood upo my chin. 
 
 I never oss'd another lep, but kept the lane, and then 
 In twenty minutes' toime about they turn'd toart me again ; 
 The fox was foinly daggled, and the tits aw out o' breath, 
 When they kilt him in the open, an owd Dobbin seed the death. 
 
 Loik dangling of a babby, then the huntsman hove him up, 
 The dugs a-baying round him, whoil the gemman croid, "Whoo-up ;" 
 Then clane and quick, as doosome cauves lick Meetings from the pail, 
 They worried every inch on 'im except his yed and tail. 
 
 What's up wi' them rich gentlefolk an lords as wasna there? 
 There was neither Marquis Chumley, nor the Viscount Combermere ; 
 Neither Legh, nor France o' Bostock, nor the Squoir o' Peckforton, 
 How cums it they can stop awhoam, such sport a goin on? 
 
 Now, missus, sin the markets be a doin moderate well, 
 Oiv welly made my mind up just to buy a nag mysel ; 
 For to keep a farmer's spirits up gen things be gettin low, 
 Theer's nothin loik fox-hunting and a rattling " Tallyho !" 
 
 I think the reader will agree with me in saying that this 
 characteristic song has much of the old expressive ballad sim- 
 plicity and vigour about it. The county of Cheshire is rich in 
 local song; and R. E. E. Warburton, Esq., mentioned in these 
 verses as " the Squoir of Arley Haw" 
 
 His pockets full o' rigmarole, a rhoimin' on 'em aw 
 
 is the author of several fine hunting songs, in the dialect of that 
 county ; he is also the editor of a valuable and interesting volume 
 of " Cheshire Songs."
 
 84. Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ! sunshire and m shade, in wet and fair, 
 
 Drooping or bliths of heart, as might befall : 
 
 My best companions now the driving winds, 
 
 And now the "trotting brooks" and whispering trees, 
 
 And now the music of my own sad steps, 
 
 With many a short-lived thought that passed between, 
 
 And disappeared. 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 A SHORT walk from "Newcroft" brought me to a dip in the 
 highway, at a spot where four roads meet in the hollow , a 
 " four-lone-eends," as country folk call it. Such places had an 
 awful interest for the simple hinds of Lancashire in old times ; 
 and, in remote parts of the county, the same feeling is strong 
 yet with regard to them. In ancient days, robbers, and other 
 malefactors, were sometimes buried at the ends of four cross 
 roads, unhallowed by " bell, book, or candle." The old super- 
 stitions of the people, cherished by their manner of life, dwelling, 
 as they did, in litde seclusions, scattered over the country around, 
 made these the meeting-places of witches, and all sorts of unholy 
 things, of a weird nature. It is a common belief now, among 
 the natives cf the hills and solitary cloughs of Lancashire, that 
 the best way of laying a ghost, or quieting any unearthly spirit 
 whose restlessness troubles their lonely lives, is to sacrifice a cock 
 to the goblin, and, with certain curious ceremonies, to bury the 
 same deep in the earth at a "four-lone-eends," firmly pinned 
 to the ground by a hedge-stake, driven through its body. The 
 coldly-learned, "lost in a gloom of uninspired research," may 
 sneer at these rustic superstitions; yet, surely, he was wiser 
 who said that he would rather decline to the "traditionary sym- 
 pathies of unlettered ignorance," than constantly see and hear 
 
 The repetitions weansome of sense, 
 Where soul is dead, and feeling hath no place 
 Where knowledge, ill begun in cold remark 
 On outward things, in formal inference ends 
 
 Near this place stands the handsome mansion of J. T.-Hibbert, 
 Esq., the president of the Mutual Improvement Society at Stret- 
 ford, and a general benefactor to the neighbourhood in which he 
 resides. He seems to have awakened that locality to the spirit ot
 
 The Birthplace of Tim Bobbin. 85 
 
 modern improvement, and is making what was, comparatively, 
 a desert nook before, now gradually smile around him. The 
 people thereabouts say that " it wur quite a lost place afore he 
 coom. 1? We are now in the township of Urmston, though not 
 in the exact spot where "Tim Bobbin" was born. As I stood 
 in the hollow, looking round at the little cluster of dwellings, my 
 friend pointed to a large, sleepy-looking old brick house, with a 
 slip of greensward peeping through the paling in front, as the 
 dwelling of William Shore, Esq., an eminent local musician, the 
 author of that beautiful glee-arrangement of the music to Burns's 
 matchless carousal song, "Willie brewed a peck o' maut," so 
 much admired by all lovers of the concord of sweet sounds. 
 And, certainly, if the musician had never done anything more 
 than that exquisite gem of harmony, it would have added an 
 interest to his dwelling-place. Who, that loved music, could go 
 by such a spot without noticing it ? Not I ; for, as Wordsworth 
 says of the pedlar who sometimes accompanied him in his moun- 
 tain rambles, so, partly, may I say 
 
 Not a hamlet could we pass, 
 Rarely a house, that did not yield to him 
 Remembrances. 
 
 And yet I have a misgiving that the reader thinks I am lingering 
 too tediously on the way; but, really, wherever one goes in 
 England, apart from the natural beauty of the country, he finds 
 the ground rich as " three-pile velvet " in all sorts of interesting 
 things It is a curiously-illuminated miscellany of the finest 
 kind ; and, in spite of all it has gone through, thank Heaven, it 
 is neither moth-eaten nor mildewed, nor in any way weakened 
 by age. Its history is written all over the land in rich memo- 
 rials, with a picturesque freshness which he that runs may read, 
 if he only have feeling and thought to accompany him about the 
 island, as he wades through the harvest of its historic annals, 
 strewn with flowers of old romance, and tale, and hoary legend, 
 and dewy with gems of native song. 
 
 Quitting the hamlet, we passed a mansion, half hidden by a 
 brick Avail, and thinly shaded by trees; a few straggling cottages ; 
 a neat little village school came next; one or two substantial 
 English granges, surrounded by large outhouses, and clean, spa- 
 cious yards, with glittering windows adorned with flowers, and 
 a general air of comfort and repose about them ; and then the 
 hamlet dribbled away with a few more cottages, and we were
 
 86 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 in the open country, upon the high level land; from whence we 
 could look westward over the fields, below which " the Cheshire 
 waters," 
 
 To their resting-place serene, 
 Came fresh'ning and refreshing all the scene. 
 
 In the recently published " History of Preston and its Envi- 
 rons," by Mr. Charles Hardwick, the author of that admirable 
 volume enters into an ingenious dissertation upon the derivation 
 of the name of this river, and after suggesting that its name may 
 be derived from "mere" and "sea," or sea-lake, says, " South of 
 Manchester, at this day, the river is not known by many of the 
 peasantry as the Mersey. It is called by them the 'Cheshire 
 Waters.' The modern name appears to have been derived from 
 the estuary, and not from the fresh-water stream." Mr. Hard- 
 wick's remark is equally true of the people dwelling here by that 
 river, on the eastern side of Manchester. A few fields divide the 
 high road from the water, and then slope down to its margin. 
 From the road we could see the low, fertile expanse of Cheshire 
 meadows and woods spread away to the edge of the horizon in 
 one beautiful green level. When the river was swollen by long 
 rains, the nearer part of the Cheshire side used to present the 
 appearance of a great lake, before the embankment was thrown 
 up to protect the fields from inundation. In past times, that 
 rich tract must have been a vast marsh. But yonder stands 
 Urmston Hall, upon a green bank, overlooking the river. As I 
 drew nearer the building, I was more and more struck with its 
 picturesque appearance, as seen from the high road, which goes 
 by it, at about a hundred yards' distance. It is a fine specimen 
 of the wood-and-plaster hall, once common in Lancashire, of 
 which Hulme Hall was an older, and perhaps the richest example, 
 so near Manchester. Urmston Hall is " of the age of Elizabeth, 
 adorned by a gable, painted in lozenges and trefoils." Baines 
 says, " According to Seacombe, Sir Thomas Lathom possessed 
 the manor of Urmston, in this parish (Flixton), and at his death, 
 i Edward III., he settled upon his natural son, Sir Oscatel, and 
 his heirs, the manors of Irlam and Urmston, about the time when 
 the Stanleys, whose heir had married Lady Elizabeth Lathom, 
 assumed the crest of the Eagle and Child." He says further, 
 "That according to other and higher authorities, the lands and 
 lordship of Urmston have been the property of the Urmstons 
 and Hydes in succession, from the time of King John to the
 
 The Birthplace of Tim Bobbin. 87 
 
 seventeenth century ; and that the Urmstons resided at Urmston 
 Hall until they removed to Westleigh, and were succeeded by the 
 Hydes." The spacious carriage road still preserves its old pro- 
 portion, though now rutted by the farmers' carts belonging to the 
 present occupants of the place. A few tall relics of the fine trees 
 which once surrounded the hall are still standing about, like faith- 
 ful domestics clinging to the fallen fortunes of an ancient master. 
 And now, I begin to think of the special errand which has 
 brought me to the place. There stands the old hall ; and yonder 
 is a row of four or five raw-looking, new brick cottages, such as 
 one sees spring up at the edges of great factory towns, by whole 
 streets at once, almost in a night like Jonah's gourd. They hold 
 nothing they cost nothing they are made out of nothing 
 they look nothing and they come to nothing as a satirical 
 friend of mine says, who is satisfied with nothing. If it were 
 not that one knows how very indifferently the common people 
 were housed in those old days when the hall was in its glory, it 
 really is enough to make one dissatisfied with the whole thing. 
 With the exception of the hall and these cottages, the green 
 country spreads out all around for some distance. When we 
 came up to the row, my friend said that the endmost house 
 stood on the spot, three years ago occupied by the old wood- 
 and-plaster building in which "Tim Bobbin" was born, and in 
 which his father, John Collier the elder, taught the children of 
 Flixton parish, gathered from the rural folds in the distance. 
 The house was gone, but, nevertheless, I must make what re- 
 search I could, and to that end I referred to my note-book, and 
 found that Baines says: "In a small house, opposite (Urmston 
 Hall), bearing the name of 'Richard o' Jone's, was born John 
 Collier, the renowned ' Tim Bobbin,' the provincial satirist of 
 Lancashire, as appears from the following document : ' Baptisms 
 in the parish church of Flixton in the year 1 709 John, son of 
 Mr. John Collier, of Urmston, baptised January the 8th.* I 
 hereby certify this to be a true extract of the parish register book 
 at Flixton, as witness my hand, this 3oth November, 1824. 
 (Signed) THOMAS HARPER, parish clerk.'" This was all clear 
 and straightforward so far as it went, but I wanted to prove the 
 thing for myself, as far as possible, on the spot. I thought it best 
 to begin by inquiring at the nearest of these cottages, opposite 
 Urmston Hall. Inside I heard the dismal rattle of hand-looms 
 
 * This date is according to the ' Old Style," which was then m use.
 
 gg Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 at work, and through the window I could see the web and 
 the wooden beams of the machine, and a pah gingham weaver, 
 swaying back and forward as he threw his shuttle to and fro. 
 The door, which led into the other part of the^ cottage, was 
 open, and a middle-aged woman, with a thin, patient face, was 
 spinning there, on the wooden wheel still used in country places. 
 This was the first indication I had noticed of any part of the 
 population being employed in manufacture. I went to the open 
 door, and asked the woman if this was not the spot where 
 "Tim Bobbin" was born, expecting a ready and enthusiastic 
 affirmative. She gazed at me for an instant, with a kind of 
 vague curiosity; and, to my astonishment, said she really couldn't 
 tell. She hardly seemed to know who "Tim Bobbin" was. 
 Poor as the inmates were, everything inside spoke of industry 
 and cleanliness, and simple, honest living. She called her hus- 
 band from his looms, in the other part of the cottage ; but his 
 answer was nearly the same, except that he referred me to a 
 person in the neighbourhood, who was formerly master' of the 
 school kept in this old house, called "Richard o' Jone's." I 
 turned and left the spot with a feeling of disappointment, but 
 with a stronger desire to know whether anything was known 
 about the matter among the inhabitants of the locality. To this 
 end, I and my friend rambled on towards Flixton, inquiring of 
 high and low, and still nobody knew anything definite about it, 
 though there was a general impression among them that he was 
 born at the old cottage formerly standing opposite Urmston Hall ; 
 but they perpetually finished by referring to "Jockey Johnson," 
 " Owd Cottrill, th' pavor," " Owd White-yed, th' saxton," and 
 the parish schoolmaster before-mentioned. The parish clerk, too, 
 might know something, they said. And here, as we wandered 
 about in this way, a tall gentleman, a little past the middle age, 
 dressed in black, came quietly up the road. My friend, to whom 
 he was known, at once introduced me to the Rev. Mr. Gregory, 
 the incumbent of Flixton, and told him my errand. The in- 
 cumbent kindly invited me to look through the parish register, at 
 his house, the first convenient afternoon I had to spare ; which 
 I did very soon after. Setting aside "Jockey Johnson," and 
 " Owd Cottrill, th' pavor," and the other authorities of the 
 hamlet so oft referred to, till a better opportunity, I thought 
 that the schoolmaster, being a native man, and having lived long 
 in the very house where "Tim" is said to have been born,
 
 The Birthplace of Tim Bobbin, 89 
 
 would probably feel some pride in his celebrated predecessor, 
 and, perhaps, be a willing conservator of any tradition existing 
 in the hamlet respecting him. His house was a little more than 
 a mile off; and I started along the high road back to a point from 
 whence an old lane leads out, eastward, to the schoolmaster's 
 solitary cottage in the distant fields. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
 Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 LEAVING the high-road at the place I had been told of, I went 
 up an old lane, which soon led between a little fold of cottages. 
 The first of these were old rude buildings of stone, with the 
 roofs fallen in, and seemingly abandoned to decay. The others 
 were of more modern appearance, and partly tenanted by hand- 
 loom weavers. Through the open doors of one or two I saw 
 that cheerful twinkle of humble comfort, which is, perhaps, 
 more delightful to meet with in such lowly nooks than in 
 prouder quarters ; because it shows how much happiness may be 
 drawn out of little means, by wholesome minds. If the doors had 
 been closed, I could have guessed at the condition of the interior 
 by the clean door-step and windows, and by the healthy pot- 
 flowers peeping prettily through the panes. Folk who can make 
 such places beautiful by simple cleanliness and native taste, are the 
 unlettered gentry of nature, more blest in their low estate than 
 they can understand, when they compare it with the glitter of 
 the fuming world in the distance. Like the lark's nest, though 
 near the ground, their homes are neat and sweet, out of humble 
 materials, and blithe with the neighbourhood of nature. Some 
 of these cottages were of duller aspect, though there was nothing 
 of that dirty sickliness about them which is so common in the 
 back quarters of city life. But I have noticed that, even in the 
 lowest parts of great towns, now and then there comes a cottage 
 all cleanliness and order, a sweet little household oasis amidst the 
 wilderness of filth around ; shining in the gloom, " like a good 
 deed in a naughty world." 
 
 When I came to the end of the fold, I found that the lane
 
 <JO 
 
 Lancashire Sketches : 
 
 went forward in two directions ; one right into the open green 
 country, where I could see no dwellings at hand, the other 
 winding back towards the village which I had left behind me, 
 at the high-road side. An old woman was looking from the 
 cottage door at the corner, and I asked her the way to the 
 schoolmaster's house. Country folk are not always known in 
 Lancashire by their real name, even on their own ground, and 
 she had to consult somebody inside about the matter. In a 
 minute or so, a voice from the cottage called out, "Does he 
 belung to th' owd body, thinken yo ?" meaning the old body 
 of Wesleyan Methodists. I said that I thought he did. " Oh, 
 ay," replied the voice, " it'll be William, sure enough. . 
 Yo mun go reet forrud up th' lone afore yo, till yo come'n to a 
 heawse i'th fields, an' that'll be it. It stons a bit off th' lone- 
 side. . . Yo'n ha' to pike yor gate, mind yo ; for its nobbut 
 a mak o' durty under-fuut." On I went, between the hedge- 
 rows, slipping and stepping from pool to pool, down the miry 
 cow-lane, for nearly half a mile, slutching myself up to the collar 
 as I went ; and there, about a stone's throw from the way-side, I 
 saw the schoolmaster's low-built cottage standing in a bit of 
 sweet garden in the middle of the wide green fields. Entering by 
 a tiny wooden gate at the back, I went along a narrow garden 
 walk, between little piles of rockery, and rows of shells, which 
 ornamented the beds, till I came winding up to the door in front ; 
 which was shaded, if I remember right, by some kind of simple 
 trellis- work. The wind was now still everything was still, but 
 the cheerful birds fluttering about, and filling the evening silence 
 with their little melodies. The garden and the cottage looked 
 sweet, and sleepily-beautiful. The windows blazed in the sunset, 
 which was flooding all the level landscape with its departing 
 splendour. I heard no stir inside, but knocking at the door, it 
 was opened by a quiet middle-aged man, who asked me in. This 
 was the schoolmaster himself; and, by the fireside sat a taller, 
 older man; who was his brother. The only other inmate was a 
 staid, elderly woman; whose dress, and mild countenance, was in 
 perfect keeping with the order and peace of everything around. 
 It was quite a sample of a quaint, comfortable English cottage 
 interior. As I glanced about, I could fancy that many of the 
 clean, little nick-nacks which I saw so carefully arranged, were 
 the treasured heirlooms of old country housekeepers. Everything 
 was in its right place, and cleaned up to its height. The house
 
 The Birthplace of Tun Bobbin. 9 1 
 
 was as serene, and the demeanour of the people as seemly and 
 subdued as if it had been a little chapel; and the setting sun 
 streaming through the front window, filled the cottage with a 
 melting glory, which no magnificence of wealth could imitate. 
 Catching, unconsciously, the spirit of the hour, my voice crept 
 down nearer to the delicate stillness of the scene; and I whispered 
 my questions to the two brothers, as if to speak at all was a 
 desecration of that contemplative silence which seemed to steep 
 everything around, like a delicious slumber, filled with holy dreams. 
 We gradually got into conversation, and in the course of our talk 
 I gathered from the two brothers that they had lived and kept 
 school in the house where Baines says that Tim Bobbin was 
 born. They said that, though there was a general belief that he 
 was born in that house, yet they did not themselves possess any- 
 thing which clearly proved the fact. And yet it might be quite 
 true, they said ; for they had often known artists come out there 
 to sketch the building as his birthplace. There were other people 
 in the parish who, they thought, might perhaps know more about 
 the matter. They said that there were many curious Latin mot- 
 toes and armorial bearings painted on the walls and other parts of 
 the school-house, which many people attributed to Tim Bobbin 
 but they were not quite sure that people were right in doing so. 
 I agreed with the two brothers in this. There is little doubt 
 that Tim was a fair Latin scholar in after life ; I myself once 
 possessed a pocket copy of Terence's " Comedies," which had 
 undoubtedly belonged to him ; and in the margin of which he 
 had corrected the Latinity. But according to what is known of 
 Tim's life elsewhere, he must have left the place of his birth 
 very early in youth, probably with some migration of his father's 
 family long before he could be able to deal with such matters. 
 The brothers did not know whether these relics had been pre- 
 served or not when the house was taken down they thought 
 not. The house had been occupied by them and their fathers, 
 as schoolmasters, for more than a hundred years gone by ; 
 but they really could not tell much more about the matter. 
 They thought, however, that owd Tummus so and so would 
 be likely to know something about it or owd Hannah Wood. 
 They were "two o'th owd'st folk i' Urmston; and that wur 
 sayin' summat.'" Was I in the reporting line they wondered. 
 . Well, it was no matter but Owd Tummus lived 
 about half a mile off, "o'er anent Cis Lone;" and I should be
 
 02 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 sure to find him in. Thanking them for the information they 
 had given me, I left the quiet trio in their quiet cottage, and 
 came away. The evening was cold and clear, and the scattered 
 birds were twittering out the last notes of their vespers in secluded 
 solos, about the hedges. In the far east, the glimmering land- 
 scape was melting away ; but the glory which hovered on the 
 skirts of the sunken sun dazzled my eyes as I came down the old 
 lane in the gloaming ; and I was happy in my lonely walk, come 
 of it whatever might. 
 
 I came up to the old man's house, just as the evening candles 
 were beginning to twinkle through cottage windows by the 
 way. He sat by the fire ; a little man, thin and bent, but with a 
 face that spoke an old age that was " frosty, but kindly." There 
 were young people in the house ; seemingly belonging to the farm. 
 After some preliminary chat about weather and the like, I drew 
 him in the direction of the subject I had come about ; asking 
 whether he had ever heard that Tim Bobbin was born in Urms- 
 ton. He replied, " Well ; aw have yerd it said so, aw think 
 but my memory houds nought neaw. . . Tim Bobbin, say'n 
 yo ? Aw like as aw could mind summat abeawt that, aw do. 
 . . . Owd Back'll know ; if onybody does, he will. . . 
 He's a goodish age, is th' owd lad, he is ; an' fause with it, 
 very. . . Tim Bobbin! Tim Bobbin! . . Aw'st be 
 eighty-three come th' time o'th year. Owd Back's a quarter 
 younger. . . Aw've a pain taks me across here, neaw and 
 then. We're made o' stuff at winnut last for ever. . . Ay, 
 ay ; we'n sin summat i' eawr time, has Owd Back an me, 
 we ban. . . Dun yo know Kit o' Ottiwell's ? Hoo lives at 
 Davyhulme; ax hur; ax hur. Ho'll be likker to leeten yo 
 abeawt this job nor me. Yo see'n aw connut piece things 
 together neaw. If yo'd'n come'd fifty year sin, aw could ha' 
 towd yo a tale, an' bowdly too, aw could. But th' gam's up. 
 The dule's getten th' porritch, an th' Lord's getten th' pon to 
 scrape, as usal." I was inquiring further about his friend 
 " Owd Back," when he stopped me by saying, " Oh, there's 
 Owd Hannah Wood ; aw'd like to forgetten hur. Eh, that aw 
 should forget Owd Hannah ! Hoo lives by the hee-gate, as yo 
 gwon to Stretford, hoo does. What, are yo after property, or 
 summat?" "No." "Whau then. . . Yo mun see Owd 
 Hannah soon, yung mon ; or yo'n ha' to look for her i' Flixton 
 graveyort ; an' aw deawt that would sarve yo'r turn but little.
 
 The Birthplace of Tim Bobbin. 93 
 
 . Folk donnut like so mich talk when they're getten 
 theer. . . My feyther an' mother's theer, an' o' th' owd 
 set; aw'st be amoon 'em in a bit. Well, well; neighbour 
 fare's no ill fare, as th' sayin* is." In this way the old man 
 wandered on till I rose to go ; when, turning to the old woman 
 
 sitting near, he said, "Aw've just unbethought mo. William 
 
 will be the very mon to ax abeawt this Tim Bobbin ; an' so will 
 their Sam. They liv't i'th heawse 'at he's speykin' on; an' so 
 did their on-setters (ancestors) afore 'em. Beside they're a mak 
 o' larnt folk. They're schoo maisters ; an' so then." The old 
 man did not know that these were the men I had just left. After 
 resting a few minutes, he raised his head again, just before I came 
 away, to tell me, as others had done, that "Jockey Johnson," an* 
 " Cottril, th' pavor," were likely folk to sper on." In this way I 
 wandered to and fro ; meeting, in most cases, with little more 
 than a glimmering remembrance of the thing, the dimness of 
 which, seeing that few seemed to take any strong interest in the 
 matter, I found afterwards was not difficult to account for. One 
 old man said, as soon as the name was mentioned to him, " Let's 
 see. Aw'm just thinkin'. . . Ay, ay ; it's yon heawse oppo- 
 site th' owd ho'. They'n bin built up again, lately. An' there 
 wur writin' an' stuff upo' th' woles ; but it took somebory with 
 a deeal o' larnin' to understond it." When I called upon the 
 parish-clerk, he told me that a few years ago a gentleman had 
 called to make inquiry upon the same subject, and left instruc- 
 tions for everything in the register relating to Tim to be extracted 
 for him, which was done ; but he never calkd to get the manu- 
 script, which was now lost or mislaid. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, 
 Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, 
 To the last syllable of recorded time ; 
 And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 
 The way to dusty death. 
 
 SHAKSPERE. 
 
 I WAS a little disappointed at first to find that, wherever I went 
 in the parish of Flixton, the inhabitants showed no strong interest 
 in the quaint man of genius, whose early records I was in search 
 of. But this is no wonder, when one considers what a thinly-
 
 94. Lancashire Sketches' 
 
 inhabited place this must have been at the beginning of Queen 
 Anne's reign ; and remembering, also, that nearly the whole of 
 Tim's long life was spent elsewhere ; first, as an apprentice to 
 Dutch-loom weaving, which was looked upon as a rather genteel 
 occupation in those days. But, as his friend and biographer, 
 Richard Townley, Esq., of Bellfield Hall, says, "such a sedentary 
 employment not at all agreeing with his volatile spirits and ec- 
 centric genius, he prevailed upon his master to release him from 
 the remainder of his servitude. Though then very young, he 
 soon commenced itinerant schoolmaster ; going about the country 
 from one small town to another, to teach reading, writing, and 
 accounts ; and generally having a night-school as well' as a day 
 one." Now, seeing that the theatre of these obscure and honour- 
 able struggles of Tim's youth was the town of Oldham, and the 
 villages thereabouts, it is not surprising that the scattered inhabi- 
 tants of the lonely nook where he was born should have few 
 traditional remembrances of him, who left them when he was 
 yet but a child. Tim's father was only forty years old, when he 
 was overtaken by total blindness ; and, this, necessarily, changed 
 the plan he had formed of bringing up his son, our hero, to the 
 Church, for "he had conceived a favourable opinion of his 
 abilities." Now, this calamity did not befall the elder Mr, 
 Collier during the time that he was schoolmaster at Urmston in 
 Flixton: and everything shows that he was not a native of that 
 place, but came from some other part to teach there ; remaining 
 only for a short time during which Tim and his brother 
 Nathan were born- and then moving away again, with his 
 young family of nine children, to another quarter. What Baines 
 says, on the authority of the inhabitants of Flixton, of the elder 
 Collier never being a clergyman, may be true, so far as it relates 
 to Urmston, of which place there never was a curate ; nor was 
 he in holy orders during his residence there; and yet he may 
 have been so elsewhere. This supposition is strengthened by 
 Tim's own words : " In the reign of Queen Anne I was a boy, 
 and one of the nine children of a poor Lancashire curate, whose 
 stipend never amounted to thirty pounds a year; and consequently 
 the family must feel the iron teeth of penury with a witness. 
 These, indeed, were sometimes blunted by the charitable disposi- 
 tion of the good rector (the Rev. Mr. H , of W n)." 
 
 What an interesting glimpse this gives us of the home of Tim 
 Bobbin's childhood ! Now, it is just possible that the " good
 
 The Birthplace of Tim Bobbin. 95 
 
 rector" may have been the rector of Warrington of that time; 
 whose name begins with the same initial letter. All things con- 
 sidered, I did not wonder that the family had left but little mark 
 among the people of Flixton. 
 
 Seeing that so little was known by the inhabitants, I turned 
 my thoughts towards the parish register, setting an afternoon 
 apart for visiting the incumbent ; who had invited me to look 
 through it at his house. At the appointed time, I walked through 
 the village of Flixton, a little way into the country beyond the 
 village; and there, by the wayside, at the top of a little sloping 
 lawn, partially screened by stunted trees and bushes, the "village 
 preacher's modest mansion rose." The incumbent received me 
 courteously, and entered kindly into my purpose. Ushering me 
 into a little parlour at the front, he brought forth the two oldest 
 register volumes of the parish from their hiding-place. The 
 first thing which struck me was the difference in their condition. 
 The oldest was perfectly sound, inside and outside. Its leaves 
 were of vellum ; and, with the exception of a slight discolouration 
 in some places, they were as clear and perfect as ever they had 
 been ; and the entries in it were beautifully distinct, written in 
 the old English character, and mostly in the Latin language. 
 The change in the latter volume was very remarkable. Its 
 binding was poor and shaky ; and its leaves of the softest and 
 most perishable writing paper, many of them quite loose in the 
 book, and so worn, tattered, and crumbly, as to be scarcely 
 touchable without damage. I could not help thinking that if 
 any important question should arise a hundred years hence, the 
 settling of which depended on such a mouldering record as this, 
 is was just possible that decay might have forestalled the inquiry. 
 After a careful examination of the register, I found the following 
 entries relating to Tim's family, and, besides these, there is no 
 mention of any other person of the name of Collier, for the space 
 of half a century before, and a century after that date. First, 
 under the head of "Births and Baptismes, in the year, 1706," 
 appears " Nathan, ye son of John Collier, schoolmaster, borne 
 May 1 7, baptised May 31."* Singularly, I found the same bap- 
 tism entered a second time, three pages forward in the same year, 
 with a slight variation, in the following manner: "Baptised 
 Nathan, the son of Master John Collier, schoolmaster, born 
 May ye i8th." And then the last and only other mention 
 
 * Old style.
 
 06 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 of the Colliers, is the register of the baptism of John, the 
 renowned "Tim Bobbin," which is entered thus, among the 
 baptisms of the year 1710: "John, son of Mr. John Collier, of 
 Urmstone, baptised January the 6th." In Baines's " Lancashire," 
 the baptism is given as occurring in 1709, which is a slight mis- 
 take. The origin of that mistake was evident to me, with the 
 register before my eyes. The book seems to have been very 
 irregularly kept in those days ; and the baptisms in the year 1 709 
 are entered under a headline, "Baptisms in the year 1709:" but 
 at the end of the baptisms of that year, the list runs on into those 
 of the following year, 1710, without any such headline to divide 
 them ; and this entry of Tim's baptism being one of the first, 
 might easily be transcribed by a hasty observer, as belonging to 
 the previous year. I thought there was something significant 
 about the curious manner in which these three entries, relating 
 to the Colliers, are made in the register. In the first entry of 
 the baptism of Nathan, Tim's eldest brother, the father is called 
 "John Collier, schoolmaster;" in the second entry of the same 
 baptism, he is called "Master John Collier, schoolmaster;" and 
 in the entry of Tim's baptism, three years later, the clerk, having 
 written down the father's name as "John Collier of Urmstone," 
 has, upon after-thought, made a caret between " the son of" and 
 "John Collier of Urmstone," and carefully written "Mr." above 
 it, making it read "Mr. John Collier, of Urmstone." This 
 addition to the names of schoolmasters, or even of the wealthy 
 inhabitants of the parish, occurs so very rarely in the register, 
 that I could not help thinking this singular exception indicative 
 of an honourable estimate of the character of Tim's father 
 among his neighbours. Such was the result of my search ; and 
 it strengthens my conviction that old Mr. John Collier's family 
 were not natives of Flixton, nor dwelt there long, but departed 
 after a short residence to some other quarter, were the family 
 were born, married, died, and buried; except the two before 
 mentioned. 
 
 Whilst I was sitting in the incumbent's parlour, looking over 
 these old books on that day, a little thing befell which pleased 
 me. though the reader may think it trifling. The weather was 
 very cold, and I happened to have on one of those red-and-black 
 tartan wool shirts, which are comfortable wear enough in cold 
 weather, though they look rather gaudy ; and don't satisfy one's 
 mind so well as a clean white shirt does. As I sat turning over
 
 The Cottage of Tim Bobbin. . 97 
 
 the leaves of these ancient records, in came the incumbent's son, 
 a little, slim, intelligent boy, with large, thoughtful eyes. He 
 watched me attentively for two or three minutes, and then, 
 coming a little nearer, so as to get a good look at the wrists and 
 front of my extraordinary under-gear, he called out, with unre- 
 served astonishment, "Papa! he has got no shirt on!" The 
 clergyman checked the lad instantly ; though he could not help 
 smiling at this little burst of frank, childish simplicity. The lad 
 was evidently surprised to see me enjoy the thing so much, 
 
 I cannot dismiss this old parish register without noticing some 
 other things in it which were interesting to me. And I can tell 
 thee, reader, by the by, that there are worse ways of spending a 
 few hours than in poring over such a record. How significantly 
 the births, marriages, and deaths, tread upon one another's heels ; 
 as they do in the columns of newspapers ! How solemnly the 
 decaying pages represent the chequered pattern of our mortal 
 estate ! The exits and entrances of these ephemeral players in 
 the drama of life continually interweave in the musty chronicle, 
 as they do in the current of human action. There was a quaint 
 tone running through the whole, which I could not well pass by. 
 In the year 1688, the phrase, "buried in woollen only," first 
 appears, and marks the date of an act for the encouragement of 
 the woollen trade. This phrase is carefully added to every 
 registration of burial, thenceforth for a considerable time ; except 
 in a few cases, where the phrase changes to " buried in sweet 
 flowers only." What a world of mingled pathos and prettiness 
 that phrase awakes in the mind ! To a loving student of Shak- 
 spere, it might, not inaptly, call up that beautiful passage in 
 Ophelia's burial scene : 
 
 Laertes. Lay her i' the enrth; 
 
 And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 
 May violets spring ! .... 
 
 Queen. Sweets to the sweet : Farewell ! 
 
 (Scattering Flowers.) 
 
 Sometimes an instance occurs where a burial takes place "in 
 linen only." In this year of 1688, it is singular that there are 
 only two marriages entered in the Flixton parish register. There 
 was, perhaps, some particular reason for this at the time; but 
 the fact will give the reader some idea of the smallness of the 
 population in those days. From this time the phrase, " Sworn 
 by so-and-so, before Justice so-and-so," is attached to some entries
 
 9 8 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 of burial, as thus : " Thomas, ye son of John Owen, of Car- 
 rington, buried in sweet floweres, attested by ye wife of George 
 Twickins. Ye same day of burial, viz., loth Oct. (1705), John, 
 ye son of John Millatt, jun., of Carrington, an infant, buried in 
 sweet floweres only." Then follows, "James Parren was not 
 buiied in any materiall contrary to a late act for Buryinge in 
 Woollen. Sworne by Mary Parren, before Justice Peter Egerton, 
 Jan. 28th, 1705." The burials in the year 1 706 are almost all in 
 " sweet floweres only." This is the year when Nathan Collier 
 was born, being the first mention of that family in the register. 
 Three years after, his brother John (Tim Bobbin) was born; 
 after which the Colliers disappear from the register altogether. 
 Some of the burials occurring between 1720 and 1726, are 
 remarkable for the manner of their entry, as, " Sarah, daughter 
 of Schoolmaster Pony;" "James, Thomas Jaddock's father;" 
 "John Swindell, taken out of ye river;" "Widow Peer's child, 
 Aug. 5th;" and this is followed three days after by "Richd., 
 son of Widow Peer's, Aug. 3oth;" "Old Ralph Haslam, from 
 Carrington;" "Old Henery Roile, from Stretford;" "Old Mrs. 
 Starkey;" "Old John Groons;" "Moss's wife of Urmeston;" 
 "Horox's child of Urmstone;" and "Hannah, daughter of one 
 Dean, of Stretford." Then come these, in their proper order, 
 entered in a clerkly hand : (t Thomas Willis, of Bleckly, in the 
 county of Buckingham, Esq., and Mrs. Ann Hulme, Heiress of 
 Davy Hulme, and of the lordship and manor of Urmston, were 
 marry'd. Sept. 3rd, 1735;" and then "Anna Willis, the first 
 daughter of Thomas Willis, Esq., born August the nth, 1736, 
 and baptised ye I4th Aug. JOHN WILLIS, clerk of Bleckley, in 
 Bucks." I found the Christian name of Randal very common 
 in this register. The names of Starkey, Holt, Rogers, and Eger- 
 ton, ever accompanied by the title of gentleman ; and for the 
 rest, the names of Warburton, Taylor, Royle, Coupe, Darbishire, 
 Shawcross, Gilbody, and Knight, form the staple of the list, 
 with the addition of the Owens of Carrington Moss ; who seem 
 to have been a very prolific generation.
 
 The Cottage of Tim Bobbin. 9? 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The evening comes, and brings the dew along, 
 The rodie welkin sheeneth to the eyne, 
 Around the alestake minstrels sing the song, 
 Young ivy round the door-post doth entwine ; 
 I lay me down upon the grass, yet to my will, 
 Albeit all is fair, there lacketh something still. 
 
 CHATTERTON. 
 
 THE people of southern England are apt to sneer at the enthusi- 
 asm with which Lancashire men speak of Tim Bobbin ; and, if 
 this imperfect sketch should fall into the hands of any such readers, 
 it is not improbable that they may look upon the whole thing as 
 a great fuss about next to nothing. One reason for this is, that, 
 for the most part, they know next to nothing of the man which 
 is not much to be wondered at. But the greatest difficulty in 
 their case is the remote character of the words and idioms used 
 by Tim. To the majority of such readers, the dialogue of 
 "Tummus and Mary" is little more than an unintelligible curi- 
 osity ; and I believe, speaking generally, that it would be better 
 understood by the natives of the metropolis if it had been written 
 in French. The language in which the commanding genius of 
 Chaucer wrought, five hundred years ago, and which was the 
 common language of the London of those days, is, even in its 
 most idiomatic part, very much the same as that used in all the 
 country parts of Lancashire at this hour. But great changes 
 have come round since the time of Chaucer; and though an 
 Englishman is an Englishman in general characteristics, all the 
 world over, there is as much difference now in the tone of man- 
 ners and language in the North and South as there is between 
 the tones of an organ and those of a piano. I have hardly ever 
 met with a southern man able to comprehend the quaint, graphic 
 wealth which hutches and chuckles with living fun and country 
 humour, under the equally quaint garb of old language in which 
 Tim clothes his story of " Tummus and Mary." But, on its 
 first appearance, the people of his own district at once recognised 
 an exquisite picture of themselves; and they hailed it with 
 delight. He superintended several editions of his works during 
 his lifetime a time when the population of Lancashire was 
 very scanty, and scattered over large, bleak spaces; and when 
 publishing was a very different thing to what it is now
 
 I00 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 Since then, his principal story has continually grown in the 
 estimation of scholars and students, as a valuable addition to the 
 rich treasures of English philology, even apart from the genius 
 which combined its humorous details with such masterly art, 
 and finished and rounded it into the completeness of a literary 
 dewdrop. That tale was calculated to command attention and 
 awaken delight at once and it will long be cherished with pride, 
 by Lancashire men at least, as an exceedingly natural " glimpse 
 of auld lang syne." But those who wish to understand the force 
 of Tim's character, must look to his letters, and other prose frag- 
 ments, such as "Truth in a Mask." These chiefly reveal ^the 
 sterling excellence of the man. He was a clear-sighted, daring, 
 independent politician one of the strong old pioneers of human 
 freedom in these parts. He had a curious audience in that secluded 
 corner of Lancashire where he lived in those days a people 
 who had worn their political shackles so long that they almost 
 looked upon them as ornaments. 
 
 But Tim kent what was fu brawly ; 
 
 and he was continually blurting out some startling truth or another, 
 in vigorous, unmistakable English; and he gloried in the then 
 disreputable and dangerous epithet of " Reforming John." This, 
 too, in the teeth of patrons and friends whose political tendencies 
 were in an entirely opposite direction. Let any man turn to the 
 letter he writes to his friend, the Rev. Mr. Heap, of Dorking, 
 who had desired him to "spare the levitical order," and then say 
 whether there was any shadow of sycophancy in the soul of 
 John Collier. Under the correction of magnifying the matter 
 through the medium of one's native likings then, I will venture 
 to declare a feeling akin to veneration for the spot where he was 
 born ; and I know that it is shared by the men of his native 
 county, generally, even by those who find themselves at a difficult 
 distance from his quaint tone of thought and language for it 
 takes a man thoroughly soaked with the Lancashire soil to appre- 
 ciate him thoroughly. But, apart from all local inclinings, men 
 of thought and feeling will ever welcome any spark of genuine 
 creative fire, which glows with such genial human sympathies, 
 and such an honourable sense of justice as John Collier evinces, 
 however humble it may be in comparison with the achieve- 
 ments of those mighty spirits who have made the literature 
 of our sea-girt island glorious in the earth. The waters of the
 
 The Birthplace of Tim Bobbin. 101 
 
 little mountain stream, singing its lone, low song, as it struggles 
 through its rocky channel, are dear and beautiful, and useful 
 to that rugged solitude, as is the great ocean to the shores on 
 which its surges play. Nay, what is that ocean, but the 
 gathered chorus of these lonely waters, in which the individual 
 voice is lost in one grand combination of varied tones. With 
 this imperfect notice, I will, at present, leave our old local 
 favourite; and just take another glance at Flixton, before I bid 
 adieu to his birthplace. 
 
 The reader may remember that, on the day of my first visit 
 to John Collier's birthplace, I lounged some time about the 
 hamlet of Urmston, conversing with the inhabitants. Leaving 
 that spot, I rambled leisurely along the high road to Flixton, 
 hob-nobbing, and inquiring among different sorts of people, about 
 him, whenever opportunity offered. When I drew near to Shaw 
 Hall, I had traversed a considerable part of the length of the 
 parish, which is only four miles, at most, by about two in 
 breadth. There is nothing like a hill to be seen; but as one 
 wanders on, the country rises and falls, in gentle undulations. 
 Now and then, a pool of water gleamed afar off in the green 
 fields, or, close by the road, rippled into wavelets by the keen 
 wind, which came down steadily from the north that day, 
 whistling shrill cadences among the starved thorns. I cannot 
 give a better idea of the character of the soil than by borrowing 
 the words of Baines, who says : " Much of the land in the parish 
 of Flixton is arable, probably to the amount of nine-tenths of 
 the whole. The farms are comparatively large, and the soil is 
 in general a rich black, sandy, vegetable loam, producing corn, 
 fruir, and potatoes in abundance." I believe the land is now in 
 better cultivation than when these words were written. Shaw 
 Hall is an important place in the history of Flixton. The lords 
 of the land dwelt there in old times. At the time of my visit it 
 was occupied, as a boarding-school, by Mr. James M'Dougall, 
 who was kind enough to show me through the interior when I 
 called there in my ramble. Baines says of Shaw Hall : " It is a 
 venerable mansion, of the age of James I., with gables and 
 wooden parapets on the S. W. and N. sides. The roof has a 
 profusion of chimneys, and a cupola in the centre. In one of 
 the apartments is a painting covering the principal part of the 
 ceiling, which represents the family of Darius kneeling in suppli- 
 cation before Alexander the Great. This picture, though two
 
 loz Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 hundred years old, is in fine preservation, and the faces and 
 figures indicate the hand of a master. There are some smaller 
 paintings and tapestry in the rooms, on one of which is repre- 
 sented a Persian chief at parley with Alexander, and, afterwards, 
 submitting to the conqueror. Stained glass in the windows 
 exhibit the arms of Asshawe and Egerton, successive lords of 
 Flixton. . . Adjoining the ample gardens and filbert grove 
 was once a moat, which has partly disappeared. Shaw Hall is 
 now used as a boarding-school, a purpose to which, by its situa- 
 tion, it seems well adapted." I cannot leave this place without 
 mentioning, that the, then, tenant of the hall was a poet of no mean 
 promise, who has contributed an interesting volume of poems 
 and songs to the literature of this district. From the high road, 
 a little beyond the hall, the most prominent and pleasing object 
 in the landscape is the old parish church of Flixton, standing in 
 its still more ancient graveyard, upon the brow of a green knoll, 
 about an arrow's flight off; with the village of Flixton clustered 
 behind it. At the foot of that green knoll, to the westward, 
 where al' the country beyond is one unbroken green, 
 
 The river glideth by the hamlet old. 
 
 The ground occupied by the church seemed to me the highest 
 in the landscape; and the venerable fane stands there, looking 
 round upon the quiet parish like a mother watching her children 
 at play, and waiting till they come home, tired, to lie down and 
 sleep with the rest. It was getting late in the evening when I 
 sauntered about the churchyard, looking over the gravestones of 
 Warburtons, Taylors, Cowpes, Gilbodys, Egertons, and Owens 
 of Carrington. Among the rest, I found the following well-known 
 epitaph, upon William Oldfield of Stretford, smith : 
 
 My anvil and my hammer lie declined, 
 My bellows have quite lost their wind; 
 My coals are done, my debt is paid, 
 My vices in the dust ar-j laid. 
 
 This epitaph, which appears here in such an imperfect shape, is 
 commonly attributed to Tim. In Rochdale parish churchyard, 
 '. appears in a much completer form on the gravestone of a 
 blacksmith, who lived in Tim's time. 
 
 J rambled about the old village a while in the dusk. Now and 
 then a villager lounged along in the direction of the inn, near the 
 church; where I could hear several boisterous country fellows
 
 Tke Birthplace of Tim Bob bin, 103 
 
 talking together in high glee, while one of them sang snatches of 
 an old ballad, called the " Golden Glove : " 
 
 Coat, waistcoat, and breeches she then did put on, 
 And a-hunting she went with her dog and gun ; 
 She hunted all around where the farmer did dwell, 
 Because in her heart she did love him full well. 
 
 At length the horses were put to, and we got fairly upon the 
 road, which took us back in another direction, round by Davy 
 Hulme, the seat of the Norreys family. Immediately after 
 clearing the village, Flixton House was pointed out to me; 
 " a plain family mansion, with extensive grounds and gardens." 
 The wind was cold, and the shades of night gathered fast around; 
 and before we quitted Flixton parish, the birthplace of Tim 
 Bobbin had faded from my view. I felt disappointed in finding 
 that the place of his nativity yielded so little reminiscence of our 
 worthy old local humorist ; the simple reason for which is, that 
 very little is known of him there. But there was compensating 
 pleasure to me in meeting with so many interesting things there 
 which I did not go in search of.
 
 from 3&oc|)liale to tfje 3Top of 
 (JBtrge. 
 
 And so by many winding nooks he strays. 
 With willing sport. 
 
 SHAKSPER 
 
 JELL may Englishmen cherish the memory of their fore- 
 fathers, and love their native land. It has risen to its 
 present power among the nations of the world through 
 the efforts of many generations of heroic people ; and 
 the firmament of its biography is illumined by stars of the first 
 magnitude. What we know of its history previous to the con- 
 quest by the Romans, is clouded by conjecture and romance; 
 but we have sufficient evidence to show that, even then, this 
 gem, "set in the silver sea," was known in distant regions of the 
 earth, for its natural riches; and was inhabited by a brave and 
 ingenious race of people. During the last two thousand years, 
 the masters of the world have been fighting to win it, or to keep 
 it. The woad-stained British savage, ardent, imaginative, and 
 brave, roved through its woods and marshes, hunting the wild 
 beasts of the island. He sometimes herded cattle, but was little 
 given to tillage. He sold tin to the Phoenicians, and knew 
 something about smelting iron ore, and working it into such 
 shapes as were useful in a life of wild insecurity and warfare, 
 such as his. In the slim coracle, he roamed the island's waters ; 
 and scoured its plains in battle, in his scythed car, a terror 
 to the boldest foe. He worshipped, too, in an awful way, 
 in sombre old woods, and colossal Stonehenges, under the
 
 Rochdale to Top of Blacks tone Edge. 105 
 
 blue, o'er-arching sky. On lone wastes, and moorland hills, we 
 still have the relics of these ancient temples, frowning at time, 
 and seeming to say, as they look on nature's ever-returning 
 green, in the words of their old Druids 
 
 Everything comes out of the ground but the dead. 
 
 But destiny had other things in store for these islands. The 
 legions of imperial Rome came down upon the wild Celt, who 
 retired, fiercely contending, to the mountain fastnesses of the 
 north and west. Four hundred years the Roman wrought 
 and ruled in Britain; and he left the broad red mark of his 
 way of living stamped upon the face of the country, and 
 upon its institutions, when his empire declined. The steadfast 
 Saxon followed, "stubborn, taciturn, sulky, indomitable, rock- 
 made," a farmer and a fighter ; a man of sense, and spirit, and 
 integrity; an industrious man, and a home-bird. The Saxon 
 never loosed his hold ; even though his wild Scandinavian kins- 
 men, the sea-kings, and jarls of the north, came rushing to battle, 
 with their piratical multitudes, tossing their swords into the air, 
 and singing heroic ballads, as they slew their foemen, under the 
 banner of the Black Raven. Then came the military Norman, 
 a northern pirate, trained in France to the art of war, led on 
 by the bold Duke William, who landed his warriors at Pevensey, 
 and burnt the fleet that brought them to the shore, in order to 
 bind his soldiers to the necessity of victory or death. Duke 
 William conquered, and Harold, the Saxon, fell at Hastings, 
 with an arrow in his brain. Each of these races has left its 
 peculiarities stamped upon the institutions of the country ; but 
 most enduring of all, the Saxon. And now, the labours of 
 twenty centuries of valiant men, in peace and war, have achieved 
 a matchless power, and freedom for us, and have bestrewn 
 the face of the land with " the charms which follow long 
 history." The country of Caractacus and Boadicea, where 
 Alfred ruled, and Shakspere and Milton sang, will henceforth 
 always be interesting to men of intelligent minds, wherever they 
 were born. It is pleasant, also, to the eye, as it is instructive 
 to the mind. Its history is written all over the soil, not only 
 in strong evidences of its present genius and power, but in 
 thousands of relics of its ancient fame and characteristics. In a 
 letter, written by Lord Jeffrey, to his sister-in-law, an American 
 lady, respecting what Old England is like, and in what it differs
 
 io6 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 most from America, he says: "It differs mostly, I think, in the 
 visible memorials of antiquity with which it is overspread; the 
 superior beauty of its verdure, and the more tasteful and happy 
 state and distribution of its woods. Everything around you here 
 is historical, and leads to romantic or interesting recollections. 
 Gray-grown church towers, cathedrals, ruined abbeys, castles of 
 all sizes and descriptions, in all stages of decay, from those that 
 are inhabited, to those in whose moats ancient trees are growing, 
 and ivy mantling over their mouldering fragments ; . . and 
 massive stone bridges over lazy waters ; and churches that look as 
 old as Christianity ; and beautiful groups of branchy trees ; and 
 a verdure like nothing else in the universe ; and all the cottages 
 and lawns fragrant with sweet briar and violets, and glowing 
 with purple lilacs and white elders; and antique villages scattering 
 round wide bright greens ; with old trees and ponds, and a mas- 
 sive pair of oaken stocks preserved from the days of Alfred. 
 With you everything is new, and glaring, and angular, and withal 
 rather frail, slight, and perishable ; nothing soft, and mellow, and 
 venerable, or that looks as if it would ever become so." This 
 charming picture is almost entirely compounded from the most 
 interesting features of the rural and antique: and is, therefore, 
 more applicable to those agricultural parts of England which 
 have been little changed by the events of its modern history, 
 than to those districts which have been so changed by the 
 peaceful revolutions of manufacture in these days. But, even 
 in the manufacturing districts, where forests of chimneys rear 
 their tall shafts, upon ground once covered with the woodland 
 shade, or sparsely dotted with quaint hamlets, the venerable 
 monuments of old English life peep out in a beautiful way, 
 among crowding evidences of modern power and population. 
 And the influences which have so greatly changed the appear- 
 ance of the country there, have not passed over the people 
 without effect. Wherever the genius of commerce may be 
 leading us to, there is no doubt that the old controls of 
 feudalism are breaking up; and in the new state of things 
 the people of South Lancashire have found greater liberty to 
 improve their individual qualities and conditions; fairer chances 
 of increasing their might and asserting their rights; greater 
 power to examine and understand all questions which come 
 before them, and to estimate and influence their rulers, than they 
 had under the unreasoning domination which is passing away.
 
 Rochdale to Top of Blacks tone Edge. 107 
 
 They are not a people inclined to anarchy. They love order as 
 well as freedom, and they love freedom for the sake of having 
 order established upon just principles. 
 
 The course of events during the last fifty years has been 
 steadily upheaving the people of South Lancashire out of the 
 thraldom of those orders which have long striven to conserve 
 such things as tended to their own aggrandisement, at the 
 expense of the rights of others. But even that part of the 
 aristocracy of England which has not yet so far cast the slough 
 of its hereditary prejudices as to see that the days are gone 
 which nurtured such ascendancies, at least perceives that, in the 
 manufacturing districts, it now walks in a world where few are 
 disposed to accept its assumption of superiority, without inquiring 
 into the nature of it. When a people who aspire to indepen- 
 dence, begin to know how to get it, and how to use it wisely, 
 the methods of rule that were made for slaves, will no longer 
 answer their purpose ; the pride of little minds in great places, 
 begins to canker them, and they must give them the wall now 
 and then, and look somewhere else for foot-lickers. The aris- 
 tocracy of England are not all of them overwhelmed by the 
 dignity of their "ancient descent." There are naturally-noble 
 men among them, who can discern between living truth and 
 dead tradition; men who do not think that the possession of 
 a landed estate entitles its owner to extraordinary rights of 
 domination over his acreless neighbours ; or that, on that 
 account alone, the rest of the world should fall down and 
 worship at the feet of an ordinary person, more remarkable 
 for an incomprehensible way of deporting himself, than for 
 being a better man than his neighbours. 
 
 Through the streets of South Lancashire towns still, occasion 
 ally, roll the escutcheoned equipages of those exclusive families, 
 who turn up the nose at the "lower orders;" and cherish a 
 dim remembrance of the "good old times" when these lurdanes 
 wore the collars of their ancestors upon the neck. To my 
 thinking, the very carriage has a sort of lonely, unowned and 
 unowning look, and never seems at home till it gets back 
 to the coach-house ; for the troops of factory lads, and other 
 hard-working rabble, clatter merrily about the streets, looking 
 villainously unconscious of anything particularly august in the 
 nature of the show which is going by. On the driving-box sits 
 a man with a beefy face, and a comically-subdued way of holding
 
 jo8 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 his countenance, grand over all with " horse-gowd,"^ and 
 gilt buttons, elaborate with heraldic device. Another 'such 
 person, with silky calves, and a "smoke-jack" upon his hat, 
 and breeches of plush, stands on the platform behind. It is 
 all no use. There are corners of England where such a sight 
 is still enough to throw a whole village into fits; but, in the 
 manufacturing towns, a travelling instalment of WombweH's 
 menagerie, with the portrait of a cub rhinoceros in front, would 
 create more stir. Inside the carriage there reclines, chewing 
 the cud of unacknowledged pride, one of that rare brood of 
 dignitaries, a man with "ancestors," who plumes himself upon 
 the distinguished privilege of being the son of somebody or 
 another, who was the son of somebody else, and so on ; till it 
 gets to some burglarious person, who, in company with several 
 others of the same kidney, once pillaged an old estate, robbed a 
 church, and did many other such deeds, in places where the 
 law was too weak to protect the weak; and there is an eternal 
 blazon of armorial fuss kept up in celebration of it, on the family 
 shield. But, admitting that these things were in keeping with 
 the spirit and necessities of the time, and with " the right of 
 conquest," and such like, why should their descendants take 
 to themselves airs on that account, and consider themselves 
 the supreme "somebodies" of the land, for such worn-out 
 reasons ? Let any landlord who still tunes his pride according 
 to the feudal gamut of his forefathers, acquaint himself with 
 the tone of popular feeling in the manufacturing districts. 
 Let "John" lower the steps, and with earth-directed eyes 
 hold the carriage door, whilst our son of a hundred fathers 
 walks forth into the streets of a manufacturing town, to 
 try the magic of his ancient name among the workmen as 
 they hurry to dinner. Where are the hat-touchers gone? If 
 he be a landlord, with nothing better than tracts of earth to- 
 recommend him, the mechanical rabble jostle him as if he 
 was "only a pauper whom nobody owns," or some wandering 
 cow-jobber. He goes worshipless on his way, unless he happens 
 to meet with one of the servants from the hall, or his butcher, 
 or the parish clerk, or the man who rings the eight o'clock bell, 
 and they treat him to a bend sinister. As to the pride of "ancient 
 descent," what does it mean, apart from the renown of noble 
 deeds? The poor folk in Lancashire cherish an old super- 
 stition that "we're o' somebory's childer," which would be
 
 Rochdale to Top of Blackstone Edge. 109 
 
 found very near the truth, if fairly looked into. And if Collop 
 the cotton weaver's genealogy was correctly traced, it would 
 probably run back to the year "one;" or, as he expresses it him- 
 self, to the time "when Adam wur a lad." Everything has its 
 day. In some parts of Lancashire, the rattle of the railway train, 
 and the bustle of traffic and labour, have drowned the tones of 
 the hunting horn, and the chiming cry of the harriers. But 
 whatever succeeds the decay of feudalism, the architectural relics 
 of Old English life in Lancashire will always be interesting, 
 and venerable as the head of a fine old man, on whose brow 
 "the snow-fall of time" has long been stealing. May no 
 ruder hand than the hand of time destroy these eloquent 
 footprints of old thought which remain among us! Some 
 men are like Burns's mouse, the present only touches them; 
 but any man who has the slightest title to the name of a 
 creature of "large discourse," will be willing, now and then, 
 to look contemplatively over his shoulder, into the grass-grown 
 aisles of the past. 
 
 It was in that pleasant season of the year when fresh buds 
 begin to shoot from the thorn: when the daisy and the little 
 celandine, and the early primrose, peep from the ground, that I 
 began to plot for another stroll through my native vale of the 
 Roch, up to the top of " Blackstone Edge." Those mountain 
 wastes are familiar to me. When I was a child, they rose 
 up constantly in sight, with a silent, majestic look. The sun 
 came from behind them in a morning, pouring its flood of 
 splendour upon the busy valley, the winding river, and its 
 little tributaries. I imbibed a strong attachment to those hills; 
 and oft as opportunity would allow, I rushed towards them; 
 for they were kindly and congenial to my mind. And now, in 
 the crowded city, when I think of them and of the country they 
 look down upon, it stirs within me a 
 
 Wide sea that one continuous murmur breaks 
 Along the pebbled shore of memory. 
 
 But at this particular time, an additional motive enticed me 
 to my old wandering ground. The whole of the road leading 
 to it was lined with interesting places, and associations. But, 
 among the railways, and manifold other ways and means 
 of travel, which now cover the country with an irregular 
 net-work, I found, on looking over a recent map, a solitary 
 line, running in short, broken distances ; and, on the approach
 
 1 1 o Lancashire Sketches : 
 
 of towns and habited spots, diving under, like a mole or an 
 otter. It looked like a broken thread, here and there, in 
 the mazy web of the map, and it was accompanied by the 
 words " Roman Road," which had a little interest for me. I 
 know there are people who would sneer at the idea of any 
 importance being attached to an impracticable, out-of-the-way 
 road, nearly two thousand years old, and leading to nowhere in 
 particular, except, like the ways of the wicked, into all sorts of 
 sloughs and difficulties. With them, one passable macadamised 
 way, on which a cart could go to market, is worth all the ruined 
 Watling-streets in Britain. And they are right, so far as their 
 wisdom goes. The present generation must be served with 
 market stuff, come what may of our museums. But still, every- 
 thing in the world is full of manifold services to man, who is 
 himself full of manifold needs. And thought can leave the 
 telegraphic message behind, panting for breath upon the railway 
 wires. The whole is either " cupboard for food," or " cabinet 
 of pleasure;" therefore, let the hungry soul look round upon its 
 estate and turn the universe to nutriment, if it can ; for 
 
 There's not a breath 
 
 Will mingle kindly with the meadow air, 
 Till it has panted round, and stolen a share 
 Of passion from the heart. 
 
 And though the moorland pack-horse and the rambling besom- 
 maker stumble and get entangled in grass, and sloughs, and matted 
 brushwood, upon deserted roads, still that nimble Mercury, 
 Thought, can flit over the silent waste, side by side with the 
 shades of those formidable soldiers who have now slept nearly 
 two thousand years in the cold ground. 
 
 It has not been my lot to see many of the vestiges of Roman 
 life in Britain ; yet, whatever the historians say about them has 
 had interest for me; especially when it related to the connec- 
 tion of the Romans with my native district; for, in addition 
 to its^ growing modern interest, I eagerly seized every fact of 
 historical association calculated to enrich the vesture in which 
 my mind had long been enrobing the place. I had read of the 
 Roman station at Littleborough ; of the Roman road in the 
 neighbourhood; of interesting ancient relics, Roman and other, 
 discovered thereabouts; and other matter of the like nature. 
 My walks had been wide and frequent in the country about 
 Rochdale; and many a time have I lingered and wondered at 
 Littleborough, near the spot where history says that the Romans
 
 Rochdale to Top of Blackstone Edge. 1 1 1 
 
 encamped themselves, at the foot of Blackbtone Edge, at the 
 entrance of what would, then, be the impassable hills, and woody 
 glens, and swampy bottoms of the Todmorden district. Yet I 
 have never met with any visible remnants of such historical 
 antiquities of the locality; and though, when wandering about 
 the high moors in that quarter, I have more than once crossed 
 the track of the Roman road up there, and noticed a general 
 peculiarity of feature about the place, I little thought that I was 
 floundering, through moss and heather, upon one of these famous 
 old highways. I endeavoured to hold the bit upon my own 
 eagerness ; and read of these things with a reservation of cre- 
 dence, lest I should delude myself into receiving the invention 
 of a brain mad with ancientry for a genuine relic of the eld. 
 But one day, early in the year, happening to call upon a young 
 friend of mine, in Rochdale, whose tastes are a little congenial 
 to my own, we talked of a stroll towards the hills ; and he again 
 showed me the line of the Roman road, on Blackstone Edge, 
 marked in the recent Ordnance map. We then went forth, 
 bare-headed, into the yard of his father's house, at Wardleworth 
 Brow, from whence the view of the hills, on the east, is fine. 
 The air was clear, and the sunshine so favourably subdued, that 
 the objects and tints of the landscape were uncommonly distinct. 
 He pointed to a regular stripe of land, of greener hue than the 
 rest of the moorland, rising up the dark side of Blackstone Edge. 
 The green stripe was the line of the Roman road. He had lately 
 visited it, and traced its uniform width for miles, and the pecu- 
 liarities of its pavement of native sandstone, overgrown with a 
 thick tanglement of moss, and heather, and moorland lichens. 
 He was an old acquaintance, of known integrity, and sound 
 judgment, and, withal, more addicted to figures of arithmetic 
 than figures of speech; so, upon his testimony, I resolved that 
 I would bring my unstable faith to the ordeal of ocular proof, 
 that I might, at once, draft it out of the region of doubt, or 
 sweep it from the chambers of my brain, like a festoonery 
 of cobwebs from a neglected corner. The prospect of another 
 visit to the scenery of the "Edge," another snuff of the 
 mountain air, and a little more talk with the old-world 
 folk in the villages upon the road thither, rose up pleasantly 
 in my mind, and the purpose took the shape of action about 
 St. Valentine's tide. 
 
 Having arranged to be called up at five on the morning of my
 
 112 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 intended trip, I jumped out of bed when the knock came to my 
 chamber-door, dressed, and started forth to catch the first train 
 from Manchester. The streets were silent and still, except 
 where one or two "early birds" ef the city had gathered round 
 a "saloop" stall; or a solitary policeman kept the lounging 
 tenor of his way along the pavement; and here and there a 
 brisk straggler, with a pipe in his mouth, his echoing steps 
 contrasting strangely with the sleeping city's morning stillness. 
 The day was ushered in with gusts of wind and rain, and, 
 when I got to the station, both my coat and my expectations 
 were a little damped by the weather. But, by the time the train 
 reached Rochdale, the sky had cleared up, and the breeze had 
 sunk down to a whisper, just cool enough to make the sunshine 
 pleasant. The birds were twittering about, and drops of rain 
 twinkled on the hedges and tufts of grass in the fields ; where 
 spring was quietly spreading out her green mantle again. I 
 wished to have as wide a ramble at the farther end as time would 
 allow; and, as moor-tramping is about the most laborious foot 
 exercise that mortal man can bend his instep to, except running 
 through a ploughed field, in iron-plated clogs, an ordeal which 
 Lancashire trainers sometimes put their foot-racers through, it 
 was considered advisable to hire a conveyance. We could go 
 further, stop longer, and return at ease, when we liked, after we 
 had tired ourselves to our heart's content upon the moors. I 
 went down to the Reed Inn, for a vehicle. Mine host came 
 out to the top of the steps which lead down into the stable-yard, 
 and, leaning over the railings, called his principal ostler from the, 
 room below. That functionary was a broad-set, short-necked 
 man, with a comely face, and a staid, laconic look. He told us, 
 with Spartan brevity, that there had been a run upon gigs, but 
 he could find us a " Whitechapel," and " Grey Bobby." " Grey 
 Bobby" and the "Whitechapel" were agreed to at once, and in 
 ten minutes I was driving up Yorkshire-street, to pick up my 
 friends at Wardlewerth Brow, on the eastern edge of the town. 
 Giving the reins to a lad in the street, I went into the house, 
 and took some refreshment with the rest of them, before starting ; 
 and, in a few minutes more, we were all seated, and away down 
 the slope of Heybrook, on the Littleborough Road. Our tit had 
 a mercurial trick of romping on his hind legs, at the start ; but 
 apart from this, he went a steady, telling pace, and we looked 
 about us quite at ease as we sped along.
 
 Rochdale to Top of Blackstone Edge. 113 
 
 Heybrook, at the foot of Wardleworth Brow, is one of the 
 pleasantest entrances to Rochdale town. There is a touch of 
 suburban peace and prettiness about it ; and the prospect, on all 
 sides, is agreeable to the eye. The park-like lands of Foxholes 
 and Hamer lie close by the north side of the road. The lower 
 part of these grounds consists of rich, flat meadows, divided by 
 a merry little brook, which flows from the hills on the north, 
 above " Th' Syke." In its course from the moors, to the river 
 Roch, it takes the name of each locality it passes through, and is 
 called "Syke Brook," "Buckley Brook," and "Hey Brook;" 
 and, on its way, it gathers tributary rindles of water from 
 Clough House, Knowl, and Knowl Syke. As the Foxholes 
 grounds recede from the high road, they undulate, until they rise 
 into an expansive, lawny slope, clothed with a verdure which 
 looks when wet with summer rain or dew " like nothing else 
 in the universe," out of England. This slope is tastefully crowned 
 with trees. Foxholes Hall is situated among its old woods and 
 lawns, retiringly, upon the summit of this swelling upland, which 
 rises from the level of Heybrook. It is a choice corner of the 
 earth, and the view thence, between the woods, across the lawn 
 and meadows, and over a picturesquely-varied country, to the 
 blue hills in the south-east, is perhaps not equalled in the neigh- 
 bourhood. Pleasant and green as much of the land in this district 
 looks now, still the general charactei of the soil, and the whole 
 of its features, shows that when nature had it to herself very 
 much of it must have been sterile or swampy Looking towards 
 Foxholes, from the road-side at Heybrook, over the tall ancestral 
 trees, we can see the still taller chimney of John Bright and 
 Brothers' mill, peering up significantly behind ; and the sound 
 of their factory bell now mingles with the cawing of an ancient 
 colony of rooks in the Foxholes woods. Foxholes is the seat of 
 the Entwisles, a distinguished old Lancashire family. In the time 
 of Camden, the historian, this family was seated at Entwisle Hall, 
 near Bolton-le-Moors. George Entwisle de Entwisle left as heir 
 his brother William, who married Alice, daughter of Bradshaw, 
 of Bradshaw. His son Edmund, the first Entwisle of Foxholes, 
 near Rochdale, built the old hall, which stood on the site of the 
 present one. He married a daughter of Arthur Ashton, of Clegg ; 
 and his son Richard married Grace, the daughter of Robert 
 Chadwick, of Healey Hall. In the parish church there is a 
 tablet to the memory of Sir Bertin Entwisle, who fought at
 
 H4 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 Agincourt, on St. Crispin's Day, in Henry the Fifth's time. 
 When a lad, I used to con over this tablet, and I wove a 
 world of romance around this mysterious "Sir Benin," and 
 connected him with all that I had heard of the prowess of old 
 English chivalry. The tablet runs thus : 
 
 To perpetuate a memorial erected in the church of St. Peter's, St. Albans (perished 
 by time!, this marble is here placed to the memory of a gallant and loyal man Sir 
 Bertin Entwisle, Krit., viscount and baron of Brybeke, in Normandy, and some time 
 bailiff of Constantine , in which office he succeeded his brother-in-law. Sir John 
 Ashton whose daughter first married Sir Richard le Byron, an ancestor of the Lords 
 Byron/of Rochdale, and, secondly, Sir Bertin Entwisle, who, after repeated acts of 
 honour in the service of his sovereigns, Henrys the Fifth and Sixth, more particu- 
 larly at Agincourt, wa* killed in the first battle of St Albans, and on his tombstone 
 was recorded in brass the follow inscription : " Here lyeth Sir Bertin Entwisle, 
 Knight, who was born in Lancastershyre, and was viscount and baron of Brybeke, 
 in Normandy, and bailiff of Constantine, who died, fighting on King Henry the 
 Sixth's party, the 28* May, 1455, on whose soul Jesus have mercy." 
 
 Close by the stone-bridge at Heybrook, two large old trees stand 
 in the Entwisle grounds, one on each bank of the stream, and 
 partly overhanging the road; they stand there alone, as if to 
 mark where 3 forest has been. The tired country weaver, 
 carrying his piece to the town, lays down his burden on the 
 parapet, wipes his brow, and rests under their shade. I have 
 gone sometimes, on bright nights, to lean upon the bridge and 
 look around there, and 1 have heard many a plaintive trio sung 
 by these old trees and the brook below, while the moonlight 
 danced among the leaves. 
 
 The whole valley of the Roch is a succession of green knolls, 
 and dingles, and little receding vales, with now and then a barren 
 stripe, like " Cronkeyshaw," or a patch of the once large mosses, 
 like "Turf Moss;" and little holts and holms, no two alike in 
 feature or extent, dotted, now and then, with tufts of stunted 
 wood, with many a clear brook and silvery rill between. On 
 the south side of the bridge at Heybrook, the streamlet from the 
 north runs through the meadows a short distance, and empties 
 itself into the Roch. The confluence of the waters there is 
 known to the neighbour lads by the name of the "Greyt 
 Meetin's," where, in past years, I have 
 
 Paidle't through the burn 
 When simmer days were fine, 
 
 in a certain young companionship now more scattered than last 
 autumn's leaves ; some in other towns, one or two only still here, 
 and the rest in Australia, or in the grave. We now no longer 
 strip in the field there, and, leaving our clothes and books upon
 
 Rochdale to Top of Blackstone Edge. 115 
 
 the hedge side, go frolicking down to the river, to have a 
 water battle and a bathe finishing by drying ourselves with 
 our shirts, or by running in the wind on the green bank. I 
 remember that sometimes, whilst we were in the height of our 
 sport, the sentinel left upon the brink of the river would catch 
 a glimpse of the owner of the fields, coming hastily towards the 
 spot, in wrathful mood ; whereupon every naked imp rushed 
 from the water, seized his clothes, and fled from field to field, 
 till he reached some nook where he could put them on. From 
 the southern margin of the Roch, the land rises in a green eleva- 
 tion, on which the hamlet of Belfield is seen peeping up. The 
 tree-tops of Belfield Wood are in sight, but the ancient hall is 
 hidden. A little vale on the west, watered by the Biel, divides 
 Belfield Hall from the hamlet of Newbold, on the summit of the 
 opposite bank. So early as the commencement of the twelfth 
 century, a family had adopted the local name, and. resided in the 
 mansion till about the year 1 290, when the estate was transferred 
 to the family of Butterworth, of Butterworth Hall, near Miln- 
 row. I find the Belfield family mentioned in Gastrel's " Notitia 
 Cestriensis," p. 40, under the head "Leases granted by the 
 bishop," where the following lease appears : "An. 1 546. Let 
 by H. Ar. Belfield and Robt. Tatton, for 40 years, exceptis 
 omus vicariis advocationibus ecclesiariu quarumcunque, (ing) to 
 find great timber, tiles, and slate, and tenants to repair and find 
 all other materials." The following note is attached to this 
 lease: "Arthur Belfield, of Clegg Hall, in the parish of Roch- 
 dale, gent., son and heir of Adam Belfield, was born in 1508, 
 and succeeded his father in 1 544. He is described in the lease 
 as 'off our sayde sovaraigne lord's houshold, gentylman;' but 
 what office he held is, at present, unknown. He was a near 
 relative of the Hopwoods, of Hopwood, and Chethams, of 
 Nuthurst." In the year 1274, Geoffry de Butterworth, a de- 
 scendent of Reginald de Boterworth, first lord of the township 
 of Butterworth, in the reign of Stephen, 1148, sold or exchanged 
 the family mansion of Butterworth Hall, with John Byron, an- 
 cestor of Lord Byron, the poet, and took possession (by purchase 
 or otherwise) of Belfield, which was part of the original possession 
 of the knights of St. John of Jerusalem. When the monks of 
 Stanlaw, in Cheshire disliking their low, swampy situation 
 there, which was subject to inundation at spring tide removed 
 to the old deanery of Whallev. before entering the abbey there,
 
 XI 6 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 in the roll of the fraternity four seem to have been natives of 
 Rochdale, among whom was John de Belfield, afterwards Abbot 
 of Whalley, of the ancient stock of Belfield Hall, in Butterworth. 
 Robert de Butterworth was killed at the battle of Towton, in 
 146 1. The last of the name, at Belfield, was Alexander Butter- 
 worth, born in 1640, in the reign of Charles the First. The 
 present occupants of the estate have tastefully preserved the 
 old interesting features of the hall,, whilst they have greatly 
 improved its condition and environments. The stone gateway, 
 leading to the inner court-yard of Belfield Hall, is still standing, 
 as well as a considerable portion of the old hall which surrounded 
 this inner court. The antique character of the building is best 
 seen from the quadrangular court-yard in the centre. The door 
 of the great kitchen formerly opened into this court-yard, and 
 the victuals used to be brought out thence, and handed by the 
 cooks through a square opening in the wall of the great dining- 
 room, on the north side of the yard, to the waiters inside. The 
 interior of the building still retains many quaint features of 
 its olden time heavy oak-beams, low ceilings, and tortuous 
 corners. Every effort has been made to line the house with an 
 air of modern comfort ; still the house is said to be a cold one, 
 partly from its situation, and partly from the porous nature of 
 the old walls; producing an effect something like that of a 
 wine-cooler. That part of the building which now forms the 
 rear, used, in old times, to be the main front. In one of the 
 rooms, there are still some relics of the ancient oak-carving 
 which lined the walls of the hall. Among them there are 
 three figures in carved oak, which formed part of the wainscot 
 of a cornice, above one of the fire-places. These were the 
 figures of a king and two queens, quaintly cut; and the rem- 
 nants of old painting upon the figures, and the rich gilding 
 upon the crowns, still show traces of their highly-ornamented, 
 ancient appearance. The roads in the neighbourhood of the 
 hall are now good. The hamlets of Newbold and Belfield are 
 thriving, with substantial, healthy dwellings. Shady walks are 
 laid among the plantations; and the springs of excellent water 
 are now gathered into clear terraced pools and a serpentine lake, 
 glittering among gardens and cultivated grounds. 
 
 Leaving Hey brook, we passed by Hamer Hall, which was 
 the seat of a family of the same name, before Henry the Fourth's 
 time. A large cotton-mill now stands close behind the hall. A
 
 Rochdale to Top of Blacksione Edge. 117 
 
 few yards through the toll-bar, we passed the "Entwisle Arms," 
 bearing the motto, "Par se signe a Azincourt." A traveller 
 seldom needs to ask the names of the old lords of the land in 
 England. Let him keep an eye to the sign-boards, and he is 
 sure to find that part of the history of the locality swinging in 
 the wind, or stapled up over the entrance of some neighbouring 
 alehouse. And, in the same barmy atmosphere, he may learn, 
 at least, as much heraldry as he will be able to find a market for 
 on the Manchester Exchange. The public-house signs in our 
 old towns are generally very loyal and heraldic, and sometimes 
 touched with a little jovial devotion. The arms of kings, queens, 
 and bishops; and mitres, chapel-houses, angels, and "amen 
 corners," mingling with "many a crest that is famous in story;" 
 the arms of the Stanleys, Byrons, Asshetons, TrafFords, Lacys, 
 Wiltons, De-la-Warres, Houghtons, Molyneuxs, Pilkingtons, 
 Radcliffes, and a long roll of old Lancashire gentry, whose fame 
 is faintly comimmorated in these alehouse signs ; and, among the 
 mottoes of these emblazonments, we now and then meet with 
 an ancient war-cry, which makes one's blood start into tumult, 
 when we think how it may have sounded on the fields of Cressy, 
 Agincourt, Towton, or Flodden. Among these are sprinkled 
 spread eagles, dragons, griffins, unicorns, and horses, black, white, 
 bay, and grey, with corresponding mares, and shoes enow for 
 them all. Boars, in every position and state of temper; bulls, 
 some crowned, some with rings in the nose, like our friend 
 "John" of that name. Foxes, too, and dogs, presenting their noses 
 with admirable directness of purpose at something in the next 
 street; and innocent-looking partridges, who appear reckless of 
 the intentions of the sanguinary wretch in green, who is erro- 
 neously supposed to be lurking behind the bush, with a gun in 
 his hand. Talbots, falcons, hawks, hounds and huntsmen, the 
 latter sometimes in " full cry," but almost always considerably 
 "at fault," so far as perspective goes. Swans, black and white, 
 with any number of necks that can be reasonably expected ; stags> 
 saints, saracens, jolly millers, boars' heads, blue bells, pack-horses, 
 lambs, rams, and trees of oak and yew. The seven stars, and, 
 now and then, a great bear. Lions, of all colours, conditions, 
 and positions resting, romping, and running ; with a number 
 of apocryphal animals, not explainable by any natural history 
 extant, nor to be found anywhere, I believe, except in the 
 swamps and jungles of some drunken dauber's brain. Also a few
 
 1 1 8 Lancashire Sketches : 
 
 " Jolly Waggoners," grinning extensively at foaming flagons of 
 ale, garnished with piles of bread and cheese, and onions as big 
 as cannon-balls, as if to outface the proportions of the Colossus 
 of Rhodes, who sits there in a state of stiff, everlasting, clumsy, 
 good-tempered readiness, in front of his never-dwindling feed. 
 Marlboroughs, Abercrombies, and Wellingtons; Duncans, Rod- 
 neys, and Nelsons, by dozens. I have seen an admiral painted on 
 horseback, somewhere; but I never saw Cromwell on an alehouse 
 sign yet. In addition to these, there are a few dukes, mostly oi 
 York and Clarence. Such signs as these show the old way of 
 living and thinking. But, in our manufacturing towns, the tone 
 of these old devices is considerably modified by an infusion of 
 railway hotels, commercials, cotton-trees, shuttles, spindles, wool- 
 packs, Bishop Blaizes, and "Old Looms;" and the arms of the 
 ancient feudal gentry are outnumbered by the arms of shepherds, 
 foresters, moulders, joiners, printers, bricklayers, painters, and 
 several kinds of odd-fellows. The old "Legs of Man," too, 
 are. relieved by a comfortable sprinkling of legs and shoulders of 
 mutton considerably overdone by the weather, in some cases. 
 Even alehouse signs are "signs of the times," if properly inter- 
 preted. But both men and alehouse signs may make up their 
 minds to be misinterpreted a little in this world. Two country 
 lasses, at Rochdale, one fair-day, walking by the Roebuck Inn, 
 one of them, pointing to the gilded figure of the animal, with 
 its head uplifted to an overhanging bunch of gilded grapes, said, 
 "Sitho, sitho, Mary, at yon brass dog, heytin 1 brass marrables !" 
 About half-a-mile up the high road from Heybrook, and 
 opposite to Shaw House, the view opens, and we can look across 
 the fields on either side, into a country of green pastures and 
 meadows, varied with fantastic hillocks and dells, though bare of 
 trees. A short distance to the north-west, Buckley Hall lately 
 stood, on a green eminence in sight from the road. But the old 
 house of the Buckleys, of Buckley, recently disappeared from the 
 knoll where it stood for centuries. Its thick, bemossed walls are 
 gone, and all its quaint, abundant outhousing that stood about 
 the spacious, balder-paved yard behind. This old hall gave name 
 and residence to one of the most ancient families in Rochdale 
 parish. The building was low, but very strongly built of stone 
 of the district, and heavily timbered. It was not so large as 
 Clegg Hall, nor Stubley Hall, nor as some other old halls in the 
 parish ; but, for its size, it proved <j considerable quarry of stone
 
 Rochdale to Top of Blacks tone Edge. 1 19 
 
 and flag when taken down. The first occupier was Geoffry de 
 Buckley, nephew to Geoffry, dean of Whalley, who lived in the 
 time of Henry the Second. A descendant of this Geoffry de 
 Buckley was slain in the battle of Evesham ("History of Whalley"). 
 The name of John de Buckley appears among the monks of Stan- 
 law, in the year 1 296. The arms of the Buckleys, of Buckley, 
 are gules, a chevron sable; between three bulls' heads, armed 
 proper ; crest, on a wreath, a bull's head armed proper. Motto, 
 " Nee temere nee timede." There is a chantry chapel at the 
 south-east corner of Rochdale parish church, "founded in 1487, 
 by Dr. Adam Marland, of Marland; Sir Randal Butterworth, 
 of Belfield ; and Sir James Middleton, 'a brotherhood maide and 
 ordayned in the worship of the glorious Trinity, in the church 
 of Rochdale;' Sir James being appointed Trinity priest during 
 his lyfe ; and, among other things, he was requested, when he 
 went to the lavoratory, standing at the altar, and, twice a week, 
 to pray for the co-founders, with ' De profundis.' " In this little 
 chantry, there is a recumbent stone effigy of a mailed warrior, 
 of the Buckley family, placed there by the present lord of the 
 manor, whose property the chapel is now. J know that some of 
 the country people who had been reared in the neighbourhood of 
 Buckley Hall, watched its demolition with grieved hearts. And 
 when the fine old hall at Radcliffe was taken down, not long 
 since, an aged man stood by, vigorously denouncing the destroyers 
 as the work went on, and glorying in every difiiculty they met 
 with; and they were not few, for it was a tough old place. 
 "Poo," said he, "yo wastril devils, poo! Yo connut rive th' 
 owd hole deawn for th' heart on yo ! Yo'n ha' to blow it up 
 wt' gunpeawdhur, bi'th mass. It wur noan bigged eavvt o' club 
 brass, that wur not, yo shabby thieves ! Tay th' pattern on't, 
 an' yo'n larn summat ! What mak' o' trash wi'n yo stick up i'th 
 place on't, when it's gwon? Those wholes u'll bide leynin again, 
 better nor yors ! Yo'n never big another heawse like that while 
 yo'n teeth an' e'en in yor yeds ! Eh, never, never ! Yo hannut 
 stuff to do it wi' !" But down came the old hall at Radcliffe; 
 and so did Buckley Hall, lately ; and the materials were dressed 
 up to build the substantial row of modern cottages which now 
 stand upon the same site, with pleasant gardens in front, sloping 
 down the knoll, and over the spot where the old fish-pond was, 
 at the bottom. Some of the workpeople at the neighbouring 
 woollen mill find comfortable housing there now. There is an
 
 120 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 old tradition, respecting the Buckley family, connected with a 
 massive iron ring which was found fastened in the flooring of 
 a deserted chamber of the hall. A greyhound, belonging to this 
 family, whilst in London with its master, took off homeward on 
 being startled by the fall of a heavy package, in Cheapside, and 
 was found dead on the door-step of Buckley Hall at five next 
 morning, after having run one hundred and ninety-six miles in 
 sixteen hours. When visiting relatives of mine near Buckley, I 
 met with a story relating to one of the" Buckleys of old, who 
 was a dread to the country side ; how he pursued a Rossendale 
 rider, who had crossed the moors from the forest, to recover a 
 stolen horse from the stables of Buckley Hall by night; and 
 how this Buckley, of Buckley, overtook and shot him, at a lonely 
 place called " Th' Hillock," between Buckley and Rooley Moor, 
 There are other floating oral traditions connected with Buckley 
 Hall, especially the tale of " The Gentle Shepherdess," embodying 
 the romantic adventures, and unfortunate fate of a lady belonging 
 to the family of Buckley, of Buckley. And in this wide parish 
 of Rochdale, in the eastern nook of Lancashire, once a country 
 fertile in spots of lone and rural prettiness, and thinly inhabited 
 by as quaint, hearty, and primitive a people as any in England, 
 there is many a picturesque and storied dell ; some tales of historic 
 interest; and many an interesting legend connected with the 
 country, or with the old families of the parish; the Byrons, of 
 Butterworth Hall, barons of Rochdale; the Entwisles, of Foxholes^ 
 the Crossleys, of ScaitclifFe ; the Holts, of Stubley, Grislehurst, 
 and Castleton ; the Cleggs, of Clegg Hall, the scene of the tradi- 
 tion of "Clegg Ho' Boggart;" the Buckleys, of Buckley; the 
 Marlands, of Marland ; the Howards, of Great Howard ; the 
 Chadwicks, of Chadwick Hall, and Healey Hall ; the Bamfords, 
 ofBamford; the Scho fields, of Schofield ; the Butterworths; the 
 Belfields ; and many other families of ancient note, often bearing 
 the names of their own estates, in the old way. 
 
 In this part of South Lancashire, the traveller never meets 
 any considerable extent of level land ; and, though the county 
 contains great moors, and some mosses, yet there is not such 
 another expansive tract of level country to be found in it as 
 " Chat Moss," that lonely grave of old forests. South-east Lan- 
 cashire is all picturesque ups and downs, retired nooks, and 
 "quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles," and little winding vales, 
 with endless freaks of hill and hillock, knoll and dell, dingk
 
 Rochdale to Top of Blacks tone Edge, 12. 
 
 and shady cleft, laced with numerous small streamlets, and clear 
 rindles of babbling water, up to the foot of that wilderness of 
 moorland hills, the " Back-bone of England," which runs across 
 the island, from Derbyshire into Scotland, and forms a considerable 
 part of Lancashire upon its way. The parish of Rochdale partly 
 consists of, and is bounded by, this tract of hills on the east and 
 north ; and what may be called the lowland part of the parish 
 looks, when seen from some of the hills in the immediate neigh- 
 bourhood, something like a sea of tempest-tossed meadows and 
 pasture lands, upon which fleets of cotton mills ride at anchor, 
 their brick masts rising high into the air, and their streamers of 
 smoke waving in the wind. 
 
 Leaving the open part of the high road, opposite Shaw House r . 
 and losing sight of Buckley, we began to rise as we passed through 
 Brickfield up to Smallbridge. This village is seated on an eleva- 
 tion, sloping gently from the northern bank of the river Roch, 
 which rise continues slightly through the village, and up north- 
 ward, with many a dip and frolic by the way, till it reaches the 
 hills above Wardle Fold, where nature leaps up in a wild and 
 desolate mood. Some of the lonely heights thereabouts have 
 been beacon stations, in old times, and their names indicate 
 their ancient uses, as " Ward Hill," above the village of Wardle. 
 "Jack th' Huntsman" used to declare, vehemently, that Brown 
 Wardle Hill was " th' finest hunting-greavvnd i' Lancashire." 
 And then there is " Tooter's Hill," " Hornblower's Hill," and 
 " Hade's Hill." From the summit of the last, the waters descend 
 on one side to the Irish Sea, on the west, on the other to the 
 German Ocean, on the east. The remains of a large beacon are 
 still visible on the top of it. Looking southward, from the edge 
 of Smallbridge, the dale lies green and fair in the hollow below,, 
 and the silent Roch winds through it towards Rochdale town. 
 The view stretches out several miles beyond the opposite bank 
 of the river, over the romantic township of Butterworth, up 
 to the Saddleworth hills. Green and picturesque, a country of 
 dairy farms, producing matchless milk and butter ; yet the soil is 
 evidently too cold and poor for the successful production of any 
 kind of grain, except the hardy oat and that crop mostly thin 
 and light as an old man's hair. But even this extensive view 
 over a beautiful scene, in other respects, lacks the charm which, 
 green woods lend to a landscape ; for, except a few diminutive 
 tufts and scattered patches, where young plantations struggle up,
 
 122 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 there are scarcely any trees. From Smallbridge, taKing a south- 
 east direction, up by "Tunshill," "Dolderum," "Longden End," 
 and "Booth Dean," and over the Stanedge road, into the ravines 
 of Saddleworth, would be a long flight for the crow ; but to 
 anybody who had to foot the road thither, it would prove a 
 rougher piece of work than it looks. The village of Smallbridge 
 itself consists principally of one street, about half a mile long, 
 lining the high road from Rochdale to Littleborough. It will 
 have a dull, uninteresting look to a person who knows nothing, 
 previously, of the place, nor of the curious generation dwelling 
 thereabouts. Smallbridge has a plain, hard-working, unpolished, 
 every-day look. No wandering artist, in search of romantic bits 
 of village scenery, would halt enchanted with Smallbridge. It 
 has no architectural relic of the olden time in it, nor any re- 
 markable modern building nothing which would tell a careless 
 eye that it had been the homestead of many generations of Lan- 
 cashire men. It consists, chiefly, of the brick-built cottages, 
 inhabited by weavers, colliers, and factory operatives, relieved 
 by the new Episcopalian church, at the eastern end, the little 
 pepper-box bell-turret of which peeps up over the houses, as if 
 to remind the rude inhabitants of something higher than bacon- 
 collops and ale. About half a mile up the road which leads out 
 of the centre of the village, northward, stands a plain-looking 
 stone mansion, apparently about one hundred and fifty years old, 
 called " Great Howarth." It stands upon a shapely knoll, the 
 site of an older hall of the same name, and has pleasant slopes 
 of green land about it, and a wide prospect over hill and dale. 
 Extensive alterations, in the course of the last hundred years, have 
 destroyed most of the evidences of this place's age and importance; 
 but its situation, and the ancient outbuildings behind, and the 
 fold of cottages nestling near to the western side of the hall, with 
 peeping bits of stone foundation, of much older date than the 
 building standing upon them ; the old wells, and the hue of the 
 lands round about ; all show that it has been a place of greater 
 note than it is at present. This great Howarth, or Howard, is 
 said to be the original settlement of the Howard family, the 
 present Dukes of Norfolk. Some people in the neighbourhood 
 also seem to believe this, for, as we entered Smallbridge, we 
 passed "The Norfolk Arms," a little public-house. One Osbert 
 Howard was rewarded by Henry I. ("Beauclerk") for his faithful 
 services, with lands situate in the township of Honorsfield, or
 
 Rochdale to Top of Blackstone Edge. 123 
 
 Hundersfield, in the parish of Rochdale, also with what is called 
 " the dignified title of Master of the Buck Hounds." Robertus 
 Howard, Abbot of Stanlaw, was one of the four monks from 
 this parish, whose names appear among the list of the fraternity, 
 at the time of their translation to Whalley. He died on the 
 loth of May, 1304. Dugdale, in his "Baronage of England," 
 says, respecting the Howards, Dukes of Norfolk: "I do not 
 make any mention thereof above the time of King Edward the 
 First, some supposing that their common ancestor, in the Saxon's 
 time, took his original appellation from an eminent office or 
 command ; others, afterwards, from the name of a place." . . 
 "I shall, therefore (after much fruitless search to satisfy myself, 
 as well as others, on this point) begin with William Howard, a 
 learned and reverend judge of the Court of Common Pleas, for a 
 great part of King Edward the First's and beginning of Edward 
 the Second's time." So that there seems to be a possibility of 
 truth in the assertion that Great Howard, or Howarth, near 
 Smallbridge, was the original settlement of the Howards, ances- 
 tors of the Dukes of Norfolk. But I must leave the matter to 
 those who have better and completer evidence than this. Aiken, 
 in his " History of Manchester," mentions a direful pestilence, 
 which severely afflicted that town about the year 1645. A 
 pestilence called the "Black Plague" raged in the parish of 
 Rochdale about the same time. " The whole district being filled 
 with dismay, none dared, from the country, to approach the 
 town, for fear of catching the contagion ; therefore, to remedy, 
 as much as possible, the inconvenience of non-intercourse between 
 the country and town's people, the proprietor of Gteat Howarth 
 directed a cross to be raised on a certain part of his estate, near 
 to Black Lane End, at Smallbridge, for the purpose of holding a 
 temporary market there, during the continuance of the plague." 
 Thence originated "Howarth Cross," so named to this day; 
 also, the old " Milk Stones," or " Plague Stones," lately standing 
 at about a mile's distance from the town of Rochdale, upon the 
 old roads. I well remember two of these, which were large, 
 heavy flag-stones, with one end imbedded in the edge side, and 
 the other end supported upon rude stone pillars. One of these 
 two was in " Milk Stone Lane," leading towards Oldham, and 
 the other at " Sparth," about a mile on the Manchester road. 
 This last of these old " Milk Stones," or " Plague Stones," was 
 recently taken down. I find that similar stones were erected
 
 I2 4 
 
 Lancashire Sketches : 
 
 in the outlets of Manchester, for the same purpose, during the 
 pestilence, about 1645. The village of Smallbridge itself, as I 
 have said before, has not much either of modern grace or antique 
 interest about its outward appearance. But, in the secluded folds 
 and corners of the country around, there is many a quaint farm- 
 stead of the seventeenth century, or earlier, such as Waterhouse, 
 Ashbrook Hey, Howarth Knowl, Little Howarth, Dearnley, 
 Mabroyd, Wuerdle, Little Clegg, Clegg Hall (the haunt of the 
 famous " Clegg Ho' Boggart"). Wardle Fold, near Wardle Hall, 
 was fifty years since only a small sequestered cluster of rough 
 stone houses, at the foot of the moorland heights, on the north, 
 and about a mile from Smallbridge. It has thriven considerably 
 by manufacture since then, in some of these old settlements 
 there are houses where the door is still opened from without by 
 a "sneck-bant," or "finger-hole." Some of these old houses have 
 been little changed for two or three centuries ; around others a 
 little modern addition has gathered in the course of time ; but the 
 old way of living and thinking lingers in these remote corners 
 still, like little standing pools, left by the tide of ancient manners, 
 which has gone down, and is becoming matter of history or 
 of remembrance. There, and in the still more lonely detached 
 dwellings and folds, which are scattered among the hills and 
 cloughs of the "Edge," they cling to the speech, and ways, 
 and superstitions of their rude forefathers. A tribe of hardy, 
 industrious, old-fashioned, simple-hearted folk, whose principal 
 fear is poverty and "boggarts." They still gather round the fire, 
 in corners where factories have not yet reached them, in the 
 gray gloaming, and on dark nights in winter, to feed their imagi- 
 nations with scraps of old legend, and tales of boggarts, fairies, 
 and "feeorin," that haunt their native hills, and dells, and 
 streams ; and they look forward with joy to the ancient festivals 
 of the year, as reliefs to their lonely round of toil. But Small- 
 bridge had other interests for us besides those arising out of its 
 remote surrounding nooks and population. We had known the 
 village ever since the time when a ramble so far out from Roch- 
 dale seemed a great feat for tiny legs; and, as we passed each 
 well-remembered spot, the flood-gates of memory were thrown 
 open, and a whole tide of early reminiscences came flowing over 
 the mind : 
 
 Floating by me seems 
 
 My childhood, in this childishness of mine: 
 I care not 'tis a glimpse of "Auld lang syne.*
 
 Rochdale to Top of Elackstone Edge. 125 
 
 The inhabitants of different Lancashire towns and villages have 
 often some generic epithet attached to them, supposed to be ex- 
 pressive of their character; as, for the inhabitants of Oldham 
 and Bolton, "Owdham Rough Yeds," and "Bowton Trotters;" 
 and the people of Smallbridge are known throughout the vale by 
 the name of " Smo'bridge Cossacks." Within the last twenty 
 years, the inhabitants of the village have increased in number, 
 and improved in education and manners. Before that time the 
 place was notable for its rugged people ; even in a district gene- 
 rally remarkable for an old-world breed of men and manners. 
 Their misdemeanours arose more from exuberant vigour of heart 
 and body, than from natural moral debasement. Twenty years 
 since there was no church in Smallbridge, no police to keep its 
 rude people in order no effective school of any sort. The 
 weavers and colliers had the place almost to themselves in those 
 days. They worked hard, and ate and drank as much as their 
 earnings would afford, especially on holidays, or "red-letter days;" 
 and, at by-times, they clustered together in their cottages, but 
 oftener at the road-side, or in some favourite alehouse, and 
 solaced their fatigue with such scraps of news and politics as 
 reached them ; or by pithy, idiomatic bursts of country humour, 
 and old songs. Sometimes these were choice snatches of the 
 ballads of Britain, really beautiful "minstrel memories of times 
 gone by ;" such as we seldom hear now, and still seldomer hear 
 sung with the feeling and natural taste which the country lasses 
 of Lancashire put into them, while chanting at their work. 
 Some of Burns's songs, and many songs commemorating the 
 wars of England, were great favourites with them. Passing 
 by a country alehouse, one would often hear a rude ditty, like 
 the following, sounding loud and clear from the inside : 
 
 You generals all, and champions bold. 
 
 Who take delight i'th field ; 
 Who knock down palaces and castle walls, 
 
 And never like to yield ; 
 I am an Englishman by birth. 
 
 And Marlbro' is my name ; 
 In Devonshire I first drew breath, 
 
 That place of noble fame. 
 
 Or this finishing couplet of another old ballad : 
 
 To hear the drums and the trumpets sound, 
 In the wars of High Garmanie ! 
 
 I well remember that the following were among their favourites: 
 "O, Nanny, wilt thou gang wi' me?" "Jockey to the Fair,"
 
 1 26 Lancashire Sketches : 
 
 " Owd Towler," " The Banks of the Dee," " Black Eyed Susan," 
 "Highland Mary," "The Dawning of the Day," "The Garden 
 Gate," and " The Woodpecker." There are, also, a few rough, 
 humorous songs in the Lancashire dialect, which are very common 
 among them. The best of these is the rudely-characteristic ballad 
 called "Jone o' Greenfelt," and "The Songs of the Wilsons," of 
 which the following, known by the name of "Johnny Green's 
 Wedding," and "Description of Manchester College," by Alex- 
 ander Wilson, is sufficient to show the manner and characteristics 
 of the remainder of these popular local songs : 
 
 Neaw lads, wheer are yo beawn so fast? 
 Yo happun ha no yerd what's past : 
 Aw gettun wed sin aw'r here th' last, 
 
 Just three week sin come Sunday. 
 Aw ax'd th' owd folk, an aw wur reet, 
 So Nan an me agreed tat neet, 
 At iv we could mak both eends meet, 
 
 We'd be wed o' Ayster Monday. 
 
 That morn', as prim as pewter quarts, 
 
 Aw th' wenches coom, a browt t' sweethearts ; 
 
 Aw fund we're loike to ha' three carts, 
 
 'Twur thrunk as Eccles wakes, mon ; 
 We donn'd eawr tits i' ribbins to, 
 One red, one green, an tone wur blue ; 
 So hey ! lads, hey ! away we flew, 
 
 Loike a race for th' Leger stakes, mon. 
 
 Right merrily we drove, full bat ; 
 An eh ! heaw Duke an Dobbin swat ; 
 Owd Grizzle wur so lawn an fat, 
 
 Fro" soide to soide hoo jow'd um : 
 Deawn Withy Grove at last we coom, 
 An stopt at th' Seven Stars by gum, 
 An drunk as mich warm ale an rum, 
 
 As 'ud dreawn o' th' folk i' Owdham. 
 
 When th' shot wur paid, an th' drink wur done, 
 Up Fennel-street, to th' church for fun, 
 We doanced loike morris-doancers dun, 
 
 To th' best o' aw my knowledge : 
 So th' job wur done, i' hauve a crack ; 
 Boh eh ! what fun to get th' first smack ; 
 So neaw, my lads, 'fore we gwon back, 
 
 Says aw, "Wc'n look at th 1 College." 
 
 We see'd a clock-case first, good laws ! 
 Where Deoth stonds up wi' great lung claws ; 
 His legs, an wings, an lantern jaws, 
 
 They really look't quite feorink. 
 There's snakes an watchbills, just like pikes, 
 At Hunt an aw th' reformin' tikes, 
 An thee, an me, an Sam o' Mikes, 
 
 Once took a blanketeerink. 
 
 Eh! lorjus days, booath far an woide, 
 Theer's yards o' books at every stroide, 
 Fro' top to bothum, eend, an soide, 
 Sich plecks there's very few so :
 
 Rochdale to Top of Blackstone Edge. i ? 7 
 
 Aw axt him iv they wur'n to sell, 
 For Nan loikes readink vastly well ; 
 Boh th' measter wur eawt, so he could naw tell, 
 Or aw'd a bowt her Robinson Crusoe. 
 
 Theer's a trumpet speyks and maks adin, 
 An a shute o' clooas made o' tin, 
 For folk to go a feightink in, 
 
 Just like thoose chaps o' Boney's ; 
 An theer's a table carved so queer, 
 Wi' as mony planks as days i'th year, 
 An crinkum-crankums here an theer, 
 
 Like th' clooas-press at my gronny's. 
 
 Theer's Oliver Crumill's bombs and balls, 
 An Frenchmen's guns they'd lean i' squalls, 
 Ail swords, as lunkas me, o' th' walls, 
 
 An bows an arrows too, mon : 
 Aw didno moind his fearfo words, 
 Nor skeletons o' men an burds ; 
 Boh aw fair hate th' sect o' greyt lung swords, 
 
 Sin th' feight at Peterloo, mon. 
 
 We see'd a wooden cock likewise ; 
 Boh dang it, mon, these college boys, 
 They tell'n a pack o' starin' loies, 
 
 As sure as teaw'rt a sinner : 
 "That cock, when it smells roast beef, '11 crow," 
 Says he ; " Boh," aw said, " teaw lies, aw know, 
 An aw con prove it plainly so, 
 
 Aw've a peawnd i' my hat for th' dinner." 
 
 Boh th' hairy mon had miss'd my thowt, 
 An th' clog fair crackt by th' thunner-bowt, 
 An th' woman noather lawmt nor nowt, 
 
 Theaw ne'er seed loike sin t'ur born, mon. 
 Theer's crocodiles, an things, indeed, 
 Aw colours, mak, shap, size, an breed ; 
 An if aw moot tell toan hauve aw see'd, 
 
 We moot sit an smook till morn, mon. 
 
 Then deawn Lung Millgate we did steer, 
 To owd Mike Wilson's goods-shop theer, 
 To bey eawr Nan a rockink cheer, 
 
 An pots, an spoons, an ladles : 
 Nan bowt a glass for lookink in 
 A tin Dutch o'on for cookink in ; 
 Aw bowt a cheer for smookink in, 
 
 And Nan axed th' price o' th' cradles. 
 
 Then th' fiddler struck up "Th" Honey Moon," 
 
 An off we set for Owdam soon : 
 
 We made owd Grizzle trot to th' tune, 
 
 Every yard o' th' way, mon. 
 At neet, oytch lad an bonny lass, 
 Laws ! heaw they doanc'd an drunk their glass ; 
 So toyrt wur Nan an me, by th' mass, 
 
 At we lee till twelve th' next day, mon. 
 
 When the horn sounded to gather the harriers, or the "foomart 
 dogs," the weaver lads used to let go their "pickin'-pegs," roll up 
 their aprons, and follow the chase afoot, with all the keen relish 
 of their forefathers, returning hungry, tired, and pleased at night,
 
 128 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 to relate the adventures of the day. Sometimes they sallied from 
 the village, in jovial companies, attended by one or more of their 
 companions, to have a drinking-bout, and challenge " th' cocks o' 
 th' clod" in some neighbouring hamlet. Such expeditions often 
 led to a series of single combats, in which rude bodily strength 
 and pluck were the principal elements of success ; sometimes 
 -a general melee, or " Welsh main," took place ; often ending in 
 painful journeys, with broken bones, over the moors, to the 
 " Whitworth Doctors." As far as rough sports and rough 
 manners went, "the dule" seemed to have "thrut his club" over 
 Smallbridge in those days. That man was lucky who could 
 walk through the village without being assailed by something 
 more inconvenient than mere looks of ignorant wonder, and a 
 pelting of coarse jokes ; especially if he happened to wear the 
 appearance of a " teawn's buck." They had a kind of contempt 
 for " teawn's folk," as an inferior race, especially in body. If 
 town's people had more intelligence than was common in the 
 country, these villagers often affected to consider it a knavish 
 cleverness ; and if they seemed externally clean, they looked upon 
 it as an hypocritical concealment of the filth beneath. If they 
 were well dressed, the old doubt arose, as to its being "o' paid 
 for j" and if one appeared among them who had no settled home 
 or connections, and whose demeanour they did not like, he had 
 " done summat wrang somewheer, or elze he'd ne'er ha' bin o' 
 that shap." In fact, it was hardly possible for people bred in a 
 town to be as clean, strong, or honest, as those bred in the 
 country. Town's folk had nothing wholesome about them ; 
 they were "o' offal an' boylin-pieces." When they visited 
 Manchester, or any of the great towns about, they generally 
 took a supply of eatables with them for the journey ; " coud 
 frog-i'-th'-hole puddin," or " fayberry cake," or " sodden moufin 
 an' cheese," or such like homely buttery-stuff"; for if they had 
 occasion to enter any strange house in such places, to satisfy their 
 Jiunger, every mouthful went down among painful speculations 
 as to what the quadruped was when alive, and what particular 
 reason it had for departing this life. Burns alludes affectionately 
 to " the halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food;" and oatmeal 
 porridge, and oat-cake, enter largely into the diet of the country 
 people in this part of Lancashire. They used to pride themselves 
 in the name of " the Havercake Lads." A regiment raised in 
 Lancashire during the last war bore this name. This oat-cake is
 
 Rochdale to Top of Blackstone Edge. 129 
 
 baked upon a peculiar kind of stone slab, called a " back-stone ;" 
 and the cry of " Havercake back-stones" is a familiar sound in 
 Rochdale, and the villages around it, at this day. Oatmeal 
 porridge forms an important element of a genuine Lancashire 
 breakfast in the country. I have often noticed the air of satis- 
 faction with which a Lancashire housewife has filled up the great 
 breakfast bowl with hot oatmeal porridge, and, clapping the pan 
 on the floor, said, " Theer, lads, pultiz yo'r stomachs wi' 
 thoose !" And the hungry, hearty youngsters have gathered 
 hastily round their old dish, welcoming it with the joyous 
 ejaculation of " That's th' mak' !" The thick unleavened oat- 
 cake, called "Jannock," is scarcely ever seen in South-east 
 Lancashire now ; but it used to be highly esteemed. The com- 
 mon expression, " That's noan jannock," applied to anything 
 which is not what it ought to be, commemorates the fame of 
 this wholesome old cake of theirs. But they have no inclination 
 to an exclusively vegetarian diet ; in fict, they generally express 
 a decided relish for " summat at's deed ov a knife ;" and, like 
 their ancient progenitors, the Saxons, they prefer heavy meals, 
 and long draughts, to any kind of light epicurean nicety. 
 
 There are many old prejudices still cherished by the country 
 people of south-east Lancashire, as is their old belief in witches, 
 witch-doctors, and "Planet-rulers;" but they are declining, 
 through increasing communion with jthe rest of the world. And 
 then these things show only the unfavourable side of their character; 
 for they are hospitable, open-handed, frank, and benevolent by 
 nature. How oft have I seen them defend the downcast and the 
 stranger; or shut up ungenerous suspicions, and open all the 
 sluices of their native kindness by the simple expression, " He's 
 somebody's chylt !" 
 
 "Owd Roddle" is a broken-down village fuddler in Smallbridge; 
 perpetually racking his brains about "another gill." His appear- 
 ance is more that of an Indian Fakeer than an English country 
 gentleman. He is as "concayted as a whisket" in some things, 
 but not in eating or drinking; for he will "seawk lamp-hoyle 
 through a bacco-pipe if onybcdy '11 give him a droight o' ale to 
 vvesh it deawn wi' ; an' as for heytin', he'll heyt mortal thing 
 deeod or alive if he con get his teeth into't." A native of 
 Smallbridge was asked, lately, what "Roddle" did for his living, 
 and he replied, " Whaw, he wheels coals, and trails abeawt wi' 
 his clogs loce, an' may's a foo' of his-sel' for ale." Yet, utterly 
 J
 
 1 3 o 
 
 Lancashire Sketches : 
 
 lost as Roddle is himself in person and habits, he is strongly 
 imbued with the old prejudices against town's folk. To him, the 
 whitest linen worn by a townsman, is only what the country folk 
 call a "French white." A well-dressed person from Rochdale 
 chanced one day to awaken "Roddle's" ire, who, eyeing him 
 from head to foot, with a critical sneer, said, " Shap off whoam, 
 as fast as tho con, an' get tat buff shurt sceawr't a bit, wilto ; 
 an' thy skin an' o ; for theawr't wick wi' varmin ; an' keep o' 
 thy own clod, whol tho con turn eawt some bit like." " But," 
 continued my informant, "aw'm a bit partial to th' offal crayter, 
 for o' that ; he's so mich gam in him, and aw like a foo i' my 
 heart ! Eh ! he used to be as limber as a treawt when he're 
 young ; but neaw he's as wambly an' slamp as a barrow full o' 
 warp-sizin'. Th' tother mornin' aw walked up to him for a bit 
 ov a crack, as uzal, but th' owd lad had getten his toppin cut off 
 close to his yed ; an' he wacker't an' stare't like a twichelt dog ; 
 an' he gran at mo like mad. Aw're forc't dray back a bit, at th' 
 first, he glooart so flaysome. It' re very frosty, an' his een looked 
 white and wild ; an' as geawl't as a whelp. If the dule had met 
 Roddle at th' turn of a lone that mornin' he'd a skriked hissel' 
 eawt ov his wits, an' gwon dcawn again. Eawr measther sauces 
 me sometimes for talkin' to Roddle; but aw olez tell him at 
 aw'st have a wort wi' th' poor owd twod when aw meet him, 
 as what onybody says." 
 
 There is a race of hereditary sand-sellers, or " sond-knockers," 
 in Smallbridge ; a rough, mountaineer breed, who live by crushing 
 sandstone rock, for sale in the town of Rochdale, and the villages 
 about it. This sand is used for strewing upon the flagged 
 house floors, when the floor is clean washed; and while it is 
 yet damp, the sand is ground over it by the motion of a heavy 
 "scouring-stone," to which a long, strong, wooden handle is 
 firmly fixed, by being fastened to an iron claw, which grasps the 
 stone, and is embedded into it by molten lead. The motion of 
 the "scouring-stone" works the flags into smoothness, and leaves 
 an ornamental whiteness on the floor when it gets dry ; it breeds 
 dust, however, and much needless labour. The people who 
 knock this sand and sell it, have been known over the country 
 side for many years by the name of "Th' Kitters;" and the 
 common local proverb, " We're o' of a litter, like Kitter pigs," is 
 used in Smallbridge, as an expression of friendship or of kinship. 
 As regular as Saturday morning came, the sand-carts used to
 
 Rochdale to Top of ' Black stone Edge. 131 
 
 come into Rochdale, heavily laden; and I remember that they 
 were often drawn by horses which, like the steed of the crazy 
 gentleman of Spain, were "many-cornered;" and, often, afflicted 
 by some of the more serious ills which horse-flesh is heir to. 
 They have better horses now, I believe, and they are better 
 used. The train of attendants which usually accompanied these 
 sand-carts into the town was of a curious description. Hardy, 
 bull-necked, brown-faced drivers, generally dressed in strong 
 fustian, which, if heavily plated with patches in particular 
 quarters, was still mostly whole, but almost always well mauled, 
 and soiled with the blended stains of sand, and spilt ale, and 
 bacon fat, with clumsily-stiched rips visible here and there : the 
 whole being a kind of tapestried chronicle of the wearer's way of 
 living, his work, his fights, fuddles, and feasts. Then they were 
 often bare-headed, with their breeches ties flowing loose at the 
 knees, and the shirt neck wide open, displaying a broad, hairy, 
 weather-beaten chest; and the jovial-faced, Dutch-built women, 
 too, in blue lin aprons, blue woollen bedgowns, and clinkered 
 shoon ; and with round, wooden, peck and half-peck measures 
 tucked under their arms, ready for "hawpoths" and "pennoths." 
 As the cart went slowly along, the women went from house to 
 house, on each side of the road, and, laying one hand upon the 
 door cheek, looked in with the old familiar question, "Dun yo 
 want ony sond this mornin' ?" "Ay;Jyo may lev a hawputh. 
 Put it i' this can." When they came to an old customer and 
 acquaintance, sometimes a short conversation would follow, in a 
 strain such as this: "Well, an heaw are yo, owd craythur?" 
 " Whaw, aw'm noan as aw should be by a deeol. Aw can heyt 
 nought, mon, an' aw connut tay my wynt." "Aw dunnot 
 wonder at tat ; yo'n so mich reech abeawt here. If yo'rn up at 
 th' Smo' bridge, yo'dd'n be fit to heyt yirth-bobs an' scaplins, 
 welly. Mon, th' wynt's clen up theer, an' there's plenty on't, 
 an' wi can help irsels to't when we like'n. Wi'n yo come up o' 
 seein' us ?" " Eh, never name it ! Aw's ne'er get eawt o' this 
 hole till aw'm carried eawt th' feet formost!" "Come, wi'n 
 ha' noan o' that mak o' talk ! Aw'd as lief as a keaw-price at 
 yo'dd'n come. Yo'n be welcome to th' best wi han, an wi'n 
 may yo comfortable beside; an' bring yo deawn again i'th cart. 
 But ir Jem's gwon forrud wi' th' sond. Let's see ; did'n yo gi' 
 mo th' hawp'ny ? . . Oh, ay ! It'll be reet ! Neaw tay care 
 o' yorsel', and keep yo'r heart eawt o' yo'r clogs!" When the
 
 I 3 2 
 
 Lancashire Sketches; 
 
 cart came to a rut or a rise in the road, all hands were summoned 
 to the push, except one who tugged and thumped at the horse, 
 and another who seized the spokes of the wheel, and, with set 
 teeth and strained limbs, lent his aid to the "party of progress" 
 in that way. Sometimes a sturdy skulker would follow the cart, 
 to help to push, and to serve out sand ; but more for a share of 
 the fun, and the pile of boiled brisket and cheese an' moufin," 
 stowed away in the cart-box at starting, to be washed down 
 with " bally-droights of cold fourpenny at some favourite "co'in- 
 shop" on the road. 
 
 The old custom of distinguishing persons by Christian names 
 alone, prevails generally in Smallbridge, as in all country parts 
 of Lancashire, more or less. It sometimes happens, in small 
 country villages like this, that there are people almost unknown, 
 even among their own neighbours, by their surnames. Roby 
 gives an instance of this kind in his "Traditions of Lancashire," 
 where he mentions a woman, then living in the village of Whit- 
 worth, for whom it would be useless to inquire there by her 
 proper name ; but anybody in the village could have instantly 
 directed you to " Susy o' Yem's o' FairofPs, at th' top o' th' 
 Rake," by which name she was intimately known. Individuals 
 are often met whose surnames have almost dropt into oblivion 
 by disuse, and who have been principally distinguished through 
 life by the name of their residence, or some epithet descriptive of 
 a remarkable personal peculiarity, or some notable incident in 
 their lives. Such names as the following, which will be recog- 
 nised in their locality, are constantly met, and the list of them 
 might be extended to any desirable degree : " Turn o' Charles 
 o' Billy's," or "Red Turn," "Bridfuut," "Corker," " Owd 
 Fourpenny," "Turn o' Meawlo's," "Rantipow," and "Ab o' 
 Finder's," who fought a battle in the middle of the river Roch, 
 at a great bull-bait in Rochdale, more than thirty years ago; 
 "Bull Robin," "Jone o' Muzden's," "Owd Moreover," and 
 "Bonny Meawth." This last reminds me of the report of a 
 young villager, near Smallbridge, respecting the size of the 
 people's mouths in a neighbouring district. " Thi'n th' bigg'st 
 meawths i' yon country," said he, "at ever I seed clapt under a 
 lip ! Aw hove one on 'em his yure up, to see if his meawth went 
 o' reawnd ; but he knockt mo into th' slutch." Many of these 
 quaint names rise in my memory as I write : " Owd Dragon " 
 "Paul o' Bill's," "Plunge," "Ben o' Robin's o' Bob's o' th'
 
 Rochdale to Top of Blackstone Edge. 133 
 
 Bird-stuffers, o' Buersil Yed," c< Collop," "Tolloll," "Pratty 
 Strider," " Lither Dick," and " Reawnt Legs," 
 
 Reawnt Legs he wur a cunnin' owd twod, 
 He made a mule draw a four-horse Iwod. 
 
 And then there was "Johnny Baa Lamb," a noted character in 
 Rochdale twelve years ago. He was low in stature, rather 
 stout, and very knock-knee'd ; and his face was one paradise of 
 never-fading ale-blossoms. Johnny's life was spent in helping 
 about the slaughter-houses, and roaming from alehouse to ale- 
 house, where, between his comical appearance, his drunken 
 humour, his imitations of the tones of sheep, lambs, and other 
 animals, and his old song, 
 
 The mon and the mare, 
 Flew up in the air, 
 An' I think I see 'em yet, yet, yet ; 
 
 the chorus ot which he assisted by clattering a poker on the 
 hearth, he was a general favourite, and kept himself afloat in 
 ale the staple of his ambition by being the butt of every 
 tap-room, where his memory remains embarmed. There was 
 "Barfuut Sam," a carter, who never would wear any foot-gear; 
 "Ab o' Slender's," "Broth," "Steeom," "Scutcher," "Peawch," 
 and " Dick-in-a-Minnit." Most of these were as well known 
 as the church clock. And then there was " Daunt o' Peggy's," 
 "Brunner," "Shin 'em," "Ayli o' Joe's o' Bet's o' Owd Bullfuut's," 
 and "Fidler Bill," who is mentioned in the Lancashire song, 
 "Hopper hop't eawt, an' Limper limp't in," 
 
 Then aw went to th' Peel's Arms to taste of their ale ; 
 They sup'n it so fast it never gwos stale ! 
 An' when aw'd set deawn, an" getten a gill, 
 Who should come in boh Fidler Bill 
 
 He rambles abeawt through boroughs an' teawns, 
 A' sellin" folk up as boh ow'n a few peawnds ; 
 
 and then there was "Jone o' Isaac's," the mower; "Peyswad," 
 and " Bedflock," who sowed blend-spice in his garden lor parsley 
 seed ; and " Owd Tet, i' Crook," an amiable and aged country 
 woman, who lived in a remote corner of the moors, above 
 Smallbridge, and whose intended husband dying when she was 
 very young, she took it deeply to heart. On being pressed to 
 accept the hand of a neighbour, who knew her excellent qualities, 
 she at last consented, assuring him, however, that her heart was 
 gone, and all that she could promise him was that she could 
 "spin an' be gradely ;" which saying has become a local proverb.
 
 J34 
 
 Lancashire Sketches 
 
 In the forest of Rosendale, I have met with a few names of 
 more curious structure than even any of the previous ones, such 
 as " Eb o' Peg's o' Puddin' Jane's," " Bet o' Owd Harry's o' 
 Nathan's at th' Change," " Enoch o' Jem's o' Rutchot's up at th' 
 Nook," "Harry o' Mon John's," " Ormerod o' Jem's o' Bob's," 
 and " Henry o' Ann's o' Harry's o' Milley's o' Ruchot's o' John's 
 o' Dick's, through th' ginnel, an' up th' steps, an' o'er Joseph's 
 o' John's o' Steen's," which rather extraordinary cognomen was 
 given to me by a gentleman, living near Newchurch, as authentic, 
 and well known in a neighbouring dale. In a village near Bolton, 
 there was, a few years since, a letter-carrier who had so long 
 been known by a nickname, that he had almost forgotten his 
 proper name. By an uncommon chance, however, he once 
 received a letter directed to himself, but not remembering the 
 owner, or anybody of that name, he carried the letter in his 
 pocket for several days, till he happened to meet with a shrewd 
 old villager, whom his neighbours looked upon as "larn't up," 
 and able to explain everything from ale, bull-dogs, and politics, 
 to the geography of the moon and the mysteries of theology. 
 The postman showed his letter to this Delphic villager, inquiring 
 whether he knew anybody of that name. The old man looked 
 an instant, then, giving the other a thump, he said, " Thea foo', 
 it's thisel' !" I have heard of many an instance, in different 
 parts of Lancashire, where some generic "John Smith," after 
 being sought for in vain for a while, has been at last discovered 
 concealed under some such guise as "Iron Jack," "Plunge," 
 "Nukkin," or "Bumper." I remember an old religious student, 
 in Rochdale, who used to take considerable pains in drilling poor 
 lads into a knowledge of the Holy Scriptures. The early part 
 of the Bible was his favourite theme; and he interlarded his 
 conversation with it to such a degree, that he won for himself 
 the distinguished title of "Th' Five Books o' Moses." 
 
 In Collier's tale of " Tummus and Meary," he illustrates the 
 personal nomenclature of these parts, in his own time, by the 
 following passage, which, though it may appear strange in the 
 eyes of people dwelling in the great cities of the south of England, 
 yet does not exaggerate the custom at present prevailing in the 
 remoter parts of the county of Lancaster : 
 
 Meary. True, Tummus ; no marvel at o' wur so flayed ; it wur so fearfo dark. 
 
 Tummus. Heawe'er, aw resolv't mayth best on't, an up speek aw, "Woooas 
 tat?" A lad's voyce answer't in a cryin' din, " Eh, law ; dunnah tay meh." " Xaw," 
 said aw, "aw'll na tay tho, belady ! Whooas lad art to ?" "Whau," said he "aw'm
 
 Rochdale to Top of Blackstone Edge, 135 
 
 Jone o Lall's o' Simmy's, o' Mariom's o' Dick's o" Nathan's, o' Lall's o' Simmy's 
 i'th Hooms : an' aw'm gooin' whoam." "Odd," thinks aw t' myseP, "theaw's a 
 dree -er name ti'n me." An' here, Meary, aw couldn't boh think what lung names 
 some on us han ; for thine and mine are meeterly ; boh this lad's wur so mich 
 dree-er, 'at aw thowt it dockt mine tone hawve. 
 
 Meary. Preo, na ; tell meh ha these lung names leet'n. 
 
 Titmmus. Um m ; lemme see. Aw conno tell tho greadly ; boh aw think it's 
 to tell folk by. 
 
 Meary. Well, an' hea did'n he go on with him ? " 
 
 Tummus. Then (as aw thowt he talkt so awkcrtly) aw'd ash him, for th" wonst, 
 what uncuths he yerd sturrin'. "Aw yer noan," said he, "but 'at Jack o' Ned's 
 towd mo, 'at Sam o' Jack's o' Yed's Marler has wed Mall o' Nan's o' Sal's o' Peg's, 
 'at gos abeavvt o' beggin' churn milk, with a pitcher, with a lid on." Then aw asht 
 him wheer Jack o' Ned's wooant. Says he, "He's 'prentice weh Isaac o' Tim's o' 
 Nick's o'th Hough-lone, an' he'd bin at Jammy's o' George's o' Peter's i'th Dingles, 
 for hawve a peawnd o' traycle, to seaws'n a beest-puddin' weh ; an' his feyther an' 
 moother wooan at Rossenda ; boh his gronny's alive, an' wooans weh his noant 
 Margery, eh Grinfilt, at pleck wheer his noan moother coom fro'." " Good lad," 
 says aw, "boh heaw far's tis Littlebrough off, for aw aim't see it to-neet iv he con 
 hit." Says t' lad, "It's abeawt a mile; an' yo mun keep straight forrud o' yor lift 
 hont, an yoan happen do." So a-this'n we parted ; boh aw mawkint, an' lost my 
 gate again, snap. 
 
 A curious instance of the prevalence of nicknames in this dis- 
 trict occurred, a few years since, about a mile from Smallbridge. 
 A country lass had got married out of a certain fold in that part, 
 and going down to Rochdale soon after, a female acquaintance 
 said to her, "Whau, Sally, thea's getten wed, hasn't to?" 
 "Yigh," said Sally, "aw have." "Well, an' what's te felly 
 code?" replied the other. "Whau," said Sally, "some folk co's 
 him 'Jone o' Nancy's lad, at th' Pleawm Heawse;' but his 
 gradely name's ' Clog Bant.' " We sometimes hear of a son 
 who bears the same Christian name as his father, as "Jamie o' 
 James's," and " Sol ov Owd Sol's o' th' Hout Broo ;" and I have 
 often heard a witless nursery rhyme, which runs, 
 
 Owd Turn an' yung Turn, 
 
 An' Owd Turn's son ; 
 Yung Turn '11 be a Turn 
 
 When Owd Turn's done ; 
 
 but the poor people of Lancashire sometimes have a superstitious 
 fear of giving the son the same Christian name as the father. 
 
 The ancient rural festival of " Rushbearing," in the month 
 of August, used to make a great stir in Smallbridge ; but the 
 observance of it seems to decline, or, at least, assumes a soberer 
 form. A great number of local proverbs, and quaint sayings, 
 are continually being thrown up by the population there, which, 
 in spite of their rude garb, show, like nuggets of mental gold, 
 what undeveloped riches lie hidden in the human mind, even in 
 Smallbridge. The people are wonderfully apt at the discernment 
 and at the delineation of character. It is very common for 
 them to utter graphic sentences likt the following : " He's one
 
 136 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 o' thoose at'll lend onybody a shillin', iv they'n give him 
 fourteen-pence to stick to." One of them said, on receiving 
 a present of game from his son in Yorkshire, "It isn't oft 
 at th' kittlin' brings th' owd cat a meawse, but it has done 
 this time." There are two or three out of a whole troop of 
 anecdotes, told of the natives of this quarter, which have the air 
 of nature about them sufficiently to indicate what some of the 
 characteristics of these villagers were in past years. Two young 
 men were slowly taking their road, late one night, out at the 
 town end, after the fair, when one of them lingering behind the 
 other, his comrade shouted to him to " Come on !" " Stop an' 
 rosin," said the loiterer, "aw hannut foughten yet!" "Well," 
 replied the other, with cool indifference, " Get foughten, an' let's 
 go whoam ? " In the Rev. W. Gaskell's lectures on the Lanca- 
 shire dialect, he says, ' The following dialogue is reported to have 
 taken place between two individuals on meeting : ' Han yo bin 
 toBowton?' 'Yigh.' 'Han yo foughten?' 'Yigh.' 'Han 
 yo lickt'n ?' ' Yigh ; an' aw browten a bit'n him whoam i' my 
 pocket!'" "Owd Bun" was a collier, and a comical country 
 blade, dwelling near Smallbridge, He was illiterate, and rough 
 as a hedgehog. Bun had often heard of cucumbers, but had 
 never tasted one. Out of curiosity he bought a large one, curved 
 like a scimitar ; and, reckless of all culinary guidance, he cut it 
 into slices lengthwise, and then fried the cold green slabs, all 
 together, in bacon fat. He ate his fill of them, too; for 
 nothing which mortal stomach would hold came amiss to Bun. 
 When he had finished, and wiped the grease from his mouth 
 with the back of his hand, he said, " By th' mon, fine folk '11 
 heyt aught ! Aw'd sanur ha' had a potito !" They tell a tale, 
 too, of the difficulties of a poor factory lass who had been newly 
 married ; which is not without its hints. Her husband told her 
 to boil him some eggs, and to " boyle 'em soft." He went out 
 awhile, and on his return, they were boiling, but not ready. He 
 Availed long, and then shouted, "Are thoose eggs noan ready yet r" 
 "Naw," said she, "they are nut; for, sitho, aw've boy led 'em 
 aboon an heawur, an' they're no softer yet." Now he did not 
 care much for this; but when he saw her take the child's 
 nightcap off its head to boil his dumpling in, he declared that 
 " he couldn't ston it." 
 
 Leaving Smallbridge, we rattled out at the end of the village, 
 past the Red Lion, and up to the top of the slope, where, after
 
 Rochdale to Top of Blacks tone Eage. 137 
 
 a run of about two hundred yards, we descended into the hollow 
 where the sign of the old "Green Gate" stands. In the season 
 of the year, people passing that way in a morning will often see 
 the door-way crowded with hunting dogs, and a rout of sturdy 
 rabble, waiting to follow the chase, afoot, through the neigh- 
 bouring hills. Rising again immediately, we crossed another 
 knoll, and down again we came to the foot of the brow, where 
 four roads meet, close by the "Green Mon Inn," opposite 
 to the deserted hamlet of Wuerdale, which perches, with 
 distressed look, upon a little ridge near the roadside, like an old 
 beggar craving charity. On we went, enjoying the romantic 
 variety of the scene, as the green ups and downs of the valley 
 opened out to view, with its scattered farms and mills, all clipt 
 in by the hills, which began to cluster near. 
 
 About half a mile further on, where the road begins to slant 
 suddenly towards Featherstall, Stubley Hall stands, not more 
 than twenty yards from the roadside. A much older hall than 
 the present one must have stood here prior to the i3th century, 
 for in 1322, and 1323, mention is made of Nicholas and John 
 de Stubley (His. Whalley). It subsequently came into the pos- 
 session of the Holt family, of Grislehurst and Castleton; a branch 
 of the Holts, of Sale, Ashton, Cheshire. Some of this family 
 fought in the Scottish wars, and also, in favour of the royal cause r 
 at Edgehill, Newbury, Marston Moor, &c., and were named in 
 Charles's projected order of the Royal Oak. There was a Judge 
 Holt, of the Holts of Sale; and a James Holt, whose mother 
 was co-heiress to Sir James de Sutton ; he was killed on Flodden 
 Field. Mary, the daughter of James Holt, the last of the family 
 who resided at Castleton, in this parish, married Samuel, brother 
 of the famous Humphrey Cheetham. The Castleton estate came 
 into Humphrey's hands in 1744. The manor of Spotland was 
 granted by Henry VIII. to Thomas Holt, who was knighted in 
 Scotland by Edward, Earl of Hertford, in the thirty-sixth year 
 of the reign of that king. The Holts were the principal land- 
 owners in the parish of Rochdale at the close of the sixteenth 
 century. John Holt held the manor of Spotland, with its ap- 
 purtenances ; also fourscore messuages, three mills, one thousand 
 acres of inclosed land, three hundred acres of meadow, one thou- 
 sand acres of pasture, and forty acres of woods, in Hundersfield, 
 Spotland, and Butterworth; besides a claim to hold of his majesty, 
 as of his duchy of Lancaster, one third of the manor of Rochdale.
 
 138 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 The arms of the Holts are described as "Argent on a band 
 engrailed sable, three fleur-de-lys of the first. Crest, a spear head 
 proper. Motto, <Ut sanem vulnera.' " The present hall at 
 Stubley was built by Robert Holt, about the year 1528. Dr. 
 Whittaker notices this house, which is of considerable size, 
 forming three sides of a square. It is now inhabited by several 
 families ; and much of the rich old carved oak, and other relics 
 of its former importance, have been removed from the interior. 
 
 From the top of the slope near Stubley, we now saw the spire 
 of Littleborough church, and the village itself, prettily situated at 
 the head of the vale, and close to the foot of the hills which divide 
 Lancashire and Yorkshire. On the top of Blackstone, and about 
 half a mile to the south of "Joe Faulkner's," the well-known old 
 sheltering spot for travellers over that bleak region, we could 
 now more distinctly see the streak of green which marks the line 
 of the Roman road till it disappears from the summit of the Edge. 
 
 Featherstall is a little hamlet of comfortable cottages at the 
 bottom of the brow in the high road near Stubley Hall, warmed 
 by the " Rising Sun," and another, an old-fashioned public-house, 
 apparently as old as the present Stubley Hall. The inhabitants 
 are principally employed at the mills and collieries in the neigh- 
 bourhood. The open space in the centre of the village is 
 generally strewn with scattered hay, and the lights from the 
 public-houses gleam forth into the watering troughs in front, 
 as the traveller goes through at night. A rough old road leads out 
 of the centre of the place, northward, over Calder Moor and the 
 hills, towards Todmorden. From Featherstall, the approach to 
 Littleborough is lined with mills, meadows, and tenter-fields, on 
 the north side; and on the south, two or three green fields 
 divide the highway from the railway, and a few yards on the other 
 side of the railway the line of the Rochdale canal runs parallel with 
 both. And thus these three roads run nearly close together past 
 Littleborough, and all through the vale of Todmorden, up to 
 Sowerby Bridge, a distance of twelve miles; and, for a considerable 
 part of the way, the river forms a fourth companion to the three 
 roads, the four together filling the entire bottom of the valley 
 in some places ; and, in addition to that, may be seen, in other 
 parts, the old pack-horse roads leading down from the moorland 
 steeps into the hollow. Carts, boats, railway trains, and some- 
 times pack-horses, seem to comment upon one another as they 
 pass and re-pass, and form a continual and palpable lecture on
 
 Rochdale to Top of Blacks tone Edge. 139 
 
 modes of transit, such as is not often met with in such distinct 
 shape. Littleborough consists, principally, of one irregular street, 
 winding over a slight elevation, and down to its centre near the 
 railway station, at the watet-side, and thence across the bridge, 
 up towards Blackstone Edge. It is a substantial, healthy-looking 
 village, prettily situated in a romantic spot. There are many poor 
 working people in the village, but there is hardly anything like 
 dirt or squalor to be seen there, except, perhaps, a little of that 
 migratory kind which is unavoidable in all great thoroughfares, 
 and which remains here for a night, on its way, at a roadside re- 
 ceptacle which I noticed at the western end of the village, where 
 I saw on a little board certain ominous hieroglyphics about 
 "Loggins for travlurs." The lands in the valley round Little- 
 borough have the appearance of fine meadow and pasture; and, 
 taken with the still better cultivated grounds, and woods and 
 gardens, about the mansions of the opulent people of the 
 neighbourhood, the whole looks beautifully verdant, compared 
 with the bleak hills which overlook the vale. The old 
 Royal Oak Inn, in the middle of the village, is pointed 
 out as a house which John Collier used to frequent, when he 
 visited the neighbourhood, and where he fixed the scene of 
 Tummus's misadventure in the inn, where he so unadvisedly 
 " Eet like a Yorsharmon, and clear't th' stoo," after he had been 
 to the justice with his dog, "Nip," and where the encounter 
 took place between "Mezzilt Face" and " Wythen Kibbo:" 
 
 Aw went in, an fund at two fat throddy folk wooant theer ; an theyd'n some o'th 
 warst fratchingst company at e'er eh saigh ; for they'rn warrying, banning, and co'in 
 one another "leawsy eawls," as thick as leet. Heawe'er, aw poo'd a cricket, an 
 keawr't meh deawn i'th nook, o' side o'th hob. Aw'd no soyner done so, boh a 
 feaw, seawer-lookt felley, with a wythen kibbo he had in his hont, slapt a sort ov a 
 wither, mezzilt-face't mon, sich a thwang o'th skawp, at he varry reecht again with 
 it, an deawn he coom o'th harstone, an his heeod i'th esshole. His scrunt wig feel 
 off, an a hontle o' whot corks feel into't, an brunt an frizzlt it so, at when he awst 
 don it, an unlucky carron gen it a poo, an it slipt o'er his sow, an it lee like a 
 howmbark on his shilders. Aw glendurt like a stickt tup, for fear ov a dust mysel', 
 an crope fur into th' chimbley. Oytch body thowt at mezzil-face would mey a flittin 
 on't, an dee in a crack ; so some on um cried eawt, "a doctor, a doctor," whol others 
 made'n th' londlort go saddle th' tit to fotch one. _ While this wur eh doin', some on 
 um had leet ov a kin ov a doctor at wooant a bit off, an shew'd him th' mon o'th 
 harstone. He laid howd on his arm to feel his pulse, a geawse an poo'd as if he'd 
 sin deeoth poo'in' at th' tother arm, an wur resolv't o'er-poo him. After lookin' 
 dawkinly-wise a bit, he geet fro his whirly booans, an said to um aw, " Whol his 
 heart bhyet and his blood sarkilates. there's hopes, boh whon that stops, it's whoo-up 
 with him i'faith." Mezzil-face hearin summot o' "whoo-up," started to his feet, flote 
 noan, boh gran like a foomart-dog, an sect at t' black, swarffy tyke weh bwoth 
 neaves, an wawtud him o'er into tVgalker, full o' new drink, wortchin'. He begun 
 o' pawsin' an peylin him into't so, at aw wur blendud together, snap. 'Sflesh, 
 Mcary ; iheaw'd ha' weet teh, to sin heaw th' gobbin wur awtert, when at ley pood'n 
 him eawt ; an what a hobthurst he look't weh aw that berm abeawt him. He kept
 
 140 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 dryin' his een, boh he moot as weel ha' sowt um in his hinder-end, till th' londlady 
 had made an heawer's labber on um at th' pump. When he coom in again, he 
 glooart awvishly at mezzil-face, an mezzil-face glendurt as wrythenly at him again ; 
 boh noather warrit, nor thrap. So they seet um deawn, an then th' londlady coom 
 in, an would mey um't pay for th' lumber at tey'd done hur. "Mey drink's war be 
 a creawn," said hoo, "beside, there's two tumblers, three quiftin pots, an four pipes 
 masht, an a whol papper o' bacco shed." This made um t' glendur at tone tother 
 again ; boh black tyke's passion wur cook at th' pump, an th' wythen kibbo had 
 quite'nt tother, so at teh camm'd little or noan boh agreed t' pay, aw meeon ; then 
 seet'n um deawn, an wur friends again in a snift 
 
 This house used to be a great resort on Saturday nights, ano rair 
 days, and holidays, and it was often crammed with the villagers 
 and their neighbours from the surrounding hill-sides; and no small 
 addition from Rochdale and Todmorden. The windows were 
 generally thrown open at such times ; and, standing at some dis- 
 tance from the place, one might perhaps be able, in some degree, 
 to sort the roar of wassailry going on inside. But if he wished to 
 know what were the component parts of the wild medley of melo- 
 dies, all gushing out from the house in one tremendous discord, he 
 would have to draw under the windows, where he might hear : 
 
 Our hounds they were staunch, and our horses were good 
 As ever broke cover, or dashed in a wood : 
 
 Tally-ho ! hark forward,, huzza ; tally-ho ! 
 
 Whilst, in another corner of the same room, a knot of strong- 
 lunged roysterers joined, at the top of their voices, in the 
 following chorus, beating time to it with fists and feet, and 
 anything else which was heavy and handy: 
 
 " Then heigho, heigho ! 
 Sing heigho," cried he ; 
 "Does my wife's first husband remember me?" 
 
 In another room he would probably hear "Boyne Water'' 
 trolled out in a loud voice : 
 
 The horse were the first that ventured o'er ; 
 
 The foot soon followed after : 
 But brave Duke Schomberg was no more, 
 
 At the crossing o' Boyne water. 
 
 Whilst another musical tippler, in an opposite corner, sang, for 
 his own special amusement, the following quaint fragment : 
 
 Owd shoon an' stockin's ! 
 
 An" slippers at's made o' red leather ! 
 
 In another quarter you might hear the fiddle playing the 
 animated strains of the "Liverpool Hornpipe," or "The Devil 
 rove his Shurt," while a lot of hearty youngsters, in wooden 
 clogs, battered the hearthstone to the tune. In a large room 
 above, the lights flared in the wind, as the lads and lasses flitted
 
 Rock dale to Top of Blacks ten e Edge. 141 
 
 to and fro in the "Haymaker," "Sir Roger de Coverley," or 
 "The Triumph;" or threaded through a reel, and set till the 
 whole house shook ; whilst from other parts of the place you 
 would be sure to hear, louder than all else, the clatter of pots, 
 and hunting-cries ; the thundering hurly-burly of drunken anger, 
 or the crash of furniture, mingling with the boisterous tones of 
 drunken fun. Whoever entered this house at such a time, in the 
 hope of finding a quiet corner, where he could be still, and look 
 round upon the curious mixture of quaint, rough character, 
 would very likely find that he had planted himself in the retreat 
 chosen by a drunken, maudlin fellow, who, with one eye closed, 
 sat uttering, by fits, noisy salutations of affection to the pitcher of 
 ale before him ; or, with one leg over the other, his arms folded, 
 and his head veering lazily with drunken langour, first to one 
 side, and then to the other, poured forth a stream of unconnected 
 jargon, in this style : " Nea then ; yollo chops ! What's to do 
 wi' thee? Arto findin' things eawt? Whether wilto have a pipe 
 o* bacco or a bat o' th' ribs ? Aw've summat i'th inside o' my 
 box ; but it looks like a brunt ratton, bi Guy ! Help thysel', 
 an' poo up, whol aw hearken tho thi catechism. . . Con te 
 tell me what natur belungs to ? that's the poynt ! Come, oppen 
 eawt ! Aw'm ready for tho. . . An' if thea's nought to 
 say, turn thi yed; aw dunnut like to be stare't at wi' a bigger 
 foo nor mysel'. . . Sup ; an' gi' me houd ! . . There's 
 a lot o' nice, level lads i' this cote, isn't there ? . '. Aw'll tell 
 tho what, owd dog ; th' world swarms wi' foos, donn'd i' o' maks 
 o' clooas ; an' aw deawt it olez will do ; for, as fast as th' owd 
 uns dee'n off", there's fresh uns comes. An, by th' mass, th' latter 
 lot dunnut mend thoose at's gwon ; for o' at te're brawsen wi' 
 wit. It'd mend it a bit iv oytch body'd wortch for their livin', 
 an' do as they should'n do. Ay ; thea may look as fause as to 
 likes; but thae'rt one o'th rook; an' thae'll dee in a bit, as sure 
 as thae'rt livin', owd craytur. Thae'rt to white abeawt th' eai- 
 roots to carry a gray toppin whoam, aw deawt. Gray yure's 
 heavy, mon; it brings 'em o' to th' floor. But thir't to leet for 
 heavy vvark, my lad. . . . Behave thysel'; an' fill thi bally 
 when tho's a choance, for thea looks clemmed. Arto leet gi'n? 
 'Cose, i' tho art, thae'd betthur awter, or elze thea'll be lyin' o' 
 thi back between two bworts, wi' thi meawth full o' sond; 
 afore th' hawve o' thi time's up. . . Sitho at yon bletherin', 
 keaw-lipped slotch, wi' th' quart in his hond ! He's a breet-lookin'
 
 1 4 2 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 brid, isn't he? Aw dar say thae thinks thysel' bwoth hon'somer 
 an' fauser nor him. Thae may think so, but aw know. Thae'rt 
 no betthur nor porritch i'tho're look't up; for o' at to's sich a 
 pratty waiscut on. What breed arto ? There's summat i' that. 
 But, it meeons nought; yo're o' alike at th' bothom ! There's ir 
 Jaminy ; he's as big a wastril as ever stare't up a lone. He ax't 
 me to lend him ov er lads, yesterday. ' Lend te a lad o' mine,' 
 aw said, 'naw, bi' th' heart ! Aw wouldn't lend te a dog to 
 catch a ration wi' !' . . . Hello! my ale's done ! 
 
 ' Then he doffed his shoon, 
 An he look't i'th o'n.' 
 
 Aw'll go toaurd ir Mally, aw think. Hey, Blossom ! Beauty ! 
 Beawncer ! Bluebell ! For shame o' thysel', Bluebell ! By, 
 dogs ; by ! Yo-ho ! Come back, yo thieves ! Come back ; aw 
 tell yo !" And so on, for hours together. 
 
 Littleborough is the last village the traveller leaves on the 
 Lancashire side of the "Edge;" and the old high road from 
 Manchester to Leeds passes over the top of these moorland hills, 
 gently ascending all the way from Littleborough, by a circuitous 
 route, to the summit nearly three miles. A substantial hostelrie 
 stands upon the brow of the hill, called " The White House," 
 and sometimes "Joe Faulkner's," from the name of an eccentric 
 landlord who kept the house in the old coaching time. This 
 house can be seen from the valleys on the Lancashire side for 
 many miles. It was a celebrated baiting-place for the great 
 stream of travellers which went over these hills, before the rail- 
 way drew it through the vale of Todmorden. The division 
 stone of the counties of York and Lancaster stands about half a 
 mile beyond this old inn. Littleborough itself is prettily situated 
 in the hollow of the valley, at the foot of this wild range of 
 mountains, and at the entrance of the Todmorden valley. It is 
 surrounded by scenery which is often highly picturesque. Dark 
 moorlands, lofty and lonesome ; woody cloughs ; and green val- 
 leys, full of busy life ; with picturesque lakes, and little streams 
 which tumble from the hills. The village has many advantages 
 of situation, both for pleasure and manufacture. Stone and coal, 
 and good water, are abundant all around it; and it is fast thriving 
 by the increase of woollen and cotton manufacture. It is still a 
 great thoroughfare for Lancashire and Yorkshire; and a favourite 
 resort for botanists, geologists, sportsmen, and, not unfrequently, 
 invalids. Northward from the village, there are many romantic
 
 Rochdale to Top of Blackstone Edge. 143 
 
 doughs, but, perhaps, the finest of these is the one called " Long 
 Clough," at the head of which is a remarkably fine spring, called 
 "Blue Pots Spring." The artificial lake of "Hollingworth" is 
 about half a mile from the village, on the south side; and there is 
 a beautiful walk leading up to its bank, through the shady dough 
 called " Cleggswood." This lake, when full, is three miles round. 
 It supplies the Rochdale canal, and is well stocked with fish. 
 Its elevation places it far above the bustle of the valley below, 
 where the highways and byeways, the iron-ways and water-ways, 
 interweaving thickly about the scene, are alive with the traffic of 
 the district. The valley is throng with the river, the railway, 
 the canal, and excellent high roads ; and a hardy and industrious 
 population, which finds abundant employment at the woollen and 
 cotton mills, in the coal mines and stone delphs, or on the dairy 
 and sheep farms of this border region of South Lancashire. The 
 shelvy banks of " Hollingworth" consist of irregular tiers and 
 slopes of pasture, meadow, and moor lands. The latter are, in 
 some directions, abrupt, lofty, and vast, especially on the eastern 
 side, where the sterile mass of Blackstone Edge shuts out the 
 view ; whilst a wild brotherhood of heathery hills, belonging to 
 the same range, wind about the scene in a semicircle, which 
 stretches far away, out of sight, in the north-west. But the 
 landscape upon the immediate borders of the lake is of a rural 
 and serene character, though touched here and there with moor- 
 land sterility ; and there is hardly a thing in sight to remind a 
 spectator that he is surrounded by the most populous manufac- 
 turing district in the world. But the distant rumble of train 
 after train, thundering through the neighbouring valley, and the 
 railway whistle, rising up clear over the green hill north of 
 the water, are sufficient to dispel any reverie which the sight 
 of the lake and its surrounding scenery may lead to. On 
 holidays, in summer time, the green country around the margin 
 of this water is animated by companies of visitors from the hill 
 sides, and the villages and towns of the neighbouring valleys. 
 A little steamer plies upon it; and boats may be hired at the 
 Fisherman's Inn, and other places around the banks. The 
 scattered farm-houses of the vicinity, and the two or three country 
 inns on the borders of the lake, are merry with pleasure parties. 
 In winter, the landscape about "Hollingworth" is wild and 
 lonesome ; and the water is sometimes so completely frozen over 
 that a horse and light vehicle may be driven across it, from bank
 
 144 
 
 Lancashire Sketches : 
 
 to bank, a mile's distance. It is a favourite resort of skaters, 
 from the surrounding districts; though the ice is often danger- 
 ously uneven in some places, by reason of strong springs, 
 and other causes. Many accidents have happened through 
 skating upon insecure parts in the ice of this water. Going 
 home late one night in the depth of winter, to my residence 
 by the side of this lake, I found the midnight scene dimly 
 illumined in the distance by a gleam of lights upon the lake ; 
 and the sound of pick-axes breaking up the ice, fell with a 
 startling significance upon the ear. Our dog, " Captain," did 
 not come out to meet me, when I whistled, as usual; and 
 I hurried, by a short cut over the fields and through the wood, 
 towards the spot where the lights were visible. There I found 
 a company of farmers and weavers, standing upon the bank, 
 with one or two of the wealthy employers from the village of 
 Littleborough, who had drags in their hands, and were giving 
 directions to a number of workmen who were breaking a 
 channel for the passage of a boat to a spot where the ice 
 had broken in with the weight of three young men belonging 
 to the neighbourhood. This melancholy midnight gathering 
 were working by lantern-light, to recover the bodies from 
 the water. I remained upon the spot until two of the corpses 
 were brought to the bank, and removed in a cart to the 
 farm-house where I resided, previous to being conveyed to 
 their homes in the distant town, later on in the morning, and 
 while it was yet dark. I shall never forget the appearance of 
 those fresh-looking youths, as they lay stretched side by side, 
 in their skating gear, upon a table, in the long passage which 
 led up to my bed-chamber. 
 
 The margin of the lake is adorned with patches of wood 
 in some places; and the hills stand around the scene in pic- 
 turesque disorder. At certain seasons of the year, flocks of 
 wild fowl may be seen resting upon its waters. There are other 
 lakes farther up in the hills; but the position and beauty of 
 Hollingworth make it a favourite with visitors to the district. 
 
 When weslling winds and slaughtering guns 
 Bring autumn's pleasant weather, 
 
 the Littleborough inns are throng with sportsmen, equipped for 
 the grouse shooting; for which sport the moors of the neigh- 
 bourhood are famous. Littleborough has a modern look from 
 the railway station, near to which the new church stands, on a
 
 Rochdale to Top of B'ackstone Edge. 145 
 
 slight elevation, about the centre of the place, and upon the 
 site of the old one. Yet, though the village has a modern 
 appearance, everything known of its history shows that it is a 
 settlement of considerable antiquity ; perhaps, as early as the 
 time of Agricola, the Roman. 
 
 The old chapel at Littleborough, which was a primitive 
 building in appearance, was licensed for mass, by the Abbot of 
 Whalley, A.D. 1476. It remained in its original architectural 
 state until it became dangerously ruinous in some parts, and was 
 taken down about thirty years ago, to make way for the present 
 church. The Gentleman's Magazine, for 1844, p. 182, contains 
 an interesting description of the new church. 
 
 In the immediate vicinity of Littleborough, there are several 
 interesting old houses, now standing upon sites where families 
 of importance in past times settled very early. Some of these 
 families have become extinct in the male line ; the property of 
 others has changed hands, like Scholefield Hall, Stubley Hall, 
 Lightowlers, and Windy Bank. Few of these old families have 
 held together and flourished, through the mutations of time, like 
 the family of Newall, of Town House, near Littleborough, 
 respecting which I find the following passage in the Gentleman's 
 Magazine, June, 1844, p. 593, which serves to elucidate the 
 character and position of a large portion of the ancient landlords 
 of the parish of Rochdale : 
 
 The family of Newall is one of those ancient families who have for centuries 
 resided on their parental estate, but in the retirement of respectable life holding the 
 rank of yeomanry, which, in former times, and particularly in the age when the 
 Newalls first settled in Lancashire, formed no unimportant portion of society 
 sufficiently elevated beyond the humbler classes to preserve a tolerable degree of 
 influence and authority amongst them ; while they were sheltered in their retirement 
 from those political storms which distracted the higher circles of the community, 
 and which led to the ruin of many of the best families of the kingdom, and to the 
 confiscation of their estates. 
 
 Burke's Visitation of Seats and Arms contains a long account of 
 the Newalls, of Town House, Hare Hill, and Wellington Lodge, 
 Littleborough, an influential family in this neighbourhood during 
 several centuries past; and still owners and occupiers of their 
 old estates, as well as extensive woollen manufacturers. 
 
 The following arms, illustrative of the connections of the 
 Newall family, are placed, with others, in the window of 
 Littleborough chapel: 
 
 KYRKESHAGH, of Town House : Or, on a chief per pale gules and sable three 
 bezants. 
 
 LiTHOtffeES, of Litholres : Vert, a lion rampant, or sem of calthraps sable.
 
 14.6 La?icashire Sketches: 
 
 NEWALL, of Town House : Quarterly, first and fourth. Per pale gules and azure, 
 three covered cups within an orle or: second, Kyrshagh: third, Healey, Gules, 
 four lozenges engrailed in bend ermine : fourth, Butterworth, Argent, a lion couchant 
 azure, between four ducal coronets gules. 
 
 BUCKLEY, of Howarth Parva; a chevron between three bulls' heads caboshed 
 argent; quartering Butterworth. (The Chadwicks of Healey quarter Buckley of 
 Buckley. Goll. Arm.) 
 
 HOLT, of Stubley : Argent on a bend engrailed sable three fleurs-de-lis of the 
 field. (Also quartered by the Chadwicks. Coll. Arm.) 
 
 BELFJELD, of Cleggswood : Ermine, on a chief qu. a label of five points ar. 
 
 Ten other shields contain the arms of the ancient families 
 of the district, as Bamford of Shore, Ingham of Cleggswood, 
 Halliwell of Pike House, &c., and those used by the bishop of 
 the diocese, the clergy connected with the parish, and some of 
 the gentry of the neighbourhood. 
 
 As we left Littleborough, I began, once more, to speculate 
 upon the claims set up for it as having bsen a Roman station ; 
 but my thoughts had no firmer footing than the probabilities put 
 forth by Dr. Whittaker, and some other writers, who have, 
 perhaps, followed him. Yet, the fact that the silver arm of a 
 small Roman statue of Victory, with an inscription thereon, was 
 dug up in the neighbourhood some time ago, together with the 
 direction of the Roman road as marked in the late ordnance map, 
 and the visible remains of a small, triangular-shaped entrenchment, 
 on each side of the road, on the summit of Blackstone Edge, seem 
 to support the probabilities which gave rise to the opinion, and 
 may yet enable the antiquarians of Lancashire to give us some- 
 thing more certain about the matter than I can pretend to. 
 
 Passing under the railway arch near the church, and leaving 
 the woody glen of Cleggswood on the right hand, we began to 
 ascend the hills by the winding road which crosses the canal, and 
 leads through a little hamlet called " TV Durn," consisting of an 
 old substantial house or two by the roadside, and a compact body 
 of plain cottages, with a foundry in the middle. "Th' Durn" 
 is situated on one of the shelves of land which the high road 
 crosses in the ascent of Blackstone Edge ; and overlooks the vale 
 in the direction of Todmorden. It is shaded on the south 
 by a steep hill, clothed with fir, and stunted oaks. Over that 
 hill-top, on the summit of a wild eminence, above the din and 
 travel of mankind, stand three remarkable old folds, called 
 "Th' Whittaker," "Th' Turner," and "Th' Sheep Bonk," 
 like eagles' nests, overlooking, on the east, the heathery soli- 
 tudes lying between there and Blackstone Edge, the silent 
 domain of moor fowl and black-faced sheep; seldom* trodden
 
 Rochdale to Top of Blackstone Edge. 147 
 
 by human feet, except those of a wandering gamekeeper, or a 
 few sportsmen, in August. Looking forth from this natural 
 observatory, about where u Th' Whittaker" stands, the view 
 to westward takes in an extensive landscape. The vale of 
 the Roch is under the eye in that direction, with its pretty 
 sinuosities, its receding dells, and indescribable varieties of 
 undulation ; nearly surrounded by hills, of different height and 
 aspect. Distance lends some "enchantment to the view," as 
 the eye wanders over the array of nature spread out below 
 green dells, waving patches of wood, broad, pleasant pastures; 
 the clear lake of "Hollingworth" rippling below; old farm- 
 houses, scattered about -the knolls and cloughs, by the side 
 of brooklets that shine silverly in the distance; the blue 
 smoke curling up distinctly from each little hamlet and village ; 
 mills, collieries, tenter-fields, and manifold evidences of the 
 native industry and manufacturing vigour of the district. In 
 these valleys, all nature seems to yield tribute to the energy 
 of the inhabitants, and rural life and manufacture work into 
 each other's hands with advantage. Standing on this spot, 
 with these things spread out before me, I have been struck 
 with the belief, that this unfavourable region for agriculture 
 would not have been so well cultivated even as it is now, 
 but for the manufacturing system. Far west, the eye rests 
 upon the town of Rochdale, with its clusters of chimneys, 
 and hovering canopy of smoke; the small square tower of 
 its old church, and the steeples of St. Stephen's and St. James's, 
 with the town-clad ridges of Wardleworth and Castleton, 
 clearly seen, if the day be fine. On a still Sunday afternoon, 
 in summer time, I have sat upon the hill-top at " Whittaker," 
 listening to the distant sound of Rochdale bells, that notable peal 
 of eight, the music of which I shall never forget ; and which I 
 would back for a trifle against any bells in England for sweetness. 
 And, at such a time, as evening came on, when " lowing herds 
 wind slowly o'er the lea," I have almost fancied that I could 
 hear the Sunday chime of Rochdale Old Church, "My soul, 
 praise the Lord," come floating up the vale, in the twilight, 
 with a wonderful charm of peace and solemnity in the sound. 
 Immediately above "Th' Durn," the high road leading up to 
 Blackstone Edge rises again as we pass by the old public-house 
 called "Th 1 Wet Rake," or "Weet Rake." This house stands 
 at the foot of a steeo path leading to " Windy Bank," an old
 
 14.8 Lancashire Sketches 
 
 stone hall, once inhabited by an ancient family of the neighbour- 
 hood. Windy Bank stands upon the edge of a rocky eminence, 
 rising almost perpendicularly from the road-side by which we 
 had to go. There used to be a carter in Rochdale, known by 
 the name of " Old Woggy," who upset his cart in the craggy 
 road called " Windy Bonk Steele." He returned to his master 
 in the town with the tidings. "Woggy" always stammered 
 in his speech, but in this case he was worse than usual ; 
 and his looks told more than his tongue. His master watched 
 in vain for "Woggy's" painful delivery, in the usual way; 
 but tired at last, he said, "Sing it, mon!" when "Wog" 
 immediately sang out, with a fluent voice, 
 
 Aw've wauled wi' th' cart at th' Wyndy Bonk Steele, 
 An' aw've broken th' tone wheel. 
 
 As we wound round the foot of the rock on the top of which 
 "Windy Bank" stands, we found the road rutty and uneven, 
 being covered with the perishable sandstone from the hill, broken 
 up and ploughed into slushy gutters, by stone-waggons from 
 the quarries, thereabouts. Pike House, the seat of the old local 
 family of Halliwell one of whom endowed the Free School 
 at Littleborough stands near the north side of the road here ; 
 and, at a short distance behind, there is an interesting house, 
 formerly of some importance, with a quaint fold attached, 
 called " Lightowlers." Driving on close by the edge of the deep 
 clough called " Sladen Hollow," a hundred yards more brought 
 us to the " Moor Cock Inn," formerly a much more lively place 
 than now, when this mountain road was the great thoroughfare 
 between Lancashire and Yorkshire. The "Moor Cock" was the 
 last house but one on the Lancashire side of Blackstone Edge. 
 The house has a rude, wholesome look still, but is little frequented. 
 Few folk go up that road now, except stone-getters, sand-knockers, 
 shepherds, sportsmen, and a few curious wanderers. We agreed 
 to leave the drag at the " Moor Cock," and walk up Blackstone 
 Edge on foot. " Gray Bobby 1 ' was pleased with the prospect 
 of a feed and a rest; for it is tough work upon these hill-sides. 
 He seemed to look round with a thoughtful eye, and pricked 
 his ears to the tread of the brisk young mountaineer albeit he 
 had a lame leg and a crutch who came forth to lose his traces 
 and lead him to the stable. As "Bobby" looked at the stable, 
 I could almost imagine him saying to himself, " There's no place 
 like home;" it looked so rough. In the house we found a few
 
 Rochdale to Top of Bla ckstonc Edge. 149 
 
 hardy-looking men ; brown-faced, broad-shouldered moor farmers 
 or shepherds, apparently, who did a little weaving. Their 
 sagacious dogs, lounged about the floor. Such men, in such 
 places, generally receive strangers as if they were "fain to 
 see aught at's wick." They happened to have a liberal 
 newspaper among them, and free trade was the topic of their 
 talk; as it was almost everywhere at that time. Their con- 
 versation showed, by its sensible earnestness, that there were 
 men, even up there, who knew who paid for the great pro- 
 tection delusion. I have often been amused by the blunt, 
 shrewd discourse of country people in the manufacturing 
 districts, respecting the difference in the condition and feelings 
 of the people in the reigns of "George o' owd George's," 
 and his brother, "Bill o' George's," and the condition of 
 the people now, in the reign of the "little woman at coom 
 a-seein' us lady." In previous reigns, the tone of their loyalty 
 might have been summed up in what "Jone o' Greenfelt" 
 says of his wife, " Margit : " 
 
 Hoo's naut ogen th' king, 
 But hoo likes a fair thing, 
 ,4n : hoo says hoo con tell when hoo's hurt. 
 
 I have heard them talk of kings, and statesmen, "wi' kindling 
 fury i' their breasts;" and, in their "brews" and clubs, which 
 meet for the spread of information, they discuss the merits of 
 political men and measures, and " ferlie at the folk in Lunnon," 
 in a shrewd, trenchant style, which would astonish some mem- 
 bers of the collective wisdom of the nation, could they but 
 conveniently overhear it. The people of Lancashire, generally, 
 are industrious collectors of political information, from such 
 sources as they can command. They possess great integrity 
 of judgment, and independence of character, and cannot be long 
 blinded to the difference between wise statesmen and political 
 knaves. They are an honest and a decent people, and would be 
 governed by such. They evince some sparks of perception of 
 what is naturally due to themselves, as well as to their masters ; 
 and they only know how to be loyal to others who are loyal 
 to themselves. 
 
 When the lame ostler had attended to his charge, he came 
 into the house and sat down with the rest. Somehow, the 
 conversation glided in the direction of Robert Burns, and we 
 were exchanging quotations from his poems and songs, when
 
 ! 5 
 
 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 one of us came to a halt in reciting a passage. To our sur- 
 prise, the young limper who had rubbed down " Grey Bobby," 
 took up the broken thread, and finished the lines correctly, 
 with good discretion, and evident relish. I fancied that we 
 were having it all to ourselves ; but the kind-hearted poet who 
 "mourned the daisy's fate," had been at the "Moor Cock" 
 before us, and touched a respondent chord in the heart of 
 our ostler. I forget who it is that says, " It is the heart which 
 makes the life;" but it is true, and it is the heart which sings in 
 Robert Burns, and the heart will stir to the sound all the world 
 over. How many political essays, and lectures, and election 
 struggles, would it take to produce the humanising effect which 
 the song, "A man's a man for a' that," has awakened? It 
 would sound well in the British houses of parliament, sung in 
 chorus, occasionally, between the speeches. 
 
 After resting ourselves about three-quarters of an hour in the 
 Moor Cock, we started up the hill-side, to a point of the road a 
 little past the toll-bar and the old oil-mill in the hollow, at the 
 right hand. Here we struck across the moor, now wading 
 through the heather, now leaping over ruts and holes, where 
 blocks of stone had been got out; then squashing through a 
 patch of mossy swamp, and sinking into the wet turf at every 
 step, till we reached the moss-covered pavement, which the 
 ordnance surveyors have called a " Roman road." It is entirely 
 out of any way of travel. A clearly-defined, and regular line of 
 road of about forty feet wide, and which we traced and walked 
 upon up to the summit of the Edge, and down the Yorkshire 
 side, a distance of nearly two miles from our starting place upon 
 the track. We could distinguish it clearly more than a mile 
 beyond the place we stopped at, to a point where it crossed the 
 road at Ripponden, and over the moor beyond, in a north-westerly 
 direction, preserving the same general features as it exhibited in 
 those parts where it was naked to the eye. Here and there, we 
 met with a hole in the road, where the stones of the pavement 
 had been taken out and carried away, While we were resting 
 on a bank at this old road-side, one of the keepers of the moor 
 came up with his dogs, and begged that we would be careful not 
 to use any lights whilst upon the moor, for fear of setting fire to 
 the heath, which was inflammably-dry. I took occasion to ask 
 him what was the name of the path we were upon. He said he 
 did not know, but he had alwavs heard it called " Th' Roman
 
 Rochdale to Top of Blackstone Edge. 151 
 
 Road." At a commanding point, where this old pavement 
 reaches the edge of " Blackstone," from the Lancashire side, the 
 rocky borders of the road rise equally and abruptly, in two slight 
 elevations, opposite each other, upon which we found certain 
 weather-worn blocks of stone, half buried in the growth of the 
 moor. There was a similarity in the general appearance, and a 
 certain kind of order visible, in the arrangement of these remains, 
 which looked not unlikely to be the relics of some heavy ancient 
 masonry, once standing upon these elevations ; and at the spot 
 which is marked, is the line of the "Roman Road," in the 
 ordnance maps, as an " Entrenchment." 
 
 The view along the summits of the vast moors, from any of 
 the higher parts of this mountain barrier between the two counties 
 of Lancaster and York, looks primevally-wild and grand, towards 
 the north and south; where dark masses of solitude stretch away 
 as far as the eye can see. In every other direction, the landscape 
 takes in some cultivated land upon the hill-sides, and the bustle 
 and beauty of many a green vale, lying low down among these 
 sombre mountains; with many a picturesque and cultivated 
 dingle, and green ravine, higher up in the hills, in spots where 
 farm-houses have stood for centuries; sometimes with quaint 
 groups of cottages gathered round them, and clumps of trees 
 spreading about, shading the currents of moorland rivulets, as 
 they leap down from the hills. In the valleys, the river 
 winding through green meadows; mansions and mills, villages 
 and churches, and scattered cottages, whose little windows wink 
 cheerfully through their screen of leaves 
 
 Old farms remote, and far apart, with intervening space 
 
 Of black'ning rock, and barren down, and pasture's pleasant' face : 
 
 The white and winding road, that crept through village, glade, and glen, 
 
 And o'er the dreary moorlands, far beyond the homes of men. 
 
 Standing upon these proud and rugged desolations, which look 
 down upon the changeful life of man in the valleys at their feet, 
 with such an air of strength and serenity, whilst the toiling 
 swarms of Lancashire and Yorkshire are scattered over the 
 landscape beyond, in populous hives the contrast is peculiarly 
 strong; and I have wondered whether these old hills, which 
 have seen the painted Celt tracking his prey through the woods 
 and marshes below, and worshipping " in the eye of light," 
 among wild fanes of rock, upon these mountain wildernesses 
 which have heard the tread of the legions of old Rome ; and 
 have watched the brave Saxon, swinging his axe among the
 
 i $2 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 forest trees, and, with patient labour, slowly making these valleys 
 into green and homely pasturages; and which still behold 
 the iron horses of modern days, rushing along the valley 
 every hour, snorting fire and steam: I have wondered whether 
 the hills, at whose feet so many generations of brave men have 
 come and gone, like swathes of grass, might not yet again 
 see these native valleys of mine as desolate and stirless as 
 themselves. These moorland hills, the bleak companions of 
 mist, and cloud, and tempest, rise up one after another upon 
 the scene, till they grow dim on the distant edge of the sky. 
 Lying upon my back, among the heather, I looked along the 
 surface of the moors; and I shall long remember the peculiar 
 loneliness of the landscape seen in that way. Nothing was in 
 sight but a wild infinity of moors and mountain tops, suc- 
 ceeding each other, like heaving waves, of varied form. Not 
 a sign of life was visible over all the scene, except imme- 
 diately around us, where, now and then, a black-faced sheep 
 lifted its head above the heather, and stared, with a mingled 
 expression of wonder and fear, at the new intruders upon 
 its solitary pasturage. Occasionally, a predatory bird might 
 be seen upon these hills, flitting across the lone expanse 
 an highwayman of the skies; and, here and there, the moor- 
 fowl sprang up from the cover, in whirring flight, and with 
 that wild clucking cry, which, in the stillness of the scene, 
 came upon the ears with a clearness that made the solitude 
 more evident to the senses. A rude shepherd's hut, too, 
 could be seen sheltering near a cluster of crags upon the 
 hill-side, and hardly distinguishable from the heathery mounds, 
 which lay scattered over the surface of the moor. But, in 
 the distance, all seemed one wilderness of untrodden sterility 
 as silent as death. The sky was cloudless whilst we wandered 
 upon those barren heights: and the blue dome looked down, 
 grandly-calm, upon the landscape, which was covered with 
 a glorious sunshine. 
 
 No stir of air was there ; 
 Not so much life as on a summer day 
 Robs not one light seed from the feathered grass, 
 But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest 
 
 Heaven and earth were two magnificent stillnesses, which 
 appeared to gaze serenely and steadily at each other, with 
 the calm dignity and perfect understanding of ancient friends, 
 whose affinities can never be unsettled, except by the fiat
 
 Rochdale to Top of Blacks tone Edge, 153 
 
 of Him who first established them. Looking horizontally 
 along the moors, in this manner, nothing was visible of those 
 picturesque creases, which lie deep between these mountain 
 ridges, and teem with the industrious multitudes of Lancashire 
 and Yorkshire. 
 
 These hills form part of a continuous range, running across 
 the island, in different elevations, and familiarly known as the 
 ''Backbone of England." Looking southward and south-east, in 
 the direction of the rocky waste called " Stanedge," which is 
 crossed by the high road from Manchester to Huddersfield 
 and "Buckstones," which, according to local 'tradition, was 
 formerly an highwayman's haunt, the whole country is one 
 moorland wild; and the romantic hills of Saddleworth, with 
 the dim summits of the Derbyshire mountains, bound the 
 view. Northward, the landscape has the same general appear- 
 ance. In this direction, Studley Pike lately occupied the 
 summit of a lofty moorland, overlooking the valley between 
 Hebden Bridge and the town of Todmorden; which is part 
 of a district famous for its comely breed of people, and 
 for the charms of its scenery. Studley Pike was a tall 
 stone tower, erected to commemorate the restoration of peace, 
 at the end of our wars with Napoleon. Singularly, it came 
 thundering to the ground on the day of the declaration of war 
 against Russia. 
 
 On the west, the' valley of the Roch, with its towns and 
 villages, stretches away out from this group of hills. Little- 
 borough nestles immediately at the foot of the mountain; and the 
 eye wanders along the vale, from hamlet to hamlet, till it reaches 
 the towns of Rochdale, Bury, Heywood, Middleton, and the 
 smoky canopy of Manchester in the distance. On a favourable 
 day, many other large and more distant Lancashire towns may 
 be seen. On the east, or Yorkshire side, looking towards Halifax, 
 the hills appear to be endless. The valleys are smaller and more 
 numerous, often lying in narrow gorges and woody ravines 
 between the hills, hardly discernable from the distance. The 
 mountain sides have a more cultivated look , and hovering halos 
 of smoke, rising up from the mountain hollows, with, sometimes, 
 the tops of factory chimneys peering out from the vales, show 
 where villages like Ripponden and Sowerby are situated. On 
 the distant edge of the horizon, a grey cloud hanging steadily 
 beyond the green hill, called " King Cross " marks the locality
 
 154 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 of the town of Halifax. Green plots of cultivated land are 
 ' creeping up the steep moors ; and comfortable farm-houses, with 
 folds of cottages, built of the stone of the district, are strewn 
 about the lesser hills, giving life and beauty to the scene. 
 
 For native men, the moors of this neighbourhood, as well 
 as the country seen from them, contain many objects of 
 interest. The hills standing irregularly around ; the rivers and 
 streams; the lakes and pools below, and in the fissures of the 
 mountains we knew their names. The lakes, or reservoirs, 
 about Blackstone Edge, form remarkable features in its scenery. 
 One of these, " Blackstone Edge Reservoir," takes its name from 
 the mountain upon whose summit it fills an extensive hollow. 
 This lake is upwards of two miles, close by the water's edge. 
 The scenery around it is a table-land, covered with heather, 
 and rocks, and turfy swamps. The other two, " White Lees" 
 and " Hollingworth," lie lower, about half way down the 
 moors: "White Lees" in a retired little glen, about a mile 
 north-west of the " White House," on the top of Blackstone 
 Edge; and ''Hollingworth/' the largest and most picturesque 
 of the three, is situated about two miles south-west of the same 
 spot. Close by the side of the high road from Lancashire, over 
 these hills into Yorkshire, this old hostelry, known as "Th' 
 White house," is situated near the top 1 of Blackstone Edge, looking 
 towards Lancashire. The division-stone of the two counties 
 stands by the road-side, and about half a mile eastward of this 
 public-house. The northern bank of the road, upon which 
 the division-stone stands, shuts out from view the lake called 
 "Blackstone Edge Reservoir" a scene which "skylark never 
 warbles o'er." A solitary cart-road leads off the road, at the 
 corner of the reservoir, and, crossing the moor in a north- 
 easterly direction, goes down into a picturesque spot, called 
 " Crag Valley," or " The Vale of Turvin," for it is known by 
 both names. This valley winds through the heart of the moors, 
 nearly four miles, emptying itself at Mytholmroyd, in the 
 vale of Todmorden. Fifty years ago, " Crag Valley " was 
 an unfrequented region, little known, and much feared. Now 
 there are thriving clusters of population in it ; and pretty home- 
 steads, in isolated situations, about the sides of the clough. 
 Manufacture has crept up the stream. " Turvin " is becoming 
 a resort of ramblers from the border towns and villages of 
 the two counties, on account of the picturesque wildness of its
 
 Rochdale to Top of Blackstone Edge. 155 
 
 scenery. In some places the stream dashes through deep gorges 
 of rock, overhung with wood; peeping through which, one might 
 be startled by sight of a precipitous steep, shrouded with trees, 
 and the foaming water rushing wildly below over its fantastic 
 channel. There are several mills in the length of the valley now; 
 and, in level holms, down in the hollow, the land is beautifully 
 green. The vale is prettily wooded in many parts ; but the 
 barren hills overlook the whole length of Turvin. In former 
 times, the clough was notable among the people of the surround- 
 ing districts, as a rendezvous of coiners and robbers; and the 
 phrase " a Turvin shilling," grew out of the dexterity of these 
 outlaws, who are said to have lurked a long time in the 
 seclusion of this moorland glen. 
 
 Approaching Turvin by the rough road across the moor, from 
 the top of Blacksrone Edge, it leads into a deep corner of the 
 valley, in which stands the church of " St. John's in the Wilder- 
 ness," built a few years ago, for the behoof of the inhabitants of 
 the neighbouring moors, and for a little community of factory 
 people in this remote nook of the earth. 
 
 Upon the summit of one of the neighbouring mountains, there 
 is a great platform of desolation, distinguished, even among this 
 stony waste, as "The Wilderness;" and I think that whoever 
 has visited the spot will be inclined to say that the roughest 
 prophet that ever brooded over his visions in solitary places of 
 the earth, could not well wish for a wilder Patmos than this 
 moor-top. On the right hand of the public-house, near St. 
 John's Church, several rough roads lead in different directions. 
 The centre one goes up through a thick wood which clothes the 
 mountain side, and on by winding routes to this " cloud-capped" 
 wilderness. On a distant part of this bleak tract stand two re- 
 markable Druidical remains, called "Th' Alder Stones," or the 
 Altar Stones," sombre masses of rock, upon which the Druid 
 priests of our island performed their sacrificial rites, before the 
 wild Celts of the district. The position and formation of these 
 stones, which have each a sloping top, with a hollow in the 
 middle, and a channel thence downward, seem to confirm the 
 character attributed to them. 
 
 Returning from " St. John's in the Wilderness," towards Black- 
 stone Edge, a quaint stone building, called " Crag Hall," occupies 
 a shady situation upon the hill-side, at the right hand of the vale, 
 and at ^the edge of the wild tract called " Erringdale Moor."
 
 iij6 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 This ancient hall contains many specimens of carved oak furni- 
 ture, which have been preserved with the building, from the time 
 of its old owners. A few years ago, the keeper of Erringdale 
 moor dwelt in it, and kept the place in trim as a lodge, for the 
 entertainment of the owners of the moor, and their sporting 
 friends, in the grouse season. 
 
 Between the moor-side on xvhich " Crag Hall" is situated, and 
 the road up to the top of Blackstone Edge, a moorland stream 
 runs along its rocky channel, in the deep gut of the hills. 
 I remember that many years ago I wandered for hours, one 
 summer day, up this lonely water, in company with a young 
 friend of mine. In the course of our ramble upon the banks of 
 the stream, little dreaming of any vestiges of human creation 
 in that region, we came almost upon the roof of a cottage, 
 rudely, but firmly built of stone. We descended the bank by a 
 sloping path, leading to the door. There was no smoke, no 
 stir nor sound, either inside or out; but, through the clean 
 windows, we saw a pair of hand-looms, with an unfinished piece 
 upon them. We knocked repeatedly, hoping to obtain some 
 refreshment after our stroll; but there was no answer; and 
 just as we were about to leave the lonely tenement, and take 
 our way homewards for the twilight was coming on, and we 
 had nearly ten miles to go we heard the sound of a pair of clogs 
 in the inside of the cottage ; and the door was opened by a tall, 
 strong man, apparently about thirty-five years of age. His 
 clear-complexioned face was full of frankness and simplicity. 
 His head was large and well- formed, and covered with bristling 
 brown hair, cut short. Yawning, and stretching his arms out, 
 he accosted us at once as if we were old friends, for whom 
 he had been looking some time with, "Well, heaw are yo, 
 to-day?" We asked him for a drink of water. He invited 
 us in, and set two chairs for us in a little kitchen, where 
 the furniture was rudely-simple and sound, and everything in 
 good order, and cleaned to its height. He brought forth 
 pitchers full of buttermilk, plenty of thick oat-cakes, and the 
 sweet butter for which these hills are famous ; and we feasted. 
 The cool of the evening was coming on, and there was no fire 
 in his grate ; so he fetched a great armful of dry heather from 
 an inner room, and, cramming it into the fire-place, put a light 
 to it. Up blazed the inflammable eilding, with a crackling sound> 
 making the room look cheerful as himself. A few books lay upon
 
 Rochdale to Top of Blackstone Edge. 157 
 
 the window-sill, which we asked leave to look at. He handed 
 them to us, commenting on them, in a shrewd and simple way, 
 as he did so. They were chiefly books on mathematics, a science 
 which he began to discourse upon with considerable enthusiasm. 
 Now, my young companion happened to have a passion for 
 that science; and he no sooner discovered this affinity between 
 himself and our host, than to it they went pell-mell, with books 
 and chalk, upon the clean flags; and I was bowled out. of the 
 conversation at once. Leaving them to their problems, and 
 circles, and triangles, I walked out upon the moor; and sitting 
 upon a knoll above the house, wrote a little rhyme in my note- 
 book, which some years after appeared in the corner of a Man- 
 chester newspaper. When I returned they were still at it, ding- 
 dong, about something or another in differential calculus; and I 
 had great difficulty in impressing upon the mind of my com- 
 panion the important area lying between us and our homes. 
 This lonely mathematician, it seemed, was a bachelor, and he 
 got his living partly by weaving, and partly by watching the 
 moor, for the owners; and as I looked upon him I almost envied 
 the man his strong frame, his sound judgment, his happy un- 
 sophisticated mind, and his serene and simple way of life. He 
 walked over the moor with us nearly two miles, without hat, 
 conversing about his books, and the lonely manner of his life, with 
 which he appeared to be perfectly contented. At our parting, 
 he pressed us to come over the moors again the first opportunity, 
 and spend a day with him at his cottage. I have hardly ever 
 met with another man who seemed so strong and sound in 
 body; and so frank, and sensible, and simple-hearted, as this 
 mathematical eremite of the mountains. That enthusiastic at- 
 tachment to science, which so strongly distinguishes him in my 
 remembrance, is a common characteristic of the native working- 
 people of Lancashire, among whom, in proportion to the popu- 
 lation, there is an extraordinary number of well-read and practised 
 mechanics, botanists, musicians, and mathematicians; and the 
 booksellers in the towns of the county, know that any standard 
 works upon these subjects, and some upon divinity, are sure to 
 find a large and ready sale among the operative classes. 
 
 We wore the afternoon far away in rambling about the high 
 and open part of Blackstone Edge, between the group of rocks 
 called " Robin Hood's Bed," and the solitary inn called the 
 "White -House," upon the Yorkshire road. Wading through
 
 I(j8 Lancashire Sketches; 
 
 fern and heather, and turfy swamps; climbing rocks, and 
 jumping over deep gutters and lodgments of peaty water, 
 had made us so hungry and weary, that we made the best 
 of our way to this inn, while the sun was yet up above 
 the hills. Here, the appetite we had awakened was amply 
 satisfied; and we refreshed, and rested ourselves a while, 
 conversing about the country around us, and exchanging anec- 
 dotes of its remarkable local characters, and reminiscences of 
 our past adventures in the neighbourhood. Many of these 
 related to " Old Joe," the quaint gamekeeper, at Hollingworth, 
 a kind of local "Leather Stocking," who has many a time rowed 
 us about the lake in his fishing-boat. 
 
 When we came out of the inn, the sun had gone down upon 
 the opposite side of the scene. Night's shadows were climbing 
 the broad steeps ; but the summit-lines of the hills still showed 
 in clear relief, against the western sky, where the sunset's glory 
 lingered. In every other direction, the skirts of the landscape 
 were fading from view. Rochdale town, with its church tower 
 and stacks of tall chimneys, had disappeared in the distance. 
 The mountainous wastes stretching away on the north, south, 
 and east, were melting into indistinct masses; and, below the 
 hills, quiet evening's dreamy shades were falling softly down, 
 and folding away for the night the hamleted valleys between 
 Blackstone Edge and the boundary of the scene. Day's curtains 
 were closing to; the watchers of night were beginning their 
 golden vigil; and all the air seemed thick with dreams. We 
 descended from the moor-top by a steep path, which diverges, 
 on the right-hand side of the highway, a little below the 
 "White House," and cuts off a mile of the distance between that 
 point and the " Moor Cock," where we had left " Grey Bobby" 
 and the " Whitechapel." Far down, from scattered cots and 
 folds, little lights were beginning to glimmer. That frontlet 
 jewel of mild evening's forehead "the star that bids the shep- 
 herd fold" was glowing above us, and, here and there, twinklings 
 of golden fire were stealing out from the blue expanse. As we 
 picked our way down the moor, the stillness of the tract around 
 us seemed to deepen as the light declined ; and there was no dis- 
 tinguishable sound in the neighbourhood of our path, except the 
 silvery tricklings of indiscernable rills. From the farms below, 
 the far-off bark of dogs and lowing of cattle came floating up, 
 mingled with the subdued rush and rattle of railway trains,
 
 Rochdale to Top of Blackstone 
 
 159 
 
 rushing along the valley. Half an hour's walk down the hill 
 brought us back to the "Moor Cock." Limper, the ostler, 
 got "Grey Bobby" from the stable, and put him into the 
 harness. Out came the folk of the house, to see us off. Our 
 frisky tit treated us to another romp; after which we drove 
 down the road, in the gloaming, and on through Littleborough 
 and Smallbridge, to Rochdale, by the light of the stars.
 
 ^ofan of l^egfoocft nnlf its 
 
 Nature never did betray 
 The heart that loved her ; 'tis her privilege, 
 Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
 From joy to joy. 
 
 WORDSWORTH 
 
 |NE Saturday afternoon, about midsummer, I was invited 
 by a friend to spend a day at his house, in the green 
 outskirts of Heywood. The town has a monotonous, 
 cotton-spinning look; yet, it is surrounded by a pleasant 
 country, and has some scenery of a picturesque description in 
 its immediate neighbourhood. Several weeks previous to this 
 invitation had been spent by me wholly amongst the bustle of 
 our "cotton metropolis," and, during that time, I had often 
 thought how sweetly summer was murmuring with its "leafy 
 lips" beyond the town, almost unseen by me except when I 
 took a ride to a certain suburb, and wandered an hour or 
 two in a scene upon which the season seemed to smile almost 
 in vain, and where the unsatisfactory verdure was broken up 
 by daub-holes and rows of half-built cottages, and the air mixed 
 with the aroma of brick-kilns and melting lime. Sometimes, too, 
 I stole down into the market-place, on a Saturday morning, 
 to smell at the flowers and buy a K posy " for my button- 
 hole. It reminded me of the time when I used to forage about 
 my native hedges, for bunches of the wild rose and branches of 
 white-blossomed thorn. But now, as the rosy time of the year 
 grew towards its height, I began to hanker after those moors 
 and noiseless glens of Lancashire, where, even yet, nature seems 
 to have it all her own way. I longed for the quiet valleys and 
 their murmuring waters; the rustling trees; and the cloudless 
 summer sky seen through fringed openings in the wildwood's 
 leafy screen. Somebody says, that "we always find better men
 
 Heywood and its Neighbourhood. 161 
 
 in action than in repose;" and though there are contemplative 
 spirits who instinctively shun the din of towns, and, turning to 
 the tranquil seclusions of nature, read a lofty significance in 
 its infinite forms and moods of beauty, yet, the grand battle 
 of life lies where men are clustered. Great men can live 
 greatly anywhere; but ordinary people must be content to 
 snatch at any means likely to improve or relieve their lot; 
 and it will do any care-worn citizen good to "consider the 
 lilies of the field" a little, now and then. Country folk come 
 to town to relieve the monotony of their lives ; and town's folk 
 go to the country for refreshment and repose. To each the 
 change may be beneficial at least I thought so ; and, as light as 
 leaf upon tree, I hailed my journey ; for none of Robin Hood's 
 men ever went to the greenwood with more pleasure than I. 
 
 It was nearly three when we passed the Old Church, on 
 our way to the station. The college lads, in their quaint blue 
 suits, and flat woollen caps, were frolicking about the quad- 
 rangle of that ancient edifice which helps to keep alive the name 
 of Humphrey Chetham. The omnibuses were rushing by, 
 with full loads. I said "full loads;" but there are omnibuses 
 running out of Manchester, which I never knew to be so full 
 that they would not "just hold another." But on we went, 
 talking about anything which was uppermost ; and in a few 
 minutes we were seated in the train, and darting over the 
 tops of that miserable jungle known by the name of "Angel 
 Meadow." The railway runs close by a little hopeful oasis in 
 this moral desert the " Ragged School," at the end of Ashley 
 Lane ; and, from the carriage window, we could see " Charter- 
 street" that notable den of Manchester outcasts. These two 
 significant neighbours " Charter-stieet" and the "Ragged 
 School" comment eloquently upon one another. Here, all is 
 mental and moral malaria, and the revelry of the place sounds 
 like a forlorn cry for help. There the same human elements are 
 trained, by a little timely culture, towards honour and usefulness. 
 Any man, with an unsophisticated mind, looking upon the 
 two, might be allowed to say, " Why not do enough 4 of this to 
 cure that?" On the brow of Red Bank, the tower and gables 
 of St. Chad's Church overlook the swarming hive which fills the 
 valley of the Irk; and which presents a fine field for those who 
 desire to spread the gospel among the heathen, and enfranchise 
 the slave.- And if it be true that the poor are "the riches of the
 
 1 62 Lancashire Sketches : 
 
 church of Christ," there is an inheritance there worth looking 
 after by any church which claims the title. Up rose a grove 
 of tall chimneys from the streets lining the banks of the little 
 slutchy stream, that creeps through the hollow, slow and slab, 
 towards its confluence with the Irwell ; where it washes the 
 base of the rocks upon which, five hundred years ago, stood 
 the " Baron's Hall," or manor house of the old lords of Man- 
 chester. On the same spot, soon after the erection of the 
 Collegiate Church, that quaint quadrangular edifice was built as 
 a residence for the warden and fellows, which afterwards became, 
 in the turns of fortune, a mansion of the Earls of Derby, a gar- 
 rison, a prison, an hospital, and a college. By the time we had 
 taken a few reluctant sniffs of the curiously-compounded air of 
 that melancholy waste, we began to ascend the incline, and lost 
 sight of the Irk, with its factories, dyehouses, brick-fields, tan- 
 pits, and gas-works; and the unhappy mixture of stench, 
 squalor, smoke, hard work, ignorance, and sin, on its borders ; 
 and, after a short stoppage at Miles Platting, our eyes were 
 wandering over the summer fields. Nature was drest in her 
 richest robes; and every green thing looked lush with beauty. 
 As we looked abroad on this wide array, it was delightful 
 to see the sprouting honeysuckle, and the peace-breathing palm ; 
 and there, too, creeping about the hedges, was that old acquaint- 
 ance of life's morning, the bramble, which will be putting 
 forth "its small white rose" about the time that country folk 
 begin to house their hay; and when village lads in Lancashire 
 are gathering gear to decorate their rush-carts with. Clustering 
 primroses were there; and the celandine, with burnished leaves 
 of gold ; and wild violets, prancked with gay colours ; with 
 troops of other wild flowers, some full in view, others dimly 
 seen as we swept on; a world of floral beauty thickly em- 
 broidering the green mantle of the landscape, though beyond 
 the range of discriminating vision; but clear to the eye of 
 imagination, which assured us that these stars of the earth 
 were making their old haunts beautiful again. The buttercup 
 was in the fields, holding its pale gold chalice up to catch the 
 evening dews. Here and there grew a tuft of slender-stemmed 
 lilies, graceful and chaste ; and then a sweep of blue-bells, tinging 
 the hedge-sides and the moist slopes under the trees with their 
 azure hue as blue as a patch of sky and swinging the incense 
 from their pendent petals into the sauntering summer wind.
 
 Heyzoood and its Neighbourhood. 163 
 
 Then came the tall foxglove, and bushes of the golden-blossomed 
 furze, covered with gleaming spears, upon the banks of the 
 line. Oh, refulgent summer ! Time of blossoms and honey- 
 dews ; and flowers of every colour ! Thy lush fields are rich 
 with clover and herb-grass! Thy daylights glow with glory; 
 thy twilights are full of dreamy sights and sounds; and the 
 sweetest odours of the year perfume the air, when 
 
 The butterfly flits from the flowering tree ; 
 
 And the cowslip and blue-bell are bent by the bee ! 
 
 The throstle sang loud and clear in the trees and dells near the 
 line, as we rolled along; and the blithe "layrock" made the 
 air tremble, between heaven and the green meadows, with his 
 thrilling lyric. That tall, white flower, which country folk 
 call "posset," spread out its curdy top among the elegant 
 summer grasses, quietly swaying to and fro with the wind. 
 And then the daisy was there ! There is no flower so well 
 becomes the hand of a chiU as the daisy does ! That little 
 "crimson-tippet" companion of the lark, immortalised in the 
 poet's loving wail ! Tiny jewel of the fields of England ; 
 favourite of the child and of the bard ! Daisies lay like snow 
 upon the green landscape; and the hedges were white with the 
 scented blossom of the thorn. To eyes a little tired of the 
 city's hives of brick 
 
 Where stoop the sons of care, 
 O'er plains of mischief, till their souls turn grey 
 
 it was refreshing to peer about over the beautiful summer ex- 
 panse, towards the blue hills rising on the edge of the horizon, 
 solemn and serene. 
 
 My own impression of the natural charms of this part of 
 Lancashire is, perhaps, a little warmer and more accepting than 
 that of an unbiassed stranger would be ; for the wheels are beau- 
 tiful which roll me towards the country where I first pulled the 
 wild flowers and listened to the lark. In this district, there are 
 none of those rich depths of soil which, with little labour and 
 tilth, burst forth in full crops of grain. But the land is 
 mostly clothed with pastoral verdure ; and the farming is almost 
 entirely of the dairy kind. It is a country of green hills and 
 vales, and clusters of dusky mills, surrounded by industrial life ; 
 and, except on the high moorlands, there is very little land now, 
 even of 4he old mosses and morasses, which is not inclosed, and 
 in progress of cultivation. The scenery has features of beauty
 
 164 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 peculiar to itself. It consists of a succession of ever-varying 
 undulations, full of sequestered cloughs, and dingles, and shady 
 corners; threaded by many a little meandering stream, which 
 looks up at the skies from its green hollow; and which 
 
 Changes oft its varied lapse, 
 And ever as it winds, enchantment follows, 
 And new beauties rise. 
 
 Travellers from the midland and southern counties of England 
 often notice the scarcity of trees in this quarter. The native 
 woods were chiefly oak, ash, birch, beech, and yew very useful 
 timbers. But when the time came that Lancashire had to strip 
 some of its old customs and ornaments, for the fulfilment of its 
 manufacturing destiny, every useful thing upon the soil was 
 seized, and applied to the purposes of the new time. The land 
 itself began to be wanted for other ends than to grow trees upon. 
 And then, when old landlords happened to be pressed for money, 
 the timber of their estates daily becoming more valuable for 
 manufacturing necessities sometimes presented the readiest way 
 of raising it. Their lands often followed in the same track. 
 And now, the landscape looks bald. Trees are scanty and small, 
 except at a few such places as Hopwood Hall, and Chadderton 
 Hall ; and a few isolated clumps, like that which crests the 
 top of " Tandle Hills." In that part of this district which lies 
 between "Boggart Ho' Clough," near the village of Blackley, 
 on the west, the town of Middleton, on the east, and the Man- 
 chester and Leeds railway line, on the south, there is a wide 
 platform of level land, called "Th' White Moss." It stands 
 above the surrounding country ; and is quite removed from any 
 of the great highways of the neighbourhood, which, never- 
 theless, wind near to the borders of this secluded moss, with 
 their restless streams of business. In former days, this tract 
 has been a densely-wooded wild ; and, even within these twenty 
 years last past, it was one great marsh, in whose peaty swamps 
 the relics of ancient woods lay buried. Since that time, 
 nearly two hundred acres of the moss have been brought 
 into cultivation ; and it is said that this part of it now produces 
 as fine crops as any land in the neighbourhood. In turning 
 up the bog, enormous roots and branches of trees, principally 
 oaks, are often met with. Very fine oaks, beeches, firs, and 
 sometimes yew trees, of a size very seldom met with in this 
 part of Lancashire in these days, have frequently been found
 
 Hey wood and its Neighbourhood. 165 
 
 embedded in this morass, at a depth of five or six feet. Samuel 
 Bamford, in his description of the " White Moss," says : " The 
 stems and huge branches of trees were often laid bare by the 
 diggers, in cultivating it. Nearly all the trees have been found 
 lying from west to east, or from west to south. They consist of 
 oaks, beeches, alders, and one or two fine yews. The roots of 
 many of them are matted and gnarled, presenting interesting 
 subjects for reflection on the state of this region in unrecorded 
 ages. Some of these trees are in part charred when found. 
 One large oak, lying on the north-west side of the moss, has 
 been traced to fifteen yards in length, and is twelve feet round." 
 This moss was one of those lonely places to which the people 
 cf these districts found it necessary to retreat, in order to hold 
 their political meetings in safety, during that eventful period 
 of Lancashire history which fell between the years 1815 and 
 1821. It was a time of great suffering and danger in these parts. 
 The working people were often driven into riot and disorder by 
 the desperation of extreme distress; which disorder was often 
 increased by the discreditable espionage and ruthless severities 
 employed to crush political discussion among the populace. 
 Of the gallant band of reformers which led the van of the 
 popular struggle, many a humble and previously-unnoted pioneer 
 of liberty has left an heroic mark upon the history of that time. 
 Some of these are still living ; others have been many a year laid 
 in their graves; but their memories will long be cherished among 
 a people who know how to esteem men who sincerely love 
 freedom, and are able to do and to suffer for it, in a brave spirit. 
 In this active arena of industrialism, there are many places 
 of interest: old halls and churches; quaint relics of ancient 
 hamlets, hidden by the overgrowth of modern factory villages; 
 immense mills, and costly mansions, often belonging to men 
 who were poor lads a few years ago, wearing wooden clogs, 
 and carrying woollen pieces home from the loom, upon their 
 shoulders. As we cross the valley beyond the station, the little 
 old parish church of Middleton stands in sight, on the top of 
 a green eminence, about a mile north from the line. In the 
 interior of this old fane still hang, against the southern wall, the 
 standard and armour of Sir Richard Assheton, which he dedicated 
 to St. Leonard of Middleton, on returning from Flodden Field, 
 where he greatly distinguished himself, taking prisoner Sir John 
 Foreman, serjeant-porter to James the Sixth of Scotland, and
 
 1 66 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 Alexander Barrett, high sheriff of Aberdeen ; and capturing the 
 sword of the standard-bearer of the Scottish king. He led to 
 the battle a brave array of Lancashire archers, the flower of his 
 tenantry. At the western base of the hill upon which the church 
 of St. Leonard is situated, two large cotton factories now stand, 
 close to the spot which, even so late as the year 1845, was 
 occupied by the picturesque old hall of the Asshetons, lords of 
 Middleton. The new gas-works of the town fills part of the 
 space once covered with its gardens. Middleton lies principally 
 in the heart of a pleasant vale, with some relics of its ancient 
 quaintness remaining, such as the antique wood-and-plaster inn, 
 called the " Boar's Head," in the hollow, in front of the parish 
 church. The manor of Middleton anciently belonged to the 
 honour of Clithero, and was held by the Lacies, Earls of Lincoln. 
 In the reign of Henry III., the heir of Robert de Middleton held a 
 knight's fee in Middleton, of the fee of Edmund or Edward, Earl 
 of Lincoln, who held it of the Earls of Ferrars, the king's tenant in 
 capite. And Baines, in his history of Lancashire, further says : 
 
 In 3 Edward II., the manor of Middleton is found in the inquisition post-mortem 
 of Henry de Lacy, amongst the fees belonging to the manor of Tottington, held by 
 service of Thomas, Earl of Lancaster. With Henry, Earl of Lincoln, this branch of 
 the Lacys passed away ; and their possessions in this country, with his daughter and 
 heiress, devolved upon Thomas Plantagenet, Earl of Lancaster. The heirs of Robti 
 (Robert) de Middleton possessed lands in Mideltan, by military service, in the reign 
 of Henry the Third, 1216-1272. At a later period, the manor was possessed by 
 Richard Barton, Esq.: the first of this family who is recorded in connection with 
 Middleton was living in the reign of Henry the Fourth, 1410. He died without 
 surviving issue, and the manor passed to the heirs of his brother, John Barton, Esq., 
 whose daughter Margaret having married Ralph Assheton, Esq., a son of Sir John 
 Asshe 
 
 daughter Ma 
 ton, Knt., of 
 
 , ., 
 
 nt., of Ashton-under-Lyne, he became Lord of Middleton in her right, 
 the seventeenth of Henry the Sixth, 1438, and was the same year appointed a 
 page of honour to that king. He was knight-marshal of England, lieutenant of the 
 Power of London, and sheriff of Yorkshire, 1473-1474. He attended the Duke of 
 Gloucester at the battle of Haldon, or Hutton Field, Scotland, in order to recover 
 Berwick, and was created a knight banneret on the field for his gallant services, 
 1483. On the succession of Richard the Third to the crown, he created Sir Ralph 
 vice-constable of England, by letters patent, 1483. 
 
 Thus began the first connection of the town of Middleton 
 with that powerful Lancashire family, the Asshetons, of Ashton- 
 under-Lyne, in the person of the famous " Black Lad," respecting 
 whom Dr. Hibbert says, in his historical work upon Ashton- 
 under-Lyne, as follows : 
 
 It appears that Ralph Assheton became, by his alliance with a rich heiress, the 
 lord of a neighbouring manor, named Middleton, and soon afterwards received the 
 honour of knighthood, being at the same time entrusted with the office of vice- 
 chancellor, and, it is added, of lieutenant of the Tower. Invested with such au- 
 thority, he committed violent excesses in this part of the kingdom. In retaining also 
 for life the privilege of guld riding; he, on a certain day in the spring, made his ap- 
 pearance in this manner, clad in black armour (whence his name of the Black Lad},
 
 Hey wood and its Neighbourhood. 167 
 
 mounted on a charger, and attended by a numerous train of his followers, in order 
 to levy the penalty arising from neglect of clearing the land from carr giilds. The 
 interference of so powerful a knight, belonging to another lordship, could not but be 
 regarded by the tenants of Assheton as a tyrannical intrusion of a stranger, and the 
 name of the Black Lad is at present regarded with no other sentiment than that 
 of horror. Tradition has, indeed, still perpetuated the prayer that was fervently 
 ejaculated for a deliverance from his tyranny: 
 
 Sweet Jesu, for thy mercy's sake, 
 
 And for thy bitter passion, 
 Save us from the axe of the Towerj 
 
 And from Sir Ralph of Assheton. 
 
 Happily, with the death of this terrible guld-rider of Assheton, 
 the custom was abolished, but the sum of five shillings is still 
 reserved from the estate, for the purpose of commemorating it 
 by an annual ceremony. Ralph Assheton, of Middleton, was an 
 energetic adherent to the parliamentary cause during the civil 
 wars. On the 2/j.th September, 1642, about one hundred and 
 fifty of his tenants, in complete arms, joined the forces of Man- 
 chester, in opposition to the royalists. He commanded the par- 
 liamentary troops at the siege of Warrington. He was engaged 
 at the siege of Lathom House, and led the Middleton Clubmen 
 at the siege of Bolton-le-Moors. In 1648 he was a major-general, 
 and commanded the Lancashire soldiery of the commonwealth, 
 on the marshalling of the parliamentary forces to oppose the 
 Duke of Hamilton. In the same year, he took Appleby from 
 the royalists. His eldest son, Richard, who died an infant, 
 March 25th, 1631, was supposed to have been bewitched to 
 death by one Utley, "who, for the crime, was tried at the assizes 
 at Lancaster, and executed there." His son Ralph espoused the 
 cause of Charles the Second, and was created a baronet in 1663. 
 As we glide out of sight of Middleton, a prominent feature 
 of the landscape, on the opposite side of the railway, is the 
 wood-crowned summit of" Tandle Hills." These hills overlook 
 the sequestered dairy farms, and shady dingles of an extensive 
 district called " Thornham ; " which, though surrounded at short 
 distances by busy manufacturing villages and towns, is a tract 
 full of quaint farm-folds, grassy uplands and dells, interlaced with 
 green old English lanes and hedge-rows. Before the train 
 reaches "Blue Pits," it passes through the estates of the Hop- 
 woods, of Hopwood ; and, at some points, the chimneys and 
 gables of Hopwood Hall peep through surrounding woods, in a 
 retired valley, north of the line. As the train begins to slacken 
 on its approach to the station, the old road-side village of Trub 
 Smithy, the scene of many a humorous story, lies nestling beyond
 
 1 68 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 two or three fields to the south, at the foot of a slope, on 
 the high road from Manchester to Rochdale. At " Blue 
 Pits " station, we obeyed the noisy summons to " Change for 
 Heywood," and were put upon the branch line which leads 
 thitherward. The railway hence to Heywood winds through 
 green fields all the way, and is divided from the woods of 
 Hopwood by a long stripe of canal. As we rolled on, the 
 moorland heights of Ashworth, Knowl, Rooley, and Lobd;n, 
 rose in the back ground before us, seemingly at a short distance, 
 and before any glimpse was seen of the town of Heywood, lying 
 low between us and the hills. But, as we drew near, a canopy 
 of smoky cloud hung over the valley in front; and "we knew 
 by the smoke" as the song says that Heywood was near; 
 even if we had never known it before. Heywood is one of the 
 last places in the world where a man who judges of the sur- 
 rounding country by the town itself, would think of going to 
 ruralize. But, even in this smoky manufacturing town, which 
 is so meagre in historic interest, there are some peculiarities con- 
 nected with its rise and progress, and the aspects of its present 
 life; and some interesting traits in the characteristics of its in- 
 habitants. And, in its surrounding landscape, there are many 
 picturesque scenes ; especially towards the hills, where the rising 
 grounds are cleft, here and there, by romantic glens, long, 
 lonesome, and woody, and wandering far up into the moors, like 
 "Simpson Clough;" and sometimes vales, green and pleasant, by 
 the quiet water-side, like "Tyrone's Bed," and "Hooley Clough." 
 As the train drew up to that little station, which always looks 
 busy when there are a dozen people in the office, the straggling 
 ends of Heywood streets began to dawn upon us, with the 
 peeping chimney tops of the cotton mills, which lay yet too low 
 down to be wholly seen. Some costly mansions were visible 
 also, belonging to wealthy men of the neighbourhood mostly 
 rich cotton-spinners perched on " coignes of vantage," about 
 the green uplands and hollows in the valley, and generally at a 
 respectful distance from the town. Many of the cotton mills 
 began to show themselves entirely here and there in clusters 
 the older ones looking dreary, and uninviting to the eye; the new 
 ones as smart as new bricks and long lines of glittering windows 
 could make their dull, square forms appear. A number of brick- 
 built cottages bristled about the summit of a slope which rose in 
 front of us from the station, and closed from view the bulk of
 
 Hey wood and its Neighbourhood. 169 
 
 the town, in the valley beyond. We went up the slope, and 
 took a quiet bye-path which leads through the fields, along the 
 southern edge of Heywood, entering the town near the market- 
 place. And now, let us take a glance at the history, and some 
 of the present features of this place. 
 
 So far as the history of Heywood is known, it has not been 
 the arena of any of those great historical transactions of England's 
 past, which have so shaken and changed the less remote parts of 
 the country. The present appearance of Heywood would not, 
 perhaps, be any way delightful to the eye of anybody who had 
 no local interest in it. Yet, a brief review of the history, and the 
 quick growth of the place, may not be uninteresting. Heywood 
 is the capital of the township of Heap, and stands principally 
 upon a gentle elevation, in a wide valley, about three miles from 
 each of the towns of Rochdale, Bury, and Middleton. The 
 township of Heap is in the parish and manor of Bury, of which 
 manor the Earl of Derby is lord. This manor has been the 
 property of the Derby family ever since the accession of Henry 
 VII., after the battle of Bosworth Field, when it was granted 
 by the king to his father-in-law, Thomas Stanley, first Earl of 
 Derby, who figures in Shakspere's tragedy of "Richard the Third." 
 The previous possessors were the Pilkingtons, of Pilkington. Sir 
 Thomas Pilkington was an active adherent of the York faction, 
 in the wars of the Roses ; and, in a manuscript of Stowe's, his 
 name appears, with a large number of other friends of Richard, 
 who "sware Kynge Richard shuld were ye crowne." There is 
 a secluded hamlet of old-fashioned houses in this township, called 
 " Heap Fold," situated on a hill about half a mile west of Hey- 
 wood. This hamlet is generally admitted to be the oldest, and, 
 probably, the only settlement in the township of Heap in the 
 time of the Saxons, who first cleared and cultivated the land of 
 the district. Previous to that time, it may be naturally supposed 
 that, like many other parts of South Lancashire, this district was 
 overrun with woods, and swamps, and thickets. Edwin Butter- 
 worth published a little pamphlet history of Heywood, from which 
 I quote the following notes: " The origin of the designation 
 Heap is not at all obvious ; in the earliest known mention of the 
 place, it is termed Hep, which may imply a tract overgrown with 
 hawthorn berries. The name might arise from the unevenness 
 of the surface beep (Saxon), indicating a mass of irregularities. 
 The denomination 'Heywood' manifestly denotes the site of a
 
 170 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 wood in a field, or a wood surrounded by fields." Farther on, 
 in the same pamphlet, he says : " The local family of Hep, or 
 Heap, has been extinct a considerable time. The deed of the 
 gift of the whole forest of Holecombe, to the monks of St. Mary 
 Magdalen, of Bretton, in Yorkshire, by Roger de Montbegon, is 
 witnessed, amongst others, by Robert de Hep ; but without date, 
 being of an age prior to the use of dates. Roger de Montbegon, 
 however, died loth Henry III., so that this transaction occurred 
 before 1226." It may be true that what is here alluded to as 
 the local family of Hep, or Heap, is extinct; but the name of 
 Heap is now more prevalent among the inhabitants of Hey wood 
 and the immediately surrounding towns than anywhere else in 
 England. With respect to the two suppositions as to the origin 
 of the name; almost every Lancashire lad will remember that 
 he has, at one time or another, pricked his fingers with getting 
 " heps," the common bright red berry, which, in other parts, 
 goes by the name of the "hip." And then there is some show 
 of likelihood in the supposition that the name has come from 
 the Saxon word "heep," meaning "a mass of irregularities," as 
 Butterworth says ; for the whole district is a succession of hills, 
 and holes, and undulations, of ever-varying size and shape. Again, 
 he says, " Heap was doubtless inhabited by at least one Saxon 
 family, whose descendants, it is probable, quietly conformed to 
 Norman rule. In that era, or perhaps earlier, the place was 
 annexed to the lordship and church of Bury, of which Adam de 
 Bury, and Edward de Buri, were possessors shortly after the con- 
 quest.* A family of the name of Hep, or Heap, held the hamlet 
 from the paramount lords. In 1 3 1 1, third of Edward II., Henery 
 de Bury held one half of the manor of Bury."f Previous to the 
 fifteenth century, this township must have been part of a very 
 wild and untempting region, having, for the most part, little or no 
 settled population, or communion with the living world beyond ; 
 and the progress of population, and cultivation of the land, up 
 to that time, appear to have been very slow, and only in a few 
 isolated spots ; since, although there were several heys of land at 
 that time, near to a wood, thence called " Hey wood," upon the 
 spot now occupied by a busy community of people, numbering 
 twenty thousand at least, yet, there is no record of any dwelling 
 upon that spot until shortly after the fifteenth century, when a 
 
 * Testa de Neville. t Harl. MSS. Codex 2,085. f- 443-
 
 Heywood and its Neighbourhood. 171 
 
 few rural habitations were erected thereon. From this com- 
 paratively recent period may be reckoned the dawn of the rural 
 village which has since expanded into the present* manufacturing 
 town of Heywood, now thriving at a greater rate than ever, 
 under the impulse of modern industrialism. About this time, 
 too, began the residence there of a family bearing the local name. 
 u ln 1492 occurs Robert de Heywood. In the brilliant reign of 
 Elizabeth, Edmund Heywood, Esq., was required, by an order 
 dated 1574, to furnish a coat of plate, a long bowe, sheffe of 
 arrows, steel cap, and bill, for the military musters." * James 
 Heywood, gentleman, was living before 1604. Peter Heywood, 
 Esq., a zealous magistrate, the representative of this family in 
 the reigns of James the I. and Charles the I., was a native and 
 resident of the present Heywood Hall, which was erected during 
 the sixteenth century. It is said that he apprehended Guido 
 Faux, coming forth from the vault of the house of parliament, 
 on the eve of the gunpowder treason, November 5th, 1605 ; he 
 probably accompanied Sir Thomas Knevett, in his search of the 
 cellars under the parliament house. The principal interest con- 
 nected with the earliest history of the town of Heywood seems to 
 be bound up in the history of Heywood Hall and its inhabitants, 
 which will be noticed farther on. 
 
 The old episcopal chapel, near the market-place, dedicated to 
 St. Luke, is a plain little building, with nothing remarkable in 
 its appearance or its situation. It seems to have been founded at 
 the beginning of the seventeenth century. It contains inscriptions 
 commemorative of the Holts, of Grizlehurst, and the Starkies, of 
 Heywood Hall. A dial-plate on the eastern exterior bears the 
 date of 1686, with the initials of Robert Heywood, Esq., of 
 Heywood Hall, who was governor of the Isle of Man in 1678. 
 Besides the Heywoods, of Heywood Hall, there were several 
 powerful local families in the olden time seated at short distances 
 round the spot where Heywood now stands: the Heaps, of 
 Heap ; the Bamfords, of Bamford ; the Marlands, of Marland ; 
 the Holts, of Grizlehurst ; and the Hopwoods, of Hopwood 
 which last still reside upon their ancient estate. 
 
 Heywood, or " Monkey Town," as sarcastic people in other 
 parts of Lancashire sometimes call it, is now a manufacturing 
 place of at least twenty thousand inhabitants. It owes its rise 
 
 * Hard. MSS., 1236. There is a pedigree of this family in Dodsworth's MSS. 
 Bodleian Lib. vol. Ixxix.
 
 172 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 almost entirely to the cotton manufacture ; and the history of the 
 latter incorporates the history of the former in a much greater 
 degree than that of any other considerable town in the district. 
 This gives it a kind of interest which certainly does not belong 
 to any beauty the appearance of the town at present possesses. 
 A few years before those mechanical inventions became known 
 which ultimately made Lancashire what it is now, Heywood 
 was a little peaceful country fold; but a few years after 
 these inventions came into action, it began to grow into 
 what the people of those days thought "something rich and 
 strange," with a celerity akin to the growth of great towns 
 in the United States of America. About two hundred years 
 ago, a few rural cottages first arose upon this almost unpeopled 
 spot; and at the time when the manufacture of cotton began 
 in South Lancashire, it was still a -small agricultural village, 
 prettily situated in a picturesque scene, about the centre of 
 the ridge of land which is now nearly covered by the present 
 smoky town. This little nucleus clustered near the old chapel 
 which stands in the market-place. Previous to the invention 
 of the fly shuttle, by Kay, in the neighbouring town of 
 Bury ; and the ingenious combinations of the inventions of 
 his contemporaries by Arkwright, the Preston barber, almost 
 every farm-house and cottage in this part had the old- 
 fashioned spinning-wheel and the hand-loom in them, where- 
 with to employ any time the inhabitants could spare from their 
 rural occupations. At the time of Arkwright's first patent, the 
 people of these parts little knew what a change the time's inven- 
 tions were bringing upon their quiet haunts still less of the 
 vast influences which were to arise therefrom, combining to the 
 accomplishment of incalculable ends; and they were, at first, 
 slow to wean from their old, independent way of living, partly 
 by farming and partly by manufacturing labour, which they 
 could do in their own houses, and at their own leisure. " Man- 
 chester manufacturers are glad," says Arthur Young, in 1770 
 (the year of Arkwright's first patent), "when bread is dear, for 
 then the people are forced to work." But though the supply of 
 yarn in those days was less than the demand, and the people 
 were not yet draughted away from their old manner of life, they 
 were caught in the web of that inevitable destiny which will 
 have its way, in spite of the will of man. The world's Master 
 had new commissioners abroad for the achievement of new
 
 Hey wood end its Neighbourhood. 173 
 
 purposes. These wonder-working seeds of providence, patiently 
 developing themselves in secret, were soon to burst forth in a 
 wide harvest of change upon the field of human life. Certain men 
 of mechanical genius arose, and their creative dreams wrought 
 together in a mysterious way to the production of extraordinary 
 results. John Kay, of Bury, invented the " picking-peg," or 
 "fly-shuttle," in 1738; and his son, Robert Kay, invented the 
 "drop-box," used in the manufacture of fabrics of various colours; 
 and that wonderful cotton and woollen carding machine, which 
 stretches the wire out of the ring, cuts it into lengths, staples and 
 crooks it into teeth, pricks holes in the leather, and puts in the 
 teeth, row after row, with extraordinary speed and precision, till 
 the cards are finished. Thomas Highs, the humble and ingenious 
 reed-maker, at Leigh, in 1763, originated that first remarkable 
 improvement in spinning machinery which he called after his 
 favourite daughter, "Jenny;" and he also introduced the "throstle," 
 or water-frame, in 1767. This man lingered out his old age in 
 affliction and dependence. James Hargreaves, the carpenter, of 
 Blackburn, improved upon the original idea of the spinning jenny, 
 and invented the crank and comb, "an engine of singular merit 
 for facilitating the progress of carding cotton." The ignorant 
 jealousy of the Lancashire operatives in those days drove this 
 ingenious man to seek shelter in Nottinghamshire, where he was 
 but ill-received, and where he ended his days in poverty. He 
 died in a workhouse. Arkwright, the Preston barber, was more 
 endowed by nature with the qualities requisite for worldly success 
 than these ingenious, abstracted, and simple-minded mechanical 
 dreamers. He was a man of great perseverance and worldly sa- 
 gacity. With characteristic cunning, he appears to have wormed 
 their secrets out of some of these humble inventors; and then, with 
 no less industry and enterprise than ingenuity, he combined these 
 with other kindred inventions, and wrought them into a practical 
 operation, which, by its results, quickly awakened the world to 
 a knowledge of their power. He became a rich man, and " Sir 
 Richard." In 1780, the "spinning mule" was first introduced 
 by its inventor, Samuel Crompton, a dreamy weaver, then 
 dwelling in a dilapidated corner of an old Lancashire hall, called 
 *'Th' Hall i'th Wood," in Turton, near Bolton. This machine 
 united the powers of the spinning jenny and the water frame. 
 The spinning mule is now in general use in the cotton manufac- 
 ture. This poor weaver gave his valuable invention to the public,
 
 174 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 without securing a patent. His remuneration, in the shape of 
 money, was therefore left to the cold chances of charity. He 
 was, however, at first, rewarded by a subscription of one 
 hundred guineas ; and, twenty years afterwards, by an additional 
 subscription of four hundred guineas; and in 1812, parliament 
 awarded the sum of five thousand pounds to the dreamy old 
 weaver, in his latter days. In 1785, the first patent for the 
 power-loom was obtained by the Rev. Edmund Cartwright, of 
 Kent, who invented it ; and, after considerable improvements, it 
 has at last contributed another great impulse to the manufac- 
 turing power of these districts. Whilst these mechanical agencies 
 were developing themselves, James Watt was busy with his 
 steam power; and Brindley, in conjunction with the Duke of 
 Bridgewater, was constructing his water-ways. They were 
 all necessary parts of one great scheme of social alteration, 
 the end of which is not yet. These men were the immediate 
 sources of the manufacturing power and wealth of Lancashire. 
 Up rose Arkwright's model mill at Cromford; and the people 
 of South Lancashire, who were spinning and weaving in 
 the old way, in their scattered cottages and folds, began 
 to find themselves drawn by irresistible spells into new com- 
 binations, and new modes of living and working. Their 
 remote haunts began to resound with the tones of clustering 
 labour; their quiet rivers, late murmuring clear through silent 
 vales and cloughs, began to be dotted with mills; and their 
 little villages shot up into large manufacturing towns. From 
 1770 to 1788, the use of wool and linen in the spinning of 
 yarns had almost disappeared, and cotton had become the almost 
 universal material for employment. Hand wheels were superseded 
 by common jennies, hand carding by carding engines, and hand 
 picking* by the fly shuttle. From 1778 to 1803 was the golden 
 age of this great trade ; the introduction of mule yarns, assimilated 
 with other yarns producing every description of goods, gave a 
 preponderating wealth through the loom. The mule twist being 
 rapidly produced, and the demand for goods very large, put 
 all hands in request; and weaver's shops became yearly more 
 numerous. The remuneration for labour was high, and the 
 population was in a comfortable condition. The dissolution of 
 
 * The "picking rod " is a straight wooden handle, by which the hand-loom weaver 
 used to impel his shuttle. "As straight as a pickin' rod," is a common phrase among 
 country people in South Lancashire.
 
 Hey wood and its Neighbourhood. 175 
 
 Arkwright's patent in 1785, and the general adoption of mule 
 spinning in 1790, concurred to give the most extraordinary im- 
 petus to the cotton manufacture. Numerous mills were erected, 
 and filled with water frames ; and jennies and mules were made 
 and set to work with incredible rapidity.* Heywood had already 
 risen up, by the previous methods of manufacture, to a place of 
 about two thousand inhabitants, in the year 1780 that change- 
 ful crisis of its history when the manufacture of cotton by steam 
 power first began in the township of Heap, with the erection of 
 Makin Mill, hard by the north side of Heywood. This mill was 
 built by the firm of Peel, Yates, and Co., of Bury the principal 
 of which firm was Robert Peel, Esq. (afterwards Sir Robert), and 
 father of the memorable Sir Robert Peel, late prime minister of 
 England, whose name is honourably connected with the abolition 
 of the Corn Laws ; a man who won the gratitude of a nation 
 by daring to turn "traitor" to a great wrong, that he might 
 help a great right. This mill is now the property of Edmund 
 Peel, Esq., brother of the late Sir Robert. It stands about half a 
 mile from Heywood, in a shady clough, and upon the banks of the 
 river Roch, which rises in the hills on the north-east extremity 
 of the county, and flows down through the town of Rochdale, 
 passing through the glen called " Tyrone's Bed ;" and through 
 " Hooley Clough." The river then winds on westward, by the 
 town of Bury, three miles off. The course of this water is now 
 well lined with manufacturing power, nearly from its rise to 
 its embouchure. A stranger may always find the mills of Lan- 
 cashire by following the courses of its waters. 
 
 Before the factory system arose, when the people of this quarter 
 did their manufacturing work at their homes when they were 
 not yet brought completely to depend upon manufacture for live- 
 lihood, and when their manner of life was, at least, more natural 
 and hardy than it became afterwards their condition was, morally 
 and physically, very good, compared with the condition which 
 the unrestricted factory system led to, in the first rush after 
 wealth which it awoke ; especially in the employment of young 
 children in mills. The amount of demoralisation and physical 
 deterioration then entailed upon the population, particularly in 
 isolated nooks of the country, where public opinion had little 
 controlling influence upon such mill-owners as happened to possess 
 
 .* " Radcliffe's Origin of Power-loom Weaving," pp. 59 66.
 
 lj6 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 more avarice than humane care for their operative dependents, 
 must have been great. It was a wild steeple-chase for wealthy 
 stakes, in which whip and spur were used with little mercy, 
 and few were willing to peril their chances of the plate by 
 any considerations for the sufferings of the animal that carried 
 them. But the condition of the factory operatives, since 
 the introduction of the Ten Hours' Bill and, perhaps, partly 
 through the earnest public discussions which led to that en- 
 actment has visibly begun to improve. Benevolent and just 
 men, who own mills, have, of their own accord, in many 
 honourable instances, paid a more liberal attention to the wel- 
 fare of their workpeople even than the provisions of the law 
 demanded: and those mill-owners whose only care for their 
 operatives was bounded by a desire to wring as much work as 
 possible out of them for as little pay as possible, were compelled 
 to fulfil certain humane regulations, which their own sympathies 
 would have been slow to concede. The hours of factory labour 
 are now sy tematically shortened ; and the operatives are not even 
 so drunken, riotous, and ignorant, as when they were wrought 
 from bed-time to bed-time. Books and schools, and salutary 
 recreation, and social comfort, are more fashionable among them 
 than they used to be partly because they are more practicable 
 things to them than before. The mills themselves are now 
 healthier than formerly j factory labour is restricted to children 
 of a reasonable age; and elementary education is now, by a 
 wisdom worthy of extension, administered through the impulse 
 of the law, to all children of a certain age in factories. 
 
 Hey wood is altogether of too modern an origin to contain any 
 buildings interesting to the admirer of ancient architecture. The 
 only places in Heywood around which an antiquarian would be 
 likely to linger, with anything like satisfaction, would be the little 
 episcopal chapel in the market-place, founded in the seventeenth 
 century ; and Heywood Hall, which stands about half a mile 
 from the town, and of which more anon. With these exceptions, 
 there is probably not one building in the place two hundred 
 years old. 
 
 The appearance of Heywood, whether seen in detail or as a 
 whole, presents as complete, unrelieved, and condensed an epi- 
 tome of the still-absorbing spirit of manufacture in the region 
 where it originated, as can be found anywhere in Lancashire. 
 And, in all its irregular main street consisting of more than a
 
 Hey wood and its Neighbourhood, 177 
 
 mile of brick-built shops and cottages together with the little 
 streets and alleys diverging therefrom there does not appear 
 even one modern building remarkable for taste, or for any other 
 distinguishing excellence, sufficient to induce an ordinary man 
 to halt and admire it for a minute. There is not even an edifice 
 characterised by any singularity whatever, calculated to awaken 
 wonder or curiosity in an ordinary beholder, except its great 
 square, brick cotton mills, machine shops, and the like; and 
 when the outside of one of these has been seen, the outside of 
 the remainder is no novelty. The heights and depths principally 
 cultivated in Heywood appear to be those of factory chimneys 
 and coal-pits. Of course, the interiors of the mills teem with 
 mechanical wonders and ingenuities ; and the social life and 
 characteristics of the population are full of indigenous interest. 
 But the general exterior of the town exhibits a dull and dusky 
 succession of manufacturing sameness. Its inns, with one or two 
 exceptions, look like jerry-shops; and its places of worship like 
 warehouses. A living writer has said of the place, that it looks 
 like a great funeral on its way from Bury to Rochdale between 
 which towns it is situated midway. When seen from any 
 neighbouring elevation, on a dull day, this strong figure hardly 
 exaggerates the truth. The whole life of Heywood seems to be 
 governed by the ring of factory bells at least, much more than 
 by any other bells. The very dwelling-houses look as if they, 
 too, worked in the factories. To persons accustomed to the 
 quaint prettiness of well-regulated English rural villages, and the 
 more natural hue and general appearance of the people in such 
 places, the inhabitants of Heywood would, at first sight, have 
 somewhat of a sallow appearance, and their houses would appear 
 to be slightly smeared with a mixture of soot, sperm oil, and cotton 
 fluz. And, if such observers knew nothing of the real character 
 and habits of the population, they would be slow to believe them 
 a people remarkably fond of cleanliness and of homely comfort, 
 as far as compatible with the nature of their employment. A 
 close examination of these Heywood cottages would show, how- 
 ever, that their insides are more clean and comfortable than the 
 first glance at their outsides might suggest; and would also reveal 
 many othep things not discreditable to the native disposition of 
 the people who dwell in them. But the architecture and general 
 characteristics of Heywood, as a town, evince no taste, no refine- 
 ment, nor even public spirit of liberality, commensurate with its
 
 178 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 wealth and energy. The whole population seems yet too wrapt 
 in its manufacturing dream, to care much about the general 
 adornment of the place, or even about any very effective diffusion 
 of those influences which tend to the improvement of the health 
 and the culture of the nobler faculties of the people. But 
 Heywood may yet emerge from its apprenticeship to blind toil ; 
 and, wiping the dust from its eyes, look forth towards things 
 quite as essential as this unremitting fight for bread for the day. 
 At present, wherever one wanders among the streets on week- 
 days, the same manufacturing indications present themselves. It 
 is plain that its people are nearly all employed in one way, 
 directly or indirectly. This is suggested, not only by the number 
 and magnitude of the mills, and the habitations of the people, 
 but by every movement on the streets. Every vehicle that 
 passes; every woman and child about the cottages; every lounger 
 in the market-place tells the same story. One striking feature of 
 week-day life in Heywood, more completely even than in many 
 other kindred towns, is the clock-work punctuality with which 
 the operative crowds rush from the mills, and hurry along the 
 streets, at noon, to their dinners ; sauntering back again in twos 
 and threes, or speeding along in solitary haste, to get within the 
 mill-doors in time for that re-awakening boom of the machinery 
 which is seldom on the laggard side of its appointment. And it 
 is not only in the dress and manners of this body of factory 
 operatives in their language and deportment, and the prevailing 
 hue of their countenances that the character and influence of 
 their employment is indicated ; but also in a modified variety of 
 the same features in the remainder of the population, who are 
 either immediately connected with these operatives, or indirectly 
 affected by the same manufacturing influences. I have noticed, 
 however, that factory operatives in country manufacturing towns 
 like Heywood have a more wholesome appearance, both in dress 
 and person, than the same class in Manchester. Whether this 
 arises from any difference in the atmosphere, or from more 
 healthy habits of factory operatives in the country than those 
 induced among the same class by the temptations of a town like 
 Manchester, I cannot say. 
 
 In the course of the year, there are two very ancient festivals 
 kept up, each with its own quaint peculiarities, by the Heywood 
 people; and commemorated by them with general rejoicing and 
 cessation from labour. One of these is the " Rush-bearing," held
 
 Hey wood and its Neighbourhood. 179 
 
 in the month of August an old feast which seems to have died 
 out almost everywhere else in England, except in Lancashire. 
 Here, in Heywood, however, as in many other towns of the 
 county, this ancient festival is still observed, with two or three 
 days' holiday and hilarity. The original signification of this 
 annual " Rush-bearing," and some of the old features connected 
 with the ceremony, such as the bearing of the rushes, with great 
 rejoicing, to the church, and the strewing of them upon the 
 earthen floor of the sacred fane, have long since died out. The 
 following passage is taken from a pcem called "The Village 
 Festival," written by Elijah Ridings, a living author, of local 
 celebrity, and is descriptive of the present characteristics of a 
 Lancashire "Rush-bearing," as he had seen it celebrated in his 
 native village of Newton, between Manchester and Oldham : 
 
 When wood and barn-owls loudly shout. 
 As if were near some rabble rout ; 
 When beech-trees drop the yellow leaf, 
 A type of human hope and grief; 
 When little wild flowers leave the sun, 
 Their pretty love-tasks being done ; 
 And nature, with exhaustless charms, 
 Lets summer die in autumn's arms: 
 There is a merry, happy time, 
 
 With which I'll grace my simple rhyme :- 
 The wakes the wake^ the jocund wakes 
 My wand'ring memory forsakes 
 
 The present busy scene of things, 
 
 And soars away on fancy's wings, 
 
 For olden times, with garlands crown'd, 
 
 And rush-carts green on many a mound, 
 
 In hamlet bearing a great name,* 
 
 The first in astronomic fame ; 
 
 With buoyant youth and modest maid, 
 
 Skipping along the green-sward glade, 
 
 With laughing eyes and ravished sight, 
 
 To share once more the old delight ! 
 
 Oh ! now there comes and let's partake 
 
 Brown nuts, spice bread, and Eccles cake ; t 
 
 There's flying-boxes, whirligigs, 
 
 And sundry rustic pranks and rigs ; 
 
 With old '' Chum" \ cracking nuts and jokes, 
 
 To entertain the country folks ; 
 
 But more, to earn a honest penny, 
 
 And get a decent living, any 
 
 Aye, any an humble, striving way, 
 
 Than do what shuns the light of day. 
 
 Behold the rush-cart, ar d the throng 
 
 Of lads and lasses pass along ! 
 Now witch the nimble morris-dancers, 
 Those blithe, fantastic antic-prancers, 
 Bedeck'd with gaudiest profusion 
 
 * The village of Newton, on Newton Heath, near Manchester. 
 
 + A kind of spiced cake, for wh ch the village of Ecclc, near Manchester, is 
 
 t A quaint old vendor of nuts and Eccles cakes, who used to be well luiown at 
 Lancashire wakes and fairs.
 
 i8o Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 Of ribbons, in a gay confusion 
 Of brilliant colours, richest dyes. 
 Like wings of moths and butterflies ; 
 Waving white kerchiefs here and there, 
 And up and down, and everywhere : 
 Springing, bounding, gaily skipping. 
 Deftly, briskly, no one tripping ; 
 All young fellows, blithe and hearty, 
 Thirty couples in the party ; 
 And on the footpaths may be seen 
 Their sweethearts from each lane, and green 
 And cottage home ; all fain to see 
 This festival of rural glee ; 
 The love-betrothed, the fond heart-plighted. 
 And with the witching scene delighted 
 In modest guise, and simple graces, 
 With roses blushing on their faces ; 
 Ah ! what denotes, or what bespeaks 
 Love more than such sweet apple-cheeks ? 
 Behold the strong-limbed horses stand, 
 The pride and boast of English land, 
 Fitted to move in shafts or chains, 
 With plaited, glossy tails and manes : 
 Their proud heads each a garland wears 
 Of quaint devices suns and stars ; 
 And roses, ribbon-wrought, abound ; 
 The silvir plate ,* one hundred pound, 
 With green oak boughs the cart is crowned, 
 The strong, gaunt horses shake the ground. 
 Now, see, the welcome host appears, 
 And thirsty mouths the ale-draught cheers 
 Draught after draught is quickly gone 
 "Come ; here's a health to everyone !" 
 Away with care and doleful thinking . 
 The cup goes round ; what hearty drinking ! 
 While many a youth the lips is smacking, 
 And the two drivers' whips are cracking ; 
 Now, strike up music, the old tune ; 
 And louder, quicker, old bassoon ; 
 Come, bustle, lads, for one dance more, 
 And then cross-morris three times o'er. 
 Another jug see how it foams 
 And next the brown October comes : 
 Full five years old, the host declares, 
 And if you doubt it, loudly swears 
 That it's the best in any town 
 Tenpenny ale, the real nut-brown. 
 And who was he, that jovial fellow, 
 With his strong ale so old and mellow 
 A huge, unwieldy man was he. 
 Like Falstaff, fat and full of glee. 
 With belly like a thirty-six f 
 (Now, reader, your attention fix), 
 In loose habiliments he stands, 
 Broad-shouldered, and with brawny hands ; 
 Good humour beaming in his eye. 
 And the old, rude simplicity ; 
 Ever alive for rough or smooth, 
 That rare old fellow, Bill o' Booth ! } 
 
 * Much valuable silver plate is sometimes lent by the inhabitants of Lancashire 
 villages, to adorn the front of their native rush-cart during its annual peregrinations. 
 
 + A thirty-six gallon barrel. 
 
 { He was the landlord of an old road-side inn, on Newton Heath, with a pleasant 
 t>owli:ig-green behind it. The house is stil! known as " Bill o' Booth's."
 
 Heywood and its Neighbourhood. 1 8 1 
 
 The other is a famous old festival here, as well as in the 
 neighbouring town of Bury. It is a peculiarly local one, also; 
 for, I believe, it is not celebrated anywhere else in England 
 except in these two towns. It begins on Mid-Lent Sunday, or 
 " Simblin-Sunday," as the people of the district call it, from the 
 name of a spiced cake which is prepared for this feast in great 
 profusion, and in the making of which there is considerable 
 expense and rivalry shown. On "Simblin-Sunday," the two 
 towns of Bury and Heywood swarm with visitors from the 
 surrounding country, and "simblins" of extraordinary size and 
 value are exhibited in the shop windows. The festival is kept 
 up during two or three days of the ensuing week. In the Rev. 
 W, Gaskell's interesting lectures on the "Lancashire Dialect," 
 the following passage occurs relative to this "Simblin-Cake:" 
 " As you are aware there is a kind of cake for which the town of 
 Bury is famous, and which gives its name in these parts to Mid- 
 Lent Sunday I mean 'symnel.' Many curious and fanciful 
 derivations have been found for this ; but I feel no doubt that 
 we must look for its true origin to the Anglo-Saxon 'simble' or 
 'simle,' which means a feast, or 'symblian,' to banquet. 'Simnel' 
 was evidently some kind of the finest bread. From the chronicle 
 of Battle Abbey, we learn that, in proof of his regard for the 
 monks, the Conqueror granted for their daily uses thirty-six 
 ounces of ' bread fit for the table of a king,' which is called sime- 
 nel; and Roger de Hoveden mentions, among the provisions 
 allowed to the Scotch King, at the Court of England, 'twelve 
 simeneh? 'Banquet bread,' therefore, would seem to come very 
 near the meaning of this word. I may just observe in passing, 
 that the baker's boy who, in the reign of Henry VII., personated 
 the Earl of Warwick was most likely called ' Lambert Simnel,' 
 as a sort of nickname derived from his trade." * 
 
 The amusements, or what may be called the leisure-habits, of 
 the factory population in Lancashire manufacturing towns are 
 much alike. Some are sufficiently jaded when their day's work 
 is done, or are too apathetic by nature to engage heartily in 
 
 * The following note is attached to this passage, in Mr. Gaskell's lectures : 
 "That noHe master of language, Walter Savage Landor, who has done me the 
 honour to refer to my lecture in the Examiner, says of this word 'symble,' a feast, 
 it is very likely 'symbslum,' which means the same, in form of pic-nic : and adds, 
 ' In Tuscany a fine cake is called semolino. When I was a boy at Rugby, I remember 
 a man from Banbury who sold simnels, very eatable. The interior was not unlike 
 mince-pie without fat, but flavoured with saffron ; the exterior was hard, smooth, 
 and yellow'"
 
 1 8 2 Lancashire Sketches : 
 
 anything requiring further exertion of body or mind. There are 
 many, however, who, when they leave the factory in the evening, 
 go with a kind of renovating glee to the reading of such books as 
 opportunity brings within their reach, or to the systematic pro- 
 secution of some chosen study, such as music, botany, mechanics, 
 or mathematics, which are favourite sciences among the working 
 people of Lancashire. And even among the humblest there are 
 often shrewd and well-read, if not extensively-read, politicians, 
 chiefly of the Cobbett school. But the greatest number occupy 
 their leisure with rude physical sports, or those coarser indulgences 
 which, in a place like Heywood, are more easily got at than 
 books and schools, especially by that part of the people who have 
 been brought up in toilful ignorance of these elements. The tap- 
 room is the most convenient school and meetfng-place for these ; 
 and the tap-rooms are numerous, and well attended. There, 
 factory lads congregate nightly, clubbing their pence for cheap 
 ale, and whiling the night hours away in coarse ribaldry and 
 dominoes, or in vigorous contention in the art of single step- 
 dancing, upon the ale-house hearth-stone. This single step-dancing 
 is a favourite exercise with them; and their wooden clogs are 
 often very neatly made for the purpose, lacing closely up to 
 above the ancle, and ornamented with a multitude of bright brass 
 lace holes. The quick, well-timed clatter upon the tap-room 
 flags generally tells the whereabouts of such dancing haunts to a 
 stranger as he goes along the streets ; and, if he peeps into one of 
 them, he may sometimes see a knot of factory lads clustered about 
 the tap-room door inside, encouraging some favourite caperer 
 with such exclamations as, "Deawn wi' thi fuut, Robin ! Crack 
 thi rags, owd dog !" The chief out-door sports of the working 
 class are foot-racing, and jumping matches; and sometimes 
 foot-ball and cricket. Wrestling, dog-fighting, and cock-fighting 
 are not uncommon ; but they are more peculiar to the hardier 
 population outside the towns. Now and then, a rough "up-and- 
 down" fight takes place, at an ale-house door, or brought off, 
 more systematically, in a nook of the fields. This rude and 
 ancient manner of personal combat is graphically described 
 by Samuel Bamford, in his well-known "Passages in the 
 Life of a Radical." The moors north of Heywood afford 
 great sport in the grouse season. Some of the local gentry 
 keep harriers; and now and then, a " foomart-hunt" takes 
 place, with the long-eared dogs, whose mingled music, when
 
 Heywood and its Neighbourhood. 183 
 
 heard from the hill-sides, sounds like a chime of bells in the 
 distant valley. The entire population, though engaged in manu- 
 facture, evinces a hearty love of the fields and field sports, 
 and a strong tincture of the rough simplicity, and idiomatic 
 quaintness of their forefathers, or "fore-elders," as they often 
 call them. In an old fold near Heywood, there lived a man a 
 few years since, who was well known thereabouts as a fighter. 
 The lads of the hamlet were proud of him as a local champion. 
 Sometimes he used to call at a neighbouring ale-house, to get a 
 gill, and have a "bout" with anybody worth the trouble, for 
 our hero had a sort of chivalric dislike to spending his time on 
 "wastrils" unworthy of his prowess. When lie chanced to be 
 seen advancing from the distance, the folk in the house used to 
 say, "Hellho! so-and-so's coming; teen th' dur!" whereupon 
 the landlord would reply, " Nawe, nawe ! lev it oppen, or else 
 he'll punce it in ! But yo'n no casion to be fleyed, for he's as 
 harmless as a chylt to aught at's wayker nor his-sel ! " He is said 
 to have been a man of few words, except when roused to anger ; 
 when he uttered terrible oaths, with great vehemence. The 
 people of his neighbourhood say that he once swore so heavily 
 when in a passion, that a plane-tree, growing at the front of his 
 cottage, withered away from that hour. Most Lancashire villages 
 contain men of this stamp men of rude, strong frame and temper, 
 whose habits, manners, and even language, smack a little of the 
 days of Robin Hood. Yet, it is not uncommon to find them 
 students of botany and music, and fond of little children. Jane 
 Clough, a curious local character, died at a great age, near Hey- 
 wood, about a year and a half ago. Jane was a notable country 
 botanist, and she had many other characteristics which made her 
 remarkable. She was born upon Bagslate Heath, a moorland 
 tract, up in the hills, to the north-east of Heywood. I well 
 remember that primitive country amazon, who, when I was a 
 lad, was such an old-world figure upon the streets of Rochdale 
 and Heywood. Everybody knew Jane Clough. She was very 
 tall, and of most masculine face and build of body; with a 
 clear, healthy complexion. She was generally drest in a strong, 
 old-fashioned blue woollen bedgown, and thick petticoats of the 
 same stuff. She wore a plain but very clean linen cap upon her 
 head, loosely covered with a silk kerchief; and her foot-gear 
 was heavy clouted shoon, or wooden clogs, suitable to her 
 rough country walks, her great strength, and masculine habits.
 
 184 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 Botany was always a ruling passion with old moorland Jane. 
 She was the queen of all flower-growers in humble life upon 
 her native ground; especially in the cultivation of the poly- 
 anthus, auricula, tulip, and " ley," or carnation. Jane was well 
 known at all the flower shows of the neighbourhood, where she 
 was often a successful exhibitor; and though she was known as 
 a woman of somewhat scrupulous moral character and there 
 are many anecdotes illustrative of this yet she was almost 
 equally well known at foot-races and dog-battles, or any other 
 kind of battles; for which she not unfrequently held the stakes. 
 
 There used to be many a " hush-shop," or house for the sale 
 of unlicensed drink, about Hey wood; and if the district was 
 thrown into a riddle, they would turn up, now and then, yet ; 
 especially in the outskirts of the town, and up towards the hills. 
 These are generally sly spots, where fuddlers, who like ale for its 
 own sake, can steal in when things are quiet, and get their fill 
 at something less than the licensed price ; or carry off a bottle-full 
 into the fields, after the gloaming has come on. Of course hush- 
 shop tipplers could not often indulge in that noisy freedom of 
 speech, nor in those wild bursts of bacchanalian activity vulgarly 
 known by the name of " hell's delight," of which licensed ale- 
 houses are sometimes the scenes; and where the dangerous 
 Lancashire ale-house game, called "Th' Bull upo' th' Bauk," has 
 sometimes finished a night of drunken comedy with a touch of 
 real tragedy. The most suitable customers for the "hush-shop" 
 were quiet, steady soakers, who cared for no other company 
 than a full pitcher; and whose psalm of life consisted of 
 scraps of drinking-songs like the following, trolled out in a 
 low chuckling tone : 
 
 good ale, thou art my darling, 
 
 1 love thee night, T love thee morning, 
 I love thee new, I love thee old ; 
 
 I love thee warm, 1 love thee cold ! 
 
 Oh ! good aje ! 
 
 There is an old drinking-song just re-published in " The Songs 
 of the Dramatists," which was printed in 1575, in Bishop Still's 
 comedy of " Gammer Gurton's Needle," though probably 
 known earlier. Fragments of this song are still known and 
 sung in the north of England. The burden runs thus in a 
 Lancashire version : 
 
 Back and side, go bare, go bare, 
 
 Fuut and hond, go coud ; 
 But bally, God send thee good ale enough, 
 
 Whether it's yung or owd !
 
 Heywood and its Neighbourhood. 185 
 
 Having glanced in this brief way at the progress of Hey wood, 
 from the time when it first began to give a human interest to the 
 locality, as a tiny hamlet, about the end of the fifteenth century, 
 up to its present condition, as a cotton-spinning town of twenty 
 thousand inhabitants, surrounded by a district alive with manu- 
 facturing activities, I will return to the narrative of my visit to 
 the place, as it fell on one fine afternoon about the end of June. 
 
 We had come round from the railway station, along the 
 southern edge of the town, and through the fields, by a footpath 
 which led us into Heywood about one hundred yards from the 
 old chapel in the middle of the place. The mills were stopped. 
 Country people were coming into town to do their errands, 
 and a great part of the working population appeared to be 
 sauntering along the main street, stopping at the shops, to make 
 their markets as they went along; or casting about for their 
 Saturday night's diversion, and gazing from side to side, to 
 see what could be seen. Clusters of factory girls were gathered 
 about the drapers' windows. These girls were generally clean 
 and tidy ; and, not unfrequently, there were very intelligent and 
 pretty countenances amongst them. The older part of the factory 
 operatives, both men and women, had often a staid and jaded look. 
 The shops were busy with customers buying clothing, or food, 
 or cheap publications; and the ale-houses were getting lively. 
 A little company of young " factory chaps" were collected about 
 a bookseller's shop, near the old " Queen Anne," looking out 
 for news, or pictures; or reading the periodicals exposed in the 
 windows. Now and then, a select straggler wended his way 
 across the road to change his "library-book" at the Mechanks' 
 Institution. There was considerable stir lower down the street, 
 where a noisy band of music was marching along, followed by 
 an admiring multitude. And, amongst the whole, a number 
 of those active, mischief-loving lads, so well known in every 
 manufacturing town by the name of "dofFers," were clat- 
 tering about, and darting after one another among the crowd, 
 as blithe as if they had never known what work was. We 
 crossed through the middle of the town, and went down the 
 north road into an open tract of meadow land, towards the 
 residence of mine host. 
 
 The house was pleasantly situated in a garden, about two 
 stones' throw from the edge of Heywood, in the wide level of 
 grass land called "Yewood Ho' Grevt Meadow." The road
 
 f 86 Lancashire Sketches : 
 
 goes close by the end of the garden. We entered this garden 
 by a little side gate, and on we went, under richly-blossomed 
 apple trees, and across the grass-plat, into the house. The old 
 housekeeper began to prepare tea for us ; and, in the meantime, 
 we made ourselves at home in the parlour, which looked out 
 upon the garden and meadows at the front. Mine host sat 
 down to the piano, and played some of that fine old psalmody 
 which the country people of Lancashire take such delight in. 
 His family consisted of himself, a staid-looking old housekeeper, 
 and his two motherless children. One of these was a timid, 
 bright-eyed little girl, with long flaxen hair, who, as we came 
 through the garden, was playing with her hoop upon the 
 grass-plat, under the blooming apple trees ; but who, on seeing a 
 stranger, immediately sank into a shy stillness. The other was 
 a contemplative lad, about thirteen, with a Melancthon style of 
 countenance. I found him sitting in the parlour, absorbed 
 in "Roderick Random." As soon as tea was over, we went 
 out in the cool of the evening, to see the daylight die upon the 
 meadows around. We could hear the stir of Saturday night 
 life in the town. Through the parlour window we had caught 
 glimpses of the weird flittings of a large bat ; and, as we stood 
 bare-headed in the garden, it still darted to and fro about the 
 eaves, in dusky, vivid motions. As the cool night stole on, 
 we went in, and the shutters closed us from the scene. We 
 lingered over supper, talking of what newspaper writers call 
 "the topics of the day," and of books, and local characters 
 and customs; and about half an hour before midnight we 
 crept off to bed. 
 
 When I rose from bed, and looked through the window of 
 my chamber, the rich haze of a cloudless midsummer morning 
 suffused the air. The sunshine lay glittering all over the dewy 
 fields; for the fiery steeds of Phoebus had not yet drunk up 
 those springs "on chalked flowers that lie." The birds had 
 been up many an hour, and were carolling and chirping glee- 
 fully about the eaves of the house, and in the gardens. The 
 splendour of the day had touched even the dull town on the 
 opposite ridge with its beautifying magic; and Hey wood seemed 
 to rest from its labours, and rejoice in the gladness which 
 clothed the heavens and the earth. The long factory chimneys, 
 which had been bathing their smokeless tops all night in the 
 cool air, now looked up serenely through the sunshine at the
 
 Heywood and its Neighbourhood. 187 
 
 blue sky, as if they, too, were glad to get rid of the week-day 
 fume, and gaze quietly again upon the loveliness of nature; and 
 all the whirling spinning machinery of the town was lying still 
 and silent as the over-arching heavens. Another Sabbath had 
 dawned upon the world; and that day of God, and god of days, 
 was breathing its balm among the sons of toil once more. 
 
 Man has another day to swell the past, 
 And lead him near to little, but his last : 
 But mighty nature bounds as from her birth ; 
 The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth ; 
 Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam, 
 Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream. 
 Immortal man ! behold her glories shine, 
 And cry, exulting inly, "They are mine !" 
 Gaze on, while yet thy gladden'd eye may see ; 
 A morrow comes when they are not for thee. 
 
 It was a teast to the senses and to the soul to look round upon 
 such a scene at such a time, with the faculties fresh from 
 repose, and conscious of reprieve from that relentless round 
 of necessities that follow them, hot-foot, through the rest of the 
 week. As I dressed myself, I heard mine host's little daughter 
 begin to play "Rosseau's Dream," in the parlour below, and I 
 went down stairs humming a sort of accompaniment to the tune ; 
 for it is a sweet and simple melody, which chimed well with 
 the tone of the hour. The shy musician stayed her fingers, and 
 rose timidly from her seat, as I entered the room; but a little 
 coaxing induced her to return to it, and she played the tune over 
 and over again for us, whilst the morning meal was preparing. 
 Breakfast was soon over, and the youngsters dressed themselves 
 for chapel, and left us to ourselves ; for the one small bell of 
 Hey wood chapel was going "Toll toll toll;" and straggling 
 companies of children were wending up the slope from the 
 fields towards their Sunday schools. Through the parlour win- 
 dow, I watched these little companies of country children so 
 fresh, so glad, and sweet-looking and as they went their way, 
 I thought of the time when I, too, used to start from home 
 on a Sunday morning, dressed in my holiday suit, clean as a 
 new pin from top to toe; and followed to the door with a 
 world of gentle admonitions. I thought of some things I learned 
 "while "standing at my mother's knee;" of the little prayer and 
 the blessing at bed time; of the old solemn tunes which she 
 used to sing when all the house was still, whilst I sat and listened, 
 drinking in those plaintive strains of devotional melody, never 
 to forget them more.
 
 1 88 Lancashire Sketches 
 
 We were now alone in the silent house, and there was a 
 Sabbatical stillness all around. The sunshine gleamed in at the 
 windows and open doors ; and, where we sat, we could smell 
 the odours of the garden, and hear the birds outside. We walked 
 forth into the garden, among beds of flowers, and blooming 
 apple trees. We could hear the chirrup of children's voices, 
 still, going up the road, towards the town. From the woods 
 round Heywood Hall, there came over the meadows a thrilling 
 flood of music from feathered singers, sporting in those leafy 
 shades. All nature was at morning service : and it was good to 
 listen to this general canticle of praise to Him "whose service 
 is perfect freedom." A kind of hushed joy seemed to pervade 
 the landscape, which did not belong to any other day, however 
 fine as if the hills and vales knew it was Sunday. To the 
 wisest men, the whole universe is one place of worship, and the 
 whole course of human life a divine service. The man who 
 has a susceptible heart, and loves nature, will find renovation 
 in communion with her, no matter what troubles may disturb 
 him in the world of man's life : 
 
 For she can so inform 
 The mind that is within us, so impress 
 With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
 With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
 Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 
 Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
 The dreary intercourse of daily life 
 Shall e'er prevail against us or disturb 
 Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
 Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 
 Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 
 And let the misty-mountain winds be free 
 To blow against thee. 
 
 The back yard of the house, in which we were sauntering, 
 was divided from the woods of Heywood Hall by a wide level 
 of rich meadows; and the thick foliage which lapped the 
 mansion from view, looked an inviting shelter from the heat 
 of a cloudless midsummer forenoon a place where we could 
 wander about swardy plots and lawns, among embowered nooks 
 and mossy paths bathing in the coolness of green shades, in 
 which a multitude of birds were waking the echoes with 
 a sweet tumult of blending melodies. Being disposed for a 
 walk, we instinctively took the way thitherward. The high 
 road from the town goes close by the front gates of the 
 hall. This road was formerly lined by a thick grove of trees, 
 called " Th' Lung Nursery," reaching nearly from the edge
 
 Hey wood and its Neighbourhood, 189 
 
 of the village to the gates. The grove so shut out the view, 
 and overhung each side of the way, that the walk between looked 
 lonely after dark ; and country folk, who had been loitering 
 late over their ale, in Heywood, began to toot from side to 
 side, with timid glances, and stare with fear at every rustle of 
 the trees, when they came to " Th' Lung Nursery." Even if 
 two were in company, they hutched closer together as they ap- 
 proached this spot, and began to be troubled with vivid remem- 
 brances of manifold past transgressions, and to make internal 
 resolutions to " Fear God, an' keep th' co'sey," thenceforth, if 
 they could only manage to " hit th' gate" this once, and get safely 
 through the nursery, and by the water-stead in Hooley Clough, 
 where "Yewood Ho' Boggart comes a-suppin' i'th deeod time 
 o'th neet." This road was then, also, flanked on each side by a 
 sprawling thorn-edge, overgrown with wild mint, thyme, and 
 nettles ; and with thistles, brambles, stunted hazles, and wild rose 
 bushes; with wandering honeysuckles weaving about through 
 the whole. It was full of irregular dinges, and " hare-gates," 
 and holes, from which clods had been riven ; and perforated by 
 winding tunnels and runs, where the mole, the weasel, the field- 
 mouse, and the hedgehog wandered at will. Among the thorns 
 at the top, there was many an erratic, scratchy breach, the 
 result of the incursions of country herbalists, hunters, bird- 
 nesters, and other roamers of the woods and fields. It was 
 one of those old-fashioned hedges which country lads delight in ; 
 where they could creep to and fro, in a perfect revel of freedom 
 and fun, among brushwood and prickles, with no other impedi- 
 ment than a wholesome scratching; and where they could fight 
 and tumble about gloriously, among nettles, mint, mugwort, 
 docks, thistles, sorrel, "Robin-run-i'th-hedge," and a multitude 
 of other wild herbs and flowers, whose names and virtues it 
 would puzzle even a Culpepper to tell; rough and free as so 
 many snod-backed modiwarps ripping and tearing, and soiling 
 their "good clooas," as country mothers used to call them, by 
 tumbling among the dry soil of the hedge-side, and then rolling 
 slap into the wet ditch at the bottom, among "cuckoo-spit," and 
 "frog-rild," and all sorts of green pool-slush; to the dismay of 
 sundry limber-tailed "Bull-Jones," and other necromantic fry 
 that inhabit such stagnant moistures. Some looked for nests, 
 and some for nuts, while others went rustling up the trees, trying 
 the strength of many a bough ; and all were blithe and free as
 
 icjo Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 the birds among the leaves, until the twilight shades began to 
 fall Whilst the sun was still in the sky, they thought little 
 about those boggarts, and "fairees," and " feeorin'," which, 
 according to local tradition, roam the woods, and waters, and 
 lonely places ; sometimes with the malevolent intent of luring 
 into their toil any careless intruder upon their secluded domain. 
 Some lurking in the streams and pools, like " Green Teeth," and 
 "Jenny Long Arms," waiting, with skinny claws, for an oppor- 
 tunity to clutch the wanderer upon the bank into the water. 
 Others, like "Th' White Lady," "Th' Skrikin' Woman," 
 "Baum Rappit." " Grizlehurst Boggart," and " Clegg Ho' 
 Boggart," haunting lonely nooks of the green country, and old 
 houses, where they have made many a generation of simple folk 
 pay a toll of superstitious fear for some deed of darkness done 
 in the dim past. Others, like "Nut Nan," prowling about 
 shady recesses of the woods, " wi' a poke-full o' red-whot 
 yetters, to brun nut-steylers their e'en eawt." But, when dusky 
 evening began to steal over the fading scene, and the songs of 
 birds, and all the sounds of day began to die upon the ear 
 when the droning beetle, and the bat began to flit about; 
 and busy midges danced above the road, in mazy eddies, and 
 spiral columns, between the eye and the sky ; then the supersti- 
 tious teachings of their infancy began to play about the mind ; 
 and, mustering their traps, the lads turned their feet homeward, 
 tired, hungry, scratched, dirty, and pleased ; bearing away with 
 them in addition to snndry griping feeds of unripe dogberry, 
 which they had eaten from the hedge-sides great store of hazle- 
 nuts, and earth-nuts; hips and haws; little whistles, made of 
 the bark of the wicken tree; slips of the wild rose, stuck 
 in their caps and button-holes; yellow "skedlocks," and whip- 
 lashes made of plaited rushes ; and sometimes, also, stung-up eyes 
 and swollen cheeks, the painful trophies of encounters with the 
 warlike inhabitants of " wasp-nests," unexpectedly dropped on. 
 in the course of their frolic. 
 
 Oh ! sweet youth ; how soon it fades ; 
 Sweet joys of youth, how fleeting ! 
 
 The road home was beguiled with clod-battles, " Frog-leap," and 
 "Bob Stone," finishing with " Trinel," and "High Cockolorum," 
 as they drew near their quarters. The old hedge and the nursery 
 have been cleared away, and now the fertile meadows lie open 
 to the view, upon each side of the way.
 
 Heyuiood end its Neighbourhood. 191 
 
 On arriving at the entrance which leads to Hey wood Hall, 
 we turned in between the grey gate-pillars. They had a lone 
 and disconsolate appearance. The crest of the Starkies is gone 
 from the top; and the dismantled shafts look conscious of 
 their shattered fortunes. The wooden gate now ricketty 
 and rotten swung to and fro with a grating sound upon 
 its rusty hinges, as we walked up the avenue of tall trees, 
 towards the hall. The old wood was a glorious sight, with 
 the flood of sunshine stealing through its fretted roof of 
 many-patterned foliage, in freakish threads and bars, which 
 played beautifully among the leaves, weaving a constant inter- 
 change of green and gold within that pleasant shade, as the 
 plumage of the wood moved with the wind. The scene reminded 
 me of a passage in Spencer's " Faery Queene :" 
 
 And all within were paths and alleies wide, 
 With footing worne and leading inward farre : 
 Faire harbour that them seems : so in they entred ar. 
 
 We went on under the trees, along the carriage road, now tinged 
 with a creeping hue of green; and past the old garden, with its 
 low, bemossed brick wall; and, after sauntering to and fro 
 among a labyrinth of footpaths, which wind about the cloisters 
 of this leafy cathedral, we came to the front of the hall. It 
 stands tenantless and silent in the midst of its ancestral woods, 
 upon the brow of a green eminence, overlooking a little valley, 
 watered by the Roch. The landscape was shut out from 
 us by the surrounding trees ; and the place was as still as a 
 lonely hermitage in the heart of an old forest. The tread of our 
 feet upon the flagged terrace in front of the mansion resounded 
 upon the ear. We peeped through the windows, where the 
 rooms were all empty ; but the state of the walls and floors, and 
 the remaining mirrors, showed that some care was still bestowed 
 upon this deserted hall. Ivy hung thickly upon some parts of the 
 straggling edifice, which has evidently been built at different 
 periods ; though, so far as I could judge, the principal part of it 
 appears to be about two hundred years old. When manufacture 
 began greatly to change the appearance of the neighbouring 
 village and its surrounding scenery, the Starkies left the place ; 
 and a wooded mound, in front of the hall, was thrown up and 
 planted, by order of the widow of the last Starkie who resided 
 here, in order to shut from sight the tall chimneys which were 
 rising up in the distance. A large household must have been
 
 1 9 2 Lane ail Ire Sketches : 
 
 kept here in the palmy days of the Starkies. The following 
 passage, relative to the ancient inhabitants of Heyvvood Hall, is 
 quoted from Edwin Butterworth's " History of the Town of 
 Hey wood and its Vicinity:" 
 
 A family bearing this name flourished here for many generations ; but they were 
 never of much note in county genealogy, though more than one were active in public 
 affairs. In 1492 occurs Robert de Heywode. In the brilliant reign of Elizabeth, 
 Edmund Heywood, Esq., was required, by an order dated 1574, to furnish "a coate 
 of plate, a long bowe, sheffe of arrows, steel cap, and bill, for the military musters." * 
 James Heywood, gent., was living before 1604. Peter Heywood, Esq., a zealous 
 of this fa 
 
 magistrate, the representative of this family in the reigns of James the First and 
 Charles the First, was a native and resident of Heywood hall, which was erected 
 during the sixteenth century. It is said that he apprehended Guide Faux coming 
 forth from the vault of the house of parliament on the eve of the gunpowder treason, 
 Nov. 5, 1605. He probably accompanied Sir Thomas Kneuett, in his search of the 
 cellars under the parliament house. In 1641, "an order was issued that the justices 
 of the peace of Westminster should carefully examine what strangers were lodged 
 within their jurisdiction; and that they should administer the oaths of allegiance and 
 supremacy to all suspected of recusancy, and proceed according to those statutes. 
 An afternoon being appointed for that service in Westminster hall, and many persons 
 
 warned to appear there, amongst the rest one James, a Papist, appeared, and 
 
 being pressed by Mr. Hayward (Heywood;, a justice of the peace, to take the oaths, 
 suddenly drew out his knife and stabbed him; with some reproachful words, 'for 
 persecuting poor Catholics.' This strange, unheard-of outrage upon the person of a 
 minister of justice, executing his office by an order of parliament, startled all men; 
 the old man sinking with the hurt, though he died not of it. And though, for aught 
 I could ever hear, it proceeded only from the rage of a sullen varlet (formerly sus- 
 pected to be crazed in his understanding), without the least confederacy or combina- 
 tion with any other, yet it was a great countenance to those who were before thought 
 over apprehensive and inquisitive into dangers; and made many believe it rather a 
 design of all the Papists of England, than a desperate act of one man, who could 
 never have been induced to it, if he had not been promised assistance by the rest."* 
 Such is Lord Clarendon's account of an event that has rendered Peter Heywood a 
 person of historical note ; how long he survived the attempt to assassinate him is 
 not stated. 
 
 It is highly probable that Mr. Heywood had imbibed an undue portion of that 
 anti-Catholic zeal which characterised the times in which he lived, and that he was 
 the victim of those rancorous animosities which persecution never fails to engender. 
 
 Peter Heywood, of Heywood, Esq., was one of the gentlemen of the county who 
 compounded for the recovery of their estates, which had been sequestrated 1643-5, 
 for supporting the royal cause. He seems to have been a son of the Mr. Heywood 
 that was stabbed ; he re-obtained his property for the sum of ^351-* 
 
 The next of this family on record is Peter Heiwood, Esq., who was one of the 
 
 One of his sons, Peter Hei- 
 
 " counsellors of Jamaica" during the commonwealth. 
 
 wood, Esq., was commemorated by an inscription on a flat stone in the chancel of 
 
 the church of St. Anne's-in-the-Willows, Aldersgate-ward, London, as follows: 
 
 "Peter Heiwood, that deceased Nov. 2, 1701, younger son of Peter Heiwood, 
 one of the counsellours of Jamaica, by Grace, daughter of Sir John Muddeford, 
 Knight and Baronet, great grandson to Peter Heywood, in the county palatine of 
 Lancaster; who apprehended Guy Faux with his dark lanthorn ; and for his zealous 
 prosecution of Papists, as justice of peace, was stabbed in Westminster hall, by John 
 James, Dominican friar, anno, domini. 1640. 
 
 " Reader, if not a papist bred, 
 Upon such ashes gently tread."! 
 
 * Harl. MSS. 1,926. There is a pedigree of this family in Dodsworth's MSS. 
 Bodleian Lib. vol. Ixxix. 
 
 + Clarendon's "History of the Rebellion," edit. 1714, v. i, p. 196. 
 
 t Baines's 410. "Hist. Lancashire," v. i, p. 586: v. 2, p. 676. i2mo: v. i, p. 55. 
 Adams's Cat. of Lords, &c., who compounded for their estates, p. 51. 
 
 Survey of London, by Stosve, Strype's edition, 1720, vol. i, fol. 102.
 
 Hey wood and its Neighbourhood. 10.3 
 
 Robert Heywood. of Heywood, Esq., married Mary Haslam, of Rochdale, Dec. 
 20, 1660 ; and was probably elder brother of Peter Heiwood, of London. 
 
 In the visitation of 1664, are traced two lines of the Heywoods, those of Hey- 
 wood and Walton ; from the latter was descended Samuel Heywood, Esq., a Welch 
 judge.t uncle of Sir Benjamin Heywood, Baronet, of Clarernont, near Manchester. 
 The armorial bearing of the Heywoods, of Heywood, was argent, three torteauxes, 
 between two bendlets gules. 
 
 The property of this ancient family, principally consisting of Heywood Hall and 
 adjoining lands, is said to have been purchased by Mr. John Starkey, of the 
 Orchard, in Rochdale, in the latter part of the seventeenth or the beginning of the 
 eighteenth century. Mr. Starkey was living in 1719; his descendant, John Starkey, 
 Esq., married Mary, daughter of Joseph Gregge, Esq., of Chamber Hall, Oldham. 
 J oh:i Starkey, Esq., who died March 13, 1780, was father of James Starkey, Esq., of 
 Fell Foot, near Cartmel, Lancashire, the present possessor of Heywood Hall, born 
 Septembers, 1762, married, September 2, 1785, Elizabeth, second daughter of Edward 
 Gregg Hopwood, Esq. In 1791, Mr. Starkey served the office of high sheriff of the 
 county. From tliis family branched the Starkeys of Redivals, near Bury. 
 
 Heywood looks anything but picturesque, at present; but, 
 judging from the features of the country about the hall, 
 especially on the north side of it, this house must have been 
 a very pleasant and retired country seat about a century and 
 a half ago. 
 
 Descending from the eminence, upon the northern edge of 
 which Heywood Hall is situated, and which was probably 
 the first inhabited settlement hereabouts, at a time when the 
 ground now covered by the manufacturing town, was a 
 tract of woods and thickets, wild swards, turf moss, and 
 swamps we walked westward, along the edge of the Roch, 
 towards the manufacturing hamlet of Hooley Bridge. This 
 valley, by the water-side, has a sylvan and cultivated appear- 
 ance. The quiet river winds round the pastures of the hall, 
 which slope down to the water, from the shady brow upon 
 which it stands. The opposite heights are clad with woods and 
 plantations ; and Crimble Hall looks forth from the lawns and 
 gardens upon the summit. About a mile up this valley, towards 
 Rochdale town, in a quiet glen, lies the spot pointed out in 
 Roby's "Tradition" of "Tyrone's Bed," as the place where the 
 famous Irish rebel, Hugh O'Niel, Earl of Tyrone, lived in 
 concealment some time, during the reign of Elizabeth. Even 
 at this day, country folks, who know little or nothing of the 
 tradition, know the place by the name of "Yel's o' Thorone" 
 an evident corruption of the " Earl of Tyrone." This was 
 the Irish chieftain who burnt the poet Spenser out of his resi- 
 dence, Rathcormac Castle. It was dinner time when we reached 
 
 t Corry's Lancashire, v. 2, p. 619. In Dodsworth's MSS. Bodleian Lib. v. cxvii. 
 p. 163, is a record of Robert Heywood, Esq. 
 N
 
 194 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 the stone bridge at Hooley dough ; so we turned up the road 
 towards home. 
 
 The youngsters and the dinner were waiting, for us, when 
 we got back to the house. The little girl was rather more com- 
 municative than before; and, after the meal was over, we had 
 more music. But, while this was going on, the lad stole away to 
 some nook, with a book in his hand. And, soon after, the master 
 of the house and I found ourselves again alone, smoking and 
 talking together. I had enjoyed this summer day so far, and was 
 inclined to make the most of it ; so, when dinner was over, I went 
 out at the back, and down by a thorn-edge, which divides the 
 meadows. I was soon followed by mine host, and we sauntered 
 on together till we came to a shelving hollow, in which a still 
 pool lay gleaming like a sun among the meadows. It looked 
 cool, and brought the skies to our feet. Sitting down upon 
 its bank, we watched the reflection of many a straggling 
 cloud of gauzy white, sailing over its surface, eastward. Little 
 fishes, leaping up now and then, were the only things which 
 stirred the burnished mirror, for a second or two, into tiny 
 tremulations of liquid gold; and water-flies darted to and 
 fro upon the pool, like nimble fancies in a fertile mind. 
 And thus we lazily enjoyed the glory of a summer day in 
 the fields; while 
 
 The lark was singing In the blinding sky, 
 And hedges were white with may. 
 
 After awhile, we drifted dreamily asunder, and I crept under 
 the shade of a fence hard by, to avoid the heat; and there 
 lay on my back, looking towards the sky, through my fingers, 
 to keep sight of a fluttering spot from which a skylark poured 
 down its rain of melody upon the fields around. My face 
 was half buried in grass and meadow herbs ; and I fell asleep 
 with them peeping about my eye-lids. After half an hour's 
 dreamy doze in the sun during which my mind seemed to 
 have acted over a whole lifetime in masquerade I woke up, 
 and, shaking the buzz of field-flies out of my ears, we gathered 
 up our books, and went into the house. 
 
 When it drew towards evening, we left the house again 
 for it was so fine outside, that it seemed a pity to remain 
 under cover longer than necessary and we walked through 
 the village in Hooley Clough, and on, northward, up hill, 
 and down dell, until we came to a wild upland, called
 
 Heywood and its Neighbourhood. 195 
 
 * Birtle," which stretches away along the base of Ashworth 
 Moor The sun was touching the top of the hills when we 
 reached that elevated tract; and the western heavens were 
 glowing with the grandeur of his decline as we walked across 
 the fields towards an old hamlet called " Grislehurst." Here 
 we stayed a while, conversing with an ancient cottager and his 
 dame, about the history of their native corner, its legendary 
 associations, and other matters interesting to them and to us. 
 We left Grislehurst in the twilight, by a route which led 
 through the deeps of Simpson Clough, and on, homewards, 
 just as the first lamps of evening were lighting up; rejoicing in 
 the approach of a cloudless summer night, as we had rejoiced 
 in the glorious day which had gone down. 
 
 The next morning, I returned to Manchester; and, since 
 that time, it has often been a pleasure to me in the crowded 
 city to recollect that summer day, spent in the country 
 north of the town of Heywood. Its images never return to 
 my memory but I wish to hold them there awhile. Emerson 
 says: "Give me health and a day, and I will make the 
 pomp of emperors ridiculous. The dawn is my Assyria; 
 the sunset and moonrise my Paphos, and unimaginable realms 
 of faerie ; broad noon shall be my England of the senses and the 
 understanding ; the night shall be my Germany of mystic philo- 
 sophy and dreams." If men had their eyes open to the beauties 
 and uses of those elements which are open to all alike, and 
 felt the grandeur of this earth, which is the common home of the 
 living, how much would it reconcile them to their differences of 
 position, and moderate their repinings at the superiority of this 
 man's housing, and that man's dress and diet. 
 
 Looking back at the present character and previous history 
 of this town of Heywood, there is some suggestive interest 
 in both the one and the other. The period of its existence 
 from the time when it first arose, in an almost uncultivated 
 spot, as an habitation of man, till now is contained in 
 such a brief space, that to any man who cares to consider 
 the nature of its origin, and the character of the influences 
 which have combined to make it such as it now is, the 
 materials for guiding him to a comprehension of these things, lie 
 almost as much within his reach as if the place were a plant 
 which he had put into the soil for himself, and the growth of 
 which he had occasionally watched with interest. In this respect,
 
 196 Lancashire Sketches' 
 
 although Heywood wears much the same general appearance as 
 other cotton-spinning towns, it has something of a character 
 of its own, different from most of those towns of Lancashire, 
 whose histories go back many centuries, often through event- 
 ful changes, till they grow dim among the early records of 
 the kingdom in general. Unlike those, however, Heywood is 
 almost entirely the creation of the cotton trade, which itself 
 arose out of the combination of a few ingenious thoughts put 
 into practice by a people who seem to have been eminently fitted 
 by nature to perceive their value, and to act enterprisingly upon 
 what they perceived. If it had been possible for an intelligent 
 man to have lifted himself into mid air above Heywood, about 
 two hundred years ago, when its first cottages began to cluster 
 into a little village, and to settle himself comfortably upon a 
 cloud, so as to be able to watch the growth of the place 
 below, with all the changing phases of its life from then till 
 now, it might present to him a different aspect, and lead him to 
 different conclusions to those engendered by people living and 
 moving among the swarms of human action. In the mind of 
 such a serene overlooker distinctly observing the detail and 
 the whole of the manner of life beneath him, and fully compre- 
 hending the nature of the rise and progress of this Lancashire 
 town many thoughts might arise, which would not occur to 
 those who creep about the crowded earth, full of little per- 
 turbations. But, to almost any thoughtful man, the history 
 of this manufacturing town would illustrate the power which 
 a little practical knowledge gives to a practical people over 
 the physical element* of creation, as well as over that por- 
 tion of the people who ha,ve little or no education, and are, 
 therefore, drifted hither and thither by every wind of circum- 
 stance which wafts across the surface of society. It might 
 suggest, too, how much society is indebted, for whatever force 
 or excellence there is in it, to the scattered seeds of silent thought 
 which have quietly done their work among the noise of action 
 for ever leading it on to still better action ; and it might suggest 
 how much the character of the next generation depends upon 
 the education of the present one. Looking at this question of 
 education merely in that point of view in which it affects pro- 
 duction, the following passage, by an eminent advocate of educa- 
 tion, shall speak for itself: "Prior to education, the productive 
 power of the six millions of workers in the United Kingdom
 
 Hey wood and its Neighbourhood. 197 
 
 would be the physical force which they were capable of exerting. 
 In the present day, the power really exerted is equal to the force 
 of a hundred millions of men at least. But the power of the un- 
 educated unit is still the physical force of one man, the balance 
 being exerted by men who understand the principles of mechanics 
 and of chemistry, and who superintend the machine power evolved 
 thereby. Thus the power originated by the few, and superintended 
 by a fraction of society, is seventeen times greater than the strength 
 of all our workers, and is hourly increasing." If a man was a pair 
 of steam looms, how carefully would he be oiled, and tended, and 
 mended, and made to do all that a pair of looms could do. What 
 a loom, full of miraculous faculties is he, compared to these the 
 master-piece of nature for creative power, and for wonderful 
 variety of capabilities ! yet, with what a profuse neglect he is 
 cast away, like the cheapest rubbish on earth !
 
 
 (ftrafa of (Eftt'sUfwrst <33ocwart. 
 
 Thought-wrapt, he wandered in the breezy woods, 
 In which the summer, like a hermit, dwelt: 
 He laid him down by the old haunted springs 
 Up-bubbling, 'mid a world of greenery, 
 Shut-eyed, and dreaming of the fairest shapes 
 That roam the woods. 
 
 ALEXANDER SMITH. 
 
 Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, 
 Lest bogles catch him unawares. 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 [EN one gets a few miles off any of the populous towns 
 in Lancashire, many an old wood, many a lonesome 
 clough, many a quiet stream and ancient building, is 
 the reputed haunt of some local sprite, or " boggart," 
 or is enveloped in an atmosphere of dread by the supersti- 
 tions of the neighbourhood, as being the resort of fairies, or 
 "feeorin."* This is frequently the case in retired vales and 
 nooks lying between the towns. But it is particularly so 
 in the hilly parts, where the old manners of the people are 
 little changed, and where many homelets of past ages still 
 stand in their old solitudes, and like their sparse population 
 retain many of their ancient characteristics. In such places, the 
 legends and superstitions of the forefathers of Lancashire are 
 cherished with a tenacity which would hardly be credible to the 
 inhabitants of great cities in these days. There, still lingers the 
 belief in witchcraft, and in the power of certain persons to do ill, 
 through peculiar connection with the evil one ; and the belief, 
 also, that others known as "witch-doctors" are able to "rule 
 the spells," or counteract the malign intents of necromancy ; and 
 possess secret charms which afford protection against the foul 
 fiend and all his brood of infernal agencies. 
 
 * Feeorin tearful things.
 
 The Grave of Griskburst Boggart. \ 99 
 
 A few years ago, I lived at an old farm, called " Peanock," 
 up in the hills, towards Blackstone Edge. At that time, a strong 
 little fellow about twenty-three years of age, called "Robin," 
 was employed as "keaw-lad" at the farm. Robin used to tell 
 me tales of the witches and boggarts of the neighbourhood. 
 The most notable one of them all was " Clegg Ho' Boggart," 
 which is commemorated by the late Mr. John Roby, in his 
 "Traditions of Lancashire." This local sprite is still the 
 theme of many a winter's tale, among the people of the hills 
 about Clegg Hall. The proverb "Aw'm here again like Clegg 
 Ho' Boggart," is common there, and in the surrounding towns 
 and villages. I remember Robin saying that when he had to go 
 into the "shippon" early on a winter's morning, with a light, he 
 used to advance his lantern and let it shine a minute or two into 
 the "shippon" before he durst enter himself, on account of the 
 "feeorin" which "swarmed up and deawn th' inside i'th neet 
 time." But he said that "things o' that mak couldn't bide leet," 
 for, as soon as his lantern glinted into the place, he could see 
 "witches scuttering through th' slifters o'th wole, by theawsans, 
 like bits o' leet'nin." He used to tell me, too, that a dairy- 
 lass at a neighbouring farm had to let go her "churn-pow," 
 because "a. rook o' little green divuls begun a-swarmin up th' 
 hondle, as hoo wur churnin'." And then he would glance, with 
 a kind of unconscious timidity, towards a nook of the yard, 
 where stood three old cottages connected with the farm ; and in 
 one of which there dwelt an aged man, of singular habits and 
 appearance, of whose supposed supernatural powers most of the 
 people of that neighbourhood harboured a considerable degree of 
 fear ; and, as he glanced towards the corner of the building, he 
 would tell me in an under tone that the Irish cow, " Red 
 Jenny," which used to be "as good a keaw as ever whiskt a 
 tail, had never lookt up sin' owd Bill glented at hur through 
 a hole i'th shippon wole, one mornin, as Betty wur milkin 
 hur." Prejudices of this kind are still common in thinly- 
 peopled nooks of the Lancashire hills. "Boggarts" appear, 
 however, to have been more numerous than they are now, 
 when working people wove what was called "one lamb's 
 wool" in a day; but when it came to pass that they had 
 to weave "three lambs' wools" in a day, and the cotton trade 
 arose, boggarts, and fairies, and " feeorin" of all kinds, began 
 to flee away from the clatter of shuttles, and the tired weaver
 
 200 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 was fain to creep from his looms to bed, where he could rest his 
 body, and weave his fearful fancies into the freakish pattern 
 of a dream. And then, railway trains began to rumble hourly 
 through solitudes where "the little folk" of past days had held 
 undisturbed sway ; and perhaps these helped to dispel some of 
 those dreams of glamour which had been fostered by the 
 ignorance of the past. 
 
 Far on in the afternoon of a summer day, I sat at tea with an 
 acquaintance who dwells in the fields outside the town of Hey- 
 wood. We had spent the forenoon in visiting Heywood Hall, 
 and rambling among its woods, and through a pleasant clough, 
 which winds along the northern base of the eminence on which 
 that old mansion stands. We lingered over the afternoon meal, 
 talking of the past and present of the district around us. We 
 speculated upon the ancient aspect of the country, and the con- 
 dition and characteristics of its early inhabitants ; we talked of 
 the old local gentry, their influence, their residences, and their 
 fortunes ; of remarkable local scenes, and men ; and of the pre- 
 sent features of life in these districts. Part of our conversation 
 related to the scenery of that tract of hills and cloughs which 
 comprises the country, rising, northward, from Heywood up 
 to the lofty range of moorlands which divides that part of 
 Lancashire from Rossendale Forest. Up in this remote tract, 
 there is a solitary hamlet, called Grislehurst. To a stranger's 
 eye, the two quaint farmsteads, which are now the sole relics of 
 the hamlet, would be interesting, if only on account of the 
 retired beauty of their situation, and the romantic character of the 
 scenery around. Grislehurst stands on an elevated platform of 
 land, called "Birtle," or "Birkle," the place of birches. It is 
 bounded on the north by the ridge of Ashworth moor, and the 
 lofty mass of Knowl hill ; arfd on the east by Simpson Clough, 
 a deep ravine, about two miles long, running up into the hills. 
 This glen of precipitous crags, and wood-shrouded waters, 
 is chiefly known to those who like rough and lonesome country 
 walks; and to anybody who loves to ramble among such 
 legend-haunted solitudes, a moonlight walk through " Simpson 
 Clough" would be a pleasure not easily forgotten. Grislehurst 
 stands about a stone's throw from the western brink of the 
 clough, and out of the way of common observation. But it is 
 not only the lone charm of its situation which makes this hamlet 
 interesting. Grislehurst is a settlement of the early inhabitants
 
 The Grave of Grislehurst Boggart. 201 
 
 of the district; and was for some centuries one of the seats of the 
 Holt family, of Grislehurst, Stubley, and Castleton, in this parish; 
 a branch of the Holts of Sale, Ashton, Cheshire. Some of this 
 family fought in the Scottish wars, and also in favour of the royal 
 cause, at Edgehill, Newberry, Marston Moor, &c., and were 
 named in King Charles's projected order of the Royal Oak.* 
 There was a Judge Holt, of the Holts of Sale ; and a James Holt, 
 whose mother was co-heiress to Sir James de Sutton; he was killed 
 at Flodden Field. Mary, the daughter of James Holt, the last of 
 the family who resided at Castleton Hall, in this parish, married 
 Samuel, brother of Humphrey Cheetham. The manor of Spot- 
 land was granted by Henry VIII. to Thomas Holt, of Grislehurst, 
 who was knighted in Scotland, by Edward, Earl of Hertford, in 
 the thirty- sixth year of the reign of that monarch. The Holts 
 were the principal landowners in the parish of Rochdale at the 
 close of the sixteenth century. What remains of Grislehurst is 
 still associated in the mind with the historic interest which 
 attaches to this once powerful local family. The place is also 
 closely interwoven with some other ancient traditions of the 
 locality, oral and written.t In earlier years, I have often wan- 
 dered about the woods, and waters, and rocky recesses of this 
 glen, thinking of the tale of the rebel Earl,J who is said to have 
 concealed himself, two centuries ago, in a neighbouring clough 
 which bears his name ; and, wrapt in a dreamland of my own, 
 sometimes a little tinctured with the wizard lore which lingers 
 among the primitive folk of that quarter. But, in all my walks 
 thereabouts, I had never visited Grislehurst, till this summer after- 
 noon, when, as we sat talking of the place, my curiosity impelled 
 me to propose an evening ramble to the spot ; from which we 
 could return, by another route, through Simpson Clough. 
 
 We were not quite half an hour's walk from Grislehurst when 
 we started on the north road from Heywood ; and the sun was 
 still up in the heavens. Half a mile brought us into Hooley 
 Clough, where the road leads through the village of Hooley 
 Bridge. This village lines the opposite banks of the Roch at 
 that place. Its situation is retired and picturesque. The vale 
 
 * Thomas Posthumus Holt, Esq., was one of the intended Knights of the Order 
 of the Royal Oak. According to MS. memorandum, he died 26th March, 1669, 
 "after sown-sett a hower, as they report it." Burse's Commoners. 
 t See "Tyrone's Bed," in Roby's "Traditions of Lancashire." 
 J The turbulent Earl of Tyrone, who headed the Irish rebellion in the reign 
 of Elizabeth
 
 202 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 in which it lies is agreeably adorned with plantations, and the 
 remains of old woods; and the whole scenery is green and 
 pleasant. The village itself has a more orderly and whole- 
 some appearance than any other manufacturing hamlet which I 
 remember. The houses were clean and comfortable-looking, and 
 the roads in fair condition. I noticed that nearly every cottage 
 had its stock of coals piled up under the front window, and open 
 to the street; the "cobs" nearly built up into a square wall, 
 and the centre filled up with the "sleek an' naplins." It struck 
 me that if the people of Manchester were to leave their coals thus 
 free to the world, the course of a single night would "leave not 
 a wreck behind." The whole population of the place is employed 
 by the Fenton family, whose mills stand close to the margin of 
 the river, in the hollow of the clough. 
 
 We went up the steep cart road leading out of Hoolcy Clough 
 towards the north, emerging into the highway from Bury to 
 Rochdale, about a quarter of a mile from the lower end of 
 Simpson Clough, and nearly opposite the lodge of Bamford Hall 
 The country thereabouts is broken into green hills and glens, 
 with patches of old woods, shading the sides of the cloughs. It 
 is bleak and sterile in some parts, and thinly populated, over the 
 whole tract, up to the mountainous moors. As we descended the 
 highway into Simpson Clough, through an opening in the trees, 
 we caught a glimpse of "Makin mill," low down in a green 
 valley to the west. This old mill was the first cotton factory 
 erected in the township of Heap. It was built about 1780, by 
 the firm of Peel, Yates, and Co., and now belongs to Edmund 
 Peel, Esq., brother to the late prime minister. Looking over the 
 northern parapet of the bridge, in the hollow of the road, the 
 deep gully of the clough is filled with a cluster of mills, and the 
 cottages attached to them. Woody heights rise abruptly around, 
 and craggy rocks over-frown this little nest of manufacture, in 
 the bottom of the ravine. We climbed up the steep road, in the 
 direction of Bury, and on reaching the summit, at a place called 
 < -p^' Yop o'th Wood," we turned off at the end of a row of 
 stone cottages, and went to the right, on a field-path which leads 
 to Grislehurst. Half a mile's walk brought us to two old 
 farm-houses, standing a little apart. We were at a loss to know 
 which of the two, or whether either of them belonged to Grisle- 
 hurst Hall. The largest took our attention most, on account of 
 some quaint, ornamental masonrv built UD in its walls; though
 
 The Grave of Grisleburst Boggart. 203 
 
 evidently not originally belonging to the building. We went 
 round to look at the other side, where similar pieces of ancient 
 masoniy were incorporated. The building, though old, was too 
 modern, and had too much barn-like plainness about it to be the 
 hall of the Holts. And then, the country around was all green 
 meadow and pas'ture ; and if this building was not Grislehurst 
 Hall, there was none. I began to think that the land was the 
 most remarkable piece of antiquity about the place. But one 
 part of the west side of this building formed a comfortable 
 cottage residence, the window of which was full of plants, in 
 pots. An hale old man, bareheaded, and in his shirt-sleeves, 
 leaned against the door-cheek, with his arms folded. He was 
 short and broad-set, with fresh complexion and bright eyes ; and 
 his firm full features, and stalwart figure, bespoke a life of healthy 
 habits. He wore new fustian breeches, tied with black silk ribbon 
 at the knees. Leaning there, and looking calmly over the fields in 
 the twilight, he eyed us earnestly, as country folk do when strangers 
 wander into their lonely corners. The soft summer evening 
 was sinking beautifully on the quiet landscape, which stretches 
 along the base of Ashworth moor. The old man's countenance 
 had more of country simplicity than force of character in 
 it; yet he was very comely to look upon, and seemed a natural 
 part of the landscape around him; and the hour and the man 
 together, somehow, brought to my mind a graphic line in the 
 book of Genesis, about Isaac going out "to meditate in the field 
 at eventide." After we had sauntered about the place a few 
 minutes during which the old cottager watched us with a calm 
 but curious eye we went toward him with the usual salutation 
 about it being a "fine neet," and such like. He melted at once 
 from his statuesque curiosity, and, stepping slowly from the 
 threshold, with his arms folded, replied, "Ay, it is, for sure. 
 . . . Wi'n had grand groo-weather* as week or two. But 
 a sawp o' deawnfo' 'ud do a sect o' good just neaw; an' we'st 
 ha' some afore lung; or aw'm chetted. Owd Knowet has bin 
 awsin to put hur durty cap on a time or two to-day ; an' as soon 
 as hoo can shap to tee it, there'll be wayter amoon us, yo'n see." 
 His dame, hearing the conversation, came forth to see what was 
 going on, and wandered slowly after us down the lane. She 
 
 * Groo-weatJur growing-weather. 
 
 t Knowl hill, between Rochdale and Rossendale.
 
 204 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 was a strong-built and portly old woman, taller than her 
 husband; and her light-complexioned face beamed with health 
 and simplicity. The evening was mild and still, and the old 
 woman wore no bonnet; nor even the usual kerchief on her 
 head. Her cap and apron were white as new snow, and all her 
 attire looked sound and sweet, though of homely* cut and quality. 
 I knew, somehow, that the clothes she wore were scented with 
 lavender or such like herbs, which country folk lay at the bottom 
 of the " kist," for the sake of the aroma which they impart 
 to their clothing. And no king's linen could be more whole- 
 somely perfumed. Give me a well-washed shirt, bleached on a 
 country hedge, and scented with country herbs! The hues 
 of sunset glowed above the lofty moors in front of us, and 
 the stir of day was declining into the rich hum of summer 
 evening. The atmosphere immediately around seemed clearer 
 than when the sun was up ; but a shade of hazy gray was 
 creeping over the far east. We lounged along the lane, with 
 the comely dame following us silently, at a distance of three 
 or four yards, wondering what we could be, and why we had 
 wandered into that nook at such a time. After a little talk 
 with the old man, about the hay-crop, the news of the town, 
 and such like, we asked him whether the spot we were upon was 
 Grislehurst; and he replied, "Yo're upo' the very clod." 
 
 We then inquired where Grislehurst Hall stood ; and whether 
 the building of which his cottage was a part, had been any 
 way connected with it. 
 
 He brightened up at the mention of Grislehurst Hall ; and, 
 turning sharply round, he said with an air of surprise, " What ! 
 dun yo pretend to know aught abeawt Gerzlehus' Ho'? . . . 
 Not mich, aw think; bi'th look on yo." 
 
 J. told him that all we knew of it was from reading, and from 
 what we had heard about it ; and that, happening to be in the 
 neighbourhood, we had wandered up to see if there were any 
 remains of it in existence. 
 
 "Ay, well," said he and as he said it, his tone and manner 
 assumed a touch of greater importance than before "if that's 
 o' th' arran' yo han, aw deawt yo'n made a lost gate. Noather 
 yo, nor nobory elze needs to look for Gerzlehus' Ho' no more. 
 It's gwon, lung sin ! . . , But yo'n let reet for yerrin a bit 
 o' summat abeawt it, if that'll do." He then turned slowly 
 round, and, pointing to a plot of meadow land which abutted
 
 The Grave of Grisleburst Boggart. 20^ 
 
 upon a dingle, to the south, he said, " Yo see'n that piece o' 
 meadow lond, at th' edge o'th green hollow theer?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well; that's the spot wheer Gerzlehus' Ho' stoode, when 
 aw' re a lad. To look at't neaw, yo wouldn't think at oathur 
 heawse or hut had studd'n upo' that clod ; for it's as good a bit 
 o' meadow lond as ever scythe swept. . . . But that's 
 the very spot wheer Gerzlehus' Ho' stoode. An' it're a fine 
 place too, mind yo; once't of a day. There's nought like it 
 upo' this country-side neaw; as heaw 'tis: noather Baemforth 
 Ho', nor noan on 'em. But what, things are very mich awturt 
 sin then. . . . Nevv-fangle't folk, new-fangle't ways, new- 
 fangle't everything. Th' owd ho's gwon neaw, yo see'n ; an* 
 th' trees are gwon, 'at stoode abeawt it. The dule steawnd theem 
 at cut 'em deawn, say I!* An' then th' orchart's gwon; 
 an' th' gardens an' o' are gwon; nobbut a twothre at's laft o'er- 
 anent this biggin aw dar say yo see'd 'em as yo coom up 
 they're morels. . . . An' then, they'n bigged yon new barn 
 upo' th' knowe; an' they'n cut, an' they'n carve't, an' they'n 
 potter't abeawt th' owd place, whol it doesn't look like th' same; 
 it doesn't for sure not like th' same." 
 
 We now asked him again whether the large stone building, in 
 part of which he lived, had belonged to the old hall. 
 
 "Ay, well," said he, looking towards it, "that's noan sich a 
 feaw buildin', that isn't. That'rc part o'th eawt-heawsin to 
 Gerzlehus' Ho'; yo may see. There's a window theer, an' a dur- 
 hole, an' some moor odd bits abeawt it, of an owdish mak. Yo 
 con happen tay summat fro thoose. But it's divided into different 
 livin's neaw, yo see'n. There's a new farmer lives i'th top end 
 theer. He's made greyt awterations. It's a grcadly good heawse 
 i'th inside ; if yo see'd through." 
 
 " Well," said I, "and what sort of a place was Grislehurst 
 Hall itself?" 
 
 "What, Gerzlehus' Ho'?" replied he; "well, aw should 
 know, as Hea 'tis; if onybody does. Aw've been a good while 
 upo' th' clod for nought' if I dunnut. . . . Ay, thae may 
 laugh; but aw're weel acquainted with this greawn afore thir 
 born, my lad yers to mo, neaw ?"t 
 
 * The dule stea-jund tkcctn 'at cut em deav<n the devil astonish those who cut 
 them down. 
 
 + Yers to mo, ttea-M ? hearest thou me, now ?
 
 zo6 Lancashire Sketches. 
 
 I made some excuse for having smiled, and he went on. 
 
 "Gerzlehus' Ho' wur a very greyt place, yo may depend. 
 It' re mostly built o' heavy oak bauks. . . . There wur ir 
 Jammy lad,* an' me, an' some moor on us eh, we han carted 
 some of a lot o' loads o' fine timber an' stuff off that spot, at 
 time an' time! An' there's bin a deeol o' good flags, an' sich 
 like, ta'en eawt o'th lond wheer th' heawse stoode; an' eawt 
 o'th hollow below theer there has so." 
 
 "How long is that since?" said I. 
 
 The old woman, who had been listening behind us, with her 
 hands clasped under her apron, now stepped up, and said, 
 
 " Heaw lung sin ? Why, it's aboon fifty' year sin. He should 
 know moor nor yo abeawt it, aw guess." 
 
 "Ay," said the old man, "aw've known this clod aboon fifty 
 year, for sure. An' see yo," continued he, "there wur a shootin'- 
 butts i' that hollow ; sin aw can tell on. And upo' yon green," 
 said he, turning round towards the north, and pointing off at the 
 end of the building, "upo' yon green there stoode an owd sun-dial, 
 i'th middle of a piece o' lond at's bin a chapel-yort, aforetime. 
 They say'n there's graves theer yet. An' upo' that knowe, 
 wheer th' new barn stons, there wur a place o' worship so th' 
 tale gwos." 
 
 It was clear that we had set him going on a favourite theme, 
 and we must, therefore, bide the issue. 
 
 Turning his face to the west, he pointed towards a green emi- 
 nence at a short distance, and said, " To this day they co'n yon 
 hillock 'Th' Castle,' upo' keawnt on there once being a place 
 theer where prisoners were confin't. An' that hee greawnd gwos 
 bi'th name o'th 'Gallows Hill;' what for, I know not" 
 
 He then paused, and, pointing to a little hollow near the place 
 where we stood, he slightly lowered his voice as he continued 
 "An' then, aw reckon yo see'n yon bend i'th lone, wheer th' 
 ash tree stons ? " 
 
 "Ay." 
 
 " Well," said he, " that's the very spot wheer Gerzlehus' 
 Boggart's buried." 
 
 My thoughts had so drifted away in another direction, that I 
 was not prepared for such an announcement as this. I was 
 aware that the inhabitants of that district clung to many of the 
 
 * Ir Jammy lad our James's son.
 
 The Grave of Grisleburu Boggart. 207 
 
 superstitions of their forefathers ; but the thing came upon me 
 so unexpectedly, and when my mind was so quietly absorbed in 
 dreams of another sort, that, if the old man had fired off a pistol 
 close to my ear, I should not have been much more astonished ; 
 though I might have been more startled. All that I had been 
 thinking of vanished at once ; and my curiosity was centred in 
 this new phase of the old man's story. I looked into his face to 
 see whether he really meant what he had said; but there it was, 
 sure enough. In every outward feature he endorsed the sincerity 
 of his inward feeling. His countenance was as solemn as an 
 unlettered gravestone. 
 
 " Grislehurst Boggart;" said I, looking towards the place 
 once more. 
 
 "Ay ;" replied he. That's whecr it wur laid low ; an' some 
 of a job it wur. Yo happen never yerd on't afore." 
 
 The old woman now took up the story, with more earnestness 
 even than her husband. 
 
 "It's a good while sin it wur laid; an' there wur a cock 
 buried wi' it, with a stoop* driven through it. It' re noan sattle't 
 with a little ; aw'll uphowd yo." 
 
 "And dun you really think, then," said I, "that this place has 
 been haunted by a boggart?" 
 
 "Has bin be far !" replied she. "It is neaw ! Yodd'n soon 
 find it eawt, too, iv yo live't upo' th' spot. It's very mich if it 
 wouldn't may yor yure ston of an end ; oathur wi' one marlock 
 or another.t There's noan so mony folk at likes to go deawn 
 yon lone, at after delit,J aw con tell yo." 
 
 "But, if it's laid and buried," replied I, "it surely doesn't 
 trouble you now." 
 
 " Oh, well," said the old woman, " iv it doesn't, it doesn't ; so 
 there needs no moor. Aw know some folk winnot believe sich 
 things ; there is at'll believe nought at o', iv it isn't fair druvven 
 into 'em, wilto, shako ; but this is a different case, mind yo. 
 Eh, never name it ; thoose at has it to deeol wi' knows what it 
 is ; but thoose at knows nought abeawt sich like whau, it's like 
 summat an' nought talkin' to 'em abeawt it : so we'n e'en lap it 
 up where it is." 
 
 * Stoop a stake ; a long piece of pointed wood. 
 
 t Marlock -a freak ; a prank. 
 
 t ZWzV-daylight. 
 
 WUto, slialto'by force ; against the will
 
 2o8 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 " Well, well, but stop," said the old man. " Yo say'n 'at it 
 doesn't trouble us neaw. Why, it isn't aboon a fortnit sin 
 th' farmer's wife at the end theer yerd summat i'th deeod 
 time o'th neet; an' hoo wur welly thrut eawt o' bed, too, 
 beside so then." 
 
 "Ah," said the old woman, "sich wark as that's scarrin',* 
 i'th neet time. . . . An' they never could'n find it eawt. 
 But aw know'd what it wur in a minute. Th' farmer's wife 
 an me wur talking it o'er again, yesterday; an' hoo says 'at 
 ever sin it happen't hoo gets quite timmersome as soon as it 
 drays toawrd th' edge o' dark; iv there's nobory i'th heawse 
 but hersel'. . . . Well, an' one wyndy neet as aw're 
 sittin' bi'th fire aw yerd summat like a " 
 
 Here the old man interrupted her : 
 
 "It's no use folk tellin' me at they dunnut believe sich like 
 things," said he, seeming not to notice his wife's story ; " it's 
 no use tellin' me they dunnut believe it ! Th' pranks at it's 
 played abeawt this plaze, at time an' time, would flay ony wick 
 soul to yer tell on." 
 
 " Never name it !" said she; "aw know whether they would'n 
 or not. . . . One neet, as aw're sittin by mysel' " 
 
 Her husband interposed again, with an abstracted air : 
 
 " Un-yaukin' th' horses ; an' turnin' carts an' things o'er i'th 
 deep neet time; an' shiftin' stuff up and deawn, when folk 
 are i' bed; it's rather flaysome, yo may depend. But then, 
 aw know, there isn't a smite o' sense i' flingin' one's wynt away 
 wi' telling o' sich things, to some folk. . . . It's war nor 
 muckin' wi' sond, an' drainin' wi' cinders." 
 
 "And it's buried yonder," said I. 
 
 "Ay," replied he, "just i'th hollow where th' ash tree is. 
 That used to be th' owd road to Rachda , when aw're a lad." 
 
 "Do you never think of delving the ground up," said I. 
 
 "Delve! nawe," answered he; "avv'st delve noan theer. M 
 
 The old woman broke in again : 
 
 " Nawe ; he'll delve noan theer ; nut iv aw know it ! Nor 
 no mon else dar lay a finger upo' that clod. Joseph Fenton'sf 
 a meeterly bowd chap; an' he's ruvven everything up abeawt 
 this country-side, welly; but he dar not touch Gerzlehus' Boggart, 
 for his skin! An' aw houd his wit good, too, mind yo!" 
 
 * Scarrin scaring ; terrifying. 
 
 t One of the Fenton family who own the Jand there.
 
 The Grave of Grislehurst Boggart. 209 
 
 It was useless attempting to unsettle the superstitions of this 
 primitive pair. They were too far gone. And it was, perhaps, 
 best to let the old couple glide on through the evening of their 
 life, untroubled by any ill-timed wrangling. 
 
 But the old dame suspected, by our looks, that we were on 
 easy terms with our opinion of the tale ; and she said, "Aw 
 dunnot think yo believ'n a wort abeawt it!" 
 
 This made us laugh in a way that left little doubt upon the 
 question ; and she turned away from us, saying, " Well, yo're 
 weel off iv yo'n nought o' that mak o' yo'r country-side." 
 
 We had now got into the fields, in the direction by which we 
 intended to make our way home ; and the old people seemed 
 inclined to return to their cottage. We halted, and looked round 
 a few minutes, before parting. 
 
 "You've lived here a good while," said I to the old man, 
 "and know all the country round." 
 
 "Aw know every fuut o'th greawnd about this part hill an' 
 hollow, wood and wayter-stid." 
 
 " You are getting to a good age, too," continued I. 
 
 "Well," said he, "aw'm gettin' boudly on into th' fourth 
 score. Ir breed are a lungish-wynded lot, yo see'n; tak 'em 
 one wi' another." 
 
 " You appear to have good health, for your age," said I. 
 
 "Well," replied he, "aw ail mich o' nought yet why, 
 aw'm meyt-whol,* an' sich like ; an' aw can do a day-wark wi' 
 some o'th young uns yet thank God for't. . . . But then 
 aw'st come to't in a bit, yo known aw'st come too't in a bit. 
 Aw'm so like.f Folk connut expect to ha' youth at both ends 
 o' life, aw guess.; an' wi mun o' on us oather owd be, or yung 
 dee, as th' sayin' is." 
 
 "It's gettin' time to rest at your age, too." 
 
 "Whau; wark's no trouble to me, as lung as aw con do't. 
 Beside, yo see'n, folk at's a dur to keep oppen, connut do't wi'th 
 wynt.J 
 
 "Isn't Grislehurst cold and lonely in winter time?" 
 
 " Well ; it is rayther," said he. " But we dunnot think as 
 mich at it as teawn's-folk would do. ... It'll be a grcyt 
 deeol warse at th' top o' Know hill yon, see yo. It's cowd 
 
 * Sreyt-wkol meat-whole ; able to eat his meals, 
 t Aw'm so like it may naturally be expected that I shall. 
 
 t Folk afs a dur to keep oppen, connut Mt -aitth ItynttoOt, that have a house 
 to maintain, cannot do it with the wind. 
 O
 
 2 1 o Lancashire Sketches : 
 
 enough theer to starve an otter to deeoth, }' winter time. But, 
 here, we're reet enough, for th' matter o' that. An' as for com- 
 pany, we gwon a-neighbourin' a bit, neaw an' then, yo sce'n. Be- 
 side, we gctten to bed sooner ov a neet nor they dun in a teawn." 
 
 " To my thinkin'," said the old woman, "aw wouldn't live in 
 a teawn iv eh mut wear red shoon." 
 
 "But you hav'n't many neighbours about here." 
 
 (t Oh, yigh," said he. " There's th' farmer's theer ; and one 
 or two moor. An' then, there's th' 'Top o'th Wood' folk. 
 Then there's 'Hooley Clough,' and th' 'War Office,'* we can 
 soon get to oathur o' thoose, when we want'n a bit ov an extra 
 do. . . . Oh! ah; we'n plenty o' neighbours! But th' 
 Birtle folk are a deeol on um sib an' sib, rib an' rib o' ov a 
 litter Fittons an' Diggles, an' Fittons an' Diggles o'er again. 
 An' wheer dun yo come fro, sen yo?" 
 
 We told him. 
 
 "Well," said he; "an' are yo i'th buildin' line at aw mun 
 be so bowd ? " 
 
 We again explained the motive of our visit. 
 
 "Well," said he; "it's nought to me, at aw know on nobbut 
 aw're thinkin' like. . . . Did'n yo ever see Baemforth Ho', 
 afore it' re poo'd deawn ? " 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "Eh, that' re a nice owd buildin' ! Th' new un hardly comes 
 up to't, i' my e'en as fine as it is. ... An' are yo beawn 
 back this gate, then ? " 
 
 "Ay; we want to go through th' clough." 
 
 "Well; yo mun mind heaw yo gwon deawn th' wood-side; 
 for it's a rough gate. So, good neet to yo ! " 
 
 We bade them both "Good night!" and were walking away, 
 when he shouted back, "Hey ! aw say ! Dun yo know Ned o' 
 Andrew's ? " " No." " He's the very mon for yo ! Aw've 
 just unbethought mo ! He knows moor cracks nor onybody 
 o' this side an' he'll sit a fire eawt ony time, tellin' his bits o' 
 tales. Sper ov anybody at Hooley Bridge, an' they'n tell yo 
 wheer he lives. So, good neet to yo ! " 
 
 Leaving the two old cottagers, and their boggart-haunted ham- 
 let, we went over the fields towards Simpson Clough. The steep 
 sides of this romantic spot are mostly clothed with woods of oak 
 and birch. For nearly a mile's length, the clough is divided into 
 
 * TK War Office a name applied to the village of BamforA
 
 The Grave of Grislehursi Boggart. 211 
 
 two ravines, deep, narrow, and often craggy and shady with 
 trees. Two streams flow down from the moors above, each 
 through one of these gloomy defiles, till they unite at a place from 
 whence the clough continues its way southward, in one wider and 
 less shrouded expanse, but still between steep and rocky banks, 
 partly wooded. When the rains are heavy upon the moors, 
 these streams rush furiously through their rock-bound courses 
 in the narrow ravines, incapable of mischief, till they meet at 
 the point where the clough becomes one, when they thence 
 form a strong and impetuous torrent, which has, sometimes, 
 proved destructive to property lower down the valley. Coming 
 to the western brink of this clough, we skirted along in search 
 of an opening by which we could go down into it with the least 
 difficulty. A little removed from the eastern edge, and nearly 
 opposite to us, stood Bamford new hall, the residence of James 
 Fenton, Esq., one of the wealthy cotton-spinners in this locality. 
 A few yards from that mansion, and nearer to the edge of the 
 clough, stood, a few years ago, the venerable hall of the Bamfords 
 of Bamford, one of the oldest families belonging to the old local 
 gentry ; and, probably, among the first Saxon settlers there. 
 Thomas de Bamford occurs about 1193. Adam de Bamford 
 granted land in villa de Bury, to William de Chadwick, in 1413; 
 and Sir John Bamford was a fellow of the Collegiate Church of 
 Manchester, in 1506.* A William Bamford, Esq., of Bamford, 
 served the office of High Sheriff of the county, in 1787. He 
 married Ann, daughter of Thomas Blackburne, Esq., of Orford 
 and Hale, and was father of Ann, lady of John Ireland Blackburne, 
 Esq., M.P. He was succeeded by Robert Bamford, Esq., who, 
 from his connection with the Heskeths of Cheshire, took the name 
 of Robert Bamford Hesketh, Esq., and married Miss Frances 
 Lloyd, of Gwrych Castle. Lloyd Hesketh Bamford Hesketh, 
 Esq., of Gwrych Castle, Denbighshire, married Emily Esther 
 Ann, youngest daughter of Earl Beauchamp.t The old hall of the 
 Bamfords was taken down a few years ago. I do not remember 
 ever seeing it myself, but the following particulars respecting it 
 have been kindly furnished to me by a native gentleman, who 
 knew it well: "It was a fine old building of the Tudor style, 
 with three gables in front, which looked towards the high road; 
 it was of light-coloured ashler stone, such as is found in the 
 
 * Hollin^ivortKs Ma<icnniensis, Willis's edition, p. 53. 
 t Court Magaziue, vol. 8, No. 45.
 
 212 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 neighbourhood; with mullions, and quaint windows and doors 
 to match; and was, I think, dated about 1521. Such another 
 building you will certainly not find on this side of the county. 
 Castleton Hall comes, in my opinion, nearest to it in venerable 
 appearance ; but Bamford Hall had a lighter and more cheerful 
 aspect; its situation, also, almost on the edge of the rocky 
 chasm of Simpson dough, or, as it is often called, Guestless, i.e. 
 Grislehurst Clough, gave an air of romance to the place, which 
 I do not remember to have noticed about any ancient residence 
 with which I am acquainted." 
 
 Stillness was falling upon the scene; but the evening wind 
 sung lulling vespers in Grislehurst wood ; and, now and then, 
 there rose from the rustling green, the silvery solo of some 
 lingering singer in those leafy choirs, as we worked our way 
 through the shade of the wood, until we came to the bed of 
 " Nadin Water," in the shrouded hollow of the clough. The 
 season had been dry, and the water lay in quiet pools of the 
 channel, gleaming in the gloom, where the light fell through 
 the trees. We made our way onward, sometimes leaping 
 from stone to stone in the bed of the stream, sometimes 
 tearing over the lower part of the bank, which was broken 
 and irregular, and scattered with moss-greened fragments of 
 fallen rock, or slippery and swampy with lodgments of damp, 
 fed by rindles and driblets of water, running more or less, 
 in all seasons, from springs in the wood-shaded steep. In 
 some parts, the bank was overgrown with scratchy thickets, 
 composed of dogberry-stalks, wild rose-bushes, prickly hollins 
 and thorns, young hazles and ash trees; broad-leaved docks, 
 and tall, drooping ferns ; and, over all, hung the thick green of 
 the spreading wood. Pushing aside the branches, we laboured 
 on till we came into the opening where the streams com- 
 bine. A stone bridge crosses the water at this spot, leading 
 up to the woody ridge which separates the two ravines, in 
 the upper part of the clough. Here we climbed from 
 the bed of the stream, and got upon a cart-road which 
 led out of the clough, and up to the Rochdale road, which 
 crosses the lower end of it, at a considerable elevation. The 
 thin crescent of a new moon's rim hung like a silver sickle 
 in the sky ; and the stars were beginning to glow, in "Jove's 
 eternal house ! " whilst the fading world below seemed hushed 
 with awe, to see that sprinkling of golden lights coming
 
 The Grave of Grisleburst Boggart. 2 1 3 
 
 out in silence once more from the over-spanning blue. We 
 walked up the slope, from the silent hollow, between the 
 woods, and over the knoll, and down into Hooley Clough 
 again, by the way we came at first. Country people were 
 sauntering about, upon the main road, and in the bye-lanes, 
 thereabouts, in twos and threes. In the village of Hooley Bridge, 
 the inhabitants were lounging at their cottage doors, in neigh- 
 bourly talk, enjoying the close of a summer day ; and, probably, 
 "Ned o' Andrew's" was sitting in some quiet corner of the 
 village, amusing a circle of eager listeners with his quaint 
 country tales. 
 
 A short walk brought us to the end of our ramble, and 
 we sat down to talk over what we had seen and heard. My 
 visit to Grislehurst had been all the more interesting that I 
 had no thought of meeting with such a living evidence of 
 the lingering superstitions of Lancashire there. I used to like 
 to sit with country folk, hearkening to their old-world tales of 
 boggarts, and goblins, and fairies, 
 
 That plat the manes of horses in the night, 
 And cake the elf lock in foul, sluttish airs ; 
 
 and I had thought myself well acquainted with the boggart-lore 
 of my native district ; but the goblin of Grislehurst was new to 
 me. By this time I knew that in remote country houses the 
 song of the cricket and the ticking of the clock were beginning 
 to be distinctly heard ; and that in many a solitary cottage these 
 were, now, almost the only sounds astir, except the cadences 
 of the night wind, sighing around, and making every crevice 
 into a voice of mystic import to superstitious listeners ; while, 
 perhaps, the rustle of the trees blended with the dreamy ripple 
 of some neighbouring brooklet. The shades of night would, by 
 this time, have fallen upon the haunted homesteads of Grislehurst, 
 and, in the folds of that dusky robe, would have brought to the 
 old cottagers their usual fears, filled with 
 
 Shaping fantasies, that apprehend 
 More than cool reason ever comprehends; 
 
 and I could imagine the good old pair creeping off to repose, 
 and covering up their eyes more carefully than usual from the 
 goblin-peopled gloom, after the talk we had with them about 
 Grislehurst
 
 boggart |^o 
 
 Under the greenwood tree, 
 
 Who loves to lie with me, 
 
 And tune his merry note 
 
 Unto the sweet bird's throat, 
 
 Come hither, come hither, come hither; 
 
 Here we shall see 
 
 No enemy, 
 But winter and rough weather. 
 
 SHAKSPERE. 
 
 jjHERE is a quiet little clough about three miles from 
 Manchester, near the old village of Blackley. The 
 best entrance to it is by a gateway leading from 
 the southern edge of a shady steep called "Entwisle 
 Broo," on the highway from Manchester to Middleton. Ap- 
 proaching the spot in this direction, a winding road leads down 
 between a low bemossed wall on the right, and a thorn hedge, 
 which screens the green depth on the left. The trees which 
 line the path overlap the way with shade in summer time, 
 till it reaches the open hollow, where stands a brick-built 
 farm-house, with its outbuildings, and gardens, sheltered in 
 the rear by the wooded bank of the clough. Thence, this 
 pretty Lancashire dell wanders on southward for a considerable 
 distance, in picturesque quietude. The township of Blackley, 
 in which it is situated, retains many traces of its former 
 rural beauty, and some remnants of the woods which once 
 covered the district. As a whole, Blackley is, even yet, 
 so pleasantly varied in natural feature as to rank among 
 the prettiest scenery around Manchester, although its valleys 
 are now, almost all of them, more or less, surrendered to
 
 Boggart Ho' C lough. 215 
 
 the conquering march of manufacture all, except this se- 
 cluded glen, known by the name of "Boggart Ho' Clough." 
 Here, still, in this sylvan "deer-leap" of the Saxon hunter, 
 the lover of nature, and the jaded townsman, have a tranquil 
 sanctuary, where they can wander, cloistered from the tumults 
 of life; and there is many a contemplative rambler who 
 seeks the retirement of this leafy dell, the whole aspect of 
 which seems to invite the mind to' a "sessions of sweet, 
 silent thought." One can imagine it such a place as a man 
 of poetic temperament would delight in ; and the interest 
 which has gathered around it is not lessened by the fact, 
 that before Samuel Bamford, the poet, left this district to 
 take up his abode in the metropolis, he dwelt at a pleasant 
 cottage, on the summit of the upland, near the eastern 
 edge of the clough. And here, in his native sequestration, 
 he may have sometimes felt the significance of Burns's 
 words, 
 
 The muse, nae poet ever fand her, 
 Till by himsel' he learn'd to wander, 
 Down by some streamlet's sweet meander, 
 And no think lang. 
 
 The rural charms and retired peacefulness of "Boggart Ho' 
 Clough" might well, in the vicinity of a place like Man- 
 chester, account for part of its local celebrity; but not for 
 the whole of it. The superstitions of the locality and the 
 shaping power of imagination have clothed the place with 
 an interest which does not solely belong to the embowered 
 gloom of its green recesses, ; nor to its picturesque steeps, 
 overgrown with fern and underwood ; nor to the beauty of 
 its swardy holm, spreading out a pleasant space in the vale; 
 nor to the wimpling rill which wanders through it from 
 end to end, 
 
 Amongst the pumy stones, which seem to plains, 
 With gentle murmure, that his course they do restraine. 
 
 Man has- clothed the scene in a drapery of wonder and fear, 
 woven in the creative loom of his own imagination. Any 
 superstitious stranger, wandering there, alone, under the influence 
 of a midnight moon, would probably think this a likely place for 
 the resort of those spiritual beings who "fly by night." He 
 might truly say, at such an hour, that if ever "Mab" held 
 court on the green earth, "Boggart Ho' Clough" is just such
 
 216 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 a nook, as one can imagine, that her mystic choir would delight 
 to dance in, and sing, 
 
 Come, follow, follow me, 
 
 Ye fairy elves that be, 
 
 Light tripping o'er the green, 
 
 Come follow Mab, your queen; 
 Hand in hand _we'll dance around, 
 For this place is fairy ground. 
 
 The place is now associated with the superstitions of the district ; 
 and on that account, as well as on account of its natural attractions, 
 it has been the theme of more than one notable pen. In Roby's 
 " Traditions of Lancashire," there is a story called " The Bar- 
 gaist, or Boggart," which is connected with "Boggart Ho' 
 dough." From this story, which was contributed to that work 
 by Mr. Crofton Croker, author of "The Fairy Legends," I 
 quote the following : 
 
 "Not far from the little snug, smoky village of Blakeley, or 
 Blackley, there lies one of the most romantic of dells, rejoicing 
 in a state of singular seclusion, and in the oddest of Lancashire 
 names, to wit, ' Boggart-Hole.' Rich in every requisite for pic- 
 turesque beauty and poetical association, it is impossible for roe 
 (who am neither a painter nor a poet) to describe this dell as it 
 should be described; and I will, therefore, only beg of thee, 
 gentle reader, who, peradventure, mayst not have lingered in 
 this classical neighbourhood, to fancy a deep, deep dell, its steep 
 sides fringed down with hazel and beech, and fern and thick 
 undergrowth, and clothed at the bottom with the richest and 
 greenest sward in the world. You descend, clinging to the trees, 
 and scrambling as best you may, and now you stand on haunted 
 ground ! Tread softly, for this is the Boggart's clough. And 
 see in yonder dark corner, and beneath the projecting mossy 
 stone, where that dusky, sullen cave yawns before us, like a bit 
 of Salvator's best : there lurks that strange elf, the sly and mis- 
 chievous Boggart. Bounce ! I see him coming; oh no, it was 
 only a hare bounding from her form ; there it goes there ! 
 
 " I will tell you of some of the pranks of this very Boggart, 
 and how he teased and tormented a good farmer's family in a 
 house hard by ; and I assure you it was a very worthy old lady 
 who told me the story. But, first, suppose we leave the Boggart's 
 demesne, and pay a visit to the theatre of his strange doings. 
 
 " You see that old farm-house about two fields distant, shaded 
 by the sycamore tree : that was the spot which the Boggart or
 
 Boggart Ho' C lough, 217 
 
 Bar-gaist selected for his freaks; there "he held his revels, per- 
 plexing honest George Cheetham for that was the farmer's 
 name scaring his maids, worrying his men, and frightening the 
 poor chijdren out of their seven senses ; so that, at last, not even 
 a mouse durst show himself indoors at the farm, as he valued his 
 whiskers, five minutes after the clock had struck twelve." 
 
 The story goes on describing the startling pranks of this invi- 
 sible torment of honest George Cheetham's old haunted dwelling. 
 It tells how that the Boggart, which was a long time a terror to 
 the farmer's family, "scaring the maids, worrying the men, and 
 frightening the poor children," became at last a familiar, myste- 
 rious presence in a certain sense, a recognised member of the 
 household troop often heard, but never seen ; and sometimes a 
 sharer in the household conversation. When merry tales were 
 being told around the fire, on winter nights, the Boggart's "small, 
 shrill voice, heard above the rest, like a baby's penny trumpet," 
 joined the general laughter, in a tone of supernatural congeniality; 
 and the hearers learned, at last, to hear without dismay, if not to 
 love the sounds which they had feared before. But Boggarts, 
 like men, are moody creatures ; and this unembodied troubler of 
 the farmer's lonely house seems to have been sometimes so for- 
 getful of everything like spiritual dignity, or even of the claims 
 of old acquaintance, as to reply to the familiar banter of his 
 mortal co-tenants, in a tone of petty malignity. He even went 
 so far, at last, as to revenge himself for some fancied insult, by 
 industriously pulling the children up and down by the head and 
 legs in the night time, and by screeching and laughing plaguily in 
 the dark, to the unspeakable annoyance of the inmates. Jn order 
 to get rid of this nocturnal torment, it appears that the farmer 
 removed his children into other sleeping apartments, leaving the 
 Boggart sole tenant of their old bedroom, which seems to have been 
 his favourite stage of action. The story concludes as follows: 
 "But his Boggartship, having now fairly become the possessor 
 of a room at the farm, it would appear, considered himself in the 
 light of a privileged inmate, and not, as hitherto, an occasional 
 visitor, who merely joined in the general expression of merriment. 
 Familiarity, they say, breeds contempt; and now the childien's 
 bread and butter would be snatched away, or their porringers of 
 bread and milk would be dashed to the ground by an unseen 
 hand; or, if the younger ones were left alone but for a few 
 minutes, they were sure to be found screaming with terror on
 
 21 8 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 the return of their nurse. Sometimes, however, he would behave 
 himself kindly. The cream was then churned, and the pans and 
 kettles scoured without hands. There was one circumstance 
 which was remarkable: the stairs ascended from the kitchen; 
 a partition of boards covered the ends of the steps, and formed 
 a closet beneath the staircase. From one of the boards of this 
 partition a large round knot was accidentally displaced ; and one 
 day the youngest of the children, while playing with the shoe- 
 horn, stuck it into this knot-hole. Whether or not the aperture 
 had been formed by the Boggart as a peep-hole to watch the 
 motions of the family, I cannot pretend to say. Some thought 
 it was, for it was called the Boggart's peep-hole; but others said 
 that they had remembered it long before the shrill laugh of the 
 Boggart was heard in the house. However this may have been, 
 it is certain that the horn was ejected with surprising precision 
 at the head of whoever put it there ; and either in mirth or in 
 anger the horn was darted forth with great velocity, and struck 
 the poor child over the ear. 
 
 " There are few matters upon which parents feel more acutely 
 than that of the maltreatment of their offspring; but time, that 
 great soother of all things, at length familiarised this dangerous 
 occurrence to every one at the farm, and that which at the first 
 was regarded with the utmost terror, became a kind of amusement 
 with the more thoughtless and daring of the family. Often was 
 the horn slipped slyly into the hole, and in return it never failed 
 to be flung at the head of some one, but most commonly at the 
 person who placed it there. They were used to call this pastime, 
 in the provincial dialect, 'laking wi't' Boggart;' that is playing 
 with the Boggart. An old tailor, whom I but faintly remember, 
 used to say that the horn was often ' pitched ' at his head, and at 
 the head of his apprentice, whilst seated here on the kitchen 
 table, when they went their rounds to work, as is customary 
 with country tailors. At length the goblin, not contented with 
 flinging the horn, returned to his night persecutions. Heavy 
 steps, as of a person in wooden clogs, were at first heard clattering 
 down stairs in the dead hour of darkness ; then the pewter and 
 earthen dishes appeared to be dashed on the kitchen floor; though 
 in the morning all remained uninjured on their respective shelves. 
 The children generally were marked out as objects of dislike by 
 their unearthly tormentor. The curtains of their beds would be 
 violently pulled to and fro ; then a heavy weight, as of a human
 
 Boggart Ho 1 C lough. 219 
 
 being, would press them nigh to suffocation, from which it was 
 impossible to escape. The night, instead of being the time for 
 repose, was disturbed with screams and dreadful noises, and thus 
 was the whole house alarmed night after night. Things could 
 not long continue in this fashion ; the farmer and his good dame 
 resolved to leave a place where they could no longer expect rest 
 or comfort ; and George Cheetham was actually following, with 
 his wife and family, the last load of furniture, when they were 
 met by a neighbouring farmer, named John Marshall. 
 
 " ' Well, Georgy, and so yo're leaving th' owd house at last ?* 
 said Marshall. 
 
 " ' Heigh, Johnny, my lad, I'm in a manner forced to't, thou 
 sees,' replied the other ; 'for that weary Boggart torments us so, 
 we can neither rest neet nor day for't. It seems like to have a 
 malice again' t young uns, an' ommost kills my poor dame here 
 at thoughts on't, and so thou sees we're forc'd to flit like.' 
 
 " He had got thus far in his complaint, when, behold, a shrill 
 voice, from a deep upright churn, the topmost utensil on the 
 cart, called out, 'Ay, ay, neighbour, we're flitting, yo see.' 
 
 " ' Od rot thee,' exclaimed George : ' if I'd known thou'd 
 been flitting too, I wadn't ha' stirred a peg. Nay, nay, it's to 
 no use, Mally,' he continued, turning to his wife, 'we may as 
 weel turn back again to th' owd house, as be tormented in 
 another not so convenient.'" 
 
 Thus endeth Crofton Croker's tradition of the "Boggart," or 
 " Bar-gaist," which, according to the story, was long time a 
 well-known supernatural pest of old Cheetham's farm-house, but 
 whose principal lurking place was supposed to be in a gloomy 
 nook of "Boggart Ho' Clough," or "Boggart Hole Clough," for 
 the name adopted by the writer of the tradition appears to be 
 derived from that superstitious belief. With respect to the exact 
 origin of the name, however, I must entirely defer to those who 
 know more about the matter than myself. The features of the 
 story are, generically, the same as those of a thousand such like 
 superstitious stories still told and believed in all the country parts 
 of England though perhaps more in the northern part of it 
 than elsewhere. Almost every lad in Lancashire has, in his 
 childhood, heard, either from his "reverend grannie," or from 
 some less kin and less kind director of his young imagination, 
 similar tales connected with old houses, and other haunts, in the 
 neighbourhood of his own birthplace.
 
 220 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 Among those who have noticed "Boggart Ho' Clough," is 
 Mr. Samuel Bamford, well known as a poet, and a graphic prose 
 writer upon the stormy political events of his earlier life, and 
 upon whatever relates to the manners and customs of Lancashire. 
 In describing matters of the latter kind, he has the advantage of 
 being "native and to the manner born;" and still more specially 
 so in everything connected with the social peculiarities of 
 the locality of his birth. He was born at Middleton, about 
 two miles from "Boggart Ho' Clough," and, as I said before, 
 he resided for some years close to the clough itself! In his 
 "Passages in the Life of a Radical," vol. I. p. 130, there begins 
 one of the raciest descriptions of Lancashire characteristics 
 with which I am acquainted. The first part of this passage 
 contains a descriptive account of "Plant," a country botanist; 
 " Chirrup," a bird-catcher; and "Bangle," a youth "of an ardent 
 temperament, but bashful," who was deeply in love with "a 
 young beauty residing in the house of her father, who held a 
 small milk-farm on the hill-side, not far from Old Birkle." It 
 describes the meeting of the three in the lone cottage of Bangle's 
 mother, near Grislehurst wood ; the conversation that took place 
 there ; and the superstitious adventure they agreed upon, in order 
 to deliver young Bangle from the hopelessness of his irresistible 
 and unrequited love-thrall. "His modest approaches had not 
 been noticed by the adored one; and, as she had danced with 
 another youth at Bury fair, he imagined she was irrecoverably 
 lost to him, and the persuasion had almost driven him melancholy. 
 Doctors had been applied to, but he was no better ; philters and 
 charms had been tried to bring down the cold-hearted maid 
 but all in vain : 
 
 " He sought her at the dawn of day ; 
 He sought her at the noonin' ; 
 He sought her when the evening gray 
 Had brought the hollow moon in. 
 
 " He call'd her on the darkest night, 
 With wizard spells to bind her : 
 And when the stars arose in light, 
 He wandered forth to find her. 
 
 "At length sorcerers and fortune-tellers were thought of, and 
 'Limping Billy,' a noted seer, residing at Radcliffe Bridge, having 
 been consulted, said the lad had no chance of gaining power over 
 the damsel, unless he could take Saint John's Fern seed; and if 
 he could but secure three grains of that, he might bring to him 
 whatever he wished, that walked, flew, or swam."
 
 Boggart Ho 1 Clough. 221 
 
 Such being the conditions laid down, and believed in by the 
 three, they resolved to venture, together, on the taking of Saint 
 John's Fern seed, with strict observance of the time and the 
 cabalistic ceremonials enjoined by "Limping Billy," the seer, of 
 RadclifFe Bridge. "Plant," the botanist, "knew where the finest 
 clump of fern in the country grew;" and he undertook to ac- 
 company "Chirrup" and "Bangle" to the spot, at the time 
 appointed, the eve of St. John the Baptist. The remainder of 
 the passage describes " Boggart Ho' Clough," the spot in which 
 St. John's Fern then grew in great abundance, and where the 
 botanists of the district still find the plant ; it describes, also, the 
 fearful enterprise of the three at the witching hour of midnight, 
 in search of the enchanted seed : 
 
 " On the left hand, reader, as thou goest towards Manchester, 
 ascending from Blackley, is a rather deep valley, green swarded, 
 and embowered in plantations and older woods. A driving path, 
 which thou enterest by a white gate hung on whale-jaw posts,* 
 leads down to a grove of young trees, by a modern and substantial 
 farm-house, with green shutters, sashed windows, and flowers 
 peeping from the sills. A mantle of ivy climbs the wall, a gar- 
 den is in front, and an orchard, redolent of bloom, and fruit in 
 season, nods on the hill-top above. Here, at the time Plant was 
 speaking of, stood a very ancient house, built partly of old-fashioned 
 bricks, and partly of a timber frame, filled with raddlings and 
 daub (wicker-work plastered with clay). It was a lone and 
 desolate-looking house indeed ; misty and fearful, even at noon- 
 day. It was known as ' Boggart-ho',' or 'Fyrin'-ho';' and the 
 gorge in which it is situated, was, and is still, known as 'Boggart' 
 or ' Fyrin-ho' Kloof,' ' the glen of the hall of spirits.' Such a 
 place, might we suppose, had Milton in contemplation, when he 
 wrote the passage of his inimitable poem : 
 
 " Tells how the drudging goblin sweat, 
 To earn his cream-bowl, duly set, 
 When, in one night, ere glimpse of morn, 
 His shadowy flail had thrash'd the corn 
 Which ten day-labourers could not end ; 
 Then lies him down, the lubber fiend: 
 And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length. 
 Basks at the fire, his hairy strength ; 
 And cropful, out of door he flings, 
 Ere the first cock his matin sings. 
 
 * Those somewhat remarkable posts have been removed of late years, and stout 
 pillars of stone occupy their places.
 
 222 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 " By the side of the house, and through the whole length of 
 the valley, wends a sickly, tan-coloured rindle, which, issuing 
 from the great White Moss, comes down, tinged with the colour 
 of its parent swamp. Opposite the modern house, a forbidden 
 road cuts through the plantation on the right towards Moston 
 Lane. Another path leads behind the house, up precipitous 
 banks, and through close bowers, to Booth Hall ; and a third, 
 the main one, proceeds along the kloof, by the side of the stream, 
 and under sun-screening woods, until it forks into two roads: 
 one a cattle-track, to ' The Bell,' in Moston ; and the other a 
 winding and precipitous footpath, to a farm-house at 'Wood-end,' 
 where it gains the broad upland, and emerges into unshaded day. 
 
 "About half way up this kloof, is an open, cleared space of 
 green and short sward: it is probably two hundred yards in 
 length, by sixty in width; and passing along it from Blackley, 
 a group of fine oaks appear, on a slight eminence, a little to the 
 left. This part of the grove was, at the time we are concerned 
 with, much more crowded with underwood than at present.* 
 The bushes were then close and strong ; fine sprouts of ' yerth- 
 groon' hazel and ash were common as nuts ; whilst a thick bush 
 of bramble, wild rose, and holly, gave the spot the appearance 
 of a place inclosed and set apart for mysterious concealment. 
 Intermingled with these almost impervious barriers, where tufts 
 of tall green fern, curling and bending gracefully; and a little 
 separate from them and near the old oaks, might be observed a 
 few fern clumps of a singular appearance ; of a paler green than 
 the others with a flatter and a broader leaf sticking up, rigid 
 and expanded, like something stark with mute terror. These 
 were 'Saint John's Fern;' and the finest of them was the one 
 selected by Plant for the experiment now to be described. 
 
 "A little before midnight, on the eve of St. John, Plant, 
 Chirrup, and Bangle, where at the whale-jaw gate before- 
 mentioned ; and, having slightly scanned each other, they pro- 
 ceeded, without speaking, until they had crossed the brook at a 
 stepping-place, opposite the old Fyrin-ho'. The first word 
 spoken was 'What hast thou?' 
 
 " ' Mine is breawn an' roof,' 
 
 * Those oaks have been felled, and the kloof is now comparatively denuded of 
 timber ; the underwood on the left side is nearly swept away. Sad inroads on the 
 ominous gloom of the place.
 
 Boggart Ho* Clougb. 223 
 
 said Plant, exhibiting a brown earthern dish. ' What hast thou?' 
 he then asked. 
 
 " 'Mine is breet enough,' 
 
 said Chirrup, showing a pewter platter, and continued, "What 
 hast thou?' 
 
 " 'Teed wi' web an' woof, 
 Mine is deep enough,' 
 
 said Bangle, displaying a musty, dun skull, with the cap sawn off 
 above the eyes, and left flapping like a lid by a piece of tanned 
 scalp, which still adhered. The interior cavities had also been 
 stuffed with moss and lined with clay, kneaded with blood from 
 human veins, and the youth had secured the skull to his shoulders 
 by a twine of three strands of unbleached flax, of undyed wool, 
 and of woman's hair, from which also depended a raven black 
 tress, which a wily crone had procured from the maid he sought 
 to obtain. 
 
 "'That will do,' 
 
 said a voice, in a half whisper, from one of the low bushes they 
 were passing. Plant and Chirrup paused ; but Bangle, who had 
 evidently his heart on the accomplishment of the undertaking, 
 said, 'Forward! if we turn, now a spirit has spoken, we are 
 lost. Come on ! ' and they went forward. 
 
 "A silence, like that of death, was around them as they entered 
 on the opening platting. Nothing moved either in tree or brake. 
 Through a space in the foliage, the stars were seen pale in heaven, 
 and a crooked moon hung in a bit of blue amid motionless clouds. 
 All was still and breathless, as if earth, heaven, and the elements, 
 were aghast. Anything would have been preferable to that un- 
 natural stillness and silence the hoot of the night owl, the larum 
 of the pit sparrow, the moan of the wind, the toll of a death-bell, 
 or the howl of a" ban-dog, would, inasmuch as they are things of 
 this world, have been welcome sounds amid that horrid pause. 
 But no sound came and no object moved. 
 
 " Gasping, and with cold sweat oozing on his brow, Plant 
 recollected that they were to shake the fern with a forked rod 
 of witch hazel, and by no means must touch it with their hands, 
 and he asked, in a whisper, if the others had brought one. Both 
 said they had forgotten, and Chirrup said they had better never 
 have come ; but Plant drew his knife, and stepping into a moon- 
 lighted bush, soon returned with what was wanted, and they 
 went forward.
 
 224 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 "The green knowe, the old oaks, the encircled space, and 
 the fern, were now approached; the latter stiff and erect in 
 a gleamy light. 
 
 " ' Is it deep neet ?' said Bangle. 
 
 '"It is,' said Plant. 
 
 The star that bids the shepherd fold, 
 Now the top of heaven doth hold. 
 
 "And they drew near. All was still and motionless. 
 " Plant knelt on one knee, and held his dish under the fern. 
 " Chirrup held his broad plate next below, and 
 "Bangle knelt, and rested the skull directly under both on the 
 green sod ; the lid being up. 
 "Plant said, 
 
 ' Good St. John, this seed we crave, 
 We have dared ; shall we have ?' 
 
 "A voice responded : 
 
 ' Now the moon is downward starting, 
 Moon and stars are all departing ; 
 
 Quick, quick; shake, shake; 
 He whose heart shall soonest break, 
 
 Let him take." 
 
 " They looked, and perceived by a glance that a venerable 
 form, in a loose robe, was near them. , 
 
 "Darkness came down like a swoop. The fern was shaken, the 
 upper dish flew into pieces the pewter one melted ; the skull 
 emitted a cry, and eyes glared in its sockets; lights broke 
 beautiful children were seen walking in their holiday clothes, 
 and graceful female forms sung mournful and enchanting airs. 
 
 " The men stood terrified, and fascinated ; and Bangle, gazing, 
 bade, ' God bless 'em.' A crash followed as if the whole of the 
 timber in the kloof was being splintered and torn up ; strange 
 and horrid forms appeared from the thickets; the men ran as if 
 sped on the wind they separated, and lost each other. Plant 
 ran towards the old house, and there, leaping the brook, he cast 
 a glance behind him, and saw terrific shapes some beastly, 
 some part human, and some hellish, gnashing their teeth, and 
 howling, and uttering the most fearful and mournful tones, as if 
 wishful to follow him but unable to do so. 
 
 " In an agony of terror he arrived at home, not knowing how 
 he got there. He was, during several days, in a state bordering 
 on unconsciousness; and, when he recovered, he learned that
 
 Boggart Ho' Clougb. 225 
 
 Chirrup was found on the White Moss, raving mad, and chasing 
 the wild birds. As for poor Bangle, he found his way home over 
 hedge and ditch, running with supernatural and fearful speed 
 the skull's eyes glaring at his back, and the nether jaw grinning 
 and jabbering frightful and unintelligible sounds. He had pre- 
 served the seed, however, and, having taken it from the skull, he 
 buried the latter at the cross road from whence he had taken it. 
 He then carried the spell out, and his proud love stood one night 
 by his bed-side in tears. But he had done too much for human 
 nature in three months after she followed his corpse, a real 
 mourner, to the grave ! 
 
 " Such was the description my fellow-prisoner gave of what 
 occurred in the only trial he ever made with St. John's Fern 
 seed. He was full of old and quaint narratives, and of super- 
 stitious lore, and often would beguile time by recounting them. 
 Poor follow ! a mysterious fate hung over him also." 
 
 This description of " Boggart Ho' Clough," with its dramatic 
 embodiment of one of our strong local superstitions, is all 
 the more interesting from the pen of one who knew the 
 place and the people so well. I know no other writer who 
 is so able to portray the distinctive characteristics of the people 
 of South Lancashire as Samuel Bamford. 
 
 It is now some years since I visited the scene of the fore- 
 going traditions. At that time I was wholly unacquainted 
 with the last of these legends, and I knew little more about 
 "Boggart Ho' Clough," in any way, than its name indicates. I 
 sought the place, then, solely on account of its natural attractions. 
 Feeling curious, however, respecting the import of its name, and 
 dimly remembering Roby's tradition, I made some inquiry in the 
 neighbourhood, and found that, although some attributed the 
 name to the superstitious credulity of the native people, there 
 was one gentleman who nearly destroyed that theory in my 
 mind at the time, by saying that, a short time previous, he had 
 dined with a lawyer who informed him, in the course of a con- 
 versation "upon the same subject, that he had recently been at a 
 loss how to describe the place in question, having to prepare 
 some notices to be served on trespassers ; and, on referring to the 
 title-deeds of the property, he found that a family of the name 
 of "Bowker" had formerly occupied a residence situated in the 
 clough, and that their dwelling was designated "Bowker's Hall." 
 This he adopted as the origin of the name, and described it 
 p
 
 226 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 accordingly. But the testimony of every writer who notices 
 the spot, especially those best acquainted with it, inclines to 
 the other derivation. 
 
 But the locality has other points of interest, besides this 
 romantic nook, and the tales of glamour connected with it. 
 In it there is many a boggart story, brought down from the 
 past, many a spot of fearful repute among native people. 
 Apart from all these things, the chapelry of Blackley is enriched 
 with historic associations well worth remembering, and it con- 
 tains some interesting relics of the ancient manner of life 
 there. In former times the chapelry had in it several fine old 
 halls: Booth Hall, Nuthurst Hall, Lightbowne Hall, Hough 
 Hall, Crumpsall Hall, and Blackley Hall. Some of these still 
 remain. Some of them have been the homes or the birthplaces 
 of men of eminence in their day eminent for worth as well as 
 station among whom there is more than one who has left a 
 long trail of honourable recollections behind him. Such men 
 were Humphrey Chetham, Bishop Oldham, and others. Brad- 
 ford the martyr, also, is said to have resided in this township. 
 William Chadderton, D.D., Bishop of Chester, and afterwards 
 Bishop of Lincoln, was born at Nuthurst Hall, about the year 
 1 540. George Clarke, the founder of the charity which bears 
 his name, and one of Fuller's Worthies, resided in Crumpsall. 
 The following particulars respecting the district and its notabili- 
 ties I glean from the recently-published " History of the Ancient 
 Chapel of Blackley," by the Rev. John Booker, B.A., of Magdalene 
 College, Cambridge, curate of Prestwich. First, with respect to 
 the ancient state of Blackley, in the survey of Manchester, as taken 
 in the I5th Edward II. (1322), and preserved by Kuerden,* the 
 following official notice of the township occurs : " The park of 
 Blakeley is worth, in pannage, aery of eagles, herons and hawks, 
 honey-bees, mineral earths, ashes, and other issues, fifty-three 
 shillings and fourpence. The vesture of oaks, with the whole 
 coverture, is worth two hundred marks [133. 6s. 8d.] in the 
 gross. It contains seven miles in circumference, together with 
 two deer-leaps, of the king's grant." This short but significant 
 passage is sufficient to give the reader a glimpse of the appear- 
 ance of Blackley township five hundred years ago. From the 
 same authority., we learn that Blackley park (seven miles in 
 
 * Kuerden's MS., fol. 274, Chetham Library.
 
 Boggart Ho' C lough. 227 
 
 circumference) was, at that time, surrounded and fenced in by a 
 wooden paling. "The two 'deer-leaps' were probably cloughs 
 or ravines, of which the most remarkable is the 'Boggart Hole 
 Clough,' a long cleft or dell between two rocks, the sides of 
 which rise abruptly and leave a narrow pass, widening a little 
 here and there, through which flows a small brook. This is the 
 last stronghold of Blackley's ancient characteristic features, where 
 rural tranquility still reigns, free from the bustle and turmoil of 
 mercantile industry around it." 
 
 The following particulars respecting the etymology of the name 
 " Blackley," will not be unacceptable to students of language : 
 "Its etymology is yet a disputed point, owing to the various 
 significations of the Anglo-Saxon word, blac, bleec, bleac, which 
 means not only black, dark, opaque, and even gloomy, but also 
 pale, faded, pallid, from ' blaecan,' to bleach or make white. 
 And, as if these opposite meanings were not sufficiently per- 
 plexing, two other forms present themselves, one of which means 
 bleak, cold, bare, and the other yellow ; the latter syllable in the 
 name, ley, legb, leag, or leak, signifying a. field or place of pasture." 
 On this point, Whittaker says, in his " History of Manchester," 
 ** The Saxon blac, black, or blake, frequently imports the deep 
 gloom of trees; hence we have so many places distinguished by 
 the epithet in England, where no circumstances of soil and no 
 peculiarities of water give occasion to it, as the villages of Black- 
 burn and Blackrode in Lancashire, Blakeley-hurst, near Wigan, 
 and our own Blackley, near Manchester; and the woods of the last 
 were even seven miles in circuit as late as the fourteenth century. 
 
 "Leland, who wrote about the year 1538, bears testimony to 
 the unaltered aspect of Blackley, under the influence of cultivation, 
 and to the changes incident to the disafforesting of its ancient 
 woodlands. He says : ' Wild bores, bulks, and falcons, bredde 
 in times past at Blatele, now for lack of woode the blow-shoppes 
 decay there.'* 
 
 "Blacjcley had its resident minister as early as the reign of 
 Edward VI., in the person of Father Travis, a name handed 
 down to us in the pages of Fox and Strype. Travis was the 
 friend and correspondent of Bradford the martyr. In the suc- 
 ceeding reign he suffered banishment for his Protestant principles, 
 and his place was probably supplied by a papist." 
 
 Leland's "Itinerary" (Hearne's edit.), voL vii. p. 42.
 
 228 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 The site upon which, in 1815, stood the old hall of Blackley, 
 is now occupied by a print-shop. Blackley Hall "was a spacious 
 black-and-white half-timbered mansion, in the post and petrel 
 style, and was situated near to the junction of the lane leading 
 to the chapel and the Manchester and Rochdale turnpike road. 
 It was a structure of considerable antiquity, and consisted of a 
 centre and two projecting wings an arrangement frequently 
 met with in the ancient manor-houses of this county and bore 
 evidence of having been erected at two periods. 
 
 " Like most other houses of similar pretensions and antiquity, 
 it was not without its traditionary legends, and the boggart of 
 Blackley Hall was as well known as Blackley Hall itself. In 
 the stillness of the night it would steal from room to room, and 
 carry off the bedclothes from the couches of the sleeping, but 
 now thoroughly aroused and discomfited inmates."* 
 
 The township of Crumpsall bounds Blackley on the north 
 side, and is divided from it by the lively but now turbid little 
 river Irk, or Iwrke, or Irke, which means "Roebuck." "From 
 time immemorial, for ecclesiastical purposes, Crumpsall has been 
 associated with Blackley." The present Crumpsall Hall stands 
 on. the north side of the Irk, about a mile and a half from 
 " Boggart Ho' Clough." The earlier orthography of the name 
 was "Crumeshall, or Curmeshall. For its derivation we are 
 referred to the Anglo-Saxon, the final syllable 'sal' signifying 
 in that language a hall or place of entertainment, of which 
 hospitable abode the Saxon chief, whose name the first syllable 
 indicates, was the early proprietor.' Thus, too, Ordsall in the 
 same parish." Here, in later days, Humphrey Chetham was 
 born, at Crumpsall old hall. The author of the " History of 
 the Ancient Chapel of Blackley," from whose book I gather all 
 this information, also describes an old farm-house, situated in a 
 picturesque spot, in the higher part of Crumpsall, and pointed 
 
 * The following note is attached to this passage in Mr. Booker's volume: "The 
 annals of Blackley bear ample testimony to the superstition of its inhabitants. It 
 has had its nine days' wonder at every period of its history. Hollingworth, writing 
 of that age of portents and prodigies which succeeded the Reformation, says : ' In 
 Blackley, neere Manchester, in one John Pendleton's ground, as one was reaping, 
 the come being cut seemed to bleede ; drops fell out of it like to bloud ; multitudes 
 of people went to see it : and the straws thereof, though of a kindly colour without, 
 were within reddish, and as it were bloudy !' Boggart-hole Clough, too, was another 
 favourite haunt of ghostly visitants, the legend of which has been perpetuated by 
 Mr. Roby in his "Traditions of Lancashire," vol. 2, pp. 295, 391. Nor has it ceased 
 in our day: in 1852 one of its inhabitants imperilled the safety of his family and 
 neighbours, by undermining the walls of his cottage, in his efforts to discover the 
 hidden cause of some mysterious noise that had disturbed him."
 
 Boggart Ho' dough. 229 
 
 out as the dwelling in which Hugh Oldham, Bishop of Exeter, 
 who founded the Manchester Grammar School, was born. 
 About four years ago, when rambling about the green uplands of 
 Crumpsall, I called at this farm to see a friend of mine, who 
 lived in a cottage at the back of the house. While there I was 
 shown through this curious old dwelling; and I remember that 
 the tenants took especial pains to acquaint me with its local 
 importance, as the place of Bishop Oldham's nativity. It is 
 still known as "Oldham's tenement," and also as "Th' Bongs 
 (Banks) Farm." The following is a more detailed account of 
 the place, and the man : 
 
 " It is celebrated as the reputed birthplace of Hugh Oldham, 
 Bishop of Exeter, who, according to tradition current in the 
 neighbourhood, was born there about the middle of the fifteenth 
 century, and it is stated to have been the residence of the Oldhams 
 for the last four hundred years. The house itself a long narrow 
 thatched building bears evidence of considerable antiquity; the 
 walls appear to have been originally of lath and plaster, which 
 material has gradually, in many places, given place to brick-work; 
 and the whole exterior is now covered with whitewash. A room 
 on the ground-floor is still pointed out as the domestic chapel ; 
 but there are no traces of it ever having been devoted to such use. 
 " Hugh Oldham, LL.B., Bishop of Exeter, was descended from 
 an ancient family of that name. According to Dodsvvorth (MSS. 
 folio 152), he was born at Oldham, in a house in Goulbourne- 
 street ; but this assertion is contradicted by the testimony of his 
 other biographers : Wood and Godwin state that he was born 
 in Manchester, by which they mean not so much Manchester 
 town as Manchester parish; and Dugdale, in his Lancashire 
 visitation, states more definitely in what part of the parish, 
 correcting at the same time the misstatement of the others, 'not 
 at Oldham, but at Crumpsall, near Manchester.' In 1503 he 
 was created Archdeacon of Exeter, and in the following year 
 was raised, through the influence of the Countess of Richmond, 
 to the ^ee of Exeter. In 1515, having founded the Grammar 
 School of Manchester, he endowed it with the corn-mills situate 
 on the river Irk, which he purchased from Lord de la Warre, as 
 well as with other messuages and lands in Manchester." 
 
 In relation to Bishop Oldham, it may be worth notice 
 that in the Manchester Guardian of Wednesday, January roth, 
 1855, I found the following letter respecting a descendant
 
 230 Lancashire Sketches; 
 
 of this prelate. This brief notice of an aged and poverty- 
 stricken descendant of the bishop a soldier's wife, who has 
 followed the fortunes of her husband, as a prisoner of war, 
 and through the disasters of battle, shipwreck, and imprison- 
 ment in a foreign land is not uninteresting : " There is now 
 living in this city a poor, aged woman, who, it appears, is a 
 descendant of the founder of the Manchester Grammar School, 
 and who was also (in 1783) the first scholar in the first Sunday 
 school opened in Manchester. In subsequent years, as a soldier's 
 wife, she followed the fortunes of her husband in the tented 
 field, as a prisoner of war, and also in shipwreck. She is in full 
 possession of her mental powers ; and though, in a certain sense, 
 provided for, I am persuaded that many of those whose Alma 
 Mater was the Grammar School, and the Sunday school teachers 
 and scholars, would be delighted to honour her." 
 
 Crumpsall, in the chapelry of Blackley, was also the birthplace 
 of Humphrey Chetham, one of Fuller's Worthies, and a man 
 whom Manchester has good reason to hold in remembrance. 
 The following matter relative to the man, and the place of 
 his birth, is from the same volume : 
 
 " He was born at his father's residence, Crumpsall Hall, and 
 was baptised at the Collegiate Church, Manchester, July i5th, 
 1580. He probably received his education at the Grammar 
 School of his native town. Associated with his brothers, George 
 and Ralph, he embarked in trade as a dealer in fustians, and so 
 prospered in his business that in 1620 he purchased Clayton 
 Hall, near Manchester, which he made his residence, and sub- 
 sequently, in 1628, Turton Tower. 'He signally improved 
 himself,' writes Fuller, 'in piety and outward prosperity, and 
 was a diligent reader of the scriptures, and of the works of sound 
 divines, and a respecter of such ministers as he accounted truly 
 godly, upright, sober, discreet, and sincere. He was high-sheriff 
 of the county in 1635, and again in 1648, discharging the place 
 with great honour, insomuch that very good gentlemen of birth 
 and estate did wear his cloth at the assize, to testify their un- 
 feigned affection to him ; and two of them (John Hartley and 
 Henry Wrigley, Esquires), of the same profession with himself, 
 have since been sheriffs of the county.' 
 
 "By his will, dated December l6th, 1651, he bequeathed 
 j 7,000 to buy a fee-simple estate of 420 per annum, where- 
 with to provide for the maintenance, education, and apprenticing
 
 Boggart Ho 1 C lough. 231 
 
 of forty poor boys of Manchester, between the ages of six and 
 fourteen years children of poor but honest parents no bastards, 
 nor diseased at the time they are chosen, nor lame, nor blind, ' in 
 regard the town of Manchester hath ample means already (if so 
 employed) for the maintenance of such impotents.' The hospital 
 thus founded was incorporated by Charles II. In 1700 the 
 number of boys was increased to sixty, and from 1779 to ^26 
 eighty boys were annually maintained, clothed, and educated. 
 In the year 1718 the income of the hospital amounted to 
 517. 8s. 4d., and in 1826 it had reached to 2,608. 33. nd. 
 
 "He bequeathed, moreover, the sum of 1,000 to be ex- 
 pended in books, and 100 towards erecting a building for their 
 safe deposit, intending thus to lay the foundation of a public 
 library; and the residue of his estate (amounting to near 2,000) 
 to be devoted to the increase of the said library and the support 
 of a librarian. In 1826 this fund was returned at 542 per 
 annum. The number of volumes is now about 20,000. Mr. 
 Chetham died, unmarried, September 2Oth, 1653, and was 
 buried at the Collegiate Church, where a monument has recently 
 been erected to his memory, at the cost/ of a former participator 
 in his bounty." 
 
 The following description of the house, at Crumpsall, in 
 which Humphrey Chetham was born, is also given in Booker's 
 "History of Blackley Chapel:" 
 
 "Crumpsall Hall, the residence of this branch of the Chethams, 
 was another specimen of the half-timbered mansions already 
 described. In design, the same arrangement seems to have been 
 followed that is met with in many of the halls erected during 
 the fourteenth and two succeeding centuries an oblong pile 
 forming the centre, with cross gables at each end, projecting 
 some distance outwards. The framework consisted of a series 
 of vertical timbers, crossed by others placed transversely, with 
 the exception of the gables, in the upper part of which the 
 braces sprang diagonally from the centre or king-post. The 
 roofs were of high pitch, and extended considerably beyond the 
 outer surface of the walls, thus not only allowing of a more rapid 
 drain of water, but also affording a greater protection from the 
 weather. The hall was of two stories, and lighted chiefly by 
 bay-windows, an occasional dormer-window in the upper story 
 rising above the roof, and adding to the effect of the building by 
 destroying that lineal appearance which it would otherwise have
 
 232 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 assumed. This mansion, though never possessing any great pre- 
 tensions 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. 
 
 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,
 
 Boggar* Ho dough. 233 
 
 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 occu- 
 pations. 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 s~b, 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 
 
 maintenance of such impotent:? Judging, from the glimpse we
 
 234 
 
 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 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 out- 
 side 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.
 
 (A CHESHIRE SKETCH.) 
 
 Though much the centuries take, and much bestow. 
 Most through them all immutable remains- 
 Beauty, whose world-wide empire never wanes, 
 Sole permanence 'mid being's ceaseless flow. 
 These leafy heights their tiny temple owe 
 To some rude hero of the Saxon thanes, 
 Whom, slowly pricking from the neighbouring plains, 
 Rapt into votive mood the scene below. 
 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 grace serene that dwells on grove and lea, 
 The tranquil charm of little Rostherne Mere. 
 
 F. ESPINASSE. 
 
 jOSTHERNE 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
 
 236 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 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 exten- 
 sive. 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 every- 
 thing, 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 ; 
 And their green leaves, trembling with every blast, 
 Made a calm shadow far in compasse round, 
 
 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
 
 Ros theme Mere. 
 
 237 
 
 is very effectual with all kinds of dilatory animals, with tails 
 on. He was the very picture of poverty, and yet there was a 
 gay-hearted archness on his brown face; and he gave us the 
 "good day" merrily. The very flutter of his rags seemed to 
 have imbibed the care-defying gaiety of the curious biped they 
 hung upon, with such tender attachment. The whole country 
 was one tranquil scene of fertile verdure, frequently flat for the 
 length of a mile or two ; but gently-undulated in some places ; 
 and picturesquely wooded. In a vista of nearly two miles, not 
 a human foot was on the road, but ours; and every sight and 
 sound that greeted the senses as we sauntered along the blossomy 
 hedge-side, in the hot sunshine, was serenely-sweet and rural. 
 Skirting the wall of Tatton Park, we came to a substantial 
 farmhouse, near the highway, and opening the gate, we walked 
 up to it, to get a few minutes rest, and a drink. At our request, 
 a girl at the door of the house brought us a large jug-full of 
 churn-milk, which, when she had reached us a seat in the 
 garden, we drank as we sat in the sun. In the yard, a little 
 fat-legged urchin had crept, with his " porritch-pot," under the 
 nose of a large chained dog, about twice the size of himself, 
 and sat there, holding his spoon to the dog's mouth, childishly 
 beseeching him to "sup it." The good-natured brute kept a 
 steady eye on us while we were in sight, postponing any notice 
 of his little playmate. By direction of the goodwife, we took a 
 by-path which led towards the village. The country folk were 
 returning from church, and among them a number of little girls, 
 wearing a head-dress of pure white, but of a very awkward 
 shape. What was the meaning, or what the use, of the badge 
 they wore, I could not exactly tell. 
 
 We found that, though the village had many pretty cottage, 
 homes, dropped down irregularly among the surrounding green, 
 it consisted chiefly of one little street of rural houses, of very 
 pleasant appearance. Here and there, a latticed window was 
 open to the front, showing a small parlour, scrupulously clean 
 and orderly; the furniture old-fashioned, substantial, and care- 
 fully polished; and the Bible "gleaming through the lowmost 
 window-pane," under the shade of myrtle-pots, and fuchsias in 
 full flower. As we looked about us for the church, a gentleman 
 in the garb of a clergyman stepped out of one of the houses, 
 which, though a whitewashed dwelling, of simple construction, 
 and of no great size any way, still had something peculiarly
 
 238 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 attractive in its retired position, and an air of superiority about 
 the taste and trimness of all its appurtenances. He had a book 
 in one hand, and leaned forward in his walk, not from infir- 
 mity, for he was hale and active, but as if to give impetus to 
 his progress, which seemed to have an earnest purpose some- 
 where. This gentleman was the Vicar of Rostherne. We 
 inquired of him the way to the church. " Come up this way," 
 said he, in an agreeable tone, but without stopping in his walk. 
 "Have you never seen it before?" "Never." "Here it is, 
 then," he replied, as we entered the church-field at the top of 
 the knoll. The sudden appearance of the venerable fane, and its 
 picturesque situation, called forth an involuntary expression of 
 admiration from us. We walked on slowly, scanning the features 
 of the solemnly-beautiful scene. The vicar then inquired where 
 we came from, and when we answered " Manchester," he went 
 on, " Well, now, I don't at all wonder, nor much object to you 
 Manchester gentlemen, pent up as you are the whole week, 
 coming out on a Sunday to breathe a little country air, and to 
 look on the woods and fields, but I should be better pleased to 
 see you come in time to attend divine worship, which would be 
 a double benefit to you. You might easily do it, and it would 
 enhance the pleasure of your ramble, for you would go home 
 again doubly satisfied with all that you had seen. Don't you 
 think you would, now ? " It needed no Socratic effort on his 
 part to obtain our assent to such a sentiment, so kindly expressed. 
 As we walked on, he brought us dexterously to the north-west 
 corner of the church, the best point of view, looking down 
 through the trees, from the summit of the hill on which the 
 church stands, upon Rostherne Mere in all its beauty. There it 
 lay, in the bosom of the valley below, as smooth and bright as 
 a plate of burnished silver, except towards the middle, where 
 the wind embossed it with fantastic ripples, which shimmered 
 in the sunlight; and it was all fringed round with the rich 
 meadows, and plumy woods, sloping down to the edge of the 
 water. From the farther side, a finely-wooded country stretched 
 away as far as we could see, till the scene ended in a dim amphi- 
 theatre of moorland hills, rising up, from east to west, on the 
 horizon. In front of us, and about four miles beyond the lake, 
 the pretty village of Bowdon and its ancient Church were clearly 
 in sight above the woods. It was, altogether, a very beautiful 
 English scene. And it is a pity that this lovely little oasis is not
 
 Rostberne Mere. 
 
 239 
 
 better known to the jaded hearts that fret themselves to death in 
 Manchester, and rush here and there, in crowds, to fill all the 
 world's telescopes ; the majority of them, perhaps, like me, little 
 dreaming of the existence of so sweet a spot so near them. By 
 the side of the mere, where the water was as placid as glass, 
 being sheltered from the wind by the woods on its shelvy banks, 
 we were delighted with a second edition of the scenery on the 
 margin, and of the skies above, clearly reflected in the seemingly 
 unfathomable deeps of the water. 
 
 The vicar had left us, and gone into the church, requesting 
 us, when we had feasted our fill on the outside, to follow him, 
 and look through the inside of the church. We lifted the latch, 
 but seeing him addressing a number of young people, who sat 
 round him in attentive attitude, we shut the door quietly, and 
 walking round to the porch on the opposite side, went in, on 
 tiptoe. Standing silent under the organ-loft, we listened, while 
 he impressed upon his young flock the nature and intent of con- 
 firmation, and the necessity for their understanding the solemn 
 obligation implied thereby, and devoutly wishing to undertake it, 
 before they could be admitted to partake of it. "And now," 
 said he, " if any of you don't quite understand anything I am 
 saying to you, don't be afraid to say so. I shall be glad to know 
 it, that I may make it clear to you. For you must remember, 
 that it is not what I say to you that will be of use to you, but 
 what you understand of it." He then consulted them about the 
 best times in the following week for them to meet him, that he 
 might assist such as were wishful to prepare for the ceremony. 
 He asked " Thomas," and " Mary," and " Martha," how four 
 o'clock would suit them on certain days, and when they whis- 
 pered that "half-past seven would suit them better," he replied, 
 " I dare say it will ; and let it be so, then." He then repeated 
 the pleasure it would give him to meet them at that or any 
 other hour on certain days next week, to help, and examine 
 them. It. was only changing his dinner hour a little. We 
 walked quietly out as he began to catechise them, postponing 
 our examination of the interior till a fitter opportunity. 
 
 Rostherne churchyard b a singularly retired spot. A solemn 
 repose mingles with the natural charms of everything about it, 
 increased by the antiquity of its relics. Though near the village, 
 it is approached from it by a gentle ascent, from the head of 
 which it slopes away, clean out of sight of the village, and is
 
 240 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 bounded on the west side by a row of sombre old trees, through 
 which Rostherne Hall is seen, in the midst of woods and gardens. 
 No other building except the church is in sight ; and a sweeter 
 spot for the life-wearied body to take its last rest in, could hardly 
 be imagined. As I walked about this quiet grave-yard, which 
 is environed by scenery of such a serene kind, that nature itself 
 seems afraid to disturb the repose of the sleepers, upon whose 
 bed the leaves tremble silently down ; and where I could hear 
 no sounds but a drowsy rustle of the neighbouring trees, I 
 thought of Gray's inimitable "Elegy written in a Country 
 Churchyard:" 
 
 Beneath these rugged elms, that yew tree's shade. 
 Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 
 
 Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 
 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
 
 The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. 
 
 The swallow twittering from her straw-built shed, 
 
 The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
 No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed, 
 
 For then no more the blazing heart shall burn, 
 
 Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 
 No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
 
 Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 
 
 Oft did the harvest to the sickle yield ; 
 
 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 
 How jocund did they drive their team a-field ! 
 
 How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 
 
 Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
 
 Their homely joys and destiny osbcure ; 
 Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
 
 The short and simple annals of the poor. 
 
 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 
 Await alike the inevitable hour ; 
 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
 
 Yet e'en these bones, from insult to protect, 
 
 Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
 With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, 
 
 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 
 
 Their name, their years, spelt by the unletter'd muse, 
 
 The place of fame and elegy supply; 
 And many a holy text around she strews, 
 
 That teach the rustic moralist to die. 
 
 This poem the finest of the kind in the English language 
 might, with equal fitness, have been written of this peaceful
 
 Rostbeme Mere. 241 
 
 churchyard of Rostherne village. Man, whom Quarles calls a 
 "worm of five feet long," is so liable to have his thoughts 
 absorbed by the art of keeping himself bodily alive, that 
 he is none the worse for a hint from the literature of the 
 churchyard : 
 
 Art is long, and life is fleeting, 
 And our hearts, though stout and brave, 
 
 Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
 Funeral marches to the grave. 
 
 We walked over the gravestones, reading the inscriptions, some 
 of which had a strain of simple pathos in them, such as the 
 following : 
 
 Ye that are young, prepare to die, 
 For I was young, and here I lie. 
 
 Others there were in this, as in many other burial-places, 
 which were either unmeaning, or altogether unsuitable to the 
 situation they were in. There were several half-sunken head- 
 stones in different parts of the yard, mostly bemossed and dim 
 with age. One or two were still upright; the rest leaned one 
 way or other. These very mementoes, which pious care had 
 set up, to keep alive the memories of those who lay mouldering 
 in the earth below, were sinking into the graves of those they 
 commemorated. 
 
 At the outside of the north-east entrance of the church, lies 
 an ancient stone coffin, dug up a few years ago in the graveyard. 
 Upon the lid of the coffin was sculptured the full-length figure 
 of a knight, in a complete suit of mail, with sword and shield. 
 No further clue has been obtained to the history of this antique 
 coffin and its effigy, than that it belonged to one of the Cheshire 
 family of Venables, whose crest and motto ("Sic Donee") it 
 bears. The church contains many interesting monuments, be- 
 longing to this and other families of the old gentry of Cheshire. 
 Several of these are of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. 
 But the finest and most interesting monuments in the church, 
 as works of art, are those belonging to the Egerton family, of 
 Tatton Park. At a suitable time, the sexton occasionally takes 
 a visitor up to the gate which separates the Egerton seat and 
 monuments from the rest of the church, and, carefully unlocking 
 it, ascends two steps with a softened footfall, and leads him into 
 the storied sanctum of the Lords of Tatton; where, among 
 other costly monuments, he will be struck by the chaste and 
 Q
 
 242 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 expressive beauty of a fine modern one, in memory of a young lady 
 belonging to this family. On a beautiful tomb, of the whitest 
 marble, the figure of a young lady reclines upon a mattress and 
 pillow of the same, in the serenest grace of feature and attitude : 
 and "the rapture of repose" which marks the expression of the 
 countenance, is a touching translation, in pure white statuary, 
 of those beautiful lines in which Byron describes the first hours 
 of death 
 
 Before decay's effacing fingers 
 
 Have swept the lines where beauty lingers. 
 
 At the back of the recumbent lady, an exquisite figure of an 
 angel kneels, and leans forward with delicate grace, watching 
 over the reposing form, with half-opened wings, and one hand 
 slightly extended over the dead. The effect of the whole is ex- 
 ceedingly beautiful, chaste, and saddening. The monument is 
 kept carefully covered with clean white handkerchiefs, except 
 when the family is present, when it is uncovered, until their de- 
 parture. Before I was admitted to view this beautiful memorial, 
 I had heard something of the story which it illustrates, and I 
 inquired further of the sexton respecting it. The old man said 
 that the young lady had been unwell only a few days previous 
 to the evening of her death, and on that evening the family 
 physician thought her so much better, and felt so certainly-ex- 
 pectant of a further improvement in her health, that he directed 
 her attendants to get her to repose, and then they might them- 
 selves safely retire to rest for a little while. They did so ; and 
 returning soon, found her still lying precisely as they had laid 
 her, and looking so placid in feature, that they did not know she 
 was dead, until they came to find her quite cold. The monument 
 represents her as she was thus found. As I stood looking upon 
 this group of statuary, the evening sun shone through the southern 
 windows of the old church, and the sexton who evidently knew 
 what the effect would be lowered the crimson blind of the win- 
 dow nearest to the monument. This threw a soft rich crimson 
 hue over the white marble tomb, the figures, and the sculptured 
 drapery, which gave it an inexpressibly-rich appearance. So 
 white and clean was the whole, that the white handkerchiefs 
 which the sexton had taken off the figures, and laid upon the 
 white basement of the tomb, looked like part of the sculpture. 
 
 The church is dedicated to St. Mary. It is proved to have 
 existed long prior to 1 188. The present steeple was erected in
 
 Rostberne Mere, 
 
 243 
 
 1741. There is something venerable about the appearance of 
 an old ecclesiastical building, which continually and eloquently 
 preaches, without offending. Apart from all questions of doc- 
 trines, formulas, and governments, I often feel a veneration for 
 an old church, akin to that expressed by him who said that he 
 never passed one without feeling disposed to take off his hat to it. 
 The sun was setting westward over the woods, and we began 
 to think of getting a quiet meal somewhere before we went 
 back. There is generally an old inn not far from an old church. 
 "How it comes, let doctors tell;" but it is so; and we begun to 
 speculate upon the chance of finding one in this case. Going out 
 of the churchyard at the lowest corner, through a quaint wicket 
 gate, with a shed over it, a flight of steps led us down into a 
 green dingle, embosomed in tall trees, and there, in front of us, 
 stood a promising country " hostelrie," under the screen of the 
 woods. We looked an instant at its bright window, and its 
 homely and pleasant appurtenances, and then, with assured minds, 
 darted in, to make a lunge at the larder. "A well-conducted 
 inn is a thing not to be recklessly sneered at in this world of 
 ours, after all," thought I. We sat down in a shady little room 
 in front, and desired the landlord to get us some tea, with any 
 substantial stomach-gear that was handy and plentiful. In a 
 few minutes a snowy cloth was on the table, followed by "neat- 
 handed Phillis," with the tea things. A profusion of strong tea, 
 and toast, and fine cream, came next, in beautiful china and glass 
 ware ; the whole crowned with a huge dish of ham and poached 
 eggs, of such amplitude, that I began to wonder who was to join 
 us. Without waste of speech, we fell to, with all the appetite 
 and enjoyment of Sancho at Camacho's wedding. The landlord 
 kept popping in, to see that we wanted nothing, and to urge 
 us to the attack; which was really a most needless though a 
 generous office. After tea, we strolled another hour by the 
 edge of the water, then took the road home, just as the sun 
 was setting. The country was so pleasant, and we so refreshed, 
 that we resolved to walk to Manchester, and watch the sinking 
 of the summer twilight among the woods and fields by the way. 
 Our route led by the edge of Dunham Park, and through Bowdon, 
 where we took a peep at the church, and the expansive view 
 from the churchyard. There is a fine old yew tree in Bowdon 
 churchyard, seated around. The road from Bowdon to Man- 
 chester passes through a country which may be truly characterised
 
 244 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 as the market-garden of Manchester. We went on, through the 
 villages of Altrincham, Sale Moor, and Stretford, thinking of 
 his words who said, 
 
 One impulse from a vernal wood 
 
 Will teach thee more of man, 
 Of moral evil, and of good. 
 
 Than all the sages can. 
 
 Ir was midnight when I got to bed, and sank into a sound 
 sleep, to wake in the morning among quite other scenes. But 
 while I live, I shall not easily forget " the tranquil charm of 
 little Rostherne Mere."
 
 Junhaf's 
 
 Oh thou who dost these pointers see, 
 That show the passing hour; 
 
 Say, do I tell the time to thee, 
 And tell thee nothing more? 
 
 I bid thee mark life's little day 
 With strokes of duty done; 
 
 A clock may stop at any time- 
 But time will travel on. 
 
 THE CHURCH CLOCK. 
 
 |HEN I was first bound apprentice, I was so thick-set, 
 and of such short stature for my age, that I began to 
 be afraid that I was doomed to be a pigmy in size; 
 and it grieved my heart to think of it. I remember how 
 anxiously I used to compare my own stunted figure with the 
 height of other lads younger than me; and seeing myself left so 
 much below them, I remember how much I longed for a rise in 
 the world. This feeling troubled me sorely for two or three 
 years. It troubled me so much, indeed, that, even at church, 
 when I heard the words, " Which of you, by taking thought, 
 can add one cubit unto his stature ? " the question touched me 
 with the pain of a personal allusion to my own defect; and, 
 in those days, I have many a time walked away from service 
 on a Sunday, sighing within myself, and wondering how much 
 a cubit was. But I had a great deal of strong life in my little 
 body; and, as I grew older, 1 took very heartily to out-door 
 exercises, -and 1 carefully notched the progress of my growth, 
 with a pocket-knife, against a wooden partition, in the office 
 where I was an apprentice. As time went on, my heart became 
 gradually relieved and gay as I saw these notches rise steadily, 
 one ovei the other, out of the low estate which had given me so 
 much pain. But, as this childish trouble died away from my 
 mind, other ambitions awoke within me, and I began to fret at 
 the tether of my apprenticeship, and wish for the time when I
 
 246 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 should be five feet eight, and free. Burns's songs were always 
 a delight to me ; but there was one of them which I thought 
 more of then than I do now. It was, 
 
 Oh for ane-an'-twenty, Tarn ! 
 
 An', hey for ane-an'-twenty, Tarn ! 
 I'd learn my kin a rattlin' sang, 
 
 An' I saw ane-an'-twenty, Tarn ! 
 
 About two years before the wished-for day of my release came, 
 I mounted a long-tailed coat, and a chimney-pot hat, and began 
 to reckon myself among the sons of men. My whiskers, too 
 they never came to anything grand never will but my whis- 
 kers began to show a light-coloured down, that pleased the young 
 manikin very much. I was anxious to coax that silken fluz 
 lower down upon my smooth cheeks ; but it was no use. They 
 never grew strong; and they would not come low down; so I 
 gave them up at last, with many a sigh. The dainty ariels were 
 timid, and did their sprouting gently. This was one of my first 
 lessons in resignation. I remember, too, it was about the same 
 time that I bought my first watch. It was a second-hand silver 
 verge watch, with large old-fashioned numerals upon the face; 
 and it cost twenty- one shillings. I had a good deal ado to raise 
 the price of it by small savings, by working over-hours, and by 
 the sale of an old accordian, and a sword-stick. Long before 
 I could purchase it, I had looked at it from time to time as I 
 passed by the watchmaker's window; which was on the way be- 
 tween my home and the shop where I was an apprentice. At 
 last I bore the prize away. A few pence bought a steel chain ; 
 and my eldest sister gave me an old seal, and a lucky six- 
 pence, to wear upon the chain, and I felt for the time as if it 
 was getting twelve o'clock with my fortunes. A long-tailed 
 coat; a chimney-pot hat; a watch; a mild promise of whiskers; 
 a good constitution ; and a fair chance of being five feet eight, 
 or so. No wonder that I began to push out my shins as I went 
 about the streets. For some weeks after I became possessed of 
 my watch, I took great pleasure in polishing the case, looking 
 into the works, winding it up, and setting it right by public 
 clocks, and by other people's watches. I had a trick, too, of 
 pulling it out in public places, which commanded the range of 
 some desired observation. But after a year or so the novelty 
 wore off, and I began to take less interest in the thing. Besides, 
 through carelessness and inexperienced handling, I found that
 
 Oliver Fernkafs Watch. 247 
 
 my watch began to swallow up a great deal of pocket-money, in 
 new glasses, and other repairs. I was fond of jumping, too, and 
 other rough exercises; and through this my watch got sadly 
 knocked about, and was a continual source of anxiety to me. 
 At last I got rid of it altogether. It had never gone well with 
 me; but it went from me for good; and I was cured of the 
 watch mania for a long while. In fact, nearly twenty years 
 passed away, during which I never owned a watch; never, 
 indeed, very much felt the want of one. When I look back at 
 those years, and remember how I managed to mark the time 
 without watch of my own, I find something instructive in the 
 retrospect. In a large town there are so many public clocks, 
 and bells, and so many varied movements of public life which 
 are governed by the progress of the hours, that there is little 
 difficulty in the matter. But in the country in my lonely ram- 
 bles I learned, then, to read the march of time, " indifferently 
 well," in the indications of nature, as ploughmen and shepherds 
 do. The sights, and "shapes, and sounds, and shifting elements," 
 became my time-markers ; and the whole world was my clock. 
 I can see many compensations arising from the lack of a watch 
 with me during that time. 
 
 And now, after so many years of sweet independence in this 
 respect, I find myself, unexpectedly, the owner of a watch once 
 more. I became possessed of it rather curiously, too. The way 
 of it was this. I was on a visit to a neighbouring town ; and, 
 in the afternoon, I called to pass an hour with an old friend, 
 before returning home. After the usual hearty salutes, we sat 
 down in a snug back parlour, lighted our pipes, and settled into 
 a dreamy state of repose, which was more delightful than any 
 strained effort at entertainment. We puffed away silently for a 
 while ; and then we asked one another questions, in a drowsy 
 way, like men talking in their sleep; then we smoked on 
 again, and looked vacantly round about the room, 3nd into the 
 fire. At last, I noticed that my friend began to gaze earnestly 
 at my clothing ; and, knowing him to be a close observer, and a 
 man of penetrative spirit, I felt it ; though I knew very well 
 that it was all right, for he takes a kindly interest in all I wear, 
 or do, or say. Well; he began to look hard at my clothing, 
 beginning with my boots. I didn't care much about him ex- 
 amining my boots; for, as it happened, they had just been soled, 
 and heeled, and welted afresh; with a bran new patch upon one
 
 248 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 side. If he had seen them a week before, I should have been 
 pained, for they were in a ruinous state then ; and, being rather 
 a dandified pair originally, they looked abominable. I think there 
 is nothing in the world so intensely wretched in outward appear- 
 ance as shabby dandyism. Well ; he began with my boots ; 
 and, after he had scrutinised them thoroughly for a minute or 
 two, I felt, instinctively, that he was going to peruse the whole 
 of my garments from head to foot, like a tapestried story. And 
 so it was. When he had finished my boots, his eyes began to 
 travel slowly up my leg; and, as they did so, my mind ran 
 anxiously ahead, to see what the state of things was upon the 
 road that his glance was coming. "How are my trousers?" 
 thought I. There was no time to lose ; for I felt his eye coming 
 up my leg, like a dissecting knife. At last, I bethought me 
 that I had split my trousers across one knee, about a fort- 
 night before ; and the split had only been indifferently stitched 
 up. " Now for it," thought I, giving myself a sudden twitch, 
 with the intention of throwing my other leg over that knee to 
 hide the split. But I was too late. His eye had already fastened 
 upon the place like a leech. I saw his keen glance playing slyly 
 about the split, and my nerves quivered in throes of silent pain 
 all the while. At last, he lifted up his eyes, and sighed, and 
 then, looking up at the ceiling, he sighed out the word, "Aye," 
 very slowly ; and then he turned aside to light his pipe at the 
 fire again ; and, whilst he was lighting his pipe, I very quietly 
 laid the sound leg of my trousers over the split knee. Pushing 
 the tobacco into his pipe with the haft of an old penknife, he 
 now asked me how things were going on in town. I pretended 
 to be quite at ease ; and I tried to answer him with the air of 
 one who was above the necessity of such considerations. But I 
 knew that he had only asked the question for the purpose of 
 throwing me off my guard ; and I felt sure that his eyes would 
 return to the spot where they had left off at. And they did so. 
 But he saw at once that the knee was gone; so he travelled 
 slowly upwards, with persistent gaze. In two or three minutes 
 he stopped again ; it was somewhere about the third button of 
 my waistcoat or rather the third button-hole, for the button 
 was off. He halted there ; and his glance seemed to snuff round 
 about the place, like a dog that thinks it has caught the scent; 
 and I began to feel uncomfortable again ; for, independent of the 
 button being off, I had only twopence-halfpenny, and a bit of
 
 Oliver Fernleafi Watch. 249 
 
 blacklead pencil, and an unpaid bill in my pocket; and somehow 
 I thought he was finding it all out. So I shifted a little round, 
 and began to hum within myself, 
 
 Take, oh take those eyes away ! 
 
 But it was no use. He would do it. And I couldn't stand it 
 any longer ; so I determined to bolt before he got up to my shirt 
 front, or "dickey," for I had a "dickey" on, and one side of it 
 was bulging out in a disorderly way, and I durst not try to put 
 it right for fear of drawing his attention to it. I determined to 
 be rid of the infliction at once, so I pretended to be in a hurry. 
 Knocking the ashes out of my pipe, I rose up and said, " Have 
 you got a time-table ? " 
 "Yes." 
 
 " There's a train about now, I think." 
 
 "Yes; but stop till the next. What's your hurry ? You're 
 not here every day. Sit down and get another pipe." 
 
 "How's your clock?" said I, turning round and looking 
 through the window, so as to get a sly chance of pushing my 
 "dickey" into its place. " How's your clock ? " 
 
 "Well, it's about ten minutes fast. Isn't it, Sarah?" said he 
 to the servant, who was coming in with some coals. 
 
 " No," replied she. " I put it right by th' blacksmith, this 
 mornin'." 
 
 By "the blacksmith," she meant the figure of an old man 
 with a hammer, which struck the hours upon the bell of a public 
 clock, a little higher up the street. 
 
 " Well," said my friend, looking at the time-table, " in any 
 case, you're too late for this train now. Sit down a bit. I left 
 my watch this morning, to have a new spring put in it ; but I'll 
 keep my eye on the clock, so that you shall be in time for the 
 next. Sit you down, an' let's have a chat about old times." 
 
 I gave a furtive glance at my "dickey," and seeing it was all 
 right, I sat down again with a sigh, laying the sound leg of my 
 trousers-carefully over my split knee. I had no sooner sat down, 
 than he looked at my waistcoat pocket again, and said, " I say, 
 old boy, why don't you carry a watch ? It would be a great 
 convenience." 
 
 I explained to him that I had been so many years used to 
 notice public clocks, and to marking the time by the action of 
 nature, and by those movements of human life that are regulated
 
 250 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 by clock-work, that I felt very little need for a watch. Besides, 
 it was as easy to ask the time of day of people who had watches, 
 as it would be to look at one's own; and then, if I had a watch, 
 I did not know whether the convenience of the thing would 
 compensate for the anxiety and expense of it. He listened at- 
 tentively, and then, after looking into the fire musingly for a 
 minute or two, as if he was interpreting my excuse in some way 
 of his own, he suddenly knocked his pipe upon the top bar of 
 the fire-grate, and said, " By Jupiter Ammon, I'll give you one!" 
 1 My friend never swears, except by that dissolute old Greek; or 
 by a still more mysterious deity, whom he calls "the Living 
 Jingo !" Whenever he mentions either of these, I know that he 
 means something strong; so I sat still and " watched the case," 
 as lawyers say. 
 
 " Mary," said he, rising, and calling to his wife, who was in 
 another room; "Mary, wheer's that old watch?" 
 
 "I have it upstairs, in an old rosewood writing-desk," replied 
 she. 
 
 " Just fetch it down ; I want to look at it." He listened at 
 the door, until he heard her footsteps going upstairs; and then 
 he turned to me, chuckling and rubbing his hands ; and, slap- 
 ping me on the shoulder, he said, " Now then, old fellow, fill 
 your pipe again ! By the Living Jingo, you shall have the time 
 o' day in your pocket before you leave this house." She was a 
 good while in returning ; so he shouted up the stairs, " Haven't 
 you found it yet, Mary ?" 
 
 " Yes," replied she, " it's here. I'll be down in a minute." 
 
 I began to puff very hard at my pipe; for I was getting 
 excited. She came at last, and said, as she laid the watch in his 
 hand, " I have thought of selling it many a time, for it is of no 
 use lying yonder." 
 
 "Aye," replied my friend, pretending to look very hard at 
 the works. As long as she remained in the room, he still kept 
 quietly saying, "Aye, aye," at short intervals. But when she 
 left the room, he earnestly watched the closing door, and then, 
 shutting the watch, he came across to me, and, laying it in my 
 hand, he said, " There, old boy, that's yours. Keep it out of 
 sight till you get out of the house." And I did keep it out of 
 sight. But I was more than ever anxious to get away by the 
 next train, so that I could fondle it freely. It was an old silver 
 lever watch, without fingers. It was silent, with a silence that
 
 Oliver Fernleafs Watch. 251 
 
 had continued long ; its face was dusty ; and the case wore the 
 cloudy hue of neglect. However, I bore my prize away at last; 
 and, before the day was over, I had spent eighteenpence upon 
 new fingers, and sixpence upon a yard-and-a-half of broad black 
 watered silk ribbon for a guard. Next day, after I had polished 
 the case thoroughly with whitening, I put on a clean shepherd's 
 plaid waistcoat, in order to show the broad black ribbon which 
 led to my watch. Since then, I know not how oft I have stopped 
 to put it right by the cathedral clock ; and I have found some- 
 times, as the Irishman did, that " the little divul had bate that 
 big fellow by two hours in twelve." It is a curious thing, this 
 old watch of mine ; and I like it : there is something so human 
 about it. It is full of 
 
 Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles. 
 
 Sometimes the fingers stand still, even when the works are going 
 on. Even when wound up, it has a strange trick of stopping 
 altogether for an hour or two now and then, as if smitten with 
 a fit of idleness; and then it will set off" again of its own accord, 
 like a living thing wakening up from sleep. It stops oftener 
 than it goes. It is not so much a time-keeper as a standing 
 joke ; and looking at it from this point of view, I am very fond 
 of this watch of mine. Before I had it, whenever I chanced to 
 waken in the night time, I used to strike a light, and read myself 
 to sleep again. But now, when I waken in the night, I suddenly 
 remember, "Oh, my watch!" Then I listen, and say to my- 
 self, " I believe it has stopped again ! " and then, listening more 
 attentively, and hearing its little pulse beating, I say, "No: there 
 it goes. Bravo!" And I strike a light, and caress the little 
 thing; and wind it up. I have great fun with it, in a quiet 
 way. I believe, somehow, that it is getting used to me ; and I 
 shouldn't like to part with it any more. There is a kind of 
 friendship growing between us that will last until my own 
 pulse is stopped by the finger of death. And what is death, 
 after all; but the stopping of life's watch ; to be wound up again 
 by the Maker ? I should not like to lose this old watch of mine 
 now. It is company when I am lonely ; it is diversion when I 
 am tired ; and, though it is erratic, it is amiable and undemon- 
 strative. I will make it famous yet, in sermon or in song. I 
 
 have begun once or twice, " Oh thou ! " and then stopped, 
 
 and tried, " When I behold " and then I have stopped
 
 252 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 again. But I will do it yet. If the little thing had a soul, now, 
 I fear that it would never be saved ; for, " faith without works 
 is vain." But I have faith in it, though it has deceived me oft. 
 My quaint old monitor ! How often has it warned me, that 
 when man goes " on tick," it always ends in a kind of " Tic 
 douloureux." But the hour approaches, when its tiny pulse and 
 mine must both stand still ; for 
 
 Owd Time, he's a troublesome codger, 
 
 Keeps nudgin' us on to decay ; 
 An' whispers, you're nobbut a lodger ; 
 
 Get ready for goin' away. 
 
 And when " life's fitful fever" is past, I hope they will not sell 
 my body to the doctors ; nor my watch to anybody ; but bury 
 us together ; and let us rest when they have done so.
 
 ttforbmfc: 
 
 A SKETCH ON THE LANCASHIRE COAST. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Come unto these yellow sands, 
 
 Then take hands : 
 Court'sied when you have, and kissed, 
 
 The wild waves whist 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 the western edge of that quiet tract of Lancashire, 
 called "The Fylde," lying between Wyre, Ribble, 
 and the Irish Channel, the little wind-swept hamlet of 
 Norbreck stands, half asleep, on the brow of a green 
 ridge overlooking the sea. The windows of a whitewashed cot- 
 tage wink over their garden wall, as the traveller comes up the 
 slope, between tall hedgerows ; and very likely he will find all 
 so still, that, but for wild birds that crowd the air with music, 
 he could hear his footsteps ring on the road as clearly as if 
 he were walking on the flags of a gentleman's greenhouse. 
 In summer, when its buildings are glittering in their annual 
 suit of new whitewash, and when all the country round looks 
 green and glad, it is a pleasant spot to set eyes upon this quiet 
 hamlet overlooking the sea. At that time of year it smells 
 of roses, and of " cribs where oxen lie ;" and the little place is 
 so steeped in murmurs of the ocean, that its natural dreaminess 
 seems deepened thereby. I cannot find that any great barons 
 of the old time, or that any world-shaking people have lived 
 there ; or that any events which startle a nation have ever 
 happened on that ground ; but the tranquil charm that fills the 
 air repays for the absence of historic fame. 
 
 There is seldom much stir, in Norbreck, except such as the 
 elements make. The inhabitants would think the place busy
 
 254 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 with a dozen people upon its grass-grown road at once, whatever 
 the season might be. It is true that on a fine day in summer I 
 have now and then seen a little life just at the entrance of the 
 hamlet. There, stands a pretty cottage, of one story, consisting 
 of six cosy rooms, that run lengthwise ; its white walls adorned 
 with rose trees and fruit trees, and its windows bordered with 
 green trellis work. Two trim grass-plots, with narrow beds of 
 Sowers, and neat walks, mosaically-paved with blue and white 
 pebbles from the sea, fill up the front garden, which a low white 
 wall and a little green gate enclose from the road. In front of 
 this cottage, I have sometimes seen a troop of rosy children playing 
 round a pale girl, who was hopelessly infirm, and, perhaps on 
 that account, the darling of the whole household. I have seen 
 her rocking in the sun, and, with patient melancholy, watching 
 their gambols, whilst they strove to please her with all kinds 
 of little artless attentions. Poor Lucy ! Sometimes, after 
 swaying to and fro thoughtfully in her chair, she would stop 
 and ask questions that sent her father out of the room to wipe 
 his eyes. "Papa, are people lame in heaven?" "Papa, are 
 angels poorly sometimes, like we are here?" ... It is 
 one of those beautiful compensations that mingle with the mis- 
 haps of life, that such a calamity has often the sweet effect of 
 keeping kind hearts continually kind. The poor Lancashire 
 widow, when asked why she seemed to fret more for the loss 
 of her helpless lad than for any of her other children, said 
 she couldn't tell, except "it were becose hoo'd had to nurse 
 him moor nor o' tother put together." Surely, "there is 
 a soul of good in all things evil." About this pretty cottage, 
 where little Lucy lived, is the busiest part of the hamlet in 
 summer time. There may chance to be two or three visitors 
 sauntering in the sunshine; or, perhaps, old Thomas Smith, 
 better known as " Owd England," the sea-beaten patriarch of 
 Norbreck, may paddle across the road to look after his cattle, or, 
 staff in hand, may be going down to "low water" a-shrimping, 
 with his thin hair playing in the breeze. Perhaps Lizzy, the 
 milkmaid, may run from the house to the shippon, with her skirt 
 tucked up, and the neb of an old bonnet pulled down to shade 
 her eyes ; or Tom, the cow lad, may be leaning against a sunny 
 wall, whistling, and mending his whip, and wondering how long 
 it wants to dinner-time. There may be a fine cat dozing on the 
 garden wall, or gliding stealthily towards the outhouses These
 
 Norbreck. 
 
 2 5S 
 
 are the common features of life there. For the rest, the sounds 
 heard are mostly the cackle of poultry, the clatter of milk cans, 
 the occasional bark of a dog, the distant lowing of kine, a snatch 
 of country song floating from the fields, the wild birds' " tipsy 
 routs of lyric joy," and that all-embracing murmur of the surge 
 which fills one's ears wherever we go. In Norbreck everything 
 smacks of the sea. On the grassy border of the road, about 
 the middle of the hamlet, there is generally a pile of wreck 
 waiting the periodical sale which takes place all along the coast. 
 I have sometimes looked at this pile, and thought that perhaps to 
 this or that spar some seaman might have clung with desperate 
 energy among the hungry waters, until he sank, overpowered, into 
 his uncrowded grave. The walls of gardens and farmyards are 
 mostly built of cobles from the beach, sometimes fantastically 
 laid in patterns of different hues. The garden beds are edged 
 with shells, and the walks laid with blue and white pebbles. 
 Here and there are rockeries of curiously-shaped stones from the 
 shore. Every house has its little store of marine rarities, which 
 meet the eye on cornices and shelves wherever we turn. Now 
 and then we meet with a dead sea-mew on the road, and noisy 
 flocks of gulls make fitful excursions landward ; particularly in 
 ploughing time, when they crowd after the plough to pick slugs 
 and worms out of the new furrows. 
 
 With a single exception, all the half-dozen dwellings in Nor- 
 breck are on one side of the road, with their backs to the north. 
 On the other side there are gardens, and a few whitewashed out- 
 houses, with weatherbeaten walls. The main body of the hamlet 
 consists of a great irregular range of buildings, formerly the resi- 
 dence of a wealthy family. This pile is now divided into several 
 dwellings, in some of which are snug retreats for such as prefer 
 the seclusion of this sea-nest to the bustle of a crowded watering 
 place. A little enclosed lawn, belonging to the endmost of the 
 group, and then a broad field, divides this main cluster from the 
 only other habitation. The latter seems to stand off a little, as 
 if it Had more pretensions to gentility than the rest. It is a 
 picturesque house, of different heights, built at different times. 
 At the landward end, a spacious yard, with great wooden doors 
 close to the road, contains the outbuildings, with an old-fashioned 
 weather-vane on the top of them. The lowmost part of the 
 dwelling is a combination of neat cottages of one story ; the 
 highest part is a substantial brick edifice of two stories, with
 
 256 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 attics. This portion has great bow windows, which sweep the 
 sea view, from the coast of Wales, round by the Isle of Man, 
 to the mountains of Cumberland. In summer, the white walls 
 of the cottage part are covered with roses and creeping plants, 
 and there is an air of order and tasteful rusticity about the 
 whole; even to the neat coble pavement which borders the 
 wayside. On the top of the porch a stately peacock sometimes 
 struts, like a feathered showman, whilst his mate paces to and 
 fro, cackling on the field wall immediately opposite. There are 
 probably a few poultry pecking about the front; and, if it hap- 
 pens to be a sunny day, a fine old English bear-hound, of the 
 Lyme breed, called " Lion," and not much unlike his namesake 
 in the main, may be seen stretched in a sphinx-like posture on 
 the middle of the road, as if the whole Fylde belonged to him, by 
 right of entail ; and slowly moving his head with majestic gaze, 
 as if turning over in his mind whether or not it would be polite 
 to take a piece out of the passing traveller for presuming to walk 
 that way. Perhaps in the southward fields a few kine are grazing 
 and whisking their tails in the sunshine, or galloping from gap to 
 gap under the influence of the gad-fly's spur ; and it may happen 
 that some wanderer from Blackpool can be seen on the cliffs, 
 with his garments flapping in the breeze. Except these, and 
 the rolling surge below, all is still at this end of the hamlet, unless 
 the jovial face of the owner appear above the wall that encloses 
 his outbuildings, wishing the passer-by " the fortune of the day." 
 Norbreck, as a whole, is no way painfully genteel in appear- 
 ance, f^st it is sweet and serene, and its cluster of houses seems to 
 know how to be comfortable, without caring much for display. 
 Dirt and destitution are unknown there ; in fact, I was told that 
 this applies generally to all the scattered population of that quiet 
 Fylde country. Though there are many people there whose 
 means of existence are almost as simple as those of the wild bird 
 and the field mouse, yet squalor and starvation are strangers 
 amongst them. If any mischance happen to any of these Fylde 
 folk, everybody knows everybody else, and, somehow, they stick 
 to one another, like Paddy's shrimps, if you take up one you 
 take up twenty. The road, which comes up thither from many 
 a mile of playful meanderings through the green country, as soon 
 as it quits the last house, immediately dives through the cliffs, 
 with a sudden impulse, as if it had been reading " Robinson 
 Crusoe," and had been drawn all that long way solely by its love
 
 Norbreck 
 
 257 
 
 for the ocean. The sea beach at this spot is a fine sight at any 
 time ; but in a clear sunset the scene is too grand to be touched 
 by any imperfect words. Somebody has very well called this 
 part of the coast " the region of glorious sunsets." When the 
 waters retire, they leave a noble solitude, where a man may 
 wander a mile or two north or south upon a floor of sand finer 
 than any marble, " and yet no footing seen," except his own ; 
 and hear no sounds that mingle with the mysterious murmurs of 
 the sea but the cry of the sailing gull, the piping of a flock of 
 silver-winged tern, or the scream of the wild sea-mew. Even 
 in summer there are but few stragglers to disturb those endless 
 forms of beauty which the moody waves, at every ebb, leave 
 printed all over that grand expanse, in patterns ever new. 
 
 Such is little Norbreck, as I have seen it in the glory of the 
 year. In winter, when the year's whitewash upon its houses is 
 getting a little weather-worn, it looks rather moulty and ragged 
 to the eye; and it is more lonely and wild, simply because 
 nature itself is so then ; and Norbreck and nature are not very 
 distant relations. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The wave shall flow o'er this lilye lea, 
 
 And Penny Stone fearfu' flee : 
 The Red Bank scar scud away dismay'd, 
 
 When Englond's in jeopardie. 
 
 PENNY STONE: A TRADITION OF THE FYLDE. 
 
 IT was a bonny day on the 5th of March, 1860, when I visited 
 Norbreck, just before those tides came on which had been 
 announced as higher than any for a century previous. This 
 announcement brought thousands of people from the interior into 
 Blackpool and other places on that coast. Many came expecting 
 the streets to be invaded by the tide, and a great part of the level 
 Fylde laicl under water; with boats plying above the deluged 
 fields, to rescue its inhabitants from the towers of churches and 
 the tops of farmhouses. Knowing as little of these things as 
 inland people generally do, 1 had something of the same expec- 
 tation; but when I came to the coast, and found the people 
 going quietly about their usual business, I thought that, some- 
 how, I must be wrong. It is true that one or two farmers had
 
 258 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 raised their stacks several feet, and another had sent his "deeds" 
 to Preston, that they might be high and dry till the waters left 
 his land again ; and certain old ladies, who had been reading the 
 newspapers, were a little troubled thereby ; but, in the main, 
 these seaside folk didn't seem afraid of the tide. 
 
 During the two days when the sea was to reach its height, 
 Blackpool was as gay, and the weather almost as fine, as if it had 
 been the month of June, instead of " March mony weathers," 
 as Fylde folk call it. The promenade was lively with curious 
 inlanders, who had left their "looms" at this unusual season, to 
 see the wonders of the great deep. But when it came to pass 
 that, because there was no wind to help in the water, the tide 
 rose but little higher than common, many people murmured 
 thereat, and the town emptied as quickly as it had filled. Not 
 finding a deluge, they hastened landward again, with a painful 
 impression that the whole thing was a hoax. The sky was blue, 
 the wind was still, and the sun was shining clearly ; but this was 
 not what they had come forth to see. 
 
 Though some were glad of any excuse for wandering again 
 by the shores of the many-sounding ocean, and bathing soul 
 and body in its renovating charms, the majority were sorely 
 disappointed. Among these, I met one old gentleman, close on 
 seventy, who declared, in a burst of impassioned vernacular, that 
 he wouldn't come to Blackpool again " for th' next fifty year, 
 sink or swim." He said, "Their great tide were nowt i'th 
 world but an arran' sell, getten up by lodgin'-heawse keepers, an' 
 railway chaps, an' newspapper folk, an sich like wastril devils, 
 a-purpose to bring country folk to th' wayter-side, an' hook 
 brass eawt o' their pockets. It were a lond tide at Blackpool 
 folk were after; an they wanted to get it up i' winter as weel 
 as summer. He could see through it weel enough. But they'd 
 done their do wi' him. He'd too mich white in his e'en to be 
 humbugged twice o'er i'th' same gate, or else he'd worn his yed 
 a greyt while to vast little end. But he'd come no moor a 
 seein' their tides, nor nowt else, nawe, not if the whole hole 
 were borne't away, folk an' o,' bigod ! He did not blame th' 
 say so mich, not he. Th' say would behave itsel' reet enough, 
 iv a rook o' thievin' devils would nobbut let it alone, an' not go 
 an' belie it shamefully, just for th' sheer lucre o' ill-getten gain, 
 an' nowt else. . . . He coom fro' Bowton, an' he're beawn 
 back to Bowton by th' next train ; an' iv onybody ever see'd him
 
 Nor I/reck. 259 
 
 i' Blackpool again, they met tell him on't at th' time, an' he'd ston 
 a bottle o' wine for 'em, as who they were. They had a little 
 saup o' wayter aside o' whoam that onsert their bits o' jobs i' 
 Bowton reet enough. It' re nobbut a mak ov a bruck ; but he'd 
 be content wi' it for th' futur tide or no tide. They met tak 
 their say, an' sup it, for him, trashy devils !" Of course, this 
 was an extreme case, but there were many grumblers on the 
 same ground ; and some amusement arising out of their un- 
 reasoning disappointment. 
 
 Down at Norbreck, about four miles north of Blackpool, 
 though there was a little talk, here and there, about the curious 
 throng at the neighbouring watering-place, all else was still as 
 usual. " Owd England," the quaint farmer and fisherman of 
 the hamlet, knew these things well. He had lived nearly seventy- 
 four years on that part of the coast, and he still loved the great 
 waters with the fervour of a sea-smitten lad. From childhood 
 he had been acquainted with the moods and tenses of the ocean ; 
 and it was a rare day that didn't see him hobble to " low 
 water" for some purpose or other. He explained to me that a 
 tide of much lower register in the tables, if brought in by a 
 strong wind, would be higher in fact than this one with an 
 opposite wind; and he laughed at the fears of such as didn't 
 know much about the matter. " Thoose that are fleyed," said 
 he, u had better go to bed i' boats, an' then they'll ston a chance 
 o' wakenin' aboon watter i'th' mornin'. ... Th' idea of 
 a whol teawn o' folk comin' to't seea for this. Pshaw ! I've no 
 patience wi' 'em ! . . Tide ! There'll be no tide worth 
 speykin' on, silly divuls, what I knaw. I've sin a fifteen-fuut 
 tide come far higher nor this twenty-one foot eleven can come 
 wi' th' wind again it, sewer aw hev. So fittin it should, 
 too. . . . But some folk knawn nowt o'th' natur o' 
 things." Lame old Billy Singleton, a weather-worn fisher- 
 man, better known by the name of "Peg Leg," sat knitting 
 under ^he window, with his dim eyes bent over a broken net. 
 "Owd England" turned to him and said, "It wur a fifteen-fuut 
 tide, Billy, at did o' that damage at Cleveless, where th' bevel- 
 men are at wark." Old " Peg Leg" lifted his head, and replied, 
 " Sewer it wor, Thomas ; an', by the hectum, that wor a tide ! 
 If we'd hed a strang sou'-west wind, this wad ha' played rickin' 
 too. I've heeard as there wor once a village, ca'd Singleton 
 Thorpe, between Cleveless and Rossall. weshcd away by a heigh
 
 260 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 tide, abaat three hundred year sin'. By the hectum, if that had 
 happen't i' these days, Thomas, here wod ha' bin some cheeop 
 trips an' things stirrin' ower it." He then went on mending 
 his net. 
 
 Old bed-ridden Alice, who had spent most of the daylight of 
 seven years stretched upon a couch under the window, said, 
 "But it never could touch us at Norbreck, nowt o't sooart. 
 It's nearly th' heighest point i't country; isn't it, uncle?" 
 "Sartiny," said "Owd England;" "but," continued he, "iv ye 
 want to see summat worth rememberin', ye mun go to low 
 watter. It'll be a rare sect. Th' seea '11 ebb far nor ever wor 
 knawn i'th' memory o' mon; an' here'll be skeers an' rocks eawt 
 at hesn't bin sin of a hundred year. Iv ye'd like to set fuut o' 
 greawnd at nobody livin' mun walk on again, go daan with us at 
 five o'clock o' Friday afternoon." I felt that this would indeed 
 be an interesting sight, and I agreed to accompany the old fisher- 
 man to low water. 
 
 It was a cloudless, summer-like evening, when our little com- 
 pany of four set out from Norbreck. As we descended the 
 cliffs, the track of the declining sun's beams upon the sea was 
 too glorious for eyes to endure; and every little pool and rill 
 upon the sands gleamed like liquid gold. A general hush per- 
 vaded the scene, and we could hear nothing but our own voices, 
 and a subdued murmur of the distant waves, which made the 
 prevailing silence more evident to the senses. " Owd England" 
 led the way, with his favourite stick in hand, and a basket on 
 his arm for the collection of a kind of salt water snail, called 
 "whilks," which, he said, were ''the finest hey tin' of ony sort 
 o' fish i'th world for folk i' consumptions." "Ye happen 
 wouldn't think it," said he, " bod I wor i' danger o' consumption 
 when I were a young mon." As we went on, now over a firm 
 swelling sand-bank, now stepping from stone to stone through a 
 ragged "skeer," and slipping into pools and channels left by the 
 tide; or wading the water in reckless glee, the fine old man 
 kept steadily ahead, muttering his wayward fancies as he made 
 towards the silver fringe that played upon the skirts of the sea. 
 Now and then he stopped to point out the rocks, and tell their 
 names. "That's th' Carlin' an' Cowt, a common sect enough. 
 Ye see, it's not far eawt. . . . Yon's ' Th' Mussel Rock,' 
 deawn to so'thard. Ther's folk musselin' on it neaw, I believe. 
 But we'll go that way on. . . . Tak raand bith sond-bank
 
 Norbreck. 261 
 
 theer. Yaar noan shod for wadin'; an' this skeer's a varra rough 
 un. . . . That's 'Penny Stone,' reight afore you, toward 
 th' seea. Ye'll hev heeard o' ' Th' Penny Stone Rock,' mony a 
 time, aw warnd. There wor once a public-heawse where it 
 stons, i'th owd time ; an' they sowd ale there at a penny a pot. 
 Bod 'then one connot tell whether it wor dear or cheeop till they 
 knaw what size th' pot wor an' that I dunnot knaw. Mr. 
 Thorn ber, o' Blackpool, hes written a book abaat this 'Penny 
 Stone;' an' I believe at Mr. Wood, o' Bispham Schoo', hes one. 
 He'll land it yo in a minute, aw warnd. Ye mun send litttle Tom 
 wi' a bit ov a note. I never see ' Penny Stone' eawt so as to 
 get raand it afore. . . . Neaw, yon far'ast, near low watter, 
 is ' Th' Owd Woman's Heyd.' I've oft heeard on it, an' some- 
 times sin a bit o't tip aboon watter, bod I never see it dry i' my 
 life afore, an' I never mun again, never." He then paddled 
 on, filling his basket, and muttering to himself about this extra- 
 ordinary ebb, and about the shortness of human life. The sun 
 began to "steep his glowing axle in the western wave," and the 
 scene was melting every moment into a new tone of grandeur. 
 As we neared the water, the skeers were more rugged and wet, 
 and, in a few minutes, we picked up a basketful of "whilks," 
 and a beautiful variety of the sea anemone. After the sun had 
 dipped, his lingering glory still crowded the western heavens, and 
 seemed to deepen in splendour as it died upon the scene ; while 
 the golden ripples of the sea sang daylight down to rest. I never 
 saw mild evening close over the world with such dreamy magni- 
 ficence. We wandered by the water, till 
 
 Golden Hesperus 
 
 Was mounted high in top of heaven sheen, 
 And warned his other brethren joyeous 
 To light their blessed lamps in Jove's eternall house. 
 
 The tide was returning, and the air getting cold ; so we went 
 homewards, with wandering steps, in the wake of our old fisher- 
 man, by way of " Penny Stone Rock." There is a tradition all 
 over the, F 7 lde that this rock ' now on!v visible " on the utmost 
 verge of the retired wave," marks the locality of a once famous- 
 hostelry. Doubtless the tradition has some foundation in fact, as 
 the encroachments of the sea upon this coast have been great, 
 and sometimes disastrous, as in the destruction of the village pi 
 Singleton Thorpe, about a mile and a half to northward, in 
 1555. In the Rev. W. Thornber's interesting little volume, 
 called " Penny Stone ; or a Tradition of the Spanish Armada,"
 
 262 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 he says of the old hostelry associated with this now submerged 
 rock, "It was situated in a vale, protected from the sea by a 
 barrier of sand-hills, at a short distance from a village called 
 Singleton Thorpe, in the foreland of the Fylde, Lancashire. 
 The site of the homestead was romantic, for it was in the very 
 centre of a Druidical circle, described in a former tradition of 
 the country, one of the huge stones of which reared its mis- 
 shapen block near the porch. Into this stone a ring had been 
 inserted by the thrifty Jock, its host, to which he was wont to 
 attach the horses of his customers whilst they regaled themselves 
 with a penny pot of his far-famed ale. Hither the whole country 
 resorted on holidays, to spend them in athletic games, and to 
 quaff the beloved beverage ; nay, so renowned was the hostel, 
 that 'merrie days of hie away to Penny Stone' was common 
 even to a proverb. Here lay the secret enchantment of its 
 popularity. The old distich tell us that 
 
 Hops, reformation, bays, and beer, 
 Came into England all in a year. 
 
 Ale was a beverage which had been well known in England, 
 but in the reign of Henry VIII. it assumed a new name from 
 the infusion of hops. Now, Jock's father, a cunning lout, was 
 the first to commence in the Fylde this new, and at that time 
 mysterious system of brewing, which so pleased the palate of his 
 customers, that, while others sold their insipid malt liquor at 
 twopence per gallon, he vended his ale at a penny per pot. 
 Hence his hostel became known by the name of Penny Stone." 
 
 Such is the embodiment Mr. Thornber has given to the 
 common tradition of " Penny Stone," which we were now 
 approaching on our homeward way. As we drew near it, we 
 saw five persons come over the shining sands towards the same 
 spot; and we heard merry voices ringing in the air. I first 
 made out my friend Hailstone, in his strong shooting-dress of 
 light-coloured tweed, and attended by two favourite terriers, 
 "Wasp" and "Snap." We met at the rock, and I found my 
 friend accompanied by three " brethren of the mystic tie," one 
 of whom was Mr. Thornber, the veritable chronicler of " Penny 
 Stone." The latter had wandered thus far, with his companions, 
 mainly to avail himself of this rare chance of climbing his pet 
 legendary crag. His hands were full of botanical specimens from 
 the sea, and, in his fervid way, he descanted upon them, and 
 upon the geology of the coast, in a manner which, I am sorry to
 
 Narbreck. 263 
 
 say, was almost lost to my uninitiated mind. I took the oppor 
 tunity of inquiring where he found the materials for his tradition 
 He answered, that there was no doubt of its fundamental truth ; 
 " but, as to the details wrought into the story," said he, pointing 
 to his forehead, with a laugh, "I found them in a cellar, deep 
 down in the rock there." 
 
 The gloomy mass was surrounded by a little moat of salt 
 water, nearly knee-deep, through which we passed; and then, 
 clinging to its Triton locks of sea-weeds, we climbed to the 
 slippery peaks of " Penny Stone." The stout lad in attendance 
 drew a bottle from his basket; and then each in his way cele- 
 brated this unexpected meeting in that singular spot, where we 
 should never meet together again. 
 
 I shall never forget the sombre splendour of the scene, nor 
 the striking appearance of the group upon that lonely rock, 
 when the rearward hues of day were yielding their room to 
 "sad succeeding night." We lingered there awhile; but the air 
 was cold, and the sea began to claim its own again. Four 
 then returned by the cliffs to Blackpool, and the rest crossed the 
 sands hastily to Norbreck, where, after an hour's chat by the 
 old fisherman's great kitchen fire, I crept to bed, with the sound 
 of the sea in my ears. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry. Now, good Peter 
 Quince, call forth your actors by the scroll: masters, spread yourselves. 
 
 MIDSUMMER NIGHT s DREAM. 
 
 THE "million-fingered rain was tapping at the kitchen window 
 as I sat by " Owd England's" bright hearthstone one forenoon, 
 hearkening to the wind that moaned outside like a thing in pain. 
 I could hear by a subdued thump that "Lizzy" was churning 
 in the dairy ; and I knew, by the smell of fresh bread which 
 came from a spacious out-kitchen, that "Granny" was baking. 
 "Little Tom," the cow lad, had started early with the cart to 
 Poulton for coals, making knots on his whiplash as he went 
 along, to help his memory, which was crowded with orders to 
 call at one place for meal, at another for mutton, and at others 
 for physic, and snuff, and such like oddments, wanted by the 
 neighbours. " Owd England " had gone to the seaside, with his
 
 264 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 staff, and his leather strap, to fetch the daily "burn" of firewood; 
 and to see what he could see; for every tide brought some- 
 thing. One day he hauled a barrel of Stockholm tar from the 
 water ; on another, part of the cabin furniture of an unfortunate 
 steamer ; and then a beam of pine was thrown ashore ; in all of 
 which the old man had a certain interest as "wreck-master." 
 "Peg-leg," the fisherman, was mending a net; and lame Alice 
 lay, as usual, wrapped up, and in shadow, on the couch under 
 the window; with her pale face, and a nose "as sharp as a pen," 
 turned to the ceiling ; while Tib, with her soft legs folded under, 
 lay basking luxuriously in the fire-shine, dreaming of milk and of 
 mice. The old clock ticked audibly in the corner, and a pin- 
 drop silence prevailed in the room. "That's a fine cat," said I. 
 "Aye," replied old Alice, "isn't it a varra fine cat? It's mothei 
 to that as Missis Alston hes. It cam fra Lunnon, an' it's worth 
 a deeal o' money, is that cat. The varra day as you cam, it 
 weshed it face an' sneez't twice, it dud, for sewer. Missis 
 Eastwood wor gettin' dinner ready at th' time, an' hoo said, 
 We'st hev a stranger fra some quarter this day, mind i' we 
 hevn't;' an' directly after, yo cam walkin' into th' heawse, I tell 
 yo, just as nowt were. I offens think it's queer; bod I've sin 
 cats as good as ony almanac for tellin' th' weather, an sich like." 
 "Will it scrat," said I, stroking "Tib" as she stretched and 
 yawned in my face. " Well," replied Alice, " it's like everything 
 else for that; it just depends what you do at it. Bod I can onser 
 for one thing it'll not scrat as ill as 'Th' Red Cat' at Bispham 
 does. I hev sin folk a bit mauled after playin' wi' that." "Aye, 
 an ; so hev I, too," said old " Peg-leg." " I ca'd theer tother neet, 
 an', by the hectum, heaw they wor gooin' on, to be sewer. I 
 crope into a corner wi' my gill, there wor sich liltin' agate ; an', 
 ye knaw, a mon wi' one leg made o' wood and tother full o' 
 rheumatic pains is nowt mich at it. Beside, I've ten a likin' to 
 quietness, one does, ye knaw, Alice, as they getten owd. I geet 
 aside ov a mon as wor tellin' abeawt Jem Duck'orth, o' Preston, 
 sellin' his midden. Ye'll hev heeard o' that, Alice?" "Nay, 
 I don't know as I hev, Billy ; what is it ? I dud hear at once 
 th' baillies were in his heawse, an' they agreed to go away if 
 he'd find 'em a good bondsman. So Jem towd 'em that he had 
 a varra respectable old friend i'th next room that he thowt would 
 be bund wi him to ony amount; if they'd let him fotch him. So 
 they advised him to bring his bond in at once, an' hev it sattle't
 
 Norbreck. 2 6$ 
 
 baat ony bother for th' baillies wor owd friends o' Jem's, ye 
 knaw; an' they didn't want to be hard with him. Well, what 
 does Jem do, bod go an' fotch a great brown bear as he'd hed 
 mony a year, an' turns it into th' place where th' baillies were, 
 baat muzzle; and says, 'Gentlemen, that's my bondsman.' Bod, 
 never ye mind if th' baillies didn't go through that window, moor 
 sharper. . . . I've heard mony a queer tale o' Jem. What's 
 this abaat th' midden, Billy?" "Well, ye knaw, Jem wor a 
 good-tempered mon, but full o' quare tricks. He wor varra 
 strong, an' a noted feighter th' cock o'th clod in his day, for 
 that. An' he kept a deeal o' horses that he leet aat for hire. 
 Well, he'd once gether't a good midden together fra th' stables, 
 an'^farmers began o' comin' abaat th' yard to look at it; so one 
 on 'em says, 'Jem, what'll to tak for th' midden ?' ' Five paand,' 
 saysjerru ' Well, _ I'll gi' tho five paand,' says the farmer. So 
 he ped him, an' said he'd send th' carts in a day or two. In a 
 bit, another comes an' axes th' price o'th' midden. Jem stack to 
 owd tale, an' said 'Five paand, an' cheeop too;' an' th' farmer 
 gev him th' brass at once. 'Sowd again,' says Jem, 'an' th' 
 money drawn.' Well, at th' end of o', it happen' t at both sets 
 o' carts cam for th' midden o'th same day, an' there were the 
 devil's delight agate i'th yard between 'em. At last, they agreed 
 to send for Jem ; so he cam wi' a face as innocent as a flea, an' 
 wanted to know whatever were to do. 'Didn't I buy this mid- 
 den, Jem ?' said one. ' Yigh, sure, thae did,' says Jem. 'Well, 
 an' didn't I pay tho for't at th' same time ?' ' Sure, thae did, owd 
 lad reet enough,' says Jem. ' Well, but,' says tother, ' didn't I 
 buy it on tho?' 'Yigh, thae did,' says Jem, 'an' thae ped me 
 for't, too, honourably, like a mon, an' I'll tak very good care 
 that nob'dy but yo two hes it.' That wor rayther awkert, ye 
 knaw, an' I know not heaw they'd end it, for Jem wor bad to 
 manage. They wor tellin' it at th' ' Red Cat' tother neet, bod 
 I could hardly hear for th' gam at wor afoot. Lor bless you ! 
 There vvor a gentleman fra Fleetwood tryin' to donee i'th middle 
 o'th floor; an' owd Jack Backh'us stood i' one corner, wi' his 
 yure ower his face, starin' like wild, an' recitin' abaat th' Battle 
 o' Waterloo. Three chaps sit upo' th' sofa as hed been ower 
 Wyre, o' day, an' they'd etten so mich snig-pie at th' 'Shard,' 
 that it hed made 'em say-sick, so Tom Poole were mixin' 'em 
 stuff to cure it. Another were seawnd asleep on a cheer, an 
 little 'Twinkle,' fra Poulton, doncin' abeavvt, challcngin' him to
 
 266 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 feight. An' it wor welly as bad eawtside, for there wor a 
 trap coom up wi' a lot o' trippers as hed bin to Cleveless, an* 
 'Bugle Bob' upo' th' box, playin' 'Rule Britannia.' Bod I left 
 when th' bevel-men fra Rossall began o' comin' in, singin' ' Said 
 Dick unto Tom,' for I felt my yed givin' way under it." 
 
 The song, " Said Dick unto Tom," alluded to by the old man, 
 is a rude fishing ditty, never printed before, and hardly known 
 out of the Fylde, to which it relates. I wrote it down from the 
 recitation of a friend near Norbreck. There is not much in the 
 words except a quiet, natural tone, with one or two graphic 
 strokes, which breathe the spirit of the country it originated 
 from. The tune is a quaint air, which I never heard before. 
 The song was written some time ago, by William Garlick, a 
 poor man, and a weaver of " pow-davy," a kind of sail-cloth. 
 These are the words : 
 
 Said Dick unto Tom, one Friday at noon, 
 
 Loddle iddle, fol de diddle ido ; 
 Said Dick unto Tom, one Friday at noon, 
 Aw could like to go a-bobbin' i'th mornin' varra soon. 
 
 To my heigho, wi' my bob-rods an' o'; 
 
 Loddle iddle, fol de diddle ido. 
 
 Then up i*th mornin Dick dud rise. 
 
 Loddle iddle, &c.; 
 Then up i'th mornin' Dick dud rise, 
 An' to Tom's door like leetnin' flies. 
 
 To my heigho, wi' my worm-can an' o'; 
 
 Loddle iddle, &c. 
 
 So, up Tom jumped, an' deawn th' stairs dart, 
 
 Loddle iddie, &c.; 
 
 So, up Tom jumped, an' deawn th' stairs dart, 
 i To go a-gettin' dew-worms afore they start. 
 
 Wi' my heigho, an' my worm-can an' o'; 
 
 Loddle iddle, &c. 
 
 Then they hunted, an' rooted, an' seeched abaat, 
 
 Loddle iddle, &c.; 
 
 Then they hunted, an' rooted, an' seeched abaat, 
 Egad, says little Tom, there's noan so many aat, 
 
 eigho, 
 ddle, 
 
 Loddle iddle, &c. 
 
 So, off they set wi' th' bob-rods i' hond, 
 
 Loddle iddle, &c.; 
 
 So, off they set wi' th' bob-rods i' hond, 
 Like justices o' peace, or governors o' lond. 
 
 To my heigho, wi' my snig-bags an' o'; 
 
 L Q ddle iddle, &c. 
 
 An' when they gat to Kellamoor, that little country place, 
 
 Loddle iddle, &c.; 
 
 An' when they gat to Kellamoor, that little country place, 
 Th' childer were so freeten't 'at they dorsn't show their face. 
 
 To my heigho, wi' my bob-rods an' o'; 
 
 Loddle iddle, &c.
 
 N orb reck. 267 
 
 An' when they gat to Brvnin', fo!k thought there'd bin a mob, 
 
 Loddle iddle, &c. ; 
 
 An" when they gat to Brynin', folk thought there'd bin a mob, 
 Till little Tommy towd 'em they were bod baan to bob. 
 
 To my heigho, wi' my snig-bags an' o'; 
 
 Loddle iddle, &c. 
 
 An' when they gat to Warton, they wor afore the tide, 
 
 An' when they got to' Warton. they wor afore the tide, 
 They jumped into a boat, an* away they both did ride. 
 
 To my heigho, wi' their bob-rods an' o'; 
 
 Loddle iddle, &c. 
 
 Soon after dinner the clouds broke, and it was fine again. I 
 went to the sea-side ; and, after pacing to and fro by the waves 
 a while, I struck out towards Rossall, through the by-paths 
 of a wilderness of sand and tall grass, called " Starrins," that 
 run along the edge of the cliffs. I had scarcely gone a mile 
 before "the rattlin' showers drave on the blast" again, and the 
 sky was all thick gloom. Dripping wet, I hurried towards the 
 hotel at Cleveless, and, darting in, got planted in a snug arm- 
 chair by the parlour fire, watching the storm that swept furiously 
 aslant the window, and splashed upon the road in front Three 
 other persons were in the room, one a workman from Rossall 
 College, hard by, and the other commercial men on their route 
 to Fleetwood. It is wonderful how much rough weather en- 
 hances the beauty of the inside of a house. " Better a wee bush 
 than nae bield." Well, we were just getting into talk, when the 
 door opened, and a humorous face looked in. It was a bright- 
 eyed middle-aged man, shining all over with wet; a blue woollen 
 apron was twisted round his waist, and he had a basket on his 
 arm. Leaning against one door-cheek, and sticking a knife into 
 the other, he said, "By gobs, didn't I get a fine peltin' out o' 
 that ! . . . Do yees want any oysters, gentlemen ? The 
 shells is small," said he, stepping forward, " but they're chock 
 full o' the finest fish in the world. Divul a aiqual thim oysters 
 has in the wide ocean; mind, I'm tellin' ye. . . . Taste 
 that !" -" Hollo, Dennis !" said one of the company, " how is it 
 you aren't in Fleetwood ?" " Well, because I'm here, I suppose," 
 said Dennis. " Bedad, ye can't expect a man to be in two places 
 at once barrin' he was a burd. Maybe it's good fortune sent 
 me here to meet wid a few rale gintlemin. Sorra a one I 
 met on the way, but rain powrin' down in lashins till the oysters 
 in my basket began to think they were in the say again." "Well, 
 Dennis," said the traveller, " I'll have a score if you'll tell us
 
 268 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 about the Irishman in the cook's shop." Ye will ? Then divul 
 recave the toe I'll stir till ye get both. . . . Will you take 
 another score, sir, till I tell the tale ? It's little chance ye'll have 
 o' meetin' thim oysters agin for they're gettin' scarce. . . . 
 An' now for the tale," said he, with his knife and his tongue 
 going together. "It was a man from Nenagh, in Tipperary 
 he was a kind o' ganger on the railway ; an' he wint to a 
 cook-shop in a teawn not far from this, an' says he to the 
 missis o' the heawse, 'A basin o' pay-soup, ma'am, plaze,' 
 says he, for, mind ye, an Irishman's natterally polite till he's 
 vext, an' thin he's as fiery as Julius Sayzur. Well, whin she 
 brought the soup, Paddy tuk a taste mighty sly; an', turnin' 
 reawnd, says he just for spooart, mind says he, 'Bedad, 
 ma'am, your soup tastes mighty strong o' the water.' Well, 
 av coorse, the woman was vext all out, an' she up an' tould 
 him he didn't understand good aitin', an' he might lave the 
 soup for thim that had bin better eddicated. But bowld 
 Paddy went on witheawt losin' a stroke o' the spoon; an' 
 purtindin' not to hear her says he, 'I'll go bail I'll make as 
 good broth as thim wud a penny candle an' a trifle o' pepper.' 
 Well, by gobs, this riz the poor woman's dander to the full 
 height, an' she made right at him wid her fist, an' swore by this 
 an' by that, if he didn't lave the heawse she'd knock him into 
 the boiler. But Paddy was nigh finishin' his soup, an' he made 
 up his mind to take the last word ; an' says he, ' Bi the powers ! 
 that'll be the best bit o' mate ever went into your pan, ma'am ;' 
 an' wi' that, he burst into a laugh, an' the philanderin' rogue up 
 an' towld her how he said it all for divarshun ; an' divul a better 
 soup he tasted in his life. Well, she changed her tune, like a 
 child. Bedad, it was like playin' a flute, or somethin'. An', 
 mind ye, there's nothin' like an Irishman for gettin' the right 
 music out of a woman all the world over. So my tale's 
 inded, an' I'd like to see the bottom o' my basket. Ye may as 
 well brake me, gintlemen. There's not more nor five score. 
 Take the lot; an' let me go home; for I've a long step to the 
 fore, an' I'm wet to the bone ; an' the roads is bad after dark."
 
 Norbreck. 269 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Still lingering in th quiet paths. 
 
 ALL THE YEAR ROUND. 
 
 AFTER a good deal of pleasantry, Dennis got rid of his oysters; 
 and, as the storm was still raging without, he called for a 
 glass, just, as he said, "to keep the damp away from the 
 spark in his heart, more by token that he had no other fire 
 to dry his clothes at. But, begorra, for the matter o' that," 
 said he, " they're not worth a grate-full o' coals. Look at my 
 trousers. They're on the varge o' superannuation ; an' they'll 
 require a substitute before long, or else, I'm thinking, they'll not 
 combine daycently. How an' ever, gintlemen," continued he, 
 " here's hopin' the fruition of your purses may never fail ye, nor 
 health to consign their contents to utility. An' neaw," said he, 
 lighting his pipe, and putting the empty basket on his head like 
 a cowl, " I must go, if the rain comes in pailfuls, for I'm not 
 over well ; an' if I could get home wud wishin', I'd be in bed 
 by the time ye'd say ' trap-sticks ! ' But dramin' an' schamin's 
 neither ridin' nor flyin', so I'll be trampin', for there's no more 
 use in wishin' than there would be in a doctor feelin' a man's 
 pulse through a hole in a wall wid the end of a kitchen poker. 
 An' neaw, I'll be proud if any gintleman will oblige me by 
 coming a couple o' mile an the road, to see the way I'll spin 
 over the greawnd. . . Ye'd rather not ? Well ; fun an' fine 
 weather's not always together, so good bye, an' long life to yees !" 
 and away went Dennis through the rain towards Fleetwood. 
 
 Waiting for the shower to abate, I sat a while ; and, as one 
 of the company had been to a funeral, it led to a conversation 
 about benefit societies; in relation to which, one person said he 
 decidedly ^objected to funeral benefits being allowed to people 
 who had ^died by their own hands, because it would encourage 
 others to commit suicide. From this we glided to the sub- 
 ject of consecrated ground; and a question arose respecting a 
 man who had been accidentally buried partly in consecrated and 
 partly in unconsecrated ground, as to what result would ensue 
 from that mistake to the poor corpse in the end of all. The 
 doubt was as to whose influence the unconsecrated half came
 
 270 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 under. The dispute ran high, without anybody making the 
 subject clearer, so I came away before the shower was over. 
 Next day I went to Blackpool; and, while awaiting at the 
 station the arrival of a friend of mine, I recognised the familiar 
 face ot an old woman whom I had known in better days. Tall 
 and thin, with a head as white as a moss-crop, she was still 
 active, and remarkably clean and neat in appearance. Her 
 countenance, though naturally melancholy, had still a spice of 
 the shrew in it. "Eh," said she, "I'm glad to see you. It's 
 seldom I have a chance of meeting an old face now, for I'm 
 seldom out." She then told me she had been two years and a 
 half housekeeper to a decrepid old gentleman and his two maiden 
 sisters, in a neighbouring town. " But," said she, " I'm going to 
 leave. You see I've got into years ; and, though I'm active 
 thank God yet, I'm often ill; and people don't like to be 
 troubled with servants that are ill, you know. So I'm forced to 
 work on, ill or well; for I'm but a lone woman, with no friends 
 to help me, but my son, and he's been a long time in Canada, 
 and I haven't heard from him this three years. I look out for 
 th' postman day by day, but nothing comes. Sometimes I 
 think he's dead. But the Lord knows. It's like to trouble one, 
 you're sure. It's hard work, with one thing and another, very ; 
 for I 'have to scratch before I can peck,' as th' saying is, and 
 shall to th' end o' my day, now. But if you can hear of any- 
 thing likely, I wish you would let me know, for leave yonder 
 I will. I wouldn't stop if they'd hang my hair wi' diamonds, 
 I wouldn't indeed. I've said it, an' signed it, so there's an end. 
 But what, they'll never ask me to stop, I doubt. It's very hard. 
 You see I have to keep my son's little boy in a neighbour's 
 house, this is him, and that eats up nearly all my bit o' 
 wage; and w here's my clothing to come from? But, don't you 
 see, yon people are greedy to a degree. Lord bless you ! They'd 
 skin three devils for one hide, they would for sure. See yo ; 
 one day (here she whispered something which I didn't exactly 
 catch) they did indeed ! As Missis Dixon said, when I met 
 her in Friargate, on Monday forenoon, ' It was a nasty, dirty 
 trick!" But I've had my fill, an' I shall sing 'Oh, be joyful' 
 when my time's up. I shall be glad to get to my own country 
 again, yes, if I have to beg my bread. See ; they're actually 
 afraid of me going out o'th house for fear I should talk about 
 them to th' neighbours. Bless you, they judge everybody by
 
 NorlrccL 
 
 271 
 
 theirselves. But I'd scorn the action ! It is just as Missis Smith 
 said, ' They're frightened o'th world being done before they've 
 done wi' th' world,' they are for sure. Such gripin', grindin' 
 ways! They'll never prosper, never." "And is this your 
 grandson ?" said I. " Yes ; an' he's a wonderful child for his 
 age He's such a memory. His father was just same. I often 
 think he'd make a rare 'torney, he remembers things so, and he 
 has such queer sayings. I've taught him many a piece off by 
 heart. Come, George, say that little piece for this gentleman. 
 Take your fingers out of your mouth. Come now." The lad 
 looked a minute, and then rattled out, 
 
 Said Aaron to Moses, aw'li swap tho noses ; 
 
 "Oh, for shame," said she; "not that." But he went on, 
 
 Said Moses to Aaron, thine's sich a. quare un. 
 
 " For shame," said she. " You see they teach him all sorts o' 
 nonsense; and he remembers everything. Come, be quick; 
 'Twinkle, twinkle,'" But here the train was ready; and in 
 five minutes more she was on her way to Preston ; and, not 
 finding my friend, I walked home along the cliffs. 
 
 In my rambks about Norbreck, I met with many racy cha- 
 racters standing in relief among their neighbours, and marked 
 with local peculiarities, as distinctly as anything that grows from 
 the soil. In a crowded city they might be unnoticed; but, amid 
 "the hamlet's hawthorn wild," where existence seems to glide as 
 noiselessly as a cloud upon a summer sky save where friendly 
 gossips meet, like a choir of crickets, by some country fire they 
 are threads of vivid interest woven into the sober web of life ; 
 and, among their own folk, they are prized something like those 
 old books which people hand from generation to generation, 
 because they bear the quaint inscriptions of their forefathers. In 
 my wanderings I had also the benefit of a genial and intelligent 
 companion ; and, whether we were under his own roof, among 
 books, and flowers, and fireside talk about the world in the dis- 
 tance, orToving the green lanes and coppice-trods, chatting with 
 stray villagers by the way, or airing ourselves in the wind, "on 
 the beached margent of the sea," I found pleasure and assistance 
 in his company, in spite of all our political differences. My 
 friend, Alston, lives about a mile down the winding road 
 from Norbreck, in a substantial hall, built about a hundred 
 years ago, and pleasantly dropt at the foot of a great natural
 
 272 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 embankment, which divides the low-lying plain from the sea. 
 The house stands among slips of orderly garden and plantation, 
 with poultry yards and outhouses at the north-east end. The 
 green country, sparely sprinkled with white farmhouses and cot- 
 tages, spreads out in front, far and wide, to where the heathery 
 fells of Lancashire bound the eastward view. The scene is as 
 quiet as a country church just before service begins, except where 
 the sails of a windmill are whirling in the wind, or the fleecy 
 steam-cloud of a distant train gushes across the landscape, like a 
 flying fountain of snow. On a knoll behind the house there is 
 a little rich orchard, trimly hemmed in by thick thorn hedges. 
 In March I found its shadeless walks open ,to the cold sky, and 
 all its holiday glory still brooding patiently down in the soil; but 
 I remember how oft, in summer, when the boughs were bending 
 to the ground with fruit, and the leaves were so thick overhead, 
 that the sunshine could only find its way through chinks of the 
 green ceiling, we have pushed the branches aside, and walked 
 and talked among its bowery shades ; or, sitting on benches at 
 the edge of the fish-pond, have read and watched our floats, and 
 hearkened the birds, until we have risen, as if drawn by some 
 fascination in the air, and gone unconciously towards the sea 
 again. There we have spent many a glorious hour ; and there, 
 at certain limes of the day, we should meet with " Quick," or 
 "Mitch," or some other coast-guardsmen belonging to the gun- 
 boat's crew at Fleetwood, pacing to and fro, on the look-out for 
 Frenchmen, smugglers, and wreck. As we returned from the 
 shore one afternoon last March, an old man was walking on the 
 road before us, carrying what looked in the distance like two milk 
 pails. These he set down now and then, and looked all round. 
 My friend told me that this part of the Fylde was famous for 
 singing- birds, especially larks. He said that bird-catchers came 
 from all parts of Lancashire, particularly Manchester, to ply 
 their craft there ; and he would venture a guess that the quaint 
 figure before us was a Manchester bird-catcher, though it was 
 rather early in the season. When we overtook the old man, 
 who had set down his covered cages in a by-lane, we found that 
 he was a bird-catcher, and from Manchester, too. I learnt, also, 
 that it was not uncommon for a clever catcher to make a pound 
 a day by his "calling." 
 
 The primitive little whitewashed parish church of Bispham 
 was always an interesting object to me. It stands on a knoll,
 
 Norbreck. 
 
 273 
 
 about a quarter of a mile over the fields from Norbreck; and its 
 foundation is of great antiquity. Its graveyard contains many 
 interesting memorials, but none more solemnly eloquent than a 
 certain row of green mounds covering the remains of the unknown 
 drowned washed upon that coast from time to time. Several of 
 these, which drifted ashore after the burning of the Ocean Monarch 
 off the coast of Wales, in 1 848, now lie mouldering together in 
 this quiet country graveyard, all unknown, save a lady from Bury, 
 in Lancashire, to whose memory a tombstone is erected here. 
 
 As the great tides declined, the weather began to be troubled 
 with wintry fits; but when the day of mj return came, it brought 
 summer again. After dinner, at Bispham House, I went up with 
 my friend to bid farewell to "Owd England" at Norbreck; and 
 it was like parting with some quaint volume of forgotten lore. 
 Nursed here in the lap of nature, the people and customs of the 
 country were part of himself; and his native landscape, with all 
 the shifting elements in the scene, was a kind of barometer, the 
 slightest changes of which were intelligible to him. At the 
 eastern edge of Norbreck, a low wall of coble stones encloses 
 his garden. Here, where I have sometimes made a little havoc 
 among his "Bergamots," "Old Keswicks," and "Scotch Bridgets," 
 we walked about, whilst I took a parting look at the landscape. 
 Immediately behind us the sea was singing its old song; and 
 below lay the little rural parish, "where," as I heard the rector 
 say in one of his sermons, "a man cannot walk into the open air 
 but all his neighbours can see him." Beyond, the tranquil Fylde 
 stretches out its drowsy green, now oblivious of all remembrance 
 of piratical ravage, which so often swept over it in ancient 
 times. Yonder, the shipping of Fleetwood is clearly in sight 
 to the north. And there, a sunbeam, stealing between the 
 fleecy clouds, glides across the land from field to field, with a 
 kind of plaintive grace, as if looking for a lost garden. Over 
 meadow, over wood, and little town it goes, dying away upon 
 yon rolling hills in the east. The first of these hills is Longridge, 
 and beliind it, weird old Pendle, standing in a world of its own, 
 is dimly visible. Northward, the hills roll on in bold relief, 
 Parlick, and Bleasdale, and the fells between Morecambe and 
 "time-honoured Lancaster." Still northward, to where yon 
 proud brotherhood of snow-crowned giants the mountains of 
 Cumberland and Westmorland look so glorious in the sunlight; 
 awaking enchanting dreams of that land of romance, the " Lake
 
 274 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 District," hallowed by so many rich associations of genius. They 
 toss their mighty heads on westward, till solemn old "Black 
 Coombe" dips into the Irish Sea. Altogether a fine setting for 
 the peaceful scene below. 
 
 The afternoon was waning, so, taking leave of the old fisher- 
 man and his household, I turned from Norbreck like a man who 
 rises from his dinner before he is half satisfied. Accompanied 
 by my friend, I walked four miles, on highways and by-ways, 
 to meet the train at Poulton. The road was pleasant, and the 
 day was fine ; and I reached Manchester before midnight, feeling 
 better in sonl and body for my sojourn by the sea.
 
 JWinstrris ; 
 
 OR, 
 
 of tfje 
 
 For whom the heart of man shuts out, 
 
 Straightway the heart of God takes in, 
 And fences them all round about 
 
 With silence, 'mid the wwld's loud din. 
 And one of his great charities 
 
 Is music ; and it doth not scorn 
 To close the lids upon the eyes 
 
 Of the weary and forlorn. 
 
 JAMBS RUSSEL LOWELL. 
 
 (HERE is one feature of the distress in Lancashire 
 which was very remarkable upon the streets of our 
 large towns during the year 1862. I allude to the 
 wandering minstrelsy of the unemployed. Swarms of 
 strange, shy, sad-looking singers and instrumental performers, in 
 the work-worn clothing of factory operatives, went about the 
 city, pleading for help, in touching wails of simple song, 
 like so many wild birds driven by hard weather to the haunts 
 of man. There is something instructive, as well as affecting, in 
 this feature of the troubled time. These wanderers are only a 
 kind of representative overflow of a vast number whom our 
 streets will never see. Any one well acquainted with Lanca- 
 shire" will know how wide-spread the study of music is among 
 its working population. Even the inhabitants of our large towns ' 
 know something more about this now than they knew a few 
 months ago. I believe there is no part of England in which 
 the practice of sacred music is so widely and lovingly pursued 
 amongst the working people as in the counties of Lancashire and
 
 276 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 Yorkshire. There is no part of England where, until lately, 
 there have been so many poor men's pianos, which have been 
 purchased by a long course of careful savings from the workman's 
 wages. These, of course, have mostly been sold during the hard 
 times, to keep life in the owner and his family. The great 
 works of Handel, Haydn, Beethoven, and Mozart, have solaced 
 the toil of thousands of the poorest working people of Lanca- 
 shire. Anybody accustomed to wander among the moorlands 
 of the country will remember how common it is to hear the 
 people practising sacred music in their lonely cottages. It is not 
 uncommon to meet working men wandering over the wild hills, 
 ''where whin and heather grow," with their musical instru- 
 ments, to take part in some village oratorio many miles away. 
 "That reminds me," as tale-tellers say, of an incident among 
 the hills, which was interesting, though far from singular in my 
 experience. Up in the forest of Rosendale, between Derply 
 Moor and the wild hill called Swinshaw, there is a lone valley, 
 a green cup in the mountains, called "Dean." The inhabi- 
 tants of this valley are so notable for their love of music, that 
 they are known all through the vales of Rossendale as "Th' 
 Deighn Layrocks," or " The Larks of Dean." In the twilight 
 of a glorious Sunday evening, in the height of summer, I was 
 roaming over the heathery waste of Swinshaw, towards Dean, 
 in company with a musical friend of mine, who lived in the 
 neighbouring clough, when we saw a little crowd of people 
 coming down a moorland slope, far away in front of us. As 
 they drew nearer, we found that many of them had musical 
 instruments ; and when we met, my friend recognised them as 
 working people living in the district, and mostly well known to 
 him. He inquired where they had been ; and when they told 
 him that they had " bin to a bit of a sing deawn i'th Deighn," 
 "Well," said he, "can't we have a tune here?" "Sure, yo con, 
 wi' o' th' pleasur' i'th world," replied he who acted as spokes- 
 man ; and a low buzz of delighted consent ran through the rest 
 of the company. They then ranged themselves in a circle around 
 their conductor, and they played and sang several fine pieces of 
 psalmody, upon the heather-scented mountain top. As those 
 solemn strains floated over the wild landscape, startling the moor- 
 fowl untimely in his nest, I could not help thinking of the hunted 
 Covenanters of Scotland. The all-together of that scene upon
 
 Wandering Minstrels. 277 
 
 the mountains, " between the gloaming and the mirk," made an 
 impression upon me which I shall not easily forget. Long after 
 we parted from them we could hear their voices, softening in 
 sound as the distance grew, chanting on their way down the 
 echoing glen ; and the effect was wonderfully fine. This little 
 incident upon the top of Swinshaw is representative of things 
 which often occur in the country parts of Lancashire, showing 
 how wide-spread the love of music is among the working classes 
 there. Even in great manufacturing towns, it is very common, 
 when passing cotton mills at work, to hear some fine psalm tune 
 streaming in chorus from female voices, and mingling with the 
 spoom of thousands of spindles. The "Larks of Dean," like the 
 rest of Lancashire operatives, must have suffered in this melan- 
 choly time; but I hope that the humble musicians of our county 
 will never have occasion to hang their harps upon the willows. 
 
 Now, when fortune has laid such a load of sorrow upon the 
 working people of Lancashire, it is a sad thing to see so many 
 workless minstrels of humble life "chanting their artless notes in 
 simple guise" upon the streets of great towns, amongst a kind of 
 life they are little used to. There is something very touching, 
 too, in their manner and appearance. They may be ill-shod 
 and footsore ; they may be hungry, and sick at heart, and forlorn 
 in countenance ; but they are almost always clean and wholesome- 
 looking in person. They come singing in twos and threes, and 
 sometimes in more numerous bands, as if to keep one another in 
 countenance. Sometimes they come in a large family all toge- 
 ther, the females with their hymn-books, and the men with 
 their different musical instruments, bits of pet salvage from the 
 wrecks of cottage homes. The women have sometimes children 
 in their arms, or led by the hand; and they sometimes carry 
 music-books for the men. I have seen them, too, with little 
 handkerchiefs of rude provender for the day. As I said before, 
 they are almost invariably clean in person, and their clothing is 
 almost always sound and seemly in appearance, however poor 
 and "scanty. Amongst these poor wanderers there is none of 
 the reckless personal negligence and filth of hopeless reprobacy ; 
 neither is there a shadow of the professional ostentation of poverty 
 amongst them. Their faces are sad, and their manners very often 
 singularly shame-faced and awkward; and any careful observer 
 would see at a glance that these people were altogether unused 
 to the craft of the trained minstrel of the streets. Their clear,
 
 278 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 healthy complexion, though often touched with pallor, their 
 simple, unimportunate demeanour, and the general rusticity of 
 their appearance, shows them to be 
 
 Suppliants who would blush 
 To wear a tatter'd garb, however coarse ; 
 Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth ; 
 Who ask with painful shyness, and refused, 
 Because deserving, silently retire. 
 
 The females, especially the younger ones, generally walk be- 
 hind, blushing, and hiding themselves as much as possible. I 
 have seen the men sometimes walk backwards, with their faces 
 towards those who were advancing, as if ashamed of what they 
 were doing. And thus they went wailing through the busy 
 streets, whilst the listening crowd looks on them pityingly and 
 wonderingly, as if they were so many hungry shepherds from 
 the mountains of Calabria. This flood of strange minstrels partly- 
 drowned the slang melodies and the monotonous strains of ordi- 
 nary street musicians for a while. The professional gleeman 
 "paled his ineffectual fire" before these mournful songsters. I 
 think there never was so much sacred music heard upon the 
 streets of Manchester before. With the exception of a favourite 
 glee now and then, their music consisted chiefly of fine psalm 
 tunes, often plaintive old strains, known and welcome to all, 
 because they awaken tender and elevating remembrances of life. 
 "Burton," "French," " Kilmarnock," "Luther's Hymn," the 
 grand " Old Hundred," and many other fine tunes of similar 
 character, have floated daily in the air of our city for months 
 together. I am sure that this choice does not arise from the 
 minstrels themselves having craft enough to select "a mournful 
 muse, soft pity to infuse." It is the kind of music which has 
 been the practice and pleasure of their lives ; and it is a fortui- 
 tous thing that now, in addition to its natural plaintiveness, the 
 sad necessity of the times lends a tender accompaniment to their 
 simplest melody. I doubt very much whether Leech's minor 
 tunes were ever heard upon our streets till lately. Leech was a 
 working man, born near the hills, in Lancashire ; and his anthems 
 and psalm tunes are great favourites among the musical popula- 
 tion, especially in the country districts. Leech's harp was tuned 
 by the genius of sorrow. Several times, lately, I have heard the 
 tender complaining notes of his psalmody upon the streets of the 
 city. About three months ago I heard one of his most pathetic 
 tunes sung in the market-place, by an old man and two young
 
 Wandering Minstrels. 279 
 
 women. The old man's dress had the peculiar hue and fray of 
 factory work upon it, and he had a pair of clogs upon his 
 stockingless feet. They were singing one of Leech's finest 
 minor tunes, to Wesley's hymn : 
 
 And am I born to die, 
 To lay this body down? 
 And must my trembling spirit fly 
 Into a world unknown ? 
 A land of deepest shade, 
 Unpierced by human thought ; 
 The dreary country of the dead, 
 Where all things are forgot. 
 
 It is a tune often sung by country people in Lancashire at 
 funerals ; and, if I remember right, the same melody is cut upon 
 Leech's gravestone, in the old Weslejian chapelyard at Rochdale. 
 I saw a company of minstrels of the same class going through 
 Brown-street the other day, playing and singing, 
 
 In darkest shades, if Thou appear, 
 My dawning is begun. 
 
 The company consisted of an old man, two young men, and 
 three young women. Two of the women had children in their 
 arms. After I had listened to them a little while, thinking the 
 time and the words a little appropriate to their condition, I 
 beckoned to one of the young men, who came "sidling" slowly 
 up to me. I asked him where they came from, and he said, 
 "Ash'n." In answer to another question, he said, "We're o' 
 one family. Me an' yon tother's wed. That's his wife wi' th' 
 chylt in her arms; an' hur wi' th' plod shawl on's mine" I 
 asked if the old man was his father. "Ay," replied he; "we're 
 o' here, nobbut two. My mother's ill i' bed, an' one o' my 
 sisters is lookin' after her." "Well, an' heaw han yo getten 
 on ?" said I. " Oh, we'n done weel ; but we's come no moor," 
 replied he. Another day, there was an instrumental band of 
 these operatives playing sacred music close to the Exchange 
 lamp. Amongst the crowd around, I met with a friend of 
 mine. He told me that the players were from Stalybridge. 
 They played some fine old tunes, by desire, and, among the rest, 
 they played one called " Warrington." When they had played 
 it several times over, my friend turned to me and said, " That 
 tune was composed by a Rev. Mr. Harrison, who was once 
 minister of Cross-street Unitarian Chapel, in Manchester; and 
 one day an old weaver, who had come down from the hills, 
 many miles, staff in hand, knocked at the minister's door, and
 
 280 . Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 asked if there was 'a gentleman co'de Harrison lived theer?' 
 'Yes.' 'Could aw see him?' 'Yes." When the minister came 
 to the door, the old weaver looked hard at him for a minute, 
 and said, 'Are yo th' mon 'at composed that tune co'de War- 
 rington ?' ' Yes,' replied the minister, ' I believe I am.' ' Weil,' 
 said the old weaver, 'gi : me your hond ! It's a good un ! ' He 
 then shook hands with him heartily again ; and, saying ' Well, 
 good day to yo,' he went his way home again, before the old 
 minister could fairly collect his scattered thoughts. 
 
 I do not know how it is that these workless minstrels are 
 gradually becoming rarer upon the streets than they were a few 
 months ago. Perhaps it is because the unemployed are more 
 liberally relieved now thatt they were at first. I know that, 
 now, many who have concealed their starving condition are 
 ferreted out, and relieved as far as possible. Many of these 
 street wanderers have gone home again, disgusted, to pinch out 
 the hard time in proud obscurity ; and there are some, no doubt, 
 who have wandered away to other parts of England. Of these 
 last, we may naturally expect that a few may become so recon- 
 ciled to a life of wandering minstrelsy, that they may probably 
 never return to settled labour again. But "there's a divinity that 
 shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will." Let us trust 
 that the Great Creator may comfort and relieve them, "according 
 to their several necessities, giving them patience under their 
 sufferings, and a happy issue out of all their afflictions."
 
 t 3Jncfo*nt truring t&c Cotton famine. 
 
 Take physic, pomp ! 
 
 Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel ; 
 That thou may'st shake the superflux to them, 
 And show the heavens more just. 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 JNE Saturday a little incident fell in my way, which I 
 thought worth taking note of at the time. On that 
 day I went up to Levenshulme, to spend the afternoon 
 with an old friend of mine, a man of studious habits, 
 living in a retired part of that green suburb. The time went 
 pleasantly by whilst I was with the calm old student, conversing 
 upon the state of Lancashire, and the strange events which were 
 upheaving the world in great billows of change, and drinking 
 in the peaceful charm which pervaded everything about the man, 
 and his house, and the scene which it stood in. After tea, he 
 came with me across the fields to the Midway Inn, on Stockport 
 Road, where the omnibuses call on their way to Manchester. 
 It was a lovely evening, very clear and cool J and twilight was 
 sinking upon the scene. Waiting for the next omnibus, we 
 leaned against the long wooden watering-trough, in front of the 
 inn. The irregular old building looked picturesque in the soft 
 light of declining day ; and all around was so still that we could 
 hear the voices of bowlers who were lingering upon the green, 
 off at tKe north side of the house, and retired from the highway 
 by an intervening garden. The varied tones of animation, and 
 the phrases uttered by the players on different parts of the green, 
 came through the quiet air with a cheery ring. The language 
 of the bowling-green sounds very quaint to people unused to tbr 
 game. 
 
 " Too much land, James ! " cries one
 
 282 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 "Bravo, bully-bowl! That's th' first wood! Come again 
 for more ! " cries another. 
 
 " Th' wrong bias, John ! " 
 
 "How's that?" 
 
 " A good road, but it wants legs ! " 
 
 " Narrow ; narrow, o' to pieces ! " 
 
 These, and such like phrases of the game, came distinctly 
 from the green into the highway in that quiet evening. And 
 here I am reminded, as I write, that the philosophic Dr. Dalton 
 was a regular bowler upon Tattersall's green, at Old Trafford. 
 These things, however, are all aside from the little story which 
 I wish to tell. 
 
 As we stood by the watering-trough, listening to the voices of 
 the bowlers, and to the occasional ringing of bells, mingled with 
 a low buzz of merriment inside the house, there were many 
 travellers walked by. They came, nearly all of them, from the 
 Manchester side; sometimes three or four in company, and 
 sometimes a lonely straggler. Some of them had poor-looking 
 little bundles in their hands ; and, with a few exceptions, their 
 dress, their weary gait, and dispirited looks, led me to think that 
 many of them were unemployed factory operatives, who had 
 been wandering away to beg where they would not be known. 
 I have met so many shame-faced, melancholy people in that 
 condition during the last few months, that, perhaps, I may 
 have somewhat overjudged the number of those who belong to 
 that class. But, in two or three cases, little snatches of con- 
 versation, uttered by them as they went by, plainly told that, so 
 far as the speakers went, it was so ; and at last a little thing befel 
 which, I am sure, represented the condition of many a thousand 
 more in Lancashire just now. Three young women stopped on 
 the footpath in front of the inn, close to the place where we 
 stood, and began to talk together in a very free, open way; 
 quite careless of being overheard. One of them was a stout, 
 handsome young woman, about twenty-three. Her dress was 
 of light printed stuff, clean and good. Her round, ruddy arms, 
 her clear, blonde complexion, and the bright expression of her 
 full, open countenance, all indicated health and good nature. I 
 guessed from her conversation, as well as from her general 
 appearance, that she was a factory operative, in full employ 
 though that is such a rare thing in these parts now. The other 
 two looked very poor and downhearted. One was a short,
 
 A Wayside Incident. 283 
 
 thick-set girl, seemingly not twenty years of age ; her face was 
 sad, and she had very little to say. The other was a thin, dark- 
 haired, cadaverous woman, about thirty years of age, as I sup- 
 posed ; her shrunk visage was the picture of want ; and her frank, 
 childlike talk showed great simplicity of character. The weather 
 had been wet for some days previous ; and the clothing of the 
 two looked thin and shower-stained. It had evidently been 
 worn a good while, and the colours were faded. Each of them 
 wore f poor, shivery bit of shawl, in which their hands were 
 folded, as if to keep them warm. The handsome lass, who 
 seemed to be in good employ, knew them both ; but she showed 
 an especial kindness towards the eldest of them. As these two 
 stood talking to their friend, we did not take much notice of 
 what they were saying, until two other young women came 
 slowly from townwards, looking poor, and tired, and ill, like the 
 first. These last comers instantly recognised two of those who 
 stood talking together in front of the inn, and one of them said 
 to the other, 
 
 "Eh, sitho; there's Sarah an' Martha here! Eh, lasses; han 
 yo bin a-bcggin', too ? " 
 
 "Aye, lass; we han," replied the thin, dark-complexioned 
 woman. "Aye, lass; we han. Aw've just bin tellin' Ann, 
 here. Aw never did sich a thing i' my life afore, never ! But 
 it's th' first time and th' last, for me, it is that! Aw'll go 
 whoam ; an' aw'll dee theer, afore aw'll go a-beggin' ony moor, 
 aw will for sure ! Mon, it's sich a nasty, dirty job ; aw'd as 
 soon clem ! ... See yo, lasses ; we set off this mornin' 
 Martha an' me we set eawt this mornin' to go to Gorton 
 Tank, becose we yerd that it wur sich a good place. But one 
 doesn't know wheer to go to these times ; an' one doesn't like to 
 go a-beggin' among folk at they known. Well, when we coom 
 to Gorton we geet twopence-hawpenny theer, an' that wur o'. 
 There's plenty moor beggin' beside us ! Well, at after that two- 
 pence-hawpenny, we geet twopence moor ; an' that's o' at we'n 
 getten. But, eh, lasses, when aw coom to do it, aw hadn't th' 
 heart to ax for nought, aw hadn't for sure. . . . Martha 
 an' me's walked aboon ten mile, if we'n walked a yard ; an' we 
 geet weet through th' first thing; an' aw wur ill when we se 
 off, an' so wur Martha, too; aw know hoo wur; though hoo 
 says nought mich abeawt it. Well ; we coom back through t 
 teawn ; an' we wur both on us fair stagged up. Aw never wur
 
 284 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 so done o'er i' my life, wi' one thing an' another. So we co'de 
 a-seein' Ann here; an' hoo made us a good baggin' th' lass 
 did. See yo; aw wur fit to drop o'th flags afore aw geet that 
 saup o' warm tay into mo, aw wur for sure ! An' neaw hoo's 
 come'd a gate wi' us hitherto, an' hoo would make us have a 
 glass o' warm ale a-piece at yon heawse, lower deawn a bit ; an' 
 aw dar' say it'll do mo good, aw getten sich a cowd ; but, eh 
 dear, it's made mo as mazy as a tup ; an' neaw hoo wants us to 
 have another, afore we starten off whoam. But it's no use ; we 
 mun be gooin'. Aw'm noan used to it, an' aw connot ston' 
 it. Aw'm as wake as a kittlin' this minute." 
 
 Ann, who had befriended them in this manner, was the hand- 
 some young woman, who seemed to be in work ; and now the 
 poor woman who had been telling the story laid her hand upon 
 her friend's shoulder and said, 
 
 "Ann, thae's behaved very weel to us, o' roads; an' neaw, 
 lass, go thi ways whoam, an' dunnot fret abeawt us, mon. Aw 
 feel better neaw. We's be reet enough to-morn, lass. Mon, 
 there's awlus some way shap't. That tay's done me a deeol o' 
 good. . . . Go thi ways whoam, Ann ! Neaw do ; or else 
 aw shan't be yezzy abeawt tho !" 
 
 But Ann, who was wiping her eyes with her apron, replied, 
 " Nawe, nawe ; aw connot goo yet, Sarah ! " . . . And 
 then she began to cry, " Eh, lasses, aw dunnot like to see yo o' 
 this shap, aw dunnot for sure ! Besides, yo'n bin far enough 
 to-day. Come back wi' me ! Aw connot find reawm for both 
 on yo ; but thee come back wi' me, Sarah ! Aw'll find thee a 
 good bed ; an' thae'rt welcome to a share o' what there is as 
 
 welcome as th' flowers i' May thae knows that 
 
 Thae'rt th' owdest o'th two; an' thae'rt noan fit to trawnce 
 up an' deawn o' this shap. Come back to eawr heawse; 
 an' Martha'll go forrud to Stopput (Stockport) winnot tho, 
 Martha? . . . Thae knows, Martha," continued she, "thae 
 knows, thae munnot think nought at me axin' Sarah, an' noan 
 o' thee. Yo should both on yo go back if aw'd reawrn, 
 but aw haven't. Beside, thae'rt younger an' strunger than 
 hoo is." 
 
 "Eh, God bless tho, lass," replied Martha, "aw know o' 
 abeawt it. Aw'd rayther Sarah would stop, for hoo'll be ill. 
 Aw can go forrud by mysel', weel enough. It's noan so fur, 
 neaw."
 
 A Wayside Incident. 285 
 
 But here Sarah, the eldest of the three, laid her hand once 
 more upon the shoulder of her friend, and said, in an earnest 
 tone, 
 
 "Ann ! It will not do, my lass ! Goo, aw mun ! Aw never 
 wur away fro whoam o' neet i' my life never ! Aw connot 
 do it, mon ! Beside, thae knows, aw've laft yon lad ; an' never 
 a wick soul wi' him ! He'd fret hisseF to deeoth this neet, 
 mon, if aw didn't go whoam ! Aw couldn't sleep a wink for 
 thinkin' abeawt him ! Th' child would be fit to start eawt 
 o'th heawse i'th deeod time o'th neet, a-seechin' mo aw know 
 he would ! . . . Aw mun goo, mon ! God bless tho, Ann ; 
 aw'm obleeged to thee o'th same ! But thae knows heaw it is." 
 
 Here the omnibus came up, and I rode back to Manchester. 
 The whole conversation took up very little more time than it 
 will take to read it; but I thought it well worth recording, as 
 characteristic of the people now suffering in Lancashire from no 
 fault of theirs. I know the people well. The greatest number 
 of them would starve themselves to that degree that they would 
 not be of much more physical use in this world, before they 
 would condescend to beg. But starving to death is hard work. 
 What will winter bring them when severe weather begins to 
 tell upon constitutions lowered in tone by a starvation diet a 
 diet so different to what they have been used to when in work ? 
 
 What will their eighteen-pence a-head weekly do for them in 
 that hard time ? If something more than this is not done for 
 them, when more food, clothing, and fire are necessary to every- 
 body, calamities may arise which will cost England a hundred 
 times more than a sufficient relief a relief worthy of those who 
 are suffering, and of the nation they belong to would have cost. 
 In the meantime, the cold wings of winter already begin to 
 overshadow the land ; and every day lost involves the lives, or 
 the future usefulness, of thousands of our best population.
 
 O blest retreat, and sacred, too ! 
 Sacred as when the bell of prayer 
 Tolled duly on the desert air. 
 And crosses decked thy summits blue. 
 
 ROGERS. 
 
 [E shores of the Isle of Man are remarkable for their 
 variety of indentation, especially at the southern end 
 of the island. There its most interesting scenery may 
 be found ; bold, rugged headlands, beautiful bays, and 
 savage ravines, where the wild ocean churns and thunders in 
 majestic fury. But from the ruin-crested rock of Peel so rich 
 in venerable memorials of the past all round the shores of 
 "the fairy isle," there is not a more charming spot than Port 
 Erin, a little crag-defended bay at the southern end of the island, 
 about five miles west of Castletown. The outer shores of this 
 part of the island are wildly fantastic; the mountains cluster 
 grandest there, and the inland scenery is fertile and picturesque. 
 Bold and rugged as the entrance to Port Erin is from the sea, all 
 is quiet, and sweet, and sheltered at the head of the bay. The 
 contrast is striking, and pleasing to the mind. The little fishing 
 hamlet looks out contemplatively between those wild, flanking 
 rocks at the entrance, across the blue waters, to where the moun- 
 tains of Morne and Wicklow, in Ireland, show their faint outlines 
 in the west. The bay, from the point where the headlands 
 Brada on the north side, and The Cassels on the south side of 
 the entrance front each other, like sentinels placed to guard the
 
 Saint Catherine's Chapel. 287 
 
 little nest beyond from all ravage of the sea, is about half a mile 
 across, and about a mile inland. From that point up to the 
 hamlet at the head of the water, Port Erin is a pleasant seclu- 
 sion, sweetly retired, even on the landward side, from bustle of 
 any kind, except such as the sea makes when a strong west wind 
 brings Neptune's white-maned horses into the little bay in full 
 career. Then, indeed, Port Erin wears an aspect of a nobler 
 and more spirit-stirring kind. But, even then, when the spray 
 is flying over the thatched roofs of the fishermen's cottages, 
 low down, near to the beach, the briny tumult is mere child's 
 play in a nursery nook, compared to the roaring majesty with 
 which the billows of the Atlantic wilderness rage among the 
 creeks, and chasms, and craggy headlands outside. At such a 
 time, the thunders of the sea in the Sound, which divides the 
 Calf Island from the main land, and amongst the storm-worn 
 headlands that overfrovvn the ocean immediately beyond the en- 
 trance to Port Erin, come upon the ear of the listener, in his plea- 
 sant shelter at the head of the bay, like the boom of distant war. 
 But when the wind is still, the clear tide fondles up the beach 
 at the foot of the village, as if it was glad to see that quiet nook 
 of Mona's Isle once more. Lipping the delicately-mottled strand 
 with liquid grace, it creeps lovingly up towards Port Erin's green 
 shore. Full of beautiful sounds, and hues, and motions, it comes, 
 with tender caresses, croodling its dreamy sea-song; and, as it 
 rises in gentle sweeps nearer and nearer to the cottages where 
 fishermen dwell, at the foot of the villaged slope, it flings fresh 
 shells upon the sand with every surge, like a fond traveller re- 
 turning home laden with memorials of his journey, which show 
 that he has been thinking of those he loved, when far away. 
 
 But let us sit down upon some pleasant "coigne of vantage" 
 at the head of the bay, and look at the quaint little village 
 there. The hotel, called the "Falcon's Nest," looks right out 
 to sea from the head of the bay. It crowns a green slope of 
 grass-bound sand, which rises from behind an irregular line of 
 old thatched cottages upon the beach, not far from the head of 
 the tide. There is a green terrace in front of the hotel at the 
 head of the slope, where I have many a time sat and looked 
 about me with delight upon a summer's day. At one end of 
 the terrace there is a sun-dial ; at the other a rusty old cannon, 
 a relic of the Spanish Armada. It was found in the water 
 below Spanish Head, hard by Port Erin, where part of that
 
 288 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 famous armament "came to grief." Great piles of fantastic sea- 
 worn rock, partly overgrown with greenery, stand, here and 
 there, upon the terrace; and ornamental seats are placed there, 
 for the use of visitors, when the weather is fine. The chimney 
 tops, and thatched roofs of fishermen's cottages, greened over 
 with wind-sown verdure, peep up from the foot of the slope, 
 which is crowned by the terrace. It is very pleasant to saunter 
 about, there, on a fine summer's day or on any other day, 
 to one who loves nature in all her moods. It is, perhaps, 
 better still to sit down, and look lovingly upon the scene. 
 The witchery of peace is on all around, when the wind is 
 still ; the smoke from cottage chimneys rises idly into the pure 
 air idle as Ludlam's dog, that leaned against a wall to bark. 
 It rises, here and there, in lazy blue rings lounging curls of fat 
 blue smoke, that seem over-fed, and "done up" with pleasant 
 lassitude, as if they had just finished a good dinner j and would 
 rather have a nap before going out. The cottages of the village 
 are picturesquely strewn about, as if they had been dropped 
 through holes in a sack, by somebody who happened to be flying 
 over the place. But they chiefly cluster on the south side at the 
 head of the bay, about the bottom of the hill ; not far from high 
 water. They, then, straggle up the southern hill-side like 
 school children out for a holiday one on this shelf of green 
 land ; another in a nook of the hill ; another on the nose of 
 a breezy bit of crag; others, in and out, dotting the sides of 
 the mountain road, which leads through the hamlet of Creag-y- 
 N'eash, in the direction of Spanish Head, and The Chasms, 
 the most remarkable bit of coast scenery in all the island. About 
 the middle of the scattered village, a whitewashed chapel stands, 
 in a little patch of ground, enclosed by low walls. It stands 
 there, sweet and simple, by the side of the mountain road; 
 about one hundred feet above the head of the tide; and it is a 
 pleasing feature in the scene. The village is all under the eye 
 from the place where I am sitting, and the quiet play of out- 
 door life going on there is novel, and dreamy-looking. The 
 whole scene is picturesquely-varied. The wild mountain tops, 
 clustered in the direction of Fleshwick, as if in solemn council; 
 the dark, craggy headlands at the mouth of the bay, with the 
 blue sea heaving between ; the smooth beach, where the clear 
 tide is singing and surging up ; the quiet, wandering village ; and 
 the green plain, rolling away between the hills, in picturesque
 
 Saint Catherine's Chapel. 289 
 
 undulations, landward. Port Erin is enchanted ground 1 There 
 are secluded nooks about it, that seem as if 
 
 Some congregation of the elves, 
 To sport by summer moons, had shaped them for them<;c!ves. 
 
 The village is all under the eye. Down in the lowmost part, 
 where the cottages are nearest to the water, a blue-clad fisherman 
 leans against his door cheek, smoking, and gazing dreamily out 
 to sea. I wonder what the old man is thinking of. In front 
 of another cottage, a stout matron, with browned face and 
 brawny arms, is hanging up strips of conger eel, to dry in 
 the sun; whilst a little barefooted lass, about five years old, 
 staggers about the doorway, under the weight of a fat baby. 
 A little below the sun-dial, which stands at the end of the 
 green terrace, upon which I am sitting, a knot of Manr 
 fishermen are lounging upon the grass, around a pitcher of 
 the thin Manx ale, called "jough." Now they are very 
 merry, and they laugh and chatter in full chorus, with great 
 glee. Now their mirth subsides; and they draw around 
 an ancient mariner, who is telling a tale of an adventure he 
 had with the fairies, as he came over the mountain from 
 Fleshwick Bay, one night. It is wonderful how firmly these 
 islanders believe in fairies. Scratch deep enough into any 
 Manxman, and you will find fairies, dancing by moonlight, 
 amongst a world of other weird imaginations. But we will 
 let the old seaman go on with his story. The village is all 
 under the eye ; and it is such a homely spot, that if one stays 
 a few days there, and is at all disposed to be communicative, one 
 begins to know everybody " by headmark," as the saying is 
 "Billy this," and "Johnny that," and "Neddy Omragh;" and 
 the old wanderer from the neighbourhood of Pool Vash, 
 who invariably recites a little epitaph he wrote upon some 
 notable person in that quarter a few years ago; and who 
 invariably expects something for reciting it. One begins to 
 know the village folk " by headmark," as I have said before, and 
 they stop and salute you kindly, and chat about the weather, the 
 fishing, the crops, and such like ; and there is something very 
 homely and pleasant in feeling one's self thus linked in a kindly 
 way to the rest of the human race wherever they go. ... 
 The village is all under the eye; and Port Erin is enchanted 
 ground. The voices of nature arc not drowned there in a roar 
 T
 
 290 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 of human tumult. It is true that the unceasing murmur of 
 the tide fills all the air with its wild under-song; but its in- 
 fluence is so fine and unobtrusive, that every sound of life in the 
 little village comes upon the untroubled sense distinctly framed 
 in the quietude which pervades that dreamy nook of Mona's 
 Isle, when the wind is low. . . . Let us look around, and 
 be silent ; that one may hear what is going on. Behind me 
 is the cheerful hotel, the Falcon's Nest. The landlord stands 
 upon the door-step, giving directions about the stabling of certain 
 horses which have come up from Castletown. The horses are 
 taken round to the stables; and the landlord goes back into 
 his nest. Snatches of the old man's fairy tales come upon the 
 wind, when it blows, towards me. I hear broken bits of his 
 story, while his mates stand listening around him, in silent 
 wonder : 
 
 "I wass not thinking about nawthin', when I think I hear 
 somethin', an' I look, an' there was a little fellow close to 
 my leg. He was dressed in green an' red, with silver buckles 
 on his shooce. He wass about the sice of eight yearce. I make 
 a grab to get howlt of him, so, an' then, I get a hand-full of 
 wind. I cannot see nawthin'. He is gone. ... I wass 
 wan day makin' a hedge. It was up in Brada. There wass 
 nobody but myself. It was wonderful ! Up in the air, I hear 
 them, shouting an' laughing. I know in a minute it is the fairies. 
 I hear them before, in the same place. They wass hunting. I 
 hear the cap'en o' the fairies. He give a shout, an' all was 
 silence. Then the noice begin a-gain, like people in a fair. I 
 hear them so well as I do see my hant. They wass hunting. 
 They have horses, an' dawgs. I hear them very well. The 
 whips wass cracking, an' horns wass blowing, an' I hear the 
 little dawgs going wif! wif ! wif ! It wass wonderful ! Then 
 the cap'en give a shout a-gain, an' all wass silence. Then there 
 wass music. It wass so fine that I cannot hear it. But, I feel 
 there wass music playing up in the air. ... I know it is 
 the fairies ; and I say, ' I think it is time to be going home.' So, 
 I come a-way. . . . Another time, when I wass coming 
 down from Craig-y-N'eash, it come on dark, all at once, so 
 dark as pitch. I look at my side. There wass a little fellow. 
 He wass just here (laying his hand upon his hip). He wass 
 about so big as my leg. I know it was a fairy. It was not a 
 body at all. He come to stale my boots." And so on. But
 
 Saint Catherine's Chape/. 291 
 
 we let the old man finish his tale. . . . I can now hear 
 the footfall of a lonely traveller, as he stumps along the road 
 behind me, stick in hand. He is a stout, old, weather-beaten 
 Manxman, with gray hair; and he is dressed in coarse blue 
 woollen cloth. I can hear every footfall as he works his way 
 along the silent road towards the mountain side, in the direc- 
 tion of Fleshwick Bay; and, now that I turn round to look 
 at him again, I see that the old man is wiping his forehead, 
 as he stumps along, stick in hand. I can hear women talking 
 at their doors below the slope, and upon the cottage-sprinkled 
 hill-side, in the direction of Creag-y-N'eash. I can hear the 
 prattle of little bare-legged lads, who are sailing their tiny, 
 chip-built ships, and clamorously discussing their relative quali- 
 ties, as they watch how they fare among the eddies and 
 rapids of the stream which runs down the green crease about 
 the middle of the village. I can hear the cackle of a large 
 family of very clean and very fat ducks, as they waddle 
 and paddle, and splash the water about, and open their wings, 
 and wag their dumpy tails with delight, upon the slushy 
 margin of a pool, where the same streamlet has been dammed 
 up, for their especial pleasure. I can hear the opening and 
 shutting of cottage doors, in different parts of the village; 
 and I can hear something of the wild fringe of an old Manx 
 song, which a fisherman is crooning, as he saunters along 
 the strand towards his boat; which lies, high and dry, in 
 a sheltered nook, under the craggy cliff, at the south side 
 of the bay. I can hear the call of the Manx shepherd to his 
 dog, upon the dark mountain side, towards Brada Head. Each 
 sound is distinctly-framed in the pervading quietness of the 
 scene. At an open bow-window of the hotel behind me, two 
 elderly gentlemen sit talking together, and evidently enjoying 
 what little breeze there is from the sea. I have got it into 
 my head, somehow, that they are men of learning. One of 
 them is a stout, hearty-looking gentleman, who wears a black 
 velvet skullcap ; and likes to dine in his own room, " because 
 he has a good deal of writing to do." I wonder what he is 
 writing about. He is talking in a sonorous tone of voice, to a 
 dignified old friend of his, whose manners at table, I have 
 noticed, always evince the self-possession, the graceful, quiet 
 action, and kindliness which mark a cultivated gentleman. He
 
 292 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 is tall and thin ; and his noble aquiline nose sustains a pair 
 of gold spectacles. Perhaps the black velvet skullcap and 
 the gold spectacles have something to do with my notion that 
 they are learned men; but I believe I am right, nevertheless. 
 They are talking about the history of the island, and about 
 the geology of this part of it ; especially about the mines at 
 Brada Head. I begin to think they have some interest in those 
 Brada mines; for they are talking of the projected breakwater, 
 and the possible future of Port Erin. I can hear them plain 
 enough. Not that I like "eaves-dropping;" but there they sit, 
 at the open window, and they see me; and they evidently don't 
 care a rap who hears them. ... At another window, a 
 little farther off, two sunny-haired young ladies come and go, 
 like wandering posies, " freshening and refreshing all the scene" 
 with their sweet presence. They belong to some well-to-do 
 family of cultivated people, who have come to Port Erin to 
 bathe themselves in quietness, and in the fresh sea-breeze. I am 
 sure it is so, for a noble-looking man, considerably past the 
 noon of life, shows himself at the window, now and then, with 
 two more of these pretty trailers clinging to him. He is dressed 
 in black, and he wears a gold-framed double eye-glass ; and his 
 fine countenance is lighted up with a quiet smile, as he paces to 
 and fro, listening to the prattle of the two lovely young women 
 who have hold of him body and soul. It is very evident that 
 their prattle is music in his ears. . . . Now the mother 
 comes ] I am quite sure that placid, handsome, matronly woman, 
 in the black silk dress, is the mother. She is a well-grown, 
 sweet-looking, sound-constitutioned dame; round as an apple, 
 and clear-skinned, and quietly-rosy; and kind-hearted, as any- 
 body may see, at the first glance, with half an eye. I durst 
 bet a thousand pounds she is a lady, in heart and thought. 
 She has seen enough of the world to enrich her experience ; and 
 without hardening her heart. She is a good, womanly soul; 
 the kindliness of her nature breathes through every pore; and 
 speaks with angelic eloquence in every line and dimple of her 
 face. A few silver threads may be shining in her yet abun- 
 dant auburn hair, but they only serve to give a new tinge 
 of dignity to her appearance. She knows something of sorrow, 
 too, no. doubt; for who can have lived so long in this world of 
 ours as she has lived, without being touched by the divine wand
 
 St. Catherine's Chapel 293 
 
 of that noble refiner of the noble heart? But the clouds have 
 long since gone; and her smiles, now, are not smiles 
 
 That might as well be tears. 
 
 She is, indeed, "one vast substantial smile," from head to foot, 
 a sunbeam of feminine goodness, raising the atmosphere of hap- 
 piness around her, wherever she goes. Upon the whole, her 
 lines have evidently "fallen in pleasant places," and, "So mote 
 it be," say I, "to the end of a long life yet to come." Now she 
 sits down by the open window; and a handsome, light-com- 
 plexioned lad, about twelve years old, is teasing her in an 
 affectionate way about something or another; whilst a beautiful, 
 sunny-haired girl, of sixteen or so, leans over the other shoulder, 
 and whispers, as she smooths the old lady's hair with tender 
 touches, "Mamma, dear, this!" and "Mamma, dear, that!" 
 And, oh, if there be an elysium on earth, that good old soul is in 
 it now ! It is a beautiful glimpse of the smooth current of 
 human life. 
 
 Now I hear the clatter of horses' feet upon the road behind 
 me, and a car comes up to the door of the hotel, laden with a 
 company of young men, who are evidently " in great spirits." 
 They have, very likely, come across the island from Douglas, 
 making a call or two on the way. If one may measure their 
 enjoyment by the noise they make, they certainly ought to be 
 very happy. They alight and enter the hotel, whilst the car is 
 taken round to the stable yard ; and, in a few minutes, I hear a 
 good deal more bell-ringing in the Falcon's Nest. 
 
 But who is this strange, gaunt fellow, that comes paddling 
 barefoot up the slope, from the low part of the village, muttering 
 to himself as he gazes vaguely around. It is poor Johnny Daly, 
 the affectionate, lunatic youth, who wanders over hill and 
 dale, in all weathers, harmless and happy in his unconscious help- 
 lessness. He is a tall, strong, young man ; but quite a child in 
 affectionate simplicity. Poor Johnny ! He is only " mad nor- 
 nor-west," after all. If he knows you, he either likes you well, 
 or he doesn't like you at all. If he takes to you, he comes quietly 
 up, and flutters about you like a pet dove with a broken wing; 
 croodling all sorts of inarticulate kindnesses in a touching and 
 not very demonstrative way; except that, now and then, as 
 he listens to your talk no matter what you are talking of, nor 
 how badly he suddenly clasps his hands and laughs boisterously;
 
 294 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 as if he had just discovered a great joke in the matter. If he 
 likes you, he will sit down upon the grass beside you, quietly 
 crooning some wild fragmem of old Manx song, and looking 
 slyly up into your face from time to time ; unless he chances 
 to spy the landlord of the hotel, or the owner of the one man- 
 sion at Port Erin. If he sees either of these anywhere about, 
 it is a thousand to one that he will immediately leave you to your 
 own devices and desires, for the poor fellow knows who is kind 
 to him a great deal better than some of us do who think that we 
 have all our wits about us. Poor Johnny ! He is fond of a 
 penny, like most of the world ; and he needs it more than some 
 people do; although He "who tempers the wind to the shorn 
 lamb" has scattered a few kind hearts about the wanderer's way 
 that will not see him want for any needful thing. But I have 
 seen people that Johnny would not accept a penny from; and I 
 have many a time wondered at the curious principle of selection 
 which seemed to lurk in some corner of his disordered mind. I 
 remember a little excursion we made, one fine summer's day, 
 over the mountain on the south side of Port Erin, and among the 
 wild cliffs, near the Sound, which divides the Isle of Man from 
 The Calf. It was a company of six ; and amongst them was 
 the landlord of the hotel a kind-hearted and intelligent English- 
 man. Johnny followed him, barefoot, all the rugged way, with 
 the affectionate instinct of a faithful dog. As we returned home- 
 ward, by wandering, and sometimes dangerous tracks, along the 
 edge of the precipices, on the south side of the bay where the 
 sea roared and dashed majestically among lonely creeks two or 
 three hundred feet below, and the cormorant and seagull wheeled 
 about the dark crags, and screamed with delight in the breeze, 
 half-way down between us and the water our host disappeared 
 from the company for a little wh'ile, in search of something 
 among the rocks, whilst Johnny was picking his way carefully up 
 the prickly path ahead. Turning round, Johnny missed his 
 friend ; and after he had looked for him again and again through 
 the company, and all over the scene, he sat himself down amongst 
 the heather, and gazing quietly at the blue sea, he murmured, in 
 a plaintive tone, "Now, he is gone! He is gone!" . . . 
 In a minute or two, 4ie kneeled down among the heather, and, 
 clasping his hands, like a child at its mother's knee, he muttered 
 a few broken sentences of the Lord's prayer, and then he sat 
 down and gazed silently at the sea again. And we could not
 
 Si. Catherine's Chapel. 295 
 
 get him to rise, until his friend reappeared from behind a rock ; 
 when he instantly rose and clapped his great brown hands, and 
 trotted after us, with painful steps, through the prickly bush, 
 stopping, now and then, to laugh aloud. . . Poor Johnny! 
 As he comes paddling up the road from the village, he hears the 
 voice of the landlord, who is talking to the ostler at the house 
 end ; and away he goes, in full trot, towards his friend, with 
 whom he is a great favourite. 
 
 And now, mild evening begins to draw her delicate curtains 
 over the drowsy world. All things below the sky are softening 
 into shade; and the pensive spell deepens the charm that per- 
 vades this sleepy seaside nook of " Mona the lone, where the 
 silver mist gathers." The quiet life of the village is sinking to 
 repose. Barefooted lasses are fetching water from the ancient 
 well of Saint Catherine, a beautiful spring, at the foot of the 
 sandy slope at the head of the bay ; and an object of great vene- 
 ration to the inhabitants of the island. Lovers are stealing off to 
 quiet nooks outside the village ; where they can whisper unseen. 
 Boats are coming in from the Sound, and from the blue sea 
 beyond. The fishermen haul them ashore in a sheltered shingly 
 nook, under the craggy southern cliffs; and then they saunter 
 homeward along the smooth beach, laden with fish and fishing 
 tackle; some of them singing drowsily, as they saunter along. 
 The murmurs of the sea become more distinct, filling all the air 
 with a slumbrous influence. . . . Now the fisher's wife 
 beets up her cottage fire, sweeps the hearth, and puts the kettle 
 on, to cheer her sea-beaten mate on his return from the wild 
 waters; and, here and there, fresh smoke is rising again from 
 cottage chimneys; bluer and more briskly than in the glowing 
 afternoon. . . . The old fisherman and his village companions 
 are mustering upon the grass at the end of the terrace again. 
 He has long since finished the story about his adventure witli the 
 fairies among the mountains ; and he has been carousing with his 
 comrades in the taproom of the Falcon's Nest. They have 
 brought another pitcher of "jough" out with them. And, 
 listen ! They are beginning to sing, in chorus, the plaintive old 
 Manx song, called "Molly Charrane!" The strange melody 
 floats up, weird and sweet, blending beautifully with the mur- 
 murs of the rising tide, and waking up remembrances of the wild 
 history and wilder legends of " Mona's fairy isle." The broad 
 glare of day is gone. The air is clearer ; the green fields look
 
 296 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 greener; and the hues of the landscape are richer and more 
 distinct than before. The sun has " steeped his glowing axle " 
 in the sea. The gorgeous hues which linger over his track still 
 glow upon the wide waters ; but " the line of light that plays 
 along the smooth wave toward the burning west," is slowly 
 retiring in the wake of the sunken sun. Let me look out, while 
 there is yet light, for the eye has glorious scope to roam in, from 
 the place where I am sitting. ... At the head of 
 the bay the scattered village; and the green land green all 
 along the slopes of the hills, and all over the fertile undulant 
 plain between, stretching away inland, towards Castletown. It 
 is a pleasant nook of seaside life, at the head of the bay. But, as 
 I look seaward, the flanking headlands grow wilder as they recede, 
 ending in scenes of savage grandeur among the storm-worn crags 
 which front the open sea. 
 
 The cliffs and promontories there, 
 Front to front, and broad and bare, 
 Each beyond each, with giant feet 
 Advancing, as in haste to meet. 
 The shattered fortress, whence the Dane 
 Blew his loud blast, and rushed in vain, 
 Tyrant of the drear domain. 
 
 Those grim sentinels have seen strange scenes of storm, and 
 battle, and shipwreck, during their long watch over the entrance 
 to Port Erin. Oft has the ancient Dane steered his "nailed bark," 
 laden with sea-robbers, into that little bay ; and he has oft been 
 wrecked upon that craggy coast. Spanish Head overfrowned the 
 destruction of part of the great Armada. One of the guns of 
 that armament now lies upon the terrace in front of the hotel at 
 Port Erin ; thickly encrusted with rust. Many a noble ship has 
 gone down in the Sound between the Island and the Calf of 
 Man. ... As twilight deepens down, the breeze freshens, 
 and the blue waves begin to heave with life. Great white-winged 
 ships glide majestically by some near, some far off; and some 
 almost lost to sight in the distance. Far away, in the west, the 
 outlines of the mountains of Morne and Wicklow are fading 
 away from view. It is a bewitching hour ! It is a bewitching 
 scene ! But now the Irish mountains have disappeared in the 
 shade ; and the distant sea grows dim to the eye. The village 
 about me is sinking to rest; and candle-lights begin to glim- 
 mer through cottage windows. The old fisherman and his 
 companions have gone back into the taproom of the Falcon's
 
 Saint Catherine's CbapeL 297 
 
 Nest. The wind is rising still ; and the air grows cold. I, 
 too, will retire until the world has donned its night-dress ; and 
 so good-by to this fairy scene for a while ! The moon rises 
 at ten ! Perhaps I may come forth to look around me once 
 more, when the world lies sleeping beneath her quiet smile. 
 If not, then farewell to thee, Port Erin ! 
 
 When scenes less beautiful attract my gaze, 
 I shall recall thy quiet loveliness ; 
 When harsher tones are round me, I shall dream 
 Of those mysterious notes, whose thrilling sounds 
 Peopled the solitude
 
 Past four o'clock ; and a moonlight morning ! 
 
 OLD WATCHMAN. 
 
 JTFE in Manchester may seem monotonous to a Parisian 
 or to a Londoner, but it has strong peculiarities ; and 
 among its varied phases there are some employments 
 little known to the rest of the world. Many a 
 stranger, whilst wandering through the back streets of the 
 city, has been puzzled at sight of little signboards, here and 
 there, over the doors of dingy cottages, or at the head of a 
 flight of steps, leading to some dark cellar-dwelling, containing 
 the words, " KNOCKING-UP DONE HERE." To the uninitiated 
 this seems a startling, and unnecessary announcement, in such 
 a world as ours; and all the more so, perhaps, on account 
 of the gloom and squalid obscurity of the quarters where such 
 announcements are generally found. Horrible speculations have 
 haunted many an alien mind whilst contemplating these rude 
 signboards, until they have discovered that the business of 
 the Knocker-Up is simply that of awakening people who 
 have to go to work early in a morning; and the number 
 of these is very great in a city like ours, where manufac- 
 turing employments mingle so largely with commercial life. 
 Another reason why this curious employment is so common in 
 Manchester may be that there are so many things there to lure a 
 working man into late hours of enjoyment, so many wild 
 excitements that help to " knock him up," after his ordinary 
 work is over, and when his time is his own, so many temptations 
 to "lengthen his days by stealing a few hours from the night," 
 that the services of the morning " Knocker-Up " are essential.
 
 The Knocker-Up. 299 
 
 For the factory-bell, like death, is inexorable in its call; and 
 when, in the stillness of the morning, the long wand of the 
 awakener comes tapping at the workman's window, he knows 
 that he must rise and go ; no matter how ill-prepared, no 
 matter how mis-spent his night may have been. He must 
 go; or he knows full well the unpleasant consequence. If 
 he likes he may try to ease his mind by crooning the words 
 of that quaint lyric, "Up in a morning, na for me;" but, 
 in the meantime, he must get up and go. He may sing it 
 as he goes, if he likes ; but whether he does so or not, he must 
 walk his chalks, or else it will be worse for him. Apart from 
 factory-workers, there are other kinds of workmen who need 
 awakening in a morning; especially those connected with the 
 building trades, whose hours of rising are sometimes uncertain, 
 because they may be employed upon a job here to-day, and then 
 upon one two or three miles off, to-morrow. Factory workers, 
 too, are compelled, in many cases, to reside at considerable dis- 
 tances from the mills at which they are employed. These two 
 classes of working people, however, are the principal customers 
 of the " Knocker-Up." 
 
 Whoever has seen Manchester in the solitary loveliness of a 
 summer morning's dawn, when the outlines of the buildings stand 
 clear against the cloudless sky, has seen the place in an aspect of 
 great beauty. In that hour of mystic calm, when the houses are 
 all bathing in the smokeless air, when the very pavement seems 
 steeped in forgetfulness, and an unearthly spell of peaceful rapture 
 lies upon the late disturbed streets, that last hour of nature's 
 nightly reign, when the sleeping city wears the beauty of a new 
 morning, and " all that mighty heart is lying still ; " that 
 stillest, loveliest hour of all the round of night and day, just 
 before the tide of active life begins to turn back from its low- 
 most ebb, or, like the herald drops of a coming shower, begins 
 to patter, here and there, upon the sleepy streets once more; 
 whoever has seen Manchester at such a time, has seen it clothed 
 in a beauty such as noontide never knew. It is, indeed, a sight 
 to make the heart "run o'er with silent worship." It is plea- 
 sant, even at such a time, to open the window to the morning 
 breeze, and to lie awake, listening to the first driblets of sound 
 that stir the heavenly stillness of the infant day : the respon- 
 sive crowing of far-distant cocks ; the chirp of sparrows about 
 the eaves and neighbouring house-tops; the barking of dogs; the
 
 300 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 stroke of some far-off church clock, booming with strange dis- 
 tinctness through the listening air ; a solitary cart, jolting slowly 
 along, astonished at the noise it is making. The drowsy 
 street aroused from its slumbers by those rumbling wheels 
 yawns and scratches its head, and asks the next street what 
 o'clock it is. . Then come the measured footsteps 
 
 of the slow-pacing policeman, longing for six o'clock; solitary 
 voices conversing in the wide world of morning stillness ; the 
 distant tingle of a factory bell; the dull boom of escaping steam, 
 let off to awake neighbouring workpeople; the whistle of the 
 early train; and then, the hurried foot, and "tap, tap, tap !" 
 of the Knocker-Up. Soon after this, shutters begin to rattle, 
 here and there ; and the streets gradually become alive again. 
 
 He who has wandered about the city, with observant eye, 
 at dawn of morning, may have seen men and sometimes a 
 woman hurrying along the street, hot-foot, and with "eyes 
 right," holding aloft long taper wands, like fishing-rods. These 
 are Knockers-Up, going their hasty rounds, from house to house, 
 to rouse the workman to his labour. They are generally old 
 men, who are still active on foot ; or poor widows, who retain 
 sufficient vigour to enable them to stand the work ; for it is an 
 employment that demands not only severe punctuality, but great 
 activity : there is so much ground to cover in so little time. It 
 is like a "sprint-race" severe whilst it lasts, but soon over. 
 And the aim of the Knocker-Up is to get as many customers 
 as possible within as small a circle as possible, which greatly 
 lessens the labour. A man who has to waken a hundred people, 
 at different houses, between five and six o'clock, needs to have 
 them "well under hand," as coachmen say. With this view, 
 Knockers-Up sometimes exchange customers with one another, 
 so as to bring their individual work as close together as possible. 
 The rate of pay is from twopence to threepence per week for 
 each person awakened ; and the employment is sometimes com- 
 bined with the keeping of a coffee-stall at some street end, where 
 night stragglers, and early workmen, can get their breakfast of 
 coffee and bread-and-butter, at the rate of a halfpenny per 
 cup, and a halfpenny per slice for bread-and-butter. Some- 
 times, also, the Knocker-Up keeps a little shop in some back 
 street, where herbs, and nettle beer, and green grocery, or 
 fish, or children's spices are sold ; and, after this fashion, many 
 poor, faded folk, too proud for pauperism, eke out a thin,
 
 ITje Knocker-Up. ?o r 
 
 unostentatious living, out of the world's eye. So much for the 
 occupation of the Knocker-Up. And now for a little incident 
 which led to all this preamble. 
 
 The other day, as I sat poring over my papers, a startling 
 knock came to the street door. It was one, solid, vigorous 
 bang, with no nonsense about it. It was heavy, sharp, straight- 
 forward, and clean-cut at the edges, like a new flat-iron. There 
 was no lady-like delicacy about it, there was no tremulous 
 timidity, no flabbiness, nor shakiness, nor billiousness, nor any 
 kind of indication of ill-condition about that rap. It was 
 sound wind, limb, and all over. It was short and decisive, 
 in the imperative mood, present tense, and first person, very 
 singular ; and there was no mistake about its gender it was, 
 indeed, massively masculine and it came with a tone of swift 
 authority like a military command. It reminded me of" Scar- 
 borough warning," a word and a blow and the blow first. 
 That rap could stand on its own feet in the world, and it 
 knew it. It came boldly, alone, "withouten any companie," 
 not fluttering, lame and feeble, with feeble supporters about 
 it, like a man on ricketty stilts, that can only keep his feet by 
 touching carefully all round. It shot into the house like a 
 cannon-ball, cutting a loud tunnel of strange din through the all- 
 pervading silence within. The sleepy air leaped, at once, into 
 wakefulness, and it smote its forehead with sudden amazement, 
 and gazed around to see what was the matter. I couldn't tell 
 whatever to make of the thing. My first thought was that it 
 must be the man who examines the gas meters, and that he was 
 behind with his work, and in a bad temper about something. 
 And then I began to think of my debts : it might be an indig- 
 nant creditor, or some ruthless bully of a dun which is a good 
 deal worse and I began to be unhappy. I sighed, from the 
 bottom of my heart, and looked round the room in search of com- 
 fort Alas ! there was nothing there to cheer my sinking spirits. 
 The drowsy furniture had started from its long-continued trance; 
 and the four somnolent walls were staring at one another with 
 wild eyes, and whispering, "What's that?" The clock was 
 muttering in fearful undertones to the frightened drawers ; and 
 the astonished ceiling, as it gazed down at the trembling carpet, 
 whispered to its lowly friend, "Look out!" as if it thought the 
 whole house was coming down. I looked at my watch for, in- 
 deed, I hardly knew where to look and I began to apprehend
 
 302 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 that the fatal hour had come, at last, when we should have 
 to part, perhaps for ever. I looked at my poor old watch. 
 . . . It had stopped. . . . The fact is, the little thing 
 was stunned. The numerals had tears of terror in their eyes ; 
 and it held out its tiny hands for protection, like a frightened 
 child, flying to its mother from a strange tumult. I felt sorry 
 for the little thing ; and I rubbed the case with my coat 
 sleeve, and then wound it gently up, by way of encouragement ; 
 and the grateful, willing creature it only missed about half 
 a dozen beats or so, and then began ticking again, in a 
 subdued way, as if it was afraid of being overheard by the 
 tremendous visitor who had so furiously disturbed "the even 
 tenor of its way." The whole house was fairly aroused; tables, 
 chairs, pictures,- all were in a state of extraordinary wonder- 
 ment. The cat was the only thing that kept its senses. It rose 
 from the hearth, and yawned, and stretched itself; and then it 
 came and rubbed its glossy fur soothingly against my leg, and 
 whispered, "All serene ! Don't faint ! " In the meantime, I 
 could imagine that rap, as soon as it had delivered the sum- 
 mons, listening joyfully outside, and saying to itself, with a 
 chuckle, " I've wakened that lot up, for once ! "... At 
 last I mustered courage, and, shaking myself together, I went to 
 the door. 
 
 A little, wiry old man stood at the door. His clothing was 
 whole, but rough, and rather dirty. An old cloth cap was on 
 his grey head ; and he was in a state of curious disorder from head 
 to toe. He had no braces on ; and he was holding his trousers 
 up with one hand. I couldn't tell what to make of him. He 
 was a queer-looking mortal ; and he had evidently " been dining," 
 as the upper ten thousand say when any of their own set get 
 drunk. At the first glance, I thought he was begging ; but I 
 soon changed my mind about that, for the hardy little fellow 
 stood bolt upright, and there was not the shadow of anything 
 like cringing or whining about him. The little fellow puzzled 
 me. He looked foggy and dirty ; but he had an unmistakable 
 air of work and rugged independence. Steadying himself with 
 one hand against the door-cheek, he muttered something that I 
 couldn't make out. 
 
 "Well; what is it?" said I. 
 
 Again he muttered something that sounded like "Knocked 
 Up;" to which I mildly replied that he certainly looked as if he
 
 The Knocker -Up. 
 
 33 
 
 was so ; and then I inquired what I could do for him ; but, to 
 my astonishment, this seemed to vex him. At last I found that 
 he was a Knocker-Up, and that he had called for his week's 
 " brass." I saw at once that the old man was astray ; and the 
 moment I told him where he was, his eyes seemed to fill with a 
 new light, and he exclaimed, " By th" mon, aw'm i'th wrang 
 street ! " And then, holding his trousers up, still, with one 
 hand, away he ran, and was no more seen by me.
 
 Complaint of a &afc Complaint. 
 
 To THE EDITOR OF THE WEEKLY GROWL. 
 
 |IR, I am a nuisance, and therefore I suppose it is 
 right, in the abstract, that I should be put down. 
 Unfortunately, however, many of the persons and 
 things by which I am surrounded are the same to me, 
 and I feel, by fits, vastly inclined to extinguish them, although I 
 know full well, in my sane moments, that they are generally 
 useful. And so it is, right to the end of the piece; everything 
 and everybody is, by turns, a nuisance to everybody and every- 
 thing else ; and if there were no restraint upon the public vanity, 
 and private pique, and officious frivolities which affect these 
 conflicting elements, the whole body politic, being composed of 
 nuisances, would be destroyed, like the Irish cats in the story. 
 In fact, sir, there is nobody in the world that is not a nuisance 
 to somebody ; though that is hardly a sufficient reason why they 
 should be allowed to worry one another. But in these days, the 
 art and mystery of grumbling that native prerogative which 
 has grown up so luxuriantly in the soil of our English freedom, 
 that the grumblers now constitute an eminently valuable power in 
 the state the art and mystery of grumbling (it really is artful 
 and mysterious sometimes) is now growing into a kind of social 
 scurvy, more annoying than serviceable, and sometimes exceeding 
 in offensiveness the nuisances which it scratches into notice. 
 The contagion is getting to such a pitch just now, that it is time 
 for the nuisances to speak for themselves for even a nuisance 
 has a right side and although I myself am one, I shall be grate- 
 ful if you will allow me just this once to say a few words
 
 Tke Complaint of a Sad Complaint, 305 
 
 respecting the treatment to which many of my humbler brethren 
 are subjected by the magnates of the tribe. I feel the more 
 hopeful that you will grant this, since I know that I am not the 
 only nuisance to which you have, with admirable forbearance, 
 opened the columns of your excellent journal. 
 
 Happily, the expression of opinion is so free in this country, 
 that although some offensive persons deny that a nuisance has 
 the slightest right to appeal to any of the senses I will venture 
 to assert, backed by all known law and custom, that even a 
 nuisance has a right to be heard at least, in its own defence ; 
 thanks to that instinctive leaning to fair play which, while it 
 deprecates anything that is foul, yet acknowledges that even 
 foulness itself may, sometimes, have a fair side. My dear sir, 
 we nuisances have endured so much, as we may say, from those 
 of our own household, that the patience of the most Christian 
 nuisance in the world must give way under such an incessant 
 fire of impertinent insult. Ah me ! there seems to be so little 
 fellow-feeling amongst nuisances now-a-days, that it may be worth 
 while to remind them all of the poet's little sermon beginning, 
 
 O wad some power the jjiftie gie us, 
 To see oursels as ithers see us. 
 
 Nuisance-hunters are always, of course, a nuisance to the nui- 
 sances; but the hunters are so often worse, upon the whole, 
 than the hunted, that it would be a general benefit to hold up 
 the mirror to these inconsiderate grumblers a little now and 
 then. To whom, then, in this difficulty, can we appeal, but to 
 you, oh Mr. Editor ? who are yourself a very rock of offence to 
 some misguided persons ; who are, doubtless, a stumbling-block 
 to you. 
 
 How the theme widens as one pursues it. There is some- 
 thing comical about the pathology of public grumbling. Is it 
 not a fact well known to you, my dear sir, that there exists an 
 inexhaustible class of persons who, having little or no capacity 
 for distinguishing themselves publicly in any nobler fashion, and 
 fearing,- above all things, that obscurity which is their natural 
 destiny, are constantly racking their wits for something to write 
 to the papers about. How many such have you, yourself, sir, 
 out of the sheer kindliness of your nature not unmixed with a 
 certain sense of the humour of the thing lent a little fame to, 
 by deigning, occasionally, to embalm their crude frivolities in 
 your own clear "nonpareil" To such persons, anything will
 
 306 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 serve for a subject, if they can only twist it into the shape of a 
 complaint : strong smells, and strange smells, which are not 
 strong ; suspicious loiterers in lonely places ; gaslight when the 
 moon shines, and want of gas when a cloud happens to be passing 
 over the moon; flying chips from masons' chisels, which have 
 been stopt in their flight by the rubicund tip of some respectable 
 gentleman's nose ; bits of orange peel on the flags ; public clocks 
 that are too fast, or too slow, or are stopt altogether, or have 
 their fingers bent, or the faces of which are partly hidden by the 
 encroaching insignia of ambitious pawnbrokers, or are in places 
 where they are not needed, or are not in places where they are 
 needed; pavements which are too slippery for horses, and too 
 rough for ladies ; music to people who have no ear for it, and 
 noises to people who have a delicate ear for music, and either to 
 people who like neither ; mutually-discordant neighbours ; church 
 bells that are not rung, and church bells that are rung too much, 
 and church bells that are not melodious when they are rung; 
 holes in the street, and places where holes are likely to be, some- 
 time; too much water, and too little water; cockle shells; 
 broken pots; the smell of dinners floating up from hotel kitchens; 
 and the inarticulate wails of chip-sellers and fish women; want 
 of loyalty to the crown ; want of loyalty to the people ; the in- 
 solence of cabmen, and railway buffers ; sneezing during service- 
 time; fast-days, proposed by people who are ill with feasting, 
 and feast-days, proposed by people who are ill with fasting; 
 general holidays, proposed by those who are paid for their holi- 
 days, and objected to by those who are not paid for them ; and 
 a thousand other things, more insignificant even than these ; 
 sometimes ferreted out by ingenious old fogies, of an irritable 
 disposition, who go tooting about the streets, "finding things 
 out;" or by young "green" persons, driven to their wirs' end by 
 a kind of literary measles. Heaven knows, I do not wish to 
 "freeze the genial current" of such poor souls as these latter, 
 but then, Mr. Editor, we must draw the line somewhere. With 
 respect to the former, have I not seen such a self-elected old 
 nuisance inspector, going slowly along the street, groping with 
 his sharp proboscis for something in the morning air to grumble 
 about in graceful prose, and meeting with a smell which he did 
 not quite understand a smell which perhaps had travelled "ever 
 so far" before it met him, and was on its way into the country, 
 there to die peaceably upon the general air, if he had only
 
 The Complaint of a Sad Complaint. 307 
 
 allowed it to go he straightway halts, he sniffs at it carefully 
 he affiliates it upon something convenient he looks grave he 
 whips out a pocket-book, and makes a note, to be wrought into 
 an epistolary complaint at leisure, in the fervent hope of its ap- 
 pearing among Saturday's correspondence. Have I not known 
 persons, whose jangled senses, refusing the Lethasn balm of sleep, 
 have lain awake o' nights, listening indignantly to the weird 
 howls of libidinous cats, prowling about the back yards, and the 
 rigging of the house, and making the sleepless midnight doubly 
 hideous with their "shrill ill will," who have started up irritably 
 from their pillow at last, and, striking a match, have exclaimed, 
 " Drat that cat ! Why don't the police look after these things ? 
 I will write to the papers." In fact, sir, the extravaganzas of 
 public complaint are endless in variety, and, not unfrequently, 
 very unreasonable. 
 
 I know a manufactory of a certain kind, which was estab- 
 lished many years ago, in a spot as remote as was convenient, 
 and wholly uninhabited for some distance around, in the hope 
 of being free from the charge of anything in the shape of 
 nuisance ; but, as years rolled on, population gathered about it, 
 and grumbling began, which, by irregular fits, has been carried 
 on ever since ; and whenever the complaint could manage to get 
 a "respectable start," it was sure to be well followed up; without 
 thought, as such cries often are. Even in the papers of the last 
 few days, letter after letter has appeared,complaining of the effluvia 
 arising from certain alum works in Salford. Some of these letters 
 are written by gentlemen whose delicate nasal discrimination 
 amounts to a marvel, if not to a miracle, when we remember 
 the distance they live from the spot complained of. How on 
 earth any smell, such as the one alluded to by these gentlemen, 
 can manage to travel two mortal miles, in a high wind, working 
 its passage through a hundred other smokes and smells as it 
 goes, and still preserve its own individuality, surpasses me to 
 know. But so it is. Up to Kersall Moor, and other green 
 nooks s of nestling, miles off, where the human nose is critical, 
 this compact nuisance cleaves its way through the murky air, 
 keeping wonderfully free from communion with the elements it 
 passes through, and strikes the senses at that distance as distinctly 
 as if it were a flat-iron. It seems to hold itself in till it has 
 found out noses which can appreciate it, and then it "comes out 
 strong," evidently making an effort to reveal all the pent-up
 
 308 Lancashire Sketches: 
 
 pungency of its nature, in the hope of gaining a little respectable 
 distinction. It is an aristocratic smell, too. It likes good society, 
 and will associate with none but gentlemanly noses. It has to 
 travel for it, though ; for, like the prophets, it is not honoured 
 with any remarkable notice in its own neighbourhood. Now, 
 noses such as these are "something like," as the saying is ; and, 
 but for such noses, how on earth should we, who live amongst 
 it, be able to' discriminate one smell from another in the compli- 
 cation of odours which crowd the air of this busy district, 
 except in such cases as the town's manure yard, which over- 
 powers everything else for a mile around with its intolerable 
 native strength, is strong enough, indeed, in the height of 
 summer, "for a man to hang his hat upon," as the Irish say. 
 That, now, is a smell really worth notice, if it were only 
 possible to get an alderman or two to speak about it. 
 
 When it happens to be fashionable to raise an outcry against 
 any particular manufacturer, as in the case of these unfortunate 
 alum works, what is that manufacturer to do ? Is he to take up 
 his works and walk, from one locality to another, every time an 
 inconsiderate complaint happens to be made against him ? Is he 
 to become a kind of nomadic outcast ? Is he to betake himself 
 to utter solitude, and go from one "desert where no men abide" 
 to another "desert where no men abide" a manufacturing voice, 
 crying for orders in the wilderness, and rinding none until his 
 occupation becomes unprofitable to himself or anybody else? 
 
 And then, the tone in which complaint after complaint has 
 been uttered, in the case of these works in Salford, is rather 
 curious. " The Nuisance in Pendleton ! " That is the title 
 of more than one letter on the subject. " The Nuisance in 
 Pendleton!" Good heavens! Who art thou, O man, that 
 writeth thus ? Oh, happy Pendleton, with one nuisance ! Go 
 thy ways, and break forth into singing, thou pleasant, and, in 
 some places, rather green suburb, break forth into singing, even 
 from Windsor Bridge right away up Eccles Old Road, and in 
 every other direction, to the utmost extent of thy remarkable 
 borders, break forth into singing ! Thou with the long pole 
 standing near the church, and the cock upon the top of it, 
 rejoice, and give thanks, for thy extraordinary exemption from 
 the common troubles of this manufacturing locality ! And well 
 might Pendleton sing, if this were true ; but who does not know 
 how many things which are really useful and necessary, are not
 
 The Complaint of a Sad Complaint. 309 
 
 always pleasant to those who have no immediate interest in 
 them ? Who does not know that if everything which is a nui- 
 sance to somebody or another, at one time or another, were re- 
 moved from society, there would be hardly anything useful left 
 in society at all, and if all the nuisances in society were to cry 
 out in this way, at once, against each other, who knows where 
 it would end ? They would cleave the general ear with horrid 
 grumbling. Really, gentlemen who get their living by the 
 necessary infliction of unpleasant noises, and smokes, and steams, 
 and smells, upon people who are forced to live among them 
 because they live, in a certain sense, by them, should be a little 
 more considerate. They should, at least, remember that, although 
 they can leave the town, and live in palatial houses, situated in 
 pleasant spots, " far removed from noise and smoke," where the 
 air is so beautifully different that it makes them a little par- 
 ticular, they leave their own share of the nuisances of the town 
 behind them, to be patiently endured by an immense multitude 
 of people who cannot escape from them, if they wish to 
 live, and who, although they are just the people who suffer 
 most from them, are, also, just the people who would be the 
 least heeded if they were to cry out against them. 
 
 I am, Sir, 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 A SAD COMPLAINT. 
 
 A. Ireland & Co., Printers, Pall Mall, Manchester.