11^ n/ / / WAUGH'S COMPLETE WORKS. VuL. IV. cLuftii of Ijciithcv By EDWIN W AlKiH. MANCHESTER: John Hevwood, Dkanscate; and Ktm;KKmi.D, John Dalton Sr Ano II, Patkknoster Buildings, Loki>on. <^-^" ,e-?'c>--^i"->ic thing, — there's nacbody can say that he's a man as hes nowt in him." " I hope he'll not stop lang i' these parts, —with his blue een," said the landlady. " Oh," said Adam, " I could put up wi' t' lad's een, if his stomach was ony bit like. . . . Didto say he was a gentleman or a simple body, Sally ? " " He looks like a gentleman," replied she. JAXNOCK. 93 "Well, that's a blcssin' ; for no poor body could maintain sich a wolf as he keeps in his cote. A man like that should hev somebody runnin' a day's march afore him to scrape his proven together. . . . Will he want ony tea, think ye?" " I think not," said the landlady. " Thoo hears, he wants to knaw what he hes to pay." " Well, an' what willto charge him ? Thoo cannot charge him less nor t' price o' t' goose. Now, if he'd drunken at t' same bat as he etten there'd ha' bin some sense in't, but he's had no drink mich. He hasn't had enough to wesh that brid down onyway. Thou mun charge him for 't goose." "One would think he'd not grumnile at that, hooiver," replied she. " Grummle or not grumnile, thou mun try it on. What ! he's t' reason of a man, sure-ly, — if he's t' stomach of a horse." " One would hope sae. But I niver heard tell of a horse eatin' goose." "Well, never thou mind that. Call it a lion i' tho likes. . . . Sally, gan thi ways, an' tell him it'll be seven shillin'. That's about t' size on't, isn't it, Matty ? " "Yes, that's about it. 1 could hev hed seven shillin' for't, time an' time again." " Then tell him it's seven shillin' ! He's nawther chick nor chylt o' mine, — thank God ! Tet him pay ! Say seven shillin' ! Dang it, let's try it on ! " 94 TUriS OF HEATHER ; CHAPTER V. Landlady, count the lawin'. An' gies a cogie main BURNS. HE traveller was eager to know the upshot of his message. He sat by the window, smoking, and chuckling to himself; for his mind was full of humorous speculation about what was going on in the kitchen all this while. Hearing the door open, he hastily assumed an unconcerned air, and as the girl came in, he quietly blew the smoke from his mouth, and said, — " Well ? " The girl blushed, as she answered in a timid tone, "Please sir, t' missis says it'll be seven shillin'." " All right," replied he, laying down a sovereign ; " and you may tell your mistress that I think the charge very little for the dinner that I have had." The tone and manner in which he received the change relieved Sally's mind of unpleasant apprehensions. "Thank ye, sir," said she, blushing again, as she picked up the sovereign. " But stay," continued he, " perhaps you had better send your mistress in." "Thank ye, sir," replied Sally, looking back from the doorway. JANXOCK. 95 " Now then," said Sally, as she handed the money to her mistress; "he paid me in a minute, without a word ; an' he said it was varra little, — an' he wants to speak to ye." "Come noo," said the landlord, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, " I like that ! There's nae mafflement aboot it ! ■ There's nowt licks straight-forrad wark ! He's a terrible trencherman,— there's no denyin' that,— but, all's one, if he pays for't. Let a man hev his fill, say I ! . . . Matty, lass, tak him his change, an' tell him he shall hev a couple o' ducks to his supper, if he'll stop. I'm rather partial to a man o' that stamp — if he puts it into a good skin, God bless his belly, say I, — for he's a clipper ! " There was a smile on the landlady's face when she entered the parlour. Giving a sly look at the traveller's waistcoat, she held out the tray to him, and said, " There, sir, that's your change." "Thank you;" said he, taking up the money, "but I really think the charge is too little. Suppose we make it ten shillings? There it is, see. and there's a shilling for the waiter." "Well, sir," replied she, "it hardly looks right to take it. . . . But ye know what things belongs, — an' I'm sure we're varra much obliged to ye. Now, I hope your dinner was to your hkin'." "Thank you," answered he, "everything was very good, and I have enjoyed it very much. I liked the goose particu- larly; it was nicely cooked." 96 TUFTS OF HF.ATHKR : " Well," said she, " I'm varra glad. I thow't }'e'd like it. Ye see, we're thrang i' t' fields, or else we could have attended to ye better. But I hope we hcvn't stinted ye ! Now, — if there's anything else ye'd like, " " No, thanks," replied he, " I have done very well indeed. If there had been a second goose on the table, I don't think I should have have cut into it." " Indeed ! " said she. " Ay, well, sir, Tm very glad. Mebbe ye'll be stayin' for tea ? " " No, thank you. I'm going on. up Duddon Vale, and over the hills, into Langdale. . . . Oh, — can you tell me anything about the route ? " '■ No ; but my husband can. Ye see, sir, he was born a little aboon Seathut (Seathwaite), an' he knows all t' countra- side between here an' Carlisle,^hill an' hollow, wood an' watter-stid, foot-gate, an' bridle-gate. Yc see, he's a farmer, an' his fadder afore him was a farmer, an' all his fore-elders were fiirmers, an' catde-breeders, livin' on their own land, on t' fell-side, ower-lookin' nuddon Vale. If ye'd like to see him, I'll send him in." " Do, if you please," replied he. •' Tell him I shall be very glad if he'll come and take a glass of wine with me." "Thank ye, sir," said she; "I'll send him in." " There now," said the landlady, as she entered the kitchen ; " it's just as 1 thowt '. He's as civil a man as ever put foot intul a shoe ! Yon's nane o' your throssen-up rabblement, not he. He's an awsome guttlin', — nae doot o' that — but ye wadn't think it, bi t' leuk on him ; for there's nowt at a' coorse nor brawsen aboot him (nothing bloated, JAXXOCK. (jy nor over-fed about his appearance). He's a well-Ieukin' clear-skinned, healthy man ; an' a varra genteel man, too." "Well," said the landlord, "he's meat-heal (meat-whole), whether he's genteel or not,— I'll onswer for that. Thoo cannot say that he's a genteel stomach, ony way." "Well," repHed she, " I'll say nowt about that. He can eat his meat, there's nae doubt But yon man's worth his meat,— as what he eats. An' then, thou knaws, folks aren't all made alike." "Nawe, bi t' mass, they aren't," said he; "an' it's a good job, too ; for if everybody were made like yon genteel divul i' t' parlour there'd be a famine i' t' lond afore t' week end." " That maks nae matter," replied she. " But, what d'ye think ? He said seven shiilin' was too little ; an' he made me tak ten, — whether I would or not." "Did he now? " " He did nowt else." "An' thoo didn't want to hev it, I guess ?" "Well, — I took it, ony way." "I thowt sae." " Well, an' wadn't thou ? " " I doubt I should. . . . But, nae matter. He's a Christian, — if he never said a prayer; an' I hope he'll never be stinted as lang as he's wick. But, he'll ha to mind an' keep amang fat pastur, or else he'll be nipt." "An, oh, Sally," cried the landlady, "there's a shiilin' for thee, too. That's thy share. Now, thee mind an' put it by, an' save it,— doesto hear? Thou doesn't knaw what thou may come to need ; an' it's a good thing to hev a few pounds laid by to fall back on, if owt should happen. 13 98 TUFTS OF HEATHER : Thou sees how folk are nipt, an' snubbed, an' trodden on, that have to beg, or to borrow, an' connot help theirsels. An' there's nobody knows what may betide 'em i' this world, — no, not th' best on 'cm. An' then, thou sees, if thou has a few pounds i' t' bank, it'll always be makin' a bit moore. Money i' t' bank's like t' poor man's horse ; it'll fatten i' t' neet-tirae, when folk are asleep. Thee tak care o' thi bit o' money, lass." " Matty, lass," said the landlord, " thou'll ha' to hev a surplice made, if thou'rt for goin' on this road." " Come, don't thee mak fun on it," said she. " I said nowt but what's reet ; an' thou knaws it." " Hod thi' tung, lass," replied Adam ; "it's a good advice ; an' I wur sayin' ' Amen ' to every word." " Well, then," continued she, " about this gentleman i' t' parlour. I tell tho, he made me tak ten shillin' ; an' he said he was quite satisfied." "Quite satisfied, is he?" replied the l.indlord. "Well, come now ; that's a blessin' ! liut, if there's ony doubt about it, thou'd better tak him yon saddle o' mutton in, — an' let him flirt wi' that a bit. If there's ony empty nooks laft, — it'll help to fill up, — as far as it goes." " Do talk to some sense, I pritho," said she. " T' man's reight enough, now. . . . Oh, — thou'rt to go into t' parlour to him. He's goin' on, up Duddon way, into Langdale ; an' he wants tho to tell him aboot t' road. Gan thi ways in. He wants tho to hev a glass o' wine with him. He towd me to tell tho." " I'll ax nowt nae better," answered Adam, rising from his seat. JANXOCK. 99 " Here/' said she, laying hold of his sleeve, " thoo's not gannin' in that figure, sure-ly ! Do wesh thi hands, an' tidy thisen a bit, hooivver." " Well, — as thoo says,'' replied he. " An' now," said he, when he had put himself into better trim, " I'm his man, ony minute ! " CHAPTER \T. Come, sit down, my crony, an' gie me your crack. SCOTCH SON'G. DAM Ritson was a fine specimen of the heather-bred yeomen of the north of England. Descended from a race of sturdy freeholders, — or " states- men," as they are called in the border counties, — who had for centuries farmed their own land, upon the lower slope of Seathwaite Fell, he inherited the simple habits, the clear vigorous constitution, the manly virtues, and independent bearing of his hardy forefathers, — men of frank, daring temper, brought up, generation after generation, among the wild hills and lonely dales, — men who, in the rough old times of " rugging and riving " had been ever ready to go forth, in battle array, with bills and bows, with lance and good broadsword, to repel the assailing Scot, or to make lOO TUFTS OF HEATHER : a raid across the border, under the banners of their own coLintr)' lords. Adam was more than six feet high, as straight as a pike-staff, and of a remarkably powerful buikl. In his youth he had been a fimous wrestler, in a country famous for wrestlers; and he treasured with pride many trophies of his prowess, in the shape of belts and cups, won in many a tough struggle among the stalwart lads of Cumber- land. Adam was now sixty years of age, and his strong, bristly hair, that once was a thick mass of crisp, auburn curls, had become iron-grey; but he was still a hale, and cheerful man, in the full enjoyment of life, and capable of extraordinary physical exertion ; and he was, withal, endowed with a kindly nature, and a rich vein of humour, which made him a welcome guest wherever he went. When young, he used to accompany his father to the cattle-fairs of the north, where his manly figure, and his frank and genial bearing won him friends among high and low. And, even now, at " Falkirk Tryste," there was no man more heartily welcome than Adam Ritson, as a bright, brave, open-tempered, and generous man, and an upright dealer in catde. Adam had five brothers, all living, and all, like himself, tall, strong men ; and, sometimes, when speaking of his family, he would say that his parents had "browt up twelve yards and a hauf o' Strang lads, an' five yards an' a hauf o' daycent lasses, — an' nane on 'em hed ever come to ony ill, yet, — thank God for't ! " Adam's associates, through life, had been almost entirely rustic, fell-side folk, — farmers, cattle- dealers, and the like ; yet he was remarkably fond of books ; and he was a thoughtful reader of such books as fell in his way ; and he was looked up to, by the simple dalesmen of the Duddon, as a man of extraordinary gifts, — whicli, indeed, he was, — for his nature was more than usually susceptible to the influences around him ; and his mental capacity was far above the common order. He had treasured up, with great tenacity, the unwritten traditions of his native hills; and he was delighted when he could meet with anybody who had sufficient romance in their nature to listen to them. More than once, according to the cherished legends of his own family, had the ancient home- stead of his fathers been pillaged by the Scots, in the rough old days. Even so far back as the time when the Cumbrian Abbey of St. Bees was plundered by the soldiers of Robert Bruce, and when the prior, according to Sir Walter Scott, " was compelled to say mass, with a hollow oak for his stall," Adam Ritson used to tell how the story had descended from father to son, that, then, the scattered inhabitants of Uuddon vale had to flee for shelter down to the old tower of the Broughtons, at Broughton. But, almost unconsciously to himself, Adam was gifted with some still higher qualities of the mind, — qualities which certainly were not fully appre- ciated by his simple neighbours. Born and reared in a land of mountain and glen, he found beauty in every common sight ; and he inhaled a sense of freedom from every breeze that blew. In the plastic time of childhood, he loved to rove, alone, by the side of the stream that watered his native vale, watching, with simple-hearted wonder and delight, the changes of the seasons, and the free play of Nature, in all her moods of temper, and varieties of form. To him, the heavens and the earth, the lonely vale, and the wild hills that folded it in, were peopled with forms of 102 TUFTS OF HEATHER : ever-varying beauty; and, amongst the sequestered scenes of his youth, he loved To stray his gladsome way, And view the charms of nature ; The rustling corn, the fruited thorn. And every happy creature ! An inchoate, germinal genius in his way, — had his lot fallen among higher spheres of human action, — who knows what his complete development might have been? But the vale of Duddon was dearer to Adam than all the world beside ; and he never cared to wander far from the pastoral solitude where he was born. Content to live without pretence, And earn whate'er his needs require ; An honest name, with competence. All his desire. As Adam went into the parlour, his old dog, " Laddie," slipt in with a rush behind him. "Laddie" was Adam's constant companion : and Adam was proud of his fine old collie. On winter nights, sitting by the fire, with his hand upon the dog's head, he would talk by the hour about strange adventures they had gone through together, upon the fell-sides ; and, all the while, " Laddie " would gaze up into his face, with a steadfast look of affectionate regard, and profound attention, as if he knew every word that was said, and longed to be able to say something about the matter himself. Well, — the dog rushed in at Adam's heels that day. Adam would fain have let the dog in freely, if he had been alone ; but, in deference to the stranger, he held the door in his hand for an instant, and said, " N ow. Laddie, JANiNOCK. 103 I doubt thoo"i t not wanted here, my man '. '' The dog seemed to know that this was spoken more by way of experiment than command ; and he stood wagging his tail, and looking up, with a kind of beseeching enquirj', when the traveller said, " Oh, let him come ! I'm fond of dogs ! Let him come in, — he's a fine fellow I " " And so are you," thought Adam, as he closed the doer; for the saying pleased him well. " Laddie " wagged his tail again, when he saw the door closed ; and he waited by the wall, that he might follow at the heels of his master. The stranger rose from his seat, with easy grace, and a genial smile, as Adam advanced from the doorway, with long, swinging stride, stroking the iron-grey bristles upon his brow. " How d'ye do, sir?" said he, holding out his great horny hand; "How d'ye do ? Are ye keepin' your health well ? " "I'm all right, thank you," rephed the traveller. "See; take a chair." As soon as Adam had taken his seat, "Laddie" rested his long nose quietly upon his master's knee, and fixed his eyes upon his face ; and Adam laid his hand upon the do^'s head, as usual. "You'll take a glass of wine?" said the traveller, filling Adam's glass. " Well, thank ye, sir," replied Adam. " Lve nae Strang objection to that. Here's your good health, sir ! I hope it'll not be lang afore we see ye again." " Thank you," said the traveller. " Good health to you ! " " Thank ye," replied Adam ; and then, shifting his chair a little, he continued, " Well, sir ; I understand from our mistress, that you're goin' on, up into Langdale." 104 TUFTS OF HEATHER : "Yes," said the traveller; "and, as I am quite a stranger in this part, I thought you would be able to give me a little information about the road." "Well, of course I can;" replied Adam; "of course T can ; an' I'll do so, with all the pleasure in the world. . . . Oh, I know your way very well. Ye'U hev to travel by the side o' the river Duddon, up into the very hills where it springs fra. An' Duddon's a bonny stream, mind ye ! Ye'U say so, when ye've seen it 1 Oh, I know it right well, ye see, Duddon's my native vale. I was born o' t' fell side, a bit aboon Seathut (Seathwaite) ; an' ever sin I was quite a lilc lad I've bin accustomed to rammle ovver all the country that ye'll hev to go through. Ye see, we hed a deal o' sheep, an' yan thing an' anudder to look after ; but, sheep or nae sheep, to tell the truth, I was vana fond o' rammlin' for rammlin's sake, an' that's where it is. I dare say I wandered, by mysen, into nooks o' those hills that few people had ever bin in afore, except t' fox dogs, mebbe, in a hard run, now an' then. . . . Well, now, — we'll begin at l' beginnin'. . . . When ye leave this house, ye'll hev to travel northward on the Bootle road, for about a mile, till ye come nigh to Duddon Brig, — that's where the river Duddon rushes down fra t' tail end o' Duddon Vale, and begins to flow on towards the sands, in a quieter way. AVell, now ; if ye went ovver Duddon Brig, it would lead ye on by t' north side o' t' sands, up by Buckman's Hall, and down through Millom, an' so by the foot o' Black Coomb, to Bootle, an' Ravenglass, at the sea-side. But, instead o' takin' that road, ye leave Duddon Brig, an' t' Bootle road, an' ye tak a road on the right hand, that leads up into Duddon Vale. So far, so good. Well, now, as ye're a stranger, no doubt ye'll want to look about ye, an' see what there is to be seen." "That's the very reason why I am wandering about on foot," said our hero. " I thowt sae," replied Adam ; " an', mind ye, if anybody wants to see a country like this well, they must tramp it, an' tak their time, then ye're independent, an' ye can go where ye like; an' ye can stop when ye like. Oh, there's nought licks Shanks' pony ! . . . \'ery well. For the first mile or so, the road winds up an' down t" hill-side, an' in an' oot among shady trees, that ovver-hang t' way ; an' here an' there ye meet with an old-fashioned cottage, with a garden in front, — sloping to t' road-side. This shady length is very pretty in summer-time ; an' at this point, the river runs deep down i' t' gullet o' t' vale. Ye may hear it ; but ye can't see it, for t' bank's varra steep, an' t' trees are thick between ye an' t' watter-course. Oh, I know that shady bit o' the way varra well ; for I've travelled it i' all wedders, an' i' all sorts o' leet ; aye, an' i' pitch-dark an' all, — oft enough. But, mind ye, I knaw folk up i' t' vale 'at would rayder gan twenty mile round than travel that bit, i' t' dark. It's a flaysome spot i' t' dead time o' t' neet, there's nae doubt, — not because of owt that's wick, for there's varra seldom ony- body stirrin' at sich a time, — though I hev knawn an ugly trick or two 'done there, a few years back. Why, about fifteen years ago, my awn brudder John was ridin' home fra Broughton, yan stormy neet, an' just as he gat into t' loneliest part o' this lonesome spot, a man darted out fra under t' trees, and seized his bridle, an' cocked a pistol at 14 io6 Turrs of hkather : him. Now oor John was not easy daunted. He was a terrible Strang fellow, an' he was a gay bad un to lick. Oor John got a grip o' this chap's collar, as he was trying to drag him down; t' pistol went off, an' t' bullet lodged in a tree by t' road-side ; ye may see t' mark on't, yet. Then John fetched him a clout o' t' heead, wi' t' butt-end of his whi]), an' draggin' him on to t' crupper, he browt him back into Broughton, at full galloji, as dateless as a clod. It turned out to be "Black I)ici<," a Bewcastle gipsy; well known all over Cummerlan', as a poacher, a smuggler, an' a robber. Well, it was a bit afore "Black Dick" gat round; for his wrist was brokkL'n, an' he was a bit maul't udder ways. Oh, he tacklc't t' wrang man when he tackle't oor John ! Ilowivver, t' country-side was rid on him for a gay while ; for he was sent ovver t' sea for ten years. . . . Well, as I was sayin', — t' road winds in an' oot among over- hangin' trees ; but, noo an' then, ye get a peep o' Uuddon Grove, on t' opposite side o' t' river. It's a fine house ; but I suppose ye'll hev mony grander places o' that kind, where yc come fra ? " "Oh, yes," replied the traveller; "we have many fine buildings ; but the great attraction here is the wild beauty of ihe country ! " "Aye, aye," said Adam; "that's just where it is; ye can build fine houses, and ye may fill 'em wi' fine things; but ye cannot build Wallabarrow Crag, an' Seathut Fell, — ye cannot make a vale like Duddon Vale, an' ornament it with a stream like the Duddon ! To my thinkin', there never was, nor never will be, a house i' the world to compare wi' Duddon Vale, on a fine day ! " JAXXOCK. 107 " I quite agree with you, my friend," said the traveller. "I can assure you," continued Adam, "I can assure you that I've stood mony a time, upo' Seathut Fell, on a clear winter neet, tracin' the stream far down the vale, an' lookin' round at the mountains, an' then up to the starry sk)', — an' I couldn't help but feel that God was t' greatest builder on 'em all 1 " " The grand Architect of the universe ! " said the traveller. " ' Who meteth out the heavens with a span,' " said Adam. "'Who walketh upon the wings of the wind,'" said the traveller. "'Who holdeth the sea in the hollow of his hand,'" said Adam. . . . "Aye, aye," continued he; "this grand world of ours was never built by mortal man. . . . But, — as I was sayin', — Duddon Grove's a fine place o' t' kind. T' house an' grounds cover a great part o' t' lower slope 0' Stainton Fell wi' lawns, an' groves, an' windin' walks, — as rich an' fine, in their way, as owt I ever set een on. An' then, reight above all this, t' wild fell rises far up, steep, an' rocky, wi' nowt but black-faced sheep wandering among t' heather, as free as the wind that blaws ower t' tops, — an', mind ye, when there is ony wind, it tioa blaw ower t' top o' Stainton! Oh, Duddon Grove, an' t' fell-side, together, — they're not sae bad, I'll assure ye. . . . Well, — when ye lose sight o' Duddon Grove, ye leave t' shady end o' t' vale behind ye ; an' ye're enterin' fairly into the open wild ; an', to my thinkin', ye now begin to see the real beauty o' Duddon Vale. The hills begin to shew theirsels, — reight afore ye, — Corney Fell, an' Stainton Fell, loS TUFTS OF HF,ATHF>R : an' riest Fell, an' Birker Fell, — an', as ye travel on, ye see mair o' them, an' they grow grander an' grander. Ye meet \vi' varra few trees after this. Its all wild heather, an' stunted bush, an' moss-grown rock ; but, ye hev the Duddon with ye, all the way ! The road winds, in an' out, by Uuddon side, — never mony yards asunder,— an' mind ye, every time ye look at that river, ye'll find something new in it. I've wander't by it, mair or less, all my life, an' its always fresh to me. It sartinly is a bonny stream, — I will say that for't ! I don't know another to compare wi' t'. I know mony a stream that hes mair watter in't ; but never a one 'at's sae full o' pretty frisk as the Duddon is ! An', mind ye, ye're just goin' the reet way to see it well. If ever ye want to see a mountain stream, — gan upwards, — an' meet the fallin' watter ; an' there ye hev it, at every stride, — there ye catch every frolic, an' every little glittering fall, — there ye hev it, in all its glory, — as one might say ! " "That's perfectly true, my friend," said the traveller. " I've always found it so. . . . Drink up 1 " Adam drank up his glass. The traveller filled again, and rang for another bottle. The wine was brought in, and when the door was closed, Adam continued. "Oh," said he, "ye'll find th.at I'm right, sir. An', if I'm not varra mich mistaken, ye'll stop mony a time to look at that river ; an' ye'll think it bonnier an' bonnier all the way." " I have no doubt of it," said the traveller. " Well, now then," continued Adam, " when ye get about five miles on the road, ye'll come to "Oopha Kirk," (Ulpha Kirk), — a little country village, close by t' waiter-side ; an' I should advise ye to stop on t' brig d minute o two, an' look JANNOCK. 109 at the river. It's well worth lookin' at. . . . An' now, sir, — if ye happen to want owt to eat an' drink, when ye get to " Oopha Kirk," ye'd better try 'em there ; for, I doubt ye'll not find 'em well provided for ye farther on. I should strangly advise ye to tak some'at wi' ye, when ye leave here." " "Oh, said the traveller, laughing and drinking off his glass; " I dare say I shall manage very well." "Oh," replied Adam, "I not quite sae sure about that. Ye see, I knaw the country well. Ye'll not meet wi' mony houses on your way; an' it'll all bs scrammlin' luck whether ye get what ye want or not. But we'll see about it afore ye start I shouldn't like ye to be ony way stinted, ye knaw, — that's all." "Thank you, my friend," said the traveller, "I think I dare risk it." "Varra well," replied Adam. "Let's see, — I was at Oopha Brig? Yes. Well, now, when ye get about a mile past that, ye come to what we call ' Low, i' Oopha,' an' there ye see a grand cluster o' hills gatherin' round, wilder at every stride, — Cove, an' Blakerigg, and Walna Scar, an' Seathwaite Fell, and Dow Crag, an' Wallabarrow Crag, — all reight afore ye I Ye see, ye're approachin' the head o' the vale, where the mountains muster, like a parliament o' giants, makin' laws for the world. It'^ a fine part o' the valley that, an' so ye'll say. . . . Well, ye travel on for about three mile, an' all the way the river an' the road keep takkin' a bit of a clip at yan another, and then dartin' away for a lile rammle by theirsens, an' then creepin' back to peep at yan another again, like bairns, play in' at hide-an'- seek amang t' trees, — ye travel on for about three mile, till no TITIS OF HEATHER : ye come to Seathut Chapel. But, stop, — when ye're within about a mile o' Seathut Chapel, at a place called Hall Brig, i' Pendle, it would be better for ye to leave t' high road, an' tak a bye-way, up t' watterside, an' ower t' ' Hippin Stcans,' an' on, through t' wood, to Seathut Chapel. At t' Hippin Steans ye get a varra beautiful view o' t' river. . . . Well,— now, we're at Seathut Chapel, — my native place as I may say, for it's t' nearest village to where I was born ; an' I dar say I think a good deal mair on it than a stranger would. There's nowt honsome in it i' t' way of buildings,— why, it's just a lilc, rough, stragglin' lot o' grey cots, cluster't togidder, at t' foot o' t' hill, grown ower wi' moss, an' greenery o' yan sort an' another, as if it were hauve field an' hauve village, wi' here an' there a thatch wi' posies on't, like a field w\' a chimney ;— wi' t' bits o' gables, stannin' yan this way, another that way, or ony way, just as 't leets, as if they'd all been tummle't out of a bag, at t' foot o' t' fell, an' laft theer, for t' grass to grow ower 'em, — or like a lot o' aad cronies, huddle't round a fire, tellin' tales. An' t' river's close to. Neet and day it goes singing by. IVo knawn mony a ane leave Seathut Chapel, an' never return. Rut neet an' day, the bonny Duddon still goes singin' by. Oh, to me it's a varra sweet, an' a homely spot, — an' homely's just the word, too. Beside, ye see, my fadder an' mudder lies buried there, — an' my gran-fidder, an' my great gran-fadder, an' I knaw not hoc mony mair o' my awn kin, — yc knaw, that mak's yan feel a bit tender tuU it. But, nae matter. Mebbe ye've heard tell o' Robert Walker,— 'Wonderful Walker,' as he was called ? " JAXNOCK. Ill "The Reverend Robert Walker?" " Yes, He was t' parson at Seatlnvaitc Chapel." "Oh, yes; I've heard of him." " Come, now ; I'm glad o' that ! Well, he lies buried i' Seathut Chapel-garth ; and I thowt that, niebbe, ye'd like to look at t' place where he lies, before ye went ony further on your way." "That's one of the places I intended to see,'' said the traveller. " Ah, well," continued Adam, " it's varra remarkable. He was parson at Seathwaite sixty-seven years. He was ninety-three when he died ; his wife was ninety-three w-hen she died ; an' their eldest daughter was eighty-one when she died. Ve'll find 'em all lyin' together, side by side, i' Seath- waite Chapel-garth, hard by t' aad yew-tree. . . . But, now, we'll wander on towards Langdale, if ye please. . . . Soon after ye leave Seathwaite Chapel ye come to Netde- slack Bridge, where two roads meet. The right-hand road goes to Coniston, the left-hand road to Langdale. Of course you take the left, which leads up, through a narrow gull)', between Harter Fell an' Grey Friars, wi' t' river roarin' deep below. When ye come out of this pass, ye'll think ye're at t' end o' t' world, —for it looks as if it hadn't bin finished ony farther. That upper part o' t' valley sartinly looks varra wild, and desolate. Grey Friars rises up o' one side, and Harter Fell an' Hardknot o' tudder, — an', i' t' vale between, there's not a livin' thing, not a tree, not a house to be sin. Well, yes, there's yan farmhouse, — that's John Tyson's, at Cockley Beck, — but ye'll not see that till ye're near a-top on't, and that house is seven miles fra a mill and five miles 112 TUFTS OF HKATIIKU : fra a shop, and mair than four miles an' a hauve fra a church. Now, when ye get there, if ye feel tired, or hungry, or inclined to stop all neet, I should advise ye to tak a thowt and consider, for that's your last chance. There isn't another house till ye get reight ower the top o' Wrynose Pass, and far away down into Little Langdale ; and ye'll find that a stiffish walk, if ye intend to do it before neet-fo' ; but ye'll see how ye are when ye get to Cockley Beck. It's nobbut rough looking ; but if ye happen to be slagged up, or if ye want oather bed or board, ye'll find that's not a bad house to call at, for a country nook. An' they're glad to see ony decent person look in, I con tell ye ; though John has had some racklc visitors in his time, that made theirsens mair free than welcome. Ye see it's a varra lonely place. But ye'll find yersel' quite at home, when ye get there, — if ye like to ca' an' tak pot-luck ; an' they're never short o' good rough mountain provender, I can tell ye, — if ye can put up wi't. It's a good meat house, is John's. Ye can mention my name if ye like. But, if ye like to go on, with- out callin', well an' good. You'll find it a goodish dim fra Cockley Beck up to t' top o' Wrynose Pass ; and when ye git ower top o' that, there ye hev the whole o' Little Lang- dale, stretchin' far away down, afore j-e, as reight as a ribbin! It's a fine sight, is that, I can tell ye. But, — mind ye, — it's a lang way frae t' top o' Wrynose to where ye can get owt to eat. But, when ye do get down into i' vale, they'll find ye summat or anudder, nae doubt. Now, a good leg o' fell side o' mutton wadn't come amiss, I warn'd (warrant), after sic a tramp as that. They'll find ye that, hooivver. . . . But, I'll tell ye what, sir, — afore ye JAN'NOCK. J J, Start, ye'd better let our folk cut ye a bit o' summat to tak wi' ye, — for fear o' mishap." " Oh, you're very kind," said the traveller, laughini; ; " but I don't think there will be any need for that." "Ay, ay," said Adam ; "but ye'U find it's a stiffish \valk. But it depends how far ye've come to-day." '• Oh, about twelve miles," replied the traveller. "Well, then," replied Adam, "it is as I say,— ye'll find it a stiffish walk. . . . Now, we've as prime a saddle o' mutton, yon, as ever knife cut intull. Let our folk cut ye about two or three pound o' that : we'll put it up nicely for ye : an' it'll le a bit o' someat to help out wi',- if ye happen to find yersel' short." "Oh, no, thank you for your kind thought/' said the traveller, laughing heartily again ; " I think I'll just take my chance. Surely, as you say, I shall be able to get a leg of mutton, or something equal to it, in a country like this." " Oh, nae doubt o' that," replied Adam, " but then, ye see,— -they mayn't hev it ready cooked for ye." "Ah, well, then," said the traveller; "I must just wait patiently ; or else take pot-luck, as you say, of anything that happens to be ready." "Varrawell," said Adam; "ye owt to know best. I'm only an.xious that ye shouldn't be famished in a Christian country, ye knaw." " Oh, no fear of that, my friend," said the traveller; " I'm an old campaigner." "Come, that's right, sir; I'm glad to hear it," replied Adam. ..." Well, now, as you're goin' up Duddon 114 TL"ris OF hkathkr: Vale, I shouldn't like ye to pass by Scathwaite without seein' t' chapel-yard where Robert Walker lies buried." " I certainly shall stop to look at that," said the traveller. " He was a very remarkable man." " He was, — he was, indeed," said Adam. '■\\'e've vnrra few sic parsons now-a-days." "There are very few such men in the world at any time," said the traveller." " I suppose not," replied Adam. CHAPTER Vn. He gloor't, an' glendur't, reet an' lift : He twisted to an' fro' ; He stopt, — he skriked, — an', in a snift, He darted through 'em o' ! LAN'CASHIKE SONG. iOME, my friend," said the traveller; "you don't drink. Finish your glass ; and allow me to fill for you." "Well, thank ye, sir," replied Adam; "but ye're not takin' much yersel ! " " Oh, no fear, my friend," said the traveller. " I'll keep pace." "Well, now," said Adani, as he laid down his glass again ; " talkin' about parsons, — it reminds mc of a comical thing JAXNOCK. 115 that happened a long time ago, at a little chapel somewheer Kes'ick way on. It was yan o' my gran'-fadder's cracks. Ye s^e, my gran'-fadder lived till he was near ninety ; an', when I was quite a lile slip of a lad, he use't to sit i' t' corner tellin' his bits o' tales aboot things that happened when he was young, — for, ye see, t' aad man kept his faculties to the last; in a maist wonderful way ; an' he died sittin' in his arm-chair, as usual. He seem'd to be asleep ; an' his pipe dropped from his hand ; but when they went to wakken him, they found that it was all over. An' his face was as quiet as the face of a sleepin' child. Oh, I remember it well ; for I was there at the time. . . . Well, this thing that I was going to tell, — it's yan o' my gran'-fadder's bits o' merry tales. It's aboot an aad parson that live't somewheer up amang t' fells, aboon Kes'ick, when my gran'- fadder was a young man. It seems that this aad parson was as poor as a craw ; an' he'd nobbut yan suit o' clooas for both Sunday an' war'-day. Ye see, that's a lang time ago, — when knee-breeches an' buckle't shoon were common wear. Well, — yan Setterda' neet, when t' aad man was undressin' hissen for bed, he fand that his breeches were getten so sadly aat 0' gear that they wadn't be decent for him to wear at samce, t' next mornin'. .So he fllang 'em down t' stairs ; an' he called out to his son to run with 'em to t' taylior i' th' village, an' tell him to be sure an' mend 'em t' same neet, so as to be ready for him to put on t' first thing i' t' mornin', as he had nae other. An' so, away they went wi' t' breeches. Well, — as it was Setterda' night, t' taylior was sittin' drinkin', amang his cronies, at t' ale-heawse ; an' when they browt t' breeches to him, he said ' All reight. Il6 TUFTS OF HEATHER: I'll attend to 'em. I knaw that lie's nobbut yan pair. I'll do 'em afore I gan to bed; an' he shall hev 'em back afore he's up i' t' mornin' ! ' Well, — what does t' taylior do, at after that, but he goes an' gets blin' drucken amang his mates, an' away he gans home, an' reet off to bed, without touchin' t' parson's breeches at all. Well,—" "Fill, my friend," said the traveller; "and pass the bottle." "Aye, aye; I beg ye pardon, sir," said Adam, as he passed the bottle. "Now, sir; [ hope I'm not tirin' ye wi' these aad-warld cracks o' mine.'' "Oh, not in the least," replied the traveller; "go on, I pray ! I'm quite delighted with the story. I only stopped to grease the wheels a little. Go on, I beg ! " " Well, sir," continued Adam, " when t' taylior wakkent up, o' th' Sunday mornin', it was getten lateish on, an' he had a sair head ; an' as he lee i' bed, yawnin', an' gruntin', an' considerin' what hed taken place t' neet afore, all at once, he unbethowt him aboot t' parson's breeches ; an' he bounced out o' bed. ' Bi t' mass,' said he, ' I forgetten t' parson's breeches ! T' aad chap has nowt but these to cover hissen wi' I An' he'll never go to sarvice baat breeches, sure-ly ! That would be a bonny sect I ' Wi' that, t' taylior jumped upo' t' bench, an' stitched away like a two-year-aad, till he'd getten t' aad lad's breeches put reet, an' then he called of his lad Simeon, — a lile careless cowt, ye knaw, as lads are, afore t' world begins to straddle upo' their shoothers' ' Here, Simeon,' says he, ' thoo man run off t' parson's wi. these breeches, as hard as thoo can pelt ! They're all that JANNOCK. 117 he has to put on,— an' it's getten hard upo' sarvice time, as thoo sees ! Away \vi' tho, noo, lii^e a good lad ; an' dunnot stop a minute upon t' road, or thou'U be too lat, — an' there'll be sic a scrowe as nivver ! If thoo doesn't get theer i' time for t' parson to go in with his breeches on, I nivver dar shew my face i' t' chapel again ! Noo off wi' tho, an' mak sharp ! ' An' away t' lad went, full scutch, wi' th' parcel under his arm, till he'd getten aat o' seet, — an' then, he began to slacken a bit, d'ye see. Ye know, do what \'e will, lads will be lads, — like all oather young things that's full o' life ; an' this taylior's lad wur neither better nor waur than his maks. Well, — it was a fine summer's mornin', t' sun was shinin' ; an' l' brids were singin' ; an' t' watter was wimplin' an' glitterin' ; an' t' trees were rustlin' thick an' green by t' way- side ; an' all around, fra earth to sky, was as bonny as t' flower-time o' t' year could mak it ; an' before t' lad had gotten far on his way, he was quite ' beguile't ; an' he began o' tvvitterin', an' tootlin', an' gazin' round, wi' wide een, as if he was in a world that he'd never sin afore, — just as a child would, ye knaw. An', for my part, I can quite excuse t' lad ; I've done t' same thing mysen', mony an' mony a time. Well, as I was sayin', — he hadn't gone far afore t' parcel under his arm had clean slidder't out of his mind ; an' he wander't on, happy an' thowtless, stoppin' here an' there, bi' t' wayside, — like a bummle-bee rovin' amang posies. An', now an' then, when he came to a hole i' t' hedge-side, he popped his stick intull it. But, mind ye, he hedn't gone far afore he happen't to bob his stick intull a bit of a hole where there was a wasp-neest. At after that, I'll awarnd ye, it wasn't lang afore t' lile divul Il8 TUFTS OF HEATHER: was wakken't up, to some guage ! His bonny dream wag all over, fra that blessed minute; an' he had to begin o' stirrin' hissen ! Out they cam, — ten thousan' Strang, — an' at him they went, tickle-but, — buzzin' about his head, like little fiery dragons ! Well, t' lad was a pluck't un,— an' he shouted, an' fowt wi' t' parcel to keep 'em off, — till t' parcel flew loose, — an' then, he fowt on, wi' parson's breeches, till they gat full o' wasps. But, while t' lad an' t' wasps were hard at it, i' the very heat o' the battle, — hammer an' tungs, — up strikes t' chapel-bells, —there was nobbut two o' them, d'ye see, — up strikes t' chapel-bells, — ' tinkle-tum, tankle, tunkle, tinkle ; tunkletum, tinkle, tankle, tunkle.' So, wi' that t' lad bethowt him that it was sarvice-time ; an' let t' feight go as it might, he must quit the field ; so he rolled t' breeches up, in a hurry, — wasps an' all, —an' he took to his heels up t' road, as hard as he could leather at it, — wi' t' enemy after him, i' full wing ! There was nae grass grew under his feet, till he got to the vestry door, I'll awarnd ye. Well, bi this time t' parson had about gan t' breeches up ; an' he stood i' t' vestry, buttonin' his lang coat, to see if he could manage to cover his legs with it, as far down as t' top of his stockins, when a rap came to t' door. It was t' taylior's lad, wi' t' breeches, an' as soon as t' parson opened t' door, he shot into the vestry, like a bullet fra a gun. He was hot fra the field o' battle ; an' he was quite out o' breath. His een were starin' wild ; an' his face was as red as a new- painted wheelbarrow. The minute he gat in, he banged t door to behind him, — to keep all out that was out, — an', as he sat down, pantin' to get his breath, he gev a fearful glent at t' lockhole, to see if owt was coming through. 'Ah, JANiNOCK. 119 Simeon, my boy,' said the parson, ' it's you, is it ? You've been a long time. Well, I'm glad you've come. So, they're all right, are they ? ' ' Yes, sir,' said Simeon, for he was just beginning to get his breath. ' Well, you're only just in time, my lad,' said the parson ; ' you're only just in time. I ought to be in the church, now.' ' I think I'll go in,' said Simeon. 'Yes,' said t' parson ; 'go in, my lad; go in. It's past the time now.' Simeon needed nae mair tellin', — for he'd just sin a wasp come in at the lock-hole ; so he bowted into t' church, an' pulled t' door to behind him. Then t' parson pulled his breeches on, in a hurry ; an', the minute he'd getten' 'em on, he darted off into t' church, an' up into t' pulpit ; an' he began o' readin' t' sarvice : — ' When the wicked man turneth away from his — '. He stopped suddenly, an' changed colour ; and then he gev a bit of a cough, an' began again:— 'When the wicked man turneth — .' He stopped again. ' Oh, by — ! What's that ? ' (// was a wasp.) He wiped his face with his handkercliief, an' began again. ' When the wicked man turneth away from his wick — Oh, God — bless us all, — there it is again ! ' Well, the folk stare't like mad, ye knaw ; for they thowt t' aad man was gettin' wrang in his cock-loft. Uut, however, he at it again. ' When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness, and doeth the thing which is lawful and — a-a-h ! ' {A)ioiher wasp.) ' My friends,' said he, addressin' t' congregation, 'I've been suddenly a-a-h!' {^Another wasp.) 'It's no use, my friends, no mortal man can stand this ! I must, Oh ! ' {Another wasp.) An' he flang down his book, and ran back into t' vestry. . . . Now there was a caper for ye ! " I20 irFlS OF HEATHKR : " It's a touching story," said the traveller. " Aye, aye ; it's very touching, as ye say," replied Adam ; "it's touching, — to the quick ! Rut ye may guess how the congregation would stare." " They might well," said the traveller. " It would he quite a new version to them." " Oh, bless ye ; they were all upset ! A few o' them ran into t' vestry, to see what was the matter ; but, — mind ye, — before they could get in, t' parson had whipt his breeches off, an' he stood under t' window, examinin' his wounds." " Poor old fellow ; it was too bad ! " said the traveller. " Aye, but mind ye," continued Adam, "they weren't lang afore they found out what it was. . . . Simeon had bin sittin' reight i' t' front o' t' pulpit, — wi' his e'en bunged up, — when sarvice began. Of course, ye knaw t' lad was i' terrible pain, for he'd just come through St. Peter's needle his-sen. But when t' sarvice began, he kent in a minute what was t' matter, an' he was forced to let t' cat oot o' t' bag." "Well," said the traveller, "there would be more laughing than crying about the matter." " Aye, aye," replied Adam, " of course there would — amang them that wasn't stung. There always is. But, however, that was all t' sarvice they had that mornin', for they sang, ' We praise thee, O God !' an' went their ways, to spread the news." "Yes," said the traveller, "an' some of them would be better pleased than if they had heard the finest sermon in the world." " No doubt, sir," replied Adam, " no doubt ; for if ye've notice't, l' maist part o' folk i' this world would rather be tickled than taught." JAXNOCK. 121 "You're right, my friend," said the traveller. "But, at all events, they wouldn't object to the parson being tickled." "Of course, not," replied Adam; "but I think there's one thing sartin, — they wouldn't begrudge him of ony fun he gat out of his ticklin'." " I dare say not," said the traveller. CHAPTER VIII. Sacred Religion ! " mother of form and fear." Dread arbitress of mutual respect, New rites ordaining when the old are wrecked. Or cease to please the fickle worshipper. Mother of Love ! (that name best suits thee here) Mother of Love ! for this deep vale ; protect Truth's holy lamp, pure source of bright effect, Gifted to purge the vapoury atmosphere That seeks to stifle it ; as in those days When this low pile a Gospel teacher knew. Whose good works form an endless retinue : A pastor such as Chaucer's verse portrays; Such as the heaven-taught skill of Herbert drew ; And tender Goldsmith crowned with deathless praise." WORDSWORTH. X' so ye've heard tell of our old parson that used to be at Seathwaite Chapel ? " said Adam. " What, you mean the Reverend Robert Walker," said the traveller. " Yes," replied Adam, " Wonderful Walker, as our dales- folk call him." ■' Oh, yes," answered the traveller ; " I've read something of his story, and I shall be glad to know more of it." 16 122 Turrs OK hi'.aihkr: " All, well," said Adam, " it's a story worth reading. . . The old man's gone to his rest many years ago. He lies uslccp close by the little chapel, where he worked sae lang. . . . . He was a good man To me, his varra gravestone seems to be preachin' a quiet sermon by ncet an' day ; an' t' little grey chapel that heard his voice sae oft, seems as if it was listenin' to catch a sound that it can never hear again. If ye believe me, sir, I seldom pass that grave without feelin' disposed to take off my hat an' linger a while. He was our minister lang ago ; an' he'll be our minister for a lang time to come ; for he's well remcm- bered amang us ; an' that quiet grave of his seems to fill the whole air with a kind o' divine sarvice. ... He was a good man, was Robert Walker. He was a friend to me when young, an' he's a friend to me yet. I knew hiin per- sonally, d'ye see ; an' though it's a lang time ago, I've re- membered him with a better remembrance as years rolled on. , . . Let me see now. I shall be sixty two come Michaelmas day. Robert Walker was ninety-three years years old when he died. I remember it well. I was at his funeral. There was mair fell-side folk at that funeral than at ony funeral there ever was at Seathwaite Chapel. At that time I should be little mair than fifteen years of age. I went to school tull him. Ye see, ours is but a simple mountain village, as you may say. There was nae regular school- house; an' he kept school i' the little chapel where he had gone to school when he was a lile moor-end lad like mysen. . . . . 1 believe I was a hit of a favourite wi' t' aad man ; for he used to lend me books, an' he drilled me, an' taught me mony things, at by-times, out o' school hours, JAXXOCK. 123 when he's bin sittin' at his awn fire-side, cardin' wool, or mendin' his shoes, or niakkin rush-dips for winter, out o' melted mutton fat. There's one thing sartin, — ony bit o' larnin' that I hev, — such as it is,— I was indebted to Robert Walker for't, — aye ; an' for mony a good thing besides, — that you cannot reckon up on a slate. I can assure you, sir, that it rather pains me when I think about it now, some- times, — for I feel as if I hadn't given a proper thowt to the thing when he was livin', — I feel as if I hadn't bin thankful for't when I had a chance 0' bein' thankful fort. . . . But, what can you expect? What is youth? It's just a butter-flee, flickerin' i' t' sun ! An' young things, runnin ower wi' life, — what, — let 'em frolic oat their frolic-time ! An' lads, ye knaw, they're like wild birds, i' summer, flittin' about amang t' sunshine, fra tree to tree, fra field to field, careless, an' thowtless, an' fain that they're wick ; peckin' fruit here, an' grain there, an' twitterin' the shiny hours away, without feelin' at all beholden for owt they get, — as if all that was gi%-en to 'em, and all that was done for 'em, was nowt but what they had a reet to, — or like a child in his mother's lap, croodlin', an' crowin, an' nozzlin' up to his soft nest, an' drinkin' his drink, in a happy doze, without knowin' or carin' where it comes fra." " Ah, me ! " said the traveller ; " it's one of the happiest privileges of childhood ! " " It's a bonny dream, nae doubt," said Adam. " It is, indeed," said the traveller : — 'Tis odour fled as soon as shed ; 'Tis morning's winged beam : 'Tis a light that ne'er will shine again On life's dull stream ! 124 TUFTS OF HEATHER : " Lut the world soon begins to waken us up from that delightful reverie, my friend' " It docs, indeed, sir," replied Adam. " We soon find oursels driftin' out o' the playground into the warkshop o' life. An', I can assure you that, as years rolled on, I thowt mair an' mair o' what Robert \\'alker hed done for me when I was a lile, mettlesome, wilful bairn." " He must have been a fine, homely, pure-hearted old country parson," said the traveller, in a musing tone. " I have been trying to recall some lines that were written upon him by a great man, and a kindred spirit : — The great, the good, The well-beloved, the fortunate, the wise, — These titles emperors and chiefs have borne. Honour assumed or given : and him, the " Wonderful," Our simple shepherds, speaking from the heart, Deservedly have styled. — From his abode In a dependent chapelry, that lies Behind yon hill, a poor and rugged wild, Which in his soul he lovingly embraced, — And, having once espoused, would never quit : Hither, ere long, that lowly, great, good man Will be conveyed. An unelaborate stone May cover him ; and, by its help, perchance, A century shall hear his name pronounced. With images attendant on the sound ; Then shall the slowly gathering twilight close In utter night ; and of his course remain No cognizable vestiges, no more Than of this breath, which frames itself in words To speak of him, and instantly dissolves. " Gowden words !" said Adam ; " gowden words about a noble man ! Well, well, perhaps his name will be clean for- gotten some day ; bat the good he did will not be lost for all that. The fruit that ripens on the tree may forget the sun that has helped to ri]ien it : but the ripeness is there, after all. . . . But Robert Walker will be lang remem- bered i Seathut. — Ye see our dales-people are simple, thrifty folk. They're hardy, an' they're hearty. They spend their lives, fra year to year, tentin' sheep upo' th' fells, or farmin' down i' ih' vale ; an' they see varra little o' t' world outside o' their own hills, except what they see at a country cattle fair now an' then. Ye'll hardly ever find owt like downreet stint amang 'em ; for they work hard, an' they live in a plain homely way ; an', as a rule, they're of a savin' turn. But even amang simple-hearted shepherd folk, like them, Robert Walker's life was a fine example to all t' country side. Oh, it was like a lamp in a dark neet ! . . . Let me see. He was born at Under-Craig, i' Seathwaite, i' the year 1709. That would be when Queen Anne was upo' t' throne. He was't young'st 0' twelve ; an' as he was rather of a delicate frame, they agreed to mak a schoolmaster on him. . . • Now, ye knaw, that seems to me but a simple sort of a reason for makkin' a lad into a schoolmaster ; but it's not uncommon. Why, if a young man happens to lose an arm, or a leg, it's not an unusual thing to set him up as a school- master, just because he's unfit for owt else, an' not because he's ony particular brains for t' job." " 'J'hai's quite true," said the traveller. " I have often noticed that in choosing for the young what is to be the occupation of their future lives, — yes, even in cases where circumstances allow a free chance of choosing, — parents are often more influenced by some little consideration of private 126 TUFTS OF HEATHER : and immediate expediency than by any special natural capacity for the pursuit selected. Hence we have many blind guides in the world, who, misled themselves, mislead others, and waste their time ; hence we see, here and there, men limping and blundering through life in employments for which they are wholly unfit, or have no special love for — unless they happen to be men of a rare genius, and endowed with a rare strength of character which enables them to break away from the ill-fitting harness, and strike out in the direction to which their own natural gifts incline. History shows here and there an instance in which a man of remarkable natural endowment has forced his way up through the hard crust of untoward circumstance ; but the struggle is often very painful, and sometimes fatal. If all mankind could be thrown into a riddle, and men could be shaken out and selected, and each set to the work he was best fitted for, how much happier each man would be, how much better for the world at large ! " " It's a hard thing for a lad to be tether't through life to a job that he cannot do well, — an' doesn't like," said Adam. " It's a cruel foolishness," said the traveller. " It's wrong both to the lad, and to everybody else. It robs and injures both ; and fills the world with miserable pretenders. I have seen poor musicians who ought to have been stonemasons ; wretched painters, who would have made good mechanics J and indifferent parsons, who would have been clever com- mercial men, and not bad fiddlers." "Ay," said Adam; "an' tayliors that should ha' bin soldiers." " Yes," replied the traveller ; " and soldiers that should JANNOCK. 127 have been tailors. And poets, too, — so called, — who would have been better at work making shavings in a joiner's shop, or weighing soap behind a grocer's counter. These, however, generally take up the trade of themselves ; and their first crude efforts at pithless rhyme are so bespattered by the praise of the ignorant, that, — if the poor fledgling happens to have more vanity than judgment, — the mistake of youth becomes the chronic misfortune of a lifetime." " Aye, aye," said Adam ; "an' they suffer for't." " They do, indeed," said the traveller ; " and they make everybody else suffer." " How comes it," said Adam ; " how comes it, thmk ye, that they get such encouragement ? " " Encouragement !" replied the traveller. "As a rule the best of them, who are foolish enough to depend on rhyming- ware for an existence, live poor, scrambling, trampled lives, and die in neglected corners." " Aye," said Adam ; " an' their works die before they are dead themselves." "For the most part they are still-born," replied the traveller. " There's a great many of 'em now-a-days," said Adam. "For one nightingale there are a thousand sparrows," replied the traveller. " Well, now," said Adam ; " don't ye think that even the chirp of a sparrow is worth something ? " " No doubt of it," replied the traveller. " Even the chirp of a sparrow must have some fitting place in the grand harmony which embraces all created things, — and is beyond the range of our mortal comprehension." 128 TUFTS OF HKAIIIF.R : "That's true, sir," said Adam thoughtfully; "that's quite true. . . . An', t' most o' folks would rather have their own sparrow than onybody else's nightingale." " Yes," replied the traveller ; " and it's a very natural mistake, with those who don't know the difference between the one and the other. . . . But, we're wandering away from the story of Robert Walker, my friend. Pray go on." " Yes, yes," replied Adam. " Well, — as I was saying, — when Robert Walker was a child, he was rather delicate, an' so his parents agreed to bring him up a scholar. An' i' this case, it turned out what yan may call a happy choice ; for, ye see, he was of a thowtful nature, an' all through life he was about as well-livin' a man as ever stepped shoe-leather ; an', if I've ony skill about such like things, I consider that the reight sort o' stuff to mak parsons on. . . . \\i:\\, now, when ye get to Seathwaite, ye must go by all means into t' chapel-garth ; an' there ye'll find his gravestone. It's a large blue slab, supported by two upright stones ; an' on it ye'll find these words : — ' In memory of the Rev. Robert Walker, who died on the 25th of June, 1802, in the 93rd year of his age, and 67 th year of his curacy at Seathwaite. Also of Ann, his wife, who died on the 28th of January, 1800, in the 93rd year of her age. Also Elizabeth Robinson, their eldest daughter, who died 3rd of February, 1829, aged 81 years.' Now, there's a great deal said on that gravestone, in a few words. I've read it scores o' times, just as if I'd never seen it afore. Ye see, there's fadder, mudder, an' dowter lyin' together i' yan grave ; an' their three ages come to two hundred an' sixty-seven years. . . . But, Robert Walker's way of life was the maist wonderful thing of all. ... Ye JANXOCK. 129 see, when Robert was a lilc lad, t" parson at Seathwaite kept school i' t' chapel, an' Robert went there, to lam to read an' write, amang other fell-side lads, little dreamin' at that time, mebbe (may be), that he would have to preach, an' teach school, i' the varra same place, afterwards, for sixty-seven years of his life-time. AVell, — at after he had larnt to read an' write, he went away, ower t' hills, to be schoolmaster at I.ovves-watter; and whilst he was there, teachin' readin', writin', an' arithmetic, to t' lads an' lasses o' Lowes-watter, he went to schoo' hissen, at neets, an' at bye-times, to Mr. Forest, who was the curate o' Lowes-watter. AVell, I believe t' curate took to Robert Walker fearfully ; an' he spare't no pains to get him on ; for he saw that he was made o' good stuff. An' they studied varra sair togidder ; till, at last, between the two, Robert was qualified to take holy orders ; an' it ended in him being ordain't as a parson, — which was the varra thing he'd set his heart on. Well,— it fell out that two curacies happen't to be vacant at that time ; an', — like as if it must be, — Robert was the varra man waitin' for t' job. Yan was at Torver i' Coniston Vale, an' tother was at Seathwaite, where Robert was born, — the varra chapel where he'd gone to school when he was a hie lad, sixteen year afore. Well, — ye may guess for yersen, — it was nobbut thin pikein', noather at t' yan place nor tudder, for Seathwaite was just worth five pound a year, with a lile bit of a cottage for t' parson ; an' Torver was worth five pound a year, without ony niak of a place for t' parson to put his ycd intuU, — so, there was nae fat to be had noather way. But, ye see, Robert had always a warm side to his native place ; beside, mind ye, he had some thowts o' gettin' wed, an' 17 130 'ITFTS OF IIK.VniER : that made him think about t' cottage, ye knaiv. \\ kH, — t' end on it was that he took SeathiU, — which was varra natural. An' then he got wed to a canny, decent sarvant lass, i' Seathut, that had about forty pound i' t' bank ; an' a lang and a happy life they hed together, them two. Robert would be about six-an'-twenty when he entered on his lile bit of a parsonage, at Seathut Chapel, an' his wife would be about twenty eight ; an' t' place where they began life together, they never left it again till he died. His wife died first, at ninety-three years of age ; an' he died about two j'ears after, at ninety-three years of age. They're laid together, now, i' Seathut chapel-garth ; which is within a few yards of their awn door. During his lifetime he had mony offers o' better places, where mair money was to be made; but he was a man of simple miiiil, an' nothing could tempt him fra his little chapel at Scatlmt, an' his country way o' life, amang his old neighbours i' Duddon Vale. . . . Well, now, ye'U naturally wonder how he managed to mak ends meet, an' bring up a large family in comfort an' decency, an' save two thousan' pounds out o' such scanty means, — an' well ye may. I've bin browt up in a plain way mysen' ; an' I've sin mony folk that were force't to mak a little go a lang way. But Robert Walker's life was a marvel. There never was a man that made better use of a poor pasiur'. There never was a man that did sae much good out o' such poor means ; for he was nae niggard, mind ye; he was a generous man, an' he lived well, too, in his simple way. Dainties an' finery were out of his line altogether; he couldn't afford 'em ; an' if they'd bin within his reach, he cared nowt for 'em. Of course, he had sair scrattin' for a lang time ; for though the income o' Seathut JAXNOCK. 131 Chapel did rise at last to about seventeen pounds, all told, it was nobbut a fleabite ; an' he hed to niak out \vi' a lock o' odds an 'ends— teachin' school, writin' letters an' agree- ments, hay-makin, sheep-shearin,' gardenin', — owt that he could raak an honest penny by. But, for yan thing, he was blest with as good a wife as ever man had. They'd a hard tug, but they were content amang it ; an' they both pulled yan way, an' that's a great matter. They lived good lives ; they spared nae pains ; an' they waisted nae time. Eight hours a day, for five days i' t' week, an' four hours on a Saturday, he kept school i' t' little chapel — for there was nae school-house. Whilst he was teachin', he used to sit inside t' altar-rails, with the communion-table for his desk, an' a spinnin'-wheel by his side, — for he span whilst he taught. . . , I think I can see him sittin' there now, with his fine, lang face, an' his grey hair ; drest in a rough blue frock, wi' great horn buttons on it ; a check lin shirt, wi' a leather strap round his neck for a stock ; a coarse apron ; knee- breeches o' rough blue cloth ; thick ribbed stockin's ; an' a heavy pair o' wooden clogs, plated wi' iron. That was his common week-day wear. But Robert ^^'alker's wark wasn't done when t' school-hours were over. Till t' time came for evening prayer afore they went to bed, every hand was at work in his little cottage, an' he was the busiest o' them all, — cardin', an' spinnin' flax an' wool ; or makin' rush-dips ; or dressin' hides ; knittin'. readin', writin', mendin' clothes, or makin' shoes, — an' he sat there, workin' among 'em, an' guidin' 'em a', with a kind word here, an' a kind word there, — for he was a varra gentle man. An' I've often heard 'em say that he was quite a dab at a bit o' tailorin' ; or shoemakin'. 132 TUFTS OF heather: Such things as these he could turn liis hand to when there was newt else to call him off. But he worked hard with his pen, too, at makin' wills, an' drawin' up deeds, an' agree- ments, an' writin' letters, an' sic like, for t' farmers, an' fell- side folk, round about ; particular about Christmas an' Candlemas, when he had sae much wark o' that kind to do that he was sometimes force't to sit at his desk all neet through, — an mind ye, it never made nae difference to what he had to do t' next day. . . . He had a garden, too ; an' he always kept it i' good trim, with his own hand. An' then, he kept a few sheep, an' a couple o' cows ; and these needed attendin' to day by da)'. Beside this, he rented three acres 0' lond ; an' he had about three-quarters of an acre o' glebe lond, an' this he farmed his-scn, without ony help out of his own fixmily. He fed an' looked after his own cattle ; he cleaned his own byre ; he weshed an' shore his own sheep; an' there was nae kind o' wark about his bit o' lond that was too hard or too humble for him. He looked after it his-sen, an' he took a pride in it. T' parson's lond was about as weel done to as ony i' Duddon Vale. . . . But I hav'nt quite done yet. . . . When t' time o' year cam round, he used to help his neighbours wi' their hay-makin,' an' their sheep-shearin' ; an' mind ye he was reckon't yan o' t' deftest bonds at sheep-shearin' in all our country-side. T' farmers didn't pay him for his wark i' money. They all gev him a cleease o' wool, an' a sheet o' hay a-piece, yance a year. T' hay was to be as mich as he could carry away fra t' field in a blanket. T' wool was carded an' spun at his own house for sale ; an' when it was ready, he'd tak thirty or forty pound on't on his back, an' JANXOCK. 133 trudge away wi' 't seven or eight miles to market. . . I sometimes think it"d mak a good picter o' owd times to see t' parson muckin' his byre out, or trampin' down Uuddon Vale to market, wi' his wool on his back. We see nowt o that mak now-a-days. . . . Now, tea was a thing that he never used — neither him nor his wife. They'd bin browt up o' oatmeal porridge an' milk, an' they stuck to t' owd diet to the last, though, toward t' latter end o' their time, when tea was gettin' common, they kept it i' t' house for t' use o' visitors. Their only firin' was peat, an' dried heather, an' sic like. T' peat he gat out o' mosses his-sen, an' he stacked it his-sen ; an' he made his own candles out o' rush- pith an' mutton-fat. For flesh-meat they killed ane o' their own sheep now an' then ; an' about t' back end o' t' year they generally killed a cow , an' salted it, an' dried it for winter use. It was a common practice for them to boil all the week's meat at yance, on a Sunday, so that they could give a mess o' broth a-piece to ony o' t' congregation that cam fra a lang distance ; an' then they had the meat cold through the week. The family's clothes were mostly made up amang theirsens, out o' stuff o' their own spinnin' ; an' they were always comfortably clad, in a simple, homely way. An' this was how he lived an' wrought, for the sixty-seven year that he was our parson at Seathut Chapel. An' out o' this he browt up a large family, i' decency and respectability ; an' he trained 'em up carefully i' good ways. He was a man that never would owe any- thing. He paid everybody their own ; he was good to the poor, an' the sick ; an' he left two thousand pounds when he died. . . . Ay, I often think of Robert Walker. 134 TUFTS OF HEATHER . . . . I remember him well. . . . He was a tliowtfiil man ; but whatever happened, he was never crabbed nor sour. In his quiet way, he was always of a cheerful turn ; and yet, there was something about him that nae mortal man could tak liberties with. When he was i' t' chapel, on a Sunday, he looked like some grand owd patriarch, with his noble face, an' his grey hair, an' his tall figure. He had a fine voice, too, — deep-toned, an' mellow, — though it began to tremble a bit after his wife died. I've heard my fadder say that he never listen't to t' parson after his voice began to fail, but it browt waiter to his een. Yc see, he was ninety-one when his wife died. I remember her funeral. She was carried to her grave by three daughters, an' a grand-daughter. An' they tied a napkin to t' cofiin, an' t'aad man took tother end into his hand, an' so he followed t' corpse into t' church, — for, ye see, he w-as nearly blind ; an' there wasn't mony dry een that day. After that, he began to fall away fast. He had to be led into t' sarvice ; an', sometimes, when he looked at t' seat where his wife used to sit, his voice began to tremble, an' tears ran down his cheek, whilst he was preachin'. He lived about two years after the death of his wife ; but he needed care, for he was hastenin' to his end. The night before he died, his daughter led him to t' door, as usual, to look at the sky, before he went to rest. Jle gazed quietly round for a minute or two, and the only words he said were, ' How clear the moon shines to-night ! ' They put him to bed ; an' t' next mornin', they found him cold an' still ; an' his face was as calm as t' face of a slcepin' child." JANNOCK. 135 " An' so died that fine old country parson," said the traveller. " Oh, that my last end may be like his ! "' "Ay," said Adam; "we may all say 'Amen' to that. . . . . He lies i' Seathwaite Chapel-garth, now ; but if ever man went to heaven, 1 think Robert Walker did." " Even so,'' rejilied the traveller; "for that man's life was the life of an angel upon earth : As .-iome tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread. Eternal sunshine settles on its head. * CHAPTER IX. They say there's but five upon this isle ; we are three of them ; if th' other two be brained like us, the state totters." THE TEMPEST. \ the meantime, news of the arrival at the King's Head of a strange traveller, who had eaten a whole goose to his dinner, — bones and all, — had filtered out into the little town, chiefly through the medium of Sally, the servant lass, with whom it lost nothing. In that sleepy country nook, where every man knew the number, and kind, and cost of the buttons upon his neigh- bour's coat, — and where the even tenor of life crept on the same, from day to day, through uneventful years, — even such an incident as this was a kind of god-send, which raised unwonted bubbles upon the stagnant pool. The 136 TUFTS OF HIiATHKR : news flew from mouth to mouth, witli a rapidity only found in places where life is so still that everybody seems to stand waiting to hear of something new. Little Broughton was in a great ferment that day. The butcher leaned upon the half-door of his shop talking to the baker ; the saddler slipt into the grocer's with the news ; and the villagers stood in twos and threes, in close conversation at the cottage-doors. The barber, — who was the two-legged newspaper of the town, — -was in his glory that day ; and he published edition after edition of the news, with amazing rapidity : and scarcely an hour had elapsed from the time of the fust issue, before the gastronomic feat originally attributed to our hero had swollen to alarming dimensions, by the addition of an apple pie, a pound of cheese, three pints of ale, and tw-o bottles of wine ; and, according to some accounts the meal was still going on, as everyone might see who liked to look in at the parlour window of the King's Head. Indeed, several village idlers, impelled by irresistible curiosity, had already begun to creep towards the front of the hotel, in the hope of catching a glimpse of our hero. The first intimation he had of the state of things outside was the noise made by a drunken fellow who came reeling up to the front of the house, shouting and tossing his arms wildly about, attended by a little circle of admiring tormentors. Floundering up to the front door, he cried out, " Where's t' man 'at's elten t' goose ? Turn him out ! I'll oather eight (eat) him or feight (fight) him for a thaasan' paand,^ brass daan ! What, we're not to be ower-face't wi' show- folk, are we ? Turn him out ! I'll have a penk at his piggin, if I ha' to pay for t' garthin' on't ! Here's a lile JANXOCK. 137 Browton lad 'at'll tackle him ony minute, — if he has a goose in him ! Turn him out ! I'll tvorry him, just as he Stan's, — goose an' all ! Turn him oat, I tell ye, — or I'll rive him out, bi' t' scuft o' t' neck ! " Here he was staggering in at the doorway, when he was stopt by the landlady, who pushed him back into the street. "Now, gan thi ways out," said she; "gan thi ways out, thou rackle fool ! I'll not ha' tho in here; so I've tell't to ! Away wi' tho, now, an' mak nae bodderment, or I'll fetch t' constable to tho, — thoo bledderin' ninny ! " "Ye'll fetch t' constable to mo, will ye? Well,— fetch him then, — an' bring a big un while ye're at it ! Ye'll fetch t' constable, eh? An' what'll he du, when he comes? Will he gobble mo up, think ye? Fetch him, — an' be sharp, — he'll find mo somewheer aboot his lug, when he londs ! Shaff; ye under-size't foo-mart ! If ye bring ony constables to me I'll mak smiddy-smudge on 'em ! What, — is there nae drinkin'-shops i' t' taan but yaars ? ' Marry, come up,' said Clincher ! ' Our dame's for gurdle-ceake an' tea ; Our Betty's aw for thick pez-keale ; Let ilk yen fancy what they will, An' my delight's i' guid Strang yell ! ' If ye've ony consate o' yersen, — turn out ! I'se here ! Elebben stun ten, — of a good sooart, — saand, wind an' limb ! Whoop, Dragon, mi darlin' . Wag thi left ear ! ■ We went ower to Davie Clay Daubin, An' faith a rare caper we had : We'd eatin', an' drinkin', an' dancin', An' roarin', an' singin' like mad ; We'd • 18 138 TUFTS OF HEATHER : Turn out, I say ! . . . I had fourteen raands wi' a monkey in a dust-hole, yance, — at White'aven ! Come up, — an' be rubbed ! ' \Va, John, what manishraent's tis, At tou's gawn to dee for a hizzy ! Aw hard o' this torrable fiss, An aw's cum ' It makes nae matter ; I'll hev a gill afore I goo, — or, I'll poo t' slate off ! " Some of the mischievous bystanders encouraged him ; and, first one, then another cried, " In wi' tho. Turn ! " And away he went reeling in at the doorway, where he was again stopped by the landlady. " Thoo cums nane in here ; so I've tell't to ! " '' I owe ye nowt, du eh ? " " Nae matter whether thoo does or not. Thoo's o' t' reet side for runnin', — an' thoo mun stop theer I It'd seem tho better to be at thi wark ! What arto tliinkin' on ? " "Think ! I'll think no more ! There's nowt in it ! Lot them think at's beheend i' their rent, — like ye ! I'll think no moore, I tell ye ! I wur thinkin' when I upset t' horse an' cart, at Buckman's Mo'. Let them think at' likes ; I'll ha noan ; it cums to nowt ! . . . Turn him out ! " The traveller heard all this through the open window ; and he rose from his scat to look out. " Bless thes. Bottom ! bless thee ! thou art translated ! " said he, gazing steadily at the boisterous reveller outside ; and, turning to the landlord as he took his seat again, he said, " That's a fearful wildfowl, my friend ! Do you know him ? " "Know him?" replied Adam. "Aye, aye; wc know him JANNOCK. 139 well enough. He's a neighbour lad. Poor fellow ; he's had bad luck at top end." " How do you mean ? " "Well, — his cock-loft's in a scrowe." " What's that ? " "Well, — to tell ye truth, he's not quite all there." " Oh, — I see. Poor fellow ! " " Yes," said Adam ; " yen cannot blame the lad for natural misfortin. He's a bit boddersome, now an' then, poor lad, when he gets drink, — but he's nae harm in him. I blame folk for givin' him drink ; it sets him wrang directly. . . . Tak nae notice. Our mistress knows how to manage him better than we. Ye see, I've langish legs, but I've nobbut a short temper, — and that doesn't do. Tak nae notice ; Matty'll get him off." " What's his name ? " "Well, — he's mair names than one, — Tommy Dickson, Red Tom, Flitter — an' yan or two forby. - . . He'll be off soon, now. It generally taks him about a quarter of an hour to finish, — if naebody meddles on him." Meanwhile Red Tom was still raving in front of the house, with a knot of village idlers about him. " Ware hawk ! " cried he. " I wur born at t' chime hours 1 I can tell fortin' ! Bring a pot, — wi' some'at in it ! Bowd Slasher is my name ! Ware hawk ! I live by suction ! Deuce tak the clock, click-clackin' sae, Still in a body's ear. It tells—- " What's to do wi' thi nose, Tommy ? " I40 TUFTS OF HEATHER : " Go look ; barn owl ! " replied Tommy. And away he went staggering down the street, followed by the village rabble, and singing, — Aa ! Nichols now laid in his grave, Bi t' side of his fadder and mudder ; The warl not frae deoth could yen save, Wc a' gang off, — teane after tother. During the time Red Tom was raving in front of the house, an old haymaker, overdone with drink, sat crooning drowsily, all alone, in the taproom, with his chin upon his breast. Hearing the din outside, he said to the servant lass,— " Who's that ? " "It's Red Tom," said she ; "he's drunk again." "Take him off!" said the old man; "take him ofl' an' send for a fiddler ! " " He's goin' now ! " said the lass, looking through the window. " Bring me another, then," replied the old man, handing the empty pot to her. After Red Tom had gone his way, the street quietened down to its usual stillness, except that a little whispering went on close by the window, where a few curious villagers had crept slyly up, to get a peep at the strange traveller. Every word was distinctly audible, both to our hero and to the landlord, as they sat talking together. Adam began to feel uncomfortable. " Hadn't I better shut the window?" said he. JAXXOCK. 141 "No, no," replied the traveller; "leave it open, please. I like the fresh air." The whispering went on outside ; and Adam fidgeted upon his seat, whilst he tried to drown the sound by speaking in a louder tone. But the traveller's ears were bent on the talk outside, which amused him exceedingly, although he made no sign of his secret enjoyment. " He's not an ower-size't man, considerin' t' bugth (bigness) of his meals," said one. " He's not such a fat un, nawther," said another. " Nawe," replied the first ; " he looks as if he wur a' bone an' pax-wax. . . . But, there's a terrible nippin' machine somewheer i' that lad's inside, I'll awarnd ye." " He's a rare crop of his awn, hooiver," said the next. " He has that," continued the first. " It's my opinion that with a litde encouragement that man would turn out a glutton." " I'd give an odd shilhn' to see him feed," said another. "Why; does he do it for brass, think ye?" " I'll awarnd he does. There'll be a cally van here in a bit." "What girth will he be raaand t' chest, think ye?" " Oh — mair than ye'd think, now." "I wonder where he's bin browt up." "Somewhere, I awarnd ye, where there s nae stint. He's nae mountain-grazer, that yan." "No, no; not he. A thin pastur would be nae use to a crayter like that." 142 TUFIS OF HEATHER : " I'll tell ye what, lads ; he'd be a terrible piece o' furni- ture in a poor man's house." " Ay, ay, by th' mass ! Talk about keepin' t' wolf frae t' door. Somebody would ha' to dee i' that hole ! " " I wonder if he has ony childer." " I hope not A generation o' that mak would never do for this country." " Well, well — I care nowt who he is, nor where he comes fra ; but, this I will say, he's getten one inside passenger this time, drive where he will. "Thoo means t' goose?'' "Ay, the goose and trimmin's; for I understan' that he put. as mich stuff out o' seet as would fill a hamper, after he'd finished t' brid. T barber has a list on't, an' he says it's as mich as man could poo in a hond-cart, — an' a' dainties, too." " Well, I've bin i' t' carryin' line a good while, mysen, but I never had mich traffic o' that mak." "Nor me nawther; mine's bin chiefly poddish an' peas- kale, an' blue milk cheese, an' sic like ; an' noo an' then I've starken't my kite wi' bacon an' cabbish, an' lythey yel, at a kirn supper, or on a haliday." "Ay, ay; that's aboot my kitchen, too, Joe, lad. . . . Here, tak thi nose oot o' l' leet, an' let's have another peep at hira afore I goo. . . . Well, he's not a faal-lookin' chap ; but I'se be fain when he's gone ; I've a wife an' nine childer at heam." " I wish he'd dee," said Joe. "Oh, give him time, his turn's comin'," replied the other. And then they trickled away from the window. JANNOCK. 143 Adam felt relieved when the whisperers outside had gone away. The traveller, however, had been greatly amused ; for he knew right well that he was the theme of their talk, and he knew why. But now there came a lull, and his thoughts began to revert to the journey before him. He looked at his watch. The day had crept on. "Well, now, my good friend, said he, "another half-hour or so, if you can spare the lime, and then I must take the road." " I can assure ye, sir," said Adam, "I've had great pleasure in your company ; an' I shall be glad to have another half- hour on't ; but, if ye are for goin' into Langdale this after- noon, it wouldn't be wise to linger here mich langer. If ye start in about half-an-hour, ye'll hev six hours good dayleet — an' ye'll do it comfortably — that is, if ye don't stop too lang upo' t' road." '• Oh, no fear," said the traveller. " Ye've the pleasantest part o' the day afore ye," con- tinued Adam ; " an't' country '11 look fine as evening comes on." " Yes," replied the traveller. " Twilight travelling is very beautiful at this time of the year, in a country like this." " Ah, sir," said Adam, " I've had more pleasure sauntering alone by Duddon side, when dusk was stealing ower the vale, than mortal man can utter ! " "Ah, my friend," said the traveller, "it is only the beautiful mind that sees the beautiful . . . And, no«-, for a farewell bottle ! " said he, rising to ring the bell. " Excuse me, sir,'' said Adam, laying his hand upon the traveller's arm, "the stirrup-cup must be mine this day! TUFTS OF HEATHER : It's an old custom. I'm spcakin' freely, as if ye was an old friend ; an' I hope yc'll tak it kindly." The traveller looked at Adam, and saw that he meant it. " Then, so let it be," replied ho. CHAPTER X. Good master mine, good mistress, pray Let me in quiet go my way, And wander. GERMAN SONG. HE traveller and his host sat down to their farewell bottle like old friends who had been happily associated all their lives. By some fine instinct ease and confidence had sprung up with wonderful rapidity during their short acquaintance ; and now they began to feel quite at home with one another. And yet with all Adam's liking for his guest, the remembrance of the extra- ordinary meal he had eaten still hovered about his mind, and puzzled him exceedingly. There was so much quiet dignity mingled with the genial bearing of the strange traveller, — there was so much unobtrusive refinement about him, — and there was such an utter absence in his manner and appearance of anything like the coarseness, or the lethargy, usually associated with gluttony, that Adam could not help still secretly wondering what manner of man this mysterious wanderer could be. JANNOCK. 145 The traveller saw it all in the frank looks and ill-concealed bewilderment of his host ; and, with a keen relish for the humour of the thing, he made up his mind to play out the play. " Come," said Adam ; " here's your good health, sir ! an' good luck t'ye, wherever ye may go !" The traveller lifted his glass. " Here's to our ne.\t meeting !" said he ; " and I hope it is not far off, — if God spares our lives '" " So mote it be !" replied Adam. " I can assure ye, sir, that It's a great pleasure to meet with a man of good capacity, in a country nook like this." There was a sly ring of sarcastic wit in the words, which made the traveller's eyes twinkle with glee. Adam was still thinking of the stranger's noontide feat, and he gave a physiological turn to the conversation, — ■ which our hero quietly encouraged. "Now, I hope ye'll not think me too personal," said Adam; "but, judging from appearances, — you ought to live a lang time.'' " I dare say you are right,- — so far as appearances go," replied the traveller. "Now," continued Adam; "a man of an open temper and a good disposition will live langer than a man of an evil, designin' turn o' mind." " And happier, too," said the traveller. "Ye see," continued Adam, "whatever happens, his mind's free, an' sweet, an' full of fresh air; an' he's not 19 146 TUFTS OF IlEATIIKR : hamper't neet and day with a nasty burden o' jugglin' anxieties that he cannot unload." " It's one of the greatest blessings in hfe," repUed the traveller. " It is indeed," continued Adam ; " it goes a lang way towards health of body, too. . . . Ay, with common care, ye ought to live a good while. . . . But don't ye think now that ye're rather inclined to a full habit of body ?" "Perhaps so." " Ay," said Adam, in a slow and thoughtful lone ; " ay ! . . . D'ye sleep well, now?'' "Well — yes." " Ay," said Adam ; " that's better. . . . Now, I sup- pose, ye've no particular failin' spots i' yer inside ? "Well, I feel a kind of craving, sometimes." "Ay, I see. . . . Where does it take ye mosdy?" "About here," replied the traveller, laying his hand upon his stomach. "How oft d'ye feel it?" " Two or three times a day, generally." " Do ye use pills, now?" " Very seldom." " Ye tak nowt then ?" " Oh, yes, — at meal-times," " Ay, ay, — no doubt o' that," replied .\dam ; " ye'll want a bit o' some'at then, of course. ... I suppose oat- meal poddish is not mucli i' your line ?" "Not much." "I thowt sae. . . . Capital stuff, now, for regulatin' JANNOCK. 147 your machinery ! . . . Now, I'll tell ye what's a good thing for creatin' an appetite." Here the traveller could contain himself no longer. Bursting into laughter, he cried — " Oh ! my dear felloiv, if you had recommended some- thing to lessen the appetite I have, it would have been more to the point !"' Adam began to think he had carried the thing too far, and the conversation gradually drifted into general themes, till the half-hour had run out, and the traveller rose to go. " Now, my friend," said he, " the time is up ; and I must bid you farewell !" ''Well, now, good-bye to ye, sir !" said Adam ; "an' God bless ye ! We shall be right glad to see ye if ever ye come our way again !" " Good-bye ; an' God bless you !" replied he. " If ever I come within ten miles of Broughton, the distance shall not divide us !" The sun was still high in the heavens, and, as he went his way, with light step and renewed vigour, out at the town-end, the village folk looked after him from their cottage-doors, and cried, " That's him ! — an' a canny-like chap, too, he is I" And long after he had gone away the strange man who ate the goose at the "King's Head" was the theme of many a fireside tale in little Broughton town. Three years had glided after the stranger's visit to Broughton, and again the summer sunshine filled the air 148 TUFTS OF HEATHER : with golden glow. The woodland leaves were large and long, and orchard boughs w-ere bending with fruit. The wild flower gladdened the dusty wayside once more with its simple beauty ; and the wayworn traveller's weary step was cheered by the song of birds and the scent of the hayfield. The green earth was gay with new flowers, and every living thing rejoiced in the general joy of nature. It was in this sweet season of the year that our hero once more wandered afoot through pleasant Furness, towards the romantic lakes and mountains of northern England. The chirrupy glee of haymakers in the fields fell pleasantly upon his ear as he walked in at the lowmost end of Broughton town, and up towards his old quarters at the " King's Head." He paused before entering the inn, and looked around. There was no visible change in the drowsy little town, and the old inn looked sleepy, sweet, and comfortable as before. With a lively remembrance of his former visit, he e itered the house, and walked into the parlour he had occupied three years ago. The window was open again ; the same sun was shining upon the same quiet street ; and all was the same. The three years' interval looked like a dream. He examined the furniture ; it was exactly the same, and in the same order ; and the table looked as if he had only just finished the dinner he had eaten three years before, and the cloth had been removed whilst he had taken a nap. He almost imagined that the room smelt of the same goose still. He rang the bell, and in came the same servant lass, — the same "Sally,"- — though more stout and womanly in appearance. " Can I have some dinner ?" said he. JANXOCK. 149 She paused,— she stared,— she blushed, and stood stock s''"- • • • "Dinner," said she; "I'll see, sir." And, closing the door, she ran back into the kitchen. There was nobody in the kitchen but the landlady. " He's here again !" cried Sally. "Who's here again?" " T' man that eat t' goose 1" " Thou never says !" " He's yonder !" The landlord was in the cellar. The landlady shouted down to him. "Adam !" " Well :" " He's here again I" " Who's here again ?" " T' goose chap !" "I'm comin' !" Adam came running up the cellar steps. "Wliere is he?" said he, rolling down his shirt-sleeves. " He's i' t' parlour," "Are you sure it's t' same man?" "It's the same 'at eat t' goose," said Sally; "an' he wants another." "The divul he does," said Adam. "Well, he shall have as much as he can eat, if we have to rob a shop for't ! . . . Here, gi' mo mi coat. I'll go an' speak tull him." The traveller advanced to meet Adam, as he came stalking in. " Well, my old friend," said he, grasping his hand ; " I'm here again, you see ! And how are you ?" 150 TUFTS OF HEATHER : "Well, I'm right glad to see ye, sir," said Adam. "I've often wondered whether I should ever have the pleasure of meetin' wi' ye again. I'm downright fain to see ye. . . . But, stop now. Afore we go any farther. We can talk after. About dinner. We haven't a goose for ye this time ; but "' " Stop, my friend," said the traveller ; " my appetite has fallen away since I was here last." "Ay," said Adam. How's that?" "Take a seat, and I'll tell you." .\nd when our hero had explained the truth of the matter, and how the gipsy woman had carried away the remains of the goose, Adam sprang to his feet, and, grasping his hand, he cried, " I wouldn't ha' missed this for a thousan' pound ! Bi t' mass ; ye've takken a load off my mind." And the two were good friend.s to the last. But, in spite of the traveller's confession, the people of Broughton still prefer the story of the man that ate the goose, — in its original form. ttJi' f>mt\ (!)njan. CAME out at Haslingden town-end witli my old acquaintance, " Rondle o'th Nab," better known by the name of "Sceawter," a moor-end farmer and cattle dealer. He was telling ine a story about a cat that squinted, and grew very fat because — to use his own words — it ''catched two mice at one go." When he had finished the tale, he stopped suddenly in the middle of the road, and looking round at the hills, he said, " Nea then, I 'se be like to lev yo here. I mun turn off to 'Dick o' Rough-cap's' up Musbury Road. I want to bargain about yon heifer. He's a very fair chap, is Dick, — for a cow- jobber. But yo may as weel go up wi' me, an' then go forrud to our house. We'n some singers comin' to-neet." " Nay," said I, " I think I'll tak up through Horncliffe, an' by th' moor-gate, to t' 'Top o' Ih' Hoof.'" "Well, then," replied he, "yo mun strike off at th' lift hond, about a mile fur on ; an' then up th' hill side, an' through th' delph. Fro theer yo mun get upo' th' owd road as weel as yo con; an' when yo'n getten it, keep it. So 152 TUnS OF HKATHKR : good day, an' tak care o' yorsel'. Barfoot folk should never walk upo' prickles." He then turned, and walked off. Before he had gone twenty yards he shouted bark, " Hey ! I say ! Dunnot forget th' cat." It was a fine autumn day ; clear and cool. Dead leaves were whirling about the road-side. I toiled slowly up the hill to the famous Horncliffe Quarries, where the sounds of picks, chisels, and gavelocks, used by the workmen, rose strangely clear amidst the surrounding stillness. From the quarries I got up, by an old pack-horse road to a command- ing elevation at the top of the moors. Here I sat down on a rude block of mossy stone, upon a bleak point of the hills, overlooking one of the most picturesque parts of the Irwell valley. The country around me was part of the wild tract still known by its ancient name of the Forest of Rossendale. Lodges of water and beautiful reaches of the winding river gleamed in the evening sun, among green holms and patches of woodland, far down the vale ; and mills, mansions, farm- steads, churches, and busy hamlets succeeded each other as far as the eye could see. The moorland tops and slopes were all purpled with fading heather, save here and there, where a well-defined tract of green showed that cultivation had worked up a little plot of the wilderness into pasture land. About eight miles south a gray cloud hung over the town of Bury, and, nearer, a flying trail of white steam marked the rush of a railway train along the valley. From a lofty perch of the hills, on the north-west, the sounds of Hasling- den church bells came sweetly upon the ear, swayed to and fro by the unsettled wind, now soft and low, borne avi-ay by the breeze, now full and clear, sweeping by me in a great th' barrel organ. 153 gush of melody, and dying out upon the moorland wilds behind. Up from the valley came drowsy sounds that tell the wane of day, and please the ear of evening as she draws her curtains over the world. A woman's voice floated up fiom the pastures of an old farm-house, below where I sat, calling the cattle home. The barking of dogs sounded clear in different parts of the vale, and about scattered hamlets, on the hill sides. I could hear the far-off prattle of a company of girls, mingled with the lazy joltings of a cart, the occasional crack of a whip, and the surly call of a driver to his horses, upon the high road, half a mile below me. From a wooded slope, on the opposite side of the valley, the crack of a gun came, waking the echoes for a minute ; and then all seemed to sink into a deeper stillness than before, and the dreamy surge of sound broke softer and softer upon the shores of evening, as daylight sobered down. High above the green valley, on both sides, the moorlands stretched away in billowy wildernesses — dark, bleak, and almost soundless, save where the wind harped his wild anthem upon the heathery waste, and where roaring streams filled the lonely doughs with drowsy uproar. It was a striking scene, and it was an impressive hour. The bold, round, flat-topped height of Musbury Tor stood gloomily proud, on the opposite side, girdled off from the rest of the hills by a green vale. The lofty outlines of Aviside and Holcombe were glow'ing with the gorgeous hues of a cloudless October sunset. Along those wild ridges the soldiers of ancient Rome marched from Man- chester to Preston, when boars and wolves ranged the woods and thickets of the Irwell valley. The stream is now lined 154 TUFTS OF HEATHER : all the way with busy populations, and evidences of great wealth and enterprise. But the spot from which I looked down upon it was still naturally wild. The hand of man had left no mark there, except the grassgrown pack horse road. There was no sound nor sign of life immediately around me. The wind was cold, and daylight was dying down. It was getting too near dark to go by the moor tops, so I made off towards a cottage in the next clough, where an old quarry man lived, called " Jone o'Twilters." The pack-horse road led by the place. Once there I knew that I could spend a pleasant hour with the old folk, and, after that, be directed by a short cut down to the great highway in the valley, from whence an hour's walk would 1 ring me near home. I found the place easily, for I had been there in summer. It was a substantial stone-built cottage, or little fTrm-house, with mullioned windows. A stone-seated porch, whitewashed inside, shaded the entrance ; and there was a little barn and a shippon, or cow-house attached. By the by, that word "shippon," must have been originally "sheep-pen." The house nestled deep in the clough, upon a shelf of green land, near the moorland stream. On a rude ornamental stone, above the threshold of the porch, the date of the building was quaintly carved, "1696," with the initials, "J. S.," and then, a little lower down, and partly betw^een these, the letter " P.," as if intended for "John and Sarah Pilkington." On the lower slope of the hill, immediately in front of the house, there was a kind of kitchen garden, well stocked, and in very fair order. Above the garden, the wild moorland rose steeply up, marked with wandering TH BARREL ORGAN. 155 sheep tracks. From the back of the house, a little flower garden sloped away to the edge of a rocky bank. The moorland stream ran wildly along its narrow channel, a few yards below ; and, viewed from the garden wall at the edge of the bank, it was a weird bit of stream scenery. The water rushed and roared here ; there it played a thousand pranks ; and there, again, it was full of graceful eddies ; gliding away at last over the smooth lip of a worn rock, a few yards lower down. A kind of green gloom pervaded the watery chasm, caused by the thick shade of trees over- spreading from the opposite bank. It was a spot that a ])ainter might have chosen for "The Kelpie's Home." The cottage door was open, and I guessed by the silence inside that old " Jone " had not reached home. His wife, Nanny, was a hale and cheerful woman, with a fastidious love of cleanliness and order, and quietness too, for she was more than seventy years of age. I found her knitting, and slowly swaying her portly form to and fro in a shiny old-fashioned chair by the fireside. The carved oak clock- case in the corner was as bright as a mirror; and the slow and solemn ticking of the ancient time-marker was the loudest sound in the house. But the softened roar of the stream outside filled all the place, steeping the senses in a drowsy spell. At the end of a long table under the front window sat Nanny's grand-daughter, a rosy, round-faced lass, about twelve years old. She was turning over the pictures in a well-thumbed copy of "Culpepper's Herbal." She smiled, and shut the book, but seemed unable to speak, as if the poppied enchantment that wrapt the spot had subdued her young spirit to a silence which she could not break. I 156 TUITS OF HEATHER : do not wonder that old superstitions linger in such nooks as that. Life there is like bathing in dreams. But I saw that they had heard me coming ; and when I stopped in the doorway, the old woman broke the charm by saying, " Nay sure ! What ? ban yo getten thus far ? Come in, pray yo." "Well, Nanny,'' said I, " where's th' owd chap?" "Eh," replied the old woman, "it's noan time for him yet. But I see," continued she, looking up at the clock, " it's gettin' further on than I thought. He'll be here in abeawt three-quarters of an hour — that is, if he doesn't co', an' I hope he'll not, to-neet. I'll put th' kettle on. Jenny, my lass, bring him a tot o' ale." I sat down by the side of a small round table, with a thick plane tree top, scoured as white as a clean shirt; and Jenny brought me an old-fashioned blue-and-white mug, full of home-brewed. "Toast a bit o' hard brade,'' said Nanny, "an' put it into 't." I dill so. The old woman put the kettle on, and scaled the fire ; and then, settling herself in her chair again, she began to re-arrange her knitting-needles. Seeing that I liked my sops, she said, " Reiich some moor cake-brade. Jenny '11 toast it for yo." I thanked her, and reached down another piece, which Jenny held to the fire on a fork. And then we were silent for a minute or so. "I'll tell what," said Nanny, "some folk's o'th luck i'th world.'' Th' BARREL ORGAN. 157 "What's up, now, Nanny?" replied I. "They say'n that Owd Bill at Fo" Edge, has had a dowter wed, an' a cow cauve't, an" a mare foalt o' i' one day. Dun yo co' that nought ? ' Before I could reply, the sound of approaching footsteps came upon our ears. Then, they stopt, a few yards off; and a clear voice trolled out a snatch of country song :— Owd shoon an' stockins. An' slippers at's made o' red leather : Come, Betty, wi' me, Let's shap to agree, An' hutch of a cowd neet together. Mash-tubs and barrels ! A mon connot alays be sober ! A mon connot sing To a bonnier thing Than a pitcher o' stingin' October : "Jenny, my lass," saiJ the old woman, "see who it is. It's oather 'Skedlock' or 'Nathan o' Danglers.'" Jenny peeped through the window, an' said, " It's Sked- lock. He's lookin' at th' turmits i'th garden. Little Joseph's wi' him. They're comin' in. Joseph's new clogs on." Skedlock came shouldering slowly forward into the cot- tage—a tall, strong, bright-eyed man of fifty. His long, massive features were embrowned by habitual exposure to the weather, and he wore the mud-stained fustian dress of a quarryman. He was followed by a healthy lad, about twelve years of age— a kind of pocket-copy of himself They were as like one another as a new shilling and an old crown piece. The lad's dress was of the same kind as his 158 TUFTS OF heather: father's, and he seemed to have studiously acquired the same cart-horse gait, as if his limbs were as big and as stark as his father's. " Well, Skedlock," said Nanny, " thae's getten Joseph witho, I see. Does he go to schoo yet ? " '' Nay ; he reckons to worch i'th delph wi' me, neaw." "Nay, sure. Does he get ony wage?" " Nawe," replied Skedlock; '"he's drawn his wage wi' his teeth, so fur. But he's larnin', yo known — he's larnin'. Where's yo'r Jone ? I want to see him abeawt some plants." "Well," said Nanny, "sit tho down a minute. Hasto no news ? Thae'rt seldom short of a crack." " Nay," said Skedlock, scratching his rusty pate, " aw don't know 'at aw've aught fresh." But when he had looked into the fire for a minute or so, his brown face lighted up with a smile, and drawing a chair, he said, " Howd, Nanny ; han yo yerd what a do they had at th' owd chapel yester- day?" " Nawe." " Eh, dear I . . . Well, yo known, they'n had a deal o' bother about music up at that chapel, this year or two back. Yo'n bin a singer yo'rsel, Nanny, i' yo'r young days — never a better." "Eh, Skedlock," said Nanny; "aw us't to think I could ha' done a bit forty year sin — an' I could, too — though I say it mysel. I remember gooin' to a oratory once, at Bury. Deborah Travis wur theer, fro Shay. Eh ! when aw yerd her sing ' Let the Bright Seraphim,' aw gav in. Isherwood wur theer ; an' her at's Mrs. Wood neaw ; an' two or three fro Yorkshire ro.vil on. It wur th' grand'st sing 'at ever I TH FARREI. ORGAN. 1 59 wur at i' my life. . . . Eh, I's never forget tlv practice- neets 'at we use't to have at Israel Grindrod's ! Johnny Brello wur one on 'em. He's bin deead a good while. . . . That's wheer I let of our Sam. He sang bass at that time. . . . Poor Johnny ! He's bin deead aboon five-an-forty year, neaw." " Well, but Nanny," said Skedlock, laying his hand on the old woman's shoulder, "yo known what a hard job it is to keep th' bant i'th nick wi' a rook o' musicianers. They cap'n the world for bein' diversome an' bad to plez. Well, as I wur sayin' — they'n had a deeal o' trouble about music this year or two back, up at th' owd chapel. Th' singers fell out wi' th' players. They mostly dun do. An' th' players did everything they could to plague th' singers. They're so like. But yo may have a like aim, Nanny, what mak' o' harmony they'd get out o' sich wark as that. An' then, when Joss o' Piper's geet his wage raise't — five shillin' a year — Dick o' Liddy's said he'd ha' moor too, or else he'd sing no moor at that shop. He're noan beawn to be snape't bi a tootlin' whipper-snapper like Joss^a bit of a bow- iegged whelp, twenty year yunger nor his sel. Then there wur a crack coom i' Billy Tootle bassoon; an' Billy stuck to't that some o'th lot had done it for spite. An' there were sich fratchin' an' cabals among 'em as never wur known. An' they natter't, an' brawlt, an' played one another o' maks o' ill-con trive't tricks. Well, yo' may guess, Nanny " One Sunday mornin', just afore th' sarvice began, some o'th' singers slipt a pepper-box, an' a hawp'oth o' grey peighs, an' two young rattons, into old Thwittler double-bass ; an' as soon as he began a-playin', th' ttle things squeak't an' l6o TIT-TS OF ttf.athkr: sculter't about i'th inside, till they thrut o' out o' tunc. Th' singers couldn't get forrud for laughing'. One on Vm whisper't to Thwittler, an' axed him if his fiddle had getten th' bally-warche. But Thwittler never spoke a word. His senses wur leaving him veiy ftist. At last, he geet so freeten't, that he chuck't th' fiddle down, an' darted out o'th chapel, beawt hat ; an' off he ran whoam, in a cowd sweat, wi' his yure stickin' up like a cushion-full o' stockin'-needles. An' he bowted straight through th' heawse, an' reet up-stairs to bed, wi' his clooas on, beawt sayin' a word to chick or choilt. His wife watched him run through th' heawse ; but he darted fo; rad, an' took no notice o' nobody. ' What's up now,' thought Betty; an' hoo ran after him. When hoo geet up-stairs th' owd lad had getten croppen into bed ; an' he wur ill'd up, o'er th' yed. So Betty turned th' ciuilt deawn, an' hoo said, ' Whatevers to do witho, James?" ' Howd thi noise,' said Thwittler, ])Ooin' th' clooas o'er his yed again, ' howd thi noise ! I'll play no moor at yon shop '.' an' th' bed fair wackert again ; he're i' sich a fluster. ' Mun I make tho a saup o' gruel ? ' said Betty. ' Cruel be ! ' said Thwittler, poppin' his yed out o' th' blankets. ' Didio ever yer of onybody layin' the devil wi' meighl-porritch ? ' An' then he poo'd th' blanket o'er his yed again. ' Where's thi fiddle?' said Betty. But, as soon as Thwittler yerd th' fiddle name't, he gav a wild skrike, an' crope lower down into bed.' "Well, well,'' said the old woman, laughing, and laying her knitting down, " aw never yerd sich a tale i' my life." '• Stop, Nanny," said Skedlock, " yo'st yer it out, now." "Well, yo seen, this mak o' wark went on fro week to th' barrel orcax. i6i week, till everybody geet weary on it ; an' at last, th' chapel- wardens summon't a meetin' to see if they couldn't raise a bit o' daycent music, for Sundays, beawt o' this trouble. An' they talked back an" forrud about it a good while. Turn o'th Dingle recommended 'em to have a Jew's harp an' some triangles. But Bobby Nooker said, ' That's no church music ! Did onybody ever yer " Th' Owd Hundred" played on a triangle?' Well, at last they agreed that th' best way would be to have some sort of a barrel-organ — one o' thoose that they winden up at th' side, and then ti)ey play'n o' theirsel, beawt ony fingerin' or blowin'. So they order't one made, wi' some favour-ite tunes in — ' Burton,' and ' Liddy,' an' ' French,' an' ' Owd York,' an' sich like. Well, it seems that Robin o' Sceawter's, th' carrier — his feyther went by th' name o' " Cowd an' Hungry;' he're a quarry- man by trade; a long, hard, brown-looking felley, wi' een like gig-lamps, an' yiire as strung as a horse's mane. He looked as if he'd bin made out o' owd dur-latches an' reawsty nails. Robin, th' carrier, is his owdest lad ; an' he favvurs a chap at's bin brought up o' yirth-bobs an' scaplins. Well, it seems that Robin brought this box-organ up fro th' town in his cart o'th' Friday neet; an' as luck would have it, he had to bring a new weshin'-machine at th' same time for owd Isaac Buckley at th' Hollins Farm. When he geet th' organ in his cart, they towd him to be careful an' keep it th' reet side up ; an' he wur to mind an' not shake it mich, for it wur a thing that wur yezzy thrut eawt o' flunters. Well, I think Robin mun ha' bin fuddle't or summat that neet, but I dunnot know ; for he's s'ch a bowster-yed, mon. that aw'll be sunken if aw think he knows th' difference between l62 TUFTS OF HFATHKR : a weshin'-niachine an' a church organ, when he's at th' sharpest. But let that leet as it will. What dun yo think, but th' blunderin' foo — at after o' that had bin said to him — went an' 'liver't th' weshin'-machine at th' church, an' th organ at th' Hollins Farm." "Well, well," said Nanny, "thatwur a bonny come ofl", as heaw. But how wenten they on at after?" " Well, ni tell yo, Nanny," said Skedlock. " Th' owd clerk wur noan in when Robin geet to th' dur wi' his cart that neet, so his wife coom with a leet in her hond, an' said, 'Whatever haste getten for us this lime, Robert?' '\\'liy,' said Robin, ' it's some mak of a organ. Where win yo ha't put, Betty?' 'Eh, I'm fain thae's brought it,' said Betty. 'It's for th' chapel, an' it '11 be wanted for Sunday. Sitho, set it deawn i' this front reawm here, an' mind what thae'rt doin' with it.' So Robin, an' Barfoot Sam, an' Little Wamble, 'at looks after th' horses at Th' Rompin' Kidin, geet it eawt o'th cart. When they geet how'd on't, Robin said, ' Neaw lads ; afore yo starten; mind what yo'r doin'; an' be as ginger as yo con. That's a thing 'at's soon thrut eawt o' gear— it's a organ.' So they hove, an' poo'd, an' grunted, an' thrutch't, till they geet it set down i'th' parlour ; an' they pretended to be quite knocked up wi' th' job. ' Betty,' said Robin, wipin his face wi' his sleeve, ' it's bin dry weather latly.' So th' owd lass took th' hint, an' fotched 'em a quart O' ale. While they stood i'th middle o'th floor suppin' their ale, Betty took th' candle an' went a-lookin' at this organ ; an' hoc couldn't tell whatever to make on it. . . . Did'n yo ever see a weshin'-machine, Nanny ? ' "Never i' my life," said Nanny. "Nor aw dunnot want. th' barrel organ. 163 Gi me a greiglu mug, an' some breawn swoap, an' [)lenty o' soft wayter, an' yo may tak yo'r machines for me.'' " Well," continued Skedlock, "it's moor liker a grindle- stone nor a organ. But, as I were tellin yo — "Betty stare't at this thing, an' hoo walked round it, an' scrat her yed, monya time, afore hooventur't to speak. At last hoo said, 'Aw' 11 tell tho what, Robert; it's a quare- shaped 'un. It favvurs a yung mangle ! Doesto think it '11 be reet }' ' Reel ?' said Robin, swipin' his ale ofT; ' oh, aye ; it's reet enough. It's one of a new pattern 'at's just com'd up. It's o' reet, Betty. You may see that bith hondle.' ' Well,' said Betty, ' if it's reet, it's reet. But it's noan sich a nice-lookin' thing for a church, that isn't !' Th' little lass wur i'th parlour at th' same time, an' hoo said, ' Yes. See yo, mother. I'm sure it's right. You must turn this here handle, an' then it '11 play. I seed a man playin' one yester- day, an' he had a monkey with him dressed like a soldier.' ' Keep thy little rootin' fingers off that organ,' said Betty. ' Theaw knows nought about music. That organ musn't be touched till thi father comes whoam— mind that, neaw. . . . But, sartinly,' said Betty, takin' th' candle up again, 'I cannot help lookin' at this thing. It's sich a quare un. It looks like summat belongin' — maut-grindin, or summat o' that.' ' Well,' said Robin, ' it has a bit o' that abeawt it, sartainly. . . . But yo'n find it's o' reet. They're awterin' o' their organs to this pattern, neaw. I believe they're for sellin' th' organ at Manchester owd church, so as they can ha' one like this.' 'Thou never says?' said Betty. 'Yigh,' said Robin, 'it's true what I'm telling yo. But aw mun be off, Betty. Aw've to go to th' 164 TUFTS OF HEATHER : Hollins to-neet yet.' ' Wiiy, arto takkiii' thame summat ? 'Aye; some male o' a ncnv fangle't machine for weshin' shirts and things.' 'Nay, sure !' said Betty. 'Aw '11 tell tho what, Robert ; they're goin' on at a great rate up at that shop.' ' Aye, aye,' said Robin. ' Mon, there's no end to some folk's pride till they come'n to th' floor; an' then there isn't, sometimes.' 'There isn't, Robert; there isn't. An' 1 'Jl tell tho what ; thoosc lasses o' theirs — they're as proud as Lucifer. They're donned more like mountebanks' foos nor gradely folk — wi' their fither't hats, an' their fleawnces, an' their hoops, an' things. Aw wonder how they can for shame o' their face. A lot o' mee-mawing snickets ! But they're no better nor porritch, Robert, when they're looked up.' 'Not a bit, Betty — not a bit! But I mun be off. Good neet to yo !' 'Good neet, Robert,' said Betty. An' away he went wi' ih' cart up to th' Hollins." "Aw'II tell tho what, Skedlock," said Nanny; "that woman's a terrible tung ! " " Aye, hoo has," replied Skedlock ; " an' her mother wur th' same. But, let me finish my tale, Nanny, an then" — " Well, it wur pitch dark when Robin geet to th' Hollins farm-yard wi' his cart. He gav a ran-tan at th' back dur, wi' his whip-hondle; and when th' little lass cooni with a candle, he said, ' Aw've getten a weshin'-machine for yo'. As soon as th' little lass yerd that, hoo darted off, tellin' o' th' house that th' new wesliin-machine wur come'd. Well, yo known, they'n five daughters ; an' very diver, honsome, tidy lasses they are, too, — as what owd Betty says. An' this news brought 'em o out o' their nooks in a fluster. Owd Isaac wur sit i'th' parlour, havin' a glass wi' a chap that he'd th' barrel organ. 165 bin selliii' a cowt to. Th' little lass went boiintiii' into lli' reawm to him; an' hoo sed, 'Eh, father, th' new weshin'- machine's come'd ' ' ' Well, well,' said Isaac, pattin' her o'th' yed ; ' go thi waj's an' tell thi mother. Aw'm no wesher. Thae never sees me weshin', doesto ? I bought it for )o lasses ; an' yo mun look after it yorsels. Tell some o'th men to get it into th' wesh-house.' So they had it carried into th' wesh-house; an' when they geet it unpacked they were quite astonished to see a grand shinin' thing, made o' rose-wood, an' cover't wi' glitterin' kerly-berlys. Th' little lass clapped her hands, an' said, 'Eh, isn't it a beauty?' But th' owd'st daughter looked hard at it, an' hoo said, ' Well, this is th' strangest washin'-machine that I ever saw ! ' ' Fetch a bucket o' water,' said another, ' an' let's try it 1 ' But they couldn't get it oppen, whatever they did ; till, at last, they found some keighs, lapt in a piece of breawn paper. ' Here they are,' said Mary. Mary's th' owd'st daughter, yo known. 'Here they are;' an' hoo potter't an' rooted abeawt, tryin' these keighs, till hoo fund one that fitted at th' side, an' hoo twirled it round an' round till hoo'd vvund it up ; and then yo may guess how capt they wur, when it started a-playin' a tune. ' Hello ! ' said Robin. ' A psaum- tune, bith mass ! A psaum-tune eawt ov a weshin'-machine ! Heaw's that ? ' An' he star't like a throttled cat. ' Nay,' said Mary, ' I cannot tell what to make o' this ! ' Th' owd woman wur theer, an' hoo said, ' Mary, Mary, my lass, thou's gone an' spoilt it — the very first thing, theaw has.. Theaw's bin tryin' th' wrong keigh, mon ; thou has, for sure. Try another keigh. Turn th' weshin' on, an' stop that din, do." 'J'hen Mary turned to Robin, an' hoo said, ' Whatever sort i66 TOrrs of hevther : of a m.ichiiij's tliis, Robin?' 'Nay,' said Robin, 'I dunnot know, beawt it's one o' thoose at's bin made for weshin' s irplices.' Bat Robin b.'gin a-s-nsllin' a rat ; a i', as he didn't want to ha' to t.ik it back th' saii; ncet, he pike't off out at th' dur, while they wur hearkenin' th' music ; an' he drove whoam as fast as he could goo. In a minute or two th' little lass went dancin' into th' parlour to owd Isaac again, an' hoo cried out, ' Father, you must come licre this minute ! Th' washin'-machine's playin' th' Old Hundred!' 'It's what ?' cried Isaac, layin' his pipe down. • It's playin" th Old Hundred ! It is, for sure ! Oh, it's beautiful I Come on 1 ' An' hoo tugged at his lap to get him into th' wesh- house. Then th' owd woman coom in, and hoo said, ' Isaac, whatever i' the name o' fortin' hasto bin blunderin' and doin' again ? Come thi ways an' look at this machine thae's bought us. It caps me if yon yowling divvle '11 do ony weshin'. Thae surely diesn't want to ha' thi shirt set to music, doesto? Thou 11 ha' thi breeches agate o' singin' next. We'n noise enough i' this hole beaivt yon startin' or skrikin'. Thae '11 ha' th' house full o' fiddlers an' doancers in a bit.' 'Well, well,' slid Isaac, 'aw never yerd sich a tale i' my life ! Vo'n bother't me a good while about a piano ; but if we'n getten a weshin'-machine that plays church music, we're set up, wi' a rattle ! But aw'll come an' look at it.' An away he went to th' wesh-house, wi' th' little lass pooin' at him, like a kitlin" drawin' a stone-cart. Th' owd woman followed him, grumblin' o' th' road, — ' Isaac, this is what conies on tho stop[)in' so Kit' i'th' town of a nect. There's al'ays some blunderment or another. Aw lippen on tho happenin' a siyrious mischoance, some o' these neets. th' parrel organ. 167 I towd tho niony a lime. But thae taks no moor notice o' me nor if aw're a milestone, or a turmit, or summat. A mon o' thy j'ears should have a bit o' sense.' ' Well, well,' said Isaac, hobblin oflF, 'do howd thi din, lass ! I'll go an' see what ails it. There's olez summat to keep one's spirit's up, as Ab o' Slenders said when he broke his leg.' But as soon as Isaac see'd th' weshin'-machine, he brast eawt a-laughin', an' he sed : ' Hello ! ^^'hy, this is th' church organ! Who's brought it^' 'Robin o' Sceawter's.' 'It's just like him. Where's th' maunderin' foo gone to ? ' ' He's offwhoim.' 'Well,' said Isaac, 'let it stop where it is. There '11 be somebody after this i'th mornin'.' An' they had some rare fun th' next day, afore they geet these things swapt to their gradely places. However, th' last thing o' Saturday neet th' weshin'-machine wur brought up fro th' clerk's, an' th' organ wur takken to th' chapel." " Well, well," said the old woman ; " they geet 'em reet at the end of o, then ? " " Aye," said Skedlock ; " but aw've not quite done yet, Nanny." "What, were'n they noan gradely sorted, then, after o? ' " Well," said Skedlock, " I'll tell yo." "As I've yerd th' tale, this new organ wur tried for th' first time at mornin' sarvice, th' next day. Dicko'-Liddy's, th' bass singer, wur pike'd eawt to look after it, as he wur an' owd hond at music ; an' th' parson would ha' gan him a bit of a lesson, th' neet before, how to manage it, like. But Dick reckon't that nobody'd no 'casion to lam him nought belungin' sich like things as thoose. It wur a bonny come off if a chap that had been a noted bass-singer five-and-forty 1 68 TUFTS OF HEATHER : year, an' could tutor a claronet \vi' ony mon i' RosenHa Forest, couldn't manage a box-organ, — beawt bein' teyched wi' a parson. So they gav him th' keys, and leet him have his own road. Well, o' Sunday forenoon, as soon as th' first hymn wur gan out, Dick whisper't round to th' folk i'lh singin'-pew, ' Now for't ! Mind yor hits ! Aw'm beawn to set it agate ! ' An' then he went, an' wun th' organ up, an' it started a-playin' 'French;' and th' singers followed, as weel as they could, in a slattery sort of a way. But some on 'em didn't like it. They reckon't that they made nought o' singin' to machinery. Well, when th" hymn wur done, th' parson said, ' Let us pray ; ' an' down they went o' their knees. But just as folk wur gettin' their een nicely shut, an' their faces weel hud i' their hats, th' organ banged cflf again, wi' th' same tune. 'Hello!' said Dick, jumpin' up, ' th' divvle's off again, bith mass ! ' Then he darted at th' organ ; an' he rooted about wi' th' keys, tryin' to stop it. But th' owd lad wur i' sich a fluster, that istid o' stoppin' it, he swapped th' barrel to another tune. That made him warse nor ever. Owd Thwittler whisper'd to him, ' Thire, Dick ; thae's shapt that nicely ! Give it another twirl, owd bird ! ' Well, Dick sweat, an' futter't about till he swapped th' barrel again. An' then he looked round th' singin'-pew, as helpless as a kittlin' ; an' he said to th' singers, ' Whatever mun aw do, folk?' an' tears coom into his een. ' Roll it ' o'er,' said Thwittler. 'Come here, then,' said Dick. So they roU't it o'er, as if they wanted to teem th' music out on it, like ale out of a pitcher. But the organ yowlt on ; and Dick went wur an' wur. ' Come here, yo singers,' said Dick, ' come here ; let's sit us down on't ! Here, Sarah ; th' barrel organ. 171 come, thee ; thou'rt a fat un '. ' An' they sit 'em down on it; but o' wur no use. Th' organ wur reet ony end up 5 an' they couldn't smoor th' sound. At last Dick gav in ; an' he leant o'er th' front o' th' singin'-pew, \vi' th' sweat runnin' down his face ; an' he sheawted across to th' parson, 'Aw cannot stop it! I wish yc'd send somebry up.' Just then owd Pudge, th' bang-beggar, coom runnin' into th' pew, an' he fot Dick a souse at back o' th' yed wi' his pow ; an' he said, ' Come here, Dick ; thou'rt a foo. Tak howd ; an' let's carry it eawt.' Dick whisked round an' rubbed his yed, an' he said, ' Aw say, Pudge, keep that pow to thisel', or else I'll send my shoon against thoose ribbed stockin's o' thine.' But he went an' geet howd, an' him an' Pudge carried into th' chapel-yard, to play itsel' out ith' open air. An' it yowlt o' th' way as they went, like a naughty lad bein' turn't out of a reawm for cryin'. Th' parson waited till it wur gone ; an' then he went on wi' th' sarvice. When they set th' organ down i'th' chapel yard, owd Pudge wiped his for-yed, an' he said, ' By th' mass, Dick, thae'll get th' bag for this job.' 'Why, what for?' said Dick. ' Aw've no skill of sich like squallin'-boxes as this. If they'd taen my advice, an' stick't to th' bass fiddle, aw could ha' stopt that ony minute. It has made me pufif carryin' that thing. I never once thought that it'd start again after th' hymn wur done. Eh, I wur some mad ! If aw'd had a shool-full o' smo' coals i' my bond, aw'd ha' chuck't 'em into't. . . . Yer tho', how it's grindin' away just th' same as nought wur. Ay, thae may weel play th' Owd Hundred, divvleskin ! Thae's made a funeral o' me this mornin' ! . . But, aw say, Pudge, th' next time at there's aught o' this sort 172 TUFTS OK HEATHER; agate again, aw wisli tliae'd be as good as keep that pow o' thine to thysel', wilto ? Thae's raise't a nob at th' back o' my yed th' size of a duck-egg ; an' it'll be twice as big bi mornin'. How would yo like me to slap tho o' th' chops wi' a stock in'-fuU o' slutch, some Sunday, when thae'rt swaggerin' i'th front o' th' parson T" " While they stood talkin' this way, one o'th singers coom runnin' out o' th' chapel bare yed, an' he shouted out, ' Dick, thae'rt wanted, this minute ! Where's that pitch- pipe ? We'n gated wrang twice o' ready ! Come in, wi' tho' 1 ' 'By th' mass,' said Dick, dartin' back ; ' I'd for- getten o' about it. I'se never seen through this job to mi deein' day.' An' off he ran, an' laft owd Pudge sit upo' th' organ grinnin' at him. . . . That's a nice do, isn't it, Nanny ? "' " Kh," said the old woman, " I never yerd sich a tale i' my life. But thae's made part o' that out o' thi own yed, .Skedlock." " Not a word," said he ; " not a nord. Yo han it as I had it, Nanny; as near as I can tell.'' " Well," replied she, "how did they go on at after that? " "Well," said he, "I haven't time to stop to-neet, Nanny: I'll tell yo some time else; I thought Jone would ha' bin here by now. He mun ha' co'de at 'Th' Rompin' Kidin'; but, I'll look in as I go by.'" "I wish thou would, Skedlock. An' dunnot go an' keep him, now : send him forrad whoam." "I will, Nanny- I dunnot want to stop, myscF. Con yo lend me a lantron? " "Sure I can. Jenny, bring that lantron; an' leet it. It'll TH BARREL ORGAN. 1 75 be two hours afore th' moon rises. It's a fine neet, but it's dark." When Jenny brought the lantern, I bade Nanny '-Good night," and took advantage of Owd Skedlock's convoy down the broken paths, to die high road in the valley. There we parted ; and I had a fine starlight walk to " Th' Top o' th' Hough " on that breezy October night. After a quiet supper in " Owd Bob's " little parlour, I took a walk round about the quaint farmstead, and through the grove upon the brow of the hill. The full moon had risen in the cloudless sky ; and the view of the valley as I saw it from " Grant's Tower "' that night, was a thing to be remembered for a man's lifetime. ?olrt Ini tin* Winter iirc. CHAPTER 1. Now all our neighbours' chimneys smok And Christmas logs are burning ; With baked meats all their ovens choke. And every spit is turning. Outside the door let sorrow lie ; And if for cold it chance to die. We'll tomb it in a Christmas pie, And evermore be merrv. By the crackling fire We'll hold our little, snug, domestic court. GEORGE WITHEK. SHAKESPEARE. jlIGH upon ihu southcTn slope of Waddington FeU, in ihc midst of a few green fields, an old country inn stands, with its gable-end close to the road- side, and the heathery moors rising wild behind it. Its comfortable shelter was well known to all who travelled across those storm-swept heights ; and when the shades of night had folded up the wide landscape, its cheerful light gleamed like a star upon the dark breast of the moorland hill, fiir down into the vale, whilst an inviting ray from the little window at the end of the building threw a beam of TOLD BY THE WINTER FIRE. 17 7 bright welcome across the lonely road to every passer b)-. The front of the house looked down upon one of the finest expanses in all the famous valley of the Ribble — a region of clear rivers and pure air, remaricable for the natural beauty of its scenery ; abounding in historic memorials of the olden time, and in sweet pictures of rural life. ... At the foot of the fell, where the bleak but beautiful heather- land dies away into rich meadoivs and pastures green, the blue smoke curls up from the chimneys of the hamlet of Waddington, the old town of Wada, a famous chieftain of Saxon times, whose stronghold in those rude days occupied a remarkable conical eminence still called " Waddow," about a mile south of the hamlet, and hard by the banks of the Ribble. Waddington is still a quaint, quiet, sweet- looking rustic village, through the heart of which a limpid stream conies wimpling down from the moors. It still retains many features of bygone days. Its ancient church is an object of interest to the antiquary ; and close by the little stream — which trails its pleasant undersong through the quiet air of the village, by night and day — stands Waddington Old Hall, the last shelter of Henry the Sixth, after lurking, from place to place, for years amongst these northern wilds. It was from this ancient manor-house that he fled at last, and was pursued and overtaken by Talbot, of Bashall, and his men, whilst crossing the river at Brunkcrley hipping-stones, about a mile south of the village. This sealed the fate of that feeble and unfortunate monarch ; for he was conveyed thence, a prisoner, to London, where he fell into the hands of his enemies. . . . Looking still from the front of the old inn, upon the fellside, into the lyS TiFTS OF heather: beautiful valley which spreads far and wide at its foot, the sweet old town of Clitheroe stands upon a gently rising ground, about three miles to the south, with the ruined Norman castle of the Lacys — lords of the Honor of Clitheroe — upon a bold rock over-frowning the market-place. Beyond that, the scene is bounded, on the south, by the grand ridge of Pendle, stretching five miles, from the " big end " of the hill, near the pretty village of Downham ; on the east, to the wooded slopes; on the west, where the hill declines into green holms, and rich meadows, amongst which the ancient hamlet of Whalley, and its ruined abbey, rest by the side of the river Caldcr. Altogether, the landscape seen from tlie front of llic old inn — which is the scene of our story — is a glorious sight. In the Saxon period of our history, this beautiful valley is said to have been one of the most remarkable battle-grounds in all the north, between conflicting Saxon chiefs, and between the Sa,\on and the l^ane. The landscape has certainly been wilder, and more thickly wooded, then; but grim old Pendle— the heather- crested monarch of the scene — stands there yet, in silent and solitary pride, untouched by change, through all the lapse of centuries ; and the whole country, as seen from the wild side of Waddington Fell, must retain much of the same general aspect that it had a thousand years ago ; for. Though much the centuries take, and much bestow, Most, through them all. immutable remains, Beauty, whose world-wide empire never wanes, — Sole permanence in being's ceaseless flow. It was Christmas Eve; and every lonely homestead upon the wild moors was touched witli tlie cheerful temper TOLD BV THE WINTER FIRE. 1 79 of that blessed festival which warms the heart of man with the kindHest remembrances of all tiie year. During many days past the weather had been keen and clear, delighting every eye, and rejoicing the hearts of the young and strong with its bracing beauty, — for old winter was wearing its brightest robe, and hill and dale, and "every common sight," in all the wide landscape was lovely to the view. The heathery slope of Waddington Fell was all white over with a shining robe of seed-pearls ; and every leafless tree, and rough thorn hedge — every little winter-nipped bush, and fern-clad wayside well, was festooned with fairy frost-work, which twinkled in the sun. Even the rude-built walls and fences, the lonely " rubbing stoops," in the midst of the frozen fields, and the farm gear about the yard of the old inn, were all decked in the glittering enchantment of cunning nature's happiest wintry mood. The rugged rut- worn moorland roads were hard as iron ; and the crisp snow by the roadside crackled under the traveller's foot. As twilight deepened down, and the distant landscape began to fade from view, the blue smoke curled up thicker than usual from the chimneys of the old house, into the pure mountain air, for the landlord and his wife were preparing for a jovial night for their own little family, and for any stray travellers who might chance to cross the fell that night, from the Trough of Bolland into Ribblesdale, after the sun had gone down. The ordinary business of the solitary household was all arranged for the night. The horses in the suable had been fed and foddered down ; the two cows had been milked ; The sheep were in the fold. And the cattle were in shed ; I So TUns OF HKATHKR : Liltle Liddy, the housemaid, had finished lier work in the dairy, and was in her chamber trimming herself up, after the ruder labours of the day ; " Amos o' Lumpyed's," the hostler, and general servant-man upon the farm connected with the inn, had gone down to Clitheroe on an errand ; and old George, the landlord,— known all over the Forest of BoUand by the name of " Judd o' Sheep Jamie's,' — old George and his wife, Betty, had the lower part of the house all to them- selves ; for, in those days, that wild fell was not much travelled, and there had not been a customer in the place since two hours before the sun went down. But it was Christmas Eve , and the hearty old couple knew it was a time not unlikely to bring strange visitors over from Newton- in-the-Forest, on their way to Clitheroe, after nightfall. Day was declining; but the candles were not yet lighted; for old George and his wife felt an unconscious delight in the mystic' charm of the lingering twilight hour, which filled the sweet old house with such a dreamy beauty, at the close of a fine day. The kitchen looked more bright and cheerful even than usual. Everything in the place had a holiday appearance, for the landlady had decorated its walls with evergreens, amongst which the traditional mistleloe-bush, hanging from the low ceiling, amongst hams and flitches of bacon, and great branches of red-berried holly, here and there, twinkled conspicuously in the firelight. The nre was piled up high in the wide chimney, and its rosy glow lit up the whole room, in which everything, great and small, was radiant with the beauty of pft-fect cleanliness and order. The round-topped table was covered with a snow-white cloth, upon which tea-things were laid for the landlord and TOLD BY THL WINTER FIRE. I?I his wife, and Liddy, the servant-girl. The great kettle hung upon its usual hook, above the glowing grate ; and a quaint tea-pot, which rarely made its appearance, stood upon the hob. Betty had brought her best old china out, too, for the occasion ; and, in addition to the usual simple fore of home- baked bread and sweet mountain butter, of her own making, with a dish of fried eggs and bacon, several dainties of the season, amoncst which were spice cakes, and cheese, and mince pies, occupied the board ; and upon the great oak dresser, under the window, a cold chine of beef stood ready for all comers. It was a pleasant sight ; and the good old couple looked around with quiet delight, as they went to and fro. Ever3thing seemed to wink and chuckle with glee ; and the antique eight-days clock, in the corner, ticked more blithely than usual as the ruddy firelight played upon its polished mahogany case, across the white-scoured floor of the kitchen. The landlord had sat down in his armchair by the fire, and was enjoying the luxury of a quiet smoke, whilst looking contentedly around. " Come, George," said the landlady, drawing her chair up to the table, " come an' get thi baggin' I " The old man laid down his pipe, and rising slowly from his seat, till his tall figure seemed almost to touch the low- ceiling of the kitchen, he yawned, and said, " Well, I'm willin', lass ; but afore I begin, I think I'll stretch my legs a minute or two." Then, with a slow and heavy footstep, he sauntered out at the doorway, to look at the night. By this time the full moon was up ; and it was as light as day. The frost-pearled moorside was one glittering expanse l82 IL'FTS OK Iir.ATUKU : of silvery brilliants, under the soft radiance of the queen of night ; and the clear blue sky was thickly " fretted with golden fires." The cold seemed to strengthen as the night came on, and the snow, which had lain freezing for many a day, was no.v so hard that the foot left no mark u])on its surface. "Betty, lass," said the old man, calling to his wife, "come here a minute ! I never seed a finer neet i' my life 1 This is gooin' to be one o'th' grand owd-fashioned wintry Kes- masses — with a bit o' howsome (wholesome) nip in it — sich as there use't to be when I wur a lad ! Look here, nion ! It's full moon ; an' it's as leet as noonday ! I could see to read th' almanac very near ! An' th' stars are as thick i'th' sky as a swarm o' gowden midges 1 " The old woman came to the doorway, and looked out. "Ay," said she, gazing round upon the bright scene, "it is a bonny neet, for sure ! But come thi ways in ; thou's no hat on, an' thoii'U get coud, i' tho stons theer much lunger ! Come thi ways in, an let's get er baggins I " The old man came slowly back into the house, muttering that a bit o' frost would do nobody no harm. " Come, Liddy," said the old woman, shouting upstairs to the servant girl, "whatever arto doin' so long up theer i Come thi ways down ! Th' baggin's ready I " The girl — a rosy little rustic Hebe — came downstairs, looking sweet and tidy, from top to toe, and tlie three sat down to the table together. TOLD I!V THE WINTER FIRE. l8l CHAPTER II. Some say, that ever against that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated. The bird of dawning singeth all night long : And then, they say. no spirits can walk abroad ; The nights are wholesome ; then no planets strike, No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm ; So hallow'd and so gracious is the time. ' shakespeari;. 'Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale; 'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale ; A Christmas gambol oft would cheer The poor man's heart through half the year." SIR WALTER SCOTT. |0W then," said the lanalady, beginning to fill tlie cups, " let's fo' to. It looks as if we wur gooin' to ha' th' house to ersels — Christmas Eve as it is — so we may as weel try to make th' best on't. Now, Liddy, lass; reitch to — an' do'not be shy. Here, George; thou'U sweeten for thisel'. I lipptn't o' some of our Jonatlian's childer comin' up, fro' Waddin'ton,— an' to tell th' truth, I feel raither disappointed." "Thou doesn't need," said the old man "It's Christmas Eve, — as thou says, — an' folk are o getherin' round their own hearthstones, — among theirsels." "Well; an' aren't they our own gront-childer? George, thou talks silly." " Never mind, lass. They known th' gate, — if they wanten to come. But, give 'em time, mon, — give 'em time. . . . Now, when I wur a lad, my faither wouldn't ha' had one on 184 TUFTS OF HF.ATHER : US away fro' whoam at Christmas time, upo' no 'count. We were a great family, — an' a bit scatter't,— mony a mile asunder, — but he said that he like't to gether o his flock together into th' owd fovvd, upo' I.ongridge Fell, every Yule- time, so that he could reckon 'em up, an' see their faces once more, bi th' leet of a roarin' winter fire. He said it did him good ; an' it did, too. As for my mother, — I don't think hoc could ha' poo'd through th' winter if hoo hadn't sin her childer, an' her childer's childer about her, — fro" o sides,— owd an' yung, — an' there wur a grand swarm on us, — little an' big, — when we wur o together ; for two o'th' lads an' three o' my sisters were w-cd, an' they brought th' yung uns wi" 'cm. I can remember us musterin' thirty i'th' owd kitchen, the very Christmas afore my mother deed ; an' a heartier family I never clapt een on, — for there weren't one on 'em that wur oather sick, or soory, or sore — an' that's say in' a good deeol, i' sich a world as this is." "Well, George," replied she, " I think that we'n a reet to expect our own childer to come an' see us i'th' same way. They'n never missed yet ; an' it looks very strange. They're o that we han left ; an' I shan't feel reet if they don't come.'' " Don't fret thisel' to soon, lass. There's time enough. What, ih' eawl-leet's noan o'er yet. Make thisel' comfort- able. Thou'll see this kitchen turn't th' wrang side up afore ih' neet's o'er. I shouldn't wonder if they aren't comin' gigglin' up th' foUside this very minute, as merry as ingle- crickets." "Well," said the old woman, wiping her eyes, "we's see. . . . . I could like to yer their feet." " Nay, nay, lass," said he, " don't goo an' fret thisel' about TOLD BY THE WINTER FIRE. 1 85 nought. Thou'U have 'em among these mince-pies afore Slight's lung. I'll be bound that th' childer are as anxious to come up as thou art for 'em to come. Dri thi een, lass, do ! . . . Here, afore I begin o' mi baggin' I'll put some moore dr)- eldin' upo' that fire. ^Ve'n make a shine i th' hole, whether onybody comes or not." And the stalwart old fell-ranger — for in his younger days he had been by turns a shepherd and a gamekeeper — rose from the table and fetched a great tree-root from the out- house, which he planted fairly upon the glowing fire. The well-dried log ignited at once, and the flame went roaring up the wide chimney, filling the kitchen with a ruddier light even than before. "Theer," said he, "that looks Hke Kesmass, doesn't it? We's need no candles for a bit. That'll make this house shine down th' dark moorside like a great lantron ! Ill be bund little Nelly's clappin' her bonds just this minute, an' sayin', ' Look yon ! I can see my gronny's window ! Hello, Liddy ; who's left this spade i'th' nook here ? " The girl rose from her seat at the table. "It's Amos," said she. " He left it when he coom in to his baggin', afore he set off to Clitnero." "Well, tak it into th' shippon. It's no business here. Let's ha' th' house as tidy as we con, as it's Kesmass Eve." The girl went out with the spade, and the old man sat down again to his evening meal. " I'll tell tho what, George," said the landlady, as she filled his cup, "yon lad's raither of a careless turn. How does thou get on wi' him ?" " Well," replied he, " Owd Bill wur worth a dozen on 24 l86 TUFIS OF HKATHF.R : him ! Poor owd Bill — he wur a great loss. I miss him as if he'd bin my own brother — he'd bin wi' us so lung." " Well," said the landlady, " we han th' satisfaction o' knowin' that we made him as comfortable as we could as long as he wur bedridden." " Aye," said he, " it"s an ill thing to have to look back — when folk are laid by for ever — an' remember that yo didn't do as yo should to 'em while they wur alive." " It is," said she, " it is. . . . But we ha'not that on er minds, George — as how 'tis." " Nawe, we ha'not, lass," replied he. ..." As for this new lad — this Amos — he's nobhut a shiftless, sham- mockin' sort of a craitcr, as far as he's gone. He's sin nought — an' he knows nought— an' he'll not do so mich, if he can help it. I doubt th' lad's had an ill bringin'-up, an' he's some idle bwons in his pelL He's a lither lump o' stuff — except at eatin' an' drinkin'. At dinner-time he'll count four; but, when it comes to a bit o' solid walk, he isn't aboon th' hauve of a gradely chap. But he'll happen mend — we's see in a bit." "I wonder what's keepin' him i' Clithero till now?" •' Bother thi yed noan about th' lad. He'll turn up of hissel'. I dare say he's let (alighted upon, met with) o' some of his owd cronies. Thou knows it's haliday time, an' yung cowts are jumpin' th' fences a bit; an' one connot ex]iect th' lad to keep his feet just th' same as if it wur a common wortchin'-day. I guess he'll ha' bits o' runs of his own — th' same as other yung craiters — an' he may run a bit, as far as I am concarn't." " He should be in afore bedtime." TOLD l;V THE WINTER ITRE. 1S7 "What does it matter? We're noan boun to bed yet. Never mind th' lad. If he comes, he comes ; an' if he doesn't it'll make little odds, for tliere's nought mich for him to do to-morn." "Wilto have another cup?" " Nawe, I've done very wecl. Poo up to th' hob, an' let's make ersels comfortable. Liddy '11 side these things." He then rose from the table, and taking the arm-chair in the corner, he lit his pipe; and, for the ne.xt hour or two, the time glided by in quiet chat with his wife, who sat rocking herself on the opposite side of the fire, the kind old man trying all the while to divert the mind of his good dame from the unusual solitude of their hearth on Christmas Eve. Whilst they were thus conversing together, a loud sough of wind went moaning round their solitary dwelling, and the doors of the outhouses began to rattle. " Hollo," said the old man, " th' wind's risin' ! What's comin'now?" and looking up at the window he saw that the sky had become overcast. Then, rising from his chair, he went to the door, and found that a sudden change had come over the scene. The wind swept fiercely in at the open doorway. The moon had disappeared, and the sky, lately so bright and clear, was now one wild scene of com- motion. Daik clouds were flying across the heavens, and wild-driving mist and sleet filled all the air. Not a star was now in sight. Every moment the air grew thicker; the wind grew wilder ; and the flying sleet began to be mingled with thick flakes of snow. "What a change!" said the old man, closing the door. 158 runs OK HICATIIKR : " We're gooin' to have a snowstorm ; an' not a little un, noather. We don't need to expect onybody up fro Clitliero to-neet now, if tliis howds out. . . . Liddy, goo an' put a leet i' yon end window that looks iipo' th' roadside, so that onybody may see it that hapjfens to come o'er th' lop o'th' fell." CHAPTER III. In winter's tedious nights, sit by the fire With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales. SH.\KESP2ARE. Then came the merry maskers m, .\nd carols roared with blithesome din ; If linmclodious was the song, It was a hearty note, and strong. scott. HI-; storm grew wilder, and the snow fell faster every minute. The air was thick with flying ^ Hakes, and the whole landscape was, now, one ghastly sheet of white. As the snow increased, the wind sank down to a steady, sullen moan, as if overladen, and the usual stillness of the moorland solitude deepened to a death-like hush, which added to the appalling aspect of the scene. A light, planted in the little window at the gable-enil of the house, now threw a cheerful ray across the lonely road TOLD EV THE WIXTKR FIRE. 189 which led down the fell-side. The doors and shutters were all fastened, i'he old landlady and the little household settled down, in full expectation of passing this Christmas Eve in quiet seclusion amongst themselves ; and another hour had glided by, during which the snow came down faster and thicker, when somebody lifted the latch, which was followed by a loud knock at the door, and voices heard in conversation outside. " There's somebody here at last," said the old man, going to the door just as the knock was repeated louder than before. " Who's theer ? " cried he, before drawing the bolt of the door. '' There's three on us,' replied a merry voice in the storm outside ; " there's me, an' Jack o'th' Tinker's, an' Alick o' Cauve-lickt Antony's. We'n com'd o'er th' top, by Wallapa Well, out o' Newton-i'-Bollan.' Oppen th' dur. We connot get no fur (further)." The landlord threw the door open at once, and in rushed the three travellers, muffled to the chin, and all white with snow. "Lads," said he, glancing at the wintry storm before he closed the door again, " yo'n brought a wild neet wi' yo' ! " "Nay," replied the spokesman of the three, looking round the kitchen, as he shook the snow from his clothing, " we'n left it beheend us, — an' between yo' an' me, maister, I'm fain to get under cover, — for we're just about done up. Con we stop o neet?" " Yo' may, if yo'n a mind — an' welcome ! " said the old landlord. "That's th' mak ! (make, sort)" 1 90 TUFTS OF HKAIHKR : '■ Here,'' said the landlady, setting three chairs around the hearth, "draw up, an' warm yo' ; for yo' mun have liad a terrible trawnce o'er tlv fell i' this storm. " '•Thank yo', mistress," replied the rattle-pate who hail first spoken, " I like th' look o' this side o' th' house, I con tell yo' ! An' its a good job we geet in, too, — for Alick here's noan weel." " What's th' matter ? " " He's a terrible pain in his inside." " Eh dear ! Does he tak' nought for it ?" " Yigh, — three or four times a day, — an' sometimes moor." "Some mak' o' bottle, I guess?" " Nay ; it's mostly pills ? " '■ What mak' o' pills ? " "They're tor ih' stomach.'' " Oh ! that's wheer it tak's him, is it ' " "Aye, aye," said the landlord, laughing; "I'm a bit trouble't wi' th' same complaint mysel'. But yo'n com'd to th' reet shop for bein' cure't this time. We're seldom short o' hunger physic i' this house, thank God ! Liddy, set th' cowd beef upo' th' table, an' let these lads thwite (to cut with a thwittle) at it a bit." The table was quickly spread with substantial Christmas fare, and the hungry travellers sat down. I'or about half-an- hour every man of the three " played a good stick," as the old saying goes, chatting blithely together all the while; and when they had eaten their fill they rose and took their seats around the hearth again, in merry mood. They had hardly got well settled before a whining and scratching was heard at the door. "Hello, Alick," said Billy o' Mall's o' Jumper's, the TOLD r,V THE WINTER FIRE. I9I " rcady-moutli "' of ihe party, '• thou's laft thi dog out ! Oj)pen th' dur ! " Little Liddy opened the door, and in rushed the dog, whisking the snow from his hide all over the floor. " I'll tell tho what, Alick," said Bill)', " that dog o' thine's a quare-lookin' craiter. What breed doesto co' it ? " "Nay, thou fastens me now," replied Alick. "It's a mixtur o' maks (kinds). Sometimes I think it's a tarrier, an' sometimes I think it 'II turn out a foomart-dog ; but th' yurc's to short It's a bit o' bull about th' nose; but it looks as if it had Lin clemmed at t'other end, for th' hinder-quarler's nipt in like a greyhount whelp. I doubt it's had moore faithers than one. But I like th' dog, for o that ; it's sich a feaw un. It's good to nought mich but for a bit o' company. It followed me whoam fro' th' fair about a month sin', an' I didn't like to send it away in th' wide world, to be starve't, an' punce't, an' knocked about fro' window to wole." " Well, yo're a good pair, Alick," said Billy, " an', as far as I'm concarn't, I'se be sorry if ever yo're parted. . . . But it reminds me," continued he, " of a dog that I bought one Whit-Monday. When I took it whoam my wife stare't at this thing a bit ; an' at last hoo said, ' Now, then, what hasto getten this time?' 'Well,' I said, 'it pretends to be a dog.' 'A dog, eh?' said hoo. 'I shouldn't lia' thought it; for it's feaw enough for a corn-boggart. What, thou'll turn this house into a gradely menagerie soon, what wi' th' hens, an' th' pigeons, an' th' poll-parrot, an' two canaries. Thou'rt nought short but a cimel, an' tivo or three monkeys, an' thou '11 be set up for life. But I'm noan boun to ha' that 192 TUFTS OF HF.AIHF.R : thing i' this house, I can tell tho.' An' I s.iid hoo should, an' hoo said hoo wouldn't ; an' we fell out about it. But while we wur at it ding-dong, th' cat coom in an' settle't o disputes wi' a rattle. Th" cat had just kittle't that mornin', an' as soon as it seed th' dog it flew at it, an' for a minute or two I couldn't tell which wur which, they wur so mixt up together. An' they whuzzed round like a fizz-gig. First I geet a wap o'th' dog, then I seed a bit o'th' cat ; but I couldn't sort em at o ; an' between yeawlin", an' scrattin', an' spittiii', an' squeakin', they kickt up sich a din that it made mi yure ston o' one end. At last th' cat jumped onto th' table, wheer th' dinner wur set oat, an' th' dog jumped after it. Then they set th' pots agate o' flyin' ; an' amung th' rest, a dishful o' bacon collops went to th' floor. Our Sail flew at 'em wi' a quart pot in her bond ; but, as hoo wur gooin', hoo happen't to set her foot onto a bacon collop, an' away hoo went across the floor in a great slur (slide), wi' her legs a yard asunder, an' hoo never stopt till hoo coom bang again th' edge o'lh' clock wi' her nose, an' down hoo went, back'ards, upo' th' floor, wi her nose bleedin'. ' Oh, I'm kilt ! " cried Sail, ' I'm kilt I ' an' I went to help her ; but, just as I wur bendin' down, hoo up wi' her foot and took me bang between th' een, wi' sich a welt that sparks flew i' o directions ; an' down I went staggerin', th' hinder-end first, into a mugful o' dough, that stood at th' end o' th' dresser — and there I stuck fast. By this time hoo'd getten to her feet ; and while I wur busy, tryin' to wriggle mysel' out o' tli' mug, hoo flung an' owd birdcage at mi yed, that wur stonnin i'th' nook — an' that wur followed wi' a mugful o' starch that coom flusk into my TOI.n RV THE WIMKR FIRE. I93 foce, an" filled my moiitli an' een, till I wur as blint as a bat. I don't know what hoo sent th' next, but I kept feeling one cloat after another, as thick as leet, an' when I coom to reckon mysel' up, I found that I'd a pair o' prime black een, an' a cut o' mi foryed, an' four or five fresh lumps o' my yed — for hoo had me fast, an' hoo kept hommerin' at it like a nail-maker i' full wark. After I'd getten the starch out o' mi een, I wur a good bit afore I could rive mysel' out o' th' mug — an' then I fund that I'd as mich bakin'-stuff stickin' to th' thick end o' mi breeches as would ha' made a couple o' four-pond loaves. While this wur agate, th' cat had run uj) to th' top o'lh' eight-days clock, an' th' dog had gone veawlin' out at th' dur, wi' a quart pot after it. I know not where th' dog's londed, but it took off toward Yor'shire, an' I've never sin it fro' that day to this ; an' I don't think I ever shall— as lung as our Sail's alive. . . . Well, when I'd poo'd mysel' out o'th' mug, I fund our Sail rear't up again th' dresser, strokin' her nose, an' tryin' to get her breath ; an' I believe, to th' best o' my remembrance, that I said some words that I never yeard in a chapel — but I'll not mention 'em again. An' hoo left me nought short, for hoo towd me more about my private character than ever I knew afore. It made my yure ston up, I con tell yo. But let that drop ; for I don't like to think on't ; an' I don't want it to goo ony fur. . . . Well, as I stoode i'th' middle o'th' floor, tryin' to poo this stuff off mi breeches, we looked at one another for a minute or two. At last, I said to her, 'Now, then, owd lass; what does to think o' thisel'? ILourt a bonny baigle (beagle, dog), for onybody to look at!' 'Ay; an' so art thou,' said Sail. 'Thou'd make 194 TUFTS OK HEATHER : a rare alehouse sign if thi ])ictiir' wiir takken as thou stons!' 'Well,' 1 said, 'I should look a bit different, owd lass, for thou's takken some pains wi' this face o' mine this last twothre minutes.' 'Sarve the reet, thou greight idle rack-an'-hook ! ' said Sail. ' Where's that pratty dog o' thine? Thou'd better look after it! It's a pity to lose sich a thing as yon. It should ha' stopt, an' had a bit o' some'at to eat. I doubt th' poor thing's noan satisfied wi his maister. Go thi ways, an' look for it, or else somcbody'l be steighlin it Poor thing ! Folk shouldn't be rough wi' things that connot speak for theirsels.' ' Never thee mind, owd lass,' I said ; ' I'll ha' that dog back here if I'm a livin' mon — whether thou likes it or not.' ' I would, lad,' said Sail; 'an' bring a wild craiter or two, at th' same time ; an' let's set up a show !' ' Nay,' I said, ' there needs no moore wild craiters where thou art. An', as for a show, that nose o' thine would fotch brass just this minute, — if I had tho in a caravan. But, I'll be gooin', — an' th' next time I come thou'U be fain to see me, — whether I've a dog or not.' ' Tak thisel' out o' mi seet, — an' keep thi heels this road on !' cried Sail. An' as I went out at th' dur-hole, a rollin'-pin flew close by my ear-hole, an' broke a weshin'- mug that stoode at tother side o'th' road. ... I coom off, an' left her to it a bit." liilly's dog story put all the company into a merry temper ; and the night wore on in cheery chat and story. As it drew near midnight, the storm gradually abated, and the heavens grew bright again. " Now then," said the old landlord, looking up at the clock, " it'll be Christmas Day i' two minutes ! Fill up, lads !'' TOLD r.V THE WINTER FIRE 195 The old clock in the corner struck twelve ; and every body listened to the last stroke. "Stop!" said the old man. "Husht! . . . Ay, yon's Clithero Church bells !" The merry peal, mellowed by distance, came floating up the fellside, with the glad tidings of the happiest feast of all the year. "A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!' cried old George, rising to his feet ; and as the toast went blithely round the kitchen, a burst of music arose under the window. It was the Christmas waits, who had wandered up from Clitheroe to salute old George and his wife. Sweetly into the wintry air arose Dr. Byrom's fine carol, " Christians awake, saluie the happy morn '" sung to the well-known, glad old tune, which was composed for it by Wainwright, the organist of Manchester Old Church. The landlord threw the door wide open, and cried, " A Merry Christmas to yo o' ! Come in, an' let's look at yo ! I'm f.\in to see yo, by th' mass ! Come in. But who han we here?'' said he, laying his hand upon the shoulder of a little figure, muffled in a red cloak. The child threw its cloak off, and held up its laughing mouth to be kissed. "Eh, it's our Nelly !" cried the old landlady. "Eh, my darlin', my darlin' !'' "Yes," said the child, "an' my father's here; an' our George, an' our Mary ; an' Kate an' Annie are comin' up, beside !" "Eh, my darlin's — my darlin's!" cried the kind old matron, bursting into tears of joy, as she clasped her children to her breast, again and again, one after another. And it was a blithe Christmas morning in that old house upon Waddington Fell Side. ZiWtVui '^WattM. CHAPTER I. Aw'm not a woman at' oft speaks, Or sings folk doleful sungs. But aw con tell my mind to thee, — Thae knows what things belungs. NATT£RIS' |10' Edge," or Fall Edge, about five miles north of Bury, is one of the wildest moorland ridges in Lancashire. It is a little lower than " Whittle Pike," the bleak cone of which stands about half a mile to the south-west, more than sixteen hundred feet above the sea. The view from " Fo' Edge," looking westward, is very striking. A deep, lonely clough, green only on the lower grounds, and almost treeless, save where some cherished bit of shade overhangs the gables of a solitary farm-house, or where scanty patches of young jjlantation fringe the banks of the stream, which murmurs in many-mooded cadences down the rocky channel, hidden from view. The clough is bounded on each side by wild hills, which, though not of TATTI.IN l^rATTY. 1 97 immense height, have a solemn and imposing aspect, sloping and swelling down in grand billowy sweeps, and in some places falling away abruptly in steep bluffs of barren crag. For about two miles the clough has a desolate appearance ; and the only habitations visible are four or five moorland farm-houses, perched here and there, on green "coignes of vantage," far apart, upon the scene. The plaintive bleat of scattered sheep, and the clucking cry of startled grouse come wildly from those lonely wastes. Further down the hills die away in gentler slopes of greener land, into the rich valley through which the Irwell runs in freakish windings on its way to the sea, between banks studded with tall chimneys, that tell the busy tale of Lancashire industrialism. The landscape then closes on the west with the steep side of Holcombe Hill, well cultivated, far up ; streaked with white and winding roads, and sprinkled with farm-houses, little clustered folds, churches, and mansions ; but crowned all along the summit with a dark tract of heathery desolation. It is a fine moorland landscape, well known to those earnest students of botany and geology, who, not content with a lazy reliance upon other men's theories, go forth, with loving hearts and hungry minds, to "read, mark, learn, and in- wardly digest " here a leaf and there a leaf of nature's old book for themselves. A little below the rocky crest of " Fo' Edge," on tlie west side, there is a quaint farmstead, where a family of kind- hearted, simple folk live. It is the highmost, the last and loneliest dwelling upon the mountain side. A little com- panionship of friends — men of varied tastes and acquire- ments, who love to roam the moors together, " when summer 198 TUFTS OF HEATHER: days are fine," we have often wandered up to that old farm- house, and always found a welcome there ; none the less because we were always accompanied by an old scientific friend who had been nursed in his infancy by the farmer's wife. The last time we were there was in the pride of the year. We had spent some three hours of the sunniest part of the day in rambling up the rocky bed of the stream, toward its source on " Fo' Edge," stepping from stone to stone, slipping into the brook sometimes, and resting oft in cool nooks to chat, and watch the water play. In that pleasant river-ramble we lingered by many a delicious pool and by many a silvery fall. Eut, when we got into the wild gorge, at the head of the dough, we had to clamber up slippery crags, and through watery crevices festooned with mist-powdered ferns, and cushioned with beds of the greenest moss, glittering with pearly spray. Up the ragged ravine we clambered, from rock to rock, till we came out, at last, upon the unshaded moorland, a little below the " Edge," where the gables of " Bill o' Johnny's" mountain nest met our eyes, and we felt at home. As we drew near the house the dogs rushed forth, barking furiously, till some familiar face met their eyes, when their fury died away, first into low growls, then into a whimpering welcome, as they came slowly up, WTiggling their bodies and wagging their tails, in recognition of old friends ; but, that done, they walked quietly round among the company, snuffing slily at the legs of those least known to them, as if they were not willing to fondle every new comer without due examination. The dogs had roused the family. Out they came, one after another, and heartily glad they were to see us. Why hadn't w^e sent them lAlTLIX' MATTV. 199 word that we were coming? They were sure we were hungry, and so we were. And then a cheery bustle arose in the house, and we loitered about the farm till dinner was spread for us upon a green knoll, by the side of an old well, fed by a rindle of cold spring water. And there, under the blue sky, we feasted, with wild plovers wheeling about us ; and, high over head, the skylark raining down his glad song upon our green table. Black-faced sheep upon the mountain side stared at us with wondering eyes ; and our noisy merri- ment startled the grouse from his heathery cover. It was a hearty meal. Oat-cake and " Oon-cake," new baked that day by homely old "Ann ; " sweet moorland butter, cheese, crisp young onions, dripping with well-water, new milk, warm from the cow, fried ham, and home-brewed ale. It was a delicious feast, eaten in the grandest room man ever entered. Fun, and song, and sage discourse went round freely ; and that banquet under the blue sky will be long remembered by us amongst little things that light the past with gleams of joy. Long before sunset, we came down the mountain side, halting in twos and threes, now and then, to share some burst of merriment ; or to listen to some snatch of learned discourse upon the testimony of the rocks ; or to ask our friend, the " Antiquary," a question about relics of Roman occupation in the district It is three miles from " Fo' Edge ■' to " Mercer's " comfortable hostelry, at the foot of the hills, at Edenfield. Here we rested and regaled for an hour or so ; after which we came away ; some to take the train at Stubbins, and some to walk along the high road, five miles, to Bury. My route was different to the others : 200 TUFIS OF HKAIHKR : and at the south end of the village I parted from my friends, taking a road on the left hand, which leads into the old highway from Burnley to Manchester. This old road is lonely now, and a great part of it is rugged and watery, and grown over with grass and weeds. In some places it dives down steep banlcs, into deep doughs, and crosses brawling streams, and then climbs again in slippery, toilsome wind- ings, that make one think that if the horses of these days only knew what their ancestors had to go through, they would be thankful for railways. In some parts of the road there are holes, and pools of water ; in others great masses of rock crop out, laid bare by heavy rains, and kept so by long neglect; and in others the banks have slipped into the path, leaving it so narrow that " two wheelbarrows would tremble if they met." There is many an old house by this road side, now roofless and ruined, which fifty years ago was a flourishing country inn, or some other brisk haunt of a great thoroughfare. But, the lone highway has long since forgotten what a four-horse coach was like ; and there is an air of desolation and decay all along, except down in the doughs, where mills have been built by the water sides. The rosy rays of evening fell grandly upon the silent road as I walked along, musing whether or not I should call to see "Owd Grunsel," the gardener, whose house I wms approaching. Owd Grunsel's little cot stands in a snug green nook, at the foot of a little ridge of woodland. The rustling trees tell every changing mood of the wind to it all day long, and the ends of the wooded ridge curl in towards it lovingly, as if they wished to protect it from the .troubles of the outer world. All day long the birds sing jets of song TATTLIN MATfY. . 201 to the old gardeners cottage ; and, when night comes, and the household lights are put out, the trees seem to whisper to one another, " Hush ! Sing low ! It is asleep 1" And when, before the first lifting of the morning latch, the blue smoke begins to curl up from the chimney into the clear air, the leaves of the wood clap their little hands with glee to see it waken up again. The old man's nest looks up at the wild moors; and a garden divides it from the lonely road. About a mile down the hills, there is a busy manu- facturing village; but the intervening ridge of woodland hides that cosy cot from the noisy side of the world. As I drew near the place, I saw the door was open, as usual; and the cat was sitting at the threshold, looking dreamily out into the twilight. And I could see Matty and her grand-daughter moving to and fro inside. The old woman was a little deaf; but, before I had opened the gate, I heard little Jenny say, " Hey, gronny ! See yo who's coming ! " " Well, if ever ! " said the old woman, turning round as she wiped a basin which she had just washed. "Well, iv ever ! Is that yo ? Come fonud, prayo ! It's good for sore e'en, is this. . . . Jenny, bring him a cheer, lass. Thae stons theer as gawmless as a boother-stone ! . . . Yo known this woman, dunnot yo?" continued she, pointing to a stout, sweet, apple-faced body, who sat at the opposite side of the fire, with a basket upon her knees, and a choco- late-coloured silk kerchief tied upon her head. " It's Jim wife, at th' Nod. They'n bin kilUn' a pig ; an' hoo's brought me a bit o' spar-rib, — an' a link o' black puddins, — an' a bit o' swine's graice to rub mi bakin'-tins wi'. Aw say, aw 26 202 TUFTS OF HEATHER : dunnot know heavv aw'ni to pay 'cm, for they're al'ays bringing summat or another." "Eh, never name it, Matty," said the woman, shifting, uneasily upon her chair, and the colour rising into her ruddy cheek; "Never name it! It's nobbut good will an" ill, mon; a bit of a thing like that." " Well, Mary," said the old woman, " aw con nobbut thank tho, thae knows. But yo sco'ii," continued she, turning to me," "I nurs't her, when hoo wur quite yung, at after her mother dee'd : an' hoo like taks to mo, as if hoo're a lass o' my own, — doesn'lo, Mary ? " "Yigh, aw do," replied the woman; "an' so does eawr Jim." "Ay, he does," replied the old woman, sighing, as she opened the oven door and shut it again; "ay, he does. . . . Yo see'n, aw'm bakin'," continued she, turning to me. "Our Sam 's gardenin' deavvn at 'Thistley Knowe' ; but he '11 not be long afore he 's here. Sit yo deawn a bit," and then she scaled the fire, and set the kettle on. " Well, Matty," said I, pulling u]) my chair, " and how are yo gettin' on ? " "Why," replied she, setting one hand upon her side, "but poorly, bless yo, — but poorly. This rheumatic troubles me so. An' my e'e-seet 's gettin' warse. Mon, age will tell, — it will tell. . . An' aw feel quite knocked up to-day. . . . Eh, aw've had sich a trawnce ! " " Why, where han yo bin ? " "Stop a minute," said the old woman, "Ell put ih' dur to. . . . Come, puss! Ch-ch-ch ! . . Jenny, fotch yon mug in." TAITLIN MAITY. When the door was shut, she hobbled up to the oven, and taking a cake out, she tapped upon it with her finger, and turned it over. As she put it in again she muttered to herself, " Ay, it 's doin' nicely." Closing the oven, and setting her hands upon her hips, she gave a long sigh as she looked slowly round the house, and said, " I think I '11 e'en drop it for to-day ; for I 'ni clen done o'er. Oh, this pain ! It taks me across th' smo' o' my back. Jenny, reitch that knittin'. An' poo th' cheer up to th' hob, for I'm as wake as a kitlin'.' The old woman sat down ; and, as she arranged her needles, she said, "I'm fain yo co'de, for it gets o/w-fy a.t neet, vii' nobody to talk to. An' I like a bit of a chat. Our Sam says he wonders how it is that th' rheumatic never touches my tongue. But I'll tell yo where aw've bin to-day." " Do,'' said I, hutching my chair near to the hob. "I will," replied Matty, disentanghng her worsted, and settling herself once more, in a way that convinced me she was going to begin a long story. "Yo see'n," she began, "yo see'n, our Sam went out 3'esterday a gettin' a bum o' nettles for th' owd mistress at Th' Split Brid, yon. He never cheep't a word to me. But I knowed what he wor after, liiless yo. Yo see'n hoo wur very good to him at th' time that he lee ill so long. Why hoo's good to onybody, — an' that's where it is. That woman 's like as if hoo taks a pride i' helpin' folk that are a bit hamper't — hoo does for sure. Doesn't hoo, Mary ? " " Yigh ; hoo does." " Ay. Hoo 's a very feelin' body, is Nanny, — hoo is fur 204 TUFTS OF HEATHER : sure. An' as for our Sam ; why, he 's very thoughtless abeawt some things, reet enough ; but Lord bless yo, iv onj'body does him a good turn, he never forgets it, — never. . . . Thae knows that ; doesn'to, Mary ? " " Yigh, aw do." "When he's th' sober side eawt, ncaw," continued the old woman, " he 's not a mon 'at's g'in to talkin' at o'. He '11 sit by the fire, hour after hour, an' never cheep. . . But, eh, yo should yer him when he 's had a gill or two ! Lord in heaven bless yo ; he 's as soft as my pocket. An' he comes eawt wi' sich nonsense as one would expect that a mon at his time o' life should ha' forgetten. . . Aw say to him, sometimes aw say, 'Sam, do houd thi tung, aw pritlio ! That mak o' talk may do for yung folk 'at 's new wed, — but it's noan becomin' in an owd body.' An' then he will ha't that he's as yung as ever he wur. . . But, aw known better, bless yo. . . . But then, what "s th' use? One 's like to humour him a bit, yo known. Thae 's yerd him, Mary, when he's bin agate ov his bother, hasn'to?" " Sure, aw have, mony a time." "Ay, thae has. . . . But yo'd be astonished to see heaw nee the wayter lies to his een, when he's o' that shap. Iv aw happen to mention somebry 'at's been good to him, or some poor body 'at's ill off, aw- con have him cryin' in a minute. . . . But, aw cannot find i' my heart to try him wi' sich things, for aw connot help thinkin 'at it's a sign 'at he's breighkin up. He al'ays wur a feelin' mon; but he gets war, he gets war. . . . It's me 'at knows. We'n been teed together forty year come Ladymas; an' yo' known, owd wed folk finden one another's bits o' tatilin' MAm-. 205 ways eawt, wi' livin', an' tewiiV, an' pooin', an' feightin' th' world together. They're so like. . . . Jenny, th' cat's at that milk, sitho '." " Scat !" said Jenny, jumping up. And then she put the bowl upon a shelf in the buttery, and closed the door. " Aw've my weddin' things i'th kist up stairs ; an' there they mun stop to mi deein' day. . . • Aw go an' look at 'em sometimes, an' aw turn 'em o'er, an' air 'em, an put fresh neps among 'em,— an' it brings owd days to mi mind, very strung. . . • Mary, reitch that tother bo' o' wustid off th' table, willto ?"' "Aw see noan," replied she, turning round. "Oh, it's here," said she, picking it up from the floor, and handing it to the old woman. " Aye, aye," continued Matty, sighing as she took the ball of worsted. " Aye,— aye. It isn't to tell what folk han to go through i' this world '. Sometimes, ov a Sunday mornin', when he's been donned in his haliday things,— ff^ after aw've brush't him, an' teed his hankeycher on, aw've watch't him as he walked eawt at that verj- gate, an' aw've thought to mysel' that he wur the nicest mon 'at ever trode upo' God's greawnd! An' he wur too. ... But come, winnot yo have a droight o' ale? . . ■ Jenny, fill him a tot. It's noan so very strung ; but it's my own brewin', an' there's no mak o' prowt in it. Maut an' hops, an' nought else,— nobbut spring wayter. . . - But, eh, bless my life ! Aw'm maunder— maunder— maunderin' an' clean forgettm' what aw meant to tell yo. Aw have sich a memory ! . . . Well, but— see yo. Th' last neet, good Sunday an' o' as it wur,— eawr Sam coom in abeawt six o'clock, just as th' 2o6 TlTrS OF HKATHF.R : chapel bell below yon wur tollin' in for the latter sarvice, an' he'd two blue lin hankeychers wi' him, cromfull o' green stuff. Yo' known what a chap he is for yarbs. Jenny took 'em on him, and laid 'em tipo' top o'th drawers. An' as he hanged his hat up a-back o'th door, he says to me, 'I've bin gettin' some nettles for Owd Nanny, at Th' Split Brid, yon. I wish thou'd tak 'em up i'th mornin'." ' Eh, Sam,' I .said ; ' thou's never bin neltlin' of a Sunday again, hasto ?' ' Why, what for ?' he said, as nattle as could be. ' They groon of a Sunday, donnot they ? Thou'U want to stop th' smo' drink fro wortchin' of a Sunday in now. I believe if th' house wur a-fire thou wouldn't sleek it out if it wur Sunday. It's forty years sin tlice an' mee geet wed one Sunday. I wish, now, that I'd put that off while IMonday.' Eh, yo never yerd how he went on ! ' Owd Limper's wife geet her bed th' last Sunday,' he said. ' How loots thou didn't go an' stop that ?' Eh, he did talk 1 He axed me if I'd ony notion who it wur that made Setterday. An' he as good as towd mo that I wur a Sunday saint an' Monday divvle. But I took no notice. Lord bless yo, we'n had mony a scog about ih' .same thing. Men han ways o' their own, an' they winnot be said by sich as me. They thinken they'n o'th wit i'th world. So aw leet it drop, an' set th' tay out. . . . Well, I made a bit of a fat cake, as it wur Sunday ; an' aw went into th' garden an' poo'd some sallet ; an' nice an' crisp it wur. As soon as he set een on it, he begun a-laughin', an' he says, ' Eh, thou's never bin pooin' sallet ov a Sunday, hasto?' But I took no notice. So, when we'd getten th' tay o'er, he poo'd up to th' fire, an' began a-smookin' ; an' tattlin' mattv. 207 I dunned my spectacles, an' read th' Bible while bed-time. An' there wur no moor about it that neet." The old woman bent down to pick up her worsted : and whilst she was doing that, Mary rose, and said that she must be going home. " What's o' thi hurry ?" said the old woman. "Well, yo known," replied Mary, "aw shouldn't like to be eawt when he comes whoam." " Nawe, nawe, thae'rt reel, lass," answered the old woman. " Go thi ways. . . . An' thae mun do as weel asto con, thae knows. Everybody's summat to meet wi' i' this world. . . . An' mind thae keeps yon chylt warm, whatever thae does. It'll get o'er it, thae's see." "Ay, aw will." " Well, good neet to tho, Mary !" " Good neet !" said Mary, wiping her eyes. " A w'll come o' Sunday." CHAPTER II. Heaven bless thee, woman ; what a heap of stuff hast thou been twisting together, without head or tail. SANCHO PANZA. [HE sun had gone down behind the western hills, and the hum of life from the village in the valley had died away. In the wood a few throstles were still tossing their rich gushes of responsive song from side to side, like choristers in an old cathedral ; and they seemed 208 TUFTS OF HEATHFR : to sing louder than ever, as if they had been neglecting their music till the last thing ; or, like schoolboys at a late game of cricket, wished to crowd as much fun as possible into the lingering light, before they were called home to roost. The wind was playing a quiet tune on its green harp behind the cottage, by way of gentle hint to all around that it was bed- time ; and the voices of day were gradually giving place to those mysterious minstrels who fill the dreamy midsummer night with melodies too fine for the ear of the sunlit hours. Mary's way home led up into the wild moors, which rolled away from the front of the cottage in great heathery billows of silent solitude. As she slowly ascended the rugged by- path the old gardener's wife stood in the doorway watching her ; and she lifted her hands, and slowly shook her head as she said, in a low plaintive tone, " Aye, aye ; go thi ways, Mary, my lass ; go thi ways. Thae's getten thi wark bi th' hond. God help tho ! " The old woman stood till Mary disappeared round a craggy knoll, and then she turned and came into the house. Taking up her knitting she sat down by the fire again ; and, as she arranged her worsted, slie heaved a sigh and said, " Aye, poor Mary ! Hoo's tried to some tune — hoo is that ! An' a better lass never stepped shoe leather — never. God help her ! An' God help us o', for we needen it, we done so." The old woman went on knitting in silence for a minute or two ; and I was wondering what painful story was smouldering under this sad soliloquy when little Jenny broke the stillness by asking her grand- mother whether she should mend the fire or not. " Nawe, nawe," said Matty ; " it's warm enough ; but thae may put th' dur to." TATTLIN MATTY. 209 Jenny closed the door and sat down ; and, as the old woman showed no disposition to speak further upon the subject that so evidently troubled her, I reminded her that she had broken off at the beginning of the story which she had promised a little while before. "Aye, aye," said she, "so aw did, so aw did. Well, as aw wur tellin' yo, this mornin' as soon as th' breakfast wur sided aw teed a bit o' stuff up for eawr Sam's dinner, an' off he seet to th' ' Thistley Knows ' a doin' some gardenin' jobs. Well, he hadn't bin gwon mony minutes afore who should come in but eawr Jonathan's daughter. . . . Sarah's getten a fine strung lass, neaw. Hoo wove at Scutcher's while they wur agate ; but, sin they stopped hoo's helped her mother wi' th' clooas. Her mother taks in weshin'. EawT Jonathan's a greight family. The Lord knows heaw he manages to scrat for a livin' these times, for he's bin eawt o' wark nine months, an' Nanny's nee th' deawn-lyin' again. . . . But, as aw wur tellin' yo, Sarah's a fine, hearty lass. Hoo'll be nineteen come Rushbearin' Sunday. But, what thinken yo? That monkey ov a lad o' Snapper's is after her, as yung as hoo is. . . . Eh ; but iv aw wur her mother, see yo, aw'd tak that pouse at top o'th' yed wi' th' fire-pote iv ever he darken't my dur-hole upo' sich an arran' as that — a.vf wou/iL' . . . He'll never do her a smite o' good ; for he thinks o' nought i' th' world but race-runnin' an' wrostlin', an' pigeon-flyin', an' single-step doancin', an' sich like sleeveless wark as that. An' he's as mischievous a little twod as ever broke brade. . . . One neet aw sit knittin' at th' table under th' window theer, as it met be to-neet, nobbut it wur darker, an' o' at once my ear 27 210 TUFTS OF IIKATHF.R : gated o' ticklin' like hey-go-niad, an' weet began o' runnin' eawt on it. Well, aw shaked my yed, an' aw wiped my ear, au' better wiped it ; but it made no mends. At last awgeet freeten't, for aw began o' thinkin' some new ailment had taen howd on mo. So aw laid deawn my knittin' and aw said, 'Jenny, run for thi gronfaylher. There's summat uncuth agate i' this yed o' mine. Aw believe aw'm beawn to have a fit.' But as soon as hoo oppen't th' dur there wur a great crack o' laughin' an' a scutter o' feet i'th' garden. . . . .A.n' what wur it, thinken yo? . . . It wur nought i'th world but thai ill-getten whelp o' Snapper's that had bin squirtin' waytcr into my car through a hole i'th corner o'th window. . . . l-'.h, aw wur some mad ! . . . But, that's nought, bless yo. . . . Aw'll tell yo heaw he sarv't owd Ailse 'at keeps th' toffy-shop deawn i'th fowd yon. Yo known Ailse is a lone woman. Hoo lives in a litde low cot 'at ston 3 by itsel', a bit past ' Th' Noon Sun Well.' It's a less heavvse nor this. Wh}', yo may touch th' bottom o'th chamber window wi' yo'r bond nearly. . . . Well, as this ill-mi.xt cowt o' Snapper's wur trailin' whoam late one winter's neet, when he'd bin drinkin' an' doin' wi' a rackety swarm 'at gwos to th' sign o'th ' Twitchelt Boggart ' a-playin' at dominoes, an' sich like, he sees a mug 'at Ailse had laft eawt o'th' dur 'at after hoo'd getten to bed. O'. wur dark an' still; an' there wur nought stirrin' but sich like rackless ncet-crows as his-sel'. . . . Well; what does he do, but starts a-roggin' at th' dur, as iv th' heawse wur a-fire. Well; Ailse coom to th' window in her ncet-geawn; an' hoo code eawt, 'Whatever's to do?' ' Mistress,' he said, 'dun yo know 'at yo'n laft a mug eawt?' 'Eh, ay,' hoo says TArn.IN MATTV. 211 'aw have.' 'Well,' he said, 'hadn't yo better tak it in? There's a rook o' chaps bin cloddin' at it. Aw thought aw'd tell yo.' 'Thank yo, niaister,' said Ailse ; ' thank yomony a time. Aw '11 come deawn an' fotch it in.' Well ; th' ill- contrive't divvle — 'at aw should say sich a thing, — he see'd that th' chamber-window wur a very little un ; so he said, ' Here, mistress ; yo'n no 'casion to come deawn. Aw 'II reitch it up to yo.' So without givin' it a thought, hoo thanked him again, and hoo leant forrud eawt o'th window, while he hove th' mug up to her. An' as soon as hoo'd getten howd on't, he bad her good neet, an' walked off. ' Good neet, maister ! ' said Ailse ; ' an' thank yo ! ' an' then hoo began a twistin' an' twinin' to get th' mug in. But th' window wur too little,— dunnot yo see ; an' theer hoo wur, in her neet-geawn, th' hauve road eawt o'th house, ov a snowy neet, — grinnin' an' gruntin' an' feightin' wi' th' mug, till her arms warch't again. . . . But it wur no use. So at last hoo sheawted after him, 'Hey! Maister! Aw say! Tak th' mug deawn again ! Aw connot get it in 1 ' But there wur no onswer. . . . Th' pousement wur watchin' her off at th' heawseend o th' time, bless yo; but he never cheep't. Well ; yo known, hoo couldn't ston shiverin' iheer o' neet, wi' th' mug in her arms. An' there wur nobody to help her. So, at last, hoo leet it go to th' floor wi' a crash. ' Thire ! ' said Ailse, lookin' deawn after th' mug, ' that 's ninepence ! . . . But th' felly 's noan to blame. He did it with a good thowt.' 'Ay, aw did, Ailse,' said he, peepin' off at th' corner. ' Good neet, owd crayther ! ' Ailse see'd in a minute that hoo'd bin taen in ; an' hoo gav him a good tung-lashin' as he walked off. ' Thae'rt some 212 TUFTS OF HEATHER: mak ov a mismanner't waistril,' hoo said, ' that theaw art. But, i' thou'll reitch me a good-sized lump o' that mug up, neaw, aw '11 tay tho a-top o'th nob wi't, seawndly ; an' soon, too; for theaw 'rt an ill whelp o' sombory's. But aw '11 fot law on tho, iv aw live while mornin', see iv aw dunnot ! ' An' so hoo went on. But hoo met as weel ha' talked to a stoo-fuut, bless yo. He took no moor notice nor iv it had bin an owd cat meawin' ! . . . Eh, he 's an ill un, — pile't-up an' deawn-thrutch't. He desarves floggin' fro tcawn to teawn at a cart-tail, — an' he'll get it yet, — iv he's luck. . . . But aw'm missin' my tale. As aw 're tellin' yo, — this mornin', eawr Jonathan daughter coom to th' dur wi' a basket-full 'o clooas ov her yed, an' hoo code eawt, ' Is my Aint Mattie in ? ' An' aw said, 'Ay; come in witho, what arto stonnin' theer for ? ' So hoo set th' basket deawn at th' dur, an' coom in ; an' hoo said 'at her mother had towd her to co' a-seein' heaw aw wur. An' aw said to her, ' Well, lass ; thae mun tell her 'at aw'm nobbut thus an' so. Tell her 'at aw've had a smatch o'th rheumatic again. An' ih' spine o' my back troubles me badly. An' aw'm ill o' my yed betimes. This weather's again me Thi Uncle Sam's wortchin' up at th' Thistley Knowe. . . ■ Hasto had thi breakfast ? ' An' who said, ' Eh, ay. Lung sin.' . . At th' same time aw know that they're clemmed like wedge-wood. . . Aw don't know heaw it is. That lass would ha' had a bite wi' us, neaw an' then, when times wur good ; but aw connot get her to taste, neaw. Hoo like as iv 1)00 shames to own 'at they're ill off. An' hoo looks hungry; an' her face is nipped wi' stomach-frost. But, hoo's preawder nor ever, aw believe. An' they're o' alike. TATIMn' MATTY. 213 except th' very little uns. . . . Eawr Sam sent two shillin' up tother day ; but Jonathan sent it back, an' said it wur a shame iv they could'nt feight through beawt lyin' upo' two owd folk like us. . . . My heart bleeds for 'em, see yo, — for aw know they're ill pincer't. But, aw geet th' brass to Xanny at after, beawt lettin' Jonathan know, dunnot yo see. Well ; hoo're nearly as ill as tother ; for hoo cried, like an owd foo', an' hoo said hoo would'nt ha' touched it, but for th' sake o'th childer. . . But, Lord bless my life I aw'm maunderin', an' missin' my tale again. This yed o' mine isn't worth a row o' pins. ... As aw're tellin' yo abeawt eawr Jonathan lass : — ' Well, Sarah,' aw said to her ; ' an' wheer hasto bin ? ' So, hoo towd mo that hoo'd bin up to th' Ho' for some weshin', an' hoo're gooin' whoam wi't. So, aw towd her aw had to go deawn to th' fowd wi' a burn o' nettles, an' iv hoo'd watch two or three minutes, we'd go together part o'th gate Well ; in a bit we set off, — hur wi' her basket, an' me wi' my nettles ; an' a bonny marlock hoo played upo' th' road. But yo'st yer. . . . When we geet to th' corner o'th lone, at th' side o' Amos o' Rapper sho]), there wur some stone-carts gooin' by; an' th' owd mistress at th' Parsonage, an' two young ladies, very nicely donned, stoode upo' th' foot-gate, waitin' till they'd getten by. As soon as Sarah see'd 'em, hoo said, 'Aint Matty; aw'm tire't.' So I said, ' Put thi basket down, then.' Well, see yo, hoo'd no sooner set th' basket upo' Amos dur-step, than hoo begins a-starin' at these dresses, an' hoo made no moor ado but went an' geet howd o' one o'th young ladies' skirts, an' hoo says, 'See yo, Aint Matty! Come here! That's 214 TUFTS OF HKATHER : same mak o' stuff as we use't to wciglive at O.vd Scutcher's. Aw could like one off it mj'sel'. It's nobbut chep stuff.' Well; yo should ha' sin that young woman turn round! Her face wur as red as a yetter ! Hoo nipt th' skirt out o' Sarah's hond, an' hoo says, ' Well, I'm sure I Sich ini- pidence ! ' an' then, they o' three whiskt off to th' tother side o'th' road, — as peeart as pynots. Eh, I wur sum mad at Sarah, — th' little snicket ! Aw didn't know which gate to turn my een. To be sure, th' lass did it without a thought ; but then folk like thoose dunnot look at things th' same as sich as me does. ' Eh, Sarah,' I said, ' thou shouldn't ha' done so ! ' Well ; hoo looks at me as innocent as a flea, an' hoo says, 'What's to do, Aint Matty? It's quare if one mun go by their own wark beawt oppenin' their mouth to't.' But 1 pike't up my nettles, an' Sarah took th' basket, an' we geet out o' sect as fast as we could. An' I gav her a good talkin' to as we walked away. When we coom to th' corner where I had to turn up, hoo wiped her een with her brat, an' hoo said, 'Well, .\int Matty; yo dunnot need to sauce mo so niich. Aw want noan of her clooas. But, aw couldn't help speighkin when aw see'd that stuff, — for aw'm nearly sure aw've woven it, iv hoo wears it.' . . . An', raylee o' me ; aw felt soory for th' lass after o', — for th' chylt thought nought wrang, — not hoo. But, they han sich awvish ways in a country place, mon. . . . When we parted at th' corner o'th road, aw said, 'Neaw, Sarah, thae'll be a good lass, winnot tho ? ' An' hoo said hoo would. An' then hoo took off whoam, an' aw went forrud to th' sign o' Th' Siilit Brid wi' my nettles. " .'Vnd now, to my great relief, the old woman paused and TATTLIN MATTV. 2 I 5 rose to Stir the fire. Her little grand-daughter, who had been turning over the pictures in an old copy of Culpepper's Herbal, had dropped asleep, with her head on the book. " Come, my lass," said Matty, patting her on the head ; " thi gron-dad winnot be lung, neaw. Thae's go to bed as soon as he comes." The kettle was boiling furiously ; and as the old woman lifted it on to the hob, I took advantage of her momentary silence, which I knew would not last long — and I rose to go home. " Nay, what's yo'r hurry ? " said Matty. " Stop till eawr Sam comes. I haven't towd yo heaw aw went on at Th' Split Brid, yet." But, " enough is as good as a feast ; " and I had heard more than enough of old Matty's twaddle for one sitting ; so I told her that I would hear it at some more convenient time, "Well," said she, following me to the door, "drop in some day th' ne.xt week, iv yo'r this gate on. Yo known aw 've no neighbours to have a bit ov a cample to. An' aw connot talk to eawr Sam ; for it mays him as crampt as a wisket. It wur nobbut tother day, aw begun a-tellin' a tale 'at's getten eawt abeawt Tummy Clapper an' his wife, an' he said to that lass, he said, ' Jenny, run deawn to Billy Peighswad's as fast as tho con for some wool to put i' my ears. An' tell 'em 'at thi gron-mother's in a scandil-fit.' He like as iv he connot abide to yer one speighk, sometimes. An' it's very awker't, for aw've nobry to talk to, nobbut this bit ov a lass ov eawrs ; an' hoo's noan like an up-groon body, yo known. But, one's like to humour him." It was a cloudless summer night ; and the moon was 2i6 Turrs of heaiher: beginning to tinge the moorland hills with silvery light. I should not have known that there was any wind astir but for a sleepy rustle in the grove behind the cottage, which sounded distinctly in the deep stillness around. " Good neet, Matty," said I, walking out at the garden gate. " Good neet to yo ! " replied the old woman. " Iv yo leeten ov eawr Sam upo th' road, hasten him w^hoam." COu'd tfvonic.s. fllK face of nature has been so much changed in Lancashire during the last eighty years that it is hard to conceive what the country was like three or four centuries ago. Almost within the memory of living man, the rise of modern industrialism, and the combination upon the same spot of the elements essential to success in manufacturing enterprise — coal, stone, clay, iron, and water ; the great energy of the old inhabitants ; the vast influx ot population from other quarters, and the rapid growth of wealth and towns — these things altogether have overwhelmed the ancient features of the land like a sudden deluge ; and now the county which, up to a century ago, had seen least of change, has, since that time, undergone greater alteration in its appearance and way of life than any other part of the kingdom. In ancient days, when men never dreamt of the slumbering wealth beneath the surface, its soil was reckoned among the poorest in England, and its people among the hardiest J its range of hills rolled across the country in stormy waves of lonely moorland; its doughs were impassable 28 2l8 TUFTS OF HEATHER : swamps ; its forests were wild hunting-grounds, kept for the pleasure of the king and the nobles of the land ; its roads were chiefly ancient bridle-paths ; and upon its plains there were vast tracts of wild heath and spongy moss. Sterile, remote, and unattractive, it held little communion with the rest of the kingdom, except when stirred by some great event which roused the whole land to war. Then, indeed, the strong-bred bowmen and billmen of Lancashire mustered from their leafy nooks and followed the banners of their proud aristocracy to many a well-fought field, where their stern front and deadly shafts have spread dismay amongst the boldest foes. In those wild times Lancashire was famous over all England for its terrible bowmen. In many of its ancient towns — as at Rochdale and Bury — there are places which, though now covered by modern streets, still bear the name of "The Butts," where the ancient population practised archery, then the warlike sport of the yeomanry of England. Some parts of Lancashire cherish the old love of archery to this day : and on the south-eastern border of the county the legends of Robin Hood are still associated with the land. Upon the wild western slope of Blackstone Edge an immense crag stands alone — the rugged monarch of the moorland — in the lowmost part of which there is a small cave, known all over the country side by the name of " Robin Hood's Bed," and upon the opposite hills there are great boulders, which he is said to have flung across the valley. Ancient Lan- cashire was a comparatively roadless wild ; and its sparse population — scattered about in quaint hamlets and isolated farm-nooks — were a rough, bold, and independent race, clinging tenaciously to the language, manners, and traditions OWD CRONIES. 219 of their fore-elders ; and despising all the rest of the world, of which they knew next to nothing. Its simple life was singularly self-contained, and what little traffic it had was carried on by strings of pack-horses, upon rugged tracks, which had been the pathways of the ancient inhabitants of the land from the earliest historic times. These facts leak out in all that we read of Lancashire in the olden time. The learned Camden, after travelling over the rest of the kingdom, implored the protection of Heaven before entering on a region so little known and of such wild repute as Lancashire was in those days ; and Arthur Young, the famous Suffolk agriculturist, wTiting about the end of the last century, com- plains in vigorous, old-fashioned English about the state of the Lancashire roads at that time. He lived long enough, however, to see the beginning of a new state of things in that county. CHAPTER I. MIDDLETON IN THE OLDEN TIME. O' crom-full o' ancientry. OUR FOLK. ilN the time of the Plantagenets, when the woods of Lancashire were wild and thick, when its air was pure, and its rivers clear, and all the country wore the livery of nature, Middleton must have been one of Cnc most picturesque villages in the county. In those days, 2 20 TUFTS OF HEATHER : when the neighbouring hamlet of Blackley was deep in the heart of a forest — when " Boggart Ho' Clough" was a "deer leap," and " Th' White Moss " was a lonely waste of evil repute, little Middleton, with its fine old manorial hall, its moated rectory, its timber-built houses, and its venerable church upon the hill, must have been a pretty nest of rural life in the midst of a green and quiet country. Even now, when the land has been stript of its ancient woods, and all nature seems to have been pressed into the service of modern necessities, the country around is prettily varied in feature, and the little town is pleasant to the eye. The history of the place is obscure until the bsginning of the thirteentli century when Henry the Third was king, in whose reign a church existed, upon the site of the present one. In the same reign the manor was held, " by military service," by a family bearing the local name— the Middletons of Middleton ; one of whom, Sir James Middleton, is associated with the founda- tion of a chantry chapel in the ancient church of Rochdale, five miles off. From the Middletons this manor passed, in the reign of Henry the Fourth, into the hands of the Bartons, then a famous family in Lancashire. From the Bartons the lordship of Middleton passed into the possession of the Asshetons — men of great renown in their day. Baines says :— Margaret, the daughter of John Barton, Esq., having married Ralph Assheton, Esq., a son of Sir John Assheton, knight, of .Ashton- under-Lyne, he became lord of Middleton in her right, in the seven- teenth 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 Tower of London, and sheriff of Yorkshire, 1473 — 1474. He attended the Duke of Gloucester at the. battle of Haldon own CRONIES. 221 or Hutton Field, Scotland, in order to recover Berwick, and was created a knight biinneret on the field for his gallant services. 1483. On the succession of Richard the Third to the Crown, he created Ralph vice-constable of England, by letters patent in 1483. And thus it was that the little town of Middleton emerged from its old historic obscurity, and became associated thence- forth with the great events of the times, through connection with the Asshetons, in the person of Sir Ralph Assheton — the terrible "Black Lad" of Lancashire story — one of the most ambitious and active members of a powerful family, of whose tyranny tradition still preserves the remembrance. Dr. Hibbert, in his history of Ashton-under-Lyne, says of this famous favourite of a cruel king ; — 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 appearance in this manner, clad in black armour (whence his name of '' Black Lad"), 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 name of the " Black Lad" is at present regarded with no other sentiment than that of horror. Tradition has, indeed, still per- petuated the prayer that was fervently ejaculated for a deliverance from his tyranny ; — Sweet Jesu, for thy mercy sake, And for Thy bitter passion, Save us from the axe of the Tower, And from Sir Ralph of Assheton. The present church seems to have been built upon the site of the previous edifice, by Sir Richard Assheton, a grandson of the " Black Lad." On the south side of the church is the following inscription, which indicates both the rebuilders and the date of the present edifice : " Ricardus Assheton et Anne, 22 2 runs OF HEATHER: uxor ejus, Anno D'ni MDXXXIIII.' 'J'his Sir Ricliard was, for his valour and bravery at tlie battle of Flodden Field, knighted by Henry the Eighth, and had divers privileges granted within his manor of Middleton. An ancient window of stained glass commemorates the death of sixteen of the band of Middleton archers, who fought under Sir Richard in that famous fray. The church contains numerous monuments of the Asshetons ; and part of the armour of the same " Sir Richard," dedicated by him to Saint Leonard, of Middleton, is still preserved in the church. These Asshetons seem to have been a stirring race of men through many a century, and it is curious to speculate upon what kind of life was led by the obscure tenantry of these warlike lords of Middleton, in those Dear lamented times When theft and homicide were jokes, not crimes ; When burning peels and towns were acts of merit. And red revenge became a lad of spirit ; When every eye saw fairies, ghosts, and devils Frisk in the moonbeams in their midnight revels. The life of the aristocracy is recorded in many ways, but of the undercurrent of human existence we know very little. W'e have still a curious picture left of what kind of life was led by the ancient gentry of Lancashire in the "Journal of Nicholas Assheton, of Downham, in Ribblesdale," who was a scion of the knightly family of Middleton. It is a singularly minute record, full of graphic details, and of " touches which make the past more than present." In Dr. Whitaker's analysis of its contents we get a vivid glance of this charac- teristic memorial. He says : — Thus ends the journal of Nicholas Assheton, then a young and OWD CRONIES. 223 active man, engaged in all the business of, and enjoying all the amusements of the country'. WTiat he might in a rainy day and a serious mood have done for himself I will now do for him, or rather for his readers — analyse this curious fragment, and assign every portion of time accounted for to its proper occupation ; premising, however, that there are great chasms in the journal, one of three months at least ; and that the daj's which are marked "home," &c., are passed over as blanks, though perhaps better spent than many which are more strongly characterised. In this period, then, he accounts for the hearing of forty sermons, three of them by as many bishops, and one for communion. On the other hand he records sixteen fox chases, ten stag hunts, two of the buck, as many of the otter and hare, one of the badger, four days of grouse shooting, the same of fishing in the Ribble and Hodder, and two of hawking. Shooting with the long and crossbow, horse matches, and foot races were the other means of consuming time without doors. Stage plays and cards are never mentioned. As a scale by which the writer measured his own degrees of intemperance, and a catalogue of his excesses, let the reader attend to the following : "Merrie" eleven times, " verie merrie " once, " more than merrie " once, " merrie as Robin Hood" once, "plaid the bacchanalian" once, "'somewhat too busie with drink ' once, " sick with drink ' once, " foolish " once, and lastly, '' fooled this day worse " once. With all these confessions we hear of neither resolutions nor attempts at amendment. In this short period he saw four deaths of the Asshetons ; he attended the king at Hoghton Tower ; he assisted in quelling a private quarrel in Wensleydale ; attended the king's commission in the great cause of the copyholds of Blackburn Hundred ; and took two journeys to London on business with the Court of Wards and Star Chamber. A man more largely connected, or extensively acquainted with his county, there probably never was. Such was Nicholas Assheton, of the time of James the First, who, in the course of his Journal, mentions, again and again, his visits to "Cousin Assheton, of Middleton." A little nearer our own day we find these Asshetons still abreast with the events of the time In the Cromwellian war, Ralph Assheton, 2 24 TUFTS OF HEATHKR : of Middleton, was an energetic adherent to the Parliamentary cause. On the 24th of September, 1642, about one hundred and fifty of his tenants, in complete arms, joined the forces of Manchester in opposition to the Royalists. He com- manded the Parliamentary troops at the siege of Warrington. He was engaged at the siege of Lathom House, and led the Middleton Clubmen at the siege of ]5olton-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. His son Ralph, however, espoused the cause of Charles the Second, and was created a baronet in 1663. The old hall of the Asshetons at Middleton must have been a fine specimen of an ancient manor house. It was situated in a park, hard by the town, " but having been modernised about the latter part of last century, and after- wards deserted by its owners, it was entirely demolished in 1845." Canon Raines says of it : — Middleton Hall was a timber-bviilt house, surrounding two spacious courts, and approached by two bridges over a moat. The great entrance hall was described, about the year 1770 or 1771, as " resembling a ship turned upside down," from which it might appear that it had rested upon crooks, and was probably built in Edwardian times by the Middletons, the then material owners. This ancient hall was hung round with two or three hundred heavy matchlocks, with buff-coats and some half suits of armour, which have all been removed and dispersed within living memory. Some of this armour is now in the collection of George Shaw, Esq., of St. Chad's, Saddlcworth. This memorable old house saw many generations of strong Englishmen. In Samuel Bamford's " Early Days " I find the following notice of it ; — OWD CRONIliS. 225 The Old Hall was perhaps one of the finest relics of the sort in the country. It was built of plaster and framew^ork ; panels, carvingF, and massy beams of black oak, strong enough for a mill floor. The yard was entered through a low wicket, at a ponderous gate ; the interior of the yard was laid with small diamond-shaped flags ; a door led on the left into a large and lofty hall, which was hung round with matchlocks, swords, targets, and hunting weapons, intermingled with trophies of the chase. The site of the hall is now occupied by a cotton factory, and no traces of its ancient park remain. Speaking of the old parsonage, as it appeared in his youth, Bamford says :— The rectory was then an old irregular-looking edifice, built partly of brick and partly of stone, with a moat round it, and shot-holes in the walls for musketry or cross-bows. Bamford dwells lovingly upon the ancient features of his native town, and the pleasant appearance of the country around, when he was a boy— that is, about the end of the last century. He speaks of the old stained-glass window in the northern aisle of the church, representing " a band of archers, kneeling, each with his bow on his shoulder, his quiver at his breast, and his name above his head," com- memorative of Middleton men who were slain at the battle of Flodden Field, under the command of Sir Richard Assheton. He says : — On the north side of the churchyard wall stood an old thatched timber and daub house, which we entered down a step, through a strong low door with a wooden latch. This was '"Old Joe Wellins's," the church alehouse, a place particularly resorted to by rough fellows when they had a mind for a private drinking bout. It was a current tradition that gentlemen roadsters, who lived by levying contributions on the northern highways, made this their " boozing-ken," or place of concealment, after their foraging expeditions. Nevison and Turpin are said to have frequented this old secluded alehouse. 29 2 20 TUFTS OF HEATHER; He speaks plaintively of the days when "few of the lonely, out-of-the-way places — the wells, the by-paths, the dark old lanes, and solitary houses — escaped the reputation of being haunted by boggarts, feeorin', witches, fairies, clapcans, and such like beings of terror, who were supposed to be lurking in almost every retired corner or sombre-looking place, whence they came forth at permitted hours to enjoy their nocturnal freedom." He babbles pleasantly of the green fields and shady dingles of his youth ; and he tells us of the old haunted " Owler Bridge " over the Irk, where his father used to sing hymns as he crossed in the dark when on his way to take lessons from "th' wise mon o' Hulton-fowd ;" and of the haunted Grammar School ; and of " Boarshaw," where, in ancient days, a boar of great size having been killed by one of the Asshetons, of Middleton, the boar's head was thenceforth borne as the family crest ; and of " Doom Cloof," a deep clift or gully, " darkened by timber and underwood, and haunted by fairies and clapcans ;" and of tlie ancient house at the head of " Bloniley Cloof," which was haunted by the ghost of " Owd Blomley," a fierce re- tainer of the Hopwoods, of Hopwood, during the civil wars. With the plaintive delight of a romantic second childhood, he tells over the old superstitious country tales of an age gone by, and lingers lovingly among the lonely woods, the green rambling-grounds, and shady dingles of his youth, and closes his graphic "glimpse of auld lang syne" with these words: " But the doughs and hollows in the neighbourhood of Middleton are now as bare as if they had been swept by a fire. The woods, the shelters, the bosky dingles, the pleasant summer shadows are no longer there ; nay, the hedgerows OWD CRONIES. 227 Are stinted ; tlie wild roses and honey-bines are nearly all gone: "The glory has departed." They are gone, as he himself now is gone, and as all things on earth must go. The old man sleeps in peace, close by the church of St. Leonard, almost the only relic of ancient Middleton now left, except the rectory, and the old timber-built inn called the Boar's Head, which is the scene of our story. CHAPTER II. THE OLD BOAk'S HEAD. Where greybeard mirth and smiling toil retired, Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round. GOLDSMITH. jT was a busy day in the Old Boar's Head on the Jl 24th of December, 1800, and the ancient crest of m the Asshetons creaked on its rusty hinges as it swung to and fro in the wintry blast. It was a famous house at that time, for all the coaches that ran between Manchester and York called there ; and this alone made it the centre of the village life and of village loungers seeking news. In addition to which the old inn was remarkable for its cleanli- ness and the general geniality of its appearance inside and out Its accommodation was excellent ; its fare was bountiful, and of the best quality ; its charges were reasonable ; and its home-brewed ale was renowned for strength and purity. The host and hostess, too, were of the good old, strong, deep- 22S TUFTS OF HEATHER : blooming breed of countrj' folk — genuine descendants of tlic stiff, unbridled Saxon race — the very pair to keep a substantial wayside inn sweet, and sound, and homely. Genial, generous, and business-like, with a thorough hatred of dirt, disorder, and injustice, they had a warm side for poor humanity in all its forms; and a natural loi'e of the busy varieties of roadside life. Giles Buckley, the landlord, was a stalwart, large-bodied specimen of an Englisliman. In the old time of bills and bows he would have been a formidable antagonist upon the battle field. With a mind free from all underhand dealing, he was happy-hearted, humorous, kind, and naturally of an obliging disposition ; a foe to riotous excess, he was yet able to stand any amount of drink, which enabled him to entertain by his presence any number of successive guests. Naturally intelligent, and fond of fun, his way of life had acquainted him with great varieties of mankind ; and he was an inex- haustible storehouse of tale, anecdote, and song. Such was the usual simplicity of his life and the strength of his con- stitution that, when any extraordinary occasion called for special indulgence, a night's rest brought him forth again as fresh as a daisy and as firm as a rock. With these attractions no wonder that the Old Boar's Head was one of the best accustomed inns for miles around. Many a weary traveller hastened onwards in the dark to gain the shelter of that famous inn ; and many a forlorn wanderer's heart was made glad in its glowing kitchen. Here, too, when twilight came, the village folk met to enjoy the company of their neighbours, to tell old tales, and to discuss the news of the day and the gossip of the village. It was a busy day, for, in addition to the usual bustle of OWU CRONIES. the place, tlie landlord had mvited a few friends to supper on Christmas Eve ; and the whole house was astir to do honour to the feast, which had been the talk of the village for a week In the kitchen the stout old landlady busded about ^monc^ her servants, looking anxiously after the preparation. '■Now, lasses," said she, "do stir yoursel's ! Yo' known what we han to do. Get this place sided up ; th' coach '11 be here directly. There's three dinners i'th front parlour, an' th' men '11 be in fro' th' stable afore long. Sally, go nito th' nooks an' corners wi' that brush o' thine, an' be sharp. If I've ony cleunin' done, I man have it done thrugh-an'- through. I cannot abide your scamblin', sham-smart ways. I like^to 6e clen, as well as to look so. I wish to the Lord thou'd manage to do thi wark beawt so mich tentin'. Thou'll make a bonny dossy of a wife for sombry, when thou comes to be left to thisel". It 'U be weary deed for ony poor lad at trets thee, if thou doesn't awter." ° Sally blushed and netded up. " I never seed sich a house as this for clennin'," said she ; " yo're al'ays agate-th' day to an end. My mother never " " Keep thi tung between thi teeth," replied the landlady ; " an' dunnot tell me about thi mother. I mun ha th' wark done as I want it, an' not as thi mother wants it. Come, stir thoose shanks o' thine ! Thou'rt gettin' to fat and to full ! I'm talkin' to thi for thi own good. But thou'd raither sit by th' fire fro' moniin' to nect, countin' cinders, an' up to thi een i' dirt, if folk would let tho live an idle life. I declare it seems as if some poor craiters were born to be miserable theirsel's, an' to make everybody miserable about 'em. I've no patience wi' sich like slotchin' wark. Uo try some bit like. 230 TUFTS or HEATHliR : lass ; an' tlunnot need SO mich talkiu' to. . . . Martha, I'll chop that suet ; go thi way up stairs an' help to make th' beds. . . . Nanny, how's that beef gettin' on ? . . . Tell Bill to mend these fires. . . . What's yon bell ? " It was a bright, cold winter's day. The wind came steadily, with cutting keenness, from the north-east. The snow-drifts by the wayside were crisp and hard : the hoar- frost glittered, but did not melt in the sun ; and the high road rang under foot like a metal plate. The old church clock had struck twelve, and a knot of grammar school lads were " sleddin " down the brow which leads to the church, whilst others stood by the footpath, watching them, and blowing their nails ; whilst their gleeful clamour sounded far into the little town. In front of the " Boar's Head," a stiff- built, old, grey-haired hostler was puffing and blowing as he curried and brushed the hide of a traveller's horse, whilst another was briskly engaged in whistling " Britons, strike home ! " as he swept the coble-pavement before the doorway. A dense flock of sparrows, flitting from the road up to the eaves of the house, and back again, filled all the air in front of the inn with a gleeful twitterment ; whilst a redbreast chanted, by fits, his pretty, plaintive winter song from the leafless thorns on the opposite side of the road. Two or three villagers were lounging about the doorway, as usual, talking to the hostlers. "Jack," said one of them, " that's noan an ill mak of a tit " " Nawe, bi th' mass," replied Jack ; " there's some comfort i' hondlin' a thing like this. It's as bonny a bit o' horse-flesh as ever I clapt e'en on. Nevison, th' heeway-man, had one the very marrow o' this. I can remember it as if it were to-day." OWD CRONIES. 231 "By Guy, Jack ; this is happen it." « It's hectum as like ! What the dule arto talkin' about ? Both him an' his horse were laid low afore thou were born. Beside, Nevison's tit had a white star upo' th' for-yed ; an' it were raither of oather finer i'th leg nor this. Oh, nawe ; Nevison's were never sin upo' this side at after he robbed th' vicar o' Rachda', at ' Th' Slattocks." Let's see ; that'll be forty year sin' come peigh-cod time.'' "Well; him an' Dick Turpin,— they'n played some bonny marlocks upo' these roads, bi o' accounts.'' " Aye, aye ; now thou talks. They wur two lively cowts, for sure. But they seldom tried their pranks long together upo' one spot. Old Joe Wellins says ' 'at they dropt in at th' church ale-house yon, one back-end, at after they'd robbed th' York mail, and they lee theer a whole week, as snug as two mites in an owd cheese ; though th' hue and cry were out all. o'er England.' Well, they crope off one mornin', just afore skrike o' day ; an' in about two year after they turn't up again, i'th deeod time o' th' neet ; but they were so swapped that no mortal mon could ha' towd 'em. . . • Hasto bin up at owd Jim's, at Goom Cloof, lady?" " Aye ; I code th' last week about a cauve he had to sell. But I coom off at th' edge o' dark ; for I may no 'count o' stoppin' i' that nook after delit ^daylight) ; ' Owd Blomley's' agate war than ever." " What, th' boggart ? " " Ay ; an' th' warst boggart there is upo' this country side for flay some deed, an' powlerin' about i'th neet time ! I'd back it again oather witch, fairy, clapcan, Nut Nan, Jenny Green-teeth, Baum Rappit, Radcliffe Dog, orthedulehissel' ! 232 l-UFrs OI' lir.AIHKR : I wouldn't live i' that hole, sitho, if 1 met wear red shoon ! I war sittin' i' that kitchen a twothre week back, just as th' owl-leet coom on, an' o' at once there were a great yeawl coom down th' chimbley, an' th' arm-cheer shifted out o' one nook into tother, an' never mortal soul laid finger on it ! But, bi th' mass, my yure began o' stonnin' straight up, an' [ crope out o' that cote as if I'd been steighlin' summat. I gav a bit of a glent o'er my shoolder as I went out, an' th' tungs an' poker were just startin' o' doancin' a three-hond reel vvi' th' churn. But, by th' mon, I never looked beheend me again ; for I thought it'd be my turn th' next. An' I're in another township in a twothre minutes.'' Just then a snatch of song came from the open window of the taproom : — When they snapen your heart, an' they stinten your fare, It's time to be joggin' away ; When th' pitchers are empty, an' th' potiches are bare, It's time to be joggin' away. " Hello, Jack ; who's yon ?" " It's Craddy o' Batters," replied Jack. " He'.s sittin' i'th tap-reawm be hissel' yon, singin' an' talkin' to his pint pot, as usal. Go thi ways in to him." Here the landlady looked out at the doorway. " Bill," said she, " when thou's done sweepin', come in to thi dinner ; an' then fill yon boighler up, and look to th' fires. Jack, come to thi dinner." " I'm comin' as soon as I've put th' horse up," replied tlie old hostler. " Jone," said he to his village crony, '• thou looks starve't ; how leets thou doesn't go inside an' get a saup o' summat warm ?" OWD CRONIES. 233 " Well, Jack ; if thou thinks I'm partial to stan-ation thou'rt off at th' side. But I'm one o' thoose chaps 'at hasn't mich to stir on, thou knows. I've been rootin' up an' down mi clooas a good while to find brass for another gill ; but I can leet o' nought but two gallows-buttons an a 'bacco papper." " Come ; I'll lend tho a shillin'." " Fork out, owd brid ! Thou talks like an angel !" " Theer it is, sitho. Now creep into the tap-reawm at th' side o' owd Craddy jon, an' I'll come to yo in a bit." CHAPTER III. THE landlord's GUESTS. The winds whistle cold ; The stars glimmer red ; The sheep are in the fold, And the cattle are in the shed. OLD GLEE. Man, what changes come o'er us ! I mind when master and ser\^ant sat a' at ae table ; and, if yell believe me, I've seen mair wit played off at a dinner time than yell gather now in half a year. SCOTS CO.MEDV. |HE winter sun sank down behind the snow-clad hills ; and as night crept on, clear and cold, the bustle of village life died away into stillness, save where the fire of the blacksmith's forge tlirew a broad, red glow upon the glittering highway, and the chime of his busy 2^4 irnS OF HEATHER : hammers rang loud and clear in the deepening silence all over the little town, mingling now and then with bursts of laughter from a knot of loungers, who were whiling away the winter evening among the fun that gathered round the dusk)' smithy's genial glow. 'I'he cloudless sky was thick with stars, and their solemn light filled all the frosty air with a subtle radiance, which strengthened as the sunless hours stole on. It was a hearty, hardy, old-f;ishioned winter niglit. The village doors were closed, for the frost was intense, and the north wind blew keen and wild, whistling weird melodies in the lock-holes and crevices of many a lonely grange, whose inmates shuddered as they huddled closer round tlie fire, listening with superstitious fear to the rattle of doors and windows, and the wild sough of the blast outside. All signs of life in quaint little Middleton were stilling down, except where a cottage candle threw a flickering gleam into the night, or the shrill voice of a woman cut through the cold air as she called home her truant lad, who had lingered behind his mates " sleddin' " upon the steep below the church. All else was deepening down" into starlit silence, save where the bright windows, and open, straw-strewn door- way of the Old Boar's Head attracted the shivering traveller with its cheerful glow. Atnongst the guests invited by old Giles to his Christmas supper there were Randal Holt, or " Rondle o' Raunger's," an old schoolmaster, who was looked up to by his neighbours as a kind of " hamel-scoance," or lantern of the village; " Jem o' th' Har-barn," a sturdy yeoman, who reckoned among his ancestors one of the band of Middleton archers who followed Sir Richard .Asshelon to Flodden Field ; "Jim own CRONiKs. 235 o- Daubers," a village painter; "Jone o' Gavelock's," a Inimorous old weaver ; Henry Shaw, better known as " th' wool chap," a well-known traveller in the tlannel trade, and an old customer at the Boar's Head. These, with the prin- cipal tailor and the principal shoemaker of the town,— all old cronies together,- made up Giles Buckley's Christmas party. Of course the news of the feast had spread over the town long before the time; and when the eventful evening came on.^the lads of the village, as they returned from their wintry games, lingered about the doorway of the Boar's Head, yammering, and snifting at the odours of the kitchen ; and then ran home with the savoury tale. " Eh, mother," said the tailors lad, as he darted into the house with his wooden "sled" upon his back, "there's moore beef up at th' Boar's Yed than there is onywheer else i- this world ! I've bin a-smellin' ! Eh, I wish I live't at yon house ! An' there's goose amung it, too, mother,-! can tell goose. . . • Eh, I am some hungry ! Wheer's my supper?" " Thou'rt al'ays hungry. Sit tho down an warm thisel a bit like a good lad ; till I've finished my ironin'. I shan't be mony minutes. An' put that " sled " o' thine out o' th gate." " Eh, mother, couldn't yo' gi' mc a lump o' oon-cake to be gooin' on wi' ? ' » Make a less din for a minute or two, I tell tho ! Thou fair moiders me ! Bless my life, thou met (might) be clemmed ! " " Eh, mother, I wish I wur gooin' to my supi)er wi my faitherto-neet. Dun yo think he'll bring ony goose back wi' him ? " 236 runs OF HEATHKR : " Not he, marry. Whatever arto camplin' an' talkin' about?" " Mun I sit up till he comes whoam ? " " Nawe ; thou mun do nought o'th sort. Thou mun get tlii porritch, and go to bed like a good lad ; an' ihou shall ha' some goose to-morn. It's hanged up i' the buttery yon. It's KesiTiass to-morn thou knows." "Eh, mother; I wish it wur Kesmass every dav, — dunnot yo?'- " Marry, choilt, how thou talks," said she, setting a bowl of milk and a thick piece of bread before him; "get that into tho; an' let it stop thi mouth." About six in the evening Giles's guests began to trickle in at the doorway, and a tailor was the first man upon the ground. " Hello, Snip," said Giles, as the tailor came in at the front door, drest in his Sunday clothes, with a fruited sprig of holly stuck in his button-hole ; " by th' mass, thou'rt as grand as Thornham rushcart ! A merry Christmas to tho, owd craiter ! 1' gadlin, we's never look beheend us after this. Come thi ways in ! " "A merry Christmas to yo, Giles I " replied the tailor, rubbing his hands. " Here; don't put th' door to; Lapstone an' owd Rondle are upo' th' road," "That's reet," replied Giles; "th' moore an' th" merrier!'' "They're here now," said the tailor, as the luo old cronies came up to the door, laughing noisily. "Roll up, an' buy 'em alive!" cried Giles, slapjiiug old Randal on the back. " Tops o' trees, an' shinin' daisies ! r.uy 'em or lev 'em, — I'll bate nought at mi stuff! Come in, lads ! I hope yo're i' good fettle ! Wheer's tother? " "There's three or four on 'cm upo' th' gate ; an' I pept in own cKONiiis. 237 at tV painter's as we coom by. He're agate o' rubbing his yed wi' toppin'-fat." " Here, Giles," said the landlady, "tak 'em into this room till th' supper's ready. There's a good fire.' "Come in here, lads," said Cliles, "an' sattle yoTsels a bit, while they setten th' table out. Here, I'll buttle for yo'. Coft-d ale afore supper, lads, an' aught 'at yon a mind for at after. Tak howd, and weet yo'r whistles, for a start." As the servant entered with another jug, a snaich of song came from the tap-room hard by : Peighs-porritch whot, peighs-porritch cowd, Peighs-porritch in(g_aish, nine days ovvd. " Craddy o' Batters, for a crown," cried Randal. "It's nought else,' replied Giles; "he's been here niony an hour. Th' owd lad's started Kesmass o'ready ; an' it'll last him till 'Th' First ^^larket,' I'll uphowd. By th' mass, let's have him in ! What, he's somebody's choilt, an' he'll do wi' his supper as weel as ony on us. What say 'n yo, lads ? " "Fot him in ; he's rare company,' said Randal. "So said, so done,'' replied Giles. "Mary, tell owd Craddy to come here." "Win yo ha' th' whole lot in?" said the landlady. " Why, who is there beside ? '' "There's owd Bonny Mouth ; an' Jem o' Pratty Stridor's.' " Well ; what the hangment, they're neighbours' childer. Let's have 'em o' : This is no time to make fish o' one an' flesh of another ! Let's have 'em o' ! " In came Craddy and his friends, all in their working gear, which contrasted strangely with the holiday garb of the rest of the company ; but everybody was in good humour, and 238 TVns OF HKAIHKR : everybody made them welcome; althoiigli Craddy was getting merry with the drink he had taken during the day. " Never mind, lad," said Giles, slapping him on the shoulder, ' thou'll be as reet as a ribbin when tho gets a bit o' beef into tho !" They had hardly got well seated amongst the rest before the landlady came in to say that supper w-as ready ; and away they steamed in the wake of old Giles, towards the place where the feast was spread. The quaint room was profusely decorated with evergreens; a great bush of mistletoe hung from the centre of the ceiling; and there was a huge log burning in the fire-grate, which filled the place with a ruddy glow. The long table was spread with bountiful piles of roast and boiled meats, and with pies, and savoury country messes : and all the house was redolent of good cheer. Giles took the chair at the head of the table, in front of a noble sirloin, which became his presence well. " Here, ovvd craiter," said he, to Jem o' th' Har-barn, ''go thee to th' tother end, an' try thy thwittle upo' yon goose. Thou use to be a rare bond at niowin' ; an' I've sin tho thwite very hondsomely at a goose afore now. Come, off with tho, an' bother noan." The burly yeoman smiled quietly, and took his seat at the other end of the table ; and two finer specimens of the old English breed rarely faced one another. "Now, lads," said Giles, "are yo getten sattlc't into yor booses ? '■' " Ay, we're 0' reet," said Jone o' Gavelock's, "we're o' reet, it I can get Craddy, here, to hutch a bit fur off" " Craddy," said Giles, " hutch up lower, mon ; an' draw own CRONIES. 239 nar to tli' table. Thou looks as if thou were beawn to fire a gun. Thou's no 'casion to be fleyed. I want yo to have fair elbow-reawm, for yo'n a deed to do. . . • Come, that's better." "Now. then," said Giles, knocking upon the table with his carving-knife, "are yo ready?" " O' ready," replied Jone o' Gavelock's. " Well, then," said Giles, rising from his seat, " God bless everybody 'als i' this house,— an' everybody o'th outside on't,'-for a start 1 Lads, yo're as welcome as th' flowers o' May : Yo seen what there is afore yo. I hope yo're in good felde; an' I hope ifll agree wi' yo ! Fo' to,— an' spare nought! . . . Who says beef?" "Britons, strike home '." said Jem o' th' Har-barn, at the other end of the table, seizing his carving-knife. " Who says goose ? It's as prime a brid as ever I clapt e'en on ! Come, Craddy, owd lad ; I'll gi' thee a leg to begin wi'. Jone, help him to some potitos." "Buttle out, free !" cried Giles to the servants, "an' look after these plates 1 " And to it they fell, all round the jovial board,— hammer and tongs ; and for the next hour or so there was a ceaseless clatter of knives and fo.ks and plates ; and the servants were kept in continual motion among the guests. "Come, Lapstone," said Giles, "backthi cart up.-an' fill again !" " Stop, an' rosin a minute," replied Lapstone ; " I'll be iheer again directly." " Now, Craddy, my lad, how arto gettin' on ? " " O' reel," said Craddy, " I'm nobbut wyndin' (taking breath) a bit." 240 rvK'is or HF.Arni:u : " Doivt stop short of up, lads," said (lilcs; " let another reef out, an' start again ! . . . Jem, thou'rt lookin' after thisel', I guess, aniung tn' rook." "We're doin' weel here," replied Jem. " If ihou'U mind that end o' th' table, I'll keep 'em goin' here." " Giles," said old Bonny Mouth, "I'll trouble yo for a liit moore o' that under-cut." "Ay; an' thou'st have it, my lad," replied Giles ; '■ thou"st have it, if this knife hondle stops on." " Come, Gavelock, owd brid, wakken up ; thour't noan sto'in' (getting tired) arto?" " By th' mon, it's gettin' time, I think. Thou doesn't want to see mo brawsen, doesto ? I measur't a hond-bradth off between my singlet an' th' table, afore we started, an' they're welly met. I've done very wccl, Giles, — I've done very weel." " \Vliat ! thou'Il have a bit o' cheese, sure?" " Well,^aye, aye, — a bit o' cheese, as thou say.s. I think I've an odd nook laft for thai." At last the festive fray sank down into peace ; the hungriest of the hungry had eaten his fill, and the knives lay at rest. " Come, Jone," said Giles to Jone o' Gavelock's, " say a word or two afore we gettin' up." The old weaver rose slowly from his seat, and looking quietly round the board, he said : " Lads, we'n had a rare supper. I've played a good stick mysel', an' I'm thankful. We dunnot leet o' sich a do as this every day. It's a bit o' Kessjiiass sunshine ! Giles, here's good luck to thee an' thine I I wish we may never do ony wur nor we'n done this neet ; an' I wish tliat everybody i' th' world may do as weel ; for there's a deeol o' folk 'at's noan so weel off, an' one OWD CRONIES. 241 connot help but think about it at a time like this, yo known. But, as far as I'm consarn't, I feel fain 'at I'm wick, an' yo looken as breet as rook o' squirrels o' round, — excei)t Craddy, theer ; I think he'll repent to-moni 'at he hadn't a bit moore o' that beef." " Oh, nay,'' cried Caddy ; " I've done very weel ! I couldn't bant another smite I" " Well then, that'll do," continued the old weaver. '• Ciod bless yo o' ! Giles, owd lad, here's luck to tho again ! An' now I think that'll do." And the old man sat down, amidst cries of " Amen to that!" and "Bravo, Jonel" When they had drunk the health of the host and hostess, with " three times three and one cheer more," which made the mistletoe-bush twirl round upon the ceiling, as if it enjoyed the fun, old Giles returned thanks in a few hearty words, and then said, " Now, lads, let's go out an' stretch er legs a bit till they siden these things. It'll help to sattle your suppers. An' when they'n getten o' reet, we'n come back an' have bit of a frisk." CHAPTER IV. Come all ye weary wanderers Beneath the wintry sky, This day forget your worldly cares, And lay your sorrows by. Christmas song. ^HE supper things were cleared away, the room was trimmed up and swept, the fire had been mended, and the guests were seated once more aroimd the board with their glasses before them. Pipes and tobacco lay about. .'\t the head of the table Giles sat, with an old- 3' 2^2 TUFTS OF HF.ATHFR : fashioned silver ladle in his hand, in front of a great bowl of punch, chatting cheerfully as he sensed the steaming liquor out right and left. At the other end "Jem o' tli' Har-barn " presided over another bowl of the same inspiring compound. "Bith heart, lads," said he, "this is a grand brew! Talk about posies ! It's making my yure curl ! Here. Craddy. tak howd ! That'll tickle tho uj), owd brid, — wi' thi rags, an' jags, an' tinkerin' bags I " " Now, lads,'' said Giles, rapping the table with his ladle, " as we're getten meeterly weel saltl't again, I propose that every mon round th' board oather tells a tale or sings a sung. What say'n yo ? " " I'll agree to that," said Snip, who was a good singer; and "Agreed, — Agreed !" was the general cry. Turning to the shoemaker, who was a notable budget of country story, Giles said " Lapstone, what says thou ? " "Oh," replied the shoemaker, "I'm never again a good thing ! " " Well, then," said Giles, " we could'nt do better nor start wi' thee ! " "Nay, nay," replied the shoemaker, "let somebody else begin. I'm noan at concert pitch yet." " Thou shall be, afore thou'rt mich owder,'' said Giles. " Here, let's fill for tho. Thou'rt hanging fire terribl)*. Theer, sitho. Sup, an' then brast off." "Giles, I think thou should set us agate, thiseV." " Me ! nought o' th' sort. Rats afore mice ! Come, gi' mouth,— an' bother noan.'' " Well, well," replied the shoemaker, " I've oft yerd that force were physic for mad dogs. \\"hat is to be niun be, — there's nought else for it." OWD CRONIES. 243 And quietly trimming the bowl of his pipe, the old man oegan the tale of THE WICK SECK. •• It's a bit of a crack o' mi' faither's," said he. " I've yerd him tell it time an' time again, when I wur a lad ; an' it isn't a week sin I vmx tellin' it mysel, up at owd Mistress Taylor's yon, at th' sign o" 'Th' Trumpeter.' . . . It's about an owd farmer, known by th' name o' ' Judd o' Jers.' He live't upo' Chadderton side, yon, an' he wur reckon't very weel off. His wife had been deeod some time, an' he'd nought but hissel' an' an only daughter,— as hondsome a lass as ever stept shoe-leather. Hoo wur th' pride o'th country side, an' hoo commonly went bi th' name o' ' Th' Rose o' Chadderton.' Well, gende an' simple, an' rich an' poor, they'rn cockin' their hats at this lass of owd Judd's, on o' sides. Two or three fine lads listed through her; an' I believe one poor divvle fro' Owdham drown't hissel' becose hoo'd ha' no truck wi' him. It matter't nought to Mary who coom,— silk or fustian,— they had to fo' back,— every one on 'em but o/ie,—a.n' that wur a limber, weel-mettle't yung farmer, co'd ' Dick o' Raider's,' 'at coom out o' Thornham. As fine a lad he wur, I believe, as ever bote off th' edge of a cake,— an' he turn't out as weel at th' end of o',— but he'd bin raither of a rackle turn up to that time. Well, o' somehow, this lass of owd Judd's an' him geet terrible thick, an' come what would, hoo were like as if hoo couldn't bide to clap her een upo' nobody else nobbut him. But owd Judd thought there were nought i' th' world good enough for his daughter; an' there were so mony ill tales flyin' about this Thornham cowt that he 244 Turrs of hkathkr : wouldn't yer tell on him at o', an' he swore mich an' nioore, that if ever he catch't him about th' house again he'd tan his hide for him ; an' he would ha' done, too, — for he wur a great strung chap, an' he'd a very strung temper. Bull Ben o' Blakeley were a lusty fellow, an' as swipper as a kitlin ; but owd Judd thrut him o'er th' hedge, one Middleton rushbearin', — ^just like a bit of a catch-bo'. Well, i' spite of o' 'at could be said an' done, this lad stuck to th' lass, an' th' lass stuck to th' lad, — for they were gradely fond o' one another, — an' th' moore they were sunder't th' moore they crope together. . . . Well, th' owd chap never wur rough wi' his daughter, but he wur anxious about her, — for hoo wur th' leet of his c'en.^an' he'd getten it into his yed that this Dick wouldn't behave weel to her; beside, be didn't like th' notion of his hard-getten brass bein' squander'! bi a fast-gated spendthrift, sich as he thought him at that time. So he talked to Mary about it again an' again ; but hoo did nought nobbut fret ; an' when hoo began o' cryin' th' owd lad couldn't ston it at o', an' he use't to walk off wi' a sore heart, for he lippcn't o' nought but ill to th' poor lass. . . . Well, o' wur no use. These two wur so ta'en U]i wi' one another that they still met at by-times i' odd nooks an' corners, as they weren't allowed to meet i'th oppen ; an' owd Judd couldn't go to noather market nor fair, but, o' somehow, Dick geet to know on it aforehond. Well, things went on o' this ill fashion till, at th' end of o', Dick played one bit of a marlock 'at brought th' upshot on, an' put o' to reets. It seems that he wur determin't, if Mary couldn't get out o' th' house to him, he'd goo into th' house to Mary, o' somehow ; so he made it up wi' two of his mates own CRONIES. 245 that they should put him into a seek, an' co' at owd Judd's \vi' th' cart, just afore lockin'-up time, an' ax if they could lev it i'th kitchen till mornin'. Well, they put a lot 0' saw- dust into th' bottom of a lung seek ; an' then Dick geet into 't ; an' they packed him nicely about wi' hay, so as to make it look round, an' shapely ; an' they laft two or three peep-holes at th' top, so that he could get his breath, an' see what were gooin' on ; and he'd a bit of a knife in his hond, so that he could let hissel out when th' time coom. Well, when neet coom on, Mary sit bi th' kitchen fire, mendin' stockin's, an' hearkenin' for th' sound o'th wheels, bringin' this seek of hers, — for hoo wanted to get it snugly in afore her faither coom whoani fro' th' market. Well, it wur gettin' nee bed-time, an' still owd Judd hadn't londed But stop ; I'm missin' my tale It seems that one o' these cronies o' Dick's had bin tattlin' at th' owd alehouse i' Chadderton Fowd, an' he'd letten cat out o'th bag ; and somebry that wur theer happen't to leet of owd Judd at th' market th' same day, an' he towd him th' whole tale about this seek, what there wur in it, an' when it wur to lond. Well, th' owd chap wur terribly put about; for he see'd that it wur no use strivin' ony lunger ; and he went up and down th' market frettin' and mutterin' to his sel', 'I met as weel give in, an' let 'em have it to theirsels ; and try to make a good job of an ill un. . . . liut I'll sattle wi' yon seek this neet ! ' So he hung about later than usual, to gi' th' seek time to get londed. Well, it wur gettin' nee bed- time when these cronies o' Dick's set off wi' th' cart wi' th' seek in it ; an' they knocked at owd Judd's kitchen dur, and axed if they could lev th' seek till mornin', as they weren't 246 TLTTS OF HEATHER : gooin' whoam. An' Mary said : ' Ay : they could lev it an' welcome ; ' an' I100 towd 'em to rear it up at th' side o'th owd clock, 'at stoode in a nook nearly out o' sect. So they rear't it nicely up, an' then they bad her 'Good neet,' and crope out, sniggerin' an' laughin' to theirsels. Mary watched 'em ofT, out o'th yard, an' down th' lone; an' then hoo barred th' dur beheend 'cm. Hoo hearken't a minute or two, till o' were still ; an' then hoo went quietly up to th' seek, an' said, ' Dick ! ' An' th' seek gav a bit of a wriggle, an' said, ' Mary 1 ' " ' Eh, Dick,' said Mary again, talkiii' to th' seek ; ' this is quare wark ! ' " Th' seek stirred again a bit, an' said, ' Let mi yed out ! ' " ' Stop a minute,' said Mary. An' hoo went an' hearkened at th' dur. O' wur still, an' there wur nought comin' ; so hoo crope back, an' unteed th' seck-mouth : an' out popped Dick's yed, wi' his yure full 0' hayseeds. '"Wheer's thi faither?' said Dick. " ' I expect him every minute. Get in witho' till I've getten him to bed.' "'Give us a kussin' ! ' "An' hoo gave him one; an' hoo said, 'Eh, Dick, what- ever mun I do if my faither finds this out ? ' "'Thou mun do as I towd tho, an' let me put th' axins up. Mon, th' owd chap '11 come to, if we getten wed. . . Gi' mi another ! ' " ' Eh, Dick, I wish he would let tho come into th' house, an' see one daicently. I don't like this mak o' wark. It'll come to no good.' "'Well, let's get wed, I tell tho I He connot get o'er OWD CRONIES. 247 that ! An' I'll come where thou art as lung as I live,— if I have to come down a chimbley ! . • . Come, give o'er cryin', lass ! I can ston aught but that ! I wish th' owd chap didn't think so ill on me,— so as things could go on straight-forrad an' gradely '^\'ipe thi een, lass, an' gi' me another ; or else thou'll ha' me cryin' too. I wish my honds wur free ! . . . • Com a bit nar ! . . It's first time i' thi life thou ever dipt a seek, isn't it, lass ? " " ' Eh, Dick, pritho, don't talk ! I connot bide to think about it ! . . Husht ! ... Put thi yed in, put thi yed in ! Mi faither's comin' 1 ' " Dick needed no moore tellin". Down went his yed ; an' Mary's hands flutter't as boo teed him up again. Then hoo ran an' unbarred th' dur ; an' hoo'd hardly getten nicely sit down bi th' fire to her stockin's a^ain afore her faither walked in. " ' Faither,' said Mary, ' yo're very late.' " ' Ay,' said Judd, givin' a sly glent round th" kitchen ; ' I've stopt too lung.' " ' Win yo have ony supper ? ' " ' Nawe.' " ' Yo'd better ha' sunimat. It's ready here.' " ' Nay ; I've no stomach for supper to-neet.' " Well, th' lass felt soory for him ; an' hoo could hardly help for cryin'; an' hoo kept hur yed down at her wark. "'Thou may go to bed, Mary,' said Judd; Til lock up.' " ' I've a lot o' stockin's to mend yet,' said Mary. '"Well, then,' said Judd, 'I may as weel have a bit of a 248 TUFTS OF HEATHER : smoke ;' an' he lit his pipe, an' planted his cheer so that he could see o' round th' kitchen. " For th' next quarter of an hour there weren't a word spokken ; but there wur three folk i' that hole that wur about as ill thnitched i' their minds as ony poor craiters i' Christen- dom could be, — partickilar th' seek. That began o' wishin' it wur a whoam again. "In a bit owd Judd knocked th' dust out of his pipe, an' said, 'Well : I may as well be goin.' 'I'hou'll not be long, I guess ? ' " ' Nawe,' said Mary, ' I'll not be long.' But hoo never lifted her yed when hoo spoke. "Then owd Judd geet up, an stretched hissel', an' began o' saunterin' about kitchen, till he coom up to th' nook where th' seek wur rear't again th' clock, an' theer he made a full stop. Mary tremble't from yed to fuut ; an' th' seek began o' feelin' poorly. " ' Hello,' said Judd ; ' what's this seek ? ' " Well, th' poor lass wur i' sich a flutter that hoo could hardly get a word out ; but hoo managed to tell him that two o' Stakehill Robin lads had co'd wi' th' cart, at th' edge o' dark, an' axed if they could lev this seek till mornin'. "Owd Judd gav a surly sort of a grunt ; an' he said, 'I think they'd better ha' lakken it where it belungs, — or else ha' put it into th' shipnon, yon. This is no place for sich like things I wonder what there is in it?' " An' he gav a rough punce at th' seek, where it bulge't out a bit. "Th' seek jumped, an' said, 'Oh ! ', — an' weel it met, for th' owd lad had a sayrious fuut. OWD CROXIES. 249 "Mary dropt th' stockin's to th' floor, an" went as white as a sheet. " ' It's happen barley,' said Judd ; an' he punce't at th' seek again ; an' th' seek jumped, and said ' Oh ! ' again, — for this time it let upo' th' shins. "Then Judd nipt up a knobstick, an' began a weltin' at th' seek as he said, ' to penk th' dust out on't a bit,' an th' stick happen't to come across summat tender, for th' seek gav a grate yeawl, an' started o' swearin' like a drunken tinker. "'Hello, said Judd, 'what han we agate now? This seck's of a feaw-mouthed breed ! There's some mak o' jumpin'-stuff in it too Here; I've shot mony a queer thing i' mi' time ; and I'll have a bang at a seek, for once ! " " An' he nipt th' gun down. " When th' seek yerd that, it tumble't out o' th' nook, an' began o' roUin' up an' down th' floor; an' it skrike't out ' Howd, howd ! D it, howd a minute ! Untee this bag, — an' let's have a chance for mi life ! Cut this bant ; I'm noan beawn to dee in a poke ! ' " ' If ever seek deed i' this world,' said Judd, ' thou dees this neet I ' " Well, th' seek roll't, an' wriggle't, and skrike't ' Murder '. ' an' Mary dropt on her knees, an' cried ' Eh, faither ; for God in heaven's sake, don't shoot ! It's Richard ! ' "Owd Judd grounded th' gun, as if he wur fair dum- founder't, — though he knew o' about th' job — th' hare an' th' hare-gate. " Bi this time Dick had cut a bit of a hole i' th' seek, an' 32 250 TUFTS OF HF.ATIIER ; he'd getten his ycd out at th' top ; an' theer he lee upo' th' kitchen floor, starin' up at Judd, an' Judd starin' down at him. " Mary had dropt into a cheer i'th corner, cryin' as if her heart would break. " When these two had stared at one another a while, Judd said, ' Well, an' what does to think o' thisel' ? ' '• ' I think I'm a foo',' said Dick. "'Thou'rt as like one,' said Judd, 'as aught 'at ever I clapt een on.' " 'I dar say,' said Dick, hagglin' at th' seek to get hissel' out. " ' Well, an' what dost to want here ?' said Judd. " 'Yo'n known that a good while,' answered Dick ; ' I want yo'r Mary.' " Owd Judd gav a turn or two about th' kitclien ; an' then he said, ' Here, I'll hae this job settle't afore thou comes out o' that seek. I've gan thee th' bag mony a time, but thou's taen it thisel' at last. An' now, I think we'n try wliat a noose '11 do for tho, — as there's nought else for't. . . . Here ; get out o' that seek, an' let's see what thou'rt like, for thou'rt a weary sect at present.' " Well, Mary weren't a minute wi' helpin' Dick to get out o' th' seek ; and they sattle't th' whole concarn, straight off. Dick went liltin' back to Thornham that neet, as leet as a layrock ; an' Mary crope off to bed i' better heart nor hoo'd bin for mony a year afore. Well, about a month after that they geet wed at Middleton (Church here ; an' they live't wi owd Judd till he deed. Dick wur a good-hearted lad, an' he turned quite stiddy ; an' they'd as fine a family as ever sun shone on. One o'th grondsons lives upo' th' same lond now ; an' they han' th' owd seek by 'em to this day." OWD CROXIES. CHAPTER V. I love a ballad but even too well, if it be doleful matter merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed and sung lamentably. clown, in the winter's tale. [HE shoemaker's story was received with a buzz of approbation all round the board. " Well done, Lapstone ! " said Giles ; " that's a good tale ; an' thou's towd it weel ! . . . Push thi glass here ; I'ni sure thou'rt dry. . . . Noi\-, lads ; yo'n had a start. Who's th' next ? . . . But stop ; afore we gwon ony fur, let's buttle out an' pipe up, an' have a bit of a chat. Send, yo'r tots up ! . . . Now then ; is their nobody at th' table 'at can give us a bit of a ditty, for a change ? . . Here, Snip ; thou use't to be a good bond at a sung. Brast off, owd brid ! " " Well," said Snip, " I'm wiUin' enough ; but my supper's noan satlle't yet, mon ; an' it's hard wark singin' through a pile o' beef. Beside, I haven't a memory worth a hep now. I know lots o' bits o' sungs. They done weel enough for one to wortchto; but I don't think I could waggon through a sung of ony sort fro end to end. Th' fact is, Giles, I known nought at o' about aught i' this world, nobbut bits." " Well, let's have a bit then," said Giles. " Come, get agate ; an' give o'er preachin'." " O' reet," said Snip; 'TH try my hond at 'Turn Fobs !' " "Turn Fobs," said Giles, rapping on the table with his 252 TUFTS OF HEATHF,R : ladlo. "Snip's bea.vn to give 'Turn Pobs.' . . . Now then, gi' mouth, owd brid ! " With his pipe in one hand, an' his glass in the other, Snip turned his face to the ceiUng, and began :— Turn Pobs wur a good-nature't sort of a lad ; He wove for his liviu', an' live't wi' his dad ; He wur fond o' down-craiters, an' th' neighbours o' said, That he're reet in his heart, but he'd nought in his yed. Derry down. Nan o' Flup's wur a lass that wur swipper and strung: Uoo'd a temper o' fire, an' a rattlin' tung ; Hoo're as hondsome a filly as mortal e'er sce'd. But hoo coom of a racklesome, natterin' breed. Derry down. " Noiv, then," slid Snip, " I tovvd yo I should be fast. . . But, stoj). . . . This Nan o' Flup's wur gettin' tliirty year owd ; and hoo thought it wur about time to look round, an' tak a chance o' some mak ; so hoo began o' settin' her cap at this lad : — An' hoo coodle't, an' foodle't, an' simper't, an' sken'd, Till Tummy geet maddle't clen up i' th' fur end. Derry down. He're so lapt up i' Nan, both i'th heart an' i'th yed, That I doubt he'd ha' dee'd if they hadn't bin wed ; So at last they stroke bonds, an' agreed to be one ; An' hoo tice't him to church, — an' poor Tummy wur done. Derry down. .\n' when th' news o' this weddin' geet down into th' fowd, Folk chuckle't an' laughed, an' thought Tummy wur sowd ; An' th' women o' said, " Nan's to mich for yon lad ; He'd better ha' stopped till he deed wi his dad." Derry down. OWD CRONIES. 253 But they buckle't together, for better an' wur ; An', at first, things wur reet between Tummy an' hur ; An' they'rn meeterly thick, both by dayleet an' dark, Till th' wayter o' life cool't 'em down to their wark. Derry down. Then Nan lost no time, but coom back to hersel' ; An' hoo cample't, an' snapt, as no mortal can tell ; An' poor Turn o' Fobs soon fund out that his wife, Though an angel at first, wur a divul for life. Derry down. Here the singer stopped again, and hemmed, and coughed, and played widi his pipe. " It's no use," said he, " there's another hole i' th' ballet." " Hark back," said Giles. " Rom a bit o' talk in," said Rondle o' Rogers, " an' get end-way." " Come, I'll try," said Snip, trimming his pipe again. . . . Well, Turn o' Fobs soon fund out that he'd dropt in for a boighlin-piece ; but he determin't to make th' best on't ; so he gran' an' bode, fro' day to day ; an' he'd a deeol to bide, for Nan went wur an' wur ; till, at last, hoo hector't an' natter't o'er him to that degree that he hadn't a minute's comfort bi neet nor day. But still Tum took it quietly ; an' that made her wur nor ever,— for hoo'd bin brought up amung o' maks o' racket,— an' hoo couldn't ston a quiet life. So,— to make ill wur,— hoo began o' hittin' him, and scrattin' his nose-end wi' forks, an' flingin' things at him :— It wur sometimes a pitcher, an' sometimes a pon,— Nan didn't care what,— if it let o' th' owd mon. Derry down. 254 IXFTS OK HEATHia^: An' if lliat iliJn't vex him, — her temper wur sich, — Hoo'd nip up a tough-lookin' lump of a switch ; An' sometimes it lapt round his yed \vi' a bend, An' sometimes it coom across Tummy's nose end. Derry down. " An' so they toart't on, o' this ill foshion, year after year, till, at last. Nan wur ta'cn ill, — An' lioo flang no moor pots at owd Tum for a while. Derry down. " Well, al th' end of o'. Nan dee'd, — th' same as other folk, — an', o' somehow, poor owd Turn missed her just as mich as if hoo'd bin an angel ; for, after o' 'at he'd gone through, Tum wur a good-nature't chap, an' As Nan wur laid down he hove mony a sigh, An, o' somehow, th' owd lad made a shift for to cry. Derry down. " Thecr,'' saiil .Snip ; '' that's end o' mi sung. It's been a mixture of a trot and a canter; but I've done as wccl as I could.'' •'Thou's done veiy weel, Snip,'' said Giles, "but it's nobbut a bit, after o'. I think thou should give us annlher bit of a stave, to make up wi'. Bang off" again, — while thou'rt warm imdcr th' saddle." " Here, here," replied Snip ; " I'll have a bar's rest, if yo'n a mind. Let Craddy try his hond. He knows a ballet forty verses lung. I'll come in again, at after he's done." "Forty verses, eh?" said Giles. "By (iny, that'll last Craddy till to-morn at noon ; for he al'ays sings as if he're a own CRONIES. 25s a funeral. It'll tak' him hauve-an-hour to get through one verse. . . Bi th' mass, he's asleep ! . . . ■ Come, Craddy, my lad ; let's see what thou'rt made on ! " But Craddy had been boozing all day, and he was fast sinking into a state of maudlin helplessness ; and flourishing his pipe in the air, he said : — "Av,— fill it up! . . . • Robin at th' Crowshaw Booth has a lad at can creep through a cat-hole ! " "Here; I think we'n let him alone," said Giles. "It's gettin' time for him to be gooin' up yon broo Come, Snip, owd lad; fill this bit of a gap up, an' then wen co' o' somebody else." "Stop," cried Jem o' th' Har-barn, "we'n a volunteer at this end. Rondle's beawn to give us a stave Silence ! . . Goo on, Rondle." And old Rondle struck up, — Bill o' Sheepsheawter's ; Robin o' th' Dree ; Rondle o' Sceawter's ; Twilter an' me ; We made Mall o' Sleet's Owd pewter pots ring ; That neet wur a neet To comfort a king ! Rondle sang keaunter ; Robin sang bass ; Twilter sang o' maks O' comical ways ; Th' tenor wur fine, — Bill took it np well; An' th' tribble wur mine. — I sang it mysel'. 256 TUFTS OF HKATHKR : Th' first we'd a psaum, An' then we'd a sung; An' then we sang glees, Till th' rack-an'-hook rung ; An' merry owd Mall Chim't in like a brid, As hoo tinkle't to th' tune, Upo' th' owd kettle-lid. " Weet yo'r whistles," said Mall, " It makes better chime." " Stop, an' rosin,'' said Bill, " It's gettin' hee time." " A tot-a-piece, bring," Said Rondle, " an' then, — ■ Like layrocks o' th' wing, We'n tootle again." We tootle't an' sang Till midneet coom on ; We caper' t down th' broo, Bi' th' shinin' o'th moon; As we wander't o'er th' moss, Bill lap shoolder-hee ; An' '■■ I'm fain at I'm wick ! " Cried Robin o' th' Dree. "Well done our side ! " said Jem o' th' Har-b:irn. " Thi ballis-pipcs are i' fine fettle, Rondle, owd lad : good lurk to tho ! " OWD CRONIES. 257 CHAPTER VI. Three-man-song-men all, and verj- good ones ; but they are most of them means and basses : but one Puritan amongst them, and he sings psalms to hornpipes. winter's tale. HE clatter of applause which followed old Rondle"s song woke up poor Craddy, who had been silting in a kind of doze, with half-shut eyes. Ho started to his feet ; and waving his pipe in the air, he cried out, — Reet leg, lift leg, under-leg, over-leg; Th' little bird sings in a mornin' ! " Owd Ben, at ' Th' Slattocks,' had a daughter wed, an' a keaw cauve't, an' a mare foal't, an' a cat kittle't o' in one day. There, nought i' Englan' can lick that ! " Then he dropt on his seat again, and closing his eyes again, his pipe fell from his fingers. "It's time for that lad to go whoam," said Jem oth Har-barn; "he con ston nought." " Poor Crad," said Giles ; " he's hard wortch't an' under- fed ; an' he's noan o'er paid ; an' when he comes to a hearty feed, an' a warm fire, he's sooner done up than sich as thee anil me, Jem. . . . But he's asleep. Let him rest a bit ; an' we'n see how he goes on. I'll see him safe londed." "Well, Giles," said Jem, rising from his chair, with his glass in his hand, " here's good health an' good hearts, — an' milk and meighl enough for us o' ! " 3i 25S TUnS OF HEATHF.R : " Th' same to thee, Jem ! " said Cliks. And the toast went heartily round the board. "An', now then, Giles," said Jem, "as I'm no hond at tellin' a tale, — If thou's nought again it, — I'll do a bit of a stave mysel"." "Bravo, Jem," said Giles, "get agate, owd lad !" . . . Silence," cried he, rapping the table with his ladle. And, in a deep but melodious voice, Jem o' th" Harbarn began this song : — It's of three jolly hunters, an' a-hunting they did go; An' they hunted, an' they halloo'd, an' they blew their horns also. Look ye there ! An' one said, " Mind yo'r e'en, an' keep yo'r noses reel i'th wind, .•\n' then, bi scent or seet, yon leet o' summat to yor mind," Look ye there ! They hunted, and they halloo'd, an' the first thing they did find Was a tatter't boggart, in a feelt, an' that they left behind. Look ye there ! Ono said it wris a bo<;gart, an' another he said " Nay ; Its just a drunken tinker that has gone an' lost his way." Look ye there ! They hunted, an' they halloo'd, an' the next thing they did find Was a turnip in a stubble-field, an' that they left behind. Look ye there ! One said it was a turnip, an' another he said " Nay ; It's just a cannon-bo' at owd Noll Crummill thrut away." Look ye there ! They hunted, an' they halloo'd, an' the next thing they did find Was a cratchinly owd pig-trough, an' that, too, they left behind. Look ye there ! OWD CRONlIiS. 259 One said it was a pig-trough, but another he said " Nay ; It's some poor craiters coffin," an' that caused 'em much dismay. Look ye there ! They hunted, an' thev hallood, an' the next thing they did find Was a jackdaw, lyin' cowd an' still, an' that they left behmd. Look ye there ! One said it was a jackdaw, an' another he said " Nay ; It's nobbut an' owd blackin-brush 'at somebry s thrut away." Look ye there ! They hunted, an' thev halloo'd, an' the next thing they did find Was a gruntin', grindin' grindlestone, an that they left behmd. Look ye there ! One said it was a grindlestone, another he said " Nay ; It's nought but an' owd frozzen cheese at somebry's roU't away. ' Look ye there : Thev hunted, an' they halloo'd, and the next thing they did find. Was a buU-cauve m a pin-fowd, an' that, too, they left behmd. Look ye there !■ One said it wur a buU-cauve, an' another he said " Nay ; Its just a painted jackass that has never larnt to bray." Look ye there ! They hunted, an' they halloo'd, an' the next thing they did find. Was two young lovers in a lane, an' these they left behmd. Look ye there I One said that they were lovers, but another he said " Nay ; They're two poor wanderin' lunatics -come let us go away." Look ye there ! So they hunted, an' they halloo'd till the setting of the sun ; An' they'd nought to bring away at last, when th' huntin'-day was don e. Look ye there ! Then one unto the other said, ' This huntin' doesn t pay ; But we'n powler't up an' down a bit, an' had a rattlin' day" Look ye there ! 26o ITFTS OF HEATHER : "Jem, owd lad,'' said Giles, "thou's a rare voice, — an' thou al'ays had, — I've yerd it mony a time, when thou's bin after th' dogs, up i' Thornham Heights, yon ; but, if I wur thee, th' next time I sang a sung I'd pike one 'at had oather some sense or some fun in it. There is'nt mich o' noather on 'em i' that thou's just gan us." " I'll tell tho what, Giles," replied Jem, " I doubt this bit o' supper hasn't agreed wi' tho very weel, for thou'rt gettin' canvd as a crushed whisket ; an' I think it's hee time thou tried thi' bond thisel. . . . Come, get agate, and let's see what thou can do ! " " Tiiou has me theer, owd lad," said Giles ; " but Inde a bit, bide a bit, — I'll come in i' riiy turn, thou'll see. . . . Come, chaps, buttle out; yo're doin' nought." " Ay, come," said Jem o' th' Har-barn, flourishing his ladle, " drink up, and no heel-taps. Here, send yor glasses this road on. Come, Henry, straighten that face o' thine : arto beheend i' thi rent, or is th' wool trade out o' flunters ? Cheer up, owd lad ; all things has but a time. It's a poor heart that never rejoices, mon. Cheer up." "I'm o' reet, Jem," replied th' wool chap. "Well, then," said Jem, "what arto lookin' so rivven about? " " God bless thi life, Jem," said th' wool chap, " I'm noan rivven. I'm as happy as a cat in a tripe shop ; but I've bin watchin' owd Craddy theer, as he sits chunncrin' to hissel', ivi' his e'en shut, till I feel as drowsy as if I'd bin hearkenin' a lung sarmon after a hearty meal." " He's sound asleep now, I see," said Jem. " Thee wakken up, ony how. Thou's sin a deal i' thi time : come tell us summat or another." OWl) CRONIES. 261 " Nawe, nawe ; I'll come in a bit fur on. Try th painter, here ; he's as livel)' as a cricket, an' his tung's as limber as a lamb's tail. Try th' painter." " Ay, ay," said Giles, at the other end of the table. " Ay, ay, an' nought but reet noather. Come, Dabble, old craiter, get into thi looms. Thou's generally a bit o' summat to say. Thou man Gather sing or tell us a tale." "Well," said the painter, "I don't know many songs, but " " Howd, howd a minute," said Giles. " Don't sing, that's a good lad, — don't sing. Now I remember th' last time thou tried to sing i' this hole it stopt th' clock, an' turn't th' ale sour ; an' it made us o' ill for a week after. If I wur a house, an' thou tried to sing i' my inside, I'd fo' a-top on tho. So, as far as singin' gwos, we'n let tho off." "Well," said the painter, "just as )'ou've a mind ; but I used to be reckoned a very fair tenor up at th' owd chapel, yon." '• Husht, Dabble, my lad," said Giles, "husht! Not another word about singin' ! Keep thi tenor to thisel' this neet ! If they wanten it up at th' owd chapel, let 'em have it, an' welcome ; but keep thi tenor to thysel' this neet, I pritho ! . . . Let's see, didn'to paint a sign or summat once, co'de ' Th' Turk's Yed ' ? I remember some mak of a tale about it. Tell us that." " Very well," said the painter, " if you think I'm not intrudin', I'll tell it as well as I can." " Come, come," said Giles, " get agate o' thi tale, an' don't make a barn-owl o' tliisel'." 262 TUFTS OF III.ATHLR CHAPTER VII. P A I N J- E R S I wol j-ow telle a litel thing in prose, That oughte like yow, as I suppose, Or elles cartes ye be to daungerous. CHAUCER. low ihc painter was a natural genius in his art, although in other respects he was a man of no ijfi^ especial mark, and of very little culture. Under an air of uncommon simplicity, he concealed great shrewd- ness in worldly affairs ; and his conversation was a quaint mixture of artistic insight, cunning innocence, dry humour, and maundering inconsequentiality. "Come, Dabble," said Giles, "get forrad wi" thi tale." The painter screwed up his mouth, as usual, and began with an air of school-boy hesitation. " Well, ye know, Giles, I've painted a good deal o' Iiortraits in my time " "Ay, ay," said Giles; "I know tliou'rt a clivvcr chap, Dabble. Get eend-ways wi' tlii tale. Thou talks as if thou'd a fish-hook i' thi tung." "Well, ye know, Giles," replied Dabble, "I'm not a man as has been used to talkin' among sich like glib-tongued people as you ; so you must excuse me bein' so slow. For my mother used to say when I was a boy " OWD CRONIES. 263 " Get eend-vvays, I tell tho," replied Giles ; " or I'll fling th' ladle at Ihi yed ! " " Very well, then," said Dabble, " if you'll promise not to fling th' ladle at me, I'll try to go on. . . . Well, as I wus saying, I've painted a good deal o' portraits in my time, — that is, when I wasn't engaged in somethin' as had rather more weft in it. Though,^ — mind ye, — a man as has any power in him, he may put a good deal into a portrait, — if he likes, — for, mind ye, Giles, there's a great deal in the very commonest face as you can meet when ye come to consider it properly. Sir Joshua Reynolds, now, he knowed all about that, as well as any man livin'. . . . Well but, this that I was going to tell about — . . . . But, stop. You may fill this glass again, if ye please ; an' then I can go on comfortably. . . . There ; thank ye ! Now, I'm all right ! . . . Well, I should happen to be about five-an'-thirty years of age when it happened. I remember my birthday was on the fourteenth of November, owd style, at a quarter-past three in the morning ; an' both me an' my mother had a very hard time of it, I can tell ye. But never mind that ; we got over it in the end, an' that's more than some can say. . . . Well, at this particklar time I was livin' in a town not above a hundred miles from here, — but I'd better not tell ye where it was, or else ye might know the man. His name was John something, — I forget just now, — but I remember that people as didn't admire him much used to call him "Jone o' Blunders." He was very well off; but when you've said that you've done, for he hadn't much else about him, except his paunch ; an' I can assure you, Giles, that that was a thing which would ha' 264 TUFTS OF H FATHER : made ye look at him a second time, — that is, if ye'd never seen his face ; for, to tell ye truth, he was ugly enough to make into a corn-boggart. The very dogs used to bark at him, an' then run asvay, when they met him on the street. But never mind. The fact is, Giles, that at time I had very little to stir on, an' I was right down glad of any sort of a job as would help to make both ends meet ; for, don't ye see, Giles, I was a married man, an' there's always somethin' wantin' where there's a wife an' children about. Well, one gloomy day, when I was sittin' by myself in my room, potterin' away at somethin' or another, the latch was lifted an' all at once a great big ugly fellow comes walkin' right in, with a bandy-legged dog at his heels. He didn't knock nor nothin', but he came right in ; an' the look of his face made me' shake in my shoes. ... I remember I used to wear shoes at that time. I wear boots, now, ye see. Well, I thought at first that he must be a bam-bailiff ; for he was the very cut o' one o' that breed : an' I began o' feelin' rather queer ; for, don't yo see, Giles, I owed a little money at that time, an' when I looked at this surly-lookin' chap an' his dog, 1 thought to mysel, ' It's all over ; I'm in for it now I ' But I thoup.ht it was best to keep a civil tongue in my head, so I said, ' How dy'e do, sir ! It's a fine mornin'!' Well, ye know, I'm not generally given to lyin', — not as a rule, — but that was a sneezer for a start ; for, between you and me, Giles, it was anything but a fine mornin' ; for it was damp an' drizzly, an' as dark as a fox's inoutli ; but the fact is, Giles, I hardly knew what I was sayin' just at the time, don't ye see. However, I might have been OWD CRONIES. 265 talkin' to a milestone, for he took no notice, but kept standin' there, i'th middle o' th' floor, with a cudgel in his hand, starin' round as if he was goin' to mark my goods for rent. I didn't half like it, I can tell ye. Besides, there was this ugly dog of his; it stood just behind him, lookin' through his legs, with its eyes fixed right on me, as if it was choosin' a spot to fly at as soon as the word was given. I can assure you, Giles, that the general state of affairs made me feel bad in my inside for a minute or two. At last I managed to pluck up my spirit a bit, and I asked him if he would take a chair. Well, ye see, Giles, in the first place that was a queer thing to say to a bum-bailiff, to begin with. Besides, it was wrong in another way, for I hadn't a single chair in the place. The only thing I had to sit on was two three-legged stools. I wonder now that the fellow dkln't hit me with his stick. But, however, as I was tellin' ye, I was in such a flustration that I pulled up one o' these stools, and I said, 'Will ye take a chair, sir, if ye please?' But it was no use, bless ye. He still kept agate o' takin' no notice. An', between you an' me, Giles, it was a good job ; because the stool was such a little un that he wouldn't have been comfortable, for he was three times as broad as top o' th' stool, an' that leaves rather too much margin outside, ye know, Giles. Don't ye think it would, now?" " I think nought at o' about it," said Giles. " Get forrad witho, — an' get done witho, — for thou'rt roakin' me as mazy as a tup. I doubt there's moore clout than dinner about this tale o' thine. . . . Here ; grease thi wheels, an' start again." "Thank ye, Giles," said Dabble; and drinking off his 34 266 TL'FTS OF hf.athf.r: p;lass he said, " Now then ; I shall soon be at it, if you'll not hurry me. AVhen I was a boy at school, my mother used to say " "Here, come, come," said Cliles; " we'n ha' noan o' that. Get forrad wi' thi tale, an' bother no moore about thee an' thi mother." "Stop a minute!" cried Jem o'th Har-barn ; "hadn't we better have a bit of a sung or summat, between ; an' then he can go on again ?" '' Nawe, by th' mass ! " said Giles ; " we'n let him get it o'er, — if ever he will get it o'er ! . . . Come ; get forrad ! . . . Silence, for Dabble I " " I'm ready," said the painter, trimming his pipe. . . . " Let's see ; where did I leave off? . . . Oh ! . . . Well, as I was sayin', this man as I took for a bum-bailiff stood a while in the middle o'th floor, lookin' round with- out takin' a bit o' notice of anything that I said to him. At last he gave a surly sort of a grunt, and he said, ' I underston' thou'rt a sort of a jiainter.' "An' I said, ' "S'es ; I have painted a good deal in my time.' " ' What mak ? ' " said he. "'Well,' I said, 'some of my work's not so bad — though I say it myself.'" "'That's nought to do wi't,'" said he, groundin' his cudgel, with a bang; 'arto a sign-painter, or what mak o' paintin' doesto do?'" "An' I said, 'Oh; all sorts.'" " ' Conto do f.ices ? ' " said he. " ' Of course I can,' " said I. OWD CRONIES. 267 " ' l^oesto think thou could paint mine ?' " "' Certainly,' said I. 'Whereabouts?' I saw, yo know, that one of his- eyes was a great deal darker than the other ; and having had a little experience in the art of restoring certain departments of the human countenance to the original tone of colour, which had been lost by the sudden application of injurious external influences, — ye know, Giles, — I began to think thi; was another job of the same kind, and so I gave him a bit of a smile, and I said to him again, 'Certainly, sir. Whereabouts, please?' Ye know, Giles, I didn't like to mention his eye, because I thought he mightn't like it.' 'Whereabouts, please?'" said I. " '\\'hereabouts?' cried he. 'What arto bletherin' about ? I want it paintin' all o'er I ' '"Oh, I see,' said I; 'you're gooin' to a masquerade ball, or something. All right FU soon make ye so as nobody '11 know ye.'" "'Gooin' to what?' cried he." " ' By the living Jingo,' thinks I, ' I'm wrong again ; ' so I said to him, ' I hope you will e.xcuse me, sir, but I thought perhaps you might be going to a masquerade ball, or something.' " '•' ' Bith hectum ! ' cried he, grappling his cudgel, ' if thou talks to me about masquerades I'll rub tho down wi' a wooden towel, tightly !' And his dog began to grin." " Thinks I, ' This is goin' to turn out an ugly customer,' and I gave a sly look round ; but there was no chance of escape, bless ye, for this fellow and his dog stood right between me and the door. Well, you know, Giles, I saw at once that there was nothing for it but to keep as thick 268 IVriS OK IIEAI'llKR : witli him an' his dog as possible. An' it made me sweat, I can tell ye, for I began to think that he was a lunatic, or something, don't ye see, Giles. So I took my hat off; an' I wiped my forehead again ; an' I said, ' Well, sir ; I should be very glad to oblige ye in any way that I possibly can, I'm sure, — but, just now, I can't say th:it I quite understand what it is that you want exactly.'" " ' Well, then,' said he, ' thou'rt a leather-yed.' " "I was going to say, 'Thank you, sir,' but I thought I'd better not, because it might vex him ; so I only grinned a little, and wiped my forehead again." "Well, he gave another look round the place, and he said, ' Hast nought to sup i'th hole?'" " And I said, ' No, sir, I have nothing at all in the place in that line except some copal varnish, and a little drop o' ginger cordial, that I take now an' then when I'm seized with a pain in my inside. Will yo try a little? You're quite welcome.'" " He grunted again, an' he said, ' I'd as soon ha' tone as tother. But I'll ha' noather on "cm ; mix 'em together, an' sup 'em thisel'. . . . But come,' said he, ' I didn't want to ston botherin' here o' day. Didto never yer tell of a portrait ? ' " " ' A portrait ! ' said I ; ' Oh, that's it, is it ? Ah, well, — now I begin to comprehend.' " " 'Thou's bin a good while about it,' said he.'' "'Well, yes,' said I, 'that's true. But it's better late than never, ye know, isn't it I ' " '"I don't know whether it is or not,' said he; 'it just depends.' " own CRONIES. 269 '"Well, ye know, Giles, I thought I'd better not contradict him ; so 1 said, ' Oh ! a portrait is it ? Ay, very well, sir. See ye, take this chair, please;' and I pushed the stool towards him again." "'Well, he just gave' the stool a touch with his foot, an' away it went spinning to the other side of the room." " ' Thou met as weel gi' mi a fire-potter nob to sit on as that,' said he. ' Hasto nought bigger ? ' " " ' Well, ye see, sir,' said I, ' I'm not overstocked with furniture; but, if ye like, I'll clear the things away from this table; and, judging by the naked eye, I should say that would be about the size required for your conveni- ence.' " " ' Let thi bits o' tanklements stop where they are,' said he; 'I can ston.'" " ' Very well, sir,' said I, ' and what size d'ye think as you would like this portrait of yours to be ? ' said I." " ' Oh, th' yed,' said he ; ' nought nobbut th' yed. I don't think tother's worth botherin' about.'" " ' And between you and me, Giles, he wa-. right there ; for though he was a tremendous size of a chap, at the very least three parts of him was paunch, and such like; and he was terribly knock-kneed, and he was a queer shape altogether. He looked like a pack- sheet full o' tripe badly tied up. And yet, ye know, Giles, he would have made a very striking picture, in a certain sense, for he was what ye may call beautifully-ugly from top to toe. But, however, he seemed to have taken a particular fancy to his own face,— some people, do, you know, Giles,— his face he would have, an' nothin' else, — an', God knows, 270 TUnS OF HEATIIKR I that wasn't handsome. However, it was no business o' mine; an' it was a thing that couldn't be helped; for the man wasn't his own father,^nor I wasn't his father; and, between you and me, Giles, I should have been sorry if I had been. I dare say his mother thought him nice, once, — women do get such things into their heads, — but I question whether anybody else would think so that had good eye- sight. I remember an old rhyme that says : — Although I'm feaw, despise me not, The truth to you I'll tell ; I'm of another's hondy-wark, I didn't make mysel'. And it's (juite true. Beside, if he had made his-sel', it's just possible that he might have been uglier than ever. But that's neither here nor there. Let every tub stand on its own bottom, say I. The man was as God made him, — and he was a customer, — and that was enough for me. So I spoke him fair, for this dog of his was keeping its eyes on me all the time." '"Very well, sir,' said I; 'you want just the Iiead, and nothing else. . . . Kit Cat, I suppose ?"' " ' Kit what ? ' " said he. "'Kit Cat,'" said I. " ' I noather want Kit Cat, nor Kit Dog,' he said. ' I want a gradely pickter ! ' " " 'Well, sir,' said I ; 'if you'll leave the thing to me, you shall have a gradely pickter.' " '"Well; get agate o' thi paintin', then,' said he; 'get agate o' thi paintin'. Brass is no object to me.' " " Well, ye see, Giles, I was a bit flurried, so I said that it was no object to me neither." own CRONIES. 271 " He took me up in a minute, and he said, ' Thai's o' reet, then. Thou connot begin to soon.'" "Thinks I to myself, 'This'U not do;' so, for fear of any further mistakes, I said, ' Well, sir, you'll excuse me, but I've noticed several times in the course of my chequered existence that money comes in very handy when one wants to buy things ; and, as one's always needin' something or another, perhaps it would be as well to name a price, if you've no objections.'" "Then he banged his cudgel on the floor again, and he said, ' How leets thou didn't say so at first ? Come, what's it to be ? Oppen thi mouth, an' ha' done wi't.' " " So at last we agreed that this portrait was to be ten pounds; and when we had struck the bargain, he said, ' But mind, it mun be a good un, or else I'll not have it.' " "'Well, sir,' said I, 'when the portrait's finished, if you don't like it, I'll leave it to any respectable judge to decide the matter.' " ■"Well, then,' said he, ' we'n lev it this dog o' mine. If it wags it tale at it I'll pay for it; but if it barks at it thou'll have it thrut o' thi bonds.' " " ' Very well, sir,' said I, ' agreed. I'll leave it to the dog.' It was a foolish thing to do, ye know, but I did it. Beside, ye see, though I didn't like ih' dog, nor th' dog didn't like me, I thought it couldn't object to a genuine work of art ; for if I've noticed, Giles, that, as a rule, dogs are as good judges of these things as the ordinary run of Christians are, though they don't say as much about it.'' "Well, to make a long story short, we agreed. . . . But before I go any further I must tell ye that this customer 272 TUFTS OF HF.ATHER : of mine had a great wart playfully planted on the left side of his nose, and it was a very unsightly thing. So I laid my finger on my nose-end, and I said to him, ' Well, but how about the wart? I hope youUl not consider me imper- tinent, but you'll not have that in, will ye?'"' " ' Wart,' cried he ; ' what business has thou wi' ili' wart ? It's noan o' thine ! I'll have it in ! ' '" " ' Well, my friend,' said I, ' I hope you'll excuse me ; but if you was to touch it every morning with a little vitriol, it would be gone in a few days." " "'Vitriol!' cried he: 'put thi vitriol into thi porritch ! I'll ha' no vitriol ! I've had this wart ever sin" I wur born, an' I'll not part wi' it now! I'll have it in! I shouldn't look like mysel" beawt it ! ' " "So I hinted to him that, taking everything into consider- ation, perhaps it mightn't he an advantage to look like one's self sometimes." "Well, that made him roar again: and, grappling his cudgel by the middle, he cried, ' I'll have it in, I tell tho ! It's my own, an' I'll have it in ! ' " '"Very well, my friend,' said I; 'far be it from me to infringe upon the rights of private property. It's your own, as you say ; and you shall have it in. . . . Be content, my friend,' said I, laying my hand on his shoulder like that,— just to quieten him, ye know, Giles, — ' be content, my friend, you shall have it in, an' I'll put another on the opposite side, if you like, just to make an even balance.'"' " Well, that set him roaring worse than ever, and he made such a din that this dog of his seemed to get it into his head that we were fighting, and all at once he made a dart at me, OWD CRONIES. 273 and got fast hold of the calf of my leg. I hadn't much of a calf, to be sure, but it made free with what there was, I can tell ye. Well, ye see, Giles, that set me agate o' roarin' too, and I danced up an' down a bit, wi' th' dog hanging to my leg, and I kept cryin' out 'Tak'it off, — tak it off!' Well, he was in no hurry about the matter. To tell ye the truth, Giles, he seemed rather to enjoy it. However, he did take it off at last, and the moment 1 got loose I jumped on to the table, and I said, ' My friend, are you the proprietor of that animal ? ' " " And he said, ' Ay ; I've had it sin it wur a pup. There isn't a better dog i'th town for varmin ? ' " " ' Oh, thank you,' said I ; ' then I suppose you take me for varmin, do ye?' " " ' Well,' said he, ' this dog's noan a bad judge about sich like things as that.'" "So I thanked him again.'' '• ' Come off that table,' said he. ' What arto' doin' up theer ? Arto beawn to sell up, or summat ? ' '' " ' I'm much obliged to you, my friend,' said I ; ' but 1 prefer my present position, so long as that dog's in the room.' Then I rubbed my leg again, and I said, ' What d'ye feed it on, as a rule ? ' " " ' Shin o' beef, an' garbage,' said he." " ' Ay, then,' said I, ' I suppose the brute takes me for a stock you've been layin in.' " Here Giles rapped the table with his ladle. "Stop, stop, Jemmy," cried he. "How long's this maunderin' nominy o' thine gooin' to last? I can make noather top nor tail on't. Thou's bin agate o' buzzin' for 35 274 TVFTS OF HEATHER : this last h.iuve hour, hke a hum-a-bce in a foxglove, about dogs an' pickters, an' warts, an' warts, an' pickters, an' dogs, till I'm gettin' as mazy as a tup. Thou'rt as ill as a maut- mill. — wuzz, wuzz, wuzz, grind, grind, grind. Cut it short ! What the dule, thou'U have us o' asleep. Thou's done for ' Bonny Mouth', a good while sin. Look where he is, theer, — wi' his een shut, an' his mouth wide oppen, as if he wur catchni' fleas. An' Craddy's noan so mich better ; he keeps droppin' off, an' startin' up again, — like a goose wi' a nail in it yed. Cut it short, I pritho, — or else drop it o'together, — an' let someb'dy else start. By th' mass, I'd as soon be at a berrin", as sit hearkenin' thee. . . . Come, lads ; wakken up ! Jem ; nudge owd Bonny, — he's a mouth like a breast-hee coalpit." "Here; I'll wakken him," said Jem. "Now then! Come, Bonny Mouth ! Wakken up, my lad ! " Bonny Mouth gave a great yawn ; and then, looking round with half-wakened eyes, he said, " O' reet ! has he getten it o'er ? " "Not (juite," said Jem. " Well then," said Bonny Mouth, dropping his chin again, " I'll have another bit of a nap, yo can wakken me up when he's done." " Here, here," cried Giles ; " we'n ha' no sleepin' ! Beside, thou snoors like a reawsty trindlc ! Prop thoose foggy e'en o' thine a minute or two, till we se'en what he's for doin'." Then turning to the painter, he said " Now, Jemmy, my lad, thou's had a fairish do, — an' it's knockin' us o' u]). How long's this tale o' thine beawn to last ? " "Well, Giles," said the painter, " if you keep stoppin' me own CROXIES. 275 this way, it'll last till about three o'clock i'th afternoon o' New Year's daj' ; but if you'll let me go on in my own way I'll wind it up in a few minutes." " Then wind it up, — an' soon I " said Giles; "wind it up, — that's a good lad ! " "Ye know, Giles," said the painter, "you set me gooin' yoursel£" " Come, come," said Giles ; lets ha' no preichment ! Get end-ways ! I know I set thee gooin'. I've that to answer for, among th' rest o' mi sins. But, never mind, get end- ways, an' get it o'er." "Very well, then," said the painter, "I will get it over. . . . Let me see. Where was I ? Oh, — the dog. . . . Ah, well ; I'll say no more about that. But the end of the thing was that I painted this portrait; but when it was finished I could'nt get liira to say whether he liked it or he didn't like it. All that I could get out of him was, ' Wait a bit till I see what th' dog thinks about it' Well, he set a day ; and he brought his dog to criticise the portrait. And, mind ye, Giles, I've seen worse art critics than a dog in my time. But, as it happened, this turned out rather unfortunate for me, and it was this way. He took th' dog in his hands on th' floor, and he said, ' Now then ; set th' pickter i'th front on't, and let's see.' Well; I reared the portrait up against the table, in what I considered a good light." "'Now then, Pinch,' said he to the dog, 'doesto see that?'" "'Now for it,' thinks I; 'death or glory!' and I kept myself ready for action ; for, yc know, Giles, I had a lively remembrance of the animal's last visit to my leg; and I 276 TUFTS OF HEATHER : thought it just iiossible that it might take a fancy to another mOuthful." "'Now, Pinch,' said he, ' doesto see that?' " "Well; the dog began to snarl savagely, the very first thing; and put me into such a sweat, that I knocked a bottle over; and then th' dog darted straight at me. But I was on th' table again in a jiffy ; and there I stopt till the whole thing was ended." " Well ; when the dog began to snarl, he said, ' Come, that sattles it ! ' " "'My friend,' said I, 'you d'n't give the picture a fair chance. If you'll let the dog alone, it'll be quiet enough.' " " ' Th' dog noather likes thee nor thi pickter,' said he, 'so thou may keep thi pickter, an I'll keep mi dog.' '' " And away they went together." "Well, the end of it was that I had this portrait left on my hands for months ; and it was a dead loss, for I didn't know what to do with it. Lut ' it's a long lane that never has a turn,' yo know, Giles ; an' one fine morning, when I was sitting at my work, a man came in and said that he wanted me to paint him a sign for his public-house. And so I asked him what sign ? " "'Th' Turk's Yed,' said he." " Well, I was turning over in my mind whether to accept the job or not, for I didn't half like it — though I'd hard strugglin' at that time to make ends meet. Well, while I was turning the thing over in my mind, the man stood in the middle of the floor, looking round ; and his eyes hap- pened to light on this rejected portrait, that had been reared up i'th corner so long." OWD CRONIES. 277 " ' Hollo,' said he, ' what's this ? ' '' "So I told him the whole tale about this portrait." " ' Oh, I know him,' said he ; ' Owd Jone o' Blunder's. ' . Ay, an' it's like him, too — he's as feaw as a fried dromedary.' " " 'Well,' said I, ' he certainly isn't handsome.' " " Hondsome,' said he ; ' nawe, bi th' heart — he's noather hondsome face nor hondsome ways ! . . . But, by th' mass, I'll tell tho what,' said he, ' thi pickter of owd Jone's would come in grandly for my sign, with a bit o' touchin' up. An' it wouldn't need much, noather, — for he 's as ugly as ony Turk i' this wide world, — an' as savage.' " "Well, to make a long story short, I agreed to touch his portrait up, and make it into the sign of ' The Turk's Head.' I put him a turban on, and I made him a black beard, and I put rings into his ears ; and a very good Turk he made, I can tell ye. It was a kind of a godsend to me, for the man was pleased with his sign, and he paid me a good price for it. . . . Well, this sign hadn't been up a week before the whole story had got out about Jone o' Blunder's portrait being turned into the Turk's Head sign ; and from that day to this, Jone has gone by the name of ' Th' Owd Turk.' But, mind ye, before the sign had been up a month it disappeared one dark night, and was never heard of afterwards. . . . And that ends my tale." "That's reet, my lad," said Giles. "Here; let's fill thi tot again. I'm sure thou'rt dry." " An' now then, Giles," said the painter, " tho ne.xt time you ask me to tell a tale I'll either sing a song, or stand on my head, instead." 278 TITIS OF IIICATIIKR : '•Well, my lad," said Oilcs, "oathcr'U do,— though Ihou'rt nobbut a poor bond at singing' — but oathcr '11 do." "I know you think I'm very simple, Giles," said the painter. "Thou knows nought o'th sort, Jemmy," rc])lied (liles; " thou knows nought o' th' sort ; for I think thou'rt as deep as th' north star. If onybody bruns thee for a foo', James, they'n waste their coals. But never mind, my lad, thou's done as wed as thou could, an' that's as much as one can expect i' this world, — an' a good deal moore than we gotten' sometimes. Here, let's gi tho another thimblefull." "Come, lads," said Giles, "time's gettin' on. It'll be Kcsmass Day afore we known where we are. Let's be gettin' on. Here, Harry, old buzzart, keep th' backstone warm. What arto dremin' about ? Thou looks as if thou'd bin stonnin' o' one leg under a pump o' day for a wager. Wakken up an' keep th' backstone waruj ! Thou's done nought yet. AVhat conto give us ? " "I'll be there when I'm wanted, Giles," said th' wool chap, smiling. " Now's the time, then," said Giles, rapping the table with his ladle. " Order, for th' wool chap Now, Harry, what's it to be ? Arto for singin' or doancin', or tcllin' a tale ? " " I think I'll try an old song, Giles." "That'll do, my lad. Pipe up, an' good luck to iho. . . . Silence, for an ovvd sung ! Goo on, Harry." OWD CRONIES. 279 And Harry struck up at once, in a melodious voice, and like a man who had been used to that kind of thing : — If I live to grow old, for I find I go down, Let this be my fate in a country town :^ May I have a warm house, with a stone at the gate, And a cleanly young girl to rub my old pate ; May I govern my passions with absolute sway, And grow wiser and better as strength wears away, Without stone or gout — by a gentle decay. Chorus. — May I govern my passions, &c. In a country town, by a murmuring brook. With the ocean at distance, on which I may look ; With a wide green plain, without hedge or stile, And an easy pad nag for to ride out a mile. Chorus. — May I govern my passions, &c. With Horace and Plutarch, and one or two more Of the best wits that lived in the age before ; With a dish of roast mutton, not venison or teal, And clean, though coarse, linen at every meal. Chorus. — May I govern my passions, &c. With a pudding on Sunday, and stout humming liquor. And scraps of old Latin to w-elcome the vicar ; And a hidden reserve of good Burgundy wine, To drink the lung's health in as oft as I dine. Chorus. — May I govern my passions, &c. When the days are grown short, and it freezes and snows, May I have a coal fire as high as my nose ; A fire which, when only stirred up with a prong, Will keep the room temperate all the night long. Chorus. — May I govern my passions, &c. With courage undaunted may I face my last day ; And when I am dead may the better sort say — " In the morning when sober, in the evening when mellow, He's gone, and he leaves not behind him his fellow." Chorus. — May I govern my passions, &c. 28o runs of heather : The wool chap's song was received with a clatter of applause. "By th' men, Harry,'' said Giles, " thou's a gowden throttle, owd brid ! Good health to tho I " "Good health to th' wool chap !" cried Craddy, who had wakened up again by the din ; " good health to tlv wool chap ! ' Bravo — bravo — very well sung ; Jolly companions, every one." "To order !" cried Jem o' th' Har-barn ; "to order, lads. We'n plenty to go on wi'. . . . Giles, we'n another sung at this end if thou'll keep 'em quiet a bit." " Good again ! " said Giles. " Order for another sung. . . . Here, let's buttle out first. . . . Now then, Jem, we're o' ready. Who's beawn to sing ? " " Well, I'll try another bit of a ditty mysel', Giles ; if thou's nought again it." " Then tootle away, old layrock ; till th' welkin rings ! . . . Silence, lads, Jem's gcttin' his top-lip ready. Brast off, Jem !" Now, since we're met, let's merry, merry be, In spite of all our foes ; And he that will not merry be. We'll pull him by the nose. Let him be merry, merry there, And we'll be merry, merry here ; For who can know where he shall go, To be merry another year ? OWD CROXIES. 281 And he that will not merry, merrj- be, With a generous bowl and a toast, May he in Bridewell be shut up, And chained unto a post. Let him be merry there, &c. And he that will not merry, merry be, And take his glass in course, May he be obliged to drink small beer. Without money in his purse. Let him be merry there, &c. And he that will not merry, merry be. With a lot of jolly boys, May he be plagued with a scolding wife, To confound him with her noise. Let him be merry there, &c. And he that will not merrj', merry be. With his sweetheart by his side. Let him be laid in the cold churchyard, With a head-stone for his bride. Let him be merrj' there, &c. " Bravo, Jem," said Giles. " By th' mass, thour't i' grand fettle. Thou mends as thou gets owder." " Stop a minute," said Jem, " we'n another volunteer at this end. . . . To order! . . . Goo on, Snip!" And Snip began : — W'assail ! wassail ! all over the town ; Our toast it is white and our ale it is brown ; Our bowl it is made of a maplin tree ; And we are all good fellows — I drink to thee ! Here's to our horse, and to his right ear, God send th' owd lonlort a happy new year ; A happy new year to thee and to me ; With my wassailing bowl I drink to thee! :s6 2^2 'ITFTS OF HEATHER : Here's to our mnre, and to her right eye; God send th' owd mistress a Kessmass pie ; A good Kessmas pie as hoo ever did see ; With my wassailing bowl I drink to thee ! Here's to th' owd cow, and to her long tail, And God send that th' maistcr never may fail To brew us good beer ; I pray you draw near, And my wassailing song you soon shall hear. Send hither a maid — you're sure to have one — That'll not leave us here in the cold alone ; Come hither, fair maid, an' trole back the pin. And we'll sing you a song when we do get in. Come, butler, and bring us a bowl of the best, And I hope that your soul in heaven may rest ; But if you do bring us a bowl of the small, I care not if butler and bowl do fall. " Well done, Snip ! " cried Giles ; and, lifting his glass, lie said, "Come, lads, chorus: — • \\'ith my wassailing bowl I drink to thee ! Then each man took his glass in his hand ; and again and again the blithe burden rang in every nook and corner of the Old Boar's Head that wintry night. " Giles," said Lapstonc, " did'n yo ever yer tell o' Sam o- Boar-cloof an' his stuffed hare ? " " I've yard summat about it ; but what it is I connot justly remember. Let's have it." "Well, yo known that he wur a toi)-mark shooter?" " I know that he thought so ; but he were terribly wrang OWD CRONIES. 283 If he wur to aim at a hay-stack he'd be sure to hit Gather a church or a coal-house. I durst let him shoot at me for a shillin'. There isn't a brid i' this part o' the country that would stir a peg for him, if he wur to boke (point) his gun at it a whole day." "Well, he wur noan quite as ill as that, but he war terrible fond o' bein' thought a sportsman ; an' he're al'ays botherin' wi' guns, an' wearin' leather gaiters, an' shootin' jackets, wi' as mony pockets in as would howd a seek o' potitos. Well, thoose at' knew th' owd lad knew that he wur moor of a freetener than a killer; an' they used to play bits o' marlocks wi' him. . . . Well, one day, two or three mischievous cowts i'th fowd yon, geet a hare skin, an' stuffed it nicely wi' fithers an' bran, an' sich like, an' stitched it up a bit, an' then they went an' planted it slyly in a bush at the bottom o' Sam's garden, so that it showed itsel' a bit fro' th' back window. . . , So far so good. . . . When they'd done that, they crept to th' back o'th trees to see th' gam ; an' they sent a lad in at Sam's front dur, wi' th' news o' this hare i' the garden. 'Sam,' said th' lad, 'there's a hare under th' fayberry tree, at th' bottom o' yo'r garden, — yo' mun be sharp;' an' off he darted back again. Well, th' whol house wur up in a second. ' Reitch that gun," cried Sam. ' It's gwon to th' mendin',' said his son Joe. "Then run, thee, like a red-shank up to owd Dick's, an' borrow his gun. Be sharp, now ! ' An' th' lad darted off to owd Dick's. ' Keep still, every one on' yo'. I see it yon. I'll have that hare if I'm a livin' mon. What the dule's yon lad after 'at he's so lung? I could ha' bin at Rachda' an' back bi' now. Keep off that back dur, I tell 284 Tvrrs OF HEATHER : yo. I see it ! It's yon yet We'n ha' that divulskin jugged to-morn, if yo'n be quiet a bit. Howd, — it's off ! Nay, it's theer yet ! What the hectum's yon lad doin'.' Th' owd'st daughter looked through th' front window, an' hoj said, ' I see him ! He's comin' down th' brow, yon, full pelt, wi' th' gun on his shouldcn' ' O' reet,' said Sam, rubbin' his honds ; ' o' reet. Keep still. This is a grand do.' In coom th' lad, pantin' for breath, wi' th' gun in his honds. ' Make a less din,' said Sam, giviu' th' lad a souse on th' yed, ' an' gi's howd o' that gun. If thou speaks a quarter of a word for this next five minutes, I'll shoot thee wheer tho stons.' Well, Sam charge't gun, an' o' th' time he wur doin' it he kept sayin', ' Don't stir, now. Keep still. . . . Now then, oppen that shut gently, an' I'll teich yon divvle for comin' into my garden. Ston' fur, o' on yo. Now then, my lad, thou'll height no moore cabbich after to-day.' . . . Bang went th' gun, an' bran an' fithers flew i' o' directions ; an' Sam ran to pike th' hare up ; but afore he'd getten theer these chaps ' at had been watchin' him began o' shoutin' ." " Howd ! " cried Jone o' Gavelock's, striking the table with his fist; "I'll not yer another word said against Sam o' Boarcloof, bi never a mon 'at slept shoe-leather. He's own cousin to me." " Well," said Lapstone, " an' if he is own cousin to thee, he's no better for that." " Better or wur, it's theer : an' he owes thee nought." " Nawe, he doesn't," said Lapstone ; " an' I'll take good care 'at he never does do, noather. Doesto yer that, owd lad?" 0^W CRONIES. 265 " Come, come, lads ; let's ha' no fratchin' ! Jone, thou'rt gettin' terribly rivven o' at once. Arto pottert i' thi inside about summat?" " Not I. But I don't like to yer folk co'de beheend their backs." "Who wur co'in' him beheend his back?" cried Lapstone. " Why, thou wur," replied Jone ; ' and I know how it is, too. It's o' because thou made him a pair o' shoon 'at didn't fit, an' he thrut 'em 'o thi bonds." " I'd as soon make a pair o' dancin' pumps for a camel as make shoon for him at ony time ; for his feet arii't both of a size ; an' his yed's wur to fit than his feet." "Come, come, lads; drop it!" said Giles. "AVe'n ha' no foin' out to-neet, but what I do mysel' ! Keep yor tempers, an' sup again ! We'n ha' no fratchin', — not till Kessmass is o'er as how 'tis. . . . Here, Lapstone, as thou didn't finish th' tother, thou'd better give us a bit o' summat else." " I'm willing," said Lapstone. " Let hur went, then ! " cried Giles ; "let hur went 1 as th' Welchman said." "Well," said Lapstone, "didn' yo ever yer a tale about Dan o' Nelly's, — better known bi th' name o' Scutter-slutch, — ridin' fro' Owdham to Bill o' Jacks, i' Saddleworth, in a coach beawt horses ? " Here Jone o' (iavelock's struck the table again, and sprang to his feet. "I'll ston this no lunger!" cried he. "That's another cousin o' mine! He's doin' this o' purpose; an' he's no 'casion, for his gronfather wur hanged for sheep-steighlin' !— 286 TUITS 01" HEATHER : let him crack that nut ! Dan o' Nelly's is own cousin to nic o' th" mother's side ; and I'll not yer a word said again him hi mortal mou ! Now, what have I towd yo?" And the old man sat down again, foaming with passion. " By th' mass ! Jone," said Giles, " thou seems to be akin to o' th' foo's o'th country side." " Well, then ; " replied Jone, " thee an' me should be relations, Giles ; an' I didn't know it afore." This raised a general laugh round the board ; in which Giles joined as heartily as the rest. " Thou had me theer, owd lad," said he. " Well, well, — come, never mind. I'm content to be a cousin o' thine aniung th' rook. As far as foolishness gwos, I doubt we're o' sib-an'-sib, riban'-rib. But bridle yo'r tempers, lads; an' let's get on as weel as we con." " Gi mi thi bond, Giles!'' said Jone o' Gavelock's ; "gi mi thi bond ! I've nought again Lapstone, theer, if he'll let mi relations alone. Blood's thicker nor wayter, thou knows, Giles, — blood's thicker nor wayter." "Ay, ay; it is, owd lad," said Giles; "an' a great deeol dirtier, too, sometimes." This raised another laugh among the company ; and they melted into jovial amity again. " By th' mon," said Jone o' Gavelock's, thumping the table, " I've a good mind to tell a tale mysel'." " Do, owd brid," said Giles; "an' I'll let tho off for o' at ever thou did again mi i' thi life ! " " It'll be about th' Owd 'Volunteers," said Lapstone to Snip, in a whisper; "It'll be about th' Owd Volunteers, own CRONIKS. 287 for a crown. He generally tells that about this time at neet. Husht! he's coughed twice; he'll be ready directly." "Ay, but he'll sup first,"' said Snip. " That's sartin," said Lapstone, taking hold of his glass ; " an' so will I." CHAPTER Vin. THE KING AND THE VOLUNTEER. " I wol yow telle as wel as eny kan, A litcl jape that fell in our cite." CHAUCER. 5^0\V, Jone, my lad," said Giles, " what arto bcawn to give us ?" " If yo'n wait a minute, till I've charge't this pipe, I'll gi' yo' summat, yo'st see," said Jone. "That'll do, my lad," said Giles, " but mind thou mentions nobry's relations this time." " Come, come, Giles," cried Jem o' th' Har-barn, '" we'n had enough o' that ! Thou'U not let 'em be quiet when they are quiet." " It's o' reet, this time, Giles," said Jone, trimming the bowl of his pipe with his finger, "it's o' reet this time. This is about mysel'." " Thou couldn't do better," said Giles, " off witho ! " " Well, then, here goes," said Jone. ..." When I wur i' th' 'Volunteers, " 288 TUFTS OF HEATHER : "Didn't I tell iho?" said Lapstone to Snip. "Didn't I tell tho it would be 'th' Volunteers?' He's sure to begin that about this time at neet." Jone overheard the half whisper on the other side of the table, and, stopping in his story, he looked mazily round, as if searching for the speaker, and said, " Here, come ; if we're o' gooin' to talk at once, like Rossenda' churchwardens, I'll wait a bit till there's a better chance." " Silence," cried Giles, " silence for Jone ! We'n not have a word fro' nobry till th' owd lad's done his do ! . . . Start again, Jone, my lad," said Ciiles, " I'll keep 'em quiet." " Well ; I'll try again, then,'' said Jone. ..." When I wur i' th' Lancashire Volunteers we wur summon't up to Lunnon to a review, an' we geet a bit of a glent at a different mak of life while we were theer. An' mind yo, they were a lot o' th swipper'st, stark'est lads in Christendom, wur th' Lancashire Volunteers. They'd'n a foughten a lion a piece for a quart of ale ! Well, th' King were very fond of us Lancashire chaps ; an', when he were at a loose end, he passed as mich time wi' us as ever he could spare. Him an' me geet terribly thick, an' when he'd knocked off for th' day, we powler't up and down Lunnon together, i' o' mak o' nooks an' corners ; an' this is how I let on him first of o' : — We lee down at Chelsea at that time, an' one day when I wur walkin' th' sentry, a fattish owd chap coom up to th' gate, wi' a ash plant in his bond ; an' he wur walkin' straight in, beawt sayin' a word. But I stopt him wi' mi gun, an' I said, ' Here, owd mon, keep o' thi own side ! Thou munnot go OWD CRONIES. 2S9 in here I We can do beawt thee when we're busy!' \Vi' that, he up wi' his stick, an' he said, ' Thee keep thi gun to thi'sel, an ston out o' mi gate, or else I'll tak tho a-top o'th nob once or twice ! I'll hae thee to know I'm ih' maister o' this cote I ' Well, wi' that, I brast out a-laughin', an' I said, ' Come, that's a good un ! Thou's done it this time, owd brid ! Who arto, if I mun be so bowd ! ' ' Well, he said, ' I'm th' King, — that's o'.' Well, that made me oppen my e'en a bit, yo known, so I said, ' What, thee a king ! By th' mon, I thought thou'd been hawkin' stockin'-yorn ! Arto reel i' thi yed, thinksto? . . . Wheer's thi crown?' ' Well,' he said, ' I haven't it on to day, becose it's off at th' mendin'. I happen't to lev it upo' th' table one day th' last week, while I went out for a bit o' bacco, — er Charlotte wur busy wi' th' weshin', — an' th' childer geet hold on't, an began o' roUin' it up an' down th' floor, till th' revits coom out. I had to send it off to owd Ben, th' whitesmrth. He promis't to have it done bi yesterday, at baggin-time ; an' he said he'd send it down bi th' lad ; but I doubt he's getten upo' th' fuddle again. Th' last time it went to th' mendin' he popt it : an' er Charlotte had to go four or five times afore hoo could get th' ticket out on him ; an' then hoo had to go an' get it out for me to go to' church in o' Sunday.' Weel, yo known, when I yerd that, I began o' pooin' my horns in ; an' I put my gun o' one side, an' I said, ' Well, thou may go in, owd lad, as it's thee. But, if I wur thee, I'd al'ays ha' mi crown wi' me, or else nobry'll know 'at thou'rt a kin?.' . . Well, at after that th' oivd lad an' me geet thicker nor ever : an' he wur like as if he never were comfortable but when we wur together. Well, time went on a bit ; an' one day, when 37 290 ILFTS OK HEATHER : US lads were upo' th' parade, th' Siirjati' comes up to me, an' he says, ' Ho«d that gun straight ! ' An' I said, ' I am howdin' it straight!' An' he said, 'Thou artn't howdin' it straight ! ' An' I said, ' Thou Hes, I am howdin' it straight ! ' An' wi' that, he knocked th' gun straight out o' my hond ; an' then he said, ' Pike tliat gun up ! ' An' I said, ' Nawe, I'll not pike it up ! It is wheer thou's put it, an' thou'll ha' to pike it up thi'sel' 1' An' he said, 'Pike that gun up, or else I'll ha' tho put i'th guard-house ! ' Well, I towd him 'at I didn't care for noather him nor th' guard-house ! An' that set him agate o' bletherin' an' gosterin' up an' down like mad. An" while he wur agate of his din, who should come up, hi' th' mass, but th' king hissel' ; an' when he see'd th' gun lyin' upo' th' floor, he said, 'Jone, is that thy gun?' An' I said, 'Ay, it is, owd lad ! ' An' then he said, 'What's it doin' ui)o' th' floor? ' An' I said, 'Th' sarjan' theer's just knocked it out o' mi' hond,' an', wi' that, he up with his foot an' punce't that sarjan' up an' down th' yard till he skriked like a jay ; an' if I'd spokken hauve a word to owd George just then, I could ha' had him shot ; but I thought I'd see how he went on Well, th' king an' me geet thicker than ever ; an' one day I axed him up to his baggin' ; an' he coom. Our Betty an' th' childer wur up i Lunnon . wi' mo, an' we had er baggins together. Well, th' king kept lookin' at these childer of ours, an' he said, ' I'll tell tho what, Jone, thou's a lot o' th' finest, fresh-colour't childer 'at ever clapt e'en on. Mine are o' as yoUo' as marigowds. What dun yo feed 'em on ! ' An' I said ' Porritch.' ' Porritch, — porritch,' lie said ; ' what's that?' ' Why,' I said ; ' hasto never had noan ? ' An' he said, he'd never yerd tell on 'em afore. own CRONIES. 291 'Conic,' I saiil, 'Our Getty's make us a pon-fiill' So hoo made 'em, an' we o' fell to, an' when th' owd lad had ta'en two or three spoonful, he said, 'By th' mass, Jone, I'll tell tho what, — this is giand stuff! If our Charlotte knowed how to make these, we'd have 'em regilar ! ' 'Well,' I said, if thou's a mind, our Betty's go down an' lam her ! ' An' he said, ' Agreed on, owd lad ! Gi' us thi hond I Agreed on ! ' So we set a time, an' our Betty went do'ivTi ; ati' owd Charlotte an' her wur up an' down th' kitchen a whole day, among this porritch ; an' I believe that, fro' that day to this, they'n never had a meal i' that house but they'n had a bowl o' porritch upo' th' table. An' when th' Lancashire \'olunteers left Lunnon, th' owd lad coom a-seeing me off, an' he made me promise to send him a stone or two o' gradely meighl fro' whoam, an' he'd send th' brass at th' end o' th' month, when th' pay-day coom. An' I sent him a lot, an' he sent th' brass in a week or two after bi a chap 'at wur comiu' down to Manchester a-buying a bit o' fustian for a suit o' clooas for th' Prince o' Wales. Vxe never sin him sin', but he's sent word noiv an' then; an' I believe thoose children o' th' king's han never looked beheend 'em sin' they started o' aiiin' porritch. . An' that's o'." " Jone, owd lad," said fViles, " thou's towd us a tale, an' its a good un o' th' maL Lads, here's to Jone o' Gavelock's an' owd King George ! " The health was drunk with boisterous glee. " An' now," said Giles, rising from the table, " that clock's just upo' th' stroke o' twelve. It'll be Kesmass Day in a iwo-thre minutes, an' afore we partcn, I should just like Hush! What's that?" 292 TUFTS OF HICATHKR : It was a sweet, childlike voice, that seemed to hover about them in the air, singing — Lcng time ago in Palestine, Upon a wintry morn, All in a lonely cattle shed. The Prince of Peace was born ; His parents they were simple folk. And simple lives they led. And in the way of righteousness This little child was bred. The last stroke of twelve rung out from the clock before these words were ended. Up struck the bells of St. Leonard's churcli upon the hill in front of the house ; and from a band of " waits," who had gathered beneath the window of the inn, there arose into the starlight wintry air the glad old carol of the day : — Christians awake, salute the happy morn. Whereon the Saviour of this world was born. Giles ran and flung open the door. " A Merry Christmas to yo, lads ! " cried he. " Come in out o' th' cowd ! " ZU Sfart plan's ^'xmtv. CHAPTER I. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds. ji|XE cold afternoon in the fall of the year, I came through a lonely clough in the forest of Rossen- dale. It had been a shady place in summer ; but sere leaves lay thick that day upon the footpath which wound up to an old village upon the northward hill-top. It is not unlikely that some rude settlement of man looked round from that bold height when King Alfred was fighting with the Dane. A little stream ran down the hollow, hidden in some places between lofty banks, and over-bowered here and there by trees in summer ; but the leaves were fast falling away, and the wild flowers that once nodded to the water as it frolicked by, were nearly all dead. The little brook still wimpled on, but there seemed to me a touch of tender complaining in its song, as if it felt lonely. Whilst wandering through these withering woods, I felt something of that contemplative mood, in which " pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind." There was a solemn 294 Turrs of hkatiif.r : charm in the tempered harmony of autumnal hues that clothed the scene ; and there was something unusually chill and hushed in the appearance of the sky, where streamy cloudlets, wild as a Druid's hair, were gliding southward, with subdued motion, as if impressed with the thought that they too were drifting — they knew not whither. The thinning trees had a starved look, and all the landscape was preaching the funeral sermon of the year. The bleak hills stood like mourners round the scene, and the finger of silence lay upon the lip of nature as in the chamber of a dying man, save that now and then a low wind came with dirge-like sough through the glen, bringing down another shower of dead leaves from " bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang." Trailing my solitary way through these rustling relics of the summer's green I came up from the cloiigh just as twilight was beginning to dusk the wood- land hollows into deeper gloom. As I crossed the sloping field near the old church the chimes rang out sweet and distinct upon the evening air. The thin crescent of a new moon was bright in the sky ; and, between flying clouds, the evening star looked down with steady gleam upon the folding world. The old church wore an unusually solemn aspect at that contemplative vesper-hour. I lingered a few minutes in the graveyard. The tenants of- that silent ground were sleeping soundly, " after life's fitful fever." Here was a storied monument ; there, a pauper's undistin- guished mound ; but the closing event, that comes to all alike, had laid them side by side in the peaceful companion- ship of common decay at last. They had crossed the edge of the great forest, — " the undiscovered country, from whose THE DEAD MANS DINNER. 295 bourne no traveller returns."' I tried to read some of the epitaphs upon the gravestones, but the shades of night had begun to shroud those brief records of the poor inhabitants below, so I took my way out by the great gate, where withered leaves from the trees about the entrance rustled audibly around me in the fading light. A little street, mostly of old-fashioned cottages, with gardens in front of them, led from the church gates into the village. There was a quaint irregularity about this little street It looked pretty and picturesque, and full of sweet, nest-like simplicity. The houses seemed to have each a story and a will of its own. On both sides they stood a little in and out, here and there ; some leaned forward, some backward, and one or two had got a paralytic twist, that threw the gable end curiously out of the line, as if the window round the corner was trying to see what time it was by the church clock at the end of the street. They were a " good deal out of drawing," as painters say ; but there was a clean, cozy air about them, that w.is pleasant to the eye. Taken altogether, with the bit of trailing greenery about the doors and windows, they looked like two lines of old people advancing to each other in a country dance at holiday time, with three or four snnrt young sprigs, more gaily dressed, joining in the fun, and eyeing the wavering string of ancient caperers with a kind of patronising admiration. Many of the doors were open. Pot-plants peeped through almost every window ; and here and there I saw bright utensils winking upon the walls inside. In one cottage I heard a cheerful jingle of tea-things : in another a lad sat near the open door playing " The Sicilian Mariner's Hymn '' upon 296 runs OF HF.ATHKR: an accordion. At tlie threshold of the next there stood a comely woman, wearing a clean white cap and a print bed- gown, and with suds upon her stout arms, as if she had just left the washing-mug. Her cap-strings fluttered in the wind as she leaned with one hand against the door-cheek, calling her children in from pla)', in a shrill, long-drawn cry, that rang all over the neighbourhood. " Martha ! . . . Mary I . . . Come in this minute ! . . . 'Lijah ! Come in to thi ])orritch ! Eh, I'll warm thee, gentleman, — I will ! T-ook what a seet thae's made o' thi cloas ! " She gave the ruddy lad a motherly love-tap as he ran by her into the house, and then she closed the door upon her little fold. I knew that these cottages were the homes of working- people, most of them weavers, and, in addition to their handicraft, some of them students of science, — botany, music, or mathematics. A gray-haired man, witli his shirt- sleeves rolled up, and stocking-legs drawn upon his arms, leaned upon a garden gate, smoking, and looking drowsily round. The village gossips were gathering to their old lounging-place at the far corner of the street ; and I met tired workmen sauntering homeward with their cans and dinner-baskets. A bright fire filled the front room of " Billy Wimberry's" ale-house w^ith a cheerful glow. The " Duke o' York's March " rang merrily from the hand-bells inside ; and an old weaver was sidling up to the door with his hands in his pockets, and looking slyly round, with a face as innocent as a kitling, — the first drop before the shower of nightly revelry came on. The evening grew wilder as day- iiiiht died away ; and a little furtlier up a swing sign creaked rustily in the wind in front of the " Old Bull." " Blind THE DEAD MANS DINNER. 297 Jerry," the fiddler, had taken his seat in the tap-room corner for the night ; and as no customers had j'et arrived, he was playing " Roslin Castle " for his own pleasure. The beautiful wail streamed forth upon the moaning wind in fine accor- dance with the hour and the whole mood of nature outside. The " Bull " was one of the homeliest inns a mortal man could put his head into. An old wood-and-pl aster house — but sound and substantial still — like a good constitution well preserved. Many a fine oak fell to supply the timber for that quaint-gabled hostelry. It had an inviting look, even outside. Something frank and generous beamed through those chequered walls and diamond-paned lattices, that warmed the whole neighbourhood. The white and black that distinguished the wood from the rest of the building were clean white and clean black. The windows, the blinds, the clean pavement in front, the well-filled watering- trough, the old horse-block, and everything about the open doorway, hinted that all was right inside. A good old- fashioned inn, glowing throughout with genuine comfort. There was neither stint, nor extortion, nor dirt, nor disorder / /^~^ A ' of any kind, allowed therein. Some of its rooms were ' wainscotted with black oak. It was full of cosy nooks, too : and stored with many a rare piece of furniture, inlaid cabinets, and carved oak chairs and tables, that shone like dusky looking-glasses. On the shelves of the bar there were several quaint gilt vases, and two mighty old China punch-bowls, which were only taken down three times a year, on certain red-letters days, when the "Old Cull" was alive from the cellar to the ridging with the flowing revel of some annual holiday, long and regularly " kept up " under 298 TUFTS OF HKAIHF.R : tlmt many-rliimnied roof. The kitchen, too, liad a (harm of its own. Its snowy walls gHttered with bright dish- covers, warming-pans, ladles, and other shining metal utensils. The vast firegrate was ahvays clean, and hauily ever cold. The grand oak clock in the corner beat time with slow and solemn sound, as if it had authority to keep order in that place. 'J'he delf-rack was full of crockery, and the thick plane-tree top of the long dresser was as white as scouring could make it. And then, the ceiling ! Ah ! the ceiling of that bright little kitchen world was a firmament studded with cheerful things ! It was hung with great hams and flitchet. ; and rounds of spiced beef, sewed up in brown holland ; and bundles of dried herbs ; with here a copper kettle, and there a brass pan for boiling preserves. In the middle there was a large stringed frame, or " brade-fleigh," covered with crisp oat-cakes, the ends of which hung down in inviting curls, — free to all hands. " It snowed of meat and drink in that house," as Chaucer says ; and a good deal of that snow, like the snows of heaven, fell quietly upon the poor ; for the old landlady and her daughter had womanly hearts within them, and were always glad to do a good turn to the needy ; and they liked to have people of the same disposition about them. . . . But who can tell how many famished wanderers may have halted at meal times, and looked wistfully in at that cheerful doorway for a moment, and then crawled forward into the cold world beyond, unknown to the kind hearts within those quaint walls. .... On one of the beams an anticjue halbert hung ; and on another there was a long fowling-piece — a cherished relic of the landlord, who had been laid at rest. THE DEAD MAN S DINNEK. 299 many a long year since, in the churchyard. Everything in the " Old Bull " betokened long-continued care and success- ful housekeeping. Ay, even the cats in the kitchen, so portly and sleek, and so magnificently lazy, that they looked as if they had to lean against the wall to mew. They glid-id about with a slow, serene majesty, as if they had no need to be in a hurry about things. They had made a position in the world, and you could see at a glance that they knew it, Their bread was baked. There was a full-fed, self-satisfied calm about them, as if they had been aldermen a good while, and were going to be mayors next year. They looked as if they owned a good deal of valuable scrip, and sub- scribed to things, and had " two coats, and everything handsome about them." It was very clear that they had long since retired from the mouse line, or, at least, that the business was now managed entirely by junior partners. They had nothing to do but to sign cheques, and eat and drink, and doze, and be grand. If ever cats aspired to a pedigree, and coats of arms, and things, these were the catsi I could almost imagine them taking a bath every morning, and then ringing the bell for breakfast and the newspapers. . . . The poultry in the yard, too, were all well off. They were plump, comfortable-looking fowls, who had less scratch- ing to do than their neighbours. Their plumage was rich and clean, and glossy with good living. They slept soundly o'nights, and they rose in a morning with minds at ease about the day's peck. In fact, everything about the " Old Bull " seemed healthy and prosperous, and well-cared for; ay, even to the loud-chirping crickets on the hearth At the rear of the house there was a pretty little parlour, 300 T.UFTS OF HEATHER : with a bow-window, that commanded a view of the clough and the hills beyo id. It was pleasant to sit by that open window on a summer evening, when birds peeped in and sang; when the roses, clustering Ijy the wall, filled the room with a sweet smell ; and when the voices of the bowlers at play upon the old green came clear upon the air. I thought of this little parlour as I drew near the door of the " Old lUill " that cold night, and — I went in. As I walked up the lobby, crooning to the so ;nd of Jerry's fiddle, the house seemed to me unusually still. I peeped through the bar-window. There was nobody in ; but I met the landlady's daughter, Mary, coming from the kitchen with a cup of tea in her hand. She was in haste, and I thought she looked anxious. Pointing towards the little parlour, she said, " You'll find the doctor in there, sir. My mother's not well." And then she ran upstairs with the tea. I was glad to hear that the doctor was in. It was a I)leasure and a benefit to meet with him, for he was a fine ojd man, — a gentleman in heart and thought ; and a man of rare cultivation. In youth he was an active politician; but his whole life had been marked by a catholic respect for all shades of sincere opinion, even whilst warmly advocating his own. Singularly child-like in his trustful simplicity, there was yet a natural dignity about him, arising from the good- ness of his heart and the noble tone of his mind — a dignity that could bear the shock of free contact with his kind, and needed no outworks of frigid mannerism to defend it from impertinent familiarity. He was a genial man too, and could crack his joke with the best, at the right time. Strongly attached to his profession, the long practice of it had THE DEAD MAN's DINNER. 3°^ brought him into contact with a great variety of human hfe, and his sympathies were wider even than his experience. The poor loved him well ; and they had a good reason for it. I found him sitting by the fire, with the Time^ in his hand " Good evening, doctor,"' said I. " Good evening, sir," replied he. " l"m glad to see you." « Thank you," said I, shaking his offered hand. " Mary tells me that her mother is unwell. Do you know what's the matter, doctor ? " " Well," replied he, " the old lady has had an excellent constitution, but she his reached that time of hfe when nature begins to whisper to the best of us that the inevitable hour is not far off. She is seventy-five, and a very sensitive person by nature; and she has had a great shock to-day. Have you heard of the accident? " ^' Not a word. What is it, sir?' " Oh, a very sad thing," replied he, taking a pinch of snutf, and laying his old tortoise-shell box upon the table :— " For the last twelve years I have attended the family of a labourer of the name of Greenhalgh, but better known among his neighbours as ' Solid Jimmy.' I never knew a more com- fortable couple, in their humble way, than Greenhalgh and his wife. I don't think his wages averaged more than seventeen or eighteen shillings a week, the year round ; but they managed to pay their way, and live respectably upon it; and their little cottage was as sweet a nest as any poor man need wish for. They have had nine children, too. The youngest is not quite ten months old, and Matty's in what country folk call 'ih' expectin' way' again. Jenny, the eldest, is about eleven, and she lies dangerously ill of 302 TUITS OK HEATHER: inflammation. I called to see her this forenoon ; and, as I was about to leave the house, Matty took me aside, and said, ' Doctor, eawr James axed me to go wi' his dinner to-day, an' tak word heaw Jenny's gooin' on. He's quite unsattl't abeiwt her.' So I told her that I was going partly the same way, and, if she was ready, we would walk together. She seemed pleased, and she began to hurry the dinner things into her basket ; and it was touching to see her flutter about the house, as if half loath to leave it. Pointing to a young woman, who was busy about the fire, she said, ' This is my sister Nelly ; hoo's comed to look after th' childer while I'm away.' Then she went to tlie cradle, where the youngest child lay asleep, and, tucking the clothes in tenderly, she croodled over it in a dove-like way, as only a mother can do. They had brought a bed down mto the next room for the girl who was ill. The door was open, and the child lay there watching her mother as she went to and fro. Matty went to her bed-side, and softly smoothed the pillow ; and, as she straightened the clothes about her, she whispered, ' Neaw, my lass, I'm gooin' wi' thi father's dinner. I'll not be long. Thae mun lie still, an' thae'll soon b: weel, thae's see.' Then, as she closed the door in coming away, she looked back again into the room, and said, ' Thi father '11 bring tho some posies when he comes fro his wark.' . . . When we had got a few yards away from the cottage, Matty gave a great sob, and she said, ' Eh, doctor, I'm fieyed we 're gooin' to lose her I' But I reassured the poor woman as well as I could ; and wlien I parted with her at the corner of the orchard she was in good spirits again, and she .vent forward up the road with her THE DEAD MAN S DINNER. 303 husband's dinner. It was then about ten minutes to twelve." " And now,'" continued the doctor, taking another pinch of snuff, and ringing the bell, "'Lame Jonas,' the old servant man here, can tell the rest of the story better than I can, for he saw more of it." "P'anny," said he, when the servant euteied, "if old Jonas is at liberty, send him here for a few minutes." She closed the door, and I heard her tell a lad in the lobby to fetch "Owd Jonas." " What Owd Jonas ?" inquired the lad. " Is it Limper ? "' "Yes. He must come directly." Away went the lad shouting through the back yard, " Limper's wanted i'th bar this minute ! " The house was so still that we could hear the old man reply gruffly from the stables, " Hello '. What arte makin' that din abeawt? I'll may thee limp if I get howd on the : "■ In a minute or two he cam.e stumping up the lobb)-. "Neaw, then," said he to Fanny; "what's to do again?" "Th' doctor wants yo i'th parlour, Jonas." " Oh," replied he in a softer tone, as he rolled down his shirt sleeves in a hurry. " Bobby, go thee fot my jacket eawt o'th kitchen. Be slippy ! " In another minute he stood in the doorway, with an old crushed milking hat in his hand. " Dun yo want nie, doctor ? " " Yes," replied the doctor ; '• if you've time, I want you to tell us about the accident to-day. Sit doivn, Jonas. How's your leg?" 304 TUFTS OF HEATH F,R : "Well,'' said Jonas, "it gi's bits o' steawnges neawan' then ; but it's no wur, upo' th' whol." " Well," said the doctor, " before you begin, Jonas, what will you have to drink ? I know you don't like to sit dry- mouth." "A saup o' rum, if yo plezzen, doctor, said Jonas. " It's good for th' rheumatic, isn' it ? " The old doctor smiled, and rang the bell. When the rum came, Jonas laid his hat upon the window- sill, and sat down. " Ay, ay," said he, stirring his glass thoughtfully,; " it's a bad job for sure — very. . . Come, here's yo're good health, doctor ; " and then, nodding side- way to me, he said, "an' yors an' o." And then, settling down in his chair, with his glass in his hand, he began. CHAPTER II. " And will he not come again ' And will he not come again ? Ah, no, he is dead ; Go to thy death-bed ; He never will come again." hamlet. SELL, doc'or," said Jonas, still stirring his nun and water, and looking thoughtfully in the glass, " I hardly know heaw to begin my tale. I didn't see it fro' th' first exactly; but I'll tell yo what I did sec, as weel as I con : — " Eawr mistress sent mo this forenoon wi' a bottle o' red THE DEAD MAX S DINNER. 305 port an' some bits o' nourishments for Owd Hannali, th' mangle- woman, that's bin lyin' ill so lung. Th' poor owd lass — hoo's had a weary time on't ; but hoo's welly done wi' this world. Well, as I coom back, I stopped a minute or two at th' side o'th main-soof 'at they're makin' up i'th road, yon. They'n cut happen three yard an' a hauve deawn; an' Jimmy Greenhalgh, fro' th' Birches — him "at they co'n ' Owd Solid' — wur wortchin deawn at the bottom. I didn't know who it wur till he looked up, an' axed me what time it wur. I tow'd him that it had just gone a quarter to twelve ; and he said, ' It 's bin a long forenoon, Jonas ; but it's drawin' to an end. I wish eawr Matty'd come. We'n one o'th childer ill, an' I want to yer heaw hoo's gettin' on.' I axed him which it wur, an' he said it wur their Fanny. An' I don't wonder at Jimmy bein' consarnt abeawt her, for there's summat moor nor common abeawt that lass ; an' I know that hoo's olez bin a sort of a nestle-brid at their heawse. But I didn't like to say nought no fur to him at th' time, for he's a very feelin' mon, is Jimmy. So, he went on wi' his wark, an' I coom deawn whoam. When I geet into the heawse, eawr mistress said, 'Well, heaw's yon poor owd woman?' But hoo'd hardly getten th' words eawt of her meawth afore we yerd a fearful skrike o' women set up, and a strange hurry agate i'th street ; an' folks' feet clatterin by th' front dur at a terrible rate. I felt a bit of a cowd crill, for summat towd mo that there n'ur misfortin' afoot. Eawr mistress dropped her knittin to th' floor, an' hoo said, ' Eh, Jonas, there's somebory run o'er ! ' .An' hoo tremble't fro yed to foot. I would ha' gone eawt to see what were to do, but hoo said, ' Nawe, nawe ; stop here till eawr Mary comes 1 ' An' hoo rang th" bell. 39 306 TUFTS OF JIEATHFR : '■ There wur a lot o' carters i'th tap-reaum, and ttt-o riders-eawt i'th bar ; but the)' wur off in a minute, an' th' sarvants an' o' went flutterin' deawn th' lobby. Then some- bory in a leet geawn ran by th' bar window, an' th' mistress said, " Yon's caw r Mary ! Let's go an' see what's th' matter I" An' hoo laid her hond o' my shoolder, an' we followed to th' front dur. " When we geet theer, folk wur hurryin' fro' o' sides up to the new soof, and theer they stoode, in a grcight welter, lookin deawn into th' hole, wi' faces as pale as my shirt. I would fain a-gwon up to th' spot, but th' owd woman would'nt let me stir a peg. Well in a minute or so, there wur a cry set up for ' Moor spades ! ' an' some ran one gate, some another. Little Jerry, th' stable lad, coom hurryin' up to th' dur, eawt o' breath, an' he said, ' Th' soof's fo'n in ! There's a chap smoorin' ! I'm beawn for some spades!' an' he dashed through to th' back yard. Owd Sprint, th' taylior, wur runnin' deawn th' middle o'th road, beawt hat, an' I beckon't on him, but he cried eawt that he wur gooin' for a doctor, an' he couldn't stop. ... It wur a terrible thing to see th' folk ctuster't abeawt that soof. . . Onybody 'at's yerd that low buzz 'at a lot o' men makes when there's aught sayrious agate. — they may tell it again as long as they liven. . . . Well, th' next thing, Mary coom to us, and begged of her mother to go into th' heawse ; an' hoo said that hoo'd sent Robin up to see heaw they wur gooin' on, an' he'd be back directly. So we he'ped her into th' parlour, here ; an' some an' ill hoo wur, I con tell yo. " We wur just talkin' abeawt gettin' th' owd woman up- stairs, when Robin coom in wi' th' news. 'Eh, mistress,' he THE DEAD MAN's DINNER. 307 said, ' it's poor J ini Greenhalgh ! I've sin sicli a sect ! Just as it stroke twelve, liis wife coom off at th' coiner o"th road wi' his dinner. Owd Suzy, th' wesherwoman, wur wi' her, an' tliey seem't to be talkin' very comfortably together. It would ha' been better if somebory could ha' stopped 'em afore they'd gettin' to th' place; but hoo wur too near. When Matty see'd th' creawd, hoo walked up, quite uncon- sarnt, an' axed a chap 'at stoode at the eawtside what there war to do. He wur a stranger, and breek-makcr bi' th look on him, — an' he onsor't her very snappish an' said, 'There's somebory kilt i'th soof;' an' then he towd her to mind her own business. But summat seem't to strike her o' at once, on' hoo gripp't him by th' arm an' said, ' Oh, what's he code ?' The chap stare't at her white face ; but afore he could say a word, somebory beheend sheawted eawt, " It's Jimmy Greenhalgh, at tli' Birches ! ' an' then, in an instant, th' dinner-basket dropped to th' floor, an' her arms shot up, an' hoo gav a wild skrike 'at startle't th' folk i'th street, like a flash o' leetenin'. They just catch't her afore hoo fell to th' greawnd like a lump o' wood. The neighbour women coom runnin' reawnil when they yerd her cry ; an' as first one then another looked at her, they said, ' Eh, it's Ma'.ty It's his wife ! Eh, poor thing ! ' , . . An' they geet Iiowd on her, and carried her into Sally Grimshaw's, an' laid her upo' th' couch cheer, as dateless as a stone !" "An' neaw, doctor," continued Jonas, "I've toivd tli' tale as far as I con, bwoth what I seed, an' what Robin seed. I dar say yo can tell tli' remainder belter nor me." " Well," said the doctor, t.aking another pinch of snuff an 1 wiping his eyes, under pretence of cleaning his spectacles, 308 TUFTS OF ufathkr: "perhaps I can, Jonas. I have seen a good deal of sorrow in my time, but the circumstances connected with this acci- dent have certainly touched me a little. It is very sad. " I was standing by the sewer, when old Sally Grimshaw came and said that I was wanted in her house directly. I had only just learnt that the poor fellow they were extricat- ing from a living grave was the man whose sick child I had visited about an hour before ; and it did not strike me at that moment that his wife was on her way to the spot with his dinner. But when I saw that pale face, as she lay tliere insensible, I knew her at once. "She was slowly recovering, when a lad shouted into the house, 'They're getfin' him cawt!' Old Sally closed the door quietly, just as the poor woman opened her eyes. Looking vacantly from face to face, and then at the walls, she put her hand to her forehead, and said, ' Wlieer am 1 ?' i!ut when she saw the dinner-basket on the table, she sank down insensible again. Just then I heard an increased bustle outside, and I looked through the window. They were lifting the body up to the bank of the sewer, and two men were coming down the street with a bearing barrow and a sheet. Leaving some instructions with old Sally, I went out, and found the jjoor fellow quite dead. I directed the men to bring the body down to this house, where they laid it upon the tressle-table in the club room. " By this time my friend Dr. Lord had arrived, and leav- ing him with the body, I was hurrying back to the cottage, when I saw a little company of women coming down towards this place. I knew at a glance what was the matter. It was poor Matty, and the women I had left with her at Sally THE Dl'.AD MAN S DINNER. 309 Grinishaw's. They were trying to persuade her to turn back ; but it was useless. ' I mun go,' she said ; ' oh, I mun go to him !' and her countenance looked fear- fully pale and wild. She carried the dinner basket on her arm, too, and would not let anybody else touch it. I made no attempt to hinder her, but turned back with them to the room where he was lying. . . . Poor Matty I She walked calmly up to the table, and, taking oft" the cloth that covered the things in the basket, slie lifted the bowl out containing the dinner, and set it down with the bread, and knife and fork, beside the dead man. Then she looked at his cold face, and said, ' Jim ! ' as if inviting him to eat I began to fear for the poor woman's reason. She sat down by the table, and all was silent for a minute or two. The stillness seemed to wake her from this fearful calm. She got up, and looked st;;adily at the dead man's face again for a few seconds, and then the flood-gates of nature were mercifully opened, and she burst into a passionate fit of tears. I was glad to see this, for I knew it would relieve her. It was a touching scene. Ever\body was moved to tears. She kissed his pale face, and shading the hair away from his brow, she said, ' Oh ! my poor lad I He'll never speighk to me again ! — never ! — never ! ' And then she sat down again, and moaned and sobbed bitterly. As she sat thus, rocking herself to and fro, old Sally touched her arm, and whispered to her ; but the poor creature seemed to take no notice of her. She rose, and looking at her husband's face again, she said, ' He towd me to be sure an' come at twelve o'clock. . . . Oh, Jim 1 — Jim I — my poor lad! What mun I say to thi childer?' And then she sank 3IO TL'KTS OF HlivniKR : down upon the seat again, in a kind of stupor. Whilst she was in that state, I ordered a ooach into tlie yard. Mary and old Sally led her passively into it ; and by the time we got down to her own cottage, she seemed more dead than alive, — in fact, I fear that her life is in great danger. They got her to bed as quietly as j)ossible. " The news had reached the cottage before we got there. The door was open, and poor Matty's sister was moving about the melancholy house in silence, with tearful eyes. Two neighbour women from the village had brought the news ; but I was glad that they had not told it to the poor girl who was ill, although she had asked several times if her mother had come back. A kind widow lady here, in tlie village, had provided for the rest of the children in her own house, for the present, till their relatives arrived, who lived at some distance. " I stayed at the cottage till Dr. Lord arrived at five this afternoon, and I promised to relieve him at half-past eight. I see it is half-past seven now. It is very likely I may have to remain there throui;h the night, for I fear, from the symptoms, that premature labour may ensue ; and, if so, it will be a very dangerous case. I don't know what is to be done with that family of little children. Poor creatures ! When I think of this day's business, I pray, as I have often prayed, that I may never forget the unfortunate. The old lady here, too," continued the doctor, " will need careful attention. I must see her before leaving," and he rang the belL When the landlady's daughter entered, he enquired how her mother was. " She is sound asleep, sir," said Mary. THE DEAD MANS DINNER. 3II "Then don't disturb her on my account," replied he. " But you know where I am going?" "Yes," said she, "and if you happen to want anything we have in the house, doctor, somebody will be up all night to attend you. Will you take any supper before you go, sir?" " Well, I may stop all night. I'll take a few biscuits with me, and a little port wine in one of your small flask bottles." She brought the biscuits and the wine, and the doctor stowed them away in his pocket. As he rose to go, I told him that, as it was on my way home, we could walk together, if he had no objection. He accepted the offer with pleasure. I was helping him on with his great-coat, when somebody knocked at the door. "Come in." It was old Jonas, with a thick red muffler tied round his neck. "Win yo ha' th' lantron, doctor? Tve nought else to do. Mary sent me to ax you." "No, no: thank you," replied the doctor ; "it's a clear night, and this gentleman is going the same way." "Well," said Jonas, following us down the lobby, "If yo chancen to want a bit of an arran or ought doin i'th neet- time, yo'n nought to do but to send somebor)', and tell 'em to ring at th' front dur here. I'll beawnce eawt in a minute; for I'm nobbut a leet sleeper. But there's to be somebory up i'th kitchen o' neet, I believe, so yo'n no 'casion to be fleyed o' disturbin' us." "Thank you, Jonas; thank you," replied the doctor. " I'll not disturb you unless there be serious reason for it, you may depend." 312 TiTTS OF heather: "Eh, never yo mind, doctor," said Jonas. "We're noan tickle at a time like this. Til go an' sit up o' ncct \vi' yo, if I can be of ony sarvice, — an welcome." " No, thank you," answered the doctor ; " I'll send up if there be any need, and I shall be glad to have your assis- tance. Good night, Jonas." "Good neet to yo!" said Jonas, looking round. " It is starleet, I see." And he stood in the doorw.iy watching us as we walked down the road. " Poor old fellow 1 " said the doctor. " He is a kind- hearted, faithful creature. And, simple as he looks, he is a shrewd, clear-headed man ; and his life has been marked by strange events, and more sufifering than falls to the common lot of mankind. To me he is a very interesting character, and, when he is in the mood, I am always glad to listen to his artless tales and quaint comments upon persons and things. In fact, I have found all through life that, if one h.id only the eye to perceive it, there is a charmed circle of good around every man one meets, however humble or obscure, within which he is unique in his service to man- kind — a new volume of that great library of human life that fills the world with interesting variety." There was a solemn grandeur about the night. Tlie stars shone out in unusual numbers and brilliance. The wind was wild and cold, and moaning sounds came up from the woody clough, like the changing surge of the sea, as heard in the distance at midnight. As we drew near the dead man's cottage, the blinds were all down, and lights shone in every window ; but not a sound was audible outside. As I parted with the doctor at the door I caught sight of women THK DliAD MAN'S r)INXl;R. 313 moving to and fro, and heard a sound of sobbing. The door closed, and I stood for a minute gazing at the windows where ghostly figures flitted now and then between the lights and the white blinds. The sacred atmosphere of sorrow enveloped that little dwelling, over which such an unexpected change had come since the morning. "No man knows what a day may bring forth." And it is no wonder that, as I walked home in the starlight that night, those noble words should occur to my mind which commend to the fiitherly goodness of heaven " all those who are any ways afflicted or distressed in mind, body, or estate, that it may please Thee to comfort and relieve them, according to their several necessities, giving them patience under their sufferings, and a happy issue out of all their afflictions.'' JiiHN Hb%'Wood, Excelsior Steam Printing and Bookbinding Works, Hulme Mall Ro.id, ^[an>:hestcr. Jii^ ■■■^IJ^IaATipN DEPARTMENl loaKTperiod 1 '^ '^ HOME USE ALL BOOKS MAY BE "KALLED AFTER 7 DAYS *', on.h loans moy be ^^"^-^^XJnq.ng books to Crculot.on Desk , ,.on,h loons n.oy be ^echorged by bnng^.ng^ ^_^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^^^ Renewals and rechorges moy be mode 4 days P"0' "university OF CALIFORNIA, BERKELEY PORMNO.DD6,60n.,3^80 BERKELEY, CA 94720 .,