Before the spinning-jenny and the steam-engine revolutionised our
manner of living, there existed among the hills and dales of the Lake
countries a little community which had its own peculiar manners, laws,
and customs, and which was something unique in its way, for it seemed
to be a kind of republic existing in the midst of a great empire. The
people were what are now called peasant proprietors, but in Cumberland
and Westmoreland they have always been named ‘statesmen.’ A few of
these ancient land-owners still exist, and their tenure of the land
which they possess is not feudal but allodial, in so far as that they
acquired their estates at a very remote period, either by establishing
themselves on unoccupied lands like the ‘settlers’ in Australia or
America, or by conquering previous possessors. Several of these
statesmen possess estates which have descended uninterruptedly in
their families since the time of Richard II., and always as ‘customary
freeholds;’ while one family, the Holmes of Mardale, have inherited
their land in unbroken succession since the year 1060, when a certain
John Holme came from Norway and settled in the district.
When James II. came to the throne he set up a claim to all those small
estates, on the plea that the statesmen were merely tenants of the
crown. But his claim was met by the sturdy Dalesfolk in a manner which
he little expected. They met to the number of two thousand, at a place
called Ratten Heath, and publicly declared that ‘they had won their
lands by the sword, and by the sword they would keep them.’
Owing to the smallness of the estates, there was not sufficient
employment in farm-work at all times for a statesman and his family,
and carding, spinning, and weaving formed the employment for the winter
months. The men carded, and the women spun the wool yielded by the
previous clipping. Nearly every household had its weaving-shop, where
one or two looms were kept, and many of the men were able to weave the
cloth which served for their own wear and that of their families. The
linsey-woolsey dresses worn by the women were homespun, and they also
manufactured linen for domestic purposes.
The process of preparing the cloth was a curious one, and deserves
mention. After a web of woollen cloth was turned out of the loom, it
was taken to the ‘beck’ or stream and soaked in the water; then it was
placed on a flat stone called the ‘battling-stone’ and well pounded
with a wooden mallet. This primitive operation served instead of the
elaborate processes through which woollen cloth now passes at the
fuller’s mill.
The costume of the Dalesmen was rather picturesque, being composed of
homespun fleeces of white or black, with occasionally a mixture of the
two colours to save the expense of dyeing. This homely material, which
is still made in some parts of Scotland and Ireland, has lately become
fashionable, and is pronounced to be superior for country wear to the
most finished products of our steam-looms. The coats were ornamented
with brass buttons, as were also the waistcoats, which were made open
in front to shew a frilled shirt-breast. Knee-breeches were the fashion
for centuries, and these were worn without braces, which are quite
a modern invention. Those used on Sundays or holidays had a knot of
ribbon and four or five bright buttons at the knee, and those who could
afford it had them made of buckskin. Their stockings, which were of
course a conspicuous part of their dress, were also made from their own
wool, the colour being either blue or gray. Clogs were their ordinary
‘shoon,’ but when dressed in holiday costume they had low shoes
fastened with buckles, which were often of silver.
At the present day this picturesque costume is nearly obsolete, but
some of the old Dalesmen still adhere to the fashion of their youth.
About five or six years ago a few of them happened to meet at Grasmere
Fair and stood chatting together for some time without noticing what
many other persons were remarking, namely, that all of them were
dressed in the old costume. When they did notice it they all agreed
that it was a somewhat singular coincidence, and a proper occasion
for a friendly glass in honour of ‘auld lang syne.’ They were the
connecting link between the old times and the new, and would probably
be the last of the Dalesfolk to wear the costume of the bygone age.
The dress of the Daleswomen was not less primitive than that of the
men. They wore homespun linsey-woolsey petticoats and gowns, a blue
linen apron completing their attire. The statesman’s daughter who first
communicated to her native place a knowledge of the glories of printed
calico is said to have created a great sensation, and was more than
a nine days’ wonder. The clogs worn by the women were pointed at the
toes and were clasped with brass instead of iron. Their bonnets were
made of pasteboard covered with black silk, and in shape resembled a
coal-scuttle, with the front projecting about a foot beyond the face of
the wearer.
The houses of the Dalesfolk were not of the most comfortable kind, and
were similar to those which exist at the present day in many of the
southern counties of England. Badly constructed with rough-hewn stones,
and joined with clay instead of mortar, they did not always shelter
the inmates from the ‘cauld blast;’ while it was no uncommon thing for
the roofs to be in such a state that when a snow-storm took place in
the night, people in bed would often find several inches of snow on
their bed-clothes the next morning. The wood used in the construction
of the houses was oak; doors, floors, and window-frames being all
of that sturdy material. The beams were made of whole trees roughly
squared, while the smaller rafters and joists were split. Most of these
old buildings had a porch before the outer door, the latter being of
massive oak, two planks thick, and fastened together with wooden pegs
(for the carpenters in those days used very few nails), which were put
in parallel rows about three or four inches apart and left projecting
about three-quarters of an inch on the outside. About six hundred
of these pegs were used in its construction, and the making of them
occupied as much time as it would take to make a dozen doors in our
busier times. A degree of sanctity was, however, attached to a door by
these simple folk, and certain charms to be used only at the threshold
are remembered even now in the Dales.
In dwellings of the usual size there were not more than three rooms
on the ground floor, namely the living-apartment, the dairy, and the
parlour, the last being generally used as the bedroom of the master and
mistress. In some cases there was an out-kitchen, but not in all.
Long after the use of coal and fire-grates became general throughout
England these people still continued to burn peat and wood upon the
open hearth, and it was not until half the present century had elapsed
that, railway communication making coal cheaper, and the increased
value of labour making peat dearer, coal finally triumphed and open
fire-places gave place to grates. The old chimneys had no flues, and
were very wide at the bottom, gradually contracting towards the top,
and in these chimneys hams, legs of beef, flitches of bacon, and whole
carcases of mutton were hung up to dry for winter consumption.
The food of the Dalesmen was confined almost wholly to the simple
products of their own farms. They consumed a large portion of
animal food, and as sheep and cattle were in the best condition for
slaughtering in autumn, it was then that the Dalesfolk stocked their
wide chimneys with a supply of meat for the winter and spring. Tea,
coffee, and wheaten bread were very little known in the Dales; oatcake
(Anglicè), or ‘haver-bread’ as it was termed, being used. The people
brewed their own beer and drank it at nearly every meal. Such, with
milk, butter, and cheese, was the food of these honest folk, and they
seemed to have thriven well on it. When tea, coffee, and sugar came
into general use, an old Dalesman remarked that he wondered ‘what t’
warl’ wod cum tew after a bit when fowk nooadays couldn’t git their
breakfast without hevvin stuff fra baith East and West Indies.’
Until the middle of last century the roads of the two counties were in
a wretched state; and instead of wheeled carriages, pack-horses and in
some cases sledges were used for conveying things from one place to
another. There is an old man now living in Grasmere whose grandmother
could remember the present church bells being brought thither by
sledges along the old road over the top of White Moss, then the main
road between Ambleside and Grasmere. A man and his wife often rode to
market together on the same horse, the woman sitting behind on what
was called a pillion. But the Dalesfolk were not very particular as to
their turn-out, for a piece of turf dried and cut into the proper shape
often served them as a saddle. Other saddles were pads of straw; and
on market-days, after business was over, such of the farmers as were
convivially disposed stayed on at the public-house or inn, holding a
‘crack’ and drinking till a late hour; and while a spree of this kind
was going on, it often happened that the poor hungry horses would break
loose and eat up all the straw pads, thus leaving their owners to ride
home bareback!
The Dalesfolk were rather superstitious; and there is an old story in
the local records about the way in which the first lime was introduced
to the district. It was carried on the back of a horse, and as they
neared Borrowdale a thunder-storm came on, and the lime in the sack
began to smoke. Thinking the sack was on fire, the man in charge went
and filled his hat with water from a ditch, and threw it into the sack.
As this made things worse, he grew terribly alarmed, and thinking the
Evil One had something to do with it, he pitched the lime into the
ditch, and leaping on to the horse, galloped home as fast as he could
go.
Ploughing was attended with hard labour to those employed, and it
required at least three men and three horses to work one plough. The
horses were yoked one before another, and it was as much as one man
could do to drive them. A second man held the plough-beam down, to
prevent the plough from slipping out of the earth; while it was the
work of a third to guide the whole concern, this part of the business
requiring the most skill. Sometimes a fourth man was employed with
pick and spade to turn up the places missed by the plough. Very little
skill or labour was expended in the making of the implement, and it was
nothing unusual for a tree growing in the morning to be cut down during
the day, and made into a plough, with which a good stroke of work was
done before night.
These good people worked much harder than their descendants of the
present day. Their hours of labour were much longer, and much of
what they did by hand is now done by machinery. Though ignorant and
unrefined, they were honest and hospitable, and possessed a great deal
of sound shrewd common-sense. In those days many of them followed
several handicrafts, for the division of labour was not such as it is
now; and a remarkable instance of this diversified ability is to be
found in the life of the man who was the parish priest of Wordsworth’s
poem, _The Excursion_. This worthy man—whose history we have slightly
alluded to in an article in this _Journal_ on the Lake Country—was the
son of a poor statesman, and was the youngest of twelve. At the age of
seventeen he became a village schoolmaster, and a little later both
minister and schoolmaster. Before and after school-hours he laboured
at manual occupation, rising between three and four in the summer,
and working in the fields with the scythe or sickle. He ploughed, he
planted, tended sheep, or clipped and salved, all for hire; wrote his
own sermons, and did his duty at chapel twice on Sundays. In all these
labours he excelled. In winter-time he occupied himself in reading,
writing his own sermons, spinning, and making his own clothes and those
of his family, knitting and mending his own stockings, and making his
own shoes, the leather of which was of his own tanning. In his walks he
never neglected to gather and bring home the wool from the hedges. He
was also the physician and lawyer of his parishioners; drew up their
wills, conveyances, bonds, &c., wrote all their letters, and settled
their accounts, and often went to market with sheep or wool for the
farmers.
He married a respectable maid-servant, who brought him forty pounds;
and shortly afterwards he became curate of Seathwaite, where he
lived and officiated for sixty-seven years. We are told that when
his family wanted cloth, he often took the spinning-wheel into the
school-room, where he also kept a cradle—of course of his own making.
Not unfrequently the wheel, the cradle, and the scholars all claiming
his attention at the same moment, taxed the ingenuity of this wonderful
man to keep them all going. To all these attainments Mr Walker—or
‘Wonderful Walker,’ as he was called—also added a knowledge of fossils
and plants, and a ‘habit’ of observing the stars and winds. In summer
he also collected various insects, and by his entertaining descriptions
of them amused and instructed his children. After a long and extremely
useful, nay we might say heroic life, which extended over nearly
the whole of the last century (he having been born in 1709), this
remarkable Dalesman died on the 25th of June 1802, in the ninety-third
year of his age. In the course of his life he had, besides bringing up
and settling in life a family of twelve children, amassed the sum of
two thousand pounds, the result of marvellous industry and self-denial.
The chapel where this celebrated man entered upon his sacred duties was
the smallest in the Dales, the poet Wordsworth, Mr Walker’s biographer,
describing it as scarcely larger than many of the fragments of rock
lying near it. Most of these small chapelries were presided over by
‘readers,’ men who generally exercised the trades of clogger, tailor,
and butter-print maker, in order to eke out their small stipend. The
livings were not worth more than two or three pounds a year, and the
ministers were dependent upon the voluntary contributions of their
parishioners. Their stipends, beside the small money-payment mentioned
above, comprised ‘clothes yearly and whittlegate.’ The former meant
one suit of clothes, two pairs of shoes, and one pair of clogs; and
the latter, two or three weeks’ victuals at each house according to
the ability of the inhabitants, which was settled among themselves; so
that the minister could ‘go his course’ as regularly as the sun, and
complete it annually. Few houses having more than one or two knives,
he was obliged to carry his own knife or ‘whittle.’ He marched from
house to house, and as master of the flock, had the elbow-chair at the
table-head. Some remarkable scenes were often the result of this droll
arrangement, and many good stories are current with reference to it.
A story is told in Whythburn of a minister who had but two sermons,
which he preached in turn. The walls of the chapel were at that time
unplastered, and the sermons were usually placed in a hole in the
wall behind the pulpit. On Sunday, before the service began, some wag
pushed the sermons so far into the hole that they could not be got out
with the hand. When the time for the sermon had arrived, the minister
tried in vain to get them out. He then turned to the congregation and
said that he could touch them with his forefinger, but couldn’t get
his thumb in to grasp them. ‘But however,’ said he, ‘I will read you a
chapter of Job instead, and that’s worth both of them put together!’
There was a curious custom at one time in the Dales of holding market
at the church. Meat and all kinds of things were displayed at the
church doors, and it often happened that people would make their
bargains first and hang their goods over the backs of their seats.
Though such practices have long been discontinued, there are still
people living who have heard the clerk give out in the churchyard
the advertisements of the several sales which were to be held in the
neighbourhood. One good custom there was, however, which might be often
practised now with advantage in small towns and villages, namely, that
of the churchwardens going round the village during divine service and
driving all the loungers into church.
The Dalesfolk had their sports too, the chief of which was the one
for which Cumberland and Westmoreland have ever been famous, namely
wrestling. They were also keen hunters; and until quite a recent period
a few couples of hounds were kept in every dale, and when the presence
of a fox was betrayed by a missing lamb or a decimated hen-roost, all
the dogs and nearly all the men in the parish entered in pursuit of the
depredator, and were seldom balked by their victim.
Some songs that were in vogue in the Dales a hundred years ago are
still sung, chiefly at fairs by itinerant ballad-mongers. Some of the
tunes are very antique, as for instance, _St Dunstan’s Hunt’s Up_,
mentioned by Sir Walter Scott as lost and forgotten, but which is still
played on the fiddle every Christmas-eve. The festivals held from time
to time in the Dales were such as were very common in all parts of
‘Merrie England’ when our forefathers worked hard, and money was much
scarcer than it is now. That they worked harder on the whole is a thing
which admits of two opinions; but one thing is certain, namely, that
their work was of a steady, careful, easy-going kind, whilst now it
is all bustle and drive, in the endeavour to cram into a few fleeting
hours as much as they could do in a whole week. Such as we find the
world, however, we must put up with it, content, like them, to keep
pegging away, and meeting the storms and buffetings of life with the
same courageous spirit which enabled them to add their mite towards the
honour, glory, and welfare of our common country.