I there wi' something did forgather,
That put me in an eerie swither.
--BURNS.
Leaving "Gamershaw," I "sceawrt eendway," as Collier says. Here I
had the advantage of an intelligent companion, with a rich store of
local anecdote in him. He was not a man inclined to superstition:
but he said he once had an adventure at this spot, which startled
him. Walking by "Gamershaw," on a pitch-dark night, and thinking of
anything but boggarts, he heard something in the black gloom behind,
following his footsteps with a soft, unearthly trot, accompanied by an
unmistakable rattle of chains. He stopt. It stopt. He went on; and the
fearful sounds dogged him again, with malignant regularity. "Gamershaw
Boggart, after all, and no mistake," thought he: and in spite of all
reason, a cold sweat began to come over him. Just then the goblin made
a fiendish dash by, and went helter-skelter down the middle of the
road, trailing the horrible clang of chains behind it, with infernal
glee; and then dived into the midnight beyond. To his relief, however,
he bethought him that it was a large dog belonging to a farmer in the
neighbourhood. The dog had got loose, and was thus making night hideous
by unconsciously personifying "Gamershaw Boggart."
And now my companion and I whiled away the time from Gamershaw with a
pleasant interchange of country anecdote. I have just room for one,
which I remember hearing in some of my rambles among the moorland folk
of my native district. It is a story of a poor hand-loom weaver, called
"Thrum," trying to sell his dog "Snap" to a moorland farmer. I have put
it in the form of a dialogue, that it may be the more understandable to
the general reader. It runs thus:--
_Thrum._ Maister, dun yo want a nice bull-an-tarrier?
_Farmer._ A what?
_Thrum._ A bull-an-tarrier dog, wi' feet as white as snow! Brass
wouldn't ha' parted me an' that dog, iv there hadn't bin sich ill deed
for weyvers just neaw,--it wouldn't, for sure. For aw'd taen to th'
dog, an' the dog had taen to me, very mich, for o' at it had nobbut
thin pikein' sometimes. But poverty parts good friends neaw and then,
maister.
_Farmer._ A bull-an-tarrier, saysto?
_Thrum._ Ay; an' th' smartest o'th breed at ever ran at a mon's heels!
It's brother to that dog o' Lolloper's, at stoole a shoolder o' mutton,
an' ran up a soof with it.
_Farmer._ Ay; is it one o' that family?
_Thrum._ It is for sure. They're prime steylers, o' on em.
_Farmer._ Has it a nick under its nose?
_Thrum._ A nick,--naw it hasn't.... Houd; what mak ov a nick dun yo
meeon?
_Farmer._ Has it a meawth?
_Thrum._ Ay; it's a grand meawth; an' a rook o'th prattiest teeth at
ever wur pegged into a pair o' choles! A sharper, seawnder set o'
dog-teeth never snapt at a ratton! Then, look at it e'en; they're as
breet as th' north star, ov a frosty neet! An' feel at it nose; it's as
cowd as iccles! That dog's some sarviceable yelth (health) abeawt it,
maister.
_Farmer._ Aw'll tell tho what,--it looks hungry.
_Thrum._ Hungry! It's olez hungry! An' it'll heyt aught i'th world, fro
a collop to a dur latch.... Oh, ay; it's reet enough for that.
_Farmer._ Well, owd mon; aw've nought again thi dog, but that nick
under it nose. To tell tho th' treawth, we may'n meawths here faster
nor we may'n mheyt. Look at yon woman! Aw would e'en ha' tho to tay thi
dog wheer they're noan as thick upo th' clod as here.
_Thrum._ Oh, aw see.... Well, eawr Matty's just the very same; nobbut
her nose has rayther a sharper poynt to't nor yor wife's.... Yo see'n
aw thought it wur time to sell th' dog, when aw had to ax owd Thunge to
lend mo a bite ov his moufin whol aw'd deawn't my piece. But aw'll go
fur on. So good day to yo.... Come, Snap, owd lad; aw'll find thee a
good shop, or else aw'll sweat.
Chatting about such things as these, we came up to a plain whitewashed
hall-house, standing a little off the road, called "Newcroft." This
was pointed out to me as the residence of a gentleman related to the
famous "Whitworth doctors." The place looked neat and homely, and had
orderly grounds and gardens about, but there was nothing remarkable
in its general appearance which would have stopt me, but for the
interesting fact just mentioned. It brought to my mind many a racy
story connected with that worthy old family of country doctors, and
their quaint independent way of life in the little moorland village of
Whitworth, near "Fairies Chapel," the scene of one of those "Lancashire
Traditions" which Mr. John Roby wrote about. I found afterwards that
this "Newcroft" was, in old time, the homestead of the great Cheshire
family of Warburton, of which family R. E. E. Warburton, Esq., of Arley
Hall, is the present representative. I understand that the foundations
of the old hall are incorporated with the present building. There are
very few trees about the place now; and these afford neither shade to
the house nor much ornament to the scene. The name of Warburton is
still common about here, both among the living, and on the gravestones
of Flixton churchyard. The saying, "Aw'll tear tho limb fro Warbu'ton,"
is common all over Lancashire as well as Cheshire. One side of its
meaning is evident enough, but its allusions used to puzzle me. I
find that it has its origin in the curiously-involved relations of
the two Cheshire rectories of Lymm and Warburton, and in some futile
effort which was once made to separate them. Written this way, "I'll
tear tho limb (Lymm) fro Warbu'ton (Warburton)," the saying explains
itself better. There is a ballad in Dr. Latham's work on "The English
Language," in which the present "Squire ov Arley Ha'" is mentioned in
a characteristic way. It is given in that work as a specimen of the
Cheshire dialect. It certainly is the raciest modern ballad of its
kind that I know of. The breeze of nature has played in the heart of
the writer, whoever he be. Its allusions and language have so much
affinity with the Lancashire side of the water, that I think the
reader will forgive me for introducing it, that he may judge of it for
himself. The title is "Farmer Dobbin; or, a Day wi' the Cheshire Fox
Dogs." Here it is; and I fancy that a man with any blood in his body
will hunt as he reads it:--
Theer's slutch upo thi coat, mon, theer's blood upo thi chin,
It's welly toim for milkin, now where ever 'ast ee bin;
Oiv bin to see the gentlefolks o' Cheshire roid a run,
Owd wench! oiv bin a hunting, an oiv seen some rattling fun.
Th' owd mare was in the smithy when the huntsman he trots through,
Black Bill agate o' 'ammerin the last nail in her shoe:
The cuvver laid so wheam like, and so jovial fine the day,
Says I, "Owd mare, we'll tak a fling, an' see 'em go away."
When up, and oi'd got shut ov aw the hackney pads an' traps,
Orse dealers and orse jockey lads, and such loike swaggering chaps,
Then what a power o' gentlefolk did oi set eyes upon!
A-reining in their hunters, aw blood orses every one!
They'd aw got bookskin leathers on, a fitten 'em so toight,
As roind an plump as turmits be, an just about as whoite:
Their spurs were made o' silver, and their buttons made o' brass,
Their coats wur red as carrots, an their collars green as grass.
A varment looking gemman on a woiry tit I seed,
An' another close beside him sittin noble on his steed;
They ca' them both owd codgers, but as fresh as paint they look,
John Glegg, Esquoir, o' Withington, an bowd Sir Richard Brooke.
I seed Squoir Geffrey Shakerly, the best un o' that breed,
His smoiling face tould plainly how the sport wi' him agreed;
I seed the Arl o' Grosvenor, a loikely lad to roid,
Aw seed a soight worth aw the rest, his farrently young broid.
Sir Umferry de Trafford, an the Squoir ov Arley Haw
His pockets full o' rigmarole, a rhoimin' on 'em aw;
Two members for the cointy, both aloike ca'd Egerton,
Squoir Henry Brooks and Tummus Brooks, they'd aw green collars on.
Eh! what a mon be Dixon John, ov Astle Haw, Esquoir,
You wudna foind, an mezzur him, his marrow in the shoir!
Squoir Wilbraham o' the forest, death and danger he defois
When his coat he toightly buttened up, an shut up both his oies.
The Honerable Lazzles, who from forrin parts be cum,
An a chip of owd Lord Delamere, the Honerable Tum;
Squoir Fox an Booth and Worthington, Squoir Massey an Squoir Harne,
And many more big sportsmen, but their names I didna larn.
I seed that greet commander in the saddle, Captain Whoite,
An the pack as thrung'd about him was indeed a gradely soight;
The dogs look'd foine as Satin, an himsel look'd hard as nails,
An' he giv the swells a caution not to roid upo their tails.
Says he, "Yung men o' Manchester an Liverpoo cum near,
Oiv just a word, a warning word, to whisper in your ear;
When, starting from the cuvver soide, ye see bowd Reynard burst,
We canna 'ave no 'untin, if the gemmen go it first."
Tom Rance has got a single oie worth many another's two,
He held his cap abuv his yed to show he'd had a view;
Tom's voice was loik th' owd raven's when he shriek'd out "Tallyho!"
For when the fox had seen Tom's feace he thought it time to go.
Eh moy! a pratty jingle then went ringing through the skoy,
First Victory, then Villager began the merry croy;
Then every maith was open, from the owd 'un to the pup,
An' aw the pack together took the swelling chorus up.
Eh moy! a pratty scouver then was kick'd up in the vale,
They skimm'd across the running brook, they topp'd the post an' rail,
They didna stop for razzur cop, but play'd at touch and go,
An' them as miss'd a footin there, lay doubled up below.
I seed the 'ounds a crossing Farmer Flareup's boundary loin,
Whose daughter plays the peany and drinks whoit sherry woin:
Gowd rings upon her fingers, and silk stockings on her feet;
Says I, "It won't do him no harm to roid across his wheat."
So, toightly houdin on by th' yed, I hits th' owd mare a whop,
Hoo plumps into the middle o' the wheatfield neck and crop;
An when hoo floinder'd out on it I catch'd another spin,
An, missis, that's the cagion o' the blood upo my chin.
I never oss'd another lep, but kept the lane, and then
In twenty minutes' toime about they turn'd toart me again;
The fox was foinly daggled, and the tits aw out o' breath,
When they kilt him in the open, an owd Dobbin seed the death.
Loik dangling of a babby, then the huntsman hove him up,
The dugs a-baying round him, whoil the gemman croid, "Whoo-up:"
Then clane and quick, as doosome cauves lick fleetings from the pail,
They worried every inch on 'im except his yed and tail.
What's up wi' them rich gentlefolk an lords as wasna there?
There was noither Marquis Chumley, nor the Viscount Combermere;
Noither Legh, nor France o' Bostock, nor the Squoir o' Peckforton,
How cums it they can stop awhoam, such sport a goin on?
Now, missus, sin the markets be a doin moderate well,
Oiv welly made my mind up just to buy a nag mysel;
For to keep a farmer's spirits up gen things be gettin low,
Theer's nothin loik fox-hunting and a rattling "Tallyho!"
I think the reader will agree with me in saying that this
characteristic song has much of the old expressive ballad simplicity
and vigour about it. The county of Cheshire is rich in local song; and
R. E. E. Warburton, Esq., mentioned in these verses as "the Squoir of
Arley Haw"--
His pockets full o' rigmarole, a rhoimin' on 'em aw--
is the author of several fine hunting songs, in the dialect of that
county; he is also the editor of a valuable and interesting volume of
"Cheshire Songs."