CHAPTER VII.

The evening comes, and brings the dew along,

The rodie welkin sheeneth to the eyne,

Around the alestake minstrels sing the song,

Young ivy round the door-post doth entwine;

I lay me down upon the grass, yet to my will,

Albeit all is fair, there lacketh something still.

--CHATTERTON.

The people of southern England are apt to sneer at the enthusiasm with

which Lancashire men speak of Tim Bobbin; and, if this imperfect sketch

should fall into the hands of any such readers, it is not improbable

that they may look upon the whole thing as a great fuss about next to

nothing. One reason for this is, that, for the most part, they know

next to nothing of the man--which is not much to be wondered at. But

the greatest difficulty in their case is the remote character of the

words and idioms used by Tim. To the majority of such readers, the

dialogue of "Tummus and Mary" is little more than an unintelligible

curiosity; and I believe, speaking generally, that it would be better

understood by the natives of the metropolis if it had been written in

French. The language in which the commanding genius of Chaucer wrought,

five hundred years ago, and which was the common language of the London

of those days, is, even in its most idiomatic part, very much the same

as that used in all the country parts of Lancashire at this hour. But

great changes have come round since the time of Chaucer; and though

an Englishman is an Englishman in general characteristics, all the

world over, there is as much difference now in the tone of manners

and language in the North and South as there is between the tones of

an organ and those of a piano. I have hardly ever met with a southern

man able to comprehend the quaint, graphic wealth which hutches and

chuckles with living fun and country humour, under the equally quaint

garb of old language in which Tim clothes his story of "Tummus and

Mary." But, on its first appearance, the people of his own district at

once recognised an exquisite picture of themselves; and they hailed it

with delight. He superintended several editions of his works during his

lifetime--a time when the population of Lancashire was very scanty,

and scattered over large, bleak spaces; and when publishing was a very

different thing to what it is now. Since then, his principal story

has continually grown in the estimation of scholars and students, as

a valuable addition to the rich treasures of English philology, even

apart from the genius which combined its humorous details with such

masterly art, and finished and rounded it into the completeness of a

literary dewdrop. That tale was calculated to command attention and

awaken delight at once--and it will long be cherished with pride,

by Lancashire men at least, as an exceedingly natural "glimpse of

auld lang syne." But those who wish to understand the force of Tim's

character, must look to his letters, and other prose fragments, such as

"Truth in a Mask." These chiefly reveal the sterling excellence of the

man. He was a clear-sighted, daring, independent politician--one of the

strong old pioneers of human freedom in these parts. He had a curious

audience in that secluded corner of Lancashire where he lived--in those

days--a people who had worn their political shackles so long that they

almost looked upon them as ornaments.

But _Tim_ kent what was fu brawly;

and he was continually blurting out some startling truth or another,

in vigorous, unmistakable English; and he gloried in the then

disreputable and dangerous epithet of "Reforming John." This, too,

in the teeth of patrons and friends whose political tendencies were

in an entirely opposite direction. Let any man turn to the letter he

writes to his friend, the Rev. Mr. Heap, of Dorking, who had desired

him to "spare the levitical order," and then say whether there was any

shadow of sycophancy in the soul of John Collier. Under the correction

of magnifying the matter through the medium of one's native likings

then, I will venture to declare a feeling akin to veneration for the

spot where he was born; and I know that it is shared by the men of

his native county, generally, even by those who find themselves at a

difficult distance from his quaint tone of thought and language--for it

takes a man thoroughly soaked with the Lancashire soil to appreciate

him thoroughly. But, apart from all local inclinings, men of thought

and feeling will ever welcome any spark of genuine creative fire,

which glows with such genial human sympathies, and such an honourable

sense of justice as John Collier evinces, however humble it may be

in comparison with the achievements of those mighty spirits who have

made the literature of our sea-girt island glorious in the earth. The

waters of the little mountain stream, singing its lone, low song, as

it struggles through its rocky channel, are dear and beautiful, and

useful to that rugged solitude, as is the great ocean to the shores on

which its surges play. Nay, what is that ocean, but the gathered chorus

of these lonely waters, in which the individual voice is lost in one

grand combination of varied tones. With this imperfect notice, I will,

at present, leave our old local favourite; and just take another glance

at Flixton, before I bid adieu to his birthplace.

The reader may remember that, on the day of my first visit to John

Collier's birthplace, I lounged some time about the hamlet of Urmston,

conversing with the inhabitants. Leaving that spot, I rambled leisurely

along the high road to Flixton, hob-nobbing, and inquiring among

different sorts of people, about him, whenever opportunity offered.

When I drew near to Shaw Hall, I had traversed a considerable part of

the length of the parish, which is only four miles, at most, by about

two in breadth. There is nothing like a hill to be seen; but as one

wanders on, the country rises and falls, in gentle undulations. Now

and then, a pool of water gleamed afar off in the green fields, or,

close by the road, rippled into wavelets by the keen wind, which came

down steadily from the north that day, whistling shrill cadences among

the starved thorns. I cannot give a better idea of the character of

the soil than by borrowing the words of Baines, who says: "Much of

the land in the parish of Flixton is arable, probably to the amount

of nine-tenths of the whole. The farms are comparatively large, and

the soil is in general a rich black, sandy, vegetable loam, producing

corn, fruit, and potatoes in abundance." I believe the land is now in

better cultivation than when these words were written. Shaw Hall is

an important place in the history of Flixton. The lords of the land

dwelt there in old times. At the time of my visit it was occupied,

as a boarding-school, by Mr. James M'Dougall, who was kind enough to

show me through the interior when I called there in my ramble. Baines

says of Shaw Hall: "It is a venerable mansion, of the age of James

I., with gables and wooden parapets on the S. W. and N. sides. The

roof has a profusion of chimneys, and a cupola in the centre. In one

of the apartments is a painting covering the principal part of the

ceiling, which represents the family of Darius kneeling in supplication

before Alexander the Great. This picture, though two hundred years

old, is in fine preservation, and the faces and figures indicate the

hand of a master. There are some smaller paintings and tapestry in the

rooms, on one of which is represented a Persian chief at parley with

Alexander, and, afterwards, submitting to the conqueror. Stained glass

in the windows exhibit the arms of Asshawe and Egerton, successive

lords of Flixton.... Adjoining the ample gardens and filbert grove was

once a moat, which has partly disappeared. Shaw Hall is now used as a

boarding-school, a purpose to which, by its situation, it seems well

adapted." I cannot leave this place without mentioning, that the, then,

tenant of the hall was a poet of no mean promise, who has contributed

an interesting volume of poems and songs to the literature of this

district. From the high road, a little beyond the hall, the most

prominent and pleasing object in the landscape is the old parish church

of Flixton, standing in its still more ancient graveyard, upon the brow

of a green knoll, about an arrow's flight off; with the village of

Flixton clustered behind it. At the foot of that green knoll, to the

westward, where all the country beyond is one unbroken green,

The river glideth by the hamlet old.

The ground occupied by the church seemed to me the highest in the

landscape; and the venerable fane stands there, looking round upon the

quiet parish like a mother watching her children at play, and waiting

till they come home, tired, to lie down and sleep with the rest. It

was getting late in the evening when I sauntered about the churchyard,

looking over the gravestones of Warburtons, Taylors, Cowpes, Gilbodys,

Egertons, and Owens of Carrington. Among the rest, I found the

following well-known epitaph, upon William Oldfield of Stretford,

smith:--

My anvil and my hammer lie declined,

My bellows have quite lost their wind;

My coals are done, my debt is paid,

My vices in the dust are laid.

This epitaph, which appears here in such an imperfect shape, is

commonly attributed to Tim. In Rochdale parish churchyard, it appears

in a much completer form on the gravestone of a blacksmith, who lived

in Tim's time.

I rambled about the old village a while in the dusk. Now and then a

villager lounged along in the direction of the inn, near the church;

where I could hear several boisterous country fellows talking together

in high glee, while one of them sang snatches of an old ballad, called

the "Golden Glove:"--

Coat, waistcoat, and breeches she then did put on,

And a-hunting she went with her dog and gun;

She hunted all around where the farmer did dwell,

Because in her heart she did love him full well.

At length the horses were put to, and we got fairly upon the road,

which took us back in another direction, round by Davy Hulme, the

seat of the Norreys family. Immediately after clearing the village,

Flixton House was pointed out to me; "a plain family mansion, with

extensive grounds and gardens." The wind was cold, and the shades of

night gathered fast around; and before we quitted Flixton parish, the

birthplace of Tim Bobbin had faded from my view. I felt disappointed in

finding that the place of his nativity yielded so little reminiscence

of our worthy old local humorist; the simple reason for which is, that

very little is known of him there. But there was compensating pleasure

to me in meeting with so many interesting things there which I did not

go in search of.

Ramble from Rochdale to the Top of

Blackstone Edge.

And so by many winding nooks he strays,

With willing sport.

--SHAKSPERE.

Well may Englishmen cherish the memory of their forefathers, and love

their native land. It has risen to its present power among the nations

of the world through the efforts of many generations of heroic people;

and the firmament of its biography is illumined by stars of the first

magnitude. What we know of its history previous to the conquest by the

Romans, is clouded by conjecture and romance; but we have sufficient

evidence to show that, even then, this gem, "set in the silver sea,"

was known in distant regions of the earth, for its natural riches;

and was inhabited by a brave and ingenious race of people. During the

last two thousand years, the masters of the world have been fighting

to win it, or to keep it. The woad-stained British savage, ardent,

imaginative, and brave, roved through its woods and marshes, hunting

the wild beasts of the island. He sometimes herded cattle, but was

little given to tillage. He sold tin to the Phoenicians, and knew

something about smelting iron ore, and working it into such shapes as

were useful in a life of wild insecurity and warfare, such as his.

In the slim coracle, he roamed the island's waters; and scoured its

plains in battle, in his scythed car, a terror to the boldest foe. He

worshipped, too, in an awful way, in sombre old woods, and colossal

Stonehenges, under the blue, o'er-arching sky. On lone wastes, and

moorland hills, we still have the relics of these ancient temples,

frowning at time, and seeming to say, as they look on nature's

ever-returning green,--in the words of their old Druids--

Everything comes out of the ground but the dead.

But destiny had other things in store for these islands. The legions

of imperial Rome came down upon the wild Celt, who retired, fiercely

contending, to the mountain fastnesses of the north and west. Four

hundred years the Roman wrought and ruled in Britain; and he left

the broad red mark of his way of living stamped upon the face of the

country, and upon its institutions, when his empire declined. The

steadfast Saxon followed,--"stubborn, taciturn, sulky, indomitable,

rock-made,"--a farmer and a fighter; a man of sense, and spirit, and

integrity; an industrious man, and a home-bird. The Saxon never loosed

his hold; even though his wild Scandinavian kinsmen, the sea-kings,

and jarls of the north, came rushing to battle, with their piratical

multitudes, tossing their swords into the air, and singing heroic

ballads, as they slew their foemen, under the banner of the Black

Raven. Then came the military Norman,--a northern pirate, trained in

France to the art of war,--led on by the bold Duke William, who landed

his warriors at Pevensey, and burnt the fleet that brought them to

the shore, in order to bind his soldiers to the necessity of victory

or death. Duke William conquered, and Harold, the Saxon, fell at

Hastings, with an arrow in his brain. Each of these races has left its

peculiarities stamped upon the institutions of the country; but most

enduring of all,--the Saxon. And now, the labours of twenty centuries

of valiant men, in peace and war, have achieved a matchless power, and

freedom for us, and have bestrewn the face of the land with "the charms

which follow long history." The country of Caractacus and Boadicea,

where Alfred ruled, and Shakspere and Milton sang, will henceforth

always be interesting to men of intelligent minds, wherever they were

born. It is pleasant, also, to the eye, as it is instructive to the

mind. Its history is written all over the soil, not only in strong

evidences of its present genius and power, but in thousands of relics

of its ancient fame and characteristics. In a letter, written by Lord

Jeffrey, to his sister-in-law, an American lady, respecting what Old

England is like, and in what it differs most from America, he says:

"It differs mostly, I think, in the visible memorials of antiquity with

which it is overspread; the superior beauty of its verdure, and the

more tasteful and happy state and distribution of its woods. Everything

around you here is historical, and leads to romantic or interesting

recollections. Gray-grown church towers, cathedrals, ruined abbeys,

castles of all sizes and descriptions, in all stages of decay, from

those that are inhabited, to those in whose moats ancient trees are

growing, and ivy mantling over their mouldering fragments; ... and

massive stone bridges over lazy waters; and churches that look as old

as Christianity; and beautiful groups of branchy trees; and a verdure

like nothing else in the universe; and all the cottages and lawns

fragrant with sweet briar and violets, and glowing with purple lilacs

and white elders; and antique villages scattering round wide bright

greens; with old trees and ponds, and a massive pair of oaken stocks

preserved from the days of Alfred. With you everything is new, and

glaring, and angular, and withal rather frail, slight, and perishable;

nothing soft, and mellow, and venerable, or that looks as if it would

ever become so." This charming picture is almost entirely compounded

from the most interesting features of the rural and antique: and is,

therefore, more applicable to those agricultural parts of England which

have been little changed by the events of its modern history, than to

those districts which have been so changed by the peaceful revolutions

of manufacture in these days. But, even in the manufacturing districts,

where forests of chimneys rear their tall shafts, upon ground once

covered with the woodland shade, or sparsely dotted with quaint

hamlets,--the venerable monuments of old English life peep out in a

beautiful way, among crowding evidences of modern power and population.

And the influences which have so greatly changed the appearance of

the country there, have not passed over the people without effect.

Wherever the genius of commerce may be leading us to, there is no

doubt that the old controls of feudalism are breaking up; and in the

new state of things the people of South Lancashire have found greater

liberty to improve their individual qualities and conditions; fairer

chances of increasing their might and asserting their rights; greater

power to examine and understand all questions which come before them,

and to estimate and influence their rulers, than they had under the

unreasoning domination which is passing away. They are not a people

inclined to anarchy. They love order as well as freedom, and they love

freedom for the sake of having order established upon just principles.

The course of events during the last fifty years has been steadily

upheaving the people of South Lancashire out of the thraldom of those

orders which have long striven to conserve such things as tended to

their own aggrandisement, at the expense of the rights of others. But

even that part of the aristocracy of England which has not yet so far

cast the slough of its hereditary prejudices as to see that the days

are gone which nurtured such ascendancies, at least perceives that,

in the manufacturing districts, it now walks in a world where few are

disposed to accept its assumption of superiority, without inquiring

into the nature of it. When a people who aspire to independence, begin

to know how to get it, and how to use it wisely, the methods of rule

that were made for slaves, will no longer answer their purpose; the

pride of little minds in great places, begins to canker them, and

they must give them the wall now and then, and look somewhere else

for foot-lickers. The aristocracy of England are not all of them

overwhelmed by the dignity of their "ancient descent." There are

naturally-noble men among them, who can discern between living truth

and dead tradition; men who do not think that the possession of a

landed estate entitles its owner to extraordinary rights of domination

over his acreless neighbours; or that, on that account alone, the rest

of the world should fall down and worship at the feet of an ordinary

person, more remarkable for an incomprehensible way of deporting

himself, than for being a better man than his neighbours.

Through the streets of South Lancashire towns still, occasionally, roll

the escutcheoned equipages of those exclusive families, who turn up the

nose at the "lower orders;" and cherish a dim remembrance of the "good

old times" when these lurdanes wore the collars of their ancestors

upon the neck. To my thinking, the very carriage has a sort of lonely,

unowned and unowning look, and never seems at home till it gets back to

the coach-house; for the troops of factory lads, and other hard-working

rabble, clatter merrily about the streets, looking villainously

unconscious of anything particularly august in the nature of the show

which is going by. On the driving-box sits a man with a beefy face, and

a comically-subdued way of holding his countenance, grand over all

with "horse-gowd," and gilt buttons, elaborate with heraldic device.

Another such person, with silky calves, and a "smoke-jack" upon his

hat, and breeches of plush, stands on the platform behind. It is all no

use. There are corners of England where such a sight is still enough

to throw a whole village into fits; but, in the manufacturing towns, a

travelling instalment of Wombwell's menagerie, with the portrait of a

cub rhinoceros in front, would create more stir. Inside the carriage

there reclines,--chewing the cud of unacknowledged pride,--one of

that rare brood of dignitaries, a man with "ancestors," who plumes

himself upon the distinguished privilege of being the son of somebody

or another, who was the son of somebody else, and so on;--till it

gets to some burglarious person, who, in company with several others

of the same kidney, once pillaged an old estate, robbed a church,

and did many other such deeds, in places where the law was too weak

to protect the weak; and there is an eternal blazon of armorial fuss

kept up in celebration of it, on the family shield. But, admitting

that these things were in keeping with the spirit and necessities

of the time, and with "the right of conquest," and such like, why

should their descendants take to themselves airs on that account, and

consider themselves the supreme "somebodies" of the land, for such

worn-out reasons? Let any landlord who still tunes his pride according

to the feudal gamut of his forefathers, acquaint himself with the

tone of popular feeling in the manufacturing districts. Let "John"

lower the steps, and with earth-directed eyes hold the carriage door,

whilst our son of a hundred fathers walks forth into the streets of

a manufacturing town, to try the magic of his ancient name among the

workmen as they hurry to dinner. Where are the hat-touchers gone? If he

be a landlord, with nothing better than tracts of earth to recommend

him, the mechanical rabble jostle him as if he was "only a pauper whom

nobody owns," or some wandering cow-jobber. He goes worshipless on

his way, unless he happens to meet with one of the servants from the

hall, or his butcher, or the parish clerk, or the man who rings the

eight o'clock bell, and they treat him to a bend sinister. As to the

pride of "ancient descent," what does it mean, apart from the renown of

noble deeds? The poor folk in Lancashire cherish an old superstition

that "we're o' somebory's childer,"--which would be found very near

the truth, if fairly looked into. And if Collop the cotton weaver's

genealogy was correctly traced, it would probably run back to the

year "one;" or, as he expresses it himself, to the time "when Adam

wur a lad." Everything has its day. In some parts of Lancashire, the

rattle of the railway train, and the bustle of traffic and labour,

have drowned the tones of the hunting horn, and the chiming cry of

the harriers. But whatever succeeds the decay of feudalism, the

architectural relics of Old English life in Lancashire will always be

interesting, and venerable as the head of a fine old man, on whose brow

"the snow-fall of time" has long been stealing. May no ruder hand than

the hand of time destroy these eloquent footprints of old thought which

remain among us! Some men are like Burns's mouse,--the present only

touches them; but any man who has the slightest title to the name of a

creature of "large discourse," will be willing, now and then, to look

contemplatively over his shoulder, into the grass-grown aisles of the

past.

It was in that pleasant season of the year when fresh buds begin to

shoot from the thorn: when the daisy and the little celandine, and the

early primrose, peep from the ground, that I began to plot for another

stroll through my native vale of the Roch, up to the top of "Blackstone

Edge." Those mountain wastes are familiar to me. When I was a child,

they rose up constantly in sight, with a silent, majestic look. The

sun came from behind them in a morning, pouring its flood of splendour

upon the busy valley, the winding river, and its little tributaries.

I imbibed a strong attachment to those hills; and oft as opportunity

would allow, I rushed towards them; for they were kindly and congenial

to my mind. And now, in the crowded city, when I think of them and of

the country they look down upon, it stirs within me a

Wide sea that one continuous murmur breaks

Along the pebbled shore of memory.

But at this particular time, an additional motive enticed me to my

old wandering ground. The whole of the road leading to it was lined

with interesting places, and associations. But, among the railways,

and manifold other ways and means of travel, which now cover the

country with an irregular net-work, I found, on looking over a recent

map, a solitary line running in short, broken distances; and, on the

approach of towns and habited spots, diving under, like a mole or an

otter. It looked like a broken thread, here and there, in the mazy web

of the map, and it was accompanied by the words "Roman Road," which

had a little interest for me. I know there are people who would sneer

at the idea of any importance being attached to an impracticable,

out-of-the-way road, nearly two thousand years old, and leading to

nowhere in particular, except, like the ways of the wicked, into all

sorts of sloughs and difficulties. With them, one passable macadamised

way, on which a cart could go to market, is worth all the ruined

Watling-streets in Britain. And they are right, so far as their wisdom

goes. The present generation must be served with market stuff, come

what may of our museums. But still, everything in the world is full of

manifold services to man, who is himself full of manifold needs. And

thought can leave the telegraphic message behind, panting for breath

upon the railway wires. The whole is either "cupboard for food," or

"cabinet of pleasure;" therefore, let the hungry soul look round upon

its estate and turn the universe to nutriment, if it can; for

There's not a breath

Will mingle kindly with the meadow air,

Till it has panted round, and stolen a share

Of passion from the heart.

And though the moorland pack-horse and the rambling besom-maker stumble

and get entangled in grass, and sloughs, and matted brushwood, upon

deserted roads, still that nimble Mercury, Thought, can flit over the

silent waste, side by side with the shades of those formidable soldiers

who have now slept nearly two thousand years in the cold ground.

It has not been my lot to see many of the vestiges of Roman life in

Britain; yet, whatever the historians say about them has had interest

for me; especially when it related to the connection of the Romans with

my native district; for, in addition to its growing modern interest,

I eagerly seized every fact of historical association calculated to

enrich the vesture in which my mind had long been enrobing the place.

I had read of the Roman station at Littleborough; of the Roman road

in the neighbourhood; of interesting ancient relics, Roman and other,

discovered thereabouts; and other matter of the like nature. My walks

had been wide and frequent in the country about Rochdale; and many

a time have I lingered and wondered at Littleborough, near the spot

where history says that the Romans encamped themselves, at the foot of

Blackstone Edge, at the entrance of what would, then, be the impassable

hills, and woody glens, and swampy bottoms of the Todmorden district.

Yet I have never met with any visible remnants of such historical

antiquities of the locality; and though, when wandering about the high

moors in that quarter, I have more than once crossed the track of the

Roman road up there, and noticed a general peculiarity of feature

about the place, I little thought that I was floundering, through moss

and heather, upon one of these famous old highways. I endeavoured to

hold the bit upon my own eagerness; and read of these things with a

reservation of credence, lest I should delude myself into receiving

the invention of a brain mad with ancientry for a genuine relic of the

eld. But one day, early in the year, happening to call upon a young

friend of mine, in Rochdale, whose tastes are a little congenial to my

own, we talked of a stroll towards the hills; and he again showed me

the line of the Roman road, on Blackstone Edge, marked in the recent

Ordnance map. We then went forth, bare-headed, into the yard of his

father's house, at Wardleworth Brow, from whence the view of the hills,

on the east, is fine. The air was clear, and the sunshine so favourably

subdued, that the objects and tints of the landscape were uncommonly

distinct. He pointed to a regular stripe of land, of greener hue than

the rest of the moorland, rising up the dark side of Blackstone Edge.

The green stripe was the line of the Roman road. He had lately visited

it, and traced its uniform width for miles, and the peculiarities of

its pavement of native sandstone, overgrown with a thick tanglement of

moss, and heather, and moorland lichens. He was an old acquaintance,

of known integrity, and sound judgment, and, withal, more addicted to

figures of arithmetic than figures of speech; so, upon his testimony, I

resolved that I would bring my unstable faith to the ordeal of ocular

proof, that I might, at once, draft it out of the region of doubt, or

sweep it from the chambers of my brain, like a festoonery of cobwebs

from a neglected corner, The prospect of another visit to the scenery

of the "Edge," another snuff of the mountain air, and a little more

talk with the old-world folk in the villages upon the road thither,

rose up pleasantly in my mind, and the purpose took the shape of action

about St. Valentine's tide.

Having arranged to be called up at five on the morning of my intended

trip, I jumped out of bed when the knock came to my chamber-door,

dressed, and started forth to catch the first train from Manchester.

The streets were silent and still, except where one or two "early

birds" of the city had gathered round a "saloop" stall; or a solitary

policeman kept the lounging tenor of his way along the pavement; and

here and there a brisk straggler, with a pipe in his mouth, his echoing

steps contrasting strangely with the sleeping city's morning stillness.

The day was ushered in with gusts of wind and rain, and, when I got to

the station, both my coat and my expectations were a little damped by

the weather. But, by the time the train reached Rochdale, the sky had

cleared up, and the breeze had sunk down to a whisper, just cool enough

to make the sunshine pleasant. The birds were twittering about, and

drops of rain twinkled on the hedges and tufts of grass in the fields;

where spring was quietly spreading out her green mantle again. I wished

to have as wide a ramble at the farther end as time would allow; and,

as moor-tramping is about the most laborious foot exercise that mortal

man can bend his instep to, except running through a ploughed field,

in iron-plated clogs,--an ordeal which Lancashire trainers sometimes

put their foot-racers through,--it was considered advisable to hire

a conveyance. We could go further, stop longer, and return at ease,

when we liked, after we had tired ourselves to our heart's content

upon the moors. I went down to the Reed Inn, for a vehicle. Mine host

came out to the top of the steps which lead down into the stable-yard,

and, leaning over the railings, called his principal ostler from

the room below. That functionary was a broad-set, short-necked man,

with a comely face, and a staid, laconic look. He told us, with

Spartan brevity, that there had been a run upon gigs, but he could

find us a "Whitechapel," and "Grey Bobby." "Grey Bobby" and the

"Whitechapel" were agreed to at once, and in ten minutes I was driving

up Yorkshire-street, to pick up my friends at Wardleworth Brow, on the

eastern edge of the town. Giving the reins to a lad in the street, I

went into the house, and took some refreshment with the rest of them,

before starting; and, in a few minutes more, we were all seated, and

away down the slope of Heybrook, on the Littleborough Road. Our tit had

a mercurial trick of romping on his hind legs, at the start; but apart

from this, he went a steady, telling pace, and we looked about us quite

at ease as we sped along.

Heybrook, at the foot of Wardleworth Brow, is one of the pleasantest

entrances to Rochdale town. There is a touch of suburban peace and

prettiness about it; and the prospect, on all sides, is agreeable

to the eye. The park-like lands of Foxholes and Hamer lie close by

the north side of the road. The lower part of these grounds consists

of rich, flat meadows, divided by a merry little brook, which flows

from the hills on the north, above "Th' Syke." In its course from the

moors, to the river Roch, it takes the name of each locality it passes

through, and is called "Syke Brook," "Buckley Brook," and "Hey Brook;"

and, on its way, it gathers tributary rindles of water from Clough

House, Knowl, and Knowl Syke. As the Foxholes grounds recede from the

high road, they undulate, until they rise into an expansive, lawny

slope, clothed with a verdure which looks--when wet with summer rain or

dew--"like nothing else in the universe," out of England. This slope is

tastefully crowned with trees. Foxholes Hall is situated among its old

woods and lawns, retiringly, upon the summit of this swelling upland,

which rises from the level of Heybrook. It is a choice corner of the

earth, and the view thence, between the woods, across the lawn and

meadows, and over a picturesquely-varied country, to the blue hills in

the south-east, is perhaps not equalled in the neighbourhood. Pleasant

and green as much of the land in this district looks now, still the

general character of the soil, and the whole of its features, shows

that when nature had it to herself very much of it must have been

sterile or swampy. Looking towards Foxholes, from the road-side at

Heybrook, over the tall ancestral trees, we can see the still taller

chimney of John Bright and Brothers' mill, peering up significantly

behind; and the sound of their factory bell now mingles with the cawing

of an ancient colony of rooks in the Foxholes woods. Foxholes is the

seat of the Entwisles, a distinguished old Lancashire family. In the

time of Camden, the historian, this family was seated at Entwisle Hall,

near Bolton-le-Moors. George Entwisle de Entwisle left as heir his

brother William, who married Alice, daughter of Bradshaw, of Bradshaw.

His son Edmund, the first Entwisle of Foxholes, near Rochdale, built

the old hall, which stood on the site of the present one. He married a

daughter of Arthur Ashton, of Clegg; and his son Richard married Grace,

the daughter of Robert Chadwick, of Healey Hall. In the parish church

there is a tablet to the memory of Sir Bertin Entwisle, who fought at

Agincourt, on St. Crispin's Day, in Henry the Fifth's time. When a lad,

I used to con over this tablet, and I wove a world of romance around

this mysterious "Sir Bertin," and connected him with all that I had

heard of the prowess of old English chivalry. The tablet runs thus:--

To perpetuate a memorial erected in the church of St Peter's,

St. Albans (perished by time), this marble is here placed to the

memory of a gallant and loyal man--Sir Bertin Entwisle, Knt.,

viscount and baron of Brybeke, in Normandy, and some time bailiff

of Constantine, in which office he succeeded his brother-in-law,

Sir John Ashton, whose daughter first married Sir Richard le

Byron, an ancestor of the Lords Byron, of Rochdale, and, secondly,

Sir Bertin Entwisle, who, after repeated acts of honour in the

service of his sovereigns, Henrys the Fifth and Sixth, more

particularly at Agincourt, was killed in the first battle of St

Albans, and on his tombstone was recorded in brass the follow

inscription:--"Here lyeth Sir Bertin Entwisle, Knight, who was

born in Lancastershyre, and was viscount and baron of Brybeke, in

Normandy, and bailiff of Constantine, who died, fighting on King

Henry the Sixth's party, the 28th May 1455, on whose soul Jesus

have mercy."

Close by the stone-bridge at Heybrook, two large old trees stand in

the Entwisle grounds, one on each bank of the stream, and partly

overhanging the road; they stand there alone, as if to mark where

a forest has been. The tired country weaver, carrying his piece to

the town, lays down his burden on the parapet, wipes his brow, and

rests under their shade. I have gone sometimes, on bright nights, to

lean upon the bridge and look around there, and I have heard many a

plaintive trio sung by these old trees and the brook below, while the

moonlight danced among the leaves.

The whole valley of the Roch is a succession of green knolls, and

dingles, and little receding vales, with now and then a barren stripe,

like "Cronkeyshaw," or a patch of the once large mosses, like "Turf

Moss;" and little holts and holms, no two alike in feature or extent,

dotted, now and then, with tufts of stunted wood, with many a clear

brook and silvery rill between. On the south side of the bridge at

Heybrook, the streamlet from the north runs through the meadows a short

distance, and empties itself into the Roch. The confluence of the

waters there is known to the neighbour lads by the name of the "Greyt

Meetin's," where, in past years, I have

Paidle't through the burn

When simmer days were fine,

in a certain young companionship--now more scattered than last

autumn's leaves; some in other towns, one or two only still here, and

the rest in Australia, or in the grave. We now no longer strip in

the field there, and leaving our clothes and books upon the hedge

side, go frolicking down to the river, to have a water battle and a

bathe--finishing by drying ourselves with our shirts, or by running

in the wind on the green bank. I remember that sometimes, whilst we

were in the height of our sport, the sentinel left upon the brink of

the river would catch a glimpse of the owner of the fields, coming

hastily towards the spot, in wrathful mood; whereupon every naked

imp rushed from the water, seized his clothes, and fled from field

to field, till he reached some nook where he could put them on. From

the southern margin of the Roch, the land rises in a green elevation,

on which the hamlet of Belfield is seen peeping up. The tree-tops of

Belfield Wood are in sight, but the ancient hall is hidden. A little

vale on the west, watered by the Biel, divides Belfield Hall from the

hamlet of Newbold, on the summit of the opposite bank. So early as the

commencement of the twelfth century, a family had adopted the local

name, and resided in the mansion till about the year 1290, when the

estate was transferred to the family of Butterworth, of Butterworth

Hall, near Milnrow. I find the Belfield family mentioned in Gastrel's

"Notitia Cestriensis," p. 40, under the head "Leases granted by the

bishop," where the following lease appears:--"An. 1546. Let by H.

Ar. Belfield and Robt. Tatton, for 40 years, exceptis omus vicariis

advocationibus ecclesiariu quarumcunque, (ing) to find great timber,

tiles, and slate, and tenants to repair and find all other materials."

The following note is attached to this lease:--"Arthur Belfield, of

Clegg Hall, in the parish of Rochdale, gent., son and heir of Adam

Belfield, was born in 1508, and succeeded his father in 1544. He is

described in the lease as 'off our sayde sovaraigne lord's houshold,

gentylman;' but what office he held is, at present, unknown. He

was a near relative of the Hopwoods, of Hopwood, and Chethams, of

Nuthurst." In the year 1274, Geoffry de Butterworth, a descendent of

Reginald de Boterworth, first lord of the township of Butterworth, in

the reign of Stephen, 1148, sold or exchanged the family mansion of

Butterworth Hall, with John Byron, ancestor of Lord Byron, the poet,

and took possession (by purchase or otherwise) of Belfield, which

was part of the original possession of the knights of St. John of

Jerusalem. When the monks of Stanlaw, in Cheshire--disliking their

low, swampy situation there, which was subject to inundation at spring

tide--removed to the old deanery of Whalley, before entering the abbey

there, in the roll of the fraternity four seem to have been natives

of Rochdale, among whom was John de Belfield, afterwards Abbot of

Whalley, of the ancient stock of Belfield Hall, in Butterworth. Robert

de Butterworth was killed at the battle of Towton, in 1461. The last

of the name, at Belfield, was Alexander Butterworth, born in 1640, in

the reign of Charles the First. The present occupants of the estate

have tastefully preserved the old interesting features of the hall,

whilst they have greatly improved its condition and environments. The

stone gateway, leading to the inner court-yard of Belfield Hall, is

still standing, as well as a considerable portion of the old hall which

surrounded this inner court. The antique character of the building is

best seen from the quadrangular court-yard in the centre. The door

of the great kitchen formerly opened into this court-yard, and the

victuals used to be brought out thence, and handed by the cooks through

a square opening in the wall of the great dining-room, on the north

side of the yard, to the waiters inside. The interior of the building

still retains many quaint features of its olden time--heavy oak-beams,

low ceilings, and tortuous corners. Every effort has been made to line

the house with an air of modern comfort; still the house is said to

be a cold one, partly from its situation, and partly from the porous

nature of the old walls; producing an effect something like that of

a wine-cooler. That part of the building which now forms the rear,

used, in old times, to be the main front. In one of the rooms, there

are still some relics of the ancient oak-carving which lined the walls

of the hall. Among them there are three figures in carved oak, which

formed part of the wainscot of a cornice, above one of the fire-places.

These were the figures of a king and two queens, quaintly cut; and

the remnants of old painting upon the figures, and the rich gilding

upon the crowns, still show traces of their highly-ornamented, ancient

appearance. The roads in the neighbourhood of the hall are now good.

The hamlets of Newbold and Belfield are thriving, with substantial,

healthy dwellings. Shady walks are laid among the plantations; and the

springs of excellent water are now gathered into clear terraced pools

and a serpentine lake, glittering among gardens and cultivated grounds.

Leaving Heybrook, we passed by Hamer Hall, which was the seat of a

family of the same name, before Henry the Fourth's time. A large

cotton-mill now stands close behind the hall. A few yards through

the toll-bar, we passed the "Entwisle Arms," bearing the motto, "Par

se signe à Azincourt." A traveller seldom needs to ask the names of

the old lords of the land in England. Let him keep an eye to the

sign-boards, and he is sure to find that part of the history of the

locality swinging in the wind, or stapled up over the entrance of

some neighbouring alehouse. And, in the same barmy atmosphere, he

may learn, at least, as much heraldry as he will be able to find a

market for on the Manchester Exchange. The public-house signs in

our old towns are generally very loyal and heraldic, and sometimes

touched with a little jovial devotion. The arms of kings, queens,

and bishops; and mitres, chapel-houses, angels, and "amen corners,"

mingling with "many a crest that is famous in story;" the arms of the

Stanleys, Byrons, Asshetons, Traffords, Lacys, Wiltons, De-la-Warres,

Houghtons, Molyneuxs, Pilkingtons, Radcliffes, and a long roll of

old Lancashire gentry, whose fame is faintly commemorated in these

alehouse signs; and, among the mottoes of these emblazonments, we now

and then meet with an ancient war-cry, which makes one's blood start

into tumult, when we think how it may have sounded on the fields of

Cressy, Agincourt, Towton, or Flodden. Among these are sprinkled

spread eagles, dragons, griffins, unicorns, and horses, black, white,

bay, and grey, with corresponding mares, and shoes enow for them all.

Boars, in every position and state of temper; bulls, some crowned,

some with rings in the nose, like our friend "John" of that name.

Foxes, too, and dogs, presenting their noses with admirable directness

of purpose at something in the next street; and innocent-looking

partridges, who appear reckless of the intentions of the sanguinary

wretch in green, who is erroneously supposed to be _lurking_ behind

the bush, with a gun in his hand. Talbots, falcons, hawks, hounds

and huntsmen, the latter sometimes in "full cry," but almost always

considerably "at fault," so far as perspective goes. Swans, black

and white, with any number of necks that can be reasonably expected;

stags, saints, saracens, jolly millers, boars' heads, blue bells,

pack-horses, lambs, rams, and trees of oak and yew. The seven stars,

and, now and then, a great bear. Lions, of all colours, conditions, and

positions--resting, romping, and running; with a number of apocryphal

animals, not explainable by any natural history extant, nor to be found

anywhere, I believe, except in the swamps and jungles of some drunken

dauber's brain. Also a few "Jolly Waggoners," grinning extensively at

foaming flagons of ale, garnished with piles of bread and cheese, and

onions as big as cannon-balls, as if to outface the proportions of the

Colossus of Rhodes, who sits there in a state of stiff, everlasting,

clumsy, good-tempered readiness, in front of his never-dwindling

feed, Marlboroughs, Abercrombies, and Wellingtons; Duncans, Rodneys,

and Nelsons, by dozens. I have seen an admiral painted on horseback,

somewhere; but I never saw Cromwell on an alehouse sign yet. In

addition to these, there are a few dukes, mostly of York and Clarence.

Such signs as these show the old way of living and thinking. But, in

our manufacturing towns, the tone of these old devices is considerably

modified by an infusion of railway hotels, commercials, cotton-trees,

shuttles, spindles, woolpacks, Bishop Blaizes, and "Old Looms;" and

the arms of the ancient feudal gentry are outnumbered by the arms

of shepherds, foresters, moulders, joiners, printers, bricklayers,

painters, and several kinds of odd-fellows. The old "Legs of Man,"

too, are relieved by a comfortable sprinkling of legs and shoulders

of mutton--considerably overdone by the weather, in some cases. Even

alehouse signs are "signs of the times," if properly interpreted.

But both men and alehouse signs may make up their minds to be

misinterpreted a little in this world. Two country lasses, at Rochdale,

one fair-day, walking by the Roebuck Inn, one of them, pointing to the

gilded figure of the animal, with its head uplifted to an overhanging

bunch of gilded grapes, said, "Sitho, sitho, Mary, at yon brass dog,

heytin' brass marrables!"

About half-a-mile up the high road from Heybrook, and opposite to

Shaw House, the view opens, and we can look across the fields on

either side, into a country of green pastures and meadows, varied with

fantastic hillocks and dells, though bare of trees. A short distance

to the north-west, Buckley Hall lately stood, on a green eminence in

sight from the road. But the old house of the Buckleys, of Buckley,

recently disappeared from the knoll where it stood for centuries. Its

thick, bemossed walls are gone, and all its quaint, abundant outhousing

that stood about the spacious, balder-paved yard behind. This old

hall gave name and residence to one of the most ancient families in

Rochdale parish. The building was low, but very strongly built of

stone of the district, and heavily timbered. It was not so large as

Clegg Hall, nor Stubley Hall, nor as some other old halls in the

parish; but, for its size, it proved a considerable quarry of stone

and flag when taken down. The first occupier was Geoffry de Buckley,

nephew to Geoffry, dean of Whalley, who lived in the time of Henry

the Second. A descendant of this Geoffry de Buckley was slain in the

battle of Evesham ("History of Whalley"). The name of John de Buckley

appears among the monks of Stanlaw, in the year 1296. The arms of

the Buckleys, of Buckley, are gules, a chevron sable; between three

bulls' heads, armed proper; crest, on a wreath, a bull's head armed

proper. Motto, "Nec temere nec timede." There is a chantry chapel at

the south-east corner of Rochdale parish church, "founded in 1487, by

Dr. Adam Marland, of Marland; Sir Randal Butterworth, of Belfield; and

Sir James Middleton, 'a brotherhood maide and ordayned in the worship

of the glorious Trinity, in the church of Rochdale;' Sir James being

appointed Trinity priest during his lyfe; and, among other things, he

was requested, when he went to the lavoratory, standing at the altar,

and, twice a week, to pray for the co-founders, with 'De profundis.'"

In this little chantry, there is a recumbent stone effigy of a mailed

warrior, of the Buckley family, placed there by the present lord of

the manor, whose property the chapel is now. I know that some of the

country people who had been reared in the neighbourhood of Buckley

Hall, watched its demolition with grieved hearts. And when the fine old

hall at Radcliffe was taken down, not long since, an aged man stood by,

vigorously denouncing the destroyers as the work went on, and glorying

in every difficulty they met with; and they were not few, for it was

a tough old place. "Poo," said he, "yo wastril devils, poo! Yo connut

rive th' owd hole deawn for th' heart on yo! Yo'n ha' to blow it up

wi' gunpeawdhur, bi'th mass. It wur noan bigged eawt o' club brass,

that wur not, yo shabby thieves! Tay th' pattern on't, an' yo'n larn

summat! What mak' o' trash wi'n yo stick up i'th place on't, when it's

gwon? Those wholes u'll bide leynin again, better nor yors! Yo'n never

big another heawse like that while yo'n teeth an' e'en in yor yeds!

Eh, never, never! Yo hannut stuff to do it wi'!" But down came the old

hall at Radcliffe; and so did Buckley Hall, lately; and the materials

were dressed up to build the substantial row of modern cottages which

now stand upon the same site, with pleasant gardens in front, sloping

down the knoll, and over the spot where the old fish-pond was, at the

bottom. Some of the workpeople at the neighbouring woollen mill find

comfortable housing there now. There is an old tradition, respecting

the Buckley family, connected with a massive iron ring which was

found fastened in the flooring of a deserted chamber of the hall. A

greyhound, belonging to this family, whilst in London with its master,

took off homeward on being startled by the fall of a heavy package,

in Cheapside, and was found dead on the door-step of Buckley Hall at

five next morning, after having run one hundred and ninety-six miles

in sixteen hours. When visiting relatives of mine near Buckley, I met

with a story relating to one of the Buckleys of old, who was a dread to

the country side; how he pursued a Rossendale rider, who had crossed

the moors from the forest, to recover a stolen horse from the stables

of Buckley Hall by night; and how this Buckley, of Buckley, overtook

and shot him, at a lonely place called "Th' Hillock," between Buckley

and Rooley Moor. There are other floating oral traditions connected

with Buckley Hall, especially the tale of "The Gentle Shepherdess,"

embodying the romantic adventures, and unfortunate fate of a lady

belonging to the family of Buckley, of Buckley. And in this wide parish

of Rochdale, in the eastern nook of Lancashire,--once a country fertile

in spots of lone and rural prettiness, and thinly inhabited by as

quaint, hearty, and primitive a people as any in England,--there is

many a picturesque and storied dell; some tales of historic interest;

and many an interesting legend connected with the country, or with the

old families of the parish;--the Byrons, of Butterworth Hall, barons of

Rochdale; the Entwisles, of Foxholes; the Crossleys, of Scaitcliffe;

the Holts, of Stubley, Grislehurst, and Castleton; the Cleggs, of Clegg

Hall, the scene of the tradition of "Clegg Ho' Boggart;" the Buckleys,

of Buckley; the Marlands, of Marland; the Howards, of Great Howard; the

Chadwicks, of Chadwick Hall, and Healey Hall; the Bamfords, of Bamford;

the Schofields, of Schofield; the Butterworths; the Belfields; and many

other families of ancient note, often bearing the names of their own

estates, in the old way.

In this part of South Lancashire, the traveller never meets any

considerable extent of level land; and, though the county contains

great moors, and some mosses, yet there is not such another expansive

tract of level country to be found in it as "Chat Moss," that lonely

grave of old forests. South-east Lancashire is all picturesque ups

and downs, retired nooks, and "quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,"

and little winding vales, with endless freaks of hill and hillock,

knoll and dell, dingle and shady cleft, laced with numerous small

streamlets, and clear rindles of babbling water, up to the foot of

that wilderness of moorland hills, the "Back-bone of England," which

runs across the island, from Derbyshire into Scotland, and forms a

considerable part of Lancashire upon its way. The parish of Rochdale

partly consists of, and is bounded by, this tract of hills on the

east and north; and what may be called the lowland part of the parish

looks, when seen from some of the hills in the immediate neighbourhood,

something like a sea of tempest-tossed meadows and pasture lands, upon

which fleets of cotton mills ride at anchor, their brick masts rising

high into the air, and their streamers of smoke waving in the wind.

Leaving the open part of the high road, opposite Shaw House, and losing

sight of Buckley, we began to rise as we passed through Brickfield

up to Smallbridge. This village is seated on an elevation, sloping

gently from the northern bank of the river Roch, which rise continues

slightly through the village, and up northward, with many a dip and

frolic by the way, till it reaches the hills above Wardle Fold, where

nature leaps up in a wild and desolate mood. Some of the lonely heights

thereabouts have been beacon stations, in old times, and their names

indicate their ancient uses, as "Ward Hill," above the village of

Wardle. "Jack th' Huntsman" used to declare, vehemently, that Brown

Wardle Hill was "th' finest hunting-greawnd i' Lancashire." And then

there is "Tooter's Hill," "Hornblower's Hill," and "Hade's Hill." From

the summit of the last, the waters descend on one side to the Irish

Sea, on the west, on the other to the German Ocean, on the east. The

remains of a large beacon are still visible on the top of it. Looking

southward, from the edge of Smallbridge, the dale lies green and fair

in the hollow below, and the silent Roch winds through it towards

Rochdale town. The view stretches out several miles beyond the opposite

bank of the river, over the romantic township of Butterworth, up to the

Saddleworth hills. Green and picturesque, a country of dairy farms,

producing matchless milk and butter; yet the soil is evidently too cold

and poor for the successful production of any kind of grain, except the

hardy oat--and that crop mostly thin and light as an old man's hair.

But even this extensive view over a beautiful scene, in other respects,

lacks the charm which green woods lend to a landscape; for, except a

few diminutive tufts and scattered patches, where young plantations

struggle up, there are scarcely any trees. From Smallbridge, taking

a south-east direction, up by "Tunshill," "Dolderum," "Longden End,"

and "Booth Dean," and over the Stanedge road, into the ravines of

Saddleworth, would be a long flight for the crow; but to anybody who

had to foot the road thither, it would prove a rougher piece of work

than it looks. The village of Smallbridge itself consists principally

of one street, about half a mile long, lining the high road from

Rochdale to Littleborough. It will have a dull, uninteresting look to a

person who knows nothing, previously, of the place, nor of the curious

generation dwelling thereabouts. Smallbridge has a plain, hard-working,

unpolished, every-day look. No wandering artist, in search of romantic

bits of village scenery, would halt enchanted with Smallbridge. It has

no architectural relic of the olden time in it, nor any remarkable

modern building--nothing which would tell a careless eye that it had

been the homestead of many generations of Lancashire men. It consists,

chiefly, of the brick-built cottages, inhabited by weavers, colliers,

and factory operatives, relieved by the new Episcopalian church, at the

eastern end, the little pepper-box bell-turret of which peeps up over

the houses, as if to remind the rude inhabitants of something higher

than bacon-collops and ale. About half a mile up the road which leads

out of the centre of the village, northward, stands a plain-looking

stone mansion, apparently about one hundred and fifty years old, called

"Great Howarth." It stands upon a shapely knoll, the site of an older

hall of the same name, and has pleasant slopes of green land about it,

and a wide prospect over hill and dale. Extensive alterations, in the

course of the last hundred years, have destroyed most of the evidences

of this place's age and importance; but its situation, and the ancient

outbuildings behind, and the fold of cottages nestling near to the

western side of the hall, with peeping bits of stone foundation, of

much older date than the building standing upon them; the old wells,

and the hue of the lands round about; all show that it has been a

place of greater note than it is at present. This great Howarth, or

Howard, is said to be the original settlement of the Howard family, the

present Dukes of Norfolk. Some people in the neighbourhood also seem to

believe this, for, as we entered Smallbridge, we passed "The Norfolk

Arms," a little public-house. One Osbert Howard was rewarded by Henry

I. ("Beauclerk") for his faithful services, with lands situate in the

township of Honorsfield, or Hundersfield, in the parish of Rochdale,

also with what is called "the dignified title of Master of the Buck

Hounds." Robertus Howard, Abbot of Stanlaw, was one of the four monks

from this parish, whose names appear among the list of the fraternity,

at the time of their translation to Whalley. He died on the 10th of

May, 1304. Dugdale, in his "Baronage of England," says, respecting

the Howards, Dukes of Norfolk:--"I do not make any mention thereof

above the time of King Edward the First, some supposing that their

common ancestor, in the Saxon's time, took his original appellation

from an eminent office or command; others, afterwards, from the name

of a place." ... "I shall, therefore (after much fruitless search to

satisfy myself, as well as others, on this point) begin with William

Howard, a learned and reverend judge of the Court of Common Pleas,

for a great part of King Edward the First's and beginning of Edward

the Second's time." So that there seems to be a possibility of truth

in the assertion that Great Howard, or Howarth, near Smallbridge,

was the original settlement of the Howards, ancestors of the Dukes

of Norfolk. But I must leave the matter to those who have better and

completer evidence than this. Aiken, in his "History of Manchester,"

mentions a direful pestilence, which severely afflicted that town

about the year 1645. A pestilence called the "Black Plague" raged in

the parish of Rochdale about the same time. "The whole district being

filled with dismay, none dared, from the country, to approach the town,

for fear of catching the contagion; therefore, to remedy, as much as

possible, the inconvenience of non-intercourse between the country

and town's people, the proprietor of Great Howarth directed a cross

to be raised on a certain part of his estate, near to Black Lane End,

at Smallbridge, for the purpose of holding a temporary market there,

during the continuance of the plague." Thence originated "Howarth

Cross," so named to this day; also, the old "Milk Stones," or "Plague

Stones," lately standing at about a mile's distance from the town of

Rochdale, upon the old roads. I well remember two of these, which were

large, heavy flag-stones, with one end imbedded in the edge side, and

the other end supported upon rude stone pillars. One of these two

was in "Milk Stone Lane," leading towards Oldham, and the other at

"Sparth," about a mile on the Manchester road. This last of these old

"Milk Stones," or "Plague Stones," was recently taken down. I find that

similar stones were erected in the outlets of Manchester, for the same

purpose, during the pestilence, about 1645. The village of Smallbridge

itself, as I have said before, has not much either of modern grace or

antique interest about its outward appearance. But, in the secluded

folds and corners of the country around, there is many a quaint

farmstead of the seventeenth century, or earlier, such as Waterhouse,

Ashbrook Hey, Howarth Knowl, Little Howarth, Dearnley, Mabroyd,

Wuerdle, Little Clegg, Clegg Hall (the haunt of the famous "Clegg Ho'

Boggart"). Wardle Fold, near Wardle Hall, was fifty years since only

a small sequestered cluster of rough stone houses, at the foot of the

moorland heights, on the north, and about a mile from Smallbridge. It

has thriven considerably by manufacture since then. In some of these

old settlements there are houses where the door is still opened from

without by a "sneck-bant," or "finger-hole." Some of these old houses

have been little changed for two or three centuries; around others a

little modern addition has gathered in the course of time; but the old

way of living and thinking lingers in these remote corners still, like

little standing pools, left by the tide of ancient manners, which has

gone down, and is becoming matter of history or of remembrance. There,

and in the still more lonely detached dwellings and folds, which are

scattered among the hills and cloughs of the "Edge," they cling to

the speech, and ways, and superstitions of their rude forefathers. A

tribe of hardy, industrious, old-fashioned, simple-hearted folk, whose

principal fear is poverty and "boggarts." They still gather round the

fire, in corners where factories have not yet reached them, in the gray

gloaming, and on dark nights in winter, to feed their imaginations with

scraps of old legend, and tales of boggarts, fairies, and "feeorin,"

that haunt their native hills, and dells, and streams; and they look

forward with joy to the ancient festivals of the year, as reliefs

to their lonely round of toil. But Smallbridge had other interests

for us besides those arising out of its remote surrounding nooks and

population. We had known the village ever since the time when a ramble

so far out from Rochdale seemed a great feat for tiny legs; and, as we

passed each well-remembered spot, the flood-gates of memory were thrown

open, and a whole tide of early reminiscences came flowing over the

mind:--

Floating by me seems

My childhood, in this childishness of mine:

I care not--'tis a glimpse of "Auld lang syne."

The inhabitants of different Lancashire towns and villages have often

some generic epithet attached to them, supposed to be expressive of

their character; as, for the inhabitants of Oldham and Bolton, "Owdham

Rough Yeds," and "Bowton Trotters;" and the people of Smallbridge

are known throughout the vale by the name of "Smo'bridge Cossacks."

Within the last twenty years, the inhabitants of the village have

increased in number, and improved in education and manners. Before that

time the place was notable for its rugged people; even in a district

generally remarkable for an old-world breed of men and manners. Their

misdemeanours arose more from exuberant vigour of heart and body,

than from natural moral debasement. Twenty years since there was no

church in Smallbridge, no police to keep its rude people in order--no

effective school of any sort. The weavers and colliers had the place

almost to themselves in those days. They worked hard, and ate and drank

as much as their earnings would afford, especially on holidays, or

"red-letter days;" and, at by-times, they clustered together in their

cottages, but oftener at the road-side, or in some favourite alehouse,

and solaced their fatigue with such scraps of news and politics as

reached them; or by pithy, idiomatic bursts of country humour, and old

songs. Sometimes these were choice snatches of the ballads of Britain,

really beautiful "minstrel memories of times gone by;" such as we

seldom hear now, and still seldomer hear sung with the feeling and

natural taste which the country lasses of Lancashire put into them,

while chanting at their work. Some of Burns's songs, and many songs

commemorating the wars of England, were great favourites with them.

Passing by a country alehouse, one would often hear a rude ditty, like

the following, sounding loud and clear from the inside:--

You generals all, and champions bold,

Who take delight i'th field;

Who knock down palaces and castle walls,

And never like to yield;

I am an Englishman by birth,

And Marlbro' is my name;

In Devonshire I first drew breath,

That place of noble fame.

Or this finishing couplet of another old ballad:--

To hear the drums and the trumpets sound,

In the wars of High Garmanie!

I well remember that the following were among their favourites:--"O,

Nanny, wilt thou gang wi' me?" "Jockey to the Fair," "Owd Towler,"

"The Banks of the Dee," "Black Eyed Susan," "Highland Mary," "The

Dawning of the Day," "The Garden Gate," and "The Woodpecker."

There are, also, a few rough, humorous songs in the Lancashire

dialect, which are very common among them. The best of these is the

rudely-characteristic ballad called "Jone o' Greenfelt," and "The Songs

of the Wilsons," of which the following, known by the name of "Johnny

Green's Wedding," and "Description of Manchester College," by Alexander

Wilson, is sufficient to show the manner and characteristics of the

remainder of these popular local songs:--

Neaw lads, wheer are yo beawn so fast?

Yo happun ha no yerd what's past:

Aw gettun wed sin aw'r here th' last,

Just three week sin come Sunday.

Aw ax'd th' owd folk, an aw wur reet,

So Nan an me agreed tat neet,

At iv we could mak both eends meet,

We'd be wed o' Ayster Monday.

That morn', as prim as pewter quarts,

Aw th' wenches coom, a browt t' sweethearts;

Aw fund we're loike to ha' three carts,--

'Twur thrunk as Eccles wakes, mon;

We donn'd eawr tits i' ribbins to,--

One red, one green, an tone wur blue;

So hey! lads, hey! away we flew,

Loike a race for th' Leger stakes, mon.

Right merrily we drove, full bat;

An eh! heaw Duke an Dobbin swat;

Owd Grizzle wur so lawn an fat,

Fro' soide to soide hoo jow'd um:

Deawn Withy Grove at last we coom,

An stopt at th' Seven Stars by gum,

An drunk as mich warm ale an rum,

As 'nd dreawn o' th' folk i' Owdham.

When th' shot wur paid, an th' drink wur done,

Up Fennel-street, to th' church for fun,

We doanced loike morris-doancers dun,

To th' best o' aw my knowledge:

So th' job wur done, i' hauve a crack;

Boh eh! what fun to get th' first smack;

So neaw, my lads, 'fore we gwon back,

Says aw, "We'n look at th' College."

We see'd a clock-case first, good laws!

Where Deoth stonds up wi' great lung claws;

His legs, an wings, an lantern jaws,

They really look't quite feorink.

There's snakes an watchbills, just like pikes,

At Hunt an aw th' reforming tikes,

An thee, an me, an Sam o' Mikes,

Once took a blanketeerink.

Eh! lorjus days, booath far an woide,

Theer's yards o' books at every stroide,

Fro' top to bothum, eend, an soide,

Sich plecks there's very few so:

Aw axt him iv they wur'n to sell,

For Nan, loikes readink vastly well;

Boh th' measter wur eawt, so he could naw tell,

Or aw'd a bowt her Robinson Crusoe.

Theer's a trumpet speyks and maks a din,

An a shute o' clooas made o' tin,

For folk to go a feightink in,

Just like thoose chaps o' Boney's;

An theer's a table carved so queer,

Wi' as mony planks as days i'th year,

An crinkum-crankums here an theer,

Like th' clooas-press at my gronny's.

Theer's Oliver Crumill's bombs and balls,

An Frenchmen's guns they'd tean i' squalls,

An swords, as lunk as me, o' th' walls,

An bows an arrows too, mon:

Aw didno moind his fearfo words,

Nor skeletons o' men an burds;

Boh aw fair hate th' seet o' greyt lung swords,

Sin th' feight at Peterloo, mon.

We see'd a wooden cock likewise;

Boh dang it, mon, these college boys,

They tell'n a pack o' starin' loies,

As sure as teaw'rt a sinner:

"That cock, when it smells roast beef, 'll crow,"

Says he; "Boh," aw said, "teaw lies, aw know,

An aw con prove it plainly so,

Aw've a peawnd i' my hat for th' dinner."

Boh th' hairy mon had miss'd my thowt,

An th' clog fair crackt by th' thunner-bowt,

An th' woman noather lawmt nor nowt,

Theaw ne'er seed loike sin t'ur born, mon.

Theer's crocodiles, an things, indeed,

Aw colours, mak, shap, size, an breed;

An if aw moot tell toan hauve aw see'd,

We moot sit an smook till morn, mon.

Then deawn Lung Millgate we did steer,

To owd Mike Wilson's goods-shop theer,

To bey eawr Nan a rockink cheer,

An pots, an spoons, an ladles:

Nan bowt a glass for lookink in

A tin Dutch o'on for cookink in;

Aw bowt a cheer for smookink in,

And Nan axed th' price o' th' cradles.

Then th' fiddler struck up "Th' Honey Moon,"

An off we set for Owdam soon:

We made owd Grizzle trot to th' tune,

Every yard o' th' way, mon.

At neet, oytch lad an bonny lass,

Laws! heaw they doanc'd an drunk their glass;

So toyst wur Nan an me, by th' mass,

At we lee till twelve th' next day, mon.

When the horn sounded to gather the harriers, or the "foomart dogs,"

the weaver lads used to let go their "pickin'-pegs," roll up their

aprons, and follow the chase afoot, with all the keen relish of their

forefathers, returning hungry, tired, and pleased at night, to relate

the adventures of the day. Sometimes they sallied from the village,

in jovial companies, attended by one or more of their companions, to

have a drinking-bout, and challenge "th' cocks o' th' clod" in some

neighbouring hamlet. Such expeditions often led to a series of single

combats, in which rude bodily strength and pluck were the principal

elements of success; sometimes a general _melée_, or "Welsh main,"

took place; often ending in painful journeys, with broken bones, over

the moors, to the "Whitworth Doctors." As far as rough sports and

rough manners went, "the dule" seemed to have "thrut his club" over

Smallbridge in those days. That man was lucky who could walk through

the village without being assailed by something more inconvenient

than mere looks of ignorant wonder, and a pelting of coarse jokes;

especially if he happened to wear the appearance of a "teawn's buck."

They had a kind of contempt for "teawn's folk," as an inferior race,

especially in body. If town's people had more intelligence than was

common in the country, these villagers often affected to consider it a

knavish cleverness; and if they seemed externally clean, they looked

upon it as an hypocritical concealment of the filth beneath. If they

were well dressed, the old doubt arose, as to its being "o' paid for;"

and if one appeared among them who had no settled home or connections,

and whose demeanour they did not like, he had "done summat wrang

somewheer, or elze he'd ne'er ha' bin o' that shap." In fact, it was

hardly possible for people bred in a town to be as clean, strong, or

honest, as those bred in the country. Town's folk had nothing wholesome

about them; they were "o' offal an' boylin-pieces." When they visited

Manchester, or any of the great towns about, they generally took a

supply of eatables with them for the journey; "coud frog-i'-th'-hole

puddin," or "fayberry cake," or "sodden moufin an' cheese," or such

like homely buttery-stuff; for if they had occasion to enter any

strange house in such places, to satisfy their hunger, every mouthful

went down among painful speculations as to what the quadruped was when

alive, and what particular reason it had for departing this life. Burns

alludes affectionately to "the halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's

food;" and oatmeal porridge, and oat-cake, enter largely into the diet

of the country people in this part of Lancashire. They used to pride

themselves in the name of "the Havercake Lads." A regiment raised in

Lancashire during the last war bore this name. This oat-cake is baked

upon a peculiar kind of stone slab, called a "back-stone;" and the cry

of "Havercake back-stones" is a familiar sound in Rochdale, and the

villages around it, at this day. Oatmeal porridge forms an important

element of a genuine Lancashire breakfast in the country. I have often

noticed the air of satisfaction with which a Lancashire housewife has

filled up the great breakfast bowl with hot oatmeal porridge, and,

clapping the pan on the floor, said, "Theer, lads, pultiz yo'r stomachs

wi' thoose!" And the hungry, hearty youngsters have gathered hastily

round their old dish, welcoming it with the joyous ejaculation of

"That's th' mak'!" The thick unleavened oat-cake, called "Jannock,"

is scarcely ever seen in South-east Lancashire now; but it used to be

highly esteemed. The common expression, "That's noan jannock," applied

to anything which is not what it ought to be, commemorates the fame of

this wholesome old cake of theirs. But they have no inclination to an

exclusively vegetarian diet; in fact, they generally express a decided

relish for "summat at's deed ov a knife;" and, like their ancient

progenitors, the Saxons, they prefer heavy meals, and long draughts, to

any kind of light epicurean nicety.

There are many old prejudices still cherished by the country people

of south-east Lancashire,--as is their old belief in witches,

witch-doctors, and "Planet-rulers;"--but they are declining, through

increasing communion with the rest of the world. And then these things

show only the unfavourable side of their character; for they are

hospitable, open-handed, frank, and benevolent by nature. How oft have

I seen them defend the downcast and the stranger; or shut up ungenerous

suspicions, and open all the sluices of their native kindness by the

simple expression, "He's somebody's chylt!"

"Owd Roddle" is a broken-down village fuddler in Smallbridge;

perpetually racking his brains about "another gill." His appearance

is more that of an Indian Fakeer than an English country gentleman.

He is as "concayted as a whisket" in some things, but not in eating

or drinking; for he will "seawk lamp-hoyle through a bacco-pipe if

onybody'll give him a droight o' ale to wesh it deawn wi'; an' as for

heytin', he'll heyt mortal thing--deeod or alive--if he con get his

teeth into't." A native of Smallbridge was asked, lately, what "Roddle"

did for his living, and he replied, "Whaw, he wheels coals, and trails

abeawt wi' his clogs loce, an' may's a foo' of his-sel' for ale."

Yet, utterly lost as Roddle is himself in person and habits, he is

strongly imbued with the old prejudices against town's folk. To him,

the whitest linen worn by a townsman, is only what the country folk

call a "French white." A well-dressed person from Rochdale chanced one

day to awaken "Roddle's" ire, who, eyeing him from head to foot, with

a critical sneer, said, "Shap off whoam, as fast as tho con, an' get

tat buff shurt sceawr't a bit, wilto; an' thy skin an' o; for theawr't

wick wi' varmin; an' keep o' thy own clod, whol tho con turn eawt some

bit like." "But," continued my informant, "aw'm a bit partial to th'

offal crayter, for o' that; he's so mich gam in him, and aw like a foo

i' my heart! Eh! he used to be as limber as a treawt when he're young;

but neaw he's as wambly an' slamp as a barrow full o' warp-sizin'. Th'

tother mornin' aw walked up to him for a bit ov a crack, as uzal, but

th' owd lad had getten his toppin cut off close to his yed; an' he

wacker't an' stare't like a twichelt dog; an' he gran at mo like mad.

Aw're forc't dray back a bit, at th' first, he glooart so flaysome.

It're very frosty, an' his een looked white and wild; an' as geawl't as

a whelp. If the dule had met Roddle at th' turn of a lone that mornin'

he'd a skriked hissel' eawt ov his wits, an' gwon deawn again. Eawr

measther sauces me sometimes for talkin' to Roddle; but aw olez tell

him at aw'st have a wort wi' th' poor owd twod when aw meet him, as

what onybody says."

There is a race of hereditary sand-sellers, or "sond-knockers," in

Smallbridge; a rough, mountaineer breed, who live by crushing sandstone

rock, for sale in the town of Rochdale, and the villages about it. This

sand is used for strewing upon the flagged house floors, when the floor

is clean washed; and while it is yet damp, the sand is ground over it

by the motion of a heavy "scouring-stone," to which a long, strong,

wooden handle is firmly fixed, by being fastened to an iron claw, which

grasps the stone, and is embedded into it by molten lead. The motion

of the "scouring-stone" works the flags into smoothness, and leaves an

ornamental whiteness on the floor when it gets dry; it breeds dust,

however, and much needless labour. The people who knock this sand and

sell it, have been known over the country side for many years by the

name of "Th' Kitters;" and the common local proverb, "We're o' of a

litter, like Kitter pigs," is used in Smallbridge, as an expression

of friendship or of kinship. As regular as Saturday morning came, the

sand-carts used to come into Rochdale, heavily laden; and I remember

that they were often drawn by horses which, like the steed of the crazy

gentleman of Spain, were "many-cornered;" and, often, afflicted by

some of the more serious ills which horse-flesh is heir to. They have

better horses now, I believe, and they are better used. The train of

attendants which usually accompanied these sand-carts into the town

was of a curious description. Hardy, bull-necked, brown-faced drivers,

generally dressed in strong fustian, which, if heavily plated with

patches in particular quarters, was still mostly whole, but almost

always well mauled, and soiled with the blended stains of sand, and

spilt ale, and bacon fat, with clumsily-stiched rips visible here and

there: the whole being a kind of tapestried chronicle of the wearer's

way of living, his work, his fights, fuddles, and feasts. Then they

were often bare-headed, with their breeches ties flowing loose at

the knees, and the shirt neck wide open, displaying a broad, hairy,

weather-beaten chest; and the jovial-faced, Dutch-built women, too, in

blue lin aprons, blue woollen bedgowns, and clinkered shoon; and with

round, wooden, peck and half-peck measures tucked under their arms,

ready for "hawpoths" and "pennoths." As the cart went slowly along, the

women went from house to house, on each side of the road, and, laying

one hand upon the door cheek, looked in with the old familiar question,

"Dun yo want ony sond this mornin'?" "Ay; yo may lev a hawputh. Put

it i' this can." When they came to an old customer and acquaintance,

sometimes a short conversation would follow, in a strain such as this:

"Well, an heaw are yo, owd craythur?" "Whaw, aw'm noan as aw should be

by a deeol. Aw can heyt nought, mon, an' aw connut tay my wynt." "Aw

dunnot wonder at tat; yo'n so mich reech abeawt here. If yo'rn up at

th' Smo'bridge, yo'dd'n be fit to heyt yirth-bobs an' scaplins, welly.

Mon, th' wynt's clen up theer, an' there's plenty on't, an' wi can

help irsels to't when we like'n. Wi'n yo come up o' seein' us?" "Eh,

never name it! Aw's ne'er get eawt o' this hole till aw'm carried eawt

th' feet formost!" "Come, wi'n ha' noan o' that mak o' talk! Aw'd as

lief as a keaw-price at yo'dd'n come. Yo'n be welcome to th' best wi

han, an wi'n may yo comfortable beside; an' bring yo deawn again i'th

cart. But ir Jem's gwon forrud wi' th' sond. Let's see; did'n yo gi'

mo th' hawp'ny?... Oh, ay! It'll be reet! Neaw tay care o' yorsel',

and keep yo'r heart eawt o' yo'r clogs!" When the cart came to a rut

or a rise in the road, all hands were summoned to the push, except one

who tugged and thumped at the horse, and another who seized the spokes

of the wheel, and, with set teeth and strained limbs, lent his aid to

the "party of progress" in that way. Sometimes a sturdy skulker would

follow the cart, to help to push, and to serve out sand; but more for

a share of the fun, and the pile of boiled brisket and cheese an'

moufin, stowed away in the cart-box at starting, to be washed down with

"bally-droights" of cold fourpenny at some favourite "co'in-shop" on

the road.

The old custom of distinguishing persons by Christian names alone,

prevails generally in Smallbridge, as in all country parts of

Lancashire, more or less. It sometimes happens, in small country

villages like this, that there are people almost unknown, even among

their own neighbours, by their surnames. Roby gives an instance of this

kind in his "Traditions of Lancashire," where he mentions a woman,

then living in the village of Whitworth, for whom it would be useless

to inquire there by her proper name; but anybody in the village could

have instantly directed you to "Susy o' Yem's o' Fairoff's, at th' top

o' th' Rake," by which name she was intimately known. Individuals are

often met whose surnames have almost dropt into oblivion by disuse, and

who have been principally distinguished through life by the name of

their residence, or some epithet descriptive of a remarkable personal

peculiarity, or some notable incident in their lives. Such names

as the following, which will be recognised in their locality, are

constantly met, and the list of them might be extended to any desirable

degree:--"Tum o' Charles o' Billy's," or "Red Tum," "Bridfuut,"

"Corker," "Owd Fourpenny," "Tum o' Meawlo's," "Rantipow," and "Ab

o' Pinder's," who fought a battle in the middle of the river Roch,

at a great bull-bait in Rochdale, more than thirty years ago; "Bull

Robin," "Jone o' Muzden's," "Owd Moreover," and "Bonny Meawth." This

last reminds me of the report of a young villager, near Smallbridge,

respecting the size of the people's mouths in a neighbouring district.

"Thi'n th' bigg'st meawths i' yon country," said he, "at ever I seed

clapt under a lip! Aw hove one on 'em his yure up, to see if his meawth

went o' reawnd; but he knockt mo into th' slutch." Many of these quaint

names rise in my memory as I write: "Owd Dragon," "Paul o' Bill's,"

"Plunge," "Ben o' Robin's o' Bob's o' th' Bird-stuffers, o' Buersil

Yed," "Collop," "Tolloll," "Pratty Strider," "Lither Dick," and "Reawnt

Legs,"--

Reawnt Legs he wur a cunnin' owd twod,

He made a mule draw a four-horse lwod.

And then there was "Johnny Baa Lamb," a noted character in Rochdale

twelve years ago. He was low in stature, rather stout, and very

knock-knee'd; and his face was one paradise of never-fading

ale-blossoms. Johnny's life was spent in helping about the

slaughter-houses, and roaming from alehouse to alehouse, where, between

his comical appearance, his drunken humour, his imitations of the tones

of sheep, lambs, and other animals, and his old song,--

The mon and the mare,

Flew up in the air,

An' I think I see 'em yet, yet, yet;--

the chorus of which he assisted by clattering a poker on the hearth,

he was a general favourite, and kept himself afloat in ale--the staple

of his ambition--by being the butt of every tap-room, where his memory

remains embarmed. There was "Barfuut Sam," a carter, who never would

wear any foot-gear; "Ab o' Slender's," "Broth," "Steeom," "Scutcher,"

"Peawch," and "Dick-in-a-Minnit." Most of these were as well known as

the church clock. And then there was "Daunt o' Peggy's," "Brunner,"

"Shin 'em," "Ayli o' Joe's o' Bet's o' Owd Bullfuut's," and "Fidler

Bill," who is mentioned in the Lancashire song, "Hopper hop't eawt, an'

Limper limp't in,"--

Then aw went to th' Peel's Arms to taste of their ale;

They sup'n it so fast it never gwos stale!

An' when aw'd set deawn, an' getten a gill,

Who should come in boh Fidler Bill.

He rambles abeawt through boroughs an' teawns,

A' sellin' folk up as boh ow'n a few peawnds;

and then there was "Jone o' Isaac's," the mower; "Peyswad," and

"Bedflock," who sowed blend-spice in his garden for parsley seed; and

"Owd Tet, i' Crook," an amiable and aged country woman, who lived in

a remote corner of the moors, above Smallbridge, and whose intended

husband dying when she was very young, she took it deeply to heart. On

being pressed to accept the hand of a neighbour, who knew her excellent

qualities, she at last consented, assuring him, however, that her

heart was gone, and all that she could promise him was that she could

"spin an' be gradely;" which saying has become a local proverb. In

the forest of Rosendale, I have met with a few names of more curious

structure than even any of the previous ones, such as "Eb o' Peg's

o' Puddin' Jane's," "Bet o' Owd Harry's o' Nathan's at th' Change,"

"Enoch o' Jem's o' Rutchot's up at th' Nook," "Harry o' Mon John's,"

"Ormerod o' Jem's o' Bob's," and "Henry o' Ann's o' Harry's o' Milley's

o' Ruchots o' John's o' Dick's, through th' ginnel, an' up th' steps,

an' o'er Joseph's o' John's o' Steen's," which rather extraordinary

cognomen was given to me by a gentleman, living near Newchurch, as

authentic, and well known in a neighbouring dale. In a village near

Bolton, there was, a few years since, a letter-carrier who had so long

been known by a nickname, that he had almost forgotten his proper name.

By an uncommon chance, however, he once received a letter directed to

himself, but not remembering the owner, or anybody of that name, he

carried the letter in his pocket for several days, till he happened to

meet with a shrewd old villager, whom his neighbours looked upon as

"larn't up," and able to explain everything--from ale, bull-dogs, and

politics, to the geography of the moon and the mysteries of theology.

The postman showed his letter to this Delphic villager, inquiring

whether he knew anybody of that name. The old man looked an instant,

then, giving the other a thump, he said, "Thea foo', it's thisel'!" I

have heard of many an instance, in different parts of Lancashire, where

some generic "John Smith," after being sought for in vain for a while,

has been at last discovered concealed under some such guise as "Iron

Jack," "Plunge," "Nukkin," or "Bumper." I remember an old religious

student, in Rochdale, who used to take considerable pains in drilling

poor lads into a knowledge of the Holy Scriptures. The early part of

the Bible was his favourite theme; and he interlarded his conversation

with it to such a degree, that he won for himself the distinguished

title of "Th' Five Books o' Moses."

In Collier's tale of "Tummus and Meary," he illustrates the personal

nomenclature of these parts, in his own time, by the following passage,

which, though it may appear strange in the eyes of people dwelling in

the great cities of the south of England, yet does not exaggerate the

custom at present prevailing in the remoter parts of the county of

Lancaster:--

_Meary._ True, Tummus; no marvel at o' wur so flayed; it wur so

fearfo dark.

_Tummus._ Heawe'er, aw resolv't mayth best on't, an up speek

aw.--"Woooas tat?" A lad's voyce answer't in a cryin' din, "Eh,

law; dunnah tay meh." "Naw," said aw, "aw'll na tay tho, belady!

Whooaslad art to?" "Whau," said he, "aw'm Jone o' Lall's o'

Simmy's, o'Mariom's o' Dick's o' Nathan's, o' Lall's, o' Simmy's

i'th Hooms: an' aw'm gooin' whoam." "Odd," thinks aw t' mysel',

"theaw's a dree-er name ti'n me." An' here, Meary, aw couldn't

boh think what lung names some on us han; for thine and mine are

meeterly; boh this lad's wur so mich dree-er, 'at aw thowt it

dockt mine tone hawve.

_Meary._ Preo, na; tell meh ha these lung names leet'n.

_Tummus._ Um--m; lemme see. Aw conno tell tho greadly; boh aw

think it's to tell folk by.

_Meary._ Well, an' hea did'n he go on with him?

_Tummus._ Then (as aw thowt he talkt so awkertly) aw'd ash him,

for th' wonst, what uncuths he yerd sturrin'. "Aw yer noan," said

he, "but 'at Jack o' Ned's towd mo, 'at Sam o' Jack's o' Yed's

Marler has wed Mall o' Nan's o' Sal's o' Peg's, 'at gos abeawt o'

beggin' churn milk, with a pitcher, with a lid on." Then aw asht

him wheer Jack o' Ned's wooant. Says he, "He's 'prentice weh Isaac

o' Tim's o' Nick's o'th Hough-lone, an' he'd bin at Jammy's o'

George's o' Peter's i'th Dingles, for hawve a peawnd o' traycle,

to seaws'n a beest-puddin' weh; an' his feyther an' moother wooan

at Rossenda; boh his gronny's alive, an' wooans weh his noant

Margery, eh Grinfilt, at pleck wheer his noan moother coom fro'."

"Good lad," says aw, "boh heaw far's tis _Littlebrough_ off, for

aw aim't see it to-neet iv he con hit." Says t' lad, "It's abeawt

a mile; an' yo mun keep straight forrud o' yor lift hont, an yoan

happen do." So a-this'n we parted; boh aw mawkint, an' lost my

gate again, snap.

A curious instance of the prevalence of nicknames in this district

occurred, a few years since, about a mile from Smallbridge. A country

lass had got married out of a certain fold in that part, and going

down to Rochdale soon after, a female acquaintance said to her, "Whau,

Sally, thea's getten wed, hasn't to?" "Yigh," said Sally, "aw have."

"Well, an' what's te felly code?" replied the other. "Whau," said

Sally, "some folk co's him 'Jone o' Nancy's lad, at th' Pleawm Heawse;'

but his gradely name's 'Clog Bant.'" We sometimes hear of a son who

bears the same christian name as his father, as "Jamie o' James's," and

"Sol ov Owd Sol's o' th' Hout Broo;" and I have often heard a witless

nursery rhyme, which runs,--

Owd Tum an' yung Tum,

An' Owd Tum's son;

Yung Tum'll be a Tum

When Owd Tum's done;

but the poor people of Lancashire sometimes have a superstitious fear

of giving the son the same christian name as the father.

The ancient rural festival of "Rushbearing," in the month of August,

used to make a great stir in Smallbridge; but the observance of it

seems to decline, or, at least, assumes a soberer form. A great number

of local proverbs, and quaint sayings, are continually being thrown

up by the population there, which, in spite of their rude garb, show,

like nuggets of mental gold, what undeveloped riches lie hidden in the

human mind, even in Smallbridge. The people are wonderfully apt at the

discernment and at the delineation of character. It is very common for

them to utter graphic sentences like the following:--"He's one o'

thoose at'll lend onybody a shillin', iv they'n give him fourteen-pence

to stick to." One of them said, on receiving a present of game from

his son in Yorkshire, "It isn't oft at th' kittlin' brings th' owd

cat a meawse, but it has done this time." There are two or three out

of a whole troop of anecdotes, told of the natives of this quarter,

which have the air of nature about them sufficiently to indicate what

some of the characteristics of these villagers were in past years. Two

young men were slowly taking their road, late one night, out at the

town end, after the fair, when one of them lingering behind the other,

his comrade shouted to him to "Come on!" "Stop an' rosin," said the

loiterer, "aw hannut foughten yet!" "Well," replied the other, with

cool indifference, "Get foughten, an' let's go whoam?" In the Rev. W.

Gaskell's lectures on the Lancashire dialect, he says, "The following

dialogue is reported to have taken place between two individuals

on meeting:--'Han yo bin to Bowton?' 'Yigh.' 'Han yo foughten?'

'Yigh.' 'Han yo lickt'n?' 'Yigh; an' aw browten a bit'n him whoam i'

my pocket!'" "Owd Bun" was a collier, and a comical country blade,

dwelling near Smallbridge. He was illiterate, and rough as a hedgehog.

Bun had often heard of cucumbers, but had never tasted one. Out of

curiosity he bought a large one, curved like a scimitar; and, reckless

of all culinary guidance, he cut it into slices lengthwise, and then

fried the cold green slabs, all together, in bacon fat. He ate his fill

of them, too; for nothing which mortal stomach would hold came amiss to

Bun. When he had finished, and wiped the grease from his mouth with the

back of his hand, he said, "By th' mon, fine folk'll heyt aught! Aw'd

sanur ha' had a potito!" They tell a tale, too, of the difficulties of

a poor factory lass who had been newly married; which is not without

its hints. Her husband told her to boil him some eggs, and to "boyle

'em soft." He went out awhile, and on his return, they were boiling,

but not ready. He waited long, and then shouted, "Are thoose eggs noan

ready yet?" "Naw," said she, "they are nut; for, sitho, aw've boyled

'em aboon an heawur, an' they're no softer yet." Now he did not care

much for this; but when he saw her take the child's nightcap off its

head to boil his dumpling in, he declared that "he couldn't ston it."

Leaving Smallbridge, we rattled out at the end of the village, past

the Red Lion, and up to the top of the slope, where, after a run of

about two hundred yards, we descended into the hollow where the sign of

the old "Green Gate" stands. In the season of the year, people passing

that way in a morning will often see the door-way crowded with hunting

dogs, and a rout of sturdy rabble, waiting to follow the chase, afoot,

through the neighbouring hills. Rising again immediately, we crossed

another knoll, and down again we came to the foot of the brow, where

four roads meet, close by the "Green Mon Inn," opposite to the deserted

hamlet of Wuerdale, which perches, with distressed look, upon a little

ridge near the roadside, like an old beggar craving charity. On we

went, enjoying the romantic variety of the scene, as the green ups and

downs of the valley opened out to view, with its scattered farms and

mills, all clipt in by the hills, which began to cluster near.

About half a mile further on, where the road begins to slant suddenly

towards Featherstall, Stubley Hall stands, not more than twenty yards

from the roadside. A much older hall than the present one must have

stood here prior to the 13th century, for in 1322, and 1323, mention is

made of Nicholas and John de Stubley (His. Whalley). It subsequently

came into the possession of the Holt family, of Grislehurst and

Castleton; a branch of the Holts, of Sale, Ashton, Cheshire. Some of

this family fought in the Scottish wars, and also, in favour of the

royal cause, at Edgehill, Newbury, Marston Moor, &c., and were named

in Charles's projected order of the Royal Oak. There was a Judge Holt,

of the Holts of Sale; and a James Holt, whose mother was co-heiress to

Sir James de Sutton; he was killed on Flodden Field. Mary, the daughter

of James Holt, the last of the family who resided at Castleton, in

this parish, married Samuel, brother of the famous Humphrey Cheetham.

The Castleton estate came into Humphrey's hands in 1744. The manor of

Spotland was granted by Henry VIII. to Thomas Holt, who was knighted

in Scotland by Edward, Earl of Hertford, in the thirty-sixth year of

the reign of that king. The Holts were the principal landowners in the

parish of Rochdale at the close of the sixteenth century. John Holt

held the manor of Spotland, with its appurtenances; also fourscore

messuages, three mills, one thousand acres of inclosed land, three

hundred acres of meadow, one thousand acres of pasture, and forty acres

of woods, in Hundersfield, Spotland, and Butterworth; besides a claim

to hold of his majesty, as of his duchy of Lancaster, one third of the

manor of Rochdale. The arms of the Holts are described as "Argent on a

band engrailed sable, three fleur-de-lys of the first. Crest, a spear

head proper. Motto, 'Ut sanem vulnera.'" The present hall at Stubley

was built by Robert Holt, about the year 1528. Dr. Whittaker notices

this house, which is of considerable size, forming three sides of a

square. It is now inhabited by several families; and much of the rich

old carved oak, and other relics of its former importance, have been

removed from the interior.

From the top of the slope near Stubley, we now saw the spire of

Litteborough church, and the village itself, prettily situated at the

head of the vale, and close to the foot of the hills which divide

Lancashire and Yorkshire. On the top of Blackstone, and about half a

mile to the south of "Joe Faulkner's,"--the well-known old sheltering

spot for travellers over that bleak region,--we could now more

distinctly see the streak of green which marks the line of the Roman

road till it disappears from the summit of the Edge.

Featherstall is a little hamlet of comfortable cottages at the bottom

of the brow in the high road near Stubley Hall, warmed by the "Rising

Sun," and another, an old-fashioned public-house, apparently as old

as the present Stubley Hall. The inhabitants are principally employed

at the mills and collieries in the neighbourhood. The open space in

the centre of the village is generally strewn with scattered hay,

and the lights from the public-houses gleam forth into the watering

troughs in front, as the traveller goes through at night. A rough old

road leads out of the centre of the place, northward, over Calder Moor

and the hills, towards Todmorden. From Featherstall, the approach to

Litteborough is lined with mills, meadows, and tenter-fields, on the

north side; and on the south, two or three green fields divide the

highway from the railway, and a few yards on the other side of the

railway the line of the Rochdale canal runs parallel with both. And

thus these three roads run nearly close together past Litteborough, and

all through the vale of Todmorden, up to Sowerby Bridge, a distance

of twelve miles; and, for a considerable part of the way, the river

forms a fourth companion to the three roads, the four together filling

the entire bottom of the valley in some places; and, in addition to

that, may be seen, in other parts, the old pack-horse roads leading

down from the moorland steeps into the hollow. Carts, boats, railway

trains, and sometimes pack-horses, seem to comment upon one another as

they pass and re-pass, and form a continual and palpable lecture on

modes of transit, such as is not often met with in such distinct shape.

Littleborough consists, principally, of one irregular street, winding

over a slight elevation, and down to its centre near the railway

station, at the water-side, and thence across the bridge, up towards

Blackstone Edge. It is a substantial, healthy-looking village, prettily

situated in a romantic spot. There are many poor working people in

the village, but there is hardly anything like dirt or squalor to be

seen there, except, perhaps, a little of that migratory kind which is

unavoidable in all great thoroughfares, and which remains here for a

night, on its way, at a roadside receptacle which I noticed at the

western end of the village, where I saw on a little board certain

ominous hieroglyphics about "Loggins for travlurs." The lands in the

valley round Littleborough have the appearance of fine meadow and

pasture; and, taken with the still better cultivated grounds, and

woods and gardens, about the mansions of the opulent people of the

neighbourhood, the whole looks beautifully verdant, compared with the

bleak hills which overlook the vale. The old Royal Oak Inn, in the

middle of the village, is pointed out as a house which John Collier

used to frequent, when he visited the neighbourhood, and where he fixed

the scene of Tummus's misadventure in the inn, where he so unadvisedly

"Eet like a Yorsharmon, and clear't th' stoo," after he had been to the

justice with his dog, "Nip," and where the encounter took place between

"Mezzilt Face" and "Wythen Kibbo:"--