Aw went in, an fund at two fat throddy folk wooant theer; an

theyd'n some o'th warst fratchingst company at e'er eh saigh; for

they'rn warrying, banning, and co'in one another "leawsy eawls,"

as thick as leet, Heawe'er, aw poo'd a cricket, an keawr't meh

deawn i'th nook, o' side o'th hob. Aw'd no soyner done so, boh

a feaw, seawer-lookt felley, with a wythen kibbo he had in his

hont, slapt a sort ov a wither, mezzilt-face't mon, sich a thwang

o'th skawp, at he varry reecht again with it, an deawn he coom

o'th harstone, an his heeod i'th esshole. His scrunt wig feel

off, an ahontle o' whot corks feel into't, an brunt an frizzlt it

so, at when he awst don it, an unlucky carron gen it a poo, an it

slipt o'er his sow, an it lee like a howmbark on his shilders. Aw

glendurt like a stickt tup, for fear ov a dust mysel', an crope

fur into th' chimbley. Oytch body thowt at mezzil-face would mey

a flittin on't, an dee in a crack; so some on um cried eawt, "a

doctor, a doctor," whol others made'n th' londlort go saddle th'

tit to fotch one. While this wur eh doin', some on um had leet ov

a kin ov a doctor at wooant a bit off, an shew'd him th' mon o'th

harstone. He laid howd on his arm--to feel his pulse, a geawse--an

poo'd as if he'd sin deeoth poo'in' at th' tother arm, an wur

resolv't o'er-poo him. After lookin' dawkinly-wise a bit, he geet

fro his whirly booans, an said to um aw, "Whol his heart bhyet

and his blood sarkilates there's hopes, boh whon that stops, it's

whoo-up with him i'faith." Mezzil-face hearin summot o' "whoo-up,"

started to his feet, flote noan, boh gran like a foomart-dog,

an seet at t' black, swarffy tyke weh bwoth neaves, an wawtud

him o'er into th' galker, full o' new drink, wortchin'. He begun

o' pawsin' an peylin him into't so, at aw wur blendud together,

snap. 'Sflesh, Meary; theaw'd ha' weet teh, to sin heaw th' gobbin

wur awtert, when at tey pood'n him eawt; an what a hobthurst he

look't weh aw that berm abeawt him. He kept dryin' his een, boh

he moot as weel ha' sowt um in his hinder-end, till th' londlady

had made an heawer's labber on um at th' pump. When he coom in

again, he glooart awvishly at mezzil-face, an mezzil-face glendurt

as wrythenly at him again; boh noather warrit, nor thrap. So they

seet um deawn, an then th' londlady coom in, an would mey um't pay

for th' lumber at tey'd done hur. "Mey drink's war be a creawn,"

said hoo, "beside, there's two tumblers, three quiftin pots, an

four pipes masht, an a whol papper o' bacco shed." This made um t'

glendur at tone tother again; boh black tyke's passion wur coolt

at th' pump, an th' wythen kibbo had quite'nt tother, so at teh

camm'd little or noan--boh agreed t' pay, aw meeon; then seet'n um

deawn, an wur friends again in a snift.

This house used to be a great resort on Saturday nights, and fair days,

and holidays, and it was often crammed with the villagers and their

neighbours from the surrounding hill-sides; and no small addition from

Rochdale and Todmorden. The windows were generally thrown open at such

times; and, standing at some distance from the place, one might perhaps

be able, in some degree, to sort the roar of wassailry going on inside.

But if he wished to know what were the component parts of the wild

medley of melodies, all gushing out from the house in one tremendous

discord, he would have to draw under the windows, where he might hear:--

Our hounds they were staunch, and our horses were good

As ever broke cover, or dashed in a wood;

Tally-ho! hark forward, huzza; tally-ho!

Whilst, in another corner of the same room, a knot of strong-lunged

roysterers joined, at the top of their voices, in the following chorus,

beating time to it with fists and feet, and anything else which was

heavy and handy:--

"Then heigho, heigho!

Sing heigho," cried he;

"Does my wife's first husband remember me?"

Fal de ral, de ral, de ral, de rido!

In another room he would probably hear "Boyne Water" trolled out in a

loud voice:--

The horse were the first that ventured o'er;

The foot soon followed after:

But brave Duke Schomberg was no more,

At the crossing o' Boyne water.

Whilst another musical tippler, in an opposite corner, sang, for his

own special amusement, the following quaint fragment:--

Owd shoon an' stockin's!

An' slippers at's made o' red leather!

In another quarter you might hear the fiddle playing the animated

strains of the "Liverpool Hornpipe," or "The Devil rove his Shurt,"

while a lot of hearty youngsters, in wooden clogs, battered the

hearthstone to the tune. In a large room above, the lights flared in

the wind, as the lads and lasses flitted to and fro in the "Haymaker,"

"Sir Roger de Coverley," or "The Triumph;" or threaded through a reel,

and set till the whole house shook; whilst from other parts of the

place you would be sure to hear, louder than all else, the clatter

of pots, and hunting-cries; the thundering hurly-burly of drunken

anger, or the crash of furniture, mingling with the boisterous tones

of drunken fun. Whoever entered this house at such a time, in the hope

of finding a quiet corner, where he could be still, and look round

upon the curious mixture of quaint, rough character, would very likely

find that he had planted himself in the retreat chosen by a drunken,

maudlin fellow, who, with one eye closed, sat uttering, by fits, noisy

salutations of affection to the pitcher of ale before him; or, with

one leg over the other, his arms folded, and his head veering lazily

with drunken langour, first to one side, and then to the other, poured

forth a stream of unconnected jargon, in this style:--"Nea then; yollo

chops! What's to do wi' thee? Arto findin' things eawt? Whether wilto

have a pipe o' bacco or a bat o' th' ribs? Aw've summat i'th inside o'

my box; but it looks like a brunt ratton, bi Guy! Help thysel', an' poo

up, whol aw hearken tho thi catechism.... Con te tell me what natur

belungs to?--that's the poynt! Come, oppen eawt! Aw'm ready for tho....

An' if thea's nought to say, turn thi yed; aw dunnut like to be stare't

at wi' a bigger foo nor mysel'.... Sup; an' gi' me houd!... There's a

lot o' nice, level lads i' this cote, isn't there?... Aw'll tell tho

what, owd dog; th' world swarms wi' foos, donn'd i' o' maks o' clooas;

an' aw deawt it olez will do; for, as fast as th' owd uns dee'n off,

there's fresh uns comes. An, by th' mass, th' latter lot dunnut mend

thoose at's gwon; for o' at te're brawsen wi' wit. It'd mend it a bit

iv oytch body'd wortch for their livin', an' do as they should'n do.

Ay; thea may look as fause as to likes; but thae'rt one o'th rook; an'

thae'll dee in a bit, as sure as thae'rt livin', owd craytur. Thae'rt

to white abeawt th' ear-roots to carry a gray toppin whoam, aw deawt.

Gray yure's heavy, mon; it brings 'em o' to th' floor. But thir't to

leet for heavy wark, my lad.... Behave thysel'; an' fill thi bally when

tho's a choance, for thea looks clemmed. Arto leet gi'n? 'Cose, i' tho

art, thae'd betthur awter, or elze thea'll be lyin' o' thi back between

two bworts, wi' thi meawth full o' sond; afore th' hawve o' thi time's

up.... Sitho at yon bletherin', keaw-lipped slotch, wi' th' quart in

his hond! He's a breet-lookin' brid, isn't he? Aw dar say thae thinks

thysel' bwoth hon'somer an' fauser nor him. Thae may think so, but--aw

know. Thae'rt no betthur nor porritch--i'tho're look't up; for o' at

to's sich a pratty waiscut on. What breed arto? There's summat i' that.

But, it meeons nought; yo're o' alike at th' bothom! There's ir Jammy;

he's as big a wastril as ever stare't up a lone. He ax't me to lend him

ov er lads, yesterday. 'Lend te a lad o' mine,' aw said, 'naw, bi' th'

heart! Aw wouldn't lend te a dog to catch a ratton wi'!... Hello! my

ale's done!

'Then he doffed his shoon,

An he look't i'th o'n.'

Aw'll go toaurd ir Mally, aw think. Hey, Blossom! Beauty! Beawncer!

Bluebell! For shame o' thysel', Bluebell! By, dogs; by! Yo-ho! Come

back, yo thieves! Come back; aw tell yo!" And so on, for hours together.

Littleborough is the last village the traveller leaves on the

Lancashire side of the "Edge;" and the old high road from Manchester

to Leeds passes over the top of these moorland hills, gently

ascending all the way from Littleborough, by a circuitous route, to

the summit--nearly three miles. A substantial hostelrie stands upon

the brow of the hill, called "The White House," and sometimes "Joe

Faulkner's," from the name of an eccentric landlord who kept the house

in the old coaching time. This house can be seen from the valleys on

the Lancashire side for many miles. It was a celebrated baiting-place

for the great stream of travellers which went over these hills, before

the railway drew it through the vale of Todmorden. The division stone

of the counties of York and Lancaster stands about half a mile beyond

this old inn. Littleborough itself is prettily situated in the hollow

of the valley, at the foot of this wild range of mountains, and at the

entrance of the Todmorden valley. It is surrounded by scenery which is

often highly picturesque. Dark moorlands, lofty and lonesome; woody

cloughs; and green valleys, full of busy life; with picturesque lakes,

and little streams which tumble from the hills. The village has many

advantages of situation, both for pleasure and manufacture. Stone

and coal, and good water, are abundant all around it; and it is fast

thriving by the increase of woollen and cotton manufacture. It is still

a great thoroughfare for Lancashire and Yorkshire; and a favourite

resort for botanists, geologists, sportsmen, and, not unfrequently,

invalids. Northward from the village, there are many romantic cloughs,

but, perhaps, the finest of these is the one called "Long Clough,"

at the head of which is a remarkably fine spring, called "Blue Pots

Spring." The artificial lake of "Hollingworth" is about half a mile

from the village, on the south side; and there is a beautiful walk

leading up to its bank, through the shady clough called "Cleggswood."

This lake, when full, is three miles round. It supplies the Rochdale

canal, and is well stocked with fish. Its elevation places it far above

the bustle of the valley below, where the highways and byeways, the

iron-ways and water-ways, interweaving thickly about the scene, are

alive with the traffic of the district. The valley is throng with the

river, the railway, the canal, and excellent high roads; and a hardy

and industrious population, which finds abundant employment at the

woollen and cotton mills, in the coal mines and stone delphs, or on the

dairy and sheep farms of this border region of South Lancashire. The

shelvy banks of "Hollingworth" consist of irregular tiers and slopes of

pasture, meadow, and moor lands. The latter are, in some directions,

abrupt, lofty, and vast, especially on the eastern side, where the

sterile mass of Blackstone Edge shuts out the view; whilst a wild

brotherhood of heathery hills, belonging to the same range, wind about

the scene in a semicircle, which stretches far away, out of sight, in

the north-west. But the landscape upon the immediate borders of the

lake is of a rural and serene character, though touched here and there

with moorland sterility; and there is hardly a thing in sight to remind

a spectator that he is surrounded by the most populous manufacturing

district in the world. But the distant rumble of train after train,

thundering through the neighbouring valley, and the railway whistle,

rising up clear over the green hill north of the water, are sufficient

to dispel any reverie which the sight of the lake and its surrounding

scenery may lead to. On holidays, in summer time, the green country

around the margin of this water is animated by companies of visitors

from the hill sides, and the villages and towns of the neighbouring

valleys. A little steamer plies upon it; and boats may be hired at

the Fisherman's Inn, and other places around the banks. The scattered

farm-houses of the vicinity, and the two or three country inns on the

borders of the lake, are merry with pleasure parties. In winter, the

landscape about "Hollingworth" is wild and lonesome; and the water is

sometimes so completely frozen over that a horse and light vehicle may

be driven across it, from bank to bank, a mile's distance. It is a

favourite resort of skaters, from the surrounding districts; though

the ice is often dangerously uneven in some places, by reason of

strong springs, and other causes. Many accidents have happened through

skating upon insecure parts in the ice of this water. Going home late

one night in the depth of winter, to my residence by the side of this

lake, I found the midnight scene dimly illumined in the distance by

a gleam of lights upon the lake; and the sound of pick-axes breaking

up the ice, fell with a startling significance upon the ear. Our dog,

"Captain," did not come out to meet me, when I whistled, as usual; and

I hurried, by a short cut over the fields and through the wood, towards

the spot where the lights were visible. There I found a company of

farmers and weavers, standing upon the bank, with one or two of the

wealthy employers from the village of Littleborough, who had drags in

their hands, and were giving directions to a number of workmen who

were breaking a channel for the passage of a boat to a spot where the

ice had broken in with the weight of three young men belonging to

the neighbourhood. This melancholy midnight gathering were working

by lantern-light, to recover the bodies from the water. I remained

upon the spot until two of the corpses were brought to the bank, and

removed in a cart to the farm-house where I resided, previous to being

conveyed to their homes in the distant town, later on in the morning,

and while it was yet dark. I shall never forget the appearance of those

fresh-looking youths, as they lay stretched side by side, in their

skating gear, upon a table, in the long passage which led up to my

bed-chamber.

The margin of the lake is adorned with patches of wood in some places;

and the hills stand around the scene in picturesque disorder. At

certain seasons of the year, flocks of wild fowl may be seen resting

upon its waters. There are other lakes farther up in the hills; but the

position and beauty of Hollingworth make it a favourite with visitors

to the district.

When westling winds and slaughtering guns

Bring autumn's pleasant weather,

the Littleborough inns are throng with sportsmen, equipped for the

grouse shooting; for which sport the moors of the neighbourhood are

famous. Littleborough has a modern look from the railway station, near

to which the new church stands, on a slight elevation, about the

centre of the place, and upon the site of the old one. Yet, though the

village has a modern appearance, everything known of its history shows

that it is a settlement of considerable antiquity; perhaps, as early as

the time of Agricola, the Roman.

The old chapel at Littleborough, which was a primitive building in

appearance, was licensed for mass, by the Abbot of Whalley, A.D.

1476. It remained in its original architectural state until it became

dangerously ruinous in some parts, and was taken down about thirty

years ago, to make way for the present church. The _Gentleman's

Magazine_, for 1844, p. 182, contains an interesting description of the

new church.

In the immediate vicinity of Littleborough, there are several

interesting old houses, now standing upon sites where families of

importance in past times settled very early. Some of these families

have become extinct in the male line; the property of others has

changed hands, like Scholefield Hall, Stubley Hall, Lightowlers,

and Windy Bank. Few of these old families have held together and

flourished, through the mutations of time, like the family of Newall,

of Town House, near Littleborough, respecting which I find the

following passage in the _Gentleman's Magazine_, June, 1844, p. 593,

which serves to elucidate the character and position of a large portion

of the ancient landlords of the parish of Rochdale:--

The family of Newall is one of those ancient families who have

for centuries resided on their parental estate, but in the

retirement of respectable life holding the rank of yeomanry,

which, in former times, and particularly in the age when the

Newalls first settled in Lancashire, formed no unimportant portion

of society--sufficiently elevated beyond the humbler classes to

preserve a tolerable degree of influence and authority amongst

them; while they were sheltered in their retirement from those

political storms which distracted the higher circles of the

community, and which led to the ruin of many of the best families

of the kingdom, and to the confiscation of their estates.

Burke's _Visitation of Seats and Arms_ contains a long account of the

Newalls, of Town House, Hare Hill, and Wellington Lodge, Littleborough,

an influential family in this neighbourhood during several centuries

past; and still owners and occupiers of their old estates, as well as

extensive woollen manufacturers.

The following arms, illustrative of the connections of the Newall

family, are placed, with others, in the window of Littleborough

chapel:--

KYRKESHAGH, of Town House: Or, on a chief per pale gules and sable

three bezants.

LITHOLRES, of Litholres: Vert, a lion rampant, or semé of

calthraps sable.

NEWALL, of Town House: Quarterly, first and fourth, Per pale gules

and azure, three covered cups within an orle or: second, Kyrshagh:

third, Healey, Gules, four lozenges engrailed in bend ermine:

fourth, Butterworth, Argent, a lion couchant azure, between four

ducal coronets gules.

BUCKLEY, of Howarth Parva: a chevron between three bulls' heads

caboshed argent; quartering Butterworth. (The Chadwicks of Healey

quarter Buckley of Buckley. Goll. Arm.)

HOLT, of Stubley: Argent on a bend engrailed sable three

fleurs-de-lis of the field. (Also quartered by the Chadwicks.

Coll. Arm.)

BELFIELD, of Cleggswood: Ermine, on a chief qu. a label of five

points ar.

Ten other shields contain the arms of the ancient families of the

district, as Bamford of Shore, Ingham of Cleggswood, Halliwell of Pike

House, &c., and those used by the bishop of the diocese, the clergy

connected with the parish, and some of the gentry of the neighbourhood.

As we left Littleborough, I began, once more, to speculate upon

the claims set up for it as having been a Roman station; but my

thoughts had no firmer footing than the probabilities put forth by

Dr. Whittaker, and some other writers, who have, perhaps, followed

him. Yet, the fact that the silver arm of a small Roman statue of

Victory, with an inscription thereon, was dug up in the neighbourhood

some time ago, together with the direction of the Roman road as

marked in the late ordnance map, and the visible remains of a small,

triangular-shaped entrenchment, on each side of the road, on the summit

of Blackstone Edge, seem to support the probabilities which gave rise

to the opinion, and may yet enable the antiquarians of Lancashire to

give us something more certain about the matter than I can pretend to.

Passing under the railway arch near the church, and leaving the woody

glen of Cleggswood on the right hand, we began to ascend the hills by

the winding road which crosses the canal, and leads through a little

hamlet called "Th' Durn," consisting of an old substantial house or

two by the roadside, and a compact body of plain cottages, with a

foundry in the middle. "Th' Durn" is situated on one of the shelves

of land which the high road crosses in the ascent of Blackstone Edge;

and overlooks the vale in the direction of Todmorden. It is shaded

on the south by a steep hill, clothed with fir, and stunted oaks.

Over that hill-top, on the summit of a wild eminence, above the din

and travel of mankind, stand three remarkable old folds, called "Th'

Whittaker," "Th' Turner," and "Th' Sheep Bonk," like eagles' nests,

overlooking, on the east, the heathery solitudes lying between there

and Blackstone Edge, the silent domain of moor fowl and black-faced

sheep; seldom trodden by human feet, except those of a wandering

gamekeeper, or a few sportsmen, in August. Looking forth from this

natural observatory, about where "Th' Whittaker" stands, the view to

westward takes in an extensive landscape. The vale of the Roch is under

the eye in that direction, with its pretty sinuosities, its receding

dells, and indescribable varieties of undulation; nearly surrounded by

hills, of different height and aspect. Distance lends some "enchantment

to the view," as the eye wanders over the array of nature spread out

below--green dells, waving patches of wood, broad, pleasant pastures;

the clear lake of "Hollingworth" rippling below; old farm-houses,

scattered about the knolls and cloughs, by the side of brooklets that

shine silverly in the distance; the blue smoke curling up distinctly

from each little hamlet and village; mills, collieries, tenter-fields,

and manifold evidences of the native industry and manufacturing vigour

of the district. In these valleys, all nature seems to yield tribute

to the energy of the inhabitants, and rural life and manufacture work

into each other's hands with advantage. Standing on this spot, with

these things spread out before me, I have been struck with the belief,

that this unfavourable region for agriculture would not have been so

well cultivated even as it is now, but for the manufacturing system.

Far west, the eye rests upon the town of Rochdale, with its clusters

of chimneys, and hovering canopy of smoke; the small square tower of

its old church, and the steeples of St. Stephen's and St. James's, with

the town-clad ridges of Wardleworth and Castleton, clearly seen, if

the day be fine. On a still Sunday afternoon, in summer time, I have

sat upon the hill-top at "Whittaker," listening to the distant sound

of Rochdale bells, that notable peal of eight, the music of which I

shall never forget; and which I would back for a trifle against any

bells in England for sweetness. And, at such a time, as evening came

on, when "lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea," I have almost fancied

that I could hear the Sunday chime of Rochdale Old Church, "My soul,

praise the Lord," come floating up the vale, in the twilight, with

a wonderful charm of peace and solemnity in the sound. Immediately

above "Th' Durn," the high road leading up to Blackstone Edge rises

again as we pass by the old public-house called "Th' Wet Rake," or

"Weet Rake." This house stands at the foot of a steep path leading to

"Windy Bank," an old stone hall, once inhabited by an ancient family

of the neighbourhood. Windy Bank stands upon the edge of a rocky

eminence, rising almost perpendicularly from the road-side by which we

had to go. There used to be a carter in Rochdale, known by the name

of "Old Woggy," who upset his cart in the craggy road called "Windy

Bonk Steele." He returned to his master in the town with the tidings.

"Woggy" always stammered in his speech, but in this case he was worse

than usual; and his looks told more than his tongue. His master watched

in vain for "Woggy's" painful delivery, in the usual way; but tired at

last, he said, "Sing it, mon!" when "Wog" immediately sang out, with a

fluent voice,--

Aw've wauted wi' th' cart at th' Wyndy Bonk Steele,

An' aw've broken th' tone wheel.

As we wound round the foot of the rock on the top of which "Windy Bank"

stands, we found the road rutty and uneven, being covered with the

perishable sandstone from the hill, broken up and ploughed into slushy

gutters, by stone-waggons from the quarries, thereabouts. Pike House,

the seat of the old local family of Halliwell--one of whom endowed

the Free School at Littleborough--stands near the north side of the

road here; and, at a short distance behind, there is an interesting

house, formerly of some importance, with a quaint fold attached, called

"Lightowlers." Driving on close by the edge of the deep clough called

"Sladen Hollow," a hundred yards more brought us to the "Moor Cock

Inn," formerly a much more lively place than now, when this mountain

road was the great thoroughfare between Lancashire and Yorkshire.

The "Moor Cock" was the last house but one on the Lancashire side of

Blackstone Edge. The house has a rude, wholesome look still, but is

little frequented. Few folk go up that road now, except stone-getters,

sand-knockers, shepherds, sportsmen, and a few curious wanderers. We

agreed to leave the drag at the "Moor Cock," and walk up Blackstone

Edge on foot. "Gray Bobby" was pleased with the prospect of a feed and

a rest; for it is tough work upon these hill-sides. He seemed to look

round with a thoughtful eye, and pricked his ears to the tread of the

brisk young mountaineer--albeit he had a lame leg and a crutch--who

came forth to lose his traces and lead him to the stable. As "Bobby"

looked at the stable, I could almost imagine him saying to himself,

"There's no place like home;" it looked so rough. In the house we found

a few hardy-looking men; brown-faced, broad-shouldered moor farmers

or shepherds, apparently, who did a little weaving. Their sagacious

dogs lounged about the floor. Such men, in such places, generally

receive strangers as if they were "fain to see aught at's wick." They

happened to have a liberal newspaper among them, and free trade was the

topic of their talk; as it was almost everywhere at that time. Their

conversation showed, by its sensible earnestness, that there were men,

even up there, who knew who paid for the great protection delusion.

I have often been amused by the blunt, shrewd discourse of country

people in the manufacturing districts, respecting the difference in the

condition and feelings of the people in the reigns of "George o' owd

George's," and his brother, "Bill o' George's," and the condition of

the people now, in the reign of the "little woman at coom a-seein' us

latly." In previous reigns, the tone of their loyalty might have been

summed up in what "Jone o' Greenfelt" says of his wife, "Margit:"--

Hoo's naut ogen th' king,

But hoo likes a fair thing,

An' hoo says hoo con tell when hoo's hurt.

I have heard them talk of kings, and statesmen, "wi' kindling fury i'

their breasts;" and, in their "brews" and clubs, which meet for the

spread of information, they discuss the merits of political men and

measures, and "ferlie at the folk in Lunnon," in a shrewd, trenchant

style, which would astonish some members of the collective wisdom

of the nation, could they but conveniently overhear it. The people

of Lancashire, generally, are industrious collectors of political

information, from such sources as they can command. They possess great

integrity of judgment, and independence of character, and cannot be

long blinded to the difference between wise statesmen and political

knaves. They are an honest and a decent people, and would be governed

by such. They evince some sparks of perception of what is naturally due

to themselves, as well as to their masters; and they only know how to

be loyal to others who are loyal to themselves.

When the lame ostler had attended to his charge, he came into the house

and sat down with the rest. Somehow, the conversation glided in the

direction of Robert Burns, and we were exchanging quotations from his

poems and songs, when one of us came to a halt in reciting a passage.

To our surprise, the young limper who had rubbed down "Grey Bobby,"

took up the broken thread, and finished the lines correctly, with

good discretion, and evident relish. I fancied that we were having it

all to ourselves; but the kind-hearted poet who "mourned the daisy's

fate," had been at the "Moor Cock" before us, and touched a respondent

chord in the heart of our ostler. I forget who it is that says, "It is

the heart which makes the life;" but it is true, and it is the heart

which sings in Robert Burns, and the heart will stir to the sound all

the world over. How many political essays, and lectures, and election

struggles, would it take to produce the humanising effect which the

song, "A man's a man for a' that," has awakened? It would sound well in

the British houses of parliament, sung in chorus, occasionally, between

the speeches.

After resting ourselves about three-quarters of an hour in the Moor

Cock, we started up the hill-side, to a point of the road a little past

the toll-bar and the old oil-mill in the hollow, at the right hand.

Here we struck across the moor, now wading through the heather, now

leaping over ruts and holes, where blocks of stone had been got out;

then squashing through a patch of mossy swamp, and sinking into the wet

turf at every step, till we reached the moss-covered pavement, which

the ordnance surveyors have called a "Roman road." It is entirely out

of any way of travel. A clearly-defined and regular line of road of

about forty feet wide, and which we traced and walked upon up to the

summit of the Edge, and down the Yorkshire side, a distance of nearly

two miles from our starting place upon the track. We could distinguish

it clearly more than a mile beyond the place we stopped at, to a point

where it crossed the road at Ripponden, and over the moor beyond, in

a north-westerly direction, preserving the same general features as

it exhibited in those parts where it was naked to the eye. Here and

there, we met with a hole in the road, where the stones of the pavement

had been taken out and carried away. While we were resting on a bank

at this old road-side, one of the keepers of the moor came up with

his dogs, and begged that we would be careful not to use any lights

whilst upon the moor, for fear of setting fire to the heath, which

was inflammably-dry. I took occasion to ask him what was the name of

the path we were upon. He said he did not know, but he had always

heard it called "Th' Roman Road." At a commanding point, where this

old pavement reaches the edge of "Blackstone," from the Lancashire

side, the rocky borders of the road rise equally and abruptly, in two

slight elevations, opposite each other, upon which we found certain

weather-worn blocks of stone, half buried in the growth of the moor.

There was a similarity in the general appearance, and a certain kind of

order visible, in the arrangement of these remains, which looked not

unlikely to be the relics of some heavy ancient masonry, once standing

upon these elevations; and at the spot which is marked, is the line of

the "Roman Road," in the ordnance maps, as an "Entrenchment."

The view along the summits of the vast moors, from any of the higher

parts of this mountain barrier between the two counties of Lancaster

and York, looks primevally-wild and grand, towards the north and south;

where dark masses of solitude stretch away as far as the eye can see.

In every other direction, the landscape takes in some cultivated land

upon the hill-sides, and the bustle and beauty of many a green vale,

lying low down among these sombre mountains; with many a picturesque

and cultivated dingle, and green ravine, higher up in the hills, in

spots where farm-houses have stood for centuries; sometimes with

quaint groups of cottages gathered round them, and clumps of trees

spreading about, shading the currents of moorland rivulets, as they

leap down from the hills. In the valleys, the river winding through

green meadows; mansions and mills, villages and churches, and scattered

cottages, whose little windows wink cheerfully through their screen of

leaves--

Old farms remote, and far apart, with intervening space Of

black'ning rock, and barren down, and pasture's pleasant face: The

white and winding road, that crept through village, glade, and

glen, And o'er the dreary moorlands, far beyond the homes of men.

Standing upon these proud and rugged desolations, which look down

upon the changeful life of man in the valleys at their feet, with

such an air of strength and serenity, whilst the toiling swarms of

Lancashire and Yorkshire are scattered over the landscape beyond, in

populous hives--the contrast is peculiarly strong; and I have wondered

whether these old hills, which have seen the painted Celt tracking

his prey through the woods and marshes below, and worshipping "in

the eye of light," among wild fanes of rock, upon these mountain

wildernesses--which have heard the tread of the legions of old Rome;

and have watched the brave Saxon, swinging his axe among the forest

trees, and, with patient labour, slowly making these valleys into green

and homely pasturages; and which still behold the iron horses of modern

days, rushing along the valley every hour, snorting fire and steam:

I have wondered whether the hills, at whose feet so many generations

of brave men have come and gone, like swathes of grass, might not yet

again see these native valleys of mine as desolate and stirless as

themselves. These moorland hills, the bleak companions of mist, and

cloud, and tempest, rise up one after another upon the scene, till they

grow dim on the distant edge of the sky. Lying upon my back, among the

heather, I looked along the surface of the moors; and I shall long

remember the peculiar loneliness of the landscape seen in that way.

Nothing was in sight but a wild infinity of moors and mountain tops,

succeeding each other, like heaving waves, of varied form. Not a sign

of life was visible over all the scene, except immediately around us,

where, now and then, a black-faced sheep lifted its head above the

heather, and stared, with a mingled expression of wonder and fear,

at the new intruders upon its solitary pasturage. Occasionally, a

predatory bird might be seen upon these hills, flitting across the lone

expanse--an highwayman of the skies; and, here and there, the moorfowl

sprang up from the cover, in whirring flight, and with that wild

clucking cry, which, in the stillness of the scene, came upon the ears

with a clearness that made the solitude more evident to the senses. A

rude shepherd's hut, too, could be seen sheltering near a cluster of

crags upon the hill-side, and hardly distinguishable from the heathery

mounds, which lay scattered over the surface of the moor. But, in

the distance, all seemed one wilderness of untrodden sterility--as

silent as death. The sky was cloudless whilst we wandered upon those

barren heights: and the blue dome looked down, grandly-calm, upon the

landscape, which was covered with a glorious sunshine.

No stir of air was there;

Not so much life as on a summer day

Robs not one light seed from the feathered grass,

But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest

Heaven and earth were two magnificent stillnesses, which appeared to

gaze serenely and steadily at each other, with the calm dignity and

perfect understanding of ancient friends, whose affinities can never

be unsettled, except by the fiat of Him who first established them.

Looking horizontally along the moors, in this manner, nothing was

visible of those picturesque creases, which lie deep between these

mountain ridges, and teem with the industrious multitudes of Lancashire

and Yorkshire.

These hills form part of a continuous range, running across the island,

in different elevations, and familiarly known as the "Backbone of

England." Looking southward and south-east, in the direction of the

rocky waste called "Stanedge,"--which is crossed by the high road from

Manchester to Huddersfield--and "Buckstones," which, according to local

tradition, was formerly an highwayman's haunt,--the whole country is

one moorland wild; and the romantic hills of Saddleworth, with the dim

summits of the Derbyshire mountains, bound the view. Northward, the

landscape has the same general appearance. In this direction, Studley

Pike lately occupied the summit of a lofty moorland, overlooking the

valley between Hebden Bridge and the town of Todmorden; which is part

of a district famous for its comely breed of people, and for the

charms of its scenery. Studley Pike was a tall stone tower, erected

to commemorate the restoration of peace, at the end of our wars with

Napoleon. Singularly, it came thundering to the ground on the day of

the declaration of war against Russia.

On the west, the valley of the Roch, with its towns and villages,

stretches away out from this group of hills. Littleborough nestles

immediately at the foot of the mountain; and the eye wanders along the

vale, from hamlet to hamlet, till it reaches the towns of Rochdale,

Bury, Heywood, Middleton, and the smoky canopy of Manchester in the

distance. On a favourable day, many other large and more distant

Lancashire towns may be seen. On the east, or Yorkshire side, looking

towards Halifax, the hills appear to be endless. The valleys are

smaller and more numerous, often lying in narrow gorges and woody

ravines between the hills, hardly discernable from the distance. The

mountain sides have a more cultivated look, and hovering halos of

smoke, rising up from the mountain hollows, with, sometimes, the tops

of factory chimneys peering out from the vales, show where villages

like Ripponden and Sowerby are situated. On the distant edge of the

horizon, a grey cloud hanging steadily beyond the green hill, called

"King Cross" marks the locality of the town of Halifax. Green plots

of cultivated land are creeping up the steep moors; and comfortable

farm-houses, with folds of cottages, built of the stone of the

district, are strewn about the lesser hills, giving life and beauty to

the scene.

For native men, the moors of this neighbourhood, as well as the country

seen from them, contain many objects of interest. The hills standing

irregularly around; the rivers and streams; the lakes and pools below,

and in the fissures of the mountains--we knew their names. The lakes,

or reservoirs, about Blackstone Edge, form remarkable features in its

scenery. One of these, "Blackstone Edge Reservoir," takes its name from

the mountain upon whose summit it fills an extensive hollow. This lake

is upwards of two miles, close by the water's edge. The scenery around

it is a table-land, covered with heather, and rocks, and turfy swamps.

The other two, "White Lees" and "Hollingworth," lie lower, about half

way down the moors: "White Lees" in a retired little glen, about a

mile north-west of the "White House," on the top of Blackstone Edge;

and "Hollingworth," the largest and most picturesque of the three, is

situated about two miles south-west of the same spot. Close by the side

of the high road from Lancashire, over these hills into Yorkshire, this

old hostelry, known as "Th' White House," is situated near the top of

Blackstone Edge, looking towards Lancashire. The division-stone of the

two counties stands by the road-side, and about half a mile eastward

of this public-house. The northern bank of the road, upon which the

division-stone stands, shuts out from view the lake called "Blackstone

Edge Reservoir"--a scene which "skylark never warbles o'er." A solitary

cart-road leads off the road, at the corner of the reservoir, and,

crossing the moor in a north-easterly direction, goes down into a

picturesque spot, called "Crag Valley," or "The Vale of Turvin," for

it is known by both names. This valley winds through the heart of

the moors, nearly four miles, emptying itself at Mytholmroyd, in the

vale of Todmorden. Fifty years ago, "Crag Valley" was an unfrequented

region, little known, and much feared. Now there are thriving clusters

of population in it; and pretty homesteads, in isolated situations,

about the sides of the clough. Manufacture has crept up the stream.

"Turvin" is becoming a resort of ramblers from the border towns and

villages of the two counties, on account of the picturesque wildness

of its scenery. In some places the stream dashes through deep gorges

of rock, overhung with wood; peeping through which, one might be

startled by sight of a precipitous steep, shrouded with trees, and the

foaming water rushing wildly below over its fantastic channel. There

are several mills in the length of the valley now; and, in level holms,

down in the hollow, the land is beautifully green. The vale is prettily

wooded in many parts; but the barren hills overlook the whole length

of Turvin. In former times, the clough was notable among the people

of the surrounding districts, as a rendezvous of coiners and robbers;

and the phrase "a Turvin shilling," grew out of the dexterity of these

outlaws, who are said to have lurked a long time in the seclusion of

this moorland glen.

Approaching Turvin by the rough road across the moor, from the top of

Blackstone Edge, it leads into a deep corner of the valley, in which

stands the church of "St. John's in the Wilderness," built a few years

ago, for the behoof of the inhabitants of the neighbouring moors, and

for a little community of factory people in this remote nook of the

earth.

Upon the summit of one of the neighbouring mountains, there is a great

platform of desolation, distinguished, even among this stony waste,

as "The Wilderness;" and I think that whoever has visited the spot

will be inclined to say that the roughest prophet that ever brooded

over his visions in solitary places of the earth, could not well

wish for a wilder Patmos than this moor-top. On the right hand of

the public-house, near St. John's Church, several rough roads lead

in different directions. The centre one goes up through a thick wood

which clothes the mountain side, and on by winding routes to this

"cloud-capped" wilderness. On a distant part of this bleak tract stand

two remarkable Druidical remains, called "Th' Alder Stones," or the

"Altar Stones,"--sombre masses of rock, upon which the Druid priests of

our island performed their sacrificial rites, before the wild Celts of

the district. The position and formation of these stones, which have

each a sloping top, with a hollow in the middle, and a channel thence

downward, seem to confirm the character attributed to them.

Returning from "St. John's in the Wilderness," towards Blackstone Edge,

a quaint stone building, called "Crag Hall," occupies a shady situation

upon the hill-side, at the right hand of the vale, and at the edge of

the wild tract called "Erringdale Moor." This ancient hall contains

many specimens of carved oak furniture, which have been preserved with

the building, from the time of its old owners. A few years ago, the

keeper of Erringdale moor dwelt in it, and kept the place in trim as

a lodge, for the entertainment of the owners of the moor, and their

sporting friends, in the grouse season.

Between the moor-side on which "Crag Hall" is situated, and the road up

to the top of Blackstone Edge, a moorland stream runs along its rocky

channel, in the deep gut of the hills. I remember that many years ago

I wandered for hours, one summer day, up this lonely water, in company

with a young friend of mine. In the course of our ramble upon the banks

of the stream, little dreaming of any vestiges of human creation in

that region, we came almost upon the roof of a cottage, rudely, but

firmly built of stone. We descended the bank by a sloping path, leading

to the door. There was no smoke, no stir nor sound, either inside or

out; but, through the clean windows, we saw a pair of hand-looms,

with an unfinished piece upon them. We knocked repeatedly, hoping to

obtain some refreshment after our stroll; but there was no answer;

and just as we were about to leave the lonely tenement, and take our

way homewards--for the twilight was coming on, and we had nearly ten

miles to go--we heard the sound of a pair of clogs in the inside of

the cottage; and the door was opened by a tall, strong man, apparently

about thirty-five years of age. His clear-complexioned face was full

of frankness and simplicity. His head was large and well-formed, and

covered with bristling brown hair, cut short. Yawning, and stretching

his arms out, he accosted us at once--as if we were old friends, for

whom he had been looking some time--with, "Well, heaw are yo, to-day?"

We asked him for a drink of water. He invited us in, and set two chairs

for us in a little kitchen, where the furniture was rudely-simple and

sound, and everything in good order, and cleaned to its height. He

brought forth pitchers full of buttermilk, plenty of thick oat-cakes,

and the sweet butter for which these hills are famous; and we feasted.

The cool of the evening was coming on, and there was no fire in his

grate; so he fetched a great armful of dry heather from an inner

room, and, cramming it into the fire-place, put a light to it. Up

blazed the inflammable eilding, with a crackling sound, making the

room look cheerful as himself. A few books lay upon the window-sill,

which we asked leave to look at. He handed them to us, commenting on

them, in a shrewd and simple way, as he did so. They were chiefly

books on mathematics, a science which he began to discourse upon with

considerable enthusiasm. Now, my young companion happened to have a

passion for that science; and he no sooner discovered this affinity

between himself and our host, than to it they went pell-mell, with

books and chalk, upon the clean flags; and I was bowled out of the

conversation at once. Leaving them to their problems, and circles, and

triangles, I walked out upon the moor; and sitting upon a knoll above

the house, wrote a little rhyme in my note-book, which some years after

appeared in the corner of a Manchester newspaper. When I returned they

were still at it, ding-dong, about something or another in differential

calculus; and I had great difficulty in impressing upon the mind of

my companion the important area lying between us and our homes. This

lonely mathematician, it seemed, was a bachelor, and he got his living

partly by weaving, and partly by watching the moor, for the owners;

and as I looked upon him I almost envied the man his strong frame, his

sound judgment, his happy unsophisticated mind, and his serene and

simple way of life. He walked over the moor with us nearly two miles,

without hat, conversing about his books, and the lonely manner of his

life, with which he appeared to be perfectly contented. At our parting,

he pressed us to come over the moors again the first opportunity,

and spend a day with him at his cottage. I have hardly ever met with

another man who seemed so strong and sound in body; and so frank, and

sensible, and simple-hearted, as this mathematical eremite of the

mountains. That enthusiastic attachment to science, which so strongly

distinguishes him in my remembrance, is a common characteristic of

the native working-people of Lancashire, among whom, in proportion

to the population, there is an extraordinary number of well-read and

practised mechanics, botanists, musicians, and mathematicians; and the

booksellers in the towns of the county, know that any standard works

upon these subjects, and some upon divinity, are sure to find a large

and ready sale among the operative classes.

We wore the afternoon far away in rambling about the high and open

part of Blackstone Edge, between the group of rocks called "Robin

Hood's Bed," and the solitary inn called the "White House," upon the

Yorkshire road. Wading through fern and heather, and turfy swamps;

climbing rocks, and jumping over deep gutters and lodgments of peaty

water, had made us so hungry and weary, that we made the best of our

way to this inn, while the sun was yet up above the hills. Here, the

appetite we had awakened was amply satisfied; and we refreshed, and

rested ourselves a while, conversing about the country around us,

and exchanging anecdotes of its remarkable local characters, and

reminiscences of our past adventures in the neighbourhood. Many of

these related to "Old Joe," the quaint gamekeeper, at Hollingworth, a

kind of local "Leather Stocking," who has many a time rowed us about

the lake in his fishing-boat.

When we came out of the inn, the sun had gone down upon the opposite

side of the scene. Night's shadows were climbing the broad steeps;

but the summit-lines of the hills still showed in clear relief,

against the western sky, where the sunset's glory lingered. In every

other direction, the skirts of the landscape were fading from view.

Rochdale town, with its church tower and stacks of tall chimneys, had

disappeared in the distance. The mountainous wastes stretching away

on the north, south, and east, were melting into indistinct masses;

and, below the hills, quiet evening's dreamy shades were falling

softly down, and folding away for the night the hamleted valleys

between Blackstone Edge and the boundary of the scene. Day's curtains

were closing to; the watchers of night were beginning their golden

vigil; and all the air seemed thick with dreams. We descended from the

moor-top by a steep path, which diverges, on the right-hand side of

the highway, a little below the "White House," and cuts off a mile of

the distance between that point and the "Moor Cock," where we had left

"Grey Bobby" and the "Whitechapel." Far down, from scattered cots and

folds, little lights were beginning to glimmer. That frontlet jewel of

mild evening's forehead--"the star that bids the shepherd fold"--was

glowing above us, and, here and there, twinklings of golden fire were

stealing out from the blue expanse. As we picked our way down the moor,

the stillness of the tract around us seemed to deepen as the light

declined; and there was no distinguishable sound in the neighbourhood

of our path, except the silvery tricklings of indiscernable rills.

From the farms below, the far-off bark of dogs and lowing of cattle

came floating up, mingled with the subdued rush and rattle of railway

trains, rushing along the valley. Half an hour's walk down the hill

brought us back to the "Moor Cock." Limper, the ostler, got "Grey

Bobby" from the stable, and put him into the harness. Out came the folk

of the house, to see us off. Our frisky tit treated us to another romp;

after which we drove down the road, in the gloaming, and on through

Littleborough and Smallbridge, to Rochdale, by the light of the stars.

The Town of Heywood and its Neighbourhood.

Nature never did betray

The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,

Through all the years of this our life, to lead

From joy to joy.

--WORDSWORTH

One Saturday afternoon, about midsummer, I was invited by a friend to

spend a day at his house, in the green outskirts of Heywood. The town

has a monotonous, cotton-spinning look; yet, it is surrounded by a

pleasant country, and has some scenery of a picturesque description

in its immediate neighbourhood. Several weeks previous to this

invitation had been spent by me wholly amongst the bustle of our

"cotton metropolis," and, during that time, I had often thought how

sweetly summer was murmuring with its "leafy lips" beyond the town,

almost unseen by me except when I took a ride to a certain suburb, and

wandered an hour or two in a scene upon which the season seemed to

smile almost in vain, and where the unsatisfactory verdure was broken

up by daub-holes and rows of half-built cottages, and the air mixed

with the aroma of brick-kilns and melting lime. Sometimes, too, I

stole down into the market-place, on a Saturday morning, to smell at

the flowers and buy a "posy" for my button-hole. It reminded me of the

time when I used to forage about my native hedges, for bunches of the

wild rose and branches of white-blossomed thorn. But now, as the rosy

time of the year grew towards its height, I began to hanker after those

moors and noiseless glens of Lancashire, where, even yet, nature seems

to have it all her own way. I longed for the quiet valleys and their

murmuring waters; the rustling trees; and the cloudless summer sky seen

through fringed openings in the wildwood's leafy screen. Somebody says,

that "we always find better men in action than in repose;" and though

there are contemplative spirits who instinctively shun the din of

towns, and, turning to the tranquil seclusions of nature, read a lofty

significance in its infinite forms and moods of beauty, yet, the grand

battle of life lies where men are clustered. Great men can live greatly

anywhere; but ordinary people must be content to snatch at any means

likely to improve or relieve their lot; and it will do any care-worn

citizen good to "consider the lilies of the field" a little, now and

then. Country folk come to town to relieve the monotony of their lives;

and town's folk go to the country for refreshment and repose. To each

the change may be beneficial--at least I thought so; and, as light as

leaf upon tree, I hailed my journey; for none of Robin Hood's men ever

went to the greenwood with more pleasure than I.

It was nearly three when we passed the Old Church, on our way to

the station. The college lads, in their quaint blue suits, and flat

woollen caps, were frolicking about the quadrangle of that ancient

edifice which helps to keep alive the name of Humphrey Chetham. The

omnibuses were rushing by, with full loads. I said "full loads;" but

there are omnibuses running out of Manchester, which I never knew to

be so full that they would not "just hold another." But on we went,

talking about anything which was uppermost; and in a few minutes we

were seated in the train, and darting over the tops of that miserable

jungle known by the name of "Angel Meadow." The railway runs close

by a little hopeful oasis in this moral desert--the "Ragged School,"

at the end of Ashley Lane; and, from the carriage window, we could

see "Charter-street"--that notable den of Manchester outcasts.

These two significant neighbours--"Charter-street" and the "Ragged

School"--comment eloquently upon one another. Here, all is mental and

moral malaria, and the revelry of the place sounds like a forlorn

cry for help. There the same human elements are trained, by a little

timely culture, towards honour and usefulness. Any man, with an

unsophisticated mind, looking upon the two, might be allowed to say,

"Why not do enough of _this_ to cure _that_?" On the brow of Red

Bank, the tower and gables of St. Chad's Church overlook the swarming

hive which fills the valley of the Irk; and which presents a fine

field for those who desire to spread the gospel among the heathen,

and enfranchise the slave. And if it be true that the poor are "the

riches of the church of Christ," there is an inheritance there worth

looking after by any church which claims the title. Up rose a grove of

tall chimneys from the streets lining the banks of the little slutchy

stream, that creeps through the hollow, slow and slab, towards its

confluence with the Irwell; where it washes the base of the rocks

upon which, five hundred years ago, stood the "Baron's Hall," or

manor house of the old lords of Manchester. On the same spot, soon

after the erection of the Collegiate Church, that quaint quadrangular

edifice was built as a residence for the warden and fellows, which

afterwards became, in the turns of fortune, a mansion of the Earls

of Derby, a garrison, a prison, an hospital, and a college. By the

time we had taken a few reluctant sniffs of the curiously-compounded

air of that melancholy waste, we began to ascend the incline, and

lost sight of the Irk, with its factories, dyehouses, brick-fields,

tan-pits, and gas-works; and the unhappy mixture of stench, squalor,

smoke, hard work, ignorance, and sin, on its borders; and, after a

short stoppage at Miles Platting, our eyes were wandering over the

summer fields. Nature was drest in her richest robes; and every green

thing looked lush with beauty. As we looked abroad on this wide

array, it was delightful to see the sprouting honeysuckle, and the

peace-breathing palm; and there, too, creeping about the hedges, was

that old acquaintance of life's morning, the bramble, which will be

putting forth "its small white rose" about the time that country folk

begin to house their hay; and when village lads in Lancashire are

gathering gear to decorate their rush-hearts with. Clustering primroses

were there; and the celandine, with burnished leaves of gold; and wild

violets, prancked with gay colours; with troops of other wild flowers,

some full in view, others dimly seen as we swept on;--a world of

floral beauty thickly embroidering the green mantle of the landscape,

though beyond the range of discriminating vision; but clear to the

eye of imagination, which assured us that these stars of the earth

were making their old haunts beautiful again. The buttercup was in the

fields, holding its pale gold chalice up to catch the evening dews.

Here and there grew a tuft of slender-stemmed lilies, graceful and

chaste; and then a sweep of blue-bells, tinging the hedge-sides and the

moist slopes under the trees with their azure hue--as blue as a patch

of sky--and swinging the incense from their pendent petals into the

sauntering summer wind. Then came the tall foxglove, and bushes of the

golden-blossomed furze, covered with gleaming spears, upon the banks

of the line. Oh, refulgent summer! Time of blossoms and honeydews;

and flowers of every colour! Thy lush fields are rich with clover and

herb-grass! Thy daylights glow with glory; thy twilights are full of

dreamy sights and sounds; and the sweetest odours of the year perfume

the air, when

The butterfly flits from the flowering tree;

And the cowslip and blue-bell are bent by the bee!

The throstle sang loud and clear in the trees and dells near the line,

as we rolled along; and the blithe "layrock" made the air tremble,

between heaven and the green meadows, with his thrilling lyric. That

tall, white flower, which country folk call "posset," spread out its

curdy top among the elegant summer grasses, quietly swaying to and

fro with the wind. And then the daisy was there! There is no flower

so well becomes the hand of a child as the daisy does! That little

"crimson-tippet" companion of the lark, immortalised in the poet's

loving wail! Tiny jewel of the fields of England; favourite of the

child and of the bard! Daisies lay like snow upon the green landscape;

and the hedges were white with the scented blossom of the thorn. To

eyes a little tired of the city's hives of brick--

Where stoop the sons of care,

O'er plains of mischief, till their souls turn grey--

it was refreshing to peer about over the beautiful summer expanse,

towards the blue hills rising on the edge of the horizon, solemn and

serene.

My own impression of the natural charms of this part of Lancashire is,

perhaps, a little warmer and more accepting than that of an unbiassed

stranger would be; for the wheels are beautiful which roll me towards

the country where I first pulled the wild flowers and listened to the

lark. In this district, there are none of those rich depths of soil

which, with little labour and tilth, burst forth in full crops of

grain. But the land is mostly clothed with pastoral verdure; and the

farming is almost entirely of the dairy kind. It is a country of green

hills and vales, and clusters of dusky mills, surrounded by industrial

life; and, except on the high moorlands, there is very little land now,

even of the old mosses and morasses, which is not inclosed, and in

progress of cultivation. The scenery has features of beauty peculiar

to itself. It consists of a succession of ever-varying undulations,

full of sequestered cloughs, and dingles, and shady corners; threaded

by many a little meandering stream, which looks up at the skies from

its green hollow; and which

Changes oft its varied lapse,

And ever as it winds, enchantment follows,

And new beauties rise.

Travellers from the midland and southern counties of England often

notice the scarcity of trees in this quarter. The native woods were

chiefly oak, ash, birch, beech, and yew--very useful timbers. But when

the time came that Lancashire had to strip some of its old customs

and ornaments, for the fulfilment of its manufacturing destiny, every

useful thing upon the soil was seized, and applied to the purposes of

the new time. The land itself began to be wanted for other ends than to

grow trees upon. And then, when old landlords happened to be pressed

for money, the timber of their estates--daily becoming more valuable

for manufacturing necessities--sometimes presented the readiest way

of raising it. Their lands often followed in the same track. And now,

the landscape looks bald. Trees are scanty and small, except at a few

such places as Hopwood Hall, and Chadderton Hall; and a few isolated

clumps, like that which crests the top of "Tandle Hills." In that

part of this district which lies between "Boggart Ho' Clough," near

the village of Blackley, on the west, the town of Middleton, on the

east, and the Manchester and Leeds railway line, on the south, there

is a wide platform of level land, called "Th' White Moss." It stands

above the surrounding country; and is quite removed from any of the

great highways of the neighbourhood, which, nevertheless, wind near

to the borders of this secluded moss, with their restless streams of

business. In former days, this tract has been a densely-wooded wild;

and, even within these twenty years last past, it was one great marsh,

in whose peaty swamps the relics of ancient woods lay buried. Since

that time, nearly two hundred acres of the moss have been brought

into cultivation; and it is said that this part of it now produces as

fine crops as any land in the neighbourhood. In turning up the bog,

enormous roots and branches of trees, principally oaks, are often met

with. Very fine oaks, beeches, firs, and sometimes yew trees, of a

size very seldom met with in this part of Lancashire in these days,

have frequently been found embedded in this morass, at a depth of

five or six feet. Samuel Bamford, in his description of the "White

Moss," says: "The stems and huge branches of trees were often laid

bare by the diggers, in cultivating it. Nearly all the trees have been

found lying from west to east, or from west to south. They consist of

oaks, beeches, alders, and one or two fine yews. The roots of many

of them are matted and gnarled, presenting interesting subjects for

reflection on the state of this region in unrecorded ages. Some of

these trees are in part charred when found. One large oak, lying on

the north-west side of the moss, has been traced to fifteen yards in

length, and is twelve feet round." This moss was one of those lonely

places to which the people of these districts found it necessary to

retreat, in order to hold their political meetings in safety, during

that eventful period of Lancashire history which fell between the years

1815 and 1821. It was a time of great suffering and danger in these

parts. The working people were often driven into riot and disorder by

the desperation of extreme distress; which disorder was often increased

by the discreditable espionage and ruthless severities employed to

crush political discussion among the populace. Of the gallant band of

reformers which led the van of the popular struggle, many a humble and

previously-unnoted pioneer of liberty has left an heroic mark upon

the history of that time. Some of these are still living; others have

been many a year laid in their graves; but their memories will long be

cherished among a people who know how to esteem men who sincerely love

freedom, and are able to do and to suffer for it, in a brave spirit.

In this active arena of industrialism, there are many places of

interest: old halls and churches; quaint relics of ancient hamlets,

hidden by the overgrowth of modern factory villages; immense mills,

and costly mansions, often belonging to men who were poor lads a few

years ago, wearing wooden clogs, and carrying woollen pieces home from

the loom, upon their shoulders. As we cross the valley beyond the

station, the little old parish church of Middleton stands in sight,

on the top of a green eminence, about a mile north from the line. In

the interior of this old fane still hang, against the southern wall,

the standard and armour of Sir Richard Assheton, which he dedicated

to St. Leonard of Middleton, on returning from Flodden Field, where

he greatly distinguished himself; taking prisoner Sir John Foreman,

serjeant-porter to James the Sixth of Scotland, and Alexander

Barrett, high sheriff of Aberdeen; and capturing the sword of the

standard-bearer of the Scottish king. He led to the battle a brave

array of Lancashire archers, the flower of his tenantry. At the western

base of the hill upon which the church of St. Leonard is situated, two

large cotton factories now stand, close to the spot which, even so

late as the year 1845, was occupied by the picturesque old hall of the

Asshetons, lords of Middleton. The new gas-works of the town fills part

of the space once covered with its gardens. Middleton lies principally

in the heart of a pleasant vale, with some relics of its ancient

quaintness remaining, such as the antique wood-and-plaster inn, called

the "Boar's Head," in the hollow, in front of the parish church. The

manor of Middleton anciently belonged to the honour of Clithero, and

was held by the Lacies, Earls of Lincoln. In the reign of Henry III.,

the heir of Robert de Middleton held a knight's fee in Middleton, of

the fee of Edmund or Edward, Earl of Lincoln, who held it of the Earls

of Ferrars, the king's tenant in capite. And Baines, in his history of

Lancashire, further says:--

In 3 Edward II., the manor of Middleton is found in the

inquisition post-mortem of Henry de Lacy, amongst the fees

belonging to the manor of Tottington, held by service of Thomas,

Earl of Lancaster. With Henry, Earl of Lincoln, this branch of

the Lacys passed away; and their possessions in this country,

with his daughter and heiress, devolved upon Thomas Plantagenet,

Earl of Lancaster. The heirs of Robti (Robert) de Middleton

possessed lands in _Midelton_, by military service, in the reign

of Henry the Third, 1216-1272. At a later period, the manor was

possessed by Richard Barton, Esq.; the first of this family who

is recorded in connection with Middleton was living in the reign

of Henry the Fourth, 1410. He died without surviving issue, and

the manor passed to the heirs of his brother, John Barton, Esq.,

whose daughter Margaret having married Ralph Assheton, Esq., a

son of Sir John Assheton, Knt., of Ashton-under-Lyne, he became

Lord of Middleton in her right, in the seventeenth of Henry the

Sixth, 1438, and was the same year appointed a page of honour to

that king. He was knight-marshal of England, lieutenant of the

Tower of London, and sheriff of Yorkshire, 1473-1474. He attended

the Duke of Gloucester at the battle of Haldon, or Hutton Field,

Scotland, in order to recover Berwick, and was created a knight

_banneret_ on the field for his gallant services, 1483. On the

succession of Richard the Third to the crown, he created Sir Ralph

vice-constable of England, by letters patent, 1483.

Thus began the first connection of the town of Middleton with that

powerful Lancashire family, the Asshetons, of Ashton-under-Lyne, in the

person of the famous "Black Lad," respecting whom Dr. Hibbert says, in

his historical work upon Ashton-under-Lyne, as follows:--

It appears that Ralph Assheton became, by his alliance with a

rich heiress, the lord of a neighbouring manor, named Middleton,

and soon afterwards received the honour of knighthood, being

at the same time entrusted with the office of vice-chancellor,

and, it is added, of lieutenant of the Tower. Invested with

such authority, he committed violent excesses in this part of

the kingdom. In retaining also for life the privilege of _guld

riding_, he, on a certain day in the spring, made his appearance

in this manner, clad in black armour (whence his name of the

_Black Lad_), mounted on a charger, and attended by a numerous

train of his followers, in order to levy the penalty arising from

neglect of clearing the land from _carr gulds_. The interference

of so powerful a knight, belonging to another lordship, could

not but be regarded by the tenants of Assheton as a tyrannical

intrusion of a stranger, and the name of the _Black Lad_ is at

present regarded with no other sentiment than that of horror.

Tradition has, indeed, still perpetuated the prayer that was

fervently ejaculated for a deliverance from his tyranny:--

Sweet Jesu, for thy mercy's sake,

And for thy bitter passion,

Save us from the axe of the Tower,

And from Sir Ralph of Assheton.

Happily, with the death of this terrible guld-rider of Assheton, the

custom was abolished, but the sum of five shillings is still reserved

from the estate, for the purpose of commemorating it by an annual

ceremony. Ralph Assheton, of Middleton, was an energetic adherent to

the parliamentary cause during the civil wars. On the 24th September,

1642, about one hundred and fifty of his tenants, in complete arms,

joined the forces of Manchester, in opposition to the royalists. He

commanded the parliamentary troops at the siege of Warrington. He was

engaged at the siege of Lathom House, and led the Middleton Clubmen

at the siege of Bolton-le-Moors. In 1648 he was a major-general,

and commanded the Lancashire soldiery of the commonwealth, on the

marshalling of the parliamentary forces to oppose the Duke of Hamilton.

In the same year, he took Appleby from the royalists. His eldest son,

Richard, who died an infant, March 25th, 1631, was supposed to have

been bewitched to death by one Utley, "who, for the crime, was tried at

the assizes at Lancaster, and executed there." His son Ralph espoused

the cause of Charles the Second, and was created a baronet in 1663.

As we glide out of sight of Middleton, a prominent feature of the

landscape, on the opposite side of the railway, is the wood-crowned

summit of "Tandle Hills." These hills overlook the sequestered dairy

farms, and shady dingles of an extensive district called "Thornham;"

which, though surrounded at short distances by busy manufacturing

villages and towns, is a tract full of quaint farm-folds, grassy

uplands and dells, interlaced with green old English lanes and

hedge-rows. Before the train reaches "Blue Pits," it passes through

the estates of the Hopwoods, of Hopwood; and, at some points, the

chimneys and gables of Hopwood Hall peep through surrounding woods, in

a retired valley, north of the line. As the train begins to slacken on

its approach to the station, the old road-side village of Trub Smithy,

the scene of many a humorous story, lies nestling beyond two or three

fields to the south, at the foot of a slope, on the high road from

Manchester to Rochdale. At "Blue Pits" station, we obeyed the noisy

summons to "Change for Heywood," and were put upon the branch line

which leads thitherward. The railway hence to Heywood winds through

green fields all the way, and is divided from the woods of Hopwood

by a long stripe of canal. As we rolled on, the moorland heights of

Ashworth, Knowl, Rooley, and Lobden, rose in the back ground before

us, seemingly at a short distance, and before any glimpse was seen of

the town of Heywood, lying low between us and the hills. But, as we

drew near, a canopy of smoky cloud hung over the valley in front; and

"we knew by the smoke"--as the song says--that Heywood was near; even

if we had never known it before. Heywood is one of the last places

in the world where a man who judges of the surrounding country by

the town itself, would think of going to ruralize. But, even in this

smoky manufacturing town, which is so meagre in historic interest,

there are some peculiarities connected with its rise and progress, and

the aspects of its present life; and some interesting traits in the

characteristics of its inhabitants. And, in its surrounding landscape,

there are many picturesque scenes; especially towards the hills, where

the rising grounds are cleft, here and there, by romantic glens,

long, lonesome, and woody, and wandering far up into the moors, like

"Simpson Clough;" and sometimes vales, green and pleasant, by the quiet

water-side, like "Tyrone's Bed," and "Hooley Clough."

As the train drew up to that little station, which always looks busy

when there are a dozen people in the office, the straggling ends of

Heywood streets began to dawn upon us, with the peeking chimney tops

of the cotton mills, which lay yet too low down to be wholly seen.

Some costly mansions were visible also, belonging to wealthy men of

the neighbourhood--mostly rich cotton-spinners--perched on "coignes

of vantage," about the green uplands and hollows in the valley,

and generally at a respectful distance from the town. Many of the

cotton mills began to show themselves entirely--here and there in

clusters--the older ones looking dreary, and uninviting to the eye; the

new ones as smart as new bricks and long lines of glittering windows

could make their dull, square forms appear. A number of brick-built

cottages bristled about the summit of a slope which rose in front of us

from the station, and closed from view the bulk of the town, in the

valley beyond. We went up the slope, and took a quiet bye-path which

leads through the fields, along the southern edge of Heywood, entering

the town near the market-place. And now, let us take a glance at the

history, and some of the present features of this place.

So far as the history of Heywood is known, it has not been the arena

of any of those great historical transactions of England's past, which

have so shaken and changed the less remote parts of the country. The

present appearance of Heywood would not, perhaps, be any way delightful

to the eye of anybody who had no local interest in it. Yet, a brief

review of the history, and the quick growth of the place, may not be

uninteresting. Heywood is the capital of the township of Heap, and

stands principally upon a gentle elevation, in a wide valley, about

three miles from each of the towns of Rochdale, Bury, and Middleton.

The township of Heap is in the parish and manor of Bury, of which

manor the Earl of Derby is lord. This manor has been the property

of the Derby family ever since the accession of Henry VII., after

the battle of Bosworth Field, when it was granted by the king to his

father-in-law, Thomas Stanley, first Earl of Derby, who figures in

Shakspere's tragedy of "Richard the Third." The previous possessors

were the Pilkingtons, of Pilkington. Sir Thomas Pilkington was an

active adherent of the York faction, in the wars of the Roses; and,

in a manuscript of Stowe's, his name appears, with a large number

of other friends of Richard, who "sware Kynge Richard shuld were ye

crowne." There is a secluded hamlet of old-fashioned houses in this

township, called "Heap Fold," situated on a hill about half a mile

west of Heywood. This hamlet is generally admitted to be the oldest,

and, probably, the only settlement in the township of Heap in the

time of the Saxons, who first cleared and cultivated the land of the

district. Previous to that time, it may be naturally supposed that,

like many other parts of South Lancashire, this district was overrun

with woods, and swamps, and thickets. Edwin Butterworth published a

little pamphlet history of Heywood, from which I quote the following

notes:--"The origin of the designation Heap is not at all obvious; in

the earliest known mention of the place, it is termed _Hep_, which may

imply a tract overgrown with hawthorn berries. The name might arise

from the unevenness of the surface--_heep_ (Saxon), indicating a mass

of irregularities. The denomination 'Heywood' manifestly denotes the

site of a wood in a field, or a wood surrounded by fields." Farther

on, in the same pamphlet, he says:--"The local family of Hep, or Heap,

has been extinct a considerable time. The deed of the gift of the whole

forest of Holecombe, to the monks of St. Mary Magdalen, of Bretton,

in Yorkshire, by Roger de Montbegon, is witnessed, amongst others, by

Robert de Hep; but without date, being of an age prior to the use of

dates. Roger de Montbegon, however, died 10th Henry III., so that this

transaction occurred before 1226." It may be true that what is here

alluded to as the local family of Hep, or Heap, is extinct; but the

name of Heap is now more prevalent among the inhabitants of Heywood

and the immediately surrounding towns than anywhere else in England.

With respect to the two suppositions as to the origin of the name;

almost every Lancashire lad will remember that he has, at one time or

another, pricked his fingers with getting "heps," the common bright red

berry, which, in other parts, goes by the name of the "hip." And then

there is some show of likelihood in the supposition that the name has

come from the Saxon word "heep," meaning "a mass of irregularities,"

as Butterworth says; for the whole district is a succession of hills,

and holes, and undulations, of ever-varying size and shape. Again,

he says, "Heap was doubtless inhabited by at least one Saxon family,

whose descendants, it is probable, quietly conformed to Norman rule.

In that era, or perhaps earlier, the place was annexed to the lordship

and church of Bury, of which Adam de Bury, and Edward de Buri, were

possessors shortly after the conquest.[16] A family of the name of Hep,

or Heap, held the hamlet from the paramount lords. In 1311, third of

Edward II., Henery de Bury held one half of the manor of Bury."[17]

Previous to the fifteenth century, this township must have been part of

a very wild and untempting region, having, for the most part, little

or no settled population, or communion with the living world beyond;

and the progress of population, and cultivation of the land, up to that

time, appear to have been very slow, and only in a few isolated spots;

since, although there were several heys of land at that time, near to

a wood, thence called "Heywood," upon the spot now occupied by a busy

community of people, numbering twenty thousand at least, yet, there

is no record of any dwelling upon that spot until shortly after the

fifteenth century, when a few rural habitations were erected thereon.

From this comparatively recent period may be reckoned the dawn of the

rural village which has since expanded into the present manufacturing

town of Heywood, now thriving at a greater rate than ever, under the

impulse of modern industrialism. About this time, too, began the

residence there of a family bearing the local name. "In 1492 occurs

Robert de Heywood. In the brilliant reign of Elizabeth, Edmund Heywood,

Esq., was required, by an order dated 1574, to furnish a coat of plate,

a long bowe, shéffe of arrows, steel cap, and bill, for the military

musters."[18] James Heywood, gentleman, was living before 1604. Peter

Heywood, Esq., a zealous magistrate, the representative of this family

in the reigns of James the I. and Charles the I., was a native and

resident of the present Heywood Hall, which was erected during the

sixteenth century. It is said that he apprehended Guido Faux, coming

forth from the vault of the house of parliament, on the eve of the

gunpowder treason, November 5th, 1605; he probably accompanied Sir

Thomas Knevett, in his search of the cellars under the parliament

house. The principal interest connected with the earliest history of

the town of Heywood seems to be bound up in the history of Heywood Hall

and its inhabitants, which will be noticed farther on.

[16] Testa de Neville.

[17] Harl. MSS. Codex 2,085, fo. 443.

[18] Hard. MSS., 1296. There is a pedigree of this family in

Dodsworth's MSS Bodleian Lib. vol. lxxix.

The old episcopal chapel, near the market-place, dedicated to St. Luke,

is a plain little building, with nothing remarkable in its appearance

or its situation. It seems to have been founded at the beginning of

the seventeenth century. It contains inscriptions commemorative of the

Holts, of Grizlehurst, and the Starkies, of Heywood Hall. A dial-plate

on the eastern exterior bears the date of 1686, with the initials of

Robert Heywood, Esq., of Heywood Hall, who was governor of the Isle

of Man in 1678. Besides the Heywoods, of Heywood Hall, there were

several powerful local families in the olden time seated at short

distances round the spot where Heywood now stands: the Heaps, of Heap;

the Bamfords, of Bamford; the Marlands, of Marland; the Holts, of

Grizlehurst; and the Hopwoods, of Hopwood--which last still reside upon

their ancient estate.

Heywood, or "Monkey Town," as sarcastic people in other parts of

Lancashire sometimes call it, is now a manufacturing place of at least

twenty thousand inhabitants. It owes its rise almost entirely to

the cotton manufacture; and the history of the latter incorporates

the history of the former in a much greater degree than that of any

other considerable town in the district. This gives it a kind of

interest which certainly does not belong to any beauty the appearance

of the town at present possesses. A few years before those mechanical

inventions became known which ultimately made Lancashire what it is

now, Heywood was a little peaceful country fold; but a few years

after these inventions came into action, it began to grow into what

the people of those days thought "something rich and strange," with

a celerity akin to the growth of great towns in the United States of

America. About two hundred years ago, a few rural cottages first arose

upon this almost unpeopled spot; and at the time when the manufacture

of cotton began in South Lancashire, it was still a small agricultural

village, prettily situated in a picturesque scene, about the centre

of the ridge of land which is now nearly covered by the present smoky

town. This little nucleus clustered near the old chapel which stands in

the market-place. Previous to the invention of the fly shuttle, by Kay,

in the neighbouring town of Bury; and the ingenious combinations of

the inventions of his contemporaries by Arkwright, the Preston barber,

almost every farm-house and cottage in this part had the old-fashioned

spinning-wheel and the hand-loom in them, wherewith to employ any

time the inhabitants could spare from their rural occupations. At the

time of Arkwright's first patent, the people of these parts little

knew what a change the time's inventions were bringing upon their

quiet haunts--still less of the vast influences which were to arise

therefrom, combining to the accomplishment of incalculable ends; and

they were, at first, slow to wean from their old, independent way

of living, partly by farming and partly by manufacturing labour,

which they could do in their own houses, and at their own leisure.

"Manchester manufacturers are glad," says Arthur Young, in 1770 (the

year of Arkwright's first patent), "when bread is dear, for then the

people are forced to work." But though the supply of yarn in those

days was less than the demand, and the people were not yet draughted

away from their old manner of life, they were caught in the web of

that inevitable destiny which will have its way, in spite of the

will of man. The world's Master had new commissioners abroad for the

achievement of new purposes. These wonder-working seeds of providence,

patiently developing themselves in secret, were soon to burst forth in

a wide harvest of change upon the field of human life. Certain men of

mechanical genius arose, and their creative dreams wrought together in

a mysterious way to the production of extraordinary results. John Kay,

of Bury, invented the "picking-peg," or "fly-shuttle," in 1738; and

his son, Robert Kay, invented the "drop-box," used in the manufacture

of fabrics of various colours; and that wonderful cotton and woollen

carding machine, which stretches the wire out of the ring, cuts it

into lengths, staples and crooks it into teeth, pricks holes in the

leather, and puts in the teeth, row after row, with extraordinary speed

and precision, till the cards are finished. Thomas Highs, the humble

and ingenious reed-maker, at Leigh, in 1763, originated that first

remarkable improvement in spinning machinery which he called after his

favourite daughter, "Jenny;" and he also introduced the "throstle," or

water-frame, in 1767. This man lingered out his old age in affliction

and dependence. James Hargreaves, the carpenter, of Blackburn, improved

upon the original idea of the spinning jenny, and invented the crank

and comb, "an engine of singular merit for facilitating the progress of

carding cotton." The ignorant jealousy of the Lancashire operatives in

those days drove this ingenious man to seek shelter in Nottinghamshire,

where he was but ill-received, and where he ended his days in poverty.

He died in a workhouse. Arkwright, the Preston barber, was more endowed

by nature with the qualities requisite for worldly success than these

ingenious, abstracted, and simple-minded mechanical dreamers. He was

a man of great perseverance and worldly sagacity. With characteristic

cunning, he appears to have wormed their secrets out of some of these

humble inventors; and then, with no less industry and enterprise

than ingenuity, he combined these with other kindred inventions, and

wrought them into a practical operation, which, by its results, quickly

awakened the world to a knowledge of their power. He became a rich man,

and "Sir Richard." In 1780, the "spinning mule" was first introduced

by its inventor, Samuel Crompton, a dreamy weaver, then dwelling in a

dilapidated corner of an old Lancashire hall, called "Th' Hall i'th

Wood," in Turton, near Bolton. This machine united the powers of the

spinning jenny and the water frame. The spinning mule is now in general

use in the cotton manufacture. This poor weaver gave his valuable

invention to the public, without securing a patent. His remuneration,

in the shape of money, was therefore left to the cold chances of

charity. He was, however, at first, rewarded by a subscription of one

hundred guineas; and, _twenty years afterwards_, by an additional

subscription of four hundred guineas; and in 1812, parliament awarded

the sum of five thousand pounds to the dreamy old weaver, in his

latter days. In 1785, the first patent for the power-loom was obtained

by the Rev. Edmund Cartwright, of Kent, who invented it; and, after

considerable improvements, it has at last contributed another great

impulse to the manufacturing power of these districts. Whilst these

mechanical agencies were developing themselves, James Watt was busy

with his steam power; and Brindley, in conjunction with the Duke of

Bridgewater, was constructing his water-ways. They were all necessary

parts of one great scheme of social alteration, the end of which is not

yet. These men were the immediate sources of the manufacturing power

and wealth of Lancashire. Up rose Arkwright's model mill at Cromford;

and the people of South Lancashire, who were spinning and weaving in

the old way, in their scattered cottages and folds, began to find

themselves drawn by irresistible spells into new combinations, and new

modes of living and working. Their remote haunts began to resound with

the tones of clustering labour; their quiet rivers, late murmuring

clear through silent vales and cloughs, began to be dotted with mills;

and their little villages shot up into large manufacturing towns.

From 1770 to 1788, the use of wool and linen in the spinning of yarns

had almost disappeared, and cotton had become the almost universal

material for employment. Hand wheels were superseded by common jennies,

hand carding by carding engines, and hand picking[19] by the fly

shuttle. From 1778 to 1803 was the golden age of this great trade; the

introduction of mule yarns, assimilated with other yarns producing

every description of goods, gave a preponderating wealth through the

loom. The mule twist being rapidly produced, and the demand for goods

very large, put all hands in request; and weaver's shops became yearly

more numerous. The remuneration for labour was high, and the population

was in a comfortable condition. The dissolution of Arkwright's patent

in 1785, and the general adoption of mule spinning in 1790, concurred

to give the most extraordinary impetus to the cotton manufacture.

Numerous mills were erected, and filled with water frames; and jennies

and mules were made and set to work with incredible rapidity.[20]

Heywood had already risen up, by the previous methods of manufacture,

to a place of about two thousand inhabitants, in the year 1780--that

changeful crisis of its history when the manufacture of cotton by

steam power first began in the township of Heap, with the erection of

Makin Mill, hard by the north side of Heywood. This mill was built

by the firm of Peel, Yates, and Co., of Bury--the principal of which

firm was Robert Peel, Esq. (afterwards Sir Robert), and father of the

memorable Sir Robert Peel, late prime minister of England, whose name

is honourably connected with the abolition of the Corn Laws; a man who

won the gratitude of a nation by daring to turn "traitor" to a great

wrong, that he might help a great right. This mill is now the property

of Edmund Peel, Esq., brother of the late Sir Robert. It stands about

half a mile from Heywood, in a shady clough, and upon the banks of the

river Roch, which rises in the hills on the north-east extremity of the

county, and flows down through the town of Rochdale, passing through

the glen called "Tyrone's Bed;" and through "Hooley Clough." The river

then winds on westward, by the town of Bury, three miles off. The

course of this water is now well lined with manufacturing power, nearly

from its rise to its embouchure. A stranger may always find the mills

of Lancashire by following the courses of its waters.

[19] The "picking rod" is a straight wooden handle, by which the

hand-loom weaver used to impel his shuttle. "As straight as a pickin'

rod," is a common phrase among country people in South Lancashire.

[20] "Radcliffe's Origin of Power-loom Weaving," pp. 59--66.

Before the factory system arose, when the people of this quarter did

their manufacturing work at their homes--when they were not yet brought

completely to depend upon manufacture for livelihood, and when their

manner of life was, at least, more natural and hardy than it became

afterwards--their condition was, morally and physically, very good,

compared with the condition which the unrestricted factory system led

to, in the first rush after wealth which it awoke; especially in the

employment of young children in mills. The amount of demoralisation and

physical deterioration then entailed upon the population, particularly

in isolated nooks of the country, where public opinion had little

controlling influence upon such mill-owners as happened to possess

more avarice than humane care for their operative dependents, must

have been great. It was a wild steeple-chase for wealthy stakes, in

which whip and spur were used with little mercy, and few were willing

to peril their chances of the plate by any considerations for the

sufferings of the animal that carried them. But the condition of the

factory operatives, since the introduction of the Ten Hours' Bill--and,

perhaps, partly through the earnest public discussions which led to

that enactment--has visibly begun to improve. Benevolent and just men,

who own mills, have, of their own accord, in many honourable instances,

paid a more liberal attention to the welfare of their workpeople

even than the provisions of the law demanded: and those mill-owners

whose only care for their operatives was bounded by a desire to wring

as much work as possible out of them for as little pay as possible,

were compelled to fulfil certain humane regulations, which their own

sympathies would have been slow to concede. The hours of factory labour

are now systematically shortened; and the operatives are not even so

drunken, riotous, and ignorant, as when they were wrought from bed-time

to bed-time. Books and schools, and salutary recreation, and social

comfort, are more fashionable among them than they used to be--partly

because they are more practicable things to them than before. The

mills themselves are now healthier than formerly; factory labour is

restricted to children of a reasonable age; and elementary education is

now, by a wisdom worthy of extension, administered through the impulse

of the law, to all children of a certain age in factories.

Heywood is altogether of too modern an origin to contain any buildings

interesting to the admirer of ancient architecture. The only places in

Heywood around which an antiquarian would be likely to linger, with

anything like satisfaction, would be the little episcopal chapel in the

market-place, founded in the seventeenth century; and Heywood Hall,

which stands about half a mile from the town, and of which more anon.

With these exceptions, there is probably not one building in the place

two hundred years old.

The appearance of Heywood, whether seen in detail or as a whole,

presents as complete, unrelieved, and condensed an epitome of

the still-absorbing spirit of manufacture in the region where it

originated, as can be found anywhere in Lancashire. And, in all its

irregular main street consisting of more than a mile of brick-built

shops and cottages--together with the little streets and alleys

diverging therefrom--there does not appear even one modern building

remarkable for taste, or for any other distinguishing excellence,

sufficient to induce an ordinary man to halt and admire it for a

minute. There is not even an edifice characterised by any singularity

whatever, calculated to awaken wonder or curiosity in an ordinary

beholder, except its great square, brick cotton mills, machine shops,

and the like; and when the outside of one of these has been seen,

the outside of the remainder is no novelty. The heights and depths

principally cultivated in Heywood appear to be those of factory

chimneys and coal-pits. Of course, the interiors of the mills teem

with mechanical wonders and ingenuities; and the social life and

characteristics of the population are full of indigenous interest. But

the general exterior of the town exhibits a dull and dusky succession

of manufacturing sameness. Its inns, with one or two exceptions, look

like jerry-shops; and its places of worship like warehouses. A living

writer has said of the place, that it looks like a great funeral on its

way from Bury to Rochdale--between which towns it is situated midway.

When seen from any neighbouring elevation, on a dull day, this strong

figure hardly exaggerates the truth. The whole life of Heywood seems to

be governed by the ring of factory bells--at least, much more than by

any other bells. The very dwelling-houses look as if they, too, worked

in the factories. To persons accustomed to the quaint prettiness of

well-regulated English rural villages, and the more natural hue and

general appearance of the people in such places, the inhabitants of

Heywood would, at first sight, have somewhat of a sallow appearance,

and their houses would appear to be slightly smeared with a mixture of

soot, sperm oil, and cotton fluz. And, if such observers knew nothing

of the real character and habits of the population, they would be slow

to believe them a people remarkably fond of cleanliness and of homely

comfort, as far as compatible with the nature of their employment. A

close examination of these Heywood cottages would show, however, that

their insides are more clean and comfortable than the first glance

at their outsides might suggest; and would also reveal many other

things not discreditable to the native disposition of the people who

dwell in them. But the architecture and general characteristics of

Heywood, as a town, evince no taste, no refinement, nor even public

spirit of liberality, commensurate with its wealth and energy. The

whole population seems yet too wrapt in its manufacturing dream, to

care much about the general adornment of the place, or even about

any very effective diffusion of those influences which tend to the

improvement of the health and the culture of the nobler faculties of

the people. But Heywood may yet emerge from its apprenticeship to blind

toil; and, wiping the dust from its eyes, look forth towards things

quite as essential as this unremitting fight for bread for the day.

At present, wherever one wanders among the streets on week-days, the

same manufacturing indications present themselves. It is plain that its

people are nearly all employed in one way, directly or indirectly. This

is suggested, not only by the number and magnitude of the mills, and

the habitations of the people, but by every movement on the streets.

Every vehicle that passes; every woman and child about the cottages;

every lounger in the market-place tells the same story. One striking

feature of week-day life in Heywood, more completely even than in many

other kindred towns, is the clock-work punctuality with which the

operative crowds rush from the mills, and hurry along the streets,

at noon, to their dinners; sauntering back again in twos and threes,

or speeding along in solitary haste, to get within the mill-doors in

time for that re-awakening boom of the machinery which is seldom on

the laggard side of its appointment. And it is not only in the dress

and manners of this body of factory operatives--in their language and

deportment, and the prevailing hue of their countenances--that the

character and influence of their employment is indicated; but also

in a modified variety of the same features in the remainder of the

population, who are either immediately connected with these operatives,

or indirectly affected by the same manufacturing influences. I have

noticed, however, that factory operatives in country manufacturing

towns like Heywood have a more wholesome appearance, both in dress and

person, than the same class in Manchester. Whether this arises from any

difference in the atmosphere, or from more healthy habits of factory

operatives in the country than those induced among the same class by

the temptations of a town like Manchester, I cannot say.

In the course of the year, there are two very ancient festivals kept

up, each with its own quaint peculiarities, by the Heywood people;

and commemorated by them with general rejoicing and cessation from

labour. One of these is the "Rush-bearing," held in the month of

August--an old feast which seems to have died out almost everywhere

else in England, except in Lancashire. Here, in Heywood, however, as

in many other towns of the county, this ancient festival is still

observed, with two or three days' holiday and hilarity. The original

signification of this annual "Rush-bearing," and some of the old

features connected with the ceremony, such as the bearing of the

rushes, with great rejoicing, to the church, and the strewing of

them upon the earthen floor of the sacred fane, have long since died

out. The following passage is taken from a poem called "The Village

Festival," written by Elijah Ridings, a living author, of local

celebrity, and is descriptive of the present characteristics of a

Lancashire "Rush-bearing," as he had seen it celebrated in his native

village of Newton, between Manchester and Oldham:--

When wood and barn-owls loudly shout,

As if were near some rabble rout;

When beech-trees drop the yellow leaf,

A type of human hope and grief;

When little wild flowers leave the sun,

Their pretty love-tasks being done;

And nature, with exhaustless charms,

Lets summer die in autumn's arms:

There is a merry, happy time,

With which I'll grace my simple rhyme:--

The wakes--the wakes--the jocund wakes!

My wand'ring memory forsakes

The present busy scene of things,

And soars away on fancy's wings,

For olden times, with garlands crown'd,

And rush-carts green on many a mound,

In hamlet bearing a great name,[21]

The first in astronomic fame;

With buoyant youth and modest maid,

Skipping along the green-sward glade,

With laughing eyes and ravished sight,

To share once more the old delight!

Oh! now there comes--and let's partake--

Brown nuts, spice bread, and Eccles cake;[22]

There's flying-boxes, whirligigs,

And sundry rustic pranks and rigs;

With old "Chum"[23] cracking nuts and jokes,

To entertain the country folks;

But more, to earn a honest penny,

And get a decent living, any--

Aye, any an humble, striving way,

Than do what shuns the light of day.

Behold the rush-cart, and the throng

Of lads and lasses pass along!

Now watch the nimble morris-dancers,

Those blithe, fantastic antic-prancers,

Bedeck'd with gaudiest profusion

Of ribbons, in a gay confusion

Of brilliant colours, richest dyes,

Like wings of moths and butterflies;

Waving white kerchiefs here and there,

And up and down, and everywhere;

Springing, bounding, gaily skipping,

Deftly, briskly, no one tripping;

All young fellows, blithe and hearty,

Thirty couples in the party;

And on the footpaths may be seen

Their sweethearts from each lane, and green

And cottage home; all fain to see

This festival of rural glee;

The love-betrothed, the fond heart-plighted,

And with the witching scene delighted

In modest guise, and simple graces,

With roses blushing on their faces;

Ah! what denotes, or what bespeaks

Love more than such sweet apple-cheeks?

Behold the strong-limbed horses stand,

The pride and boast of English land,

Fitted to move in shafts or chains,

With plaited, glossy tails and manes:

Their proud heads each a garland wears

Of quaint devices--suns and stars;

And roses, ribbon-wrought, abound;

_The silver plate_,[24] one hundred pound,

With green oak boughs the cart is crowned,

The strong, gaunt horses shake the ground.

Now, see, the welcome host appears,

And thirsty mouths the ale-draught cheers;

Draught after draught is quickly gone--

"Come; here's a health to everyone!"

Away with care and doleful thinking,

The cup goes round; what hearty drinking!

While many a youth the lips is smacking,

And the two drivers' whips are cracking;

Now, strike up music, the old tune;

And louder, quicker, old bassoon;

Come, bustle, lads, for one dance more,

And then _cross-morris_ three times o'er.

Another jug--see how it foams--

And next the brown October comes;

Full five years old, the host declares,

And if you doubt it, loudly swears

That it's the best in any town--

Tenpenny ale, the real nut-brown.

And who was he, that jovial fellow,

With his strong ale so old and mellow?

A huge, unwieldy man was he,

Like Falstaff, fat and full of glee;

With belly like a thirty-six[25]

(Now, reader, your attention fix),

In loose habiliments he stands,

Broad-shouldered, and with brawny hands;

Good humour beaming in his eye,

And the old, rude simplicity;

Ever alive for rough or smooth,

That rare old fellow, Bill o' Booth![26]

[21] The village of _Newton_, on Newton Heath, near Manchester.

[22] A kind of spiced cake, for which the village of Eccles, near

Manchester, is famous.

[23] A quaint old vendor of nuts and Eccles cakes, who used to be well

known at Lancashire wakes and fairs.

[24] Much valuable silver plate is sometimes lent by the inhabitants

of Lancashire villages, to adorn the front of their native rush-cart

during its annual peregrinations.

[25] A thirty-six gallon barrel.

[26] He was the landlord of an old road-side inn, on Newton Heath,

with a pleasant bowling-green behind it. The house is still known as

"Bill o' Booth's."