The other is a famous old festival here, as well as in the neighbouring

town of Bury. It is a peculiarly local one, also; for, I believe, it

is not celebrated anywhere else in England except in these two towns.

It begins on Mid-Lent Sunday, or "Simblin-Sunday," as the people of

the district call it, from the name of a spiced cake which is prepared

for this feast in great profusion, and in the making of which there

is considerable expense and rivalry shown. On "Simblin-Sunday," the

two towns of Bury and Heywood swarm with visitors from the surrounding

country, and "simblins" of extraordinary size and value are exhibited

in the shop windows. The festival is kept up during two or three days

of the ensuing week. In the Rev. W. Gaskell's interesting lectures on

the "Lancashire Dialect," the following passage occurs relative to

this "Simblin-Cake:"--"As you are aware there is a kind of cake for

which the town of Bury is famous, and which gives its name in these

parts to Mid-Lent Sunday--I mean 'symnel.' Many curious and fanciful

derivations have been found for this; but I feel no doubt that we must

look for its true origin to the Anglo-Saxon 'simble' or 'simle,' which

means a feast, or 'symblian,' to banquet. 'Simnel' was evidently some

kind of the finest bread. From the chronicle of Battle Abbey, we learn

that, in proof of his regard for the monks, the Conqueror granted for

their daily uses thirty-six ounces of 'bread fit for the table of a

king,' which is called _simenel_; and Roger de Hoveden mentions, among

the provisions allowed to the Scotch King, at the Court of England,

'twelve _simenels_.' 'Banquet bread,' therefore, would seem to come

very near the meaning of this word. I may just observe in passing, that

the baker's boy who, in the reign of Henry VII., personated the Earl of

Warwick was most likely called 'Lambert Simnel,' as a sort of nickname

derived from his trade."[27]

The amusements, or what may be called the leisure-habits, of the

factory population in Lancashire manufacturing towns are much alike.

Some are sufficiently jaded when their day's work is done, or are too

apathetic by nature to engage heartily in anything requiring further

exertion of body or mind. There are many, however, who, when they

leave the factory in the evening, go with a kind of renovating glee to

the reading of such books as opportunity brings within their reach,

or to the systematic prosecution of some chosen study, such as music,

botany, mechanics, or mathematics, which are favourite sciences among

the working people of Lancashire. And even among the humblest there

are often shrewd and well-read, if not extensively-read, politicians,

chiefly of the Cobbett school. But the greatest number occupy their

leisure with rude physical sports, or those coarser indulgences

which, in a place like Heywood, are more easily got at than books and

schools, especially by that part of the people who have been brought

up in toilful ignorance of these elements. The tap-room is the most

convenient school and meeting-place for these; and the tap-rooms are

numerous, and well attended. There, factory lads congregate nightly,

clubbing their pence for cheap ale, and whiling the night hours away

in coarse ribaldry and dominoes, or in vigorous contention in the art

of single step-dancing, upon the ale-house hearth-stone. This single

step-dancing is a favourite exercise with them; and their wooden

clogs are often very neatly made for the purpose, lacing closely up

to above the ankle, and ornamented with a multitude of bright brass

lace holes. The quick, well-timed clatter upon the tap-room flags

generally tells the whereabouts of such dancing haunts to a stranger

as he goes along the streets; and, if he peeps into one of them, he

may sometimes see a knot of factory lads clustered about the tap-room

door inside, encouraging some favourite caperer with such exclamations

as, "Deawn wi' thi fuut, Robin! Crack thi rags, owd dog!" The chief

out-door sports of the working class are foot-racing, and jumping

matches; and sometimes foot-ball and cricket. Wrestling, dog-fighting,

and cock-fighting are not uncommon; but they are more peculiar to

the hardier population outside the towns. Now and then, a rough

"up-and-down" fight takes place, at an ale-house door, or brought off,

more systematically, in a nook of the fields. This rude and ancient

manner of personal combat is graphically described by Samuel Bamford,

in his well-known "Passages in the Life of a Radical." The moors north

of Heywood afford great sport in the grouse season. Some of the local

gentry keep harriers; and now and then, a "foomart-hunt" takes place,

with the long-eared dogs, whose mingled music, when heard from the

hill-sides, sounds like a chime of bells in the distant valley. The

entire population, though engaged in manufacture, evinces a hearty

love of the fields and field sports, and a strong tincture of the

rough simplicity, and idiomatic quaintness of their forefathers, or

"fore-elders," as they often call them. In an old fold near Heywood,

there lived a man a few years since, who was well known thereabouts

as a fighter. The lads of the hamlet were proud of him as a local

champion. Sometimes he used to call at a neighbouring ale-house, to

get a gill, and have a "bout" with anybody worth the trouble, for our

hero had a sort of chivalric dislike to spending his time on "wastrils"

unworthy of his prowess. When he chanced to be seen advancing from

the distance, the folk in the house used to say, "Hellho! so-and-so's

coming; teen th' dur!" whereupon the landlord would reply, "Nawe,

nawe! lev it oppen, or else he'll punce it in! But yo'n no casion to

be fleyed, for he's as harmless as a chylt to aught at's wayker nor

his-sel!" He is said to have been a man of few words, except when

roused to anger; when he uttered terrible oaths, with great vehemence.

The people of his neighbourhood say that he once swore so heavily when

in a passion, that a plane-tree, growing at the front of his cottage,

withered away from that hour. Most Lancashire villages contain men

of this stamp--men of rude, strong frame and temper, whose habits,

manners, and even language, smack a little of the days of Robin Hood.

Yet, it is not uncommon to find them students of botany and music,

and fond of little children. Jane Clough, a curious local character,

died at a great age, near Heywood, about a year and a half ago. Jane

was a notable country botanist, and she had many other characteristics

which made her remarkable. She was born upon Bagslate Heath, a

moorland tract, up in the hills, to the north-east of Heywood. I well

remember that primitive country amazon, who, when I was a lad, was

such an old-world figure upon the streets of Rochdale and Heywood.

Everybody knew Jane Clough. She was very tall, and of most masculine

face and build of body; with a clear, healthy complexion. She was

generally drest in a strong, old-fashioned blue woollen bedgown, and

thick petticoats of the same stuff. She wore a plain but very clean

linen cap upon her head, loosely covered with a silk kerchief; and

her foot-gear was heavy clouted shoon, or wooden clogs, suitable to

her rough country walks, her great strength, and masculine habits.

Botany was always a ruling passion with old moorland Jane. She was the

queen of all flower-growers in humble life upon her native ground;

especially in the cultivation of the polyanthus, auricula, tulip, and

"ley," or carnation. Jane was well known at all the flower shows of the

neighbourhood, where she was often a successful exhibitor; and though

she was known as a woman of somewhat scrupulous moral character--and

there are many anecdotes illustrative of this--yet she was almost

equally well known at foot-races and dog-battles, or any other kind of

battles; for which she not unfrequently held the stakes.

[27] The following note is attached to this passage, in Mr. Gaskell's

lectures:--"That noble master of language, Walter Savage Landor, who

has done me the honour to refer to my lecture in the _Examiner_, says

of this word 'symble,' a feast, it is very likely 'symbslum,' which

means the same, in form of pic-nic; and adds, 'In Tuscany a fine cake

is called _semolino_. When I was a boy at Rugby, I remember a man from

Banbury who sold _simnels_, very eatable. The interior was not unlike

_mince-pie_ without fat, but flavoured with saffron; the exterior was

hard, smooth, and yellow.'"

There used to be many a "hush-shop," or house for the sale of

unlicensed drink, about Heywood; and if the district was thrown into

a riddle, they would turn up, now and then, yet; especially in the

outskirts of the town, and up towards the hills. These are generally

sly spots, where fuddlers, who like ale for its own sake, can steal

in when things are quiet, and get their fill at something less than

the licensed price; or carry off a bottle-full into the fields, after

the gloaming has come on. Of course hush-shop tipplers could not often

indulge in that noisy freedom of speech, nor in those wild bursts of

bacchanalian activity vulgarly known by the name of "hell's delight,"

of which licensed ale-houses are sometimes the scenes; and where the

dangerous Lancashire ale-house game, called "Th' Bull upo' th' Bauk,"

has sometimes finished a night of drunken comedy with a touch of real

tragedy. The most suitable customers for the "hush-shop" were quiet,

steady soakers, who cared for no other company than a full pitcher;

and whose psalm of life consisted of scraps of drinking-songs like the

following, trolled out in a low chuckling tone:--

O good ale, thou art my darling,

I love thee night, I love thee morning,

I love thee new, I love thee old;

I love thee warm, I love thee cold!

Oh! good ale!

There is an old drinking-song just re-published in "The Songs of the

Dramatists," which was printed in 1575, in Bishop Still's comedy of

"Gammer Gurton's Needle," though probably known earlier. Fragments of

this song are still known and sung in the north of England. The burden

runs thus in a Lancashire version:--

Back and side, go bare, go bare,

Fuut and hond, go coud;

But bally, God send thee good ale enough,

Whether it's yung or owd!

Having glanced in this brief way at the progress of Heywood, from the

time when it first began to give a human interest to the locality, as a

tiny hamlet, about the end of the fifteenth century, up to its present

condition, as a cotton-spinning town of twenty thousand inhabitants,

surrounded by a district alive with manufacturing activities, I will

return to the narrative of my visit to the place, as it fell on one

fine afternoon about the end of June.

We had come round from the railway station, along the southern edge

of the town, and through the fields, by a footpath which led us into

Heywood about one hundred yards from the old chapel in the middle of

the place. The mills were stopped. Country people were coming into

town to do their errands, and a great part of the working population

appeared to be sauntering along the main street, stopping at the

shops, to make their markets as they went along; or casting about

for their Saturday night's diversion, and gazing from side to side,

to see what could be seen. Clusters of factory girls were gathered

about the drapers' windows. These girls were generally clean and

tidy; and, not unfrequently, there were very intelligent and pretty

countenances amongst them. The older part of the factory operatives,

both men and women, had often a staid and jaded look. The shops were

busy with customers buying clothing, or food, or cheap publications;

and the ale-houses were getting lively. A little company of young

"factory chaps" were collected about a bookseller's shop, near the

old "Queen Anne," looking out for news, or pictures; or reading the

periodicals exposed in the windows. Now and then, a select straggler

wended his way across the road to change his "library-book" at the

Mechanics' Institution. There was considerable stir lower down the

street, where a noisy band of music was marching along, followed by an

admiring multitude. And, amongst the whole, a number of those active,

mischief-loving lads, so well known in every manufacturing town by the

name of "doffers," were clattering about, and darting after one another

among the crowd, as blithe as if they had never known what work was. We

crossed through the middle of the town, and went down the north road

into an open tract of meadow land, towards the residence of mine host.

The house was pleasantly situated in a garden, about two stones' throw

from the edge of Heywood, in the wide level of grass land called

"Yewood Ho' Greyt Meadow." The road goes close by the end of the

garden. We entered this garden by a little side gate, and on we went,

under richly-blossomed apple trees, and across the grass-plat, into

the house. The old housekeeper began to prepare tea for us; and, in

the meantime, we made ourselves at home in the parlour, which looked

out upon the garden and meadows at the front. Mine host sat down to

the piano, and played some of that fine old psalmody which the country

people of Lancashire take such delight in. His family consisted of

himself, a staid-looking old housekeeper, and his two motherless

children. One of these was a timid, bright-eyed little girl, with long

flaxen hair, who, as we came through the garden, was playing with her

hoop upon the grass-plat, under the blooming apple trees; but who, on

seeing a stranger, immediately sank into a shy stillness. The other

was a contemplative lad, about thirteen, with a Melancthon style of

countenance. I found him sitting in the parlour, absorbed in "Roderick

Random." As soon as tea was over, we went out in the cool of the

evening, to see the daylight die upon the meadows around. We could hear

the stir of Saturday night life in the town. Through the parlour window

we had caught glimpses of the weird flittings of a large bat; and, as

we stood bare-headed in the garden, it still darted to and fro about

the eaves, in dusky, vivid motions. As the cool night stole on, we went

in, and the shutters closed us from the scene. We lingered over supper,

talking of what newspaper writers call "the topics of the day," and of

books, and local characters and customs; and about half an hour before

midnight we crept off to bed.

When I rose from bed, and looked through the window of my chamber,

the rich haze of a cloudless midsummer morning suffused the air.

The sunshine lay glittering all over the dewy fields; for the fiery

steeds of Phoebus had not yet drunk up those springs "on chaliced

flowers that lie." The birds had been up many an hour, and were

carolling and chirping gleefully about the eaves of the house, and in

the gardens. The splendour of the day had touched even the dull town

on the opposite ridge with its beautifying magic; and Heywood seemed

to rest from its labours, and rejoice in the gladness which clothed

the heavens and the earth. The long factory chimneys, which had been

bathing their smokeless tops all night in the cool air, now looked up

serenely through the sunshine at the blue sky, as if they, too, were

glad to get rid of the week-day fume, and gaze quietly again upon the

loveliness of nature; and all the whirling spinning machinery of the

town was lying still and silent as the over-arching heavens. Another

Sabbath had dawned upon the world; and that day of God, and god of

days, was breathing its balm among the sons of toil once more.

Man has another day to swell the past,

And lead him near to little, but his last;

But mighty nature bounds as from her birth;

The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth;

Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam,

Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream.

Immortal man! behold her glories shine,

And cry, exulting inly, "They are mine!"

Gaze on, while yet thy gladden'd eye may see;

A morrow comes when they are not for thee.

It was a feast to the senses and to the soul to look round upon such

a scene at such a time, with the faculties fresh from repose, and

conscious of reprieve from that relentless round of necessities that

follow them, hot-foot, through the rest of the week. As I dressed

myself, I heard mine host's little daughter begin to play "Rosseau's

Dream," in the parlour below, and I went down stairs humming a sort of

accompaniment to the tune; for it is a sweet and simple melody, which

chimed well with the tone of the hour. The shy musician stayed her

fingers, and rose timidly from her seat, as I entered the room; but a

little coaxing induced her to return to it, and she played the tune

over and over again for us, whilst the morning meal was preparing.

Breakfast was soon over, and the youngsters dressed themselves for

chapel, and left us to ourselves; for the one small bell of Heywood

chapel was going "Toll--toll--toll;" and straggling companies of

children were wending up the slope from the fields towards their Sunday

schools. Through the parlour window, I watched these little companies

of country children--so fresh, so glad, and sweet-looking--and as they

went their way, I thought of the time when I, too, used to start from

home on a Sunday morning, dressed in my holiday suit, clean as a new

pin from top to toe; and followed to the door with a world of gentle

admonitions. I thought of some things I learned "while standing at my

mother's knee;" of the little prayer and the blessing at bed time; of

the old solemn tunes which she used to sing when all the house was

still, whilst I sat and listened, drinking in those plaintive strains

of devotional melody, never to forget them more.

We were now alone in the silent house, and there was a Sabbatical

stillness all around. The sunshine gleamed in at the windows and open

doors; and, where we sat, we could smell the odours of the garden, and

hear the birds outside. We walked forth into the garden, among beds

of flowers, and blooming apple trees. We could hear the chirrup of

children's voices, still, going up the road, towards the town. From

the woods round Heywood Hall, there came over the meadows a thrilling

flood of music from feathered singers, sporting in those leafy shades.

All nature was at morning service: and it was good to listen to this

general canticle of praise to Him "whose service is perfect freedom."

A kind of hushed joy seemed to pervade the landscape, which did not

belong to any other day, however fine--as if the hills and vales knew

it was Sunday. To the wisest men, the whole universe is one place of

worship, and the whole course of human life a divine service. The man

who has a susceptible heart, and loves nature, will find renovation

in communion with her, no matter what troubles may disturb him in the

world of man's life:--

For she can so inform

The mind that is within us, so impress

With quietness and beauty, and so feed

With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,

Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,

Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all

The dreary intercourse of daily life

Shall e'er prevail against us or disturb

Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold

Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon

Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;

And let the misty-mountain winds be free

To blow against thee.

The back yard of the house, in which we were sauntering, was divided

from the woods of Heywood Hall by a wide level of rich meadows; and the

thick foliage which lapped the mansion from view, looked an inviting

shelter from the heat of a cloudless midsummer forenoon--a place where

we could wander about swardy plots and lawns, among embowered nooks

and mossy paths--bathing in the coolness of green shades, in which

a multitude of birds were waking the echoes with a sweet tumult of

blending melodies. Being disposed for a walk, we instinctively took the

way thitherward. The high road from the town goes close by the front

gates of the hall. This road was formerly lined by a thick grove of

trees, called "Th' Lung Nursery," reaching nearly from the edge of

the village to the gates. The grove so shut out the view, and overhung

each side of the way, that the walk between looked lonely after dark;

and country folk, who had been loitering late over their ale, in

Heywood, began to toot from side to side, with timid glances, and stare

with fear at every rustle of the trees, when they came to "Th' Lung

Nursery." Even if two were in company, they hutched closer together

as they approached this spot, and began to be troubled with vivid

remembrances of manifold past transgressions, and to make internal

resolutions to "Fear God, an' keep th' co'sey," thenceforth, if they

could only manage to "hit th' gate" this once, and get safely through

the nursery, and by the water-stead in Hooley Clough, where "Yewood Ho'

Boggart comes a-suppin' i'th deeod time o'th neet." This road was then,

also, flanked on each side by a sprawling thorn-edge, overgrown with

wild mint, thyme, and nettles; and with thistles, brambles, stunted

hazles, and wild rose bushes; with wandering honeysuckles weaving about

through the whole. It was full of irregular dinges, and "hare-gates,"

and holes, from which clods had been riven; and perforated by winding

tunnels and runs, where the mole, the weasel, the field-mouse, and the

hedgehog wandered at will. Among the thorns at the top, there was many

an erratic, scratchy breach, the result of the incursions of country

herbalists, hunters, bird-nesters, and other roamers of the woods and

fields. It was one of those old-fashioned hedges which country lads

delight in; where they could creep to and fro, in a perfect revel of

freedom and fun, among brushwood and prickles, with no other impediment

than a wholesome scratching; and where they could fight and tumble

about gloriously, among nettles, mint, mugwort, docks, thistles,

sorrel, "Robin-run-i'th-hedge," and a multitude of other wild herbs

and flowers, whose names and virtues it would puzzle even a Culpepper

to tell; rough and free as so many snod-backed modiwarps--ripping and

tearing, and soiling their "good clooas," as country mothers used to

call them, by tumbling among the dry soil of the hedge-side, and then

rolling slap into the wet ditch at the bottom, among "cuckoo-spit," and

"frog-rud," and all sorts of green pool-slush; to the dismay of sundry

limber-tailed "Bull-Jones," and other necromantic fry that inhabit

such stagnant moistures. Some looked for nests, and some for nuts,

while others went rustling up the trees, trying the strength of many

a bough; and all were blithe and free as the birds among the leaves,

until the twilight shades began to fall. Whilst the sun was still in

the sky, they thought little about those boggarts, and "fairees,"

and "feeorin'," which, according to local tradition, roam the woods,

and waters, and lonely places; sometimes with the malevolent intent

of luring into their toil any careless intruder upon their secluded

domain. Some lurking in the streams and pools, like "Green Teeth,"

and "Jenny Long Arms," waiting, with skinny claws, for an opportunity

to clutch the wanderer upon the bank into the water. Others, like

"Th' White Lady," "Th' Skrikin' Woman," "Baum Rappit," "Grizlehurst

Boggart," and "Clegg Ho' Boggart," haunting lonely nooks of the green

country, and old houses, where they have made many a generation of

simple folk pay a toll of superstitious fear for some deed of darkness

done in the dim past. Others, like "Nut Nan," prowling about shady

recesses of the woods, "wi' a poke-full o' red-whot yetters, to brun

nut-steylers their e'en eawt." But, when dusky evening began to steal

over the fading scene, and the songs of birds, and all the sounds of

day began to die upon the ear--when the droning beetle, and the bat

began to flit about; and busy midges danced above the road, in mazy

eddies, and spiral columns, between the eye and the sky; then the

superstitious teachings of their infancy began to play about the mind;

and, mustering their traps, the lads turned their feet homeward, tired,

hungry, scratched, dirty, and pleased; bearing away with them--in

addition to sundry griping feeds of unripe dogberry, which they had

eaten from the hedge-sides--great store of hazlenuts, and earth-nuts;

hips and haws; little whistles, made of the bark of the wicken tree;

slips of the wild rose, stuck in their caps and button-holes; yellow

"skedlocks," and whiplashes made of plaited rushes; and sometimes,

also, stung-up eyes and swollen cheeks, the painful trophies of

encounters with the warlike inhabitants of "wasp-nests," unexpectedly

dropped on, in the course of their frolic.

Oh! sweet youth; how soon it fades;

Sweet joys of youth, how fleeting!

The road home was beguiled with clod-battles, "Frog-leap," and "Bob

Stone," finishing with "Trinel," and "High Cockolorum," as they drew

near their quarters. The old hedge and the nursery have been cleared

away, and now the fertile meadows lie open to the view, upon each side

of the way.

On arriving at the entrance which leads to Heywood Hall, we turned

in between the grey gate-pillars. They had a lone and disconsolate

appearance. The crest of the Starkies is gone from the top; and the

dismantled shafts look conscious of their shattered fortunes. The

wooden gate--now ricketty and rotten--swung to and fro with a grating

sound upon its rusty hinges, as we walked up the avenue of tall trees,

towards the hall. The old wood was a glorious sight, with the flood of

sunshine stealing through its fretted roof of many-patterned foliage,

in freakish threads and bars, which played beautifully among the

leaves, weaving a constant interchange of green and gold within that

pleasant shade, as the plumage of the wood moved with the wind. The

scene reminded me of a passage in Spencer's "Faëry Queene:"--

And all within were paths and alleies wide,

With footing worne and leading inward farre:

Faire harbour that them seems: so in they entred ar.

We went on under the trees, along the carriage road, now tinged with a

creeping hue of green; and past the old garden, with its low, bemossed

brick wall; and, after sauntering to and fro among a labyrinth of

footpaths, which wind about the cloisters of this leafy cathedral,

we came to the front of the hall. It stands tenantless and silent in

the midst of its ancestral woods, upon the brow of a green eminence,

overlooking a little valley, watered by the Roch. The landscape was

shut out from us by the surrounding trees; and the place was as still

as a lonely hermitage in the heart of an old forest. The tread of our

feet upon the flagged terrace in front of the mansion resounded upon

the ear. We peeped through the windows, where the rooms were all empty;

but the state of the walls and floors, and the remaining mirrors,

showed that some care was still bestowed upon this deserted hall. Ivy

hung thickly upon some parts of the straggling edifice, which has

evidently been built at different periods; though, so far as I could

judge, the principal part of it appears to be about two hundred years

old. When manufacture began greatly to change the appearance of the

neighbouring village and its surrounding scenery, the Starkies left

the place; and a wooded mound, in front of the hall, was thrown up and

planted, by order of the widow of the last Starkie who resided here,

in order to shut from sight the tall chimneys which were rising up

in the distance. A large household must have been kept here in the

palmy days of the Starkies. The following passage, relative to the

ancient inhabitants of Heywood Hall, is quoted from Edwin Butterworth's

"History of the Town of Heywood and its Vicinity:"--

A family bearing this name flourished here for many generations;

but they were never of much note in county genealogy, though more

than one were active in public affairs. In 1492 occurs Robert de

Heywode. In the brilliant reign of Elizabeth, Edmund Heywood,

Esq., was required, by an order dated 1574, to furnish "a coate

of plate, a long bowe, sheffe of arrows, steel cap, and bill,

for the military musters."[28] James Heywood, gent., was living

before 1604. Peter Heywood, Esq., a zealous magistrate, the

representative of this family in the reigns of James the First

and Charles the First, was a native and resident of 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, Nov. 5, 1605.

He probably accompanied Sir Thomas Kneuett, in his search of the

cellars under the parliament house. In 1641, "an order was issued

that the justices of the peace of Westminster should carefully

examine what strangers were lodged within their jurisdiction;

and that they should administer the oaths of allegiance and

supremacy to all suspected of recusancy, and proceed according

to those statutes. An afternoon being appointed for that service

in Westminster hall, and many persons warned to appear there,

amongst the rest one ---- James, a Papist, appeared, and being

pressed by Mr. Hayward (Heywood), a justice of the peace, to take

the oaths, suddenly drew out his knife and stabbed him; with some

reproachful words, 'for persecuting poor Catholics.' This strange,

unheard-of outrage upon the person of a minister of justice,

executing his office by an order of parliament, startled all men;

the old man sinking with the hurt, though he died not of it. And

though, for aught I could ever hear, it proceeded only from the

rage of a sullen varlet (formerly suspected to be crazed in his

understanding), without the least confederacy or combination with

any other, yet it was a great countenance to those who were before

thought over apprehensive and inquisitive into dangers; and made

many believe it rather a design of all the Papists of England,

than a desperate act of one man, who could never have been induced

to it, if he had not been promised assistance by the rest,"[29]

Such is Lord Clarendon's account of an event that has rendered

Peter Heywood a person of historical note; how long he survived

the attempt to assassinate him is not stated.

It is highly probable that Mr. Heywood had imbibed an undue

portion of that anti-Catholic zeal which characterised the times

in which he lived, and that he was the victim of those rancorous

animosities which persecution never fails to engender.

Peter Heywood, of Heywood, Esq., was one of the gentlemen of the

county who compounded for the recovery of their estates, which

had been sequestrated 1643-5, for supporting the royal cause. He

seems to have been a son of the Mr. Heywood that was stabbed; he

re-obtained his property for the sum of £351.[30]

The next of this family on record is Peter _Heiwood_, Esq., who

was one of the "counsellors of Jamaica" during the commonwealth.

One of his sons, Peter _Heiwood_, Esq., was commemorated by an

inscription on a flat stone in the chancel of the church of St.

Anne's-in-the-Willows, Aldersgate-ward, London, as follows:--

"Peter Heiwood, that deceased Nov. 2, 1701, younger son of Peter

Heiwood, one of the counsellours of Jamaica, by Grace, daughter of

Sir John Muddeford, Knight and Baronet, great grandson to Peter

Heywood, in the county palatine of Lancaster; who apprehended Guy

Faux with his dark lanthorn; and for his zealous prosecution of

Papists, as justice of peace, was stabbed in Westminster hall, by

John James, Dominican friar, anno. domini. 1640.

"Reader, if not a papist bred,

Upon such ashes gently tread."[31]

[28] Harl. MSS. 1,926. There is a pedigree of this family in

Dodsworth's MSS. Bodleian Lib. vol. lxxix.

[29] Clarendon's "History of the Rebellion," edit. 1714, v. 1, p. 196.

[30] Baines's 4to. "Hist. Lancashire," v. 1, p. 586: v. 2, p. 676.

12mo: v. 1, p. 55. Adams's Cat. of Lords, &c., who compounded for

their estates, p. 51.

[31] Survey of London, by Stowe, Strype's edition, 1720, vol 1, fol.

102.

Robert Heywood, of Heywood, Esq., married Mary Haslam, of

Rochdale, Dec. 20, 1660; and was probably elder brother of Peter

_Heiwood_, of London.

In the visitation of 1664, are traced two lines of the Heywoods,

those of Heywood and Walton; from the latter was descended Samuel

Heywood, Esq., a Welch judge,[32] uncle of Sir Benjamin Heywood,

Baronet, of Claremont, near Manchester. The armorial bearing of

the Heywoods, of Heywood, was argent, three torteauxes, between

two bendlets gules.

The property of this ancient family, principally consisting of

Heywood Hall and adjoining lands, is said to have been purchased

by Mr. John Starkey, of the Orchard, in Rochdale, in the latter

part of the seventeenth or the beginning of the eighteenth

century. Mr. Starkey was living in 1719; his descendant, John

Starkey, Esq., married Mary, daughter of Joseph Gregge, Esq., of

Chamber Hall, Oldham. John Starkey, Esq., who died March 13, 1780,

was father of James Starkey, Esq., of Fell Foot, near Cartmel,

Lancashire, the present possessor of Heywood Hall, born September

8, 1762, married, September 2, 1785, Elizabeth, second daughter of

Edward Gregg Hopwood, Esq. In 1791, Mr. Starkey served the office

of high sheriff of the county. From this family branched the

Starkeys of Redivals, near Bury.

Heywood looks anything but picturesque, at present; but, judging from

the features of the country about the hall, especially on the north

side of it, this house must have been a very pleasant and retired

country seat about a century and a half ago.

Descending from the eminence, upon the northern edge of which Heywood

Hall is situated,--and which was probably the first inhabited

settlement hereabouts, at a time when the ground now covered by the

manufacturing town, was a tract of woods and thickets, wild swards,

turf moss, and swamps--we walked westward, along the edge of the Roch,

towards the manufacturing hamlet of Hooley Bridge. This valley, by the

water-side, has a sylvan and cultivated appearance. The quiet river

winds round the pastures of the hall, which slope down to the water,

from the shady brow upon which it stands. The opposite heights are

clad with woods and plantations; and Crimble Hall looks forth from

the lawns and gardens upon the summit. About a mile up this valley,

towards Rochdale town, in a quiet glen, lies the spot pointed out in

Roby's "Tradition" of "Tyrone's Bed," as the place where the famous

Irish rebel, Hugh O'Niel, Earl of Tyrone, lived in concealment some

time, during the reign of Elizabeth. Even at this day, country folks,

who know little or nothing of the tradition, know the place by the name

of "Yel's o' Thorone"--an evident corruption of the "Earl of Tyrone."

This was the Irish chieftain who burnt the poet Spenser out of his

residence, Rathcormac Castle. It was dinner time when we reached the

stone bridge at Hooley Clough; so we turned up the road towards home.

[32] Corry's Lancashire, v. 2, p. 619. In Dodsworth's MSS. Bodleian

Lib. v. cxvii. p. 163, is a record of Robert Heywood, Esq.

The youngsters and the dinner were waiting for us, when we got back to

the house. The little girl was rather more communicative than before;

and, after the meal was over, we had more music. But, while this was

going on, the lad stole away to some nook, with a book in his hand.

And, soon after, the master of the house and I found ourselves again

alone, smoking and talking together. I had enjoyed this summer day so

far, and was inclined to make the most of it; so, when dinner was over,

I went out at the back, and down by a thorn-edge, which divides the

meadows. I was soon followed by mine host, and we sauntered on together

till we came to a shelving hollow, in which a still pool lay gleaming

like a sun among the meadows. It looked cool, and brought the skies

to our feet. Sitting down upon its bank, we watched the reflection

of many a straggling cloud of gauzy white, sailing over its surface,

eastward. Little fishes, leaping up now and then, were the only things

which stirred the burnished mirror, for a second or two, into tiny

tremulations of liquid gold; and water-flies darted to and fro upon the

pool, like nimble fancies in a fertile mind. And thus we lazily enjoyed

the glory of a summer day in the fields; while

The lark was singing in the blinding sky,

And hedges were white with may.

After awhile, we drifted dreamily asunder, and I crept under the

shade of a fence hard by, to avoid the heat; and there lay on my

back, looking towards the sky, through my fingers, to keep sight of a

fluttering spot from which a skylark poured down its rain of melody

upon the fields around. My face was half buried in grass and meadow

herbs; and I fell asleep with them peeping about my eye-lids. After

half an hour's dreamy doze in the sun--during which my mind seemed to

have acted over a whole lifetime in masquerade--I woke up, and, shaking

the buzz of field-flies out of my ears, we gathered up our books, and

went into the house.

When it drew towards evening, we left the house again--for it was so

fine outside, that it seemed a pity to remain under cover longer than

necessary--and we walked through the village in Hooley Clough, and on,

northward, up hill, and down dell, until we came to a wild upland,

called "Birtle," which stretches away along the base of Ashworth Moor.

The sun was touching the top of the hills when we reached that elevated

tract; and the western heavens were glowing with the grandeur of his

decline as we walked across the fields towards an old hamlet called

"Grislehurst." Here we stayed a while, conversing with an ancient

cottager and his dame, about the history of their native corner, its

legendary associations, and other matters interesting to them and to

us. We left Grislehurst in the twilight, by a route which led through

the deeps of Simpson Clough, and on, homewards, just as the first lamps

of evening were lighting up; rejoicing in the approach of a cloudless

summer night, as we had rejoiced in the glorious day which had gone

down.

The next morning, I returned to Manchester; and, since that time, it

has often been a pleasure to me in the crowded city to recollect that

summer day, spent in the country north of the town of Heywood. Its

images never return to my memory but I wish to hold them there awhile.

Emerson says:--"Give me health and a day, and I will make the pomp of

emperors ridiculous. The dawn is my Assyria; the sunset and moonrise

my Paphos, and unimaginable realms of faërie; broad noon shall be

my England of the senses and the understanding; the night shall be

my Germany of mystic philosophy and dreams." If men had their eyes

open to the beauties and uses of those elements which are open to all

alike, and felt the grandeur of this earth, which is the common home of

the living, how much would it reconcile them to their differences of

position, and moderate their repinings at the superiority of this man's

housing, and that man's dress and diet.

Looking back at the present character and previous history of this

town of Heywood, there is some suggestive interest in both the one and

the other. The period of its existence--from the time when it first

arose, in an almost uncultivated spot, as an habitation of man, till

now--is contained in such a brief space, that to any man who cares to

consider the nature of its origin, and the character of the influences

which have combined to make it such as it now is, the materials for

guiding him to a comprehension of these things, lie almost as much

within his reach as if the place were a plant which he had put into

the soil for himself, and the growth of which he had occasionally

watched with interest. In this respect, although Heywood wears much

the same general appearance as other cotton-spinning towns, it has

something of a character of its own, different from most of those

towns of Lancashire, whose histories go back many centuries, often

through eventful changes, till they grow dim among the early records

of the kingdom in general. Unlike those, however, Heywood is almost

entirely the creation of the cotton trade, which itself arose out of

the combination of a few ingenious thoughts put into practice by a

people who seem to have been eminently fitted by nature to perceive

their value, and to act enterprisingly upon what they perceived. If

it had been possible for an intelligent man to have lifted himself

into mid air above Heywood, about two hundred years ago, when its

first cottages began to cluster into a little village, and to settle

himself comfortably upon a cloud, so as to be able to watch the growth

of the place below, with all the changing phases of its life from

then till now, it might present to him a different aspect, and lead

him to different conclusions to those engendered by people living and

moving among the swarms of human action. In the mind of such a serene

overlooker--distinctly observing the detail and the whole of the manner

of life beneath him, and fully comprehending the nature of the rise

and progress of this Lancashire town--many thoughts might arise, which

would not occur to those who creep about the crowded earth, full of

little perturbations. But, to almost any thoughtful man, the history

of this manufacturing town would illustrate the power which a little

practical knowledge gives to a practical people over the physical

elements of creation, as well as over that portion of the people who

have little or no education, and are, therefore, drifted hither and

thither by every wind of circumstance which wafts across the surface

of society. It might suggest, too, how much society is indebted, for

whatever force or excellence there is in it, to the scattered seeds

of silent thought which have quietly done their work among the noise

of action--for ever leading it on to still better action; and it

might suggest how much the character of the next generation depends

upon the education of the present one. Looking at this question of

education merely in that point of view in which it affects production,

the following passage, by an eminent advocate of education, shall

speak for itself:--"Prior to education, the productive power of the

six millions of workers in the United Kingdom would be the physical

force which they were capable of exerting. In the present day, the

power really exerted is equal to the force of a hundred millions of men

at least. But the power of the uneducated unit is still the physical

force of one man, the balance being exerted by men who understand the

principles of mechanics and of chemistry, and who superintend the

machine power evolved thereby. Thus the power originated by the few,

and superintended by a fraction of society, is seventeen times greater

than the strength of all our workers, and is hourly increasing." If a

man was a pair of steam looms, how carefully would he be oiled, and

tended, and mended, and made to do all that a pair of looms could do.

What a loom, full of miraculous faculties is he, compared to these--the

master-piece of nature for creative power, and for wonderful variety of

capabilities! yet, with what a profuse neglect he is cast away, like

the cheapest rubbish on earth!

The Grave of Grislehurst Boggart.

Thought-wrapt, he wandered in the breezy woods,

In which the summer, like a hermit, dwelt:

He laid him down by the old haunted springs

Up-bubbling, 'mid a world of greenery,

Shut-eyed, and dreaming of the fairest shapes

That roam the woods.

--ALEXANDER SMITH.

Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares,

Lest bogles catch him unawares.

--BURNS.

When one gets a few miles off any of the populous towns in Lancashire,

many an old wood, many a lonesome clough, many a quiet stream

and ancient building, is the reputed haunt of some local sprite,

or "boggart," or is enveloped in an atmosphere of dread by the

superstitions of the neighbourhood, as being the resort of fairies, or

"feeorin."[33] This is frequently the case in retired vales and nooks

lying between the towns. But it is particularly so in the hilly parts,

where the old manners of the people are little changed, and where many

homelets of past ages still stand in their old solitudes, and--like

their sparse population--retain many of their ancient characteristics.

In such places, the legends and superstitions of the forefathers of

Lancashire are cherished with a tenacity which would hardly be credible

to the inhabitants of great cities in these days. There, still lingers

the belief in witchcraft, and in the power of certain persons to do

ill, through peculiar connection with the evil one; and the belief,

also, that others--known as "witch-doctors"--are able to "rule the

spells," or counteract the malign intents of necromancy; and possess

secret charms which afford protection against the foul fiend and all

his brood of infernal agencies.

[33] _Feeorin_--fearful things.

A few years ago, I lived at an old farm, called "Peanock," up in the

hills, towards Blackstone Edge. At that time, a strong little fellow

about twenty-three years of age, called "Robin," was employed as

"keaw-lad" at the farm. Robin used to tell me tales of the witches

and boggarts of the neighbourhood. The most notable one of them all

was "Clegg Ho' Boggart," which is commemorated by the late Mr. John

Roby, in his "Traditions of Lancashire." This local sprite is still

the theme of many a winter's tale, among the people of the hills about

Clegg Hall. The proverb "Aw'm here again--like Clegg Ho' Boggart," is

common there, and in the surrounding towns and villages. I remember

Robin saying that when he had to go into the "shippon" early on a

winter's morning, with a light, he used to advance his lantern and

let it shine a minute or two into the "shippon" before he durst enter

himself, on account of the "feeorin" which "swarmed up and deawn th'

inside i'th neet time." But he said that "things o' that mak couldn't

bide leet," for, as soon as his lantern glinted into the place, he

could see "witches scuttering through th' slifters o'th wole, by

theawsans, like bits o' leet'nin." He used to tell me, too, that a

dairy-lass at a neighbouring farm had to let go her "churn-pow,"

because "a rook o' little green divuls begun a-swarmin up th' hondle,

as hoo wur churnin'." And then he would glance, with a kind of

unconscious timidity, towards a nook of the yard, where stood three

old cottages connected with the farm; and in one of which there dwelt

an aged man, of singular habits and appearance, of whose supposed

supernatural powers most of the people of that neighbourhood harboured

a considerable degree of fear; and, as he glanced towards the corner

of the building, he would tell me in an under tone that the Irish cow,

"Red Jenny," which used to be "as good a keaw as ever whiskt a tail,

had never lookt up sin' owd Bill glented at hur through a hole i'th

shippon wole, one mornin, as Betty wur milkin hur." Prejudices of this

kind are still common in thinly-peopled nooks of the Lancashire hills.

"Boggarts" appear, however, to have been more numerous than they are

now, when working people wove what was called "one lamb's wool" in a

day; but when it came to pass that they had to weave "three lambs'

wools" in a day, and the cotton trade arose, boggarts, and fairies,

and "feeorin" of all kinds, began to flee away from the clatter of

shuttles, and the tired weaver was fain to creep from his looms to

bed, where he could rest his body, and weave his fearful fancies into

the freakish pattern of a dream. And then, railway trains began to

rumble hourly through solitudes where "the little folk" of past days

had held undisturbed sway; and perhaps these helped to dispel some of

those dreams of glamour which had been fostered by the ignorance of the

past.

Far on in the afternoon of a summer day, I sat at tea with an

acquaintance who dwells in the fields outside the town of Heywood. We

had spent the forenoon in visiting Heywood Hall, and rambling among its

woods, and through a pleasant clough, which winds along the northern

base of the eminence on which that old mansion stands. We lingered over

the afternoon meal, talking of the past and present of the district

around us. We speculated upon the ancient aspect of the country, and

the condition and characteristics of its early inhabitants; we talked

of the old local gentry, their influence, their residences, and their

fortunes; of remarkable local scenes, and men; and of the present

features of life in these districts. Part of our conversation related

to the scenery of that tract of hills and cloughs which comprises

the country, rising, northward, from Heywood up to the lofty range

of moorlands which divides that part of Lancashire from Rossendale

Forest. Up in this remote tract, there is a solitary hamlet, called

Grislehurst. To a stranger's eye, the two quaint farmsteads, which

are now the sole relics of the hamlet, would be interesting, if only

on account of the retired beauty of their situation, and the romantic

character of the scenery around. Grislehurst stands on an elevated

platform of land, called "Birtle," or "Birkle," the place of birches.

It is bounded on the north by the ridge of Ashworth moor, and the

lofty mass of Knowl hill; and on the east by Simpson Clough, a deep

ravine, about two miles long, running up into the hills. This glen of

precipitous crags, and wood-shrouded waters, is chiefly known to those

who like rough and lonesome country walks; and to anybody who loves to

ramble among such legend-haunted solitudes, a moonlight walk through

"Simpson Clough" would be a pleasure not easily forgotten. Grislehurst

stands about a stone's throw from the western brink of the clough, and

out of the way of common observation. But it is not only the lone charm

of its situation which makes this hamlet interesting. Grislehurst is a

settlement of the early inhabitants of the district; and was for some

centuries one of the seats of the Holt family, of Grislehurst, Stubley,

and Castleton, in this parish; a branch of the Holts of Sale, Ashton,

Cheshire. Some of this family fought in the Scottish wars, and also in

favour of the royal cause, at Edgehill, Newberry, Marston Moor, &c.,

and were named in King Charles's projected order of the Royal Oak.[34]

There was a Judge Holt, of the Holts of Sale; and a James Holt, whose

mother was co-heiress to Sir James de Sutton; he was killed at Flodden

Field. Mary, the daughter of James Holt, the last of the family who

resided at Castleton Hall, in this parish, married Samuel, brother of

Humphrey Cheetham. The manor of Spotland was granted by Henry VIII.

to Thomas Holt, of Grislehurst, who was knighted in Scotland, by

Edward, Earl of Hertford, in the thirty-sixth year of the reign of

that monarch. The Holts were the principal landowners in the parish

of Rochdale at the close of the sixteenth century. What remains of

Grislehurst is still associated in the mind with the historic interest

which attaches to this once powerful local family. The place is also

closely interwoven with some other ancient traditions of the locality,

oral and written.[35] In earlier years, I have often wandered about

the woods, and waters, and rocky recesses of this glen, thinking of

the tale of the rebel Earl,[36] who is said to have concealed himself,

two centuries ago, in a neighbouring clough which bears his name; and,

wrapt in a dreamland of my own, sometimes a little tinctured with the

wizard lore which lingers among the primitive folk of that quarter.

But, in all my walks thereabouts, I had never visited Grislehurst,

till this summer afternoon, when, as we sat talking of the place, my

curiosity impelled me to propose an evening ramble to the spot; from

which we could return, by another route, through Simpson Clough.

[34] Thomas Posthumus Holt, Esq., was one of the intended Knights of

the Order of the Royal Oak. According to MS. memorandum, he died 26th

March, 1669, "after sown-sett a hower, as they report it."--_Burke's

Commoners._

[35] See "Tyrone's Bed," in Roby's "Traditions of Lancashire."

[36] The turbulent Earl of Tyrone, who headed the Irish rebellion in

the reign of Elizabeth.

We were not quite half an hour's walk from Grislehurst when we started

on the north road from Heywood; and the sun was still up in the

heavens. Half a mile brought us into Hooley Clough, where the road

leads through the village of Hooley Bridge. This village lines the

opposite banks of the Roch at that place. Its situation is retired

and picturesque. The vale in which it lies is agreeably adorned with

plantations, and the remains of old woods; and the whole scenery is

green and pleasant. The village itself has a more orderly and wholesome

appearance than any other manufacturing hamlet which I remember. The

houses were clean and comfortable-looking, and the roads in fair

condition. I noticed that nearly every cottage had its stock of coals

piled up under the front window, and open to the street; the "cobs"

nearly built up into a square wall, and the centre filled up with the

"sleck an' naplins." It struck me that if the people of Manchester were

to leave their coals thus free to the world, the course of a single

night would "leave not a wreck behind." The whole population of the

place is employed by the Fenton family, whose mills stand close to the

margin of the river, in the hollow of the clough.

We went up the steep cart road leading out of Hooley Clough towards

the north, emerging into the highway from Bury to Rochdale, about a

quarter of a mile from the lower end of Simpson Clough, and nearly

opposite the lodge of Bamford Hall. The country thereabouts is broken

into green hills and glens, with patches of old woods, shading the

sides of the cloughs. It is bleak and sterile in some parts, and thinly

populated, over the whole tract, up to the mountainous moors. As we

descended the highway into Simpson Clough, through an opening in the

trees, we caught a glimpse of "Makin mill," low down in a green valley

to the west. This old mill was the first cotton factory erected in

the township of Heap. It was built about 1780, by the firm of Peel,

Yates, and Co., and now belongs to Edmund Peel, Esq., brother to the

late prime minister. Looking over the northern parapet of the bridge,

in the hollow of the road, the deep gully of the clough is filled

with a cluster of mills, and the cottages attached to them. Woody

heights rise abruptly around, and craggy rocks over-frown this little

nest of manufacture, in the bottom of the ravine. We climbed up the

steep road, in the direction of Bury, and on reaching the summit, at

a place called "Th' Top o'th Wood," we turned off at the end of a row

of stone cottages, and went to the right, on a field-path which leads

to Grislehurst. Half a mile's walk brought us to two old farm-houses,

standing a little apart. We were at a loss to know which of the two,

or whether either of them belonged to Grislehurst Hall. The largest

took our attention most, on account of some quaint, ornamental masonry

built up in its walls; though evidently not originally belonging to

the building. We went round to look at the other side, where similar

pieces of ancient masonry were incorporated. The building, though old,

was too modern, and had too much barn-like plainness about it to be the

hall of the Holts. And then, the country around was all green meadow

and pasture; and if this building was not Grislehurst Hall, there was

none. I began to think that the land was the most remarkable piece

of antiquity about the place. But one part of the west side of this

building formed a comfortable cottage residence, the window of which

was full of plants, in pots. An hale old man, bareheaded, and in his

shirt-sleeves, leaned against the door-cheek, with his arms folded. He

was short and broad-set, with fresh complexion and bright eyes; and

his firm full features, and stalwart figure, bespoke a life of healthy

habits. He wore new fustian breeches, tied with black silk ribbon at

the knees. Leaning there, and looking calmly over the fields in the

twilight, he eyed us earnestly, as country folk do when strangers

wander into their lonely corners. The soft summer evening was sinking

beautifully on the quiet landscape, which stretches along the base of

Ashworth moor. The old man's countenance had more of country simplicity

than force of character in it; yet he was very comely to look upon, and

seemed a natural part of the landscape around him; and the hour and

the man together, somehow, brought to my mind a graphic line in the

book of Genesis, about Isaac going out "to meditate in the field at

eventide." After we had sauntered about the place a few minutes--during

which the old cottager watched us with a calm but curious eye--we went

toward him with the usual salutation about it being a "fine neet,"

and such like. He melted at once from his statuesque curiosity, and,

stepping slowly from the threshold, with his arms folded, replied,

"Ay, it is, for sure.... Wi'n had grand groo-weather[37] as week or

two. But a sawp o' deawnfo' 'ud do a seet o' good just neaw; an' we'st

ha' some afore lung; or aw'm chetted. Owd Knowe[38] has bin awsin to

put hur durty cap on a time or two to-day; an' as soon as hoo can shap

to tee it, there'll be wayter amoon us, yo'n see." His dame, hearing

the conversation, came forth to see what was going on, and wandered

slowly after us down the lane. She was a strong-built and portly old

woman, taller than her husband; and her light-complexioned face beamed

with health and simplicity. The evening was mild and still, and the

old woman wore no bonnet; nor even the usual kerchief on her head.

Her cap and apron were white as new snow, and all her attire looked

sound and sweet, though of homely cut and quality. I knew, somehow,

that the clothes she wore were scented with lavender or such like

herbs, which country folk lay at the bottom of the "kist," for the

sake of the aroma which they impart to their clothing. And no king's

linen could be more wholesomely perfumed. Give me a well-washed shirt,

bleached on a country hedge, and scented with country herbs! The hues

of sunset glowed above the lofty moors in front of us, and the stir of

day was declining into the rich hum of summer evening. The atmosphere

immediately around seemed clearer than when the sun was up; but a shade

of hazy gray was creeping over the far east. We lounged along the lane,

with the comely dame following us silently, at a distance of three or

four yards, wondering what we could be, and why we had wandered into

that nook at such a time. After a little talk with the old man, about

the hay-crop, the news of the town, and such like, we asked him whether

the spot we were upon was Grislehurst; and he replied, "Yo're upo' the

very clod."

[37] _Groo-weather_--growing-weather.

[38] Knowl hill, between Rochdale and Rossendale.

We then inquired where Grislehurst Hall stood; and whether the building

of which his cottage was a part, had been any way connected with it.

He brightened up at the mention of Grislehurst Hall; and, turning

sharply round, he said with an air of surprise, "What! dun yo pretend

to know aught abeawt Gerzlehus' Ho'?... Not mich, aw think; bi'th look

on yo."

I told him that all we knew of it was from reading, and from what we

had heard about it; and that, happening to be in the neighbourhood, we

had wandered up to see if there were any remains of it in existence.

"Ay, well," said he--and as he said it, his tone and manner assumed

a touch of greater importance than before--"if that's o' th' arran'

yo han, aw deawt yo'n made a lost gate. Noather yo, nor nobory elze

needs to look for Gerzlehus' Ho' no more. It's gwon, lung sin!... But

yo'n let reet for yerrin a bit o' summat abeawt it, if that'll do." He

then turned slowly round, and, pointing to a plot of meadow land which

abutted upon a dingle, to the south, he said, "Yo see'n that piece o'

meadow lond, at th' edge o'th green hollow theer?"

"Yes."

"Well; that's the spot wheer Gerzlehus' Ho' stoode, when aw're a lad.

To look at't neaw, yo wouldn't think at oathur heawse or hut had

studd'n upo' that clod; for it's as good a bit o' meadow lond as ever

scythe swept.... But that's the very spot wheer Gerzlehus' Ho' stoode.

An' it're a fine place too, mind yo; once't of a day. There's nought

like it upo' this country-side neaw; as heaw 'tis: noather Baemforth

Ho', nor noan on 'em. But what, things are very mich awturt sin

then.... New-fangle't folk, new-fangle't ways, new-fangle't everything.

Th' owd ho's gwon neaw, yo see'n; an' th' trees are gwon, 'at stoode

abeawt it. The dule steawnd theem at cut 'em deawn, say I![39] An' then

th' orchart's gwon; an' th' gardens an' o' are gwon; nobbut a twothre

at's laft o'er-anent this biggin--aw dar say yo see'd 'em as yo coom

up--they're morels.... An' then, they'n bigged yon new barn upo' th'

knowe; an' they'n cut, an' they'n carve't, an' they'n potter't abeawt

th' owd place, whol it doesn't look like th' same; it doesn't for

sure--not like th' same."

[39] _The dule steawnd theem 'at cut em deawn_--the devil astonish

those who cut them down.

We now asked him again whether the large stone building, in part of

which he lived, had belonged to the old hall.

"Ay, well," said he, looking towards it, "that's noan sich a feaw

buildin', that isn't. That're part o'th eawt-heawsin to Gerzlehus' Ho';

yo may see. There's a window theer, an' a dur-hole, an' some moor odd

bits abeawt it, of an owdish mak. Yo con happen tay summat fro thoose.

But it's divided into different livin's neaw, yo see'n. There's a new

farmer lives i'th top end theer. He's made greyt awterations. It's a

greadly good heawse i'th inside; if yo see'd through."

"Well," said I, "and what sort of a place was Grislehurst Hall itself?"

"What, Gerzlehus' Ho'?" replied he; "well, aw should know, as hea 'tis;

if onybody does. Aw've been a good while upo' th' clod for nought if

I dunnut.... Ay, thae may laugh; but aw're weel acquainted with this

greawn afore thir born, my lad--yers to mo, neaw?"[40]

[40] _Yers to mo, neaw?_--hearest thou me, now?

I made some excuse for having smiled, and he went on.

"Gerzlehus' Ho' wur a very greyt place, yo may depend. It're mostly

built o' heavy oak bauks.... There wur ir Jammy lad,[41] an' me, an'

some moor on us--eh, we han carted some of a lot o' loads o' fine

timber an' stuff off that spot, at time an' time! An' there's bin a

deeol o' good flags, an' sich like, ta'en eawt o'th lond wheer th'

heawse stoode; an' eawt o'th hollow below theer--there has so."

[41] _Ir Jammy lad_--our James's son.

"How long is that since?" said I.

The old woman, who had been listening behind us, with her hands clasped

under her apron, now stepped up, and said,

"Heaw lung sin? Why, it's aboon fifty year sin. He should know moor nor

yo abeawt it, aw guess."

"Ay," said the old man, "aw've known this clod aboon fifty year, for

sure. An' see yo," continued he, "there wur a shootin'-butts i' that

hollow; sin aw can tell on. And upo' yon green," said he, turning round

towards the north, and pointing off at the end of the building, "upo'

yon green there stoode an owd sun-dial, i'th middle of a piece o' lond

at's bin a chapel-yort, aforetime. They say'n there's graves theer yet.

An' upo' that knowe, wheer th' new barn stons, there wur a place o'

worship--so th' tale gwos."

It was clear that we had set him going on a favourite theme, and we

must, therefore, bide the issue.

Turning his face to the west, he pointed towards a green eminence at

a short distance, and said, "To this day they co'n yon hillock 'Th'

Castle,' upo' keawnt on there once being a place theer where prisoners

were confin't. An' that hee greawnd gwos bi'th name o'th 'Gallows

Hill;' what for, I know not."

He then paused, and, pointing to a little hollow near the place where

we stood, he slightly lowered his voice as he continued--"An' then, aw

reckon yo see'n yon bend i'th lone, wheer th' ash tree stons?"

"Ay."

"Well," said he, "that's the very spot wheer Gerzlehus' Boggart's

buried."

My thoughts had so drifted away in another direction, that I was

not prepared for such an announcement as this. I was aware that the

inhabitants of that district clung to many of the superstitions of

their forefathers; but the thing came upon me so unexpectedly, and when

my mind was so quietly absorbed in dreams of another sort, that, if

the old man had fired off a pistol close to my ear, I should not have

been much more astonished; though I might have been more startled. All

that I had been thinking of vanished at once; and my curiosity was

centred in this new phase of the old man's story. I looked into his

face to see whether he really meant what he had said; but there it

was, sure enough. In every outward feature he endorsed the sincerity

of his inward feeling. His countenance was as solemn as an unlettered

gravestone.

"Grislehurst Boggart;" said I, looking towards the place once more.

"Ay;" replied he. "That's wheer it wur laid low; an' some of a job it

wur. Yo happen never yerd on't afore."

The old woman now took up the story, with more earnestness even than

her husband.

"It's a good while sin it wur laid; an' there wur a cock buried wi' it,

with a stoop[42] driven through it. It're noan sattle't with a little;

aw'll uphowd yo."

"And dun you really think, then," said I, "that this place has been

haunted by a boggart?"

"Has bin--be far!" replied she. "It is neaw! Yodd'n soon find it eawt,

too, iv yo live't upo' th' spot. It's very mich if it wouldn't may yor

yure ston of an end; oathur wi' one marlock or another.[43] There's

noan so mony folk at likes to go deawn yon lone, at after delit,[44] aw

con tell yo."

"But, if it's laid and buried," replied I, "it surely doesn't trouble

you now."

"Oh, well," said the old woman, "iv it doesn't, it doesn't; so there

needs no moor. Aw know some folk winnot believe sich things; there is

at'll believe nought at o', iv it isn't fair druvven into 'em, wilto,

shalto;[45] but this is a different case, mind yo. Eh, never name it;

thoose at has it to deeol wi' knows what it is; but thoose at knows

nought abeawt sich like--whau, it's like summat an' nought talkin' to

'em abeawt it: so we'n e'en lap it up where it is."

[42] _Stoop_--a stake; a long piece of pointed wood.

[43] _Marlock_--a freak; a prank.

[44] _Delit_--daylight.

[45] _Wilto, shalto_--by force; against the will.

"Well, well, but stop," said the old man. "Yo say'n 'at it doesn't

trouble us neaw. Why, it isn't aboon a fortnit sin th' farmer's wife at

the end theer yerd summat i'th deeod time o'th neet; an' hoo wur welly

thrut eawt o' bed, too, beside--so then."

"Ah," said the old woman, "sich wark as that's scarrin',[46] i'th

neet time.... An' they never could'n find it eawt. But aw know'd

what it wur in a minute. Th' farmer's wife an me wur talking it o'er

again, yesterday; an' hoo says 'at ever sin it happen't hoo gets quite

timmersome as soon as it drays toawrd th' edge o' dark; iv there's

nobory i'th heawse but hersel'.... Well, an' one wyndy neet--as aw're

sittin' bi'th fire--aw yerd summat like a--"

Here the old man interrupted her:--

"It's no use folk tellin' me at they dunnut believe sich like things,"

said he, seeming not to notice his wife's story; "it's no use tellin'

me they dunnut believe it! Th' pranks at it's played abeawt this plaze,

at time an' time, would flay ony wick soul to yer tell on."

"Never name it!" said she; "aw know whether they would'n or not.... One

neet, as aw're sittin by mysel'--"

Her husband interposed again, with an abstracted air:--

"Un-yaukin' th' horses; an' turnin' carts an' things o'er i'th deep

neet time; an' shiftin' stuff up and deawn, when folk are i' bed; it's

rather flaysome, yo may depend. But then, aw know, there isn't a smite

o' sense i' flingin' one's wynt away wi' telling o' sich things, to

some folk.... It's war nor muckin' wi' sond, an' drainin' wi' cinders."

"And it's buried yonder," said I.

"Ay," replied he, "just i'th hollow; where th' ash tree is. That used

to be th' owd road to Rachda', when aw're a lad."

"Do you never think of delving the ground up," said I.

"Delve! nawe," answered he; "aw'st delve noan theer."

The old woman broke in again:--

"Nawe; he'll delve noan theer; nut iv aw know it! Nor no mon else dar

lay a finger upo' that clod. Joseph Fenton's[47] a meeterly bowd chap;

an' he's ruvven everything up abeawt this country-side, welly; but he

dar not touch Gerzlehus' Boggart, for his skin! An' aw houd his wit

good, too, mind yo!"

[46] _Scarrin_--scaring; terrifying.

[47] One of the Fenton family who own the land there.

It was useless attempting to unsettle the superstitions of this

primitive pair. They were too far gone. And it was, perhaps, best

to let the old couple glide on through the evening of their life,

untroubled by any ill-timed wrangling.

But the old dame suspected, by our looks, that we were on easy terms

with our opinion of the tale; and she said, "Aw dunnot think yo

believ'n a wort abeawt it!"

This made us laugh in a way that left little doubt upon the question;

and she turned away from us, saying, "Well, yo're weel off iv yo'n

nought o' that mak o' yo'r country-side."

We had now got into the fields, in the direction by which we intended

to make our way home; and the old people seemed inclined to return

to their cottage. We halted, and looked round a few minutes, before

parting.

"You've lived here a good while," said I to the old man, "and know all

the country round."

"Aw know every fuut o'th greawnd about this part--hill an' hollow, wood

and wayter-stid."

"You are getting to a good age, too," continued I.

"Well," said he, "aw'm gettin' boudly on into th' fourth score. Ir

breed are a lungish-wynded lot, yo see'n; tak 'em one wi' another."

"You appear to have good health, for your age," said I.

"Well," replied he, "aw ail mich o' nought yet--why, aw'm

meyt-whol,[48] an' sich like; an' aw can do a day-wark wi' some o'th

young uns yet--thank God for't.... But then aw'st come to't in a bit,

yo known--aw'st come too't in a bit. Aw'm so like.[49] Folk connut

expect to ha' youth at both ends o' life, aw guess; an' wi mun o' on us

oather owd be, or yung dee, as th' sayin' is."

[48] _Meyt-whol_--meat-whole; able to eat his meals.

[49] _Aw'm so like_--it may naturally be expected that I shall.

"It's gettin' time to rest at your age, too."

"Whau; wark's no trouble to me, as lung as aw con do't.

Beside, yo see'n, folk at's a dur to keep oppen, connut do't wi'th

wynt."[50]

[50] _Folk at's a dur to keep oppen, connut do't wi'th wynt_--folk

that have a house to maintain, cannot do it with the wind.

"Isn't Grislehurst cold and lonely in winter time?"

"Well; it is--rayther," said he. "But we dunnot think as mich at it as

teawn's-folk would do.... It'll be a greyt deeol warse at th' top o'

Know hill yon, see yo. It's cowd enough theer to starve an otter to

deeoth, i' winter time. But, here, we're reet enough, for th' matter o'

that. An' as for company, we gwon a-neighbourin' a bit, neaw an' then,

yo see'n. Beside, we getten to bed sooner ov a neet nor they dun in a

teawn."

"To my thinkin'," said the old woman, "aw wouldn't live in a teawn iv

eh mut wear red shoon."

"But you hav'n't many neighbours about here."

"Oh, yigh," said he. "There's th' farmer's theer; and one or two moor.

An' then, there's th' 'Top o'th Wood' folk. Then there's 'Hooley

Clough,' and th' 'War Office,'[51]--we can soon get to oathur o'

thoose, when we want'n a bit ov an extra do.... Oh! ah; we'n plenty o'

neighbours! But th' Birtle folk are a deeol on um sib an' sib, rib an'

rib--o' ov a litter--Fittons an' Diggles, an' Fittons an' Diggles o'er

again. An' wheer dun yo come fro, sen yo?"

[51] _Th' War Office_--a name applied to the village of Bamford.

We told him.

"Well," said he; "an' are yo i'th buildin' line--at aw mun be so bowd?"

We again explained the motive of our visit.

"Well," said he; "it's nought to me, at aw know on--nobbut aw're

thinkin' like.... Did'n yo ever see Baemforth Ho', afore it're poo'd

deawn?"

"Never."

"Eh, that're a nice owd buildin'! Th' new un hardly comes up to't, i'

my e'en--as fine as it is.... An' are yo beawn back this gate, then?"

"Ay; we want to go through th' clough."

"Well; yo mun mind heaw yo gwon deawn th' wood-side; for it's a rough

gate. So, good neet to yo!"

We bade them both "Good night!" and were walking away, when he shouted

back, "Hey! aw say! Dun yo know Ned o' Andrew's?" "No." "He's the very

mon for yo! Aw've just unbethought mo! He knows moor cracks nor onybody

o' this side--an' he'll sit a fire eawt ony time, tellin' his bits o'

tales. Sper ov anybody at Hooley Bridge, an' they'n tell yo wheer he

lives. So, good neet to yo!"

Leaving the two old cottagers, and their boggart-haunted hamlet,

we went over the fields towards Simpson Clough. The steep sides of

this romantic spot are mostly clothed with woods of oak and birch.

For nearly a mile's length, the clough is divided into two ravines,

deep, narrow, and often craggy--and shady with trees. Two streams flow

down from the moors above, each through one of these gloomy defiles,

till they unite at a place from whence the clough continues its way

southward, in one wider and less shrouded expanse, but still between

steep and rocky banks, partly wooded. When the rains are heavy upon the

moors, these streams rush furiously through their rock-bound courses

in the narrow ravines, incapable of mischief, till they meet at the

point where the clough becomes one, when they thence form a strong and

impetuous torrent, which has, sometimes, proved destructive to property

lower down the valley. Coming to the western brink of this clough,

we skirted along in search of an opening by which we could go down

into it with the least difficulty. A little removed from the eastern

edge, and nearly opposite to us, stood Bamford new hall, the residence

of James Fenton, Esq., one of the wealthy cotton-spinners in this

locality. A few yards from that mansion, and nearer to the edge of the

clough, stood, a few years ago, the venerable hall of the Bamfords of

Bamford, one of the oldest families belonging to the old local gentry;

and, probably, among the first Saxon settlers there. Thomas de Bamford

occurs about 1193. Adam de Bamford granted land in villa de Bury, to

William de Chadwick, in 1413; and Sir John Bamford was a fellow of the

Collegiate Church of Manchester, in 1506.[52] A William Bamford, Esq.,

of Bamford, served the office of High Sheriff of the county, in 1787.

He married Ann, daughter of Thomas Blackburne, Esq., of Orford and

Hale, and was father of Ann, lady of John Ireland Blackburne, Esq.,

M.P. He was succeeded by Robert Bamford, Esq., who, from his connection

with the Heskeths of Cheshire, took the name of Robert Bamford Hesketh,

Esq., and married Miss Frances Lloyd, of Gwrych Castle. Lloyd Hesketh

Bamford Hesketh, Esq., of Gwrych Castle, Denbighshire, married Emily

Esther Ann, youngest daughter of Earl Beauchamp.[53] The old hall of

the Bamfords was taken down a few years ago. I do not remember ever

seeing it myself, but the following particulars respecting it have been

kindly furnished to me by a native gentleman, who knew it well:--"It

was a fine old building of the Tudor style, with three gables in front,

which looked towards the high road; it was of light-coloured ashler

stone, such as is found in the neighbourhood; with mullions, and

quaint windows and doors to match; and was, I think, dated about 1521.

Such another building you will certainly not find on this side of the

county. Castleton Hall comes, in my opinion, nearest to it in venerable

appearance; but Bamford Hall had a lighter and more cheerful aspect;

its situation, also, almost on the edge of the rocky chasm of Simpson

Clough, or, as it is often called, Guestless, _i.e._ Grislehurst

Clough, gave an air of romance to the place, which I do not remember to

have noticed about any ancient residence with which I am acquainted."

[52] _Hollingworth's Mancuniensis_, Willis's edition, p. 53.

[53] Court Magazine, vol. 8, No. 45.

Stillness was falling upon the scene; but the evening wind sung lulling

vespers in Grislehurst wood; and, now and then, there rose from the

rustling green, the silvery solo of some lingering singer in those

leafy choirs, as we worked our way through the shade of the wood, until

we came to the bed of "Nadin Water," in the shrouded hollow of the

clough. The season had been dry, and the water lay in quiet pools of

the channel,--gleaming in the gloom, where the light fell through the

trees. We made our way onward, sometimes leaping from stone to stone

in the bed of the stream, sometimes tearing over the lower part of the

bank, which was broken and irregular, and scattered with moss-greened

fragments of fallen rock, or slippery and swampy with lodgments of

damp, fed by rindles and driblets of water, running more or less, in

all seasons, from springs in the wood-shaded steep. In some parts, the

bank was overgrown with scratchy thickets, composed of dogberry-stalks,

wild rose-bushes, prickly hollins and thorns, young hazles and ash

trees; broad-leaved docks, and tall, drooping ferns; and, over all,

hung the thick green of the spreading wood. Pushing aside the branches,

we laboured on till we came into the opening where the streams combine.

A stone bridge crosses the water at this spot, leading up to the woody

ridge which separates the two ravines, in the upper part of the clough.

Here we climbed from the bed of the stream, and got upon a cart-road

which led out of the clough, and up to the Rochdale road, which crosses

the lower end of it, at a considerable elevation. The thin crescent of

a new moon's rim hung like a silver sickle in the sky; and the stars

were beginning to glow, in "Jove's eternal house!" whilst the fading

world below seemed hushed with awe, to see that sprinkling of golden

lights coming out in silence once more from the over-spanning blue.

We walked up the slope, from the silent hollow, between the woods, and

over the knoll, and down into Hooley Clough again, by the way we came

at first. Country people were sauntering about, upon the main road, and

in the bye-lanes, thereabouts, in twos and threes. In the village of

Hooley Bridge, the inhabitants were lounging at their cottage doors, in

neighbourly talk, enjoying the close of a summer day; and, probably,

"Ned o' Andrew's" was sitting in some quiet corner of the village,

amusing a circle of eager listeners with his quaint country tales.

A short walk brought us to the end of our ramble, and we sat down to

talk over what we had seen and heard. My visit to Grislehurst had been

all the more interesting that I had no thought of meeting with such a

living evidence of the lingering superstitions of Lancashire there. I

used to like to sit with country folk, hearkening to their old-world

tales of boggarts, and goblins, and fairies,

That plat the manes of horses in the night,

And cake the elf lock in foul, sluttish airs;

and I had thought myself well acquainted with the boggart-lore of my

native district; but the goblin of Grislehurst was new to me. By this

time I knew that in remote country houses the song of the cricket

and the ticking of the clock were beginning to be distinctly heard;

and that in many a solitary cottage these were, now, almost the only

sounds astir, except the cadences of the night wind, sighing around,

and making every crevice into a voice of mystic import to superstitious

listeners; while, perhaps, the rustle of the trees blended with the

dreamy ripple of some neighbouring brooklet. The shades of night would,

by this time, have fallen upon the haunted homesteads of Grislehurst,

and, in the folds of that dusky robe, would have brought to the old

cottagers their usual fears, filled with

Shaping fantasies, that apprehend

More than cool reason ever comprehends;

and I could imagine the good old pair creeping off to repose,

and covering up their eyes more carefully than usual from the

goblin-peopled gloom, after the talk we had with them about Grislehurst

Boggart.

Boggart Ho' Clough.

Under the greenwood tree,

Who loves to lie with me,

And tune his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;

Here we shall see

No enemy,

But winter and rough weather.

--SHAKSPERE.

There is a quiet little clough about three miles from Manchester, near

the old village of Blackley. The best entrance to it is by a gateway

leading from the southern edge of a shady steep called "Entwisle Broo,"

on the highway from Manchester to Middleton. Approaching the spot

in this direction, a winding road leads down between a low bemossed

wall on the right, and a thorn hedge, which screens the green depth

on the left. The trees which line the path overlap the way with shade

in summer time, till it reaches the open hollow, where stands a

brick-built farm-house, with its outbuildings, and gardens,--sheltered

in the rear by the wooded bank of the clough. Thence, this pretty

Lancashire dell wanders on southward for a considerable distance,

in picturesque quietude. The township of Blackley, in which it is

situated, retains many traces of its former rural beauty, and some

remnants of the woods which once covered the district. As a whole,

Blackley is, even yet, so pleasantly varied in natural feature as

to rank among the prettiest scenery around Manchester, although its

valleys are now, almost all of them, more or less, surrendered to

the conquering march of manufacture--all, except this secluded glen,

known by the name of "Boggart Ho' Clough." Here, still, in this sylvan

"deer-leap" of the Saxon hunter, the lover of nature, and the jaded

townsman, have a tranquil sanctuary, where they can wander, cloistered

from the tumults of life; and there is many a contemplative rambler

who seeks the retirement of this leafy dell, the whole aspect of which

seems to invite the mind to a "sessions of sweet, silent thought."

One can imagine it such a place as a man of poetic temperament would

delight in; and the interest which has gathered around it is not

lessened by the fact, that before Samuel Bamford, the poet, left this

district to take up his abode in the metropolis, he dwelt at a pleasant

cottage, on the summit of the upland, near the eastern edge of the

clough. And here, in his native sequestration, he may have sometimes

felt the significance of Burns's words,--

The muse, nae poet ever fand her,

Till by himsel' he learn'd to wander,

Down by some streamlet's sweet meander,

And no think lang.

The rural charms and retired peacefulness of "Boggart Ho' Clough" might

well, in the vicinity of a place like Manchester, account for part of

its local celebrity; but not for the whole of it. The superstitions

of the locality and the shaping power of imagination have clothed the

place with an interest which does not solely belong to the embowered

gloom of its green recesses; nor to its picturesque steeps, overgrown

with fern and underwood; nor to the beauty of its swardy holm,

spreading out a pleasant space in the vale; nor to the wimpling rill

which wanders through it from end to end,

Amongst the pumy stones, which seem to plaine,

With gentle murmure, that his course they do restraine.

Man has clothed the scene in a drapery of wonder and fear, woven in

the creative loom of his own imagination. Any superstitious stranger,

wandering there, alone, under the influence of a midnight moon, would

probably think this a likely place for the resort of those spiritual

beings who "fly by night." He might truly say, at such an hour, that if

ever "Mab" held court on the green earth, "Boggart Ho' Clough" is just

such a nook, as one can imagine, that her mystic choir would delight

to dance in, and sing,--

Come, follow, follow me,

Ye fairy elves that be,

Light tripping o'er the green,

Come follow Mab, your queen;

Hand in hand we'll dance around,

For this place is fairy ground.

The place is now associated with the superstitions of the district; and

on that account, as well as on account of its natural attractions, it

has been the theme of more than one notable pen. In Roby's "Traditions

of Lancashire," there is a story called "The Bar-gaist, or Boggart,"

which is connected with "Boggart Ho' Clough." From this story, which

was contributed to that work by Mr. Crofton Croker, author of "The

Fairy Legends," I quote the following:--

"Not far from the little snug, smoky village of Blakeley, or Blackley,

there lies one of the most romantic of dells, rejoicing in a state of

singular seclusion, and in the oddest of Lancashire names, to wit,

'Boggart-Hole.' Rich in every requisite for picturesque beauty and

poetical association, it is impossible for me (who am neither a painter

nor a poet) to describe this dell as it should be described; and I

will, therefore, only beg of thee, gentle reader, who, peradventure,

mayst not have lingered in this classical neighbourhood, to fancy a

deep, deep dell, its steep sides fringed down with hazel and beech, and

fern and thick undergrowth, and clothed at the bottom with the richest

and greenest sward in the world. You descend, clinging to the trees,

and scrambling as best you may,--and now you stand on haunted ground!

Tread softly, for this is the Boggart's clough. And see in yonder dark

corner, and beneath the projecting mossy stone, where that dusky,

sullen cave yawns before us, like a bit of Salvator's best: there lurks

that strange elf, the sly and mischievous Boggart. Bounce! I see him

coming;--oh no, it was only a hare bounding from her form; there it

goes--there!

"I will tell you of some of the pranks of this very Boggart, and how

he teased and tormented a good farmer's family in a house hard by; and

I assure you it was a very worthy old lady who told me the story. But,

first, suppose we leave the Boggart's demesne, and pay a visit to the

theatre of his strange doings.

"You see that old farm-house about two fields distant, shaded by the

sycamore tree: that was the spot which the Boggart or Bar-gaist

selected for his freaks; there he held his revels, perplexing honest

George Cheetham--for that was the farmer's name--scaring his maids,

worrying his men, and frightening the poor children out of their seven

senses; so that, at last, not even a mouse durst show himself indoors

at the farm, as he valued his whiskers, five minutes after the clock

had struck twelve."

The story goes on describing the startling pranks of this invisible

torment of honest George Cheetham's old haunted dwelling. It tells

how that the Boggart, which was a long time a terror to the farmer's

family, "scaring the maids, worrying the men, and frightening the

poor children," became at last a familiar, mysterious presence--in

a certain sense, a recognised member of the household troop--often

heard, but never seen; and sometimes a sharer in the household

conversation. When merry tales were being told around the fire, on

winter nights, the Boggart's "small, shrill voice, heard above the

rest, like a baby's penny trumpet," joined the general laughter, in a

tone of supernatural congeniality; and the hearers learned, at last,

to hear without dismay, if not to love the sounds which they had

feared before. But Boggarts, like men, are moody creatures; and this

unembodied troubler of the farmer's lonely house seems to have been

sometimes so forgetful of everything like spiritual dignity, or even

of the claims of old acquaintance, as to reply to the familiar banter

of his mortal co-tenants, in a tone of petty malignity. He even went

so far, at last, as to revenge himself for some fancied insult, by

industriously pulling the children up and down by the head and legs in

the night time, and by screeching and laughing plaguily in the dark, to

the unspeakable annoyance of the inmates. In order to get rid of this

nocturnal torment, it appears that the farmer removed his children into

other sleeping apartments, leaving the Boggart sole tenant of their old

bedroom, which seems to have been his favourite stage of action. The

story concludes as follows:--

"But his Boggartship, having now fairly become the possessor of a room

at the farm, it would appear, considered himself in the light of a

privileged inmate, and not, as hitherto, an occasional visitor, who

merely joined in the general expression of merriment. Familiarity,

they say, breeds contempt; and now the children's bread and butter

would be snatched away, or their porringers of bread and milk would be

dashed to the ground by an unseen hand; or, if the younger ones were

left alone but for a few minutes, they were sure to be found screaming

with terror on the return of their nurse. Sometimes, however, he

would behave himself kindly. The cream was then churned, and the pans

and kettles scoured without hands. There was one circumstance which

was remarkable:--the stairs ascended from the kitchen; a partition of

boards covered the ends of the steps, and formed a closet beneath the

staircase. From one of the boards of this partition a large round knot

was accidentally displaced; and one day the youngest of the children,

while playing with the shoehorn, stuck it into this knot-hole. Whether

or not the aperture had been formed by the Boggart as a peep-hole to

watch the motions of the family, I cannot pretend to say. Some thought

it was, for it was called the Boggart's peep-hole; but others said that

they had remembered it long before the shrill laugh of the Boggart was

heard in the house. However this may have been, it is certain that the

horn was ejected with surprising precision at the head of whoever put

it there; and either in mirth or in anger the horn was darted forth

with great velocity, and struck the poor child over the ear.

"There are few matters upon which parents feel more acutely than that

of the maltreatment of their offspring; but time, that great soother

of all things, at length familiarised this dangerous occurrence to

every one at the farm, and that which at the first was regarded with

the utmost terror, became a kind of amusement with the more thoughtless

and daring of the family. Often was the horn slipped slyly into the

hole, and in return it never failed to be flung at the head of some

one, but most commonly at the person who placed it there. They were

used to call this pastime, in the provincial dialect, 'laking wi't'

Boggart;' that is playing with the Boggart. An old tailor, whom I but

faintly remember, used to say that the horn was often 'pitched' at his

head, and at the head of his apprentice, whilst seated here on the

kitchen table, when they went their rounds to work, as is customary

with country tailors. At length the goblin, not contented with flinging

the horn, returned to his night persecutions. Heavy steps, as of a

person in wooden clogs, were at first heard clattering down stairs

in the dead hour of darkness; then the pewter and earthen dishes

appeared to be dashed on the kitchen floor; though in the morning all

remained uninjured on their respective shelves. The children generally

were marked out as objects of dislike by their unearthly tormentor.

The curtains of their beds would be violently pulled to and fro;

then a heavy weight, as of a human being, would press them nigh to

suffocation, from which it was impossible to escape. The night, instead

of being the time for repose, was disturbed with screams and dreadful

noises, and thus was the whole house alarmed night after night.

Things could not long continue in this fashion; the farmer and his

good dame resolved to leave a place where they could no longer expect

rest or comfort; and George Cheetham was actually following, with his

wife and family, the last load of furniture, when they were met by a

neighbouring farmer, named John Marshall.

"'Well, Georgy, and so yo're leaving th' owd house at last?' said

Marshall.

"'Heigh, Johnny, my lad, I'm in a manner forced to't, thou sees,'

replied the other; 'for that weary Boggart torments us so, we can

neither rest neet nor day for't. It seems like to have a malice again't

young uns, an' ommost kills my poor dame here at thoughts on't, and so

thou sees we're forc'd to flit like.'

"He had got thus far in his complaint, when, behold, a shrill voice,

from a deep upright churn, the topmost utensil on the cart, called out,

'Ay, ay, neighbour, we're flitting, yo see.'

"'Od rot thee,' exclaimed George: 'if I'd known thou'd been flitting

too, I wadn't ha' stirred a peg. Nay, nay, it's to no use, Mally,' he

continued, turning to his wife, 'we may as weel turn back again to th'

owd house, as be tormented in another not so convenient.'"

Thus endeth Crofton Croker's tradition of the "Boggart," or

"Bar-gaist," which, according to the story, was long time a well-known

supernatural pest of old Cheetham's farm-house, but whose principal

lurking place was supposed to be in a gloomy nook of "Boggart Ho'

Clough," or "Boggart Hole Clough," for the name adopted by the writer

of the tradition appears to be derived from that superstitious belief.

With respect to the exact origin of the name, however, I must entirely

defer to those who know more about the matter than myself. The features

of the story are, generically, the same as those of a thousand such

like superstitious stories still told and believed in all the country

parts of England--though perhaps more in the northern part of it than

elsewhere. Almost every lad in Lancashire has, in his childhood, heard,

either from his "reverend grannie," or from some less kin and less kind

director of his young imagination, similar tales connected with old

houses, and other haunts, in the neighbourhood of his own birthplace.

Among those who have noticed "Boggart Ho' Clough," is Mr. Samuel

Bamford, well known as a poet, and a graphic prose writer upon the

stormy political events of his earlier life, and upon whatever relates

to the manners and customs of Lancashire. In describing matters of the

latter kind, he has the advantage of being "native and to the manner

born;" and still more specially so in everything connected with the

social peculiarities of the locality of his birth. He was born at

Middleton, about two miles from "Boggart Ho' Clough," and, as I said

before, he resided for some years close to the clough itself. In his

"Passages in the Life of a Radical," vol. 1. p. 130, there begins one

of the raciest descriptions of Lancashire characteristics with which I

am acquainted. The first part of this passage contains a descriptive

account of "Plant," a country botanist; "Chirrup," a bird-catcher;

and "Bangle," a youth "of an ardent temperament, but bashful," who

was deeply in love with "a young beauty residing in the house of her

father, who held a small milk-farm on the hill-side, not far from Old

Birkle." It describes the meeting of the three in the lone cottage of

Bangle's mother, near Grislehurst wood; the conversation that took

place there; and the superstitious adventure they agreed upon, in order

to deliver young Bangle from the hopelessness of his irresistible and

unrequited love-thrall. "His modest approaches had not been noticed

by the adored one; and, as she had danced with another youth at Bury

fair, he imagined she was irrecoverably lost to him, and the persuasion

had almost driven him melancholy. Doctors had been applied to, but he

was no better; philters and charms had been tried to bring down the

cold-hearted maid--but all in vain:--

"He sought her at the dawn of day;

He sought her at the noonin';

He sought her when the evening gray

Had brought the hollow moon in.

"He call'd her on the darkest night,

With wizard spells to bind her:

And when the stars arose in light,

He wandered forth to find her.

"At length sorcerers and fortune-tellers were thought of, and 'Limping

Billy,' a noted seer, residing at Radcliffe Bridge, having been

consulted, said the lad had no chance of gaining power over the damsel,

unless he could take Saint John's Fern seed; and if he could but secure

three grains of that, he might bring to him whatever he wished, that

walked, flew, or swam."