The "million-fingered" rain was tapping at the kitchen window as I

sat by "Owd England's" bright hearthstone one forenoon, hearkening to

the wind that moaned outside like a thing in pain. I could hear by a

subdued thump that "Lizzy" was churning in the dairy; and I knew, by

the smell of fresh bread which came from a spacious out-kitchen, that

"Granny" was baking. "Little Tom," the cow lad, had started early

with the cart to Poulton for coals, making knots on his whiplash as

he went along, to help his memory, which was crowded with orders to

call at one place for meal, at another for mutton, and at others for

physic, and snuff, and such like oddments, wanted by the neighbours.

"Owd England" had gone to the seaside, with his staff, and his leather

strap, to fetch the daily "burn" of firewood; and--to see what he could

see;--for every tide brought something. One day he hauled a barrel of

Stockholm tar from the water; on another, part of the cabin furniture

of an unfortunate steamer; and then a beam of pine was thrown ashore;

in all of which the old man had a certain interest as "wreck-master."

"Peg-leg," the fisherman, was mending a net; and lame Alice lay, as

usual, wrapped up, and in shadow, on the couch under the window; with

her pale face, and a nose "as sharp as a pen," turned to the ceiling;

while Tib, with her soft legs folded under, lay basking luxuriously

in the fire-shine, dreaming of milk and of mice. The old clock ticked

audibly in the corner, and a pin-drop silence prevailed in the room.

"That's a fine cat," said I. "Aye," replied old Alice, "isn't it a

varra fine cat? It's mother to that as Missis Alston hes. It cam fra

Lunnon, an' it's worth a deeal o' money, is that cat. The varra day

as you cam, it weshed it face an' sneez't twice,--it dud, for sewer.

Missis Eastwood wor gettin' dinner ready at th' time, an' hoo said,

'We'st hev a stranger fra some quarter this day, mind i' we hevn't;'

an' directly after, yo cam walkin' into th' heawse, I tell yo, just

as nowt were. I offens think it's queer; bod I've sin cats as good as

ony almanac for tellin' th' weather, an sich like." "Will it scrat,"

said I, stroking "Tib" as she stretched and yawned in my face. "Well,"

replied Alice, "it's like everything else for that; it just depends

what you do at it. Bod I can onser for one thing--it'll not scrat as

ill as 'Th' Red Cat' at Bispham does. I hev sin folk a bit mauled after

playin' wi' that." "Aye, an' so hev I, too," said old "Peg-leg." "I

ca'd theer tother neet, an', by the hectum, heaw they wor gooin' on,

to be sewer. I crope into a corner wi' my gill, there wor sich liltin'

agate; an', ye knaw, a mon wi' one leg made o' wood and tother full

o' rheumatic pains is nowt mich at it. Beside, I've ten a likin' to

quietness,--one does, ye knaw, Alice, as they getten owd. I geet aside

ov a mon as wor tellin' abeawt Jem Duck'orth, o' Preston, sellin' his

midden. Ye'll hev heeard o' that, Alice?" "Nay, I don't know as I

hev, Billy; what is it? I dud hear at once th' baillies were in his

heawse, an' they agreed to go away if he'd find 'em a good bondsman.

So Jem towd 'em that he had a varra respectable old friend i'th next

room that he thowt would be bund wi him to ony amount; if they'd let

him fotch him. So they advised him to bring his bond in at once, ah'

hev it sattle't baat ony bother--for th' baillies wor owd friends o'

Jem's, ye knaw; an' they didn't want to be hard with him. Well, what

does Jem do, bod go an' fotch a great brown bear as he'd hed mony a

year, an' turns it into th' place where th' baillies were, baat muzzle;

and says, 'Gentlemen, that's my bondsman.' Bod, never ye mind if th'

baillies didn't go through that window, moor sharper.... I've heard

mony a queer tale o' Jem. What's this abaat th' midden, Billy?" "Well,

ye knaw, Jem wor a good-tempered mon, but full o' quare tricks. He wor

varra strong, an' a noted feighter--th' cock o'th clod in his day, for

that. An' he kept a deeal o' horses that he leet aat for hire. Well,

he'd once gether't a good midden together fra th' stables, an' farmers

began o' comin' abaat th' yard to look at it; so one on 'em says, 'Jem,

what'll to tak for th' midden?' 'Five paand,' says Jem. 'Well, I'll gi'

tho five paand,' says the farmer. So he ped him, an' said he'd send

th' carts in a day or two. In a bit, another comes an' axes th' price

o'th' midden. Jem stack to owd tale, an' said 'Five paand, an' cheeop

too;' an' th' farmer gev him th' brass at once. 'Sowd again,' says Jem,

'an' th' money drawn.' Well, at th' end of o', it happen't at both sets

o' carts cam for th' midden o'th same day, an' there were the devil's

delight agate i'th yard between 'em. At last, they agreed to send for

Jem; so he cam wi' a face as innocent as a flea, an' wanted to know

whatever were to do. 'Didn't I buy this midden, Jem?' said one. 'Yigh,

sure, thae did,' says Jem. 'Well, an' didn't I pay tho for't at th'

same time?' 'Sure, thae did, owd lad--reet enough,' says Jem. 'Well,

but,' says tother, 'didn't I buy it on tho?' 'Yigh, thae did,' says

Jem, 'an' thae ped me for't, too, honourably, like a mon,--an' I'll tak

very good care that nob'dy but yo two hes it.' That wor rayther awkert,

ye knaw, an' I know not heaw they'd end it,--for Jem wor bad to manage.

They wor tellin' it at th' 'Red Cat' tother neet, bod I could hardly

hear for th' gam at wor afoot. Lor bless you! There wor a gentleman fra

Fleetwood tryin' to donce i'th middle o'th floor; an' owd Jack Backh'us

stood i' one corner, wi' his yure ower his face, starin' like wild, an'

recitin' abaat th' Battle o' Waterloo. Three chaps sit upo' th' sofa as

hed been ower Wyre, o' day, an' they'd etten so mich snig-pie at th'

'Shard,' that it hed made 'em say-sick, so Tom Poole were mixin' 'em

stuff to cure it. Another were seawnd asleep on a cheer, an' little

'Twinkle,' fra Poulton, doncin' abeawt, challengin' him to feight. An'

it wor welly as bad eawtside, for there wor a trap coom up wi' a lot o'

trippers as hed bin to Cleveless, an' 'Bugle Bob' upo' th' box, playin'

'Rule Britannia.' Bod I left when th' bevel-men fra Rossall began o'

comin' in, singin' 'Said Dick unto Tom,' for I felt my yed givin' way

under it."

The song, "Said Dick unto Tom," alluded to by the old man, is a rude

fishing ditty, never printed before, and hardly known out of the Fylde,

to which it relates. I wrote it down from the recitation of a friend

near Norbreck. There is not much in the words except a quiet, natural

tone, with one or two graphic strokes, which breathe the spirit of the

country it originated from. The tune is a quaint air, which I never

heard before. The song was written some time ago, by William Garlick, a

poor man, and a weaver of "pow-davy," a kind of sail-cloth. These are

the words:--

Said Dick unto Tom, one Friday at noon,

Loddle iddle, fol de diddle ido;

Said Dick unto Tom, one Friday at noon,

Aw could like to go a-bobbin' i'th mornin' varra soon.

To my heigho, wi' my bob-rods an' o';

Loddle iddle, fol de diddle ido.

Then up i'th mornin Dick dud rise,

Loddle iddle, &c.;

Then up i'th mornin' Dick dud rise,

An' to Tom's door like leetnin' flies.

To my heigho, wi' my worm-can an' o';

Loddle iddle, &c.

So, up Tom jumped, an' deawn th' stairs dart,

Loddle iddle, &c.;

So, up Tom jumped, an' deawn th' stairs dart,

To go a-gettin' dew-worms afore they start.

Wi' my heigho, an' my worm-can an' o';

Loddle iddle, &c.

Then they hunted, an' rooted, an' sceched abaat,

Loddle iddle, &c.;

Then they hunted, an' rooted, an' sceched abaat,

Egad, says little Tom, there's noan so many aat.

To my heigho, wi' my worm-can an' o';

Loddle iddle, &c.

So, off they set wi' th' bob-rods i' hond,

Loddle iddle, &c.;

So, off they set wi' th' bob-rods i' hond,

Like justices o' peace, or governors o' lond.

To my heigho, wi' my snig-bags an' o';

Loddle iddle, &c.

An' when they gat to Kellamoor, that little country place,

Loddle iddle, &c.;

An' when they gat to Kellamoor, that little country place,

Th' childer were so freeten't 'at they dorsn't show their face.

To my heigho, wi' my bob-rods an' o';

Loddle iddle, &c.

An' when they gat to Brynin', folk thought there'd bin a mob,

Loddle iddle, &c.;

An' when they gat to Brynin', folk thought there'd bin a mob,

Til little Tommy towd 'em they were bod baan to bob.

To my heigho, wi' my snig-bags an' o':

Loddle iddle, &c.

An' when they gat to Warton, they wor afore the tide,

Loddle iddle, &c.;

An' when they got to Warton, they wor afore the tide,

They jumped into a boat, an' away they both did ride.

To my heigho, wi' their bob-rods an' o';

Loddle iddle, &c.

Soon after dinner the clouds broke, and it was fine again. I went to

the sea-side; and, after pacing to and fro by the waves a while, I

struck out towards Rossall, through the by-paths of a wilderness of

sand and tall grass, called "Starrins," that run along the edge of the

cliffs. I had scarcely gone a mile before "the rattlin' showers drave

on the blast" again, and the sky was all thick gloom. Dripping wet, I

hurried towards the hotel at Cleveless, and, darting in, got planted

in a snug armchair by the parlour fire, watching the storm that swept

furiously aslant the window, and splashed upon the road in front. Three

other persons were in the room, one a workman from Rossall College,

hard by, and the other commercial men on their route to Fleetwood. It

is wonderful how much rough weather enhances the beauty of the inside

of a house. "Better a wee bush than nae bield." Well, we were just

getting into talk, when the door opened, and a humorous face looked

in. It was a bright-eyed middle-aged man, shining all over with wet;

a blue woollen apron was twisted round his waist, and he had a basket

on his arm. Leaning against one door-cheek, and sticking a knife into

the other, he said, "By gobs, didn't I get a fine peltin' out o'

that!... Do yees want any oysters, gentlemen? The shells is small,"

said he, stepping forward, "but they're chock full o' the finest fish

in the world. Divul a aiqual thim oysters has in the wide ocean; mind,

I'm tellin' ye.... Taste that!"--"Hollo, Dennis!" said one of the

company, "how is it you aren't in Fleetwood?"--"Well, because I'm here,

I suppose," said Dennis. "Bedad, ye can't expect a man to be in two

places at once--barrin' he was a burd. Maybe it's good fortune sent

me here to meet wid a few rale gintlemin. Sorra a one I met on the

way, but rain powrin' down in lashins till the oysters in my basket

began to think they were in the say again."--"Well, Dennis," said the

traveller, "I'll have a score if you'll tell us about the Irishman in

the cook's shop.--Ye will? Then divul recave the toe I'll stir till ye

get both.... Will you take another score, sir,--till I tell the tale?

It's little chance ye'll have o' meetin' thim oysters agin--for they're

gettin' scarce.... An' now for the tale," said he, with his knife and

his tongue going together. "It was a man from Nenagh, in Tipperary--he

was a kind o' ganger on the railway; an' he wint to a cook-shop in a

teawn not far from this, an' says he to the missis o' the heawse, 'A

basin o' pay-soup, ma'am, plaze,' says he,--for, mind ye, an Irishman's

natterally polite till he's vext, an' thin he's as fiery as Julius

Sayzur. Well, whin she brought the soup, Paddy tuk a taste mighty

sly; an', turnin' reawnd, says he--just for spooart, mind--says he,

'Bedad, ma'am, your soup tastes mighty strong o' the water.' Well, av

coorse, the woman was vext all out, an' she up an' tould him he didn't

understand good aitin', an' he might lave the soup for thim that had

bin better eddicated. But bowld Paddy went on witheawt losin' a stroke

o' the spoon; an'--purtindin' not to hear her--says he, 'I'll go bail

I'll make as good broth as thim wud a penny candle an' a trifle o'

pepper.' Well, by gobs, this riz the poor woman's dander to the full

hoight, an' she made right at him wid her fist, an' swore by this an'

by that, if he didn't lave the heawse she'd knock him into the boiler.

But Paddy was nigh finishin' his soup, an' he made up his mind to take

the last word; an' says he, 'Bi the powers! that'll be the best bit o'

mate ever went into your pan, ma'am;' an' wi' that, he burst into a

laugh, an' the philanderin' rogue up an' towld her how he said it all

for divarshun; an' divul a better soup he tasted in his life. Well, she

changed her tune, like a child. Bedad, it was like playin' a flute, or

somethin'. An', mind ye, there's nothin' like an Irishman for gettin'

the right music out of a woman--all the world over. So my tale's inded,

an' I'd like to see the bottom o' my basket. Ye may as well brake me,

gintlemen. There's not more nor five score. Take the lot; an' let me go

home; for I've a long step to the fore, an' I'm wet to the bone; an'

the roads is bad after dark."

CHAPTER IV.

Still lingering in the quiet paths.

--ALL THE YEAR ROUND.

After a good deal of pleasantry, Dennis got rid of his oysters; and,

as the storm was still raging without, he called for a glass, just, as

he said, "to keep the damp away from the spark in his heart, more by

token that he had no other fire to dry his clothes at. But, begorra,

for the matter o' that," said he, "they're not worth a grate-full o'

coals. Look at my trousers. They're on the varge o' superannuation;

an' they'll require a substitute before long, or else, I'm thinking,

they'll not combine daycently. How an' ever, gintlemen," continued

he, "here's hopin' the fruition of your purses may never fail ye,

nor health to consign their contents to utility. An' neaw," said he,

lighting his pipe, and putting the empty basket on his head like a

cowl, "I must go, if the rain comes in pailfuls, for I'm not over well;

an' if I could get home wud wishin', I'd be in bed by the time ye'd say

'trap-sticks!' But dramin' an' schamin's neither ridin' nor flyin', so

I'll be trampin', for there's no more use in wishin' than there would

be in a doctor feelin' a man's pulse through a hole in a wall wid the

end of a kitchen poker. An' neaw, I'll be proud if any gintleman will

oblige me by coming a couple o' mile an the road, to see the way I'll

spin over the greawnd.... Ye'd rather not? Well; fun an' fine weather's

not always together, so good bye, an' long life to yees!" and away went

Dennis through the rain towards Fleetwood.

Waiting for the shower to abate, I sat a while; and, as one of the

company had been to a funeral, it led to a conversation about benefit

societies; in relation to which, one person said he decidedly objected

to funeral benefits being allowed to people who had died by their own

hands, because it would encourage others to commit suicide. From this

we glided to the subject of consecrated ground; and a question arose

respecting a man who had been accidentally buried partly in consecrated

and partly in unconsecrated ground,--as to what result would ensue from

that mistake to the poor corpse in the end of all. The doubt was as to

whose influence the unconsecrated half came under. The dispute ran

high, without anybody making the subject clearer, so I came away before

the shower was over.

Next day I went to Blackpool; and, while awaiting at the station the

arrival of a friend of mine, I recognised the familiar face of an old

woman whom I had known in better days. Tall and thin, with a head as

white as a moss-crop, she was still active, and remarkably clean and

neat in appearance. Her countenance, though naturally melancholy,

had still a spice of the shrew in it. "Eh," said she, "I'm glad to

see you. It's seldom I have a chance of meeting an old face now, for

I'm seldom out." She then told me she had been two years and a half

housekeeper to a decrepid old gentleman and his two maiden sisters, in

a neighbouring town. "But," said she, "I'm going to leave. You see I've

got into years; and, though I'm active--thank God--yet, I'm often ill;

and people don't like to be troubled with servants that are ill, you

know. So I'm forced to work on, ill or well; for I'm but a lone woman,

with no friends to help me, but my son, and he's been a long time in

Canada, and I haven't heard from him this three years. I look out for

th' postman day by day,--but nothing comes. Sometimes I think he's

dead. But the Lord knows. It's like to trouble one, you're sure. It's

hard work, with one thing and another, very; for I 'have to scratch

before I can peck,' as th' saying is, and shall to th' end o' my day,

now. But if you can hear of anything likely, I wish you would let me

know,--for leave yonder I will. I wouldn't stop if they'd hang my hair

wi' diamonds,--I wouldn't indeed. I've said it, an' signed it,--so

there's an end. But what, they'll never ask me to stop, I doubt. It's

very hard. You see I have to keep my son's little boy in a neighbour's

house,--this is him,--and that eats up nearly all my bit o' wage;

and where's my clothing to come from? But, don't you see, yon people

are greedy to a degree. Lord bless you! They'd skin three devils for

one hide,--they would for sure. See yo; one day--(here she whispered

something which I didn't exactly catch)--they did indeed! As Missis

Dixon said, when I met her in Friargate, on Monday forenoon, 'It was

a nasty, dirty trick!' But I've had my fill, an' I shall sing 'Oh, be

joyful' when my time's up. I shall be glad to get to my own country

again,--yes, if I have to beg my bread. See; they're actually afraid

of me going out o'th house for fear I should talk about them to th'

neighbours. Bless you, they judge everybody by theirselves. But I'd

scorn the action! It is just as Missis Smith said, 'They're frightened

o'th world being done before they've done wi' th' world,'--they are for

sure. Such gripin', grindin' ways! They'll never prosper,--never." "And

is this your grandson?" said I. "Yes; an' he's a wonderful child for

his age. He's such a memory. His father was just same. I often think

he'd make a rare 'torney, he remembers things so, and he has such queer

sayings. I've taught him many a piece off by heart. Come, George, say

that little piece for this gentleman. Take your fingers out of your

mouth. Come now." The lad looked a minute, and then rattled out,--

Said Aaron to Moses, aw'll swap tho noses:--

"Oh, for shame," said she; "not that." But he went on,--

Said Moses to Aaron, thine's sich a quare un.

"For shame," said she. "You see they teach him all sorts o' nonsense;

and he remembers everything. Come, be quick; 'Twinkle, twinkle,'" But

here the train was ready; and in five minutes more she was on her way

to Preston; and, not finding my friend, I walked home along the cliffs.

In my rambles about Norbreck, I met with many racy characters standing

in relief among their neighbours, and marked with local peculiarities,

as distinctly as anything that grows from the soil. In a crowded city

they might be unnoticed; but, amid "the hamlet's hawthorn wild," where

existence seems to glide as noiselessly as a cloud upon a summer

sky--save where friendly gossips meet, like a choir of crickets, by

some country fire--they are threads of vivid interest woven into

the sober web of life; and, among their own folk, they are prized

something like those old books which people hand from generation

to generation,--because they bear the quaint inscriptions of their

forefathers. In my wanderings I had also the benefit of a genial and

intelligent companion; and, whether we were under his own roof, among

books, and flowers, and fireside talk about the world in the distance,

or roving the green lanes and coppice-trods, chatting with stray

villagers by the way, or airing ourselves in the wind, "on the beached

margent of the sea," I found pleasure and assistance in his company, in

spite of all our political differences. My friend, Alston, lives about

a mile down the winding road from Norbreck, in a substantial hall,

built about a hundred years ago, and pleasantly dropt at the foot of a

great natural embankment, which divides the low-lying plain from the

sea. The house stands among slips of orderly garden and plantation,

with poultry yards and outhouses at the north-east end. The green

country, sparely sprinkled with white farmhouses and cottages, spreads

out in front, far and wide, to where the heathery fells of Lancashire

bound the eastward view. The scene is as quiet as a country church

just before service begins, except where the sails of a windmill are

whirling in the wind, or the fleecy steam-cloud of a distant train

gushes across the landscape, like a flying fountain of snow. On a

knoll behind the house there is a little rich orchard, trimly hemmed

in by thick thorn hedges. In March I found its shadeless walks open

to the cold sky, and all its holiday glory still brooding patiently

down in the soil; but I remember how oft, in summer, when the boughs

were bending to the ground with fruit, and the leaves were so thick

overhead, that the sunshine could only find its way through chinks of

the green ceiling, we have pushed the branches aside, and walked and

talked among its bowery shades; or, sitting on benches at the edge of

the fish-pond, have read and watched our floats, and hearkened the

birds, until we have risen, as if drawn by some fascination in the air,

and gone unconciously towards the sea again. There we have spent many a

glorious hour; and there, at certain times of the day, we should meet

with "Quick," or "Mitch," or some other coast-guardsmen belonging to

the gunboat's crew at Fleetwood, pacing to and fro, on the look-out

for Frenchmen, smugglers, and wreck. As we returned from the shore one

afternoon last March, an old man was walking on the road before us,

carrying what looked in the distance like two milk pails. These he set

down now and then, and looked all round. My friend told me that this

part of the Fylde was famous for singing-birds, especially larks. He

said that bird-catchers came from all parts of Lancashire, particularly

Manchester, to ply their craft there; and he would venture a guess

that the quaint figure before us was a Manchester bird-catcher, though

it was rather early in the season. When we overtook the old man, who

had set down his covered cages in a by-lane, we found that he was a

bird-catcher, and from Manchester, too. I learnt, also, that it was not

uncommon for a clever catcher to make a pound a day by his "calling."

The primitive little whitewashed parish church of Bispham was always

an interesting object to me. It stands on a knoll, about a quarter of

a mile over the fields from Norbreck; and its foundation is of great

antiquity. Its graveyard contains many interesting memorials, but none

more solemnly eloquent than a certain row of green mounds covering the

remains of the unknown drowned washed upon that coast from time to

time. Several of these, which drifted ashore after the burning of the

_Ocean Monarch_ off the coast of Wales, in 1848, now lie mouldering

together in this quiet country graveyard, all unknown, save a lady from

Bury, in Lancashire, to whose memory a tombstone is erected here.

As the great tides declined, the weather began to be troubled with

wintry fits; but when the day of my return came, it brought summer

again. After dinner, at Bispham House, I went up with my friend to bid

farewell to "Owd England" at Norbreck; and it was like parting with

some quaint volume of forgotten lore. Nursed here in the lap of nature,

the people and customs of the country were part of himself; and his

native landscape, with all the shifting elements in the scene, was a

kind of barometer, the slightest changes of which were intelligible

to him. At the eastern edge of Norbreck, a low wall of coble stones

encloses his garden. Here, where I have sometimes made a little havoc

among his "Bergamots," "Old Keswicks," and "Scotch Bridgets," we walked

about, whilst I took a parting look at the landscape. Immediately

behind us the sea was singing its old song; and below lay the little

rural parish, "where," as I heard the rector say in one of his sermons,

"a man cannot walk into the open air but all his neighbours can see

him." Beyond, the tranquil Fylde stretches out its drowsy green, now

oblivious of all remembrance of piratical ravage, which so often swept

over it in ancient times. Yonder, the shipping of Fleetwood is clearly

in sight to the north. And there, a sunbeam, stealing between the

fleecy clouds, glides across the land from field to field, with a kind

of plaintive grace, as if looking for a lost garden. Over meadow, over

wood, and little town it goes, dying away upon yon rolling hills in the

east. The first of these hills is Longridge, and behind it, weird old

Pendle, standing in a world of its own, is dimly visible. Northward,

the hills roll on in bold relief, Parlick, and Bleasdale, and the fells

between Morecambe and "time-honoured Lancaster." Still northward, to

where yon proud brotherhood of snow-crowned giants--the mountains of

Cumberland and Westmorland--look so glorious in the sunlight; awaking

enchanting dreams of that land of romance, the "Lake District,"

hallowed by so many rich associations of genius. They toss their mighty

heads on westward, till solemn old "Black Coombe" dips into the Irish

Sea. Altogether a fine setting for the peaceful scene below.

The afternoon was waning, so, taking leave of the old fisherman and his

household, I turned from Norbreck like a man who rises from his dinner

before he is half satisfied. Accompanied by my friend, I walked four

miles, on highways and by-ways, to meet the train at Poulton. The road

was pleasant, and the day was fine; and I reached Manchester before

midnight, feeling better in soul and body for my sojourn by the sea.

Wandering Minstrels;

or,

Wails of the Workless Poor.

For whom the heart of man shuts out,

Straightway the heart of God takes in,

And fences them all round about

With silence, 'mid the world's loud din.

And one of his great charities

Is music; and it doth not scorn

To close the lids upon the eyes

Of the weary and forlorn.

--JAMES RUSSEL LOWELL.

There is one feature of the distress in Lancashire which was very

remarkable upon the streets of our large towns during the year 1862.

I allude to the wandering minstrelsy of the unemployed. Swarms of

strange, shy, sad-looking singers and instrumental performers, in

the work-worn clothing of factory operatives, went about the city,

pleading for help, in touching wails of simple song,--like so many

wild birds driven by hard weather to the haunts of man. There is

something instructive, as well as affecting, in this feature of the

troubled time. These wanderers are only a kind of representative

overflow of a vast number whom our streets will never see. Any one

well acquainted with Lancashire will know how wide-spread the study

of music is among its working population. Even the inhabitants of our

large towns know something more about this now than they knew a few

months ago. I believe there is no part of England in which the practice

of sacred music is so widely and lovingly pursued amongst the working

people as in the counties of Lancashire and Yorkshire. There is no

part of England where, until lately, there have been so many poor

men's pianos, which have been purchased by a long course of careful

savings from the workman's wages. These, of course, have mostly been

sold during the hard times, to keep life in the owner and his family.

The great works of Handel, Haydn, Beethoven, and Mozart, have solaced

the toil of thousands of the poorest working people of Lancashire.

Anybody accustomed to wander among the moorlands of the country will

remember how common it is to hear the people practising sacred music

in their lonely cottages. It is not uncommon to meet working men

wandering over the wild hills, "where whin and heather grow," with

their musical instruments, to take part in some village oratorio many

miles away. "That reminds me," as tale-tellers say, of an incident

among the hills, which was interesting, though far from singular in

my experience. Up in the forest of Rosendale, between Derply Moor and

the wild hill called Swinshaw, there is a lone valley,--a green cup in

the mountains,--called "Dean." The inhabitants of this valley are so

notable for their love of music, that they are known all through the

vales of Rossendale as "Th' Deighn Layrocks," or "The Larks of Dean."

In the twilight of a glorious Sunday evening, in the height of summer,

I was roaming over the heathery waste of Swinshaw, towards Dean, in

company with a musical friend of mine, who lived in the neighbouring

clough, when we saw a little crowd of people coming down a moorland

slope, far away in front of us. As they drew nearer, we found that many

of them had musical instruments; and when we met, my friend recognised

them as working people living in the district, and mostly well known

to him. He inquired where they had been; and when they told him that

they had "bin to a bit of a sing deawn i'th Deighn," "Well," said

he, "can't we have a tune here?" "Sure, yo con, wi' o' th' pleasur'

i'th world," replied he who acted as spokesman; and a low buzz of

delighted consent ran through the rest of the company. They then ranged

themselves in a circle around their conductor, and they played and sang

several fine pieces of psalmody, upon the heather-scented mountain top.

As those solemn strains floated over the wild landscape, startling

the moorfowl untimely in his nest, I could not help thinking of the

hunted Covenanters of Scotland. The all-together of that scene upon

the mountains, "between the gloaming and the mirk," made an impression

upon me which I shall not easily forget. Long after we parted from

them we could hear their voices, softening in sound as the distance

grew, chanting on their way down the echoing glen; and the effect was

wonderfully fine. This little incident upon the top of Swinshaw is

representative of things which often occur in the country parts of

Lancashire, showing how wide-spread the love of music is among the

working classes there. Even in great manufacturing towns, it is very

common, when passing cotton mills at work, to hear some fine psalm tune

streaming in chorus from female voices, and mingling with the spoom of

thousands of spindles. The "Larks of Dean," like the rest of Lancashire

operatives, must have suffered in this melancholy time; but I hope that

the humble musicians of our county will never have occasion to hang

their harps upon the willows.

Now, when fortune has laid such a load of sorrow upon the working

people of Lancashire, it is a sad thing to see so many workless

minstrels of humble life "chanting their artless notes in simple guise"

upon the streets of great towns, amongst a kind of life they are little

used to. There is something very touching, too, in their manner and

appearance. They may be ill-shod and footsore; they may be hungry, and

sick at heart, and forlorn in countenance; but they are almost always

clean and wholesome-looking in person. They come singing in twos and

threes, and sometimes in more numerous bands, as if to keep one another

in countenance. Sometimes they come in a large family all together,

the females with their hymn-books, and the men with their different

musical instruments,--bits of pet salvage from the wrecks of cottage

homes. The women have sometimes children in their arms, or led by the

hand; and they sometimes carry music-books for the men. I have seen

them, too, with little handkerchiefs of rude provender for the day. As

I said before, they are almost invariably clean in person, and their

clothing is almost always sound and seemly in appearance, however poor

and scanty. Amongst these poor wanderers there is none of the reckless

personal negligence and filth of hopeless reprobacy; neither is there a

shadow of the professional ostentation of poverty amongst them. Their

faces are sad, and their manners very often singularly shame-faced and

awkward; and any careful observer would see at a glance that these

people were altogether unused to the craft of the trained minstrel of

the streets. Their clear, healthy complexion, though often touched

with pallor,--their simple, unimportunate demeanour, and the general

rusticity of their appearance, shows them to be

Suppliants who would blush

To wear a tatter'd garb, however coarse;

Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth;

Who ask with painful shyness, and refused,

Because deserving, silently retire.

The females, especially the younger ones, generally walk behind,

blushing, and hiding themselves as much as possible. I have seen the

men sometimes walk backwards, with their faces towards those who were

advancing, as if ashamed of what they were doing. And thus they went

wailing through the busy streets, whilst the listening crowd looks

on them pityingly and wonderingly, as if they were so many hungry

shepherds from the mountains of Calabria. This flood of strange

minstrels partly drowned the slang melodies and the monotonous strains

of ordinary street musicians for a while. The professional gleeman

"paled his ineffectual fire" before these mournful songsters. I

think there never was so much sacred music heard upon the streets of

Manchester before. With the exception of a favourite glee now and then,

their music consisted chiefly of fine psalm tunes,--often plaintive

old strains, known and welcome to all, because they awaken tender and

elevating remembrances of life. "Burton," "French," "Kilmarnock,"

"Luther's Hymn," the grand "Old Hundred," and many other fine tunes of

similar character, have floated daily in the air of our city for months

together. I am sure that this choice does not arise from the minstrels

themselves having craft enough to select "a mournful muse, soft pity

to infuse." It is the kind of music which has been the practice and

pleasure of their lives; and it is a fortuitous thing that now, in

addition to its natural plaintiveness, the sad necessity of the times

lends a tender accompaniment to their simplest melody. I doubt very

much whether Leech's minor tunes were ever heard upon our streets till

lately. Leech was a working man, born near the hills, in Lancashire;

and his anthems and psalm tunes are great favourites among the musical

population, especially in the country districts. Leech's harp was tuned

by the genius of sorrow. Several times, lately, I have heard the tender

complaining notes of his psalmody upon the streets of the city. About

three months ago I heard one of his most pathetic tunes sung in the

market-place, by an old man and two young women. The old man's dress

had the peculiar hue and fray of factory work upon it, and he had a

pair of clogs upon his stockingless feet. They were singing one of

Leech's finest minor tunes, to Wesley's hymn:--

And am I born to die,

To lay this body down?

And must my trembling spirit fly

Into a world unknown?

A land of deepest shade,

Unpierced by human thought;

The dreary country of the dead,

Where all things are forgot.

It is a tune often sung by country people in Lancashire at funerals;

and, if I remember right, the same melody is cut upon Leech's

gravestone, in the old Wesleyan chapelyard at Rochdale. I saw a company

of minstrels of the same class going through Brown-street the other

day, playing and singing,--

In darkest shades, if Thou appear,

My dawning is begun.

The company consisted of an old man, two young men, and three young

women. Two of the women had children in their arms. After I had

listened to them a little while, thinking the time and the words a

little appropriate to their condition, I beckoned to one of the young

men, who came "sidling" slowly up to me. I asked him where they came

from, and he said, "Ash'n." In answer to another question, he said,

"We're o' one family. Me an' yon tother's wed. That's his wife wi'

th' chylt in her arms; an' hur wi' th' plod shawl on's mine" I asked

if the old man was his father. "Ay," replied he; "we're o' here,

nobbut two. My mother's ill i' bed, an' one o' my sisters is lookin'

after her." "Well, an' heaw han yo getten on?" said I. "Oh, we'n done

weel; but we's come no moor," replied he. Another day, there was an

instrumental band of these operatives playing sacred music close to the

Exchange lamp. Amongst the crowd around, I met with a friend of mine.

He told me that the players were from Stalybridge. They played some

fine old tunes, by desire, and, among the rest, they played one called

"Warrington." When they had played it several times over, my friend

turned to me and said, "That tune was composed by a Rev. Mr. Harrison,

who was once minister of Cross-street Unitarian Chapel, in Manchester;

and one day an old weaver, who had come down from the hills, many

miles, staff in hand, knocked at the minister's door, and asked if

there was 'a gentleman co'de Harrison lived theer?' 'Yes.' 'Could aw

see him?' 'Yes." When the minister came to the door, the old weaver

looked hard at him for a minute, and said, 'Are yo th' mon 'at composed

that tune co'de Warrington?' 'Yes,' replied the minister, 'I believe I

am.' 'Well,' said the old weaver, 'gi' me your hond! It's a good un!'

He then shook hands with him heartily again; and, saying 'Well, good

day to yo,' he went his way home again, before the old minister could

fairly collect his scattered thoughts.

I do not know how it is that these workless minstrels are gradually

becoming rarer upon the streets than they were a few months ago.

Perhaps it is because the unemployed are more liberally relieved now

than they were at first. I know that, now, many who have concealed

their starving condition are ferreted out, and relieved as far as

possible. Many of these street wanderers have gone home again,

disgusted, to pinch out the hard time in proud obscurity; and there are

some, no doubt, who have wandered away to other parts of England. Of

these last, we may naturally expect that a few may become so reconciled

to a life of wandering minstrelsy, that they may probably never return

to settled labour again. But "there's a divinity that shapes our ends,

rough-hew them how we will." Let us trust that the Great Creator may

comfort and relieve them, "according to their several necessities,

giving them patience under their sufferings, and a happy issue out of

all their afflictions."

A Wayside Incident during the Cotton Famine.

Take physic, pomp!

Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel;

That thou may'st shake the superflux to them,

And show the heavens more just.

--KING LEAR.

One Saturday a little incident fell in my way, which I thought worth

taking note of at the time. On that day I went up to Levenshulme, to

spend the afternoon with an old friend of mine, a man of studious

habits, living in a retired part of that green suburb. The time went

pleasantly by whilst I was with the calm old student, conversing upon

the state of Lancashire, and the strange events which were upheaving

the world in great billows of change,--and drinking in the peaceful

charm which pervaded everything about the man, and his house, and the

scene which it stood in. After tea, he came with me across the fields

to the Midway Inn, on Stockport Road, where the omnibuses call on their

way to Manchester. It was a lovely evening, very clear and cool, and

twilight was sinking upon the scene. Waiting for the next omnibus,

we leaned against the long wooden watering-trough, in front of the

inn. The irregular old building looked picturesque in the soft light

of declining day; and all around was so still that we could hear the

voices of bowlers who were lingering upon the green, off at the north

side of the house, and retired from the highway by an intervening

garden. The varied tones of animation, and the phrases uttered by the

players on different parts of the green, came through the quiet air

with a cheery ring. The language of the bowling-green sounds very

quaint to people unused to the game.

"Too much land, James!" cries one.

"Bravo, bully-bowl! That's th' first wood! Come again for more!" cries

another.

"Th' wrong bias, John!"

"How's that?"

"A good road, but it wants legs!"

"Narrow; narrow, o' to pieces!"

These, and such like phrases of the game, came distinctly from the

green into the highway in that quiet evening. And here I am reminded,

as I write, that the philosophic Dr. Dalton was a regular bowler upon

Tattersall's green, at Old Trafford. These things, however, are all

aside from the little story which I wish to tell.

As we stood by the watering-trough, listening to the voices of the

bowlers, and to the occasional ringing of bells, mingled with a low

buzz of merriment inside the house, there were many travellers walked

by. They came, nearly all of them, from the Manchester side; sometimes

three or four in company, and sometimes a lonely straggler. Some of

them had poor-looking little bundles in their hands; and, with a few

exceptions, their dress, their weary gait, and dispirited looks, led

me to think that many of them were unemployed factory operatives, who

had been wandering away to beg where they would not be known. I have

met so many shame-faced, melancholy people in that condition during

the last few months, that, perhaps, I may have somewhat overjudged the

number of those who belong to that class. But, in two or three cases,

little snatches of conversation, uttered by them as they went by,

plainly told that, so far as the speakers went, it was so; and at last

a little thing befel which, I am sure, represented the condition of

many a thousand more in Lancashire just now. Three young women stopped

on the footpath in front of the inn, close to the place where we stood,

and began to talk together in a very free, open way; quite careless of

being overheard. One of them was a stout, handsome young woman, about

twenty-three. Her dress was of light printed stuff, clean and good.

Her round, ruddy arms, her clear, blonde complexion, and the bright

expression of her full, open countenance, all indicated health and good

nature. I guessed from her conversation, as well as from her general

appearance, that she was a factory operative, in full employ--though

that is such a rare thing in these parts now. The other two looked very

poor and downhearted. One was a short, thick-set girl, seemingly not

twenty years of age; her face was sad, and she had very little to say.

The other was a thin, dark-haired, cadaverous woman, about thirty years

of age, as I supposed; her shrunk visage was the picture of want; and

her frank, childlike talk showed great simplicity of character. The

weather had been wet for some days previous; and the clothing of the

two looked thin and shower-stained. It had evidently been worn a good

while, and the colours were faded. Each of them wore a poor, shivery

bit of shawl, in which their hands were folded, as if to keep them

warm. The handsome lass, who seemed to be in good employ, knew them

both; but she showed an especial kindness towards the eldest of them.

As these two stood talking to their friend, we did not take much notice

of what they were saying, until two other young women came slowly from

townwards, looking poor, and tired, and ill, like the first. These last

comers instantly recognised two of those who stood talking together in

front of the inn, and one of them said to the other,--

"Eh, sitho; there's Sarah an' Martha here! Eh, lasses; han _yo_ bin

a-beggin', too?"

"Aye, lass; we han," replied the thin, dark-complexioned woman.

"Aye, lass; we han. Aw've just bin tellin' Ann, here. Aw never did

sich a thing i' my life afore,--never! But it's th' first time and

th' last, for me,--it is that! Aw'll go whoam; an' aw'll dee theer,

afore aw'll go a-beggin' ony moor,--aw will for sure! Mon, it's sich

a nasty, dirty job; aw'd as soon clem!... See yo, lasses; we set

off this mornin'--Martha an' me--we set eawt this mornin' to go to

Gorton Tank, becose we yerd that it wur sich a good place. But one

doesn't know wheer to go to these times; an' one doesn't like to go

a-beggin' among folk at they known. Well, when we coom to Gorton we

geet two-pence-hawpenny theer,--an' that wur o'. There's plenty moor

beggin' beside us! Well, at after that twopence-hawpenny, we geet

twopence moor; an' that's o' at we'n getten. But, eh, lasses, when aw

coom to do it, aw hadn't th' heart to ax for nought,--aw hadn't for

sure.... Martha an' me's walked aboon ten mile, if we'n walked a yard;

an' we geet weet through th' first thing; an' aw wur ill when we set

off, an' so wur Martha, too; aw know hoo wur; though hoo says nought

mich abeawt it. Well; we coom back through t' teawn; an' we wur both

on us fair stagged up. Aw never wur so done o'er i' my life, wi' one

thing an' another. So we co'de a-seem' Ann here; an' hoo made us a good

baggin'--th' lass did. See yo; aw wur fit to drop o'th flags afore aw

geet that saup o' warm tay into mo,--aw wur for sure! An' neaw hoo's

come'd a gate wi' us hitherto, an' hoo would make us have a glass o'

warm ale a-piece at yon heawse, lower deawn a bit; an' aw dar' say

it'll do mo good, aw getten sich a cowd; but, eh dear, it's made mo as

mazy as a tup; an' neaw hoo wants us to have another, afore we starten

off whoam. But it's no use; we mun be gooin'. Aw'm noan used to it, an'

aw connot ston' it. Aw'm as wake as a kittlin' this minute."

Ann, who had befriended them in this manner, was the handsome young

woman, who seemed to be in work; and now the poor woman who had been

telling the story laid her hand upon her friend's shoulder and said,--

"Ann, thae's behaved very weel to us, o' roads; an' neaw, lass, go thi

ways whoam, an' dunnot fret abeawt us, mon. Aw feel better neaw. We's

be reet enough to-morn, lass. Mon, there's awlus some way shap't That

tay's done me a deeol o' good.... Go thi ways whoam, Ann! Neaw do; or

else aw shan't be yezzy abeawt tho!"

But Ann, who was wiping her eyes with her apron, replied, "Nawe, nawe;

aw connot goo yet, Sarah!" ... And then she began to cry, "Eh, lasses,

aw dunnot like to see yo o' this shap,--aw dunnot for sure! Besides,

yo'n bin far enough to-day. Come back wi' me! Aw connot find reawm for

both on yo; but thee come back wi' me, Sarah! Aw'll find thee a good

bed; an' thae'rt welcome to a share o' what there is--as welcome as

th' flowers i' May--thae knows that.... Thae'rt th' owdest o'th two;

an' thae'rt noan fit to trawnce up an' deawn o' this shap. Come back

to eawr heawse; an' Martha'll go forrud to Stopput (Stockport)--winnot

tho, Martha?... Thae knows, Martha," continued she, "thae knows, thae

munnot think nought at me axin' Sarah, an' noan o' thee. Yo should both

on yo go back if aw'd reawm,--but aw haven't. Beside, thae'rt younger

an' strunger than hoo is."

"Eh, God bless tho, lass," replied Martha, "aw know o' abeawt it.

Aw'd rayther Sarah would stop, for hoo'll be ill. Aw can go forrud by

mysel', weel enough. It's noan so fur, neaw."

But here Sarah, the eldest of the three, laid her hand once more upon

the shoulder of her friend, and said, in an earnest tone,--

"Ann! It will not do, my lass! Goo, aw mun! Aw never wur away fro whoam

o' neet i' my life--never! Aw connot do it, mon! Beside, thae knows,

aw've laft yon lad; an' never a wick soul wi' him! He'd fret hissel'

to deeoth this neet, mon, if aw didn't go whoam! Aw couldn't sleep a

wink for thinkin' abeawt him! Th' child would be fit to start eawt o'th

heawse i'th deeod time o'th neet, a-seechin' mo--aw know he would!...

Aw mun goo, mon! God bless tho, Ann; aw'm obleeged to thee o'th same!

But thae knows heaw it is."

Here the omnibus came up, and I rode back to Manchester. The whole

conversation took up very little more time than it will take to read

it; but I thought it well worth recording, as characteristic of the

people now suffering in Lancashire from no fault of theirs. I know the

people well. The greatest number of them would starve themselves to

that degree that they would not be of much more physical use in this

world, before they would condescend to beg. But starving to death is

hard work. What will winter bring them when severe weather begins to

tell upon constitutions lowered in tone by a starvation diet--a diet so

different to what they have been used to when in work?

What will their eighteen-pence a-head weekly do for them in that hard

time? If something more than this is not done for them, when more

food, clothing, and fire are necessary to everybody, calamities may

arise which will cost England a hundred times more than a sufficient

relief--a relief worthy of those who are suffering, and of the nation

they belong to--would have cost. In the meantime, the cold wings

of winter already begin to overshadow the land; and every day lost

involves the lives, or the future usefulness, of thousands of our best

population.

Saint Catherine's Chapel;

OR,

The Pretty Island Bay.

O blest retreat, and sacred, too!

Sacred as when the bell of prayer

Tolled duly on the desert air.

And crosses decked thy summits blue.

--ROGERS.

The shores of the Isle of Man are remarkable for their variety of

indentation, especially at the southern end of the island. There

its most interesting scenery may be found; bold, rugged headlands,

beautiful bays, and savage ravines, where the wild ocean churns and

thunders in majestic fury. But from the ruin-crested rock of Peel--so

rich in venerable memorials of the past--all round the shores of "the

fairy isle," there is not a more charming spot than Port Erin, a little

crag-defended bay at the southern end of the island, about five miles

west of Castletown. The outer shores of this part of the island are

wildly fantastic; the mountains cluster grandest there, and the inland

scenery is fertile and picturesque. Bold and rugged as the entrance

to Port Erin is from the sea, all is quiet, and sweet, and sheltered

at the head of the bay. The contrast is striking, and pleasing

to the mind. The little fishing hamlet looks out contemplatively

between those wild, flanking rocks at the entrance, across the blue

waters, to where the mountains of Morne and Wicklow, in Ireland, show

their faint outlines in the west. The bay, from the point where the

headlands--Brada on the north side, and The Cassels on the south side

of the entrance--front each other, like sentinels placed to guard

the little nest beyond from all ravage of the sea, is about half

a mile across, and about a mile inland. From that point up to the

hamlet at the head of the water, Port Erin is a pleasant seclusion,

sweetly retired, even on the landward side, from bustle of any kind,

except such as the sea makes when a strong west wind brings Neptune's

white-maned horses into the little bay in full career. Then, indeed,

Port Erin wears an aspect of a nobler and more spirit-stirring kind.

But, even then, when the spray is flying over the thatched roofs of

the fishermen's cottages, low down, near to the beach, the briny

tumult is mere child's play in a nursery nook, compared to the roaring

majesty with which the billows of the Atlantic wilderness rage among

the creeks, and chasms, and craggy headlands outside. At such a time,

the thunders of the sea in the Sound, which divides the Calf Island

from the main land, and amongst the storm-worn headlands that overfrown

the ocean immediately beyond the entrance to Port Erin, come upon the

ear of the listener, in his pleasant shelter at the head of the bay,

like the boom of distant war. But when the wind is still, the clear

tide fondles up the beach at the foot of the village, as if it was

glad to see that quiet nook of Mona's Isle once more. Lipping the

delicately-mottled strand with liquid grace, it creeps lovingly up

towards Port Erin's green shore. Full of beautiful sounds, and hues,

and motions, it comes, with tender caresses, croodling its dreamy

sea-song; and, as it rises in gentle sweeps nearer and nearer to the

cottages where fishermen dwell, at the foot of the villaged slope,

it flings fresh shells upon the sand with every surge,--like a fond

traveller returning home laden with memorials of his journey, which

show that he has been thinking of those he loved, when far away.

But let us sit down upon some pleasant "coigne of vantage" at the head

of the bay, and look at the quaint little village there. The hotel,

called the "Falcon's Nest," looks right out to sea from the head of

the bay. It crowns a green slope of grass-bound sand, which rises from

behind an irregular line of old thatched cottages upon the beach,

not far from the head of the tide. There is a green terrace in front

of the hotel at the head of the slope, where I have many a time sat

and looked about me with delight upon a summer's day. At one end of

the terrace there is a sun-dial; at the other a rusty old cannon,--a

relic of the Spanish Armada. It was found in the water below Spanish

Head, hard by Port Erin, where part of that famous armament "came to

grief." Great piles of fantastic sea-worn rock, partly overgrown with

greenery, stand, here and there, upon the terrace; and ornamental seats

are placed there, for the use of visitors, when the weather is fine.

The chimney tops, and thatched roofs of fishermen's cottages, greened

over with wind-sown verdure, peep up from the foot of the slope, which

is crowned by the terrace. It is very pleasant to saunter about, there,

on a fine summer's day--or on any other day,--to one who loves nature

in all her moods. It is, perhaps, better still to sit down, and look

lovingly upon the scene. The witchery of peace is on all around, when

the wind is still; the smoke from cottage chimneys rises idly into the

pure air--idle as Ludlam's dog, that leaned against a wall to bark.

It rises, here and there, in lazy blue rings--lounging curls of fat

blue smoke, that seem over-fed, and "done up" with pleasant lassitude,

as if they had just finished a good dinner; and would rather have a

nap before going out. The cottages of the village are picturesquely

strewn about, as if they had been dropped through holes in a sack, by

somebody who happened to be flying over the place. But they chiefly

cluster on the south side at the head of the bay, about the bottom of

the hill; not far from high water. They, then, straggle up the southern

hill-side--like school children out for a holiday--one on this shelf

of green land; another in a nook of the hill; another on the nose of

a breezy bit of crag; others, in and out, dotting the sides of the

mountain road, which leads through the hamlet of Creag-y-N'eash, in the

direction of Spanish Head, and The Chasms,--the most remarkable bit

of coast scenery in all the island. About the middle of the scattered

village, a whitewashed chapel stands, in a little patch of ground,

enclosed by low walls. It stands there, sweet and simple, by the side

of the mountain road; about one hundred feet above the head of the

tide; and it is a pleasing feature in the scene. The village is all

under the eye from the place where I am sitting, and the quiet play of

out-door life going on there is novel, and dreamy-looking. The whole

scene is picturesquely-varied. The wild mountain tops, clustered in

the direction of Fleshwick, as if in solemn council; the dark, craggy

headlands at the mouth of the bay, with the blue sea heaving between;

the smooth beach, where the clear tide is singing and surging up; the

quiet, wandering village; and the green plain, rolling away between the

hills, in picturesque undulations, landward. Port Erin is enchanted

ground! There are secluded nooks about it, that seem as if

Some congregation of the elves.

To sport by summer moons, had shaped them for themselves.

The village is all under the eye. Down in the lowmost part, where the

cottages are nearest to the water, a blue-clad fisherman leans against

his door cheek, smoking, and gazing dreamily out to sea. I wonder

what the old man is thinking of. In front of another cottage, a stout

matron, with browned face and brawny arms, is hanging up strips of

conger eel, to dry in the sun; whilst a little barefooted lass, about

five years old, staggers about the doorway, under the weight of a fat

baby. A little below the sun-dial, which stands at the end of the green

terrace, upon which I am sitting, a knot of Manx fishermen are lounging

upon the grass, around a pitcher of the thin Manx ale, called "jough."

Now they are very merry, and they laugh and chatter in full chorus,

with great glee. Now their mirth subsides; and they draw around an

ancient mariner, who is telling a tale of an adventure he had with the

fairies, as he came over the mountain from Fleshwick Bay, one night.

It is wonderful how firmly these islanders believe in fairies. Scratch

deep enough into any Manxman, and you will find fairies, dancing by

moonlight, amongst a world of other weird imaginations. But we will

let the old seaman go on with his story. The village is all under

the eye; and it is such a homely spot, that if one stays a few days

there, and is at all disposed to be communicative, one begins to know

everybody "by headmark," as the saying is--"Billy this," and "Johnny

that," and "Neddy Omragh;" and the old wanderer from the neighbourhood

of Pool Vash, who invariably recites a little epitaph he wrote upon

some notable person in that quarter a few years ago; and who invariably

expects something for reciting it. One begins to know the village

folk "by headmark," as I have said before, and they stop and salute

you kindly, and chat about the weather, the fishing, the crops, and

such like; and there is something very homely and pleasant in feeling

one's self thus linked in a kindly way to the rest of the human race

wherever they go.... The village is all under the eye; and Port Erin is

enchanted ground. The voices of nature are not drowned there in a roar

of human tumult. It is true that the unceasing murmur of the tide fills

all the air with its wild under-song; but its influence is so fine and

unobtrusive, that every sound of life in the little village comes upon

the untroubled sense distinctly framed in the quietude which pervades

that dreamy nook of Mona's Isle, when the wind is low.... Let us look

around, and be silent; that one may hear what is going on. Behind me

is the cheerful hotel, the Falcon's Nest. The landlord stands upon

the door-step, giving directions about the stabling of certain horses

which have come up from Castletown. The horses are taken round to the

stables; and the landlord goes back into his nest. Snatches of the old

man's fairy tales come upon the wind, when it blows, towards me. I hear

broken bits of his story, while his mates stand listening around him,

in silent wonder:--

"I wass not thinking about nawthin', when I think I hear

somethin',--an' I look,--an' there was a little fellow close to my leg.

He was dressed in green an' red, with silver buckles on his shooce.

He wass about the sice of eight yearce. I make a grab to get howlt of

him,--so,--an' then,--I get a hand-full of wind. I cannot see nawthin'.

He is gone.... I wass wan day makin' a hedge. It was up in Brada. There

wass nobody but myself. It was wonderful! Up in the air, I hear them,

shouting an' laughing. I know in a minute it is the fairies. I hear

them before, in the same place. They wass hunting. I hear the cap'en

o' the fairies. He give a shout,--an' all was silence. Then the noice

begin a-gain,--like people in a fair. I hear them so well as I do see

my hant. They wass hunting. They have horses, an' dawgs. I hear them

very well. The whips wass cracking, an' horns wass blowing,--an' I

hear the little dawgs going wif! wif! wif! It wass wonderful! Then the

cap'en give a shout a-gain,--an' all wass silence. Then there wass

music. It wass so fine that I cannot hear it. But, I feel there wass

music playing up in the air.... I know it is the fairies; and I say,

'I think it is time to be going home.' So, I come a-way.... Another

time, when I wass coming down from Craig-y-N'eash, it come on dark,

all at once,--so dark as pitch. I look at my side. There wass a little

fellow. He wass just here (laying his hand upon his hip). He wass about

so big as my leg. I know it was a fairy. It was not a body at all. He

come to stale my boots." And so on. But we let the old man finish

his tale.... I can now hear the footfall of a lonely traveller, as he

stumps along the road behind me, stick in hand. He is a stout, old,

weather-beaten Manxman, with gray hair; and he is dressed in coarse

blue woollen cloth. I can hear every footfall as he works his way

along the silent road towards the mountain side, in the direction of

Fleshwick Bay; and, now that I turn round to look at him again, I see

that the old man is wiping his forehead, as he stumps along, stick in

hand. I can hear women talking at their doors below the slope, and upon

the cottage-sprinkled hill-side, in the direction of Creag-y-N'eash,

I can hear the prattle of little bare-legged lads, who are sailing

their tiny, chip-built ships, and clamorously discussing their relative

qualities, as they watch how they fare among the eddies and rapids of

the stream which runs down the green crease about the middle of the

village. I can hear the cackle of a large family of very clean and

very fat ducks, as they waddle and paddle, and splash the water about,

and open their wings, and wag their dumpy tails with delight, upon

the slushy margin of a pool, where the same streamlet has been dammed

up, for their especial pleasure. I can hear the opening and shutting,

of cottage doors, in different parts of the village; and I can hear

something of the wild fringe of an old Manx song, which a fisherman

is crooning, as he saunters along the strand towards his boat; which

lies, high and dry, in a sheltered nook, under the craggy cliff, at

the south side of the bay. I can hear the call of the Manx shepherd to

his dog, upon the dark mountain side, towards Brada Head. Each sound

is distinctly-framed in the pervading quietness of the scene. At an

open bow-window of the hotel behind me, two elderly gentlemen sit

talking together, and evidently enjoying what little breeze there is

from the sea. I have got it into my head, somehow, that they are men of

learning. One of them is a stout, hearty-looking gentleman, who wears a

black velvet skullcap; and likes to dine in his own room,--"because he

has a good deal of writing to do." I wonder what he is writing about.

He is talking in a sonorous tone of voice, to a dignified old friend

of his, whose manners at table, I have noticed, always evince the

self-possession, the graceful, quiet action, and kindliness which mark

a cultivated gentleman. He is tall and thin; and his noble aquiline

nose sustains a pair of gold spectacles. Perhaps the black velvet

skullcap and the gold spectacles have something to do with my notion

that they are learned men; but I believe I am right, nevertheless. They

are talking about the history of the island, and about the geology of

this part of it; especially about the mines at Brada Head. I begin

to think they have some interest in those Brada mines; for they are

talking of the projected breakwater, and the possible future of Port

Erin. I can hear them plain enough. Not that I like "eaves-dropping;"

but there they sit, at the open window, and they see me; and they

evidently don't care a rap who hears them.... At another window, a

little farther off, two sunny-haired young ladies come and go, like

wandering posies, "freshening and refreshing all the scene" with their

sweet presence. They belong to some well-to-do family of cultivated

people, who have come to Port Erin to bathe themselves in quietness,

and in the fresh sea-breeze. I am sure it is so, for a noble-looking

man, considerably past the noon of life, shows himself at the window,

now and then, with two more of these pretty trailers clinging to him.

He is dressed in black, and he wears a gold-framed double eye-glass;

and his fine countenance is lighted up with a quiet smile, as he paces

to and fro, listening to the prattle of the two lovely young women

who have hold of him--body and soul. It is very evident that their

prattle is music in his ears.... Now the mother comes! I am quite sure

that placid, handsome, matronly woman, in the black silk dress, is

the mother. She is a well-grown, sweet-looking, sound-constitutioned

dame; round as an apple, and clear-skinned, and quietly-rosy; and

kind-hearted, as anybody may see, at the first glance, with half an

eye. I durst bet a thousand pounds she is a lady, in heart and thought.

She has seen enough of the world to enrich her experience; and without

hardening her heart. She is a good, womanly soul; the kindliness of her

nature breathes through every pore; and speaks with angelic eloquence

in every line and dimple of her face. A few silver threads may be

shining in her yet abundant auburn hair, but they only serve to give a

new tinge of dignity to her appearance. She knows something of sorrow,

too, no doubt; for who can have lived so long in this world of ours as

she has lived, without being touched by the divine wand of that noble

refiner of the noble heart? But the clouds have long since gone; and

her smiles, now, are not smiles

That might as well be tears.

She is, indeed, "one vast substantial smile," from head to foot,--a

sunbeam of feminine goodness, raising the atmosphere of happiness

around her, wherever she goes. Upon the whole, her lines have evidently

"fallen in pleasant places," and,--"So mote it be," say I, "to the end

of a long life yet to come." Now she sits down by the open window;

and a handsome, light-complexioned lad, about twelve years old, is

teasing her in an affectionate way about something or another; whilst

a beautiful, sunny-haired girl, of sixteen or so, leans over the other

shoulder, and whispers, as she smooths the old lady's hair with tender

touches, "Mamma, dear, this!" and "Mamma, dear, that!" And, oh, if

there be an elysium on earth, that good old soul is in it now! It is a

beautiful glimpse of the smooth current of human life.

Now I hear the clatter of horses' feet upon the road behind me, and a

car comes up to the door of the hotel, laden with a company of young

men, who are evidently "in great spirits." They have, very likely, come

across the island from Douglas, making a call or two on the way. If

one may measure their enjoyment by the noise they make, they certainly

ought to be very happy. They alight and enter the hotel, whilst the car

is taken round to the stable yard; and, in a few minutes, I hear a good

deal more bell-ringing in the Falcon's Nest.

But who is this strange, gaunt fellow, that comes paddling barefoot

up the slope, from the low part of the village, muttering to himself

as he gazes vaguely around. It is poor Johnny Daly, the affectionate,

lunatic youth, who wanders over hill and dale, in all weathers,

harmless and happy in his unconscious helplessness. He is a tall,

strong, young man; but quite a child in affectionate simplicity. Poor

Johnny! He is only "mad nor-nor-west," after all. If he knows you, he

either likes you well, or he doesn't like you at all. If he takes to

you, he comes quietly up, and flutters about you like a pet dove with

a broken wing; croodling all sorts of inarticulate kindnesses in a

touching and not very demonstrative way; except that, now and then, as

he listens to your talk--no matter what you are talking of, nor how

badly--he suddenly clasps his hands and laughs boisterously; as if he

had just discovered a great joke in the matter. If he likes you, he

will sit down upon the grass beside you, quietly crooning some wild

fragment of old Manx song, and looking slyly up into your face from

time to time; unless he chances to spy the landlord of the hotel, or

the owner of the one mansion at Port Erin. If he sees either of these

anywhere about, it is a thousand to one that he will immediately leave

you to your own devices and desires, for the poor fellow knows who is

kind to him a great deal better than some of us do who think that we

have all our wits about us. Poor Johnny! He is fond of a penny, like

most of the world; and he needs it more than some people do; although

He "who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb" has scattered a few kind

hearts about the wanderer's way that will not see him want for any

needful thing. But I have seen people that Johnny would not accept a

penny from; and I have many a time wondered at the curious principle of

selection which seemed to lurk in some corner of his disordered mind.

I remember a little excursion we made, one fine summer's day, over the

mountain on the south side of Port Erin, and among the wild cliffs,

near the Sound, which divides the Isle of Man from The Calf. It was

a company of six; and amongst them was the landlord of the hotel--a

kind-hearted and intelligent Englishman. Johnny followed him, barefoot,

all the rugged way, with the affectionate instinct of a faithful dog.

As we returned homeward, by wandering, and sometimes dangerous tracks,

along the edge of the precipices, on the south side of the bay--where

the sea roared and dashed majestically among lonely creeks two or three

hundred feet below, and the cormorant and seagull wheeled about the

dark crags, and screamed with delight in the breeze, half-way down

between us and the water--our host disappeared from the company for a

little while, in search of something among the rocks, whilst Johnny was

picking his way carefully up the prickly path ahead. Turning round,

Johnny missed his friend; and after he had looked for him again and

again through the company, and all over the scene, he sat himself down

amongst the heather, and gazing quietly at the blue sea, he murmured,

in a plaintive tone, "Now, he is gone! He is gone!" ... In a minute or

two, he kneeled down among the heather, and, clasping his hands, like

a child at its mother's knee, he muttered a few broken sentences of

the Lord's prayer, and then he sat down and gazed silently at the sea

again. And we could not get him to rise, until his friend reappeared

from behind a rock; when he instantly rose and clapped his great brown

hands, and trotted after us, with painful steps, through the prickly

bush, stopping, now and then, to laugh aloud.... Poor Johnny! As he

comes paddling up the road from the village, he hears the voice of

the landlord, who is talking to the ostler at the house end; and away

he goes, in full trot, towards his friend, with whom he is a great

favourite.

And now, mild evening begins to draw her delicate curtains over the

drowsy world. All things below the sky are softening into shade; and

the pensive spell deepens the charm that pervades this sleepy seaside

nook of "Mona the lone, where the silver mist gathers." The quiet life

of the village is sinking to repose. Barefooted lasses are fetching

water from the ancient well of Saint Catherine,--a beautiful spring, at

the foot of the sandy slope at the head of the bay; and an object of

great veneration to the inhabitants of the island. Lovers are stealing

off to quiet nooks outside the village; where they can whisper unseen.

Boats are coming in from the Sound, and from the blue sea beyond.

The fishermen haul them ashore in a sheltered shingly nook, under

the craggy southern cliffs; and then they saunter homeward along the

smooth beach, laden with fish and fishing tackle; some of them singing

drowsily, as they saunter along. The murmurs of the sea become more

distinct, filling all the air with a slumbrous influence.... Now the

fisher's wife beets up her cottage fire, sweeps the hearth, and puts

the kettle on, to cheer her sea-beaten mate on his return from the wild

waters; and, here and there, fresh smoke is rising again from cottage

chimneys; bluer and more briskly than in the glowing afternoon....

The old fisherman and his village companions are mustering upon the

grass at the end of the terrace again. He has long since finished the

story about his adventure with the fairies among the mountains; and he

has been carousing with his comrades in the taproom of the Falcon's

Nest. They have brought another pitcher of "jough" out with them. And,

listen! They are beginning to sing, in chorus, the plaintive old Manx

song, called "Molly Charrane!" The strange melody floats up, weird

and sweet, blending beautifully with the murmurs of the rising tide,

and waking up remembrances of the wild history and wilder legends

of "Mona's fairy isle." The broad glare of day is gone. The air is

clearer; the green fields look greener; and the hues of the landscape

are richer and more distinct than before. The sun has "steeped his

glowing axle" in the sea. The gorgeous hues which linger over his track

still glow upon the wide waters; but "the line of light that plays

along the smooth wave toward the burning west," is slowly retiring

in the wake of the sunken sun. Let me look out, while there is yet

light, for the eye has glorious scope to roam in, from the place where

I am sitting.... At the head of the bay--the scattered village; and

the green land--green all along the slopes of the hills, and all over

the fertile undulant plain between, stretching away inland, towards

Castletown. It is a pleasant nook of seaside life, at the head of the

bay. But, as I look seaward, the flanking headlands grow wilder as they

recede, ending in scenes of savage grandeur among the storm-worn crags

which front the open sea.

The cliffs and promontories there,

Front to front, and broad and bare,

Each beyond each, with giant feet

Advancing, as in haste to meet.

The shattered fortress, whence the Dane

Blew his loud blast, and rushed in vain,

Tyrant of the drear domain.

Those grim sentinels have seen strange scenes of storm, and battle, and

shipwreck, during their long watch over the entrance to Port Erin. Oft

has the ancient Dane steered his "nailed bark," laden with sea-robbers,

into that little bay; and he has oft been wrecked upon that craggy

coast. Spanish Head overfrowned the destruction of part of the great

Armada. One of the guns of that armament now lies upon the terrace in

front of the hotel at Port Erin; thickly encrusted with rust. Many a

noble ship has gone down in the Sound between the Island and the Calf

of Man.... As twilight deepens down, the breeze freshens, and the

blue waves begin to heave with life. Great white-winged ships glide

majestically by--some near, some far off; and some almost lost to sight

in the distance. Far away, in the west, the outlines of the mountains

of Morne and Wicklow are fading away from view. It is a bewitching

hour! It is a bewitching scene! But now the Irish mountains have

disappeared in the shade; and the distant sea grows dim to the eye. The

village about me is sinking to rest; and candle-lights begin to glimmer

through cottage windows. The old fisherman and his companions have gone

back into the taproom of the Falcon's Nest. The wind is rising still;

and the air grows cold. I, too, will retire until the world has donned

its night-dress; and so good-by to this fairy scene for a while! The

moon rises at ten! Perhaps I may come forth to look around me once

more, when the world lies sleeping beneath her quiet smile. If not,

then farewell to thee, Port Erin!

When scenes less beautiful attract my gaze,

I shall recall thy quiet loveliness;

When harsher tones are round me, I shall dream

Of those mysterious notes, whose thrilling sounds

Peopled the solitude

The Knocker-Up.

Past four o'clock; and a moonlight morning!

--OLD WATCHMAN.

Life in Manchester may seem monotonous to a Parisian or to a Londoner,

but it has strong peculiarities; and among its varied phases there

are some employments little known to the rest of the world. Many a

stranger, whilst wandering through the back streets of the city, has

been puzzled at sight of little signboards, here and there, over the

doors of dingy cottages, or at the head of a flight of steps, leading

to some dark cellar-dwelling, containing the words, "KNOCKING-UP DONE

HERE." To the uninitiated this seems a startling, and unnecessary

announcement, in such a world as ours; and all the more so, perhaps, on

account of the gloom and squalid obscurity of the quarters where such

announcements are generally found. Horrible speculations have haunted

many an alien mind whilst contemplating these rude signboards, until

they have discovered that the business of the Knocker-Up is simply that

of awakening people who have to go to work early in a morning; and the

number of these is very great in a city like ours, where manufacturing

employments mingle so largely with commercial life. Another reason

why this curious employment is so common in Manchester may be that

there are so many things there to lure a working man into late hours

of enjoyment,--so many wild excitements that help to "knock him up,"

after his ordinary work is over, and when his time is his own, so many

temptations to "lengthen his days by stealing a few hours from the

night," that the services of the morning "Knocker-Up" are essential.

For the factory-bell, like death, is inexorable in its call; and when,

in the stillness of the morning, the long wand of the awakener comes

tapping at the workman's window, he knows that he must rise and go; no

matter how ill-prepared,--no matter how mis-spent his night may have

been. He must go; or he knows full well the unpleasant consequence.

If he likes he may try to ease his mind by crooning the words of that

quaint lyric, "Up in a morning, na for me;" but, in the meantime, he

must get up and go. He may sing it as he goes, if he likes; but whether

he does so or not, he must walk his chalks, or else it will be worse

for him. Apart from factory-workers, there are other kinds of workmen

who need awakening in a morning; especially those connected with the

building trades, whose hours of rising are sometimes uncertain, because

they may be employed upon a job here to-day, and then upon one two or

three miles off, to-morrow. Factory workers, too, are compelled, in

many cases, to reside at considerable distances from the mills at which

they are employed. These two classes of working people, however, are

the principal customers of the "Knocker-Up."

Whoever has seen Manchester in the solitary loveliness of a summer

morning's dawn, when the outlines of the buildings stand clear against

the cloudless sky, has seen the place in an aspect of great beauty.

In that hour of mystic calm, when the houses are all bathing in the

smokeless air,--when the very pavement seems steeped in forgetfulness,

and an unearthly spell of peaceful rapture lies upon the late disturbed

streets,--that last hour of nature's nightly reign, when the sleeping

city wears the beauty of a new morning, and "all that mighty heart is

lying still;"--that stillest, loveliest hour of all the round of night

and day,--just before the tide of active life begins to turn back from

its lowmost ebb, or, like the herald drops of a coming shower, begins

to patter, here and there, upon the sleepy streets once more; whoever

has seen Manchester at such a time, has seen it clothed in a beauty

such as noontide never knew. It is, indeed, a sight to make the heart

"run o'er with silent worship." It is pleasant, even at such a time,

to open the window to the morning breeze, and to lie awake, listening

to the first driblets of sound that stir the heavenly stillness of the

infant day:--the responsive crowing of far-distant cocks; the chirp of

sparrows about the eaves and neighbouring house-tops; the barking of

dogs; the stroke of some far-off church clock, booming with strange

distinctness through the listening air; a solitary cart, jolting slowly

along, astonished at the noise it is making. The drowsy street--aroused

from its slumbers by those rumbling wheels--yawns and scratches its

head, and asks the next street what o'clock it is.... Then come the

measured footsteps of the slow-pacing policeman, longing for six

o'clock; solitary voices conversing in the wide world of morning

stillness; the distant tingle of a factory bell; the dull boom of

escaping steam, let off to awake neighbouring workpeople; the whistle

of the early train; and then,--the hurried foot, and "tap, tap, tap!"

of the Knocker-Up. Soon after this, shutters begin to rattle, here and

there; and the streets gradually become alive again.

He who has wandered about the city, with observant eye, at dawn of

morning, may have seen men--and sometimes a woman--hurrying along the

street, hot-foot, and with "eyes right," holding aloft long taper

wands, like fishing-rods. These are Knockers-Up, going their hasty

rounds, from house to house, to rouse the workman to his labour. They

are generally old men, who are still active on foot; or poor widows,

who retain sufficient vigour to enable them to stand the work; for it

is an employment that demands not only severe punctuality, but great

activity: there is so much ground to cover in so little time. It is

like a "sprint-race"--severe whilst it lasts, but soon over. And the

aim of the Knocker-Up is to get as many customers as possible within

as small a circle as possible,--which greatly lessens the labour. A

man who has to waken a hundred people, at different houses, between

five and six o'clock, needs to have them "well under hand," as coachmen

say. With this view, Knockers-Up sometimes exchange customers with

one another, so as to bring their individual work as close together

as possible. The rate of pay is from twopence to threepence per week

for each person awakened; and the employment is sometimes combined

with the keeping of a coffee-stall at some street end, where night

stragglers, and early workmen, can get their breakfast of coffee and

bread-and-butter, at the rate of a halfpenny per cup, and a halfpenny

per slice for bread-and-butter. Sometimes, also, the Knocker-Up keeps

a little shop in some back street, where herbs, and nettle beer, and

green grocery, or fish, or children's spices are sold; and, after this

fashion, many poor, faded folk,--too proud for pauperism,--eke out a

thin, unostentatious living, out of the world's eye. So much for the

occupation of the Knocker-Up. And now for a little incident which led

to all this preamble.

The other day, as I sat poring over my papers, a startling knock came

to the street door. It was one, solid, vigorous bang,--with no nonsense

about it. It was heavy, sharp, straightforward, and clean-cut at the

edges,--like a new flat-iron. There was no lady-like delicacy about

it,--there was no tremulous timidity, no flabbiness, nor shakiness,

nor billiousness, nor any kind of indication of ill-condition about

that rap. It was sound--wind, limb, and all over. It was short

and decisive,--in the imperative mood, present tense, and first

person,--very singular; and there was no mistake about its gender--it

was, indeed, massively masculine--and it came with a tone of swift

authority--like a military command. It reminded me of "Scarborough

warning,"--a word and a blow--and the blow first. That rap could stand

on its own feet in the world,--and it knew it. It came boldly, alone,

"withouten any companie,"--not fluttering, lame and feeble, with feeble

supporters about it,--like a man on ricketty stilts, that can only

keep his feet by touching carefully all round. It shot into the house

like a cannon-ball, cutting a loud tunnel of strange din through the

all-pervading silence within. The sleepy air leaped, at once, into

wakefulness,--and it smote its forehead with sudden amazement, and

gazed around to see what was the matter. I couldn't tell whatever

to make of the thing. My first thought was that it must be the man

who examines the gas meters, and that he was behind with his work,

and in a bad temper about something. And then I began to think of my

debts: it might be an indignant creditor, or some ruthless bully of a

dun--which is a good deal worse--and I began to be unhappy. I sighed,

from the bottom of my heart, and looked round the room in search of

comfort. Alas! there was nothing there to cheer my sinking spirits.

The drowsy furniture had started from its long-continued trance; and

the four somnolent walls were staring at one another with wild eyes,

and whispering, "What's that?" The clock was muttering in fearful

undertones to the frightened drawers; and the astonished ceiling, as

it gazed down at the trembling carpet, whispered to its lowly friend,

"Look out!" as if it thought the whole house was coming down. I looked

at my watch--for, indeed, I hardly knew where to look--and I began to

apprehend that the fatal hour had come, at last, when we should have

to part,--perhaps for ever. I looked at my poor old watch.... It had

stopped.... The fact is, the little thing was stunned. The numerals

had tears of terror in their eyes; and it held out its tiny hands

for protection,--like a frightened child, flying to its mother from

a strange tumult. I felt sorry for the little thing; and I rubbed

the case with my coat sleeve, and then wound it gently up, by way of

encouragement; and--the grateful, willing creature--it only missed

about half a dozen beats or so, and then began ticking again, in a

subdued way, as if it was afraid of being overheard by the tremendous

visitor who had so furiously disturbed "the even tenor of its way."

The whole house was fairly aroused; tables, chairs, pictures,--all

were in a state of extraordinary wonderment. The cat was the only

thing that kept its senses. It rose from the hearth, and yawned, and

stretched itself; and then it came and rubbed its glossy fur soothingly

against my leg, and whispered, "All serene! Don't faint!" In the

meantime, I could imagine that rap,--as soon as it had delivered the

summons,--listening joyfully outside, and saying to itself; with a

chuckle, "I've wakened that lot up, for once!" ... At last I mustered

courage, and, shaking myself together, I went to the door.

A little, wiry old man stood at the door. His clothing was whole, but

rough, and rather dirty. An old cloth cap was on his grey head; and

he was in a state of curious disorder from head to toe. He had no

braces on; and he was holding his trousers up with one hand. I couldn't

tell what to make of him. He was a queer-looking mortal; and he had

evidently "been dining," as the upper ten thousand say when any of

their own set get drunk. At the first glance, I thought he was begging;

but I soon changed my mind about that, for the hardy little fellow

stood bolt upright, and there was not the shadow of anything like

cringing or whining about him. The little fellow puzzled me. He looked

foggy and dirty; but he had an unmistakable air of work and rugged

independence. Steadying himself with one hand against the door-cheek,

he muttered something that I couldn't make out.

"Well; what is it?" said I.

Again he muttered something that sounded like "Knocked Up;" to which

I mildly replied that he certainly looked as if he was so; and then

I inquired what I could do for him; but, to my astonishment, this

seemed to vex him. At last I found that he was a Knocker-Up, and that

he had called for his week's "brass." I saw at once that the old man

was astray; and the moment I told him where he was, his eyes seemed to

fill with a new light, and he exclaimed, "By th' mon, aw'm i'th wrang

street!" And then, holding his trousers up, still, with one hand, away

he ran, and was no more seen by me.

The Complaint of a Sad Complaint.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE WEEKLY GROWL.

Sir,--I am a nuisance, and therefore I suppose it is right, in the

abstract, that I should be put down. Unfortunately, however, many of

the persons and things by which I am surrounded are the same to me, and

I feel, by fits, vastly inclined to extinguish them, although I know

full well, in my sane moments, that they are generally useful. And so

it is, right to the end of the piece; everything and everybody is, by

turns, a nuisance to everybody and everything else; and if there were

no restraint upon the public vanity, and private pique, and officious

frivolities which affect these conflicting elements, the whole body

politic, being composed of nuisances, would be destroyed, like the

Irish cats in the story. In fact, sir, there is nobody in the world

that is not a nuisance to somebody; though that is hardly a sufficient

reason why they should be allowed to worry one another. But in these

days, the art and mystery of grumbling--that native prerogative which

has grown up so luxuriantly in the soil of our English freedom, that

the grumblers now constitute an eminently valuable power in the

state--the art and mystery of grumbling (it really is artful and

mysterious sometimes) is now growing into a kind of social scurvy, more

annoying than serviceable, and sometimes exceeding in offensiveness the

nuisances which it scratches into notice. The contagion is getting to

such a pitch just now, that it is time for the nuisances to speak for

themselves--for even a nuisance has a right side--and although I myself

am one, I shall be grateful if you will allow me--just this once--to

say a few words respecting the treatment to which many of my humbler

brethren are subjected by the magnates of the tribe. I feel the more

hopeful that you will grant this, since I know that I am not the only

nuisance to which you have, with admirable forbearance, opened the

columns of your excellent journal.

Happily, the expression of opinion is so free in this country,

that--although some offensive persons deny that a nuisance has the

slightest right to appeal to _any_ of the senses--I will venture to

assert, backed by all known law and custom, that even a nuisance

has a right to be _heard_--at least, _in its own defence_; thanks

to that instinctive leaning to fair play which, while it deprecates

anything that is foul, yet acknowledges that even foulness itself may,

sometimes, have a fair side. My dear sir, we nuisances have endured so

much, as we may say, from those of our own household, that the patience

of the most Christian nuisance in the world must give way under such

an incessant fire of impertinent insult. Ah me! there seems to be so

little fellow-feeling amongst nuisances now-a-days, that it may be

worth while to remind them all of the poet's little sermon beginning,--

O wad some power the giftie gie us,

To see oursels as ithers see us.

Nuisance-hunters are always, of course, a nuisance to the nuisances;

but the hunters are so often worse, upon the whole, than the hunted,

that it would be a general benefit to hold up the mirror to these

inconsiderate grumblers a little now and then. To whom, then, in this

difficulty, can we appeal, but to you, oh Mr. Editor? who are yourself

a very rock of offence to some misguided persons; who are, doubtless, a

stumbling-block to you.

How the theme widens as one pursues it There is something comical about

the pathology of public grumbling. Is it not a fact well known to you,

my dear sir, that there exists an inexhaustible class of persons who,

having little or no capacity for distinguishing themselves publicly

in any nobler fashion, and fearing, above all things, that obscurity

which is their natural destiny, are constantly racking their wits

for something to write to the papers about. How many such have you,

yourself, sir, out of the sheer kindliness of your nature--not unmixed

with a certain sense of the humour of the thing--lent a little fame

to, by deigning, occasionally, to embalm their crude frivolities in

your own clear "nonpareil". To such persons, anything will serve for

a subject, if they can only twist it into the shape of a complaint:

strong smells, and strange smells, which are not strong; suspicious

loiterers in lonely places; gaslight when the moon shines, and want

of gas when a cloud happens to be passing over the moon; flying chips

from masons' chisels, which have been stopt in their flight by the

rubicund tip of some respectable gentleman's nose; bits of orange peel

on the flags; public clocks that are too fast, or too slow, or are

stopt altogether, or have their fingers bent, or the faces of which are

partly hidden by the encroaching insignia of ambitious pawnbrokers, or

are in places where they are not needed, or _are not_ in places where

they _are_ needed; pavements which are too slippery for horses, and too

rough for ladies; music to people who have no ear for it, and noises

to people who have a delicate ear for music, and either to people who

like neither; mutually-discordant neighbours; church bells that are

not rung, and church bells that are rung too much, and church bells

that are not melodious when they are rung; holes in the street, and

places where holes are likely to be, sometime; too much water, and too

little water; cockle shells; broken pots; the smell of dinners floating

up from hotel kitchens; and the inarticulate wails of chip-sellers

and fish women; want of loyalty to the crown; want of loyalty to the

people; the insolence of cabmen, and railway buffers; sneezing during

service-time; fast-days, proposed by people who are ill with feasting,

and feast-days, proposed by people who are ill with fasting; general

holidays, proposed by those who are paid for their holidays, and

objected to by those who are not paid for them; and a thousand other

things, more insignificant even than these; sometimes ferreted out by

ingenious old fogies, of an irritable disposition, who go tooting about

the streets, "finding things out;" or by young "green" persons, driven

to their wits' end by a kind of literary measles. Heaven knows, I do

not wish to "freeze the genial current" of such poor souls as these

latter, but then, Mr. Editor, we must draw the line somewhere. With

respect to the former, have I not seen such a self-elected old nuisance

inspector, going slowly along the street, groping with his sharp

proboscis for something in the morning air to grumble about in graceful

prose, and meeting with a smell which he did not quite understand--a

smell which perhaps had travelled "ever so far" before it met him,

and was on its way into the country, there to die peaceably upon the

general air, if he had only allowed it to go--he straightway halts, he

sniffs at it carefully--he affiliates it upon something convenient--he

looks grave--he whips out a pocket-book, and makes a note, to be

wrought into an epistolary complaint at leisure, in the fervent hope

of its appearing among Saturday's correspondence. Have I not known

persons, whose jangled senses, refusing the Lethæn balm of sleep,

have lain awake o' nights, listening indignantly to the weird howls

of libidinous cats, prowling about the back yards, and the rigging of

the house, and making the sleepless midnight doubly hideous with their

"shrill ill will,"--who have started up irritably from their pillow

at last, and, striking a match, have exclaimed, "Drat that cat! Why

don't the police look after these things? I will write to the papers."

In fact, sir, the extravaganzas of public complaint are endless in

variety, and, not unfrequently, very unreasonable.

I know a manufactory of a certain kind, which was established

many years ago, in a spot as remote as was convenient, and wholly

uninhabited for some distance around, in the hope of being free

from the charge of anything in the shape of nuisance; but, as years

rolled on, population gathered about it, and grumbling began, which,

by irregular fits, has been carried on ever since; and whenever the

complaint could manage to get a "respectable start," it was sure to

be well followed up; without thought, as such cries often are. Even

in the papers of the last few days, letter after letter has appeared,

complaining of the effluvia arising from certain alum works in Salford.

Some of these letters are written by gentlemen whose delicate nasal

discrimination amounts to a marvel, if not to a miracle, when we

remember the distance they live from the spot complained of. How on

earth any smell, such as the one alluded to by these gentlemen, can

manage to travel two mortal miles, in a high wind, working its passage

through a hundred other smokes and smells as it goes, and still

preserve its own individuality, surpasses me to know. But so it is. Up

to Kersall Moor, and other green nooks of nestling, miles off, where

the human nose is critical, this compact nuisance cleaves its way

through the murky air, keeping wonderfully free from communion with the

elements it passes through, and strikes the senses at that distance as

distinctly as if it were a flat-iron. It seems to hold itself in till

it has found out noses which can appreciate it, and then it "comes

out strong," evidently making an effort to reveal all the pent-up

pungency of its nature, in the hope of gaining a little respectable

distinction. It is an aristocratic smell, too. It likes good society,

and will associate with none but gentlemanly noses. It has to travel

for it, though; for, like the prophets, it is not honoured with any

remarkable notice in its own neighbourhood. Now, noses such as these

are "something like," as the saying is; and, but for such noses, how

on earth should we, who live amongst it, be able to discriminate one

smell from another in the complication of odours which crowd the air of

this busy district,--except in such cases as the town's manure yard,

which overpowers everything else for a mile around with its intolerable

native strength,--is strong enough, indeed, in the height of summer,

"for a man to hang his hat upon," as the Irish say. That, now, is a

smell really worth notice, if it were only possible to get an alderman

or two to speak about it.

When it happens to be fashionable to raise an outcry against any

particular manufacturer, as in the case of these unfortunate alum

works, what is that manufacturer to do? Is he to take up his works

and walk, from one locality to another, every time an inconsiderate

complaint happens to be made against him? Is he to become a kind of

nomadic outcast? Is he to betake himself to utter solitude, and go

from one "desert where no men abide" to another "desert where no men

abide"--a manufacturing voice, crying for orders in the wilderness, and

finding none--until his occupation becomes unprofitable to himself or

anybody else?

And then, the tone in which complaint after complaint has been uttered,

in the case of these works in Salford, is rather curious. "_The_

Nuisance in Pendleton!" That is the title of more than one letter

on the subject. "_The_ Nuisance in Pendleton!" Good heavens! Who

art thou, O man, that writeth thus? Oh, happy Pendleton, with _one_

nuisance! Go thy ways, and break forth into singing, thou pleasant,

and, in some places, rather green suburb,--break forth into singing,

even from Windsor Bridge right away up Eccles Old Road, and in every

other direction, to the utmost extent of thy remarkable borders,--break

forth into singing! Thou with the long pole standing near the church,

and the cock upon the top of it,--rejoice, and give thanks, for thy

extraordinary exemption from the common troubles of this manufacturing

locality! And well might Pendleton sing, if this were true; but who

does not know how many things which are really useful and necessary,

are not always pleasant to those who have no immediate interest in

them? Who does not know that if everything which is a nuisance to

somebody or another, at one time or another, were removed from society,

there would be hardly anything useful left in society at all,--and if

all the nuisances in society were to cry out in this way, at once,

against each other, who knows where it would end? They would cleave

the general ear with horrid grumbling. Really, gentlemen who get their

living by the necessary infliction of unpleasant noises, and smokes,

and steams, and smells, upon people who are forced to live among them

because they live, in a certain sense, by them, should be a little

more considerate. They should, at least, remember that, although

they can leave the town, and live in palatial houses, situated in

pleasant spots, "far removed from noise and smoke," where the air is

so beautifully different that it makes them a little particular, they

leave their own share of the nuisances of the town behind them, to be

patiently endured by an immense multitude of people who cannot escape

from them,--if they wish to live,--and who, although they are just the

people who suffer most from them, are, also, just the people who would

be the least heeded if they were to cry out against them.

I am, Sir,

Yours truly,

A SAD COMPLAINT.

A. Ireland & Co., Printers, Pall Mall, Manchester.

* * * * *

Transcriber's note:

Variations in spelling, punctuation, hyphenation and accents have been

retained except in obvious cases of typographical error.