Produced by John Parkinson
MIRIAM:
A Tale of Pole Moor and the
Greenfield Hills.
By D. F. E. SYKES, LL.B.
AUTHOR OF: "THE HISTORY OF HUDDERSFIELD,"
"THE HISTORY OF THE COLNE VALLEY,"
"BEN 0' BILL'S, THE LUDDITE,"
"TOM PINDER, FOUNDLING,"
"SISTER GERTRUDE,"
&c., &c.
HUDDERSFIELD,
1912.
Introduction
MIRIAM: A Tale of Pole Moor and the Greenfield Hills links the
protagonists to The Burn Platts, an area above Slaithwaite near Pole
Moor where a group of Romanys or Gypsies lived around the time of an
incident which took place, in 1832, at the Moorcock Inn, on the
edge of the bleak moorland above Greenfield near Saddleworth. It was
at this remote pub that the landlord and his gamekeeper son were
violently murdered.
The Burnplatters were described by MR. G. S. Philips in 1848 as a group
of savages "living in log huts thatched with sods, and paying neither
rent nor taxes. They were a community to themselves, and had their own
wild laws and government. They were the terror likewise of all
wayfarers, and it was dangerous for any man to go amongst them alone."
It includes substantial portions of dialect spoken at that time in the
area when Greenfield was still part of the West Riding of Yorkshire. The
author has attempted to reproduce this phonetically using the
conventional alphabet. He is not always consistent in the way the
dialect is transcribed though this in itself illustrates the nature of
dialect.
CHAPTER I.
THE WAKES.
IT was the first morning of the eagerly awaited Saddleworth Wakes in the
year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and twenty-nine, a year so
full of great doings in the country, and followed by a year of still
greater doings, that there is little marvel that I call it easily to
mind. I had been out of bed by cock-crow to steal across the bare,
worm-eaten boards of the chamber floor as prattily as my six feet of
height and fourteen stone of weight would permit, to peer through the
long diamond-paned window of bottle-green glass up the valley towards
Greenfield, the quarter whence we folk of Biggie got our weather. It was
a glorious sun-rising and promised a glorious day, and so I stole back
to bed in great content, glad that though it was not the Sabbath I could
stretch my long limbs between the blankets--sheets were an unknown
luxury for such folk as myself and fellow chamberer, Jim Haigh,
sometimes called Jim o' 'Lijah's, sometimes Jim th' Tuner, but more
often simply Th' Tuner.
I suppose so small a bedroom rarely accommodated two men of our inches.
For if I was six-feet-nothing in my stocking-feet, Jim o'ertopped me by
a good four inches, and, whilst I was still, as it were, in the making,
and lank and willowy, Jim, though but four years my senior, which made
him four-and-twenty, was broad and deep chested, with the arms and legs
of a very son of Anak. The turn-up bed,
"Contrived a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day,"
into which Jim insinuated himself very gingerly o' nights, creaked and
groaned under his weight, and every morning he woke with cold feet, for
the simple reason that they stretched a good half yard out of the bottom
of the bedstead. He could not stand upright in our little chamber, and
as for yawning and stretching himself, as one does in rousing from
insufficient sleep, it was sheer out of the question. A giant truly was
my friend Jim, but surely the gentlest and simplest of all created
mortals, save when roused to wrath (and that he was not easily), and
then let lesser men beware, for Jim in those rare moods knew not his own
strength, and I'd as lieve have countered a sledge-hammer in punier
hands as met the fall of Jim's clenched fists.
Yet, curiously enough, this man of mighty girth and sinew held me in a
sort of wondering reverence. For, despite my protests, Jim insisted to
all and sundry of our common acquaintance that I was what he called a
"powerful scholard"--I, whom my reverend father, the pastor of Pole
Moor Chapel, had wept over and finally despaired of as a hopeless dunce
and dullard, unfit for that ministry to which I had been destined from
my cradle. Read and write I could 'tis true, nor could I truthfully say
"the rule of three did puzzle me, and fractions drove me mad." English
history from the great Alfred's time to poor, mad George the Third's I
knew fairly well, and could, under compulsion make out from the Latin
how Balbus built a wall. But it was when my father set me to the Hebrew,
maintaining that a minister of the Gospel should be able to read the Law
and Prophets in their original,--it was then, I say that I struck and
roundly declared that a parson I would never be. And so it came that I
was bound 'prentice at Wrigley Mill to learn the full craft of a master
clothier, pledging myself by solemn covenant "my master well and
faithfully to serve, his secrets keep, Hurt or Damage to him not to do,
Alehouses and ill Company not to frequent, nor Matrimony contract." As
if, commented Jim, when I read over to him these articles, a man would
be likely to get wed on the "One shilling yearly for Pocket Money"
which, with "Meat, Drink, Washing, Lodging, and two good Suits of
Apparel as well Linen as Woollen," was all I got for working like a
slave for "th' owd felly," as my master was called by his hands. I had
been boarded out by Mr. Wrigley with Mary Haigh, who lived in a small
cottage in the mill yard, and it was Mary's son who had been my true and
constant friend from the first days of my apprenticeship, and who now
lay slumbering soundly and snoring in the most determined manner in the
turnup bed an arm's length from my side.
I must have dropped off into a morning dose, for when I came back again
to consciousness Jim was sat on the side of his couch, a little rickety,
spindle-shanked, rush-bottomed chair in front of him, against the back
of which was propped a small mirror about the size of a sheet of
note-paper, its usefulness and beauty much marred by a crack that ran
diagonally across a blotted surface. The half of a cocoanut shell, which
served Jim as a shaving pot, rested on the floor, and Jim was
alternately stropping a very harsh-scraping razor, lathering his face
and throat, and shaving himself as he wielded the razor in the right
hand and pinched his nose firmly with the left.
"Did ta' ivver hear tell o' th' lad at th' schooil at th' inspector wer'
hearkening to read?" he broke off to ask, when he noticed that I had
opened my eyes.
"What about him?" I asked.
"Well he come to one o' them guisehanged long names i' th' Bible, an'
baulked at it. 'Say summat sharp,' whispers th' schooilmester. 'Razzer,'
says th' lad, 'Razzer'. But it wer' noan this razzer I'll go bail, for
I've stropped it till mi shackle warks, an' I'd as soon tha' took a
curry comb to me for comfort."
"You're making yourself mighty fine to-day, Jim, and it isn't one of
your Sundays for Church," I commented, noticing his knee-breeches, and
that he had already donned polished shoon with buckles of nickel silver
and a striped and starred linen shirt.
"Church? No, thank God. It's noan Church to-day. I'm off to th' Wakes,
and so are ta', mi hearty. Why, man, it's th' Rushbearing, an' aw've
n'er missed th' Rushbearing sin' aw wer' a little 'un, an' aw n'er mean
to. There'll be some ale stirring to-day at th' Church, aw can tell
thee, an' aw'st ha' mi share on 't, tha' may bet thi Sunday booits."
"At the Church?" I queried.
"Aye, th' Church Inn, to be sure. Don't thee act so gaumless. Ger up an'
don thee, lad. Aw do believe there's a collop for breakfas', aw hear it
sizzlin', an' smell it, too, for that matter. So doant tha be so greedy
on th' porridge, leave a corner for th' collop."
And if any assurance were needed that breakfast was well forward it was
supplied by the shrill voice of Mother Haigh calling at the bottom of
the stairs:
"Are yo' idle good-for-nowts goin' to lig i' bed till th' wheel starts
to morn? Th' porridge's bin ready this bit back, an' th' bacon's welly
stuck to th' pan bottom Ger up, do."
Was there ever so clean a kitchen as Mary Haigh's, I wonder. Certainly
there never was one oftener fettled. Jim's mother had few household
gods, but those I verily believe she worshipped. The floor was sanded,
the hearth blue-storied, the steel fender shone like burnished silver,
you could see your face reflected with queer distortions in the brass
knob of the oven door, the oaken press and settle and the deal chairs
fairly sparkled with what Mary called elbow grease, the top of the
little round three-legged table was white almost as driven snow. And as
for Mary herself, sure never was a nattier little woman in all Yorkshire
or Lancashire to boot. Nor a harder working. She was a tewer, as all the
country-side would tell you, and always had been since she had been left
a widow with little Jim still at the breast. She'd kept herself and Jim
too, and anyone could see that Jim at all events hadn't wanted. Even yet
she did some burling in the house, and many of the hands at Wrigley's
paid her no less than a penny a week--bar missings--to heat their
dinners for them, and in summer time she brewed for the behoof of the
mill-girls a sweet and heady beverage called treacle-drink, of which the
great merit was that it cost only a meg, in other words a half-penny,
the quart, but which, Jim avowed, more in sorrow than in anger,
possessed the fatal drawback that you got no forrader on a bucketful.
We'd an extra spread for this morning's meal in honour of the Wakes. We
started on the porridge. This Mary poured from the porringer into a
large earthenware bowl, a dull russet colour on the outside, a highly
glazed yellow on the inner. It stood in the centre of the table. Before
Jim's seat was a basin of "whom-brewed," which he always took with his
porridge. Mary and myself preferred buttermilk, which she fetched from
Wrigley's big house at Holly Grove every churning day. We helped
ourselves from the central dish by long leaden spoons, and I've always
attributed the size of my mouth to the fact that in my tenderest years.
I had to use these large-bowled spoons or "go bowt."
Mary exhorted us to draw and eat heartily of the porridge she declared
made by God a-purpose for growing lads.
"You'll noan start without sayin' grace, Jim," she expostulated as Jim
made a flourish over the steaming pottage with his spoon.
"What for water-porridge?" asked Jim. "Aw've n'er said grace for
porridge mother, an' aw'st noan begin. Ax Abel, he's noan partickler."
"There's collops when yo'n etten th' porridge up, but not afore."
"Oh, collops. Well, then, here goes: 'Sanctify these blessings--th'
collops aw mean, noan th' watter porridge--to our use an' us to Thy
service, Amen.' Nah, Abel, fair do's. Eh! aw wish it were th' Wakes six
days a week, an' all th' year raand. Aw do like collop wi' haver bread
an' plenty o' mustard."
When I look back on those days that seem sometimes so far, far away, and
at other times as though but yesterday, I blush to think how much I must
be in Mary's debt. For certain sure am I that the sum paid by Mr.
Wrigley for my board and lodging never paid Mary. But she never stinted
me, and the only times she grieved were the days I was off my food and
could not eat my fill of the homely but wholesome fare she set before
me. When I grew older and more noticing, as they say, I once hinted that
my father should be asked to supplement Mr. Wrigley's payment, though
well I knew there was little to spare at the Manse at Pole Moor. But
Mary had waxed wroth at this. "A bargain was a bargain," she maintained
with warmth. "She'd made hers and she'd stick to it. Besides, she never
could abide a finicking eater, picking here an' pishing an' pshawing, as
if th' fooid weren't good enough for 'im. Besides, didn't I read th'
papper to her every week an' a portion o' th' Scriptures, to say nowt o'
th' 'Pilgrim's Progress.' It were as gooid as having a parson i' th'
house, wi'out his airs."
"How mich brass has ta?" whispered Jim to me, as he shredded his
tobacco, the while his mother cleared the few pots and busied herself
with washing--up.
"Three shillings," I confided, fingering the coins lovingly in my
breeches' pocket.
"An' I've four--seven shillin' 'atween us. We'st ha' to be careful.
There's th' dobby--horses, an' th' swings, an' Tom Wild's show--aw
wouldn't miss 'The Pirates' Lair' for owt--an' th' fat woman with a
beard, an' the three--legged hen, an' th' hot peas, an' th'
brandy--snap, an' th' shooitin' gallery, an' th' aunt sally, an' th
weighin' machine, an' th' pig 'at counts up to twenty, an' we 'st want a
rattle apiece to scrat dahn th' lasses' shawls to mak' 'em jump an'
squeal, an' then there's th' ale, but there's one comfort, tha'rt a poor
supper--eh! aw dunnot see how it's to be done wi' th' brass, but we'st
happen meet a trump."
"What's a trump?" I asked.
"A chap wi' more brass nor wit," defined Jim, as he continued. "Then
there's a fairin' for th' mother. Aw munnot forget that if aw get as
drunk as a wheel--head. 'Oo'd greet for a month ovver it. Nuts an'
brandy--snap. It's my belief 'oo wraps 'em up i' gilt papper an' keeps
'em in th' drawer wi' them two silver spooins her gran'mother left her.
'Oo never eits 'em, that's certain, but all th' same yo' munnot let me
forget th' fairin' for th' owd mother."
"Why, to tell the truth, Jim, I hadn't thought of going this year. You
can have my two or three shillings and welcome."
"And what for no, Abel?"
"You see, I haven't been to see old Mr. Turner for ever so long, and
last time I was there he seemed to me to be failing. He seems ill of his
mind, and he's none too long for this world."
"Tha' means th' owd hermit, as they ca' him, up at Dean yead? Aw could
nivver mak' aht how tha tak' up wi' such a God-forsaken owd scarecrow."
This from Mary, who had finished her pots, and came from the sink,
drying her hands on her apron.
"Why, the story's simple enough and soon told, Mary," I said. "And if
you knew poor old Mr Turner as I know him I'm sure you'd feel for the
poor man.
"Aye, but pity wi'out relief's like mustard wi'out beef," quoth Mary,
who was great on proverbs. "An' aw dunnot see what aw could do for th'
man--more by token 'at he welly fleyed me to death th' only time aw
ivver clapped mi e'en on 'im, an' that were i' owd Betty's at th' Weigh
Key, when he'd come to buy a penn'orth o' snuff. He nobbut wanted a
winding-sheet to mak' him look like a corpse. He gay' me a turn, aw
know. It's kitchen physic he's wanting, if aw'm to judge. But how did
ta' come to leet on him, Abel?"
"Why, you know, Mary, that when I walk home to Pole Moor I must needs
cross over by Stanedge, and one day I'd turned off just below the
"Floating Light" to take a sheep-walk that makes a short cut down to
Marsden It came on to rain helter-skelter when I was in the very centre
of the Moor, and n'er a tree nor a wall to crouch under for shelter. But
a hundred yards or so from the path I saw an old ramshackle sort of
building a one decker, that I thought might be a keeper's hut. I made
for it across the heather as fast as my two legs could carry me, for it
was lightning and thundering to make matters worse. I knocked at the
door, but there was no answer so I just lifted the sneck and walked in.
There was no one in the house. I called and better called but I could
make no one hear. There wasn't even a cat, about the place and such a
place. Poverty-stricken isn't the word for it. It was clean enough,
however. But just fancy, Mary. One chair, one table, a rack with one or
two plates and mugs, and a truckle-bed in a corner, a smouldering fire,
and a box of dried turf. But I cowered over the fire to dry me, and then
I sat down by the table. There was a book on it. I opened it idly. You
might have knocked me down with a feather, as you say. If it wasn't a
Greek Testament! I knew enough of my Alpha and Omega to make that out
anyway, and just to pass the time I fell to trying how much of the first
Gospel I could construe. I became absorbed in my task and did not hear
the opening of the outer door, and nearly jumped out of my skin when I
heard a voice: 'You make yourself at home, young sir.' I rose in
confusion and made what apology I could, and was for going. Mr. Turner,
however, for it was he, bade me stay till the storm abated. He himself
was dripping wet, but seemed to make no account of it. He stood by the
fire, Which I had mended, and the rain siped off him--."
"On to th' clean fender, of course; just like a man," interrupted Mary.
"There wasn't a fender. Just th' ash-hole."
"Aw nivver did," said Mary. "But go on."
"He was very silent, and I had time to observe him as he gazed into the
fire, seemingly oblivious of my presence."
"Oblivious? What's that?" asked Jim.
"Forgetful," I answered, somewhat testily.
"Then why couldn't ta' say so?" said Jim. "Tha owt to ha' bin a parson
after all, an' a gooid weaver spoiled."
I disdained retort and went on: "He was only a littlish man, very thin,
shockingly thin, all skin and bone, and his clothes simply hung on him.
They were threadbare and much patched, but of good cut and
material--West of England broadcloth, if I'm a judge."
"Which you aren't," put in Jim.
"His hair was white as snow, and his face well, I don't wonder that Mary
thought she'd seen a corpse. Yet though the frame was worn and bent, and
the hair so bleached, the face did not seem that of an old man. Not
fifty. It was deathly pale and waxen. Scarce a wrinkle seamed his brow,
but in his sunken eyes there dwelt a look of woe unutterable. 'A man of
sorrow, and acquainted with grief.' The old words came to my mind as I
looked on those worn, wan features. 'Have you far to journey?' he asked
me suddenly. 'To Pole Moor in Scammonden, sir,' I told him. 'My father
is minister there Mr. Holmes. You'll have heard of him, the Reverend Mr.
Holmes,' I added, with just pride."
"Aw should think so, indeed"--Mary again.
"'Nay I have little acquaintance in this neighbourhood,' the man
answered. 'But you will need food before you reach home. I have little
to tempt you.' But I made haste to assure him I wanted nothing to eat.
To tell the truth I didn't just relish sitting down to table with this
strange creature--he looked so other worldish, and I didn't know him
then as I have come to know him since--aye, and to like him, too. I
suppose he must have seen me look enquiringly at the Greek Testament,
for he handed it to me and asked me to read him a few verses But I
hadn't stumbled over many lines before he stopped me. 'This is how it
should go,' he said. And then he reeled it off, as if it had been plain
English I thought my father could read Greek but he reads it but
haltingly where Mr. Turner comes."
"As tak' leave to doubt, that," said Mary with conviction.
"But by now the storm had cleared, and I anxious to be on my way, for
it's no joke being on Stanedge off the beaten track in the dark, or even
in the dusk. So I thanked my host for the shelter he had afforded me,
and, timidly, and with little hopes of success, begged that on other
days, as I passed his cottage, homeward bent, I might call and pay my
respects. He gave, as I thought, but a grudging assent, but assent after
a fashion he did. And that's how I came to know Mr. Turner, but who he
is and what he is, and how a man of cultured refinement, for any fool
can see he's that, came to live all alone in that wretched hovel, for
it's little better, beats me."
"Oh, there's all mak's o' tales about him," said Mary. "He's been th'
talk o' th' countryside this twenty year an' more, to my knowledge. Some
sayn one thing, an' some another. I did hear he'd been a parson an' had
his frock ta'en off him for some prank or other. But it's all 'he says
an' shoo says,' an' I ma' no count o' them sort o' tales. There's wimmen
i' this parish as is nivver so happy as when they're callin' fro' door
to door an' rakin' up all th' tittle-tattle they can gather an' ladlin'
it out as they go, wi' more to it. An' all th' time th' breakfust pots
is on th' table, th' asses on th' hearth, th' dust on th' furniture, th'
beds just as they were ligged in, th' slops i' th' pots, an' th' dinner
for th' poor fools 'at's teed to 'em takkin' its luck on th' hob or i'
th' oven. Aw thank God aw'm noan o' that mak'!"
"No, that you're not," quoth Jim right heartily. "But come, Abel, lad,
let's be starting for th' Wakes or we'st miss th' rush cart. We'st be
back bi ten o'clock, mother, an' aw should like some browies for my
supper."
"There's nowt like browies to go to bed on when yo'n a skin full o'
ale," Jim confided to me as we crossed the mill yard and made for the
plank that crossed Diggle Brook and led on to the way to Woolroad and
Dobcross, and so to Saddleworth.
"And how's that?" I asked, more to humour Jim's loquacity than because I
thought myself likely to need the specific.
"Why, yo' see," expounded Jim, "th' haver bread's nourishin' o' itself
and gives th' ale summat to work on, but it's th' fat as does it. It
swims your stoma' an' prevents th' ale mountin' to your yead. Tha can't
goa far wrong if tha sticks to ale n' Owdham browies, an' don't yo'
forget it, an' yo'll have summat to thank Jim th' Tuner for as long as
yo' live, if he is a fooil."
"I can't see, Jim, why you should seem to make a point of getting more
drink than usual at Christmas time and the Wakes," I ventured, somewhat
timidly, for this was a soreish point with my friend, who for three
hundred and sixty-three days of the year was as temperate a man as ever
walked on two legs, barring, of course, the members of that new-fangled
sect, the teetotallers, that has sprung up since Jim and I were young
men.
Jim pondered deeply before he vouchsafed a reply.
"Why, as to Xersmas time," he said, as we strode blithely along the
road, exchanging greetings with many a friend and neighbour all bent in
the same direction with "holiday" written in dress and beaming face, "as
to Xersmas time aw dunnot think th' reason's far to seek. There's th'
frost an' snow, an' th' log o' th' fire, an' th' waits, an' th' bells
ringing an' ros' beef an' th' plum pudding--oh! Jerusalem--an'
ivverybody stoppin' yo' an' shakkin' hands, an' wishin' yo' a Merry
Xersmas an' a Happy New Year, an' lookin' as if they meant it. Why, the
very robin 'at hops i' th' hedge seems to know its Xersmas time. An' so,
somehow, it's nat'ral to tak' a drop, an', maybe, a drop too much at
Xersmas. But as for th' Wakes, now, when aw come to think on 't, guise
hang me if aw know what they're for or how they come about at all. But
yo'll know, aw'll be bun, for thi' yead seems to be stuffed wi' all
sorts o' lumber 'at's nowt to do wi' weavin' gooid broad cloth. What is
th' Wakes, anyway, Abel?"
"Well, _now_, you know, Jim, it's but a junketting and holiday-making.
But it is held on St. Chad's Day, and St. Chad was the patron saint of
the old Church at Saddleworth. In the old evil Catholic times the monks
used to wake all the night dedicated to St. Chad to burn candles and
pray before the altar. And the people gathered rushes from the marshes
and brook sides and brought them with great rejoicings to strew upon the
mud floors of the Church. Then they made merry in token of their
gratitude to God for planting His Church in their midst. But now all
that was good and wholesome has died away, and all we've left is a
senseless debauch, or so my father says."
"An' wi' all respect to yo'r worthy father, who's a preicher hissen an'
bound to improve th' occasion in season an' out o' season, aw'st tak'
leave to differ fro' him. It's a poor heart that nivver rejoices. Here's
you an' me, an' nearly every man Jack on us i' all this Valley, toilin'
an' moilin' fro' daybreak till sunset, an' often ovvertime, little 'uns
an' big 'uns, it mak's no differ. An' when we'n done us wark we're so
tired 'at we're fain to crawl to bed. It's all bed an' wark, wark an'
bed, except o' Sundays, an' even o' Sundays some folk 'ud have us wark
harder nor o' warkdays, what wi' Chapel o' mornin' an' Chapel o' th'
neet, an' Sunday Schooil, an' prayer meetin's, an' experience meetin's,
an' Bible classes. Why, man, if it weren't for Xersmas an' th' Wakes an'
Whissund there'd be nother life nor colour nor a gleam o' sunshine in
all th' long life on us."
"Perhaps when this new Reform Bill comes----." I began for I was by
way of being a budding politician.
"Reform Bill!" snorted Jim. "There's only one mak' o' politics for th'
working man:
'Fear God an' honour the King,
Eit thi porridge an' howd thi din.'
But see yo', yonder's th' rush cart. Let's after it."
And the rush-cart sure enough it was--a great wain from which the
shafts had been removed stout ropes being substituted, with stangs
across six in all, and to each stang two stout young fellows: all gay in
rosetted knee-breeches and with streamers of bright colours fluttering
from their jaunty caps. And on the waggon was piled a huge cone of
rushes cunningly plaited together, on whose summit perched, with
precarious seat, Tim o' Tame Water, who was regarded with fear and
trembling by all the children for miles around, he being by way of being
the village idiot, though, when I come to think of it, a man who can
make a fairish living without doing a handstroke of work from January to
December may not be quite such a fool as he's reckoned. Tim was
furnished with a long slender wand or pole, to one end of which was
tethered an old, battered tin can, the which he thrust invitingly under
the noses of the men and women who watched the progress of the
rush-cart. And the coppers rattled in gaily and freely, for who so mean
as to begrudge a penny's fee to the burly lads who had scoured the
countryside to gather the rushes, whose deft hands had plaited the reedy
pyramid, and who now grunted and sweated behind the stangs as, swaying
from side to side of the road, now lifting the stans above their heads,
now bending their brawny shoulders to the strain, they drew the creaking
wain towards the door of the Church. Old men and withered beldames stood
on their doorsteps to watch the throng pass by, and I doubt not drew
disparaging comparisons between the rush-cart of that day and those they
had danced behind so trippingly when they were young and light of foot
and heart; comely matrons dandled their babes in their arms, and held
them aloft that their chubby fists might drop a coin into the rattling
tin; sturdy urchins dodged about the labouring wheels of the groaning
cart in a way to bring your heart into your mouth, till you remembered
that a special Providence watches over drunken men and children; and,
fairest sight of all, the pretty young lasses, all donned in their
Sunday best, and wearing fragrant nosegays of every hue under the sun,
ran by the waggon side with many a lilt of rustic melody.
Following in the rear of the rush-cart, amid a jeering crowd, rode a man
and his wife--their names and habitations I cared not to inquire--who
were being "stanged". The man rode behind his better, very much the
better, half, with his face towards the tail of the sorry beast that
bore this wretched couple. And as it plodded heavily through the throng
the lads and lasses, aye, and even silly grown-up folk who ought to have
had more sense, shouted the old nominy, "With a ran, tan, tan, on my old
tin can, owd Betty"--I did not catch the name--"and her good man. She
banged him, she banged him, for spending a penny when he stood in need,
she up with a three-footed stool; she struck him so hard, she cut him so
deep, till the blood ran down like a new stuck sheep."
"What a burning shame!" I said to Jim, "to shame the poor folk so."
"Not a bit on it," laughed Jim. "It's all in the fun o' the fair.
They'll plaster their wounded feelings for 'em wi' lashings o' ale. I
expect it's a put up job."
And so we went along the highway, past the stalls where nuts, and
brandysnap, and humbugs, and peppermint, and all the sorts of goodstuffs
you can think of made your money burn in your pocket; past the Aunt
Sallies and cocoanut shies--three shies a penny--and the weighing
machines and thumping machines--I remembered that last Wakes Jim, being
pressed to try his strength, had struck so shrewd a buffet that the
indicator whirled all over the brazen face of the dial, and for anything
I know is whirling yet, and sent the machine itself staggering across
the road--past the pea saloons, and past the booths of the bearded
woman and the learned pig, aye, even past Tom Wild's great show, despite
the allurements of an elderly-young lady, whom only two years ago I had
counted as fairer than Venus herself, if indeed she was not that goddess
incarnate, but upon whom I now looked with cold and critical eye as she
paced the platform in front of the booth in pink tights and skirts of
gauze that had once been white. "A brazen hussy," I heard many an honest
mother comment to her admiring daughter, "'oo ought to be ashamed o'
hersen, barein' her legs i' that fashion for all the world to see." And
so in merry fit we came at length to the Church Inn at Saddleworth,
before whose hospitable doors the rush-cart came to a halt, the lads
threw down their stangs right gladly, wiped their streaming brows on
their coat sleeves, and called lustily for quarts of ale. Tim o' Tame
Water pouched the contents of the collecting-tin, and made his way
within doors to change the coppers into less bulky coinage and to
apportion the spoil among those who had furnished forth the cart.
Jim looked on, somewhat gloomily, I thought.
"Aw wish aw had yet aw'm fain aw didn't," he vouchsafed.
"Wish you'd what?" I queried.
"Wish aw'd weighed in wi' th' rush-cart. They wanted me to, but th' owd
mother were agin it. Aw'll be bun they'll finger a matter o' haulf a
guinea apiece out o' this year's Rush. It beats goin' out wi' th' waits
at Xersmas time, an' as for goin' a wassailing at th' New Year, why,
that's babby work. To be sure it's harder work, tho' aw could tug that
owd cart, rushes an' all, awmost by missen on a pinch, but then, look
yo, it's warmer work, an', by gosh, a felly nivver knows how nice a
gallon o' ale can taste till he's poo'd a rush-cart fro' Woolroad to th'
Church. Aw've heard tell o' a chap at used to put ki-an on salt herrings
so's he could enjoy his liquor more, but aw't back a rush-cart agen th'
best ki-an ivver come out o' a pepper-box lid. But then, on t' other
hand, if aw'd had th' fingering o' another hauf guinea, besides what
we'n getten o' our own, aw should happen ha' ended up whur aw see Neddy
Thurkill is by now. It's a weary an' a contrary world, Abel, when yo'
can see six things for a thing an' just hauf a dozen agin it."
"Why, what of Neddy Thurkill?" I asked, with quick misgiving.
Now Ned was our dyer, and a very good dyer, too; but never a Saturday
night came round but he was turned out of the Hanging Gate at Diggle,
maudlin drunk, and half his good wages gone in drink. He spent Sunday in
bed mending the clocks and watches of the villagers, and he was as good
a clock doctor as he was a dyer.
Jim jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the church,
just opposite the inns and going to the door and pressing my way through
a hustling, jeering crowd, I made my way to the space by the eastern
wall of the churchyard, where stood the village stocks, and in them, in
drunken gravity, with a churchwarden pipe brandished in one hand, and
brandishing a pewter pot half full of ale in the other sat Neddy
Thurkill. I turned away sadly enough for a better workman and a better
hearted fellow than Ned never breathed, but for just this one fault and
that a big one. I found Jim in the front room, which was crowded by a
thirsty throng all clamouring for something to wash the dust out of
their throats. I ordered my modest draught and managing by great good
fortune to secure a seat on a settle near the window gazed moodily on
the scene without.
To tell the truth I was somewhat out of element in that crowded room of
jovial roysterers. Though not averse to a kindly quencher after a long
walk, I saw neither rhyme nor reason in guzzling mighty draughts of ale
just for the sake of "getting forrader," and I'd outgrown my boyish
affection for nuts and brandysnap, and swing-boats and dobby-horses made
me sick, and fat women, even when bearded, had lost their pristine
charm. My thoughts wandered from the scene that my eyes gazed upon but
scarcely saw, and I fell to musing idly about my strange acquaintance,
the recluse of Deanhead, and I reproached myself for having been
beguiled from my first intent to visit him in his hour of lonely
sickness. I'd have been glad enough to shake the dust of the Wakes from
my feet and hie me over the moors to the lonely cottage, or rather
hovel, which was all the poor old hermit had to call a home. But I was
under solemn vow to watch over the potations of that good natured giant,
Jim, whose hearty voice I could distinguish even in that Babel, calling
on all and sundry to come and "sup". I calculated that at his present
rate of progression his few shillings would soon be gone, and I made up
my mind to slip out presently and expend my little stock in the
"fairings" for Mary and one or two of the mill girls and neighbours'
children, that I might in all truth assure Jim I was spent up when he
came, as come I knew he would, to see if I could replenish his exhausted
exchequer. Then we'd have to go home, Jim willy-nilly.
Bent on this goodly strategy, I made my way with no little difficulty
along the narrow passage that led to the outer door, and stood a space
upon the steps, glad to breathe again the air that stole down from Pots
and Pans, and tasted all the sweeter after the mingled fumes of twist
tobacco and stale ale of the room I had quitted. My slight elevation
enabled me to see across and above the throng, and across the square and
hard by the stocks I saw a sight that roused me smartly from my somewhat
abstracted mood. I saw the two well-known gamekeepers that all the
countryside knew as Bill o' Jack's, and Tom o' Bill's, William Bradbury
and Tom, his son, men of bad repute, wenchers and ale-bibbers, and never
so happy as when they could get some poor devil of a weaver into trouble
with his betters for snaring a rabbit or bagging a bird. Tom was a fine
upstanding fellow enough, but his father had an evil face, full of
malice and guile. It was a common saying that Bill made the bullets and
Tom shot them. But I'd no time just then for dwelling on family
characteristics. I heard a scream and a voice, a young and sweet, pure
voice, that cried, "Let me be, let me be."
"Not till I've had a kiss, my bonnie gipsy wench."
"Never, never; let me be, I say."
"Jim," I cried with all my might and main, "Jim, I want you"; and I was
through that crowd, how I never knew.
And in the centre of a circle of jeering, laughing fools, that seemed to
take what was passing as part of the fun of the fair, was Tom o' Bill's,
flushed with drink and his exertions, in whose arms panted and struggled
a young lass of some nineteen years.
She was somewhat fantastically dressed in a long scarlet cloak, and her
skirt was shorter by an inch or two than a modest maiden's should be.
She wore no headgear, and her long lustrous hair, black as midnight and
with ripples that just escaped being curls, fell in wild confusion about
a face of purest oval and over a pair of eyes that now gleamed with
mingled terror and passion as she panted and writhed in the clasp of the
burly gamekeeper, beating with small, brown, clenched fist the mocking
lips he sought to press to hers. Near by another woman, an old,
dishevelled hag, shrieked, and swore, and hit, and scratched, and kicked
in the grasp of that drunken reprobate, Bill Bradbury. She, too, I
guessed, was a gipsy, and it was clear she was striving to help the
younger woman, while Bill urged his son:
"Stick to it, Tom. I'll hold the old bitch. Ha' your will o' the young
'un."
"By your leave, no," I cried, as I inserted my right hand in Tom's neck
gear, and with a sudden wrench sent him reeling on his heels into the
crowd. "You'll reckon with me first."
"And who the hell are you?" he spluttered, as he recovered his balance.
"Oh! it's th' parson's lad o' Pole Moor. Well, I've a score to settle
with th' owd 'chart-i'-heaven, an' I reckon I may as well pay it th'
young whelp." And he came for me with a leap his arm crooked for a blow,
and his huge fist clenched.
"A feight a feight," cried the mob. "Make a ring, and fair do's."
A hurried glance showed me the girl, still panting and trembling, and
arranging the folds of her disordered dress about a heaving bosom,
clinging to the old beldam whom Bill had cast roughly from him when I
sent his son whirling.
Now I'm no fighting man, and never was. I had no more notion of the
noble art of self-defence than a boy perforce picks up in his
schooldays' scrimmages. Moreover, my reverend father had always
impressed upon me that if an adversary smote me on one cheek it was my
Christian duty to turn to him the other also. But that was a doctrine I
had always regarded as a counsel of perfection, and clearly, unless I
had mind to be pounded to a jelly, which I certainly had not, this was
no occasion for its practical application, for Tom o' Bill's fists were
hovering about my head and chest, and I'd much ado to keep clear of
them. Of course the odds seemed all against me, for your gamekeeper is
ever at home in a brawl.
But I was young and active, my brain and eye were clear, and I was as
hard as pin-wire, whilst Tom had been keeping up the Wakes to some tune,
and, though the drink had fired his blood, it served neither to steady
his arms nor his legs. So I held my own fairly well, though I was
conscious that my lips were beginning to swell and an eye to close up;
and I think, maybe, I should have come off a little more than conqueror,
as my father would have said, had not the old man, despite the
protestations of the crowd which cried shame on him, joined in the fray
and fetched me a sounding blow on the jowl that made the world spin
round me. I almost lost consciousness, and beat my arms feebly in some
sort of show of attack, and then became aware in a mazed sort of way
that the tide of war had changed. For there was Jim, good old Jim,
bristling and growling like a mighty mastiff, by my side. He had dealt
Tom a blow that must have been like the kick of a stallion, and just as
my senses cleared I saw him pick up the shrieking, cursing Bill o'
Jack's, raise him high above his head, and hurl him a dozen yards or
more into the midst of the cheering crowd.
Tom o' Bill's lay on one elbow on the ground his nose streaming, and
spitting out his front teeth. "Do yo' want any more? There's plenty
wheer that came fro'," quoth Jim to Tom.
But Tom picked himself and, muttering "Yo'st both on yo' pay for this,"
limped off crest fallen.
"And nah, lad, we'st best be going whom. I'm spent up an' awve
fuffen[1], an' if that doesn't mak' a gooid Wakes aw dunnot know what
does. But what about these wenches here? Dost know 'em?"
[1] fought
Now I thought I did. I turned to the younger of the two.
"Aren't you Burnplatters?" I asked.
She cast down her head, and a hot flush suffused her face.
"Yes, no, that is my grandmother…."
"I thought I'd seen the old lady our way," I explained. "Well, if I may
make so free, you'd better be making your way toward Slaithwaite, for
yon two are ugly customers, and it is best you kept out of their way.
So, by your leave, Jim and I will set you on your road."
"Oh, please, don't trouble. Granddam and I are used to taking care of
ourselves. And oh! how can I thank you?"
"Thank Jim," I said. "Come along, if you don't mind. It's a tidy step
over Stanedge, and the night draws in betimes these days."
So without more ado I took charge of the maiden, whose fluttering hand
rested confidingly on my arm. Jim followed me with the elder woman as we
made our way through the crowd.
"Tha's getten a sweetheart at last," I heard a young mill lass cry to
Jim. "An' a beauty oo is to be sure. Yo'll noan be feart o' her layin'
away, that's one comfort."
Jim disdained retort, and as we drew away from the Wakes, and the twain
plodded steadily in our rear, I heard him more than once suggest to the
poor old woman that they'd get on faster if he carried her on his back.
As for my companion she wrapped herself in reserve, replying in
monosyllables to my clumsy efforts to draw her into conversation. I
gleaned, however, that her name was Miriam, and that she lived at
Burnplatts with her grandmother. They had come to the Wakes to sell
those little penny whisks of heather which housewives use for dusting,
and I don't think I was far wrong in guessing that the old lady had
hoped to turn a copper or two by telling the fortunes of those swains
and maids who were willing to cross her palm with the accustomed coin.
But of this Miriam said nought. We conveyed the twain through the
cutting on the top of Stanedge, set them with their faces towards Pole
Moor, and so took our leave. But, though I had met with little
encouragement, I vowed within my heart that by hook or crook I would
hold Miriam's little brown hand in mine again.