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_Lancashire Humour_
_First Edition, December 1900_
_Second Edition, April 1901_
_All rights reserved_
[Illustration: TWO DEYGHN LAYROCKS]
LANCASHIRE HUMOUR
BY
THOMAS NEWBIGGING
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
J. AYTON SYMINGTON
LONDON
J. M. DENT & CO.
1901
TO
MY DEAR WIFE
A GRADELY LANCASHIRE LASS
"Thae knows, that wherever aw roam,
Aw'm fain to get back to th' owd ground."
Vile potabis modicis Sabinum
Cantharis, Graeca quod ego ipse testa
Conditum levi ...
* * * * *
Caecubum et prelo domitam Caleno
Tu bibes uvam: mea nec Falernae
Temperant vites, neque Formiani
Pocula colles.
_Hor. Lib. I. Car. xx._
PREFACE
In the present volume I have included a number of Anecdotes and
Sketches which I had previously introduced into my _History of the
Forest of Rossendale_, and also a subsequent book of mine, entitled
_Lancashire Characters and Places_. I felt that it was admissible to
do this in a volume dealing specifically with the subject of
Lancashire Humour, and I am in hopes that readers who already possess
copies of the works named will not object to their being reproduced
here. They were worth giving in this connection, and, indeed, their
omission could scarcely be justified in a book of humorous Lancashire
incidents and anecdotes.
* * * * *
There is surely a want of discernment shown by those who object to the
use of dialect in literature as occasion offers. A truth, or a stroke
of wit, or a touch of humour, can often be conveyed in dialect
(_rustice loqui_) when it would fail of effect in polite English. All
language is conventional. Use and wont settles much in this world.
Dialect has its use and wont, and because it differs from something
else is surely no reason for passing it by on the other side.
I don't know whether many of my readers have read the poems of T. E.
Brown. They are chiefly in the Manx dialect, not Manx as a language--a
branch of the Keltic--but _Manx dialect English_. Here was a man
steeped to the eyes in classical learning; a Greek and Latin scholar
of the first quality, as his recently published Letters testify. But
he was wise as well as learned, and his poetry, not less than his
Letters, will give him a place among the immortals, just as the
dialect poems of Edwin Waugh will give _him_ a like place. Brown did
not shrink from using the speech of the common people around him if
haply he could reach their understandings and their hearts.
The proper study of Mankind is man. Not the superfine man, not the
cultured man, only, but the man as we encounter him in our daily
walk--Hodge in homespun as well as de Vere in velvet.
* * * * *
It will not be disputed that, apart from the use of dialect, there is
a substratum of humour in the Lancashire character which evinces
itself spontaneously and freely on occasions. There can be no doubt,
also, that this humour, whether conscious or unconscious, is usually
accentuated or emphasised when the dialect is the conveying medium,
because its quaintness is in keeping with the peculiarities of the
race. Besides, there is a naturalness, a primitivity, and therefore a
special attractiveness in _all_ dialect forms of speech which does not
invariably characterise the expression of the same ideas in literary
English.
Now, humour is such a desirable ingredient in the potion of our human
existence, that it would be nothing less than a dire misfortune to
make a point of eschewing the setting which best harmonises with its
fullest and fairest presentation, whether it emanates from the man in
clogs or from the most cultured of our kind.
Our greatest writers have recognised the worth of dialect as a medium
for humour, and hence many of the most memorable and amusing
characters in Scott and Dickens--to take the two writers that occur to
us most readily by way of illustration--portray themselves in the
dialect of their native heath.
These remarks must be taken in a general sense, and not as having any
special bearing on the present contribution. The two, else, would not
be in proportion. My object has simply been to gather up the waifs and
strays of humorous incident and anecdote, with a view to enlivening a
passing hour.
* * * * *
Some of the stories that I give are related of incidents that are said
to have occurred in, or of persons belonging to, both Lancashire and
the West Riding. It is difficult to locate all of them so as to be
quite certain of their parentage. I have tried, however, to limit
myself to such as have a genuine Lancashire origin, without trenching
on the domain of our neighbours in Yorkshire.
The present collection by no means exhausts the number of good stories
that are to be found on Lancashire soil. It is highly probable that
were half-a-dozen writers to devote some time to the subject, they
would each be able to present a collection differing from all the rest
in the characteristic anecdotes which they would select.
Readers outside of the County Palatine will not have any difficulty in
perusing the stories. The dialect in each has been so modified as to
admit of its being readily understood by every intelligent reader.
T. N.
MANCHESTER,
_December 10th, 1900_.
_Lancashire Humour_
"Come, Robin, sit deawn, an' aw'll tell thee a tale."
_Songs of the Wilsons._
If we would find the unadulterated Lancashire character, we must seek
for it on and near to the eastern border of the county, where the
latter joins up to the West Riding of Yorkshire.[1] Roughly, a line
drawn from Manchester on the south, by way of Bolton and Blackburn and
terminating at Clitheroe in the north, will cut a slice out of the
county Palatine, equal on the eastward side of this line, to about
one-third of its whole area; and it is in this portion that the purest
breed of Lancashire men and women will be found. A more circumscribed
area still, embracing Oldham, Bury, Rochdale, the Rossendale Valley,
and the country beyond to Burnley and Colne, contains in large
proportion the choicest examples of Lancashire people, and it is
within the narrower limit that John Collier ("Tim Bobbin") first of
all, then Oliver Ormerod, and, later, Waugh, Brierley, and other
writers in the vernacular, have placed the scenes of their Lancashire
Stories and Sketches, and found the best and most original of their
characters.
[1] In their speech, their employments, their habits and general
character, there is much in common between the natives of Lancashire
and their neighbours of the West Riding.
The Authors I have specifically named are themselves good examples of
that character, Waugh paramountly so--distinguished as they are by a
kindly hard-headedness, a droll and often broad wit, which exhibits
itself not only in the quality of their writings, but also in their
modes of expression, and a blending in their nature of the humorous
with the pathetic, lending pungency, naturalness and charm to their
best work.
The peculiarities to which I have referred are due to what in times
past was the retiredness of this belt of the county; its isolation,
its comparative inaccessibility, its immunity from invasion. As the
coast of any country is approached, the breed of the inhabitants will
be found to become more and more mixed, losing to a large extent its
distinctive characteristics; and it is only by an incursion into the
interior that the unadulterated aborigines are to be found in their
native purity. Even here, these conditions no longer exist with
anything like the old force, excepting, it may be, in some obscure
nook out of sound of the locomotive whistle. Of these there are still
a few left, though not many.
The old barriers of time and distance have been obliterated. The means
of, and incentives to, migration, have become so easy and great that
our "Besom Bens" and "Ab-o' th'-Yates" are grown as scarce as spade
guineas, or as the wild roses in our Lancashire hedges, and will ere
long exist only in the pages of our native humorists.
The writer of the Introduction to the 1833 edition of John Collier's
"Tummus and Meary" makes a wide claim for the antiquity and
universality of the Lancashire dialect in England in the past. He
says: "Having had occasion, in the course of interpreting the
following pages, to refer to the ancient English compositions of such
as Chaucer, Wycliffe, other poets, historians, etc., I have been led
almost to conclude that the present Lancashire dialect was the
universal language of the earliest days in England."
Without going quite so far as the writer just quoted, it may be
admitted that his contention is not without warrant, as is proved by
the very large number of words and phrases of the dialect that are to
be found in the Works of Gower, Chaucer, Spenser, Ben Jonson,
Shakespeare, and other of our older authors, as well as in the earlier
translations of the Bible. The conclusion may certainly be drawn that
in the Lancashire dialect as spoken to-day there are more archaic
words, both Celtic and Gothic, than are to be found elsewhere in
England.
The Rev. W. Gaskell, M.A., in his lectures on the dialect, says with
truth that:--"There are many more forms of speech and peculiarities of
pronunciation in Lancashire that would yet sound strange, and, to use
a Lancashire expression, strangely 'potter' a southern; but these are
often not, as some ignorantly suppose, mere vulgar corruptions of
modern English, but genuine relics of the old mother tongue. They are
bits of the old granite, which have perhaps been polished into
smoother forms, but lost in the process a good deal of their original
strength."[2]
[2] Two Lectures on the Lancashire Dialect, by the Rev. W. Gaskell,
M.A., Chapman & Hall, 193 Piccadilly, London, 1854, p. 13.
There have been of recent years many observant gleaners in these
fruitful Lancashire fields. Waugh, Brierley, Oliver Ormerod, Samuel
Laycock, Miss Lahee, J. T. Staton, Trafford Clegg and other writers
have done much to illustrate the character and habits of the people of
the County Palatine in their Sketches, Stories and Songs. We owe
ungrudging thanks to the writers in the vernacular for the treasures
with which, during the last thirty or forty years, they have adorned
our Lancashire literature; for the rich legacy they have left us; for
having taught us so much of homely wisdom in the quaint tongue of our
people, and opened up to us in wider measure than we previously knew,
the bright commonsense and humour that are enshrined in their hearts.
They have illustrated for us the various phases, both in speech and
thought, of a virile and otherwise important section of the people
that go to make up the inhabitants of this Island of ours. They have
exhibited the genuine homeliness and simplicity of the people of the
county, as well as their native shrewdness and strength of character;
their kindliness of heart, their natural insight and aptitude; their
characteristic humour--for the gracious gift of humour is theirs in a
remarkable degree--their flashes of wit and repartee; their
peccadilloes and graver faults, as well as their many admirable
virtues; their strenuous working lives, and their abandonment to play
as occasion serves--for it is a marked feature of Lancashire people
that they work hard and play hard.
They have shown us, also, how rich in resource is the dialect of the
county, compacting and crystallizing its phrases and proverbs, and
have proved how capable it is of giving expression to the natural
affections. It is only of comparatively recent years that we have been
able to appreciate the wealth of the dialect in these respects. All
the material was in existence before, but it needed the cunning hand
of the master to make literature of it; to weave up the warp and woof,
and present them to us in an embodied form.
A good deal of the humour of our Lancashire writers is of the
rollicking kind, no doubt. It does not always belong to the school of
high culture. But, on the other hand, we have got the characters true
to the life, and he is a fastidious critic, or worse, who would prefer
a counterfeit presentment to the genuine portrait.
The subject of Lancashire character, or, indeed, of any peculiarities
of local and provincial character in general, with its manifestations
either of pathos or humour, may not be one of very great profundity.
That is not any part of the claim we make. It may even be considered
trivial by some. Those, however, who take such a view, if there be any
such, are surely lacking in breadth of vision. To do what we propose
is to come nearer to the hearts of the people and their ways of
thinking than is possible in the higher and broader flights of the
more general historian. And, indeed, the work of the humble gleaner
often assists the more ambitious and dignified chronicler in his
labours to depict the greater personages and events in the history of
his country. The ways of thinking of the people, and also the
subject-matter of their thoughts, may be good, or they may be
commonplace, or they may be mean, but to enter into their thoughts so
as to get at their spirit, helps at least to an understanding of them.
Admitting for a moment the triviality of the subject, we cannot always
be sitting like Jove on the heights of Olympus; and even when in
loftier mood we do emulate the high emprizes of the gods, we are fain
to descend at times--and there is true wisdom in so descending--to
refresh ourselves with a touch of Mother Earth--to seek in the vale
below that necessary relaxation from the strain and stress of high
thinking.
When all is said that can be said, a collection of this kind is a
contribution to an important branch of folk-lore and folkspeech, and
in that respect, if in no other, should be widely acceptable.
It is not, of course, pretended that all the anecdotes here given are
new. Some of them are "chestnuts" I am aware--though chestnuts are
generally good or they would not deserve to be chestnuts--but they
illustrate certain traits of character, and that is a sufficient
reason for reproducing them. Neither are we prepared to vouch for the
absolute truth of all the stories. Some of them, either in whole or in
part, are probably due to an effort of the imagination. In that sense
they are true, and certainly they are each characteristic of
individuals whom we all know, and who, from our experience of their
eccentricities, might safely be set down as the actors in them.
Notwithstanding all that has been done by the writers already named,
there is great abundance of good things still ungarnered, in the way
of racy anecdotes, wise apothegms, and striking sayings, all too good
to be lost--as indeed may be their fate unless pains are taken to
record them in permanent form. Even the ludicrous conclusions and
remarks of the half-witted--those of whom it is said in the vernacular
that "they have a slate off and one slithering,"--are often
sufficiently striking or amusing to be worth putting on record.
"The clouted shoe hath oft-times craft in't," as says the rustic
proverb.
We have it on the authority of Shakespeare that a jest's prosperity
lies in the ear of him that hears it. This is generally so, and
especially in those instances where the jest, or the story, is clothed
in dialect, and depends for a full appreciation on a knowledge by the
listener of the peculiar characteristics of those from whom it
emanates. For this reason it is doubtful whether, say, the people of
the southern portion of our Island are able to enter into, so as to
fully enjoy, our more northerly humour; just as we of the north may
not be able to thoroughly enjoy theirs. Antipathy, also, to a
particular form and mode of spelling and pronunciation intervenes to
prevent full enjoyment on both sides. For this reason the writers in
dialect are placed at a disadvantage as regards the extent of their
audience. Most of their best things are caviere to the general, or,
rather, to the particular.
In a letter to a Rossendale friend, John Collier has an interesting
reference to the dialect and the extent to which it is used. In this
letter the writer offers an apology for, or rather a defence of, his
"Tummus and Meary" against certain strictures that had been passed
upon it on account of its broad Lancashire speech.
He says: "I am obliged to you for a peep at your friend Mr Heape's
ingenious letter. When you write, please to return him my compliments,
and thanks for his kind remembrance of me; and hint to him that I do
not think our country exposed at all by my view of the Lancashire
Dialect: but think it commendable, rather than a defect, that
Lancashire in general, and Rossendale in particular, retain so much of
the speech of their ancestors. For why should the people of Saxony,
and the Silesians be commended for speaking the Teutonic or old
German, and the Welsh be so proud (and by many authors commended too)
for retaining so much of their old British, and we in these parts
laughed at for adhering to the speech of our ancestors? For my part I
do not see any reason for it, but think it praiseworthy: and am always
well pleased when I think at the Rossendale man's answer, who being
asked where he wunned, said, 'I wun at th' riggin o' th' Woard, at th'
riggin o' th' Woard, for th' Weter o' th' tone Yeeosing faws into th'
Yeeost, on th' tother into th' West Seeo.'"
Curiously enough, the dialect in "Tim Bobbin's" day was considered as
too plebeian in character to deserve notice. It was looked upon simply
as the vulgar speech of the common people, and altogether unworthy of
attention and study by better-instructed mortals. Even well into the
present century, dialect in general was not held in estimation for any
useful purpose, and it is only in comparatively recent years that its
value as an aid to the study of racial history has been recognised.
It may be admitted that Collier, in his celebrated sketch, is
sometimes so broadly coarse as to shock even a taste which is not
fastidious; but allowances must be made for him in his efforts at the
truthful portraiture of the characters as he knew or conceived them.
* * * * *
In the fifties, when I was a young fellow of twenty or thereabouts, I
was personally acquainted with Oliver Ormerod, the author of "A Rachde
Felley's Visit to th' Greyt Eggshibishun." He was a smart, dapper,
hard-headed Lancashire business man, of medium height, inclining to be
stout; clean and bright in appearance, and gentlemanly in his manners.
At that time he had written and published his "Rachde Felley," but
though we often conversed on the characteristics of the people of East
and South Lancashire--a subject with which he was well familiar--he
never mentioned to me the circumstance of his being the author of the
amusing sketch, which was published anonymously. I rather think that
it was but few even of his intimate friends in his native town of
Rochdale who knew or suspected at first that he was the author of that
clever and amusing brochure.
Possibly he feared that to have associated his name with the work
would have injured him in his business. For, however erroneous the
notion may be, it was at one time held that business and the
occasional excursion into the by-paths of literature were
incompatible. His case, I am glad to say, was an instance in point
refuting the too common belief that the practice of one's pen in
vagrant literary work--outside business pure and simple--is a drawback
to success, for his record as a man of business was one of the best.
Of the sterling excellence of Oliver Ormerod's little work, "Th'
Rachde Felley" there cannot be two opinions. It is original in its
conception and in the way it is carried out; full of humour, and racy
of the soil of Lancashire. The popularity of the book was immediate
and great. It rapidly went through several editions, and it has since
had many imitators. Its success led Mr Ormerod to write a second
similar work, giving the "Rachde Felley's Okeawnt o wat he and his
Mistris seede un yerd wi' gooin to th' Greyte Eggshibishun e London e
1862." This, like most other sequels, is not equal to the original,
though if it had been the first to appear it would still have been
noteworthy.
The following from "A Rachde Felley" is a good example of his humour:
"Aw seed a plaze koed Hyde Park Cornur, whure th' Duke o' Wellington
lives, him as lethurt Boneypart; 'e's gettin an owd felley neaw. Aw
bin towd as one neet, when 'e wor at a party as th' Queen gan, as th'
owd felley dropt asleep in his cheer, an when the Queen seed 'im, hoo
went an tikelt his face whol 'e wakent. Eh! heaw aw shud o' stayrt iv
hoo'd o dun it bi me. Th' owd chap drest knots off Boney, dident 'e?
But aw'm off wi' feightin; aw'm o fur Kobden an' thame as wantin' fur
to do away wi' it otogethur, fur ther wod'nt be hauve as mony kilt i'
ther wur no feightin. O'er anent th' Duke's heawse, at th' top o' wot
they koen Constitution Hill, aw seed a kast iron likeness ov 'im oppo
horseback, as big as loife an bigger. He'd a cloak on an' a rowlur pin
i' one hond, saime as wimmen usen wen they maen mowfins. Aw' nevur
noed afore wat 'e wor koed th' Iron Duke for.
"At tis present toime it started o' raynin', an' so aw thrutch'd mi
road as fast as aw cud goo in a greyt creawd o' foke, an' as aw wor
gooin' on, a homnibus koome past, an' a chap as stoode at th' bak
soide on't bekont on me fur to get in. Thinks aw to mesel 'e's a gud
naturt chap; aw gues 'e sees as aw'm gettin mi sunday clewus deetud.
'E koed o' th' droiver fur to stop, an' ax'd me iv aw wur fur th'
Greyt Eggshibishun, an' aw sed, ah, an' wi' that 'e towd me fur to get
in, an' in aw geet. We soon koome to th' Krystil Palus. Eh! wat a rook
o' foke ther wor theere, aw never seed nawt loike it afore, never! Aw
geet eawt o' th' homnibus, an' aw sed to th' felley as leet me ride:
Aw'm very mich obleeght to yo aw'm shure, an' aw con but thank yo, an'
aw wur turnin' reawnd fur to goo into th' Palus, wen 'e turn'd on me
as savidge as iv he'd a hetten me, an' ax'd me fur forepenze.
Forepenze, aw sed, what for? An' 'e made onsur, for ridin', to be
shure, Sur. Waw, aw sed, didn't theaw koe on me fur to get in? But o'
as aw cud say wor o' no mak o' use watsumever, an' th' powsement sed
as iv aw didn't pay theere an' then, he'd koe a poleese as wor at th'
other side o' th' road, an', bi th' mon, wen aw yerd that, aw deawn
wi' mi brass in a minnit. Aw seed as aw wor ta'en in; same toime, it
wor a deyle bettur fur to sattle wi' th' powsedurt, nur get into th'
New Bailey so fur fro whome. Thinks aw ti mesel', iv aw'm done ogen i'
this rode aw'm a Dutchmun."
Ormerod, like that other genial humorist, Artemus Ward, affected a
peculiar spelling, or rather mis-spelling, of his words, which, in my
opinion, was a mistake. There was no necessity for this. It does not
enhance the humour of his sketches in any special degree, but only
renders him more difficult to read. Dialectical spelling need not
necessarily be bad English.
* * * * *
As a writer of Lancashire stories, Waugh is unsurpassed. His pages
overflow with a humour which is irresistible and almost cloys by its
exuberance. But even about his drollest characters there is a pathetic
tenderness which touches the heart. It is not easy, for example, to
read some parts of "Besom Ben" and "The Old Fiddler" without a lump in
one's throat, so much akin are laughter and tears in the hands of this
master. If it were not that his themes are principally the work-a-day
Lancashire folk, and that the dialect limits and muffles his fame,
Waugh would be ranked (as he is ranked by those who know him) as one
of the first humorists of the century.
Waugh is incomparable in his curious ideas and touches and turns of
expression, ludicrous enough many of them, but all rich in Lancashire
humour and well calculated to excite the risible faculty. Speaking of
a toper in one of his sketches he says:
"Owd Jack's throttle wur as drufty as a lime brunner's clog."
Again: "Some folk are never content; if they'd o' th' world gan to
'em, they'd yammer for th' lower shop to put their rubbish in!"
Oatmeal he calls "porritch powder."
Again: "Rondle o' th' Nab had a cat that squinted--it catched two mice
at one go."
Addressing his donkey, Besom Ben said: "Iv thae'd been reet done to,
thae met ha' bin a carriage horse bi neaw!"
"Robin o' Sceawter's feyther went by th' name o' 'Coud an' Hungry';
he're a quarryman by trade; a long, hard, brown-looking felley, wi'
'een like gig-lamps, an' yure as strung as a horse's mane. He looked
as if he'd bin made out o' owd dur-latches an' reawsty nails. Robin
th' carrier is his owdest lad; an' he favours a chap at's bin brought
up o' yirth-bobs an' scaplins."
These are of course the merest example of the many curious sayings and
comparisons that are lavishly scattered through Waugh's pages.
* * * * *
Ben Brierley was an adept at telling a short Lancashire story. In
giving expression to the drollest figures of speech he maintained a
mock gravity which greatly enhanced the presentment, whilst the
peculiar puckering of the corners of his mouth and the merry twinkle
in his eye told how thoroughly he entered into the spirit of the
characters he portrayed. His "Ab' o' th' Yate" in London bubbles over
with humour, and it is a true, if somewhat grotesque, account of what
would be likely to arrest the attention of a denizen of that
out-of-the-way village of "Walmsley Fowt" on a visit to the great
metropolis.
Some years ago I attended a meeting held at Blackley where Ben gave a
number of racy Lancashire anecdotes, told in his own inimitable way. I
may quote one or two of these which are not given in the collected
edition of his writings.
"Long Jammie wur a brid stuffer, an' it used to be his boast ut he'd
every fithert animal, or like it, ut ever flew on wing, or hung on a
wall. He'd everything fro' a hummabee to a flying jackass, an' he'd
ha' a pair o' thoose last if Billy o' Bobs would alleaw hissel' to be
stuffed."
"Theau'rt one thing short," Billy said one day as he're looking reaund
Jammie's Musaum, as he co'd his collection.
"What's that?" Jammie ax'd.
"It's a very skase brid," Billy said, "Co'd a sond brid."
"Ay, it mun be skase or else I should ha' had a speciment i' my
musaum," Jammie said. "But what is it like?"
"It's like o' th' bit-bat gender," Billy said. "It's a yead like a
cat, and feet like a duck, an' when it flies it uses its feet like
paddles to guide itsel'."
"But why dun they co' it a sond brid?"
"Well, theau sees, it's a native o' th' Great Desert o' Sara, an' when
it's windy, it flies tail first to keep th' sond eaut o' its een."
* * * * *
Billy Kay had had a lot of his hens stown, an' he never could find
eawt who th' thief wur. He'd set a trap, but someheaw it didno' act.
Shus heaw, it never catch't nowt.
Bill had a parrot ut wur a bit gan to leavin' th' cage an' potterin'
abeaut th' hencote when th' hens wur eaut. But as it had bin brought
up to a soart o' alehouse life, it wanted company. It had learnt to
crow so natural ut th' owd cock wur curious to know what breed it
belonged to. So he invited Pol to spend a neet wi' him an' th' family,
an' gie' th' cote a rooser. Th' parrot went, and they'd a merry time
on't. It wur late when they went to roost, an' they'd hardly had a
wink o' sleep when Pol yerd summat oppen th' cote dur. Then ther a
hont lifted to the peearch, an' one after another o' th' hens wur
snigged off, till it coome to th' owd cock. Pol thowt it wur gettin'
warm, so hoo says to th' owd rooster, "Hutch up, owd lad, it's your
turn next!" Ther no moore hens stown!
* * * * *
"Owd Neddy Fitton's Visit to the Earl o' Derby" is one of the finest
sketches in the vernacular; giving, as it does, a realistic picture of
the old-time Lancashire farmer. It is bright with humour, not wanting
in pathetic touches, and with that warm human interest that lends
charm and distinction to the homeliest story.
Miss Lahee, the writer, was Irish both by birth and up-bringing.
Coming to Rochdale, where she lived for many years, the character of
the Lancashire people and their idiom won her sympathy, and she
studied both to such purpose as to produce not only the story in
question, but a number of other sketches and stories in the dialect.
It is no disparagement to these latter to say that none of them is
equal to her sketch of "Neddy Fitton." This has long been popular in
the county Palatine, and its intrinsic merit is such that it deserves
a still wider circle of readers.
* * * * *
Lancashire has from time immemorial been famous for its
mathematicians, botanists, and naturalists among the humbler ranks,
and Crabtree as an Astronomer has his niche in the temple of fame.
There was another worthy of rather a different stamp who professed
acquaintance with that sublime science, Astronomy, though his
credentials will hardly be considered sufficient to justify the claim.
Jim Walton was a well-known character, at one time living at
Levenshulme. Modest enough when sober, when he had imbibed a few
glasses of beer Jim professed to be great in the mysteries of
"ass-tronomy." The names of the planets, their positions and motions
in the heavens were as familiar to him as the dominoes on the tap-room
table, and he knew all the different groups of stars and their
relative positions. One night Jim was drinking in the village "Pub"
with a number of boon companions, topers like himself--and the
conversation, as was usual when he was present, got on to the stars
and other heavenly bodies, on which Jim expatiated at length. A
mischievous doubt, however, was expressed by one of the company,
whether, after all, Jim really knew as much about astronomy as he
professed to do. So, to maintain his reputation by proving his
knowledge, Jim made a bet of glasses round with his opponent that the
_moon would rise at a quarter past nine o'clock that night_.
Accordingly, about ten minutes before the time named, the company all
staggered out into the backyard to see the moon rise as predicted.
"Now then, chaps, look here!" cried Jim, "Let's have a fair
understondin'. Recolect, it's on th' owd _original_ moon 'at awm
betting, noan o' yer d----d new ones!"
Needless to say this was a poser for their bemuddled brains, and with
sundry expletives at Jim and the qualification he had announced, they
all staggered back to their places in the more comfortable tap-room.
Jim's idea of "th' owd original moon," and his thorough contempt for
quarter and half moons, strikes us as irresistibly funny. We can
imagine the new, vague light that would dawn on the minds of the
half-fuddled roysterers as he announced his reservation in favour of
the whole or none.
* * * * *
However prejudiced, as a rule, the British workman may be against the
introduction of labour-saving appliances in the way of automatic
machinery, circumstances sometimes arise when he can fully appreciate
their value and advantages. This will appear by the following
characteristic anecdote:--
An Oldham chap, who, for some misdemeanour, had found his way into
Preston House of Correction, was put on to the tread-mill. After
working at it for some time till his back and legs ached with the
unwonted exercise, he at length exclaimed:
"Biguy! if this devil had been i' Owdham, they'd a had it turned bi
pawer afore now!"
Another good story of an "Owdham" man is the following: At one of the
Old Trafford County Cricket matches we overheard a conversation that
took place between two Owdhamers. A pickpocket, plying his avocation,
had been caught in the act of taking a purse, and quite a commotion
was created in that corner of the field as the thief was collared by a
detective and hauled away to the police station. Says the Oldham man
to his friend who was seated next him:
"Sharp as thoose chaps are, they'd have a job to ta' my brass. Aw'll
tell thi what aw do, Jack, when aw comes to a place o' this sooart; aw
sticks mi brass reet down at th' bottom o' mi treawsers pocket, and
then aw puts abeaut hauf a pint o' nuts at top on't; it tae's some
scrawpin out, aw can tell thi, when tha does that!"
* * * * *
Pigeon fancying and flying is an absorbing pursuit with many of the
Wigan colliers. Men otherwise ignorant (save of their daily work in
the mine), are profoundly versed in the different breeds and
capabilities of the birds. The training of them to fly long distances
on their return to their lofts and within a comparatively brief space
of time, is a passion which absorbs all their thoughts.
One such enthusiastic pigeon flyer was lying sick unto death, with no
prospect of recovery. The parson paid him a visit and endeavoured to
turn his thoughts to his approaching end. The casual mention by the
parson of heaven and the angels interested the dying man. He had seen
angels depicted in the picture books with wings on their shoulders. An
idea struck him and he enquired:
"Will aw ha' wings, parson, when aw get to heaven?"
"Yes, indeed," replied the parson, willing to humour and console him
as best he might.
"An' will yo ha' wings too when yo get theer?"
"Oh yes, I'll have wings too, we'll both have wings."
"Well, aw tell thi what," said the dying pigeon fancier, his eye
brightening as he spoke, "Aw tell thi what, parson, when tha comes up
yon, aw'll flee yo for a sovereign!" A striking example of the ruling
passion strong in death!
* * * * *
It is well known that an admiration for dogs of a high quality, not
less than for pigeons, is a weakness of the Lancashire collier, who
will spend a small fortune to gratify his taste in this direction. A
Tyldesley collier had a favourite bull-pup. This canine fancier with
his dog and a friend were out for a ramble in the fields, and to make
a short cut to get into the lane, his friend began scrambling through
a hole in the hedge. The dog, unable, it may be presumed, to resist
the sudden temptation, seized the calf of the disappearing leg with a
grip which caused the owner of the said leg to shriek with pain.
Despite his frantic wriggles and yells the brute held fast, and its
master, appreciating the situation, clapped his hands in enthusiastic
admiration, at the same time calling out to his beleaguered companion:
"Thole it, Bill! Thole it, mon! Thole it! It'll be th' makin' o' th'
pup!"
Another such on returning home and finding that the day's milk had
disappeared from the milk basin, angrily enquired what had become of
it, and receiving for answer from his better-half that she had "gan
it to th' childer for supper!" exclaimed: "Childer, be hang'd! thae
should ha' gan it to th' bull pup!"
* * * * *
Some years ago there appeared in _Punch_ sundry sketches of incidents
in the mining districts. These may not all be true in the sense that
the occurrences represented actually took place. But there is a spirit
of truth in them, in that they illustrate a phase of the rudeness that
often accompanies untutored tastes and undesirable habits.
* * * * *
The appearance of a stranger in the mining village, especially if he
happens to wear a black cloth coat, is sometimes resented by the
denizens of the place.
The new curate, a meek-looking individual, had arrived, and passing
the corner of a street where a group of colliers had assembled, one of
them asked:
"Bill, who's yon mon staring about him like a lost cat?"
"Nay, I doan't know," replied the other, "a stranger belike."
"Stranger, is he?" responded the first, "then hey've a hauve brick at
'im!"
* * * * *
The same, accosting one of his flock resting on a gate, and wishing
to make himself agreeable, tried to open a conversation with the
remark:
"A fine morning, my friend," was pulled up with the reply:
"Did aw say it war'nt?--dun yo' want to hargue?"
* * * * *
It is surprising how a person of regular habits feels the lack of any
little comforts and companionships to which he has been accustomed. A
Lancashire collier had lost a favourite dog by death, that, on
Saturday afternoons or Sundays, he had been in the habit of taking
with him for a stroll. An acquaintance sitting on a gate saw the
bereaved collier coming along the road trundling a wheelbarrow.
"What's up wi' thee, Bob--what ar' t' doin' wi' th' wheelbarrow, and
on good Sunday too?"
"Well, thae sees," replied Bob, "aw've lost mi dog, an' a fellow feels
gradely lonesome bout company, so aw've brought mi wheelbarrow out for
a bit of a ramble."
* * * * *
These stories go to prove that the Lancashire collier is a simple
unsophisticated being, and the following[3] is still further evidence
of the fact:
[3] Quoted from an article on "Quacks" by Mr R. J. Hampson in the
_East Lancashire Review_ for November 1899.
"Many interesting anecdotes could be given of the methods adopted by
travelling Quacks. I will relate one respecting the oldest and best
known now on the road, who lately visited a colliery village near
Manchester. He had a very gorgeous show, a large gilded chariot with
four cream-coloured smart horses, and four Highland pipers. He 'made a
pitch' on some land on the main Manchester road side. There was a
severe struggle on at the time between the miners and the colliery
owners. This Quack was asked if he would allow the miner's agent, then
Mr Thomas Halliday, to address the men from his chariot, and he
consented on condition that he (the Dr) should speak before the men
dispersed. This was readily agreed to. He was a man of fine physique,
handsome and smartly dressed. He began:
"'Aye, I have longed for this day when I should have the honour and
privilege of speaking to a large assemblage of Lancashire colliers. I
left my comfortable mansion and park to come and encourage you in this
fight of right against might. Yes, men, what could we do without
colliers? Who was it that found out the puffing-billy? Was it a king?
Was it a lord? Was it a squire? No, my dear men, it was a
collier--George Stephenson!' (loud cheers, during which the learned
doctor opened a large case and brought out a small round box). He
continued: 'Men, they cannot do without colliers. The colliers move
the world' (and holding up the box of pills, shouted) 'and these pills
will move the colliers! They are sixpence a box. My Pipers will hand a
few out!' _Something_ moved the colliers, for he sold 278 boxes of
pills, and _he_ moved away before morning."
* * * * *
The Rev. Robert Lamb in his "Free Thoughts by a Manchester Man"[4]
relates several good clerical stories. He remarks, that, in ordinary
discourse with the poor, it is safest to avoid all flights of
metaphor. We heard of a young clergyman not long ago being suddenly
pulled down in his soarings of fancy.
[4] In two volumes published anonymously in 1866, but they were known
to have been written by Mr Lamb, sometime Rector of St Paul's,
Manchester. They consist of a number of Essays and Sketches which had
been contributed by him to _Fraser's Magazine_ and they deal chiefly
with Lancashire subjects.
"I fear, my friend," he said to a poor weaver, to whose bedside he had
been summoned, "I fear I must address you in the language that was
addressed to King Hezekiah, 'Set thine house in order for thou shalt
die and not live.'"
"Well," was the man's reply, as he rose languidly on his elbow, and
pointed with his finger, "I think it's o' reet, but for a brick as is
out behint that cupboard."
Sometimes from this species of misconception a ludicrous idea is
suggested to the clergyman's mind, when he least wishes one to
intrude.
"Resign yourself under your affliction, Ma'am," one of our friends not
long ago said to a sick parishioner, "be patient and trustful; you are
in the hands of the good Physician, you know."
"Aye, sir," she replied innocently, "Dr Jackson is said to be a
skilfu' man."
* * * * *
We are assured that the following incident occurred to a Manchester
clergyman in one of his visits to an old woman in her sickness. He had
been to Oldham and afterwards called on his patient. She was a person
on whom he could make no impression whatever, but remained
uninterested and impassive under all his efforts to rouse and instruct
her. A thought suddenly came into his mind that he would try a new
method with her; so, after stating that he had been at Oldham and thus
detained a short time, he began by giving her the most glowing
description of the new Jerusalem as portrayed by St John in the
Apocalypse; when at length she seemed to be aroused, and looking
earnestly at him, she said with a degree of emotion never before
exhibited by her,--
"Eh, for sure, an' dud yo see o' that at Owdham? Laacks, but it mon
ha' been grand! Aw wish aw'd bin wi' yo'!"
* * * * *
The late esteemed Bishop of Manchester, Dr Fraser, whose genial and
kindly disposition was well known and appreciated, was one day walking
along one of the poorer streets in Ancoats, and seeing two little
gutter boys sitting on the edge of the pavement busy putting the
finishing touches to a mud house they had made, stopped, and speaking
kindly to the urchins asked them what they were doing.
"We've been makin' a church," replied one of them.
"A church!" responded the Bishop, much interested, as he stooped over
the youthful architect's work. "Ah, yes, I see. That, I suppose, is
the entrance door" (pointing with his stick). "This is the nave, these
are the aisles, there the pews, and you have even got the pulpit! Very
good, my boys, very good. But where is the parson?"
"We ha'not gettin' muck enough to mak' a parson!" was the reply.
The answer was one which the good Bishop would much enjoy, for he had
a happy sense of humour. Patting the heads of the urchins he bade them
be good boys and gave them each a coin. As he strode along the street
the unconscious humour of the artists in mud must have greatly tickled
him.
* * * * *
Yet another clerical anecdote:
In her charming little volume of "Lancashire Memories,"[5] Mrs Potter
gives a racy story of the new vicar of a Lancashire Parish in an
encounter with one of the natives. She remarks: "There is a quaint
simplicity about the country people in Lancashire, that wants a name
in our vocabulary of manners, as far removed from the vulgarity of the
lower orders in the town on the one hand, as from the polished
conversationalisms of the higher classes on the other; a simplicity
that asserts itself because of its simplicity, and that never heard,
and if it did, never understood 'who's who.' Imagine the surprise of
the new vicar of the parish, fresh from Emmanuel College, Cambridge,
in all the dignity of the shovel hat and garments of a rigidly
clerical orthodoxy, accustomed to an agricultural population that
smoothed down its forelocks in deference to the vicar, but never
dreamed of bandying words with him: imagine him losing his way in one
of his distant parochial excursions, and inquiring, in a dainty
south-country accent, from a lubberly boy weeding turnips in a field,
'Pray, my boy, can you tell me the way to Bolton?'
[5] "Lancashire Memories," by Louise Potter. Macmillan & Co., London,
1879.
"'Ay,' replied the boy. 'Yo' mun go across yon bleach croft and into
th' loan, and yo'll get to Doffcocker, and then yo're i' th' high
road, and yo' can go straight on.'
"'Thank you,' said the vicar, 'perhaps I can find it. And now, my boy,
will you tell me what you do for a livelihood?'
"'I clear up th' shippon, pills potatoes, or does oddin; and if I may
be so bou'd, win yo' tell me what yo' do?'
"'Oh, I am a minister of the Gospel; I preach the Word of God.'
"'But what dun yo' do?' persisted the boy.
"'I teach you the way of salvation; I show you the road to heaven.'
"'Nay, nay,' said the lad; 'dunnot yo' pretend to teach me th' road to
heaven, and doesn't know th' road to Bow'ton.'"
* * * * *
Certain shrewd remarks are sometimes made which imply a good deal more
than they express. The following will illustrate what I mean. As
justifying the regrettable fact that men who have risen from the
ranks, and, having attained to opulence, are often found to change
their politics, we have heard a "Radical" defined as "a Tory beawt
brass." This is akin to John Stuart Mill's specious saying, that some
men were Radicals because they were not Lords.
Alluding to the recent death of a person of wealth whose character was
not of the best, a Lancashire man remarked:
"Well, if he took his brass wi' him, it's melted by this time!"
Waugh used to tell the story of a man having run to catch a train, and
was just in time to see it leaving the railway station, puff, puff,
puff. He stood looking at it for a second or two, and then gave vent
to his injured feelings by exclaiming: "Go on, tha greyt puffin' foo,
go on! aw con wait!"
The girl at the Christmas Soiree was pressed to take some preserves
to her tea and bread and butter: "No, thank yo'," she responded, "aw
works wheer they maks it."[6]
[6] "The image-maker does not worship Buddha; he knows too much about
the idol."--Chinese saying.
Old stingy Eccles was talking one day to his coachman, who he was
trying to impress with his own super-excellent quality, though he had
never used his old Jehu over-well in the matter of wages.
"John," he said, "there's two sorts of Eccleses; there's Eccleses that
are angels, and Eccleses that are devils."
"Ay, maister," responded John, "an' th' angels ha' been deod for mony
a yer!"
A temperance meeting was being held in a Lancashire village, and one
of the speakers, waxing eloquent, not to say pathetic, exclaimed:
"How pleased my poor dead father must be, looking down on me, his son,
advocating teetotalism from this platform!"
One of the audience, interrupting him, rose and interjected:
"Nay, nay, that'll do noan, mon; if aw know'd thi feythur reet when
he're alive, he's moar like lookin' _up_ than deawn!"
I was amused with the answer given by a working man to an
acquaintance. He was hurrying to the railway station with a small
hand-bag on "Wakes Monday morning."
"Wheer ar't beawn, Jack?"
"Aw'm fur th' Isle o' Man."
"Heaw long ar't stayin'?"
"Thirty bob," was the laconic reply, meaning that the length of his
stay would depend on the time his money might last.
* * * * *
Lancashire Proverbs are numerous and much to the point, and they
generally inculcate their lesson with a touch of dry humour.
An expressive saying is that: "_He hangs th' fiddle at th' dur sneck_"
applied to a person who is all life and gaiety when with his boon
companions, but sullen and sour of temper at home.
Another proverb has it that "_There's most thrutching where there's
least room_." Hence, probably, the Lancashire fable: "The flea and the
elephant were passing into the Ark together, said the flea to his big
brother: 'Now then, maister! no thrutching!'"
There is quaint wisdom in the saying, "_It costs a deal more playing
than working_."
"_Th' quiet sow eats o' t' draff_," is another Lancashire proverb of
deep significance as applied to any one who speaks little, but
appears to take in all that he hears, and uses it to his own
advantage.
When one gets married "_he larns wot meyl is a pound_."
The safe rule as to food for children, is, "_rough and enough_."
In choosing a wife the swain is warned that "_Fine faces fill no
butteries, an' fou uns rob no cubbarts_."
The Lancashire farmer says that, "_A daisy year is a lazy year_,"
because when daisies are plentiful in the fields the crop of grass is
usually light.
Other proverbs tell us that "_An honest mon an' a west wind alus go to
bed at neet_," and "_Fleet at meyt fleet at wark_." "_The first cock
of hay drives the cuckoo away._"
Attempting to cross a busy thoroughfare in front of a moving omnibus
with an impetuous friend, the cautious Lancashire man will say: "Nay,
howd on! _There's as mitch room behint as before._" And in response to
one who is exaggerating in his language:--"Come! tha's said enough,
thou'rt over doing it, owd lad; _there's a difference between
scrattin' yor head and pullin th' hair off_!"
When disputation waxes high and hot, the same humorist will say:
"Come, come lads! no wranglin', let's go in for a bit o' peace and
quietness, as Billy Butterworth said when he put his mother-in-law
behint th' fire."
Of any one whose nasal organ is unusually prominent, in other words,
when it is large enough to afford a handle for ridicule, it is said
that "he was n't behint th' door when noses were gan out!"
* * * * *