Chapter 10

When wood and barn-owls loudly shout,As if were near some rabble rout;When beech-trees drop the yellow leaf,A type of human hope and grief;When little wild flowers leave the sun,Their pretty love-tasks being done;And nature, with exhaustless charms,Lets summer die in autumn's arms:There is a merry, happy time,With which I'll grace my simple rhyme:—The wakes—the wakes—the jocund wakes!My wand'ring memory forsakesThe present busy scene of things,And soars away on fancy's wings,For olden times, with garlands crown'd,And rush-carts green on many a mound,In hamlet bearing a great name,[21]The first in astronomic fame;With buoyant youth and modest maid,Skipping along the green-sward glade,With laughing eyes and ravished sight,To share once more the old delight!Oh! now there comes—and let's partake—Brown nuts, spice bread, and Eccles cake;[22]There's flying-boxes, whirligigs,And sundry rustic pranks and rigs;With old "Chum"[23]cracking nuts and jokes,To entertain the country folks;But more, to earn a honest penny,And get a decent living, any—Aye, any an humble, striving way,Than do what shuns the light of day.Behold the rush-cart, and the throngOf lads and lasses pass along!Now watch the nimble morris-dancers,Those blithe, fantastic antic-prancers,Bedeck'd with gaudiest profusionOf ribbons, in a gay confusionOf brilliant colours, richest dyes,Like wings of moths and butterflies;Waving white kerchiefs here and there,And up and down, and everywhere;Springing, bounding, gaily skipping,Deftly, briskly, no one tripping;All young fellows, blithe and hearty,Thirty couples in the party;And on the footpaths may be seenTheir sweethearts from each lane, and greenAnd cottage home; all fain to seeThis festival of rural glee;The love-betrothed, the fond heart-plighted,And with the witching scene delightedIn modest guise, and simple graces,With roses blushing on their faces;Ah! what denotes, or what bespeaksLove more than such sweet apple-cheeks?Behold the strong-limbed horses stand,The pride and boast of English land,Fitted to move in shafts or chains,With plaited, glossy tails and manes:Their proud heads each a garland wearsOf quaint devices—suns and stars;And roses, ribbon-wrought, abound;The silver plate,[24]one hundred pound,With green oak boughs the cart is crowned,The strong, gaunt horses shake the ground.Now, see, the welcome host appears,And thirsty mouths the ale-draught cheers;Draught after draught is quickly gone—"Come; here's a health to everyone!"Away with care and doleful thinking,The cup goes round; what hearty drinking!While many a youth the lips is smacking,And the two drivers' whips are cracking;Now, strike up music, the old tune;And louder, quicker, old bassoon;Come, bustle, lads, for one dance more,And thencross-morristhree times o'er.Another jug—see how it foams—And next the brown October comes;Full five years old, the host declares,And if you doubt it, loudly swearsThat it's the best in any town—Tenpenny ale, the real nut-brown.And who was he, that jovial fellow,With his strong ale so old and mellow?A huge, unwieldy man was he,Like Falstaff, fat and full of glee;With belly like a thirty-six[25](Now, reader, your attention fix),In loose habiliments he stands,Broad-shouldered, and with brawny hands;Good humour beaming in his eye,And the old, rude simplicity;Ever alive for rough or smooth,That rare old fellow, Bill o' Booth![26]

The other is a famous old festival here, as well as in the neighbouring town of Bury. It is a peculiarly local one, also; for, I believe, it is not celebrated anywhere else in England except in these two towns. It begins on Mid-Lent Sunday, or "Simblin-Sunday," as the people of the district call it, from the name of a spiced cake which is prepared for this feast in great profusion, and in the making of which there is considerable expense and rivalry shown. On "Simblin-Sunday," the two towns of Bury and Heywood swarm with visitors from the surrounding country, and "simblins" of extraordinary size and value are exhibited in the shop windows. The festival is kept up during two or three days of the ensuing week. In the Rev. W. Gaskell's interesting lectures on the "Lancashire Dialect," the following passage occurs relative to this "Simblin-Cake:"—"As you are aware there is a kind of cake for which the town of Bury is famous, and which gives its name in these parts to Mid-Lent Sunday—I mean 'symnel.' Many curious and fanciful derivations have been found for this; but I feel no doubt that we must look for its true origin to the Anglo-Saxon 'simble' or 'simle,' which means a feast, or 'symblian,' to banquet. 'Simnel' was evidently some kind of the finest bread. From the chronicle of Battle Abbey, we learn that, in proof of his regard for the monks, the Conqueror granted for their daily uses thirty-six ounces of 'bread fit for the table of a king,' which is calledsimenel; and Roger de Hoveden mentions, among the provisions allowed to the Scotch King, at the Court of England, 'twelvesimenels.' 'Banquet bread,' therefore, would seem to come very near the meaning of this word. I may just observe in passing, that the baker's boy who, in the reign of Henry VII., personated the Earl of Warwick was most likely called 'Lambert Simnel,' as a sort of nickname derived from his trade."[27]

The amusements, or what may be called the leisure-habits, of the factory population in Lancashire manufacturing towns are much alike. Some are sufficiently jaded when their day's work is done, or are too apathetic by nature to engage heartily inanything requiring further exertion of body or mind. There are many, however, who, when they leave the factory in the evening, go with a kind of renovating glee to the reading of such books as opportunity brings within their reach, or to the systematic prosecution of some chosen study, such as music, botany, mechanics, or mathematics, which are favourite sciences among the working people of Lancashire. And even among the humblest there are often shrewd and well-read, if not extensively-read, politicians, chiefly of the Cobbett school. But the greatest number occupy their leisure with rude physical sports, or those coarser indulgences which, in a place like Heywood, are more easily got at than books and schools, especially by that part of the people who have been brought up in toilful ignorance of these elements. The tap-room is the most convenient school and meeting-place for these; and the tap-rooms are numerous, and well attended. There, factory lads congregate nightly, clubbing their pence for cheap ale, and whiling the night hours away in coarse ribaldry and dominoes, or in vigorous contention in the art of single step-dancing, upon the ale-house hearth-stone. This single step-dancing is a favourite exercise with them; and their wooden clogs are often very neatly made for the purpose, lacing closely up to above the ankle, and ornamented with a multitude of bright brass lace holes. The quick, well-timed clatter upon the tap-room flags generally tells the whereabouts of such dancing haunts to a stranger as he goes along the streets; and, if he peeps into one of them, he may sometimes see a knot of factory lads clustered about the tap-room door inside, encouraging some favourite caperer with such exclamations as, "Deawn wi' thi fuut, Robin! Crack thi rags, owd dog!" The chief out-door sports of the working class are foot-racing, and jumping matches; and sometimes foot-ball and cricket. Wrestling, dog-fighting, and cock-fighting are not uncommon; but they are more peculiar to the hardier population outside the towns. Now and then, a rough "up-and-down" fight takes place, at an ale-house door, or brought off, more systematically, in a nook of the fields. This rude and ancient manner of personal combat is graphically described by Samuel Bamford, in his well-known "Passages in the Life of a Radical." The moors north of Heywood afford great sport in the grouse season. Some of the local gentry keep harriers; and now and then, a "foomart-hunt" takes place, with the long-eared dogs, whose mingled music, whenheard from the hill-sides, sounds like a chime of bells in the distant valley. The entire population, though engaged in manufacture, evinces a hearty love of the fields and field sports, and a strong tincture of the rough simplicity, and idiomatic quaintness of their forefathers, or "fore-elders," as they often call them. In an old fold near Heywood, there lived a man a few years since, who was well known thereabouts as a fighter. The lads of the hamlet were proud of him as a local champion. Sometimes he used to call at a neighbouring ale-house, to get a gill, and have a "bout" with anybody worth the trouble, for our hero had a sort of chivalric dislike to spending his time on "wastrils" unworthy of his prowess. When he chanced to be seen advancing from the distance, the folk in the house used to say, "Hellho! so-and-so's coming; teen th' dur!" whereupon the landlord would reply, "Nawe, nawe! lev it oppen, or else he'll punce it in! But yo'n no casion to be fleyed, for he's as harmless as a chylt to aught at's wayker nor his-sel!" He is said to have been a man of few words, except when roused to anger; when he uttered terrible oaths, with great vehemence. The people of his neighbourhood say that he once swore so heavily when in a passion, that a plane-tree, growing at the front of his cottage, withered away from that hour. Most Lancashire villages contain men of this stamp—men of rude, strong frame and temper, whose habits, manners, and even language, smack a little of the days of Robin Hood. Yet, it is not uncommon to find them students of botany and music, and fond of little children. Jane Clough, a curious local character, died at a great age, near Heywood, about a year and a half ago. Jane was a notable country botanist, and she had many other characteristics which made her remarkable. She was born upon Bagslate Heath, a moorland tract, up in the hills, to the north-east of Heywood. I well remember that primitive country amazon, who, when I was a lad, was such an old-world figure upon the streets of Rochdale and Heywood. Everybody knew Jane Clough. She was very tall, and of most masculine face and build of body; with a clear, healthy complexion. She was generally drest in a strong, old-fashioned blue woollen bedgown, and thick petticoats of the same stuff. She wore a plain but very clean linen cap upon her head, loosely covered with a silk kerchief; and her foot-gear was heavy clouted shoon, or wooden clogs, suitable to her rough country walks, her great strength, and masculine habits.Botany was always a ruling passion with old moorland Jane. She was the queen of all flower-growers in humble life upon her native ground; especially in the cultivation of the polyanthus, auricula, tulip, and "ley," or carnation. Jane was well known at all the flower shows of the neighbourhood, where she was often a successful exhibitor; and though she was known as a woman of somewhat scrupulous moral character—and there are many anecdotes illustrative of this—yet she was almost equally well known at foot-races and dog-battles, or any other kind of battles; for which she not unfrequently held the stakes.

There used to be many a "hush-shop," or house for the sale of unlicensed drink, about Heywood; and if the district was thrown into a riddle, they would turn up, now and then, yet; especially in the outskirts of the town, and up towards the hills. These are generally sly spots, where fuddlers, who like ale for its own sake, can steal in when things are quiet, and get their fill at something less than the licensed price; or carry off a bottle-full into the fields, after the gloaming has come on. Of course hush-shop tipplers could not often indulge in that noisy freedom of speech, nor in those wild bursts of bacchanalian activity vulgarly known by the name of "hell's delight," of which licensed ale-houses are sometimes the scenes; and where the dangerous Lancashire ale-house game, called "Th' Bull upo' th' Bauk," has sometimes finished a night of drunken comedy with a touch of real tragedy. The most suitable customers for the "hush-shop" were quiet, steady soakers, who cared for no other company than a full pitcher; and whose psalm of life consisted of scraps of drinking-songs like the following, trolled out in a low chuckling tone:—

O good ale, thou art my darling,I love thee night, I love thee morning,I love thee new, I love thee old;I love thee warm, I love thee cold!Oh! good ale!

There is an old drinking-song just re-published in "The Songs of the Dramatists," which was printed in 1575, in Bishop Still's comedy of "Gammer Gurton's Needle," though probably known earlier. Fragments of this song are still known and sung in the north of England. The burden runs thus in a Lancashire version:—

Back and side, go bare, go bare,Fuut and hond, go coud;But bally, God send thee good ale enough,Whether it's yung or owd!

Having glanced in this brief way at the progress of Heywood, from the time when it first began to give a human interest to the locality, as a tiny hamlet, about the end of the fifteenth century, up to its present condition, as a cotton-spinning town of twenty thousand inhabitants, surrounded by a district alive with manufacturing activities, I will return to the narrative of my visit to the place, as it fell on one fine afternoon about the end of June.

We had come round from the railway station, along the southern edge of the town, and through the fields, by a footpath which led us into Heywood about one hundred yards from the old chapel in the middle of the place. The mills were stopped. Country people were coming into town to do their errands, and a great part of the working population appeared to be sauntering along the main street, stopping at the shops, to make their markets as they went along; or casting about for their Saturday night's diversion, and gazing from side to side, to see what could be seen. Clusters of factory girls were gathered about the drapers' windows. These girls were generally clean and tidy; and, not unfrequently, there were very intelligent and pretty countenances amongst them. The older part of the factory operatives, both men and women, had often a staid and jaded look. The shops were busy with customers buying clothing, or food, or cheap publications; and the ale-houses were getting lively. A little company of young "factory chaps" were collected about a bookseller's shop, near the old "Queen Anne," looking out for news, or pictures; or reading the periodicals exposed in the windows. Now and then, a select straggler wended his way across the road to change his "library-book" at the Mechanics' Institution. There was considerable stir lower down the street, where a noisy band of music was marching along, followed by an admiring multitude. And, amongst the whole, a number of those active, mischief-loving lads, so well known in every manufacturing town by the name of "doffers," were clattering about, and darting after one another among the crowd, as blithe as if they had never known what work was. We crossed through the middle of the town, and went down the north road into an open tract of meadow land, towards the residence of mine host.

The house was pleasantly situated in a garden, about two stones' throw from the edge of Heywood, in the wide level of grass land called "Yewood Ho' Greyt Meadow." The roadgoes close by the end of the garden. We entered this garden by a little side gate, and on we went, under richly-blossomed apple trees, and across the grass-plat, into the house. The old housekeeper began to prepare tea for us; and, in the meantime, we made ourselves at home in the parlour, which looked out upon the garden and meadows at the front. Mine host sat down to the piano, and played some of that fine old psalmody which the country people of Lancashire take such delight in. His family consisted of himself, a staid-looking old housekeeper, and his two motherless children. One of these was a timid, bright-eyed little girl, with long flaxen hair, who, as we came through the garden, was playing with her hoop upon the grass-plat, under the blooming apple trees; but who, on seeing a stranger, immediately sank into a shy stillness. The other was a contemplative lad, about thirteen, with a Melancthon style of countenance. I found him sitting in the parlour, absorbed in "Roderick Random." As soon as tea was over, we went out in the cool of the evening, to see the daylight die upon the meadows around. We could hear the stir of Saturday night life in the town. Through the parlour window we had caught glimpses of the weird flittings of a large bat; and, as we stood bare-headed in the garden, it still darted to and fro about the eaves, in dusky, vivid motions. As the cool night stole on, we went in, and the shutters closed us from the scene. We lingered over supper, talking of what newspaper writers call "the topics of the day," and of books, and local characters and customs; and about half an hour before midnight we crept off to bed.

When I rose from bed, and looked through the window of my chamber, the rich haze of a cloudless midsummer morning suffused the air. The sunshine lay glittering all over the dewy fields; for the fiery steeds of Phœbus had not yet drunk up those springs "on chaliced flowers that lie." The birds had been up many an hour, and were carolling and chirping gleefully about the eaves of the house, and in the gardens. The splendour of the day had touched even the dull town on the opposite ridge with its beautifying magic; and Heywood seemed to rest from its labours, and rejoice in the gladness which clothed the heavens and the earth. The long factory chimneys, which had been bathing their smokeless tops all night in the cool air, now looked up serenely through the sunshine at theblue sky, as if they, too, were glad to get rid of the week-day fume, and gaze quietly again upon the loveliness of nature; and all the whirling spinning machinery of the town was lying still and silent as the over-arching heavens. Another Sabbath had dawned upon the world; and that day of God, and god of days, was breathing its balm among the sons of toil once more.

Man has another day to swell the past,And lead him near to little, but his last;But mighty nature bounds as from her birth;The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth;Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam,Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream.Immortal man! behold her glories shine,And cry, exulting inly, "They are mine!"Gaze on, while yet thy gladden'd eye may see;A morrow comes when they are not for thee.

It was a feast to the senses and to the soul to look round upon such a scene at such a time, with the faculties fresh from repose, and conscious of reprieve from that relentless round of necessities that follow them, hot-foot, through the rest of the week. As I dressed myself, I heard mine host's little daughter begin to play "Rosseau's Dream," in the parlour below, and I went down stairs humming a sort of accompaniment to the tune; for it is a sweet and simple melody, which chimed well with the tone of the hour. The shy musician stayed her fingers, and rose timidly from her seat, as I entered the room; but a little coaxing induced her to return to it, and she played the tune over and over again for us, whilst the morning meal was preparing. Breakfast was soon over, and the youngsters dressed themselves for chapel, and left us to ourselves; for the one small bell of Heywood chapel was going "Toll—toll—toll;" and straggling companies of children were wending up the slope from the fields towards their Sunday schools. Through the parlour window, I watched these little companies of country children—so fresh, so glad, and sweet-looking—and as they went their way, I thought of the time when I, too, used to start from home on a Sunday morning, dressed in my holiday suit, clean as a new pin from top to toe; and followed to the door with a world of gentle admonitions. I thought of some things I learned "while standing at my mother's knee;" of the little prayer and the blessing at bed time; of the old solemn tunes which she used to sing when all the house was still, whilst I sat and listened, drinking in those plaintive strains of devotional melody, never to forget them more.

We were now alone in the silent house, and there was a Sabbatical stillness all around. The sunshine gleamed in at the windows and open doors; and, where we sat, we could smell the odours of the garden, and hear the birds outside. We walked forth into the garden, among beds of flowers, and blooming apple trees. We could hear the chirrup of children's voices, still, going up the road, towards the town. From the woods round Heywood Hall, there came over the meadows a thrilling flood of music from feathered singers, sporting in those leafy shades. All nature was at morning service: and it was good to listen to this general canticle of praise to Him "whose service is perfect freedom." A kind of hushed joy seemed to pervade the landscape, which did not belong to any other day, however fine—as if the hills and vales knew it was Sunday. To the wisest men, the whole universe is one place of worship, and the whole course of human life a divine service. The man who has a susceptible heart, and loves nature, will find renovation in communion with her, no matter what troubles may disturb him in the world of man's life:—

For she can so informThe mind that is within us, so impressWith quietness and beauty, and so feedWith lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor allThe dreary intercourse of daily lifeShall e'er prevail against us or disturbOur cheerful faith, that all which we beholdIs full of blessings. Therefore let the moonShine on thee in thy solitary walk;And let the misty-mountain winds be freeTo blow against thee.

The back yard of the house, in which we were sauntering, was divided from the woods of Heywood Hall by a wide level of rich meadows; and the thick foliage which lapped the mansion from view, looked an inviting shelter from the heat of a cloudless midsummer forenoon—a place where we could wander about swardy plots and lawns, among embowered nooks and mossy paths—bathing in the coolness of green shades, in which a multitude of birds were waking the echoes with a sweet tumult of blending melodies. Being disposed for a walk, we instinctively took the way thitherward. The high road from the town goes close by the front gates of the hall. This road was formerly lined by a thick grove of trees, called "Th' Lung Nursery," reaching nearly from the edgeof the village to the gates. The grove so shut out the view, and overhung each side of the way, that the walk between looked lonely after dark; and country folk, who had been loitering late over their ale, in Heywood, began to toot from side to side, with timid glances, and stare with fear at every rustle of the trees, when they came to "Th' Lung Nursery." Even if two were in company, they hutched closer together as they approached this spot, and began to be troubled with vivid remembrances of manifold past transgressions, and to make internal resolutions to "Fear God, an' keep th' co'sey," thenceforth, if they could only manage to "hit th' gate" this once, and get safely through the nursery, and by the water-stead in Hooley Clough, where "Yewood Ho' Boggart comes a-suppin' i'th deeod time o'th neet." This road was then, also, flanked on each side by a sprawling thorn-edge, overgrown with wild mint, thyme, and nettles; and with thistles, brambles, stunted hazles, and wild rose bushes; with wandering honeysuckles weaving about through the whole. It was full of irregular dinges, and "hare-gates," and holes, from which clods had been riven; and perforated by winding tunnels and runs, where the mole, the weasel, the field-mouse, and the hedgehog wandered at will. Among the thorns at the top, there was many an erratic, scratchy breach, the result of the incursions of country herbalists, hunters, bird-nesters, and other roamers of the woods and fields. It was one of those old-fashioned hedges which country lads delight in; where they could creep to and fro, in a perfect revel of freedom and fun, among brushwood and prickles, with no other impediment than a wholesome scratching; and where they could fight and tumble about gloriously, among nettles, mint, mugwort, docks, thistles, sorrel, "Robin-run-i'th-hedge," and a multitude of other wild herbs and flowers, whose names and virtues it would puzzle even a Culpepper to tell; rough and free as so many snod-backed modiwarps—ripping and tearing, and soiling their "good clooas," as country mothers used to call them, by tumbling among the dry soil of the hedge-side, and then rolling slap into the wet ditch at the bottom, among "cuckoo-spit," and "frog-rud," and all sorts of green pool-slush; to the dismay of sundry limber-tailed "Bull-Jones," and other necromantic fry that inhabit such stagnant moistures. Some looked for nests, and some for nuts, while others went rustling up the trees, trying the strength of many a bough; and all were blithe and free asthe birds among the leaves, until the twilight shades began to fall. Whilst the sun was still in the sky, they thought little about those boggarts, and "fairees," and "feeorin'," which, according to local tradition, roam the woods, and waters, and lonely places; sometimes with the malevolent intent of luring into their toil any careless intruder upon their secluded domain. Some lurking in the streams and pools, like "Green Teeth," and "Jenny Long Arms," waiting, with skinny claws, for an opportunity to clutch the wanderer upon the bank into the water. Others, like "Th' White Lady," "Th' Skrikin' Woman," "Baum Rappit," "Grizlehurst Boggart," and "Clegg Ho' Boggart," haunting lonely nooks of the green country, and old houses, where they have made many a generation of simple folk pay a toll of superstitious fear for some deed of darkness done in the dim past. Others, like "Nut Nan," prowling about shady recesses of the woods, "wi' a poke-full o' red-whot yetters, to brun nut-steylers their e'en eawt." But, when dusky evening began to steal over the fading scene, and the songs of birds, and all the sounds of day began to die upon the ear—when the droning beetle, and the bat began to flit about; and busy midges danced above the road, in mazy eddies, and spiral columns, between the eye and the sky; then the superstitious teachings of their infancy began to play about the mind; and, mustering their traps, the lads turned their feet homeward, tired, hungry, scratched, dirty, and pleased; bearing away with them—in addition to sundry griping feeds of unripe dogberry, which they had eaten from the hedge-sides—great store of hazlenuts, and earth-nuts; hips and haws; little whistles, made of the bark of the wicken tree; slips of the wild rose, stuck in their caps and button-holes; yellow "skedlocks," and whiplashes made of plaited rushes; and sometimes, also, stung-up eyes and swollen cheeks, the painful trophies of encounters with the warlike inhabitants of "wasp-nests," unexpectedly dropped on, in the course of their frolic.

Oh! sweet youth; how soon it fades;Sweet joys of youth, how fleeting!

The road home was beguiled with clod-battles, "Frog-leap," and "Bob Stone," finishing with "Trinel," and "High Cockolorum," as they drew near their quarters. The old hedge and the nursery have been cleared away, and now the fertile meadows lie open to the view, upon each side of the way.

On arriving at the entrance which leads to Heywood Hall, we turned in between the grey gate-pillars. They had a lone and disconsolate appearance. The crest of the Starkies is gone from the top; and the dismantled shafts look conscious of their shattered fortunes. The wooden gate—now ricketty and rotten—swung to and fro with a grating sound upon its rusty hinges, as we walked up the avenue of tall trees, towards the hall. The old wood was a glorious sight, with the flood of sunshine stealing through its fretted roof of many-patterned foliage, in freakish threads and bars, which played beautifully among the leaves, weaving a constant interchange of green and gold within that pleasant shade, as the plumage of the wood moved with the wind. The scene reminded me of a passage in Spencer's "Faëry Queene:"—

And all within were paths and alleies wide,With footing worne and leading inward farre:Faire harbour that them seems: so in they entred ar.

We went on under the trees, along the carriage road, now tinged with a creeping hue of green; and past the old garden, with its low, bemossed brick wall; and, after sauntering to and fro among a labyrinth of footpaths, which wind about the cloisters of this leafy cathedral, we came to the front of the hall. It stands tenantless and silent in the midst of its ancestral woods, upon the brow of a green eminence, overlooking a little valley, watered by the Roch. The landscape was shut out from us by the surrounding trees; and the place was as still as a lonely hermitage in the heart of an old forest. The tread of our feet upon the flagged terrace in front of the mansion resounded upon the ear. We peeped through the windows, where the rooms were all empty; but the state of the walls and floors, and the remaining mirrors, showed that some care was still bestowed upon this deserted hall. Ivy hung thickly upon some parts of the straggling edifice, which has evidently been built at different periods; though, so far as I could judge, the principal part of it appears to be about two hundred years old. When manufacture began greatly to change the appearance of the neighbouring village and its surrounding scenery, the Starkies left the place; and a wooded mound, in front of the hall, was thrown up and planted, by order of the widow of the last Starkie who resided here, in order to shut from sight the tall chimneys which were rising up in the distance. A large household must have beenkept here in the palmy days of the Starkies. The following passage, relative to the ancient inhabitants of Heywood Hall, is quoted from Edwin Butterworth's "History of the Town of Heywood and its Vicinity:"—

A family bearing this name flourished here for many generations; but they were never of much note in county genealogy, though more than one were active in public affairs. In 1492 occurs Robert de Heywode. In the brilliant reign of Elizabeth, Edmund Heywood, Esq., was required, by an order dated 1574, to furnish "a coate of plate, a long bowe, sheffe of arrows, steel cap, and bill, for the military musters."[28]James Heywood, gent., was living before 1604. Peter Heywood, Esq., a zealous magistrate, the representative of this family in the reigns of James the First and Charles the First, was a native and resident of Heywood hall, which was erected during the sixteenth century. It is said that he apprehended Guido Faux coming forth from the vault of the house of parliament on the eve of the gunpowder treason, Nov. 5, 1605. He probably accompanied Sir Thomas Kneuett, in his search of the cellars under the parliament house. In 1641, "an order was issued that the justices of the peace of Westminster should carefully examine what strangers were lodged within their jurisdiction; and that they should administer the oaths of allegiance and supremacy to all suspected of recusancy, and proceed according to those statutes. An afternoon being appointed for that service in Westminster hall, and many persons warned to appear there, amongst the rest one —— James, a Papist, appeared, and being pressed by Mr. Hayward (Heywood), a justice of the peace, to take the oaths, suddenly drew out his knife and stabbed him; with some reproachful words, 'for persecuting poor Catholics.' This strange, unheard-of outrage upon the person of a minister of justice, executing his office by an order of parliament, startled all men; the old man sinking with the hurt, though he died not of it. And though, for aught I could ever hear, it proceeded only from the rage of a sullen varlet (formerly suspected to be crazed in his understanding), without the least confederacy or combination with any other, yet it was a great countenance to those who were before thought over apprehensive and inquisitive into dangers; and made many believe it rather a design of all the Papists of England, than a desperate act of one man, who could never have been induced to it, if he had not been promised assistance by the rest,"[29]Such is Lord Clarendon's account of an event that has rendered Peter Heywood a person of historical note; how long he survived the attempt to assassinate him is not stated.It is highly probable that Mr. Heywood had imbibed an undue portion of that anti-Catholic zeal which characterised the times in which he lived, and that he was the victim of those rancorous animosities which persecution never fails to engender.Peter Heywood, of Heywood, Esq., was one of the gentlemen of the county who compounded for the recovery of their estates, which had been sequestrated 1643-5, for supporting the royal cause. He seems to have been a son of the Mr. Heywood that was stabbed; he re-obtained his property for the sum of £351.[30]The next of this family on record is PeterHeiwood, Esq., who was one of the "counsellors of Jamaica" during the commonwealth. One of his sons, PeterHeiwood, Esq., was commemorated by an inscription on a flat stone in the chancel of the church of St. Anne's-in-the-Willows, Aldersgate-ward, London, as follows:—"Peter Heiwood, that deceased Nov. 2, 1701, younger son of Peter Heiwood, one of the counsellours of Jamaica, by Grace, daughter of Sir John Muddeford, Knight and Baronet, great grandson to Peter Heywood, in the county palatine of Lancaster; who apprehended Guy Faux with his dark lanthorn; and for his zealous prosecution of Papists, as justice of peace, was stabbed in Westminster hall, by John James, Dominican friar, anno. domini. 1640."Reader, if not a papist bred,Upon such ashes gently tread."[31]Robert Heywood, of Heywood, Esq., married Mary Haslam, of Rochdale, Dec. 20, 1660; and was probably elder brother of PeterHeiwood, of London.In the visitation of 1664, are traced two lines of the Heywoods, those of Heywood and Walton; from the latter was descended Samuel Heywood, Esq., a Welch judge,[32]uncle of Sir Benjamin Heywood, Baronet, of Claremont, near Manchester. The armorial bearing of the Heywoods, of Heywood, was argent, three torteauxes, between two bendlets gules.The property of this ancient family, principally consisting of Heywood Hall and adjoining lands, is said to have been purchased by Mr. John Starkey, of the Orchard, in Rochdale, in the latter part of the seventeenth or the beginning of the eighteenth century. Mr. Starkey was living in 1719; his descendant, John Starkey, Esq., married Mary, daughter of Joseph Gregge, Esq., of Chamber Hall, Oldham. John Starkey, Esq., who died March 13, 1780, was father of James Starkey, Esq., of Fell Foot, near Cartmel, Lancashire, the present possessor of Heywood Hall, born September 8, 1762, married, September 2, 1785, Elizabeth, second daughter of Edward Gregg Hopwood, Esq. In 1791, Mr. Starkey served the office of high sheriff of the county. From this family branched the Starkeys of Redivals, near Bury.

It is highly probable that Mr. Heywood had imbibed an undue portion of that anti-Catholic zeal which characterised the times in which he lived, and that he was the victim of those rancorous animosities which persecution never fails to engender.

Peter Heywood, of Heywood, Esq., was one of the gentlemen of the county who compounded for the recovery of their estates, which had been sequestrated 1643-5, for supporting the royal cause. He seems to have been a son of the Mr. Heywood that was stabbed; he re-obtained his property for the sum of £351.[30]

The next of this family on record is PeterHeiwood, Esq., who was one of the "counsellors of Jamaica" during the commonwealth. One of his sons, PeterHeiwood, Esq., was commemorated by an inscription on a flat stone in the chancel of the church of St. Anne's-in-the-Willows, Aldersgate-ward, London, as follows:—

"Peter Heiwood, that deceased Nov. 2, 1701, younger son of Peter Heiwood, one of the counsellours of Jamaica, by Grace, daughter of Sir John Muddeford, Knight and Baronet, great grandson to Peter Heywood, in the county palatine of Lancaster; who apprehended Guy Faux with his dark lanthorn; and for his zealous prosecution of Papists, as justice of peace, was stabbed in Westminster hall, by John James, Dominican friar, anno. domini. 1640.

"Reader, if not a papist bred,Upon such ashes gently tread."[31]

Robert Heywood, of Heywood, Esq., married Mary Haslam, of Rochdale, Dec. 20, 1660; and was probably elder brother of PeterHeiwood, of London.

In the visitation of 1664, are traced two lines of the Heywoods, those of Heywood and Walton; from the latter was descended Samuel Heywood, Esq., a Welch judge,[32]uncle of Sir Benjamin Heywood, Baronet, of Claremont, near Manchester. The armorial bearing of the Heywoods, of Heywood, was argent, three torteauxes, between two bendlets gules.

The property of this ancient family, principally consisting of Heywood Hall and adjoining lands, is said to have been purchased by Mr. John Starkey, of the Orchard, in Rochdale, in the latter part of the seventeenth or the beginning of the eighteenth century. Mr. Starkey was living in 1719; his descendant, John Starkey, Esq., married Mary, daughter of Joseph Gregge, Esq., of Chamber Hall, Oldham. John Starkey, Esq., who died March 13, 1780, was father of James Starkey, Esq., of Fell Foot, near Cartmel, Lancashire, the present possessor of Heywood Hall, born September 8, 1762, married, September 2, 1785, Elizabeth, second daughter of Edward Gregg Hopwood, Esq. In 1791, Mr. Starkey served the office of high sheriff of the county. From this family branched the Starkeys of Redivals, near Bury.

Heywood looks anything but picturesque, at present; but, judging from the features of the country about the hall, especially on the north side of it, this house must have been a very pleasant and retired country seat about a century and a half ago.

Descending from the eminence, upon the northern edge of which Heywood Hall is situated,—and which was probably the first inhabited settlement hereabouts, at a time when the ground now covered by the manufacturing town, was a tract of woods and thickets, wild swards, turf moss, and swamps—we walked westward, along the edge of the Roch, towards the manufacturing hamlet of Hooley Bridge. This valley, by the water-side, has a sylvan and cultivated appearance. The quiet river winds round the pastures of the hall, which slope down to the water, from the shady brow upon which it stands. The opposite heights are clad with woods and plantations; and Crimble Hall looks forth from the lawns and gardens upon the summit. About a mile up this valley, towards Rochdale town, in a quiet glen, lies the spot pointed out in Roby's "Tradition" of "Tyrone's Bed," as the place where the famous Irish rebel, Hugh O'Niel, Earl of Tyrone, lived in concealment some time, during the reign of Elizabeth. Even at this day, country folks, who know little or nothing of the tradition, know the place by the name of "Yel's o' Thorone"—an evident corruption of the "Earl of Tyrone." This was the Irish chieftain who burnt the poet Spenser out of his residence, Rathcormac Castle. It was dinner time when we reachedthe stone bridge at Hooley Clough; so we turned up the road towards home.

The youngsters and the dinner were waiting for us, when we got back to the house. The little girl was rather more communicative than before; and, after the meal was over, we had more music. But, while this was going on, the lad stole away to some nook, with a book in his hand. And, soon after, the master of the house and I found ourselves again alone, smoking and talking together. I had enjoyed this summer day so far, and was inclined to make the most of it; so, when dinner was over, I went out at the back, and down by a thorn-edge, which divides the meadows. I was soon followed by mine host, and we sauntered on together till we came to a shelving hollow, in which a still pool lay gleaming like a sun among the meadows. It looked cool, and brought the skies to our feet. Sitting down upon its bank, we watched the reflection of many a straggling cloud of gauzy white, sailing over its surface, eastward. Little fishes, leaping up now and then, were the only things which stirred the burnished mirror, for a second or two, into tiny tremulations of liquid gold; and water-flies darted to and fro upon the pool, like nimble fancies in a fertile mind. And thus we lazily enjoyed the glory of a summer day in the fields; while

The lark was singing in the blinding sky,And hedges were white with may.

After awhile, we drifted dreamily asunder, and I crept under the shade of a fence hard by, to avoid the heat; and there lay on my back, looking towards the sky, through my fingers, to keep sight of a fluttering spot from which a skylark poured down its rain of melody upon the fields around. My face was half buried in grass and meadow herbs; and I fell asleep with them peeping about my eye-lids. After half an hour's dreamy doze in the sun—during which my mind seemed to have acted over a whole lifetime in masquerade—I woke up, and, shaking the buzz of field-flies out of my ears, we gathered up our books, and went into the house.

When it drew towards evening, we left the house again—for it was so fine outside, that it seemed a pity to remain under cover longer than necessary—and we walked through the village in Hooley Clough, and on, northward, up hill, and down dell, until we came to a wild upland, called"Birtle," which stretches away along the base of Ashworth Moor. The sun was touching the top of the hills when we reached that elevated tract; and the western heavens were glowing with the grandeur of his decline as we walked across the fields towards an old hamlet called "Grislehurst." Here we stayed a while, conversing with an ancient cottager and his dame, about the history of their native corner, its legendary associations, and other matters interesting to them and to us. We left Grislehurst in the twilight, by a route which led through the deeps of Simpson Clough, and on, homewards, just as the first lamps of evening were lighting up; rejoicing in the approach of a cloudless summer night, as we had rejoiced in the glorious day which had gone down.

The next morning, I returned to Manchester; and, since that time, it has often been a pleasure to me in the crowded city to recollect that summer day, spent in the country north of the town of Heywood. Its images never return to my memory but I wish to hold them there awhile. Emerson says:—"Give me health and a day, and I will make the pomp of emperors ridiculous. The dawn is my Assyria; the sunset and moonrise my Paphos, and unimaginable realms of faërie; broad noon shall be my England of the senses and the understanding; the night shall be my Germany of mystic philosophy and dreams." If men had their eyes open to the beauties and uses of those elements which are open to all alike, and felt the grandeur of this earth, which is the common home of the living, how much would it reconcile them to their differences of position, and moderate their repinings at the superiority of this man's housing, and that man's dress and diet.

Looking back at the present character and previous history of this town of Heywood, there is some suggestive interest in both the one and the other. The period of its existence—from the time when it first arose, in an almost uncultivated spot, as an habitation of man, till now—is contained in such a brief space, that to any man who cares to consider the nature of its origin, and the character of the influences which have combined to make it such as it now is, the materials for guiding him to a comprehension of these things, lie almost as much within his reach as if the place were a plant which he had put into the soil for himself, and the growth of which he had occasionally watched with interest. In this respect,although Heywood wears much the same general appearance as other cotton-spinning towns, it has something of a character of its own, different from most of those towns of Lancashire, whose histories go back many centuries, often through eventful changes, till they grow dim among the early records of the kingdom in general. Unlike those, however, Heywood is almost entirely the creation of the cotton trade, which itself arose out of the combination of a few ingenious thoughts put into practice by a people who seem to have been eminently fitted by nature to perceive their value, and to act enterprisingly upon what they perceived. If it had been possible for an intelligent man to have lifted himself into mid air above Heywood, about two hundred years ago, when its first cottages began to cluster into a little village, and to settle himself comfortably upon a cloud, so as to be able to watch the growth of the place below, with all the changing phases of its life from then till now, it might present to him a different aspect, and lead him to different conclusions to those engendered by people living and moving among the swarms of human action. In the mind of such a serene overlooker—distinctly observing the detail and the whole of the manner of life beneath him, and fully comprehending the nature of the rise and progress of this Lancashire town—many thoughts might arise, which would not occur to those who creep about the crowded earth, full of little perturbations. But, to almost any thoughtful man, the history of this manufacturing town would illustrate the power which a little practical knowledge gives to a practical people over the physical elements of creation, as well as over that portion of the people who have little or no education, and are, therefore, drifted hither and thither by every wind of circumstance which wafts across the surface of society. It might suggest, too, how much society is indebted, for whatever force or excellence there is in it, to the scattered seeds of silent thought which have quietly done their work among the noise of action—for ever leading it on to still better action; and it might suggest how much the character of the next generation depends upon the education of the present one. Looking at this question of education merely in that point of view in which it affects production, the following passage, by an eminent advocate of education, shall speak for itself:—"Prior to education, the productive power of the six millions of workers in the United Kingdomwould be the physical force which they were capable of exerting. In the present day, the power really exerted is equal to the force of a hundred millions of men at least. But the power of the uneducated unit is still the physical force of one man, the balance being exerted by men who understand the principles of mechanics and of chemistry, and who superintend the machine power evolved thereby. Thus the power originated by the few, and superintended by a fraction of society, is seventeen times greater than the strength of all our workers, and is hourly increasing." If a man was a pair of steam looms, how carefully would he be oiled, and tended, and mended, and made to do all that a pair of looms could do. What a loom, full of miraculous faculties is he, compared to these—the master-piece of nature for creative power, and for wonderful variety of capabilities! yet, with what a profuse neglect he is cast away, like the cheapest rubbish on earth!

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