Chapter 8

Reawnt Legs he wur a cunnin' owd twod,He made a mule draw a four-horse lwod.

And then there was "Johnny Baa Lamb," a noted character in Rochdale twelve years ago. He was low in stature, rather stout, and very knock-knee'd; and his face was one paradise of never-fading ale-blossoms. Johnny's life was spent in helping about the slaughter-houses, and roaming from alehouse to alehouse, where, between his comical appearance, his drunken humour, his imitations of the tones of sheep, lambs, and other animals, and his old song,—

The mon and the mare,Flew up in the air,An' I think I see 'em yet, yet, yet;—

the chorus of which he assisted by clattering a poker on the hearth, he was a general favourite, and kept himself afloat in ale—the staple of his ambition—by being the butt of every tap-room, where his memory remains embarmed. There was "Barfuut Sam," a carter, who never would wear any foot-gear; "Ab o' Slender's," "Broth," "Steeom," "Scutcher," "Peawch," and "Dick-in-a-Minnit." Most of these were as well known as the church clock. And then there was "Daunt o' Peggy's," "Brunner," "Shin 'em," "Ayli o' Joe's o' Bet's o' Owd Bullfuut's," and "Fidler Bill," who is mentioned in the Lancashire song, "Hopper hop't eawt, an' Limper limp't in,"—

Then aw went to th' Peel's Arms to taste of their ale;They sup'n it so fast it never gwos stale!An' when aw'd set deawn, an' getten a gill,Who should come in boh Fidler Bill.He rambles abeawt through boroughs an' teawns,A' sellin' folk up as boh ow'n a few peawnds;

Then aw went to th' Peel's Arms to taste of their ale;They sup'n it so fast it never gwos stale!An' when aw'd set deawn, an' getten a gill,Who should come in boh Fidler Bill.

He rambles abeawt through boroughs an' teawns,A' sellin' folk up as boh ow'n a few peawnds;

and then there was "Jone o' Isaac's," the mower; "Peyswad," and "Bedflock," who sowed blend-spice in his garden for parsley seed; and "Owd Tet, i' Crook," an amiable and aged country woman, who lived in a remote corner of the moors, above Smallbridge, and whose intended husband dying when she was very young, she took it deeply to heart. On being pressed to accept the hand of a neighbour, who knew her excellent qualities, she at last consented, assuring him, however, that her heart was gone, and all that she could promise him was that she could "spin an' be gradely;" which saying has become a local proverb.In the forest of Rosendale, I have met with a few names of more curious structure than even any of the previous ones, such as "Eb o' Peg's o' Puddin' Jane's," "Bet o' Owd Harry's o' Nathan's at th' Change," "Enoch o' Jem's o' Rutchot's up at th' Nook," "Harry o' Mon John's," "Ormerod o' Jem's o' Bob's," and "Henry o' Ann's o' Harry's o' Milley's o' Ruchots o' John's o' Dick's, through th' ginnel, an' up th' steps, an' o'er Joseph's o' John's o' Steen's," which rather extraordinary cognomen was given to me by a gentleman, living near Newchurch, as authentic, and well known in a neighbouring dale. In a village near Bolton, there was, a few years since, a letter-carrier who had so long been known by a nickname, that he had almost forgotten his proper name. By an uncommon chance, however, he once received a letter directed to himself, but not remembering the owner, or anybody of that name, he carried the letter in his pocket for several days, till he happened to meet with a shrewd old villager, whom his neighbours looked upon as "larn't up," and able to explain everything—from ale, bull-dogs, and politics, to the geography of the moon and the mysteries of theology. The postman showed his letter to this Delphic villager, inquiring whether he knew anybody of that name. The old man looked an instant, then, giving the other a thump, he said, "Thea foo', it's thisel'!" I have heard of many an instance, in different parts of Lancashire, where some generic "John Smith," after being sought for in vain for a while, has been at last discovered concealed under some such guise as "Iron Jack," "Plunge," "Nukkin," or "Bumper." I remember an old religious student, in Rochdale, who used to take considerable pains in drilling poor lads into a knowledge of the Holy Scriptures. The early part of the Bible was his favourite theme; and he interlarded his conversation with it to such a degree, that he won for himself the distinguished title of "Th' Five Books o' Moses."

In Collier's tale of "Tummus and Meary," he illustrates the personal nomenclature of these parts, in his own time, by the following passage, which, though it may appear strange in the eyes of people dwelling in the great cities of the south of England, yet does not exaggerate the custom at present prevailing in the remoter parts of the county of Lancaster:—

Meary.True, Tummus; no marvel at o' wur so flayed; it wur so fearfo dark.Tummus.Heawe'er, aw resolv't mayth best on't, an up speek aw.—"Woooas tat?" A lad's voyce answer't in a cryin' din, "Eh, law; dunnah tay meh." "Naw," said aw, "aw'll na tay tho, belady! Whooaslad art to?" "Whau," said he, "aw'mJone o' Lall's o' Simmy's, o'Mariom's o' Dick's o' Nathan's, o' Lall's, o' Simmy's i'th Hooms: an' aw'm gooin' whoam." "Odd," thinks aw t' mysel', "theaw's a dree-er name ti'n me." An' here, Meary, aw couldn't boh think what lung names some on us han; for thine and mine are meeterly; boh this lad's wur so mich dree-er, 'at aw thowt it dockt mine tone hawve.Meary.Preo, na; tell meh ha these lung names leet'n.Tummus.Um—m; lemme see. Aw conno tell tho greadly; boh aw think it's to tell folk by.Meary.Well, an' hea did'n he go on with him?Tummus.Then (as aw thowt he talkt so awkertly) aw'd ash him, for th' wonst, what uncuths he yerd sturrin'. "Aw yer noan," said he, "but 'at Jack o' Ned's towd mo, 'at Sam o' Jack's o' Yed's Marler has wed Mall o' Nan's o' Sal's o' Peg's, 'at gos abeawt o' beggin' churn milk, with a pitcher, with a lid on." Then aw asht him wheer Jack o' Ned's wooant. Says he, "He's 'prentice weh Isaac o' Tim's o' Nick's o'th Hough-lone, an' he'd bin at Jammy's o' George's o' Peter's i'th Dingles, for hawve a peawnd o' traycle, to seaws'n a beest-puddin' weh; an' his feyther an' moother wooan at Rossenda; boh his gronny's alive, an' wooans weh his noant Margery, eh Grinfilt, at pleck wheer his noan moother coom fro'." "Good lad," says aw, "boh heaw far's tisLittlebroughoff, for aw aim't see it to-neet iv he con hit." Says t' lad, "It's abeawt a mile; an' yo mun keep straight forrud o' yor lift hont, an yoan happen do." So a-this'n we parted; boh aw mawkint, an' lost my gate again, snap.

Meary.True, Tummus; no marvel at o' wur so flayed; it wur so fearfo dark.

Tummus.Heawe'er, aw resolv't mayth best on't, an up speek aw.—"Woooas tat?" A lad's voyce answer't in a cryin' din, "Eh, law; dunnah tay meh." "Naw," said aw, "aw'll na tay tho, belady! Whooaslad art to?" "Whau," said he, "aw'mJone o' Lall's o' Simmy's, o'Mariom's o' Dick's o' Nathan's, o' Lall's, o' Simmy's i'th Hooms: an' aw'm gooin' whoam." "Odd," thinks aw t' mysel', "theaw's a dree-er name ti'n me." An' here, Meary, aw couldn't boh think what lung names some on us han; for thine and mine are meeterly; boh this lad's wur so mich dree-er, 'at aw thowt it dockt mine tone hawve.

Meary.Preo, na; tell meh ha these lung names leet'n.

Tummus.Um—m; lemme see. Aw conno tell tho greadly; boh aw think it's to tell folk by.

Meary.Well, an' hea did'n he go on with him?

Tummus.Then (as aw thowt he talkt so awkertly) aw'd ash him, for th' wonst, what uncuths he yerd sturrin'. "Aw yer noan," said he, "but 'at Jack o' Ned's towd mo, 'at Sam o' Jack's o' Yed's Marler has wed Mall o' Nan's o' Sal's o' Peg's, 'at gos abeawt o' beggin' churn milk, with a pitcher, with a lid on." Then aw asht him wheer Jack o' Ned's wooant. Says he, "He's 'prentice weh Isaac o' Tim's o' Nick's o'th Hough-lone, an' he'd bin at Jammy's o' George's o' Peter's i'th Dingles, for hawve a peawnd o' traycle, to seaws'n a beest-puddin' weh; an' his feyther an' moother wooan at Rossenda; boh his gronny's alive, an' wooans weh his noant Margery, eh Grinfilt, at pleck wheer his noan moother coom fro'." "Good lad," says aw, "boh heaw far's tisLittlebroughoff, for aw aim't see it to-neet iv he con hit." Says t' lad, "It's abeawt a mile; an' yo mun keep straight forrud o' yor lift hont, an yoan happen do." So a-this'n we parted; boh aw mawkint, an' lost my gate again, snap.

A curious instance of the prevalence of nicknames in this district occurred, a few years since, about a mile from Smallbridge. A country lass had got married out of a certain fold in that part, and going down to Rochdale soon after, a female acquaintance said to her, "Whau, Sally, thea's getten wed, hasn't to?" "Yigh," said Sally, "aw have." "Well, an' what's te felly code?" replied the other. "Whau," said Sally, "some folk co's him 'Jone o' Nancy's lad, at th' Pleawm Heawse;' but his gradely name's 'Clog Bant.'" We sometimes hear of a son who bears the same christian name as his father, as "Jamie o' James's," and "Sol ov Owd Sol's o' th' Hout Broo;" and I have often heard a witless nursery rhyme, which runs,—

Owd Tum an' yung Tum,An' Owd Tum's son;Yung Tum'll be a TumWhen Owd Tum's done;

but the poor people of Lancashire sometimes have a superstitious fear of giving the son the same christian name as the father.

The ancient rural festival of "Rushbearing," in the month of August, used to make a great stir in Smallbridge; but the observance of it seems to decline, or, at least, assumes a soberer form. A great number of local proverbs, and quaint sayings, are continually being thrown up by the population there, which, in spite of their rude garb, show, like nuggets of mental gold, what undeveloped riches lie hidden in the human mind, even in Smallbridge. The people are wonderfully apt at the discernment and at the delineation of character. It is very common for them to utter graphic sentences like the following:—"He's oneo' thoose at'll lend onybody a shillin', iv they'n give him fourteen-pence to stick to." One of them said, on receiving a present of game from his son in Yorkshire, "It isn't oft at th' kittlin' brings th' owd cat a meawse, but it has done this time." There are two or three out of a whole troop of anecdotes, told of the natives of this quarter, which have the air of nature about them sufficiently to indicate what some of the characteristics of these villagers were in past years. Two young men were slowly taking their road, late one night, out at the town end, after the fair, when one of them lingering behind the other, his comrade shouted to him to "Come on!" "Stop an' rosin," said the loiterer, "aw hannut foughten yet!" "Well," replied the other, with cool indifference, "Get foughten, an' let's go whoam?" In the Rev. W. Gaskell's lectures on the Lancashire dialect, he says, "The following dialogue is reported to have taken place between two individuals on meeting:—'Han yo bin to Bowton?' 'Yigh.' 'Han yo foughten?' 'Yigh.' 'Han yo lickt'n?' 'Yigh; an' aw browten a bit'n him whoam i' my pocket!'" "Owd Bun" was a collier, and a comical country blade, dwelling near Smallbridge. He was illiterate, and rough as a hedgehog. Bun had often heard of cucumbers, but had never tasted one. Out of curiosity he bought a large one, curved like a scimitar; and, reckless of all culinary guidance, he cut it into slices lengthwise, and then fried the cold green slabs, all together, in bacon fat. He ate his fill of them, too; for nothing which mortal stomach would hold came amiss to Bun. When he had finished, and wiped the grease from his mouth with the back of his hand, he said, "By th' mon, fine folk'll heyt aught! Aw'd sanur ha' had a potito!" They tell a tale, too, of the difficulties of a poor factory lass who had been newly married; which is not without its hints. Her husband told her to boil him some eggs, and to "boyle 'em soft." He went out awhile, and on his return, they were boiling, but not ready. He waited long, and then shouted, "Are thoose eggs noan ready yet?" "Naw," said she, "they are nut; for, sitho, aw've boyled 'em aboon an heawur, an' they're no softer yet." Now he did not care much for this; but when he saw her take the child's nightcap off its head to boil his dumpling in, he declared that "he couldn't ston it."

Leaving Smallbridge, we rattled out at the end of the village, past the Red Lion, and up to the top of the slope, where, aftera run of about two hundred yards, we descended into the hollow where the sign of the old "Green Gate" stands. In the season of the year, people passing that way in a morning will often see the door-way crowded with hunting dogs, and a rout of sturdy rabble, waiting to follow the chase, afoot, through the neighbouring hills. Rising again immediately, we crossed another knoll, and down again we came to the foot of the brow, where four roads meet, close by the "Green Mon Inn," opposite to the deserted hamlet of Wuerdale, which perches, with distressed look, upon a little ridge near the roadside, like an old beggar craving charity. On we went, enjoying the romantic variety of the scene, as the green ups and downs of the valley opened out to view, with its scattered farms and mills, all clipt in by the hills, which began to cluster near.

About half a mile further on, where the road begins to slant suddenly towards Featherstall, Stubley Hall stands, not more than twenty yards from the roadside. A much older hall than the present one must have stood here prior to the 13th century, for in 1322, and 1323, mention is made of Nicholas and John de Stubley (His. Whalley). It subsequently came into the possession of the Holt family, of Grislehurst and Castleton; a branch of the Holts, of Sale, Ashton, Cheshire. Some of this family fought in the Scottish wars, and also, in favour of the royal cause, at Edgehill, Newbury, Marston Moor, &c., and were named in Charles's projected order of the Royal Oak. There was a Judge Holt, of the Holts of Sale; and a James Holt, whose mother was co-heiress to Sir James de Sutton; he was killed on Flodden Field. Mary, the daughter of James Holt, the last of the family who resided at Castleton, in this parish, married Samuel, brother of the famous Humphrey Cheetham. The Castleton estate came into Humphrey's hands in 1744. The manor of Spotland was granted by Henry VIII. to Thomas Holt, who was knighted in Scotland by Edward, Earl of Hertford, in the thirty-sixth year of the reign of that king. The Holts were the principal landowners in the parish of Rochdale at the close of the sixteenth century. John Holt held the manor of Spotland, with its appurtenances; also fourscore messuages, three mills, one thousand acres of inclosed land, three hundred acres of meadow, one thousand acres of pasture, and forty acres of woods, in Hundersfield, Spotland, and Butterworth; besides a claim to hold of his majesty, as of his duchy of Lancaster, one third of the manor of Rochdale.The arms of the Holts are described as "Argent on a band engrailed sable, three fleur-de-lys of the first. Crest, a spear head proper. Motto, 'Ut sanem vulnera.'" The present hall at Stubley was built by Robert Holt, about the year 1528. Dr. Whittaker notices this house, which is of considerable size, forming three sides of a square. It is now inhabited by several families; and much of the rich old carved oak, and other relics of its former importance, have been removed from the interior.

From the top of the slope near Stubley, we now saw the spire of Litteborough church, and the village itself, prettily situated at the head of the vale, and close to the foot of the hills which divide Lancashire and Yorkshire. On the top of Blackstone, and about half a mile to the south of "Joe Faulkner's,"—the well-known old sheltering spot for travellers over that bleak region,—we could now more distinctly see the streak of green which marks the line of the Roman road till it disappears from the summit of the Edge.

Featherstall is a little hamlet of comfortable cottages at the bottom of the brow in the high road near Stubley Hall, warmed by the "Rising Sun," and another, an old-fashioned public-house, apparently as old as the present Stubley Hall. The inhabitants are principally employed at the mills and collieries in the neighbourhood. The open space in the centre of the village is generally strewn with scattered hay, and the lights from the public-houses gleam forth into the watering troughs in front, as the traveller goes through at night. A rough old road leads out of the centre of the place, northward, over Calder Moor and the hills, towards Todmorden. From Featherstall, the approach to Litteborough is lined with mills, meadows, and tenter-fields, on the north side; and on the south, two or three green fields divide the highway from the railway, and a few yards on the other side of the railway the line of the Rochdale canal runs parallel with both. And thus these three roads run nearly close together past Litteborough, and all through the vale of Todmorden, up to Sowerby Bridge, a distance of twelve miles; and, for a considerable part of the way, the river forms a fourth companion to the three roads, the four together filling the entire bottom of the valley in some places; and, in addition to that, may be seen, in other parts, the old pack-horse roads leading down from the moorland steeps into the hollow. Carts, boats, railway trains, and sometimes pack-horses, seem to comment upon one another as they pass and re-pass, and form a continual and palpable lecture onmodes of transit, such as is not often met with in such distinct shape. Littleborough consists, principally, of one irregular street, winding over a slight elevation, and down to its centre near the railway station, at the water-side, and thence across the bridge, up towards Blackstone Edge. It is a substantial, healthy-looking village, prettily situated in a romantic spot. There are many poor working people in the village, but there is hardly anything like dirt or squalor to be seen there, except, perhaps, a little of that migratory kind which is unavoidable in all great thoroughfares, and which remains here for a night, on its way, at a roadside receptacle which I noticed at the western end of the village, where I saw on a little board certain ominous hieroglyphics about "Loggins for travlurs." The lands in the valley round Littleborough have the appearance of fine meadow and pasture; and, taken with the still better cultivated grounds, and woods and gardens, about the mansions of the opulent people of the neighbourhood, the whole looks beautifully verdant, compared with the bleak hills which overlook the vale. The old Royal Oak Inn, in the middle of the village, is pointed out as a house which John Collier used to frequent, when he visited the neighbourhood, and where he fixed the scene of Tummus's misadventure in the inn, where he so unadvisedly "Eet like a Yorsharmon, and clear't th' stoo," after he had been to the justice with his dog, "Nip," and where the encounter took place between "Mezzilt Face" and "Wythen Kibbo:"—

Aw went in, an fund at two fat throddy folk wooant theer; an theyd'n some o'th warst fratchingst company at e'er eh saigh; for they'rn warrying, banning, and co'in one another "leawsy eawls," as thick as leet, Heawe'er, aw poo'd a cricket, an keawr't meh deawn i'th nook, o' side o'th hob. Aw'd no soyner done so, boh a feaw, seawer-lookt felley, with a wythen kibbo he had in his hont, slapt a sort ov a wither, mezzilt-face't mon, sich a thwang o'th skawp, at he varry reecht again with it, an deawn he coom o'th harstone, an his heeod i'th esshole. His scrunt wig feel off, an ahontle o' whot corks feel into't, an brunt an frizzlt it so, at when he awst don it, an unlucky carron gen it a poo, an it slipt o'er his sow, an it lee like a howmbark on his shilders. Aw glendurt like a stickt tup, for fear ov a dust mysel', an crope fur into th' chimbley. Oytch body thowt at mezzil-face would mey a flittin on't, an dee in a crack; so some on um cried eawt, "a doctor, a doctor," whol others made'n th' londlort go saddle th' tit to fotch one. While this wur eh doin', some on um had leet ov a kin ov a doctor at wooant a bit off, an shew'd him th' mon o'th harstone. He laid howd on his arm—to feel his pulse, a geawse—an poo'd as if he'd sin deeoth poo'in' at th' tother arm, an wur resolv't o'er-poo him. After lookin' dawkinly-wise a bit, he geet fro his whirly booans, an said to um aw, "Whol his heart bhyet and his blood sarkilates there's hopes, boh whon that stops, it's whoo-up with him i'faith." Mezzil-face hearin summot o' "whoo-up," started to his feet, flote noan, boh gran like a foomart-dog, an seet at t' black, swarffy tyke weh bwoth neaves, an wawtud him o'er into th' galker, full o' new drink, wortchin'. He begun o' pawsin' an peylin him into't so, at aw wur blendud together, snap. 'Sflesh, Meary; theaw'd ha' weet teh, to sin heaw th' gobbin wur awtert, when at tey pood'n him eawt; an what a hobthurst he look't weh aw that berm abeawt him. He keptdryin' his een, boh he moot as weel ha' sowt um in his hinder-end, till th' londlady had made an heawer's labber on um at th' pump. When he coom in again, he glooart awvishly at mezzil-face, an mezzil-face glendurt as wrythenly at him again; boh noather warrit, nor thrap. So they seet um deawn, an then th' londlady coom in, an would mey um't pay for th' lumber at tey'd done hur. "Mey drink's war be a creawn," said hoo, "beside, there's two tumblers, three quiftin pots, an four pipes masht, an a whol papper o' bacco shed." This made um t' glendur at tone tother again; boh black tyke's passion wur coolt at th' pump, an th' wythen kibbo had quite'nt tother, so at teh camm'd little or noan—boh agreed t' pay, aw meeon; then seet'n um deawn, an wur friends again in a snift.

This house used to be a great resort on Saturday nights, and fair days, and holidays, and it was often crammed with the villagers and their neighbours from the surrounding hill-sides; and no small addition from Rochdale and Todmorden. The windows were generally thrown open at such times; and, standing at some distance from the place, one might perhaps be able, in some degree, to sort the roar of wassailry going on inside. But if he wished to know what were the component parts of the wild medley of melodies, all gushing out from the house in one tremendous discord, he would have to draw under the windows, where he might hear:—

Our hounds they were staunch, and our horses were goodAs ever broke cover, or dashed in a wood;Tally-ho! hark forward, huzza; tally-ho!

Whilst, in another corner of the same room, a knot of strong-lunged roysterers joined, at the top of their voices, in the following chorus, beating time to it with fists and feet, and anything else which was heavy and handy:—

"Then heigho, heigho!Sing heigho," cried he;"Does my wife's first husband remember me?"Fal de ral, de ral, de ral, de rido!

In another room he would probably hear "Boyne Water" trolled out in a loud voice:—

The horse were the first that ventured o'er;The foot soon followed after:But brave Duke Schomberg was no more,At the crossing o' Boyne water.

Whilst another musical tippler, in an opposite corner, sang, for his own special amusement, the following quaint fragment:—

Owd shoon an' stockin's!An' slippers at's made o' red leather!

In another quarter you might hear the fiddle playing the animated strains of the "Liverpool Hornpipe," or "The Devil rove his Shurt," while a lot of hearty youngsters, in wooden clogs, battered the hearthstone to the tune. In a large room above, the lights flared in the wind, as the lads and lasses flittedto and fro in the "Haymaker," "Sir Roger de Coverley," or "The Triumph;" or threaded through a reel, and set till the whole house shook; whilst from other parts of the place you would be sure to hear, louder than all else, the clatter of pots, and hunting-cries; the thundering hurly-burly of drunken anger, or the crash of furniture, mingling with the boisterous tones of drunken fun. Whoever entered this house at such a time, in the hope of finding a quiet corner, where he could be still, and look round upon the curious mixture of quaint, rough character, would very likely find that he had planted himself in the retreat chosen by a drunken, maudlin fellow, who, with one eye closed, sat uttering, by fits, noisy salutations of affection to the pitcher of ale before him; or, with one leg over the other, his arms folded, and his head veering lazily with drunken langour, first to one side, and then to the other, poured forth a stream of unconnected jargon, in this style:—"Nea then; yollo chops! What's to do wi' thee? Arto findin' things eawt? Whether wilto have a pipe o' bacco or a bat o' th' ribs? Aw've summat i'th inside o' my box; but it looks like a brunt ratton, bi Guy! Help thysel', an' poo up, whol aw hearken tho thi catechism.... Con te tell me what natur belungs to?—that's the poynt! Come, oppen eawt! Aw'm ready for tho.... An' if thea's nought to say, turn thi yed; aw dunnut like to be stare't at wi' a bigger foo nor mysel'.... Sup; an' gi' me houd!... There's a lot o' nice, level lads i' this cote, isn't there?... Aw'll tell tho what, owd dog; th' world swarms wi' foos, donn'd i' o' maks o' clooas; an' aw deawt it olez will do; for, as fast as th' owd uns dee'n off, there's fresh uns comes. An, by th' mass, th' latter lot dunnut mend thoose at's gwon; for o' at te're brawsen wi' wit. It'd mend it a bit iv oytch body'd wortch for their livin', an' do as they should'n do. Ay; thea may look as fause as to likes; but thae'rt one o'th rook; an' thae'll dee in a bit, as sure as thae'rt livin', owd craytur. Thae'rt to white abeawt th' ear-roots to carry a gray toppin whoam, aw deawt. Gray yure's heavy, mon; it brings 'em o' to th' floor. But thir't to leet for heavy wark, my lad.... Behave thysel'; an' fill thi bally when tho's a choance, for thea looks clemmed. Arto leet gi'n? 'Cose, i' tho art, thae'd betthur awter, or elze thea'll be lyin' o' thi back between two bworts, wi' thi meawth full o' sond; afore th' hawve o' thi time's up.... Sitho at yon bletherin', keaw-lipped slotch, wi' th' quart in his hond! He's a breet-lookin'brid, isn't he? Aw dar say thae thinks thysel' bwoth hon'somer an' fauser nor him. Thae may think so, but—aw know. Thae'rt no betthur nor porritch—i'tho're look't up; for o' at to's sich a pratty waiscut on. What breed arto? There's summat i' that. But, it meeons nought; yo're o' alike at th' bothom! There's ir Jammy; he's as big a wastril as ever stare't up a lone. He ax't me to lend him ov er lads, yesterday. 'Lend te a lad o' mine,' aw said, 'naw, bi' th' heart! Aw wouldn't lend te a dog to catch a ratton wi'!' ... Hello! my ale's done!

'Then he doffed his shoon,An he look't i'th o'n.'

Aw'll go toaurd ir Mally, aw think. Hey, Blossom! Beauty! Beawncer! Bluebell! For shame o' thysel', Bluebell! By, dogs; by! Yo-ho! Come back, yo thieves! Come back; aw tell yo!" And so on, for hours together.

Littleborough is the last village the traveller leaves on the Lancashire side of the "Edge;" and the old high road from Manchester to Leeds passes over the top of these moorland hills, gently ascending all the way from Littleborough, by a circuitous route, to the summit—nearly three miles. A substantial hostelrie stands upon the brow of the hill, called "The White House," and sometimes "Joe Faulkner's," from the name of an eccentric landlord who kept the house in the old coaching time. This house can be seen from the valleys on the Lancashire side for many miles. It was a celebrated baiting-place for the great stream of travellers which went over these hills, before the railway drew it through the vale of Todmorden. The division stone of the counties of York and Lancaster stands about half a mile beyond this old inn. Littleborough itself is prettily situated in the hollow of the valley, at the foot of this wild range of mountains, and at the entrance of the Todmorden valley. It is surrounded by scenery which is often highly picturesque. Dark moorlands, lofty and lonesome; woody cloughs; and green valleys, full of busy life; with picturesque lakes, and little streams which tumble from the hills. The village has many advantages of situation, both for pleasure and manufacture. Stone and coal, and good water, are abundant all around it; and it is fast thriving by the increase of woollen and cotton manufacture. It is still a great thoroughfare for Lancashire and Yorkshire; and a favourite resort for botanists, geologists, sportsmen, and, not unfrequently, invalids. Northward from the village, there are many romanticcloughs, but, perhaps, the finest of these is the one called "Long Clough," at the head of which is a remarkably fine spring, called "Blue Pots Spring." The artificial lake of "Hollingworth" is about half a mile from the village, on the south side; and there is a beautiful walk leading up to its bank, through the shady clough called "Cleggswood." This lake, when full, is three miles round. It supplies the Rochdale canal, and is well stocked with fish. Its elevation places it far above the bustle of the valley below, where the highways and byeways, the iron-ways and water-ways, interweaving thickly about the scene, are alive with the traffic of the district. The valley is throng with the river, the railway, the canal, and excellent high roads; and a hardy and industrious population, which finds abundant employment at the woollen and cotton mills, in the coal mines and stone delphs, or on the dairy and sheep farms of this border region of South Lancashire. The shelvy banks of "Hollingworth" consist of irregular tiers and slopes of pasture, meadow, and moor lands. The latter are, in some directions, abrupt, lofty, and vast, especially on the eastern side, where the sterile mass of Blackstone Edge shuts out the view; whilst a wild brotherhood of heathery hills, belonging to the same range, wind about the scene in a semicircle, which stretches far away, out of sight, in the north-west. But the landscape upon the immediate borders of the lake is of a rural and serene character, though touched here and there with moorland sterility; and there is hardly a thing in sight to remind a spectator that he is surrounded by the most populous manufacturing district in the world. But the distant rumble of train after train, thundering through the neighbouring valley, and the railway whistle, rising up clear over the green hill north of the water, are sufficient to dispel any reverie which the sight of the lake and its surrounding scenery may lead to. On holidays, in summer time, the green country around the margin of this water is animated by companies of visitors from the hill sides, and the villages and towns of the neighbouring valleys. A little steamer plies upon it; and boats may be hired at the Fisherman's Inn, and other places around the banks. The scattered farm-houses of the vicinity, and the two or three country inns on the borders of the lake, are merry with pleasure parties. In winter, the landscape about "Hollingworth" is wild and lonesome; and the water is sometimes so completely frozen over that a horse and light vehicle may be driven across it, from bankto bank, a mile's distance. It is a favourite resort of skaters, from the surrounding districts; though the ice is often dangerously uneven in some places, by reason of strong springs, and other causes. Many accidents have happened through skating upon insecure parts in the ice of this water. Going home late one night in the depth of winter, to my residence by the side of this lake, I found the midnight scene dimly illumined in the distance by a gleam of lights upon the lake; and the sound of pick-axes breaking up the ice, fell with a startling significance upon the ear. Our dog, "Captain," did not come out to meet me, when I whistled, as usual; and I hurried, by a short cut over the fields and through the wood, towards the spot where the lights were visible. There I found a company of farmers and weavers, standing upon the bank, with one or two of the wealthy employers from the village of Littleborough, who had drags in their hands, and were giving directions to a number of workmen who were breaking a channel for the passage of a boat to a spot where the ice had broken in with the weight of three young men belonging to the neighbourhood. This melancholy midnight gathering were working by lantern-light, to recover the bodies from the water. I remained upon the spot until two of the corpses were brought to the bank, and removed in a cart to the farm-house where I resided, previous to being conveyed to their homes in the distant town, later on in the morning, and while it was yet dark. I shall never forget the appearance of those fresh-looking youths, as they lay stretched side by side, in their skating gear, upon a table, in the long passage which led up to my bed-chamber.

The margin of the lake is adorned with patches of wood in some places; and the hills stand around the scene in picturesque disorder. At certain seasons of the year, flocks of wild fowl may be seen resting upon its waters. There are other lakes farther up in the hills; but the position and beauty of Hollingworth make it a favourite with visitors to the district.

When westling winds and slaughtering gunsBring autumn's pleasant weather,

the Littleborough inns are throng with sportsmen, equipped for the grouse shooting; for which sport the moors of the neighbourhood are famous. Littleborough has a modern look from the railway station, near to which the new church stands, on aslight elevation, about the centre of the place, and upon the site of the old one. Yet, though the village has a modern appearance, everything known of its history shows that it is a settlement of considerable antiquity; perhaps, as early as the time of Agricola, the Roman.

The old chapel at Littleborough, which was a primitive building in appearance, was licensed for mass, by the Abbot of Whalley,A.D.1476. It remained in its original architectural state until it became dangerously ruinous in some parts, and was taken down about thirty years ago, to make way for the present church. TheGentleman's Magazine, for 1844, p. 182, contains an interesting description of the new church.

In the immediate vicinity of Littleborough, there are several interesting old houses, now standing upon sites where families of importance in past times settled very early. Some of these families have become extinct in the male line; the property of others has changed hands, like Scholefield Hall, Stubley Hall, Lightowlers, and Windy Bank. Few of these old families have held together and flourished, through the mutations of time, like the family of Newall, of Town House, near Littleborough, respecting which I find the following passage in theGentleman's Magazine, June, 1844, p. 593, which serves to elucidate the character and position of a large portion of the ancient landlords of the parish of Rochdale:—

The family of Newall is one of those ancient families who have for centuries resided on their parental estate, but in the retirement of respectable life holding the rank of yeomanry, which, in former times, and particularly in the age when the Newalls first settled in Lancashire, formed no unimportant portion of society—sufficiently elevated beyond the humbler classes to preserve a tolerable degree of influence and authority amongst them; while they were sheltered in their retirement from those political storms which distracted the higher circles of the community, and which led to the ruin of many of the best families of the kingdom, and to the confiscation of their estates.

Burke'sVisitation of Seats and Armscontains a long account of the Newalls, of Town House, Hare Hill, and Wellington Lodge, Littleborough, an influential family in this neighbourhood during several centuries past; and still owners and occupiers of their old estates, as well as extensive woollen manufacturers.

The following arms, illustrative of the connections of the Newall family, are placed, with others, in the window of Littleborough chapel:—

Kyrkeshagh, of Town House: Or, on a chief per pale gules and sable three bezants.Litholres, of Litholres: Vert, a lion rampant, or semé of calthraps sable.Newall, of Town House: Quarterly, first and fourth, Per pale gules and azure, three covered cups within an orle or: second, Kyrshagh: third, Healey, Gules, four lozenges engrailed in bend ermine: fourth, Butterworth, Argent, a lion couchant azure, between four ducal coronets gules.Buckley, of Howarth Parva: a chevron between three bulls' heads caboshed argent; quartering Butterworth. (The Chadwicks of Healey quarter Buckley of Buckley. Goll. Arm.)Holt, of Stubley: Argent on a bend engrailed sable three fleurs-de-lis of the field. (Also quartered by the Chadwicks. Coll. Arm.)Belfield, of Cleggswood: Ermine, on a chief qu. a label of five points ar.

Kyrkeshagh, of Town House: Or, on a chief per pale gules and sable three bezants.

Litholres, of Litholres: Vert, a lion rampant, or semé of calthraps sable.

Newall, of Town House: Quarterly, first and fourth, Per pale gules and azure, three covered cups within an orle or: second, Kyrshagh: third, Healey, Gules, four lozenges engrailed in bend ermine: fourth, Butterworth, Argent, a lion couchant azure, between four ducal coronets gules.

Buckley, of Howarth Parva: a chevron between three bulls' heads caboshed argent; quartering Butterworth. (The Chadwicks of Healey quarter Buckley of Buckley. Goll. Arm.)

Holt, of Stubley: Argent on a bend engrailed sable three fleurs-de-lis of the field. (Also quartered by the Chadwicks. Coll. Arm.)

Belfield, of Cleggswood: Ermine, on a chief qu. a label of five points ar.

Ten other shields contain the arms of the ancient families of the district, as Bamford of Shore, Ingham of Cleggswood, Halliwell of Pike House, &c., and those used by the bishop of the diocese, the clergy connected with the parish, and some of the gentry of the neighbourhood.

As we left Littleborough, I began, once more, to speculate upon the claims set up for it as having been a Roman station; but my thoughts had no firmer footing than the probabilities put forth by Dr. Whittaker, and some other writers, who have, perhaps, followed him. Yet, the fact that the silver arm of a small Roman statue of Victory, with an inscription thereon, was dug up in the neighbourhood some time ago, together with the direction of the Roman road as marked in the late ordnance map, and the visible remains of a small, triangular-shaped entrenchment, on each side of the road, on the summit of Blackstone Edge, seem to support the probabilities which gave rise to the opinion, and may yet enable the antiquarians of Lancashire to give us something more certain about the matter than I can pretend to.

Passing under the railway arch near the church, and leaving the woody glen of Cleggswood on the right hand, we began to ascend the hills by the winding road which crosses the canal, and leads through a little hamlet called "Th' Durn," consisting of an old substantial house or two by the roadside, and a compact body of plain cottages, with a foundry in the middle. "Th' Durn" is situated on one of the shelves of land which the high road crosses in the ascent of Blackstone Edge; and overlooks the vale in the direction of Todmorden. It is shaded on the south by a steep hill, clothed with fir, and stunted oaks. Over that hill-top, on the summit of a wild eminence, above the din and travel of mankind, stand three remarkable old folds, called "Th' Whittaker," "Th' Turner," and "Th' Sheep Bonk," like eagles' nests, overlooking, on the east, the heathery solitudes lying between there and Blackstone Edge, the silent domain of moor fowl and black-faced sheep; seldom troddenby human feet, except those of a wandering gamekeeper, or a few sportsmen, in August. Looking forth from this natural observatory, about where "Th' Whittaker" stands, the view to westward takes in an extensive landscape. The vale of the Roch is under the eye in that direction, with its pretty sinuosities, its receding dells, and indescribable varieties of undulation; nearly surrounded by hills, of different height and aspect. Distance lends some "enchantment to the view," as the eye wanders over the array of nature spread out below—green dells, waving patches of wood, broad, pleasant pastures; the clear lake of "Hollingworth" rippling below; old farm-houses, scattered about the knolls and cloughs, by the side of brooklets that shine silverly in the distance; the blue smoke curling up distinctly from each little hamlet and village; mills, collieries, tenter-fields, and manifold evidences of the native industry and manufacturing vigour of the district. In these valleys, all nature seems to yield tribute to the energy of the inhabitants, and rural life and manufacture work into each other's hands with advantage. Standing on this spot, with these things spread out before me, I have been struck with the belief, that this unfavourable region for agriculture would not have been so well cultivated even as it is now, but for the manufacturing system. Far west, the eye rests upon the town of Rochdale, with its clusters of chimneys, and hovering canopy of smoke; the small square tower of its old church, and the steeples of St. Stephen's and St. James's, with the town-clad ridges of Wardleworth and Castleton, clearly seen, if the day be fine. On a still Sunday afternoon, in summer time, I have sat upon the hill-top at "Whittaker," listening to the distant sound of Rochdale bells, that notable peal of eight, the music of which I shall never forget; and which I would back for a trifle against any bells in England for sweetness. And, at such a time, as evening came on, when "lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea," I have almost fancied that I could hear the Sunday chime of Rochdale Old Church, "My soul, praise the Lord," come floating up the vale, in the twilight, with a wonderful charm of peace and solemnity in the sound. Immediately above "Th' Durn," the high road leading up to Blackstone Edge rises again as we pass by the old public-house called "Th' Wet Rake," or "Weet Rake." This house stands at the foot of a steep path leading to "Windy Bank," an oldstone hall, once inhabited by an ancient family of the neighbourhood. Windy Bank stands upon the edge of a rocky eminence, rising almost perpendicularly from the road-side by which we had to go. There used to be a carter in Rochdale, known by the name of "Old Woggy," who upset his cart in the craggy road called "Windy Bonk Steele." He returned to his master in the town with the tidings. "Woggy" always stammered in his speech, but in this case he was worse than usual; and his looks told more than his tongue. His master watched in vain for "Woggy's" painful delivery, in the usual way; but tired at last, he said, "Sing it, mon!" when "Wog" immediately sang out, with a fluent voice,—

Aw've wauted wi' th' cart at th' Wyndy Bonk Steele,An' aw've broken th' tone wheel.

As we wound round the foot of the rock on the top of which "Windy Bank" stands, we found the road rutty and uneven, being covered with the perishable sandstone from the hill, broken up and ploughed into slushy gutters, by stone-waggons from the quarries, thereabouts. Pike House, the seat of the old local family of Halliwell—one of whom endowed the Free School at Littleborough—stands near the north side of the road here; and, at a short distance behind, there is an interesting house, formerly of some importance, with a quaint fold attached, called "Lightowlers." Driving on close by the edge of the deep clough called "Sladen Hollow," a hundred yards more brought us to the "Moor Cock Inn," formerly a much more lively place than now, when this mountain road was the great thoroughfare between Lancashire and Yorkshire. The "Moor Cock" was the last house but one on the Lancashire side of Blackstone Edge. The house has a rude, wholesome look still, but is little frequented. Few folk go up that road now, except stone-getters, sand-knockers, shepherds, sportsmen, and a few curious wanderers. We agreed to leave the drag at the "Moor Cock," and walk up Blackstone Edge on foot. "Gray Bobby" was pleased with the prospect of a feed and a rest; for it is tough work upon these hill-sides. He seemed to look round with a thoughtful eye, and pricked his ears to the tread of the brisk young mountaineer—albeit he had a lame leg and a crutch—who came forth to lose his traces and lead him to the stable. As "Bobby" looked at the stable, I could almost imagine him saying to himself, "There's no place like home;" it looked so rough. In the house we found a fewhardy-looking men; brown-faced, broad-shouldered moor farmers or shepherds, apparently, who did a little weaving. Their sagacious dogs lounged about the floor. Such men, in such places, generally receive strangers as if they were "fain to see aught at's wick." They happened to have a liberal newspaper among them, and free trade was the topic of their talk; as it was almost everywhere at that time. Their conversation showed, by its sensible earnestness, that there were men, even up there, who knew who paid for the great protection delusion. I have often been amused by the blunt, shrewd discourse of country people in the manufacturing districts, respecting the difference in the condition and feelings of the people in the reigns of "George o' owd George's," and his brother, "Bill o' George's," and the condition of the people now, in the reign of the "little woman at coom a-seein' us latly." In previous reigns, the tone of their loyalty might have been summed up in what "Jone o' Greenfelt" says of his wife, "Margit:"—

Hoo's naut ogen th' king,But hoo likes a fair thing,An' hoo says hoo con tell when hoo's hurt.

I have heard them talk of kings, and statesmen, "wi' kindling fury i' their breasts;" and, in their "brews" and clubs, which meet for the spread of information, they discuss the merits of political men and measures, and "ferlie at the folk in Lunnon," in a shrewd, trenchant style, which would astonish some members of the collective wisdom of the nation, could they but conveniently overhear it. The people of Lancashire, generally, are industrious collectors of political information, from such sources as they can command. They possess great integrity of judgment, and independence of character, and cannot be long blinded to the difference between wise statesmen and political knaves. They are an honest and a decent people, and would be governed by such. They evince some sparks of perception of what is naturally due to themselves, as well as to their masters; and they only know how to be loyal to others who are loyal to themselves.

When the lame ostler had attended to his charge, he came into the house and sat down with the rest. Somehow, the conversation glided in the direction of Robert Burns, and we were exchanging quotations from his poems and songs, whenone of us came to a halt in reciting a passage. To our surprise, the young limper who had rubbed down "Grey Bobby," took up the broken thread, and finished the lines correctly, with good discretion, and evident relish. I fancied that we were having it all to ourselves; but the kind-hearted poet who "mourned the daisy's fate," had been at the "Moor Cock" before us, and touched a respondent chord in the heart of our ostler. I forget who it is that says, "It is the heart which makes the life;" but it is true, and it is the heart which sings in Robert Burns, and the heart will stir to the sound all the world over. How many political essays, and lectures, and election struggles, would it take to produce the humanising effect which the song, "A man's a man for a' that," has awakened? It would sound well in the British houses of parliament, sung in chorus, occasionally, between the speeches.

After resting ourselves about three-quarters of an hour in the Moor Cock, we started up the hill-side, to a point of the road a little past the toll-bar and the old oil-mill in the hollow, at the right hand. Here we struck across the moor, now wading through the heather, now leaping over ruts and holes, where blocks of stone had been got out; then squashing through a patch of mossy swamp, and sinking into the wet turf at every step, till we reached the moss-covered pavement, which the ordnance surveyors have called a "Roman road." It is entirely out of any way of travel. A clearly-defined and regular line of road of about forty feet wide, and which we traced and walked upon up to the summit of the Edge, and down the Yorkshire side, a distance of nearly two miles from our starting place upon the track. We could distinguish it clearly more than a mile beyond the place we stopped at, to a point where it crossed the road at Ripponden, and over the moor beyond, in a north-westerly direction, preserving the same general features as it exhibited in those parts where it was naked to the eye. Here and there, we met with a hole in the road, where the stones of the pavement had been taken out and carried away. While we were resting on a bank at this old road-side, one of the keepers of the moor came up with his dogs, and begged that we would be careful not to use any lights whilst upon the moor, for fear of setting fire to the heath, which was inflammably-dry. I took occasion to ask him what was the name of the path we were upon. He said he did not know, but he had always heard it called "Th' RomanRoad." At a commanding point, where this old pavement reaches the edge of "Blackstone," from the Lancashire side, the rocky borders of the road rise equally and abruptly, in two slight elevations, opposite each other, upon which we found certain weather-worn blocks of stone, half buried in the growth of the moor. There was a similarity in the general appearance, and a certain kind of order visible, in the arrangement of these remains, which looked not unlikely to be the relics of some heavy ancient masonry, once standing upon these elevations; and at the spot which is marked, is the line of the "Roman Road," in the ordnance maps, as an "Entrenchment."

The view along the summits of the vast moors, from any of the higher parts of this mountain barrier between the two counties of Lancaster and York, looks primevally-wild and grand, towards the north and south; where dark masses of solitude stretch away as far as the eye can see. In every other direction, the landscape takes in some cultivated land upon the hill-sides, and the bustle and beauty of many a green vale, lying low down among these sombre mountains; with many a picturesque and cultivated dingle, and green ravine, higher up in the hills, in spots where farm-houses have stood for centuries; sometimes with quaint groups of cottages gathered round them, and clumps of trees spreading about, shading the currents of moorland rivulets, as they leap down from the hills. In the valleys, the river winding through green meadows; mansions and mills, villages and churches, and scattered cottages, whose little windows wink cheerfully through their screen of leaves—

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