The Grave of Grislehurst Boggart.

Thought-wrapt, he wandered in the breezy woods,In which the summer, like a hermit, dwelt:He laid him down by the old haunted springsUp-bubbling, 'mid a world of greenery,Shut-eyed, and dreaming of the fairest shapesThat roam the woods.

Thought-wrapt, he wandered in the breezy woods,

In which the summer, like a hermit, dwelt:

He laid him down by the old haunted springs

Up-bubbling, 'mid a world of greenery,

Shut-eyed, and dreaming of the fairest shapes

That roam the woods.

—Alexander Smith.

Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares,Lest bogles catch him unawares.

Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares,

Lest bogles catch him unawares.

—Burns.

Whenone gets a few miles off any of the populous towns in Lancashire, many an old wood, many a lonesome clough, many a quiet stream and ancient building, is the reputed haunt of some local sprite, or "boggart," or is enveloped in an atmosphere of dread by the superstitions of the neighbourhood, as being the resort of fairies, or "feeorin."[33]This is frequently the case in retired vales and nooks lying between the towns. But it is particularly so in the hilly parts, where the old manners of the people are little changed, and where many homelets of past ages still stand in their old solitudes, and—like their sparse population—retain many of their ancient characteristics. In such places, the legends and superstitions of the forefathers of Lancashire are cherished with a tenacity which would hardly be credible to the inhabitants of great cities in these days. There, still lingers the belief in witchcraft, and in the power of certain persons to do ill, through peculiar connection with the evil one; and the belief, also, that others—known as "witch-doctors"—are able to "rule the spells," or counteract the malign intents of necromancy; and possess secret charms which afford protection against the foul fiend and all his brood of infernal agencies.

A few years ago, I lived at an old farm, called "Peanock," up in the hills, towards Blackstone Edge. At that time, a strong little fellow about twenty-three years of age, called "Robin," was employed as "keaw-lad" at the farm. Robin used to tell me tales of the witches and boggarts of the neighbourhood. The most notable one of them all was "Clegg Ho' Boggart," which is commemorated by the late Mr. John Roby, in his "Traditions of Lancashire." This local sprite is still the theme of many a winter's tale, among the people of the hills about Clegg Hall. The proverb "Aw'm here again—like Clegg Ho' Boggart," is common there, and in the surrounding towns and villages. I remember Robin saying that when he had to go into the "shippon" early on a winter's morning, with a light, he used to advance his lantern and let it shine a minute or two into the "shippon" before he durst enter himself, on account of the "feeorin" which "swarmed up and deawn th' inside i'th neet time." But he said that "things o' that mak couldn't bide leet," for, as soon as his lantern glinted into the place, he could see "witches scuttering through th' slifters o'th wole, by theawsans, like bits o' leet'nin." He used to tell me, too, that a dairy-lass at a neighbouring farm had to let go her "churn-pow," because "a rook o' little green divuls begun a-swarmin up th' hondle, as hoo wur churnin'." And then he would glance, with a kind of unconscious timidity, towards a nook of the yard, where stood three old cottages connected with the farm; and in one of which there dwelt an aged man, of singular habits and appearance, of whose supposed supernatural powers most of the people of that neighbourhood harboured a considerable degree of fear; and, as he glanced towards the corner of the building, he would tell me in an under tone that the Irish cow, "Red Jenny," which used to be "as good a keaw as ever whiskt a tail, had never lookt up sin' owd Bill glented at hur through a hole i'th shippon wole, one mornin, as Betty wur milkin hur." Prejudices of this kind are still common in thinly-peopled nooks of the Lancashire hills. "Boggarts" appear, however, to have been more numerous than they are now, when working people wove what was called "one lamb's wool" in a day; but when it came to pass that they had to weave "three lambs' wools" in a day, and the cotton trade arose, boggarts, and fairies, and "feeorin" of all kinds, began to flee away from the clatter of shuttles, and the tired weaverwas fain to creep from his looms to bed, where he could rest his body, and weave his fearful fancies into the freakish pattern of a dream. And then, railway trains began to rumble hourly through solitudes where "the little folk" of past days had held undisturbed sway; and perhaps these helped to dispel some of those dreams of glamour which had been fostered by the ignorance of the past.

Far on in the afternoon of a summer day, I sat at tea with an acquaintance who dwells in the fields outside the town of Heywood. We had spent the forenoon in visiting Heywood Hall, and rambling among its woods, and through a pleasant clough, which winds along the northern base of the eminence on which that old mansion stands. We lingered over the afternoon meal, talking of the past and present of the district around us. We speculated upon the ancient aspect of the country, and the condition and characteristics of its early inhabitants; we talked of the old local gentry, their influence, their residences, and their fortunes; of remarkable local scenes, and men; and of the present features of life in these districts. Part of our conversation related to the scenery of that tract of hills and cloughs which comprises the country, rising, northward, from Heywood up to the lofty range of moorlands which divides that part of Lancashire from Rossendale Forest. Up in this remote tract, there is a solitary hamlet, called Grislehurst. To a stranger's eye, the two quaint farmsteads, which are now the sole relics of the hamlet, would be interesting, if only on account of the retired beauty of their situation, and the romantic character of the scenery around. Grislehurst stands on an elevated platform of land, called "Birtle," or "Birkle," the place of birches. It is bounded on the north by the ridge of Ashworth moor, and the lofty mass of Knowl hill; and on the east by Simpson Clough, a deep ravine, about two miles long, running up into the hills. This glen of precipitous crags, and wood-shrouded waters, is chiefly known to those who like rough and lonesome country walks; and to anybody who loves to ramble among such legend-haunted solitudes, a moonlight walk through "Simpson Clough" would be a pleasure not easily forgotten. Grislehurst stands about a stone's throw from the western brink of the clough, and out of the way of common observation. But it is not only the lone charm of its situation which makes this hamlet interesting. Grislehurst is a settlement of the early inhabitantsof the district; and was for some centuries one of the seats of the Holt family, of Grislehurst, Stubley, and Castleton, in this parish; 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, Newberry, Marston Moor, &c., and were named in King Charles's projected order of the Royal Oak.[34]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 at Flodden Field. Mary, the daughter of James Holt, the last of the family who resided at Castleton Hall, in this parish, married Samuel, brother of Humphrey Cheetham. The manor of Spotland was granted by Henry VIII. to Thomas Holt, of Grislehurst, who was knighted in Scotland, by Edward, Earl of Hertford, in the thirty-sixth year of the reign of that monarch. The Holts were the principal landowners in the parish of Rochdale at the close of the sixteenth century. What remains of Grislehurst is still associated in the mind with the historic interest which attaches to this once powerful local family. The place is also closely interwoven with some other ancient traditions of the locality, oral and written.[35]In earlier years, I have often wandered about the woods, and waters, and rocky recesses of this glen, thinking of the tale of the rebel Earl,[36]who is said to have concealed himself, two centuries ago, in a neighbouring clough which bears his name; and, wrapt in a dreamland of my own, sometimes a little tinctured with the wizard lore which lingers among the primitive folk of that quarter. But, in all my walks thereabouts, I had never visited Grislehurst, till this summer afternoon, when, as we sat talking of the place, my curiosity impelled me to propose an evening ramble to the spot; from which we could return, by another route, through Simpson Clough.

We were not quite half an hour's walk from Grislehurst when we started on the north road from Heywood; and the sun was still up in the heavens. Half a mile brought us into Hooley Clough, where the road leads through the village of Hooley Bridge. This village lines the opposite banks of the Roch at that place. Its situation is retired and picturesque. The valein which it lies is agreeably adorned with plantations, and the remains of old woods; and the whole scenery is green and pleasant. The village itself has a more orderly and wholesome appearance than any other manufacturing hamlet which I remember. The houses were clean and comfortable-looking, and the roads in fair condition. I noticed that nearly every cottage had its stock of coals piled up under the front window, and open to the street; the "cobs" nearly built up into a square wall, and the centre filled up with the "sleck an' naplins." It struck me that if the people of Manchester were to leave their coals thus free to the world, the course of a single night would "leave not a wreck behind." The whole population of the place is employed by the Fenton family, whose mills stand close to the margin of the river, in the hollow of the clough.

We went up the steep cart road leading out of Hooley Clough towards the north, emerging into the highway from Bury to Rochdale, about a quarter of a mile from the lower end of Simpson Clough, and nearly opposite the lodge of Bamford Hall. The country thereabouts is broken into green hills and glens, with patches of old woods, shading the sides of the cloughs. It is bleak and sterile in some parts, and thinly populated, over the whole tract, up to the mountainous moors. As we descended the highway into Simpson Clough, through an opening in the trees, we caught a glimpse of "Makin mill," low down in a green valley to the west. This old mill was the first cotton factory erected in the township of Heap. It was built about 1780, by the firm of Peel, Yates, and Co., and now belongs to Edmund Peel, Esq., brother to the late prime minister. Looking over the northern parapet of the bridge, in the hollow of the road, the deep gully of the clough is filled with a cluster of mills, and the cottages attached to them. Woody heights rise abruptly around, and craggy rocks over-frown this little nest of manufacture, in the bottom of the ravine. We climbed up the steep road, in the direction of Bury, and on reaching the summit, at a place called "Th' Top o'th Wood," we turned off at the end of a row of stone cottages, and went to the right, on a field-path which leads to Grislehurst. Half a mile's walk brought us to two old farm-houses, standing a little apart. We were at a loss to know which of the two, or whether either of them belonged to Grislehurst Hall. The largest took our attention most, on account of some quaint, ornamental masonry built up in its walls; thoughevidently not originally belonging to the building. We went round to look at the other side, where similar pieces of ancient masonry were incorporated. The building, though old, was too modern, and had too much barn-like plainness about it to be the hall of the Holts. And then, the country around was all green meadow and pasture; and if this building was not Grislehurst Hall, there was none. I began to think that the land was the most remarkable piece of antiquity about the place. But one part of the west side of this building formed a comfortable cottage residence, the window of which was full of plants, in pots. An hale old man, bareheaded, and in his shirt-sleeves, leaned against the door-cheek, with his arms folded. He was short and broad-set, with fresh complexion and bright eyes; and his firm full features, and stalwart figure, bespoke a life of healthy habits. He wore new fustian breeches, tied with black silk ribbon at the knees. Leaning there, and looking calmly over the fields in the twilight, he eyed us earnestly, as country folk do when strangers wander into their lonely corners. The soft summer evening was sinking beautifully on the quiet landscape, which stretches along the base of Ashworth moor. The old man's countenance had more of country simplicity than force of character in it; yet he was very comely to look upon, and seemed a natural part of the landscape around him; and the hour and the man together, somehow, brought to my mind a graphic line in the book of Genesis, about Isaac going out "to meditate in the field at eventide." After we had sauntered about the place a few minutes—during which the old cottager watched us with a calm but curious eye—we went toward him with the usual salutation about it being a "fine neet," and such like. He melted at once from his statuesque curiosity, and, stepping slowly from the threshold, with his arms folded, replied, "Ay, it is, for sure.... Wi'n had grand groo-weather[37]as week or two. But a sawp o' deawnfo' 'ud do a seet o' good just neaw; an' we'st ha' some afore lung; or aw'm chetted. Owd Knowe[38]has bin awsin to put hur durty cap on a time or two to-day; an' as soon as hoo can shap to tee it, there'll be wayter amoon us, yo'n see." His dame, hearing the conversation, came forth to see what was going on, and wandered slowly after us down the lane. Shewas a strong-built and portly old woman, taller than her husband; and her light-complexioned face beamed with health and simplicity. The evening was mild and still, and the old woman wore no bonnet; nor even the usual kerchief on her head. Her cap and apron were white as new snow, and all her attire looked sound and sweet, though of homely cut and quality. I knew, somehow, that the clothes she wore were scented with lavender or such like herbs, which country folk lay at the bottom of the "kist," for the sake of the aroma which they impart to their clothing. And no king's linen could be more wholesomely perfumed. Give me a well-washed shirt, bleached on a country hedge, and scented with country herbs! The hues of sunset glowed above the lofty moors in front of us, and the stir of day was declining into the rich hum of summer evening. The atmosphere immediately around seemed clearer than when the sun was up; but a shade of hazy gray was creeping over the far east. We lounged along the lane, with the comely dame following us silently, at a distance of three or four yards, wondering what we could be, and why we had wandered into that nook at such a time. After a little talk with the old man, about the hay-crop, the news of the town, and such like, we asked him whether the spot we were upon was Grislehurst; and he replied, "Yo're upo' the very clod."

We then inquired where Grislehurst Hall stood; and whether the building of which his cottage was a part, had been any way connected with it.

He brightened up at the mention of Grislehurst Hall; and, turning sharply round, he said with an air of surprise, "What! dun yo pretend to know aught abeawt Gerzlehus' Ho'?... Not mich, aw think; bi'th look on yo."

I told him that all we knew of it was from reading, and from what we had heard about it; and that, happening to be in the neighbourhood, we had wandered up to see if there were any remains of it in existence.

"Ay, well," said he—and as he said it, his tone and manner assumed a touch of greater importance than before—"if that's o' th' arran' yo han, aw deawt yo'n made a lost gate. Noather yo, nor nobory elze needs to look for Gerzlehus' Ho' no more. It's gwon, lung sin!... But yo'n let reet for yerrin a bit o' summat abeawt it, if that'll do." He then turned slowly round, and, pointing to a plot of meadow land which abuttedupon a dingle, to the south, he said, "Yo see'n that piece o' meadow lond, at th' edge o'th green hollow theer?"

"Yes."

"Well; that's the spot wheer Gerzlehus' Ho' stoode, when aw're a lad. To look at't neaw, yo wouldn't think at oathur heawse or hut had studd'n upo' that clod; for it's as good a bit o' meadow lond as ever scythe swept.... But that's the very spot wheer Gerzlehus' Ho' stoode. An' it're a fine place too, mind yo; once't of a day. There's nought like it upo' this country-side neaw; as heaw 'tis: noather Baemforth Ho', nor noan on 'em. But what, things are very mich awturt sin then.... New-fangle't folk, new-fangle't ways, new-fangle't everything. Th' owd ho's gwon neaw, yo see'n; an' th' trees are gwon, 'at stoode abeawt it. The dule steawnd theem at cut 'em deawn, say I![39]An' then th' orchart's gwon; an' th' gardens an' o' are gwon; nobbut a twothre at's laft o'er-anent this biggin—aw dar say yo see'd 'em as yo coom up—they're morels.... An' then, they'n bigged yon new barn upo' th' knowe; an' they'n cut, an' they'n carve't, an' they'n potter't abeawt th' owd place, whol it doesn't look like th' same; it doesn't for sure—not like th' same."

We now asked him again whether the large stone building, in part of which he lived, had belonged to the old hall.

"Ay, well," said he, looking towards it, "that's noan sich a feaw buildin', that isn't. That're part o'th eawt-heawsin to Gerzlehus' Ho'; yo may see. There's a window theer, an' a dur-hole, an' some moor odd bits abeawt it, of an owdish mak. Yo con happen tay summat fro thoose. But it's divided into different livin's neaw, yo see'n. There's a new farmer lives i'th top end theer. He's made greyt awterations. It's a greadly good heawse i'th inside; if yo see'd through."

"Well," said I, "and what sort of a place was Grislehurst Hall itself?"

"What, Gerzlehus' Ho'?" replied he; "well, aw should know, as hea 'tis; if onybody does. Aw've been a good while upo' th' clod for nought if I dunnut.... Ay, thae may laugh; but aw're weel acquainted with this greawn afore thir born, my lad—yers to mo, neaw?"[40]

I made some excuse for having smiled, and he went on.

"Gerzlehus' Ho' wur a very greyt place, yo may depend. It're mostly built o' heavy oak bauks.... There wur ir Jammy lad,[41]an' me, an' some moor on us—eh, we han carted some of a lot o' loads o' fine timber an' stuff off that spot, at time an' time! An' there's bin a deeol o' good flags, an' sich like, ta'en eawt o'th lond wheer th' heawse stoode; an' eawt o'th hollow below theer—there has so."

"How long is that since?" said I.

The old woman, who had been listening behind us, with her hands clasped under her apron, now stepped up, and said,

"Heaw lung sin? Why, it's aboon fifty year sin. He should know moor nor yo abeawt it, aw guess."

"Ay," said the old man, "aw've known this clod aboon fifty year, for sure. An' see yo," continued he, "there wur a shootin'-butts i' that hollow; sin aw can tell on. And upo' yon green," said he, turning round towards the north, and pointing off at the end of the building, "upo' yon green there stoode an owd sun-dial, i'th middle of a piece o' lond at's bin a chapel-yort, aforetime. They say'n there's graves theer yet. An' upo' that knowe, wheer th' new barn stons, there wur a place o' worship—so th' tale gwos."

It was clear that we had set him going on a favourite theme, and we must, therefore, bide the issue.

Turning his face to the west, he pointed towards a green eminence at a short distance, and said, "To this day they co'n yon hillock 'Th' Castle,' upo' keawnt on there once being a place theer where prisoners were confin't. An' that hee greawnd gwos bi'th name o'th 'Gallows Hill;' what for, I know not."

He then paused, and, pointing to a little hollow near the place where we stood, he slightly lowered his voice as he continued—"An' then, aw reckon yo see'n yon bend i'th lone, wheer th' ash tree stons?"

"Ay."

"Well," said he, "that's the very spot wheer Gerzlehus' Boggart's buried."

My thoughts had so drifted away in another direction, that I was not prepared for such an announcement as this. I was aware that the inhabitants of that district clung to many of thesuperstitions of their forefathers; but the thing came upon me so unexpectedly, and when my mind was so quietly absorbed in dreams of another sort, that, if the old man had fired off a pistol close to my ear, I should not have been much more astonished; though I might have been more startled. All that I had been thinking of vanished at once; and my curiosity was centred in this new phase of the old man's story. I looked into his face to see whether he really meant what he had said; but there it was, sure enough. In every outward feature he endorsed the sincerity of his inward feeling. His countenance was as solemn as an unlettered gravestone.

"Grislehurst Boggart;" said I, looking towards the place once more.

"Ay;" replied he. "That's wheer it wur laid low; an' some of a job it wur. Yo happen never yerd on't afore."

The old woman now took up the story, with more earnestness even than her husband.

"It's a good while sin it wur laid; an' there wur a cock buried wi' it, with a stoop[42]driven through it. It're noan sattle't with a little; aw'll uphowd yo."

"And dun you really think, then," said I, "that this place has been haunted by a boggart?"

"Has bin—be far!" replied she. "It is neaw! Yodd'n soon find it eawt, too, iv yo live't upo' th' spot. It's very mich if it wouldn't may yor yure ston of an end; oathur wi' one marlock or another.[43]There's noan so mony folk at likes to go deawn yon lone, at after delit,[44]aw con tell yo."

"But, if it's laid and buried," replied I, "it surely doesn't trouble you now."

"Oh, well," said the old woman, "iv it doesn't, it doesn't; so there needs no moor. Aw know some folk winnot believe sich things; there is at'll believe nought at o', iv it isn't fair druvven into 'em, wilto, shalto;[45]but this is a different case, mind yo. Eh, never name it; thoose at has it to deeol wi' knows what it is; but thoose at knows nought abeawt sich like—whau, it's like summat an' nought talkin' to 'em abeawt it: so we'n e'en lap it up where it is."

"Well, well, but stop," said the old man. "Yo say'n 'at it doesn't trouble us neaw. Why, it isn't aboon a fortnit sin th' farmer's wife at the end theer yerd summat i'th deeod time o'th neet; an' hoo wur welly thrut eawt o' bed, too, beside—so then."

"Ah," said the old woman, "sich wark as that's scarrin',[46]i'th neet time.... An' they never could'n find it eawt. But aw know'd what it wur in a minute. Th' farmer's wife an me wur talking it o'er again, yesterday; an' hoo says 'at ever sin it happen't hoo gets quite timmersome as soon as it drays toawrd th' edge o' dark; iv there's nobory i'th heawse but hersel'.... Well, an' one wyndy neet—as aw're sittin' bi'th fire—aw yerd summat like a—"

Here the old man interrupted her:—

"It's no use folk tellin' me at they dunnut believe sich like things," said he, seeming not to notice his wife's story; "it's no use tellin' me they dunnut believe it! Th' pranks at it's played abeawt this plaze, at time an' time, would flay ony wick soul to yer tell on."

"Never name it!" said she; "aw know whether they would'n or not.... One neet, as aw're sittin by mysel'—"

Her husband interposed again, with an abstracted air:—

"Un-yaukin' th' horses; an' turnin' carts an' things o'er i'th deep neet time; an' shiftin' stuff up and deawn, when folk are i' bed; it's rather flaysome, yo may depend. But then, aw know, there isn't a smite o' sense i' flingin' one's wynt away wi' telling o' sich things, to some folk.... It's war nor muckin' wi' sond, an' drainin' wi' cinders."

"And it's buried yonder," said I.

"Ay," replied he, "just i'th hollow; where th' ash tree is. That used to be th' owd road to Rachda', when aw're a lad."

"Do you never think of delving the ground up," said I.

"Delve! nawe," answered he; "aw'st delve noan theer."

The old woman broke in again:—

"Nawe; he'll delve noan theer; nut iv aw know it! Nor no mon else dar lay a finger upo' that clod. Joseph Fenton's[47]a meeterly bowd chap; an' he's ruvven everything up abeawt this country-side, welly; but he dar not touch Gerzlehus' Boggart, for his skin! An' aw houd his wit good, too, mind yo!"

It was useless attempting to unsettle the superstitions of this primitive pair. They were too far gone. And it was, perhaps, best to let the old couple glide on through the evening of their life, untroubled by any ill-timed wrangling.

But the old dame suspected, by our looks, that we were on easy terms with our opinion of the tale; and she said, "Aw dunnot think yo believ'n a wort abeawt it!"

This made us laugh in a way that left little doubt upon the question; and she turned away from us, saying, "Well, yo're weel off iv yo'n nought o' that mak o' yo'r country-side."

We had now got into the fields, in the direction by which we intended to make our way home; and the old people seemed inclined to return to their cottage. We halted, and looked round a few minutes, before parting.

"You've lived here a good while," said I to the old man, "and know all the country round."

"Aw know every fuut o'th greawnd about this part—hill an' hollow, wood and wayter-stid."

"You are getting to a good age, too," continued I.

"Well," said he, "aw'm gettin' boudly on into th' fourth score. Ir breed are a lungish-wynded lot, yo see'n; tak 'em one wi' another."

"You appear to have good health, for your age," said I.

"Well," replied he, "aw ail mich o' nought yet—why, aw'm meyt-whol,[48]an' sich like; an' aw can do a day-wark wi' some o'th young uns yet—thank God for't.... But then aw'st come to't in a bit, yo known—aw'st come too't in a bit. Aw'm so like.[49]Folk connut expect to ha' youth at both ends o' life, aw guess; an' wi mun o' on us oather owd be, or yung dee, as th' sayin' is."

"It's gettin' time to rest at your age, too."

"Whau; wark's no trouble to me, as lung as aw con do't. Beside, yo see'n, folk at's a dur to keep oppen, connut do't wi'th wynt.[50]

"Isn't Grislehurst cold and lonely in winter time?"

"Well; it is—rayther," said he. "But we dunnot think as mich at it as teawn's-folk would do.... It'll be a greyt deeol warse at th' top o' Know hill yon, see yo. It's cowdenough theer to starve an otter to deeoth, i' winter time. But, here, we're reet enough, for th' matter o' that. An' as for company, we gwon a-neighbourin' a bit, neaw an' then, yo see'n. Beside, we getten to bed sooner ov a neet nor they dun in a teawn."

"To my thinkin'," said the old woman, "aw wouldn't live in a teawn iv eh mut wear red shoon."

"But you hav'n't many neighbours about here."

"Oh, yigh," said he. "There's th' farmer's theer; and one or two moor. An' then, there's th' 'Top o'th Wood' folk. Then there's 'Hooley Clough,' and th' 'War Office,'[51]—we can soon get to oathur o' thoose, when we want'n a bit ov an extra do.... Oh! ah; we'n plenty o' neighbours! But th' Birtle folk are a deeol on um sib an' sib, rib an' rib—o' ov a litter—Fittons an' Diggles, an' Fittons an' Diggles o'er again. An' wheer dun yo come fro, sen yo?"

We told him.

"Well," said he; "an' are yo i'th buildin' line—at aw mun be so bowd?"

We again explained the motive of our visit.

"Well," said he; "it's nought to me, at aw know on—nobbut aw're thinkin' like.... Did'n yo ever see Baemforth Ho', afore it're poo'd deawn?"

"Never."

"Eh, that're a nice owd buildin'! Th' new un hardly comes up to't, i' my e'en—as fine as it is.... An' are yo beawn back this gate, then?"

"Ay; we want to go through th' clough."

"Well; yo mun mind heaw yo gwon deawn th' wood-side; for it's a rough gate. So, good neet to yo!"

We bade them both "Good night!" and were walking away, when he shouted back, "Hey! aw say! Dun yo know Ned o' Andrew's?" "No." "He's the very mon for yo! Aw've just unbethought mo! He knows moor cracks nor onybody o' this side—an' he'll sit a fire eawt ony time, tellin' his bits o' tales. Sper ov anybody at Hooley Bridge, an' they'n tell yo wheer he lives. So, good neet to yo!"

Leaving the two old cottagers, and their boggart-haunted hamlet, we went over the fields towards Simpson Clough. The steep sides of this romantic spot are mostly clothed with woods of oak and birch. For nearly a mile's length, the clough is divided intotwo ravines, deep, narrow, and often craggy—and shady with trees. Two streams flow down from the moors above, each through one of these gloomy defiles, till they unite at a place from whence the clough continues its way southward, in one wider and less shrouded expanse, but still between steep and rocky banks, partly wooded. When the rains are heavy upon the moors, these streams rush furiously through their rock-bound courses in the narrow ravines, incapable of mischief, till they meet at the point where the clough becomes one, when they thence form a strong and impetuous torrent, which has, sometimes, proved destructive to property lower down the valley. Coming to the western brink of this clough, we skirted along in search of an opening by which we could go down into it with the least difficulty. A little removed from the eastern edge, and nearly opposite to us, stood Bamford new hall, the residence of James Fenton, Esq., one of the wealthy cotton-spinners in this locality. A few yards from that mansion, and nearer to the edge of the clough, stood, a few years ago, the venerable hall of the Bamfords of Bamford, one of the oldest families belonging to the old local gentry; and, probably, among the first Saxon settlers there. Thomas de Bamford occurs about 1193. Adam de Bamford granted land in villa de Bury, to William de Chadwick, in 1413; and Sir John Bamford was a fellow of the Collegiate Church of Manchester, in 1506.[52]A William Bamford, Esq., of Bamford, served the office of High Sheriff of the county, in 1787. He married Ann, daughter of Thomas Blackburne, Esq., of Orford and Hale, and was father of Ann, lady of John Ireland Blackburne, Esq., M.P. He was succeeded by Robert Bamford, Esq., who, from his connection with the Heskeths of Cheshire, took the name of Robert Bamford Hesketh, Esq., and married Miss Frances Lloyd, of Gwrych Castle. Lloyd Hesketh Bamford Hesketh, Esq., of Gwrych Castle, Denbighshire, married Emily Esther Ann, youngest daughter of Earl Beauchamp.[53]The old hall of the Bamfords was taken down a few years ago. I do not remember ever seeing it myself, but the following particulars respecting it have been kindly furnished to me by a native gentleman, who knew it well:—"It was a fine old building of the Tudor style, with three gables in front, which looked towards the high road; it was of light-coloured ashler stone, such as is found in theneighbourhood; with mullions, and quaint windows and doors to match; and was, I think, dated about 1521. Such another building you will certainly not find on this side of the county. Castleton Hall comes, in my opinion, nearest to it in venerable appearance; but Bamford Hall had a lighter and more cheerful aspect; its situation, also, almost on the edge of the rocky chasm of Simpson Clough, or, as it is often called, Guestless,i.e.Grislehurst Clough, gave an air of romance to the place, which I do not remember to have noticed about any ancient residence with which I am acquainted."

Stillness was falling upon the scene; but the evening wind sung lulling vespers in Grislehurst wood; and, now and then, there rose from the rustling green, the silvery solo of some lingering singer in those leafy choirs, as we worked our way through the shade of the wood, until we came to the bed of "Nadin Water," in the shrouded hollow of the clough. The season had been dry, and the water lay in quiet pools of the channel,—gleaming in the gloom, where the light fell through the trees. We made our way onward, sometimes leaping from stone to stone in the bed of the stream, sometimes tearing over the lower part of the bank, which was broken and irregular, and scattered with moss-greened fragments of fallen rock, or slippery and swampy with lodgments of damp, fed by rindles and driblets of water, running more or less, in all seasons, from springs in the wood-shaded steep. In some parts, the bank was overgrown with scratchy thickets, composed of dogberry-stalks, wild rose-bushes, prickly hollins and thorns, young hazles and ash trees; broad-leaved docks, and tall, drooping ferns; and, over all, hung the thick green of the spreading wood. Pushing aside the branches, we laboured on till we came into the opening where the streams combine. A stone bridge crosses the water at this spot, leading up to the woody ridge which separates the two ravines, in the upper part of the clough. Here we climbed from the bed of the stream, and got upon a cart-road which led out of the clough, and up to the Rochdale road, which crosses the lower end of it, at a considerable elevation. The thin crescent of a new moon's rim hung like a silver sickle in the sky; and the stars were beginning to glow, in "Jove's eternal house!" whilst the fading world below seemed hushed with awe, to see that sprinkling of golden lights comingout in silence once more from the over-spanning blue. We walked up the slope, from the silent hollow, between the woods, and over the knoll, and down into Hooley Clough again, by the way we came at first. Country people were sauntering about, upon the main road, and in the bye-lanes, thereabouts, in twos and threes. In the village of Hooley Bridge, the inhabitants were lounging at their cottage doors, in neighbourly talk, enjoying the close of a summer day; and, probably, "Ned o' Andrew's" was sitting in some quiet corner of the village, amusing a circle of eager listeners with his quaint country tales.

A short walk brought us to the end of our ramble, and we sat down to talk over what we had seen and heard. My visit to Grislehurst had been all the more interesting that I had no thought of meeting with such a living evidence of the lingering superstitions of Lancashire there. I used to like to sit with country folk, hearkening to their old-world tales of boggarts, and goblins, and fairies,

That plat the manes of horses in the night,And cake the elf lock in foul, sluttish airs;

and I had thought myself well acquainted with the boggart-lore of my native district; but the goblin of Grislehurst was new to me. By this time I knew that in remote country houses the song of the cricket and the ticking of the clock were beginning to be distinctly heard; and that in many a solitary cottage these were, now, almost the only sounds astir, except the cadences of the night wind, sighing around, and making every crevice into a voice of mystic import to superstitious listeners; while, perhaps, the rustle of the trees blended with the dreamy ripple of some neighbouring brooklet. The shades of night would, by this time, have fallen upon the haunted homesteads of Grislehurst, and, in the folds of that dusky robe, would have brought to the old cottagers their usual fears, filled with

Shaping fantasies, that apprehendMore than cool reason ever comprehends;

and I could imagine the good old pair creeping off to repose, and covering up their eyes more carefully than usual from the goblin-peopled gloom, after the talk we had with them about Grislehurst Boggart.

Under the greenwood tree,Who loves to lie with me,And tune his merry noteUnto the sweet bird's throat,Come hither, come hither, come hither;Here we shall seeNo enemy,But winter and rough weather.

Under the greenwood tree,

Who loves to lie with me,

And tune his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;

Here we shall see

No enemy,

But winter and rough weather.

—Shakspere.

Thereis a quiet little clough about three miles from Manchester, near the old village of Blackley. The best entrance to it is by a gateway leading from the southern edge of a shady steep called "Entwisle Broo," on the highway from Manchester to Middleton. Approaching the spot in this direction, a winding road leads down between a low bemossed wall on the right, and a thorn hedge, which screens the green depth on the left. The trees which line the path overlap the way with shade in summer time, till it reaches the open hollow, where stands a brick-built farm-house, with its outbuildings, and gardens,—sheltered in the rear by the wooded bank of the clough. Thence, this pretty Lancashire dell wanders on southward for a considerable distance, in picturesque quietude. The township of Blackley, in which it is situated, retains many traces of its former rural beauty, and some remnants of the woods which once covered the district. As a whole, Blackley is, even yet, so pleasantly varied in natural feature as to rank among the prettiest scenery around Manchester, although its valleys are now, almost all of them, more or less, surrendered tothe conquering march of manufacture—all, except this secluded glen, known by the name of "Boggart Ho' Clough." Here, still, in this sylvan "deer-leap" of the Saxon hunter, the lover of nature, and the jaded townsman, have a tranquil sanctuary, where they can wander, cloistered from the tumults of life; and there is many a contemplative rambler who seeks the retirement of this leafy dell, the whole aspect of which seems to invite the mind to a "sessions of sweet, silent thought." One can imagine it such a place as a man of poetic temperament would delight in; and the interest which has gathered around it is not lessened by the fact, that before Samuel Bamford, the poet, left this district to take up his abode in the metropolis, he dwelt at a pleasant cottage, on the summit of the upland, near the eastern edge of the clough. And here, in his native sequestration, he may have sometimes felt the significance of Burns's words,—

The muse, nae poet ever fand her,Till by himsel' he learn'd to wander,Down by some streamlet's sweet meander,And no think lang.

The rural charms and retired peacefulness of "Boggart Ho' Clough" might well, in the vicinity of a place like Manchester, account for part of its local celebrity; but not for the whole of it. The superstitions of the locality and the shaping power of imagination have clothed the place with an interest which does not solely belong to the embowered gloom of its green recesses; nor to its picturesque steeps, overgrown with fern and underwood; nor to the beauty of its swardy holm, spreading out a pleasant space in the vale; nor to the wimpling rill which wanders through it from end to end,

Amongst the pumy stones, which seem to plaine,With gentle murmure, that his course they do restraine.

Man has clothed the scene in a drapery of wonder and fear, woven in the creative loom of his own imagination. Any superstitious stranger, wandering there, alone, under the influence of a midnight moon, would probably think this a likely place for the resort of those spiritual beings who "fly by night." He might truly say, at such an hour, that if ever "Mab" held court on the green earth, "Boggart Ho' Clough" is just sucha nook, as one can imagine, that her mystic choir would delight to dance in, and sing,—

Come, follow, follow me,Ye fairy elves that be,Light tripping o'er the green,Come follow Mab, your queen;Hand in hand we'll dance around,For this place is fairy ground.

The place is now associated with the superstitions of the district; and on that account, as well as on account of its natural attractions, it has been the theme of more than one notable pen. In Roby's "Traditions of Lancashire," there is a story called "The Bar-gaist, or Boggart," which is connected with "Boggart Ho' Clough." From this story, which was contributed to that work by Mr. Crofton Croker, author of "The Fairy Legends," I quote the following:—

"Not far from the little snug, smoky village of Blakeley, or Blackley, there lies one of the most romantic of dells, rejoicing in a state of singular seclusion, and in the oddest of Lancashire names, to wit, 'Boggart-Hole.' Rich in every requisite for picturesque beauty and poetical association, it is impossible for me (who am neither a painter nor a poet) to describe this dell as it should be described; and I will, therefore, only beg of thee, gentle reader, who, peradventure, mayst not have lingered in this classical neighbourhood, to fancy a deep, deep dell, its steep sides fringed down with hazel and beech, and fern and thick undergrowth, and clothed at the bottom with the richest and greenest sward in the world. You descend, clinging to the trees, and scrambling as best you may,—and now you stand on haunted ground! Tread softly, for this is the Boggart's clough. And see in yonder dark corner, and beneath the projecting mossy stone, where that dusky, sullen cave yawns before us, like a bit of Salvator's best: there lurks that strange elf, the sly and mischievous Boggart. Bounce! I see him coming;—oh no, it was only a hare bounding from her form; there it goes—there!

"I will tell you of some of the pranks of this very Boggart, and how he teased and tormented a good farmer's family in a house hard by; and I assure you it was a very worthy old lady who told me the story. But, first, suppose we leave the Boggart's demesne, and pay a visit to the theatre of his strange doings.

"You see that old farm-house about two fields distant, shaded by the sycamore tree: that was the spot which the Boggart orBar-gaist selected for his freaks; there he held his revels, perplexing honest George Cheetham—for that was the farmer's name—scaring his maids, worrying his men, and frightening the poor children out of their seven senses; so that, at last, not even a mouse durst show himself indoors at the farm, as he valued his whiskers, five minutes after the clock had struck twelve."

The story goes on describing the startling pranks of this invisible torment of honest George Cheetham's old haunted dwelling. It tells how that the Boggart, which was a long time a terror to the farmer's family, "scaring the maids, worrying the men, and frightening the poor children," became at last a familiar, mysterious presence—in a certain sense, a recognised member of the household troop—often heard, but never seen; and sometimes a sharer in the household conversation. When merry tales were being told around the fire, on winter nights, the Boggart's "small, shrill voice, heard above the rest, like a baby's penny trumpet," joined the general laughter, in a tone of supernatural congeniality; and the hearers learned, at last, to hear without dismay, if not to love the sounds which they had feared before. But Boggarts, like men, are moody creatures; and this unembodied troubler of the farmer's lonely house seems to have been sometimes so forgetful of everything like spiritual dignity, or even of the claims of old acquaintance, as to reply to the familiar banter of his mortal co-tenants, in a tone of petty malignity. He even went so far, at last, as to revenge himself for some fancied insult, by industriously pulling the children up and down by the head and legs in the night time, and by screeching and laughing plaguily in the dark, to the unspeakable annoyance of the inmates. In order to get rid of this nocturnal torment, it appears that the farmer removed his children into other sleeping apartments, leaving the Boggart sole tenant of their old bedroom, which seems to have been his favourite stage of action. The story concludes as follows:—

"But his Boggartship, having now fairly become the possessor of a room at the farm, it would appear, considered himself in the light of a privileged inmate, and not, as hitherto, an occasional visitor, who merely joined in the general expression of merriment. Familiarity, they say, breeds contempt; and now the children's bread and butter would be snatched away, or their porringers of bread and milk would be dashed to the ground by an unseen hand; or, if the younger ones were left alone but for a few minutes, they were sure to be found screaming with terror onthe return of their nurse. Sometimes, however, he would behave himself kindly. The cream was then churned, and the pans and kettles scoured without hands. There was one circumstance which was remarkable:—the stairs ascended from the kitchen; a partition of boards covered the ends of the steps, and formed a closet beneath the staircase. From one of the boards of this partition a large round knot was accidentally displaced; and one day the youngest of the children, while playing with the shoehorn, stuck it into this knot-hole. Whether or not the aperture had been formed by the Boggart as a peep-hole to watch the motions of the family, I cannot pretend to say. Some thought it was, for it was called the Boggart's peep-hole; but others said that they had remembered it long before the shrill laugh of the Boggart was heard in the house. However this may have been, it is certain that the horn was ejected with surprising precision at the head of whoever put it there; and either in mirth or in anger the horn was darted forth with great velocity, and struck the poor child over the ear.

"There are few matters upon which parents feel more acutely than that of the maltreatment of their offspring; but time, that great soother of all things, at length familiarised this dangerous occurrence to every one at the farm, and that which at the first was regarded with the utmost terror, became a kind of amusement with the more thoughtless and daring of the family. Often was the horn slipped slyly into the hole, and in return it never failed to be flung at the head of some one, but most commonly at the person who placed it there. They were used to call this pastime, in the provincial dialect, 'laking wi't' Boggart;' that is playing with the Boggart. An old tailor, whom I but faintly remember, used to say that the horn was often 'pitched' at his head, and at the head of his apprentice, whilst seated here on the kitchen table, when they went their rounds to work, as is customary with country tailors. At length the goblin, not contented with flinging the horn, returned to his night persecutions. Heavy steps, as of a person in wooden clogs, were at first heard clattering down stairs in the dead hour of darkness; then the pewter and earthen dishes appeared to be dashed on the kitchen floor; though in the morning all remained uninjured on their respective shelves. The children generally were marked out as objects of dislike by their unearthly tormentor. The curtains of their beds would be violently pulled to and fro; then a heavy weight, as of a humanbeing, would press them nigh to suffocation, from which it was impossible to escape. The night, instead of being the time for repose, was disturbed with screams and dreadful noises, and thus was the whole house alarmed night after night. Things could not long continue in this fashion; the farmer and his good dame resolved to leave a place where they could no longer expect rest or comfort; and George Cheetham was actually following, with his wife and family, the last load of furniture, when they were met by a neighbouring farmer, named John Marshall.

"'Well, Georgy, and so yo're leaving th' owd house at last?' said Marshall.

"'Heigh, Johnny, my lad, I'm in a manner forced to't, thou sees,' replied the other; 'for that weary Boggart torments us so, we can neither rest neet nor day for't. It seems like to have a malice again't young uns, an' ommost kills my poor dame here at thoughts on't, and so thou sees we're forc'd to flit like.'

"He had got thus far in his complaint, when, behold, a shrill voice, from a deep upright churn, the topmost utensil on the cart, called out, 'Ay, ay, neighbour, we're flitting, yo see.'

"'Od rot thee,' exclaimed George: 'if I'd known thou'd been flitting too, I wadn't ha' stirred a peg. Nay, nay, it's to no use, Mally,' he continued, turning to his wife, 'we may as weel turn back again to th' owd house, as be tormented in another not so convenient.'"

Thus endeth Crofton Croker's tradition of the "Boggart," or "Bar-gaist," which, according to the story, was long time a well-known supernatural pest of old Cheetham's farm-house, but whose principal lurking place was supposed to be in a gloomy nook of "Boggart Ho' Clough," or "Boggart Hole Clough," for the name adopted by the writer of the tradition appears to be derived from that superstitious belief. With respect to the exact origin of the name, however, I must entirely defer to those who know more about the matter than myself. The features of the story are, generically, the same as those of a thousand such like superstitious stories still told and believed in all the country parts of England—though perhaps more in the northern part of it than elsewhere. Almost every lad in Lancashire has, in his childhood, heard, either from his "reverend grannie," or from some less kin and less kind director of his young imagination, similar tales connected with old houses, and other haunts, in the neighbourhood of his own birthplace.

Among those who have noticed "Boggart Ho' Clough," is Mr. Samuel Bamford, well known as a poet, and a graphic prose writer upon the stormy political events of his earlier life, and upon whatever relates to the manners and customs of Lancashire. In describing matters of the latter kind, he has the advantage of being "native and to the manner born;" and still more specially so in everything connected with the social peculiarities of the locality of his birth. He was born at Middleton, about two miles from "Boggart Ho' Clough," and, as I said before, he resided for some years close to the clough itself. In his "Passages in the Life of a Radical," vol. 1. p. 130, there begins one of the raciest descriptions of Lancashire characteristics with which I am acquainted. The first part of this passage contains a descriptive account of "Plant," a country botanist; "Chirrup," a bird-catcher; and "Bangle," a youth "of an ardent temperament, but bashful," who was deeply in love with "a young beauty residing in the house of her father, who held a small milk-farm on the hill-side, not far from Old Birkle." It describes the meeting of the three in the lone cottage of Bangle's mother, near Grislehurst wood; the conversation that took place there; and the superstitious adventure they agreed upon, in order to deliver young Bangle from the hopelessness of his irresistible and unrequited love-thrall. "His modest approaches had not been noticed by the adored one; and, as she had danced with another youth at Bury fair, he imagined she was irrecoverably lost to him, and the persuasion had almost driven him melancholy. Doctors had been applied to, but he was no better; philters and charms had been tried to bring down the cold-hearted maid—but all in vain:—

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