Lancashire Sketches

There are many old prejudices still cherished by the country people of south-east Lancashire,—as is their old belief in witches, witch-doctors, and "Planet-rulers;"—but they are declining, through increasing communion with the rest of the world. And then these things show only the unfavourable side of their character; for they are hospitable, open-handed, frank, and benevolent by nature. How oft have I seen them defend the downcast and the stranger; or shut up ungenerous suspicions, and open all the sluices of their native kindness by the simple expression, "He's somebody's chylt!""

"Owd Roddle" is a broken-down village fuddler in Smallbridge; perpetually racking his brains about "another gill." His appearance is more that of an Indian Fakeer than an English country gentleman. He is as "concayted as a whisket" in some things, but not in eating or drinking; for he will "seawk lamp-hoyle through a bacco-pipe if onybody'll give him a droight o' ale to wesh it deawn wi'; an' as for heytin', he'll heyt mortal thing—deeod or alive—if he con get his teeth into't." A native of Smallbridge was asked, lately, what "Roddle" did for his living, and he replied, "Whaw, he wheels coals, and trails abeawt wi' his clogs loce, an' may's a foo' of his-sel' for ale." Yet, utterly lost as Roddle is himself in person and habits, he is strongly imbued with the old prejudices against town's folk. To him, the whitest linen worn by a townsman, is only what the country folk call a "French white." A well-dressed person from Rochdale chanced one day to awaken "Roddle's" ire, who, eyeing him from head to foot, with a critical sneer, said, "Shap off whoam, as fast as tho con, an' get tat buff shurt sceawr't a bit, wilto; an' thy skin an' o; for theawr't wick wi' varmin; an' keep o' thy own clod, whol tho con turn eawt some bit like." "But," continued my informant, "aw'm a bit partial to th' offal crayter, for o' that; he's so mich gam in him, and aw like a foo i' my heart! Eh! he used to be as limber as a treawt when he're young; but neaw he's as wambly an' slamp as a barrow full o' warp-sizin'. Th' tother mornin' aw walked up to him for a bit ov a crack, as uzal, but th' owd lad had getten his toppin cut off close to his yed; an' he wacker't an' stare't like a twichelt dog; an' he gran at mo like mad. Aw're forc't dray back a bit, at th' first, he glooart so flaysome. It're very frosty, an' his een looked white and wild; an' as geawl't as a whelp. If the dule had met Roddle at th' turn of a lone that mornin' he'd a skriked hissel' eawt ov his wits, an' gwon deawn again. Eawr measther sauces me sometimes for talkin' to Roddle; but aw olez tell him at aw'st have a wort wi' th' poor owd twod when aw meet him, as what onybody says."

There is a race of hereditary sand-sellers, or "sond-knockers," in Smallbridge; a rough, mountaineer breed, who live by crushing sandstone rock, for sale in the town of Rochdale, and the villages about it. This sand is used for strewing upon the flagged house floors, when the floor is clean washed; and while it is yet damp, the sand is ground over it by the motion of a heavy "scouring-stone," to which a long, strong, wooden handle is firmly fixed, by being fastened to an iron claw, which grasps the stone, and is embedded into it by molten lead. The motion of the "scouring-stone" works the flags into smoothness, and leaves an ornamental whiteness on the floor when it gets dry; it breeds dust, however, and much needless labour. The people who knock this sand and sell it, have been known over the country side for many years by the name of "Th' Kitters;" and the common local proverb, "We're o' of a litter, like Kitter pigs," is used in Smallbridge, as an expression of friendship or of kinship. As regular as Saturday morning came, the sand-carts used to come into Rochdale, heavily laden; and I remember that they were often drawn by horses which, like the steed of the crazy gentleman of Spain, were "many-cornered;" and, often, afflicted by some of the more serious ills which horse-flesh is heir to. They have better horses now, I believe, and they are better used. The train of attendants which usually accompanied these sand-carts into the town was of a curious description. Hardy, bull-necked, brown-faced drivers, generally dressed in strong fustian, which, if heavily plated with patches in particular quarters, was still mostly whole, but almost always well mauled, and soiled with the blended stains of sand, and spilt ale, and bacon fat, with clumsily-stiched rips visible here and there: the whole being a kind of tapestried chronicle of the wearer's way of living, his work, his fights, fuddles, and feasts. Then they were often bare-headed, with their breeches ties flowing loose at the knees, and the shirt neck wide open, displaying a broad, hairy, weather-beaten chest; and the jovial-faced, Dutch-built women, too, in blue lin aprons, blue woollen bedgowns, and clinkered shoon; and with round, wooden, peck and half-peck measures tucked under their arms, ready for "hawpoths" and "pennoths." As the cart went slowly along, the women went from house to house, on each side of the road, and, laying one hand upon the door cheek, looked in with the old familiar question, "Dun yo want ony sond this mornin'?" "Ay; yo may lev a hawputh. Put it i' this can." When they came to an old customer and acquaintance, sometimes a short conversation would follow, in a strain such as this: "Well, an heaw are yo, owd craythur?" "Whaw, aw'm noan as aw should be by a deeol. Aw can heyt nought, mon, an' aw connut tay my wynt." "Aw dunnot wonder at tat; yo'n so mich reech abeawt here. If yo'rn up at th' Smo'bridge, yo'dd'n be fit to heyt yirth-bobs an' scaplins, welly. Mon, th' wynt's clen up theer, an' there's plenty on't, an' wi can help irsels to't when we like'n. Wi'n yo come up o' seein' us?" "Eh, never name it! Aw's ne'er get eawt o' this hole till aw'm carried eawt th' feet formost!" "Come, wi'n ha' noan o' that mak o' talk! Aw'd as lief as a keaw-price at yo'dd'n come. Yo'n be welcome to th' best wi han, an wi'n may yo comfortable beside; an' bring yo deawn again i'th cart. But ir Jem's gwon forrud wi' th' sond. Let's see; did'n yo gi' mo th' hawp'ny?… Oh, ay! It'll be reet! Neaw tay care o' yorsel', and keep yo'r heart eawt o' yo'r clogs!" When the cart came to a rut or a rise in the road, all hands were summoned to the push, except one who tugged and thumped at the horse, and another who seized the spokes of the wheel, and, with set teeth and strained limbs, lent his aid to the "party of progress" in that way. Sometimes a sturdy skulker would follow the cart, to help to push, and to serve out sand; but more for a share of the fun, and the pile of boiled brisket and cheese an' moufin, stowed away in the cart-box at starting, to be washed down with "bally-droights" of cold fourpenny at some favourite "co'in-shop" on the road.

The old custom of distinguishing persons by Christian names alone, prevails generally in Smallbridge, as in all country parts of Lancashire, more or less. It sometimes happens, in small country villages like this, that there are people almost unknown, even among their own neighbours, by their surnames. Roby gives an instance of this kind in his "Traditions of Lancashire," where he mentions a woman, then living in the village of Whitworth, for whom it would be useless to inquire there by her proper name; but anybody in the village could have instantly directed you to "Susy o' Yem's o' Fairoff's, at th' top o' th' Rake," by which name she was intimately known. Individuals are often met whose surnames have almost dropt into oblivion by disuse, and who have been principally distinguished through life by the name of their residence, or some epithet descriptive of a remarkable personal peculiarity, or some notable incident in their lives. Such names as the following, which will be recognised in their locality, are constantly met, and the list of them might be extended to any desirable degree:—"Tum o' Charles o' Billy's," or "Red Tum," "Bridfuut," "Corker," "Owd Fourpenny," "Tum o' Meawlo's," "Rantipow," and "Ab o' Pinder's," who fought a battle in the middle of the river Roch, at a great bull-bait in Rochdale, more than thirty years ago; "Bull Robin," "Jone o' Muzden's," "Owd Moreover," and "Bonny Meawth." This last reminds me of the report of a young villager, near Smallbridge, respecting the size of the people's mouths in a neighbouring district. "Thi'n th' bigg'st meawths i' yon country," said he, "at ever I seed clapt under a lip! Aw hove one on 'em his yure up, to see if his meawth went o' reawnd; but he knockt mo into th' slutch." Many of these quaint names rise in my memory as I write: "Owd Dragon," "Paul o' Bill's," "Plunge," "Ben o' Robin's o' Bob's o' th' Bird-stuffers, o' Buersil Yed," "Collop," "Tolloll," "Pratty Strider," "Lither Dick," and "Reawnt Legs,"—

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;

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'm Jone 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 tis Littlebrough off, 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 one o' 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, after a 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 on modes 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:"—