Lancashire Sketches

Book. Aw remember it neaw, weel enough: boh iv these viewers could gawm it oytch body couldna; for aw find neaw at yo compare'n me to a urchon, ut has nother yed nor tale; 'sflesh, is not it like running mo deawn, an a bit to bobbersome.

Tim. Naw, naw, not it; for meeny o' folk would gawm th' rimes, boh very lite would underston th' tayliur an his urchon.

Book. Th' rimes;—hum,—lemme see. 'Sblid, aw foryeat'n thoose, too, aw deawt!

Tim. Whoo-who whoo! What a dozening jobberknow art teaw!

Book. Good lorjus o' me; a body conna do moor thin they con, con they? Boh iv in teytch mo again, an aw foryeat um again, e'en raddle meh hoyd tightly, say aw.

Tim. Mind te hits, then!

Some write to show their wit and parts,Some show you whig, some tory hearts,Some flatter knaves, some fops, some fools,And some are ministerial tools.

Book. Eigh, marry; oytch body says so; an gonnor-yeds they are for their labbor.

Tim.             Some few in virtue's cause do write,                    But these, alas! get little by't.

Book. Indeed, aw can believe o! Weel rime't, heawe'er: gu on.

Tim.             Some turn out maggots from their head,                    Which die before their author's dead.

Book. Zuns! Aw Englanshire 'll think at yo'r glentin' at toose fratchin', byzen, craddlinly tykes as write'n sich papers as th' Test, an sich cawve-tales as Cornish Peter, at fund a new ward, snyin' wi glums an gawries.

Tim.             Some write such sense in prose and rhyme,                    Their works will wrestle hard with Time.

Book. That'll be prime wrostlin', i'faith; for aw've yerd um say, time conquers aw things.

Tim.             Some few print truth, but many lies                    On spirits, down to butterflies.

Book. Reet abeawt boggarts; an th' tother ward; and th' mon i'th moon, an sich like gear: get eendway; it's prime, i'faith.

Tim.             Some write to please, some do't for spite,                    But want of money makes me write.

Book. By th' mass, th' owd story again! Boh aw think eh me guts at it's true. It'll do; yo need'n rime no moor, for it's better t'in lickly. Whewt13 on Tummus an Mary.

To a liberal and observant stranger, one of the richest results of a visit to this quarter will arise from contemplation of the well-defined character of the people that live in it. The whole population is distinguished by a fine, strong, natural character, which would do honour to the refinements of education. A genteel stranger, who cannot read the heart of this people through their blunt manners, will, perhaps, think them a little boorish. But though they have not much bend in the neck, and their rough dialect is little blest with the set phrases of courtesy, there are no braver men in the world, and under their uncouth demeanour lives the spirit of true chivalry. They have a favourite proverb, that "fair play's a jewel," and are generally careful, in all their dealings, to act upon it. They feel a generous pride in the man who can prove himself their master in anything. Unfortunately, little has yet been done for them in the way of book-education, except what has been diffused by the Sunday-schools, since the times of their great apostle, John Wesley, who, in person, as well as by his enthusiastic early preachers, laboured much and earnestly among them, in many parts of South Lancashire. Yet nature has blest them with a fine vein of mother-wit, and has drilled some useful pages of her horn-book into them in the loom, the mine, and the farm, for they are naturally hard workers, and proud of honest labour. They are keen critics of character, too, and have a sharp eye to the nooks and corners of a stranger's attire, to see that, at least, whether rich or poor, it be sound, and, as they say, "bothomly cleeon," for they are jealous of dirty folk. They are accustomed to a frank expression of what is in them, and like the open countenance, where the time of day may be read in the dial, naturally abhorring "hudd'n wark, an' meawse-neeses." Among the many anecdotes illustrative of the character of this people, there is one which, though simple, bears a strong stamp of native truth upon it. A stalwart young fellow, who had long been employed as carter for a firm in this neighbourhood, had an irresistible propensity to fighting, which was constantly leading him into scrapes. He was an excellent servant in every other respect, but no admonition could cure him of this; and at length he was discharged, in hope to work the desired change. Dressing himself in his best, he applied to an eminent native merchant for a similar situation. After other necessary questions, the merchant asked whether he had brought his character with him. "My character!" replied our hero, "Naw, aw'm a damned deeol better beawt it!" This anecdote conveys a very true idea of the rough vigour and candour of the Lancashire country population. They dislike dandyism and the shabby-genteel, and the mere bandbox exquisite would think them a hopeless generation. Yet, little as they are tinctured with literature, a few remarkable books are very common among them. I could almost venture to prophesy before going into any substantial farmhouse, or any humble cottage in this quarter, that some of the following books might be found there: the Bible, Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, the Book of Common Prayer, and often Wesley's Hymn-book, Barclay's Dictionary, Culpepper's Herbal; and, sometimes, Thomas à Kempis, or a few old puritan sermons. One of their chief delights is the practice of sacred music; and I have heard the works of Haydn, Handel, Mozart, and Beethoven executed with remarkable correctness and taste, in the lonely farmhouses and cottages of South Lancashire. In no other part of England does such an intense love of sacred music pervade the poorer classes. It is not uncommon for them to come from the farthest extremity of South Lancashire, and even over the "Edge" from Huddersfield, and other towns of the West Riding of Yorkshire, to hear an oratorio at the Free Trade Hall, returning home again, sometimes a distance of thirty miles, in the morning.

I will now suppose that the traveller has seen Tim Bobbin's grave, and has strolled up by Silver Hills, through the scenery of Butterworth, and, having partly contemplated the character of this genuine specimen of a South Lancashire village, is again standing on the little stone bridge which spans the pretty river Beal. Let him turn his back to the Rochdale road a little while; we have not done with him yet. Across the space there, used as a fair ground at "Rushbearing time," stands an old-fashioned stone ale-house, called "Th' Stump and Pie Lad," commemorating, by its scabbed and weather-beaten sign, one of the triumphs of a noted Milnrow foot-racer, on Doncaster race-course. Milnrow is still famous for its foot-racers, as Lancashire, generally, is more particularly famous for foot-racers than any other county in the kingdom. In that building the ancient lords of Rochdale manor used to hold their court-leets. Now, the dry-throated "lads o' th' fowd" meet there nightly, to grumble at bad warps and low wages; and to "fettle th' nation," over pitchers of cold ale. And now, if the traveller loves to climb "the slopes of old renown," and worships old heraldries and rusty suits of mail, let him go to the other end of the village. I will go with him, if, like me, while he venerates old chronicles, whether of stone, metal, or parchment, because the spirit of the bygone sometimes streams upon us through them, he still believes in the proverb, that "every man is the son of his own works;" I will play the finger-post to him with right good will. There is something at the other end of Milnrow worth his notice.

Milnrow lies on the ground not unlike a tall tree laid lengthwise, in a valley, by a river side. At the bridge, its roots spread themselves in clots and fibrous shoots, in all directions; while the almost branchless trunk runs up, with a little bend, above half a mile, towards Oldham, where it again spreads itself out in an umbrageous way, at the little fold called "Butterworth Hall." In walking through the village, he who has seen a tolerably-built wooden mill will find no wonders of the architectural art at all. The houses are almost entirely inhabited by working people, and marked by a certain rough, comfortable solidity—not a bad reflex of the character of the inhabitants. At the eastern extremity, a road leads on the left hand to the cluster of houses called "Butterworth Hall." This old fold is worth notice, both for what it is, and what it has been. It is a suggestive spot. It is near the site once occupied by one of the homesteads of the Byrons, barons of Rochdale, the last baron of which family was Lord Byron, the poet. A gentleman in this township, who is well acquainted with the history and archæology of the whole county, lately met with a licence from the Bishop of Lichfield and Coventry, dated A.D. 1400, granting to Sir John Byron and his wife leave to have divine service performed within their oratories at Clayton and Butterworth, in the county of Lancashire. (Lane. MSS., vol. xxxii., p. 184.) This was doubtless the old wooden chapel which traditionally is said to have existed at Butterworth Hall, and which is still pointed out by the names of two small fields, called "Chapel Yard" and "Chapel Meadow." These names occur in deeds at Pike House (the residence of the Halliwell family, about two miles off), in the time of Queen Elizabeth, and are known to this day. It is probable that the Byrons never lived at Butterworth Hall after the Wars of the Roses. They quitted Clayton, as a permanent residence, on acquiring Newstead, in the reign of Henry the Eighth, although "young Sir John," as he was called, lived at Royton Hall, near Oldham, another seat of the family, between 1592 and 1608.

At Butterworth Hall, the little river Beal, flowing down fresh from the heathery mountains, which throw their shadows upon the valley where it runs, divides the fold; and upon a green plot, close to the northern margin of its water, stands an old-fashioned stone hall, hard by the site of the ancient residence of the Byrons. After spending an hour at the other end of the village, with the rugged and comfortable generation dwelling there, among the memorials of "Tim Bobbin"—that quaint old schoolmaster, of the last century—who was "the observed of all observers," there, in his day, and who will be remembered long after some of the monumental brasses and sculptured effigies of his contemporaries are passed by with, incurious eyes—one thinks it will not be uninteresting, nor profitless, to come and muse a little upon the spot where the Byrons once lived in feudal state. But let not any contemplative visitor here lose his thoughts too far among antiquarian dreams, and shadows of the past, for there are factory-bells close by. However large the discourse of his mind may be, let him never forget that there is a strong and important present in the social life around him. And wherever he sets his foot, in South Lancashire, he will now find that there are shuttles flying where once was the council chamber of a baron; and that the people of these days are drying warps in the "shooting-butts" and tilt-yards of the olden time!

The following information respecting the Byron family, Barons of Rochdale, copied from an article in the Manchester Guardian, by the eminent antiquarian contributor to that journal, will not be uninteresting to some people:—

The Byrons, of Clayton and Rochdale, Lancashire, and Newstead Abbey, Notts, are descended from Ralph de Buron, who, at the time of the Conquest, and of the Doomsday Survey, held divers manors in Notts and Derbyshire. Hugo de Buron, grandson of Ralph, and feudal Baron of Horsetan, retiring temp. Henry III. from secular affairs, professed himself a monk, and held the hermitage of Kirsale or Kersal, under the priory of Lenton. His son was Sir Roger de Buron. Robert de Byron, son of Sir Roger de Buron, in the John 1st [1199-1200], married Cecilia, daughter and heiress of Richard Clayton, of Clayton, and thus obtained the manor and estates of Clayton. Failsworth and the township of Droylsden were soon after added to their Lancashire estates. Their son, Robert de Byron, lord of Clayton, was witness to a grant of Plying Hay in this country, to the monks of Cockersand, for the souls of Henry II. and Richard I. And his son, John de Byron, who was seated at Clayton, 28th Edward I. [1299-30], was governor of York, and had all his lands in Rochdale, with his wife Joan, by gift of her father, Sir Baldwin Teutonicus, or Thies, or de Tyas, who was conservator of the peace in Lancashire, 10th Edward [1281-82]. Her first husband was Sir Robert Holland, secretary of Thomas, Earl of Lancaster. Their son was Sir John de Byron, knight, lord of Clayton, who was one of the witnesses to the charter granted to the burgesses of Manchester, by Thomas Grelle, lord of that manor, in 1301. The two first witnesses to that document were "Sirs John Byron, Richard Byron, knights." These were father and son. Sir John married Alice, cousin and heir of Robert Bonastre, of Hindley, in this county. Their son, Sir Richard, lord of Cadenay and Clifton, had grant of free warren in his demesne lands in Clayton, Butterworth, and Royton, on the 28th June, 1303; he served in parliament for Lincolnshire, and died before 21st Edward III. [1347-8]. His son was Sir James de Byron, who died before 24th Edward III. [1350-51]. His son and heir was Sir John de Byron, who was knighted by Edward III. at the siege of Calais [1346-7], and dying without issue, was succeeded by his brother, Sir Richard, before 4th Richard II. [1380-81]. Sir Richard died in 1398, and was succeeded by his son, Sir John le Byron, who received knighthood before 3rd Henry V. [1415-16], and as one of the knights of the shire, 7th Henry VI. [1428-9]. He married Margery, daughter of John Booth, of Barton. His eldest son, Richard le Byron, dying in his father's lifetime, and Richard's son, James, dying without issue, the estate passed to Richard's brother, Sir Nicholas, of Clayton, who married Alice, daughter of Sir John Boteler, of Beausey or Bewsey, near Warrington. Their son and heir was Sir John, who was constable of Nottingham Castle, and Sheriff of Lancaster, in 1441 and 1442. Sir John fought in the Battle of Bosworth Field, on the side of Henry VII., and was knighted on the field. Dying without issue in 1488, he was succeeded by his brother (then 30), Sir Nicholas, Sheriff of Lancaster, in 1459, who was made Knight of the Bath in 1501, and died in January, 1503-4. This son and heir, Sir John Byron (the one named in the above document), was steward of the manors of Manchester and Rochdale, and, on the dissolution of the monasteries, he had a grant of the priory of Newstead, 28th May, 1540. From that time the family made Newstead their principal seat, instead of Clayton. This will explain, to some extent, the transfer of Clayton, in 1547, from this same Sir John Byron to John Arderon or Arderne. Either this Sir John or his son, of the same name, in the year 1560, inclosed 260 acres of land on Beurdsell Moor, near Rochdale. His three eldest sons dying without issue (and we may just note that Kuerden preserves a copy of claim, without date, of Nicholas, the eldest, to the serjeanty of the king's free court of Rochdale, and to have the execution of all attachments and distresses, and all other things which belong to the king's bailiff there), Sir John was succeeded by his youngest son, Sir John, whom Baines states to have been knighted in 1759—probably a transposition of the figures 1579. This Sir John, in the 39th Elizabeth [1596-7], styles himself "Farmer of the Manor of Rochdale," and makes an annual payment to the Crown, being a fee farm rent to the honour of Rochdale. In the 1st Charles I. [1625-6], the manor of Rochdale passed from the Byrons; but in 1638 it was reconveyed to them; and, though confiscated during the commonwealth, Richard, Lord Byron, held the manor in 1660. Sir John's eldest son, Sir Nicholas, distinguished himself in the wars in the Low Countries, and at the battle of Edgehill (23rd October, 1642). He was general of Cheshire and Shropshire. His younger brother, Sir John, was made K.B. at the coronation of James I. and a baronet in 1603. Owing to the failure of the elder line, this Sir John became ancestor of the Lords Byron. Sir Nicholas was succeeded by his son, Sir John, who was made K.B. at the coronation of Charles I.; was appointed by that king Lieutenant of the Tower, in 1642, contrary to the wish of parliament; commanded the body of reserve at Edgehill; and was created Lord Byron of Rochdale, 24th October, 1643. In consequence of his devotion to the royal cause (for he fought against Oliver Cromwell at the battle of Preston, in August, 1648), his manor of Rochdale was sequestered, and held for several years by Sir Thomas Alcock, who held courts there in 1654, two years after Lord Byron's death. So great was his lordship's royalist zeal, that he was one of the seven specially exempted from the clemency of the government in the "Act of Oblivion," passed by parliament on the execution of Charles I. Dying at Paris, in 1652, without issue, he was succeeded by his cousin, Richard (son of Sir John, the baronet just mentioned), who became second Lord Byron, and died 4th October, 1679, aged 74. He was succeeded by his eldest son, William, who died 13th November, 1695, and was succeeded by his fourth son, William, who died August 8th, 1736, and was succeeded by a younger son, William, fifth Lord Byron, born in November, 1722, killed William Chaworth, Esq., in a duel, in January, 1765, and died 19th May, 1798. He was succeeded by his great nephew, George Gordon, the poet, sixth Lord Byron, who was born 22nd January, 1788, and died at Missolonghi, in April, 1824. In 1823, he sold Newstead Abbey to James Dearden, Esq., of Rochdale; and in the same year, he sold the manor and estate of Rochdale to the same gentleman, by whose son and heir they are now possessed. The manorial rights of Rochdale are reputed (says Baines) to extend over 32,000 statute acres of land, with the privileges of court baron and court leet in all the townships of the parish, including that portion of Saddleworth which lies within the parish of Rochdale; but excepting such districts as Robert de Lacy gave to the abbots of Whalley, with right to inclose the same.

The article goes on to say that the manor of Rochdale was anciently held by the Ellands of Elland, and the Savilles, and that on the death of Sir Henry Saville, it appears to have merged in the possession of the Duchy of Lancaster; and Queen Elizabeth, in right of her duchy possessions, demised that manor to Sir John Byron, by letters patent, dated May 12th, 27th year of her reign (1585), from Lady-day, 1585, to the end of thirty-one years.

The eye having now satisfied itself with what was notable in and about Milnrow, I took my way home, with a mind more at liberty to reflect on what I had seen. The history of Lancashire passed in review before me; especially its latest history. I saw the country that was once thick with trees that canopied herds of wild animals, and thinnest of people, now bare of trees, and thickest of population; the land which was of least account of any in the kingdom in the last century, now most sought after; and those rude elements which were looked upon as "the riddlings of creation," more productive of riches than all the Sacramento's gold, and ministers to a spirit which is destined to change the social aspect of Britain. I saw the spade sinking in old hunting grounds, and old parks now trampled by the fast-increasing press of new feet. The hard cold soil is now made to grow food for man and beast. Masses of stone and flag are shaken from their sleep in the beds of the hills, and dragged forth to build mills and houses with. Streams which have frolicked and sung in undisturbed limpidity thousands of years, are dammed up, and made to wash and scour, and generate steam. Fathoms below the feet of the traveller, the miner is painfully worming his way in labyrinthine tunnels; and the earth is belching coals at a thousand mouths. The region teems with coal, stone, and water, and a people able to subdue them all to their purposes. These elements quietly bide their time, century after century, till the grand plot is ripe, and the mysterious signal given. Anon, when a thoughtful barber sets certain wheels spinning, and a contemplative lad takes a fine hint from his mother's tea-kettle, these slumbering powers start into astonishing activity, like an army of warriors roused to battle by the trumpet. Cloth is woven for the world, and the world buys it, and wears it. Commerce shoots up from a poor pedlar with his pack on a mule, to a giant merchant, stepping from continent to continent, over the ocean, to make his bargains. Railways are invented, and the land is ribbed with iron, for iron messengers to run upon, through mountains and over valleys, on business commissions; the very lightning turns errand-boy. A great fusion of thought and sentiment springs up, and Old England is in hysterics about its ancient opinions. A new aristocracy rises from the prudent, persevering working-people of the district, and threatens to push the old one from its stool. What is to be the upshot of it all? The senses are stunned by the din of toil, and the view obscured by the dust of bargain-making. But, through an opening in the clouds, hope's stars are shining still in the blue heaven that over-spans us. Take heart, ye toiling millions! The spirits of your heroic forefathers are watching to see what sort of England you leave to your sons!

The Birthplace of Tim Bobbin

CHAPTER I

A merrier man,Within the limits of becoming mirth,I never spent an hour's talk withal:His eye begets occasion for his wit:For every object that the one doth catch,The other turns to a mirth-moving jest:Which his fair tongue (conceit's expositor)Delivers in such apt and gracious words,That aged ears play truant to his tales.—Love's Labour Lost.

There is a quiet tract of country on the eastern border of Lancashire, lying in a corner, formed by the junction of the rivers Mersey and Irwell, and having but little intercourse with those great towns of the county which boil with the industry of these days, a few miles off, to the north and eastward. It is the green selvedge of our toilful district, in that direction; and the winding waters of the Mersey lace its meadows, lengthwise, until that river joins the more soiled and sullen Irwell, on the northern boundary of the parish. In all the landscape there are no hills to break the view; and, considering the extent of land, trees are but sparsely scattered over it. It is singular, also, that the oak will not flourish in this particular spot; although there are some fine specimens of the other trees common to the English soil. But the country is generally fertile, and prettily undulated in some places; and it is a pleasant scene in hay-time, "when leaves are large and long," and the birds are singing with full-throated gladness in the green shade, while the dewy swathe is falling to the mower's stroke, in the sunlight of a June morning. Looking eastward, across the Mersey, the park-like plains and rustling woods of Cheshire stretch away, in unbroken beauty, as far as the eye can see. Indeed, the whole of this secluded tract, upon the Lancashire side of the river, may be naturally reckoned part of that fruitful Cheshire district which has, not inappropriately, been called "the market-garden of Manchester." The parish of Flixton occupies nearly the whole of this border nook of Lancashire; and the scattered hamlet of Urmston, in this parish, lays claim to the honour of being the birthplace of our earliest and most popular native humourist, the celebrated John Collier, better known by his self-chosen name of "Tim Bobbin,"—

A lad whose fame did resoundThrough every village and town around;For fun, for frolic, and for whim.

And, certainly, the hamlet of Urmston is a spot quite in keeping with all we know of the general character, and all we can imagine of the earliest training of a man who owed so much to nature, and who described the manners of the country folk of his day with such living truth, enriched with the quaint tinge of a humorous genius, which was his, and his only. Fortune, and his own liking, seem to have made him a constant dweller in the country. He was, by fits, fond of social company, and business led him into towns, occasionally; but whenever he visited towns, he seems to have always turned again towards the chimney-corner of his country home with an undying love, which fairly glows in every allusion he makes to his dwelling-place at the village of Milnrow, and even to the honest, uncouth hinds, who were his neighbours there; and whose portraits he has drawn for us, so inimitably, in his celebrated story of "Tummus and Mary." He was "a fellow of infinite jest; of most excellent fancy." May his soul rest "in the bosom of good old Abraham!"