Chapter VII (2)

About half-a-mile up the high road from Heybrook, and opposite to Shaw House, the view opens, and we can look across the fields on either side, into a country of green pastures and meadows, varied with fantastic hillocks and dells, though bare of trees. A short distance to the north-west, Buckley Hall lately stood, on a green eminence in sight from the road. But the old house of the Buckleys, of Buckley, recently disappeared from the knoll where it stood for centuries. Its thick, bemossed walls are gone, and all its quaint, abundant outhousing that stood about the spacious, balder-paved yard behind. This old hall gave name and residence to one of the most ancient families in Rochdale parish. The building was low, but very strongly built of stone of the district, and heavily timbered. It was not so large as Clegg Hall, nor Stubley Hall, nor as some other old halls in the parish; but, for its size, it proved a considerable quarry of stone and flag when taken down. The first occupier was Geoffry de Buckley, nephew to Geoffry, dean of Whalley, who lived in the time of Henry the Second. A descendant of this Geoffry de Buckley was slain in the battle of Evesham ("History of Whalley"). The name of John de Buckley appears among the monks of Stanlaw, in the year 1296. The arms of the Buckleys, of Buckley, are gules, a chevron sable; between three bulls' heads, armed proper; crest, on a wreath, a bull's head armed proper. Motto, "Nec temere nec timede." There is a chantry chapel at the south-east corner of Rochdale parish church, "founded in 1487, by Dr. Adam Marland, of Marland; Sir Randal Butterworth, of Belfield; and Sir James Middleton, 'a brotherhood maide and ordayned in the worship of the glorious Trinity, in the church of Rochdale;' Sir James being appointed Trinity priest during his lyfe; and, among other things, he was requested, when he went to the lavoratory, standing at the altar, and, twice a week, to pray for the co-founders, with 'De profundis.'" In this little chantry, there is a recumbent stone effigy of a mailed warrior, of the Buckley family, placed there by the present lord of the manor, whose property the chapel is now. I know that some of the country people who had been reared in the neighbourhood of Buckley Hall, watched its demolition with grieved hearts. And when the fine old hall at Radcliffe was taken down, not long since, an aged man stood by, vigorously denouncing the destroyers as the work went on, and glorying in every difficulty they met with; and they were not few, for it was a tough old place. "Poo," said he, "yo wastril devils, poo! Yo connut rive th' owd hole deawn for th' heart on yo! Yo'n ha' to blow it up wi' gunpeawdhur, bi'th mass. It wur noan bigged eawt o' club brass, that wur not, yo shabby thieves! Tay th' pattern on't, an' yo'n larn summat! What mak' o' trash wi'n yo stick up i'th place on't, when it's gwon? Those wholes u'll bide leynin again, better nor yors! Yo'n never big another heawse like that while yo'n teeth an' e'en in yor yeds! Eh, never, never! Yo hannut stuff to do it wi'!" But down came the old hall at Radcliffe; and so did Buckley Hall, lately; and the materials were dressed up to build the substantial row of modern cottages which now stand upon the same site, with pleasant gardens in front, sloping down the knoll, and over the spot where the old fish-pond was, at the bottom. Some of the workpeople at the neighbouring woollen mill find comfortable housing there now. There is an old tradition, respecting the Buckley family, connected with a massive iron ring which was found fastened in the flooring of a deserted chamber of the hall. A greyhound, belonging to this family, whilst in London with its master, took off homeward on being startled by the fall of a heavy package, in Cheapside, and was found dead on the door-step of Buckley Hall at five next morning, after having run one hundred and ninety-six miles in sixteen hours. When visiting relatives of mine near Buckley, I met with a story relating to one of the Buckleys of old, who was a dread to the country side; how he pursued a Rossendale rider, who had crossed the moors from the forest, to recover a stolen horse from the stables of Buckley Hall by night; and how this Buckley, of Buckley, overtook and shot him, at a lonely place called "Th' Hillock," between Buckley and Rooley Moor. There are other floating oral traditions connected with Buckley Hall, especially the tale of "The Gentle Shepherdess," embodying the romantic adventures, and unfortunate fate of a lady belonging to the family of Buckley, of Buckley. And in this wide parish of Rochdale, in the eastern nook of Lancashire,--once a country fertile in spots of lone and rural prettiness, and thinly inhabited by as quaint, hearty, and primitive a people as any in England,--there is many a picturesque and storied dell; some tales of historic interest; and many an interesting legend connected with the country, or with the old families of the parish;--the Byrons, of Butterworth Hall, barons of Rochdale; the Entwisles, of Foxholes; the Crossleys, of Scaitcliffe; the Holts, of Stubley, Grislehurst, and Castleton; the Cleggs, of Clegg Hall, the scene of the tradition of "Clegg Ho' Boggart;" the Buckleys, of Buckley; the Marlands, of Marland; the Howards, of Great Howard; the Chadwicks, of Chadwick Hall, and Healey Hall; the Bamfords, of Bamford; the Schofields, of Schofield; the Butterworths; the Belfields; and many other families of ancient note, often bearing the names of their own estates, in the old way.

In this part of South Lancashire, the traveller never meets any considerable extent of level land; and, though the county contains great moors, and some mosses, yet there is not such another expansive tract of level country to be found in it as "Chat Moss," that lonely grave of old forests. South-east Lancashire is all picturesque ups and downs, retired nooks, and "quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles," and little winding vales, with endless freaks of hill and hillock, knoll and dell, dingle and shady cleft, laced with numerous small streamlets, and clear rindles of babbling water, up to the foot of that wilderness of moorland hills, the "Back-bone of England," which runs across the island, from Derbyshire into Scotland, and forms a considerable part of Lancashire upon its way. The parish of Rochdale partly consists of, and is bounded by, this tract of hills on the east and north; and what may be called the lowland part of the parish looks, when seen from some of the hills in the immediate neighbourhood, something like a sea of tempest-tossed meadows and pasture lands, upon which fleets of cotton mills ride at anchor, their brick masts rising high into the air, and their streamers of smoke waving in the wind.

Leaving the open part of the high road, opposite Shaw House, and losing sight of Buckley, we began to rise as we passed through Brickfield up to Smallbridge. This village is seated on an elevation, sloping gently from the northern bank of the river Roch, which rise continues slightly through the village, and up northward, with many a dip and frolic by the way, till it reaches the hills above Wardle Fold, where nature leaps up in a wild and desolate mood. Some of the lonely heights thereabouts have been beacon stations, in old times, and their names indicate their ancient uses, as "Ward Hill," above the village of Wardle. "Jack th' Huntsman" used to declare, vehemently, that Brown Wardle Hill was "th' finest hunting-greawnd i' Lancashire." And then there is "Tooter's Hill," "Hornblower's Hill," and "Hade's Hill." From the summit of the last, the waters descend on one side to the Irish Sea, on the west, on the other to the German Ocean, on the east. The remains of a large beacon are still visible on the top of it. Looking southward, from the edge of Smallbridge, the dale lies green and fair in the hollow below, and the silent Roch winds through it towards Rochdale town. The view stretches out several miles beyond the opposite bank of the river, over the romantic township of Butterworth, up to the Saddleworth hills. Green and picturesque, a country of dairy farms, producing matchless milk and butter; yet the soil is evidently too cold and poor for the successful production of any kind of grain, except the hardy oat--and that crop mostly thin and light as an old man's hair. But even this extensive view over a beautiful scene, in other respects, lacks the charm which green woods lend to a landscape; for, except a few diminutive tufts and scattered patches, where young plantations struggle up, there are scarcely any trees. From Smallbridge, taking a south-east direction, up by "Tunshill," "Dolderum," "Longden End," and "Booth Dean," and over the Stanedge road, into the ravines of Saddleworth, would be a long flight for the crow; but to anybody who had to foot the road thither, it would prove a rougher piece of work than it looks. The village of Smallbridge itself consists principally of one street, about half a mile long, lining the high road from Rochdale to Littleborough. It will have a dull, uninteresting look to a person who knows nothing, previously, of the place, nor of the curious generation dwelling thereabouts. Smallbridge has a plain, hard-working, unpolished, every-day look. No wandering artist, in search of romantic bits of village scenery, would halt enchanted with Smallbridge. It has no architectural relic of the olden time in it, nor any remarkable modern building--nothing which would tell a careless eye that it had been the homestead of many generations of Lancashire men. It consists, chiefly, of the brick-built cottages, inhabited by weavers, colliers, and factory operatives, relieved by the new Episcopalian church, at the eastern end, the little pepper-box bell-turret of which peeps up over the houses, as if to remind the rude inhabitants of something higher than bacon-collops and ale. About half a mile up the road which leads out of the centre of the village, northward, stands a plain-looking stone mansion, apparently about one hundred and fifty years old, called "Great Howarth." It stands upon a shapely knoll, the site of an older hall of the same name, and has pleasant slopes of green land about it, and a wide prospect over hill and dale. Extensive alterations, in the course of the last hundred years, have destroyed most of the evidences of this place's age and importance; but its situation, and the ancient outbuildings behind, and the fold of cottages nestling near to the western side of the hall, with peeping bits of stone foundation, of much older date than the building standing upon them; the old wells, and the hue of the lands round about; all show that it has been a place of greater note than it is at present. This great Howarth, or Howard, is said to be the original settlement of the Howard family, the present Dukes of Norfolk. Some people in the neighbourhood also seem to believe this, for, as we entered Smallbridge, we passed "The Norfolk Arms," a little public-house. One Osbert Howard was rewarded by Henry I. ("Beauclerk") for his faithful services, with lands situate in the township of Honorsfield, or Hundersfield, in the parish of Rochdale, also with what is called "the dignified title of Master of the Buck Hounds." Robertus Howard, Abbot of Stanlaw, was one of the four monks from this parish, whose names appear among the list of the fraternity, at the time of their translation to Whalley. He died on the 10th of May, 1304. Dugdale, in his "Baronage of England," says, respecting the Howards, Dukes of Norfolk:--"I do not make any mention thereof above the time of King Edward the First, some supposing that their common ancestor, in the Saxon's time, took his original appellation from an eminent office or command; others, afterwards, from the name of a place." ... "I shall, therefore (after much fruitless search to satisfy myself, as well as others, on this point) begin with William Howard, a learned and reverend judge of the Court of Common Pleas, for a great part of King Edward the First's and beginning of Edward the Second's time." So that there seems to be a possibility of truth in the assertion that Great Howard, or Howarth, near Smallbridge, was the original settlement of the Howards, ancestors of the Dukes of Norfolk. But I must leave the matter to those who have better and completer evidence than this. Aiken, in his "History of Manchester," mentions a direful pestilence, which severely afflicted that town about the year 1645. A pestilence called the "Black Plague" raged in the parish of Rochdale about the same time. "The whole district being filled with dismay, none dared, from the country, to approach the town, for fear of catching the contagion; therefore, to remedy, as much as possible, the inconvenience of non-intercourse between the country and town's people, the proprietor of Great Howarth directed a cross to be raised on a certain part of his estate, near to Black Lane End, at Smallbridge, for the purpose of holding a temporary market there, during the continuance of the plague." Thence originated "Howarth Cross," so named to this day; also, the old "Milk Stones," or "Plague Stones," lately standing at about a mile's distance from the town of Rochdale, upon the old roads. I well remember two of these, which were large, heavy flag-stones, with one end imbedded in the edge side, and the other end supported upon rude stone pillars. One of these two was in "Milk Stone Lane," leading towards Oldham, and the other at "Sparth," about a mile on the Manchester road. This last of these old "Milk Stones," or "Plague Stones," was recently taken down. I find that similar stones were erected in the outlets of Manchester, for the same purpose, during the pestilence, about 1645. The village of Smallbridge itself, as I have said before, has not much either of modern grace or antique interest about its outward appearance. But, in the secluded folds and corners of the country around, there is many a quaint farmstead of the seventeenth century, or earlier, such as Waterhouse, Ashbrook Hey, Howarth Knowl, Little Howarth, Dearnley, Mabroyd, Wuerdle, Little Clegg, Clegg Hall (the haunt of the famous "Clegg Ho' Boggart"). Wardle Fold, near Wardle Hall, was fifty years since only a small sequestered cluster of rough stone houses, at the foot of the moorland heights, on the north, and about a mile from Smallbridge. It has thriven considerably by manufacture since then. In some of these old settlements there are houses where the door is still opened from without by a "sneck-bant," or "finger-hole." Some of these old houses have been little changed for two or three centuries; around others a little modern addition has gathered in the course of time; but the old way of living and thinking lingers in these remote corners still, like little standing pools, left by the tide of ancient manners, which has gone down, and is becoming matter of history or of remembrance. There, and in the still more lonely detached dwellings and folds, which are scattered among the hills and cloughs of the "Edge," they cling to the speech, and ways, and superstitions of their rude forefathers. A tribe of hardy, industrious, old-fashioned, simple-hearted folk, whose principal fear is poverty and "boggarts." They still gather round the fire, in corners where factories have not yet reached them, in the gray gloaming, and on dark nights in winter, to feed their imaginations with scraps of old legend, and tales of boggarts, fairies, and "feeorin," that haunt their native hills, and dells, and streams; and they look forward with joy to the ancient festivals of the year, as reliefs to their lonely round of toil. But Smallbridge had other interests for us besides those arising out of its remote surrounding nooks and population. We had known the village ever since the time when a ramble so far out from Rochdale seemed a great feat for tiny legs; and, as we passed each well-remembered spot, the flood-gates of memory were thrown open, and a whole tide of early reminiscences came flowing over the mind:--

Floating by me seems
My childhood, in this childishness of mine:
I care not--'tis a glimpse of "Auld lang syne."

The inhabitants of different Lancashire towns and villages have often some generic epithet attached to them, supposed to be expressive of their character; as, for the inhabitants of Oldham and Bolton, "Owdham Rough Yeds," and "Bowton Trotters;" and the people of Smallbridge are known throughout the vale by the name of "Smo'bridge Cossacks." Within the last twenty years, the inhabitants of the village have increased in number, and improved in education and manners. Before that time the place was notable for its rugged people; even in a district generally remarkable for an old-world breed of men and manners. Their misdemeanours arose more from exuberant vigour of heart and body, than from natural moral debasement. Twenty years since there was no church in Smallbridge, no police to keep its rude people in order--no effective school of any sort. The weavers and colliers had the place almost to themselves in those days. They worked hard, and ate and drank as much as their earnings would afford, especially on holidays, or "red-letter days;" and, at by-times, they clustered together in their cottages, but oftener at the road-side, or in some favourite alehouse, and solaced their fatigue with such scraps of news and politics as reached them; or by pithy, idiomatic bursts of country humour, and old songs. Sometimes these were choice snatches of the ballads of Britain, really beautiful "minstrel memories of times gone by;" such as we seldom hear now, and still seldomer hear sung with the feeling and natural taste which the country lasses of Lancashire put into them, while chanting at their work. Some of Burns's songs, and many songs commemorating the wars of England, were great favourites with them. Passing by a country alehouse, one would often hear a rude ditty, like the following, sounding loud and clear from the inside:--

You generals all, and champions bold,
Who take delight i'th field;
Who knock down palaces and castle walls,
And never like to yield;
I am an Englishman by birth,
And Marlbro' is my name;
In Devonshire I first drew breath,
That place of noble fame.

Or this finishing couplet of another old ballad:--

To hear the drums and the trumpets sound,
In the wars of High Garmanie!

I well remember that the following were among their favourites:--"O, Nanny, wilt thou gang wi' me?" "Jockey to the Fair," "Owd Towler," "The Banks of the Dee," "Black Eyed Susan," "Highland Mary," "The Dawning of the Day," "The Garden Gate," and "The Woodpecker." There are, also, a few rough, humorous songs in the Lancashire dialect, which are very common among them. The best of these is the rudely-characteristic ballad called "Jone o' Greenfelt," and "The Songs of the Wilsons," of which the following, known by the name of "Johnny Green's Wedding," and "Description of Manchester College," by Alexander Wilson, is sufficient to show the manner and characteristics of the remainder of these popular local songs:--

Neaw lads, wheer are yo beawn so fast?
Yo happun ha no yerd what's past:
Aw gettun wed sin aw'r here th' last,
Just three week sin come Sunday.
Aw ax'd th' owd folk, an aw wur reet,
So Nan an me agreed tat neet,
At iv we could mak both eends meet,
We'd be wed o' Ayster Monday.

That morn', as prim as pewter quarts,
Aw th' wenches coom, a browt t' sweethearts;
Aw fund we're loike to ha' three carts,--
'Twur thrunk as Eccles wakes, mon;
We donn'd eawr tits i' ribbins to,--
One red, one green, an tone wur blue;
So hey! lads, hey! away we flew,
Loike a race for th' Leger stakes, mon.

Right merrily we drove, full bat;
An eh! heaw Duke an Dobbin swat;
Owd Grizzle wur so lawn an fat,
Fro' soide to soide hoo jow'd um:
Deawn Withy Grove at last we coom,
An stopt at th' Seven Stars by gum,
An drunk as mich warm ale an rum,
As 'nd dreawn o' th' folk i' Owdham.

When th' shot wur paid, an th' drink wur done,
Up Fennel-street, to th' church for fun,
We doanced loike morris-doancers dun,
To th' best o' aw my knowledge:
So th' job wur done, i' hauve a crack;
Boh eh! what fun to get th' first smack;
So neaw, my lads, 'fore we gwon back,
Says aw, "We'n look at th' College."

We see'd a clock-case first, good laws!
Where Deoth stonds up wi' great lung claws;
His legs, an wings, an lantern jaws,
They really look't quite feorink.
There's snakes an watchbills, just like pikes,
At Hunt an aw th' reforming tikes,
An thee, an me, an Sam o' Mikes,
Once took a blanketeerink.

Eh! lorjus days, booath far an woide,
Theer's yards o' books at every stroide,
Fro' top to bothum, eend, an soide,
Sich plecks there's very few so:

Aw axt him iv they wur'n to sell,
For Nan, loikes readink vastly well;
Boh th' measter wur eawt, so he could naw tell,
Or aw'd a bowt her Robinson Crusoe.

Theer's a trumpet speyks and maks a din,
An a shute o' clooas made o' tin,
For folk to go a feightink in,
Just like thoose chaps o' Boney's;
An theer's a table carved so queer,
Wi' as mony planks as days i'th year,
An crinkum-crankums here an theer,
Like th' clooas-press at my gronny's.

Theer's Oliver Crumill's bombs and balls,
An Frenchmen's guns they'd tean i' squalls,
An swords, as lunk as me, o' th' walls,
An bows an arrows too, mon:
Aw didno moind his fearfo words,
Nor skeletons o' men an burds;
Boh aw fair hate th' seet o' greyt lung swords,
Sin th' feight at Peterloo, mon.

We see'd a wooden cock likewise;
Boh dang it, mon, these college boys,
They tell'n a pack o' starin' loies,
As sure as teaw'rt a sinner:
"That cock, when it smells roast beef, 'll crow,"
Says he; "Boh," aw said, "teaw lies, aw know,
An aw con prove it plainly so,
Aw've a peawnd i' my hat for th' dinner."

Boh th' hairy mon had miss'd my thowt,
An th' clog fair crackt by th' thunner-bowt,
An th' woman noather lawmt nor nowt,
Theaw ne'er seed loike sin t'ur born, mon.
Theer's crocodiles, an things, indeed,
Aw colours, mak, shap, size, an breed;
An if aw moot tell toan hauve aw see'd,
We moot sit an smook till morn, mon.

Then deawn Lung Millgate we did steer,
To owd Mike Wilson's goods-shop theer,
To bey eawr Nan a rockink cheer,
An pots, an spoons, an ladles:
Nan bowt a glass for lookink in
A tin Dutch o'on for cookink in;
Aw bowt a cheer for smookink in,
And Nan axed th' price o' th' cradles.

Then th' fiddler struck up "Th' Honey Moon,"
An off we set for Owdam soon:
We made owd Grizzle trot to th' tune,
Every yard o' th' way, mon.
At neet, oytch lad an bonny lass,
Laws! heaw they doanc'd an drunk their glass;
So toyst wur Nan an me, by th' mass,
At we lee till twelve th' next day, mon.

When the horn sounded to gather the harriers, or the "foomart dogs," the weaver lads used to let go their "pickin'-pegs," roll up their aprons, and follow the chase afoot, with all the keen relish of their forefathers, returning hungry, tired, and pleased at night, to relate the adventures of the day. Sometimes they sallied from the village, in jovial companies, attended by one or more of their companions, to have a drinking-bout, and challenge "th' cocks o' th' clod" in some neighbouring hamlet. Such expeditions often led to a series of single combats, in which rude bodily strength and pluck were the principal elements of success; sometimes a general _melée_, or "Welsh main," took place; often ending in painful journeys, with broken bones, over the moors, to the "Whitworth Doctors." As far as rough sports and rough manners went, "the dule" seemed to have "thrut his club" over Smallbridge in those days. That man was lucky who could walk through the village without being assailed by something more inconvenient than mere looks of ignorant wonder, and a pelting of coarse jokes; especially if he happened to wear the appearance of a "teawn's buck." They had a kind of contempt for "teawn's folk," as an inferior race, especially in body. If town's people had more intelligence than was common in the country, these villagers often affected to consider it a knavish cleverness; and if they seemed externally clean, they looked upon it as an hypocritical concealment of the filth beneath. If they were well dressed, the old doubt arose, as to its being "o' paid for;" and if one appeared among them who had no settled home or connections, and whose demeanour they did not like, he had "done summat wrang somewheer, or elze he'd ne'er ha' bin o' that shap." In fact, it was hardly possible for people bred in a town to be as clean, strong, or honest, as those bred in the country. Town's folk had nothing wholesome about them; they were "o' offal an' boylin-pieces." When they visited Manchester, or any of the great towns about, they generally took a supply of eatables with them for the journey; "coud frog-i'-th'-hole puddin," or "fayberry cake," or "sodden moufin an' cheese," or such like homely buttery-stuff; for if they had occasion to enter any strange house in such places, to satisfy their hunger, every mouthful went down among painful speculations as to what the quadruped was when alive, and what particular reason it had for departing this life. Burns alludes affectionately to "the halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food;" and oatmeal porridge, and oat-cake, enter largely into the diet of the country people in this part of Lancashire. They used to pride themselves in the name of "the Havercake Lads." A regiment raised in Lancashire during the last war bore this name. This oat-cake is baked upon a peculiar kind of stone slab, called a "back-stone;" and the cry of "Havercake back-stones" is a familiar sound in Rochdale, and the villages around it, at this day. Oatmeal porridge forms an important element of a genuine Lancashire breakfast in the country. I have often noticed the air of satisfaction with which a Lancashire housewife has filled up the great breakfast bowl with hot oatmeal porridge, and, clapping the pan on the floor, said, "Theer, lads, pultiz yo'r stomachs wi' thoose!" And the hungry, hearty youngsters have gathered hastily round their old dish, welcoming it with the joyous ejaculation of "That's th' mak'!" The thick unleavened oat-cake, called "Jannock," is scarcely ever seen in South-east Lancashire now; but it used to be highly esteemed. The common expression, "That's noan jannock," applied to anything which is not what it ought to be, commemorates the fame of this wholesome old cake of theirs. But they have no inclination to an exclusively vegetarian diet; in fact, they generally express a decided relish for "summat at's deed ov a knife;" and, like their ancient progenitors, the Saxons, they prefer heavy meals, and long draughts, to any kind of light epicurean nicety.

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 Tum
When 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.