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John Heywood, 143 Deansgate.
London: Simkin, Marshall & Co.

I came out at Haslingden town-end with my old acquaintance, "Rondle
o'th Nab," better known by the name of "Sceawter," a moor-end farmer and
cattle dealer. He was telling me a story about a cat that squinted, and
grew very fat because - to use his own words - it "catched two mice at one
go." When he had finished the tale, he stopped suddenly in the middle of
the road, and looking round at the hills, he said, "Nea then. I'se be
like to lev yo here. I mun turn off to 'Dick o' Rough-cap's' up Musbury
Road. I want to bargain about yon heifer. He's a very fair chap, is
Dick, - for a cow-jobber. But yo met as weel go up wi' me, an' then go
forrud to our house. We'n some singers comin' to neet."

"Nay," said I, "I think I'll tak up through Horncliffe, an' by th'
moor-gate, to't 'Top o'th Hoof.'"

"Well, then," replied he, "yo mun strike off at th' lift hond, about a
mile fur on; an' then up th' hill side, an' through th' delph. Fro theer
yo mun get upo' th' owd road as weel as yo con; an' when yo'n getten it,
keep it. So good day, an' tak care o' yorsel'. Barfoot folk should never
walk upo' prickles." He then turned, and walked off. Before he had gone
twenty yards he shouted back, "Hey! I say! Dunnot forget th' cat."

It was a fine autumn day; clear and cool. Dead leaves were whirling
about the road-side. I toiled slowly up the hill, to the famous
Horncliffe Quarries, where the sounds of picks, chisels, and gavelocks,
used by the workmen, rose strangely clear amidst the surrounding
stillness. From the quarries I got up by an old pack horse road, to a
commanding elevation at the top of the moors. Here I sat down on a rude
block of mossy stone, upon a bleak point of the hills, overlooking one
of the most picturesque parts of the Irwell valley. The country around
me was part of the wild tract still known by its ancient name of the
Forest of Rossendale. Lodges of water and beautiful reaches of the
winding river gleamed in the evening sun, among green holms and patches
of woodland, far down the vale; and mills, mansions, farmsteads,
churches, and busy hamlets succeeded each other as far as the eye could
see. The moorland tops and slopes were all purpled with fading heather,
save here and there where a well-defined tract of green showed that
cultivation had worked up a little plot of the wilderness into pasture
land. About eight miles south, a gray cloud hung over the town of Bury,
and nearer, a flying trail of white steam marked the rush of a railway
train along the valley. From a lofty perch of the hills, on the
north-west, the sounds of Haslingden church bells came sweetly upon the
ear, swayed to and fro by the unsettled wind, now soft and low, borne
away by the breeze, now full and clear, sweeping by me in a great gush
of melody, and dying out upon the moorland wilds behind. Up from the
valley came drowsy sounds that tell the wane of day, and please the ear
of evening as she draws her curtains over the world. A woman's voice
floated up from the pastures of an old farm-house, below where I sat,
calling the cattle home. The barking of dogs sounded clear in different
parts of the vale, and about scattered hamlets, on the hill sides. I
could hear the far-off prattle of a company of girls, mingled with the
lazy joltings of a cart, the occasional crack of a whip, and the surly
call of a driver to his horses, upon the high road, half a mile below
me. From a wooded slope, on the opposite side of the valley, the crack
of a gun came, waking the echoes for a minute; and then all seemed to
sink into a deeper stillness than before, and the dreamy surge of sound
broke softer and softer upon the shores of evening, as daylight sobered
down. High above the green valley, on both sides, the moorlands
stretched away in billowy wildernesses - dark, bleak, and almost
soundless, save where the wind harped his wild anthem upon the heathery
waste, and where roaring streams filled the lonely cloughs with drowsy
uproar. It was a striking scene, and it was an impressive hour. The
bold, round, flat-topped height of Musbury Tor stood gloomily proud, on
the opposite side, girdled off from the rest of the hills by a green
vale. The lofty outlines of Aviside and Holcombe were glowing with the
gorgeous hues of a cloudless October sunset. Along those wild ridges the
soldiers of ancient Rome marched from Manchester to Preston, when boars
and wolves ranged the woods and thickets of the Irwell valley. The
stream is now lined all the way with busy populations, and evidences of
great wealth and enterprise. But the spot from which I looked down upon
it was still naturally wild. The hand of man had left no mark there,
except the grass-grown pack-horse road. There was no sound nor sign of
life immediately around me.

The wind was cold, and daylight was dying down. It was getting too
near dark to go by the moor tops, so I made off towards a cottage in the
next clough, where an old quarry-man lived, called "Jone o'Twilter's."
The pack-horse road led by the place. Once there, I knew that I could
spend a pleasant hour with the old folk, and, after that, be directed by
a short cut down to the great highway in the valley, from whence an
hour's walk would bring me near home. I found the place easily, for I
had been there in summer. It was a substantial stone-built cottage, or
little farm-house, with mullioned windows. A stone-seated porch,
white-washed inside, shaded the entrance; and there was a little barn
and a shippon, or cow-house attached. By the by, that word "shippon,"
must have been originally "sheep-pen." The house nestled deep in the
clough, upon a shelf of green land, near the moorland stream. On a rude
ornamental stone, above the threshold of the porch, the date of the
building was quaintly carved, "1696," with the initials, "J. S.," and
then, a little lower down, and partly between these, the letter "P.," as
if intended for "John and Sarah Pilkington." On the lower slope of the
hill, immediately in front of the house there was a kind of kitchen
garden, well stocked, and in very fair order. Above the garden, the wild
moorland rose steeply up, marked with wandering sheep tracts. From the
back of the house, a little flower garden sloped away to the edge of a
rocky back. The moorland stream rushed wildly along its narrow channel,
a few yards below; and, viewed from the garden wall, at the edge of the
bank, it was a weird bit of stream scenery. The water rushed and roared
here; there it played a thousand pranks; and there, again, it was full
of graceful eddies; gliding away at last over the smooth lip of a worn
rock, a few yards lower down. A kind of green gloom pervaded the watery
chasm, caused by the thick shade of trees overspreading from the
opposite bank. It was a spot that a painter might have chosen for "The
Kelpie's Home."

The cottage door was open; and I guessed by the silence inside that
old "Jone" had not reached home. His wife, Nanny, was a hale and
cheerful woman, with a fastidious love of cleanliness, and order, and
quietness, too, for she was more than seventy years of age. I found her
knitting, and slowly swaying her portly form to and fro in a shiny
old-fashioned chair, by the fireside. The carved oak clock-case in the
corner was as bright as a mirror; and the solemn, authoritative ticking
of the ancient time-marker was the loudest sound in the house. But the
softened roar of the stream outside filled all the place, steeping the
senses in a drowsy spell. At the end of a long table under the front
window, sat Nanny's granddaughter, a rosy, round-faced lass, about
twelve years old. She was turning over the pictures in a well-thumbed
copy of "Culpepper's Herbal." She smiled, and shut the book, but seemed
unable to speak; as if the poppied enchantment that wrapt the spot had
subdued her young spirit to a silence which she could not break. I do
not wonder that old superstitions linger in such nooks as that. Life
there is like bathing in dreams. But I saw that they had heard me
coming; and when I stopt in the doorway, the old woman broke the charm
by saying, "Nay sure! What; han yo getten thus far? Come in, pray yo."

"Well, Nanny," said I; "where's th' owd chap?"

"Eh," replied the old woman; "it's noan time for him yet. But I see,"
continued she, looking up at the clock, "it's gettin' further on than I
thought. He'll be here in abeawt three-quarters of an hour - that is, if
he doesn't co', an' I hope he'll not, to neet. I'll put th' kettle on.
Jenny, my lass, bring him a tot o' ale."

I sat down by the side of a small round table, with a thick plane-tree
top, scoured as white as a clean shirt; and Jenny brought me an
old-fashioned blue-and-white mug, full of homebrewed.

"Toast a bit o' hard brade," said Nanny, "an' put it into't."

I did so.

The old woman put the kettle on, and scaled the fire; and then,
settling herself in her chair again, she began to re-arrange her
knitting-needles. Seeing that I liked my sops, she said, "Reitch some
moor cake-brade. Jenny'll toast it for yo."

I thanked her, and reached down another piece; which Jenny held to the
fire on a fork. And then we were silent for a minute or so.

"I'll tell yo what," said Nanny, "some folk's o'th luck i'th world."

"What's up now, Nanny?" replied I.

"They say'n that Owd Bill, at Fo' Edge, has had a dowter wed, an' a
cow cauve't, an a mare foal't o' i' one day. Dun yo co' that nought?"

Before I could reply, the sound of approaching footsteps came upon our
ears. Then, they stopt, a few yards off; and a clear voice trolled out a
snatch of country song: -

"Owd shoon an' stockins,
An' slippers at's made o' red leather!
Come, Betty, wi' me,
Let's shap to agree,
An' hutch of a cowd neet together.

"Mash-tubs and barrels!
A mon connot olez be sober;
A mon connot sing
To a bonnier thing
Nor a pitcher o' stingin' October."

"Jenny, my lass," said the old woman, "see who it is. It's oather
'Skedlock' or 'Nathan o' Dangler's.'"

Jenny peeped through the window, an' said, "It's Skedlock. He's
lookin' at th' turmits i'th garden. Little Joseph's wi' him. They're
comin' in. Joseph's new clogs on."

Skedlock came shouldering slowly forward into the cottage, - a tall,
strong, bright-eyed man, of fifty. His long, massive features were
embrowned by habitual exposure to the weather, and he wore the
mud-stained fustian dress of a quarryman. He was followed by a healthy
lad, about twelve years of age, - a kind of pocket-copy of himself. They
were as like one another as a new shilling and an old crown-piece. The
lad's dress was of the same kind as his father's, and he seemed to have
studiously acquired the same cart-horse gait, as if his limbs were as
big and as stark as his father's.

"Well, Skedlock," said Nanny, "thae's getten Joseph witho, I see. Does
he go to schoo yet ?"

"Nay; he reckons to worch i'th delph wi' me, neaw."

"Nay, sure. Does he get ony wage?"

"Nawe," replied Skedlock; "he's drawn his wage wi' his teeth, so fur.
But he's larnin', yo' known - he's larnin'. Where's yo'r Jone? I want to
see him abeawt some plants."

"Well," said Nanny, "sit tho down a minute. Hasto no news? Thae'rt
seldom short of a crack o' some mak."

"Nay," said Skedlock, scratching his rusty pate, "aw don't know 'at
aw've aught fresh." But when he had looked thoughtfully into the fire
for a minute or so, his brown face lighted up with a smile, and drawing
a chair up, he said, "Howd, Nanny; han yo yerd what a do they had at th'
owd chapel, yesterday?"


"Eh, dear!... Well, yo known, they'n had a deal o' bother about music
up at that chapel, this year or two back. Yo'n bin a singer yo'rsel,
Nanny, i' yo'r young days - never a better."

"Eh, Skedlock," said Nanny; "aw us't to think I could ha' done a bit,
forty year sin - an' I could, too - though I say it mysel. I remember
gooin' to a oratory once, at Bury. Deborah Travis wur theer, fro Shay.
Eh! when aw yerd her sing 'Let the bright seraphim,' aw gav in.
Isherwood wur theer; an' her at's Mrs Wood neaw; an' two or three fro
Yawshur road on. It wur th' grand'st sing 'at ever I wur at i' my
life.... Eh, I's never forget th' practice-neets 'at we use't to have at
owd Israel Grindrod's! Johnny Brello wur one on 'em. He's bin deead a
good while.... That's wheer I let of our Sam. He sang bass at that
time.... Poor Johnny! He's bin deead aboon five-an-forty year, neaw."

"Well, but, Nanny," said Skedlock, laying his hand on the old woman's
shoulder, "yo known what a hard job it is to keep th' bant i'th nick wi'
a rook o' musicianers. They cap'n the world for bein' diversome, an'
jealous, an' bad to plez. Well, as I wur sayin' - they'n had a deeal o'
trouble about music this year or two back, up at th' owd chapel. Th'
singers fell out wi' th' players. They mostly dun do. An' th' players
did everything they could to plague th' singers. They're so like. But
yo' may have a like aim, Nanny, what mak' o' harmony they'd get out o'
sich wark as that. An' then, when Joss o' Piper's geet his wage
raise't - five shillin' a year - Dick o' Liddy's said he'd ha' moor too,
or else he'd sing no moor at that shop. He're noan beawn to be snape't
wi' a tootlin' whipper-snapper like Joss, - a bit of a bow-legged whelp,
twenty year yunger nor his-sel. Then there wur a crack coom i' Billy
Tootle bassoon; an' Billy stuck to't that some o'th lot had done it for
spite. An' there were sich fratchin an' cabals among 'em as never wur
known. An' they natter't, and brawl't, an' back-bote; and played one
another o' maks o' ill-contrive't tricks. Well, yo' may guess, Nanny -

"One Sunday mornin', just afore th' sarvice began, some o' th' singers
slipt a hawp'oth o' grey peighs an' two young rattons into old Thwittler
double-bass; an' as soon as he began a-playin', th' little things
squeak't an' scutter't about terribly i' th' inside, till thrut o' out
o' tune. Th' singers couldn't get forrud for laughin'. One on 'em
whisper't to Thwittler, an' axed him if his fiddle had getten th'
bally-warche. But Thwittler never spoke a word. His senses wur leavin'
him very fast. At last, he geet so freeten't, that he chuck't th' fiddle
down, an' darted out o'th chapel, beawt hat; an' off he ran whoam, in a
cowd sweet, wi' his yure stickin' up like a cushion-full o'
stockin'-needles. An' he bowted straight through th' heawse, an' reel
up-stairs to bed, wi' his clooas on, beawt sayin' a word to chick or
chighlt. His wife watched him run through th' heawse; but he darted
forrud, an' took no notice o' nobody. 'What's up now,' thought Betty;
an' hoo ran after him. When hoo geet up-stairs th' owd lad had retten
croppen into bed; an' he wur ill'd up, e'er th' yed. So Betty turned th'
quilt deawn, an' hoo said. 'Whatever's to do witho, James?' 'Howd te
noise!' said Thwittler, pooin' th' clooas o'er his yed again, 'howd te
noise! I'll play no moor at yon shop!' an' th' bed fair wackert again;
he 're i' sich a fluster. 'Mun I make tho a saup o' gruel?' said Betty.
'Gruel be - - !' said Thwittler, poppin' his yed out o' th' blankets.
'Didto ever yer ov onybody layin' the devil wi' meighl-porritch?' An'
then he poo'd th' blanket o'er his yed again. 'Where's thi fiddle?'
said Betty. But, as soon as Thwittler yerd th' fiddle name't, he gav a
sort of wild skrike, an' crope lower down into bed."

"Well, well," said the old woman, laughing, and laying her knitting
down, "aw never yerd sich a tale i' my life."

"Stop, Nanny," said Skedlock, "yo'st yer it out, now."

"Well, yo seen, this mak o' wark went on fro week to week, till
everybody geet weary on it; an' at last, th' chapel-wardens summon't a
meetin' to see if they couldn't raise a bit o' daycent music, for
Sundays, beawt o' this trouble. An' they talked back an' forrud about it
a good while. Tum o'th Dingle recommended 'em to have a Jew's harp, an'
some triangles. But Bobby Nooker said, 'That's no church music! Did
onybody ever yer "Th' Owd Hundred," played upov a triangle?' Well, at
last they agreed that th' best way would be to have some sort of a
barrel-organ - one o' thoose that they winden up at th' side, an' then
they play'n o' theirsel, beawt ony fingerin' or blowin'. So they ordert
one made, wi' some favour-ite tunes in - 'Burton,' and 'Liddy,' an'
'French,' an' 'Owd York,' an' sich like. Well, it seems that Robin o'
Sceawter's, th' carrier - his feyther went by th' name o' 'Cowd an'
Hungry;' he're a quarryman by trade; a long, hard, brown-looking felley,
wi' e'en like gig-lamps, an' yure as strung as a horse's mane. He looked
as if he'd bin made out o' owd dur-latches, an' reawsty nails. Robin,
th' carrier, is his owdest lad; an' he fawurs a chap at's bin brought up
o' yirth-bobs an' scaplins. Well, it seems that Robin brought this
box-organ up fro th' town in his cart o'th Friday neet; an' as luck
would have it, he had to bring a new weshin'-machine at th' same time,
for owd Isaac Buckley, at th' Hollins Farm. When he geet th' organ in
his cart, they towd him to be careful an' keep it th' reet side up; and
he wur to mind an' not shake it mich, for it wur a thing that wur yezzy
thrut eawt o' flunters. Well, I think Robin mun ha' bin fuddle't or
summat that neet. But I dunnot know; for he's sich a bowster-yed, mon,
that aw'll be sunken if aw think he knows th' difference between a
weshin'-machine an' a church organ, when he's at th' sharpest. But let
that leet as it will. What dun yo think but th' blunderin' foo, - at
after o' that had bin said to him, - went and 'liver't th'
weshin'-machine at th' church, an' th' organ at th' Hollins Farm."

"Well, well," said Nanny, "that wur a bonny come off, shuz heaw. But
how wenten they on at after?"

"Well, I'll tell yo, Nanny," said Skedlock. "Th' owd clerk wur noan in
when Robin geet to th' dur wi' his cart that neet, so his wife coom with
a leet in her hond, an' said, 'Whatever hasto getten for us this time,
Robert?' 'Why,' said Robin, 'it's some mak of a organ. Where win yo ha't
put, Betty?' 'Eh, I'm fain thae's brought it,' said Betty. 'It's for
th' chapel; an' it'll be wanted for Sunday. Sitho, set it deawn i' this
front reawm here; an' mind what thae'rt doin' with it.' So Robin, an'
Barfoot Sam, an' Little Wamble, 'at looks after th' horses at 'Th'
Rompin' Kitlin,' geet it eawt o'th cart. When they geet how'd ont, Robin
said, 'Neaw lads; afore yo starten: Mind what yo'r doin; an' be as
ginger as yo con. That's a thing 'at's soon thrut eawt o' gear - it's a
organ.' So they hove, an' poo'd, an' grunted, an' thrutch't, till they
geet it set down i'th parlour; an' they pretended to be quite knocked up
wi' th' job. 'Betty,' said Robin, wipin' his face wi' his sleeve, 'it's
bin dry weather latly.' So th' owd lass took th' hint, an' fetched 'em a
quart o' ale. While they stood i'th middle o'th floor suppin' their ale,
Betty took th' candle an' went a-lookin' at this organ; and hoo couldn't
tell whatever to make on it.... Did'n yo ever see a weshin'-machine,

"Never i' my life," said Nanny. "Nor aw dunnot want. Gi me a greight
mug, an' some breawn swoap, an' plenty o' soft wayter; an' yo may tak
yo'r machines for me."

"Well," continued Skedlock, "it's moor liker a grindlestone nor a
organ. But, as I were tellin yo: -

"Betty stare't at this thing, an' hoo walked round it an' scrat her
yed mony a time, afore hoo ventur't to speak. At last hoo said, 'Aw'll
tell tho what, Robert; it's a quare-shaped 'un. It favvurs a yung
mangle! Doesto think it'll be reet?' 'Reet?' said Robin, swipin' his ale
off? 'oh, aye; it's reet enough. It's one of a new pattern, at's just
com'd up. It's o' reet, Betty. Yo may see that bith hondle.' 'Well,'
said Betty, 'if it's reet, it's reet. But it's noan sich a nice-lookin'
thin - for a church - that isn't!' Th' little lass wur i'th parlour at th'
same time; an' hoo said, 'Yes. See yo, mother. I'm sure it's right. You
must turn this here handle; and then it'll play. I seed a man playin'
one yesterday; an' he had a monkey with him, dressed like a soldier.'
'Keep thy little rootin' fingers off that organ,' said Betty. 'Theaw
knows nought about music. That organ musn't be touched till thi father
comes whoam, - mind that, neaw.... But, sartainly,' said Betty, takin th'
candle up again, 'I cannot help lookin' at this thing. It's sich a quare
un. It looks like summat belongin' - maut-grindin', or summat o' that.'
'Well,' said Robin, 'it has a bit o' that abeawt it, sartainly.... But
yo'n find it's o' reet. They're awterin' o' their organs to this
pattern, neaw. I believe they're for sellin th' organ at Manchester owd
church, - so as they can ha' one like this.' 'Thou never says!' said
Betty. 'Yigh,' said Robin, 'it's true, what I'm telling yo. But aw mun
be off, Betty. Aw 've to go to th' Hollins to-neet, yet.' 'Why, arto
takin' thame summat?' 'Aye; some mak of a new fangle't machine, for
weshin' shirts an' things.' 'Nay, sure!' said Betty. 'A'll tell tho
what, Robert; they 're goin' on at a great rate up at tat shop." 'Aye,
aye,' said Robin. 'Mon, there's no end to some folk's pride, - till they
come'n to th' floor; an' then there isn't, sometimes.' 'There isn't,
Robert; there isn't. An' I'll tell tho what; thoose lasses o'
theirs, - they're as proud as Lucifer. They're donned more like
mountebanks' foos, nor gradely folk, - wi' their fither't hats, an' their
fleawnces, an' their hoops, an' things. Aw wonder how they can for
shame' o' their face. A lot o' mee-mawing snickets! But they 're no
better nor porritch, Robert, when they're looked up.' 'Not a bit,
Betty, - not a bit! But I mun be off. Good neet to yo'.' 'Good neet
Robert,' said Betty. An' away he went wi' th' cart up to th' Hollins."

"Aw'll tell tho what, Skedlock," said Nanny; "that woman's a terrible

"Aye, hoo has," replied Skedlock; "an' her mother wur th' same. But,
let me finish my tale, Nanny, an' then - "

"Well, it wur pitch dark when Robin geet to th' Hollins farm-yard wi'
his cart. He gav a ran-tan at th' back dur, wi' his whip-hondle; and
when th' little lass coom with a candle, he said, 'Aw've getten a
weshin'-machine for yo.' As soon as th' little lass yerd that, hoo
darted off, tellin' o' th' house that th' new weshin'-machine wur
come'd. Well, yo known, they'n five daughters; an' very cliver, honsome,
tidy lasses they are, too, - as what owd Betty says. An' this news
brought 'em o' out o' their nooks in a fluster. Owd Isaac wur sit i'th
parlour, havin' a glass wi' a chap that he'd bin sellin' a cowt to. Th'
little lass went bouncin' into th' reawm to him; an' hoo said, 'Eh,
father, th' new weshin'-machine's come'd!' 'Well, well,' said Isaac,
pattin' her o'th yed; 'go thi ways an' tell thi mother. Aw'm no wesher.
Thae never sees me weshin', doesto? I bought it for yo lasses; an' yo
mun look after it yorsels. Tell some o'th men to get it into th'
wesh-house.' So they had it carried into th' wesh-house; an' when they
geet it unpacked they were quite astonished to see a grand shinin'
thing, made o' rose-wood, an' cover't wi' glitterin' kerly-berlys. Th'
little lass clapped her hands, an' said, 'Eh, isn't it a beauty!' But
th' owd'st daughter looked hard at it, an' hoo said, 'Well, this is th'
strangest weshin'-machine that I ever saw!' 'Fetch a bucket o' water,'
said another, 'an' let's try it!' But they couldn't get it oppen,
whatever they did; till, at last, they fund some keys, lapt in a piece
of breawn papper. 'Here they are,' said Mary. Mary's th' owd'st
daughter, yo known. 'Here they are;' an' hoo potter't an' rooted abeawt,
tryin' these keys; till hoo fund one that fitted at th' side, an' hoo
twirled it round an' round till hoo'd wund it up; an' then, - yo may
guess how capt they wur, when it started a-playin' a tune. 'Hello?' said
Robin. 'A psaum-tune, bith mass! A psaum-tune eawt ov a weshin'-machine!
Heaw's that?' An' he star't like a throttled cat. 'Nay,' said Mary, 'I
cannot tell what to make o' this!' Th' owd woman wur theer, an' hoo
said, 'Mary; Mary, my lass, thou 's gone an' spoilt it, - the very first
thing, theaw has. Theaw's bin tryin' th' wrong keigh, mon; thou has, for
sure.' Then Mary turned to Robin, an' hoo said, 'Whatever sort of a
machine's this, Robin?' 'Nay,' said Robin, 'I dunnot know, beawt it's
one o' thoose at's bin made for weshin' surplices.' But Robin begun
a-smellin' a rat; an', as he didn't want to ha' to tak it back th' same
neet, he pike't off out at th' dur, while they wur hearkenin' th' music;


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