Lancashire Sketches / Third Edition

ring in the

e Year

king, they'll not combine daycently. How an' ever, gintlemen," continued he, "here's hopin' the fruition of your purses may never fail ye, nor health to consign their contents to utility. An' neaw," said he, lighting his pipe, and putting the empty basket on his head like a cowl, "I must go, if the rain comes in pailfuls, for I'm not over well; an' if I could get home wud wishin', I'd be in bed by the time ye'd say 'trap-sticks!' But dramin' an' schamin's neither ridin' nor

d by their own hands, because it would encourage others to commit suicide. From this we glided to the subject of consecrated ground; and a question arose respecting a man who had been accidentally buried partly in consecrated and partly in unconsecrated ground,-a

three years. I look out for th' postman day by day,-but nothing comes. Sometimes I think he's dead. But the Lord knows. It's like to trouble one, you're sure. It's hard work, with one thing and another, very; for I 'have to scratch before I can peck,' as th' saying is, and shall to th' end o' my day, now. But if you can hear of anything likely, I wish you would let me know,-for leave yonder I will. I wouldn't stop if they'd hang my hair wi' diamonds,-I wouldn't indeed. I've said it, an' signed it,-so there's an end. But what, they'll never ask me to stop, I doubt. It's very hard. You see I have to keep my son's little boy in a neighbour's house,-this is him,-and that eats up nearly all my bit o' wage; and where's my clothing to come from? But, don't you see, yon people are greedy to a degree. Lord bless you! They'd skin three devils for one hide,-they would for sure. See yo; one day-(here she whispered something which I didn't exactly catch)-they did indeed! As Missis Dixon said, when I met her

Moses, aw'll s

aid she; "not that

aron, thine's s

hing. Come, be quick; 'Twinkle, twinkle,'" But here the train was ready; and in five minutes

out a hundred years ago, and pleasantly dropt at the foot of a great natural embankment, which divides the low-lying plain from the sea. The house stands among slips of orderly garden and plantation, with poultry yards and outhouses at the north-east end. The green country, sparely sprinkled with white farmhouses and cottages, spreads out in front, far and wide, to where the heathery fells of Lancashire bound the eastward view. The scene is as quiet as a country church just before service begins, except where the sails of a windmill are whirling in the wind, or the fleecy steam-cloud of a distant train gushes across the landscape, like a flying fountain of snow. On a knoll behind the house there is a little rich orchard, trimly hemmed in by thick thorn hedges. In March I found its shadeless walks open to the cold sky, and all its holiday glory still brooding patiently down in the soil; but I remember how oft, in summer, when the boughs were bending to the ground with fruit, and the leaves were so thick overhead, that the sunshine could only find its way through chinks of the green ceiling, we have pushed the branches aside, and walked and talked among its bowery shades; or, sitting on benches at the edge of the fish-pond

rd contains many interesting memorials, but none more solemnly eloquent than a certain row of green mounds covering the remains of the unknown drowned washed upon that coast from time to time. Several of these, which drifted ashor

ch Bridgets," we walked about, whilst I took a parting look at the landscape. Immediately behind us the sea was singing its old song; and below lay the little rural parish, "where," as I heard the rector say in one of his sermons, "a man cannot walk into the open air but all his neighbours can see him." Beyond, the tranquil Fylde stretches out its drowsy green, now oblivious of all remembrance of piratical ravage, which so often swept over it in ancient times. Yonder, the shipping of Fleetwood is clearly in sight to the north. And there, a sunbeam, stealing between the fleecy clouds, glides across the land from field to field, with a kind of plaintive grace, as if looking for a lost garden. Over meadow, over wood, and little t

ner before he is half satisfied. Accompanied by my friend, I walked four miles, on highways and by-ways, to meet the train at Poulton. The

ing Mi

r

the Workl

heart of ma

the heart of

them all

'mid the wor

his great

and it dot

he lids up

eary and

Russel

le of Lancashire. Anybody accustomed to wander among the moorlands of the country will remember how common it is to hear the people practising sacred music in their lonely cottages. It is not uncommon to meet working men wandering over the wild hills, "where whin and heather grow," with their musical instruments, to take part in some village oratorio many miles away. "That reminds me," as tale-tellers say, of an incident among the hills, which was interesting, though far from singular in my experience. Up in the forest of Rosendale, between Derply Moor and the wild hill called Swinshaw, there is a lone valley,-a green cup in the mountains,-called "Dean." The inhabitants of this valley are so notable for their love of music, that they are known all through the vales of Rossendale as "Th' Deighn Layrocks," or "The Larks of Dean." In the twilight of a glorious Sunday evening, in the height of summer, I was roaming over the heathery waste of Swinshaw, towards Dean, in company with a musical friend of mine, who lived in the neighbouring clough, when we saw a little crowd of people coming down a moorland slope, far away in front of us. As they drew nearer, we found that many of them had musical instruments; and when we met, my friend recognised them as working people living in the district, and mostly well known to him. He inquired where they had been; and when they told him that they had "bin to a bit of a sing deawn i'th Deighn," "Well," said he, "can'

nds, as if to keep one another in countenance. Sometimes they come in a large family all together, the females with their hymn-books, and the men with their different musical instruments,-bits of pet salvage from the wrecks of cottage homes. The women have sometimes children in their arms, or led by the hand; and they sometimes carry music-books for the men. I have seen them, too, with little handkerchiefs of rude provender for the day. As I said before, they are almost invariably clean in person, and their clothing is almost always sound and seemly in appearance, however poor and scant

ts who w

ter'd garb, h

cannot recon

ainful shyness

erving, sil

ception of a favourite glee now and then, their music consisted chiefly of fine psalm tunes,-often plaintive old strains, known and welcome to all, because they awaken tender and elevating remembrances of life. "Burton," "French," "Kilmarnock," "Luther's Hymn," the grand "Old Hundred," and many other fine tunes of similar character, have floated daily in the air of our city for months together. I am sure that this choice does not arise from the minstrels themselves having craft enough to select "a mournful muse, soft pity to infuse." It is the kind of music which has been the practice and pleasure of their lives; and it is a fortuitous thing that now, in addition to its natural plaintiveness, the sad necessity of the times lends a tender accompaniment to their

I born

this bo

y tremblin

world u

f deepes

by human

country o

things a

same melody is cut upon Leech's gravestone, in the old Wesleyan chapelyard at Rochdale. I saw a com

shades, if

ning i

y sisters is lookin' after her." "Well, an' heaw han yo getten on?" said I. "Oh, we'n done weel; but we's come no moor," replied he. Another day, there was an instrumental band of these operatives playing sacred music close to the Exchange lamp. Amongst the crowd around, I met with a friend of mine. He told me that the players were from Stalybridge. They played some fine old tunes, by desire, and, among the rest, they played one called "Warrington." When they had played it several times over, my friend turned to me and said, "That tune was composed by a Rev. Mr. Harrison, who was once minister of Cross-street Unitarian Chapel, in Manchester; and o

far as possible. Many of these street wanderers have gone home again, disgusted, to pinch out the hard time in proud obscurity; and there are some, no doubt, who have wandered away to other parts of England. Of these last, we may naturally expect that a few may become so reconciled to a life of wandering minstrelsy, that the

dent during th

hysic,

to feel what

t shake the sup

he heavens

ng

peaceful charm which pervaded everything about the man, and his house, and the scene which it stood in. After tea, he came with me across the fields to the Midway Inn, on Stockport Road, where the omnibuses call on their way to Manchester. It was a lovely evening, very clear and cool, and twilight was sinking upon the scene. Waiting for the next omnibus, we leaned against the long wooden watering-trough, in front of the inn. The irregular old building looked pictu

and, James!

th' first wood! Come agai

ong bia

's t

d, but it w

arrow, o'

ing. And here I am reminded, as I write, that the philosophic Dr. Dalton was a regular bowler upon Tattersal

was so; and at last a little thing befel which, I am sure, represented the condition of many a thousand more in Lancashire just now. Three young women stopped on the footpath in front of the inn, close to the place where we stood, and began to talk together in a very free, open way; quite careless of being overheard. One of them was a stout, handsome young woman, about twenty-three. Her dress was of light printed stuff, clean and good. Her round, ruddy arms, her clear, blonde complexion, and the bright expression of her full, open countenance, all indicated health and good nature. I guessed from her conversation, as well as from her general appearance, that she was a factory operative, in full employ-though that is such a rare thing in these parts now. The other two looked very poor and downhearted. One was a short, thick-set girl, seemingly not twenty years of age; her face was sad, and she had very little to say. The other was a

n' Martha here! Eh, lasses;

ell, when we coom to Gorton we geet two-pence-hawpenny theer,-an' that wur o'. There's plenty moor beggin' beside us! Well, at after that twopence-hawpenny, we geet twopence moor; an' that's o' at we'n getten. But, eh, lasses, when aw coom to do it, aw hadn't th' heart to ax for nought,-aw hadn't for sure.... Martha an' me's walked aboon ten mile, if we'n walked a yard; an' we geet weet through th' first thing; an' aw wur ill when we set off, an' so wur Martha, too; aw know hoo wur; though hoo says nought mich abeawt it. Well; we coom back through t' teawn; an' we wur both on us fair stagged up. Aw never wur so done o'er i' my

woman, who seemed to be in work; and now the poor woman who had been

us, mon. Aw feel better neaw. We's be reet enough to-morn, lass. Mon, there's awlus some way shap't That

n yo; but thee come back wi' me, Sarah! Aw'll find thee a good bed; an' thae'rt welcome to a share o' what there is-as welcome as th' flowers i' May-thae knows that.... Thae'rt th' owdest o'th two; an' thae'rt noan fit to trawnce up an' deawn o' this shap. Come back to eawr heawse; an'

t it. Aw'd rayther Sarah would stop, for hoo'll be ill. Aw c

aid her hand once more upon the shoulder o

wick soul wi' him! He'd fret hissel' to deeoth this neet, mon, if aw didn't go whoam! Aw couldn't sleep a wink for thinkin' abeawt him! Th' child would be fit to start eawt

in Lancashire from no fault of theirs. I know the people well. The greatest number of them would starve themselves to that degree that they would not be of much more physical use in this world, before they would condescend to

dy, calamities may arise which will cost England a hundred times more than a sufficient relief-a relief worthy of those who are suffering, and of the nation they belong to-would have co

therine'

R

tty Isl

reat, and s

hen the bel

y on the d

decked thy s

og

ntains of Morne and Wicklow, in Ireland, show their faint outlines in the west. The bay, from the point where the headlands-Brada on the north side, and The Cassels on the south side of the entrance-front each other, like sentinels placed to guard the little nest beyond from all ravage of the sea, is about half a mile across, and about a mile inland. From that point up to the hamlet at the head of the water, Port Erin is a pleasant seclusion, sweetly retired, even on the landward side, from bustle of any kind, except such as the sea makes when a strong west wind brings Neptune's white-maned horses into the little bay in full career. Then, indeed, Port Erin wears an aspect of a nobler and more spirit-stirring kind. But, even then, when the spray is flying over the thatched roofs of the fishermen's cottages, low down, near to the beach, the briny tumult is mere child's play in a nursery nook, compared to the roaring majesty with which the billows of the Atlantic wilderness rage among the creeks, and chasms, and craggy headlands

errace. It is very pleasant to saunter about, there, on a fine summer's day-or on any other day,-to one who loves nature in all her moods. It is, perhaps, better still to sit down, and look lovingly upon the scene. The witchery of peace is on all around, when the wind is still; the smoke from cottage chimneys rises idly into the pure air-idle as Ludlam's dog, that leaned against a wall to bark. It rises, here and there, in lazy blue rings-lounging curls of fat blue smoke, that seem over-fed, and "done up" with pleasant lassitude, as if they had just finished a good dinner; and would rather have a nap before going out. The cottages of the village are picturesquely strewn about, as if they had been dropped through holes in a sack, by somebody who happened to be flying over the place. But they chiefly cluster on the south side at the head of the bay, about the bottom of the hill; not far from high water. They, then, straggle up the southern hill-side-like school children out for a holiday-one on this shelf of green land; another in a nook of the hill; another on the nose of a breezy bit of crag; others, in and o

egation of

moons, had shaped t

ese islanders believe in fairies. Scratch deep enough into any Manxman, and you will find fairies, dancing by moonlight, amongst a world of other weird imaginations. But we will let the old seaman go on with his story. The village is all under the eye; and it is such a homely spot, that if one stays a few days there, and is at all disposed to be communicative, one begins to know everybody "by headmark," as the saying is-"Billy this," and "Johnny that," and "Neddy Omragh;" and the old wanderer from the neighbourhood of Pool Vash, who invariably recites a little epitaph he wrote upon some notable person in that quarter a few years ago; and who invariably expects something for reciting it. One begins to know the village folk "by headmark," as I have said before, and they stop and salute you kindly, and chat about the weather, the fishing, the crops, and such like; and there is something very homely and pleasant in feeling one's self thus linked in a kindly way to the rest of the human race w

rection of Creag-y-N'eash, I can hear the prattle of little bare-legged lads, who are sailing their tiny, chip-built ships, and clamorously discussing their relative qualities, as they watch how they fare among the eddies and rapids of the stream which runs down the green crease about the middle of the village. I can hear the cackle of a large family of very clean and very fat ducks, as they waddle and paddle, and splash the water about, and open their wings, and wag their dumpy tails with delight, upon the slushy margin of a pool, where the same streamlet has been dammed up, for their especial pleasure. I can hear the opening and shutting, of cottage doors, in different parts of the village; and I can hear something of the wild fringe of an old Manx song, which a fisherman is crooning, as he saunters along the strand towards his boat; which lies, high and dry, in a sheltered nook, under the craggy cliff, at the south side of the bay. I can hear the call of the Manx shepherd to his dog, upon the dark mountain side, towards Brada Head. Each sound is distinctly-framed in the pervading quietness of the scene. At an open bow-window of the hotel behind me, two elderly gentlemen sit talking together, and evidently enjoying what little breeze there is from the sea. I have got it into my head, somehow, that they are men of learning. One of them is a stout, hearty-looking gentleman, who wears a black velvet skullcap; and likes to dine in his own room,-"because he has a good deal of writing to do." I wonder what he is writing about. He is talking in a sonorous tone of voice, to a dignified old friend of his, whose manners at table, I have noticed, always evince the self-possession, the graceful, quiet action, and kindliness which mark a cultivated gentleman. He is tall and thin; and his noble aquiline nose sustains a pair of gold spectacles. Perhaps the black velvet skullcap and the gold spectacles have something to do with my notion that they are learned men; but I believe I am right, nevertheless. They are talking about the history of the island, and about the geology of this part of it; especially about the mines at Brada Head. I begin to

t as well

end of a long life yet to come." Now she sits down by the open window; and a handsome, light-complexioned lad, about twelve years old, is teasing her in an affectionate way about something or another; whilst a beautiful, sunny-haired girl, of sixteen or so, leans over th

." They have, very likely, come across the island from Douglas, making a call or two on the way. If one may measure their enjoyment by the noise they make, they certainly ought to

tely leave you to your own devices and desires, for the poor fellow knows who is kind to him a great deal better than some of us do who think that we have all our wits about us. Poor Johnny! He is fond of a penny, like most of the world; and he needs it more than some people do; although He "who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb" has scattered a few kind hearts about the wanderer's way that will not see him want for any needful thing. But I have seen people that Johnny would not accept a penny from; and I have many a time wondered at the curious principle of selection which seemed to lurk in some corner of his disordered mind. I remember a little excursion we made, one fine summer's day, over the mountain on the south side of Port Erin, and among the wild cliffs, near the Sound, which divides the Isle of Man from The Calf. It was a company of six; and amongst them was the landlord of the hotel-a kind-hearted and intelligent Englishman. Johnny followed him, barefoot, all the rugged way, with the affectionate instinct of a faithful dog. As we returned homeward, by wandering, and sometimes dangerous tracks, along the edge of the precipices, on the south side of the bay-where the sea roared and dashed majestically among lonely creeks two or three hundred feet below, and the c

t, filling all the air with a slumbrous influence.... Now the fisher's wife beets up her cottage fire, sweeps the hearth, and puts the kettle on, to cheer her sea-beaten mate on his return from the wild waters; and, here and there, fresh smoke is rising again from cottage chimneys; bluer and more briskly than in the glowing afternoon.... The old fisherman and his village companions are mustering upon the grass at the end of the terrace again. He has long since finished the story about his adventure with the fairies among the mountains; and he has been carousing with his comrades in the taproom of the Falcon's Nest. They have brought another pitcher of "jough" out with them. And, listen! They are beginning to sing, in chorus, the plaintive old Manx song, called "Molly Charrane!" The strange melody floats up, weird and sweet, blending beautifully with the murmurs of the rising tide, and waking up remembrances of the wild history and wilder legends of "Mona's fair

and promont

ont, and br

each, with

as in has

fortress, wh

blast, and r

the drea

e Sound between the Island and the Calf of Man.... As twilight deepens down, the breeze freshens, and the blue waves begin to heave with life. Great white-winged ships glide majestically by-some near, some far off; and some almost lost to sight in the distance. Far away, in the west, the outlines of the mountains of Morne and Wicklow are fading away from view. It is a bewitching hour! It is a bewitching scene! But now the Irish mountains have disappeared in the shade; and the distant sea grows dim to the eye. The v

ss beautiful a

ll thy quiet

nes are round m

ous notes, whose

d the

nocke

ock; and a moo

Wat

ly that of awakening people who have to go to work early in a morning; and the number of these is very great in a city like ours, where manufacturing employments mingle so largely with commercial life. Another reason why this curious employment is so common in Manchester may be that there are so many things there to lure a working man into late hours of enjoyment,-so many wild excitements that help to "knock him up," after his ordinary work is over, and when his time is his own, so many temptations to "lengthen his days by stealing a few hours from the night," that the services of the morning "Knocker-Up" are essential. For the factory-bell, like death, is inexorable in its call; and when, in the stillness of the morning, the long wand of the awakener comes tapping at the workman's window, he knows that he must rise and go; no matter how ill-prepared,-no matter how mis-spent his ni

bb, or, like the herald drops of a coming shower, begins to patter, here and there, upon the sleepy streets once more; whoever has seen Manchester at such a time, has seen it clothed in a beauty such as noontide never knew. It is, indeed, a sight to make the heart "run o'er with silent worship." It is pleasant, even at such a time, to open the window to the morning breeze, and to lie awake, listening to the first driblets of sound that stir the heavenly stillness of the infant day:-the responsive crowing of far-distant cocks; the chirp of sparrows about the eaves and neighbouring house-tops; the barking of dogs; the stroke of some far-off church clock, booming with strange distinctness through the l

rint-race"-severe whilst it lasts, but soon over. And the aim of the Knocker-Up is to get as many customers as possible within as small a circle as possible,-which greatly lessens the labour. A man who has to waken a hundred people, at different houses, between five and six o'clock, needs to have them "well under hand," as coachmen say. With this view, Knockers-Up sometimes exchange customers with one another, so as to bring their individual work as close together as possible. The rate of pay is from twopence to threepence per week for each person awakened; and the employment is sometimes combined with the keeping of

wakefulness,-and it smote its forehead with sudden amazement, and gazed around to see what was the matter. I couldn't tell whatever to make of the thing. My first thought was that it must be the man who examines the gas meters, and that he was behind with his work, and in a bad temper about something. And then I began to think of my debts: it might be an indignant creditor, or some ruthless bully of a dun-which is a good deal worse-and I began to be unhappy. I sighed, from the bottom of my heart, and looked round the room in search of comfort. Alas! there was nothing there to cheer my sinking spirits. The drowsy furniture had started from its long-continued trance; and the four somnolent walls were staring at one another with wild eyes, and whispering, "What's that?" The clock was muttering in fearful undertones to the frightened drawers; and the astonished ceiling, as it gazed down at the trembling carpet, whispered to its lowly friend, "Look out!" as if it thought the whole house was coming down. I looked at my watch-for, indeed, I hardly knew where to look-and I began to apprehend that the fatal hour had come, at last, when we should have to part,-perhaps for ever. I looked at my poor old watch

ake of him. He was a queer-looking mortal; and he had evidently "been dining," as the upper ten thousand say when any of their own set get drunk. At the first glance, I thought he was begging; but I soon changed my mind about that, for the hardy little fellow stood bolt upright, and there

at is it?

, this seemed to vex him. At last I found that he was a Knocker-Up, and that he had called for his week's "brass." I saw at once that the old man was astray; and the moment I told him where he was

nt of a Sad

or of the W

, being composed of nuisances, would be destroyed, like the Irish cats in the story. In fact, sir, there is nobody in the world that is not a nuisance to somebody; though that is hardly a sufficient reason why they should be allowed to worry one another. But in these days, the art and mystery of grumbling-that native prerogative which has grown up so luxuriantly in the soil of our English freedom, that the grumblers now constitute an eminently valuable power in the state-the art and mystery of grumbling (it really is artful and mysterious sometimes) is now growing into a kind of social scurvy, more annoying than serviceable

in its own defence; thanks to that instinctive leaning to fair play which, while it deprecates anything that is foul, yet acknowledges that even foulness itself may, sometimes, have a fair side. My dear sir, we nuisances have endured so much, as we may say, from those of our own household,

power the g

sels as it

would be a general benefit to hold up the mirror to these inconsiderate grumblers a little now and then. To whom, then, in this difficulty, can we

ed, or are not in places where they are needed; pavements which are too slippery for horses, and too rough for ladies; music to people who have no ear for it, and noises to people who have a delicate ear for music, and either to people who like neither; mutually-discordant neighbours; church bells that are not rung, and church bells that are rung too much, and church bells that are not melodious when they are rung; holes in the street, and places where holes are likely to be, sometime; too much water, and too little water; cockle shells; broken pots; the smell of dinners floating up from hotel kitchens; and the inarticulate wails of chip-sellers and fish women; want of loyalty to the crown; want of loyalty to the people; the insolence of cabmen, and railway buffers; sneezing during service-time; fast-days, proposed by people who are ill with feasting, and feast-days, proposed by people who are ill with fasting; general holidays, proposed by those who are paid for their holidays, and objected to by those who are not paid for them; and a thousand other things, more insignificant even than these; sometimes ferreted out by ingenious old fogies, of an irritable disposition, who go tooting about the streets, "finding things out;" or by young "green" persons, driven to their wits' end by a kind of literary measles. Heaven knows, I do not wish to "freeze the genial current" of such poor souls as these

t complained of. How on earth any smell, such as the one alluded to by these gentlemen, can manage to travel two mortal miles, in a high wind, working its passage through a hundred other smokes and smells as it goes, and still preserve its own individuality, surpasses me to know. But so it is. Up to Kersall Moor, and other green nooks of nestling, miles off, where the human nose is critical, this compact nuisance cleaves its way through the murky air, keeping wonderfully free from communion with the elements it passes through, and strikes the senses at that distance as distinctly as if it were a flat-iron. It seems to hold itself in till it has found out noses which can appreciate it, and then it "comes out strong," evidently making an effort to reveal all the pent-up pungency of its nature, in the hope of gaining a little respectable disti

from one locality to another, every time an inconsiderate complaint happens to be made against him? Is he to become a kind of nomadic outcast? Is he to betake himself to utter solitude, and go from one "des

ordinary exemption from the common troubles of this manufacturing locality! And well might Pendleton sing, if this were true; but who does not know how many things which are really useful and necessary, are not always pleasant to those who have no immediate interest in them? Who does not know that if everything which is a nuisance to somebody or another, at one time or another, were removed from society, there would be hardly anything useful left in society at all,-and if all the nuisances in society were to cry out in this way, at once, against each other, who knows where it would end? They would cleave the general ear with horrid grumbling. Really, gentlemen who get their living by the necessary infliction of unpleasant noises, and smok

m,

s tr

COMP

, Printers, Pall

TNO

851. Has been Chief Secretary for Ireland, and Secretary of

The statue itself has a noble and simple appearance, but the pedestal on which it stands looks an insignificant footing for a figure of such proport

ish't-p

Gr

wothore

entleman may have the most valuable advice on matters of health, sickness, profession, trade, emigration, and speculation; also marriage-its prospects to the inquirer, whether it will be attended with happiness, the time of its occurrence, a full description and character of the present or future partner, with copious instruction to the unmarried-which offe

phonso

ad Feelt," where the Danes encamped, previously to their attack on th

hein'-i

tcry against Methodism. Violence of Mobs, and Misconduct of Magistrates:" When John Leach was pelted, near Rochdale, in those riotous days, and saw his brother wounded in the forehead by a stone, he was mad enough to tell the rabble th

ullen-

t reean-head

t-hight

hewt-w

ding to the 'Old Style,

Old s

sta de

SS. Codex 2,

pedigree of this family in Dodswor

nd-loom weaver used to impel his shuttle. "As straight as a pickin'

rigin of Power-loom

Newton, on Newton He

or which the village of Eccle

d Eccles cakes, who used to be well

inhabitants of Lancashire villages, to adorn the front of

rty-six ga

n Newton Heath, with a pleasant bowling-green behin

xaminer, says of this word 'symble,' a feast, it is very likely 'symbslum,' which means the same, in form of pic-nic; and adds, 'In Tuscany a fine cake is called semolino. When I was a boy at

pedigree of this family in Dodswor

ry of the Rebellion," e

: v. 2, p. 676. 12mo: v. 1, p. 55. Adams's Cat. of

y Stowe, Strype's editio

Dodsworth's MSS. Bodleian Lib. v. cxvii. p

rin-fearf

Order of the Royal Oak. According to MS. memorandum, he died 26th March

ed," in Roby's "Trad

one, who headed the Irish rebe

eather-grow

between Rochdal

at cut em deawn-the devil ast

o, neaw?-heare

my lad-our

ke; a long piece

ck-a freak

elit-d

lto-by force; a

n-scaring;

enton family who

eat-whole; able

may naturally be ex

ut do't wi'th wynt-folk that have a hous

a name applied to th

Mancuniensis, Will

agazine, vol

ve been removed of late years, and stou

tively denuded of timber; the underwood on the left side is ne

MS., fol. 274,

rary" (Hearne's edit

ter, in one John Pendleton's ground, as one was reaping, the corne being cut seemed to bleede; drops fell out of it like to bloud; multitudes of people went to see it: and the straws thereof, though of a kindly colour without, were within reddish, and as it were bloudy!' Boggart-hole Clough, too, was another favourite haunt of ghostly visitants, the

riber'

ation and accents have been retained excep