The Wind Among the Heather (1916) by Ammon Wrigley

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AMMON WRIGLEY.

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THE WIND AMONG THE HEATHER.

A BOOK OF THE OLD DALESFOLK, THE OLD FIRESIDES, AND THE OLD INN CORNERS OF BYGONE SADDLEWORTH.

BY

AMMON WRIGLEY,

AUTHOR OF

‘*Sones oF A ‘‘SADDLEWORTH: ITS PREHISTORIC

Remains,”’ ‘* SADDILEWORTH SUPERSTITIONS AND FoLK CUSTOMS,” ETC., ETC.

WITH PHOTOGRAPHS AND ILLUSTRATIONS BY JOHN HOUGHTON HAGUE AND THE AUTHOR.

ALL RIGHTS RESERYED.

—e

1916.

HUDDERSFIELD :

ALFRED JuBB & Son, Ltrp., ALBANY PRINTING WORKS.

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To My FATHER AND MOTHER AND

HE CoLp GREY FIELDS oF OXHE’

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‘* Life like a dome of many coloured glass Stains the white radiance of Eternity.” Shelley

INTRODUCTION.

Ir is well for me that the foreword prepared my readers for a careless book, they know what to expect. It is careless and how much more they must find out for themselves. Old “ Daff o’ Dick’s” once said “little words hav big meeun- ings, un big words hav little meeunings fur wurchin foak.” I trust I have kept this saying so well in sight that my readers may wade through these pages without the help of a dictionary. The ground work of the book is designedly the rougher side of Saddleworth life and character, the side with no veneer or external polish upon it. Whatever may be inferred, I have not mocked at religion, that 1s not my attitude towards it. By religion, I mean something more than the empty framework of ritual, which to-day commonly passes for religion. I shall most likely get mauled a little for having written favourably of inns and inn folks, but I feel that ninety-seven men out of every hundred will acquit me of wrongdoing, that being the case, I shall not trouble about the three in revolt. I tremble for the errors which may have crept into these pages, but the man who, after the day’s work, scribbles half asleep through the small hours of the morning is a fool if he poses as a pattern of accuracy. If he does anything at all he should either “ tip’ his error hunting critics or

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tell them to go where Rip o’ Wang’s told the local preacher to go. It has been my good luck to run across jannock men, I say this sincerely and despite their protests, and even if I hang for it, I will acknowledge my deep indebtedness to Richard Johnson, George Booth, Frank W. Chadderton, Reginald Kenney, Leonard Schofield, George Thompson, Thomas Thompson, and other friends whose names are legion. I am under an obligation to my artist friend, John Houghton Hague, for the two characteristic sketches, pages 75 and 57. I also tender my thanks to James Knott for the Cockfighting print, and to Thomas Thompson for the print of the Hunting Calls. I am indebted to the compilations of Rowbottom and Giles Shaw and to rare old Omar Khayyam I owe my outlook upon life conveyed in the lines :—

boots it to repeat How Time is slipping under our feet,

Unborn To-morrow, dead Yesterday ; Why fret about them if To-day be sweet.”’

A few of the chapters, greatly condensed appeared many years ago in newspaper columns. The bynames refer to no one in particular, but are given as types which are characteristic of the district. When religion and commercialism begin to live together in the same house, I shall attempt I a prayerful book touching the history of old Saddleworth churches and chapels.

A. W.

Hilltop, Feb. 14th, 1916.

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‘CONTENTS.

STANZAS, TO THE READER wee vee wee OLD LYDGATE ... vee wee wee THE RECHABITE ... wee wes wee wee JAMIE 0’ BESOM’S vee wee wee eee SALLY 0’ JImM’s 0’ Cowp BEN’s vee UPPERMILL, AN IMPRESSION SHAW wee _ wes wee Owp Donty’s SuprEeRin Do JACK 0’ Piry’s Proves HIMSELF A BRITON WRIGLEY ... THE ‘‘ at DELPH THE ORIGIN OF SOME SADDLEWORTH SURNAMES THE CRUCIFIXION CURING A COLD ... BROADBENT Nan 0’ RATCHER’S GARTSIDE ... Brits 0’ CHEESE ... wes SCHOFIELD wes . ‘* NEM 0’ TH’ Owpd Poot’s”’ at A CHURN GETTING THE VOLUNTEERS wee THE BATTLE OF HARROPDALE “A at THe Buack Tur Inn LADY GWENDOLEN’S ELOPEMENT WINTERBOTTOM ‘* GRENFILT ”’ By THE Prat FIRE ON THE STANEDGE Moors BUCKLEY ... A Huntinac Morn DoBcross, AN IMPRESSION “TH Divi’s DEAwN ... SPRINGTIME LIFE Cory oF HuntTiIne CALLS List OF FRIARMERE FARMSTEADS, ETC.

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105 123 142 157 171 183 198 211 218 230 235 243 249 268 278 290 292 314 315 332 333 364 372 373 374 375

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ILLUSTRATIONS.

LN NNN

FRONTISPIECE AN OLD SADDLEWORTH COCKFIGHT ... An Otp INN CORNER JUNTER AND JAMIE O’TH LOW A Moorutanp HAMLET, FERNLEE NAN 0’ RATCHER’S ALDERMAN, STORMY WEATHER THE WAYSTONE, WAYSTONE EpcE Moor JACK O’ THRUTCHER’S ... DoxBcROSS

ANCIENT HUNTING CALLS

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ll 57 75 143 183 211 249 298 ado 374

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STANZAS.

To tHe READER.

LIKE the wind among the heather, Just as careless and as free, Up and down this old moor parish, Let’s go tramping, you and me.

Why sit moping on the hearthstone Out of doors the throstle sings, And the wind from weathered uplands To the cheek the colour brings.

Life’s too short to pull long faces, All too soon its day is done ; Let’s go laughing through the hours To the setting of our sun.

Up the white roads of the morning To the still grey roads of eve, We will take to no man sorrow Nor a care behind us leave.

We will hear the red grouse calling From some misty morning height, And we'll mark across the heavens Some strong kestrel’s arrowy flight.

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From old Friezland up to Denshaw, On the great main road we'll go, Here and there we'll call and “ neighbour ’ With the kindly folks we know.

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Down the fields, from top of Wharmton, In the summer evening still, We will come with friends who gather In the inns of Upper Mull.

Down the winding road from Stanedge We will tramp on August nights, And we'll see down Diggle shining All its homely window lights.

Into old world, nooks and corners, To the hearths of jannock folks, We will carry song and laughter Till we shake the oaken boakes.

When across the moorlands tramping, We at last begin to tire, We will seek some old inn kitchen And its ruddy turf built fire.

Then some clean white-aproned woman Shall display her wifely skill, New laid eggs and home-fed bacon, We will sit and take our fill.

Then we'll talk with hillside farmers, And our hearts in friendship link, And the maids shall fill our tankards With the ale that good men drink.

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And hear old Ben o’th Ceawcote Tell his tales and country rhymes, And old Dan o’ Jim’s o’ Sarah’s Sing the songs of olden times.

We'll be straight to man and woman And as open as the day, Creeds were never God’s religion, Never mind what preachers say.

If we meet some hungry beggar, Shall we pray that he be fed, It were better and more christian That we give him cheese and bread.

If we meet some hardy shepherd With his sheep at four lane ends ; If we meet some handloom weaver, They shall know us for their friends.

We'll say nought in praise of drinking That outsteps a gill or two, Though the world’s best men and wisest Were among the “ unco fou.”

If a man’s best drink is water, We will neither mock nor rail, If he’ll grant to us the quaffing Of a cup of home-brewed ale.

It may be that I’m outspoken, That ’m not bound up by creeds, That I’ve cut adrift from teaching That just fits a Sunday’s needs.

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There’s too much of God in theory, And too little God in fact, There’s too much of preaching goodness And too little in the act.

Now old friend, when we’ve done roaming, You will think no worse of me,

That you found me rough and gradely, Which is all I wish to be.

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ty

OLD LYDGAT

A SKETCH.

THE village of Lydgate stands on the top of a hill and is about 900 feet above the sea level. It can be seen from many parts of the parish, but the most impressively of all, in the evening from the low meadows of Friezland. In that hour, the houses stand up against the fading western sky like the dark battlemented walls of an old fortress. It is a borderland village which looks well over the towns of Lancashire on one side and the moor- lands of Yorkshire on the other. It sees something of Cheshire and also of Derbyshire. Though Lydgate stands upon Yorkshire ground, its leanings and sympathies go out Lancashire way. The houses show their preference by standing with their fronts to Lancashire and their backs to Yorkshire and the east wind. From their own doorsteps the villagers can see and also smell “brave and “Owdham”’ is good to see and better to smell. Who that has ever gone out from the country and caught a sniff of town air from the Bent can ever forget it. When Jim D. lay ill, one of his friends said : ‘“Goh eaut into Saddleworth mon, wheer thi groo sheep up theau con smell th’ moors. It'll get thi back

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Nowe,” Jim replied, “ let mi tarry 1) Owdham wheer thi groo factory chimblys un aw con smell th’ Gravel Woaks.”’ Lydgate is a stern, hard featured village, it has a cock fighting look about it that even the church of St. Ann’s, newly restored, cannot soften or suppress. The streetway is bleak and cold to look upon. The houses are bare and grey, and look as though they had been “ dubbed ” and “ cut out ” hike a gamecock. Wind and rough weather may have had something to do with this, but one thinks that the wear and tear of stout old English days is shown upon their walls. It was anciently a village which nourished the blood and _ grizzle sports of bull baiting and cockfighting, and also the minor sports of pigeon flying and trail hunting. The village green is now so quiet that one is apt to forget that it has been the scene of much wild and tumultuous devilry. For the moment, one forgets that bulls were baited there and that men and cocks fought like fiends for the glory of the old Lydgate Wakes. Over in the quiet grassy churchyard he the battle kings of an age that made Lydgate famous in the world of sport. The memorable days have left the village. The fires of its youth have burnt out and now it sits dozing on the hill like an old warrior who is ending his days in peace. The descriptions of Georgian bullbaits, which have come down to us, show it to our eyes as a brutal sport. It was apparently the sport of men who were as much animal as the dogs which they slipped at the bull. In years further back, it was a royal sport with Kings and

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Queens behind it. Queen Elizabeth went regularly to the bull ring with lords and ladies in attendance. In George the Fourth’s time, the national mind changed and set against bull baiting, with the result that about 1833 it was suppressed by law, Lydgate was one of the many neighbouring villages where bull baiting, dog fighting, and cockfighting, formed the principal Wakes’ attractions. Times and fashions change. Nowadays, a man goes to a Wakes fashionably dressed, a cigarette in his mouth, and a gold mounted stick in his hand. If he inquired, he would probably find that his great grandfather went to a Wakes with a pair of new “‘ feighting’ shoon ”’ on his feet, a gamecock under his arm, and a fighting dog in a slip at his side. It was a combination of “ blood un black een,”’ not “ traycle ” toffy and kiss-in-the-ring that made a Wakes in the olden time.. Then men baited bulls, fought cocks, and fought each other for three daysrunning. The rushcarts were responsible for much heavy drinking, fighting, and rough horse play. In 1773, Ryley, the Itinerant, saw a Saddle- worth village Wakes, but he never wished to see another. It was all blood and savagery. He saw a baited bull lying exhausted upon the ground. Its nose was torn and hanging in bloody shreds. There was a ring of men yelling round it, each armed with a heavy stick, and when the dogs were not worrying the fallen animal the men were beating it. Ryley, along with others, went into a barn and saw two men stripped to the waist fighting each other like wild beasts. He went into an alehouse and found it full of men and

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women drunk “ov a’ lump,” some singing and bawling and others trying to dance. The Saddleworthians of that age were big strong ‘ withering’? men who were happiest whenever they found a handfull of “ bother” in their way. In referring to turbulent events which happened in 1757, Tim Bobbin says: “It was in these circumstances that the men of the valley of Saddleworth sons of Anak arose and gathered themselves together, when one of their brethren said, ‘ What? shall we bow down our necks to the proud.’ ” He then goes on to describe how in conjunction with Ashton and Oldham men they utterly destroyed the corn mill at Clayton. Usually a bull baiting was easily organized, and the conditions which governed the contest were few and simple. The innkeepers, with an eye to business, subscribed the bulk of the prize money. Sometimes the preliminary proceedings of a baiting were invested with some degree of ceremony. The horns and the tail of the bull were decked with many coloured ribbons and it was led to the bait- ing ground with drums beating and fiddles playing rollicking tunes. A stout stake had been driven well into the ground, and as soon as the bull had been tethered the sport began. The tethering rope was anywhere from 4 to 6 feet in length. If a goodly number of dogs had been entered, the ‘slips’? were reduced in number. That is, each owner was allowed to “slip” his dog three times at the bull. If the entrants were few the number of “slips” might be increased to five or six. The

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dog that brought the bull to its knees, pinned it to the ground by the nose, and held it there the longest, was adjudged the winner. Every form of cruelty was resorted to in order to madden and infuriate the bull that it might make a fierce and stubborn resistance. Red hot irons, long forks, and other sharp-pointed implements were thrust against the animal’s sides. The milder a bull was and the more easily it was pinned and the less exciting the sport. The referee was invariably a notorious “‘up and down”’ fighter, who was pre- pared to have a “‘ smack ”’ at anyone who disagreed with his decision. The best dogs for bull baiting were large strong cross breeds, which had been trained to savagery. In 1802, a bill to abolish Bull baiting was intro- duced into the House of Commons. Wilberforce, the slavery abolitionist, and other prominent men, spoke strongly in its favour, but failed to save the measure. The spirit of the arguments which led to its rejection may be gathered from the speech of Windham, a famous speaker in his day, who expressed the opinion “that the bull and the ring in which it was baited were the best recruiting sergeants for the army that England That was the period of the great wars with France, and the country was badly in need of recruits. Some people may raise their hands in holy horror, but I think no worse of my ancestry because they were cockfighters and bull baiters. If I have read history aright, I have found that the cockfighting, bullbaiting and dogfighting men of England were the only men in the world who held in check and

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finally crushed Napoleon. In the wars of the early part of the 19th century one finds that the old bulldog breed never lost its hold, but chewed its way from grip to grip to the vitals of the foe. The last baiting at Lydgate took place about 1833, under protest. A notable protestor was the local constable, William Radcliffe, commonly called ‘“Owd Billy Potbo.”” In 1827 he appears to have got a number of Lydgate bull baiters convicted, probably for rowdyism. ‘‘ Billy Potbo” was at that time a “‘ big mon” among the Congregational people, at Springhead, and his opposition to the bull baiting has been recorded in verse by a con- temporary local rhymer, Kdmund Buckley, of Lees, who wrote :—

Last August, on a certain day, To Lydgate Hill I took my way ; With Ned and Sam I did agree That Lydgate Wakes we’d go and see. As soon as e’er I entered the town A man the Wakes was crying down ; "Twas silence all, both great and small, To hear the song of “‘ Potten Ball.” When “ Potten Ball’ began his song, He warning gave to old and young, And said, ‘‘ Ah! drunkards be aware, And ye that lie, game, cheat, and swear, For ne’er of late has pastime been But you’ve assembled on our green With cocks to fight or trails to run, Or bulls to bait for to cause fun.”

It is unfortunate that the above introductory I

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AN OLD SADDLEWORTH COCKFIGHT.

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lines are all that is remembered of the composition. They are clear and suggest that the complete . poem formed a word picture of an old Lydgate Wakes. A village Wakes brought with it many curious competitions, such as grinning through a horse collar for a new hat. Porridge eating by young women for a new bonnet, treacle eating by young men for a new shirt, and smoking com- petitions for old women over sixty years of age for a new bedgown. Dog fighting and cock fighting were Lydgate sports, and the print which shows a cock fight in progress, 1s from an original oil painting which hangs in the taproom of the White Hart Inn. It has hung there for fifty years and is now in a worn and battered condition. It is without signature, but 1s supposed to have been painted by a bygone local artist who lived at Springhead. It is rude in design and treatment and is, therefore, character- istically true of an old Saddleworth sport and its followers. The figures, with the possible exception of the two “ setters,” are stiff and crudely drawn, yet one feels that the artist felt the spirit of his subject and tried to convey it to his canvas. The types of the spectators are fairly well defined. The rough cock fighting type in the front row is made to contrast with the gentlemanly sportsman in “tall shiner” and “flourished singlet.” The various kinds of headgear are well worth careful noting and comparison. It is also rare to see a cock fighting picture in which the “ setters” are depicted in the ring. I learn from old men that fiity years ago there were men then living who could

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name the men standing and kneeling round the ring. The one knelt in the middle of the group was always pointed out as the Rev. Mr. Whitelock, the then parson at Saddleworth Church. A little to his right there appears to be another gentleman in clerical garb, while the two men in low round hats, standing in the back row, are not unlike Nonconformist ministers. I am not so “ unco guid’ a person as to see any harm in parsons watching a cockfight. Heaven and earth only know that they do worse things almost every day. The bygone parsons were rare good and rightly so. Preaching and praying is to the lay- man a drab and dreary business, and if a man must live and enjoy life he must have some kind of recreation. Kings have their recreation, George the Third used to watch cockfights. Ifa king can do that without lowering his personal dignity or impairing the majesty of his throne, then surely good church folks, a parson can do the same with- out degrading the sanctity of his pulpit. Canon Raines tells a story of the Rev. Joseph Haigh, curate of Milnrow. One Sunday he was conducting the customary service when the uproar of an otter hunt entered the church. Now the good folks of Milnrow evidently loved an otter hunt better than a church service. They laid down their prayer books at once, and slipped quietly out of their pews and hurried down to the river side. Did their departure trouble the good parson? No, it pleased him, for he wanted to join in the hunt, and he said to his clerk, ‘‘ James, they have caught her, she vents, let’s us go, Now to God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Ghost.”

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In 1785, one of the famous breeders of game- cocks in England was the Rev. Mr. Brooks, of Shiffnal, in Shropshire, and his congregation were proud of their parson’s eminence in the sport. People in general have many wrong impressions about cock fighting. They look upon it as a brutal and unnatural sport, yet is it for cocks to fight. Mother nature made them birds of battle stuck them full of fight, and if it is not allowed to come out nature is thwarted. Take two game- cocks and keep them without food for two days, then set them down together with food in front of them. What will happen? The odds are that they will fight before they will eat. I have heard people say that it is cruel to make cocks fight with steel spurs fitted on to the natural spurs. I disagree, for with steel spurs in use, cockfights generally do not last very long, death comes quickly. Now with natural spurs a fight would probably fast for hours, which would mean heavy punishment for both cocks. I A century ago cockfighting had a famous “ back- ing”? in England. There was a Royal Cock Pit, at Westminster, where kings and earls and old country squires fought their great mains. Some of the mains were for 1,000 guineas a battle and 5,000 guineas the main. One of the Harls of Derby used to ‘‘ walk ”’ 2,500 cocks a year. Nearer home, one finds that the squires were not less keen of the sport, but fought their cocks for more modest stakes. 1771. July 16.—Cock Fighting.—To be fought at the New Cock Pit, at the sign of the Bear’s

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Paw, in Wigan, A Match of Cocks betwixt the Gentlemen of Chorley and the Gentle- men of Ashton-under-Line for Two Guineas a Battle and Fifty the Main or Odd Battle. To Shew and weigh fifty Cocks on a Side, and to fight on Tuesday, the 16th of July, and the following Days.

Feeders—Higson and Blackburn.

1784. April.—To be Fought in the Exchange, Manchester, on Easter Monday and two following days, A Main of Cocks Betwixt the Gentlemen of Yorkshire and Lancashire. For Ten Guineas a Battle and One Hundred the Main. To shew Forty-one Cocks in the Main.

Feeders—Aldred and Townley.

1795. July.—This day a Main of Cocks fought in the Barn, Cadderton Hall, betwixt Sir Watts Horton, Bart., and Thomas Horton, Ksq., of Heywood, which was won by the former.

1795. Dec. 28th.—Cadderton.—This day the great Main of Cocks betwixt Sir Watts Horton, Smith feeder. And William Bam- ford, Esq., Butterworth feeder, was fought here, when Mr. Bamford won 8 Mains out of 11 and 3 byes out 4, there was a deal of Company and much Betting.

That there was godliness in the Lydgate district. is proved by the fact that in 1788 a church was

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built on the hill. It was dedicated to St. Ann and consecrated by the Bishop of Chester on the 15th of August in the above-stated year. The following is a list of those who have held the living, with the dates on which they were licensed :—

Thomas Seddon, August 16th, 1788. Samuel Stephenson, June 29th, 1796. John C. Attey, May 26th, 1801. Bowness Cleasby, February 16th, 1807. Joseph 8. R. Evans, April 25th, 1829. George Cowell, September 22nd, 1835. H. EK. Garnett, February 18th, 1868. J. F. Jenkin, April 13th, 1875. F. J. Williamson, July 17th, 1899. T. T. Lancaster, January 7th, 1908.

The first curate, Thomas Seddon, was a man of ability, a good preacher and sayer of prayers, but he “erred and strayed’ in many ways. His con- duct was not exemplary. He was dismissed from his curacy at Wigan. He had acquired the gentle art of owing “ brass,” and owing it steadily and long. He justified old Tom o’th Binns remark, when he said :—“ Gettin brass eaut ov a parson is like gettin butter eaut ov a dog’s throat.” On the 20th of May, 1792, he preached a sermon at Lydgate Church in aid of Manchester Infirmary, when the. collection yielded £44 9s. 11?d. On Sept. 23rd, in the same year, he delivered a sermon on behalf of the French refugees in this country. This sermon was afterwards published in pamphlet form. In the end, he donned the scarlet coat and accoutrements of the soldier and went

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round the parish urging young men to enlist. It is said, that he helped to raise a regiment, and that he was drowned at sea on his way to join the Duke of York in Holland. Radcliffe says that he was drowned going out to the West Indies. The Rev. Bowness Cleasby had no more religion in him than a bulldog. I mean the kind of religion which is bound by strict ritual and observance. He had as many sins of the flesh as any of his parish- ioners. He loved to sit drinking in alehouses, and he and Sutcliffe, the then parson at Saddleworth Church, used to “slotch” quarts together until neither could tell which was hisown church. There have been other parsons at Lydgate who would not spit good whisky out of their mouths, and why © should they. Good liquor in a man’s mouth is better than a bad sermon. If it is held to be a stain upon the “cloth,” there is some good Cloth ” being spoiled in England at this hour. It seems contradictory, that in this ale loving village of the winds, there should be born one of the most famous temperance advocates of his day. This was John Andrew, who was born at Lydgate, May 25th, 1810. In 1814 the family removed to Leeds. On January Ist, 1834, John Andrew signed the pledge as a total abstainer, and it has been asserted that he was the first man in the town to take this step. He lectured all over the country in furtherance of the temperance movement. In 1884, he celebrated his temperance jubilee, and on that occasion was presented with an address and a purse containing £170. He died in 1888, and was buried at Woodhouse Cemetery. The Ram Inn,

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at Lydgate, in 1795 was kept by William Andrew, who was probably an ancestor of John the teetotaler. The Buckleys,.of Grotton Head, were for centuries an important family in the Lydgate district. The first to settle there appears to have been Gilbert Buckley, husbandman. His will was proved 8th February, 1604. He was succeeded by his son, Richard Buckley, who died in 1635. There are several fine datestones on the house at Grotton Head, and the family arms are sculptured on the east gable. On the 13th of August, 1795, there was a sale of a freehold estate at the Ram Inn, Lydgate. The property consisted of four messuages, gardens, barns, stable, etc., two dyehouses, five cottages, etc. The field names were Great Haddens, Little Haddens, The Four Acres, The Park, The Tenter Field, The Brenthill Field, The Woolwall Field and the Great Meadow. The names of Tenter and Woolwall are interesting and indicate that the two fields were or had been used for industrial purposes. The estate also contained Higher Solomon’s Wood, The Nursery, and Lower Solomon’s Wood. The place name, Lydgate, is probably from the Anglo Saxon “‘hlid,” a lid, a cover, a closer, etc., and “oat”? or “geat’’ a postern gate. The prefix is found in Lydiate in Holsall parish, in Lydford Devon, and Lydgate at the foot of Blackstone Edge moors. “Gate” is also a common place name terminal, which means a road or way.

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TAE RECHABITE.

THERE was a time when the Salvation Army tried to establish a branch garrison in Delph. A detach- ment came from Oldham beating tambourines and yelling through the street about the Bleeding Lamb and the Blood of Jesus. They appear to have thought, that the village was what a friend of mine always describes it, “‘ The dark hole of Saddleworth,” and required light, especially the light spiritual. The homely old-fashioned villagers who were God-fearing without shouting and _ screaming about it, regarded the invasion with disfavour. Still the gospel of “ Blood” and ‘ Bleeding ” continued until the village began to smell like a slaughter house, and the grey old gables began to acquire a kind of sanguinary colour- ing. At last, a few locals, more for notoriety than for anything else, joined the Army. They were mainly of a pronouned alehouse type and con- sequently a great deal of credit was claimed by their captors. They claimed to have stormed the devil’s stronghold and captured and reformed some of their once greatest enemies. The prayer meet- ings, love feasts, knee drills, and other functions connected with the ‘“‘ lamb business ” were held in the Mechanics’ Institute. Young Delph boys and girls generally attended in force for it was considered rare sport to hear some of the newly-purified give their experiences in the world of sin.

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One Saturday, a prominent lady Salvationist from Oldham, accompanied by friends, visited Delph in order to help forward the young move- ment. It was a big day for the local “ saved,” then numbering about ten strong. The afternoon was spent in parading the village street, shouting hymns and exhorting all unclean sinners to come and be washed in the Blood of the Lamb. One of the processionists asked old Joe Hepps, who was standing on the Delph Bridge, to join them. Nowe,” replied Joe, with emphasis, ‘‘ awst join noh lot ut con sing abeaut nowt nobbut blood un deeud lambs.”’ In the evening the Oldham lady delivered an address in the Institute, in the course of which she made frequent use of the word “ reprobate.” She concluded and sat down amid loud and prolonged hallelujahs. A noted character, called ‘‘ Jabber,” then rose to give the story of his capture and con- version. For a few minutes he stood speechless looking blankly at the audience. Brast off, mon,’ someone shouted. Jabber obeyed the injunction and “ brasted ”’ off with. ‘‘ Yoh o’ known mi, ther hasn’t bin a bigger sinner eaut ut dur nur me, but neaw, thank the Lord, awm as safe as little apples.” ‘Glory, hallelujah,” shouted one. I ‘ Stick toh him Jesus wol yoh han him,” shouted another. ‘Igh do Jesus,” yelled a third. Then Jabber proceeded, “‘ Aw backed horses, aw punst th’ wife eaut ut dur, aw drunken o’ mi wage, aw thrut eaur tom cat ut back ut fire, un

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aw dun everything uts bad, but neaw aw bin weshed i’th Blood o’ Jesus un his son Christ, un awm as cleeun as a new scraped carrot.” “Glory to the Bleeding Lamb,” rang from one end of the platform, “Glory, hallelujah,’ from the other end, followed by ‘‘ Dunnot let him slip, Jesus, ur he’ll bi as bad as ever.” ‘* Thert a har,” Jabber returned, looking savagely in the direction of the speaker, “un aw’ll fot thi off that form it theau ses soh There was silence for a few minutes, and then Jabber went on, “Jesus fur me, he’s chap uts made me happy un aw put a shillin on to th’ tambourine this afternoon.” Nut thee,’’ someone shouted from the audience. ‘** Aw’ll bet thi a bob,” Jabber shouted back, awll stake neaw, awm backin nowt for th’ Manchester Cup awm puttin o’ my brass on Jesus.”’ Half-a-dozen people shouted ‘ Hallelujah, Glory to the Bleeding Lamb, Jesus fur ever.” “Un a day lunger,” interrupted Jabber. When the enthusiasm had quietened down, Jabber said, “This woman’s towd yoh to neet wot bad foak there is 1? Owdham, but aw con tell yoh ut ther never wur a bigger drunken Rachobite nur me noather ith Thuvermill nur Grenfilt, nur noh wheer else, aw bin th wurst Rachobite ut ever lived.” ‘* Reprobate,”’ corrected the woman. “Ay Rachobate,” Jabber said, “un aw want o’ yoh draunken Rachobates toh gie oer drinkin un come to Jesus, 1f yoh dunnot yoh’ll ha to goh to th wot shop, un sarve yoh reet if yoh winnot doh as yer towd.”

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Jabber sat down amid glory hallelujahs, clapping of hands, beating of drums and noise of tambourines. A fortnight later he came out of

one of the village alehouses waving his cap and singing:— =

‘ Bring us rum wi’ brandy in, Bring us rum un brandy, For to night we’ll merry, merry be Un to-morrow we'll get sober.”

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JAMIE O BESOMS.

THE VILLAGE RATCATCHER.

JAMIE 0’ Besom’s was at one time regarded by his fellow villagers as a kind of public institution and in no small way responsible for the general well- being of the district. He lived at a time when only gentle folks had carpets on their house floors. The humbler folks threw handfuls of sand on their floors and then went over them with a stone mop. This implement was a stone generally about 12 inches long by 8 inches wide, which was secured to a long wooden handle by two pieces of iron leaded into the stone. Its purpose was to distribute the sand about the floor and also to crush the larger pieces into a finer grit. The stone mop was at one time as common in Saddleworth as the long brush is to-day. For purposes of cleanliness, the sand used was obtained by crushing ordinary sandstone. To keep the district regularly supplied with this commodity, Jamie had a sand mill. This consisted of a large stone wheel from the centre of which projected a long wooden shaft. To the end of this shaft Jamie fastened his donkey. As soon as his wife, who was the working manager, had laid the small sandstones on the hard stone track to be followed by the wheel, she set the machinery in motion by touching the donkey with

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a stick. The donkey and the wheel then began to go round in their ordered circles until all her stock of sandstone was exhausted. On certain days of the week she used to take a donkey load of sand in a little sack and hawk it round the outlying hamlets and farmhouses. You might have heard her half-a-mile away, shouting “onny sond.” On Fridays and Saturdays she stayed at home to serve the village children who went for sand for their mothers to use after the weekly “siding up.” Jamie’s business lay in other directions, he was an expert trapper of “ mowdiwarps ”’ (moles) and at certain times of the year his services were much required by the farmers. But his really great services to the district lay in the line of ratcatch- ing. Apart from the money that it put into his pocket, ratcatching was, to Jamie, the finest and the most exciting sport in the world. Happily for him, he lived at a time when there was plenty of sport to be had. The man and his age fitted into each other like tongued and grooved timber. Pig keeping was common in the district, both with the cottager and the farmer, and it generally goes that where there are pigs there are rats. Breeders, with droves of little pigs, used to visit the village fairs. If you had gone through Delph on an April fair day you would have seen scores of pigs penned in front of every inn in the village from the Bull’s Head to the White Lion. In the afternoon, men were to be seen taking pigs home, some carrying them in sacks thrown over their shoulders and others driving them along the road. All this, of course, meant subsequent work for Jamie in the way of rat-

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catching, and it was a kind of work of which he never grew tired. The way in which he hunted and captured rats led to his being regarded as something ef a magician. He had, or was believed to have, some kind of wonderful compelling influence over them. His business equipment consisted of one dog, two ferrets and an assortment of little bags and nets. The dog’s work was to find the rats in their runs, but it was not trained to worry them, Jamie’s aim was to take as many rats as possible alive. Before he began operations he would take a woollen scarf from round his neck and tie it tightly round his waist. He would then lay his little bags and nets over the holes from which he expected the rats to bolt. Then he set his ferret running and as soon as a rat bolted into one of the little nets, Jamie seized the captive and slipped it. into his breast between his skin and his shirt. Sometime, when the hunt was over, he would have twenty rats scrambling about his back and chest. There was always a tumult going on and Jamie, with his shirt bulged out above the waist, looked like a small balloon in process of inflation. Ordinarily, he took little notice of the racket going on inside his shirt but when it did happen that a riot had started in good earnest, he would slip his hand in at his shirt front and quell the disturbance. Sometimes he would sit drinking in an alehouse corner apparently without giving a thought to the living cargo which he had round his body. On one occasion, after a rat hunt, he had been drinking all afternoon at an old country inn. He had with him about fifteen rats stowed away as usual. In the evening, the

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landlady’ said that should not fill the ratcatcher any more ale. Jamie sat for a long time “ dry- meauth ”’ pleading hard for another pint, but the landlady stood firm to her refusal. ‘* Arto beaun toh bring mi another pint,’’? Jamie asked again. “No,” replied the landlady, ‘‘ and that is final.” Jamie got up and stood for a moment in the middle of the taproom looking round at the customers, all of whom he knew. Then he suddenly untied the scarf round his waist. This, of course, caused the rats to slip down his legs and in an instant they were running about the tap- room floor in all directions. Five minutes later, there was not a customer in the house while the landlady had run screaming upstairs and sought refuge in her bedroom. No innkeeper ever stopped Jamie’s tap or cut off his ale supply again. Now then after a rat hunt he would stay at an inn until late at night, then he would set out home- wards with his rats and lie down in some field and go to sleep. Whenever he did this, all the rats made their escape. At that time rat coursing and also rat worrying in pits were big sports in some of the neighbouring towns and there Jamie had always a ready market for his captures, so that he made money at both ends, for the farmers used to pay him something for ridding them of their pests. One Sunday morning Jamie got into trouble with the law. He had been taking rats from a cottager’s pig-sty when one of his ferrets got away into a parson’s garden. The gardener coming upon the scene while Jamie was

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in a shrubbery looking for his ferret, reported the matter to his master. Now the parson was also a magistrate, and Jamie was summoned for trespass. When the case came up for hearing, Jamie ex- plained how the ferret had escaped, but he was fined a few shillings and costs. The parson, who had summoned Jamie, held extreme views upon the question of Sunday observance and he went so far as to preach a very strong sermon on the case and severely denounced Sabbath breakers in general, and Jamie in particular. Some six months after this had occurred, the ratcatcher was sitting at home one night by his fire when a tap came to the door. ‘“ Come in,” shouted Jamie. The door opened and in came the parson’s gardener, whose complaint to his master had caused Jamie to be fined. After a short but rather awk- ward pause, the gardener said: “ The master wants to see you at the parsonage to-morrow night about 7 o'clock.” reet,” replied Jamie, “tell him aw’ll bi op.” At the appointed time Jamie knocked at the parsonage door. Come this way,”’ said the maid who had opened the door, and learned that Jamie wished to see the master. The ratcatcher followed her along the corridor to the door of the study. Then she gave a little knock and ushered Jamie into the room. The parson, who was sitting in a great chair by the fire, rose at once and having heartily shook hands with the ratcatcher asked him to sit down in a chair on the opposite side of the hearth.

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‘““T am very pleased to see you, James,” the parson began, adding “ You don’t mind a drop of whisky I suppose.”’ ‘* just taste wi yoh,” Jamie replied. “ That’s right,”” said the parson jovially, at the same time taking hold of a bottle of old whisky which stood on the table and pouring Jamie a stiff quantity into a tall glass. Then he helped himself to a glass of the spirit and sat down in his chair again. have sent for you James,” began the parson in a low and impressive voice, “over a very serious matter.” ‘* Awm very sorry to yer that, sir,’ Jamie replied gravely. ‘Thank you James,” said the parson, ‘“ Well the fact is this place is alive with rats.” ‘Ts it,” said Jamie in a tone of surprise. ‘Yes,’ went on the parson, “ the house and the stables are swarming with them.”’ ‘Its a bad job,” Jamie interrupted sympathet- ically. I bad job,” repeated the parson, “ they are here, there and everywhere, they get at all our food, they scamper over our heads all night until it is impossible to sleep. I cannot get a servant to stay for more than a day or two. I am almost at my wits end.” ‘* Han yoh set noh traps,” asked Jamie. I ‘“T have set traps, James,’ replied the parson, “but with little success, I have also set poison and now I am afraid that poisoned rats are lying under my bedroom floor. I intend to have the

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boards taken up and the room _ thoroughly “When thi once getten into an owd biggin like this they need a lot o’ shiftin,’’ Jamie said in a tone of a man of experience. “Help yourself to some more whisky, James,” the parson said handing Jamie the bottle. Jamie filled his glass nearly half-full of the spirit and having wished the parson good health said: ‘‘ Yer same as owd Dobber sed, yer 1’ queer street, sir, wheer thers no back dur.”’ ‘““T am in queer street’ assented the parson, “and I want you to help me out of it.” ‘“Awm very busy, sir,” Jamie replied with a negative shake of the head. But surely James you could spare a day or two a week to come up here if I paid you very well,” pleaded the parson. ‘“ Aw nobbut one day ut sir,’ Jamie replied, remembering the fine. ‘Which is that, James,” asked the parson eargerly. Jamie answered readily. ‘Sunday ” repeated the parson with a gasp, ‘but my dear James that is the Lord’s day.” ‘“Aw dunnot care,’ Jamie answered doggedly, oth day aw con spare.” For some time they sat together in silence, then the parson began to plead and reason with his visitor but all to no purpose, the ratcatcher remained obdurate. At the parson’s invitation Jamie helped himself to another glass of whisky and the dis- cussion began again.

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‘* One day a week is not much, James,” the parson said. ‘“Awm very sorry, sir,” Jamie replied, “ but its Sunday or nowt.” Finally the parson gave way, and it was arranged that Jamie should begin on the following Sunday. The only condition the parson made, was that the ratcatcher should keep out of sight as much as possible. Jamie promised to respect this condition, but he did just the opposite. He made himself and his work as conspicuous as he could and especially to the church goers. Every Sunday morning for months, when people were going to service, Jamie was to be seen going up to the parsonage with his dog, his ferrets, and his ratting bags. He worked hard and he was handsomely paid for it. About the time when he had ridded the place of rats Jamie quarrelled with one of his neighbours who gave the show away. He told how one night he had followed Jamie up the fields to the parsonage and seen him turn out about thirty rats on the parson’s premises. Jamie, of course, denied the story, but a good many people believed that the neighbour had told the truth. When it got noised about the district many well-to-do yoeman farmers remembered that no matter how many rats Jamie caught on their premises there were always a number to be seen a few days later. Jamie must have turned them out again. It was supposed that he had caught and re-caught many of the rats at least ten times over. When he was told this one night in one of the village inns, he said, Well, if ther had bin noh rats toh catch aw shud

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aw bin thrut eaut o’ wark, its every mon to his own trade un a mon ut jiggers his own trade op is a

39

foo. With respect to the parson, it amused the con-

gregation who remembered the denunciatory sermon, to know that Jamie had got more than his own back, a rare thing to get from a parson.

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SALLY O'dIM'S O' COWD BEN’S.

FRIARMERE is a “ hard favvert’”’ country as bare and as bleak as wind and storm can make it. Hast winds and keen bitten frosts have left ages of wreckage upon it. The land les on rock and shale and its lean grey pastures have a pinched and hungry look. The toiling hillside farmer will tell you how hungry his pastures are and how much lime and manure they can devour without showing any improvement. Many of the old fence walls hang upon the shoulders of the hills like rags upon the stick of a scarcrow. Yet it has long been the home of dour hard-faring and hard- working folks. The Gartsides, Buckleys, Scho- fields, Wrigleys and Broadbents have clung to Friarmere with tooth and nail through many generations. The countryside has reared a breed of men and women as hardy as itself. But change comes, and it came to the mooredges of Friarmere hike a sudden blight, withering all things unto death. The old watermills, farmsteads and lane- side cottages became tenantless and quiet as all dead things are. One can wander through the old church yards at Heights, and elsewhere, and find farm names inscribed upon the old gravestones, but one cannot find those farms to-day. Oldham came into the Friarmere valleys for water and gathering grounds, and the homesteads of our

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forefathers faded away like snow under a thawing wind. The little cottage where Matty o’ Lumpyed’s used to spit on her big hands and twist of greasy shawls is roofless. Matty had a way of making “ thodden ” cake that none of her neigh- bours ever copied. She would tie a “ poke” of floor round her waist and then she would pour a bowl full of warm fat among the flour in the ‘““poke”’ and roll the flour among the fat until she had got a large greasy ball. This she rolled out flat upon a board and then placed on a bake- stone over the fire. When she fried bacon, she used to place a loaf of bread on the hearthstone for the fat to drop upon. The doorstep, where Jim ith Lone used to count and recount his ‘brass’? on a summer’s evening, is now built into a fence wall. He used to get twenty sovereigns and begin slowly counting onea, twoa, threea, and so on for hours at a time. In the days when the bugle of the passing coach rang merrily up and down the Stanedge road life on the moor edges was at its fulness. It was a fulness that had many quaint things in it for Friarmere folks had minds and ways of their own. Those minds and those ways have gone out of the world and are now almost forgotten. It is told, that at one time there were no almanacks in that moorland district. Dates were calculated from some local festival or occurrence. A man might be so many years old come next “‘ Heyghts ’” Wakes Sunday, or a woman might have been married so long come next “‘edditch ”’ time. When Nanny o’ Poot’s was cleaning the kitchen

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of an old Friarmere Inn, a lady who was staying in the district said to her: “Ts that your little boy.” ‘ Igh,”’ Nanny replied. ‘ How old is he,” the lady asked. “He wur born o’th same day as owd Joe Bent’s red ceaw deed (died) o’th How long is that ‘““ Neaw let mi see,” Nanny said thoughtfully, “it wur oth same time as Joe o’ Benny’s wur mackin a new pigcote.”’ ‘Yes, but I mean how many birthdays has your httle boy had,” explained the stranger. ‘Hay, that’s a licker,” Nanny gasped, “ aw never had mich schooin yoh see, but when aw come toh bethink me Ned o’ Roafe’s wife ud ratched her guiders (sinews) wi daincin ut Nook Wakes fur th’ owd fat fussocks wur 1’ bed when aw wur.” Have you an almanack,”’ asked the lady. ‘“ Hay, nowe mistress,’ Nanny answered, “ wi re nobbut worchin foak yoh know un wi connot afford sich fine things as thoose.”’ Unable to make any headway with respect to the boy’s age, the lady said: “ What is your little boy called.” ‘“Ned o’? Nanny’s, after me,” Nanny answered with pride. but surely he has another name.” ‘“Nay he hasn’t, nobbut Leatheryed,” the mother replied, “un he’s a leatheryed th’ little hutch scrub he’s awlus 1 devilment, he is a steawnger aw con tell yoh.”’ Then the lady, turning to the little boy, said

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kindly : “‘ What does the school mistress call you, my little fellow.” ‘Ned o’ Nanny’s,” replied the little boy. ‘“And what is your school mistress called,” asked the lady. ‘“Owd Mally o’ Shirts,” little Ned replied. ‘“ How many scholars go to your school.” “Aw dunnot know.” “Cannot you count ‘* Nowe, wi dunnot ceawnt, wi larn ‘* Tell her whoa gohs,” his mother said. ‘“'Thers me,” Ned began, “un Mat o’ Warty’s, un theer Joe, un Sally o’ Tim’s, un theer Jack, un Jane o’ mi uncle Bill’s, un fat Harry, un little Tommy.” ‘“ How many is that asked the lady.” ‘“A undert,” (hundred), Ned replied promptly. ‘No eight,” corrected the lady. ‘““Neaw dunnot thee forget ut ther’s eight,” Nanny said, turning to her son, “ ur aw’ll twamp thee lad.” ‘“Hoo put me ith coal hole o’ Monday,” Ned said. for,” his mother asked sharply. ‘* Fur lettin ink bottle fo ith fleaur when hoo wur bakin.”’ ‘““Hay theau little rapscallion aw’ve a good mind toh flee (flay) th’ skin off thi, theau little good fornowt,” his mother said. ‘“‘ Hoo lets fat Harry’s and Mat o Warty’s sit op oth bed when we’re writing un hoo winnot let me,” Ned said in an injured tone, with the object of enlisting his mother’s sympathies by an ex-

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posure of the favouritism which old Mally extended to some of her scholars. see,’ Nanny said to the stranger, Mally keeps a bit of a schoo un a twothri stirks, un aw guess hoo’s o’ her bant off toh watch sich stare

&6

owd

a blazes as this.”’ ‘“ How many scholars have you my little boy,” asked the lady again turning to’ Ned. ‘ Forty,” Ned answered. ‘“ Nay, six, his mother interrupted, “ theau little dullbertyed, aw’ll chine thi deawn for two pins. ‘No eight,” the lady corrected. - “* Lgh eight,” his mother said, “ un dunnut thee forget agen, if theau does aw’ll seause thi yerhole.”’ Old Mally o’ Shirt’s kept a little school at the end of the lane and was for years responsible for the educational training of the young mooredger. Her teaching was not of an academic character, but it appears to have sufficed to mentally prepare the neighbour’s children for the battle of life. Mally had taken no college degrees and her scholastic attainments were no higher than those of a fourth standard scholar of to-day. Her school was not well equipped with teaching materials. She had only one ink bottle and when the writing lesson came round the school was in a continual uproar. All the scholars wanted to dip into the ink bottle at the same time, and Mally was kept busy keeping them in their turns. The pens they used were little primitive things made from the feathers of her barnyard fowls. The ink flowed from them irregularly and the written exercise was generally a thing of blots and splashes. The

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paper was not of the cream laid kind, but was usually shop paper in which old Mally’s groceries had been wrapped. When the paper gave out, there was no writing exercise until Mally had been to the shop again. There was only one read- ing book, which during lessons passed in turn from one scholar to another. It had seen so much rough service that scarcely a page was in the right place. It frequently happened that when a few pages had been torn out, old Mally pasted them in again at the page where she opened the book, sometimes they were pasted in upside down. She had no blackboard and the alphabet and the numerals, up to twenty, were scrawled upon the flagstones of the house floor with any material that would make a mark. Old Mally’s scholars would open their eyes if they could come back and see a modern village council school and the attendance officer. There was a dame school over the hill, where both the letters of the alphabet and the figures from one to twenty had been deeply chiselled onto the hearthstone. At this school the scholars had acquired the habit of burning the alphabet book. One day an old gravestone sculptor, who was courting the school mistress, said: “ Aw’ll cure um ur else aw’ll see wot it stonds He kept his word, for they never tried to burn the inscribed flagstone. The ordinary mooredger never set much store upon schooling and book learning. His native wit and a knowledge of how to make and save money carried him simply and con- tentedy along the road of hfe. They discovered Sunday on the hills in a way that it never could

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have been discovered elsewhere. A butcher, from one of the villages, began to go round the farm- steads every Saturday with a beef cart. From this, the old farmfolks gathered that Sunday was always the day after the butcher had been on his round, no matter on what day that might be. When the butcher went his round on a Friday the following day, or Saturday, was the moor- edge Sunday for that week. On occasions when from stress of weather or other reason he failed to make his round, there was no Sunday until the butcher’s cart appeared again. The day was temporarily lost or misplaced, when the beefcart came again it was found and kept holy as usual. At that time a handloom weaver’s apron was the standard measure of length in the district. It covered all things, from the building of a barn to the measuring of a corpse. When old Tim o’ Bill’s died, the undertaker was running his rule over the dead body, when he was suddenly stopped by Tim’s widow entering the room and saying sharply : ‘* Howd on theer, theau’ll measure him wi his appron, aw’'ll noan ha him measured wi a bit ov an owd stick, dosto yer that, just thee tak thi time wol aw come back.”’ I ‘ All right,” said the undertaker, folding up his rule. Old Betty went downstairs and came up again with one of Tim’s linsey aprons. ‘’ Neaw then,”’ she said to the undertaker, ‘‘ tack howd oth end o’ this appron un aw’!] larn thi heaw to measure deeud foak.”’

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The undertaker did as requested and when they had measured her dead husband Betty said: ‘* Aw never yerd o’ sich like wark afore, it winnot abide thinkin at, takin foaks measure wi bits o’ sticks, theau sees he’s just two approns lung.” When John o’th Three Gates was having a new barn built he measured the ground out twice, once with his apron and once with a Leeds Mercury, to see “ uth durhole wur put ith reet shop.” Dur- ing the building operations, he broke the mason’s straight edge, and justified his action by saying: ‘“ Aw want sum stone puttin op oth wo (wall) aw dunnot want foak toh keep allockin ther time away playin wi a bit ov a A curious phase of the home-life of the hillsides was a strict adher- ence to matters of routine. They would perform the same duty at the same time and in the same way whether daily, weekly or yearly. John o’th Top Lone was a retired hand-loom weaver, but every Monday afternoon, at three o’clock, he went up into his loom chanber and worked his empty loom for a few hours. When some one asked him why he did this, he answered: “ Aw dunnut want mi owd loom toh think ut aw forgettin it, un it stops mi fro gettin ricketed.” When Joe o’th Bent was working at a mill down in the valley, he always went to draw his wages bareheaded, with his sleeves rolled up to the arm- pits and his shirt unbuttoned half-way down his breast. He argued that this showed that he was a true British workman. Mary o’ Jack’s always thrashed her three children every Friday night whether they deserved it or not, just to let them know “ whoa wur th mester.”’

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Dan o’ Suet’s always began haytime on the 24th of June, wet or fine. Jim o’th Whitecote used to walk through the middle of one of his meadows, and if he found a hayseed on his boots when he came out, it was time to cut the grass. Old Joe o’ Gentian’s used to throw an old Georgian penny a few yards into the meadow which lay before his house. If he found it, there was no bottom grass, if he lost it, it was time to begin mowing. He always found the penny when the grass was cut. It was an old family custom that had been followed by his father and his grandfather. For twenty years, without a break, Tom o’ Leach Mary’s “fratched”’ every Nook Wakes Monday about a twenty-five score pig which he had kept, and if he finished the festival without a pair of black eyes, he was wont to say that it had been a very poor Wakes. He was once summoned for sheep trespass and when the case came into court the judge said: _““ How came your sheep to be trespassing.” Weh dun yoh see,” Tom answered, “it wur a very windy day un it blew th’ sheep slap off th’ moor into the middle ov his (the _plaintiff’s) meadow.” I Nonsense,’ said the judge, “I won’t believe it.” ‘By th mass but its true,” Tom persisted, ‘it blew owd Joe o’ Stirk’s barn deawn un a wind ut con blow a barn deawn, con blow a twothri (a few) sheep o’er a wo.” I

‘It must be a very windy place,” the judge said smiling.

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Aw shud think it is,”’ Tom replied, “it won’st blew oth teeth eaut ov a cross cut saw ut a Bella- steawn (Marsden), chap wur carryin throo th’ Stanedge Cuttin.” I Old Yebb Harrison used to say, that it was not until 1850 that Oxhey folks heard of the crucifixion. He also said that they called an indignation at the Royal Oak Inn, Heights, and passed resolutions demanding the fullest inquiry into all the circumstances connected with Christ’s death. The opening of the railway through the parish, in 1849, ranks as one of its great events. At that time many of the mooredge folks had never seen a railway train nor indeed any wheel move- ment other than the handloom and the fifty jinney. To many people the train and all things con- nected with it were mysteries of an unsolvable character. After “fratchin’’ for four hours at the Horse and Jockey Inn, Joe o’th Thurnbank wagered a quart of ale that the engine was made of “o’th best oak.” From all sides people flocked to see the first train - run through their valleys, and it is said that some of the more timid folks could not be persuaded to stand within 200 yards of the railway line and some of these were peeping through holes in the fence walls. I There was a big gathering of people at Brownhill to watch the train pass over the viaduct, and not a few held the opinion that the driver would not have the nerve to cross that lofty erection. At last the train came steaming up from Greenfield, and having crossed the viaduct without accident,

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proceeded on its way up the Diggle valley. Among the men who went from Friarmere to watch the train pass was Jim o’ Cowd Ben’s, who occupied one of the mooredge farms. He was a tall wiry man with much of the stern old moors in his personality. He had lived all his life in a land of hard winters, where exposure and weathering had bitten into him until he looked the very picture of a hard winter. He had grey whiskers all round his face, so stiff and bristly, that they suggested a hawthorn fence at Christmas with the frost on its branches. Winter and summer he wore a grey smock, but never a coat. In wet weather he went about with an old sack thrown over his shoulders. Living in a place of high winds, he had acquired the habit of wearing a woollen scarf over his hat and tied under his chin. So rooted had this habit become, that often on a calm summer day he might be seen in the hayfield with his hat tied upon his head. When the day for opening the new line arrived, his wife “‘ Ness ”’ (Histher) assisted him to get ready for going over the hill to Diggle. She tied his old hat on as usual, pinned a woollen shawl round his shoulders in place of a sack, and handed him his heavy cow crutch. ‘* Neaw thinkon,” she said, “‘ ut theau does’nt ceawer slotchin un drinkin wi Owd Scraps un Lung Benny.”’ ‘“ Awst get back as soon as aw con fur awm gettin abit stark ith huggins (hips) un ale ull get mi deawn,”’ Jim replied as he went out at the door. In a few minutes he returned and said “ Aw

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think aw’ll tack eaur Sally wi mi, Ness, wot sesto.”’ ‘“ Hay do,” his wife said gladly, “ fur’it isnt oft ut th owd lass has abit ov a eautin un theau knows hoo’s ne’er sin a railway train 1’ o’ her born days, aw’ll bet hoo’ll mack sum marlocks.”’ ‘* Dusto think hoo’ll bi feart,’’ Jim asked. ‘* Feart,”’ Ness answered, “nut her marry, hoo winnut know wotever hoo ails, look heaw pleast hoo wur when wi took her to th’ Delph Fair, hoo’d a watched thoose hurdy gurdys un pippy shows o neet.” shap thisel un get th’ owd girl ready, fur its time wi wur slutterin tord Harropdale,” Jim said. His wife went out and in a few minutes she came round the end of the barn leading a favourite red and white cow. on owd beggar legs,” Jim said kindly to the cow, “‘ theau’st see a railway train schusheaw it be.” ‘* Aw think aw’ll ill (cover) her op abit fur hoo’s gettin rayther nesh (tender), Ness said going into the house. She came out immediately with a sack, which she throw over the cow’s back. Jim took the rope in his hand, and saying ‘‘ Come on owd stick-1-the-mud,” led the cow out of the farm yard. Esther watched them from the door- step until they were lost to view, then she went into the house, saying to herself: “It'll fere doh eaur Sally good th’ owd girl ull wag her tail rarely.” All the way over the Hunter Hill, Jim talked to the cow about the train. When she whisked her

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tail he took it to mean that she was greatly in- terested in what he was saying. Going down at Bank Gap, Jim and the cow overtook Ben o’th Sandhole. ‘“‘Thert gettin rayther kegley (shaky) op o’ thi pins, Ben,” Jim said. “Toh,” Ben replied, ““awm gettin as wammock (weak) as a cardin, awm o’ dither like a bit o’ tremblin grass, heaw’rt theau goin on ?”’ ‘“Nobbut middlin,” Jim replied, “awm gettin very pindert (thin) un aw connut stond harrishin un parishin (exposure) like aw cud wonst.” guess thert beawn o’ watchin this greyt railway train come op,” Ben said. Toh.” ‘Un yer Sally, uno.” “Teh hoo’s ne’er bin eaut o’th yard sin aw took her toh th’ Delph Fair.” Aw think wid better tarry abeaut th’ Ben said, ‘“‘ fur thi sen ther’s no tack to these rail- way trains, boiler met brast, theau ‘“Awm no beawn nee th’ line,” Jim said, “ but aw wanted eaur Sally toh see a train fur wonst’ schusheaw,”’ then turning to the cow he said “‘ come on burn thi owd legs stir thi, thert gettin to slow toh goh toh a berrin un woak th last.” When the three got to Harrop Green they stopped, and Jim drew the cow up to the wall at a point where she could look over and watch the train pass. It was late in the afternoon when he and his cow reached home again. Esther was anxiously awaiting them, and having taken the ““qllin ’”’ from off Sally’s back she led the cow into

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the shippon, on coming into the house again she said eargerly: ‘ Heaw’s eaur Sally gone on.” ‘* Hoo’s bin as nice as a churchwarden’s wife,” Jim replied, “‘ but yond train’s a gradely mullock.”’ ** Nay, shure, un heaw the god rot’s Esther asked interested. “It licks Donnicker,” Jim said, paying no attention to his wife’s question, this remark made the matter still more incomprehensible to her, for Donnicker 1s a kind of “ mesterpiece”’ in Saddleworth folk lore. He stands as a legendary hero who licked (vanquished) his fayther after his fayther had licked the devil. Therefore, whoever or whatever “‘licks”’ or defeats Donnicker must be ‘ extra,” though how and why it is so cannot always be explained. “Toh un gon sarn it heaw’s that,” Esther asked wonderingly. ‘“'Weh theau sees,” Jim began deliberately, “as this, un as thus, un as one mi seh, eaur Sally un me, un Ben o’th Sandhole tarried ut back ov a wo at Green.” ‘Yoh did reet, aw wur feart eaur Sally ud want toh goh toh nee th railway hoo’s sich a worrit sumtimes, hoo doesn’t know her own mind,”’ Esther interposed. ‘* Kaur, Sally,” Jim went on, “ wur looking sum dree deawn tord th’ Breawnhill un Ben sed hoo knows which road it ull com, Jim.” ‘‘ Aw sed, igh eaur Sally’s noh foo lad.” ‘Hoo knew as weel as ony Christian, un better nur sum aw’'ll bet,” Esther said, “ but goh on wi thi tale.”

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Weh in abit,’ Jim resumed, ‘“owd Milk Joe

wife wur gosterin un sheawtin look after that ceaw Jim, yond train’s comin like hey goh mad, its taen th’ boggart. “It ud a beseemed that owd hag if it ud tarried a whom un weshed itsel, fur it stinks oth wull lump,” Ksther cut in sharply. ‘“ Aw looked reaund,” Jim went on, “un th’ train wur comin up Harropdale like a heause a a fire un chimbly reechin like blazes, un wi wur sum feart aw can tell thi, Sim o’ Nat’s ran into thi heause un locked th’ dur, un Sal 0’ Solomon’s ran slap bang into owd Cuppy wife un floort her like a seck o’ draff. Owd Cuppy ran into a coal hole un left his wife lyin ’th middle oth road sheawtin murther. Jamie o’th owd Dog’s sheawted its everybody fur ther sel, un he ran neck un noh joints deawn tord Thurns Clough, sheawtin fur his mother, un th’ train wur whistlin un screaumin like o’ pack o’ ellcats. Owd Joe Cop’s wife ses, hay Jim, if the Good Lord spares mi to get whom aw ll watch noh moore railway trains wol thers breeuth 1’ my body.”’ I ‘ Un wot did theau doh,” Esther asked excitedly. ‘“Aw wanged (threw) eaur Sally’s rope deawn un me un Ben wapped ut back ov a barn like two scopperils.”’ “Un did theau leauv eaur Sally, Esther asked in an incredulous tone. Teh.” “Hay, aw wish hoo’d a never gon; wi’st rue the day, theau’ll stare if hoo picks th’ cauve,”’ Esther said regretfully.

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Sally’s reet,’ Jim said assuringly, ‘“ when Ben un me crappled eaut fro th’ back o’th barn, eaur Sally wur stondin o’th side o’th wo, lookin as unconsarned as a heause ‘‘ Habbut awst neer sattle wol aw know whether hoo’s reet or Esther said. ‘“Weh wot abeaut owd Jackey o’ Pip’s pig,” Jim said, “‘he’d taen it deawn o’ watchin th train come op un it broke th’ bant un set off deawn Harropdale ell for leather wi twenty dogs after it.”’ ‘“ Aw wudn’t gie a penny a peaund for th’ bacon when its kilt, nowe, nut if thi’d creawn Esther said. “Tt ull bi noh wur fur heytin, Ness,” Jim remarked. wot becoom o’th train,” Esther asked. ‘* Aw connot tell fur reet,” Jim replied. ‘ But when it gate to th’ Diggle Bridge th’ engine gav a gradely yell un ran into a greyt hole ith’ greaund.. Aw think its ‘““ Hay, it ull be jiggert op rump un Esther said, adding “‘ heaw did eaur Sally look ‘“Hoo looked fere gloppent,’” Jim answered. ‘“ Hoo wur sum capt.” “Un whoa’d laft that greyt hole ith’ greaund,”’ Esther asked. ‘“That’s wot Ben un me wur licked wi,” Jim replied, ““sumdy ull ha ther yed 1’ ther hont, its a moance shus wheer it is.”’ ‘“Un connot thi find Esther asked. ‘“ Weh,”’ Jim replied, “owd Ben un me un bin watchin two heaurs fur it comin eaut agen, but

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thers sum chaps gone op th hole wi lanteruns a seechin it.” ‘Ther’ll bi a bonny Diggle 1th morning, fur its mully crushed reet enuff,’ Esther said. “ Th’ engine met weel screeum, it wur feert un aw guess it ud bi scutchin away very fast.” ‘‘Tgh, it wur leggin away rarely,” Jim answered, ‘Betty o? Whiff’s wur deawn wi it gronmother watch, un hoo sed it wur goin five theausand mile a neaur (hour), un aw darsi hoo wur abeaut reet.”’ Awm fere bothert o’er eaur Sally,” Esther said, ‘“aw’ll goh un see heaw hoo’s goin on.” She went out into the shippon and when she entered the house again, she said, ‘‘ Hoo’s cuddin reet, but hoo’ll watch noh moore trains as lung as aw’ve a day toh live.” I Some weeks later, Jim met a shepherd from the Haigh side in the Stanedge Cutting, from whom he learned that the hole “ith greaund” was a tunnel which run under the moors to Marsden. ‘“Aw awlus thowt ut th’ railway finished V Harropdale,” Jim said, “‘ but aw thowt ther wur summat queer abeaut it bi’th road eaur Sally looked op th’ hole.” The bygone Friarmere folks had kind hearts and were always deeply attached to their cattle, and indeed to all domestic animals. Dogs, horses, and cows were often looked upon as equal to human beings in the matter of intelligence. Some cows had even a kind of bye-name. Moll o’ Creepers was a white cow kept by Dick o’th Creepers, and it ig stated that on one occasion Dick took her to a funeral, the cow having been invited by strangers,

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under the impression that she was Dick’s wife. When some of the mourners objected to the cow walking in the funeral procession, Dick said : “Ther wur a horse woaked ut a sodier’s berrin 1? Owdham un if a horse con woak at a berrin a ceaw con woak ut a berrin ur a pig oather, one’s as good as tother ony day.” Nor has this affection for animals died out, for it is said that only a few years back a hillsider his little pigs on to the wall to watch. a local Brass Band go past, and that the pigs jumped off the wall and capered about to the music, to the genuine delight of their owner. The first railway tunnel under the Stanedge moors was begun November Ist, 1846, and com- pleted November Ist, 1848. Cost AND MATERIALS. Candles, £3,618; Fuses, £698; Gunpowder, £5,131; Gun Cotton, £29; Lime, 2,535 tons ; Coal, 8,733 tons. Total cost, including approaches, £201,688 12s. 34d. The second tunnel was begun in April, 1868 and completed October, 1870. MATERIALS. Bricks, 68,000 tons ; Lime, 2,421 tons; Powder, 174,000 lbs. ; Candles, 164,940; Oil, 6,416 gallons ; Fuses, 35,863 coils ; Cement, 140 tons. The canal tunnel was begun in 1794, and com- pleted in 1811, cost £123,803.

Page 63

UPPERMILL.

AN IMPRESSION.

UppERMILL is a place to love, to linger in and finally to live in. The man who stays there, even casually finds himself on good clean hearthstones and in good company. He also finds that the village ovens are beef cooking ovens. They were designed and built for that purpose, and always do their best when dealing with something which yields a rich brown gravy. Of course, they will cook “ tan-tatlin-tarts”? and other pasties, but never in the best of humours. The village gardens will grow every kind of vegetable, but the soil stops there, it will not grow vegetarians. Thus, the man who ever winters in Uppermill never winters anywhere else. It is as the old saying goes, ““ Yoh connot punce him eaut.”” The stranger who walks through this village of good trencher men for the first time thinks it a grave and serious looking place. A place with its hands in its pockets and its head down. But how quickly that impression is corrected. How soon he awakes to find that there is song and laughter and merry heartedness underlying that thin crust of gravity. Even if it were consistently grave, Uppermill would have a right to its gravity, for it is the capital of Saddleworth. It is the father of the parish with

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all a father’s cares and responsibilities. But the village bears its burden honourably and in a way which keeps a light heart in its breast. Still, Uppermill has graver moments in its daily life than either Delph, Dobcross or Greenfield. Take the legal and the administrative importance of the village if you would understand what this gravity means. It is the parochial centre of law and order. The parish magistrates sit there and pronounce wise and carefully weighed judgments upon trembling and unhappy wrongdoers. Stern legal- faced officials sit there in splendid solemnity and write down high pains and penalties, to be paid forthwith and with resignation. They spend their lives with their eyes fixed upon blue sheets of foolscap. All papers (hymn papers and teetotal pledges excepted) issued from Uppermill bear the impress of the Royal Arms. They have, as an old villager picturesquely said, “ Shap ov a dog battle on th’ top,” and the injunctions they set forth must be obeyed to the letter. The parish councillors meet in Uppermill, wax eloguent and conduct their weekly wrangles over sewage tips with the high spirit of school boys ‘fratching ’’ over marbles. Their functionaries set out from the village and tramp about the parish brazenly demanding people’s money, every penny of which they bear away in triumph to the Parish Offices. Once there, the worthy Councillors begin to squander it with both hands amid everlasting professions of economy. You cannot even go into residence at the workhouse without the permission of some high official at Uppermill. If the per-

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mission is granted, you have questions to answer which have been specially prepared with the object of causing sudden death. Should they fail to do this, they usually leave the applicant crippled for life. Public functions in Uppermill are upon a higher level than those of other Saddleworth villages. It attracts people of eminence and profits thereby. Many evangelists, brewers travellers, missionaries and teetotal ‘“‘ Owdhamers”’ come to the village in a year’s time and are received and embraced with the utmost cordiality. It has no “divi” choir yet, it 1s the only place in Saddleworth where music is thoroughly understood and properly appreciated. There are two musical societies in the village, the Vocal and the Orchestral, and the concerts they provide are the high water mark of musical enter- tainments in Saddleworth. It used to be a trail hunting village, and one can still hear the praises of Dodger sung round the taproom fires on winter nights. It is urged against Uppermill that it failed utterly and to its derogation in one of its public schemes. To this the village has a ready and convincing reply. Years ago, it launched a scheme providing for the erection of public baths. A site near the viaducts was secured and loads of stone carted upon it. Year after year, the patient stones waited for the masons, who never came, and in the end the kindly grass overgrew them and hid them from the eyes of the scoffer. Now what use would public baths have been to so clean and respectable a place as Uppermill. No use whatever as baths, but the building would have served as a shelter

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and a place of rest for tired, overworked public officials. No doubt the village fathers looked wisely ahead and saw the time approaching when the introduction of baths into political clubs and private houses would either render public baths unnecessary or seriously affect their financial position. There is nothing wrong with Uppermill only its name and that is greviously wrong. It is almost offensively modern, and the village deserves better. It ought to have had a hoary old Anglo-Saxon name bristling with interminable derivations. Then, philologists would have scratched their learned heads and disputed from many viewpoints. As it is, the village name never reaches the honour of being included in philological works. It is obvious that Uppermill was originally so called to dis- tinguish it from a lower mill. There is no existing place name of Lower Mill, and one is left to surmise where this mill stood. It is beyond living recollection and there is no known public record which gives any clue to the site. A clue may exist in the field names of private deeds. The old mill, at Frenches, has been suggested, but is it not too far away to require this kind of particulariza- tion. I would suggest that the lower mill stood within the area of the present village. Possibly, in or near the “ Lower Fowd,”’ or to use its saintly and more dignified substitution, St. Mary’s Gate. It is commonly, and I think rightly, accepted that “mill”? in the village name is derived from a corn mill. The following, from the “ Abstract to the Title of the Manor of Saddleworth and Quick,”’

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unfortunately does not give the situation of the mills : ‘* And also all those corn mills, with the Kiln fold and mill pastures, lands and heredita- ments thereunto, used and situate and being in Saddleworth aforesaid, then in the tenure or occupation of the said James Farrer, his undertenants or assigns, at and under a yearly rent of £20.” The date is 1777, and it is clear that there were then two Manorial Corn Mills, and 1f not at Upper- mill, where? Probably one was the lower and older mill, and the other the Upper and the newer mill. The decay and extinction of the lower mill presumptively saw the decay and extinction of the name, while Upper Mill survived long enough to impose its name distinction upon the village. This upper mill stood, it is supposed, upon the site of the present “‘ Old Factory,” and is referred to in old deeds as the “ Soke Mill.” Here is an extract from an old deed, dated 1706, relating to lands at Back o’th Lee, which shows the feudal system in operation. The tenant of the said land is bound: To do and perform suit and service at the corn mills of the said James Farrer, in Saddleworth.”’ I have seen this service stipulated in several old Saddleworth deeds, ‘“‘ Suit and Service,” would probably mean grinding corn for a day or more each year without wages. In taking out the foundations of an old house, demolished a few years back near the present Bank, a large quantity of chaff was discovered which had hardened almost

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to stone. It was probably the site of a tip when the corn mill was in operation. Present day farmers tell us that corn and other cereal crops will not grow and ripen in Saddleworth. Yet there was a time when the local farmer had to grow his own corn or go practically without. Even after the corn mill at Uppermill had ceased work- ing, local corn was grown and taken to the corn mills at Ashton. The “lonts” in the fields and meadows on our hillsides show us to what extent corn and other crops were once cultivated. To us it seems almost unbelievable, that our fore- fathers could stand on Wharmton, or on Knotthill, in the harvest time and look over far stretching acres of yellow cornfields. Uppermill has a pardonable weakness in the importance that it attaches to old St. Chad’s. The interests of the village and the interests of the Shaw family have been closely bound together for many generations. The two have grown up together, hence the attachment. The family kept the “‘ noiseless tenor ”’ of its way until one, George Shaw, appeared. In the middle of the 19th century he was a church architect and did much notable work in various parts of the country. He was also a collector of antiques, and the hall at St. Chad’s bears witness to his diligence and his success in this interesting field of research. George Shaw appears to have had an easy conscience upon these matters, and when genuine antiques were not pro- curable, he promptly set to work and manufactured his own. He, of course, followed the antique model, inscribed the article with an ancient date,

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and the thing was done. He followed the same course with regard to the external parts of St. Chad’s and its outbuildings. Almost every stranger who visits Uppermill looks long and interestedly at the little old chapel with its Norman arch and other curious bits of old chiselwork. He at once concludes that it 1s a Norman Chapel, built in Norman times and forming now one of the most valuable archeological relics in the parish. Little does he dream that there is scarcely a stone of that chapel which truly belongs to Saddleworth. Where did they come from? George Shaw knew, and others suspected, but let it be sufficient to say, that as a relic of our parish, it is a lie and a sham. This is no less true of the inscribed doorhead of one of the outbuildings. It is dated 1585 and the stranger no doubt accepts it as fact that it was carved on the date it bears. Unfortunately, for his belief, there are men in Uppermill who remember the stone before it bore. an inscription. There is a marble stab in the chapel which bears the names of the members of the Shaw family, beginning with Richard Shaw, in the time of Edward IL., 1307-1327, but a suspicion of faked genealogy hangs about it. _ It is not the house, itis the old garden of St. Chad’s which means so much to Uppermill. It is a god- send to the village, yet it 1s only a few groups of trees which come into the street with greenery and the song of birds. Those trees touch the grey old houses and the streetway with magic. They have charm at all times, but especially, I think, in the stillness of a summer twilight. Day seems to

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close more mystically and more beautifully over a village which lies dreamily in the arms of shadowy old trees than it does in a village of bare walls. In that hour, at Uppermill, one is never sure which is the most haunting view, looking down the street with the tower of Ebenezer Chapel grey and indistinct above the tree tops, or looking up the street with the trees the dark gables and the chimneys thrown up against the sky. If a row of houses ever occupies the site where those trees now stand, Uppermill will become the bare dreary looking “ hole” that Delph is to-day. The village has some good old homely inns. They are built of stone and stand square to the street, not with effrontery, but in a way which suggests that each is proud of its place and its reputation. In their wide taprooms and snug parlours one can meet with lght-hearted folks who tell a good tale, sing a good song, and like women, will have the last word upon any subject that may come up for discussion. The opinions of its inn corners generally fashion the opinions of the village and this is why Uppermill is never on the wrong track. It is remarkable that the inns are all built on the same side of the street. It is unknown whether they were or were not inten- tionally so arranged, but the arrangement is a wise one. It prevents spying and heartburning between one landlord and another. The landlord of one house cannot look through his windows and see what the landlord of another house across the street 18 doing. Therefore, they live in peace and on good terms with each other. The total abstainer

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INN CORNER.

AN OLD

Page 73

may say contemptuously, ‘“ Why the inn corner.” Well, the inn corner, or rather the inn, if I may answer him, is and has been from time immemorial a famous old English institution. How far it has gone towards the making of an Englishman, and consequently towards the making of England, is a matter far too deeply and too widely rooted to be estimated here. Scientists tell us, and history tells us very definitely, that teetotal peoples are degenerate. That ale drinking peoples are virile strong and on the ascending plane. Take for example, Germany, the greatest ale drinking nation in the world. Is that country on the down grade, we have found the contrary to our great cost. Then again, what would our art, literature, science, in fact almost anything which stands for greatness in the world be if we had nothing to show only what had been accomplished by the teetotaler. Is it possible to name a truly great poet who was a total abstainer or teetotal poetry that was ever popular or will live. One shudders to think what Burns would have written off cold water. How well he knew what he was writing when he penned: “Inspiring bold John Barleycorn.” Is it not practically the same with our English prose writers, and does it all mean that total abstinence in a man is a bar to the highest expres- sion that 1s in him. Here is the reason given by the poet Collins for drinking wine:

And the first of enjoyments Through life has been mine, To regale an old friend

With a flask of old wine.”’ 57

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Collins took good care that he regaled himself at the same time. I Did not rare old Dean Aldrich in the 17th century

write:

‘* Tf all be true that I do think, There are five reasons we should drink Good wine—a friend—or being dry, Or lest we should be by and by, Or any other reason why.”

Was it not a Bishop of Bath and Wells who wrote one of our most famous drinking songs ; and has not Hilare Belloc written “ that good ale hath seven qualities :—Clarity, Savour, A Lively Hue, Light- ness, Profundity, Strength Refined, and _ lastly Perfection and the End.” An old Uppermiller said that there were three kinds of ale—good ale, better ale, and best ale, while old Jamie B. said, ‘‘ Ther’s noh bad ale, but ther’s better un wur.”’ The ale men drink in Uppermill contains all the qualities of the old Sussex ale, described by. Belloc, and they sparkle beneath a “top” that is as white as new milk. Old Joe o’ Jim’s called one night at an alehouse in Uppermill and drank two pints of fourpenny. Three weeks later he told a friend that it was the strongest ale that he had ever drunk in his life. ‘*Mon,”’ he said, ‘it knocked mi three ribs off afore aw gate whom, un if aw hadn’t a bin careful, it ud a knocked em o’ off.” The villagers drink and rejoice after the manner — that their forefathers rejoiced when they took a

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barrel of rum on to the top of Pots and Pans at the peace celebration in 1856. The bygone Uppermill fathers knew what to put inside a barrel, they were never caught dancing and rejoicing round a barrel of cold water. The village records show that the inns grew steadily in number as the population increased and that the place was well prepared to stand a long “droot.”” The Commercial Inn, the Bridge Inn and the Hare and Hounds Inn sold ale before the 19th century came in. About 1813, John Wood, clogger, flourished at what is now called Clogger Knowe. He built houses there, and to do him honour, someone has called an ale- house ‘“‘ The Clogger’s Arms.” A Joseph Travis built the Marquis of Granby Inn about 1824. The Commercial Inn was at one time the court house at Uppermill. It has come down to us that on days when there were more prisoners than staples in the walls to fasten them to, the other or excess prisoners were chained to the fender in the tap room. The Waggon Inn has had a varied and humiliating history. Preachers of the gospel have lived there, but the house has now recovered its respectability and is now one of Uppermill’s good inns. It was built by Harry Platt, of Dobcross, about 1818. The Platts, of Oldham, are his worthy descendants. In addition to the inns there were several beerhouses where old hand-loom weavers did their quiet “spreeing”’ on “ days. In 1814, William Shaw and J. & J. Bramall were corn factors in the village. Robert Broadbent was a grocer, John Adshead and Mary Buckley were linen drapers, Messrs. Buckley and Wrigley were

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cotton manufacturers. James Buckley was in business as dyer, while Jeremiah Bramall and Thomas Shaw & Son were woollen manufacturers. In 1842, W. Blackburn and 8. Higinbottom were the surgeons in Uppermill. J. Barraclough, Thos. Lees, Sam Kelly and Jas. Kenworthy were the village tailors. The grocers were L. Buckley & Co., John Broadbent, Robert Harrop, George Platt, Joseph Shaw, and Jonathan Tyas. The shoe makers were Jonathan Avison, Betty Wood, John Buckley and Joseph Wild. The joiners were Wiliam Bestow, Abram Bentley, and Thos. Whitehead. There are four places of worship in the village. The Parochial Hall, which is an ofishoot from the Parish Church and where evening service is held during the winter months. The Ebenezer Chapel, built 1807 and re-built 1872-3. The Wesleyan Chapel, built 1811 and just replaced by the impos- ing structure which now adorns the square. There is also a Spiritualist Church in the village. If the newcomer were to ask me which of these organiza- tions it would be wise to join, I could not honestly tell him. Each is doing, or at least trying to do, a great deal of good in its way. It is said that there are no sects in heaven and probably if he left earthly sects alone he would not in the slightest degree jeopardize his chance of going above. Was it the poet Pope who wrote: “Can a man’s creed be wrong if his life is right,’ or something to that effect. No sect, much as it tries, can make its members as good as they ought to be, for generally what is done in the way of goodness on a Sunday

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is undone during the week. The god that is devotedly worshipped in these days is called brass.” There are two political clubs in the village, one Conservative and the other Liberal. Both have hot and cold water in the tap. Scaldingly hot on an election night when party feeling runs high and strong. An Uppermill election “ fratch ”’ is one of the most exciting and invigorating experiences that a man can live through. These “ fratches ”’ begin innocently with a little party criticism, then they advance into a kind of simmering stage, and go on until they finally boil with personalities. The village branch of the St. John’s Society has kept its eye on these things, and with commend- able foresight, has erected several ambulance pillars. Joe o’ Mick’s used to say that there was a time when Uppermill folks were like “‘ Ratchta foak ragged un That was when it was a porridge eating village, before the villagers began to slip out of doors at supper time for a “ pennoth o’ fried fish.” Joe argued that “slupperin meyt,” as he called porridge, ‘‘ made people shine and doe well.”’ ‘ Pigs,” he said, “come on weel wi slupperin meyt un soh dun foak.” ‘Toh,’ answered his mate, who was a minder. “But pigs dunnot get op ut six o’th clock i’th mornin un run abeaut a jinny gate o’ day.” ‘Bring two pints,’ Joe said to the landlord, win co it sattled.” Porritch 1s o’ reet becose it macks foak toak gradely, thoose foak ut sen methematical words,

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thi connut toak ‘ porritch ’ words becose thi dunnot know heaw,”’ the minder said. Uppermill held on to its rushcart and other old Wakes’ customs as long as people remained at home to take part in them. Their decay set in when people began to hurry away to the seaside and leave an empty village. When Axon wrote his book on Rushbearing, it was from Uppermill that he got his finest illustrations. The village is a place of ambitions. In 1868, it imperiously broke away from the rest of the parish and became a Local Board Authority. Its high isolation con- tinued until 1900, when the parish acquired Urban powers. The Mechanics’ Institute, opened in 1859 by the Karl of Carlisle, is a place with more historic associa- tion than I have space to chronicle. If I had to compulsorily write the history of a Saddleworth village, I should select Uppermill. There is an interest and a flavour about its public institutions. and its public movements which grips, holds and haunts one like a fat legacy in the will of a rich old uncle. A something which one always remembers. with pleasure. The Candour Lodge of Freemasons. was founded in 1812 and gives weight and dignity to the village. The members have an awe inspir- ing list of mysterious initials appended to their names, but in public life there are, without exception, good fellows and the best of friends. On the road to Brownhill there is a recently erected Drill Hall which invests the district with some degree of military importance. Many good parsons have ministered well in the village, but none better

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than the Rev. Rueben Calvert. He was the first Congregational minister, and the following story shows the kind of man he was. One night he caught a neighbour stealing coal from his coal place. Most men would have gone for the thief in Owdham ”’ fashion, two fists and two clogs. Mr. Calvert, however, kindly asked the intruder to be fair and take a little of the “slack” along with the “cobs ” and the “neplins.”’ A sacrilegious tramp recently broke into the vicarage and stole an orange and an apple. He humbly confessed that he was alter whisky and at the same time disclosed his ignorance of vicars and vicarages. A vicarage is no doubt the proper place in which to find the spirit celestial, but surely not the spirit “‘ Johnny Walker.” I have said that Uppermill is a place with ambitions and would become a town, were there no obstacles in the way. Long live those obstacles and may they grow stronger as the years go on. Imagine Uppermill with its own member of

Parliament, its Mayoral banquets and its fat

7

pompous alderman strutting about Court Street. Imagine anything you like, but let Uppermill remain the Uppermill that it is to-day. When that briliant critic, Jules Janin, wrote ‘‘I know no- thing so dangerous as progress,” people wondered what he meant. Those who have seen what pro- gress has done during the present war by way of inflicting human suffering may see one side of the critic’s meaning. I should like to see Uppermill go leisurely like old Jamie o’ Esther’s used to go when he went a

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paying “ with no hurry but “ a strid to-day un another to morn.” I know how pleasant it is to come down that old track from Wharmton at sunset. To drop down past those motherly old houses at Moorgate into the village street. To sit and talk in the twilight with a friend over a tankard in an old inn kitchen. No one knows what immortality is, no one knows that it even exists, but if it does, I would spend mine going down the old roads into Uppermill for ever, meeting the same old cronies, in the same quiet homely rooms for ever. I would quote eternally Le Gallienne’s lines :—

tavern to tavern, youth passes along, With an armful of friends and a heartful of song.”

I have substituted “friends” for “girls,” because the girls of Uppermill do not go into taverns, but the friends I am thinking of do and they stay as long as the law allows them.

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SHAW.

IF you could go back down the old road of history to the time when the first green spots of cultiva- tion in Saddleworth began to grow round the rude homesteads, I make sure that you would find Shaws all down the way. You would find them first of all clearing away peat, breaking up moor stone and making hedges round new intakes. Coming nearer our own day, you would find them in all places doing all manner of work. Many you would find weaving good broad cloth in great handlooms. A fair number you would find setting eggs under broody hens, cleaning out little hillside shippons, and weighing 20 score pigs in November. Other Shaws you would meet with writing their names upon wills, upon Church rolls, and upon articles of agreement relating to trail hunting and cock-fighting. Some very grave dignified Shaws you would find sitting austerely in Churchwarden pews, but wherever you found them, whether acting in an official capacity or otherwise, you would note that they were doing their day’s work worthily and well. Having taken a fairly comprehensive view of the Shaws, you would come to the in- evitable conclusion, that they were and still are a decent old breed. How old I cannot say, but maybe they were in Saddleworth before the first north-east wind blew over the top of Stanedge.

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We get our earliest documentary sight of the family about 1250, when Robertus del Schag (Shaw) found his way into a deed relating to Saddleworth Church. It seems beautifully consistent with what we know of the Shaws generally, that they should come upon us with the sanctity of a Church deed about them. That they should enter our ken impressively accompanied by high secular dignitaries, manorial lords and holy fathers of the priesthood. This majestic introduction has served to balance things a little, for it 1s said that some of our old local families first came into Saddleworth riding “ stroddle leg’ upon the backs of donkeys —a gross outrage on our parochial dignity. In the deed just mentioned there also occurs the names of Robert del Qwyke (Quick) and Robert del Holyn- — greve (Hollingreave), both of which have vanished from our personal nomenclature but are still to be found as place names. The early Shaws do not appear to have cared much how their indirect surname was written down upon the ancient rolls. It is found in the varying forms of Schag, Shagh, Schagh, etc. These variants with one possible exception have come down to our own times in the sturdy, thickset and substantial form of Shaw. The assumed exception is the prefix “Scho” in the surname of Schofield. In the Poll deed we find Robertus, Willelmus, and Johannes del Schag among the parishioners assessed under that subsidy. In 1380, “‘ Rogerus del ffulthorp ” died seized of land called “le Schag in Saddleworth frith,” from which we gather that “Schag’”’ was

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at that date a local place name and was possibly the source of our present local surname. That branch of the family which anciently had the most ‘“‘ wool on its back” (wealth) lived, it is supposed at Shaw Hall, a fine old Elizabethan house which stood near the present Farrer’s Arms Inn. I cannot explain the origin of the divisional name Shawmere, but I am inclined to think that it was in some way connected with this family. The Shaws are distinctly a “ Lowerend ” breed and for centuries they appear to have been very much “soilbund”’ and held on to their “ owd clods”’ with a tenacity of grip which is still a family characteristic in other directions. There is no Shaw in the list of tenants who held monastic lands on Friarmere in 1538 under Roche Abbey, nor does the name occur in the Hearth Tax assess- ment (1665) for the same division. About 1720, a John Shaw settled at Old Tame and he must have been a rare man with a good square jaw and a red neck, or he would not have been allowed to established himself in that hallowed old cock- fighting hamlet of the Wrigleys and the Gartsides. This John Shaw must have taken deep root in the ‘Topend ”’ and reared hardy children, for later we find the Shaws weaving cloth and boiling porridge in many laneside houses on Friarmere. The Shaws have held voting power as long as most locals. At the election of 1741, nine freeholders of the name voted at York Castle. At the famous election of 1807 over twenty Shaws recorded their votes. At the election of 1868 over thirty Shaws voted at Dobcross, some “yollow” (Lib.) and

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some “blue” (Con.) How evenly balanced the political parties in Saddleworth were at that date, may be gathered from the following figures taken from the Poll book :—

Lord Milton, .. 419 votes. H. F. Beaumont, Liberal .. 417 ~~ ,, L. R. Starkey, Conservative .. 417 ,,

W.S. Stanhope, 416 ,,

The family has produced a field full of local celebrites, both with and without uniform, “ band chaps,” “setterday neet sodiers’’ (volunteers), bobbies, magistrates, and parsons. This is all to their honour, but families, like mdividuals, have their lapses and the Shaw family once so far for- got its respectability as to produce a poet. This was Thomas Shaw of Oxhey, who in his day wrote verse, took snuff, drank ale, and lived com- pulsorily on “churn milk un porritch.” He was born at Dale, near Delph, in 1789, and died at Oxhey in 1861. He lies in the old Churchyard of St. Thomas’s, at Heights, near the scene of his many drinking exploits and poetic inspirations. His father was Joseph Shaw of New Barn, who in 1785 married the poet’s mother, Hannah Wrigley, of Grange. In 1824, Shaw published a subscription edition of his poems under the title of “‘ Recent poems on Rural and Miscellaneous Subjects.” The book which covers over 200 pages of verse is now rather scarce and is consulted chiefly for the bits of local lore which it contains. In Shaw’s day a few of his poems were popular among the humbler dalesfolk. They were sung lustily at

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‘pig suppers’? and in the old weaving chambers and barns on the Darkside of Friarmere. In the haytime the Denshaw mowers used to sing “ The Black Fleet of Denshaw,” who were in that day ‘For mowing renowned.” When hare hunting began the men who followed the hounds used to sing :—

‘* Let praises of Bouncer with freedom resound, Since through the whole country there’s ne’er such a hound, When the field word is given he capers for joy, And he flies like a dart for old Jone’s Oxhey, Talk of hedges six quarters they aid but his flight, For like Spartan of old he bounds them outright.”

Shaw left behind him the manuscript of a second volume of poems. At one time it was in the possession of one of my Oldham friends. At his death it passed into the hands of a Saddleworthian where it now remains. The poems show no advance upon Shaw’s published work. Nor is this to be wondered at, for the poet, after the issue of his book, drank less and less at the Pierian spring. He had come to prefer the Bacchanalian spring, and this preference passed into a passion which remained with him to the end. When it came to drinking the poet had a thirst on him which was worth five pounds of good money. He had no conception of quantities which measured less than a “bantcan” full. It is said that when he was in ordinary form he could put 16 quarts of ale out of sight and seem no worse for it. Through the

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death of a relative, he came into the possession of three pounds of ready money and a pig. He sold the pig at once and with four pounds in his pocket, he went on the “spree’”’ at the Horse and Jockey Inn, Bleakhey Nook. An aunt of his went up to the Jockey and tried to persuade Tom to leave the inn. Thi’ uncle wudn’t o’ thrown brass away 1’ this shap,” she said. Tom got up with all the stateliness that he could muster and answered pompously. ‘When there is a new lord of the Manor he makes new laws.” The law that Tom made was that he spent the four pounds and this he did easily. He wrote under the pen name of “ Aparian,”’ but he was called “Tom ut Top” for his neigh- bourly byname. I have heard old men say, who had sat with him behind alehouse tables, that he was good company and worth a quart of ale for his wit and his old sayings. There was everything which is considered the opposite to poetry in his personal appearance. He was not one of the ‘* long-haired ”’ and “ large soulful eyed ” type that we read about in the personal “‘ Reminiscences ”’ of the grand society dame. Old Tom was shape- less and unwieldy, large in girth, and ample as a shire horse. He had a back like a barn end and a pair of legs under him like twisted oak beams that you see under old roofs. You could have placed a ““neet schoo” inside his breeches. which he generally “ so low that a good deal of cloth rested on the top of his boots, consequently

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in rainy weather when the roads were dirty he was often ‘“ slutched”’ up to the knees. His face was the extremity of ruggedness, its irregularities suggested that it had been used as a brake for a stone cart and that the wheels had worn ruts into it. He had a big jolly nose, ripe and good to look at, like an orchard in Autumn. The kind of nose that you often see about old Yorkshire alehouses, pulpy, and mellowed by the touch of many brews. At seventy, old Tom was as hard as nails and sometimes in the Summer he would sleep all night in the fields with the skylark and the golden plover for bedmates. It is said that he never slept in the same field twice together, but would sleep in one field one night and in another on the following night. In this way he drove the damp out of all the fields round Heights Chapel and kept them nicely aired and comfortable. An old friend told me that he could remember seeing Tom going up the lane from the Royal Oak Inn towards the four lane ends. He had a can of “ traycle” in one hand, while the other grasped a little sack of ““meyl”’? which was thrown carelessly over his shoulder. He looked like a “ moonleet flitting ” with the things piled up anyway in a hurry. A few years ago I was pleased to see his name printed in a list of Yorkshire poets. The bygone Shaws did well for Saddleworth. They had good limbs and broad backs, and gave much of their strength and no little of their brains to the making of the parish. They began early in the morning of our history and turned the rough moor into pasture and meadow when there were few of our ancestors

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to help them. It 1s a godsend for us that they multiplied and replenished on our hillsides, or many of us would not be able to find our way home at night. The late comer is particularly indebted to them and should always treat a Shaw with respect. Providence wisely ordained that the family should not countenance the production and rear- ing of bachelors. Its menfolk did not believe in long courtships and if you will take the trouble to examine the Church Registers you will find how regularly the Shaws visited the Christening font. Of all the sacred vessels in the Church the font appears to have been the especial object of their adoration. They monopolised its uses and found church parsons something else to do than idle their time away in crawling through an ordinary Sunday service. I take it that the Shaws have- caused more water to be spilled at local christen- ing rites than runs down the river Tame in a week. They have also spilled much ale at “‘ yedweshins ”’ but it has been between the chin and the nose. I have referred to their past and present capacity for work. History tells us how deeply rooted this capacity is. In 1622, John Shaw was ex-com- municated for continually working upon holidays during service time. This old-time Shaw was no mere daredevil, he was clearly a man of courage who feared neither parson nor churchwarden. He was ex-communicated, which meant that the opposite place to Heaven was to be his eternal portion. John decided to go there, rather than waste his time in psalm singing and scraping to

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the pulpit. While his neighbours were down on their knees praying he was probably making a pig cote, mending a fence or ploughing the land. He was doing useful and necessary work and he no doubt had discovered that there was more sincerity about it than there was about the praying business. I do not think that the breed has reared many vegetarians for if there is one thing which a Shaw likes better than roast beef it is roast mutton. They are neighbourly folk and like most Christians, fear God and the rate collector. A directory for 1814 gives the following Shaws as woollen William Shaw, Grasscroft; Guiles Shaw & Sons, Furlane ; James Shaw, Dale; John Shaw, Warrock Hill; Joseph Shaw, Broadmeadow ; John Shaw, Dumfries; John Shaw, Hollinsbank ; Thomas Shaw & Son, Uppermill. I The records show them to be the oldest family in Saddleworth, and I think they will stay on until Pots and Pans hill has wasted down until it can be placed in a wheelbarrow. My various references to the local importance of the Shaw family are not meant to indicate one particular branch, but the Shaw family as a whole. I am prepared to grant that the Shaws of Saddleworth are descended from the Shaws of the Poll tax deed, 1379, but I decline to believe that either the Shaws of St. Chad’s, or any other branch, can trace their family descent down to that date. Their surname is one, the derivation of which, is now accepted as definitely settled. It comes from the Anglo Saxon “ scaga,”’ meaning a small wood. Having been acquired from a local settlement or homestead, the name

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supports the popular belief that Saddleworth was anciently a timbered district. As a compound, Shaw is found as a prefix in Shawforth, Shawcross, and many other names. As a suffix it occurs in Denshaw, Castleshaw, Higginshaw, and Barrow- shaw.

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JUNTER AND JAMIE O'’TH LOW.

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OwD DONTY’S SUPPERIN Do.

Ir yoh’ll mack o’ less din un o’ hearken abit, Aw’ll just try un tell yoh a Freermere skit. Its o’ true as gospel but owt ut aw tell, Aw want yoh toh promise yoh’ll keep toh yersel, Fur aw know very weel if thi’ yern ut aw towd Aw’st noan bi soh lung afore awm catchin a cowd. It wur this road, ther wur Junter un Jamie o’th Low, Neaw thoose er two warm uns as aw darsi yoh know Fur heytin un drinkin ther bad uns toh lick, Fur thi’ll tack it 1 owt, oather deeud ur wick, Thi’re nowt mich fur wark that’s nowt 1’ ther line, Beawt its shiftin sum ale thi’ con manage that fine. One neet op o’th Heights thi’ met Donty i’th Broo, ‘* Hay lads,” he sed, “‘ awm fain toh leet o’ yoh two Fur aw bowt a grand hare as a mon ever seed, If you’ll come on toh morn yost ha a good feed.” That’s just wot wanting,” sed Junter sum glad. “It is that,” sed Jamie, “ un thank yoh owd lad.” ‘Yohr one ut reet soart, awst back yoh abit, Thers foak op o’th Ceauncil uts noan hauve as mich wit, If wi’ come on ut noon aw guess it’ll bi’ o’ reet.”’ Oh come toh yer supper,” sed Donty, “ toh morn ut neet.”

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When neet coom next day thi’ wur on 1’ good time, ‘“ Hay lads, sed owd Dont, “ neaw this is fere prime Awm feart if its howt its rayther toh rich, - Yoh’ll mack yersel’ ill if yoh heytun toh mich, Aw’ve skimmed o’th fat off as weel as aw cud.”’ Ne’er mind th’ fat,” sed Junter, “‘ aw’ll bet its 0’ good, Let’s sample it owd mon, wheer han yoh a spoon, Fur egad awm sum hungry aw’ve had nowt sin ‘* Neaw yer welcome,” sed Dont, “ doh best ut yoh con, Thers a weshin mug full un plenty i’th pon Awm welly beaut ale, but aw’ll fot yoh a quart, Aw’ll goh op toh th’ Heights wol yer mackin a start.”

Soh thi’ collert ther spoons un thi off ut top speed. By gadlins,” sed Jamie, “ neaw this is a feed.” But Junter ne’er spoke he kept ladin it in Wol a streaum o’ warm fat ran off ut his chin, Un Jamie wur blowin un puffin fur wind, Fur feart he wur gettin a spoonful behind. ‘“‘Thert heytin toh fast mon a’ connot keep op.” ‘* As lung as it lasts,” sed Junter, “aw noh time toh stop.” Soh thi’ stuck toh ther wark shiftin platefuls o’ fat, Till ther faces wur covert wi’ warm grease un swat. Jamie looked into th’ pon un slapped howd ut yed, ‘¢ Aw’ll mack this look less in a he Thi’ seawked every boan wol thi’ wur white as snow.

‘Hay mon,” sed Junter, “ wi’ ne’er wur 1’ sich blow.”

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““Its bin rippin,” sed Jamie, “ but theau knows aw con see Theau’s had a good share, two bowls moar nur me, Aw thowt wi’ wur mates un its howt hobbut fair, Theau howt toh gan o’er when theau’d hetten thi’ share.” “* Aw ne’er play wi’ mi’ heytin,” sed Junter sum sly, As lung as thers meyt aw keep puttin it by.”

When owd Donty gate back fro th’ Heights wi’ his ale ‘Two plates full o’ boans wur laft toh tell th’ tale. He star’t ut his guests un then he ripped eaut, noan hetten it o’ un laft me fere beaut.”’ “Wi han,” sed Junter, “‘ther’s noather broth laft I nur nowt Wvrd licked it 0’ op afore wi’ gav it a thowt.” “* Yer smart uns,” sed Dont, ‘“‘ un aw feel abit mad Aw’st ne’er larn noh wit, aw goh sillier egad, Aw’|l forgie yoh this time, but if it happens agen, Aw’ll tell yoh boath neaw yohn dun wi’ mr then. Well heaws it gone deawn lads,” he sed a bit rough, “© Wur it like middlin tender, had aw boilt it enuff.”’ ** Like a chicken,” sed Junter, ‘‘ wi’ ne’er ned toh cut, I It melted ’th meauth mon as sweet as a nut, A’st doh a fortneet aw think, un ne’er want toh bite Awm as full as a fitch me singlet’s sum Un heaws Jamie,’’ sed Dont, “‘has toh had a tuck in,” “* Put yer hont here,” sed Jamie, “‘ yoh’ll feel wheer aw bin.”

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Thi’ drew op to th’ fire un th’ ale went reaund, Wol thr’ sat like two kings ut wur just new creawned. Then Jamie sed, “‘ Dont aw’ll tell yoh wot owd lad, Yer our dog’s getten th’ mange un he’s getten it bad, Aw seed it 1’th lone tother day as aw passed.”’ ‘* He’s sed Donty, “he’s done wi’ ut last, Un neaw as wi’re toakin aw’ll show yoh his skin. Aw bin thinkin o’ curin it but th’ yure’s nawt thin.” ‘“ Aw wud doh,” sed Jamie, “ne’er heed it being bare, It’ll look very weel, Dont, ut back o’ yer chair, He’s bin a rare dog, ne’er a better ‘ith broo, Un fur cattle un tentin he wur worth onny two.” Hay, Laddie,” sed Junter, “ soh gentle un soit, Theau’s followed mi’ lad, deawn th’ meadow sum oit, Un theau’s capert abeaut un run ut mi side, Un neaw thert deeud un awm strokin thi hide. Theau liked mi’ aw know, theau knew awr thi friend, _ Awm sorry owd dog ut theau’s come to thi end.” Did yoh dreawn him,” sed Jamie, “ wi’ a stone in a seck, ‘Ur hung him 1’th barn wi’ a rope reaund his neck.” ‘* Aw did noather,”’ sed Dont, “‘ he’s had a different fate, Wot’s left o’ owd Laddie ur th’ boans op ’oth plate,. Yohn hetten him between yoh, yer full o’ good keep, Get into this ale neaw un sup hearty un deep.”

Then Jamie turnt yollow, un Junter turnt blue, Un yed first throo th’ durhole boath on um flew,

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Thi lurched across th’ lone un boath pumpin th’ ship, Wol ther wur heawks undert wo like an assmidden tip, Thi boath stuck to th’ wo fur o’ wur goin reaund, Wol lumps o’ owd Laddie kept leetin o’th greaund. Un Jamie wur heighvin as if he’r ne’er beaun toh stop. Hay, Lord, heaw aw wish this owd cur dog wur op, Aw’ll bet ut 1’th morn awst bi as deeud as a nail, Aw made toh mich labber o’ seawkin it tail.” ‘* He’s done us,” sed Junter, “aw thowt summat wur wrung, Theau ne’er seed a breawn hare wi’ a tail soh lung Un look ut it yed, mon, it wur as big as ceaw ; Aw wish owd Donty hissel had a bally ful neaw.” ‘* Oh dear o’ me,”’ sed Jamie, ‘‘ aw fere connot abide Toh think aw’ve an owd cur dog i’ mi inside, A mangy owd cur dog un blint o’ one ee Aw feel as if aw wur musselt awm sure ut awst dee.”’

When Junter gate whom he wur lookin sum queer, ‘ Hello,” sed his wife, “ th’ owd leatheryed’s here, Whe’er ever’s toh bin theau drunken owd foo ?” “Hay, Mally,” he sed, “ yond cur dog o’ Donty’s 1th Bro, It’s finished me owd wench, awm cockin mi toes, Aw bin a good husband to thee, Mally, theau knows. If aw start off o’ barkin un yeawlin i’th bed Theau mun hie thi’ fur th’ doctor un th’ he said ; I Win hetten yond cur dog me un Jamie o’th Low, Awm chock full o’ whelps un Jamie’s full un o’. Aw bin a good fayther to eaur Sal un eaur Ben:

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Bi sharp wi’ that bucket for awm startin agen.” Hoo ran into th’ kitchen “ damprate it,” hoo swore As a peaund o’ owd Laddie let soss op o’th floor. ** Aw’ll rub thi nose in it,” in a passion hoo cried, ** Theau drunken owd swealer theau’ll have it toh side ; Ger op stairs wi’ thi neaw un theau’ll lie bi thi sel Aw’ ve enuff on it here, awm poisoned wi’ thi smell.” Soh he crope op toh bed but he ne’er winked o’ sleep Fur he kept seein Laddie reaund th’ bedchamber I creep.

When Jamie lurched whom he catched it sum wot, ** Just look ut thi cloas theau ornerary owd sot. Whe’er ever’s to bin fur theau’rt covert wi’ swill. ‘* Aw want doctor,” sed Jamie, “‘ hay Bet awm sum ill, Awm sum poorly owd wench,awm welly dun o’er.” “Shut thi meauth,” said his wife, “‘aw yerd that tale afore, Its owd wench ut neet when thert poorly wi’ drink Tob morn theau winnot care whether aw swim or sink.”’ ** Awm deein owd lass un its 0’ mi’ own fote Aw feel full 0’ dog yure fere op toh mi’ throat. Just goh eaut wi’ a lantern,” he sed wi’ a moan, ‘““Un see if mi’ liver is sumwheer 1’th lone, Awm sure its comed op, theau mun look undert wo Theau met find mi’ guts un mi’ stummack an 0’.” thi dofied,” Betty sed, “‘theau drunken owd swet, Theau’s ne’er lost noh brains 1’th lone aw’ll bet,

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Aw shud look rare un weel, foak ud think awr noan reet To goh lookin 1’th lone fur thi liver ut neet. Wheer’st toh bin ceawert theau’s had summat awm sure.” “Its yond cur dog,” sed Jamie, “ theau’ll see yond noh moare.”’ ‘* Han yoh shot it ?”’ sed Bet, “it wur time it shud dee.”’

‘“‘ Win hetten it,” sed Jamie, “ yond owd Junter un me,” Its gone deawn eaur necks un its made us sum bad Owd Dont ull bi tellin heaw us foos un bin had, Wots that uts comed op, it favers part ov it yed.” “‘Ger op wi thi,” sed Bet, ‘ un theau’ll sattle 1 ‘“* Aw’st sattle noh moare, aw wish had never bin born, Theau mun seh awd rhumatic if awm deeud ith

morn.”’

He’d th’ neetmare for weeks, un foak yerd him sheaut : “Ger op wi thi Bet fer yond owd cur dog’s abeaut, If owd Donty shud catch it he’ll boil it agen, Egad, if he does, wench, it ull bi op wi’ mi’ then.” Every dog ut thi seed awlus gav um a start Un sum soon thi wur boath heighvin ut th’ heart, Thi cursed owd Donty un he gate sum weel coad Kvery time ut ther dinner wur laft op o’th road. But it cured thoose two un th’ getten sum wroth Ii onny body mentions a bowl o’ dog broth.

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JACK O’ PITY’S PROVES HIMSELF A BRITON.

In a country village there is nothing that a woman loves to talk about so forthcoming wedding, and this talk so far as the contracting parties are concerned, is generally of a searching character. It is also for the most part depreciatory and con- ducted with the object of showing the prospective bride’s deficiencies. There are certain well recognized lines of investigation to be followed, which on no account can be ignored or even treated with a careless kind of interest. The moment it becomes known that a young woman is going to be married, the first question which rises in the feminine mind is, ‘‘ Wot’s hoo beaun to have on.”’ In other words what kind of dress is she going to wear on her wedding day. Then there are the contingent questions of, “ Whoa’s mackin it un heaw mich a yard has hoo gan for th’ stuff.” There is no shirking these questions, they must be answered and answered fully before the feminine mind of the village knows any peace. A coming bride who is wise will furnish the required in- formation at once. This course has the effect of tempering the severity of any further discussion which may arise about her wedding. It is the young woman who refuses to disclose the desired

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particulars and tries to conceal the parts of the nuptial programme who takes the foolish step. Immediately this becomes known, all the feminine energies of the village are directed against her with the object of breaking through the fortification of her secrecy. When the attack has been carried to a successful issue it then becomes necessary to inquire into the lady’s past. If any transgressions against the moral code, any deviations from the path of rectitude, or any defects in her knowledge of housework are found, they are of course discussed down to the minutest detail. Heaw mony felleys has hoo had ?”’ ‘* Wot mack o’ heause wark con hoo do ?” Wot’s it fayther un wot’s it mother?” These and other questions crammed with savoury items of gossip agitate the feminine tongue during the proverbial nine days’ talk. When Mary Martha Rodd, better known as Moll o’th owd Hen’s, was going to marry John Henry Banks, or Jack o’ Pity’s, the village knew everything. Moll was what is called a ‘“‘ blobmeauth ” and kept her work mates at the mill posted up with every detail of the approaching event. The bridal pair had barely reached their new home on the wedding day before Nan o’ Bill’s said to a neighbour, Aw’ll bet ut yond fat Moll ull wears th’ breeches afore wire soh mich owder.”’ Wearing the breeches is an old Saddleworth saying which usually refers to the married state, and in which the word breeches is used to imply the symbol of authority. Therefore, when a woman is said to wear the breeches, it is equivalent

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to saying that the poor down trodden husband has been humiliated and reduced to a state of com- plete subjection. He has become a “reych mi, fotch mi, carry mi” kind of slave, ever ready to obey his wife’s commands with dog-like obedience. At the altar Moll, a fine strapping young woman, had promised to “love, honour, and obey” her knock-kneed and rather diminutive husband until “‘ death us do They had been married on a Saturday, and on the Monday following a workmate named Ned o’ Jim’s kindly undertook to initiate Jack mto the difficult beginnings of conjugal felicity. Ned drew up a code of rules and regulations to be observed in Jack’s house- hold, and having for their object the establishment of Jack’s authority on a permanent and unassail- able basis. By way of illustration, Ned pointed to the servile and slavish condition of his own wife (a little ill-used creature) as evidence of what the code had accomplished in the subjection of Mrs. Ned o” Jim’s. ‘“Theau mun let her know ut thert gaffer slap - bang Ned advised. Aw shall doh,” Jack replied with spirit. “When theau puts thi foot deawn, theau mun keep it deawn, to sum Ned went on, “un if hoo starts a toakin toh fast theau mun gie her sum shuff leather.” Jack promised to use his boots if the necessity arose. Thinking the matter over at his work, he con- cluded that his best course would be to adopt a non-belligerent attitude. He would not wilfully

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provoke friction in the house, but if trouble arose, he would conduct himself in a manner consistent with the dignity of the more martial sex. His wife was as “ big as a ship,” as they say in Saddle- worth, and Jack saw in her a formidable opponent in the event of actual hostilities. They had been married about a week when the first storm broke and Jack learned (what he had half suspected before) that his wife was not likely to respect her marriage Vows. One night, after a hard day’s work, he had just finished his tea when Moll said : “Its abeaut time theau weshed op, for yond slopstone’s full o’ dirty pots.” Jack thought about his promises to Ned o’ Jim’s and replied, ““ Awst noan wesh op its noan my wark.” I Theau’ll wesh op too,” his wife cut in sharply, adding, “theau knows ut aw’ve a weak heart, but wot does theau care theau hard-hearted thing, theau wudn’t care if aw wur deeud.”’ The war of words went on until Moll said warningly: “‘ Aw’ll ha noh moar o’ thi impidence noather, speyk another word un aw’ll breyk thi yed wi’ this brush steyl.”’ At the first flourish of the long brush Jack fled into the kitchen. When he thought his wife’s anger had cooled down, he washed himself and then meekly took the cloth and washed the dirty crockery ware. Moll took no notice of her obedient husband, but sat contentedly in her chair reading the third chapter of “Lady Sybil’s Dream or Love’s Triumph.” Having taken his first down-

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ward step, Jack gradually sank deeper and deeper into the pit of ‘‘ henpeckedness ”’ until at last he was overwhelmed and the spirit crushéd out of him. Sometimes at his work something of a fighting spirit would rise within him and he would decide upon a determined course of action, he would say savagely to himself: “‘ When aw get whom toh neet aw’ll oather punce her eaut ut durhole or rom her op th’ chimbly.” But Jack was one of those men who are always bravest when the enemy is farthest away. He struck the hardest at nothing and when he should have struck at something, he put his hands into his pocket and unconditionally surrendered. The moment that he opened his cottage door all his heroic intentions went out like the snuffing of a candle. As soon as he had finished his tea he went through the customary evening’s drudgery with- out a word of protest or complaint. His wife usually sat in her chair absorbed in the flirtations of the beautiful ‘Isobel de Montmorency”’ and other peerless heroines of the novelette. Of course, Ned o’ Jim’s now and then asked Jack how he was going on at home with the subjection of Moll, and he would say: “Theau knows Jack th’ Owd Hen lot ur noan soh good toh lick.” Jack knew that much better than Ned, but generally he said nothing to his adviser. It was only when evasion was impossible that Jack replied to his workmate and then he consistently told lies. One Saturday he hurried home from his work and was bolting his dinner, when his wife said pointedly : “ Thert in a greyt splutter to-day, wot is ther

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‘‘ Aw promised toh goh wi’ Ned o’ Jim’s toh a trail hunt ut Dobcross,” Jack replied quietly. trail hunt,” Moll repeated at the top of her voice, “ theau’ll trail hunt op o’ this floor wi’ a mop un sum handy.” ‘ Aw’st goh,” Jack replied, with an attempt at decisive utterance. ‘“Let’s ha noan o’ thi camplin thert gettin toh forrad, its abeaut time theau wur taen deawn a peg,” his wife snapped. Jack looked up at the clock and finding that he had a little time to spare, he went into the kitchen for the “mop cleaut”’ and a bucket of water. Having taken the carpets up he went down upon his knees and began to mop the floor. His wife kept a critical eye on the work and repeatedly called Jack’s attention to what she called his ‘“mullockin wark,’” a piece of criticism which meant the re-mopping of several flagstones. When he had finished the work to her satisfaction, he began to strip his clothes in order to wash himself. ‘““Ther isn’t a drop o’ wayter 1 this heause,”’ his wife said significantly. Aw’ll fot sum when aw come back,” Jack replied in conciliatory tone. ‘“ Theau’ll fot it neaw, thert gettin toh idle toh woak,”’ she said with emphasis. Jack made no reply, but took the buckets and went across the field to the well, when he returned she said : ‘Look ut thoose windows, aw con hardly see throo um fur dirt.”

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“Ned o’ Jim’s noather fettles th’ windows nur weshes op,” Jack replied by way of indicating the measure of domestic freedom enjoyed by his workmate. “Sich lke as Ned o’ Jim’s ud treyd wimmen into th’ greaund un thert gettin as bad,” Moll said with decision. aw hammot,” Jack ventured sub- missively. “Its a brunnin shame heaw awm treated,” Moll replied in an injured tone, “if th’ naybors knew thi’d ladder thee.” “Wot fur,” Jack asked innocently, “aw dun nowt.” ‘** Theau’ll ha done nowt when theau’s kilt mi’, theau knows heaw mi’ heart is; awm ready toh drop neaw,” Moll replied in a tone which suggested murder rather than a physical collapse. Unwilling to continue the dispute, Jack washed himself and took his coat down from a nail on the ceiling. In one corner of the house stood an old press bed a wedding gift from Moll’s grandmother. This kind of bed was at one time common in Saddleworth when families were large and sleeping accommodation was much more limited than it is to-day. The press bed could be closed up like a wardrobe in the daytime and let down at night. As Moll usually had a nap after her dinner, the bed was rarely closed. “Put that jacket deawn,” she cried authorita- tively. Jack hesitated with the coat still in his hand, and for a moment they stood staring at each other.

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‘“* Put it deawn when thert towd,’ Moll cried louder than before. Jack still hesitated. His wife reached for the long brush. Jack threw his coat on to a chair and dived under the bed. He had been lying there for about twenty minutes, when Moll chanced to look through the window and saw her husband’s brother and his wife coming up the lane. They were evidently coming to pay her and Jack a long promised visit. Not wishing them to see her husband in such an unmanly and undignified position, Moll knelt down and looking under the bed, said persuasively : “Come eaut, yer Bill un his wife ur comin op th’ lone.” Nowe aw shannot,” Jack replied savagely. eaut mon un bi sharp,” she said plead- ingly. Nowe,” Jack snapped back. Moll then tried to reach his legs, but he crept further under the bed. Then she tried to close the bed up, but Jack held on stoutly to the under ropes and defeated her purpose. Finding that gentleness was of no avail she began to storm. ‘Come eaut un stir thi,” she said sharply. ‘“ Nowe aw’ll bi gam,” Jack shouted in reply. ‘Arto comin eaut ?”’

‘* Nowe.” defy me?” ‘“TIgh, aw’ll be a Briton fur wonst.”’ ‘ Arto shappin ? ” ‘Nowe, mi’ gronfayther fowt ut Wayterloo un aw'll feight, aw’ll kill sumdy afore lung,” Jack said creeping further under the bed.

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Aw’ll gie thi belltinker,” his wife said. ‘“Tgh, un aw’ll show thi whoas th’ mester here, thert noan havin thi own road everytime,” Jack replied, crawling closer to the wall.

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WRIGLEY.

NNN

I BELIEVE this family is locally supposed to be the most ancient in Saddleworth. This supposition 1s, however, not supported by documentary evidence and is, therefore, not to be seriously considered. I have shown that in the matter of local seniority the surname of Shaw takes precedence over all others. The first may have been a con- temporary of the first Shaw, but wisely kept his name out of the Church rolls. To his credit he had sufficient sense not to get mixed up in ecclesiastical matters. He knew, perhaps in- stinctively, that the ways of the Church were neither so innocent nor so inexpensive as they seemed. Even in our time this is all too painfully true. If there had been trail hunting and “ pig supperin”’ in the time of the Conqueror, the Wrigleys would have come up strongly and the old llth century parchments would still smell of aniseeds and onions. The first to come into our rolls was Willelmus Wriglegh, who in 1379 came purposely to pay a tax of fourpence and set a worthy example to all the generations of Wrigleys who might follow him. Taken generally they have followed him, and have met their financial obliga- tions straight up and above board. There may be I isolated instances, where they carelessly forgot to pay their pew rents. At other times they may

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have sung anniversary hymns with such vigour and earnestness that they failed to see the offertory box, but in the larger things of life the Wrigleys were, and are, no worse than other people. They never had more money than they could do with, often infinitely less, and it 1s rare to meet a Wrigley with sufficient “ brass ’’ to make it possible for him to achieve the honour of bankruptcy. Old Joe o’th Bankheys used to say, “ If a mon dees worth a theausand peaunds he’s robbed sumdy, un if a mon dees a theausand peaunds in debt he’s bin robbed eaut ov it.” The Wrigleys stand half way between the two. There may be somewhere in hiding a Wrigley with a brass knocker on his door, but it has never been my luck to run across that fortunate and truly wonderful man. The Wrigleys root and branch are a ‘“‘Topend,”’ or Friarmere breed and Old Tame, in ancient days called Ashenbenche, appears to have been the early home of the family. There is still in the hamlet a dismantled lintel, initialed and dated J.W., E.W., 1639. The initials are those of John and Esther Wrigley, who at that date were living at Old Tame. There is only one Wrigley in the list of tenants who in 1538 held lands under Roche Abbey. This was John Wrigley of Ashenbenche, who had held. the tenancy from 1524. In 1539, a Robert Wrigley is recorded as holding lands belonging to Kirklees Nunnery, but their situation is not indicated. In 1665 there were four Wrigleys living in the ‘“'Topend ” who paid the Hearth Tax for that year, while the hearth of a fifth was for some reason

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not chargeable. These five families were, I infer, the descendants of the John and the Robert Wrigley of the 16th century. The rise from two to five families in 130 years proves that the Wrigleys were in no great hurry to over populate the parish. They shirked their responsibilities with regard to the making of “cinder tea”’ and generously gave their neighbours plenty of room to stride about in. It is not improbable that between the years 1530 and 1665 several Wrigleys left the district and settled elsewhere. However, this maybe, I find that the Wrigleys of our adjoining parishes were covering themselves with glory, while the Wrigleys ol Saddleworth were covering themselves with loom dirt and cow dung. During the Protectorate a grant of arms, three Saxon swords, was made to Henry Wrigley, of Manchester. In 1651, Henry Wrigley, of Chamber Hall, was High Sheriff of Lancashire. The old records indicate that this gentleman was a power in his day and if he was not a Saddleworth bred Wrigley, he ought to have been, I have no proof either way. Canon Raines gives a short pedigree of the family, beginning in 1650 with John Wrigley of Old Tame. The by- gone local Wrigleys seem to have led quiet lives on the hillsides. They had little or nothing of the ambition which leads men into the rough and tumble of the world, a pipe of “ bacco,” a pint of home-brewed ale, an old fiddle, and a hand of cards with a neighbour whiled away the hours when the day’s work was done. They loved to see a hound laid across the hearthstone, and the oak beams hung with copper kettles and other

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trail hunting trophies. Some of them kept game- cocks and were handy folks at dubbing and setting these birds. When sparrow shooting was a popular local sport, the Wrigley’s had nothing to learn in the art of netting these birds at midnight. The way in which it was done was to lay a large wide net carried on poles against the ivied walls of a house. This was effected as quietly as possible in order not to disturb the roosting sparrows. When the net was in the required position, the ivy was beat with long sticks and the frightened birds rushed out and were easily captured. As I know them, the Wrigleys generally are not religious in the chapel going sense of the term. There is, however, a thin streak of sanctity running through the breed somewhere, but it is very elusive and difficult to fix. They have sat as church- wardens at most Saddleworth Churches, including St. Chad’s, Dobcross, and Heights. How they fared at the old-fashioned vestry meetings is un- known, but one may conjecture that they con- ducted themselves in a manner worthy of their exalted position. In 1788, the Rev. Miles Wrigley accepted the of Dobcross, and it is said, to his eternal honour, that he introduced Christianity into that now respectable and God- fearing village. He resigned the living in 1795, why I cannot say, but suspect that it was to prolong his hie. It would be no soft thing holding the parsonship of Dobcross in those days, and it speaks. well for the Wrigleys that one of their breed had the courage to undertake the difficult and dangerous. work. The village has progressed since that day

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and is now so moral and circumspect in its every- day life that church going has ceased to be a necessity. The consequence is, that so far as attendance is concerned at Holy Trinity, there are about ten pews to one worshipper. I have never had the honour of seeing a Wrigley in religious. vestments, and the whole thing is so contradictory and incongrous that I cannot imagine one. I can imagine a Wrigley who smells of hound dogs and hunting stews, but one with the high odour of the holy communion about him takes my breath away. Still I suppose that there are good men in every breed, my own not excepted. It is singular that the good Wrigleys of the past lived at Dobcross, and I hope that the village appreciates the honour without any reservation. In 1846 a Wrigley managed to get his name in- scribed on the tower of Holy Trinity Church. Envious detractors may describe this as rank sacrilege, and express surprise that the tower has stood so long, with the heathen weight of a Wrigley name upon it. We, as a family, can afford to treat all this with contempt and feel proud that we had this good man among our forbears. Any man can get his name painted upon an inn sign, but getting it chiselled on a Church tower is another thing. Now and then the breed has turned out a warrior. I have no authentic record of the Wrigleys who fought at Waterloo and I am not going to claim that the victory was entirely due to their efforts. I say this because some Saddleworth folks will tell you that if their ancestors had not been present

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on that famous field the day would have been lost. The decisive local engagement of 1826, known as Delph “ Feight,” left one or two Wrigleys with their heads cracked and their shins “ barked.” There was a John Wrigley, of the Royal Artillery, who contributed certain sanguinary and also hquid laurels to the family name. He was born in 1777, at Woolroad, and served with General White- lock in South America, then he saw fighting in Ceylon, and for a time during that campaign he served in the capacity of surgeon’s assistant. In this connection there is a story told of Wrigley, which serves to show the way in which his head was screwed on. One of his duties during the cholera epidemic in camp was to carry the dead out of the hospital and respectfully attend the inter- ment. Every morning the surgeon gave Wrigley a list of the men who had died during the night. On one occasion, armed with the surgeon’s list, he was going his round of the hospital removing the dead. As he was lifting a body out of one of the beds, he was surprised to hear the supposed corpse say: “Howd on, howd on, Jack, awm noan deeud yet.’’ Wrigley dropped the sick man on the bed and having looked over his list again, said: ‘ Yaw thert deeud un theau’ll ha to come eaut.”” aw con stir mi’ honds mon,” the sick man replied. ‘“Aw dunnot care wot theau con stir, thert deeud,” Jack said, with emphasis, “un theau’ll ha to bi berried.”’ bury mi’ wick Jack,” the man said

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““Thert deeud, doctor ses theau’rt deeud, un awm noan havin thee knowin moore nur th’ doctor,” Jack replied conclusively. “Send fur th’ doctor, Jack,’ the man said appealingly. Nowe,” replied Jack,” “‘awm noan havin deeud folk trying to mack me believe ut thi’re wick. Aw’st lawse mi’ shop if aw stond that mack o’ wark.”’ - After a little more discussion the sick man con- vinced Jack that he was still alive and he ultimately recovered. On leaving the army, about 1826, he settled down in Oldham. In 1841 he became keeper of the Town Hall and held the office until his death in 1848. Under the name of “ Churn milk sergeant,’ he was one of the famous town characters of his day. He loved a drop of good whisky and someone has paid the family a high compliment by saying that one of the greatest rarities in the world is a teetotal Wrigley. This compliment, which is fully deserved, must not be taken to mean that the Wrigleys spend all their spare time in “beggar macker’s shops,” as old Mary o’ Joe’s once described alehouses. They see no harm in taking a drink with men for friend- ship’s sake, and if there were no such thing as friendship, the Wrigleys would be dangerously near total abstinence. I am not trying to make out that they avert their eyes when they approach a “pub,” for as a matter of fact they take a good look at it, and note the kind of ale sold inside and any other particulars worth noting. Some of the old time Wrigleys went so far as to keep alehouses.

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There was a Daniel Wrigley (Owd Shankin) who in 1810 kept the Rose and Crown at Delph, and a John Wrigley, who in 1814 kept the King’s Head, at Dobcross. The Wrigleys have made much cloth and they have worn out much cloth (the seats of their breeches) by sitting in loomgates. At one time Saddleworth was full of men who had two round patches in the seats of their unmentionables. It was the recognized hallmark of the handloom weaver. Mr. 8. Andrew gives some interesting industrial items from the old account books of Joseph Wrigley, of Stonebreaks. He was evidently in a large way of business and manufactured “light and raven greys, logwood blues, copper, and claret mottles, and browns and drabs.” He bought his wool mainly from dealers in Shropshire, paying from 9s. 4d. to 20s. per stone and it was conveyed to Stonebreaks on the backs of pack- horses. His wage accounts show that he paid Thomas Banks £12 4s. 6d. for 31 weeks’ work as a scribbler. James Bardsley earned 9d. a day at haymaking, and 8d. a day at shearing. Alice Mellor received 4s. 3d. for one week’s carding and slubbing. The surveyor’s accounts for about this time, 1780, throw much light on the wages paid to men and the prices paid for materials relating to road work :—

s. d. Paid 1 labourer for 1 day 1 2 Paid 1 labourer for 2 days le 2 OO To 1 cart with 1 horse for 1 day 2 6 To 1 cart with 2 horses and 1 manaday 3 6

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To 2 cart loads of bolders at 2/6 per load.. To loading 4 loads of sleck I

To 1 load of stone .. .. - To 7 loads of bolders at 10d. per load .. To 5 stumps (posts) at 4d. per stump To 1 pick and hammer helve To repairing 1 wheel barrow Paid for ale for 24 carters

-~_ Oo = — Tr Ooe= ao F ped pd Qu =o:

A joiner was paid about lls. per week and a slater about 8s. per week. Board and lodging, with washing and a pint of ale per day, cost about 4s. 6d. for a man and 2s. 6d. for a woman. The prices of foodstuffs were: Beef 4d. per lb., Mutton 4d., Veal 5d., Bacon 7d., Butter 6d., Cheese 5d., Sugar 8d., Potatoes 6d. per score, Flour 2s. per peck, Meal.1s. 7d. per peck, Milk 1d. per quart, finest gunpowder Tea 13s. per lb. If the name has any significance, the last-mentioned item must have been extra strong and if so, would be rare stuff for giving explosive power to old women’s gossip round a tea table. In 1788 the following Wrigleys attended Manchester Market for business purposes :— John Wrigley, Saddleworth, Woollen Clothier. Benjamin Wrigley, sen., Saddleworth, Woollen Clothier. Benjamin Wrigley, junr., Saddleworth, Woollen Clothier. There were also— James Harrop, Saddleworth, Woollen Clothier. John Kenworthy & Co., Saddleworth, Woollen Clothiers. 99

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John Roberts & Son, Saddleworth, Woollen Clothiers. John Harrop & Son, Saddleworth, Woollen Clothiers.

The coach fare from the Beaver Inn, Hanging Ditch, Manchester to Delph was 4s. 4d. inside and 2s. 2d. outside. Passengers were allowed 14 lbs. of luggage free, above that weight the rate was Is. 6d. per stone. In 1836, the following local Wrigleys were trying to make ends “ meet un tee” in business :—

Abraham Wrigley, Woollen Manufacturer, Slackgate. Ben Wrigley, Woollen Manufacturer, Castleshaw. George Wrigley, Woollen Manufacturer, Junction. I I Henry Wrigley, Woollen Manufacturer, Stanedge Foot. John Wrigley, Woollen Manufacturer, Slack. Ben Wrigley, Woollen Manufacturer, Hey. William Wrigley, Woollen Manufacturer, Hey. Harrop Wrigley, Woollen Dyer, Tamewater. Robert Wrigley, Machine Maker, Dobcross. Sam Wrigley, Cotton Spinner, Southead. Thomas Wrigley, Cotton Spinner, Lydgate. Thomas Wrigley, Grocer, Hollingrove. Joseph Wrigley, Innkeeper, Wool Pack, Dobcross. Sarah Wrigley, Innkeeper, Rose and Crown, Delph. William Wrigley, Innkeeper, Robin Hood and Little John, Bleakhey Nook.

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Some of the bygone Wrigleys were very musical, perhaps too much so, for they appear to have overdone it. They exhausted both the family voice and the talent and left to my generation nothing but a few ‘“‘sweepings up’”’ composed of bottom notes as rusty as old nails and top notes as cracked as a “ warkheause pot.” A man with common sense will go outside the room when a Wrigley stands up to sing, that is, if he has any real respect for music. In their day, my aunts, Mary and Lucy Wrigley, were fine singers and were often engaged to sing at special church services in the district. On one occasion Mary went to assist the choir at Hey Chapel. When the afternoon service was over, the vicar, Mr. Grundy, sought my aunt out and said: “‘ Miss Wrigley, it would give me very great pleasure 1f you would take tea at my house.” “ Thank you,” very sorry that I have to decline your invitation, but I have brought a friend with me and I am waiting for her “Qh that doesn’t matter,’ Mr. Grundy said kindly, “ bring your friend along with you.” My aunt and her friend, who was known on Friarmere as “‘ Moll o’ mi’ Gronny’s,” were soon seated at the table. Among the eatables was a bunch of celery, a vegetable ‘‘ Moll o’ mi’ Gronny’s”’ had never seen before. Passing the celery glass, Mr. Grundy said: “Do try this Miss Wrigley.” ‘Thank you,” replied my aunt, taking a small piece. Then Mr. Grundy passed the celery to Moll with a similar request.

replied my aunt, adding, “I am

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‘“ Hay, nowe, Mr. Grundy,” Moll replied, ‘ aw shud bi rommed as full o’ wind mon as a blown frog.” Nonsense,” said Mr. Grundy with a smile. ‘Aw shud fur sure mon aw shud brast,’’ Moll protested, “afore aw gate to’th top o’th Hey lone.”’ As the tea went on Mr. Grundy continued to press her to try a bit of the celery. Moll who had been wondering what the vegetable was called and having quietly solved the matter to her own satisiaction. said: “ Well aw’ll just try a rhism, Mr. Grundy, but its first time i’ 0’ my life ut aw’ve sin white rhubarb.” A neighbour who had not conducted herself to Moll’s liking once asked her what was good for the complexion. ‘* Wesh thisel 1’ cowd wayter, mend thi stockings, tell no lies, pay thi way, un dunnot backbite Den- shaw foak soh mich,” Moll answered and walked into the house, leaving the astonished woman standing in the road pondering over the strange Moll was a great tea drinker, and on one occasion at a funeral they asked her if she would have another cup. ‘“Tgh,”’ Moll replied at once, “ aw’st ha 8 cups, berrin or noh berrin.”’ I My particular branch of the Wrigleys appear to have held on for generations to the old weather- beaten houses which stand on the hillside between Heights Chapel and the moors. There is no barer or colder ground in Saddleworth, but my forbears

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seem to have looked upon it as an earthly paradise. They were humble weaver folks who knew the taste of “‘churn” milk porridge better than they knew the taste of roast lamb. They had “ sneckbants ” to their house doors and for hearthstone carpets pieces of old wool bags trimmed with “ listin.” They went through life “ poor but hearty, like a parson’s pig,” now and then one rose to local respectability by rearing stirks and selling cloth. It is said that after a hunting day they used to go homeward along the hill from the Royal Oak Inn, at Heights singing :

‘You all knew Tom Moody, the whipper-in, well ;

The bell just done tolling, t’was honest Tom’s knell ;”

The bell has done tolling for them all now and the wind whistles across the cold empty fields where their view halloas once rang when the hounds came ‘“yeawlin ”’ over the Noddle Hill. I have not seen Wrigley as an ancient place name in Saddleworth. The locality known as Wrigley Mill in Diggle, probably acquired its name from some bygone owner or occupier. Wrigley Mill as a place name existed in 1775. That Wrigley was a local homestead name in 1379, which sub- sequently became a surname, is reasonably certain. There is the place name of Wrigley Head, in Fails- worth, but I think in this case the name of the family created the place name probably by long occupation. “ Wrig” is Anglo-Saxon, “ hrycg ”’ meaning a ridge, it is generally found as a suffix in

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hill names, Loughrigg, Brownrigg, Rayrigg, etc., “ley ” is the old Anglo-Saxon “legh,”’ a pasture or enclosure, and is a very common suffix in English names, both place and personal.

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THE MOP, AT DELPH.

‘A foo is he a drunken sot Who in the inn doth tarry, Un drains his pot until he’s got Moor ale nur he con carry. But wise is he who tacks his cup. Un gohs streyght whom toh bed, Who neer gets up i’th neet toh sup, Un nurse a warchin yed.”’

You can set out now, and walk straight away through five English counties, along main roads and byways through old towns and villages and not find an alehouse just like the old “ Mop,” at Delph. I mean the “ Mop” in the heyday of its fame, when its signboard was up and its door wide open to the good men of the village. It was the goodliest of all the goodly inns of Saddleworth, which is saying a great deal. Its company was the homeliest and the kindliest in the world to man and beast. Its ale was the best and the ripest that ever sparkled into a gallon pitcher. Its fires were the brightest, its walls and floors the cleanest, and its drinking tables the whitest that a man could sit behind. There was an odour about the old rooms that one never meets with in any other alehouse. I never knew what it was, but it always brought to me something which suggested the freshness of a spring morning in the

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fields. Nor was that all, for the tales that were told, and the songs that were sung in its taproom, were the wittiest and the merriest that men ever told or sang. The old house seemed to throw a flavour into them generously as a woman throws fragrant spices into mulled ale. The end of this good old-fashioned inn was tragic, a stab in the dark and sudden death. The grandmotherly council in one of her petty “tantrums” tore the signboard down and slammed the door in the face of the villager. Silence, and darkness, and damp- ness, became tenants where song and light and warmth had lived so long and happily together. There is no old “‘ Mopite ” who looks at those dark taproom windows without thinking of that warm room on a winter’s night. In fancy, he can see his old neighbours sat round it, each in his accustomed place. He can pick out one from another by a laugh or a tone of voice. He can see Joe in his corner quietly puffing away at a little clay pipe, he can hear Bill’s laugh every ring of it as clear as he had heard it a thousand times. He can hear Jack slip one of his quaint witticisms across some stupendous discussion and break the company into a good humoured ripple. Uncon- sciously he asks himself “‘ where are the boys of the old brigade.” Alas! where are they? Some who sang and laughed under the “ Mop”’ rafters have gone to their long sleep on the hillsides, others have been scattered like autumn leaves blown from the same tree by the wind. The ‘“ Mop ” seems to have aged a great deal since they took the licence away, it is fretting over its

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decadence, its fall from a lusty alehouse to an ordinary dwelling-house. The stone seems to have gone greyer and older to look at. The windows are darker in the daytime and lightless at night. A lasting gloom has fastened upon its walls like an endless November day. Still it looks across the street and up the broad highway to Junction with a kind of austere indifference to the buildings around it. The “ Mop” reminds one of a fine old English gentleman who through misfortune has come down from his high estate, yet retains some- thing of the dignity which characterized his better days. Tall and not without stateliness it is archi- tecturally the most distinctive building in the village. It is four stories high and lustier of girth than most houses. The interior arrangement of the rooms is of that ample rambling character which delighted our forefathers who loved to see ten children sat round their hearthstones. You can gallop a horse round its kitchen. As an inn, it retained its internal simplicity to the last. The veneer and the garish decorative effects of the modern inn were never permitted to degrade the ‘‘ Mop.”’ There were no rows of brass pumps in its unpretentious bar. Every drop of ale was carried up the stone steps out of the cellar in great blue-rimmed pitchers. There were no electric buttons to press when one wished to summon the landlord. If a man wanted a pint of ale he knocked bravely on the table with an empty pot. The seating and also the ale tables about the rooms were plain almost to rudeness. No sprightly stylish over-dressed barmaids giggled

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and flirted with the customers. The old _ land- lord brought the ale into the taproom as sedately and as solemnly as Church officials bring in the sacramental wine at Easter Communion. Men who loved simplicity and the homely things of life sought its orderly taproom and its neighbourly company. The “ Mop” company differed from all other local alehouse companies. There was a sympathy and a bond of union between man and man, the like of which never existed elsewhere in alehouse life. They were as one large family knit together by ties of long and close association. It was a truism in Delph that if a man drank his ale at the “ Mop” he was beyond reproach. His character was looked upon as being equal in cleanliness to that of any bishop of the Established Church. Greenfield, Uppermill and Dobcross, good places though they are, had never a “ Mop” to crown their virtues. The “Mop” was the guardian of the village character and it performed that duty well. It had the reputation fully deserved of being the best conducted alehouse in the parish. It must follow, that if village inns are well conducted the ordinary cottages are the same. The character of one proves the character of the other. The highest honour that a villager could confer on a visitor was to get him served with a glass of ale at the “‘ Mop.” The village had nothing else to show worth showing to a stranger. So he was led into the “Mop” as proudly as a Londoner leads a north country man into Westminster Abbey. You can meet scores of men everywhere who never tire of telling you

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that they once had a drink in the “Mop” tap- room and “such ale,” they say, “as never ran down a man’s neck.”’ The fame of the “ fourp’ny ” ale was as wide as the land. The ordinary run of landlord gets the cheapest ale that he can lay his hands on for the sake of the extra profit. Old Joe got the best that money could buy, while the cellar was the abode of some good fairy who ripened the contents of the great barrels to perfection. It was ale that nourished a man in his sleep and prepared him for the next day’s work. There are men still living who in time of sickness gave up taking doctor’s physic and came to the “ Mop” to drink its old ale. They came there just as men go to Harrogate to drink the waters. In the daytime they wandered over the hills in the fresh air and drank the old ale at night. If you meet those men now, they will tell you that the “ Mop ” ale and Saddleworth air cured them. In the hottest day of summer, when the ale at the other - Inns was warm and sickly to the taste, the “* Mop ” ale came out of its cellar white-topped and cool and fragrant as early dawn on a moor. Then men sought the old tavern as the traveller in the desert seeks an oasis. For all the grip and the flavour of that ale, it must not be supposed that a man could go to the “ Mop” and drink as much of it as he could pay for. Ifa man entered the tavern with this impression it was very quickly corrected. If he persisted in refills his “ tap” was stopped. The “Mop” might almost be termed a teetotal alehouse, as drinking for drink- ing’s sake was consistently discouraged. It stood

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for abstinence and, therefore, rendered a public service to the village. It sent men home sober, with clean mouths and clear heads. A man could go into any other village inn and get “ blind to the world,” but he had to be exceedingly clever if he managed to get “‘fresh”’ at the “Mop.” If five or six men entered the taproom at the same time, even though they were regular customers, they had often a long time to wait before they were all served. Filling six pints at once looked to the landlord very much like drinking and was treated as such. Sometimes, shortly after two o’clock,. on a Sunday noon, he would tell his customers that they would have to make the ale in their pots. last until half-past two, as he did not intend to fill any more. People who came in aiter this had been said were not served. The Delph Show day was a terrible time for the “ Mop.”” The event. naturally brought a large number of visitors into the village, and while other landlords were trying to: get them into their houses, Old Joe was busy and I working like a Trojan trying to keep them out of the “ When persuasion and other things. failed he used to lock the door in the face of the astonished strangers. No gambling was ever permitted in the nor was the subject ever allowed more than five minutes for discussion. The gentlemen of “ dead snips ’’ and “ starting price ’’ fame never aired their phenomenal intelligence and masterly analytical powers in its taproom. The discussions were generally upon current topics of local or national interest.

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When Socialism came to the village there was much speculation as to whether the landlord would permit this angelic subject to be introduced for discussion. A few of the younger customers, who had caught the new craze, determined to put the matter to the test. They began warily with casual interjectory remarks and. advanced until one night the debate waxed fast and furious. The result was that the uplifters of their fellow creatures were summarily “trammed” and _ forbidden the house. The landlord’s drastic action gave great satisfaction to the rest of the company. They knew, from experience, that the “ trammed ”’ saviours of the human race would not move even a little finger to uplift either a neighbour or anyone else who was down. A man who gives his wile and children bread and jam for dinner, while he himself sits down to roast beef and potatoes, is scarcely the sort of person to raise a neighbour, however much he may froth about equality in alehouse corners. There is no creed that ever was fashioned for human guidance more truly Christian than real Socialism. Every man, whatever his religion or politics, knows this in his heart. He knows that there are :—

“Too many Gods, too many creeds,” Too many paths that wind and wind. While just the art of being kind, Is all this sad world needs.”

Going to church or chapel three times each Sunday, conforming to all sectarian rules and regulations,

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carefully reciting all textual injunctions, bowing to the east and taking the Sacrament, are nothing if the “ art of bemg kind” has-no part in a man’s daily life and action. By ancient law of the “ Mop ” each old customer had his own accustomed seat. One could have wagered and won, that on entering the taproom, certain persons would be found sitting in certain places. Delph folks passing the windows at night could identify the row of men whose shadows were thrown upon the window curtain. If by accident a stranger occupied the accustomed seat of a regular ‘‘attender,” the said “attender’? fumed and fretted and worried until some kind friend gave a hint to the stranger that he was sitting in the wrong place. One afternoon a regular customer entered the taproom and found another person sitting in his, the new comer’s seat. Although the two were the only people in the room, the new comer sat down close against the other person and said brusquely, “ Hutch op.” The other ‘“ hutched op” at once. One Wakes’ time, a villager, not a regular customer, went into the “‘ Mop ” taproom and found the landlord alone. ‘Yer customers ur o’ off aw see,” the villager said. ‘“Igh,” replied the landlord, “un aw want noh new uns.”’ The man at once took the hint and departed in silence. I The art of “Tramming” or showing an objectionable person to the door, was carried to a degree of perfection at the “‘ Mop,” which to the

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ordinary publican is almost unbelievable. In this matter Old Joe made no distinctions, he served rich and poor alike. The oldest customer was just as liable to be “ trammed ”’ as the most casual caller. No transgressions upon the unwritten rules of the house were permitted. Sentences varied according to the character of the offence. A man could be “‘trammed ”’ for a night, or a week, or for life. There were several villagers upon whom the life sentence had been passed, and as long as the ‘“ Mop ”’ retained its licence the sentence was never revoked. Disturbing a form was another, it was taken to prove that the disturber had managed to get more ale than he ought to have had. Enter- ing the house carelessly and accidently striking one’s foot against the skirting board up the lobby was sufficient to prevent a man getting served with refreshment. Calling and staying at the inn on a Friday night unwashed and with his wage in his pocket, was a certain way of getting a man’s tap stopped. Old Joe insisted on men taking their wages home before they began to drink at his house. If a person was doing more than his share of talking, he was gently warned by the landlord. If he ignored the warning his tap was closed. If a “ trammed ”’ person was allowed by a companion to drink out of his pot, the companion was also ‘ trammed ”’ as an accessory. I remember three. Oldham men calling at the “ Mop” one Sunday noon. They ordered three pints of ale and the landlord brought them in on a tray. He was just setting the first pimt upon the table when one of the Oldhamers said to his companions :

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Wur yoh ut wrastle yesterday ? ” ‘ Igh,” replied the others together. Old Joe put the pint of ale on to the tray again and said: “ Yoh mun goh toh th’ wrastle agen to-day, yoh’ll ha nowt here.” With that he took the three pints back into the bar. Despite the curious and stringent restrictions in vogue at the “ Mop ” and the strict line of conduct to be followed by the men who gathered there, its taproom to the end was the best attended of any in the parish. There were men who would have drunk cold water at the ‘“ Mop” before they would have drunk ale elsewhere. The “ Mop ” had its song nights, of a character that I have never observed in any other Saddle- worth inn. They began’ spontaneously and without preparation. A mere quotation would set a Burn’s night going and there were at least twenty Burn’s nights in the year. The rule was that all songs and recitations should be taken from the poet’s works. It was the same with Byron and other poets. The frequent incidental dis- cussions which arose on such nights would have done credit to any literary society in the parish. To hear Burn’s songs, given in their natural setting, the alehouse corner was to hear the pith and the vigour brought of them. The same songs sung in a fine drawing-room are in a foreign and unnatural environment. ‘“‘A man’s a man for a that,” recited before homely folks in a country taproom has, or appears to have, a sounder ring with it than when recited before a company of fine ladies and gentlemen in evening dress. Who can forget those

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raiter ringing nights, the ruddy jovial faced com- pany, and the hearty chorus singing which went with “‘ Willy brewed a peck o’ maut”’ and “ Green grow the rashes, O.”’

‘“ Auld Nature swears the lovely dears, Her noblest work she classes, O Her prentice hand she tried on man And then she made the lasses, O.”’

Someone would sing “ John Anderson mi’ Jo.”

and then followed “‘ The Rigs o’ Barley,” ‘“ The Soldier’s Return,” ‘‘ Highland Mary.” “A Song composed in August,” ‘Duncan Gray,” Mary Morrison,” and others, to end with “ Auld Lang Syne,” which is the anthem of good fellowship the world over. The recitations were generally “‘ Tam o Shanter,”’ ‘“‘Man was made to Mourn,” “A man’s a man for a’ that,” and ‘“ Holy Willie’s Prayer.”’

Oh Thou wha in the heavens dost dwell Wha as it pleases best thysel’ Sends ane to heaven an’ ten to hell, A’ for thy glory, An’ no for ony guid or ill, They’ve done afore thee.”

Whitsuntide and Christmas were the two great festivals of the year at the “Mop.” The former was the more popular, for all things joyous and loveable entered the old tavern on a Whit-Friday morning. Everybody was in good spirits, talking, laughing and drinking the cup of friendship. Men seemed to go back in their hearts to the days of

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their boyhood. The hot spirit of their springtime ran through their blood stirring up the old feelings and impulses. That was the magic of the “ Mop ”’ on a “ Wissundy”’ morn. It was also the meeting place of old friends who only saw each other once a year. Delph bred and born folks who had settled in far away districts came back to the “ Mop” on that day to renew old friendships and watch the school processions pass through the village. A few there were who had stuck to each others hands and walked in the processions of sixty yearsago. A new world had grown round them in those sixty years, but it had not over grown the memories of their boyhood days. When the greetings and the handshakings were over, they sat in corners recalling bygone Whit-Fridays and bygone school- mates and teachers. Old Jim sat behind the table telling of the life and the gaity that sixty years ago and less had filled the now ruin-stricken country around Castleshaw. The hamlet and the lanes about the school were thronged with children and their parents and relatives. The hawthorn hedges were all blossom and the hamlet gardens all flowers. Old Jim said that the Castleshaw band could play in those days, every bandsman blowing both cheeks out, not one cheek flat and the other inflated. They brewed ale then at Castleshaw school, one brew for the children and one for the band. Jim said that nearly all the handloom weavers’ children walked in clogs and fustian. It was a long walk across the valley and up the hill to Heights Chapel, but there was always a good procession. At every lane end and at the laneside cottages there stood

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groups of neighbour women in Paisley shawls and men in clean blue weaving aprons. Someone was looking out for little “‘ Hannah o’ eaur James Henry’s”’ in her new frock. Another was looking out for little. “‘ Joseph William o’ eaur Betty’s ” in his new breeches, and everyone had some special interest in one or more of the little processionists. Here and there sundry injunctions were given to the children by their watching parents. ‘See theau keeps that bishop cleaun, thinkon,”’ to a little girl. ‘Poo thi honds eaut o’ thi pockets, Joe,” to a little boy. To another, “‘ Put thi cap on streyght, Jack, un rowl thoose breeches slops op ur aw’ll twamp thee lad.” At that time breeches were made a deal too long for growing lads and were turned up at the bottom until there were six inches of white lining showing. Among the hedges about Bongs the procession was sometimes delayed. Four or five little scholars were missing, and they were generally found climbing up a thorn tree to a throstle’s nest. Little Jim o’ John’s always walked the last for an extra bun. The return to the school, in the after- noon, saw the band playing for dancing round the brew, and the children ‘“‘swappin”’ ale for buns, and buns for ale. Old Ben told how Jack o’ Shufi’s got his children clothed at Whitsuntide. He used to send them to the school three Sundays before Whit-Friday “as ragg’d as fillyfoals.” If their clothes were not ragged enough he used to tear them. People

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pitied the condition of the children and a sub- scription was opened, which provided the boys with new suits and the girls with new frocks. In the corner against the hobend, Old Jack was telling how they used to brew ale at the Wesleyan School at Delph for Whitsuntide Aiter this was abolished and they had begun to use tea, the Wesleyans brewed it in the brewhouse of the Swan Inn. Old Jack said that it was rare tea, and no doubt it would be, for the old ale soaked pan would give to it the flavour of a thousand brews. He told also how a Lawton, of Grove House, on one occasion generously poured a quart of rum into a Wesleyan brewing of tea. It was done in the temporary absence of those in charge. Innocently, the waiters bore the tea urns into the school-room and the cups were filled with the famous old Saddleworth “‘ yedweshin ”’ beverage. Hot rum is not a shy and retiring spirit. It courts publicity. It proclaims its presence boldy and almost brazenly. So it went up in the steam from the cups and filled the room with its unholy odour. The doors and the windows were opened, but the rum finding itself in a strange atmosphere of chants and long winded prayers, began to show fight. It was in a plaguey mood and kicked long and vigorously against ex- pulsion. The tea was emptied into various vessels and carried outside, and at length the usually sanctified air gradually assumed its wonted place in the room. The moment the teachers got the rum and tea outside, they poured it down the ‘* suffhole.”” Old Jack said that there were a few

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old Wesleyans who smacked their lips and took long quiet snifis while the rum was in the school- room. Some, of course, there were whose nostrils had been monstrously profaned and the wicked Lawton was never fully forgiven by them. Here are the school processions passing the ‘““Mop” on a Whit-Friday morning. A man comes .hurrying into the taproom and says: ‘Th’ Owd Fir lot ur A man outside knocks at the window and shouts : ‘Th’ Little Dur Mack ur here.” I There is a rush to the door, as every one wishes to see the children pass, while the old retired bandsmen of the “ Mop” must of course listen critically to the band. The procession has passed, and the company return to the taproom and begin to discuss the various things they have noted. How the procession compares with those of previous years, whether the elders have walked with sufficient dignity, and how the band has played. Before these matters are settled, someone shouts: ur comin.”’ There is another rush to the door, the ‘““Methodys” must not be missed for the Delph Band leads their procession. The great banner comes swaying in the wind up the crowded street, the bandsmen in full uniform, and the little girls in white with coloured sashes, make a picture full of joyous life and colour. Not a word is said on the “ Mop ” flagstones, a deep and pregnant silence reigns. Every man inclines his head to one side and listens intently and reverently to the band. A whisper runs along the group, someone unable to withhold

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his admiration any longer, half breathes to himselt : “Hay, but thi’re playin grandly, toak abeaut th’ Boarshurst Comments of praise become general, everyone is talking at the same time. ‘Playin,’ says one, in a tone which suggests that his opinion is beyond contention. “Thi’re fit furt Belle Vue onny minute, neaw yond lads ull mack sumdy stare afore lung, just tack notis.”’ With everyone heartily endorsing this view, they return to the taproom again. Scarcely have they got seated before the cry goes up that the ‘Church lot ur comin.” ~The “Mop” company always honour the “Church ”’ lot by watching them march past the inn, They ever associated that “lot” with good eating and drinking. The old saying “ Church un guts’ was to them one of the truest, and say what you will, all good men and true are that way inclined. Their stonepit band comes tearing out of the narrow Bowden Lane like a pack of hounds in full cry. Their instruments are pointing in all directions and they march down the village trying to blow the paving stones up as they go. Behind them walk the churchwardens and the sidesmen. looking very grave and dignified as befits the occasion. As they pass, they give the “ Mop” a look full of infinite longing, which tells better than the spoken word how “dry” they are. The Church “lot” have gone down the bridge and the company turn to re-enter the inn when a cry is heard “ The Stanedgers ur comin,” they must

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be seen, and in a moment nine or ten little red-faced lads are hurrying past with their caps crushed up in their hands and their boots covered with cow dung. They are all that is left of the Castleshaw School and the mistress is leading the little pro- cession. The processions having passed, the company break up with a parting drink. In the evening they gather together again and discuss the events of the day until bedtime. Christmas was always celebrated at the “ Mop” with befitting seriousness and solemnity. A night was set apart for carol singing to the accompani- ment of the village fiddles. On that night the taproom was always crowded and every man stood to his feet. The fiddlers generally stood in the corner behind the taproom door. No one was served with ale during the singing, which was as impressive and as reverent as could be found in any chapel in England. Who, that was present on that night of all nights, can ever forget my old friend the “ Chief,” standing in the middle of the floor and pitching the tune of “ Christians Awake ”’ with the words “tin kettle, tin kettle, tin kettle, tin pon.” The landlord always disliked serving people with “pop” and other teetotal drinks, and especially at Christmas time, he would say: Aw dunnot like toh sarve thi wi sich like stuff, fur it isn’t worth bally reawm, it feels like robbin foak.”’ The breaking up and scattering of the “ Mop” company were things of sadness. They went in a body to another inn in the village of upholstered seats, highly polished tables, and tinkling bells,

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but this could not last. Gradually they began to drift away in ones and twos, until the place knew them no more. They could not sit comfortably on the soft seats, they could not ring the call bell properly, and they could not set their feet down easily on the oil-clothed floor. Everything was out of place and to some will no doubt remain so to the end. They still wander about the village uneasy as hens that want to lay and cannot. One day, shortly after the inn was closed, a villager asked an old Mopite’”’ how he was getting on. badly,” he answered, “aw’ve had nowt nobbut bad luck this year, aw bin deawn wi’ th’ rhumatic, un aw lost mi’ wife, and neaw toh creawn o’, thi’n gone un shut “ Mop” op. Ther’s nowt mon 1’ this wurld nobbut backsets.”’ Will there ever be such an inn or such a company in Saddleworth again? I fear not.

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THE ORIGIN OF SOME SADDLEWORTH SURNAMES.

IN proposing to examine the sources of what may be termed Saddleworth surnames, I am afraid that I can only treat the subject in a rambling and indefinite manner. Therefore, if it should be inferred from the title that I am going to trace our local families genealogically down to their own doorsteps, such inference is wide of the mark. It is not only outside my intention, but is, I fear, also outside my abilities. Tracing a man’s family descent is sometimes a dangerous thing to do. I have had some experience in this kind of work and if it is worth anything to the reader I pass it on with pleasure. Never begin to look up a man’s ancestry unless you are prepared to show that he is lineally descended from some great baron who came over with the Conqueror. Here and there along the family line you may throw in a fat washerwoman, a trailhunter, and a parson, but always finish up with an earl and you will be held in lasting esteem. Should you unwisely run a man’s breed back to a “ roadmender,” or a ‘* cockfeighter,” both honourable occupations, your career as genealogist will come to an abrupt and inglorious end and you will have made a lasting enemy. With this experience behind me, I shall

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do nothing beyond breaking the ground a little, that is, giving the early dates when the various family names appear on our rolls and suggesting in each case the local and the derivational source. I shall avoid a lengthy introduction by relying entirely upon our ancient records to show from what sources and in what manner our forefathers acquired the surnames we now bear. Strictly defined, a Saddleworth surname is one which came into existence within the parochial boundaries—a surname derived from some ancient local homestead, or from some local industry or occupation. How many of our present family names can be placed under this definition is a question to which I have no answer. I am forced to this confession owing to the scarcity of local records of 15th century date. This century, the final in the process of surname evolution, is with us singularly destitute of deeds which contain personal names. An old fashioned Sunday School teacher, at Boarshurst, once explained to his class the meaning of the Biblical phrase “and gross darkness covered the face of the earth,” by saying : ‘gross darkness meeuns 144 times darker nur th’ darkest neet, its just 12 dozen o’ darkness.” And “12 dozen o’ darkness” covers the local history of the 15th century. One is practically compelled to step forward from 1379 to 1530. At the earlier date, one finds surnames in an elementary stage of formation, while at the later date, there is a fixed and well recognized system of personal nomenclature. In 1530, one also finds local names upon which, owing to_ historical

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obscurity, it is impossible to say whether they had, or had not, local origin. Perhaps it may seem trivial to inquire into matters touching the purely local origin of our family names, but it is not easy to say how far they may assist us in unravelling the tangled web of our township’s history. They frequently throw light upon some ancient physical or industrial condition, of which there remains not other evidence. Take for example, the occurence of the personal name William Bake- stoman in an indenture of 1330, which obviously proves the antiquity of an industry which exists to-day. The historical value of the above is readily perceived, but usually this quality requires to be revealed by etymological analysis. Probably the simplest line of treatment to adopt, is to give the local deeds in their chronological order, with such explanatory comment, as may seem necessary to show their values. The earliest document containing the names of Saddleworth people, is one which relates to the Parish Church. It is undated, but the early part of the 13th century may be suggested from the names of the witnesses. Ht recites :— all who shall see and hear, let it be known these deeds of agreement between the lord abbot of the blessed place of Stanlawe on the one part and Robert del Schagh (Shaw), Robert del Qwyke (Quick), Richard del Holyn- greve (Hollingreave) and his son Richard and the rest of the parishioners of Sadelword on the other, etc.”’ The persons mentioned were no doubt the most

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important Saddleworth parishioners at that date. In each case the Christian name is joined by the connective “del” to the name of a homestead. We now come to the indenture previously referred to, which contains the names of William and Robert Bakestoman. These “ honest men of the town of Qwyke’”’ were so named on account of their trade or occupation. The maker of the bakestones was known to his neighbours only, as the bakestone man and as such was entered upon the rolls. Fifty years later, we come to a deed which in its relation to this subject is the most valuable that has been preserved to us. In fact, it is the only parchment which gives us any real insight into the condition and the character of local personal names in the 14th century, and upon which it is possible to base anything like satisfactory assumptions with respect to questions of local origin. I refer to the Return for Qwyke (Quick) in the Wappingtagian de Morley Agbrigg Wapentake of the Poll Tax levied in the second year of Richard II., 1379. This subsidy was graduated and levied per head upon all persons over 15 years of age (clergy excepted) in propor- tion to the rank of the individual. It was a most unpopular tax and its collection in 1381 led to the revolt of Wat Tyler. With one exception, Saddle- worth people were assessed at one groat, 4d. each. The exception was Robert del Schagh, assegsed at 3 groats, 1s. The total contribution of the parish was 19s. 8d. I give the deed as it appeared some years ago in one of the Y.A. and T.S. publications, but for purposes of this paper I shall attempt to

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give the names some kind of classification. By doing this, I shall be better able to show how our family surnames came into existence. The importance of this deed is proved by the fact that without it the personal nomenclature of ancient Saddleworth would be unknown to us. The schedule includes persons without surnames, persons with indirect surnames, and persons with direct surnames. I propose to deal with them in the order stated and begin with :—

PERSONS WITHOUT SURNAMES.

Adam filius (son) Rogeri. Nicholaus filius Thome. Robertus filius Henrici. filius Ade. Thomas filius Stephani. Johonnes filius Ade.

Cecilic filia Magota. Elena filia Ade. Alicia relicta Thome. Magota relicta Rogert. Matilda Hobdoghter. Johanna Benetdoghter. Adam le Prestson. Johannes le Prestson.

Johannes seriuens Johannes.

This group forms the most curious and primitive part of the deed. Here are a number of Saddle- worth men and women merely recorded as the son, daughter, or widow of another person. In the masculine names the Latin “ filius” is the principal connective used. The term “son” occurs only twice as a terminative element, the place it now occupies in the English surname as Benson, Wilson, etc. Adam le Prestson and Johannes le Prestson were no doubt the sons of

the priest, then in charge of Saddleworth Church.

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PERSONS WITH INDIRECT SURNAMES TAKEN FROM PLACE OF RESIDENCE.

Robertus del Schag and ux (wife). Adam del ffernlee and ux. Willelmus del Schag and ux. Adam del Quenwall and ux. Robertus del Platte and ux. Johannes del ffeldend and ux. Rogerus del Sykes and ux. Thomas del Hall and ux. Willelmus del ffernlee and ux. Johannes del Mescheland and ux. Adam del Sykes and ux. Thomas del Brerley and ux. Willelmus del Orandan and ux. Robertus del Scholler and ux.

Adam del Quenwall, Thomas del Quenwall, Robertus del Hill, Johannes del Schag, Robertus del fiernlee, Robertus del Platte, Elena del Grotten, Cecilia del ffernlee, Magota del Lees, Anota del Den.

It will be noticed that each of the above names is attached by the connective “del ”’ to the name of a homestead. Take for example, Robertus del Platte, which means simply that he was Robert of Platt. The name of his homestead attached to his Christian name served to distinguish him amongst his neighbours from Robert del Schag. Suppose, for purposes of illustration, that the date is 1480, about the time when Platt would become a direct surname. We may surmise that as the

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population increased a confusing number of Roberts would arise in the district, until the imposition of a fixed secondary name would become an im- perative necessity. Therefore social convenience and obligation would divest personal names of their indefiniteness. It is quite possible that a man named Robert might live at two or three different homesteads in his lifetime and be called by the name of each homestead as long as he occupied it. The only way out of this unsettled condition, was to give a man a secondary name, that would not be subject to alteration by his occupy- ing various homesteads, thus Robert del Platte became Robert Platt. It is very probable that when the transitional period of surname evolution came to an end there were many instances where a father and a son by living at different homesteads acquired different surnames. An old deed describes Alexander del Oakenrod as the son of Robert del Spotland, and the presumption 1s, that he took the surname of Oakenrod. The acquisition of a settled surname led to the children taking their father’s surname as their own, out of which grew the family name as we know it to-day. The creation of what we call bynames, calling men by the names of their homesteads is still common in Saddleworth and elsewhere, and is no doubt a relic of pre-surname days.

PERSONS WITH DIRECT SURNAMES FROM PLACE OF RESIDENCE.

Robertus Hasteles and ux. Willelmus Lyggard and ux.

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Willelmus Wryglegh and ux. Richardus Hawred and ux. Willelmus Hawred and ux. Johannes fforthe and ux. Johannes Nuttehirst and ux. Adam Kirkyerde and ux. Johannes Quarell and ux. Alicia Nuttehirst. . Robertus Hawred, Johannes Brerley, Nicholuas Knarre.

The foregoing appear in the form of direct surnames. There is no connective between the Christian and the second name, but so capricious was the state of personal names in 1379, that if we had other local deeds of the period to refer to, we should probably find the above names in their indefinite forms. There are no grounds known to the writer for assuming that personal names in Saddleworth, in the 14th century, were in a more advanced state of formation than the personal names of our neighbouring parishes. We find that some 43 years later, or in 1422, the names of the tenants of the Manor of Assheton-under Lyne, are entered upon the rent roll with indirect secondary names. It is, as I stated at the outset, regrettable that there are no 15th century Saddle- worth deeds which help one much with this subject. — If there were, the gradual change, from indirect to direct, surname, would, I have no doubt, be plainly revealed. I have seen it somewhere, that the rolls of the Preston Guilds are unmistakably clear upon this matter. In 1379, about 25 per cent. had surnames, in 1415, it was about 30 per

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cent., in 1459, it was over 60 per cent., while in 1542, every person on the rolls had a surname. When a man rears a house to-day he generally gives it a high sounding name, which is in ridiculous contradiction to its surroundings. The gate may be lettered with Laburnum Dene Villa, although the nearest laburnum or any other tree may be miles away. Again, Honeysuckle House may stand in an odourous locality of public middens and sanitary tips. Our early forefathers acted much more sensibly in this matter. When they reared one of their rude homesteads they gave to it a name which was either descriptive of its immediate proximities or of some striking natural feature of the locality. Therefore, all surnames which are derived from place names, either living or dead, contain this descriptive quality. If we examine the whole of the descriptive names, direct and indirect, from the Poll deed, they would in some degree furnish us with a picture of Saddleworth in the 14th century. A name like Johannes Nuttehirst tells us plainly that nut trees were then so common locally that they formed the chief feature round the site of this man’s homestead. Unfortunately a number of the names in the deed are, to myself, of obscure meaning. I am at a loss to suggest the meaning of Quenwall, a name which occurs three times. It has a lordly sonorous sound ; which -almost suggests that it had its origin at Delph. Quarell is another name about which I am by no means certain, the last syllable may possibly have reference to a hill. Scholler may mean Scholes, a rude shed or sheiling. The

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name of Willelmus Lyggard brings the place name of Lydgate to our mind, but “gard” may be a contraction of garth, an enclosure. I[ have classified Hawred as a descriptive name, because I think that it was the scribe’s attempt to write down Hawkyard, of course it may have been intended for Howard, or Hayward, if so it was a name which had been derived from occupation. The name of Adam del Sykes indicates that his dwelling stood on the banks of a slow moving stream or in a marshy locality. The dwelling of Johannes fforthe stood near a ford or the crossing of a stream. It is not necessary to say where Adam Kirkyerde lived. Thomas del ffeldend’s secondary name may be an early form of Fielding. Thomas del Brerley’s home stood in a thorn field. The site of Robert del Hill’s dwelling is clear, as is also that of Robertus del Platte. Schag, and possibly Hasteles, indicate woodland. Willelmus Wryglegh was afraid of missing something, so he lived on a ridge or eminence where he could look down and see what the people below were doing. Nicholaus Knarre’s home was also on high ground, that is if I am right in assuming that Knarr is a name allied to Knab, Knot, etc., Knarr, near Delph, is a good example of site. Has this place name come down from the 14th century? The home of Cecilia del ffernlee I would fix in a moor- land vicinity where bracken was plentiful. Fern- lee still exists as a local place name, but I cannot find that it ever became a local surname. With- out further particularizing, the descriptive totality of the Poll deed names, may be regarded as marsh-

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land, woodland, and moor. Ancient reference to cultivated areas, timber, etc., in Saddleworth, occurs in the following extracts :— Fines, York, 1302.—Simon de Bradeshagh, plaintiff, and Robert, son of Adam de Quyke, defendant, of 77 acres of land and messuages in Quyke. Right of Simon. Abbreviatoi Placcitorim, York, 1302-1303.— Let Roaldus de Boteler recover his seisin of 8 acres of meadows in Sadelsworth, and Richard Staveley be in mercy. Fines, York, 1303-1304.—Between Richard, son of Robert de Stanelay, plaintiff, and John de Barton, of Friton, and Lucy, his wife, defendants of messuages, 19 tofts, a mill, 152 acres of land, 102 acres of meadow, 100 acres of wood, and 7s. 3d. rent, with the appurten- ances in Quyk. Right of Richard. De Banso Rolls, 1311-1312.—-York.—Cecilia, widow of Roald de Buteler, of Stapelton, by William de Hathelsey, her attorney, offers her- self against Warin de Skargil, of a plea of the 3rd part of 20 messuages, 80 acres of land, 10 acres of meadow, 60 acres of wood, 60 acres of pasture, 40s. rent, and the rent of a pig, and the moiety of a water mill, with the appurtenances in Quyk, which she claims as dower, etc. Also for property at Stapelton, etc. Feet of Fines, York, 1369-1370.—Between John Adamson, of Moselay, and Isabella, his wife, plaintiffs, and Robert de Stanelay, defendant, of 50 acres of land, 6 acres of meadow,

and 5 acres of wood, with the appurtenances in Quik. The right of Robert.

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Feet of Fines, Yorks., 1607.—Between Urian Leighe, Knight, and Francis, his wife, George Bouthe and Katherine, his wife, defendants, of the manor of Quick, and 8 cottages, 20 gardens, 20 orchards, 200 acres of land, 40 acres of meadows, — acres of pasture, 100 acres of wood, 1,000 acres of furze and heath, 1,000 acres of moor, 1,000 acres of moss, 1,000 acres of Turbary, and 10s. rent, in Quick, Grotton and Saddleworth. The foregoing items cannot, of course, be supposed to cover all the cultivated lands in Saddleworth at the dates given, but they evidently covered sufficient to rear a healthy crop of landlords who even in that remote age knew the meaning of the word rent. No doubt at times, © as 1s shown by the extracts quoted, they made matters pretty lively by “scrapping” for their real or supposed rights. Before taking leave of surnames derived from homestead names, there are instances of an exact agreement between the two which it is important to make clear. This agreement, which I am certain is comparatively modern in its origin, 1s often productive of wrong conclusions. In the registers of Saddleworth Church one finds Halls, Holdens, Kuinders, Lynthwaite and others entered both as place names and as surnames. From this it may be supposed that the surname of Holden had its origin in the local place name of Holden. In my opinion, the reverse is the fact, namely, that the surname of Holden created the place name. It is still a folk custom in Saddleworth to call or refer to a home-

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stead by the name of the occupier. In the past this custom led to the family name suppressing the place name. Linfitts affords a good example of how this change of name was effected. Swains- croft was the original name of the farmstead which was occupied in the 16th and 17th centuries by a family named Linthwaite. People no doubt, in accordance with local custom, began to call the place Linthwaite. This went on for several generations, until the original name Swainscroft from long disuse was forgotten and lost. Then Linthwaite, now shortened down to _ Linfitts, became the acknowledged place name. From this it is very probable that Halls, Holdens, Kinders, Arthurs and others, as names of places were acquired in a like manner. The final letter ““S” in the foregoing names obviously indicates possession. Resuming the digest of the Poll Deed, we come to

DESCRIPTIVE NAMES DERIVED FROM TRADE OR OCCUPATION. Willelmus Tasker, Galfridus Milner, Johannes Bakestoman, Johannes Spenser.

It may be observed that this is the last appear- ance of Bakestoman on our rolls as a personal name. The reason for its extinction 1s difficult to conjecture when one considers that the industry appears to have gone on century after century without break or decadence. I have known his successors in the trade try to conceal their identity when there was an “‘‘aleshot”’ against them. It is significant,

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that even to-day nothing serves to distinguish a man so much as his calling and at present there are men in Saddleworth who are better known by their trade name than by their true surname. A greater variety of indirect surnames, traceable to trade or occupation, is furnished by the Assheton Rental, which includes Roger the Cropper, Jack the Mercer, Robert the Wright, Richard the Smith, John the Cook, William the Walker, John the Slater, Richard the Hunt, Tomlyn the Tailler. How a woman could acquire a surname inde- pendent of settlement or occupation is suggested by the following from the same Rental: “ EHlyn the Rose for her cottage—a service and two shillings.” This designative was probably bestowed upon the woman on account of her personal charms, typical of the rose. An old Rochdale record gives Henry the Hay- ward, Richard the Herdman, Hugh the Miller, Wilham the Turnewright, Robert the Fletcher, and others, as trade or occupation names in that district. The personal names which were coming into existence in 1379, and which are still found in the parish, are Brierley, Shaw, Platt, Wrigley, Lees, Hall, and Sykes. These, with the exception of Hall, Sykes and Brierley, have probably come down to our own time with unbroken descent. The three exceptions occupy a comparatively small space in the Registers from which it is con- jectured that the families either died out or were for a period non-resident. I hold the opinion that the families of Shaw, Platt, Lees and Wrigley are

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lineally descended from the men of the Poll Deed, yet I have no documentary evidence to offer in support. It is impossible to trace a Saddleworth family back to the 14th century, the genealogist who attempts to trace one back to Elizabethan times has no easy or certain work on hand. Ata guess, the most prevalent family names in Saddle- worth at the present time are Schofield, Gartside, and Buckley, all of which had their origin in the Rochdale district. This goes to prove that the numerical predominance of a particular family in a district is not necessarily a proof of very early settlement. Before taking leave of the Poll Deed, it may be of interest to note the population of Saddleworth in 1379. There were altogether 88 persons over 15 years of age, this number was made up of 32 married couples, 2 widows, 13 single men, and 9 single women. What a glorious time the single young women of Saddleworth would have in the 14th century. They were in a minority and I make out that Alicia Nuttehirst, Anota de Den, and other young women would carry the art of flirting to a high state of perfection. Robertus del Platte and his companions would have, on the whole, an exciting and distressing time. The two widows would be at a premium and possibly as coquettish and as difficult to catch as the spinsters. They would not require to say what old Mally o’ Tim’s said, when someone twitted her about being an old maid: “ If awm born agen aw’ll bi born in a wurld wheer ther’s a felly apiece.” When Saddleworth was scantily populated there would no doubt be much inter-marriage amongst

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the local families and it is very probable that the early founders of our breeds were like Mullion’s whelps, “o’ akin ov a lump.” It used to be said that some old hillside families married and inter- married for generations, just to keep their money from getting into other hands. There are many families in the parish to-day bearing the same surname but possessing no evidence of relationship. It 1s, however, probable that if the various descents could be traced they would be found to have sprung from one common root. I once heard an old daleswoman say that her grandfather could remember the time when it was the custom to invite all Friarmere folk to a funeral, because they were “o’ bred amung thick un three fowd.” A deed relating to Whalley Abbey, dated 1442, refers to the collection of tithes within Hilburghope (Friarmere), as follows :— “Richard Begrigs and Robert, son of Queruld, paid their tithes for Denesthake, 5s. each. ‘** Denesthake (Denshaw) is situate within the metes of Hilburghope.”’ Although the above is some 60 years later than the Poll Deed, it does not suggest that during that time personal names had made much advance towards their perfected forms. In 1523, all persons having sufhcient lands or goods were taxed to meet the expenses of the war with France. The levy was Is. in the £ on lands, and 6d. in the £ on goods. No Saddleworth in- habitant paid on lands, which seems to imply that there was not a single freeholder then resident in

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the parish. What is more ‘surprising and what is also indicative of the condition of the district, 1s that there were only three persons who possessed two pounds worth of goods, about the price a

young woman now pays for her “ Wissandy ”’ hat. These were :-—

Hugh Scholfield for 40s. guds .. 12d. Alexander Gaytsyd __,, .. 12d, John Whewall .. 12d.

They. might be poor in goods and chattels, but the men of that period were rich in other ways. They never suffered the inexpressible misery of a spring cleaning, the most unduly prolonged and intolerable nuisance in the world. They never reached home after a hard day’s work to be worried by the most idiotic feminine instructions, involv- ing the unnecessary removal of sideboards, tables, chairs, pictures, and other furnishings. I have no statistics on the point, but I dare wager that there are more men commit suicide during the spring cleaning period than at any other time of the year. The man who has to sit on a coal scuttle while he gets his tea, who finds paint on his bread and butter, turpentine in his tea-cup and furniture polish in his jam, may surely be forgiven if he does something desperate and final. A Saddleworth “ flittin”’ in the 16th century would be like that of old Joe Barfut’s, all on a wheelbarrow. Old Joe owed six months’ rent and the landlord said :

‘T shall give you a fortnight to clear out of the house.”’

‘A fortnit !”’ repeated Joe in a tone of surprise.

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fit 7” two minutes if yo’ll find mi a The dissolution of Roche Abbey, on June 23rd, 1538, involved the confiscation of Friarmere, and the following are given in the Particulars for Grants as the tenants of the late Monastery, and were probably the whole of the householders within the division then called Huillbrighthope :— Raphe Chetham, Christopher Chetham, John Wrigley, Henry Gartsyde, Richard Gartsyde, John Gartsyde, John Scholfield, Edmund Scholfield, Alexander Scholfield, Lawrence Scholfield, James Lynthwaite, Robert Jiynthwaite, Raphe Whyte- head, and Henry Whytehead. This short list shows the evolution of the surname complete. The connectives ‘“‘de” and Norman and Saxon, of the previous century, had ceased to be entered upon the parchments, and “son” had become a fixed surname terminal. Coming to the 17th century, we reach the registers of the Parish Church, which begin 1613, and a number of the new names appear—Broadbent, Wood, Kenworthy, Mallalieu, Lawton, and others. It is a matter for regret that prior to 1722 neither occupation nor place or residence were regularly entered upon the Registers. The omission of place of residence complicates local genealogy and makes it difficult, if not impossible, to trace a family back to 1613 with freedom from error. A complete list of the male inhabitants of Quick-cum-Saddleworth of and above 18 years of age is furnished by the ‘ Protestation,” 1641-2. It was taken by order of Parhament, 21st January, 1641, and gave every

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man the opportunity of recording his protest against: Romish innovation ; 380 Saddleworth men signed to maintain the established religion and to protect the King (Charles I.). No mention is made of non-protestors, which may be taken to mean that there were no Catholics in the township. The list contains about 40 varieties of surnames, and no person had more than one Christian name. The introduction of a double Christian name—as John William, James’ Thomas, etc.—is comparatively modern. Although there is little of surname interest in the various hearth tax assessments, I venture to notice one in order to show the dis- tribution of the population at the time. Number of householders and hearths in each of the four divisions of the township, 1665 :—

District. Householders. Hearths. Chargeable. Frearmere .. 39 .. 49 .. 6 Shawmere .. 23 .. Q7 ~~ .. #10 Quickmere .. 66 .. 81 = .. 24 Lordsmere .. 78 .. 88 .. 86 206 245 76

The householders of Friarmere, in 1666, were composed of the under-written families :— Scholfield 16, Gartsyde 10, Buckley 5, Wrigley 4, Whitehead 4, Lynthwaite 2, Mills 2, Lees 1, Woods 1; total 45 families. It will be noticed that the Scholfield and the Gartside families numbered more than one-half of the total householders on the mere. It is also worthy of note, that the surnames of Shaw, Brierley, Broadbent, Rhodes, Platt, Kenworthy, Lawton, Hall and Bottomley are not included in the above list.

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THE CRUCIFIXION.

OnE fine Sunday morning, in early May, a meek young curate (curates are always in the happy condition of being young and meek) was climbing the rough path which leads over: the shoulder of Wharmton to the Brunedge road. He moralized for a moment upon the eternal doom of a group of ungodly golfers who, like so many little steam navvies, were furiously engaged in reducing the altitude of the hill by knocking the sods about. Dismissing the unholy ‘“Owdham” Sabbath breakers from his mind, he turned to the beauty of the morning. He looked round and the sight filled him with prayer and thanksgiving. All nature was at worship. The larks with more religion in them than the golfers were circling in the cloudless sky. What was their song, he thought, but a choral anthem in praise of Him who had created that morning. Each tree was a pulpit from which a throstle was preaching a melodious and enraptured sermon. A temperance throstle probably from Highmoor and evidently charged with a special mission was holding forth from a tree near the golf canteen. Across the valley, on the moorside of Alphin, many scraps of white mist were rising towards the sky. They seemed like white tents which were being folded up. Had angels been down in the night to encamp behind

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Fernlee and were now returning to Heaven again. The wind ran through the grass singing psalms as it went. The parson continued his upward climb, filling himself with food for anniversary sermons. He had walked some distance along the top of the hill, when he noticed two men in front of him who were playing pitch and toss. He was shocked that such a thing should happen on so heavenly a morning. There stands a lonely old house where the rough moor ground ends and the green farmlands begin. It is called Higher Bent, but is better known as Bill o’ Breb’s, the name of a bygone tenant. Biull was a warrior of Delph “ Feight”’ fame and had retired with his hard-earned laurels and_ battle- scarred carcase to Higher Bent. There he sold home-brewed ‘“‘ hush ” ale and kept fighting cocks. It was in his time the resort of the ruder types of Saddleworthian, and on Sundays a great deal of heavy. drinking, gambling, and cock fighting took place. Old Bill had a famous brown red game- cock, of which he was very proud, and the bird used to amuse the customers by flying at jugs, basins, or anything that was placed upon the ground. Pottery and other easily broken articles were usually shattered by its first flight. The stern sombre looking old building has seen more of the rough side of Saddleworth than is generally known. Now it stands dark, dreary, desolate and forbidding, an old sinner, paying the price of its evil days. In the lane just beyond this house, the parson, unnoticed, overtook the two tossers Just as one was saying:

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“Two tails, bigod, as flat as flukes.” The speaker then caught sight of the parson and shouting to his mate began to run towards Brunedge. “‘Stay,” shouted the parson, “it is all right.” They at once stopped running and waited until he overtook them. ‘Aw thowt yoh wur a bobby owd mon,’ the tossers said with a laugh. The, phrase “owd mon,’ common in Saddle- worth, is used even when addressing young people and is generally indicative of friendliness. ‘Yes, that is exactly what I thought when you ran away, the curate answered with a smile. “Its grand op o’ Wharmton this mornin, owd mon,’ the other tosser remarked. “It is glorious, it is divine to be on this high sweet ground,” the curate said rapturously. green spring fields around us, the stretches of distant lonely moorlands, the hills, and the valleys, in fact, every thing exalteth the goodness of the Creator.” 7 ‘Tgh, that’s o’ reet, owd mon, isn’t it Bill,” one of the tossers assented, looking at the other for confirmation. ‘Teh, its o reet fur howt aw know, Jack,” replied Bill, “its better nur stondin1’th Thuvermill wi’ thi honds 7’ thi pockets un a drop ut th’ end o’ thi nose.”’ ‘Yoh never knew owd Brahma Ben,” Jack said addressing the curate. I did he replied. ‘“'Weh he used toh seh,’ Jack said, “‘a fine

9

one of

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mornin, a quid 1’ yer pocket, un a fat duck furt dinner, ull mack a fine ‘Han yoh abit o’ bacca, owd mon,” Bill asked the curate. I am a non-smoker,” he replied, ‘“‘ I never acquired the habit.” At that moment a pigeon flew across their path in the direction of Lydgate. Sithi! sithi! Bull,” Jack said, pointing at the pigeon, “‘ that’s flyin ‘Teh, its nailin away fur shure, it favvers yond skewed hen o’ Noppy’s.” Bill replied. “Ther’s a fly ut Lidiate, owd mon, next Setturday fur a creawn pie,” Jack said to the curate. The latter was communing with himself and made no reply. The three walked along the Brunedge Road in silence. At a gateway, leading into a field, the curate stopped and said to his companions: “See how the white mist is rolling back into the Chew valley and how beautiful it is, and that stern high mountain in front of us.” ‘“ That’s Thovin (Alphin),” Jack interposed. ‘Its strength, its majesty, its solemnity, are the gifts of the Great Being in the glorious firmament above us,” the curate concluded. I Jack and Bill stared at each other in such a vacant manner that the curate saw they did not understand what he was talking about. As they walked on together towards Lydgate, he said kindly: “ Did you ever hear the story of our Saviour, Jesus Nowe,” Bill replied. “‘ Wot abeaut him ?”

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“Have you never heard of Jesus Christ,’ the curate asked, stopping amazed in the road and facing the two tossers. ‘“ Nowe,” Bill replied again. “Aw yerd abeaut him,” Jack said, with an assumption of intelligence. “‘He’s a bandchap un he used toh play wi’ Glossop Band.” aw know him neaw,” Bill said, “if its that mon, he looks as if he gate a lot o’ drink, aw bowt a ferret off him wonst.”’ “Oh, no, no, no,” the curate interrupted, “I mean Jesus Christ the Saviour of the world.” ‘* Aw ne’er yerd o’ that mon,” Jack said, with a negative shake of the head. ‘* Nowe, nur me noather,” Bill said, “ aw think he’s a new catched un, owd mon, ther’s sum foak uts com o’ living toh th’ Nettlehole, but aw dunnut know wot thi’re coad.”’ “Oh, no,” said the curate. “ You are wrong, now just listen to me, have you never seen the picture of the crucifixion.” ‘“ Nowe,” they answered together. ‘You have not?” Nowe.” I ‘‘ Have you never seen a picture which shows the figure of a man nailed to a cross like this ?”’ the curate asked, at the same time extending his arms to illustrate what he meant. “Yaw,” Jack replied instantly, “ ther’s one o’ thoose ut eaur heause, eaur Sal gate it wi’ a peaund o’ tea ut owd Swap Coal’s shop.” ‘* Keep that picture, my good friend,” the curate said impressively, while’ he laid his hand gently

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‘ Tts on a bit ov a knowe, like th’ top 0’ Wharm- ton, isn’t it owd mon ?”’ Jack said. replied the curate, “ on Mount Calvary.” that sumwheer Mottram road on,” Bill asked, not wishing to be left out of the conversation. ‘“Oh, no,” replied the curate, “it is in the Holy Land.” ' ‘* Aw thowt it wur,” Jack cut in, although he had never heard of the Holy Land before and had not the least idea in what part of the world it lay. ‘Wot did yoh co that chap ut wur nailed op o’ that plank ?”’ he asked. Jesus Christ,” replied the curate. Hay eaur Sally ull bi sum capt when aw tell her, hoo’s wondert mony a time whoa it wur,”’ Jack said. “My dear friend,” the curate said, “ you must treasure that picture, keep it clean and have it framed.”’ ‘Aw dunnut know abeaut that, owd mon,” Jack replied, “eaur little Jamie’s blacked Christ’s face wi ink, he sed he’d make him into a collier like me. Aw/’ll tell yoh wot aw shud like toh know, owd mon.”’ ‘“ What ?”’ asked the curate. Whoa it wur ut nailed him op o’ yond shap.” The Jews,”’ replied the curate, “they persecuted Jesus and finally put him to death.” 'Thi'd o’ dun noan o’ that mack o’ wark if aw’d a bin theer, aw’d a rattled one ur two ther ribs abit,” Jack said with energy. Igh, un aw’d sin fairashun,”’ Bill said warmly, “awd a made one ur two sken afore awd dun wi’ um.”

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“Un wot does theer foak seh abeaut sich like wark ?” Jack asked. guess ther’ll bi rags o’th hob,’ Bill answered. Jesus,” began the curate, “‘ was the Son of God and his mother was the Virgin ‘ Oh, igh wur hoo his mother,” Jack interrupted, in a tone which implied that he had known the Virgin Mary all his life. ‘* Jesus,” the curate continued, “‘ came into the world to die for sinners and save the world from Satan.” ** Whoa’s that, owd mon?” Jack asked. ‘f Do you mean Satan ? ”’ “ Igh.” He is the incarnation of evil.” ‘“TIgh, un aw thowt he wur,” Jack said know- ingly. ‘““Owd Joe o’ Pap’s used to have a trail dog coad Satan,” Bill ventured to inform the curate. The three were approaching Lydgate, when the curate suddenly stopped in the road, and said in an impressive voice: “‘ My good friends, turn ye away from sin and wickedness into the paths of righteous- ness. Be steadfast, my dear brethren, and full of the Lord always and may our walk this beautiful morning, on this glorious hill, bring salvation to your souls.” ‘ Aw’ll bet thert a parson, owd mon, arnot toh ?” Jack asked. ‘Yes I am,”’ he replied. ‘ Arto toh preychin ut Lidiate ?”’ Bill asked. ‘“ No, I am preaching at Springhead, and I shall be very glad if you will accompany me.”

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Wi’ connut,”’ Bill replied, ‘ Wi’re goin a lookin at a gamcock on th’ Quick Edge, its feightin in a fortnit un wi’ wantun toh see wot soart o’ buckle its in.” ‘““ Well, now,” said the curate, ‘‘ there is a little gathering at the school next Saturday, and I shall be delighted to see you and your wives and children present.” Next Seterday is a bad day fur us,” Bill said, looking at Jack. ‘* Toh, it 1s,” Jack said, “ wi’re beawn to a wrastle ut th’ Higginshaw.” ‘* Now that reminds me,” said the curate, “‘ that there is a wrestle described in the Bible, and if you will come to the school next Saturday I will read it to you with pleasure.” ‘Whoa wur doin, owd mon?” Jack asked eagerly. ‘* Jacob and an angel.”’ “Oh! igh un wot weight wur thi doin at?” The curate did not understand this question, so Bill answered and said : ‘* Aw think thi wur doin ut 6 score 10 un thi gate a thrut apese.”’ ne’er went toh that wrastle,’ Jack said to the the curate, “ fur wid yerd ut it wur a black- leg do.” I ‘** Nowe,” Bill said “‘ aw knew Jacob as weel as aw knew anybody, he ne’er cud wrastle thers lads 1? Owdhum, 5 score 10 ut cud throw him 7’ two minutes, he knew noh points.”’ They had now reached the junction of the roads - at Lydgate, and as the curate was preparing to turn

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down the road to Grotton, he extended his hand first to Jack and then to Bill, and said kindly: “Good morning, my dear friends, and may the Lord be with you now and always.”’ ‘““ Same toh thee, owd mon,” Jack returned with much friendliness in his voice. Neaw yoh con ha a pint o’ ale ut White Hart, owd mon, un welcome,” Bill said. ‘ No thank you, I am a total abstainer,”’ replied the curate. I ‘Soh am I, owd mon,” Bill said, wondering what the curate meant. better ha a pint afore yoh gun deawn,”’ Jack said pleadingly, “‘ yoh’n preych like blazes.” ‘* No thank you, it is getting late,”’ and with that the curate began to walk briskly down the road towards Grotton, while Jack and Bill went towards the White Hart Inn. Seated behind the table in the taproom, Jack said to his mate: What did he co that mon, Bill, ut wur nailed op o’ thoose planks ? ”’ ‘“ Hay, aw fere forgetten,”’ Bull replied, “it wur summat like Jamie Christ.” Tgh, it wur,” Jack said, “ but that’s noan fere it.” At that moment a man entered the taproom and ordered a pint of ale. When he had been served Jack said to him: “‘ Dun yoh know wot that mon wur coad ut wur nailed op o’ thoose planks ? ”’ it Sunday papper this morning ?”’ the man asked. “Aw darsi it is,” Jack replied, “thers a chap on th’ road uts just towd Bill un me.”

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‘* Tt ull bi sum mack of a murder aw guess, wheer wur it in, America ?”’ asked the man. ‘“Igh, aw believe it wur,” Jack replied, “it wur ith sum o’ thoose forrin ‘‘ These forriners ull do howt,” the man said. “Tgh, but its noan just the thing nailin foak toh planks un lettin um tarry theer, aw dunnut howd wi that mack o’ wark,” Jack said determinedly. “Whoa dun thi reckon’s dun it?” asked the man. Jews bi wot yond mon towd us,” Bill replied. ‘“'Weh aw hope thi’ll catch um, its time sich like wark wur stopped,” the man said going out of the room. Going home in the afternoon, after he had parted from Bill at the lane end, Jack suddenly remembered that the name which they had been trying to recall was Jesus Christ. He was pleased with the discovery, because he dearly wanted to tell his wife. _ When he reached home, he had been sitting in his chair for a few minutes, when he suddenly said to her: “ Wheer’s that pictur o’ Jesus Christ ?” Hello,” she said angrily, “‘ theau’s bin havin sum moore ale, hasto? Thert a gradely maddlin, thert beawn toh ha th’ blue uns if theau doesn’t mind.” Wheer’s that pictur o’ Jesus Christ, howt abeaut th blue uns?” Jack said again. ‘Wot arto toakin abeaut, theau greyt foo, has sum wit mon?” his wife said in a tone of annoy- ance.

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that pictur o’ Jesus Christ, aw tell thi,” Jack said with emphasis. Does toh meeun that pictur o’th owd blue hen ut theau won th’ sweep wi’ ut Benny’s?” she asked. Nowe, aw dunnut, aw meeun that ut theau gate fro owd Swap Coal’s,” Jack replied, “its shap ov a felley nailed op o’ some planks.” ‘* Oh, if that’s thi Jesus Christ, its here,”’ she said, opening a drawer and taking out a coloured print of the Crucifixion. That’s it,” Jack said, taking the picture into his hand, “* Aw bin towd this morning ut its Jesus Christ.”’ “Hay, theau greyt bledderyed, somdy’s bin stuffin thi agen, theau’ll ne’er ha noh wit, theau believes o’ theau yers,” his wife said. Thers a parson towd me un Bill o’th Speaut this mornin,” Jack said still lookin at the picture. ‘Wot dun parsons know abeaut Jesus Christ ? their wark’s preychin,” his wife answered. Thi made a reet job o’th owd mon shusheaw,”’ Jack said, “ thers a pynot neest o’ sticks un thurns o’th top ov his yed.” Whoa did he wed ?”’ his wife asked. ‘* Heaw the blazes doh aw know,” Jack replied, ‘but his mother wur coad Virgin Mary.” ‘* Theau comes whom wi’ hauve a tale, aw’ll bet he’d bin leatherin his wife ur thi wudn’t o’ laddert him o’ that shap,” she said. th’ devilskins un taen his breeches un his singlet,” Jack said, laying the print on the table. his wife said, looking over his shoulder,

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‘‘ awd a letten th’ poor felley ha his breeches shus- heaw, it looks soh brazant leavin him 7’ that ‘Tf aw‘d bin theer aw’d a swung o’ one ur two o’ ther bearts,’ Jack said almost savagely, “ aw’d a clogged um a bit.” ‘“Tgh, theau’d a had noh moar wit nur gettin thisel 1’? bother, whoa wur it ut did it?” his wife asked. ‘“A lot o Jews,’ Jack answered, ‘“‘ but aw’ll nobble one on um sumday, just thee tack notis.” A few days later, Jack had just reached home from his work, when a Jew came to the door selling washleather and other odds and ends. ‘““Come in,” Jack said, ““aw want toh see thi very perticular.”’ The Jew, anticipating a sale, was in the house and exhibiting his wares in a moment. Reych that pictur,” Jack said to his wife. She went to the drawer and took out the print of the crucifixion. ‘* Howd it op,” Jack said. She held it up for the Jew to see and her husband pointing to the picture, said : Dosto know that mon ? ”’ vas Jesus Christ,” the Jew answered immediately. “Yer thi Sal,’ Jack said in amazement, ‘“‘ this mon knows him aw’ll bet he wur theer when it wur Then turning to the Jew, he said threateningly, ‘Wot mack o’ wark dosto co that ?”’ Not liking the looks of his interrogator, the Jew began to make for the door, but Jack caught him

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by the coat collar and said: “Howd on abit, dunnot bi i’ sich a big swat,” then having got between the door and the Jew, he continued : ‘‘ Wot did yoh do it for?” ‘Un wot will th’ poor felley’s wife un childer think ? theau nasty impudent powcat,” his wife interrupted. I I vas not me, it vas my ancestors two towsand years ago,” replied the Jew, terribly frightened. ‘“ Hay, theau lyin heaund,” Jack replied angrily, ll bet thoose ur Jesus Christ’s breeches thert wearin neaw, ther a mile toh lung fur thee.” ‘““It vas Pontius Pilate,’’ the Jew said, ‘‘ who crucified ‘“Let’s ha noan o’ thi lies thert layin th’ blame op o’ sumdy else, wheer does that mon live ? aw’ll see wether theart tellin true,’ Jack said. master,” the Jew said trembling. ‘* Aw’ll gie thi oh master fur two pins,” Jack said, making a show of hifting his fist. ‘* Let’s look if he’s onny nails 1’ his basket like thoose ut th’ poor felley has in his honds,” his wife said, “‘ thi favern mop nails.” After they had ransacked the contents of the basket and found no incriminating evidence, Jack gripped the Jew by the coat collar and said: ‘ Thert goin wi’ me, my lad.” They went out of the house and down the road together. The Jew pleaded hard to be released, but Jack would not listen to it. He said: ‘“ Theau’ll ha thi neck ratched fur this, owd At last they came to a house where the local policeman lived. Jack knocked at the door and

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the policeman said: “Come in.” Jack lifted the latch and dragged the Jew into the house. ‘What is the matter?” asked the constable sternly. ‘‘ Aw browt this mon deawn iro eaur heause,”’ Jack said. What is the charge ? ”’ He’s bin murderin a felley,” Jack answered. The constable opened a cabinet and brought out pen, ink and paper. is your name ?”’ he said to the Jew. Jacobs,” replied the Jew, adding there vas von mistake.” ‘* Owd thi noise,” Jack said, “ ur aw’ll catch thi on th’ nose.” Now, now,” said the constable, “ this is a very serious charge, it is a matter of life and death, when was this murder committed ? ”

‘“ Last week,” Jack replied promptly. ‘“ Where ? ”’

‘“Sumwheer 1 Ireland.”’ “Yes,” said the constable, having written the particulars down, “a man or a woman ?” ‘“A mon,” Jack replied. you know his name ? ”’ Toh.” “What is 1t ?”’ Jesus Christ fur his gradely name, but thi coad him Saveyer fur a byname,” Jack answered. The constable knit his brow, and having looked severely at both men, he got up, opened the door and said: Get away from here as quickly as you can or I will lock both of you up.”

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Next day, Jack relating his adventure to his mate, Bill o’th Speaut, said: “* Ther mi’ weel bi soh mony murders 1’th country wol th’ bobbies ur soh silly, but aw’st catch noh moar murderers for

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Tf th’ yed boss gate toh know,” Bill said, “ he’d doff yond bobby his jacket as soon as winking.”’

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CURING A COLD.

THERE are various ways of dealing with a cold, some are very simple, while others are just the reverse. Of course, people differ constitutionally, and it is difficult to find two persons who would benefit alike under the same treatment. A remedy that might cure one man might easily kill his next door neighbour. Old Mary o’ Harry’s always said: “ Best road o° curin a cowd ur th’ tooth warch is to believe ut yoh han noan.”’ The difficulty here hes in acquiring and sustain- ing this belief. Old Jim Howe used to say that the finest cure in the world for a cold was for a man to get a pint of whisky into him and then go home and have a “rippin good fratch wi’ his wife.” He argued that it was a good way of getting a man’s steam up and making his blood circulate. In some instances this form of treat- ment may have proved but in Jack o’ Martha’s case it proved a dismal failure. Jack went swaggering home one night with a cold in his head. Going up the lane, he resolved to put Jim Howe’s remedy to the test and as soon as he reached his home he kicked the door savagely. This was done to apprise the lady inside that he was at the top of his form. Then he lifted the latch and attempted to make a grand state entry into the house. In this he failed, but he managed to reach

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the living room by a series of ungraceful jerks and lurches. There were a pound of butter and a bowl of rice on the table, both of which he threw on the fire. Then he tried to kick the cat scientifically into the kitchen but his legs refused to obey his will and began to execute a kind of dribble on their own account, which landed Jack on to the carpet. Incensed at his failure he scrambled slowly to his feet by the aid of the furniture and called his wife “a greyt fat brawson. hullock.” After steadying himself he tried to present her with the weight of his boot. Now it chanced that she was a fine strong woman and not only did she object to the presentation, but she promptly her would be generous husband and kicked him under the table. He now con- sistently drinks mint tea for a cold. Big red- faced Dont 0’ Ned’s used to bring his heavy quarryman’s fist down on the inn table and say in his rough way: “If a mon wants toh shift a cowd he mun get four quarts o’th best rum un ten peaunds. o’th best honey un get o’th lot deawn his neck as soon as he con. “It'll oather shift cowd ur th’

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mon. Old Jamie o’th Green Tree had a cold which lasted 36 years, and a stranger to whom he was. stating his case, said sympathetically: ‘‘ Poor man how you must have suffered, what have you taken for it ?” Aw ne’er taen nowt,” Jamie answered quietly, ‘““nawt a sope o’ good whisky, its a certain cure, but its very, very slow.” I cannot speak from experience to the efficacy

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or otherwise of the remedies which I have just described, but I have good reason to think that the remedy I found one Sunday on the Stanedge moors is worth them all. It has many advantages, it is simple, it costs nothing, and is moreover within the reach of all which many remedies are not. Some years ago, in the middle of a raw rainy April, I caught a beastly cold which held me in its grip more or less, chiefly more, until the beginning of June. I felt the first symptoms one wet Satur- day afternoon when I had been standing for some time sheltering against the gable end of an old chapel. It was, therefore, the cold ecclesiastical which people who have had both kinds tell us is in point of severity equalled only by the cold matrimonial. At the time I was quite ignorant of all this, and I had an impression that it was an ordinary alehouse cold, which usually dries up in about three days. When three weeks had passed and I had begun to look as dilapidated as an old rain barrel when the rusty iron garths are broken and the rotten “laggings’”’ begin to fall out, I began to grow serious about my condition. One day I met a friend to whom I told my sorrows, where I had got my cold and everything about it. “Sorry, old chap,” he said kindly, “ but I am afraid that you are in for a bad time.” How is that?” I asked with feigned uncon- cern. “Well, you see,” he replied, “I do not lke the place where you caught your cold.” Why ?” I asked. “To be frank,” he answered, “you have got

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your system clogged with ecclesiastical germs of an extremely dangerous type.” “In what way ?”’ I asked, somewhat mystified by his remark. Well, to speak in detail,”’ he replied, “‘ you are full of dusty: old missionary sermons, soiled old prayers said by hypocrites, scraps of faded hymn tunes, rickety old chants, and other invisible things which float about and impregnate the musty unhealthy atmosphere in and about old chapels.” “That’s mere talk, dry up,’ I said, with a laugh. “Tt is no laughing matter,” he said gravely, ““what you really require, is to be instantly in- noculated with some anti-ecclesiastical serum.” ‘* How is it to be obtained ?” I asked carelessly. “Oh, easily enough,” he answered, “all that you have got to do is to go and watch a cock battle or go into an inn corner and hear old carters “‘fratch ’? and curse about their horses and their carting feats.” As we parted he said: “ I regret that you should treat my advice with a levity which is painful to me, because it suggests that you do not realize the seriousness of your condition.”’ In a few weeks I had exhausted the remedies of the Pharmacopeeia pills, powders and emulsions. If I had thrown the money which I had spent into the brook, I should have obtained just as much relief. After that I drank reservoirs and canals of mint, camomile, yarrow and other infusions. I did this with the determination to drown my cold, but I eventually found that it was a Channel swimmer of extraordinary vitality and endurance.

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The days crept slowly on towards June. Some- times in the evening I felt better. Then I flattered myself that my cold had packed up its nauseous baggage of aches and pains and was about to take its long wished for departure. This, however, was only an example of its deceptiveness, for it really never went beyond the doorstep of my system. In the morning, I found that during the night my head had received another consignment of assorted aches and pains of all shapes and sizes, circular, elongated, triangular, pryamidal, and all of them of a saw-edged type. My throat had received another coat of corrugated hoarseness, while my back had been prepared for experimental work in steam ploughing, which began the moment I awoke and continued for the greater part of the day. One Saturday evening, when June was still young, I went down the hill to Delph, the most maligned of Saddleworth villages. Even to this day uneducated Uppermill folks, with a capacity for remembrance, which does them no credit, per- sist in repeating the words of a certain chief of police, who publicly said: “ Delphers have no back bone.” This official, but none the less slanderous assertion, is, I contend, entirely demolished by the fact that local Methodism had its origin in Delph. This means that the village, having found its own salvation, heroically set out like some good knight and saved the rest, of Saddle- worth from the dragon of sin and evil doing. Thus all and sundry individuals and organizations in this parish are under an eternal obligation to Delph as the creator of their spiritual backbone.

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Like most villages, Delph on a Saturday is a clean and highly respectable place to look at. That evening the village had just emerged newly- washed and “ tidied op” for the week-end. The flagstones had been swilled and the doorsteps mopped and the windows cleaned. There were colour and movement in the street, young women in gay costumes were passing to and fro on shopping errands, while others were standing in groups at the shop windows vigorously discussing the hats of the passers by, their shape, trimming, and probable cost. Here and there celebrated racing experts were interestedly grouped around an even- ing paper, while others were hurrying breathlessly up the street with the commonest of all inquiries on their tongue: “ Wot’s won th’ big race.” I watched this inspiring scene for some time, then I entered the Swan Inn and went into the little parlour, which is the most restful room in the village. someone said. evening,” I returned huskily. Then a second, who had noticed the muddy tone of my voice, said “‘ Theau’s getten a cowd, owd lad.” ‘““Getten a cowd!” I repeated with contempt, you mean only one cold ? why, I have at least twenty colds, two fully grown up and about eighteen young ones, I am, in fact, at present a breeding establishment for every known variety of cold.” Instantly, half-a-dozen people suggested half-a- dozen different remedies. One suggested rum

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and black currants, another rum and black beer, a third strongly advised rum and honey, a fourth plumped for rum and lemon, a fifth suggested whisky and peppermint, while the sixth assured me that there was nothing as good and effectual as whisky and new butter. Hach, of course, was declared to be an infallible remedy and various miraculous cures were cited in proof thereof. I ordered rum and black beer, and lingered idly over two stiff glasses of the rather unpalatable stuff. I stayed at the Swan for an hour, then I said “Good to the company and went home- wards up the Shelf Road and up the green road which rises steeply behind Colls. When I reached the top of the hill, I felt no inclination to go inside the house, for it was one of those magical nights which come to Saddleworth all too rarely, and, are worth fifty ordinary nights. One of those nights on which the most ordinary and commonplace things become strangely and inexpressibly beautiful. The great irregular splashes of light and shadow which come to a hilly country under a low sun had vanished, and as the dusk deepened the night grew more and more steeped in poetry. It seemed as though the angels of peace and quiet were abroad spilling old legends and romances over the shadowy hills and valleys. The fields and the meadows had an odour about them, as if unseen hands were trailing June roses and hawthorn blossom across their grey dim acres. Even the cottage chimneys smoke blackened and agressively ugly in broad daylight now stood up from the huddle of roofs without a suggestion of discord.

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The sunset colours had now grown faint in the sky over Crompton Moor, but the northern sky over Wind Hills was radiantly white without a speck of cloud upon it. For some time I watched that white sky move slowly along the moor tops towards the east and the dawn. As the night air began to grow cold, I went into the house and upstairs to bed, but not before I fervently prayed to the gods of rum and black beer to be with me through the night. I woke up next morning to learn the dis- agreeable truth, that those gods had failed me. If they had heard my prayer, they had ignored it. They had done worse, they had aided and abetted my cold in no uncompromising fashion. I uttered no sanguinary adjectives, nor even said rude things, although I felt that I had received the full measure of provocation. I got up and went out of doors with a splitting six inch headache and a blacksmith’s shop working between my shoulders. It was hali-past three and the skies over the top of Stanedge were opening like a white rose whose petals were soon to be changed into gold. As I leaned over the wall and watched that glorious morning come slowly and silently over the moors into Saddleworth, something flashed into my memory which had gone unremembered for years. I recalled having heard my father say, that when I was a youngster on Oxhey I caught the whooping cough. It was in the backend of the year, and the cough remained with me far into the spring. It was troublesome in the night-time and harassed my parents sorely, for working people cannot do with missing their sleep.

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One windy day, at the end of April, my father wrapped me up in an old shawl and carried me in his.arms across the moors from the old gate on the Noddle to Badger Slacks and back. I lost my cough that day. This all flashed back to me, and I thought if the moor did that for my whooping cough, why should it not do the same for my cold. I went into the house, put a sandwich in my pocket and went down the fields to Delph. The village lay curled up asleep and snoring vigorously in its hollow under Knott Hill. I passed through its street and went up on to the Stanedge Road. The good road which leads to the Great Western Inn, and is travelled on Sunday mornings by all thirsty Delphers with their shirt necks and waistcoats unbuttoned. I met a tramp where the road swings round above Laceby. He was dust soiled, his breeches were ragged at the knees, and his toes were looking inquisitively out of his almost soleless boots, yet he was the most jovial devil-may-care togue I ever met on any road or in any country. ‘“Can you spare a copper, guvnor ?”’ he asked, stepping on to the footpath and leaning against the wall. “Its the old tale, I suppose, walked from Huddersfield, etc.,’’ I said. ‘Walked from Huddersfield,’ he repeated, with a gesture of contempt, “ I set out at midnight from the town of Carlisle and [ve footed it all down the north country, so help me God.” ‘That means that you have walked roughly 120 miles in four hours,”’ I said. ‘“ That’s about the figure, guvnor.” he answered.

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‘* How long is it since you had anything to eat ?” I asked. Forty-one years, guvnor, to the minute,” he he replied. “What is your trade?” I asked. gentleman, sir,” he answered, with dignity, ‘ I never did any man out of a day’s work.”’ ‘“ Where are you going now ?”’ I asked. “Tm going,” he answered, “straight away to a little village in Suffolk, where I have a wife and 72 starving children, all girls.” I gave him threepence and one half of my sand- wich. He thanked me with the grace of a courtier and went gaily down the road singing “‘ Blue bonnets over the border.”” We parted and we may never see each other again, but I sometimes think that he is still tramping the dusty. English roads with his toes out of his boots jovially accosting people and winning money out of their pockets with his most outrageous lies. I left the road at the Float- ing Light Inn and went along the catchwater, which runs out in many curves over the moor to the Black Moss reservoir. The Diggle valley lay beneath me with the low lying farms and the ham- lets hidden away under a white mist. The uplands from Fairbanks to the high farms above Saddle- worth Church were clear, with the sunlight stream- ing over their roofs and pasture lands. I went along, wondering if I could prick through the mist with a long stick and touch the roofs of Weakey and other hidden hamlets along the valley road. When I reached the water at Black Moss, the sea- gulls whirled up a cloud of white wings and went

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heaving across the moor towards the Isle of Skye road. There is no bird sight in Saddleworth half so beautiful, for the brown moor serves as a back- ground, against which the graceful evolutions of the flying gulls are to be seen with remarkable distinctness. I went along the moor on that side of the reservoir which is nearest the Stanedge Road, and lay down in a hollow where the grass was thickest and brownest. No fairy had ever a more delightful couch and no mortal was ever more deliciously lazy. I just lay there, stretched out and motionless, in the deep grass and watched the seagulls, which had returned, whirling over me, and above them a few thin streaks of white cloud drifting to the west. There was no sound, only now and then the swish of a low flying bird and the faint rustle of the wind in the grass. Then I thought I have come out here purposely and particularly to consult three great physicians, the clean fresh air, the sun, and the wide brown moor. They are specialists, I thought, and the consultation will probably be a rather lengthy one. I had been lying there, under the warm sun, for perhaps an hour, when the seagulls began to grow into faint indistinct specks and the sky faded and grew to the palest blue. My physicians had given me an opiate. I had been drugged with pleasant things and was rapidly sinking to sleep. When I awoke, I lay for some time in dreamy half- conscious state vainly trying to fix my whereabouts, but my mind was chaos, presently I saw the grass waving about me without knowing what it was. I imagined that I was lying at the bottom of

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some deep, clear, running sea, with no power either to move or speak. I thought that I could see the surface rippling above me but could not reach it. After a time full consciousness returned and I found that it was past noonday and the sun was far away in the south. I also discovered that I was ravenously hungry. I had felt no such feeling for months, and what a glorious thing it is to feel hungry on a moor and know that you are within a stonesthrow of good ploughman’s fare and good brown ale. Who, that has ever come across a moor on a still Autumn evening, with a touch of frost in the air, and has caught the smell of new laid eggs and home-fed ham frying in an old roadside inn, can ever forget it. There is no aroma on land or sea that can make a man feel more hungry or more glad to be alive. I hastily devoured the fragments of the sandwich, then I got up at once and went straight across the moor to Redbrook Reservoir and the Great Western Inn. My headache had gone, the steam hammers between my shoulders had shut down and ceased working. Like stricken people who have gone to Holy wells and the shrines of Saints and been miraculously cured, so I felt that I had been to the shrine of the moor god and his good magic ran within me even to my finger tips. When I came in sight of the inn standing beyond the wide moor water, I blessed the memory of the man who had built it and I thought how loved it had been and must be by man and beast travell- ing, weary and footsore, along that high moorland road. A place for rest, good meats, and cool

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drinks. I blest the builder again when I got to the inn door for his foresight, his human kindness, and all that the house meant to me at that moment. I went into the clean, stone-flagged taproom, which was empty of drinking folks, the window was open and the wind blowing in from the brown moor swayed the curtain a little. A young woman came into the room and I ordered a plate of bread and cheese and a glass of ale. I rarely touch cheese at home, I dislike it, but on that day I accounted for a second serving, and even now I cannot remember ever having tasted anything so sweet and good. I said no grace, but I drank reverently to the memory of the man who had built the inn. When I had finished my repast I lit my pipe and sat looking out of the window across the sunlit water and the moorland. What had become of my cold, where had I left it, I asked myself, but I did not much care, I was too glad to know that I had got rid of it to worry about where it had gone. In the afternoon I left the inn and went along the top of Millstone Edge and over the Hind Hill towards Heights Chapel. As I strode through the moor grass I solemnly swore, with the grey rocks for witnesses, that. henceforth the Saddleworth hills should be my doctors in all cases of cold. And when one comes to think of it, surely it is the natural cure. To sit huddled up over a fire, drinking all manner of vile potions 1s only humouring and harbouring a cold. It is far better to get outside on to the wide open heaths, to smell the turf and let the clean winds whistle through your system. It is in effect

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like flushing a sewer, the difference 1s that in one case the noisome accumulations are washed out by water, in the other case they are blown out by fresh winds. Even if the weather is cold and you can keep yourself warm with walking, you are better outside than sitting “ hussin un mussin ”’ over the fire. If you can get fresh air, get it, and moorland air if possible, for to my thinking there is no air in the world like the air of a Yorkshire

moor.

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BROADBENT.

THIS surname is in evidence from the first register of St. Chad’s, 1613, forward. Anciently the family had a strong residential partiality for the Diggle valley. In 1614, a Broadbent was living at Green, and when we get a glimpse of the early occupiers of the neighbouring farmsteads they are chiefly Broadbents. They have flitted about since those days and wherever there were places of good living and warm shelter the Broadbents found them. Old Twist used to say: ‘“Ther’s a rook o’ foak ut connut flit when thi wantun becose ther rent books ur eaut o’ flunter.” Every time the landlord called at Old Dan o’ Ste’s for the rent it was like a bullbaiting. Dan cursed, and his wife upbraided the landlord, until they were both out of breath. Sometimes they would follow him along the lane shouting until he was out of earshot. Once when he had left old Dan’s, without receiving the whole of the rent then due, old Mally said: “ Hay, Dan, win furgetten toh co yond devil o’ skennin strumpit.”’ Old Dan went to the door and shouted to the landlord ‘‘ come back.” The landlord, thinking that the old couple had decided to pay off their arrears, hurried back at once, only to receive the epithet Mally had for- gotten. It can be said to their honour, that the

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Broadbents are a hunting breed and for that reason are entitled to be treated with respect and with all other things usually included in treating. I believe the late John Broadbent, when living at Carr House, was the last master of the old Saddleworth hunt. It was fitting that this gentleman should occupy so high and honourable a position for he could rely upon his own breed to keep him well supplied with good hounds. The old-time Broad- bents appear to have been what people used to call ‘“‘ gradely steawngers.” There was a dare devil spirit about them and they had a way of making protest, which was out of the common. In 1612, John Broadbent was excommunicated for smashing the door of Saddleworth Church with an axe. How he missed smashing the parson and the churchwardens is unknown. Probably they had sought refuge or sanctuary in the cellar of the old Cross Keys Inn. In 1622, Robert Broadbent suffered excommunication for reading divine service without a licence. We do not know under what circumstances this breach of church law was committed. It might be to win a bet, or it might be because the parson was not in a condition to read it, and Broadbent heroically stepped into the pulpit and lost his soul. When a Heights parson asked old Beautwit if he had sold his soul to the devil, he replied “ Igh, but aw ne’er drawn nowt yet, he’s same as th’ parsons, he noan sich a good payer.” In the same year, 1622, James Broadbent was recommended for deportation to the region of fire and brimstone for reading the order of burial.

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This would be a serious and unpardonable offence, especially if he had “ blued ” the parson out of the burial fees. There is no record that the sentences were ever annulled, so we are pretty certain where three of the Broadbents have gone to in the scheme of things everlasting. Their descendants, no doubt, with full knowledge of the sins of their forefathers set out worthily to redeem the family character. They accomplished this with something to spare. How, if told at length, would make a good chapter of church history. For generations the Broadbents filled the important office of Parish Clerk at Saddleworth Church. From’ smashing church doors they turned to the performance of sacred and dignified duties. Winding up the church clock, lighting the vestry fire, cleaning candle sticks and sacra- mental plate, and saying Amen after the parson. Kach successive Broadbent, in keeping with his holy office, kept an alehouse at Clerks, just above the old churchyard. The building is now in ruins, which is a great pity, for one would have loved to sit in its ingle nook with a pot of ale, musing over its old associations. The first was James Broad- bent, who in addition to being the parish clerk also practised as a surgeon. He told the good Bishop of Chester that he only charged his patients ior the salve. Nothing is said about the quantity, but possibly he used salve by the hundredweight and in this way ran up a respectable bill against each patient. The second clerk was Robert Broad- bent, son of the above, appointed 1622, died 1676. The third was James Broadbent, son of Robert,

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appointed 1674, died 1731, having held the office 57 years. He was succeeded by his son Robert, who held the office until his death in 1748. John Broadbent, a brother of the above Robert, was sexton and gravemaker for 48 years. His epitaph is a locally famous one :—

Forty-eight years, strange to tell, He bore the Bier and tolled the Bell, And faithfully discharged his trust In Earth to Earth, and Dust to Dust. Cease to lament, his life 1s spent, The grave is still his Element ; His old friend, Death, knew t-was his sphere And kindly laid the Sexton

James Broadbent, son of Robert, was the next clerk, he died in 1796. He was followed by John Broadbent, who died in 1838. One may infer that when the Broadbents kept the inn at Clerks there would be some glorious endings to the ancient vestry meetings. That the new churchwardens should be royally “ footed” might be at that time a recognized part of the appomtment. One can imagine the great punch bowl and the silver ladles in the middle of the oak table, the churchly toasts and the silk hats tilted back on many a worthy head. The emoluments of the clerk at Saddle- worth, in 1828, amounted to £22 18s. 4d. per annum. The principal items were 200 funerals at 8d. each, 60 weddings at 6d. each, and 60 times for the hearse at 2s. Up to about 1860, the sexton at St. Chad’s was a gorgeous personage attired in livery, consisting of blue coat and waistcoat turned

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up with scarlet. Why do they not revive the old order of things and even enlarge upon it by making the churchwardens and the sidesmen wear livery. _ One could go to church then and have something to look at. It would help to pass the time and also serve to keep the worshippers awake during the delivery of a dull, wearisome sermon. The family has produced a poet, who shared the fate common to such misguided people. He was born at Oxhey in 1801, and died at Todmorden in 1840. His life appears to have been a long grim struggle against the poverty and starvation which finally crushed him and brought his days to an untimely end. As soon as the earth had closed over him, the poet’s friends promptly found that he had written tolerably good verse. This led them to collect his poems and publish them for the benefit of his wife and children. Someone has well written, “Tf you have any flowers to give to a man give them to him while he is living, it is better than laying them upon his grave after he is dead.” Broadbent’s chief poems are of a devotional character. Here are a few lines with wit in them—

‘** Once famed Lord Bacon told this lie, But might not swell the number, That tall men’s heads, like garrets high, Are fit for nought but lumber. I'll give him a reply, as smart, Since I am six feet wholly ; And say—a head too near the heart Did never yet think coolly.”

Broadbent’s fate reminds one of Joe o’ Nan’s.

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He died hard up, but he was a member of a burial club. At death each member was entitled to £50, but he had to fetch it himself. A famous schoolmaster, of the old type, was Ralph Broad- bent, of Springhill, Heights. He was the first master at Castleshaw School, about 1820. He afterwards removed to Springhill and opened a private teaching academy. Many of the most capable public men of Rochdale and Oldham had their education grounded under Ralph Broadbent. My father was one of his pupils and for six weeks laboured strenuously to transform the schoolroom into a natural history museum. He rarely entered the school without having young throstles, larks, frogs, hedgehogs, and other kinds of wild life con- cealed about his person. Sometimes young frogs would jump into the middle of the floor, and some- times young throstles would disclose their where- abouts by chirping behind one of the desks. At other times they escaped and flew about the room, causing a long interruption of the lessons. Ralph Broadbent gave the young naturalist plenty of “strap,” but it had little effect, for his scholastic career ended ingloriously with expulsion. Broadbent, who was my father’s uncle, had also a great reputation as a rustic doctor. He had also a wide knowledge and experience of the diseases of cattle, which often proved invaluable to local farmers. The bygone Broadbents scraped money together as woollen manufacturers. In 1814, the following were engaged in the business :—

James Broadbent, Carr; James Broadbent, Diglee; John Broadbent, Tunstead ;

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John Broadbent, Marslands; Joseph Broadbent, Grange; Joseph Broadbent, Harrop Court ; Robert Broadbent, Carr.

In 1836, there were 18 Broadbents “ pearkin ”’ pieces as masters in various parts of the parish. There is a little black mullioned windowed old mill at Pingle, near Delph, which helped to revolutionize the woollen industry of Saddle- worth and possibly of the West Riding. It was in its old “ willow hole” that George Broadbent first mixed cotton with wool. It is told that the ‘‘ willowed ’’ material was secretly carted from Pingle Mill to other mills at the dead of night. The quantity of cotton introduced into a wool lot’ was at first very modest, but it gradually increased until it became an open secret. The introduction of cotton not only produced a cleaner white, but it effected a cheapening of the woven fabric. There is a story told of the time when the merchants had begun to suspect that the goods were not composed purely of wool. A manufacturer in Diggle had begun to mix cotton with wool, and on one occasion was showing samples to a merchant in Manchester. After handling the goods, the merchant said, in a tone which implied that he knew something : There is cotton in these samples.” This was quite true, but it did not disconcert the maker. He looked the merchant full in the face and said in good old Saddleworth: “‘ Aw’ll gie yoh a guinea an ounce for o’ yoh con poo’ eaut.”’ This straight offer reassured the other, but eventually the practice became so general that

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concealment was impossible. The Broadbents have wit and ingenuity in getting out of tight places. There was one living up the Denshaw valley at a time of industrial distress. The mill where he was employed had ceased working and he and his family were in dire straits. They were foodless and fireless. Even the faces of the child- ren had grown wan and haggard. Something must be done. It was useless going to the grocers’ shops, as the family credit had run to its end all round the district. At that time the attic room of some old Saddleworth houses could only be entered from the outside, generally by a flight of stone steps. At bedtime the young children undressed in the house, then they ran outside and up the stone steps barefooted in their night attire. The attic in which Broadbent’s children slept had only one small roof light and often when the children had gone to bed the father would climb on to the roof and cover up the window in such a manner as to exclude every particle of light. Consequently day never broke to the children until afternoon, when the door was unlocked and their mother released them. They had missed the breakfast time and the dinner hour, which was what the father intended them to do when he covered up the window. One morning, he and his wife were sitting silently by their breakfastless table when he suddenly got up, put his coat on and went out at the door. An hour later he was standing on the bridge at Delph. Among the buildings which have been recently demolished, there was a grocer’s shop at which Broadbent had

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frequently been a customer. As he stood idling upon the bridge, the grocer came down the street and seeing his old customer, he stopped and said : Aw see theau’s getten sum wark ut last.” “ Tgh,” replied Broadbent, ‘ but its hard graft, its pooin it eaut o’th wick wurchin wi’ nowt toh heyt in ther bally.”’ Igh, aw darsi it is lad,” said the grocer kindly, “come on aw'll find thi abit o’ meyt wol theau draws.” I Broadbent followed the grocer into the shop and in a few minutes he was trudging up the Junction road with as much meal and other necessaries as he could carry. When he reached home, his wife stared at him with open-mouthed amazement. ** Wheer arto wurchin’’ she asked, when she could speak. ‘Goh borrow a bit o’ coal, un get a pon on th’ fire,’ he replied, lifting the groceries on to the table. She required no second telling, and ere long the family were enjoying a good repast. The game he had played was this. He had gone down to the mill in the morning and rubbed his hands, face, and smock all over with indigo blue waste until he looked as though he had been working for a week. Then he had gone down to Delph and “let in” the grocer as described. The foregoing instance was an exception, for it was rare to find an old time Broadbent hard up. They were people who could afford to provision against an old- fashioned Saddleworth winter. No matter how deep or how long the snow lay on the countryside,

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the Broadbents lay snug and warm among home- fed hams, hung beef, home-made cheese, and home- brewed ale. They knew how to weather a storm and come out at the end, the picture of good keep. A Rochdale visitor to Saddleworth used to tell how he called one winter’s night at a Broadbent’s house in “ Harropdale.”” He had to literally fight his way to the hearthstone. He collided with sides of home-fed bacon and heavy pieces of hung beef, he dodged among ropes of onions and bunches of herbs, and finally got entangled in a warp, which was hung low round the breadfleck to dry. Old Broadbent gave the visitor plenty of good ale to drink, ham “collops” to eat and a church- warden pipe to smoke, which smoothed over the pains of his obstructed entrance. How deeply attached the Broadbents are to their old haunts has been conclusively proved by an Uppermiller. After he had left the district, he could never rest in bed at night unless his face was turned towards Wade Lock. If he chanced to turn round in his sleep he began to dream and wave his arms about like someone lost. As soon as his wife turned him round again, facing Uppermill, he became as quiet as a lamb. I have been looking back to see if the old-time Broadbents knew how to vote, and I find that nearly all of the breed wore “ yollow ribbins”’ and voted Liberal. This is probably the political bias of the family to-day. They are not like the Den- shaw roadmender, who had no knowledge of election business other than that of the road surveyor. That was a function in which “chep

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99

went liberally round the voters and in- fluenced the result of the poll. At Heights Chapel the election of road surveyor was usually made by a show of hands and the party which paid for the most ale invariably got their man elected. After the roadmender had been canvassed for an hour on behalf of a parliamentary candidate, he said: “‘ Yoh met as weel save yer wind to cool yer porritch wi’, but aw’st vote same as aw’ve awlus dun fur th’ owd surveyor.”’ The Broadbents have designed and built many hencotes, and one, I know well, used to save the big eggs, “ double-yoked uns,” to put into rum, when rum and egg was considered a good remedy for a cold. It is told of one gradely old-fashioned Broadbent that he once gave his poultry a supper of food which had been steeped -.in mulled ale. This was done to make them lay twice a day, but the food being too strong for the hens, they all fell from their perches during the night. At what date they became residents in the Friarmere district is a matter for conjecture. About 1720 Broadbents were living at Hanson and at New Tame. A Joseph Broadbent, of Dobcross, was one of the freeholders, who, in 1792, bought the Manor of Saddleworth from the Farrer family. With respect to the district in which the family name had its origin it is easy to go astray. There is the old place name of Broadbent at Watersheddings, but I am tempted to think that it comes from family occupation. The surname is undoubtedly one which was acquired from a descriptive place

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name. A homestead standing in a rough broad track of grassy country. The prefix occurs in local place names, Broadhead in the Castleshaw valley and Broadstone Moor behind Saddleworth Church. The suffix ‘“‘ 1s a common field name, it is

also found in the local place names of Bentfield, Bentheath, etc.

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NAN O RATCHERS.

Hoo ne’er does nowt fro’ morn toh neet Nawt hearken eaut un spir, Un howt hoo yers hoo ratches it Un macks it ten times wur. Hoo knows heaw owd everybody is Un wheer thi’r bred un born, Un wheer thi bowt ther Sunday cloas Un heaw lung thi’n bin worn.

Hoo’s awlus fain when sumdy dees, Fur then hoo’ll gawp un stond, Un pike op th’ stairs wi’ th’ berrin foak Toh see heaw th’ corpse is donned ; Then off hoo pops, th’ owd oppen chops, Wr sich a yeawlin din ; Hoo’s tellin here, un tellin theer, Its feawest corpse hoo’s sin.

Ut Sunday, too, hoo’s in her pew, Her een 1’ every nook, If sumdy’s donned 1’ summat new Hoo doesn’t forget toh look ; ‘* Hay dear,” hoo’ll seh, “ awm gradely fast, Awm fere 1’ pins bi’ th’ mass, Aw connut tell fur th’ life 0’ me, Wheer yond thing gets it brass.”

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Nan o’ Ratcher’s was the only child of Jamie ‘“Ratcher.” Her father had acquired his by- name from his notorious habit of stretching news and making something out of nothing. In his day he was regarded as the most inquisitive busy- body in the village. There is an old saying which goes, “If yoh mun know yoh mun ax (ask),” and Jamie “ Ratcher”’ followed it to the letter. A villager once told him to mind his own business, but Jamie answered: ‘‘ Nowe, aw havnt time fur mindin yers.” He was rarely known to be short of news, but when there chanced to be a dearth of this interesting commondity, Jamie made “abit hissel.” A love of news and gossip was, therefore, in Nan an inherited quality, and as she grew older her notoriety exceeded even that of her deceased father. In addition to collecting and improving all kinds of gossip, Nan o’ Ratcher’s was an assiduous and painstaking collector of “berrin” cards. As a worker in the field of village gossip, Nan stood alone. No matter how fragmentary or indefinite a bit of news might be when she first received it, she at once set to work to make it as perfect as possible. The dirtier and the more unsavoury the scrap of scandal that reached her ear and the more she enjoyed the work of shaping it into a large and complete midden. As soon as a tale had been worked up and was ready for circulation Nan went round the village. To every neighbour woman she met she would say: “ Well yoh, un heaw are yoh ?” ‘ Well, awm just amung th’ middlins, Hannah.”

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‘Han yoh howt fresh ?”’ ‘* Nowe, has theau.”’ ing she wished for. ““TIgh, ther’s a rare tale flyin abeaut Mat o’ Swill’s un awm fain yond’s bin stopped ov it stridin, thi connot get white meyl eaut ov a coal seck, aw awlus sed yond wur th’ white hen ut ne’er laid away, un awm ne’er soh far chetted.”” Then she would tell the tale with much nodding of the head and shaking of the first finger. Every now and then she would punctuate the story with Hay, woman, yond’s a snicket, un see yoh theer, its as deep as th’ North Sea.” If she came across a cottage door which was wholly or partially open, she would thrust her head in and shout: “Han yoh yerd?” wot!” the woman inside would say. ‘“ Hay, aw mun come in un tell yoh.” Then entering the house, she would begin some- thing after this fashion: “ Ther’s sum weary toak goin on abeaut Bill o’ Lollop’s wife, awm noan capt noather, aw thowt yond wur noan as mimp (good) as it looks.” When it became known amongst the neighbours that Nan was the circulator of a piece of gossip they would say: “Its nee enuff fur yond greyt oppen meauth.” This meant that the tale was not worth telling again. They, however, had to concede that in the art of “spirrin,” getting to know everything about everybody from “threed to th’ needle,” Nan was exceptionally clever. A bad feature of this accomplishment was that she “spirred”

This gave Nan the open-

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children about their parents, but Nan looked upon that, merely as a part of the game. She had a wonderful memory for scandal, and never forgot anything that was detrimental to character. Things which had occurred long ago and had passed out of the village memory Nan could recall without an effort. She was, to some extent feared, for no family was quite safe, as she would generally disinter a bit of long buried scandal at a wedding or at any other time when it was important that it should remain undisturbed. There was nothing she liked to look at better than a corpse. She would go miles in the rain if she thought that there was a possibility of her being allowed to see one. She always spent much time in feeling the dead person’s nose. “Toh,” she would say, “it feels rayther nimble.” Then she would express an opinion as to which member of the family would be the next to die. In one way and another she managed to get an invitation to a great number of funerals. When people have the weight and the sorrow of a bereave- ment upon them they are usually ready to grant concessions. Nan knew this, and took full advantage of it. She would visit the house of the dead and profess the profoundest sorrow for the bereaved relatives. In the end, she would be asked to attend the funeral either as a helper or as a mourner. In this way she got many funeral cards. If she failed to get an invitation, she deputed a mourner to get a card for her. She lived alone, and her evenings were spent in looking over her “ berrin”’ cards. It was an entertain-

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ment of which she never wearied. She was never happier than when she was showing them to a visitor, and particularly if the visitor was a stranger to the village. With a stranger Nan had more freedom of expression with respect to describing the shortcomings of the deceased person whose “ berrin ”’ card she had at the moment under examination. She had given her cards some kind of classification and placed them in separate boxes. One box contained the death memorials of what she called “ feffnicutes un hippocrites.”’ Another contained the cards of people who had loved a glass ot ale, this she called her ‘‘slotchers’ box.” Another contained the cards of ‘‘ twitchers,”’ “stuck up folks,” and “ frizgigs,” as she called them. As her opinions were rarely appreciatory, the box of “ streyght forrad foak ”’ did not contain many cards. One day, Nan met a lady in the village street and invited her to take tea at her house. The invitation was accepted and very soon the two were recalling old times across tea and toast. ‘““Neaw get yer baggin,”’ Nan said, “un need noh axin nobbut toh gie o’er, just try one o’ these crumpits.”’ When the table was cleared, Nan brought out her boxes of “ berrin ’’ cards, and taking a card out of the nearest box, said: ‘‘ Aw darsi yoh’ll know sum o these.” ‘“ No doubt,” replied the lady. ‘This is a bonny card,” Nan began, “aw like

to see um wi’ deep black reaund th’ edges like this.” Yes,” remarked the lady. “A deep black

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border appears to suggest the deep sorrow of the relatives.” “Toh, it does,” Nan said, then she read “In loving memory of James Handley. He wur best known as Jamie o’th Breawn Broo,” she said, in order to make his identity more clear to the visitor. ‘“T fail to remember him,” the latter said slowly. ‘““ He’d a greyt black beart un he used to turn one ee op like a duck ut thunner.” ‘“T cannot bring him to mind,” the visitor remarked. Weh yer noh wur off,” Nan said, “‘ fur he wur a twitcher, un he wur full o’ little dirty tricks, but he went to th’ chapel as regular as clock wark un nobody livin cud offer op a nicer prayer fur sumdy ut wur poorly, it wur fere touchin, it wur fur shure.” ‘“Such people use religion for a cloak,” the visitor remarked. “Toh, thi dun,’ Nan assented, “un Jamie rogued theer Jack’s childer eaut ov o’ ther brass un thi had toh goh toh th’ warkheause.” ‘That was contemptible,” the lady interposed. ‘“Tgh, but aw’ll gie th’ owd wastrel his due, ther wur nobody cud sing : ‘ Jesus lover of my soul, Let me to Thy bosom fly,’ like him, he cud fere mack th’ chapel ring ‘“ Had he any children,” asked the lady. ‘‘Tgoh,”’ Nan replied, “ he’d three greyt strollopin wenches wi’ yeds like mops, un thi wur as greedy as sin un as huggin bund as a spavined horse.”’

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“Did yoh know Isaac o’ Ben’s o’ Harry’s o’th Black Dych ?”’ Nan asked. ‘* No, I did not.” ‘* Weh, this is his berrin Nan began, “ he wur noan a bad felley but he wur a gradely owd turn coat, when he wur worchin for a Churchman, © Isaac wur a Churchman too, un his childer went to th’ Church schoo, but when he wur worchin fur a Methody, he turnt Methody, un his childer went to th’ Methody schoo, un he wur awlus o’th same politics as th’ mester he wurched fur.”’ had no fixed principles,” the visitor inter- posed. “Nut him marry, un his wife, owd Mally, hoo’d a little black pipe un hoo smoked welly o’ th’ yarrow ut grew op o’th Freermere every year.” “It was cheaper than tobacco,” the lady said smiling. “Did yoh know Jane o’th Ash?” Nan asked, taking a card out of another box. “Yes, I knew her, a little woman with dark hair,” the lady replied, “she was an Uppermill woman.”’ I “* Igh,”’ Nan said, “ un as daycent a little body as ever stepped 1’ shuff leather; when hoo berried their Bob ther wur 40 peaund o’ good beef fur th’ berrin baggin, un ceaw tung, un ham, un as mich snuff un bacco un ale as onnybody wanted, hay, it wur a good do.” “That was an old-fashioned kind of funeral,”’ the visitor said. ‘* Aw shud think it wur,’’ Nan said, “look ut yond starin Jane o’ Mary’s, hoo’s berried two

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felleys, un see yoh, believe me, hoo’d nobbut 20 peaund o’ beef fur boath berrins un a bit o’ seed loaf, noather a drop o’ rum nur nowt, ther is noh berrins neawadays worth goin toh.” Times change,” the visitor remarked. “Igh, fur th’ wur,’’ Nan answered, “ ther’s nowt like thoose owd Frieslond berrins neaw, o’ heytin un drinkin, thi awlus sed ut foak 1’ Frieslond deed (died) twice un the’d two berrins apiece. A berrin then used toh last a fortnit un awlus finished op wi creawn beawls.”’ What are those ? ” the lady asked. connot tell yoh fur reet,” Nan replied, but thi’re nice suppin. Did yoh know Tom o’th Blue Gate ? ” ‘““T knew some of the Blue Gate family,” the lady replied. ‘ This is his berrin card, un its a very nice verse on, he wur noan hauve a bad soart, but he drank hissel toh th’ deeuth, un his foak wur sum fain when he cocked his toes.” How was that ?”’ asked the lady. ‘“ Weh yoh see,” Nan answered, “thi had him weel insured, ther wur sum fine cloas flyin as soon as he wur berried, un his wife, th’ owd fussbuss, hoo nawt wore black six months, aw seed her tother day cockin her face op as brazent as brass.” “It is the way of the world,” the lady com- mented. “Did yoh know Moll o’ Black Robin’s ?”’ Nan asked, taking up another card. What was her true name ?”’ the lady asked. Mary Sharrocks,”’ Nan replied.

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knew old Ben Sharrocks,” the lady said. “That wur her uncle, owd Deeuf Ben,” Nan replied. “ Hay, hoo wur a warm cup o’ tea, th’ owd keck o’ mi’ thumb.” “What do you mean ?” asked the lady. ‘“ Hoo’d as mony felleys as ther are days in a year,’ Nan answered. ‘“ Hoo kept a Jerry shop (unlicenced alehouse) un hoo’d a com (face) like a feightin cock, hoo wur same as a Churchside pig, hoo wur bacon deawn toh th’ ankcliff (ankle). Hoo’d nobbut a poor berrin un this is nobbut a chep card.” “Memorial cards are going out of fashion, and people sometimes spend more money on a funeral than they can afford,” the lady said, adding “ the simplest funerals are the most impressive, pomp and splendour seem to detach the sympathy and the sacredness which ought to attend the last rites, spectacular magnificence jars on my feelings. A simple burial in a quiet country churchyard, with a few homely relations and neighbours is, I think, the most truly impressive of all earthly Hay, but,” Nan began in dissent, “ aw like toh see a hearse wi’ big black bobs on th’ top drawn br’ four black horses. Moll ud nobbut two horses 1th hearse, but it wur as good as it deserved, fur it wur feawest corpse ut ever aw seed, un th’ feawest donned, aw like toh see a nice corpse as weel as onnybody.”’ ‘Oh! Hannah,” the lady said, “ you should not talk like that. The appearance of the dead is a matter of no consequence.”’ Nan returned the card to the box and taking out

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another, said: “‘ Did yoh know Jack o’ Poppy’s ? ”’ “No,” replied the visitor. ‘This Jack’s berrin card, un its very nice, wi’ two gooseberry trees on it.” ‘ No,” interrupted the lady, “they are weeping willows.”’ ‘ Hay, are thi,” Nan said, in a tone of surprise, awlus thowt ut thi wur gooseberry trees ; un wot’s this thing uts under um ?”’ ‘Its a urn,” the lady replied. I¢ ud bi wot thi’d brew ther tea in, aw guess.” Oh, no, its a funeral urn,” the lady answered. ‘“ By th’ mass, but it favvers a tea urn,” Nan returned. I Yes, the two are much alike in shape,” the lady admitted. ‘ A bigger owd hyppercrit nur Jack never woaked o’ two legs,” Nan said, ‘‘he used to come deawn th’ lone ov a Sunday mornin un seh to th’ naybors: ‘Come toh Jesus 0’ yoh sinners’; un then he’s gone toh th’ Chapel un prayed fur God to put tother weighvers bad warps in next week, un he used toh pray fur other foaks hens to lay 1 his cote.” ‘* Going to chapel every Sunday,” the lady said, ‘““has become a weekly custom. People, I mean generally, go through their Sunday prayers parrot- like and without thought, nothing grips. The influence of Sunday services does not last until Monday noon. You mix with so-called religious people and you will quickly discover why chapel going religion is the contemptible thing that it is ~ to-day. A mass of petty shams, pretences and

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insincerities. The last place mn which to find religion is in a place of worship.”’ “Toh, ther’s some queer wark amung um fur shure, thers plenty o’ backbitin one another,” Nan interrupted. “Tf chapel going religion was a real living and gripping force,’ resumed the lady, “consistent chapel goers would be different people from what they are.” “Jack o? Poppy’s wur a gradely hypporcrit shusheaw,’ Nan said, “un soh greedy see yoh, he cudn’t thole (bear) to gie th’ reech (steam) off his porritch. Poor owd Blind Bill wonst went a cadgin to Jack’s, un Jack sed: ‘ William, my dear mon, drink o’ the river o’ life un heyt o’ the bread o’ salvation un thou shalt be refreshed ;’ but he ne’er gav th’ owd mon a crust, fur o’ that Jack cud preych a rattlin good sarmon, un he knew th’ Bible off bi heart, un he’d a sung th’ Psalms wol © he wur black 1’th face.”’ ‘* Well, I must be going,” the lady said, rising to her feet and looking at her watch. ‘“ Nay, tarry abit lunger,” Nan pleaded. “‘ Aw’ll goh wi’ yoh agate. Did yoh ever know owd Cat 1th Hole.” ‘Where did he live ?”’ asked the visitor. ‘* Next dur to owd Flitch Moll, hoo wur a mid- wife, un brewed smo drink, un lived ut bothom o’th ginnel.”’ I “No, I am afraid I have been too long away to recall him,” the lady replied. ‘“ He wed Mary o’ th’ Owd Saint’s,”’ Nan said, ‘“un he gate howd ov o’ her brass.”’

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knew the old Saint when he used to go round the parish killing pigs in November,” the lady said, “‘ he was a very wicked man.”’ ‘““Igh, un he used toh catch mowdiwarps fur foak,”” Nan said, “ weh aw wur beawn to tell yoh owd Cat i’th Hole wur worst tempered felley ut ever lived, he cudn’t agree wi’ hissel, un he cudn’t abide to yer th’ throstles sing 1 his garden. He used to stone um eaut o’th trees, un he wudn’t let a fleawer groo, un if a butterflee flew across his garden he used to curse wol o’ fere reeched agen.” ‘IT do not wish to know such people,” the lady said earnestly. a greyt heavy crowbar fur a fire potter ut his wife cudn’t Nan said. “Why ?” asked the lady. as hoo cudn’t stir th’ fire op, when he wur eaut ut dur,’ Nan answered. ‘““ He was a beast,” the lady said. Wi’ wur sum fain when he deed,” Nan said, ‘“owd Flitch Moll put a banner eaut o’th window, un Lung Joe, un Ben o’ Sloven’s supped quarts 0’ ale o th’ forenoon, un Whewter fot his fiddle un played ‘Th Owd Wimmens’ Rant’ as lung as he cud see his instrument.”’ ‘They were strange forms of mourning,” the lady said smiling. “Jane o’ Ligh’s coom toh eaur heause,’ Nan said, “‘un hoo sed the devil’s gettun his own ut last, un win get clods o’er th’ owd ellcat as soon as wi’ con. He’d ne’er had a berrin card but fur me, as heaw bad thi are aw think thi shud ha a berrin card.”

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She handed to her visitor and said: yoh, aw had two bonnie angels put on it.” was more than he deserved,” the lady said, handing back the card. This 1s Joe o’th Meylheause berrin card,” Nan said, “hay, he had a grand berrin, ther wur four horses as black as coal pooin th’ hearse, un th’ oddfellows woakin two un two, wi white gloves on un silk hats un long cooats, un lung silk scarves dangling deawn ther backs welly toh ther feet.” ‘* That old custom has died out I believe,’’ the lady interrupted. ‘“Igh, it has,’ Nan went on, “un aw never seed moore rosemary at a berrin 1’ 0’ m1’ life, un sich berrin cakes, un quarts o’ berrin ale, wi’ slices o’ lemon hanging reaund th’ top ut pitchers, hay, it wur grand. But yoh see Joe wur very weel known. He used toh goh reaund toh folk’s heauses getherin lant fur th’ finishing mills. Every- body then ud a big lant jar ut side o’th dur un th’ mill mesters used toh gie th’ foak 2 shillings o’ year un a supper ut Kersmus.”’ ‘And how was it conveyed to the mill?” the lady inquired. ‘* Thi used toh ha’ a big barrel coad a lant cart,” — Nan answered, “ but as aw wur tellin yoh, Mat o’ theer Bill’s coom fro Owdum un it wur woakin wi’ it frock op toh it knees soh as foak cud see ut, it had edgin on it cooats. When wi’ wur goin in ut church gates Sal 0’ Jim’s sed dosto see that brazent thing.”’ ‘“ Aw, sed igh, aw shud think aw doh, un aw’ll bet every stitch on it back has bin gettun op o’th

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does that mean?” asked the lady. ‘“ Hoo’d ne’er paid for um,” Nan replied, “ un hoo wur keckin op un deawn ut th’ berrin wur nur a cat 1’ cockleshells, un tryin toh mack foak believe ut hoo wur better nur porritch.”’ ‘* Putting on fine airs,” the lady said. “Teh,” Nan said, “un it fayther wur a gradely owd mollycot ; this 1s Esther o’ Dan’s card,” she went on, “aw knew Ness weel, thur wur nobody liked to set thersel 1’ fine cloas better nur Ness, un it wurnut th’ heyght o’ six penn’oth o’ copper. ‘ Did yoh ever yer tell o’ owd Betty o’ Crow’s ?”’ “No.” ‘““ Hoo wur a very foase mack ov a woman, un thi used to reckon ut hoo wur weel read.” ‘You mean a good scholar.”’ “Teh, hoo’d abeaut twenty books i’th heause, un hoo used toh read th’ stars un tell when foak ud dee.”’ Hoo awlus sed ut Jesus Christ ud lived op 1 Frieslond wonst.”’ “That was a foolish thing to say,” the visitor interrupted. ‘* Aw darsi it wur, but it wur nee enuff fur th’ wizent owd thing, hoo used toh sit 1’th heause as black as an ousel in a thurn. Aw ne’er seed her doin nowt, nubbut nursing a black cat un smookin a pipe un suppin tea.” ‘“T must be off,” the lady said, hurriedly rising from the chair. Doh tarry a twothri minutes lunger, yoh are in a greyt swat, aw mony o’ hundert berrin cards toh show yoh,” Nan urged. The lady insisted upon going and Nan went

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with her “‘ agate’ down the road to the village. On returning home and entering her house, she said to herself: ‘“ Hay, rot it, un sink it, aw knew ther wur summat awd furgetten, aw shud furget mi’ yed if it wur loase on, but aw’ll goh deawn toh morn un show her Liz o’ Johnathan’s berrin card un tell her heaw th’ owd strollops dreawnt itsel o’er Jack o’ mi’ Aint Matty’s.

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GARTSIDE.

THERE are, at the present time, almost as many in Saddleworth as there are trees. Ti the trees should die off there will be plenty of good timber left for us in this family. Not worm eaten stuff, but old English oak, as sound as any that was made into battleships in the time of Trafalgar. The dalesman knows this well and honours the Gartsides for it. Looked at in another way, they form one of the gable ends in the structure of Saddleworth families. A gable end that has long been weathered but still stands well and is held together by things which are strong and _per- mament. If the parish did not originally produce the Gartsides, it has fashioned them, or 1s it better to say that they have fashioned each other. The grit of both is the same, tough, rugged, and honest, right through to the backbone. The hamlet of Garthside, near Milnrow, is generally held to have been the early home of the family. The first of the line to come out of the mist of ages was Richard de Garthside, in the time of Henry II. Subsequently branches of the family broke away from the old homestead at Garthside and settled at Oakenrod, Denshaw and Berry- greave. In 1523, only one Rochdale, Garthside appears in the list of those chargeable under the war tax of that year. It is clear that a branch

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of the family had settled here before 1523, as the name of Alexander Gaytsyd appears in the local levy of the above-mentioned subsidy. When the Gartsides first came to Saddleworth they pro- bably settled at Denshaw. The date is unknown, but it 1s reasonable to suggest the close of the 15th century. In 1530, three members of the family held lands at Denshaw upon lease from the Monastery of Roche. About 1540, Roger Gart- side, gentleman, of Rochdale, and doubtless a kinsman of the Denshaw Gartsides became the owner of what we now call the “ Darkside” of Friarmere. In 1560, he settled his lands in Saddle- worth on his daughter Agnes, the wife of Robert Holt, of Ashworth. The property then consisted of twelve tenements and 580 acres of land, the total rental of which was £7 17s. Od. per annum. Hight years before, or in 1552, Roger Gartside was alloted by the Division deed the “‘ North Side” of Friarmere, or the valley running up from Delph to Denshaw. From the few years dividing this deed from the deed of Settlement one may assume that the property had suffered little change in the interval. That the acreage in 1560 was precisely the acreage of 1552. In 1543, the yearly rental of the tenements at Denshaw, Old Tame, Swaynes- croft, (Linfitts) and Knotthill amounted altogether to £11 4s. 4d. The fall to £7 17s. Od. in 1560 was possibly due to unoccupied farmsteads. The rental of the farms at Grange, Castleshaw, and Delph (Assheton’s property) in 1543 was £8 13s. 8d. per annum. What was the Friarmere district like when

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Henry VIII. ascended the throne. I conjecture that it was chiefly moorland, that Grange, Castle- shaw, Denshaw, and the farmsteads I have named were ringed about by a few fields and meadows, forming green islands in a great sea of brown heath. That the “gates” or paths linking up these scattered tenements were merely rough trackways across “ gowff’”’ and clough, much like an ordinary rough moor path of to-day. I look upon Crompton Moor, Sholver Moor, Highmoor, Friarmere Moor, and Harrop Edge as forming at that time one large stretch of moorland. The still unreclaimed patches of moor ground at Highmoor, Garner’s Brow and the higher slopes of Knotthill, are no doubt the detached survivals of a once great heathland. A deed, of Charles I., dated 1636, between Sir John Ramsden and Henry Whitehead, of Delph, refers to :— ‘“ All those closes or patches of land called by the names of Knotthill, the Lowerhillfield, Middlehillfield, the Upper- hillfield, the Pingold, the Lache, and all those lands late enclosed and fenced in, of and from the wastes which do lie between the Ryegate and Knotthill Lane.” The lands “late enclosed’ mean lands lately reclaimed from the waste or moor, while the ‘“ wastes ’’ lying between Ryegate and Knotthill mean moorland. In 1552, Roger Gartside granted the tenants of Assheton living at Delph the right to get turf for fuel at a certain place called the Slacks. One may make sure that the turning of “ sowft ” broken ground and six feet of peat, into

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green intakes was a slow and arduous work. The scanty population would make but little headway during a lifetime in their fight with the moors, and particularly when the reclaimed ground was not their own and when reclamation might mean to them an increase of rent. I believe, the great work of breaking up the moors really began when the tenants became their own landlords, and the ground reclaimed was so much added to the cultivated acreage of their own farms. Near Shiloh, there is a strip of moorland which lies between two farmlands. It rises from the meadows a black wall of peat as high as a man. One only needs to look at that bit of moor to find out the kind of hard work which faced the spades of our forefathers. The Enclosure Acts and the subsequent Awards have been in Saddleworth practically worthless as a means of enlarging the cultivated area. The and the moors stretching away to the top of Stanedge, were in 1840 allotted to many parishioners for purposes of reclamation. Here and there a few acres were enclosed and turned into pasture land, but nearly the whole of the allotments were sold intact by their owners to the Lees family. From that day they became what they still are, the parts of one large preserved grouse moor. All that had been done by the passing of the Enclosure Act and the making of the Award was wasted work. Land that was intended by the Act for cultivation remained and still remains moor ground. They did not even make the great road alloted, which, it was directed,

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should run from Foxholes quarry on the Diggle side across the moor to the Isle of Skye road. One of the Rochdale Gartsides was a stout old Royalist and showed his leanings fearlessly. when the cause was lost, he paid the price of his loyalty by having his estates sequestrated. He, however, compounded with the sequestrators for £28, and thus escaped the ruin which overtook many royalist families. Perhaps, because their forbears were bred among the moors, the Saddleworth Gartsides, like the red grouse, have still the atmosphere and the flavour of the moors about them. They smell healthily of turf, ling, bracken, wimberry, and all things that are good to smell and bring life to a man’s blood and freshness to his cheek. In Saddleworth, the genius of the family has run largely to farming and they can still tell a good milk cow when they see one. They are folks.who look well, ‘‘ potterin’’ about old shippon booses with ‘‘ provven”’ tubs in their hands, or coming round the end of a barn with a cap full of new laid eggs, or swinging through a gaphole on a “ housin ” day. No breed looks better with their singlets unbuttoned and flying to the wind, and their breeches tied up just below the knee with hay- bands. This is when they have a cloudless sun in one hand and a drying east wind in the other. One old Gartside, who was looking at a meadow where the grass was badly “ laid ” and beaten into half circles by heavy rains, said slowly :— ‘“‘Tts um, un its igh, it’ll tack sum mowin lads, fur it favvers o’ lot o’ snail hurns.”’ Once on a day there was a haytime sight that

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will probably never come to Saddleworth again. That was when twenty-one mowers were slashing through a ten acres meadow with a Gartside proudly leading. The Gartsides rarely belie their pasture and they look well at all times, but especially at “ pig suppers” and at old-fashioned ‘“berrin baggins.” They shine with good keep, and one suspects that they go about the road with new laid eggs in one pocket and new farm butter in the other. They are generally fresh looking, with plenty of colour in their faces, and I am sure it would not take more than two Gartsides to make a really good sunset. They never pass a butcher’s shop without carefully noting the quality of the beef on display and the stranger who sits down at a Gartside table will never have “ slink ” set before him. They have eaten plenty of porridge, and I have heard them argue that there is no food in the world like “meyl, un milk fur stirks un wenches.””’ Meal, as a food, 1s of a heating nature, and when people are heated they usually begin to itch. Now, if you will examine some of the old barn ends on the hillsides, you will find that the stones of the lower courses are worn as smooth as glass. The stones of the upper courses are as rough as a “oratter.” Why the difference? The old farmer, Gartsides, have polished the lower courses by rubbing their itching backs against them after having had porridge for breakfast. They are not a straight laced Puritan sort of family. There may be a few Rechabites amongst them, but generally the Gartsides are to be found

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sitting in alehouse corners drinking a neighbourly glass of ale and talking old-fashionedly about laying pullets and pig feeding. When Saddle- worth was a trail hunting country you could have found them on a Saturday afternoon shouting the dogs forward at a lane end, and on the Sunday morning gracefully distributing hymn-papers at a church or chapel door. The Gartsides, on the whole, are a breed that cares nothing for the cheap limelight, 1f they come out at all, it is into a worthy and lasting illumina- tion. Thus, in 1862-3, Henry Gartside, sometime town clerk of Ashton, built and endowed Christ Church, Denshaw, nor did this good man’s munificence stop with church building. He went further and defrayed the cost of the vicarage. These great gifts to Denshaw were bad for Heights Chapel. They lopped off a portion of its parochial area, its revenue, and its congregation. It must not be supposed that Denshaw folks were heathens in the years when they had no church in the district. They attended at Heights and were most exemplary worshippers. Old churchwardens, men whose utterances have a scriptural weight and impressive- ness and are surely to be believed, have told us that the “ Top End ”’ people of bygone generations said very upright prayers in Heights Chapel. This is why the walls are as straight to-day as those of a new building. This fact brings honour to the “Top Enders,” for it must be remembered that nearly all the religious houses in Saddleworth have been pulled down to their foundations and re-built. Their walls had been cracked and bulged out by so

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much crooked and insincere praying that the buildings had become unsafe. No one can say this of Denshaw, therefore, Henry Gartside’s work has not been wasted or thrown away. It is also good outwardly, for it is always nice to have a church or chapel in or about a village, it makes both the villagers and the secular buildings look much more respectable to the eye of the stranger. So it is with Denshaw, there is a sense of holiness about the place, which, although it existed was not expressed in stone before the church was built. Its value is and has been incalculable, it has brought new life and new movements to the country side. It has created a thousand items of public interest and gossip. Suppose that the church had never been built, what rare old parson “fratches”’ the Junction district would have missed. A congre- gation, if there is one, that has never “ fratched ”’ with its parson has not justified its existence. It has kept its parish dull, empty, and lifeless, which is not the purpose for which congregations exist. I always think that a “ ripping ” old congregational ““fratch ’ is valuable to a parson and his flock. It is like a wild March wind that shakes new life into the sleepy old trees and blows the dust out of neglected corners. How many churches and chapels has one known where one-half of the con- gregation loved their parson and the other half hated him. This condition kept both sections keen as mustard, and watching each other like cat and dog. Then again, what christenings, weddings, the brides and their dresses, and what in the “Top End” would have gone

3

“* berrins ”

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undiscussed if Denshaw Church had never been built. The foundation stone was laid 17th July, 1862, and the church consecrated by Dr. Prince Lee, first Bishop of Manchester, 24th Sept., 1863. The incumbents since the consecration are as follows :—the Rev. F. Richardson, 1863-68 ; Rev. J. W. Petherick, 1868-76; Rev. H. Heppinstall, 1876-85 ; Rev. B. W. Rickets, 1885-99; Rev. G. H. Beeley, 1899-1909; Rev. J. H. Wagentriber, 1910. One branch of the family has made the name of Gartside a synonym for good ale. Its fame is as wide as the winds. In towns and in villages, along main roads, and along old roads over the hills, even in quiet lanes and byways, the quality of Gartside’s ale is set forth in letters of gold. There are all kinds of ale brewed in England ; “ feightin ”’ ale, “fratchin”’ ale, “ cadging” ale, and “ sing- ing” ale, but men drink Gartside’s ale for the good fellowship and the homeliness that is init. It has the flavour of the old ingle nook, and makes one think of neighbourly firesides on the hills and old shepherds breaking toasted oat cake into a pint at bedtime. The Gartsides do not appear to have given much time to carding and spinning. They loved the hills, the green fields and the open-air too well to submit to the narrow life of the greasy billygate. The name of Abraham Gartside, of Marlith Nook, appears in 1814 as a woollen manufacturer. In 1819 he gave five guineas to the building of Castleshaw School. He gave the money freely

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and of his own accord. ‘Old Wallop” promised to subscribe one shilling to the building of a certain chapel, but it took two men to take the money from him. In 1836, Abraham Gartside, of New Years Bridge, Sarah Gartside, of Marled Earth, and John and Joseph Gartside, of Delph, are described as woollen manufacturers. Captain Thomas Gartside of Wood Brow, was a woollen printer and John Gartside sold ale at Bentfield. This, we may believe, was not the kind of home- brewed ale which is sometimes spoken of in Green- field at Wakes time. An old “ Frieslonder ”’ went into an inn one day and ordered a pint of ale. The landlord brought it into the taproom and the ‘ Frieslonder ”’ drank like a brewer’s drayman on a Monday morning, long and deep. Then he set the pot down upon the table and pulled a wry face. “Ts it abit flat, owd mon ?”’ “Is it abit flat!” repeated the “ Frieslonder,” slowly and with the utmost contempt in his voice, ‘its wur nur witch wayter.” “It happens wants another hop or two in,” the landlord quietly remarked. “Nay, bigad, it noather,” replied the customer, ‘if it hops agen it ull bi 1th bruck.” They are people with ready replies at their tongues end. One Delph fair day a “‘ Lowerender ”’ said caustically to a “‘ Topend ”’ Gartside : “It awlus rains ut Delph Fair.” “Thert a har,’ Gartside instantly replied, “it snows sumtimes.”’ Old Joe o’ Bangs went home one Wakes Satur- day night with as much “leatheryed broth” in

?

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him as an old fashioned Parish guardian could carry. He had been Wakesing with old cronies at the Hare and Hounds Inn. As soon as he entered the house, he said to his wife, who was a Gartside: “ Bring sum Wakes beef eaut, owd girl, fur aw cud heyt th’ root end of a tree.” ‘“ Nowe, aw shannot,” she snapped. ° ‘“ Neaw, neaw, owd wench,” he said soothingly, knows awm as good as gowd.” ‘ Theau’s getten a bally full o’ ale, un theau’ll ha’ toh mack that do.” ‘Nowe, shap thisel,” he said, as she did not offer to rise from her knitting. “Nowe,” she replied sharply, “thert noan beawn to put a bally full o’ beef ut top ov a bally full o’ ale, two bally fulls ’ thi inside at once, theau owd The Gartsides, like the Shaws, Buckleys, Wrigleys, Brierleys, Schofields, and other old families, have generously given many homely old fashioned bynames to the parish. This is as it should be, for bynames are to a family what stained glass windows are to a church. They are decorative and they show the kind of picturesque characters which a breed is capable of producing. They are often memorials of a family’s past history. Without bynames our personal nomenclature would be the dullest thing imaginable and, unfor- tunately, there are signs that decay has set in. Our creative capacity 1s on the wane. Just think of the rich and glowing old family bynames that have died out in our day and are not likely to be replaced. A byname still interests us. If you

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heard a man referred to as James Barr, the name would not stir you in the least. But if he were referred to as “ Jamie Birmyed,” you would feel an immediate and curious interest in him. The same with a woman, call her Mary Stocks, and she is just an ordinary person. But call her ‘ Moll o’ Mullock’s”’ and she at once becomes interesting. Her byname throws light on her family character. You unconsciously become inquisitive and wonder why they were called Mullock’s,” and what the original “‘ Mullock ” was like. Therefore, when a man acquires a byname he does his family the high honour of adding another portrait to its gallery. A Gartside, who professed to be something of a naturalist, was once called upon to identify a strange bird which had been shot in the district. He took it into his hand in a way which suggested that he could tell its species by merely touching a feather. He, however, gave it a careful examina- tion, punctuated by many deep toned “ums” and ‘“‘aws.” At last, he said slowly and weightily : ‘ Ther’s nowt very perticular abeaut it, aw dunnot reckon toh bi’ mich ov a botanist, but its wot aw co a Chew Valley frog un its a very good bred un.” “Yes, but frogs have got no feathers on,” the shooter said, in objection. O’th frogs 7th Chew Valley un fithers on,” Gartside replied, with emphasis, “un sum on um

99

un toppins The bird was an owl. Bradbury gives the arms of the Gartsides, of Berrygreave, as “ Arg on a bend. gu 3 mullets of the first. Crest, a greyhound, passant arg.

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Motto: “ Vincit qui patitur.’—’“ He conquers who endures.” The Gartside crest, a greyhound, is a fitting one in Saddleworth, for when a man has had too much ale overnight he uses an old saying which runs: “aw mun ha a yure o’th owd dog ui bote (bit) mi last A Lowerender who, one morning, found himself in this condition, went into an inn and alter looking long and affectionately at the greyhound on a Gartside show card, said: Hay thert a grand dog, thert as pratty as paint un as heaw oft theau bites mi awst ne’er muff. Aw wish theau wur worrying mi just neaw, fur aw hke every yure o’ thi hide. Ther’s nobedy dar muzzle thee—bring a pint, lonlert.” Butterworth, writing in 1826, states that a branch of the Gartsides family, of Denshaw, occupied Coldhurst Hall for more than a century and a half. The prefix “garth” is Danish and means an enclosure. It is common in Hast Riding names generally as a terminal as Applegarth (Apple orchard), Hogarth, Aysgarth, etc.

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ALDERMAN (GREENFIELD) STORMY WEATHER.

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66

BITS O

THE old broken down homestead of Yerth Hill stands by Grey Intakes moor and on as wild a ridge of the hill as one would care to climb in the face of a March wind. It 1s a place of storm strife, cloud strife, and tumult, of freezing winds and cold sleety rains. Far up the moor lie stones that have been torn from the house roof by north-east gales. The lands that lie round it are strewn with black heaps of moor stone that once formed a part of the line of rocks above. Loosened by frost and rain, they crashed down into the sheep fields below, carrying with them “ wimberry” and -moorgrass. The fence walls have been weathered and wasted until scarcely a line of their ancient coursing remains. For many years the house has been tenantless and it stands now as black and almost as featureless as one of the rocks in its fields. The living things about it are starlings, that nest in its crumbling gables and sheep that in rough weather seek shelter in its doorless and windowless rooms. It was at Yerth Hill that John Haines or “ Bits o’ Cheese ”’ lived for many years and up to the end of his days. There he led a strange lonely life that would have quickly killed nine men out of every ten. Although he lived night and day practically out of doors he took no harm. He would say: ‘“ Foak coddle thersel op

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wol thi’re as nesh as boilt turmits.’’ Often, after a wild night, he woke up in the morning to find four inches of snow on his coverlet, or himself wet through and a large pool of rain water on the floor. He had one enemy called “ wark,’’ and which he hated with a full and unalterable hatred. He used to say “ Its nobbut foos un horses ut wurch,” and as he never permitted himself to descend to the level of either a ‘“‘ foo” or a horse, he remained to the end “Bits o’ Cheese” gentleman. He paid no rent, for he had acquired in a very simple and original manner a kind of ownership of the house. The acquisition did not cost him one penny, he dispensed with all legal formalities, no lawyers witnessed the transference of deeds, rights, and privileges. When old “ Bits” first went to live at Yerth Hill, the house was in an ordinary state of repair. The landlord lived out of the district and when the first half-yearly rent was due he called to see his tenant. Old Bits gave him a shilling, all the money he possessed. ‘What is this for?” asked the landlord. “Tts th’ rent,” ‘“ Bits ” replied at once. “Rent!” returned the landlord increduously. “Toh, you dunnot think awm livin 1’ Lundun,”’ Bits’ said, in a tone which implied that the rent he had offered was adequate. The landlord went away threatening what he would do if the full rent was not paid within three weeks. He appeared again when the allotted time had expired and old “ gave him three shillings.

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‘This wont do,” the landlord said stormily, but where have you got the money from ?”’ ‘“Aw sowd boath o’th bedreawm durs un th’ firegrates fro opstairs,” ‘‘ Bits’ answered quietly, thi nobbut fotched three bob.” ‘Why you are pulling my own house down to pay the rent, you scoundrel,” the landlord said angrily. Old ‘‘ Bits”? began to explain, but the other went out at the gateway saying that he would take out an order for an immediate eviction. The followmg week “ Bits” received notice to quit the house at once, as it had been let to a sheep keeper from the Deign. Weeks passed and “ Bits” still occupied the house and treated all written threats from the landlord with contempt. At last, the latter determined to go to Yerth Hill and bundle his tenant neck and crop into the lane. Going up the field to the house, he noticed that one of the chimneys had disappeared and that a large hole yawned in the upper part of the southern gable. What is the matter with the gable and where has the chimney gone ?”’ he asked, as he entered the yard. ‘““Toh, yoh mi’ weel ax,” “ Bits” replied, “its cappin ther’s a stone laft stondin fur th’ heause wur hit wi’ thunnerbowt tother neet un awd like toh bin kilt, it isn’t fit fur a dog toh live in.” On looking round, the landlord saw that the interior had been badly wrecked. The staircase was smashed up, a portion of the ceiling was miss- ing, and nearly all the windows were shattered.

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He knew that he could not let the house as it stood and that it would take at least four years’ rent to put it in good repair. “Tt must have been a very severe storm,” he said, as he stood looking up at the damaged gable. Tgh, 1t wur that un o’,” Old “ Bits ” answered, “it made this heause beaunce like a bit o’ indy- rubber.” The landlord said “‘ good afternoon,” and Yerth Hill never saw him again. “ Bits o’ Cheese ”’ was the “‘thunnerbowt ”’ which had struck the house and made it unfit for ordinary human habitation. The sheep keeper, as incoming tenant, had forced matters by calling at the house and threatening old ‘“ Bits” with explusion. After his visitor had gone, he set to work and wrecked the build- ing, an act which had the effect of placing him in undisputed possession as long as he lived. If old Bits,” the house at Yerth Hull, and the wild moorland round it, had been made for each other, they would not have been a better match. If there existed a difference “‘ had it, as the hardest and wildest looking of the three. His external appearance was, however, no guide to his temperament, for he was gentle and harmless as a fair spring morning. The interior at Yerth Hill was a study in dirt and disorder. There appeared to have been a particularly vicious free fight among the furniture. Nothing had escaped, every item bore evidence of the severity of the conflict. An old couch chair crouched under the window, its panels were smashed out and two of its legs had been torn off. In their place stones had been

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piled up under the seat to keep it level and make it serve old “ Bits” as a bed. In one corner of the room three or four rush-bottomed chairs were mixed up on the floor. They had irreparably crippled each other and were apparently fighting on to total destruction. The clock had been put out of action and hung against the wall upside down. Its fingers were broken and its dial smashed. All that remained of a picture was one side of the frame hung to a nail by a piece of string. The walls and the crevices were hung with spiders’ webs, some new and others black and tattered with age. In the middle of the room stood a ricketty old table. The top was patched with bits of tin and greasy old leather. The four legs of uneven length had once been parts of a hand- loom. It was crowded with a medley of domestic utensils, consisting of disused fish tins, old pre- serve jars, and broken pots picked up from various middens. In the middle of this strange collection stood a large brown basin, the only decent vessel in the house. Into this basin old “ Bits”’ placed all his food. It was never washed out and often the remains or “ slatterins ”’ of half a dozen repasts were mixed up together. Sometimes it contained the parts of a sheep’s head, the neck and head of an old hen, a piece of cheese, a bit of bacon, and crusts of green mildewed bread floating in a yellow broth. As soon as he had filled his “ crop” from the basin, he went contentedly to sleep, that the rich feeding might soak into the bone. Old “‘ Bits o’ got his table delicacies and general foodstuffs free of cost and in a manner

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peculiar to himself. He stood as a kind of sewage destructor to his district. He went round the farms and cottages collecting old hens which had died from various diseases, hams that had gone rotten and bad at the bone, bacon that had gone ‘“reasty,” loaves of bread that mice had eaten through, and young pigeons which had been killed by rats and other vermin. He often went miles to fetch a dead hen from a midden or to dig up a dead sheep on the moor. He rarely took the trouble to pluck his old hens, but would boil them with all the feathers on. Most of the rusty fish tins on the table contained various coloured fats, covered at the top with a long greenish moss. When he was boiling a hen he would put a handful of the fat, moss, and all, into the pan. Then he would smack his lips and say: “ That ull bi rare un tasty in abit aw mi’ weel shine.” When he emptied a fowl out of the pan into the basin the cat jumped at once upon the table and began to eat from one side and old “ Bits” from the other. Sometimes the cat would drag the hen from the table and then along the floor and under the couch, then he had to go down upon his knees if he wished to recover his dinner. About the floor, trod under foot or flung into corners, were the “‘lanteruns’”’ of fowls that had provided old “ Bits” and his cat with many a rich meal. A piece of bacon hung from a nail near the window. The rain had run down it until it was green as grass. This was one of his greatest “ tit- bits’ and he cut “collops”’ from it only on his birthday and other special occasions. He was

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never in better spirits than when coming down the moor with legs of mutton cut from a sheep that had been buried a fortnight. He was no “skin- flint,” he kept open house like the old barons. Neighbour and stranger were welcome to sit and eat at his board, but there is no record that anyone ever accepted his hospitality. He lived to a good old age and never knew what illness was until his end came. When someone asked him how he managed to keep hale and hearty, he said: ‘* Aw live like a king op o’ stuff ut foak throw away. Thi’re wasteful, un thi dunnot know wot’s good, un these wimmen ur soh perticular abeaut o bit o’ flesh meyt uts flee blown.” Old “ Bits o’ Cheese’ contended that his fare was mellowed and touched by rich flavours that were unknown to his neighbours. They threw away in ignorance and that ignorance kept “ Bits” with his “singlet” as tight as a drum and his face as red as an epp.

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SCHOFIELD.

tt

THE Schofields are strewn all over Saddleworth. They are found on every hill, in every valley, in every village, and in every old lane. In some of our moorland hamlets Schofield has followed Schofield in unbroken line, generation after genera- tion, and century after century. They go in at the same old doorways, live under the same roofs, hang their bacon on the same oak beams, and set their feet in the same narrow rutted roads as their fathers before them. It almost seems that from long association some forms of the natural life of a Schofield neighbour- hood have caught something of the family’s characteristics. The throstles that sing in the ragged wind torn hedges seem to have got the dialect in their song. As young birds, out of the nest, they flew about the old barns and shippons, hearing quaint farm sayings, and carting, and cow driving phrases. They heard heavy voiced farmers shout ‘“‘ haw wo,” “gee back,” “stun o’er,” and op theer,” and the birds gathered all these things into their music. A throstle from the south country would not know what a Schofield throstle was singing about. The cattle, too, in the fields look at one in a slow wise old way, which they have acquired from harbouring in a Schofield shippon and hearing farm folks talk old fashioned

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wisdom at milking time. Are birds and animals influenced by their environment? One Saturday noon a sparrow was pecking at a piece of bread in the roadway at Dobcross. Suddenly another sparrow came over the roof of the Woolpack Inn, pounced upon the bread and flew away with it. ‘‘ Did yoh see that,” “Joe oth Top” said, turning to his mates who were standing on the inn flags.

- “Tgh,” replied one,” that’s sharper nur thee owd

39

mon

‘“Tgh, that’s a Delph sparrow,” Joe answered, as they watched the feathered raider fly towards Tamewater. In the old days the identification of a Saddle- worth Schofield was accounted an easy matter. They were tall folks, who in a crowd looked well over the heads of other people. Those who stood _ the height of the “ stondin tops’ on a Delph Fair day were always said to be Schofields. They were not only tall and limber, but they had it in breadth as well, it took an Oxhey weaver about a week to weave cloth enough to make one of them a suit of clothes. The collar of the coat would have made a modern cycling suit, while the inside pockets were made large enough to hold a stirk and a wheelbarrow. They had something good to stand on in the shape of feet, as everv man knows who has ever been lifted by a Schofield boot. It is said that many years ago a Schofield gave an order for a pair.“o’ shoon,” the making of which exhausted a local cobbler’s stock of leather. They were the right men to follow through a heavy

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for they left a track behind them worthy of a modern snow plough. If mother nature has done well in making them into big robust men she has not neglected them in other ways. The Schofields have plenty of good sense and shrewd- ness which leads them into ways where money 1s to be made. The family was at one time largely identified with farming of a kind that was not dominated by scientific “cults”? and “isms.” Their know- ledge was made up rather of homely ancestral ways and “wrinkles” which gripped everything from “bease”’ un “fodder” to “ ceaw drinks un soh mony quarts ut a meal.” They loved to see a cow with a bag under her on which the ‘paps ”? were wide apart like four Easter Sundays. They raised “ceaw bangin” (trading) almost to the dignity of a fine art. They had diplomacy, strategy, and all things that are included in a masterly knowledge of business affairs. The ruse, the feint, the attack, the retreat, from an offensive to a defensive position were skilfully handled, whether the objective was to get a “bate” of a sixpence on each horn or to lift the price by one shilling. There are many old “ milking gaps ”’ (a corner of a field where cattle were milked in the summer), if they could speak, could tell more about farming than most professors of agriculture know at the present time. The Schofields farmed well and always on the principle that you must put good food into a cow if you wish to get good milk and butter out of her. They treated cattle kindly, but it was not a Schofield who pulled holes into a

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high fence wall in order that his cows could look out into other people’s fields. It was laid down as a truth on Friarmere, that if five men were seen racing across a field with a trail rag behind them, not less than four out of that number were Wrigleys, and if five men were seen standing round a cow feeling her bag and “‘sponnin”’ her quarters, four were Schofields and the fifth man was a near relative. The year in which they first set foot on Saddleworth soil is more than I can tell, but our old records show them to be firmly rooted on Friarmere in the early part of the 16th century. Genealogists tell us that the family had its origin at Schofield Hall, in the parish of Rochdale. Thomas de Schofield signed the Confirmation deed of Friarmere in 1314. William, Adam, and John del Scholefield, are found in a Rochdale record of 1332. Two Scholefields are found in the Poll Tax returns for the same parish in 1380 under a levy of three groats each. In the Rochdale Registers, from 1582 to 1616, the surname occurs 770 times. Arthur Scholfield, of Scholfield, by will dated 1557, left his heir 6 loads of timber at Quick, from this, one may assume that he had property and possibly kinsfolk in our parish. The lease of Ottiwell Schofield, of Grange, is dated 1533. John, Lawrence, and Alexander Schofield also held lands at Grange, under the monastery of Roche about this time. In the Division deed of Friarmere, 1552, John and Edmund Schofield are described as occupiers of lands at Castylshawe. In 1582, Frederick Samwell, farmer of Her Majesty’s Manor of Almondbury, took action for trespass

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against Schofield, of Grange, the local bailiff for the Assheton family, the result of the action is unknown, but if Samwell beat one of the Schofield breed he had done something worth boasting about. The Schofields come of a fighting stock, they appear to have come through history with their sleeves rolled up, slashing men out of their way with sword and fist. They have fought for their King and country, they have “ worn” black eyes for their political party on an election day, in fact, they have fought for everything that a man can fight for, from a woman to a pint of ale. A James Schofield took sides with Cromwell and commanded a Parliamentary force raised for the defence of Bolton. How long some of the Scho- field family have been making bakestones no one can rightly tell, a parchment, dated 1708, records an important transfer of bakestone rights from Francis Schofield, the younger of Castleshaw, to Robert Heape, of Grange. It is well for us that Saddleworth is not composed entirely of bakestone grit, for had this been the case we should now have very little ground left to stand upon. The Scho- fields would have carted the whole of the parish into Oldham and Rochdale, and sold it in the form of bakestones. There is now as much Saddleworth stone lying in the ovens of Lancashire as would build a modern village. The oldtime Schofields. were men who loved work, they loved to take tracks of the world in the rough, and fashion them alter a way of their own. Having knocked the ragged edges off Saddleworth, a branch of the family went across the sea and began to knock

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America into shape. How much that country owes the Saddleworth Schofields is more than I ean estimate in words. In 1793, when John and Arthur Schofield went to America, heavy penalties were imposed upon persons who were caught taking machines or parts of machines out of this country. The Schofields, however, managed to elude the vigilance of the authorities and reached America with a weaver’s shuttle concealed among their luggage. The family had hid too much “ brass ”’ under “ ftockbeds’’ not to know how to hide a shuttle. In a stable, at Byfield, Mass., they carded, spun, and wove the first piece of woollen cloth, as we know it, ever made in America, and laid the foundations of the woollen manufacture in that country. The working equipment of John Schofield, at Stonington, in 1806, is described as comprising : two double carding engines, 24 inches wide, two spinning jinneys, one 40 and the other 50 spindles long, and one billy of 30 spindles. In 1808, the Schofields made the black cloth worn by James Maddison on his inauguration as President of the United States, a high honour for the new industry. In 1814, I find three Schofields scheduled as woollen manufacturers in Saddle- worth. In 1822, there were Messrs. Schofield and Rhodes, of Hey; Miles Schofield, of Roebuck Low, and John Schofield, of Tamewater engaged in the trade, there were also James and Abraham Schofield, dyers, of Bleakhey Nook. In 1836, the Schofield woollen manufacturers were, George Schofield, Lanehead ; James Schofield, Grange ; James Schofield, Bradburys; James Schofield,

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Spring House; John Schofield, Bleakhey Nook ; John Schofield, Butterhouse; John Schofield, Hollingrove ; John Schofield, Shaws; Miles Scho- field, Castleshaw; Moses Schofield, Thurstons ; Thomas Schofield, Weakey, and James Schofield, Bleakhey Nook. W. K. Schofield was a wool- stapler and merchant, at Dobcross, while James Schofield, Greenfield ; James Schofield, Tamewater, and Joseph Schofield, Thurston Clough, were keeping alehouses. Was the inn at Thurston Clough called “‘ The Bouncing Besom ? ”’ there was an inn about this time at Highmoor called the Cart and Sand Bag. I Whatever they are now, the Schofields have been a church and chapel going breed. It is recorded that Edmund Schofield, of Castleshaw, was a large subscriber to the building of the first Independent Chapel, at Delph, in 1746. In 1743, Mark Scho- field, of Castleshaw, left 10/—- per annum to the poor of Friarmere. The Schofields have made good churchwardens, they have also worn white surplices and sung in church choirs in a way which gave tone and elevation to the service. They sang gloriously and with much facial expression on occasions when the collections were in aid of the choir fund. Whenever they make a mistake they own up to it like men, that this strong note in their character is ancestral, 1s proved by the following apology :— ** Whereas, I, John Schofield, of Grange, upon the fourth day of this instant, was at Thomas Platts’ house, at Tamewater, at which time and place, unfortunately, I

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slandered James Shaw, jur., of Wellihole, for taking a piece of silver off the great table in the parlour there which was not his own. I do hereby declare and confess that I wronged him by such a slander, for I verily believe, and am now fully per- suaded that he had nothing but what was his own, and to this confession I have hereunto subscribed my hand, this twenty- fifth day of Nov., Anne Dom., 1719. Mary Shaw, John

The foregoing is written on an old time soiled parchment, no doubt with the object that it might be long preserved and show posterity how an ancient Schofield could right a wrong. They are homely hospitable folks, ever ready to welcome a caller, unless he happens to be a tax gatherer or other persons after money, then like most Saddle- worth folks, they are apt to be cold and formal. They can see a way out of a difficulty where other men would see nothing. One dark stormy night. a stranger called at the house of a Schofield and craved shelter until morning. Old Schofield was going to Rochdale cow buying on the morrow and had more money in the house than was usually the case. He was thinking of the money, when he replied to the stranger’s request, by saying: “Thert sumdy’s chilt, but wi’ dunnut know thi, but win shap sum road.” The good dame gave the stranger a warm supper and then the farmer and his son led him into the barn. They induced him to get into a long sack, like an Irishman in

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haytime. As soon as the stranger had done this, the Schofields tied the sack up with a rope and flinging one end over a beam wound the lodger high up against the barn end and left him dangling there until daylight. The Schofields have a fine scorn for veneer and all things of a shallow and flimsy character, they believe in the solid and substantial, the plainer a thing is and the more it appeals to them. The wite of a Schofield once went to Oldham at Christmas time, and returned home with a bunch of mistletoe well laden with berries. It chanced that when she entered the house, her husband was in the shippon. She laid the mistletoe on the table and went out to see a neighbour a few doors away. When she returned, she found her husband sitting before the fire and she at once noticed that there was not a berry on the mistletoe. Hay, mi’ mislintoe, wheer ur o’ thoose berries gone ?”’ she asked hurriedly. ‘“ Aw hetten um,” he replied. ‘Hay, theau greyt foo’, un aw treawnced o’th gate toh Owdham fur um,” his wife returned, greatly annoyed. thowt thi wur sum mack o’ new white currans,’ he said unconcernedly, “ wot wur thi fur?” “It wur Jack’s wife ut towd mi,”’ she answered. hoo ses, its Kersmus, yoh bring sum mislintoe fro Owdham fur yer Ben childer toh kuss under.”’ under! kuss under! kuss under!” he

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repeated, raising his voice each time, he uttered the words ‘“‘ kuss under mislintoe, 1f thoose whom fed hams un that side o’ bacon arnot good enuff toh kuss under, eaur Ben childer kuss awhom.”’ I It was a Schofield who said that a pound and a half of a good beef steak, fried in half a pound of new butter “‘ wur welly as good as hauve meyt.” The first time that I ever saw a spoonful of mustard put into a pint of ale it was done by a Schofield. It was one cold winter’s evening at an alehouse on the high moor road to Marsden. After he had stirred the mustard round in the pot, I said: Why have you put mustard in your ale ?”’ ‘Toh wacken it abit un warm mi’ op, thers nowt better nur plenty o’ mustard i’th depth o’ winter,’ he replied, evidently surprised at my ignorance of the fact. He afterwards informed me that when he was a young man a pot of mustard was to be seen on every taproom table in Saddle- worth, especially in the winter time. The Schofields never keep many ducks, and the reason for this is that ducks have a shovel-shaped mouth and “shool meyt in toh um.” They keep hens because they pick up only one piece of corn at a time. One night we were talking of the hardest work we had ever done, when a Schofield clinched it by saying : “ Th’ hardest wark ut ever aw did wur when aw wur labourin fur aw londlady, at Ashton, ut wur drinkin hersel to th’ deeuth, hoo kept me 1 full wark,”’

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It is no less an authority than Chesterton, who Says :—

**Before the Roman came to Rye, and out to Severn strode, I The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road, A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire, And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire.”

Ii this is true, the “rolling, reeling’ roads of Saddleworth are among the drunken roads of England. They begin anywhere and end any- where, they twist and twirl among the hills, tumble into hollows, and scramble lazily out again, they linger about old villages in the valleys, and ramble into the strangest nooks and corners they can find. Thus one may make out that it was the Schofields, Gartsides, Buckleys, Shaws, Wrigleys, and other old breeds, going rolling home from ancient churn gettings and merry makings, that made the first roads in Saddleworth. After them came the parochial road makers, who, finding the old tracks good and solid, laid the modern roads upon them. The many hollows that are found on Saddleworth roads were doubtless made by our heavy bygone forefathers tumbling on them. One can almost say :—

The “rolling ” roads of Saddleworth,

That care not where they go, Of all the roads in Yorkshire, The roughest roads to know.

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They were made by lusty yoemen, Swinging homeward in the wind When the harvest ale was ripest, And the harvest men were “ blind.”

They tumble down the moorland, And roll about the plain, They’re golden in the sunshine, And silver in the rain. But the “ reeling ’ roads of Saddleworth, Were made to live and last, And you'll tramp on them to Heaven, At the final trumpet blast.

There is some difference .of opinion among philologists with regard to the derivation of the prefix ‘‘ Scho,” it is held to come from the Anglo- Saxon word “‘Scholu,” meaning a school. Others contend that ‘‘Scho’” is the Danish Skov,” a shaw or small wood. There is no obscurity about field, and a Schofield 1s free to accept the derivation he prefers, “Schoolfield”’ or ‘ Woodfield.” I have talked with Schofields about the origin of their name, but the subject always failed to I interest them. They would rather talk about a ham “ collop ” or a good beef steak.

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9

“NEM O° TH Owp Poot’s’ AT A CHURN GETTING.

Is that thee, Nem, hay, do come in,: Sum oft aw wundert wheer theau’s bin, Fur th’ age ov a duck theau’s ne’er bin sin ; Asto getten agate o’ courtin ? I Hay, nowe, sed Nem, but mich aw want Toh get sum felley in a bant, But tother neet awd sich a rant, Aw’ll tell thi o’ abeaut it.

It wur a gradely heausin day, Owd Jamie’d hud sum reet good hay, He’d donned his yollow breeches gay, His shoon wi’ silver buckles. Un Mally too, hoo wur sum fine Wi th’ ringlets deawn un a crinoline, A good lung yard fur reaund nur mine ; Hay, wench, hoo wur a topper.

Aw donned mi op 1th Sunday geawn, Fur th’ Road End foak aw yerd wur beawn, Un th’ Frieslond foak wur comin deawn ; Aw knew ther’d bi’ sum starin. Aw thowt, theau knows, aw’ll let um stare, Aw’ll show that lot aw dunnot care ; If it comes toh een, aw’ve as good a pair As ever watched a weddin.

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Wi o’ sit deawn toh sich a feed, Aw shamed fur that owd Popper breed, Sich gluttonin wark aw never seed, Sich like thi han noh manners. Thi rommed thersel fere eaut o’ puff, Aw thowt thi’d never have a enuff ; Aw’d nawt four plates o” beef un stuff Un a peaund o’ curran puddin.

Yond Mat o’ Pig’s wur th’ next toh me, Hoo thinks hoo’s one o’th quality. Aw connut tell wot Ben con see I yond greyt brawson fussocks. Un Moll o’ Squirt’s un o’ that schoo’ Aw thowt thir beawn toh stare mi throo, Thill noan chet yond if thers howt toh do, Thill shove ther nose in sum road.

Ther Bill o’ Swap’s, un yond Red Sal, Hoo cud hardly woak fur fal the dal, Un toakin fine th’ greyt owd hal, Its hke o’th Pinot wenches. Un Jack o’ Slapper’s wi’ his crutch, Fur o’ th’ owd foo con hardly hutch, Theau’ll awlus find him fere 1’th thrutch If ther’s onny leawance flyin.

Un Tharcake wenches, big as ships, Aw never seed sich legs un hips, Aw’ll bet thi wench ut mon ut clips Yond op ull ha a hontful. Thi’re nowt soh smart, aw yerd it sed, Thi'll he wol noon sum days 1’ bed, Un oft enuff thi’ll leause ther yed [’th middle o’ ther bakin.

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Un Jack o’ Harry’s, slupperin sot, He’s ne’er his meauth away fro th’ pot, Un Joe o’ Hugh’s, un o’ that lot, Un Swealer tried toh kuss me. Ther Gud o’ Posset’s, he’s noan bad, He awlus wur a steady lad, He wanted me; un awm sum mad He’s courtin Nan o’ Flopper’s.

Un Ailse o’ Tim’s, hay that did shine, Hoo ses aw like that frock o’ thine, Aw thowt theau hangs sum cloas o’th line, Ut howt to bi o’th rag cart. Un Tom o’ Pegs un Jonathan wife, Awr ne’er as capt? o’ mi life; Theau knows thi’n bin o’ fratch un strife, Abeaut an owd ceaw bargain.

Owd Moll’s bin reawned wi’ th’ cadgin poke, Fur Bet wur theer un ther wur sum toak, It wur swaggerin 1’ Miss Sarah’s cloak, Aw eyed that o’er, aw’ll tell thi. Thi’ll noan chet me, sich like as yond, Aw think aw know when a body’s donned ; Afore awd doh sich tricks awd stond Yed deawnert op o’th bolders.

Yond Mat o’ Rafe’s tacks snuff thi sen, Hoo wur cronkt 1th nook lke a broody hen, Its had yond frock dun op agen, Yond feaw red thing wi’ th’ fleawances. Un Joe o’ Dog’s made sich ado, He sed, Nem, come on, lets caper throo ; Aw sed, goh on theau staring foo Un daince wi’ Jane o’ Cauveskins.

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Un whoa dusto think wur theer beside ! Yond Stroddle wenches wi’ ther pride, Greyt stuck op things, aw connot abide Toh see sich stinkin wark. Un Liz o’ Bill’s, hay that wur mimp, WY it nose cocked op, un it yure 1’ crimp, Theau howt toh ha sin it daince un limp, Awm shure its getten th’ nangnails,

Un hoo dusto think, theau connot tell, It didn’t know heaw toh set itsel. Awm shure it thowt it wur a swell, Yond starin Nan o’ Collopyeds. Aw never seed sich an okert seet, Awm shure foak thowt it wurnot reet, It shoon wur crommed fere off it feet, Un a yed just like a besom.

Yond Liz o’ Bob’s hoo’s eaut o’ black, Its nawt ten months sin thi berried Jack : Ther wur sum toak behind it back Awm shure it has noh feelings. Hoo’s after Jamie o’ Gud’s aw’ll swear As wheer he goes hoo’s awlus theer, Hoo’s leatherin after him everywhere, He’ll ne’er ha yond owd frizgig.

It con nother brew nur bake, thi sen, Un it wark’s toh doh o’ o’er agen ; If he gets yond hoo’ll mack him sken, He’ll wish he wur 1’ bedlum. If it doesn’t mind, aw’ll let it see, Aw’ll mack it let poor lad a be, Fur Sal, theau knows, he’s wantin me, But aw dunnot like toh ax him.

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Awr goin toh th’ shop one neet, theau sees, Toh fotch eaur Ben a pound o’ cheese, When aw let o’ Jamie undert trees, Comin deawn bi th’ Frenches. Aw think its beawn toh rain, he sed, Fur th’ sky this morning wur sum red ; Aw seed, ther nowt but stars o’er yed, Aw thowt he wur toakin queerly.

Ther twenty minutes, un noather spoke, Then he sed, eaur cur dog connot woak ; Wot dusto think abeaut sich toak ? Dusto think he’s after courtin ? W)’ stood, un stood, one neet 1th fowd, Awr parished stiff un mi feet wur cowd, Un then he sed, aw’ll goh get powd, Aw’ll see thi agen next Sunday.

One Setterday neet, aw’d fettled th’ stone, Un then aw went aw abit on th’ lone, Fur Jamie doesn’t like bemg known Are thi 0’ that road uts courtin. He sed three times, its beawn to bi weet, Ther’s sumdy comin, aw con yer ther feet ; He wapt reawnd th’ end un sed good neet, Aw’ll see thi agen o’ Monday.

Awm a foo, aw know, 1th courtin trade, Its a gam, theau knows, aw never played, But aw think aw’ll get a new frock made Un bi ready when he axes. Aw wudn’t fur th’ world ut foak shud know, Aw nawt towd ten beside eaur Joe. Aw hope ut Jamie ’ll noan bi slow, Awm ready neaw fur churchin.

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THE VOLUNTEERS.

In this year of disgrace, 1915, the world is a medley of red and black, red with the blood of slaughter, and black with the ashes of burnt out homes and devastated lands. Old Pe Skip,” talking about the war one night at the King’s Arms, said: ‘* Nations ur like foak, thi goh mad Toh,” Jim o’th Green Nook said, “ wot caps me is wot th’ parsons un bin doin this last hundert years, 1ts a poor endin toh o’ this psalm singin un wot not.” “Tf th’ sodiers,” Pe Skip said, “ wur nobbut civilized un thrut ther guns deawn, ther’d bi noh feightin noather fur yond withert old bledderyed a Garmany nur nobedy ‘ Igh,” Jim said, “thers a lot o’ bother abeaut which side God’s on, but a lot o’ foak doesn’t believe ut ther 1s a God neawadays.”’ I ‘* By th’ mass,” Pe Skip said, “ but thers plenty o’ devils knocking abeaut.”’ Years ago Stirner wrote: “I no longer do any- thing for God’s sake, I do nothing for man’s sake, but what I do I do for my own sake.” It is a heart breaking time for the peace loving civilian to live through. The skies are full of-aircraft, the seas are full of mines and torpedoes, the land is — full of armed men, and the lover of quiet is full of

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all these things. There is no peace, neither for ° his thoughts, his eyes, nor his ears, he talks war in the daytime and dreams war on his pillow at night. If he opens his paper he is confronted by appalling headlines, telling of death and disaster. If he goes out of doors every man he meets insists upon discussing the war. If he goes into a village inn he is figuratively shot, sabred, bayonetted, torpedoed, gassed, and bombarded, until he is not sure whether he is on the earth or in the infernal regions. Every town and village has its civilian corps. Potential warriors assemble for drill on one or more nights a week. On Saturdays route marches are arranged and cover anything from 5 to 15 miles. Stout bellied warriors who rarely walk further than from one alehouse to another struggle gamely through these long marches, puffing and blowing like broken winded horses. The last mile is often a mixture of sweat, thirst, and bad language. The civilian, who is either too old or physically unfit for service, has no pleasure of going out of doors. His warlike friends occasionally assisted by John Barleycorn bear down upon him from the four quarters of the earth. At all times and in all places he must submit to witness an original and truly wonderful series of military drills and evolutions. I have fled to this quiet room with a book, the window is slightly open and I can hear the sound of bugles and the beating of drums. A civilian company from Oldham are marching down the road from Grains Bar to Delph, singing “Its a long way to Tipperary.” All this kind of thing happened, but probably

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on a less scale, about the year 1800. In Saddle- worth, and indeed throughout England, volunteer corps were established to resist the threatened invasion of England by the French under the first Napoleon. In those days news travelled slowly, and in these quiet out of way dales much alarm and anxiety prevailed as to what was taking place in the world. The Government issued a plan of the beacon lights throughout the length and breadth of the land. In each district persons were appointed to attend to the lighting and maintenance of the fires. The Pule Hill was a beacon site and a few years ago a small stone- built and flagged receptacle was discovered at the point of the hill nearest the Great Western Inn. It had evidently been used as a place for storing pitch and other combustibles in connection with the beacon. I have heard old folks say, that at the time when the danger of invasion was greatest, many families would not go to bed at night until they were assured that Pule Hill was in darkness. To get this assurance, people living in the valleys had to climb the hills. In 1793, a wave of loyalty and patriotism swept over Saddleworth. On January 3rd a great meeting of parishioners was held, with the Rev. Charles Zouch in the chair, supported by the Rev. John Buckley, Heights ; the Rev. Miles Wrigley, Dobcross, and the Rev. Thomas Seddon, Lydgate. The close of the pro- ceedings saw the formation of a loyal and patriotic committee, which included the following gentle- men :—Jame Harrop, Grasscroft ; John Radcliffe, Stonebreaks; Henry Buckley, Grasscroft; J.

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Whitehead, Quickedge ; Sam Bottomley, Church ; Giles Shaw, Junr., Furlane; John Roberts, Lin- fitts; James Buckley, Linfitts; Thomas Shaw, Newbarn; John Mills, Millcroft ; George Buckley, White Lea ; Ralph Whitehead, Shaw Hall; Henry Bentley, Boarshurst ; Robert Buckley, Boarshurst ; John Harrop, Dobcross. In 1794, the local military spirit was still strong, for on Sunday, August 24th, the colours of the Royal Manchester Volunteers were consecrated in Lydgate Church by the Rev. Thomas Seddon, who was the chaplain of the regiment. On 29th July, 1803, a meeting was held at the George Hotel, Huddersfield, for the purpose of forming a volunteer company for the defence of the country. The Saddleworth gentlemen actively connected with this work were Mr. John Buckley, Upper- mill; Mr. Joseph Harrop, Grasscroft; Mr. John Roberts, Linfitts; Mr. Harrop, Dobcross and Mr. John Radcliffe, Stonebreaks. In a few weeks £7,000 had been raised for the equipment of the force, including £1,008 from Saddleworth. The divisional contributions were as follows :—Lords- mere £380, Quick Mere £279, Friarmere £185, and Shawmere £164. The defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo, and his subsequent removal to St. Helena, ended the danger of invasion, and in 1816 the volunteer corps were disbanded. The year 1859 saw a revival of the movement and on Ist February, 1860, the 34th West Riding Rifle Volunteers were established. The following gentle-

men were the officers at the formation :—Capt. F, F. Whitehead, Royal George; Lieut. Joshua

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Hirst, Dobcross ; Ensign Geo. F. Buckley, Linfitts House ; Surgeon, Dr. Beckett Bradbury, Dobcross ; Chaplain, Rev. T. Openshaw, St. Thomas’s, Heights ; Colour-sergeant John Buckley, Dobcross ; Sergeants T. Bradbury, Kinders; T. Wrigley, Dobcross; Arthur Hirst, Dobcross; Corporals Samuel Robinson, Spring Meadow; J. F. Tanner, Four Oaks, Royal George; Drill Instructor, Sergeant Royle. Mr. G. F. Buckley became Captain of the Delph Company, and Thomas Wrigley, Captain of the Lydgate Company. On February 2nd, 1861, a great volunteer meet- ing was held at Uppermill, for which Mr. James Lees, of Delph Lodge, composed a patriotic song. The last verse contains a stirring appeal to young Saddleworth of to-day :—

‘ But who will stand for England’s laws, And who support her sacred cause, Come show your mettle ‘“ Saddleworth,”’ Recruit the Volunteers.”’

The first shooting competition took place at the range at Diggle, 25th Sept., 1861, a Joseph Travis winning the first prize, a rifle. In 1862, the 34th W.Y.R.V. were reviewed at Doncaster and also at Springwood Park, Huddersfield. On 28th May, 1864, the corps received a silver bugle from the ladies of Saddleworth, on 16th Nov., of the same year the corps were reviewed by Lord Dartmouth, at Slaithwaite. On August 11th, 1866, the 34th West York took part in a great review, held at York, by the Duke of Cambridge, in the presence of the Prince and Princess of Wales. On 6th, 7th

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and 8th Sept., 1856, a grand bazaar, in aid of the Volunteer funds, was held in the Mechanics’ Institute, Uppermill. Among the distinguished patrons were the Karl and Countess of Dartmouth and the Karl and Countess Fitzwiliam. It was a great success and realized £1,400. On 15th May, 1869, the 34th W.Y. began their eight days’ en- campment, at Woodsome Hall, and on the 4th June, 1870, they again encamped for eight days at Woodsome Hall, under the command of Lieut.- Col. Bradbury. On April 29th, 1871, the 34th began their Whit-week encampment at Pickhill Fields, Uppermill, with Major Collins, of Marsden, In command. The following is a copy of an old enlistment form :— ‘34th West York Rifle Volunteers. No. 339. I, John Gartside Platt, do sincerely promise and swear that I will be faithful and bear true Allegiance to Het Majesty Queen Victoria, and that I will faithfully serve Her Majesty in Great Britain for the defence of the same against all Her enemies and opposers whatsoever, according to the conditions of my service. Signed, John Gartside Platt, Linfitts, Delph. Witness, Beckett Bradbury. Capt. James Brad- bury, 30th Sept., 1863.” The above-named volunteer is one of the few in Saddleworth to obtain the silver medal for long and unbroken service. The officers of the old 34th were hail fellow men of the open and generous hand, they provided rare

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“feeds”? and good “doos” for the men under them, and who shall say that this is not one of the surest ways of obtaining recruits. Men who were little moved by the glamour of rifle and uniform could not resist the smell of roast beef and the taste of home brewed ale. They were missing some- thing that was too good to be missed and beef and ale were the bugle calls that brought them into the ranks of the brave. That the warriors of the Georgian period were alive to this method of obtaining recruits is proved by the following :— “March 27th, 1793. This day Capt. Starkey, of Redivalls, near Bury, beat up here and listed 13 young men, when his relation, Mr. Starkey, of this place, gave each recruit two guineas and roasted two sheep and gave plenty of ale.” October 2nd. The Rochdale In- dependent Volunteers paid a visit to Royton, a sheep was roasted whole, and there was plenty of good liquor to wash it down. An excellent Regimental Band of Music played ‘God save the King,’ * Rule Britannia,’ etc.” Up to 1895, the Saddleworth Volunteer Force went gloriously on its way to fame, but in that year a regrettable and disastrous thing happened to the company. The instructor, Sergeant Apps, committed suicide, and rightly or wrongly, the men looked upon the unfortunate act as being due to what they called “ browbeating”’ by the adjutant. It is characteristic of Saddleworth folks that when they have a grievance on their minds

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they let it out to the full. Ata parade, held shortly after, in St. George’s Square, Huddersfield, they went for the adjutant in old Saddleworth fashion and hooted him to their hearts content, a breach of discipline which led the military authorities to disband the company. In 1900, a movement was instituted with the object of forming a new local corps. After many meetings and petitions to the War Office, the gentlemen interested had the satisfaction of getting their scheme sanctioned by the authorities. A new company was formed, a drill hall built, and all went well until the dogs of war broke loose. Since that day many brave Saddleworth lads have gone down to their long sleep in a foreign soil. On Oct. 26th, 1904, a grand bazaar was held at Uppermill, opened by Gen. Sir Leslie Rundle, and those who wish to know more about the volunteer movement in Saddleworth will do well to consult the handbook issued on that occasion.

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THE BATTLE OF “HARROPDALE.

Herz is a story, true or otherwise, which one hears told in old inn corners when target practice is the subject under discussion. Would that all battles were as bloodless.

Come listen, men of Saddleworth, of patriot heart and true, I While I tell a soldier’s story from the hills so dear to you ; You have heard of Balaclava, and of that immortal fight, When we flung the foemen back on Alma’s reddened height. But never, people, have you heard the tale too long untold How your fathers went to battle in the stirring days

of old.

It was in the month of August, some fifty years or so, A stalwart band of warriors through Uppermill did go; With rifles o‘er their shoulders, and soldiers garb they wore, A braver sight our village street had never seen before.

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With head erect and martial step, how gallantly they strode, While crowds of happy children ran cheering up the road. - And women at their doorsteps, how could they. -help but cheer. The Valiant lads of “ Grenfilt”’ and the lads of ‘* Freermere.” Straight up the Diggle road, the moorland ground they sought, I I And there for home and beauty how gloriously they fought. Now higher up the valley, in a wild and lonely spot, There proudly stood a target unmarked by rifle shot ; On, on they pressed and climbed that rugged glen, Until one hundred yards divided the target from

the men. ‘* Halt,” their commander cried, as he sternly gazed ahead To where the target large and ample just before him spread. stands the foe,” he said, “ ‘a foe of brazen might, Now mark it well,and may you aim your guns aright.” They looked upon the target, the first they had ever seen,

Kach squared his mighty shoulders and knit his vision keen. . Then loud there rang down “ Harropdale” the rifle’s battle blast,

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And high o’er lofty Diggle Edge a hail of bullets passed ; For never one the target touched, some spell or magic charm Had fenced it off from danger and kept it free from harm. Their leader looked upon them and said in scornful tone ‘‘ And you call that shooting ? I could hit it with a stone, Forward to fifty English yards,’ he loudly thundered, then ‘Shall it be said, a target broke the nerve of Saddleworth Each hero gripped his rifle for the honour of his race, And boldly rushed to conquer o’er that grim and fearful place. ‘* Form into line, present, fire,”’ their fearless leader said ; And again upon the moorlands fell three barrow- fuls of lead. ‘* Forward to five and twenty yards,” rang out the great command. Did fear or terror strike that still unconquered band ? No, they heard, those lionhearted men, and heard but to obey, And tore across those measured yards blood eager for the fray. ‘* Now, heroes their leader said, ‘‘ think of your fathers’ fame,

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And make the staring target feel your deadliness of aim.” They looked upon the target and raised their rifles clean, And again the roll of thunder shook the homes of Harrop Green. When the smoke had cleared away the leader’s face grew dark, For upon that mocking target he could find no bullet mark ; Then he slowly walked away, his lofty head was bowed, While from his lips the curses came in torrents deep and loud : And Saddleworth’s proud of them, ye Gods, what shall I say: There is not one amongst them can hit a load of hay, And I was born to drill them, what fate more dark than mine.” He turned a scornful look upon that stern unbroken line, For still each warrior stood with proudly heaving chest. Ii he had not hit the target, he had bravely done his best. Then their leader thought again, if their shooting was at fault, If their bullets missed the target they could take it by assault. ‘Fix bayonets,” then he cried, “and prove your English worth ; Now charge the ‘ blighted’ target and stab it into earth.”

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They rose in fury then, like the tempest in its might, Like lion from the jungle, like eagle from the height. And to the ends of Saddleworth was heard their battle cry : Freermere un Grenfilt we live this day or die.” Crash went the bayonet’s point upon the target’s breast, While hero hard on hero into the conflict pressed ; The target backward reeled before that fierce attack, Until o’er borne by numbers, it fell broken on its back. Up rose their leader then and waved his soldier’s cap, While the vanquished enemy was hammered down to scrap. They trampled it beneath their feet, and left no sign or trace That a target e’er had stood upon that slaughter place. “* Bravo, brave men,” he cried, “* this is my proudest hour ; I The foe that mocked your bullets has felt your bayonet’s power. So perish all our enemies, and the world shall know at large That if you cannot shoot, you are rippers when you They came with colours flying down the road through ‘“‘ Harropdale,”

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Where they fought again at Weakey with sturdy casks of ale ; But the ale was full of grip and fought as four- penny can, Till at length the target victors were vanquished to a man. And while the darksome hours towards the sunrise crept, Many a fallen British hero on the Marsland’s turn- pike slept. At morn, with broken bayonets and headgears squashed or lost, They left their dusty beds and homewards pitched and tossed ; And children hear at evening and tremble at the tale, How the West York scrapped the target in the wilds of “‘ Harropdale.”

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Page 275

A NIGHT AT THE BLACK TUP INN.

THE high bleak moorland of Waystone Edge lies between the Huddersfield road at Buckstones and the Halifax road at Spa Bridge. It is a merciless place in stormy weather for wind and rain, sleet and snow rip across its lone shelterless acres with unimaginable fury. It is bounded on the Saddle- worth side by the deep and dreary “ gowffs”’ of the Hassocks, and on the Spa Bridge side by the low treacherous levels of Linsgreave. On _ the brow of the hill which looks out towards Rish- worth, there stands a great weather worn mass of rock called “The Waystone,” which gives its name to the moor. There is no trace of a path or way anywhere in its vicinity, but the name indicates that the rock was anciently used as a landmark and guide to people who had to cross this wild stretch of moorland. Hull, in his ‘Geology of the Oldham district,” states that the Waystone was borne to its present site by a glacier. If it is correct to say this, then the Waystone could not have travelled very far from its original site, as it 1s formed of local grit. Ii there is anything that supports Mr. Hull’s statement it is the marked elevation of the rock above the level of the moor ground. One Saturday evening, after I had spent

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the afternoon “ flint hunting” on Waystone Edge, I came down Foxstone Edge and on to the Halifax road. There was frost in the air and a brisk walk soon brought me to the Black Tup Inn. It is an old storm lashed house which crouches by the roadside as if trying to “ hutch”’ into the ground and seek shelter from the north wind. I went into its warm homely taproom where a peat fire was burning brightly and nine men were seated round its old fashioned tables. Five of the com- pany were navvys who were working at Rooden and four were shepherd folks who came from Blackstone Edge side. The navvys were talking as they chiefly do in an inn corner, about the jobs they had worked on in every county in England, when one of them, called “ Long Sleeve Punch,”’ said : ‘“T’ve just had power once in my time and I used it. I was a workin for ole ‘ Bill Heffer,’ when one night he ses to me, all of a sudden, ‘Punch,’ ’m goin to make you into a ganger over twenty men a making of the road, so I ses I’m yer man, Bill. Well, that night, I goes and gets four quarts of beer into me down at the Three Cows. Next mornin I goes along to boss the gang and I thinks I’ve power now and I’m goin to show it. Well, I goes to work right away to show them who was the boss, and before we shut down for breakfast I had sacked every man, and then I sacked my bloomin self. Its no use a man having power if he doesn’t know how to show it. Now I'll stand a pint of ale to any bloke who will sing a song.”

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Make it a quart,” said a man called “ Sussex Slen,” “and [ll sing yer to sleep.” ‘““T aint a bloomin millionaire,’ replied Punch, “and a pint is worth more than any song yer can sing, Slen.”’ “ Aw’ll gie thi a song owd chap, pint or noh pint,’ one of the Blackstone Edge men said, rising to his feet. *“* 'Weet thi whistle first,’ one of his mates said, handing the singer a pot of ale. Having taken a long drink he prepared to begin. ‘** All the man wants now,” Punch said, “‘ is fair play.” ‘ Right yer are,” assented Slen after Punch had threatened to knock the pipe down his neck because the smoke rolled towards the singer. Aw’ll try toh sing yoh an owd cockfeightin song,” the singer said, and began in a strong rough voice :— I

all you cock-merchants far and near, Did you hear of a cock-fight happening here ? Those Liverpool lads, ve heard them say, Tween the Charcoal Black and the Bonny Gray.

We went to Jim Ward’s, and called for a pot, Where this grand cock-battle was fought ; For twenty guineas a-side these cocks did play, The Charcoal Black and the Bonny Gray.

Then Lord Derby came swaggering down ; “‘T’ll bet ten guineas to a crown, It this Charcoal Black he gets fair play He’ll clip the wings of your Bonny Gray.”

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Now when the cocks came to the sod, Cried the Liverpool lads, “‘How now? What odds ;”’

The odds, the Prescot lads did lay, Tween the Charcoal Black and the Bonny Gray.

This cock-fight was fought hard and fast, Till Black Charcoal he lay dead at last, The Liverpool lads gave a loud huzza, And carried away the Bonny Gray.”

“That song has a done my ole heart good, for I’m a north countryman,” said a man called ‘Keswick Nobby,” “and a north countryman loves a hound and a fighting cock.” ‘He likes a quart o’ beer better,” Slen said sarcastically.” dunno what the angels are a singin, but they aint got a better song than that to pipe at,” Punch said approvingly, “ get yer pint a beer, mate.” That’s a sope o’ good singin, owd cock,” one of the singer’s mates said, “‘ un aw’ll try toh mend it wi ‘ The Highwaymen o’ Blackstone Edge.’ ”’ Good lad,”’ said Sussex Slen, “‘ there’s a pint of beer for you, a singer should be worth his beer anyway among good men.” ‘Shut yer big mouth Slen and open yer big ears,” Punch put in sharply. The singer began in the windy voice of a mooredger :—

‘All you that are merry, whether far off or near, Come listen awhile, and soon you shall hear ; A comical jest, as true as ever was known, And it was not far from fair Rochdale town.

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A coach coming from Halifax did thither repair, To take places in the coach, three gallant ladies fair ; They took places in the coach, I for a truth protest, And there came three gallant gentlemen, pray mark well the jest.

All strangers to each other, I do the truth declare, So merrily riding on the road, the gentlemen and ladies fair ; And o’er the moor of Blackstone Edge so gaily it rolled, When up there came galloping hard three high- waymen bold.

They rode up to the coachman, drive on, sir, if you dare ; Step down ye gallant gentlemen, step down ye ladies fair ; They took the ladies’ watches and the gentlemen’s money likewise, ‘Amounting to a mighty sum that would not satisfy.

These greedy wolves resolved for to have a share, Stripped naked first the gentlemen and then the ladies fair ; Neither shirt nor smock would they leave them on, Tho’ the ladies begged hard, making pitiful moan. I

So, although naked as ever they were born, Into the coach they got to keep each other warm ; They buckled the curtains that no one might see, © ‘So the coachman drove along with his naked company.

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He’d not drove many miles, before another gang, Rode up to the coachman bidding him to stand ; Come, let us see, they:cried, who in this coach you have got, The coachman laughing heartily, saying hard is their lot.

They are all Adams and Eves, to tell a he I scorn, For all within the coach are as naked as they were born ; Believe they would not, so straightway they went to see, And smiling, they replied, we’ll make an Adam of thee.

So stepping to the coachman, having no fear or doubt, Since they are all Adams and Eves within, we'll make an Adam without ; So stripped the coachman naked bare unto the skin, We’ll learn you to make game of the passengers again.”

‘Yer a grand lad,” Punch said in praise of the singer, “‘ yer ought to be a long o’ the hopero tofis with yer eyeglass on and two buttons on yer waistcoat.” “JT am the bloke for hopero music,” Slen said, jumping up from the form and executing a series. of movements with his feet, which were intended to pass for dancing, but Pincher said : ‘Its all right, mates, he’s only a treading clay puddle.”” Then Slen burst out singing :—

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I walked out one morn-i-ing, One morn-i-ing in June, I espied a fair young maiden, Convers-i-ing with Napoleon, Concern-i-ing the bonny bunch of roses, O.

I will engage a terr-i-ble army, And through tremendous dangers go ; For I will conquer Moscow, For the bonny bunch of roses, O.

When Napoleon he saw Moscow, Great was his grief and woe, For all Moscow was a blaz-i-ing For the bonny bunch of roses, O.”

‘Put the bloomin shutters up, Slen, and knock off for a rest or you'll turn all the beer sour,” Pincher said quietly. Slen sat down and lit his pipe, then Pincher said : When I was a working up against the town of Nottingham, there was a bloke in my gang called Blue Harry. He was a tall lanky sod and thought himself big shakes at singing. Well one night a score of us were a drinking at the ole King’s Head when Harry got up and would give us a tune. So he started right off a singing ‘‘ Mary in Hargyle ”’ with his eyes shut. He had sung about four lines, when up jumps big Bill Yorke an’ throws a pint of beer in Harry’s face. He opens his eyes with the beer all a runnin down his face an’ says savagely, “who the ell’s a done that?” Well

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nobody knew who’d-a done it, but big Bill says to Harry: “ Take a tip ole mate an’ never sing another blind song among gentlemen, it aint good manners.” Harry cursed us all an’ went out an’ I’ve never seen him since.” ‘* A man can be head side up an’ tail side up, but he’s never both at once’ if I know anythink,”’ * Short Arm Dick” said, “so TIl sing yer a song from the county I come from which is good ole Yorkshire.” “A navvy should never sing for anybody but himself cos he aint got any more music in him than Poll Jenkin’s pig,” Punch said deprecatingly, “but we’ll give yer a chance Dick.” Dick got on his feet and having cleared his throat began like a March wind.

““Come, all you gallant poaching lads, and gan alang with me, And let’s away to Sledmere woods, some game for to see, It’s far and near, and what they say it’s more to feel than see, So come, my gallant poaching lads, and gan with me.

CHORUS.

We are all brave poaching lads, our names we dare not tell, And if we meet the keeper, boys, we'll make his head to swell.

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So as we all march’d up Burlington road, we loaded every gun, Saying if we meet the keeper we'll make him for to run, For we are all bright Sledmere lads, our names we will not tell, But if we meet the keeper bold we’ll make his head to swell.

We landed into Cherry woods; we went straight up the walk ; We peak’d the pheasants in the trees, so softly we did talk ; We mark’d all out, what we did see, till we returned again, For we were going to Colleywoodbro’ to fetch away the game.

We landed into Suddaby fields, to set we did begin, Our dog he was so restless there, we scarce could keep him in ; But when our dog we did let loose, ’tis true they call him Watch, And before we left that ground that night he fifteen hares did catch.

So it’s eight cock-pheasants and five hens, all these we marked right well, I We never fired gun that night but down a pheasant fell, You gentlemen wanting pheasants unto me you I must apply, Both hares and pheasants you shall have, and them right speedily.

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So come, you poaching lads, who love to hunt the game, And let us fix a time when we will meet again, For at Colleywoodbro’ there’s plenty of game, but we'll gan no more, The next port shall be Kirby Hill, where hares do run by scores.”

What do you think about that, Punch ?”’ asked Slen when Dick had sat down. “Its better than nothink,”’ Punch replied, “ but he'll never make a choir boy, he sings with too many club feet in his song.” ‘““OQwd Ben o’th Yeth went whom singing one neet,” one of the Blackstone Edge men said un his wife sed “ wots o’ that noise abeaut.”’ ‘““Connot toh yer ut awm singin wench,” owd Bill sed. “Tf that’s singin,” his wife onsert, “start o’ sheautin it, ull bi a nicer noise, aw thowt ut th’ bull ud gettin loase.”’ Dick’s a better har than singer, if I knowed anythink about him,’’ Punch ventured caustically. There’s a bloke called Punch as aint the best truth teller on the Rooden job,” Dick replied severely. “Its gettin abeaut time wi’ wur climbing o’er th’ top o’ Doldrum,” one of the Blackstone Edge men said, “ but aw’ll just sing yoh another afore wi goh. Its an owd trail huntin song ut wur written bi’ Nell o’ Jacko’s 1’ 1851, abeaut a trail hunt ut Delph ut wur won bi’ a dog ut wur kept — ut Turney Bonk. Owd Nell said ut th’ dogs wur

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slipped ut Song Mill un finished ut botham ut Delph’s Greaves meadow, un ther wur mony a theausand foak watched Owd Towler finish.

“Come all you keen sportsmen and listen awhile, ‘I will sing you a song that will make you to smile. It’s of a great trail hunt that’s lately been run, There were dogs irom all parts, but fleet Towler has won.

CHORUS.

Then it’s Towler, huzza, huzza and huzza, It’s Towler for ever un show him fair play.

That Marsden great trail dog they broughten it o'er ; They thought there ne’er were such a dog slipped before, But they soon found it out on that very same day, Their dog with Owd Towler could ne’er hope to stay.

Joe o’ Breb’s brought old Blueman, in a slip such a size, He thought in his heart he would win the first prize, But Blueman’s, old fashioned, when he’s comes for to run, I think he’ll give o’er with those trails he has won.

On the fifteenth of August, this trail it were run, It started from Delph and was two hours gone, These dogs came to slip and made a fine start, But soon bonny Towler shot past like a dart.

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These dogs got off well, with their voices so shrill, But Towler took lead o’er th’ top of Coll Hill, These lines they are true as ever were penned, They were very close on at Besom Hill end.

And now I can finish, as well as begin, Towler and Troubler were the two first dogs in ; Bouncer and Bluecap were two of the same sport, Bouncer were th’ third dog and Bluecap were th’ fourth.”

The tune to which this song 1s set is one of the most expressive of all the trail hunting songs I have ever heard. There is a haunting old fashioned lilt about it which seems to take one across old lanes, over fields, up hill and down dale to the last great shout of hunting men when the dogs finish. When Saddleworth was a hunting country, it had the power to carry men away with enthusiasm. When the singer had sat down, Punch said: That song 1s in the apple cart, a man could sing that song in a chapel and be no farther off heaven, what say you Pincher ? ” “T aint been in a chapel,’ Pincher replied, I don’t know nothink about the songs the blokes sing there.”’ noh wur off owd lad fur keepin eaut o’ thoose plecks,”’ one of the Blackstone Edge men said. ‘‘T had once gone to work on a job in Leicester- shire,” Slen said, ‘“‘ when one day the ole parson came around with the boss an’ said will you boys come along to church next Sunday. Well, we had a drop of beer on the Sunday noon, and then me,

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Bignose Jack, ole Spade Billy, and Long Devon, went along to church. When we got inside a bloke comes along and puts all four of us in one stall. As soon as we sat down, ole Billy an’ Devon goes right off to sleep a snoring like twenty fat pigs. After we had sung a lot of bloomin hymns, the ole parson goes up inter a box an’ begins a spoutin about some bloke as he called Joseph and his Brethren, and how Joseph had gone along to London to buy some bloomin corn. At last the ole parson got worked up an’ brings his book down on the top of the box with a bang. This wakes ole Billy, an’ I sees him a cock one eye up at the ole parson, an’ before I could give him the griffin he says right out “ what are yer a crowin about yer ole josser, I’m the bloke as can fetch yer off yer perch. This wakes up “‘ Long Devon,” and he thinks there’s a scrap a started, so he says hit him on the nose Billy, and knock his ole clock a round. Well, after a lot of trouble, I gets em outside an’ I aint been in a chapel since. “Blow my breeches,” Punch said, “If ever I can a reckon these parsons up.” ‘‘ They’ve gone un done away with ell fire an’ brimstone, but they aint done away with the “Well yer see,” Slen said, “if the blokes do away with the devil they’ll all be thrown outer jobs It’s the devil as a keeps em in full work and finds em all ther grub.” ‘*T never could a reckon up who made the road to heaven,” Slen said. blimey ole parsons made it,’ Punch answered.

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“Well, then all as I’ve a got to say,” Nobby said, “‘ the bloomin ole jossers knew nothink about roadmaking.”’ ‘The ole parsons say as every bloke wants to go along to heaven, an’ all I wants to know is why they didn’t make a good turnpike road right away to heaven’s gates instead o’ that, blimey, if they _ don’t go an’ make a road about 12 inches wide an’ expect blokes to keep along it.” ‘““Ti I builds a house,’’ Slen said, ‘‘I makes a good road along to it, you bet, an’ if the ole parsons want blokes to go to heaven they should make a good road to it, that’s what I say.” ‘“ An’ the road to heaven’s all collar

- Punch said, “‘ an’ straight up as a house end.”

‘The blokes as made the road to ell,’ Nobby said, “‘“ knowed how to make a good road fit for a bloke to travel ‘““T reckon its a road yer can’t miss, mate,” Slen said, “its about 100 yards wide, an’ there’s such a lot 0’ mates along as yer can’t get lost.” ‘An’ if yer can’t walk, mate,” Punch said, “yer can ride an’ its all along downhill.” a thinkin,” Nobby said, “that the road along to ell was made by some good ole buck navvys who knew how to go to work, why, an ole Saddleworth roadmender bloke would make a better road along to heaven then a parson bloke.”’ ‘“The ole road to heaven,’ Slen said, “‘ it aint worth tramping along, what the parson blokes want to do is to go to work an’ make a good new road to heaven as wide as the road to ell, an’ then yer would find some good ole Rooden navvys

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“That minds me,” said Nobby, “ when I was a working up Newcastle way, we had a horse keeper as they called ‘Red Bobby.’ One time when he had been on the drink and got cleaned out he met the ole parson, ‘ begging yer pardon, sir,’ said Bobby, “doh yer know any bloke as wants ter buy a good eadstone for a grave.’ ‘ Yes,’ says the parson, ‘a lot of my people will buy yer eadstone if it’s all nght, has it got any carving on ?’ ‘It’s a carved all over splendid,’ Bobby says, ‘ but it aint got no name on.’ ‘ Well,’ says the parson, ‘come along to my house to-night an’ I will get a man to meet yer.’ Bobby goes up to the parson’s at night and sure enough, there was a bloke a want- in ter buy Bobby’s eadstone. They had a drink at the parson’s and then the bloke says ‘ where is yer eadstone ole fellow.’ ‘It’s right here,’ says Bobby, ‘I’m the bloomin eadstone an’ [’ll stand along at the ead of any respectable grave for fifteen bob a week an’ five gallons of beer.’ They shoved ole Bobby out of the door an’ he come down a cursin like blazes, and says them ole parson sods aint no good, they stop a bloke from gettin a honest living.” The Blackstone Edge men got up and saying good-night, went out at the door. When they had gone, Slen began to talk slightingly of a Yorkshireman, called Wakefield Jack, and ended by saying : ‘““T could make a better man out of Rooden puddle any day a week.” Punch resented this, and said, “‘a man’s a man for a’ that, says ole Billy Shakespeare.” ‘“T aimt much of a scholard,” Pincher said,

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‘but: it is a sure as water’s wet, that ole Bobby Burns a said that to his wife when she was a jawin him about comin home blind.”’ “IT belong to the same county as ole Bailly Shakespeare, an’ I aint a guessed wrong when I say Warickshire,” Punch replied. know nothink about ole Billy Shakespeare an’ ole Bobby Burns,” Nobby cut in. “ A pint of beer and a pound of mutton chops is more in my line.” ‘Yer a talkin sense, Nobby,” Slen said in support. bet a quart of beer as ’'m on thé right track,” Pincher said, looking across at Punch. ‘Yer like ole Cambridge Bob when he fell in the cement tub, yer about stuck,” Punch replied. I ‘| knowed ole Billy Shakespeare before yer bought yer shovel, mate.” “It aint any good a gettin ratty, cause I’ve pinned your hind legs up,” Pincher said hotly. “I thought as we came along to the ole Tup. for a drink of beer,’ Slen put in, with a view to closing the discussion. Kll to ole Billy Shakespeare,” said Nobby. ‘Ell to ole Bobby Burns,” added Slen. “They aint everybody,” Pincher said, “ but ole Punch thinks as he’s the only bloomin muck shifter as ever heard about them writin blokes.” What takes me along to the door,” Slen said, what the ell they make all the bloomin fuss about these ole writin blokes, ther aint one of em as could wheel a barrow up a plank.” with yer,’ said Nobby, “the next man

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could make as good a book as ole Billy Shakes- peare if he’d got the right words to go to work with.” “Yer a talkin behind the barn,” Punch interrupted contemptuously. “JT aint a talkin like Sal Tomkin’s parrot, if that’s anythink to chew,” Nobby replied. ‘““Tll put yer all right mates,’”’ Slen said wisely. ‘Yer can’t make a book without words, any bloke knows that, an’ if ole Billy Shakespeare had never had a book of words he would never have made a

book.”’

“ That’s about the nail,’’ Pincher said approv- ingly. “Yer up against the stone crusher, Punch,” said Nobby, getting a thrust in. Thus encouraged, Slen went on, “All I say is, if Nobby had got as good a book of words, ‘Yer mean a dictionary,” Pincher interrupted. ‘““ That’s what I mean, mate,” Slen said, “if Nobby had got as good a dictionary as ole Billy he’d knock the bloke off the scaffoldin right’away.”’ “Yer a talkin like a cow’s child,’’ Punch said, with contempt. I “Now this is the way I looks at it,” Pincher said, “the same words are in the dictionary for the next man and all he has got to do is to put em together like ole Billy Shakespeare, an’ then he’s just as good a man as ole Billy everytime. ‘Pll own up I aint much ov a spellin scholard,”’ Nobby said, “an I thinks a man can get along all right if he can spell beer an’ roast beef, they are all the things that are a worth spelling.”

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‘“ A man can have a dictionary all right,’’ Punch said, ‘‘ but if he aint got the brains to put the words tight end up he’s about scotched.”’ “Tl stick to this,” said Nobby, “if a man’s got as good a dictionary as ole Billy, or any other writin bloke, he can make up as good a book.” ‘“That’s about the bean,’ Pincher said _ en- couragingly. “To put it plain for ole Punch,” said Nobby, “‘here’s Slen an’ myself a puttin two fence walls up on Rooden. Now, if I gets better stone than Slen I puts up the best wall, an’ ole Billy Shakes- peare he’d a got the best book of words an’ he puts up the best book, the bloomin ole duffer had every- think to his hand.” That’s what I call a puttin the griffin on yer, Punch,” said Pincher with a laugh. Punch made no further reply to his critics. He probably considered that their arguments were unworthy of notice. The others thought differently, for Pincher voiced their conclusions by saying : settled ole Punch hash right enough.” ‘* A man can have a gift for writin,’ Slen said. “Yer all knew Durham Harry ? ” The sod owes me a dollar,” Pincher interrupted. Well,” Slen went on, “‘ he was about the best bloke for writin as ever worked on this job, he could write ole Billy Shakespeare to sleep, and there wasn’t a man on Rooden as could read it.” ‘Yer right mate,” assented Nobby. “It was what they calls a commercial hand,” Slen said, “and it takes a scholard to read that

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sort of writin. If yer cannot read it, yer can bet yer bottom tanner that its good hand writin.” ‘Yer a talkin gospel,” Nobby chimed in. “I never worked a long of a man who could put more bloomin twists an’ twirls inter his handwritin than Harry could.” “And look Slen said, “‘ Harry could write, but he couldn’t Yer right, mate,” Nobby assented, ‘‘ he couldn’t read a word in a child’s spellin book, but he was a knock out when he came along to The landlord came in and said: “ Its time yoh wur gettin tord whom, its gone eleven.

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LADY QWENDOLEN’S

PLOPEMENT.

WHEN we come across a young girl in her teens reading a penny trashy novelette, the kind of stuff in which the super handsome hero kisses the rose- bud lips of the ravishingly beautiful heroine 500 times in the first chapter, then we see one of the commonplace things of to-day. We rarely give the matter more than passing notice and still more rarely comment upon it. But when I came across old handloom weaver folks on the hillside reading practically the same kind of stories, at that time appearing serially in a now defunct weekly, I was to say the least genuinely surprised. This was years ago, long before the present novelette craze began. I found that these old people not only read the love stories, but believed them to be true to the last word. They took sides with the characters, and “ fratched ”’ about them sometimes far into the night. The whole thing was astonish- ingly strange and incongruous for these people were in other matters the most common sense, matter of fact, and unromantic, that it has ever been my lot to meet. The very last people in the world one would have thought likely to be attracted and impressed by empty high flown fiction. I tumbled into the discovery of these old story readers by accident.

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The first time was one winter’s night, when I went over the hill to see old Jamie 0’ Peep’s and his wife. I went in as usual, without knocking or ceremony, and as soon as I had closed the door behind me, I heard an altercation going on in the house, old Mary was saying: I ‘ Aw’ll noan ha this wench run deawn fur nowt, noather wi’ thee nur nobedy else.”’ To which Jamie retorted: ‘“ Hoo’s flying her kite toh hee aw tell thi, hoo’ll ha toh come deawn a peg, hoo’s wur nur Nan o’ Little Donty’s.” At this point I entered the room and the dis- cussion immediately ceased. Old Jamie was sitting on one side of the hearth smoking a long clay pipe, on the table at his elbow, was a teaspoon and an old pint pot half full of snuff. Every now and then he helped himself to a spoonful of the aromatic powder and then went on with his smoking. He used a spoon because he could not pinch a sufficient quantity betwixt his finger and thumb to satisfy his capacious nostrils. Although he had done no work for years, he always wore a lorig blue weaving apron to indicate to the stranger the honourable profession to which he had once belonged. His wife sat on the other side of the hearth in a little rush bottomed chair with a red and white calf skin thrown over its spindled back. Her little clay pipe lay on the table on which also lay her sampling materials, balls of coloured wools and a half finished scriptural picture fixed in a rude wooden frame. When I had been sat down for a few minutes, Mary said, in explanation of the little dispute I had overheard :

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“We're readin this tale un wi’ connot agree o’er it.” She handed me a little journal for my inspection, the tale was entitled ‘“‘ Dark Eyed Madeline or Beauty’s Trials.” I just glanced down a page and then old Jamie said to his wife: “Goh on wi’ thi readin un let him yer fur hissel.”’ I handed Mary the paper back at once. She was rather proud of her reading which considering the poor education she had received was very fair indeed. Of course, the long words troubled her and she generally used to skip them. Sometimes she would attempt a pronunciation with amusing results. She turned over to the page where she had left off when I entered the room and began: ‘“ Love him,” cried Lady Madeline, her dark eyes flashing forth the intensity of her passion, “ never, no never,’ old Mary read. Hay theau cranky, ill tempered pouse,” old Jamie interrupted hotly. Howd thi noise,” his wife snapped, “ thert off agen, thert awlus threeapin, thert wur nur aclockin hen. ‘* Aw connot abide sich two faced wark,”’ Jamie answered, ‘“‘hoo said hoo’d hav him when thi wur ut Lord Harvey’s pig “It wur noan a pig supper, theau greyt foo,” his wife cut in, “it wur a grand reception o’ fine foak.” Old Mary re-adjusted her spectacles and read on. ‘ I never loved him,’’ Madeline cried passionately,

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‘Hay, theau little lyin snicket, aw’d punce thi eaut o’th shippon if aw wur thi fayther,”’ Jamie said, and followed the remark by taking another spoonful of snuff. ‘“* Hoo’ll ha Lord de Bombille theau’ll see,” his wife said in a tone of conviction, “ if hoo’s ony wit.” ‘“ Tf hoo has that greyt slaverin leatheryed hoo’ll wish ut hoo’d a bin teed toh a ceaw tail,” Jamie replied, “he’s bin hit 1’th yed wi’ a birm stick, he hasn’t wit to know he’s beaut.”’ noan as big a moance as Sir William,” Mary answered, “felleyin op un deawn at horse races. Thee get thi bacco un shut op, theau gets fere jadin, theau’d weary a grooin ‘‘ Awst noan keep mi meauth shut when folk ur doin things uts wrung,” Jamie said defiantly. Mary went on with her reading, but as Jamie continued his interruptions, she threw the journal on the table and lit her pipe. Some weeks later, I learned that in a subsequent chapter, Lady as Jamie pronounced Madeline, had given birth to a child. When this chapter was read, the old couple “ fratched”’ all through the night as to who was the child’s “fayther.” It turned out that Jamie was right in his contention, and in all after disputes he always cited Lady Maddlin’s case as a striking instance of his deeper insight into the workings of human nature. Old Joe Barks and his housekeeper used to read similar stories and so frequent were the little ‘‘fratches’’ during the reading, that it used to take hours to get through a chapter. On several occasions, when the story was not going in accord-

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ance with his wishes, old Joe threw the paper on the fire. times he placed it on the floor and rubbed his feet on it until it was unreadable. It is told that he “spreed ”’ a week over one story, because the heroine had not married the villian. One morning I called to see a companion of mine who was lying ill in bed. The week before he had been caught in a rainstorm on the old road which leads down the moor from Badger Slacks to Marsden. Unfortunately, my friend took a chill which laid him up for weeks. I knocked at the door and his mother said: “‘ Come in.”’ I hited the latch and went into the house. How is the sick ?”’ I asked immediately. ‘“Ceawer thi deawn,” his mother replied, “ un aw’ll see if he’s wakken.”” She went upstairs and presently came down saying: “ He’s fast asleep, but aw’ll wakken him if theau wants toh see him.” I strongly objected, and as we sat talking together, a portly middle aged woman burst into the room flourishing a journal in her hand. ‘““Wheer arto Moll?” she asked breathlessly. ‘* Awm Moll replied in alarm, “ wotever is ther op Betty ?” I “Hay, wot dosto think, wench?” Betty said, still gasping for breath, “ hay this is a job.” ‘“ Hay, doh tell mi,’’ Moll implored, “fur aw brokken eaut into a swat, theau’s fere dum flummaxst mi.”’ I I know theau’ll hardly believe mi,’ Betty began, “but yond greyt starin bellwether ov a Lady Guendoleem has run off wi’ it fayther’s coachman.”’

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shure, theau never ses, hay that’s a flabbergaster,’ Moll said, dropping into a chair. “Yaw, as true as gospel,” Betty replied excitedly. “‘ Un th’ bitch face has gone un left a note ut Barmby Castle shop wheer thi weshun thersel, wot’s it coad? Aw connot think ov o’ these fine names.” lavatorium,’? Moll answered. ‘“Tgh theer,” Betty said, “hay, un thi han a job wi Lord Algermon, poor felley, sithi wench, he’s very nee cracked, un th’ doctor ses ut if thi dunnot watch him he’ll goh crazy.” “Hay dear, wot weary wark ther is 1 this world,”’ Moll said sadly, “ther own’s, ther own, Betty, but if sich like wur toh sell wi’ shudn’t buy um.” ‘Yond pouse ull sup sorrow bi’ spoonsful afore its dun theau’ll see,’ Betty said, “‘ un sarve it reet.”” Ther’ll bi’ a bonny hullabaloo rth next week’s paper,’ Moll remarked. “Toh, just yer thi,” Betty said, taking up the journal and beginning to read : “When the cruel news reached Lord Algermon he was at Versey Hall standing in the blue drawing room. Instantly his proud handsome face grew pale as death.” ‘ Poor felley,’’ Moll interposed sympathetically. ‘“ Good God ! can this be true ?”’ Betty read on. “Too true, my Lord,” the valet replied quietly. The earl staggered back and reeling here Betty broke off suddenly and said: “ Hay, this is a big word.” After spelling it she read on “ and fell uncomshus to the floor.”

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Aw wunder wot that meeuns ?” she asked. meeuns ut he’d ha a fit,’”’ Moll replied. ‘“Igh, un yond beauncin besom of a Lady Guendoleem ud ha a fit too if awd nobbut howd on it,” Betty said roughly, “awd rive every yure (hair) off it yed un ne’er think awd dun wrang.” ‘* Aw ne’er thowt ut Lady Guendoleem ud a run off o’ this shap,”’ Moll said, “ hoo’s browt her pigs toh a bonny market, hoo’ll bi 1 bed next news as thrung as Throp’s “Un wot else dosto think its dun?” Betty asked. ‘“ Hay, aw shudn’t bi’ capt as wot yond moance does neaw,’ Moll replied. ‘“Hoo’s taen off th best silk frock un o’ it jewelly un yond grand fur coat ut Lord Algermon bowt 1 Lundun,” Betty said vigorously. ‘““Thoose ut sups wi’ th’ devil shud ha lung spoons,” Moll said. “ But aw thowt ther wur a screw loase sumwheer, fur yond coachmon wur awlus snootin un tootin abeaut.” ‘Aw connot tell wot hoo wants wi’ yond greyt gawpin swealer,”’ Betty said, “ but as hoo’s made her bed hoo mun li in it, aw never thowt it wur sich a snicket.”’ ha to suck th’ hommer yet (suffer privation),” Moll said. “Aw wunder wot it friend, Lady Jane, thinks, thi wur sum thick when thi wur i’ Paris.” ‘“Aw dunnot care what it sucks,” Betty answered, ‘‘ aw hope hoo’ll ha toh goh haganowin op un deawn wol it shammocks ur as raw as bacon collops.”’

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well,” Moll said, “come day, goh day, un God send Sunday, but hoo met a dun meeterly if hoo’d a had ony wit.” “Hay, but aw cud like toh ding (upbraid) it op,” Betty said severely, “if hoo wur o’er onense (opposite) me neaw awd mack it sken wur nur a wisket full o’ whelps. Aw never slept a wink last neet wi’ thinkin abeaut th’ owd frizgig.”’ theau knows, Betty,” Moll said, “‘ Lord Algernon’s a bit ov a moance hissel, he’s nowt toh crack on.”’ ‘* He’s a fine seet better nur yond brazent face,”’ Betty answered, “ yond’s toh ill toh rake th’ fire wi.” ‘“Tgh, but aw dunnot howd wi him playin ut huddin peep (hide and seek) i’th boodoor wi’ Lady Hisobeller,’ Moll said caustically. ‘Lady Hisobeller!’’ Betty repeated in a tone of surprise. ‘‘ Nay, Moll, theau caps me, theau does fur shure, hoo’s nobbut a bit ov a wench wi lung yure deawn it back.” I Hoo’s a little forrad thing,” Moll said. ‘‘ Hoo went a ridin i’th park wi’ Lord Algernon stroddle leg (astride) op ov it horse like a felley. It fayther mi’ weel drink.” ‘Its yond oppenchops uts made Lord Harlin drink,” Betty said, “aw shudn’t bi’ capt if he stuffed a red stockin (suicide) afore this job’s done wi’. If Lady Gwendoleem weds yond coach- mon hoo’ll tee a knot wi’ her tung ut hoo connot loase wi’ her teeth.” Weh, Lord Algernon’s dun sum bonny carryin on,’ Moll said, “its kettle coin th’ pon brunt

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‘ Igh, well every tub stonds on it own bothom,”’ Betty said, ‘‘awm fere worritin missel to see next week’s papper, but its noh use, aw mun bi’ hoppin it, fur aw th’ bog blinders (lime washers) comin at noon.” She opened the door and then suddenly turned back, saying: ‘‘ Hay, ther wur summat else aw wur beawn to tell thi.”’ ‘Wot wur it ?”’ Moll asked eagerly. Weh, 1th tother tale,” Betty said. ‘‘ Yond hauve rocked stracklin ov a Lord Verrill as gone un punst his wife op un deawn the drawin reawm hike a sawt seck.”’ ““ Wot ever for?’ Moll asked, ‘“‘ fur hoo’s a nice little body.” Just becose he catched her having her baggin (tea) wi’ Lord Henry ut a resperont 1’ Lundun,” Betty replied. Aw wish thid ladder him,” Moll said. ‘* Th’ owd bleffin yed.” He’ll bi’ tackin his hook wi’ one th’ sarvents or awst bi’ capt,’ Betty ventured to predict. ‘* Aw think ut Lady Grace ull wed Sir John ut th’ finish, aw want her toh doh shusheaw,”’ Moll said. ‘“Aw guess theau’s yerd ut Sal o’ Squint’s has gettin another new frock,” Betty said, turning to local matters. ‘“Aw neer yerd nowt, but yond licks me,” Moll replied, “aw connot tell wheer it gets i’th brass fro, its awlus as fine as a fiddler’s foo. Wot mack o’ one is it ?”’ “Its like a blue un,” Betty said, “ wir a lot o’ doodyments hangin deawn th’ back, un sich fal the dal reaund it neck as theau never seed.”’

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‘* Aw think yond clems it bally to feed it Moll said, “ but gie me sum meyt afore pride, if its nobbut whangby (coarse cheese).”’ ‘“Same here,” Betty said, “ awst ne’er let my bally think ut mi’ throat’s cut fur th’ sake o’ fine cloas. But yond’s settin itsel every neet 1th best bib un tucker.” “Hoo does sum teawin toh get a felly,”’ Moll said, ‘‘ but hoo’ll ha toh teaw a bit fur hoo’s as feaw as a push pleaugh.”’ ‘““TIgh, un when it woaks it twangs un shales rth lone wur nur a sheep leause,”’ Betty said. “It thinks ut foak stink under it Moll said, ‘‘aw connot abide th’ tupshinned owd foo.” ‘Its same as 0’ th’ owd Squint lot,” Betty said. ‘Tt ull mullock throo sum road.”’ its noh use,” Moll said, ‘“‘aw mun bi’ shappin sum dinner.”’ “Hay, damprate it,” Betty said, hurrying out of the house. ‘‘ Aw lait three loaves 1’th oon, aw'll bet ther brunt as black as an owd When she had gone, Moll took up the journal and said: “‘ Aw’ll just see wot these devilskins un bin doin, fur thers noh tack ut Bet when hoo gets agate a toakin, but awm fere capt wi’ Lady Gwendoleem, aw am fur shure.”

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WINTERBOTTOM.

THIS surname comes into our Registers about 1615, with the suggestion of short prayers and “rum un tay baggins”’ about it. It was the christening of “‘ Georg, sonne of Robert Winter- From that date the breed has gone on steadily christening and doing other work not less useful to the parish. Some of the bygone Winterbottoms made a good deal of noise in the world, chiefly by blowing brass instruments and serving their King and country. The lure of gold braid and the beat of the military drum was in them. The beginning of the family name 1s, I think, indicated by the following entry in the Assheton Rental of 1422. ‘“ John of the Winter- bottom for the marled earth next the Rhodesfield, the farm, 26s. 8d.’’ Winterbottom is here seen as the name of a homestead, which most probably became the name of the family. A branch of the family settled in Saddleworth presumptively towards the close of the 16th century. In 1641, there were 10 male Winterbottoms over 18 years of age in the parish. In 1670-80, a John Winterbottom had acquired sufficient worldly gear to enable him to pay a tax on two hearths. In 1741, accord- ing to the Poll book, there were five freeholders of the name in Saddleworth. A Robert Winter- bottom, in 1791, held the farm and lands at

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Bruntedge, containing 13 acres 20 perches, at a yearly rent of £2 10s. Od., and John Winterbottom held the farm and lands at Noonsun Hill, con- taining 4 acres 25 perches, at a yearly rent of £1 16s. Gd. Robert Winterbottom, of Bridge- house, was a party to the purchase of the Manor of Saddleworth, in 1792. In 1807, there were 11 Winterbottoms who had become freeholders. For generations they kept “ The noiseless tenor of their and sung ““‘innardly’ like Joe o’ Jamie’s throstle.’ Then came a _ generation which burst into full song of a martial character. The first to strike the heroic note was John Winterbottom, of whom an account appears in of a Moorland Parish.” Then came another John Winterbottom, the Life Guardsman, who added new leaves to the family laurel wreath. In his day he was regarded as one of the best instructors of swordmanship in the British Army. He was a favourite of William IV., and it is recorded that it was the King who commanded Winter- bottom’s portrait to be hung in the Waterloo gallery at Windsor Castle. He retired from the army after 21 years’ service and received from the Iron Duke an appointment as one of the warders of the Tower of London. He had the charge of the notorious conspirator Thistlewood during his imprisonment. It is admittedly rare for five brothers to attain distinction in one particular occupation, yet the five sons of John Winterbottom did this and became famous as musicians. Four had distinguished careers as military bandmasters. Thomas Winterbottom was

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the bandmaster of the Royal Marine Light Infantry at Plymouth, William was the bandmaster of the Royal Marines at Woolwich, John was the band- master of the Royal Marine Artillery, and Henry was bandmaster of the 7th Royal Fusiliers, while Hammond the 5th son, was a distinguished “cello” player. The Winterbottoms who have remained in Saddleworth, have contented them- selves with producing good mowers and most exemplary policemen. Friezland, is the old local homeland of the family, and in the main history proves them to have been in that district. The first Winterbottom to settle on Friarmere “ flitted ” in broad daylight. This fact should be emphasized as there are families that flit by moonlight. The family has honours to its name of which an English earl might be proud. It is said that it was a Saddleworth Winterbottom who discovered how to get drunk without drinking. One night, after a hunting day, he reached home with his skin full of “ sunshine.”” The moment he entered the house his wife proceeded to express herself in a manner worthy of the highest traditions of the feminine tongue. At the close of a particularly virulent attack, in which she had tabulated the short- comings of her husband and all his kinsfolk for three generations back, he said quietly : I “Guard thi tungue, owd brid,” he made the request in a conciliatory tone and with the best intentions. “Guard thi tungue,” she repeated, almost in a shriek, “thi con guard ther tungue wi’ such

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like drunken owd hullocks as thee toh deeul wi.” ‘Keep thi temper, wench,” he interrupted, in a tone as mild as new milk, “ thert toh rash, owd girl.”” Aw mi weel be rash,” she answered in a shrill voice, “but if theau thinks ut awm beawn to ceawer here ceawntin th’ cinders wol thert leatherin after th’ heaunds un slotchin un drinkin thert beawn toh bi chetted, dosto yer that ?”’ Having delivered herself of this bit of good old Saddleworth “twang,” she lit her pipe and sat down in her chair. In a few minutes she returned to the attack and continued until the stream of her vituperative vocabulary had run itself dry. In the milder discussion which followed, he promised to drink no more “ leatheryed broth ” for a month. He even went so far as to say that at the expiration of that time his teetotalism would most likely take a permanent form. <A week later his wife looking through the window saw the maker of promises approaching the house in glorious style, he had his “sails up” (arms) and his legs were making desperate but futile efforts to strike a direct course. His home reception was in every respect worthy of the occasion, and at the close, his wife said: “ Theau towd me theau wurn’t beawn to sup o’ beggar macker’s broth for a month.”’ Aw havn’t done,” he replied, dropping into a chair. ‘““Let’s ha noan o thi barefaced she snapped.

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Awm telling truth,” he answered, “if aw’ve had howt toh sup aw’ll buy thi a new bonnet.” She put her shawl on and went down to the inn a short distance away. ‘ Wots yond bowsteryed had to sup?” she said to the landlord. Nowt,” he replied. ‘“Thert as big a liar as him, heaws he getten o’ yond shap ?” she asked. ‘* He’s had a bowl o’ rum sops (bread steeped in rum) un he’s hetten um wi’ a spoon, but he’s had nowt toh sup.” the landlord answered. By the mass, aw’ll gie yond rum sops when aw get whom,” she said viciously, as she hurried to the door in a “ tantrum.” Considering that Saddleworth was at one time a parish of small woollen manufacturers, it is remarkable how few of the Winterbottoms have been engaged in the trade on their own account. In a directory of 1814 there is only one, Benjamin Winterbottom, of Fernlee, scheduled as a woollen manufacturer. A directory of 1836, shows three of the name engaged in the woollen trade, in-. cluding Thomas Winterbottom, Fernlee. In that year there were two doctors bravely struggling to sell physic in Delph, and physic selling at that time was apparently one of the worst trades a man could have in his fingers. Before 1842 one of them, Dr. Alexander Thom, had packed up his belongings and removed to Dobcross, the other, Dr. James Winterbottom, continued the struggle and on his own confession, just managed to exist. The reason why Delph and district could not keep

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a doctor decently, was that the people eat practically nothing but porridge. They were consequently as ““ hearty as hares,” and as “ strong as bullocks.”’ It was to the consumption of porridge that Dr. ~ Winterbottom attributed the non-prosperous state of his practice. There was another matter which then operated against the medical man. At that period, people did not run for the doctor every time their little finger “ warched.” Old fashioned home remedies were much in use in the treatment of many ailments, while several locals had acquired reputations as skilled amateur doctors. Some families had private recipes from which they made pills, salves, ointments, etc., and sold them in the district. One old dalesman compounded a pill which he claimed would cure hars and make them tell the truth. There was a notorious liar then working at Linfitts Mill, and one day a fellow workmate said: “ Aw’ll bring thi sum pills, owd mon, ut’ll mack thi tell th’ truth.” Next morning, at breakfast time, he gave the liar one of the pills. The latter placed it in his mouth, tasted it and spat it out again, saying: ‘“‘ Its ceaw dung bigad.”’ ‘“Thert reet, owd mon,’ the other replied, ‘‘theau’s towd th’ truth furst time.” One remembers the horror with which children regarded the “leech woman ”’ and her black slimy charges. One remembers too, how owd Betty Shift’s, old Sally o’ Isaac’s, and old Jemima o’th Top, used to be called in to consult (like a con- sultation of eminent physicians) when a case was considered to be of a serious nature. The grave

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shaking of heads, the “ humming,” the “ hawing,” the “hay dears,” the ‘nay shures,” the “by th’ hearts,” and the “‘ damprates,” which were uttered during the consultation were supposed to add weight and importance to the diagnosis. When this was completed, it was ordered that the patient should be kept warm and plasters of freshly gathered cow dung placed upon the sufferer’s back and chest. Then the three would sit down to many cups of rum and tea, over which they would chatter and gossip about all the news in the village. At that time there were few houses which were not well stocked with home-grown herbs tied up in bunches and hung up on one of the oak beams. For sore throats a ham “ collop ’ when obtainable was placed round the neck and a stocking tied round to keep the “collop” in its place. There were ‘churn milk,” ale, and treacle “ possets,”’ boiled onions and gruel for colds, and the inevitable brimstone and treacle for children. The only kind of bed warmer was the “ backston”’ out of the oven. The older Winterbottoms were makers of epigrams. They had a crisp telling way of saying things which hit the mark and still live. Ii their sayings were all gathered together and run into print, a respectably sized book would be the result. I have the space for one example, which deserves full recognition and serves to prove what I have just stated. When it was first coined, it caused a sensation in the village and made its creator famous. It is often as applicable to-day as it was on the occasion when it was first used.

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A certain chapel was passing through the stormiest period of its history. The worshippers were divided into rival factions, and what kind of strife is more bitter or carried to greater lengths than religious strife. The service at the chapel on a Sunday morning was beautified and elevated by Christian like demonstrations, in which both old and young joined with considerable spirit. One faction made faces at the other until all restraint gave way and the interior of the chapel became a kind of Donnybrook fair. Bibles, hymn books and other sanctified missiles were hurled at each others heads across the pews. Every now and then the elder worshippers would engage in a particularly vicious scuffle in front of the pulpit, and of course there was no lack of encouragement from their supporters. After the service the disturbances were renewed among the grave stones in the chapel yard. The path of the parson through this saintly “ hullabaloo ” was one of trial and tribulation. From his place in the pulpit he would be able to act as referee in the “scraps”? that were going on below, but even that would be only poor compensation for what he suffered in other ways. This went on until the chapel required a new parson. The trustees and other officials connected with the place looked about, and at last decided upon a gentleman to whom they meant to offer the position. A meet- ing of the congregation was called to confirm the decision of the officials and settle other matters connected with the appoitment. During the proceedings it was proposed that a deputation

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should be appointed to visit the district m which their prospective parson laboured and made inquiries into his private character. Before the proposition could be seconded, a Winterbottom jumped up from his seat in the middle of the meeting, and placing one hand to his mouth, shouted towards the platiorm : him, shop him, afore he’s time toh inquire into yers.”’ The effect was electrical, the proposition was withdrawn and Winterbottom’s advice accepted and followed without a dissentient note. Were I asked to name the most vivid and original personality I have ever met in Saddleworth, I should unhesitatingly say the late Charles Winter- bottom, of Delph. In saying this, I am probably in agreement with most people who knew him intimately and well. No local, to my knowledge, ever filled our country side with more racy or enjoyable characterisms of act and utterance. One could sit down and tell tales off the reel for hours of Winterbottom’s doings and sayings and never weary one’s auditors. He was rugged, physically and mentally. He was bone and muscle in the flesh, and bone and muscle in thought and expression. There was something Carlylean in the sledge hammer force and directness of much that he said. He had a quick insight into things and a penetration which was intuitive rather than constructive. His striking things were said like a flash and involved no process of thought. He was as familiar with Shakespeare, Byron, and Burns, as most men are

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with Monday morning, and could quote those authors by the week. No man who ever sat with him in a congenial company can ever forget the illuminating quality of his conversation. He had also a large appreciation for the dialect, though he rarely used it as a literary vehicle. He wrote some verse of merit, but the greater parts of the man remain unwritten and are now but a fading memory. One Saturday evening Edwin Waugh and Ben Brierley called at the Swan Inn, at Delph. They had been on a visit to Mr. Morgan Brierley, at Denshaw House. There they had learned that there was a man in Delph who could sing “ The Weighver of Wellbrook”’ as well as any man in Lancashire. Anxious to hear the singer, they called at the Swan and sent for Winterbottom. In a few minutes he entered the room and after the usual conventionalities were over they per- suaded him to sing the song they wished to hear. When he had finished, Waugh complimented him warmly on his rendering of Brierley’s song, while the author said that he himself would never sing it again in public. The manner in which he brought out the withering scorn and the biting contempt of the old handloom weaver for the ‘idle do was a sort of revelation to them. The artistry that was in him came out in sculpture and was not confined to churchyard work. Many examples of his art are to be seen in the Delph district, chiefly in the form of decorated door and window lintels. The best expression of his chiselwork on public buildings is on the front of the Conservative Club in the village.

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I have a memory of Winterbottom which goes back to one still frosty hunting morning in the old graveyard at Heights Chapel. He had been lettering a gravestone and was sitting on the edge of a vault playing “ Old Towler” on a tin whistle :

‘* With a heigho Chevy, tantivy, tantivy, tantivy, Hark forward away: Hark forward

I have heard ‘“ Old Towler” played scores of times. I have heard it sung round the punch bowl by gentlemen. I have heard it sung by red coated huntsmen at hunting suppers at old moor- land inns, but the most haunting memory I have of it, is, when it was played by Winterbottom in Heights churchyard. Perhaps it was strangeness of the surroundings, for a song of that character which has helped to make it unforgettable. The reason why he took a whistle when he went to carve and inscribe gravestones was, that he used it to exercise his fingers when they were numbed with cold. In the haytime he thoroughly enjoyed sitting on a grassy hedge playing jig tunes until the Irishmen, unable to resist the music any longer, threw down their rakes and suspended the haymaking work. Then, having accomplished his purpose and set the farmer cursing, he pocketed his whistle and laughing quietly to himself, went on his way. The stories, quips, etc., in which he stands as the centre figure are legion. There are some which I am tempted to re-tell in these pages, but I am checked by the common enemy, called space.

One night there arose a discussion about vacuum in the old “‘ Mop” Inn, at Delph. After a number

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of perplexing definitions had been offered, someone said : “What do you call vacuum? Mr. Winter- bottom.” lump o’ nowt, un noh wheer toh put it,” he quietly replied. The surname comes from a homestead which ' probably stood in a sheltered valley or “‘ bottoms ”’ to which cattle were brought from the hills in winter. Both “ bottom” and its opposite ‘“ top ”’ are found in local names as Haybottoms, Nut- bottoms, Great Bottoms, etc. Winterholme is a surname of similar origin.

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You may go from Delph to Hades, From Stanedge to the sea, But the good old road to “ Grenfilt ” Is the only road for me. So its round by Frenches corner, And round the bend at Nook Where you'll meet a score of comrades, And never need to look.

Though the waters run to Mossley, It will never trouble me If they keep enough in “ Grenfilt ”’ For making “ cinder ”’ tea. And they brew—but this is tellmg— And hang me if I will, Unless some “ Grenfilt ’’ mother Refuses me a gill.

When the wind is over Willcat, And its cold enough to snow, There are many homely hearthstones That are jolly good to know. Oh! its merry going to “ Grenfilt,” But its “ gruel ’’ coming back ; But its keeps a man from moping And giving life the “ sack.”

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Now, most men, if they’re human Are happy with a lass, And most men, if they’re hearty, Are ready for a glass. So the best of all I’m thinking Is to go and get the pair, And you'll get as good in “ Grenfilt ” As you'll meet with anywhere.

If I had my way of living, Though some might call it poor, I would go and keep a gamecock And live by Alphin moor. I would have a hound for hunting, A garden for my crops, And a little kitchen loomhouse For weaving malt and hops.

I’d have home brewed in the cellar, And bacon on the hook, A fiddle in the corner _ And Omar for a book. For pomp and pride and fashion I would not care a rap; I would go on living gradely

And never want to “ swap.”

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BY THE PEAT FIRE.

THE farmstead of High Winds stands on one of the bleakest and wildest hills in the district. It was built by John Langhurst, or “ Rough John” as he was called by the mooredge folks. He was rightly named, for there never lived a man who had a greater love for stormy weather. This led him to build his house at High Winds and it is said that during its erection the gables were blown down several times before the builders could get the roof on. On still windless days “‘ Rough John ”’ sat smoking his pipe, moody and miserable by the hearthstone, but in wild, blustering weather he was happy, and happiest, when the wind was tearing the roofstones from the house, and hurling them into the lane or against the fence walls. No one ever found him at home on a wild day. At such times it would have taken half a dozen men to have tied him fast to his chair. No matter how the wind blew or the rain beat, or the snow whirled and drifted among the hills, “ Rough John” was out on the moors wrestling with the storm. His last grip was with a fearful tempest of wind and snow that came from the north-east and raged through one December day and far into the night. A few days later, searchers found the old storm fighter stretched out dead on the rocky edge of the moor. He had died with a smile on his face as

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though he had given up his life gladly to the con- queror. When his son, Jim Langhurst, came into possession of High Winds he was a widower with one child. This was a madcap frolicsome girl of ten summers, who played truant from school, fought the neighbour lads, and ran bare legged and bare-footed about the sheep fields and the moors. Mary Langhurst had a kind easy going father, who allowed her to have a great deal of her own way. When she was sixteen she knew more about red grouse, snipe, and brown hares, than she knew about housework. The neighbours said she was “‘ Rough John” over again and that her grandfather would never die as long as she lived. She grew up tall and well built, she was free limbed, and as fair skinned and blue eyed as a Harropdale lass. About this time the neighbour women took her in hand, and taught her how to bake, brew, and perform general household duties. She did fairly well at rough cooking, she could make porridge, boil a sheep’s head and make good broth and dumplings, but her excursions into other fields of culinary science were largely experimental and usually attended by failure. Here is a story of Mary o’th Hee Winds” that was told one night by “Sly Jamie,” at an old alehouse on the Stan- edge Road. A thin wind and a cold grey mist had swept across the hills that afternoon and put an end to the grouse drives. We made straight down the moor to the nearest inn and were soon warming ourselves round the peat fire. A shep- herd, called “ Ned o’th Hanging Heys,” told a tale about a hunter’s pudding that was made at an

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inn above Ripponden. A serving maid fired the brandy dip as old Sheep Ben was bearing it to the feasting table. The dip blazed up and swithered old Ben’s beard away. “Wang th’ plate deawn,” someone shouted. “Nowe, nut if it bruns mi’ yed off,” old Ben replied, holding gamely to the plate. This led Sly Jamie to tell a story of a pudding which had been made by “ Moll o’th Hee Winds.”’ I cannot follow him strictly in the telling, for he flings oaths into all his tales as they say, by the armful. “Moll o’th Hee Winds” had an old uncle who lived out Odgen Edge way. He had been ailing for some time and was not making much progress towards recovery. When hale and hearty, he was a great follower of hounds and hunting, and one day the thought struck “ Moll ” that a hunter’s pudding might set her uncle on his feet again. The thought stuck in her mind and at last she got what she considered to be the necessary materials, and very soon the pudding was boiling over a good fire. She had never made a hunter’s pudding before, but she decided to seek no advice or assistance from the neighbour women down the lane. It occurred to her that if the pudding cured her uncle, its fame, as a specific for sick hunting folks would be hers, and hers alone. On the following day, when the pudding had gone cold, she went into raptures over it. ‘Hay, but thert a beauty,” she said, turning it round on the large plate, “ thert prattiest puddin uts bin made 1’ Saddleworth, theau con tell um that. Aw’ll see wot Bet o’ Fat’s ses abeaut thi.”

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Mary placed the pudding into a basket and went proudly down the lane to Bet’s little dwelling. As soon as the latter saw it she hurried out of the house and returned in a moment with Yelper’s wife. ‘* Neaw then,” Bet said, “‘ wilto believe thi own een.” ‘““Tgh,” Yelper’s wife answered, “its toh grand toh heyt, it is fur shure. If aw wur thee, Mary, aw let it stond op o’th Bible, it ull mack a bonnie orniment.”’ Mary explained that she had made the pudding for her Uncle Joe who was lying at death’s door. Tf he sees that it ull cure Bet said, with a significant look at Yelper’s wife. When Mary was going homewards up the lane and out of earshot, Bet said to her neighbour: ‘“ Hay, dear o’ me, wench, aw wudn’t heyt a meauthful o’ yond puddin fur o’ aw con see. Its a blue skin on like leather an inch thick.” The praise bestowed upon the pudding by her two neighbours shook Mary’s original intention and for several days it stood as an ornament upon a family Bible in the centre of an oak chest. One morning she changed her mind and said to herself, ‘Tt ull ne’er doh mi’ Uncle Joe noh good as lung as it tarries theer.” Her father was away at a sheep fair in the North and Mary thought that she would slip over to Ogden Edge before he came back. She tied the pudding up in a large napkin and set out down the hill. As she walked along she pictured to herself the joy with which her uncle Joe and her aunt Mally would receive the

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gift. She called at Broadhead, in order to show the pudding to her cousin Patience, and stayed there talking, as women will talk, until it was nearly noonday. To make up for lost time, she climbed over the fence and went up the Noddle fields. ‘When she had got nearly to the top of the hill the knot of the napkin came loose and the pudding dropped on to the grass, and went rolling down the hill. “Moll,” as Sly Jamie said, “ wur fere i’ otty motty (perplexity) fur a twothri minutes, un stood watchin th’ puddin wi’ her meauth wide oppen. Then hoo went tearin after it like sumdy noan reet 1 ther yed.” There was a fence wall below and Moll thought that the pudding would surely stop against it. The runaway had no such intention, it crashed through the wall and went racing away down the lower field, with a number of wall stones following behind like a pack of hounds. It chanced that old Ben o’ Twister’s was spreading manure halfway down the field, and Moll seeing him, placed her hand to her mouth and shouted at the top of her voice: “Stop that puddin, stop that puddin, un stir thi theau greyt idle thing.” Old Ben looked up and saw the wall stones coming leaping towards him and something which he imagined was a boggart tearing away in front of them. “Stop it theau bledderyed, punce it, lay thi shoon into it, hit it wi’ thi muck fork,”’ Moll shouted fit to rive her throat out. Old Ben threw his fork down and “crappled” out of danger as fast as he could. As the pudding passed over the

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manured ground its speed decreased, and at last it came to a standstill against the fence at the bottom of the field. Moll came “ hopplin”’ down with a sprained ankle and as soon as she reached old Ben, she said: ‘* Wheer is th’ devilskin ? ”’ ‘““T’th dych bothom,” Ben answered, “‘ wot ever is 1t, wench ? ” “Its a hunter’s puddin,” Moll replied. ‘Aw thowt it wur a boggart, wench, aw wur gradely feart,” Ben said, as they went down to where the pudding lay. ‘Yoh howt toh a floort it wi’ yer fork mon,” Moll said. me noather,” Ben replied, shaking his head, “a puddin ut con knock a fence deawn con knock an owd felley deawn.”’ Having removed the wallstones that were rest- upon the pudding, Moll said sadly: “‘ Aw wudn’t o cared a button if it ud nobbut had a twothri currans knocked off, but its lapped itsel 1’ manure un gress wol it favvers a retriever dog, its noan fit toh heyt neaw, fur it stinks ut wul lump.” ‘ Yond’s very good manure, wench,” Ben said, ‘it ull doh a puddin noh harm, but theau’d better wesh it 1’th bruck.”’ Nay,” Moll answered, “aw think aw’ll leaov th’ dirty thing where it is.” reet,” Ben said, “it ull come in fur a grindle stone.” I

9

It was the custom when we were gathered together, after a grouse driving day, that Jack o’ Thrutcher’s should sing “ A Bright Rosy Morn- ing,” the most glorious hunting tune in the world.

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The moment that Sly Jamie had finished his story, Jack stood to his feet and began with a “ huther ”’ like a March wind blowing down the Frenches road.

“* There’s a bright rosy morning peeps over yonder hill, With blushes adorning the meadows and fields : While the mellow, mellow, mellow, mellow horn cries come, come away ; Awake from your slumber and cheer a new day.

There’s a stag runs before us and away seems to fly, I And pants to each chorus the hounds in full cry, Crying follow, follow, follow, follow to the musical chase With triumph and vigour our sports we embrace.

Now the day’s sport is over, with joy and delight, And gives to each sportsman fresh charms for the night ; Then let us, let us, let us, let us all be merry while we may, Let love crown the night as sport crowns the

day.”’ ‘“That’s a song ut thi used toh ripen curn wi’ 1 Saddleworth,” Jack said, as he sat down and placed his call upon Jim o’th Grey Intakes. A noble call,” Sly Jamie said, “ op end thisel,

Jim, un brast off. Jim had got the knack of stringing rhymes

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/ / Sf 5. Singing

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together and he stood up and recited one of his own compositions.

Wol parsons thi sup whisky, Un wardens thi sup ale, Aw’ll bi hanged if aw’ll sup wayter,

Fro noather pot nur pail.

Its o’ reet being teetotal, As parsons sen wi shud, Wol thi keep deawnin whisky Un slotchin o’ uts good.

Dun thi think ut foak ur crazy, Un hannot wit toh see, Fur if thi dun thi’re chetted,

Thi’re noan own handin me.

Then, Ailse, come fill this pitcher Win mack noh moar ado, When th’ parsons sup cowd wayter Then aw’ll sup wayter too.

_ Jim sat down and the talk began and twisted about from cow buying and dog breaking to hunt- ing. Then Cal Heath said that at daybreak he had seen a “ slappin ”’ brown hare “ lomp ”’ across the fields behind Long Willows farm. The mention of the farm name led Ned to say: “ Did yoh ever yer abeaut that gravestone ut Joe o’th Lung Willows bowt?” None of us had heard about it and the story Ned told, was to the effect that “ Joe o’th Lung Willows was as contemptible as greed can make a man. He owned and farmed Long Willows and was well off as_ worldly.

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riches go. He lived for nothing but “ brass,”’ the thought of it was never long out of his mind and the word never long from his lips. It is doubt- ful whether there ever lived another man who could pronounce “ brass’ in the hard metallic way that Joe could. He used to grind it out of his mouth letter by letter, b-r-r-a-a-s-s with a sound like cogs that are set too deep and are grinding. Although he had a fair number of cattle, he had no cowman or farm help. The work was done by his wife, and if ever there lived a poor patient over- worked drudge in this world, it was Mary o’th Lung Willows. They were childless and she had often pressed her husband to adopt one of her sister’s lads, but all to no purpose. One bitterly cold day, after spreading manure in a high bleak meadow against the moors, she took ill and died, as the doctor said, from exposure. The neighbours, who had held the dead woman in high esteem and had sincerely pitied her hard sunless life, gave Joe the full length and bitter- ness of their tongues. On the burial day they got him to promise that he would place a grave- stone over her. Some weeks had passed, when one day he called at the yard of a monumental mason in the village, and said : ‘“Hasto a good second-hond gravestone toh sell chep ? ”’ ‘“T have a few old stones about the yard, but they have all got names chiselled upon them,” the mason answered. ‘“Ther noh wur fur that,” Joe said. “If thi’re chep, eaur Mary ull never know but wot its a bran

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They “ haggled un jaggled ”’ for a long time and at last Joe was persuaded to have a new stone. When it was finished and ready for delivery, the mason said : ‘““T will take it up to the graveyard and get it laid ‘““ Ne’er bother,” Joe replied, “‘ aw’ll tack it op misel, it ull bi’ chepper.”’ To this the mason agreed and he gave Joe the bill. The farmer looked at it, turned it over, and looked at the figures again, then he said : “Its a greyt deeul o’ b-r-r-a-a-s-8, a very greyt deeul o’ b-r-r-a-a-s-s, dosto think ut theau con sell it toh sumdy else, un aw’ll ha’ one o’ thoose owd stones.” “That is impossible,” the mason answered. ““ No one will buy it because it has got your wife’s name upon it.” ‘“ Owd Gip’s wife has just gone deeud, he’ll buy it, foak ull think he’s had two wives,” Joe said persuasively. The mason refused to consider the suggestion. Then Joe noticed the decorative chiselwork at the head of the stone and said : Wud it bi’ onny chepper if theau knocked that fal the dal off ?” “Not a_ penny,’ gustedly.

Joe went homewards ‘‘chummerin’’ about

2

the mason answered dis-

b-r-r-a-a-s-s and on the following day he went down to the mason’s yard with two horses and a cart. In the evening he entered the farmyard at Long Willows with the gravestone still in the

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‘ Wotever han yoh browt that thing here for ? ”” his housekeeper asked in alarm. ‘“Weh,” Joe answered, unfastening the ropes, a very good stone, un aw thowt it ud come in rare un weel toh sawt o’ side o’ bacon on.”’ But its getten yer wife’s name on,” the house- keeper said, shocked at Joe’s utter lack of feeling. Joe returned. “ Thoose letters un howd a lot o’ sawt, thi’re just reet for it.” Next day he managed to get the gravestone into the salting chamber and a flitch of bacon well salted laid upon it. When the time came that the flitch should have been cured, he found, to his dismay, that it had not taken the salt, but was soft, spongy, and flabby, and practically unfit for use. When his housekeeper learned this she said: “ Nowe, un God ull never let yoh cure 0’ peaund o’ bacon op o’ that stone as lung as yoh live.” I Joe thought this over, and as the loss of the bacon worried him sorely, he at last got help and laid the stone over his wife. ‘ 'Ther’s shap ov a pig op o’ that gravestone to this day,” Ned said, knocking the ashes out of his. pipe against the table. It is remarkable how far members of the same family, brothers and sisters, can differ m tem- perament and character. One may be greedy almost to miserliness, another a spendthrift, and so on through many contrasts. Joe o’th Long Willows had a brother John who was one of the gentlest and kindliest men on earth. He never consciously injured a living thing. When his

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wife had caught a mouse in a trap John would take the trap outside and give the little animal its liberty. Sometimes it was back in the house before he could close the door. When someone asked him why he did this, he replied: “* Weh th’ life o’ that. little thing is as dear toh it, as mine is toh me.” When he was handloom weaving at home for Gartsides, he kept a donkey to fetch his warp and weft from the mill. Very often he was met carry- ing the warp on his back up the lane and the unburdened donkey walking at his side. ‘The two carried the warp a distance in their turns. He never saw a stone lying in a farmer’s field but he lifted it upon the wall. He never did anything on a Sunday that he ought to have done on a Saturday. One Saturday night he was shining his boots for Sunday morning when the clock struck twelve. He had only one boot finished, but he laid the brushes aside and went to the chapel in the morning with one boot glossy and © the other dirty. The wind had begun to sing wildly around the old inn, which led Sly Jamie to say: ‘“ Th’ owd orgin blower’s agate agen, theau’d better get thi ballispipes i’ tune Cal.” Cal Heath got up at once and said: “ Aw'll bi’ same as owd Beautwit, when thi axed him if he cud heyt a tenth plate full o’ beef ut a Oddfellows’ dinner, aw'll show willin.” He began and sang to the tune of “ Annie Laurie ” :—

Tell me not that he’s a poor man, Whose dress is scant and bare; Tell me not his daily pittance Is a workman’s scanty fare.

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In my eye it matters not Though he’s the lowest of the low, If he’s honest in his actions That’s all I want to know.

Though his home be a mud built hovel, Though his home be a lowly cot, Though his home be the parish workhouse, In my eye it matters not. Nor care I whence he came, Nor shall I bid him go; If he’s honest in his actions, That’s all I want to know.”

‘Thi howt toh sing that song fur th’ first hymn every Sunday mornin 1’ every church un chapel 1 England,” Ned said. I soon as Cal sat down, Sly Jamie began to tell another pudding story which he had heard from his father. A widow and her two sons were farming down 1th “ Lowerend,” and one Wakes the mother was called hurriedly away to see a sister in Ashton who was dangerously ill. There were plenty of uncooked in the house and the brothers decided to make a beef steak pudding. Win mack a gradely clinker,” Jack said, setting the meat and flour upon the table. Unfortunately they knew nothing about the quantities required. They got a bowl of fat, about eight pounds of flour, and five pounds of meat. They cut the meat up into pieces about the size of a duck’s egg and rolled them among the fat and the flour as best they could. When they had got the pudding into a

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fairly rounded shape there were pieces of beef sticking out on all sides. The only pan in the house that would hold it was one in which their mother boiled her clothes on a washing day. At last they got the pan upon the fire and the pudding boiling nicely, led them to look forward to a good repast. Being Wakes time there chanced to be a cockfight at an inn near Saddleworth Church, and as Jack was a backer of one of the cocks he and Jim set out for the scene of the fight. It was late at night when they reached home and almost hungry enough to eat their finger ends. As soon as Jim opened the door he found the house to be full of smoke. ‘“ Wot the hangment’s op,’ he said when he could speak. ‘““Ther’s summat queer,’ Jack said gravely, ‘““dosto think ther’s a boggart getten into th’ heause ? aw dunnot like look ont.” “Thee goh th’ first, Jack, thert th’ owdest,” Jim said. Nowe,” Jack replied, “ thee goh th’ first thert After a time they mustered up sufficient courage to enter the house. The smoke had cleared a little and showed the fire almost burnt out under the pan. Jim lit a candle and went to examine the pudding. “‘ Wheer’s th’ pon lid?” he asked in amazement. Jack came then, and after looking round, discovered the pan lid up the chimney, the pudding had swollen so much that it had pushed the lid off the pan and it had become tightly wedged between the walls. Jim lifted the pan on

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to the floor and tried to pull the pudding out, but it resisted all his efforts. noh use, theau’ll ha’ to come eaut oather bi’ fairs meeuns ur feaw,” he said, making another attempt to dislodge it. When Jack had tried to prize the pudding out with the poker and failed, Jim said : noan bi’ licked, aw’ll fot a hommer un chisel un win peyl it eaut.” After they had hammered away for some time, Jack said: “ Its turnin th’ chisel edge op.” 'Weh then,” Jim said, “if win connut cut th’ puddin 1 two win cut th’ pon 1’ two. This they did and the pudding rolled out on to the floor. Jack carried it out of doors and “ mi’ fayther,”’ Sly Jamie said “seed it two year after built into th’ wo 1th lone.”” When the story was finished, Jim oth Grey Intakes said :—

It seaunds to me like a very good lie, But aw think yo’ll agree its made us o’ dry.

This was a hint to the serving maid to refill our pots. When this had been done, Jack said: on Jim, let’s ha summat goin on, gie us abit ov a song. Jim got up and began at once :—

That neet wi’ sang ‘Owd Towler,’ Ut Betty’s op 1’th Broo, Wr rattled yond oak rafters Un spht a dur 7 two; Jack Buff wur singin tenor, Un his top notes wur soh hee, Thi ripped owd Churner’s breeches Fro his singlet toh his knee.

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Owd Ranter Jack wur fiddlin Wol th’ swat ran off his chin, Un Joe Spiffer sang “ Tantivy,”’ Wol wi’ cudn’t see fur din; Un Crooker gav view halloa’s Wol his gallus buttons flew ; That neet wi’ sang ‘Owd Towler,’ Areaund a bowl o’ stew.

Owd Betty sed hay damprate, This heause is beawn toh fo, lf yoh dunnot gie o’er huntin Ther’ll bi’ noather thack nur wo; Jack Wallop dainced a hurnpipe Wi owd Joe Nodder’s feet, Un every mon went daincin Un singin whom that neet.

Then lads, lets sing * Tantivy,’ Fur wi’st ne’er tack noh harm, As lung as wi sup fourpenny Un jieth dry un warm. Then lets be op un shappin, We'll ha another do; As when wi’ sang * Owd Towler,’ Ut Betty’s op rth Broo.

Jack Buff sang ‘Owd Towler’ at th’ berrin heause when thi berried Rip o’ Wangs,” Thrutcher

‘ Igh, un it wur owd Rip’s wife ut axed him toh sing it,’ Cal remarked, “hoo ses if he doesn’t wackin op when theau sings it, he’s deeud reet

enuft.”’

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“A day or two afore he deed, he sed to theer Bill,” Thrutcher said, “neaw yoh mun bury m1’ close agen th’ church yard wo soh as aw con yer th’ heaunds afore Owd John o’ Mary’s.”’ “When th’ parson went a seein him,” Ned chimed in, “he sed to him ‘Have you been a Catholic, a Churchman, or a Methodist ?’” ‘“‘ Aw bin noather,”’ Rip onsert, “aw ne’er bin nowt nobbut a streyght forrad mon uts paid his way un tried toh do thing ut wur reet.”’ ‘““Owd Joe Nodder wur a grand lad,” Thrutcher said, ‘when he wur lyin ut last a parson ut wur sittin o’th bedside said ‘ You will go to heaven Joseph.’ ”’ ‘* Aw darsi aw shall,” Joe said, “‘ but awd rayther goh toh th’ Kings Arms.”’ ‘You will be an angel.” ‘“Tgh, but awd rayther bi’ a carter un play owd I Jamie o’ Tip’s ut dominoes.” ‘““Igh, un Jamie o’ Tip’s wur a fine un,” Cal said, ““ when th’ Height’s parson axed him how he wur goin on he sed ‘noan soh weel, mester, aw hannot strength toh dee.” ‘Igh,” Thrutcher said, “aw yerd Jamie seh ut when he wur a young chap he used to sing 1’th choir ut B...... Church, un he sed ther wur a lot o’ owd felleys 1’th choir ut used toh chew bacco oth time they wur singin Psalms. They used toh sing Glory Halleluyah, un then slart sum bacca spit op o’th floor un brast off agen.” ‘““Aw’ll bet oth Psalms ull seaund weel when thi’re sung wi’ bacca spit un snuff,”’ Cal interposed. ‘““Owd Jamie used to seh,” Thrutcher went on,

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‘ut it took th’ chapel keeper a hauve an heaur to sweep th’ owd sodiers (spent chews) op on a Monday morning.” Ned took the poker out of the fire and dipped the red hot end into his ale. ‘“* That’s a Heemoor trick,” Cal said, “ thi used toh seh ther wurnut a poker op o’th Heemoor ut wur six inches lung. Thi’d bm worn deawn wi’ th’ quarrymen stirrin ther ale op wi’ um i’th winter time when thi wur frozzen eaut.”’ I “Tgh,” ther wur Joe o’ Tink’s un one ur two thi’d a worn a engun shaft away wi’ stirrin ale op,” Thrutcher said. “‘ Theer Jack un him went whom one neet top heavy un thi roped one another soh as thi wud boath bi’ safe to get opstairs to bed. Then th’ candle went eaut un Joe gate op th’ stairs, but he cudn’t get i’ bed fur th’ rope wur toh short. He cudn’t loase th’ knot, un he lied op o’th chamber floor o’ neet. Next mornin he fund theer Jack un th’ tother end o’th rope deawn i’th cellar he’d tacken th’ wrung turn.” Joe o’ Tink’s wur a throddy (low and thick set) little chap,” Ned said, “‘ but he cud stond as mich ale as wud scode a pig, but when he’d getten to th’ fur end un had a pint i’th front on him ut he cudn’t sup he used to empty it into his inside jacket pocket, un seh aw paid for thi, un aw’ll tack thi whom schusheaw.”’ Joe wur very weel known,” Thrutcher said, “he used to bir a ‘ berrin axer’ a lung time, un he used toh go reaund un ax um bi’ ther byname.”’ “Toh,” Cal Heath said, “when Jim o’th Red Knowe deed, his wife ga Joe a papper wi’ th’ names

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o’ those ut wur to be invited on it, un thi wur 0’ bynames. Joe set off un gate op o’th spree tord th’ Roebuck for a twothri days, un when he coom to hissel he’d forgetten whoas berrin it wur. Heawever, he knew ut Jack o’ Lipp’s wur very poorly soh he went reaund un axed um toh Jack berrin. Oth berrin day a lot o’ foak turned op ut Jack’s un fund ut he wur noan deeud. It feart Jack soh mich ut he took a turn un gate weel.”’ ‘ Ale beawt a song is like a stew beawt loaches,”’ Thrutcher said, setting his pot upon the table, “come on, Cal, lets ha another bit ov a ditty.” ‘Igh,” Cal replied, looking into his empty pot, ‘un a song beawt ale is like a steaum engun beawt steaum. Then he got up and said: ““Awm same as owd Waggin, awm a deawn broo singer, he used to start a singin a song ut top o’th Stanedge un finish it 1’ Grenfilt, un he wur singin o’th road deawn, its a huntin song this time.

On the thirtieth of October, just by break of day. To Ramsden in Cartworth came brave Thomas

Kaye ; Came a hunting the hare, with fifteen good hounds ; When breakfast was over they marched to the ground.

CHORUS.

With Minor, huzza, and huzza, With Minor and Farmer, and brave Thomas Kaye.

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They tried Greenhouse Heys, and Rough Close and Lane, And finding no game unto Holme back they came ; I When going up Hullocks brave Minor gave mouth, I Hark, to Minor, cried Thomas, she lies to the south.

Hallo, hark to Minor, halloo, hark away, The very next moment, dead! cried Thomas Kaye, Again for a fresh quest, they tried all round, No dog never gave it, no game could be found.

When they came to the Fotherlands, Minor again, He laid on a new quest and drove it amain ; He drove it across Heys and into the Clough, And there the brave sportsmen had pleasure enough.

The second halloo, and the hare seems to fly, The hounds they ran bravely and made a fine cry ; To the Fotherlands wood she made her retreat, Being closely pursued, she took not her seat.

She crossed the water and up Billy Green, And by the brave sportsmen the hunt was fair seen ; Just like a cloud shadow over Bradshaw Edge flew, Followed by brave Farmer, he was in full view.

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Into a plantation beyond Meltham Royd, She did but stop little, she soon was annoyed ; As swift as an ostrich Bradshaw Edge. she recross d, The hounds to their credit, the scent never lost.

Unto Holme she returned as swift as the wind, Where that brave old Farmer was not far behind ; There is Wonder and Lovely, and London so rare, With Comely and Beauty, these all viewed the hare.

With Juno, and Ancel, and bold Forester, There is Ringer and Swinger and Ransome

beside, But Minor is the best dog that ever was tried ; Farmer for swiftness, none can him excel.

Now Sol, in the west, his head he withdrew ; When the spirited huntsman his bugle horn blew, At Holme, the sport ended, at the close of the day, Where they all drank good health to brave Thomas Kaye.”

As soon as Cal had finished the song, and before he sat down, he said “‘ We'll keep the ball a rollin lads, un aw’ll co o’ Jack to gie us an owd un.” Jack got up and said “ Aw’ll try an owd song ut wur written bi’ a bishop.”

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cannot eat but little meat, My stomach is not good ; But sure, I think, that I can drink With him that wears a hood.

Though I go bare, take ye no care I am nothing a cold ;

I stuff my skin so full within Of jolly good ale and old.

Back and side go bare, go bare, Both foot and hand go cold ; But, belly, God sent thee good ale enough Whether it be new or old.

And Tib, my wife, that as her life Loveth well good ale to seek, Full oft, drinks she, ye still may see, The tears run down her cheek.”

‘Its noh use,” Jack said, scratching his head, ‘““awst ha toh gie o’er, aw furgetten Mary came in and said “ Are yoh beawn toh tarry o’ neet, its getten eleven o'clock.” Cal got up and said “‘ Lets lirp it, lads, un get to bed, for if th’ brids ur as wild toh morn as thi han bin to-day, wist ha’ a hard day’s drivin i’th front ov us.” ‘““Tgh, un th’ moor ull bi’ sum weet wi’ o’ this rain,’ Ned said, leading the way towards the door.

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ON THE STANEDGE MOORS.

WHEN the Stanedge moors are August brown, Away to the heights I go, Up old hill roads where the ruts are deep, To a hollow that few men. know. And there I lie in the windblown grass, _ Away from a world of strife; _ And I take mine ease where all things go In the simple ways of life.

I seek the bed where the plover sleeps And the wild red grouse are born, Where the white hares sit among the ling And wait for the hunting morn. And all fair sights that dreams can give, And sounds that enchant the ear, Come to my sleep on the dear old hills, And bring me the heavens near.

When the stars come out, I seek an inn, And sing with the moormen there Of the stream worn cloughs and birds that live Their life in the moorland air ; And I drink good ale from flagons deep, Where the barley fairies play ; And I thank my God I’ve found on earth The joy of a restful day.

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BUCKLEY.

AT one time it must have rained Buckleys over the Saddleworth hills, and no shower that ever fell between the top of Alphin and the top of Lurden has done more good. The Buckleys nourished the ground upon which they fell and kept all things clean, fresh, and in good heart. Generally, one can tell where they are and have been by the goodliness and the orderliness of things around, this is the hallmark of the family in Saddleworth and may it only fade away with the hills. I have not taken the trouble to go through the recent electoral schedules, but probably Buckley is the most prevalent surname in the parish. If you look through the Church Registers you will gather that the bygone Buckley was always wedding proud, he was a man who loved to wear a white waistcoat and to come laughing out of a Church door with a woman on his arm. The Buckleys were patriotic in a very true sense, they set out to keep England, the brave old England of their forefathers, and to this end they furnished posterity with children. The procreative activities of the family kept the old fashioned midwife in full work, they appear to have owned these motherly dames, or at least to have held them at first call by a kind retaining fee. The Buckley

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weddings were very simple affairs, no carriage and a pair of grey horses bore them to the church door, they went arm in arm on “shanks pony ”’ either to Rochdale or to Saddleworth Church. Before 1846, the date when marriages were first solemnized at Heights Chapel, most Friarmere couples walked over the hills to Rochdale Church. They were usually accompanied by a Wrigley, who lived at Castleshaw, this worthy was an indispensable part of an old Friarmere wedding. His knowledge of all things connected with the tying of the nuptial knot was held to be of the utmost importance to the contracting parties. In silk hat and gaily coloured waistcoat he led scores of happy couples down the Haugh Hey road to Rochdale Church. Wedding days were generally fixed to suit his convenience, as it was believed in the Castleshaw valley, that if Jamie Wrigley “ wur noan theer” the bridal pair “ wur noan gradely wed,” but were only living “tally.” A Buckley came swinging from the church door at Heights one fine Spring morning with his bride, a Harropdale lass, on one arm and a hound whelp, a wedding present, on the other. The bridegroom was a proud man as he came out at the church gates, and said: “ These ur boath reet bred fur huntin,” and hunting was a thing that mattered at that time. The young woman of to-day would open her eyes in astonishment, if she were to receive the kind of wedding presents that her great grandmother received. Old Hannah o’ Jane’s used to say: “ When aw wur wed mi’ aint Betty did rare un weel, fur hoo ga mi’ a hatch o’ chickens

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un a bobbin wheel, un mi aint Sarah did farrantly, fur ho ga mi’ a stone mop un a brewin tub.” “And what did folks give your husband ?” ‘“ His kinsfolk ga him nowt, but two or three naybors i’th lone ga him a fiddle, un a gamecock, un a deck o’ cards,’ she answered. The picture of an old time Saddleworth Buckley and a little old watermill invariably rise in my mind together, why I cannot understand, unless it has come through poring over Registers and old trade directories. A greasy, jovial, well fed figure, stroddling about a billygate and a rumbling old watermill seem very much like boon com- panions. I have got it into my estimate of half forgotten things, that a watermill was never geared — for turning out much work unless it was geared with a Buckley or two. They were strong, broad shouldered men and had as much horse power in limb and muscle as an ordinary steam engine. I should think that if any set of men looked upon the introduction of steam as unnecessary, it were the Buckleys. When they came face to face with work they took their coats off, rolled their shirt sleeves up, spat on their hands three times, and took a “run bur” at the job in front of them. I verily believe that the old saying “ put your shoulder to the wheel ”’ had its origin in a Buckley watermill at a time when the wheel was in a stub- born and refractory mood. They were never in favour of over work, a workman was sacked at one old Buckley mill because he was caught with beads of sweat standing out on his brow, it was against the rules and regulations of the place. At this

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mill, if the workmen did not begin to “™ bally ”’ (grow stout) when they were 40 years of age, they were sacked for failing to maintain the reputation of the firm. The Buckleys came from Buckley Hall, in the Rochdale district, and history shows them to have been men of sanctity and also men of valour and high renown. They had wealth, power, and influence, and their signatures are frequently met with upon important ancient rolls. There was a Geoffery de Bucklegh who witnessed one of the Stapleton grants to Saddleworth Church. Frater Johannes de Bucklegh is recorded as a monk of Stanlaw Abbey, in 1296. In 1265, a Geoffery de Bucklegh was slain at the battle of Evesham. Robert and Geoffery de Bucklegh are witnesses to one of the Cleg deeds in the reign of Stephen. Adam de Bucklegh attests in 1339, a Rochdale subsidy, 1332, included the names of John, Alicia, and Christiana de Bucklegh. The Poll Tax, 1380, contains the names of three Buckleghs. Thomas Buckley is a witness to a partition of lands in Shotland, 1507. Thomas Buckley, of Buckley, attests with Garthside, of Oakenrod, and Chadwyk, of Heley, in 1534, and in the same year he married Grace, daughter of Arthur Assheton, of Clegg. A few years later, Assheton became one of the joint owners of Friarmere, and perhaps, this union of the two families had something to do with the migration of a branch of the Buckley family to Saddleworth. In 1552, John Buckley occurs as a churchwarden at Saddleworth, and 1585, a Wiliam Buckley acquired a moiety of the Manor. of Quick for £200. In 1586, William Buckley,

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plaintiff, George Redyshe, and Edward Cuncliff, defendants, 16 messuages, 16 orchards, 100 acres of land, 100 acres of meadow, 200 acres of pasture, 100 acres of wood, 300 acres of furze and heath, 300 acres of moor, 300 acres of turbary and 200° acres of moss in Quycke and Sadylworthe. In 1607, Helen Buckley, of Grasscroft left one chest to her son Philip, and the rest of her goods to her five younger children. In 1640, Edmund Buckley, of Grasscroft, left his interest in one walk or fulling mill to his son John. In 1641, Richard Holt, of Ashworth, enfeoffed Edmund Buckley, of New Tame, with lands at Swainscroft (Linfitts). In 1693, John Buckley, of Grasscroft, left among other property, 4 cows, 2 bullocks, a twinter (a cow two winters’ old), 1 ox, 1 gelding, valued at £37 16s. 8d. Henry Buckley, of New Tame, in a deed dated 1694, settled his ‘‘ estates at New Tame and Hillbrighthorpe within Saddleworth,” this deed bears the arms of Buckley, of Buckley. The will of William Buckley, of Buckley, dated 1730, refers to his kinsman, John Buckley, of Grotten Head, a reference, which apart from other evidence may be taken to prove that our local Buckleys came orignially from the Rochdale district. The arms of the various branches of the family are practically the same. The old Lan- cashire bookplates of the Buckleys give arms which differ little if at all from the old Buckley pew plates in Heights Chapel. The late Mr. G. F. Buckley, of Linfitts House, once told the writer he had come to the con- clusion that all the Buckley families in Saddleworth

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had common relationship. The place name of Buckley still exists, but the old hall of the family was demolished many years ago. It was a Tudor building with projecting gables, porch, and tran- somed windows, there was also a private chapel attached to the hall, in which no doubt the Buckley warriors home from a successful raid confessed their “manifold sins and wickedness”? and obtained forgiveness. Waugh states, that in his day old stories and legends of the family were commonly told in the Rochdale district. They were chiefly illustrative of the fighting character of the Buckleys, of Buckley. He refers to an old folk song, which embodied the exploits of a Buckley who over ran the countryside, which a band of retainers composed of “ the starkest lads that ever Rachta bred.” There is the sculptured figure of a mailed Buckley warrior in the chantry at Roch- dale Church. Twenty Saddleworth Buckleys signed the protestation in 1641, and from that date they have come down local history, signing everything, from a temperance pledge to an election address. I have seen somewhere, an indenture of apprenticeship to handloom weaving, which was signed by a Buckley with about a quart of ink. With the ecclesiastical blood of the Dean of Whalley running through the breed, it is only natural that the Buckleys should make good parsons. The Rev. John Buckley, one of the worthiest of the many worthy men who have preached from Saddleworth pulpits, was the parson at Heights Chapel from 1779 to 1835. During his incumbency, Friarmere was

6

‘wick ”

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with devils, boggarts, and witches. They were in every hamlet, shippon, and lane. Conversations like the following were common among old farmers when they met in the fields and the inn corners. Wot hasto fresh, Jamie ? ”’ ‘“ Nay, nowt, Joe, its th’ owd same op eaur road, has theau nowt ?”’ ‘““ Aw’ve a ceaw yonder uts bin witched aw think, hoo cud hardly crapple eaut o’th shippon ut wayterin time.” ‘““Theau better see Parson Buckley as soon as theau con, fur aw yerd he kilt a greyt boggart i’ owd Slapper’s barn tother neet.” un ther wur a smell o’ brimstun when th’ parson mully crushed it. These boggarts breed sumwheer mon, ther soh thick on.” The good parson must have had rare sport for

he was the most fearless and successful ‘* devil

catcher’? who ever. hunted Friarmere. Some staunch Churchmen believed that buying cows from Methody farmers would bring witches into their shippons. An old mooredge farmer once went down to the village to buy some ducks. He had not kept any before and was not very clear about them. ‘* Aw guess theau’ll gallontee um to bi’ o’ poots,”’ the farmer said. ‘“Igh, thi’re o’ poots,”’ replied the duck keeper. ‘“* Thi dunnot look soh fresh abeaut ther coms.” ‘* Nowe, thi’ve bin heytin drafi.”’ dosto co’ th’ cock duck?” asked the farmer. wi th’ lung tail,” replied the other.

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When the price and everything had been satisfactorily arranged, the farmer said: ‘*'Whoa’s bred um ?”’ Owd Jim o’th Barnheause,”’ replied the other. ‘“Tsn’t he a greyt Methody ?” asked the farmer. ‘““Tgh, he is.” ‘““Theau mun keep thi ducks then,” the farmer said, turning to leave the yard, “‘awm havin noh Methody ducks 7 my cote breeding o’ macks 0’ boggarts.”’ Parson Buckley’s boggart hunting weapons were a drop of good whisky, a long impressive prayer and an appropriate hymn. When a boggart or devil haunting an old lane had become troublesome, Buckley would preach in the lane to a scared and trembling congregation. After this, people took courage, for it was believed that no devil dare enter a lane from which it had been expelled by the parson. It was the same when a witch was worry- ing the life out of an old farmer, spoiling his milk, and his home-made cheese, and filling his shippon with ailing cattle. The Rev. John Buckley was sent for, and who can say how oiten he left his home, at Friar Lodge, at night and groped his way to some lonely and troubled farmstead. All done out of pure kindliness that he might “ lay ’’ some ‘elleat ov a witch” and give the farmer and his wife a night’s rest. A parson in an old shippon reading the Bible by candlelight in order to cure an ailing cow would make a strange sight to our eyes. I cannot think that Buckley believed in the old superstitions of the countryside, but his parishioners did, and no doubt he felt it his duty

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to help them in the only way they believed to be effectual. In his time he must have suppressed scores of Friarmere boggarts. The Buckleys have made money in Saddleworth, their way has been through clover, and they have signalised the fact by giving to the parishioner with both hands. They saw clearly that men could not take money with them when they died, and it 1s well that some people cannot, for if they did it would only melt. The Buckleys have given more money away than any other Saddleworth family. Their gifts have been largely in the creation and aid of religious and educational institutions. The older end of Saddleworth folks owe it to the Buckleys that they can read and write. One may - also ask where would have they found sitting room in churches and chapels, and how many godly churchwardens would have gone through life just as ordinary persons. The Buckleys, of Green- field, in 1876, built the church of St. Mary’s, and in 1884, they built the present schools at Road End. Their munifience has not been confined to the “‘ Lowerend,” for in 1866, The Misses Buckley, of Holly Ville, built the Independent Chapel, at Delph. In 1870, the Buckleys, of Linfitts, defrayed the cost of the Friarmere National Schools at Hill End. The Buckleys, of Carrhill, in 1865-6, built the British Schools at Roughtown, and in 1869, Lydgate School was rebuilt by the trustees of Sir Edmund Buckley. In lesser, and not generally known benefactions, the Buckleys have kept the family name good. They have given right and left and kept their generosity from the public eye.

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For generations they have had a strong grip on the staple trade of the district and have made much of their money out of the manufacture of cloth and other textile fabrics. In 1814 there were James and John Buckley, Hollingreave; John Buckley, Quick Edge ; John Buckley, Broadhead ; Joseph Buckley, Runninghill ; and Philip Buckley, Shaws, to these may be added, in 1822, John Buckley, Little Cote Mill; Edmund Buckley, Lumb Mill ; Buckley & Co., Church Bank Mill; Buckley & Co., Brownhill Bridge; Robert Buckley, Clough Mill; and Thomas Buckley, Wellfield. In 1836, new names appear, Buckley and Lawton, Stubb- ing; John Buckley, Holehouse ; Joseph Buckley, Thurston Clough ; James Buckley, Shawhall Bank ; Henry Buckley, Sunfield; James Buckley, Husteads ; Joseph Buckley, Saddleworth Fold ; and John Bramley Buckley, dyers and _ fullers, Uppermill. The cotton spinners were John Buckley, Shelderslow; John Buckley, Carrhill ; James Buckley, Quick Edge; Robert Buckley, Quick View ; Nathaniel Buckley & Sons, Carrhill ; and Richard & Frederick Buckley, Greenfield. The Buckleys have been too busy carding and spinning to waste much time over literary matters. They had other and better uses for paper than covering it with prose and verse. They used their writing materials wisely and for the purpose of making out invoices and totalling up the profits at the week end. Ii the literary man totals any- thing up it is usually the money he owes and the few friends that he can borrow from at a high rate of interest.

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There was a Joseph Buckley, on the “ Sheif- side,’ with a natural wit and a facility for rhyming which were above the common order. I am not aware that he ever committed the indis- cretion of putting anything into print, what little is known of his efforts are fragments of verse occasionally heard from the tongues of his old surviving friends. Joe was good at off hand composition, and one time, at a funeral, he obliged an uncle with an impromptu epitath. When the tea was over at the funeral house, Joe and the rest of the mourners were seated round the fire discussing family matters. Among the number was an uncle who had been born tired and had managed to scrape through life in a notoriously lazy fashion. During the conversation the uncle said very solemnly : ‘* Joe, aw want thi toh doh summat fur me, lad.” What is it, uncle ?”” Joe asked kindly. Aw want thi toh write a nice verse toh put op o’ mi’ gravestone when aw dee,” the uncle replied impressively. “Hay, do write one, Joe, for my sake,” one of his aunts said pleadingly. “Toh, un fur th’ sake o’ thi deeud gronmother,”’ another aunt cut in. As Joe made no reply, his aunt Eliza placed her hand gently upon his shoulder and said persuasively ‘Mack a verse, Joe, fur th’ thi uncle Ben, fur th’ sake o’ thi aint Liza, that’s a good lad, un mack it abeaut angels wi’ wings on un sich Joe, who was then a young man, at length

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yielded to their wishes and looking thoughtfully into the fire for a moment, said : ‘“ Aw composed a verse just neaw.”’ Theau’ll be a parson ut th’ Heygth’s Chapel yet, Joe,” his uncle said approvingly. “ Let’s yer thi recite it lad.” Everybody bi’ as quiet as a meause,”’ his aunt Kliza said. Joe pushed his chair back and began in low solemn tones : ‘ Beneath this stone in peace doth sleep.” ‘“ Hay, that’s beautiful,” the uncle interrupted, ‘its fere heavenly, it is fur shure, goh on, Joe, lad.”’ the good Lord con yer thi he’ll be fere set op,’ one of his aunts said. ‘“ Aw wish his gronmother cud yer him, hoo’d bi’ rare un preaud o’ eaur Joe,” his aunt Eliza said, adding, know he'll mack mi’ skrike afore he’s done, but goh on lad.” Joe cleared his throat and began again, slowly and impressively :

‘* Beneath this stone, in peace doth sleep, One who himself could never keep ; May the Lord deem it a wise discretion, Not to wake him at the resurrection.”’

Instantly all was clamour and protest, in the midst of which, Joe made his escape from the house. ‘“The young devilskin,” the uncle rapped out. ‘He'll ha toh goh toh ell un o’th foak on th’ Freermere connot stop him.” Needless to say, the order for the epitath was

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immediately cancelled and the uncle never forgave his rhyming nephew. He and a friend were once going up the road to Grains Bar, when they noticed in front of them a man who was very bowlegged. ‘Yond mon,” Joe said, “ud ha a job toh stop a pig wi’ yond legs.”’ ‘“ Well theau knows,” the friend replied, “ he is as God made him.” ‘Tf that’s soh, aw shud think ut God shames wi his wark,” Joe said quietly. There is a story, which has been often told, but will bear telling again, because it serves to show the outspoken side of Joe’s personality. A valued friend of his was lying seriously ill at Slackcote and Joe called to see him. “Now,” said the sick man’s wife, “ you must not speak to him, Joe, for the doctor’s orders are that he must be kept very quiet.” ‘‘ Aw winnot doh,” Joe said, as they ascended the stairs. He was ushered into the sick room and the wife went out and left him sitting at the bedside. After a long silence, the sick friend wearily turned his eyes towards Joe and said in a feeble broken voice : ‘* Wot dosto think abeaut me, Joe ?”’ Joe looked at him steadily for a minute and then said quietly: ‘‘ Aw think if theau doesn’t dee soon theau’ll mack a dommed feaw corpse.”’ One day he went into an inn at Shaw and ordered a pint of ale, which he found rather weak and unpalatable. dosto co this ?”’ he asked the landlord.

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co it ale,” the other replied, “ wot does theau co it?” Aw co it sunbrunt wayter,”’ Joe answered. One evening, at the King’s Arms at Grains, in a dispute with a ‘“‘Lowerender,” Joe said: ‘Yoh con awlus tell a Grenfilt mon if yoh’ll look under his cap.” ‘* Heaw’s that, owd mon ?”’ someone asked. ‘““Weh,”’ Joe replied, “a gradely greaund groon un has awlus a reawnt boad petch ut top ov his yed.”’ ‘* Wot’s it wi’ ?” Pipp asked. ‘Its wi carryin a penny pie under his cap ut his wark to keep it warm wol dinner time,” Joe answered. The Buckleys are an inventive family and one of them discovered an infallible way of exterminating weeds from a garden. One night at an old ale- house in Greenfield he was generous enough to make the discovery over for the public benefit. There had been a flower show that day at Upper- mill and a party of exhibitors called at the inn on their way home. They began, as_ gardeners generally do, talking very loud and very learnedly about greenhouse plants, when one of the party said have a great deal of trouble with weeds. They have destroyed a bed of Salvia Officinalis and a bed of Mentha Pulegium.”’ ‘’ Aw con shift weeds eaut o’ onny garden, owd mon, fur ever,’ Buckley interrupted. “I do not think so,” one of the gardeners replied curtly. bet thi a quart o’ ale schusheaw,” Buckley said determindedly.

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‘“No,” replied a second gardener, “ but if you will tell us how you manage it I will pay for you the best glass of ale in the house.”’ on, owd mon,’ Buckley said, and ordered a glass of “Old Tom.” The landlord brought it in and when the man had paid for it, Buckley said, “‘ Good health, owd mon.” ‘“Good health,’”’ returned the other, ‘‘and now for your effectual treatment of weeds.”’ ** Weh,” began Buckley, “when aw wur livin tord th’ Dobcross aw’d a little garden i’th front o’th heause un ther wur never nobedy wur bothert wil weeds nur aw wur, but aw cured um i’ one day.”’ “What did you do?” inquired several of the gardeners in one breath, eager to learn the secret of the successful treatment. I ‘“Aw gate abeaut twenty yards o’th best York- shire flags un aw flagged mi’ garden fro end toh side un then aw cemented th’ joints, un thers never bin a weed in theer fro that day toh this,” Buckley replied convincingly. do the trains run to Ashton?” one of the gardeners said, rising to his feet. ‘Its about time we went towards the station,” another said, as they began to file out of the room. ““Thers nowt like sum good flags fur curin weeds,” Buckley said, as they were going out, but no one ventured to reply. I ‘* Heaw’s is it thert soh boad (bald), owd mon ? ”’ Yepper asked a Buckley one night on the Church side.

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‘ Aw bin worchin this week wheer its bin very cowd,” Buckley replied. ‘Weh, what’s that toh do with it?’ Yepper asked. Weh, dosto see, one day aw lorgate mi’ pocket napkin un aw kept rivin lumps o’ yure (hair) off mi’ yed toh wipe mi’ nose on.’ The arms of the Buckleys, of Buckley, are: Gua chevron, Sa between three bulls’ heads, armed proper—crest on a wreath—a bull’s head armed proper—motto: Nec Timere Nec Timede—neither rash nor timid. Ben o’ Ben’s o’ Martha’s, who was a Buckley, in explanation of the family motto, once said: “‘ My breed’s rash ut nowt nobbut ut good flesh puddins, un thi’re feart o’ nowt nobbut 0’ paying brass un kussin wimmen.” I Family arms form a common source of our inn names, not merely in the form of the family name, as Farrer’s Arms, Dysart Arms, etc., but in the form of some part of a family’s heraldic device. The Bull’s Head Inns at Delph, Grains, Moorside, Ogden and other places in and around Oldham and Rochdale were, no doubt, so called from the bull’s head of the Buckley crest. Probably some of them were built by Buckleys, who imposed their crest on the signboard and what a strong robust name it is for It makes one think of good eating and good drinking. Of rump steaks frizzling over slow fires in old whitewashed kitchens, of sunburnt farmers in their shirt sleeves drinking behind old tables in “‘drooty’’ weather and of red faced teamers drawing their horses up at the inn door, hearty men who only drink once at a

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pint of ale, crack their whips and go whistling on their way. The prefix “buck” is derived from the male of a fallow door and “ley” is from a pasture. The name thus coming from a homestead standing in or near a deer pasture. The fact that deer are recorded as common in the Rochdale district, about the 13th century, supports the derivation. The bull’s head on the arms may be an ancient transition from a buck’s head.

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A HAUNTING MORN.

THE winter sun is o’er the Chew, The snow flecked moors adorning The frosty air and cloudless sky, Proclaim a hunting morning. Then let’s away by Shepherd’s Green, And leave the dales behind us ; If dull old Care seeks us to-day, He’ll have a job to find us.

The white hares sit by Rimmon Clough, They wonder what we’re doing ; They’re waiting for these merry hounds, So let’s be up and going. The moorland soon shall feel our feet, Through ling and bracken glowing, And glen and hollow sound again With hunting cheers o’erflowing.

And when the day shall shut her eye "Neath golden lashes burning, We'll take the old moor road again To rest and feast returning. The night shall bring the rousing song, The laughter and the chorus ; And may old Time be kind and drive The hours slowly o’er us.

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DOBCROSS.

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AN IMPRESSION.

I RECALL the time when I looked upon Delph as the loveliest village in England. To my mind, this was a matter beyond all contention, Delph’s place as a village was definitely and inmovably fixed. I confess now, and the confession reduces my early opinion to an absurdity, that in those days, my knowledge of English villages was con- fined to Junction in one direction and Uppermill in another. I had, of course, heard of Greenfield, but had never set foot in that perilous region. I had heard old handloom weavers talk at night round Friarmere hearthstones, and out of that talk there had come things which set my hair on end. I held a belief, then common among young ‘“Topend” folk, that Greenfield was a country peopled by savage tribesmen. It was said, that they massacred each other, drank “ fire water ”’ (which a later knowledge of things has proved to be good whisky), practised polyamy, stoned Friarmere hounds to death, and_barbarously scalped every unfortunate “ Topender”’ who fell into their hands. Since those days I have found out how far I had been misled by my “ Topend ” forefathers, for Greenfield 1s to me a land of many friends and many kindnesses.

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To return to Delph. I loved that dear old village in my boyish way for its hound dogs, its hiding places at “ and above all, for its “traycle”’ tofiy. There was a time then in a boy’s hfe, (he smokes cigarettes now), when he used to flatten his nose against the old fashioned shop windows and mentally calculate how soon he could devour the toffy elephants, and the parkin pigs, with currant eyes, which were dis- played within. With that intensity one used to gaze at a “ goodstuff’? donkey in an old shop window and long to bite its head off at the first bite. It is generally true, that the further old Time earries us away from something which we have loved and the lovelier the memory of that some- thing becomes. Thus bygone Delph comes back to me with the lights about it like those which he upon meadowlands in June, warmth, mellow- ness, colour, and the promise of plenty. I have a memory of old Delph which I do not wish to lose. It is haytime and the hot sweltering sunshine lies across the quaint old street. It is broken by the shadow of a high gloomy building, called The Ware- house, which stood on the site of the present Bank. Three lusty old villagers are sitting at the head of the Terrace steps deeply interested in their game of “nine pots and nine stones.” A row of brown sun tanned haymakers are lolling lazily on They have a jug of ale and a “tot” glass. Another set of harvesters are pikelin ’’ hay into the old barn at the end of the Swan Inn. Two hound dogs are stretched out

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full length on “ Nutter and a third les in the middle of the street. Village mothers sit with their sewing in the cool of their doorways. The doors of the little shops are open and here and there one can see a fat old shopkeeper fast asleep behind the counter and hear him snoring four doors away. A homely warm heartedness and a spirit of good neighbourship shaped the village life in those days. These things may exist to-day, but they are, or appear to be, less observable to the passer by. Delph has progressed and is well abreast of the times. Any lad over eight years of age can give you the age, weight, and career of a thousand footballers with remarkable ease and certainty. This is one of the dispensations under the law of progress. It is a common saying that changes are not always for the best and when they come decidedly for the worse, they serve to make us remember all the more distinctly the better things which they have overthrown. I am not, how- ever, here concerned with what men and women are now doing in Delph under modern conditions. of life. What I have got to say touches the village scenery and also its architecture, in neither of these values, is Delph so interesting as it was some years ago. It was never within living memory a well timbered district, but, was in this respect. much better off than it 1s to-day. It may be a matter of opinion, but mine is, that nothing con- tributes so much to the beauty of a district as woodland and timbered hedges. Who, that has ever tramped down that delightful road from Rishworth to Ripponden in early spring or summer

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can ever forget it. It is mainly its overhanging woods which make Ripponden the loveliest in- dustrial village within easy access of Saddleworth. Stripped of its woodland, the village would be as bare as a barn wall. I have seen this day, close to Delph, a fine vigorous healthy ash tree cut _down to a mere stump, a hedgerow tree standing 50 yards away from any building, nor was it in any sense an obstruction. It was destroyed simply because the farmer or the landlord, or both, were too greedy and too sordid to spend a shilling on timber to repair a fence, and unfortunately this is the spirit which prevails locally. The stately poplars which followed the curves of the river from New Delph nearly to Shore Mill were cut down and not a tree planted to replace them. I have heard old people say, that at one time this line of poplars ran through the village and up the stream to Song Mill. A few decades back the plantation or copse behind the old vicarage on Hill End was one thick mass of greenery. There were five or six tall sycamores high up on the side of Knott Hill, which were probably the last survivors of a mountain copse. There were here and there hawthorn hedges in blossom time white with ‘““summer snow,” and affording a nesting haunt and a refuge for song birds. It 1s a poor dreary locality and there are many such in Saddleworth where a throstle has to stand on a stone wall while it sings its springtime song. Neglect has destroyed some of the hedges, while others have been cut down by some fool armed with an axe, until only a few blackened stumps remain. There are place

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names quite near to the village, Markwood, Paddy Wood, Ainley Wood, and Woodmans, now practically treeless areas, which one must regard as evidence of the ancient timbered state of the district. Our forefathers were in this respect worthier men than their descendants appear to be. They recognized and appreciated the scenic and the sheltering values of timber and left to us an example which to our discredit we have not followed. The modern local conception of what scenery is, may be seen in the black and hideous wall of filth which rises from the green levels of the meadows near Song Mill. At the present time, Delph is one of the drabest and coldest looking villages that a man can find in a week’s walk, yet lying at the immediate feet of two hills it occupies an exceptional natural site. Where is there a village with such singularly fine possibilities for scenic beauty all of which are disregarded, posterity may awake to the fact, and having deservedly damned its ancestry may act upon the awakening. Why not plant trees in the square at Delph, say from the old Pack Horse Inn to the Bank. Each tree could be named after some illustrious ‘ Co-oper,”’ which would serve to make the villagers watch over its growth with an almost reverent interest. That Saddleworth timber was in bygone years cut down for the money that was in it is suggested by the following record. It is, I think, an isolated one and, therefore, does not give the idea of its being the general practise :— I I “1767, May 15. Sale of Timber at Lane Head in Saddleworth, Consisting of 280 Oaks, mostly

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proper for Building, together with several Ashes, Alders and _ Birches. Further particulars apply to John Taylor with Joseph Pickford, Esq., at Royton.” The village has suffered much by the demolition of its old architectural features. Perhaps in some instances demolition was necessary, in others the reason might almost be termed vandalism. Things which took the eye and interested the stranger have vanished for ever, to be succeeded by a rather nauseating formality. One of the last of the arresting bits of Delph to go was the fine broad fight of steps which led up to the Packhorse Inn. These steps extended along the entire front of the building and formed one of the most remarkable approaches to an inn or ordinary dwelling that it has ever been my lot to see. There are cathedrals with less substantial and dignified approaches. Approach steps to cottage and other doors appear to have been at one time a strong and _ insistent architectural feature of the industrial village and Delph was not without its examples. Change has ripped the village badly, and among things which it has crushed out of existence was the Terrace, one of the most notable erections of its kind in Saddleworth. The all important considera- tion of space forbids reference to the expansion of the social, political, and religious interests of the village. I have written expansion, but religiously Delph may have contracted a little as one sacred building has just been closed. It is told on its inscription stone, that the Lord built it and if this is true it must have turned out a bad

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speculation. If the building comes into the market the devil will probably buy it and turn it into a cinema house. I set out to write about Dobcross and having lingered in Delph, I apologise to the reader and hurry on. Dobcross should be written about for it is such a worthy place, it claims recognition on many grounds, all of which are highly creditable to the village. JI am uncertain upon many things, but there is one thing about which I am as certain as sunrise, which is, that it will take a much abler pen than mine to do even half justice to old Dobcross. There is no village in Saddleworth with anything like its charm, if there is one else- where, I mean an industrial village, 1t is worth a long pilgrimage on foot. Dobcross is a village with no pretentions to be anything else, it has no swagger airs, no affectation, and no assumptions of superiority. It has not progressed as progress is understood or misunderstood by the modern industrial village, it remains a village in the oldest and homeliest sense of the term. If men and women who lived in Dobcross a hundred years ago could come back and walk up its old street again they would find things much as they leit them. Nothing changed but the generation, the parochial rates and the price of beef, and other commodities. Delph is not a village, neither is Uppermill, in the sense that Dobcross is. They are by way of contrast, little boroughs, important places, self invested with something which is supposed to be akin to the majesty of the legally constituted borough. All things which are only

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superficial Dobcross holds at arms length, thus one of the strong notes of the village is its genuineness. It is not certain what Dobcross means. The late John Hirst, of Ladcastle, in a note upon the subject, says, with dogmatic finality, that its derivation easy to account for.” He held that the name was merely a modern imposition substituting the earlier name of Woods. He, however, fails to give the statement that historical support which is necessary to its acceptance. The fact that the village was called Dobcross in 1722 seems to suggest that Mr. Hirst misapplied the word modern. He states further, that Dobs Cross was once the name on the stamp used at the Post Office and that in his time it was altered to its present form. This is no proof that Dobs Cross was the true name. The parish registers and the old papers containing reference to the village give the name in its current form, if there is an exception I have overlooked it. It is not improbable that Dobs Cross was an error on the part of the Postal authorities, which was ultimately discovered and corrected. Mr. Hirst saw, as other men see, the four roads which run into the Square at the head of the village and from this he concluded that the prefix “Dob” could come from no other source but “‘ little horses.””’ They would cross each other’s path in the Square, hence Dobcross, the crossing of the Dobs. If I have an alternative theory to offer, it is that the suffix points to an old village cross. Anciently, every village had its cross which formed a common meeting place for the villagers, a centre to which all old customs, public functions and

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activities gravitated. In places where no church existed, the cross served as a kind of pulpit for visiting preachers. What “Dob” means I am almost afraid to hazard a guess. One can suggest a change in the prefix of the village name which a child would understand. There are two stores in Dobcross, one “ yollow”’ and the other “ that is Liberal and Conservative, and what they think of each other is too sacred to be expressed in words. Why not suppress “Dob” and sub- stitute “‘ Co-op.” thus ‘‘ Co-opcross,” or the cross of the “Co-ops.” This name would serve to convey to posterity a rather piquant element of current village life. There is another thing which is worth considering, the village is built in the form of a cross, does this suggest a derivation ? The upward climbing ‘street forms the principal shaft, and Platt Lane and the road called Sugar Lane the horizontal arms. Was this design carefully thought out and prepared by the originators of Dobcross, or has the village grown by chance to its present crucifixal form. The latter is probably the truth, as there is no proof that its founders knew anything about the crucifixion, nor would they, to judge from modern impressions, be any worse off on that account. At least, it can be said that there are a great many people who are no better for all their knowledge of that important Biblical event. That the village forefathers were wise in many ways can be clearly proved. They were men of foresight to whom all and every generation of Dobcross folks must feel under an ever widening obligation. These far

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sighted men saw that the hillsides lay all day long in the sunshine and in the sweep of clean winds. It was one of earth’s goodly places in which to rear dwellings for humans and shippons for cattle. One thinks that they began to build Dobcross in summer weather with good stone, well “ yured”’ mortar and sound native grown oak, they built their houses generously, not just for themselves and their own generation, but for men and women who were to come after them and for all time. The walls are still fairly straight, which proves that there was little ale “supped” on the scaffolding during their erection. There are scores of old Saddleworth houses strongly built, but with crooked fronts and gable ends, they were built by men who had often more weight of home brewed ale on the scaffold timber than weight of stone and mortar. There are houses about our hillsides that no total abstainer, would live in if he knew how much ale had been drunk during their rearing. One thing Dobcross men saw, often unseen to-day, was that the quick sloping ground made for good drainage and that cleanliness which is inbred in most Saddleworth folks. A man going through the village in the dark has no fear of splashing knee deep through road pools or pitching headlong into roadside middens. The village ancients must also have foreseen the motor age, and what they did keeps the roadway free from this dangerous kind of traffic. It is so steep that the touring motorist rarely uses it. If one should chance to go down past the Nudger Inn it 1s always in orderly fashion, slow as a “ berrin”’ and with great respect

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for the villagers and his own neck. He crawls through Dobcross and crashes through Delph and Uppermill. One of the most evident and loveable things about Dobcross is its old fashioned homeliness. A homeliness which is expressed by its exteriors and doubly expressed by its interiors, a place where the stranger feels that every door is wide open to him and that there are kindly folks on each hand. The things, which the village has loved through the ages, it still keeps very close to its heart and gives generously with the object of shaping the life of the young villager. The years have passed slowly and leisurely in Dobcross, it has taken its time over things like an old Friarmere yoeman buying a cow, or a Diggle bachelor setting out on a twenty years’ courtship. The jerry builder and the house speculator have kept their unclean hands off the village. Within late years a few modern cottages have been reared, but they are so callously formal that they only serve to make one love all the more the picturesque quaintness of the older buildings. There is a modern public building, a kind of branch store halfway up the village, which is easily the ugliest erection in the district. It strikes one note brazenly loud, discordant, and out of place. If those responsible for its design meant to insult Dobcross, they have good reason to be satisfied with their work. I confess that I have not seen much of the world, but I know of no industrial village scene so fine as that which can be seen looking up Dobcross on a spring morning, or indeed at any time. Stand in

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the roadway above the Woolpack Inn and if you do not see something which is truly exceptional, I have looked wrongly and with strange eyes. The scene is not merely varied and pretty it is wonderfully eloquent of old village life archi- tecturally expressed. Stone walls cannot be made to say more or say it better, unfortunately, it is not possible to get all the quaint touches into one picture, but where is there such a charming neigh- bourly confusion of gables, roofs, and chimneys. No sameness, no formality, there are scarcely two houses alike and particularly on the left, some are three storeys high, others two, and they seem to scramble over each other up the hill, roof over roof, and gable over gable, with the most delightful carelessness. Here and there yoeman houses stand up, but not to shame their humbler neigh- bours, or intrude upon the charm of the picture. In odd places a well worn flight of stone steps climbs a house wall to a little door almost under the “yezzins.” High walled gardens jut out to the clean yellow roadway and trees fling their green arms lovingly about the grey stone gables, while over all there lies an atmosphere of content and homely respectability. All that is worth seeing in Dobcross cannot be seen by just looking up the village, one must get round into the backways among the curiously grouped houses. They were built in a quaint age that loved architectural irregularities, strange nooks and corners, doorways halfway up high gables and narrow twisted passages between the buildings. These narrow ginnels and giddle-gaddles, as they

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are called, belong to the packhorse period in the old villages. A horse could go through them and take its burden right to the door of the house, the. neighbour women could whisper village gossip to each other across the narrow streetway and not step off their own doorstones. A very fine example of the packhorse street 1s to be seen in the Plonks at Marsden. The houses in Dobcross are chiefly of the long mullioned window type, consequently they offer (if it were ever dreamt of) little room for decorative effects. The modern house window is used to impress the passer by that a “ some- body” lives there. A loud, highly coloured ornament stands between the lace curtains which is intended to proclaim the magnificence of the interior. There are no “somebodies” in Dob- cross, the houses were built to live in and in a simple homely fashion. The shops are quaint little affairs, quite in keeping with the character of the village. If an up to date confectioner began business there in the large plate glass window style, he would go to the dogs ina month. Iced and dainty coloured confectionery “ purryment un sippersauces ” make no appeal in Dobcross, the villagers sit down to simple English fare and the things they buy consistently are beef and ale. The women buy the former and the men, of course, the latter, not that they are gluttons, or drinkers, but it was the fare of their fathers and they hold on to it. If you go through the village on any day in the week you will see no one about save women, either entering or leaving a butcher’s shop, and if there is a place in Saddleworth where one would be

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likely to find good beef dripping and “ brewis ”’ at bedtime it is in Dobcross. You will have to go a long “ treaunce”’ to find a place where women keep better draughts under their ovens or where men know more about the setting of an oven. Sometimes, to exercise their inventiveness, the * setters ’’ will do a little experimental work which, it must be admitted, is not always a success. There is a story of a range which, owing to defective draught, was reset. Ale came on the job in quarts and when the baking day came round the woman had to go up the chimney to place the loaves into the oven. It was in Dobcross where the stones of a garden wall were tied together with bits of string to prevent the wall from “ shutterin ”’ down. There is always a dreamy old world calm about the village thoroughfares, even at the week ends one rarely finds more than half a dozen people about. Dobcross has no swagger roads, no places for parade, if it had, they would probably go un- used. The “ toff” in a new suit and the young woman in a new hat, to their annoyance, pass through the village unseen. Still there are things which the villager likes to see, he will turn out even in a rain storm to look at a “ bandchap,” a hound ‘“ whelp,” a temperance lecturer and a good beef cow, and no one has a quicker eye for the choice cuts. No one in Saddleworth, or out of it, who has ever had a steak from the grid in Dobcross needs to ask why the villagers have red necks. In hamlets and villages that are dead,

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the past comes back to one with tears, sighs, and regrets, for broken gables, bare, roofless walls, empty windowless mullions, old garden spaces grass grown and tangled with weeds with all the tragedy of human associations about them are the sorrow places of earth, even more so than graveyards. It is a wonderful past that comes back to one in old Dobcross, a past that is warm -and throbbing with life and colour. One can dream day dreams there that never come to one elsewhere in Saddleworth. The atmosphere of bygone days lingers about the weathered gables and overcomes one like a draught of old wine drawn from the wood. You can sit in the King’s Head on a drowsy summer afternoon and looking out across the sunlit Square see the past unroll itself before you at will. You can see the village fair of ninety years ago come back into the Square again, the rows of little “ stondins ” covered with coloured linen and heaped up with curls of ginger- bread and brown nuts. A good humoured crowd of men and women laugh and jostle each other between the “stondins.”” A showman blows an enormous trumpet and a gorgeously dressed clown amuses a gaping throng. A mountebank in red tights performs antics with a long pole. A wandering fiddler comes scraping away up the road with children dancing before him. A half a dozen quacks are noisily advertising their wares and trying to shout each other down. A ballad

singer wanders among the crowd singing the Battle of the Nile.

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was in the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-eight That Lord Nelson he did engage the famous French fleet, British sailors fought lke lions at the battle of the Nile.” I

There is a leg of mutton tied at the top of a long upright greasy pole and the man who can climb up and secure it claims it as his prize. Men are trying their utmost, they get halfway up and slip down again, while the crowd laughs and encourages them to further efforts. Scenes flow into each other, it is Dobcross Wakes in the olden time, the rush carts are drawn up in the Square and scores of gaily festooned garlands are scattered among the crowd. Men and women are admiring the silver tankards, hunting horns, and other decora- tions on the rush cart sheet. The men of the village inside the stout ropes are lifting the long ‘“stangs ”’ above their heads and swaying across the road. Flutes and kettle drums are merrily going and ten men, in white shirts and blue knee breeches, are dancing to the tune. Across the Square there is a row of men who in turn are grin- ning through a horse collar for a prize of a new hat. A big ring is formed, a dozen men are stripped to the waist, each steps into the middle of the ring and tries to crack the great rushcart whip, the winner will get two shillings. A sailor, who had fought with Nelson at Trafalgar, and a soldier, who had fought under Wellington at Salamanca, are the referees. A man stands up under the branch

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of a tree on the top of a rushcart. He places both hands to his mouth and shouts “ This rushcart comes-fro th’ Tomewayter, it cares fur nobody nawt its mester un he’s noan here. God Save the King, hip, hip, hip, hurra.”” A hundred voices repeat the hip, hip. A man stands up on another rushcart, waves his cap and then shouts the nominy with the exception that “ Platt Lone ” is used in the place of “ Tomewayter.” It is received with a volley of hips. The men are caper- ing and dancing inside the “ stangs”’ with which they pull the rushcart along the road, the flutes and drums are playing louder than ever. The hips, hips, shake the old buildings and men are going among the crowd “ burlin” out the Wakes ale from great pitchers. There is a sack race down the “‘fowd” and you lean towards the window to get a better view. Just then a man comes into the taproom with a basket on his arm, he is selling fried fish, the spell is broken, the present comes back in all its hard intensity. Go to Dob- cross if you wish to know what the old inns of England were like a hundred years ago. At one time it must have been the warmest village in Saddleworth, for it was full of good homely inns and inns give warmth to a district. The authorities are now closing them and the parish grows colder, drearier, and more winterly every year. There are only three inns now in Dobcross and their exteriors have almost acquired a grave teetotal aspect. Ii there were no signboards on their walls they would be taken for old fashioned prayer meeting houses. They look like the three collects

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for the first, second and third Sundays after Epiphany. The ancient alehouses of Dobcross were apparently of an educational character. Take note of the following :— Oct. 23rd, 1784. A debate at the Conversational Society held at the house of Benjamin Buckley’s, White Lion Inn, Dobcross. Whether is too fond an indulgence or too severe usage of children productive of the worse consequences. How the Dobcross fathers settled this grave and momentous question is not recorded, but no doubt a great deal would depend upon the condition of the debaters at the time the vote was taken, possibly it ended in a free fight. About 1816, the villagers conferred a high honour upon the Iron Duke, they patriotically called an alehouse the Duke of Wellington. It was kept by Ben Wrigley and in the same year Joseph Wrigley kept the Croppers’ Inn and John Wrigley the King’s Head, all at Dobcross. The Wellington would be the inn where the old village warriors would sit in the evening, taking snuff, smoking from long church- warden pipes and fighting their battles over again. What goodly, helpful men those bygone Wrigleys were to the village, all down the generations I find the breed with their names on its inn signboards. They loved to see the surname Wrigley inscribed on a board in the goodly company of ale and porter. The inn, at that time, was not merely a drinking place, it was a place for rest and refresh- ment both for man and beast. After rough journeys over the hills packhorse and coach travel-

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ling folks would sit warm and comfortable in those old Wrigley ingle nooks. The good dame would make the hot spiced mulled ale and the master would carve the juicy sirloin. I have thought of the time when Ben Wrigley, at the Wellington, Joe Wrigley, at the Croppers, and John Wrigley, at the King’s Head were all brewing together. How warm Dobcross would lie under the fragrant steam from the brewhouses. The wholesome smell of malt and hops sweetening all things, blowing in at the house doors and through the open windows into the bedrooms. The good vicar would no doubt open the church doors wide to the back and let the smell of brewing blow up the aisles and into the vestry. How eloquently he would preach and how well the choir and the congregation would sing in the mellow and inspiring atmosphere. The villager of those days could tell by the strength of the odour the quality of the ale it would pro- duce, and the brews of old Dobcross never spoiled good water, if they did anything, they made poor water into good ale. It was not ale of the kind which was anciently brewed at one old Saddleworth inn. All the country side could tell when there was a new brew on the tap, the number of men’s breeches hung out to dry about the farm houses on the next washing day proclaimed the fact wide and broad. In 1827, Josiah Lawton kept the King’s Head, at Dobcross, and kept up the good feeding of the village almost in baronial style. Once on a day it must have been a famous hunting village and harbourer of good hounds. Two inns were reared in praise of them, and the names in-

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scribed on the signboards were “ Hark to Nudger, Hark,” now shortened down to “ Nudger,” and ‘Hark to Bounty, Hark,” this inn has now been closed by the authorities. It was in Dobcross where they invented the famous “slow fuddle ”’ of our ancestors, which began in a morning with a pint of rum and two quarts of old ale. One old landlord, who kept the Bounty, had an original way of attracting customers. At night when the candles were lit in the taproom and the window curtains drawn together, the schemer began. He would first get a number of old hats of various shapes and sizes and then arrange them along the window bottom so that the candle light would throw the shadows of the hats upon the curtains. Strangers passing at night and seeing the shadows, naturally expected to find a goodly company present, but on entering the room found they had been deceived. At one time the inn was a public house in a much different sense from what it is to-day, and the part it played in the life of a district was far more important than is now generally supposed. The public meeting rooms of our times did not exist and all the parish business, civil and ecclesiastical, was transacted at the inn or public house. Church, chapel and_ school meetings were invariably presided over by the parson. Public speaking is dry work and trying to the throat, our forefathers knew this and found that the inn provided easy facilities for the relief of parched speakers. Resolutions and amend- ments went up to the chairman accompanied by long deep draughts of the “ nut brown ”’ and were

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6

fittingly received with a ‘“ wee drap” of whisky. Up to about the middle of the 19th century the Saddleworth magistrates held their court at the King’s Head, Dobcross and the Commercial Inn, Uppermill, alternately. The shopkeeper and other decadent forms of magisterial wisdom were then non-existant. Two famous local lawgivers were James Buckley, Esq., of Holly Ville, and the Rev. Thomas Sturgess Mills, Vicar of Dobcross. What weight and grave dignity there appears to hang about these two names, the syllables run with a legal and authoritative measure. What was a court day like at the King’s Head in the olden time, what majesty and solemnity attended the proceedings. Can we imagine James Buckley, Esq., laying down the law with judicial severity in one room and Bill o’ Fussbo’s in another room singing lustily to a hunting company :

Its Beaunty, hussa and hussa, Its Beaunty fur ever un show her fair play.

Perhaps, when a knotty and involved point of law was under discussion, parson Mills would hand his snuff box to his fellow magistrate with significant frequency, for snuff was, at that time, supposed to clear the brain and brighten the ideas. One can picture James Buckley and his reverend colleague when the court was over sitting in the inn parlour tale telling over many a bottle of Burgundy. One thinks that in those days the law would have few terrors for a defendant, he would care little about receiving a summons and

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would go to the King’s Head court as cheerfully as to an Oddfellows’ dinner. May be there were men, at that time, who deliberately “addled tracks ” in order that they might appear before the alehouse magistrates. There is a flight of interior stone steps in a little building half way down the village. The little room at the head of the steps was at one time used as a temporary lockup, and it became famous from the number of prisoners who escaped through the jailer going up to the King’s Head and leaving the prison door wide open. Under the old constable system, a stout iron staple and ring were fixed into the jambs of the taproom fire places at various inns about the parish. There is one still to be seen in the Swan Inn, at Delph. A constable on his way with a prisoner to the lockup used to stop at these inns and fasten the prisoner to the iron ring while he got some refreshment. As showing something of the system, it is recorded that constable Platt, of Oxhey, once called at the Swan with “ Dont o’th Hanging Lees” asa prisoner. ‘Dont’ was a famous wrestler, a man of wonderful natural science, he had thrown the best men in the parish. While he was bound to the ring a number of Delphers in the room began to jeer at him. ‘Dont’ pleaded with the constable to release him for a few minutes and at last, having given his word that he would not attempt to escape, he was released. In five minutes he had thrown two of the jeerers through the open window and kicked the others into the street, this done, he quietly suffered himself to be fastened to the ring again. Dobcross has done

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much towards keeping the rest of the parish in a clean and healthy condition. In 1814, there were two resident surgeons, William Lees and John Kenworthy. This was probably the Kenworthy who was the parish doctor in 1817, at a salary of £60 a year. From Dobcross the medical profession still stretches its healing hands and unreadable prescriptions over the parish. There stands in the Square, what is, I believe, the only public memorial raised in the open in Saddleworth. It takes the appropriate form of a drinking fountain and was erected to the memory of the late Dr. W. H. F. Ramsden, as an appreciation of the man and his work, the inscription is as follows :—‘‘ W. H. F. Ramsden, Physician and Surgeon, born 1830, died 1900. Erected 1901 by public subscription to commemorate his devoted services to the people of Saddleworth. Write me as one who loved his fellowmen.” Every living thing, human, beast and bird in Dobcross drinks at that fountain, and if the breezy personality of the rare old doctor is in the water the drinker will take no harm. Dob- cross has every reason to be a proud place. There are splendid things emblazoned on its escutcheon, the record of times which have passed through the village. It was once the dignified head of the parish, the pivot upon which all its important affairs turned, the custodian of the parochial ‘brass ’’ and the financial power which kept the parochial head above water. In the early part of the 19th century there were two banking com- panies in Dobcross, and the village was like Old Tibb said, “leausy wi’ brass.” The year 1826,

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was a time of financial disaster in the West Riding, and banks at Huddersfield, Wakefield, and other places went down in the crash, but the Banks at Dobcross, although hard hit, managed to pull through with little loss. Harrops’ Bank closed its door for a time, but its habilities were ultimately met and paid. On the 14th February, 1866, the old companies were dissolved and the business transferred to the Manchester and County Bank. You never find lawyers practising in villages where there is no money, and 1814, James Ingham and Edward Brown, attorneys, had offices at Dob- cross. The Church of Holy Trinity was built in 1786, and the tower added in 1843, at a total cost of £1,869. About 1800, curious and interesting dispute arose amongst its congregation. As far as 1s known, a few of the wealthier worshippers very properly objected to the poor being buried in the same church yard. Regarding themselves as Heaven’s elect, they wisely concluded that if the churchyard became too crowded with poor people, they might obstruct and impede the flight of the rich to Heaven on the Resurrection morn. It was a matter-of the gravest importance and it was imperative that something should be done to prevent so dire a calamity. There was plenty of room outside God’s acre and the poor could be buried in any of the adjoiming fields, St. Peter would then have no difficulty in making the necessary distinctions and dividing the classes from the masses. Dobcross people would then enter Heaven in the order of their rank and station. As the dispute went on it grew in bitter-

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ness, public feeling ran high, and more sin was committed in the way of bad language, back biting, and reading up each other’s breeds, than a years praying at the church could obliterate. The Dobcross poor were told to go to Hades and be thankful that they had a place reserved for them. They refused to go and held on to their position with a determination not to be “ thrutched ”’ out of the graveyard. A Joseph Lees was living at Thurston Clough about this time and, fortunately for the poor, he got mixed up in the dispute. Joseph could spin verse, and the verse he spun round the prospective Heavenly ones had sufficient -staple and twist in it to bring about a settlement of the matter. Here are his lines :—

A child at Dobcross did chance to die Which caused its parents for to cry ; To bury it there was their intent And they unto the sexton went.

The sexton went and tolled the bell Not knowing but all would be well, But when he went up with his spade It made Owd Benny Lowton’s cheek to fade.

Harrops’ ambition and their pride With this could not be satisfied ; It’s now to speak and make an end, That beggars shall not with us blend.

The little doctor then arose The parson catched him by the nose ;

Saying, ‘if such an ape to me doth prate, Ill shake thee by thy addle pate.’

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In comes John Smith, more mild and free, Says, ‘Gentlemen. let’s all agree, And if there is not room enough We’ll take the meadow down to’th clough.’ ”

The Harrops, now locally decayed, were once a strong and influential family and the history of Dobcross was for a period largely filled with their doings. They had also, if place names are evidence in this connection, a great hold on the Diggle valley, its folk ‘name is Harropdale, in addition there are Harrop Green, Harrop Court, and Harrop Edge. The Whiteheads were, and still are, a notable: Dobcross family and have enriched the village by many benefactions. One of the famous schools of Saddleworth was the Wharmton Grammar School. It was founded in 1729 by Ralph Hawk- yard, of Tamewater, who left £200 to build a free school at Dobcross. In 1888, it was converted into houses. The mills at Dobcross are outside the village proper. Walk Mill was in existence in 1728, and was probably the first to be built. In 1777, 1t appears to have been in the occupation of J. Hegginbottom with 8 acres of land, at a yearly rental of £31 11s. In 1829, the old mill was burnt down and the present mill erected upon the site. It takes its name from an old process in the fulling of cloth, in which the workmen walked or trod the pieces with bare feet. In 1814, John and Charles Harrop were the occupiers. There remains nothing to show what kind of character it bore in ancient days, but its character to-day among

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Dobcross women would scarcely form a suitable decorative panel for a church altarpiece. If you wish to verify this, go to Dobcross on a washing day and wait until the women have hung their clean white clothes upon the lines. The moment the clothes are hung out the chimney at Walk Mill begins one of its celebrated eruptions of smoke and soot. It is Vesuvius in its vilest temper, earth and sky are blotted out and lost in darkness. When the light reappears, you see women rushing about with their clothes baskets and shaking their fists at the chimney. Sometimes you hear language which is_ justifiable but scarcely sacramental. The little ruined mill at Mytham, with its low mullioned windows and other primitive features, gives one a picture of old industrial con- ditions which cannot be fully conveyed by words. It does duty for a hen cote now, which may give the reader some idea of its comparison with a modern mill. The name of Shelter Mill occurs in 1795. In 1822, it was worked by D. & J. Wood, and in 1836, by James & Thomas Dyson, Cloth Dressers. After standing untenanted for some years, it has just been razed to the ground. The ‘old Tamewater Mill was built before 1795. In 1815, it was worked by Booth Harrop and was burnt down about 1850. In the list of subscribers to the building of Dobcross Church, 1786, there occurs the name of James Broadbent, of Moorgreen Mill, which stood at Tamewater. Fozzard which now forms a part of the Bankfield Mills, probably took its name from Charles Fozzard who, in 1836, was the occupier engaged in dyeing and

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scribbling. Butterworth says that a fair was first established at Dobcross in 1828. In 1842 two fairs were held in the village, the first on the 2nd Thursday in March and the second on the last Thursday of July. Uppermill had also two fairs in the year, held on the Wednesday in Whit-week and on the first Wednesday in October. Delph has, befitted its importance, had three fairs in the year, 24th April, 9th July and the 24th September. The old fair, in Greenfield, was held at Bentfield on the Wednesday before Easter. The fair at Delph was once a famous village festival, a rousing day of gaiety and revelry. The village drew every one from the outlying districts to business, frolic, and neighbourly greeting. If it were the April fair, all the old pig buying farmers came ‘ stroddlin’’ down from the hills with their crutches and pig “ pokes,’ and their women folks came down pot buying to replace the year’s breakages. All the young women came down with light hearts and great expectations, for it was the principal “leetin on”’ fair in the year. If a young woman was unsuccessful she began to look forward to meeting the desired swain at the September fair. The street was filled from end to end with “nuts un gingerbread stondins”’ and every imaginable kind of fair pharaphanalia. The bridge was a favourite place for pot vendors, each side being filled with just a narrow cartway up the middle. Each inn had engaged a fiddler and the singing of rousing songs and the dancing of country horn- pipes ceased only at closing time. No sight comes to the village now like the sight of a bygone fair

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night, the blaze of lights in the street, the jovial bustling crowd of men and women laughing around the old “stondins”’ until long past mid- night. Dobcross was once the voting centre for the whole of the parish and on an election day was the scene of a hundred stirring party “ fratches.”’ Old Tories were thumping the tables at the King’s Head and other inns and calling the Liberals ‘“dommed bowsteryeds,’ and the Liberals were shouting across their whisky that no Tory had ‘* as mich wit as Shay’s swine,” in the end a number of the “‘ fratcher’s’’ were taken home in wheel- barrows. Dobcross is and ever was a music loving village, it has an old established brass band, that on one occasion won the first prize of £50 at a contest in Wales. The record of this triumph is still carefully handed down from father to son. Here are two items of interest :— “1794, Remarkable Longevity. There was living at Dobcross, in Saddleworth and vicinity, Four Brothers and Three Sisters, all sons and daughters of Richard and Ann Brooks, whose Ages together made 521 years. The eldest is 82 and the youngest 66 years of age.”’ The following shows the kind of men that were being reared on Wharmton side 100 years ago and brings to one’s mind a picture of prize bullocks. ‘©1791, Dec. The funeral of James Lees, late of Wharmton Bank, in Saddleworth, was attended by seven of his sons, the youngest “and least of whom weighs 9 score 9 pounds, another 12 score 5 pounds, their weight

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together is 1,543 pounds. The old man died in the 80th year of his age with every faculty good, never having experienced one hour’s sickness.” The inscribed lintels in and about Dobcross do not bear very ancient dates. There is one at Tamewater which reads IJ.H.A., 1725. A few others are H.H.H., 1747; I.L.A., 1756; I.W.A.W., 1742, and W.H., 1765. There are several more of little interest, but the 1747 stone is in respect to decorative chisel work, probably the finest in the parish. There is a low old building at the top of Nickhouse Brow to which the villagers still point with pride, it was once a blacksmith shop in the occupation of the Platt family who subsequently founded the famous Oldham firm of that name. The place name of Platt Hill and Platt Lane are, no doubt, traceable to this family. Unlike most villages, if a stranger comes to live in Dobcross the villagers do not begin to rush about and ‘““spir”’ and inquire whether he is a Methody or a Churchman, a Liberal or a Tory, before they make friends. They take the man at his honest neighbourly worth, his religious and political opinions are not included in the valuation. He can go out of doors and know that all the villagers are not staring at him open mouthed and wonder- ing who he is, what he is, where he comes from, and how much “ brass”’ he has. Will the hand of change break up and mutilate old Dobcross ? Will it be the same old village, the same quiet restful place a hundred years hence that it is to-day ? Will the same grey old fashioned houses

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look down on the same clean roadway ? Will the men and women of years to come go in at the same doorways and live the same homely life that Dobcross folks live to-day ? If this kind fate is reserved for the village, and I hope it is, then, people will come out of the roaring, toiling world to find rest and quietness there to the end of their days.

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“TH Divis DEAWN AGEN.

A BIT OF “SMO TOAK” BETWEEN TWO VILLAGE WOMEN.

Hay, Nan, wheer arto off agen ? Thert awlus op o’th trig. Hay, Bet, hoo sed, theau met weel ax, Awm in a gradely hig.

Good grashus, wench, wot dosto think ? Awm in a runnin swat,

Eaur little Ben’s bin deawn fur th’ beef, Un thi’n sent us nowt but fat.

Thi put foaks childer off wi’ howt ; By th’ Mass aw’ll let yond see Ther’s noather him nur noan ut lot Ur beawn toh treyd o’ me.

Aw’ll bi’ same as owd Joe Toppy’s wife When theer fat Jane wur wed, Aw’ll tack it back un into th’ shop

Un wang it ut his yed.

Heaw are yoh o’ goin on ? sed Bet, Is Bill un th’ childer weel ? Igh, thi’re o’ reet, but as fur me Aw connut tell heaw aw feel.

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Hay, wench, awm gradely deawn 1’th shell, Aw lost mi’ appetite. Its hard toh see foak heytin weel When theau dar hardly bite.

Mi stummack is soh tickle neaw, Aw ha’ toh pike un mind,

If aw nawt heyt two peaund o’ tripe It fills mi’ full o’ wind.

Hay, tother day aw wur sum bad Un ditherin 1’ mi knees, Un aw’d nobbut had three bowls ©’ onions un cheese.

One neet, last week, aw’d th’ spasms, Aw thowt aw’r beawn toh dee Un o’ awd had wur just a quart ©’ mussels toh mi tea.

Un when aw get toh bed ut neet, Aw feel o’ sich a shap, Aw ha toh sup a pint o’ stout Afore aw con ha a nap.

Un wark, theau knows, aw connut stond, It fairly knocks mi op, If aw nobbut oss toh wesh misel Awm welly fit toh drop.

Ther’s nobedy sich poor carryins on Aw connut kneyd mi doaf, Un mi legs ur full o’ stitches If aw oss toh lit a loaf.

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Hay dear, its past o’ thinkin, wench, What foak theau knows ull do ; Ther’s one next dur aw wish hoo’d th’ hauve O’th hurrys aw goh throo.

Sumtimes, when aw’ve a poorly reaund, Kaur Bill ull fotch her in, Un o’ hoo does is cock her jib Un cronk her deawn un grin.

Un th’ brazent face has towd lone Awm weel un hearty too ; Hoo’s ses yond’s nobbut poorly when Ther’s onny wark toh do.

Un that greyt mullock, Moll o’ Bet’s, Aw yerd that’s made sum din, Hoo ses aw want toh shap misel Un tack sum weshin in.

But thee just wait wol aw get weel, Aw’ll mack sum on um stir,

Un yond fat fussocks, Mat o’ Nan’s, Aw have it in fur her.

Thi sen eaur Billy’s worched to th’ deeuth, He’s ne’er noh time toh spare, Wol yond fat thing, that’s me theau knows, Sits gruntin op o’th chair.

Kaur Billy macks a reet good side, Aw’ll gie th’ owd lad his due, He weshes op when he comes whom Un mends o’ th’ stockins too.

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He leets mi th’ fire every morn, Awm helpless as a post,

Un brings mi op sum rum un tea Un five thick shives o’ toast.

Well, tother day, aw thowt aw’d see Wot th’ doctor thowt wur th’ best; He ses yoh want toh lie yoh deawn, Yer deein fur a rest.

Un then he sed, yoh mun bi quiet Un dunnot toak soh fast, But if mi meauth wur awlus shut Theau knows ut aw shud brast.

Aw bin a seein Mat i’th Lone, Un wots toh think aw yerd ! Owd Jack o’ Pips un Blueun wench Ur ready toh bi spirred.

Its th’ owder un th’ madder o’er agen, But Moll ull beaunce him reaund, It’ll noan bi lung afore theau’ll see Hoo’s trodden him into th’ greaund.

Un asto yerd o’er Sal o’ Pows Heaw that thing’s gettin coad ? O’ Sunday neet hoo’d had sum drink Un sluttered deawn 1th road.

Aw guess theau’s yerd ut th’ divi’s deawn ? Ther’ll bi a row thi’ sen, Fur tother neet aw yerd ther’d bin Sum plutcherin agen.

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Un Jack o’ Fred’s, he’s towd 1’th broo Ther’s bin a gradely cop ; He ses thi’re o’ 1’th swim, yoh know, Thi’ll try toh hush it op.

Un beef, theau sees, its op agen, Un fleaur’s rissen too, If things goh on aw connut tell Wot us poor foak mun do.

Ther’s awlus sumdy after brass, Thi’re ne’er away fro th’ dur, Ther’s rent chap awlus comin reaund Un th’ rate collector’s wur.

Aw connut tell heaw sum foak dun Ther never short o’ howt, Ther brass goes fur a lot nur mine Ur else thi pay’n fur nowt.

Wot bullyeds yond Committee are, Awm shure thi connut see ; Ther’s th’ hauve o’ un thi connut tell A bull foot fro a B.

Thi munnot think ut foak ur blind. Sum day ther’ll bi a flop ; Ther’s sum, theau knows, wheer wud thi be If it wurnut fur th’ Co-op.

Ther wives come starin into th’ shop, As if o’th stuff wur theers, Un howt uts chep its saved fur um Un hud ut back o’th steers.

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Un neaw un then ther sellin off, Un mackin sich a fuss ; But sich un sich un had ther pick Afore ther’s howt for us.

Yond Peeper wife ne’er lifts her hont, Hoo’s getten a sarvent lass ; Its cappin when theau comes toh think Wheer that lot’s had ther brass.

Un Sloper wife comes keckin deawn, Un goes toh shop i’th hat, Becose he’s on th’ Committee neaw Hoo’s quality un that.

Un tother neet, owd Candle wife, Wur toakin hay soh fine, Her mester’d bin a dellygate Toh Ashton-under-Lyne.

Mi blood fere boilt toh yer it toak, Aw hardly cud abide, Toh think sich like con carry on Un keep op o’ ther pride.

Un wots a dellygate ? aw sed, To sumdy o’er a nence. Hoo ses its one uts gaddin off Ut eaur Co-op.’s expense.

Wot dun these dellygates do? aw sed, Its time foak knew aw think. Hoo ses thi’ ne’er dun nowt ut o’ But toak un heyt un drink.

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Un wot dun thi’ toak abeaut ? aw sed, Aw ne’er yerd nobedy tell. Hay, wench, hoo sed, thee never ax, Thi’ dunnot know thersel.

Aw went streyght whom un towd eaur Bill, He sed heaw theau does prate ; Aw sed theau wants toh wacken op -Un bi a Co-op. dellygate.

Od rot it, mon, wi’st ne’er ha nowt, Theau wants toh get sum cheek, Ther buyin heauses op un deawn EKaut o’ twenty bob a week.

Sich roagin wark it does mi o’er Aw connut howd mi tung, If aw con just get weel agen Aw’ll let um have it strung.

Weh its noh use, then Betty sed ; Hay, heck, its welly noon ; Its gettin time aw shapped un gate Some onions into th’ oon.

Aw fratched agen wi’ Limper wife O’er th’ childer tother day, Hoo thinks ut yond fine things o’ her’s

W? eaurs shudn’t play.

Aw sed, theau nasty stuck op thing Thert summat grand theau art, Thert owin brass ut every shop ; Sich like thi winnut part.

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Hay, childer are soh forrad neaw Theau ne’er knows when ther sed, Ther’s yond o’ eaurs ull tell mi streyght Toh goh un boil mi yed.

Aw dun sum twampin yond, fur shure, But as heaw aw stamp un toak, Thi’ll slap ther tungs eaut hauve a yard Un goh armin after foak.

Un wenches think o’ nowt but pride, Ther wur nur lads bi th’ mass ; Thi'd ne’er doh nowt fro’ morn till neet Nawt stond 1’th front o’th glass.

Aw guess theaus yerd ut aw bin ill ? Aw ne’er had sich a gurd, Aw warched o’ day fro’ yed toh foot, Un mazy if aw stirred.

Ther’s nobedy lives a life like me, Awm mythert op toh een ; Thers mony a time awd cut mi throat If th’ razzer wurn’t soh keen.

Hay, Lord, aw’ve lettun fire eaut, Eaur Jack ull mack sum din, Aw mun put mi best leg forrad neaw Aw darnut ax thi in.

Un aw soh mony things toh tell, It’l] tack mi hauve a day ; But aw’ll come op sum time this week Un win ha’ sum rum un tay.

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SPRINGTIME.

WuHeEn the throstle sings in Tunstead Clough, Then over the hills, hey O, For who can sit by the hearthstone when The winds of the springtime blow. Then O for a mate with a merry heart, A light and a laughing song, A swinging tramp on a moorland road When the April days are long.

When the throstle sings in Tunstead Clough, A song for the love sick maid, And a careless lad goes whistling by, Nor dreams that a snare 1s laid ; But the song goes roving through his blood Like wind through the mowing grass ; And O, he’ll know where his heart has gone When he meets some neighbour lass.

When the throstle sings in Tunstead Clough, And the morn of Easter breaks, — Then we'll sit down to the fat ‘“ nut brown,” The bread and the juicy steaks. For that’s the time when the tide of life Runs on in a leaping flood ; For all good things of the earth come back When the Spring is in the blood.

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LIFE.

LIFE is short un fere uncertain, Un wi’ ar’not safe an heaur, Sum ur tacken when thi’re buddin, Sum ur tacken fere 1’ fleawer. Sum ur like the leaves i’? Autumn When thi’ wither op oth stoak ; Fur owd Death is awlus shappin Heaw toh mack a end o’ foak.

If wi’ know a mon ut Sunday, Then let’s know him every day ; Fur he’s just th’ same mon ut warty, Un th’ best ov us ur nobbut clay. Cloas ur nowt but cloth un stitches, Wots inside um macks the mon; Then let’s ne’er look deawn o’ nobedy he’s greasy breeches on.

Tack noh heed o’ prayer un preychin, Fur it macks foak preaud un queer, Let’s bi jannock, one toh th’ tother, Bit o’th time wi’ tarry here. On Life’s road thers reawm toh travel, Ne’er thrutch others under th’ wo’,

Th’ owd church bell ull soon bi tollin Th’ gress ull soon bi o’er us 0’.

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HUNTING CALLS FOR THE Horn.

Cory of the written matter on the opposite page. The original was sent to John Andrew, the Saddle- worth huntsman, by Thomas Kaye, huntsman of Holme. ‘* Netherthong The Ancient Hunting Notes Oct. 18th, 1822 I with Mr. Bedford’s new Additions. The names of I the notes—tone ton tavern tontavern tontontavern. To call the company in the Morning The Strokes to the field To uncouple the Hounds When the Hounds Hunt a game unknown When the Hounds Hunt a nght game - The Double Recheat Sir Hewitt’s Recheat A Recheat called Prithy Drink The Kings Recheat The new Recheat The Earthing of the Fox if recoverable If not to call away The Death of a Hare The Death of a Fox The Death of a Buck The call for the Keeper in Park or Forest The Death of a Stag or Hart The Prize of a Hunt Royal Stag or Hart The Stroke for the Terriers when the Fox is Karthed To draw the Company out of the Field A Recheat or Farewell at Parting.”

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Page 407

Some Friarmere Mills, Farmsteads, and Cottages about 1874, since included in the Oldham Water-

works Scheme and demolished.

H.B.L.=House, Barn, Land.

Rental. Situation. Occupier. a. p. £ Nield Mill & Waters .. J. Beesley .. 19 3 12 .. 36 O Broadhead Mill .. J. F. & C. Kenworthy -- 62 8 Johnny Mill .. .. J. Buckley .. -- 6 O 15 .. 64 2 Marshhbottom Mill .. Oldham Corporation 20 2 Wood Mill .. .. Unoccupied .. .. estimated .. 56 Longroyd Mill .. Whitehead Bros... .. 59 3 New Year’s Bridge Mill Unoccupied .. estimated .. 76 13 » H.B.L. Ashley Knowl » o&. Turner... .. 12 ll 16. Ragstone » J. Radcliffe .. .. 24 8 Fairsprings » J. H. Heginbottom 50 O.. 53 10 Dowry Farm ” 104 O O.. 38 Dowry Castle B. Garside... an .. 50 New Year’s Bridge ,, Giles Lawton .. 11 O O. 17 19 Back o’th Hill » Moses Shaw .. 66 20 O Marled Earth Nook ,, J. Holden .. 13 OO. 17 13 Castlehill » John Shackleton .. 30 O.. 29 12 Higher Castleshaw ,, John Schofield 12 O. 20 19 Oakenhill Lee » Joseph Kershaw .. 42 O.. 24 7 Oakenhill » Buxton .. ..112 35 «6 Broadhead » J.F. Kenworthy .. 84 0O. 54 15 Castleshaw », Daniel Holroyd .. 33.0 19 ll Banks » W. Buckley .. . 29 =O. 15 19 Moorcroft Woods ,, John Whitehead .. 8 ll O » S. W. Smith... . 8 O O. 12 Lowgate », Joseph Milnes »-» LO 2 15 19 18 Longroyd Mill .. Joseph Shaw 2 1 17. 5 14

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Situation. Ridding Ridding Water

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. Joseph Butterworth

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LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS.

A AINLEY, F., Highfield House, Dobcross. ALLEN, Fred, Coppersmith, Greenfield. James, Hillcrest, Dobcross. ALLort, F. F., Tamewater, Dobcross. ALLoTT, Frank, Tamewater, Dobcross H. R., The Woodlands, Dobcross. ANDREW, H. E., Thornlea, Greenfield. ANDREw, Arthur, Parkside, Middleton Road N., Oldham. ArMITAGE, W., Hope House, Burnley Lane, Chadderton. ARMSTRONG, J., Solicitor, 2, Clegg Street, Oldham. ARNOLD, Thos., St. John Street, Werneth, Oldham. ASHLEY, William, Edge End, Uppermill. AsHLEY, Ammon, High Street, Uppermill. ASHLEY, Miss, Ivy Cottage, Uppermill. ASHLEY, L., Lee Street, Uppermill. ASHLEY, James, Higher Cross Farm, Uppermill. ASHLEY, F., Leefield, Uppermill. ASHTON-UNDER-LYNE Public Free Library, per Geo Fletcher, Librarian. ASHTON John, &, Annesfield Avenue, Greenfield. AsHTon, Mellor, 120, Brompton Street, Oldham. A., Craymore, Roman Road, Failsworth. AsHWoRTH, A., Town Hall, Chadderton. ASHWORTH, Albert, Glenbury House, Greenfield. A YORKSHIREMAN in Scotland.

B BacxknouseE, H. B., Manchester & County Bank, Ltd., Hollinwood. BaDELEY, Joseph, Shamnager, Calcutta, India. BakER, Mrs., 7, Anglesea Terrace, St. Leonard’s-on-Sea. Baker, J. T., 7, Anglesea Terrace, St. Leonard’s-on-Sea. BAKER, Miss, 7, Anglesea Terrace, St. Leonard’s-on-Sea. BamFortnH, J., Derker, Marsden. BaAaNBERY, Mrs. Helen, 12, York Road, St. Annes-on-Sea. BAaMFoRTH, Edwin, 32, Chestnut Avenue, Crossgates, Leeds. Barnes, H., 123, Pitt Street, Oldham. Barpstey, A., 13, Berry Street, Greenfield.

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2 BARRACLOUGH, J. W., Silverwood, Greenfield. BassEtTtT, Harry, 129, Haven Lane, Moorside, Oldham. Brastow, J. W., Lee Street, Uppermill. Braumont, A., 23, Acre Lane, Oldham. BENNETT, Joseph, King William Inn, Greenfield. BENNETT, Thos., White House, Denshaw. 3 Bent, Mrs., Briarfield, Dobcross. J., Shamnager, Calcutta, India. BLACKBURN, George, 13, Princess Street, Sowerby Bridge. 4 Bouton, Thos., J.P., Hillstead, Coppice, Oldham. William N., Stamford Road, Waterhead, Oldham. Boots, Taylor, Slackhead, Greenfield. , 6 Bootu, George, Tunstead, Greenfield. Bootnu, James W., Woodlands, Delph Bootn, Aked, Axnfel, Queen’s Drive, Walton, Liverpool. Bootu, G. H., 11, Allen Road, Urmston. Booturoyp, Shaw, Dobcross. BorTTromiey, J. A., Lower Cross, Uppermill. Borromury, L., Spring Bank, Uppermill. Bottomiey, F., Junr., Road End, Greenfield. T. N., Horsforth, Greenfield. BoTToMLey, Mrs. E., Bailey Terrace, Delph. BoTToMLey, Mrs., Bodheulog, Heenan Road, Old Colwyn. Borromury, N., Moordale, Mottram Road, Matley. Bottoms, E., 108, Copster Hill Road, Oldham. Bourne, Edwin, Bull’s Head, Delph. Bowpen, H., 5, Grove Road, Uppermill. E., Furlane, Greenfield. Bower, J. S., The Dirker, Marsden. Boyp, F., Lorne Villa, Ahmedabad, India. BRADBURY, Thomas, Fairbanks, Dobcross. BrapDBuRY, William, Ash Dene, Clarkefield Road, Oldham. BRADBURY, Stephen, Clerks Farm, Uppermill. Brapsury, George, Temple Bar, Wallhill, Delph. BrapBury, John, Glengarth, Uppermill. Brapsury, William, Stones, Delph. 3 Brapsury, John, Knarr Cottages, Delph. Brappury, C. F., Slackcote, Delph. Brapsury, W., Moorcroft House, 101, Kelverlow Street, Oldham. Brapsury, Albert, Industrial Terrace, Delph. 3 BrapBury, Mrs., The Grange, Uppermill. BrapBuRY, John T., Parkfield, Greenfield. BrapBury, John H., Solicitor, Clough House, Greenfield. BrapBoury, Mrs. E., Fernthorpe, Uppermill.

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Brapsury, Miss H., Prospect Cottage, Drighlington, Bradford. Brapsury, Miss S. A., Central Avenue, Greenfield. Brapsury, R. F , Tamewater, Dobcross. Brapsury, G. F., Bridge Terrace, Uppermill. Brapsury, Nurse, Bridge Terrace, Uppermill. BrapsBury, Esther, Bridge Terrace, Uppermill. Brapsury, Frank, Knarr Farm, Delph. Brapsury, Buckley, Platt Lane, Dobcross. Brapsury, J. R., Oldfield, Delph. Brapsury, A., 5, Mount View, Uppermill. . Brapsury, H., Springfield, Diggle. Brapsury, Wilson, West View, Delph. BrapsBury, W., Moor Parade, Hartlepool. Bransury, J. T., Church Gate Street, Bombay, India. Brapsury, Mrs. Joseph, Arderne, Uppermill. Brapsury, 8S. K., Lincoln Street, Oldham. Brapsury, Thomas, New Bedford, Mass., U.S.A. Brapgury, Miss Rhoda, Brownhill Bridge, Dobcross. Brapsury, Julius, 40, Lissenden Mansions, Highgate, N.W. Braprorp Free Library, per Butler Wood. Brapsuaw, Miss Hetty, Lanehead, Greenfield. BrapsHaw, J. W., Lane Head, Greenfield. Brapsuaw, Miss EF. M., Lanehead, Greenfield. Branpsspy, W., Holme Yew Tree, Davenport, Stockport. Bray, D., 30, Foster Street, Clarksfield, Oldham. Bray, A., High Street, Uppermill. BREARLEY, Thos., Chester Square, Ashton. BriERLEY, Brandon, T., F.R.A.S., F.G.S., Lynthwaite, Delph. BRIFRLEY, S., Dale Cottage, Delph. BriErRLeEy, J J., Bridge House, Dobcross. BriERLEY, Ben, Holly Grove, Dobcross. BRIERLEY, Wm. M., King Street, Delph. BRIERLEY, Coun. Geo. I., Springwood House, Delph. BRIERLEY, Miss E. M., Springwood House, Delph. BRIERLEY, Miss 8., Brownhill Vale, Uppermill. BRIERLEY, R., 7, Berry Street, Greenfield. BRIERLEY, J. L., Astwood Road, Worcester. BRIERLEY, R., 374, Manchester Road, Hollinwood. BRIERLEY, A. G., Aylesmere, Park Avenue, Harrogate. BroOADBENT, John, M.A., Ph.D., Princess Avenue, Finchley. BROADBENT, Elliott, Spring Terrace, Delph.

2 BroapDBENT, Newton, C.C. (Lancs.), Vine Mount, Lees, Oldham. 3 BrROADBENT, Hayden, Millgate House, Delph.

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2 Broapsent, A. E., 131, Huddersfield Road, Oldham.

4

2

BROADBENT, Miss Emily G., 5, Irving Street, Southport. BROADBENT, 8. H., Marsh Head, Diggle. BROADBENT, J., New Street, Uppermill. BROADBENT, Joseph, Spring Bank, Uppermill. BROADBENT, F., 8, Church Lane, Oldham. BROADBENT, Miss, Birks Brow, Austerlands. BROADBENT, E., Mount View, Uppermill. BROADBENT, Mrs., 20, Peach Street, Jamestown, New York, U.S.A. BRroanBEnt, Mrs. O. L., 204, North 35th Street, Philadelphia U S.A. BROADBENT, J. T., 67, St. Helen’s Road, Hastings. BRoADBENT, J. S., Hawthorpe Lodge, Uppermill. BROADBENT, Fredk. J., Croft House, Mirfield. Brook, Louis, Solicitor, 1, Stockport Road, Hyde. Brooks, James, Decorator, 4, Meline Road, Oldham. Brom.ey, F. L., Moor Ville, Greenfield. BROOMHEAD, John, Bunkers, Greenfield. BROOMHEAD, Joshua, Tunstead, Greenfield. BrorHers, A., Holly Ville, Greenfield. BRvuZARD, Dr. A. G., Greenfield. Brovucuron, R., Moor Lane, Accrington. Brown, J., Waterside, Greenfield. Brown, Rufus, Horse and Jockey Inn, Bleakhey Nook. Brown, R., White Lion Inn, Delph. Adin C., 20, Rieford Street, Oldham. Bucktey, H. H., 2nd Lieut. 1st King’s Shropshire Light Infantry, Bankfield House, Woodley. Bucx.ey, G. A., Gatehead House, Delph. BucKLEY, W., J.P., Polar Chalet, Bridlington. Mrs. J. W., Clough House, Linthwaite BuckLEy, Miss E. M., Carlton Terrace, 25, Ladybarn Road, Fallowfield. BucK.eEy, J. C., 1, Preston Road, Levenshulme, Manchester. BuckKteEy, J. V., Park View, Farnworth, Near Bolton. Miss F. H., 19, Church Road, Farnworth, Near Bolton. G. A., Brookfield, Delph. Ammon, Hawthorpe Grove, Uppermill. Mrs., The Nook, Greenfield. W. Thurlow, Lynthorp, Marshlands Road, Sale. Buck ey, C., Wellington Terrace, Greenfield. B., Paling Wood House, Delph. Mrs., Brentwood, Kinders, Greenfield. BuckLey, J. E., Oakfield Cottage, New Delph. Buck.ey, Frank, St. Chad’s Terrace, Uppermill.

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BuckLey, Sam, St. Chad's Terrace, Uppermill. Buck.ey, J. J., Alexandra Hotel, Redcar. Buck Ley, Edwin, 39, Hawkshead Street, Southport. Bucktey, Mrs. A., Lingcroft, Weston-Super-Mare. Buck.ey, J. W., The Square, Uppermill. Buck ey, Miss F. A., Industrial Terrace, Delph. Buck.ey, Coun. Joseph, Waterhead, Oldham. Francis, Tunstead, Greenfield. Bucx.ey, Jno. E., The Sycamores, Fir Lane, Greenfield. Bucxtey, J., North Avenue, Greenfield. Buck.ey, J. H., Station House, Delph. Buck ey, J. T., Cross Keys Inn, Uppermill. BuckLey, James, Oaklands, New Road, Delph. Miss A., Tamecroft, 30, Bath Street, Werneth. BUCHANAN, Geo., 15, New Radcliffe Street, Oldham. Burp, Pr. G. F., Dobecross. J. J., Solicitor, Holly Bank, Dobcross Burton Travis, 34, Rutland Street, Werneth. Samuel, Heather Bank, Greenfield. ButrerRwortH, J., Pianoforte Tuner, Greenfield ButTreRwortTs, Enoch, J.P., Fern Lea House, Greenfield. BuTTreRWORTH, E., Crafers, Warwick. ButTTrERWoRTH, J. W., Hollins Bank, Sowerby Bridge. ButTTrERWORTH, J., Claremont Terrace, Fleetwood BUTTERWORTH, Joseph, Butterworth’s Hotel, Durban, South Afri Byrom, J. L., J.P., Brookland Lodge, Delph. Byrom, Joah, 1, Dorning Street, Tyldesley. Byrom, C. A. R., Store House, Diggle. Byrom, B. F., Fort Gloster, Calcutta, India. Byrom, C., Spring View, Delph. Byrom, Walter W., Waterside. Greenfield.

Cc CaMPBELL, Dr. Colin, 18, Queen’s Road, Southport. CaMPINOT, Coun. Arthur, J.P., Shady Grove, Delph. Carr, H. R., Tamewater House, Dobcross. CARTER, Hervey, The Square, Uppermill. CaRTER, Walter, Old Hey, Delph. CaRTER, J., Delph New Road, Dobcross. CHADDERTON, Frank W., Coppice Street, Oldham. CHADWICK, T. H., 35, Edward Street, Oldham. CHALLONER, OWEN, Wharmton View, Greenfield. CHAMBLEY, J. F., Arlington House, Dobcross.

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CHEETHAM, W., West View, Delph. 2 CLARKE, Harold, Denton Lane, Hollinwond. CuiaRE, W. A., Alphin House, Greenfield. CLayton, Hervey, Wham. Denshaw, Delph. CLeaG, Thos., 439, Bury Road, Rochdale. 2 Creaea, W. E., Market Place, Oldham. CLEGG, Tom, Mansfield, Spring Street, Oldham. 2 CiEaa, J., 124, Drake Street, Rochdale. CLEVERLEY, A. M., Thorn Dene, Greenfield. I CuiFrtTon, F. L., High Street, Delph. C., Nook Lodge, Greenfield. CoLpwWELL, H., Spring Grove, Greenfield. CoLDWELL, Mrs. Clara, California. CoLiins, W., Whip Inn, Hollinwood. W. K., Red Lion Hotel, Market Place, Oldham. CooreR, Coun. W. T., Brooklands, Queen’s Road, Oldham. CoorER, H., Redcot, Leicester Road, Hale. CorNER, Thos., Pob Green, Uppermill. CornisH, J. E., Ltd., 16, St. Ann’s Square, Manchester. CoTTRELL, P., Green Bank, Delph. CoTTRELL, Wm., Braeside, Delph. COTTRELL, Ernest, Braeside, Delph. 2 Coutts, John, 16, Manchester Street, Oldham. CowBuRN, Oswald, Hillbrow, Dobcross. CowEn, Thos., Bankfield House, Diggle. Jos., Sunnyside, Grasscroft. CowPE, Miss, 24; Sydney Street, Boston, Linc. CowpE, Mr., Drug Stores, 288, Hyde Road, Gorton. CRABTREE, L., Lea Grange, Blackley, Manchester. CREASER, C. G., Meltham. CRONSHAW, Joseph, Cannel Street, Gt. Ancoats. CuLLEN, Mrs., 130, Fair View Avenue, Jamestown, New York. CUNCLIFFE, E., 10, Heap Street, Oldham. CuRRIE, Thomas, Poo Ting, Shanghai, China.

D DAVENPORT, A., Banktop, Uppermill. DAVENPORT, Miss Jessie A., Mount View, Werneth Hall Road, Oldham. Davirs, H. H., Etherstone, Park Road, Whalley Range. Dawson, E., North View, Lydgate. DEARDEN, J. W., Central Avenue, Greenfield. 2 DELPH Co-operative Society.

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Dewuurst, John B., Runninghill, Dobcross. Dickinson, G., Kinders, Greenfield. Dixon, Clifford, 1, Finsbury Road, Wood Green, London, W. Dosson, Amos, King Street, Delph. Dopp, William, Westhill, St. Annes-on-Sea. Dopson, J. Hirst, The Woodlands, South Redditch, Stockport. DoLPHIN, James, Montreal, Canada. DRANSFIELD, Miss, Gorsey Hall, Delph. DRANSFIELD, F., Moorfields, Moorside, Nr. Oldham. Driver, T., 5, Grendon Avenue, Oldham. DUNKERLEY, Thomas, Napier Street, Oldham. DUNKERLEY, Coun. Mayall, Sunfield, Lees. DUNKERLEY, J. H., Fort, Bombay, India. DUNKERLEY, J. H., J.P., Haven House, Moorside, Oldham. Dun top, E., Station Road, Diggle. Duxsury, Joseph, 115, Manchester Road, Hollinwood. Dyson, Mrs. Frank, Essendale, 36, Davenport Road, Derby. Dyson, E., Green Lane, Delph. Dyson, Taylor, Almondbury Grammar School, Huddersfield. Dyson, Sims, Lawton Square, Delph. Dyson, C., Albion Hotel, Congleton. Dyson, John, 43, Fenton Road, Lockwood. Dyson, Stanley, 190, Oldham Road, Springhead.

E Eastwoop, T. W., Bank Side, Greenfield. Eastwoop, C. F., Brownhill, Dobcross. Eastwoop, R., 9, Warbeck Drive, Blackpool. Epwarps, Mrs. T., 120, Eureka Place, Ebbw Vale. A., 26, Avenell Road, Highbury, London. Exuis, Mrs. George E., 19, Wood Top, Marsden. Emmott, H., 14, Brocklebank Road, Rochdale. ETCHELLS, Jas. Henry, 25, Edward Street, Werneth, Oldham. ETCHELLS, Wm., 229, Chamber Road, Oldham. ETCHELLS, J., Wade Lock, Uppermill.

F FAIRBANK, C., J.P., Moy Hill House, Newhey, Rochdale. Miss Jessie, Tunstead, Greenfield. FARNHILL, Mrs. G. A., Willow Bank, Delph. Farr, Alderman, J.P., 110, Breeze Hill, Mossley. FAaRRAND, J., 68, Hinton Street, Oldham. FARRAND, H., 176, Hart Road, Hartlepool.

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FARRAND, Mrs., Daisy Terrace, Delph. FARRAND, James, Stoneswood, Delph. FARRAND, W., 6, Glanrafen Terrace, St. Asaph, N. Wales. FARRER, James, The Willows, Park Road, Buxton. FARRER, J. W., Fort Gloster, Calcutta, India. FaRRER, S., York Street, Oldham. FARRER, J. H., 499, Waterhead, Oldham: Farrow, J. C., Old Bridge Hall, Bury. FAULKNER, Fred W., Garden Suburb, Oldham. FAULKNER, W., 60, Henrietta Street, Ashton. Ferns, W., Bank House, Uppermill. Fintan, Mrs. W., 17, Percy Street, Fartown, Huddersfield. FILLAN, A. K., Dudley House, Wakefield Road, Huddersfield. Firtu, B., Rush Hill, Uppermill. William, Boston, Mass., U.S.A. Firtu, F. C., Peel Street, Marsden. Fir tH, Radcliffe, Lorne Street, Mossley. Firron, Mrs. A., 120, Abbey Hills Road, Oldham. Foae, George, Spring Grove, Greenfield. France, Allen, Bailey Terrace, Delph. FYLanpD, Wm., Cornwall, Ontaria, Canada.

Qa GARFITT, G. M., 229, Windsor Road, Oldham. GARNER, Wm. Victor, Woodlands, Delph. GaRRaTT, W. C., Bridge House, Delph. GARTSIDE, Arthur A., Wood Brow, Denshaw. GARTSIDE, J., Royal Oak Inn, Heights, Delph. GARTSIDE, James, 249, Ashton Road, Oldham. GARTSIDE, D., Church Avenue, Denshaw. GARTSIDE, John, 161, Balfour Street, Oldham. GARTSIDE, John, Marslands, Dobcross. GARTSIDE, Charles, Delph Barn, Delph. GARTSIDE, J. E., New Delph. . GARTSIDE, Miss E. A., Wood Bank, Delph. GARTSIDE, R. B., Wood Brow, Denshaw. GARTSIDE, Miss M. A., Delph’s Greaves, Delph. GARTSIDE, Mrs. A., Delph’s Greaves, Delph. GARTSIDE, J., 14, Canterbury Street, Ashton. GARTSIDE, I., Albert Mount, New Delph. GARTSIDE, Albert, Knarr Cottages, Delph. GEE, O., 20, Hill View, Diggle. John, Bingley College, Bingley.

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GLEAVE, S. L., Fort Gloster, Calcutta, India. GLEAVE, J., Crossbank Cottage, Waterhead. “ILL, George, Hawkscliffe, Sowerby Bridge. Goopwin, Jas., Ahmedabad, India. William, Fort Gloster, Calcutta, India. (RADWELL, James, Vicarage Street, Hollinwood. GRAHAM, CC. W., 73, Warwick Road, Carlisle. GRANDIDGE, E., 165, Glodwick Road, Oldham. GRANGE, Mr., 52, Temple Street, Rugby. 2 GREAVES, Joseph, 167, Coppice Street, Oldham. GREAVES, Miss M.A., 133, Coppice Street, Oldham. GREAVES, Charles, Richmond House, Mossley. GREAVES, L., Red Lion Hotel, Austerlands. GREEN, Percy, Old Lane, Austerlands. GREENFIELD Co-operative Society. GREENFIELD Socialist Party, per B. Mellor. Grunpy, H., 135, Abbey Hills Road, Oldham. Guy, V. H., 111, Clarkefield Road, Oldham.

H HapFIELD, Robert, 65, Ronald Street, Clarksfield, Oldham. Haauve, J. Houghton, Glen Cairn, Queen’s Road, Oldham. HALForD, Joseph, Coalshaw Green, Hollinwood. Haut, Wright, Woolroad, Dobcross. Hai, W. H., Sherbrooke, Uppermill. Hatt, 8., Flowery Cottages, Delph. Hatu, F., Lawton Square, Delph. 3 Hatt, W. H., New Delph. Hatt, Joseph, 205, Abbey Hills Road, Oldham. HauuaM, Mrs. Mary, Butterhouse, Dobcross. Hawson, A., Holly Grove, Dobcross. Hanson, G. E., 41, Gorse Road, Blackpool. Hammonpn, Mrs. W., 14, John Street, Springhead. Haropisty, A. H., The Hollies, 176, Halifax Old Road, Huddersfield. Harpy, G., Industrial Terrace, Delph. Harrison, John, Rutland Street, Oldham. Harrison, J., 45, Lower King Street, Hurst. Harrison, John, 151, Drury Lane, Hollinwood. Hart, Harold, Durham Street, Waterhead, Oldham. Hart, H. F., 174, Horsedge Street, Oldham. Hartiey, J. R., Solicitor, Roche Mount, Rochdale. Hart ey, S., Valleyfield, Quebec, Canada. Hawker, George, Castle Hill, Delph.

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Hawkyarp, Mrs. T. A., New Street, Uppermill. HAWKYARD, W., Gas Works, Bradford Road, Manchester. HAWKYARD, Mrs., The Hollies, Uppermill. Heaps, Richard, J.P., Healey Hall, Rochdale. Heap, D. T., Wellington Terrace, Greenfield. Heaton, J. H., Bell House, New Delph. HEARNE, E., 99, Manchester Street, Oldham. Hecainspottom, H., Golden Fleece Inn, Old Tame, Denshaw. Hecainsorrom, J., 1, Fairleigh Place, Poutcanna, Cardiff. HENTHORNE, W., 192, Huddersfield Road, Newhey. HEWERDINE, W. H., 1, Naples Road, Cheadle Heath, Stockport. HeEwkKIn, Mrs. J., Lanehead, Greenfield. HEwKEIN, J. G., Woolroad, Dobcross. Hewkin, Mrs. Edward, Woolroad, Dobcross. HeEypon, James E., Mount Pleasant, Delph. H1BBErt, T., Holly Grove House, Diggle. Hickman, T., 127, Upper Brook Street, C.-o.-M., Manchester. 2 Hiason, Charles E., Leesfield, Lees. HIGHLey, Mrs. Mary, Black Tup Inn, Denshaw. James, J.P., Prospecton, Greenfield. HiLton, Thomas, Kinders House, Greenfield. William, Naoya, Japan. John, 10, Grant Street, Oldham. HINCHLIFFE, William, Wellington Terrace, Greenfield. 4 Bright, Glen View, Delph. HINcCHLIFFE, J., Lee Street, Uppermill. Hirst, Joseph, Boarshurst, Greenfield. Hirst, Coun. A., The Rookeries, Greenfield. Hirst, A., Saddleworth Fold, Uppermill. J. T., 110, Napier Street East, Oldham. Houpen, Albert, White Lea, Greenfield. HoLpEN, R., Horsforth Road, Greenfield. HoLuincwortnh, E., J.P., Moordale, Dobcross. Houroyp, J., Moorcock Inn, Greenfield. 2 Hout, J., 3, Hamilton Street, Oldham. Hout, G. L., Wellington Terrace, Greenfield. Hopxinson, W., Haybottoms, Greenfield. Horpwoop, J. E., Oxhey, Denshaw. HorsFa.u, L., Woolroad, Dobcross. HorsFatu, F., Church Road, Uppermill. HorsFatt, G. G., Springhead, Oldham. 2 Howarp, Jas., Store Cottages, Diggle. 6 Howarp, Geo., Wood House, Delph.

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Howarp, Joshua, Court Street, Uppermill. Howarth, J. H., J.P., Holly Bank, Halifax. HowaktH, W., Queen Street, Ravensthorpe. Howcrort, A. J., Architect, The Beeches, Uppermill. Howe, Arthur, Clarence Hotel, Greenfield. Hupson, Coun. Edwin, Delph. Hupson, Alfred, Bailey Terrace, Delph. Hupson, John, Green Lane, Delph. Hupson, Henry, Greenfield. Hupson, J., Lower Hill Top House, Delph. Hupson, James, Wood House, Knowl, Delph. Hupson, F., Gatehead, Delph. Hupson, Fred, Knott Hill Wood, Delph. HumpuHreys, Albert, 13, Rising Lane, Hollins Green, Oldham. Humpnureys, Henry, 8, Southway, Hollins Green, Oldham. Hype, W. E., Wharmton Tower, Greenfield. Hype Public Library, per John Charlton.

i A. E., Kinders Lane, Greenfield. IsHERWOOD, Frank, 1, Brook Bank, Greenfield. IsHERWOOD, F. G., J.P., Bryn-y-Mor, Woodland Park, Colwyn Bay.

J

4 Jackson, John, Electrician, 131, Union Street, Oldham.

~J]

JACKSON, Coun. W., Esteourt, Chamber Road, Oldham. Jackson, Walter, 46, Holmecliffe Road, Blackpool. JACKSON, Herbert, Higher Slack, Moorside. JAGGER, Mrs., Lane House, Honley. JAGGER, H. W., Combermere, Edgerton, Huddersfield. JAGGER, James, 44, Top Street, Greenacres, Oldham. Richard, 91, Park Road, Oldham. JoHNSON, E. A., J.P., South Lea, Grasscroft. JORDAN, John, 45, Napier Street West, Oldham. JUNCTION Co-operative Society.

K Kaye, J. W., Cross Keys Inn, Delph. Kaye, D. E., King’s Mill, Huddersfield. KENDALL, Hugh P., 1, Beech Villas, Sowerby Bridge. KENNEY, R., Graycote, Lytham. KENNEY, Miss Annie, Mecklenburgh Square, London, W.C, KENNEY, Rowland, Woodlands, Newdigate, Surrey.

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KENWORTHY, William, Orme View, Queen’s Park, Colwyn Bay. Krnwortuy, Broadbent, Brooklyn, Uppermill. KENWoRTHY, Joseph, Stretton Villa, Deepcar, near Sheffield. KEnwortuy, W., Myrtle Villa, Uppermill. Kenwortny, A., Bell House, New Delph. H., 24, Minton Street, Oldham. C. E., Pickhill, Uppermill. KeEenwortay, Mrs. J. F., Brownhill Vale, Uppermill. KENWORTHY, James, Brow Top, Greenfield. Kenwortny, J. Wrigley, 1, Stockport Road, Lydgate. Kempe, H., 4, Bath Street, Oldham. KeErRsHAW, F. H., Stonebreak Farm, Springhead. KeErsHAW, A., Bank House, Dobcross. KERSHAW, J., 8, Gleve Street, Hollinwood. Thomas, Slackcote, Delph. KersHaw, Dr., 220, Manchester Street, Oldham. Kersyuaw, W H., Ash Meade, Uppermill. KERSHAW, Elkannah, 106, Manchester Street, Oldham. Kwort, Coun. A. W., Uppermill.

L. LANGSHAW, S., Providence, Lees. Law, John, J.P., C.C., 1089, Middleton Road, Chadderton. Law _ess, T., Railway Hotel, Hollinwood. Lawson, Kinder H., 81, Windsor Road, Oldham. Lawton, David, J.P., Spring Grove, Greenfield. Lawton, Andrew, Newport Street, Oldham. Lawton, Henry, J.P., Ormidale, Lees. Lawton, W. H., High Street, Uppermill. Lawton, Harold, Dumfries Farm, Denshaw. Lawton, William, 58, Werneth Hall Road, Oldham. LEeEpDs Public Library, per Thomas W. Hand. LEEMING, Coun. R. A., 23, Park Street, Royton. LEE, Edwin, Spring View, Horsforth, Greenfield. LEEs, Mrs. Mary, Globe Hotel, Uppermill. Less, Alderman W., ‘Solicitor, 15, Queen’s Street, Oldham. LrEs, Frederick, Tunstead, Greenfield. Lees, Miss J. A., Hill Top, Delph. LreEs, John, Heys, Delph. LeEs, Major William, J.P., Egerton Villa, Heywood. LEES, Capt. James W. Morand, 14th King’s Liverpool Regiment. ‘LEEs, Lieut. James, Army Service Corps, Austerley Park, Middlesex.

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Legs, Frank, Spring Grove, Greenfield. Lees, Herbert, 64, Ronald Street, Oldham. LrEs, T. E., Globe Cottage, Uppermill. LEEs, James, 300, Oldham Road, Rochdale. LEEs, S., Rockwood, Spring Street, Oldham. Lers, J. Odgen, J.P., Highfield House, Lees Legs, T. E., 71, Kimberley Street, Hollinwood. Lrian, James, Ridling Lane, Hyde. LEVER, R., 3, Oak Street, Shaw. Lister, Mrs. S. A., 11, Carlton House Terrace, Halifax. LONGLEY, Cyrus, Lower Stones, Delph. Locuun, J., 29, Brook Lane, Oldham. Lorp, Walter, Beulah House, Diggle. LorpD, Miss, Marslands, Dobcross. Lorp, G. T., Tame Bank, Dobcross. Lunp, R. H., Court) Works, Diggle. Lunn, Thomas, Pee] Street, Marsden. L.yNHAM, Herbert, Rush Hill, Uppermill.

M MAKIN, Herbert, 2, Rochdale Road, Oldham. MALLALIEU, F., Ashdene, Delph. MALLALIEU, H., Grove House, Delph. MALLALIEU, R., Denehurst, Dobcross. O., Mount Gambier, Mossley. MALLALIEU, Samuel, Salem Terrace, Lees. MALLALIEU, Walter, 8, Berwick Street, Workington, Cumberland MALLALIEU, Sydney, Ashlyn, Dobcross. MALLALIEU, F. W., J.P., C.C., Larkwood, Delph. MALLALIEU, Albert H., J.P., Rose Hill, Delph. MALLALIEU, Adam, J.P., Brierside, Penryhn. Bay, Llandudno MALLALIEU, J. W., Thornbank, Greenfield. MALLALIEU, J. H., Sunbank, Greenfield. MALLALIEU, Joseph, Bryn Cregin, Deganwy, Wales. MALLANDAIN, J. E., Birch Nook, Greenfield. MARKLAND, O. R., Madura, India. S., Thornbank, Grotton. A. T., White Gates, Kinnersley, Salop. MARSDEN, Miss, Town Gate, Marsden. MaRrsDEN, T. R., J.P., Brookhurst, Alexandra Road, Oldham. MARSDEN, J. W., Road End, Greenfield. Marstanp, A. H., Fern Bank, Hyde. Mason, T., 34, Gilnow Road, Bolton.

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MatuHeEws, J., 74, Harrowside, Blackpool. Maruews, John, 77, Lees Road, Oldham. MatHews, A., 217, Park Road, Oldham. McCartuy, Mrs. J., Dericoot, Melling Road, Aintree, Liverpool. McCuLtocg, William P., 5, Rumford Place, Liverpool. McDona.p, Mrs., Streethouse, Dobcross. McGucxian, H., Dowry Cottage, Delph. MELLOR, Fred H., 235, Windsor Road, Oldham. MELLOoR, J. C., Church Hotel, Hollinwood. MELLOoR, Alfred, Green Lane, Delph. MELLOoR, Harold, Annesfield Avenue, Greenfield. Merrrick, A., 205, Yews Hill Road, Lockwood. MIDDLETON, Ald. J., J.P., Manchester Road, Hollinwood. MILNE, Mrs. Marion, Gorswen, Mossley Hill, Liverpool. Mitis, Tom, Larkhill, Dobcross. MILLs, Joseph, 13, Berry Street, Greenfield. Mitts, Mrs. Joseph, Waterside, Greenfield. Miuts, Fred, Harrop Edge Farm, Diggle. Mitts, W., 38, Chester Street, Oldham. Mitts, J., 174, Frederick Street, Oldham. Mitts, John, North Avenue, Greenfield. Mitts, A. E., 49, Villa Road, Oldham. Joseph, Ordance Arms, Park Road, Oldham. MITCHELL, C., 66, Rutland Road, Nottingham. MiTcHELL, F., Den Lane, Uppermill. Moorr, F. A., Craigmore, Delph. MoornovuskE, H. A., Delph. Morton, B., J.P., Sycamore House, Dobcross. Morton, V. L., Ashbourne, Dobcross. MorRELL, Fred, Garden Reach, Calcutta, India. MossLEy Co-operative Society. MvRGATROYD, S. J., Delph. MurcatTroyD, Lewis, Delph. MurRRAy, George, Edelweiss Cottage, Poulton Road, Fleetwood. Murpuyye, A. R., Shanghai, China. I

N NEEDHAM, Geo. W., J.P., Werneth, Oldham. NEEpDuaM, C. &., Marle Terrace, Grotton. NEILD, Abel, 6, Fylde Road, Poulton-le-Fylde. Newton, A. J., Wellington Terrace, Greenfield. Newton, P. S., 250, Copster Hill Road, Oldham. Newton, C. C., 27, Queen’s Road, Oldham.

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Rev. T., The Manse, Uppermill. Marshall, Riversleigh, Uppermill. NOBLE, Wilfred, Spring Bank, Uppermill. Joseph, Sherbrooke, Uppermill. NORCLIFFE, Thomas, Junr., Ryburn, Park Road, Oldham. Norcross, Joseph, Park View, Durnford Street, Middleton. Mr., Post Office, Uppermill.

Oo

OupEN, J., Martin House, Denshaw. . OLDHAM Equitable Society, per J. W. Platt. OLDHAM Lyceum, Union Street. OrMEROD, William, J.P., Kershaw House, Luddenden Foot, Yorks

Pp Parkyn, H. A., J.P., 7, Edward Street, Oldham. PARTINGTON, S. W., 327, Walmersley Road, Bury. Pearce, Mrs. T. W., 4, Oxford Terrace, Kelvinside, Glasgow. PEARSON, E., 41, Long Croft, Golear. Preate, Miss M. A., Meadow Bank, Dobcross. Pickrorpb, C. H., Jesmond, Chamber Road, Oldham. Pitarim, M., 7, Seymore Street, Hollinwood. Piturnc, H., Alphin View, Greenfield. Piatt, Albert, Bell Buildings, Delph. Piatt, J. J.. Woodlands, Delph. PLarr, Robert, Ryehall, Delph. Piatt, Samuel, 202, Abbey Hills Road, Oldham. Piatt, J. G., Ryehall, Delph. Piatt, Brandon, Golden Fleece Inn, Old Tame, Denshaw. Piatt, Joseph. Birch Villa, Werneth Hall Road, Oldham. Piatt, Publius, 423, Ripponden Road, Oldham. Pratt, Miss Annie, Grimston House, Grimston Bar, York. Piatt, Miss Mary S., Bleak Heys, Grosvenor Road, Birkdale Park, Southport. Piatt, 8., 5, Grasmere Road, Clarksfield, Oldham. PLowriGutT, J. R., Inglewood, Oldham. Pogson, Miss EK. E., Spring Cottage, Diggle. W. H., Hanley, Canada. Poason, J. E., Alma Terrace, Diggle. Poason, A., Rose Terrace, New Delph. William, 2, Melbourne Terrace, Marsden. PoNnTEFRACT, A. C., Spring Bank, Uppermill. PONTEFRACT, R. R., Stuart Street, Oldham.

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Potrer, George, High Grove, Greenfield. Potter, Thomas, Bryn Gelli, Greenfield.. Potts, Walter, Lane Cottage, Grotton, near Oldham. PownaLL, W., New Street, Uppermill. F. F., Arthur’s Lane, Greenfield. F. W., Ashmonde, Horsforth Road, Greenfield. Preston, Thomas, Tuticornrin, India. PRITCHARD, J. T., 16, Chestnut Street, Hollinwood.

Q QuarMBY, T. W., Friezland Cottage, Delph.

R RavcuiFrFE, J. W., Green Bank, Greenfield. RavDculirFE, C., 13, Olive Road, Middlesborough. RADCLIFFE, J. S., Brookfield, Greenfield. Rapcuir¥re, Seth, Upper Mossley, Mossley. RapvcuiFre, W. H., 44, Bryn Gelli Terrace, Cardiff. A., Friezland, Greenfield. RavcuiFFE, J. F., Brook Villa, Uppermill. RADCLIFFE, W., Creamore, Uppermill. RADCLIFFE, J. Walter, Frenches, Greenfield. RADCLIFFE, Miss, Furlane, Greenfield. RAMSDEN, Dr. Herbert, Sunnyside, Dobcross. RaMSDEN, Dr. Herbert A., Sunnyside, Dobcross. RatTcuiFFE, John, J.P., The Moorlands, Mossley. RAvENscRoOFT, Mrs. C. C., The Firs, Egerton Park, Rockferry. Rawson, H., Earle Street, Mossley. RAWSTHORNE, Arthur j., 64, Bradford Street, Bolton. REDFORD, James, Fernlea, Greenfield. Repmavn, A. E., Lee Street, Uppermill. REDMAN, Edward, Spring Meadow House, Uppermill. RENSHAW, Elvin, Kinders Lane, Greenfield. RHEAD, Herbert, Stoneswood, Delph. Ruopes, Chas. E., Grove House, Diggle. RuHopEs, Fred, 9, Dover Street, Werneth, Oldham. Ruopes, R. S., Lydgate, Lees. RHODEs, J. W., Meadow Bank, Dobcross. Ruopes, H. M., Myrtle Villa, Uppermill. Ruopes, Mrs. Walter, Springhill, Dobcross. Ruopes, S., Cornfield Terrace, Diggle. Ruopes, J. F., 27, King’s Avenue, Old Trafford, Manchester. Ruopes, Alec, High Street, Uppermill.

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Ricumonp, F. J., M.R.C.V.S., 56, Union Street, Oldham. Rre.ey, William, J.P., Highmoor House, Austerlands. Roserts, Chas. F., Lower Linfitts, Delph. Roserts, Mrs. Thos. H., Linfitts, Delph. Roserts, James, Green Bank, Delph. Roserts, Robert, Hollins Grove, Sowerby Bridge. Rosinson, G. H., Solicitor, Church Lane, Oldham. RoBinson, Ross, Lower Hollins Farm, Greenfield. Rosinson, W. R., 25, Belmont Street, Lees. RocuHDALE Free Library, per P. G. Gordon. RoEBUCK, Geo., Bailey Terrace, Delph. Roesuck, H., Osako, Japan. Rots, Hy. Ling, Briarfield, Shibden, Halifax. RotHWELL, Ald. T, J.P., Stoneswood, Delph. E., Solicitor, Lyndhurst, Uppermill. Rowe, F. H., Edenholme, Greenfield. RussE iz, F., Market Place, Marsden. Rypineas, K., 58, Albert Street. Hollinwood.

s SAUNDERS, Langford, Welland, 127, Monton, Eccles. SCHOFIELD, Miss M. A., Castleshaw. SCHOFIELD, Joseph, Causeway Sett, Delph. ScHOFIELD, Lees, Bleakhey Nook, Delph. ScHOFIELD, G. A., J.P., ‘‘ Oaklands,”’ Greenfield. ScHOoFIELD, Mrs. Ann, Saddleworth Fold, Uppermill. ScHOFIELD, J. W., Conservative Club, Delph. SCHOFIELD, Arthur, Hill Field, Delph. SCHOFIELD, Jas. 8., Albert Mount, Delph. SCHOFIELD, Sim, Auburn Bank, New Moston, Failsworth. ScHOFIELD, L., Edge Hill, Delph. ScHOFIELD, W., Carnarvon Street, Hollinwood. SCHOFIELD, Stanley, Kinders, Greenfield. SCHOFIELD, Leonard, 4, Oak Street, Hollinwood. SCHOFIELD, W. H., Gatehead Farm, Delph. SCHOFIELD, J. J., The Square, Uppermill. SCHOFIELD, Fred, Spring Bank, Uppermill. — SCHOFIELD, A. E., Delph Mills, Philadelphia, U.S.A. SCHOFIELD, Mrs. J., Weakey, Diggle. SCHOFIELD, J. T., 18, Norway Street, Stretford, Manchester. SCHOFIELD, A. E., ‘‘ Friarmere,’’ Cresent Road, Hale. SCHOFIELD, A., 421, Ripponden Road, Oldham. SCHOFIELD, F., Ash Grove, Dobcross.

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SCHOFIELD, Franklin, Wool Road, Dobcross. SCHOFIELD, Herbert, Spring Terrace, Delph. SCHOFIELD, G. S., Hawkyard, Greenfield. SCHOFIELD, W. H., Oak View, Greenfield. SCHOFIELD, Miss A., 2, Spring Grove, Greenfield. Ben, The Cottages, Diggle Mill. SCHOFIELD, W. H., Grange, Delph. SELLARS, J. E., 144, Huddersfield Road, Oldham. SHACKLETON, Jos., Hill End, Delph. SHACKLETON, M., Friar Lodge, Delph. A. H., Navigation Inn, Hollinwood. SHaw, James B., 31, Wellington Avenue, Liverpool. SHAw, Giles, 4, Ash Street, Southport. SHaw, Mrs. Franklin, Post Office, Delph. SuHaw, Christopher, Hollins Farm, Greenfield. Suaw, J. Youdell, Four Oaks House, Greenfield. SuHaw, Herbert, Store Cottages, Uppermill. SuHaw, Charles, Bank Square, Delph. SHaw, John, High Street, Delph. Suaw, George, Brookfield, Delph. Suaw, Charles, Decorator, Delph. SHaw, Giles & Co., 72, Manchester Street, Oldham. SHaw, John, 68, Belgrave Road, Oldham. SuHaw, Jas. W., Sandbed Lane, Delph. SuHaw, Miss A. E., Toronto, Canada. Suaw, Ernest, King Street, Delph. SHaw, Herbert, Decorator, Delph. SHaw, Robert, Mount Zion, Delph. SuHaw, James, Decorator, Lee Street, Uppermill. Suaw, Albert, King Street, Delph. Suaw, Esther, King Street, Delph. SHaw, Will, Artlurs, Greenfield. Suaw, Walter, Frenches, Greenfield. SuHaw, Charles, Wham Cottage, Denshaw. Suaw, J. W. Nevill, Bramhall Lane, Stockport. Suaw, Seville, Slack Farm, Delph. Suaw, J. H. M., 117, East Irving Avenue, Mercantville, New Jersey. SHEARD, Mr., Caroline Street, Staleybridge. SHEPHERD, H. B., Jacob Circle, Bombay, India. SHEPHERD, H. W., Broach, India. SHORE, Albert, Tirionfa, Rufford Park, Yeadon, near Leeds. SHORE, Benjamin, 344, Ripponden Road, Oldham. SnHore, G. H., Bankfield Terrace, Dobcross.

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SHOVELTON, J. W., ‘‘ Carholme,’’ Ellesmere Park, Eccles. SIpDALL, John, 147, Yorkshire Street, Oldham. Sikes, Miss H. M., Doe Royd, Almondbury. Srxes, W. H., Fenay Royd, Almondbury, Huddersfield. SLATER, G. J. P., C.A., ‘‘ Carmont,”’ Fairfield, Byxton. SmMeETHURST, T. H., 79, Windsor Road, Oldham. Smetuurst, Samuel, J.P., Coldhurst House, Longsight, Oldha Arthur, Church Road, Uppermill. Smita, [., 7, Stable Street, Hollinwood. SmitrxH, Joseph, Road End, Greenfield. Sairn, J., 154. Webster Pawtucket, Rhode Island, America. Sowersy Bridge Public Library, per J. FE. Ball. STAFFORD, Jas., Great Western Hotel, Bombay, India. STANDING, J., 1, West Street, Rochdale. 2 Sranprine, J. T.. Stamford Road, Waterhead. STANSFIELD, R., 43, Cypress Road, Southport. STANSFIELD, John, J.P., The Bungalow,’ Royton. STANSFIELD, D., 538, Rochdale Read, Royton. STEVENSON, T., 43, Eldon Street, Oldham. 6 SToppDARD, G., 16, Edinhurst Road, Stockport. Srone, W., Manor House Farm, Shelderslow. 2 Srorr, S. F., Alexandria Mills, Oldham. Storr, J. S. W., Northwood, Lymn. 4 Storr, Sidney, J.P., York Chambers, Oldham. Stotr, James, 185a, Henshaw Street, Oldham. STRANGE, W. E., 16a, Kennedy Street, Manchester. SucpEN, John, J.P., Laurel Bank, Huddersfield. SUTCLIFFE, John 378, Manchester Road, Hollinwood. SUTCLIFFE, Thomas, F.S.A., Free Library, Todmorden. SwWINDLES, E., Osako, Japan. Sykes, Miss E. A., Tamewater, Dobcross. SYKES, Lewis, Grasscroft, Greenfield. Sykes, Arthur W., High Close, Kidroyd, Huddersfield. Sykes, Mrs. Alfred, Woodlands, Delph. SyYKEs, T. E., Woodthorpe, Dobcross. 2 Sykes, A. W., Moorlands, Dobcross. Sykes, Albert, 24, Woodlands Road, Aighburth, Liverpool. SyKEs, Willie, 26, Park Road, Oldham. 3 Sykes, Harry, Greenfield. Sykes, John T., New Street, Uppermill. SYKEsS, Francis, Norbury House, Alt., Ashton-under-Lyne. Sykes, Fred, Jubilee Terrace, Greenfield.

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20 10

T TANNER, H. A., Woods House, Dobcross. TANNER, J. E., Lingcroft, Greenfield. TANNER, S. H., Waterside, Greenfield. TANNER, G. F., Solicitor, Poplars, Greenfield. TayLor, Thomas, The Manse, Waterhead, Oldham. Taytor, Mrs. John, Brownhill, Dobcross. TayLor, Charles H., Dowry Cottage, Delph. TayLor, John E., Rush Hill, Uppermill. TayYtor, David, Sandbed Cottages, Delph. Taytor, J. E., Oaklands, Queen’s Road, Oldham. Taytor, E. C., Linfitts, Delph. Taxytor, Mrs., Brooklyn, Wellington Road, Greenfield. TayLor, R., Clarksfield Villa, Oldham. Taytor, J. G. A., Inglenook, Grasscroft. Taytor, John, J.P., Brownhill, Dobcross. Tay Lor, Miles, Sharon, Greenfield. Taytor, J. W., J.P., Moorfield, Greenacres, Oldham. TEAL, John, Oxhey Farm, Denshaw. THATCHER, F., Shaw Hall Bank, Greenfield. Tuomas, J. E., 15, Sherbourne Road, Idle, Bradford. Tuomas, R. D., Charlotte, N.C., U.S.A. THOMAS, J., Frenches, Greenfield. THompson, Thos., Dale House, Delph. THompson, Mrs., Dale House, Delph. THompson, Geo., Edale, Greenfield. THompson, John B., 20, Delamere Avenue, Irlam o’th Height THompson, Sam, 29, Queen’s Street, Oldham. Tuompson, O. P., Edale, Greenfield. Tuomeson, V., Edale, Greenfield. Tuompson, John, 85, East Bank Street, Southport. THORNELEY, D., Viramgaum, India. THORNELEY, G., Agra, India. THoRPE, Richard, South View, Sowerby Bridge. TomLinson, Goosery, Calcutta, India. Travis, J. J., 299, Park Road, Oldham. Tucker, Mrs. Boswell, 51, Belsize Park Gardens, London, N

Vv

VaRLEY, Thom, J.P., Gilders Villa, Springhead. VAUGHAN, Jos., Madura, India.

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Ww be

w WaLkER, Commander, Childwall, Priory Road, Liverpool. Watton, Dr. F. J., 428s, Palmetto Avenue, Daytuna, Florida. Watton, A., 62, Brewerton Road, Oldham. WARBURTON, Jas. Howarth, Huddersfield Road, Crossbank, Oldham. Warp, Mrs. E., Bubwith, Selby. WaRDEN, Fred, Royal Tiger Inn, Austerlands. WareErnG, H. H., Municipal Technical Schools, Oldham. WaREING, H., 3, Council Houses, Dobcross. WasHINcTON, A., Uppermill. Watson, Herbert, Stoneswood, Delph. Watson, Fred, Binn Lane, Moorside. Watson, W., 11, Water Street, Earby. Watson, W., Carr House, Diggle. Warts, J. E., Calcutta, India. Watts, T., Parel, Bombay, India. Watts, James, Abney Hall, Cheadle, Cheshire. W., Globe Farm, Dobcross. WHEELRIGHT, A., Sunnymede, Uppermill. Wuirp, Leigh, 13, Brewerton Road, Oldham. WHITEHEAD, Coun. R. T., Saddleworth Fold, Uppermill. WHITEHEAD, Lewis B., The Bungalow, Marsden. WHITEHEAD, Harry, Bridgehouse, Dobcross. WHITEHEAD, Harry, Garners, Delph. WHITEHEAD, John, Ash Grove, Dobcross. WHITEHEAD, Joseph H., Upperwood House, Greenfield. WHITEHEAD, Herbert, Court Street, Uppermill. WHITEHEAD, Geo., Park View, Manchester Road, Oldham. WHITEHEAD, John W., Shaws, Uppermill. WHITEHEAD, Alfred, Park View, High Grove, Greenfield. WHITEHEAD, F., Hollin Heys, Delph. WHITEHEAD, Clarence, Garners, Delph. WHITEHEAD, G., Hill Field, Delph. WHITEHEAD, J., 96, Wrigley Street, Oldham. WHITEHEAD, Jas. W., Bockin Hall, Uppermill. WHITEHEAD, Thomas, Albert Street, Lees. WHITEHEAD, Miss E., Spring Grove, Greenfield. WHITEHEAD, Miss Jane, 130, Lees Road, Oldham. WHITEHEAD, Ernest, Contractor, Uppermill. WHITELEY, H., 18, Highfield Avenue, London, N.W. Handel, Elsinore, New Moston, Failsworth. WHITTAKER, Geo. H., Meadscroft, Alderley Edge.

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WhaiTTAKER, E., Drury Lané, Hollinwood. Wuitwortu, Handel, Croft House, Springhead. Witp, John, Denshaw House, Delph. WILD, James, J.P., 104, Waterloo Street, Oldham. G. H., Uppermill. WiLp, A., 126, Grange Avenue, Oldham. WiLp, L., 113, Huddersfield Road, Waterhead. WiLp, A. B., Eastbourne Villa, Brook Lane, Oldham. Witp, Z., King’s Arms, Grains Bar. Wituiams, John, Grove House, Belgrave Road, New Mosto1 Geo. H., Langdale Avenue, Werneth, Oldham. H., Rush Hill, Uppermill. WILLIAMSON, Thos., Higher Cross House, Uppermill. WILLIAMSON, S. S., Shaw Hall Bank, Greenfield. WINTERBOTTOM, Annie M., Delph. WINTERBOTTOM, Mrs. Percy, Dowry Cottage, Delph. WINTERBOTTOM, Charles, Philadelphia, U.S.A. WINTERBOTTOM, Thos., Heights Lane, Delph. WINTERBOTTOM, Miss N., Tame View, Delph. WINTERBOTTOM, Taylor, Tunstead, Greenfield. WINTERBOTTOM, J., 250, Abbey Hills Road, Oldham. WINTERBOTTOM, J., Roundhill, Dobcross. Wi1THAN, Thos., Agra, India. WoOLSTENCROFT, A. E., Wellington Road, Oldham. Woop, Geo., Marled Earth, Delph. Woop, Cornelius, Brookside Terrace, Delph. Woop, Albert E., The Wynyates, Dobcross. Woop, Handel, Chapel Hill, Delph. Woop, John R., Spring Grove, Greenfield. Woop, Oliver, 99, Lydgate, Springhead. Woop, James, Philadelphia, U.S.A. Woop, Frank, 34, North Avenue, Greenfield. Woop, A., Jubilee Terrace, Greenfield. Woop, R., Ash Villa, Greenfield. Woop, Frank, New Delph. Woop, Charles F., Valley Cottages, Greenfield. Woop, Arnold, Carrcote, Delph. Woop, Charles, Wood House, Delph. Woop, Harry, Road End, Greenfield. Woop, A., Oak View, Greenfield. Woop, C. F., Slackcote, Delph. Woop, Miss E. A., Andrew Mills, Greenfield. Woop, Amos, Jubilee Terrace, Greenfield.

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Woop, G. H., The Poplars, Greenfield. Woop, Francis, Spring View, Horsforth Road, Greenfield. Woop, J. H., 35, Norfolk Street, Oldham. Woop, Joseph, Brookfield, Pickhill, Uppermill. WoopHEAaD, T. W., Ph.D., F.L.S., Technical College, Hudderst WoopwaRp, Miss E., Hillend House, Delph. WorsLey, James, Oaklands, Delph. Wraiaeat, John H., 140, Manchester Street, Oldham. Wricut, Herbert, Shepherd’s Green, Greenfield. WRIGLEY, G. W., 258, Victoria Park, London. WriGLey, Benjn., Frenches, Greenfield. WRIGLEY, T., Tame View, Delph. WRIGLEY, F., Rush Hill, Uppermill. WriG_Ley, John, Grasscroft, Greenfield. WRIGLEY, W., Bankfield Terrace, Dobcross. WriGc.Ley, T. H., Thorn Lea Bank, Quickedge. WRIGLEY, Seth, West View, Delph. WRIGLEY, James, Boarshurst, Greenfield. T., Garden Reach, Calcutta, India Wyatt, H. K., Kinders, Greenfield.

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ALFRED & Son,

HUDDERSFIELD.


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