MY DEAR WIFE
A GRADELY LANCASHIRE LASS
|“Tha knows, wherever aw roam,
Aw’m fain to get back to th’ owd ground.”
Vile potabis modicis Sabinum
Cantharis, Grazca. quod ego ipse testa
Conditum levi . . . .
. . . . .
Cæcubum et prelo domitam Caleno
Tu bibes uvam: mea nee Falernæ
Temperant vites, neque Formiani
Hor. Lib. I. Car. xx.
IN the present volume I have included a number
of Anecdotes and Sketches which I had previously introduced into my
History of the Forest of Rossendale, and also a subsequent
book of mine, entitled Lancashire Characters and Places.
I felt that it was admissible to do this in a volume dealing
specifically with the subject of Lancashire Humour, and I am in
hopes that readers who already possess copies of the works named
will not object to their being reproduced here. They were
worth giving in this connection, and, indeed, their omission could
scarcely be justified in a book of humorous incidents and anecdotes.
There is surely a want of discernment shown by those who object to
the use of dialect in literature as occasion offers. A truth,
or a stroke of wit, or a touch of humour, can often be conveyed in
dialect (rustice loqui) when it would fail of effect in
polite English. All language is conventional. Use and
wont settles much in this world. Dialect has its use and wont, and
because it differs from something else is surely no reason for
passing it by on the other side.
I don’t know whether many of my readers have read the poems of T. E.
Brown. They are chiefly in the Manx dialect, not Manx as a
language ― a branch of the Keltic ― but Manx dialect English.
Here was a man steeped to the eyes in classical learning; a Greek
and Latin scholar of the first quality, as his recently published
Letters testify. But he was wise as well as learned, and his
poetry, not less than his Letters, will give him a place among the
immortals, just as the dialect poems of Edwin Waugh will give him a
like place. Brown did not shrink from using the speech of the
common people around him if haply he could reach their
understandings and their hearts.
The proper study of Mankind is man. Not the superﬁne man, not
the cultured man, only, but the man as we encounter him in our daily
walk ― Hodge in homespun as well as de Vere in velvet.
It will not be disputed that, apart from the use of dialect, there
is a substratum of humour in the Lancashire character which evinces
itself spontaneously and freely on occasions. There can be no
doubt, also, that this humour, whether conscious or unconscious, is
usually accentuated or emphasised when the dialect is the conveying
medium, because its quaintness is in keeping with the peculiarities
of the race. Besides, there is a naturalness, a primitivity,
and therefore a special attractiveness in all dialect forms
of speech which does not invariably characterise the expression of
the same ideas in literary English.
Now, humour is such a desirable ingredient in the potion of our
human existence, that it would be nothing less than a dire
misfortune to make a point of eschewing the setting which best
harmonises with its fullest and fairest presentation, whether it
emanates from the man in clogs or from the most cultured of our
Our greatest writers have recognised the worth of dialect as a
medium for humour, and hence many of the most memorable and amusing
characters in Scott and Dickens ― to take two writers that occur to
us most readily by way of Illustration ― portray themselves in the
dialect of their native heath.
These remarks must be taken in a general sense, and not having any
special bearing on the present contribution. The two, else,
would not be in proportion. My object has simply been to
gather up the waifs and strays of humorous incident and anecdote,
with a view to enlivening a passing hour.
Some of the stories that I give are related of incidents that are
said to have occurred in, or of persons belonging to, both
Lancashire and the West Riding. It is difficult to locate all
of them so as to be quite certain of their parentage. I have
tried, however, to limit myself to such as have a genuine Lancashire
origin, without trenching on the domain of our neighbours in
The present collection by no means exhausts the number of good
stories that are to be found on Lancashire soil. It is highly
probable that were half-a-dozen writers to devote some time to the
subject, they would each be able to present a collection differing
from all the rest in the characteristic anecdotes which they would
Readers outside of the County Palatine will not have any difficulty
in perusing the stories. The dialect in each has been so
modified as to admit of its being readily understood by every
December 10th, 1900.
“Come, Robin, sit deawn, an’ aw’ll tell thee a tale.”
Songs of the Wilsons.
IF we would find the unadulterated Lancashire
character, we must seek for it on and near to the eastern border of
the county, where the latter, joins up to the West Riding of
Yorkshire.  Roughly, a line drawn from
Manchester on the south, by way of Bolton and Blackburn and
terminating at Clitheroe in the north, will cut a slice out of the
county Palatine, equal on the eastward side of this line, to about
one-third of its whole area; and it is in this portion that the
purest breed of Lancashire men and women will be found. A more
circumscribed area still, embracing Oldham, Bury, Rochdale, the
Rossendale Valley, and the country beyond to Burnley and Colne,
contains in large proportion the choicest examples of Lancashire
people, and it is within the narrower limit that John Collier (“Tim
Bobbin”) first of all, then Oliver Ormerod, and, later, Waugh,
Brierley, and other writers in the vernacular, have placed the
scenes of their Lancashire Stories and Sketches, and found the best
and most original of their characters.
The Authors I have specifically named are themselves good examples
of that character, Waugh paramountly so ― distinguished as they are
by a kindly hard-headedness, a droll and often broad wit, which
exhibits itself not only in the quality of their writings, but also
in their modes of expression, and a blending in their nature of the
humorous with the pathetic, lending pungency, naturalness and charm
to their best work.
The peculiarities to which I have referred are due to what in times
past was the retiredness of this belt of the county; its isolation,
its comparative inaccessibility, its immunity from invasion.
As the coast of any country is approached, the breed of the
inhabitants will be found to become more and more mixed, losing to a
large extent its distinctive characteristics; and it is only by an
incursion into the interior that the unadulterated aborigines are to
be found in their native purity. Even here, these conditions
no longer exist with anything like the old force, excepting, it may
be, in some obscure nook out of sound of the locomotive whistle.
Of these there are still a few left, though not many.
The old barriers of time and distance have been obliterated.
The means of, and incentives to, migration, have become so easy and
great that our “Besom Bens”
and “Ab-o’ th’-Yates” are
grown as scarce as spade guineas, or as the wild roses in our
Lancashire hedges, and will ere long exist only in the pages of our
The writer of the Introduction to the 1833 edition of John Collier’s
“Tummus and Meary” makes a wide claim for the antiquity and
universality of the Lancashire dialect in England in the past.
He says: “Having had occasion, in the course of interpreting the
following pages, to refer to the ancient English compositions of
such as Chaucer, Wycliffe, other poets, historians, etc., I have
been led almost to conclude that the present Lancashire dialect was
the universal language of the earliest days in England.”
Without going quite so far as the writer just quoted, it may be
admitted that his contention is not without warrant, as is proved by
the very large number of words and phrases of the dialect that are
to be found in the Works of Gower, Chaucer, Spenser, Ben ]onson,
Shakespeare, and other of our older authors, as well as in the
earlier translations of the Bible. The conclusion may
certainly be drawn that in the Lancashire dialect as spoken to-day
there are more archaic words, both Celtic and Gothic, than are to be
found elsewhere in England.
The Rev. W. Gaskell, M.A., in his lectures on the dialect, says with
truth that: — “There are many more forms of speech and peculiarities
of pronunciation in Lancashire that would yet sound strange, and, to
use a Lancashire expression, strangely ‘potter’ a southern; but
these are often not, as some ignorantly suppose, mere vulgar
corruptions of modern English, but genuine relics of the old mother
tongue. They are bits of the old granite, which have perhaps
been polished into smoother forms, but lost in the process ea good
deal of their original strength.” 
There have been of recent years many observant gleaners in these
fruitful Lancashire fields. Waugh,
Brierley, Oliver Ormerod,
Samuel Laycock, Miss Lahee, J. T.
Staton, Tralford Clegg and other writers have done much to
illustrate the character and habits of the people of the County
Palatine in their Sketches, Stories and Songs. We owe
ungrudging thanks to the writers in the vernacular for the treasures
with which, during the last thirty or forty years, they have adorned
our Lancashire literature; for the rich legacy they have left us;
for having taught us so much of homely wisdom in the quaint tongue
of our people, and opened up to us in wider measure than we
previously knew, the bright commonsense and humour that are
enshrined in their hearts.
They have illustrated for us the various phases, both in speech and
thought, of a virile and otherwise important section of the people
that go to makeup the inhabitants of this Island of ours. They
have exhibited the genuine homeliness and simplicity of the people
of the county, as well as their native shrewdness and strength of
character; their kindliness of heart, their natural insight and
aptitude; their characteristic humour ― for the gracious gift of
humour is theirs in a remarkable degree — their ﬂashes of wit and
repartee; their peccadilloes and graver faults, as well as their
many admirable virtues; their strenuous working lives, and their
abandonment to play as occasion serves ― for it is a marked feature
of Lancashire people that they work hard and play hard.
They have shown us, also, how rich in resource is the dialect of the
county, compacting and crystallizing its phrases and proverbs, and
have proved how capable it is of giving expression to the natural
affections. It is only of comparatively recent years that we
have been able to appreciate the wealth of the dialect in these
respects. All the material was in existence before, but it
needed the cunning hand of the master to make literature of it; to
weave up the warp and woof, and present them to us in an embodied
form. A good deal of the humour of our Lancashire writers is
of the rollicking kind, no doubt. It does not always belong to
the school of high culture. But, on the other hand, we have
got the characters true to the life, and he is a fastidious critic,
or worse, who would prefer a counterfeit presentment to the genuine
The subject of Lancashire character, or, indeed, of any
peculiarities of local and provincial character in general, with its
manifestations either of pathos or humour, may not be one of very
great profundity. That is not any part of the claim we make.
It may even be considered trivial by some. Those, however, who
take such a view, if there be any such, are surely lacking in
breadth of vision. To do what we propose is to come nearer to
the hearts of the people and their ways of thinking than is possible
in the higher and broader flights of the more general historian.
And, indeed, the work of the humble gleaner often assists the more
ambitious and dignified chronicler in his labours to depict the
greater personages and events in the history of his country.
The ways of thinking of the people, and also the subject-matter of
their thoughts, may be good, or they may be commonplace, or they may
be mean, but to enter into their thoughts so as to get Lancashire
writers is of the rollicking kind, no doubt. It does not always
belong to the school of high culture. But, on the other hand,
we have got the characters true to the life, and he is a fastidious
critic, or worse, who would prefer a counterfeit presentment to the
The subject of Lancashire character, or, indeed, of any
peculiarities of local and provincial character in general, with its
manifestations either of pathos or humour, may not be one of very
great profundity. That is not any part of the claim we make.
It may even be considered trivial by some. Those, however, who
take such a view, if there be any such, are surely lacking in
breadth of vision. To do what we propose is to come nearer to
the hearts of the people and their ways of thinking than is possible
in the higher and broader flights of the more general historian.
And, indeed, the work of the humble gleaner often assists the more
ambitious and dignified chronicler in his labours to depict the
greater personages and events in the history of his country.
The ways of thinking of the people, and also the subject-matter of
their thoughts, may be good, or they may be commonplace, or they may
be mean, but to enter into their thoughts so as to get are true, and
certainly they are each characteristic of individuals whom we all
know, and who, from our experience of their eccentricities, might
safely be set down as the actors in them.
Notwithstanding all that has been done by the writers already named,
there is great abundance of good things still ungarnered, in the way
of racy anecdotes, wise apothegms, and striking sayings, all too
good to be lost ― as indeed may be their fate unless pains are taken
to record them in permanent form. Even the ludicrous
conclusions and remarks of the half-witted ― those of whom it is
said in the vernacular that “they have a slate off and one
slithering,” ― are often sufficiently striking or amusing to be
worth putting on record.
“The clouted shoe hath oft-times craft in’t,” as says the rustic
We have it on the authority of Shakespeare that a jest’s prosperity
lies in the ear of him that hears it. This is generally so,
and especially in those instances where the jest, or the story, is
clothed in dialect, and depends for a full appreciation on a
knowledge by the listener of the peculiar characteristics of those
from whom it emanates. For this reason it is doubtful whether,
say, the people of the southern portion of our Island are able to
enter into, so as to fully enjoy, our more northerly humour; just as
we of the north may not be able to thoroughly enjoy theirs.
Antipathy, also, to a particular form and mode of spelling and
pronunciation intervenes to prevent full enjoyment on both sides.
For this reason the writers in dialect are placed at a disadvantage
as regards the extent of their audience. Most of their best
things are caviere to the general, or, rather, to the particular.
In a letter to a Rossendale friend, John Collier has an interesting
reference to the dialect and the extent to which it is used.
In this letter the writer offers an apology for, or rather a defence
of, his “Tummus and Meary ” against certain strictures that had been
passed upon it on account of its broad Lancashire speech.
He says: “I am obliged to you for a peep at your friend Mr Heape’s
ingenious letter. When you write, please to return him my
compliments, and thanks for his kind remembrance of me; and hint to
him that I do not think our country exposed at all by my view of the
Lancashire Dialect: but think it commendable, rather than a defect,
that Lancashire in general, and Rossendale in particular, retain so
much of the speech of their ancestors. For why should the
people of Saxony, and the Silesians be commended for speaking the
Teutonic or old German, and the Welsh be so proud (and by many
authors commended too) for retaining so much of their old British,
and we in these parts laughed at for adhering to the speech of our
ancestors? For my part I do not see any reason for it, but
think it praiseworthy: and am always well pleased when I think at
the Rossendale man’s answer, who being asked where he wunned, said,
‘I wun at th’ riggin o’ th’ Woard, at th’ riggin o’ th’ Woard, for
th’ Weter o’ th’ tone Yeeosing faws into th’ Yeeost, on th’ tother
into th’ West Seeo.’”
Curiously enough, the dialect in “Tim Bobbin’s” day was considered
as too plebeian in character to deserve notice. It was looked
upon simply as the vulgar speech of the common people, and
altogether unworthy of attention and study by better-instructed
mortals. Even well into the present century, dialect in
general was not held in estimation for any useful purpose, and it is
only in comparatively recent years that its value as an aid to the
study of racial history has been recognised. It may be
admitted that Collier, in his celebrated sketch, is sometimes so
broadly coarse as to shock even a taste which is not fastidious; but
allowances must be made for him in his efforts at the truthful
portraiture of the characters as he knew or conceived them.
In the ﬁfties, when I was a young fellow of twenty or thereabouts, I
was personally acquainted with Oliver Ormerod, the author of “A
Rachde Felley’s Visit to th’ Greyt Eggshibishun.” He was a
smart, dapper, hard-headed Lancashire business man, of medium
height, inclining to be stout; clean and bright in appearance, and
gentlemanly in his manners. At that time he had written and
published his “Rachde Felley,” but though we often conversed on the
characteristics of the people of East and South Lancashire — a
subject with which he was well familiar — he never mentioned to me
the circumstance of his being the author of the amusing sketch,
which was published anonymously. I rather think that it was
but few even of his intimate friends in his native town of Rochdale
who knew or suspected at first that he was the author of that clever
and amusing brochure.
Possibly he feared that to have associated his name with the work
would have injured him in his business. For, however erroneous
the notion may be, it was at one time held that business and the
occasional excursion into the by-paths of literature were
incompatible. His case, I am glad to say, was an instance in
point refuting the too common belief that the practice of one’s pen
in vagrant literary — work outside business pure and simple — is a
drawback to success, for his record as a man of business was one of
Of the sterling excellence of Oliver Ormerod’s little work, “Th’
Rachde Felley” there cannot be two opinions. It is original in
its conception and in the way it is carried out; full of humour, and
racy of the soil of Lancashire. The popularity of the book was
immediate and great. It rapidly went through several editions,
and it has since had many imitators. Its success led Mr
Ormieriod to write a second similar work, giving the “Rachde
Felley’s Okeawnt o wat he and his Mistris seede un yerd wi’ gooin to
th’ Greyte Eggshibishun e London e 1862.” This, like most
other sequels, is not equal to the original, though if it had been
the first to appear it would still have been noteworthy.
following from “A Rachde Felley ” is a good example of his humour:
“Aw seed a plaze koed Hyde Park Cornur, whure th’ Duke o’ Wellington
lives, him as lethurt Boneypart; ’e’s gettin an owd felley neaw.
Aw bin towd as one neet, when ’e wor at a party as th’ Queen gan, as
th’ owd felley dropt asleep in his cheer, an when the Queen seed
’im, hoo went an tikelt his face whol ’e wakent. Eh! heaw aw
shud o’ stayrt iv hoo’d o dun it bi me. Th’ owd chap drest
knots off Boney, dident ’e? But aw’m off wi’ feightin; aw’m o
fur Kobden an’ thame as wantin’ fur to do away wi’ it otogethur, fur
ther wod’nt be hauve as mony kilt i’ ther wur no feightin.
O’er anent th’ Duke’s heawse, at th’ top o’ wot they koen
Constitution Hill, aw seed a kast iron likeness ov ’im oppo
horseback, as big as loife an bigger. He’d a cloak on an’ a
rowlur pin i’ one hond, saime as wimmen usen wen they maen mowﬁns.
Aw’ nevur noed afore wat ’e wor koed th’ Iron Duke for.
“At tis present toime it started o’ raynin’, an’ so aw thrutch’d mi
road as fast as aw cud goo in a greyt creawd o foke, an’ as aw wor
gooin’ on, a homnibus koome past, an’ a chap as stoode at th’ bak
soide on’t bekont on me fur to get in. Thinks aw to mesel ’e’s
a gud naturt chap; aw gues ’e sees as aw’m gettin mi sunday clewus
deetud. ’E koed o’ th droiver fur to stop, an ax’d me iv aw
wur fur th’ Greyt Eggshibishun, an’ aw sed, ah, an’ wi’ that ’e towd
me fur to get in, an’ in aw geet. We soon koome to th’ Krystil
Palus. Eh! wat a rook o’ foke ther wor theere, aw never seed
nawt loike it afore, never! Aw geet feawt to’ th’ homnibus,
an’ aw sed to th’ felley as leet me ride: Aw’m very mich obleeght to
yo aw’m shure, an’ aw con but thank yo, an’ aw wur turnin’ reawnd
fur to goo into th’ Palus, wen ’e turn’d on me as savidge as iv he’d
a hetten me, an’ ax’d me fur forepenze. Forepenze, aw sed,
what for? An’ ’e made onsur, for ridin’, to be shure, Sur.
Waw, aw sed, didn’t theaw koe on me fur to get in? But o’ as
aw cud say wor o’ no mak o’ use watsumever, an’ th’ powsement sed as
iv aw didn’t pay theere an’ then, he’d koe a poleese as wor at th’
other side o’ th’ road, an’, bi th’ mon, wen aw yerd that, aw deawn
wi’ mi brass in a minnit. Aw seed as aw wor ta’en in; same
toime, it wor a deyle bettur fur to sattle wi’ th’ powsedurt, nur
get into th’ New Bailey so fur fro whome. Thinks aw ti mesel’,
iv aw’m done ogen i’ this rode aw’m a Dutchmun.”
Ormerod, like that other genial humorist, Artemus Ward, affected a
peculiar spelling, or rather mis-spelling, of his words, which, in
my opinion, was a mistake. There was no necessity for this.
It does not enhance the humour of his sketches in any special
degree, but only renders him more difficult to read.
Dialectical spelling need not necessarily be bad English.
As a writer of Lancashire stories, Waugh is unsurpassed. His
pages overflow with a humour which is irresistible and almost cloys
by its exuberance. But even about his drollest characters
there is a pathetic tenderness which touches the heart. It is
not easy, for example, to read some parts of “Besom Ben” and “The
Old Fiddler” without a lump in one’s throat, so much akin are
laughter and tears in the hands of this master. If it were not
that his themes are principally the work-a-day Lancashire folk, and
that the dialect limits and muffles his fame, Waugh would be ranked
(as he is ranked by those who know him) as one of the first
humorists of the century. Waugh is incomparable in his curious
ideas and touches and turns of expression, ludicrous enough many of
them, but all rich in Lancashire humour and well calculated to
excite the risible faculty. Speaking of a toper in one of his
sketches he says:
“Owd Jack’s throttle wur as drufty as a lime brunner’s clog.”
Again: “Some folk are never content; if they’d o’ th’ world gan to
’em, they’d yammer for th’ lower shop to put their rubbish in!”
Oatmeal he calls “porritch powder.”
Again: “Rondle o’ th’ Nab had a cat that squinted — it catched two
mice at one go.”
Addressing his donkey, Besom Ben said: “Iv thae’d been reet done to,
thae met ha’ bin a carriage horse bi neaw!”
“Robin o’ Sceawter’s feyther went by th’ name o’ ‘Coud an’ Hungry’;
he’re a quarryman by trade; a long, hard, brown-looking felley, wi’
’een like gig-lamps, an yure as strung as a horses mane. He looked
as if he’d bin made out o’ owd dur-latches an reawsty nails. Robin
th carrier is his owdest lad; an’ he favours a chap at’s bin brought
up o’ yirth-bobs an’ scaplins.”
These are of course the merest example of the many curious sayings
and comparisons that are lavishly scattered through Waugh’s pages.
Ben Brierley was an adept at telling a short Lancashire story.
In giving expression to the drollest figures of speech he maintained
a mock gravity which greatly enhanced the presentment, whilst the
peculiar puckering of the corners of his mouth and the merry twinkle
in his eye told how thoroughly he entered into the spirit of the
characters he portrayed. His “Ab’ o’ th’ Yate” in London
bubbles over with humour, and it is a true, if somewhat grotesque,
account of what would be likely to arrest the attention of a denizen
of that out-of-the-way village of “Walmsley Fowt” on a visit to the
Some years ago I attended a meeting held at Blackley where Ben gave
a number of racy Lancashire anecdotes, told in his own inimitable
way. I may quote one or two of these which are not given in
the collected edition of his writings.
“Long Jammie wur a brid stuffer, an’ it used to be his boast ut he’d
every ﬁthert animal, or like it, ut ever ﬂew on wing, or hung on a
wall. He’d everything fro’ a hummabee to a ﬂying jackass, an’
he’d ha’ a pair o’ thoose last if Billy o’ Bobs would alleaw hissel’
to be stuffed.”
“Theau’rt one thing short,” Billy said one day as he’re looking
reaund Jammie’s Musaum, as he co’d his collection.
“What’s that?” Jammie ax’d.
“It’s a very skase brid,” Billy said, “Co’d a sond brid.”
“Ay, it mun be skase or else I should ha’ had a speciment i’ my
musaum,” Jammie said. “But what is it like?”
“It’s like o’ th’ bit-bat gender,” Billy said.
“It’s a yead like a cat, and feet like a duck, an’ when it ﬂies it
uses its feet like paddles to guide itsel’.”
“But why dun they co’ it a sond brid?”
“Well, theau sees, it’s a native o’ th’ Great Desert o’ Sara, an’
when it’s windy, it flies tail ﬁrst to keep th’ sond eaut o’ its een.
Billy Kay had had a lot of his hens stown, an’ he never could ﬁnd
eawt who th’ thief wur. He’d set a trap, but someheaw it didno’
act. Shus heaw, it never catch’t nowt.
Bill had a parrot ut wur a bit gan to leavin’ th’ cage an’ potterin’
abeaut th’ hencote when th’ hens wur eaut. But as it had bin
brought up to a soart o’ alehouse life, it wanted company. It
had learnt to crow so natural ut th’ owd cock wur curious to know
what breed it belonged to. So he invited Pol to spend a neet
wi’ him an’ th’ family, an’ gie’ th’ cote a rooser. Th’ parrot
went, and they’d a merry time on’t. It wur late when they went
to roost, an’ they’d hardly had a wink o’ sleep when Pol yerd summat
oppen th’ cote dur. Then ther a hont lifted to the peearch,
an’ one after another o’ th’ hens wur snigged off, till it coome to
th’ owd cock. Pol thowt it wur gettin’ warm, so hoo says to th’
owd rooster, “Hutch up, owd lad, it’s your turn next!” Ther no
moore hens stown!
“Owd Neddy Fitton’s Visit to the Earl o’ Derby” is one of the ﬁnest
sketches in the vernacular; giving, as it does, a realistic picture
of the old-time Lancashire farmer. It is bright with humour,
not wanting in pathetic touches, and with that warm human interest
that lends charm and distinction to the homeliest story.
Lahee, the writer, was Irish both by birth and upbringing. Coming to
Rochdale, where she lived for many years, the character of the
Lancashire people and their idiom won her sympathy, and she studied
both to such purpose as to produce not only the story in question,
but a number of other sketches and stories in the dialect. It
is no disparagement to these latter to say that none of them is
equal to her sketch of “Neddy Fitton.” This has long been
popular in the county Palatine, and its intrinsic merit is such that
it deserves a still wider circle of readers.
Lancashire has from time immemorial been famous for its
mathematicians, botanists, and naturalists among the humbler ranks,
and Crabtree as an Astronomer has his niche in the temple of fame.
There was another worthy of rather a different stamp who professed
acquaintance with that sublime science, Astronomy, though his
credentials will hardly be considered sufficient to justify the
claim. Jim Walton was s a well-known character, at one time
living at Levenshulme. Modest enough when sober, when he had
imbibed a few glasses of beer Jim professed to be great in the
mysteries of “ass-tronomy.” The names of the planets, their
positions and motions in the heavens were as familiar to him as the
dominoes on the tap-room table, and he knew all the different groups
of stars and their relative positions. One night Jim was
drinking in the village “Pub” with a number of boon companions,
topers like himself ― and the conversation, as was usual when he was
present, got on to the stars and other heavenly bodies, on which Jim
expatiated at length. A mischievous doubt, however, was
expressed by one of the company, whether, after all, Jim really knew
as much about astronomy as he professed to do. So, to maintain
his reputation by proving his knowledge, Jim made a bet of glasses
round with his opponent that the moon would rise at a quarter
part nine o’lock that night.
Accordingly, about ten minutes before the time named, the company
all staggered out into the backyard to see the moon rise as
“Now then, chaps, look here!” cried Jim, “Let’s have a fair
understondin’. Recolect, it’s on th’ owd original moon
’at awm betting, noan o’ yer d――d new ones!”
Needless to say this was a poser for their bemuddled brains, and
with sundry expletives at Jim and the qualification he had
announced, they all staggered back to their places in the more
Jim’s idea of “th’ owd original moon,” and his thorough contempt for
quarter and half moons, strikes us as irresistibly funny. We
can imagine the new, vague light that would dawn on t-he minds of
the half-fuddled roysterers as he announced his reservation in
favour of the whole or none.
However prejudiced, as a rule, the British workman may be against
the introduction of labour-saving appliances in the way of automatic
machinery, circumstances sometimes arise when he can fully
appreciate their value and advantages. This will appear by the
following characteristic anecdote:—
An Oldham chap, who, for some misdemeanour, had found his way into
Preston House of Correction, was put on to the tread-mill.
After working at it for some time till his back and legs ached with
the unwonted exercise, he at length exclaimed:
“Biguy! if this devil had been i’ Owdham, they’d a had it turned bi
pawer afore now!”
Another good story of an “Owdham” man is the following: At one of
the Old Trafford County Cricket matches we overheard a conversation
that took place between two Owdhamers. A pickpocket, plying
his avocation, had been caught in the act of taking a purse, and
quite a commotion was created in that corner of the field as the
thief was collared by a detective and hauled away to the police
station. Says the Oldham man to his friend who was seated next
“Sharp as thoose chaps are, they’d have a job to ta’ my brass.
Aw’ll tell thi what aw do, Jack, when aw comes to a place o’ this
sooart; aw sticks mi brass reet down at th’ bottomo’ mi treawsers
pocket, and then aw puts abeaut hauf a pint o’ nuts at top on’t; it
tae’s some scrawpin out, aw can tell thi, when tha does that!”
Pigeon fancying and flying is an absorbing pursuit with many of the
Wigan colliers. Men otherwise ignorant (save of their daily
work in the mine), are profoundly versed in the different breeds and
capabilities of the birds. The training of them to ﬂy long
distances on their return to their lofts and within a comparatively
brief space of time, is a passion which absorbs all their thoughts.
One such enthusiastic pigeon flyer was lying sick unto death, with
no prospect of recovery. The parson paid him a visit and
endeavoured to turn his thoughts to his approaching end. The
casual mention by the parson of heaven and the angels interested the
dying man. He had seen angels depicted in the picture books
with wings on their shoulders. An idea struck him and he
“Will aw ha’ wings, parson, when aw get to heaven?”
“Yes, indeed,” replied the parson, willing to humour and console him
as best he might.
“An’ will yo ha,’ wings too when yo get theer?”
“Oh yes, I’ll have wings too, we’ll both have wings.”
“Well, aw tell thi what,” said the dying pigeon fancier, his eye
brightening as he spoke, “Aw tell thi what, parson, when tha comes
up yon, aw’ll ﬂee yo for a sovereign!” A striking example of
the ruling passion strong in death!
is well known that an admiration for clogs of a high quality, not
less than for pigeons, is a weakness of the Lancashire collier, who
will spend a small fortune to gratify his taste in this direction.
A Tyldesley collier had a favourite bull-dog. This canine
fancier with his dog and a friend were out for a ramble in the
fields, and to make a short cut to get into the lane, his friend
began scrambling through a hole in the hedge. The dog, unable,
it may be presumed, to resist the sudden temptation, seized the calf
of the disappearing leg with a grip which caused the owner of the
said leg to shriek with pain. Despite his frantic wriggles and
yells the brute held fast, and its master, appreciating the
situation, clapped his hands in enthusiastic admiration, at the same
time calling out to his beleaguered companion:
“Thole it, Bill! Thole it, mon! Thole it! It’ll be
th’ makin’ o’ th’ dog!”
Another such on returning home and finding that the day’s milk had
disappeared from the milk basin, angrily enquired what, had become
of it, and receiving for answer from his better-half that she had
“gan it to th’ childer for supper!” exclaimed: “Childer, be hang’d!
thae should ha’ gan it to th’ bull pup!”
Some years ago there appeared in Punch sundry sketches of
incidents in the mining districts. These may not all be true
in the sense that the occurrences represented actually took place.
But there is a spirit of truth in them, in that they illustrate a
phase of the rudeness that often accompanies untutored tastes and
The appearance of a stranger in the mining village, especially if he
happens to wear a black cloth coat, is sometimes resented by the
denizens of the place.
The new curate, a meek-looking individual, had arrived, and passing
the corner of a street where a group of colliers had assembled, one
of them asked:
“Bill, who’s yon mon staring about him like a lost cat?”
“Nay, I doan’t know,” replied the other, “a stranger belike.”
“Stranger, is he?” responded the first, “then hey’ve a hauve brick
The same, accosting one of his flock resting on a gate, and wishing
to make himself agreeable, tried to open a conversation with the
“A ﬁne morning, my friend,” was pulled up with the reply:
“Did aw say it war’nt? — dun yo’ want to hargue?”
It is surprising how a person of regular habits feels the lack of
any little comforts and companionships to which he has been
accustomed. A Lancashire collier had lost a favourite dog by
death, that, on Saturday afternoons or Sundays, he had been in the
habit of taking with him for a stroll. An acquaintance sitting
on a gate saw the bereaved collier coming along the road trundling a
“What’s up wi’ thee, Bob — what ar’ t’ doin’ wi’ th’ wheelbarrow,
and on good Sunday too?”
“Well, thae sees,” replied Bob, “aw’ve lost mi dog, an’ a fellow
feels gradely lonesome bout company, so aw’ve brought mi wheelbarrow
out for a bit of a ramble.”
These stories go to prove that the Lancashire collier is a simple
unsophisticated being, and the following  is
still further evidence of the fact:
“Many interesting anecdotes could be given of the methods adopted by
travelling Quacks. I will relate one respecting the oldest and
best known now on the road, who lately visited a colliery village
near Manchester. He had a very gorgeous show, a large gilded
chariot with four cream-coloured smart horses, and four Highland
pipers. He ‘made a pitch’ on some land on the main Manchester
road side. There was a severe struggle on at the time between
the miners and the colliery owners. This Quack was asked if he
would allow the miner’s agent, then Mr Thomas Halliday, to address
the men from his chariot, and he consented on condition that he (the
Dr) should speak before the men dispersed. This was readily
agreed to. He was a man of ﬁne physique, handsome and smartly
dressed. He began:
“‘Aye, I have longed for this day when I should have the honour and
privilege of speaking to a large assemblage of Lancashire colliers.
I left my comfortable mansion and park to come and encourage you in
this fight of right against might. Yes, men, what could we do
without colliers? Who was it that found out the Puffing-Billy?
Was it a king? Was it a lord? Was it a squire? No,
my dear men, it was a collier### — George Stephenson!’ (loud cheers,
during which the learned doctor opened a large case and brought out
a small round box). He continued: ‘Men, they cannot do without
colliers. The colliers move the world’ (and holding up the box
of pills, shouted) ‘and these pills will move the colliers!
They are sixpence a box. My Pipers will hand a few out!’.
Something moved the colliers, for he sold 278 boxes of pills, and he
moved away before morning.”
The Rev. Robert Lamb in his “Free Thoughts by a Manchester Man” 
relates several good clerical stories. He remarks, that, in ordinary
discourse with the poor, it is safest to avoid all ﬂights of
metaphor. We heard of a young clergyman not long ago being suddenly
pulled down in his soarings of fancy.
“I fear, my friend,” he said to a poor weaver, to whose bedside he
had been summoned, “I fear I must address you in the language that
was addressed to King Hezekiah, ‘Set thine house in order for thou
shalt die and not live.”’
“Well,” was the man’s reply, as he rose languidly on his elbow, and
pointed with his finger, “I think it’s o’ reet, but for a brick as
is out behint that cupboard.”
Sometimes from this species of misconception a ludicrous idea is
suggested to the clergyman’s mind, when he least wishes one to
“Resign yourself under your affliction, Ma’am,” one of our friends
not long ago said to a sick parishioner, “be patient and trustful;
you are in the hands of the good Physician, you know.”
“Aye, sir,” she replied innocently, “Dr Jackson is said to be a
We are assured that the following incident occurred to a Manchester
clergyman in one of his visits to an old woman in her sickness.
He had been to Oldham and afterwards called on his patient.
She was a person on whom he could make no impression whatever, but
remained uninterested and impassive under all his efforts to rouse
and instruct her. A thought suddenly came into his mind that
he would try a new method with her; so, after stating that he had
been at Oldham and thus detained a short time, he began by giving
her the most glowing description of the new Jerusalem as portrayed
by St John in the Apocalypse; when at length she seemed to be
aroused, and looking earnestly at him, she said with a degree of
emotion never before exhibited by her, ―
“Eh, for sure, an’ dud yo see o’ that at Owdham? Laacks, but
it mon ha’ been grand! Aw wish aw’d bin wi’ yo’!”
The late esteemed Bishop of Manchester, Dr Fraser, whose genial and
kindly disposition was well known and appreciated, was one day
walking along one of the poorer streets in Ancoats, and seeing two
little gutter boys sitting on the edge of the pavement busy putting
the ﬁnishing touches to a mud house they had made, stopped, and
speaking kindly to the urchins asked them what they were doing.
“We’ve been makin’ a church,” replied one of them.
“A church!” responded the Bishop, much interested, as he stooped
over the youthful architect’s work. “Ah, yes, I see.
That, I suppose, is the entrance door” (pointing with his stick).
“This is the nave, these are the aisles, there the pews, and you
have even got the pulpit! Very good, my boys, very good.
But where is the parson?”
“We ha’not gettin’ muck enough to mak’ a parson!” was the reply.
The answer was one which the good Bishop would much enjoy, for he
had a happy sense of humour. Patting the heads of the urchins
he bade them be good boys and gave them each a coin. As he
strode along the street the unconscious humour of the artists in mud
must have greatly tickled him.
Yet another clerical anecdote:
In her charming little volume of “ Lancashire Memories,” 
Mrs Potter gives a racy story of the new vicar of a Lancashire
Parish in an encounter with one of the natives. She remarks:
“There is a quaint simplicity about the country people in
Lancashire, that wants a name in our vocabulary of manners, as far
removed from the vulgarity of the lower orders in the town on the
one hand, as from the polished conversationalisms of the higher
classes on the other; a simplicity that asserts itself because of
its simplicity, and that never heard, and if sit did, never
understood “who’s who.” Imagine the surprise of the new vicar
of the parish, fresh from Emmanuel College, Cambridge, in all the
dignity of the shovel hat and garments of a rigidly clerical
orthodoxy, accustomed to an agricultural population that smoothed
down its forelocks in deference to the vicar, but never dreamed of
bandying words with him: imagine him losing his way in one of his
distant parochial excursions, and inquiring, in a dainty
south-country accent, from a lubberly boy weeding turnips in a
field, “Pray, my boy, can you tell me the way to Bolton?”
“Ay,” replied the boy. “Yo’ mun go across yon bleach croft and
into th’ loan, and yo’ll get to Doffcocker, and then yo’re i’ th’
high road, and yo’ can go straight on.”
“Thank you,” said the vicar, “perhaps I can find it. And now,
my boy, will you tell me what you do for a livelihood?”
“I clear up th’ shippon, pills potatoes, or does oddin; and if I may
be so bou’d, win yo’ tell me what yo’ do?”
“Oh, I am a minister of the Gospel; I preach the Word of God.”
“But what dun yo’ do?” persisted the boy.
“I teach you the way of salvation; I show you the road to heaven.”
“Nay, nay,” said the lad; “dunnot yo’ pretend to teach me th’ road
to heaven, and doesn’t know th’ road to Bow’ton.”
Certain shrewd remarks are sometimes made which imply a good deal
more than they express. The following will illustrate what I
mean. As justifying the regrettable fact that men who have
risen from the ranks, and, having attained to opulence, are often
found to change their politics, we have heard a “Radical” defined as
“a Tory beawt brass.” This is akin to John Stuart Mill’s
specious saying, that some men were Radicals because they were not
Alluding to the recent death of a person of wealth whose character
was not of the best, a Lancashire man remarked:
“Well, if he took his brass wi’ him, it’s melted by this time!”
Waugh used to tell the story of a man having to run to catch a
train, and was just in time to see it leaving the railway station,
puff, puff, puff. He stood looking at it for a second or two,
and then gave vent to his injured feelings by exclaiming: “Go on,
tha greyt puffin’ foo, go on! aw con wait!”
The girl at the Christmas Soirée was pressed to take some preserves
to her tea and bread and butter: “No, thank yo’,”###she responded, “
aw works wheer they maks it.” 
Old stingy Eccles was talking one day to his coachman, who he was
trying to impress with his own super-excellent quality, though he
had never used his old Jehu over-well in the matter of wages.
“John,” he said, “there’s two sorts of Eccleses; there’s Eccleses
that are angels, and Eccleses that are devils.”
“Ay, maister,” responded John, “an’ th’ angels ha’ been deod for
mony a yer!”
A temperance meeting was being held in a Lancashire village, and one
of the speakers, waxing eloquent, not to say pathetic, exclaimed:
“How pleased my poor dead father must be, looking down on me, his
son, advocating teetotalism from this platform!”
One of the audience, interrupting him, rose and interjected:
“Nay, nay, that’ll do noan, mon; if aw know’d thi feythur reet when
he’re alive, he’s moar like lookin’ up than deawn!”
I was amused with the answer given by a working man to an
acquaintance. He was hurrying to the railway station with a small
hand-bag on “Wakes Monday morning.” When one gets married “he
larns wot meyl is a pound.”
The safe rule as to food for children, is, “rough and enough.”
In choosing a wife the swain is warned that “Fine faces ﬁll no
butteries, an’ fou uns‘ rob no cubbarts.”
The Lancashire farmer says that, “A daisy year is a lazy year,”
because when daisies are plentiful in the fields the crop of grass
is usually light.
Other proverbs tell us that “An honest mon an’ a west wind alus
go to bed at neet,” and “Fleet at meyt ﬂeet at wark.” “The
ﬁrst cock of hay drives the cuckoo away.”
Attempting to cross a busy thoroughfare in front of a moving omnibus
with an impetuous friend, the cautious Lancashire man will say:
“Nay, howd on! There’s as mitch room beint as before.”
And in response to one who is exaggerating in his language: ― “Come!
tha’s said enough, thou’rt over doing it, owd lad; there’s a
difference between scrattin’ yor head and pullin’ th’ hair off!”
When disputation waxes high and hot, the same humorist will say:
“Come, come lads! no wranglin’, let’s go in for a bit o’ peace and
quietness, as Billy Butterworth said when he put his mother-in-law
behint th’ ﬁre.”
Of any one whose nasal organ is unusually prominent, in other words,
when it is large enough to afford a handle for ridicule, it is said
that “he was n’t behint th’ door when noses were gan out!”
The etiquette of mourning for lost relations has its ludicrous side.
Many of the working-classes in Lancashire, especially in
out-of-the-way villages, take pride in the style of their funerals.
On such occasions it is usual to have a “spread” in the shape of a
“thick tay” on returning to the house after the “burying,” when the
relations and friends assemble and talk over the virtues of the dear
departed. To omit such a provision is looked upon as a neglect
of duty not to be passed over without comment. A ham, boiled
whole, and served cold along with the tea, is the favourite
“thickening” on those occasions.
One matron was much scandalized that her next door neighbour had
made no further provision for the funeral guests than a “sawp o’
lemonade” and a few sweet cakes.
“Aw ’ve laid mi husband an’ three childer i’ th’ churchyard,”
remarked this censor of her neighbour’s conduct, “an’, thank the
Lord, aw buried ’em o’ wi’ ’am!”
My next story must not be taken as fairly exemplifying the
Lancashire female character, which, indeed is usually of a very
different complexion. It is, however, related as a fact that a
poor old fellow as he lay dying, and who, in an interval of reviving
consciousness, detected the smell of certain savoury viands that
were being prepared, managed in his weakness to say to his
better-half who was busy near the ﬁreplace:
“Aw think aw could like a taste o’ that yo’ve gettin i’ th’ pot,
“Eh! give o’er talkin’ that way, Jone,” was the response, “thae
cannot ha’ noan o’ this; it’s th’ ’am, mon, as aw’m gettin ready for
There is sarcastic humour in the remark made by one to his friend
who had just buried his uncle, the latter when alive having been
something of a rip:
“I’ve known worse men, John, than your uncle.”
“Oh, I’m glad to hear you speak so well of my uncle,” was the
response of the other, with just a touch of surprise in his look.
“Ay,” continued the first speaker, “I’ve known worse men than your
uncle, John, but not so d――d many!”
The Lancashire artizan, like others in higher station who should,
but do not always, set him a better example, is prone to the
occasional use of an oath, generally a petty oath, to emphasize his
speech. It is an objectionable habit, doubtless, even when no
irreverence is intended. Curiously enough, instead of being
employed to express aversion to the object to which it is applied,
the expletive is often used as a term of endearment. For
example, we sometimes hear the expression: “He’s a clever little
devil!” applied by a father in admiration of the budding
intelligence of his own little boy. An anecdote will best
exhibit this peculiar turn of speech.
Some time ago, I had occasion to stay at Stalybridge over night, and
after dinner I left my hotel and took a turn along one of the
streets leading towards the outskirts of the town. It was a
ﬁne evening and the lamps were lighted. At a short distance
before me I observed three working men, as I judged by their speech
and gait, dressed in their best black toggery, and with each a tall
silk hat on his head. Evidently they were returning from a
funeral. They were stepping leisurely along, and, as I neared
them from behind, I overhead part of their conversation. One
of them, as he approached a lamp post, took his hat off, and began
expatiating to the others on its quality.
“Ay,” he said, holding the hat at arm’s length that it might catch
the rays from the gas lamp overhead, “Ay, aw guv ten bob for this
when it wur new!” (looking at his two friends to note if they
expressed surprise and admiration), “that’s mooar than ten years
sin’. Ay” (stroking it with his arm and again admiringly
holding it out till it twinkled in the lamp rays), “Ay, an’ th’
devul shines like a raven yet!”
###Another incident in illustration of the same peculiarity is said
to have occurred in the experience of a well-known actor, who, with
his company, while starring it in the provinces, was playing for a
few nights at Wigan. During the daytime Mr ―― took a turn into
the country, and, feeling tired with his walk, called to rest and
refresh at a way-side “Public.” As he entered the hostelry he
observed in the sanded drinking room to the left of the passage, two
colliers sitting each with a pot of ale before him on the table.
So, instead of taking the room to the right, which was the more
luxurious parlour fitted for guests of his quality, he turned into
that where the colliers sat conversing, hoping, as he was a student
of human nature, to add something to his store of observation in
that respect. He was not disappointed.
One of the men was evidently overcome with grief at some mischance
that had befallen him. It turned out that he had just lost by
death a favourite son of tender years to whom he had been fondly
attached. The sorrowing parent leaned with his elbows on the
table; and occasionally stroking his forehead with his hands, or
resting his chin upon them, he would look vacantly into space and
sigh deeply. His friend was endeavouring to comfort him.
“It’s hard to bear, aw know, Jack; but cheer up, mon, an’ ma’ th’
best ov a bad job.”
“Ah! he wur a ﬁne little lad wur our Jamie! It breaks mi heart
to part wi’ him.”
“That’s true enough, Jack,” responded his companion. “But,
what mon! he’s goown and tha connot mend it! Cheer up and do
th’ best tha con.”
“Ay, ay, aw connot mend it. That’s th’ misfortun on’t.
But he wur a rare bit of a lad wur our Jim!”
“Well, come, bear’t as weel as tha con,” patting his friend on the
shoulder. “We’s o’ ha’ to dee some time, keep thi heart up an’
ma’ th’ best on’t. Tha knows tha connot bring ’im back.”
The other buried his face in his hands and remained silent for a
time. Then, suddenly stretching himself up, he struck his hard
ﬁst on the table as he exclaimed:
“Aw tell thi what, Sam. If it wurn’t for th’ law, aw’d ha’ th’
little devul stuffed!”
The Rifle Volunteer movement, with its excellent motto, “Defence,
not Defiance,” has stood the test of time, having proved itself to
be not only an ornamental but a useful and even necessary arm of
defence, where, in this free country, a levy by conscription would
not be tolerated. In its earlier stages, however, it
encountered much opposition from many persons, who treated it with
ridicule, and took every opportunity of speaking contemptuously of
the “Saturday afternoon soldiers.” This is well illustrated in
a good story told by the late Mr John Bright. Speaking to an
old fellow-townsman in Rochdale about the movement at the time of
its inception, when corps were being formed throughout the country
and enrolment was proceeding briskly:
“Yea,” said the old Lancashire man to Mr Bright, “I always knew
there wur a lot o’ foo’s i’ this world, but I never knew how to pyke
’em out before!”
Mr Bright himself had a fund of Lancashire humour which came out at
times in his speeches. He was also quick at repartee, not
always without a touch of acrimony. On one occasion when he
was dining with a well-known Manchester citizen the conversation
turned on the subject of the growth and development of the United
“I should like,” said his host, who is an enthusiastic admirer of
the great Republic, “I should like to come back fifty years after my
death to see what a ﬁne country America has become.”
“I believe you will be glad of any excuse to come back,” was Mr
Bright’s wicked remark.
One of Disraeli’s admirers, in speaking of him to Mr Bright, said:
“You ought to give him credit for what he has accomplished, as he is
a self-made man.”
“I know he is,” retorted Mr Bright, “and he adores his maker.”
In a recent number of the Spectator, a writer remarks that
“after reading the drawn-out platitudes of some politicians, how
refreshing it is to find that ‘a voice’ in the gallery so often puts
the whole case in a nutshell, and performs for the audience and the
country what the orator was unable to do.” 
The remark is much to the point. Political meetings are often
the occasion of a good deal of spontaneous wit or humour on the part
of the audience. A Lancashire audience excels in repartee at
such gatherings, and when the speaker of the moment is himself good
at the game, the encounter is provocative of mirth.
Sir William Bailey gives what he asserts is an unfailing recipe for
silencing a hesitating and tiresome speaker. This is for a
person in the audience to shout at the moment of one of the orator’s
pauses: “Thou’rt short o’ bobbins!” The roar of laughter which
follows this sally effectually covers the orator with ridicule, and
any attempt on his part to take up the thread of his discourse is
useless. The reference to “bobbins” is well understood by a
Lancashire audience. The spinning frames in the cotton
factories are fed from bobbins filled with roved cotton, and when
these fail from any cause the machinery has to stand.
On the other hand, the worthy knight himself silenced a noisy and
persistent meeting-disturber in a very effective way. Sir
William, in the course of delivering a political speech was greatly
annoyed by a person in front of the platform uttering noisy
ejaculations with the object of interrupting the argument. As
it happened, the fellow had an enormous mouth, as well as an unruly
tongue and great strength of lungs. Sir William, suddenly
stopping and pointing with his finger at the disturber, exclaimed:
“If that man with the big mouth doesn’t keep it shut, I’ll jump down
his throat — aw con do!” at the same time setting himself as if to
take a spring. This had the desired effect and he continued
his speech without further interruption. The real fun was in
the final three words: “Aw con do!” The threat of jumping down
the fellow’s throat was not a mere idle threat; his mouth was big
enough to allow of the threat being carried out.
At election times some of the drollest questions are put to the
candidates in the “heckling” that takes place after the speech,
where the audience is allowed to interrogate the aspirant for
parliamentary honours. The following occurred in my own
experience. A Socialist candidate was stumping a wide outlying
division in North-East Lancashire, and in the course of a stirring
address in the village school-room he expatiated on the heavy cost
with which, as he asserted, the country was saddled in the
up-keeping of royalty. Amongst other items of expenditure he
enumerated the number of horses that had to be maintained for the
royal use, and made a calculation of the huge quantity of oats,
beans, hay and other fodder which the animals consumed every week
throughout the year, with the heavy cost which these entailed, and
he concluded by pathetically pointing out how many working men’s
families might be maintained in comfort with the money.
Questions being invited, an old farmer, who had been intently
listening to the harangue, rose and said:
“Maister Chairman, aw have been very much interested wi’ the speech
o’ th’ candidate, and mooar especially wi’ that part on’t where he
towd us abeaut th’ royal horses, an’ th’ greyt quantity ov oats,
beans and hay ut they aiten every week, an’ th’ heavy taxes we han
to pay for th’ uphowd o’ thoose. But there’s one thing,
maister Chairman, ut he has missed out o’ his speech, an’ aw wish to
put a question: Aw wud like if th’ candidate wod now tell us heaw
much they gettin every week for th’ horse mook!”
Whether the question was put ironically or in sober earnest it is
difficult to say, for the questioner maintained the gravity of a
judge even in the midst of the roar of laughter that ensued.
Probably he was quite in earnest, and considered that the “tale” was
not complete until credit had been given on the other side of the
account for the residual product.
During the Home-Secretaryship of the Right Hon. Sir Richard (now
Lord) Cross, the mode of executing criminals was widely discussed in
the newspapers, and created some considerable difference of opinion.
At one of his election meetings in South-West Lancashire, a person
in the audience asked leave to say a word, and convulsed the meeting
by putting this question: “Aw want to know,” he said, “an’ aw could
like to have a straight answer: is the honourable candidate in
favour of a six-foot drop?”
A Member, representing one of the Lancashire divisions, who had for
some reason or other made himself unpopular with his constituents,
was seeking a renewal of their confidence at the general election.
He was giving an account of his stewardship at a crowded meeting,
pointing out how he had devoted his time to the interests of the
division; how he had attended to his Parliamentary duties during the
long session, sitting up night after night recording his votes, when
he was interrupted in his harangue by “A voice from the gallery”:
“We’ll ma’ thae sit up, devil, before we ha’ done wi’ thae!”
Another M.P., dilating on the services he had rendered to “the
Borough which he had the honour to represent,” asked, with a
flourish of his arms towards the assembled electors and
non-electors, “Now, what do you think your Member has recently been
doing in London?”
“Aye! there’s no telling!” was the response of an honest dame,
suspiciously shaking her head as she sat near to the platform
listening to the orator.
Barristers, as becomes their calling, are usually sharp-witted and
often sharp-tongued. At the recent general election the
candidates in the Eccles (Lancashire) division were Mr O. Leigh
Clare, Q.C., Conservative, and Mr Pease Fry, Liberal. Mr Clare
had finished addressing one of his meetings when an elector rose and
put the following conundrum: “Mr Fry at his meeting last night
stated that Mr Chamberlain was the cause of the Boer War, and Dr
Quayle, one of his supporters, declared that the war might have been
averted by a little careful diplomacy; will the Conservative
candidate give us his opinion on the statements of these two
“Yes,” was Mr Leigh Clare’s reply, “I shall be only too happy.
In my opinion Dr Quayle should be left to Fry, and Mr Fry should be
left to Quayle!” Judging by the manner in which the sally was
received by the meeting, the answer was eminently satisfactory.
The Lancashire dialect occasionally finds its way into the British
Houses of Parliament to point a moral or adorn a tale.
Recently Mr Duckworth, M.P. for Middleton, told with effect the
anecdote about Sam Brooks, and his advice to his brother John, on
the latter being asked to stand as a City Councillor. 
Lord Derby (“the Rupert of debate”), many years before, related the
following story in the House, greatly to the amusement of their
lordships. In the neighbourhood of Rochdale a big, hulking
collier had an extremely diminutive wife, who, it was currently
reported, was in the habit of thrashing her husband.
“John,” said his master to him one day, “they really say that your
wife beats you. Is it true?”
“Ay, aw believe it is,” drawled John, with provoking coolness.
“Ay! you believe it is!” responded the master; “what do you mean,
you lout? A great thumping fellow like you, as strong as an
elephant, to let a little woman like your wife thrash you?”
“Whaw,” was the patient answer, “it ple-ases hur, maister, an’ it
does me no hurt! ”
Lancashire humour, though hilarious, is largely unconscious.
The unconsciousness resting with the originator and the hilarity
with the auditory. In this respect it is allied to Irish more
than to Scotch humour, the former having a rollicking and blundering
quality, the latter being more subdued, pawky, and intentional.
The following were not intended as humorous sallies, and, indeed,
they are only humorous from the point of view of the intelligent
observer or listener; that is to say, the jest’s prosperity lay in
the ear of him who heard it, not in the tongue of him that made it.
During the recent great strike of the Lancashire colliers, coal was
scarce and dear, and those who had anything of a stock in their
backyards had to keep an eye on it to prevent its being depleted by
hands other than their own. One, more fortunate than his
neighbours, had reason to suspect that somebody was helping himself
to what wasn’t his own ― for the reserve of the precious fuel was
evidently being tampered with. Accordingly, one night he
determined to sit up in the back-kitchen and find out, if possible,
whether his suspicions were justified. Shortly he heard a
rustling in the coalbunk in the yard, and putting his head half out
of the window, which he had left partly open, called out to the
“You’re pykin’ ’em out, aw see!”
“Nay, thou’rt a liar, owd mon,” was the ready response, “Aw’m ta’en
’em as they come.”
The thievish neighbour resented the imputation that he was “picking
and choosing” instead of “playing fairation” by taking the small and
the cobs together. Clearly he was not lost to all sense
of honour. It would hardly have been fair to be picking and
choosing under the circumstances. Beggars, much less thieves,
have no right to be choosers.
“Owd Sam,” a well-known Bury character, was tired of being domiciled
in the Workhouse and thought he would try and get a living outside
if he could. Passing by the “Derby” he saw Mr Handley, the
landlord, standing on the front steps. Seeing Owd Sam coming
hobbling up the street:
“Hello!” said Handley, “You’re out o’ th’ Workhouse again, Sam, I
“Ay, maister Handley, aw am for sure, aw’m tiert o’ yon shop, an’
aw’ve been round to co’ on some o’ mi friends, and they’ve promised
to buy me a donkey; but aw’m short of a cart; and, maister Handley,
if yo’ lend me as much as wod buy me a cart, aw’d pay yo back again
as soon as ever aw could; aw want to begin sellin’ sond and rubbin’
stones, an’ things o’ that mak, just to mak’ a bit ov a livin’, fur
aw’m gradely tiert o’ yon shop.”
“Well, well, Sam, but what security can you give me if I lend you
“Aw just thowt yo’d ax mi that,” responded Sam, “an aw’ve been
thinkin’ abeawt it, an’ aw’ll tell yo what aw’ll do, maister
Handley, if yo’ll lend mi th’ bit o’ brass, thae shall ha’ thi
name painted up o’ th’ cart.”
To fully realise the ludicrous nature of Owd Sam’s proposal, it
should be noted that Mr Handley was a smart, dapper, well-dressed
personage, a man of substance withal, who knew his importance as the
landlord of the “Derby,” the chief hotel in the town.
A tramp between Bolton and Bury accosted an old stonebreaker by the
road side, and asked him how far it was to the latter place.
“There’s a milestone down theer, thae con look for thi’ sel’,” was
“But aw connot read,” pleaded the interrogator.
“Well, then, that milestone ’ll just suit thee, owd lad. It
has nought on it. Th’ reading’s gettin’ o’ wesht off. Go
look for thi’ sel’. If thae connot read, that milestone ’ll
just suit thee.”
A would-be “feighter again th’ Boers” enlisted in one of the
Lancashire regiments, but, before final acceptance, was sent up to
undergo medical examination for fitness. Being rejected by the
doctor on account of the bad state of his teeth, he expressed his
disgust and astonishment by remarking: “Aw thowt as aw’d ha’ to
shoot th’ Boers! aw did’nt know as aw’d ha’ to worry ’em!”
Socialistic ideas have not taken very deep root among the masses in
Lancashire. Such ideas, indeed, were more prevalently
discussed ten years ago than they are to-day. Admirable as the
propagandism is in many respects, and desirable in every sense as is
the amelioration of the lot of working people, there is a tendency
to drifting away from the saner precepts of its earnest advocates
towards the levelling notions that engage the minds of the more
ignorant and unthinking of its disciples. One of these had
read, or been told, that if all the wealth of England were divided
equally amongst the people, the interest on each person’s share
would yield an income of thirty shillings a week for life. Our
Lancashire Socialist friend, expatiating upon the theme to some of
his working-men comrades, began to speculate how he would occupy his
spare time when in the enviable position of having thirty shillings
per week without working. One thing he would do; he would save
something out of his allowance and make a trip by train to London at
least once a year to feast his eyes on the sights of the Metropolis.
One of the listeners, however, demurred to the views expressed,
suggesting that the train would have to be drawn by an engine, that
this would require a driver and a stoker; a guard also would be
necessary to manage the train, with others to attend to his comfort
on arrival at his destination. These would be as little
inclined to work, possibly, as himself. This view of the
matter had not struck our leveller, but it was now brought home to
him. So, after ruminating for a moment, and scratching his
head to assist at the solution of the difficulty, he responded:
“Well, it seems that some devils would ha’ to work, but aw
wouldn’t!” That chap had evidently made up his mind.
The genuine Lancashire native is noted for his aptness in conveying
the idea he wishes to express. Referring to a mild and open
winter one of them remarked, speaking to a friend, “I’m a good deal
older than thee, Jim, and I’ve known now and then for a Summer to
miss, but I’ve never known a Winter to miss afore.” Another,
winding up a wrangle with a relative who possessed more of this
world’s goods than himself and assumed airs in consequence, said,
“We are akin, yo’ cannot scrat that out!” 
Another, quaintly and cautiously expressing his opinion as to the
stage of inebriation reached by his friend, said that “He wasn’t
exactly drunk, but one or two o’ th’ glasses he’d had should ha’
been left o’er till to-morrow.”
To drop the aspirate is a common failing of half-educated Lancashire
people (though this special weakness is by no means peculiar to
Lancashire folk), and sometimes gives a ludicrous turn to a remark.
Speaking with a working-man friend of mine about the desirability of
everyone cultivating some pursuit or hobby outside of one’s daily
employment: “Ah!” replied my friend, “a man with an ’obby is an
’appy man!” to which sensible expression of opinion I assented with
a smile. The same person, curiously enough, would put in the
aspirate where it was not required. Looking at the picture of
an ancient mansion, he asked: “Is that a hold habbey?” I have
even heard a fairly well-educated person speak of the “Hodes of
Jack Smith was a well-known Blackburn character in his day. He
began life as a quarryman, rose to be a quarrymaster, and became
Mayor of his native town. Mr Abram, the historian of
Blackburn, relates that “when in February 1869, Justice Willes came
down to Blackburn to hear the petition against the return of Messrs
Hornby and Fielden at the Parliamentary election in the November
preceding, Mayor Smith attained the height of his grandeur and
importance. On the morning of the opening of the Court, the
room was thronged with counsel, solicitors, witnesses and active
politicians interested in the trial on one side or the other.
The Mayor, Jack Smith, took his seat on the Bench by the side of
Justice Willes, who found the air of the Court rather too close for
him. He was seen to say a few words in an undertone to the
Mayor, who nodded assent, and rising, shouted in his heavy voice,
pointing to the windows at the side of the Court: “Heigh, policemen,
hoppen them winders, an’ let some hair in.” As he reseated
himself, Jack added, chidingly, addressing the group of constables
in attendance: “Do summat for yor brass!” Few of the audience
could resist a laugh at the quaint idiom of the Right Worshipful,
and even the Judge’s severe features for a moment relaxed into a
An incident in Punch has reference to the same failing.
The Inspector had been visiting a school, in which a Lancashire
magnate took great interest, being something of an enthusiast in the
educational movement. In commenting upon the progress of the
pupils in care of the schoolmistress, the Inspector, on leaving,
remarked to the patron of the school:
“It strikes me that teacher of yours retains little or no grasp upon
the attention of the children ― not hold enough, you know ― not hold
“Not hold enough!” exclaimed the magnate in surprise. “Lor’
bless yer ―if she ever sees forty again, I’ll eat my ’at!”
To fully convey the humour of the incident, Charles Keene’s picture
(for it is one of his) should accompany the recital.
At one of the political meetings of the Eccles division, during the
recent general election contest, a working man who occupied the
chair, and prodigal of his aitches, in introducing Mr O. L.
Clare, Q.C., the Conservative candidate, convulsed the audience by
strenuously aspirating the two initials of the honourable
Some illiterate men, again, are fond of using or misusing big words.
They are content, following the example of Mrs Malaprop, that the
sound shall serve just as well as the sense. For example: you
will sometimes hear an old gardener remark that the soil wouldn’t be
any the worse of some “manoeuvre.” One that I knew used to
talk of “consecrating” the footpaths. He meant concreting.
An old mechanic of my acquaintance, who is learned in the mysteries
of steam raising and steam pressure, is wont to dilate on
hisfavourite subject, and will persist in holding forth on what he
describes as “Th’ expression up o’ th’ steawm.” Truly, a nice
“derangement of epitaphs.”
The same, speaking of Lord Roberts’ generalship in outflanking the
Boer armies, remarked, “Ay, he’s a surprising mon, for sure, is
General Roberts, an’ he does it o’ wi’ his clever tictacs.”
And again: “Aw nobbut wish he could get how’d o’ owd Krooger, and
send him to keep Cronje company at St Helens.”
A confusion of ideas sometimes extends to other subjects.
Another simple friend of mine, relating the treatment he had been
subjected to by a ferocious tramp in a lonely neighbourhood,
declared that the would-be highwayman “Clapped a pistol to mi bally,
and swore he’d blow mi brains out if aw didn’t hand over mi money!”
Possibly the thief knew better where his brains lay than my friend
An equally ludicrous confusion of ideas is shown in the next
example. Owd Pooter, the odd man who tidied up the stable yard
and pottered about the garden, was troubled with a neighbour’s hens
getting into the meadow and treading down the young grass. So,
speaking to his master one day, he said, “Maister, I durn’t know
what we maun do if thoose hens are to keep comin’ scratt, scrattin’
i’ th’ meadow when they liken; we’st ha’e no grass woth mentionin.”
"‘Put a notice up,” suggested his employer.
“Put a notice up!” responded Pooter, looking as wise as a barn owl.
“Eh! maister, if aw did put a notice up there isn’t one hen in a
hundred as could read it! ”
Another hen story is worth relating. A poultry farmer calling
on a grocer one day was told by the latter that he must be prepared
to give him more than fourteen eggs for a shilling. “The
grocers have had a meeting,” said his customer, “and they have come
to the conclusion that there must be at least sixteen eggs for a
shilling.” The poultry farmer listened but said nothing.
Next time he called he counted out his eggs ― sixteen for a shilling
― but they were all very small ― pullet eggs in fact.
“Hello! what does this mean? How comes it that your eggs are
so small?” asked the grocer.
“Well, yo see,” was the reply, “th’ hens have had a meetin’ and they
have coom to th’ conclusion that they connot lay ony bigger than
thur at sixteen for a shillin!” Evidently the shrewd farmer
had proﬁted by the knowledge that the animal creation, as Æsop has
taught us, can hold converse and come to as sensible decisions as
The same owd Pooter, already mentioned, being much out of sorts,
consulted the doctor on his state of health, who, after hearing his
story and making the necessary examination of the patient,
recommended him to eat plentifully of animal food.
Pooter, looking somewhat askance, said he would do his best to
follow the doctor’s advice, but he feared his “grinders wur noan o’
th’ best for food o’ that mak.” “Try it for a week,” said the
doctor, “and then call and see me again.” At the expiration of
a week Pooter repeated the visit. “Have you done what I
recommended?” asked the physician. “Aw’ve done mi best,”
replied Pooter, “aw have for sure, an’ as lung as aw stuck to th’
oats an’ beans, aw geet on meterley; but aw wur gradely lickt when
aw coom to th’ choppins!” Pooter’s idea of “animal food” was
the horse’s diet of oats, beans and choppings.
Among the ridiculous stories that are told, are the three following,
which are more imaginative than true in their details. The
fact of their invention, however, is a proof that the author
possessed a considerable share of happy humour. The old fellow
who went to see “Elijah,” the Oratorio of that name, on being
asked if he had seen the prophet, replied: “Yea, aw did.”
“Well, what was he like?” “Wha, he stood theer at th’ back o’
th’ crowd up o’ th’ platform, an’ he kept rubbin a stick across his
bally, an’ he groant, and groant ― yo could yer ’im all o’er th’
place!” He took the double-bass ’cello-player to be Elijah.
The Wardens of the church at Belmont determined to move the
structure a few yards to make room for a gravel path, so, laying
their coats on the ground to mark the exact distance, they went
round to the opposite side and pushed with all their might.
Whilst they were thus engaged a thief stole the coats. Coming
back again to observe the effect of their exertions, and being
unable to ﬁnd their stolen garments, “Devilskins!” they exclaimed,
“we have pushed too far!”
Mother, to her hopeful son standing at the door one night:
“Come in an’ shut th’ door, John, what ar’t doin’ theer?”
“Aw’m lookin’ at th’ moon.”
“Lookin’ at th’ moon! Come in aw tell thae, an’ let th’ moon
“Who’s touching th’ moon?”
The Municipal Authorities of a Lancashire town, in laying out a
public park which had been presented by a wealthy citizen, added to
its other attractions a large ornamental lake, formed by damming up
a stream that ran through the grounds. One of the park
committee, in the course of a speech extolling the beauty of the
lake, suggested that they might put a gondola upon it. Another
of his confreres on the Council, thinking that a swan or other
aquatic fowl was meant, responded: “What’s th’ use o’ having only
one gondola? let’s ha’ two and then they con breed.”
As likely as not this was a stroke of wit rather than a blunder.
In Lancashire, as is well known, there are hosts of what are
popularly designated “Co-op. Mills”― cotton factories worked on the
joint stock principle ― and many of the mill-hands hold shares, more
or less. The manager of one of these one day encountered a mill-hand
“larking” on the stairs instead of attending to his work, and giving
him a kick behind ordered him off to his room. The culprit turned
round, and, rubbing the affected part, faced the manager with the
expostulation, half comic, half serious: “Keep thi foot to thi sel’
and mind what tha’rt doing; dos’t know’at aw’m one o’ thy maisters?”
He held a five-pound share or two in the concern.
A praiseworthy devotion to their employer’s interests is a marked
feature in many of our Lancashire working-men; and this devotion is
all the more valuable when accompanied with intelligent observation
and the quality of saying the right thing at the right moment.
My next story exemplifies this in a striking degree.
Jim Shackleton, better known by the nickname of “Jamie-go-deeper,”
was a sturdy Lancashire ganger, honest and shrewd as they make ’em,
a hard and steady worker — faithful and staunch and true to his
employers. In his younger days Jim had wielded the pick and
spade and trundled the wheel-barrow, but at the time of which I
speak he was the boss or ganger over a regiment of navvies. He
used to speak of puddle and clay and earth-work as though he loved
Jim was employed on the Manchester Ship Canal when it was in course
of construction — down below Latchford Locks. The Company, as
is well known, had in several places to trench on private property,
which had to be purchased from the owners either by agreement or on
arbitration terms, and some of the owners, not over-scrupulous,
valued their lands at fabulous sums, on account, as was asserted, of
their prospective value, as being favourably situated for building
purposes, or because, as was alleged, of the valuable minerals in
the ground. One such claim was being contested and there were
the usual arbitrators, umpire and counsel, with a host of expert
valuers on each side. The owner in this instance claimed that
there was a valuable seam of coal underneath, and he had set men to
make borings on the pretence of finding it.
Jim, who was employed, as I have said, by the Canal Company, had
been subpoenaed by the owner of the land in question with a view of
making him declare that he had seen this boring for coal going on in
a field which he had to cross daily in going to and coming from his
lodgings in the neighbourhood. Counsel is questioning Jim after
“Your name is James Shackleton?”
“For onything aw know it is,” replied Jim.
“And you are employed as a ganger on this section of the Canal?”
“Aw believe aw am.”
“And you lodge over here?” pointing to a group of cottages shown on
a map of the particular locality.
“Aw do,” answered Jim.
“And you cross this field ” (again pointing to the map) “daily ― two
or three times a day ― going to and coming from your work?”
“Yea,” was Jim’s reply.
“And in going and coming you have, of course, seen men engaged in
boring for coal?”
“Noa aw haven’t,” said Jim in reply, shaking his head.
“You have not seen men boring for coal in this particular field?”
(again pointing out the place on the map).
“Noa!” said Jim, stolidly.
“And yet you live here, and pass and re-pass this field several
times a day!”
“Yea aw do.”
“And you actually tell me that you have never seen workmen boring
for coal in this field?”
“Aw do,” said Jim.
“Now, on your oath, be careful ― have you not seen men engaged
in making borings in this field?”
“Oh! ay,” replied Jim, “Aw’ve seed ’em boring.”
Counsel smiled triumphantly, stretched himself up, and looked round
the Court and towards the umpire with a self-satisfied air.
“You have seen them boring for coal, then?”
“Noa,” responded Jim with an imperturbable face.
Counsel fumed. “You have not seen them boring for coal!” (shaking
his finger at Jim).
“Noa, not for coal. Aw have seen ’em boring.”
“Then what the d-----l were they boring for?”
“They wur boring for compensation!”
That was sufficient. Jim had landed his salmon, and there was a
shout of laughter in the Court as the discomfited counsel resumed
his seat. Jim was troubled with no more questions. His
last answer put the value of the land on its true basis.
Humour is a wonderful lever in aiding the accomplishment of one’s
purpose. If Jim had bluntly expressed his opinion at the
outset that this was a case of attempted imposition, the opinion
would only have been taken for what it was worth, and the result
might have been very different. The imperturbable way in which
he led the learned counsel. up to the climax, which, when reached,
rendered further argument superfluous, was of the drollest.
The Lancashire man abroad does not lose his individuality. He
is not great as a philosopher, and therefore has a wholesome
contempt of foreigners. The world is not his parish as
it might be if peopled by his own kith and kin. This insular
prejudice against the foreigner on the part of our working men is
exemplified by a circumstance which occurred in my own experience.
When I was engaged in certain engineering work in Brazil, I got out
from Lancashire three skilled men to carry out a contract that I had
in hand. They had been in that country a few weeks, when I
asked one of them how he liked the place.
“Oh, tidy well,” replied he, “it wouldn't be a bad place at all if
there weren’t so many d—d foreigners about!”
Not for a moment recognising the fact that it was he who was
the foreigner, and not the natives whom he affected to despise: a
trait in our character which I fear is not confined to the lower
classes, whether in Lancashire or elsewhere, in England.
The ludicrous situation in which Ben Brierley was one day placed was
related to me by Ben himself. One Saturday afternoon Ben was
passing along Piccadilly (Manchester) on the Infirmary side, and
seeing an old woman with a basket of ﬁne oranges before her — three
for twopence — Ben selected three for which he tendered a shilling,
having no smaller coin. The old orange-vendor was unable to
change it, but, unwilling to lose a customer, she whipped up the
shilling, saying: “Howd on a bit, maister, and tent my basket while
I goo get change.” Before Ben could expostulate — and, indeed,
before he could realise the position — she was off to seek change
for the shilling. For full five minutes Ben had to stand guard
behind the basket. If he had not done so, its contents would
quickly have been purloined by some of the mischievous lads always
hanging about the Infirmary flags. Ben declared that during
the interval, which seemed an age, he never before felt so
ridiculous and queer. The street was thronged with foot
passengers, but fortunately none seemed to recognise “Ab o’ th’ Yate,”
though several stared hard at the respectable-looking orange-vendor.
In the Cornhill Magazine (for Feb. 1899) the following
examples are given of the “Humours of School Inspection.”
“A pupil teacher in a Lancashire school was asked to describe the
way in which he had spent his Easter holidays. This was the
answer: ‘At Easter I and a companion went to Knot Mill Fair.
We did not take much account of the show except for the marionettes
and wild beasts. But we much preferred the latter, in cages,
for we were thus enabled to study the works of God, without the
danger of being torn in pieces!’” “Here,” says the writer, “the
Lancashire shrewdness is finely illustrated.”
And here, from the same source, is an instance of the total
annihilation of a smart young Inspector by some intelligent infants
in another Lancashire school. H.M.I. was examining the
six-year-olds in object lessons before the Vicar and his lively
H.M.I. What is this (producing a penny) made of?
H.M.I. No, children, you are mistaken; it is made of
bronze, which is a mixture of tin and copper. Now, what is it
H.M.I. And this? (showing a sixpence).
H.M.L. Quite right; and this? (fumbling for a half-sovereign,
but on failing to find it, rashly flourishing his seal ring in their
Children (to the infinite amusement of the Vicar’s daughter).
H.M.I. My dear children, no! It’s gold. Look more
closely at it, now — yes, you may hand it round. Now what use
do you think I have for this ring?
Little Girl. Please, Sir, to be married with. (Vicar’s
daughter convulsed in the corner.)
H.M.I. No, no! Men don’t wear wedding rings. But
when your father seals a letter what does he do it with?
Little boy (briskly). Please, sir, a brass farden.
Another good school story is told by the late Rev. Robert Lamb,
This was also a school examination, and the particular topic the
Apostles’ Creed. I may venture to repeat the story without
being charged with irreverence, considering that it is told by a
clergyman. The boys in the class had evidently been drilled in
the subject for some days previously, and each of them had his own
special portion to repeat as his turn came.
“By whom was He conceived?” the Examiner asked from the book.
“He was conceived by the Holy Ghost, was the ready answer.
“Of whom was He born?” was the question to the next boy.
“He was born of the Virgin Mary,” responded the youth boldly.
“Under whom did He suffer?” was the question addressed to the third
“He was crucified, dead and buried,” said the boy in a whining,
hesitating tone, as if conscious that all was not right.
“No, no! Under whom did He suffer? By whom was he crucified?”
The lad repeated the same words in the same drawling tone. The
question, was put a third time, and the same answer returned; when
one of the class, more intelligent than the rest, stepped forward,
and, after a twitch of his frontal lock, and an awkward scrape of
the foot, said, in a tone half supplicatory, half explanatory:
“Please, Sir, Pontius Pilate has getten th’ ma-sles!” Meaning,
of course, that the boy who had been crammed to give the answer to
that particular question was laid up at home of the measles.
An exacting critic of the story might be ready to object and say
that it was within the right of the Examiner to put his questions to
the boys in an “order promiscuous.” Well, I can only answer
that he didn’t; besides, it is not the proper thing to spoil a good
story by captious criticism.
In the earlier days of gas-lighting an old fellow in a Lancashire
town had the new light introduced into his house. It gave
great satisfaction at first, but later the light began to be
troublesome by bobbing up and down, and at times flickering out.
Unable to remedy the defect he sought the gas office and angrily
lodged his complaint with the manager. The latter promised to
send a man to have the lights put in order. “Yo can do as yo
liken,” replied the complainant, “but after yon box (alluding to the
gas meter) is empty, we’ll ha’ no mooar!”
As an example of ready wit, we have the story of Dicky Lobscouse, a
well-known Leyland character, who was brought up before the “Bench”
for being found drunk and incapable. After hearing the
officer’s statement, and the culprit having nothing to say for
himself, the Chairman of the Bench pronounced the sentence usual in
such cases — “Five shillings and costs, or a week in Preston gaol.”
“Thank yo, yor worship,” said Lobscouse, pulling his front hair lock
and then holding out his hand, “aw’ll tak’ th’ ﬁve shillin an’
The factory Doffers of Lancashire are noted for their love of frolic
and mischief. For the information of readers it may be
explained that the Doffers (the “Devil’s Own,” as they are sometimes
called) are lads employed in the throstle room of the cotton
factory. Their work consists in removing the full bobbins of
yarn from the spinning frame — hence the name “Doffer,” i.e.
to doff or divest — and supplying their places with empty bobbins to
receive the yarn as it is spun. This they accomplish with a
dexterity that beats conjuring. For a stranger visiting a
cotton mill there is no greater treat than to see the Doffers at
When the process of doffing is being performed the machine is
stopped, so, to stimulate the boys to greater rapidity at their work
and thus increase the productiveness of the machinery, they are
allowed to spend the intervals between the several doffings in
exercise out of doors, or in any other way they choose, always
provided they do not go beyond ear-shot of the “throstle jobber,”
who is a kind of “bo’s’n” in this department of the mill, and who
summonses them with a whistle to their work as often as they are
required. The quicker their duties are performed, the more
time they have to themselves, hence the amount of leisure and
liberty the lads enjoy.
It has been suggested that the Doffers are the missing link
desiderated by Darwin; and, judged by their mischievous pranks, one
might almost be led to conclude that such is the fact, for they are
equally dexterous at mischief as at work. Their working
dexterity is, for the nonce, carried into their play.
I was an eye-witness of a practical joke played by a band of Doffers
upon an unsuspecting carter. He had got a cart-load of coals
which he was leisurely conveying to their destination along one of
the bye-streets; and having occasion to call at a house on the way,
he left his horse and cart standing by the road side. A swarm
of Doffers from a neighbouring factory espied the situation, laid
their heads together for a moment or two, and then came running
stealthily up to the cart, undid all the gears save what barely
supported the cart from dropping so long as the horse remained
fairly quiet. Having completed their arrangements they as
quietly retired, and took their stand at a cautious distance behind
the gable-end of a house, whence in safety they could reconnoitre
the enemy. It was an enjoyable picture to me who was in the secret,
and for very mischief kept it, to see half a score of little,
greasy, grinning faces peeping from past the house end, expectation
beaming from every wicked eye.
The unwitting carter at length reappeared, and, giving a brisk crack
of his whip, had scarce got the “awe woy” from his lips, when
Dobbin, laying his shoulders to his work, ran forward with an
involuntary trot for ten or fifteen yards, whilst the cart shafts
came with sudden shock to the ground, and a row of cobs that had
barricaded the smaller coal flew shuttering over the cart head into
the street. Fortunately no damage resulted ― the shafts by a
miracle stood the shock.
The amazement of the victim of the trick may be imagined but
scarcely described. He gazed with open mouth at the
catastrophe, and his fingers naturally found their way to his
cranium, which he scratched in perplexity. The knot of
jubilant faces at the street corner in the distance soon supplied
the key to his difficulty. The truth flashed upon his mind.
“Devilskins!” he muttered, and seizing one of the biggest cobs he
could grasp in his hand, he let ﬂy at vacancy; for before you might
say “Jack Robinson,” the mischievous elves had vanished with a
war-whoop, and ere the missile had reached the ground, were probably
knee deep in their next adventurous exploit.
In the Rossendale district, with which I was acquainted for many
years, I knew some of the quaint old inhabitants, long since passed
away, whose remarks, as well as their reminiscences recounted to me,
interested and amused me, and some of which I have tried to recall.
Bull baiting was formerly a common sport in Rossendale as in other
parts of the country. A stake was fixed in the centre of the
baiting ground, to which the bull was tethered by a rope, when its
canine tormentors were let loose upon it amidst the yelling of a
brutalised mob. I once, curiously enough, in my own
experience, met with an example of the actual memory of the pastime
having survived to a recent date. An old Rossendale man one
day attended a camp-meeting held in a field at Sharneyford some
distance away, and on afterwards inquiring if he got to the meeting
in time, “Yea,” was the reply, “I geet theer just as they wur teein’
th’ bull to th’ stake.” Meaning that the preacher was just
about opening the services. Rossendale was by no means
singular in its relish for the degrading practice. The late
John Harland, in his introduction to the “Manchester Court Leet
Records,” recounts the fact that in Manchester in former times,
amongst the heaviest fines, or, as they were called, “amercements,”
on the butchers, were those for selling bull beef, the bull not
having been previously baited to make the flesh tender enough for
human food! A significant commentary this on the morals and
civilisation of our forefathers.
To the introduction of water and steam-power machinery in the
earlier part of the century, there were no stronger or more bitter
opponents than the Rossendale folks. In the early days, in
many of the larger houses were hand machines for the carding,
spinning and weaving of wool, whilst nearly every one of the smaller
houses had its hand-loom. When the factory system began to be
introduced into the district, and water-power was employed in
turning the machinery, the strong prejudices of the inhabitants
found vent in a form of prayer which, in seasons of drought, ran
“The Lord send rain to till the ground, but not to turn the engines
The woollen carding engines are here referred to, these being put in
motion by the water-wheel.
But times of extreme drought in Rossendale are not of frequent
occurrence. The hills bring down the rain, and in the “Barley
times,” as the famine times at the beginning of the century were
called, the people had a saying that there was “plenty of porridge
wayter in Rossendale, if there was only the meal to put into it.”
Hareholme Mill in the Rossendale valley was one of the first mills,
as well as the most important mill, in the district. It
belonged to a Quaker firm, and was built at the end of last century.
The chimney of the mill, which was erected at a later date, is a
curiosity. It resembles a champagne bottle, with its broad base
quickly gathered in near the centre, and tapering to the summit. The
cap or coping of the structure is an exact copy of a Quaker’s
broad-brimmed hat, without doubt intended by the humourist of a
builder to exemplify the religious tenets of the members of the ﬁrm.
The Ram which surmounts the belfry, typical of the woollen
manufacture, was executed by an ingenious workman named John Nuttall,
and bears an admirable likeness to the original. An architect from a
neighbouring town, criticising it freely and trying to display his
superior taste, expressed an opinion that the model of the Ram as
designed was all very well done excepting the horns. Whereupon
Nuttall naively replied that whatever the merits of the body of the
animal, the horns were just as God had made them. As a matter of
fact they were an actual pair of ram’s horns that he had used.
The power-loom breaking riots of 1826 were another exemplification
of the bitter feelings evoked by the application of steam-power to
the turning of machinery. The rioters in Rossendale made havoc
with the new-fangled looms, which, they believed, would ruin their
trade as hand-loom weavers and take the bread out of their mouths.
Their mode of procedure on attacking a mill was to place a guard
outside, then the ringleaders entered; first they cut out the warps
and destroyed the reeds and healds, and then with a few well aimed
blows they demolished the looms. On the cry being raised: “Th’
soldiers are coming!” one old fellow cried out: “Never mind, lads,
we met as weel be shot by th’ soldiers as clemmed by th’ maisters!”
I have mentioned this circumstance by way of introducing “Long
George,” the constable of Bacup during those disturbed times, an
eccentric character whom I knew well. George stood six feet
two inches in his stockings, hence the preﬁx, “Long” to his name.
It was but little that George and his myrmidons could do to prevent
the mischief, and so, with the instinctive sagacity of the “watch,”
they wisely kept aloof from the scenes of outrage and spoliation.
Long George was a familiar figure in Bacup for many years after
being superseded in the duties as constable by the Peelers or
police, as we now have them. At the beginning of his time,
when he was village constable, he lived in Lane Head Lane. On
one wintry night, cold and stormy, the snow drifting heavily, a
night when folks could scarcely keep their night-caps from being
blown off, some young fellows determined they would play a trick on
George. So they waited until they knew he had got well into
bed, and then they went up to his house in the Lane and thundered at
George got up, put his head out of the window, and saw two or three
snow-covered figures down below.
“Whatever dun yo want, chaps, at this time o’ neet?” he called out.
“George, yo’re wanted down at th’ Dragon yonder, first thing!” One
of them shouted back in reply:
“What’s th’ matter theer?” asked George.
“There’s about twenty on ’em yonder feighting o’ of a rook, an’ if
thae doesn’t look sharp and come down and sunder ’em, they’ll be one
hauve on ’em kilt!”
But George was not to be caught as easily as they imagined; he saw
through the trick that was attempted to be played on him, and,
ruminating for a moment, answered:
“I’ll tell yo what yo maun do, chaps.”
“What maun we do? What maun we do, George?” they asked.
“Go yor ways back to th’ Dragon,” said George, “an’ lay ’em out on
th’ tables, as money on ’em as gets kilt, an’ i’ th’ morning I’ll
come down an’ count ’em,” and with that he crashed the window down
again, leaving the discomfited jokers to find their way back to the
bar-parlour of the Dragon as best they might.
Latterly, George did duty as a bailiff, attending auction sales,
keeping the door, and handing the drink round to the thirsty
bidders. He wore a blue coat with metal buttons, knee-breeches
and brown stockings, with a pair of clogs at least fourteen inches
in length, and a sole an inch and a half thick. He was also
adorned with a blue apron which was usually tucked round his waist,
and he wore for years an old felt hat that had scarcely a vestige of
George, when I knew him, lodged with two elderly maiden sisters, Ann
o’ th’ Kiln and Judie, but he kept his own room in order, and did
his own cooking. One evening George’s supper was on the hob,
and some practical jokers, being on the look out, attracted his
attention outside, whilst one of them slipped in and emptied a
cupful of salt into the pot.
George, on sitting down to his evening meal, found the porridge so
over-seasoned that it was impossible to eat them. He tried
again and again, muttering to himself: “Tha’ll ha’ to come to ’t,
George! Tha’ll ha’ to come to ’t!” but it was of no use, he
had to give them up at last.
Determined, however, that they should not be thrown away or
otherwise wasted, he got a pudding cloth, and tying them up in this,
hung them from a hook in the ceiling of his room, and instead,
thereafter, of salting his porridge in the usual way, he cut a slice
from the over-salted compound as long as it lasted and put it in the
pot, so saving both salt and oatmeal. By frugality and
self-denial George managed to save a considerable sum of money, and
was in the habit of lending it out on security at good interest.
Somewhat akin to this display of frugality was the action of some of
the first co-operators in Bacup. They early followed the
example of the Rochdale
Pioneers, their society being established in the year 1847.
They had a good deal to learn in those early days, and made mistakes
in buying. One of the mistakes, I remember, was the purchase
of a small cargo of Dutch or American cheeses. These, when
they came to hand, proved to be so hard that a knife blade stood no
chance with them. They were more like “young grindlestones”
(as one of the shopmen expressed it) than cheeses.
What was to be done? It would never do to throw them away ―
that was out of the question. A hatchet would have mauled them
and spoilt their appearance; so Abram o’ Bobs, who was equal to the
emergency, brought his hand-saw one night and divided them into a
number of saleable pieces. When cut, they had the appearance
of brown ivory, and were nearly as hard. There must have been
some aching teeth and jaws before those same cheeses were finally
It is not often that Rossendale men are so taken in.
Waugh in one of his sketches
remarks that the men of Rossendale are “a long way through.”
That is quite true as regards many of them. For that reason
they are also a long way round, and it is not easy “coming round”
one of the pure breed.
I was amused with a remark made on one occasion by an old fellow
best known by the sobriquet of “Jobber Pilling’s feyther.” He
had a two-foot rule, and was trying to take the dimensions of a deal
board on which he was at work. The figures on his two-foot,
however, were quite illegible by reason of the blade being either
soiled or worn. Spitting on it, and giving it a rub with his coat
sleeve, he looked shrewdly at me, and remarked: “This thing wants
kestnin’ o’er again.” Whether he meant that the application of
water would improve it, or that the figures would do with
re-cutting, I don’t just know, but the christening simile would be
applicable either way.
By the way, we often find in Lancashire the sons and daughters
having the names of their father or mother applied to them along
with their own by way of recognition; as for example, “George o’
Bob’s,” “Dick o’ owd Sally’s,” “Bill o’ Jack’s,” and so on; but this
is the only instance I remember of the father being distinguished by
a reference to the son. Jobber Pilling, the son, was the more
pronounced character in the family, and so the elder representative
of the name was known as “Jobber Pilling’s feyther.”
When people are reputed to be wealthy, and especially if they make a
parade of their wealth, it is sometimes said in the vernacular that
“they fair stinken o’ brass.” Vulgar as is this phrase, it has
the true Chaucerean ring about it. One might almost take it to
be a quotation from the Canterbury Tales. For expressiveness
and force it cannot be surpassed.
In Rossendale, a red herring is called “a sodjer.”
The stories that are told of some of the wealthier inhabitants of
Rossendale are curious and amusing. “Same as yo, Maister
George,” has become a classic saying. It originated thus: The
occasion was the election of a poor-law guardian ― an exciting event
when political parties, Whig and Tory, brought out their candidates,
and put forth their strength in the contest. Political feeling
ran high then as now, and guardians were elected on the colour of
their politics quite independently of their special fitness for the
George Hargreaves, Esquire, J.P., was the ruling Tory spirit in the
very heart of the Rossendale Valley in bygone years ― a man of
staunch integrity and blameless life, and Tory to the backbone.
The voters, many of whom were dependent on him in various ways
because he was a man of property and an employer of labour, were
crowding into the schoolroom to record their votes, George himself
marshalling his partisans, and scanning the faces of doubtful
“Who are you voting for, Sam?” spoke out Mr Hargreaves to a sturdy
Rossendalean elbowing his way among the crowd.
“Same as yo’, Maister George,” answered Sam with a nod, “Same as yo’,”
and “maister George” nodded back with a gratified smile. So it
is “same as yo’, maister George,” when the opinion of any present
day political or other weak-backed inhabitant is in question.
A number of stories are related of John Brooks of Sunnyside, and Sam
Brooks, the well-known Manchester banker; John and Sam were
brothers. One of the stories is too good to be lost.
When the Act of Incorporation was obtained for, and government by a
municipality was first introduced into, Manchester, it is said that
John Brooks was asked to stand as a Town-Councillor or Alderman.
Being doubtful as to the expediency of taking such a step, he
promised to consult his brother Sam and be guided by his advice.
Accordingly, he spoke to Sam on the subject, informing him that he
(John) had been asked to take office as a new-fangled
Town-Councillor. What did he think of it? Would it be
wise or prudent for him to comply with the request?
“Will they pay you for it?” enquired Sammy with a quick
interrogative glance at his brother.
“O, no!” John replied, “there ’ll be no pay for th’ job ― nothing
for it but the honour of the position.”
“Humph! honour be hanged!” responded Sam, “let me gi’e thee a bit of
advice, John; whenever thae does ought for nought, do it for thae-sell!”
On one occasion Mr Sam Brooks had advertised for a dog.
Sitting in his breakfast-room, which looked out towards the entrance
gate, he saw a rough tyke of a youth coming along the drive partly
dragging, partly holding back with a cord, a mongrel-looking brute
that had been sent in answer to the advertisement.
Mr Brooks, rising, went to the door and accosted the youth:
“What have you got there, my lad?”
“A dog that mi feyther has sent.”
“Thae feyther has sent it, has he? Hum!” (The
millionaire banker walked leisurely round the animal and surveyed
its points.) “How much does thae feyther want for it, my lad?” at
length he asked.
“He wants a sovereign for it.”
“A sovereign! That’s a devil of a price!”
“Ay,” was the response, “an mi feyther says that this is a devil of
Doubtless Sam enjoyed the answer of the ingenuous youth, for he
relished a joke, but whether he purchased the uncommon animal at the
price asked for it is another question.
The following story by Mr George Milner  is
another added to the number. It is related of Mr Brooks, that
on the occasion of a severe illness, being told by his physician, at
a time when money was at a high rate of interest, that he must
certainly prepare for the worst as there was but slender hope of his
recovery, he answered: “What? die! and money at eight per cent.?
Never, doctor, never!” The idea of leaving his capital when it
was more than usually remunerative was more than he could bear.
The following is a tale in a double sense. Rossendale farmers
are not, as a rule, given to practical joking, but an anecdote will
show that sometimes, at least, they can usefully indulge in that
pastime. A certain farmer was greatly perplexed as to the
reason of the sudden illness that occurred from time to time among
his beasts, and which in each case appeared to be the result of
fright. To learn the cause of this he set a watch, when he
discovered that a neighbour’s dog was in the habit of running among
the cattle and worrying them. This neighbour was one of his
best customers and particularly fond of his dog, and caution was
therefore necessary in approaching him on the subject.
The aggrieved farmer spoke to his neighbour one day, told him of his
troubles, and suggested that a cure could be effected by cutting off
the end of the dog’s tail, which would, he said, be better than
killing the animal or parting with it. To this the neighbour
assented, and the culprit being secured was held in position by the
farmer, while its owner stood with uplifted hatchet, ready to
descend on the animal’s tail. The signal being given, down
came the hatchet, when, lo! instead of the tail-end dropping off,
the dog’s head was completely severed; the farmer exclaiming: “By
gum! but thad wur a near do!” and declared that he knew it would
A diminutive hunchback, being out of collar, applied for a
situation. “What can you do, my man?” asked the employer.
“Well,” was the reply, “aw can dreyve a horse and cart.”
“Drive a horse and cart! Why, man, the horse would tread on you.”
“Would he, though?” was the ready response, “He’d ha’ to get into th’
The inhabitants of the Dean Valley in Rossendale have long been
celebrated for their excellence as musicians, both vocal and
instrumental; and it is from this fact that their appellation of
“Deyghn Layrocks” has arisen. From records more than a century
and a half old, we learn that they were in the habit of meeting in
each others’ houses by turns, and practising
The aggrieved farmer spoke to his neighbour one day, told him of his
troubles, and suggested that a cure could be effected by cutting off
the end of the dog’s tail, which would, he said, be better than
killing the animal or parting with it. To this the neighbour
assented, and the culprit being together the compositions, sacred
and secular, which our country can boast in such rich abundance.
Many pieces of their own composing bear the impress of ability far
beyond mediocrity, and deserve to be more generally known.
Some of these have, indeed, already gone abroad into the world, and
are sung in places widely apart; being admired by those who are
unable to recognise either their origin or authorship.
I have in my possession a collection in manuscript of no fewer than
fifty sacred pieces, consisting of Psalm tunes and chants, composed
by residents in the Dean Valley, and in other parts of Rossendale.
Large as is this number, I have reason to believe that it is but a
fractional part of what might be collected in the locality.
Some of the names given to the pieces are characteristic of the dry
humour of the authors — a quality which is largely possessed by many
of the old inhabitants of the Forest. Among the list we find
“Happy Simeon,” “Little Amen,” “Bocking Warp,” “Strong Samson,” “Old
Methuselah,” and “Spanking Rodger.”
In handloom days, when every man’s house was his workshop, it was
usual for the Deyghners to repair to each other’s houses alternately
after the Sunday’s service at the Chapel, and continue their
practice of music far into the small hours of the Monday morning;
and, on rising after a brief repose, the Monday was spent in a
similar manner. Very often the Tuesday also was devoted to the
like purpose. But sound, however sweet, is but sorry food for
hungry stomachs, and, consequently, during the remaining days of the
week, the loom had to be plied with unremitting vigour to supply the
ever-recurring wants of the household.
It is related of two of the “Layrocks ”— father and son — that they
had been busy trying to master a difficult piece of music, one with
the violin, the other with the violoncello, but were still unable to
execute certain of the more intricate movements to their
satisfaction. They had put their instruments aside for the
night, and had retired to rest. After his “first sleep,” the
younger enthusiast, in ruminating over the performance of the
evening, thought that if he might only rise and attempt the piece
then, he should be able to manage it. Creeping from under
the bed-clothes, he awoke his father, who also arose; and soon the
two in their shirts might have been seen, through the unscreened
window, flourishing their bows at an hour when ordinary mortals are
laid unconscious in the arms of Somnus. The lonely traveller,
had there been one at that untimely hour, would surely, like Tam o’
Shanter as he passed by “Alloway’s auld haunted Kirk,” have felt his
hair rising on end at the sight of two ghostly individuals scraping
music at the dead of night, and in such unwonted attire.
The early Bacup Baptists used to immerse in the river Irwell at Lumb
Head. A story is related of an irreverent wag who placed a
prickly thorn at the bottom of the pool when old “Ab o’ th’ Yate ”
was baptized. On complaining of the injuries he had sustained
in the process of immersion, Ab was consoled by being assured that
it must have been his sins that were pricking him.
Richard Taylor of Bacup, the Rossendale “Ale-taster,” was a humorist
of the first water. His proper calling was that of a spindle
maker, hence his sobriquet of “Spindle Dick,” a rare workman at his
trade when he chose, and in his soberer hours. He was a fellow of
infinite jest, not lacking in sound judgment, but with that kind of
twist in his nature that would never allow him for two minutes at at
spell to treat any subject in a serious mood. In his hands there was
nothing incongruous or far-fetched in the office of ale-taster.
Its duties, incrusted with the antiquity of centuries, came as
naturally to him as though he had been living in the time of the
Heptarchy, and was to the manner born. The incongruity was
when he forsook, as he occasionally did, his ale-tasting duties and
applied himself assiduously to his business of spindle making.
The appointment of ale-taster took place annually along with those
of the greave, moor and hedge lookers, bellman and officers for the
assize of bread at the Halmot Court of the Lord of the Honour.
In earlier days the punishment for brewing or publicly vending bad
ale was either a ﬁne or a two hours’ seat upon the cuck-stool before
the culprit’s own door. The drink, if pronounced by a
discriminating judge to be undrinkable, being handed over to
the poor folk.
It is only in as district like Rossendale, that such an interesting
relic of the olden time could have survived. Regularly as the
month of October came round, Dick put in an appearance at the Halmot
Court and was reinstated in his office with due formality. A
memorial presented by him to the Court Leet contains some touches of
dry humour highly characteristic of the man. In this he says:
“From a natural bashfulness, and being unaccustomed to public
speaking, which my friends tell me is a very fortunate circumstance,
I am induced to lay my claim in writing before your honourable
“The appointment which I hold is a very ancient one, dating, as you
are aware, from the time of the good King Alfred, when the Court
Leet appointed their head-borough, tithing-men, burs-holder and
ale-taster; which appointments were again regulated in the time of
Edward III.; and through neglect this important office to a
beer-imbibing population ought not to be suffered to fall into
disrepute or oblivion.
“In Rossendale there are countless numbers of practical followers of
the school to which that illustrious Dutchman, Mynheer Van Dunck,
belonged, and while they imbibe less brandy, they make up for it in
beer. For some Rossendale men, indeed, beer is meat, drink, washing
and lodging: and do away with the office of ale-taster, an inferior
quality of the beverage may be sold, and the consequent waste of
tissue among the working classes would be something awful to
contemplate. Your honourable Court, then, cannot but perceive the
vast importance of my office.
“At the time when Rossendale was in reality a forest, and a squirrel
could jump from one tree to another from Sharneyford to Rawtenstall
without touching the ground, the office of ale-taster was no doubt a
sinecure; but with the growth of population and the spread of
intelligence in Rossendale there has been a proportionate increase
of licensed public-houses and beer-shops, which has created a
corresponding amount of responsibility in my duties.
“For three years I have upheld the dignity of your honourable Court
as ale-taster without emolument, stipend, fee or perquisite of any
kind. I have even been dragged before a subordinate Court and
fined five shillings and costs whilst fulfilling the duties of my
office. My great service should receive some slight
acknowledgment at your hands, and thus would be secured the upright
discharge of those duties you expect me to fulfil; and my imperial
gill measure, which I carry along with me as my baton of office,
should bear the seal of your honourable Court.
“The quality of the beer retailed at the Rossendale public-houses is
generally good, and calculated to prevent the deterioration of
tissue, and I do not detect any signs of adulteration. The
only complaint I have to make is of the quality of the ales sold at
Newchurch during the week in which ‘Kirk Fair,’ is held; they are
not then up to the mark in point of strength and flavour; but this
is a speciality, and it is the only speciality that I feel bound to
comment upon, excepting that which immediately concerns your
obedient servant, Richard Taylor, Ale-taster for that part of Her
Majesty’s dominions known as Rossendale.”
On a later occasion Mr Taylor sent in his resignation to the Halmot
Court as follows:
“Gentlemen, I respectfully, but firmly, tender my resignation as the
ale-taster of the Forest, an office which I have held for seven
years without any salary or fee of any description. During
that period I have done my duty both to his grace the Duke of
Buccleuch (Lord of the Honor of Clitheroe in which is the Forest of
Rossendale) and to the inhabitants generally. From feelings of
humanity I refrain from suggesting anyone as my successor, for
unless he possesses an iron constitution, if he does his duty to the
appointment, he will either be a dead man before the next Court day,
or he will have to retire with a shattered constitution.”
The Court, however, declined to entertain Mr Taylor’s petition, and
reappointed him to the office he had so long filled with so much
credit to himself (though with very questionable benefit) and to the
advantage of the many thirsty souls within his jurisdiction.
The reference to “Kirk Fair,” and to the quality of the ale sold
there on those occasions will be appreciated by those who know the
district. For three successive days the streets of the village
are thronged with a surging mass of people on pleasure bent.
As many of these come long distances in the heat of summer, with
their parched throats and high spirits, they are naturally less
critical of the quality of their drink than at ordinary times; and
the publicans, with what amount of truth beyond the declaration of
the official ale-taster, I am not prepared to vouch, were suspected
of taking advantage of the circumstances to thin down and lengthen
out their ales.
When in discharge of the functions of his curious calling of
ale-taster, Dick carried in his coat pocket a pewter gill measure of
his own fashioning, of peculiar old-world shape, with a turned
ebony-wood handle in the form of a cross that projected straight
from the middle of the side. This symbol of his office was
secured by a leathern thong about half a yard in length, one end
being round the handle, the other through a button-hole in his coat.
After a day’s official work he might occasionally be seen, with
unsteady gait, wending his way up the lane to his domicile on the
hillside, with the gill measure dangling below his knee.
Not infrequently he had to appear before the Bench for being drunk
and incapable, and though he was sometimes mulcted in a ﬁne, as
often as not some smart sally of wit won the admiration and sympathy
of the “Great Unpaid,” who let him down as softly as their sense of
duty would permit. Dick, on those occasions, would declare
that it was his legs only, and not his head, that was drunk.
He would assert that, like a barrel, he was easily upset when only
partially filled; but, when full to the bung and end up, he was
steady as a rock.
At one time in his career Dick kept a beer-house, the sign over the
door being a representation of the Globe, with the head and
shoulders of a man projecting through it, and underneath it the
legend: “Help me through this World!” By way of counteracting
any bad moral effects that arose from his vending of beer on
week-days, he taught a Bible-class in a room over the beer-shop on
Sundays. He christened one of his sons “Gentleman,” Gentleman
Taylor, being determined, as he said, to have one gentleman in the
family, whatever else.
Poor Dick Taylor! I always felt grateful to his personality
and to the humour which girt him round. He was a link that
bound us to the past; a kind of embodied poetical idea in keeping
with the ancient Forest and its traditions. I have more than
half a suspicion that he must have been lying dormant for centuries
in the muniment-room of Clitheroe Castle, and, like Rip Van Winkle,
awoke at length to resume his interrupted duties. I never
conversed with him without being carried in imagination back to
bygone times, and on such occasions it was with a half-resentful
feelings of annoyance that the proximity of a later — should we be
justified in saying, a higher? — civilization, in the guise of a
smoky factory chimney, dispelled the illusion.
The post of ale-taster, though still nominally maintained, is in
reality obsolete, and could not be revived, even in out-of-the-way
places, without committing an anachronism. Even in Dick
Taylor’s day the office was looked upon as belonging to the past ― a
relic of a bygone age, in which a social system, different from the
present, prevailed. It belonged to the days of stocks and
pillories, of ducking and cucking stools and scolds’ bridles; of
sluggard wakeners and dog whippers. Tempura mutantur.
It needed a genial humorist to assume the duties of the office in
this latter half of the nineteenth century, and a vulgar imitator
would find no favour.
In a wide and populous district the duties, when conscientiously
performed, were more than mortal stomach could bear unharmed, even
though the paunch were like that of Falstaff, which Dick’s was not,
and leaving out of account the temptations which beset such an
official. Dick took to ale-tasting as a jest, though he
fulfilled his duties with a mock gravity that enhanced the fun of
the situation. Keen as was his taste for ale, he had a keener
relish for the humour of the position. Alas! it was joking
perilously near to the edge of a precipice. The last of the
Ale-tasters died, a martyr to duty, on the 10th day of October,
1876. Sic itur ad artra.
A number of curious legends, not lacking in humour, are current in
the Rossendale district. It is said that some of the youths of
Crawshawbooth village were amusing themselves at football on a
Sunday afternoon in the field between Pinner lodge and Sunnyside
House. A gentlemanly personage, dressed in black, approached
and stood looking at them for some time apparently interested in the
game of the Sabbath-breakers. The ball at length rolled to his
feet, and, unable, perhaps, to resist the temptation, he took it in
his hand, and gave it a kick that sent it spinning into the air; but
instead of the ball returning to terra firma, it continued to
rise until it vanished from the sight of the gaping rustics.
Turning to look at the stranger who had performed such a marvellous
feat, they espied ― what they had not observed before ― the cloven
hoof and barbed tail (just visible from underneath the coat) of his
Satanic Majesty! The effect of this unexpected discovery on
the onlookers may be imagined. Had the wall round the field
been twelve feet high instead of four it could hardly have prevented
their exit. As for the cause of their sudden dispersion, he
vanished in a blaze of ﬁre, and the smell of the brimstone fumes
produced by his disappearance was felt in the village for many weeks
Another story of the same personage is the following: At the corner
of the field between Stacksteads and the railway is a large
irregularly-shaped mound made up of earth, clay and coarse gravel.
The debris of which it is composed has probably been washed down out
of “Hell Clough,” a depression in the hills immediately opposite,
and deposited at this place at a remote period of time. But
there is a legend connected with it. It is said that before
the river Irwell had scooped out its present channel through the
Thrutch Glen — a narrow gorge about eighty feet wide, through which
the river, the road and the railway run side by side — the whole of
the valley extending thence up to Bacup foot was covered by a vast
sheet of water — a great lake embanked by the surrounding hills.
At Hell Clough it is said that his Satanic Majesty had a country
seat and was accustomed to perform his ablutions in the lake in
question. One day the water, swollen by heavy rains, and
lashed into fury by the wind, overﬂowed its banks at the Thrutch,
ploughing out a passage through the rock and shale which hitherto
had barred its progress. His Majesty of the cloven foot, who
stood upon the edge of the lake enjoying the storm himself had
raised, began to perceive the sudden withdrawal of the water from
his feet. Divining the cause, he slipped on a large apron,
and, hastily filling it with soil and gravel, made with all speed to
repair the breach. But, just as he reached the place where the
mound described is situated, his apron strings broke, and the mass
of rubbish which he carried fell to the ground, where it has lain to
It is some such tradition of the close proximity of the devil to the
district which has given rise to the saying, quoted by Samuel
Bamford: “There’s a ﬁne leet i’ th’ welkin, as th’ witch o’
Brandwood said when th’ devil wur ridin’ o’er Rossenda.”
The “witch o’ Brandwood” was probably concerned in the following
incident. It would appear that the intention of the founders
of the old Church at Kirk was to build it on a site at Mitchellfield-nook,
and that the materials for the structure were deposited at that
place — when one morning it was discovered that the whole had been
transported overnight by some unseen power to the hillside on which
the Church stands.
Not to be diverted from their purpose, the inhabitants again
conveyed the materials to the place which they had originally fixed
upon, and appointed a watch to frustrate any further attempts at
removal. But one night as the sentinel slumbered at his post —
an enchanted sleep, probably — the unseen hands had again been busy,
with similar results.
A third time the materials were deposited on the chosen site, and,
on this occasion, three of the inhabitants appointed to keep watch
and ward. As these sat toasting their toes at a wood ﬁre they
had kindled, an old lady with a kindly countenance, coming past,
saluted them with a pleasant “good e’en,” at the same time offering
them each a share of some refreshment which she carried. This
they had no sooner partaken of, than a profound drowsiness overtook
them, ending in a deep and protracted sleep — from which in the
morning they were aroused by the shouts of the bewildered rustics
who came only to find that the pranks had a third time been
repeated. So, yielding to the decision of a power which was
not to be out-manoeuvred, the builders erected the church on its
present site. 
Reverting again to hand-loom days, and stepping over by Sharneyford
and Tooter Hill — “th’ riggin’ o’ th’ world,” as Tim Bobbin called
it — the high ridge separating Rossendale from the Todmorden Valley,
by way of Dulesgate (Devil’s gate), where Waugh assisted at the
poker weighing — we may encounter some of the ﬁnest examples of
Lancashire and Yorkshire border character, their conversation
overﬂowing with mother-wit and ready repartee. Speaking of
some one who had a “good conceit of himself,” said old John,Howorth
to me; “there’s only three spoonfuls o’ wit (sense) i’ th’ world,
and yon mon has gettin’ two on’ em!”
One old dame, recounting the struggles of poor folk in the days when
there was plenty of law, but a sad lack of justice — not to speak of
mercy — dealt out to the workers, and describing the kind of men and
their head servants who held the noses of the poor to the grindstone
while they themselves were laying the foundations of big fortunes,
“Yei, it wur hard work for poor folk i’ thoose days. We geet
sixpence a cut for weyving cuts, and in a whool week, working long
hours, we couldna’ get through moore nor about nine or ten cuts —
for they were twenty yards long apiece. That would mak’ ﬁve
shillin’ a week at moast; an’ when we had finished ’em, we had to
carry ’em on our backs two or three mile to th’ taker-in.
“I con remember my owd mon once takin’ his cuts in, and he had
tramped through th’ weet and snow on a cowd winter’s mornin’, and
when he had gettin’ his cuts passed by th’ taker-in, he axed him if
he would gi’e him a penny to buy a penny mouﬁn to eat as he wur goin’
back whoam; but th’ taker-in said to him: ‘Eh mon! if I wur to gi’e
thee a penny it would be gi’en’ thee o’ th’ proﬁt ’at our maisters
get fro’ a cut, (whereas at the time they were probably making a
clear guinea by each of them). They’re nearly working at a
loss now by every cut yo weyving. No, it’ll never do to gi’e
thee pennies in that reckless fashion, Jone!’
“It wur hard work i’ thoose days, I can tell thi’, to get porritch
and skim milk twice a day, wi’ happen a bit o’ bacon on Sundays.
Once I had to go fro’ near to Stoodley Pike, across Langﬁeld Moor,
wi’ my cuts. It were a raw cowd morning, very early, before it
wur gradely leet. An’ when‘ I geet to th’ taker-in — eh! an’
they wur hard uns, thoose takers-in! — he says when he seed me:
“‘Hillo! are yo here so soon, Betty? Warn’t yo ﬂey’d o’ meetin’
th’ de’il this morning as yo coom across Langﬁeld Moor?’
“‘Nowt o’ th’ soart,’ I said, I wur noan feart o’meetin’ th’ deil up
o th’ moor, for I knew th’ hangmets weellthat I’d ﬁnd th’ de’il when
I geet here!”
Saving habits, to a much greater extent than prevail in the larger
towns, are a characteristic of the working people in these outlying
and semi-rural districts. This is accounted for to some extent
by the absence of temptation to the spending of money, and so the
habit of thrift gains in strength by the daily practice of it; just
as the opposite holds good where the opportunities for squandering
money and the temptation to do so are multiplied.
By reason, also, of the comparative isolation, a more marked
simplicity of character is observable among the people.
Rambling with a friend over the moors above Walsden, we called at a
lonely farmhouse to obtain such refreshments with bread and cheese
as the goodwife might be able to provide. With as much gravity
as he could command, my friend inquired of the damsel who waited on
us, at what hour the theatre opened up there. She hesitated
for a moment as though trying to realize the idea of a theatre, and
then with equal gravity and greater sincerity explained that there
was no theatre in their locality, though occasionally in the
schoolroom, some mile and a half distant, they had Penny Readings in
Winter, and at times a Missionary meeting.
The theatre is a luxury in which they do not care to indulge very
largely, even if they had the opportunity of doing so. It may
be that the matter-of-fact qualities of their minds have been
cultivated at the expense of the imagination, like those of the
youth to whom I lent a copy of the “Pilgrim’s Progress,”
recommending him to read it, and believing it would interest him.
When he brought it back I asked him how he had enjoyed the book.
His answer was scarcely what I expected, and it was spoken in a
contemptuous tone: “Why,” said he, “it’s nobbut a dreyam!” One
might be justified in coming to the conclusion that in this youth
there was the making of a hard-headed, practical Lancashire cotton
But the Lancashire operative class are not all lacking in
imagination, as the next incident will show. Chancing to be in
London one evening, and going along the Strand, I came across two
old Lancashire acquaintances — working men — sauntering in the
opposite direction. They had come up on a three days’ cheap
trip to view the sights of the Metropolis. Desiring to be of
assistance to them in that direction, and to make myself agreeable,
I invited them to go with me to one of the theatres. This
proposal, however, did not seem to attract them — the theatre was
hardly in their line; so, by way of alternative, and remembering
that they were strong politicians, I suggested that they should
accompany me to the “Coger’s Hall,” at the bottom of Fleet Street,
and listen to a political discussion. This suggestion they
eagerly accepted, and, strolling along, we shortly found ourselves
snugly ensconced in the discussion forum, each in an arm-chair, a
pint of stout in a pewter on the
table in front of each of us, and long clay pipes in our mouths.
The subject of the evening was a burning political question, and the
discussion went on with great animation. I saw that my friends
were enjoying it immensely; at length, nudging one of them, I
“How do you like it, Jim?”
Taking his pipe from between his teeth, his face beaming with a kind
of solemn satisfaction:
“Like it,” he replied, “it’s same as being i’ heaven!”
He had in fact attained to the very acme of enjoyment; comfortably
seated in his chair, enjoying his pipe, his sense of hearing charmed
by the orators’ well-turned periods, and, as he expressed it, “he
could sup when he’d a mind!” I have often seen my friends
since then, and I find that that evening spent in the discussion
room at Coger’s Hall is marked with a red letter in their memory.
“Drufty Ned” was well named, and he had numberless ways of raising
the wind when he wanted a gill with never a bodle to pay for it.
One day he called at Owd Sall o’ Croppers, who kept the “Hit or
Miss” beer house and sold oatcake baked in Lancashire fashion on a “bakstone.”
“Let’s ha’ hauve a dozen o’ yor oatcakes, Sall,” said Ned, as he sat
down by the ﬁreside and leaned his elbows on the well-scrubbed table
in the tap-room.
The cakes were brought. “Bring me a gill o’ ale, Sall, while
aw warm mi toes a bit.” The ale was tabled, and Ned pretending
he was short of change, hands Sall back two of the oatcakes.
“Here, Sall, take pay for th’ ale wi’ two o’ th’ oatcakes.”
Sall looked at him dubiously, but took the proffered payment.
Shortly, Ned knocked on the table with his empty pot, and called for
another gill. This was brought, and Ned handed back two more
of the oatcakes in exchange.
A third time the order was given, and shortly, Ned, having finished
both his ale and the cakes, began to clunter out towards the door,
calling out, “Good day, Sall.”
“Here!” cried Sall, “tha hasn’t paid for th’ ale.”
“Paid for th’ ale,” responded Ned, “aw paid for th’ ale wi’ th’
“Aw lippen thae did,” said Sall a bit moidart, “aw lippen thae did,
but aw want payin’ for th’ oatcakes then.”
“Payin’ for th’ oatcakes!” replied Ned, looking at the landlady in
an injured way, as though protesting that she wanted to impose upon
him, “payin’ for th’ oat-cakes! Thae’s gettin thi oatcakes,
“Yai, aw have,” responded Sall. “It’s queer, but it’ll happen be
Miss Lahee in one of her amusing sketches points out that in East
and South Lancashire, parents sometimes have their male progeny
named in baptism according to the profession or position they should
like them to attain in after life, hence we find such names as the
following applied to people for the most part in humble
circumstances:— “Captain” Duckworth, “Major” Fitton, “Doctor” Hall,
“Squire” Crawshaw, “Lord” Massey, and even “Canon” Ball. To
these may be added “Lord” Tattersall and “Gentleman” Taylor.
One aspiring mother had her hopeful son christened “Washington,” but
by some mistake the name in the register got set down as “Washing
“What size was it?” the witness was asked when in the witness box
“It was about th’ mickle of a piece of chalk,” was the answer. 
In one of the hamlets lying beyond Todmorden, in the Burnley valley,
there was a curious specimen of the Lancashire border character,
Hiram Fielden, who kept a grocer’s shop, and dealt also in the other
commodities expected to be inquired for by a village community.
In his younger days Hiram had been a cotton weaver in a mill, but
his ambition was to save a little money, get married, and open a
“Badger’s Shop.” By the exercise of great frugality, along
with the help of the savings which his wife, Betty, brought him, he
achieved his purpose.
He began business in a humble way at first; but gradually as his
customers increased, his business grew, and instead of continuing to
vend treacle from a two-gallon can, he at length ventured on giving
an order for a whole hogshead at once! The arrival of this
consignment created quite a sensation in the village; the like had
never been seen there before, and the urchins who watched the
process of unloading the precious cask, and saw it safely deposited
end up in the corner of the store, smacked their lips as their
imagination pictured the luscious reservoir of sweets. In the
course of the day a further consignment ― this time of whitewash
brushes ― arrived, and Betty, mounting a chair in the corner, and
thence stepping on to the top of the treacle barrel, was just in the
act of hanging the brushes on the hook in the ceiling, when the
barrel end gave way underneath her, and down she settled gradually
up to the arm-pits into the syrupy mass!
Hiram, who was busy at the back of the shop, hearing the crash,
hurried in to ascertain the cause, and stood for a few moments
gazing in consternation at the head of his better-half barely
visible above the barrel edge. What was to be done? Ruin
and disgrace and ridicule stared him in the face, but with great
presence of mind he ran to the shop door, closed it, shot the bolt,
and then drew down the window blind.
Mounting the barrel and securing a footing on its edge, he
succeeded, by the help of a clothes-line which he looped on to the
hook overhead, and which she stoutly grasped, in gradually
extricating Betty from her savoury bath. Carefully he stroked
the treacle from her as she rose ceiling-wards, and, that no loss of
merchandise might ensue, at the same time wiping her down with a
cloth dipped in a bucket of water; thus all traces of Betty’s
misadventure were soon obliterated, and nobody but themselves was
any the wiser.
Hiram, in recounting the circumstance to me, confidentially, after
long years had elapsed, declared that the run on that hogshead was
immense. It was relished by his customers, old and young, and
was the occasion of more oatmeal being consumed in the village than
had ever previously been known, so that what at first appeared to
Hiram to be an irretrievable misfortune, turned out proﬁtable in
more ways than one.
“Eh! but, mon,” said Hiram, shaking his head, and with a solemn
countenance, “that hogshead o’ treacle wur th’ ruination o’ me.”
“Ruination!” I exclaimed in puzzled surprise. “How do you
“Well, yo’ see, me and our Betty had been wed for three yer, and up
to then we’d had no childer, but hoo began from that time forrud,
and never once stopped till hoo had thirteen! Eh! that
hogshead o’ treacle wur t’ ruination o’ me!”
Mr Milner thus describes and explains a curious old Lancashire
“When a young fellow goes courting his sweetheart on a Friday night,
the neighbours come out and ring a frying-pan to scare him away.
The reason of the practice is clear. Friday is the especial
night when in working men’s houses the Penates 
are worshipped with pail and brush, and a fellow skulking about the
place is an intrusion and a hindrance. In a quiet street the
well-understood sound heard, then all the people rush to their
doors, and probably catch a glimpse of the swain who loves not
wisely but too well, darting down a passage or round a corner, glad
to escape with his face unseen!”
“Riding the Stang,” or pole, is still common in out-of-the-way
Lancashire villages. It is usually resorted to in those rare
instances where a wife has given her husband a thrashing. The
neighbours mount a boy on a “stang,” or pole, and carry him through
the streets in the neighbourhood where the incident has occurred.
The procession stops at intervals, and the boy recites the following
doggerel rhymes to the accompaniment of the drumming of pans and
“Ting, tong to the sign o’
She has beat her good man.
It was neither for boiled nor roast,
But she up with her ﬁst, an’
Knocked down mesther, post!”
Some of the older two-storied houses in Bolton at one time were let
out in flats, the upper floor being reached by a flight of about a
dozen or fifteen steps running up outside the gable. These
were generally unprotected by a handrail, and even the landing at
the top was equally unprotected and dangerous. Dick Windle,
noted as much for his reckless character as for his ready wit, was
visiting an acquaintance whose domicile was reached by such a flight
of steps as I have described. They had had a glass or two in
the course of the evening, and, on leaving, Dick’s head was none of
the clearest; and although the night was not very dark, yet,
emerging from the gas-lighted room, the steps were not easily
discernible. Instead of turning to the right as he came out by
the door on to the landing, Dick strode clean off the landing edge
in front of him, and came down with a crash to the bottom!
Happily, except for a severe shaking, he was unhurt. Gathering
himself up, and whilst yet on all fours, he called out to his
friend, who was staring over the landing edge in consternation at
Dick’s sudden disappearance: “D—n it, Bill! How mony mooar
steps is there o’ this mak?” The prospect of a dozen more of
the same depth before he could reach the street level, might well
prompt the anxious question.
Journeying one day to fulﬁl a professional engagement at Whittingham
Lunatic Asylum near Preston, I arrived at the Junction where
passengers alight to reach the Asylum by the single line of railway
which has been made expressly for the use of that institution.
It was a bleak winter day, the sleet was driving before a nor’-west
wind, and I turned into the waiting-room at the station to warm
myself at the ﬁre until the engine with its two carriages came up
the branch line. I happened to be the only passenger that had
come by the train. As I sat on a chair with my feet on the
fender at one side of the ﬁre, a sturdy middle-aged man joined me,
and seated himself also on a chair on the opposite side.
“Good morning,” said I, by way of introduction. He looked
intently a time for a second or two, as if to take stock whether I
was a possible lunatic on my way to the House, and then replied:
“Same to yo,” bending towards the ﬁre and warming his hands.
“I suppose that is the Lunatic Asylum that we can see over yonder,”
jerking my thumb towards the window through which the Asylum
buildings were visible in the distance.
“Yai, it is,” he replied, again looking intently in my face.
“There’s a lot of mad folk in it, I suppose?”
“Ay, there is,” was the answer.
“More than two thousand,” I remarked.
“Ay, mooar than two thousand.”
Here there was a pause for a minute in our conversation, when he
blurted out with startling suddenness:
“Aw’m one o’ th’ mad ’uns!”
The information came upon me so unexpectedly, and was conveyed with
such emphasis, and in such gruesome manner, that I could not help an
involuntary start and an instinctive glance towards the waiting-room
door to see whether it was open. Collecting myself, and
pushing my chair back a bit to put a little more distance between
us, I resumed;
“You’re one o’ th’ mad ’uns, are you?”
“Ay, aw am.”
“You don’t look like it, friend,” I said.
“Ay, but aw am, though!”
“Well, and how do you happen to be here?” I inquired.
“Why?” he replied, “Aw’m th’ asylum poastman. Aw come to meet
th’ trains as brings th’ poast-bags.”
Just then the lilliputian train from the Asylum ran into the siding
at the station, and my mad friend, shouldering the letter-bags that
he had placed at the waiting-room door, got into the lunatic
carriage and I into the other. The engine whistled, and away
we sped down the line towards the abode of sorrow.
There was a pathetic humour in the conversation I had had with “one
o’ th’ mad ’uns,” and my reflections turned upon the varying degrees
of madness that afflict not only the inmates of an asylum, but also
we their more favoured brethren outside its walls.
1. In their speech, their employments, their habits and general
character, there is much in common between the natives of Lancashire
and their neighbours of the West Riding.
2. Two Lectures on the Lancashire Dialect, by the Rev. W.
Gaskell, M.A., Chapman & Hall, 193 Piccadilly, London, 1854., p. 13.
3. Quoted from an article on “Quacks” by Mr R. J. Hampson in the
East Lancashire Review for November 1899.
4. In two volumes published anonymously in 1866, but they were known
to have been written by Mr Lamb, sometime Rector of St Paul’s,
Manchester. They consist of a number of Essays and Sketches which
had been contributed by him to Fraser’s Magazine and they
deal chiefly with Lancashire subjects.
5. “Lancashire Memories,” by Louise Potter. Macmillan & Co.,
6. “The image-maker does not worship Buddha; he knows too much about
the idol.”― Chinese saying.
7. “The Use and Abuse of Epigram,” Spectator, Nov. 4th, 1899.
8. Post, page 94.
Licet superbus ambules pecunia,
Fortuna non mutat genus.
Hor. Ep. Carm. IV.
10. From an Article, “Table Talk” in St Paul’s (MS.) Magazine.
11. A somewhat similar legend exists in connection with the old
churches at Rochdale and Burnley.
12. This is nearly as explicit as the description given by a person
of the hailstones that fell during the thunder-storm. He said that
they varied in size from a shilling to eighteen-pence.
13. Penates, formally Di Penates, household gods of the Romans and
other Latin peoples. In the narrow sense, they were gods of the
penus (“household provision”), but by extension their protection
reached the entire household.