Lancashire Sketches.

BY EDWIN WAUGH.

THIRD EDITION

LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO. MANCHESTER: ALEXANDER IRELAND & CO. 1869.

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.

In this volume, relating to a district with which the writer is intimately acquainted, he has gathered up a few points of local interest, and, in connection with these, he has endeavoured to embody something of the traits of present life in South Lancashire with descriptions of its scenery, and with such gleanings from its local history as bore upon the subject, and, under the circumstances, were available to him. How far he has succeeded in writing a book which may be instructive or interesting, he is willing to leave to the judgment of those who know the country and the people it deals with. He is conscious that, in comparison with the fertile peculiarities which Lancashire presents to writers who are able to gather them up, and to use them well, this volume is fragmentary and discursive; yet he believes that, so far as it goes, it will not be wholly unacceptable to native readers.

The historical information, interspersed throughout the volume, has been gleaned from so many sources that it would be a matter of considerable difficulty to give a complete and detailed acknowledgment of it. In every important case, however, this[Pg iv] acknowledgment has been given, with some degree of care, as fully and clearly as possible, in the course of the work. Some of this historical matter may prove to be ill-chosen, if not ill-used—perhaps in some cases it might have been obtained in a better form, and even more correctly given—but the writer has, at least, the satisfaction of knowing that, with such light as he had, and with such elements as were convenient to him, he has been guided, in his selection of that kind of information, by a desire to obtain the most correct and the most applicable matter which was available to him.

A book which is purely local in its character and bearing, as this is, cannot be expected to have much interest for persons unconnected with the district which it relates to. If there is any hope of its being read at all, that hope is centred there. The subjects it treats upon being local, and the language used in it being often the vernacular of a particular part of the county, these circumstances combine to narrow its circle of acquaintance. But, in order to make that part of it which is given in the dialect as intelligible as possible to all readers not intimate with that form of native language, some care has been taken to explain such words as are unusually ambiguous in form, or in meaning. And here it may be noticed, that persons who know little or nothing of the dialect of Lancashire, are apt to think of it as one in form and sound throughout the county, and expect it to assume one unvaried feature whenever it is represented in writing. This is a mistake, for there often exist considerable shades of difference—even in

places not more than eight or ten miles apart—in the expression, and in the form of words which mean the same thing; and, sometimes, the language of a very limited locality, though bearing the same general characteristics as the dialect of the county in general,[Pg v] is rendered still more perceptibly distinctive in features, by idioms and proverbs peculiar to that particular spot. In this volume, however, the writer has taken care to give the dialect, as well as he could, in such a form as would convey to the mind of the general reader a correct idea of the mode of pronunciation, and the signification of the idioms, used in the immediate locality which he happens to be writing about.

Lancashire has had some learned writers who have written upon themes generally and locally interesting. But the successful delineation of the quaint and racy features of its humble life has fallen to the lot of very few. John Collier, our sound-hearted and clear-headed native humourist of the last century, left behind him some exquisite glimpses of the manner of life in his own nook of Lancashire, at that time. The little which he wrote, although so eccentric and peculiar in character as to be almost unintelligible to the general reader, contains such evidence of genius, and so many rare touches of nature, that to those who can discern the riches hidden under its quaint vernacular garb, it wears a perennial charm, in some degree akin to that which characterises the writings of such men as Cervantes and De Foe. And, in our own day, Samuel Bamford—emphatically a native man—has, with felicitous truth, transferred to his pages some living pictures of Lancashire life, which will probably be read with more interest even than

now, long after the writer has been gathered to his fathers. There are others who have illustrated some of the conditions of social existence in Lancashire, in a graphic manner, with more polish and more learning; but, for native force and truth, John Collier and Samuel Bamford are, probably, the foremost of all genuine expositors of the characteristics of the Lancashire people.

[Pg vi]

In conclusion, all that has hitherto been done in this way is small in amount, compared with that which is left undone. The past, and still more the disappearing present, of this important district teem with significant features, which, if caught up and truthfully represented, might, perhaps, be useful to the next generation.

E. W.

Manchester.

[Pg vii]

PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION.

Since the second issue of this volume, the matter it contained has been revised and corrected; and considerable additions have been made thereto. But, even yet, the writer is sensible of many crudities remaining in this, his first venture upon the world of letters. And amongst the new matter which has been added to the present edition, the reader will find, at least, one article—"Saint Catherine's Chapel"—which has no direct connection with a volume of "Lancashire Sketches." He must now, however, leave the book to such fate as awaits it; hoping that, if time and health be granted to him, he may yet do something worthier of the recognition which his efforts have already met with from the people of his native county.

E. W.

Manchester.

[Pg viii]

[Pg ix]

CONTENTS.

[Pg x]

[Pg 1]

Chapel Island; OR, An Adventure on Ulverstone Sands.

The Tempest.

I have spent many a pleasant day at the village of Bardsea, three miles south of Ulverstone. It stands close to Conishead Park, high upon a fertile elbow of land, the base of which is washed on two sides by the waters of Morecambe Bay. It is an old hamlet, of about fifty houses, nearly all in one wandering street, which begins at the bottom of a knoll, on the Ulverstone side, and then climbs to a point near the summit, where three roads meet, and where the houses on one side stand back a few yards, leaving an open ground like a little market-place. Upon the top of the knoll, a few yards east of this open space, the church stands, overlooking sea and land all round. From the centre of the village the street winds on towards the beach. At this end a row of neat houses stands at a right angle, upon an eastward incline, facing the sea. The tide washes up within fifty yards of these houses at high water. At the centre of the village, too, half a dozen pleasant cottages leave the street, and stand out, like the fin of a fish, in a

quiet lane, which leads down into a little shady glen at the foot[Pg 2] of Birkrigg. The same lane leads, by another route, over the top of that wild hill, into the beautiful vale of Urswick. Bardsea is a pretty, out of the way place, and the country about it is very picturesque and varied. It is close to the sea, and commands a fine view of the bay, and of its opposite shores, for nearly forty miles. About a mile west of the village, Birkrigg rises high above green pastures and leafy dells that lap his feet in beauty. Northward, the road to Ulverstone leads through the finest part of Conishead Park, which begins near the end of the village. This park is one of the most charming pieces of undulant woodland scenery I ever beheld. An old writer calls it "the Paradise of Furness." On the way to Ulverstone, from Bardsea, the Leven estuary shows itself in many a beautiful gleam through the trees of the park; and the fells of Cartmel are in full view beyond. It is one of the pleasantest, one of the quietest walks in the kingdom.

The last time I saw Bardsea it was about the middle of July. I had gone there to spend a day or two with a friend. There had not been a cloud on the heavens for a week; and the smell of new hay came on every sigh that stirred the leaves. The village looked like an island of sleepy life, with a sea of greenery around it, surging up to the very doors of its white houses, and flinging the spray of nature's summer harmonies all over the place. The songs of birds, the rustle of trees, the ripple of the brook at the foot of the meadows, and the murmur of the sea, all seem to float together through the nest of man, making it drowsy with pleasure. It was fairly lapped in soothing melody. Every breath of air brought music on its wings; and every song was laden with sweet smells. Nature loved the little spot, for she caressed it and croodled about it, like a mother singing lullabies to a tired child. And Bardsea was pleased and still, as if it knew it all. It seemed the enchanted ear of the landscape; for everywhere else the world was alive with the jocund restlessness of the

season. My friend and I wandered about from morning to night. In the heat of the day the white roads glared in the sun; and, in some places, the air seemed to tremble at about a man's height from the ground, as I have seen it tremble above a burning kiln sometimes. But for broad day we had the velvet glades and shady woods of Conishead to ramble in; and many a rich old lane, and some green dells, where little brooks ran whimpling their tiny undersongs, in liquid trebles, between banks[Pg 3] of nodding wild flowers. Our evening walks were more delightful still; for when soft twilight came, melting the distinctions of the landscape in her dreamy loveliness, she had hardly time to draw "a thin veil o'er the day" before sea and land began to shine again under the radiance of the moon. Wandering among such scenes, at such a time, was enough to touch any man's heart with gratitude for the privilege of existence in this world of ours.

My friend's house stands upon a buttressed shelf of land, half-way up the slope which leads from the shore into Bardsea. It is the most seaward dwelling of the place; and it is bowered about on three sides with little plots of garden, one of them kept as a playground for the children. It commands a glorious view of the bay, from Hampsfell, all round by Arnside and Lancaster, down to Fleetwood. Sometimes, at night, I have watched the revolutions of the Fleetwood light, from the front of the house, whilst listening to the surge of the tide along the shore, at the foot of the hill.

One day, when dinner was over, we sat down to smoke at an open window, which looked out upon the bay. It was about the turning of the tide, for a fisherman's cart was coming slowly over the sands, from the nets at low water. The day was unusually hot; but, before we had smoked long, I felt as if I couldn't rest any longer indoors.

"Where shall we go this afternoon?" said I, knocking the ashes out of my pipe upon the outside sill.

"Well," replied my friend, "I have been thinking that we couldn't do better than stroll into the park a while. What do you say?"

"Agreed," said I. "It's a bonny piece of woodland. I dare say many a Roman soldier has been pleased with the place, as he marched through it, sixteen centuries ago."

"Perhaps so," said he, smiling, and taking his stick from the corner; "but the scene must have been very different then. Come along."

At the garden gate we found three of his flaxen-headed children romping with a short-legged Scotch terrier, called "Trusty." The dog's wild eyes shone in little slits of dusky fire through the rusty thicket of gray hair which overhung them. "Trusty" was beside himself with joy when we came into the road; and he worried our shoes, and shook our trousers' slops[Pg 4] in a sham fury, as if they were imaginary rats; and he bounced about and barked, till the quiet scene, from Bardsea to Birkrigg, rang with his noisy glee. Some of the birds about us seemed to stop singing for a few seconds, and, after they had taken an admiring look sideway at the little fellow, they burst out again louder than ever, and in more rollicking strains, heartily infected with the frisky riot of that little four-legged marlocker. Both the dog and the children clamoured to go with us. My friend hesitated as first one, then another, tugged at him, and said: "Pa, let me go." Turning to me, he scratched his head, and said: "I've a good mind to take Willie." The lad instantly gave a

twirl round on one heel, and clapped his hands, and then laid hold of his father's coat-lap, by way of clenching the bargain at once. But, just then, his mother appeared at the gate, and said: "Eh, no, Willie, you'd better not go. You'll be so tired. Come, stay with me. That's a good boy." Willie let go his hold slowly, and fell back with a disappointed look. "Trusty" seemed to know that there was a hitch in the matter, for he suddenly became quieter; and, going up to Willie, he licked his hands consolingly, and then, sitting down beside him, he looked round from one to another, to see how the thing was to end.

"Don't keep tea waiting for us," said my friend, "we'll be back in time for an early supper."

"Very well," replied his good wife; "we'll have something nice. Don't be late."

The dog was now whining and wrestling in the arms of Willie, who was holding him back. We made our bows, and bade "Good-bye" to the children and to their mother, and then turned up the road. Before we had got many yards, she called out:—

"I say, Chris, if you go as far as Ulverstone, call at Mrs. Seatle's, and at Town and Fell's, for some things which I ordered. Bella Rigg can bring them down in her cart. These children want a new skipping rope, too: and you might bring something for Willie."

The little girls begun to dance about, shaking their sunny locks, and singing, "Eh, a new skipping rope! a new skipping rope!" Then the youngest seized her father's hand, and cocking up her rosy button-hole of a mouth, she said, "Pa! Pa! lift me up! I want to tell you somefin."

"Well; what is it, pet?" said he, taking her in his arms.

Clipping his neck as far as she could, she said, "Div me a tis,[Pg 5] first." And then she whispered in his ear, "If—you'll—buy—me—a big doll, I'll sing, 'Down in a low and drassy bed,' four times, when you tum home,—now then. 'Trusty' eated my odder doll, when we was playin' shop in de dardin." And then he had to kiss them again, and promise—I know not what.

Once more we said "Good bye," and walked up towards the white village; the chime of sweet voices sinking into a silvery hum as we got farther off. Everything in Bardsea was unusually still. Most of the doors and windows were open; and, now and then, somebody peeped out as we passed by, and said it was "a fine day." Turning round to look at the sands, we saw the dumpy figure of "Owd Manuel," the fisherman, limping up from the foot of the slope, with his coat slung upon his arm. The old man stopped, and wiped his forehead, and gave his crutch a flourish, by way of salutation. We waved our hats in reply, and went on. At the centre of the village stands the comfortable inn, kept by "Old Gilly," the quaint veteran who, after spending the prime of manhood in hard service among the border smugglers, has settled down to close the evening of his life in this retired nest. Here, too, all was still, except the measured sound of a shoemaker's hammer, ringing out from the open door of a cottage, where "Cappel" sat at his bench, beating

time upon a leather sole to the tune of a country song. And, on the shady side, next door to the yard wall, which partly encloses the front of the old inn, the ruddy, snow-capped face and burly figure of "Old Tweedler" was visible, as still as a statue. He was in his shirt sleeves, leaning against the door-cheek of his little grocery shop, smoking a long pipe, and looking dreamily at the sunny road. "Tweedler" needs a good deal of wakening at any time; but when he is once fairly wakened, he is a tolerable player on the clarionet, and not a very bad fiddler; and he likes to talk about his curious wanderings up and down the kingdom with show-folk. When the old man had found us out, and had partly succeeded in getting his heavy limbs into a mild disposition to move, he sidled forth from his little threshold, and came towards us, gurgling something from his throat that was not unlike the low growl of an old hoarse dog. His gruff, slow-motioned voice sounded clear all around, waking the echoes of the sleepy houses, as he said, "Well,—gen-tle-men. What? Wheer are you for,—to-day?"

We told him that we were going down to the Priory, for a stroll; but we should like to call at "Gilly's" first, for a[Pg 6] few minutes, if he would go in with us. "Well," said he; "it's a very het day an' I don't mind hevin' an odd gill. In wi' ye,—an' I'll follow—in a minute," and then he sidled back to his nest.

There was not a sound of life in "Old Gilly's" house; but the trim cap of his kind dame was visible inside, bobbing to and fro by the window of the little bar. "Gilly," in his kind-hearted way, always calls her "Mammy." We looked in at the bar, and the old lady gave us a cordial welcome. "My good-man has just gone to lie down," said she; "but I'll go and tell him." We begged that she would let him rest, and bring us three glasses of her best ale. The sun shone in strongly at the open back door. At the rear of the house, there is a shady verandah, and a garden in front of it. There we sat down, looking at the bright bay. The city of Lancaster was very distinct, on the opposite side of the water, more than twenty miles off. In a few minutes we heard Tweedler's cart-horse tread, as he came through the lobby, with two books in his hand.

"There," said he, handing one of them to me; "I've turned that up amang a lot o' lumber i't house. I warnd it's just the thing for ye. What the devil is't, think ye? For it's past my skill."

It was an old, well-thumbed Latin Delectus, with one back off, and several leaves gone. It was not of much use to me; but when the old man said, "Now, that's a fine book, I'll awarnd, an' I'll mak' ye a present on't," I felt bound to receive it thankfully; and I did so.

"An' this," said he, holding up the other; "is a book o' sangs. Cummerlan' sangs."

It was a thin volume, in papered boards—a cheap edition of Anderson's ballads—printed in double column, royal octavo.

"Ay." replied my friend; "I should like to look at that."

"Varra well," said Tweedler; "put it i' your pocket. I'll land it ye." And then, as if half-repenting, he continued, "But I set a deal o' store o' that book. I don't think as I could get another for ony money."

"You shall have it back in a day or two," said my friend.

"Oh," replied Tweedler, "it's all reight wi' ye. But I wouldn't ha' lant it onybody, mind ye."

My friend put the book in his pocket, promising to take especial care of it; and then we drank up, and came away; and Tweedler sauntered back to lean against the door-cheek, and smoke.

[Pg 7]