Lancashire Sketches

Оглавление

Edwin Waugh. Lancashire Sketches

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION

PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION

Chapel Island; OR, An Adventure on Ulverstone Sands

Ramble from Bury to Rochdale

The Cottage of Tim Bobbin, and the Village of Milnrow

The Birthplace of Tim Bobbin

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

Ramble from Rochdale to the Top of Blackstone Edge

The Town of Heywood and its Neighbourhood

The Grave of Grislehurst Boggart

Boggart Ho' Clough

Rostherne Mere

Oliver Fernleaf's Watch

Norbreck:

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

Wandering Minstrels; or, Wails of the Workless Poor

A Wayside Incident during the Cotton Famine

Saint Catherine's Chapel; OR, The Pretty Island Bay

The Knocker-Up

The Complaint of a Sad Complaint

Отрывок из книги

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.

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 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.

.....

Jone. Yo'r reet, Mary! Aw think mysel' at a quart ov ale 'ud come noan amiss after a do o' that mak. An' Bodle wouldn't wynd aboon once wi' it, afore he see'd th' bottom o' th' pot, noather.

Well, I had a good laugh at Jone's tale, and I enjoyed his manner of telling it, quite as much as anything there was in the story itself; for, he seemed to talk with every limb of his body, and every feature of his face; and told it, altogether, in such a living way, with so much humour and earnestness, that it was irresistible; and as I was "giving mouth" a little, with my face turned up toward the ceiling, he turned to me, and said quickly, "Come, aw say; are yo noan fleyed o' throwing yo'r choles off th' hinges?". We soon settled down into a quieter mood, and drew round the fire, for the night was cold; when Jone suddenly pointed out to the landlord, one of those little deposits of smoke which sometimes wave about on the bars of the fire-grate, and, after whispering to him, "See yo, Sam; a stranger upo th' bar, theer;" he turned to me, and said, "That's yo, measther!" This is a little superstition, which is common to the fire-sides of the poor in all England, I believe. Soon after this, Mary said to Jone, "Hasto gan thy horse aught, Jone?" "Sure, aw have," replied he, "Aw laft it heytin', an plenty to go on wi', so then. Mon, aw reckon to look after deawn-crayters a bit, iv there be aught stirrin'." "Well," said she, "aw dar say thea does, Jone; an' mind yo, thoose at winnut do some bit like to things at connut talk for theirsels, they'n never ha' no luck, as hoo they are." "Well," said Jone, "my horse wortches weel, an' he sleeps weel, an' he heyts weel, an' he drinks weel, an' he parts wi't fearful weel; so he doesn't ail mich yet." "Well," replied Mary, "there isn't a wick thing i' this world can wortch as it should do, if it doesn't heyt as it should do." Here I happened to take a note-book out of my pocket, and write in it with my pencil, when the conversation opened again.

.....