E-text prepared by Todd Augsburger <todd@rollerorgans.com>
by
Manchester:
John Heywood, 143 Deansgate.
London: Simkin, Marshall & Co.
I came out at Haslingden town-end with my old acquaintance, "Rondleo'th Nab," better known by the name of "Sceawter," a moor-end farmer andcattle dealer. He was telling me a story about a cat that squinted, andgrew very fat because—to use his own words—it "catched two mice at onego." When he had finished the tale, he stopped suddenly in the middle ofthe road, and looking round at the hills, he said, "Nea then. I'se belike to lev yo here. I mun turn off to 'Dick o' Rough-cap's' up MusburyRoad. I want to bargain about yon heifer. He's a very fair chap, isDick,—for a cow-jobber. But yo met as weel go up wi' me, an' then goforrud to our house. We'n some singers comin' to neet."
"Nay," said I, "I think I'll tak up through Horncliffe, an' by th'moor-gate, to't 'Top o'th Hoof.'"
"Well, then," replied he, "yo mun strike off at th' lift hond, about amile fur on; an' then up th' hill side, an' through th' delph. Fro theeryo mun get upo' th' owd road as weel as yo con; an' when yo'n getten it,keep it. So good day, an' tak care o' yorsel'. Barfoot folk should neverwalk upo' prickles." He then turned, and walked off. Before he had gonetwenty yards he shouted back, "Hey! I say! Dunnot forget th' cat."
It was a fine autumn day; clear and cool. Dead leaves were whirlingabout the road-side. I toiled slowly up the hill, to the famousHorncliffe Quarries, where the sounds of picks, chisels, and gavelocks,used by the workmen, rose strangely clear amidst the surroundingstillness. From the quarries I got up by an old pack horse road, to acommanding elevation at the top of the moors. Here I sat down on a rudeblock of mossy stone, upon a bleak point of the hills, overlooking oneof the most picturesque parts of the Irwell valley. The country aroundme was part of the wild tract still known by its ancient name of theForest of Rossendale. Lodges of water and beautiful reaches of thewinding river gleamed in the evening sun, among green holms and patchesof woodland, far down the vale; and mills, mansions, farmsteads,churches, and busy hamlets succeeded each other as far as the eye couldsee. The moorland tops and slopes were all purpled with fading heather,save here and there where a well-defined tract of green showed thatcultivation had worked up a little plot of the wilderness into pastureland. About eight miles south, a gray cloud hung over the town of Bury,and nearer, a flying trail of white steam marked the rush of a railwaytrain along the valley. From a lofty perch of the hills, on thenorth-west, the sounds of Haslingden church bells came sweetly upon theear, swayed to and fro by the unsettled wind, now soft and low, borneaway by the breeze, now full and clear, sweeping by me in a great gushof melody, and dying out upon the moorland wilds behind. Up from thevalley came drowsy sounds that tell the wane of day, and please the earof evening as she draws her curtains over the world. A woman's voicefloated up from the pastures of an old farm-house, below where I sat,calling the cattle home. The barking of dogs sounded clear in differentparts of the vale, and about scattered hamlets, on the hill sides. Icould hear the far-off prattle of a company of girls, mingled with thelazy joltings of a cart, the occasional crack of a whip, and the surlycall of a driver to his horses, upon the high road, half a mile belowme. From a wooded slope, on the opposite side of the valley, the crackof a gun came, waking the echoes for a minute; and th