From the top of the slope near Stubley, we now saw the spire of Litteborough church, and the village itself, prettily situated at the head of the vale, and close to the foot of the hills which divide Lancashire and Yorkshire. On the top of Blackstone, and about half a mile to the south of "Joe Faulkner's,"—the well-known old sheltering spot for travellers over that bleak region,—we could now more distinctly see the streak of green which marks the line of the Roman road till it disappears from the summit of the Edge.
Featherstall is a little hamlet of comfortable cottages at the bottom of the brow in the high road near Stubley Hall, warmed by the "Rising Sun," and another, an old-fashioned public-house, apparently as old as the present Stubley Hall. The inhabitants are principally employed at the mills and collieries in the neighbourhood. The open space in the centre of the village is generally strewn with scattered hay, and the lights from the public-houses gleam forth into the watering troughs in front, as the traveller goes through at night. A rough old road leads out of the centre of the place, northward, over Calder Moor and the hills, towards Todmorden. From Featherstall, the approach to Litteborough is lined with mills, meadows, and tenter-fields, on the north side; and on the south, two or three green fields divide the highway from the railway, and a few yards on the other side of the railway the line of the Rochdale canal runs parallel with both. And thus these three roads run nearly close together past Litteborough, and all through the vale of Todmorden, up to Sowerby Bridge, a distance of twelve miles; and, for a considerable part of the way, the river forms a fourth companion to the three roads, the four together filling the entire bottom of the valley in some places; and, in addition to that, may be seen, in other parts, the old pack-horse roads leading down from the moorland steeps into the hollow. Carts, boats, railway trains, and sometimes pack-horses, seem to comment upon one another as they pass and re-pass, and form a continual and palpable lecture on modes of transit, such as is not often met with in such distinct shape. Littleborough consists, principally, of one irregular street, winding over a slight elevation, and down to its centre near the railway station, at the water-side, and thence across the bridge, up towards Blackstone Edge. It is a substantial, healthy-looking village, prettily situated in a romantic spot. There are many poor working people in the village, but there is hardly anything like dirt or squalor to be seen there, except, perhaps, a little of that migratory kind which is unavoidable in all great thoroughfares, and which remains here for a night, on its way, at a roadside receptacle which I noticed at the western end of the village, where I saw on a little board certain ominous hieroglyphics about "Loggins for travlurs." The lands in the valley round Littleborough have the appearance of fine meadow and pasture; and, taken with the still better cultivated grounds, and woods and gardens, about the mansions of the opulent people of the neighbourhood, the whole looks beautifully verdant, compared with the bleak hills which overlook the vale. The old Royal Oak Inn, in the middle of the village, is pointed out as a house which John Collier used to frequent, when he visited the neighbourhood, and where he fixed the scene of Tummus's misadventure in the inn, where he so unadvisedly "Eet like a Yorsharmon, and clear't th' stoo," after he had been to the justice with his dog, "Nip," and where the encounter took place between "Mezzilt Face" and "Wythen Kibbo:"—
Aw went in, an fund at two fat throddy folk wooant theer; an theyd'n some o'th warst fratchingst company at e'er eh saigh; for they'rn warrying, banning, and co'in one another "leawsy eawls," as thick as leet, Heawe'er, aw poo'd a cricket, an keawr't meh deawn i'th nook, o' side o'th hob. Aw'd no soyner done so, boh a feaw, seawer-lookt felley, with a wythen kibbo he had in his hont, slapt a sort ov a wither, mezzilt-face't mon, sich a thwang o'th skawp, at he varry reecht again with it, an deawn he coom o'th harstone, an his heeod i'th esshole. His scrunt wig feel off, an ahontle o' whot corks feel into't, an brunt an frizzlt it so, at when he awst don it, an unlucky carron gen it a poo, an it slipt o'er his sow, an it lee like a howmbark on his shilders. Aw glendurt like a stickt tup, for fear ov a dust mysel', an crope fur into th' chimbley. Oytch body thowt at mezzil-face would mey a flittin on't, an dee in a crack; so some on um cried eawt, "a doctor, a doctor," whol others made'n th' londlort go saddle th' tit to fotch one. While this wur eh doin', some on um had leet ov a kin ov a doctor at wooant a bit off, an shew'd him th' mon o'th harstone. He laid howd on his arm—to feel his pulse, a geawse—an poo'd as if he'd sin deeoth poo'in' at th' tother arm, an wur resolv't o'er-poo him. After lookin' dawkinly-wise a bit, he geet fro his whirly booans, an said to um aw, "Whol his heart bhyet and his blood sarkilates there's hopes, boh whon that stops, it's whoo-up with him i'faith." Mezzil-face hearin summot o' "whoo-up," started to his feet, flote noan, boh gran like a foomart-dog, an seet at t' black, swarffy tyke weh bwoth neaves, an wawtud him o'er into th' galker, full o' new drink, wortchin'. He begun o' pawsin' an peylin him into't so, at aw wur blendud together, snap. 'Sflesh, Meary; theaw'd ha' weet teh, to sin heaw th' gobbin wur awtert, when at tey pood'n him eawt; an what a hobthurst he look't weh aw that berm abeawt him. He kept dryin' his een, boh he moot as weel ha' sowt um in his hinder-end, till th' londlady had made an heawer's labber on um at th' pump. When he coom in again, he glooart awvishly at mezzil-face, an mezzil-face glendurt as wrythenly at him again; boh noather warrit, nor thrap. So they seet um deawn, an then th' londlady coom in, an would mey um't pay for th' lumber at tey'd done hur. "Mey drink's war be a creawn," said hoo, "beside, there's two tumblers, three quiftin pots, an four pipes masht, an a whol papper o' bacco shed." This made um t' glendur at tone tother again; boh black tyke's passion wur coolt at th' pump, an th' wythen kibbo had quite'nt tother, so at teh camm'd little or noan—boh agreed t' pay, aw meeon; then seet'n um deawn, an wur friends again in a snift.
This house used to be a great resort on Saturday nights, and fair days, and holidays, and it was often crammed with the villagers and their neighbours from the surrounding hill-sides; and no small addition from Rochdale and Todmorden. The windows were generally thrown open at such times; and, standing at some distance from the place, one might perhaps be able, in some degree, to sort the roar of wassailry going on inside. But if he wished to know what were the component parts of the wild medley of melodies, all gushing out from the house in one tremendous discord, he would have to draw under the windows, where he might hear:—
Our hounds they were staunch, and our horses were good
As ever broke cover, or dashed in a wood;
Tally-ho! hark forward, huzza; tally-ho!
Whilst, in another corner of the same room, a knot of strong-lunged roysterers joined, at the top of their voices, in the following chorus, beating time to it with fists and feet, and anything else which was heavy and handy:—
"Then heigho, heigho!
Sing heigho," cried he;
"Does my wife's first husband remember me?"
Fal de ral, de ral, de ral, de rido!
In another room he would probably hear "Boyne Water" trolled out in a loud voice:—
The horse were the first that ventured o'er;
The foot soon followed after:
But brave Duke Schomberg was no more,
At the crossing o' Boyne water.
Whilst another musical tippler, in an opposite corner, sang, for his own special amusement, the following quaint fragment:—