Behind us rises Whalley Nab, with the old abbey nestling at its foot; the wooded heights above Wiswall, Billinge Hill, and the bleak, cloud-mottled heights of the majestic Pendle. In mid-distance the broken keep of Clitheroe Castle gleams in the mellow light, and just below the tower of Clitheroe Church may be discerned. Sweeping round towards the north, Waddington Fell, Bleasdale Moor, and the wooded heights of Bowland Forest come in view; and, far beyond, the shadowy peaks of Pennygent and Ingleborough, reminding us of the old saw—
Pendle Hill and Pennygent and Little Ingleborough,
Are three such hills as you’ll not find by searching England thorough.
Nearer we see the woods about Whitewell, a spot dear to every lover of the gentle craft, and to the artist a very storehouse of scenic beauty; the opening shows where the Hodder flows down to add its tributary to the Ribble; further westward we have the huge form of Longridge Fell stretching across the landscape, with Kemple End, and the wooded eminence rising from its lowest spur, on which stands the stately hall of Stonyhurst.
A little more than half an hour’s walking brings us to Mitton, a pleasant little rural hamlet occupying a narrow tapering strip of land that runs in between the two rivers, the Hodder and the Ribble, and very near the point where the latter is joined by the Calder. As the old distich reminds us—
The Hodder, the Calder, the Ribble and rain
All meet in a point on Mitton’s domain.
The rivers keep us in pleasant companionship, but, happily, the rain is absent. Before we cross the Ribble we get sight of the ancient hall of Little Mitton, lying among the trees; on the left a gabled mansion built by the Catteralls in the days of the seventh Henry, which, though it has been modernised and part rebuilt in recent years, still retains its spacious entrance hall, with the original arched timber roof, the exquisitely carved oaken screen, and the gallery above. With the exception of the great hall at Samlesbury it is the finest room in any house in the country, and its erection must well-nigh have laid a forest prostrate. Well might Whitaker express the hope that “it might never fall into the hands who have less respect for it than its (then) owner; and that no painter’s brush or carpenter’s hammer might ever come near it, excepting to arrest the progress of otherwise inevitable decay.” Thomas Catterall, the last of the name who held Little Mitton, granted the manor in 1579 to his daughter Dorothy, and her husband, Robert Sherburn, a younger son of the house of Stonyhurst, and their grandson, Richard Sherburn, in the reign of Charles the Second, sold it to Alexander Holt, of the ancient family of Holt of Grislehurst. Subsequently it passed by purchase to John Aspinall, Esq., and his grandson, Ralph John Aspinall, Esq., of Standen Hall, the late High Sheriff of Lancashire, is the present possessor; Mr. John Hick, formerly M.P. for Bolton, being the occupant.
The village of Milton is finely embosomed among tufted trees upon a slope that rises gently from the valley, watered by the Ribble and its tributary streams, and is as thoroughly picturesque and “old English” as you would wish to see. As you approach, the grey embattled tower of its venerable church peeping above the umbrage forms a pleasing object, but its appearance does not improve on a closer acquaintance, for the hand of the spoiler has been busy, and a coating of coarse stucco effectually conceals the ancient masonry. It should be said, however, that a good deal has been done in recent years to atone for the tasteless barbarism of bygone churchwardens, and Nature has lovingly aided in the work by spreading a mantle of living green so as to hide many of the tasteless deformities. The church is a small and unpretending structure, though of considerable antiquity, some parts dating as far back as the reign of the third Edward, and probably it occupies the site of a still earlier building. The tower is of much later date, and like many other old churches the exterior, by its architectural diversities, gives ample proof of alterations and “improvements” at distant periods. The churchyard delights you by its placid beauty, and the little hamlet sleeping peacefully at the foot is in perfect harmony with the scene. When we entered the enclosure the doors of the church were fastened, but the sexton, who was pursuing his vocation in the corner of the graveyard, offered to bring the keys and show us whatever was worth seeing.
The interior has been lately restored, and the old timber roof of the nave, which was previously hidden by a flat plaster ceiling, has been again exposed to view. There are also some remains of ancient carving, carefully preserved, and an oaken screen separating the nave from the chancel that well deserve inspection. The lower portion belonged originally to Cockersand Abbey, the monks of that house being patrons of Mitton; and it was removed to its present position when the fraternity was dissolved. The fragment of an inscription still remaining shows that it was made in the time of William Stainford, and this helps us to fix the date, as Stainford was abbot of Cockersand from 1505 to 1509. One peculiarity noticeable is that, unlike other churches, you have to descend into the chancel from the nave by a few steps, an arrangement necessitated by the natural formation of the ground, which declines considerably towards the east. Within the chancel is an old oak chest, bound with iron, and triple-locked, with the date 1627 carved upon it. On the top is a copy of Burkett’s “Expository Notes on the New Testament,” a paraphrase on the Book of Common Prayer, and one or two other theological works fastened with chains—the village library of former days, as the inscription in one of them testifies: “Ex Libris Ecclesiæ Parochialis de Mitton 1722.”