CLIFTON Junction may be regarded as the railway entrance to east and central Lancashire, since at this point, while the original line runs on to Bolton, there is divergence to Bury, whence, in turn, we get to Accrington. After Molyneux Brow, the first station is Ringley Road; then comes Radcliffe, the village of the “red cliffs,” renowned in legend and in local family history, and in a few minutes more we are near the birthplace of Sir Robert Peel. The cliffs referred to, though bold and conspicuous, have none of the picturesque beauty pertaining to Prestwich. Nor, indeed, is the latter renewed until, after passing Bury, we get to Summerseat, distant from Manchester thirteen miles. The river, soon lost sight of after passing Molyneux, here comes into view again, winding among trees, and with steep declivities right and left. The eastern side of the valley is abundantly wooded, and although broken by little ravines, offers a delightful walk of about two miles to the village of Ramsbottom. To begin it, cross the little aqueduct over the gorge, then keep straight on beneath the shadow of the wood. Beside this pleasant path wild raspberries grow in plenty, and ferns, and on the sunward edges of the steep brows above the stream, not yet much sullied by “works,” in September it is sweet to sit down to rest and talk, noting as we chat the lilac blossoms of the heather. It does not, as in the wilderness, monopolise the ground, but springs delicately from the turf, here a little and there a little, in quantity just enough to remind us that it is one of the friendly plants, those of the same spirit as the anemone and the celandine, which never care to live alone, but “love their own kind and to dwell among their kindred.” For the curious in other matters, up above again, on the highest point, there is the celebrated tower which commemorates the “Cheeryble Brothers,” William and Daniel Grant. Looking across the river, the opposite bank is remarkably different, the slopes being almost treeless. Gradually swelling, at last they expand into a vast tract of moorland called Holcombe Hill, well chosen for the erection of the far–seen landmark called the Peel monument.
Ramsbottom is succeeded by Stubbins, and after this we get to Newchurch, the best place to ascend from when bound for the other great moorland called Fo’edge, where the parsley–fern grows, and the alpine club–moss, and many another plant that disdains the lowlands, and from which, if we please, we may pursue a glorious walk to Rochdale, making acquaintance as we go with the bright and wilful Spodden. Running down Healey Dene, a narrow and romantic valley, the bordering cliffs seem to have been torn asunder at various times by the impetuosity of the rushing torrent. So picturesque is the dingle called specially the Thrutch,—the river here, in Lancashire phrase, thrutching its way past all impediment,—that one seems to be far away beyond the Tweed. From the elevated ground above there is once again a wonderful prospect, covering Lyme, Cloud–end, the Derbyshire hills, Frodsham, and the mountains of North Wales,—a prospect enjoyed, moreover, like that one from Jackson Edge, at an incredibly slight expenditure of climbing power. This fine neighbourhood may of course be reached direct from Rochdale, going by the Todmorden line; but geographically it belongs to Rossendale, in which both the Spodden and the Roch have their simple beginnings, wherein also, near the foot of Derpley Hill, we find the cradle of the Irwell. “Rossendale Forest,” so called, the name having a sense similar to that of Delamere Forest [(p. 41)] is approached by way of Bacup. Lying upon the northern edge of the line, the forest presents, with almost the whole of the ground that stretches away to Cliviger, an endless variety of beautiful change in mountain scenery. Up here are found the grand summits called Hades Hill and Thieveley Pike, the view from the top of the last–named comprehending not only the southward country, but to the north, almost the whole of Craven, with Ingleborough and the wilds of Trawden Forest. The nearer portions of the Lake District mountains, those which rise above Cartmel, and that bathe their ancient feet in Coniston are also distinguishable; and on sunny evenings, when the atmosphere is clear, and if the tide be in, the estuary of the Ribble. Cliviger is remarkable not alone for the rocks and precipices the name denotes, but for the number of beautiful curves, green with much grass, which are interwoven with them, these latter constantly adding the very sweet unusual feature in scenery, of vast hemispherical green bowls, the whole country at the same time, if we push far enough into the solitude, so tranquil.
O’er stiller place
No singing skylark ever poised himself.
In some parts the rocks are clothed lavishly with ivy, the knotted and rugged stems very plainly the growth of centuries, while the massive upper branches throw themselves elegantly into the aërial sea, imitating the glorious abandon of the strong swimmer when he dives. The whole of the Lancashire border, at this part, including the neighbourhood of Burnley, Trawden Forest, and the Colne district, with the contiguous parts of Yorkshire, is immensely rich in scenery. Up here, too, it is that one catches aboriginal Lancashire at its best, the dialect in its prettiest modifications, and among the rural population the primitive manners and customs. Towneley Park, near Burnley, one of the most beautiful of the old county family seats, is distinguished not more for its associations than for the abundance of its venerable trees.
Taking a great bend towards the west, after passing Stubbins, the line runs through Haslingden, Accrington, and Blackburn, to a spot of immemorial celebrity. Five or six miles from the last–named the Darwen flows through a secluded vale called Hoghton Bottoms. At times it is bordered by green and level meads; in certain parts great lateral walls of rock make it uproarious. The name refers to the very ancient and distinguished family seated here ever since the time of Henry II., the residence up to the middle of the sixteenth century having been not far from the edge of the water. Doubtless this would be constructed chiefly or wholly of wood, for the park, “in former tyme,” says the old chronicler, was “so full of tymber that a man passing through it could scarcely have seen the sun shine at mid–day.” Soon after the accession of Elizabeth the existing hall, upon the top of the hill, was erected, the builder being the celebrated Thomas Hoghton, who on account of his creed was constrained to forsake his ancestral home almost immediately after the completion, and thenceforwards live in exile upon the Continent. The story of the departure of the unfortunate man is told in the beautiful and pathetic ballad, “The Blessed Conscience,” preserved in the late Mr. T. T. Wilkinson’s well–known volume. It would seem to have been one of the earliest buildings of the kind constructed entirely of stone. Perfect in design, and in excellent preservation, Hoghton Tower presents to this day, an admirable example of the architecture of the period, as regards both adaptedness to domestic use and to defensive purposes. The great quadrangular lower court is spacious enough for the movement of five or six hundred men. The upper one gives access to noble staircases and long galleries, including one for the minstrels. All that is wanting is the very lofty tower which in the beginning rose above the central gateway, and from which the mansion was named. This tower was accidentally destroyed during the Civil Wars by an explosion of gunpowder, and there seems never to have been any disposition to reconstruct it.
A site more charming than that selected by Thomas Hoghton for the glorious old hall which preserves so many interesting and old familiar traditions pertaining to Lancashire, it would be difficult to find. It stands upon the crest of a gentle slope, from which, as well as from the windows, we look right away over the plain and the bright–faced stream that waters Preston, to the mountains of the Lake District, these looming grandly from their curtains of mist; the sea, glorious in the sheen of sunset, upon the left, and upon the right, gigantic Pendle. The immediate surroundings are no less delightful than the prospects; the dell beneath is one of the kind in which the thin–tissued flowers of early spring love to shelter, and which summer fills with a score of sprightly forms. The eastern side of the hill is rugged and steep, the Darwen at its foot struggling with boulders brought down probably by its own vehemence in remote ages.
The original “Manchester and Bolton,” opened as far back as May 24th, 1838, is now only the first link in the splendid chain of railway lines which, going nearly three hundred miles due north, connects our town with the very heart of Scotland, and by means of the westward branches, with every part of the shore from the Mersey to the Clyde. How little was such adventure dreamed of when the old calmness of the Agecroft valley was first invaded! Eight years afterwards (April 29th, 1846) it had become the highway to Blackpool, and on April 7th, 1855, people began to start by it for Southport. Diverging also to Blackburn, and thence running on to Clitheroe, a country of wonderful beauty was added to our already ample choice. Cheshire was discovered to be by no means the all in all, and in mid–Lancashire to–day we learn anew that in scenery, as in all other things good for the soul, the secret of beauty comes of nice balance of complementaries. There is endless enjoyment also for the archæologist in the old halls up that way, many of which are scarcely rivalled—Turton Tower, for instance, Hall–i’th’–Wood, and Smithills Hall. Turton Tower, upon the right of the Clitheroe line, the square form of which gives it an appearance of great solidity, is almost sacred, having once been the residence of Humphrey Chetham. Part of it is stone, part black and white, the latter with gables, and the storeys successively overhanging, the former with an embattled parapet. Inside there are old carved ceilings, with doors of massive oak, and much besides that talks pleasantly of the fashions of three hundred years ago. Of late years a good deal of “restoration” has been carried on, happily with so much judgment that the original features are in no degree obscured.
Hall–i’th’–Wood is in its associations one of the most interesting spots in England, since it was in the large upper chamber, the one with a window of no fewer than twenty–four compartments, that Samuel Crompton constructed the exquisitely skilful machine upon which the cotton industry of Lancashire arose to its present magnitude and importance. The way to it is from the little wayside station called the “Oaks,” crossing the fields, a pleasant walk of about a mile. The hall stands upon the edge of a cliff, at the foot of which flows a little river called the Eagley, one of the early collectors for the Irwell, the scenery on every side just such as would recommend the site to that fine old race of country gentlemen, neither barons nor vassals, under whose authority marks so enduring as these old Lancashire halls were impressed upon the land. When Crompton lived at Hall–i’th’–Wood, it was embosomed in trees, many of them so mighty that when cut down it was like attacking granite columns. As at Turton, the material is twofold, a portion being magpie, believed to have been put together in 1483, while the remainder is grey stone, erected in 1648; the former, to appearance, wholly untouched, and the latter altered only by the introduction, at a little later period than that of the building of the walls, of some mouldings and other exterior ornaments. Altogether, the hall is unquestionably to be regarded as a first–rate specimen of the style it illustrates. This is proved by its having often been taken as a model for modern Elizabethan houses—we do not mean by copyists, but by the men of higher platform—those with whom knowledge and learning are never the limit of thought, but only the basis.[28]
Smithills Hall, now the residence of Mr. R. H. Ainsworth, claims to occupy the site of an ancient Norman abode, which itself, if all be true in the legends, succeeded a Saxon palatial one. There can be no doubt that the spot is one of genuine historical interest. A chapel, dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, was consecrated at Smithills in 793, nearly a hundred years before the time of King Alfred; and the locality, like that of Hall–i’th’–Wood, is precisely of the kind that would be selected for their stronghold by the lords then having authority over the district, being at the head of two or three beautiful little glens, at once charming in complexion, and facilitating defence in case of assault. Much of the original hall has been renewed from time to time, but it is still a glorious type of the best work of the sixteenth century, and in the interior, as to antique carving and other treasures, is rich beyond description. The gardens also are delightful, and awaken reflections in the most interesting manner, on the way in which good planting now–a–days links past and present. The ancient Britons, the oak, the birch, and the hawthorn are there just as a thousand years ago;—alongside of them are the shapely evergreens which modern enterprise has brought from the Himalayas and Japan. A pleasant though somewhat round about way to Smithills, when permission can be obtained to enter,—a privilege not to be thought lightly of—is to go first to Hall–i’th’–Wood, then after crossing the Eagley, past Sweetloves, to Horrocks Fold, and along the edge of the moor, locally called the Scout, to the top of Deane Road, when the hall is just below. The distance from Bolton is about three miles.