Country life -- England; England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century
In some of these swarming villages, ay, and in the cottages of the large
manufacturing towns too, you can scarcely see a window with whole panes
of glass. In one house in the outskirts of Blackburn, and that, too, an
alehouse, we counted in a window of sixty panes, eight-and-forty broken
ones; and this window was of a pretty uniform character with its
fellows, both in that house, and the neighbouring ones. It is not
possible to conceive a more violent and melancholy contrast than that
which the filth, the poverty, and forlornness of these weavers’ and
spinners’ dwellings form to the neatness, comfort, and loveliness of the
cottages of the peasantry in many other parts of the kingdom. Any man
who had once been through this district, might again recognise the
locality if he were taken thither blindfold, by the very smell of
oatcake which floats about the villages, and the sound of the shuttles,
with their eternal “latitat! latitat!” I ranged wide over the bleak
hills in the neighbourhood of Padiham, Belthorne, Guide, and such
places, and the numbers and aspect of the population filled me with
astonishment. Through the long miserable streets of those villages,
children and dogs were thick as motes in the sun. The boys and men with
their hair shorn off, as with a pair of wool-shears, close to their
heads, till it stood up staring and bristly, and yet left hanging long
over their eyes, till it gave them a most villanous and hangman look.
What makes those rough heads more conspicuous, is their being so
frequently red; the testimony of nature to the ancient prevalence of the
Dane on these hills. The men are besides long and bony; the women often
of stalwart and masculine figure, and of a hardness of feature which
gives them no claims to be ranked amongst the most dangerous of the
“Lancashire witches.” Everywhere the rudeness of the rising generation
is wonderful. Everywhere the stare of mingled ignorance and insolence
meets you; everywhere a troop of lads is at your heels, with the clatter
of their wooden clogs, crying--“Fellee, gies a hawpenny!”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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