Ramble No. 10

Being anxious to finish our rambles in this extensive township, we resumed them on the 10th August (1872), though the atmosphere was cloudy, and threatened rain, and a soft south wind blowing, almost a sure forerunner of a change of weather in the district.

Passing through Heckmondwike, about half-past three o’clock in the afternoon, we soon arrived at Hightown Lane, and strolled on the footpath towards Christ Church, Liversedge, in the new burial ground of which were assembled a numerous cortege, who had just witnessed the consignment to the tomb of the vicar’s (the Rev. William Fowler, M. A.) only daughter. Pausing till the mournful procession had passed, we entered for a short time the burial ground surrounding the church, where we found upon very plain headstones the following inscriptions:

“Amy Roberson, died January 5th 1845, aged 90 years.”

“Hammond Roberson, died February the 1st 1826, aged 19 years.”

“The Reverend Hammond Roberson, founder of this church in 1816, died August the 9th 1841, aged 84 years.”

Christ Church, consecrated August 29th 1816, adjoins the village of Littletown, is very nicely situated. Together with its parsonage, upon an abrupt eminence, commanding a view of a considerable extent of the country. The church was erected by the late Rev. Hammond Roberson, of Healds Hall, formerly of Dewsbury Moor, at the cost of £7,000 who endowed it with five acres of land, and the living was augmented with a Parliamentary grant, in 1817, of £2,200, the value of which at the present time is £300. The patron of the living is the Rev. Canon W. M. Heald, M. A., vicar of Birstall. The Rev. Thomas Atkinson, B. A., held the incumbency previous to Mr. Fowler. The church is a handsome gothic structure, and the tower contains a light but very musical peal of bells, the ringers of which excel in campanology.

A steady downpour of rain now set in, and though our clothes were damped, our energies were not. After a while it somewhat cleared up, but as the time at our disposal had almost run out, we reluctantly hastened homewards, resolved to meet another day. This we did last Saturday afternoon, the 31st of August, having previously fixed we would enter the township near Castle House Hill. The weather was all that we could wish, with a refreshing western breeze, and a brilliant and almost cloudless sky, in fact, a most desirable day for a ramble.

Passing on Little Green Lane, we ascended the Gomersal Road, gathering, as we rather quickly passed along, a few specimens of the wild flowers still remaining, such as the pretty harebell, creeping potentilla, field scubies, bladder conspion and the humble bramble, etc. At Stubley Farm the reaping machine, drawn by two horses, was in full operation, assisted by the scythe, rapidly preparing for the in-gathering of the harvest. The great improvement in agricultural machinery is gradually making its way into these districts, forced on in a manner no doubt by the increased cost of labour, and scenes depicted by Thomson in his “Seasons” will ere long become things of the past in this progressive age. Speaking of the harvest of his time, he writes thus:

“Soon as the morning trembles o’er the sky,
And, unperceived, unfolds the spreading day;
Before the ripen’d field the reapers stand,
In fair array; each by the lass he loves,
To bear the rougher part, and mitigate
By nameless gentle offices her toil.
At once they stoop and swell the lusty sheaves;
While through their cheerful band the rural talk,
The rural scandal, and the rural jest,
Fly harmless, to deceive the tedious time,
And steal, unfelt, the sultry hours away.
Behind the master walks, builds up the stocks;
And, conscious, glancing oft on every side
His sated eye, feels his heart heave with joy.
The gleaners spread around, and here and there,
Spike after spike, their scanty harvest pick.
Be not too narrow, husbandman! But fling
From the full sheaf, with charitable stealth,
The liberal handful. Think, oh grateful, think!
How good the God of harvest is to you;
Who pours abundance o’er your flowing fields;
While these unhappy partners of your kind,
Will hover round you like the fowls of heaven,
And ask their humble dole. The various turns
Of fortune ponder; that your sons may want
What now, with hard reluctance, faint ye give.”

At Stubley is the shooting range of the artillery volunteers, and the red flag on the neighbouring hill warned us not to extend our ramble in that direction. Shooting at a target may be a harmless amusement to the volunteers, but a bullet lodged in our corpus would be no laughing matter supposing they missed the target. What a difference betwixt the waste of powder and the more useful object of securing the bounties of creation!

Taking the direction of Upper Castle House Hill, we descended a short lane leading into Listing Lane, and here one of my companions – a somewhat keen entomologist – was soon in his element, for a profusion of larva feeding on the dock were speedily secured. As our object was not particularly to gather specimens in entomology, though nothing comes wrong to a naturalist, we were not prepared with collecting boxes, but the receptacle for the head – the hat – was turned to another duty. My friend, wrapping his collection in the docks, snugly ensconced them in his handkerchief, placed them in his hat, and arriving home, deposited them in a suitable place in his garden, will watch with interest their gradual development, and afterwards be delighted with the result of his ramble by some beautiful and perhaps rare species of moths and butterflies.

From Listing Lane, Little Gomersal, or adjoining the slope, presents a pleasing view, and Littletown in the valley below is snugly placed. He we came across a very unusual scene, a gentleman sketching in pencil the old homestead, Lower Castle House Hill, situated prominently on the slope above. It will make a pretty picture if transferred to canvas. He kindly showed us other sketches taken in the neighbourhood.

Leaving our casual acquaintance, we called at a small farmstead, Thornbush, the property of T. F. Firth, Esq., J. P., of Heckmondwike, and occupied by Mr. Obadiah Lang, blanket manufacturer; it needs no particular description, but here, a very rare circumstance, Mr. Lang makes what are termed home made unstoved, headed blankets, so those who dislike sulphur may be well suited. Though Mr. Lang is rather in the old style, he does not despise modern machinery, for he has a small steam engine for the purpose of turning his raising gigs, and is supplied with water by the Rawfolds Water Company, who purchase it from the Corporation of Bradford, they having the power under their Act of Parliament to supply Liversedge with water. The fields belonging to Thornbush, having significant names such as Tenter Croft, Cowing Field, Winningley, etc. The Langs are an old Liversedge family, and have for a long time manufactured first class blankets.

Crossing the bridge into Littletown, we examined a few old houses at the foot of Knowles (sic) Hill, or sometimes termed Briggate. One occupied as an inn, the Victoria Tavern, by host Mark Barber, has the date 1741, and the letters I. W. I. Upon it, and another in the occupation of Matthew Wilson, of I. W. And the date 1728, but we could learn nothing worthy of record belonging to these old buildings. At the corner of the footpath leading to the church is a three-storied and corner house, with mullioned windows and leaded panes. Tradition says that once upon a time, a dreadful crime was committed in it, and a flag upon which blood was spilt could not be washed clean. Also that a lady, dressed in silk, had occasionally been seen, and after rustling her dress, vanished. The house is now used as an inn, rejoicing in the title of Albion, and my loquacious friend, Benjamin Rothery, the host, would tell my readers more of the tradition than I can, and furnish them with the best of ale.

Here stands Littletown mill, now Victoria, the property of Mr. William Priestley of Birstall. It was originally erected by a company, for the manufacture of blankets, the following were some of the proprietors: Thomas Brook, Jonas Milnes, Joseph Lang, Joseph North, John Lang, Samuel Armitage, Jonas Wilby and Robert Wharton. Mr. Priestley has greatly enlarged the premises and made many improvements, and cloth is now manufactured, similar to the Batley trade.

Passing up the valley of the Spen we come to Stanley mill, formerly used for the manufacture of blankets by Mr. Thomas Parr, now by Mr. Albert Gawford, for sealskins and cloth. Fulling cloth and blankets is a branch of business for which Stanley mill has been long noted, and is at present carried on by Messrs. Kershaw and Scott. Near Stanley mill, on the banks of the Spen, is an ancient wayside well, abundantly supplied with water from the adjacent slope, and previous to the Rawfolds waterworks much frequented by the inhabitants from Rawfolds and Hightown, and though the water is somewhat hard, it is not unfit for domestic use. The swallows and martins in flocks twittered about and swiftly chased the insect tribe, and reminded us, ere long, they will depart for more southern climes. Had we been disposes, we might have greatly increased our specimens in natural history, but contented ourselves with bringing away only a lizard, or what people commonly call an asker, though quite a harmless animal greatly shunned or wantonly destroyed.

Near the small bridge crossing the brook opposite Eddercliffe, an immense stream of water from the pit of the Stanley Coal Company pours into it, and in the brook you will see some stones strewn about, the unfortunate remains of what may be termed the glorious uncertainty of the law, as exemplified in the case of Blakelock versus Waller. For particulars see law records, etc.

We took the footpath and passed through the yard of the Rawfolds Mill, to be referred to hereafter, and quickly passing the Groves, the residence of T. H. Jackson, Esq., arrived at Tucker (sic – believed should be Quaker) Lane leading from Hightown to Cleckheaton. From this point you have some splendid views of the surrounding country, on the north the wooded slopes of Spen and Roundhill and Hunsworth Woods, and in the distance Gomersal, Birkenshaw, Adwalton and other places, to the east Littletown, Millbridge, Heckmondwike, Staincliffe, and stretching further, Hanging Heaton and Earlsheaton, with Ossett and Horbury, etc.

The stillness of evening was now creeping on, and the sun’s departing beams reminded us that soon the deepening shades of twilight hour would be upon us, therefore hastening on we arrived at Lower Blacup, an old English homestead in the last century, the residence of Thomas Wright, whose autobiography had been recently published, edited by his grandson, Thomas Wright, M.A., F.S A., etc., one of the most learned antiquarians of the present day, and to whom a pension of £100 a year has lately been granted in recognition of his eminent services.

Lower Blacup is at present divided into cottages, and the farm cultivated by William Woodcock, the fields of which are named Low Ing, Horsfield, Pasture Hill, Coneyver and Tenter Croft, in which stands an old cloth tenter, apparently the one purchased by Wright in 1767, when he entered upon the farm. We found nothing very remarkable either inside or outside the house, which we closely examined, though on one of the window panes two names were written by Joshua Hepworth and Tere Lee. Lee was an old resident at Blacup previous to Wright, and in his autobiography he refers to him as a peaceable and quiet neighbour. Wright’s autobiography is an interesting work, relating to the manners, customs, trades and religious sects of this part of the country, particularly in the latter part of the last century, and though I might enlarge upon it, I would advise my readers to purchase the book. Wright was born in 1736 and died at Birkenshaw in 1801.

Taking the footpath leading to Hightown we were highly delighted with the splendid prospects from it, commanding a great extent of country, and though I Might describe them, I would rather hear of other ramblers taking the route we did. Quarry Lane soon brought us to Heights Hill, where the first Wesleyan Chapel was built, about the year 1774, and mentioned in Wright’s autobiography as the Theykd Chapel. A more commodious chapel has been erected a little lower down, in 1827, and recently much improved, better adapted to the requirements of the Wesleyans, who here are a numerous and influential body.

At the hill also is a Free Methodist Chapel, built A. D. 1857. This is a neat edifice. I understand the late Mr. Benjamin Armitage, of Littletown, bequeathed a portion of land at the Heights on which to erect a church, but as the religious requirements of the people hereabouts are amply provided for, it will be some time before a church graces the hill. The numerous footpaths in Liversedge are a great advantage to the rambler, and I trust the people will jealously watch and keep open these ancient privileges. Feeling rather tired we rested at the old hostelry, the Shoulder of Mutton, partaking of such refreshment as we required, and then turned our steps homeward, for:

Amidst pleasures or palaces;
Wherever we may roam,
Be it ever so humble,
There is no place like home.

We quickly passed down Hightown, anciently called Long Liversedge and found the village greatly improved, new houses rising on every side, and a Primitive Methodist Chapel and large Co-operative stores just completed. We soon arrived at Heckmondwike, dispersed, and highly delighted with our ramble, to our respective homes, resolved, weather permitting, to meet together another day...