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contained enough to attract little boys and large bluebottles. 
Jerry Spencer was the father of John Spencer, of the firm of 
Spencer & Moore, and of Mrs. Moore, the wife of the first 
Mayor of Burnley. This old gable was the only bit of 
picturesque architecture in the street, or perhaps it was only its 
age and its old world quaintness that gave it that distinction. 
The street had not much pretension to aristocratic associations, 
the nearest approach to these being the residence of Dr. Knowles 
at the corner of Cliviger Street, and Mr. Sutcliffe’s wine stores at 
the corner opposite the Hall Inn, on the hither side of the Hall 
Rake, where odourous vintages ‘‘ cooled a long age in the deep 
delvéd” cellars. Just up Cliviger Street was Mr. Buck’s office, 
where I remember seeing a flag hung out with the words “ Barl 
Grey and Reform!” emblazoned upon it. This must have been 
about 1832. Behind the street were back shops, tailors’ garrets, 
smithies, plumbers and “ tubbers”’ workshops, and then gardens, 
pig-sties, meadows, from which the scent of new-mown hay 
would come on warm summer days and fill the quiet street with 
perfume of flowers and grass. 
S Outside this little world there was another world, where the 
rich people dwelt, who used to pass through it on their way to 
and from Olympus. Old Peregrine Towneley would shuffle by 
in habiliments as ancient as his pedigree. Statelier and more 
like the aristocrat, Mr. Lovat, the steward, who built Tarleton 
House, would go past, and have a pleasant greeting for every- 
body. Mr. Master, the ‘‘ persoun of the town,” in Chaucer’s 
phrase, who was like Chaucer’s parson, “ rich in holy thought 
and work,’ would walk through the street on his errands of 
charity, sorely needed then, and stop not seldom to hear the 
woeful tale of some poor body who wanted ‘‘dole.” But these 
men and the wealthy lords of cotton, such as the Pollards, the 
Hopwoods, the Moores, the Holgates, and others were ‘‘ out of 
my welkin.” I knew their names and their big factories, which 
blazed on the night with gas-lit windows, when gas was hardly 
known in the street. 
There were three or four chapels and one church, to which our 
family never went, for we were Quakers, and used to travel every 
Sunday morning to Marsden Chapel, where we would sit in silent 
service not seldom unbroken by a word. Or sometimes old 
James Howarth, the father of Charles Howarth, “ ’torney 
Howarth,” in Yorkshire Street, would rise in tall octogenarian 
dignity, and deliver his soul in Scriptural phrase. I remember 
as a boy sitting a dreary time in this silence and hardly daring 
to waggle my legs, and the only words spoken in tones of 
solemn exhortation or reproof, were spoken by old James 
Howarth, rising lank and tall on the bench of elders which 
faced the congregation. They were these: ‘‘ Woe unto the 
