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There is a quiet little clough about three miles from Manchester, near the village of Blackley. The best
entrance to it is by a gateway leading from the southern edge of a shady steep called "Entwisle Broo," on
the highway from Manchester to Middleton. Approaching the spot in this direction, a winding road leads
down between a low bemossed wall on the right, and a thorn hedge, which screens the green depth on the
left. The trees which line the path overlap the way with shade in summer time, till it reaches the open
hollow, where stands a brick-built farm-house, with its outbuildings, and gardens, - sheltered in the rear
by the wooded bank of the clough. Thence, this pretty Lancashire dell wanders on southwards for a
considerable distance, in picturesque quietude. The township of Blackley, in which it is situated, retains
many traces of its former rural beauty, and some remnants of the woods which once covered the district.
As a whole, Blackley is, even yet, so pleasantly varied in natural feature as to rank among the prettiest
scenery around Manchester, although its valleys are now, almost all of them, more or less, surrendered to
the conquering march of manufacture ? all, except this secluded glen, known by the name of "Boggart
Ho' Clough." Here, still, in this sylvan "deer-leap" of the Saxon hunter, the lover of nature, and the
jaded townsman, have a tranquil sanctuary, where they can wander, cloistered from the tumults of life;
and there is many a contemplative rambler who seeks the retirement of this leafy dell, the whole aspect
of which seems to invite the mind to a "session of sweet, silent thought."

One can imagine it such a place as a man of poetic temperament would delight in; and the interest which
has gathered around it is not lessened by the fact, that before Samuel Bamford, the poet, left this district
to take up his abode in the metropolis, he dwelt at a pleasant cottage, on the summit of the upland, near
the eastern edge of the clough. And here, in his native sequestration, he may have sometimes felt the
significance of Burn's words, -

The rural charms and retired peacefulness of "Boggart Ho' Clough" might well, in the vicinity of a place
like Manchester, account for part of its local celebrity; but not for the whole of it. The superstitions of
the locality and the shaping power of imagination have clothed the place with an interest which does not
solely belong to the embowered gloom of its green recesses,; nor to its picturesque steeps, overgrown
with fern and underwood; nor to the beauty of its swardy holm, spreading out a pleasant space in the
vale; nor to the wimpling rill which wanders through it from end to end,

Man has clothed the scene in a drapery of wonder and fear, woven in the creative loom of his own
imagination. Any superstitious stranger, wandering there, alone, under the influence of a midnight
moon, would probably think this a likely place for the resort of those spiritual beings who "fly by night."
He might truly say, at such an hour, that if ever "Mab" held court on the green earth, "Boggart Ho'
Clough" is just such a nook, as one can imagine, that her mystic choir would delight to dance in, and
sing, -

The place is now associated with the superstitions of the district; and on that account, as well as on
account of its natural attractions, it has been the theme of more than one notable pen. In Roby's
"Traditions of Lancashire," there is a story called " The Bar-gaist, or Boggart," which is connected with
"Boggart Ho' Clough." From this story, which was contributed to that work by Mr. Crofton Croker,
author of "The Fairy Legends," I quote the following:-

"Not far from the little snug, smoky village of Blakeley, or Blackley, there lies one of the most
romantic of dells, rejoicing in a state of singular seclusion, and in the oddest of Lancashire names, to wit,
'Boggart-Hole.' Rich in every requisite for picturesque beauty and poetical association, it is impossible
for me (who am neither a painter nor a poet) to describe this dell as it should be described; and I will,
therefore, only beg of thee, gentle reader, who, peradventure, mayst not have lingered in this classical
neighbourhood, to fancy a deep, deep dell, its steep sides fringed down with hazel and beech, and fern
and thick undergrowth, and clothed at the bottom with the richest and greenest sward in the world. You
descend, clinging to the trees, and scrambling as best you may, - and now you stand on haunted ground!
Tread softly, for this is the Boggart's clough. And see in yonder dark corner, and beneath the projecting
mossy stone, where that dusky, sullen cave yawns before us, like a bit of Salvator's best: there lurks that
strange elf, the sly and mischievous Boggart. Bounc! I see him coming; - oh no, it was only a hare
bounding from her form; there it goes - there!

"I will tell you of some of the pranks of this very Boggart, and how he teased and tormented a
good farmer's family in a house hard by; and I assure you it was a very worthy old lady who told me the
story. But, first, suppose we leave the Boggart's demesne, and pay a visit to the theatre of his strange
doings.

"You see that old farm-house about two fields distant, shaded by the sycamore tree: that was the
spot which the Boggart or Bar-gaist selected for his freaks; there he held his revels, perplexing honest
George Cheetham - for that was the farmer's name - scaring his maids, worrying his men, and frightening
the poor children out of their seven senses; so that, at last, not even a mouse durst show himself indoors
at the farm, as he valued his whiskers, five minutes after the clock has struck twelve."

The story goes on describing the startling pranks of this invisible torment of honest George
Cheetham's old haunted dwelling. It tells how that the Boggart, which was a long time a terror to the
farmer's family, "scaring the maids, worrying the men, and frightening the poor children," became at last
a familiar, mysterious presence - in a certain sense, a recognised member of the household troop - often
heard, but never seen; and sometimes a sharer in the household conversation. When merry tales were
being told around the fire, on winter nights, the Boggart's "small, shrill voice, heard above the rest, like a
baby's penny trumpet," joined the general laughter, in a tone of supernatural congeniality; and the
hearers learned, at last, to hear without dismay, if not to love the sounds which they had feared before.
But Boggarts, like men, are moody creatures; and this unembodied troubler of the farmer's lonely house
seems to have been sometimes so forgetful of everything like spiritual dignity, or even of the claims of
old acquaintance, as to reply to the familiar banter of his mortal co-tenants, in a tone of petty malignity.
He even went so far, at last, as to revenge himself for some fancied insult, by industriously pulling the
children up and down by the head and legs in the night time, and by screeching and laughing plaguily in
the dark, to the unspeakable annoyance of the inmates. In order to get rid of this nocturnal torment, it
appears that the farmer removed his children into other sleeping apartments, leaving he Boggart sole
tenant of their old bedroom, which seems to have been his favourite stage of action. The story concludes
as follows:-

"But his Boggartship, having now fairly become the possessor of a room at the farm, it would
appear, considered himself in the light of a privileged inmate, and not, as hitherto, an occasional visitor,
who merely joined in the general expression of merriment. Familiarity, they say, breeds contempt; and
now the children's bread and butter would be snatched away, or their porringers of bread and milk
would be dashed to the ground by an unseen hand; or, if the younger ones were left alone but for a few
minutes, they were sure to be found screaming with terror on the return of their nurse. Sometimes,
however, he would behave himself kindly. The cream was then churned, and the pans and kettles
scoured without hands. There was one circumstance which was remarkable:- the stairs ascended from
the kitchen; a partition of boards covered the ends of the steps, and formed a closet beneath the staircase.
From one of the boards of this partition a large round knot was accidentally displaced; and one day the
youngest of the children, while playing with a shoe-horn, stuck it into this knot-hole. Whether or not the
aperture had been formed by the Boggart as a peep-hole to watch the motions of the family, I cannot
pretend to say. Some thought it was, for it was called the Boggart's peep-hole; but others said that they
remembered it long before the shrill laugh of the Boggart was heard in the house. However this may
have been, it is certain that the horn was ejected with surprising precision at the head of whoever put it
there; and either in mirth or in anger the horn was darted forth with great velocity, and struck the poor
child over the ear.

"There are few matters upon which parents feel more acutely than that of the maltreatment of
their offspring; but time, that great soother of all things, at length familiarised this dangerous occurrence
to everyone at the farm, and that which at the first was regarded with the utmost terror, became a kind or
amusement with the more thoughtless and daring of the family. Often was the horn slipped slyly into the
hole, and in return it never failed to be flung at the head of some one, but most commonly at the person
who placed it there. They were used to call this passtime, in the provincial dialect, 'laking wi't'
Boggart;' that is playing with the Boggart. An old tailor, whom I but faintly remember, used to say that
the horn was often 'pitched' at his head, and at the head of his apprentice, whilst seated here on the
kitchen table, when they went their rounds to work, as it customary with country tailors. At length the
goblin, not contented with flinging the horn, returned to his night persecutions. Heavy steps, as of a
person in wooden clogs, were at first heard clattering down stairs in the dead hour of darkness; then the
pewter and earthen dishes appeared to be dashed on the kitchen floor; though in the morning all
remained uninjured on their respective shelves. The children generally were marked out as objects of
dislike by their unearthly tormentor. The curtains of their beds would be violently pulled to and fro;
then a heavy weight, as of a human being would press them nigh to suffocation, from which it was
impossible to escape. The night, instead of being the time for repose, was disturbed with screams and
dreadful noises, and thus was the whole house alarmed night after night. Things could not long continue
in this fashion; the farmer and his good dame resolved to leave a place where they could no longer
expect rest or comfort; and George Cheetham was actually following, with his wife and family, the last
load of furniture, when they were met by a neighbouring farmer, name John Marshall.

"'Well, George, and so yo're leaving th' owd house at last?' said Marshall.

"'Heigh, Johnny, my lad, I'm in a manner forced to't, thou sees,' replied the other; 'for that
weary Boggart torments us so, we can neither rest neet nor day for't. It seems like to have a malice
again't young uns, an' ommost kills my poor dame here at thoughts on't, and so thou sees we're forced
to flit like.'

"He had got thus far in his complaint, when, behold, a shrill voice, from a deep upright churn, the
topmost utensil on the cart, called out, 'Ay, ay, neighbour, we're flitting, yo see.'

"'Od rot thee,' exclaimed George: 'if I'd known thou'd been flitting too, I wadn't ha' stirred a
peg. Nay, nay, it's to no use, Mally,' he continued, turning to his wife, 'we may as weel turn back again
to th' owd house, as be tormented in another not so convenient.'"

Thus ended Crofton Croker's tradition of the "Boggart," or "Bar-gaist," which, according to the
story, was long time a well-known supernatural pest of old Cheetham's farm-house, but whose principal
lurking place was supposed to be in a gloomy nook of "Boggart Ho' Clough," or "Boggart Hole
Clough," for the name adopted by the writer of the tradition appears to be derived from that superstitious
belief. With respect to the exact origin of the name, however, I must entirely defer to those who know
more about the matter than myself. The features of the story are, generically, the same as those of a
thousand such like superstitious stories still told and believed in all the country part in England - though
perhaps more in the northern part of it than elsewhere. Almost every lad in Lancashire has, in his
childhood, heard, either from his "reverend grannie," or from some less kin and less kind director of his
young imagination, similar tales connected with old houses, and other haunts, in the neighbourhood of
his own birthplace.