Project Gutenberg's Traditions of Lancashire, Volume 2 (of 2), by John Roby

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Title: Traditions of Lancashire, Volume 2 (of 2)

Author: John Roby

Release Date: April 30, 2008 [EBook #25256]

Language: English

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     "Time has spared the epitaph on
     Adrian's horse,--confounded that of himself."

     SIR THOMAS BROWNE.




     TRADITIONS

     OF

     LANCASHIRE.


     BY

     JOHN ROBY, M.R.S.L.


     _ILLUSTRATED BY ENGRAVINGS ON STEEL AND WOOD._


     IN TWO VOLUMES.

     VOL. II.

     Fifth Edition.


     LONDON:
     GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS.
     MANCHESTER: L. C. GENT.
     1872.


     PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY
     EDINBURGH AND LONDON

     Transcriber's note: Minors spelling inconsistencies – mainly
     hyphenated words – have been harmonised.

     Obvious printer errors have been corrected, but the original
     regional spelling of “properpty” (in "Clegg Hall") has been
     retained.

     Letters after the sign ^ should be read as superscript. Example
     Edw^d, where the “d” is superscript.

     Some chapters start with illustrations. In the original book
     those illustrations are not named. Here they are named after
     their chapters.

     The Latin numbers (i, ii, etc.) behind some words or expressions
     refer to the transcriber's notes at the end of this e-book.




     CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.


                                       PAGE
     THE FAIRIES' CHAPEL,                 1

     THE LUCK OF MUNCASTER,              24

     THE PEEL OF FOULDREY,               35

     A LEGEND OF BEWSEY,                 69

     THE BLESSING,                       78

     THE DULE UPO' DUN,                  82

     WINDLESHAW ABBEY,                   96

     CLEGG HALL,                        137

     THE MERMAID OF MARTIN MEER,        172

     GEORGE FOX,                        189

     THE DEMON OF THE WELL,             206

     THE SANDS,                         225

     THE RING AND THE CLIFF,            236

     THE DEAD MAN'S HAND,               247

     THE LOST FARM,                     262

     THE MAID'S STRATAGEM,              294

     THE SKULL-HOUSE,                   311

     RIVINGTON PIKE,                    322

     MOTHER RED-CAP,                    345

     THE DEATH-PAINTER,                 389

     THE CRYSTAL GOBLET,                416





     LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.


     THE PEEL OF FOULDREY           _To face page_ 35

     BEWSEY, NEAR WARRINGTON                       69

     WINDLESHAW ABBEY                              96

     CLEGG HALL, NEAR ROCHDALE                    137

     PEG O'NELLY'S WELL, NEAR CLITHEROE           206

     ULVERSTONE SANDS                             225

     THE LOST FARM, NEAR SOUTHPORT                262

     RIVINGTON PIKE                               322

     "THE THRUTCH," NEAR ROCHDALE                 349




     THE FAIRIES' CHAPEL.

     "Farewell, rewards and fairies!
       Good housewives now may say;
     For now foule sluts in dairies,
       Doe fare as well as they:
     And though they sweepe their hearths no less
       Than mayds were wont to doe,
     Yet who of late, for cleaneliness,
       Finds sixe-pence in her shoe?"

     --_Percy's Reliques._


     The ancient mansion of Healey Hall was a cumbrous inconvenient
     dwelling of timber; but the spirit of improvement having gone
     forth in the reign of Elizabeth, an ordinary hall-house of stone
     was erected, about the year 1620, by Oliver Chadwick. On the
     south front was a projecting wing and three gables, with a large
     hall-window. The north front had two gables only, with a
     projecting barn. The north entrance, covered by a porch, was a
     thorough passage, answering to the screens of a college, having
     on one side the hall and parlour beyond; on the other were the
     kitchen, buttery, &c. On the river below was a corn-mill; this
     and a huge barn being necessary appendages to the hospitable
     mansions and plentiful boards of our forefathers. Over the front
     door was this inscription--

     C. C. DOC. T: R. C: I. C. A. C: R. B.
               ANO. DOM'I. 1168.

     About the year 1756 the east wall gave way, and a considerable
     fishure appeared on the outside. This event was considered by
     many as the usual foretokening that its owner, Charles Chadwick,
     of Healey and Ridware, would speedily be removed by death from
     the seat of his ancestors; and so it proved, for in the course
     of a few months he died at Lichfield, _aged eighty-two_. His
     great age, though, will be thought the more probable token, the
     surer presage of approaching dissolution.

     On a stone near the top of the building, on the north side, a
     human head was rudely carved in relief, which tradition affirms
     to have been a memorial of one of the workmen, accidentally
     killed while the house was building.

     In 1773, the existing edifice was built, on the ancient site, by
     John Chadwick, grandfather to the present owner.

     In Corry's _Lancashire_ is the following document, furnished by
     the recent possessor, Charles Chadwick, Esq. It relates to the
     foregoing John Chadwick, his father--

     "In 1745, at the rebellion, when the Pretender's son and his
     Highlanders reached Manchester, having obtained a list of the
     loyal subscribers, they began (of course) to enforce the
     payment of the money for their own use. An officer of the
     belted plaid, of the second division, came to the house of Mr
     C., in King Street, whilst the master of it was with his father
     at Ridware, and, on being told that he was from home, and his
     lady ill in bed, he went up-stairs, and opening the
     chamber-door, where she was then lying-in, beckoned her sister
     to come to him on the stairs, where he told her (in a mild but
     decided tone) that the money before mentioned must be paid
     quickly for the use of 'the prince (who lodged at the house in
     Market Street, now called the Palace Inn), or the house would
     be burnt down.' In this dilemma, the man-midwife calling first,
     and afterwards the physician, were both consulted by the
     ladies; when the former (a Tory) advised to send the money
     after them, whilst the latter (a Whig) thought it better to
     keep it till called for; consequently, never being called for
     in their hasty retreat, the money was not paid. It may be
     proper to add, Captain Lachlan MacLachlan, of the first
     division (afterwards one of the proscribed), being quartered in
     the same house, behaved with the greatest civility and
     politeness. On a party of horse coming to the door for
     quarters, he called for a lanthorn, and, though he had a cold
     (for which white wine whey was offered him, which he called
     'varra good stuff'), walked as far as Salford, and there
     quartered them; two of his Highlanders, in the meantime, were
     dancing reels in the kitchen, and in the morning gave each of
     the maids sixpence at parting."

     The name Healey Dene denotes a valley or dale, _convallis_,
     enclosed on both sides with steep hills; _dene_ being a Saxon
     word, signifying a narrow valley, with woods and streams of
     water convenient for the feeding of cattle. Here the river
     Spodden, which now keeps many fulling-mills and engines at
     work, formerly turned one solitary corn-mill only. It was built
     in the narrow dingle below the hall, for the supply of the
     hamlet. The feudal owners of most mansions usually erected
     corn-mills (where practicable) within their own demesnes. After
     the family had removed to the more mild and temperate climate
     of Mavesyn-Ridware, in Staffordshire, about the year 1636,
     Healey Mill was converted into a fulling-mill, so that one of
     the principal features in our story no longer exists.


About two miles north from Rochdale lies the hamlet of Healey, a high
tract of land, as its Saxon derivation seems to imply, heaʓe, _high_,
and leaʓ _a pasture_, signifying the "_high pasture_."

Our Saxon ancestors chiefly occupied their lands for grazing
purposes; hence the many terminations in ley, or leaʓ. Pasturage is
still called a "ley" for cattle in these parts.

In this remote hamlet dwelt a family, probably of Saxon origin, whose
name, De Heley, from their place of residence, had, in all likelihood,
been assumed soon after the Norman conquest. Their descendants, of the
same name, continued to reside here until the reign of Edward III.,
holding their lands as abbey lands, under the abbot of Stanlaw, soon
after the year 1172, in the reign of Henry II., and subsequently under
the abbot of Whalley, from the year 1296.[1] In 1483, John Chadwyke, or
(_Ceddevyc_, from the common appellation _Cedde_, and _vyc_, a mansion
or vill, signifying Cedde's fort, peel, or fortified mansion) married
Alice, eldest daughter and co-heir of Adam Okeden of Heley; and in her
right settled at the mansion of Heley (or Healey) Hall, then a huge
unsightly structure of wood and plaster, built according to the
fashion of those days. An ancestor of Adam Okeden having married
"_Hawise, heir of Thomas de Heley_," in the reign of Edward III.,
became possessed of this inheritance.

The origin of surnames would be an interesting inquiry. In the present
instance it seems clear that the name and hamlet of Chadwick are
derived from Cedde's vyc, or Chad's vyc. This mansion, situated on the
southern extremity of Spotland, or Spoddenland, bounded on the east by
that stream, and southward by the Roche, was built on a bold eminence
above the river, where Cedde and his descendants dwelt, like the
Jewish patriarchs, occupied in the breeding of sheep and other cattle.

"But though this hamlet had been named _Ceddevic_, from its
subordinate Saxon chief, he himself could not have adopted it for his
own surname; because surnames were then scarcely, if at all, known
here. He must have continued, therefore, to use his simple Saxon name
of _Cedde_ only, and his successors likewise, with the addition of
Saxon _patronymics_ even down to the Norman conquest, when the Norman
fashion of local names or surnames was first introduced into England."

But though the Norman addition of surnames "became general amongst the
barons, knights, and gentry, soon after the Conquest, yet Saxon
patronymics long continued in use amongst the common people, and are
still not unusual here. Thus, instead of John Ashworth and Robert
Butterworth, we hear of Robin o' Ben's and John o'Johnny's,"--meaning
Robert the son of Benjamin, and John the son of John, "similar to the
Norman Fitz, the Welsh Ap', the Scotch Mac, and the Irish O'; and this
ancient mode of describing an individual sometimes includes several
generations, as Thomas O'Dick's, O'Ned's, O'Sam's," &c.

But besides patronymics, nicknames (the Norman soubriquets) have been
used in all ages and by all nations, and are still common here; some
of them coarse and ludicrous enough: the real surname being seldom
noticed, but the nickname sometimes introduced, with an alias, even in
a law instrument. And why are not Poden, Muz, Listing, &c., as good as
"the Bald," "the Fat," "the Simple," &c., of the French kings; or "the
Unready," "the Bastard," "Lackland," "Longshanks," &c., of our own? A
lad named Edmund, some generations back, attended his master's sons to
Rochdale school, who latinised his name into "Edmundus;" then it was
contracted into "Mundus," by which name his descendants are best known
to this day: some probably knowing "Tom Mundus" well who are ignorant
of his real surname. Within late years individuals have been puzzled
on hearing themselves inquired after by their own surname. At
Whitworth you might have asked in vain for the house of "Susannah
Taylor," though any child would have taken you straight to the door of
"Susy O'Yem's, O' Fair-off's at top o' th' rake."[2]

Another derivation of the surname De Heley, not at all improbable, has
been suggested--viz., that Hely Dene may have been an early corruption
of Holy Dene, having formerly belonged to the Church, and possibly, in
remote ages, dedicated to the religious rites of the Druids. A clear
rock-spring, in a gloomy dell below the Hall, is still called "the
Spaw," and often frequented by youths and maidens on May mornings.
Hence some have imagined that this Dene and its Spaw may have given to
the river running through it the name of Spodden, or Spaw-Dene.
Another spring, higher up, is called Robin Hood's Well, from that
celebrated outlaw, who seems to have been the favourite champion of
these parts, and who, according to some authorities, lies buried at
Kirklaw, in the West Riding of York.[3]

Such holy wells were, in more superstitious if not happier ages, the
supposed haunts of elves, fairies, and other such beings, not unaptly
denominated the rabble of mythology.

A warm sequestered dingle here conducts the Spodden through a scene of
wild, woodland, and picturesque beauty. Drayton, in his _Polyolbion_,
has thus immortalised it:--

     "First Roche, a dainty rill, which Spodden from her springs,
     A petty rivulet, as her attendant, brings."

From the mansion of Healey, built on an elevated slope above the dell,
opens out an extensive prospect. Limepark in Cheshire, Cloud End in
Staffordshire, with the Derbyshire hills, may be distinctly seen. Over
the smoke of Manchester, the banks of the Mersey are visible; and upon
the horizon rises up the barn-like ridge of Hellsby Tor,[4] in the
forest of Delamere. Towards the west may be seen, far out, like a vast
barrier, the Welsh mountains, _Moel Famma_ (mother of mountains), with
the vale of Clwyd, like a narrow cleft in the blue hills, which extend
until the chain of Penmaenmawr and the Isle of Anglesey abruptly
terminate in the sea. Few situations, without the toil of a laborious
ascent, show so commanding a prospect; while under the very eye of the
spectator, nature assumes an aspect of more than ordinary beauty.

One wild scene, the subject of our legend, the pencil, not the pen,
must describe. It would be impossible, in any other manner, to convey
an adequate idea of its extreme loveliness and grandeur. It is here
known by its Saxon appellation, "the Thrutch," or Thrust, signifying a
narrow, but deep and rugged channel in the rocks. Through this cleft
the Spodden bursts with great force, forming several picturesque
falls, which, though of mean height, yet, combined with the
surrounding scenery, few behold without an expression of both wonder
and delight.

The ancient corn-mill was here situated, just below the mansion. From
the "Grist Yate," by the main road to Rochdale, a winding horse-way,
paved with stones set on edge, led down the steep bank and pointed to
the sequestered spot where for ages the clack of the hopper and the
plash of the mill-wheel had usurped a noisy and undisputed possession.

In the reign of our fourth Edward--we know not the precise year--an
occurrence, forming the basis of the following legend, is supposed to
have taken place,--when fraud and feud were unredressed; when bigotry
and superstition had their "perfect work;" when barbaric cruelty, and
high and heroic deeds, had their origin in one corrupt and common
source, the passions of man being let loose, in wild uproar,
throughout the land; when the wars of the Roses had almost desolated
the realm, and England's best blood flowed like a torrent. Such was
the aspect of the time to which the following events relate.

It was in the beginning of the year, at the close of an unusually
severe winter. The miller's craft was nigh useless, the current of the
rivulet was almost still. Everything seemed so hard and frost-bound,
that nature looked as though her fetters were rivetted for ever. But
the dark and sterile aspect she displayed was bedizened with such
beauteous frost-work, that light and glory rested upon all, and winter
itself lost half its terrors.

Ralph Miller often looked out from his dusty, dreary tabernacle,
watching the icicles that accumulated on his wheel, and the scanty
current beneath, the hard surface of the brook scarcely dribbling out
a sufficient supply for his daily wants.

Every succeeding morn saw the liquid element becoming less, and the
unhappy miller bethought him that he would shut up the mill
altogether, until the reign of the frozen king should expire.

A seven-weeks' frost was rapidly trenching on the fair proportions of
an eighth of these hebdomadal inconveniences, and still continued the
same hard, ringing sound and appearance, as if the sky itself o'
nights had been frozen too--fixed and impervious--and the darkness had
become already palpable. Yet the moon looked out so calm, so pure and
beautiful, and the stars so spark-like and piercing, that it was a
holy and a heavenly rapture to gaze upon their glorious forms, and to
behold them, fresh and undimmed, as when first launched from the hands
of their Creator.

Want of occupation breeds mischief, idleness being a thriftless carle
that leaves the house empty, and the door open to the next comer--an
opportunity of which the enemy is sure to avail himself. The miller
felt the hours hang heavily, and he became listless and ill-humoured.

"'Tis an ill-natured and cankered disposition this," said he one
night, when sitting by the ingle with his drowsy helpmate, watching
the sputtering billets devoured, one after another, by the ravening
flame: "'Tis an ill-natured disposition that is abroad, I say, that
will neither let a man go about his own business, nor grant him a few
honest junkets these moonlight nights. I might have throttled a hare
or so, or a brace of rabbits; or what dost think, dame, of a couple of
moor-cocks or a cushat for a pie?"

"Thy liquorish tooth will lead thee into some snare, goodman, ere it
ha' done watering. What did Master Chadwyck say, who is to wed
Mistress Alice, our master's daughter, if nought forefend? What did he
promise thee but a week agone, should he catch thee at thy old trade
again?"

"A murrain light on the snivelling bully! Let him stay at his own
homestead, and not take mastership here, to trouble us with his
humours ere the portion be his. His younger brother Oliver is worth a
whole pack of such down-looked, smooth-faced hypocrites. Oliver
Chadwyck is the boy for a snug quarrel. His fingers itch for a
drubbing, and he scents a feud as a crow scents out carrion. The
other--mercy on me!--is fit for nought but to be bed-ridden and
priest-ridden like his father and his mother to boot."

"Hush, Ralph," said the cautious dame; "let thine hard speeches fall
more gently on thy master's son, that is to be. His own parents
too--methinks the son of Jordan and Eleanor Chadwyck should earn a
kinder word and a lighter judgment from thy tongue."

"Whew! my courteous dame. How now! and so because they are become part
of the movables of Holy Church, I trow, they must be handled softly,
forsooth! Tut, tut, beldame, they are--let me see, so it runs; the old
clerk of St Chad's rang the nomine in my ears long enough, and I am
not like to forget it. They be 'Trinitarians,' said he, 'of the house
of St Robert near Knaresborough, admitted by Brother Robert, the
minister of the Holy Trinity, for the redemption of captives
imprisoned by the pagans, for the faith of Jesus Christ.' Gramercy,
what a bead-roll of hard words! They say we are like to have a '_Holy
War_' again, when we have settled our own reckonings; and the blood
and groats of old England are again to be spent for the purchase of
'_Holy Land_.' O' my halidome, wench, but I would let all the priests
and friars fight for it. Cunning rogues! they set us together by the
ears, and then run away with the pudding."

No doubt this profane speech rendered him easier of access to the
tempter, and the powers of evil; who, ever watchful for the slips of
silly mortals, report such unholy words at head-quarters, where Satan
and his crew are assembled in full council.

The dame groaned deeply at this reply from her graceless husband.

"Some time or another," said she, "thou wilt rue these wicked
speeches; and who knows whether these very words of thine may not have
been heard i' the Fairies' Chapel, or whispered away beyond the forest
to the witches' tryst!"

"I care not for all the imps and warlocks i' th' parish, hags and old
women to boot. Let them come face to face. Here am I, honest Ralph the
miller, who never took toll from an empty sack, nor e'er missed the
mouth of a full one. Tol-de-rol."

Here he stood, with arms akimbo, as if daring the whole fellowship of
Satan, with their abettors and allies. This speech, too, was doubtless
reported at the Fairies' Chapel hard by; for the dame vowed ever after
that she heard, as it were, an echo, or a low sooning sound, ending
with an eldritch laugh, amongst the rocks in that direction. This
well-known haunt of the elves and fays, ere they had fled before the
march of science and civilisation, was but a good bowshot from the
mill, and would have terrified many a stouter heart, had not
familiarity lulled their apprehensions, and habit blunted the edge of
their fears. Strangers often wondered that any human being dared to
sojourn so near the haunts of the "good people," and were sure that,
sooner or later, the inhabitants would rue so dangerous a proximity.

A few evenings after this foolhardy challenge Ralph had been
scrambling away, far up the dingle, for a supply of firewood. The same
keen tinkling air was abroad, but the sky, where the sun had thrown
his long coronal of rays, was streaked across with a mottled and hazy
light, probably the forerunner of a change. Ralph was labouring down
the steep with his load, crashing through the boughs, and shaking off
their hoary burdens in his progress. Suddenly he heard the shrill and
well-known shriek of a hare struggling in the toils. At this joyful
and refreshing sound the miller's appetite was wonderfully stimulated;
his darling propensities were immediately called forth; he threw down
his burden, and, rushing through the brake, he saw, or thought he saw,
in the soft twilight, an unfortunate puss in the noose. He threw
himself hastily forward expecting to grasp the prize, when lo! up
started the timid animal, and limping away, as if hurt, kept the
liquorish poacher at her heels, every minute supposing he was sure of
his prey. Rueful was the pilgrimage of the unfortunate hunter. The
hare doubled, and sprang aside whenever he came within striking
distance, then hirpling onward as before. Ralph made a full pause
where a wide gap displayed the scanty waterfall, just glimmering
through the mist below him. The moon, then riding out brightly in the
opposite direction, sparkled on the restless current, tipped with
foam. It was the nearest cut to the "Fairies' Chapel," which lies
behind, and higher towards the source of the waterfall. The unlucky
hare paused too for a moment, as though afraid to leap; but she looked
back at her pursuer so bewitchingly that his heart was in his mouth,
and, fearless of consequences, he rushed towards her; but he slipped,
and fell down the crumbling bank. When sufficiently recovered from the
shock, he saw the animal stealing off, between the edge of the stream
and the low copsewood by the brink, towards the Fairies' Chapel. He
made one desperate effort to lay hold of her before she set foot upon
enchanted ground.

He seized her, luckily as he thought, by the scut; when lo! up started
something black and "uncanny," with glaring eyes, making mouths, and
grinning at him, as though in mockery. He felt stupefied and
bewildered. Fascinated by terror, he could not refrain from following
this horrible appearance, which, as if delighted to have ensnared him,
frisked away with uncouth and fiendish gambols, to the very centre of
the Fairies' Chapel.

Ralph, puissant and valorous upon his own hearthstone, felt his
courage fast oozing out at elbows when he saw the cold moonlight
streaming through the branches above him, and their crawling shadows
on the grotesque rocks at his side.

He was now alone, shivering from cold and fright. He felt as though
undergoing the unpleasant process of being frozen to the spot,
consciously metamorphosing into stone, peradventure a sort of
ornamental fixture for the fairies' apartment. His great hoofs were
already immovable; he felt his hair congealing; his locks hung like
icicles; and his whole body seemed like one solid lump of ice, through
which the blood crept with a gradually decreasing current. Suddenly he
heard a loud yelping, as though the hounds were in full cry. The
sound passed right through the midst of the Fairies' Hall, and almost
close to his ear; but there was no visible sign of their presence,
except a slight movement, and then a shiver amongst the frost-bitten
boughs above the rocks. He had not power to bethink him of his
Paternosters and Ave Marias, which, doubtless, would have dissolved
the impious charm. Ralph had so neglected these ordinances that his
tongue refused to repeat the usual nostrums for protection against
evil spirits. His creed was nigh forgotten, and his "_salve_" was not
heard. Whilst he was pondering on this occurrence, there started
through a crevice a single light, like a glow-worm's lantern. Then a
tiny thing came forth, clad in white, like a miniature of the human
form, and, peeping about cautiously, ran back on beholding the
unfortunate miller bolt upright in the narrow glen.

Ralph now saw plainly that he had been enticed hither by some evil
being for no good. It might be for the malicious purpose of drawing
down upon him the puny but fearful vengeance of those irritable
creatures the fairies; and soon he saw a whole troop of them issuing
out of the crevice. As they came nearer he heard the short sharp tread
of this tiny host. One of them mounted the little pillar called the
"Fairies' Chair," round which multitudes gathered, as if waiting for
the fiat of their king. It was evident that their purpose was to
inflict a signal chastisement on him for his intrusion.

Ralph watched their movements with a deplorable look. Horrible indeed
were his anticipations. The elf on the pillar, a little wrinkled being
with a long nose, bottle-green eyes, and shrivelled yellowish-green
face, in a shrill squeaking tone, addressed him courteously, though
with an ill-suppressed sneer, inquiring his business in these regions.
But Ralph was too terrified to reply.

"How lucky!" said the old fairy: "we have a mortal here, just in the
nick of time. He will do our bidding rarely, for 'tis the stout miller
hard by, who fears neither fiend nor fairy, man nor witch, by his own
confession. We'll put his courage to the proof."

Ralph was now thawing through terror.

"We would have punished this thine impertinent curiosity, had we not
other business for thee, friend," said the malicious little devilkin.
"Place thy fingers on thy thigh, and swear by Hecate, Merlin, and the
Fairies' Hall, that within three days thou wilt fulfil our behest."

Ralph assented, with a hideous grimace, glad upon any terms to escape.

The whole company disappeared, but a faint, sulphur-like flame hovered
for a while over the spot they had left.

Soon he heard the following words, in a voice of ravishing
sweetness:--

     "Mortal I must cease to be,
     If no maiden, honestly,
     Plight her virgin troth to me,
     By yon cold moon's silver shower,
     In the chill and mystic hour,
     When the arrowy moonbeams fall
     In the fairies' festive hall.
     Twice her light shall o'er me pass,
     Then I am what once I was,
     Should no maid, betrothed, but free,
     Plight her virgin vow to me."

The music ceased for a short space; then a voice, like the soft
whisper of the summer winds, chanted the following lines in a sort of
monotonous recitation:--

     "Mortal, take this unstained token,
     Unpledged vows were never broken;
     Lay it where a Byron's hand
     This message finds from fairy-land,--
     Fair Eleanor, the love-sick maid,
     Who sighs unto her own soft shade:--
     Bid her on this tablet write
     What lover's wish would e'er indite;
     Then give it to the faithful stream
     (As bright and pure as love's first dream)
     That murmurs by,--'twill bring to me
     The messenger I give to thee.

     "But the maiden thou must bring
     Hither, to our elfin king,
     Ere three days are come and gone,
     When the moon hath kissed the stone
     By our fairy monarch's throne.
     Shouldst thou fail, or she refuse,
     Death is thine; or thou may'st choose
     With us to chase the moonbeams bright,
     Around the busy world. Good night!"

He now felt something slipped into his hand.

"Remember," said the voice, "when that shadow is on the pillar, thou
must return."

Immediately his bodily organs resumed their office, and the astonished
miller was not long in regaining his own threshold.

But he was a moody and an altered man. The dame could not help
shuddering as she saw his ashen visage, and his eyes fixed and almost
starting from their sockets. His cheeks were sunken, his head was
bare, and his locks covered with rime, and with fragments from the
boughs that intercepted his path.

"Mercy on me!" cried she, lifting up her hands, "what terrible thing
has happened? O Ralph, Ralph, thy silly gostering speeches, I do fear
me, have had a sting in their tail thou hast little dreamed of!"

Here she crossed herself with much fervour and solemnity. She then
turned to gaze on the doomed wretch, who, groaning heavily, seated
himself on the old settle without speaking.

"He has seen the fairies or the black dog!" said the dame in great
terror. "I will not upbraid thee with thy foolish speeches, yet would
I thou hadst not spoken so lightly of the good people. But take
courage, goodman; thou art never the worse yet for thy mishap, I trow;
so tell me what has befallen thee, and ha' done snoring there, like an
owl in a barn riggin'."

A long time elapsed ere the affrighted miller could reveal the nature
and extent of his misfortunes. But woman's wits are more fertile in
expedients, and therefore more adroit for plots and counterplots than
our own. The dame was greatly terrified at the recital, yet not so as
to prevent her from being able to counsel her husband as to the plan
he should pursue.

We now leave our honest miller for a space, while we introduce another
personage of great importance to the further development of our story.

Oliver Chadwyck was the second son of Jordan Chadwyck before-named,
then residing at their fort or peel of the same name, nearly two miles
from Healey. Oliver had, from his youth, been betrothed to Eleanor
Byron, a young and noble dame of great beauty, residing with her
uncle, Sir Nicholas Byron, at his mansion, two or three miles distant.
Oliver was a hot-brained, amorous youth, fitted for all weathers,
ready either for brotherhood or blows, and would have won his "ladye
love" at the lance's point or by onslaught and hard knocks.

Eleanor seemed to suffer his addresses for lack of other occupation.
She looked upon him as her future husband; but she would rather have
been wooed to be won. The agonies of doubt and suspense, the pangs of
jealousy and apprehension, would have been bliss compared to the dull
monotony of the "betrothed." The lazy current would have sparkled if a
few pebbles had been cast into the stream. Her sensitive spirit,
likewise, shrank from contact with this fiery and impetuous youth; her
heart yearned for some deep and hallowed affection. Strongly imbued
with the witcheries of romance, she would rather have been sought by
blandishments than blows, which, from his known prowess in the latter
accomplishment, the youthful aspirant had no necessity to detail in
the ears of his mistress. She liked not the coarse blunt manner of her
gallant, nor the hard gripe and iron tramp for which he was
sufficiently distinguished.

Yet was Oliver Chadwyck reckoned the best-looking cavalier in the
neighbourhood, and, moreover, an adherent to the "Red Rose," under
whose banner he had fought, and, even when very young, had gained
distinction for his bravery--no mean recommendation, truly, in those
days, when courage was reckoned a sure passport to a lady's favour,
the which, it might seem, whoever held out longest and stuck the
hardest was sure to win.

One evening, about the time of the miller's adventure in the Fairies'
Chapel, Eleanor was looking through her casement listlessly, perhaps
unconsciously. She sighed for occupation. The glorious hues of sunset
were gone; the moon was rising, and she watched its course from the
horizon of long dark hills up to the bare boughs of the sycamores by
the banks of the little stream below. Again she sighed, and so heavily
that it seemed to be re-echoed from the walls of her chamber. She
almost expected the grim panels to start aside as she looked round,
half-wishing, half-afraid that she might discover the intruder.

Disappointed, she turned again to the casement, through which the
moonbeams, now partially intercepted by the branches, lay in chequered
light and darkness on the floor.

"I thought thou wert here. Alas! I am unhappy, and I know not why."
While she spoke a tear trembled on her dark eyelashes, and as the
moonlight shone upon it, the reflection glanced back to the eye-ball,
and a radiant form apparently glided through the chamber. But the
spectre vanished as the eyelid passed over, and swept away the
illusion. She leaned her glowing cheek upon a hand white and
exquisitely formed as the purest statuary: an image of more perfect
loveliness never glanced through a lady's lattice. She carelessly
took up her cithern. A few wild chords flew from her touch. She bent
her head towards the instrument, as if wooing its melody--the
vibrations that crept to her heart. She hummed a low and plaintive
descant, mournful and tender as her own thoughts. The tone and feeling
of the ballad we attempt to preserve in the following shape:--

     SONG.

     I.

         "It is the stream,
     Singing to the cold moon with babbling tongue;
     Yet, ah! not half so wildly as the song
         Of my heart's dream.
     Is not my love most beautiful, thou moon?
         Though pale as hope delayed;
     Methought, beneath his feet the wild-flowers played
     Like living hearts in tune.

     2.

         "We stood alone:
     Then, as he drew the dark curls from my sight,
     Through his transparent hand and arm of light,
         The far skies shone.
     List! 'twas the dove.
     It seemed the echo of his own fond tone;
     Sweet as the hymn of seraphs round the throne
         Of hope and love!"

But the moon was not the object of her love. Ladies are little apt to
become enamoured of such a fit emblem of their own fickle and
capricious humours; and yet, somebody she loved, but he was invisible!
Probably her wild and fervid imagination had created a form--pictured
it to the mind, and endowed it with her own notions of excellence and
perfection: precisely the same as love in the ordinary mode, with this
difference only--to wit, the object is a living and breathing
substance, around which these haloes of the imagination are thrown;
whereas, in the case of which we are speaking, the lady's ideal image
was transferred to a being she had never seen.

It was but a short period before the commencement of our narrative
that Eleanor Byron was really in love, and for the first time; for
though her cousin Oliver, as she usually called him, had stormed, and
perchance carried the outworks, yet the citadel was impregnable and
unapproached. But she knew not that it was love. A soft and pleasing
impression stole insensibly upon her, then dejection and melancholy.
Her heart was vacant, and she sighed for an object, and for its
possession. It was a silly wish, but so it was, gentle reader; and
beware thou fall not in love with thine own dreams, for sure enough it
was but a vision, bright, mysterious, and bewitching, that enthralled
her. Love weaves his chains of the gossamer's web, as well as of the
unyielding adamant; and both are alike binding and inextricable. She
saw neither form nor face in her visions, and yet the impalpable and
glowing impression stole upon her senses like an odour, or a strain of
soft and soul-thrilling music. Her heart was wrapped in a delirium of
such voluptuous melody, that she chided the morning when she awoke,
and longed for night and her own forgetfulness. Night after night the
vision was repeated; and when her lover came, it was as though some
chord of feeling had jarred, some tie were broken, some delicious
dream were interrupted, and she turned from him with vexation and
regret. He chided her caprice, which he endured impatiently, and with
little show of forbearance. This did not restore him to her favour,
nor render him more winning and attractive; so that the invisible
gallant, a rival he little dreamt of, was silently occupying the heart
once destined for his own.

One evening, Ralph, in pursuance of the commands he had received,
arrayed in his best doublet, his brown hose, and a huge waist or
undercoat, beneath which lay a heavy and foreboding heart, made his
appearance at the house of Sir Nicholas Byron, an irregular and ugly
structure of lath and plaster, well ribbed with stout timber, situated
in a sheltered nook near the edge of the Beil, a brook running below
Belfield, once an establishment of the renowned knights of St John of
Jerusalem, or Knights Templars.

Ralph was ushered into the lady's chamber; and she, as if expecting
some more distinguished visitant, looked with an eye of disappointment
and impatience upon the intruder as he made his homely salutation.

"Thine errand?" inquired she.

"Verily, a fool's, lady," replied Ralph, "and a thriftless one, I fear
me, into the bargain."

"Stay thy tongue. Yet I bethink me now," said she, looking earnestly
at him, "thou art from my cousin: a messenger from him, I trow."

"Nay," said the ambiguous hind, "'tis from other guess folk, belike;
but--who--I--Like enough that the Lady Eleanor will go a
fortune-hunting with such a simpleton as I am."

"Go with thee?" said the lady in amazement.

"Why, ay--I was bid to bring you to the Fairies' Chapel, beyond the
waterfall in the wood by Healey, and that ere to-morrow night. But I
am a doomed and a dying man, for how should the Lady Eleanor Byron
obey this message?"

Here the unhappy miller began to weep; but the lady was dumb with
astonishment.

"Forgive me, lady, in this matter; but I was in a manner bound to
accomplish mine errand."

"And what if I should accompany thee? Wouldest thou be my champion, my
protector from onslaught and evil?"

Here he opened his huge grey eyes to such an alarming extent that
Eleanor had much ado to refrain from smiling.

"If you will go, lady, I shall be a living man; and you"--a dead
woman, probably he would have said; but the denunciation did not
escape his lips, and the joy and surprise of the wary miller were
beyond utterance.

"But whence thy message, friend?" said the deluded maiden, eyeing him
suspiciously.

"Why; the message was whispered in my ear. A stranger brought it
together with a dismal threat should I not bring you at the time
appointed."

Here the miller again became uneasy and alarmed. A cold shudder crept
over him, and he looked imploringly upon her.

"But they say, my trusty miller, that this chapel of the fairies may
not be visited, forbidden as it is to all catholic and devout
Christians, after nightfall."

At this intimation the peccant miller displayed his broad thumbs, and
looked so dolorous and apprehensive, sprawling out his large ungainly
proportions, that Eleanor, though not prone to the indulgence of
mirth, was mightily moved thereto by the cowardly and dismal aspect he
betrayed.

"Nay, lady, I beseech you," he stammered out. "I am a dead dog--a
piece of useless and unappropriated carrion, if you go not. Ha' pity
on your poor knave, and deliver me from my tormentors!"

"Then to-morrow I will deliver thee," said the maiden, "and break
thine enchantment. But the hour?"

"Ere the moonbeam touches the pillar in the Fairies' Hall."

"Agreed, knave. So begone. Yet--and answer truly for thy life--was no
pledge, no token, sent with this message?"

Ralph unwillingly drew forth the token from his belt. Fearful that it
might divulge more than he wished, the treacherous messenger had kept
back the tablets entrusted to him. He suspected that should she be
aware it was the good people who were a-wanting her, he would have but
a slender chance of success.

She glanced hastily, anxiously, over the page, though with great
surprise.

"How now?" said she, thoughtfully. "Here is a pretty love-billet
truly. The page is fair and unspotted--fit emblem of a lover's
thoughts."

"You are to write thereon, lady, your lover's wish, and throw it into
the brook here, hard by. The stream, a trusty messenger will carry it
back to its owner."

Ralph delivered his message with great reluctance, fearful lest she
might be alarmed and retract her promise.

To his great joy, however, she placed the mystic token in her bosom,
and bade him attend on the morrow.

This he promised faithfully; and with a light heart he returned to his
abode.

Eleanor watched his departure with impatience. She took the tablets
from her bosom. Horror seemed to fold his icy fingers round her heart.
She remembered the injunction. Her mind misgave her, and as she drew
towards the lamp it shot forth a tremulous blaze and expired. Yet with
desperate haste, bent, it might seem, on her own destruction, she
hastily approached the window. The moonbeam shone full upon the page
as she scrawled with great trepidation the word "THINE." To her
unspeakable horror the letters became a track of fire, but as she
gazed a drop of dark blood fell on them and obliterated the writing.

"Must the compact be in blood?" said she, evidently shrinking from
this unhallowed pledge. "Nay then, farewell! Thou art not of yon
bright heaven. My hopes are yet there, whatever be thy doom! If thou
art aught within the pale of mercy I am thine, but not in blood."

Again, but on another page, she wrote the word "THINE." Again the
blood-drop effaced the letters.

"Never, though I love thee! Why urge this compact?" With a trembling
hand she retraced her pledge, and the omen was not repeated. She had
dared much; but her hope of mercy was yet dearer than her heart's deep
and overwhelming passion. With joy she saw the writing was unchanged.

Throwing on her hood and kerchief, she stole forth to the brook, and
in the rivulet, where it was yet dark and unfrozen, she threw the
mystic tablet.

The following night she watched the moon, as it rose above the huge
crags, breaking the long undulating horizon of Blackstone Edge, called
"Robin Hood's Bed," or "Robin Hood's Chair."[5]

One jagged peak, projected upon the moon's limb, looked like some huge
spectre issuing from her bright pavilion. She rose, red and angry,
from her dark couch. Afterwards a thin haze partially obscured her
brightness; her pale, wan beam seemed struggling through a wide and
attenuated veil. The wind, too, began to impart that peculiar chill so
well understood as the forerunner of a change. A loud sough came
shuddering through the frozen bushes, moaning in the grass that
rustled by her path. Muffled and alone, she took her adventurous
journey to the mill, where she arrived in about an hour from her
departure. Ralph was anxiously expecting her, together with his dame.

"Good e'en, lady," said the latter, with great alacrity, as Eleanor
crossed the threshold. She returned the salutation; but her features
were lighted up with a wild and deceptive brightness, and her glowing
eye betrayed the fierce and raging conflict within.

"The shadow will soon point to the hour, and we must be gone," said
the impatient miller.

"Lead on," replied the courageous maiden; and he shrank from her gaze,
conscious of his own treachery and her danger.

The hard and ice-bound waters were dissolving, and might be heard to
gurgle in their deep recesses; drops began to trickle from the trees,
the bushes to relax their hold, and shake off their icy trammels.
Towards the south-west lay a dense range of clouds, their fleecy tops
telling with what message they were charged. Still the moon cast a
subdued and lingering light over the scene, from which she was shortly
destined to be shut out.

Ralph led the way silently and with great caution through the slippery
ravine. The moonlight flickered through the leafless branches on the
heights above them, their path winding through the shadows by the
stream.

"We must hasten," said her guide, "or we may miss the signal. We shall
soon take leave of the moonlight, and perhaps lose our labour
thereby."

They crept onwards until they saw the dark rocks in the Fairies'
Chapel. The miller pointed to a long withered bough that flung out its
giant arms far over the gulph from a great height. The moon threw down
the shadow quite across to the bank on the other side, marking its
rude outline on the crags.

"The signal," said Ralph; "and by your favour, lady, I must depart. I
have redeemed my pledge."

"Stay, I prithee, but within hearing," said Eleanor. "I like not the
aspect of this place. If I call, hasten instantly to my succour."

The miller promised, but with a secret determination not to risk his
carcase again for all the bright-eyed dames in Christendom.

She listened to his departing footsteps, and her heart seemed to lose
its support. An indescribable feeling crept upon her--a consciousness
that another was present in this solitude. She was evidently under the
control of some invisible agent; the very freedom of her thoughts
oppressed and overruled by a power superior to her own. She strove to
escape this thraldom, but in vain. She threw round an apprehensive
glance, but all was still--the dripping boughs alone breaking the
almost insupportable silence that surrounded her. Suddenly she heard a
sigh, and a rustling at her ear; and she felt an icy chillness
breathing on her. Then a voice, musical but sad, whispered--

"Thou hast rejected my suit. Another holds thy pledge."

"Another! Who art thou?" said the maiden, forgetting her fears in the
first emotion of surprise.

"Thou hast been conscious of my presence in thy dreams!" replied the
mysterious visitor. She felt her terrors dissipated, for the being
whom she loved was the guardian of her safety.

"I have loved thee, maiden," said the voice; "I have hovered round
thee when thou slept, and thou hast answered my every thought.
Wherefore hast thou not obeyed? Why not seal thy compact and our
happiness together?"

"Because it was unhallowed," replied she firmly, though her bosom
trembled like the leaf fluttering from its stem.

"Another has taken thy pledge. Yet is it not too late. Renew the
contract, even with thy blood, and I am thine! Refuse, and thou art
his. If this hour pass, I am lost to thee for ever!"

"To whom," inquired Eleanor, "has it been conveyed?"

"To thy first, thy betrothed lover. He found the pledge that I would
not receive."

The maiden hesitated. Her eternal hopes might be compromised by this
compliance. But she dreaded the loss of her insidious destroyer.

"Who art thou? I fear me for the tempter!"

"And what boots it, lady? But, listen. These elves be my slaves; and
yet I am not immortal. My term is nigh run out, though it may be
renewed if, before the last hour be past, a maiden plight her hopes,
her happiness to me! Ere that shadow creeps on the fairy pillar thou
art irrevocably mine, or his whom thou dreadest."

Eleanor groaned aloud. She felt a cold hand creeping on her brow. She
screamed involuntarily. On a sudden the boughs bent with a loud crash
above her head, and a form, rushing down the height, stood before her.
This unexpected deliverer was Oliver Chadwyck. Alarmed by the cries of
a female, as he was returning from the chase, he interposed at the
very moment when his mistress was ensnared by the wiles of her
seducer.

"Rash fool, thou hast earned thy doom. The blood be on thine own head.
Thou art the sacrifice!"

This was said in a voice of terrible and fiendish malignity. A loud
tramp, as of a mighty host, was heard passing away, and Oliver now
beheld the form of his betrothed.

"Eleanor! Here! In this unholy place!" cried her lover. But the maiden
was unable to answer.

"There's blood upon my hand!" said he, holding it up in the now clear
and unclouded moonlight. "Art thou wounded, lady?"

"I know not," she replied; "I was alone. Yet I felt as though some
living thing were nigh--some unseen form, of terrible and appalling
attributes! Was it not a dream?"

"Nay," said Oliver, pensively; "methought another was beside thee!"

"I saw him not."

"How camest thou hither?"

"Let us be gone," said she, trembling; "I will tell thee all."

She laid her head on his shoulder. It throbbed heavily. "I am now
free. The accursed links are broken. I feel as though newly wakened
from some horrible dream! Thou hast saved me, Oliver. But if thine own
life is the price!"

"Fear not; I defy their devilish subtilty--in their very den too: and
thus, and thus, I renounce the devil and all his works!"

He spat thrice upon the ground, to show his loathing and contempt.

"Oh! say not so," cried Eleanor, looking round in great alarm.

Oliver bore her in his arms from that fearful spot. He accompanied her
home; and it was near break of day when, exhausted and alone, she
again retired to her chamber. By the way Oliver told her that he had
found a mysterious tablet on the edge of the brook the same morning.
He had luckily hidden it in his bosom, and he felt as though a
talisman or charm had protected him from the spells in the "Fairies'
Chapel."

Springtide was past, and great was the stir and bustle for the
approaching nuptials between Oliver Chadwyck and the Lady Eleanor. All
the yeomanry, inhabitants of the hamlets of Honorsfield, Butterworth,
and Healey, were invited to the wedding. Dancers and mummers were
provided; wrestlers and cudgel-players, with games and pastimes of all
sorts, were appointed. The feasts were to be holden for three days,
and masks, motions, and other rare devices, were expected to surpass
and eclipse every preceding attempt of the like nature.

Eleanor sat in her lonely bower. It was the night before the bridal.
To-morrow would see her depart in pageantry and pomp--an envied bride!
Yet was her heart heavy, and she could not refrain from weeping.

She sought rest; but sleep was denied. The owl hooted at her window;
the bat flapped his leathern wings; the taper burned red and heavily,
and its rays were tinged as though with blood; the fire flung out its
tiny coffin; the wind sobbed aloud at every cranny, and wailed
piteously about the dwelling.

"Would that I might read my destiny," thought she. Her natural
inclination to forbidden practices was too powerful to withstand.

Now there was formerly an ancient superstition, that if, on the night
before marriage, a taper were burned, made from the fat of a young
sow, and anointed with the blood of the inquirer, after sundry
diabolical and cabalistical rites at midnight, a spirit would appear,
and pronounce the good or evil destiny of the querent.

Eleanor had prepared the incantation ere she laid her throbbing head
on the pillow. Whether or not she slept, is more than we can divulge.
Such, in all probability, was the case; dreams being the echo only of
our waking anticipations.

She thought there came a rushing wind. The door flapped to and fro,
the curtains shook, and the pictures glared horribly from the wall.
Suddenly--starting from the panel, with eyes lighted up like
bale-fires, and a malignant scowl on her visage--stalked down one of
the family portraits. It was that of a female--a maiden aunt of the
house of Byron, painted by one of the court artists, whom the king had
brought from France, and patronised at a heavy cost. This venerable
dame appeared to gaze at the spectator from whatsoever situation she
was beholden. The eyes even seemed to follow you when passing across
the chamber. A natural consequence though, and only marvelled at by
the ignorant and illiterate.

This ancient personage now advanced from her hanging-place, and
standing at the foot of the bed, opened out a fiery scroll with these
ominous words:--

     "Maid, wife, and widow, in one day,
     This shall be thy destiny."

Eleanor struggled hard, but was unable to move. She laboured for
utterance, but could not speak. At length, with one desperate effort,
a loud cry escaped her, and the vision disappeared. She slept no more,
but morning disclosed her haggard cheek and sunken eye, intimating
that neither hope nor enjoyment could have been the companion of her
slumbers.

It was a bright morning in June. The sun rode high and clear in the
blue heavens. The birds had "sung their matins blythe" ere the
bridegroom arrived with his attendants. Merrily did the village
choristers acquit themselves in their vocation, while those that were
appointed strewed flowers in the way. The bells of St Chad trolled out
their merry notes when the ceremony was over, and the bride, on her
snow-white palfrey, passed on, escorted by her husband, at the head of
the procession. Gay cavaliers on horseback, and maidens prancing by
their side, made the welkin ring with loud and mirthful discourse. The
elder Byron rode on his charger by the side of Jordan Chadwyck and his
eldest son, with whom rode the vicar, Richard Salley, nothing loath to
contribute his folly to the festival.

As the procession drew nigh to the hall, a messenger rode forward in
great haste, whispering to Byron, who, with angry and disordered
looks, shouted aloud to Oliver--

"Away--away! The cowardly Traffords are at our threshold. They have
skulked out, like traitors as they be, knowing our absence at the
feast. 'Tis an old feud, and a bloody one. Who is for Byron? Down with
the Traffords!"

The old man here put spurs to his horse, and galloped off with his
attendants.

"A Byron--a Byron!" shouted Oliver, as he followed in full cry, first
leaving his wife under a suitable and safe escort. Soon they routed
the enemy, but the prediction was complete; for Eleanor became

     "Maid, wife, and widow, in one day!"

her husband being slain during the battle.

The blood of man was held of little account in those days, if we may
judge by the following award on the occasion:--

"In virtue of a writ of appeal of death, sued out against Sir John
Trafford, Knight, his tenants and servants, the sum of sixty pounds
was deemed to be paid by Trafford to Biroun, to be distributed amongst
the cousins and friends of the late Oliver C., in the parish church of
Manchester, on the award of Sir Thomas Stanley, Knight, _Lord
Stanley_--viz. ten marks at the nativity of John the Baptist, and ten
marks at St Martyn, yearly, until the whole was paid, and all parties
to be fully friends. Dated London, 24th March, 20 Edward IV. 4018."

     [1] Whitaker's _Hist. Whalley_, p. 441.

     [2] Corry's _Lancashire_.

     [3] _Mag. Britan._ York, p. 391.

     [4] Here vulgarly called the Tearn Barn
     (tithe-barn) in Wales; distinctly seen in showery weather, but
     invisible in a settled season.

     [5] On a bleak moor, called Monstone Edge, in this
     hamlet, is a huge moor-stone or outlier, which (though part of
     it was broken off and removed some years ago) still retains the
     name of Monstone. It is said to have been quoited thither by
     Robin Hood, from his bed on the top of Blackstone Edge, about
     six miles off. After striking the mote or mark aimed at, the
     stone bounced off a few hundred yards and settled there. These
     stones, however, in all probability, if not Druidical, were
     landmarks, the ancient boundary of the hamlet of Healey; and,
     as was once customary, the marvellous story of this ancient
     outlaw might be told to the urchins who accompanied the
     perambulators, with the addition, probably, of a few kicks and
     cuffs, to make them remember the spot.


[Illustration: THE LUCK OF MUNCASTER.]




THE LUCK OF MUNCASTER.

     _K. Hen._--"From Scotland am I stolen, even of pure love,
               To greet mine own land with my wishful sight."

     _King Henry VI._

     "It shall bless thy bed, it shall bless thy board,
       They shall prosper by this token;
     In Muncaster Castle good luck shall be,
       Till the charmed cup is broken."


    Gamel de Pennington is the first ancestor of the family of whom
    there is any recorded account; he was a person of great note and
    property at the time of the Conquest, and the family, having
    quitted their original seat of Pennington in Lancashire (where
    the foundation of a square building called the Castle is still
    visible), he fixed his residence at Mealcastre, now called
    Muncaster. It is said that the family originally resided nearer
    the sea, at a place not far from the town of Ravenglass, where
    at present are the ruins of an old Roman castle, called Walls
    Castle. The old tower of the present mansion-house at Muncaster
    was built by the Romans, to guard the ford called St Michael's
    Ford, over the river Esk, when Agricola went to the north, and
    to watch also the great passes into the country over the fells,
    and over Hard Knot, where is the site of another fortress
    constructed by them, apparent from the traces existing to this
    day.

    Muncaster and the manor of Muncaster have long been enjoyed by
    the Penningtons, who appear to have possessed it about forty
    years before the Conquest, and ever since, sometimes
    collaterally, but for the most part in lineal descent by their
    issue male, to this very time.

    There is a room in Muncaster Castle which still goes by the name
    of Henry the Sixth's room, from the circumstance of his having
    been concealed in it at the time he was flying from his enemies
    in 1461, when Sir John Pennington, the then possessor of
    Muncaster, gave him a secret reception.

    The posts of the bed in which he slept, which are of handsome
    carved oak, are also in the same room in good preservation.

    When the period for the king's departure arrived, before he
    proceeded on his journey, he addressed Sir John with many kind
    and courteous acknowledgments for his loyal reception,
    lamenting, at the same time, that he had nothing of more value
    to present him with, as a testimony of his good-will, than the
    cup out of which he crossed himself. He then gave it into the
    hands of Sir John, accompanying the present with the following
    blessing:--"The family shall prosper as long as they preserve it
    unbroken;" which the superstition of those times imagined would
    carry good fortune to his descendants. Hence it is called "_The
    Luck of Muncaster_." It is a curiously-wrought glass cup,
    studded with gold and white enamel spots. The benediction
    attached to its security being then uppermost in the
    recollection of the family, it was considered essential to the
    prosperity of the house at the time of the usurpation that the
    Luck of Muncaster should be deposited in a safe place; it was
    consequently buried till the cessation of hostilities had
    rendered all further care and concealment unnecessary.
    Unfortunately, however, the person commissioned to disinter this
    precious jewel let the box fall in which it was locked up, which
    so alarmed the then existing members of the family, that they
    could not muster courage enough to satisfy their apprehensions.
    It therefore (according to the traditionary story still
    preserved in the family) remained unopened for more than forty
    years, at the expiration of which period a Pennington, more
    hardy or more courageous than his predecessors, unlocked the
    casket, and exultingly proclaimed the safety of the Luck of
    Muncaster.

    When John, Lord Muncaster (the first of the family who obtained
    a peerage), entered into possession of Muncaster Castle, after
    his elevation in 1793, he found it still surrounded with a moat,
    and defended by a strong portcullis. The family having of late
    years entirely resided upon their estate of Wartee in Yorkshire,
    the house was in so very dilapidated a state that Lord Muncaster
    was obliged to rebuild it almost entirely, with the exception of
    Agricola's Tower, the walls of which are nine feet thick. The
    elevation of the new part is in unison with that of the Roman
    tower, and forms altogether a handsome castellated building. The
    situation is eminently striking, and was well chosen for
    commanding the different passes over the mountains. It is
    surrounded with mountain scenery on the north, south, and east;
    while extensive plantations, a rich and cultivated country, with
    the sea in the distance, makes a combination of scenery than
    which it is scarcely possible to imagine anything more
    beautiful or more picturesque.

    We are tempted to conclude this description with the words of
    John, Lord Muncaster, who himself so greatly contributed to its
    renovation. Upon being requested to give an outline of its
    beauties, he replied that it consisted of "wood, park, lawn,
    valley, river, sea, and mountain."

    The reason or excuse we give for introducing within our
    Lancashire series this tradition, of which the occurrences took
    place in a neighbouring county, is, that the family was
    originally native to our own. By the village of Pennington,
    situated about midway between Dalton and Ulverstone, is the
    Castle Hill, the residence of this family before the Conquest.
    The area of the castle-yard appears to have been an octagon or a
    square, with obtuse angles, about forty-five yards in diameter.
    The south and east sides have been defended by a ditch about ten
    yards wide, and by a vallum of earth, still visible. There are
    no vestiges of the ancient building. It stood apparently on the
    verge of a precipice, at the foot of which flows a brook with
    great rapidity. The side commands an extensive view of the
    sea-coast and beacons, and was excellently situated for
    assembling the dependants in cases of emergency. The name is
    diversely written in ancient writings, as Penyngton, Penington,
    Pennington, and in Doomsday Book _Pennegetun_, perhaps from
    _Pennaig_, in British "a prince or great personage," to which
    the Saxon termination _tun_ being added, forms Pennegetun, since
    smoothed into Pennington.


PART FIRST.

     "Come hither, Sir John de Pennington,
       Come hither, and hearken to me;
     Nor silver, nor gold, nor ladye-love,
       Nor broad lands I give unto thee."

     "I care not for silver, I care not for gold,
       Nor for broad lands, nor fair ladye;
     But my honour and troth, and my good broadsword,
       Are the king's eternally."

     "Come hither, Sir John, thou art loyal and brave,"
       Again the monarch spake;
     "In my trouble and thrall, in the hour of pain,
       Thou pity didst on me take.

     "The white rose withers on every bough,
       And the red rose rears its thorn;
     But many a maid our strife shall rue,
       And the babe that is yet unborn.

     "I've charged in the battle with horse and lance,
       But I've doffed the warrior now;
     And never again may helmet of steel
       Bind this burning, aching brow!

     "Oh, had I been born of a simple churl,
       And a serving-wench for my mate,
     I had whistled as blithe as yon knave that sits
       By Muncaster's Castle gate!

     "Would that my crown were a bonnet of blue,
       And my sceptre yon shepherd's crook,
     I would honour, dominion, and power eschew,
       In this holy and quiet nook.

     "For England's crown is a girdle of blood,
       A traitor is every gem;
     And a murderer's eye each jewel that lurks
       In that kingly diadem!

     "Hunt on! hunt on, thou blood-hound keen;
       I'd rather an outcast be,
     Than wade through all that thou hast done,
       To pluck that crown from thee!"

     "Then tarry, my liege," Sir John replied,
       "In Muncaster's Castle gate;
     No foeman shall enter, while sheltered here
       From Edward's pride and hate."

     "I may not tarry, thou trusty knight,
       Nor longer with thee abide;
     Ere to-morrow shall rise on these lordly towers,
       From that gate shall a monarch ride.

     "For a vision came to my lonely bed,
       And that vision bade me flee;
     And I must away, ere break of day,
       O'er the hills to the south countrie.

     "But take this cup,--'tis a hallowed thing,
       Which holy men have blessed;
     In the church of the Holy Sepulchre
       This crystal once did rest;

     "And many a martyr, and many a saint,
       Around its brim have sate;
     No water that e'er its lips have touched
       But is hallowed and consecrate.

     "'Tis thine, Sir John; not an empire's worth,
       Nor wealth of Ind could buy
     The like, for never was jewel seen
       Of such wondrous potency.

     "It shall bless thy bed, it shall bless thy board,
       They shall prosper by this token;
     In Muncaster Castle good luck shall be,
       Till the charmed cup is broken!"

     Sir John he bent him on his knee,
       And the king's word ne'er did err,
     For the cup is called, to this blessed hour,
       "THE LUCK OF MUNCASTER."


PART SECOND.

     "Oh haste, Sir William of Liddislee
       My kinsman good at need,
     Ere the Esk's dark ford thou hast passed by,
       In Muncaster rest thy steed;

     "And say to my love and my lady bright,
       In Carlisle I must stay,
     For the foe is come forth from the misty north,
       And I cannot hence away;

     "But I must keep watch on Carlisle's towers
       With the banner of Cumberland;
     Then bid her beware of the rebel host,
       Lest they come with sword and brand.

     "But bid her, rather than house or land,
       Take heed of that cup of grace,
     Which King Henry gave to our ancestor,
       The 'LUCK' of our noble race.

     "Bid her bury it deep at dead of night,
       That no eye its hiding see.
     Now do mine errand, Sir William,
       As thou wouldst prosperous be!"

     Sir William stayed nor for cloud nor shrine,
       He stayed not for rest nor bait,
     Till he saw the far gleam on Esk's broad stream,
       And Muncaster's Castle gate.

     "From whence art thou in such fearful haste?"
       The warder wondering said;
     "Hast thou 'scaped alone from the bloody fight,
       And the field of the gory dead?"

     "I am not from the bloody fight,
       Nor a craven flight I flee;
     But I am come to my lady's bower,
       Sir William of Liddislee."

     The knight to the lady's bower is gone:
       "A boon I crave from thee,
     Deny me not, thou lady bright,"
       And he bent him on his knee.

     "I grant thee a boon," the lady said,
       "If it from my husband be;"
     "There's a cup of grace," cried the suppliant knight,
       "Which thou must give to me."

     "Now foul befa' thee, fause traitor,
       That with guile would our treasure win;
     For ne'er from Sir John of Pennington
       Had such traitrous message been."

     "I crave your guerdon, fair lady,
       'Twas but your faith to try,
     That we might know if the 'Luck' of this house
       Were safe in such custody.

     "The message was thus, thy husband sent;
       He hath looked out from Carlisle wa',
     And he is aware of John Highlandman
       Come trooping down the snaw;

     "And should this kilted papistry
       Spread hither upon their way,
     They'll carry hence that cup of grace,
       Though thou shouldst say them nay.

     "And thy lord must wait for the traitor foe
       By the walls of merry Carlisle;
     Else he would hie to his lady's help,
       And his lady's fears beguile.

     "Thy lord would rather his house were brent,
       His goods and his cattle harried,
     Than the cup should be broken,--that cup of grace,
       Or from Muncaster's house be carried."

     The kinsman smiled on that fond lady,
       And his traitor suit he plied:
     "Give me the cup," the false knight said,
       "From these foemen fierce to hide."

     The lady of Muncaster oped the box
       Where lay this wondrous thing;
     Sir William saw its beauteous form,
       All bright and glistering.

     The kinsman smiled on that fond lady,
       And he viewed it o'er and o'er.
     "'Tis a jewel of price," said that traitor then,
       "And worthy a prince's dower.

     "We'll bury the treasure where ne'er from the sun
       One ray of gladness shone,
     Where darkness and light, and day and night,
       And summer and spring are one:

     "Beneath the moat we'll bury it straight,
       In its box of the good oak-tree;
     And the cankered carle, John Highlandman,
       Shall never that jewel see."

     The kinsman took the casket up,
       And the lady looked over the wall:
     "If thou break that cup of grace, beware,
       The pride of our house shall fall!"

     The kinsman smiled as he looked above,
       And to the lady cried,
     "I'll show thee where thy luck shall be,
       And the lord of Muncaster's pride."

     The lady watched this kinsman false,
       And he lifted the casket high:
     "Oh! look not so, Sir William,"
       And bitterly she did cry.

     But the traitor knight dashed the casket down
       To the ground, that blessèd token;
     "Lie there," then said that false one now,
       "Proud Muncaster's charm is broken!"

     The lady shrieked, the lady wailed,
       While the false knight fled amain:
     But never durst Muncaster's lord, I trow,
       Ope that blessed shrine again!

PART THIRD.

     The knight of Muncaster went to woo,
       And he rode with the whirlwind's speed,
     For the lady was coy, and the lover was proud,
       And he hotly spurred his steed.

     He stayed not for bog, he stayed not for briar,
       Nor stayed he for flood or fell;
     Nor ever he slackened his courser's rein,
       Till he stood by the Lowthers' well.

     Beside that well was a castle fair,
       In that castle a fair lady;
     In that lady's breast was a heart of stone,
       Nor might it softened be.

     "Now smooth that brow of scorn, fair maid,
       And to my suit give ear;
     There's never a dame in Cumberland,
       Such a look of scorn doth wear."

     "Haste, haste thee back," the lady cried,
       "For a doomed man art thou;
     I wed not the heir of Muncaster,
       Thy '_Luck_' is broken now!"

     "Oh say not so, for on my sire
       Th' unerring doom was spent;
     I heir not his ill-luck, I trow,
       Nor with his dool am shent."

     "The doom is thine, as thou art his,
       And to his curse, the heir;
     But never a luckless babe of mine
       That fearful curse shall bear!"

     A moody man was the lover then;
       But homeward as he hied,
     Beside the well at Lord Lowther's gate,
       An ugly dwarf he spied.

     "Out of my sight, thou fearsome thing;
       Out of my sight, I say:
     Or I will fling thine ugly bones
       To the crows this blessèd day."

     But the elfin dwarf he skipped and ran
       Beside the lover's steed,
     And ever as Muncaster's lord spurred on,
       The dwarf held equal speed.

     The lover he slackened his pace again,
       And to the goblin cried:
     "What ho, Sir Page, what luckless chance
       Hath buckled thee to my side?"

     Up spake then first that shrivelled thing,
       And he shook his locks of grey:
     "Why lowers the cloud on Muncaster's brow,
       And the foam tracks his troubled way?"

     "There's a lady, the fairest in all this land,"
       The haughty chief replied;
     "But that lady's love in vain I've sought,
       And I'll woo none other bride."

     "And is there not beauty in other lands,
       And locks of raven hue,
     That thou must pine for a maiden cold,
       Whose bosom love ne'er knew?"

     "Oh, there is beauty in every land,"
       The sorrowing knight replied;
     "But I'd rather Margaret of Lonsdale wed,
       Than the fairest dame beside."

     "And thou shalt the Lady Margaret wed,"
       Said that loathly dwarf again;
     "There's a key in Muncaster Castle can break
       That maiden's heart in twain!"

     "Oh never, oh never, thou lying elf,
       That maiden's word is spoken:
     The cup of grace left a traitor's hand,
       Proud Muncaster's '_Luck_' is broken."

     Then scornfully grinned that elfin dwarf,
       And aloud he laughed again:
     "There's a key in thy castle, Sir Knight, can break
       That maiden's heart in twain!"

     The knight he turned him on his steed,
       And he looked over hill and stream;
     But he saw not that elfin dwarf again,
       He had vanished as a dream!

     The knight came back to his castle hall,
       And stabled his good grey steed;
     And he is to his chamber gone,
       With wild and angry speed.

     And he saw the oaken casket, where
       Lay hid that cup of grace,
     Since that fearful day, when the traitor foe
       Wrought ruin on his race.

     "Thou cursed thing," he cried in scorn,
       "That ever such 'Luck' should be;
     From Muncaster's house, ill-boding fiend,
       Thou shalt vanish eternally."

     He kicked the casket o'er and o'er
       With rage and contumely;
     When, lo! a tinkling sound was heard--
       Down dropped a glittering key!

     He remembered well the wondrous speech
       Of the spectre dwarf again,
     "There's a key in Muncaster Castle can break
       A maiden's heart in twain!"

     He took the key, and he turned the lock,
       And he opened the casket wide;
     When the cause of all his agony
       The lover now espied.

     The holy cup lay glistering there,
       And he kissed that blessèd token,
     For its matchless form unharmèd lay,
       The "Luck" had ne'er been broken!

     The loud halls rung, and the minstrels sung,
       And glad rolled the Esk's bonny tide,
     When Lonsdale's Lady Margaret
       Was Muncaster's winsome bride!

     Now prosper long that baron bold,
       And that bright and blessèd token:
     For Muncaster's Luck is constant yet,
       And the crystal charm unbroken!


[Illustration: THE PILE OF FOULDREY[i]
_Drawn by G. Pickering._
_Engraved by Edw^d. Finden._]




THE PEEL OF FOULDREY.

     "True, treason never prospers; what's the reason?
     When treason prospers, 'tis no longer treason!"


The ancient castle of Peel of Fouldrey, the island of fowls, stands a
little beyond the southern extremity of the isle of Walney. The castle
and its site belong to the ladies of the liberty of Furness.

The ruins, seen from the heights above Rampside, are beautifully
picturesque. Though the sea has wasted part of the outworks, yet the
remains exhibit a complete specimen of the principles and plan upon
which these ancient defences were usually constructed. It may not be
thought out of place to give the reader some account of its present
appearance. West, in his _Antiquities of Furness_, inserts the
following account of his visit to this delightful spot; and as it is
detailed with a good deal of graphic simplicity, if not elegance of
style, we prefer it to our own record of an expedition to this place.

"Choosing a proper time of the tide," says he, "for our excursion, we
set out from Dalton, early on a pleasant summer's morning, and having
crossed the sands in Walney channel, we followed the eastern shore of
the isle of Walney from the small village of Northscale, by the
chapel, to Bigger. Leaving this hamlet, and crossing over a small neck
of land by a narrow lane winding amongst well-cultivated fields,
smiling with the prospect of a plenteous harvest of excellent grain,
but principally of wheat, which the land in Walney generally produces
of a superior quality, we again came to the shore, and having a pretty
distinct view of several parts of the ruinous fabric which was the
object of our excursion, we took the distant castle for our guide, and
entered upon a trackless sand, which, by the route we pursued, is
about two miles and a half over. It is soft and disagreeable
travelling in many places; but there is no quicksand. Those, however,
who are unacquainted with the road to the Peel of Fouldrey should take
a guide from Bigger.

"About half-way over the sand, the mouldering castle, with its
extensive shattered walls and ruinated towers, makes a solemn,
majestic appearance. Having arrived on the island, which is destitute
of tree or shrub, except a few blasted thorns and briers, we left our
horses at a lonely public-house, situated close by the side of the
eastern shore, and proceeded to inspect the ruins of the castle. The
main tower has been defended by two moats, two walls, and several
small towers. We crossed the exterior fosse or ditch, and entered the
outer bayle or yard, through a ruinous guard-tower, overleaning a
steep precipice formed by the surges of the sea. The ancient pass,
where the drawbridge over the outer ditch was fixed, has been long
washed away. The greater part of the outer wall is also demolished,
for in those places which are out of the reach of the tide the stones
have been removed for various purposes.

"The drawbridge over the exterior ditch of these castles used commonly
to be defended by a fortification consisting of a strong high wall
with turrets, called the barbacan or antemural; the great gate or
entrance into the outer bayle or yard was often fortified by a tower
on each side, and by a room over the intermediate passage; and the
thick folding-doors of oak, by which the entrance was closed, were
often strengthened with iron, and faced by an iron portcullis or
grate, sliding down a groove from the higher part of the building.

"A chapel commonly stood in the outer bayle: accordingly, just at our
entrance into that part we saw the ruins of a building which is said
to have been the chapel belonging to this castle.

"At the inside of the yard we came to the inner fosse, moat, or ditch,
and arriving at the place where the drawbridge had been fixed, we
entered the inner bayle or court by the ancient passage through the
interior wall, the entrance whereof had evidently been secured by a
portcullis, and defended by a room over the passage.

"We now proceeded to the entrance into the main tower or keep; but the
doorway into the porch, which precedes it, being walled up, we were
obliged to creep into the edifice by a narrow aperture. The entrance
has been secured by a portcullis. The main tower has consisted of
three storeys, each divided into three oblong apartments by two
interior side walls being carried from bottom to top.

"The rooms on the ground-floor have been very low, and lighted by long
apertures, extremely narrow, at the outside of the walls, but a
considerable width in the inside, perhaps so constructed for the use
of the bow. The apartments have communicated with each other; and
there has been a winding staircase leading from one of them to the
rooms above, and to the top of the castle. Under the ground-floor of
these ancient castles used commonly to be dark and dismal apartments,
or dungeons, for the reception of prisoners, but nothing of the kind
is known to be here. The porch is called the dungeon.

"The second floor has been on a level with the first landing at the
principal entrance. The rooms have been lofty, and lighted by small
pointed windows, and many of them have had fireplaces. The apartments
on the third floor have been apparently similar to those on the
second. The side apartments have been lighted by several small pointed
windows, but those in the middle have been very dark and gloomy.

"The great door of the castle opens into one of these intermediate
apartments. On the left-hand side of the entrance has been a spiral
staircase, leading to the rooms above and to the top of the castle,
which has had a flat roof, surrounded by a parapet and several
turrets. The walls of this tower are very strong and firm; a deep
buttress is placed at each corner, and one against the middle of each
side wall. A small square tower has stood at the southern corner, but
the greater part of it has been thrown down by the sea. The foundation
of one side wall is also undermined the whole of its length, and as it
in some places overhangs the precipice formed by the waste of the sea,
and as the castle is not situated upon a rock, but upon hard loamy
soil, this side must inevitably fall in a few years.

"Many huge fragments of the wasted walls are scattered upon the shore,
under the cliff from whence they have fallen; and notwithstanding the
concussion they have received in falling from a great height, and the
frequent surges of the sea, they are as firm as ever, and in many
places exhibit the shape of the edifice.

"The corners and doorcases of the guard-towers, the buttresses,
window-frames, and several parts of the main tower, are constructed
with red freestone; but all the other parts of the walls which in
general are about six or seven feet in thickness, are formed of round
stones collected from the adjacent shores. The inside of the walls has
been constructed with small stones, and plenty of fluid mortar to fill
the interstices.

"To this mode of construction, to the excellent binding quality of the
stones, and to the slow drying of the grout-work in the inside, may be
attributed the great tenacity of the walls of this fabric, more than
to any uncommon or unknown method of composing the mortar.

"The roofs of the numerous guard-houses in the surrounding walls of
this castle have apparently been flat. Upon these, and along the
walls, which in most castles were topped by a parapet and a kind of
embrasure called crennels, the defenders of the castle were stationed
during a siege, and from thence discharged arrows, darts, stones, and
every kind of annoyance they could procure, upon their enemies.

"There were often subterraneous passages leading from the lowest part
of the main tower to a great distance; and by these the besieged could
make their escape in time of imminent danger, when the outworks were
carried by storm.

"On the north-east side of the outworks of this castle has been a
large pond or reservoir for supplying the ditches with water in cases
of sudden emergency. There has also been a fish-pond on the north-west
side.

"Though many variations were made in the structure of castles, as the
plan was often modified by the architect according to the site
occupied by the edifice, yet the most perfect and magnificent were
generally constructed with all the different parts we have mentioned.

"The walls contain no decorations of art, and are equally destitute
of all natural embellishments; the rugged outlines of dilapidation,
associating with the appearance of past magnificence, are the
qualities which chiefly interest the imagination, while comparing the
settled tranquillity of the present with the turbulent ages that are
past, and contemplating the view of this mouldering fabric.

"The island of Fouldrey has certainly been much larger at the erection
of the castle than it is at present; but the sea, having reduced it to
its present small compass, has abated the rapid career of its
destruction. It now wastes the western shore of Walney, and forms a
new tract out of the ruins, which proves a barrier to its progress
upon the Peel of Fouldrey, and at some future period may be an
accession to this island, in place of the land which it has lost."

The period when it was reduced to ruins is not well ascertained, but
it is probable that this was one of the fortresses which fell under
the dismantling orders of the Commonwealth.

The port is very large and commodious, and would float a first-rate
ship of war at low water.

In 1789 a body of commissioners and trustees, appointed to improve the
navigation of the river Lune, built a lighthouse on the south-east end
of the isle of Walney. It is an octagonal column, placed upon a
circular foundation of a little more than twenty feet in diameter. At
the plinth, its diameter is eighteen feet, and diminishes gradually
with the elevation through fifty-seven feet to fourteen. The ascent
from the bottom to the lantern is by a staircase, consisting of
ninety-one steps, winding up the inside of the pillar. The whole
height is about sixty-eight feet. At the base of the column there is a
small dwelling for the keeper and his family.

      *       *       *       *       *

It was in the "merry month of May," in the year 1487, scarcely two
years after Richard's overthrow at Bosworth, and Earl Richmond's
usurpation of the English crown by the title of King Henry the
Seventh, that a great armament, landing on the barren island of
Fouldrey, took possession of the castle, a fortress of great strength
commanding the entrance to the bay of Morecambe, and a position of
considerable importance to the invaders. It occupied, with the
outworks and defences, nearly the whole area of the island (a few
acres only), two or three fishermen's huts at that time being
irregularly scattered on the beach below. Built by the monks of
Furness in the first year of Edward III., as a retreat from the
ravages of the Scots, and a formidable barrier against their
approaches by sea, it was now unexpectedly wrested from its owners,
becoming a point of resistance from whence the formidable power of
Henry might be withstood, and in the end successfully opposed.

A royal banner floated from the battlements: the fortress had been
formally taken into possession by the invaders in the name of their
king, previously proclaimed at Dublin by the title of Edward the
Sixth. The youth was crowned there with a diadem taken from an image
of the Virgin, priests and nobles espousing his cause with more than
ordinary enthusiasm; and Henry, in the second year of his reign, was
threatened, from a source as unexpected as it was deemed contemptible,
with the loss of his ill-gotten sovereignty.

Lambert Simnel, according to some historians, was the real name of
this "pretender;" but there be others who scruple not to assert, that
he was in reality the unfortunate Earl of Warwick, son to Clarence,
elder brother of Richard III., and that he had made his escape from
the Tower, where he long suffered an ignominious confinement by the
cruel policy of Henry. The prior claims of this young prince to the
English crown could not be doubted, and Margaret, the "bold" Duchess
of Burgundy, sister to Edward IV., had furnished the invaders with a
body of two thousand chosen Flemish troops, commanded by Martin
Swartz, a brave and experienced officer. With them came the Earl of
Lincoln, related to Edward IV. by intermarriage with Elizabeth, the
king's eldest sister.

This nobleman had long entertained ambitious views towards the crown;
his uncle Richard, it is said, in default of issue to himself, having
expressed the intention of declaring Lincoln his successor. The Lord
Lovel, too, a bitter enemy of the reigning prince, who had fled to the
court of Burgundy beforetime for protection, was entrusted with a
command in the expedition. To these were joined the Earl of Kildare,
the king's deputy for Ireland, with several others of the nobility
from the sister kingdom. The countenance thus unexpectedly given to
the rebellion by persons of the highest rank, and the great accession
of military force from abroad, raised the courage and exultation of
the Irish to such a pitch that they threatened to overrun England,
nothing doubting but their restless and disaffected spirit would be
fully met by a similar disposition on the part of those whom they
invaded. In supposing that the inhabitants in the north of England,
and especially in Lancashire, would immediately join their standard,
they had not calculated wisely. The king, in crushing the hopes of the
Yorkists, had made himself, at that period, too popular in the
county; the reluctance, too, which it may be supposed that Englishmen
would feel in identifying themselves with a troop of foreign
adventurers, as well as their general animosity against the Irish, to
whom the "northerns" never bore any good-will, being too near
neighbours to agree,--these circumstances taken into account, the
ultimate failure of the expedition might have been easily
prognosticated. Sir Thomas Broughton, a gentleman of some note in
Furness, was the only person of weight and influence in the county who
joined their standard, and he soon found himself a loser by his
defection.

This brief preliminary statement we have thought essential to the
right understanding and development of our plot.

The evening was dark and lowering, the sky broken into wild irregular
masses of red and angry clouds. The sun, after throwing one fierce
look over the broad and troubled sea, had sunk behind a hard, huge
battlement of cloud, on the round waving edges of which ran a bright
burning rim, that looked like a train of fire ignited by the glowing
luminary behind.

The beach round the little island of Fouldrey is mostly covered with
pebbles thrown up by the tide, occasionally intermingled with rock and
patches of dark verdure. A few boats may be seen with their
equipments, and two or three straggling nets upon the shore. A distant
sail occasionally glides across the horizon; but the usual aspect is
that of solitude, still and uninterrupted, the abode of sterility and
sadness. Now, the narrow bay by the island was glittering with gallant
streamers. Ships of war, in all their pride and panoply, majestically
reposed upon its bosom. All was bustle and impatience. The
trumpet-note of war brayed fiercely from the battlements. Incessant
was the march of troops in various directions. Tents were pitched
before the castle. Guards were appointed; and this hitherto peaceful
and solitary spot resounded with the din of arms, and the hoarse clang
of preparation for the approaching strife.

Messengers were constantly passing to and from the mainland. The
insignia of royalty were ostentatiously displayed, and the captains
and leaders within the fortress fulfilled the duties of this mimic and
motley court in honour of their anticipated sovereign.

Under a steep cliff, washed by the sea at high water, but of no great
height, and above which the higher walls of the castle or keep might
be discovered, sat two fishermen, the owners, or rather occupiers, of
one of the cottages built under the very walls of the fortress, where
these peaceful inhabitants had placed their little nests, protected
and covered by the wing of their loftier but more exposed and
dangerous neighbour.

The place they had chosen for their conference was secluded from
general observation, and their low and heavy speech was concealed from
the prying sentinels above by the hoarse and impetuous voice of the
retiring waves. Not many paces distant was the inlet to a
subterraneous passage, supposed to lead under the deepest foundations
of the castle; but its termination was now a mystery, at any rate, to
the present occupiers and inhabitants of the place. Many strange and
horrible stories were told and believed, of its uses and destination
in times past. Being burdened with a bad name--"some uncleansed murder
stuck to it"--the place ran little risk of disturbance or intruders.
When the tides ran high this outlet was inaccessible, being partly
flooded by the sea. From neglect and disuse an accumulation of sand
and pebbles, washed by the violence of the waves into the cavity, was
deposited there, so that the entrance, which, according to tradition
was once wide and sufficiently lofty for a person to walk upright, was
now dwindled into a narrow and insignificant-looking hole, scarcely
big enough to admit an urchin.

"Thee hasna seen it thysel', then?" said one of the fishermen to his
companion.

"Nea; I waur it' hoose man when it cam'; but"--the speaker looked
wistfully towards the dark entrance we have named,--"but I'se sure
Dick wouldna seay sae if"----

"Dick's a starin' gowk, and a coward too. I'se warrant there waur
plenty o' room 'twixt his carcase and the wa'. That I'd bin there
i'stead! There shouldn't ha' bin room to cram a herrin' tail atween me
an' the ghost's substance. I would ha' hedged him up thus, an' then
master ghost, taken aback, says, 'Friend, by yere sweet leave I would
pass;' but I make out elbows, and arms this'n, facing till him so.
Help! murder!"

This sudden change in the voice and attitude of the speaker, this
sudden exhalation of his courage, unfortunately arose from the parties
having, in the heat and interest of the discourse, turned their backs
to the haunted entrance, and, so intent was Davy in accommodating the
action to the valiant tenor of his speech, that it was only on
turning round, for the purpose of showing to his companion the way in
which he would have disputed a passage with the ghost, that he was
aware for the first time of the presence of that terrible thing, and
within a very few inches too of his own person. They stayed not for
any further exemplification of this theory of ghost-laying, but in an
instant were beyond observation, bounding over the beach, nor once
looking behind them until safe in their little hut, and the door
fastened against the fearful intruder. Davy, being foremost in the
race, sat down, followed by his companion George, who, maugre his
great apprehensions, could not forbear laughing heartily at the sudden
melting away of the big-mouthed valour of this cowardly boaster.

"Praised be our lady of Furness," said the merry taunter, with many
interruptions from laughter and want of breath; "thy heels are as glib
as thy tongue: for which--oh, oh! I am breathed--blown--dispossessed
of my birthright, free quaffing o' the air. Ha, ha! I cannot laugh.
Oh! what a mouth didst thou make at old blacksleeves. Gaping so, I
wonder he mistook not thy muzzle for one of the vents into his old
quarters. A pretty gull thee be'st, to swallow yon black porpoise."

"I tell thee, messmate," returned the other, gravely, "thou hast
miss'd thy tack. It waur but a slip, maybe a kin' of a sudden start
which took me, as they say, by the nape. I jumped back, I own--a foul
accident, by which he took advantage. He comes behind me, thou sees,
and with a skip 'at would have seated him upo' the topmost perch o'
the castle, he lights whack, thump, fair upo' my shoulders. I ran but
to shake the whoreson black slug fro' my carcase. Saints ha' mercy,
but his legs waur colder than a wet sheet. I soon unshipp'd my cargo,
though--I tumbled him into the sea, made a present of old blacksleeves
to the fishes!"

"Thou lying chub," said George, angrily, "did not I watch thee? Why,
thou cub, thou cormorant, thou maker of long lies and quick legs,
didst not o'ershoot me, ay, by some fathoms? I followed hard i' thy
wake, but I see'd nought of all this bull-scuddering of thine. Faith,
but thou didst ply thy courses with a wet sail!"

"Go to, Geordie--go to; a juggle, I tell thee; sheer malice of the
enemy, fow' an' fause as he be." Here he spat on the floor to show his
detestation and contempt; but George, either too ignorant or too idle
to reply, took down a dried fluke from the chimney, and warming it on
the glowing turf for a few minutes, was soon occupied in disposing of
this dainty and favourite repast. Their hut was of the rudest
construction. The walls were of boulder stones from the beach, loosely
set up with mud and slime, and in several places decidedly deviating
from the perpendicular. The roof was thatched with rushes, and shaped
like unto a fish's back, having a marvellous big hump in the middle,
upon which grew a fair tuft of long lank herbage, while bunches of the
biting yellow stone-crop clung in irregular patches of bright green
verdure about the extremities. The interior was lighted by a single
casement, showing an assemblage of forms the most homely and primitive
in their construction. The floor, paved with blue pebbles; the
fireplace, a huge hearth-flag merely, on which lay a heap of glowing
turf, an iron pot depending from a crook above. The smoke, curling
lazily through a raft of fish drying a few feet above the flame, and
acquiring the requisite flavour, with considerable difficulty reached
a hole in the roof, where the adverse and refractory wind not
unfrequently disputed its passage, and drove it down again, to assist
the colds and rheums by its stimulating propensities. A broken chair,
a three-legged stool, and a table with no greater number of
supporters, a truckle-bed, and an accumulation of nets, oars, and
broken implements of the like nature, were the usual deposits about
the chamber. The two fishermen were partners in their gainful trade,
and not having tasted the bliss of conjugal comforts, enjoyed a sort
of negative good from the absence of evil, and lived a tolerably quiet
and harmonious life in these outskirts of creation.

The few simple and primitive inhabitants of the island had been so
bewildered and confounded by the turmoil and disorder consequent upon
the invasion of their hitherto peaceful and quiet resting-place, that
some half-dozen of them, for the first time in their lives, had
quitted their homes; others, secure from their poverty and
insignificance, still remained, though much disturbed with wonder and
silly surmises, and ready to catch at any stray marvels that fell in
their way. The subterraneous and half-concealed passage in the rock,
or rather shale, on which the castle stands, always under the ban of
some vague and silly apprehension, had been reported of late as
manifesting more than equivocal symptoms of supernatural possession.
Dick Empson, or long-nebbed Dick, a sort of shrewd, half-witted
incarnation, it might be, of the goblin or elfin species, a runner of
errands from the abbey of Furness to the castle, and a being whose
pranks and propensities to mischief were well known in the
neighbourhood, had affirmed, but a few hours before, that he saw a
black figure on the previous night issuing from the hole; and that
there was no connection or understanding between this ghostly
appearance and the present occupiers of the castle, was evident from
the mystery and secrecy that attended its movements. This was
doubtless the phantom or goblin that, from time immemorial, had been
the cause of such sinister dispositions towards the "haunted passage."
Davy and his friend had unexpectedly stumbled upon its track, for they
had not calculated on its appearance, at any rate before midnight.

In the Castle, Peel, or Pile of Fouldrey, on that night too, there was
a mighty disturbance, not unaccompanied with vexation and alarm. It
was soon after the first watch. The new-made monarch was asleep in his
chamber--an ill-furnished apartment on the second floor of the main
tower or keep, looking out by a narrow window towards the sea. The
next, or middle chamber, was on a level, and communicating with the
first landing, or principal entrance. The latter apartment, in which
were the guards and others immediately about the king's person, served
the purposes of an ante-room to the presence-chamber.

The room opposite--for there were three divisions on each floor--was
subdivided into several parts, and occupied by the Earl of Lincoln and
his attendants; the rooms above being devoted to Swartz, Lovel, and
Fitzgerald, with their trains. Below were the guard-rooms and offices
assigned to the staff, with the war stores and munitions belonging to
the expedition.

In the same chamber with the king lay his confessor and chief adviser,
one Simon, a wily and ambitious priest, who was the prime agent, if
not mover, in this attempt to overturn the reigning power. No other
individual was suffered to remain through the night in the king's
apartment.

It was about the first watch, as before mentioned, when the guards and
attendants were alarmed by loud cries from the royal chamber. They
hastened to the door, but it was bolted, and their apprehensions for
that time were allayed by the voice of the priest assuring them that
the king was safe, but that an ugly dream had awakened him. Lincoln,
whom this tumult had quickly brought to the spot, retired grumbling at
so unseasonable a disturbance. Scarcely had an hour elapsed ere the
cries were repeated. Unsheathing his sword, the proud Earl of Lincoln
marched angrily to the door, and swore a loud broad oath that he would
see the king or burst open the barrier. With him came others from the
rooms overhead, so that the priest was forced, however unwillingly, to
open the door, and Lincoln, accompanied by his friends, beheld the
young pretender in bed, pale, and with a rueful countenance, still
retaining the traces of some deadly horror.

"What hath disturbed your highness? We would fain know the cause of
this alarm, and punish, ay punish home, the traitor!" said Lincoln,
darting a furious look at the confessor, to whom he bore no good-will.

"Nay, friends, I shall--I shall be well presently. I beseech you be
not disturbed. 'Tis a dream,--a vision that hath troubled me. I
thought I was in the Tower--in my prison chamber--and the tyrant came
and grasped me by the throat. With that I jumped up, and as Heaven is
my witness, I saw a dark figure slip through the floor by yon grim
buttress, behind which is the private staircase to the summit."

Every eye was turned towards the corner of the chamber near the bed,
on the outside of which a winding staircase ran up from below, but
they were ignorant of any communication from these stairs into the
king's chamber. Lincoln examined the buttress with his sword, and
Swartz, the Fleming, with his fingers, but there was no apparent
opening or crevice that could betoken any outlet or concealment. The
floor was examined, and with the same result; so that they were fain
to depart, little doubting that the whole was the effect of some
mental disturbance.

With the morning dawn came Sir Thomas Broughton. A grand council was
appointed for that day, in which the final arrangement of their plans
was to be discussed. A royal banquet was prepared, and the Flemish
gunners were to give a specimen of their craft from the battlements.

The forenoon came on chill and squally, with a low scud driving
rapidly from the west. A drizzling rain was the result, which
increased with the coming tide.

The little island was covered with tents, forming an encampment of no
mean extent and appearance.

Sir Thomas, with a few attendants, after being ferried over the
channel which separates the island of Fouldrey from the mainland, was
conducted through avenues of tents and armed men. The Flemish
soldiers, fierce and almost motionless, looked like an array of grim
statues. The Irish levies, in a state of more lax discipline, were
collected in merry groups, whiling away the time in thriftless and
noisy discourse.

Sir Thomas Broughton, descended from an Anglo-Saxon family of great
antiquity, was by virtue of this hereditary and aboriginal descent, of
a proud and pompous bearing. Being allied to most of the principal
families in these parts, he was won over by solicitation from the
Duchess of Burgundy, as one of the confederates in her attempt to
restore the line of York to the English crown. Fond of show, and
careful as to his own personal appearance, he was clad in a steel coat
of great beauty; this ponderous form of defence having been brought to
great perfection in the preceding reign. His sword-belt was so
disposed that the weapon remained in front, while a dagger was
attached to the right hip. Over his armour he wore a scarlet cloak,
and as he strode proudly up the avenues to the gate, he looked as
though he felt that on his fiat alone depended the very existence of
those he beheld. After he had passed the first drawbridge into the
outer court or bayle, a band of archers, drawn up in full array,
opened their ranks to receive this puissant chieftain. These were the
most efficient of the troops, and partly English, having been brought
from Ireland by the deputy. They were clad in shirts of chain mail,
with wide sleeves, over which was a small vest of red cloth, laced in
front. They had tight hose on their legs, and braces on their left
arms. Behind them, and on each side, were part of the infantry,
consisting of billmen and halberdiers; but the most formidable-looking
soldiers were the Flemish gunners, or harquebusiers, so named from the
barbarous Latin word _arcusbusus_, evidently derived from the Italian
_arcabouza_--_i.e._, a bow with a tube or hole. It was made with a
stock and trigger, in imitation of the crossbow. The match, no longer
applied by the hand to the touchhole, was fixed into a cock, which was
brought down to the pan by the motion of the trigger. This being at
the time a recent invention, excited no little curiosity and
admiration.

At the inner court, and near the main entrance to the keep, Sir Thomas
was received in great state by the Earl of Lincoln, whose high, but
easy and pleasant bearing, bespoke him to have been long the inmate
and follower of courts, while the stiff attitudes and formal demeanour
of Sir Thomas were rendered more apparent by the contrast.

"Welcome, Sir Thomas, to our court in this fair haven. Your presence,
like your fidelity, hath a goodly savour in it, being always before
and better than our expectation or our fears. How faireth our cousin,
and our pretty dames in Furness?"

"My lord, I thank you for your good word. My poor services are repaid
tenfold in their acceptance by the king," said Sir Thomas, bending,
but with an ill grace, by reason of little use in that excellent art.

"Into our council-chamber, Sir Thomas, where you shall render homage
to the king in person."

This council-chamber was none other than the king's bedroom, whither,
with great ceremony, Sir Thomas was conducted. In this mimic court
there was a marvellous show of ceremony, and a great observance of,
and attention to, forms and royal usages--ridiculous enough where a
few acres formed the whole of the monarch's territory, and an ugly
ill-contrived castle his palace. But his followers behaved as though
England's sovereignty were theirs, being well inclined to content
themselves with the shadow, having little hold or enjoyment of the
substance.

Before a long narrow table, near the bed, and on a high-backed oaken
chair, sat the young pretender. He was dressed in a richly-embroidered
gown, the sleeves wide, and hanging down from the wrists like lappets.
On his head was a low cap surmounted by long waving feathers, and his
manners and appearance were not devoid of grace and gentility. He
displayed considerable self-possession, and wore his kingly honours
with great assurance. He was of a fair and sanguine complexion, pale
rather than clear, and his hair clustered in heavy ringlets on his
shoulders. A rapid and somewhat uncertain motion of the eye, and his
mouth not well closed, showed that although he might have been
schooled to the exhibition, and could wear the outward show of
firmness and decision, yet in the hour of emergency, and in the day of
trial, his fortitude would in all likelihood forsake him.

At his right hand sat the priest in a white cassock and scapulary. A
black hood, thrown back upon his shoulders, exhibited the form and
disposition of his head to great advantage. His features were large,
expressive, and commanding. The fire of a brilliant grey eye was
scarcely tempered by his overhanging brows, though at times the spirit
seemed to retire behind their grim shadows, to survey more securely
and unobservedly the aspect and appearances without.

Swartz, the Flemish general, a blunt military chieftain, was at his
side. A black bushy beard, some inches in advance of his honest
good-humoured face, was placed in strong contrast with the wary, pale,
and somewhat dubious aspect of the priest.

Kildare, the Irish deputy, and Lovel, with several of the senior
officers and captains, were assembled round the table.

The room was lofty, lighted by a small pointed window, and contained
the luxury of a fireplace, in which lay some blazing embers; a
grateful and refreshing sight in that chill and ungenial atmosphere.

The needful ceremonies being gone through, Sir Thomas was honoured
with a place at the board near to where it rested against the buttress
before mentioned, the priest addressing him as follows:--

"My Lord Abbot of Furness, Sir Thomas, what news of him? Hath he yet
signified his adherence to our cause? We hope you bring tidings of
such auspicious import."

"He doth yet procrastinate, I hear, until he have news from the
court," replied Sir Thomas; "yet I trust his want of zeal and
obedience will not hinder our march."

"And the proud nobles of Lancashire, how stand they affected towards
our good prospering?"

"Truly, they are, as one may say, neither cold nor hot; but of a
moderate temperature, midway, it would seem"----

"Which is an indication of neither zeal nor obedience," said Swartz,
suddenly cutting short the tedious verbosity of Sir Thomas's intended
harangue. "Open enemies before lukewarm friends!"

"Prithee, general," said the priest, with a placid smile, during which
his eyes seemed to shrink within their dim sockets, "be not
over-hasty. We cannot reasonably hope that they should flock to our
standard almost ere we unfurl it for their gathering."

"Your speech hath a reasonable property in it," replied Sir Thomas,
"and, as we may say, savoureth of great judgment, which, being of an
excellent nature in itself, doth thereby control and exercise, in its
own capacity, the nature and excellence of all others."

This formidable issue of words was delivered with much earnestness of
enunciation; but of its use or meaning, probably, the speaker was
fully as ignorant as his hearers. Even at the fountain-head his ideas
were sufficiently obscure, but when fairly rolling forth from the
spring, they sometimes begat such a froth and turbidity in their
course, that no reasonable discernment could fathom their depth or
bearing.

A short silence was the result, which none, for a while, cared to
disturb, lest he should betray his lack of understanding in dark
sentences.

"We know your loyalty," said the king, "which hath a sufficient
impress on it to pass current without scrutiny. Your example, Sir
Thomas, will be of competent weight, without the casting or imposition
of vain words into the scale. We acknowledge your ready zeal in our
just cause."

"Your highness' grace, my liege," said Lincoln, ere Sir Thomas could
gather words for a fitting reply, "doth honey your confections well.
Men swallow them without wincing or wry faces."

Sir Thomas would not thus be deprived of his right to a reply; and was
just commencing with a suitable attitude for the purpose, when lo! the
trenchant knight, who sat on a small stool beside the corner buttress,
with a loud cry, suddenly disappeared, and a gaping cavity in the
floor sufficiently accounted for the precipitate mode of his
departure. Uprising on the ruins of Sir Thomas, started forth a
grotesque figure from the chasm, clad in coarse attire, a ludicrous
solemnity on his strange and uncouth visage, as, with a shrill and
squeaking tone, he cried--

"Ay, ay, masters; but my master will gi'e me a blessing for the
finding o' this mouse-nest; and a priest's blessin' is worth a king's
curse any time; and so good-morrow, knaves."

"Stay," said Lincoln, seizing the intruder, none other than our
light-witted acquaintance, "lang-nebbit Dick," whose prying
propensities were notorious, and who had taken upon himself, that
morning, the arduous task of exploring the subterraneous passage into
which he had seen the mysterious figure insinuate itself. After many
perils and impediments, he had come to a flight of steps, ascending
which, his progress was interrupted by a trap-door overhead. He soon
discovered a wooden bolt, the unloosing of which led to the
precipitation of Sir Thomas through the aperture. Dick's light was
struck from his hand; escaping himself, however, he left Sir Thomas to
his fate, and emerged, as we have seen, into the council-chamber. They
were much alarmed by this unexpected disturbance, and, looking down,
they beheld a narrow flight of steps, at the bottom of which lay the
unfortunate knight, sore bruised by his fall.

"If the abbot catch ye here," said Dick, with a vacant grin, "he'll
gi'e every one o' ye a taste o' the gyves, and so pray ye gang awa',
and let me gang too. As for that calf beastie, that baas so at the
bottom, gi'e me a groat, and I'll gather him up again sune."

Here Dick held out a paw that would not have disgraced the extremities
of a bruin for size and colour.

"Holloa, guards," cried Lincoln, "take this knave to the dungeon by
the porch, and keep him safe until we have need of him."

The prying vagabond was removed without ceremony, kicking all the way,
and bellowing out threats and vengeance against his enemies, while Sir
Thomas and his bruises were brought to light.

"'Tis the good hand of Providence that hath revealed to us, through
the means of this crack-brained intruder, so dangerous an outlet by
which our sovereign's life might have been brought into jeopardy. To
show unto us that He works not by might nor by strength, does Heaven
employ the feeblest instruments for our ruin or our deliverance." The
priest, after this profane speech, resumed his station at the board,
whence the king, with a proper and becoming dignity, had not arisen.
But the council did not proceed in their deliberations after this
interruption. Contenting themselves with devising precautions against
another surprise, they separated, hoping that to-morrow would bring
them despatches from abroad, for which they began to feel somewhat
anxious and impatient.

The sun was now some hours past meridian. The broad sea and the
breakers were foaming on. A wide and impetuous phalanx of waves
appeared upon the horizon. Gouts of muddy foam were beginning to
froth among the blue pebbles on the beach. The tide was rapidly
filling the channels, and patches of dark sand were vanishing beneath
the waves, when the two fishermen, launching their little boat into a
narrow bay between the rocks, prepared for their daily toil.

"Lords o' the court they be," said David, to some inquiry from his
more ignorant companion, as he generally affected to consider him.
Indeed, with but little wit and less valour, he wished to foist
himself upon one possessing both, as a being of extraordinary wisdom
and fortitude. And truly, if loud words and big lies could have done
this, he would have had no lack either of courage or discretion.

"Didst never see a lord to his shirt?" continued this indomitable
boaster.

"Nea, marry, but I've seen 'em to their shifts, for one of 'em couldna
loup owre t' stones here without help."

"Help thy silly face, thou be'st hardly company fit for they 'at have
seen knowledge, as 't waur, to its verra nakedness. I tell thee I've
looked on lords' flesh; an' no more like thine than thee be'st like
fish."

"Some of 'em will cudgel thy leesing out o' thee, I hope. Thou
could'stna speak truth to save thy neck fro' the rope. Didst get any
o' the crumbs at the dinner to-day? for I ken thou throw'd up thy
greasy cap, and cried out 'Hurrah for the king.' Thy tongue would ever
wag faster at a feast than thy fist at a fray."

"I tell thee, George, 'ware thy gibes an' gallimaufreys. A man can but
bear what he can, thee knows; an' so stop thy din. Let me see, I heard
as I cam' doon that this same ghost 'at frightened thee sae appeared
to the king an' the lords at the feast; an' they waur fain to run for
it, as thee did last night, thee knows, for verra fearsomeness,
an'"----

Here he looked round, as though fearing a visit of the like nature.

"They say he came an' gobbled up more nor his share; an' he sent the
guests a-packing like a bream of short-sized kippers from a creel. We
looked for our share of the victuals, but they told me old
bl--bl"----Again he hesitated, evidently afraid that some "unsonsy"
thing was behind him. His voice sunk down to a tremulous whisper.
"They said that old split-feet brought a whole bevy of little
devilkins with him that cleared decks in the twinkling of a
bowsprit."

"And yet thou durst not say him nay, though thy craw were as empty as
my basket. Come, bear a hand, or we shall lose the tide; it is already
on the rocks."

The invading fleet were still moored in the harbour, yet the fishermen
shot past unheeded by these leviathans of the deep. As they came
nearer to the opposite shore, they saw an individual making signals,
as though he would be taken across. His monkish garb was a passport to
their obedience; and the friar was received on board with great
reverence and respect. With a sullen air he demanded, rather than
requested, to be conveyed to the castle, which the simple fishermen
undertook with great alacrity and good humour. Left to the care of the
guards below the ramparts, he was speedily forwarded through ranks of
iron men, and the barriers flew open at his presence; an embassage
from the abbot of Furness was not to be lightly entreated.

Again was there a summons that the council should assemble, and the
chiefs, already risen from the banquet, prepared to give him audience.
With a proud and firm step he approached the table; and though, from
habit, he repressed the natural feelings and bias of the temper, yet
there was an evident expression of hostility against the intruders,
accompanied with a glance of unequivocal meaning towards their
sovereign.

Simon, rising to receive this ambassador from the abbot, watched his
demeanour with a cautious and keen observance, though betraying little
of that really intense interest with which his presence was regarded.

"Thrice welcome!" he cried; "we hail your presence as an omen of good
import. How fareth my lord abbot, whom we hope to number with our
friends in this glorious cause?"

"The abbot of Furness hath no message of that similitude. He doth ask
by what right, privity, or pretence, ye appear within his castle or
stronghold upon this island? upon whose advice or incitement ye have
thus taken possession? and furthermore, under whose authority ye do
these things?"

This short address, uttered in a firm voice, and in a tone of menace
rather than inquiry, daunted the hearers, who had hoped for a more
propitious message from the abbey of Furness. Simon, however, without
betraying his chagrin, unhesitatingly replied--

"The right by which we hold this fortress is the will of our king, and
our authority is from him."

"I crave your honest regards," returned the monk, looking round with a
glance of conscious power and superiority; "this good inheritance is
ours, and whosoever disporteth himself here must answer for it to the
lord of Furness, whose delegate and representative I am."

Choler was rising in the assembly; but Simon, with that intuitive and
inexplicable control which superior minds possess, almost unknowingly,
over their associates, quelled the outburst of the flame by a single
glance. Another look was directed to the royal pupil at his side, when
the latter spoke as follows:--

"Our presence here, it should seem, is a sufficient answer to the
questions of our lord abbot. Being lawful heir to the English crown,
we might command the allegiance, if not the homage, of your head; but
we would rather win with fair entreaty than command our unwilling
subjects, and to this end have we sent messengers to the superior of
your house, urging his help and submission."

This reply was given with a dignity and an assurance denoting that
either he was the individual he personated, or that he had been well
schooled in his craft.

A murmur of applause was heard through the assembly, but the monk was
unmoved to any show of recognition or even respect. Waiting until he
could be heard, the envoy again inquired--

"And who art thou? and by what pretence claimest thou this right?"

"By hereditary descent. Knowest thou Edward, Earl of Warwick, now thy
king?"

"I have heard of him," continued the monk in the same dubious and
inflexible tone; "but his bodily appearance hath not been vouchsafed
unto me."

"See him here!" said the royal claimant, rising with great majesty and
condescension. But the churchman neither did homage, nor in any way
testified his loyalty to, or apprehension of, so exalted a personage.

"Truly it is a marvellous thing," replied he, "that the Earl of
Warwick should so order his appearance, at one and the same time, both
in London and at our good fortress here in Fouldrey!" A slight curl of
the lip was visible as he spoke.

"The Earl of Warwick," said Simon, "cannot now be abiding where thou
sayest, insomuch as the bodily tabernacle, his dwelling in the flesh,
is before thee."

"But we have a messenger from thence, even with a writing from the
hands of the holy prior of St Alban's, who sendeth us the news, lest
we should be beguiled. Father Anselm hath seen the earl, who was
brought forth from the Tower by command of the king, being conducted
publicly through the principal thoroughfares of the city, that the
people should behold, and not in any wise be led astray through the
evil reports and machinations of the king's enemies."

Here he paused, folding his arms with a haughty and reserved look; but
Simon, no wise disconcerted by this terrible, unexpected, and
apparently fatal exposure of their plot, replied with a smile of the
most intrepid assurance----

"We knew of this, and were prepared for the wiles of the usurper. Know
then, that, through the agency and good offices of that renowned
princess, Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy, the king's escape from the
Tower was accomplished; but not by might, nor by human power nor
device, but by faith and prayer, was the work wrought out, which holy
communion her enemies do maliciously report as the practice of sorcery
and the forbidden art. Howbeit the king hath escaped, as thou seest,
the fangs of the executioner. Stay, I perceive what thou wouldest urge
in reply, but listen for a short space. In order to deter them from
pursuit on finding his escape, and with a view likewise to lull them
into vain confidence and carnal security, another was left in his
place, whom they, of necessity, imagine to be their captive; but it is
not a real thing of flesh and blood, though to them it may so appear.
When his time shall be accomplished, the form will vanish, to the
downfall and confusion of the usurper and the utter overthrow of our
enemies."

Here the assembly gave a loud and unanimous token of their exultation
by shouts and exclamations of loyalty and obedience.

After a short reverie, the monk replied--

"We know of a surety that the Princess Margaret, as well as her royal
brother, Edward the Fourth, did use to practise in forbidden arts; but
we must have testimony indisputable to the truth of your claim, ere it
be that we render our belief. Surely the power that wrought thy
deliverance would not, if need were, leave thee without the means of
proving thine identity. How know we that thou art he whom thou hast
represented, and not the impostor Simnel, as thine enemies do not
scruple openly to affirm?"

"We are not without either the means or the power to prove and to
assert our right," said the priest, rising. He drew a phial from his
bosom.

"One drop of this precious elixir," continued he, "if it touch the
form of yon changeling, will dissolve the charm: on the real person of
the king it becomes harmless."

"Truly, 'tis a proof not to be gainsaid; but over-long i' the making,
and too far for the fetching," replied the monk scornfully.

"'Tis bootless to attempt the salvation of those who will not believe:
nevertheless, they shall perish through their own devices, and be
caught in their own snares."

Simon threw a threatening glance at the monk, which he received with a
cool and undaunted aspect.

"Verily, your blood be on your own heads," cried Simon, with a loud
voice, "and your reward in your right hand. Behold, thou scourner, and
tremble; for your destruction cometh as a whirlwind, and he in whom
you trust shall be as the stubble which the fire devoureth."

The enthusiast, as he spoke, struck a heavy blow on the floor with his
foot, when there came a low rumbling sound like the roar of the wind
through some subterraneous abyss, or the distant moan of the sea,
driven on by the rushing tempest. The whole assembly stood aghast,
save the king and the two disputants.

"Shall I strike once more?"

"Do as seemeth to thee good," said the monk deliberately; "but think
not to intimidate me with thy fooleries."

"Then beware. I obey, but it is with awe and reluctance."

It is said that Simon's heart failed him as he gave the blow, or the
effects would have been more terrific. But the castle shook as with an
earthquake; even the incredulous monk looked amazed and confounded.

"Shall I repeat the stroke?" said Simon, when the disturbance had in
some measure subsided. "But remember, I will not answer for the
result. Only in cases of the greatest difficulty and trial it was
that the duchess made me resort to so dangerous a resource."

Most of his hearers besought him to desist. Simon yielded at once to
their entreaties, and the uplifted foot fell softly on the floor. Soft
and noiseless though it was, yet they saw a lurid mist roll upward;
and a form, apparently of gigantic size, was faintly visible in the
dark vapour, as it swept slowly through the apartment. Even Simon and
his royal pupil showed symptoms of agitation and alarm.

The assembly was suddenly dissolved. The proud ambassador of a prouder
prelate was astonished and bewildered, and hastily took his leave to
report these occurrences to his master.

The whole of these proceedings, in all probability, were but the
artful contrivance of an ambitious priest; and yet, connected as they
were with a female whose well-known predilection for the occult
sciences, and herself no mean adept therein, they assumed in those
ages of credulity and superstition more the character of miraculous
events than as happening in the common course and established order of
nature. The alarm of the king, too, evidently at the appearance of the
figure, caused some to say that it was the arch-enemy himself to whom
these conspirators had sold themselves.

In the meantime, Dick, having been delivered over to the tormentors,
was transferred to the prison or dungeon by the porch. He bore his
mishap with wondrous fortitude and equanimity. Many a strange inquiry
and silly speech did he make as he heard the sound of footsteps pass
the door, through which a few chinks admitted a doubtful glimmer into
his cell.

"I seay--hears to me, lad?" shouted he to a gruff Fleming, as he
passed to and fro before the entrance to his prison-house; but the
guard heeded him not. Dick listened; then, repeating his demand,
muttered certain conventional expressions, not over-nice either in
their form or application. He then began to sing, performing a series
of _cantabile_ movements in the most ludicrous manner possible;
sometimes chanting a _Miserere_ or an _Ave_, then breaking into some
wild northern ballad or roundelay of unintelligible import. It was in
the midst of a cadence which he was terminating with great earnestness
and effect that the first deep rumble, the result of Simon's appeal to
the truth and justice of their cause, interrupted Dick's vocal
dispositions for a while; but when the second concussion took place,
shaking the very stones in their sockets and the hard floor under his
feet, Dick ran whooping and bellowing round his den as though he had
been possessed, laughing, amid the wild uproar, like some demon
sporting fearlessly in the fierce turmoil of the troubled elements.
The sentinel ran, terrified, from the door, and the whole camp and
garrison were flying to arms, in fear and consternation. Dick,
drumming with his fist, found the door yield to his efforts, and he
marched forth without let or molestation. His besetting sin was
curiosity, which oftentimes led him into difficulties and mishaps.
Though just now a prisoner, and escaping by means little less than
miraculous, yet, instead of making the best use of this opportunity
for escape, he commenced a sort of prying adventure on his own
account--a temptation he could not resist--by walking, or rather
shuffling, into the guard-room, where his own peculiar crab-like
sinuosities were particularly available. A number of soldiers were
jabbering some unintelligible jargon, too much occupied with their own
clamour to notice Dick's proceedings.

Through a confused jumble of warlike implements, intermingled with
camp-kettles and cooking utensils, some steaming with savoury
preparations for the evening's repast, and others nearly ready for the
service, Dick insinuated himself, until he came to a little door in
the corner, the entrance to a staircase communicating with the leads
above. Through this door marched the incorrigible intruder--the sentry
from the summit having just issued therefrom, fearful lest the castle
should tumble about his ears. Dick's course was therefore unimpeded;
and after sundry gyrations and stoppages, now and then, to peep
through the loopholes, he emerged into broad daylight on the roof of
the tower. Here he paused for some time, entranced with the sudden
change he beheld. The bustle and animation around and below him; the
vessels, with their brave and gallant equipments, anchored in the
bay;--all this amused Dick vastly for a while. But the most
heart-ravishing delights end ultimately in satiety and disgust,
greater, and probably more keenly felt, the more they have been
relished and enjoyed. Dick began to feel listless and tired with his
day's work. He laid his head upon a groove or niche in the
battlements, and fell fast asleep. It seems the sentinel did not
return; for Dick remained undisturbed, and when he awoke it was
completely dark, save that there was a wan gleam from a dull watery
moon, just dipping into a stratum of dark clouds over the sea. His
ideas, not over-lucid in broad daylight, would necessarily be still
more hazy and obscure in his present situation. Unable to extricate
them, he rubbed his eyes and made faces; yawned and groped about for
his usual dormitory, in a little cell behind the kitchen at the abbey.
But the vision of the moon--which, by reason of the confined glen
wherein the abbey was built, rarely blessed the sight of a
night-watcher--was a wondrous and puzzling appearance. He had some
confused recollection that he had mounted a flight of steps, and that,
by contrary motion, descending would be the next consequent movement.
To this end he diligently sought an opening, and, naturally enough,
took the first that presented itself. Creeping round the angle of a
turret, he came to a flight of steps, which he descended. It was not
long ere he perceived a faint light through an aperture or chink in
the wall. He pressed against the side cautiously, when the wall itself
appeared to give way, and he entered, through a narrow door, into a
large room, lighted by a few turf embers, that flickered dimly on the
hearth. A tester bed was near him, whose grim shadow concealed the
objects under its huge canopy. It was the king's chamber; but so
softly and cautiously was the entrance effected that Dick's footsteps
did not awake him. He was heard, nevertheless, by the priest Simon,
who, being concealed by the curtains on the other side, was not seen
by the intruder. Dick stood still, on being addressed in a low and
suppressed voice as follows:--

"Thou art early, Maurice; but thy despatches are ready. They are on
the chair at thy right hand. Thou hast had thy instructions. Be speedy
and discreet. On the third day, ere sunset, we look for thy return."

Dick put out his hand and laid hold of a sealed packet, which he took
with becoming gravity, and luckily in silence.

"The same password, 'Warwick,' will convey thee hence; a boat is in
waiting, and so God speed," said the priest.

Dick returned by the way he came, and descending the turret staircase,
found a sentry standing at the outlet into the guard-chamber. It was
dark, and Dick's person was not recognised. With a sort of blundering
instinct he gave the word and passed on. This magic sound conveyed him
safely through bars, bolts, and all other impediments. The drawbridge
was lowered, and Dick, in a little time, found himself again upon the
beach, where a boat was waiting to carry him to the opposite shore.

"Who goes there?" inquired a gruff voice from the skiff.

"Why Dick--Warwick," cried the blundering knave, nigh mistaking his
cue.

"Hang thee," said the ferryman, "what art' ganging o' this gait for?
If I'd ken'd it waur thee 'at I'd orders to lie by in shore for, thou
might ha' waited a wee for aught 'at I'd ha' brought."

"Hush!" said Dick, full of importance from his newly-acquired
diplomatic functions; "I'm message to the king yonder."

"Ill betides him that has need o' thee," said the boatman,
surlily;--"come, jump in. They'd need of a hawk, marry, to catch a
buzzard."

Just as Dick was preparing to step in, a low, slight-made figure
passed by whom the boatman immediately challenged.

"Warwick!" said he, and would have passed on.

"Nay, nay," said Dick; "I'm Warwick, ma lad; there's no twa on us;
they gied me that name i' the castle yon, just now. I'se butter'd if
thou shall ha't too." Dick was a powerful fellow, and he collared the
other in a twinkling. "Thou'rt a rogue, I tell thee, an' about no
good; an' I've orders from the governor yonder to tak' thee. Bear a
hand, boatie, and in wi' him. There--there."

Spite of his struggles and imprecations, the stranger was impounded in
the boat, and Dick soon forced him to be quiet. They pushed off, and
in a short time gained the other shore. Here Dick, with that almost
instinctive sagacity which sometimes accompanies a disturbed state of
the intellects, would not allow his prisoner either to go back to the
island or remain in the boatman's custody, but secured him to his own
person, setting off at a brisk pace towards the abbey. In vain the
stranger told him that he had business of great moment at the castle;
that he was a page of the court, and on the eve of a secret mission
from the priest, who was now waiting for him with the despatches. Dick
resolved, with his usual cunning it seems, to conceal his possession
of these documents, and, at the same time, to prevent the real
messenger from revealing the deception by his appearance at the
castle.

It was past midnight; yet the abbot and several of the brethren were
still assembled in close council. The importance of the events that
were unfolding, and in which their own line of conduct was to be
firmly marked out and adhered to, necessarily involving much
deliberation and discussion, had kept them beyond their usual hour of
retirement.

A bell rung at the outer gate, and shortly afterwards one of the
brotherhood in waiting announced that two men were without, craving
audience, and that one of them, when asked his name, answered
"Warwick."

"Ah!" said the bewildered abbot, with a sudden gleam of wonder and
gladness on his countenance--"does he come hither? then is our
deliverance nearer than we hoped for, even from the special favour and
interference of Heaven. Admit them instantly."

But in a little while the messenger came back in great dudgeon to say
that the knave who had demanded admittance with such a peremptory
message was none other than Dick Empson, the errand boy to the abbey.
"What can possess him," continued the monk, "I greatly marvel; for he
still persists in demanding audience, saying that he is 'Warwick.' He
refers to some message from the castle with which he is charged, but
he refuses to deliver it save into the hands of the reverend abbot
himself. Furthermore, he has brought a prisoner, he sayeth, and will
have him taken into safe custody."

"Why, bring him hither," said the abbot; "there's little harm can come
by it. He has a shrewd and quick apprehension at times, under that
silly mask, which I have thought he wears but for purposes of knavery
and concealment."

The monk folded his hands and retired. Returning, he was followed by
Dick, who assumed a very grave and solemn demeanour before this august
and reverend assembly.

"Why art thou abroad in these evil times, and at such improper hours
too? To the meanest of our servants it is not permitted. Speak. Thine
errand?"

The abbot looked towards the offender with an air of displeasure; but
Dick, hitching up his hosen with prodigious fervour, gave a loud and
expressive grunt.

"Dick is a fool," said he; "but he ne'er begged benison of an abbot, a
bone from a starved dog, or a tithe-pig from a parson."

"What is the message wherewith thou hast presumed upon our audience?"

"If ye rear your back to a door, see to it that it be greatly tyned,
or ye may get a broken head for trust."

"And is this thy message, sirrah? Hark ye, let this fool be put i' the
stocks, and well whipped."

"And who'll be the fule body then?" said Dick, leering. "I ken ye be
readier wi' a taste o' the gyves than oatmeal bannocks; an' sae I'se
gang awa' to my mither."

"Thou shalt go to the whipping-post first."

"Haud off," shouted Dick, who flung aside the person that would have
seized him with the most consummate ease, at the same time placing
himself in the attitude of defence; "haud off, as ye are true men,"
said he; "I'm cousin to the king, and I charge ye with high treason!"

"Enough," said the abbot; "we may pity his infirmity; but let him be
sent to the mill for punishment. Now to business, which I fear me hath
suffered by this untimely interruption."

"Happen you'll let me be one of the guests," said the incorrigible
Dick, thrusting himself forward, even to the abbot's chair, which so
discomposed his reverence that he cried in a loud and authoritative
tone--

"Will none of ye rid me of this pestilence? By the beard of St
Cuthbert, I will dispose of him, and that presently!"

Seizing him by the shoulder, the abbot would have thrust him forth,
but Dick slipped dexterously aside. Taking out the packet, he broke
open the seals, and immediately began to tumble about the contents,
seating himself at the same time in the vacant chair of the abbot,
with great solemnity, and an air of marvellous profundity in his
demeanour. It was the work of a few moments only; a pause of silent
astonishment ensued, when the abbot's eye, catching, from their
appearance, something of the nature of the documents, he started
forward with great eagerness and surprise. He snatched them from the
hands of their crack-brained possessor, and soon all other matters
were forgotten. The abbot in breathless haste ran through the
contents. The assembly was all eye and ear, and some were absolutely
paralysed with wonder. There was not an indifferent observer but Dick,
who, with a chuckling laugh, rubbed his hands, and fidgeted about in
the chair with a look of almost infantile delight.

"I've done it brawly, ha'n't I? Dick wi' the lang neb! an' I'll hae
two messes o' parritch an' sour milk, an' a barley-cake; I'm waesome
hungry i' the waum here."

The abbot was too deeply involved in the subject before him to heed a
craving appetite. Dick's stomach, however, was not to be silenced by
diplomatic food; not having tasted anything for a considerable time,
his wants immediately assumed the language of inquiry.

"Old dad, ha' ye any bones to pick? I'd like to have a lick at the
trencher."

The abbot made signals that he should not be disturbed; but Dick was
not to be put off or convinced by such unsubstantial arguments, and
they were fain to rid themselves from further annoyance by ordering
him into the kitchen, where he was speedily absorbed in devouring a
pan of browis, left there for morning use--the breakfast of the
labourers about the abbey.

During this interval matters of the deepest importance were discussed,
the contents of the packet having furnished abundant materials for
deliberation. When the bearer was effectually replenished, he was led
into the council-chamber again, where the abbot, in a tone of deep and
serious thought, thus addressed him:--

"Who gave thee these despatches? It is plain they were not meant for
our eyes; but Heaven, by the weakest instrument, often works the
mightiest and most important events. Where and how came they into thy
keeping?"

Dick looked cunningly round the apartment ere he replied, surveying
the floor, the walls, and the ceiling; even the groinings of the roof
did not escape a minute and accurate examination; whether to give time
for the contriving of a suitable reply, or merely to gratify his own
peevish humour, is of little consequence that we should inquire. After
a long and anxious silence on the part of his auditors, he replied--

"I told ye when ye spiered afore." Another pause. The abbot was
fearful that Dick's ideas, if not carefully handled, might get so
entangled and confused that he would be unable to give any
intelligible account of the matter. He therefore addressed him
coaxingly as follows--

"Nay, nay, Dickon, thou hast not; answer me now, and thou shalt have
the fat from the roast to-morrow, and a sop to season it withal."

Dick leered again at this prospective dainty, as he replied--

"I tou'd ye, and ye heeded not, belike; and who's the fool now? Come,
I'll set you my riddle again. If ye set your back to a door, see that
it be tyned, or ye may get a broken head, and then"----

Here he paused, and looked round with a vacant eye; but they wisely
forbore to interrupt the current of his ideas, hoping that ere long
they might trickle into the right channel.

"There was a big room, and a bed in it," he continued, "and a priest,
which the fule body has cheated. A fule's wit is worth more nor a wise
man's folly."

A vague apprehension of the truth crossed the abbot's mind. Being now
on the right scent, he no longer forbore to follow up the chase, but
endeavoured to hasten the development by a gentle stimulating of his
pace in the required direction.

"The priest yonder at the castle gave it thee?" said the abbot
carelessly.

"Well, and if he did," replied Dick sharply, "he didna ken I was
a-peeping into his chamber, as I've done many an unlucky time here in
the abbey, and gotten a good licking for my pains."

"To whom was it sent?"

"Ask the bairn yon', that I ha' brought by th' scut o' th' neck. He
woudna come bout tugging for."

"Was he the messenger?" asked Roger, the abbot's secretary and prime
agent.

"Help thine ignorant face, father!--I was peeping about, you see, in
the dark. The priest thought it waur the laddy yonder, a-comin' for
his bag; so he gied it me, and tou'd me to carry it safe, but forgot
to grease my pate forbye wi' the direction. I ken'd ye could read
aught at the abbey here, and so ye may e'en run wi' it to the right
owner for yere pains."

The cunning knave glossed over his treachery with this excuse; for he
evidently knew better, and had a notion that he should serve his
masters by this piece of diplomatic craft.

"Thou mayest depart, and ere morrow we will give thee a largess for
thy dexterity."

Dick did not care to be long a-snuffing the chill air of the vaults
and passages after his dismissal, but in a warm cell near the kitchen
fire he was soon wrapped in the delights of oblivion. Such, however,
was the importance of the documents he had so strangely intercepted,
that a messenger was immediately despatched to London with a packet
for the Privy Council.

The same morning, with the early dawn, the abbot and his secretary
were together in the cloisters. It was a fitting place and opportunity
either for intrigue or devotion, and many a masterstroke of church
policy has issued from those dim and sepulchral arches in "the Glen of
the deadly Nightshade."

"Craft is needful, yea laudable," said the abbot, "when we would cope
with worldly adversaries, unless we could work miracles for our
deliverance. But since in these degenerate ages of the church they
have, I fear me, ceased, we must e'en employ the means that Heaven has
put into our hands: and if I mistake not, this envoy of ours will be a
skilful craftsman for the purpose. Under that garb of silly speech
there's a cunning and a wary spirit. Thou didst note well his
ready-witted contrivance last night."

"Yea, and the skill too with which he compassed his expedients, and
the ingenuity that prevented the disclosure of his treachery, in
arresting the real messenger, and thus keeping them in the dark at the
castle yonder until we have had time to countervail their plots. Could
he be made to play his part according to our instructions, an agent
like him were worth having. Besides he knows every chink and cranny
about the castle, so that he could jump on them unawares."

"I am not much given to implicit credence in supernatural devices,"
said the abbot, "or visible manifestations of the arch-enemy; yet have
our chronicles not scrupled to give their testimony to the truth of
such appearances; and it is, moreover, plain, from the papers we have
read, that the conspirators themselves believe in the existence of
some supernatural presence amongst them, by which they are holpen."

He drew a billet from his bosom:--"I have kept this writing alone, as
thou knowest," continued the abbot, "for our guidance. Listen again to
the confessions of yonder rebellious and it may be credulous priest:--

"We are sure of success. The noble Margaret hath, by her wondrous art,
together with the exercise of prayer and fasting, fenced us about as
with a triple barrier, that no earthly might shall overcome. A power
attends us that will magnify our cause, and lay our foes prostrate.
'Tis a mystery even to us, but a being appears unexpectedly at times,
and by his counsels we are guided. We know not whence he comes, nor
whither he goes; but his path is with us, and his presence, though
generally invisible, not without terror, even to ourselves."

"'Tis a strange delusion this, if it be one; for it is plain they have
been ably counselled. Whilst they retain the castle their position may
be reckoned as impregnable. It is a powerful support, on which they
have placed the lever of their rebellion."

"And in what way purpose you to entice them from it? Methinks it were
in vain to make the attempt, if guarded and counselled by supernatural
advisers."

"I believe in no such improbabilities. Listen. We have heard, as thou
knowest, that a strange figure, muffled in close garments, steals
forth, at times, by the southern cliff into the passage there, under
the foundations. This, doubtless, will be the emissary referred to in
the despatch. 'Tis of a surety some person about the camp, concealed,
in all likelihood, even from the leaders themselves; but employed by
yonder ambitious restless woman, to control and direct their
operations by a pretendedly miraculous and supernatural influence. It
is the way in which the vulgar and the superstitious are most easily
led. Fanaticism is a powerful engine wherewith to combine and wield
the scattered energies of the multitude. Besides, their plans are well
laid, as we have seen by the despatches, and many and powerful are the
helps by which they hope to accomplish their designs. Should they
succeed, our destruction is certain. Yet could we draw them forth from
our fortress, we might look to the issue undisturbed. The king will
then dispose of them, and few will dare to interrupt us in the quiet
possession of our privileges."

"How purpose you to entice them forth?" again inquired the secretary.

"If properly tutored, our messenger from the kitchen, Dick Empson,
will doubtless be a fitting agent for this deed. He must be well
furnished with means and appliances against discovery."

"Leave him to my care. I can work with untoward tools, and make them
useful too upon occasion."

"The prisoner, whom he so craftily seized and brought hither, is yet
safe in the dungeon?"

"He is, my lord."

"There he must lie, at any rate, until our plans be accomplished."

"We know not yet unto whom these communications were to have been
conveyed."

"No; but doubtless, from their tenor, to some person of great note. It
may have been to one even about the person of royalty itself, for this
treason hath deep root, and its branches are widely spread throughout
the land."

"Shall we put him to the question?"

"Nay, let present difficulties be brought to issue first; afterwards
we shall be able to inquire, and with more certainty, as to the line
of examination we should pursue."

The speakers separated, one to communicate with Dick Empson, and
prepare him for the important functions he would have to perform; the
other to his lodgings, where he might ruminate undisturbed on the
events then about to transpire, and of which he hoped, finally, to
reap the advantage.

It was past midnight, and the flickering embers threw a doubtful and
uncertain gleam, at intervals, through the royal chamber, as it was
then called, in the Castle of Fouldrey. All around was so still that
the tramp of the sentry sounded like the tread of an armed host;
sounds being magnified to a degree almost terrific, in the absence of
others by which their intensity may be compared. Even the dash of the
waves below the walls was heard in the deep and awful stillness of
that portentous night.

Simon started from the pallet whereon he lay, beside the couch of his
master, at times looking wildly round, as though just rousing from
some unquiet slumber, expecting, yet fearful of alarm. He lay down
again with a deep sigh, muttering an Ave or a Paternoster as he closed
his eyes. Again he raised his head, and a dark figure stood before
him.

"What wouldest thou?" inquired he, with great awe and reverence.

"Ye must depart!" said a voice, deep and sepulchral.

"Depart!" repeated the priest, with an expression of doubt and alarm.

"Yes," said the mysterious figure; "wherefore dost thou inquire?"

"Our only resting-place, our point of support, our sustenance and our
refuge! Are we to leave this, and buffet with the winds and waves of
misfortune, without a haven or a hiding-place? Surely"----

"I have said it, and to-morrow ye must depart!"

"Whither?" inquired the priest; his opinion evidently controlled by
the belief that a being of a superior nature was before him.

"Beyond the Abbey of Furness. Choose a fitting place for your
encampment, and there abide until I come."

"It doth appear to my weak and unassisted sense," said the priest, in
great agony of spirit, arising from his doubt and unbelief, "that it
were the very utmost of madness and folly to give up this strong and
almost impregnable position for one where our little army may be
outflanked, and even surrounded by superior strength and numbers."

"Disobey, and thy life, and all that are with thee, shall be cut off!"

"And to-morrow! Ere we have news from our partisans in the south?
Maurice will be here the third day at the latest."

"I have said it," replied the figure, peremptorily; when suddenly,
and, as it were, formed immediately at his side, appeared another
figure, similar to the first, assuming nearly the same attitude and
manner, save that the latter looked something taller and more
majestic.

"St Mary's grace and the abbot's, there 's twa of us!" cried the first
figure, no less a personage than Dick Empson, who had been daring
enough to adopt this disguise, according to the instructions he had
received at the abbey. He uttered the words in a tone of thrilling and
horrible apprehension, like the last shriek of the victim writhing in
the fangs of his destroyer.

The terrible apparition cried out to his surreptitious
representative--"Nay, miscreant; but one. This thou shalt know, and
feel too. Fool and impostor, thy last hour is come!"

As he spake he seized on the miserable wretch in their presence,
swinging him round by the waist like an infant, and bore him off, up
the turret stairs, to the summit. Ere he disappeared he uttered this
terrible denunciation--

"Your ruin is at hand. Flee! This fool hath betrayed ye, and I return
no more!"

Darting up the staircase, the shrieks of Dick Empson were heard, as if
rapidly ascending to the summit. A wilder and more desperate
struggle--then a heavy plunge, and the waters closed over their prey!

Dick's body was cast up by the waves, but the terrible unknown did not
return; nor was he ever seen or heard of again, save, it is said, that
when the priest received his death-wound, soon afterwards, on the
field of battle, this awful form appeared to rise up before him, and
with scoff and taunt upbraided him as the cause of his own ruin, and
the downfall of his hopes.

The next day, from whatever cause, the troops began to move from their
post. Ere the second evening, they had completely evacuated the castle
and the island, which the wary Abbot of Furness soon turned to his own
advantage, occupying the place with some of his armed vassals. The
rebels, proved to be such by their ill success, took up a tolerably
advantageous position upon Swartz Moor, in the neighbourhood of
Ulverstone, where, waiting in vain for the expected reinforcements,
they found themselves obliged to move forward, or be utterly without
the means either of subsistence or defence. Sir Thomas Broughton, and
a few more of little note, accompanied them to Stokeford, near Newark,
where, engaging the king's forces on the 6th of June 1487, they
maintained an obstinate and bloody engagement, disputed with more
bravery than could have been expected from the inequality of their
forces. The leaders were resolved to conquer or to perish, and their
troops were animated with the same resolution. The Flemings, too,
being veteran and experienced soldiers, kept the event long doubtful;
and even the Irish, though ill-armed and almost defenceless, showed
themselves not deficient in spirit and bravery. The king's victory was
purchased with great loss, but was entirely decisive. Lincoln, Swartz,
and, according to some accounts, Sir Thomas Broughton, perished on the
field of battle, with four thousand of their followers. As Lovel was
never more heard of, he was supposed to have undergone the same fate.
Simnel, apart from his followers, was too contemptible to be an object
either of apprehension or resentment on the part of the king. He was
pardoned, and, it is said, made a scullion in the royal kitchen, from
which menial office he was afterwards advanced to the rank of
falconer.

Thus ended this strange rebellion, which only served to seat Henry
more securely on his throne, extinguishing, finally, the intrigues and
anticipations of the house of York.


[Illustration: BEWSEY, NEAR WARRINGTON.
_Drawn by G. Pickering._
_Engraved by Edw'd. Finden._]




A LEGEND OF BEWSEY.

     "Yestreen I dreamed a doleful dream,
       I fear there will be sorrow!
     I dreamed I pu'd the heather green
       With my true love on Yarrow.

     "She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair,
       She searched his wounds all thorough,
     She kissed them till her lips grew red,
       On the dowie howms of Yarrow."


Warrington is described by Camden as remarkable for its lords,
surnamed Butler, or Boteler, of Bewsey. This name was derived from
their office, Robert le Pincerna having discharged the duties of that
station under Ranulph, Earl of Chester, in 1158, hence taking the
surname. Almeric Butler, his descendant, having married Beatrice,
daughter and co-heir of Matthew Villiers, Lord of Warrington, became
possessed of the barony.

A MS. in the Bodleian Library gives the following statement, which,
though manifestly incorrect in respect of names and particulars, may
yet be relied on with regard to the main facts, corroborated by
tradition, which still preserves the memory of this horrible event.

"Sir John Butler, Knt., was slaine in his bedde by the procurement of
the Lord Standley, Sir Piers Leigh and Mister William Savage joining
with him in that action (corrupting his servants), his porter setting
a light in a window to give knowledge upon the water that was about
his house at Bewsey (where your way to ... comes). They came over the
moate in lether boats, and so to his chamber, where one of his
servants, named Houlcrofte, was slaine, being his chamberlaine; the
other basely betrayed his master;--they payed him a great reward, and
so coming away with him, they hanged him at a tree in Bewsey
Parke;--after this Sir John Butler's lady prosecuted those that slew
her husband, and ... £20 for that suite, but, being married to Lord
Grey, he made her suite voyd, for which reason she parted from her
husband and came into Lancashire, saying, If my lord will not let me
have my will of my husband's enemies, yet shall my body be buried by
him; and she caused a tomb of alabaster to be made, where she lyeth on
the ... hand of her husband, Sir John Butler.

It is further stated in the MS. that the occasion of this murder was
because of a request from Earl Derby that Sir John would make one of
the train which followed him on his going to meet King Henry VII., and
which request was discourteously refused.

The following extract from Froissart may not be deemed uninteresting,
as a record of one of our Lancashire worthies, Sir John Butler of
Bewsey, relating how he was rescued from the hands of those who sought
his life at the siege of Hennebon:--

"The Lord Lewis of Spain came one day into the tent of Lord Charles of
Blois, where were numbers of the French nobility, and requested of him
a boon for all the services done to him, and as a recompense for them
the Lord Charles promised to grant whatever he should ask, as he held
himself under many obligations to him. Upon which the Lord Lewis
desired that the two prisoners, Sir John Boteler and Sir Mw.
Trelawney, who were in prison of the Castle of Faouet, might be sent
for, and delivered up to him, to do with them as should please him
best.

"'This is the boon I ask, for they have discomfited, pursued, and
wounded me; have also slain the Lord Alphonso, my nephew, and I have
no other way to be revenged on them than to have them beheaded in
sight of their friends who are shut up in Hennebon.'

"The Lord Charles was much amazed at this request, and replied, 'I
will certainly give you the prisoners since you have asked for them;
but you will be very cruel, and much to blame, if you put to death two
such valiant men; and our enemies will have an equal right to do the
same to any of our friends whom they may capture, for we are not clear
what may happen to any one of us every day. I therefore entreat, dear
sir and sweet cousin, that you would be better advised.'

"Lord Lewis said that if he did not keep his promise he would quit the
army, and never serve or love him as long as he lived.

"When the Lord Charles saw that he must comply, he sent off messengers
to the Castle of Faouet, who returned with the two prisoners, and
carried them to the tent of Lord Charles.

"Neither tears nor entreaties could prevail on Lord Lewis to desist
from his purpose of having them beheaded after dinner, so much was he
enraged against them.

"All the conversation, and everything that passed between the Lord
Charles and Lord Lewis, relative to these two prisoners, was told to
Sir Walter Manny and Sir Amauri de Clisson, by friends and spies, who
represented the danger in which the two knights were. They bethought
themselves what was best to be done, but after considering schemes,
could fix on none. At last Sir Walter said, 'Gentlemen, it would do us
great honour if we could rescue these two knights. If we should
adventure it and should fail, King Edward would himself be obliged to
us, and all wise men who may hear of it in times to come will thank
us, and say we had done our duty. I will tell you my plan, and you are
able to undertake it, for I think we are bound to risk our lives in
endeavouring to save those of two such gallant knights. I propose,
therefore, if it be agreeable to you, that we arm immediately, and
form ourselves into two divisions,--one shall set off, as soon after
dinner as possible, by this gate, and draw up near the ditch, to
skirmish with and alarm the enemy, who, you may believe, will soon
muster to that part, and, if you please, you, Sir Amauri de Clisson,
shall have the command of it, and shall take with you 1000 good
archers to make those that may come to you retreat back again, and 300
men-at-arms. I will have with me 100 of my companions, and 500
archers, and will sally out at the postern on the opposite side,
privately, and coming behind them will fall upon their camp, which we
shall find unguarded. I will take with me those who are acquainted
with the road to Lord Charles's tent, where the two prisoners are, and
will make for that part of the camp. I can assure you that I and my
companions will do everything in our power to bring back in safety
these two knights, if it please God.'

"This proposal was agreeable to all, and they directly separated to
arm and prepare themselves. About an hour after dinner Sir Amauri and
his party set off; and having had the principal gate of Hennebon
opened for them, which led to the road that went straight to the army
of Lord Charles, they rushed forward, making great cries and noise, to
the tents and huts, which they cut down, and killed all that came in
their way. The enemy was much alarmed, and putting themselves in
motion, got armed as quickly as possible, and advanced towards the
English and Bretons, who received them very warmly. The skirmish was
sharp, and many on each side were slain.

"When Sir Amauri perceived that almost the whole of the army was in
motion and drawn out, he retreated very handsomely, fighting all the
time, to the barriers of the town, when he suddenly halted: then the
archers, who had been posted on each side of the ditch beforehand,
made such good use of their bows that the engagement was very hot, and
all the army of the enemy ran thither except the servants.

"During this time Sir Walter Manny, with his company, issued out
privily by the postern, and, making a circuit, came upon the rear of
the enemy's camp. They were not perceived by any one, for all were
gone to the skirmish upon the ditch. Sir Walter made straight for the
tent of Lord Charles, where he found the two knights, Sir John Boteler
and Sir Mw. Trelawney, whom he immediately mounted on two coursers
which he had ordered to be brought for them, and retiring as fast as
possible, entered Hennebon by the same way as he sallied forth. The
Countess of Montfort came to see them, and received them with great
joy."--_Froissart_, by Col. Johnes, vol. ii. p. 9.

The Butlers continued to occupy Bewsey till the year 1603, when Edward
Butler sold this estate to the Irelands of Hale. It then passed from
the Irelands to the Athertons, and is now enjoyed by Thomas Powis,
Lord Lilford, of Lilford, Northamptonshire, in virtue of the marriage
of his father, in the year 1797, with Henrietta Maria, daughter and
heiress of Robert Vernon Atherton, of Atherton Hall, Esq.--_Vide_
Baines's _Lancashire_.

     Oh listen to my roundelay,
       Oh listen a while to me,
     And I'll tell ye of a deadly feud
       That fell out in the north countrie.

     The summer leaves were fresh and green
       When Earl Derby forth would ride;
     For King Henry and his company
       To Lathom briskly hied.

     A bridge he had builded fair and strong,
       With wondrous cost and pain,
     O'er Mersey's stream, by Warrington,
       For to meet that royal train.[6]

     And lord, and knight, and baron bold,
       That dwelt in this fair countrie,
     With the Derby train a-riding were,
       Save Sir John of proud Bewsey.

     "Now foul befa' that scornfu' knight,"
       Cried Stanley in his pride;
     "For he hath my just and honest suit
       Discourteously denied:

     "Such hatred of our high estate,
       This traitor sore shall rue;
     I'll be avenged, or this good sword
       Shall rot the scabbard through!"

     He swore a furious oath, I trow,
       And clenched his iron hand,
     As he rode forth to meet his son,
       The monarch of merry England.

            *       *       *       *       *

     The summer leaves were over and gone,
        But the ivy and yew were green,
     When to Bewsey hall came a jovial crew
       On the merry Christmas e'en.

     It was mirth and feasting in hall and bower
       On that blessed and holy tide,
     But ere the morning light arose,
       There was darkness on all their pride!

     Dark wonne the night, and the revellers gay
       From the laughing halls are gone;
     The clock from the turret, old and grey,
       With solemn tongue tolled one.

     The blast was moaning down the glen,
       Through the pitch-like gloom it came,
     Like a spirit borne upon demon wings
       To the pit of gnawing flame!

     But Sir John was at rest, with his lady love,
       In a pleasant sleep they lay;
     Nor felt the sooning, shuddering wind
       Round the grim, wide welkin play.

     Their little babe, unconscious now,
       Lay slumbering hard by;
     And he smiled as the loud, loud tempest rocked
       His cradle wondrously.

     There comes a gleam on the billowy moat
       Like a death-light on its wave,
     It streams from the ivied lattice, where
       Sits a grim false-hearted knave.

     He saw it on the soft white snow,
       And across the moat it passed:
     "'Tis well," said that false and grim porter,
       And a fearsome look he cast.

     A look he cast so wild and grim,
       And he uttered a deadly vow;
     "For thy dool and thy doom this light shall be,
       Thy foes are hastening now!

     "Sleep on, sleep on, thou art weary, Sir John;
       Thy last sleep shall it be:
     Sleep on, sleep on, with thy next good sleep
       Thou shalt rest eternally!"

     The traitor watched the waters dance,
       In the taper's treacherous gleam;
     And they hissed, and they rose, by the tempest tossed
       Through that pale and lonely beam.

     What hideous thing comes swift and dark
       Athwart that flickering wave?
     A spectre boat there seems to glide,
       With many an uplift glaive.

     The bolts are unslid by that grim porter,
       And a gladsome man was he,
     When three foemen fierce strode up the stair,
       All trim and cautiously.

     "Now who be ye," cried the chamberlain,
       "That come with stealth and staur?"
     "We come to bid thy lord good den,
       So open to us the door."

     "Ere I will open to thieves like ye,
       My limbs ye shall hew and hack.
     Awake, Sir John! awake and flee;
       These blood-hounds are on thy track!"

     "We'll stop thy crowing, pretty bird!
       Now flutter thy wings again:"
     With that they laid him a ghastly corpse,
       And the red blood ran amain.

     "Oh help!" the lady shrieked aloud;
       "Arise, Sir John, and flee;
     Oh heard you not yon cry of pain
       Like some mortal agony?"

     "I hear it not," Sir John replied,
       For his sleep was wondrous strong;
     "But see yon flashing weapons, sure
       To foemen they belong!"

     The knight from his bed leaped forth to flee,
       But they've pierced his body through;
     And with wicked hands, and weapons keen,
       Him piteously they slew!

     But that porter grim, strict watch he kept,
       Beside the stair sate he;
     When lo! comes tripping down a page,
       With a basket defterly.

     "Now whither away, thou little page,
       Now whither away so fast?"
     "They have slain Sir John," said the little page,
       "And his head in this wicker cast."

     "And whither goest thou with that grisly head?"
       Cried the grim porter again,
     "To Warrington Bridge they bade me run,
       And set it up amain."

     "There may it hang," cried that loathly knave,
       "And grin till its teeth be dry;
     While every day with jeer and taunt
       Will I mock it till I die!"

     The porter opened the wicket straight,
       And the messenger went his way,
     For he little guessed of the head that now
       In that basket of wicker lay.

     "We've killed the bird, but where's the egg?"
       Then cried those ruffians three.
     "Where is thy child?" The lady moaned,
       But never a word spake she.

     But, swift as an arrow, to his bed
       The lady in terror sprung;
     When, oh! a sorrowful dame was she,
       And her hands she madly wrung.

     "The babe is gone! Oh, spare my child,
       And strike my heart in twain!"
     To those ruthless men the lady knelt,
       But her piteous suit was vain.

     "Traitor!" they cried to that grim porter,
       "Whom hast thou suffered forth?
     If thou to us art false, good lack,
       Thy life is little worth!"

     "There's nought gone forth from this wicket yet,"
       Said that grim and grisly knave,
     "But a little foot-page, with his master's head,
       That ye to his charges gave."

     "Thou liest, thou grim and fause traitor!"
       Cried out those murderers three;
     "The head is on his carcase yet,
       As thou mayest plainly see!"

     When the lady heard this angry speech,
       Her heart waxed wondrous fain;
     For she knew the page was a trusty child,
       And her babe in his arms had lain.

     "Where is the gowd?" said that grim porter,
       "The gowd ye sware unto me?"
     "We'll give thee all thine hire," said they;
       "We play not false like thee!"

     They counted down the red, red gold,
       And the porter laughed outright:
     "Now we have paid thy service well,
       For thy master's blood this night;

     "For thy master's blood thou hast betrayed,
       We've paid thee thy desire;
     But for thy treachery unto us,
       Thou hast not had thine hire."

     They've ta'en a cord, both stiff and strong,
       And they sought a goodly tree;
     And from its boughs the traitor swung;--
       So hang all knaves like he!

     But the lady found her pretty babe;--
       Ere the morning light was nigh,
     To the hermit's cell[7] that little page
       Had borne him craftily.

     And the mass was said, and the requiem sung,
       And the priests, with book and stole,
     The body bore to its cold still bed,
       "Gramercy on his soul!"

     [6] "Thomas, first Earl of Derby, as a compliment
     to his royal relative, Henry VII., on his visit to Lathom and
     Knowsley in 1496, built the bridge at Warrington; and by this
     munificent act conferred a benefit upon the two palatine
     counties, the value of which it is not easy to
     estimate."--Baines's _Lancashire_.

     [7] The Butlers, it is conjectured, were patrons of
     the priory of the hermit friars of St Augustine, founded before
     1379, near the bridge. In 32 Henry VIII., this institution was
     dissolved, and its possessions were granted to the great
     monastic grantee, Thomas Holcroft.--_Vide_ Tanner's _Not. Mon._
     About forty years ago the remains of a gateway of the priory
     stood on Friar's Green, and some years after that period a
     stone coffin was dug up near the same place.


[Illustration: THE BLESSING]




THE BLESSING.

     "I had most need of blessing, and amen
     Stuck in my throat."

     --_Macbeth._


We have been unable to identify the spot where the occurrence took
place, the subject of the following ballad. It is in all likelihood
one of those wild and monkish legends that may be fitted or applied to
any situation, according to the whim of the narrator. Many such
legends, though the number is lessening daily, are still preserved,
and an amusing volume might be made of these unappropriated wanderers
that possess neither a local habitation nor a name.

     The chase was done--the feast was begun,
       When the baron sat proudly by;
     And the revelry rode on the clamouring wind,
       That swept through the hurtling sky.

     No lordly guest that feast had blessed,
       No solemn prayer was said;
     But with ravenous hands, unthankfully,
       They brake their daily bread.

     The chase was done--the feast was begun,
       When a palmer sat in that hall;
     Yet his pale dim eye from its rest ne'er rose,
       To gaze on that festival!

     The crackling blaze on his wan cheek plays,
       And athwart his gloomy brow;
     While his hands are spread to the rising flame,
       And his feet to the embers' glow.

     For the blast was chill, o'er the mist-covered hill,
       And the palmer's limbs were old;
     And weary the way his feet had trod,
       Since the matin-bell had tolled.

     The baron spake--"This morsel take,
       And yon pilgrim greet from me;
     Tell him we may not forget to share
       The joys of our revelry!"

     Then thus began that holy man,
       As he lowly bent his knee--
     "I may not taste of the meat unblessed;
       I would 'twere so with thee."

     "Then mumble thy charm o'er the embers warm,"
       That baron proud replied;
     "No boon from my hand shalt thou receive,
       Nor foaming cup from my side."

     The palmer bowed, the giddy crowd,
       With mirth and unseemly jest,
     His meekness taunt, when he answered not,
       The gibe of each courtly guest.

     The minstrel sang, the clarions rang,
       And the baron sat proudly there,
     And louder the revelry rode on the wind,
       That swept through the hurtling air.

     "What tidings for me from the east countrie?
       What news from the Paynim land?"
     As the baron spake, his goblet bright
       He raised in his outstretched hand.

     "There's tidings for thee from the east countrie,"
       The pilgrim straight replied;
     "A mighty chief, at a mighty feast,
       There sat in all his pride."

     "'Twas wondrous well;--and what befell
       This chief at his lordly feast?"
     "A goblet was filled with the red grape's blood,
       And he pledged each rising guest."

     "'Tis gladsome news;--but did they refuse
       The pledge they loved so well?"
     "Oh no; for each cup mantling forth to the brim,
       Did the harp and the clarion tell."

     "And where didst thou such tidings know?"
       "A pilgrim told it me:
     And he sat on the hearth at this unblessed feast,
       Where he shared not the revelry,

     "For ere was quaffed each sparkling draught,
       Or the foam from the ruby wine,
     He dashed the cup from that baron's lip,
       As now I do from thine!"

     And the palmer passed by, as each goblet on high
       Was waved at their chief's command,
     But ere the cup had touched his lip,
       It was dashed from his lifted hand!

     "A boon from thee, on my bended knee,"
       The palmer boldly cried;
     "Seize first with speed yon traitor page
       Who bore the cup to thy side."

     And the page they have bound on the cold, cold ground,
       And his treason he hath confessed;
     He had poisoned the cup with one subtle drop,
       Which he drew from his crimson vest.

     And the palmer grey his treachery
       Had watched, when all beside
     In the feast were gaily revelling,
       Nor danger there espied.

     "Say where didst thou the treason know?"
       The troubled chieftain cried;
     "I had blessed thy bread, I had blessed thy bowl,"
       The hoary man replied.

     "And the blessing was given--the boon from heaven;
       Or this night from thy lordly bed
     Thy spirit had passed with the shuddering blast,
       With the loud, shrill shriek of the dead!

     "Oh! never taste the meat unblessed;
       Remember the palmer grey;
     Though he wander afar from thy castle gate,
       Yet forget not thy feast to-day."

     And the pilgrim is gone from that gate alone,
       When prayer and vow were said;
     And the blessing thenceforth from that house was heard
       Ere they broke their daily bread.


[Illustration: THE DULE UPO' DUN]





THE DULE UPO' DUN.

     "Wae, wae is me, on soul an' body,
         Old Hornie has lifted his paw, man;
     An' the carle will come, an' gallop me hame,
         An' I maun gae pipe in his ha', man!"

     --_Old Ballad._

For the tradition upon which the following tale is founded, the author
is indebted to _The Kaleidoscope_, an interesting weekly miscellany,
published by Messrs Smith and Son at Liverpool.


Barely three miles from Clitheroe, as you enter a small village on the
right of the high road to Gisburne, stands a public-house, having for
its sign the title of our story. On it is depicted his Satanic
majesty, curiously mounted upon a scraggy dun horse, without saddle,
bridle, of any sort of equipments whatsoever--the terrified steed
being off and away at full gallop from the door, where a small
hilarious tailor, with shears and measures, appears to view the
departure of him of the cloven foot with anything but grief or
disapprobation.

The house itself is one of those ancient, gabled, black and white
edifices, now fast disappearing under the giant march of improvement,
which tramples down alike the palace and the cottage, the peasant's
hut and the patrician's dwelling. Many windows, of little
lozenge-shaped panes set in lead, might be seen here in all the
various stages of renovation and decay: some stuffed with clouts,
parti-coloured and various; others, where the work of devastation had
been more complete, were wholly darkened by brick-bats, coble-stones,
and many other ingenious substitutes and expedients to keep out the
weather.

But our tale hath a particular bearing to other and more terrific
days--"the olden time," so fruitful in marvels and extravagances--the
very poetry of the black art; when Satan communed visibly and audibly
with the children of men--thanks to the invokers of relics and the
tellers of beads--and was so familiar and reasonable withal, as to
argue and persuade men touching the propriety of submitting themselves
to him, as rational and intelligent creatures; and even was silly
enough, at times, to suffer himself to be outwitted by the greater
sagacity and address of his intended victims. For proof, we cite the
following veracious narrative, which bears within it every internal
mark of truth, and matter for grave and serious reflection.

"Little Mike," or more properly Michael Waddington, was a merry tailor
of some note in his day, who formerly, that is to say, some eight or
nine score years ago--dwelt in this very tenement, where he followed
his profession, except when enticed by the smell of good liquor to the
village alehouse--the detriment, and even ruin, of many a goodly
piece of raiment, which at times he clipped and shaped in such wise as
redounded but little to the credit of either wearer or artificer. Mike
was more alive to a merry troll and graceless story, in the kitchen of
mine host "at the inn," than to the detail of his own shopboard, with
the implements of his craft about him, making and mending the oddly
assorted adjuncts of the village churls. Such was his liking for
pastime and good company that the greater part of his earnings went
through the tapster's melting pot; and grieved are we, as veritable
chroniclers, to state that it was not until even credit failed him,
that he settled to work for another supply of the elixir vitæ--the
pabulum of his being. It may be supposed that matters went on but
indifferently at home, where want and poverty had left indelible
traces of their presence. Matty Waddington, his spouse, would have had
hard work to make both ends meet had she not been able to scrape
together a few pence and broken victuals by selling firewood, and
helping her neighbours with any extra work that was going forward.
Yet, in general, she bore all her troubles and privations with great
patience and good humour--at any rate in the presence of her husband,
who, though an idler and a spendthrift, was, to say the truth, not
viciously disposed towards her, like many beastly sots, but, on the
contrary, he usually behaved with great deference and kindness to his
unfortunate helpmate in all things but that of yielding to his
besetting sin; having an unquenchable thirst for good liquor, which
all his resolutions and vows of amendment could not withstand.

One evening the little hero of our story was at his usual pastime in
the public-house, but his "cup was run low," and his credit still
lower. In fact, both cash and credit were finished; his liquor was
within a short pull from the bottom; and he sat ruminating on the
doleful emergencies to which he was subject, and the horrible spectres
that would assail him on the morrow, in the shape of sundry riven
doublets and hose, beside rents and repairs innumerable, which had
been accumulating for some weeks, to the no small inconvenience and
exposure of their owners and former occupiers.

"I wish I were the squire's footman, or e'en his errand-boy, and could
get a sup of good liquor without riving and tuggin' for't," thought he
aloud. Scarce were the words uttered, when there came a mighty civil
stranger into the company, consisting of village professors of the
arts, such as the barber, the blacksmith, and the bell-ringer,
together with our knight of the iron thimble. The new-comer was
dressed in a respectable suit of black; a wig of the same colour
adorned his wide and ample head, which was again surmounted by a
peaked hat, having a band and buckle above its brim, and a black rose
in front. He looked an elderly and well-ordered gentleman, mighty
spruce, and full of courtesy; and his cane was black as ebony, with a
yellow knob that glittered like gold. He had a huge beaked nose, and a
little black ferrety eye, which almost pierced what it gazed upon.
Every one made way for the stranger, who sat down, not in the full
glare of the fire to be sure, but rather on one side, so that he might
have a distinct view of the company, without being himself subject to
any scrutinising observances.

"Pleasant night abroad," said the new-comer.

"Pleasanter within though," responded every thought.

"It's moonlight, I reckon," said Mike, who was just meditating over
his last draught, and his consequent departure from this bibacious
paradise.

"Nay, friend," said the black gentleman, "but the stars shine out
rarely; and the snow lies so bright and crisp like, ye may see
everything afore ye as plain as Pendle. Landlord, bring me a cup of
the best; and put a little on the fire to warm, with some sugar, for
it's as cold as a raw turnip to one's stomach."

"Humph!" said mine host, testily; "it's a good-for-nothin' belly
that'll not warm cold ale."

"It's good-for-nothin' ale, Giles, thee means, that'll not warm a cowd
belly," said one of the wits of the party, a jolly young blacksmith,
an especial favourite amongst the lasses and good fellows of the
neighbourhood.

"Nay, the dickens!" said another; "Giles Chatburn's ale would warm the
seat of old cloven-foot himsel';" and with that there were roars of
laughing, in which, however, the stranger did not participate. Mike
wondered that so good a joke should not have its due effect upon him;
and many other notable things were said and done which we have neither
space nor inclination to record, but the stranger still maintained his
grave and unaccountable demeanour. Mike ever and anon cast a glance
towards him, and he always observed that the stranger's eye was fixed
upon his own. A dark, bright, burning eye, such as made the recreant
tailor immediately look aside, for he could not endure its brightness.

Mike began to grow restless and uncomfortable. He changed his place,
but the glance of the stranger followed him. It was like the gaze of a
portrait, which, in whatever situation the beholder may be placed, is
always turned towards him. It may readily be supposed that Michael
Waddington, though not averse to being looked at in the ordinary way,
did not relish this continued and searching sort of disposition on the
part of the gentleman in black. Several times he was on the point of
speaking, but his heart always failed him as the word reached his lip.

His liquor was now done, but he was not loth to depart as beforetime;
for at any rate, he should be quit of the annoyance he had so long
endured. He arose with less regret assuredly than usual; and just as
he was passing the doorway he cast a look round over his shoulder, and
beheld the same fixed, unflinching eye gazing on him. He jumped
hastily over the threshold, and was immediately on his road home. He
had not been gone more than a few minutes when he heard a sharp
footstep on the crisp snow behind him. Turning round, he saw the dark
tall peak of the stranger's hat, looking tenfold darker, almost
preternaturally black, on the white background, as he approached. Mike
felt his hair bristling through terror. His knees, usually bent
somewhat inwards, now fairly smote together, so that he could not
accelerate his pace, and the stranger was quickly at his side.

"Thou art travelling homewards, I trow," said he of the black peak.
Mike made some barely intelligible reply. "I know it," returned the
other. "But why art thou leaving so soon?"

"My money's done, an' credit too, for that matter," tardily replied
the tailor.

"And whose fault's that?" returned his companion. "Thou mayest have
riches, and everything else, if thou wilt be advised by me."

Mike stared, as well he might, at the dark figure by his side. The
idea of wealth without labour was perfectly new to him, and he
ventured to ask how this very desirable object might be accomplished.

"Listen. Thou art a poor miserable wretch, and canst hardly earn a
livelihood with all thy toil. Is't not a pleasant thing and a
desirable, however procured, to obtain wealth at will, and every
happiness and delight that man can enjoy?"

Michael's thirsty lips watered at the prospect, notwithstanding his
dread of the black gentleman at his elbow.

"I was once poor and wretched as thou. But I grew wiser,
and--unlimited wealth is now at my command."

There was an awful pause; the stranger apparently wishful to know the
effect of this mysterious communication. The liquorish tailor listened
greedily, expecting to hear of the means whereby his condition would
be so wonderfully amended.

"Hast thou never heard of those who have been helped by the powers of
darkness to"----

"Save us, merci"----

"Hold!" said the peremptory stranger, seizing Mike rudely by the
wrist. "Another such outcry, and I will leave thee to thy seams and
patches; to starve, or linger on, as best thou mayst."

Michael promised obedience, and his companion continued--

"There is no such great harm or wickedness in it as people suppose.
Quite an ordinary sort of proceeding, I assure thee; and such an one
as thou mayst accomplish in a few minutes, with little trouble or
inconvenience."

"Tell me the wondrous secret," said Michael eagerly, who, in the
glowing prospect thus opened out to him, felt all fear of his
companion giving way.

"Well, then; thou mayst say two aves, the creed, and thy paternoster
backwards thrice, and call upon the invisible demon to appear, when he
will tell thee what thou shalt do."

Michael felt a strange thrill come over him at these fearful words. He
looked at his companion, but saw not anything more notable than the
high-peaked hat, and the huge beaked nose, as before. By this time
they were close upon his own threshold, and Michael was just debating
within himself upon the propriety of asking his companion to enter,
when his deliberations were cut short by the other saying he had
business of importance a little farther; and with that he bade him
good night.

Michael spent the remaining hours of darkness in tossing and
rumination; but in the end the gratifying alternative between wealth
and poverty brought his deliberations to a close. He determined to
follow the advice and directions of the stranger. There could be no
harm in it. He only intended to inquire how such wealth might be
possessed; but if in any way diabolical or wicked, he would not need
to have anything further to do in the matter. Thus reasoning, and thus
predetermined how to act, our self-deluded stitcher of seams bent his
way, on the following forenoon, to a solitary place near the river,
where he intended to perform the mighty incantation. Yet, when he
tried to begin, his stomach felt wondrous heavy and oppressed. He
trembled from head to foot, and sat down for some time to recruit his
courage. The words of the stranger emboldened him.

"'Quite an ordinary business,'" said he; and Mike went to work with
his lesson, which he had been conning as he went. Scarcely was the
last word of this impious incantation uttered, when a roaring clap of
thunder burst above him, and the arch enemy of mankind stood before
the panic-stricken tailor.

"Why hast thou summoned me hither?" said the infernal monarch, in a
voice like the rushing wind or the roar of the coming tempest. But
Michael could not speak before the fiend.

"Answer me--and truly," said the demon. This miserable fraction of a
man now fell on his knees, and in a most piteous accent exclaimed--

"Oh! oh! mercy. I did not--I--want--nothing!"

"Base, audacious slave! Thou art telling me an untruth, and thou
knowest it. Show me thy business instantly, or I will carry thee off
to my dominions without further ado."

At this threat the miserable mortal prostrated himself, a tardy
confession being wrung from him.

"Oh! pardon. Thou knowest my poverty and my distress. I want riches,
and--and"----

"Good!" said the demon, with a horrible smile. "'Tis what ye are ever
hankering after. Every child of Adam doth cry with insatiate thirst,
'Give--give!' But hark thee! 'tis thine own fault if thou art not
rich, and that speedily. I will grant thee _three_ wishes: use them as
thou wilt."

Now the rogue was glad when he heard this gracious speech, and in the
fulness of his joy exclaimed--

"Bodikins! but I know what my first wish will be; and I'se not want
other two."

"How knowest thou that?" said the demon, with a look of contumely and
scorn so wild and withering that Michael started back in great terror.

"Before this favour is granted though," continued the fiend, "there is
a small matter by way of preliminary to be settled."

"What is that?" inquired the trembling novice with increasing
disquietude and alarm.

"A contract must be signed, and delivered too."

"A contract! Dear me; and for what?"

"For form's sake merely; no more, I do assure thee--a slight
acknowledgment for the vast benefits I am bound to confer. To wit,
that at the end of seven years thou wilt bear me company."

"Me!" cried the terrified wretch; "nay, then, keep thy gifts to
thyself; I'll none o' them on this condition."

"Wretched fool!" roared the infuriate fiend; at the sound of which the
culprit fairly tumbled backward. "Sign this contract, or thou shalt
accompany me instantly. Ay, this very minute: for know, that every one
who calls on me is delivered into my power; and think thyself well
dealt with when I offer thee an alternative. Thou hast the chance of
wealth, honour, and prosperity if thou sign this bond. If thou do not,
I will have thee whether or no--that's all. What sayest thou?" and the
apostate angel spread forth his dark wings, and seemed as though ready
to pounce upon his unresisting victim.

In a twinkling, Michael decided that it would be much better to sign
the bond and have the possession of riches, with seven years to enjoy
them in, than be dragged off to the burning pit immediately, without
any previous enjoyment whatsoever. Besides, in that seven years who
knew what might turn up in his favour.

"I consent," said he; and the arch-enemy produced his bond. A drop of
blood, squeezed from the hand of his victim, was the medium of this
fearful transfer; and instantly on its execution another clap of
thunder announced the departure of Satan with the price of another
soul in his grasp.

Michael was now alone. He could hardly persuade himself that he had
not been dreaming. He looked at his finger, where a slight wound was
still visible, from which a drop of blood still hung--a terrible
confirmation of his fears.

Returning home, sad and solitary, he attempted to mount to his usual
place, but even this exertion was more than he could accomplish. One
black and burning thought tormented him, and he sat down by his own
cheerless hearth, more cheerless than he had ever felt before. Matty
was preparing dinner; but it was a meagre and homely fare--a little
oaten bread, and one spare collop which had been given her by a
neighbour. Scanty as was the meal, it was better than the humble
viands which sometimes supplied their board. Matty knew not the real
cause of her husband's dumps, supposing it to be the usual workings of
remorse, if not repentance, to which Mike was subject whenever his
pocket was empty and the burning spark in his throat unquenched. She
invited him to partake, but he could not eat. He sat with eyes
half-shut, fixed on the perishing embers, and replied not to the
remonstrances of his dame.

"Why, Mike, I say," cried the kind-hearted woman, "what ails thee?
Cheer up, man, and finish thy collop. Thou mayest fret about it as
thou likes, but thou cannot undo a bad stitch by wishing. If it will
make thee better for time to come, though, I'll not grumble. Come,
come, goodman, if one collop winna content thee, I wish we'd two,
that's all."

Scarce was the last word from her lips, when lo! a savoury and smoking
rasher was laid on the table by some invisible hand. Michael was
roused from his lethargy by this unlucky wish. Darting a terrified
look on the morsel, he cried out--

"Woman, woman! what hast thou done? I wish thou wert far enough for
thy pains."

Immediately she disappeared--whisked off by the same invisible hands;
but whither he could not tell.

"Oh me--oh me!" cried the afflicted tailor at this double mishap;
"what shall I do now? I shall assuredly starve; and yet I've one wish
left. Humph, I'd better be wary in making it though. Best take time to
consider, lest I throw this needlessly after the rest."

Mike could not make up his mind as to what he would have, nor indeed
could he bend down his thoughts steadfastly to any subject. He was in
a continual flutter. His brain was in a whirl. He looked round for
some relief. The house was in sad disorder, and he thought on his
absent wife.

"Dear me," thought he, as he fetched a scrap of wood to the fire, "I
wish Matty were here;" and his wife was immediately at his side.

Mike, now grown desperate, revealed to her the fearful cause of these
disasters, and the utter failure of any beneficial results from the
three wishes.

"We be just as we were," said he, "save that I've sold mysel', body
and soul, to the Evil One!"

Here he began to weep and lament very sore; and his wife was so much
overcome at the recital that she was nigh speechless through the
anguish she endured.

At length her tears began to lose their bitterness.

"It's no use greetin' at this gait," said she; "hie thee to the
parson, Michael, an' see if he canna quit thee o' this bond."

"Verily," said the poor tailor, with a piteous sigh, "that would be
leapin' out o' t' gutter into t' ditch. I should be burnt for a
he-witch an' a limb o' the de'il. I've yet seven years' respite from
torment, an' that would be to throw even these precious morsels away.
E'en let's tarry as we are, an' make the best on't. This comes of
idleness and drink; but if ever I put foot across Giles's doorstone
again, I wish--nay, it's no use wishing now, I've had enough o' sich
thriftless work for a bit. But I'll be sober an' mind my work, and
spend nothing idly, an' who knows but some plan or another may be hit
on to escape."

Now his disconsolate wife was much rejoiced at this determination, and
could not help saying--

"Who knows? perhaps it was for good, Mike, that this distress happened
thee."

He shook his head; but his resolution was made, and he adhered to it
in spite of the sneers and temptations of his former associates, who
often tried to lead him on to the same vicious courses again. He had
received a warning that he never forgot. The memory of it stuck to him
night and day; and he would as soon have thought of thrusting his hand
into the glowing coals as have entered Giles Chatburn's hovel again.
He was truly an altered man, but his wife was the first to feel
benefited by the change. He had plenty of work, and money came in
apace. The house was cleaned and garnished. There was abundance of
victuals, and a jug of their own brewing. He rarely stirred out but to
wait upon his customers, and then he came home as soon as the job was
completed. But there was an appearance of melancholy and dejection
continually about him. He looked wan and dispirited. Time was rapidly
passing by, and the last of the seven years was now ebbing away.

One night, as they were sitting a while after supper, he fetched a
heavy sigh.

"It is but a short time I have to live," said he.

"Nay," said the dame, let's hope that Heaven will not let thee fall a
prey to His enemy and ours. Besides thou hast gotten nothing from him
for thy bargain. It cannot be expected, therefore, that the old
deceiver can claim any recompense."

Mike shook his head, and looked incredulous.

"Sure as there's wind i' Meg's entry he'll come for his own. I've been
considering that I'd best go to the old man that lives in the cave by
Sally. He'll maybe give me some advice how to act when the time
comes."

This suggestion met with his wife's approval; and the next morning
our disconsolate hero was on his way to the "hermit" of the cave. The
holy recluse had been long famed through that region for his kindness
and attention to the wants of those who sought help and counsel; and
Michael thought no harm could come of it, even though he might be
unable to circumvent the designs of the arch-enemy.

His dwelling was by the river-side, in a little hut, the back of
which, the goodman's oratory, was scooped out in a circular form from
the bank.

"Holy father," said the tailor, on entering the cell, "I crave thy
benison."

The anchorite, who was on his knees before a crucifix, did not speak
until he had finished his devotions. He then rose and pronounced the
usual benedictory welcome.

"So far all is well," thought Mike; "I've got one blow at the devil
anyhow."

The holy father was very old, but he was hale and active. His white
silky beard almost touched his girdle, and his sharp though rheumy
eyes peered inquisitively on the person of his guest.

"What is thine errand, my son?" inquired the recluse.

"I have fallen into a grievous temptation, and would crave your
succour and advice."

"Heaven wills it oft, my son, that we fall into divers extremities to
humble us, and to show the folly and weakness of our hearts. What is
thy trouble and thy petition?"

"Alas!" said the other, weeping, "I have been face to face with the
father of lies, and I have suffered much damage therefrom."

"Thou hast not been tampering with forbidden arts, I hope?"

"Truly, that have I, and to my soul's cost, I fear," said the tailor,
with a groan of heartrending despair.

"Thy sin is great, my son; but so likewise is the remedy. Heaven
willeth not a sinner's death, if he turn again to Him with repentance
and contrition of spirit. I trust thou hast not trifled with thy
soul's welfare by taking and using any of the gifts whereby the old
serpent layeth hold on the souls of men?"

"Verily, nay; but he frightened me into the signing of a terrible
bond, wherein I promised, that after seven years were past and gone I
would be his!"

"Thy danger is terrible indeed. But he gave thee some equivalent for
the bargain? thou didst not sell thyself for nought?" said the hermit,
fixing his eye sternly on the trembling penitent; "and now, when thou
hast wasted the price of thy condemnation, thou comest for help; and
thou wouldest even play at cheatery with the devil!"

"Nay, most reverend father," said Michael, wiping his eyes; "never a
gift have I had from the foul fiend, save a bacon collop, and that was
cast out untouched." And with that he told of the manner in which he
was inveigled, and the scurvy trick which the deceiver had played him.

"Verily, there is hope," said the holy man, after musing a while; "yet
is it a perilous case, and only to be overcome by prayer and fasting.
If thou seek help sincerely, I doubt not that a way will be made for
thine escape. Listen;--it is never permitted that the enemy of our
race should reap the full benefit of the advantage which otherwise his
superior duplicity and intelligence would enable him to obtain. There
was never yet bond or bargain made by him, but, in one way or another,
it might be set aside, and the foul fiend discomfited. It may be
difficult, I own; and advice is not easily rendered in this matter:
but trust in the power of the All-powerful, and thou shalt not be
overcome. Wisdom, I doubt not, shall be vouchsafed in this extremity,
if thou apply anxiously and earnestly for it, seeking deliverance, and
repenting of thy great wickedness which thou hast committed."

With these and many other gracious words did the benevolent enthusiast
encourage this doomed mortal; and though heavy and disconsolate
enough, he returned more light-hearted than he came.

The time now drew near. The very week--the day--the hour, was come;
and when the sun should have climbed to the meridian Michael knew that
he would have to face the cunning foe who had beguiled him. His wife
would have tarried; but he peremptorily forbade. He would not be
disturbed in his intercessions. All that morning, without
intermission, he supplicated for wisdom and strength in the ensuing
conflict. He had retired to a little chamber at one end of the house,
and here he secured himself to prevent intrusion.

Noon was scarcely come when, true to the engagement, a loud
thunder-clap announced the approach and presence of this terrific
being.

"I am glad to find," said he, "that thou art ready."

"I am not ready," replied the trembling victim.

"How!" roared the sable chief, with a voice that shook the whole
house, like the passage of an earthquake; "dost thou deny the pledge?
darest thou gainsay this bond?"

"True enough," replied the debtor, "I signed that contract; but it was
won from me by fraud and dishonest pretences."

"Base, equivocating slave! how darest thou mock me thus? Thou hadst
thy wishes; the conditions have been fulfilled, ay, to the letter."

"I fear me," again said the victim, who felt his courage wonderfully
supported, "that thou knewest I should never be a pin the richer or
better for thy gifts; and thine aim was but to flatter and to cheat.
It is not in thy power, I do verily believe, to grant me riches or any
great thing that I might wish; so thou didst prompt, and, in a manner,
force me to those vain wishes, unthinkingly, by which I have been
beguiled."

"Dost thou doubt, then, my ability in this matter? Know that thy most
unbounded wishes would have been accomplished, else I release thee
from this bond."

"I say, and will vouch for 't, that all thy promises are lying cheats,
and that thou couldst not give me a beggarly bodle, if thou wert to
lay down thy two horns for it; so I demand my bond, according to thy
pledge."

"To show thee that I can keep this bond, even conformably to the terms
of my own offer just now, and thy pitiful carcase to boot, I'll e'en
grant thee another wish, that thou mayest be satisfied thou art past
all hope of redemption. Said I not, that if I could not fulfil any
wish of thine, even to the compass of all possible things, and the
riches of this great globe itself, I would release thee from this
bond?"

"Yea," said Michael, with an eager assent.

"Then wish once more; and mind that it be no beggarly desire. Wish to
the very summit of wealth, or the topmost pinnacle of thy ambition,
for it shall be given thee."

"Then," said the tailor hastily, as though fearful the word would not
come forth quick enough from his lips, "I wish thou wert riding back
again to thy quarters on yonder dun horse, and never be able to
plague me again, or any other poor wretch whom thou hast gotten into
thy clutches."

The demon gave a roar loud enough to be heard to the very antipodes,
and away went he, riveted to the back of this very dun horse, which
Michael had seen through the window grazing quietly in the lane,
little suspecting the sort of jockey that was destined to bestride
him. The tailor ran to the door to watch his departure, almost beside
himself for joy at this happy riddance. Dancing and capering into the
kitchen, where his wife was almost dying through terror, he related,
as soon as he was able, the marvellous story of his deliverance.

He relapsed not into his former courses, but lived happily to a good
old age, leaving behind him at his death good store of this world's
gear, which, as he had no children, was divided amongst his poorer
relatives. One of them having purchased the house where the tailor
dwelt, set up the trade of a tapster therein, having for his sign
"_The Dule upo' Dun_;" which to this day attests the truth of our
tradition, and the excellence of "mine host's" cheer.




WINDLESHAW ABBEY.

     "Adieu, fond love; farewell, you wanton powers;
             I'm free again.
     Thou dull disease of bloud and idle hours,
             Bewitching pain,
         Fly to fools that sigh away their time:
         My nobler love to heaven doth climb;
     And there behold beauty still young,
         That time can ne'er corrupt, nor death destroy;
     Immortal sweetness by fair angels sung,
         And honoured by eternity and joy:
     There lies my love, thither my hopes aspire;
     Fond loves decline, this heavenly love grows higher."

     --BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

This ruined chapel--"abbey" it is generally styled--is about a mile
distant from St Helen's. Little remains now but the belfry, with its
luxuriant covering of dark ivy, still preserving it from destruction.
More than half a century ago, some ruffian hand nearly severed the
stem from the root, but happily without material injury, the incision
being incomplete. The burial-ground, formerly open, is now enclosed by
a stone wall; and on the south side is a stone cross with three steps.
The whole area has a reputation of great sanctity; many of those who
die in the Romish faith, even beyond the immediate neighbourhood,
being brought hither for interment.

There are no records, that we can find, of its foundation; but it may
be suspected that the place was dedicated to St Thomas; for close by
is a well of that name, unto which extraordinary virtues are ascribed.

The chapel was but small; not more than twelve yards in length, and
about three in width; the tower scarcely eight yards high. Its
insignificance probably may account for the obscurity in which its
origin is involved.

It fell into disuse after the Dissolution; and its final ruin took
place during the civil wars of Charles I.


Autumn was lingering over the yellow woods. The leaves, fluttering on
their shrivelled stems, seemed ready to fall with every breath. Dark
and heavy was the dull atmosphere--a melancholy stillness that seemed
to pervade and surround every object--a deceitful calm, forerunner of
the wild and wintry storms about to desolate and to destroy even
these flickering emblems of decay. At times a low murmur would break
forth, dying away through the deep woods, like some spirit of past
ages wakening from her slumber, or the breath of hoary Time sighing
through the ruin he had created.

[Illustration: WINDLESHAW ABBEY.
_Drawn by G. Pickering._
_Engraved by Edw^d Finden._]

There is something indescribably solemn and affecting in the first
touches and emblems of the year that has "fallen into the sear and
yellow leaf." Like the eventide of life, it is a season when the gay
and glittering promises of another spring are past; when the fervour
and the maturity of summer are ended; when cold and monotonous days
creep on; and we look with another eye, and other perceptions, on all
that surrounds us. Yet there is a feeling of gladness and of hope
mingling with our regrets in the one case, which cannot exist in the
other. Autumn, though succeeded by the darkness and dreariness of
winter, is but the womb of another spring. That bright season will be
renewed; our own, never!

Perhaps it might be feelings akin to these which arrested the
footsteps of an individual, who, though little past the spring-tide
and youthful ardour of his existence, was yet not disinclined to
anticipate another period characterised by the autumnal tokens of
decay visible on every object around him.

He stood by the deserted chapel of Windleshaw. Time had then but just
begun to show the first traces of his power. The building was yet
uninjured, save the interior, which was completely despoiled, the
walls grey with lichen, and hoary with the damps of age. The ivy was
twining round the belfry, but its thin arms then embraced only a small
portion of the exterior. A single yew-tree threw its dark and gloomy
shade over the adjacent tombs; the long rank herbage bending over
them, and dripping heavily with the moist atmosphere. An ancient cross
stood in the graveyard, of a date probably anterior to that of the
main building. A relic or commemoration, it might be, of some holy man
who had there ministered to the semi-barbarous hordes, aboriginal
converts to the Catholic faith.

It was in the autumn of the year 1644. Wars and tumults were abroad,
and Lancashire drained the cup of bitterness even to the dregs. The
infatuated king was tottering on his throne; even the throne itself
was nigh overturned in the general conflict. A short time before the
date of our story, the Earl of Derby and Prince Rupert, having brought
the siege of Bolton and Liverpool to a satisfactory issue--shortly
after the gallant defence of the Countess at Lathom House--were then
reposing from their toils at that fortress. The prince, remotely
allied to the noble dame, lay there with his train; and was treated
not only with the respect and consideration due to his rank, but
likewise with a feeling of gratitude for his timely succour to the
distressed lady and her brave defenders. After a short stay, the
prince marched to York, which was closely besieged by the Earl of
Manchester and Sir Thomas Fairfax, and as vigorously and obstinately
defended by the Marquis of Newcastle. On the approach of Prince
Rupert, the Parliamentary generals raised the siege, and, drawing off
their forces to Marston Moor, offered battle to the Royalists. Here
the prince, whose martial disposition was not sufficiently tempered
with prudence, unfortunately accepted the enemy's challenge, and
obscured the lustre of his former victories by sustaining a total
overthrow, thereby putting the king's cause into great jeopardy. The
following extract from the "Perfect Diurnall" of the 9th of July 1644,
will show the estimation in which this great victory was held by the
Parliament, and the extent and importance of the results:--

"This day Captain Stewart came from the Leaguer at York with a letter
of the whole state of the late fight and routing of Prince Rupert,
sent by the three generals to the Parliament. The effect whereof was
this:--'That, understanding Prince Rupert was marching against them
with 20,000 men, horse and foot, the whole army arose from the siege,
and marched to Long Marston Moor, four or five miles from York; and
the prince, having notice of it, passed with his army the byway of
Burrow Bridge; that they could not hinder his passage to York,
whereupon our army marched to Todcaster, to prevent his going
southward; but before the van was within a mile of Todcaster, it was
advertised that the prince was in the rear in Marston Moor, with an
addition of 6000 of the Earl of Newcastle's forces, and was possessed
of the best places of advantage both for ground and wind. The right
wing of our horse was commanded by Sir Thomas Fairfax, which consisted
of his whole cavalry and three regiments of the Scots horse; next unto
them was drawn up the right wing of the foot, consisting of the Lord
Fairfax and his foot and two brigades of the Scots foot for a reserve:
and so the whole armies put into a battalia. The battle being begun,
at the first some of our horse were put into disorder; but, rallying
again, we fell on with our whole body, killed and took their chief
officers, and took most part of their standards and colours, 25 pieces
of ordnance, near 130 barrels of powder, 10,000 arms, two waggons of
carbines and pistols, killed 3000, and 1500 prisoners taken.'"

Prince Rupert with great precipitation drew off the remains of his
army, and retired into Lancashire. In a few days York was surrendered
to the Parliamentary forces, and the garrison marched out with all the
honours of war. Fairfax, occupying the city, established his
government through the county, and sent 1000 horse into Lancashire to
join with the Parliamentary forces in that quarter, and attend the
motions of Prince Rupert. The Scottish army marched northwards after
their victory, in order to join the Earl of Calendar, who was
advancing with 10,000 additional forces; and likewise to reduce the
town of Newcastle, which they took by storm. The Earl of Manchester,
with Cromwell,--to whom the fame of this great victory was chiefly
ascribed, and who was wounded in the action,--returned to the eastern
association in order to recruit his army.[8]

Such were some of the fruits of this important victory, and such the
aspect of affairs at the time when our narrative commences;--the
fortunes and persons of the Royalists, or _malignants_ as they were
called by the opposite party, being in great jeopardy, especially in
the northern counties.

The individual before-named was loitering about in the cemetery of the
chapel, where the bodies of many of the faithful who die in the arms
of the mother church are still deposited, under the impression or
expectancy that their clay shall imbibe the odour of sanctity thereby.
The stranger, for such he appeared, was muscular and well-formed. His
height was not above, but rather below, the middle size. A bright full
eye gave an ardour to his look not at all diminished by the general
cast and expression of his features, which betokened a brave and manly
spirit, scorning subterfuge and disguise, and almost disdaining the
temporary concealment he was forced to adopt. A wide cloak was wrapped
about his person, surmounted by a slouched high-crowned hat, with a
rose in front, by way of decoration. His boots, ornamented with huge
projecting tops, were turned down just below the calf of the leg,
above which his breeches terminated in stuffed rolls, or fringes,
after the fashion of the time. A light sword hung loosely from his
belt; and a pair of pistols, beautifully inlaid, were exhibited in
front. Despite of his somewhat grotesque habiliments, there was an air
of dignity, perhaps haughtiness, in his manner, which belied the
character of his present disguise. He walked slowly on, apparently in
deep meditation, till, on turning round the angle of the tower, he was
somewhat startled from his reverie on beholding an open grave, at a
short distance, just about to be completed. Clods of heavy clay were
at short intervals thrown out by the workman, concealed from
observation by the depth to which he had laboured. After a moment's
pause, the cavalier cautiously approached the brink, and beheld a
strange-looking being, with sleeves tucked up to the shoulders, busily
engaged in this interesting and useful avocation.

"Good speed, friend!" said the stranger, addressing the emissary of
death within. The grim official raised his head for a moment, to
observe who it was that accosted him; but without vouchsafing a reply,
he again resumed his work, throwing out the clods with redoubled
energy, to the great annoyance of the inquirer.

"Whose grave is this?" he asked again, perseveringly, determined to
provoke him to an answer.

"The first fool's that asks!" shouted the man from below, without
ceasing from his repulsive toil.

"Nay, friend; ye do not dig for a man ere he be dead in this pitiful
country of thine?"

"And why not? there's many a head on a man's nape to-day that will be
on his knees to-morrow!"

"Then do ye rig folks out with graves here upon trust?"

"Nay," said the malicious-looking replicant, holding up a long lean
phalanx of bony fingers; "pay to-day, trust to-morrow, as t' old lad
at the tavern says."

"What! is thy trade so dainty of subjects? Are men become weary o'
dying of late, that ye must need make tombs for the living? I'll have
thee to the justice, sirrah, for wicked malice aforethought, and
misprision."

Here this hideous ghoul burst forth with a laugh so fearful and
portentous that even the cavalier was startled by its peculiarly
fierce and almost unearthly expression. The mouth drawn to one side,
the wide flat forehead, projecting cheek-bones, and pointed chin,
sufficiently characterised him as labouring under that sort of
imbecility not seldom unmixed with a tact and shrewdness that seem to
be characteristic of this species of disease and deformity. He set one
foot on the mattock, ceasing from his labours whilst he cried out,
winking significantly with half-shut eyes--

     "When the owl hoots, and the crow cries caw,
     I can tell a maiden from a jackdaw."

Here he began whistling and humming by turns, with the most consummate
and provoking indifference. The stranger was evidently disconcerted by
this unexpected mode of address, apparently meditating a retreat, from
where even victory would have been a poor triumph. He was turning
away, when a drop of blood fell on his hand! This disastrous omen,
with the grave yawning before him--the narrow dwelling, which,
according to the prediction of the artificer, was preparing for his
reception--discomposed the cavalier exceedingly, and, in all
likelihood, rendered him the more easily susceptible to subsequent
impressions.

"Art boun' for Knowsley?" inquired the hunchbacked sexton.

"Peradventure I may have an errand thither; but I am a wayfaring man,
and have business with the commissioners in these parts." There was a
tone of conscious evasion in this reply which did not pass unheeded by
the inquirer.

"If thou goest in at the door," said he, "mind thee doesn't come out
feet foremost, good master wayfarer!" He quickly changed his tone to
more of seriousness than before. "Thou art not safe. Hie thee to
Lathom."

"'Tis beleaguered again. The earl being away at his kingdom of Man,
the hornets are buzzing about his nest. There seems now no
resting-place, as aforetime, for unlucky travellers."

"For who?" shouted the sexton, climbing out of his grave with
surprising agility. He fixed his eyes on the cavalier, as though it
were the aspect of recognition. He then hummed the following distich,
a favourite troll amongst the republican party at that period:--

     "The battle was foughten; the prince ran away.
     Did ever ye see sic' a race, well-a-day?"

The stranger, turning from his tormentor, was about to depart; but he
was not destined to rid himself so readily from the intruder.

"And so being shut out from Lathom, thou be'st a cockhorse for
Knowsley. Tush! a blind pedlar, ambling on a nag, might know thee
while he was a-winking."

"Know me!" said the cavalier;--"why--whom thinkest thou that I be?
Truly there be more gowks in our good dukedom of Lancaster than either
goshawks or hen-sparrows. I am one of little note, and my name not
worth the spelling." He assumed an air of great carelessness and
indifference, not unmingled with a haughty glance or two, whilst he
spoke; but the persevering impertinent would not be withstood. Another
laugh escaped him, shrill and portentous as before, and he approached
nearer, inquiring in a half-whisper--

"Where's thine uncle?"

"Whom meanest thou?"

"He waits for thee at Oxford, man; but he may wait while his porridge
cools, I trow: and so good den."

The cunning knave was marching off with his mattock, when the
cavalier, recovering from his surprise, quickly seized him by the
higher shoulder.

"Stay, knave; thou shalt tarry here a while, until thou and I are
better acquainted. Another step, and this muzzle shall help thee on
thine errand."

"And who'll pay the messenger?" said the undaunted and ready-witted
rogue, not in the least intimidated by the threat, and the mouth of a
huge pistol at his breast. "Put it by--put it by, friend, and I'll
answer thee; but while that bull-dog is unmuzzled thou shalt get never
a word from Steenie Ellison."

"Thou knowest of some plot a-hatching," said the stranger, putting
aside the weapon. Another drop fell on his hand.

"I know not," said the sexton, doggedly.

"Thy meaning, then?" returned the stranger, with great vehemence;
"for, o' my life, thou stirrest not until thou hast explained the
nature of these allusions."

With a shrill cry and a fleet footstep the other bounded away from his
interrogator like some swift hound, and was out of sight instantly.
Retreating with some precipitation, the cavalier bent his steps from
the graveyard towards a little hostelrie close by, where it appears he
had taken up his abode for a few days along with a companion, whose
sole use and business on their journey seemed to be that of protecting
a huge pair of saddle-bags and other equipments for their travel,
under a mulberry-coloured cloak of more than ordinary dimensions.
They had journeyed from Preston thitherwards; their intended route
being for Knowsley, and so forward to the coast. Whether their motive
for so long a stay at this obscure and homely tavern could be traced
to the bright eyes and beautiful image of mine host's daughter--a
luminary round which they were fluttering to their own destruction--or
that they merely sought concealment, it were difficult to guess. The
ostensible object of their journey was to take shipping for Ireland,
being bound thither on some commercial enterprise, for the furtherance
of which they expected to pass unmolested, being men of peaceable
pursuits, who left the trade of fighting to those that hoped to thrive
thereby. Such was the general tenor of their converse; but there were
some who suspected that the widely-extolled beauty of Marian might
have some remote connection with the continuance of these guests; and
their long stay at the inn was regarded with a jealous eye. So well
known was the beauteous Marian, "the fair maid of Windleshaw," that
the present residence of the cavaliers, if such they were, was the
worst that could have been chosen for concealment; inasmuch as her
fame drew many customers to the tap who otherwise would have eschewed
so humble a halting-place as that of Nathan Sumner.

Thoughtful, and with a show of vexation upon his features, the
stranger entered the house, where breakfast was already prepared, and
awaiting his return. In the same chamber were the tapster and his
dame; for privacy was not compatible either with "mine host's" means
or inclination.

"We have been watching for thee, Egerton," said his companion. "Didst
thou meet with a bundle of provender in the graveyard that thy stomach
did not warn thee to breakfast?"

"Prithee heed it not," was the reply; "I care little thus early for
thy confections. Besides, I have been beset by a knave, whose vocation
verily remindeth man of his latter end. I've been bandying discourse
with the sexton yonder, as I believe."

"Heh! mercy on us! Ye have seen Steenie, belike," said the dame,
lifting up one hand from her knee, which had been reposing there as a
protection from the fervid advances of a glowing fire before which she
sat.

"Truly, I do suspect this trafficker in ready-made tombs to be none
other," said Egerton.

"An' howkin' at a grave?"

"Ay! and with right good will, too."

"Then look well to your steps, Sir Stranger, that ye fall not into't;
for Stephen never yet made grave that lacked a tenant ere long."

"'Tis strange!" said the cavalier, anxiously. "Do ye dig graves here
by anticipation? or"----

"He scents death like a carrion crow, I tell ye; an' if he but digs a
grave, somebody or other always contrives to tumble in; an' mostly
they 'at first see him busy with the job. He's ca'd here 'the live
man's sexton.'"

The cavalier sat down before a well-covered stool, on which was spread
a homely but plentiful breakfast of eggs, cheese, rashers of bacon, a
flagon of ale, and a huge pile of oat-cake; but he did not fall to
with the appetite or relish of a hungry man.

"Let me reckon," said the host, beginning to muster up his arithmetic.
"There was"----

"Nathan Sumner, I say; thou'rt al'ays out wi' thy motty if a body
speaks. Doesn't the beer want tunning, and thou'rt leesing there o'
thy haunches; at thy whys and thy wise speeches. Let me alone wi' the
gentles, and get thee to the galkeer. Besides, you see that he knoweth
not how to disport himsel' afore people of condition--saving your
presence, masters," said the power predominant, as her husband meekly
retreated from the despotic and iron rule of his helpmate.

"Peradventure he doth himself provide tenants for his own graves,"
said the cavalier, thoughtfully; "but I'll split the knave's chowl, if
he dare"----

"You know not him whom you thus accuse," said a soft musical voice
from an inner chamber. "I know those who would not see him with his
foot in a new-made grave for the best rent-roll in Christendom!"

The speaker, as she came forward, bent a glance of reproof towards the
stranger.

"And wherefore, my bonny maiden?" inquired he.

"Does he not scent the dying like a raven? When once his eye is upon
them they shall not escape. There be some that have seen their last o'
this green earth, and the sky, and yonder bright hills. I trust the
destroying angel will pass by this house!"

"By'r lady," replied the other hastily, "the varlet, when I asked
whose lodging it should be, answered, mine! holding forth his long
skinny paw that I might pay him for the job."

The maiden listened with a look of terror. She grew pale and almost
ghastly; wiping her brow with the corner of her apron, as though in
great agitation and perplexity.

There was usually a warm and healthy blush upon her cheek, but it
waned suddenly into the dim hue of apprehension, as she replied in a
low whisper--

"Ye must not go hence; and yet"----She hesitated, and appeared as
though deeply revolving some secret source of both anxiety and alarm.

The cavalier was silent too, but the result of his deliberations was
of a nature precisely opposite to that of his fair opponent.

"Our beasts being ready, Chisenhall," said he to his companion, "we
will depart while the day holds on favourable. We may have worse
weather, and still worse quarters, should we tarry here till noontide,
as we purposed. But"--and here he looked earnestly at the maiden--"we
shall come again, I trust, when they that seek our lives be laid low."

She put one hand on his arm, speaking not aloud, but with great
earnestness--

"Go not; and your lives peradventure shall be given you for a prey.
There is a godly man hereabout, unto whom I will have recourse; and he
shall guide you in this perplexity."

"We be men having little time to spare, and less inclination--higlers
too, into the bargain," replied he, with a dubious glance toward his
friend Chisenhall, who was just despatching the last visible relics of
a repast in which he had taken a more than equal share of the duty;
"we are not careful to tarry, or to resort unto such ghostly counsel.
We would rather listen to the lips of those whose least word we covet
more than the preaching of either priest or Puritan; but the time is
now come when we must eschew even such blessed and holy"----

"There's a time for all things," said Chisenhall hastily, and as soon
as his mouth was at rest from the solid contents with which he had
been successfully, and almost uninterruptedly, occupied for the last
half-hour; wishful, also, to abate the impression which his
companion's indiscreet intimation of dislike to psalm-singers and
Puritans might have produced. "There is a time to buy and to sell, and
to get gain; a time to marry, and a time to be merry and be glad:"
here he used a sort of whining snuffle, which frustrated his attempts
at neutralising the sarcasms of his friend. "Being in haste," he
continued, "we may not profit by thy discourse; but commend ourselves
to his prayers until our return, which, God willing, we may safely
accomplish in a se'nnight at the farthest."

"If ye depart, I will not answer for your safe keeping."

"And if we stay, my pretty maiden, I am fearful we _shall_ be in safe
keeping." An ambiguous smile curled his lip, which she fully
understood. Indeed, her manner and appearance were so much superior to
her station, that no lady of the best and gentlest blood might have
comported herself more excellently before these gay, though disguised
cavaliers. There was a natural expression of dignity and high feeling
in her demeanour, as if rank and noble breeding were enclosed in so
humble a shrine, visible indeed, but still through the medium of a
homely but bewitching grace and simplicity. This, in part, might be
the consequence of an early residence at Lathom, where, in a few
years, she had risen, from a station among the lower domestics to a
confidential place about the person of the countess. Here she excited
no small share of admiration; and it was partly to avoid the fervid
advances of some vivacious gallants that she resolved on quitting so
exposed and dangerous a position; the more especially as the lowering
aspect of the times, and the uncertain termination of the coming
struggle, might have left her without a protector, and at the mercy of
the lawless ruffians who were not wanting on either side. Retiring
home without regret, she had imbibed, from the ministrations of a
zealous and conscientious advocate of the republican party, a relish
for the doctrines and self-denying exercises of the Puritans, with
whom she usually associated in their religious assemblies.

"Do ye purpose, then, for Knowsley to-day?" she inquired, after a
short silence.

"Yea; unless our present dilemma, and the obstruction thereby, turn
aside the current of our intent."

"Pray Heaven it may!" said the maiden, with great fervour; "for I do
fear me that some who are not of a godly sort are abiding there--even
they with whom righteous and well-ordered men should not consort
withal."

"Heed not. Being of them who are not righteous overmuch, we can bear
unharmed the scoffs of prelatists and self-seekers."

"There be others," replied she; but the appearance of the dame, who
had been overlooking the operations of her helpmate, interrupted the
communication. The horses, too, were at the door, led forth by a
lubberly serving-lad; and they seemed eager to depart, pawing, as
though scarcely enduring a momentary restraint. The cavalier, after
giving some order about the beasts, would have bidden farewell to the
maiden in private; but she had departed unperceived. He was evidently
chagrined, lingering long in the house, in hopes of her reappearance,
but in vain. He was forced to depart without the anticipated
interview.

Out of sight and hearing, the cavaliers began to converse more freely.

"Right fain I am," said Egerton, "of our escape from yonder house; for
I began to fear me we were known, or, at any rate, suspected by one,
if not more, of our good friends behind."

"By one fair friend, peradventure," said Chisenhall drily; "but, on
the word of a soldier, I may be known, and little care I, save that it
may be dangerous to be found in my company. In the last siege yonder,
at Lathom, I have beaten off more rogues than flies from my trencher;
and I would we had but had room and fair play at York; we would have
given your"----

"Hold; no names; remember that I am plain Master Egerton: there may be
lurkers in these tall hedges; so, both in-doors and out, I am--what
mine appearance doth betoken."

"Well, Master Egerton, good wot, though a better man than myself,
which few be now-a-days, for these strait-haired Roundheads do thin us
like coppice-trees, and leave but here and there one to shoot at. I
would the noble lord had been within his good fortress yonder, I think
it would have been too hot to handle, with cold fingers, by the host
of Old Nick, or Parliament, I care not which."

"It was partly at my suggesting that he retired to his island of Man.
There were heart-burnings and jealousies amongst the courtiers on his
account, which were but too readily given ear unto by the king."

"Grant it may not be for our hurt as well as his own. I had no notion
that these wasps would have been so soon again at the honeycomb. Could
we and our bands have made entry, we would have shown them some of the
old match-work, and given them a psalm to sing that they would not
readily have forgotten. As it is, we are just wanderers and vagabonds,
without e'er a house or a homestead to hide us in, should our friends
be driven from Knowsley, and our way be blocked up to the coast. What
is worse, too, our supplies are nigh exhausted, and our exchequer as
empty as the king's. I would we had not tarried here so long, waiting
for advices, as thou didst say, Master Egerton; but which advices, I
do verily think, were from a lady's lip; and the next tall fellow,
with a long face and a fusee, may tuck us under his sleeve, and carry
us to his quarters, like a brace of springed woodcocks."

"Fear not, Chisenhall. We will make directly for the coast, and
to-morrow, if we have luck, be under weigh for Ireland. If, as I do
trust, we get our levies thence, down with the Rump and the
Roundheads, say I, and so"----

"We are not bound for Knowsley, then?"

"No, believe me, I have a better nose than to thrust it into the trap,
after the foretokenings we have had. The knave who elbowed me i' the
graveyard, as well as the maiden yonder, warned us of some danger at
Knowsley, where, I do verily suspect, the rogues are in ambush,
waiting for us; but we will give them the slip, and away for bonny
Waterford."

The morning was yet raw and misty. A dense fog was coming on, which
every minute became more heavy and impervious to the sight. Objects
might be heard, long ere they were seen. The rime hung like a
frost-work from branch and spray, showing many a fantastic festoon,
wreathed by powers and contrivances more wonderful than those by which
our vain and presumptuous race are endowed. The little birds looked
out from their covers, and chirped merrily on, to while away the hours
till bedtime. The rooks cawed from their citadel--to venture abroad
was out of the question, lest the rogues should be surprised in some
act of depredation, and suffer damage thereby. So chill and searching
was the atmosphere that the travellers wrapped their cloaks closely
about their haunches, to defend themselves from its attacks. They were
scarcely a mile or two on their road when, passing slowly between the
high coppice on either hand, Egerton stayed his horse, listening;
whilst thus engaged, another blood-drop fell on his hand.

"There be foes behind us," said he, softly. His practised and
ever-watchful ear had detected the coming footsteps before his friend.

"'Tis a fortunate screen this same quiet mist, and so let us away to
cover." Without more ado he leaped through a gap in the fence,
followed by his companion; and they lay concealed effectually from the
view of any one who might be passing on the road. They were not so far
from the main path but that the footsteps of their pursuers could be
heard, and voices too, in loud and earnest discourse. The latter kept
their horses at a very deliberate pace, as if passing forward at some
uncertainty.

"I say again, heed it as we may, this mist will be the salvation of
our runaways. After having dogged them to such good purpose from
Lathom, it will be a sorry deed should they escape under this unlucky
envelope."

"Tush, faint heart--thinkest thou these enemies of the faith shall
triumph, and our own devices come to nought? Nay, verily, for the
wicked are as stubble, and the ungodly as they whom the fire
devoureth."

"But I would rather have a brisk wind than all thy vapours, thy
quiddities, and quotations. Yet am I glad they have not ta'en the turn
to Knowsley."

"Which way soever they turn, either to the right hand or to the left,
we have them in the net, and snares and pitfalls shall devour them."

The remainder of this comfortable assurance was inaudible, and the
cavaliers congratulated themselves on their providential escape.

"How stand ye for Knowsley now, Sir Captain?" said Chisenhall.

"Why, of a surety, friend, there be many reasons why we may pray for a
safe passport from this unhappy land; but it seemeth as though our
purposes were to be for ever crossed. Towards Knowsley, now, it doth
appear that we must proceed, our haven and hiding-place; these rogues
having got wind that we did not intend to pass by thither, we must
countermine the enemy, or rather double upon their route."

"But how shall we be enabled to proceed?"

"Forward to the right," said Egerton, "and we shall be sure to hit our
mark, if I mistake not the bearing. 'Tis, I believe, scarcely two
miles hence; and under this friendly cover we cannot be observed,
though we should mistake our way."

Changing their course, they now attempted, at all hazards, a running
chase along and across hedges and enclosures, in the supposed
direction of their retreat. After a somewhat perilous journey for at
least an hour in this thick mist, without discovering any object by
which they could ascertain their relative situation, Chisenhall at
length espied something like a dark square tower before them.

"Plague, pestilence, and all the saints! why if yonder be not that
same old ugly grim tower dodging us!" He rubbed his eyes, hardly
satisfied that his morning indulgences were ended.

"We are fairly on our way for the grave again, sure enough," said
Egerton; "or it may be as thou sayest, the graveyard itself is
following us." He tried to rally into a smile, but was unable to
disport himself in this wise, and it became needful that some way
should be hit upon for their extrication, and that speedily. Occupied
in earnest discourse, they were not aware of the presence of a third
person until a thin squeaking voice accosted them from behind.

"Back again so soon?--wi' the de'il at your crupper too!"

"Foul fa' thee, thou screech-owl," said Egerton, starting back at that
ill-omened sound; "we shall ne'er be rid o' this pestilence!" He
attempted to spring aside from the object of his abhorrence; but in a
moment his horse was holden by the bridle with almost more than human
strength; and the malicious creature set up an exulting and triumphant
laugh that was anything but agreeable in their present evil condition.

"Let go--or, by thy master's hoofs, I will send thee to him in the
twinkling of a trigger!" said Egerton, drawing forth his pistol.

"Hoo, hoo!" shouted his tormentor, mocking and making faces, with an
expression of fiendish delight--"thee 'ill be first though, nunky."

Egerton pointed the weapon; but his horse, goaded in all probability
by the strange being beside him, made a sudden spring, and, as
ill-luck would have it, stumbled and fell, both horse and rider
sprawling in the dust. The cause of this foul accident scampered off
with great activity: Chisenhall dismounted, extricating his friend
from the trappings. He was bleeding profusely from the nostrils, and
appeared insensible. Judging it the wisest plan, though at the risk of
their captivity, to procure help, he galloped away to the tavern for
assistance.

Much to the surprise of the family was Chisenhall's reappearance, but
no time was lost in useless explanations; the host and his daughter
immediately proceeded to the spot, with means and appliances for
Egerton's removal and recovery; but to their astonishment and dismay
the body was removed. His horse was grazing quietly on the herbage,
yet there was no trace of Egerton's disappearance. Chisenhall was
almost beside himself with distress and consternation; but Marian,
though much concerned, seemed to possess some clue to this enigma.

"Steenie, thou sayest, was the cause of this untoward disaster?"

"Ay; that cursed fiend. I wish all his"----

"Nay, nay, friend, thou speakest like to the foolish ones, vain and
impious men, whose mouths are full of cursing and bitterness. We had
best return; I will think on this matter, and ere the morrow we may
have tidings of thy friend; but"----Here she looked significantly
aside as she spoke, but not in her father's hearing. "Keep snug here
in thy quarters, friend; for since ye left there came divers of the
people to inquire, and as He would have it, from me only. Ye be sons
of Belial, they said, and cavaliers withal. But ye have eaten and
drunken in our dwelling, and though red with the blood of the saints,
I cannot deliver you into the hand of your pursuers."

Chisenhall reluctantly complied, having no other resource, and judging
it best not to stir abroad, as it might be compromising the safety of
both parties, without leading to any beneficial result.

The horses were unharnessed and turned out to graze, whilst Chisenhall
was disposed of in an upper chamber above one of the outhouses. His
anxiety for his friend allowed him but little rest, and often he was
on the point of issuing forth in quest of intelligence; but happily
prudence prevented him from sacrificing his own and another's life to
a vain and fruitless impatience.

During Chisenhall's concealment Marian was by no means in the same
state of idleness and inactivity. She threw on her hood and kerchief;
and a clean white apron, girt about her waist, fully displayed the
symmetry of her form. Her cloak was adjusted but with little regard to
outward show; and an hour was scarcely past ere she sallied forth, as
she was often wont, to the dwelling of Gilgal Snape, a person of great
note as a preacher and leader of the faithful in these parts. He was,
in truth, a worthy and zealous man, sincerely devoted to the cause he
espoused, and the service of his Maker--one widely distinguished from
the hypocrites and fanatics of that turbulent era, which, like our
own, produced, though in a more exaggerated form, from the stimulus
then abroad, the same rank and noxious weeds of hypocrisy and
superstition; for man, like a mathematical problem, circumstances and
conditions being the same, brings out, invariably, the same results.
No form of worship, however ludicrous or revolting, but hath its
advocates and supporters; and there is nothing which the proud mind
and unsubdued heart of man will not put forth, when that heart is made
the hot-bed of unholy and unsanctified feelings--all monstrous and
polluted things ripening, even beneath the warm and blessed sun that
revives and beautifies all else by its splendour.

Gilgal had, however, his figments and his fancies, inseparable
perchance from the times and dispositions by which they were
engendered. When men, awaking as from a dream, shaking off the deep
slumber of bigotry, but not intolerance, through the medium of their
yet unpractised sense saw "men as trees walking," regarding trivial
and unimportant objects as paramount and essential, while others,
whose nature was vital and supreme, were hardly discerned, or at best
but slightly noticed or understood;--when minds long tinctured by
superstition brought the whole of their previous habits and instincts
to bear upon the newly-awakened energies that were heaving and
convulsing the moral fabric of society, and the ground of preconceived
notions and opinions on which they stood, they could hardly be
persuaded that the kingdom of heaven "cometh not by observation;" that
special miracles, and visible manifestations of divine favour, were
not again to be vouchsafed to the "elect;" and that their faith and
prayers were not sufficient to remove mountains, and to conquer and
subdue every obstacle. There was more pride in these expectations than
they were willing to allow, or even to suspect; and in many it was
the very pride and "naughtiness of their hearts;" whilst in others it
was but the operation of remaining ignorance, unsubdued lusts, and
unsanctified affections.

Gilgal was famous in his day for dealing with "spiritual wickedness in
high places." The "prince of the power of the air" was subject unto
him. In other words, it was said of him that he had cast out devils
and healed the possessed. When others failed, Gilgal had wrestled and
prevailed. One of the first-fruits of this outpouring of his soul was
"Steenie Ellison," who, from his childhood, was subject to periodical
and violent affections of the body--contortions that gave him, in the
eyes of many, an appearance of one possessed. Stephen had a
considerable share of cunning, a sort of knavish sagacity and ready
impertinence, peculiar to most of his kind. He was an orphan, early
left to the care of chance or charity, and being a follower of
bell-ringers, grave-diggers, and the like, assumed a sort of
semi-official attitude at all funerals, weddings, and merry-makings in
the neighbourhood. He was generally suspected of holding intercourse
with the powers of evil, and when suffering from disease, the unclean
spirit whom he had offended was supposed to be afflicting him, having
entered into his body to buffet and torment him for his contumacy and
disobedience. So partial was he to the art and occupation of
grave-making, that he was observed at times to hew out a habitation
for the dead ere a tenant was provided. It was always remarked,
nevertheless, that the narrow house failed not ere long to receive an
inhabitant; and this apprehension considerably heightened the terror
with which he was regarded, and rendered him celebrated throughout the
country by the name of "the live man's sexton."

But the worthy minister being much moved with compassion towards this
child of Satan, his bowels yearned for him, that he might cast out the
unclean spirit, and deliver him from his spiritual bondage. He
accordingly girded himself to the work, and a great name did he get
throughout the land by this mighty achievement, for the possessed
became docile as a little child before him, and was subsequently a
sort of erratic follower of the party unto which Gilgal was allied;
but he would at times forsake the assemblies of the faithful, when, it
is said, the dark spirit of divination again came over him, and he
would wander among the tombs, showing symptoms of a disordered
intellect, though not of the same violent character as before.

Towards the dwelling of Gilgal Snape did Marian direct her steps; it
was but a short mile from her own. Often had she been a visitant to
the house, where she imbibed the doctrines and instructions of this
sincere and zealous confessor of the faith. She frequently mingled in
the devotions that were there offered up; but her piety was of a more
moderate and amiable cast--less violent and ascetic, not unmixed with
love and pity for her enemies and the persecutors of the truth.

Her object in this visit was not so much to partake of the crumbs from
the good man's spiritual banquet, as to gain some intelligence through
him respecting Egerton's disappearance. She recognised the individuals
who were in pursuit of him to be scouts from the republican leaders,
with whom the divine was in constant communication. Of the real rank
of Egerton she was still ignorant; but she more than suspected his
disguise, and scarcely hesitated to conclude, from the anxiety shown
for his apprehension, that he was of no little importance in the
estimation of his opponents.

Musing and much troubled, by reason of many conflicting emotions, she
took no note of the lapse of time until her arrival at the habitation
of this devout minister of the word. It was built in a sequestered
glen, by a narrow brook near to a couple of black, shapeless, scraggy
firs, whose long lean arms were extended over the roof. A low porch
guarded the door, in which dairy utensils and implements of husbandry
were usually placed. The short casement windows were rendered still
more gloomy, and in places screened from light, by the creeping
woodbine throwing its luxuriant and unrestricted foliage about their
deep recesses. A little wicket admitted the visitor into the court, on
each side of which was a homely garden, where nothing ornamental was
suffered to intrude or encroach upon the space devoted to objects of
usefulness rather than indulgence.

Marian lifted up the latch, entering upon the precincts of this
hallowed abode. She passed on, through the large cold cheerless
apartment generally called the house; turning thence towards a little
chamber, used as an oratory, she heard a loud voice within. She tapped
first upon the door, which she slowly opened, and beheld the good man
with the sacred volume spread out before him. He raised his eyes for
a moment as she entered, but refrained not from his exercise, nor
altered in the least the strenuous tone of his orisons.

"And Ehud put forth his left hand, and took the dagger from his right
thigh, and smote Eglon, the King of Moab, so that he died. Thus perish
the ungodly and the oppressor, even as Abimelech, the son of
Jerubbaal, on whom the Almighty rendered the curse of Jotham his
brother, and all his wickedness that he had committed, and all the
evil of the men of Shechem did God return upon their own heads." Here
he raised his eyes, closing the book with a devout aspiration of
compliance to the will of Heaven. "I have sought counsel," he
continued, "and been much comforted thereby. The wicked shall be
utterly cut off, and the ungodly man shall fall by the sword. We may
not spare, nor have pity, as Saul spared Agag, whom Samuel hewed in
pieces; for the land is cursed for their sakes!"

"Hath Steenie yet returned from vain idols, and the abominations he
hath committed?" inquired the maiden.

"He doth yet hunger after the flesh-pots of Egypt; but my bowels yearn
towards him, even as my first-born. I do sorrow lest he be finally
entangled in the snares of the evil one."

"Knowest thou where he abideth, or if he doth attend the outpouring of
the word hereabout?"

"Verily, nay," said the divine; "but I have heard from Sarah and
Reuben Heathcote that he hath been seen in the house of ungodly
self-seekers, and notorious Papists and malignants, even with our
enemies at Garswood. He hath likewise been found resorting unto that
high place of papistry, Windleshaw, of late; despising--yea,
reviling--the warnings and godly exhortations of the Reverend Master
Haydock, who did purpose within himself to win, peradventure it might
be to afflict with stripes, this lost one from the fold, that he might
bring him back. But he hath sorely buffeted and evil-entreated this
diligent shepherd with many grievous indignities; such as tying him
unto a gate, and vexing him with sundry of Satan's devices. Yet we
would fain hope that he is a chosen vessel, though now defiled by the
adversary. He will return, peradventure, as heretofore, when the day
of his visitation is past." The good man did, indeed, yearn over this
erring sinner, and lifting up his voice he wept aloud.

"There came two men to our habitation, where they abode certain days,"
said Marian.

"And they departed this morning," said the minister, sharply; "knowest
thou that these be enemies of our faith, and contemners of the word?"

"I knew them not," she replied, "save that I suspected them as such,
ere they departed."

"Thou wouldest not have them taken with thee in the house, and in that
thou judgedst wisely; for I care not that a maiden's thoughts were so
soon disposed for deeds like these, which be fitter for iron hearts
and brazen hands. Though Jael, the wife of Heber the Kenite, slew
Sisera in her tent, and Rahab the harlot received the spies in peace;
yet thou didst, I doubt not, point out the way by which they went to
the spies sent by the council of the holy state, to follow after these
sons of Belial, and deliver them into their hands."

"I know not the path they took," said Marian, evasively.

"Heed not, for the men shall be delivered unto us; even now are they
pursued, and, I doubt not, overtaken. Which way soever they turn,
their steps are holden, and a snare is laid for their feet; for they
shall surely die!" The preacher lifted up his eyes in righteous
indignation. They have made themselves drunk with the blood of the
saints."

"Will not their lives be given them for a prey?" inquired Marian,
apparently in great alarm.

"I have sought counsel, I tell thee; and the Philistine and the
Canaanite shall be destroyed utterly from the land."

"I fear me they be other than I had imagined," returned the maiden
weeping; "yet still, and I trust I shall be forgiven, I could not
betray them who have abided with us, and eaten of our bread."

"Thou knowest them not, wench," said Gilgal; "and 'tis perhaps well
thou shouldest not." Here he looked fiercely from under his brows, as
though he would have pierced the very inmost recesses of her soul.
"Beware," continued he, "for thou art comely, and these men do use
devilish and subtle devices to allure and to betray."

Marian was silent. A swollen tear, the overflowing of an overwhelmed
and oppressed heart, slowly wandered down her cheek. It was the very
crisis of the conflict; and the old man forbore to break the bruised
reed. She seemed uneasy and anxious to depart; but he hindered her
for a space.

"Wilt thou not, as thou art wont, approach with me to the footstool of
Him who doth not afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men?"

Marian felt the rebuke, though it was so finely tempered, and
administered so tenderly. She was one of his earlier converts, and his
love for her was that of a spiritual parent. Bending the knee, she
covered her burning cheeks, and poured out her heart with him in
fervour and sincerity. Whether both of them had precisely the same
object in view as the end of their supplications, or whether the
maiden's fears and inclinations might not lead her to offer up a
sincere petition for the safety of others besides those of the
household, we will not take upon ourselves to determine; but on
leaving the dwelling of Gilgal Snape a suppressed sigh and an
involuntary whisper escaped her--"He may yet be spared." She raised
her eyes in thankfulness, and a gleam of hope, but not of happiness,
irradiated her heart; for she now felt that a great gulf separated
them for ever.

She had ascertained by her converse with the Puritan, who was well
informed in all matters connected with his party, that they were yet
unacquainted as to the ulterior proceedings of the strangers; and it
seemed probable, from this circumstance alone, that at any rate
Egerton had not fallen into their hands. Her next object was to find
out "Steenie," and to elicit from him the knowledge of the stranger's
fate; for unless this mischievous personage had in some wild erratic
freak or another conveyed him off, she could not tell what mishap
could have befallen him. Despite of her prejudices and the true bent
of her disposition, which, though it partook not of the furious and
headlong intolerance of the times, was yet sufficiently imbued with
the spirit of her sect, the cavalier had won so unsuspectingly upon
her kindness that she started as though she would have escaped from
her own thoughts, when she felt the deep and agonising shudder which
crossed her at the bare possibility that he might fall into the hands
of the avenger of blood. At a glance she saw the fearful involutions
and the almost inextricable toils by which the fugitives were
encompassed. Unaided, she was well aware that their attempts would be
fruitless. She knew not the intentions of the crazy sexton on this
point. The wayward and apparently capricious movements of this strange
compound of Puritanism and Papistry were too dangerous and uncertain
to allow any hope for ultimate safety under his management. Whether or
not he had a hand in Egerton's removal was still a matter of
conjecture. She felt, in addition to this uncertainty, no slight
degree of awe and apprehension in her approaches to this solitary
being; and a sort of undefined notion that, however modified and
controlled by circumstances, yet his communications with the world of
spirits were still in operation, imparting to his converse and
communion with his fellow-men a strange and dubious character, which
even strangers did not fail to perceive, and to shrink from contact
with a being of such doubtful qualities. His predictions and dark
sayings were often quoted, and much more importance was attached to
them than their real and obvious meaning should have warranted. They
derived greater credence, perhaps, from their usually vague and
ambiguous character suiting any accident and condition, according to
the fancy of the hearer, however remotely allied in their meaning and
application. Whatsoever might be the event, there was little
difficulty in shaping out an appropriate or equivalent prediction; and
it did seem at times sufficiently marvellous that few occurrences
should take place which could not be traced to some dark foretokening
enveloped in one or other of these mystical revelations. Events happen
to ourselves that do occasionally, and not unfrequently, rush back
upon our minds with unaccountable and almost appalling force, as
though, however novel in reality, they were but facts and feelings
with which we had long ago been familiar, yet in what manner we are
unable to determine. It might seem that they had suddenly, and for a
moment, started forth from the Lethe which divides our present
existence from some past state of being; that a sudden light had
flashed from the portals of oblivion, too rapid or too dazzling,
perhaps, to be apprehended or defined.

As she returned the shadows of evening were coming on dim and softly
over the quiet glades and dewy meadows. The noisy rooks, having lately
ventured forth, were cawing cheerily on their homeward flight,
"beguiling the way with pleasant intercourse." The lesser birds were
flitting towards the bushes; and through the lingering mist-wreath,
floating still and tranquilly on the moist meadows, came forth at
times a solitary twitter, as though the lark had alighted softly and
joyously on her nest. The glow and the brightness of evening were gone
when Marian passed the threshold of her home, uncertain yet as to the
fate of Egerton and the course she should pursue. She allayed, as well
as she was able, the fretfulness and impatience of Chisenhall,
entreating that he would remain quiet until the morrow, after which it
was possible that something would transpire with regard to his friend.
The irresistible conclusion, that by venturing forth he would
compromise the safety of all parties, alone rendered him tractable,
and prevented the consequences of any rash exposure.

Too much occupied in resolves and plans for to-morrow's enterprise,
the maiden on retiring to her chamber felt no inclination for repose,
and her little couch was left vacant. It was a low room within the
thatch, into which a narrow window, projecting from the roof, admitted
the clear mellow radiance of the moon, now shining uninterruptedly
from above. So lovely and inviting was the aspect of the night, that,
after a long and anxious train of thought, she resolved to enjoy the
calm and delicious atmosphere, free and unconfined, hoping to feel its
invigorating effects upon her exhausted spirits.

It might be within a short half-hour of midnight when she tripped
lightly down the stairs, and was soon across the stile which led to
the deserted chapel of Windleshaw. Attracted by the beauty and the
reviving freshness of all around her, fearing no evil and conscious of
no alarm, she proceeded, wandering without aim or purpose into the
quiet cemetery.

In the dark shadow of the building she walked on, fearless and alone.
Her bosom had been hitherto the abode of happiness and peace. To the
stranger's appearance might be attributed the source of her present
disquiet. She would have breathed after communion with heavenly
things, but earthly objects mingled in her aspirations; charity,
peradventure, for those of another creed, and anxiety for another's
fate. But she was not satisfied that this was the sole cause of her
unhappiness; and the pang of separation, too, came like a barbed arrow
into her soul. She felt alarmed, amazed at the sudden change. She
feared that her weak and wandering heart was going back to the world,
and resting for support on its frail and perishing interests. Tossed
and buffeted with temptation, she still passed on; when, turning the
angle of the grey tower, she emerged again into the clear, unbroken
moonlight--the little hillocks and upright gravestones alone
disturbing the broad and level beam. She was startled from her reverie
by dull and heavy sounds near her, as though a pickaxe were employed
by invisible hands in disturbing the ground close to where she stood.
She paused a moment and listened; the blows were still falling, and
she felt the ground vibrating beneath her feet. A sudden thought
crossed her--it might be "Steenie," even at this untimely hour, plying
his accustomed vocation. He had been retarded probably by the
accidents of the day; and the occasion being urgent, according to his
own anticipations, had led him to labour so late for its completion.
It was doubtless the grave which had been so mysteriously assigned to
the lot of Egerton. A cold tremor crept upon her; she remembered the
denunciation and the uncertain fate of the victim. Even now he might
be hastening to his final account, and this horrid _ghoul_ might be
scenting the dissolution of the body that he was preparing to entomb.

"Graciously forbid it, Heaven!" she inwardly ejaculated, approaching
the grave; but so softly, that her footsteps were not heard by the
invisible workman, who was deep in the abyss of his own creating. The
blows had ceased, and the mattock was now in requisition. Shovelfuls
of earth were thrown out; thick and heavy clods were hurled forth in
rapid succession. The scene would have driven back many a timid girl;
and even some stout hearts and fierce stomachs would have shrunk from
the trial. She was within range, and almost within the grasp, of a
being whose evil dispositions were known and acknowledged--a being
whose mysterious connection with intelligences of an unfriendly nature
was universally admitted. A grave, dug in secret, peradventure during
some baneful and preternatural process, yawned before her. Midnight,
too, was nigh; and she was not devoid of apprehension--that inherent
dread of the invisible things of darkness universally bound up with
our feeble and fallen nature. Since the day of his first estrangement,
man never, even in imagination or apprehension, approaches the dark
and shadowy threshold of a world unseen without terror, lest some
supernatural communication should break forth; it seems a feeling
coeval with the curse on our first parents, when they heard "the voice
of the Lord God walking in the garden, and were afraid." This
apprehension still clings to us; but, though surrounded in light, as
well as in darkness, by a world of disembodied spirits, whose
attributes and capacities are inconceivably superior to our own, our
nature is so material, and our very essence so engrossed and
identified with earth, that it is only when the startling realities of
their existence become manifest in those visible emblems of their
nature--darkness and death--that we shrink back in horror, lest our
very being should suffer contact with spiritual and eternal things.

Concealed from view, Marian stood still at a very short distance from
the grave. Steenie was humming a plaintive ditty, or rather dirge; for
it partook of a double character, something between an alehouse
roundelay and a funeral chant.

She soon perceived that each spadeful, as it was thrown out, was
accompanied by a separate distich, the meaning of which she could
distinctly gather from some uncouth and barbarous rhymes--the
remnants, probably, of a more superstitious age--almost cabalistic in
their form and acceptation. The following may serve as a specimen,
though we have taken the precaution to render them a little more
intelligible:--

     "Howk, hack, and dig spade;
     Tenant ne'er grumbled that grave was ill made."

Then came a heavy spadeful of earth again from the narrow house.
Another shovelful produced the following doggerel:--

     "Housen, and castles, and kings decay;
     But the biggins we big last till doomus-day."

Some more coarse and less intelligible jargon followed, which it is
not needful that we repeat. Again he threw forth a burden of more than
ordinary bulk, resting from his labours during the following more
elaborate ditty:--

     "Dark and dreary though it be,
     Thou shalt all its terrors dree:
     Dungeon dark, where none complain,
     Nor 'scape to tell its woe and pain."

Again he bent him to his task, and again the earth went rolling forth,
accompanied by something like the following verse:--

     "Though I dig for him that be living yet,
     O'er this narrow gulf he shall never get;
     The mouth gapes wide that 'Enough' ne'er cries;
     Each clod that I fling on his bosom lies;
     In darkness and coldness it rests on thee,
     With the last stroke that falls thy doom shall be!"

With increasing energy did he work on, as though to accelerate the
fate of his victim. Marian felt herself on the brink of the tomb, and
its icy touch was perceptible through every part of her frame.

The mystic chant was again audible, and more distinct than before--

     "The charm is wound, and this stroke shall be
     The last, when it falls, of his destiny;
     Save he sell to another his birthright here,
     Then the buyer shall buy both grave and bier."

Uttering this malediction, he scrambled out of the grave, and suddenly
stood before the astonished maiden, who shuddered as she beheld the
unshapely outline of a form which she instantly recognised.

He did not seem a whit surprised or startled, though he could not have
been aware previously that a listener was nigh.

"What ho, wench!" said he; "art watching for a husband?" His sharp
shrill voice grated on her ear like the cry of the screech-owl.

"I came to meet thee!" said she firmly. He broke forth into a loud
laugh at this reply, more terrible than the most violent expression of
hate or malignity. No wonder, in those ages, that it was supposed to
be the operation of some demon, animate in his form, controlling and
exercising the bodily functions to his own malignant designs.

"Where is he whom I seek?" inquired the maiden.

"Ask the clods of the valley, and the dust unto which man departs!" he
replied, pointing significantly to the gulf at his feet.

"Nay," said Marian, apparently to humour the fantastical turn of his
ideas; "thou knowest if he sell that grave to another, he shall
escape, and the doom shall be foregone."

"Ay, lassie; but there be no fools now-a-days, I wot, to buy a man's
grave over his head for the sake of a bargain!"

"I warrant thee now, Steenie, but thou hast hidden him hereabout." She
said this in as careless and indifferent a tone as she could well
assume.

"I am but a-keeping of him safe till his time comes. Neither priest
nor Presbyterian shall cheat me out of him. He's mine as sure as that
grave gives not back its prey."

"He is living, I trow?"

"Good wot, I reckon so; but living men may die; and this pick never,
for man or woman, opened a mouth that was left to gape long without
victuals."

"Thou wouldst not harm him?"

"I'd not hurt the hair on a midge-tail, though it stung me. But his
doom was shown me yesternight," said he, lowering his voice to a
whisper; "and I would have him laid here in consecration, that the
devil get not his bones to pick, for neither priest nor Puritan can
bless the ground now-a-days like unto this."

Whether the cause of his anxiety was really a wish to provide a
hallowed resting-place for the cavalier, or this pretence was merely
to cover some ulterior purposes of his own, the maiden was left
without a clue to form any plausible conjecture. She had heard
sufficient, however, to ascertain that he was in some way or another
accessory to the disappearance of Egerton, and that in all likelihood
he knew the retreat of the unfortunate captive.

A woman's wits are proverbially sharpened by exigencies, and Marian
was not slow in obeying their impulse.

"Where art thou abiding? I would fain speak with thee to-morrow
touching thy condition, for thou hast been much estranged from us of
late."

He pointed to the ivied belfry, where a grated loophole formed a dark
cross on the wall.

"A man may sleep if the wind will let him; but such fearsome visions I
have had of late, that I ha' been just nigh 'reft o' my wits. Wilt be
a queen or a queen-mother, Marian? Something spake to me after this
fashion; but I was weary with watching. The spirit passed from me, and
I comprehended him not."

She was silent, apprehensive that his wits were at present too
bewildered for her purpose, being always subject to aberration under
any peculiar excitement of either mind or body.

"I will visit thee yonder to-morrow," said Marian.

"Me!" he shouted, in a tone of surprise. "Bless thy pretty face,
Marian, I have bolted him in. He is but waiting for his dismissal."

"Whither?"

Again he pointed to the grave.

"Tush," said Marian; "he will not, maybe, get his passport thither so
soon, unless, indeed, thou shouldst starve him to death."

"Starve him! Nay, by"----He stopped just as he was on the point of
uttering some well-remembered but long quiescent oath.

"I thought not of that before, Marian: he will want some food. Ay--ay,
bless thy little heart, I did not think on 't. But for thee, Marian, I
should ha' kept him there, and he might ha' starved outright; though
he will not need it long, I trow, poor fool!" said he, with a sigh,
ludicrous enough under other circumstances, but now invested with all
the solemnity of a supernatural disclosure.

"I will away for victuals," said Marian: "stay here until I return." A
short time only elapsed ere she came again, laden with provisions and
other restoratives, judging that the captive stood in need of some
refreshment.

Stephen was waiting for her in a deep and solemn fit of abstraction
before the low door leading to a staircase at the foot of the tower.
He spoke not until she stood beside him.

"My brain, Marian--Oh! my brain. Here, here!" Seizing her hand, he
pressed it hurriedly over his brow, which was hot, almost scorching.
The blood beat rapidly through his throbbing temples. Fearful lest the
approaching hallucination might prevent her benevolent designs, she
soothed and coaxed him to lead the way, which had the desired effect;
muttering as he went on, at times unintelligibly, at others speaking
with peculiar emphasis and vehemence.

"The foul fiend came again, though he was cast out; and I--I yielded.
He promised me gold, if I would dig for 't. And I digg'd, and digg'd;
but it always shaped itself into a grave--another's grave--and I never
found any. Yea, once. Look thee, wench," said he, pulling out a bright
Jacobus from his belt, and holding it in the beam that shot through a
loophole of the ascent. "Yes; this--this! the devil brought it that
tempted me. No, no; I sold my own grave for 't. Would it were mine
again: I had been where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary
are at rest. Nay; there will be no rest for me. I am an apostate--a
castaway--the devil that seduced me hath said it again and again--for
whom is reserved the blackness of darkness, and the noisome pit for
ever! But as long, look thee, as I keep this gold, I die not. No!
though twice ten thousand were on my track; for I sold my grave to a
doomed one; nor, till I buy another with the same piece of gold, shall
death and hell prevail against me. So sayeth the fiend."

Marian felt actually as though in the presence of the Evil One, so
completely had the frenzy of this poor deluded idiot developed itself
in this short interval. Some violent paroxysm was evidently
approaching; and her object was, if possible, to procure the
liberation of Egerton before her guide should be rendered either
unwilling or incapable. He suddenly assumed a more calm and consistent
demeanour, while, to her great joy, she heard him climbing the stair.
She followed as closely as the darkness would permit, and heard him
pause after ascending a few steps. Then a bolt was withdrawn, her hand
was seized, and she was led hastily through the aperture. It was the
entrance to a small chamber in the tower, lighted by the grating
before named, through which the moonlight came softly, like a wizard
stream, into the apartment.

By this light she saw something coiled up in a corner, like a human
form in the attitude of repose. It was the prisoner Egerton, fast
asleep. Nature, worn out with suffering, was unconsciously enjoying
for a season the bliss of oblivion. He heard not the intruders, until
Marian gently touched him, when, starting up, he cried--

"Is mine hour come? so soon! I thought"--

"Here be victuals; thy grave's not ready yet," said the maniac.

Soon the soft voice of the maiden fell calmly and quietly on his
bosom: and in that hour Egerton felt how noble, how self-denying, was
the spirit guiding the hand that ministered to him in the hour of
danger and distress. Her disinterestedness was now manifest. Of
another creed, and fully aware, perhaps, that he had been one of the
most zealous persecutors of those who aforetime were hunted like the
wild roe upon the mountains; he found that she had knowledge of him,
generally, as belonging to the Royalist party, though not individually
as to his rank and character.

If she had set herself to win his favour by draughts and
love-philtres, she could not have compassed her design more
effectually. His impetuous nature was alike impatient of restraint
either in love or in war; but in the latter instance the flame had
burnt so rapidly that it was nigh extinguished. This maiden being
renowned through the whole neighbourhood for her beauty, as well as
the natural and engaging simplicity and gentleness of her manners,
appertaining to one of high birth, nurtured in courts, rather than in
so humble a station, the cavalier had beforetime looked on her with a
favourable glance, but not with eyes at which the god Hymen would have
lighted his torch. Now, so strange and wayward is that capricious
passion which men call love, that when beset with dangers, his life in
jeopardy, and threatened with death on every hand, he seemed to cling
even to this lowly one as though his soul were bound to hers. Love,
that mighty leveller, for a season threw down every barrier--the pride
of birth, and the rank and sphere which were his birthright--nor did a
licentious thought find a resting-place in his bosom. Young and
ardent, he had spoken to her beforetime, though not explicitly, on the
subject; and Marian, knowing none other but that he was a wayfaring
man, of little note--so he represented himself--regarded his handsome
person, his kindness, and his attentions, with still less appearance
of disfavour.

"Thou shouldest be mine, Marian," said he, "were I"----

"Never!" she replied, interrupting him; but a sudden heaving of the
breast showed the anguish that one hopeless word cost her.

Stephen was in the chamber, still hurrying to and fro, too fully
absorbed in his own abstractions to understand or attend to what was
passing.

"And wherefore?" inquired the cavalier, with some surprise.

"Wherefore? Ask your own nature and condition; your pride of station,
which I have but lately known; your better reason, why; and see if it
were either wise or fitting that one like yourself--though of your
precise condition I am yet ignorant--should wive with the daughter of
a poor but honest tapster. Suffer this plainness; I might be your
bauble to-day, and your chain to-morrow."

"Thou dost wrong me!" said the cavalier; and he took her hand
tenderly, almost unresistingly, for a moment. "I would wear thee as my
heart's best jewel, and inlay thee in its shrine. It is but fitting
that the life thou hast preserved should be rendered unto thee."

"Nay, sir," said she, withdrawing her hand, "my pride forbids it; ay,
pride! equal, if not superior to your own. I would not be the wife of
a prince on these terms; nor on any other. 'Be not unequally yoked.'
Will not this wholesome precept hold even in a carnal and worldly
sense? I would not endure the feeling of inferiority, even from a
husband. 'Twould but be servitude the more galling, because I could
neither persuade myself into an equality, nor rid me of the chain."

"Thou dost reason wondrously, maiden. 'Tis an easy conquest, when
neither passion nor affection oppose our judgment; when the feelings
are too cold to kindle even at the spark which the Deity himself hath
lighted for our solace and our blessing in this valley of tears."

"Mine!--Oh! say not they are too cold, too slow to kindle. They are
too easily roused, too ardent, too soon bent before an earthly idol;
but"--here she laid her hand on his arm--"but the right hand must be
cut off, the right eye plucked out. I would not again be their slave,
under the tyranny and dominion of these elements of our fallen nature,
for all the pomps and vanities which they would purchase. There be
mightier obstacles than those of expediency, as thou dost well
imagine, to thy suit; but these are neither coldness nor
indifference." Here her voice faltered with emotion, and her heart
rose, rebelling against her own inflexible purpose, in that keen, that
overwhelming anguish of the spirit. She soon regained her composure,
as she uttered firmly: "They are--my altar and my faith!"

Egerton felt as though a sudden stroke had separated them for ever--as
though it were the last look of some beloved thing just wrenched from
his grasp. This very feeling, had none other prompted, made him more
anxious for its recovery; and he would have urged his suit with all
the energy of a reckless desperation, but the maiden firmly resisted.

"Urge me not again: not all the inducements I trust that even thou
couldest offer would make me forget my fealty! No more--I hear thee
not. The tempter I know hath too many allies within the
citadel--worldly vanities and unsubdued affections--to suffer me to
parley with the traitors and listen to their unholy suggestions. Again
I say, I hear thee not."

Finding it was in vain, he forbore to persecute her further; and after
having merely tasted of the cordial, and partaken of a slight
refreshment, he listlessly inquired if the term of his imprisonment
would soon expire.

"Tarry here for a season, until the heat and energy of the pursuit be
overpast, or at least abated. We could not find a more fitting place
of concealment."

"Being straitened for moneys until we can obtain succour from our
friends, I cannot reward your hospitality as I would desire; but if we
are brought forth and delivered safely from this thrall, thy father's
house shall not be forgotten."

"We will not touch the least of all thy gifts," said the maiden:
"forbid that we sold our succour to the distressed, though it were to
the most cruel and bitter of our enemies!"

A sudden thought excited this noble-hearted female. She cautiously
approached her companion, who, having discontinued his perambulations,
had seated himself in a corner, awaiting the termination of their
interview. Knowing that he had generally a hoard of moneys about his
person--for covetousness was ever his besetting sin--she ventured to
solicit a loan, either for herself or the stranger, judging that
Egerton's escape would be much impeded, if, as he had just confessed,
his finances were hardly sufficient for his ordinary expenditure.

"And so I must give my blood and my groats to nourish thy sweethearts,
wench," said the surly money-lender. "I have saved this prelatist and
malignant from his adversaries, and now"----He considered a while,
muttering his thoughts and arguments to himself with a most confused
and volatile impetuosity of ratiocination. In a short time he seemed
to arrive at some satisfactory conclusion through all this obscurity,
and drew out a handful of coin, of some low denomination, apparently
by the sound, and placed it in the hands of his fair suitor.

"There--there--one, two, three. Never mind, wench; I could have
counted 'em once with the best clerkman i' the parish; and for the
matter of that, I've told 'em oft enough, though,--but the count
always seems to slip from me. It is all I have, save the price of my
life; and I would not part with that for a world's worth; for what
should it profit me, when with it I had bought my grave?"

Marian immediately transferred the long-hoarded treasure into the
hands of the cavalier.

"Thanks; yea, better than these, for they were a poor recompense, my
peerless maiden. I scruple not to receive this loan at thine hands,
because it is part of the means thou dost employ for my escape. Yet
doubt not of my willingness and ability to repay thee tenfold. Thou
wilt not deny me this silly suit."

As he said this, he, with the greatest gallantry and devotedness,
kissed the hand held forth to supply his exigency. He was accompanying
the movement with some fair and courtly speech when a loud and
terrible cry startled him. It was more like the howl of some ravenous
beast than any sound which human organs ever uttered. Curses
followed--horrible, untold--the suggestion of fiends in their
bitterness and malignity. Then came the cry, or rather shriek--

"Lost! lost!" at irregular intervals.

The cavalier and his companion were much alarmed by this unexpected
occurrence. They doubted not that the foul fiend was before them,
bodily, in the form of this poor maniac. After a short interval of
silence, he cried, approaching them fiercely--

"Ye have sold me, soul and body, to the wicked one. May curses long
and heavy light on ye! The coin! the coin! Oh, that accursed thing! I
have bought thy grave, stranger; and my day of hope is past!"

The latter part of the speech was uttered in a tone of such deep and
heartrending misery that pity arose in place of terror in the bosom
of his auditors. Marian ventured to address him, hoping she might
assuage or dissipate the fearful hallucination under which he
laboured.

"There is yet hope for the repenting sinner. The hour of life is the
hour of grace: for that, and that only, is life prolonged. Turn to Him
from whom thou hast backslidden, nor add unto thy crime by wilfully
rejecting the free offers of His mercy."

"Mercy!--Life!" Here he laughed outright. "Hearest thou not my
tormentor?--Life!--I am dead, wench; and my grave is waiting for me,
dug by these accursed fingers. That grave I digged for thee is now
mine. Unwittingly have I bought it, and the coin is in thy purse!"

It seems the poor maniac, in replacing the mysterious coin to which,
from some cause or other, he attached such importance, had
unthinkingly added it to the common hoard, and in this manner conveyed
it to the stranger, whose grave he persisted he had bought by this
transfer; and nothing could shake his belief in so marvellous a
conclusion.

The cavalier attempted to comfort him; and in order to make the
delusion subservient to the removal of its terrors, he offered to
restore the coin, or even the whole of what he had received, that the
simple gravedigger might be certain he had it in possession.

"'Tis needless; the token, once from my grasp and in the fingers of
another whose grave I have digged, would never change my doom by its
return. Keep what thou hast; and may it serve thee more faithfully
than it hath served me! But remember--let me say it while my senses
hold together, for I feel the blast coming that shall scatter them to
the four winds--remember, if thou part therefrom, as I have done, to
some doomed one, thou shalt go to the grave in his stead. But a
charmed life is thine as long as it is in thy possession. Away--leave
me--the master will be here presently for his own. Leave me, I say;
for when the fiend cometh, he'll not tarry. But be sure you make fast
the door, lest I escape, and mischief happen, should I get abroad."

"Stephen!" said Marian, "slight not the mercy of thy God, nor
dishonour His name, by hearkening to the suggestions of the enemy. His
arm is not shortened, nor His ear heavy."

"I know it; but when the fiend came, and found the house swept and
garnished, did he not take unto himself seven other spirits more
wicked than himself, and was not the latter end of that man worse than
the first?"

"Yet," said Marian, "would he have been delivered if he had cried out
to the strong man armed."

"But he would hear no refutation, persisting in the thought that his
crime was unpardonable, since he had relapsed after the devil was cast
out." During the present paroxysm, it was in vain to thwart him
further; indeed their stay was attended with some hazard, of which, it
seems, he felt aware, inasmuch as he drove them forth without
ceremony. Availing themselves of his suggestion they bolted the door
on the outside, thus preventing any further mischief. Here was a
perplexing and unforeseen dilemma; and how to dispose of the cavalier
was a question of no slight importance. At present the only
alternative was to convey him to his fellow-traveller, Chisenhall,
who, comfortably established in his narrow loft, was quite unconscious
of the events that were passing so near him.

As they left the cemetery they heard the groans and cries of the
unfortunate victim, suffering, as he imagined, from the resistless
power of his tormentor.

Early, with the early dawn, Marian again sought the dwelling of Gilgal
Snape. She earnestly entreated him that he would make all speed to the
chapel--again exercising his peculiar gift in "binding the strong man
armed," or, in other words, dispossessing the demoniac.

The benevolent divine instantly accompanied her, and forthwith
proceeded to the relief of the possessed. Howls and shrieks accosted
him as he ascended the stair.

"I must be alone," said he; "no earthly witness may be nigh. Strong in
faith, by the grace that is given me, I doubt not that this also thou
wilt vouchsafe to thine unworthy dust,"--he raised his eyes toward
Heaven;--"yet should I fail, He will not let me be overcome, nor fall
into the snare of the wicked one; for I know, and am assured, that
this trial shall turn out to the furtherance of His glory!"

Marian left him at the entrance. But, with the minister's appearance
in the chamber, the agony of the deluded sufferer seemed to quicken,
as if the sight of him who was the herald of mercy only added fresh
fuel to his torments. Marian was fain to depart; her ears almost
stunned with the cries and howlings of the demoniac. She withdrew in
great agitation, her knees almost sinking under their burden. Hardly
conscious of the removal, she reached her own chamber, where, covering
her face with both hands, she wept bitterly. This outburst of tears
relieved her; though she still suffered from the recent excitement.
Her former resolutions were strengthened by the terrible example she
had just witnessed; and the backsliding impenitent she looked upon as
a watchlight to warn her from the rocks whereon he had made shipwreck.

Some hours passed on, but no tidings came from the "abbey." She often
looked out across the path, and towards the stile which led to the
ruins; but all was undisturbed. The sun shining down, bright and
unclouded, all was harmony and peace--"all, save the spirit of man,
was divine"--all fulfilling their Maker's ordinances, and his behest.

The sun was creeping down towards the dark low tower of the chapel;
and Marian was still at the door, gazing out anxiously for
intelligence. She saw a figure mounting the stile. It was--she could
not be mistaken--it was the reverend and easily-recognised form of
Gilgal Snape. She ran down the path to meet him; and she could not
help noticing that he looked more sedate than usual, appearing
harassed and disquieted, betraying more obviously the approach of age
and infirmities.

"Have you wrestled with the adversary and prevailed?" inquired she,
anxiously.

"I have had a fearful and a perilous struggle. The fight was long;
but, by the sword of the Spirit, I _have_ prevailed."

"Has the backslider been brought again to the fold?"

"He hath, I trust, been found of the Good Shepherd; and he now
sleepeth in Abraham's bosom!"

"Dead! Hath the grave so soon demanded its prey?"

"I left him not until the spirit was rendered unto Him who gave it. He
entreated me sore that I would not leave him until I had watched his
dismissal from the body."

"Then do I know of a surety that the evil spirit was cast out, and the
lost one restored."

"There was joy in heaven over a repentant sinner this day. When the
dark foe was vanquished, his spirit came again as a little child, and
the leprosy of his sin was healed. Verily, the evil one, ere he was
overthrown, did utter many strange words touching things to come, and
our present perplexities. There seemed to be a spirit of divination
within him which did prophesy. Marian," continued the divine, with a
scrutinising look, "he did tell of thy dealing with our enemies, and
that thou dost even now nourish and conceal those of whom we are in
search."

"If thine enemy hunger"----But Marian was hastily interrupted in her
plea.

"But of the secrets which, by virtue of mine office and godly
vocation, men do entrust to my safe keeping, I may not use, even to
the hurt of our enemies and the welfare of the Church, yet buffeted by
Satan in the wilderness. Nevertheless, I was sore troubled that thou,
even thou, shouldest harbour and abet these wicked men, who have
broken the covenant and plucked up the seed of the kingdom. Truly, I
wot not where the afflicted Church shall find succour when her foes be
they of her own household."

"I knew not that they were enemies when first they sought our
habitation. They had eaten and drunken at our board, and the"----

"These sons of Belial found favour in thy sight, even the chief
captain of the king's host. I would not accuse or blame thee rashly;
but verily thou hast not judged wisely in this matter, for now must
they depart, inasmuch as I cannot use, even to the advantage of our
just cause, the knowledge I have gained; nor wilt thou render them up,
I trow; but mark me, the avenger of blood is behind them, and though
the city of refuge be nigh, they shall not escape!----Yet there be
other marvels this wicked one did set forth," said the minister, with
a searching eye directed to the maiden. "One of these uncircumcised
Philistines did woo thee for his bride. What answer gavest thou?"

"Such answer as becometh one who seeketh not fellowship with the works
of darkness."

"'Tis well. Now lead me to this Joab the son of Zeruiah, this captain
of the king's host; for I have a message unto him also."

Following the astonished and trembling maiden, the divine, fraught
with some weighty commission, was admitted into the temporary
concealment of the fugitives. It was a narrow and inconvenient loft
above one of the outbuildings--the roof so low that it was only in
some places the upright figure of the minister might be sustained. The
light penetrated through an aperture in the roof, showing the guests
within seated, and enjoying a frugal, but sufficient repast.

"I am one of few words," said the divine, "and so much the rather as
that I now stand in the presence of mine enemies. What sayest thou,
Prince Rupert, the persecutor of God's heritage, who didst not stay
thine hand from the slaughter even of them that were taken captive?
What sayest thou that the word should not go forth to kill and slay,
even as thou didst smite and not spare, but didst destroy utterly them
who, when beleaguered by thine armies in Bolton, were delivered into
thine hand?"

"Ha!" said the Prince; "thou--a cockatrice to betray me!"

"She hath not betrayed thee. Yonder poor and afflicted sinner, when in
bondage unto Satan, led captive by him at his will, did reveal it by
the spirit of prophecy that was in him. But we take not advantage of
this to thine hurt; we may not use the devil's works for the building
up and welfare of the Church, even though she were mightily holpen
thereby. But listen: thou hast wooed this maiden to be the wife of thy
bosom. In the dark roll of destiny it is written--so spake the unclean
spirit--that if thou shouldest wed, a son springing from thy loins
shall sit upon the throne of this unhappy realm. He shall govern the
people righteously, every one under his own vine and his own fig-tree,
none daring to make them afraid. Surely it would not be a vain and an
evil thing should the maiden be----Yet--this is my temptation. Get
thee behind me, Satan. May the thought and the folly of my heart be
forgiven me! No! proud and cruel persecutor, this maiden is a pearl of
rare price which thou shalt not win--a chosen one who hath had grace
given unto her above measure, even above that vouchsafed unto me. I do
loathe and abhor myself for the iniquity of my heart, and the
unsubdued carnality of my spirit."

"Your Highness had need of great meekness and patience to endure this
grievous outpouring," said Chisenhall to the silent and bewildered
Prince. "Shall I thrust him through, and make sure of his fidelity?"

"Hurt him not," said his Highness to this effectual admonisher unto
secrecy. "And what if I should not wed?" continued he, addressing the
divine, and at the same time looking tenderly on the damsel.

"To this point too was the prophecy accordant. The sceptre shall
nevertheless be given to one of thy race; thy sister's son shall carry
down the line of kings to this people; and the Lord's work shall still
prosper. Now, daughter of many prayers--for I have yearned over thee
with more than a father's love--choose thee without constraint this
day. Thou hearest the words of this prophecy: wilt thou be the mother
of kings, or the lowly and despised follower of God's heritage?"

"I will not grasp the bubble of ambition. It bursts--a hollow vapour
when possessed. Let me choose rather to suffer affliction with the
people of God than obtain all the treasures of Egypt. But tempt me not
again, for my soul cleaveth to the dust--flesh and blood shrink from
the trial!"

She sobbed aloud, and threw herself on the old man's neck, who
scarcely refrained from joining in her tears.

"Thou hast come forth as gold from the furnace--thou hast kept the
faith, and holden fast thy profession," said the divine, with a glance
of triumph. Marian held out her hand to the Prince, who grasped it
with fervour. She seemed more like to some holy and heavenward thing
than a denizen of this polluted earth--more like a type of the
confessors and martyrs of the primitive church than a disciple of our
own, nurtured in the lap of carnal security, with little show of
either zeal or devotion.

"Your Highness must depart--but whither?" said she, with an anxious
and inquiring glance directed to the minister.

"Take no thought for their safety; thy constancy hath earned their
deliverance. My safe-conduct will carry them unharmed beyond the reach
of their enemies; but let them not return. It is at their own peril if
they be found again harboured in this vicinage, and their blood be on
their own heads!"

They departed, and the subsequent history of the gallant Rupert is
well known. He joined the king at Oxford, and helped him to retrieve
his defeat at Newbury, bringing off his artillery left at Dunnington
Castle in the very face of the enemy. At the decisive Battle of Naseby
we find him performing feats of extraordinary valour; but, as before,
his headlong and precipitate fury led him into the usual error; and
though the loss of the battle was not to be attributed entirely to his
imprudence, yet a little more caution would have altered materially
the results of that memorable conflict. Harassed and dispirited, he
threw himself with the remainder of his troops into Bristol, intending
to defend it to the last extremity; but even here his constitutional
fortitude and valour seemed to forsake him: a poorer defence was not
made by any town during the whole war, and the general expectations
were extremely disappointed. No sooner had the Parliamentary forces
entered the lines by storm, than the Prince capitulated, and
surrendered the place to General Fairfax. A few days before, he had
written a letter to the King, in which he undertook to defend it for
four months, if no mutiny obliged him to surrender it. Charles, who
was forming schemes and collecting forces for the relief of the city,
was astonished at so unexpected an event, which was little less fatal
to his cause than the defeat at Naseby. Full of indignation, he
instantly recalled all Prince Rupert's commissions, and sent him a
pass to go beyond sea.

Several years afterwards we find him in command of a squadron of
ships, entrusted to him by Charles II, when an exile in Normandy.
Admiral Blake received orders from the Parliament to pursue him.
Rupert, being much inferior in force, took shelter in Kinsale, and
escaping thence, fled toward the coast of Portugal. Blake pursued and
chased him into the Tagus, where he intended to attack him; but the
King of Portugal, moved by the favour which throughout Europe attended
the royal cause, refused Blake admission, and aided the Prince in
making his escape. Having lost the greater part of his fleet off the
coast of Spain, he made sail towards the West Indies; but his brother,
Prince Maurice, was there shipwrecked in a hurricane. Everywhere his
squadron subsisted by privateering, sometimes on English, sometimes on
Spanish, vessels. Rupert at last returned to France, where he disposed
of the remnants of his fleet, together with his prizes.

He was never married; peradventure the remembrance of the noble and
heroic maiden marred his wiving; he cared not for the presence of
those courtly dames by whom he was surrounded, though a soldier, and a
brave one. By one of his race the crown of these realms was inherited;
and the same line is yet perpetuated in the person of our gracious
monarch, whom God preserve! The sister of Rupert, Princess Sophia, by
marriage with the Elector of Hanover, became the mother of George I.;
and thus was that singular prediction of the supposed demoniac
strangely and happily verified. Of Marian little remains to be told;
the lives of the virtuous and well-doing furnish little matter for the
historian; their deeds are not of this world; the bright page of their
history is unfolded only in the next.

     [8] Hume.

     [9] Clarendon.

     [10] Hume.


[Illustration: CLEGG HALL, NEAR ROCHDALE.
_Drawn by G. Pickering._
_Engraved by Edw^d Finden._]




CLEGG HALL.

       "Is there no exorcist
     Beguiles the truer office of mine eyes?
     Is't real that I see?"
                      --SHAKESPEARE.

Clegg Hall, about two miles N.E. from Rochdale, is still celebrated
for the freaks and visitations of a supernatural guest, called
"Clegg-Hall Boggart."

So desultory and various are the accounts we have heard, and many of
them so vague and unintelligible, that it has been a work of much
difficulty to weave them into one continuous narrative, and to shape
them into a plot sufficiently interesting for our purpose. The name
and character of "Noman" are still the subject of many an absurd and
marvellous story among the country chroniclers in that region.

Dr Whitaker says it is "the only estate within the parish which still
continues in the local family name." On this site was the old house
built by Bernulf de Clegg and Quenilda his wife as early as the reign
of Stephen. Not a vestige of it remains. The present comparatively
modern erection was built by Theophilus Ashton of Rochdale, a lawyer,
and one of the Ashtons of Little Clegg, about the year 1620.

Stubley Hall, mentioned in our tale, was built by Robert Holt in the
reign of Henry VIII. The decay of our native woods had then occasioned
a pretty general disuse of timber for the framework of dwelling-houses
belonging to this class of our domestic architecture. Dr Whitaker
says--"It is the first specimen in the parish of a stone or brick
hall-house of the second order--that is, with a centre and two wings
only. Long before the Holts, appear at this place a Nicholas and a
John de Stubley, in the years 1322 and 1332; then follow in succession
John, Geoffrey, Robert, and Christopher Holt; from whom descended,
though not in a direct line, Robert Holt of Castleton and Stubley,
whose daughter, Dorothy, married in the year 1649, John Entwisle of
Foxholes. Robert, who built Stubley, and who was grandson of
Christopher Holt before mentioned, was a justice of the peace in the
year 1528. In an old visitation of Lancashire by Thomas Tong, Norroy,
30 Hen. VIII., is this singular entry:--"Robarde Holte of Stubley,
hase mar. an ould woman, by whom he hase none issewe, and therefore he
wolde not have her name entryed." Yet it appears he had a daughter,
Mary, who married Charles Holt, her cousin, descended from the first
Robert. Her grandson was the Robert Holt, father to Dorothy Entwisle
before-named, at whose marriage the events took place which, if the
following tradition is to be credited, were the forerunners of a more
strange and unexpected development.

In the year 1640, nine years before the date of our story, Robert Holt
abandoned Stubley for the warmer and more fertile situation of
Castleton, about a mile south from Rochdale. It was so named from the
_castellum de Recedham_, wherein dwelt Gamel, the Saxon Thane; which
place and personage are described in our first series of _Traditions_.
Castleton was principally abbey-land belonging to the house of
Stanlaw. Part of this township, the hamlet of Marland or Mereland,
was, at the dissolution of monasteries, granted to the Radcliffs of
Langley, and sold by Henry Radcliff to Charles Holt, who married his
cousin, Mary Holt of Stubley, and was grandfather to Robert, who left
Stubley for this place, which we have noticed above.

Stubley, with its neighbourhood, was always noted for good ale. From
its situation, exposed to all the rigours of that hilly region, the
climate was reckoned so cold as to require that their daily beverage
should be of sufficient strength to counteract its effects. That
habits of intemperance would be contracted from the constant use of
such stimuli may easily be inferred. The following letter from
Nicholas Stratford, Bishop of Chester, to James Holt of Castleton, son
of Robert Holt before-named, is but too melancholy a confirmation of
this inference.

The original is in the possession of the Rev. J. Clowes of Broughton
Hall:--


     "SIR,--Your request in behalf of Mr Halliwell was easily
     granted; for I am myself inclined to give the best encouragement
     I can to the poor curates, as long as they continue diligent in
     the discharge of their duty. But I have now, Sir, a request to
     make to you, which I heartily pray you may as readily grant me;
     and that is, that you will for the future abandon and abhor the
     sottish vice of drunkenness, which (if common fame be not a
     great liar) you are much addicted to. I beseech you, Sir,
     frequently and seriously to consider the many dismal fruits and
     consequences of this sin, even in this world--how destructive it
     is to all your most valuable concerns and interests; how it
     blasts your reputation, destroys your health, and will (if
     continued) bring you to a speedy and untimely death: and, which
     is infinitely more dreadful, will exclude you from the kingdom
     of heaven, and expose you to that everlasting fire where you
     will not be able to obtain so much as one drop of water to cool
     your tongue. I have not leisure to proceed in this argum^t, nor
     is it needful that I should, because you yourself can enlarge
     upon it without my ... I assure you, S^r, this advice now given
     you proceeds from sincere love and my earnest desire to promote
     your happiness both in this world and the next; and I hope you
     will be pleased so to accept from,


     "S^r,
     "Your affectionate friend
     "and humble servant,
     "N. CESTRIENS.

     "CHESTER, _Nov. 1699_."





Clegg Hall, after many changes of occupants, is now in part used as a
country alehouse; other portions are inhabited by the labouring
classes who find employment in that populous and manufacturing
district. It is the properpty of Joseph Fenton, Esq., of Bamford Hall,
by purchase from John Entwisle, Esq., the present possessor of
Foxholes, in that neighbourhood.


To Clegg Hall, or rather what was once the site of that ancient house,
tradition points through the dim vista of past ages as the scene of an
unnatural and cruel tragedy. Not that this picturesque and stately
pile, with its gable and zigzag terminations, the subject of our
present engraving, was the very place where the murder was
perpetrated; but a low, dark, and wooden-walled tenement, such as our
forefathers were wont to construct in times anterior to the Tudor
ages. The present building, with its little porch, quaint and
grotesque, its balustrade and balcony above, and the points and
pediments on the four sides, are evidently the coinage of some more
modern brain--peradventure in King James's days. Not unlike the
character of that learned monarch and of his times, half-classical,
half-barbarous, it combines the puerilities of each, without the power
and grandeur of the one, or the rich and chivalric magnificence of the
other; and might remind the beholder of some gaunt warrior of the
Middle Ages, with lance, and armour, and "ladye-love," stalking forth,
clad in the Roman toga or the stately garb of the senator. The
building, the subject of our tale, has neither the gorgeous
extravagance of the Gothic nor the severe and stern utility of the
Roman architecture. Little bits of columns, dwarf-like, and frittered
down into mere extremities, give the porch very much the appearance of
a child's plaything, or a Dutch toy stuck to its side.

It has the very air and attitude--the pedantic formalities--of the
time when it was built. Not so the house on whose ruins it was
erected; the square, low, dark mansion, constructed of wood, heavy and
gigantic, shaped like the hull of some great ship, the ribs and
timbers being first fixed, and the interstices afterwards filled with
a compost of clay and chopped straw, to keep out the weather. Of such
rude and primitive architecture were the dwellings of the English
gentry in former ages: such was the house built by Bernulf and
Quenilda Clegg, in the reign of Stephen, the supposed scene of that
horrible deed which gave rise to the stories yet extant relating to
"Clegg-Hall Boggart." Popular story is not precise, generally, as to
facts and dates. The exact time when this occurrence took place we
know not; but it is more than probable that some dark transaction of
this nature was here perpetrated. The prevailing tradition warrants
our belief. However fanciful and extravagant the filling up of the
picture, common rumour still preserves untouched the general outline.
It is said that, sometime about the thirteenth or fourteenth century,
a wicked uncle destroyed the lawful heirs of this goodly
possession--two orphan children that were left to his care--by
throwing them over a balcony into the moat, that he might seize on the
inheritance. Such is the story which, to this day, retains its hold on
the popular mind; and ever after, it is said, the house was the
reputed haunt of a troubled and angry spirit, until means were taken
for its removal, or rather its expulsion. But upon the inhuman deed
itself we shall not dilate, inasmuch as the period is too remote, and
the events are too vague, for our purpose.

The house built by Bernulf Clegg had passed, with many alterations and
renewals, into the possession of the Ashtons of Little Clegg. About
the year 1620 the present edifice was built by Theophilus Ashton; and
thirty years had scarcely elapsed from its erection to the date of our
story. Though the original dwelling had, with one or two exceptions,
been pulled down, yet symptoms of "the boggart" were still manifest in
the occasional visitations and annoyances to which the inmates were
subject.

The hues of evening were spread out, like a rich tapestry, above and
behind the long unpicturesque line of hills, the lower acclivities of
Blackstonedge, opposite to the stately mansion of Clegg Hall. The
square squat tower of Rochdale Church peered out from the dark trees,
high on its dim eyrie, in the distance, towards the south-west, below
which a wan hazy smoke indicated the site of that thriving and
populous town. To the right, the heavy blue ridge of mountains,
bearing the appropriate name of Blackstonedge, had not yet put on its
cold, grey, neutral tint; but the mass appeared to rise abruptly from
the green enclosures stretching to its base, in strong and beautiful
contrast of colour, such as painters love to express on the mimic
canvas. It was a lovely evening in October; one of Nature's parting
smiles, ere she envelops herself in the horrors and the gloom of
winter. So soft and balmy was the season that the wild flowers
lingered longer than usual in the woods and copses where they dwelt.
In the gardens some of the spring blossoms had already unfolded. The
wallflowers and polyanthuses had looked out again, unhesitatingly, on
the genial sky--deprived, by sophistication and culture, of the
instincts necessary to their preservation: the wild untutored denizens
of the field and the quiet woods rarely betray such lack of
presentiment. But such are everywhere the results of civilisation;
which, however beneficial to society in the aggregate, gives its
objects altogether an artificial character, and, by depriving them of
their natural and proper instincts, renders them helpless when single
and unaided; while it makes them more dependent upon each other, and
on the factitious wants, the offspring of those very habits and
conditions into which they are thrown.

On the hollow trunk of a decrepit ash the ivy was blossoming
profusely, gathering its support from the frail prop which it was
fated to destroy. The insects were humming and frolicking about on
their tiny wings, taking their last enjoyment of their little day, ere
they gave place to the ephemera of the next.

"How merry and jocund every life-gifted thing looks forth on this our
festival. It might be Nature holding high jubilee in honour of Holt's
daughter on her wedding-night!"

Thus spake Nicholas Haworth to his sister Alice, as they stepped forth
from the hall porch, and stayed for a moment by this aged trunk to
admire the scene that was fast losing its glory and its brightness.
They were bidden to the marriage-supper at Stubley, where a masqued
ball was to be given after the nuptials of Dorothy Holt, the daughter
of its possessor, with Entwisle, the heir of Foxholes.[11]

"It may be holiday and gladness too; but I feel it not," said Alice
pensively, as she leaned on her brother's arm, while they turned into
a narrow lane overarched by irregular groups of beech and sycamore
trees.

"Heed not such idle fancies," said her brother. "And so, because,
forsooth, an impudent beggar-man predicts some strange event that must
shortly befall thee, the apprehension doth cast its shadow ere it
come, and thou art ready to conjure up some grim spectre in the gloom
it hath created. But, in good sooth, here comes the wizard himself who
hath raised these melancholic and evil humours."

"I never pass him without a shudder," said she, at the same time
cringing closely to her protector.

This awful personage was one of an ancient class, now probably
extinct; a sort of privileged order, supplying, or rather usurping,
the place of the mendicant friars of former days. Their vocation was
not of an unprofitable kind, inasmuch as alms were commonly rendered,
though more from fear than favour. Woe betide the unlucky housewife
who withheld her dole, her modicum of meal or money to these sturdy
applicants! Mischief from some invisible hand was sure to follow, and
the cause was laid to her lack of charity.

The being, the subject of these remarks, had been for many months a
periodical visitor at the Hall, where he went by the name of "Noman."
It is not a little remarkable that tradition should here point out an
adventure something analogous to that of Ulysses with the Cyclop as
once happening to this obscure individual, and that his escape was
owing to the same absurd equivoque by which the Grecian chief escaped
from his tormentor. Our tale, however, hath reference to weightier
matters, and the brief space we possess permits no further digression.
This aged but hale and sturdy beggar wore a grey frieze coat or cloak
loosely about his person. Long blue stocking gaiters, well patched and
darned, came over his knee, while his doublet and hosen, or body-gear,
were fastened together by the primitive attachment of wooden
skewers--a contrivance now obsolete, being superseded by others more
elegant and seemly. A woollen cap or bonnet, of unparalleled form and
dimensions, was disposed upon his head, hiding the upper part of his
face, and almost covering a pair of bushy grey eyebrows, that, in
their turn, crouched over a quick and vagrant eye, little the worse
for the wear of probably some sixty years. A grizzled reddish beard
hung upon his breast; and his aspect altogether was forbidding, almost
ferocious. A well-plenished satchel was on his shoulder; and he walked
slowly and erect, as though little disposed to make way for his
betters in the narrow path, where they must inevitably meet. When they
came nearer he stood still in the middle of the road, as though
inclined to dispute their passage. His tall and well-proportioned
figure, apparent even beneath these grotesque habiliments, stood out
before them in bold relief against the red and burning sky, where an
opening in the lane admitted all the glow and fervour of the western
sunset. His strange, wayward, and even mysterious character was no bar
to his admittance into the mansions of the gentry through a wide
circuit of country, where his familiarities were tolerated, or perhaps
connived at, even by many whose gifts he received more as a right than
as an obligation.

He looked steadfastly on them as they approached, but without the
slightest show either of respect or good-will.

"Prithee, stand a little on one side, that we may pass by without fear
of offence," said Nicholas Haworth, good-humouredly.

"And whither away, young master and my dainty miss?" was the reply, in
his usual easy and familiar address, such as might have suited one of
rank and condition.

Haworth, little disturbed thereat, said with a careless
smile,--"Troth, thou hast not been so long away but thou mightest have
heard of the wedding-feast to-night, and, peradventure, been foremost
for the crumbs of the banquet."

"I know well there's mumming and foolery a-going on yonder; and I
suppose ye join the merry-making, as they call it?"

"Ay, that do we; and so, prithee, begone."

"And your masks will ne'er be the wiser for't, I trow," said the
beggar, looking curiously upon them from beneath his penthouse lids.

"But that I could laugh at his impertinence, Alice, I would even now
chide him soundly, and send his pitiful carcase to the stocks for this
presumption. Hark thee, I do offer good counsel when I warn thee to
shift thyself, and that speedily, ere I use the readiest means for thy
removal."

"Gramercy, brave ruffler; but I must e'en gi'e ye the path; an' so
pass on to the masking, my Lord Essex and his maiden queen."

He said this with a cunning look and a chuckle of self-gratulation at
the knowledge he had somehow or other acquired of the parts they were
intended to enact.

"Foul fa' thy busy tongue, where foundest thou this news? I've a
month's mind to change my part, Alice, but that there's neither
leisure nor opportunity, and they lack our presence at the nuptials."

"How came he by this knowledge, and the fashion of our masks?"
inquired Alice from her brother. "Truly, I could join belief with
those who say that he obtained it not through the ordinary channels
open to our frail and fallible intellects."

Mistress Alice, "the gentle Alice," was reckoned fair and
well-favoured. Strongly tinctured with romance, her superstition was
continually fed by the stories then current in relation to her own
dwelling, and by the generally-received opinions about witches and
other supernatural things which yet lingered, loth to depart from
these remote limits of civilisation.

"Clegg-Hall Boggart" was the type of a notion too general to be
disbelieved; yet were the inmates, in all probability, less intimately
acquainted with the freaks and disturbances attendant thereon than
every gossip in the neighbourhood; for, as it frequently happens,
tales and marvels, for the most part originating through roguery, and
the pranks of servants and retainers, were less likely to come to the
ears of the master and his family than those of persons less
interested, but more likely to assist in their propagation. The
vagrant and erratic movements of "Noman" were, somehow or another,
connected with the marvellous adventures and appearances in the
"boggart chamber." At the Hall, this discarded room, being part of the
old house yet remaining, was the one which he was permitted to occupy
during his stay; and his appearance was generally the signal of a
visit from their supernatural guest. To be sure, the strange sights he
beheld rested on his testimony alone; but his word was never
questioned, and his coming was of equal potency with the magician's
wand in raising the ghost.

"We shall have some news from our troublesome guest, I suppose, in the
morning," said Alice to her brother, as they went slowly on: "I know
not the cause; but yonder vagrant seems to waken our ancient companion
from his slumbers, either by sympathy or antipathy, I trow."

"For the most part they be idle tales," said he; "though I doubt not,
in former days, the place was infested by some unquiet spirit. But
this good house of ours hath modern stuff too strong upon it. The
smell of antiquity alone hath a savour delicate enough for your musty
ghost."

Alice pressed his arm slightly as an admonition, at the same time
gently chiding his unbelief. Thus beguiling the way with pleasant
discourse, they drew nigh to the old house at Stubley, little more
than a mile distant from their own dwelling.

Though now resident in his more modern, sheltered, and convenient
mansion of Castleton, Holt determined that his daughter's wedding
should be solemnised in the ancient halls, where Robert Bath, vicar of
Rochdale, who was presented to the living on his marriage with a niece
of Archbishop Laud, was invited to perform the ceremony;--"A man,"
says Dr Whitaker, "of very different principles from his patron; for
he complied with all changes but the last, and retained his benefice
till August 24, 1662, when he went out on the Bartholomew Act, and
retired to a small house at Deepleach Hill, near Rochdale, where he
frequently preached to a crowded auditory."[12]

As they came nigh, lights were already glancing between the mullions
of the great hall window, then richly ornamented with painted glass.
The guests were loitering about the walks and terraces in the little
garden-plots, which in that bleak and chilly region were scantily
furnished. In the hall, fitted up with flowers and green holly-wreaths
for the occasion, the father of the bride and his intended son-in-law
were pacing to and fro in loving discourse; the latter pranked out in
a costly pair of "petticoat breeches," pink and white, of the newest
fashion, reaching only to the knee. These were ornamented with ribands
and laces at the two extremities, below which silk stockings,
glistering like silver, and immense pink shoe-roses, completed his
nether costume. A silken doublet and waistcoat of rich embroidery,
over which was a turned-down shirt-collar of point-lace, surmounted
the whole.

His friends and officials were busily employed in arranging matters
for the occasion, distributing the wedding-favours, and preparing for
the entertainments and festivities that were to follow.

Holt and his son-in-law were exempt from duty, save that of welcoming
those that were bidden, upon their arrival.

Before an oaken screen, beautifully carved with arabesque ornaments
and armorial bearings,[13] there was a narrow table, covered with a
white cloth, and on it the prayer-book, open at the marriage
formulary. Four stools were placed for those more immediately
interested in the ceremony. Rosemary and bay-leaves, gilt and dipped
in scented water, were scattered about the marriage-altar in
love-knots and many fanciful and ingenious devices. A bride-cup rested
upon it, in which lay a sprig of gilded rosemary--a relic or semblance
of the ancient hymeneal torch. Huge tables, groaning with garniture
for the approaching feast, were laid round the apartment--room being
left in the central floor for all who chose to mingle in the games and
dances that were expected after supper.

The company were now assembled, and the ceremony about to commence.
The bride, clothed in white, with a veil of costly workmanship thrown
over her, was led in by her maidens and a train of friends. The
bridegroom taking her hand, they stood before the altar, and the brief
but indissoluble knot was tied. The kiss being given, the happy
husband led away his partner into the parlour or guest chamber,
followed by many of those who had witnessed the ceremony. Alice and
her brother were amongst them; and the bride, perceiving their
entrance, drew the hand of the maiden within hers, and retained her
for a short season by her side.

The feast was begun; those who were for the mask took but a hasty
refreshment, being anxious to proceed into the 'tiring rooms, there to
array for the more interesting part of the night's revel. In due time
issued forth from their crowded bowers lords and ladies gay, buffoons,
morris-dancers, and the like; gypsies, fortune-tellers, and a medley
of giddy mummers, into the hall, where the more sedate or more sensual
were still carousing after the feast.

"Room for the masks!" was the general cry; and the musicians, each
after his kind, did pierce and vex the air with such a medley of
disquieting sounds that the talkers were fain to cease, and the
dancers to fall to in good earnest. Alice and her brother were
disguised as the cunning beggar had predicted--to wit, as the virgin
queen and her unfortunate lover. Masks were often dropping in, so that
the hall and adjoining chambers were fully occupied, resounding in
wild echoes with noise and revelry.

Loud and long was the merriment, increasing even until the roofs rung
with the din, and the revellers themselves grew weary of the tumult.

Alice was standing by the oaken screen during a temporary cessation on
her part from the labours incident to royalty, when there came from
behind it a tawny Moor, wearing a rich shawl turban, with a beard of
comely aspect. His arms were bare and hung with massive bracelets, and
he wore a tight jacket of crimson and gold. His figure was tall and
commanding; but his face was concealed by a visor of black crape,
which hindered not his speech from being clearly apprehended, though
the sound came forth in a muffled tone, as if feigned for the
occasion. Immediately there followed an Arabic or Turkish doctor,
clad in a long dark robe, and his head surmounted by a four-cornered
fur cap. In one hand he held a glass phial, and a box under his left
arm. Of an erect and majestic stature, he stood for a moment
apparently surveying the scene ere he mingled in the busy crowd. His
face also was covered with black crape, and through the "eyelet-holes"
a bright and burning glance shot forth, hardly repressed by the shadow
from his disguise. Alice, being unattended, shunned these unknown
intruders, and mingled again with a merry group who were pelting one
another with comfits and candied almonds. The stately Elizabeth
beckoned to her maidens; but they merely curtsied to their royal
mistress, without discontinuing their boisterous hilarity. Indeed, the
mumming hitherto had been more in dress than manners, so little
restraint had their outward disguise occasioned, or their behaviour
been altered thereby. The two late comers, however, produced a change.
It appeared that their business was to enact a play or cunning device
for the amusement of the company who, regarding them with a curious
eye, one by one left off their several sports to gaze upon the
strangers.

The rest were generally known to each other; but whispers and
inquiries now went round, from which it appeared that the new
visitants were strictly concealed, and their presence unexpected.

"Now, o' my faith," said Harry Cheetham, whose skill in dancing and
drollery had been conspicuous throughout the evening, "yon barbarians
be come from the Grand Turk, with his kerchief, recruiting for the
seraglio."

"Out upon thee!" said a jingling Morisco, enacted by young Hellawell
of Pike House; "the Grand Signior loveth not maidens such as ours for
his pavilion. They be too frosty to melt, even in Afric's sunny
clime." This was said with a malicious glance at Alice, whose
queen-like dignity and haughty bearing had kept many an ardent admirer
at bay through the evening.

"Sure the master of the feast hath withheld this precious delectation
until now," said Essex; "for they, doubtless, be of his providing."

"And give promise of more novel but less savoury entertainment," said
Hamer of Hamer. But Holt either knew them not, or his look of
surprise, not unmixed with curiosity and expectation, showed that he
was playing the masker too, without other disguise than his own proper
features--the kind hospitable face of an honest north-country squire,
ruddy with health and conviviality.

At the farther end of the hall the bride and her bride-maidens were
standing, with the bridegroom at her side, whispering soft gallantries
in her ear. The strangers, on their entrance, rendered neither token
nor obeisance, as courtesy required, to the bride and her train, but
followed Alice, who had joined her brother in the merry crowd, now
watching the motions of these unexpected visitants. They approached
with stately and solemn steps; and, without once deigning to notice
the rest of the company, the gaudy Moor bowed himself in a most
dignified _salaam_ before the queen. Alice, apparently with some
trepidation at being thus singled out from the rest, clung to her
brother, she hardly knew why.

"My sublime master, emperor of the world, lord of the sun, and ruler
of the seven celestial configurations, sendeth his slave unto the most
high and mighty Queen--whose beauty, as a girdle, doth encompass the
whole earth--with greeting."

"And who is he?" said Alice, timidly enough.

"The Sultan Ibrahim, lord of the seven golden towers, the emerald
islands, and ruler over an hundred nations. He bade his slave kiss the
hem of his mistress's garment, and beseech her to put her foot on the
neck of his bondsman, her slave's slave, and accept his gift."

"And who is this thy companion?" said Alice, growing bolder, while the
company were gradually gathering round them.

"This, whom your unworthy slave hath brought, most gracious Queen, is
the renowned Doctor Aboulfahrez, high conjuror to the Khan of Tartary,
and physician to the Great Mogul. He doth drive hence all pains and
diseases whatsoever, and will cure your great majesty of any disorder
of the spirit, by reason of charms or love-philtres heretofore
administered."

With a slight bend of his illustrious person, as though the high
conjuror to the Khan of Tartary, and physician to the Great Mogul,
thought himself too nearly on an equality with her "high mightinesse"
the Queen, the learned doctor for the first time broke silence--

"Will it please the Queen's grace to command an ensample of mine art?"

"We must first be assured unto what purpose. Hast thou not heard,"
said Alice, with increasing confidence, "that it is treason to put
forth strange or unlawful devices before the Queen?"

The stranger bowed. "But your grace hath traitors in those fair eyes
which do prompt treason if they practise none."

This gallant speech was much applauded by the company, and relieved
Alice from the necessity of a speedy and suitable answer; for she
began to be somewhat perplexed by the address of these bold admirers.

"Look at this precious phial, the incomparable elixir, the pabulum of
life, the grand arcanum, the supernaculum, the mother and regenerator
of nature, the source and the womb of all existence, past, present,
and to come!" The learned doctor paused, more from want of breath than
from scarcity of epithets wherewith to blazon forth the great virtues
of his discovery. Soon, however, he breathed again through the
mouth-slit in his mask, and blew on the phial, when lo! a vapour
issued from within, curling in long-drawn wreaths down the side, in a
manner most wonderful to behold.

This trick roused the admiration of his audience, but he made a sign
that they should be still, as their breath and acclamations might
disturb the process. He now thrust one finger into the vapour, when it
appeared to wind round his hand; then, letting the bottle drop, it
fell, suspended from the finger by this novel and extraordinary
chain--the vapour seeming to be the link by which it hung. This
unexpected feat repressed the noisy burst of applause which might have
been the result of a less wonderful device. Every one looked anxiously
and uneasily at his neighbour, and at the renowned Doctor Aboulfahrez,
not feeling comfortable, perhaps, or even safe, in the presence of so
exalted a personage. But new wonders were at hand. The mysterious
visitor uttered some cabalistic words, and lo! flames burst forth from
the magic phial, to the additional wonder and dismay of the beholders.

"When the Queen's grace doth will it, this box shall be opened; but it
will behove her to be discreet in what may follow, lest the charm be
evaded."

The Moorish slave was silent during this procedure, standing with
arms folded, as though he had been one of the mutes of his master's
harem, rather than ambassador to his "ladye love." With the assent of
Alice, the Doctor took in one hand the casket, which he cautiously
unlocked. The lid flew open by a secret spring, and a peacock of
surprising beauty and glittering plumage rose out of the box,
imitating the motions of the real bird to admiration. The mimic thing,
being placed on the floor, flapped its wings, and unfolded its tail
with all the pride and precision of the original.

"Beshrew me!" said Holt, approaching nearer to the performer, "but
thou hast been bred to the black art, I think. Some o' ye have catered
excellently for our pastime." But who it was none could ascertain,
each giving his neighbour credit secretly for the construction of
these dainty devices. Yet new wonders were about to follow, when the
bride and bridegroom, though wedded to each other's company, came
forward to see the spectacle. Not a guest was missing. Even those most
pleasantly occupied at the tables left their sack and canary, their
spices and confections. The musicians, too, and the menials, seemed to
have forgotten their several duties, and stood gaping and marvelling
at the show. Suddenly there flew open a little door in the breast of
the automaton bird, and out jumped a fair white pigeon, which, after
having performed many surprising feats, in its turn became the parent
of another progeny--to wit, a beautiful singing bird, or nightingale,
which warbled so sweetly, fluttering its wings with all the ecstacy of
that divine creature, that the listeners were nearly beside themselves
with ravishment and admiration. The nightingale now opened, and a
little humming-bird of most surprising brilliancy hopped forth, and
jumping up to the Queen, held out its beak, having a label therein,
apparently beseeching her to accept the offering. She stooped down to
receive the billet, which she hastily unfolded. What effect was
visible on her countenance we cannot pretend to say, inasmuch as the
mask precluded observation; but there was an evident tremor in her
frame. She seemed to be overpowered with surprise, and held out the
note as though for the moment incapable of deciding whether to accept
it or no. Then with a sudden effort she crumpled it together, and
thrust it behind her stomacher. Wonder sat silent and watchful on the
face of every beholder. The actors in this strange drama had replaced
the automata in the box again, closing its lid. The Moor had made his
_salaam_, the Doctor his obeisance, disappearing behind the screen
from which they had so mysteriously come forth. But at their departure
a train of fire followed upon their track, and a lambent flame played
curiously upon the wooden crockets for a few seconds, and then
disappeared.

Now was there a Babel of tongues unloosed, at first by sudden impulses
and whispers, then breaking forth by degrees into a loud and
continuous din of voices, all at once seeking to satisfy their
inquiries touching this strange and unexpected visit. Their host was
mightily pestered and besieged with questions and congratulations on
the subject, which he has promptly and peremptorily disclaimed,
attempting to fix the hatching of the plot upon the astonished
bridegroom. But even he would not father the conceit; and, in the end,
it began to be surmised that these were indeed what their appearance
betokened, or something worse, which cast a sudden gloom on the whole
assembly. Some sallied out of the door to watch, and others blamed the
master for not seizing and detaining these emissaries of Satan. Alice
was closely questioned as to the communication she had received; but
she replied, evasively perhaps, that it was only one of the usual
stale conceits appropriate to the masque.

Nothing more was heard or seen of them; and it was now high time they
should accompany the bridegroom to his own dwelling at Foxholes--a
goodly house situate on a pretty knoll near the town of Rochdale, and
about two miles distant from Stubley.

Now was there mustering and hurrying to depart. An unwieldy coach was
drawn up, into which the bride and her female attendants were
forthwith introduced, the bridegroom and his company going on foot. On
arriving at Foxholes, the needful ceremonies were performed. Throwing
the stocking, a custom then universally practised, was not omitted;
which agreeable ceremony was performed as follows:--

The female friends and relations conducted the bride to her chamber,
and the men the bridegroom. The latter then took the bride's
stockings, and the females those of the bridegroom. Sitting at the
bottom of the bed, the stockings were thrown over their heads. When
one of the "hurlers" hit the owner, it was deemed an omen that the
party would shortly be married. Meanwhile the posset was got ready,
and given to the newly-married couple.[14]

It was past midnight, yet Alice sat, solitary and watchful, at her
little casement. One fair white arm supported her cheek, and she was
gazing listlessly on the silver clouds as they floated in liquid
brightness across the full round disc of the moon, then high in the
meridian. Her thoughts were not on the scene she beheld. The mellow
sound of the waterfalls, the murmur from the river, came on with the
breeze, rising and falling like the deep pathos of some wild and
mysterious music. Memory, that busy enchanter, was at work; and the
scenes she had lately witnessed, so full of disquietude and mystery,
mingled with the returning tide of past and almost forgotten emotions.
We have said that the prevailing bent or bias of her disposition was
that of romance; and this idol of the imagination, this love of
strange and enervating excitement, had not been repressed by the
occurrences of the last few hours; on the contrary, she felt as though
some wondrous event was impending--some adventure which she alone
should achieve--some power that her own arm should contend with and
subdue.

She took the billet from her bosom; the moonlight alone fell upon it;
but the words were so indeliby fixed upon her imagination that she
fancied she could trace every word on that mystic tablet.

     "To-morrow, at midnight, in the haunted chamber! If thou hast
     courage, tarry there a while. Its occupant will protect
     thee."--['Wherefore am I so bent on this adventure? To visit
     the beggar in his lair!' thought she; and again she threw her
     eyes on the billet.] "Peril threatens thine house, which thy
     coming can alone prevent. Shouldest thou reveal but one word of
     this warning, thy life, and those dear to thee, will be the
     forfeit. From thine unknown monitor,

     "THESE."

The guest in the boggart-chamber was Noman, to whom it had been
allotted, and though he told of terrible sights and harrowing
disclosures, he seemed to brave them all with unflinching hardihood,
and even exulted in their repetition. To remain an hour or two with
such a companion was in itself a sufficiently novel adventure; but
that harm could come from such a source scarcely entered her
imagination. A feeling of irrepressible curiosity stimulated her, and
prevailed over every other consideration. It was not like spending the
time alone; this certainly would have been a formidable condition to
have annexed. Besides, would it not be a wicked and a wanton thing to
shrink from difficulty or danger when the welfare and even life of one
so dear as her brother, peradventure, depended on her compliance.
Another feeling, too, more complicated, and a little more selfish it
might be, was the hidden cause to which her inclinations might be
traced.

"Mine unknown monitor!" she repeated the words, and a thousand strange
and wayward fancies rose to her recollection. Often had she seen, when
least expecting it, a stranger, who, in whatsoever place they met,
preserved a silence respectful but mysterious. She had seen him in the
places of public resort, in the solitary woods, and in the highways;
but his reserve and secrecy were unbroken. When she inquired, not an
individual knew him; and though his form and features were indelibly
traced on her memory, she could never recall them without an effort,
which, whether it was attended with more of pain than of pleasure, we
will not venture to declare. Once or twice she had fancied, when
awaking in the dead stillness of the night, that an invisible
something was near and gazing upon her; but this feeling was soon
forgotten, though often revived whenever she was more than usually
sensitive or excited. The figure of the Moor was wonderfully similar
to the form of the mysterious unknown. But the secret was now, at any
rate, to be divulged; and a few hours would put her into possession of
the key to unlock this curious cabinet. So thought Alice, and her own
secret chambers of imagery were strangely distempered thereby. Was she
beloved by one of a higher order of beings, a denizen of the invisible
world, who tracked her every footstep, and hovered about her unseen?
She had heard that such things were, and that they held intercourse
with some favoured mortals--unlimited duration, and a nature more
exalted, subject to no change, being vouchsafed to the chosen ones.
The exploits at Stubley seemed to favour this hypothesis, and Alice
fell into a delicious reverie, as we have seen, well prepared for the
belief and reception of any stray marvels that might fall out by the
way.

Looking upon the moat which lay stagnant and unruffled beneath the
quiet gaze of the moon, she thought that a living form emerged from
the bushes on the opposite bank;--she could not be mistaken, it was
her unknown lover. Breathless she awaited the result; but the shadows
again closed around him, and she saw him not again. Bewildered,
agitated, and alarmed, the day was springing faintly in the dim east
when her eyelids lay heavy in the dew of their repose.

Morning was high and far risen in the clear blue atmosphere, but its
first and balmy freshness was passed when Alice left her chamber. She
looked paler and more languid than she was wont, and her brother
rallied her playfully on the consequences of last night's dissipation;
but her thoughts were otherwise engrossed, and she replied carelessly
and with an air of abstraction far different from her usual playful
and unrestrained spirit. The mind was absorbed, restricted to one sole
avenue of thought: all other impressions ceased to communicate their
impulse. Her brother departed soon afterwards to his morning
avocations; but Alice sat in the porch. She looked out on the hills
with a vacant, but not unwistful eye. Their slopes were dotted with
many a fair white dwelling, but the rigour of cultivation had not
extended so far up their barren heathery sides as now; yet many a
bright paddock, green amid the dark waste, and the little homestead,
the nucleus of some subsequent and valuable inheritance, proclaimed
the unceasing toil, the primeval curse, and the sweat of the brow,
that was here also.

To enjoy the warmth and freshness of the morning, Alice had removed
her spinning-wheel into the porch. Here she was engaged in the
primitive and good old fashion of preparing yarn for the wants of the
household--an occupation not then perfected into the system to which
it is now degraded. The wives and daughters of the wealthiest would
not then disdain to fabricate material for the household linen,
carrying us far back into simpler, if not happier times, when Homer
sung, and kings' daughters found a similar employment.

Alice was humming in unison with her wheel, her thoughts more free
from the very circumstance that her body was the subject of this
mechanical exercise.

"Good morrow, Mistress Alice!" said a sonorous voice at the entrance.
Turning suddenly, she espied the athletic beggar standing erect, with
his staff and satchel, on one side of the porch.

"Ha' ye an awmous to-day, lady?" He doffed his cap and held it forth,
more with the air of one bestowing a favour than soliciting one.

"Thou hast been i' the kitchen, I warrant," said Alice, "by the
breadth of thy satchel."

"An' what the worse are ye for that?" replied the saucy mendicant;
"your hounds and puppies would lick up the leavings, if I did not."

"Go to," said Alice, impatiently; "thou dost presume too far to escape
correction. Begone!"

"This air, I reckon--ay, this blessed air--is as free unto my use as
thine," said Noman, sullenly, and without showing any symptoms of
obedience.

"My brother shall know of thine insolence, and the menials shall drive
thee forth."

"Thy brother!--tell him, pretty maiden, that though he is a lawyer,
and his uncle, he who built this house to boot, he hath little left in
this misgoverned realm but to deal out injustice. Other folks' money
sticks i' their skirts that have precious little o' their own, I wis."

"I know not the nature of thine allusions, nor care I to bandy weapons
with such an adversary."

"Hark ye, lady! it was to solder down as pretty a piece of roguery as
one would wish to leave to one's heirs that Theophilus Ashton, thine
uncle, thy mother's brother, now deceased, went to London when he had
builded this house."

"Roguery!--mine uncle Ashton! Darest thou?"----

"Ay, the same. The spoils of my patrimony built this goodly dwelling,
and the battle of Marston Moor gave thy brother wherewith to buy the
remainder of the inheritance. I was made a beggar by my loyalty, he a
rich man by his treason."

"What means this foul charge?" said Alice, astounded by the audacity
of this accusation.

"But fear not. Had it not been for thee and another--whose well-being
is bound up in thine own--long ago would this goodly heritage have
been spoiled; for--revenge is sweeter even than possession; so
good-morrow, Mistress Alice."

"What, then, is thy business with me?"

"Wentest thou not from the masque with thy pretty love-billet behind
thy stomacher?"

"Insolent vagrant, this folly shall not go unpunished!"

"Hold, wench! provoke not an"----he paused for one second, but in that
brief space there came a change over his spirit, which in a moment was
subdued as though by some over-mastering effort--"an impotent old
man." His voice softened, and there was a touch even of pathos in the
expression. "To-night--fail not--I, ay even _I_, will protect thee.
Fear not; thy welfare hangs on that issue!"

Saying this, with an air of dignity far superior to his usual
bluntness and even rudeness of address, he slowly departed. Thoughts
crowded, like a honey swarm, to this hive of mystery, nor could she
throw off the impression which clung to her. She had been warned
against revealing this communication, but at one time she felt
resolved to make her brother acquainted with the whole, and to claim
his protection; but then came the warning, or rather threat, of some
hidden mischief that must inevitably follow the disclosure. "Surely,
in her own home, she might venture to walk unattended. The beggar she
had known for some time in his periodical visits; and though she felt
an unaccountable timidity in his presence, yet she certainly was
minded to make an experiment of the adventure; but"----And in this
happy state of doubt and fluctuation she remained until eventide, when
a calm bright moon, as it again rose over the hill, saw Alice at the
casement of her own chamber, looking thoughtfully, anxiously, down
where the dark surface of the stagnant moat wore a bright star on its
bosom. The scene, the soft and tender influence which it
possessed--the hour, soothing and elevating the mind, freed from the
harassing and petty cares of existence--to a romantic and imaginative
disposition these were all favourable to its effects--the development
of that ethereal spirit of our nature, that enchanter whose wand
conjures up the busy world within, creating all things according to
his own pleasure, and investing them with every attribute at his will.
She felt her fears give way, and her resolution was taken: the die was
cast, and she committed herself to the result. What share the
handsome, dark, and melancholy-looking stranger had in this decision
she did not pause to inquire, nor indeed could she have much if any
suspicion of the secret influence he excited. There was danger, and
this danger could only be averted by her interference: what might be
curiosity was at any rate her duty; and she, feeling mightily like
some devoted heroine, would not shrink from the trial. When once
brought to a decision she felt a load taken from her breast; she
breathed more freely, and her tread was more vigorous and elastic. She
left her chamber with a lofty mien, and the gentle Alice felt more
like the proud mistress of an empire than the inhabitant of a little
country dwelling when she re-entered the parlour: yet there was a
restless glance from her eye which ever and anon would start aside
from visible objects and wander about, apparently without aim or
discrimination. Her brother was busied, happily, with domestic duties,
too much engaged to notice any unusual disturbance in her demeanour,
and Alice employed her time to little profit until she heard the
appointed signal for rest. As they bade the usual "good-night," her
heart smote her: she looked on the unconscious, unsuspecting aspect of
her brother, and the whole secret of her heart was on her tongue: it
did not escape her lips; but the tear stood in her eye; and as she
closed the door it sounded like the signal of some long separation--as
though the portal had for ever closed upon her.

Wrapped in a dark mantle, with cap and hood, the maiden stepped forth
from her little closet about midnight. She bore a silver lamp that
waved softly in the night-wind as she went with a noiseless, timid
step through the passages to the haunted chamber. The room wherein the
beggar slept was somewhat detached from the rest of the dormitories. A
low gallery led by a narrow corridor to a flight of some two or three
steps into this room, now used for the stowage of lumber. It was said
to have been one of the apartments in the old house, forming a sort of
peduncle to the new, not then removed, like a remnant of the shell
sticking to the skirts of the new-fledged bird. This adjunct, the
beggar's dwelling, is now gone. An ancient doorcase with a grotesque
carving disclosed the entrance. She paused before it, not without a
secret apprehension of what might be going on within. For the first
time she felt the novelty, not to say imprudence, of her situation,
and the unfeminine nature of her exploit. She was just hesitating
whether or not to return when she heard the door slowly open; a tall,
gaunt, figure looked out, which she immediately recognised to be that
of the mendicant. Somewhat reassured, and her courage strengthened by
his appearance, she did not attempt to retreat, but stood silent for a
space, and seemingly not a little abashed; yet the purity of her
motives, as far as known to herself, soon recurred to her aid, and her
proud and somewhat haughty spirit immediately roused its energies when
she had to cope with difficulty and danger.

"I come to thy den, old man, that I may unriddle thy dark sayings."

"Or rather," replied he, slowly and emphatically, "that thou mayest
unriddle that pretty love-billet thou hast read."

"I am here in my brother's house, and surely I have both the right and
the power to walk forth unquestioned or unsuspected of an intrigue or
assignation," replied she, quick and tender on the point whereon her
own suspicions were disagreeably awakened.

"Come in, lady," said he, "and thou shall be safe from any suspicions
but thine own."

Alice entered, and the door was closed and bolted. Her feelings were
those of uneasiness, not unmixed with alarm. Before her stood the
athletic form of the mendicant; she was at some distance from the rest
of the family--none caring to have their biding-place in the immediate
vicinity of the haunted chamber--in the power, it might be, of this
strange and anomalous being. A miserable pallet lay on the floor in
one corner, and the room was nearly filled with useless lumber and the
remains of ancient materials from the old apartments. Probably it was
from this circumstance that the ghosts had their fancies for this
room, haunting the relics of the past, and lingering around their
former reminiscences. The light she held gleamed athwart the face of
her companion, and his features were strangely significant of some
concealed purpose.

"Whom do we meet in this place?" she inquired.

"Prithee, wait; thou wilt see anon. But let me counsel thee to remain
silent; what thou seest note, but make no reply. Be not afraid, for no
harm shall befall thee. But let me warn thee, maiden, that thou shrink
not from the trial."

He now slowly retired, and she watched his receding figure until it
was hidden behind a huge oaken bedstead in the corner. But he returned
not, and Alice felt terrified at being so unexpectedly left alone. She
called out to him, but there was no answer; she sought for some
outlet, but no trace was visible whereby he could have departed from
the chamber. As she was stooping down, suddenly the light was blown
out, and she felt herself seized by invisible hands.

"Be silent for thy life," said a strange whisper in her ear. She was
hurried on through vaults and passages; the cold damp air struck
chilly on her, and she felt as though descending into some unknown
depths, beneath the very foundations of her own dwelling. Darkness was
still about their steps; but she was borne along, at a swift pace, by
persons evidently accustomed to this subterraneous line of
communication.

"No harm shall happen thee," said the same whisper in her ear as
before. Suddenly a vivid light flashed out from an aperture or window,
and she heard a groaning or rumbling and the clank of chains; but this
was passed, and a pale dull light showed a low vaulted chamber, into
which Alice was conveyed. An iron lamp hung from the ceiling in what
seemed to have been one of the cellars of the old house, though she
was unaware beforetime of such a dangerous proximity. The door was
closed upon her, and again she was left alone. So confused and
agitated was she for a while that she felt unable to survey the
objects that encompassed her. By degrees, however, she regained
sufficient fortitude to make the examination. Her astonishment was
extreme when she beheld, ranged round the vault, coffers full of
coin--heaps of surprising magnitude exposed, the least of which would
have been a king's ransom; fair and glistering too, apparently fresh
from the hands of some cunning artificer. Her curiosity in some
measure getting the better of her fears, she ventured to touch one of
these tempting heaps--not being sure but that her night visions were
answerable for the illusion. She laid her hand on a hoard of bright
nobles. Another and another succeeded, yet each coffer held some fresh
denomination of coin. There were moneys of various nations, even to
the Spanish pistole and Turkish bezant. Such exhaustless wealth it had
never yet entered into her imagination to conceive--the very idea was
too boundless even for fancy to present. "Surely," thought she, "I am
in some fairy palace, where the combined wealth of every clime is
accumulated; and the king of the genii, or some old and ugly ogre, has
certes fallen in love with me, and means to present it for my dowry."
Smiling at this thought, even in the midst of her apprehensions--for
the blow which severed her from her friends was too stunning to be
felt immediately in all its rigour--she stood as one almost
transported with admiration and surprise. Yet her situation was far
from being either enviable or pleasant, though in the midst of a
treasure-house of wealth that would have made an emperor the richest
of his race. No solution that she could invent would at all solve the
problem--no key of interpretation would fit these intricate movements.
Here she stood, a prisoner perhaps, with the other treasures in the
vault; and assuredly the miser, whosoever he might be, had shown great
taste and judgment too in the selection. But the crisis was at hand.
The door opened, and she heard a footstep behind her. A form stood
before her whom she immediately recognised and perhaps expected. The
mysterious stranger was in her presence. With a respectful obeisance
he folded his hands on his bosom, but he spoke not.

"What wouldst thou? and why this outrage?" inquired she.

The intruder pointed to the surrounding treasures, then to himself: by
which she understood (so quickly interpretated is the mute eloquence
of passion) that he was in love with her, and devoted them all
exclusively to her service. But what answer she gave, permit me,
gentle reader, for a season to detain; for truly it is an event of so
marvellous a nature whereon our tradition now disporteth itself, that,
like an epicure hindering the final disposal of some delicate
mouthful, of which, when gulped, he feeleth no more the savour, so we
would, in like manner, courteous reader, do thee this excellent
service, in order that the sweetness of expectation may be prolonged
thereby; and the solution, like a kernal in the shell, not be crushed
by being too suddenly cracked.

Turn we now to the inmates at the hall, where, as may easily be
understood, there was a mighty stir and commotion when morning brought
the appointed hour, and Mistress Alice came not to the breakfast meal.
Her brother was at his wits' end when the forenoon passed, and still
there were no tidings. Messengers were sent far and near, and no place
was left untried where it was thought intelligence might be gained.
She was not to be found, nor any trace discovered of her departure.

Nicholas was returning from Foxholes, Stubley, and Pike House.
Passing, in a disconsolate mood, through the gate leading from the
lane to his own porch, he met Noman, apparently departing. The beggar,
seeing his approach, assumed his usual stiff and inflexible attitude,
pausing ere he passed. A vague surmise, for which he could not
account, prompted the suspicions of Nicholas Haworth towards this
unimportant personage.

"What is thy business to-day abroad?" he inquired hastily.

"A word in thine ear, master," said the beggar.

"Say on, then; and grant that it may have an inkling of my sister!"

"She hath departed."

"That I know. But whither?"

"Ask the little devilkins I saw yesternight. I have told ye oft o' the
sights and terrible things that have visited me i' the boggart
chamber, and that the ghost begged hard for a victim."

"What! thou dost not surely suppose he hath borne away my sister?"

"I have said it!" replied the mendicant, with an air of mystery.

"We'll have the place exorcised, and the spirit laid; and thou"--said
Nicholas, pausing--"have a care that we hale thee not before the
justice for practising with forbidden and devilish devices."

"I cry thee mercy, Master Haworth; but for what good deed am I to
suffer? I have brought luck to thine house hitherto, and what mischief
yon ghost hath wrought is none o' my doing. If thou wilt, I can rid
thee of his presence, and that speedily, even if 'twere Beelzebub
himself."

"But will thy conjurations bring back my sister?" said the wondering,
yet half-credulous squire.

"That is more than I can tell. But, to prove that I am not in league
with thine enemy, I will cast him out."

"Hath Alice been strangled, or in anywise hurt, by this wicked
spirit?"

"Nay," said the beggar solemnly, "I guess not; but I heard him pass
by, and the chains did rattle fearfully through mine ears, until I
heard them at her bed-chamber. He may have spirited her away to
fairy-land for aught I know; and yet she lives!"

"Save us, merciful Disposer of our lot!" said Nicholas, much moved to
sorrow at this strange recital, yet in somewise comforted by the
assurance it contained. "We are none of us safe from his visitations,
now they are extended hitherto. I dreamt not of danger beforetime,
though I have heard sounds, and seen unaccountable things; yet I
imagined that in the old chamber only he had power to work mischief;
and, even there, I did disbelieve much of thy story, as it respected
his freaks and the nature and manner of his visits. The rumblings that
I fancied at times in the dead of night were in the end disregarded
and almost forgotten."

"I too have heard the like, but I knew it was the spirit, and"----

"Beware, old man; for I do verily suspect thee as an abettor of these
unlawful practices."

"And so the reward for my testimony is like to end in a lying
accusation and a prison!"

"Canst thou win her back by driving from me this evil spirit?"

"I can lay the ghost, I tell thee, if thou wilt; but as for the other,
peradventure it lieth not within the compass or power of mortal man to
accomplish."

"What thou canst, let it be done without delay, for I would fain
behold a sight so wonderful; yet will I first take precaution to put
thee in durance until it be accomplished; perchance it may quicken
thee to this good work; and I do bethink me too, thou knowest more
than thou wouldest fain acknowledge of this evil dealing toward my
sister."

The beggar sought not to escape; he knew it would be in vain, for the
menials had surrounded them; and he was conveyed to the kitchen until
he should be ready for the important duties he had to perform.
To-morrow was appointed for the trial, but fearful was the night that
intervened--rattling of chains, falling of heavy weights, loud
rumblings, as though a coach-and-six were driving about the premises;
these, intermingled with shrieks and howlings, were not confined to
the old room, where the beggar lodged as heretofore, but were heard
and felt through the whole house. It seemed as though his presence had
hitherto confined them to the locality we have named, and that they
had burst their bounds on his departure. Little rest had the household
on that fearful night, and the morning was welcome to many who had
been terrified so that they scarcely expected to see the light of
another sun.

With the earliest dawn Nicholas Haworth hied him to the kitchen, where
the beggar, a close prisoner, was comfortably nestled on his couch.

"What ho!" said the squire, "thou canst sleep when others be waking.
Thy friends have been seeking thee through the night, mayhap. There
have been more shaking limbs than hungry stomachs, I trow."

"I know of naught that should keep me waking; my conscience made no
echo to the knocking without; and so good-morrow, Master Nicholas."

There came one at this moment running in almost breathless, to say
that the cart-horses were all harnessed and yoked ready in the stable
by invisible hands, and that no one durst take them from their stalls.
On the heels of this messenger came another, who shouted out that the
bull, a lusty and well-thriven brute, was quietly perched, in most
bull-like gravity, upon the hay-mow. It being impossible, or contrary
to the ordinary law of gravitation, that he could have thus
transported himself, what other than demon hands could or durst have
lifted so ponderous and obstinate a beast into the place? In short,
such were the strange and out-of-the-way frolics that had been
committed, that Satan and all his company seemed to have been let
loose upon the household on this memorable night.

"Thou shalt rid us of these pests, or by the head of St Nicholas,"
said his namesake, "the hangman shall singe thy beard for a
fumigation."

"Let me go, and the spirit shall not trouble thee."

"Nay, gaffer, thou dost not escape me thus; my sister, we have yet no
tidings of her, and, it may be, those followers or familiars of thine
can help me to that knowledge."

"I tell thee I'll lay the ghost while the holly's green, or mire in
Dearnly Clough, should it so please thee, Master Nicholas; but I must
first be locked up for a space in the haunted chamber alone. Keep
watch at both door and loophole, if thou see fit; but I gi'e thee my
word that I'll not escape."

"Agreed," said Haworth; "but it shall not avail thee, thou crafty fox,
for we will watch, and that right diligently; unless the de'il fly
away with thee, thou shalt not escape us."

The bargain was made, and Noman was speedily conducted to the chamber.
Sentinels were posted at the door, and round the outside, to prevent
either entrance or exit.

A long hour had nigh elapsed, and the watchers were grown weary. Some
thought he had gone off in a chariot of smoke through the roof, or in
a whirlwind of infernal brimstone; while others, not a few, were out
of doors gazing steadfastly up towards the chimneys, expecting to see
him perched there, like a daw or starling, ready for flight. But when
the hour was fulfilled, the beggar lifted up the latch, and walked
forth alone, without let or molestation.

"Whither away, Sir Grey-back?" said Nicholas, "and wherefore in such
haste? We have a word or so ere thou depart. Art thou prepared?"

"Ay, if it so please thee."

"And when dost thou begin thine exorcism?"

"Now, if so be that thou have courage. But I warn thee of danger
therefrom. If thou persist, verily in this chamber shall it be done."

"Then return, we will follow--as many as have courage, that is," said
Nicholas Haworth, looking round and observing that his attendants,
with pale faces and mewling stomachs, did manifest a wondrous
inquietude, and a sudden eagerness to depart. Yet were there some
whose curiosity got the better of their fears, and who followed, or
rather hung upon their master's skirts, into the chamber, which, even
in the broad and cheerful daylight, looked a gloomy and comfortless
and unhallowed place. Noman commanded that silence should be kept,
that not even a whisper should breathe from other lips than his own.
He drew a line with his crutch upon the floor, and forbade that any
should attempt to pass this imaginary demarcation. The auditors were
all agape, and but that the door was fastened, some would doubtless
have gone back, repenting of their temerity.

After several unmeaning mummeries and incantations, the chamber
appeared to grow darker, and a low rumbling noise was heard, as from
some subterraneous explosion.

"_Dominus vobiscum_," said the necromancer; and a train of fire leapt
suddenly across the room. A groan of irrepressible terror ran through
the company; but the exorcist, with a look of reprehension for their
disobedience, betook himself again to his ejaculations. Retiring
backwards a few paces to a corner of the room, he gave three audible
knocks upon the floor, which, to the astonishment and dismay of the
assembly, were distinctly repeated, apparently from beneath. Thrice
was this ceremony gone through, and thrice three times was the same
answer returned.

"Restless spirit," said the conjuror, solemnly, and in a voice and
manner little accordant with those of an obscure and unlearned beggar;
"why art thou disquieted, and what is the price of thy departure?"

No answer was given, though the question was repeated. The adjurer
appeared, for one moment, fairly at a nonplus.

"By thine everlasting doom, I conjure thee, answer me!" Still there
was no reply. "Thou shalt not evade me thus," said he, indignant at
the slight which was put upon his spells. He drew a little ebony box
from his bosom, and on opening it smoke issued therefrom, like the
smell of frankincense. With this fumigation he used many uncouth and
horrible words, hard names, and so forth, which probably had no
existence save in the teeming issue of his own brain. During this
operation groans were heard, at first low and indistinct, then loud
and vehement; soon they broke into a yell, so shrill and piercing that
several of the hearers absolutely tried, through horror and
desperation, to burst the door; but this was secure, and their egress
prevented thereby.

"Now answer me what thou wouldst have, and tell me the terms of thy
departure hence."

A low murmur was heard. The beggar listened with great attention.

"This wandering ghost avoucheth," said he, after all was silent, "that
there be two of them, and that they rest not until they have taken
possession of this house, and driven the inhabitants therefrom."

"Hard law this," said Nicholas Haworth; "but, for all their racket, I
shan't budge."

"Then must they have a sacrifice for the wrong done when they were i'
the body; being slain, as they say, by their guardian, a wicked uncle,
that he might possess the inheritance."

Again he made question, looking all the while as though talking to
something that was present and visible before him.

"What would ye for your sacrifice, evil and hateful things? for I
know, in very deed, that ye are not the innocent and heavenly babes
whose spirits are now in glory, but devilish creatures who have been
permitted to walk here unmolested, for the wickedness that hath been
done. Again, I say that your unwillingness sufficeth not, for ye shall
be driven hence this blessed day."

Another shriek announced their apprehension at this threat, and again
there was a murmuring as before.

"He sayeth," cried the exorcist, after listening a while, "they must
have a living body sacrificed, and in four quarters it must be laid;
then shall these wicked spirits not return hither until what is
severed be joined together. With this hard condition we must be
content."

"Then, by 'r lady's grace, if none else there be, thou shalt be the
holocaust for thy pains," said Nicholas, "for I think we need not any
other. What say ye, shall not this wizard be the sacrifice, and we
then rid the world of a batch of evil things at once?" He looked with
a cruel eye upon the mendicant; for he judged that his sister had, in
some way or another, fallen a victim to his devilish plots; and he
would have thought it little harm to have poured out his blood on the
spot. The beggar seemed aware of his danger, but with a loud and
peremptory tone he cried--

"There needeth not so costly an oblation. Bring hither the first brute
animal ye behold, any one of you, on crossing the threshold of the
porch."

A messenger was accordingly sent, who returned with a barn-door fowl
in his hand, a well-fed chanticleer, whose crow that morning had
awakened his cackling dames for the last time.

With great solemnity the conjuror went forth from the chamber, and in
the courtyard the fowl was named "John;" sponsors standing in due
form, as at an ordinary baptism. Then the bird was dismembered, or
rather divided into four parts, according to the directions they had
received. These were afterwards disposed of as follows:--one was
buried at Little Clegg, in a field close by, another under one of the
hearth-flags in the hall, another at the Beil Bridge, by the river
which runs past Belfield, and the remaining quarter under the
barn-floor. Nicholas continued to look on with a curious eye until the
ceremony was concluded, when, after a brief pause, he inquired--

"Have there been no tidings yet from Alice? Can thine art not disclose
to me whither she be gone?"

"The maiden lives," said the beggar doggedly.

"Thou knowest of her hiding, then?" said her brother sharply, and with
a cunning glance directed towards the speaker.

"The spirit said so," replied Noman, as though wishful to evade or to
shrink from the question.

"And what else?" inquired the other; "for by my halidome thou stirrest
not hence until she be forthcoming, alive or dead! I verily
suspect--nay, more, I charge thee with forcibly detaining her against
her own privity or consent."

The beggar looked steadily upon him, not a whit either moved or
abashed at this bold accusation.

"Peradventure thou speakest without heed and unadvisedly. I tell thee
again, thou wouldest have been driven hence ere now had it not been
for others whom that spirit must obey."

"Who art thou?" said the perplexed inquirer; "for thou art either
worse or better than thou seemest."

"Once the rightful heir, now a beggar, in these domains, wrested from
me by rapine and the harpy fangs of injustice misnamed law. Theophilus
Ashton, from whom ye took your share of the inheritance when death
dislodged it from his gripe, won it himself most foully from my
ancestors;--and have I not a right to hate thee?"

"And so thy vengeance hath fallen upon a defenceless woman?"

"Nay, I said not so; but if I had so minded I might have been glutted
with vengeance, ay, to my heart's core. Hark thee. Secrets I have
learned that will bind the hidden things of darkness, and bow them to
my behest. The unseen powers and operations of nature have been open
to my gaze. Long ago my converse and companionship were with the
learned doctors and sages of the East. In Spain I have walked in the
palace of the Moorish kings, the Alhambra at Grenada; and in Arabia I
have learned the mystic cabala, and worshipped in the temple of the
holy prophet!"

"And yet thou comest a beggar to my door! Truly thy spells have
profited thee little."

The beggar smiled scornfully. "Riches inexhaustible, unlimited are
mine; while nature is unveiled at my command."

"Thou speakest riddles, old man; or thou dost hug the very spectres of
thy brain, which men call madness."

"I am not mad; save it be madness that I have not hurled thee from
this thy misgotten heritage. A power of mighty and all prevading
energy hath hindered me, and, it may be, rescued thee from
destruction."

"Unto what unknown intercessor do I owe this forbearance?"

"Love!" said the mendicant, with an expression of withering and
baneful scorn; "a silly hankering for a puling girl."

"Thee!--in love?"

"And is it so strange, so hard and incapable of belief, that in a
frosty but vigorous age, the sap should be fresh though the outward
trunk look withered and without verdure?"

Nicholas shuddered. A harrowing suspicion crossed him that his beloved
sister had fallen a victim to the lawless passions of this hoary
delinquent.

"Thou dost judge wrongfully," said the beggar; "she appertaineth not
to me. 'Tis long since I have drunk of that maddening cup, a woman's
love. Would that another had not taken its intoxicating draught."

"Thou but triflest with me," said Haworth; "let the maiden go, or
beware my vengeance."

"Thy vengeance! Weak, impotent man! what canst thou do? Thy threats I
hold lighter than the breath that makes them; thy cajolments I value
less than these; and thy rewards--why, the uttermost wealth that thou
couldst boast would weigh but as a feather against the riches at my
disposal."

"Then give her back at my request."

"I tell thee she is not mine, nor in my charge."

"But thou knowest of her detention, and where she is concealed."

"What if I do? will that help thee to the discovery?"

"Point out the place, or conduct me thither, and"----

The mendicant here burst forth into a laugh so tantalising and
malicious that Nicholas, though silent, grew pale with choler.

"Am I a fool?" said the exorcist; "an everyday fool? a simpleton of
such a dastardly condition that thou shouldest think to whine me from
my purpose? Never."

Scarcely was the word spoken when a loud and awful explosion shook the
building to its foundations. Horror and consternation were seen upon
the hitherto composed features of the beggar. He grasped his crutch,
and with a yell of unutterable anguish he cried, "Ruined--betrayed!
May the fiends follow ye for this mischance!"

He threw himself almost headlong down the steps, and ran with rapid
strides through the yard, followed by Nicholas, who seemed in a stupor
of astonishment at these mysterious events.

Passing round to the other side of the house, he saw a smoke rising in
a dense unbroken column from an outbuilding beyond the moat, towards
which Noman was speedily advancing. Suddenly he slackened his pace. He
paused, seemingly undecided whither to proceed. He then turned sharply
round and made his way into the kitchen, passing up a staircase into
the haunted chamber, still followed by Nicholas Haworth, and not a few
who were lookers-on, hoping to ascertain the cause of this alarm.

To their great surprise the beggar hastily displaced some lumber, and,
raising a trap-door, quickly disappeared down a flight of steps. With
little hesitation the master followed, and keeping the footsteps of
his leader within hearing, he cautiously went forward, convinced that
in some way or another this opportune but inexplicable event would
lead to the discovery of his sister.

Suddenly he heard a shriek. He felt certain it was the voice of Alice.
He rushed on; but some unseen barrier opposed his progress. He heard
noises and hasty footsteps beyond, evidently in hurry and confusion.
The door was immediately opened, and he beheld Noman bearing out the
half-lifeless form of Alice. Smoke, and even flame, followed hard upon
their flight; but she was conveyed upwards to a place of safety.

"There," said the mendicant, when he had laid down his burden, "at the
peril of all I possess, and of life too, I have rescued her. My hopes
are gone--my schemes for ever blasted--and I am a ruined, wretched old
man, without a home or a morsel of bread."

He walked out through the porch, Nicholas being too busily engaged in
attending to the restoration of Alice to heed his escape. Two other
men, strangers, had before emerged from the avenue. In the confusion
of the moment their flight was effected, and they were seen no more.

When Alice was sufficiently recovered, Nicholas, to his utter surprise
and dismay, learned that she had been doomed to be imprisoned, even in
her own house, until she consented to be the wife of one whom, however
he might have won upon her regard by fair and honest courtship, she
hated and repulsed for this traitorous and forcible detention. Yet
they had not dared to let her go, lest the secrets of her prison-house
should be told. The false beggar, whose real name was Clegg, having
become an adept in the art of coining, acquired during his residence
abroad, and likewise having arrived at the knowledge of many chemical
secrets long hidden from the vulgar and uninitiated, had leagued
himself with one of the like sort, together with his own son, a
handsome well-favoured youth (whose mother he had rescued from a
Spanish convent), for the purpose of carrying on a most extensive
manufacture and issue of counterfeit money of several descriptions.
His former knowledge, when young, of his ancestors' mansion at Clegg
Hall suggested the fitness of this spot for their establishment. Its
situation was sequestered; and the ancient vaults, though nearly
filled with rubbish, might yet be made available for their purpose.
The secret entrance, and, above all, the currently-believed story of
the ghost, might afford facilities for frightening away those who were
disposed to be curious; and any noises unavoidable in the course of
their operations might be attributed to this fruitful source of
imposture. By a little dexterity, possession of the haunted chamber
was obtained, the feigned beggar being a periodical visitant; thence a
ready entrance was contrived, and all materials were introduced that
were needful for their fraudulent proceedings. Many months their
traffic was carried on without discovery; and in the beggar's wallet
counterfeit money to a considerable amount was conveyed, and
distributed by other agents into general circulation. Well might he
say that boundless wealth was at their command; the means employed in
disposing of the proceeds of their ingenuity were well calculated for
the purpose. They had proposed, by machinations and alarms, to drive
away utterly the present inhabitants and possessors of the Hall. The
reign of terror was about to commence, plans being already matured for
this purpose, had not the younger Clegg seen Alice Haworth; and love,
that mighty controller of human affairs and devices, most
inopportunely frustrated their intentions. The elder Clegg, too, was
induced to aid the design, hoping that, should a union take place, the
inheritance might revert into the old channel. We have seen the
result: the wilfulness and obduracy of Alice, and the infatuation of
the lover, who had thought to dazzle her with the riches he purposely
spread before her, prevented the success of their schemes. She
peremptorily refused and repulsed him, accusing him of a gross and
wanton outrage. What might have been the end of this contention we
know not, seeing that an unforeseen accident caused the explosion
which led to her escape and the flight of her captors.

What remained of the old house was pulled down. The vaults and
cellars, which were found to extend for a considerable distance even
beyond the moat, were walled up, and every vestige that was left,
together with an immense hoard of counterfeit money, was completely
destroyed.

     [11] Her marriage-gift was £500, nineteen cows,
     and a bull,--a magnificent portion in those days.

     [12] We are sorry that this remark should come
     from the historian of Whalley; but our respect for the author
     even will not suffer us to let it pass unnoticed. The passage,
     indeed, refutes itself, and we need refer to none other than
     the very terms of the accusation. The circumstance of Bath
     "going out under the Bartholomew Act," that master-movement of
     spiritual tyranny, issued by an ill-advised and sensual
     monarch, when two thousand and upwards of conscientious
     clergymen were driven from their flocks and deprived of their
     benefices in one day, is a sufficient denial of what the
     learned doctor has insinuated, as it respects complying "with
     all changes" from mere self-interest and worldly lucre. For
     what could have hindered this conscientious and self-denying
     minister from conforming to the terms of the act, and securing
     his goodly benefice thereby, if it were not a zealous and
     honest regard to the vows he had taken, and the future welfare
     of his flock; which the very fact of his subsequent preaching
     to crowded auditories at his own house sufficiently
     corroborates. We know the persecutions, the malice, and the
     poverty, which would assail this unlicensed administration of
     ordinances; and nothing but a reverential awe for the sacred
     and responsible functions he had undertaken could have
     stimulated him to "endure the cross and despise the shame,"
     when a very different line of conduct would have left him in
     the undisturbed possession of both wealth and patronage. But,
     we are afraid, the unpardonable offence of preaching in the
     church under the authority and protection of the Commonwealth,
     and his leaving her pale and preaching to "crowded auditories,"
     when the wicked decree of St Bartholomew went forth, is
     ungrateful to the spirit of many, who ought not to stigmatise
     as sectaries and malignants all who have dared to think for
     themselves, and at anytime to oppose "spiritual wickedness" in
     "high places." The very principles which made Bath an outcast
     for conscience' sake are those which originated and led on the
     work of our Protestant Reformation, and placed the historian of
     Whalley where his sacred functions should have led him to
     respect the rights and consciences even of those from whom he
     might differ, and not hold them up to unmerited obloquy and
     reprehension.

     [13] This interesting and curious relic is now in
     the possession of the Rev. J. Clowes of Broughton, whose
     ancestor, Samuel Clowes, Esq., about the year 1690, married
     Mary Cheetham, a descendant of Humphrey Cheetham, founder of
     the Manchester Blue Coat School. In 1713, after the death of
     James Holt, whose faithful rebuke from the Bishop of Chester we
     have noticed in the introduction, Castleton came into
     possession of the Cheethams until the death of Edward Cheetham,
     in 1769.

     The screen is now made into a side-board, and is most
     fancifully and beautifully wrought with crests, ciphers, and
     cognisances, belonging to the Holts and many of the
     neighbouring families.

     [14] Brand's _Popular Antiquities_, ii. 86-96.


[Illustration: THE MERMAID OF MARTIN MEER]




THE MERMAID OF MARTIN MEER.


     "Now the dancing sunbeams play
     O'er the green and glassy sea:
     Come with me, and we will go
     Where the rocks of coral grow."



     Little needs to be said by way of introduction or explanation
     of the following tale. Martin Meer is now in process of
     cultivation; the plough and the harrow leave more enduring
     furrows on its bosom. It is a fact, curious enough in
     connection with our story, that some years ago, in digging and
     draining, a canoe was found here. How far this may confirm our
     tradition, we leave the reader to determine. It is scarcely two
     miles from Southport; and the botanist, as well as the
     entomologist, would find themselves amply repaid by a visit.


Martin Meer, the scene of the following story, we have described in
our first series of _Traditions_, where Sir Tarquin, a carnivorous
giant, is slain by Sir Lancelot of the Lake. These circumstances, and
more of the like purport on this subject, we therefore omit, as being
too trite and familiar to bear repetition. We do not suppose the
reader to be quite so familiar with the names and fortunes of Captain
Harrington and Sir Ralph Molyneux, though they had the good fortune to
be born eleven hundred years later, and to have seen the world, in
consequence, eleven hundred years older--we wish we could say wiser
and better tempered, less selfish and less disposed to return hard
knocks, and to be corrupted with evil communications. But man is the
same in all ages. The external habits and usages of society change his
mode of action--clothe the person and passions in a different garb;
but their form and substance, like the frame they inhabit, are
unchanged, and will continue until this great mass of intelligence,
this mischievous compound of good and evil, this round rolling earth,
shall cease to swing through time and space--a mighty pendulum, whose
last stroke shall announce the end of time, the beginning of eternity!

Our story gets on indifferently the while; but a willing steed is none
the worse for halting. Harrington and his friend Sir Ralph were spruce
and well-caparisoned cavaliers, living often about court towards the
latter end of Charles the Second's reign. What should now require
their presence in these extreme regions of the earth, far from society
and civilisation, it is not our business to inquire. It sufficeth for
our story that they were here, mounted, and proceeding at a shuffling
trot along the flat, bare, sandy region we have described.

"How sweetly and silently that round sun sinks into the water!" said
Harrington.

"But doubtless," returned his companion, "if he were fire, as thou
sayest, the liquid would not bear his approach so meekly; why, it
would boil if he were but chin-deep in yon great seething-pot."

"Thou art quicker at a jest than a moral, Molyneux," said the other
and graver personage; "thou canst not even let the elements escape thy
gibes. I marvel how far we are from our cousin Ireland's at Lydiate.
My fears mislead me, or we have missed our way. This flat bosom of
desolation hath no vantage-ground whence we may discern our path; and
we have been winding about this interminable lake these two hours."

"Without so much as a blade of grass or a tree to say 'Good neighbour'
to," said Molyneux, interrupting his companion's audible reverie.
"Crows and horses must fare sumptuously in these parts."

"This lake, I verily think, follows us; or we are stuck to its side
like a lady's bauble."

"And no living thing to say 'Good-bye,' were it fish or woman."

"Or mermaid, which is both." Scarcely were the words uttered when
Harrington pointed to the water.

"Something dark comes upon that burning track left on the surface by
the sun's chariot wheels."

"A fishmonger's skiff belike," said Sir Ralph.

They plunged through the deep sandy drifts towards the brink,
hastening to greet the first appearance of life which they had found
in this region of solitude. At a distance they saw a female floating
securely, and apparently without effort, upon the rippling current.
Her form was raised half-way above the water, and her long hair hung
far below her shoulders. This she threw back at times from her
forehead, smoothing it down with great dexterity. She seemed to glide
on slowly, and without support; yet the distance prevented any very
minute observation.

"A bold swimmer, o' my troth!" said Molyneux; "her body tapers to a
fish's tail, no doubt, or my senses have lost their use."

Harrington was silent, looking thoughtful and mysterious.

"I'll speak to yon sea-wench."

"For mercy's sake, hold thy tongue. If, as I suspect--and there be
such things, 'tis said, in God's creation--thou wilt"----

But the tongue of this errant knight would not be stayed; and his loud
musical voice swept over the waters, evidently attracting her notice,
and for the first time. She drew back her dark hair, gazing on them
for a moment, when she suddenly disappeared. Harrington was sure she
had sunk; but a jutting peninsula of sand was near enough to have
deceived him, especially through the twilight, which now drew on
rapidly.

"And thou hast spoken to her!" said he gravely; "then be the answer
thine!"

"A woman's answer were easier parried than a sword-thrust, methinks;
and that I have hitherto escaped."

"Let us be gone speedily. I like not yon angry star spying out our
path through these wilds."

"Thou didst use to laugh at my superstitions; but thine own, I guess,
are too chary to be meddled with."

"Laugh at me an' thou wilt," said Harrington: "when Master Lilly cast
my horoscope he bade me ever to eschew travel when Mars comes to his
southing, conjunct with the Pleiades, at midnight--the hour of my
birth. Last night, as I looked out from where I lay at Preston,
methought the red warrior shot his spear athwart their soft
scintillating light; and as I gazed, his ray seemed to ride half-way
across the heavens. Again he is rising yonder."

"And his meridian will happen at midnight?"

"Even so," replied Harrington.

"Then gallop on. I'd rather make my supper with the fair dames at
Lydiate than in a mermaid's hall."

But their progress was a work of no slight difficulty, and even
danger. Occasionally plunging to the knees in a deep bog, then wading
to the girth in a hillock of sand and prickly bent grass (the _Arundo
arenaria_, so plentiful on these coasts), the horses were scarcely
able to keep their footing--yet were they still urged on. Every step
was expected to bring them within sight of some habitation.

"What is yonder glimmer to the left?" said Molyneux. "If it be that
hideous water again, it is verily pursuing us. I think I shall be
afraid of water as long as I live."

"As sure as Mahomet was a liar, and the Pope has excommunicated him
from Paradise, 'tis the same still, torpid, dead-like sea we ought to
have long since passed."

"Then have our demonstrations been in a circle, in place of a right
line, and we are fairly on our way back again."

Sure enough there was the same broad, still surface of the Meer,
though on the contrary side, mocking day's last glimmer in the west.
The bewildered travellers came to a full pause. They took counsel
together while they rested their beasts and their spur-rowels; but the
result was by no means satisfactory. One by one came out the glorious
throng above them, until the heavens grew light with living hosts, and
the stars seemed to pierce the sight, so vivid was their brightness.

"Yonder is a light, thank Heaven!" cried Harrington.

"And it is approaching, thank your stars!" said his companion. "I
durst not stir to meet it, through these perilous paths, if our
night's lodging depended on it."

The bearer of this welcome discovery was a kind-hearted fisherman, who
carried a blazing splinter of antediluvian firewood dug from the
neighbouring bog; a useful substitute for more expensive materials.

It appeared they were at a considerable distance from the right path,
or indeed from any path that could be travelled with safety, except by
daylight. He invited them to a lodging in a lone hut on the borders of
the lake, where he and his wife subsisted by eel-catching and other
precarious pursuits. The simplicity and openness of his manner
disarmed suspicion. The offer was accepted, and the benighted heroes
found themselves breathing fish-odours and turf-smoke for the night,
under a shed of the humblest construction. His family consisted of a
wife and one child only; but the strangers preferred a bed by the
turf-embers to the couch that was kindly offered them.

The cabin was built of the most simple and homely materials. The walls
were pebble-stones from the sea-beach, cemented with clay. The
roof-tree was the wreck of some unfortunate vessel stranded on the
coast. The whole was thatched with star-grass or sea-reed, blackened
with smoke and moisture.

"You are but scantily peopled hereabouts," said Harrington, for lack
of other converse.

"Why, ay," returned the peasant; "but it matters nought; our living is
mostly on the water."

"And it might be with more chance of company than on shore; we saw a
woman swimming or diving there not long ago."

"Have ye seen her?" inquired both man and dame with great alacrity.

"Seen whom?" returned the guest.

"The Meer-woman, as we call her."

"We saw a being, but of what nature we are ignorant, float and
disappear as suddenly as though she were an inhabitant of yon world of
waters."

"Thank mercy! Then she will be here anon."

Curiosity was roused, though it failed in procuring the desired
intelligence. She might be half-woman half-fish for aught they knew.
She always came from the water, and was very kind to them and the
babe. Such was the sum of the information; yet when they spoke of the
child there was evidently a sort of mystery and alarm, calculated to
awaken suspicion.

Harrington looked on the infant. It was on the woman's lap asleep,
smiling as it lay; and an image of more perfect loveliness and repose
he had never beheld. It might be about a twelvemonth old; but its
dress did not correspond with the squalid poverty by which it was
surrounded.

"Surely this poor innocent has not been stolen," thought he. The child
threw its little hands towards him as it awoke; and he could have
wept. Its short feeble wail had smitten him to the heart.

Suddenly they heard a low murmuring noise at the window.

"She is there," said the woman; "but she likes not the presence of
strangers. Get thee out to her, Martin, and persuade her to come in."

The man was absent for a short time. When he entered, his face
displayed as much astonishment as it was possible to cram into a
countenance so vacant.

"She says our lives were just now in danger; and that the child's
enemies are again in search; but she has put them on the wrong scent.
We must not tarry here any longer; we must remove, and that speedily.
But she would fain be told what is your business in these parts, if ye
are so disposed."

"Why truly," said Harrington, "our names and occupation need little
secrecy. We are idlers at present, and having kindred in the
neighbourhood, are on our way to the Irelands at Lydiate, as we before
told thee. Verily, there is but little of either favour or profit to
be had about court now-a-days. Nought better than to loiter in hall
and bower, and fling our swords in a lady's lap. But why does the
woman ask? Hath she some warning to us? or is there already a spy upon
our track?"

"I know not," said Martin; "but she seems mightily afeard o' the
child."

"If she will entrust the babe to our care," said Harrington, after a
long pause, "I will protect it. The shield of the Harringtons shall be
its safeguard."

The fisherman went out with this message; and on his return it was
agreed that, as greater safety would be the result, the child should
immediately be given to Harrington. A solemn pledge was required by
the unseen visitant that the trust should be surrendered whenever, and
by whomsoever, demanded; likewise a vow of inviolable secrecy was
exacted from the parties that were present. Harrington drew a signet
from his finger; whoever returned it was to receive back the child. He
saw not the mysterious being to whom it was sent; but the idea of the
Meer-woman, the lake, and the untold mysteries beneath its quiet
bosom, came vividly and painfully on his recollection.

Long after she had departed, the strange events of the evening kept
them awake. Inquiries were now answered without hesitation. Harrington
learned that the "Meer-woman's" first appearance was on a cold wintry
day, a few months before. She did not crave protection from the
dwellers in the hut, but seemed rather to command it. Leaving the
infant with them, and promising to return shortly, she seemed to
vanish upon the lake, or rather, she seemed to glide away on its
surface so swiftly that she soon disappeared. Since then she had
visited them thrice, supplying them with a little money and other
necessaries; but they durst not question her, she looked so strange
and forbidding.

In the morning they were conducted to Lydiate by the fisherman, who
also carried the babe. Here they told a pitiable story of their having
found the infant exposed, the evening before, by some unfeeling
mother; and, strange to say, the truth was never divulged until the
time arrived when Harrington should render up his trust.

Years passed on. Harrington saw the pretty foundling expand through
every successive stage from infancy to childhood--lovelier as each
year unfolded some hidden grace, and the bloom brightened as it grew.
He had married in the interval, but was yet childless. His lady was
passionately fond of her charge, and Grace Harrington was the pet and
darling of the family. No wonder their love to the little stranger was
growing deeper, and was gradually acquiring a stronger hold on their
affections. But Harrington remembered his vow: it haunted him like a
spectre. It seemed as though written with a sunbeam on his memory; but
the finger of death pointed to its accomplishment. It will not be
fulfilled without blood, was the foreboding that assailed him. His
lady knew not of his grief, ignorant happily of its existence, and of
its source.

Their mansion stood on a rising ground but a few miles distant from
the lake. He thus seemed to hover instinctively on its precincts;
though, in observance of his vow, he refrained from visiting that
lonely hut, or inquiring about its inhabitants. Its broad smooth bosom
was ever in his sight; and when the sun went down upon its wide brim
his emotion was difficult to conceal.

One soft, clear evening, he sat enjoying the calm atmosphere, with his
lady and their child. The sun was nigh setting, and the lake glowed
like molten fire at his approach.

"'Tis said a mermaid haunts yon water," said Mrs Harrington; "I have
heard many marvellous tales of her, a few years ago. Strange enough,
last night I dreamed she took away our little girl, and plunged with
her into the water. But she never returned."

"How I should like to see a mermaid!" said the playful girl. "Nurse
says they are beautiful ladies with long hair and green eyes.
But"--and she looked beseechingly towards them--"we are always
forbidden to ramble towards the Meer."

"Harrington, the night wind makes you shiver. You are ill!"

"No, my love. But--this cold air comes wondrous keen across my bosom,"
said he, looking wistfully on the child, who, scarcely knowing why,
threw her little arms about his neck, and wept.

"My dream, I fear, hath strange omens in it," said the lady
thoughtfully.

The same red star shot fiercely up from the dusky horizon; the same
bright beam was on the wave; and the mysterious incidents of the
fisherman's hut came like a track of fire across Harrington's memory.

"Yonder is that strange woman again that has troubled us about the
house these three days," said Mrs Harrington, looking out from the
balcony; "we forbade her yesterday. She comes hither with no good
intent."

Harrington looked over the balustrade. A female stood beside a pillar,
gazing intently towards him. Her eye caught his own; it was as if a
basilisk had smitten him. Trembling, yet fascinated, he could not turn
away his glance; a smile passed on her dark-red visage--a grin of joy
at the discovery.

"Surely," thought he, "'tis not the being who claims my child!" But
the woman drew something from her hand, which, at that distance,
Harrington recognised as his pledge. His lady saw not the signal;
without speaking, he obeyed. Hastening down-stairs, a private
audience confirmed her demand, which the miserable Harrington durst
not refuse.

Two days he was mostly in private. Business with the steward was the
ostensible motive. He had sent an urgent message to his friend
Molyneux, who, on the third day, arrived at H----, where they spent
many hours in close consultation. The following morning Grace came
running in after breakfast. She flung her arms about his neck.

"Let me not leave you to-day," she sobbed aloud.

"Why, my love?" said Harrington, strangely disturbed at the request.

"I do not know!" replied the child, pouting.

"To-day I ride out with Sir Ralph to the Meer, and as thou hast often
wished--because it was forbidden, I guess--thou shalt ride with us a
short distance; I will toss thee on before me, and away we'll
gallop--like the Prince of Trebizond on the fairy horse."

"And shall we see the mermaid?" said the little maiden quickly, as
though her mind had been running on the subject.

"I wish the old nurse would not put such foolery in the girl's head,"
said Mrs Harrington impatiently. "There be no mermaids now, my love."

"What! not the mermaid of Martin Meer?" inquired the child, seemingly
disappointed.

Harrington left the room, promising to return shortly.

The morning was dull, but the afternoon broke out calm and bright.
Grace was all impatience for the ride; and Rosalind, the favourite
mare, looked more beautiful than ever in her eyes. She bounded down
the terrace at the first sound of the horses' feet, leaving Mrs
Harrington to follow.

The cavaliers were already mounted, but the child suddenly drew back.

"Come, my love," said Harrington, stretching out his hand; "look how
your pretty Rosalind bends her neck to receive you."

Seeing her terror, Mrs Harrington soothed these apprehensions, and
fear was soon forgotten amid the pleasures she anticipated.

"You are back by sunset, Harrington?"

"Fear not, _I_ shall return," replied he; and away sprang the pawing
beasts down the avenue. The lady lingered until they were out of
sight. Some unaccountable oppression weighed down her spirits; she
sought her chamber, and a heavy sob threw open the channel which
hitherto had restrained her tears.

They took the nearest path towards the Meer, losing sight of it as
they advanced into the low flat sands, scarcely above its level. When
again it opened into view its wide waveless surface lay before them,
reposing in all the sublimity of loneliness and silence. The rapture
of the child was excessive. She surveyed with delight its broad
unruffled bosom, giving back the brightness and glory of that heaven
to which it looked; to her it seemed another sky and another world,
pure and spotless as the imagination that created it.

They entered the fisherman's hut; but it was deserted. Years had
probably elapsed since the last occupation. Half-burnt turf and
bog-wood lay on the hearth; but the walls were crumbling down with
damp and decay.

The two friends were evidently disappointed. At times they looked out
anxiously, but in vain, as it might seem; for they again sat down,
silent and depressed, upon a turf-heap by the window, while the child
ran playing and gambolling towards the beach.

Harrington sat with his back to the window, when suddenly the low
murmuring noise he had heard on his former visit was repeated. He
turned pale.

"Thou art not alone; and where is the child?" or words to this purport
were uttered in a whisper. He started aside; the sound, as he thought,
was close to his ear. Molyneux heard it too.

"Shall I depart?" said he, cautiously; "I will take care to keep
within call."

"Nay," said his friend, whispering in his ear, "thou must ride out of
sight and sound too, I am afraid, or we shall not accomplish our plans
for the child's safety. Depart with the attendants; I fear not the
woman. Say to my lady I will return anon."

With some reluctance Sir Ralph went his way homewards, and Harrington
was left to accomplish these designs without assistance.

Immediately he walked out towards the shore; but he saw nothing of the
child, and his heart misgave him. He called her; but the sound died
with its own echo upon the waters. The timid rabbit fled to its
burrow, and the sea-gull rose from her gorge, screaming away heavily
to her mate; but the voice of his child returned no more!

Almost driven to frenzy, he ran along the margin of the lake to a
considerable distance, returning after a fruitless search to the hut,
where he threw himself on the ground. In the agony of his spirit he
lay with his face to the earth, as if to hide his anguish as he wept.

How long he remained was a matter of uncertainty. On a sudden,
instantaneously with the rush that aroused him, he felt his arms
pinioned, and that by no timid or feeble hand. At the same moment a
bandage was thrown over his eyes, and he found himself borne away
swiftly into a boat. He listened for some time to the rapid stroke of
the oars. Not a word was spoken from which he could ascertain the
meaning of this outrage. To his questions no reply was vouchsafed, and
in the end he forbore inquiry--the mind wearied into apathy by
excitement and its consequent exhaustion.

The boat again touched the shore, and he was carried out. The roar of
the sea had for some time been rapidly growing louder as they neared
the land. He was now borne along over hillocks of loose sand to the
sea-beach, when he felt himself fairly launched upon the high seas. He
heard the whistling of the cordage, the wide sail flap to the wind,
with the groan of the blast as it rushed into the swelling canvas;
then he felt the billows prancing under him, and the foam and spray
from their huge necks as they swept by. It was not long ere he heard
the sails lowered; and presently they were brought up alongside a
vessel of no ordinary bulk. Harrington was conducted with little
ceremony into the cabin; the bandage was removed from his eyes, and he
found himself in the presence of a weather-beaten tar, who was sitting
by a table, on which lay a cutlass and a pair of richly-embossed
pistols.

"We have had a long tug to bring thee to," said the captain; "but we
always grapple with the enemy in the long run. If thou hast aught to
say why sentence of death should not pass on thee, ay, and be executed
straightway too--say on. What! not a shot in thy locker? Then may all
such land-sharks perish, say I, as thus I signify thy doom." He
examined his pistols with great nicety as he spoke. Harrington was
dumb with amazement, whilst his enemy surveyed him with a desperate
and determined glance. At length he stammered forth--

"I am ignorant of thy meaning; much less can I shape my defence. Who
art thou?"

The other replied, in a daring and reckless tone--

"I am the Free Rover, of whom thou hast doubtless heard. My good
vessel and her gallant crew ne'er slackened a sky-raker in the chase,
nor backed a mainsail astern of the enemy. But pirate as I am--hunted
and driven forth like the prowling wolf, without the common rights and
usages of my fellow men--I have yet their feelings. I _had_ a child!
Thy fell, unpitying purpose, remorseless monster, hath made me
childless! But thou hast robbed the lioness of her whelp, and thou art
in her gripe!"

"As my hope is to escape thy fangs, I am innocent of the crime."

"Maybe thou knowest not the mischief thou hast inflicted; but thy
guilt and my bereavement are not the less. My child was ailing; we
were off this coast, when we sent her ashore secretly until our
return. A fisherman and his wife, to whom our messenger entrusted the
babe, were driven forth by thee one bitter night without a shelter.
The child perished; and its mother chides my tardy revenge."

"'Tis a falsehood!" cried Harrington, "told to cover some mischievous
design. The child, if it be thine, was given to my care--by whom I
know not. I have nurtured her kindly; not three hours ago, as I take
it, she was in yonder hut; but she has been decoyed from me; and I am
here thy prisoner, and without the means of clearing myself from this
false and malicious charge."

The captain smiled incredulously.

"Thou art lord of yonder soil, I own; but thou shouldest have listened
to the cry of the helpless. I have here a witness who will prove thy
story false--the messenger herself. Call hither Oneida," said he,
speaking to the attendants. But this personage could not be found.

"She has gone ashore in her canoe," said the pirate; "and the men
never question her. She will return ere mid-watch. Prepare: thou
showedst no mercy, and I have sworn!"

Harrington was hurried to a little square apartment, which an iron
grating sufficiently indicated to be the state prison. The vessel lay
at anchor; the intricate soundings on that dangerous coast rendered
her perfectly safe from attack, even if she had been discovered. He
watched the stars rising out, calm and silently, from the deep: "Ere
yon glorious orb is on the zenith," thought he, "I may be--what?" He
shrank from the conclusion. "Surely the wretch will not dare to
execute his audacious threat?" He again caught that red and angry star
gleaming portentously on him. It seemed to be his evil genius; its
malignant eye appeared to follow out his track, to haunt him, and to
beset his path continually with suffering and danger. He stood by the
narrow grating, feverish and apprehensive; again he heard that low
murmuring voice which he too painfully recognised. The mysterious
being of the lake stood before him.

"White man"--she spoke in a strange and uncouth accent;--"the tree
bows to the wing of the tempest--the roots look upward--the wind sighs
past its withered trunk--the song of the warbler is heard no more from
its branches, and the place of its habitation is desolate. Thine
enemies have prevailed. I did it not to compass thine hurt: I knew not
till now thou wert in their power; and I cannot prevent the
sacrifice."

"Restore the child, and I am safe," said Harrington, trembling in his
soul's agony at every point; "or withdraw thy false, thine accursed
accusations."

"Thou knowest not my wrongs and my revenge! Thou seest the arrow, but
not the poison that is upon it. The maiden, whose race numbers a
thousand warriors, returns not to her father's tribe ere she wring out
the heart's life-blood from her destroyer. Death were happiness to the
torments I inflict on him and the woman who hath supplanted me. And
yet they think Oneida loves them--bends like the bulrush when the wind
blows upon her, and rises only when he departs. What! give back the
child? She hath but taken my husband and my bed; as soon might ye tear
the prey from the starved hunter. This night will I remove their child
from them--to depart, when a few moons are gone--it may be to dwell
again with my tribe in the wigwam and the forest."

"But I have not wronged thee!"

"Thou art of their detested race. Yet would I not kill thee."

"Help me to escape."

"Escape!" said this untamed savage, with a laugh which went with a
shudder to his heart. "As soon might the deer dart from the hunter's
rifle as thou from the cruel pirate who has pronounced thy death! I
could tell thee such deeds of him and these bloody men as would freeze
thy bosom, though it were wide and deep as the lakes of my country.
Yet I loved him once! He came a prisoner to my father's hut. I have
spilled my best blood for his escape. I have borne him where the white
man's feet never trod--through forests, where aught but the Indian or
the wild beast would have perished. I left my country and my kin--the
graves of my fathers--and how hath he requited me? He gave the ring of
peace to the red woman; but when he saw another and a fairer one of
thy race, she became his wife; and from that hour Oneida's love was
hate!--and I have waited and not complained, for my revenge was sure!
And shall I now bind the healing leaf upon the wound?--draw the arrow
from the flesh of mine enemies? Thou must die! for my revenge is
sweet."

"I will denounce thee to him, fiend! I will reveal"----

"He will not believe thee. His eye and ear are sealed. He would stake
his life on my fidelity. He knows not of the change."

"But he will discover it, monster, when thou art gone. He will track
thee to the verge of this green earth and the salt sea, and thou shall
not escape."

With a yell of unutterable scorn she cried--

"He may track the wild bee to its nest, and the eagle to his eyrie,
but he discerns not one footprint of Oneida's path!"

The pangs of death seemed to be upon him. He read his doom in the
kindling eye and almost demoniac looks of the being who addressed him.
She seemed like some attendant demon waiting to receive his spirit.
His brain grew dizzy. Death would have been welcome in comparison with
the horrors of its anticipation. He would have caught her; but she
glided from his grasp, and he was again left in that den of loneliness
and misery. How long he knew not; his first returning recollection was
the sound of bolts and the rude voices of his jailers.

In this extremity the remembrance of that Being in whom, and from
whom, are all power and mercy, flashed on his brain like a burst of
hope--like a sunbeam on the dark ocean of despair.

"God of my fathers, hear!" escaped from his lips in that appalling
moment. His soul was calmed by the appeal. Vain was the help of man,
but he felt as if supported and surrounded by the arm of Omnipotence,
while silently, and with a firm step, he followed his conductors.

One dim light only was burning above. Some half-dozen of the crew
stood armed on the quarter-deck behind their chief; their hard,
forbidding faces looked without emotion upon this scene of unpitying,
deliberate murder.

To some question from the pirate Harrington replied by accusing the
Indian woman of treachery.

"As soon yonder star, which at midnight marks our meridian, would
prove untrue in its course."

Harrington shuddered at this ominous reference.

"I cannot prove mine innocence," said he; "but I take yon orb to
witness that I never wronged you or yours. The child is in her
keeping."

"Call her hither, if she be returned," said the captain, "and see if
he dare repeat this in her presence. He thinks to haul in our canvas
until the enemy are under weigh, and then, Yoh ho, boys, for the
rescue. But we shall be dancing over the bright Solway ere the morning
watch, and thy carcase in the de'il's locker."

"If not for mine, for your own safety!"

"My safety! and what care I, though ten thousand teeth were grinning
at me, through as many port-holes. My will alone bounds my power. Who
shall question my sentence, which is death?"

He gnashed his teeth as he went on. "And your halls shall be too hot
to hold your well-fed drones. Thy hearth, proud man, shall be
desolate. I'll lay waste thy domain. Thy race, root and branch, will I
extinguish; for thou hast made me childless!"

The messenger returned with the intelligence that Oneida was not in
the ship.

"On shore again, the ----! If I were to bind her with the main-chains,
and an anchor at each leg, she would escape me to go ashore. No heed;
we will just settle the affair without her, and he shall drop quietly
into a grave ready made, and older than Adam. I would we had some more
of his kin; they should swing from the bowsprit, like sharks and
porpoises, who devour even when they have had enough, and waste what
they can't devour."

"Thou wilt not murder me thus, defenceless, and in cold blood."

"My child was more helpless, and had not injured _thee_! Ye give no
quarter to the prowling beast, and yet, like me, he only robs and
murders to preserve his life. How far is it from midnight?"

"Five minutes, and yon star comes to his southing," said the person he
addressed.

"Then prepare; that moment marks thy death!"

The men looked significantly towards their rifles.

"Nay," cried this bloodthirsty freebooter, "my arm alone shall avenge
my child."

He drew a pistol from his belt.

"Yonder is Oneida," sang out the man at the main-top; "she is within a
cable's length."

"Heed her not. When the bell strikes, I have sworn thou shalt die!"

A pause ensued--a few brief moments in the lapse of time, but an age
in the records of thought. Not a breath relieved the horror and
intensity of that silence. The plash of a light oar was heard;--a boat
touched the vessel. The bell struck.

"Once!" shouted the fierce mariner, and he raised his pistol with the
sharp click of preparation.

"Twice!"

The bell boomed again.

"Thrice!"

"Hold!" cried a female, rushing between the executioner and the
condemned: But the warning was too late;--the ball had sped, though
not to its mark. Oneida was the victim. She fell, with a faint scream,
bleeding on the deck. But Harrington was close locked in the arms of
his little Grace. She had flown to him for protection, sobbing with
joy.

The pirate seemed horror-struck at the deed. He raised Oneida,
unloosing his neckcloth to staunch the wound.

"The Great Spirit calls me:" she spoke with great exertion: "the green
woods, the streams, land of my forefathers. Oh! I come!" She raised
herself suddenly with great energy, looking towards Harrington, who
yet knelt, guarded and pinioned--the child still clinging to him.

"White man, I have wronged thee, and I am the sacrifice. Murderer,
behold thy child!" She raised her eyes suddenly towards the pirate,
who shook his head, supposing that her senses grew confused.

"It was for thy rescue!" again she addressed Harrington. "The Great
Spirit appeared to me: he bade me restore what I had taken away, and I
should be with the warriors and the chiefs who have died in battle.
They hunt in forests from which the red-deer flies not, and fish in
rivers that are never dry. But my bones shall not rest with my
fathers!--I come. Lake of the woods, farewell!"

She threw one look of reproach on her destroyer, and the spirit of
Oneida had departed.

The pirate stood speechless and bewildered. He looked on the child--a
ray of recollection seemed to pass over his visage. Its expression was
softened; and this man of outlawry and blood became gentle. The savage
grew tame. The common sympathies of his nature, so long dried up,
burst forth, and the wide deep flood of feeling and affection rolled
on with it like a torrent, gathering strength by its own accumulation.

Years after, in a secluded cottage by the mansion of the Harringtons,
dwelt an old man and his daughter. She soothed the declining hours of
his sojourn. His errors and his crimes--and they were many and
aggravated--were not unrepented of. She watched his last breath; and
the richest lady of that land was "THE PIRATE'S DAUGHTER."


[Illustration: GEORGE FOX]




GEORGE FOX.


     "O Thou who every thought pervades,
       My darkened soul inform:
     With equal hand Thy goodness guides
       A planet or a worm."


     On the eastern side of Swart Moor, about a mile from
     Ulverstone, stands Swartmoor Hall. This bleak elevation took
     its name from Colonel Martin Swart, or Swartz, an experienced
     and valiant soldier, of a noble German family, to whom the
     Duchess of Burgundy, in 1486, entrusted the command of the
     troops which were sent to support Lambert Simnel in his claim
     to the English crown. A more detailed account of this
     transaction will be found in the first volume of our present
     series, in the tradition relating to "The Pile of Fouldrey."
     Suffice it to say that the rebel army was defeated here with
     great slaughter; and Swartz, along with several of the English
     nobility, was slain--an event which entailed the name of this
     chieftain on the place of his overthrow.

     The hall, about 180 years ago, was the residence of Thomas Fell,
     commonly called Judge Fell, vice-chancellor of the Duchy Court
     at Westminster, and one of the judges that went the Welsh
     circuit; a man greatly esteemed both in his public and private
     capacity. His wife was a lady of exemplary piety: she was born
     at Marsh Grange, in the parish of Dalton, in the year 1614, and
     was married before she had attained to the age of eighteen. The
     Judge and his lady being greatly respected, and much hospitality
     being displayed in their house to ministers and religious
     people, George Fox, in the year 1652, on his first coming into
     Furness, called at Swartmoor Hall, and preaching there, and also
     at Ulverstone, Mrs Fell, her daughters, and many of the family
     adopted his principles.  The Judge was then upon the circuit.
     On his return he seemed much afflicted and surprised at this
     revolution in his family; and in consequence of some malicious
     insinuations from those who met him with the intelligence, he
     was greatly exasperated against George Fox and his principles.
     By the prudent intervention of two friends, however, his
     displeasure was greatly mitigated; and Fox, returning hither in
     the evening, answered all his objections in so satisfactory a
     manner, that the Judge "assented to the truth and reasonableness
     thereof;" the tranquillity of the family was restored; and from
     that time, notwithstanding numerous attempts to detach him from
     the cause, he continued a steady friend to the members of the
     society and its founder on all occasions where he had the power.
     A weekly meeting was established in his house the following
     Sunday. But his patronage did not last many years; he departed
     this life in September 1658, his health having been for some
     time before considerably on the decline.

     Mrs Fell, after his death, suffered much inconvenience and
     oppression because of the religious principles she had
     embraced; yet, notwithstanding, the weekly meetings continued
     to be held at her house until the year 1690, when a new
     meetinghouse was opened about a quarter of a mile distant.

     In 1669, eleven years after the death of Judge Fell, she
     married George Fox, whom she survived eleven years, dying at
     Swartmoor Hall in February 1702, nearly eighty-eight years
     old.[15]

     The house is still inhabited, though in a very dilapidated
     condition. The barns and stables by which it is surrounded, and
     the litter of the farmyard, give it a very mean and
     undignified appearance.

     The tenant is a substantial farmer, who is very assiduous in
     showing the premises. The hall is spacious, with an oaken
     wainscoting. The bedrooms, which are large and airy, were
     formerly ornamented with carved work, now greatly damaged. In
     one of them is a substantial bedstead, with carved posts, on
     which it is said this reformer used to repose, and any of his
     followers have permission to occupy it for one night. This
     privilege is either not known, or perhaps not very highly
     appreciated, for the tenant states that not a single "Friend"
     has availed himself of it during the whole time he has resided
     there. Here is shown the study of George Fox in all its
     pristine plainness and simplicity. On one side of the hall is
     an orchard, looking almost coeval with the building. The house
     stands high, and the upper windows command an extensive and
     beautiful prospect. The meetinghouse is a neat plain building,
     in perfect repair, still used by the Friends at Ulverstone and
     the neighbourhood for religious worship. Over the door is the
     following inscription, "_Ex dono G.F. 1688_." There is a
     burial-place surrounded with trees attached to the chapel.

     George Fox did not reside constantly at Swartmoor after his
     marriage. The greater part of his time was spent in itinerancy.
     He  travelled nearly over the whole of Great Britain, and
     several parts of America in the exercise of his ministry. After
     encountering innumerable sufferings, oppositions, and
     afflictions, this indefatigable missionary departed this life on
     the 13th of November 1690, in the 67th year of his age, at a
     house in White Hart Court, London. He was interred in the
     "Friends Burying-Ground," near Bunhill Fields.

     The author is aware that the following remarkable account of "a
     special interposition" has been attributed to other names and
     later dates, and is recorded as having happened to individuals
     at different places both in England and Ireland. The same fact
     attaching itself to different localities and persons--probably
     according to the caprice or partialities of the several
     narrators--is, as he has found in the course of his researches,
     no unusual occurrence. He does not attempt to decide in favour
     of any of the conflicting claims or authorities, but merely to
     give the tale as it exists, selecting those places and
     circumstances which are most suitable for his purpose.


The supremacy of a special Providence, guiding and overruling the
affairs of men, is a doctrine which few will have the hardihood to
withstand and still less to deny. It is interwoven with our very
nature, and seems implanted in us for the wisest and most beneficent
of purposes. It is a doctrine full of comfort and consolation; our
stay and succour in the most appalling extremities. There does seem,
at times, vividly bursting through the most important periods of our
existence, a ray from the secret place of the Most High. We see an
opening, as it were, into the very arrangements and councils of the
skies; we catch a glimpse of the machinery by which the universe is
governed; the wheels of Providence are for a moment exhibited,
palpable and unencumbered by secondary causes, while we, stricken
prostrate from the consciousness of our own insignificance,
acknowledge with awe and admiration the protecting power of which we
are so unworthy.

Of the special interference we have just noticed the following
narrative, true as to the more important particulars, is a striking
instance; events, apparently happening out of the ordinary way, seem
brought about by this direct interposition at a period when the most
eminent display of human foresight and sagacity would have been
unavailing.

One chill and misty evening in the year 1652, being the early part of
a wet and, as it proved, a tardy spring, two strangers were benighted
in attempting to cross the wild mountain ridge called Cartmel Fell.
They had proposed taking the most direct route from Kendal to
Cartmel; having, however, missed the few points which indicated their
track, they had for several hours been beating about in the
expectation of finding some clue to extricate themselves, but every
attempt seemed only to fix them more inextricably in a state of doubt
and bewilderment. A dense fog had been rapidly accumulating, and they
began to feel something startled with a vague apprehension of a
night-watch amongst the hills, unprovided as they were with the
requisite essentials for either food or lodging.

The elder of the two, though not more than midway between thirty and
forty years old, was clad in a strange uncouth garb of the coarsest
materials, and his lank long hair hung matted and uncombed upon his
shoulders from a "brim" of extravagant dimensions. This style of dress
was not then recognised as the distinctive badge of a religious sect,
as it is now of the people called "Quakers," or, as they are more
favourably designated, "Friends." The person of whom we speak was the
founder of this society, George Fox, who, only about five years
previous to the date of our story, after much contemplation on
religious subjects, took upon himself the public ministry. In the year
1650 he was imprisoned at Derby for speaking publicly in the church
after divine service; on being brought before a magistrate, he bade
the company "_tremble at the word of the Lord_;" the expression was
turned into ridicule, and he and his friends received the appellation
of "_Quakers_."

His appearance was stout and muscular; and his general demeanour of
that still, undisturbed aspect which, if not one of the essentials of
his own religion, is at least looked upon as its greatest ornament,
betokening the inward grace of a meek and quiet spirit. "He was," says
John Gough, the historian of this people, "a man of strong natural
parts, firm health, undaunted courage, remarkable disinterestedness,
inflexible integrity, and distinguished sincerity. The tenor of his
doctrine, when he found himself concerned to instruct others, was to
wean men from systems, ceremonies, and the outside of religion in
every form, and to lead them to an acquaintance with themselves by a
most solicitous attention to what passed in their own minds; to direct
them to a principle of their own hearts, which, if duly attended to,
would introduce rectitude of mind, simplicity of manners, a life and
conversation adorned with every Christian virtue, and peace, the
effect of righteousness. Drawing his doctrine from the pure source of
religious truth, the New Testament, and the conviction of his own
mind, abstracted from the comments of men, he asserted the freedom of
man in the liberty of the gospel against the tyranny of custom, and
against the combined powers of severe persecution, the greatest
contempt, and keenest ridicule. Unshaken and undismayed, he persevered
in disseminating principles and practices conducive to the present and
everlasting well-being of mankind, with great honesty, simplicity, and
success."

The companion of this reformer was arrayed in a more worldly suit; a
mulberry-coloured cloak and doublet, with a hat of grey felt, that,
for brevity of brim, would almost have vied with that of the brass
basin worn by the knight of the rueful countenance, whose history may
be consulted at length in the writings of that veracious historian,
Don Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra. His movements were of a more
irregular and erratic nature than comported with the well-ordered and
equable gait of his companion. The rarely-occurring remarks of the
latter were anything but explicit as to the state of his feelings in
contemplation of an event, the possibility of which increased with
every step--a night's lodgings in these inhospitable wilds. The sun
was now evidently beneath the horizon; darkness came on with frightful
rapidity; and they had, as yet, no reason to divest themselves of so
disagreeable an anticipation. To one in the full glare of daylight, or
with a sound roof-tree over his head and a warm fire at his elbow, the
idea of a night-vigil may not appear either unpleasant or
extraordinary; but, wrapped in a sheet of grey mist, the wet heath
oozing beneath his feet, with the cold and benumbing air of the hills
for his supper, there could be little question that he would be apt to
regard it as a condition not far removed from the extremity of human
suffering; especially if at the same time he had just exchanged a snug
fireside and an affectionate neighbourhood of friends for these
appalling discomforts.

"I know not what we shall do," said the younger traveller. "It never
entered into my head beforehand to imagine the possibility of such an
event. Surely, surely, we are not to live through a whole night in
these horrid wilds. Pray, do speak out, and let me at least have the
comfort of a complaint, for we are past consolation."

"I have been ruminating on this very matter," replied the other; "and
it does appear that we are as safe in this place verily as though we
were encompassed with walls and bulwarks. Methinks, friend, thou
speakest unadvisedly; in future, when thee knowest not what to
do--wait! The more thee pulls and hauls, and frets and kicks, depend
on it thou wilt be the less able to extricate thyself thereby. We are
not left quite without comfort in this dreary wilderness; here is a
goodly and a well-set stone, I perceive, just convenient. Verily, it
is a mercy if we get a little rest for our limbs. Many a meek and holy
disciple, of whom the world was not worthy, has ere now been fain of a
slice of hard rock for his pillow."

"And, in truth, we are as likely as the holiest of 'em to refresh
ourselves all night on a stone bolster," pettishly replied the
unthankful youth, as he seated himself beside his friend.

It was not long ere a slight breeze began to roll the mist into
irregular masses of cloud. The dense atmosphere appeared to break, and
a star twinkled for a moment, but disappeared as suddenly as it came
forth. Ralph Seaton, the younger of the pedestrians, pointed out the
friendly visitant to his companion. It seemed as though the eye of
mercy were beaming visibly upon them.

"I have seen it," said the man of quiet endurance; "and now gird up
thy loins to depart. The fog will rapidly disperse; and it may be that
some distant light will guide us to rest and shelter."

While he was speaking the mist coiled upwards, driving rapidly across
the sky in the shape of a heavy scud. A few stars twinkled here and
there through the lucid intervals, "few and far between;" but they
were continually changing place, closing and unfolding as the wind
mingled or separated their shapeless fragments.

"It is even as I said. Seest thou yonder light?"

"I see not anything," replied Seaton.

"Just beneath that bright star to our left?" again inquired the elder
traveller.

"I only see a dark hill rising there abruptly against the lowering
swell of the sky."

Our "Friend" was silent for a space, when he replied in a tone of deep
solemnity--

"It is the inward light of which I have spoken to thee before; a token
of no ordinary import. To-night, or I am deceived, we are called on
to pass through no common allotment of toil and tribulation. Oft hath
this light been outwardly manifest, and as often has it been the
precursor of some sharp and fiery trial! Again! But thou seest it not.
Yet mayest thou follow in my steps. Take heed thou turn not either to
the right hand or to the left. But"----The speaker's voice here grew
fearfully ominous and emphatic.

"Hast thou courage to do as I shall bid thee? I must obey the will of
the Spirit; but unless thou hast faith to follow the light that is
within me, rather pass the night on that cold unsheltered rock than
draw back from His witness. Remember, it is no slight peril that
awaits us."

Not without a struggle and certain waverings, which indicated a faith
somewhat less implicit than was desirable on such an occasion, did the
disciple promise to obey--ay, to the very letter--every command that
might be given. Peradventure, a well-founded apprehension of spending
the night companionless on the cold and wet dormitory to which his
evil stars had conducted him, had some influence in this
determination. Suffice it to say, never did disciple resolve more
faithfully to obey than did our young adventurer in this perilous
extremity.

Their path now appeared to wind precipitately down a steep and narrow
defile, through which a rapid torrent was heard foaming and tumbling
over its rugged bed. Following the course of the stream to a
considerable distance, a rude bridge was discerned, sufficiently
indicating a path to some house or village in that direction. The wind
was rising in sharp and heavy gusts. The moon, not yet above the
hills, was brightening the dark clouds that hung behind them like a
huge curtain. The sky was studded, in beauteous intervals, with hosts
of stars. This light enabled them to follow a narrow footpath, which,
abruptly turning the head of a projecting crag, showed them a distant
glimmer as though from some friendly habitation. Seaton bounded past
his more recondite companion; and it was not long ere a fierce growl
challenged him as he approached nearer to the dwelling. He threw open
the door, and discovered what was sufficiently distinguishable as a
public-house, a homely interior, dignified by the name of tavern. Two
grim-looking men sat before a huge pile of turf, glowing fiercely from
the wide expanse appropriated to several uses beside that of fireplace
and chimney. Liquor and coarse bread were near them on a low
three-legged table; while Seaton, overjoyed at his good fortune and
happy escape, thought the rude hut a palace, and the smell of turf
and oat-cake a refection fit for the gods.

"Be quiet, Vixen." The fierce animal, at this rebuke from her
mistress, slunk into a dark corner beside the chimney, whence two
hideous and glaring eyes were fixed on the strangers for the rest of
the evening. Wherever Seaton turned, he still beheld them, intently
watching, as though gloating on their prey. The female who had thus
spoken did not welcome her guests with that cheerful solicitude which
the arrival of profitable customers generally creates. She bustled
about unceasingly; but showed neither anxiety nor inclination to offer
them any refreshment. Short and firm-set in person, she looked more
muscular than was befitting her sex. Her hair was grizzled, and the
straggling tresses hung untrammelled about her smoke-dried and
hard-lined visage. Her features wore a dubious and unpleasant aspect,
calculated to create more distrust than seemed desirable to their
owner. Every effort, however, to disguise their expression only
rendered them the more forbidding and repulsive.

Near the turf-stack, by the chimney, sat a being to all appearance in
a state of mental derangement almost approaching to idiotcy. His eye
rested for a moment, with a vacant and undefined stare, upon the
strangers; then, with a loud shrill laugh, which made the listeners
shudder, he again bent his head, basking moodily before the blaze. The
moment Seaton had thrown down a light portmanteau that he carried, the
dame, with a low tap, summoned two stout fellows from an inner room,
who, with a suspicious and over-acted civility, inquired the
destination and wishes of their guests. The elder of the travellers,
now coming forward as spokesman, inquired about the possibility of
obtaining lodgings for the night, and was informed that a room,
detached from the rest, was generally used as a guest-chamber on all
extra occasions.

"There's a bed in 't fit to streek down the limbs of a king," said one
of the gruff helpers; "and maybe the gentlemen will sleep as sound
here as they could wish. Rabbit thee, Will, but the luggage will break
thy back. Have a care, lad. Let me feel: it's as light as a church
poor's-box. The de'il's flown awa' with aw the shiners, I think; for
it's lang sin' I heard a good ow'd-fashioned jink in a traveller's
pack."

This was said more by way of comment than conversation, as he handled
the stranger's valise.

The features of these men exhibited a strange mixture of ferocity and
mirth. Savage, and almost brutal in their expression, still an
atmosphere of fun hovered about them--a Will-o'-the-wisp sort of
playfulness, unnatural and decoying, like the capricious gambols of
that renowned and mischievous sprite.

The Quaker seated himself on a low bench before the fire. He took from
his neck a huge handkerchief, spreading it out on his knees. He then
drew off a pair of long worsted stocking-boots; leisurely untied his
shoes, and extending his ample surface in the most convenient manner
to the blaze, appeared, with eyes half-shut, pondering deeply some
inward abyss of thought, yet not wholly indifferent to the objects
around him. His tall and bony figure looked more like some stiff and
imitative piece of mechanism than a living human frame with flexible
articulations, so fashioned was every motion of the body to the formal
and constrained habits and peculiarities of the mind. Seaton had
observed, with no slight uneasiness, the suspicious circumstances in
which they were placed; but he was fearful of betraying his mistrust,
lest it should accelerate the mischief he anticipated. He looked
wistfully at his friend; but there was no outward manifestation that
could elucidate the inward bent of his thoughts. The keen expression
of his eye was not visible; but his other features wore that
imperturbable and stolid aspect which suited the stiff and unyielding
substance of his opinions. Seaton was now reminded of his supper by an
inquiry from the female as to their intentions on that momentous
subject. A "flesh pye," as she termed it, was drawn from its lair--a
dark hole used as a cupboard--and set before the guests. The very name
sounded suspicious and disgusting. In the present state of his
feelings the most trivial circumstance was sufficient to keep alive
the apprehensions that haunted him. He endeavoured to rally himself
out of his fears, and had in some measure succeeded, thrusting his
knife deep into the forbidden envelope. At that moment a slight
rustling caused him to look aside. The idiot was gazing on him. He
shrank from this unexpected glance; and the knife loosened in his
grasp. He thought the creature made a sign with his finger, forbidding
him to eat. It might be fancy; but nevertheless he felt determined not
to touch the food; and the former, with that natural cunning which, in
characters of this description, almost assumes the nature of instinct,
again appeared crouching over the blaze, and incapable either of
observation or intelligence. This transaction passed unnoticed by the
rest of the party; and Seaton, afraid that some horrible and unnatural
food had been set before him, secretly motioned to his friend, who,
apparently unheeding, helped himself to a portion of the mysterious
dish. For a moment it occurred to Seaton that the cunning half-wit,
apprehensive lest too great a share of the savoury victuals should
fall to their lot, had contrived to forbid this appropriation. After a
few mouthfuls, however, he observed that his friend had as little
relish for the provision as himself, remarking that a rasher of bacon
would be preferred, if the hostess could furnish him with this
delicacy. A whisper was the result of this request; but, in the end, a
savoury collop was set upon the table. Beer was added, as a matter of
course; but neither of them partook of the beverage. Though Seaton, to
all appearance, drank a portion, yet his fears got the better of his
fatigue; and some apprehension of treachery made him careful to convey
away the liquor unobserved. Fox now drew up his gaunt figure in the
attitude which indicated a change of position. With great deliberation
he rose, and addressed the hostess--

"Canst thee show us to bed?"

Answering in the affirmative, she snatched up a light, and leading the
way across a narrow yard, she pointed out a small step-ladder outside
the building. Giving the candle into the hands of the grave personage
who followed her, she left them after bidding "Good-night!"

They scrambled up the ladder, entering the room appropriated to their
use. It was low, and of scanty dimensions. The walls were bare; and
the damp oozed through chinks and crevices, where the wind met with
slight interruption, though it clamoured unceasingly for admission.
The only furniture in the apartment was a low bedstead, on which a
straw mattress reposed in all the accumulated filth of past ages. A
coverlid of coarse woollen partly concealed a suit of bed-linen that
would have stricken terror amongst a tribe of Esquimaux. Neither party
appeared wishful to tempt the mysteries that were yet unseen, or to
divest himself of clothing. They flung their luggage on the floor, and
sat upon it, each awaiting the first word of intercourse from his
companion. After a while there was a heavy groan from the Quaker; and
Seaton something hastily intimated his suspicions respecting the
occupation and pursuits of the party below.

"I am of the like persuasion with thyself," was the reply. "Verily,
the warning was not in vain. This night may not pass ere faith shall
have its test. I have had a sore struggle. Our safety will be granted;
but through inward guidance rather than from our own endeavours. Yet
must we use the means."

"I see no way of escape," returned Seaton, "provided they be what we
have unhappily too good cause to apprehend. Unarmed, and without the
means of defence, how can we cope with men whose object, doubtless,
with the robbery, will be the concealment of their crime?"

"Follow my example. It is thine only chance for deliverance. Question
me not; but be silent, and obey. I have said it."

While the speaker relapsed into one of his usual reveries, Seaton cast
his eyes inquiringly round the room. Their feeble light was ready to
expire. The rude gusts rocked the frail tenement "as if't had agues;"
and the walls groaned beneath their pressure. There was a small
casement, stuffed with paper and a matchless assortment of
parti-coloured rags, near the roof, directly over the bed. He ascended
softly to examine the nature of this outlet; but, to his further
alarm, he found it guarded outside with iron bars. This was a direct
confirmation of his surmises. A cold shudder crept over him. He felt
almost stiffening with horror as he looked down upon his thoughtful
companion, doomed, he doubted not, as well as himself, to fall a prey
to the assassin. He gazed wildly round the apartment, as if with some
desperate hope of deliverance. His head grew dizzy; objects seemed to
flit past him; and more than once he fancied that footsteps were
creeping up the ladder. This acute burst of agony subsiding, he
listened to the short and rapid whirl of the wind eddying by; and
never had the sound fallen upon his ear so fearfully. It seemed like
the wail of a departing spirit, or like some funeral dirge, moaning
heavily and deep through the sudden pauses of the blast. He threw
himself on the bed. Fatigue and long abstinence had enervated his
frame. Nature, forced almost beyond the limit of endurance, had become
passive, and almost incapable of suffering. A deep slumber stole upon
him, yet could he not escape the horrors by which he was surrounded.
Daggers reeking in blood--spectres covered with hideous
wounds--murderers on the rack--gibbets, and a thousand forms,
shapeless and unimaginable, crowded past with inconceivable rapidity.
A huge figure approached. In its hand a weapon was uplifted, as if to
destroy him. He made a vehement effort to escape; but was holden,
without the power of resistance. Just as it was descending he awoke.
For a while he was unable to recollect precisely the nature of his
situation. The apartment was quite dark. He groped confusedly about
him, but to no purpose. At that instant a ray seemed to glide from the
casement. It was a moonbeam struggling through that almost impervious
inlet. By this light he beheld a figure intently gazing towards the
window. At the first glance he did not recognise his companion; but,
as he started from the couch, the former approached him, and, laying
one hand on his shoulder, whispered that he should be still. He
obeyed, and remained motionless. The reason for this admonition was
soon apparent. He heard a slight pattering at intervals on the few
brittle fragments which the window yet retained. Seaton at first
thought it might be the rain, especially as the wind had considerably
abated; but he soon found there must be some other cause, from the
rattling of sand and other coarser materials upon the floor and bed.
He crept close to the window, looking out below, but was unable to
find out the reason of this disturbance. Suddenly a volley of pebbles
bounded past his face, and the moon shining forth at the same instant,
a figure was distinguished anxiously attempting to arouse and excite
their attention. To his great astonishment he recognised the wayward
being whose glance had startled him so disagreeably a few hours
before. He recollected the idiot's former signal, and felt convinced
that this was a more direct and friendly interference. Seaton
carefully pulled away a portion of the stuffing, and was thus enabled
to bring his head closer to the bars. This movement was observed; and
with an admonition to silence, the strange creature pointed to the
ground, at the same time he appeared as if urging them to escape.
Seaton comprehended his meaning; but the iron fastenings were an
apparently insurmountable impediment. He laid hold of one of the bars
with considerable force; and to his great joy it yielded to the
pressure. Apparently there was no other individual beneath, or this
friendly warning would not have been given. It seemed as if the
tenants of the hovel were too secure of their prey to set a watch. He
descended cautiously to his companion. A few whispers were sufficient
to convey the intelligence. Again he mounted to the window; and, on
looking down, found that their providential monitor had disappeared.
There was no time to be lost. Seaton again tried the bar, and
succeeded in removing it. Another was soon wrenched from its hold, and
a few minutes more saw him safely through the aperture, from which he
let himself down with little difficulty to the ground. His companion
immediately followed; and once more outside their lodging, a new
difficulty presented itself. Seaton knew of no other path than the one
by which they had previously gained the cottage; and this would, in
all probability, afford a leading track to their pursuers, who might
be expected shortly to be aware of their escape. But he was relieved
from this dilemma by his companion making a signal that he should
follow. "Remember thy promise," said he. Seaton was prepared to obey,
feeling a renewed confidence in the discretion of his guide. Turning
into a pathway near the place where they had alighted, their course
was towards a river, which they beheld at no great distance twinkling
brightly in the moonbeams. They cautiously yet rapidly proceeded down
a narrow descent, fear hastening their flight, for they expected every
moment to hear the footsteps of their pursuers. In a little while they
turned out of the road, and, by a circuitous path, which the guide
seemed to tread with unhesitating confidence, they came to the river's
brink. By the brawling of its current, and the appearance it
presented, the water was evidently shallow, and might be crossed
without much difficulty. Seaton was preparing to make the attempt, but
was prevented by his comrade.

"I have some inward impression that we may not cross here. We shall be
pursued; and our adversaries will imagine that we have passed over
what is doubtless the ford of this Jordan. I know not why, but we must
follow its banks, and for some distance, ere we pass."

Seaton urged the danger and folly of this proceeding, and proposed
crossing immediately, but met with a decided and unflinching refusal
from his companion. They now kept along the river's brink, but with
much difficulty. The rain having swollen the waters, they were often
forced to wade up to the knees through the little creeks and rivulets
that intersected their path. They journeyed on for a considerable
time in silence, when the elder traveller made a sudden pause.

"It is here," said he. Seaton looked on the river; but the broad and
deep wave rolled past with frightful impetuosity. The moonbeams
glittered on a wide and rapid flood, whose depths were unknown, but to
which, nevertheless, it seemed that they were on the point of
committing themselves.

"The river is both wide and deep!" said the youth.

"Nevertheless, we must cross," replied his more taciturn companion.
Without further parley the latter plunged boldly into the stream.
Urged on by his fears, and preferring death in any shape to the death
that was pursuing him, Seaton followed his example. For some time they
struggled hard with the full sweep of the current; and it seemed
little short of a miracle when they arrived, almost breathless and
exhausted, on the opposite side.

"Praised be His name who hath given strength! Though deep waters have
encompassed us, yet His arm is our deliverance."

With a holy and ardent outpouring of soul did this good man render
thanksgivings unto Him whose hand had been so visibly stretched out
for their protection. Just as he had made an end of speaking, a
distant but distinct howl was borne down upon the wind. They listened
eagerly, as the sound evidently grew nearer. It was like the short but
stifled cry of a hound in full chase.

"Peril cometh as a whirlwind," said George Fox; "but fear not--a way
will be left for our escape!"

"It is that malicious hound!" replied Seaton shuddering, as he
remembered the beast which had gazed so intently on him, and which was
evidently trained for the present purpose.

"We must climb up to those tall bushes with all speed," said the
companion of his flight, at the same time leading the way with
considerable haste and agility.

From this height they saw, at some distance up the river, three men on
horseback, preceded by a large hound, who, true to the scent, was
following steadily on their footsteps. They approached rapidly to the
place where the fugitives had gone over, when the dog made a dead
halt, and looked wistfully across.

"Loo, loo!" said the foremost rider, "hie on, lass!" But the beast
would not move.

"Sure now, Mike," said he, as the others came up, "if they've taken
the water at this unlucky hole, they'll need no drownin' by this
anyhow."

"It's the brute, bad luck to her," replied his comrade. "She's on the
wrong scent. Why they're over the ford by this, and we shall have the
bloody thief-catchers here before we can open the door for 'em."

"If the bitch had followed my nose, instead of her own beautiful
scent," said the remaining speaker, "we should ha' been over the ford
too, long ago. They'd as soon think of swimming o'er the bay in a
cabbage-leaf as cross at this place. Back, back; and we'll shoulder
'em yet, my darlings. Come along, boys--one of you take the ford, an'
watch the road over the hill. Have a care, now, that the rogues be not
skulking round the bog. I'll keep the road hereabout; an' thou, Mike,
lay to with the hound when thou art on the other side. Maybe they'll
not find it just so easy to beat us in the hunting while we've a leg
to lay on after them."

The worthy triumvirate here withdrew. The animal was with much
difficulty forced from her track; but by the help of a stout cord she
was dragged off, yelping and whining, to the great joy of their
intended victims. Seaton could not but recognise the very finger of
Providence, which had pointed out the means of preservation. No other
way was left apparently for their escape. Whatsoever course they had
taken, save this, must have inevitably thrown them into the very toils
of their pursuers; and he determined to follow, fearlessly and without
question, the future impulses of his companion.

"Shall we attempt to flee, or must we tarry here a space?" he
hesitatingly inquired.

"Nay, friend," said his guide, "I wis not yet what we shall do; but
methinks we are to abide here until morning!"

Seaton shivered at this intimation. His clothes were drenched, and his
whole frame stiffened and benumbed with cold. His position, too,
crouching amongst decayed branches and alder twigs, was none of the
most eligible or easy to sustain. He felt fully resolved, however, to
follow the leadings of his friend, being convinced that his ultimate
safety depended on a strict adherence to this determination.

The country was very thinly inhabited, and their enemies were in
possession of the only outlets by which they could escape to the
nearest village. Aided, too, by the sagacity of the dog, their track
would inevitably be discovered before daylight enabled them to find
shelter. These considerations were too important to be overlooked, and
Seaton quietly resolved to make himself as comfortable as
circumstances would permit. He wrung out the wet from his clothes,
chafed his limbs, and ere long, to his inexpressible relief, the first
symptoms of the dawn were visible in the east. Just as a glowing rim
of light was gliding above the horizon, they ventured to peep forth
cautiously from their retreat. To their great mortification, they saw,
at a considerable distance, a horseman stationed on the brow of a
neighbouring hill, evidently for the purpose of a more extended
scrutiny. Signals would inevitably betray their route should they
emerge from their concealment; and escape now seemed as hopeless as
ever.

In this fresh difficulty Seaton again sought counsel from his friend,
who replied with great earnestness--

"There is yet another and a more grievous trial;"--he lifted up his
eyes, darkening already with the energy of his spirit;--"but I trust
our deliverance draweth nigh. We must return!"

"Return?" cried Seaton, his lips quivering with amazement. "Whither?
Not to the den we have just left?"

"Even so," said the other with great composure.

"Then all hope is lost!" mournfully returned the inquirer.

"Nay," replied his companion, "but let me ask what chance, even
according to thine own natural and unaided sense, there is of
deliverance in our present condition? Hemmed in on every hand, without
a guide, and strangers to the path we should take, if the watchman
from the hill miss our track, there is the hound upon our scent!"

There was no gainsaying these suggestions; but still a proposal that
they should return to the cabin, whence they had with such pains and
difficulty made their escape, in itself was so absurd and inexplicable
a piece of manoeuvring, that common sense and common prudence alike
forbade the attempt. Yet, on the other hand, common sense and common
prudence appeared to be equally unavailing as to any mode of escape
from the toils in which they were entangled.

Again he determined to follow his friend's guidance: who, addressing
himself immediately to the task, made the best of his way to the ford
which he had refused to cross the preceding night. They now took the
direct road to the house. The morning was sharp and clear. Seaton felt
the cold and raw atmosphere cling to his frame, already chilled to an
alarming degree; but the excitation he had undergone prevented further
mischief than the temporary inconvenience he then suffered. As they
came nearer the hut his very faculties seemed to escape from his
control. A sense of danger, imminent and almost insupportable, came
upon him. Bewildered, and actuated with that unaccountable but
instinctive desperation which urges on to some inevitable doom, he
rushed wildly into the dwelling. It was not as they had left it.
Several horses were quietly standing by the door; and a party, who had
merely called for the purpose of half-an-hour's rest and refreshment,
were then making preparations to depart. Seaton took one of them
aside, and disclosed the terrible circumstances we have related. By a
judicious but prompt application of their forces they prevented any
one from leaving the house, and were prepared to seize all who should
return thither. A close search soon betrayed the quality and calling
of its inmates. A vast hoard of plunder was discovered, and proofs too
abundant were found that deeds had been there perpetrated of which we
forbear the recital. The old woman was seized; and her capture was
followed by the apprehension of the whole gang, who shortly after met
with the retribution merited by their crimes.

The maniac proved to be a son of the old beldame. At times, the cloud
unhappily clearing from his mental vision had left him for a short
space fearfully cognisant of the transactions he was then doomed to
witness. On that night to which our history refers a sudden
providential gleam of intelligence flashed upon him, and an unknown
impulse prompted his interference in behalf of the unfortunate, and,
as he thought, unsuspecting victims. Ere leaving the country they saw
him comfortably provided for; and, as far as the nature of his malady
would permit, his mind was soothed, and his darkest moments partly
relieved from the horrors which humanity alone could mitigate, but not
prevent.

     [15] _Vide_ West's _Antiquities of Furness_.




THE DEMON OF THE WELL.

       "Avaunt, thou senseless thing!
     Can graven image mimic life, and glare
     Its stony eye-balls; grin, make mouths at me?
     Go to, it is possessed;--some demon lurks
     Within its substance."


     Peggy's well, the subject of our engraving, is near the brink
     of the Ribble, in a field below Waddow Hall; Brunckerley
     Stepping-stones not being far distant, where several lives have
     been lost in attempting to cross, at times when the river was
     swollen by a rapid rise, which even a day's rain will produce.
     These calamities, along with any other fatal accidents which
     happened in the neighbourhood, are usually attributed to the
     malevolence of Peggy. The stepping-stones are alluded to in our
     first volume as the place where King Henry VI was taken, after
     escaping from Waddington Hall.

     Some stones are still visible at low water; but whether these
     are the original "Hippins," or the foundations of a wooden
     bridge which succeeded them, and was borne down by the ice at
     the breaking up of the frost in the year 1814, is not known.

     The stone image by the well, depicted in our engraving, has
     been the subject of many strange tales and apprehensions, being
     placed there when turned out of the house at Waddow, to allay
     the terrors of the domestics, who durst not continue under the
     same roof with this misshapen figure. It was then broken,
     either from accident or design, and the head, some time ago, we
     have understood, was in one of the attic chambers at Waddow
     Hall.


One loud, roaring, and tempestuous night--the last relics of the year
1660--some half-dozen boon companions were comforting themselves
beside a blazing fire, and a wassail-cup, at the ingle of a
well-ordered and well-accustomed tavern within the good borough of
Clitheroe, bearing on its gable front, over a grim and narrow porch, a
marvellous portraiture apparently of some four-footed animal, by
common usage and consent denominated "The Bull." What recked they of
the turmoil that was abroad, while good liquor lasted, and the troll
and merry tale went round? The yule-log was blazing on the hearth,
and their cups were bright and plenished.

[Illustration 10: PEG O'NELLY'S WELL, NEAR CLITHEROE.
_Drawn by G. Pickering._
_Engraved by Edw^d Finden._]

"'Ods bodikins, Nic--and that's a parson's oath," said a small waspish
figure from the farther chimney-corner, in a sort of husky wheezing
voice, "I'll lay thee a thimblefull of pins thou dar'na do it."

"And I'll lay thee a grey lapstone, an' a tachin-end to boot, that I
run ower t' hippin-stones to-night, and never a wet sole; but a buss
and a wet lip I'll bring fro' the bonniest maiden at Waddow!"

"Like enough, like enough, though thou hast to brag for't," said the
first speaker tauntingly--an old customer of the house, and a compiler
of leathern extremities for the good burghers and their wives.

"Give o'er your gostering," said another; "_Non omnes qui citharam
tenent, sunt citharoedi_.[iii] Many talk of Robin Hood who never shot from
his bow. Know ye not 'tis Peggy's year, and her oblation hath not been
rendered? Eschew therefore the rather your bravery until this night be
overpast."

This learned harangue betrayed the schoolmaster, who was prone to make
Gaffer Wiswall's chimney-side a temporary refuge from the broils and
disturbances of his own, where his spouse, by way of enticing him to
remain, generally contrived either to rate him soundly or to sulk
during their brief communion.

"Who cares for Peg?" said the hero who had boasted of his
blandishments with the maids. "She may go drown herself i' the Red Sea
for aught I care!"

This heretical, unbelieving, and impious scorner was a man of shreds
and patches, a pot-valiant tailor, whose ungartered hosen, loose
knee-strings, and thin shambling legs, sufficiently betokened the
sedentary nature of his avocations. "I wonder the parson hasn't gi'en
her a lift wi' Pharaoh and his host ere this," continued he.

"Or the schoolmaster," said that provoking little personage, the first
speaker, whose sole aim was to throw the apple of discord amongst his
fellows.

"And pray who may this lady be whom ye so ungallantly devote to
perdition?" inquired a stranger from behind, who had hitherto been
silent, apparently not wishful to join the hilarity of those he
addressed. The party quesited was in the midst of a puff of exhalation
more than usually prolonged when the question was put, so that ere he
could frame his organs to the requisite reply the pragmatical tailor,
whose glibness of tongue was equalled only by his assurance, gave the
following by way of parenthesis:--

"Plague on't, where's t'ou bin a' thy life, 'at doesn't know Peg
O'Nelly, man?"

"Deuce tak' thee for a saucy lout," said the sutor; "I'll brak' thy
spindle-shanks wi' my pipe-stump. Be civil if thou can, Nicky, to thy
betters. Sir, if it please ye to listen, we'll have ye well instructed
in the matter by the schoolmaster here." He cast a roguish look at the
pedagogue as he spoke. But I pray you draw in with us, an' make one
wi' the rest."

The scholar adjusted himself, passed one hand thoughtfully upon his
brow, and with a gentle inclination commenced with a loud hem, or
clearance of aught that might obstruct the free communication of his
thoughts.

"Peg, or Peggy, as some do more euphoniously denominate her, was maid,
woman, or servant--_ancilla_, _famula_, _ministra_, not _pedissequa_,
or one who attends her mistress abroad, but rather a servant of all
work, in the house yonder at Waddow, many years past. Indeed, my
grandmother did use to speak of it as _ex vetere famâ_--traditionary,
or appertaining unto the like."

"I tell thee what, gossip, if thee doesn't get on faster wi' thy tale,
Peggy's ghost will have a chronicle of another make. I can see Nic's
tongue is yammering to take up a stitch i' thy narrative," interrupted
the leathern artificer.

"And I'd bring it up in another guess way," said Nicholas, tartly,
"than wi' scraps and scrapings fro' gallipots, and remnants o' mass
books."

"Pray ye, friends, be at peace a while, or I may be dealt with never a
word to my question," said the stranger beseechingly.

"Go on," rejoined the peremptory occupant of the chimney-corner; "but
let thy discourse be more akin to thy text."

The schoolmaster, thus admonished, again set forward.

"As I was a-saying precedent or prior to this unseasonable
interruption--_medium sermonem_--I crave your mercy, but I was born,
as I may say, with the Latin, or the _lingua latialis_ in my mouth,
rather than my mother-tongue; so, as I was a-saying, this same Peggy,
_filia_ or daughter to Ellen, if I mistake not, seeing that Peg
O'Nell doth betoken, after the manner and use of these rude
provincials, that the genitrix or _mater_ is the genitive or
generator, being"----

"Now a murrain light on all fools, coxcombs, and"----

"Tailors' shins--hang thee, for thou hast verily split mine wi' thy
gilly-pegs. They're as sharp as a pair of hatchets," said an
unfortunate neighbour who had the ill-luck to encounter the gyrations
of these offensive and weapon-like appendages to the trunk of Nicholas
Slater, who, in his great ardour and distress at the floundering and
abortive attempts of the scholar, threw them about in all directions,
to the constant jeopardy and annoyance of those more immediately
within their sphere of operation.

"Keep 'em out o't gait then," said the testy aggressor, angry at the
interruption, being fearful of losing so lucky an opportunity.

"Peg O'Nelly, sir, was a maid-servant once at Waddow, killed first,
and then drowned i' the well by one o' the men for concubinage, as the
parson says; and so for the wrong done, her ghost ne'er having been
laid, you see she claims every seventh year an offering which must be
summat wick--and"----While he hesitated another took up the thread of
his narrative.

"This is the last night o' the year, you see," said the other in
continuation; "and we be just thinking to bid good-bye to th' old
chap, and greet th' new one with a wag of his paw, and a drink to his
weel-doing. But the first cause o' this disturbance was by reason of
its being Peggy's year, and as she hasn't had her sop yet, we thought
as how it would be no bad job to get rid o' this drunken tailor here,
and he might save some better man; so we have been daring him to cross
t' hippin-stones to-night; for there is but an hour or two to spare
before her time's up."

"It is not too late," said the stranger, with great solemnity. Every
eye was bent upon him. He still sat in the broad shadow projected by
one huge chimney-corner, his face overhung by a broad felt hat, girt
with a band and buckle; a drooping draggled feather fell over its
crown. His whole person was so curiously enveloped in a loose
travelling cloak that nothing but a dark unshapely mass, having some
resemblance to the human form, could be distinguished. Concealment
was evidently the object. Every one was awed down into silence. The
few words he had spoken seemed to have dried up, or rather frozen at
its surface, the babbling current of their opinions, that ran, whilom,
with unceasing folly and rapidity.

"Silence!" cried the sutor from the opposite ingleside.

This command operated like a charm. The ice was broken, and the
current became free. Without more ado, as if in opposition to the
self-constituted authority from the high-backed chair, the guests,
with one exception only, commenced with a vigorous discharge of "airy
missiles," which by degrees subsided into a sort of desultory
sharp-shooting; but their words were neither few nor well applied. It
was evident that a gloom and disquietude was upon the assembly. There
was a distinct impression of fear, though a vague notion as to its
cause--a sort of extempore superstition--a power which hath most hold
on the mind in proportion as its limits and operations are least known
or understood. The bugbear owing its magnitude and importance to
obscurity and misapprehension, becomes divested of its terrors when it
can be surveyed and appreciated.

     "_Te misereat, miserescat, vel commiserescat mei,_"

quoted the schoolmaster, who, before he could find an equivalent in
his mother-tongue, was tripped up by the nimble constructor of
raiment.

"The dule and his dam are verily let loose on us," said he.

"Our Lady and her grace forefend!" cried he of the awl and lapstone,
whose pipe having unaccountably been extinguished, was just in the act
of being thrust down into the red and roaring billets when he beheld a
blue flame hovering on them; a spiral wreath of light shot upwards,
and the log was reduced to a mass of glowing ashes and half-burnt
embers. At this critical moment the stranger deliberately approached
the hearth. He threw a whole flagon of liquor wilfully upon the waning
faggots, and in a moment fiz, splutter, and smoke proclaimed that the
warfare of the elements, like many others, had ended in the
destruction of both the contending belligerents. The yule-log was
extinguished. There was a general rush, and a consternation of so
unequivocal a nature, that tables, benches, platters, and drinking
utensils were included in one vast overthrow. Some thought they saw
the glowing emblem of Yule transferred to the stranger's eyes, which
twinkled like twin loopholes to the furnace within.

"I have thee now!" said he; but who this unfortunate might be whom
they had so left, even in the very claws of the Evil One, they knew
not, nor did they care to inquire. Each, too happy to escape, rushed
forth hatless and sore dismayed into the street, with all the horrors
of a pelting and pitiless night upon his head, and thought himself
well off by the exchange, and too much overjoyed that his own person
was not the victim in the catastrophe.

In the morning Isabel, the landlord's ward, and his coal-black steed
were amissing!

Now, it was but a mile or so from this ancient borough to Brunckerley,
or Bromiley hippin (stepping) stones, across the Ribble, where, upon
this insecure but long-used mode of transit, the steps of our
forefathers were guided over the ford. These same stepping-stones were
quite as often the instruments or executioners of Peggy's vengeance as
the well itself dignified by her name. It need not, therefore, be a
matter of surprise that when the appalling and fearful events of the
preceding night were bruited forth in the public thoroughfares upon
New-Year's morning--a season when news-carriers and gossips, old and
young, are more particularly prone to a vigilant exercise of their
talents and avocations--we say it need not be a source of either
suspicion or surprise that many of these conduit-pipes of
intelligence, even before the day was broad awake, did pour forth an
overwhelming flood of alarm and exaggeration. According to these
veracious lovers of the marvellous, shrieks were heard about the
requisite time, and in the precise direction where it must needs
follow that Isabel was just in the act of being whisked off by one of
Pegg's emissaries, and that ere now she was doubtless offered as one
of the septennial sacrifices to her revenge.

It was a brave and comely morning, and a brave sight it was to see old
and young go forth to the river on that blessed day. The crisp and icy
brink of the brawling Ribble was beset by groups of idle folk, some
anxiously looking out for symptoms or traces of the body, others
occupied with rakes and various implements for searching the unknown
regions beneath the turbid and angry waters. Beyond were the antlered
and hoary woods of Waddow, every bow laden with the snows of
yestereven, sparkling silently in the broad and level sweep of light,
pouring in one uninterrupted flood over the wide and chilly waste--a
wilderness of snow, a gay and gorgeous mantle glittering on the bosom
of death and desolation.

Gaffer Wiswall was there. The old man almost beside himself with
grief, heart-stricken with the blow, felt alone, a scathed trunk,
doomed to survive when the green verdure of his existence had
departed.

Wet and weary were the searchers, and their toil unremitting, but the
body was not found. The "Well," Peg O'Nelly's Well, was tried, with
the like result. Surely this was a visitation of more than ordinary
spite and malignity. Hitherto the bodies of the victims, with but few
exceptions, had been rendered back to their disconsolate survivors,
the revengeful ghost apparently satisfied with their extinction; but
it is now high time to make the attempt, if possible, to rid
themselves of her persecutions.

"Look here!" said one of the bystanders, pointing to the river's
margin; "there hath gone a horse, or it may be two, along these
slippery banks, but a few hours ago, and the track seems to come from
the river."

"Let us see to the other side," said another, "if there be a fellow to
it." And, sure enough, on the opposite bank, there were footmarks
corresponding thereto, as though one or more adventurous horsemen had
swam the swollen waters recently, a little higher up than the ford,
pursuing their slippery way by the very margin, along the woods, for
some distance, when their track was lost amid these deep and almost
pathless recesses.

"Mercy o' me," said one, "it is deep enough thereabouts to drown the
castle and hill to boot. Neither horse nor man could wade that
hurly-burly there last night, for the waters were out, and the footboy
from Waddow told me that nobody could even cross the hippin-stones at
eight o'clock. He came round by the bridge."

"But if the beasts could swim?" said another, of more knowledge and
shrewdness than the rest.

"Swim!--Go to!" said the small leathern-aproned personage whose
functions we have before adverted to at the bright and merry ingle of
old Wiswall; "neither man nor beast could have held breast against the
torrent."

This was a complete negation to the whole. Nevertheless something had
crossed, whether cloven-footed or not they were unable to distinguish,
inasmuch as the demon, or whatsoever it might be, had taken the
precaution to make its passage in a pair of horse-shoes. The
probability was, that Peggy had varied the usual mode of her
proceedings, and sent a messenger with a strong arm and a fiery steed
to seize her victim.

"We're none on us safe," cried one, "fro' this she div--div--Save us!
I'd like to ha' made a bad job on't."

"The bloody vixen is ne'er satisfied," said an old gossip, whose nose
and chin had been gradually getting into closer fellowship for at
least a long score of winters. "I'll hie me to Bet at the Alleys for a
charm that'll drive aw t' hobgoblins to the de'il again. When I waur a
wee lassie, the scummerin' dixies didn't use to go rampaging about
this gate. There was nowt to do, but off to t' priest, an' th' job
waur done. Now-a-days, what wi' new lights, doctrines, an' lollypops,
Anabaptists an' Presbyterians, they're too throng wranglin' wi' one
another to tak' care o' the poor sheep, which Satan is worrying and
hurrying like hey go mad, and not a soul to set the dog at him, nor a
callant to tak' him by t' horns, an' say 'Boh!'"

It seems "the good old times," even in those days, were objects of
regret, still clung to with fondness and delight--reversing the
distich; for--

     "Man never is, but always _has been_, blest!"

It is a principle in our very nature that we should look back with
yearnings to our youthful years, when all was fresh and joyous; when
our thoughts were in all the prime, the spring-tide of their
existence, and our emotions, young and jocund as ourselves, bubbled
forth fresh and clear as the mountain-spring from its source. The
change is not in the objects around us; it is in ourselves. Looking
through the medium of our own jaded and enervated feelings, we fancy
all things have the same worn-out aspect, and contrast the present
with the freshness and vigour of our former existence.

Turn we now to the former inmates at Waddow, an old-fashioned building
in that old-fashioned age, now re-edified and re-built. It is
beautifully situated on a slope on the Yorkshire side of the Ribble,
beyond the "hippin-stones" we have named.

In a low, dark chamber, panelled with dingy oak, into which the
morning sun burst joyously, its garish brightness ill assorting with
the solemnity and even sadness of the scene, there sat an elderly
matron, owner and occupier of the place. The casements were so beset
with untrimmed branches and decayed tendrils that her form looked dim
and almost impalpable, seen through the mist, the vagrant motes
revelling in the sunbeams. It seemed some ghostly, some attenuated
shape, that sat, still and stately, in that gloomy chamber. Before her
stood a female domestic, antique and venerable as herself, and the
conversation was carried on scarcely above a whisper, as though
silence brooded over that mansion, rarely disturbed by voice or
footstep.

"I heed not these idle tales. A hammer and a willing hand will pound
yon bugbear into dirt," said the dame. "If there be none else, I'll
try what the hand of a feeble but resolute woman can do. Yon
Dagon--yon graven image of papistrie, which scares ye so, shall be
broken for the very beasts to trample on."

"But the dins last night were"----

"Tell me not of such folly. When yonder senseless thing is gone, you
shall be quiet, maybe, if the rats will let ye. Send Jock hither, and
let Jim the mason be sent for, and the great iron mallet. Quick,
Mause, at my bidding. We shall see whether or not yonder grim idol
will dare to stir after it is cast down."

With a look of surprise, and even horror, at this impious intent, did
the ancient housekeeper move slowly forth to execute her commands.

The innocent cause of all this broil was a certain stone figure,
rudely sculptured, which, time out of mind, had been the disturbing
but undisturbed inmate of an obscure corner in the cellar beneath an
uninhabited wing of the mansion at Waddow. Superstition had invested
this rude misshapen relic with peculiar terrors; and the generation
having passed to whom its origin was known, from some cause or another
it became associated with Peggy's disaster, who, as it was currently
believed, either took possession of this ugly image, or else employed
it as a kind of spy or bugbear to annoy the inhabitants of the house
where she had been so cruelly treated. There did certainly appear some
connection between Peggy's freaks and this uncouth specimen of
primitive workmanship. Though bearing evident marks of some rude
effigy, the spoliation of a religious house at some reforming, or, in
other words, plundering, era--the ideal similitude probably of a
Romish saint--yet, whenever Peggy's emissaries were abroad and a
victim was to be immolated, this disorderly cast-out from the calendar
was particularly restless; not that any really authenticate, visible
cases were extant of these unidol-like propensities to locomotion, but
noises and disturbances were heard for all the world like the uncouth
and awkward gambols of such an ugly thing; at least, those who were
wiser than their neighbours, and well skilled in iconoclastics, did
stoutly aver that they had heard it "clump, clump, clump," precisely
like the jumping and capering of such a misshapen, ill-conditioned
effigy, when inclined to be particularly merry and jocose. Now this
could not be gainsaid, and consequently the innocent and mutilated
relic, once looked upon as the genius or tutelary guardian of the
house, was unhesitatingly assigned to the evil domination of Peggy. It
might be that the rancour she displayed was partly in consequence of
an adequate retribution having failed to overtake her betrayer, and
the family, then resident at Waddow, not having dealt out to him the
just punishment of his deserts. Thus had she been permitted to pervert
the proper influences and benevolent operations of this mystic
disturber to her own mischievous propensities; and thenceforth a
malignant spirit troubled the house, heretofore guarded by a saint of
true Catholic dignity and stolidity.

But it seemed the time was now come when these unholy doings were to
be put an end to. The present owner of Waddow, tired, as we have seen,
of such ridiculous alarms, and the terrors of her domestics, and
wishful to do away with the evil report and scandal sustained thereby,
was now resolved to dissipate these idle fears, to show at once their
folly and futility.

"Well, Mause, the old lady will have her way, I know; but if she
doesn't rue her cantrips, my name's not Jock; that's all." And here
the speaker stamped with a heavy clouted foot upon the kitchen-hearth,
whither the lady's message had been conveyed.

"Thou maun get thy hammer and pick, lad, and soon, too, I tell thee,"
said Mause.

"I'll do aught 'at she asks me; but--but--to run like some goupin'
warlock to the whame o' destruction, wi' one's een open, it's what no
Christian will do that hasn' forsworn his baptism."

"Maun I tell her so?" inquired Mause, with a significant emphasis.

"Naw, naw; no' just soa; but thee maun--wait a bit; let's see." Here
he began to beat about anxiously for an excuse, which did not present
itself with the same facility as the expression of his unwillingness
to undertake the job. "Eh me!--Jock Tattersall--herd and bailiff now
these twenty years--that I should be brought to sich a pass; an' aw'
through these plaguy women. Well, well; but if a good stiff lie,
Mause, would sarve my turn, I wouldna' care so mich. Hears to me, owd
wench; tell mistress I'm gone wi' t' kye to water, Peg's Well being
frozen up."

"Tell her thysel'," said the indignant Mause; "an' then one lie may
sarve. I'll no go to the dule upo' thy shouthers!"

"There's Bob i' the yard yon; winnat he do for her instead?"

"I tell thee what, Jock," said Mause, "mistress'll ha't done in her
own way; so we may as weel budge sooner as later. But let's a' go
together, an' I warrant our dame will be the first, an' she'll stand
i' th' gap if aught should happen. Besides, courage comes wi' company,
thee knows, an' there's a round dozen of us."

This proposal, in the present exigency, seemed the best that could be
adopted. The whole household were full of misgivings about the result;
yet, sheltered under the authority of their mistress, and themselves
not consenting to the deed, they trusted Peggy would consider it in
the same light, and if she should break forth upon them, doubtless she
would possess sufficient discrimination to know the real aggressor,
and wreak her vengeance where it was due.

Mause was despatched to their mistress, who, after a short period,
starched and pinned, her aspect as stiff and unyielding as her
disposition, consented to take the lead, and shame the unwillingness
and cowardice of her domestics. Immediately behind walked, or rather
lagged, the executioner with his weapons, looking more like unto one
that was going to execution. Mause came next, then the remainder of
the household, not one of them disposed to quarrel about precedency.
The room to which they were tending was low, dark, and unfurnished,
save with the _exuviæ_ of other parts of the premises. Rats and lumber
were its chief occupants. A few steps accomplished the descent, the
chamber having less of the nature of cellarage than that of a dairy,
which, in former times, and until a more eligible situation had been
found, was the general use and appropriation to which it was allotted.
Seldom visited, Peggy, or rather her mysterious representative,
reigned here without molestation or control. At times, as we have
before seen, the image, awaking from its stony slumber, played the
very shame amongst the chattels in the lumber-room.

Its activity and exertions against "social order" were now destined to
be forever ended. Irrevocable was the doom, and the lowering aspect of
the proud dame of Waddow, as the door unclosed, and a faint light from
the loophole opposite revealed her enemy in all the mockery of
repose--grim, erect, and undisturbed--showed the inflexibility of her
purpose.

"Now to work," said she; "come hither with thy torch, Hal; why dost
loiter so? and where's Jock and the mason with the tools?" But Jock
and his compeer were loth to come, and the lady's voice grew louder
and more peremptory. "Shame on ye, to be cow'd thus by a graven
image--a popish idol--a bit of chiselled stone. Out upon it, that
nature should have put women's hearts into men's bosoms. Nay, 'tis
worse than womanhood, for they have the stouter stomach for the
enterprise, I trow. Bring hither the hammer, I say. Doth the foul
apprehension of a trumpet terrify you that has been dead and rotten
these hundred years?"

Thus did the sturdy dame strive to quell their fears and stimulate
them to the attack. Yet they lingered, and were loth to begin. Nay,
one whispered to his fellow that the image grinned and frowned
horribly during this harangue, and made mouths at the trenchant dame.

"It's no use," said Jock; "I darena strike!"

"Thou craven kestril!" said she, angrily; "and what should ail thee to
shy at the quarry? Give me the weapon." And with that she seized the
hammer as though rendered furious by the pusillanimity of her
attendants. The whole group were paralysed with terror. Not a word was
spoken; scarcely a breath was drawn; every eye was riveted upon her,
without the power of withdrawal. They saw her approach, as though
endowed with tenfold strength, and lending the whole weight of her
long, thin arm to the blow, with a right good will added thereto, she
dealt a powerful stroke at the head of this dumb idol. A headless
trunk tumbled on the floor; but with that there came a shriek, so
wild, woeful, and appalling, that the cowardly attendants fled. The
torch-bearer threw down the light, and the whole of the domestics,
with dismal outcries, rushed pell-mell through the narrow passage;
fearful, inconceivable horror urging their flight. The dame was left
alone, but what she saw or heard was never divulged; an altered woman
she looked when she came forth, like one of the old still portraits
that had slipped down from its frame in the gloomy oaken chamber. She
spoke not again even to Mause that day, but seemed as if bent on some
deep and solemn exercise. Abstracted from every outward impression,
she sat, the image of some ancient sibyl communing with the inward,
unseen pageantries of thought--the hidden workings of a power she
could not control. Towards night she seemed more accessible. Naturally
austere and taciturn, she rarely spoke but when it was absolutely
necessary; yet now there was a softened, a subdued tone of feeling,
and even a bland expression in her address, which for years had not
been felt. Some bitter, some heart-searing disappointment, had dried
up the sources of feeling, and left her spirit withered, without
nurture, and without verdure, without so much as a green spot in the
untrodden wilderness of her existence.

"I've seen him, Mause," said she, as though half in earnest,
half-musing, when the faithful domestic came to warn her mistress that
the time of rest was at hand.

"Seen who, my lady?"

"Bless thee, silly wench, I've seen William. Nay, nurse, it was thy
boy, as thou didst use to call him; and as sure as these aged eyes
have wept themselves dry at his departure and decease, I saw his
vision this morning i' the image-chamber."

"Eh! the good saints guide and preserve us," said the aged menial,
crossing herself very devoutly, more by way of conjuration or
counter-charm, than from any proper feeling of reverence or faith in
the mystic symbol of our redemption. "There's death at the door, then,
sure enough," she continued; "aw this gramarye and foretokening isn't
for nought; so who's to pay for it?"

"When the light was gone," said the dame, as though scarcely heeding
the interpolation of her domestic, "I stayed a brief space; but what
passed"----Here she raised her dim and hollow eyes for a moment; "no
matter now, Mause; suffice it that my nephew, who was drown'd seven
long years ago, stood before me!"

"But young master, Heaven rest his soul, what can he want from yonder
bright mansion of glory, where you always said he was gone," replied
Mause, "that he should come again to this pitiful world? Eh me! that
Peggy should ha' claw'd so fair a victim."

"Peace, Mause; never would I believe it. Nor even now will I, for one
moment, apprehend that Heaven would put any of its creatures, for whom
its care is continually going forth, into the power of a base and
vindictive harlot--that the All-merciful and All-good would render up
an innocent victim to her malice. Better worship Moloch and the
devils, unto whom our forefathers did offer a vain and cruel
sacrifice. No, Mause! believe me, our faith forbids. The light of
revealed truth shows no such misrule in the government of the Deity.
The powers of evil are as much the instruments of good in His hand as
the very attributes of His own perfections. And yet, strange enough
that my devoted William should appear at the very time, and in the
very place, when the destruction of the ugly image was accomplished,
as though the charm were then broken, and he were set free! I am
distressed, bewildered, Mause; the links are too strong to be undone
by my feeble and unassisted reason. That he was reckoned by common
report as a doomed one to that vindictive ghost, I know; and that the
mutilation of yonder image should apparently have called forth his
very substance from the dark womb where he had lain, transcends my
imperfect knowledge. Beshrew me, but I could readily become tinctured
with the prevailing belief, did not my firm hold on the goodness and
the omnipotence of the great Ruler of all sustain my faith and forbid
my distrust."

"I know not what wiser heads may think; but if I'd seen his wraith
rising fro' the image, I should ha' thought--what I do yet--and
so"----

"Tarry with me through the night, Mause. This vision haunts me
strangely, and I do feel more heavy and debilitate than I have been
wont."

Whether the shock was too great or too sudden for a frame so stubborn
and unyielding, we know not; but that the firmest often feel more
intensely the blows and disasters which others, by yielding to them,
do evade, needeth not that we set forth, inasmuch as it is too plain
and demonstrative to require illustration. On that same night, Mause,
awakening from a short and broken slumber, looked on her mistress, and
lo, she was a corpse!

This event, according to the popular belief, would doubtless add
another to the list of Peggy's victims, and was looked upon as a
terrible token from the demon against all who should hereafter have
the temerity or presumption to interfere with her proceedings.

The following day it was noised abroad, and the survivors were mindful
to have the entrance to this fearful chamber walled up, and thus
prevent any further mischief or interference.

Towards eventide, or ere the lights were renewed in the death-chamber,
there came a gentle knock at the hall-door. An aged domestic answered
the summons; but with a scream, she fled as from the face of an enemy.
A footstep was heard in the hall. Slowly it ascended the stairs. They
creaked and groaned, every step seeming to strike with a cold shudder
to the heart. They verily thought that the house was beset by a whole
squadron of infernals, who had sent a messenger for the body of their
mistress. The tramp of the mysterious visitor was heard in the
death-chamber. Moans and bewailings were distinctly audible; and
Mause, who was in the room, came down with a face colourless and wan,
as though she had seen a ghost. She could not articulate, save one
harrowing word--

"William!" she cried, and pointed upwards. Seven years ago had he been
drowned, according to general belief, one fearful night, in crossing
the river by Bromiley or Brunckerley hippin-stones. Nephew and
heir-presumptive to the lady of Waddow, he had left his home that
evening writhing under her malediction; for he had in an evil hour, as
she thought, formed a base-born attachment to an orphan living with
Gaffer Wiswall, and generally looked upon as his daughter. It was this
curse which clave like a band of iron about the breast of the proud
dame of Waddow; for, in the morning light, when there came news to the
hall that he had been seen swept down by the ravening flood--perishing
without hope of succour--she sat as though stupefied, without a murmur
or a tear, and her stricken heart knew not this world's gladness
again. Solitary and friendless, this fair creation seemed blotted out,
and she became fretful and morose. All her earthly hopes were centred
in this boy, the offspring of a sister, and they were for ever gone!
Mause only had the privilege of addressing her without a special
interrogation. The appearance, or it might be, the apparition of her
beloved nephew, seemed again to open the sluices of feeling and
affection; to soften and subdue the harshness that encrusted her
disposition; but it was only the forerunner of an eternal change--the
herald of that inexorable tyrant, Death!

Darkness was fast gathering about them; but the whole household were
huddled together in the kitchen, none daring to venture forth to their
occupations. A long hour it seemed, while every moment they were
expecting some further visitation. The fire was nigh extinguished, for
who durst fetch the billet from the stack? The conversation, if such
might be called the brief and scanty form of their communications, was
kept up in a sort of tremulous whisper, every one being frightened at
the sound of his own voice. How long this state of things might have
lasted we know not, inasmuch as the terrible footsteps were again
heard upon the stairs--the same slow and solemn tread. They heard its
descent into the hall. It became louder, and the fearful vision was
evidently approaching. The sound was now in the narrow passage close
to them. The next moment a form was presented to their view, carrying
a taper, and recognised by the major part of the group; it being the
very semblance of their deceased "young master," as he was generally
called, changed, it was true, but still sufficiently like him, when
living, to be distinguished from any other. One loud cry announced
their discovery of the phantom.

"Why tarry here?" said the intruder. "Yonder corse hath need of the
death lights;" and with that he disappeared. Yet, however needful it
was that the usual offices should be rendered to the departed, there
was no one bold enough to perform the duty. Nevertheless the lights
were kindled by some invisible hand in the lady's chamber that night;
and, by whomsoever the office was fulfilled, the corpse was not
without a watcher, and a faithful one, till daylight came softly on
the couch, driving away the darkness and the apprehensions it
excited.

It was past midnight ere the domestics retired to rest, or rather to
their chambers; so fearful were they of another visit that, by a
little care and management, they contrived so that none should be left
alone till morning arose before them, bright and cheerful,
dissipating, in some measure, their former terrors.

Softly and cheerily broke that morning sun upon the frosty and
embossed panes of Gaffer Wiswall's dwelling; but the light brought no
cheer, no solace unto him. The old man was now a withered, a sapless
trunk, stripped of the green verdure which had lately bloomed on its
hoary summit. His daughter, as he loved to call her--and he had almost
cheated himself into the belief--was ravished from him, and the staff
of his declining years had perished.

He was sitting moody and disconsolate, and, like the bereaved mother
in Israel, "refusing to be comforted," when a stranger entered, and,
without speaking, seated himself by the broad ingle, opposite the
goodman, who was looking listlessly forth into the blazing faggots,
but without either aim or discernment. The intruder was wrapped in a
dark military cloak; his hat drawn warily over his forehead,
concealing his features beneath the broad and almost impervious
shadow.

Wiswall awoke from his study, and with a curious eye, seemed silently
to ask the will and business of the stranger; but he spoke not. The
old man, surveying his guest more minutely, inquired--

"Be ye far ridden this morning, Sir Cavalier?"

"Not farther than one might stride ere breakfast," was the reply, but
in a low, and, it seemed, a hasty tone, as though impatient of being
questioned, and preferring to remain unnoticed.

The tapster's instincts were still in operation. With the true spirit
of his calling, he inquired--

"From the army, sir?"

"Ay, from the Grand Turk, an' thou wilt."

"The king, they say, hath a fairer word for the dames than for those
stout hearts who won him his crown," said the victualler, seemingly
conversant in the common rumours that were abroad. "The sparks about
court," continued he, "do ruffle it bravely among the buxom dames and
their beauteous"----Here his daughter's bright image came suddenly
upon his recollection, and the old man wept.

"Why dost weep, old man?" inquired his guest.

"Alas! I had a daughter once, a match fit for the bravest galliard
that sun e'er shown upon. She was the wonder and dismay of all that
looked on her. She loved a soldier dearly, and her mouth would purse
and play, and her eye would glisten at a cap and plume; and yet the
veriest prude in all Christendom was not more discreet."

"Mayhap her sweetheart was a soldier, and abroad at the wars; so that
these were but the outgoings of hope and expectation for his return."

"Her sweetheart, marry! she had once--but--he was ta'en from us. The
young heir of Waddow, as we always called him, at the hall yonder, was
her true love; but one night, seven long bitter years back, the flood
swept him away: we never saw him again, but Isabel's hope was for ever
blighted!"

"And the body--was it not found?"

"Nay, for the current was swift, and bore him hence. The demon--she
hath ta'en mine, as the next dainty morsel for her ravening appetite."

"'Tis seven years since I first sought my fortune as a soldier. I
served my king faithfully. With him I went into exile. He hath
returned, and here I come to redeem my pledge."

The stranger threw off his cloak, and the astonished and almost
incredulous tapster beheld the nephew of the dame now heir to the
inheritance of Waddow.

"Though swept rapidly down the stream on that dreadful night when I
fled, heedlessly fled, from the denunciations of her who had supplied
a parent's place from my infancy, I escaped, almost by a miracle, at a
considerable distance below the ford, where I attempted to cross; yet,
knowing her inflexible disposition--for she had threatened to leave me
penniless--I resolved to seek my fortune as a soldier until I should
be enabled to wed with better prospects for the future. I contrived to
assure Isabel of my safety, but I strictly enjoined secrecy. I was not
without hope that one day or another, appearing as though I had risen
from the dead, I should win a reluctant consent, it might be, to our
union. A long exile was the only recompense for my loyalty. The
restoration hath rendered me back, and I have redeemed my pledge. At
my urgent entreaty the other night, the first of my return, she
accompanied me, and we have plighted our vows at the same altar. I
took her privily to my former home. Knowing a secret entrance to the
chamber where the image is deposited, I concealed her there, safe, as
I thought, from molestation, until I had won the consent of her who
was my only friend. To my horror and surprise she discovered me there,
and the screams of Isabel had nigh betrayed her presence; but it was
evident she thought the grave had given back its dead. I could not
then undeceive her, and when I returned she was a corpse! Dying
without will, I am now the lawful heir to yon good inheritance, and
Isabel is the proud mistress of Waddow!"

This unlooked-for intelligence was almost overwhelming; the old man's
frame seemed hardly able to bear the disclosure. He wept like a child;
but the overflow of his joy relieved the oppressed heart, full even to
bursting.

Yet Peggy was not without a sacrifice, according to popular belief,
which sacrifice was offered in the person of the late defunct at
Waddow. Indeed, according to some, it were an act of unbelief and
impiety to suppose any other, and only to be equalled by that of the
attack made by this resolute dame upon Peggy's representative--an
outrage she so dearly atoned for by her own death.

The headless trunk was, however, removed some years afterwards to its
present site by the brink of "the Well," where, having fallen upon
evil and unbelieving times, it is desecrated to the profane uses of a
resting-place for cans unto the merry maidens who come thither at
morning and eventide to draw water.

Many are the victims now recorded to the capricious malevolence of
Peggy; and though deprived of her domicile at Waddow, still her
visitations are not the less frequent; and whether a stray kitten or
an unfortunate chick be the sufferer, the same is deemed a victim and
a sacrifice to the wrath of Peggy's _manes_.


[Illustration: ULVERSTONE SANDS.
_Engraved by Edw^d Finden._
_Drawn by G. Pickering._]




THE SANDS.

     "It is the shout of the coming foe,
       Ride, ride for thy life, Sir John;
     But still the waters deeper grew,
       The wild sea-foam rushed on."

     --_Old Ballad._

     The following account of an excursion over the sands, from Mr
     Baines's _Companion to the Lakes_, will give a very accurate
     idea of the mode in which travellers accomplish this
     interesting, though sometimes perilous journey, over the bare
     sands of the Bay of Morecambe. Taking a horse at Lancaster, and
     setting out at the same time with the "Over-sands" coach, he
     says--

     "We arrived at Hest Bank, on the shores of Morecambe Bay, three
     miles and a half from Lancaster, about five in the afternoon.
     Here a little caravan was collected, waiting the proper time to
     cross the trackless sands left bare by the receding tide. I soon
     saw two persons set out in a gig, and, following them, I found
     that one of them was the guide appointed to conduct travellers,
     and the other a servant who was driving his master's gig to the
     Cartmel shore, and was to return with the horse the same
     evening. He had of course no time to lose, and had begun his
     journey at the earliest possible hour. We found the sands firm
     and level, except the slight wrinkles produced by the ripple of
     the waves; but they were still wet, having only just been left
     by the sea. The guide appeared to drive with caution, and in no
     place went farther than a mile from land. We had a good deal of
     conversation, and I found him intelligent and communicative. His
     name is Thomas Wilkinson. He is a tall, athletic man, past the
     middle age, and bears marks of the rough weather he has been
     exposed to in discharging the duties of his post during the
     winter months. In stormy, and more especially in foggy weather,
     those duties must be arduous and anxious. It is his business to
     station himself at the place where the river Keer runs over the
     sands to the sea, which is about three miles from Hest Bank, and
     to show travellers where they may pass with safety. The bed of
     the river is liable to frequent changes, and a fresh of water
     after rain may, in a very short time, convert a fordable place
     into a quicksand. When we came to the river, he got out of the
     gig, and waded over to ascertain the firmness of the bottom, the
     water being about knee-deep. Having escorted us a little
     farther, till we saw the guide for the Kent at a distance, and
     having pointed out the line we should keep, he left us to
     return to his proper post. We gave him, as is usual, a few
     pence; for though he is appointed by government, his salary is
     only £10 a-year, and he is, of course, chiefly dependent on what
     he receives from travellers.

     "These sands are called the Lancaster Sands, and the guide said
     that they were at present eleven miles over, from Hest Bank to
     Kent's Bank, but that he had known them when he could pass
     directly over in not more than seven miles. The tide forms a
     channel in the sand, which has been gradually coming nearer the
     shore for some years past, and has obliged persons crossing to
     take a longer circuit. It was now the spring-tide, and the
     sands we were travelling upon would, at high-water, be
     seventeen feet below the surface of the sea.

     "The day was exceedingly fine, and the prospects, in crossing
     over the sands, were splendid. The whole coast of the bay, from
     Peel Castle round to the shore beyond Lancaster; the stern
     crags of Warton and Arnside Fells, on the right; farther
     eastward, the well-known form of Ingleborough, whose broad
     head, not apparently of very great elevation, is still visible
     from every considerable hill in Lancashire, Westmoreland, and
     Cumberland, and seems to lift itself in serene and unchanging
     majesty over the neighbouring hills; the broken and picturesque
     shores of the Kent, beautifully wooded, and forming a vista to
     the eye;--the fells of Cartmel, rising in the mid-distance,
     their sides hung with forests, and several ornamental parks
     lying round their base; and above, and far beyond them, the
     noble chain of the Westmoreland and Cumberland mountains, whose
     lofty summits, clothed with light, formed a sublime barrier
     stretching along the northern horizon. Such are the principal
     features of a prospect which is not the less beautiful because
     it rises from the level expanse of the sands, and which was to
     me the more interesting from the novelty of my own situation.

     "The Ulverstone coach, several gigs, and some persons on
     horseback, had followed us at a little distance, keeping the
     track left by the wheels of the vehicle which conveyed the
     guide. When Wilkinson left us, we rode on two or three miles
     before we came to the channel of the Kent, and there we found a
     guide on horseback, who had just forded the river from the
     opposite side. The guide stationed here has long gone by the
     name of the Carter, and it is difficult to say whether the
     office has been so called from the family in which it has been
     vested, or the family have assumed their official title as a
     cognomen; but it is certain that for many ages the duties of
     guide over the Lancaster Sands have been performed by a family
     named Carter, and have descended from father to son. The
     present possessor of the office is named James Carter, and has
     lately succeeded his father. He told me that some persons said
     the office of guide had been in his family five hundred years,
     but he did not know how anybody could tell that; and all he
     could say was, that they had held it 'for many grandfathers
     back, longer than anyone knew.' The salary was only £10 a-year
     till his father's time, when it was raised to £20; yet I should
     suppose that the office is a rather productive one, as the family
     have accumulated some property.

     "The Carter seems a cheerful and pleasant fellow. He wore a
     rough greatcoat and a pair of jack-boots, and was mounted on a
     good horse, which appeared to have been up to the ribs in the
     water. When we came to him, he recommended us to wait till the
     arrival of the coach, which was nearly a mile distant, as the
     tide would then be gone farther out. I asked if there had been
     any accidents in this place lately; to which he replied, that
     some boys were drowned two years ago, having attempted to pass
     when the tide was up, in defiance of warnings; but that, with
     that exception, there had not been any accidents for a
     considerable time. When the coach came up we took the water in
     procession, and crossed two channels, in one of which the water
     was up to the horses' bellies. The coach passed over without
     the least difficulty, being drawn by fine tall horses. Arrived
     at the other side, the man of high genealogy received our
     gratuities, and we rode on, keeping close to a line of rods
     which have been planted in the sand to indicate the track, and
     which have remained there for many months. We shortly met the
     coach from Ulverstone, and several other vehicles, and as we
     proceeded the views of the estuary and the distant mountains
     became still more beautiful and interesting. Three or four
     miles brought us to Kent's Bank, on the Cartmel shore. I infer
     that the river is not fordable for any long period, as the
     guide told the servant whom I have mentioned that he must
     return in an hour if he wished to pass over again that evening.

     "The peninsula formed by the Kent and the Leven is three miles
     over; and, after passing it, I came to the latter river, the
     sands of which are of the same breadth, and must be crossed to
     reach Ulverstone."

     These sands are reckoned more dangerous than the former, as the
     channel of the river is frequently shifted.

     It is safest to cross at spring-tides; the water then is more
     completely drained out, and the force of the tide sweeps the
     bottom clean from mud and sediment.

     Here another guide on horseback escorts travellers over.

     The views up the Leven are fully as picturesque, though not
     quite so extensive, as those at the mouth of the Kent. A bold,
     woody promontory, seen in our engraving, projects into the
     river at the mouth of the ford, narrowing it to less than half
     the breadth. The two ridges of the Cartmel and Ulverstone
     Fells, the former clothed with wood and the latter with
     verdure, run up inland, and carry the eye back to the
     mountains, round the head of Coniston Water and Windermere. On
     the Ulverstone shore, to the left of the town, are the grounds
     of Conishead Priory, which adorn with their rich woods and
     lawns the gently-waving side of the hill; and the mouth of the
     Leven opens out to the Bay of Morecambe, the shores of which
     are visible to a great extent.


The sands forming the Bay of Morecambe, covered by the sea at high
water, are crossed every day by travellers whose time or inclination
leads them to choose this route rather than one more circuitous, and
nearly thrice the distance, inland. Yet the sands are by no means
without danger, especially to the uncautious or unwary. Scarcely a
year passes without some loss of lives, generally owing to the
obstinacy or foolhardiness of the victims. Guides are appointed to
conduct strangers across this trackless waste, whose duty it is to
examine daily, on the receding of the tide, the several routes by
which passengers may accomplish their journey. The places where danger
is to be apprehended are the fordings of the several rivers or
watercourses, which, even when the sands are bare, still pour forth a
considerable stream to the ocean. These fords