Legends of Lancashire 1

Legends of Lancashire 1

Legends of Lancashire

 

Author: Peter Landreth

 

CONTENTS. PAGE.

 

The Battle of Wigan Lane 6

 

The Witches of Furness 69

 

The Devil’s Wall 91

 

The Prophetess and the Rebel 155

 

The Spectre Coach 229

 

The Cross and Lady Mabel 243

 

Lancaster Castle 303

 

 

 

 

PREFACE.

 

 

A _Preface_ before an Introduction seems sufficiently impudent.

 

It is like popping our _face_ in at the door for a short

reconnoitre, before we introduce ourselves. Be it so!

 

The Chronicler of the “Legends of Lancashire” has no apology to

offer, except to his palsied hands, for taking up the pen. He is

not a Paul Pry, appearing before the public, with his perpetual

non-intrusion plea. He imagines that his motives for writing the

Legends are distinctly enough stated in the following Prospectus.

 

“Lancashire, of all Counties in England, is the most interesting

to the antiquarian. Its rivers once flowed with blood;--its houses

were towers, castles, or abbeys;--its men were heroes;--its ladies

were witches! But now, what a change! The county is commercial.

Where the trumpet of war called Arthur to his victories, the noisy

engine is roaring. The fortresses have become factories; the

abbeys--workhouses;--the heroes--clerks, merchants, and bankers.

The ladies, indeed, profess to be what they were in former ages,

and still call themselves ‘Lancashire Witches.’ It may not be

safe for the ‘Chronicler,’ aged as he is, to speak lightly of

the power of their spells; they may _yet_ be of a deadly nature

to him--for witches love revenge. Report says, however, that

they cannot use the broomstick on which their ancestresses were

accustomed to perform their nightly wanderings in the air; but the

Chronicler is not so ungallant as to conclude, that it is because

they have broken it over their husbands’ shoulders. The witches

of a former age were accustomed, with awful incantations, to mix

their drugs:--pooh!--those of this age infuse a cup of comfortable

tea--but surely not to chatter scandal over it.

 

“Alas! the age of chivalry and romance is gone from Lancashire. Its

bones are in the tomb of history;--but some are too gay for such

_grave_ meditations. Legends alone can bring it to view, amidst all

the light of poetry; and their wand of enchantment may call into

existence a creation, beautiful yet real.

 

“The Chronicler of the forthcoming ‘Legends’ undertakes to present

his readers with a series upon individuals, events, and places,

all connected with a former age. Charles, with cavaliers of every

shade:--roundheads, from Cromwell down to his groom:--the old

tower, wherein were gallant soldiers and fair ladies:--the field

of battle fiercely contested;--all shall appear, described, he

flatters himself, with accuracy and faithfulness. He shall never

sacrifice historical facts, or characters, to fiction. History,

accurately sketched, he believes to be the truest and most

beautiful romance, and there is enough of that in Lancashire to

dispense with false colour and glitter. Places, dates, and names,

as well as characters, shall be accurate.

 

“He begs leave to say one word of himself. He is an old man, and

this he conceives to be an advantage. The torch of tradition is

most becoming in a trembling hand; and its light falls with a

strange harmony over the white locks of the Chronicler, while he

totters on through the regions of the past, long forgotten; and of

which he himself seems to be the genius.”

 

He candidly confesses that he has not yet fulfilled his promise.

That could not be done in the first volume. But the next shall be

a continuous series of Legends connected with the civil wars, and

illustrative of the characters of the opposing leaders. And in

these he shall avoid all discussions about the merits of Roundhead

and Cavalier. Vandyke might have given immortality to the features

of Cromwell, as well as those of Charles, without deciding on the

questions--ought Charles to have been beheaded, and was Cromwell

an usurper. So the Chronicler undertakes, even in his portraits

of leading characters, and in his sketches of events, to steer

clear of party spirit. Still the pledge does not prohibit him

from weighing the military and other talents of their respective

leaders. Should he say that Cromwell, beyond all comparison as a

man of genius and a soldier, was above Charles, it must not be

inferred that he is a Roundhead. Or should he paint Charles as a

more handsome and attractive man than Noll with the wart, he must

not be called a Cavalier.

 

The Chronicler had no such design as has been attributed to him,

of “mercilessly blackening the character of Cromwell.” The critic,

evidently, had been gazing long upon some very sunny portrait

of the Protector, and, therefore, when he came to a more sober

one, his eyes being still dazzled, naturally thought it dark and

“black.” Besides, really the man of the newspaper must not get

deadly angry at the hint that his eyes are none of the best.

 

That the Chronicler is free from any such design may be seen by the

high character which Cromwell sustains in the Legend of “Lancaster

Castle.” If it be thought that there is any contradiction between

that and the “Battle of Wigan Lane,” it is sufficient to reply,

that the Cromwell of 1644, and the Cromwell of 1651 are very

different personages indeed. When first he came into notice, none

of his enemies could suspect the sincerity of his profession of

republican principles, but before the above-mentioned battle, even

some of his friends had abandoned their confidence in his honesty.

 

There now only remains to say a few words regarding the contents

of this volume. The Legends are all founded on authenticated

traditions, and at the end of the work the documents shall be

given. It is singular that the most improbable of them--the

“Devil’s Wall,” although a most perfect tradition in all its parts,

has never been known beyond the immediate vicinity of Ormskirk. The

Legend founded upon it follows the tradition without one deviation

except in the name and occupation of Gideon Chiselwig. The wall may

still be seen. The “Witches of Furness,” are the only two ladies

whom the Chronicler knows, that are unlike to the real Lancashire

Witches, and yet, the Legend is true. The neighbourhood of Furness,

it may be supposed, could produce a more noble kind of Witchcraft,

than the far-famed Pendle-hill. The latter abounds with nothing

but witches, the down upon whose lips might have formed the brooms

on which they careered through the air, when they had failed to

throw their bridle over some sleepy wretch, and transform him into

a horse. But a Legend of this kind of witchcraft shall afterwards

be given. The “Cross and Lady Mabel,” although founded on the same

genealogical account as Mr. Roby’s “Mab’s Cross,” is essentially

and altogether different in its details; and besides, gives the

tradition of the erection of the cross, which has, hitherto,

been unknown. And here the Chronicler returns his thanks to that

gentleman for the pleasure which his “Traditions of Lancashire”

have afforded him. Lancashire abounds with so many traditions, that

five or six Chroniclers might each glean a few volumes. This forms

the only excuse for following Mr. Roby.

 

To the County Press the best thanks of the Chronicler are due, for

the high approbation they have bestowed on an anonymous work.

 

 

 

 

INTRODUCTION.

 

 

The Chronicler of the forthcoming “Legends” is, perhaps, more of

an Antiquary, in disposition and habits, than many whose names

are well known in Societies, which have been formed for objects

of interesting research. He inhabits an old castellated building,

which was both a fortress and a mansion, in some former age. Time

has passed roughly over its proportions: he has even broken the

dial, which marked out his own flight. Still, many relics of the

past are left: and limbs of warlike images, and rude inscriptions,

partly effaced, may yet be seen. The chisel, or even the plaster

of modern art, have never approached its walls. No flower has

sought shelter amidst its mantling ivy:--shelter, it should never

find,--it would instantly be rooted up. Within, no partitions have

been erected, to silence the sacred echoes of the spacious hall.

The spirits of sound, which tenant the dwelling, would take flight

upon the slightest change. No carpet of richest manufacture, has

dared to cover the silent footsteps of the fair and the brave,

who once to the minstrel’s harp, and the sigh of love, trod many

a gallant measure in the dance. The windows on the terrace, when

opened, receive no sound from the distance, save the old echo

of the lover’s lute, greeting the maiden as she listened in her

chamber, with fluttering heart, to the fond tale. When seen from

without, her handkerchief seems to float--the signal of peace and

hope. To the Chronicler, there is no silence in these deserted

scenes. From him, the sixteenth century has never departed. The

echoes are still of merriment and war. Knights and squires,

successful in wooing or fighting, move before him. He mingles,

with the delight of reality, in the banquet and the dance--and

then rushes to the siege and the battle. Could the reader obtain

admission to his apartment he would, as by a flash of lightning,

be favoured with a glance--it might be transient to his eye, but

it could never be darkened in his mind--of olden times. He would

converse with one, who has never lived for modern change, and in

whose white locks, and obsolete dress, he should behold a living

specimen of a former century, as if it had literally descended from

that time. The Chronicler must be excused for speaking of himself.