{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_39712/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_39712","id":"gutenberg_39712","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39712","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Fairy tales -- England -- Lancashire","Folklore -- England -- Lancashire","Goblins -- England -- Lancashire"],"text":"Produced by sp1nd, Mebyon, Matthew Wheaton and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Archive)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    GOBLIN TALES OF LANCASHIRE.\n\n    BY JAMES BOWKER, F.R.G.S.I.\n\n\n    AUTHOR OF 'PHOEBE CAREW, A NORTH COAST STORY,'\n    'NAT HOLT'S FORTUNE,' ETC.\n\n    _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM DRAWINGS\n    BY THE LATE CHARLES GLIDDON._\n\n    'Of Faery-land yet if he more enquire,\n    By certain signes here sett in sondrie place,\n    He may itt fynd.'\n\n    SPENSER\n\n    'La veuve du meme Plogojovits declara que son mari depuis\n    sa mort lui etait venu demander des souliers.'\n\n    CALMET, _Traite sur les Apparitions_, 1751.\n\n    London\n\n    W. SWAN SONNENSCHEIN & CO.\n    PATERNOSTER ROW\n\n\n    TO\n\n    THE MOST NOBLE\n    THE MARQUIS OF HARTINGTON, P.C., D.C.L.\n    THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS DEDICATED\n    IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF\n    MUCH KINDNESS.\n\n\n\n\n    CONTENTS.\n\n\n               INTRODUCTION,\n           I.--THE SKRIKER,\n          II.--THE UNBIDDEN GUEST,\n         III.--THE FAIRY'S SPADE,\n          IV.--THE KING OF THE FAIRIES,\n           V.--MOTHER AND CHILD,\n          VI.--THE SPECTRAL CAT,\n         VII.--THE CAPTURED FAIRIES,\n        VIII.--THE PILLION LADY,\n          IX.--THE FAIRY FUNERAL,\n           X.--THE CHIVALROUS DEVIL,\n          XI.--THE ENCHANTED FISHERMAN,\n         XII.--THE SANDS OF COCKER,\n        XIII.--THE SILVER TOKEN,\n         XIV.--THE HEADLESS WOMAN,\n          XV.--THE RESCUE OF MOONBEAM,\n         XVI.--THE WHITE DOBBIE,\n        XVII.--THE LITTLE MAN'S GIFT,\n       XVIII.--SATAN'S SUPPER,\n         XIX.--THE EARTHENWARE GOOSE,\n          XX.--THE PHANTOM OF THE FELL,\n         XXI.--ALLHALLOW'S NIGHT,\n        XXII.--THE CHRISTMAS-EVE VIGIL,\n       XXIII.--THE CRIER OF CLAIFE,\n        XXIV.--THE DEMON OF THE OAK,\n         XXV.--THE BLACK COCK,\n        XXVI.--THE INVISIBLE BURDEN,\n    APPENDIX.--COMPARATIVE NOTES,\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\n\nFor many of the superstitions which still cling to him the Lancashire\nman of the present day is indebted to his Celtic and Scandinavian\nancestors. From them the Horse and Worm stories, and the Giant lore of\nthe northern and southern mountains and fells, have come down, while\nthe relationship of the 'Jinny Greenteeth,' the presiding nymph of the\nponds and streams, with allusions to whom the Lancastrian mother\nstrives to deter her little ones from venturing near the pits and\nbrooks; to the water-spirits of the Gothic mythology, is too evident\nto admit of any doubt. The source of the 'Gabriel Ratchets,' the\nhell-hounds whose fear-inspiring yelps still are heard by the\nbenighted peasant, who finds in the dread sound a warning of the\napproach of the angel of death; in the Norse Aasgaardsveia, the souls\ncondemned to ride about the world until doomsday, and who gallop\nthrough the midnight storm with shrieks and cries which ring over the\nlonely moors; or in that other troop of souls of the brave ones who\nhad died in battle, being led by the storm-god Woden to Walhalla, also\nis undeniable.\n\nStriking, however, as are the points of similitude between some of the\nLancastrian traditions and those of the north of Europe, others seem\nto be peculiar to the county, and that these are of a darker and\ngloomier cast than are the superstitions of districts less wild and\nmountainous, and away from the weird influence of the sea, with its\nwinter thunderings suggestive of hidden and awful power, may in a\ngreat measure be correctly attributed to the nature of the scenery.\n\nIt is easy to understand how the unlettered peasant would people with\nbeings of another world either the bleak fells, the deep and gloomy\ngorges, the wild cloughs, the desolate moorland wastes two or three\nthousand feet above the level of the sea, of the eastern portion of\nthe county; or the salt marshes where the breeze-bent and\nmysterious-looking trees waved their spectral boughs in the wind; the\ndark pools fringed with reeds, amid which the 'Peg-o'-Lantron'\nflickered and danced, and over which came the hollow cry of the\nbittern and the child-like plaint of the plover; and the dreary glens,\ndark lakes, and long stretches of sand of the north and west.\n\nTo him the forest, with its solemn Rembrandtesque gloom,\n\n    Where Druids erst heard victims groan,\n\nthe lonely fir-crowned pikes, and the mist-shrouded mountains, would\nseem fitting homes for the dread shapes whose spite ended itself in\nthe misfortunes and misery of humanity. Pregnant with mystery to such\na mind would be the huge fells, with their shifting 'neetcaps' of\ncloud, the towering bluffs, the swampy moors, and trackless morasses,\nacross which the setting sun cast floods of blood-red light; and\nirresistible would be the influence of such scenery upon the lonely\nlabourer who would go about his daily tasks with a feeling that he was\nsurrounded by the supernatural.\n\nAnd wild as are many parts of the county to-day, it is difficult to\nconceive its condition a century or two ago, when much of the land\nwas not only uncultivated, but was, for at least a portion of the\nyear, covered by sheets of water, the highways being little more than\nbridle roads, or, if wider than usual, very sloughs of despond, the\ncarts in several of the rural districts being laid aside in winter as\nutterly useless, and grain and other commodities, even in summer time,\nbeing conveyed from place to place on the backs of long strings of\npack-horses.\n\nLiving in lonely houses and cottages shut out from civilisation by the\ndifficulties of communication, and hemmed in by floating mists and by\nmuch that was awe-inspiring, with in winter additional barriers of\nstorm, snow and flood, it is easy to imagine how in the fancy of the\nyeoman, shepherd, farmer, or solitary lime burner, as 'th' edge o'\ndark' threw its weird glamour over the scene, boggarts and phantoms\nwould begin to creep about to the music of the unearthly voices heard\nin every sough and sigh of the wandering wind as it wailed around the\nisolated dwellings.\n\nIn everything weird they found a message from the unknown realms of\ndeath. The noise of the swollen waters of the Ribble or the Lune, or\nthe many smaller streams hurrying down to the sea, was to them the\nvoice of the Water Spirit calling for its victim, and the howling of\ntheir dogs bade the sick prepare to meet 'the shadow with the keys.'\nAll around them were invisible beings harmful or mischievous, and to\nthem they traced much of the misfortune which followed the stern\nworking of nature's laws.\n\nThe superstitions which date from, as well as the actual annals of the\nWitch Mania in Lancashire, in some slight degree confirm this theory,\nfor whereas in the flat and more thickly-populated districts the hag\ncontented herself with stealing milk from her neighbour's cows,\nspoiling their bakings, and other practical jokes of a comparatively\nharmless kind, in the wilder localities--the region of pathless moors\nand mist-encircled mountains--the witch ever was raising terrible\nstorms, bringing down the thunder, killing the cattle, dealing out\nplagues and pestilence at will, wreaking evil of every conceivable\nkind upon man and beast, and, hot from her sabbath of devil-worship,\neven casting the sombre shadows and dread darkness of death over the\nhouseholds of those who had fallen under the ban of her hate.\n\nLancashire has, however, an extensive ghost lore to which this theory\nhas no reference, consisting as it does of stories of haunted houses\nand churchyards, indelible blood-stains, and all the paraphernalia of\nthe\n\n                            Shapes that walk\n    At dead of night, and clank their chains and wave\n    The torch of hell around the murderer's bed.\n\nThe sketch in this volume, 'Mother and Child,' for the skeleton of\nwhich tradition I am indebted to the late Mr. J. Stanyan Bigg, may be\nconsidered a fair specimen of these stories. In most cases these\nlegends are not simply the vain creations of ignorance and darkness,\nalthough they fade before the light of knowledge like mists before the\nsun, for under many of them may be found a moral and a warning, or a\ntestimony to the beauty of goodness, hidden it is true beneath the\ncovering of a rude fable, just as inscriptions rest concealed below\nthe moss of graveyards. The well-known legend of the Boggart of\nTownley Hall, with its warning cry of 'Lay out, lay out!' and its\ndemand for a victim every seventh year, is a striking example of\ntraditions of this class--emphatic protests against wrong, uttered in\nthe form of a nerve-affecting fable. In more than one of the stories\nof this kind to which I have listened, the ghost of the victim has\nre-visited 'the pale glimpses of the moon,' and made night so hideous\nto the wrong-doer, that, in despair and remorse, he has put an end to\nhimself; and trivial as these things may seem to Mr. Gradgrind and his\nschool, they have, like other and nobler parables, influenced minds\nimpervious to dry fact.\n\nTo the devil lore of the county, however, the theory certainly will\napply, for surely it is in a gloomy gorge, through which forked\nlightnings flash and chase each other, and the thunder rolls and\nreverberates, or on a dark and lonesome moor, rather than upon the\nshady side of Pall Mall, one would expect to meet the Evil One.\n\nYet, undoubtedly, other causes contributed to enrich the store of\ntales of fiends with which the county abounds.\n\nIn Lancashire many of the old customs, even such as the riding of the\nwooden Christ on Palm Sunday, continued to be kept up at a later\nperiod than was the case in other parts of England; and,\nnotwithstanding the prohibitory edicts of the commissioners appointed\nby Queen Elizabeth, Miracle Plays and Moralities doubtless were\nperformed there even during the early part of the reign of James I.,\nfor the Reformation, rapidly as its principles took root and spread in\nother parts of the country, did not make rapid headway in Lancashire,\nwhere great numbers of the people remained true to the faith of their\nforefathers. In fact, in many parishes, long after the Church of\nEngland had been by law established, Catholic priests continued to be\nthe only officiating ministers. Probably the people loved their church\nnot only on account of its doctrines, of which it may be presumed most\nof them knew but little, and of its impressive ceremonies, but also\nbecause of its recognition of the holy days and fair days, wakes, and\ngames it was powerless to suppress; and perhaps of all the amusements\nthus winked at or even patronised by the church, that of dramatic\nrepresentations, rude and grotesque as they undoubtedly were, was the\nmost important. In many places the members of the various guilds and\nbrotherhoods were the performers, but in the majority of cases the\nentertainments were given by the priests and other ecclesiastical\nfunctionaries.\n\nWhat part the Devil played in these amusements is well known to the\nantiquary, the old accounts containing particulars of the expenditure\nupon not only hair for the Evil One's wig, but also for canvas, of\nwhich to construct black shirts for the Satanic tag-rag, or, as the\nold scribes plainly put it, 'for the damned.' It is evident from the\nold records that Satan left the hands of his dresser an object\ncompared with which the most hideous jack-in-the-box of the modern toy\nshop would be a vision of loveliness; and, as his chief occupations\nwere those of roaring and yelling, and of suffering all sorts of\nindignities at the hands of the Vice, as does the pantaloon at the\nhands of the clown in a pantomime of to-day, it is easy to see that\nhis _role_ was not a very dignified one. Everywhere the stage devil\nwas simply the stage fool. Even in France, where the drama ever has\nbeen submitted to precise rules, 'there was,' as Albert Reville has\nremarked (_Histoire du Diable, ses origines, sa grandeur et sa\ndecadence._ Strasbourg: 1870), 'a class of popular pieces called\ndevilries (_diableries_), gross and often obscene masquerades, in\nwhich at least four devils took part.... In Germany also the devil\nwas diverting on the stage. There exists an old Saxon Mystery of the\nPassion, in which Satan repeats, like a mocking echo, the last words\nof Judas who hangs himself; and when, in accordance with the sacred\ntradition, the traitor's bowels fall asunder, the Evil One gathers\nthem into a basket, and, as he carries them away, sings a\nlittle melody appropriate to the occasion.' Undoubtedly these\nmisrepresentations of the apostate angel helped to familiarise the\npopular mind with the idea of a personal devil going about veritably\nseeking whom he might devour; and although, when with the crowd in the\npresence of the Thespian ecclesiastics, people might feel quite at\nhome with, and really enjoy, the company of the Evil One, away again\non the dreary moor, or in the lonely hillside cottage, with the night\nwind howling at the door, fear would resume its wonted supremacy, and\nthe feeling would be deepened and intensified by the memory of the\nhorrid appearance of the stage Satan.\n\nIt is possible that in a great measure we owe to these performances\nthe somewhat monotonous frequency with which, in the purely local\nLancashire devil stories, the Evil One, who generally in the most\nstupid manner permits himself to be overreached, comes oft second\nbest, for doubtless many of the traditions were moulded in accordance\nwith the lot of Satan in the miracle plays, as, in their turn, these\nwere, although perhaps indirectly, based upon the teachings of the\nchurch, and that, in its turn, upon the writings of the Fathers, some\nof whom, and notably Origen, did not hesitate to speak of the\nRedemption even as due in no small degree to Satanic stupidity, a view\nso lastingly predominant in the Church that as Reville has said, 'la\npoesie ecclesiastique, la predication populaire, des enseignements\npontificaux meme le repandirent, le dramatiserent, le consacrerent\npartout.'\n\nAn interesting chapter in the history of religious beliefs might be\nwritten upon the views of the early Fathers with reference to Satan\nand his legion, and the student is not inclined to be quite so severe\nupon the superstitions of the unlettered peasant when he finds Jerome\nrecording it as the opinion of all the doctors in the church, that the\nair between heaven and earth is filled with Evil Spirits, and\nAugustine and others stating that the devils had fallen there from a\nhigher and purer region of the air. The early Christian Church too had\nits order of _Exorcists_, who had care of those possessed by Evil\nSpirits, the _energumeni_, and the Bishops, departing from the\noriginal idea that laymen had the power of exorcism, ordained men to\nthe office and called upon them to exercise their functions even\nbefore the rite of baptism, to deliver the candidates 'from the\ndominion of the power of darkness.'\n\nOf the lighter superstitions in Lancashire, that of belief in fairies\nappears to be almost extinct, and it is to be lamented that forty\nyears ago folk lore was considered of so little importance, for the\nslight and vague references in a rare little 'History of Blackpool,'\nby the Rev. W. Thornber, upon two of which the sketches entitled 'The\nSilver Token,' and 'The Fairy's Spade' are founded, show that the task\nof gathering a goodly store of such vestiges of ancient faiths would\nat the time when that volume was written have been a comparatively\neasy one. To-day, however, the case is different. Even my friend, the\nlate Mr. John Higson, of Lees, to whose kindness I owe the tradition\nupon which the story of 'The King of the Fairies' is based, and whose\nlabours in out-of-the-way paths dear to antiquaries were for some\nyears as untiring as successful and praiseworthy, was not able to\ngather much bearing upon the fairy mythology of the Lancashire people.\n\nMost of the fairy and folk stories it was my good fortune to hear in\nthe county and moorland districts were of a conventional kind, lubber\nfiends, death warnings, fairy ointment, and fairy money being as\nplentiful as diamonds in Eastern tales, and for that reason it was not\nthought necessary to reproduce them in this volume.\n\nThe darker forms of superstition, like lower organisms, are more\ntenacious of life, and in many a retired nook of Lancashire there\nstill may be found small congregations of believers in all the mystic\nlore of devildom and witchcraft. Readers of Mr. Edwin Waugh's\nexquisite sketches of north country life will at once call to mind, in\nthe 'Grave of the Griselhurst Boggart,' an illustration of that dim\nfear of the supernatural which is yet so all-powerful, while the\nvaluable collection of Folk Lore from the pens of the late Mr.\nWilkinson and Mr. John Harland is full of testimony to the vitality of\nmany of these offshoots from old-world creeds.\n\n\n\n\nGOBLIN TALES OF LANCASHIRE.\n\n\n\n\nTH' SKRIKER (SHRIEKER).\n\n\nOn a fine night, about the middle of December, many years ago, a\nsturdy-looking young fellow left Chipping for his cottage, three or\nfour miles away, upon the banks of the Hodder. The ground was covered\nwith snow, which in many places had drifted into heaps, and the keen\nfrost had made the road so slippery that the progress he made was but\nslow. Nature looked very beautiful, and the heart of the rustic even\nwas touched by the sweet peacefulness of the scene. The noble old\nParlick, and the sweeping Longridge, with its fir-crowned Thornley\nHeight and Kemple End, stood out boldly against the clear sky, and the\nmoon shed her soft silvery light into the long silent valley,\nstretching away until its virgin paleness mingled with the shadows and\nthe darkness of the distant fells beyond Whitewell.\n\nAll was still, save when the sighing wind rustled gently through the\nfrosted branches of the leafless trees by the roadside, and shook down\nupon the wayfarer a miniature shower of snow; for even the tiny\nstream, so full of mirth and music in the summer time, had been lulled\nto sleep by the genius of winter; and the cottagers, whose little\nhouses, half-hidden by the rime, seemed hardly large enough for the\ndwellings of dwarfs, had been snugly sleeping for hours.\n\nAdam was by no means a timid or nervous being, but there was a\nnameless something in the deathly silence which oppressed, if it did\nnot actually frighten, him; and although he sang aloud a verse of the\nlast song he had heard before he left the kitchen of the Patten Arms,\nhis voice had lost its heartiness. He earnestly wished himself safely\nacross the little bridge over the brook; but he was yet some distance\nfrom the stream when the faint chimes of midnight fell upon the air.\nAlmost immediately after the last stroke of twelve had broken the\nsilence a cloud passed over the face of the moon, and comparative\ndarkness enveloped the scene; the wind, which before had been gentle\nand almost noiseless, began to howl amid the boughs and branches of\nthe waving trees, and the frozen snow from the hedgerows was dashed\nagainst the wayfarer's face.\n\nHe had already begun to fancy that he could distinguish in the\nsoughing of the wind and the creaking of the boughs unearthly cries\nand fiendish shouts of glee; but as he approached the dreaded stream\nhis courage almost entirely failed him, and it required a great effort\nto keep from turning his back to it, and running away in the direction\nof the little village at the foot of Parlick. It struck him, however,\nthat he had come a long distance; that if he did go back to the Patten\nArms the company would be dispersed, and the inmates asleep, and, what\nwas more effective than all, that if he could only cross the bridge he\nwould be safe, the Greenies, Boggarts, and Feorin not having power\nover any one who had passed over the water. Influenced by this\nthought, yet with his knees trembling under him, he pushed forward\nwith assumed boldness, and he had almost reached the bridge when he\nheard the noise of passing feet in the crunching snow, and became\nconscious of the presence of a ghastly thing he was unable to see.\nSuddenly a sepulchral howl brought him to a stop, and, with his heart\nthrobbing loudly enough to be heard, he stood gazing fixedly into the\ndarkness. There was nothing to be perceived, however, save the copings\nof the bridge, with their coverings of rime; and he might have stood\nthere until daylight had not another cry, louder and even more\nunearthly and horrible than the preceding one, called him from his\ntrance. No sooner had this second scream died away than, impelled by\nan irresistible impulse, he stepped forward in the direction whence\nthe noise had come. At this moment the moon burst forth from behind\nthe clouds which had for some time obscured her light, and her rays\nfell upon the road, with its half-hidden cart-tracks winding away into\nthe dim distance; and in the very centre of the bridge he beheld a\nhideous figure with black shaggy hide, and huge eyes closely\nresembling orbs of fire.\n\nAdam at once knew from the likeness the dread object bore to the\nfigure he had heard described by those who had seen the Skriker, that\nthe terrible thing before him was an Ambassador of Death.\n\nWithout any consciousness of what he was doing, and acting as though\nunder the sway of a strange and irresistible mesmeric influence, he\nstepped towards the bridge; but no sooner did he stir than the\nfrightful thing in front of him, with a motion that was not walking,\nbut rather a sort of heavy gliding, moved also, slowly retreating,\npausing when he paused, and always keeping its fiery eyes fixed upon\nhis blanched face. Slowly he crossed the stream, but gradually his\nsteps grew more and more rapid, until he broke into a run. Suddenly a\nfaint knowledge of the horrible nature of his position dawned upon\nhim. A little cottage stood by the roadside, and from one of its\nchamber-windows, so near to the ground as to be within his reach, a\ndim light shone, the room probably being occupied by a sick person, or\nby watchers of the dead. Influenced by a sudden feeling of\ncompanionship, Adam tried to cry out, but his tongue clave to his\nparched mouth, and ere he could mumble a few inarticulate sounds,\nscarcely audible to himself, the dwelling was left far behind, and a\nsensation of utter loneliness and helplessness again took possession\nof him.\n\nHe had thus traversed more than a mile of the road, in some parts of\nwhich, shaded by the high hedgerows and overhanging boughs, the only\nlight seemed to him to be that from the terrible eyes, when suddenly\nhe stumbled over a stone and fell. In a second, impressed by a fear\nthat the ghastly object would seize him, he regained his feet, and, to\nhis intense relief, the Skriker was no longer visible. With a sigh of\npleasure he sat down upon a heap of broken stones, for his limbs, no\nlonger forced into mechanical movement by the influence of the\nspectre's presence, refused to bear him further. Bitterly cold as was\nthe night, the perspiration stood in beads upon his whitened face,\nand, with the recollection of the Skriker's terrible eyes and horrible\nbody strong upon him, he shook and shivered, as though in a fit of the\nague. A strong and burly man, in the very prime of life, he felt as\nweak as a girl, and, fearing that he was about to sink to the ground\nin a swoon, he took handfuls of the crisp snow and rubbed them upon\nhis forehead. Under this sharp treatment he soon revived a little,\nand, after several unsuccessful efforts, he succeeded in regaining his\nfeet, and resumed his lonely journey.\n\nStarting at the least sough of the breeze, the faintest creak of a\nbending branch, or the fall of a piece of frozen rime from a bough, he\nslowly trudged along.\n\nHe had passed the quaint old house at Chaigely, the sudden yelp of a\nchained dog in the court-yard giving him a thrill of horror as he went\nby, and he had reached the bend in that part of the road which is\nopposite the towering wood-covered Kemple End. A keen and cutting\nblast swept through the black firs that crowned the summit, and stood,\nlike solemn sentinels, upon the declivity. There was a music in the\nwind mournful as a croon over the corpse of a beautiful woman, whose\nhair still shimmers with the golden light of life; but Adam heard no\nmelody in the moaning sighs which seemed to fill the air around. To\nhim, whose soul was yet under the influence of the terror through\nwhich he had so recently passed, the sounds assumed an awful nature;\nwhilst the firs, standing so clearly defined against the snow, which\nlay in virgin heaps upon the beds of withered fern, seemed like so\nmany weird skeletons shaking their bony arms in menace or in warning.\n\nWith a suddenness that was more than startling, there was a lull, and\nthe breeze ceased even to whisper. The silence was more painful than\nwere the noises of the blast battling with the branches, for it filled\nthe breast of the solitary wayfarer with forebodings of coming woe. At\nthe point he had reached the road sank, and as Adam stepped into the\nalmost utter darkness, caused by the high banks, to which clung masses\nof decayed vegetation, beautified by the genius of winter into white\nfestoons, again and again the terrible shriek rang out.\n\nThere was no mistaking the voice of the Skriker for that of anything\nelse upon earth, and, with a sickly feeling at his heart, Adam slowly\nemerged from the gloom, and, in expectation of the appearance of the\nghastly figure, passed on. He had not to wait long, for as he reached\nthe old bridge spanning the Hodder, once more he saw, in the centre\nof the road, about midway of the stream, the same terrible object he\nhad followed along the lane from the brook at Thornley.\n\nWith a sensation of terror somewhat less intense than that which had\npreviously influenced him, he again yielded to the power which\nimpelled him forward, and once more the strange procession commenced,\nthe Skriker gliding over the snow, not, however, without a peculiar\nshuffling of its feet, surrounded, as they were, by masses of long\nhair, which clung to them, and deadened the sound, and Adam following\nin his mechanical and involuntary trot. The journey this time,\nhowever, was of but short duration, for the poor fellow's cottage was\nonly a little way from the river. The distance was soon traversed, and\nthe Skriker, with its face towards the terrified man, took up its\nposition against the door of the dwelling. Adam could not resist the\nattraction which drew him to the ghastly thing, and as he neared it,\nin a fit of wild desperation, he struck at it, but his hand banged\nagainst the oak of the door, and, as the spectre splashed away, he\nfell forward in a swoon.\n\nDisturbed by the noise of the fall, the goodwife arose and drew him\ninto the cottage, but for some hours he was unable to tell the story\nof his terrible journey. When he had told of his involuntary chase of\nthe Skriker, a deep gloom fell over the woman's features, for she well\nknew what the ghastly visit portended to their little household. The\ndread uncertainty did not continue long, however, for on the third day\nfrom that upon which Adam had reached his home the eldest lad was\nbrought home drowned; and after attending the child's funeral, Adam's\nwife sickened of a fever, and within a few weeks she too was carried\nto Mytton churchyard. These things, together with the dreadful\nexperience of the journey from Chipping, so affected Adam that he lost\nhis reason, and for years afterwards the sound of his pattering\nfootsteps, as in harmless idiotcy, with wild eyes and outstretched\nhands, he trotted along the roads in chase of an imaginary Boggart,\nfell with mournful impressiveness upon the ears of groups gathered by\nfarm-house fires to listen to stories of the Skriker.{1}\n\n\n\n\nTHE UNBIDDEN GUEST.\n\n\nIn a little lane leading from the town of Clitheroe there once lived a\nnoted 'cunning man,' to whom all sorts of applications were made, not\nonly by the residents, but also by people from distant places, for the\nfame of the wizard had spread over the whole country side. If a theft\nwas committed, at once the services of 'Owd Jeremy' were enlisted,\nand, as a result, some one entirely innocent was, if not accused, at\nleast suspected; while maidens and young men, anxious to pry into\nfuturity, and behold the faces of their unknown admirers, paid him\ntrifling fees to enable them to gratify their curiosity. In short,\nJeremy professed to be an able student of the Black Art, on familiar\nspeaking terms with Satan, and duly qualified to foretell men's\ndestinies by the aid of the stars.\n\nThe cottage in which the old man resided was of a mean order, and its\noutward appearance was by no means likely to impress visitors with an\nidea that great pecuniary advantages had followed that personal\nacquaintance with the Evil One of which the wizard boasted. If,\nhowever, the outside was mean and shabby, the inside of the dwelling\nwas of a nature better calculated to inspire inquirers with feelings\nof awe, hung round, as the one chamber was, with faded and moth-eaten\nblack cloth, upon which grotesque astrological designs and the figure\nof a huge dragon were worked in flaming red. The window being hidden\nby the dingy tapestry, the only light in the room came from a\nstarved-looking candle, which was fixed in the foot of the skeleton of\na child, attached to a string from the ceiling, and dangling just over\nthe table, where a ponderous volume lay open before a large crystal\nglobe and two skulls.\n\nIn an old-fashioned chair, above which hung suspended a dirty and\ndilapidated crocodile, the wizard sat, and gave audience to the stray\nvisitors whose desire to peer into futurity overmastered the fear with\nwhich the lonely cottage was regarded. A quaint-looking old man was\nJeremy, with his hungry-looking eyes and long white beard; and, as\nwith bony fingers he turned over the leaves of the large book, there\nwas much in his appearance likely to give the superstitious and\nignorant customers overwhelming ideas of his wondrous wisdom. The\n'make up' was creditable to Jeremy, for though he succeeded in\ndeceiving others with his assumption of supernatural knowledge, he\nhimself did not believe in those powers whose aid he so frequently\nprofessed to invoke on behalf of his clients.\n\nOne day, when the ragged cloth had fallen behind a victim who was\ndeparting from the wizard's sanctum with a few vague and mysterious\nhints in exchange for solid coin, the old man, after laughing\nsarcastically, pulled aside the dingy curtains and stepped to the\ncasement, through which the glorious sunlight was streaming. The scene\nupon which the wizard looked was a very beautiful one; and the old man\nleaned his head upon his hands and gazed intently upon the landscape.\n\n''Tis a bonnie world,' said he,--''tis a bonnie world, and there are\nfew views in it to compare with this one for beauty. My soul is drawn\ntoward old Pendle, yon, with a love passing that of woman, heartless\nand passionless though the huge mass be. Heartless!' said he, after a\npause,--'heartless! when every minute there is a fresh expression upon\nits beautiful front? Ay, even so, for it looms yonder calm and\nunconcerned when we are ushered into the world, and when we are\nushered out of it, and laid to moulder away under the mountain's\nshadow; and it will rear its bold bluffs to heaven and smile in the\nsunlight or frown in the gloom after we who now love to gaze upon it\nare blind to the solemn loveliness of its impassable face. Poor\nperishable fools are we, with less power than the breeze which ruffles\nyon purple heather!'\n\nWith a heavy sigh Jeremy turned away from the window, and as the\ncurtain fell behind him, and he stood again in the wretchedly-lighted\nroom, he saw that he was not alone. The chair in which the trembling\nhinds generally were asked to seat themselves held a strange-looking\nvisitor of dark and forbidding aspect.\n\n'Jeremiah,' said this personage, 'devildom first and poetising\nafterwards.'\n\nThere was an unpleasant tone of banter in this speech, which did not\nseem in keeping with the character of one who fain would pry into\nfuturity; and as the wizard took his usual position beneath the\ncrocodile, he looked somewhat less oracular than was his wont when in\nfront of a shivering and terrified inquirer.\n\n'What wantest thou with me?' said he, with an ill-assumed appearance\nof unconcern.\n\nThe occupant of the chair smiled sardonically as he replied--\n\n'A little security--that's all. For five-and-twenty years thou hast\nbeen amassing wealth by duping credulous fools, and it is time I had\nmy percentage.'\n\nThe wizard stared in astonishment. Was the stranger a thief, or worse?\nhe wondered, but after a time, however, he said, drily--\n\n'Even if thou hadst proved thy right to a portion of the profits of my\nhonest calling--and thou hast not--thou wouldst not require a\npackhorse to carry thy share away. Doth this hovel resemble the abode\nof a possessor of great wealth? Two chairs, a table, and a few old\nbones, its furniture; and its tenant a half-starved old man, who has\nhad hard work to support life upon the pittance he receives in return\nfor priceless words of wisdom! Thou art a stranger to me, and thy\nportion of my earnings is correctly represented by a circle.'\n\nA loud and unmusical laugh followed the wizard's words; and before the\nunpleasant sound had died away the visitor remarked--\n\n'If I am yet a stranger to thee, Jeremiah, 'tis not thy fault, for\nduring the last quarter of a century thou hast boasted of me as thy\nwilling servant, and extorted hard cash from thy customers upon the\nstrength of my friendship and willingness to help thee; and now, true\nto thy beggarly instincts, thou wouldst deny me! But 'twill be in\nvain, Jeremiah--'twill be in vain! I have postponed this visit too\nlong already to be put off with subterfuges now.'\n\n'I repeat, I know thee not,' said the wizard, in a trembling voice.\nAnd, hurriedly rising from his chair, he flung aside the thick\ncurtain, in order that the light of day might stream into the chamber,\nfor a nameless fear had taken possession of him, and he did not care\nto remain in the darkened apartment with his suspicious visitor. To\nhis surprise and terror, however, darkness had fallen upon the scene,\nand, as he gazed in alarm at the little diamond-framed window,\nthrough which so short a time before he had looked upon a fair\nprospect of meadow and mountain, a vivid flash of lightning darted\nacross the heavens, and a clap of thunder burst over the cottage.\n\n''Twill spoil good men's harvests, Jeremiah,' the stranger calmly\nsaid; 'but it need not interrupt our interesting conversation.'\n\nAngry at the bantering manner in which the visitor spoke, the wizard\nflung open the door, and cried--\n\n'Depart from my dwelling, ere I cast thee forth into the mire!'\n\n'Surely thou wouldst not have the heart to fulfil thy threat,' said\nthe stranger, 'although 'tis true I have but one shoe to be soiled by\nthe mud.' And as he spoke he quietly crossed his legs, and Jeremiah\nperceived a hideous cloven foot.\n\nWith a groan, the wizard sank into his chair, and, deaf to the roaring\nof the thunder, and to the beating of the rain through the doorway, he\nsat helplessly gazing at his guest, whose metallic laughter rang\nthrough the room.\n\n'Hast thou at length recognised me, Jeremiah?' asked the Evil One,\nafter an interval, during which he had somewhat prominently displayed\nthe hoof, and gloated over the agony its exhibition had caused his\nvictim.\n\nThe old man was almost too terrified to answer, but at last he\nwhispered--\n\n'I have.'\n\n'And thou no longer wilt refuse me the security?' hissed the\ntormentor, as he placed a parchment upon the table.\n\n'What security dost thou demand?' feebly inquired the quaking wizard.\n\n'Personal only,' said Satan. 'Put thy name to this,' and he pointed to\nthe bond.\n\nJeremy pushed his chair as far from the suspicious-looking document as\nhe could ere he replied--\n\n'Thou shalt not have name of mine.'\n\nHe had expected that an outburst of fiendish wrath would follow this\nspeech, but to his surprise the guest simply remarked--\n\n'Very well, Jeremiah. By to-morrow night, however, thou shalt be\nexposed as the base and ignorant pretender thou art. Thou hast\ntrespassed upon the rightful trade of my faithful servants long\nenough, and 'tis time I stopped thy prosperous career. Ere sunset\nthou shalt have a rival, who will take the bread from thy ungrateful\nmouth.'\n\nAfter this polite speech the visitor picked up the parchment, and\nbegan to fold it in a methodical manner.\n\nSuch utterly unexpected gentlemanly behaviour somewhat reassured\nJeremiah, and in a fainter voice he humbly asked what his visitor had\nto give in exchange for a wizard's autograph.\n\n'Twenty-two years of such success as thou hast not even dared to dream\nof! No opposition--no exposure to thy miserable dupes,' readily\nanswered Satan.\n\nJeremiah considered deeply. The offer undoubtedly was a tempting one,\nfor after all, his profession had not been very lucrative, and to lose\nhis customers, therefore, meant starvation. He was certain that if\nanother wizard opened an establishment the people would flock to him,\neven through mere curiosity; but he knew what signing the bond\nincluded, and he was afraid to take the step.\n\nAfter a long delay, during which Satan carefully removed a sharp\nstone from his hoof, Jeremiah therefore firmly said--\n\n'Master, I'll not sign!'\n\nWithout more ado the visitor departed, and almost before he was out of\nsight the storm abated, and old Pendle again became visible.\n\nA few days passed, and no one came to the dwelling of the wizard; and\nas such an absence of customers was very unusual, Jeremy began to fear\nthat the supernatural stranger had not forgotten his threat. On the\nevening of the fifth day he crept into the little town to purchase\nsome articles of food. Previously, whenever he had had occasion to\nmake a similar journey, as he passed along the street the children ran\naway in terror, and the older people addressed him with remarkable\nhumility; but this time, as he stepped rapidly past the houses, the\nyoungsters went on with their games as though only an ordinary mortal\nwent by, and a burly fellow who was leaning against a door jamb took\nhis pipe from his mouth to cry familiarly--\n\n'Well, Jerry, owd lad, heaw are ta'?'\n\nThese marks of waning power and fading popularity were sufficiently\nunmistakable; but as he was making his few purchases he was informed\nthat a stranger, who seemed to be possessed of miraculous powers, had\narrived in the town, and that many people who had been to him were\ngoing about testifying to his wonderful skill. With a heavy heart the\nwizard returned to his cottage. Next night a shower of stones dashed\nhis window to pieces, and, as he peered into the moonlight lane, he\nsaw a number of rough fellows, who evidently were waiting and watching\nin hopes that he would emerge from his dwelling. These were the only\nvisitors he had during an entire week; and at length, quite prepared\nto capitulate, he said to himself--\n\n'I wish I had another chance.'\n\nNo sooner had he uttered the words, than there was a sudden burst of\nthunder, wind roared round the house, again the clients' chair was\noccupied, and the parchment lay upon the table just as though it had\nnot been disturbed.\n\n'Art thou ready to sign?' asked Satan.\n\n'Ay!' answered the old man.\n\nThe Evil One immediately seized the wizard's hand, upon which Jeremy\ngave a piercing yell, as well he might do, for the Satanic grip had\nforced the blood from the tips of his fingers.\n\n'Sign!' said the Devil.\n\n'I can't write,' said the wizard.\n\nThe Evil One forthwith took hold of one of the victim's fingers, and\nusing it as a pen, wrote in a peculiarly neat hand 'Jeremiah Parsons,\nhis x mark,' finishing with a fiendish flourish.\n\nAfter doing this he again vacated the chair and the room as\nmysteriously as on the previous occasion.\n\nThe autograph-loving visitor had barely departed with the parchment\nere a knock at the door was heard, and in stepped a man who wished to\nhave the veil lifted, and who brought the pleasing news that,\ninfluenced by the reports of the opposition wizard, he had been to his\nhouse in Clitheroe, but had found it empty, the whilom tenant having\nfled no one knew whither. From that time things looked up with Jeremy,\nand money poured into the skulls, for people crowded from far and near\nto test his skill. For two-and-twenty years he flourished and was\nfamous, but the end came.{2} One morning, after a wild night when the\nwinds howled round Pendle, and it seemed as though all the powers of\ndarkness were let loose, some labourers who were going to their work\nwere surprised to find only the ruins of the wizard's cottage. The\nplace had been consumed by fire; and although search was made for the\nmagician's remains, only a few charred bones were found, and these,\nsome averred, were not those of old Jeremy, but were relics of the\ndusty old skeleton and the dirty crocodile under the shadow of which\nthe wizard used to sit.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FAIRY'S SPADE.\n\n\n'Th' fairies han getten varra shy sin' thee an' me wir young, Matty,\nlass!' said an old grey-headed man, who, smoking a long pipe, calmly\nsat in a shady corner of the kitchen of a Fylde country farm-house.\n'Nubry seems to see 'em neaw-a-days as they ust. I onst had a seet o'\none on 'em, as plain as I con see thee sittin' theer, ravellin' thi\nowd stockin'. I wir ploughin' varra soon after dayleet, an' ther\nworn't a saand to be heeart nobbut th' noise o'th' graand oppenin',\nan' th' chirp ov a few brids wakkenin' an' tunin' up, an' ov a\ntoothrey crows close at after mi heels a-pikin' up th' whorms. O ov a\nsuddent I heeard sumbry cry, i' a voice like owd Luke wench i'th'\norgin loft ov a Sundays, \"I've brokken mi speet!\" I lost no toime i'\ntornin' to see whoa wir at wark at that haar, an' i' aar fielt too,\nan' I clapt mi een on as pratty a little lass as ever oppent een i'\nthis country side. Owd England choilt's bonny, yone warrant mi, but\nhoo's as feaw as sin aside o'th' face as I see that morn. Hoo stood\ntheer wi' th' brokken spade i' her hond, an' i'th' tother a hommer an'\na toothrey nails, an' hoo smoilt at mi, an' offert mi th' tackle, as\nmich as t' say, \"Naaw, Isik, be gradely for onst i' thi loife, an'\nfettle this speet for mi, will ta?\" For a whoile I stood theear gapin'\nlike a foo', and wontherin' wheear hoo could ha' risen fray, but hoo\ncried aat onst mooar, \"I've brokken mi speet!\" Sooa I marcht toart her\nand tuk th' hommer an' th' nails, an' tacklet it up. It didn't tek mi\nlong a-dooin', for it wir but a loile un; but when I'd done hoo smoilt\nat mi, an' so bonny, summat loike tha ust, Margit, when owd Pigheeod\nwir cooartin' tha; an' gan mi a hanful o' brass,{3} an' afooar I'd\ntime to say owt off hoo vanisht. That wur th' only feorin as ivver\nI've seen, an' mebbi th' only one as I'm likely to luk at, for mi\nseet's getten nooan o'th' best latterly.'\n\n\n\n\nTHE KING OF THE FAIRIES.\n\n\nMany years ago there lived in a farm-house at a point of the high-road\nfrom Manchester to Stockport, where Levenshulme Church now stands, a\nworthy named Burton, 'Owd Dannel Burton.'[A] The farm held by Daniel\nwas a model one in its way, the old man raising finer crops than any\nother farmer in the district. It was rumoured that Daniel was very\ncomfortably provided for, and that a few bad years would not harm him;\nand so wonderfully did everything he took in hand prosper, that his\n'luck' became proverbial. Such uniform prosperity could not long\ncontinue without the tongue of envy and detraction being set wagging,\nand the neighbours who permitted thistles to overrun their pastures\nwhilst they gadded about to rush-bearings and wakes, finding a\nreproach to their idleness not only in the old man's success, but also\nin the careful, industrious habits of his daily life, were not slow to\ninsinuate that there was something more than farming at the bottom of\nit. 'Dannel' had sold himself to Satan, said some whose pigs had faded\naway, and whose harvests had not been worth the gathering; and others\npretended to know even the terms of the contract, and how many years\nthe old man yet had to play on. A few of these detractors were young\nmen whose imaginations were not kept in sufficient control, but they\ngrew wonderfully reserved respecting the Satanic bargain after the\nhearty Daniel had had an interview with them, and proved to them that\nhe had not forgotten the use of a good tough black-thorn.\n\n[A] Mr. Burton's grandson was for many years rector of All Saints',\nManchester.\n\n'It's nobbut luck,' philosophically remarked others, 'mebbe it'll be\nmy turn to-morn;' but the remainder vowed that neither luck or Evil\nOne had anything to do with it, for the success was due to the labours\nof Puck, King of the Fairies.\n\nThey were right. It was Puck, although no one ever knew how the old\nman had been able to enlist the services of so valuable an auxiliary,\nDaniel being strangely reticent upon the point, although generally by\nno means loth to speak of the fairies and their doings. Reserve with\nreference to these things, however, would not have availed much, for\nthe farm labourers, the ruddy-cheeked milkmaids, and the other\nwomen-folk about the farm-house, were fond of boasting of the exploits\nof Puck--how during the night everything was 'cleaned up,' and all was\nin apple-pie order when they came into the kitchen at daybreak, the\nmilk churned, the cows foddered, the necessary utensils filled with\nwater from the well, the horses ready harnessed for their day's work\nat the plough, and even a week's threshing done and the barn left as\ntidy as though it had just been emptied and swept. Evidently the\nservant lasses had no fear of, or objection to, a hard-working\nsupernatural visitor of this kind, but just the reverse, and many of\ntheir listeners found themselves wishing that their house, too, had\nits Boggart.\n\nFor so long a period did this state of things continue, each morning\nrevealing an astounding amount of work performed by the willing and\ninexpensive workman, that at length the assistance was taken for\ngranted, and as a matter of course, offering no food for surprise,\nalthough it did not cease to be a cause of envy to the neighbours.\n\nOn one occasion, however, as old Daniel was despatching a hearty and\nsubstantial breakfast, a heated labourer brought word that all the\ncorn had been housed during the past night. The strange story was true\nenough, for when the old man reached the field, where on the previous\nevening the golden sheaves of wheat had stood, he found the expanse\nquite bare, and as clean as though reapers, leaders, gleaners, and\ngeese had been carefully over it. The harvest was in the barn, but not\ncontent with this, Daniel, illustrating the old proverb that 'much\nwould have more,' suddenly exclaimed, 'I wonder whose horses Puck{4}\nused in this work. If yon of mine, I daresay he sweated them rarely;'\nand away he strode towards the stable. He had not reached the fold,\nhowever, when he met Puck coming towards him, and in a fever of greedy\nanxiety he cried, 'Puck, I doubt thou'st spoiled yon horses!' No\nsooner were the words out of his mouth, however, than he saw that for\nonce in his life he had made a mistake, for the fairy went pale with\nanger as he shouted in a shrill treble:--\n\n    Sheaf to field, and horse to stall,\n    I, the Fairy King, recall!\n    Never more shall drudge of mine\n    Stir a horse or sheaf of thine.\n\nAfter which vow he at once vanished.\n\nThe old man walked home in a sorrowful mood, and actually forgot to go\nto the stable; but next morning early he was disturbed by a knocking\nat his chamber door. 'Mesthur, ger up,' cried the messenger, who on\nthe previous day had brought the news of the housing of the corn,\n'Mesthur, ger up, th' corn's back i'th' fielt.' With a groan of\nanguish Daniel arose, and hastily made his way to the barn. All the\npile was gone, and the floor littered with straw, exactly as it was\nbefore the fairy labour had so transformed the place.\n\nIt did not take the farmer long to get over the ground between his\nbarn and the corn-field, and arrived there he found the expanse once\nmore covered with yellow sheaves, on which the beams of the rising sun\nwere beginning to fall. Here and there a sheaf had fallen upon the\nground, and everywhere straw and ears of corn were scattered about as\nthough the reapers had not long before left the place. The old man\nturned away in despair.\n\nFrom that time forward there was no more work done about the farm, or\nthe shippons, and stables; but in the house, however, the maids\ncontinued to find their tasks performed as usual.\n\nGreat were the rejoicings in the locality when the story of the\nsheaves became known, and it got noised about that 'Dannel's' fairy\nhad 'fown eawt' with him. The old man became very dejected, for\nalthough he did not clearly perceive that the rupture was entirely due\nto his own selfish greed, he could not go about the farm without\nobserving how much he had lost.\n\nOne summer evening in a thoughtful mood he was walking homewards, and\nwishing that the meadows were mown. Plunged in such reflections, he\nmet a neighbour, who at once asked the cause of his trouble. Daniel\nturned to point to the meadows, and as he did so he saw the fairy, in\nan attitude of rapt attention, stooping behind the hedgerow as though\nanxious to overhear the conversation. 'Yo' miss your neet-mon?' said\nthe neighbour. The old man thought that the time was come to make his\npeace with offended royalty, and with a cunning glance in the\ndirection of the hiding-place, he answered, 'I do, Abrum, and may God\nbless Puck, th' King o'th' Fayrees.'{5} There was a startled cry from\nbehind the hedgerow, and both men turned in that direction, but there\nwas nothing to be observed. The fairy had vanished, never again to be\nseen in Daniel Burton's fields. That night the work was left undone\neven inside the farm-house, and thenceforward when the kitchen needed\ncleaning, water was wanted from the well, or when milk had to be\nchurned, the maids had to get up early and do the work, for Puck, King\nof the Fairies, would not touch either mop or pail.\n\n\n\n\nMOTHER AND CHILD.\n\n\nThe tenants of Plumpton Hall had retired to rest somewhat earlier than\nwas their wont, for it was the last night of November.\n\nThe old low rooms were in darkness, and all was silent as the grave;\nfor though the residents, unfortunately for themselves, were not\nasleep, they held their breath, and awaited in fear the first stroke\nof the hour from the old clock in the kitchen. Suddenly the sound of\nhurried footsteps broke the silence; but with sighs of relief the\nterrified listeners found that the noise was made by a belated\nwayfarer, almost out of his wits with fright, but who was unable to\navoid passing the hall, and who, therefore, ran by the haunted\nbuilding as quickly as his legs could carry him. The sensation of\nescape, however, was of but short duration, for the hammer commenced\nto strike; and no sooner had the last stroke of eleven startled the\nechoes than loud thuds, as of a heavy object bumping upon the stairs,\nwere heard.\n\nThe quaking occupants of the chambers hid their heads beneath the\nbedclothes, for they knew that an old-fashioned oak chair was on its\nway down the noble staircase, and was sliding from step to step as\nthough dragged along by an invisible being who had only one hand at\nliberty.\n\nIf any one had dared to follow that chair across the wide passage and\ninto the wainscoted parlour, he would have been startled by the sight\nof a fire blazing in the grate, whence, ere the servants retired, even\nthe very embers had been removed, and in the chair, the marvellous\nmovement of which had so frightened all the inmates of the hall, he\nwould have seen a beautiful woman seated, with an infant at her\nbreast.\n\nYear after year, on wild nights, when the snow was driven against the\ndiamond panes, and the cry of the spirit of the storm came up from the\nsea, the weird firelight shone from the haunted room, and through the\nhouse sounded a mysterious crooning as the unearthly visitor softly\nsang a lullaby to her infant. Lads grew up into grey-headed men in the\nold house; and from youth to manhood, on the last night of each\nNovember, they had heard the notes, but none of them ever had caught,\neven when custom had somewhat deadened the terror which surrounded the\nevents of the much-dreaded anniversary, the words of the song the\nghostly woman sang. The maids, too, had always found the grate as it\nwas left before the visit--not a cinder or speck of dust remaining to\ntell of the strange fire, and no one had ever heard the chair ascend\nthe stairs. Chair and fire and child and mother, however, were seen by\nmany a weary wayfarer, drawn to the house by the hospitable look of\nthe window, through which the genial glow of the burning logs shone\nforth into the night, but who, by tapping at the pane and crying for\nshelter, could not attract the attention of the pale nurse, clad in a\nquaint old costume with lace ruff and ruffles, and singing a mournful\nand melodious lullaby to the child resting upon her beautiful bosom.\n\nTradition tells of one of these wanderers, a footsore and miserable\nseafaring man on the tramp, who, attracted by the welcome glare, crept\nto the panes, and seeing the cosy-looking fire, and the Madonna-faced\nmother tenderly nursing her infant, rapped at the glass and begged for\na morsel of food and permission to sleep in the hayloft--and, finding\nhis pleadings unanswered, loudly cursed the woman who could sit and\nenjoy warmth and comfort and turn a deaf ear to the prayers of the\nhomeless and hungry; upon which the seated figure turned the weird\nlight of its wild eyes upon him and almost changed him to stone--a\nlabourer, going to his daily toil in the early morn, finding the poor\nwretch gazing fixedly through the window, against which his\nterror-stricken face was closely pressed, his hair turned white by\nfear, and his fingers convulsively clutching the casement.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SPECTRAL CAT.\n\n\nLong ago--so long, in fact, that the date has been lost in\nobscurity--the piously-inclined inhabitants of the then thickly wooded\nand wild country stretching from the sea-coast to Rivington Pike and\nHoghton determined to erect a church at Whittle-le-Woods, and a site\nhaving been selected, the first stone was laid with all the ceremony\ndue to so important and solemn a proceeding. Assisted by the labours\nas well as by the contributions of the faithful, the good priest was\nin high spirits; and as the close of the first day had seen the\nfoundations set out and goodly piles of materials brought upon the\nground ready for the future, he fell asleep congratulating himself\nupon having lived long enough to see the wish of his heart gratified.\nWhat was his surprise, however, when, after arising at the break of\nday, and immediately rushing to his window to gaze upon the work, he\ncould not perceive either foundation or pile of stone, the field in\nwhich he expected to observe the promising outline being as green and\nshowing as few marks of disturbance as the neighbouring ones.{6}\n\n'Surely I must have been dreaming,' said the good man, as he stood\nwith rueful eyes at the little casement, 'for there are not any signs\neither of the gifts or the labours of the pious sons of the church.'\n\nIn this puzzled frame of mind, and with a heavy sigh, he once more\ncourted sleep. He had not slumbered long, however, when loud knocks at\nthe door of his dwelling and lusty cries for Father Ambrose disturbed\nhim. Hastily attiring himself, he descended, to find a concourse of\npeople assembled in front of the house; and no sooner had he opened\nthe door than a mason cried out--\n\n'Father Ambrose, where are the foundations we laid yesterday, and\nwhere is the stone from the quarry?'\n\n'Then I did not simply dream that I had blessed the site?' said the\nold man, inquiringly.\n\nUpon which there was a shout of laughter, and a sturdy young fellow\nasked--\n\n'And I did not dream that I carted six loads from the quarry?'\n\n'Th' Owd Lad's hed a hand int',' said a labourer, 'for t' fielt's as\nif fuut hed never stept int'.'\n\nThe priest and his people at once set off to inspect the site, and\nsure enough it was in the state described by the mason; cowslips and\nbuttercups decking the expanse of green, which took different shades\nas the zephyr swept over it.\n\n'Well, I'm fair capped,' said a grey-headed old farmer. 'I've hed\nthings stown afoor today, bud they'n generally bin things wi' feathers\non an' good to heyt an' not th' feaundations uv a church. Th' warlt's\ngerrin' ter'ble wickit. We's hev' to bi lukkin' eawt for another\nNoah's flood, I warrant.'\n\nA peal of laughter followed this sally, but Father Ambrose, who was in\nno mood for mirth, sternly remarked--'There is something here which\nsavoureth of the doings of Beelzebub;' and then he sadly turned away,\nleaving the small crowd of gossips speculating upon the events of the\nnight. Before the father reached his dwelling, however, he heard his\nname called by a rustic who was running along the road.\n\n'Father Ambrose,' cried the panting messenger, 'here's the strangest\nthing happened at Leyland. The foundations of a church and all sorts\nof building materials have been laid in a field during the night, and\nAdam the miller is vowing vengeance against you for having trespassed\non his land.'\n\nThe priest at once returned to the little crowd of people, who still\nwere gaping at the field from which all signs of labour had been so\nwonderfully removed, and bade the messenger repeat the strange story,\nwhich he did at somewhat greater length, becoming loquacious in the\npresence of his equals, for he enjoyed their looks of astonishment.\nWhen the astounding narrative had been told, the crowd at once started\nfor Leyland, their pastor promising to follow after he had fortified\nhimself with breakfast.\n\nWhen the good man reached the village he had no need to inquire which\nwas Adam the miller's field, for he saw the crowd gathered in a\nrich-looking meadow. As he opened the gate Adam met him, and without\nceremony at once accused him of having taken possession of his field.\n'Peace, Adam,' said the priest. 'The field hath been taken not by me,\nbut by a higher power, either good or evil--I fear the latter,' and he\nmade his way to the people. True enough, the foundations were laid as\nat Whittle, and even the mortar was ready for the masons. 'I am loth\nto think that this is a sorry jest of the Evil One,' said Father\nAmbrose; 'ye must help me to outwit him, and to give him his labour\nfor his pains. Let each one carry what he can, and, doubtless, Adam\nwill be glad to cart the remainder,'--a proposition the burly miller\nagreed to at once. Accordingly each of the people walked off with a\npiece of wood, and Adam started for his team. Before long the field\nwas cleared, and ere sunset the foundations were again laid in the\noriginal place, and a goodly piece of wall had been built.\n\nGrown wise by experience, the priest selected two men to watch the\nplace during the night. Naturally enough, these worthies, who by no\nmeans liked the task, but were afraid to decline it, determined to\nmake themselves as comfortable as they could under the circumstances.\n\nThey therefore carried to the place a quantity of food and drink, and\na number of empty sacks, with which they constructed an impromptu\ncouch near the blazing wood fire. Notwithstanding the seductive\ninfluence of the liquor, they were not troubled with much company, for\nthe few people who resided in the vicinity did not care to remain out\nof doors late after what Father Ambrose had said as to the proceeding\nhaving been a joke of Satan's. The priest, however, came to see the\nmen, and after giving them his blessing, and a few words of advice, he\nleft them to whatever the night might bring forth. No sooner had he\ngone than the watchers put up some boards to shield them from the\nwind, and, drawing near to the cheerful fire, they began to partake of\na homely but plentiful supper. Considering how requisite it was that\nthey should be in possession of all their wits, perhaps it would have\nbeen better had not a large bottle been in such frequent requisition,\nfor, soon after the meal was ended, what with the effects of the\nby-no-means weak potion, the warmth and odour sent forth by the\ncrackling logs, and the musical moaning of the wind in the branches\noverhead, they began to feel drowsy, to mutter complaints against the\nhardship of their lot, and to look longingly upon the heap of sacks.\n\n'If owt comes,' said the oldest of the two, 'one con see it as well as\ntwo, an' con wakken t' tother--theerfore I'm in for a nod.' And he at\nonce flung himself upon the rude bed.\n\n'Well,' said the younger one, who was perched upon a log close to the\nfire, 'hev thi own way, an' tha'll live lunger; but I'se wakken tha\nsoon, an' hev a doze mysen. That's fair, isn't it?'\n\nTo this question there was no response, for the old man was already\nasleep. The younger one immediately reached the huge bottle, and after\ndrinking a hearty draught from it placed it within reach, saying, as\nhe did so--\n\n'I'm nooan freetunt o' thee, as heaw it is! Thaart not Belsybub, are\nta?'\n\nBefore long he bowed his head upon his hands, and gazing into the fire\ngave way to a pleasant train of reflections, in which the miller's\ndaughter played a by-no-means unimportant part. In a little while he,\ntoo, began to doze and nod, and the ideas and thronging fancies soon\ngave way to equally delightful dreams.\n\nDay was breaking when the pair awoke; the fire was out, and the noisy\nbirds were chirping their welcome to the sun. For a while the watchers\nstared at each other with well-acted surprise.\n\n'I'm freetunt tha's o'erslept thysel',' said the young fellow; 'and\nrayly I do think as I've bin noddin' a bit mysen.' And then, as he\nturned round, 'Why, it's gone ageean! Jacob, owd lad! th' foundation,\nan' th' wo's, an' o th' lots o' stooans are off t' Leyland ageean!'\n\nThe field was again clear, grass and meadow flowers covering its\nexpanse, and after a long conference the pair determined that the best\ncourse for them to pursue would be that of immediately confessing to\nFather Ambrose that they had been asleep. Accordingly they wended\ntheir way to his house, and having succeeded in arousing him, and\ngetting him to the door, the young man informed him that once more the\nfoundations were missing.\n\n'What took them?' asked the priest. To which awkward query the old man\nreplied, that they did not see anything.\n\n'Then ye slept, did ye?' asked the Father.\n\n'Well,' said the young man, 'we did nod a minnit or two; but we wir\ntoired wi' watchin' so closely; an', yo' see, that as con carry th'\nfoundations ov a church away connot hev mich trouble i' sendin'\nunlarnt chaps loike Jacob an' me to sleep agen eaur will.'\n\nThis ended the colloquy, for Father Ambrose laughed heartily at the\nready answer. Shortly afterwards, as on the preceding day, the\nmessenger from Leyland arrived with tidings that the walls had again\nappeared in Adam's field. Again they were carted back, and placed in\ntheir original position, and once more was a watch set, the priest\ntaking the precaution of remaining with the men until near upon\nmidnight. Almost directly after he had left the field one of the\nwatchers suddenly started from his seat, and cried--\n\n'See yo', yonder, there's summat wick!'\n\nBoth men gazed intently, and saw a huge cat, with great\nunearthly-looking eyes, and a tail with a barbed end. Without any\nseeming difficulty this terrible animal took up a large stone, and\nhopped off with it, returning almost immediately for another. This\nstrange performance went on for some time, the two observers being\nnearly petrified by terror; but at length the younger one said--\n\n'I'm like to put a stop to yon wark, or hee'll say win bin asleep\nageean,' and seizing a large piece of wood he crept down the field,\nthe old man following closely behind. When he reached the cat, which\ntook no notice of his approach, he lifted his cudgel, and struck the\nanimal a heavy blow on its head. Before he had time to repeat it,\nhowever, the cat, with a piercing scream, sprang upon him, flung him\nto the ground, and fixed its teeth in his throat. The old man at once\nfled for the priest. When he returned with him, cat, foundations, and\nmaterials were gone; but the dead body of the poor watcher was there,\nwith glazed eyes, gazing at the pitiless stars.\n\nAfter this terrible example of the power of the fiendish labourer it\nwas not considered advisable to attempt a third removal, and the\nbuilding was proceeded with upon the site at Leyland chosen by the\nspectre.\n\nThe present parish church covers the place long occupied by the\noriginal building; and although all the actors in this story passed\naway centuries ago, a correct likeness of the cat has been preserved,\nand may be seen by the sceptical.{7}\n\n\n\n\nTHE CAPTURED FAIRIES.\n\n\nThere once lived in the little village of Hoghton two idle,\ngood-for-nothing fellows, who, somehow or other, managed to exist\nwithout spending the day, from morn to dewy eve, at the loom. When\ntheir more respectable neighbours were hard at work they generally\nwere to be seen either hanging about the doorway of the little\nale-house or playing at dominoes inside the old-fashioned hostelry;\nand many a time in broad daylight their lusty voices might be heard as\nthey trolled forth the hearty poaching ditty,\n\n    'It's my delight, on a shiny night.'\n\nIt was understood that they had reason to sympathise with the\nsentiments expressed in the old ballad. Each was followed by a ragged,\nsuspicious-looking lurcher; and as the four lounged about the place\nsteady-going people shook their heads, and prophesied all sorts of\nunpleasant terminations to so unsatisfactory a career. So far as the\ndogs were concerned the dismal forebodings were verified, for from\npoaching in the society of their masters the clever lurchers took to\ndoing a little on their own account, and both were shot in the pursuit\nof game by keepers, who were only too glad of an opportunity of\nridding the neighbourhood of such misdirected intelligence. Soon after\nthis unfortunate event, the two men, who themselves had a narrow\nescape, had their nets taken; and, as they were too poor to purchase\nothers, and going about to borrow such articles was equivalent to\naccusing their friends of poaching habits, they were reduced to the\nnecessity of using sacks whenever they visited the squire's fields.\n\nOne night, after climbing the fence and making their way to a\nwell-stocked warren, they put in a solitary ferret and rapidly fixed\nthe sacks over the burrows. They did not wait long in anxious\nexpectation of an exodus before there was a frantic rush, and after\nhastily grasping the sacks tightly round the necks, and tempting their\nmissionary from the hole, they crept through the hedgerow, and at a\nsharp pace started for home. For some time they remained unaware of\nthe nature of their load, and they were congratulating themselves upon\nthe success which had crowned their industry, when suddenly there came\na cry from one of the prisoners, 'Dick, wheer art ta?' The poachers\nstood petrified with alarm; and almost immediately a voice from the\nother bag piped out--\n\n    'In a sack,\n    On a back,\n    Riding up Hoghton Brow.'{8}\n\nThe terrified men at once let their loads fall, and fled at the top of\ntheir speed, leaving behind them the bags full of fairies, who had\nbeen driven from their homes by the intruding ferret. Next morning,\nhowever, the two poachers ventured to the spot where they had heard\nthe supernatural voices. The sacks neatly folded were lying at the\nside of the road, and the men took them up very tenderly, as though in\nexpectation of another mysterious utterance, and crept off with them.\n\nNeed it be said that those bags were not afterwards used for any\npurpose more exciting than the carriage of potatoes from the\npreviously neglected bit of garden, the adventure having quite cured\nthe men of any desire to 'pick up' rabbits.\n\nLike most sudden conversions, however, that of the two poachers into\nhard-working weavers was regarded with suspicion by the inhabitants of\nthe old-world village, and in self-defence the whilom wastrels were\nforced to tell the story of the imprisonment of the fairies. The\nwonderful narrative soon got noised abroad; and as the changed\ncharacters, on many a summer evening afterwards, sat hard at work in\ntheir loom-house, and, perhaps almost instinctively, hummed the old\nditty,\n\n    'It's my delight, on a shiny night,'\n\nthe shock head of a lad would be protruded through the honeysuckle\nwhich almost covered the casement, as the grinning youngster, who had\nbeen patiently waiting for the weaver to commence his song and give an\nopportunity for the oft-repeated repartee, cried, 'Nay, it isn't thi\ndelight; \"Dick, wheer art ta?\"'\n\n\n\n\nTHE PILLION LADY.\n\n\nIt was on a beautiful night in the middle of summer that Humphrey\nDobson, after having transacted a day's business at Garstang market,\nand passed some mirthful hours with a number of jovial young fellows\nin the best parlour of the Ffrances Arms, with its oak furniture and\npeacock feathers, mounted his steady-going mare, and set off for home.\nHe had got some distance from the little town, and was rapidly nearing\na point where the road crossed a stream said to be haunted by the\nspirit of a female who had been murdered many years back; and although\nthe moon was shining brightly, and the lonely rider could see far\nbefore him, there was one dark spot overshadowed by trees a little in\nadvance which Humphrey feared to reach. He felt a thrill of terror as\nhe suddenly remembered the many strange stories told of the headless\nwoman whose sole occupation and delight seemed to be that of\nterrifying travellers; but, with a brave endeavour to laugh off his\nfears, he urged his horse forward, and attempted to troll forth the\nburden of an old song:--\n\n    'He rode and he rode till he came to the dooar,\n    And Nell came t' oppen it, as she'd done afooar:\n    \"Come, get off thy horse,\" she to him did say,\n    \"An' put it i'th' stable, an' give it some hay.\"'\n\nIt would not do, however; and suddenly he put spurs to the mare and\ngalloped towards the little bridge. No sooner did the horse's hoofs\nring upon the stones than Humphrey heard a weird and unearthly laugh\nfrom beneath the arch, and, as the animal snorted and bounded forward,\nthe young fellow felt an icy arm glide round his waist and a light\npressure against his back. Drops of perspiration fell from his brow,\nand his heart throbbed wildly, but he did not dare to look behind lest\nhis worst fears should be verified, and he should behold 'th' boggart\no'th' bruk.'\n\nAs though conscious of its ghastly burden, the old mare ran as she\nnever had run before; the hedgerows and trees seemed to fly past,\nwhile sparks streamed from the flints in the road, and in an\nincredibly short space of time the farm-house was reached.\nInstinctively, Humphrey tried to guide the mare into the yard, but his\nefforts were powerless, for the terrified animal had got the bit in\nher teeth, and away she sped past the gateway.\n\nAs the rider was thus borne away, another sepulchral laugh broke the\nsilence, but this time it sounded so close to the horseman's ear that\nhe involuntarily looked round.\n\nHe found that the figure, one of whose arms was twined round his\nwaist, was not the headless being of whom he had heard so many fearful\nnarratives, but another and a still more terrible one, for, grinning\nin a dainty little hood, and almost touching his face, there was a\nghastly skull, with eyeless sockets, and teeth gleaming white in the\nclear moonlight.\n\nPetrified by fear, he could not turn his head away, and, as the mare\nbore him rapidly along, ever and anon a horrid derisive laugh sounded\nin his ears as for a moment the teeth parted and then closed with a\nsudden snap. Terrified as he was, however, he noticed that the arm\nwhich encircled his body gradually tightened around him, and putting\ndown his hand to grasp it he found it was that of a fleshless\nskeleton.\n\nHow long he rode thus embraced by a spectre he knew not, but it seemed\nan age.\n\nSuddenly, however, as at a turn in the road the horse stumbled and\nfell, Humphrey, utterly unprepared for any such occurrence, was thrown\nover the animal's head and stunned by the fall.\n\nWhen he recovered full consciousness it was daybreak. The sun was\nrising, the birds were singing in the branching foliage overhead, and\nthe old mare was quietly grazing at a distance. With great difficulty,\nfor he was faint through loss of blood, and lame, he got home and told\nhis story. There were several stout men about the farm who professed\nto disbelieve it, and pretended to laugh at the idea of a skeleton\nhorsewoman, who, without saying with your leave or by your leave, had\nridden pillion with the young master, but it was somewhat remarkable\nthat none of them afterwards could be induced to cross the bridge over\nthe haunted stream after 'th' edge o' dark.'\n\n\n\n\nTHE FAIRY FUNERAL.\n\n\nThere are few spots in Lancashire more likely to have been peopled by\nfairies than that portion of the highway which runs along the end of\nPenwortham wood.\n\nAt all times the locality is very beautiful, but it is especially so\nin summer, when the thin line of trees on the one side of the road and\nthe rustling wood upon the other cast a welcome shade upon the\ntraveller, who can rest against the old railings, and look down upon a\nrich expanse of meadow-land and corn-fields, bounded in the distance\nby dim, solemn-looking hills, and over the white farm-houses, snugly\nset in the midst of luxurious vegetation. From this vantage-ground a\nflight of steps leads down to the well of St. Mary, the water of\nwhich, once renowned for its miraculous efficacy, is as clear as\ncrystal and of never-ceasing flow.\n\nTo this sacred neighbourhood thousands of pilgrims have wended their\nway; and although the legend of the holy well has been lost, it is\neasy to understand with what superstitious reverence the place would\nbe approached by those whose faith was of a devout and unquestioning\nkind, and what feelings would influence those whose hearts were heavy\nwith the weight of a great sorrow as they descended the steps worn by\nthe feet of their countless predecessors.\n\nFrom the little spring a pathway winds across meadows and through\ncorn-fields to the sheltered village, and a little further along the\nhighway a beautiful avenue winds from the old lodge gates to the\nancient church and priory. Wide as is this road it is more than shaded\nby the tall trees which tower on each side, their topmost branches\nalmost interlaced, the sunbeams passing through the green network, and\nthrowing fantastic gleams of light upon the pathway, along which so\nmany have been carried to the quiet God's Acre.\n\nAt the end of this long and beautiful walk stands the old priory, no\nlonger occupied by the Benedictines from Evesham, the silvery sound of\nwhose voices at eventide used to swell across the rippling Ribble;\nand, a little to the right of the pile, the Church of St. Mary, with\nits background of the Castle Hill.\n\nBy the foot of this Ancient British and Roman outlook there is a\nlittle farm-house, with meadow land stretching away to the broad\nriver; and one night, fifty or sixty years ago, two men, one of whom\nwas a local 'cow-doctor,' whose duties had compelled him to remain\nuntil a late hour, set out from this dwelling to walk home to the\nstraggling village of Longton. It was near upon midnight when they\nstepped forth, but it was as light as mid-day, the moon shining in all\nher beauty, and casting her glamour upon the peaceful scene. So quiet\nwas it that it seemed as though even the Zephyrs were asleep. There\nwas not a breath of wind, and not a leaf rustled or a blade of grass\nstirred, and had it not been for the sounds of the footsteps of the\ntwo men, who were rapidly ascending the rough cart-track winding up\nthe side of the hill, all would have been as still as death. The sweet\nsilence was a fitting one, for in the graveyard by the side of the\nlane through which the travellers were passing, and over the low\nmoss-covered wall of which might be seen the old-fashioned tombstones,\nerect like so many sentinels marking the confines of the battle-field\nof life, hundreds were sleeping the sleep with which only the music of\nthe leaves, the sough of the wind, and the sigh of the sea seem in\nharmony.\n\nAs the two men opened the gate at the corner of the churchyard, the\nold clock sounded the first stroke of midnight.\n\n'That's twelve on 'em,' said the oldest of the two.\n\n'Ay, Adam,' said the other, a taller and much younger man. 'Another\nday's passin' away, an' it con't dee wi'eaut tellin' everybody; yet\nther's bod few on us as tez onny notice on't, for we connot do to be\ntowd as wer toime's growin' bod short. I should think as tha dusn't\ncare to hear th' clock strike, Adam, to judge bith' colour o' thi\ntoppin', for tha 'rt gerrin' varra wintry lookin'.'\n\nThe old man chuckled at this sally, and then said, slowly and drily:--\n\n'Speyk for thisen, Robin--speyk for thisen; an' yet why should ta\nspeyk at o? Choilt as tha are--an' tha art nobbut a choilt, clivver as\ntha fancies thisen--tha 'rt owd enough to mind as it's nod olus th'\ngrey-heeoded uns as dees th' fost. Th' chickins fo' off th' peeark\nmooar oftener nor th' owd brids. Ther's monny an owd tree wi' nobbud a\ntwothree buds o' green abaat it, to show as it wur yung wonst, as\ntha'd hev herd wark to delve up, th' roots bein' so deep i'th' graand;\nan' ther's monny a rook o' young-lukkin' uns as tha met poo up as\nyezzy as a hondful o' sallet. It teks leetnin' to kill th' owd oak,\nbut th' fost nippin' woint off th' Martch yon soon puts th' bonnie\nspring posies out o' seet. If I'm growin' owd, let's hope I'm roipnin'\nas weel. Tha'rt not th' fost bit of a lad as thowt heer baan to last o\nth' tothers aat, an' as hed hardly toime to finish his crowin' afoor\nth' sexton clapt o honful o' sond i' his meauth.'\n\nThis conversation brought the two beyond the gate and some distance\nalong the avenue, in which the moonlight was somewhat toned by the\nthickness of the foliage above, and they were rapidly nearing the\nlodge gates, when suddenly the solemn sound of a deep-toned bell\nbroke the silence. Both men stopped and listened intently.\n\n'That's th' passin'-bell,'{9} said Adam. 'Wodever con be up? I never\nknew it rung at this toime o'th' neet afooar.'\n\n'Mek less racket, will ta,' said Robin. 'Led's keep count an' see heaw\nowd it is.'\n\nWhilst the bell chimed six-and-twenty both listeners stood almost\nbreathless, and then Adam said:--\n\n'He's thy age, Robin, chuz who he is.'\n\n'Ther wer no leet i 'th' belfry as wi come by, as I see on,' said the\nyoung man, 'I'd rayther be i' bed nor up theer towlin' ad this toime,\nwudn't tha?'\n\n'Yoi,' said Adam. 'But owd Jemmy dusn't care, an' why should he? Hee's\nbin amung th' deeod to' long to be freet'nt on 'em neet or day, wake\nan' fable as he is. I dar' say hee's fun aat afoor neaw as they'r not\nvarra rough to dale wi'. Ther's nod mich feightin i'th' bury-hoyle,\nbeaut ids wi' th' resurrectioners. Bud led's get to'art whoam, lad;\nwe're loikely enough to larn o abaat it to-morn.'\n\nWithout more words they approached the lodge, but to their great\nterror, when they were within a few yards from the little dwelling,\nthe gates noiselessly swung open, the doleful tolling of the\npassing-bell being the only sound to be heard. Both men stepped back\naffrighted as a little figure clad in raiment of a dark hue, but\nwearing a bright red cap, and chanting some mysterious words in a low\nmusical voice as he walked, stepped into the avenue.\n\n'Ston back, mon,' cried Adam, in a terrified voice--'ston back; it's\nth' feeorin; bud they'll not hort tha if tha dusna meddle wi' um.'\n\nThe young man forthwith obeyed his aged companion, and standing\ntogether against the trunk of a large tree, they gazed at the\nminiature being stepping so lightly over the road, mottled by the\nstray moonbeams. It was a dainty little object; but although neither\nAdam nor Robin could comprehend the burden of the song it sang, the\nunmistakable croon of grief with which each stave ended told the\nlisteners that the fairy was singing a requiem. The men kept perfectly\nsilent, and in a little while the figure paused and turned round, as\nthough in expectation, continuing, however, its mournful notes.\nBy-and-by the voices of other singers were distinguished, and as they\ngrew louder the fairy standing in the roadway ceased to render the\nverse, and sang only the refrain, and a few minutes afterwards Adam\nand Robin saw a marvellous cavalcade pass through the gateway. A\nnumber of figures, closely resembling the one to which their attention\nhad first been drawn, walked two by two, and behind them others with\ntheir caps in their hands, bore a little black coffin, the lid of\nwhich was drawn down so as to leave a portion of the contents\nuncovered. Behind these again others, walking in pairs, completed the\nprocession. All were singing in inexpressibly mournful tones, pausing\nat regular intervals to allow the voice of the one in advance to be\nheard, as it chanted the refrain of the song, and when the last couple\nhad passed into the avenue, the gates closed as noiselessly as they\nhad opened.\n\nAs the bearers of the burden marched past the two watchers, Adam bent\ndown, and, by the help of a stray gleam of moonlight, saw that there\nwas a little corpse in the coffin.\n\n'Robin, mi lad,' said he, in a trembling voice and with a scared look,\n'it's th' pictur o' thee as they hev i' th' coffin!'\n\nWith a gasp of terror the young man also stooped towards the\nbearers, and saw clearly enough that the face of the figure borne by\nthe fairies indeed closely resembled his own, save that it was ghastly\nwith the pallor and dews of death.\n\nThe procession had passed ere he was able to speak, for, already much\naffrighted by the appearance of the fairies, the sight of the little\ncorpse had quite unnerved him. Clinging in a terrified manner to the\nold man, he said, in a broken voice--\n\n'It raley wor me, Adam! Dust think it's a warnin', an' I'm abaat to\ndee?'\n\nThe old man stepped out into the road as he replied--\n\n'It wur a quare seet, Robin, no daat; bud I've sin monny sich i' mi\ntoime, an' theyne come to nowt i' th' end. Warnin' or not, haaever,'\nhe added, with strong common sense, 'ther'll be no harm done bi thee\nlivin' as if it wur one.'\n\nThe mournful music of the strange singers and the solemn sound of the\npassing bell could still be heard, and the two awe-struck men stood\ngazing after the cavalcade.\n\n'It mon be a warnin', again said Robin, 'an' I wish I'd axed um haa\nsoon I've to dee. Mebbee they'n a towd me.'\n\n'I don't think they wod,' said Adam. 'I've olus heeard as they'r rare\nand vext if they'r spokken to. Theyn happen a done tha some lumberment\nif tha 'ad axed owt.'\n\n'They could but a kilt mi,' replied Robin, adding, with that grim\nhumour which so often accompanies despair, 'an' they're buryin' mi\nneaw, ar'nod they?' Then in a calm and firm voice he said--'I'm baan\nto ax 'em, come wod will. If tha 'rt freetent tha con goo on whoam.'\n\n'Nay, nay,' said Adam warmly, 'I'm nooan scaret. If tha'rt for\ncatechoizing um, I'll see th' end on it.'\n\nWithout further parley the men followed after and soon overtook the\nprocession, which was just about to enter the old churchyard, the\ngates of which, like those of the lodge, swung open apparently of\ntheir own accord, and no sooner did Robin come up with the bearers\nthan, in a trembling voice, he cried--\n\n'Winnot yo' tell mi haaw lung I've to live?'\n\nThere was not any answer to this appeal, the little figure in front\ncontinuing to chant its refrain with even deepened mournfulness.\nImagining that he was the leader of the band, Robin stretched out his\nhand and touched him. No sooner had he done this than, with startling\nsuddenness, the whole cavalcade vanished, the gates banged to with a\nloud clang, deep darkness fell upon everything, the wind howled and\nmoaned round the church and the tombstones in the graveyard, the\nbranches creaked and groaned overhead, drops of rain pattered upon the\nleaves, mutterings of thunder were heard, and a lurid flash of\nlightning quivered down the gloomy avenue.\n\n'I towd tha haa it ud be,' said Adam, and Robin simply answered--\n\n'I'm no worse off than befooar. Let's mak' toart whoam; bud say nowt\nto aar fowk--it ud nobbut freeten th' wimmin.'\n\nBefore the two men reached the lodge gates a terrible storm burst over\nthem, and through it they made their way to the distant village.\n\nA great change came over Robin, and from being the foremost in every\ncountryside marlock he became serious and reserved, invariably at the\nclose of the day's work rambling away, as though anxious to shun\nmankind, or else spending the evening at Adam's talking over 'th'\nwarnin'.' Strange to say, about a month afterwards he fell from a\nstack, and after lingering some time, during which he often\ndeliriously rambled about the events of the dreadful night, he dozed\naway, Old Jemmy, the sexton, had another grave to open, and the\ngrey-headed Adam was one of the bearers who carried Robin's corpse\nalong the avenue in which they had so short a time before seen the\nfairy funeral.{10}\n\n\n\n\nTHE CHIVALROUS DEVIL.\n\n\nAbout half-a-century ago there lived, in a lane leading away from a\nlittle village near Garstang, a poor idiot named Gregory. He was at\nonce the sport and the terror of the young folks. Uniformly kind to\nthem, carefully convoying them to the spots where, in his lonely\nrambles, he had noticed birds' nests, or pressing upon them the wild\nflowers he had gathered in the neighbouring woods and thickets, he\nreceived at their ungrateful hands all kinds of ill treatment, not\nalways stopping short of personal violence. In this respect, however,\nthe thoughtless children only followed the example set them by their\nelders, for seldom did poor Gregory pass along the row of cottages,\ndignified by the name of street, which constituted the village,\nwithout an unhandsome head being projected from the blacksmith's or\ncobbler's shop, or from a doorway, and a cruel taunt being sent after\nthe idiot, who, in his ragged clothing, with his handful of harebells\nand primroses, and a wreath of green leaves round his battered, old\nhat, jogged along towards his mother's cottage, singing as he went, in\na pathetic monotone, a snatch of an old Lancashire ballad.\n\nIn accordance with that holy law which, under such circumstances,\ninfluences woman's heart, the mother loved this demented lad with\npassionate fondness, all the tenderness with which her nature had been\nendowed having been called forth by the needs of the afflicted child,\nwhose only haven of refuge from the harshness of his surroundings and\nthe cruelty of those who, had not they been as ignorant as the hogs\nthey fed, would have pitied and protected him, was her breast.\nLavishing all her affection upon the poor lad, she had no kindness to\nspare for those who tormented him; and abstaining from any of those\nmelodramatic and vulgar curses with which a person of less education\nwould have followed those who abused her child, she studiously held\nherself aloof from her neighbours, and avoided meeting them, except\nwhen she was compelled to purchase food or other articles for her\nlittle household. This conduct gave an excuse for much ill\nfeeling, and as the woman had no need to toil for her daily bread, and\nas her cottage was the neatest in the district, there was much\njealousy.\n\nOne night, at a jovial gathering, it was arranged that a practical\njoke, of what was considered a very humorous kind, should be played\nupon the idiot. The boors selected one of their party, whose task it\nshould be to attire himself in a white sheet, and to emerge into the\nlane when the poor lad should make his appearance. In accordance with\nthis plan the pack of hobbledehoys watched the cottage night after\nnight, in the hope of seeing the idiot leave the dwelling, and at\nlength their patience was rewarded. They immediately hid themselves in\nthe ditch, while the mock ghost concealed himself behind the trunk of\na tree. The lad, not suspecting any evil, came along, humming, in his\nmelancholy monotone, the usual fragment, and just before he reached\nthe tree the sheeted figure slowly stepped forth to the accompaniment\nof the groanings and bellowings of his associates. They had expected\nto see the idiot flee in terror; but instead of so doing, he laughed\nloudly at the white figure, and then suddenly, as the expression of\nhis face changed to one of intense interest, he shouted, 'Oh, oh! a\nblack one! a black one!' Sure enough, a dark and terrible figure stood\nin the middle of the road. The mock ghost fled, with his companions at\nhis heels, the real spectre chasing them hotly, and the idiot bringing\nup the rear, shouting at the top of his voice, 'Run, black devil!\ncatch white devil!'\n\nThey were not long in reaching the village, down the street of which\nthey ran faster than they ever had run before. Several of them darted\ninto the smithy, where the blacksmith was scattering the sparks right\nand left as he hammered away at the witch-resisting horseshoes, and\nothers fled into the inn, where they startled the gathered company of\nidle gossips; but the mock ghost kept on wildly, looking neither to\nthe left nor to the right. The idiot had kept close behind the phantom\nat the heels of the mock ghost, and when at the end of the village the\nspectre vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, the lad ran a little\nfaster and took its place. Of this, however, the white-sheeted young\nfellow was not aware, and, fearing every moment that the shadow would\ncatch him in its awful embrace, he dashed down a by lane. Before he\ngot very far, however, the idiot, who had gradually been lessening the\ndistance between them, overtook and seized him by the neck. With a\nterrible cry the rustic fell headlong into the ditch, dragging Gregory\nwith him as he fell. The latter was soon upon his feet, and dancing\nabout the lane as he cried, 'Catch white devil! catch white devil!'\nThe mock ghost, however, lay quiet enough among the nettles.\n\nRoused by the story told by the affrighted ones who had rushed so\nunceremoniously into their presence, as well as by the startling cry\nof 'Run, black devil! catch white devil!' which the idiot had shouted\nas he sped past the door, several of the topers emerged from their\nabiding place; and as nothing could be seen of either mock ghost,\nspectre, or idiot, they bravely determined to go in search of them. As\nthey passed along the road from the village, their attention was\nattracted by the cries which seemed to come from the lonely lane, and\nsomewhat nervously making their way along it, they soon saw the idiot\ndancing about the side of the ditch. With a sudden access of courage,\ndue to the presence of anything human, however weak, they hurried\nalong, and as they drew nearer, the idiot paused in his gambols, and\npointed to the mock ghost, who lay stretched in the shadow of the\nhedgerow. He was soon carried away to the village, where he lay ill\nfor weeks.\n\nThe kindness of Gregory's mother to the sick lad's parents, who were\nvery poor and could ill afford to provide the necessary comforts his\ncondition required, caused public feeling to turn in her favour, and\nthose who formerly had been loudest in defaming her became her warmest\neulogists. Between the idiot and the young fellow, too, a strange\nfriendship sprang up, and the pair might often be seen passing along\nthe lanes, the idiot chanting his melancholy fragments to the\ncompanion whose cap he had adorned with wreaths of wild flowers.\n\nWith such a protector the idiot was quite safe, and, indeed, had the\nvillage children been wishful to torment Gregory, if the presence of\nthis companion had not sufficed to restrain them, they had only to\nremember that it was in defence of poor Gregory the Evil One himself\nhad raced through the village.{11}\n\n\n\n\nTHE ENCHANTED FISHERMAN.\n\n\nThere are few views in the north of England more beautiful than that\nwhich is seen from Morecambe, as the spectator looks over the\nbeautiful bay, with its crescent coast-line of nearly fifty miles in\nextent. At low water the dazzling sands, streaked by silvery deceptive\nchannels, stretch to the distant glimmering sea, the music of whose\nheavings comes but faintly on the gentle breeze; but at tide-time a\nmagnificent expanse of rolling waves sweeps away to Peel, and is\ndotted over with red-sailed fishing boats and coasters. Far to the\nnorth the huge heather-covered Furness Fells stand sentinel-like over\nthe waters, and above them, dimly seen through the faint blue haze,\ntower the grand mountains of the magic lake country. The scene is full\nof a sweet dream-like beauty; but there are times when the beautiful\nis swallowed in the majestic, as the mists come creeping over the sea,\nobscuring the coasts, and hiding everything save the white caps of the\nwaves gleaming in the darkness, through which the muttering diapasons\nof the wind, as though in deep distress, sound mysteriously; or when,\nin winter, the moon is hidden by scudding clouds, and the huge\nrollers, driven before the breeze, dash themselves to death, as upon\nthe blast come the solemn boom of a signal gun, and the faint cries of\nthose in danger on the deep.\n\nYears ago, however, before the little village of Poulton changed its\nname, and began to dream of becoming a watering-place, with terraces\nand hotels, instead of the picturesque, tumble-down huts of the\nfishermen, against which, from time immemorial, the spray had been\ndashed by the salt breezes, the only people who gazed upon the lovely\nprospect were, with the exception of an occasional traveller, the\nfamilies of the toilers of the sea, and the rough-looking men\nthemselves. These hardy fellows, accustomed to a wild life, and whose\ndays from childhood had been spent on or by the sea, loved the deep\nwith as much tenderness as a strong man feels towards a weak and\nwayward maiden, for they were familiar with its every mood, with the\nsoothing wash of its wavelets when the sunbeams kissed the foam-bells,\nas they died on the white sands, and with the noise of the thunder of\nthe breakers chased up the beach by the roaring gales.\n\nOne evening a number of these men were seated in the cosy kitchen of\nthe John-o'-Gaunt, listening to 'Owd England' as he narrated some of\nhis strange experiences.\n\n'I moind,' said he, 'when I was nobbut a bit of a lad, Tum Grisdale\nbein' dreawnt; an' now as we're tawkin' abeaut th' dangers o' th'\nsonds, yo'll mebbi hearken to th' tale. Poor Tum was th' best cockler\ni' Hest Bank, an' as ust to th' sands as a choilt is to th' face o'\nits mother; but for o that he wir dreawnt on 'em after o. I can co to\nmoind yet--for young as I wor I're owd enough to think a bit when owt\nquare happent, an' th' seet o' th' deead bodies th' next ebb wir wi'\nme day an' neet fur lung afterwart--th' day when Tum an' his missis\nan' th' two lasses seet eawt o' seein' some relations o' th' missis's\nsoide, as livt i' th' Furness country yon, th' owd mon an' th'\ndowters i' th' shandray, an' th' missis ridin' upo' th' cowt at th'\nsoide. It wir a gradely bonnie afternoon, at th' back eend o' th'\nyear. Th' day as they should o come back wir varra misty; an' abaat\nth' edge o' dark, just as here an' theear a leet wir beginnin' to\ntwinkle i' th' windows, an' th' stars to peep aat, th' noise ov a cart\ncomin' crunchin' o'er th' beach tuk mi feyther to th' door. \"Why,\nyon's owd Tum Grisdale cart back ageean,\" he cried eaut. An' he dartit\neawt o' th' dur, an' me after, as fast as I could. A creawd o' folk\nan' childer soon gathert reawnt, wonderin' what wir up; but neawt\ncould bi larnt, for though th' lasses as seet eawt, as breet an'\nbonnie as posies o gillivers, wir theear i' th' shandray, they wir too\nfreetent an' dazed, an' too wake wi' th' weet an' cowd, to say a\nwhord. One thing, however, wir sewer enough, th' owd folk hedn't come\nback; an' altho' th' toide then hed covert th' track, an' wir shinin'\ni' th' moonleet, wheear th' mist could bi sin through, just as if it\nhedn't mony a Hest Bank mon's life to answer for, a lot o' young\ncocklers wir for startin' off theear an' then i' search on 'em. Th'\nowder an' mooar expayrienced, heawiver, wodn't hear on it. Two lives\ni' one day wir quoite enough, they said; so they o waitit till th'\nebb, an' then startit, me, loile as i'wir, among th' rest, for mi\nfeyther wir too tekken up i' talking to send me whoam. It wir a sad\noutin', but it wir loively compaart wi' t' comin' back, for when we\ntornt toart Hest Bank, th' strungest o' th' lads carriet owd Tum an'\nhis missis, for we hedn't getten far o'er th' sonds afooar we feawnt\nth' poor owd lass, an' not far off, i' th' deep channel, owd Tum\nhissel. They wir buriet i' th' owd church-yart, an' one o' th' lasses\nwir laid aside on 'em, th' freet hevin' bin too mich for her. When t'\ntother sister recovert a bit, an' could bide to talk abaat it, hoo\nsaid as they geet lost i' th' mist, an' th' owd mon left 'em i' th'\nshandray while he walkt a bit to foind th' channel. When he didn't\ncome back they geet freetent, but t' owd woman wodn't stir fray th'\nspot till they heeart t' watters comin', an' then they went a bit fur,\nbut could find nowt o' Tum, though they thowt neaw an' then they could\nheear him sheautin' to 'em. Th' sheawts, heawiver, geet fainter an'\nfainter, an' at last stopt o' together. Givin' thersels up for lost,\nthey left th' reins to th' mare an' t' cowt. Th' poor owd lass wir\nquoite daz't at th' absence o' Tum; an' as th' cowt wir swimmin'\nacross th' channel hoo lost her howd, an' wir carriet away. Th' lasses\nknew neawt no mooar, th' wench olus said, till th' fowk run deawn to\nth' cart uppo' th' beach. Hor as wir left, hoo wir olus quare at\nafter; an' hoo uset to walk alung t' bay at o heawers just at th'\ntoide toime, yo' known, an' it wir pitiful t' heear her when th' woint\nwir a bit sriller nor usal, sayin' as hoo could heear her owd\nfayther's voice as he sheauted when hee'd wander't fray 'em an'\ncouldn't foint way to 'em through t' mist. Hoo afterwarts went to\nsarvice at Lankister, to a place as th' paason fun' for her, i' th'\nidea o' th' change dooin' her good; but it worn't lung afooar th' news\ncome as hoo wir i' th' 'sylum, an' I heeart as hoo deed theear some\ntoime after.'\n\nNo sooner had the grey-headed old fisherman finished his story than\none of the auditors said, 'Hoo met weel fancy hoo heeart th' voice ov\nher fayther, for monnie a neet, an' monnie another hev I heeart that\ncry mysen. Yo' may stare, bud theear's mooar saands to be heeard i'\nth' bay nor some o' yo' lads known on; an' I'm no choilt to be\nfreetent o' bein' i' th' dark. Why nobbut th' neet afooar last I\nheeart a peal o' bells ringin' under th' watter.'{12} There was a\nmoment of surprise, for Roger Heathcote was not a likely man to be a\nvictim to his own fancies, or to be influenced by the superstitions\nwhich clung to his fellows. Like the rest of his companions, he had\nspent the greatest portion of his life away from land; and either\nbecause he possessed keener powers of observation than they, or loved\nnature more, and therefore watched her more closely, he had gradually\nadded to his store of knowledge, until he had become the recognised\nauthority on all matters connected with the dangerous calling by which\nthe men-folk of the little colony earned daily bread for their\nfamilies. As he was by no means addicted to yarns, looks of wonder\ncame over the faces of the listeners; and in deference to the wishes\nof Old England, who pressed him as to what he had heard and seen,\nRoger narrated the adventure embodied in this story.{13}\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe fisherman's little boat was dancing lightly on the rippling waters\nof the bay.\n\nThe night was perfectly calm, the moon shining faintly through a thin\nmist which rested on the face of the deep. It was nearly midnight, and\nRoger was thinking of making for home, when he heard the sweet sounds\nof a peal of bells. Not without astonishment, he endeavoured to\nascertain from what quarter the noises came, and, strange and unlikely\nas it seemed, it appeared that the chimes rang up through the water,\nupon which, with dreamy motion, his boat was gliding. Bending over the\nside of the skiff he again heard with singular distinctness the music\nof the bells pealing in weird beauty. For some time he remained in\nthis attitude, intently listening to the magical music, and when he\narose, the mist had cleared off, and the moon was throwing her lovely\nlight upon the waters, and over the distant fells. Instead, however,\nof beholding a coast with every inch of which he was acquainted, Roger\ngazed upon a district of which he knew nothing. There were mountains,\nbut they were not those whose rugged outlines were so vividly\nimpressed upon his memory. There was a beach, but it was not the one\nwhere his little cottage stood with its light in the window and its\nbackground of wind-bent trees. The estuary into which his boat was\ngliding was not that of the Kent, with its ash and oak-covered crags.\nEverything seemed unreal, even the streaming moonlight having an\nunusual whiteness, and Roger rapidly hoisted his little sails, but\nthey only flapped idly against the mast, as the boat, in obedience to\nan invisible and unknown agency, drifted along the mysterious looking\nriver. As the fisherman gazed in helpless wonder, gradually the water\nnarrowed, and in a short time a cove was gained, the boat grating upon\nthe gleaming sand. Roger at once jumped upon the bank, and no sooner\nhad he done so, than a number of little figures clad in green ran\ntowards him from beneath a clump of trees, the foremost of them\nsinging--\n\n    To the home of elf and fay,\n      To the land of nodding flowers,\n    To the land of Ever Day\n      Where all things own the Fay Queen's powers,\n              Mortal come away!\n\nand the remainder dancing in circles on the grass, and joining in the\nrefrain--\n\n    To the home of elf and fay,\n    To the land of Ever Day,\n        Mortal come away!\n\nThe song finished, the little fellow who had taken the solo, tripped\ndaintily to Roger, and, with a mock bow, grasped one of the fingers of\nthe fisherman's hand, and stepped away as though anxious to lead him\nfrom the water.\n\nAssuming that he had come upon a colony of Greenies, and feeling\nassured that such tiny beings could not injure him, even if anxious to\ndo so, Roger walked on with his conductor, the band dancing in a\nprogressing circle in front of them, until a wood was reached, when\nthe dancers broke up the ring and advanced in single file between the\ntrees. The light grew more and more dim, and when the cavalcade\nreached the entrance to a cavern, Roger could hardly discern the\nGreenies. Clinging to the little hand of his guide, however, the\nundaunted fisherman entered the cave, and groped his way down a flight\nof mossy steps. Suddenly he found himself in a beautiful glade, in\nwhich hundreds of little figures closely resembling his escort, and\nwearing dainty red caps, were disporting themselves and singing--\n\n    Moonbeams kissing odorous bowers\n    Light our home amid the flowers;\n\n    While our beauteous King and Queen\n    Watch us dance on rings of green.\n      Rings of green, rings of green,\n      Dance, dance, dance, on rings of green.\n\nNo sooner had the fisherman entered the glade than the whole party\ncrowded round him, but as they did so a strain of enchanting music was\nheard, and the little beings hopped away again, and whirled round in a\nfantastic waltz. Roger himself was so powerfully influenced by the\nmelody that he flung himself into the midst of the dancers, who\nwelcomed him with musical cries, and he capered about until sheer\nfatigue forced him to sink to rest upon a flowery bank. Here, after\nwatching for a while the graceful gambols of the Greenies, and soothed\nby the weird music, the sensuous odours, and the dreamy light, he fell\ninto a deep sleep. When he awoke from his slumber the fairies had\nvanished, and the fisherman felt very hungry. No sooner, however, had\nhe wished for something to eat than on the ground before him there\nappeared a goodly array of delicacies, of which, without more ado,\nRoger partook.\n\n'I'm in luck's way here,' he said to himself; 'It's not every day of\nthe week I see a full table like this. I should like to know where I\nam, though.' As the wish passed his lips he saw before him a beautiful\nlittle being, who said in a sweet low voice--\n\n    In the land of nodding flowers,\n    Where all things own the Fay Queen's powers!\n\nThe fisherman no sooner saw the exquisite face of the dainty Greenie\nthan he forgot altogether the rosy-cheeked wife at home, and fell\nhopelessly over head and ears in love with the sweet vision. Gazing\ninto her beautiful eyes he blurted out, 'I don't care where it is if\nyou are there.' With a smile the queen, for it was indeed the queen,\nseated herself at his side. 'Dost thou, Mortal, bow to my power?'\nasked she. 'Ay, indeed, do I to the forgetfulness of everything but\nthy bonny face,' answered Roger; upon which the queen burst into a\nhearty fit of laughter, so musical, however, that for the life of him\nthe fisherman could not feel angry with her. 'If the king were to hear\nthee talking thus thou wouldst pay dearly for thy presumption,' said\nthe Fay, as she rose and tripped away to the shadow of the trees. The\nenraptured Roger endeavoured to overtake her before she reached the\noaks, but without success; and though he wandered through the wood\nfor hours, he did not again catch a glimpse of her. He gained an\nappetite by the freak however, and no sooner had he wished for food\nagain than dishes of rich viands appeared before him.\n\n'I wish I could get money at this rate,' said the fisherman, and the\nwords had hardly left his lips when piles of gold ranged themselves\nwithin his reach. Roger rapidly filled his pockets with the glittering\ncoins, and even took the shoes from off his feet, and filled them\nalso, and then slung them round his neck by the strings.\n\n'Now, if I could but get to my boat,' thought he, 'my fortune would be\nmade,' and accordingly he began to make his way in what he believed to\nbe the direction of the river. He had not proceeded very far, however,\nwhen he emerged upon an open space surrounded by tall foxgloves,{14}\nin all the beautiful bells of which dreamy-eyed little beings were\nswinging lazily as the quiet zephyr rocked their perfumed dwellings.\nSome of the Greenies were quite baby fairies not so large as Roger's\nhand, but none of them seemed alarmed at the presence of a mortal. A\nscore of larger ones were hard at work upon the sward stitching\ntogether moth and butterfly wings for a cloak for their Queen, who,\nseated upon a mushroom, was smiling approvingly as she witnessed the\nindustry of her subjects. Roger felt a sudden pang as he observed her,\nfor although he was glad once more to behold the marvellous beauty of\nher face, he was jealous of a dainty dwarf in a burnished suit of\nbeetles' wing cases and with a fantastic peaked cap in which a red\nfeather was coquettishly stuck, for this personage he suspected was\nthe King, and forgetting his desire to escape with the gold, and at\nonce yielding to his feelings, he flung himself on the luxuriant grass\nnear the little being whose weird loveliness had thrown so strange a\nglamour over him, and without any thought or fear as to the\nconsequences he at once bent himself and kissed one of her dainty\nsandalled feet. No sooner had he performed this rash act of devotion\nthan numberless blows fell upon him from all sides, but he was unable\nto see any of the beings by whom he was struck. Instinctively the\nfisherman flung his huge fists about wildly, but without hitting any\nof the invisible Greenies, whose tantalising blows continued to fall\nupon him. At length, however, wearying of the fruitless contest, he\nroared out, 'I wish I were safe in my boat in the bay,' and almost\ninstantaneously he found himself in the little skiff, which was\nstranded high and dry upon the Poulton beach. The shoes which he had\nso recently filled with glittering pieces of gold and suspended round\nhis neck were again upon his feet, his pockets were as empty as they\nwere when he had put out to sea some hours before, and somewhat\ndubious and very disgusted, in a few minutes he had crept off to bed.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen the strange tale of the fisherman's wonderful adventure with the\nhill folk was ended, the unbelievers did not hesitate to insinuate\nthat Roger had not been out in the bay at all, and that the land of\nnodding flowers might be found by anyone who stayed as long and\nchalked up as large a score at the John-o'-Gaunt as he had done on the\nnight when he heard the submerged bells and had so unusual a catch.\n\nOthers, however, being less sceptical, many were the little boats that\nafterwards went on unsuccessful voyages in search of the mysterious\nestuary and the colony of Greenies, and a year afterwards, when a\nsudden gale swept over the restless face of the deep and cast Roger's\nboat bottom upwards upon the sandy beach, many believed that the\nfisherman had again found the land of Ever Day.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SANDS OF COCKER.\n\n\nThe quiet little village of Cockerham is hardly the spot one would\nexpect to find selected as a place of residence by a gentleman of\ndecidedly fast habits, and to whom a latch-key is indispensable; yet\nonce upon a time the Evil One himself, it is said, took up his\nquarters in the go-to-bed-early hamlet. It hardly need be stated that\nthe undesirable resident caused no small stir in the hitherto drowsy\nlittle place. Night after night he prowled about with clanking chains,\nand shed an unpleasantly-suggestive odour of sulphur, that rose to the\ndiamond-paned windows and crept through cracks and chinks to the nasal\norgans of the horrified villagers, who had been disturbed by the\nringing of the Satanic bracelets, and, fearing to sleep whilst there\nwas so strong a smell of brimstone about, lay awake, thinking of the\nsins they had committed, or intended to commit if they escaped 'Old\nSkrat.'\n\nBefore the wandering perfumer had thus, above a score of times,\ngratuitously fumigated the villagers, a number of the more daring\nones, whose courage rose when they found that after all they were not\nflown away with, resolved that they would have a meeting, at which the\nunjustifiable conduct of a certain individual should be discussed, and\nmeans be devised of ridding the village of his odoriferous presence.\nIn accordance with this determination, a gathering was announced for\nnoonday, for the promoters of the movement did not dare to assemble\nafter sunset to discuss such a subject. After a few cursory remarks\nfrom the chairman, and a long and desultory discussion as to the best\nway of getting rid of the self-appointed night watchman, it was\nsettled that the schoolmaster, as the most learned man in the place,\nshould be the deputation, and have all the honour and profit of an\ninterview with the nocturnal rambler.\n\nStrange as it may appear, the pedagogue was nothing loath to accept\nthe office, for if there was one thing more than another for which he\nhad longed, it was an opportunity of immortalising himself; the daily\nround of life in the village certainly affording but few chances of\nwinning deathless fame. He therefore at once agreed to take all the\nrisks if he might also have all the glory. Not that he purposed to go\nto the Devil; no, the mountain should come to Mahomet; the Evil One\nshould have the trouble of coming to him.\n\nHis determination was loudly applauded by the assembled villagers,\neach of whom congratulated himself upon an escape from the dangerous,\nif noble, task of ridding the place of an intolerable nuisance.\n\nThere was no time to be lost, and a night or two afterwards, no sooner\nhad the clock struck twelve, than the schoolmaster, who held a branch\nof ash and a bunch of vervain in his hand, chalked the conventional\ncircle{15} upon the floor of his dwelling, stepped within it, and in\na trembling voice began to repeat the Lord's Prayer backwards. When he\nhad muttered about half of the spell thunder began to roar in the\ndistance; rain splashed on the roof, and ran in streams from the\neaves; a gust of wind moaned round the house, rattling the loose\nleaded panes, shaking the doors, and scattering the embers upon the\nhearth. At the same time the solitary light, which had begun to burn a\npale and ghastly blue, was suddenly extinguished, as though by an\ninvisible hand; but the terrified schoolmaster was not long left in\ndarkness, for a vivid flash of lightning illuminated the little\nchamber, and almost blinded the would-be necromancer, who tried to\ngabble a prayer in the orthodox manner, but his tongue refused to\nperform its office, and clave to the roof of his mouth.\n\nAt that moment, could he have made his escape, he would willingly have\ngiven to the first comer all the glory he had panted to achieve; but\neven had he dared to leave the magic circle, there was not time to do\nso, for almost immediately there was a second blast of wind, before\nwhich the trees bent like blades of grass, a second flash lighted up\nthe room, a terrible crash of thunder shook the house to its\nfoundations, and, as a number of evil birds, uttering doleful cries,\ndashed themselves through the window, the door burst open, and the\nschoolmaster felt that he was no longer alone.\n\nAn instantaneous silence, dreadful by reason of the contrast,\nfollowed, and the moon peeped out between the driving clouds and threw\nits light into the chamber. The birds perched themselves upon the\nwindow sill and ceased to cry, and with fiery-looking eyes peered into\nthe room, and suddenly the trembling amateur saw the face of the dark\ngentleman whose presence only a few minutes before he had so eagerly\ndesired.\n\nOverpowered by the sight, his knees refused to bear him up, what\nlittle hair had not been removed from his head by the stupidity of the\nrising generation stood on end, and with a miserable groan he sank\nupon his hands and knees, but, fortunately for himself, within the\nmagic ring, round which the Evil One was running rapidly. How long\nthis gratuitous gymnastic entertainment continued he knew not, for he\nwas not in a state of mind to judge of the duration of time, but it\nseemed an age to the unwilling observer, who, afraid of having the\nDevil behind him, and yielding to a mysterious mesmeric influence,\nendeavoured, by crawling round backward, to keep the enemy's face in\nfront. At length, however, the saltatory fiend asked in a shrill and\nunpleasant voice,\n\n'Rash fool, what wantest thou with me? Couldst thou not wait until in\nthe ultimate and proper course of things we had met?'\n\nTerrified beyond measure not only at the nature of the pertinent\nquestion, but also by the insinuation and the piercing and horrible\ntone in which it was spoken, the tenant of the circle knew not what\nreply to make, and merely stammered and stuttered--\n\n'Good Old Nick,{16} go away for ever, and'--\n\n'Take thee with me,' interrupted the Satanic one quickly. 'Even so;\nsuch is my intent.'\n\nUpon this the poor wretch cried aloud in terror, and again the Evil\nOne began to hop round and round and round the ring, evidently in the\nhope of catching a part of the body of the occupant projecting over\nthe chalk mark.\n\n'Is there no escape,' plaintively asked the victim in his extremity,\n'is there no escape?'\n\nUpon this Old Nick suddenly stopped his gambols and quietly said,\n\n'Three chances of escape shalt thou have,{17} but if thou failest,\nthen there is no appeal. Set me three tasks, and if I cannot perform\nany one of them, then art thou free.'\n\nThere was a glimmer of hope in this, and the shivering necromancer\nbrightened up a little, actually rising from his ignoble position and\nonce more standing erect, as he gleefully said,\n\n'I agree.'\n\n'Ah, ah,' said the Evil One _sotto voce_.\n\n'Count the raindrops on the hedgerows from here to Ellel,' cried the\nschoolmaster.\n\n'Thirteen,' immediately answered Satan, 'the wind I raised when I came\nshook all the others off.'\n\n'One chance gone,' said the wizard, whose knees again began to\nmanifest signs of weakness.\n\nThere was a short pause, the schoolmaster evidently taking time to\nconsider, for, after all, life, even in a place like Cockerham, was\nsweet in comparison with what might be expected in the society of the\nodoriferous one whose mirth was so decidedly ill-timed and unmusical.\nThe silence was not of long continuance, however, for the Evil One\nbegan to fear that a detestably early cock might crow, and thereby\nrescue the trembling one from his clutches. In his impatience,\ntherefore, he knocked upon the floor with his cloven hoof and whistled\nloudly, after the manner followed now-a-days by dirty little patrons\nof the drama, perched high in the gallery of a twopenny theatre, and\nagain danced rapidly round the ring in what the tenant deemed\nunnecessary proximity to the chalk mark.\n\n'Count the ears of corn in old Tithepig's field,' suddenly cried the\nschoolmaster.\n\n'Three millions and twenty-six,' at once answered Satan.\n\n'I have no way of checking it,' moaned the pedagogue.\n\n'Ah, ah,' bellowed the fiend, who now, instead of hopping round the\nring, capered in high glee about the chamber.\n\n'Ho, ho!' laughed the schoolmaster, 'I have it! Here it is! Ho, ho!\nTwist a rope of sand{18} and wash it in the river Cocker without\nlosing a grain.'\n\nThe Evil One stepped out of the house, to the great relief of its\noccupier, who at once felt that the atmosphere was purer; but in a few\nminutes he returned with the required rope of sand.\n\n'Come along,' said he, 'and see it washed.' And he swung it over his\nshoulder, and stepped into the lane.\n\nIn the excitement of the moment the wizard had almost involuntarily\nstepped out of the magic circle, when suddenly he bethought himself of\nthe danger, and drily said--\n\n'Thank you; I'll wait here. By the light of the moon I can see you\nwash it.'\n\nThe baffled fiend, without more ado, stepped across to the rippling\nstreamlet, and dipped the rope into the water, but when he drew it out\nhe gave utterance to a shout of rage and disappointment, for half of\nit had been washed away.\n\n'Hurrah!' shouted the schoolmaster. 'Cockerham against the world!' And\nas in his joy he jumped out of the ring, the Evil One, instead of\nseizing him, in one stride crossed Pilling Moss and Broadfleet, and\nvanished, and from that night to the present day Cockerham has been\nquite free from Satanic visits.{19}\n\n\n\n\nTHE SILVER TOKEN.\n\n\nBelieve i' Fairies? 'Ay, that I do, though I never clapped mi een on\n'em,' said old Nancy to a group of gaping listeners seated by the\nfarm-house kitchen fire.\n\n'That's quare,' remarked a sceptical young woman in the ingle nook.\n\nOld Nancy gave her a scornful glance, and then went on:--\n\n'I never see'd a fairy as I know on, but I used to sarve one on 'em\nwi' milk. Yo' mon stare; but th' way on it wir this. I wir at mi wark\ni' th' dairy one day, abaat th' edge o' dark, when o ov a suddent a\nloile jug clapt itsel daan afooar mi on th' stooan. Yo' may be sure I\nwir fair capt, for wheear it come fray, or heaw it geet theear, I\ncouldn't mek aat. I stoopt mi daan to pike howd on it, and it met a'\nbin silver, it wir that breet and bonnie; but it wir as leet as a\nfeather, an' I couldn't tell what it wir med on. I wir baan to set it\no' th' stooan again, when I seed at a new sixpenny bit hed bin put\ntheer wi' it, so it struck mi as milk wir wantit. Accordingly I fillt\nth' jug and seet it daan again, an' welly as soon as I'd clapt it\nwheear I fun' it, it up an' whipt eaut o' seet. Well I thowt it\nmeeterly quare, bud I'd heeard mi feyther say, monny an' monny a\ntoime, as thuse as geet fairy brass gin 'em should tell nubry, so I\nkept it to mysen, though I'd hard wark, yo' may be sure. Every neet\nth' jug an' th' sixpenny bit clapt theirsens o' th' stooan as reglar\nas milkin' toime, an' I fillt th' jug and piked up th' brass. At last,\nha'ever, I thowt happen no lumber could come on it if I towd nobbut\none, so when Roger theear and me settlet a beein wed I towd him what\nsooart ov a nest-egg I'd getten so quarely. Mi feyther wir reet,\nha'ever, for th' next neet nayther jug nor th' sixpenny bit showed\nthersels, an' fray that day to this I've sin no mooar on 'em, an' it's\nower forty year sin I piked up th' last brass.{3}\n\n\n\n\nTHE HEADLESS WOMAN.\n\n(BEAWT HEEOD.)\n\n\nIt was near upon twelve when Gabriel Fisher bade good night to the\nassembled roysterers who were singing and shouting in the kitchen of\nthe White Bull, at Longridge, and, turning his back to the cosy\nhearth, upon which a huge log was burning, emerged into the moonlit\nroad. With his dog Trotty close at his heels, he struck out manfully\ntowards Tootal Height and Thornley, for he had a long and lonely walk\nbefore him. It was a clear and frosty night, but occasionally a light\ncloud sailed across the heavens, and obscured the moon. Rapidly\npassing between the two rows of cottages which constituted the little\nstraggling village, his footsteps ringing upon the frozen ground,\nGabriel made for the fells, and, as he hurried along, he hummed to\nhimself a line of the last song he had heard, and now and again burst\ninto a fit of laughter as he remembered a humorous story told by 'Owd\nShuffler.' When he reached the highest point of the road whence he\ncould see the beautiful Chipping valley, a soft breeze was whispering\namong the fir-trees, with that faint rustle suggestive of the gentle\nfall of waves upon a beach. Here and there a little white farm-house\nor labourer's cottage was gleaming in the moonlight, but the inmates\nhad been asleep for hours. There was an air of loneliness and mystery\nover everything; and though Gabriel would have scorned to admit that\nhe was afraid of anything living or dead, before he had passed out of\nthe shadow of the weird-looking melodious branches he found himself\nwishing for other company than that of his dog. He suddenly\nremembered, too, with no access of pleasurable feelings, that on the\nprevious day he had seen a solitary magpie, and all sorts of stories\nof 'Banister Dolls' and 'Jinny Greenteeths,' with which his youthful\nsoul had been carefully harrowed, came across his mind. He tried to\nlaugh at these recollections, but the attempt was by no means a\nsuccessful one, and he gave expression to a hearty wish that Kemple\nEnd were not quite so far off.\n\nJust then a sharp shrill cry fell upon his ear, and then another and\nanother. 'Th' Gabriel Ratchets,'{33} he shouted, 'what's abaat to\nhappen?' The cries were not repeated, however, and he went on, but\nwhen he reached the peak of the fell, and gazed before him into the\ndeep shade of a plantation, he could not repress a slight shudder, for\nhe fancied that he saw something moving at a distance. He paused for a\nmoment or two to assure himself, and then went on again slowly, his\nheart throbbing violently as he lessened the space between the moving\nobject and himself. The dog, as though equally influenced by similar\nfeelings, crept behind him in a suspicious and terrified manner.\n\n'It's nobbut a woman,' said he, somewhat re-assured; 'it's a woman\nsewerly. Mebbee someburry's badly, an' hoo's gooin' for help. Come on,\nTrotty, mon.'\n\nSo saying, he quickened his pace, the dog hanging behind, until he\napproached almost close to the figure, when, with a wild howl, away\nTrotty fled down the hillside. As Gabriel drew still closer, he saw\nthat the object wore a long light cloak and hood, and a large\ncoal-scuttle bonnet; and surprised to find that the sound of his\nfootsteps did not cause her to turn to see who was following, he\ncalled out:\n\n'It's a bonny neet, Missis; bud yo're aat rayther late, arn't yo'?'\n\n'It is very fine,' answered the woman, in a voice which Gabriel\nthought was the sweetest he had ever heard, but without turning\ntowards him as she spoke.\n\n'Summat wrong at your fowk's, happen?' he asked, anxious to prolong\nthe talk. There was no reply to this, though, and Gabriel knew not\nwhat to think, for the silent dame, although she declined to reply,\ncontinued to keep pace with him, and to walk at his side. Was it some\none who had no business to be out at that hour, and who did not wish\nto be recognised, he wondered? But if so, thought he, why did she\ncontinue to march in a line with him? The voice, certainly, was that\nof one of a different rank to his own; but, on the other hand, he\nreflected, if she were one of the gentle folks, why the cottager's\ncloak and bonnet, and the huge market basket? These conjectures\ncrossed his brain in rapid succession; and influenced by the last\none--that as to his companion's clothing--he determined again to\naddress her.\n\n'Yo' met a left yir tung at whoam, Missis,' said he, 'sin' yo' connot\nanswer a civil mon.'\n\nThis taunt, however, like the direct query, failed to provoke an\nanswer, although the startled Gabriel could have sworn that a\nsmothered laugh came from beneath the white cloth which covered the\ncontents of the basket 'Let me carry yer baskit,' said he; 'it's heavy\nfor yo'.'\n\nWithout a word, the woman held it out to him; but, as Gabriel grasped\nthe handle, a voice, which sounded as though the mouth of the speaker\nwere close to his hand, slowly said:\n\n'You're very kind, I'm sure;' and then there came from the same\nquarter a silvery peal of laughter.\n\n'What i' th' warld can it be?' said Gabriel, as without more ado he\nlet the basket fall to the ground. He did not remain in ignorance very\nlong, however, for, as the white cloth slipped off, a human head, with\nfixed eyes, rolled out 'Th' yedless boggart!' cried he, as the figure\nturned to pick up the head, and revealed to him an empty bonnet, and\naway he fled down the hill, fear lending him speed. He had not run\nfar, however, before he heard a clatter of feet on the hard road\nbehind him; but Gabriel was one of the fleetest lads about the fells,\nand the sight he had just seen was calculated to bring out all his\npowers; so the sound did not grow louder, but just as he turned into\nthe old Chaighley Road, the head, thrown by the boggart, came whizzing\npast in unpleasant proximity to his own, and went rolling along in\nfront of him. For a second or two Gabriel hesitated what to do, the\nheadless woman behind and the equally terrible head in front; but it\ndid not take long to decide, and he went forward with renewed vigour,\nthinking to pass the dreadful thing rapidly rolling along in advance\nof him. No sooner was he near to it, however, than, with an impish\nlaugh, which rang in his ears for days afterwards, the ghastly object\ndiverged from its course and rolled in his way. With a sudden and\ninstinctive bound, he leaped over it; and as he did so the head jumped\nfrom the ground and snapped at his feet, the teeth striking together\nwith a dreadfully suggestive clash. Gabriel was too quick for it,\nhowever, but for some distance he heard with horrible distinctness the\nclattering of the woman's feet and the banging of the head upon the\nroad behind him.\n\nGradually the sounds grew fainter as he speeded along, and at length,\nafter he had crossed a little stream of water which trickled across\nthe lane from a fern-covered spring in the fell side, the sounds\nceased altogether. The runner, however, did not pause to take breath\nuntil he had reached his home and had crept beneath the blankets, the\ntrembling Trotty, whom he found crouched in terror at the door of the\ncottage, skulking upstairs at his heels and taking refuge under the\nbed.\n\n'I olus said as tha'd be seein' a feeorin wi' thi stoppin' aat o'\nneets,' remarked his spouse after he had narrated his adventure; 'bud\nif it nobbut meks tha fain o' thi own haath-stooan I'se be some glad\non it, for it's moor nor a woman wi' a heead on her shoothers hes bin\nable to do.'{20}\n\n\n\n\nTHE RESCUE OF MOONBEAM.\n\n\nFrom one corner of Ribbleton Moor, the scene of Cromwell's victory\nover Langdale, there is as lovely a view as ever painter dreamed of.\nFar below the spectator the Ribble sweeps almost in a circle beneath\nthe scars which, by the action of years of this washing, have been\nscooped out so as to form a large precipice, under which the waters\nflow, marking out in their course the great 'horse-shoe meadow,' with\nits fringe of shining sand. The peaceful valley through which the\nriver, reflecting in its moving bosom the overhanging many-tinted\nwoods and cliffs, meanders on its way to the sea, is bounded afar-off\nby noble hills, the whale-like Pendle towering in majestic grandeur\nabove the rest. From the moor a rough and stony lane winds down the\nwooded hillside, past a beautiful old half-timbered house down to the\ndusty highway and the bridge over the Belisamia of the Romans. The\nbeautiful river, with its tremulous earth and sky pictures, the\nmeadows and corn-fields whence come now and again the laugh and song\nof the red-faced mowers and reapers, the clearly-defined roads and\nwhite farm-houses, the spires of distant hillside churches, and the\nrich green of the waving woods, make up an enchanting picture. When\nnight comes, however, and the lovely stars peep out, and the crescent\nmoon casts her glamour over the dreaming earth, and half-hidden in a\ndimly transparent veil of shimmering mist the Ribble glides as gently\nas though it had paused to listen to its own melody, a still deeper\nloveliness falls upon the dreaming landscape, over which the very\ngenius of beauty seems to hover silently with outspread wings.\n\nAt such a time, when moon and stars threw a faint and mysterious light\nover the sleeping woods, and not a sound, save the cry of a restless\nbird, broke the silence, a young countryman made his way rapidly\nacross the horse-shoe meadow to the bend of the stream under Red\nScar.\n\nIt was not to admire the beautiful scenery, however, that Reuben\nOswaldwistle was crossing the dew-besprinkled field, over which faint\nodours of hay were wafted by a gentle breeze. The sturdy young fellow\nwas too practical to yield entirely to such an influence, and although\nhe was by no means unlearned in the traditions and stories of the\nneighbourhood, long familiarity had taught him to look upon the\nlandscape with the eye of a farmer. He was simply about to practise\nthe gentle art in the hope of beguiling a few stray 'snigs' for dinner\non the following day. Still the scene in all its glamour of moonlight\nand peace was not powerless even upon his rude nature; so, after\nsetting his lines, he took out a little black pipe, filled it from a\ncapacious moleskin pouch, and after lighting the fragrant weed, gave\nway to a train of disconnected fancies--past, present, and future\nmingling strangely in his reverie.\n\nWhat with the rustling of the leaves overhead, the musical rippling of\nthe river as it danced over the stones on its way to the sea, and the\nsoothing effect of the tobacco, Reuben was beginning to doze, when\nsuddenly he fancied he heard the sound of a light footstep in the\ngrass behind him. Turning round somewhat drowsily, he beheld a little\nfigure of about a span high, clad in green, and wearing a dainty red\ncap, struggling along under the load of a flat-topped mushroom much\nlarger than itself. After having more than once fallen with its load,\nthe dwarf cried out in a sweet, faint voice, 'Dewdrop, Dewdrop!' and\nno sooner had the sound died into silence than another little fellow,\nwho evidently answered to the pretty name, came tripping from the\nshadow of a hawthorn.\n\n'What's the matter, Moonbeam?' said the new-comer, cheerily.\n\n'This table is too much for me,' answered the labourer whom Reuben had\nseen first, 'and if the king's dinner is not ready to a minute he will\nhave me stung. Help me with this load, there's a good sort.'\n\nWithout any more ado Dewdrop came forward and the tiny pair put their\nshoulders beneath the load and marched off. They did not bear it very\nfar, however, for the astonished Reuben simply stretched himself at\nfull length on the grass and again was quite close to them.\n\nThe two dots stopped when they came to a hole, into which they at once\nstuck the stem of the mushroom. Moonbeam then took from his pocket a\nbutterfly's wing, which served him as a handkerchief, and wiping his\nforehead as he spoke, he said:--\n\n'I'm about tired of this. Every night the table is stolen, Dewdrop,\nand I've to find a new one for each dinner, and no thanks for it\neither. What has come of late over the king I am at a loss to imagine,\nfor he has done nothing but have me stung. I shall emigrate if this\ncontinues, that's all.'\n\n'So would I,' answered the other little fellow, 'if Blue-eyes would go\nalso, but I can't leave her.'\n\nAfter a hearty peal of laughter, during which he had held his shaking\nsides, Moonbeam shouted--\n\n'Why, my dear innocent, if you went she would be after you in a trice.\nI remember that when I was as guileless as you I fell in love with\nRavenhair, the daughter of old Pigear. She treated me just as\nBlue-eyes uses you, but when, in a fit of jealous rage, I began to pay\ndelicate attentions to Jasmine, the tables soon were turned, and one\nevening, as I was dozing in a flower cup, I heard some one call me,\nand peeping out of my chamber, I saw the once scornful Ravenhair\nweeping at the foot of the stalk. No sooner did she catch a glimpse of\nthe tip of my nightcap than in piteous tones, that went straight to my\nheart, she cried out, \"Dearest Moony, let me come up and\"--. But,\nhush! wasn't that the dinner gong?'\n\nThe pair listened intently as over the grass came the solemn hum of a\nbee.\n\n'I'm in for it,' said the fairy whose tale had been so suddenly\ninterrupted; 'there's the first bell, and I haven't got even the table\nset.'\n\nThe pair darted off, and tripping away into the shade of the hawthorn,\nthey were for a moment or two lost to the sight of the wondering\nReuben, but they soon returned, each bearing a dish and cover made of\na little pearl shell. These they placed upon the mushroom, and away\nthey scudded, again to return in a minute with another load. In an\nincredibly short space of time the table was set out with a goodly\narray of tiny dishes and plates.\n\nOnce more the hum of the bee was heard booming over the grass, and\nfrom the shadow of the tree there emerged a dainty being whose attire\nglittered in the moonlight, and whose step was like that of a proud\nmonarch. He was clad in a many-hued coat made of wings of dragon\nflies, a green vest cut from a downy mouse-ear leaf, and with buttons\nof buttercup buds; little knee-breeches of fine-spun silk dyed in the\njuice of a whinberry, stockings of cobweb, and shoes of shining beetle\ncase; his shirt, which was as white as falling snow, had been cut from\nconvolvulus flowers ere they had opened to the light; and his hat, a\ngem of a thing fit only for a fairy, was of red poppy, with a waving\nwhite feather, and a band of fur from a caterpillar. He led by the\nhand another personage, equally daintily dressed, but of a higher\norder of loveliness, with a pale oval face, and dreamy-looking eyes,\ngleaming like the sea when the moon and stars are bending over its\nbosom, and the wind is whispering its sad secrets. Her hair was\ngolden, and rippled almost to her exquisite feet, and over it she wore\na blue cornflower wreath, with diamond dewdrops here and there amid\nthe leaves. Her dress was of damask rose leaves looped up with\nmyosotis.\n\nThe grass hardly bent beneath her, so daintily did she trip along,\njust touching the tips of the fingers of the hand the king extended\nto her. Following this royal pair came a group of gaily-clad\nattendants, and a band discoursing sweet sounds, the deep bass of bees\nharmonising happily with the barytone of a beetle and the crescendo\nchirp of a cricket.\n\nWith a loud flourish from the musicians all took their places at the\nfestive mushroom, and the banquet began. The dishes were sufficiently\nvarious to tempt even an anchorite to excess, for all the delicacies\nof the season were there. Ladybird soup, baked stickleback, roasted\nleg of nightingale, boiled shoulder of frog with cranberry sauce, wild\nstrawberry tarts, and numerous kinds of fruits and juices, made up a\ndainty repast, of which king, queen, and courtiers partook heartily.\nThe band, the members of which were perched in the swinging flowers of\na foxglove close by, played lustily during the feast.\n\n'For once,' said the king, 'for once--and let the circumstance be\nremembered when the annals of our reign are written--a day hath passed\nwithout anything having annoyed our royal self, without anything\nunpleasant having happened in our royal presence, and without\nanything having disagreed with our royal stomach.'\n\nNo sooner had these words passed the royal lips, however, than the\nqueen gave a faint shriek, and cried out--\n\n'My love, there is not a drop of my chickweed wine on the table.'\n\nA dark cloud passed over the monarch's face as he angrily shouted--\n\n'Methinks we were congratulating our royal self somewhat too early in\nthe day. Bring hither the rascally Moonbeam and bid the executioners\nattend for orders.'\n\nOne of the courtiers, with an alacrity marvellously resembling that of\nbeings of a larger growth, rushed out, and speedily returned with the\nunfortunate dependant, who at once flung himself on the ground before\nthe angry king and begged to be forgiven. What result might have\nfollowed these prayers is uncertain, for, unfortunately, the\nsuppliant's tears fell upon one of the monarch's shoes and dimmed its\nlustre.\n\n'Bring hither the executioners and their instruments,' roared the\ninfuriated king, and almost immediately a couple of sturdy little\nfellows appeared leading by a chain two large wasps.\n\n'Do your disreputable work!' shouted the monarch.\n\nThe executioners seized Moonbeam, fastened him to a stake, and pressed\na wasp against him. The insect instantly stung him, and the miserable\nlittle fellow howled with pain.\n\n'Take him away,' cried the queen; 'we don't want _whine_ of that\nkind.'\n\n'What a wretched pun!' involuntarily said Moonbeam, as they were\ndragging him from the royal presence.\n\n'Bring the villain back,' roared the King; 'bring him back, and sting\nhim until he is less critical.'\n\n'If tha hez him stung ageeon,' interrupted the indignant Reuben, who\nin his excitement had gradually crept nearer to the royal table, 'I'll\nknock thi proud little heeod off, chuz who tha art.'\n\nNeither the king or the executioners, however, took the slightest\nnotice of the warning, so, as the latter were once more forcing the\nunhappy Moonbeam against the other wasp, down came a huge fist upon\nthe royal head.\n\n'Theer,' said the fisherman, exultingly, 'I towd tha, didn't I, bud\ntha wouldn't tek wernin'. Tha 'rt on 't' penitent form bi this time, I\ndaat.'\n\nLifting up his hand, however, what was the surprise of the wondering\nReuben to find only a little crushed grass under it. King, Queen,\ncourtiers, Moonbeam, executioners, and wasps, all had vanished, and\neven the band, whose humming and droning he had heard so distinctly\nduring the whole banquet, no longer broke the silence.\n\n'Well,' said the fisherman, 'that's a capper, in o mi born days. I see\n'em as plain as a pikestaff. Th' last day connot be far off, I'm\nsewer. Bud I'll hev th' tabble, at onny rate, beawt axin.' And, so\nsaying, he took possession of the huge mushroom, and after hurriedly\ngathering up his lines, he wended his way across the meadow to his\nlittle cottage by the high road, and arrived there, he narrated to his\ndrowsy wife the story of the banquet.\n\n'Drat th' fairies, an' thee, too, wi' thi gawmless tales,' said his\nsceptical helpmate, 'I wondered what hed getten tha. Tha's bin asleep\nfor hours i' th' meadow istid a lookin' after th' fish. Tha never seed\na fairy i' thi life. Tha'rt nod hauve sharp enough, clivver as tha\nart i' owt as is awkurt.' There was a short pause after this sally,\nand then the sly Reuben drily answered--\n\n'Yoy, I 've sin a fairy monny an' monny a time. Olus when I used to\ncome a cooartin' to thi moather's. Bud tha 'r nod mich like a fairy\nneaw, tha 'st autert terbly. Tha 'rt too thrivin' lookin'.'\n\n'Be off wi' thi fawseness,' said the pleased woman; 'tha 'd ollus a\ndesayvin tung i' thi heead;' and then after a drowsy pause as she was\ndosing to sleep; 'but for o that I'll mek a soop o' good catsup out\no' thi fairy tabble.'\n\n\n\n\nTHE WHITE DOBBIE.\n\n\nMany years ago, long before the lovely Furness district was invaded by\nthe genius of steam, the villagers along the coast from Bardsea to\nRampside were haunted by a wandering being whose errand, the purpose\nof which could never be learned, used to bring him at night along the\nlonely roads and past the straggling cottages. This pilgrim was a\nwearied, emaciated-looking man, on whose worn and wan face the sorrows\nof life had left deep traces, and in whose feverish, hungry-looking\neyes, mystery and terror seemed to lurk. Nobody knew the order of his\ncoming or going, for he neither addressed anyone, nor replied if\nspoken to, but disregarded alike the 'good neet' of the tramp who knew\nhim not, and the startled cry of the belated villager who came\nsuddenly upon him at a turn of the road. Never stopping even for a\nminute to gaze through the panes whence streamed the ruddy glow of the\nwood fires, and to envy the dwellers in the cosy cottages, he kept on\nhis way, as though his mission was one of life and death, and,\ntherefore, would not brook delay.\n\nOn wild wintry nights, however, when the salt wind whirled the foam\nacross the bay, and dashed the blinding snow into heaps upon the\nwindow-sills and against the cottage doors, and darkness and storm\nspread their sombre wings over the coast, then was it certain that the\nmysterious being would be seen, for observation had taught the\nvillagers and the dwellers in solitary houses along the lonely roads\nbetween the fishing hamlets that in storm and darkness the weird\nvoyager was most likely to appear.\n\nAt such times, when the sound of footsteps, muffled by the snow, was\nheard between the soughs and moans of the wailing wind, the women\ncried, 'Heaven save us; 'tis th' White Dobbie,' as, convulsively\nclutching their little ones closer to their broad bosoms, they crept\nnearer to the blazing log upon the hearth, and gazed furtively and\nnervously at the little diamond-paned window, past which the restless\nwanderer was making his way, his companion running along a little way\nin advance, for not of the mysterious man alone were the honest people\nafraid. In front of him there invariably ran a ghastly-looking,\nscraggy white hare,{21} with bloodshot eyes. No sooner however did\nanyone look at this spectral animal than it fled to the wanderer, and\njumping into his capacious pocket, was lost to sight.\n\nVerily of an unearthly stock was this white hare, for upon its\napproach and long before it neared a village, the chained dogs, by\nsome strange instinct conscious of its coming, trembled in terror, and\nfrantically endeavoured to snap their bonds; unfastened ones fled no\nman knew whither; and if one happened to be trotting alongside its\nbelated master as he trudged homeward and chanced to meet the ghastly\nDobbie with its blood-red eyes, with a scream of pain almost human in\nits keen intensity, away home scampered the terrified animal, madly\ndashing over hedge and ditch as though bewitched and fiend-chased.\n\nFor many years the lonely wanderer had traversed the roads, and for\nmany years had the hare trotted in front of him; lads who were cradled\nupon their mother's knee when first they heard the awe-inspiring\nfootfalls had grown up into hearty wide-chested men, and men who were\nruddy fishers when the pilgrim first startled the dwellers in Furness\nhad long passed away into the silent land; but none of them ever had\nknown the wayfarer to utter a syllable. At length, however, the time\ncame when the solemn silence was to be broken.\n\nOne night when the breeze, tired of whispering its weird messages to\nthe bare branches, and chasing the withered leaves along the lanes,\nhad begun to moan a hushed prelude to the music of a storm, through\nthe mist that had crept over the bay, and which obscured even the\nwhite-crested wavelets at the foot of the hill on which stood the\nsacred old church, there came at measured intervals the melancholy\nmonotone of the Bardsea passing bell{9} for the dead.\n\nDismally upon the ears of the dwellers in the straggling hamlet fell\nthe announcement of the presence of death, and even the woman who had\nfor years been bell-ringer and sexton, felt a thrill of fear as she\nstood in the tower but dimly lighted by a candle in a horn lantern,\nand high above her head the message of warning rang out; for, although\naccustomed to the task, it was not often that her services were\nrequired at night. Now and again she gazed slowly round the chamber,\nupon the mouldering walls of which fantastic shadows danced, and she\nmuttered broken fragments of prayers in a loud and terrified voice,\nfor as the door had been closed in order that the feeble light in the\nlantern might not be extinguished by the gusts of wind, isolated as\nshe was from the little world upon the hillside, she felt in an\nunwonted manner the utter loneliness of the place and its dread\nsurroundings.\n\nSuddenly she uttered a shrill shriek, for she heard a hissing whisper\nat her ear and felt an icy breath upon her cheek. She dared not turn\nround, for she saw that the door opening upon the churchyard remained\nclosed as before, and that occasionally passing within the range of\nher fixed stare, a white hare with blood-red eyes gambolled round the\nbelfry.\n\n'T' Dobbie!' sighed she, as the dim light began to flicker and the\nhare suddenly vanished.\n\nAs she stood almost paralysed, again came the terrible whisper, and\nthis time she heard the question--\n\n'Who for this time?'\n\nThe horrified woman was unable to answer, and yet powerless to resist\nthe strange fascination which forced her to follow the direction of\nthe sound; and when the question was put a second time, in an agony of\nfear she gazed into the wild eyes of the being at her elbow, her\nparched tongue cleaving to her open mouth. From the pocket of the\ndread visitor the ghastly animal gazed at the ringer, who mechanically\njerked the bell-rope, and the poor woman was fast losing her senses,\nwhen suddenly the door was burst open, and a couple of villagers, who\nhad been alarmed by the irregular ringing, entered the tower. They at\nonce started back as they saw the strange group--the wanderer with\nsad, inquiring look, and pallid face, the phantom hare with its\nfirelit eyes, and the old ringer standing as though in a trance. No\nsooner, however, did one of the intruders gaze at the animal than it\nslipped out of sight down into the pocket of its companion and keeper,\nand the wanderer himself hastily glided between the astonished men,\nand out into the darkness of the graveyard.\n\nOn many other gloomy nights afterwards the ringer was accosted in the\nsame manner, but although the unnatural being and the spectral hare\ncontinued for some winters to pass from village to village and from\ngraveyard to graveyard, a thick cloud of mystery always hung over and\nabout them, and no one ever knew what terrible sin the never-resting\nman had been doomed to expiate by so lonely and lasting a pilgrimage.\n\nWhence he came and whither he went remained unknown; but long as he\ncontinued to patrol the coast the hollow sound of his hasty footsteps\nnever lost its terror to the cottagers; and even after years had\npassed over without the usual visits, allusions to the weird pilgrim\nand his dread companion failed not to cause a shudder, for it was\nbelieved that the hare was the spirit of a basely-murdered friend, and\nthat the restless voyager was the miserable assassin doomed to a\nwearisome, lifelong wandering.{22}\n\n\n\n\nTHE LITTLE MAN'S GIFT.\n\n\nMany are the wells in Lancashire that once were supposed to be the\nhomes of good or evil spirits--of demons or of beneficent\nfairies--and, despite the injunctions of the Church against the\ncustoms of praying at and waking wells, down to a comparatively recent\nperiod they were resorted to by pilgrims of all grades who were in\nsearch of health. One such spring near Blackpool, known as the\nFairies' Well, had its daily crowds of the ailing and the sorrowful,\nfor its water was credited with virtues as wonderful as they were\nmanifold, and from far and near people brought vessels to be filled\nwith the miraculous fluid.\n\nOne day at noon, a poor woman who had journeyed many a weary mile in\norder to obtain a supply of the water with which to bathe the eyes of\nher child, whose sight was fast failing, and upon whom all the usual\nremedies had been tried without success, on rising from her knees at\nthe well side, was surprised to find standing near her a handsome\nlittle man clad in green, who certainly was not in sight when she bent\nto fill her bottle. As she stood gazing at the dainty object, the\nvisitor, without having previously asked her any questions, handed to\nher a beautiful box filled with ointment, and directed her to apply\nthe salve to the eyes of her child, whose sight it would restore.\nSurprised beyond measure at the little man's knowledge of her family\naffairs, the woman mechanically accepted the gift, but when, after\ncarefully placing the box in her pocket, she turned to thank the\ngiver, he was no longer to be seen; and satisfied that she had had an\ninterview with one of the beings after whom the well was named, she\nstarted on her journey to her distant home.\n\nThe strangeness of the present, given as she trusted it was by a fairy\nwho was conversant with the painful circumstances under which she had\nmade her pilgrimage, caused her to hope that the ointment would prove\nefficacious in removing the disorder under which her child was\nlabouring; but this vague feeling, based as it was upon the mysterious\nnature of the gift, was accompanied by a perfectly natural fear that,\nafter all, the giver might have been one of those mischievous beings\nwhose delight it was to wreak harm and wrong upon humanity.\n\nWhen she reached home and told the strange story to her wondering\nhusband, the nervous pair decided that the ointment should not be used\nunless a further mark of fairy interest in the child's welfare were\nvouchsafed to them; but when a few days had passed, and the child\ncontinued to grow worse, the anxious mother, in the absence of her\nhusband, determined to test the salve upon one of her own eyes. She\ndid so, and after a few minutes of dreadful suspense, finding that\nevil results did not follow, and saying to herself that surely the\nfairy could not be desirous of harming her child, she anointed the\nlittle girl's eyes. She refrained, however, from making her helpmate\nacquainted with what she had done, until in the course of a few days\nthe child's eyesight was so nearly restored that it was no longer\nnecessary or possible to keep the matter from him. Great were the\nrejoicings of the worthy pair over their little one's recovery; but\nthere was not for a very long time any opportunity afforded them of\nexpressing their gratitude.\n\nSome years had passed,--and, as the girl had never had a relapse, the\nstrange gift was almost forgotten,--when one day, in the market-place\nat Preston, the woman, who was haggling about the price of a load of\npotatoes, saw before her the identical little fellow in green attire\nfrom whom, long before, she had received the box of wonder-working\nointment. Although he was busily engaged in a pursuit in which,\nperhaps, few gentlemen would care to be interrupted, that of stealing\ncorn from an open sack, the thoughtless woman, regardless of\netiquette, and yielding to the sudden impulse which prompted her to\nthank him, stepped forward, and, grasping the fairy's hand, gave\nutterance to her gratitude.\n\nTo her surprise, however, the little fellow seemed very angry with\nher, and, instead of acknowledging her thanks, hastily asked if she\ncould see him with both eyes, and if she had used the ointment\nintended for her child. The frightened woman at once said that she\nsaw him with only one eye, and was entering into a long account of the\ncircumstances under which, with maternal instinct, she had tested the\nvalue of the gift, when, without more ado, the irritated fairy struck\nher a violent blow and vanished, and from that time forward the poor\nwoman, instead of being able to see better than her neighbours, was\nblind of one eye. The daughter, however, often saw the fairies, but,\nprofiting by her mother's painful experience, she was wise enough to\nrefrain from speaking to them either when they gathered by moonlight\nbeneath the trees or in broad daylight broke the Eighth Commandment,\nutterly unconscious that they were observed by a mortal to whom had\nbeen given the wondrous gift of fairy vision.{23}\n\n\n\n\nSATAN'S SUPPER.{24}\n\n\n                                      I.\n\n  Ye Evil One         The 'Old Lad' sat upon his throne,\n  giveth unto           Beneath a blasted oak,\n  them a stayve.      And fiddled to the mandrake's groan,\n                        The marsh-frog's lonely croak;\n\n\n                                     II.\n\n  Ye corpses          Whilst winds they hissed, and shrieked, and moaned\n  dashe their           About the branches bare,\n  wigges.             And all around the corpses groaned,\n                        And shook their mould'ring hair;\n\n\n                                    III.\n\n  Ye hagges           As witches gathered one by one,\n  crowde to ye          And knelt at Satan's feet,\n  _levee_.            With faces some all worn and wan,\n                        And some with features sweet,\n\n\n                                     IV.\n\n  Ye power            The earth did ope and imps upsprang\n  of                    Of every shape and shade,\n  Musicke.            Who 'gan to dance as th' welkin rang\n                        With tunes the 'Old Lad' played;\n\n\n                                      V.\n\n  Ye poetrie          At which the witches clapped their hands,\n  of                    And laughed and screamed in glee;\n  motion.             Or jumped about in whirling bands,\n                        And hopped in revelry,\n\n\n                                     VI.\n\n  Ye delicacies       Till Satan ceased, when all did rest,\n  of ye                 And swarmed unto the meat:\n  season,             The flesh of infants from the breast,\n                        The toes from dead men's feet,\n\n\n                                    VII.\n\n  Ye ditto,           With sand for salt, and brimstone cates,\n                        With blood for old wine red;\n                      On glittering dish and golden plates\n                        The dainty food was spread.\n\n\n                                   VIII.\n\n  Ye                  From heavy cups, with jewels rough,\n  coolinge              The witches quenched their thirst;\n  drinkes.            Yet not before the ruddie stuff\n                        Had been by Satan cursed.\n\n\n                                     IX.\n\n  Ye barde            But one lank fiend of skin and bone,\n  telleth of            With hungry-looking eyne,\n  an outcaste         Gazed at the food with dreary moans,\n  impe.                 And many a mournful whine;\n\n\n                                      X.\n\n  Of hys              For Satan would not let him feed\n  unparalleled          Upon the toothsome cheer,\n  wickednesse;        (He had not done all day a deed\n                        To cause a human tear);\n\n\n                                     XI.\n\n  Of hys              And so he hopped from side to side,\n  gamboles              To beg a bit of 'toke,'\n  and praieres,       And, vagrant-like, his plea denied,\n                        He prayed that they might choke\n\n\n                                    XII.\n\n  And of              Themselves with morsels rich and fat\n  hys                   Or die upon the floor,\n  revylyngs of        Like paupers (grieving much thereat\n  goode menne.          The guardians of the poor).\n\n\n                                   XIII.\n\n  Ye earlie byrde     A cock then flapped his wings and crew,\n  prepareth for ye       Announcing coming light;\n  'Diet of            When, seizing on a jar of stew,\n  Wormes.'              The snubbed imp took his flight.\n\n\n                                    XIV.\n\n  _Les Adieux._       And at the solemn sound of doom\n                        The witches flew away,\n                      While Satan slunk off through the gloom,\n                        Afraid of break of day;\n\n\n                                     XV.\n\n  Ye fruitlesse       And in the darkness drear he cried--\n  remorse of            His voice a trifle gruff,\n  Beelzebubbe.        'Those omelettes were nicely fried;\n                        I have not had enough!'\n\n\n                                    XVI.\n\n  Ye resulte          A blight fell on the trembling flowers\n  of ye meetynge        And on the quivering trees--\n  uponne ye           No buds there drink the passing showers,\n                        Or leaves wave in the breeze;\n\n\n                                   XVII.\n\n  Agryculture         For Satan's presence withered all\n  of ye                 The daisies and the grass,\n  dystricte.          And all things over which like pall\n                        His sulphurous tail did pass.\n\n\n\n\nTHE EARTHENWARE GOOSE.\n\n\nOnce upon a time, which somewhat vague reference in this instance\nmeans long before it was considered a compliment by the fair dames of\nLancashire to be termed witches, there lived in the Fylde country\nvillage of Singleton a toothless, hooknosed old woman, whose ill\nfortune it was to be credited with the friendship of the Evil One.\nPerhaps had the ancient dame been somewhat better looking she might\nhave borne a better character. In those distant days to be poor was\nconsidered decidedly discreditable, but to be ugly also was to add\ninsult to injury. The old woman knew only too well that she was poor\nand that she was plain, for the urchins and hobbledehoys of the\nlocality lost no opportunity of reminding her of the facts, whenever,\non frugal mind intent, she emerged from her rude cottage to expend a\nfew pence upon articles of food.\n\nUgliness and poverty, however, Mag Shelton persisted in considering\nmisfortunes and not crimes, and when anybody to whom she was an\neyesore, with gallantry peculiar to the time and place let us hope,\nwished that she would die and rid the village of her objectionable\npresence, the old woman took no notice of the polite expression. To\ndie by particular desire was not in Mag's line. What harm could a\ntoothless old woman do, that the world, by which term the half-dazed\ncreature meant the village in which she had spent her life, should\nevince so much anxiety to be rid of her?--argued Mag. True, if\ntoothless, she had her tongue; but without a visiting circle, and with\nno benefactors to belie, that valuable weapon in the service of spite\nmight just as well have been in the mouth of an uneducated heathen.\nHarmless, however, as the old dame thought herself, the villagers held\na different opinion, and the children, afraid of disturbing the witch,\ninvariably removed their wooden-soled clogs before they ran past the\nhut in which Mag lived,{25} while the older folk, if they did not\nliterally take the coverings from their feet as they passed the\nlonely dwelling, crept by on tiptoe, and glanced furtively at the\nunsuspecting inhabitant of the cottage, who, by the aid of the fitful\nfirelight, might be seen dozing near the dying embers, and now and\nagain stroking a suspiciously bright-eyed cat, nestled snugly upon her\nknee.\n\nThe old woman's solitary way of life favoured the growth of\nsuperstitions regarding her, for the Singletonians were not without\ntheir share of that comforting vanity which impresses the provincial\nmind with a sense of the high importance of its society, parish, and\ncreed; and they could not imagine anyone preferring to keep away from\nthem and to sit alone, without at once believing, as a necessary\nconsequence, that the unappreciative ones must have dealings with\nSatan.\n\nIt soon was found convenient to attribute anything and everything of\nan unpleasant nature to the denizen of the lonely cottage, 'th' Owd\nWitch,' as she was termed. Was a cow or a child ailing? Mag had done\nit! Had the housewife omitted to mark with the sign of the cross the\nbaking of dough left in the mug on the hearth, and the bread had\nturned out 'heavy,' Mag Shelton had taken advantage of the overworked\nwoman's negligence! Was there but a poor field of wheat? 'Twas the\nfault of old Mag, swore the farmer. In short, whatever went wrong\nthroughout the entire country-side was judged to be clearly traceable\nto the spite and malevolence of the toothless old woman and her\nsuspicious-looking cat.\n\nThis state of things might, however, have continued without any\ninterruption, until Nature had interposed and released Mag from her\nattendance upon such a world, had it not begun to be noticed that\nalmost every farmer in the neighbourhood was complaining of the\nmysterious disappearance of milk, not only from the dairies, but also\nfrom the udders of the cows grazing in the pastures. A bucolic genius\nimmediately proclaimed that in this case, too, the culprit must be\nMag, for had not she her familiars to feed, and what could be more\nagreeable to the palate of a parched fiend or perspiring imp, than a\nbeaker of milk fresh from the cow and redolent of meadow-flowers? With\nsuch a gaping family to satisfy, what regard could the old lady retain\nfor the Eighth Commandment?\n\nThis logic was deemed unanswerable, and a number of the farmers\ndetermined to conceal themselves one night about the witch's cottage,\nin the hope of something confirmatory turning up. It was late when\nthey took their places, and they barely had settled themselves\ncomfortably behind the hedgerow before a noise was heard, and the old\nwoman emerged from the house,--the cat, and, of all things else in the\nworld, a stately goose solemnly paddling behind her.\n\nThe men in ambush remained silent until Mag and her attendants had\npassed out of sight and hearing, when one of them said, 'Keep still,\nchaps, till hoo comes back. Hoo's gone a milkin', I daat.' The\nwatchers therefore kept perfectly quiet, and in a little while their\npatience was rewarded; for the old woman reappeared, walking slowly\nand unattended by her former companions. As she paused to unfasten the\ncottage door, the men pounced out of their hiding-place, seized her\nroughly, and at once tore off her cloak. To the surprise of the rude\nassailants, however, no sign of milkjugs could be observed; and, as\nthey stood aghast, Mag cried, in a shrill and angry voice, 'Will ye\nnever learn to respect grey hair, ye knaves?' 'We'll respect tha'\ninto th' pit yon, mi lady,' immediately responded one of the roughest\nof the men. 'What hes ta done with th' milk to-neet?'\n\nIn vain were the old woman's protestations,--that, driven from the\nroads and lanes in the daytime by the children and the hobbledehoys\nwho persecuted her, she had of late taken her exercise by night; the\njudicial mind was made up, and rude hands were outstretched to drag\nher to the horsepond, when, fortunately for Mag, the appearance of the\ngoose, waddling in a hurried and agitated manner, created a timely\ndiversion in her favour.\n\n'I thowt it quare,' said one of the would-be executioners--'varra\nquare, that th' goose worn't somewheer abaat, for hoo an' it's as\nthick as Darby an' Jooan.'\n\nAs though conscious that all was not well with its mistress, the\nungainly and excited bird, stretching its neck towards the bystanders,\nand hissing loudly, placed itself by the old woman's side.\n\n'We want no hissin' heear,' said the leader of the band, as he lifted\na heavy stick and struck the sibilant fowl a sharp rap on its head.\n\nNo sooner had the sound of the blow fallen upon the ears of the\nassembled rustics than the goose vanished, not a solitary feather\nbeing left behind, and in its place there stood a large broken\npitcher, from which milk, warm from the cow, was streaming. Here was\nproof to satisfy even the most credulous, and, as a consequence, in a\nmoment the old woman was floundering in the pond, from which she\nbarely escaped with her life. A few days afterwards, however, upon the\ninterposition of the Vicar, she was permitted to leave the\ninhospitable village, and away she tramped in search of 'fresh woods\nand pastures new,' her cat and the revivified goose bearing her\ncompany.{26}\n\nShe had left the inhospitable place, when the landlord of the Blue Pig\ndiscovered that the jug in which the witch-watchers had conveyed their\n'allowance' to the place of ambush had not been returned. It was not\nagain seen in its entirety, and the sarcastic host often vowed that it\nwas here and there in the village in the shape of cherished fragments\nof the broken one into which the watchers declared that they had seen\nMag's goose transformed.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PHANTOM OF THE FELL.\n\n\nOn a beautiful night late in summer a solitary man, who was returning\nfrom some wedding festivities, was rapidly crossing Fair Snape. The\nmoon was at the full, and threw her glamour upon the lovely fell, as a\nbreeze sighed among the tall ferns which waved gently to and fro under\nthe sweet invisible influence, and the only sounds which fell upon the\nwayfarer's ear were the almost inaudible rustling of the bracken, and\nthe occasional faint bark of a distant watch-dog. Giles Roper,\nhowever, was not thinking of the beauty of the night, or of the\nscenery, but, naturally enough, was congratulating himself upon being\never so much nearer to the stocking of that farm without which he\ncould not hope for the hand of the miller's rosy daughter. Thoughts of\na chubby, good-hearted little woman like Liza were calculated to\ndrive out all other and less pleasant ones; but Giles was rapidly\napproaching a part of the hillside said to be haunted. Many tales had\nhe heard by the winter's fire of the doings of the nameless\nappearance, the narrators speaking in hushed voices, and the hearers\ninstinctively drawing closer together on the old settle; and these\nnarratives crowded into his recollection as he left the cheerful\nmoonlight and stepped into the shade of the little clough. Before he\nhad got very far down he was prepared to see or hear anything; but,\nmaking allowance for the fear which somehow or other had taken\npossession of him, he knew that there was something more than fancy in\na melancholy wail which broke upon his ears as he reached a bend in\nthe ravine. There was nothing however in the sad note of lamentation\ncalculated to terrify, save the consciousness that such sweet music\ncould not be that of a mortal. Instinctively Giles looked in the\ndirection whence the sound had come, and in the dim light he saw the\nfigure of a woman with a pallid face of singular and unearthly beauty,\nher hair falling behind her like a sheet of gold, and her eyes\nemitting a strange lustre, which, however, was not sufficiently\nintense to conceal their beautiful azure hue. The bewildered spectator\ngazed in rapt worship, for though his limbs still trembled he no\nlonger felt any fear, but rather a wild delirious longing to speak to,\nand to be addressed by, the beautiful being before him. He was\nsufficiently near to the appearance to be able to distinguish the\nfeatures clearly, and when he saw a movement of the lips his heart\nthrobbed violently under the expectation that he was about to receive\na mysterious commission. He was, however, doomed to be disappointed,\nfor the only sound emitted by the phantom was another low melodious\ncry, even more pathetic and mournful than that by which his attention\nhad first been attracted to the lovely object. At the same time Giles\nsaw that the figure was more distant than before, and that it was\nslowly gliding away, but beckoning to him, as though anxious that he\nshould follow. The young man, spell-bound and fascinated by the\nenchanting eyes, which were beautiful enough to turn the head of one\nwiser than the raw country lad upon whom they were fixed, followed\neagerly, but at the end of the clough, where the moonlight was\nbrilliant, the figure vanished, leaving Giles, not with that feeling\nof relief said to follow the disappearance of a mysterious visitant,\nbut, on the contrary, anxious to behold the vision again. He therefore\nturned and retraced his steps to the undulating summit of the fell,\nwhere the wind was sighing over the many-flowered heather, but there\nwas nothing to be seen of the blue-eyed phantom, and only for the\nfaint wash of the rustling ferns all would have been silent.\n\nUnwilling to leave the spot, although he was conscious that the task\nwas a fruitless one, he continued to wander from one point to another,\nand it was not until daybreak that he finally gave up the search and\ndescended the fell. Not caring to allude to his adventure and vain\nsearch upon the pike, Giles accounted for his lateness by asserting\nthat he had remained until midnight at the distant farmhouse where the\nrejoicings had taken place, and had afterwards lost his way on the\nfells. With this excuse, however, his relatives were quite content,\none sarcastic farm-servant drily remarking that after wedding\nfestivities it was wonderful he had been able to find his way home at\nall.\n\nThe extraordinary thoughtfulness which Giles evinced during the day\nwas of too marked a nature to remain unobserved; but the old father\nattributed it merely to that natural dislike to settled labour which\ngenerally follows boisterous relaxation, and the mother thought it was\ndue to a desire to be off again to see the chubby daughter of the\nmiller. The old dame, therefore, was not surprised when her son\nannounced his intention to leave home for a few hours, and she\ncongratulated herself on her foresight and discernment, finishing her\nsoliloquy by saying--'Well, hoo's a bonny wench as he's after; an',\nwhat's mooar, hoo's as good as hoo's pratty.'\n\nIt was not, however, to the far-off dwelling of the miller that Giles\nwas making his way.\n\nOn the contrary, he was leisurely pacing in quite an opposite\ndirection, his back turned to the old mill, and his eyes fixed upon\nthe distant fells, which he did not care to reach until the gloaming\nhad given way to moonlight. Not that he was afraid of being seen, the\nroad he trod was too lonely for that; but he thought it was unlikely\nhis watchings would be rewarded before the night had properly set in.\nIf the beautiful object was a spirit--and what else could it have\nbeen?--it would come at its own time, and who ever heard of spirits\nappearing before midnight? The young fellow, therefore, waited until\nthe moon rose and bathed the hills in her golden flood, when he at\nonce began to climb the fell, making his way up the ravine in which on\nthe previous night he had heard the mysterious voice.\n\nIt was some time from midnight, and he stopped to rest, taking his\nseat upon a moss-covered stone. Here he waited patiently; but he had\nbegun to fear that his visit was to be a fruitless one, when once more\nhe heard the peculiar mournful wail, and rapidly turning round, he saw\nthat he was not alone. Again the weird eyes, in all their unearthly\nbeauty, were fixed upon him, and the long white arms were extended as\nthough to beckon him to draw nigh.\n\nInstinctively Giles rose in obedience to the pleading attitude of the\nfair vision; but as he approached the phantom it grew less and less\ndistinct, and at length vanished. As on the previous night, the young\nfellow wandered about in the hope of again seeing the lovely being,\nand once more he was obliged to return to the farm unsuccessful.\n\nPossessed by a maddening and irresistible desire to gaze upon the\nwondrous face which had bewitched him, the approach of nightfall\ninvariably found Giles on his way to the fell, and it can easily be\nimagined to what unpleasantness in his family circle this course of\nconduct gave rise. On the one hand the parents gave the rein to all\nsorts of vague suspicions as to the cause of the night rambles; and\nthe lad's disinclination to give any explanations did not help the old\npeople to think more kindly of him. The father of the girl whom he had\nasked in marriage also did not fail to expostulate with him, in the\nidea that he had fallen into evil ways, and that his pilgrimages were\nto a distant town; while the girl herself, loving him as she did with\nall the vigour of her simple and earnest nature, and uninfluenced by\nany foolish feeling of false shame, came to his parents' house in the\nhope of obtaining a promise of better things.\n\nHer pleadings and her womanly threats, however, were unavailing, the\nwhilom lover in a shamefaced manner refusing to make any promise of\ndifferent behaviour. The interview was a painful one; for the girl,\nfeeling certain that her father's interpretation was correct, used all\nher powers to induce Giles to abandon his evil courses; but at length,\nfinding that her prayers were ineffectual, she bitterly reproached him\nwith his want of honesty.\n\n'It's no evil as I'm after, lass! Don't think that on mi,' said the\nyoung man, in an appealing tone; but the girl was not to be convinced\nby mere assertion.\n\n'It's no good as teks tha away o'er t' pike neet after neet,' said\nshe, with a sudden access of grief, 'it'ull come by tha in some way or\nanother, Giles.' And in tears she turned away from him.\n\n'Whisht, lass, whisht! If tha nobbut knew, O tha'd pity i'stid o'\nblaming mi.'\n\nThe girl heeded not these words, but kept on her way. When she got to\na turn in the road, however, she looked back mournfully, as though in\ndoubt whether to return and cast herself upon his breast, and bid him\ntrust in her; but pride overcame her, and she resisted the impulse.\n\nThat night, as two of the miller's men were poaching, they were\nstartled by the unexpected sound of a human voice, and hastily hiding\nthemselves beneath the tall ferns, they saw Giles emerge from the\nclough and run towards the place where they were concealed. He seemed\nto be half mad with excitement, and as he ran he was crying aloud some\nwords they could not catch. When he drew nearer, however, they were\nable to hear more distinctly, and to their surprise they found that he\nwas appealing to an invisible being to appear to him.\n\nFor some time they remained in their place of concealment, Giles\nhovering about the spot; but when the young fellow ran to a distance,\nthey emerged from their hiding-place and rapidly made their way to the\nmill. For obvious reasons, however, they agreed to keep silence as to\nwhat they had seen and heard.\n\nThe day after this episode Giles was in a fever and delirious, raving\ncontinually about the bonny face and 'breet een' of the being he had\nseen in the ravine. His afflicted parents found in the wild utterances\nsad confirmation of their worst fears, and, half broken-hearted, they\nhovered sorrowfully about his bed. For weeks he battled with the\ndisorder, and at nightfall frequently endeavoured to leave the house,\nand vainly struggled with the friends who prevented him, to whom he\nfrantically cried that she of the blue eyes was calling him.\n\nA cloud fell over the hitherto happy household. Night and day the old\npeople watched over their sick lad, each of them feeling that the task\nwould have been a comparatively easy one had not the patient's\ndelirious ravings revealed to them so terrible a background to the\nround of their primitive and innocent daily life. Not that they loved\ntheir child any less because of the revelations he had unconsciously\nmade to them, but they brooded and fretted over his supposed\nwickedness, and bowed their heads in grief and shame as they\nunwillingly heard his impassioned cries.\n\nBy-and-by the story of these ravings got noised about, and the\nmiller's daughter, who hitherto had been suffering bravely, broke down\naltogether when she knew that she was an object of pity to the\ngossips. It fortunately happened, however, that the miller's men who\nhad seen Giles at the pike got into conversation with their master\nabout the matter, and it struck one of them that the woman about whom\nGiles was supposed to be raving, and of whom tales of all sorts were\nbeing circulated, was a feeorin of some kind that the young fellow had\nseen on the lonely fell. No sooner was this idea arrived at than off\nthey started to see the distressed parents, the miller's daughter\nhastening with them. They found no difficulty in gaining credence for\ntheir narrative, and with a burst of thankfulness the old people felt\nthat the gulf which had yawned between them and their eldest born was\nfor ever closed; while, as for the girl, her transports of joy were\nalmost painful in their intensity. So great a weight was lifted from\nall hearts that the illness of the patient was for the time almost\nforgotten. Giles, however, still remained in a very critical\ncondition, but he soon had an additional nurse, who, despite the\nwatchings and the toil of which she relieved the old people, was\nrapidly becoming more and more like the ruddy-faced damsel to whom the\nyoung fellow had plighted his troth, for she could listen to and\ndisregard the ravings of her lover and look forward to the time when\nhappiness should again smile upon them.\n\nA few weeks passed. The violence of the disorder abated, and the\npatient recovered so far as to be able to bear removal to a large\nchair by the kitchen fire. As he sat quietly dreaming the short autumn\ndays away, without any allusions to the beauty about whom he had so\nconstantly raved during his delirium, the old people and the miller's\ndaughter began to congratulate themselves that the dream-madness had\npassed away with the worst phase of the illness. The girl, however,\nalthough she did not utter any complaint, suffered deeply from the\ncoolness with which Giles treated her. Not that he was ungrateful,\nfor, on the contrary, it was impossible to do anything for him,\nhowever slight the service might be, without a thankful\nacknowledgment; but there was a visible constraint in his manner which\ncould not escape the keen sight of love. Fearing to distress him by\nany remonstrances, the patient girl refrained from referring to the\npast or showing that she was observant of any change in his behaviour\ntowards her, but she brooded over her grief when she was alone. The\nyoung fellow knew that the poor girl was suffering, but for the life\nof him he could not assume that which he did not feel. Much as he had\nloved her before the night of his adventure on the pike, from the\nmoment when he had first seen the face of the mysterious being his\naffection for her had faded away, consumed by the intense longing\nwhich filled his soul night and day whenever he thought of the eyes\nillumined by a fire that was not human, and of the features and hair\nso exquisitely beautiful in the faint moonlight. Calm and quiet as he\nlooked, seated propped with cushions in the old chair by the fire, he\nwas inwardly fretting against the weakness that kept him from the\nfells, and his longing soul came into his eyes as he gazed through the\nlittle diamond-paned window, and saw the pike, in all the beauty of\nmany-tinted autumn, kissed by the setting sun as the blushing day sank\ninto the swarthy arms of night.\n\nSlowly winter came, bringing snow and storm, and as though influenced\nby a feeling that even Nature had interposed her barriers between him\nand the lovely being, one afternoon, as the mists crept slowly over\nthe white landscape, and hid in their shimmering folds the distant\nfells where he had first seen the sweet face so seldom absent from\nhis feverish dreams, he could not resist the desire which seized him\nto visit once more the haunted ravine. The various members of the\nlittle household were away from the house engaged in their labours\nabout the farm, and taking advantage of this, Giles fled from the\ndwelling, and made his way through the dim light to the hills. It was\nnot long, however, before his absence was discovered, but some time\nelapsed before the men-folk could be gathered, and the shades of night\nhad fallen before the anxious pursuers reached the foot of the pike.\n\nThe thick mist had enveloped everything, and as the lanterns, choked\nas they were by the damp, threw but a fitful light, it was with the\nutmost difficulty that the men found the footmarks of the wanderer in\nthe snow up the fell side. The searchers were led by the father of\nGiles, who spoke not, but glanced at the track as though in dread of\ndiscovering that which he had come to find. Suddenly the old man gave\na startled cry, for he had followed the marks to the edge of a little\ncliff, over which he had almost fallen in his eagerness. It was\nforthwith determined to follow the ravine to its commencement, and\nalthough nothing was said by any of the party, each man felt certain\nthat the missing young fellow would be found at the bottom. It did not\ntake long to reach the entrance, and with careful steps the old man\nled the way over the boulders. He had not gone far before the light\nfrom his lantern fell upon the upturned face of his son, whose body\nlay across the course of a little frozen stream. The features were set\nin the sleep of death, for Giles had fallen from the level above, the\ncreeping mists having obscured the gorge where he first saw the lovely\nphantom, in search of which he had met an untimely end.\n\n\n\n\nALLHALLOW'S NIGHT.\n\n\nTo many a beautiful landscape the majestic Pendle adds a nameless\ncharm, and the traveller who gazes upon it from any of the points\nwhence a view of the whalelike mass is to be obtained, would hardly\ndream that the moss and fern-covered hill, smiling through the dim\nhaze, once was the headquarters of witchcraft and devilry. Readers of\nthe quaint and sad trials of the witchmania period, and of Harrison\nAinsworth's celebrated novel based thereon, will, however, remember\nwhat dread scenes were said to have transpired in the dim light of its\ncloughs and upon its wild sides, when Chattox, Mouldheels, and the\nother poor wretches whose 'devilish practices and hellish means,' as\nthey were termed in the old indictments, made the neighbourhood of the\nmountain so unsafe a locality.\n\nIn a lonely little house some distance from the foot of Pendle, there\ndwelt a farmer and his family, together with a labourer whom he\nemployed. Entirely illiterate, and living in a wild and weird\ndistrict, with but few houses nearer than a mile away, the household\nbelieved firmly in all the dreadful boggart, witch, and feeorin\nstories current in the district. For a long time, however, the farmer\nhad not any personal experience of the power of either witch or\nboggart; but at length his turn came. After a tempestuous night, when\nthe windows and doors rattled in their frames, and the wind, dashing\nthe big rain drops against the little diamond-shaped panes, moaned and\nshrieked round the lonely dwelling, three of the beasts were found\ndead in the shippon. A few days afterwards two of the children\nsickened, and when 'th' edge o' dark' was creeping up the hill-side\none of them died. As though this trouble was not enough, the crops\nwere blighted. With reluctance the farmer saw in these things proof\nthat he had in some unknown manner incurred the displeasure of the\ninvisible powers, and that the horse-shoe over his door, the branches\nof ash over the entrance to the shippon, and the hag stones hung up\nat the head of his own and of the children's bed, had lost their power\nof protection.\n\nThe family council, at which the unprotected condition of the house\nwas discussed, was of the saddest kind, for even the rough labourer\nmissed the prattle of the little one whose untimely end had cast a\nshadow over the dwelling, and he thoroughly sympathised with his\nmaster in his losses; while, as for the farmer and his wife, dread of\nwhat the future might have in store for them mingled with their\nsorrow, and added to the heaviness of their hearts.\n\n'Isaac, yo' may as weel tek' th' wiggin{27} an' th' horse shoes\ndeawn, for onny use they seem to be on. We'en nowt to keep th' feorin'\noff fra' us, an' I deawt we'es come off bud badly till November,' said\nthe farmer, as he knocked the ashes from his pipe.\n\n'An' why nobbut till November, Ralph,' asked the wife in a terrified\nvoice, as she gazed anxiously towards the little window through which\nPendle could be dimly seen looming against the evening sky.\n\n'Because on O'Hallow neet, mi lass, I meean to leet th' witches{28}\non Pendle.'\n\n'Heaven save us!' cried the woman. 'Tha'll be lost as sewer as th'\nwhorld.'\n\nThere was a short silence, and then old Isaac spoke--\n\n'If th' mestur goes, Isik guz too. Wis be company, at onny rate.'\n\nThe farmer gratefully accepted this offer of fellowship, and the\nappeals of his wife, who implored him to abandon the notion, were of\nno avail. Others had lighted the witches, and thereby secured a\ntwelvemonth's immunity from harm, and why should not he go and do\nlikewise? Ruin was staring him in the face if things did not improve,\nthought he, and his determination to 'leet' his unseen enemies grew\nstronger and stronger.\n\nAt length the last day of October came, bringing with it huge clouds\nand a misty rain, which quite obscured the weird hill; but at\nnightfall the wind rose, the rain ceased, the stars began to appear,\nand the huge outline of Pendle became visible.\n\nWhen the day's work was over, the farmer and Isaac sat in the kitchen,\nwaiting for the hour at which they were to start for the haunted\nmountain, and the dread and lonesome building where the witches from\nall parts gathered in mysterious and infernal conclave. Neither of the\nmen looked forward to the excursion with pleasurable feelings, for, as\nthe emotion caused by the losses had somewhat subsided, terror of the\nbeings who were supposed to assemble in the Malkin Tower resumed its\nsway; but soon after the old clock had chimed ten they rose from the\nsettle and began their preparations for the lighting. Each man grasped\na branch of mountain ash, to which several sprigs of bay were tied as\na double protection against thunder and lightning, and any stray\nfiends that might happen to be lurking about, and each carried in the\nother hand an unlighted candle.\n\nAs they passed from the house the tearful goodwife cried a blessing\nupon them, and a massive old bulldog crept from a corner of the yard\nand took its place at their heels.\n\nThe three stepped along bravely, and before long they had crossed the\nbrook and reached the foot of Pendle. Rapidly making their way to a\nwell-known ravine they paused to light the candles. This operation,\nperformed by means of a flint and steel and a box of tinder, occupied\nsome time; and while they were so engaged clouds obscured the moon, a\nfew heavy drops of rain fell, the wind ceased to whisper, and an\nominous silence reigned, and the dog, as though terrified, crept\ncloser to its master and uttered a low whine.\n\n'We's hev' a storm, I daat, Isik,' said the farmer.\n\n'Ise think mysen weel off an' win nowt else bud a storm,' drily\nreplied the old man, as, lighted candle in hand, he began to climb the\nhill-side, his master and the dog following closely behind.\n\nWhen they had almost reached the top of the ravine a flash of\nlightning suddenly pierced the darkness, and a peal of thunder seemed\nto shake the earth beneath them; while a weird and unearthly shriek of\nlaughter rang in their ears as a black figure flew slowly past them,\nalmost brushing against their faces in its flight. The dog immediately\nturned and fled, howling terribly as it ran down the hill-side; but\nthe men went on, each one carefully shading his light with the hand in\nwhich the branch of ash was grasped. The road gradually became\nrougher, and occasionally Isaac stumbled over a stone, and almost\nfell, the farmer frantically shouting to him to be careful of his\ncandle, but without any serious mishap the pair managed to get within\nsight of the tower.\n\nEvidently some infernal revelry was going on, for light streamed from\nthe window-openings, and above the crash of the thunder came shrieks\nof discordant laughter. Every now and again a dark figure floated over\ntheir heads and whirled in at one of the windows, and the noise became\nlouder, by the addition of another shrill voice.\n\n'It mon be drawin' nee midneet,' said the farmer. 'If we con but pass\nth' hour wis be reet for a twelvemonth. Let's mek for whoam neaw.'\n\nBoth men readily turned their backs to the building, but no sooner had\nthey done so than a Satanic face, with gleaming eyes, was visible for\na moment, and instantaneously both lights were extinguished.\n\n'God bless us!' immediately cried both men.\n\nAlmost before the words had left their lips the tower was plunged in\ntotal darkness, the shrieks of unholy laughter were suddenly stilled,\nand sounds were heard as of the rapid flight of the hags and their\nfamiliars, for the ejaculations had broken up the gathering.\n\nTerrified beyond measure at the extinction of their lights, but still\nclinging tenaciously to the branches, which apparently had proved so\nineffectual to preserve them against the power of the witches, the men\nhurried away. They had not proceeded far in the direction in which\nthey supposed the farm lay, when, with a cry, the farmer, who was a\nlittle in advance of his aged companion, fell and vanished. He had\nslipped down the cleft, on the brink of which Isaac stood, tremblingly\nendeavouring to pierce the darkness below.\n\nNot a sound came up to tell the old man that his master had escaped\nwith his life; and, as no response came to his shouts, at length he\nturned away, feeling sure that he was masterless, and hoping to be\nable to reach the farm, and obtain assistance. After wandering about\nfor some time, however, half-blinded by the lightning, and terrified\nbeyond measure at the result of their mutual boldness, Isaac crept\nunder a large stone, to wait for the dawn. Influenced by the cold and\nby fatigue, the old man fell asleep; but no sooner had the first faint\nrays of coming day kissed the hill-summit, than he was aroused by the\nold bulldog licking his face, and as he gazed around in sleepy\nastonishment some men appeared. The farmer's wife, terrified by the\narrival of the howling dog, and the non-arrival of the 'leeters,' had\nmade her way to a distant farm-house and alarmed the inmates, and a\nparty of sturdy fellows had started off to find the missing men.\nIsaac's story was soon told; and when the searchers reached the gorge\nthe farmer was found nursing a broken leg.\n\nGreat were the rejoicings of the goodwife when the cavalcade reached\nthe farm, for, bad as matters were, she had expected even a worse\nending; and afterwards, when unwonted prosperity had blessed the\nhousehold, she used to say, drily, 'Yo' met ha' kept th' candles in to\nleet yo' whoam, for it mon ha' bin after midneet when _he_ blew 'em\naat,' a joke which invariably caused the farmer and old Isaac to smile\ngrimly.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CHRISTMAS-EVE VIGIL.\n\n\nMany years have passed since the living of Walton-le-Dale was held by\na gentleman of singularly-reserved and studious habits, who, from noon\ntill night, pored over dusty black-letter folios. Although he was by\nno means forgetful of the few duties which pertained to his sacred\noffice, and never failed to attend to the wants of those of his\nparishioners who were in trouble and had need of kind words of\nsympathy and advice, or even of assistance of a more substantial\nnature, the length of time he devoted to his mysterious-looking\nvolumes, and a habit he had of talking to himself, as, late at night,\nwith head bent down, he passed along the village street, and vanished\ninto the darkness of a lonely lane, gave rise to cruel rumours that he\nwas a professor of the black art; and it was even whispered that his\nnight walks were pilgrimages to unholy scenes of Satanic revelry.\nThese suspicions deepened almost into certainty when the old people\nwho had charge of his house informed the gossips that the contents of\na large package, since the arrival of which the women in the village\nhad been unable to sleep for curiosity, were strange-looking bottles,\nof a weird shape, with awful signs and figures upon them; and that,\nduring the evening, after the carrier had brought them, noises were\nheard in the clergyman's room, and the house was filled with\nsulphurous smoke. Passing from one gossip to another, the story did\nnot fail to receive additions as usual, until when it reached the last\nhouse in the straggling village the narrator told how the student had\nraised the Evil One, who, after filling the house with brimstone,\nvanished in a ball of fire, not, however, without first having\nimprinted the mark of his claws upon the study table.\n\nHad the unconscious clergyman lived more in the everyday world around\nhim, and less in that of black-letter books, he would not have failed\nto perceive the averted looks with which his parishioners acknowledged\nhis greetings, or, what would have pained him even more deeply, the\nfrightened manner in which the children either fled at his approach,\nif they were playing in the lanes, or crept close to their parents\nwhen he entered the dwellings of the cottagers. Ignorant alike of the\nabsurd rumours, and unobservant of the change which had come over his\nflock, or at least acting as though unaware of them, the clergyman\ncontinued to perform the duties of his sacred office, and to fly from\nthem to his beloved volumes and experiments, growing more and more\nreserved in his habits, and visibly paling under his close\napplication.\n\nAfter matters had gone on in this way for some time, the villagers\nwere surprised to see a friendship spring up and ripen between their\npastor and an old resident in the village, of almost equally strange\nhabits. There was, however, in reality but little to wonder at in\nthis, for the similarity between the pursuits and tastes of the two\nstudents was sufficiently great to bridge over the gulf of\nwidely-different social positions.\n\nAbraham, or 'Owd Abrum,' as he was generally named, was a herb doctor,\nwhose knowledge of out-of-the-way plants which possessed mysterious\nmedicinal virtues, and of still more wonderful charms and spells, was\nthe theme of conversation by every farmhouse fireside for miles round.\nAt that day, and in that locality, the possession of a few books\nsufficed to make a man a wonder to his neighbours; and Abraham had a\nlittle shelf full of volumes upon his favourite subjects of botany and\nastrology.\n\nThe old man lived by himself in a little cottage, some distance along\na lane leading from the village across the meadows; and, despite the\nabsence of female supervision, the place always was as clean and\nbright as a new pin. Had he needed any assistance in his household\nduties, Abraham would not have asked in vain for it, for he was feared\nas well as respected. If he was able to charm away evil and sickness,\ncould he not also bring sickness and evil? So reasoned the simple\nvillagers; and those who were not, even unconsciously, influenced by\nthe guileless everyday life of the old man, were impressed by the idea\nthat he had the power to cast trouble upon them if they failed to\nmaintain an outward show of reverence.\n\nHowever early the villagers might be astir, as they passed along the\nlanes on their way to their labour in the fields, they were certain to\nfind 'Owd Abrum' searching by the hedgerows or in the plantations for\nherbs, to be gathered with the dew upon them; and at night the belated\ncottager, returning from a distant farm, was equally certain of\nfinding Abraham gazing at the heavens, 'finding things aat abaat\nfowk,' as the superstitious country people said and believed.\n\nAddicted to such nocturnal studies, it was not likely that the old\nherb doctor and the pale student would remain unknown to each other.\nThe acquaintance however, owing to the reserved habits of both, began\nin a somewhat singular manner. Returning from a long and late walk\nabout midnight, the minister was still some distance from his abode,\nwhen he heard a clear voice say: 'Now is the time, if I can find any:\nJupiter is angular, the moon's applied to him, and his aspect is\ngood.'\n\nThe night was somewhat cloudy--the stars being visible only at\nintervals--and it was not until the clergyman had advanced a little\nway that he was able to perceive the person who had spoken. He saw\nthat it was the old herbalist, and immediately accosted him. An\nanimated conversation followed, Abraham expatiating on the virtues of\nthe plants he had been gathering under the dominion of their\nrespective planets, and astonishing the pale student by the extent of\nhis information. In his turn, the old man was delighted to find in the\nclergyman a fellow-enthusiast in the forbidden ways of science; and as\nthe student was no less charmed to discover in the 'yarb doctor' a\nscholar who could sympathise with him and understand his yearnings\nafter the invisible, late as was the hour, the pair adjourned to\nAbraham's cottage. The visitor did not emerge until the labourers were\ngoing to their toil, the time having been spent in conversation upon\nthe powers exercised by the planets upon plants and men, the old man\ngrowing eloquent as to the wonderful virtue of the Bay Tree, which, he\nsaid, could resist all the evil Saturn could do to the human body, and\nin the neighbourhood of which neither wizard nor devil, thunder or\nlightning, could hurt man; of Moonwort, with the leaves of which locks\nmight be opened, and the shoes be removed from horses' feet; of\nCelandine, with which, if a young swallow loseth an eye, the parent\nbirds will renew it; of Hound's Tongue, a leaf of which laid under the\nfoot will save the bearer from the attacks of dogs; of Bugloss, the\nleaf of which maketh man poison-proof; of Sweet Basil, from which\n(quoting Miraldus) venomous beasts spring--the man who smelleth it\nhaving a scorpion bred in his brain; and of a score of other herbs\nunder the dominion of the Moon and Cancer, and of the cures wrought by\nthem through antipathy to Saturn.\n\nFrom that time the pair became intimate friends, the clergyman\nyielding, with all the ardour of youth, to the attraction which drew\nhim towards the learned old man; and Abraham gradually growing to love\nthe pale-faced student, whose thirst after knowledge was as intense as\nhis own. Seldom a day passed on which one of them might not have been\nobserved on his way to the abode of the other; and often at night the\npair walked together, their earnest voices disturbing the slumbering\nechoes, as at unholy hours they passed up the hill, and through the\nold churchyard, with its moss-covered stones and its rank vegetation.\n\nUpon one of these occasions they had talked about supernatural\nappearances; and as they were coming through the somewhat neglected\nGod's Acre, the clergyman said he had read, in an old volume, that to\nanyone who dared, after the performance of certain ghastly ceremonies,\nwait in the church porch on Christmas-eve, the features of those who\nwere to die during the following year would be revealed, and that he\nintended upon the night before the coming festival to try the spell.\nThe old man at once expressed a wish to take part in the trial, and\nbefore the two parted it was agreed that both should go through the\npreliminary charms, and keep the vigil.\n\nIn due time the winter came, with its sweet anodyne of snow, and as\nChristmas approached everything was got in readiness.\n\nSoon after sunset on Christmas-eve the old herb doctor wended his way\nto the dwelling of his friend, taking with him St. John's Wort,\nMountain Ash, Bay leaves, and Holly. The enthusiasts passed the\nevening in conversation upon the mysterious qualities of graveyard\nplants; but shortly after the clock struck eleven they arose, and\nbegan to prepare for the vigil, by taking precautions against the\ninclemency of the weather, for the night was very cold, large flakes\nof snow falling silently and thickly upon the frozen ground.\n\nWhen both were ready the old man stepped to the door to see that the\nroad was clear, for, in order to go through the form of incantation, a\nsmall fire was requisite; and as they were about to convey it in a\ncan, they were anxious that the strange proceeding should not be\nnoticed by the villagers. Late as it was, however, lights shone here\nand there in the windows, and even from the doorways, for, although it\nwas near midnight, many of the cottage doors were wide open, it being\nbelieved that if, on Christmas-eve, the way was thus left clear, and a\nmember of the family read the Gospel according to St. Luke, the saint\nhimself would pass through the house.\n\nAs the two men, after carefully closing the door behind them, stepped\ninto the road, a distant singer trolled forth a seasonable old hymn.\nThis was the only noise, however, the village street being deserted.\nThey reached the churchyard without having been observed, and at once\nmade their way round the sacred building, so as not to be exposed to\nthe view of any chance reveller returning to his home. It was well\nthat they did so, for they had hardly deposited the can of burning\ncharcoal upon a tombstone ere sounds of footsteps, somewhat muffled by\nthe snow, were heard, and several men passed through the wicket. They\nwere, however, only the ringers, on their way to the belfry, and in a\nfew minutes they had entered the building, and all was still again for\na few moments, when, upon the ears of the somewhat nervous men there\nfell the voices of choristers singing under the window of a\nneighbouring house the old Lancashire carol--\n\n    'As I sat anonder yon green tree,\n    Yon green tree, yon green tree--\n\n    As I sat anonder yon green tree\n    A Christmas day in the morning.'{29}\n\nThe words could be heard distinctly, and almost unconsciously the two\nmen stood to listen; but directly the voices ceased the student asked\nif they had not better begin, as the time was passing rapidly.\n\n'Ay,' replied Abraham, 'we han it to do, an' we'd better ger it ower.'\n\nWithout any more words they entered the porch, and at once made a\ncircle around them with leaves of Vervain, Bay, and Holly. The old man\ngave to his companion a branch of Wiggintree,{27} and firmly held\nanother little bough, as with his disengaged hand he scattered a\npowder upon the embers. A faint odour floated around them, as they\nchanted a singular Latin prayer; and no sooner was the last word\nuttered than a strain of sweet sad music, too inexpressibly soft and\nmournful to be of earth, was heard. Every moment it seemed to be dying\naway in a delicious cadence, but again and again was the weird melody\ntaken up by the invisible singers, as the listeners sank to their\nknees spell-bound. An icy breath of wind hissed round the porch,\nhowever, and called the entranced men to their senses, and suddenly\nthe student grasped the arm of his aged companion, and cried, in a\nterrified voice--\n\n'Abraham, the spell works. Behold!'\n\nThe old man gazed in the direction pointed out, and, to his\ninexpressible horror, saw a procession wending its way towards the\nporch. It consisted of a stream of figures wrapped up in\ngrave-clothes, gleaming white in the dim light. With solemn and\nnoiseless steps the ghastly objects approached the circle in which\nstood the venturesome men, and, as they drew nearer, the faces of the\nfirst two could be seen distinctly, for the blazing powder cast a\nlurid glow upon them, and made them even more ghastly.\n\nBoth spectators had almost unconsciously recognised the features of\nseveral of the villagers, when they were aroused from their lethargy\nof terror by the appearance of one face, which seemed to linger longer\nthan its predecessors had done. Abraham at once saw that the likeness\nwas that of the man by his side, and the clergyman sank to the ground\nin a swoon.\n\nFor some time the old man was too much affected by the lingering face\nto think of restoring the unconscious man at his feet; but at length\nthe clashing of the bells over his head, as they rang forth a\nChristmas greeting, called him to himself, and he bent over the\nprostrate form of his friend. The minister soon recovered, but as he\nwas too weak to walk, the old man ran to the belfry to beg the ringers\nto come to his assistance. When these men came round to the porch the\nfire was still burning, the flickering flames of various colours\ncasting dancing shadows upon the walls.\n\n'Abraham,' said one of the ringers, 'there's bin some wizzard wark\ngoin' on here, an' yo' sin what yo'n getten by it.'\n\n'Han yo' bin awsin to raise th' devul, an' Kesmus-eve an' o'?' asked\nanother, in a low and terrified voice.\n\nWith a satirical smile, Abraham answered the last speaker: 'It dusn't\nneed o' this mak' o' things to raise th' devul, lad. He's nare so far\nfra' thuse as wants him.'\n\nBearing the clergyman in their arms, the men walked through the\nvillage, but they did not separate without having, in return for the\nconfidence Abraham reposed in them by confiding to them the secret of\nthe vigil, promised strict secrecy as to what they had witnessed.\n\nAbraham's companion soon recovered from the shock, but not before the\nstory of the night-watch had gone the round of the village. Many were\nthe appeals made to the old herbalist to reveal his strangely-acquired\nknowledge, but Abraham remained sternly obdurate, remarking to each of\nhis questioners--\n\n'Yo'll know soon enough, mebbi.'\n\nThe clergyman, however, was in a more awkward position, and his\nparishioners soon made him aware how unwise he had been in giving way\nto the desire to pry into futurity; for, when any of them were ill and\nhe expressed a kindly wish for their recovery, it was by no means\nunusual for the sick person to reply--\n\n'Yo could tell me heaw it will end iv yo' loiked.'\n\nThis oftentimes being followed by a petition from the assembled\nrelatives--\n\n'Will yo tell us if he wir one o' th' processioners?'\n\nUltimately Abraham's companion went away, in the hope of returning\nwhen the memory of the watch should have become less keen, but, before\na few months had passed away, news came of his death, after a violent\nattack of fever caught during a visit to a wretched hovel in the\nfishing village where he was staying. By the next December, all the\npeople whose features the old herbalist had recognised during the\nprocession had been carried to the churchyard; but, although several\nmen offered to accompany Abraham to the porch on the forthcoming\nChristmas-eve, he dared not again go through the spells and undergo\nthe terrors of a church-porch vigil.{30}\n\n\n\n\nTHE CRIER OF CLAIFE.\n\n\nUpon a wild winter night, some centuries ago, the old man who plied\nthe ferry-boat on Windermere, and who lived in a lonely cottage on the\nLancashire side of the Lake, was awakened from his sleep by an\nexceedingly shrill and terrible shriek, which seemed to come from the\nopposite shore. The wind was whistling and moaning round the house,\nand for a little while the ferryman and his family fancied that the\ncry by which they had been disturbed was nothing more than one of the\nmournful voices of the storm; but soon again came another shriek, even\nmore awe-inspiring than the former one, and this was followed by\nsmothered shouts and groans of a most unearthly nature.\n\nAgainst the wishes of his terrified relatives, who clung to him, and\nbesought him to remain indoors, the old fellow bravely determined to\ncross the water, and heeding not the prayers of his wife and daughter,\nhe unfastened his boat, and rowed away. The two women, clasped in each\nother's arms, trembling with fear, stood at the little door, and\nendeavoured to make out the form of their protector; but the darkness\nwas too deep for them to see anything upon the lake. At intervals,\nhowever, the terrible cry rang out through the gloom, and shrieks and\nmoans were heard loud above the mysterious noises of the night.\n\nIn a state of dreadful suspense and terror the women stood for some\ntime, but at length they saw the boat suddenly emerge from the\ndarkness, and shoot into the little cove. To their great surprise,\nhowever, the ferryman, who could be seen sitting alone, made no effort\nto land, and make his way to the cottage; so, fearing that something\ndreadful had happened to him, and, impelled by love, they rushed to\nthe side of the lake. They found the old man speechless, his face as\nwhite and blanched as the snow upon the Nab, and his whole body\ntrembling under the influence of terror, and they immediately led him\nto the cottage, but though appealed to, to say what terrible object\nhe had seen, he made no other response than an occasional subdued\nmoan. For several days he remained in that state, deaf to their\npiteous entreaties, and staring at them with wild-looking eyes; but at\nlength the end came, and, during the gloaming of a beautiful day, he\ndied, without having revealed to those around him what he had seen\nwhen, in answer to the midnight cry, he had rowed the ferry-boat\nacross the storm-ruffled lake.\n\nAfter the funeral had taken place the women left the house, its\nassociations being too painful to permit of their stay, and went to\nlive at Hawkshead, whence two sturdy men, with their respective\nfamilies, removed to the ferry. The day following that of the arrival\nof the new-comers was rough and wild, and, soon after darkness had\nhidden everything in its sable folds, across the lake came the fearful\ncry, followed by a faint shout for a boat, and screams and moans. The\nmen, hardy as they were, and often as they had laughed at the story\ntold by the widow of the dead man, no sooner heard the first shriek\nring through the cottage than they were smitten with terror.\nProfiting, however, by the experience of their predecessor, and\ninfluenced by fear, they did not make any attempt to cross the lake,\nand the cries continued until some time after midnight.\n\nAfterwards, whenever the day closed gloomily, and ushered in a stormy\nnight, and the wind lashed the water of the lake into fury, the\nterrible noises were heard with startling distinctness, until at\nlength the dwellers in the cottage became so accustomed to the noises\nas not to be disturbed by them, or, if disturbed, to fall asleep again\nafter an ejaculation of 't' crier!' Pedlars and others who had to\ncross the lake, however, were not so hardened, and after a time the\nferry-boat was almost disused, for the superstitious people did not\ndare to cross the haunted water, save in the broad daylight of summer.\n\nIt therefore struck the two individuals who were most concerned in the\nmaintenance of the ferry that if they intended to live they must do\nsomething to rid the place of its bad name, and of the unseen being\nwho had driven away all their patrons. In their extremity they asked\neach other who should help them, if not the holy monks, who had come\nover the sea to the abbey in the Valley of Deadly Night Shade; and one\nof the ferrymen at once set out for Furness. No sooner had he set eyes\nupon the stately pile erected by the Savignian and his companions than\nhis heart felt lighter, for he had a simple faith in the marvellous\npower of the white-robed men, whose voices were seldom if ever heard,\nsave when lifted in worship during one of their seven daily services.\n\nKnocking at the massive door, he was received by a ruddy-looking\nservitor, who ushered him into the presence of the abbot. The ferryman\nsoon told his story, and begged that a monk might return with him to\nlay the troubled spirit, and after hearing the particulars of the\nvisitation, the abbot granted the request, making a proviso, however,\nthat the abbey coffers should not be forgotten when the lake was freed\nfrom the fiend.\n\nNo sooner had the visitor finished the meal set before him by the\nhospitable monks than, in company with one of the holy men, he set out\nhomeward. As, by a rule of his order, the monk was not permitted to\nconverse, the journey was not an enlivening one, and the ferryman was\nheartily glad when they reached his cottage.\n\nThe first night passed without any alarm, the monk and his hosts\nspending the dreary hours in watching and waiting. The following day,\nhowever, was as stormy as the worst enemy of the ferry could have\nwished, and, when night fell, all the dwellers in the cottage, as well\nas the silent monk, gathered together again to wait for the cries, but\nsome hours passed without any other sounds having been heard than\nthose caused by the restless wind, as it swept over the lake and among\nthe trees. The Cistercian was beginning to imagine himself the victim\nof an irreverent practical joke, and that the stories of the spectral\ncrier which had reached the distant abbey long before the ferryman's\nvisit were a pack of falsehoods, when about midnight, he suddenly\njumped from the chair upon which he was dozing by the wood fire,\nhastily made the sign of the cross, and hurriedly commended himself to\nthe protection of his patron saint, for sharp and clear came the dread\ncry, followed rapidly by a number of shrieks and groans and a\nsmothered appeal for a boat.\n\nIn an instant one of the men, with courage doubtless inspired by the\npresence of the holy man, shouldered the oars and opened the door, and\nthe monk at once stepped into the open air and hurried to the lake,\nthe men following at a respectful distance. The white-robed father was\nthe first to get into the boat, and the ferrymen hoped that he\nintended to go alone, but he called upon them to propel the boat to\nthe middle of the lake, and much as they disliked the task, as it was\non their behalf that the monk was about to combat the evil spirit,\nthey could not well refuse to accompany him.\n\nWhen they were about half-way across the lake the wind suddenly\nlulled, and once more they heard the awful scream, and this time it\nsounded as though the crier was quite close to them. The occupants of\nthe boat were terribly frightened, and one of them, after suddenly\nshrieking 'he's here,' fainted, and lay still at the bottom of the\nboat, while the monk and the other man stared straight before them, as\nthough petrified.\n\nThere was a fourth person present, a grim and ghastly figure, with the\ntrappings of this life still dangling about its withered and shrunken\nlimbs, and a gaping wound in its pallid throat. For a few minutes\nthere was a dead silence, but at last it was broken by the monk, who\nrapidly muttered a prayer for protection against evil spirits, and\nthen took a bottle from a pocket of his robe, and sprinkled a few\ndrops of holy water upon himself and the ferryman, who remained in the\nsame statuesque attitude, and upon the unconscious occupant of the\nbottom of the boat. After this ceremony, he opened a little book, and,\nin a sonorous voice, intoned the form for the exorcism of a wandering\nsoul, concluding with _Vade ad Gehennam!_ when to the infinite relief\nof the ferryman, and probably of the monk also, the ghastly figure\nforthwith vanished.\n\nThe Cistercian asked to be immediately taken to the shore, and when he\nneared the house, the little book was again brought into requisition,\nand the spirit's visits, should it ever again put in an appearance,\nlimited to an old and disused quarry, a distance from the\ncottage.{31}\n\nFrom that time to this, the wild, lonely place has indeed been\ndesolate and deserted, the boldest people of the district not having\nsufficient courage to venture near it at nightfall, and the more timid\nones shunning the locality even at noonday. These folks aver that\neven yet, despite the prayers and exorcisms of the white-robed\nCistercian from Furness, whenever a storm descends upon the lake, the\nCrier escapes from his temporary prison house, and revisits the scene\nof his first and second appearance to men, and that on such nights,\nloud above the echoed rumble of the thunder, and the lonely sough of\nthe wind, the benighted wayfarer still hears the wild shrieks and the\nmuffled cry for a boat.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEMON OF THE OAK.\n\n\nOnce a fortress and a mansion, but now, unfortunately, little more\nthan a noble ruin, Hoghton Tower stands on one of the most commanding\nsites in Lancashire. From the fine old entrance-gate a beautiful\nexpanse of highly-cultivated land slopes down and stretches away to\nthe distant sea, glimmering like a strip of molten silver; and on\neither hand there are beautiful woods, in the old times 'so full of\ntymber that a man passing through could scarce have seen the sun shine\nin the middle of the day.' At the foot of these wooded heights a\nlittle river ripples through a wild ravine, and meanders through the\nrich meadows to the proud Ribble. From the building itself, however,\nthe glory has departed. Over the noble gateway, with its embattled\ntowers, and in one of the fast-decaying wainscots, the old family\narms, with the motto, _Mal Gre le Tort_, still remain; but these\nthings, and a few mouldering portraits, are all that are left there to\ntell of the stately women who, from the time of Elizabeth down to\ncomparatively modern days, pensively watched the setting sun gild the\nwaters of the far-off Irish Sea, and dreamed of lovers away in the\nwars--trifling things to be the only unwritten records of the noble\nmen who buckled on their weapons, and climbed into the turrets to gaze\nover the road along which would come the expected besieging parties.\nGone are the gallants and their ladies, the roystering Cavalier and\nthe patient but none the less brave Puritan, for, as Isaac Ambrose has\nrecorded, during the troublous times of the Restoration, the place,\nwith its grand banqueting chamber, its fine old staircases, and quaint\nlittle windows, was 'a colledge for religion.' The old Tower resounds\nno more with the gay song of the one or the solemn hymn of the other,\n\n     'Men may come, and men may go,'\n\nand an old tradition outlives them all.\n\nTo this once charming mansion there came, long ago, a young man,\nnamed Edgar Astley. His sable garments told that he mourned the loss\nof a relative or friend; and he had not been long at the Tower before\nit began to be whispered in the servants'-hall that 'the trappings and\nthe suits of woe' were worn in memory of a girl who had been false to\nhim, and who had died soon after her marriage to his rival. This story\nin itself was sufficient to throw a halo of romance around the young\nvisitor; but when it was rumoured that domestics, who had been\nreturning to the Tower late at night, had seen strange-coloured lights\nburning in Edgar's room, and that, even at daybreak, the early risers\nhad seen the lights still unextinguished, and the shadow of the\nwatcher pass across the curtains, an element of fear mingled with the\nfeelings with which he was regarded.\n\nThere was much in the visitor calculated to deepen the impressions by\nwhich the superstitious domestics were influenced, for, surrounded by\nan atmosphere of gloom, out of which he seemed to start when any of\nthem addressed him, and appearing studiously to shun all the society\nwhich it was possible for him to avoid, he spent most of his time\nalone, seated beneath the spreading branches of the giant oak tree at\nthe end of the garden, reading black-letter volumes, and plunged in\nmeditation. Not that he was in any way rude to his hosts; on the\ncontrary, he was almost chivalrous in his attention to the younger\nmembers of the family and to the ladies of the house, who, in their\nturn, regarded him with affectionate pity, and did their utmost to\nwean him from his lonely pursuits. Yet, although he would willingly\naccompany them through the woods, or to the distant town, the approach\nof the gloaming invariably found him in his usual place beneath the\nshadow of the gnarled old boughs, either poring over his favourite\nbooks, or, with eyes fixed upon vacancy, lost in a reverie.\n\nTime would, the kind people thought, bring balm to his wounds, and in\nthe meanwhile they were glad to have their grief-stricken friend with\nthem; and fully appreciating their sympathy, Edgar came and went about\nthe place and grounds just as the whim of the moment took him. This\nabsence of curiosity on the part of the members of the family was,\nhowever, amply compensated for by the open wonder with which many of\nthe domestics regarded the young stranger; and before he had been many\nmonths in the house his nightly vigils were the theme of many a\nserious conversation in the kitchen, where, in front of a cosy fire,\nthe gossips gathered to compare notes.\n\nUnable to repress their vulgar curiosity, or to gratify it in any more\nhonourable or less dangerous manner, it was determined that one of the\ndomestics should, at the hour of twelve, creep to the door of the\nvisitor's chamber, and endeavour to discover what was the nature of\nthose pursuits which rendered lights necessary during the whole of the\nnight. The selection was soon made, and after a little demur the\nchosen one agreed to perform the unpleasant task.\n\nAt midnight, therefore, the trembling ambassador made his way to the\ndistant door, and after a little hesitation, natural enough under the\ncircumstances, he stooped, and gazed through a hole in the dried oak\nwhence a knot had fallen. Edgar Astley was seated at a little table,\nan old black-looking book with huge clasps open before him. With one\nhand he shaded his eyes from the light which fell upon his face from\nthe flames of many colours dancing in a tall brazen cup. Suddenly,\nhowever, he turned from his book, and put a few pinches of a\nbright-looking powder to the burning matter in the stand. A searching\nand sickly odour immediately filled the room, and the quivering flames\nblazed upwards with increased life and vigour as the student turned\nonce more to the ponderous tome, and, after hastily glancing down its\npages, muttered: 'Strange that I cannot yet work the spell. All things\nnamed here have I sought for and found, even blood of bat, dead man's\nhand, venom of viper, root of gallows mandrake, and flesh of\nunbaptized and strangled babe. Am I, then, not to succeed until I try\nthe charm of charms at the risk of life itself? And yet,' said he,\nunconscious of the presence of the terrified listener, 'what should I\nfear? So far have I gone uninjured, and now will I proceed to the\ntriumphant or the bitter end. Once I would have given the future\nhappiness of my soul to have called her by my name, and now what is\nthis paltry life to me that I should hesitate to risk it in this\nquest, and perhaps win one glimpse of her face?'\n\nThere was a moment of silence as the student bent his head over the\nbook, but though no other person was visible, the listener, to his\nhorror, quickly heard a sharp hissing voice ask, 'And wouldst thou not\neven yet give thy soul in exchange for speech with thy once\nbetrothed?' The student hastily stood erect, and rapidly cried: 'Let\nme not be deceived! Whatever thou art, if thou canst bring her to me\nmy soul shall be thine now and for ever!'\n\nThere was a dead hush for a minute or two, during which the lout at\nthe door heard the beating of his own heart, and then the invisible\nbeing again spoke: 'Be it so. Thou hast but one spell left untried.\nWhen that has been done thou shalt have thy reward. Beneath the oak at\nmidnight she shall be brought to thee. Darest thou first behold me?'\n\n'I have no fear,' calmly replied the student, but such was not the\nstate of the petrified listener, for no sooner had the lights\ncommenced to burn a weird blue than he sank fainting against the door.\n\nWhen he came to consciousness he was within the awful room, the\nstudent having dragged him in when he fell.\n\n'What art thou, wherefore dost thou watch me at this hour, and what\nhast thou seen?' sternly demanded Edgar, addressing the terrified\nboor, and in few and trembling words the unhappy domestic briefly\nanswered the queries; but the student did not permit him to leave the\nchamber, through the little window of which the dawn was streaming,\nbefore he had sworn that not a word as to anything he had seen or\nheard should pass his lips. The solemnity of the vow was deepened by\nthe mysterious and awful threats with which it was accompanied, and\nthe servant, therefore, loudly protested to his fellows that he had\nnot seen or heard anything, but that, overcome by his patient\nwatching, he had fallen asleep at the door; and many were the\ncongratulations which followed when it was imagined what the\nconsequences would have been had he been discovered in his strange\nresting-place.\n\nThe day following that of the adventure passed over without anything\nremarkable beyond the absence of Edgar from his usual seat under the\nshade of the giant oak, but the night set in stormily, dark clouds\nscudded before the wind, which swept up from the distant sea, and\nmoaned around the old tower, whirling the fallen leaves in fantastic\ndances about the garden and the green, and shaking in its rage even\nthe iron boughs of the oak. The household had retired early, and at\neleven o'clock only Edgar and another were awake. In the student's\nchamber the little lamp was burning and the book lay open as usual,\nand Edgar pored over the pages, but at times he glanced impatiently at\nthe quaint clock. At length, with a sigh of relief, he said, sternly\nand sadly, 'The time draws nigh, and once more we shall meet!' He then\ngathered together a few articles from different corners of the room\nand stepped out upon the broad landing, passed down the noble old\nstaircase, and out from the hall. Here he was met by a cold blast of\nwind, which shrieked round him, as though rejoicing over its prey; and\nas Edgar was battling with it, a man emerged from a recess and joined\nhim.\n\nThe night was quite dark, not a star or a rift in the sky visible, and\nthe two men could hardly pick their way along the well-known path.\nThey reached the oak tree, however, and Edgar placed the materials at\nits foot, and at once, with a short wand, drew a large circle around\nthe domestic and himself. This done, he placed a little cauldron on\nthe grass, and filled it with a red powder, which, although the wind\nwas roaring through the branches above, immediately blazed up with a\nsteady flame.\n\nThe old mastiffs chained under the gateway began to howl dismally;\nbut, regardless of the omen,{32} Edgar struck the ground three times\nwith his hazel stick, and cried in a loud voice: 'Spirit of my love, I\nconjure thee obey my words, and verily and truly come to me this\nnight!'\n\nHardly had he spoken when a shadowy figure of a beautiful child\nappeared, as though floating around the magic ring. The servant sank\nupon his knees, but the student regarded it not, and it vanished, and\nthe terrified listener again heard Edgar's voice as he uttered another\nconjuration. No sooner had he begun this than terrible claps of\nthunder were heard, lightning flashed round the tree, flocks of birds\nflew across the garden and dashed themselves against the window of the\nstudent's chamber, where a light still flickered; and, loud above the\nnoises of the storm, cocks could be heard shrilly crowing, and owls\nuttering their mournful cries. In the midst of this hubbub the\nnecromancer calmly went on with his incantation, concluding with the\ndread words: 'Spirit of my love, I conjure thee to fulfil my will\nwithout deceit or tarrying, and without power over my soul or body\nearthly or ghostly! If thou comest not, then let the shadow and the\ndarkness of death be upon thee for ever and ever!'\n\nAs the last word left his lips the storm abated its violence, and\ncomparative silence followed. Suddenly the little flame in the\ncauldron flared up some yards in height, and sweet voices chanting\nmelodiously could be heard. 'Art thou prepared to behold the dead?'\nasked an invisible being.\n\n'I am!' undauntedly answered Edgar.\n\nAn appearance as of a thick mist gathered opposite him, and slowly, in\nthe midst of it, the outlines of a beautiful human face, with mournful\neyes, in which earthly love still lingered, could be discerned.\n\nClad in the garments of the grave, the betrothed of Edgar Astley\nappeared before him.\n\nFor some time the young man gazed upon her as though entranced, but at\nlength he slowly extended his arms as though to embrace the beautiful\nphantom. The domestic fell upon his face like one stricken by death,\nthe spectre vanished, and again the pealing thunder broke forth.\n\n'Thou art for ever mine,' cried a hissing voice; but as the words\nbroke upon the ears of the two men, the door of the mansion was flung\nopen, and the old baronet and a number of the servants, who had been\ndisturbed by the violence of the storm, the howling of the dogs, and\nthe shrill cries of the birds, rushed forth.\n\n'Come not near me if ye would save yourselves,' cried the necromancer.\n\n'We would save thee,' shouted the old man, still advancing. '_In\nnomine Patris_,' said he, solemnly, as he neared the magic circle; and\nno sooner had the words left his lips than sudden stillness fell upon\nthe scene; the lightning no longer flashed round the oak; and, as the\nflame in the cauldron sank down, the moon broke through a cloud, and\nthrew her soft light over the old garden.\n\nEdgar was leaning against the oak tree, his eyes fixed in the\ndirection where the image of his betrothed had appeared; and when they\nled him away, it was as one leads a trusting child, for the light of\nreason had left him. The unfortunate domestic, being less sensitive,\nretained his faculties; but he ever afterwards bore upon his wrist, as\nif deeply burned into the flesh, the marks of a broad thumb and\nfingers. This strange appearance he was wont to explain to stray\nvisitors, by saying that when, terrified almost out of his wits, he\nfell to the ground, his hand was outside the magic circle, and\n'summat' seized him; which lucid explanation was generally followed up\nby an old and privileged servitor, who remarked, 'Tha'll t'hev mooar\nmarks nor thuse on tha' next toime as _He_ grabs tha', mi lad.'\n\n\n\n\nTHE BLACK COCK.\n\n\n'Ay,' said Old 'Lijah, 'I mind one time when they said th' Owd Lad\nhissel appear't i' broad dayleet, an' wir seen bi hunderts o' fowk,\nowd an' yung.'\n\nThere was a dead silence for a little while as the listeners gathered\nnearer the blazing fire, two or three of them getting a little further\naway from the door, against which the wind was dashing the snow, and\nthen 'Lijah resumed: 'When I wir a lad, me an' mi mestur wer ast to a\nberryin. Ther wer a deeol o' drink stirrin, th' coffee pot, wi th'\nlemon peel hangin aat, gooin abaat fray one side to th' tother fast\nenough, and at last o' wer ready, but just as they wer baan to lift\nth' coffin a clap o' thunder shuke th' varra glasses o' th' table.\n\n'Th' chaps as hed howd stopped a bit an' lukt raand, but th' deead\nchap's feythur shouted, \"Come on, lads, or wist be late, an' th'\npaason waynt berry;\" so they piked off, but no sooner hed they\ngetten' i' th' street nor a lad i' th' craad cried out, \"Heigh, chaps,\nluk at th' black cock {34} on th' top o' th' coffin,\" an' sure enough\ntheer it wor. One o' th' beerers said directly as they'd enough to\ncarry wi'out ony passingers, an' up wi' his fist an' knockt it off,\nbut it wer on ageean in a minit, an one bi' one they o' hed a slap at\nit, but every time it wer knockt off back it flew to it' place at th'\ndeead mon's feet, so at last th' owd mon give th' word of command, an'\noff they startit wi' th' looad. Th' craad geet bigger afooar they\nreached th' owd country church wheer he hed to be berried, an' th'\nfowk geet a throwin stooans at th' black bird, an' hittin it wi'\nsticks an' shaatin at it, but it stuck theer like a fixter.\n\n'After a while we reached th' graveyart, an' th' paason come deawn th'\nroad fray th' church door to meet th' coffin, an' he wer just baan to\nstart th' service when he see th' bird an' stopped.\n\n'\"What han yo' got theere?\" he says, lukin varra vext, for he thowt\nsome marlock wer gooin on. \"What han yo' theere, men?\"\n\n'Th' owd feythur stepped forrut an' towd him what hed happent, an' as\nnooan on 'em could freetun it off it peeark naythur wi' sticks or\nstooans or sweearin.\n\n'\"It's a strange tale,\" said th' vicar, \"but we moant hev no brids\nhere! Yo' fowk keep eaut o' th' graveyart nobbut thuse as is invitet\nto th' funeral! I'll settle him for yo!\" an' so sayin he grabbed howd\no' th' cock, an' walked o'er th' graves wi' it to a place wheer th'\nbruk run under th' hedges, an' then he bent deawn o' th' floor an'\ndipped th' bird i'th' watter, an' held it theer for abaat a quarter ov\nan hour.\n\n'No sooner had he getten up, heawever, nor th' brid flew up eaut o'\nth' watter quite unhort, an' hopped o'er th' grass to th' coffin an'\npeearkt ageean as if nowt hed happent.\n\n'Th' vicar lukt varra consarnt for a while, an' skrat his yed as he\nstaret at th' fowk.\n\n'Theer's summat not reet abaat that brid,' he said, 'but that's no\nrayson why we shouldn't bury th' deead!' an' he pottert off toart th'\ngrave, an' th' beerers carriet th' coffin to th' side, an' th' sarvice\nwer gone through, wi' th' bird harkenin every word like a Christian.\n\n'Th' chaps then startit o' lowerin th' coffin into th' grave, an' th'\nbrid still stuck o' th' peeark, an' it wer nobbut when th' hole wer\nfilled, as it came above graand ageean, an' theer it set on th' maand.\n\n'A craad o' fowk waited abaat an' hung on th' graveyart wo' till th'\nedge o' dark, an' then they piket off whoam, for they begun to think\nas mebbi it were th' Owd Lad hissel, but a twothree on us stopped till\nit wer neet afooar we went after 'em, th' cock sittin theear just th'\nsame as it hed done i' th' dayleet.\n\n'It were usual i' thuse days to watch th' graves for a few neets, for\nther wer a deeal o' resurrectionin' gooin on i'o' directions, th'\nbody-snatchers hevin mooar orders than they could attend to; but\nthough th' deead chap's feythur offert brass an' plenty o' drink an'\nmeyt to anybody as ud keep a look aat, not one dar do it, an' th'\ndeead mon wer laft to tek care o' hissel, or for th' brid to mind him.\n\n'Soon after dayleet th' next mornin I went wi' a twothree moor young\nchaps to see heaw th' place lukt, an' th' grave hedn't bin brokken\ninto, but th' brid had flown, and fray that day to this I could never\nfind aat ayther wheer it coom fray or went to, but I heeart as th'\nvicar said it met be th' Owd Lad claimin' his own.'\n\n\n\n\nTHE INVISIBLE BURDEN.\n\n\nAt the junction of the four cross roads, gleaming white in the hot\nsunshine and hawthorn-bounded, and marked by the parallel ruts made by\nthe broad wheels of the country carts, the old public house of the\n_Wyresdale Arms_ was scarcely ever without a number of timber wagons\nor hay carts about its open door, the horses quietly munching from the\nnose-bags and patiently waiting until their owners or drivers should\nemerge from the sanded kitchen.\n\nNathan Peel's hostelry was the half-way house for all the farmers and\ncart-drivers in the district, and generally quiet enough at night\ntime, but from its capacious kitchen roars of laughter rang out many a\nsummer afternoon, as the carters and yeomen told their droll stories.\n\nOn one of these occasions, when the sun was blazing outside, and\nshimmering upon the sands and the distant sea, and through the open\nwindow the perfume of the may-blossom stole gently, a quaint looking\nold fellow, whose face had been bronzed by three-score summers and\nwinters, happened to mention an occurrence as having taken place about\nthe time of 'th' quare weddin',' and a chorus of voices at once called\nupon him for the story.\n\n'It's quite forty year sin,' he said thoughtfully, 'an' I wir quite a\nyoung chap then, an' ready for any marlock. I could dance too wi' hear\nan' thear one, an' no weddin' wir reet wi'aat axin' me. This one I'm\nbaan to tell abaat heawivir wir Mester Singleton's owdest son o' th'\nDyke Farm, an' as he wir weddin' th' prattiest lass i' o' th' country\nside, varra nigh everybody wir theear, 'specially as Mester Singleton\nhed given it aat ther'd be a welcome for onnybody. A string o' nearly\ntwenty conveyances, milk carts, an' shandrys, an' gigs, went to th'\nchurch wi' fowk o' seein' 'em wed; but comin' back, young Adam started\noff wi' his young wife as if he wir mad, an' isted o' gooin' th' owd\nroad across th' Stone Brig, an' through th' Holme meadow he pelted\noff through th' Ingleton Road an' th' Owd Horse Lane. Th' mare seemed\nto know what th' young chap wir up to, an' to enter into th' spirit\no't' thing an' off hoo went like th' woint, th' string o' shandrys an'\nmilk carts an' gigs peltin' on at after abaat a mile behint, an' th'\nfowk laughin' an' shaatin' at th' fun. Th' gate into th' Owd Horse\nLane wir wide open, so th' fowk wir disappointed as expected to gain a\nminnit or two wi' Adam hevin' to get daan theer to oppen it, an' into\nth' lane th' mare dashed, an' on hoo went as if th' shandry an' Adam\nan' his wife wir nowt behint her. Abaat midway i'th' lane heawever th'\nroad dipped a bit, an' th' watter fra a spring i'th' bank ran o'er it,\nan' just afoor th' shandry reyched it th 'mare stopped o' of a sudden,\nan' Adam flew aat o'er th' horse's back an' pitched into th' hedge\nlike leetnin'. Th' wife shaated as if he wir kilt, but he'd no bones\nbrokken, an' when we geet up to him he crept aat o'th' prickles wi' a\nshame-faced look as if he'd bin catcht thievin'. Ther wir some rare\njokin' as he climbed up to th' side of his wife an' lasht the mare for\nanother start, but it wir no use, th' mare couldn't stir th'\nconveyance. Adam lasht away at her, but stir it hoo couldn't, an' at\nlast eight or ten on us set to an' turned th' wheels for twenty or\nthirty yards an' it wir th' same as if it wir a timber-wagon, it wir\nthat heavy. It wir th' same wi' every one o'th' conveyances, not one\ncould be got o'er th' watter only wi' eight or ten on us toilin' an'\nslavin' at th' wheels, no matter heaw th' horse strained an' pulled.\nNobody could make aat what it wir, an' th' Vicar came an' look't abaat\nbut could find nowt. He said, heawever, th' Owd Lad had some hand in\nit, an' he warned th' fowk not to use th' road when they could help\nit. Many an' many a time heawivir, I see carts stuck theear bi' th'\nday together, for some chaps wouldn't be persuaded not to go through\nth' lane, for it wir a short cut, an' other chaps went i' nowt but\ndarin' when they'd hed a sup o' drink. It went on for some years like\nthat, an' fowk came fray far an' near to see it. I'd gettin' wed mysen\nand hed a farm on the Holme, but I used to go raand to it bi'th' owd\nroad across the Brig, but one day, a breet hot day, I'd mi little lad\ni'th cart an' he bothert mi to go through th' lane, he wantit to see\nth' Owd Lad he said, an' as he started o' cryin' abaat it, I went.\nWell, the cart stuck i'th' owd place bi th' runnin' watter, an' th'\nlittle lad wir deleeted. I geet daan an' took howd o'th' wheel, for I\nknew it wir no use usin' the whip, an' th' horse wir sweatin' as if it\nwir rare an' 'freetont, when little Will shaated aat o' ov a sudden\n'Feythar, I con see him!' 'See what?' I sang aat, an' broad dayleet as\nit wir, mi knees wir quakin'. 'A little chap i'th' cart,' he said, 'a\nfat little chap wi' a red neet cap on.' 'Wheer is he?' I shaated, for\nI couldn't see owt. 'Theer on th' cart tail,' he said, an' then he\nshaated 'Why, he's gone,' an' no sooner hed he spokken than th' horse\nstarted off wi' th' cart as if it hed nowt behint it.\n\nThir never wir a cart stuck theer at after that, an' th' Vicar said it\nwir because little Will hed persayved th' Feeorin, an' as Will hed th'\ngift o' seein' feeorin an' sich like because he wir born at midneet.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX.\n\n_COMPARATIVE NOTES._\n\n\n1.\n\nBelief in the appearance of the Skriker, Trash, or Padfoot, as the\napparition is named in Lancashire, or Padfooit, as it is designated in\nYorkshire, is still very prevalent in certain parts of the two\ncounties. This boggart is invariably looked upon as the forerunner of\ndeath, and it is supposed that only the relatives of persons about to\ndie, or the unfortunate doomed persons themselves, ever see the\napparition.\n\nOf quite a distinct class to that of the 'Skrikin' Woman,' an\nappearance which, at a but recent period, obtained for a lane at\nWarrington the reputation of being haunted, the Padfoot seems to be\npeculiar to Lancashire and Yorkshire, unless, indeed, the Welsh\nGwyllgi or Dog of Darkness, and the Shock of the Norfolk seaboard, are\nof the same family. In Norfolk, the spectre, as it does in Lancashire,\nportends death, but I have been unable to find any Welsh story of the\napparition with a more tragic ending than fright and illness.\n\nAs the Trash generally takes the form of a large shaggy dog or small\nbear, can the superstition be an offshoot from that old Aryan belief\nwhich gave so important an office to the dog as a messenger from the\nworld of the dead, and an attendant upon the dying, or has the grim\nidea come down to us from the ancient times, when, as the Rev. S.\nBaring Gould says, 'It was the custom to bury a dog or a boar alive\nunder the corner-stone of a church, that its ghost might haunt the\nneighbourhood, and drive off any who would profane it--_i.e._ witches\nor warlocks'?\n\n\n2.\n\nIn most of these stories of compacts with the Evil One it is singular\nhow little is received in exchange for the soul. In a few instances\npoverty bargains for untold wealth, or ugliness and age for youth and\nloveliness, but generally it is for the bare means of prolonging or\nsupporting life that the daring and despairing one enters into the\neverlasting agreement. In fact, as a French authoress has said, it is\n'for a mouthful of bread to nourish their debilitated stomachs, and\nthe bundle of sticks which warms again their benumbed limbs.' In\nSussex it would appear, from what a country-lad told the Rev. S.\nBaring Gould, that half-a-crown is the price Satan pays for a soul,--a\nletter addressed to the Evil One, and containing an offer of the soul,\nbringing a response in that practical form, if placed under the pillow\nat night.\n\nIn Normandy it is considered sufficient to make the compact binding\nfor the acceptance to be simply a verbal one; but in Lancashire the\nformal parchment deed, with its signatures in blood, is indispensable.\n\n\n3.\n\nOld Isaac, it would seem, was not disappointed when he came to make\nuse of his handful of money, and probably, therefore, he had spent it\nbefore he told the story, for in all instances where the fairies are\nrecorded as rewarding mortals with money, any revelation as to its\nsource is invariably followed by the gift being turned to bits of\npaper or leaves.\n\n\n4.\n\nAlthough there appears to have been some little confusion in the mind\nof the old farmer as to the rank in the world of faerie held by his\nlittle benefactor, he seems to have designated him correctly, for\nalthough the general idea of Puck is that of a mere mischief-loving\nand mischief-working sprite, such as is painted by Drayton, Shakspere\ncredits Puck not only with wanton playfulness, but also with industry,\nfor in the second act of the 'Midsummer Night's Dream,' the fairy,\naddressing the sprite, says:\n\n    'Those that hobgoblin call you, and sweet Puck,\n    _You do their work_.'\n\nShakspere and Ben Jonson, however, agree in making Oberon King of the\nFairies--a king, too, with a stately presence, and far above showing\nan interest in a farmer's fields. Under any circumstances one is not\nprepared to find Puck of royal estate, and doubtless the labouring\nspirit of our story was simply one of those goblins who, according to\nthe author of the _Anatomy of Melancholy_, would 'grind corn for a\nmess of milk, cut wood, or do any manner of nursery work'--a Robin\nGoodfellow merely, the 'lubber fiend' of Milton, the Bwbach or\nhousehold fairy of Wales. Lancashire had many such. Stories of beings\nrejoicing in the name of Hobthrust or Throbthrush, but in all other\nrespects closely resembling the fairy king of the foregoing tradition,\nstill are told by the farm-house fires in Furness, in South-East\nLancashire, and in the Fylde country. Rewarded night after night with\na supply of oatmeal porridge--strange relic, probably, of the old\nlibations to the gods--they toiled at the churn till daybreak. A\nFurness legend chronicles how a farmer, whose house was the favourite\nresting-place of one of these visitors, one evening, when threatening\nclouds were gathering, wished that he had the harvest carted. Next\nmorning the work was found done, but a horse was found dead in the\nstable, Hob having been unsparing. As the day was a beautiful one, the\nfarmer did not appreciate the housing as he ought to have done, and\ntestily wished that Hob was in the mill-dam. A few hours afterwards,\nnot Hob, but the grain was found there.\n\n'Crawshaws in Berwickshire,' says the author of the _Popular Rhymes of\nBerwickshire_, 'was once the abode of an industrious Brownie, who both\nsaved the corn and thrashed it for several seasons. At length, after\none harvest, some person thoughtlessly remarked that the corn was not\nwell mowed or piled up in the barn. The sprite took offence at this,\nand the next night threw the whole of the corn over the Raven Crag, a\nprecipice about two miles off, muttering--\n\n    \"It's no weel mowed! It's no weel mowed!\n    Then it's ne'er be mowed by me again.\n    I'll scatter it o'er the Raven stone,\n    And they'll hae some wark ere it's mowed again.\"'\n\nThe North Lancashire Hobthrusts, however, do not seem to have been\nmade to disappear by man's ingratitude, but, like the Irish Cluricaun\nand the Scotch Brownie, were to be driven away by kindness. In one\ninstance, a tailor, for whom a Hobthrust had done some work,\ngratefully made him a coat and hood for winter wear, and in the night\nthe workman was heard bidding farewell to his old quarters--\n\n    'Throb-thrush has got a new coat and new hood,\n    And he'll never do no more good.'\n\nReaders of the Brothers Grimm and lovers of George Cruikshank will not\nneed to be reminded how the grateful shoemaker deprived himself of the\nassistance of the elves. In the German story, however, as in Breton\nones, although the elves depart, prosperity continues to bless the\nlabours of the people whose practical gratitude has driven the little\nbeings away.\n\nThe Hob which, according to Harrison Ainsworth, haunted the Gorge of\nCliviger, does not appear to have been at all domesticated, the\nnovelist, in the only allusion he makes to it, characterising it as 'a\nfrightful hirsute demon, yclept Hobthrust.' In the Fylde country,\nhowever, the lubber fiends seem to have been as industrious as was\nthat of our legend. Tradition tells of one at Rayscar which not only\nhoused the grain but also got the horses ready for the journey to the\ndistant market. At Hackensall Hall one took the Celtic form of a great\nhorse, and required only a pie in reward for its toil.\n\nThe Hobs of the neighbouring county of Yorkshire are credited with\ngreater powers than those required for the rapid performance of\nhousehold duties. One of these beings is still said to haunt a cave in\nthe vicinity of the old-world hamlet of Runswick. To this place\nanxious and superstitious mothers brought their ailing little ones,\nand as they stood at the mouth of the cavity, cried, 'Hob, my bairn's\ngettent kinkcough (whooping-cough?), takkt off, takkt off!' In the\nsame district there is a haunted tumulus called 'Obtrash Roque,'\nrendered by Walcott 'the Heap of Hob-o'-the-Hurst.' Of the bogle\ndenizen of this mound a story similar to that told by Mr. Crofton\nCroker, in Roby's _Traditions (Clegg Hall Boggart)_, is current in the\ndistrict. A farmer who was bothered by the spirit, determined to\nremove to a quieter locality, and as the carts were leaving with the\ngoods and implements a neighbour cried out, 'It's flittin yo' are,'\nwhen the Hob at once replied, from a churn, 'Ay, we're flitting;' upon\nwhich the farmer thought he might as well remain where he was. Similar\nflitting stories, however, are told of the Scandinavian _Nis_, the\nIrish _Cluricaun_, the Welsh _Bwbach_, and the Polish _Ickrzycki_.\n\n\n5.\n\nWhy the expression of a wish like this should have offended Puck is\nnot very evident. There is in Sweden a lubber fiend named the _Tomte_,\nand of this being the peasantry believe that only by unrewarded toil\ncan it work out its salvation. Can the Lancashire King of the Fairies\nhave been one of the same order, and have considered the utterance of\na good wish as a reward, or even as a sarcastic allusion to his 'lost\ncondition'?\n\nThe belief is by no means uncommon that the fairies are the angels who\nwere neutral during the Satanic rebellion. In Brittany, however\n(_Chants Populaires de la Bretagne_, par Th. Hersart de la\nVillemarque), they are the Princesses who, in the days of the\nApostles, would not embrace Christianity.\n\nThe traditions of most countries agree, however, in attributing to\nthe fairies extreme sensitiveness on the subject of their condition.\nMr. Campbell has recorded that when the elves, who had grown weary of\ncrossing the Dornoch Frith in cockle-shells, were engaged in building\na bridge of gold across its mouth, a passer-by lifted his hands and\nblessed the tiny workmen, who immediately vanished, the bridge sinking\nwith them beneath the waves, and its place being at once taken by\nquicksands. Almost every district haunted by 'greenies' or 'hill folk'\nhas its story of a piteous appeal on the subject of their future state\nmade by visible or invisible fairies. In a Highland story it is an old\nman reading the Bible who is accosted, the inquirer screaming and\nplunging into the sea upon being answered that the sacred pages did\nnot contain any allusion to the salvation of any but the sons of Adam.\nMy friend, Mr. Kennedy, in his valuable _Legendary Fictions of the\nIrish Celts_, gives a charming traditionary story of a priest who was\nbenighted and lost upon a moor, and who was similarly accosted, and\nimplored to declare that at the last day the lot of the fairies would\nnot be with Satan. After the appeal had been somewhat ambiguously\nanswered, 'a weak light was shed around where he stood, and he\ndistinguished the path and an opening in the fence.'\n\nIn Cornwall they are supposed to be the spirits of the people who\ninhabited the country long before the birth of Christ, and who,\nalthough not good enough to partake of the joys of Heaven, yet are too\ngood for Hell. In Wales there is a somewhat similar belief, but it is\nsaid that their probation will end at the day of judgment, when they\nwill be admitted to Paradise. It is commonly believed by the Cornish\npeasants that they are gradually growing smaller, and that at length\nthey will change into ants. Few people in Cornwall, therefore, are\nsufficiently venturesome to destroy a colony of those insects.\n\n\n6.\n\nMany are the old sacred piles in Lancashire with the building of which\nit is believed that goblins had something to do. The parish church of\nRochdale, the old church of Samlesbury, that of St. Oswald's at\nWinwick, near Warrington, and the parish church of Burnley, may be\ninstanced as a few of those which are popularly supposed to have been\ninterfered with by superhuman labourers. At Rochdale the unexpected\nworkpeople took the form of 'strange-looking men;' in other cases, as\nin those of Winwick and Burnley, pigs removed the materials, it being\ntraditional that their cry of 'we-week' gave its name to the former\nplace; while at Newchurch, in Rossendale, although the interloping\nbuilders were invisible, a little old woman with a bottle was not only\nseen, but was fraternised with by the thirsty watchers who had been\nappointed to guard the foundations. Similar stories of changed site\nare told of numerous churches throughout Britain. The legend of\nGadshill church, near Ventnor, like that of Hinderwell, Yorkshire,\nattributes the removal of the foundations to supernatural means, the\nstones having hopped after each other from their original place at the\nfoot of the hill to that in which they were afterwards found, the\nshins of the watchers having been 'barked' in the most unceremonious\nmanner by certain little blocks of somewhat erratic tendencies. It is,\nhowever, by no means improbable that at Gadshill, as at Rochdale, the\nfact of the building having been erected in a position so difficult of\naccess, and so trying to aged and infirm parishioners, may have caused\na testy and irreverent, and perhaps asthmatic, worshipper to invent\nthe Satanic theory. In one case, that of Bredon, in Leicestershire,\nthe objectors appear to have taken the form of doves. Loth as one may\nbe to think harm of such sweet messengers, Mr. Kennedy, after telling\nthe story of the building of the cathedral of Ardfert, in Kerry, by\nSt. Brendain, and the trouble caused by a large crow, which took the\nmeasuring line in its bill and flew across the valley with it, adds,\n'The bird was a fairy in disguise. If the messenger had been _from\nanother quarter_, he would have made his appearance under snowy\nplumes.'[B]\n\n[B] The foundations of the priory church of Christchurch, Hampshire,\nwere, tradition says, removed by unseen hands, down from the lonely\nSt. Catherine's Hill to the present site in the valley. The beams and\nrafters, too short on the hill, were too long in the vale. In the\nvalley, too, an extra workman, Christ, always came on the pay-night.\n\n\n7.\n\nThis work of art was one of the gargoyles of the old building, and was\npurchased by Mr. Ffarington, the father of the present lady of the\nmanor, when the church was rebuilt. It bore the name of 'the Cat\nStone.'\n\nAnother version of this tradition, of but limited circulation, and\nlittle known even in the immediate locality, credits an angel with the\nremoval of the foundations and with the utterance of the following\nanything but angelic strain:--\n\n    Here I have placed thee,\n      And here shalt thou stand;\n    And thou shalt be called\n      The church of Leyland!\n\n\n8.\n\nThis legend appears to have had a Teutonic origin. Mr. Kelly, in his\nchapter on the 'Wild Hunt,' quotes a somewhat similar story from a\nGerman source: 'The wild huntsman's hounds can talk like men. A\npeasant caught one of them, a little one, and hid it in his pack. Up\ncame the wild huntsman and missed it. \"Where are you, Waldmann?\" he\ncried. \"In Heineguggeli's sack,\" was the answer.'\n\n\n9.\n\n'The passing bell,' says Harland, 'according to Grose, was anciently\nrung for two purposes, one to bespeak the prayers of all good\nChristians for a soul just departing, the other to drive away the evil\nspirits who stood at the bed's foot ready to seize their prey, or at\nleast to molest and terrify the soul on its passage.'\n\nMr. Sikes says that in Wales, before the Reformation, 'there was kept\nin all Welsh churches, a handbell which was taken by the Sexton to the\nhouse where a funeral was to be held, and rung at the head of the\nprocession,' and that 'the custom survived long after the Reformation\nin many places, as at Caerleon, the little Monmouthshire village,\nwhich was a bustling Roman city when London was a hamlet. The bell,\ncalled the _bangu_, was still preserved in the parish of Llanfair\nDuffryn Clwyd half a dozen years ago.'\n\nThe bell might now with greater propriety be called the _passed_ bell,\nas it is tolled only after a death, the ringing concluding with a\nnumber of distinct knells to announce the years and sex of the\ndeceased, which the authority alluded to above considers 'a vestige of\nan ancient Roman Catholic injunction.' Until a comparatively recent\nperiod it was customary at Walton-le-Dale, Lancashire, to inter\nProtestants in the afternoon, a bell being tolled at intervals prior\nto the funeral; Catholics, however, were buried in the evening, a full\npeal being rung upon the bells immediately before the procession\nstarted.\n\nMr. Thornber, writing in 1844, says that at the beginning of this\ncentury, at Poulton, the more respectable portion of the inhabitants\nwere buried by candle-light, and that it was considered a sacred duty\nto expose a lighted candle in the windows of every house as the corpse\nwas carried through the streets. He speaks of the custom as a mark of\nrespect to the dead, but possibly there was something more than this\nin it. In Ireland even to-day it is usual to leave lighted candles in\nthe room where a corpse is laid out.\n\nThis belief in the power of bells over not only demons and evil\nspirits of every kind, but also over the elves and 'good people,'\nappears to have been held in all countries ever inhabited by fairies\nand hill folk. The Danish trolls are said to have been driven out of\nthe country by the hanging of bells in the churches, the noise\nreminding them forcibly of the time when Thor used to fling his hammer\nafter them. It is recorded in a bit of local doggrel from the pen of a\ndead and forgotten rhymester, that the fairies remained at\nSaddleworth, on the confines of Lancashire and Yorkshire, until\n\n                'The steeple rose,\n    And bells began to play;'\n\nwhen the Queen wandered away to the wild district\n\n    'Where Todmore's kingdom lay;'\n\nand the less important plebeians of fairy land 'dispersed, went.' Mr.\nHenderson says that 'at Horbury, near Wakefield, and at Dewsbury, on\nChristmas Eve, is rung the \"devil's knell,\" a hundred strokes, then a\npause, then three strokes, three strokes, and three strokes again.'\n\nIn Iceland it is believed that at daybreak or upon the ringing of a\nbell the trolls flee.\n\n\n10.\n\nFairy funerals, according to tradition, have been seen in other\ncounties beside Lancashire, for an old Welsh writer alludes to such\nsights as having been witnessed in his day. Mr. Wirt Sikes, in his\n_British Goblins_, a recent and most valuable contribution to the folk\nlore and mythology of South Wales, says that the bell of Blaenporth,\nCardiganshire, was noted for tolling thrice at midnight, unrung by\nhuman hands, to foretell death, and that when the 'Tolaeth before the\nburying,' the sound of an unseen funeral-procession passing by, is\nheard, the voices sing the 'Old Hundredth,' and the tramping of feet\nand the sobbing and groaning of mourners can be heard. In Normandy,\nsays P. Le Fillastre, _Annuaire de la Manche_, 1832, the large white\ncoffins, _les bieres_, which the belated voyager sees along the roads,\nor placed on the churchyard fences, are unaccompanied by either\nbearers or mourners, and the cemetery bell is silent.\n\nReaders of Professor Hunt's volumes of Cornish Drolls and Romances\nwill remember the beautiful legend of the fisherman who, gazing by\nnight through the window of a lonely church, saw a procession passing\nalong the aisle, and witnessed the interment, near the sacramental\ntable, of the fairy queen. The only point of resemblance, however,\nbetween the Southern and Northern traditions is to be found in the\nsolemn tolling of the church-bell. The Cornish story is unique in one\nrespect, inasmuch as, although we have plenty of legends in which the\nfairies evince a desire to peer into their future state, and even some\nin which their deaths are alluded to, it is extremely rare to find one\nin which the burial of a fairy is narrated; and this fact would seem\nto point to a defect in the 'Finn theory,' so plausibly advocated by\nMr. Campbell; for, surely, if once upon a time 'the fairies were a\nreal people, like the Lapps,' tradition would not be so silent, as it\nalmost universally is, with reference to the outward and visible signs\nof their mortality.[C]\n\n[C] Only since these notes were in type have I seen the excellent\npaper from the pen of Mr. Grant Allen (_Cornhill Magazine_, March\n1881), on the Genesis of the Myth of the Fairies. See also the same\ncharming writer's _Vignettes from Nature_, p. 206, and papers by B.\nMelle and F. A. Allen, in _Science Gossip_ for 1866, 'The Track of the\nPigmies.'\n\n\n11.\n\nMy friend, Mr. W. E. A. Axon, in his interesting _Black Knight of\nAshton_, tells a story of a 'Race with the Devil,' the hero of which\nwas one of a party of _pace-eggers_, who, waking up after a doze by a\nfarm-house fire, beside which the party had been permitted to sleep on\na wild night, and, feeling cold, had put on his Beelzebub dress, to\nthe terror of another member of the company, who awoke afterwards, and\nseeing, as he supposed, the Devil seated airing himself by the fire,\nfled into the darkness and the storm, his equally terrified companions\nfollowing him, and the no-less-frightened Beelzebub bringing up the\nrear.\n\nThe Mid and South Lancashire stories, as will at once be seen, do not\nresemble each other in any way, however; and I refer to Mr. Axon's\nlegend for the sake of directing my readers' attention to a valuable\nnote appended to it, in which Mr. Axon points out that there is a\nsimilar old Hindoo story of such a chase, which was translated from\nthe Sanscrit into Chinese not later than the year 800.\n\nIt seems hardly probable that the Lancashire pace-egging story, so\nexquisitely narrated by my friend, could have had an Aryan origin, yet\nthe resemblance is a striking and remarkable one.\n\n\n12.\n\nMany are the traditions of submerged bells told along the Lancashire\ncoast. 'Here,' says the Rev. W. Thornber in the scarce _History of\nBlackpool_ (1844), 'or out at sea opposite this spot, once stood the\ncemetery of Kilgrimol, mentioned in the above-quoted chapter of the\nPriory of Lytham. Of this fact, tradition is not silent, and the\nrustic who dwells in the neighbourhood relates tales of fearful\nsights, and how many a benighted wanderer has been terrified with the\nsounds of bells pealing dismal chimes.' In Wales, too, the\nsuperstition is a common one. It is by no means improbable that there\nmay be more in these faint whispers than would at first appear, and\nthat underneath these dim traditions of churches swallowed by the sea\nthere may rest a faint stratum of the old Scandinavian superstition\nthat sweet singing and beautiful music could be heard by any who stood\nto listen on an Elf hill; for, although the idea of submerged cities\nmay be found floating in the lore of all Celtic peoples, and in some\nplaces the submersion is a matter even of history,[D] in others, as at\nKilgrimol, it is doubtful whether the sounds come from the sea or the\nearth. It is, therefore, more than likely that the traditions of\nsubmersion have received the addition of pealing bells from natural\ncauses. There is an Indian superstition which in another way\nillustrates this theory. Manitobah Lake, in the Red River region,\nderives its name from a small island, upon which is heard, whenever\nthe gales blow from the north, a sound resembling the pealing of\ndistant church-bells, and which is caused by the waves beating on the\nshore at the foot of the cliffs and the rubbing of the fallen\nfragments against each other. This island the Ojibeways suppose to be\nthe home of Manitobah, 'the speaking god,' and upon it they dare not\nland.\n\n[D] _Vide_ Lyell's _Principles of Geology_, Chapter on _Encroachments\nof the Sea_, for many instances of submerged villages and churches\nalong the English coast.\n\nThere is in Normandy a singular tradition of a submerged bell, dating\nback to the time of the English occupation, along with others of\nburied and hidden treasure. It is said that, as the English soldiers\nwere abandoning the country, they destroyed the abbey of Corneville,\nand were taking away with them the principal bell, when the barge\ncapsized. As they were trying to recover the prize, the French came\nupon them, and they were obliged to hurry away, leaving the bell\nbehind. Since that time, whenever the bells of the churches in the\ndistrict ring out their joyous peals upon solemn festival days, the\nsubmerged bell also can be heard joining in the carillon. (_Essai sur\nl'arrondissement de Pont-Audemer_.)\n\nA story somewhat similar to this is told of a bell from St. David's,\nPembrokeshire, carried off by Cromwellian troops whose vessel\nafterwards was wrecked in Ramsay Sound, from the moving waters of\nwhich the pealing can be heard when a storm is rising.\n\n\n13.\n\nFor the sake of those who are not 'native and to the manner born,'\nRoger's story is not given in his vernacular, a mixture of the\nMid-Lancashire and the Furness dialects, trying even to those who are\nacquainted with the expressive Doric of other parts of the County\nPalatine.\n\n\n14.\n\nMr. Henderson, in his _Notes on the Folk Lore of the Northern Counties\nof England and the Borders_, states that Mr. Wilkie maintains that the\n_Digitalis purpurea_ was in high favour with the witches, who used to\ndecorate their fingers with its largest bells; hence called Witches'\nThimbles. Mr. Hartley Coleridge has more pleasing associations with\nthis gay wild-flower. He writes of 'the fays\n\n    That sweetly nestle in the foxglove bells;'\n\nand adds in a note, 'popular fancy has generally conceived a\nconnection between the foxglove and the good people.' In Ireland,\nwhere it is called _lusmore_, or the great herb, and also Fairy Cup,\nthe bending of its stalks is believed to denote the unseen presence of\nsupernatural beings. The Shefro, or gregarious fairy, is represented\nas wearing the corona of the foxglove on his head, and no unbecoming\nhead-dress either. In Wales, that the elves wear gloves of the bells\nof _Digitalis_ is a common fancy.\n\n\n15.\n\nThis conventional circle seems to be universally common to such\nstories of summoning the Evil One. Even in China, as Mr. Dennys has\nstated, the ring is drawn round the summoner, and the incantation\nuttered, as in our own stories.\n\n\n16.\n\nIn Lancashire, Old Nick (afterwards St. Nicholas, the patron saint of\nsailors) is considered the patron saint of the wind, just as in the\nScandinavian mythology it is Odin, also termed Nick and Hold Neckar,\nwho raises storms.\n\nIn Normandy, near Aigle, there is a superstition respecting a Mother\n_Nique_, doubtless, says Vaugeois, of Scandinavian origin.\n\n\n17.\n\nInstances of generous treatment of opponents on the part of the Evil\nOne are by no means rare. Readers of Mr. Roby will remember that Satan\ngave a loophole of escape to Michael Waddington, the hero of 'Th' Dule\nupo' Dun' legend, by granting him an extra wish, although the poor\nwretch's time was up.\n\n\n18.\n\nThe Cockerham schoolmaster appears to have lacked originality, for in\nthe Scottish legend of 'Michael Scott' it is recorded that when the\nfairies crowded round his dwelling crying for work, he bade them twine\nropes of sand to reach the moon, and tradition has it that traces of\ntheir unsuccessful attempts may yet be found. A more recent instance\nis told in a sketch of Dr. Linkbarrow, a Westmoreland wizard, who\nlived about a hundred years ago, quoted from the _Kendal Mercury_ by\nMr. Sullivan, in his _Cumberland and Westmoreland, Ancient and\nModern_. The Doctor, who was disturbed at church by a terrible storm,\nhurried home, and on the way met the devil, who asked for work. He\nimmediately set him to make 'thumb symes' of river sand. Imitating the\nIsraelites, perhaps not unconsciously--for Satan's knowledge of\nScripture is proverbial--the Evil One asked for straw, which was\nrefused him. On his arrival at home, the Doctor found his servant\nprying into his black-letter book, which imprudence had caused the\nstorm and Satan's pilgrimage.\n\nSeveral similar stories, illustrating the danger of tampering with\nbooks of magic, are told in Normandy. In one of them it is recorded\nthat the servant of a village cure, moved by curiosity, read a page or\ntwo of one of his master's volumes, when suddenly Satan appeared. The\ndomestic fled, but the Evil One captured him, and was making away with\nhim when the cure arrived and simply read a few other words from the\nbook, upon which Satan dropped his prey. In another one Satan keeps\nhis victim three years, but at length is obliged to let him go.\n\nIn the last story of this kind, however, which has come under my\nnotice--a French one by the way--the incautious student has scarcely\nread a line of the open book when Satan appears and strangles him. The\nsorcerer, quietly returning home, sees devils perched on the house,\nand, surprised, beckons them to approach. One does so, and tells him\nthe story, and he thereupon rushes to his study and finds the student\nstretched dead upon the floor. Afraid of being accused of murder, he\norders the devil who had assassinated the scholar to pass into the\nbody of his victim. The demon obeys, and goes to promenade in the\nstreet at the point most frequented by the students, but suddenly,\nupon another order, he quits the body, and the corpse falls in the\nmidst of the terrified promenaders.\n\nIn Cornwall, instead of the devil, it is the ghost of Tregeagle, the\nwizard, that is doomed to make trusses of sand in Genvor Cove, and to\nbear them to the top of Escol's Cliff. Having once succeeded in\ncarrying a truss, after having first brought water from a neighbouring\nstream and frozen the sand, he is now condemned to make the trusses\nwithout water.\n\n\n19.\n\nAnother version of this story, which is still told in the lonely\nfarm-houses of the district, gives the scholars the credit of having\nraised the devil during the absence of their master. Similar tasks\nwere given to the infernal visitor by a sharp-witted lad, who feared\nlest his should be the soul the Evil One threatened to take back with\nhim; and not many years ago a flag, said to have been broken by the\noutwitted Satan in his passage across the floor, used to be\ntriumphantly exhibited to any daring and irreverent sceptic who\nexpressed doubts as to the truthfulness of the narrative.\n\nAt Burnley Grammar School a black mark on a stone was at one time\nexhibited in proof of a state visit of the same kind, and a similar\nignominious flight.\n\nThe Grammar School of Middleton, near Manchester, also can boast of\nthe patronage of the Evil One; and Samuel Bamford has recorded that in\nhis youth a hole in the school flags was shown as an impression of the\nSatanic hoof. The Middleton legend credits the lads with the\nunenviable honour of having called up the fiend and afterwards\ninnocently wishing him to withdraw, which he sternly declined to do\nwithout having received his usual fee of a soul. As at Cockerham, he\nwas requested to make a rope of sand; and he was rapidly completing\nthe task, when, to the joy of the urchins, the schoolmaster came upon\nthe scene, and quickly exorcised the visitor, who, in his disgusted\nand disordered flight, broke down nearly half of the building.\n\n\n20.\n\nStories of headless beings may be found in the lore of most countries\nof Europe, and are of the same class as those of the men, women and\nhorses 'beawt yeds,' common to the hilly districts of both North and\nSouth Lancashire. As a general rule, in South Lancashire, the head is\nnot seen at all, whereas in the northern part of the county the\nspectre almost invariably carries it under the left arm, as is done by\nthe wandering beings in similar Danish stories. A Scotch legend,\nalluded to by Sir Walter Scott, credits the ghost of a Duchess of\nQueensberry with an innovation, as the spectre is said to wheel its\nhead in a barrow through the galleries of Drumlanrick Castle. In\nGlamorganshire there is a tradition of a headless woman, who appears\nevery sixty years, and many are the terrible stories told of her\ndreadful visitations.\n\nAlthough tales of headless horses are not rare in Lancashire, there\ndoes not appear to be any tradition of hearses, or other conveyances\ndrawn by them, similar to the Northumberland legend of the midnight\ncavalcade along the subterraneous passage between Tarset and Dalby\nCastles, or to the stories told by the Irish peasants.\n\nIt is more than probable that many of the legends and stories of\nheadless beings of both sexes had their origin in the old Saxon belief\nthat if a person who was guilty of a crime for which he deserved to\nlose his head, died without having paid the penalty, he was condemned\nafter death to travel over the earth with his head under his arm.\n\n\n21.\n\nNot very long ago it was commonly believed at Warrington, on the\nauthority of many persons who declared they had seen the apparition,\nthat a spectral white rabbit haunted Bank Quay, its appearance\ninvariably foretelling the early death of a relative of the person\nwhose misfortune it was to behold the animal.\n\n'In Cornwall,' says Mr. Hunt, 'it is a very popular fancy that when a\nmaiden who has loved not wisely but too well, dies forsaken and\nbroken-hearted, she comes back in the shape of a white hare to haunt\nher deceiver. The phantom follows the false one everywhere, mostly\ninvisible to all else. It sometimes saves him from danger, but\ninvariably the white hare causes the death of the betrayer in the\nend.'\n\n\n22.\n\nCan this tradition be an offshoot of the legend of Ahasuerus, the\nWandering Jew, the man who, standing at his door, refused the cup of\nwater for which the Saviour, bowed down beneath the burden of the\ncross, begged, but who bade the Lord walk quicker, and was answered,\n'I go, but thou shalt thirst and tarry till I come'? In one shape or\nanother most European countries have the weird myth of this restless\nbeing. In none of the stories, however, have I found any reference to\nan animal accompanying the wanderer.\n\n\n23.\n\nThe belief in the efficacy of fairy ointment appears to have been\nsomewhat generally held in England. A Northumberland tradition tells\nof a midwife who was fetched to attend a lady, and who received a box\nof ointment with which to anoint the infant. By accident the woman\ntouched one of her eyes with the mixture, and at once saw that she was\nin a fairy palace. She had the good sense, however, to conceal her\nastonishment, and reached her home in safety. Some time afterwards she\nsaw the lady stealing bits of butter in the market-place, and\nthoughtlessly accosted her, when, after an inquiry similar to that of\nthe Lancashire legend, the fairy breathed upon the offending eye and\ndestroyed the sight. Other versions still current in Northumberland\nmake the thief a fairy stealing corn. Similar stories are told in\nDevonshire and in both the Lowlands and Highlands of Scotland. In\nScotland, however, the fairy spits into the woman's eye. The Irish\nfairy (Co. Wexford), a vindictive being, uses a switch.\n\nIn Cornwall a fairy bantling has to be put out to nurse, and has to be\nwashed regularly in water and carried to its room by its invisible\nrelatives. The nurse receives the marvellous sight after some of the\nliquid has splashed upon her eyes, and the usual result follows. She\nsees a thief in the market-place--that of St. Ives; and after he has\nmuttered--\n\n    'Water for elf, not water for self!\n    You've lost your eye, your child, and yourself!'\n\nshe becomes blind. In another Cornish legend a green ointment, made\nwith four-leaved clover, gathered at a certain time of the moon,\nconfers the wondrous gift. In Lancashire the four-leaved clover does\nnot require any preparation; the mere possession of it being supposed\nto render fairies visible.\n\nThe Scandinavian belief appears to have been that, although the hill\nfolk could bestow the gift of this sight upon whom they chose, all\nchildren born on Sunday possessed the faculty. This superstition seems\nto survive in a slightly altered form in the Lancashire one that\nchildren born during twilight can see spirits and foretell deaths,\nthe latter faculty, probably, having been substituted for the\nprophetic power of the chosen of the elves in the Northern mythology.\n\nIt is more than probable that these ointment stories came from the\nEast. Who does not remember the charming history of the blind man,\nBaba Abdalla, whose sight was destroyed by a little miraculous\nointment, and afterwards as wonderfully restored by a box on the ear?\n\n\n24.\n\nAn old farm-labourer pointed out to me a place where the Evil One used\nto meet the witches, and gambol with them until cock-crow. It was at\nthe junction of four cross-roads, between Stonyhurst and Ribchester;\nand as I stood there at 'th' edge o' dark,' when the wind was\nwhispering through the fir woods on either hand, with that mysterious\nsound so like the gentle wash of waves upon a sandy shore, the spot\nseemed indeed a suitable one for such gatherings.\n\nMy informant, however, although very circumstantial in his account of\nwhat had transpired at the nocturnal assemblies, scouted the idea of\nanything of the sort taking place in these times, and remarked drily:\n'Ther's too mich leet neaw-a-days, Mesthur, fur eawt o' that mak'. Wi'\nshould hev' th' caanty police after um afooar they'd time to torn\nraand!'\n\n\n25.\n\nUntil recently, there was an ancient British tumulus by the side of\nthe highway from Darwen to Bolton, where the road passes through the\ndomains of White Hall and Low Hill. This spot, long before the urns of\nbones were disinterred, was looked upon by the country people as being\nhaunted by various boggarts, and Mr. Charles Hardwick says that\nchildren were in the habit of taking off their clogs and shoes, and\nwalking past the heap barefooted when compelled to traverse the road\nafter nightfall.[E]\n\n[E] _Vide_ Footnote [C]\n\n\n26.\n\nMag did not wander far, for her grave is shown in the churchyard at\nWoodplumpton, in which village her memory still is green. But few\npeople venture to rest themselves upon the huge stone which marks the\nspot where her spirit was laid.\n\nA strangely jumbled tradition tells how a priest managed to 'catch'\nher and 'lay her spirit.' In Cornwall and other counties a clergyman\nof the Establishment was considered qualified to 'lay' a ghost; but in\nLancashire it was believed that only a Roman Catholic priest had the\nwondrous power. In Wales the magical number three is brought in, for\nthree clergymen are necessary to exorcise a spirit. In Normandy, as a\nmatter of course, only the priests have the power.\n\n\n27.\n\nWitchen or quicken, old English names of the rowan or mountain ash.\nMr. Kelly (_Indo-European Tradition and Folklore_) accounts for the\nreputation of the 'wiggin' by connecting it with the Indian Palasa,\nthe tree that, according to the Vedas, sprang from the feather which,\ntogether with a claw, fell from the falcon bringing the heavenly\n_soma_ to earth. The same writer also compares it with the Mimosa, and\nquotes a singular passage from Bishop Heber, to the effect that the\nnatives of Upper India are in the habit of wearing sprigs of it in\ntheir turbans, and of suspending pieces of it over their beds, as\nsecurity against wizards, spells, the Evil Eye, etc. Naturally enough\nthe Bishop expresses his surprise at finding the superstitions, which\nin England and Scotland attach to the rowan, applied in India to a\ntree of similar form, and he asks, 'From what common centre are these\ncommon notions derived?' The Mimosa is popularly supposed to have\nsprung from the claw alluded to above.\n\nOn account of its reputed power against the 'feorin,' a rowan tree was\nalmost invariably planted near the moorland or mountain side\nfarm-house.\n\n    'Rowan, ash, and red thread\n    Keep the devils from their speed,'\n\nsays the old distich.\n\nIn some parts of Scotland ash sap still is given to infants as a\npreservative against fairies.\n\n\n28.\n\nIt was firmly believed in Lancashire, says Mr. Harland, that a great\ngathering of witches assembled on this night at their general\nrendezvous in the Forest of Pendle--a ruined and desolate farm-house\ncalled the _Malkin Tower_ (Malkin being the name of a familiar demon\nin Middleton's old play of _The Witch_, derived from _maca_, an equal,\na companion). This superstition led to another, that of _lighting_,\n_lating_, or _leeting_ the witches (from _leoht_, A.-S., light). It\nwas believed that if a lighted candle were carried about the fells or\nhills from eleven to twelve o'clock at night, and it burned all the\ntime steadily, it had so far triumphed over the evil power of the\nwitches, who, as they passed to the Malkin Tower, would employ their\nutmost efforts to extinguish the light, that the person whom it\nrepresented might safely defy their malice during the season; but if\nby any accident the light went out, it was an omen of evil to the\nluckless wight for whom the experiment was made. It was also deemed\ninauspicious to cross the threshold of that person until after the\nreturn from leeting, and not then unless the candle had preserved its\nlight. Mr. Milner describes the ceremony as having been recently\nperformed.\n\n\n29.\n\nMr. Sullivan quotes this quaint old carol at length in his _Cumberland\nand Westmoreland, Ancient and Modern_; and adds, 'This song is still\nsung at Penrith, having replaced one called \"Joseph and Mary,\" in the\nearly part of the century. Yet its antiquity is undoubted, and it has\nprobably come here from Lancashire, where it is well known.'\n\nAs, however, it is by no means so widely known as Mr. Sullivan\nsupposes, we may be pardoned if we reproduce it here. The second and\nremaining verses are as follows:--\n\n    'I met three ships come sailing by,\n    Come sailing by, etc.\n\n    Who do you think was in one of them?\n    In one of them? etc.\n\n    The Virgin Mary and her Son,\n    And her Son, etc.\n\n    She combed His hair with an ivory comb,\n    An ivory comb, etc.\n\n    She washed His face in a silver bowl,\n    A silver bowl, etc.\n\n    She sent Him up to heaven to school,\n    To heaven to school, etc.\n\n    All the angels began to sing,\n    Began to sing, etc.\n\n    The bells of heaven began to ring,\n    Began to ring, etc.'\n\n\n30.\n\nMr. Samuel Bamford says that Middleton Parish Church was the scene of\na procession similar to that described in the above legend, the\nobserver being an avaricious old sexton who was anxious to know what\nfees he should receive in the following year. This worthy, on All\nSouls' night, stationed himself in the sacred building, and counted\nthe spirits he saw enter and walk about, until he observed a double of\nhimself. Of course, soon afterwards there was a vacancy for a\ngravedigger at Middleton, the sight having been too much for 'Old\nJohnny.'\n\nA similar superstition reigns in various parts of England and in\nWales, where, at Christmas-time, says Mr. Croker, quoting from a Welsh\nauthority, the relatives of the deceased listen at the church door in\nthe dark, 'when they sometimes fancy they hear the names called over\nin church of those who are destined shortly to join their lost\nrelatives in the tomb.'\n\nIn Cornwall, strange to say, it is a young unmarried woman who,\nstanding in the church porch at midnight on Midsummer's-eve, sees the\nstrange gathering. 'This is so serious an affair,' says Professor\nHunt, 'that it is not, I believe, often tried. I have, however, heard\nof young women who have made the experiment. But every one of the\nstories relate that they have seen shadows of themselves coming last\nin the procession; that pining away from that day forward, ere\nMidsummer has again come round they have been laid to rest in the\nvillage graveyard.'\n\nMr. Sikes says that it is a Hallow-Een custom in some parts of Wales\nto listen at the church door in the dark to hear shouted by a ghostly\nvoice in the edifice the names of those who are shortly to be buried\nin the adjoining churchyard. In other parts, he says, 'the window\nserves the same purpose,' and, he adds, 'there are said to be still\nextant outside some village churches steps which were constructed in\norder to enable the superstitious peasantry to climb to the window to\nlisten.' These steps in several places seemed to me to be merely old\nmounting blocks, but they may have been made use of for the less\npractical purpose in question.\n\n\n31.\n\nIt is asserted that at the present day dogs cannot be induced to go\nnear this quarry, and that even closely hunted animals will permit\nthemselves to be captured rather than enter its recesses.\n\n\n32.\n\nFew superstitions have a wider circle of believers in Lancashire than\nthat which attributes to dogs the power of foretelling death and\ndisaster. There are few people, however well educated, who would be\nable to resist a foreboding of coming woe if they heard the howling of\na strange dog under the window of a sick person's room; and, absurd as\nthe dread so inspired may seem to the sceptic, there is more ground\nfor it than can easily be explained away. It has frequently been urged\nthat the animals are attracted by the lighted window, and that their\nhowlings are nothing more than unpleasant appeals for admittance; and\nthat often, by reason of the awe with which tradition has surrounded\nthe noises, they terrify the invalid, and produce the end they are\nsupposed to foretell. This plausible theory, however, does not account\nin any way for the similar visitations made in the daytime, when there\nis no artificial light to attract; or for the singular facts, that\ngenerally the dog is a stranger to the locality--that it does not\nloiter about, but makes its way direct to the particular house--that\nit will wait until a gate is opened, so that it may get near to the\nwindow--that it cannot be driven away before its mission has been\nperformed--and that, in all cases, the howling is alike, invariably\nterminating in three peculiar yelping barks, which are no sooner\nuttered than the animal runs off, and is no more seen in the\nneighbourhood.\n\nIn Normandy the noise is considered an infallible presage of death.\n\nMr. Kelly says that this superstition obtains credence in France and\nGermany; and that in Westphalia, a dog howling along a road is\nconsidered a sure sign that a funeral soon will pass that way. In the\nScandinavian mythology, Hel, Goddess of Death, is visible only to\ndogs.\n\nThe superstition has, at any rate, antiquity to recommend it, and it\nseems evident from Exodus xi. 5-7, that even in the days of the\ncaptivity of the Children of Israel in Egypt, the omen was firmly\nbelieved in.\n\nI was seated one summer evening in the drawing-room of a house in one\nof the large London squares. The conversation was of the ordinary\nafter-dinner nature, but enlivened by the remarks of more than one\ngifted guest. It was, however, suddenly interrupted in a very\nstartling manner by the howling of a dog, which had placed itself in\nthe roadway facing the house, regardless alike of the wheels of the\nnumerous passing carriages and cabs, and of the whips of the drivers.\nThe lady of the house, a north-country woman, said at once, as she\nrose from her seat at the open window, 'That means death. I shall hear\nof some sad trouble.' The dog would not be driven away by the angry\ncoachmen and cabmen, but finished the howling with three peculiar\nyelps, and then trotted off rapidly; and there was much jesting during\nthe rest of the evening about the strange occurrence. A few days\nafterwards, however, I was informed that on the evening of the\ndinner-party the brother of the hostess had died in North Lancashire.\n\n\n33.\n\n'Th' Gabriel Ratchets' strike terror into the heart of many a moorland\ndweller in Lancashire and Yorkshire still, presaging, as they are\nbelieved to do, death or sorrow to every one who is so unfortunate as\nto hear them. In the popular idea they are a pack of dogs yelping\nthrough the air. Our old literature has many references to the\nsuperstition. In more recent days, Wordsworth has introduced it in one\nof his sonnets:--\n\n                  'And oftentimes will start--\n    For overhead are sweeping GABRIEL'S HOUNDS.'\n\nMr. Philip Gilbert Hamerton, in a poem dated 1849, in his _Isles of\nLoch Awe and other Poems_, which he has kindly given me permission to\nquote here, says of them,--\n\n    'Faintly sounds the airy note,\n    And the deepest bay from the staghound's throat,\n    Like the yelp of a cur, on the air doth float,\n    And hardly heard is the wild halloo.'\n\nand--\n\n    'They fly on the blast of the forest\n    That whistles round the withered tree,\n    But where they go we may not go,\n    Nor see them as they fly.'\n\nMr. Hamerton, however, goes beyond the Lancashire peasant, at any rate\nso far as I have been able to ascertain, for I never met any one in\nthe hill country or on the moorlands of the North who fancied that the\nthrong included anything but _Ratchets_, _i.e._ dogs, for the poet\ngoes on to sing--\n\n      'Hark! 'tis the goblin of the wood\n      Rushing down the dark hill-side,\n    With steeds that neigh and hounds that bay.'\n\nMr. Henderson has recorded that, about Leeds, the flight is supposed\nto be that of 'the souls of unbaptized children doomed to flit\nrestlessly above their parents' abode.' In Germany, certainly the Wild\nHunt or Furious Host is accompanied by unbaptized children, and it has\nbeen recorded that a woman, about the year 1800, died of grief upon\nlearning that the Furious Host had passed over the village where her\nstill-born child had died just before. Mr. Kelly (_Indo-European\nTradition_) very ably and poetically resolves all the various\nsuperstitions of this Wild Hunt into figurative descriptions of\nnatural phenomena, but Mr. Yarrell, the distinguished naturalist,\nreduces the cries of the Gabriel Hounds into the whistling of the Bean\nGoose, _Anser Segetum_, as the flocks are flying southward in the\nnight, migrating from Scandinavia.\n\nIn Wales 'The Whistlers,' the cry of the golden-plover, is considered\nan omen of death, but it seems to be a quite distinct superstition\nfrom that of the _Cwn Annwn_, or Dogs of Hell, which latter is a Wild\nHunt.\n\nI have heard the weird cry of the Gabriel Ratchets at night in several\nof the northern countries, and in the loneliness and gloom of early\nwinter in the heart of the hills, or upon a wild bleak moorland, it\nwas difficult to overcome a sudden feeling of dread when the yelps\nrang forth, even with Mr. Yarrell's scientific explanation fresh in my\nmind.\n\nTo sketch the ramifications of the superstition of the Wild Hunt,\nhowever, would require a volume, so numerous and various are they.\n\n\n34.\n\nIn the old witch-mania records it is not unusual to find a cock\nsacrificed to the Evil One, and Satan's dislike of cock-crow has\nbecome proverbial. Brand has pointed out that the Christian poet\nPrudentius (fourth century) mentions that antipathy as a tradition of\ncommon belief. In an old German story Satan builds a house for a\npeasant who agrees to pay his soul for the work. A condition is made,\nhowever, that this house must be completed before cock-crow, and the\nwily peasant, just before the last tile is put on the roof, imitates\nthe bird of morn, upon which all the cocks in the locality crow, and\nSatan, baffled, flees.\n\nThe Evil One's appearance in the form of a cat, a goat, a pig, an old\nwoman, a black dog, a stylish gentleman, and the conventional shape,\nwith hoof and horns, have been testified to, and Calmet (_Traite sur\nles apparitions des Esprits et sur les Vampires_, 1751) alludes to his\ntaking the shape of a raven, but I have not met with any record of his\nappearance as a cock. In this case, however, that was insisted upon,\nalthough it was suggested that it might have been some other fowl.\n\n\nEDINBURGH: T. AND A. CONSTABLE,\n\nPRINTERS TO THE QUEEN, AND TO THE UNIVERSITY.\n\n\n                       ADVERTISEMENTS\n\n\nTHE ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY OF\n\nThe Fairy Tales of all Nations.\n\n\n     'The Boys and Girls of to-day owe a deep debt of gratitude to\n     Messrs. Sonnenschein & Co. for the treat here prepared for\n     them.'--_School Board Chronicle._\n\n     'The idea is a good one, and in addition to the intrinsic\n     interest of the stories, the volumes will be convenient for\n     Students of comparative Folk-lore.'--_British Quarterly\n     Review._\n\n     'The idea is an excellent one. 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CROFTON CROKER. 5_s._\n\n    _Just published._\n\n     =Lancashire: Goblin Tales of Lancashire,=\n     Collected by JAMES BOWKER. 4_s._ 6_d._\n\n    _Just published._\n\n     =Scandinavia: Old Norse Fairy Tales,= Gleaned from the Swedish\n     Folk, by STEPHENS and CAVALLIUS. 4_s._ 6_d._\n\n    _Just published._\n\n     =Spain: The Bird of Truth, and other Fairy Tales,= Collected by\n     FERNAN CABALLERO. 4_s._ 6_d._\n\n    _In preparation._\n\n    Volumes for =Brittany, Basque Provinces, Portugal, Modern Greece.=\n\n\n_EXTRA SERIES._\n\n     =Old Norse Sagas,= Selected and Translated by EMILY S. CAPPEL.\n     4_s._ 6_d._\n\n    _Just published_\n\n     =Gesta Romanorum: The Ancient Moral Tales of the Old\n     Story-tellers,= Selected and Adapted. 4_s._ 6_d._\n\n    _Just published._\n\n    _In preparation._\n\n    =Popular Books of the Middle Ages.--Tales of Enchantment\n    from all Lands.=\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Note:\n\n\nArchaic and inconsistent spelling, dialect, and punctuation retained.\n\nAdvertisements were moved from the front of the book to the end.\n\nNumbers in braces {} refer to sections of the appendix.\n\nLetters in brackets [] refer to footnotes at the end of the paragraph.","title":"Goblin Tales of Lancashire","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":51393}