Traditions of Lancashire Volume II Part 15

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Verily, there is hope," said the holy man, after musing a while; "yet is it a perilous case, and only to be overcome by prayer and fasting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How!" roared the sable chief, with a voice that shook the whole house, like the pa.s.sage of an earthquake; "dost thou deny the pledge?

darest thou gainsay this bond?"

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

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

"I fear me," again said the victim, who felt his courage wonderfully supported, "that thou knewest I should never be a pin the richer or better for thy gifts; and thine aim was but to flatter and to cheat.

It is not in thy power, I do verily believe, to grant me riches or any great thing that I might wish; so thou didst prompt, and, in a manner, force me to those vain wishes, unthinkingly, by which I have been beguiled."

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

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

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

"Yea," said Michael, with an eager a.s.sent.

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

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

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

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

WINDLESHAW ABBEY.

"Adieu, fond love; farewell, you wanton powers; I'm free again.

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

--BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

This ruined chapel--"abbey" it is generally styled--is about a mile distant from St Helen's. Little remains now but the belfry, with its luxuriant covering of dark ivy, still preserving it from destruction.

More than half a century ago, some ruffian hand nearly severed the stem from the root, but happily without material injury, the incision being incomplete. The burial-ground, formerly open, is now enclosed by a stone wall; and on the south side is a stone cross with three steps.

The whole area has a reputation of great sanct.i.ty; many of those who die in the Romish faith, even beyond the immediate neighbourhood, being brought hither for interment.

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

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

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

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

[Ill.u.s.tration: WINDLESHAW ABBEY.

_Drawn by G. Pickering._ _Engraved by Edw^d Finden._]

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

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

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

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