PREFACE.

A Preface before an Introduction seems sufficiently impudent.

It is like popping our face in at the door for a short reconnoitre, before we introduce ourselves. Be it so!

The Chronicler of the “Legends of Lancashire” has no apology to offer, except to his palsied hands, for taking up the pen. He is not a Paul Pry, appearing before the public, with his perpetual non-intrusion plea. He imagines that his motives for writing the Legends are distinctly enough stated in the following Prospectus.

“Lancashire, of all Counties in England, is the most interesting to the antiquarian. Its rivers once flowed with blood;—its houses were towers, castles, or abbeys;—its men were heroes;—its ladies were witches! But now, what a change! The county is commercial. Where the trumpet of war called Arthur to his victories, the noisy engine is roaring. The fortresses have become factories; the abbeys—workhouses;—the heroes—clerks, merchants, and bankers. The ladies, indeed, profess to be what they were in former ages, and still call themselves ‘Lancashire Witches.’ It may not be safe for the ‘Chronicler,’ aged as he is, to speak lightly of the power of their[viii] spells; they may yet be of a deadly nature to him—for witches love revenge. Report says, however, that they cannot use the broomstick on which their ancestresses were accustomed to perform their nightly wanderings in the air; but the Chronicler is not so ungallant as to conclude, that it is because they have broken it over their husbands’ shoulders. The witches

of a former age were accustomed, with awful incantations, to mix their drugs:—pooh!—those of this age infuse a cup of comfortable tea—but surely not to chatter scandal over it.

“Alas! the age of chivalry and romance is gone from Lancashire. Its bones are in the tomb of history;—but some are too gay for such grave meditations. Legends alone can bring it to view, amidst all the light of poetry; and their wand of enchantment may call into existence a creation, beautiful yet real.

“The Chronicler of the forthcoming ‘Legends’ undertakes to present his readers with a series upon individuals, events, and places, all connected with a former age. Charles, with cavaliers of every shade:—roundheads, from Cromwell down to his groom:—the old tower, wherein were gallant soldiers and fair ladies:—the field of battle fiercely contested;—all shall appear, described, he flatters himself, with accuracy and faithfulness. He shall never sacrifice historical facts, or characters, to fiction. History, accurately sketched, he believes to be the truest and most beautiful romance, and there is enough of that in Lancashire to dispense with false colour and glitter. Places, dates, and names, as well as characters, shall be accurate.

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“He begs leave to say one word of himself. He is an old man, and this he conceives to be an advantage. The torch of tradition is most becoming in a trembling hand; and its light falls with a strange harmony over the white locks of the Chronicler, while he totters on through the regions of the past, long forgotten; and of which he himself seems to be the genius.”

He candidly confesses that he has not yet fulfilled his promise. That could not be done in the first volume. But the next shall be a continuous series of Legends connected with the civil wars, and illustrative of the characters of the opposing leaders. And in these he shall avoid all discussions about the merits of Roundhead and Cavalier. Vandyke might have given immortality to the features of Cromwell, as well as those of Charles, without deciding on the questions—ought Charles to have been beheaded, and was Cromwell an usurper. So the Chronicler undertakes, even in his portraits of leading characters, and in his sketches of events, to steer clear of party spirit. Still the pledge does not prohibit him from weighing the military and other talents of their respective leaders. Should he say that Cromwell, beyond all comparison as a man of genius and a soldier, was above Charles, it must not be inferred that he is a Roundhead. Or should he paint Charles as a more handsome and attractive man than Noll with the wart, he must not be called a Cavalier.

The Chronicler had no such design as has been attributed to him, of “mercilessly blackening the character of Cromwell.” The critic, evidently, had been gazing long upon some very sunny portrait of the Protector, and, therefore, when he came to a more sober one, his eyes being still dazzled, naturally thought it dark and “black.” Besides, really the man of the newspaper must not get deadly angry at the hint that his eyes are none of the best.

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That the Chronicler is free from any such design may be seen by the high character which Cromwell sustains in the Legend of “Lancaster Castle.” If it be thought that there is any contradiction between that and the “Battle of Wigan Lane,” it is sufficient to reply, that the Cromwell of 1644, and the Cromwell of 1651 are very different personages indeed. When first he came into notice, none of his enemies could suspect the sincerity of his profession of republican principles, but before the above-mentioned battle, even some of his friends had abandoned their confidence in his honesty.

There now only remains to say a few words regarding the contents of this volume. The Legends are all founded on authenticated traditions, and at the end of the work the documents shall be given. It is singular that the most improbable of them—the “Devil’s Wall,” although a most perfect tradition in all its parts, has never been known beyond the immediate vicinity of Ormskirk. The Legend founded upon it follows the tradition without one deviation except in the name and occupation of Gideon Chiselwig. The wall may still be seen. The “Witches of Furness,” are the only two ladies whom the Chronicler knows, that are unlike to the real Lancashire Witches, and yet, the Legend is true. The neighbourhood of Furness, it may be supposed, could produce a more noble kind of Witchcraft, than the far-famed Pendle-hill. The latter abounds with nothing but witches, the down upon whose lips might have formed the brooms on which they careered through the air, when they had failed to throw their bridle over some sleepy wretch, and transform him into

a horse. But a Legend of this kind of witchcraft shall afterwards be given. The “Cross and Lady Mabel,” although founded on the[xi] same genealogical account as Mr. Roby’s “Mab’s Cross,” is essentially and altogether different in its details; and besides, gives the tradition of the erection of the cross, which has, hitherto, been unknown. And here the Chronicler returns his thanks to that gentleman for the pleasure which his “Traditions of Lancashire” have afforded him. Lancashire abounds with so many traditions, that five or six Chroniclers might each glean a few volumes. This forms the only excuse for following Mr. Roby.

To the County Press the best thanks of the Chronicler are due, for the high approbation they have bestowed on an anonymous work.

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INTRODUCTION.

The Chronicler of the forthcoming “Legends” is, perhaps, more of an Antiquary, in disposition and habits, than many whose names are well known in Societies, which have been formed for objects of interesting research. He inhabits an old castellated building, which was both a fortress and a mansion, in some former age. Time has passed roughly over its proportions: he has even broken the dial, which marked out his own flight. Still, many relics of the past are left: and limbs of warlike images, and rude inscriptions, partly effaced, may yet be seen. The chisel, or even the plaster of modern art, have never approached its walls. No flower has sought shelter amidst its mantling ivy:—shelter, it should never find,—it would instantly be rooted up. Within, no partitions have been erected, to silence the sacred echoes of the spacious hall. The spirits of sound, which tenant the dwelling, would take flight upon the slightest change. No carpet of richest manufacture, has dared to cover the silent footsteps of the fair and the brave,

who once to the minstrel’s harp, and the sigh of love, trod many a gallant measure in the[2] dance. The windows on the terrace, when opened, receive no sound from the distance, save the old echo of the lover’s lute, greeting the maiden as she listened in her chamber, with fluttering heart, to the fond tale. When seen from without, her handkerchief seems to float—the signal of peace and hope. To the Chronicler, there is no silence in these deserted scenes. From him, the sixteenth century has never departed. The echoes are still of merriment and war. Knights and squires, successful in wooing or fighting, move before him. He mingles, with the delight of reality, in the banquet and the dance—and then rushes to the siege and the battle. Could the reader obtain admission to his apartment he would, as by a flash of lightning, be favoured with a glance—it might be transient to his eye, but it could never be darkened in his mind—of olden times. He would converse with one, who has never lived for modern change, and in whose white locks, and obsolete dress, he should behold a living

specimen of a former century, as if it had literally descended from that time. The Chronicler must be excused for speaking of himself. Who could forbid any of the followers of Cromwell, or Charles, to arise—the one to recite with solemn countenance and lengthened drawl; and the other with a dissipated air of pleasant vice—their respective achievements, whilst their manner, and costume are thoroughly scanned? What cavalier would ban[3] the Protector, even Nol with his nose and ominous wart, from again appearing, to reveal to us those stern and inflexible features, and to discourse to us, in one of those intricate speeches, which none could understand,—for, like his own dark and wily spirit, they baffled all knowledge? Or what republican could say “nay,” as the king’s court was brought into view, with the handsome, though melancholy martyr, at its head, surrounded as he was, unfortunately, by gilded butterflies? In like manner, the Chronicler hopes, that no one can be inclined to prevent a specimen of these times from

intruding himself, for a little on the attention of his readers.

He is now seated, writing from an inkhorn said to have been the property of General Fairfax; and leaning on a table, once heavily laden with a feast, of which royalists and republicans alike partook, on a day of truce. Other relics of that time are around him; but there is one dearer than all besides—a lovely daughter—a descendant, by the mother’s side, of an ancient family of distinction, from whom Charles II., during his wanderings, received shelter, and subsequently, assistance to mount the throne. She sings to him the ballads of other days, and they revive again in the echo of her music. For her, as well as for her father, this is but the sixteenth century; and though only in her seventeenth summer, she rejects all the amusements of more modern times.[4] He has resolved, out of fondness for the days that are gone, as well as affection for his daughter, that no lover fresh from the approbation of his tailor, and the flattery of his mirror, practised in bows and compliments acquired at the theatre—shall ever find admission to his beloved Jane. He would sooner give her

to an ourang-outang than a fop. The favoured suitor must, indeed, be handsome, learned, and brave; he must breathe a song of love in the good old style, beneath her lattice, when the moon and stars are shedding their light over the old mansion. Nor must he be an Antiquary, in the modern sense of the word. He may enter with the long essay, which he read to the British Association, in his pocket, peeping out instead of the handkerchief of the dandy; he may drag behind his name, all the letters of the alphabet, as honorary titles; the Chronicler shall lead him to the door by a way, to detail the curiosities of which, must obtain for him additional laurels. He shall, to a certainty, likewise qualify him for describing the strength of an oak cudgel. Nor must he be a silly Poet, a thing distilled of sighs, flames, water, and earth, who should have lived in the moon to address sonnets to her, and not on earth, since the envious clouds prevent her from seeing and reading them, as well as the brown paper of a garret window. Should

any such find his way here, the Chronicler promises to[5] compliment his head with a salutation from a good round of old England’s beef. No, no, the favoured suitor must be of a different genus; and his lute, moreover, must have no resemblance to the sighing guitar of Venice, or the rude whistle of England. And the Chronicler has sometimes been of opinion, that his daughter has made the same resolution. Of late, he has caught the sound of a manly serenade, and he has observed her blush, and occasionally leave the room. Nay, he has met her rambling through the adjoining thickets, with the son of an old friend, whose romance is in the past, and he has blessed them both. Yes, handsome and talented is ——. He had written the name, when Jane, looking over his shoulder in womanly curiosity, beheld it. Shrieking, she immediately snatched the pen from his hand, and scratched through it the above stroke, and gave her fond old father a playful blow: yet now she seems thoughtful and sorry for having violated that dear name, by blotting it, and

is half inclined to rewrite it herself. Fear not! Fate will draw no such ominous mark over it, and all that binds it to you is love and happiness.

To confide a secret to the reader, since the last sentence was written, the Chronicler has received a hint that the proof sheets of the following “Legends” may be read by his son-in-law! Nay, this very night, the lovers shall be formally betrothed, over a[6] Bible, which has been stained by the blood of its former possessor—a holy martyr—and the sword of an old English patriot shall be placed in the young man’s hand; therewith to defend religion—a wife—and a country.

The ceremony is performed, and both press the old man to read the first Legend. He gives his assent, and, at the same time, orders chairs to be set for his dear friends, the Public; whom he has respectfully invited, and whose attention he now humbly craves to

THE LEGEND OFTHE BATTLE OF WIGAN LANE.

Few battlements now remain, of one of the best fortified castles that ever defended Lancashire, and the King. But two centuries ago, and Houghton Tower, situated at the distance of four miles and a half to the west of Blackburn, stood proudly, and seemed in itself, without the assistance of garrison or artillery, to be capable of maintaining a successful struggle with the power of any enemy. All around were peaceful vales, where primitive simplicity dwelt; and often has the traveller, at eve, laid himself down on the green knolls,[7] beside the gently flowing stream of the classic Darwen, in order to become as happy as every object near him; to enjoy the gambols of the lambs frisking about; and to view the milkmaid, as, with a light step, and a merry heart, she tripped across the glen. He has then fancied himself, not only retired for ever from the theatre of war, but likewise from the mart of commerce; and happy has he been that there was an Eden sacred to his imagination, at the very time when the face as well as the heart of his country was

blighted by civil strife, and stained by the blood of its own sons, shed by the murdering hand of their brothers. But suddenly—to jar upon all the rural sounds by which he was greeted—the shrill trumpet was heard loud and near, startling the silent echoes of the green woods on the banks of the river, and on emerging from the vale, the fortresses of Houghton Tower were seen, dark and sullen, against the fading light of the sky. The challenge of the warder, and the fastening of the draw-bridge, were of war, and entirely dispelled the previous calm. Who could have imagined that in the bosom of such beautiful vales there could be a mass of frowning rock, so huge as that on which the castle was built? or, that amongst a class of venerable patriarchs, distinguished for simplicity of manners and life, there could be the restless spirits of war to fortify and maintain it? And yet it seemed to be a castle of nature’s building, and not of[8] art’s; for tall trees over-shadowed its turrets, and around its base the Darwen flowed over its deepest channel.

It had been erected by Sir Thomas Houghton, towards the beginning of Elizabeth’s reign, and the gallant knight had always supported a garrison in it, evidently for no other purpose than to fire a salute, at every anniversary of his birth day. But he died, and so did his queen: and upon the accession of the learned James to the throne, folios became the only battlements. His descendant, Sir Gilbert, was honoured with a visit from that monarch, in his celebrated “Progress” through Lancashire; and from the tower of Houghton, the modern Solomon fired his wit from an old Latin mortar. “Our opinion” said the grave fool and the merry sage, “whilk hath been kept for some time, as our jester Horace (the oyster eater should have lived in our court) recommends, in our desk,”—and here he pointed to his brow, with his usual self-complacency—“our opinion is,” he continued, “that Houghton Tower is just like a Scotch pudding—ha!—ha!—Sir Gilbert;—your castle is a pudding, and you are chief butler, and all your men are cooks! We say so.”

But another reign brought different scenes. Upon the disputes of Charles and the Parliament, a strong garrison was again supported in the tower, and the costly velvet which had decked the “Progress” of[9] James, through the ponderous gateway, was removed from the trampling hoof of the war steed. The Parliamentary army besieged it, but it made a bold defence, until, by accident, the magazine of powder in the strongest battlement, was ignited; and as the assailants were making a vigorous effort, all at once three of the buttresses were blown up, and Cromwell’s troops were masters of Houghton Tower, having taken all the garrison as prisoners. Their governor, Sir Gilbert, had fallen in the assault. His son Richard was heir, and the rightful lord of the tower, but he was confined in a dungeon, along with his youngest daughter, Anne—for all her sisters were married. But the wily Cromwell, when he was compelled to lead his troops to Ireland, secretly advised his officers in the garrison to give out that they were willing to conspire against

the Parliament, and to return to their allegiance, in order that he might be privy to every intended movement of the Royalists. The plot was successful. As soon as Cromwell had departed from England, (he never had resided in the tower,) this resolution was made known, and to prove its sincerity, Sir Richard Houghton was restored to his claims as governor of Houghton Tower, which was once more considered as a strong-hold of the Royalists; while virtually it was in the power of spies, who secretly conveyed all intelligence of any loyal movement which was, or had been concerting,—to the General.

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