Chapter 8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE BLESSING.

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

--_Macbeth._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE DULE UPO' DUN.

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

--_Old Ballad._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Pleasanter within though," responded every thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Save us, merci"----

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

Michael promised obedience, and his companion continued--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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