NOOKS AND CORNERS
OF
LANCASHIRE AND CHESHIRE.

Of this work 600 copies have been printed, the whole of which were subscribed for before publication.

Nooks and Corners

OF

Lancashire and Cheshire.

A WAYFARER’S NOTES IN THE PALATINE COUNTIES,
HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, GENEALOGICAL,
AND DESCRIPTIVE.

BY
JAMES CROSTON, F.S.A.
Fellow of the Royal Historical Society of Great Britain;
Member of the Architectural,
Archæological and Historic Society of Chester; Member of the
Council of the Record Society.
Author of “On Foot through the Peak,” “A History of Samlesbury,”
“Historical Memorials of the Church in Prestbury,”
“Old Manchester and its Worthies,”
etc., etc.

JOHN HEYWOOD,
Deansgate and Ridgefield, Manchester;
and 11, Paternoster Buildings,
LONDON.
1882.

JOHN HEYWOOD, PRINTER, HULME HALL ROAD,
MANCHESTER.

PREFACE.

This volume is not put forth as professedly a history of the places described, the Author’s aim having been rather to seize upon and group from such accredited sources of information as were available, the leading facts and incidents relating to special localities, and to present the scenes of human life and action in a readable and attractive form by divesting, in some degree, the tame and uninviting facts of archæology of their deadly dulness; to bring into prominent relief the remarkable occurrences and romantic incidents of former days, and, by combining with the graver and more substantial matters of history an animated description of the physical features and scenic attractions of the localities in which those incidents occurred, to render them more interesting to the general reader.

A popular writer—the Authoress of “Our Village”—has said that she cared less for any reputation she might have gained as a writer of romance, than she did for the credit to be derived from the less ambitious but more useful office of faithfully uniting and preserving those fragments of tradition, experience, and biography, which give to history its living interest. In the same spirit the following pages have been written. There are within the Palatine Counties of Lancaster and Chester many objects and places, many halls and manor-houses that possess an abiding interest from the position they occupy in “our rough island story,” and from their being associated, if not with events of the highest historic import, yet at least with many of those subordinate scenes and occurrences—those romantic incidents and half-forgotten facts that illustrate the inner life and character of bygone generations. These lingering memorials of a period the most chivalrous and the most romantic in our country’s annals may occasionally have received the notice of the precise topographer and the matter-of-fact antiquary, but, though possessing in themselves much that is picturesque and attractive, they have rarely been placed before the reader in any other guise than that in which the soberest narrative could invest them. In them the romance of centuries seems to be epitomised, and to the “seeing eye” they are the types and emblems of the changing life of our great nation; legend and tradition gather round, and weird stories and scraps of family history are associated with them that bring vividly before the mind’s eye the domestic life and manners of those who have gone before, and show in how large a degree the Past may be made a guide for the Present and the Future.

It only remains for the Author to acknowledge his obligations to those friends who, by information communicated, and in other ways, have aided him in his design. His thanks are due to John Eglington Bailey, Esq., F.S.A., of Stretford; John Oldfield Chadwick, Esq., F.S.S., F.G.S., of London; Dr. Samuel Crompton, of Cranleigh, Surrey; Lieutenant-Colonel Fishwick, F.S.A., of Rochdale; and Thomas Helsby, Esq., of the Inner Temple. He is also indebted to the kindness of Gilbert J. French, Esq., of Bolton, for the loan of the several engravings which add interest to the story of Samuel Crompton.

Upton Hall, Prestbury, Cheshire,
December, 1881.

CONTENTS.

ILLUSTRATIONS.

SUBSCRIBERS.

• Adshead, G. H., Esq., Fern Villas, Bolton Road, Pendleton, nr. M’chester.
• Andrew, Frank, Esq., Ashton-under-Lyne.
• Ardern, L., Jun., Esq., Hazel Grove, Cheshire.
• Armitage, Elkanah, Esq., The Rookery, Pendleton, Manchester.
• Armstrong, Thomas, Esq., F.R.M.S., Highfield Bank, Urmston.
• Arnold, Henry, Esq., Blackley, near Manchester.
• Ashton, J. T., Esq., Wellington Road South, Stockport.
• Ashworth, Charles E., Esq., Fairfield, Manchester.
• Ashworth, George, Esq., 3. Charlotte Street, Manchester.
• Ascroft, W. T., Esq., 3, Stamford Street, Altrincham.
• Aspland, L. M., Esq., 47, Linden Gardens, South Kensington, London, S. W.
• Asquith, D., Esq., Lancashire & Yorkshire Railway Offices, Manchester.
• Atkinson, George, Esq., Stockport.
• Atherton, W. H., Esq., Southbank Road, Southport.
• Athenæum, The, Manchester.
• Attock, F., Esq., Somerset House, Newton Heath.
• Bailey, J. Eglinton, F.S.A., Egerton Villa, Stretford.
• Barlow, J. R., Esq., Edgeworth, near Bolton.
• Barnes, Alfred, Esq., Farnworth.
• Barnes, Thomas, Esq., Farnworth.
• Barton, Richard, Esq., West Leigh Lodge, West Leigh, Lancashire.
• Bayley, William, Esq., Craybrow, Lymm, Warrington.
• Bazley, Sir Thos., Bart., Eyford Park, Stow-on-the-Wold, Gloucestershire.
• Beaman, Mrs., Haydock Lodge, Ashton-in-Makerfield, Lancashire.
• Beales, Robert, Esq., M.D., J.P. (Mayor), Congleton.
• Bellis, Thomas, Esq., Northenden, near Manchester.
• Berry, James, Esq., Jun., Palatine Square, Burnley.
• Beswick, John, Esq., Victoria Hotel, Strangeways, Manchester (2 copies).
• Bibby, W. H., Esq., Levenshulme.
• Birch, Herbert, Esq., The Vicarage, Blackburn.
• Birley, Hugh, Esq., M.P., Moorland, Withington.
• Birley, J. Shepherd, Esq., Moss Lee, Bolton-le-Moors.
• Bleasdell, The Rev. J., Henry Square, Ashton-under-Lyne.
• Boddington, Henry, Jun., Esq., Strangeways Brewery, Manchester.
• Bolger, Miss Sarah, Atherton, Bournemouth, Hants.
• Bolton, John, Esq., Southfield, Blackburn.
• Bone, John W., Esq., F.S.A., 26, Bedford Place, Russell Square, London.
• Booth, Aaron, Jun., Esq., 4, South Street, Albert Square, Manchester.
• Booth, James, Esq., 52, Todmorden Road, Burnley.
• Boote, Daniel, Esq., Oakfield, Ashton-on-Mersey.
• Bourne, Sir James, Heathfield, Liverpool.
• Bowdler, William Henry, Esq., J.P., Kirkham, Lancashire.
• Bowes, Dr. John, The Blue Coat School, Warrington.
• Bowker, S. J., Esq., 42, Great Ancoats Street, Manchester.
• Boulton, Isaac Watt, Esq., J.P., Stamford House, Ashton-under-Lyne (2 copies).
• Bradshaw, Christopher, Esq., Kenwood, Ellesmere Park, Eccles.
• Bradshawe, George Paris, Esq., 30, Gloucester Street, Warwick Square, London.
• Bradshawe-Isherwood, Mrs., Marple Hall, Stockport.
• Bradshaw, S., Esq., 241, Broad Street, Pendleton.
• Bradwell, Dennis, Esq., J.P. Higher Daisy Bank, Congleton.
• Bramwell, Robert, Esq., 5, Green Street, Ardwick Green.
• Bragg, Harry, Esq., The Mount, Blackburn.
• Bransby, William, Esq., 46, Deansgate, Manchester.
• Brown, Rev. Canon, M.A., Staley Vicarage, Stalybridge.
• Brownhill, John, Esq., Alderley, Cheshire.
• Bridgeman, Rev. The Honble. G. T. O., Wigan Hall, Wigan.
• Broadbent, Geo. Harry, Esq., L.K.Q.C.P.I. and L.M., Ashton-under-Lyne.
• Broadbent, Edwin, Esq., Reddish, near Stockport.
• Brockbank, W., Esq., Pall Mall, Manchester.
• Buckley, Mr., Strangeways Brewery.
• Budd, Mrs. M., Cedar Villa, Wilbraham Road, Fallowfield, Manchester.
• Bulteel, S. W., Esq., Victoria Park, Manchester.
• Burgess, Samuel, Esq., Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway Offices, Manchester.
• Burton, Alfred, Esq., 37, Cross Street, Manchester.
• Burghope, William, Esq., Albert Villa, near Malvern.
• Burton, Joseph, Esq., Lyme View, Bramhall, Cheshire.
• Burton, J. H., Esq., F.R.H.S., 5, Trafalgar Square, Ashton-under-Lyne.
• Burton, Mrs. Lingen, Abbey House, Shrewsbury.
• Bustard, J., Esq., Summer Lane, Barnsley.
• Calderbank, Captain, Stockport.
• Cameron, John D., Esq., The Grove, Sale, Cheshire.
• Carrington, H. H., Smith, Esq., Whaley Bridge, near Stockport
• Carver, Mrs. J., Sunnyside, Whalley Range, Manchester.
• Carr, John, Esq., 2, McDonald’s Lane, Manchester.
• Casson, E., Esq., Raper Lodge. Bramhall Park, Cheshire.
• Chadwick, T., Esq., The Grove, Urmston, near Manchester.
• Chetham’s Library, Manchester.
• Chorlton, Thomas, Esq., 32, Brasenose Street, Manchester.
• Chorlton, William, Esq., Fairfield, near Manchester.
• Chorlton, Thomas, Esq., 32, Brazenose Street, Manchester.
• Christy, Richard, Esq., Poynton Towers, Cheshire.
• Clare, Charles Leigh, Esq., Park Lane, Higher Broughton, Manchester.
• Coates, The Misses, Sunnyside, Crawshawbooth, Lancashire.
• Collins, James, Esq., Ada Villa, Old Trafford, Manchester.
• Coombes, The Rev. G. F., B.A., Portwood, Stockport.
• Cooper, Edward, Esq., 10, Downing Street, Manchester.
• Cooper, Thomas, Esq., Mossley House, Congleton.
• Coultate, William Miller, Esq., F.R.C.S., J.P., 1, Yorke Street, Burnley.
• Cowie, Very Rev. B. Morgan, D.D., Dean of Manchester, The Deanery, Manchester.
• Craig, Andrew L., Esq., 148, Cheapside, London.
• Craven, James, Esq., Woodland House, Whalley Range, Manchester.
• Creeke, Major A. B., Monkholm, near Burnley.
• Cronkeshaw, John, Esq., White Bull Hotel, Blackburn.
• Cross, John, Esq., Cambridge Villa, Heaton Norris.
• Cross, The Right Hon. Sir R. A., M.P., Eccle Riggs, Broughton-in-Furness.
• Crompton, Samuel, Esq., M.D., Cranleigh, Surrey.
• Cunliff, John, Esq., Lomber Hey, near Stockport.
• Curzon, N. C., Esq., Lockington Hall, Derby.
• Cuff, James Henry, Esq., Millington, near Altrincham.
• Cunliffe, Edward Thomas, Esq., Handforth.
• Dale, Thomas, Esq., J.P., Bank House, Park Road, Southport.
• Davenport, E. H., Esq., Davenport, Bridgnorth, Shropshire.
• Day, Mr. T. J., Heaton Moor, Stockport.
• Devonshire, His Grace the Duke of, Chatsworth, Chesterfield.
• Dillon, Rev. Godfrey, Radcliffe (2 copies).
• Dobson, Matthew, Esq., Cheadle.
• Dorrington, James T., Esq., Bonishall, near Macclesfield.
• Downing, William, Esq., Springfield Olton, Acock Green, Birmingham.
• Dyer, A. C., Esq., National Provincial Bank of England, Manchester.
• Earwaker, J. P., Esq., M.A., F.S.A., Pensarn, Abergele.
• Eastwood, J. A., Esq., 49, Princess Street, Manchester.
• Eaton, C., Esq., 3, St. Edward Street, Leek.
• Eckersley, C., Esq., Tyldesley, Lancashire.
• Edgar, Robert A., Esq., Seymour Lodge, Heaton Chapel.
• Edge, J. Broughton, Esq., Broad Oak Park, Worsley.
• Eilbeck, H., Esq., Ashton-upon-Mersey, Cheshire.
• Ellison, John, Esq., Stockport Road, Ashton-under-Lyne.
• Elwen, George, Esq., 11, Knott Street, Higher Broughton, Manchester.
• Enion, J. C., Esq., Piccadilly, Manchester.
• Equitable Co-operative Society, Greenacres Hill, Oldham.
• Evans, Miss Lydia, The Heys, near St. Helens, Lancashire.
• Evans, John, Esq., 1, Mitton Street, Greenheys.
• Eyre, The Rev. W. H., Stonyhurst College, near Blackburn (5 copies).
• Fairbrother, Henry, Esq., 106, Albert Square, Manchester.
• Feather, The Rev. George, The Vicarage, Glazebury, Leigh, Lancashire.
• Fielden, John, Esq., Dobroyd Castle, Todmorden (2 copies).
• Fletcher, J. Shepherd, Esq., M.D., 75, Lever Street, Manchester.
• Fletcher, Thomas, Esq., Lever House, near Bolton-le-Moors.
• Folly, Thomas, Esq., Warrington.
• Foyster, J. Asher, Esq., 5, Norfolk Street, Manchester.
• Frankland, Geo., Esq., Express Office, Burnley.
• Freston, T. W., Esq., 8, Watling Street, Manchester.
• Fry, Joseph, Esq., Manchester.
• Gamble, Colonel, Windlehurst, St. Helens.
• Gartside, R. A., Esq., Dacres, Greenfield, near Manchester.
• Gaskell, A. E., Esq., 255, Moss Lane, East, Manchester.
• Gaskell, Josiah, Esq., Burgrave Lodge, Ashton-in-Makerfield.
• Gee, Charles, Esq., Gorton, Manchester.
• Gerard, Major, Aspull House, Wigan.
• Gibbons, Benjamin, Esq., London Road, Manchester.
• Gill, Richard, Esq., 7, Pall Mall, Manchester.
• Gilbody, A. H., Esq., Edge Lane, Chorlton-on-Medlock.
• Goodman, Davenport, Esq., Eccles House, Chapel-en-le-Frith.
• Graham, Joseph, Esq., Carlton Road, Burnley.
• Graham, Rev. Philip, Turncroft, Darwen.
• Grantham, John, Esq., 2, Rothsay Place, Old Trafford, Manchester.
• Gray, Robert, Esq., Greenfield House, Hyde.
• Gradwell, Samuel, Esq., Holmes Chapel, Cheshire.
• Gratrix, Samuel, Esq., J.P., West Point, Whalley Range, Manchester.
• Greaves, George, Esq., Hayfield.
• Greenall, Sir Gilbert, Bart., Walton Hall, Warrington.
• Greenall, Colonel, Lingholme, Keswick.
• Greenall, Major, The Old Rectory, Grappenhall.
• Greene, Mrs. Turner, Southworth House, Wigan.
• Greenhalgh, Joseph Dodson, Esq., Gladstone Cottage, Bolton.
• Greenway, C., Esq., J.P., Darwen Bank, Darwen.
• Greenwood, Charles, Esq., 26, Aked’s Road, Halifax.
• Groves, G. H., Esq., Kent Villa, Urmston, near Manchester.
• Grundy, Alfred, Esq., Whitefield, near Manchester.
• Guest, W. H., Esq., 78, Cross Street, Manchester.
• Hadfield, George, Esq., 110, King Street, Manchester.
• Hague, John Scholes, Esq., White Hall, Chinley, Derbyshire.
• Hall, Joshua, Esq., Kingston House, Hyde.
• Hall, John, Esq., The Grange, Hale, Cheshire.
• Hall, Robert, Esq., Anes House, Hyde.
• Halstead, Louis, Esq., Redwaterfoot, Corneholme.
• Hampson, William, Esq., Rose Hill, Marple, Cheshire.
• Hampson, J. R., Esq., Old Trafford.
• Hampson, J. T., Esq., Solicitor, Ashton-under-Lyne.
• Harlow, Miss, Heaton Norris, Stockport
• Hartley, William, Esq., Greek Street, Stockport.
• Hartley, Mrs., Brierfield House, near Burnley.
• Hartley, Job W., Esq., Westgate, Burnley.
• Hardwick, C., Esq., 72, Talbot Street, Moss Side, Manchester.
• Harwood, Alderman John J., Northumberland Street, Higher Broughton.
• Haworth, The Rev. J. G., Tunsteads Vicarage, Stacksteads.
• Haworth, S. E., Esq., Holyrood, restwich.
• Haworth, Richard, Esq., J.P., 28, High Street, Manchester.
• Heginbottom, Thomas, Esq., J.P., (Mayor), Stamford House, Ashton-under-Lyne.
• Helsby, Thomas, Esq., Lincoln’s Inn, London.
• Hibbert, Henry, Esq., Broughton Grove, Grange-over-Sands.
• Hicks, John, Esq., Mytton Hall, Whalley, Lancashire.
• Higgins, Arthur, Esq., King Street, Salford.
• Higgins, James, Esq., Woodhey, Kersal, Manchester.
• Higson, Thomas, Esq., Red Cliffe, Alderley Edge, Cheshire.
• Hill, T. D., Esq., Fairfield.
• Hindley, Thomas, Esq., Stockport.
• Hirst, John, Esq., Ladcastle, Dobcross.
• Hodgson, T., Esq., Cravenholme, Didsbury.
• Hooley, Samuel J., Esq., Manchester and Liverpool District Bank Limited, Tunstall.
• Howe, James, Esq., Bellfield House, Ashton-under-Lyne, near Manchester.
• Hodgkinson, James B., Esq., Green Bank, Sale, Cheshire.
• Hodgkinson, S., Esq., Marple, Cheshire.
• Holden, Thomas, Esq., Bolton.
• Holmes, James, Esq., Egerton Road, Fallowfield, Manchester.
• Hornby, James, Esq., Wigan.
• Hyde, Walter, Esq., Cromwell House, Heaton Chapel.
• Ingham, B., Esq., York Chambers, Brasenose Street, Manchester.
• Jackson, Alfred, Esq., Burnley Lane, Burnley.
• Jackson, B., Esq., Heathfield, Ashton-upon-Mersey.
• Jackson, Hartley, Esq., Pickup Terrace, Burnley.
• Jackson, H. J., Esq., Ashton-under-Lyne (2 copies).
• Johnson, J. A., Esq., 73, Albert Road, Southport.
• Johnson, J. H., Esq., F.S.A., 73, Albert Road, Southport.
• Jones, John Joseph, Esq., Abberley Hall, Stourport.
• Kay, Jacob, Esq., 5, Booth Street, Manchester.
• Keene, R. Esq., Irongate, Derby.
• Kettle, A. J., Esq., Addiscombe, Prestwich Park, near Manchester.
• Kettle, W. C., Esq., Addiscombe, Prestwich Park.
• Kenderdine, Frederick, Esq., Morningside, Old Trafford.
• Knott, James, Esq., 55, Higher Ardwick, Manchester.
• Knott, John, Esq., Dartmouth House, Hurst, Cheshire.
• Lancaster, Alf, Esq., Manchester Road, Burnley.
• Lawton, James Kinder, Esq., Hazel Grove, near Stockport.
• Leedham, F. H., Esq., Burnage Lane, near Manchester.
• Leece, Joseph, Esq., Mansfield Villa, Urmston, near Manchester..
• Lees, Edward B., Esq., Kelbarrow, Grasmere.
• Leigh, James, Esq., 66, Deansgate, Manchester.
• Lever, Ellis, Esq., Culcheth Hall, Bowdon.
• Lees, Samuel, Esq., Park Bridge, Ashton-under-Lyne.
• Leigh, John, Esq., The Manor House, Hale, Cheshire.
• Leigh, Charles, Esq., Bank Terrace, Wigan.
• Leyland, John, Esq., The Grange, Hindley, near Wigan.
• Libraries, Free Public, Manchester.
• Library, Free Public, Town Hall, Rochdale.
• Library, Free, Peel Park, Salford.
• Library, Free, The Stockport.
• Library, Free, The Wigan.
• Library, Free, The Heywood, near Manchester.
• Library, Free, The Bolton-le-Moors.
• Linfoot, Joseph, Esq., Cannon Street, Manchester.
• Lingard-Monk, Richard, B. M., Esq., Fulshaw Hall, Wilmslow.
• Lloyd, Thomas, Esq., Brooklands House, Brooklands, Cheshire.
• Long, John F., Esq., 135, Great Ancoats Street, Manchester.
• Longden. A. W., Esq., Marple, Cheshire.
• Longworth, Solomon, Esq., Whalley, Lancashire.
• Longshaw, Mrs., Beech Priory, Southport.
• Longton, Edward John, Esq., M.D., The Priory, Southport.
• Lord, Henry, Esq., 42, John Dalton Street, Manchester.
• Lupton, Arthur, Esq., 136, Manchester Road, Burnley.
• Lupton, Benjamin, Esq., Cumberland Place, Burnley.
• Lupton, Joseph Townend, Esq., 28, Manchester Road, Burnley.
• Lowe, J. W., Esq., St James’s Square, Manchester.
• Marsden, Rev. Canon, Great Oakley, Harwich, Essex.
• Marsden, The Rev. W., Fullarton House, Upper Brook Street, M’chester.
• Marshall, E. W., Esq., 38, Barton Arcade, Manchester.
• Marson, Gervase, Esq., Thorncliffe House, Higher Broughton, Manchester.
• Marson, James, Esq., High Cliffe, Warrington.
• Massey, John, Esq., J.P., Hawk’s House, near Burnley (2 copies).
• Mayor’s Library, The, Manchester, per Alderman Patteson.
• McQuhae, William, Esq., 5, Stamford Street, Brooks’s Bar, Manchester.
• McKenna, Bernard, Esq., Lea Grange, White Moss, Blackley, nr. M’chester.
• McKerrow, Alderman John B., J.P., Norcliffe, Broughton Park.
• Metcalf, William, Esq., 2, Vernon Avenue, Eccles.
• Middleton, Thomas, Esq., Springfield, Adlington, Lancashire.
• Midwood, G. H., 55, Faulkner Street, Manchester.
• Mills, William, Esq., 12, New Brown Street, Manchester.
• Milner, George, Esq., 57a, Mosley Street, Manchester.
• Mitchell, William, Esq., Brook Villa, Golbourne.
• Moore, D., Esq., Woodville, Bramhall, Cheshire.
• Moorhouse, Christopher, Esq., 4, St Paul’s Road, Kersal, Manchester.
• Morton, William, Esq., 12, Brown Street, Manchester.
• Mothersill, Edward, Esq., Dane House, Sale, Cheshire.
• Moulton, George, Esq., Hall’s Crescent, Collyhurst.
• Muirhead, Thomas S., Esq., Ash Lodge, Halliwell Lane, Cheetham.
• Murray, Alderman (the late), Apsley House, Hyde Road, Manchester.
• Myers, Henry, Esq., 140, Newcastle Street, Stretford Road, Manchester.
• Napier, George W., Esq., Merchistoun, Alderley Edge.
• Neal, William, Esq., Ashton-under-Lyne.
• Newton, Walter, Esq., 69, Bridge Street, Manchester.
• New, Philip N., Esq., 15, Baillie Street, Rochdale.
• Norreys, Miss, Davyhulme Hall, Lancashire.
• Northcott, James B., Esq., King Street, Manchester.
• Owen, William, Esq., Palmyra Square, Warrington.
• Park, Rev. R., M.A., 3, The Crescent, Salford.
• Parker, Edward, Esq., Browsholme Hall, Yorkshire.
• Patteson, Alderman, J.P., Victoria Park, Manchester.
• Peacock, Richard, Esq., Gorton Hall, near Manchester.
• Perkins, Stanhope, Esq., 6, Healey Terrace, Fairfield, near Manchester.
• Phillips, John William, Esq., Brown Hill, Burnley.
• Phillips, Miss, Welcombe, Stratford-on-Avon.
• Piccles, Thomas L., Esq., Rock Cottage, New Mills, Derbyshire.
• Pilkington, James, Esq., Swinithwaite Hall, Bedale, Yorkshire.
• Pink, Wm. Duncombe, Esq., Leigh.
• Pooley, C. J., Esq., Knutsford.
• Pollitt, James, Esq., Guide House, Ashton-under-Lyne.
• Pooley, W. Ormsby, Esq., J.P., Knutsford.
• Portico Library, The, Mosley Street, Manchester.
• Potter, Rupert, Esq., 2, Bolton Gardens, South Kensington, London, S.W.
• Potts, Arthur, Esq., Hoole Hall, Chester.
• Preston, Thomas, Esq., 92, Manchester Road, Burnley.
• Raby, William, Esq., 78, Cross Street, Manchester.
• Ralphs, Samuel, Esq., 56, Sandy Lane, Stockport.
• Ramsbottom, G. H., Esq., Altham Hall, near Accrington.
• Ramsbotham, John, Esq., 22, Arbour Street, Southport (2 copies).
• Rawsthorne, H., Esq., East Street, Preston.
• Redhead, R. Milne, Esq., Springfield, Seedley, Manchester (2 copies).
• Richmond, T. G., Esq., Ford House, Prestbury.
• Richmond, Fred, Esq., 163, Radnor Street, Hulme, Manchester.
• Richmond, James, Esq., Mosely House, Burnley.
• Rickards, Charles H., Esq., J.P., Seymour Grove. Old Trafford, Manchester.
• Rigby, S., Esq.
• Robinson, William, Esq., The Hollies, Talbot Road, Old Trafford.
• Robson, Thomas W., Esq., 18, Aytoun Street, Manchester.
• Rooke, George, Esq., Moorside, Sale.
• Roundell, C. J., Esq., M.P., Osborne, Fernhurst, Hazlemere.
• Royle, John, Esq., 53, Port Street, Manchester.
• Roylance, E. W., Esq., Brookfield, Bury Old Rd., Cheetham Hill, M’chester.
• Rumney, Thomas, Esq., Hallcroft Cottage, Carnforth.
• Rushton, Thomas Lever, Esq., Moor Platt, Horwich, near Bolton.
• Ryder, T. D., Esq., St James’s Square, Manchester.
• Rylands, J. Paul, Esq., F.S.A., Highfields, Thelwall.
• Rylands, W. Harry, Esq., F.S.A., Biblical Archæological Society, 11, Hart Street, Bloomsbury, London.
• Schunck, J. Edgar, Esq., Wicken Hall, near Rochdale.
• Severs, Fred, Esq., 1, Dalton Terrace, Clayton St., Chorlton Rd., M’chester.
• Scott, John Oldred, Esq., 31, Spring Gardens, London, S.W.
• Schofield, Thomas, Esq., J.P, Thornfield, Old Trafford.
• Shaw, Giles, Esq., 72, Manchester Road, Oldham.
• Shiers, George Alfred, Esq., Tyntesfield, Ashton-upon-Mersey.
• Shiers, Richard, Jun., Esq., Earlscliffe, Bowdon, Cheshire.
• Sidebotham, Joseph, Esq., F.R.A.S., F.L.S., F.S.A., Erlesden, Bowdon, Cheshire.
• Sitwell, R., Esq., Morley, Derby.
• Slark, J. and A., Esqrs., 41, Fishergate, Preston.
• Smeal, A., Esq., Ravensla, Whalley Road, Whalley Range, Manchester.
• Smith, Aston W., Esq., The Old Hall, Bootle.
• Smith, Bryce, Esq., 16, Nicholas Street, Manchester.
• Smith, George J. W., Esq., Savings Bank, Stockport.
• Smith, James, Esq., Highfield, Edge Lane, Chorlton-cum-Hardy.
• Smith, Rev. J. Finch, M.A., F.S.A., Aldridge Rectory, Walsall.
• Smith, J., Jun., Esq., Legh Street, Warrington.
• Smith, Robert Mcdowell, Esq., Crumpsall, near Manchester.
• Smith, William, Esq., Adswood Grove, Stockport.
• Smith, J. J., Esq., King Street, Manchester.
• Sowler, Lieut.-Colonel, Oak Bank, Victoria Park, Manchester.
• Stanley, C. J., Esq., Halscote, Grange-over-Sands.
• Stanton, Henry, Esq., Greenfield, Thelwall.
• Stevens, James, Esq., F.R.I.B.A., Lime Tree House, Macclesfield.
• Steinthal, H. M., Esq., The Hollies, Fallowfield, near Manchester.
• Stubs, Peter, Esq., Statham Lodge, Warrington.
• Stanyer, The Rev. W., 41. Corporation Street, Manchester.
• Starkey, Miss, Northwich, Cheshire.
• Stevens, Edward, Esq., Alderley Edge, Cheshire.
• Strangeway, William N., Esq., 59, Westmoreland Rd., Newcastle-on-Tyne.
• Stanning, Rev. J. H., The Vicarage, Leigh.
• Sutcliffe, Fred, Esq., Ash Street, Bacup.
• Syddall, James, Esq., Chadkirk, Romily, Cheshire.
• Taylor, Thomas, Esq., 33, St. James Street, Burnley.
• Thompson, Alderman Jos., J.P., Riversdale, Wilmslow.
• Thorley, William, Esq., Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway Offices, Manchester.
• Tolley, Thomas, Esq., Warrington.
• Topp, Alfred, Esq., J.P., Farnworth.
• Toulmin, George, Esq, Guardian Office, Preston.
• Turner, W., Esq., Rusholme.
• Turner, John, Esq., Woodville, Lytham.
• Tweedale, Charles Lakeman, Esq., Holmefield House, Crawshawbooth.
• Underdown, R. G., Esq., M. S. & L. Railway Company, Manchester.
• Waddington, William, Esq., Market Superintendent, Burnley.
• Waddington, Wm. Angelo, Esq., 5, Carlton Road, Burnley.
• Walkden,—Esq., 16, Nicholas Street, Manchester.
• Walker, Thomas, Esq., Oldfield, Cheshire.
• Walmesley, Oswald, Esq., Shevington Hall, near Wigan.
• Walsh, Dr. John, Stonyhurst, near Whalley, Lancashire.
• Walters, Charles, Esq., Clegg Street, Oldham.
• Warrington, the Museum and Library.
• Watterson, Wm. Craven, Esq., Hill Carr, Bowdon, Cheshire.
• Wainwright, John, Esq., Carlton Lodge, Stretford.
• Warburton, John, Esq., Fairlie Villas, Raspberry Road, Fallowfield.
• Warburton, Samuel, Esq., Sunnyhill, Crumpsall, Manchester.
• Warburton, Henry, Esq., The Elms, Hendham Vale, Manchester.
• Waters,—Esq., Manchester.
• Watts, James, Esq., Portland Street, Manchester.
• Watts, John, Esq., 23, Cross Street, Manchester.
• Webb, F. W., Esq., Chester Place, Crewe.
• Webster, William, Esq., Abbotsfield, St. Helens.
• White, Charles, Esq., Holly Villa, Warrington.
• Whittaker, W. Wilkinson, Esq., Cornbrook Park, Manchester.
• Whitehead, Edwin, Esq., The Hurst, Taunton Road, Ashton-under-Lyne.
• Whittaker, Robert, Esq., Birch House, Lees, near Manchester.
• Wild, Robert, Esq., 134, St. James’s Street, Burnley.
• Wilkinson, A., Esq., Westbourne Grove, Harpurhey, Manchester.
• Wilkinson, T. R., Esq., The Polygon, Ardwick, Manchester.
• Wilkinson, John, Esq., 25, Manor Street, Ardwick, Manchester.
• Wilkinson, William, Esq., M.A., Middlewood, Clitheroe.
• Wilson, William, Esq., Savings Bank, Stockport.
• Wilson, C. M., Esq., Lancaster Villa, Broughton Park, Manchester.
• Winterbotham, Henry, Esq., F.R.C.S., Bury New Road, Manchester
• Wolstenholme, Charles, Esq., Richmond Hill, Bowdon, Cheshire.
• Wood, John, Esq., J.P., Arden, near Stockport,
• Wood, Richard, Esq., J.P., Plimpton Hall, Heywood, near Manchester.
• Wood, William, Esq., Woodville, Bramhall, Cheshire.
• Wood, W. C., Esq., Brimscall Hall, Chorley, Lancashire.
• Worthington, Ed., Esq., Appley Bridge, near Wigan.
• Woodhouse, George, Esq., Heath Bank, Chorley New Road, Bolton.
• Wood, Robert, Esq., Drywood Hall, Worsley.
• Worthington, Alderman T., 33, Church Street, Manchester.
• Wright, E., Abbott, Esq., Castle Park, Frodsham, Cheshire.
• Yates, J. W., Esq., Ashton-upon-Mersey.
• Yeoman, John, Esq., 30, Union Street, Ardwick, Manchester.

BOOKSELLERS.

• Bemrose & Sons, Derby.
• Brown & Sons, Macclesfield.
• Butler, S., Altrincham.
• Burghope & Strange, Burnley.
• Burgess, Henry, Northwich.
• Cooke, Stretford Road, Manchester.
• Cornish, J. E., Piccadilly and St. Ann’s Square, Manchester.
• Dodgson, J., Leeds.
• Day, T. J., Market Street, Manchester.
• Dooley, Henry, Stockport.
• Galt, J. & Co., Corporation Street, Manchester.
• Gray, Henry, Topographical Bookseller, 25, Cathedral Yard, Manchester.
• Grundy, 68, Woodhouse Lane, Wigan.
• Howell, E., Liverpool.
• Holden, Adam, 48, Church Street, Liverpool.
• Heywood, Abel & Son, Oldham Street, Manchester.
• Kenyon, W., Newton Heath, Manchester.
• Littlewood, James, Ashton-under-Lyne.
• Lupton, J. & A., Burnley.
• Minshull & Hughes, Chester.
• Pearse, J. C., Southport.
• Pearse, Percival, Warrington.
• Phillipson & Golder, Chester.
• Platt, Richard, Wigan.
• Rider, Leek.
• Roworth, St Ann’s Square, Manchester.
• Robinson, Preston.
• Smith, W. H. & Son, 1, New Brown Street, Manchester.
• Smith, W. H. & Son, L. & N.W. Railway and M.S. & L. Railway Bookstalls, London Road Station, Manchester.
• Stock, Elliot, 62, Paternoster Row, London, E.C.
• Tubbs & Brook, Market Street, Manchester.
• Trübner & Co., London.
• Walmsley, G. G., 50, Lord Street, Liverpool.
• Yabsley & Co., Sale, Cheshire.

NOOKS AND CORNERS
OF
LANCASHIRE AND CHESHIRE.

CHAPTER I.
A RAILWAY RAMBLE—THE ROMAN CITY ON THE RIBBLE—A DAY-DREAM AT RIBCHESTER.

On a bright morning in the exuberant summer time, ere the country had lost the freshness of its earlier beauty, or the forest trees had begun to bend beneath the weight of their blushing burdens, we found ourselves on the platform of the Victoria Station with a friend, the companion of many a pleasant wandering, equipped for a journey to the fair country which skirts the base of Pendle Hill. We were both in high spirits, and the beauty of the opening day added to our enjoyment The morning was cool and clear, and radiant with the early sunshine—one of those genial days when, as Washington Irving says, we seem to draw in pleasure with the very air we breathe, and to feel happy we know not why—the invigorating freshness of the atmosphere giving a pleasant impulse to the spirits. There had been a slight fall of rain during the night, but the breeze which followed had dried up the roadways, and now all was bright and clear, and the unclouded sun poured down a flood of brilliance that added to the charms of the early morn, imparting a gladdening influence which even the sparrows seemed to share as they flitted to and fro about the eaves with unceasing twitter.

For some distance the railway is carried over the house-tops, and as the train speeds along we can look down upon the dreary web of streets, the labyrinth of dwellings, the groves of chimneys, the mills, workshops, and brick-kilns, and the strange admixture of squalor, wretchedness, and impurity that go to make up the royal borough of Salford. Soon we reach the outskirts, where the country still struggles to maintain its greenness; then, after a short stoppage at Pendleton, we enter upon the pleasant vale of Clifton, where we are enabled to breathe the balmy atmosphere and drink in the fresh fragrance of the flower-bespangled meads. Pleasant is it to escape from the gloomy hives of brick, with their busy human throng, and to look abroad upon the expanse of country reposing in the summer sunshine. The gentle showers of the night seem to have refreshed the thirsty soil, and to have given an invigorating aspect to the landscape, imparting to the turf a brighter hue, and to the trees which clothe the folding bluffs a brighter tinge of colouring, whilst the sunlight gleams upon the fields and on the already ripening grain, and sparkles upon the lingering rain-drops that hang like strings of pearls from every bush and twig. On the left the quaint old hall of Agecroft, with its picturesque black and white gables, twinkles through the wind-shaken leaves; the Irwell meanders pleasantly through the fertile meadows on the right; and beyond, the grey embattled tower of Prestwich Church may be seen rising prominently above the umbraged slopes that bound the opposite side of the valley.

On, on we go with a screech and a roar, rattling over viaducts, rumbling through rocky cuttings, rushing along steep embankments; then rolling rapidly again over the level country, from whence we can look back upon the dingy town of Bolton, memorable in the annals of the great civil war as the place where the martyr Earl of Derby sealed his loyalty with his life. The changing aspect of the country now becomes manifest. Every mile brings a fresh picture, and the variety itself adds to the interest of the journey. The land is prettily featured—green and undulating, with well-wooded cloughs and shady dingles, backed by lofty gritstone ridges, which here and there soften into slopes of fertile beauty that form an admirable relief to the pale blue hills which stretch away to the furthest point of distance. Just before reaching the station at Chapeltown we get sight of Turton Tower, a fine old relic of bygone days, once the home of Manchester’s most noted “worthy”—Humphrey Chetham—and for a time, as tradition tells us, the abode of Oliver Cromwell; and close by is a picturesque gabled summer-house, surmounting a gentle eminence, that forms a conspicuous object for miles around. Still onward, past scattered hamlets, past mills, bleachworks, and collieries; past farms, cottages, and old-fashioned timber-built dwellings that more or less merit the appellation of “hall” applied to them; past meadows, fields, and pastures, where the hedgerows and trees seem to revolve in a never-ending reel, while the telegraph wires that stretch from post to post rise and fall in a succession of graceful genuflexions. On, on! Small streams are crossed, bridges are shot through, and then the “express” thunders past with a deafening roar, almost terrifying the life out of a nervous old lady who sits opposite to us, and who, on recovering her breath, feels instinctively inside her left-hand glove to make sure that her ticket has not been spirited away by the fiery iron monster. Darwen—cold, stony-looking Darwen—is passed, and presently Blackburn is reached, where a few minutes is considerately allowed to stretch our legs and look about us. The prospect, however, is not altogether lovely, and the people are as little prepossessing in appearance as the place itself, so that we are not sorry when our brief respite is brought to an abrupt termination by the sharp “Now then, gentlemen,” of the guard, when, resuming our seats, the carriage door is slammed to by that energetic official.

A few puffs, a whistle, and a screech, and we are moving swiftly over the green landscape again. The meadows widen, and the trees and hedges fly past as if driven by the whirlwind. Onwards, on and on, until we reach the little roadside station that forms the terminus of our railway journey.

Ribchester, for that is the name of the station, is Ribchester station only by courtesy[1]—the old Roman town whose name has been somewhat unceremoniously appropriated being a good three miles away; so that we shall have to lengthen our walk considerably before we reach the Roman Rigodunum. On leaving the station we turn to the left, and then, crossing the railway bridge, follow an ascending path that leads past a few squalid-looking cottages which stand irregularly along the edge of a tract of common land—the grazing ground of an impassive donkey and of a flock of geese that begin to sibilate and crane their necks spitefully as we go by. A little brick chapel with a bell-cot at one end stands on the further side of the green, and close by is the village school. Leaving this uninviting spot, we continue our walk past a few waste-looking fields and across the level summit of an eminence the verdant slopes of which stretch away on either side. Presently the road descends, winding hither and thither between pleasant hedgerows and embossed banks, garlanded with the gaily-coloured flowers of the exuberant summer time, “the jewels of earth’s diadem,” speaking of Him

Whose hand hath shed wild flowers

In clefts o’ the rock, and clothed green knolls with grass,

And clover, and sweet herbs and honey dews,

Shed in the starlight bells, where the brown bees

Draw sweets.

At every turn we get pretty snatches of scenery, with glimpses of cattle-dappled pastures and green fields, where the black, glossy rooks are hovering about and cawing loudly to each other as if discussing the result of their recent entomological researches. Looking across the country the high downs are seen with their broad green cloud-mottled shoulders, half-hiding the undulating hills that stretch away along the dim blue line of the horizon. By-and-by Ribblesdale, one of the prettiest vales in the kingdom, opens upon us. Below, the river winds its snake-like course through the meadows, its ample bosom gleaming in the sun like molten silver. On the right, lying low among the tall ash-trees, is Salesbury Hall, a quaint half-timbered mansion, once the abode of a branch of the great family of the Talbots, one of whom aided in the capture of the unfortunate Henry VI., and previously the home successively of the Salesburys, the Cliderhows, and the Mauleverers. Conspicuous on the further side of the valley are seen the stately towers of Stonyhurst crowning a wooded slope, that swells gradually up from the margin of the Hodder, forming one of the spurs of Longridge Fell. Looking up the valley, the eye takes in the long-backed slopes of Pendle Hill, the abrupt elevation on which stands the ruined keep of Clitheroe Castle, the wooded heights of Wiswell and Whalley, the dark-hued moorlands that extend to the ancient forests of Bowland, with Bleasdale Moor, Waddington Fell, and the screen of hills that sweep round in an irregular circle to meet the huge form of Longridge Fell lying upon the landscape like a monster couchant.

A quaint relic of the olden time stands by the wayside on the left. A gabled mansion of the time of the Second Charles, now occupied by a farmer, but still bearing the name of New Hall, though, as the date (1665) testifies, the storms of more than two hundred winters have broken upon it since George Talbot, a younger son of Sir John of that name, placed his initials and the crest of his family above the doorway. At this point the road diverges to the right, and a few paces bring us to the margin of the Ribble, when a charming prospect meets the eye, a prospect that would have delighted the heart of Cuyp had he had the opportunity of sketching it. There was no stir or fret—no excitement. All was calm, placid, and serene. The swift and shallow Ribble lay before us, sparkling and glistening all over, save on the further side, where a row of trees that fringed the roadway flung the broad shadows of their spreading branches upon its placid bosom. There was a Sabbath-like peace in the air, and the stillness of a summer day lay profoundly as a trance upon the scene. An old-fashioned punt, moored to the side, lazily dragged its creaking chain, and now and then chafed itself against the bank as the motion of the water gently swayed it to and fro. Before us Ribchester Bridge lay bestriding the stream—its broad circular arches reflected in the water with a distinct vividness that was interrupted only at intervals when their image was broken into a quivering indistinctness as a passing gust rippled the mirrored bosom of the water. As we stood gazing upon the scene, a boat borne by the current slowly glided down the river, looking like a bird suspended in the blue of heaven. The oars were poised in the rowlocks, and the water, dripping from their flashing blades, fell upon the glassy surface, and spread out in widening silver rings that floated slowly onwards.

RIBCHESTER BRIDGE.

Crossing the bridge, at the foot of which stands a comfortable inn—the De Tabley Arms—we wound away to the left, following the bold sweep of the Ribble, and a few moments later entered the “Aunciente Towne” of Ribchester. Ribchester! What visions of antiquity float before the imagination as the stranger enters this little unpretending village, for town it can now hardly be called. What memories of the past are awakened at the mere mention of the name. The old distich, which the inhabitants still take pride in repeating, tells us that

It is written upon a wall in Rome

Ribchester was as rich as any toune in Christendome. [2]

The first glimpse, even were we unsupported by tradition, would lead us to believe that this part of the valley of the Ribble was even in earliest times a place of some importance, for, admirably protected by Nature, and adapted as it must then have been to the requirements of an untamed and uncivilised race, it was hardly likely to have escaped the searching eye of our Celtic forefathers, being then protected by naked marshes, and flanked on each side by lofty eminences, with a wide river between on which their slim coracles might float; whilst adjacent was the great forest of Bowland, the haunt of the wolf, the boar, and other wild animals, whose skins would supply clothing, and their flesh sustenance, to the hardy hunter. Whether the primeval Britons established a colony here or not, certain it is that when the more refined subjects of the Cæsars had established themselves as conquerors of the country, Ribchester attained to a high degree of eminence, and became one of the richest and most important stations in the newly-acquired territory. For the greater protection and security of the conquered lands in the North, Agricola constructed a chain of forts from one extremity of Lancashire to the other, and occupying the sites now held by Lancaster, Ribchester, Walton, Blackrod, Manchester, Overborough, and Colne. The most important of these stations, as evidenced by the richness and variety of the remains that have at different times been discovered, was the one at Ribchester. The place lost its pre-eminence after the fall of the Roman government in Britain, but the foundation of its buildings long defied the ravages of time, though now the searching eye can scarce discover the faintest relic of their former existence. Leland, the old topographer, who visited the place in the early part of the 16th century, says: “Ribchester is now a poore thing; it hath beene an Auncient Towne. Great squared stones, voultes, and antique coynes be found ther: and ther is a place wher that the people fable wher that the Jues had a temple.”[3] No doubt the temple existed, for the remains of it have been traced in later times, but it was Pagan and not Jewish, and was dedicated, as Dr. Whitaker supposed from an inscription found upon the site, by an empress or princess of the Imperial Roman family to the goddess Minerva. Ribchester has been prolific in remains of Roman art, and many of the altars, statues, bronzes, and “antique coynes” that have been dug up have been carried away to enrich the archæological museums of other parts of the country, or have found their way into those of private collectors, where they are practically lost to the student of antiquity, for, unfortunately, there is hardly a town in Lancashire which possesses a museum worthy of the name where such exhumed treasures might find a fitting resting-place. Pennant mentions having seen a sculpture, discovered on digging a grave in the churchyard, representing a Roman soldier carrying a labarum, or standard of cavalry; but perhaps the most remarkable relic is the elaborately ornamented bronze helmet found in 1796, familiar to antiquaries by the engravings which have appeared in the Vetusta Monumenta, and in the histories of Whitaker and Baines. So lately as the beginning of the present century a Roman house and hypocaust were brought to light whilst excavating the foundations for a building on the banks of the river; altars dedicated to various divinities have on different occasions been unearthed, with other memorial stones, coins, pottery, glass, articles of personal adornment, ampullæ, fibulæ, &c; and even in recent times, though less frequently than of yore, when the earth is removed to any considerable depth relics are turned up which help to illustrate the habits and customs of the Roman settlers, and prove the wide diffusion of the elegant and luxurious modes of life it was their aim to introduce.

It requires no great stretch of the imagination to picture the Ribchester of those far-off days. The picture, it is true, may be only shadowy and indistinct seen through the long distance which intervenes; but, carrying the mind back to those remote times, let us contemplate the scene presented to our fancied gaze. It is Britain—Britain in the darkest period of its history, the Britain of Caractacus and Boadicea—but how great the contrast from the Britain of to-day! A broad flowing river separates us from the opposite land, the tide flows up, and the wavelets break monotonously upon the shore. Before us and on each side rise gently swelling hills clothed with dense forests of oak—primeval monarchs that have budded and flourished and shed their leaves through long centuries of silent solitude. There are no towns or villages, no fertile meadows and rich pasture fields; not a sign of a habitation can we discern save here and there where the dark woods have been thinned, and a solitary hut, rudely constructed of wood and wattles, bears evidence of man’s existence. Looking more closely into the picture, we can discover the naked and painted forms of human beings—men eager, impetuous, brave, armed with javelin and spear, and ready to engage with any chance foe that may cross their path whilst seeking for their prey among the wild beasts of their native woods.

Gradually the view dissolves. Softly, slowly, it fades away, and darkness overspreads the scene. Hark! The sound of distant strife breaks faintly upon the ear; there is a rumble of war chariots and the hollow tramp of legionaries; then a fire blazes on the top of Longridge Fell, lighting up the heavens with a ruddy glare; the signal is answered by successive flashes from Pendle Hill and from beacons more remote. In a moment the scene is alive with the forms of men armed with spear and shield, hurrying to and fro, brandishing their javelins with impatient haste, eager to meet the coming foe. Meanwhile the conquering eagles of imperial Rome are seen advancing. Cohort follows cohort, and legion succeeds to legion. With measured pace and steady tread they come. There is the shock of mortal combat; the valley echoes with the clang of arms and the fell shout of war; and Briton and Roman are struggling together for conquest and for life.

The hardy Briton struggled with his foe,

Dared him to battle on the neighb’ring height;

And dusky streamlets reddened with the flow

From heroes dying for their country’s right.

Their simple weapons ’gainst the serried ranks,

Full disciplined in war, were hurled in vain;

Well greaved and helmeted, the firm phalanx

Received their fierce attack in proud disdain.

It is over. Undisciplined valour yields to superior military skill, and the heroic Britons, defeated but not subdued, are driven for refuge within the fastnesses of their native woods, leaving those green slopes crimsoned with the life-blood of a people who, if they knew not how to fight, knew at least how valiant men should die.

Another tableau of history succeeds. Order arises out of disorder. After many struggles, in which her greatest generals have taken part, Rome, by her obstinate bravery, has succeeded in carrying her eagles northward as far as the banks of the Tay. The line of conquest is marked by a chain of forts erected with masterly judgment to keep in check the more disaffected of the northern tribes, and these strongholds are connected by a network of military ways, the course of which, after a lapse of eighteen centuries, may still be discerned—a proof that the Roman road makers were no despicable engineers.

One of these military ways—the one from Mancunium (Manchester)—led through Ribchester, and, passing Stoneygate, climbed the rugged slopes of Longridge Fell and along the tops of the hills, whence, taking an easterly direction, it traversed the Forest of Bowland, and thence continued to Eboracum (York). Though their levels were chosen on different principles, the lines they followed were indicated by the great features of nature, and were pretty much the same as those adopted by the makers of our modern iron roads. Long centuries after the Roman had taken his departure these military roads formed the great highways of traffic. The tracks traversed by Agricola and his victorious legionaries have since been trodden in succession by Pict and Scot, by Plantagenet and Tudor, by Cavalier and Roundhead, by the hapless followers of the ill-fated Stuart, and by the ruthless soldiery of the Hanoverian King, and in later and more peaceful times by long lines of pack-horses, laden with the products of the Lancashire looms.

Agricola, having now satisfied his thirst for military glory, has become a pacificator and law-giver in the newly-acquired provinces. The subjugated natives, attracted by the fame of the illustrious Roman, steal from their hiding places in the woods, and learn the manners and customs of civilisation, and with them, it is to be feared, vices which before they knew not of.

Turn we again. Another picture dawns upon us, dimly and obscurely enough at first, but becoming more distinctly visible as the darkness fades away. The appearance of the people is changed, and the aspect of the country has changed with them. Time has passed on—the river that we before gazed upon still flows on as of yore, though somewhat narrowed in its proportions. The woods now ring with the war clarion of the invincible auxiliaries; the wattled huts have disappeared; and in the assart space they occupied a flourishing city is seen, with halls and porticoes and statues, in humble imitation of the then magnificence of the city that crowns the seven hills. Where the oaks grew thick, and the wild bull, the wolf, and the boar reigned in undisputed possession, a military fortification has been built, with ramparts and towers and turrets, and close by, to celebrate the subjugation of the brave Brigantes, a pagan temple has been reared in honour of Minerva, for the sound of glad tidings has not yet come across the sea. The scene is one of bustle and organisation. Here, on the quay, merchants are congregated with traders from Gaul and Phœnicia, and adventurers from more distant lands, bartering earthenware, implements of agriculture, and other commodities which those colonists of the old world have brought with them, for the treasures of the soil. There a gang of labouring captives, sullen and unwilling, are toiling under the eye of their relentless taskmasters. Strange-looking vessels are borne upon the bosom of the stream, unwieldy in form, with long lines of oars shooting out from each side, and prows resplendent with paint and gilding, standing high up out of the water. Now and then a gaily-decorated galley floats past, freighted with fair Olympias, or bearing, perchance, some tender Sistuntian maid, whose loving heart, flinging aside the trammels of religion and race, has cast her lot with the conquerors of the land. Under the shadow of that wall a sentinel, in classic garb, with helmet and sandal, paces his measured round, and, pausing now and then, leans upon his spear, and muses upon the scenery of his own German home. Within the garrison all is gaiety and enthusiasm; there are marchings and countermarchings, and transmissions of signals, and relievings of guard. How the lances glitter in the light, and the brazen helmets reflect the glory of the midday sun. Here are gathered fighting men from all parts of Europe—Dalmatians, Thracians, and Batavians—who are talking over the victories of the past, and thinking, perhaps, of those timorous eyes that beamed tenderly upon them, and wept their departure from their distant homes—Moors of swarthy hue from the shores of Africa, whose dark skins have flashed terror into the souls of the pale Northern tribes; stern-visaged Frisians from the marshes of Holland; and stalwart Asturians, with veteran warriors who have fought through many a campaign and earned for themselves the proud title of conquerors of the world.

The conquerors of the world! Time has passed rapidly on, and Rome, the vaunted mistress of the world, with difficulty grasps her own. Pierced by barbarian hordes, torn by intestine wars, weakened at heart and tottering to her ruin, her last legions have been recalled for her own defence, and the fair provinces of the West are abandoned to the Northern savages, who come, as Gildas relates, “like hungry and ravening wolves rushing with greedy jaws upon the fold.”

Yet once again, a change—and lo!

The Roman even himself must go;

While Dane and Saxon scatter wide

Each remnant of his power and pride.

Enfeebled by long submission to the Roman yoke, deprived of the protection of the forces of the empire, the flower of her youth drafted away to swell the armies of the Emperors Maximus and Constantine, Britain is left in a state of utter defencelessness, and speedily becomes a prey to those warlike hordes that come pouring in from the maritime provinces of Germany, Norway, and Sweden. The period that follows is one of anarchy and confusion, of Saxon conquest and Danish spoliation.

But we pass on. Another picture is shadowed forth, and what is this that meets the gaze? The scene of fierce war and angry passions, of conquest and oppression, of barbaric rudeness and pagan splendour, is now a desolate and deserted waste, where the frail creations of man are blended with the ever-enduring works of God. The relentless foot of Time has pressed heavily upon these wrecks of human greatness—a few straggling walls, a ruined temple, pavements worn down by the tread of many a Roman foot, broken columns, with fragments of masonry, are all the vestiges that remain to denote the ancient importance of the Roman Rigodunum—all the signs that are left to point out where merchants gathered and where warriors prepared for conquest and for fame.

The departure of the Roman legionaries inflicted a heavy blow on the fortunes of the city. The period of Saxon conquest was followed by the descent of the wild Scandinavian marauders—the Jarls and sea-kings of the North, who, with their piratical hordes, swept the country, leaving the red mark of death and desolation in their wake.

What time the Raven flapped his gory wing,

And scoured the White Horse o’er this harried realm;

His crowded galley brought the dread Viking,

Lust at his prow, and rapine at the helm.

The splendour of Ribchester must have waned rapidly, for after the overthrow of Harold on the red field of Hastings, when the victorious Norman made his great survey of the conquered country, it had become so insignificant as to be accounted a mere village dependent upon Preston, then rising into note. Yet it did not escape the fury of the invading Scot, whose footsteps were everywhere marked with blood and destruction, for in one of those frequent incursions after the defeat at Bannockburn—when, as old Hollinshead tells us, the victorious Bruce marched his army through Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Lancaster to Preston—the miserable inhabitants were driven from their homes, and the place burned to the ground. Subsequently its fortunes revived, and for a time it could boast of having no less than three fairs, an evidence of its increased importance. In the unhappy struggle between Charles the First and his Parliament it was the scene of an encounter (April, 1643) between the Royalist forces, led by the Earl of Derby, and the Parliamentarian levies, commanded by Colonel Shuttleworth, resulting in a victory for the latter; and tradition says that five years later (August, 1648) Cromwell slept at the old white house, opposite the Strand, on the night before the memorable battle of Ribblesdale, and there, with Major-General Ashton, matured the plan of those operations which ere the next setting of the sun had proved fatal to the Duke of Hamilton, and tinged the flowing river with the blood of his Scottish followers as deeply as their ancestors had dyed it with English blood three centuries before. In more peaceful times, when the cotton trade was yet in its infancy, hand-loom weaving flourished, and formed the staple industry; but the day of prosperity has passed, and the place has now dwindled down to the condition of a mean and insignificant country village, old-fashioned in aspect and quiet enough for the grass to grow in the narrow and painfully-ill-paved streets that struggle on towards the river. So lifeless looking is it that were it not for a few loiterers standing about the doorway of the “Bull,” and that we now and then hear the clack of the shuttle, it would seem

Like one vast city of the dead,

Or place where all are dumb.

After long centuries of vicissitude and change, except the shadowy memories of the past, the ancient parish church is almost the only object that remains to arrest the steps of the inquiring wayfarer, and this well deserves examination. Tradition hovers about the place, and tells us that after the conversion of King Edwin, the great missionary Paulinus here proclaimed the glad tidings of salvation, in commemoration of which event the symbol of the Christian’s faith—the cross—was planted, contemporaneously with those in the neighbouring churchyard of Whalley; and that the first “modest house of prayer” was erected on the spot once occupied by the temple of Minerva. The late Canon Raines believed the church at Ribchester was coeval in antiquity with that at Whalley. It is the work of many hands and many separate eras, and, as may be supposed, exhibits many different styles of architecture. The oldest part is undoubtedly the chancel, the windows of which are, for the most part, of the narrow lancet style, showing that it must have been built about the year 1220. Portions of the nave and the north aisle exhibit the rich detail of the Decorated period, and the tower bears evidence that it is of later date, the main features being of Perpendicular character. In the south wall of the chancel is an ancient arched sedilia, with a piscina and credence table attached, and on the north side is a solid block of stone, whereon are carved three heraldic shields bearing the arms of the Hoghtons and some of their alliances. This stone is commonly supposed to be a tomb, but it is more probable that it was intended as a seat in times when only the patron and some of his more influential neighbours were so accommodated, the general body of worshippers standing or kneeling during the services of the Church. The Hoghtons, whose arms it bears, were for generations lords of Ribchester, and one of them, Sir Richard Hoghton, in 1405, founded and endowed the chantry on the north side known as the “Lady Chapel,” in which are still preserved the remains of the ancient altar and piscina.

Our story is told, and we now draw the veil over these grass-grown by-ways of the past. Eighteen centuries have rolled by since Agricola planted his eagles on the northern shores of the Ribble; for 400 years the Roman wrought and ruled; Saxon and Dane and Norman have followed in his wake, and each successive race has left its distinctive peculiarities stamped upon the institutions of the country. In that time kingdoms and empires have risen and passed away, generation after generation has come and gone. The old hills still lift their heads to the breezes of heaven, the stream flows on as of yore, and the sun shines with the same splendour as it shone in those ancient days—but where are they who peopled the busy scene?

They are vanished

Into the air, and what seemed corporal melted.

With Cassius we might exclaim,—

They are fled away and gone,

And in their stead the ravens, crows, and kites

Fly o’er our heads.

The splendid civilisation which the Roman colonists brought with them did not long outlive their departure. The strongholds they built, the palaces they reared, have disappeared. Where once gleamed the spears of the Imperial soldiery the plough now passes and the harvest smiles. The Roman has passed away, and the glory of Ribchester has passed away with him, scarcely a stone now remaining to tell the story of its former greatness.

MARPLE HALL.

CHAPTER II.
MARPLE HALL—THE BRADSHAWS—COLONEL HENRY BRADSHAW THE STORY OF THE REGICIDE.

Cheshire abounds with ancient houses, but few, if any, of them are more interesting from their historical or traditional associations than Marple Hall, the home of Colonel Henry Bradshaw, the noted Cromwellian soldier, and the place where his younger brother, “Judge” Bradshaw, passed the earlier years of his eventful life. It is one of the few old mansions of the county that have remained to the descendants of the earlier possessors, and though located in close proximity to a district singularly at variance with associations awakened by the time-honoured memorials of bygone days, is yet surrounded by much that is picturesque and attractive.

The house, which stands a mile or more away from the straggling village from which it takes its name, is within the compass of a pleasant walk from Stockport or Hazel Grove, but it is more readily approached from the Rose Hill Station of the Macclesfield and Bollington Railway. It cannot be seen from the highway, but an antiquated and somewhat stately looking gateway, a few yards from the station, gives admission to a tree-shaded drive that leads across the park, at the further end of which the quaint old pile comes in view, standing upon a natural platform or terrace, with a lichened and moss-grown wall on the further side, all grey and weather-worn, that extends along the edge of the precipice on which it is built. The shelving slopes below are clothed with shrubs and trees that furnish a pleasant shade in the summer time; wild flowers in abundance peep out from the clefts and crevices; and were our visit made in the earlier months of the year, while the white fringe of nature’s weaving yet lingers upon the skirts of winter’s mantle, we should find the acclivities plentifully besprinkled with the pale and delicate blossoms of the snowdrop—the firstling of the year awakening from its lengthened sleep to proclaim the reanimation of the vegetable world. At the foot of the cliff is a sequestered dingle with a still pool, the remains, possibly, of a former moat or mere,[4] that gleams in the green depths, and a tiny rivulet that looks up through the overhanging verdure as it wanders on in pastoral and picturesque seclusion. The well-wooded heights of Thorncliffe shut in this bosky dell from the valley of the Goyt, across which, from the terraced heights, there is a delightful view in the direction of Werneth Low, the Arnfield and Woodhead Moors, and the range of green uplands and dusky eminences which stretch away in long succession to the pale blue hills that in the remote distance bound the landscape. There this interesting memorial of the stormiest period of England’s history stands in peaceful serenity, lifting its dark stone front above the surrounding offices and outbuildings, with its high-peaked gables draped with a luxurious mantle of ivy that softens the sterner outlines into beauty, its long, low, mullioned windows, and its entrance tower and balcony above, now protected by a latticed railing, so as to form a kind of observatory, and which once had the addition of a cupola.

High on a craggy steep it stands,

Near Marple’s fertile vale,

An ancient ivy-covered house

That overlooks the dale.

And lofty woods of elm and oak

That ancient house enclose,

And on the walls a neighb’ring yew

It sombre shadow throws.

A many-gabled house it is,

With antique turret crowned,

And many a quaint device, designed

In carvings rude, is found.

So says Mr. Leigh, in one of his “Legendary Ballads of Cheshire.” The first glimpse gives evidence of the fact that it has been erected at different periods, additions having been made from time to time as the convenience or requirements of successive occupants have dictated; but none of these are of modern date, or in any way detract from its venerable aspect. On the south a lofty wall encloses the garden and a court that occupies the entire front of the house. Tall pillars of the Carolinian period, supporting a pair of gates of metal-work, forming the principal entrance, give admission to this court; and if the wayfarer is fortunate enough to be provided with an introduction, or if with a taste for antiquarian investigation he unites the manners of a gentleman, he may rely upon a courteous reception.

The time of our visit is a pleasant autumn afternoon. The trees and hedges are in the fulness of their summer verdure; but the waning of the year is evidenced by the lengthened shadows, the warm golden hue that is deepening upon the landscape, and the russet, purple, and yellow with which the woods, though green in the main, are touched. Turning suddenly to the right, we quit the highway, and saunter leisurely along the broad gravelled path. As we approach the gates we become conscious that something unusual is astir. Pedestrians are wending their way towards the hall; occasionally a carriage rattles past; and then, as we draw near, the sounds of mirth and minstrelsy break upon the ear. Passing through the old gateway leading to the court, we find groups of people on the lawn, and the lady of the house is flitting to and fro with a pleasant word and a kindly greeting for every one. A fête champêtre is being held in the grounds, and a fancy fair is going on in one of the outbuildings, which has been smartened up and decorated for the occasion, the proceeds of the sale, we are told, going towards the rebuilding of

The decent church that tops the neighbouring hill,

or rather the building of a new one by its side, which, when finished, is to supersede it. A “steeple-house,” forsooth! At the very mention of the name a host of memories are conjured up. For a moment the mind wanders back along the dim avenues of the past to the stormy days of Cavalier and Roundhead, and we think of the mighty change the whirligig of time has brought about since Bradshaw’s fanatical soldiery bivouacked here, ready to plunder and profane the sanctuary, and to destroy, root and branch, hip and thigh, the “sons of Belial” who sought solace within its walls, or, as Hudibras has it:—

Reduce the Church to Gospel order,

By rapine, sacrilege, and murder.

Happily, fate has not ordained that we should sleep here this night; for Marple, be it remembered, has its ghost chamber—what ancient house with any pretensions to importance has not?—and if the shades of the departed can at the “silent, solemn hour, when night and morning meet,” revisit this lower world, those of the stern old Puritan colonel and the grim-visaged “Lord President” would assuredly disturb our slumber.

But let us quit the shadowy realms of legend and romance, and betake ourselves to that of sober, historic fact. After the overthrow of Harold on the fatal field of Hastings, Marple passed into the hands of Norman grantees, and in the days of the earlier Plantagenet Kings formed part of the possessions of the barons of Stockport, being held by them under the Earl of Chester on the condition of finding one forester for the Earl’s forest of Macclesfield. The lands, with those of Wyberslegh, in the same township, were, some time between the years 1209 and 1229, given by Robert de Stockport as a marriage portion to his sister Margaret on her marriage with William de Vernon, afterwards Chief Justice of Chester, a younger son of the Baron of Shipbrooke, who through his mother had acquired the lands of Haddon, in Derbyshire; and from that time Marple formed part of the patrimony of the lords of Haddon until the death of Sir George Vernon, the renowned “King of the Peak,” in 1567, a period of three centuries and a half, the estates being then divided between his two daughters, Haddon with other property in Derbyshire devolving upon Dorothy Vernon, the heroine of the romantic elopement with Sir John Manners, the ancestor of the Dukes of Rutland, whilst Marple and Wyberslegh fell to the lot of Margaret, the wife of Sir Thomas Stanley of Winwick, the second son of Edward Earl of Derby—that Earl of whom Camden says that “with his death the glory of hospitality seemed to fall asleep.” Their son, Sir Edward Stanley, of Tonge Castle, in Shropshire, having no issue, sold the manor and lands of Marple in small lots to Thomas Hibbert,[5] chaplain to Lord Keeper Bridgman, who married Elizabeth, daughter of Henry Bradshaw, of Marple, and who was the grandfather of the celebrated divine, Henry Hibbert.

Some time about the year 1560 the Henry Bradshaw here named, who was a younger son of William Bradshaw, of Bradshaw Hall, near Chapel-en-le-Frith, the representative of an old Lancashire family of Saxon origin, seated at Bradshaw, near Bolton, from a time anterior to the Conquest, and which had been dispossessed and repossessed of its estates by the Norman invaders, married Dorothy, one of the daughters and co-heirs of George Bagshawe, of the Ridge, in the parish of Chapel-en-le-Frith, a family that in a later generation numbered amongst its members the eminent Nonconformist divine, William Bagshawe, better known as the “Apostle of the Peak,” and became tenant of a house in Marple called The Place, still existing, and forming part of the Marple estate. By this marriage he had a son bearing his own baptismal name, and, in addition, two daughters, Elizabeth, who became the wife of Thomas Hibbert as already stated, and Sarah, who is said by some genealogists—though on what authority is not clear—to have been the wife of John Milton, the wealthy scrivener, of Bread Street, London, and the mother of England’s great epic poet, whom John Bradshaw in his will spoke of as his “kinsman John Milton.”

In 1606, as appears by a deed among the Marple muniments, dated 7th July, 4 James, Henry Bradshaw the elder, therein styled a “yoman,” purchased from Sir Edward Stanley, for the sum of £270, certain premises in Marple and Wyberslegh, comprising a messuage and tenement, with its appurtenances, another tenement situate in Marple or Wibersley, and a close commonly called The Place, the said premises being at the time, as is stated, partly occupied by Henry Bradshaw the elder and partly by Henry Bradshaw the younger, his son and heir-apparent. The estate at that time must have been comparatively small. Two years later (30th June, 1608), as appears by the Calendar of Recognizance Rolls of the Palatinate of Chester, now deposited in the Record Office, London, Henry Bradshaw, to further secure his title, obtained an enrolment of the charter of Randal Earl of Chester, granting in free-forestry Merple and Wibreslega, as they are there called, with lands in Upton and Macclesfield, to Robert, son of Robert de Stockport; and another enrolment of the charter of Robert de Stockport, granting to William Vernon, and Margery his wife, the lands of Marple and Wybersley, from which William and Margery the property passed, as we have said, by successive descents to Sir Edward Stanley, from whom Bradshaw acquired it.

Henry Bradshaw the younger, following the example of his father, also married an heiress, thus further adding to the territorial possessions, as well as to the social status, of his house, his wife being Catherine, the younger of the two daughters and co-heirs of Ralph Winnington, the last male representative of a family seated for seven generations at Offerton Hall, a building still standing near the highroad midway between Stockport and Marple, though now shorn of much of its former dignity. The registers of Stockport show that they were married there on the 4th February, 1593. To them were born four sons and two daughters. William, the eldest, died in infancy. With Henry, born in 1600, and John, born in 1602, we are more immediately concerned, for it is round them that the interest and the associations of Marple chiefly gather.

The elder Bradshaw, the founder of the Marple line, died in 1619–20, when Henry, his son, who had then been a widower sixteen years, succeeded to the family estates. No records of his private life have been preserved, but it may not be unreasonably assumed that, after the death of his wife, and as he did not remarry, he lived in comparative retirement, leading the life of an unostentatious country gentleman, improving his estate, and supervising the education of his children. Two years after he had entered upon the possession of his inheritance, that important functionary the Herald made his official visitation of Cheshire, when the gentlemen and esquires of the county were called upon to register their descents and show their claim to the arms they severally bore; and it is worthy of note, as indicating his indifference to, or disdain of, the “noble science,” that though, as we have seen, of ancient and honourable lineage and entitled to bear arms, Henry Bradshaw did not obey the Herald’s summons,[6] probably “feeling assured,” as Macaulay said of the old Puritan, “that if his name was not found in the Registers of Heralds, it was recorded in the Book of Life; and hence originated his contempt for territorial distinctions, accomplishments, and dignities.”

Surrounded by home affections, Bradshaw appears to have taken little interest in public affairs; though, as a strict Calvinist and stern moralist, he could not but have looked with disfavour on the republication of the “Book of Sports,” and the revival of the Sunday wakes and festivals, in which religion and pleasure were so strangely blended; nor, as an Englishman, could he have been an indifferent spectator of the breach which was gradually widening between the King and his people.

A cloud was then gathering which presaged a great religious and political tempest. The year in which Bradshaw lost his wife was that which closed the long and brilliant reign of the last of the Tudor sovereigns. James of Scotland succeeded—a King who reigned like a woman after a woman who had reigned like a man. The Puritans in Elizabeth’s time were comparatively insignificant in numbers, but the strictness of the Queen’s ecclesiastical rule acted upon their stubborn nature, and those who were averse to Episcopacy, and impatient of uniformity in rites and ceremonies and the decorous adjuncts of a National Church, grew formidable under James, and turbulent and aggressive after the accession of Charles. The policy of Elizabeth gave a political standing ground to Puritanism, and Puritanism gave to the political war in which the nation became involved a relentless character that was all its own. In 1634 was issued the writ for the levying of Ship-money—“that word of lasting sound in the memory of this kingdom,” as Clarendon calls it—a word which lit the torch of revolution, and for a period of eleven years kept the country in almost uninterrupted strife. The occasion was eagerly availed of by the discontented; pulpits were perverted by religious fanatics, and violent appeals made to the passions of the populace, who were preached into rebellion; while more thoughtful, yet brave and strong-minded men, impressed with a stern, unflinching love of justice, and a determination to maintain those liberties they held to be their birthright, contended to the death against “imposts” and “levies” and “compositions,” and against the worse mockery of “loans” which no man was free to refuse, as well as the despotism that more than threatened their common country. It was a fatal time for England. Dignified by some high virtues, possessing many excellent endowments both of head and heart, Charles yet lacked sincerity, forethought, and decision, and the capacity required for the wise conduct of affairs. The blame for the strifes and contentions which arose does not, however, attach wholly to the sovereign, nor yet to his subjects. The absolutism of the Tudors was, in a measure, the cause of the sins of the Stuarts, and the sins of the Stuarts brought about the miseries of the Rebellion, just as in turn the despotic rule and grinding social tyranny of the Commonwealth period led to the excesses of the Restoration. Charles was born out of season, and lived too much in a world of his own ideas to comprehend the significance of events that were passing around him. The twining of the Red and White Roses upon the ensanguined field of Bosworth was followed by the break-up of the feudal system, and the effacement of many of the old landmarks of English society; a new class of landowners had sprung into existence, eager for the acquirement of political freedom, and the king was unable or unwilling to recognise the changed condition of things. He inherited from his father inordinate notions of kingly power, and he resolutely shut his eyes to the fact that he had to deal with an entirely different state of public opinion. The power of the sovereign had waned, but that of the people had increased; Parliament, while bent upon abridging the ancient constitutional prerogative of the Crown, was equally resolute in the extension of its own. The King persisted in his determination to reign and govern by “divine right”—he refused to yield anything—and in the fierce struggle which he provoked he fell. Moderation was no longer thought of; the time for compromise was past; the seeds of strife were sown and nurtured both by King and Parliament, who, distrusting and wearied of each other, no longer cared for peace. At length the storm burst. At Manchester, on the 15th July, 1642—a month before the unfurling of the Royal standard at Nottingham—very nearly upon the spot where now stands the statue of Cromwell, the first shot was fired and the first blood shed in that great conflict which drenched the country in civil slaughter.

When the first shot was fired which proclaimed to anxious England that the differences between the King and the Parliament were only to be settled by an appeal to arms, the two sons of Henry Bradshaw had attained to the fulness of manhood, Henry, the eldest, having then lately completed his forty-second year, while John was his junior only by two years.

Henry Bradshaw, the third of the name, who resided at Marple, was born, as previously stated, in 1600, and baptised at the old church at Stockport on the 23rd June in the same year. Following with admirable consistency the practice of his progenitors, he further added to the territorial possessions of his house by marrying a rich heiress—Mary, the eldest of the two daughters and co-heirs of Bernard Wells,[7] of Holme, in the parish of Bakewell. The marriage settlement bears date 30 Sep., 6 Charles I. (1631), and Mr. Ormerod, the historian of Cheshire, says that he had bestowed upon him by his father-in-law the hall of Wyberslegh, but this is evidently an error, for, as we have previously seen, his father and grandfather between them purchased Wyberslegh, along with Marple, from Sir Edward Stanley, a quarter of a century previously, and the hall continued, as it had been from time immemorial, appendant to that of Marple. It is more than probable, however, that he took his young bride to Wyberslegh, and resided there during his father’s lifetime, so that it would appear that the first of the Bradshaws settled at Marple lived at The Place, where he died in 1611, after which it ceased to be occupied as the family residence. Henry, his son, resided at the hall, and the youngest of the three occupied Wyberslegh until he succeeded to the family estate. Mary Wells, by whom he had a son who succeeded as heir, and two daughters, predeceased him, and he again entered the marriage state, his second wife being Anne, daughter of George Bowdon, of Bowdon, in Cheshire, by whom he had five sons and one or more daughters, Though by no means insensible to the advantages accruing from the possession of worldly wealth, it does not appear that he added materially to his temporal estate by his second marriage. The Bowdons were a family of ancient rank, who at one time owned one-fourth part of Bowdon, but their estates had gradually dwindled away, and were finally alienated by sale to the Booths of Dunham, in the early part of Elizabeth’s reign.

Inheriting from his father the Puritan sentiments of the age, Henry Bradshaw carried those feelings with him into a more active arena. Living in close neighbourship with Colonel Dukenfield, Edward Hyde, of Norbury, Ralph Arderne, of Harden, Ralph Holland, of Denton, and holding intimate relations with the Booths of Dunham, the Breretons of Handforth, the Stanleys of Alderley, and other influential Presbyterian families, their friendship doubtless helped to shape the part he took in public affairs. When the storm which had been long gathering burst, he took his stand with the Parliament against the King, and became one of the most active officers on the side of the Commonwealth. He served as sergeant-major in the regiment commanded by his neighbour, Robert Dukenfield, and would, therefore, in all probability, take part in the lengthened siege of “Mr. Tatton’s house of Whittenshaw (Wythenshawe),” in the winter of 1643–4, as well as in the fruitless attempt, a few months later, to defend Stockport Bridge against Rupert and his Cavaliers, who were hastening to the relief of Lathom House, in Lancashire, where the heroic Countess of Derby was bravely defending her husband’s home against greatly superior forces. Though a Cheshire man, he held a lieutenant-colonel’s commission in Assheton’s Lancashire regiment, and subsequently was appointed to the command of the entire militia within the Macclesfield hundred, in his own county. He was present also with the Cheshire men at the final overthrow of the Royalist army—the “crowning mercy,” as Cromwell phrased it—at Worcester, Sept 3, 1651, where it was said he was wounded, but if so the injury must have been only slight, for before the end of the month he was acting as one of the members of the court-martial appointed under a commission from Cromwell for the trial of the Earl of Derby. After the disaster at Worcester, the Earl had accompanied the King in his flight, until he was safe in the care of the Pendrells, when, with Lord Lauderdale, Lord Talbot, and about 40 troopers, he started northwards, in the hope of overtaking the remnant of the Scotch army, but when near Nantwich the fugitives fell into the hands of Oliver Edge,[8] a captain in the Manchester regiment, also returning from Worcester. Quarter having been given by his captor, the Earl naturally believed that he would be entitled to the immunities of a prisoner of war, but he soon found himself under close confinement in Chester Castle, of which Colonel Dukenfield was at the time governor. Cromwell, having got his most formidable foe in his power, resolved to get for ever rid of him by the shortest process that time and circumstances admitted. The Earl was therefore at once brought for trial before Bradshaw and the other members appointed on the court-martial, on the charge of high treason in contravening an Act of Parliament passed only a few weeks before, and of which, as his accusers were well aware, he could have no knowledge, and, in defiance of the recognised laws of war and the conditions on which he had surrendered, was pronounced guilty and sentenced to be beheaded at Bolton. Dr. Halley, in his history of “Lancashire Puritanism and Nonconformity,” says that Colonel Bradshaw, notwithstanding that he had voted for the rejection of the Earl’s plea; “earnestly entreated his brother, the Lord President, to obtain a commutation of the punishment,” but, if he did, his efforts were unsuccessful. Seacombe attributed the execution of the Earl to the “inveterate malice” of (President) Bradshaw, Rigby, and Birch, which originated, he says, as to Bradshaw, because of the Earl’s refusing him the Vice-Chamberlainship of Chester;[9] Rigby, because of his ill-success at Lathom; and Birch, in his lordship having trailed him under a hay cart at Manchester on the occasion of the outbreak in July, 1642, by which he got, even among his own party, the epithet of “Lord Derby’s Carter.” He adds that, “Cromwell and Bradshaw had so ordered the matter that when they saw the major part of the House inclined to allow the Earl’s plea, as the Speaker was putting the question, eight or nine of them quitted the House, and those left in it being under the number of forty, no question could be put.” The latter statement, however, is hardly borne out by the Commons Journal,[10] which, under date “14 October, 1651,” makes this brief mention of the reception of the Earl’s petition:—

Mr. Speaker, by way of report, acquaints the House with a letter which he had received from the Earl of Derby; and the question being put—That the said letter be now read, the House was divided. The yeas went forth, Sir William Brereton and Mr. Ellis tellers for the yeas, with the yeas, 22; Mr. Bond and Major-General Harrison, tellers for the noes, with the noes, 16, so it passed in the affirmative. A letter from the Earl of Derby, of the 11th of October, 1651, with a petition therein enclosed, entitled, “The Humble Petition of the Earl of Derby,” was this day read.

In the administration of affairs in his own county, Colonel Bradshaw took an active part. He was one of the commissioners for the Macclesfield hundred for the sequestration of the estates of those who retained Royalist opinions, or who refused to take the national covenant, and his name appears first among the signataries to the famous Lancashire and Cheshire petition to the Parliament, praying for the establishment of the Presbyterian religion, and urging that “the frequenters of separate conventicles might be discountenanced and punished.” The petitioners who had previously pleaded conscience having gained the ascendancy were now anxious to stifle freedom of thought, and to exercise a tyranny over their fellow-men, justifying the remark of Fuller, that “those who desired most ease and liberty for their sides when bound with Episcopacy, now girt their own garments closest about the consciences of others.” In those troublous times marriage as a religious ceremony was forbidden, and became merely a civil contract entered into before a justice of the peace, after three “publications” at the “meeting place,” or in the “market place,” the statute declaring that “no other marriage whatsoever shall be held or accounted a marriage according to the laws of England.” Bradshaw, as a county justice, officiated at many of these civil marriages, and his neat and carefully-written autograph frequently appears in the church books of the period, with his heraldic seal affixed (for, however he might affect to contemn such vanities, he was yet careful to display the armorial ensigns of his house when acting officially with his more aristocratic neighbours), sometimes as appointing parish registrars, and at others ordering the levying of church rates and sanctioning the parish accounts, which at the time could not be passed without magisterial confirmation.

Colonel Bradshaw lived to see the fall of the Commonwealth, and the overthrow of that form of government he had done so much to establish, but he did not long survive the restoration of monarchy. After that event had taken place, he was brought before the Lords Committee to answer for the part he had taken in the court-martial on Lord Derby, and committed to the custody of the Messenger of Black Rod. He appears, however, to have been leniently dealt with, for, after submitting to what reads very like an apology for his conduct, he was set at liberty, and permitted to pass the remainder of his days in peace. Those days were but few: the anxiety consequent upon the changed aspect of affairs was too much for him—his spirit was broken, and he died at Marple a few months after (11th March, 1661–2). On the 15th March, 1661–2, in accordance with his previously-expressed desire, his remains were laid beside those of his father and grandfather in the little chapel belonging to his family, then standing on the south side of the chancel of Stockport Church.

It does not appear that a copy of his will, which was proved at Chester, by the executor, 27th February, 1662, has at any time been published, but the following abstract, made by Mr. J. Fred. Beever, and contributed by him to “Local Gleanings,” appeared in the Manchester Courier of October 15, 1875:—

2 July 12 Car. II (1660) I Henry Bradshaw of Marple co. Chester doe ... buried in my father’s grave in Marple Quire in the par. Churche of Stockport if I depart this life in Cheshire ... my sonne John Bradshawe ... all my lands in Bowden Medlarie (Bowdon Edge?) and Mellor in the county of Darbie ... my sonne William Bradshawe ... my lands in Chapel-le-Frith and Briggeworth (Bugsworth?) co. Derby ... Godfrey Bradshawe, Francis Bradshawe and Joseph Bradshawe, my three youngest sonnes ... all my lands in Torkington co. Chester ... Anne my lovinge wife ... she having a jointure out of my lands in Cheshire and Wibersley ... my sonne and heire Henery Bradshawe ... all my bookes ... my twoe daughters Barbara and Catharine, they being by their grandfather Wells and his wife well provided for. To my daughter Dorothy ... £400, to my daughter Rachel ... £500, to my youngest daughter Anne ... £400 ... my said sonne Henery Bradshawe ... (the residuary legatee and executor) ... my good friend Edward Warren, of Poynton esq.... (overseer).

Bradshaw was wont to lament that he had “a small estate and eleven children.” The whole eleven, as well as his second wife survived him. Among the family portraits at Marple was (and may be still) one of a young maiden, said to be a daughter of the colonel. Round this lady the glamour of romance has been cast, and a tradition tells the story of her unhappy fate. In those times, when not unfrequently members of the same family took opposite sides, when father contended with son, and brother met brother in mortal conflict, Miss Bradshaw, with scant regard for the religious and political principles of her house, had formed an attachment for a young officer in the Royalist army, whose family had in happier days been on terms of intimacy with her own. Though he had espoused the cause of his sovereign, the Puritan colonel, in consideration of former friendships, treated him with personal kindness and welcomed him to his house. On one occasion, when entrusted with the conveyance of despatches to the King, who was then with his army at Chester, having occasion to pass near Marple, the young cavalier halted and stayed the night with the family of his betrothed. Mistress Bradshaw, with a woman’s intuitiveness, suspecting the nature of his mission, and fearing the letters he was commissioned to deliver might bode no good to her husband’s house, resolved, with the help of a trusty waiting-maid, to secretly ascertain their contents. Having done this, and found that her worst fears were realised, her next thought was how to prevent their reaching the King’s hands without awakening the suspicions of their bearer. Summoning to her councils an old servitor of the family, it was decided to partially sever the straps by which the saddle-bags containing the dreaded missives were attached, so that the attendant, when guiding their bearer across the ford, might detach and sink them in the Goyt, when they would be lost for ever. On the early morrow the gay young soldier, having taken leave of his lady-love, hastened upon his mission; the old retainer, who was nothing loth to speed the parting guest, accompanying him towards the river, but, giving a somewhat free interpretation to his instructions, concluded that if it was desirable to get rid of the letters it might be equally desirable to get rid of their bearer, and so, instead of conducting him to the ford, he led him to the deepest part of the river, which had become swollen with the storm of the previous night. The young cavalier plunged into the stream, and in an instant both horse and rider were swept away by the surging flood. Miss Bradshaw witnessed the act of treachery from the window of her chamber, but was powerless to prevent the catastrophe. She saw the fatal plunge, gave one long piercing shriek, and fell senseless to the ground. Reason had for ever left her.

Such is the legend that has floated down through successive generations, and still obtains credence with many of the neighbouring villagers, who, with a fondness for the supernatural, delight to tell how the shade of the hapless maid of Marple is sometimes seen lingering at nightfall about the broad staircases and corridors of what was once her home, or, as the pale cold moon sheds her silvery radiance on wood and sward, wandering along the grassy margin of the river and by the deep dark pool where her lover lost his life. Mr. Leigh has made the incidents of this tradition the basis of one of the most pathetic of his recently-published Cheshire ballads. Another writer on Marple has, however, given a different version. He says the lady was Miss Esther Bradshaw, and that her lover was “Colonel Sydenham, the Royalist commander,” whom she ultimately married. It is a pity to spoil so pretty a story, but strict regard for prosaic fact compels us to avow our disbelief in it, and that for a twofold reason—(1) that Colonel Sydenham was not a “Royalist,” but had been an active officer during the war on the Parliament side; and (2) that Colonel Bradshaw never had a daughter Esther. The story so circumstantially related rests, we believe, on no better foundation than the once popular though now almost forgotten romance of “The Cavalier,” written under the nom de plume of Lee Gibbons, by Mr. Bennett, of Chapel-en-le-Frith, some sixty years ago.

Henry Bradshaw, the Parliamentarian soldier, as the eldest surviving son, inherited the family estates, while John, his younger brother, was left to push his fortunes as best he could. Possessing much natural shrewdness and ability, with no lack of energy and self-confidence, he was content with the position, strong in the belief that

The world’s mine oyster,

and in the bitter struggle between monarchy and democracy he was quick to avail himself of the opportunities which tended to his own wealth and aggrandisement.

He first saw the light in 1602, but the exact place of his birth has not been ascertained. In an article in Britton and Brayley’s “Beauties of England and Wales,” believed to have been written by Watson, the historian of the Earls of Warren, it is stated that he was born at Wyberslegh; but Mr. Ormerod, in his “History of Cheshire,” doubts the probability of this, “inasmuch,” he says, “as the family only became possessed of that seat by the marriage of his elder brother Henry with the daughter of Mr. Wells,” but this, if we may venture to differ from so deservedly high an authority, must be an error, for Wyberslegh, which had for many generations been appendant to the hall of Marple, was in the occupation of his father or grandfather when the Marple property was purchased by them in 1606; it is not unlikely, therefore, that the younger Bradshaw was residing at Wyberslegh at the time of his son John’s birth. His baptism is thus recorded in the Stockport register:—

1602. Dec. 10. John, the sonne of Henrye Bradshawe, of Marple, baptized.

At a later date some zealous Royalist has written in the margin the word “traitor.” It has been said that his mother died in giving him birth. This, however, is not strictly correct, though her death occurred a few weeks after that event, the register of Stockport showing that she was buried there January 24, 1603–4, and her son Francis, who would seem to have been a twin with John, was baptised at the same place three days later.

Of the early life and habits of the future Lord President nothing positively is known. From his will we learn that he received his early classical education at Bunbury, of which school that staunch Puritan, Edward Burghall, afterwards Vicar of Acton, was at the time master; subsequently he was sent to Queen Elizabeth’s Free School at Middleton, in Lancashire, then lately remodelled and endowed by Nowell, Dean of St Paul’s, and, “as part of his thankful acknowledgment,” he at his death bequeathed to each of these institutions £500 for “amending the wages of the master and usher.” There is a very general opinion that he was at King Edward’s Grammar School in Macclesfield also for a time; though there is no evidence of the fact, this is by no means improbable. Macclesfield was conveniently near to his home, and the school had at that time obtained a high reputation from the ability and scholarly attainments of at least two of its masters, John Brownswerd, “a schoolmaster of great fame for learning,” as Webb says, “who living many years brought up most of the gentry of this shire,” and Thomas Newton, one of the most distinguished Latin poets of the Elizabethan era; and some countenance is given to this supposition by the phrase in his will, “I had part of my educa’con” at Middleton and Bunbury. The Macclesfield school at that time abutted upon the churchyard, and there is a tradition that young Bradshaw, while with some of his playmates, and in a boyish freak, wrote the following prophetic lines upon a gravestone there:—

My brother Henry must heir the land,

My brother Frank must be at his command,

Whilst I, poor Jack, will do that

That all the world shall wonder at.

The authenticity of this production may very well be questioned, for, however ambitious his mind, we can hardly suppose that this young son of a quiet, unostentatious country gentleman could have had the faintest glimmering of his future destiny any more than that his muse was moved by prophetic inspiration.

He served his clerkship with an attorney at Congleton, whence he proceeded to London, and studied for some time at Gray’s Inn, of which learned society he entered as a student for the bar in 1622, and with such assiduity did he apply himself to his studies that in later years Whitelock, in his “Memorials,” bore willing testimony that he was “a man learned in his profession.” Having completed his studies, he returned to Congleton, where he practised for some years, and, taking an active part in the town’s affairs, was elected an alderman of the borough—the house in which he resided, a quaint black and white structure, having been in existence until recent years. In 1637 he was named Attorney-General for Cheshire and Flintshire, as appears by the following entry on the Calendar of Recognizances Rolls for the Palatinate of Chester: “13 Car. I., June 7. Appointment of John Bradshawe as one of the Earl’s attorneys-at-law in the counties of Chester and Flint, during pleasure, with the same fees as Robert Blundell, late attorney there, received.” In the same year he was chosen Mayor of Congleton, an office he is said to have discharged with ability and satisfaction, being, as a local chronicler records, “a vigilant and intelligent magistrate, and well qualified to administer justice.” He certainly cannot be charged with indifference or lack of zeal while filling this position, for the corporation books show that he left his mark in the shape of “certain orders, laws, and ordinances,” he set down “for the better regiment and government of the inhabitants, and the preservation of peace and order.” These regulations, which were of a somewhat stringent character, imposed fines upon the aldermen and other dignitaries who neglected to provide themselves with halberds, and to don their civic gowns and other official bravery, when attending upon their chief, while the “freemen” of the borough were left with little freedom to boast of. It is evident that, Calvinist and Republican though he was, and a Puritan of the most “advanced” school, Bradshaw, even at that early period of his public career, had little liking for the severe simplicity affected by his political and religious associates, the regulations he laid down indicating a fondness for histrionic display and a love for the trappings and pageantry of office. As might be supposed, a small country town, the merry-hearted inhabitants of which were proverbial for their love of bear-baiting and their fondness for cakes and sack, was not a likely place to afford scope for the exercise of the talents of so resplendent a genius, so, seeking a more active sphere, he betook himself to the metropolis, where he continued to follow his profession. The year in which Cromwell gained his great victory at Marston Moor was that in which we find him for the first time employed in the service of the Parliament, being joined (Oct., 1644) with Mr. Newdegate and the notorious Prynne in the prosecution of the Irish rebels, Lords Macguire and Macmahon, before the Commissioners of Oyer and Terminer, which resulted in the rebel lords being condemned and executed.

It is not unlikely that Bradshaw had made the acquaintance of Prynne before he left Congleton, for the year of his mayoralty there was one in which that “pestilent breeder of sedition,” as he was called, after standing in the pillory with Bastwick and Burton, and having his ears clipped, passed through Cheshire on his way to the prison at Carnarvon, making what reads very like a triumphal progress, and creating no small stir among the disaffected Puritans in the county, who regarded the victim of a harsh and unwise persecution as a sufferer for the cause of the true Gospel. His conductors treated him with much leniency—indeed, on the whole, they seem to have had rather a pleasant outing, stopping for two or three days at a time at the principal halting-places, and enjoying themselves when and where they could. At Tarporley, Tarvin, and Chester the offender was admitted to the houses of his friends, and received visits from some of the more notable of the anti-Royalist faction in the city and county, a procedure which drew down upon him the episcopal wrath—Bridgeman, the Bishop, being greatly scandalised at the idea of the “twice-censured lawyer and stigmatised monster,” as he called him, being entertained in his own cathedral city “by a set of sour factious citizens.” The complaint, it must be admitted, was not without cause, for it seems the mayor and corporation began to waver in their orthodoxy, and became slack in going to hear sermons at the cathedral, so that the energetic prelate “could not have his eye upon their behaviour” as he desired. Whether this was due to the pleasant and moving discourses of Prynne, or that the sermons at the cathedral were too dry and lifeless to suit the tastes of the Cestrians, is not clear, but to remedy the evil Bridgeman had a brand new pulpit erected in the choir, capacious enough for all the canons to preach in at one time, had they been so minded; and, further, ordered all other preachers in the city to end their discourses before those at the cathedral began, in order that the civic authorities might have no excuse for negligence in their attendance on sound doctrine, as delivered within its walls.

The manner in which Bradshaw conducted the prosecution of the Irish rebels evidently gave satisfaction to his employers, and paved the way to his future advancement; certain it is that, after this time, he is frequently found engaged upon the business of the Parliament. When so employed he was not a pleasant person to encounter, as poor old Edmund Shallcross, the rector of Stockport—the parish in which his boyhood was spent—had good reason to know. For the particulars of this little incident in the life of the future judge, affording, as it does, an interesting side glance of the state of religious feeling in Marple when the Bradshaws were all-powerful, we are indebted to the researches of that indefatigable antiquary, Mr. J. P. Earwaker. It seems there had been a dispute of long standing between the Bradshaws and Shallcross on the vexed question of the tithes of Marple, a circumstance that in itself would no doubt be sufficient to satisfy the rector’s Presbyterian neighbours when in authority that he was “scandalous” and “delinquent.” Be that as it may, on the breaking out of the war Shallcross was turned out of his living, and his property, which included an extensive library, was confiscated. He appealed to the Commissioners of Sequestrations, and among the State papers which Mr. Earwaker has lately unearthed is an interesting series of interrogatories relating to persons in Cheshire suspected of delinquency, the following being the answer to those concerning the parson of Stockport:—

Edward Hill, of Stopforth (Stockport), glazier, knew Mr. Shallcrosse, formerly minister at Stopforth, who about the yeare 1641 refused to lett to farme the tythes of Marple to the townsmen of Marple att their own rates, but offered them the same at such rates as was conceived they might well gaine att. And that aboute two yeares after Articles were exhibited against the said Mr. Shallcrosse for delinquency, who thereupon appealed to the Committee of Lords and Commons for sequestracons, and went severall times to London about the same busines, and was once goeing to have the same heard, and had a convoy of horse of the Parliament’s partye, and some of the King’s partye came forth of Dudley Castle, and (he) then was by them slayne. And this deponent further saith that he was servaunt to the said Mr. Shallcrosse for seaven yeares before his death, whoe did acquaint this examinante that hee had found much opposition by Sergeant Bradshawe, whoe then was solicitor for the Commonwealth.

He also saith that the tythes of Stopforth are reputed to be worth 400li. by the yeare or thereabouts, and saith that hee hath heard generally reported that Sir William Brereton had a power invested in him to place or displace such ministers as were scandalous or delinquents. And he further saith that hee believed if the said Mr. Shallcrosse had complied with the desires of the said Mr. Bradshawe and his father and brother, that the said Mr. Shallcrosse would not have been sequestrated.

Bradshaw’s next step in advancement was in 1646, when, on the 6th October, the House of Commons appointed him, in conjunction with Sir Rowland Wandesford and Sir Thomas Bedingfield, Commissioners of the Great Seal for six months, an appointment that was, however, overruled by the House of Lords. From this time his rise was rapid, honours and emoluments seeming to crowd upon him. On the 22nd February following both Houses voted him to the office of Chief Justice of Chester, an appointment that would amply compensate for the disappointment he had experienced in Lord Derby’s previous refusal to bestow on him the vice-chamberlainship of the city. On being relieved of his office as one of the Commissioners of the Great Seal, he was named (March 18, 1647) as one of the judges for Wales, an office he appears to have held conjointly with his post at Chester. Three months later we find him again associated with Prynne, the two, with Serjeant Jermyn and Mr. Solicitor St. John, being appointed by the Parliament to conduct the proceedings against the intrepid Judge Jenkins, who, when impeached of treason before the Commons, not only refused to kneel at the bar of the House, but had the temerity to call the place “a den of thieves.”

On the 12th October, 1648, as we learn from Whitelocke, Parliament, in accordance with a recommendation of the Commissioners of the Seal, ordered a new call of serjeants-at-law, and Bradshaw’s name is found among those then voted to receive the coif.

It has been suggested by a local writer that, in this, Parliament had an ulterior object in view, the purpose of Bradshaw’s promotion being to secure an efficient instrument for conducting the proceedings against the Sovereign, which were then contemplated. This, however, is extremely improbable, for Parliament, it should be remembered, was averse to any extreme measure, and was, in fact, anxious to come to terms with the beaten King, its agents being at the very time engaged in negotiating with him the abortive treaty of Newport. But Cromwell had determined that Charles’s life should be sacrificed, and the will of the army and its guiding genius had become paramount, for a military despotism was already usurping the powers of the State. The breach between the army and Parliament was widening daily, and the great struggle which was to decide the future destinies of England was at hand. The army, flushed with victory, had returned from the destruction of its enemies; conscious of its own power, it demanded vengeance on the “chief delinquent,” as the King was called, and sent an expedition to the Isle of Wight to seize his person, and convey him to Hurst Castle. Meanwhile, the Commons had discussed the concessions made by Charles, and by a majority of 140 to 104 had decided that they “were sufficient grounds for settling the peace of the kingdom.” Scarcely had the vote been recorded when a decisive blow was struck by the army at the independence of Parliament, for on the following morning, Colonel Pride, at the head of his regiment of foot, and accompanied with a regiment of horse, blockaded the doors leading to the House of Commons, and seized in the passage all those members who had been previously marked on a list as hostile or doubtful, and placed them in confinement, none being allowed to enter the House but the most furious and determined of the known friends to “the cause.”[11] The obnoxious element having been thus effectually got rid of, the sword waved openly over the legislative benches, and the army in effect constituted the government. The next day this remnant of the House—the “Rump,” as it was thereafter designated—rescinded the obnoxious vote, and appointed a day of humiliation, selecting Hugh Peters, Caryl, and Marshall to perform the service. The “purge” of the Commons had secured the certainty of concurrence in the wishes of the army, and accordingly, on the 23rd December, a committee was appointed to prepare charges for the impeachment of the King, and on the 28th an ordinance for his trial was read. In order to give their designs some resemblance to the form and principle of law, the House on the 1st January voted “that by the fundamental law of the land, it is treason for the King of England to levy war against the Parliament and kingdom.” This vote, when sent up to the Lords for their concurrence, was rejected without a single dissentient voice, a procedure that led the remnant of the Commons a few weeks later to declare that “the House of Peers was useless and dangerous, and ought to be abolished.” On the 4th January an ordinance was presented for erecting a new High Court of Justice for the trial of the King, which was read the first, second, and third time, assented to, and passed the same day. The Commissioners named in it included all the great officers of the army, four peers, the Speaker, and principal members of the expurgated House of Commons. The twelve judges unanimously refused to be of the commission, declaring its purpose and constitution to be contrary to the principles of English law; Whitelocke, who had received the coif at the same time as Bradshaw and his colleague Widdrington, two of the most eminent lawyers of the time, also refused to sit on the tribunal. The Commissioners met on the 10th, and appointed Bradshaw, who was absent, their president. It would seem to have been originally intended that he should only take a subordinate part in the business, for on the 3rd January the committee had decreed that Serjeants Bradshaw and Nichols, with Mr. Steel, should be “assistants.” Steel acted as Attorney-General, but Nichols could not be prevailed upon to give attendance.

It is not known with certainty whether Bradshaw was aware of the intention to elect him president of the commission for the trial of the King, but it is more than probable he had been informed of what was contemplated, and he certainly cannot be said to have been averse to the office, for undoubtedly he had resolution and courage enough to decline it had he felt so disposed. He attended the court in obedience to the summons on the 12th, and, when called to take the place of president, after asking to be excused, submitted to the order and took his place, whereupon it was ordered, “that John Bradshaw, serjeant-at-law, who is appointed president of this court, should be called by the name and have the title of Lord President, and that as well without as within the said court, during the commission and sitting of the said court.” Clarendon says that “when he was first nominated he seemed much surprised, and very resolute to refuse it; which he did in such a manner, and so much enlarging upon his own want of abilities to undergo so important a charge, that it was very evident he expected to be put to that apology. And when he was pressed with more importunity than could have been used by chance, he required time to consider of it, and said ‘he would then give his final answer,’ which he did the next day, and with great humility accepted the office, which he administered with all the pride, impudence, and superciliousness imaginable.”

PRESIDENT BRADSHAW.

Clarendon was evidently of opinion that he had been previously informed of the position he would be asked to fill, and the “pride” spoken of in the administration of the office was only in accord with that fondness for display to which allusion has already been made. Suddenly raised to a position of pre-eminence as the head of a tribunal wholly unprecedented in the extent and nature of its assumed authority, he was not the man to dispense with any of those outward manifestations which might give dignity and impressiveness to his dread office. He had 20 officers or other gentlemen appointed to attend him as a guard going and returning from Westminster Hall; lodgings were provided for him in New Palace Yard during the sittings of the court; and Sir Henry Mildmay, Mr. Holland, and Mr. Edwards were deputed to see that everything necessary was provided for him. A sword and mace were carried before him by two gentlemen, 21 gentlemen that were near carried each a partizan, and he had in the court 200 soldiers as an additional guard. A chair of crimson velvet was placed for him in the middle of the court, and a desk on which was laid a velvet cushion; many of the commissioners, as Whitelocke says, donned “their best habits,” and the President himself appeared in a scarlet robe, and wearing his celebrated peaked hat, remaining covered when the King was brought before him, though he expressed himself as greatly offended that his Sovereign did not remove his hat while in his presence.

Into the particulars of the trial we do not desire to enter—they are matters which history has made known; nor do we wish to dwell upon the incidents attendant upon it—the calm and dignified demeanour of the ill-starred King; his denial of the authority of the court, and consistent refusal to recognise a power founded on usurpation; the ill-concealed vanity of the judge; the imposing pomp and glitter of the regicidal court; the intrepid loyalty of Lady Fairfax, who startled the commission by her vehement protest when the charge was made, and the scarcely less courageous conduct of her companion, Mrs. Nelson; the rancorous hatred displayed by the King’s accusers; the mockery of proof; the refusal to hear the fallen monarch’s appeal; the revilings of the excited soldiery; the expressions of sympathy of the people; or the brutal blow bestowed upon the poor soldier who ventured to implore a blessing on his Sovereign’s head—all these are recorded and are embalmed in the hearts of the English people. The bloody episode which will for ever darken our national annals was an event without precedent in the world’s history. For the constitution of the court no authority could be found in English law, it was illegal, unconstitutional, and, in its immediate results, dangerous to liberty. Whatever might be the faults of Charles—and they were many—his death was not a political necessity, nor can it be justly said to have been the act of the nation, for the voice of public opinion had never been heard, and therefore the country must be exonerated of any participation by approval or otherwise in the criminality of that unfortunate deed—it was the act of a faction in the House of Commons, acting under the influence of a faction in the army. In this momentous business Bradshaw may have persuaded himself that he was performing a solemn act of duty to his country, but, looked at in the light of after history, that act can only be pronounced a criminal blunder.

Tradition says that the warrant for the King’s execution was signed in Bradshaw’s house[12] at Walton-on-Thames, a building still standing near Church Street in that pleasant little town, though now subdivided into several small tenements, and shorn of much of its ancient splendour—his own signature, of course, appearing first on that well-known document.

Now, after a lapse of more than two centuries, and when the welfare of the throne and the people are identical, we can afford to look back upon the great tragedy in which Bradshaw played so profound a part calmly and without bitterness of spirit. From the anarchy, the foulness of the tyranny of those times, the nation, the Church, and the people have emerged with a firm hold on better things. Prelacy, which had been trampled under foot, and Presbyterianism, which became to Independency much what Prelacy had been to Presbyterianism, have reappeared, but the severe asceticism and religious fervour of the Puritan, and the catholicity and breadth of view of the Churchman have commingled and become elements of the national life, fruitful for good by reason that they no longer come into violent collision with each other.

When Bradshaw had brought his Sovereign to the block, he may be said to have fulfilled the prediction of his early youth, for assuredly he had

Done that

Which all the world did wonder at.

He had accepted an office which sounder lawyers shrank from undertaking, and had entitled himself to the gratitude of those who, by compassing the death of the King, sought to accomplish their own ambitious ends; and it must be admitted that those who benefited by his daring were neither slow nor niggardly in rewarding him for his services to the “cause,” for never was a royal favourite so suddenly raised to a position of power, and wealth, and consequence, and never was monarch more lavish in the favours bestowed upon a courtier than was the newly-appointed Government in doing honour to and enriching its legal chief. The Deanery House at Westminster was given as a residence to him and his heirs, and a sum of £5,000 allowed to procure an equipage suitable to his new sphere of life, and such as the dignity of his office demanded. “The Lord President of the High Court of Justice,” writes Clarendon, “seemed to be the greatest magistrate in England. And, though it was not thought seasonable to make any such declaration, yet some of those whose opinion grew quickly into ordinances, upon several occasions declared that they believed that office was not to be looked upon as necessary pro hac vice only, but for continuance, and that he who executed it deserved to have an ample and liberal estate conferred upon him for ever.”

As his office did not expire with the King’s trial, Parliament on the 6th February allowed him to appoint a deputy to supply his place at Guildhall, where he had sat as judge, and on the 14th of the same month, when Parliament made provision for the exercise of the executive authority by the appointment of a Council of State, he was selected by the House as one of the thirty-eight members. Of this body Bradshaw was chosen president, and his kinsman, John Milton, Latin secretary. At the first meeting (March 10), if we are to believe our old friend Whitelocke, he seemed “but little versed in such business,” and spent much of the time in making long speeches. Two days afterwards he was appointed Chief Justice of Wales, but he did not go there immediately, for on the 20th of the same month he sat again as Lord President of the Council, at whose discussions it would seem he was not disposed to remain a mere passive instrument, for, as Whitelocke remarks, he “spent much of their time in urging his own long arguments, which are inconvenient in State matters.” “His part,” as he adds, “was only to have gathered the sense of the council, and to state the question, not to deliver his own opinion.”

Whatever may have been his demeanour in the council, outside, at least, the duties of his office were discharged with firmness and energy, as the townsmen of Manchester had cause to know. When, in 1642, the town was threatened with an attack by Lord Derby, the Presbyterians had entrusted its defence to Colonel Rosworm, a German engineer, who had been trained in the wars of the Low Countries, and who had agreed to give his services for six months for the modest sum of £30. A faithful and valuable servant he proved, though a provokingly ill-tempered one, for he never ceased to bewail the beggarly remuneration he had agreed to accept, or to rail at the “despicable earthworms,” as he termed those who had offered it. As he refused to sign the national covenant, that not being included in the contract, and being, as he thought, no part of a soldier’s duty, his employers took an irreconcileable hatred against him, and, when the danger was past, repudiated their share of the bargain. Unable to obtain the pittance for which he had risked his life, he left the town in disgust, and repaired to London to lay his grievances before the Government, and implore their interference. As a consequence, the following peremptory letter was addressed to the town by Bradshaw, which no doubt had a salutary effect on the “despicable earthworms,” whom the angry old soldier had charged with being “matchless in their treachery, and setting the devil himself an example of villainy”:—

For the town of Manchester, and particularly for those who contracted with Lieut.-Colonell Roseworme, these are.

Gentlemen,—The condition of the bearer being fully made known, and his former merit attested to us by honourable testimony, and very well known to yourselves, himself also being by birth a stranger, and unable to present his complaints in the ordinary legall forme, give us just occasion to recommend him to you for a thorough performance of what, by your contract and promise, is become due unto him for his speciall service done to your town and country, whereto we conceive there is good cause for you to make an addition, and that there can be no cause at all for your backwardness to pay him what is his due.

As touching that which is otherwise, due to him from the State, after some other greater businesses are over, he may expect to be put in a way to receive all just satisfaction. In the meane time we committ him and the premises to your consideration for his speedy relief, and we doe require you to give us notice of your resolutions and doings herein, within one month after the receipt thereof.

Signed in the name and by order of the Council of State appointed by authority of Parliament.

Jo. Bradshawe, Pr. Sedt. Whitehall, 7th July, 1649.

It must be confessed that the President, with all his “rare modesty” and patriotism, was not so self-denying but that he looked sharply after the main chance. On the 19th June, 1649, Parliament voted him a sum of £1,000, and on the same day ordered that it should be referred to a committee to consider how he was to be put into possession of the value of £2,000 a year, to be settled as an inheritance upon him and his heirs for ever.

Wealth and honours were literally showered upon him, and for a time the history of the Government was little else than a history of Bradshaw. On the 30th June he was re-appointed to the office of Chief Justice of Chester, Humphrey Macworth, of Shrewsbury, who afterwards acted as President of the court-martial which tried Lord Derby, being named as his deputy. On the 15th July a Bill passed through Parliament settling £2,000 a year on him and his heirs, and nine days later (July 24th) another £2,000 per annum was granted to him and them out of the sequestrated estates of the Earl of St Albans at Somerhill, in Kent, and those of Lord Cottington in Wiltshire, the latter including the famous Fonthill. This last-named grant was in all probability the one referred to in the order of June 19, when a committee was ordered to consider how an annual payment of that amount could be settled.

Four days after these grants were made, an Act was passed constituting him Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, an office that subsequently, when others were abolished, was on his account specially retained, and on the 2nd April, 1652, secured to him. His name appears on the list of Justices of the Peace for his native county in 1650; in the same year he was again named of the Council of State, and retained his office of President. The following letter, extracted from the State papers, is interesting as showing the relations existing between Bradshaw and Cromwell, and the estimation in which he was held by the Lord General:—

My Lord,—I return you my humble and heartie thanks for your late noble and friendly letter, whereby I have the comfort and assurance of your lordship’s faire interpretation of my past, and (so I dare call them) well ment actions, which I shall not desyre to account for or justify to any man lyving so soon as to yourself; of whome I shall ever have that esteeme as becomes me to have of one who daylie approves himself religion’s and his countrey’s best friend, and who may justly challenge a tribute of observance from all that syncerely wysh them well, in which number I shall hope ever to be found.

My Lord, I have (’tis true) taken the boldness to write some few letters to you since your late departure hence, and I have satisfaction enough that they were receyved, and are not dyspleasing to you. Your applycation to the gentleman, named in yours, who is of so knowne fytnesse and abylytie to procure you effectuall returnes, was an act, in my apprehension, savouring of your usuall prudence, and tending to the advantage of the publique affayres committed to your trust and care; neither can any wyse man justifie any charge of seeming neglect of others in that respect. I am sorry your lordship hath bene put to any expense of your so pretious tyme, for removing any such doubts; but these my over carefull fryends, who have created your lordship this trouble, have, I must confess, occasyonally contrybuted to my desyred contentment, which is, and ever hath been, synce I had the honour to be knowne unto you, to understand myself to be reteyned and preserved in your good opinion. And if my faithfull endeavours for the publique, and respects unto your lordship in everything wherein I may serve you, may deserve a contynuance thereof, I may not doubt still to find that happiness; and this is all the trouble I shall give your lordship as to that matter.

We are now beginning with a new councell another yeare. I might have hoped, either for love or something els, to have been spared from the charge, but I could not obtaine that favour; and I dare not but submyt, where it is cleare to me that God gives the call. He also will, I hope, give His poore creature some power to act according to His mynd, and to serve Him in all uprightness and syncerytie, in the way wherein He hath placed me to walk.

My Lord, I have no more, but to recommend you and all your great affaires to the guydance, mercy, and goodness of our good God, and to subscrybe myself, in all truth of affection,

Your lordship’s ever to be disposed of Jo. Bradshawe. Whytehall, 18 Feb., 1650.

The customer who wronged Sir James Lidod is ordered to restore and satisfie, and to come up to answer his charge, which, probably, will fall heavy upon him.

For his Excellency the Lord General Cromwell, These.

Bradshaw acted as President of the Council of State in 1651, and again in the year following. So far his success had been uninterrupted, and as the supreme magistrate his power and influence was second only to that of Cromwell himself. His authority was almost absolute. The amiable Evelyn, in his diary, records that he could not witness the burial of Dorislaus, “the villain,” as he writes, “who manag’d the trial against his sacred Majesty,” until “I got a passe from the rebell Bradshaw, then in great power;” and again, when he went to Paris with only “an antiquated passe, it being so difficult to procure one of the rebells without entering into oathes, which I never would do,” and he had to bribe the officials at Dover, he found “money to the searchers and officers was as authentiq as the hand and seale of Bradshawe himselfe,” “where,” he adds, “I had not so much as my trunk open’d.”

The very rapidity with which Bradshaw had attained to power made him a formidable competitor with, if not indeed a dangerous rival to, the man in whose goodwill he had said it was his “desyred contentment” “to be reteyned and preserved;” and there can be little doubt that his boldness and unflinching adherence to the principles he had espoused brought about his own undoing, for it was not long before an incident occurred which for ever alienated Cromwell’s friendship from him. The occasion was one memorable in the annals of England—the dissolution of the Long Parliament, on the 20th April, 1653. Finding the action of the “Rump,” as it was called, inimical to his designs, Cromwell, who seems to have begun to think that government by a single person was desirable, went down to Westminster with a force of 300 men, broke up the House, expelled the members, and, pointing to the mace, directed Col. Worsley—Manchester’s first Parliamentary representative—to “take away that bauble,” which having been done, he ordered the doors to be locked, and then returned to his lodgings at Whitehall. And so, without a struggle or a groan, unpitied and unregretted, the Long Parliament, which for 12 years had under a variety of forms alternately defended and invaded the liberties of the nation, fell by the parricidal hands of its own children.

Bradshaw, refusing to submit in silence to such a daring infringement of the liberties of Parliament, resolved upon taking his place as head of the Council of State the same afternoon, thinking, probably, that his presence might deter Cromwell from committing any further acts of violence; but the Lord General was not to be so easily diverted from his purpose. Taking Lambert and Major-General Harrison with him, he proceeded to the Council, and expelled its members in the same abrupt and arbitrary manner that he had dismissed the Commons. Addressing Bradshaw and those assembled with him, he said,—

Gentlemen, if you are met here as private persons, you shall not be disturbed; but if as a Council of State, this is no place for you; and, since you cannot but know what was done at the House in the morning, so take notice that the Parliament is dissolved.

To which Bradshaw replied,—

Sir, we have heard what you did at the House in the morning, and before many hours all England will hear. But, sir, you are mistaken to think that Parliament is dissolved, for no power under heaven can dissolve them but themselves; therefore, take you notice of that.

The President’s spirited reply cost him Cromwell’s friendship, who, though he continued to treat him with the outward manifestations of respect, ever afterwards regarded him with feelings of distrust. Exasperated though he was, Cromwell must have felt the justice of the rebuke, for in a conference afterwards with his brother-in-law, Desborough, he remarked that his work in clearing the House was not complete until he had got rid of the Council of State, which, he said, “I did in spite of the objection of honest Bradshaw, the President.”

The Republican leaders, indignant at the forcible expulsion of the Rump Parliament, denounced it as an illegal act, which undoubtedly it was, but Cromwell was not the man to be bound by the ordinary laws of constitutional liberty. The miserable remnant of the Parliament, it must be admitted, had become a reproach; it had become supreme through similar unconstitutional violence, and was itself violating its own contract in refusing to vote its own dissolution. The spirit manifested by Bradshaw has been likened to that of an ancient Roman; but whether in the resistance he offered he was influenced by purely patriotic and disinterested motives may be very well questioned, for it must not be forgotten that he had looked with complacency on the illegal and high-handed proceeding which had laid the Parliament at the feet of the army, when that sharp medicine, “Pride’s Purge,” was administered—an act of daring violence by virtue of which alone he held his office and had acquired his wealth.

Up to this time, as we have said, his career had been characterised by uninterrupted success; but the uniform good luck which had hitherto shown what daring could accomplish when upheld by an intelligent head and dauntless heart, now forsook him. Cromwell, who was aiming at arbitrary government in his own person, could not, on finding his authority thus openly disputed by the President of the Council, but have had misgivings that the man who had sufficient resolution to pass sentence of death upon the King might not be unwilling, should occasion arise, to perform the same office upon himself. It became necessary, therefore, for the accomplishment of his plans that Bradshaw’s power should be abridged; and though Parliament, on the 16th September, 1653, enacted that the continuance of the palatinate power of Lancaster should be vested in him, and he was also named one of the interim Council of State that was to meet relative to a settlement of the Government, he was no longer permitted to occupy an office of actual power and authority.

On the 16th December, 1653, Cromwell was inaugurated Lord Protector of the Commonwealth. Bradshaw, who was a thorough Republican, and who certainly had the courage of his convictions, was equally opposed to unlimited power, whether exercised by the King or by the Protector, at once set himself to counteract the authority of his former patron. In the first Parliament of the Protectorate he sat for his native county, but it was only for a very brief period, for scarcely had the representatives of the people assembled than they fell to questioning the Protector’s authority, when Cromwell, after surrounding the House with his guards, administered a corrective in the shape of a declaration promising allegiance to himself, which he required every member to sign, shortly after which he dismissed them unceremoniously to their homes.

For a year and nine months England was left without a Parliament, the supreme power being exercised by the Protector, and every one holding office was required to take out a commission from him. This Bradshaw refused to do, alleging that he held his office of Chief Justice of Chester by a grant from the Parliament of England to continue quamdiu se bene gesserint, and should therefore retain it, though willing to submit to a verdict of twelve Englishmen as to whether he had carried himself with that integrity which his commission exacted; and shortly after this protest he set out on the circuit without any further attempt being made to hinder him. His daring and firmness, as might be expected, widened the breach and still further provoked the anger of Cromwell, who wrote a letter to Major-General Bridge, at Middlewich, requesting that he might be opposed by every means at the approaching election at Chester. By some accident this letter fell into the hands of Bradshaw’s friends, and was publicly read in the city. In spite of this opposition he succeeded in securing his election, but, there being a double return, neither representative took his seat. The Protector had not only used his power against Bradshaw at Chester, but he also succeeded in preventing his election for London, a position he had aspired to.

Cromwell and his Independents had gone beyond the Puritan Republicans, who, joining with the Anabaptists, Fifth Monarchy men, and other fanatics, protested against any earthly sovereignty. Plots for restoring the Commonwealth were rife, and there is good reason to believe that in some of these Bradshaw was implicated; certain it is that he was in correspondence with Okey and Goodgroom, whom he assured that “the Long Parliament, though under a force, was the supreme authority in England.”

The feeling of jealousy and distrust entertained by Cromwell and Bradshaw for each other, though not openly avowed, became evident to all, and Whitelocke says that in November, 1657, “the dislike between them was perceived to increase.” These mutual jealousies were not, however, to be of long continuance, for in less than a year the grave had closed over the object of Bradshaw’s distrust. On the 3rd September, 1658, the anniversary of his victories over the Scots at Dunbar, and the Royalists at Worcester—his “Fortunate Day” as he was wont to call it, Cromwell passed away, and his son and successor, even had he been so disposed, was too weak to continue any very energetic resistance.

On Richard Cromwell’s accession, a new Parliament was called, when Bradshaw was again returned to the House of Commons for Chester. Though he did not scruple to take the oath of fidelity to the new Protector, he, nevertheless, entered into active co-operation with Haslerig, Vane, and other Republicans, in their opposition to the Government. This Parliament came to an end on the 22nd April, 1659, the dissolution having been forced by the officers of the army, and with it Richard Cromwell’s power and authority were gone, and the Protectorate was at an end.

It is about this time that we discover the first indications of Bradshaw’s health failing him. At the Easter assizes, in 1659, he was lying sick in London, and unable to attend the Welsh circuit; and as Thomas Fell, who had been associated with him—the Judge Fell, of Swarthmoor in Furness, whose widow George Fox, the founder of the Society of Friends, afterwards married—had died in September of the previous year, John Ratcliffe, Recorder of Chester, was appointed to act as his deputy pro hac vice tantum.

That anomalous authority, the “Rump,” which the elder Cromwell had so ignominiously expelled from the House of Commons, was, on the 17th May, restored by the same power of the army that, six years previously, it had been dismissed. Six days after, a Council of State was appointed, in which Bradshaw obtained a seat, and was elected president; and on the 3rd June following he was named, with Serjeants Fountain and Tyrrel, a Commissioner of the Great Seal. His health, however, had now seriously given way, and as he had been for some months suffering from “aguish dystemper,” he asked to be relieved of the duties of the office. For the following copy of a letter written at this time, while he was lying sick at Fonthill—one of the few of Bradshaw’s which have escaped destruction—the author is indebted to the courtesy of that industrious labourer in the field of literature, the late Mr. John Timbs, F.S.A., by whom it was transcribed from the original in the possession of Mr. F. Kyffin-Lenthall, a descendant of “Speaker” Lenthall, to whom it was addressed:—

Honourable Sir,—I have, by Mr. Love, a member of this happie P’liament, receyved the Howse’s pleasure touching myself in relation to ye Great Seale, wherein, as I desire wth all humble thankfulnes to acknowledge ye respect and favour done me in honouring me with such a trust, so I should reckon it a great happiness if I were able immediately to answer ye call and personallie attend ye service wch at present I am not, laboring under an aguish dystemper of about 8 months’ continuance; for removing whereof (after much Physicke in vaine) according to advyce on all hands, I have betaken myself to the fresh ayre, and hope (though my fitts have not yet left me) to receive benefit and advantage thereby. And for this I humbly begge ye Parliamts leave and permission, if upon this just occasion they shall not in their wysdome think fit otherwise to dyspence with me. In ye meane time it hath been and is noe small addition to my other afflictions that for want of health it hath not bene in my power according to my Heart’s earnest desire to be serviceable in my poor measure to the publiq. But by ye helpe of God when through his goodnes my strength shal be restored (of wch I despayre not) I shal be most free and willing to serve ye Parliment and Commonwealth in anie capacity and that through dyvine assistance wth all diligence, constancy and faithfulness, and to ye utmost of my power.

Sir, I judged it my dutie to give this account of myself to ye House, and humbly desyre by your hand it may be tendered to them; for whom I daylie praye that God would blesse all their counsels and consultations, and succeede all their unwearyed endevors for ye happie setling and establishment of this latelie languyshing and now revived Commonwealth upon sure and lasting foundations.

Sir, I rest and am Your humble Servant Jo. Bradshawe.
(Fonthi) "ll in Wyltshire
... in 1659
... scentis Respublica, Primo.
(Read June 9, 1659)
For the Right Honble William Lenthall, Speaker
of ye Parliament of the Commonwealth of England. These.

Consider what it is we ask, and consider whether it be not the same thing we have asserted with our lives and fortunes—a Free Parliament. And what a slavery is it to our understandings, that these men that now call themselves a Parliament, should declare it an act of illegality and violence in the late aspiring General Cromwell to dissolve their body in 1653, and not make it the like in the garbling of the whole body of the Parliament from four hundred to forty in 1648? What is this but to act what they condemn in others? A new free Parliament! This is our cry.

On the 1st of August, Sir George Booth appeared in arms, and in a few days was at the head of several thousand men. Through the influence of Mr. Cook, a Presbyterian minister in Chester, he and his troops gained admission to the city. Colonel Lambert, with a well-disciplined force, was sent by the Parliament after them, and an engagement took place at Winnington Bridge, near Northwich, when Sir George and his army—which Adam Martindale likened to “Mahomet’s Angellical Cockes, made up of fire and snow”—were completely routed.

On the return of the victorious army to London a schism broke out between the officers and the Parliament, which was followed by one of those outrages upon the liberties of the Parliament with which the country had become only too painfully familiar. Lambert and his troops surrounded the House, which Lenthall, the Speaker, and the other members were prevented by the soldiery from entering. Bradshaw felt the insult, and, anticipating that the break-up of the House would be followed by the dissolution of the Council of State, went the same day, ill as he was, to the meeting, in the hope that he might serve the cause of the Republic, and when Colonel Sydenham, the member for Dorsetshire, and one of the Committee of Safety, in attempting to justify the arbitrary act of the army by affirming, in the canting phraseology of the day, that “a particular call of the Divine Providence” had necessitated its having recourse to this last remedy, Bradshaw, says Ludlow, “weak and attenuated as he was, yet animated by his ardent zeal and constant affection to the common cause, stood up, and, interrupting him, declared his abhorrence of that detestable action, and told the Council that, being now going to his God, he had not patience to sit there to hear His great name so openly blasphemed.”

This was his last public act—the last office he was permitted to render to the Commonwealth he had so long served, as he said, “with all diligence,” for he passed out of the world a few days after, his death occurring on the 22nd November, 1659, in his 57th year. His remains were deposited with great pomp in the Sanctuary of Kings, from which, however, they were soon to be ignominiously ejected. His funeral sermon was preached by Mr. Row, who took for his text Isaiah lvii., 1. His Republican spirit animated him to the last, for Whitelocke says that, so little did he repent of his conduct towards his Sovereign, that “he declared a little before he left the world, that if the King were to be tried and condemned again, he would be the first man that should do it.”

John Bradshaw married Mary, the daughter of Thomas Marbury, of Marbury, Cheshire, by his first wife Eleanor, daughter of Peter Warburton, of Arley, and he thus connected himself with some of the best families in the county. This lady, who was some years his senior, predeceased him without having borne any issue; and when the President died he had not a child to continue his name or inherit the vast wealth he had accumulated. The closing years of his life were for the most part spent at his pleasant retreat at Walton-on-Thames, of which mention has already been made; and there is very little doubt but that within the wainscotted rooms of that quaint old mansion many and frequent were the consultations touching the fate of England. A popular writer, who visited the house some years ago, in describing it, says that an aged woman, who then occupied a portion of the building, summed up her account of it with the remark that “it was a great house once, but full of wickedness; and no wonder the spirits of its inhabitants troubled the earth to this day.” Though we are not of those who “see visions and dream dreams,” and hold familiar converse with visitants from the world of shadows, we may yet echo the remark of the writer referred to: “It is trite enough to say what tales these walls could tell, but it is impossible to look into them without wishing ‘these walls had tongues.’”

The character of Bradshaw has been variously estimated and depicted in every hue, though it would seem to have been little understood, for his admirers have refused to see any defects in him, while those who abhor his principles have denounced him as a “monster of men.” It does not come within our province to offer any critical opinion on his life and actions—to pronounce upon the purity of his motives or the sincerity of his doings. His cousin Milton, who, however, can hardly be accepted as an impartial witness, has written his eulogy in an eloquent passage in the “Second Defence of the People of England;” and Godwin, in his “History of the Commonwealth,” thus speaks of him:—

An individual who was rising into eminence at this time was John Bradshaw, the kinsman of Milton. He was bred to the profession of the law, and his eloquence is praised by Lilburn. Milton, who seems to have known him thoroughly, speaks of him in the highest terms, as at once a professed lawyer and an admirable speaker, an uncorrupt patriot, a man of firm and entrepid cast of temper, a pleasant companion, most hospitable to his friends, most generous to all who were in need, most peaceable to such as repented of their errors.

The same writer adds: “In December, 1644, he was appointed high sheriff of his native county of Lancashire.” This last statement is an error which has gained currency by frequent repetition. Bradshaw was not a Lancashire man; and his namesake, who held the shrievalty of that county by virtue of the ordinance of the 10th February, 1644, when Parliament, exercising the Royal functions, assumed the powers of the Duke of Lancaster, and who, in contravention of the Act of 28 Edward III., retained it for four successive years, was the head of the line of Bradshaw, in the parish of Bolton, and, therefore, only remotely connected with the Marple stock.

After the Restoration both Houses of Parliament decreed (4th December, 1660) that his body, with those of Cromwell and Ireton, should be exhumed and drawn to the gallows at Tyburn, and there hanged and buried beneath it. Evelyn, in his “Diary,” thus describes the revolting spectacle he saw on the 30th January, the anniversary of the King’s execution, and the “first solemn fast and day of humiliation to deplore the sinns which so long had provok’d God against His afflicted Church and people”:—

This day (O the stupendous and inscrutable judgments of God!) were the carcases of those arch rebells Cromwell, Bradshaw the Judge who condemned his Majestie, and Ireton, sonn-in-law to the Usurper, dragg’d out of their superb tombs in Westminster among the Kings, to Tyburne, and hang’d on the gallows there from nine in the morning till six at night, and then buried under that fatal and ignominious monument in a deepe pitt; thousands of people who had seene them in all their pride being spectators. Looke back at Nov. 22, 1658 (Cromwell’s funeral) and be astonish’d! and feare God and honour the King; but meddle not with them who are given to change.

It has been asserted, though without any apparent authority, that Bradshaw was buried at Annapolis, in America, and Mr. St. John says the following inscription was engraved on a cannon placed at the head of his supposed grave:—

Stranger! ere thou pass, contemplate this cannon, nor regardless behold that near its base lies deposited the dust of John Bradshaw, who, nobly superior to selfish regards, despising alike the pageantry of courtly splendour, the blast of calumny, and the terror of regal vengeance, presided in the illustrious band of heroes and patriots who firmly and openly adjudged Charles Stuart, tyrant of England, to a public and exemplary death, thereby presenting to the amazed world, and transmitting down to applauding ages, the most glorious example of unshaken virtue, love of freedom, and impartial justice ever exhibited in the blood-stained theatre of human action. Oh! reader, pass not on till thou hast blessed his memory, and never, never forget that rebellion to tyrants is obedience to God!

The heads of the three regicides were undoubtedly placed upon Westminster Hall, and Bradshaw’s and Cromwell’s remained fixed on the spikes in 1684, when Sir Thomas Armstrong’s[13] was placed between them.

Among the papers still preserved at Marple is the probate copy of the President’s will, a lengthy abstract of which has been given by Ormerod in his “History of Cheshire.” It bears date March 22, 1653, and there are two codicils appended, dated respectively March 23, 1653, and September 10, 1655. By it he bequeaths to his wife, Mary Bradshaw, all his manors, lands, and hereditaments in Kent and Middlesex for her life, as jointure in lieu of dower; and devises to her, and her executors in case of her decease, his manors, &c., in Kent, for the term of five years, to commence immediately after her decease, with liberty in her lifetime to dispark the park at Somerhill, for her subsistence, and for making provision for her kindred, “God not havinge vouchsafed me issue.” He further devises his manors, &c., in the counties of Berks, Southampton, Wilts, and Somerset, with his reversions in Middlesex, in trust to his friend Peter Brereton, his nephew Peter Newton (the son of his sister Dorothy), and his trustie servant, Thomas Parnell, and their heirs, for the payment of his debts, &c., for the payment of £100 per annum, for ten years after his decease, to his nephew Henry Bradshaw, and £20 per annum to his cousin Katherine Leigh, for life, with further trust to pay £300 per annum to his brother Henry Bradshaw, until the estates settled by the will descend to him; and also to expend £700 in purchasing an annuity for “manteyning a free schoole in Marple, in Cheshire; £500 for increasing the wages of the master and usher of Bunbury schoole; and £500 for amending the wages of the schoolmaster and usher of Midleton schoole, in Lanc’r (in which twoe schooles of Bunb’rie and Midleton I had part of my educac’on, and return this as part of my thanfull acknowledgement for the same). These two sums of £500 to be laid out in purchaseing annuities.” Then follow a number of small bequests—an annuity of £40 for seven years to Samuel Roe, his secretary, for maintaining him at Gray’s Inn, and remunerating his assistance to his executors; £250 to the poor of Fonthill, Stopp, Westminster, and Feltham; a bequest of the impropriation of Feltham, for the use of a proper minister to be established there; an annuity of £20 for providing a minister at Hatch, in Wiltshire, charged on his estate there; legacies to his chaplain, Mr. Parr, Mr. Strong, the preacher at the Abbey, and Mr. Clyve, a Scottish minister; his houses and lodgings at Westminster to the governors of the almshouses and school there; and the residue of the estate to his brother Henry, excepting £100 to his niece Meverell and her sister of the whole blood. The first codicil directs his executors to sell the Hampshire estates and to fell timber not exceeding the value of £2,000 on his estates in the county of Kent for payment of his debts; and the sum of £50 “to my cozen Kath. Leigh who now liveth with me;” and he further bequeaths all his law books, and such divinity, history, and other books as his wife shall judge fit, “to his nephew Harrie Bradshawe.” It may be mentioned that the library thus bequeathed remained at Marple until the close of the last century, when, after having been augmented by later generations of the family, it was sold to Mr. Edwards, of Halifax. Subsequently it was offered for sale by Messrs. Edwards, of Pall Mall, being then catalogued with the library of Mr. N. Wilson, of Pontefract, and those of two deceased antiquaries, the entire collection, according to a writer in the Gentleman’s Magazine (v. lxxxvi., part 1), being more splendid and truly valuable than any which had been previously presented to the curious, and such as “astonished not only the opulent purchasers, but the most experienced and intelligent booksellers of the metropolis.” The second codicil gives to his wife’s assignees seven years’ interest in his Kentish estates after her death, confirms her right to dispark Somerhill, dispose of the deer, and convert the same to the uses of husbandry. It further confirms the Middlesex estates to her for life, and gives her his house at Westminster, held on lease from the governors of the school there, and directs that £1,000 due from the State on account of his office of Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, and Chief Justice of Chester, Flint, Denbigh, and Montgomery, be applied to discharge his debts. It annuls several legacies, and bequeaths others, among them one of £10 to John Milton; appoints a legacy of £5 each to all his servants living at the time of his decease; and makes several additional legal provisions. The will was proved in London, December 16, 1659, by Henry Bradshaw, the nephew—Mary Bradshaw, the late wife and sole executrix of the testator, being then dead, and Henry Bradshaw, the brother, having renounced execution.

The will is interesting, as showing the extent to which the Lord President had contrived to enrich himself out of the sequestrated estates of obnoxious Royalists during the period of the usurpation. Shortly before the Restoration his nephew Henry was ejected from Fonthill by the heir of Lord Cottington, who recovered possession of his ancestral home; and though he managed to secure a large proportion of the property bequeathed by the will, the benevolent intentions of the testator were in a great measure frustrated by the changes made in the disposition of the estate after the return of Charles II. through the operation of the Act of Confiscation.

Bradshaw makes allusion in his will to the fact that “God had not vouchsafed him issue.” Though no children were born to him by his wife, he is said to have had “an illegitimate son, whose last descendant, Sarah Bradshaw, married, in 1757, Sir Henry Cavendish, ancestor of Lord Waterpark.” In the absence, however, of any substantial evidence, the accuracy of this statement may well be questioned, for we can hardly suppose the testator would have bequeathed so large a property to his nephew, and have made no provision for his own offspring, while permitting him to bear and perpetuate his name. Though the bar sinister was the reverse of an honourable augmentation, the stigma of illegitimacy did not attach so much in those days as now. Sir Henry Cavendish, the ancestor of Lord Waterpark, who was himself descended from an illegitimate son of Henry, the eldest son of Sir William Cavendish, of Chatsworth, by his third wife, the renowned “Bess of Hardwick,” married, August 5, 1757, Sarah (or, according to some authorities, Mary) only child and heiress of Richard Bradshaw, who, during her husband’s lifetime, was, in her own right, created (15th June, 1792) Baroness Waterpark, of Waterpark, in Ireland; and the supposition that John Bradshaw left an illegitimate son seems to rest upon the statement made by Playfair, in his “British Family Antiquities,” and reiterated by Burke, and still more recently in the “Peerage” of Forster, that this lady was “lineally descended from the Lord President Bradshaw.”

Another member of the family employed in the public service during the Commonwealth period was Richard Bradshaw. His name does not appear in any of the pedigrees of the Marple line, nor has his identity been established, though it is very probable he was a nephew of the Lord President’s, and he was certainly present as one of the mourners at his funeral. He held the office for some time of Receiver of the Crown Revenues in Cheshire and North Wales, and was subsequently appointed to the post of English Resident at Hamburg, whence he was transferred to Russia, and other of the northern Courts. A great number of his letters are given in Thurloe’s “State Papers,” and they are especially interesting as showing the care taken to watch the movements of Charles II., and the actions of the European Powers likely to render him assistance in any attempt to recover the throne. In one of these letters addressed on his return to England to Secretary Thurloe, and dated from Axeyard, 1st November, 1658, requesting that the sum of £2,188 0s. 9d. then due to him from the Government might be paid, some curious circumstances are related in connection with his previous official life. He says:—

I am necessitated to acquaint your lordship, that in the yeare 1648, I beinge then receiver of the crowne-revenue in North-wales and Cheshire for the state, and cominge to London to passe accomts, and pay in some money to Mr. Fauconberg the receiver generall, my lodgings in Kinge Street, Westminster, was broake into by theeves the very same day the apprentises riss in London and came down to Whitehall; and £430 was taken fourthe of a trunke in the chamber where I lay. Though it was a tyme of great distraction, yet I used such meanes with the warrants and assistants of Mr. Fauconbridge, as that I found out and apprehended the fellows the next day, in which the messenger, Captain Compton, was assistinge to me, whoe were tryed and condemned at the sessions in the Old Bailey as Compton very well knowes, being the sonnes of persons of note in Covent Garden. The prosecution of them cost me above £100, besides the greatest trouble that ever I had in my life aboute any businesse. But before my accompte could be declared by the commissioners for the revenue, whereon I expected allowance for that money, I was commanded to Hamburg; and now being to settle these accompts in the exchequer, to have out my ultimate discharge thence, I am told that it is not in the power of the lords commissioners for the treasury to give allowance thereof in the way of the exchequer, without a privy seale to pardon that sume. Therefore I humbly request that the £430 so taken may be included in the privy seal with the £3,461 5s. 10d., and then the whole will be £3,891 5s. 10d., which, if your lordship be satisfied with the accompts, I pray that Mr. Milbey or Mr. Moreland may have your lordship’s order to make ready for the seale.

The riot referred to was no doubt that of the 9th of April, when, in disregard of the strict Puritan orders in relation to religious observances, the apprentices were found playing at bowls in Moorfields during church time. They were ordered by the militia guard to disperse, but refused, fought the guard, and held their ground. Being soon after routed by cavalry, they raised the cry of “clubs,” when they were joined by the watermen. The fight lasted through the night, and in the morning they had got possession of Ludgate and Newgate, and had stretched chains across all the great thoroughfares, their cry being “God and King Charles.” The tumult lasted for forty hours, and was not put an end to until they were ridden down by a body of cavalry from Westminster.

In his petition to the Council of State, praying to be paid the full sum of £2,188 11s. 4d., Richard Bradshaw states that he had “suffered the loss of £5,000 in the late wars of this nation, without any reparation for the same, and for above seventeen years freely exposed his life at home and abroad in the service of the State; that the same was disbursed out of his affection to his country, whilst he resided as public minister in foreign parts, and, if not paid, he should be now, at his return, rent from his small estate, it being more than he hath got in the service of the Commonwealth.”

On the 9th March, 1659–60, the Council directed the amount to be paid, and on the 12th his accounts were ordered for that purpose to be laid before Parliament. It does not appear, however, to have been received, for on the 23rd and 31st he is again found petitioning Thurloe on the matter, and in the changes that were then taking place it is doubtful if he ever got anything. Whether, as he feared, he was “rent from his small estate” or not is not recorded, but it is evident that in a pecuniary sense he was not so successful as his kinsman, the Lord President; yet he was a man of much energy and ability, and his letters give an interesting account of the political affairs of foreign Courts at the time. He appears to have been continually short of money through the Government remaining indebted to him, and this fact rather suggests the idea that Cromwell, who had already broken with John Bradshaw, desired to hold him as a kind of hostage, and keep him wherever he chose to place him.

With a portion of the wealth acquired under John Bradshaw’s will, Henry, his nephew, in 1693, purchased Bradshaw Hall, in Lancashire, which, as previously stated, had for many generations been the residence of another branch of the family, that had then become extinct in the male line. It is a singular fact that within a comparatively short period, nearly all, if not all, the branches of the Bradshaw family became extinct in the male line—the Bradshaws of Haigh, of Bradshaw, and of Aspull, in Lancashire; of Bradshaw Edge, and of Barton, in Derbyshire; and finally, as we shall see, of Marple, in Cheshire, the latter by the death of the Lord President’s grand-nephew in 1743.

The subsequent history of the Bradshaws is soon told. Henry, who inherited the patrimonial estates as well as the bulk of his uncle’s property, married Elizabeth (erroneously called Magdalene in Ormerod’s, Forster’s, and Burke’s pedigrees), one of the daughters and co-heirs of Thomas Barcroft, by whom, on the death of her father in 1688, he acquired the demesne of Barcroft, in Whalley parish, Lancashire, with the hall, an ancient mansion dating from the time of Henry VIII. This Henry made considerable additions to Marple, and erected a great portion of the outbuildings, as evidenced by the frequent repetitions of his and his wife’s initials

B
H E
1669

upon the hall and the stables. By his marriage he had three sons, Henry, High Sheriff of Derbyshire in 1701, who had to wife Elizabeth, daughter of Richard Legh, of the East Hall, in High Legh, and died in 1724, without issue; Thomas, who died unmarried in 1743; and John, who predeceased his brother, being also issueless; the estates, on the death of Thomas, devolving upon the only daughter, Mary, who married William Pimlot, and by him had two sons, the eldest of whom, John, succeeded to the estates under a settlement made by his uncle, Thomas Bradshaw, and had issue a daughter and only child, Elizabeth, married to Lindon Evelyn, of Keynsham Court, county Hereford, Esq., M.P. for Dundalk, whose only daughter and heir, Elizabeth, married, December 29th, 1838, Randall Edward Plunkett, Baron Dunsany, elder brother of the present holder of that title.

Mary Pimlot, surviving her husband, again entered the marriage state, her second husband being Nathaniel Isherwood, of Bolton, by whom she had two sons, Nathaniel, who, under his uncle’s settlement, succeeded as heir to the Marple and Bradshaw estates on the death of John Pimlot. He married Elizabeth, daughter and heiress of Henry Brabin, of Brabin’s Hall, in Marple, but died without issue in 1765, when the property passed to his younger brother, Thomas Isherwood, who married Elizabeth, daughter of Thomas Attercroft, of Gillibrand House, near Blackburn, and by her had a son, who died in infancy, and six daughters. She predeceased her husband; when he married for his second wife Mary, daughter and heir of Thomas Orrell, of Saltersley, in Cheshire. This lady, who died 18th May, 1797, bore him four sons and five daughters. Thomas Bradshaw-Isherwood, the eldest son, succeeded, but died unmarried 5th January, 1791, when the estates passed to Henry Bradshaw-Isherwood, the second son, who also died unmarried January 26, 1801, the Marple and Bradshaw properties then devolving upon his younger brother, John Bradshaw-Isherwood, born 19th June, 1776, who married, at Bolton, October 19, 1812, Elizabeth, eldest daughter and co-heir of the Rev. Thomas Bancroft, M.A., vicar of Bolton. In 1815 he filled the office of Sheriff of Cheshire, and by his wife, who survived him and died 1st April, 1856, he left, in addition to six daughters, a son, Thomas Bradshaw-Isherwood, Esq., the present owner of Marple and Bradshaw, born 10th February, 1820. Mr. Bradshaw-Isherwood, who is a J.P. and D.L. for Cheshire, married 22nd July, 1840, Mary Ellen, eldest surviving daughter of the late Rev. Henry Bellairs, M.A., rector of Bedworth, in Warwickshire, and Hon. Canon of Worcester, one of the heroes of Trafalgar, by his wife Dorothy Parker, daughter and co-heir (with Mary, first wife of John, Earl of Strafford, distinguished for his brilliant services in the battles of the Peninsula and at Waterloo, and Sarah, wife of Captain Carmichael) of Peter Mackenzie, of Grove House, Middlesex, descended from the Mackenzies, barons of Kintail. The issue of this marriage is two sons, John Henry Bradshaw-Isherwood, born 27th August, 1841, who married, in 1864, Elizabeth, daughter of Thomas Luce, Esq., formerly member for Malmesbury, and Arthur Salusbury Bradshaw-Isherwood, born 21st May, 1843.

We have said sufficient to establish the claim of Marple to rank among the most interesting of the historic homes of the Palatinate. The building, which is a good example of the early Jacobean period, with considerable additions of late seventeenth century work, has undergone comparatively few changes, having happily escaped those coarse assaults to which so many of our old mansions have been subjected by modern renovators. So little is it altered that it would require no great effort of the imagination to picture the momentous conferences of the chiefs of Cheshire Nonconformity that were held within its walls, or to re-people its sombre apartments with the buff-jerkined, jack-booted, and heavily-accoutred troopers who followed Henry Bradshaw to the field; indeed, we might almost fancy that the very chairs and tables have remained undisturbed during the whole two centuries and more that have elapsed since those eventful days. Of modern furniture there is comparatively little, almost everything the house contains being of an age gone by, and in keeping with its ancient character.

As anything like a detailed description of the interior is beyond the purpose and the limits of this sketch, we shall content ourselves with pointing out the principal apartments and some of the more notable objects they contain. The principal front is on the south side, from which a porch, supported by stone columns, forming the central projection from the house, gives admission to the entrance hall, an apartment 40 feet long and 20 feet wide, lighted at each end by long low mullioned windows. The floor is laid with alternate squares of white stone and black marble, and the ceiling, which is flat, is crossed by massive oaken beams. The want of elevation gives a somewhat gloomy and depressing effect, and this is heightened by the coloured glass in the windows, which further subdues the light. The furniture is of black oak, bright with the rubbings of many generations; and against the walls are disposed suits of mail, morions, corslets, and implements of war that have no doubt done duty in many a well-fought field. On the left of the entrance, leading from the hall, is the library, twenty feet square, lighted on the south side by a mullioned window, filled with stained glass, and having the armorial ensigns of the Bradshaws and their alliances carved upon the wainscot. On the same floor, and adjoining the library, is the dining-room, a spacious apartment, thirty feet by twenty feet, with an oriel window at the north end, commanding an extensive view of the valley of the Goyt and the surrounding country. The walls of this room are hung with portraits, and include several that are said to have been brought from Harden Hall, and to have once belonged to the Alvanley family. Among them is one of Queen Elizabeth, and others representing the Earls of Essex and Leicester, Lord Keeper Coventry, Sir Roger Ascham, and General Monk; there is also a portrait of one of the Dones of Utkinton, hereditary chief foresters of Delamere, and of his wife, who stands by his side. Close by the door, on the right of the entrance hall, is a broad oaken staircase, with decorated balustrades, leading to the upper chambers. The walls are hung with portraits, views, &c., and in one corner we noticed an antique spinning-wheel, the property apparently of some former spinster of the house. The first chamber we enter is a small ante-room, wainscotted, with a fireplace composed of ancient Dutch tiles, above which is a shield, with the arms of the Bradshaws carved in relief, with the date 1665. A flight of circular steps leads from this chamber to the drawing-room, which is immediately over the dining-room, and corresponding with it in dimensions. The walls of this apartment are hung with tapestry of Gobelins manufacture, the subjects being Diana and her Nymphs, and Time and Pleasure. On the same floor is another chamber, now occupied as a bedroom, which is interesting from the circumstance that the black and white timber gable, the only fragment apparently of the original structure remaining, is exposed to view, showing where the projecting bay has been added when the house was enlarged by Henry Bradshaw, the Lord President’s nephew, shortly after the Restoration. Opposite the wainscotted ante-room before referred to is a small tapestried bed-chamber, where tradition says the Lord President first saw the light; and here is the very bed on which, according to the same reputable authority, he slept—an antiquated four-poster, very substantial and very elaborately ornamented, with a cornice round the top, with the following admonitory sentences,[14] in raised capitals, carved on three sides of it, though it is to be feared the Lord President did not study them with much advantage:—

He that is unmerciful, mercy shall miss;

But he shall have mercy that merciful is.

And on the inside:—

Love God and not gold,

Sleep not until U consider how U have spent the time;

If well, thank God; if not, repent.

There were formerly in this room, and may be now, a helmet, breastplate, and pair of spurs that were supposed to have belonged to John Bradshaw, but which are more likely to have been worn by his elder brother Henry, the Parliamentarian soldier. On the window of the same chamber is inscribed the well-known prophetic lines that John is said to have written when a lad attending the Macclesfield Grammar School. On the right of the entrance hall are two small chambers, of comparatively little interest; and adjoining them is the servants’ hall, the most noticeable feature in which is a moulding in stucco, and here also is repeated the family arms—argent, two bendlets sable, between as many martlets of the second; with the crest, a stag at gaze under a vine tree fructed ppr., and the motto, “Bona Benemerenti Benedictio.” A passage in the rear of the house communicates with a door on the north or terrace front, on the lintel of which is carved the date 1658. The outbuildings are extensive. They are partly of stone and partly of brick, and with their quaint gables, pinnacles, and clock tower form a very picturesque grouping. They are commonly supposed to have been erected by “Colonel” Henry Bradshaw, for the accommodation of his Roundhead troopers; but the idea is dispelled by the initials

B
H E

and the date, 1669, which may still be discerned—an evidence that they were erected in more peaceable times by Henry, the Colonel’s son and successor, who, as we have seen, married Elizabeth Barcroft, and became heir to much of his uncle’s wealth. Altogether, the old place is a deeply-interesting memorial of times now happily gone by. Its history is especially instructive, and it is impossible to wander through its antiquated chambers without recalling some of the momentous scenes and incidents in the country’s annals. Happily, evil hands have not fallen upon it. It is preserved with jealous care; and from the few changes it has undergone we gather the idea—always a pleasant one—that here antiquity is reverenced for its worth.

CHAPTER III.
OVER SANDS BY THE CARTMEL SHORE—WRAYSHOLME TOWER—THE LEGEND OF THE LAST WOLF.

In that sequestered tract of country that stretches away from the mountain to the main—from the mouth of the Kent to where the Duddon flows down to join the sea, and extending from the majestic barrier of the Lake country to the silvery shores of Morecambe Bay—the wide estuary that divides the Hundred of Lonsdale and separates the districts of Cartmel and Furness from the other parts of Lancashire—there is a wealth of natural beauty and many an interesting nook undreamt of by the ordinary tourist, who, following in the steps of imitative sight-seers, rushes along the great iron highway to the North, forgetting that the fairest spots in the world are reserved for those who have the wisdom to seek out and earn their pleasures for themselves. In that pleasant corner of Lancashire, mountain and valley, moor and fell, blend together in happy relationship, presenting a panorama of swelling hills, wood-clad knolls, and quiet secluded hamlets within the bright setting of the shimmering sea. It is, as poor John Critchley Prince was wont to sing:—

A realm of mountain, forest-haunt, and fell,

And fertile valleys beautifully lone,

Where fresh and far romantic waters roam,

Singing a song of peace by many a cottage home.

And where—

Only the sound of the distant sea,

As a far-off voice in a dream may be,

Mingles its tale with the woodland tones,

As the sea waves wash o’er the tidal stones.

But it is not for the lover of the picturesque alone that the district offers more than ordinary attractions. There are few localities so rich in records of the past, or surrounded by so many traditional associations. In addition to the magnificent ruins of Furness, there is the scarcely less interesting pile of Cartmel, one of the few priory churches that England now possesses, and which only escaped destruction in the stormy times of the Reformation by the inhabitants literally buying off the King’s Commissioners. On Swarthmoor, “the German baron, bold Martin Swart,” mustered “his merry men” when Lambert Simnel, the pretender to the Crown, landed at Piel, in 1486, an escapade in which we fear “Our Lady of Furness” was not altogether free from implication. Here, too, is Swarthmoor Hall, once the home of Judge Fell; and close by is the modest Quakers’ Chapel, the first built by George Fox, the founder of the Society of Friends. Holker Hall has been for a century and more the home of the Cavendishes, as it was previously of the Lowthers and the Prestons. The little hamlet of Lindale has been made the scene of one of the most charming of Mrs. Gaskell’s stories, and almost within bow-shot is Buck Crag, sheltering beneath which is the humble dwelling that for many a long year was the abode of Edmund Law, the curate and schoolmaster of Staveley, the spot where the younger Edmund Law, Bishop of Carlisle, and father of Lord Ellenborough, first saw the light.

Before the enterprise and skill of Brogden and Brunlees had bridged the estuaries of the Kent and the Leven, and carried the railway from Carnforth to Ulverston, the journey to Whitehaven and the western lakes had to be made across the broad expanse of sand left by each receding tide, and a perilous journey it was. In bygone days the monks of Cartmel maintained a guide, paid him out of “Peter’s Pence,” and, in addition, gave him the benefit of their prayers, which in truth he often needed; and when their house was dissolved, “Bluff King Hal” charged the expenses of the office upon the revenues of the Duchy of Lancaster, so that the “Carter,” as he is now called, is an old-established institution. There is no beaten pathway “Over Sands,” for every tide removes the traces of those who have gone before, and the channels are so constantly shifting that what yesterday might be firm and solid to the tread, to-day may be only soft and treacherous pulp. The locality has been oftentimes the scene of mourning and sorrow, and many are the tales that are told of the “hair-breadth ’scapes” of those who have been overtaken by the “cruel crawling tide” while journeying over the perilous waste. The old adage tells us that

The Kent and the Keer

Have parted many a good man and his meear (mare).

GRANGE-OVER-SANDS.

And the registers of Cartmel bear testimony to the fact that, of those who now sleep peacefully in its “God’s Acre,” a hundred and twenty or more have met their fate while crossing the shifty channels of this treacherous shore. The poet Gray, writing in 1767 to Dr. Wharton, relates a pathetic story of a family who were overtaken by a mist when half way across and lost their way; and Edwin Waugh, in his pleasant, gossiping way, tells how an ancient mariner, when asked if the guides were ever lost on the sands, answered with grim naïveté: “I never knew any lost. There’s one or two drowned now and then, but they’re generally found somewhere i’th bed when th’ tide goes out.” When the subjects of the Cæsars had established themselves here, the old Roman General Agricola made a journey “Over Sands,” and the difficulties he encountered are related by Tacitus the historian. Mrs. Hemans braved the dangers, for in one of her letters she says: “I must not omit to tell you that Mr. Wordsworth not only admired our exploit in crossing the Ulverston Sands as a deed of ‘derring do,’ but as a decided proof of taste. The Lake scenery, he says, is never seen to such advantage as after the passage of what he calls its ‘majestic barrier.’” In the old coaching days the journey began at Hest Bank, about three miles from Lancaster, where the guide was usually in waiting to conduct the travellers across, when a mixed cavalcade of horsemen, pedestrians, and vehicles of various kinds was formed, which, following the coach, and headed by the browned and weather-beaten “Carter,” slowly traversed the trackless waste, the incongruous grouping suggesting the idea of an Eastern caravan on its passage across the desert. If nothing else, the journey had the charm of novelty and adventure, which in some degree compensated for the hazard incurred; and the scenes of danger and disaster witnessed have furnished the theme for more than one exciting story, as “Carlyon’s Year” and the “Sexton’s Hero” bear witness. But the romance of the sands is fast passing away. The guides have now comparatively little to do, the perilous path is traversed less and less frequently every year, so that ere long we shall probably only hear of it as a traditional feature of the times when the name of Stephenson was unknown and railways were only in the womb of time.

On the western side of the Milnthorpe Sands, nestling at the foot of the green slopes of Yewbarrow, with its whitened dwellings peeping from their garniture of leaves, and its rock-strewn beach lipped by the capricious sea, is the slowly-rising village of Grange, with its sands and its sea, its pleasant walks and cheerful drives, all sheltered from the north winds by the great Cartmel fells clustering at its back. A place that lures you by the peaceful quietude that prevails, for here Ethiopian serenaders and blind bag-pipers are unknown, and youthful lazzaroni with white mice and pink-eyed guinea pigs are beings the people wot not of. It is not “dressy,” nor is it fashionable in the sense that Scarborough is, so that you can take your ease in your inn without risk of being chilled by the freezing presence of Lord Shingleton or my Lady Marina. The wandering creature who calls himself a tourist, and is always in search of some new sensation, passes it by as slow and unexciting, and the herd of holiday-makers who delight to perform aquatic poses plastiques once a year prefer to do so in such over-crammed places as Southport, or that marine Babylon—Blackpool. Nevertheless, it is a pleasant place to stay at when you have nothing to do, and all the day to do it in; a retreat where you can shake off those fancies associated with everyday life that cloud the brow and spoil the digestion, and get rid of that

Army of phantoms vast and wan

That beleaguer the human soul.

But our present purpose is not to write a description of Grange, for though it is a pleasant place to stay at it is also a pleasant place to go away from—a convenient spot from whence little excursions can be made to neighbouring places of interest and attraction, and this time it is Wraysholme Tower, the ruined home of the once powerful Harringtons, and the rocky promontory of Humphrey Head, where tradition says the last wolf “in England’s spacious realm” was hunted down, that attracts our wandering steps.

As we slowly wend our way towards the upper end of the village, pausing now and then to gaze across the broad expanse of Morecambe Bay to the wooded shores on the Lancaster side, and the great fells that stretch away in rear to join the pale blue hills of Yorkshire, we get sight of an antiquated building with mullioned windows, now half buried in the ground, which in former times served as a granary for the storage of the rich harvests gathered by the fraternity of Cartmel, and hence the name of “Grange” which has been given to the place. At an angle of the road, near the higher end, is the church, erected some twenty years ago through the persevering efforts of a lady resident. Keeping along the level way, we come presently to a cross-road, and, turning sharply to the left, pass the farmhouse where, for generations, the “Carters” have resided. A few minutes’ walk along the railway line brings us to a pleasant indentation in the shore, where Kent’s Bank, a tiny watering place, with a trim hotel and cosy-looking villas, bright with flowers and creeping plants, is striving to rival its more famous neighbour. In a green nook by the sea is a pleasant mansion that occupies the site of a more ancient structure, Abbot Hall, once the abode, as tradition affirms, of the abbots of Cartmel, but, as there were no “abbots” of that house, it is more likely to have belonged to the fraternity of Furness, who, as we know, had lands here granted to them as far back as 1135. Mr. Stockdale, in his Annales Caermoelensis, suggests that it was built for the convenience of the abbot when journeying from Furness to his possessions in Yorkshire. He says:—

No doubt the puisne monarch (the abbot) and his cavalcade would travel, in making these journeys, in a stately, lordly, and ostentatious way, and would pass along the narrow tracks from the (Furness) Abbey to the Red Lane end, at Conishead Bank, with more or less difficulty, and then, entering upon the sea sands, would, in a short time, reach “the Chapel Island,” where, in the little homely chapel, prayers would be earnestly offered up for the safe passage of the remainder of the dangerous, though much the smaller, Morecambe estuary. This needful duty having been performed, the long cavalcade would slowly wend its way over the creeks, gullies, and quicksands, till the opposite bank of the estuary was gained, and then by the old Roman road called now the Back Lane, to the town of Flookborough, and from thence to Allithwaite, and by the very old road up and over the precipitous hill to the abbot’s own comfortable and well-sheltered residence, Abbot Hall.... As there has always been a tradition that there was a chapel near Kirkhead and Abbot Hall—some remains of which, even graves, it is said, existed in the last century—there can but be little doubt that the abbot and his numerous suite would, after their night’s rest at Abbot Hall, resort to this chapel and again pray for a safe passage over the wild and dangerous Lancaster estuary, eight or nine miles in width, not passed at this day, even in the presence of a guide, with entire safety.[15]

A pleasant rural lane leads up from the station at Kent’s Bank to Allithwaite, a little straggling village, the inhabitants of which contrive to earn a scanty livelihood by fishing and “cockling” upon the sands. Steep banks rise on each side, festooned with plumy ferns and wild flowers, crested with spiked thorn-bushes, scrubby hazels, and spreading ash-trees, that wave their shadowy branches overhead. The honeysuckle spreads its delicious perfume around, and as we saunter leisurely along the sunlight glints through the leafy openings, shooting down long arrowy rays, that here brighten with golden touches the gnarled and knotted stem of a sturdy oak, and there light up a churlish bramble, like a woman’s radiant smile reflecting its cheeriness upon some worthless Caliban. On the left is Kirkhead, a lofty knoll, crowned with a prospect tower—Barrow’s summer-house, as it is called—from the summit of which there is a view that well repays the labour of ascent. Wraysholme’s ruined tower, whither we are wending our way, is but a short mile distant, and as we have a long summer afternoon before us, we may wander at our will. Having mounted the breezy hill, we lie down on a cushion of soft grass at the foot of the building to gaze upon the scene, listening the while to the wild bird’s song and the hoarse melody of the fitful sea.

The wide expanse of Morecambe Bay lies before us like an out-stretched panorama, in which every jutting headland, every indentation, and every crease in the green hills can be distinctly traced. Far below us a long stretch of shore runs out; an old boat lies upon its side, chained to a miniature anchor; children are disporting themselves round it, and a few bare-legged fishermen are busy arranging their long nets, for the tide is not yet in, though we can see where the crafty silent sea comes stealing up from the south, each delicate wavelet, as it breaks upon the yellow sand in a white line of surge, creeping nearer and nearer to the beach. The softest of summer breezes plays upon the water, breaking it into innumerable ripples that dance and glitter in the mellow light. Here and there a few cloud shadows fleck the surface. A soft summer haze, like an ocean of white mist, hangs in mid distance, and where it lifts, shows little patches of the blue of heaven beyond. A broad streak of light marks the line of the horizon where sea and sky blend together. A solitary white sail glints in the blaze of sunlight, one or two fishing boats with red-brown sails spot the sea with colour, and far away a long line of black smoke shows where a steamer is rapidly ploughing its way towards the Irish coast. Sheltering in quiet beauty in the little cove below is Kent’s Bank, its buildings, dwarfed by the intervening space, looking like a group of children’s toys. Grange is hidden behind the projecting ridge of rock; but Holme Island, with its pretty little marine temple, stands well out from the shore, like an emerald gem in the flashing waters. Sheltering it from the northern blasts, a range of rugged limestone rocks, all channelled and weather-worn, and fringed with over-lapping trees, is seen; and there, where a few puffs of white smoke gleam brightly against the deep blue of space, a train is bearing its living freight across the broad Milnthorpe Sands. Arnside Knott, with its shady background of wood, thrusts up its huge form as a foil to quiet Silverdale, reposing by its side; then, sweeping round in an irregular circle towards the east, we have an ever-varying shore and an amphitheatre of intersecting hills, now dark with shadow and now gay with the tints of the many-hued vegetation, with Ingleborough and the great Dent Fells far, far beyond, yet, in the pure atmosphere, seeming so near and so clear that we may almost fancy we can see the purple heather blooming upon their sides. Further south, bathed in a flood of sunshine, the battlemented keep of Lancaster Castle comes full in sight, with its frowning gate-tower, through which many an ill-starred wretch has doubtless trembled as he passed, and where, upon its threshold, may be said yet to linger the solemn footprints of mingled innocence and guilt—a stony relic that calls to remembrance “Old John o’ Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster,” and turns back the pages of the Book of Time to the turbulent days which witnessed the fierce forays of the Northern hordes and the still fiercer struggles of the rival Roses; and beyond the Castle, the green knolls rising above the water-line in the direction of Heysham and Sunderland—Cape Famine, as the people call it—looking like so many islands in a sea of silver.

Carrying the eye round to the west, a picture scarcely less beautiful meets the gaze. The low-lying plain on the right—the Wyke,[16] as it is called—has, within living memory, been reclaimed from the hungry sea; and where was once old ocean’s bed there are now lush pastures, and fields of waving grain that give promise of an abundant harvest. Below us, peeping up from a clump of trees, are seen the ruined walls of Wraysholme Tower, where the lordly Harringtons held sway, and with which we shall make more intimate acquaintance by-and-by; and near thereto Humphrey Head, looking like a monster couchant, thrusts its huge form far out from the shore. The little village beyond is Flookborough, and within half a mile is Cark, contiguous to which, half hidden among the umbraged woods, is Holker, the favourite seat of the Duke of Devonshire. Across the Leven sands we get a glimpse of Chapel Island, a little sea-girt solitude, with the crumbling ruins of its ancient sanctuary peeping through the gloom of the overshadowing trees, where, in days of yore, the monks of Furness “their orisons and vespers sung,” and offered prayers “for the safety of the souls of such as crossed the sands with the morning tide.” Almost within bow-shot are the rich woods and glades of Conishead; and further on, the old town of Ulverston can be discerned, with the great rounded hill—the Hoad—in the rear, on which the monument to the memory of its distinguished son, the late Sir John Barrow, stands—

On the gusty down,

Far seen across the sea-paths which he loved,

A beacon to the steersman.

At the extreme corner of the Furness shore, where the tall chimneys shoot up and the thick smoke hangs like a pall, is Barrow, which by the magic power of iron has been suddenly transformed from an obscure fishing village into a busy and populous town, and the seat of industrial and commercial activity. Reaching far out into the sea is lonely wave-girt Walney, with its ruined castle—the pile of Fouldrey—built on the foundation of the Vikings’ stronghold by the monks of Furness as a defence against the marauding Scots—looming darkly against the flashing waters. Black Comb, stern, bleak, and wild, its gleaming summit breaking through the clouds, lifts its huge form with frowning majesty above the dreary moors and storm-worn hills; and, rearward, the eye wanders over the Coniston range to the Old Man, and thence to Bowfell, the twin pikes of Langdale, and round towards Skiddaw, where a succession of mighty headlands—the silent companions of the mist and cloud—crowd one upon another until the dim outlines of their giant peaks are lost in the blue infinity of space.

Apart from its natural beauty and the pleasant prospect it commands, Kirkhead is not without attractions for those who delight in investigating the memorials of prehistoric times. On the steep acclivities on the south side of the hill, mantled with ferns and coarse weeds, and well-nigh hidden with trees and brushwood, is the entrance to a natural opening or cavern in the limestone rock, 40 or 50 feet in length and about 20 feet high, which in the dim and shadowy past has evidently been the abode of some primeval Briton. You can get down to it by an inconvenient track from the top, but the better way is by a path that winds round the base of the hill, through the scrub, and along the edge of the meadow until you reach a heap of soil and débris left from previous explorations, when the entrance is seen just above. In the excavations that have been made a skull and other human remains have been discovered, with fragments of rude pottery, implements of stone, and the bones of the red deer, wild boar, fox, and other animals. Near the surface was also found a coin of the reign of the Emperor Domitian (A.D. 84)—strong presumptive evidence that there have been a succession of tenants, and some of them during the period of Roman occupation. Repeated examinations have been made of this primitive abode, and an account of its hidden mysteries will be found in Dr. Barber’s “Prehistoric Remains.”

Descending from our lofty eyrie, we pass through the little village of Allithwaite, and then strike into a pleasant leafy lane on the left, bordered with tall trees—oak, and ash, and beech—that look as green and luxurious as if they were buried in some inland combe instead of having had the sea breezes sweeping over them for many a long winter past. A little rindle keeps us in pleasant companionship, sparkling here and there in the deep shadow, and now and then we get glimpses of the level waste of silver sand and the sea beyond, shining through the summer haze. A few minutes’ walking and we come in sight of the crumbling remains of Wraysholme Tower, the object of our present pilgrimage, standing a little way back on the left of the road. A bright-eyed youngster holds the gate open for us, with expectant glances, as we pass through into the farmyard, in which the old weather-worn relic stands, and the gladsome looks with which our modest largesse is received assure us that it is not unworthily bestowed.

WRAYSHOLME TOWER.

The embattled tower or peel is all that now remains, and whatever of other buildings there may have been have long since disappeared. Built for defence, and as a place of refuge for men and cattle against the incursions of Scottish marauders and enemies approaching from the Irish Sea, it formed the strongest and most important feature of the original structure; and even now, though dismantled and forlorn, and applied to “base uses” its founders little dreamt of, with its thick walls, its small jealous windows, and its gloomy apartments, it gives evidence of purposed resistance to sudden intrusion, and shows that security rather than convenience was the object of its builders—a lingering memorial of those grim and stern old times ere order had spread and law had superseded might, when even power could only feel secure when protected by strongly-fortified walls, a

Monument of rudest times,

When science slept entombed, and o’er the waste,

The heath-grown crag, and quivering moss of old

Stalk’d unremitted war.

The tower in general form is a parallelogram, measuring about forty-five feet by thirty; the strongly-grouted walls are surmounted by an overhanging parapet, with a watch-turret projecting from each angle, giving it the character of a fortalice—as, indeed, it was in the troublous times when watch and ward and beacon lights were necessary safeguards against sudden assaults. In an angle of the thick walls is a spiral stone staircase, communicating with the upper chambers and the roof—the latter, in its original state, having been flat and covered with lead. The masonry, though of great strength, is plain and of the simplest character, the only carved work being the small square-headed windows in the upper stories, which have foliated lights, divided by a mullion, and are apparently of later date than the main structure, having probably been inserted about the close of the long reign of Edward III. In one of these windows the arms and crests of the Harringtons and Stanleys were formerly to be seen, but they were some years ago removed for safety, and are now placed in a window of the adjacent farmhouse. One of the small diamond panes has the well-known Stanley crest—an eagle, with wings endorsed, preying upon an infant in its cradle, with the addition of the fret or Harrington knot—nodo firmo—at each angle. On another pane are the letters Q (the equivalent of W) H, with the fret above and below—the initials being probably those of Sir William Harrington, who, according to Dr. Whitaker, fell mortally wounded on the plains of Agincourt, on that memorable St. Crispin’s Day in 1415[17]. A third pane has depicted upon it an eagle’s claw, a cognizance of the Stanleys, with a fleur de lis on each side.

It is not known with certainty when Wraysholme was erected; but probably it was not long after William Mareschal, Earl of Pembroke, founded the Priory of Cartmel (1188); and it may have been intended as a protection for the fraternity of that house, in the same way that Piel Castle was for the security of the monks of Furness; but, if so, the brotherhood did not enjoy a very lengthened tenure, for a little more than a century after, it is found in the possession of the great feudal family of the Harringtons of Aldingham, descended from the Haveringtons or Harringtons of Haverington, near Whitehaven. Sir Robert Harrington, the first of the name settled at Aldingham, which he had acquired in right of his wife, had two sons, the younger of whom, Michael Harrington had—8 Edward II. (1314–15)—a grant of free-warren in Alinthwaite (Allithwaite), in which township Wraysholme is situated, but the property eventually passed to the descendants of the elder brother, Sir John, a great-grandson of whom, Sir William Harrington, Knight of the Garter, was standard-bearer at the battle of Agincourt, where he is erroneously said to have lost his life. This Sir William married Margaret, daughter and heir of Sir Robert Neville, of Hornby Castle, and by her had a son, Sir Thomas Harrington.

In the fierce struggles of the Red and White Roses the Harringtons ranged themselves on the side of the Yorkists, and suffered severely in that internecine conflict Sir Thomas Harrington, who married a daughter of the house of Dacre, and succeeded to the Hornby estates in right of his mother, fell fighting under the standard of the White Rose at Wakefield Green, and his only son, Sir John Harrington, received his death-blow while fighting by his side on that memorable day (December 31, 1460), a day fatal to the House of York, and scarcely less fatal to the victorious Lancastrians; for the cruelties there perpetrated by the Black-faced Clifford were repaid with ten-fold vengeance at Towton a few months later. Drayton, in his “Queen Margaret,” recounts the butcher-work that Clifford did at Wakefield when the brave Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, and his son, the Earl of Rutland, fell together—when

York himself before his castle gate,

Mangled with wounds, on his own earth lay dead;

Upon whose body Clifford down him sate,

Stabbing the corpse, and cutting off the head,

Crowned it with paper, and to wreak his teene,

Presents it so to his victorious queene,

and the “victorious queene,” the haughty Margaret of Anjou, in the insolence of her short-lived triumph, gave the order,—

Off with his head, and set it on York gates,

So York may overlook the town of York,

Dr. Whitaker tells us that when the news reached Hornby that Sir Thomas and Sir John Harrington, father and son, with their kinsman, Sir William Harrington, Lord Bonville of Aldingham, were slain, the widow of Sir Thomas withdrew to her daughter for consolation, but her son’s widow, Matilda, a sister of the Black-faced Clifford, partaking, as it would seem, of her brother’s hard nature, remained, and “was at leisure to attend to business.”

With Sir John’s death the male line of this branch of the Harringtons terminated. He left two daughters, Anne and Elizabeth, his co-heirs, then aged respectively nine and eight years. Their paternal uncle, Sir James Harrington, took forcible possession of the estates and claimed them as his own, but on an appeal to the Court of Chancery, he was dispossessed and committed to the Fleet, when the wardship of the two young heiresses and the custody of their inheritance were granted to Thomas Lord Stanley, who considerately married the eldest, Anne, to his third son, Sir Edward Stanley, the hero of Flodden Field, and the youngest to his nephew, John Stanley, of Melling, the son of his brother, the first Sir John Stanley[18] of Alderley, in Cheshire.

Sir Edward Stanley, who eventually became the possessor of both Wraysholme and Hornby, the former, as it would seem, having been forfeited to the Crown by the attainder of his wife’s uncle, Sir James Harrington, who, with his brother, Sir Robert, fought on the side of Richard III. at Bosworth Field, had been a soldier from his youth up. “The camp,” it is said, “was his school, and his learning the pike and sword.” The lords of Wraysholme, with their retainers, had many a time and oft set out to repel the Scots in their plundering raids across the Border, but now they were called upon to meet the Scottish King himself, who had entered England with a powerful army, and laid waste some of the Border strongholds. Summoning his followers, the valiant Stanley prepared himself for the field, when, as the old ballad tells us,—

Sir Edward Stanley, stiff in stour,[19]

He is the man on whom I mean,

With him did pass a mighty pow’r,

Of soldiers seemly to be seen.

Most lively lads in Lonsdale bred,

With weapons of unwieldy weight,

All such as Tatham Fells had fed,

Went under Stanley’s streamer bright.

* * * * *

From Silverdale to Kent sand side,

Whose soil is sown with cockle shells,

From Cartmel eke and Connyside,

With fellows fierce from Furness Fells.

He and his brave men marched forward until they came to “Flodden’s fatal field,” when Stanley was entrusted with the command of the rear of the English army, which he led so valiantly, and made such a sudden and unexpected onslaught with his bowmen, that the Scots were put to flight, leaving their King dead upon the field. Scott has enshrined Stanley’s deeds at Flodden in imperishable verse, and few couplets are more frequently quoted than that which tells us—

“Victory!—

Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!”

Were the last words of Marmion.

Doubtless it was a gay day at Wraysholme when the stout Lancashire lads, with their brave leader, returned to tell the tale of victory. Henry VIII., keeping his Christmas at Eltham, the following year (1514), commanded that Sir Edward Stanley, as a reward for his services in having won the hill and vanquished those opposed to him, as also that his ancestors bore the eagle as their crest, should there be proclaimed Lord Monteagle, which was accordingly done, and by that title he had summons to Parliament, and was made a Knight of the Garter.

Sir Edward Stanley, Lord Monteagle, died in 1584, and about this time the old peel of Wraysholme passed to the Dicconsons, a branch of the family of that name seated at Wrightington, in Eccleston parish, for in the following year “Richd. Dicconson, of Raisholme,” appears among the liberi tenentes in Cartmel parish, and the place continued in the possession of this family for a century or more. In 1756 it was purchased by John Carter, of Cart Lane, and given by him, in 1790, to his daughter Dorothy, the wife of John Harrison, from whom it has descended through the female line to the present possessor—Thomas Newby Wilson, of Landing, Newby Bridge.

The gloomy-looking old tower, in which the chivalrous and intrepid Harringtons so long held sway, now only exhibits the melancholy aspects of desertion and decay. It is used as an outbuilding to the neighbouring farmhouse, and, though much dilapidated, tells more of time, and time’s slow wasting hand, than of the ruinous havoc of ruthless war.

The glory has long passed away, for two centuries and more have rolled by since it was in the heyday of its prosperity. It is now tenantless and forlorn, its battlements are broken, its rooms are desolated, and the wind whistles through the narrow casements that once were storied with the heraldic achievements of its knightly owners. Old time has pressed heavily upon it—may no ruder hand hasten its destruction!

A little more than half a mile from Wraysholme Tower is Humphrey Head, a huge mass of carboniferous limestone that thrusts its gaunt form far out into the bay, dividing the Milnthorpe from the Ulverston Sands. To the north it rises abruptly from the plain, here grim and grey and lifeless-looking, and there decked with a rich embroidery of lichens, moss, and trailing ivy, while the ledges of the rock are covered with a thick vegetation of ash and hazel, the bright greenery of which is in places relieved by the darker foliage of the yew that here thrives luxuriously. Round towards the sea the steep acclivities are all broken, channelled, and weather-worn, with scarcely a sign of vegetation to relieve their general sterility; and huge heaps that have been brought down by successive storms lie strewn about the shore in picturesque confusion. The rocky cliff which rears its naked front almost perpendicularly to a considerable elevation is not without its tale of sorrow, as we gather from the following warning, inscribed upon a block of limestone:—

Beware how you these rocks ascend,

Here William Pedder met his end,

August 22nd, 1857. Aged 10 years.

Near the top of the cliff is the Fairies’ Cave—a large cavernous opening or recess formed by the shrinkage of the limestone; and at the base is the Holy Well, a mineral spring famed for its curative properties in Camden’s time, and which even within memory was resorted to by the Cumberland miners, who came in large numbers to drink its health-inspiring waters. The spring issues through a fissure in the rock within a few feet of the ground, the flow being at the rate of about a gallon a minute, continuing without variation through the different seasons of the year. The water is perfectly clear and colourless, and effervesces slightly on agitation—an indication of the presence of free carbonic acid. Dr. Barber, who has written an account of the spa, tells us the principal ingredients are the chlorides of sodium and magnesium, and the sulphates of lime and soda; and that in its chief characteristics it most resembles the waters at Wiesbaden and the Ragoczy spring at Kissingen. Its celebrity would seem to have arisen as much from its diluent powers as from its medicinal virtues; and probably recent analyses, which have disclosed the fact that it contains but a small proportion of solid ingredients, have broken the charm with which traditional piety had surrounded it, and caused the health-seeking pilgrims who formerly believed in its virtues to seek elsewhere the refreshing and restorative draughts which nature provides. The spring is now virtually abandoned; the cottage close by, in which the high-priestess formerly resided, is tenantless and falling to decay; but the key of the spring can be had from the neighbouring farmhouse.

Tradition gathers round this little corner of Lancashire, and the shaping power of imagination has clothed it with the weird drapery of romance—that

Dubious light

That hovers ’twixt the day and night,

Dazzling alternately and dim.

When the Harringtons established themselves here the wolf and the wild boar roamed at large through the thick forests of Cartmel, and among the legends and scraps of family history that have floated down through successive generations is the story that on the eminence to the north of Wraysholme the last wild boar was hunted down; from which circumstance the hill has ever since borne the name of Boar Bank. It is said, too, that, far back in the mist of ages, it was from Wraysholme Tower a gallant company rode forth to hunt the last wolf “in England’s spacious realm;” and that, after a long and weary chase, the savage beast was tracked to its lair on the wooded heights of Humphrey Head, and there transfixed by the spear of a Harrington. Tradition has been well described as the nursing-mother of the Muses, and these bits of legendary lore, which have been deeply rooted in the memories, and for many a generation have delighted the firesides, of the Cartmel cottagers, have inspired the pen of a local poet, who has told the story of “The Last Wolf” in spirit-stirring verse. This interesting ballad, though varying considerably from the current tradition, is yet a valuable contribution to our Palatine anthology. Its great length—seventy-five verses—prevents our giving it entire, but the following passages will give an idea of the salient features of the story:—

The sun hath set on Wraysholme’s Tower,

And o’er broad Morecambe Bay;

The moon from out her eastern bower

Pursues the track of day.

On Wraysholme’s grey and massive walls,

On rocky Humphrey Head,

On wood and field her silver falls,

Her silent charms are shed.

No sound through all yon sleeping plain

Now breaks upon the ear,

Save murmurs from the distant main,

Or evening breezes near.

* * * * *

Within those walls may now be seen

The festive board displayed,

And round it many a knight, I ween,

And many a comely maid.

For know that on the morrow’s dawn,

With all who list to ride,

Sir Edgar Harrington hath sworn

To hunt the country-side.

A wolf, the last, as rumour saith,

In England’s spacious realm,

Is doomed that day to meet its death,

And grace the conqueror’s helm.

And he hath sworn an oath beside,

Whoe’er that wolf shall quell

Shall have his fair niece for a bride,

And half his land as well.

The “fair niece” is the orphan Lady Adela—

For beauty famous far and wide,

whose heart has previously been given to Sir Edgar’s son; but the course of true love has been characterised by the proverbial absence of smoothness, and the young knight, to escape his father’s wrath, has betaken himself to the wars in Eastern lands.

The night’s carousal draws to a close, and at break of day the huntsman’s horn wakes the sleepers to a glorious chase, when

Full threescore riders mount with speed,

chief among whom, and the competitors for the fair Adela’s hand, are the two knights, Laybourne and Delisle—the latter the long-lost son of Sir Edgar, who has returned from the Crusades, and appears in disguise and under an assumed name, though the old retainers, as they view the stranger knight, know that

The long-lost wanderer meets their sight,

Whate’er his name be now.

The wolf, scared from his covert on Humphrey Head, leads the hunters a long and exciting chase over Kirkhead, past Holker and Newby, and across “the Leven’s brawling flood,” to the Old Man of Coniston. The dogs are again upon the track, and the grisly beast is away through “Easthwaite’s lonely deep,” through woodland, brake, and forest hoar, “through Sawrey’s pass,” and on to the shores of Windermere, where,

With one bold plunge, the mere he takes,

And, favoured by the wind,

The flabbing scent abruptly breaks,

And leaves his foes behind.

But the “tireless bloodhounds” are once more upon the scent, the rival knights follow in hot pursuit, and

Away along the wooded shore

The chase betakes him now,

Beneath the friendly shade of Tower

And craggy Gummerhow.

Then turn aside to Witherslack,

Where Winster’s waters range,

And thence to shingly Eggerslack,

And sand-surveying Grange.

Then, with the instinct of despair, the brute makes for his old haunt on Humphrey Head, as “evening shades appear.” Reaching a deep chasm in the rock, wolf and hounds rush headlong to their destruction. Laybourne’s horse rears at the “giddy brink,” but the “bold Delisle” rushes madly on, crying—

Adela! I’ll win thee now!

Or ne’er wend forth again.

Delisle and his “Arab white” pursue their headlong course down the rocky gulf—

Awhile from side to side it leapt,

That steed of mettle true,

Then swiftly to destruction swept,

Like flashing lightning flew.

The shingle in its headlong course,

With rattling din gave way;

The hazels snap beneath its force,

The mountain savins sway.

By chance the Lady Adela happens to be riding by at the moment, upon her “palfrey white”—

When, lo! the wild wolf bursts in sight,

And bares his glistening teeth!

Her eyes are closed in mortal dread,

And ere a look they steal,

The wolf and Arab both lie dead,

And scatheless stands Delisle!

The Red Cross knight now reveals himself as the lost son of Sir Edgar. The father welcomes the wanderer, and in fulfilment of his promise, bestows “his fair niece for a bride.” The result may be anticipated. The Prior of Cartmel, happening opportunely to be passing, “to drink the Holy Well”—

Sir Edgar straight the priest besought

To tarry for awhile;

Who, when the lady’s eye he caught,

Assented with a smile.

The “Fairies’ Cave,” on Humphrey Head, served for the nonce as a chapel, for

The monk he had a mellow heart,

And, scrambling to the spot,

Full blithely there he played his part,

And tied the nuptial knot.

And hence that cave on Humphrey Hill,

Where these fair deeds befel,

Is called Sir Edgar’s chapel still,

As hunters wot full well.

And still the holy fount is there

To which the prior came;

And still it boasts its virtues rare,

And bears its ancient name.

And long on Wraysholme’s lattice light,

A wolf’s head might be traced,

In record of the Red Cross Knight,

Who bore it for his crest.

In Cartmel church his grave is shown,

And o’er it, side by side,

All graved in stone, lies brave Sir John

And Adela his bride.

Such is “The Legend of the Last Wolf.” The supposed monument, “all graved in stone,” still adorns the choir of Cartmel church. Beneath the ponderous canopy the recumbent figures of the knight and his lady, lying side by side, may still be seen, looking the very types of chivalrous honour and conjugal felicity; and there for certainty is the sculptured figure of the veritable wolf, reposing quietly at their feet—confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ, although prosaic antiquaries, disdaining the faint glimmerings of truth that only steal through the haze of tradition, tell us, with irreverent disregard for the poetry of romance, that the story is apocryphal; and further try to shake our faith by affirming that the figures are those of the valiant Harrington, who fell fighting for the White Rose at Wakefield, and his wife, a daughter of the lordly house of Dacre. But we will not discuss the identity of the departed knights, or the merits of their respective claims to the battered effigies that have failed to perpetuate their names—monuments that

Themselves memorials need.

High up on Humphrey Head the cave in which the nuptial knot was tied still remains; and there, at the foot, is the Holy Well, the waters of which flow as freely as they did in days of yore, though now only imbibed when a chance wayfarer finds his way to this lonely seaside nook, and quaffs a goblet to the memories of the

Brave Sir John,

And Adela his bride,

and the holy friar who made them one.

CHAPTER IV.
AN AFTERNOON AT GAWSWORTH—THE FIGHTING FITTONS—THE CHESHIRE WILL CASE AND ITS TRAGIC SEQUEL—HENRY NEWCOME—“LORD FLAME.”

If any reader wishes to obtain a brief respite from the busy life of the “unclean city,” to get away from the noise of looms and spindles, the smoke of factories and the smell of dyes, and to find within easy distance of the great manufacturing metropolis a place of perfect quiet and repose where he may feel that for all practical purposes he is “at the world’s end,” let him by all means spend a summer afternoon in that quaint little out-of-the-way nook, Gawsworth, and he will return to the crowded mart with little inclination to cry out with the Roman Emperor, “Perdidi diem.” Yet how few there are who have made acquaintance with this beau-ideal of a quiet rural retreat. The places which it is the proper thing to visit, or “do,” as the phrase is, are all carefully mapped out for our convenience; but the literary finger-posts afford but little guidance to the true rambler, who knows that the fairest spots are those which are oftenest overlooked. Gawsworth may be easily reached from Alderley or Chelford; but perhaps the most convenient starting point is Macclesfield, from which it is distant a short four miles.

Macclesfield does not present a particularly prepossessing appearance, though it possesses much that is historically interesting, and you may here and there see relics of mediæval times; but the long centuries have wrought many changes in its condition, and those changes can hardly be said to be from grave to gay. Its forest was once the hunting-ground of kings. A royal palace occupied a site very near to the present Park Lane, and in the Fourth Edward’s reign Humphrey, Duke of Buckingham, had a princely residence there. The town itself was walled, and though there is not now a single stone remaining, the recollection of its fortifications is preserved in the streets—Chestergate, Church Wallgate, and Jordangate—which form the principal outlets from it. Notwithstanding that it once boasted a royal owner, it now presents but a dingy and uninviting aspect, so that we are little loth to leave its steep and tortuous streets, and what Nathaniel Hawthorne would call its ugliness of brick, and betake ourselves to the open country.

On getting clear of the town, we enter upon a pleasant rural highway that rises and falls in gentle undulations. Tall trees border the wayside, which, as we advance, grow thicker, until we reach a double line of spreading beeches that meet in an entanglement overhead, and form a long shady avenue, through which a pleasant vista is obtained. Now and then we meet a chance wayfarer and occasionally a sleepy-looking carter with his team, but the road is comparatively little frequented, and we almost wonder that with the limited traffic it does not become grass-grown. Though it is quiet now-a-days, it was lively enough in the old coaching times, when the “Red Rover” and the “Defiance” were in the zenith of their popularity, and the tootling of the guard’s bugle daily awoke the echoes to the inspiring notes of the “British Grenadiers,” for it was then the great highway between Manchester and the metropolis. But those days are changed, and our dream of the past is rudely dispelled by the shrill whistle of the “express” as it shoots along the edge of the Moss, leaving a long white pennon of steam in its wake.

As we journey on we get agreeable glimpses of the country, and the varied character of the scenery adds to the charm. Below us on the left stretches a broad expanse of bog—Danes Moss, as it is called—commemorating some long-forgotten incursion of the wild Scandinavian hordes—

When Denmark’s raven soared on high.

On the outskirts of the town is an old farmstead, called Cophurst, on the site of which, as tradition sayeth, Raphael Hollinshead, the chronicler, resided three hundred years ago. Close by is Sutton, once the home of another Cheshire worthy—Sir Richard Sutton—“that ever famous knight and great patron of learning,” as King, in his “Vale Royal,” calls him, “one of the founders of Brazenose, in Oxford, where by his bounty many of Cheshire youth receive most worthy education.” The foreground is broken into picturesque inequalities, and in the rear rises a succession of swelling hills, part of the great Kerridge range—the stony barriers of the Peak country. Where the steep crags cut sharply against the eastern sky is Teg’s Nose, famed for its gritstone quarries. Further on, Shutling’s Low rears its cone-shaped peak to a height of 1,660 feet, and behind we catch sight of the breezy moor, on the summit of which stands that lonely hostelry, the Cat and Fiddle, the highest public-house, it is said, to be found in the kingdom. The great hill-slopes, though now almost bare of wood, once formed part of the great forest of Macclesfield, in which for generations the Davenports, as chief foresters, held the power of life and death over the robber bands who in the old times infested it, as well as the punishment of those who made free with the Earl’s venison; and they not only held but exercised their rights, as the long “Robber Roll” at Capesthorne still testifies. Though it has long been completely disafforested, the memory of it still lingers. Forest Chapel, away up in the very heart of this mountain wilderness, perpetuates the name, and Wildboar Clough—Wilbor Clough, as the Macclesfieldians persist in calling it—Hoglegh, and Wolfscote remind us of the former denizens of these moorland wastes. Beyond Teg’s Nose a great gap opens in the hills, and then Cloud End rears its rugged form—dark, wild, and forbidding. From the summit, had we time to climb it, a charming view might be obtained of the picturesquely varied country—

Of farms remote and far apart, with intervening space

Of black’ning rock and barren down, and pasture’s pleasant face;

And white and winding roads that creep through village, vale, and glen,

And o’er the dreary moorlands, far beyond the homes of men.

GAWSWORTH OLD HALL.

On the right the scenery is of a more pastoral character. Lawns and meadows stretch away, and the eye ranges over the broad fertile plain of Cheshire—over quaint sequestered nooks and quiet homesteads, and old-fashioned villages, with here and there a grey church tower rising in their midst; over well-tilled fields and daisied pastures, and league upon league of cultivated greenness, where the thick hedgerows cross and recross each other in a network of verdant beauty. The crumbling ruins of Beeston Castle crowning the edge of a bold outlier of rock, may be dimly discerned, with Peckforton rising close by its side, and beyond, where a shadowy form reaches like a cloud across the horizon, we can trace the broken outline of the Welsh hills, with Moel Fammau towering above them all.

Presently the battlemented towers of Gawsworth Church are seen peering above the umbrage; then we come to a cross road, and, turning sharply to the left, continue along a green old bosky lane, and past the village school, close to which is a weather-worn memorial of bygone days—the old wayside cross standing beneath a clump of trees, erected, as old writers tell us, to “guide and guard the way to church,” and the sight of which, with the surroundings, calls to remembrance Hood’s lines on the symbol of the Christian’s faith:—

Say, was it to my spirit’s gain or loss,

One bright and balmy morning, as I went

From Liège’s lonely environs to Ghent,

If hard by the way-side I found a cross,

That made me breathe a pray’r upon the spot—

While Nature of herself, as if to trace

The emblem’s use, had trail’d around its base

The blue significant Forget-me-not?

Methought, the claims of Charity to urge

More forcibly, along with Faith and Hope,

The pious choice had pitched upon the verge

Of a delicious slope,

Giving the eye much variegated scope;—

“Look round,” it whisper’d, “on that prospect rare,

Those vales so verdant, and those hills so blue;

Enjoy the sunny world, so fresh and fair,

But (how the simple legend pierced me thro’!)”—

“Priez pour les Malheureux.”

For a short distance the road now descends, and near the bottom a bank rises abruptly on the right, crowned with a plantation of oak and larch—the “sylvan shade”—beneath which reposes the “breathless clay” of the eccentric poet, wit, and player—Samuel Johnson—known by his generation as “Lord Flame,” of whom we may have something to say anon. A few yards further on is the new hall, or “New Buildings,” as it is sometimes called, a plain brick house, the south wing only of which has been completed, built in Queen Anne’s reign by that Lord Mohun who brought the noted Cheshire will case to a sanguinary end, when he and his adversary, the Duke of Hamilton, fell together in a duel in Hyde Park, Nov. 15, 1712. At this point the view of Gawsworth opens upon us, presenting one of the fairest pictures of quiet rural beauty that Cheshire possesses. There is a dreamy old-world character about the place, a sweet fragrance of the olden time, and a peaceful tranquillity of the present; and the ancient church, the picturesque half-timbered rectory, and the stately old hall, with the broad grass-bordered road, the wide-spreading sycamores, and the old-fashioned fish ponds, in the weed-grown depths of which every object, with the overarching sky and the white clouds sailing therein are given back with distinct vividness, impart an air of venerable and undisturbed respectability. The place belongs so entirely to the past, and there seems such a remoteness between the hoar antiquity of a scene so thoroughly old English and the busy world from which we have just emerged, that we almost hesitate to advance.

GAWSWORTH CROSS.

There is no village, so to speak, the church, the parsonage, and the two halls, with a cottage or two adjoining the church steps, being all the buildings we can see; there is not even that usual and supposed to be indispensable adjunct of an old English country village, the village inn, the nearest hostelry being the Harrington Arms, an old coaching house on the London road, a quarter of a mile or more away. The church, a grey and venerable pile, with a remarkably well proportioned tower, which exhibits some good architectural details of the perpendicular period, stands in its graveyard, a little to the south of a broad grass-grown road, upon a gentle eminence encompassed by a grey stone fence that looks as ancient as the building itself. Tall trees overshadow it—larch and fir—that rear their lofty spines from near the water’s edge, and, yielding to the northern blasts, bend in graceful curves towards the ancient fane. You can mount the steps and pass through the little wicket into the quiet “God’s-acre,” and surely a spot more suggestive of calm and serious thought is rarely witnessed. Move slowly through the tall grass and round the green graves where

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep,

Tread lightly upon the weather-stained and moss-grown stones that loving hands have set up to keep alive the memories of those who sleep beneath. Near the porch is the chamfered shaft of an ancient cross, and close by two or three venerable yews cast their funereal shade. One of them, an aged torso, is garlanded with ivy, and buttressed on one side by a short flight of steps that have been built against it. Its gigantic roots grasp the earth with a tenacity that time cannot relax. It has lived through long centuries, and seen generation after generation christened, married, and buried, and, though now hollowed and decayed, the trunk still preserves some of that vitality that was in its fulness when the valorous Fittons were in the heyday of their power.

Separating the churchyard from the road is an artificial lake or fish-pond, one of a series of three or four, through each of which the water flows in succession, and where, in the chivalrous days of the knightly owners of Gawsworth, the water jousts and other aquatic games took place. But those times of pomp and pageantry have passed away, and the surface is now seldom ruffled save when occasionally a fish rises, or a stately swan glides gracefully through the warm sunshine. In its smooth mirror you can see the old grey tower, the projecting buttresses, the traceried windows, and the embattled parapets of the church, with their pleasant environment of green all clearly reflected, presenting the appearance of an inverted picture; while the old patrician trees that border the wayside bend over the glassy surface, creating in places a vernal shade that Undine might delight in.

On the opposite side is the Rectory, a picturesque old structure of black and white timber work, “magpie” as the people call it hereabouts, with quaint overhanging gables, grotesque carvings, and mullioned windows, with small diamond panes—one of them, that lighting the hall, a spacious apartment with an open timber roof, containing fragments of heraldic glass that would seem to have formerly belonged to the church. There is a wide entrance porch in the centre of the building, and over the door, between two shields of arms, this inscription—“Syr Edward Fytton, Knight, with my lady Mare ffyton, hys wyffe”—from which it has been commonly assumed that the house was built by Sir Edward Fitton, who married Mary, the daughter and co-heir of Guicciard Harbottle, of Northumberland, and so would fix the time of erection in the reign of Henry VIII. But this inscription originally belonged to another building of later date than the Rectory, which, as we learn from some verses preserved in Ashmole’s “Church Notes,” taken circa 1654, was erected by George Baguley, who was rector of Gawsworth from 1470 to 1497.

The “old” Hall, the ancestral home of the Fittons, now occupied by Lord Petersham, stands a short distance east of the church. Like the Rectory, it is half-timbered and of the Elizabethan period, but the building is now incomplete, a part having been taken down some seventy years ago, though the original quadrangular form may still be traced. In the rear, in what has been originally the courtyard, is a curious octagonal oriel of three stories, each story overhanging the one immediately below in a sort of telescope fashion. The windows are filled with leaded panes arranged in a variety of shapes and patterns. The principal front, which faces the road, has been rebuilt and painted in imitation of timber-work. Over the principal entrance is a shield of sixteen quarterings, representing the arms of the Fittons and their several alliances, surrounded by a garter, on which is inscribed the motto, “Fit onus leve”—a play upon the family name. There is also the following inscription beneath—

Hec scvlptvra finita fvit apvd

Villam Galviæ in Hibernia per

Richardvm Rany, Edwardo Fyton

Milite primo dn͞o presidente totius

Provinciæ Conatiæ et Thomoniæ.

Anno Domini 1570.

In front of the hall is a grove of walnut trees, very patriarchs of their kind; and adjoining is a large grassy amphitheatre, which Ormerod, the Cheshire historian, has described as “a deserted pleasure ground;” but, after careful examination, and with some show of probability, pronounced by Mr. Mayer to be an ancient tilting ground, where in times past the warlike Fittons amused themselves and their Cheshire neighbours with displays of martial skill and bravery.

Before we enter the church or view the hall, it may be well to glance briefly at the earlier history of the place. Gawsworth, though now an independent parish, was formerly included within the limits of the great parish of Prestbury; and even at the present day the whole of the townships which surround it—Macclesfield, Sutton, Bosley, North Rode, Marton, Siddington, and Henbury—all owe ecclesiastical allegiance to the mother church of that widespread parish. The original name, as we learn from the Domesday survey, was Gouersurde. After the Conquest it formed part of the possessions of the Norman Earls of Chester; one of whom, Randle de Meschines, in the twelfth century, gave it to his trusty follower, Hugh, son of Bigod, with the right of holding his own courts, without pleading before the prefects at Macclesfield, in consideration of his rendering to the earl annually a caparisoned horse; and this Hugh, in accordance with the fashion of the age, adopted the name of Gawsworth. Subsequently the manor seems to have passed to Richard Aldford, whose daughter, Lucy, brought it in marriage to the Orrebies, who held it free from all service save furnishing one man in time of war to assist in the defence of Aldford Castle. They retained possession until the reign of Edward I., when Richard, son of Thomas de Orreby, dying without male issue, his only sister, Isabel, who succeeded to the inheritance, and who had previously married in succession Roger de Macclesfeld and Sir John de Grindon, Knight, both of whom she survived, conveyed it on her marriage in 1316–17 to her third husband, Thomas Fytton, a younger son of Edmund Fytton, of Bolyn (Wilmslow); and thus Gawsworth became closely associated with a family noted for their chivalrous exploits, and famous in the annals of the county.

Of the early history of this distinguished family—“Knights of a long-continued Race and of great worth,” as Webb styles them—who for so many generations held sway and practised a splendid hospitality in Gawsworth, but few memorials have been preserved beyond the dry details embodied in their Inquisitiones post mortem in the Public Record Office, and the inscriptions which still remain upon the sumptuous monuments erected to their memory in the church which their pious munificence reared.

Thomas Fitton, who acquired the manor of Gawsworth by his marriage with the heiress of Orreby, had a son also named Thomas, who married Margaret, a daughter and co-heir of Peter Legh, of Bechton, and added to the patrimonial estate half of the manor of Bechton and lands in Lostock-Gralam, which he obtained in right of his wife. It was during the lifetime of this Thomas that we find the first attempt made to erect the chapelry of Gawsworth, which was then dependent upon Prestbury, into a separate parish. At that time the Abbot of St. Werburg’s, Chester, held the rectory of Prestbury, and in the chartulary of his house it is recorded that in April, 1382, he conceded to John Caxton, rector of Gawsworth, the privilege of burying his parishioners on paying a moiety of the dues within ten days after each burial, and with a proviso that any parishioner of Gawsworth might be interred at Prestbury without any claim on the part of the rector of Gawsworth.

In explanation of the granting of this privilege it may be mentioned that in those times, on the formation of a parish, the inhabitants were required to perform their parochial rites at the mother church, the “ealdan mynstre” of the parish. But as many parishes were of considerable territorial extent, those resident in the remote hamlets found it inconvenient to resort on all occasions to the mother church. To provide for the spiritual requirements of the people in such districts, private chapels or oratories, founded by the lords of the soil, were allowed to be licensed in convenient situations. They were frequently attached or immediately adjacent to the lord’s mansion, and were designed more especially for his own accommodation and that of his dependents; and Gawsworth, which is distant nearly six miles from Prestbury, was of this class. To prevent such foundations trenching upon the rights of the mother church, they were merely licensed for preaching and praying, the ministration of the sacrament of baptism and the performance of the right of burial being strictly prohibited. These latter were the true parochial rites, and the grant of them to a chapel or oratory severed its connection with the parish church, and converted it into a parochial chapel, or, more strictly speaking, into an independent church.

But who was John Caxton, the parson of Gawsworth? The name is not very frequently met with, and the thought suggests itself that he may have been, and probably was, a kinsman of that William Caxton who, a century later, set up his press in the precincts of Westminster Abbey, and revolutionised the world by practising the art which Gutenberg had invented.

In 1391 Thomas Fitton was appointed one of a number of influential persons in Cheshire who were constituted a commission to levy a subsidy of 3,000 marks (£2,000) in the city of Chester, on account of the King’s confirmation of the old charters belonging to that city. He died in 1397, and was succeeded by his son, Sir Lawrence Fitton, then aged 22, who married Agnes Hesketh, a daughter of the house of Rufford, in Lancashire. This Sir Lawrence, who held the lordship for the long period of 60 years, fills no inconsiderable space in the annals of the county. He was frequently one of the forest justices in eyre, the assizes being then held in Macclesfield, and took an active part in the stirring events of his time. When, in 1399, Richard the Second went over to Ireland to avenge the death of Roger Mortimer, by chastising the Irish chieftains who had risen in insurrection, he, in order to increase the strength of his Cheshire guard by a fresh levy, issued his orders to Sir Lawrence Fitton and others commanding them to summon the best archers in the Macclesfield hundred between 16 and 60, and to select a number to go to Ireland in his train, who were to be at Chester on the morrow of the Ascension of our Lord for inspection by the King’s officers. The King did not actually sail till the 4th of June, when he was joined by Sir Lawrence Fitton, who, as appears by an entry on the Recognizance Rolls of the palatinate, had protection granted him on his departure; and at this time, under date June 5, we find a licence to William Prydyn, parson of Gawsworth, Robert de Tounley, John Tryket, and Matthew del Mere to act as his attorneys and to look after his affairs while absent in Ireland on the King’s service.

“When the shepherd is absent with his dog the wolf easily leaps into the fold.” So says the proverb, and Richard had unpleasant experience of the truthfulness of it, for scarcely had he loosed his sails before some of the more discontented of his nobles at home were plotting for his overthrow.

Within a month of his departure Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Hereford, the only son of old John of Gaunt, who had been banished the kingdom, landed at Ravenspur, near Hull—as Shakspere writes—

The banish’d Bolingbroke repeats himself,

And with uplifted arms is safe arrived

At Ravenspurg,

and before the end of July was at the head of a large army in the wolds of Worcestershire. It was not until towns and castles had been yielded to the invader that the King received intelligence of the insurrection, for the winds had been contrary, and by the time he landed at Milford the revolution was virtually accomplished. Ill news does not always travel apace, and in these days, when the trembling wire speeds the message through air and sea, it seems difficult to realise the thought of a rebellion stalking through England unchecked for weeks without the news reaching in the sister isle him whom it most immediately concerned. On reaching England, Richard started for Chester, where he had many friends and his power was strongest. At Flint he was delivered by the perfidious Percy into the hands of Bolingbroke, thence he was taken to Chester, and afterwards conveyed to London and lodged in the Tower, when, after having resigned the crown, he was formally deposed—an act that was followed by his removal to Pontefract, where, according to common report, he was murdered by Sir Piers Exton and his assistants, though it is more likely he was allowed to perish of starvation.

Whether Fitton was one of those who hastened to pay court to the usurper, and in a bad game elected to adhere to the winning side, is not clear, but he must have quickly accommodated himself to the changed state of affairs, and to have gained the confidence of Bolingbroke—“King Henry of that name the Fourth.”

Scarcely was Richard dead when a great revulsion in public feeling occurred, old hatreds and jealousies were revived, and those who had clamoured most for his death now exclaimed—

Oh, earth, yield us that King again,

And take thou this;

and the usurping Henry, who had dreamed only of the throne as a bed of roses, found himself between the fell spectres conscience and insatiate treason. In Wales, where Richard had possessed a strong attachment, Owen Glendower raised the standard of revolt, renounced allegiance to the King, and claimed to be the rightful Prince of Wales, when he was joined by young Harry Percy, the Hotspur of the famous ballad of Chevy Chase. To meet this new danger, Prince Henry, Falstaff’s Prince Hal—“the nimble-footed mad-cap Harry, Prince of Wales,” who was also Earl of Chester, and lived much in the county, joined his forces to those of his father, and on the 11th January, 1403–4, we find him directing a writ to Sir Lawrence Fitton, requiring him to repair “to his possessions on the marches of Wales, there to make defence against the coming of Owen Glendower, according to an order in Council enacting that, on the occasion of the war being moved against the King, all those holding possessions on the marches should reside on the same for the defence of the realm,” and the Recognizance Rolls show that a few days later the Lord of Gawsworth was appointed on a commission “to inquire touching those who spread false rumours to the disquiet of the people of the county of Chester, and disturbance of the peace therein, also to array all the fencible men of the hundred of Macclesfield.”

In 1416, when, after the victory at Agincourt, Henry V. was preparing for his second expedition to France, with the design of claiming the crown, Sir Lawrence Fitton, with Sir John Savage, Knight, Robert de Hyde, Robert de Dokenfield, and John, the son of Peter de Legh, was appointed collector of the subsidy in the Macclesfield hundred, part of the 3,000 marks granted to the King by the county of Chester; and in 1428, with other influential Cheshire knights and gentry, he was summoned to the King’s Council at Chester, with regard to the granting of a subsidy to the King (Henry VI.) His death occurred on the 16th March, 1457, when he must have been over 80 years of age, and his inquisition was taken 37 Henry VI. (1459), when his grandson Thomas, then aged 26, was found to be his next heir. As previously stated, he had to wife Agnes Hesketh. This lady died in 1422, and he would appear to have re-married, for in the inquisition taken after his death mention is made of “Clemencia, his wife,” who is said to be then alive.

During his long life a movement was taking place in the Church which brought about a great change in religious thought and action, and in which Wycliffe, the rector of Lutterworth, may be said to have been the chief actor. The rapacity of the monks was securing or had secured for themselves the larger portion of the livings of the country, the parishes being handed over to the spiritual care of vicars, with the small tithes as a miserable stipend. In this manner the rich rectory of Prestbury had been appropriated to the Abbey of St. Werburg, Chester; and possibly it was this circumstance, as much as his own personal convenience, which induced Caxton, acting under the influence of his patron, the father of Sir Lawrence Fitton, to seek to detach the chapel of Gawsworth from the mother church of Prestbury. Having accomplished this, Sir Lawrence Fitton would seem to have set about the erection of a building more suited to its increased importance as a parish church, and an examination of the building points to the conclusion that the greater portion of the fabric was erected during his lifetime, as evidenced by the architectural details of the building, as well as by the shields of arms displayed on different parts of the tower, representing the alliances of the family, the latest impalement being the coat of Mainwaring, intended to commemorate the marriage of his son Thomas with Ellen, daughter of Randle Mainwaring, of Over Peover, which would seem to fix the date between the years 1420 and 1430, and not in the reign of Edward III., as generally supposed. In the Cheshire Church Notes, taken in 1592, there is preserved an account of a window to the memory of Sir Lawrence Fitton and his wife, which formerly existed in the church at Gawsworth. He is represented as in armour, and kneeling with his wife before desks in the attitude of devotion; on his surcoat were displayed the arms of Fitton, and on the lady’s mantle those of Hesketh; behind the knight were eight sons, and in rear of the lady four daughters, and underneath the inscription, “Orate pro bono statu Laurencii ffitton milit’ et Agnet’ uxor ejus cum pueris suis.”

By his wife Agnes Sir Lawrence Fitton had a son Thomas, who, as stated, married Ellen, daughter of Randle Mainwaring, of Over Peover, and their names were in like manner commemorated by a window, which has now disappeared, comprising three panes, one representing Sir Randle Mainwaring and his wife Margery, daughter of Hugh Venables, Baron of Kinderton, kneeling before desks; the second, Thomas Fitton and seven sons; and the third, his wife and six daughters, all kneeling, and the inscription, “Orate pro a’iabus Thomæ ffitton, filii Laurencii ffitton, et Elene ux’ ejus, et om’ puerorum suorum, qui istam fenestram fieri fecerunt.”

Thomas Fitton pre-deceased his father, leaving a son, also named Thomas, who succeeded as heir on the death of his grandfather in 1457, he being then 25 years of age. This Thomas inherited the martial spirit of his ancestors, and took his share in the fierce struggle of the White and Red Roses, which destroyed the flower of the English nobility, and impoverished and well-nigh exhausted the country—“that purple testament of bleeding war”—

When, like a matron butcher’d of her sons,

And cast aside some common way, a spectacle

Of horror and affright to passers by,

Our bleeding country bled at every vein!

He was present in the sanguinary encounter at Bloreheath, near Drayton, on that fatal 23rd July, 1459—St. Tecla’s Day—when Lord Audley and the Lancastrians were defeated, and was knighted on the field; and there is on the Cheshire Recognizance Rolls, under date April 29th, 38–9 Henry VI. (1460), the record of a general pardon granted to Thomas Fitton and Richard Fitton, late of Gawsworth; William, son of Lawrence Fitton, late of Gawsworth; Edward, brother of Thomas Fitton, late of Gawsworth; some of their kinsmen of the Pownall stock, and other Cheshire gentry, with a long list of residents in Gawsworth, the retainers of the Fittons—names that are still familiar in the neighbourhood—“in consideration,” as it states, “of the good service of the said Thomas Fitton, Knight, and his adherents at Blore-heth.” His name also occurs under date June 10, 1463, with those of John de Davenport, of Bramhall; Hugh Davenport, of Henbury; and Christopher Davenport, of Woodford, in the appointment of collectors of a subsidy for the King (Edward IV.) in the Macclesfield Hundred. He married Ellen, daughter of Sir Peter Legh, of Lyme, but this lady, who predeceased him, bore him no issue. He died April 27, 1494, when the estates devolved upon his brother and next heir, Edward Fitton, then aged 60 years. This Edward, by his marriage with Emmota, the daughter and sole heiress of Robert Siddington, had at that time acquired possession of two parts of the manor of Siddington, which had been held by his wife’s family for many generations on the tenure of rendering a red rose yearly, and thus he added materially to the territorial wealth and influence of the Gawsworth house. Though there is no absolute evidence of the fact, there is yet good reason to believe that the south porch of Gawsworth Church was added or rebuilt by this Edward Fitton, one of the carved decorations being a rose, in the leaves of which may be discerned two heads, evidently intended to represent Henry VII. and his Queen, who, by their marriage, had united the rival houses of York and Lancaster, and so terminated the long and bitter War of the Roses.

Edward Fitton died 15th February, 1510–11, leaving, with other issue, a son John, who succeeded as heir, and who, as appears by the inquisition taken after his father’s death, was then 40 years of age. He had married, in 1498, Ellen, daughter of Sir Andrew Brereton, the representative of a family that had been seated at Brereton from the time of William Rufus. By her he had, with other issue, a son Edward, who succeeded at his death, which occurred on the Sunday after St. Valentine’s Day, 1525. In the Cheshire Church Notes already referred to, mention is made of a memorial window formerly existing on the south side of Gawsworth Church, containing the arms of Fitton quartering those of Siddington and Bechton, with the inscription underneath: “Orate pro a’iabus Edwardi ffitton et Emmotæ uxis suæ, et pro a’iabus Johannis ffitton, et Elene ux’ sue ... et Roberti Sedyngton et Elene uxoris sue;” and there was also formerly in one of the windows of the south aisle of Wilmslow Church, as we learn from Mr. Earwaker’s “East Cheshire,” a representation of John Fitton and his wife. The drawing made by Randle Holmes shows the figure of a knight kneeling on a cushion and wearing a tabard of arms, the coat being that of Fitton of Gawsworth; and lower down is a knight kneeling, with his tabard of arms quarterly—(1) Orreby, (2) Siddington, (3) Bechton, and (4) Fitton. Behind him kneel eight sons; opposite, also kneeling, is his wife, wearing an heraldic mantle representing the arms of Brereton, with a shield containing the same coat above her head; and behind her, kneeling, six daughters. The inscription had then disappeared, but it is clear that the first figure was intended for Edward Fitton of Gawsworth, whilst the other represented his son John, and his wife, Ellen Brereton, and their children.

On the death of John Fitton, in 1525, the family estates devolved upon his eldest son Edward, who received the honour of knighthood, and in the 35th Henry VIII. (1543–4) held the shrievalty of the county. He married Mary, the younger daughter and co-heir of Sir Guiscard Harbottle, a Northumberland knight, and by her had five sons and six daughters. He died on February 17, 1548, and on his inquisition, which was taken the same year, Edward Fitton, his son, then aged 21 years, was found to be his heir.

Edward Fitton, who succeeded to the Gawsworth estates on the death of his father, in 1548, was born 31st March, 1527; and when only 12 years of age had been united in marriage with Anne, one of the daughters of Sir Peter Warburton, of Warburton and Arley, the lady being a month younger than himself. He was one of the foresters of Macclesfield, and was exempted from serving upon juries and at the assizes, in accordance with the terms of a writ dated 29th March, 5 and 6 Edw. VI. (1532), addressed to the sheriff of the county. Eight years after his coming in possession of the patrimonial lands, as appears by letters patent bearing date 3 and 4 Philip and Mary (1556–7), he, in conjunction with William Tatton, of Wythenshawe, who in 1552 had espoused his eldest sister, Mary, obtained a grant from the Crown of Etchells, part of the confiscated estates of Sir William Brereton, together with Aldford and Alderley, the property being subsequently partitioned; Aldford and Alderley remaining with Sir Edward, whilst Etchells passed to his son-in-law, William Tatton.

Subsequently his name occurs in the palatine records, with those of William Davenport, Knt., and William Dokenfield and Jasper Worth, Esquires, as collectors of a mise in Macclesfield, in 1559–60.

The influential position which the Fittons held in their own county was due, as we have seen, not less to their martial bearing than to their successful marriages, and it was this chivalrous spirit which was ever a characteristic of the stock that led to their being frequently employed in the public service. In the person of Sir Edward Fitton the ancient fame of the family was well sustained. In 1569, the year in which Shane O’Neill, the representative of the royal race of Ulster, was attainted in Parliament—that daring chief of a valorous line, whose

Kings with standard of green unfurl’d,

Led the Red-branch knights to danger;

Ere the emerald gem of the western world

Was set in the crown of a stranger—

when Ireland was in a state of anarchy and confusion—when the Desmonds and the Tyrones were trying the chances of insurrection rather than abdicate their unlicensed but ancient chieftainship, and the half-civilised people were encouraged in their disobedience to the law by the mischievous activity of the Catholic clergy, who had been forcibly dispossessed of their benefices, and therefore wished to free themselves from the English yoke—Sir Edward Fitton was sent over to Ireland by Queen Elizabeth to fill the difficult and responsible post of first Lord President of the Council within the Province of Munster and Thomond—an office he held for a period of over three years. His position can hardly be said to have been an enviable one, for the country at that time had become so wasted by war and military executions, and famine and pestilence, that two years previously Sir Henry Sidney, the viceroy, in his letters to Elizabeth, described the southern and western counties as “an unmeasurable tract, now waste and uninhabited, which of late years was well tilled and pastured.” He adds,—

A more pleasant nor a more desolate land I never saw than from Youghall to Limerick.... So far hath that policy, or rather lack of policy, in keeping dissension among them prevailed, as now, albeit all that are alive would become honest and live in quiet, yet are there not left alive in those two provinces the twentieth person necessary to inhabit the same.

And the description is confirmed by a contemporary writer—a Cheshire man, by the way, whose early life was spent in the neighbourhood of Gawsworth (Hollinshead)—who thus expresses the truth with hyperbolical energy:—

The land itself, which before those wars was populous, well inhabited, and rich in all the good blessings of God, being plenteous of corn, full of cattle, well stored with fruits and sundry other good commodities, is now become waste and barren, yielding no fruits, the pastures no cattle, the fields no corn, the air no birds, the seas, though full of fish, yet to them yielding nothing. Finally, every way, the curse of God was so great, and the land so barren, both of man and beast, that whosoever did travel from one end unto the other he should not meet any man, woman, or child, saving in towns and cities; nor yet see any beast but they were wolves, the foxes, and other like ravenous beasts.

On the dissolution of the Council in September, 1572, Sir Edward Fitton returned to England; but remained only a few months, when he was appointed (March, 1573) Treasurer for the War and Vice-Treasurer and Receiver-General in Ireland. He appears to have taken up his abode in Dublin, where in January of the following year he lost his wife. She was buried in St. Patrick’s Cathedral, in that city, January, 1573–4; and in the MSS. of Bishop Sterne there is preserved the following curious account of the ceremonial observed on the occasion of her funeral:—

“The order in the presyding for buriall of the worshypful Lady Fitton, on Sonday, bein the 17 day of January, Anno 1573.

First, serteyne youmen to goo before the penon with the armes of Syr Edwarde Fytton, and his wyfe’s dessessed; and next after them the penon, borne by Mr. Rycharde Fytton, second son to Syr Edw. Fytton and Lady, his wyfe dessessed; and sarten gentillmen servants to the sayd Syr Edw. Fytton; then the gentill-hossher and the chapplens, and then Ulster Kyng of Armes of Ierland, weyring his mornyng goune and hod, with hys cote of the armes of Ynglande. And then the corpes of the sayd Lady Fytton, and next after the corps the lady Brabason, who was the principal morner, bein lyd and assysted by Sir Rafe Egerton, knyght, and Mr. Fran. Fytton, Esq., brother to the said Syr Edwarde, and next after her, Mistress Agarde, wyfe to Mr. Fran. Agarde; then Mrs. Chalenor, wyfe to Mr. John Chalenor; then Mrs. Dyllon; then Mrs. Bruerton, being the other III murners. Then Syr Edward Fytton goying bytwene the Archebysshoppe of Dublin and the Bishop of Methe; then Sir John Plunkett, Chefe Justice of Ireland; then Master Dyllon, beying the Chefe Baron; then Mr. Fran. Agard and Mr. John Chalenor, wyth other men to the number of XIII gentylmen; then sarten other gentyllwomen and maydens, morners, to the nomber of VIII; and then the Mayor of Dublyn, wyth his brytherne, the Schyreffes and Aldermen; and the poure folks VI men on the one syde of the corse and VI women on the other syde. And so coming to the cherche of St. Patryke, where was a herse prepared, and when they cam to the herse, the yomen stode, halfe on the one side and halfe on the other, the penon berer stood at the fette of the corps; then the corps was layd upon a payer of trestels within the herse, and then the III morners were brought to their places by Ulster Kyng of Armes aforesaid, and the cheffe morner was brought to her place at the hede of the corps, and so the herse was closd; and the tow assystants set uppon tow stowles without the rayles, and then sarvyce was begon by the Bysshope of Methe, and after sarvyce there was a sermon made, and the sermon endyd, the company went home to the house of the sayd Sir Edw. Fytton; and the corpse was buryed by the reverent father, the Bysshop of Methe, and when the corpse was buryed, the clothe was layd again upon the trestylls wythin the herse, which was deckyed with scochyens of armes in pale of hys and her armes, and on the morow the herse was sett over the grave and the penon sett in the wall over the grave. And Ulster Kyng of Armes had V yardes of fyne blake clothe for his lyvery, and 50s. sterling for hys fee, and the herse with the cloth that was on the corse wyth all the furnyture there of the herse.”

It may be mentioned that the claim of Ulster King of Arms to the costly materials of which the hearse was composed was disputed by the Vicars Choral of St Patrick’s, and the matter was not settled until 1578, when a decision was given in favour of the former by the Lord Deputy of the Council. Sir Edward Fitton died July 3, 1579, and his remains were interred by the side of those of his wife, the memory of both being perpetuated in an inscription on a sepulchral brass still remaining in St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin, on which is engraved the figure of a man with nine children behind him, and, opposite, a woman with six children behind her, all kneeling. The inscription which is below is as follows:—

Glorify thy name, hasten thy

Kingdome; Comforte thy flock;

Confound thy adversaries;

Ser Edward ffitton, of Gausworth, in the counte of Chester, in Englande, knight, was sent into Ireland by Quene Elizabeth, to serve as the first L President of her highnes Counsell within the province of Connaght and Thomonde, who landing in Ireland on the Ascention day, 1569, Ao. R. R. Elizabeth XI. lyued there in the rome aforesaid till Mighellmas, 1572, Ao. Elizabeth XIIIIº.; and then, that Counsell being dissolued, and he repayring into England, was sent over againe in March next following as Threasaurer at Warres, Vice-treasaurer, and general receyvor within the realme of Ireland, and hath here buried the wyef of his youth, Anne, the seconnd daughter of Sir Peter Warburton, of Areley, in the county of Chester, knight, who were born both in one yere, viz., he ye last of Marche, 1527, and she the first of May in the same yeare; and were maried on Sonday next after Hillaries daye, 1539, being ye 19 daye of Januarie, in the 12 yere of their age, and lyued together in true and lawfull matrymonie just 34 yeres; for the same Sonday of ye yere wherein they were maried, ye same Sondaie 34 yeres following was she buried, though she faithfully departed this lyef 9 daies before, viz., on the Saturdaie, ye 9 daie of Januarie, 1573; in which time God gave them 15 children, viz., 9 sonnes and six daughters; and now her body slepeth under this Stone, and her soul is retourned to God yt gave yt, and there remayneth in kepinge of Christe Jesus, her onely Saviour. And the said Ser Edward departed this lyef the thirde daie of July, Ao. Dni. 1579, and was buried the xxi daie of September next folowing; whose fleshe also resteth under the same stone, in assured hope of full and perfect resurrection to eternall lyef in ioye, through Christe his onely Saviour; and the said Ser Edward was revoked home into England, and left this land the —— day of —— Anno Domini being the —— yere of his age.

At the east end of the north side of Gawsworth Church there is a replica of this inscription, with the figures of Sir Edward and Lady Fitton, and their fifteen children.

A younger brother of Sir Edward was Francis Fitton, who in 1588 married Katherine, the Countess Dowager of Northumberland, one of the four daughters and co-heirs of John Neville Lord Latimer. His portrait was formerly to be seen in the “new” hall at Gawsworth, with a long and curious inscription surrounding it, recording some of the alliances of the family.

Sir Edward Fitton, as stated, died July 3, 1579. His inquisition was taken the following year, when his son, Sir Edward Fitton, Knight, then aged 30, was found to be his heir. He was probably at the time in Ireland, for it was not until April 24, 25 Elizabeth (1583), that he had livery of his lands. In 1602, as appears by an indenture dated June 20 in that year, he sold the manor of Nether Alderley, which had been acquired by his father, to Thomas Stanley, ancestor of the present Lord Stanley of Alderley. Sir Edward filled the office of President of Munster, in Ireland, and died in 1606, leaving, by his wife Alice, daughter and sole heir of John Holcroft, of Holcroft, in Lancashire, with other issue, a son, Sir Edward Fitton, born 29th November, 1572, who was created a Baronet in 1617. He died May 10, 1619, being then aged 47, and was buried at Gawsworth, where a sumptuous monument was erected to his memory by his wife, “the Lady Ann Fytton,” daughter and co-heir of James Barratt, of Tenby, in Pembrokeshire, Esq., with the following extravagant effusion inscribed on a panel below:—

Least tongves to fvtvre ages shovld be dvmb,

The very stones thvs speak abovt ovr tomb.

Loe, two made one, whence sprang these many more,

Of whom a King once prophecy’d before.

Here’s the blest man, his wife the frvitfvl vine,

The children th’ olive plants, a gracefvll line,

Whose sovle’s and body’s beavties sentence them

Fitt-ons to weare a heavenly Diadem.

Lady Ann Fitton survived her husband many years. Her will bears date January 31, 1643–4, but the date of probate has not been ascertained. In it she bequeaths several small legacies to her grandchildren and others, appoints her daughter, Mrs. Lettice Cole, sole executrix, and her two grandchildren, William, Lord Brereton, and Charles Gerard, supervisors. She died 26th March, 1644, and was buried at Gawsworth.

On the death of Sir Edward the family estates passed to his son, also named Edward, who was baptised at Gawsworth, August 24th, 1603, and must, therefore, have been under age on his accession to the property. In October, 1622, he married Jane, daughter of Sir John Trevor, of Plâs Teg, in Denbighshire, by whom he had a daughter, Margaret, who died in infancy. Lady Fitton died June, 1638, and was buried at Gawsworth, when Sir Edward again entered the marriage state, his second wife being Felicia, daughter of Ralph Sneyd, of Keel, in Staffordshire. Concerning this second marriage there is the following curious entry in the Corporation books of the borough of Congleton:—

1638. Paid for an entertainment for Sir Edwd. Fitton, of Gawsworth, his bride, father, and mother-in-law, on their first coming through the town, and divers other gentlemen who accompanied him and his bride, on their going to Gawsworth to bring his lady. He sent his barber two days before to the mayor and aldermen, and the rest, to entreat them to bid them welcome 12s. 4d.

The civic authorities of Congleton were noted for their hospitality, and we may therefore assume that little “entreaty” was required on the part of the “barber” to secure a cordial welcome for the Baronet and his bride. We are not told what the entertainment consisted of, but no doubt the cakes and sack for which the old borough had even then long been famous entered largely into the festivities, though the amount charged does not suggest the idea of any very extravagant convivialities.

Sir Edward was soon called by the stern duties of the times from the enjoyment of domestic life. Clouds were gathering upon the political horizon which heralded a tempest; the seeds of civil war had been sown, and soon King and Commons were arrayed against each other, neither caring for peace, for if the olive branch was held out it was stripped of its leaves, and appeared only as a dry and sapless twig. In the great struggle between Charles and the Parliament the owner of Gawsworth espoused the cause of his Sovereign, and distinguished himself in several military engagements. He raised a regiment of infantry for the King’s service from among his own tenantry and dependents, of which he had the command; and the good people of Congleton, not wishing to have the tranquillity of their town disturbed by the quartering of his troops in it, in the hope of avoiding the inconvenience proferred him their hospitality, as one of the entries in the Corporation accounts shows:—

1642. Wine gave to Colonel Fitton, not to quarter 500 soldiers on the town3s. 4d.

Colonel Fitton fought in the battle at Edgehill, where the two armies were first put in array against each other, and was also present with the King at the taking of Banbury, as well as in the operations at Brentford and Reading. He afterwards took part with Prince Rupert in the storming of Bristol, and when that city—exceeded only by London in population and wealth—was, after a terrible slaughter, surrendered (July 27, 1643) by Nathaniel Fiennes to the arms of its sovereign, he was left in charge of the garrison, and died there of consumption in the following month, at the early age of 40. His body was removed to Gawsworth for interment, and the occasion of its passing through the town of Congleton is thus referred to in the accounts:—

Paid for carrying Sir Edwd. Fitton through the town, and for repairing Rood-lane for the occasion4s. 0d.

In the south-east angle of Gawsworth Church there is a large monument to the memory of Sir Edward, his first wife, and their infant daughter, placed there by his second wife, who survived him, and afterwards re-married Sir Charles Adderley. It consists of an arch resting upon pillars, beneath which is an altar-tomb supporting the effigies of Sir Edward and his wife, and that of their infant daughter. A tablet containing a long Latin inscription, formerly affixed to the south wall, beneath the canopy, has in recent years been removed to the east wall of the chancel.

Sir Edward left no surviving issue, a circumstance which gave rise to almost endless contentions between the kinsmen of his name and their cousins—the Gerards. Lawsuit followed lawsuit; long and rancorous were the proceedings in the “Great Cheshire Will Case,” as it was called; and the fierce struggle, which began in one century with forgery, followed by seduction and divorce, was ended in the next, when the husbands of the two ladies who claimed to be heiresses were slain by each other in a murderous duel in Hyde Park. Immediately after the death of Sir Edward Fitton, Penelope, Anne, Jane, and Frances, his four sisters—married respectively to Sir Charles Gerard, Knight; Sir John Brereton, Knight; Thomas Minshull, Esquire; and Henry Mainwaring, Esquire—entered upon possession of the estates; but, after long litigation, they were ejected by William Fitton, son of Alexander, second surviving son of Sir Edward Fitton, Treasurer of Ireland, who claimed under a deed alleged to have been executed by Sir Edward, settling the estates upon himself, with remainder in succession to his sons, Edward and Alexander, the latter of whom succeeded him in the possession, and he obtained three verdicts in his favour. One of the sisters of Sir Edward Fitton—Penelope—had married Sir Charles Gerard, of Halsall, in Lancashire, and by him had a son, Sir Charles Gerard, created Lord Brandon in 1645, and Earl of Macclesfield in 1679. Lord Brandon was one of the notable gallants at the profligate Court of Charles II. He held the office of Gentleman of the Bedchamber, and was also Captain of the Guards—the latter a commission which he relinquished for a douceur of £12,000 when the King wanted to bestow the dignity upon his illegitimate son, the Duke of Monmouth. He kept up a large establishment in London, surrounded by trim gardens, the remembrance of which is perpetuated in the names of the streets that now occupy the site—Gerard Street and Macclesfield Street, in Soho. His wife, a French lady, brought herself into disfavour at Court through indulging in the feminine propensity of allowing her tongue to wag too freely in disparagement of the notorious courtesan, Lady Castlemaine, as we learn from an entry in “Pepys’s Diary”:—

1662–3. Creed told me how, for some words of my Lady Gerard’s against my Lady Castlemaine to the Queene, the King did the other day apprehend her in going out to a dance with her at a ball, when she desired it as the ladies do, and is since forbid attending the Queen by the King; which is much talked of, my lord her husband being a great favourite.

On the restoration of the King, nineteen years after the death of Sir Edward Fitton, and thirty after the entail had been confirmed, as alleged by a deed-poll, Lord Gerard produced a will which would be looked for in vain in the Ecclesiastical Court at Chester, purporting to have been made in his favour by his mother’s brother, Sir Edward Fitton. Hot, fierce, and anxious was the litigation that followed, and in 1663 a small volume was printed at the Hague, entitled, “A True Narrative of the Proceedings in the several Suits-in-law that have been between the Right Honourable Charles, Lord Brandon, and Alexander Fitton, Esqr., published for general satisfaction, by a Lover of Truth.” Fitton pleaded the deed-poll, but Gerard brought forward one Abraham Grainger, then confined in the Gate House, who made oath that he had forged the name of Sir Edward to the deed under a threat of mortal violence, whereupon the Court of Chancery directed a trial to determine whether the deed-poll was genuine or not. The forgery was admitted by Grainger, and corroborated by other witnesses, who deposed that they had heard Fitton confess that Grainger had forged a deed for him, for which he had paid him £40. The judgment of the Court was given in favour of Gerard, and the deed declared to be a forgery.

The strangest part of the story remains. Grainger, impelled either by remorse or the desire to escape a heavy penalty by acknowledging the smaller offence, made a written confession setting forth that he had perjured himself when he swore that he had forged the name of Sir Edward, and had been compelled to do so by the threats of Lord Gerard. Pepys, who had a strong dislike to Lord Gerard, refers to the circumstance in his “Diary”:—

My cosen, Roger Pepys, he says, showed me Grainger’s written confession of his being forced by imprisonment, &c., by my Lord Gerard, most barbarously to confess his forging of a deed in behalf of Fitton, in the great case between him and my Lord Gerard; which business is under examination, and is the foulest against my Lord Gerard that ever anything in the world was, and will, all do believe, ruine him; and I shall be glad of it.

The anticipations of the gossiping diarist were not, however, realised. The confession, being unsupported by evidence, was discredited, and Fitton, who was adjudged to be the real offender, was fined £500 and committed to the King’s Bench.

Alexander Fitton, who was thus dispossessed of the property, lingered in prison until the accession of James II., when, having embraced the Romish faith, he was released from confinement and taken into favour by the King, who made him Chancellor of Ireland, and subsequently conferred upon him the honour of knighthood and created him Lord Gawsworth. He sat in the Irish Parliament of 1689, where he appears to have been actively employed in passing Acts of forfeiture of Protestant property, and attainder of Protestant personages. On the abdication of James he accompanied him into exile, where he remained, and, dying, left descendants who, it is to be feared, benefited little from the tutelar dignities his sovereign had conferred upon him.

The whimsical finesse of the law, which wrested from Alexander Fitton the lands owned for so many generations by his progenitors and bestowed them upon the Gerards, though it added wealth, did not convey peace or contentment to the successful litigants. Their history during the brief period they owned the Gawsworth estates partakes much of the character of a romance in real life, but it is one that is by no means pleasant to contemplate. Charles Gerard, on whom the barony of Brandon and the earldom of Macclesfield had been successively conferred, died in January, 1693–4, when the titles and estates devolved upon his eldest son, who bore the same baptismal name. Charles, the second earl, was the husband of the lady who, by her adulterous connection with Richard Savage, Earl Rivers, and as the heroine of the famous law case that followed upon the birth of the celebrated but unfortunate poet, Richard Savage, acquired an unenviable notoriety even in that age, when profligacy formed such a prominent characteristic of society.

The Countess of Macclesfield, under the name of Madame Smith, and wearing a mask, was delivered of a male child in Fox Court, near Brook Street, Holborn, by Mrs. Wright, a midwife, on Saturday, the 16th January, 1697–8. The earl denied the paternity, and satisfactorily proved the impossibility of his being the father of the son borne by his countess; who, on her side, narrated a stratagem she had devised, whereby the disputed paternity could not be denied. The stratagem was not unknown in the licentious comedies of the time, but no credit was given to it in this case; and thus the honour of Gerard was saved from being tainted by the bastard of Savage. A divorce was granted in 1698; but the law deemed the earl to be accountable, through his own profligacy, for the malpractices of his wife, and decreed that he should repay the portion he had received with her in marriage. With this amount she married Colonel Brett, the friend of Colley Cibber, by whom she had a daughter, Ann Brett, the impudent mistress of George I., her illegitimate offspring by Lord Rivers—Richard Savage, whom she disowned—being educated at the cost of her mother, Lady Mason. It has been alleged that Savage was an impostor, and this opinion was held by Boswell, the biographer of Dr. Johnson, who says: “In order to induce a belief that the Earl Rivers, on account of a criminal connection with whom Lady Macclesfield is said to have been divorced from her husband by Act of Parliament, had a peculiar anxiety about the child which she bore to him, it is alleged that his lordship gave him his own name, and had it duly recorded in the register of St Andrew’s, Holborn. I have,” he adds, “carefully inspected that register, and I cannot find it.” That Boswell should have failed in the discovery is explained by a reference to “The Earl of Macclesfield’s Case,” presented to the House of Lords in 1697–8, from which it appears that the child was registered by the name of Richard, the son of John Smith, and christened on Monday, January 18th, in Fox Court, and this statement is confirmed by the following entry in the register of St. Andrew’s, Holborn:—

Jany., 1696–7. Richard, son of John Smith and Mary, in Fox Court, in Gray’s Inn Lane, baptized the 18th.

Notwithstanding the discredit that has been thrown upon Savage’s story, there can be little doubt of its truth. It was universally believed at the time, and no attempt was ever made by the countess to contradict or to invalidate any of the statements contained in it. Moreover, he was openly recognised in the house of Lord Tyrconnell, a nephew of the Countess of Macclesfield, with whom he resided as a guest for two years, and he was also on terms of acquaintance with the Countess of Rochford, the illegitimate daughter of Earl Rivers by Mrs. Colydon.[20]

The Earl of Macclesfield did not long survive the granting of his divorce. He was sent as Ambassador to Hanover, and died there, November 5, 1701, when the title devolved upon his younger brother, Fitton Gerard, who died unmarried in the following year, when the Earldom of Macclesfield became extinct, the estates then passing under the will of the second earl to his niece and co-heiress, the daughter of his sister, Charlotte Mainwaring, married to Charles, Lord Mohun, son of Warwick, Lord Mohun, by Philippa, daughter of Arthur, Earl of Anglesey. The preference thus shown offended the Duke of Hamilton, who had married the daughter of another niece, Elizabeth, daughter and sole heiress of Digby, Lord Gerard—by his wife, the Lady Elizabeth Gerard—the heir-general of the Macclesfield family, who felt himself injured by this disposition of the property. A lawsuit to determine the validity of Lord Macclesfield’s will was commenced, much jealousy and heart-burning followed, and eventually the two disputing husbands brought their feud to a sanguinary end in the memorable duel which proved fatal to both.

The circumstances of this tragic affair are recorded in Dean Swift’s “History of the Four Last Years of Queen Anne,” published in 1758, and are more fully detailed in “Transactions During the Reign of Queen Anne,” published in Edinburgh in 1790, by Charles Hamilton, a kinsman of one of the combatants. It appears that upon the return of Lord Bolingbroke, after the peace of Utrecht, and the suspension of hostilities between Great Britain and France, the Duke of Hamilton, long noted for his attachment to the Stuarts, and the acknowledged head of the Jacobite party, was appointed Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary to the Court of France. Previous to his departure he wished to bring to a close the Chancery suit which had been pending between Lord Mohun and himself. With that view he, on the 13th November, 1712, attended at the chambers of Olebar, a Master in Chancery, where his adversary met him by appointment. In the course of the interview, Mr. Whitworth, formerly the steward of the Macclesfield family, gave evidence, and, as his memory was much impaired by age, the duke somewhat petulantly exclaimed, “There is no truth or justice in him,” upon which Lord Mohun retorted, “I know Mr. Whitworth. He is an honest man, and has as much truth as your grace.” This grating remark was allowed to pass unnoticed at the time, but Lord Mohun afterwards meeting with General Macartney and Colonel Churchill, both violent men, and declared partisans of the Duke of Marlborough, who had then been removed from the command of the army by the party to which the Duke of Hamilton was attached, it would seem that the offending person was induced by them to challenge the person offended. Preliminaries having been arranged, the combatants met in Kensington Gardens, Hyde Park, on the morning of the 15th November—the duke attended by his relative, Colonel Hamilton, and Lord Mohun by General Macartney. In a few moments the affair was ended, and when the park keepers, alarmed by the clashing of swords, rushed to the spot whence the sound proceeded, they found the two noblemen weltering in their blood—Lord Mohun was already dead, and the Duke of Hamilton expired before he could be removed. Nor had the combat been limited to the principals alone. The seconds had crossed swords and fought with desperate rancour. Colonel Hamilton remained upon the field, and was taken prisoner, but Macartney fled to the Continent. Colonel Hamilton subsequently declared upon oath, before the Privy Council, that, when they met upon the ground, the duke, turning to Macartney, said, “Sir, you are the cause of this, let the event be what it will.” To which Macartney replied, “My lord, I had a commission for it.” Lord Mohun then said, “These gentlemen shall have nothing to do here.” Whereupon Macartney exclaimed, “We will have our share.” To which the duke answered, “There is my friend—he will take his share in my dance.” Colonel Hamilton further deposed that when the principals engaged, he and Macartney, as seconds, followed their example; that Macartney was immediately disarmed; but that he (Colonel Hamilton), seeing the duke fall upon his antagonist, threw away the swords, and ran to lift him up; and that, while he was employed in raising the duke, Macartney, having taken up one of the swords, stabbed his grace over Hamilton’s shoulder, and retired immediately.

A prodigious ferment was occasioned by this duel, which assumed a high political character. Neither of the combatants were men who could lay claim to any great admiration on the score of integrity or principle. Lord Mohun had, in fact, been long known as a brawler, and had acquired an infamous reputation for his share in the murder of William Mountford, the player, before his own door, in Howard Street, Strand. The Duke of Hamilton, as we have said, was the recognised head of the Jacobite faction, whilst his antagonist, Lord Mohun, was a zealous champion of the Whig interest. The Tories exclaimed against this event as a party duel, brought about by their political opponents for the purpose of inflicting a vital wound on the Jacobite cause, then in the ascendant, by removing its great prop before his departure to the Court of France. They affirmed that the duke had met with foul play, and treated Macartney as a cowardly assassin. That the allegation was well founded may be doubted, for all the evidence points to the conclusion that both sets of antagonists, seconds as well as principals, were so blinded by the virulence of personal hatred as to neglect all the laws both of the gladiatorial art and the duelling code, and assailed each other with the fury of savages. A proclamation was issued by the Government offering a reward of £500 for the apprehension of Macartney, and £300 was offered in addition by the Duchess of Hamilton. After a time Macartney returned, surrendered, and took his trial, when he was acquitted of murder, and found guilty of manslaughter only. Subsequently he was restored to his rank in the army, and entrusted with the command of a regiment. After the accession of George I. he was in great favour with the Court of Hanover, and was employed in bringing over Dutch troops on the occasion of the insurrection in England, which ended in the capitulation at Preston of the Earls of Derwentwater and Nithsdale, and other English and Scottish lords and gentlemen.

The Gawsworth property, which Lord Mohun had acquired by his first wife, Charlotte Mainwaring, he bequeathed by will to his second wife, Elizabeth, daughter of Dr. Thomas Lawrence, first physician to Queen Anne; and the Lady Mohun, who thus became possessed of the estates, which she held in trust, directed that at her death they should be sold, and the proceeds, after the payment of certain specified bequests, applied to the use of her two daughters by her first husband, Elizabeth Griffith, wife of Sir Robert Rich, Bart., and Ann Griffith, wife of the distinguished soldier and statesman, William Stanhope, who, in recognition of his public services, was elevated to the peerage, Nov. 20, 1729, by the title of Baron Harrington, and subsequently raised to the dignities of Viscount Petersham and Earl of Harrington. Lord Harrington in 1727 purchased the manor from his wife’s trustees, and thus passed into the family of Stanhope an estate with which they had no connection by blood or by alliance. From the first Earl of Harrington the property has descended in regular succession to the present owner, Charles Augustus Stanhope, the eighth earl.

A curious feature in connection with the Old Hall of Gawsworth, and one strongly suggestive of the warlike spirit of its former owner, is the ancient tilting ground in the rear of the mansion. Ormerod, the historian, was of opinion that this relic of a chivalrous age had been a pleasure ground; but Mr. Mayer, the honorary curator of the Historic Society of Lancashire and Cheshire, who made a careful survey some years ago, shows, with much probability, that it was intended for jousts and other displays of martial skill and bravery. The “tilt-yard,” the form of which may still be very clearly traced, is about two hundred yards in length and sixty-five in width, surrounded on three of its sides by a steep embankment or mound, sixteen yards in width. Within this enclosure the lists were arranged and the barriers erected, and here the knights, with pointless lances or coronels in rest, assembled to perform the hastiludia pacifica or peaceable jousts for the amusement of the ladies and other spectators who occupied the embankment.

At the further end of the long flat is a raised circular mound, with a base twenty-five yards square, on which was placed the tent of the Queen of Beauty, who, surrounded by her attendants, could overlook the whole field, and to her the successful competitors were heralded to receive at her hand the prize or guerdon to which their chivalrous skill had entitled them. Near to this mound is a smaller piece of ground, about fifty-seven yards in length, with three rows of seats cut out of the bank, on three of its sides, and one row on the fourth, that nearest the throne of the “Queen of Beauty.” This, Mr. Mayer surmises, was intended for battles by single combat with the sword and quarter-staff, for wrestling, and other athletic displays; where, also, at Christmastide, and at wakes and festivals, the mummers practised their rude drolleries; where, too, the itinerant bards sang their rugged and unpolished lays in glorification of the achievements of the Cheshire warriors of ancient days, and where

Minstrel’s harp poured forth its tone

In praise of Maud and Marguerite fair.

The level ground is divided by a small stream that flows through the middle, and the flat space beyond, which is hemmed in by a mound similar to that surrounding the “tilting ground,” is supposed to have been used for such games as football, leap-frog, prison-bars, and foot-racing, in which the people generally participated. Here, too, is a raised circular earthwork, corresponding with the lady’s mound already referred to, where it is probable the awards were made and the prizes distributed to the successful competitors. The stream, after passing by the eastern end of the Old Hall, empties itself into the uppermost of the series of lakes before referred to, which are divided from each other only by a narrow strip of land, and where, as has been said, in days of yore the water jousts took place.

Taken altogether, in the tilting ground, with its raised terraces for spectators—the court, which formed the arena for quarter-staff, wrestling, and similar games of strength—and the lakes or ponds, used for water jousts and other aquatic sports—we have one of the most remarkable, as well as one of the most complete, memorials to be found in the North of England illustrative of the manners and customs of our forefathers—of the military pomp and pageantry, and those displays of prowess, skill, daring, and strength, which in the reigns of the Plantagenet and Tudor Kings the English gentry so much encouraged, and the common people so greatly delighted in—the relic of an age the most chivalrous and the most picturesque in our country’s history, when there was no lack of heroism and brave hearts and noble minds, when men ruled by the stern will and strong arm, and through successive ages fought the battle of England’s liberties, and laid the foundations of the freedom we enjoy. The place seems to belong so entirely to a bygone age that imagination wings her airy flight to those remote days, and in fancy’s eye we re-people the Old Hall, when

Every room

Blazed with lights, and brayed with minstrelsy;

and call up in each deserted nook and shady grove the figures of those who have long ago returned to dust. We can picture in imagination the time when these grass-grown terraces were thronged with a gay company of gallant youths and fair maidens, of stern warriors and sober matrons, assembled to witness the princely entertainments provided by the proud owners of Gawsworth. We see the barriers set up, and hear the braying of the trumpets, and the proclamations of the heralds; we see the knights, with their attendant esquires, mounted upon their well-trained steeds, with their rich panoply of arms and plumed and crested casques, and note the stately courtesy with which each, as he enters the arena, salutes the high-bred queen of the tournament; we hear the prancing of horses, the clang of arms, the shock of combat, and the loud clarions which proclaim to the assembled throng the names of the gallant victors. But the days of tilt and tournament have passed away, the age of feudalism has gone by, and in the long centuries of change and progress that have intervened, time has mellowed and widened our social institutions, and raised the lower stratum of society to a nearer level with the higher. Yet, while we boast ourselves of the present, let us not be unmindful of what we owe to the past, for those times were instinct with noble and true ideas, and with Carlyle we may say that, “in prizing justly the indispensable blessings of the new, let us not be unjust to the old. The old was true, if it no longer is.” The glories of Gawsworth are of the past. The old mansion is still to be seen, and the silent pools, the deserted terraces, the forlorn garden grounds, and the stately trees still remain as representatives of the once goodly park and pleasaunce, but those who here maintained a princely hospitality, and bore their part in those splendid pageantries, are sleeping their last sleep. We may not lift the veil which hides their secret history, or reveal much of the story of their hopes and fears, their perils by flood and field, and their deep feuds and still deeper vengeances. Their graven effigies and gaudily-painted tombs are preserved to us, but

The knights’ bones are dust,

And their good swords rust,

Their souls are with the just

We trust.

In this quiet, out-of-the-way nook, amid these old landmarks, an afternoon will be neither unpleasantly nor unprofitably spent. We may learn something of English history, and of the historic figures which played their parts in our “rough island story.” Our thoughts and fancies will be stirred anew, and our sense of patriotism will be nothing lessened by the contemplation of the relics of that past on which our present is securely built

Any notice of Gawsworth would be incomplete that did not make mention of the remarkable series of fresco paintings that were discovered during the work of restoring the church in the autumn of 1851. At that time the fabric underwent a thorough repair, and the remains of coloured ornamentation in the timber-work of the roof led to the belief that the same method of decoration had been applied to the surface of the walls. Accordingly a careful examination was made, and on the removal of the whitewash and plaster some curious and interesting examples of mediæval art were discovered; but, unfortunately, no effort was made at the time to preserve them. Happily, however, before their destruction careful copies were made by a local artist, Mr. Lynch, which have since been published as illustrations to a work he has written. The three principal frescoes represented St. Christopher and the Infant Saviour; St. George slaying the Dragon; and the Doom, or Last Judgment. From the details they would appear to have been executed in the early part of the fifteenth century—probably about the time the tower was built and some important additions made to the main structure, which, as previously stated, would be between the years 1420 and 1430.

At the period referred to, St. Christopher had come to be regarded as a kind of symbol of the Christian Church, and the stalwart figure of the saint wading the stream with the Infant Jesus upon his shoulder was a favourite subject for painting and carving in ecclesiastical buildings. The Gawsworth fresco is especially interesting, from the circumstance of its being an exact fac-simile (except that it is reversed) of the earliest known example of wood engraving, supposed to be of the date 1423—an original and, as is believed, unique impression of which was acquired by Lord Spencer, and is now preserved in the Spencer library. The second picture represents St. George on horseback, armed cap-à-pie, brandishing a sword with his right hand, whilst with the left he is thrusting a spear into the mouth of the dragon. In the distance is the representation of a castle, from the battlements of which the royal parents of the destined victim witness the fray, whilst the disconsolate damsel is depicted in a kneeling attitude. The knight’s armour and the lady’s costume furnish excellent data in fixing the time when the work was done. The third subject—the Last Judgment—occupied the space between the east window and the south wall. It was in three divisions, representing heaven, hell, and earth, and from the prominent position it occupied was no doubt intended to be kept continually before the eyes of the worshippers, that, to use the words of the Venerable Bede, “having the strictness of the Last Judgment before their eyes, they should be cautioned to examine themselves with a more narrow scrutiny.”

Among the rectors of Gawsworth was one who added lustre to the place, but whose name is, curiously enough, omitted from the list given in Ormerod’s “Cheshire”—the Rev. Henry Newcome, M.A., who held the living from 1650 to 1657, when he was appointed to the chaplaincy of the Collegiate Church at Manchester. Newcome was born in November, 1627, at Caldecote, in Huntingdonshire, of which place his father, Stephen Newcome, was rector. In January, 1641–2, both his parents died, and were buried in one coffin, when Henry removed to Congleton, where his elder brother Robert had recently been appointed by the Corporation master of the Free School. The circumstance is thus referred to in his “Autobiography”:—

I was taught grammar by my father, in the house with him; and when my eldest brother, after he was Batchelor in Arts, was master of the Free School at Congleton, in Cheshire, I was in the year 1641, about May 4, brought down thither to him, and there went to school three quarters of a year, until February 13, at which time that eloquent and famous preacher, Dr. Thomas Dodd, was parson at Astbury, the parish church of Congleton, where I several times (though then but a child) heard him preach.

Newcome entered at St. John’s, Cambridge, May 10, 1644, and began to reside in the following year. In 1646 he was a candidate for the mastership of a Lincolnshire grammar school, but failed in obtaining the appointment—a disappointment he bore with much stoicism. In September, 1647, he was nominated to the mastership of the Congleton School, and in the February succeeding he took his degree of B.A.

From his boyhood he seems to have had a fondness for preaching, and the inclination grew with his years. His first sermon was delivered at a friend’s church (Little Dalby) in Leicestershire; and on settling down at Congleton, as he tells us, “he fell to preaching when only 20 years old.” He was appointed “reader” (curate) to Mr. Ley, at Astbury, and preached sometimes in the parish church and sometimes at Congleton. At first he “read” his sermons and “put too much history” into them, whilst “the people came with Bibles, and expected quotations of Scripture.” Before he had attained the age of 21 he entered the marriage state, his wife being Elizabeth, daughter of Peter Mainwaring, of Smallwood, to whom he was married July 6, 1648. He speaks of himself as rash in taking this step at so early an age, but admits that it turned to his own good, and he dwells on the excellent qualities of his wife. It was indeed not only a happy, but in a worldly sense an advantageous match, as by his alliance with the Mainwarings he became connected with some of the most influential families in the county, and to their interest he undoubtedly owed his preferment to Gawsworth. He was ordained at Sandbach in August, 1648, the month following that of his marriage, and began his ministerial labours at Alvanley Chapel, in Frodsham parish, to which place he went for many weeks on the Saturday to preach on the following day; but before the close of the year he had settled at Goostrey, where he officiated for a year and a half. It was whilst residing here that he received the startling intelligence of the trial and execution of Charles I., for, under date January 30, 1649, he writes: “This news came to us when I lived at Goostrey, and a general sadness it put upon us all. It dejected me much (I remember), the horridness of the fact; and much indisposed me for the service of the Sabbath next after the news came.” Newcome, though a zealous Presbyterian, was a scarcely less zealous Royalist, and boldly avowed his abhorrence of the murder of the King.

Shortly after this event his name was mentioned in connection with the then vacant rectory of Gawsworth, and an effort was made, through the interest of the Mainwaring family, to secure his induction under the Broad Seal. Under the Usurpation Independency was in the ascendant, and “Dame ffelicia ffitton,” the widow of Sir Edward Fitton, in whom the patronage of Gawsworth had been vested, was then included in the list of delinquents whose estates were to be sequestered for loyalty to the sovereign. Eventually the instrument of institution under the Broad Seal was obtained. It bears date November 28, 1649, and the opening sentence sets forth that, “Whereas, the rectory of the parish church of Gawsworth, in the county of Chester, is become void by the death of the last incumbent, and the Lords Commissioners of the Great Seal of England have presented Henry Newcome, a godly and orthodox divine, thereunto. It is therefore ordered,” &c. Considerable demur was made, however, to the appointment, and the people locked the church doors against their new minister; but eventually, as we are told, “it pleased God to move upon the people when I thought not of it, and they came (some of the chief of them) over to Carincham on February 12th, and sent for me, and told me they were desirous to have me before another; and so were unanimously consenting to me, and subscribed the petition, not knowing that the seal had come.”

The obstacles to this induction having been removed, Newcome and his family took up their abode in the pleasant old rectory-house at Gawsworth, April, 1650, and on the 14th of the month he preached his first sermon to his new flock from Ezekiel iii., 5.

THE REV. HENRY NEWCOME.

There are several incidents recorded in his “Autobiography” which throw light on the life and habits of the youthful divine at this period. Thus he writes:—

Whilst living here (Goostrey) my cousin, Roger Mainwaring, would needs go to Gawsworth (the park being then in the co-heirs’ possession) to kill a deer, and one he killed with the keeper’s knowledge; but they had a mind to let the greyhound loose, and to kill another that the keeper should not know of, partly to hinder him of his fees and partly that it might not be known that he had killed more than one. I was ignorant of their design; but had the hap to be one of the two that was carrying the other little deer off the ground, when the keeper came and only took it and dressed it, as he had done the other, and sent it after them to the alehouse where the horses were. But I remember the man said this word, that “priests should not steal.” I have oft after thought of it, that when I was parson at Gawsworth, and that tho’ Edward Morton, the keeper, was sometimes at variance with me, he never so much as remembered that passage to object against me; which, though I could have answered for myself in it, yet it might have served the turn to have been retorted upon me when the Lord stirred me up to press strictness upon them. But the Lord concealed this indiscretion of mine, that it was never brought forth in the least to lessen my authority amongst them.

It is pleasant to reflect that while Newcome was residing in his snug parsonage at Gawsworth, he was visited by his brother-in-law, Elias Ashmole, the learned antiquary and founder of the Ashmolean Museum at Oxford, who spent some time with him at the rectory and rambled thence into the Peak country. They had married sisters; Ashmole, who was Newcome’s senior by ten years, having had to his first wife Eleanor, daughter of Peter Mainwaring. This lady died in 1641, and in 1649 Ashmole married Lady Mainwaring, the widow of Sir Thomas Mainwaring, of Bradfield, who died in 1668; and the same year he again entered the marriage state, his third wife being Elizabeth, daughter of Sir William Dugdale, Norroy, and afterwards Garter King of Arms. Ashmole, in his “Diary,” thus refers to his visit to Gawsworth and his ramble in the Peak:—

1652.
Aug. 16.—I went towards Cheshire.
"28.—I arrived at Gawsworth, where my father-in-law, Mr. Mainwaring, then lived.
Sept. 23.—I took a Journey into the Peak in search of plants and other curiosities.
Nov. 24.—My Good Father-in-law, Mr. Peter Mainwaring, died at Gawsworth.

Oddly enough, Ashmole nowhere makes mention of Newcome’s name in his “Diary,” but Newcome himself refers to the visit in one of his letters to his brother-in-law, preserved among Ashmole’s MSS. in the Bodleian Library, and printed by Mr. Earwaker in his “Local Gleanings,” where, speaking of the Theatrum Chymicum he had lent to Hollinworth, the author of “Mancuniensis,” he says, “It was with him when you were with me at Gawsworth, and I then sent for it home.”

Puritan though he was, Newcome was by no means of a soured or morose disposition, nor so rigid in his notions as were some of his southern brethren. He was fond of amusement within reasonable limits, and his experiences he relates with charming candour and impartiality. Indeed, sometimes his hilarity was a little too exuberant. “I remember,” he says, “this year (1650), when the gentlewomen from the hall used to come to see us, I was very merry with them, and used to charge a pistol I had, and to shoot it off to affright them.” Notwithstanding his liveliness of disposition, he set himself determinedly against the vices to which some of his parishioners were addicted. Drinking and swearing seem to have been prevalent, and he records how, one Sabbath evening, at the house of Lady Fitton, a Mr. Constable,—

A known famous epicure ... told the lady there was excellent ale at Broad [heath—what this place was does not appear], and moved he might send for a dozen, some gentlemen of his gang being with him. I made bold to tell him that my lady had ale good enough in her house for any of them; especially, I hoped, on a Sabbath day she would not let them send for ale to the alehouse. The lady took with it, and in her courteous way told him that her ale might serve him. But notwithstanding, after duties, he did send; but durst not let it come in whilst I staid.... At last I took leave; and then he said, “Now he is gone! Fetch in the ale.”

“My lady” was the beautiful and youthful Felicia Sneyd, the second wife, and then widow of Sir Edward Fitton, who resided at the hall, her jointure house. In all Newcome’s efforts to improve the spiritual condition of his parish Lady Fitton warmly joined; the Sacrament, which hitherto had been discontinued, was with her co-operation revived. She offered herself to the minister for instruction, and instituted family prayers twice a day in her house, which Newcome for a while read; and we gather from several passages that the fascination and dignified bearing of the youthful widow greatly attracted the divine of twenty-three. It was not long, however, before he had occasion to describe another and more painful scene. Lady Fitton, as has been previously stated, re-married Sir Charles Adderley; and on the 20th January, 1654, Newcome writes she “was in lingering labour.”

I had been at Congleton, and was just come home; and they came shrieking to me to pray with Lady Fitton; she did desire it, it should seem. I went as fast as I could; but just as I came the fit of palsy took her. We went to prayer in the gallery for her again and again. Mr. Machin[21] came in, and he helped me to pray. We prayed there two or three times over. We begged life for mother and child, very earnestly at first. After we begged either, what God pleased. After the night we were brought to beg the life of the soul, for all other hopes were over. The next day I went, and prayed by her i’ th’ forenoon. I was much afflicted to see her die, as in a dream, pulling and setting her head clothes as if she had been dressing herself in the glass; and so to pass out of the world. A lovely, sweet person she was; but thus blasted before us, dyed Jany. 21 (1654), just after evening service. She was buried the next day, at night.... Sir C. Adderley was removed, and all manner of confusion and trouble came upon the estate, Mr. Fitton and the co-heirs striving for possession, which begat a strange alteration in the place.

Lady Fitton, “a very courteous, respectful friend to me while she lived,” as Newcome observes, lies near the east end of the church of Gawsworth, close by the communion rails, and near to the stately tomb of her first husband, on which she is described as “nulli secundam.” In her death Newcome lost a good friend, for the living of Gawsworth was very poor, and, finding it difficult to equalise the wants of a growing family and the supplies of a small stipend, he was led to consider the expediency of removing to some other and more lucrative charge. His labours had been by no means confined to his own parish. On the contrary, he devoted a good deal of his time to ministerial work in other places. The fame of the wonderful young preacher spread to the larger towns, and those who had heard him once wished to hear him again. Among other places, he had visited Manchester, and preached in the Old Church during the sickness of Richard Hollinworth. It was only on one Sunday, but the generosity of the town brought him considerable relief at the moment that the necessities of his family were pressing inconveniently upon him. As Dr. Halley tells us, the relief produced an effect the contributors did not intend, as it induced him, when contemplating his removal, to remain in Gawsworth, where Providence had so unexpectedly relieved him of his anxieties by their liberality. He painted his rectory-house, parted off a little study from his parlour, and spent what he could of his friends’ bounty in smartening his home and making it pleasant and comfortable.

Newcome was not allowed to remain long in undisturbed tranquillity in his quiet parsonage. On the 3rd November, 1656, Mr. Hollinworth died; four days later a meeting of the “Classis” was held at Manchester to nominate to the vacancy. Three persons were mentioned as suitable—Mr. Meeke, of Salford; Mr. Bradshaw, of Macclesfield; and Mr. Newcome, of Gawsworth—but the feeling was so unanimous in favour of Newcome that nothing was said about the other two. Friday, December 5th, was fixed for the election; but here a difficulty occurred. Newcome had spent a Sunday at Shrewsbury as well as at Manchester. He had preached at “Alkmond’s, and the people of Julian’s” (there were no saints in Puritanical times) “set their affections” upon him while ministering in the neighbouring church, and by a curious coincidence, on the same day that he received intelligence of the arrangement at Manchester he received letters from the people of “Julian’s,” from the Mayor of Shrewsbury, and from three of its ministers, entreating him to accept their invitation. On the Sunday preceding the election at Manchester he preached in the Old Church, and, as he tells us, “the women were so pleased that they would needs send tokens,” which amounted to seven pounds. This gave great dissatisfaction to the proud Salopians, who were evidently afraid the young preacher might not be proof against the fascinations of the “Lancashire Witches,” and so they “gave him a very unhandsome lash” for being drawn away from them by “women’s favours.” Angry contentions arose, Richard Baxter was asked to interfere, and a conference was suggested, but the good folks of Shrewsbury were resolved upon securing the services of Newcome, and would not agree to arbitration, or listen to any other proposition. They were doomed, however, to disappointment, and, in opposition to the advice of Baxter, Newcome, on the 24th of December, made choice of Manchester.

His removal from Gawsworth was a sorrowful time both for himself and his rustic congregation. The sight of the wagons sent to remove his furniture overwhelmed him with sorrow, and when the time came for leaving the old rectory, he says, “I was sadly affected, and broken all to pieces at leaving the house. I never was so broken in duty as I was in that which I went into just when we were ready to go out of the house;” and he adds, “I prayed the Lord the sin of the seven years might be forgiven us, and that we might take a pardon with us.” On his arrival in Manchester he was welcomed with extraordinary manifestations of friendship and pleasure, and many of the townspeople went out to Stockport to meet him.

This “prince of preachers,” as he has been called by his friends, continued his ministrations in the Church at Manchester until the passing of the Act of Uniformity, when, unable to conform to the discipline of the Church, he withdrew from her communion, to the great grief of his people, by whom he was greatly beloved. On the passing of the Act of Toleration, at the accession of William of Orange, the wealthy Presbyterians of Manchester gathered round their favourite divine and built him a tabernacle on the site of the present Unitarian Chapel in Cross Street—the first erected for the use of the Nonconformist body in the town. He was not long permitted, however, to continue his ministrations, his death occurring on the 17th September, 1695, little more than a year after the opening of the “great and fair meeting house.”

The church in which Newcome ministered, and where rest the bones of so many of the “Fighting Fittons,” well deserves a careful examination. Let us bend our footsteps towards the ancient fane. It is a fair and goodly structure—small, it is true, but presenting a dignified and pleasing exterior—

Beauty with age in every feature blending.

The bold, free hand of the old English architect is seen in every detail—in the deep mouldings, the varied tracery, and the quaintly grotesque carvings, where burlesque and satire and playful fancy have almost run riot. The restoring hand of the modern renovator—Sir Gilbert Scott—is also visible; but what he has done has been well done, and, if we except the interesting examples of mediæval art to which reference has already been made, everything that was worth retaining has been carefully preserved. Though erected at different times, the general features harmonise and point to the conclusion that nearly the whole of the existing fabric was erected in the period extending from the end of the 14th to the middle of the 15th centuries.

The nave, which is three bays in length, is undoubtedly the oldest part, and the point at which it originally terminated is clearly shown by the diagonal projection of the angle buttress which still remains. The chancel appears to have superseded an older foundation of smaller dimensions. It is of equal width with the nave, and, in fact, a continuation of it, and both are covered in with a timber roof of obtuse pitch, with elaborately moulded and ornamented beams and rafters. The external walls of both the nave and chancel are surmounted by an embattled parapet, relieved at intervals with crocketted pinnacles, that are carried above the edge of the parapet wall as a termination to each buttress. There being no clerestory or side aisles, the windows are unusually lofty. They are of pointed character, with traceried heads and mouldings, terminating in curiously-carved corbels, that have afforded scope for the humorous fancy of the mediæval masons. On the south side is an open porch with stone seats, that has at some time or other been added to the original structure, as evidenced by the fact that the greater portion of the buttress has been cut away where it is joined up to the main wall. It has coupled lights on each side, with hood mouldings, the one on the west terminating in a curiously-carved corbel, representing a rose with two heads enclosed in the petals, an evidence that this part of the fabric must have been built shortly after the union of the rival houses of York and Lancaster, in the persons of Henry VII. and Elizabeth the eldest daughter of Edward IV. The tower is well proportioned, and, rising gracefully as it does above the surrounding foliage, forms a conspicuous object for miles around. It is remarkable for the armorial shields, 14 in number, carved in relief, in stone, on each face. These insignia are especially interesting to the antiquary and the genealogist, as showing the alliances of the earlier lords of Gawsworth. They include the coats of Fitton, Orreby, Bechton, Mainwaring, Wever, Egerton, Grosvenor, and Davenport, as well as those of Fitton of Bollin, and Fitton of Pownall, and there is one also containing the arms of Randle Blundeville, Earl of Chester, with whom the Fittons appear to have been connected.

The interior of the church is picturesque and well cared for, and the garrulous old lady who brought us the keys looks upon it with an affection that is not diminished by the serving and tending of many long years. It is an interesting specimen of an old English house of worship. As you cross the threshold a host of memories are conjured up, and you feel that you are in the sanctuary where in times past have communed, and where now rest, the remains of a line famous in chivalry, the members of which, in their day and generation, did good service to the State. The seats are low and open, and the appearance has been greatly improved by the removal of the heavy cumbrous pews with which until late years it was filled. At the east end, within the chancel rails, are the effigies and stately tombs of the Fittons already described. The shadows of centuries seem to fall on the broad nave, while the slanting rays of the westering sun, as they steal through the tall windows, brighten the elaborate figures of the knights in armour, and bring out the colouring of gown and kirtle, where their stately dames are reposing by their side. During the restorations some of them were removed from their original positions, and shorn of their original canopies, as the inscription upon a tablet affixed to the north wall testifies. Near the centre of the aisle is a plain marble slab with a brass fillet surrounding it, on which is an inscription commemorating the marriage and death of Thomas Fitton of Siddington, the second son of Sir Edward of Gawsworth, by his wife Mary, the daughter of Sir Guiscard Harbottle.

After our brief survey we passed out through the western door into the churchyard. The sun was circling westwards over the woods, a warm haze suffused the landscape, and the shadows were lengthening over the hillocks and grass-grown mounds in the quiet graveyard. As our cicerone turned the key in the rusty wards of the lock and turned to depart, a robin poured out its wealth of song in the neighbouring copse, a fitting requiem to the expiring day. We stood for a moment looking through the trees at the picturesque old parsonage. What a lovely spot!—the spot of all others that a country clergyman might delight to pass his days in. Well might good Henry Newcome be “sadly affected and broken all to pieces” at leaving it.

Another celebrity connected with Gawsworth, though of a widely different character to Henry Newcome, deserves a passing notice—Samuel Johnson, popularly known by the title of “Lord Flame,” and sometimes by the less euphonious sobriquet of “Maggotty Johnson.” This eccentric character was well known in his day as a dancing master, to which he added the professions of poet, player, jester, and musician. He appears to have been among the last of the paid English jesters, those professional Merry Andrews whose presence was considered indispensable in the homes of our wealthier forefathers—their duty being to promote laughter in the household, and especially at meals, by their ready wit and drollery. Johnson was frequently hired out at parties given by the gentry in the northern counties, where he had licence to bandy his witticisms, and to utter or enact anything likely to enliven the company or provoke them to laughter. “Lord Flame” was the name of a character played by him in his own extravaganza, entitled “Hurlothrumbo, or the Supernatural,” a piece which had a lengthened run at the Haymarket in 1729. It is upon this burlesque that his fame chiefly rests. After much patient labour he succeeded in getting it on the London boards. Byrom records the circumstance in his “Journal” under date April 2, 1729:—

As for Mr. Johnson, he is one of the chief topics of talk in London. Dick’s Coffee-house resounds “Hurlothrumbo” from one end to the other. He had a full house and much good company on Saturday night, the first time of acting, and report says all the boxes are taken for the next Monday.... It is impossible to describe this play and the oddities, out-of-the-wayness, flights, madness, comicalities, &c. I hope Johnson will make his fortune by it at present. We had seven or eight garters in the pit. I saw Lord Oxford and two or more there, but was so intent on the farce that I did not observe many quality that were there. We agreed to laugh and clap beforehand, and kept our word from beginning to end. The night after Johnson came to Dick’s, and they all got about him like so many bees. They say the Prince of Wales has been told of “H,” and will come and see it.... For my own part, who think all stage plays stuff and nonsense, I consider this a joke upon ’em all.

On the same day, in a letter to Mrs. Byrom, he writes—

Mrs. Hyde must let her brother teach (dancing), for “Hurlothrumbo,” as the matter stands, will hardly be quitted while it brings a house, and consequently more money, into the author’s pocket, than his teaching would do of a long time.

The play was afterwards published with a dedication to Lady Delves, and an address to Lord Walpole. The former, while remarkable for its extravagant panegyrism, is interesting from its reference to many of the local female celebrities of the time. It is as follows:—

To the Right Honourable the Lady Delves.

Madam,—When I think of your goodness, it gives me encouragement to put my play under your grand protection; and if you can find anything in it worthy of your Praise, I am sure the super-naturals will like it. I do not flatter when I say your taste is universal, great as an Empress, sweet and refined as Lady Malpas, sublime as Lady Mary Cowper, learned and complete as Lady Conway, distinguished and clear as Mrs. Madan, gay, good, and innocent as Lady Bland. I have often thought you were a compound of the world’s favourites—that all meet and rejoice together in one: the taste of a Montague, Wharton, or Meredith, Stanhope, Sneid, or Byrom; the integrity and hospitality of Leigh of Lime, the wit and fire of Bunbury, the sense of an Egerton, fervent to serve as Beresford or Mildmay, beloved like Gower. If you was his rival, you’d weaken the strength of that most powerful subject. I hope your eternal unisons in heaven will always sing to keep up the harmony in your soul, that is musical as Mrs. Leigh, and never ceases to delight; raises us in raptures like Amante Shosa, Lord Essex, or the sun. If every pore in every body in Cheshire was a mouth they would all cry out aloud, God save the Lady Delves! That illuminates the minds of mortals, inspires with Musick and Poetry especially.

Your most humble servant, Lord Flame.

The prologue was written by Mr. Amos Meredith, of Henbury, near Macclesfield, and, at the urgent request of its author, Byrom was induced to write the epilogue. Johnson’s subsequent career was marked by many whims and oddities, and even death was not permitted to terminate his eccentricity, his very grave being made to commemorate it for the amusement or pity of future generations. As we have previously stated, he is buried in a small plantation of firs near the road, and a short distance from the New Hall, in accordance with a request he had made to the owner in his life-time. His remains are covered by a plain brick tomb, now much dilapidated, on the uppermost slab of which is the following inscription:—

Under this stone

Rest the remains of Mr. Samuel Johnson,

Afterwards ennobled with the grander Title of

Lord Flame,

Who, after being in his life distinct from other Men

By the Eccentricities of his Genius,

Chose to retain the same character after his Death,

and was, at his own Desire, buried here, May 5th,

A.D. MDCCLXXIII., Aged 82.

Stay thou whom Chance directs, or Ease persuades,

To seek the Quiet of these Sylvan shades,

Here undisturbed and hid from Vulgar Eyes,

A Wit, Musician, Poet, Player, lies

A Dancing Master too, in Grace he shone,

And all the arts of Opera were his own;

In Comedy well skill’d, he drew Lord Flame,

Acted the Part, and gain’d himself the Name;

Averse to Strife, how oft he’d gravely say

These peaceful Groves should shade his breathless clay;

That when he rose again, laid here alone,

No friend and he should quarrel for a Bone;

Thinking that were some old lame Gossip nigh,

She possibly might take his Leg or Thigh.

On the west side of his tomb a flat stone has been placed in later years, on which some rhyming moralist has sought to improve on his character, in a religious point of view, in a lengthy inscription which says more for the writer’s sense of piety than his regard for prosody:—

If chance hath brought thee here, or curious eyes,

To see the spot where this poor jester lies,

A thoughtless jester even in his death,

Uttering his jibes beyond his latest breath;

O stranger, pause a moment, pause and say:

“To-morrow should’st thou quit thy house of clay,

Where wilt thou be, my soul?—in paradise?

Or where the rich man lifted up his eyes?”

Immortal spirit would’st thou then be blest,

Waiting thy perfect bliss on Abraham’s breast;

Boast not of silly art, or wit, or fame,

Be thou ambitious of a Christian’s name;

Seek not thy body’s rest in peaceful grove,

Pray that thy soul may rest in Jesus’ love.

O speak not lightly of that dreadful day,

When all must rise in joy or in dismay;

When spirits pure in body glorified

With Christ in heavenly mansions shall abide,

While wicked souls shall hear the Judge’s doom—

“Go ye accursed into endless gloom,”

Look on that stone and this, and ponder well:

Then choose ’twixt life and death, ’twixt

Heaven and Hell.

Poor Johnson! His last whim has been gratified: his “breathless clay” reposes beneath the “sylvan shade” that in life he so much delighted in. The thrush and the blackbird sing their orisons and vespers there; the fresh and fragrant breeze sweeps by; and the nodding trees that rustle overhead cast a verdant gloom around, that is brightened only where the warm sunlight steals through the intricacy of leaves and dapples the sward with touches of golden light. May no rude or irreverent hand disturb his resting-place, or “old lame gossip” share his sepulchre.

CHAPTER V.
THE COLLEGE AND THE “WIZARD WARDEN” OF MANCHESTER.

Of those who make up the mighty tide of human life that daily sweeps along the great highway of traffic between the Manchester Exchange and the Victoria Railway Station, how few there are who ever give even a passing thought to the quaint mediæval relic that stands within a few yards of them—almost the only relic of bygone days that Manchester now possesses—the College. Pass through the arched portal into the great quadrangle, the College Yard as it is called, and what a striking contrast is presented. Without, all is noise and hurry and bustle; within, quietude and seclusion prevail. The old place is almost the only link that connects the Manchester of the present with the Manchester of yore; and surely it is something to feel that within this eager, striving, money-getting Babylon there is a little Zoar where you may escape from the turmoil, and the whirl, and the worry of the busy city, and, forgetting your own chronology, allow the memory to wander along the dim grass-grown aisles of antiquity, recalling the scenes and episodes and half-forgotten incidents that illustrate the changes society has undergone, and show how the past may be made a guide for the present and the future.

A wealth of interest gathers round this old time-worn memorial, and its history is entwined with that of the town itself. That lively and imaginative antiquary, Whitaker, has striven to prove that upon its site the subjects of the Cæsars erected their summer camp, but the story, it must be confessed, rests on but a slender foundation. There is little doubt, however, that the Saxon thegn fixed his abode here, and dispensed justice according to the rude fashion of the times—which means that he did what seemed right in his own eyes, and hanged those who ventured to question the propriety of his proceedings. The Norman barons who succeeded him, the Gresleys and the La Warres, the men who bore themselves well and bravely at Crecy, Agincourt, and Poictiers, held their court here for generations, until good old Thomas La Warre, the last of the line, the priest-lord as he has been called—for he held the rectory as well as the barony of Manchester—gave up his ancestral home as a permanent residence for the warden and fellows of the ancient parish church which he caused to be collegiated. But the splendid provision he bequeathed was not long enjoyed by the ecclesiastics for whom it was intended. In 1547, when the minor religious houses were suppressed, the college was dissolved, and the lands, with the building of the College House, reverted to Edward VI., who granted them to Edward Earl of Derby, subject to the payment by him of some small pensions and other charges. On Queen Mary’s accession the Church was re-collegiated, and the deeds of alienation in part recalled. But the College House and the lands pertaining to it were never recovered, though some of the wardens were considerately allowed by the Stanleys to occupy part of the premises that had belonged of right to their predecessors.

In the eventful times which followed, the building experienced many and various vicissitudes. At the time the fierce struggle between Charles I. and the Parliament began a part was used as a magazine for powder and arms, for we read that when the Commission of Array was issued Sir Alexander Radcliffe, of Ordsall, and his neighbour Mr. Prestwich, of Hulme, two of the commissioners nominated in the King’s proclamation, attended by the under sheriff, went to Manchester “to seize ten barrels of powder and several bundles of match which were stowed in a room of the College.” During the troublous times of the Commonwealth the building was in the hands of the official sequestrators, as part of the forfeited possessions of the Royalist Earl of Derby; and at that time the monthly meetings of the Presbyterian Classis, the “X’sian consciensious people” as they were called, were held within the refectory. A part of the building was transformed into a prison, and another portion was occupied as private dwellings. In 1650, as appears by a complaint lodged in the Duchy Court of Lancaster, “a common brewhouse” was set up on the premises, the brewers claiming exemption from grinding their malt at the School Mills, to which by custom the toll belonged, on the plea that the brewhouse was within the College, the old baronial residence, and therefore did not owe such suit and service to the mills.

About the same time a portion of the College barn (between the prison and the College gatehouse) was converted into a workhouse, the first in Manchester, having been acquired by the churchwardens and overseers in order that it might be “made in readiness to set the poor people on work to prevent their begging.” Another part was used for the purposes of an Independent church, the first of the kind in the town, and which would appear to have been set up without “waiting for a civil sanction.” The minister was John Wigan, who at the outset of his career had been episcopally ordained to Gorton, which place he left in 1646, and fixed his abode at Birch, where, we are told, “he set up Congregationalism.” This brought him in collision with the “Classis.” Subsequently he left Birch, entered the army, became a captain, and afterwards a major. The church which he founded in the College barn is alluded to by Hollinworth. How it came to be established here would be inexplicable but for the explanation Adam Martindale gives of the matter. He says:—

The Colledge lands being sold, and the Colledge itself, to Mr. Wigan, who now being turned Antipædobaptist, and I know not what more, made a barne there into a chappell, where he and many of his perswasion preached doctrine diametrically opposite to the (Presbyterian) ministers’ perswasion under their very nose.

Wigan had contrived to attract the notice of Cromwell, and “received some maintenance out of the sequestrations.” Whether with this and from pillage and plunder while with the Republican army he obtained money enough to purchase the lease of the College is not clear, but his conduct during the later years of his life does not present him in a very favourable light. During his time a survey of the College property was made, and it then comprised:—

Ye large building called ye College in Manchester, consisting of many rooms, with twoe barnes, one gatehouse, verie much decayd, one parcell of ground, formerly an orchard, and one garden, now in ye possession of Joseph Werden, gent., whose pay for ye same for ye use of ye Commonwealth—tenn pounds yearly. There is likewise one other room in ye said College Reserved and now made use of for publique meetings of X’sian consciensious people (i.e., the Classis).

Neither the sequestrators nor Mr. Wigan were at much pains to preserve the fabric of the College while it was in their hands. The building and outhousing fell into decay, and became ruinous; and there is little doubt this interesting relic would have disappeared altogether but for the timely interposition of one of Manchester’s most worthy sons. Humphrey Chetham, a wealthy trader, who had amassed a considerable fortune, conceived the idea of founding an hospital for the maintenance and education of poor boys, and also the establishing of a public library in his native town. He entered into negotiations with the sequestrators for the purchase of the College, then, as we have seen, in a sadly dilapidated condition, for the purpose. Owing to some dispute, the project remained for a time in abeyance, but it was never entirely abandoned; and in his will Chetham directed that his executors should make the purchase, if it could be accomplished. After his death this was done, the building was repaired, and from that time to the present, a period of more than two hundred years, it has continued to be occupied in accordance with the founder’s benevolent intentions. Thus has been preserved to Manchester one of its oldest and most interesting memorials.

Many and strange vicissitudes of fate

Those time-worn walls have seen. The dwelling once

Of servants of the Lord; in stormy days,

The home of Cromwell’s stern and armèd band,

A barracks and a prison! Now it stands

A lasting monument of Chetham’s fame,

Unto posterity a boon most rich—

A refuge for the child of poverty,

A still secluded haunt for studious men,

The college of a merchant.

Though a mighty change has been wrought in the surroundings, the ancient pile looks pretty much the same as it must have done three centuries ago, when Warden Dee, who then occupied it, was casting horoscopes and practising alchemy, and when Drayton saw it, and in his “Polyolbion” made the Irwell sing—

First Roche, a dainty rill....

And Irk add to my store.

And Medlock to their much by lending somewhat more;

At Manchester they meet, all kneeling to my state,

Where brave I show myself.

The Irwell and the Irk still mingle their waters round the base of the rocky precipice on which the College stands, but alas for the daintiness or bravery of either!

As you enter the spacious courtyard a long, low, monastic-looking pile with two projecting wings meets the eye, presenting all that quaintness and picturesque irregularity of outline so characteristic of buildings of the mediæval period, with scarcely a feature to suggest the busy life that is going on without its walls. On the right is the great arched gateway giving admission from the Long Mill Gate, and which in old times constituted the main entrance. At the opposite or north-western angle is the principal entrance to the building itself. As you pass through the low portal you notice on the right the great kitchen, large and lofty and open to the roof, with its fireplace capacious enough to roast an ox; adjoining is the pantry, and close by that most important adjunct the buttery. On the other side of the vestibule, and separated from it by a ponderous oaken screen, panelled and ornamented, and black with age, is the ancient refectory or dining hall, where the recipients of Chetham’s bounty assemble daily for their meals and chant their “Non nobis.” It is a spacious apartment, with a lofty arched roof and wide yawning fireplace, preserving not merely the original form and appearance but the identical arrangement of the old baronial and conventual halls. In pre-Reformation times this was the chief entertaining room, and its appearance suggests the idea that in those remote days the ecclesiastics of Manchester loved good cheer, and were by no means sparing in their hospitalities. At the further end, opposite the screen, may still be seen the ancient daīs, raised a few inches above the general level of the floor, on which, in accordance with custom, was placed the “hie board,” or table dormant, at which sat the warden, his principal guests and the chief ecclesiastics ranged according to their rank above the salt, whilst the inferior clergy and others were accommodated at the side tables—the poor wandering mendicant who, by chance, found himself at the door, and being admitted to a humble share of the feast, taking his position near the screen, and thankfully fed, like Lazarus, with the crumbs that fell from the great man’s table.

At the further end of the vestibule you come upon the cloisters surrounding a small court, and note the crumbling grey walls and vaulted passages of this the most perfect and most characteristic portion of the original building.

Just before reaching the cloisters, you ascend by a stone staircase, guarded by massive oak balusters, that leads up to the library, where, as “Alick” Wilson sings—

Booath far and woide,

Theer’s yards o’ books at every stroide,

From top to bothum, eend and soide.

They are disposed in wall cases extending the length of the corridors, and branching off into a series of mysterious-looking little recesses, stored with material relics of the past, old manuscripts, and treasures of antiquity and art of various kinds, each recess being protected from the encroachments of the profane by its own lattice gate. Here

The dim windows shed a solemn light,

that is quite in keeping with the character of the place, and as you pass along you marvel at the plenteous store of ponderous folios and goodly quartos, in their plain sober bindings, that are ranged on either side, and you reflect upon the world of thought and the profundity of learning gathered together, until the mind becomes impressed with a feeling of reverence for the mighty spirits whose noblest works are here enshrined.

Until late years this gloomy corridor was at once a library and museum. High up on the ceiling, on the tops of the bookcases and in the window recesses, were displayed a formidable array of sights and monsters, as varied and grotesque as those which appalled the heart of the Trojan prince in his descent to hell—skeletons, snakes, alligators, to say nothing of the “hairy man,” and such minor marvels as Queen Elizabeth’s shoe, Oliver Cromwell’s sword,

An th’ clog fair crackt by thunner-bowt,

An th’ woman noather lawmt nor nowt.

Formerly, at Easter and other festivals, crowds of gaping holiday folk thronged the College, and gazed with vacant wonderment at the incongruous collection, while the blue-coated cicerones, to the discomfort of the readers, in sonorous tones bawled out the names of the trophies displayed, concluding their catalogue with an account of the wondrous wooden cock that is said (and truly) to crow when it smells roast beef. But the quietude is no longer broken by these inharmonious chantings—the strange collection has been transferred to a more fitting home, and the scholar may now store his mind with “the physic of the soul” and hold pleasant intercourse with antiquity without being rudely recalled to the consciousness of the present by such startling incongruities.

At the end of the corridor a heavy oaken door admits you to the reading-room, a large square antique chamber, with arched ceiling and panelled walls, and a deeply-recessed oriel opposite the door, that by the very cosiness of its appearance lures you to stay and drink “at the pure well of English undefiled.” In the window lighting this pleasant secluded nook is a shield on which the arms of the benevolent Chetham are depicted in coloured glass—arms that gave him much trouble to obtain, and the cost of which led him to facetiously remark that they were not depicted in such good metal as that in which payment for them was made, to which Lightbowne, his attorney, assented, sagely observing, “there is soe much difference betwixt Paynter’s Gould and Current Coyne,” a conclusion the correctness of which we will not stay to dispute. No doubt it was the thought that he had “paid for his whistle” that led the careful old merchant to adopt the suggestive motto, “Quod tuum tene.” The furniture corresponds with the ancient character of the room. In one corner is a carved oak buffet of ancient date, with a raised inscription, setting forth that it was the gift of Humphrey Chetham. There are ponderous chairs, with leather-padded backs, studded with brass nails; and still more ponderous tables, one of which we are gravely assured contains as many pieces as there are days in the year. Over the fireplace, surmounted by his coat of arms, is a portrait of the grave-visaged but large-hearted founder, with pillars on each side, resting on books, and crowned with antique lamps, suggestive of the founder’s desire to diffuse wisdom and happiness by the light of knowledge; and, flanking them, on one side is a pelican feeding its young with its own blood, and on the other the veritable wooden cock already mentioned; antique mirrors are affixed to the panelling; and dingy-looking portraits of Lancashire worthies gaze at you from the walls—Nowell and Whitaker, and Bolton and Bradford, with men who have reflected lustre upon the county in more recent times, not the least interesting being the two portraits lately added of the venerable president of the Chetham Society, and that indefatigable bibliopole, the late librarian, Mr. Jones.

On the ground floor, beneath the reading-room, is an apartment of corresponding dimensions, which at present more especially claims our attention. It is commonly known as the Feoffees’ room; but in bygone days it was appropriated to the use of the wardens of the College. It is a large, square, sombre-looking chamber, with a projecting oriel at one end, and small pointed windows, with deep sills and latticed panes, that, if they do not altogether “exclude the light,” are yet sufficiently dim to “make a noonday night.” As you cross the threshold your footsteps echo on the hard oak floor—all else is still and silent. A staid cloistered gloom, and a quiet, half monastic air pervades the place that carries your fancies back to mediæval times. The walls for a considerable height are covered with black oak wainscotting, surrounded by a plaster frieze enriched with arabesque work. The ceiling is divided into compartments by deeply-moulded beams and rafters that cross and recross each other in a variety of ways, all curiously wrought, and ornamented at the intersections with carvings of fabulous creatures and grotesque faces. On one of the bosses is a grim-visaged head, depicted as in the act of devouring a child, which tradition affirms is none other than that of the giant Tarquin, who held threescore and four of King Arthur’s knights in thraldom in his castle at Knot Mill, and was afterwards himself there slain by the valorous Sir Lancelot of the Lake, who cut off his head and set the captives free; all which forms a very pretty story, though we are more inclined to believe that the mediæval sculptor, thinking little and caring less for Tarquin or the Arthurian knights, merely copied the model of some pagan mason, and reproduced the burlesque figure of Saturn eating one of his own children.[22] On one side of the room is a broad fireplace, with the armorial ensigns of one of the Tudor sovereigns behind, and those of the benevolent Chetham on the frieze above. The whole of the furniture is in character with the place—quaint, old-fashioned, and substantial. Shining tall-backed chairs are disposed around the room, and in the centre is a broad table of such massiveness as almost to defy the efforts of muscular power to remove it.

A special interest attaches to this sombre-looking chamber from the circumstance that tradition has associated it with the name of Dr. Dee, the “Wizard Warden” of Manchester, and that here Roby has laid the scene of one of his most entertaining Lancashire Legends. In this “vaulted room of gramarye,” it is said, our English “Faust” had his

Mystic implements of magic might,

practised the occult sciences, cast his nativities, transmuted the baser metals to gold, and, as the common people believed, held familiar intercourse with the Evil One, and did other uncanny things. But of Dee and his doings we purpose to speak anon.

The wardenship of Dr. Dee forms a curious chapter in the ecclesiastical history of Manchester, and at the same time presents us with a humiliating picture of the condition of society in the golden days of the Virgin Queen. It has been said that witchcraft came in with the Stuarts and went out with them; but this is surely an injustice to the memory of Elizabeth’s sapient successor, for the belief in sorcery, witchcraft, enchantment, demonology, and practices of a kindred nature were widely prevalent long ere that monarch ascended the English throne. Henry VIII., in 1531, granted a formal licence to “two learned clerks” “to practise sorcery and to build churches,” a curious combination of evil and its antidote; and ten years later he, with his accustomed inconsistency, issued a decree making “witchcraft and sorcery felony, without benefit of clergy.”

The belief in these abominations was not confined to any one class of the people, or to the professors of any one form of faith. On the contrary, Churchmen, Romanists, and Puritans were alike the dupes of the loathsome impostors who roamed the country, though each in turn was ready to upbraid the others with being believers in the generally prevailing error, and not unfrequently with being participators in the frauds that were practised. The great and munificent Edward, Earl of Derby, “kept a conjuror in his house secretly;” and his daughter-in-law, Margaret Clifford, Countess of Derby, lost the favour of Queen Elizabeth for a womanish curiosity in “consulting with wizards or cunning men.” The bishops gave authority and a form of licence to the clergy to cast out devils; Romish ecclesiastics claimed to have a monopoly of the power; and the Puritan ministers, not to be behind them, tried their hands at the imposture.

Education had then made little progress, and the men of Lancashire, though the merriest of Englishmen, were as ignorant and superstitious as they were merry. Nowhere was the belief in supernatural agency more rife than in the Palatinate. The shaping power of the imagination had clothed every secluded clough and dingle with the weird drapery of superstition, and made every ruined or solitary tenement the abode of unhallowed beings, who were supposed to hold their diabolical revelries within it. The doctrines of necromancy and witchcraft were in common belief, and it is doubtful if there was a single man in the county who did not place the most implicit faith in both. Hence, Queen Elizabeth, if it was not that she wished to get rid of a troublesome suitor, may have thought there was a fitness of things in preferring a professor of the Black Art to the wardenship of Manchester; believing, possibly, that one given to astrology, and such like practices, could not find a more congenial home than in a county specially prone, as Lancashire then was, to indulge in diablerie and the practice of alchemy and enchantment.

A brief reference to the earlier career of Dr. Dee may not be altogether uninteresting. According to the genealogy drawn up by himself, he belonged to the line of Roderick the Great, Prince of Wales. His father, Rowland Dee, who was descended from a family settled in Radnorshire, carried on the business of a vintner in London; and there, or rather at Mortlake, within a few miles of the city, on the 13th July, 1527, the future warden first saw the light. After receiving a preliminary education at one or two of the city schools, and subsequently at the Grammar School of Chelmsford, he entered St. John’s College, Cambridge, being then only fifteen years of age; and during the five years he remained there he maintained, with unflinching strictness, the rule “only to sleepe four houres every night; to allow to meate and drink (and some refreshing after), two houres every day; and,” he adds, “of the other eighteen houres, all (except the tyme of going to and being at divine service) was spent in my studies and learning.” On leaving the University he passed some time in the Low Countries, his object being “to speake and conferr with some learned men, and chiefly mathematicians.” He made the acquaintance of Frisius, Mercator, Antonius Gogara, and other celebrated Flemings; and on his return to England he was chosen to be a Fellow of King Henry’s newly-erected College of Trinity, and made under-reader of the Greek tongue. His reputation stood very high, and his mathematical and astronomical pursuits, in which he was assisted by some rare and curious instruments—among them, as we are told, an “astronomer’s staff of brass, that was made of Gemma Frisius’ divising; the two great globes of Gerardus Mercator’s making; and the astronomer’s ring of brass, as Gemma Frisius had newly framed it,” which he had brought from Flanders—drew upon him among the common people the suspicion of being a conjuror, an opinion that was strengthened by his getting up at Cambridge a Greek play, the comedy of “Aristophanes,” in which, according to his own account, he introduced “the Scarabeus his flying up to Jupiter’s pallace, with a man and his basket of victualls on her back; whereat was great wondring, and many vaine reportes spread abroad of the meanes how that was affected.” Though causing “great wondring,” and seeming at that time too marvellous to be accomplished by human agency, it was in all probability only a clumsy performance, and much inferior to the ordinary transformation scene of a modern pantomime. The “vaine reportes,” however, led to Dee’s being accused of magical practices, and he found it expedient to leave the University, having first obtained his degree of Master of Arts. In 1548 he went abroad and entered as a student at Louvain, where his philosophical and mathematical skill brought him under the notice of some of the continental savants. Apart from his intellectual power, he must in his earlier years have possessed considerable charms both of person and manner, for he contrived to gain friends and win admiration wherever he went. He was consulted by men of the highest rank and station from all parts of Europe, and before he left Louvain he had the degree of Doctor of Laws conferred upon him.

On quitting that University, in 1550, he proceeded to Paris, where he turned the heads of the French people, who became almost frenzied in their admiration of him. He read lectures on Euclid’s Elements—“a thing,” as he says, “never done publiquely in any University of Christendome,” and his lectures were so fully attended that the mathematical school could not hold all his auditors, who clambered up at the windows and listened at the doors as best they could. A mathematical lectureship, with a yearly stipend of 200 crowns, and several other honourable offices were also offered him from “five Christian Emperors,” among them being an invitation from the Muscovite Emperor to visit Moscow, where he was promised an income at the Imperial hands of £2,000 a year, his diet free out of the Emperor’s kitchen, and to be in dignity and authority among the highest of the nobility; but he preferred to reside in his native country, and, foregoing these inducements, he returned to England in 1551.

The fame of his marvellous acquirements had preceded him, and on his arrival he was presented by Secretary Cecil to the young King, Edward VI., who granted him a pension of 100 crowns a year, which was soon “bettered,” as he says, by his “bestowing on me (as it were by exchange) the rectory of Upton-upon-Seaverne,” in Worcestershire, and to this was added the rectory of Long Leadenham, in Lincolnshire. Though holding these two benefices, it is somewhat remarkable that Dee does not appear to have ever been admitted to Holy Orders. There is no very clear evidence that he at any time occupied his Worcestershire parsonage, but he must have been resident for a while at Long Leadenham, for at that place a stone has been found inscribed with his name and sundry cabalistic figures, indicating that he had at some time lived in the parish. If he ever resided at Upton-upon-Severn he must have found an uncongenial neighbour in Bishop Bonner, who then held the living of Ripple—for the one was visionary, sensitive, and unpractical, and the other stern, cruel, and unscrupulous, while on religious and political questions their views were as wide apart as the poles.

On the 6th of July, 1553, Edward VI. finished his “short but saintly course,” and the solemn sound then heard from the bell-towers of England, while it announced the fact of his decease, crushed the hopes of Dee, for a time at least, and in a proportionate degree raised the expectations of Bonner. Mary had not been many months upon the throne before Dee was accused of carrying on a correspondence with Princess Elizabeth’s servants and of compassing the Queen’s death by means of enchantments. He was cast into prison and tried upon the charge of high treason, but acquitted; after which he was turned over to Bonner to see if heresy might not be proved against him. Christian martyrdom, however, was not in Mr. Dee’s vocation, and so, after six months’ detention, on giving satisfaction to the Queen’s Privy Council, and entering into recognisances “for ready appearing and good abearing for four months longer,” he was set at liberty August 19, 1555, to find that during his incarceration his rectory had been bestowed upon the Dean of Worcester, Bonner having detained him in captivity in order that he might have the disposal of his preferment. The following characteristic letter, written about this time, and addressed from the Continent (endorsed “fro Callice to Bruxells”), has been recently unearthed from among the Marian State papers by that painstaking antiquary, Mr. J. Eglinton Bailey, F.S.A., and printed in Mr. Earwaker’s “Local Gleanings:”

My dutye premysed unto youre good L’rdshype as hyt apperteynethe. This daye abowt iiij of the clocke at after noone my L. Chawncelare (Gardyner) taketh his Jorneye toward England havynge rather made a meane to a peace to be hereafter condyscendyd unto, than a peace at thys tyme yn any pointe determyned. In England all ys quyete. Souch as wrote trayterouse l’res (letters) ynto Germany be apprehendyd as lykewyse oothers yt dyd calculate ye kynge and quene and my Lady Elizabeth natyvytee, wherof on Dee and Cary and butler, and on ooyr of my Lady Elezabeths ... ar accused and yt they should have a famylyare sp(irit) wch ys ye moore susp’ted, for yt fferys on of ther a(ccu)sers-hadd ymedyatly upon thaccusatys bothe hys chyldr(en) strooken, the on wth put deathe, thother wth blyndnes. Thys trustynge shortly to doe youe yn an ooyr place bettre servyce I bed yowr good Lordshype most hartily to farewell. Wryte ffro Cales ye viijth of June.
Yowr Lordshyps most asured Tho. Martyn.

Happily for Dee, Mary’s reign was not of long duration, and on the accession of Elizabeth he was at once restored to the sunshine of Royal favour and courted by the wealthy and the great. He was consulted by Lord Robert Dudley, afterwards Earl of Leicester, by the Queen’s desire, respecting “a propitious day” for her coronation, and he says,—

I wrote at large and delivered it for Her Majesty’s use, by the commandment of the Lord Robert, what in my judgment the ancient astrologers would determine on the election day of such a time as was appointed for Her Majesty to be crowned in.

At the same time he was presented to the Queen, who made him great promises, not always fulfilled—amongst others, that where her brother Edward “had given him a crown she would give him a noble.”

Dee was a great favourite with Elizabeth, who could well appreciate his intellectual power, coupled as it was with some personal graces. She frequently visited him at his house to confer with him and to have peeps at futurity; and nothing perhaps better illustrates the faith the “Virgin Queen” had in his astrological powers than the circumstance of her consulting him, as other virgins in less exalted stations consult “wise men,” upon the subject of her matrimonial projects, and also that she had her nativity cast in order to ascertain if she could marry with advantage to the nation. The credulous Queen placed the most implicit confidence in Dee’s predictions. She was full of hope that the genius and learning which had already worked such wonders would accomplish yet more, and that he would eventually succeed in penetrating the two great mysteries—the Elixir Vitæ and the Philosopher’s Stone—those secrets which would endue her with perpetual youth and fill her treasury with inexhaustible wealth.

The fame of the English seer became more and more widely spread. Invitations poured in upon him from foreign courts, and his visits to the Continent became frequent. In 1563 he was at Venice; the same year, or the one following, he was at Antwerp, superintending the printing of his “Monas Hyeroglyphica.” An original copy of this work is preserved in the Manchester Free Library. Casauban acknowledges that, though it was a little book, he could extract no reason or sense out of it. Possibly he was one of those who, as Dee says, “dispraised it because they understood it not.” Let us hope Dee’s patron was more fortunate, for she had the advantage of reading it under the guidance of its author, in her palace at Greenwich, after his return from beyond seas. The book is dedicated to the Emperor Maximilian, to whom Dee presented it in person, being at the time, as there is some reason to believe, on a secret mission, for Lilly says, “he was the Queen’s intelligencer, and had a salary for his maintenance from the Secretaries of State.”

After his return, he was sent for on one occasion, “to prevent the mischief which divers of Her Majesty’s Privy Council suspected to be intended against Her Majesty, by means of a certain image of wax, with a great pin stuck into it, about the breast of it, found in Lincoln’s Inn Fields,” and this, we are told, he did “in a godly and artificial manner.” In 1571 he again went abroad, and while returning became dangerously ill at Lorraine, where the Queen despatched two English physicians “with great speed from Hampton Court,” to attend him, “sent him divers rareties to eat, and the Honourable Lady Sydney to attend on him, and comfort him with divers speeches from Her Majesty, pithy and gracious.” On his return he settled in the house which had belonged to his father, at Mortlake, in Surrey, a building on the banks of the Thames, a little westward of the church. Here for some time he led a life of privacy and study, collecting books and manuscripts, beryls and magic crystals, talismans, &c., his library, it is said, consisting of more than 4,000 volumes, the fourth part of which were MSS., the whole being valued at the time at more than £2,000.

In his “Compendious Rehearsall” there is a curious account of a visit which Elizabeth, attended by many of her Court, made to his house at Mortlake:—

1575 10 Martii.—The Queens Majestie, with her Most honourable Privy Councell, and other her lords and nobility, came purposely to have visited my library; but finding that my wife was within four houres before buried out of the house, her Majestie refused to come in; but willed me to fetch my glass so famous, and to shew unto her some of the properties of it, which I did; her Majestie being taken downe from her horse (by the Earle of Leicester, Master of the horse, by the Church wall of Mortlak), did see some of the properties of that glass, to her Majestie’s great contentment and delight, and so in most gracious manner did thank me, &c.

The glass is supposed to have been of a convex form, and so managed as to show the reflection of different figures and faces.

On the 8th October, 1578, the Queen had a conference with Dee, at Richmond, and on the 16th of the same month she sent her physician, Dr. Bayly, to confer with him “about her Majestie’s grievous pangs and paines by reason of toothake and the rheum, &c.;” and before the close of the year he was sent a journey of over 1,500 miles by sea and land, “to consult with the learned physitions and philosophers (i.e. astrologers) beyond the seas for her Majestie’s health recovering and preserving; having by the right honourable Earle of Leicester and Mr. Secretary Walsingham but one hundred days allowed to go and come in.”

After his return, Elizabeth honoured him with another visit, as appears by the following entry in his “Diary”:—

1580. Sept. 17th.—The Quene’s Majestie came from Rychemond in her coach, the higher way of Mortlak felde, and when she came right against the Church she turned down toward my howse; and when she was against my garden in the felde she stode there a good while, and then came ynto the street at the great gate of the felde, when she espyed me at my doore making obeysciens to her Majestie; she beckend her hand for me; I came to her coach side, she very speedily pulled off her glove and gave me her hand to kiss; and to be short, asked me to resort to her court, and to give her to wete when I cam ther.

In less than a month he received another visit from his patron, when the shadow of death was over his house; for his mother, who shared the house at Mortlake with him, had expired a few hours before the arrival of the Royal party. This time Elizabeth seems to have come less to please herself than to comfort her favourite:—

Oct. 10th.—The Quene’s Majestie, to my great comfort (hora quinta), cam with her trayn from the court, and at my dore graciously calling me to her, on horsbak, exhorted me briefly to take my mother’s death patiently; and withall told me that the Lord Threasorer had gretly commended my doings for her title, which he had to examyn, which title in two rolls, he had browght home two hours before; she remembred allso how at my wive’s death it was her fortune likewise to call uppon me.

The “title” alluded to had reference to the doubts Elizabeth affected to have as to her right to rule over the new countries that were at the time being discovered by her gallant sea captains, when, to ease her scruples, she had desired Dee to give her a full account of the newly-found regions. This he did in a few days, producing two large rolls, which he delivered to the Queen “in the garden at Richmond;” and in which not only the geography, but also the history, of the English colonies throughout the world was given at length. Dee must have made a liberal draught upon his imagination in producing such a work; and Elizabeth, credulous as she was, could hardly have looked upon his account of Virginia or Florida or Newfoundland as trustworthy history. She wished to believe it, however, and therefore signified her gracious approval of Dee’s production, much to the disgust of Burleigh, who in the Queen’s presence openly expressed his disbelief; and when, four days later, Dee attended at the Lord Treasurer’s house, he refused to admit him, and when he came forth, as he says, “did not, or would not, speak to me, I doubt not of some new grief conceyved.” On further examination of the writings, Burleigh’s misgivings may have been removed, or, as is much more likely, deeming it unwise to provoke a quarrel with one whom the Queen delighted to honour, he strove to make amends for his discourtesy, for he sent Dee a haunch of venison three weeks after. Though the breach was healed, the scholar’s fear of the Lord Treasurer was not altogether dispelled, if we may judge from a dream with which he was troubled shortly afterwards, when, as he says—

I dreamed that I was deade; and afterwards my bowels were taken out. I walked and talked with diverse, and among other with the Lord Threasorer, who was come to my house to burn my bones when I was dead, and thought he looked sourely on me.

Mr. Disraeli, in his “Amenities of Literature,” rightly estimated the character of the “Wizard Warden” of Manchester when he remarked that “the imagination of Dee often predominated over his science—while both were mingling in his intellectual habits, each seemed to him to confirm the other. Prone to the mystical lore of what was termed the occult sciences, which in reality are no sciences at all, since whatever remains occult ceases to be science, Dee lost his better genius.” Casaubon maintains that throughout he acted with sincerity, but this may be very well doubted. It is true that until he dabbled in magical arts he gave most of his time and talents to science and literature, but in the later years of his life he laid aside every pursuit that did not aid in his alchemical and magical studies, and rapidly degenerated into the mere necromancer and adventurer. Conjuror or not, he sported with conjuror’s tools; and when in the ardour of his enthusiasm he claimed to hold intercourse with angelic beings whom he could summon to his presence at his will, and boasted the possession of a crystal given him by the Angel Uriel, which enabled him to reveal all secrets, he naturally subjected himself to suspicions which, as he afterwards lamented, “tended to his utter undoing.”

Many of the incidents of his life are recorded in his “Private Diary,” edited for the Camden Society by Mr. J. Orchard Halliwell, and the portion relating to the period of his wardenship of Manchester has since been edited from the autograph MSS. in the Bodleian Library, with copious notes, and the errors of the Camden edition corrected by Mr. J. Eglinton Bailey. This journal gives a curious insight into the private life and real character of the strange yet simple-minded writer, relating, as it does with much circumstantial detail, his family affairs, his labours and rewards, and his trials and tribulations. There are notes of the visits paid to him by great people; of his attendances at Court; entries of those who consulted him as to the casting of their nativities; particulars of moneys borrowed from time to time (for, though he received large fees and presents, he was almost continuously in a state of impecuniosity); and the ordinary small talk of a common-place book. On the 15th June, 1579, his mother surrendered the house at Mortlake to him, with reversion to his wife and his heirs. On the 5th February in the preceding year he had married, as his second wife, a daughter of Mr. Bartholomew Fromonds, of East Cheam, a fellow-worker in alchemical pursuits, the lady being 23 years of age and Dee 51. They do not appear to have had many sympathies in common. She was a strong-minded, shrewd, managing woman, with a somewhat vixenish temper, who exercised considerable influence over her visionary and unpractical husband, and kept him in awe of her, though not sufficiently to restrain his reckless expenditure on books, manuscripts, and scientific instruments. Occasionally he complains of her irritability, but it must be confessed that, with her domestic cares, the worry of her “mayds,” the sickness of her children, and the difficulty she had in getting from her mystical husband sufficient money for the needful expenses of her household, the poor woman had anxieties enough to try the most enduring patience and sour the sweetest temper. On one occasion he writes: “Jane most desperately angry in respect of her maydes;” at another time he puts up a prayer to the angels that she may be cured of some malady that so she may “be of a quieter mind, and not so testy and fretting as she hath been.” And again, “Katharin (a child under eight years) by a blow on the eare given by her mother did bled at the nose very much, which did stay for an howre and more; afterward she did walk into the town with nurse; upon her coming home she bled agayn.”

Though Dee was much noticed and flattered by Elizabeth, the preferment she so often promised him was slow in coming; perhaps it was that the calculating Queen wished to ascertain the full value of his horoscope, which could be only done by the efflux of time, though, if the prosperity of her reign depended upon the day he had chosen for her coronation, she then had abundant proof of his magical skill. Dee was beginning to lose heart, his finances were getting low, he was in the usurer’s hands, and his pecuniary obligations were disquieting him. At this time came the crisis of his life. In 1581 he formed the disastrous friendship with Kelly, whom he took into his service as an assistant in his alchemical and astrological labours.

This individual, whose dealings in the Black Art would fill a volume, was a crafty and unscrupulous schemer—a clever rogue, who, without a tithe of the learning or genius of Dee, contrived to work upon his credulity to such an extent that Dee believed him to have the power of seeing, hearing, and holding “conversations with spirituall creatures” that were invisible and inaudible to Dee himself. Kelly, who was nearly thirty years the junior of Dee, having been born in 1555, “left Oxford,” says Mr. John Eglinton Bailey, in his admirable notes to the reprint of Dee’s “Diary,” “abruptly to ramble in Lancashire,” and for some delinquencies, coining it is said, had his ears cut off at Lancaster. Mr. Bailey says that he had been a lawyer, and Lilly states on the authority of his sister that he had practised as an apothecary at Worcester. Of a restless, roving, and ambitious disposition, he was

Everything by turns, and nothing long.

It was his practice to raise the dead by incantations, and to consult the corpse for the purpose of obtaining a knowledge, as he pretended, of the fate of the living. Weever, in his “Ancient Funeral Monuments” (p. 45), says that upon a certain night in the park of Walton-le-Dale, near Preston, with one Paul Wareing, of Clayton Brook, he invoked one of the infernal regiment to know certain passages in the life, as also what might be known of the devil’s foresight of the manner and time of the death, of a young nobleman in Wareing’s wardship. The ceremony being ended, Kelly and his companion repaired to the church of Walton, where they dug up the body of a man recently interred, and whom, by their incantations, they made to deliver strange predictions concerning the same gentleman, who was probably present and anxious to read a page in the book of futurity. This feat, which was no doubt performed by a kind of ventriloquism, is also mentioned by Casaubon. It is not said when the circumstance occurred, but a local historian, anxious to supply the omission, gives the date August 12, 1560, and says that Dee was present. This, however, must be an error, for Kelly could then have been only five years of age, and Dee did not make his acquaintance until long afterwards.

Kelly was a notorious alchemist and necromancer long before Dee became associated with him, and after the unfortunate intimacy commenced he acted as his amanuensis, and performed for him the office of “seer,” by looking into the doctor’s magic crystal,[23] a faculty he himself did not possess, and hence he was obliged to have recourse to Kelly for the revelations from the spirit world. It would seem, therefore, that “mediums” are by no means a modern invention. Dee says he was brought into unison with him by the mediation of the Angel Uriel, and their dealings and daily conferences with the spirits are fully recorded in Casaubon’s work, entitled, “A True and Faithful Relation of what passed for many years between Dr. John Dee and some Spirits.” They had a black spectrum or crystal—a piece of polished cannel coal, in which Kelly affirmed the Angels Gabriel and Raphael, and the whole Rosicrucian hierarchy, appeared at their invocation—and hence the author of “Hudibras” says,—

Kelly did all his feats upon

The devil’s looking-glass—a stone;

Where playing with him at bo-peep

He solved all problems ne’er so deep.

When an incantation was to take place, “The sacred crystal was placed on a sort of altar before a crucifix, with lighted candles on either side, and an open Psalter before it,” and prayers and ejaculations of the most fervid description were intermingled with the account taken down at Kelly’s dictation of the dress and hair, as well as the sayings and movements, of the angels. Dee was infatuated with his new acquaintance, and every experiment he suggested was tried, at whatever cost, and hence it was not long before Kelly’s weak and credulous dupe found himself in straitened circumstances. It was at this time that the Earl of Leicester, the Queen’s favourite, proposed dining with him at Mortlake and bringing Albert Lasque, the Palatine of Sieradz, who was then in England, with him, when Dee had to explain that he could not give them a suitable dinner without selling some of his plate or pewter to procure it. Leicester mentioned the circumstance to the Queen, who speedily helped her old favourite out of the difficulty by sending him “forty angells of gold.” He thus relates the circumstance:—

Her Majestie (A. 1583 Julii ultimo) being informed by the right honourable Earle of Leicester, that whereas the same day in the morning he had told me, that his Honour and Lord Laskey would dyne with me within two daies after, I confessed sincerely unto him, that I was not able to prepaire them a convenient dinner, unless I should presently sell some of my plate or some of my pewter for it. Whereupon her Majestie sent unto me very royally, within one hour after, forty angells of gold, from Syon, whither her Majestie was new come by water from Greenewich.

At the same time he makes the following entry in his “Diary”:—

Mr. Rawlegh his letter unto me of hir Majestie’s good disposition unto me.

the writer being Sir Walter Raleigh, who was then in great favour with Elizabeth, and himself a patron of Dee’s.

The visit of Count Lasque was an important event in Dee’s career. The Polish noble was accounted of great learning, and fond of “occult studies.” He paid frequent visits to the house at Mortlake, where he was admitted to the séances of the English magician, and became much impressed with his learning and professed knowledge of the mystical world. When the time came for Lasque to return he suggested that Dee should go out with him to Poland, with his wife and children, accompanied by Kelly and his wife and brother, and their servants. When in his castle at Sieradz they could make their experiments in undisturbed seclusion. Seeing no prospect of the fulfilment of the promises made to him at home, and being hampered with debt, Dee, who was then in his 57th year, was nothing loth to try his fortune abroad once more. They left in September, and it was six years before any of them again set foot on English soil. The departure is thus recorded in the “Diary”:—

Sept. 21st (1583).—We went from Mortlake, and so to the Lord Albert Lasky, I, Mr. E. Kelly, our wives, my children and familie, we went toward our two ships attending for us, seven or eight myle below Gravessende.

The period of their residence abroad was a chequered one, and many and extraordinary were their adventures and experiences, alternating between honour and discredit—between luxury and distress. For many months they were hospitably entertained by Count Lasque while engaged in their researches for the Philosopher’s Stone, but finding that they spent more gold than they were able to produce he got tired, and persuaded them to pay a visit to Rudolph, King of Bohemia, who, though a weak and credulous man, soon became conscious of the imposture that was being practised, and passed them on to Stephen, King of Poland, at Cracow, but he declined to have anything to do with them, and the Emperor Rudolph refused to pay their expenses, or further encourage their experiments, though he permitted them to reside at Prague, and occasionally to appear at Court, until they were banished from the country at the instigation of the Pope’s Nuncio, who stigmatised them as “notorious magicians.” Dee lamented the “subtill devises and plotts” laid against him, and pathetically added, “God best knoweth how I was very ungodly dealt withall, when I meant all truth, sincerity, fidelity, and piety towardes God, and my Queene, and country.”

The old man had surrendered himself entirely to Kelly. Under his iniquitous influence he degenerated into a mere necromancer, and was sinking more and more into discredit. On leaving Bohemia the two adventurers found an asylum in the Castle of Trebona, whither the Count of Rosenberg had invited them, and where, for a time, they were maintained in great affluence, owing, as they affirmed, to their discovery of the secret of transmuting the baser metals into gold. Kelly would seem to have learned some secrets from the German chemists which he did not reveal to his employer, but by their possession contrived to increase his influence over him, while he himself had recourse to the worst species of the magic art for the purposes of avarice and fraud. It was while at Trebona that Kelly produced the wonderful elixir, or Philosopher’s Stone, in the form of a powder, which Lilly, in his “Memoirs,” says he obtained from a friar who came to Dee’s door. With this “powder of projection,” or “salt of metals,” as it was variously called, they were enabled to coat the baser metals with silver or gold, and would seem to have hit upon the process which, a century and a half later, Joseph Hancock introduced into Sheffield—that of electro-plating. Among other transmutations they converted a piece of an old iron warming pan, by warming it at the fire, into (or covered it with) silver, and sent it to Queen Elizabeth.[24] Why, when they were about it, they did not “transmute” the whole pan is not stated, but it would seem they were not able to work the discovery easily or quickly enough to make it pay, for heart-burnings, jealousies, and disputations arose, and quarrels became of frequent occurrence. At one time Kelly got such a hold upon his dupe as to persuade him that it was the Divine will that they should have their wives in common; then a rupture occurred between the ladies, who, however, became reconciled to each other, and we have the entries in the Diary—

April 10th (1588).—I writ to Mr. Edward Kelly and to Mistress Kelly ij charitable letters requiring at theyr hands mutual charity.

And—

May 22nd.—Mistris Kelly received the sacrament and to me and my wife gave her hand in charity; and we rushed not from her.

Peace was restored, but it must have been of short duration, for we find a few months later—

July 17th.—Mr. Thomas Southwell of his own courteous nature did labor with Mr. Edmond Cowper, and indirectly with Mistress Kelly, for to furder charity and friendship among us.

True to his sordid and scheming nature, Kelly, who had become a full-blown knight, contrived to possess himself of the greater part of Dee’s treasures—“the powder, the bokes, the glass, and the bone”—and then, having no longer any need of the old man’s co-operation, took himself off to earn elsewhere a success that, however, proved only very short-lived, for it was not long before, being detected in some knavery, he fell into disgrace, and was immured by the Emperor Rudolph in one of the prisons of Prague. Queen Elizabeth hearing of him, sent a messenger—Captain Peter Gwinne—secretly for him to return; but he was doomed to end his days in a foreign land, for in an attempt to escape from one of the windows of the castle he fell to the ground, and was so bruised and shattered that he died in a few hours—his elixir, it would seem, not being sufficient to communicate immortality to its possessor.

Forsaken by his companion, Dee resolved on returning to England. Elizabeth, who had heard of the doings of the two adventurers, and being, moreover, much impressed with the silvered piece of the warming pan, sent the doctor friendly messages desiring his return, with letters of safe conduct, and Lord Rosenberg, who had welcomed the coming, was now no less hearty in speeding his parting guests, an attention that is not surprising when it is remembered that for two years or more he had had quartered upon him two families who maintained somewhat questionable relations, and lived upon anything but friendly terms with each other—two quarrelsome women, a whole bevy of turbulent and unruly children, and a staff of servants that were continually causing disquiet by their “unthankfulnesse” and discontent; to say nothing of a brace of conjurors who crowded his castle, or, at least, were believed to, with imps, hobgoblins, and ghostly visitants of various kinds, and who there practised all sorts of diablerie. The count made him magnificent promises, and gave him a present of money; and we can quite believe that he and those about him were not very much overcome when Dee and his household divinities left Trebona Castle and turned their faces homewards. They travelled with great pomp and state, having “three new coaches made purposely for my foresaid journey,” “twelve coach horses,” “two and sometymes three waines,” with “twenty-four soldiers,” and “four Swart-Ruiters,” as a guard of honour; the “total summe of money spent” being £796—well-nigh sufficient for a royal progress. On November 19, 1589, the Dees “toke ship by the Vineyard,” and December 2nd “came into the Tems to Gravesende.” They landed the following day, and on the 19th the doctor was “at Richemond with the Queen’s Majestie,” when, according to Aubrey, who received the information from Lilly, he was very favourably received.

Though Dee and his family “cam into the Tems” on the 2nd December, it was not until Christmas Day that they again entered upon possession of the old home at Mortlake. And a comfortless coming home and a sorrowful Christmas Day must have been that 25th of December, 1589. Courted by “Christian Emperors,” Dee had lived long enough to realise the value of the aphorism which says “Put not your trust in princes!” Feeble with years, broken in health, and overwhelmed by his losses and disappointments, the old man chafed and became fretful; while his comparatively youthful spouse—for Jane Dee was then in the prime of womanhood—was becoming increasingly irritable under the increasing cares of a growing family, and the difficulties she experienced in obtaining even decent food and raiment for them.

On reaching their once pleasant abode on the banks of the Thames, they found it dismantled and in part dilapidated. While abroad, silvering his old warming-pan and dreaming dreams of inexhaustible wealth, Dee had little dreamed of what was going on at home. Scarcely had he and his quondam associate reached the castle of Count Lasque than Nicholas Fromonds, his brother-in-law, who had been left in charge of the old house, and was to occupy it as tenant, “imbezeled,” sold, and “unduly made away” his furniture and “household stuff;” and a noisy rabble, believing that the old man had dealings with the devil, broke in, ransacked the whole place, and destroyed nearly everything that remained. Scarcely anything was left. 4,000 volumes, including the precious manuscripts, that had taken more than 40 years to get together, and had cost him £2,000, an enormous sum if we consider the value of money at that time, were scattered; though, through the efforts of his friends, some of them were afterwards recovered, as he said, “in manner out of a dunghill, in the corner of a church, wherein very many were utterly spoyled by rotting, through the raine continually for many years before falling on them, through the decayed roof of that church, lying desolate and wast at this houre.” The “rare and exquisitely-made instruments mathematicall,” the “strong and faire quadrant of five foote semi-diameter;” the two globes, on one of which “were set down divers comettes, their places and motions;” the sea compasses; the magnet-stone “of great vertue;” the “watch clock,” which measured the “360th part of an hour,” were all purloined, “piecemeal divided,” or “barbarously spoyled and with hammers smit in pieces.” Harland and Wilkinson, in their “Lancashire Folk-Lore,” say that when the house was attacked, “it was with difficulty Dee and his family escaped the fury of the rabble;” but this is a mistake, for, as previously stated, they were at the time beyond the seas, and in blissful ignorance of what was taking place.

Dee’s affairs were now in a deplorable condition. The destruction of his library was a terrible calamity. He was involved in debt, his creditors were becoming clamorous, and, as he laments, “the usury devoureth me, and the score, talley, and booke debts doe dayly put me to shame in many places and with many men.” His old friend and patron, the Queen, who had not yet lost faith in his astrological powers and discoveries, sent him in the year following his return “fiftie poundes to keep Christmas with,” and promised him another “fiftie poundes” out of her “prevy purse.” Many other friends sent him presents, in all about £500; but he was still struggling in poverty, and craving for some lucrative office, that he might free himself from his difficulties. In his distress he memorialised the Queen, through the Countess of Warwick, earnestly requesting that commissioners might be appointed to inquire into and decide upon his claims. His indebtedness then amounted to nearly £4,000, and the story he tells of the shifts he had recourse to, to save his family from “hunger starving,” is truly pathetic. He had been constrained, he says, “now and then to send parcells of furniture and plate to pawne upon usury,” and when these were gone, “after the same manner went my wife’s jewells of gold, rings, braceletts, chaines, and other our rarities, under thraldom of the usurer’s gripes, till non plus was written upon the boxes at home.” Upon the report the Queen “willed the Lady Howard to write some words of comfort to his wife, and send some friendly tokens beside;” she further sent through Mr. Candish (Cavendish) her “warrant by word of mowth to assure him to do what he would in philosophie and alchemie, and none shold chek, controll, or molest him,” and as a mark of her regard, on two occasions, “called for him at his door” as she rode by.

About this time a domestic difficulty of a different nature occurred. Dee’s nurse became “possessed,” and he had to try his skill in exorcising what he believed to be the evil spirit, though, as the result showed, with indifferent success. The incident is thus referred to in his “Diary”:—

Aug. 2nd, 1590.—Nurs her great affliction of mynde.

Aug. 22nd.—Ann my nurse had long byn tempted by a wycked spirit: but this day it was evident how she was possessed of him. God is, hath byn, and shall be her protector and deliverer! Amen.

Aug. 25th.—Anne Frank was sorowful, well comforted, and stayed in God’s mercyes acknowledging.

Aug. 26th.—At night I anoynted (in the name of Jesus) Anne Frank, her brest with the holy oyle.

Aug. 30th.—In the morning she required to be anoynted, and I did very devowtly prepare myself, and pray for vertue and powr, and Christ his blessing of the oyle to the expulsion of the wycked; and then twyse anoynted, the wycked one did resest a while.

Sep. 8th.—Nurse Anne Frank wold have drowned hirself in my well, but by divine Providence I cam to take her up befor she was overcome of the water.

Sep. 29th.—Nurse Anne Frank most miserably did cut her owne throte, afternone abowt four of the clok, pretending to be in prayer before her keeper, and suddenly and very quickly rising from prayer, and going toward her chamber, as the mayden her keeper thowt, but indede straight way down the stayrs into the hall of the other howse, behinde the doore did that horrible act; and the mayden who wayted on her at the stayr fote followed her, and missed to fynd her in three or fowr places, tyll at length she hard her rattle in her owne blud.

Dee tried hard to regain the parsonages and endowments of Upton and Long Leadenham, of which Bonner had many years previously dispossessed him, but he was “utterly put owt of hope for recovering them by the Lord Archbishop and the Lord Threasorer.” Elizabeth had, on one occasion, promised him the deanery of Gloucester, but objection was raised on the ground of his not being in Holy Orders; subsequently he had the promise of some small advowsons in the diocese of St David’s; but the promise which was pleasant to the bear was roken to the hope. Failing these, he applied for reversion of the mastership of the Hospital of St. Cross, at Winchester. The Queen and the Lord Treasurer were favourably disposed, and Mr. J. Eglinton Bailey, in his admirable notes, to which we have before made reference, cites a Latin document which he found among the State Papers, dated May, 1594, being a grant to Wm. Brooke, Lord Cobham, K.G., of the next advowson of the hospital of Holyrood, near Winchester, of the Queen’s gift, by the vacancy of the See, to present John Dee, M.A., on the death or resignation of Dr. Robert Bennett, the then incumbent. Bennett, however, did not die, or did not resign in reasonable time, for Dee never got installed; or it may be that the Archbishop (Whitgift) had interposed, for a month after the “grant” just mentioned, we find in the “Diary” an entry in which he thus gives vent to his feeling of mortification and disappointment, after an interview with the Primate:—

June 29th, 1594.—After I had hard the Archbishop his answers and discourses, and that after he had byn the last Sonday at Tybald’s (Theobald’s) with the Quene and Lord Threaserer, I take myself confounded for all suing or hoping for anything that was. And so adieu to the court and courting tyll God direct me otherwise! The Archbishop gave me a payre of sufferings to drinke. God be my help as he is my refuge! Amen.

When Dee ceased to supplicate, his wife took up the parable, and with much more satisfactory results. On the 7th of December, in the same year, we read:—

Jane, my wife, delivered her supplication to the Quene’s Majestie, as she passed out of the privy garden at Somerset House to go to diner to the Savoy, to Syr Thomas Henedge. The Lord Admirall toke it of the Quene. Her Majestie toke the bill agayn, and kept (it) uppon her cushen; and on the 8th day, by the chief motion of the Lord Admirall, and somewhat of the Lord Buckhurst, the Quene’s wish was to the Lord Archbishop presently that I should have Dr. Day his place in Powles (i.e., the Chancellorship of St. Paul’s).

Possibly the Queen or the Archbishop, or both, were getting wearied with the constant appeals of their tedious and egotistical suitor, for a month later occurs the entry:—

1595. Jan. 8th.—The Wardenship of Manchester spoken of by the Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.

Feb. 5th.—My bill of Manchester offered to the Quene afore dynner by Sir John Wolly to signe, but she deferred it.

April 18th.—My bill for Manchester Wardenship signed by the Quene, Mr. Herbert offring it her.

And so the magician of Mortlake was commissioned to minister among the Lancashire witches, and an exceedingly unpleasant time he had of it, as we shall presently see.

Though the appointment was made, the patent was not yet sealed. Dr. Chadderton did not actually relinquish the wardenship of Manchester until the confirmation of his election to the see of Lincoln, May 24, 1595. Immediately after appears the entry in the “Diary”:—

May 25th, 26th, 27th.—The Signet, Privy Seale, and the Great Seale of the Wardenship.

The old man was evidently too poverty-stricken to pay the fees, for he significantly adds, “£3 12s. 0d. borrowed of my brother Arnold.”

At last the long-hoped-for preferment was secured, and the Warden elect at once began to prepare for removal to his new sphere of duty. Though, as before stated, the building of the College had been acquired by the Earls of Derby, under the Confiscating Act of Edward VI., the Wardens continued to reside there. On the 11th June Dee “wrote to the Erle of Derby his secretary abowt Manchester College;” and on the 21st June he makes the entry:—

The Erle of Derby his letter to Mr. Warren for the Colledge.

Mr. Warren being apparently the agent of the Earl, and the “secretary” previously mentioned. Having thus put matters in train for the occupation of his new home, he set about the letting or disposal of the old one, for we read:—

July 1st.—The two brothers, Master Willemots, of Oxfordshere, cam to talk of my howse-hyring. Master Baynton cam with Mistress Katharyn Hazelwood, wife to Mr. Fuller.

Meantime the Manchester people, and more especially the fellows of the College, were curious to know something about the new Warden, of whom rumour had said so many strange things. On the 12th July he records that “Mr. Goodier, of Manchester, cam to me;” and on the 28th July he received “a letter from Mr. Oliver Carter, Fellow of Manchester College,” of whom we shall have more to say by-and-by. Mr. Goodier, it may be presumed, was not altogether uninfluenced by worldly considerations in thus paying his respects at Mortlake. The worthy burgher was a man of some consequence in his way, and much given, it is said, to the improvement of his temporal estate. He resided at the “Ould Clough House,” a building adjacent to the College, “over anendst the church,” as the Court Rolls of the day describe it, had served as senior constable, and had also filled the more important office of borough-reeve. He had, moreover, farmed the tithes of the Warden and Fellows, and seems to have made a somewhat wide interpretation of his lease, for shortly before he had prosecuted one of the Fellows for withholding the surplice fees, which he claimed to have of right. It is not unlikely, therefore, he had an ulterior object in journeying to London and offering his civilities to Dee. A year or two before, he had married a rich widow, Katharine, the relict of Ralph Sorrocold, and the mother of John Sorrocold, at whose house, the Eagle and Child, opposite Smithy Door, John Taylor, the “water poet,” when on his “Pennyless Pilgrimage,” lodged, and whose wife he immortalised in his homely rhymes—

I lodged at the Eagle and the Child,

Whereat my hostess (a good ancient woman)

Did entertain me with respect not common.

* * * * *

So Mistress Saracole, hostess kind,

And Manchester with thanks I left behind.

On the 31st July, the “very virtuous” Countess of Warwick, who had proved her friendship for Dee by urging his claims upon the consideration of the Queen, did this evening, as he says—

Thank her Matie in my name and for me for her gift of the Wardenship of Manchester. She took it gratiously, and was sorry that it was so far from hers; but that some better thing neer hand shall be ffownd for me; and if opportunitie of tyme wold serve, her Matie wold speak with me herself.

It is significantly added that “the firstfruits were forgiving by her Matie,” which was fortunate, as it saved him the necessity of borrowing money to pay them. Her Majesty, however, never found the “opportunitie of tyme” to speak with her aged protégé, and Dee eventually left without the satisfaction of a parting interview.

Dee’s prospects were now brightening, and, though late in the evening of life, there was again a prospect of sunny weather. Misfortunes, it is proverbially said, seldom come singly—the same rule, it would seem, holds good in regard to prosperity—for scarcely had Dee obtained his preferment when Providence added to his domestic bliss. A daughter was born unto him (he was now in his 69th year), and the christening, as may be supposed, was a great affair, the sponsors, who by the way, all appeared by deputy, being the Lord Keeper—Sir Christopher Hatton, it has been said, but more probably another Cheshire man, Sir Thomas Egerton, afterwards Lord Chancellor, for Hatton had been in his grave four years or more—Lady Mary Russell, Countess of Cumberland, the mother of the stout-hearted Lady Anne Clifford, Dowager Countess of Pembroke and Montgomery, of famous memory; and the Lady Frances Walsingham, widow of Sir Philip Sidney, and the wife of the unfortunate Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, whom Elizabeth, in 1601, beheaded.

The time of the new Warden was now much occupied in visiting and receiving visits. On the 13th, and again on the 22nd of September, he was the guest of the Earl of Derby at Russell House, and on the 9th Oct. he “dyned with Syr Walter Rawlegh, at Durham House,” in the Strand. On the 25th Oct. we find him urging “Mr. Brofelde, Atturny-General, for som land deteyned from the Coll.” (ege). Then come the entries,—

Nov. 8th.—My goods sent by Percival toward Manchester.
Nov. 26th.—My wife and children all by coach toward Coventry.

Coventry was on the road towards Manchester. Finally, we have the great mathematician himself following in their wake—

1595–6. Feb. 15.—I cam to Manchester a meridie nova 5.

The severance from old scenes and old associations must have been a painful one. It could only have been dire necessity that induced the vain and pedantic philosopher to forsake the pleasant vicinity of Richmond; to leave the courtly gallants and the staid and erudite savants who had frequented his modest “mansion” to settle down among the hard-headed, but uncultured and unappreciative people of Manchester—to immure himself in a place that must have been even less attractive then than it was a century or more after when Brummell’s regiment was ordered there, and the Beau sold out rather than submit to the infliction of being quartered in it. Abroad Dee had been welcomed wherever he had gone, and received with all the state and courtly ceremonial due to one of such prodigious learning. At Mortlake he had enjoyed the sunshine of royal favour, had been honoured with the frequent visits of the Queen and her Ministers, and accustomed to the friendship and society of such polished wits as Walsingham and Raleigh, and Cavendish and Sir Philip Sidney—

Sidney, than whom no gentler, braver man

His own delightful genius ever feigned,

And whom Spenser, in his “Shepheards’ Calendar,” named—

The President

Of noblenesse and chivalree.

At Manchester he had to deal with a rude, boisterous, and uncultivated people, who openly reviled him—a rough metal that all his incantations and alchemical skill could not transform into refined gold; and withal he had to contend with a body of clergy who abhorred the unlawful arts he was supposed to practice, and who treated him in consequence with implacable hatred. Of a truth his position was not an enviable one.

Lancashire was at that time the great scene of religious conflict—the battle-ground of angry polemics and fiercely-contending factions. It was accounted as more given to Romanism than any other county in England, and in the rural districts the Protestant cause seemed rather declining than advancing. Dr. Chadderton, who preceded Dee in the Wardenship, had carried on a vigorous persecution of those who still adhered to the unreformed religion, the more obstinate of whom he imprisoned in the New Fleet, a building adjoining his residence in the College. He had further hit upon an ingenious way of convincing these recusants of the error of their ways—as they would not attend church to hear the sermons preached by the Puritanical Fellows he gave orders to his clergy to read prayers in the apartments where they were confined, especially at meal times, so that they had the pleasant alternative of taking theological nourishment with their food or going without victuals altogether. Chadderton’s Protestantism had been intensified by his exile during the Marian persecutions, and as Dee had been deprived of his rectories of Upton and Long Leadenham, and had suffered imprisonment at the hands of Bonner, it was not unreasonably believed that he would follow in the steps of his predecessor, and be no less zealous in hunting up seminary priests, and punishing those who resorted to their secret masses. But Dee’s church principles were not particularly pronounced. Devoted to mathematical and scientific pursuits, he did not greatly concern himself with either Popish or Puritan theology; preaching was not in his line, and he cared little for those controversial sermons which only provoked strife between the professors of the old and the new faith, and excited bitterness in the minds of all. He was content to leave the Papists to the watchful care of the powerful Earl of Derby and their opponents to do as they pleased, provided they gave him no trouble. His colleagues were greatly angered at his lack of zeal, and interminable quarrels were the consequence.

Saturday, the 20th of February, 1596, was a great day in Manchester, and one to be held in remembrance. The church bells filled the air with their clanging melodies, and the groups of curious onlookers at the church stile and in the grass-grown graveyard denoted that something unusual was astir. And there was, for the great philosopher whose marvellous skill had astonished half the Courts of Europe, and about whom rumour had told so many curious tales, was come to preside over the ancient College, and direct the ecclesiastical affairs of the parish, and on that raw February morning was to be installed in his office. Manchester had never seen such a Warden before, and has not seen such another since. The ceremony, we are told, was gone through with “great pomp and solemnity.” Of those assisting at it were Edmund Prestwich, of Hulme; Richard Massey, the representative of a family of some consequence living “in the Milnegate, neere unto a street comonly called Toad-lane;” George Birch, of Birch, in Rusholme, the brother of Robert Birch, one of the Fellows, and nephew of William Birch, who at one time had been the Warden of the College; Ralph Byrom and Thomas Byrom, wealthy traders of the Kersal stock; Ralph Houghton, another trader; Henry Hardy, and Richard Nugent, who afterwards became a benefactor to the town, but whose bequest, through the negligence of trustees, has long since been lost. Dr. Hibbert mentions these names, though he does not give his authority. Dee, however, was fond of ostentation and display, and we may be sure would omit nothing that would impart dignity and importance to the proceedings. We are not told which of the Fellows were present. Nowell, who was then in his 90th year, would be too old and infirm to undertake the toil of a journey from London; but the bold and outspoken Puritan divine, Oliver Carter, would of a certainty be in his place; and probably with him would be his equally zealous coadjutor, Thomas Williamson; though both must have been greatly exercised in spirit at the thought of God’s heritage being lorded over by one of such questionable antecedents. Humphrey Chetham had not then amassed a fortune, and acquired fame as a reformer of ecclesiastical abuses. He was only in his sixteenth year; but he may have been, and very likely was, among the spectators, and in his young mind may have wondered how and by what mysterious influences so valuable a preferment had fallen to one who, not having obtained ordination, had not even received authority to preach.

The Manchester as Dee saw it must have presented a very different aspect to the Manchester of to-day. Leland, who had visited the place sixty years previously, described it, in his “Itinerary,” as “the fairest, best builded, quickest, and most populous town in Lancashire,” which, by the way, was not saying very much, seeing that, as compared with other parts of the kingdom, the county was thinly-peopled and ill-cultivated, and the neighbourhood of the town little else than extensive moors, mosses, and quagmires, where the stranger rarely adventured himself, and so “very wild and dangerous” that Bishop Downham pleaded its inaccessibility as a reason for seldom or never visiting it. The extent of the town proper could have been little more than that of an inconsiderable village of the present day, for though, unfortunately, there is no plan of it as then existing, the enumeration of the streets in the old Court Rolls of the manor enables us to form a tolerably accurate estimate of its limits. Within a few hundred yards of the Church the whole of the business of the place was located, and what was then town was but a congeries of crooked lanes and devious by-ways, with quaint black and white half-timbered dwellings standing on either side in an irregular, in-and-out, haphazard sort of way, and some very much inclined to “stand-at-ease,” yet rendered picturesque by their very irregularity and their innumerable architectural caprices and fantasies, their queer-looking and curiously-carved gables, their oddly-projecting oriels and cunningly-devised recesses, and the varied and broken sky-lines of their roofs, so different to those dull, dreary uniformities of brick the present generation is compelled to gaze upon. Deansgate, Market Sted Lane, and Long Millgate were the principal streets. These stretched irregularly towards the open country, and from them a few narrow intricate lanes branched off in the direction of the Church and the College. On the east and south sides of the churchyard were then, as now, several public-houses, where the bride ales and wedding feasts were held, and to restrain the extravagances of which numerous sumptuary laws had to be enacted. Round the Market Sted were the shops and “stallings” of the principal traders, who, clad in their own fustian, measured out their manufactured wares and sent out their pack-horsemen, with tingling bells, to sell them wherever and whenever they could find a buyer. Here also were located the “booths” in which the Portmotes and the Courts Leet and Baron of the manorial lords were held, and contiguous thereto were the Pillory, the Whipping Post, and the Stocks, where rogues and dishonest and drunk and disorderly townsmen were punished. On the north side of the church—Back o’th’ Church, as it was called—between the churchyard and the College gates, stood the bull oak, where bulls were usually baited. The butts for archery practice, where every man between 16 and 60 had to exercise himself in the use of the good yew bow, were on the outskirts of the town, one being on the south side, where Deansgate merged into Aldport Lane, and the other, at Collyhurst, on the north. The cockpit stood on what was then called the “lord’s waste,” the vacant land in the rear of the Market Sted, which still retains the name of Cockpit Hill. Hanging Ditch was, as its name implied, a ditch, part of the old moat or fosse connecting the Irwell and the Irk, down which the water still flowed at a considerable depth below the footway, Toad Lane and Cateaton Street being but a continuation of it. Over this old and then disused watercourse was a stone bridge, the arch of which may still be seen—the Hanging Bridge, so named from the drawbridge which had preceded it, where officers were stationed to see that horses and cows did not pass over into the churchyard. Near the bridge was the smithy, which gave the name to Smithy Door and Smithy Bank. In Smithy Door, near the entrance to the Market Sted, was the town pump or conduit, fed from a natural spring, near the top of the present Spring Gardens, where the good wives of the town went for their water, and waited their “cale” till they got it, gossiping and quarrelling with each other the while. At the foot of Smithy Bank was Salford Bridge—the only bridge over the Irwell connecting the two towns—a structure of three arches, and so narrow that foot-passengers had occasionally to take refuge in little recesses while vehicles passed along. In the centre of it was the dungeon, which in earlier days had served the purpose of a chapel. Withy Grove was in truth a group of withies, the old “Seven Stars,” and a few other dwellings, being all that existed to give the character of street. At the higher end was Withingreave Hall, the town house of the Hulmes of Reddish, progenitors of William “Hulme the Founder,” with its gardens, orchard, and outbuilding, and beyond a pleasant rural lane led on to Shudehill. Market Sted Lane, a narrow and tortuous thoroughfare, extended no further than the present Brown Street, Mr. Lever’s house, which occupied the site of the White Bear, standing in what was then the open country. The picturesque old black and white houses that bordered each side had their pleasant gardens in rear; and beyond, towards Withy Grove in one direction and Deansgate in the other, were meadows and pasture fields. In one of those fields, on the south side, was the mansion of the Radcliffes, surrounded by a moat that gave the name to Pool Fold, and which was oftentimes the scene of much mob-justice and very much misery, for here was placed the ducking-stool for the punishment of scolds and disorderly women,—

On the long plank hangs o’er the muddy pool,

That stool, the dread of ev’ry scolding quean.

From its frequent use we may suppose that in those days the female portion of the community were neither very amiable nor very virtuous. Long Millgate ran parallel with the Irk, an irregular line of houses with little plots of garden behind forming the boundary on each side, and a little way up a rural lane, shaded with hedgerow trees, branched off on the right, known as the Milner’s Lane—the present Miller Street. The Irk, a pure and sparkling stream, was noted for its “luscious eels.” The Masters of the Grammar School had the exclusive fishery rights from Ashley Lane to Hunt’s Bank, and the Warden and Fellows of the College might have envied them their monopoly had they not themselves been able to obtain their Lenten fare from the equally clear and well-stocked waters of the Irwell, which then glided pleasantly by, innocent of dyes and manufacturing refuse. Altogether the place presented more the semi-rural aspect of a country village than an important town, as Leland represented it to be. Picturesque, it is true, yet it possessed many unpleasant features withal. The streets and lanes were ill-paved and full of deep ruts and claypits, for every man who wanted daub to repair his dwelling dug a hole before his door to obtain it. The eye, too, was offended by unsightly cesspools and dunghills that were to be seen against the Church walls, on the bridges, and, in fact, at every turn.

THE COLLEGE, MANCHESTER.

Though some of the more remote parts of the parish were barren and uncultivated, the immediate environments of the town were characterised by much that was exceedingly beautiful, with a wilder sort of loveliness, increased by the natural irregularities of the surface, and the great masses of foliage, part of the old forest of Arden, that extended far away. On the north, Strangeways Park, with its umbraged heights, its sunny glades, and shady dingles, stretched away towards Broughton, Cheetham, and Red Bank. Near thereto was Collyhurst Park, with the common, on which the townsmen had the right to pasture their pigs, and where the town swine-herd daily attended to his porcine charge; and the deep sequestered clough through which the Irk wound its sinuous course, its surface chequered by the shadows of the overhanging hazels and brushwood; and beyond, the extensive chase of Blackley, with its deer leaps, and its aërie of eagles, of herons, and of hawks. On the south was the stately old mansion of Aldport, standing in a park of 95 acres, occupying the site of Campfield and Castlefield, and reaching down to the banks of the Irwell, with the great parks of Ordsal and Hulme on the one side and those of Garratt and Ancoats on the other.

It can hardly be said that among the inhabitants a very high state of civilisation prevailed. If thrifty and industrious, they were certainly not very refined, nor blessed with “pregnant wits,” as good Hugh Oldham affirmed, nor yet remarkable for their moral excellence. Boisterous and laughter-loving, they delighted in outdoor games and uproarious sports,—the wild merriment of the day being oftentimes followed by the wilder merriment of the evening. Bull-baiting, wrestling, and cock-fighting were the leading diversions, “unlawful gaming” and “lewdness” were frequently complained of, and the ale-houses, to which the more dissolute resorted, were the scenes of riots and feuds that not only caused annoyance and scandal to the more well-disposed, but endangered the public peace to a greater degree than we can now easily conceive. Under such circumstances it is hardly surprising that they should have entertained little reverence for their spiritual pastors, many of whom, by the way, were only a degree less ignorant and disorderly than themselves, for in those days the curate of Stretford kept an ale-house, the rector of Chorlton eked out a scanty subsistence by doing a little private pawnbroking, while the parson of Blackley was “passing rich” on a stipend of £2 3s. 4d. a year.

Such was the Manchester of which Dee had become the ecclesiastical head. However apathetic he may have been as to the spiritual affairs of the parishioners committed to his care, he was by no means wanting in energy when his own temporal interests were concerned. Scarcely had he taken up his abode at the College than we find him entertaining at dinner two influential tenants—Sir John Byron, of Clayton, and his son, and bargaining with them about the price of hay before the grass was actually grown. A month later he records the “possession taking in Salford,” and he quickly found himself in litigation with the College tenants of some of the lands there. The tenants were a source of trouble, and oftentimes disturbed the even tenor of his way, while the collecting of his tithes was not unfrequently a cause of anxiety also. He complains of being “occupied with low controversies, as with Holden of Salford, and the tenants of Sir John Biron, of Faylsworth,” of “much disquietnes and controversy about the tythe-corn of Hulme,” of the “Cromsall corne-tyth” being “dowted of and half denyed,” and then “utterly denyed,” and of his riding to Sir John Byron “for a quietnes,” and “to talk with him abowt the controversy between the Colledg and his tenants.” Notwithstanding these unhappy disputations he had some pleasant days. Thus, on the 26th June (1596), as he tells us—

The Erle of Derby, with the Lady Gerard, Sir (Richard) Molynox and his lady, dawghter to the Lady Gerard, Master Hawghton, and others, cam suddenly uppon (me), after three of the clok. I made them a skoler’s collation, and it was taken in good part. I browght his honor and the ladyes to Ardwyk grene toward Lyme, as Mr. Legh his howse, 12 myles of, &c.

Dee was eager for sympathy and approval of his favourite schemes and pursuits, and, being a man of the world, he knew the value of such friendships. As he was, moreover, given to hospitality, there is little doubt the “skoler’s collation” would be as sumptuous as the College larder would afford. A few days later (July 5) he was visited by Mr. Harry Savill, the antiquary, and Mr. Christopher Saxton, the eminent chorographer, who had come to make a survey of the town; and on the following day, Dee, with Saxton and some others, rode over to Hough Hall, in Withington, the mansion of Sir Nicholas Mosley, who had in the same year become the purchaser of the manor of Manchester. The survey was completed on the 10th July, and on the 14th Saxton “rode away.” It is much to be regretted that no copy of Saxton’s work, so far as is known, has been preserved; for an authentic plan of the town in Elizabeth’s reign would be a valuable addition to the topographical records of Manchester, and would enable us to see exactly what progress was made in the extension of the town between that time and the Commonwealth period, when another survey—the earliest reliable one extant—was taken.

Before the close of the first year of his Wardenship, Dee was invited to exercise the power he was commonly believed to possess of casting out devils; but he prudently declined. About two years previously five members of the household of Mr. Nicholas Starkey, of Cleworth, in Leigh parish, became demoniacally possessed, through the influence, as was said, of a conjuror named Hartley. Margaret Byrom, of Salford, who happened to be on a visit at Cleworth, became infected with the malady. This occurred on the 9th January, 1596–7; and at the end of the month she returned to her friends at Salford, when Dee was importuned to deliver her from the evil spirit which tormented her. The Warden, however, refused, telling her friends he would practise no such unlawful arts as they desired; but, instead, advised they should “call for some godlye preachers, with whom he should consult concerning a public or private fast,” and at the same time he sharply rebuked Hartley for following his contraband calling. Possibly the failure of his previous attempt to exorcise the spirit in the case of “Nurse Anne Frank” had induced a wholesome prudence on his part, though his refusal made him unpopular with his parishioners, who were offended at his withholding the relief they believed it was in his power to give, and his Puritan colleagues took advantage of his unpopularity to make his life miserable. Oliver Carter, who had held his fellowship for more than a quarter of a century, and had become the recognised head of the Presbyterian faction in the district, was chief among the malcontents, and a sore thorn in the side the doctor found him. Carter disliked alchemical philosophers as much as he hated Popish recusants, and denounced the Warden’s intercourse with the spirit world as a scandal upon the Church. The Presbyterian Fellow had little respect for lawfully-constituted authority, and his open resistance in matters of ceremony had aforetime brought him in collision even with the cautious and temperate Bishop Chadderton, who had found it necessary to enforce some little submission to ecclesiastical law. It is not surprising, therefore, that he should have shown little regard for the authority of the new comer, whom he looked upon as a Court spy, and detested accordingly. He was a continuous source of annoyance, and his contumacious demeanour, his “impudent and evident disobedience in the Church,” and persistent obstructiveness are frequently complained of, thus—

Jan. 22, 1579.—Olyver Carter’s thret to sue me with proces from London, &c., was this Satterday in the church declared to Robert Cleg.

Sept. 25.—Mr. Olyver Carter his impudent and evident disobedience in the church.

Sept. 26.—He repented, and some pacification was made.

Nov. 14.—The fellows would not grant me the £5 for my howse-rent, as the Archbishop had graunted; and our foundation commandeth an howse.

July 17, 1600.—I willed the fellows to com to me by nine the next day.

July 18.—They cam. It is to be noted of the great pacification unexpected of man which happened this Friday; for in the forenone (betwene nine and ten), when the fellows were greatly in doubt of my heavy displeasure, by reason of their manifold misusing of themselves against me, I did with all lenity enterteyn them, and shewed the most part of the things that I had browght to pass at London for the colledg good, and told Mr. Carter (going away) that I must speak with him alone. Robert Leghe (one of the four clerks) and Charles Legh (the brother of Robert, and receiver) were by. Secondly, the great sute betwene Redich (Redditch) men and me was stayed, and Mr. Richard Holland his wisdom. Thirdly, the organs uppon condition were admitted. And, fourthly, Mr. Williamson’s resignation granted for a preacher to be gotten from Cambridge.

Reconciliation was thus effected, but it was not long before there was a renewal of hostilities, for, under date Sept. 11, we find—

Mr. Holland, of Denton, Mr. Gerard, of Stopford (Stockport), Mr. Langley, &c., commissioners from the Bishop of Chester, authorised by the Bishop of Chester, did call me before them in the Church abowt thre of the clok, after none, and did deliver to me certayne petitions put up by the fellows against me to answer before the 18th of this month. I answered them all codem tempore, and yet they gave me leave to write at leiser.

Amid these harassing anxieties and unseemly disputations with the unruly Fellows, Dee’s alchemical studies were not neglected. He had secured another medium in the place of Kelly—Bartholomew Hickman, who turned out to be nearly as great a knave, though not nearly half so clever as his predecessor, and, losing confidence, Dee discharged him and burnt all the records of what he had seen and heard in the wonderful show-stone. The next day Roger Kooke, who had previously been in the service of the philosopher, and to whom he had revealed “the great secret of the elixir of the salt of metals,” offered “the best of his skill and powre, in the practises chymicall.” He was quickly set to work, but young Arthur Dee finding by chance among his papers what seemed a plot against the father, he was charged with the conspiracy, when Dee cried, “O Deus libera nos a malo! All was mistaken, and we are reconcyled godly;” and he again dreamed of his “working the philosopher’s stone.” He would appear, however, to have subsequently parted with Kooke, for before his death Hickman had been restored to favour.

Though devoted to scientific pursuits, it must not be supposed that the Warden neglected his official duties, or that he was by any means unmindful of the secular interests of the Collegiate body. His business exactitude and active zeal in this direction, however, did not always meet with the approval of his neighbours, or at least of such of them as happened to be tithe-farmers or College tenants. In May of the year following his induction we find him with his curate, Sir Robert Barber (clerics commonly affected the prefix of “Sir” in those days), Robert Tilsey, the parish clerk, and “diverse of the town of diverse ages,” making a careful perambulation of the bounds of the parish with the view of determining its exact limits, a procedure that somewhat alarmed Mr. Langley, the rector of the adjoining parish of Prestwich, who smelt litigation in Dee’s anxiety “for avoiding of undue encroaching of any neighbourly parish, one on the other.” On another occasion he was careful to note that—

At midnight (January 22, 1599), the College gate toward Hunt’s Hall did fall, and some parte of the wall going downe the lane—

the “lane” being the narrow passage that led from the north side of the church, by the venerable tree where bulls were baited, and past the prison to Irk Bridge, then known as Hunt’s Bank, a name it retained until modern times, when it was superseded by the present Victoria Street. The gate-house, which, as before stated, was at one time used as a workhouse, stood on this, the westerly side of the great quadrangle, the gates opening into Hunt’s Bank. Though they have long since disappeared, the evidences of their former existence may still be traced in the wall.

After an absence in London he paid an official visit to the Grammar School, where he “fownd great imperfection in all and every of the scholers, to his great grief,” a record that must be taken as reflecting on Dr. Cogan, the head master, whose time appears to have been divided between the teaching of youth and the practice of physic. In August, 1597, the “Erle and Cowntess of Derby” having taken up their abode at Aldport Lodge, Dee entertained them at “a banket at my lodging at the Colledge hora 4½.” There are many other entries of visits from distinguished personages, among them Sir Urian Legh, of Adlington, the reputed hero of the ballad of “The Spanish Lady;” Sir George Booth, sheriff of Cheshire; Mr. Wortley, of Wortley. Probably, also, Camden, the historian, for it is recorded that when that distinguished antiquary visited the town, Dee pointed out to him the inscription of some Roman remains at Castle Field, attributable to the Frisian cohort, which occupied the station there. While dispensing his hospitalities the poor old man was suffering from lack of money, his financial difficulties being as great as ever, and we find him raising loans on the security of his diminished stock of plate, &c.—

Feb. 17, 1597.—Delivered to Charles Legh the elder (the receiver of College before referred to), my silver tankard with the cover, all dubble gilt, of the Cowntess of Herford’s gift to Francis her goddaughter, waying 22oz., great waight, to lay to pawne in his own name to Robert Welshman, for iiijli tyll within two dayes after May-day next. My dowghter Katherin and John Crocker and I myself were at the delivery of it and waying of it in my dyning chamber—it was wrapped in a new handkercher cloth.

Many similar transactions are recorded—indeed, he appears to have been continually borrowing money from his friends, and almost as frequently lending his books to them. Dee was certainly not one of those who believe that “imparted knowledge doth diminish learning’s store,” for he was ever ready to place his literary treasures at the service of others, and frequent entries occur of his lending rare and valuable works to those he thought capable of understanding and appreciating them.

It was some little relief to him when, on the 2nd December, 1600, his son Arthur had a grant of the chapter clerkship, though before he could pay £6 for the patent he

Borrowed of Mr. Edmund Chetham, the schoolmaster (the uncle of Humphrey, the founder) £10 for one yere uppon plate, two bowles, two cupps with handles, all silver, waying all 32oz. Item, two potts with cover and handells, double gilt within and without, waying 16oz.

The Warden’s pecuniary embarrassments kept him in discredit with his parishioners, who naturally looked with disfavour upon an ecclesiastic that did not pay his debts, especially when, as they believed, it required only a very little closer intimacy with the evil one to enable him to do so. The fellows maintained their hostility, his neighbours became more and more unfriendly, the urgency of his creditors was oppressive, and on every hand he was assailed with suspicions of sorcery. The nine years he was in Manchester was the most wretched portion of his life. Unable to bear the odium attaching to him, he petitioned King James that he might be brought to trial, “and by a judicial sentence be freed from the revolting imputations” his astrological and other inquiries had brought upon him; but Elizabeth’s wary successor, who detested his mysteries, would have nothing to say to him. Weary with the struggle, he quitted Manchester in November, 1604, and once more sought shelter in the house at Mortlake. Of the closing years of his chequered life little is known, but that little is sad enough. The friends of former years had died or forgotten him, and the new generation of Court favourites left him to pass his few remaining days in poverty, sickness, and desolation. After all his tricks and conjurations the once haughty philosopher was reduced to such miserable straits that he oftentimes had to sell some of his books before he could obtain the means wherewith to purchase a meal. The prediction of the Earl of Salisbury that he “would shortly go mad” was nearly being realised, for in the midst of his poverty, and while on the very verge of the grave, he resumed his occult practices, in which he was aided by the formerly discarded Bartholomew Hickman. At last, in poverty and neglect, wearied and worn out, the miserable wreck of an ill-spent life, he, in 1608, passed away at the advanced age of 81, and was buried in the chancel of the church at Mortlake without any tombstone or other memorial to preserve his name.

MORTLAKE CHURCH.

Of the numerous family that had once gathered round his hearth few remained at the time of his dissolution, death or estrangement having removed nearly all. His son Michael had died in infancy. His busy, shrewish wife died on the 23rd March, 1605. Of the other seven children Katherine was the only one who clung to him to the last. Rowland, on completing his studies at the Manchester Grammar School, obtained an exhibition at Oxford, but of his subsequent career nothing is known, nor, with the exception of Arthur, can we trace anything of the after-history of the others. Arthur, his first-born, resided in Manchester for some time, and subsequently practised as a physician. He married Isabella, one of the daughters of Edmund Prestwich, of Hulme Hall, and afterwards was chosen physician to Michael III., the first Czar of Russia, and for many years he resided in that country, where his wife died, July 6, 1634, after having borne him 12 children. Returning to England, he was sworn physician to Charles I., and located himself at Norwich, where he continued to reside until his death, September, 1651. Anthony à Wood, in his Athenæ, mentions that Arthur Dee, when an old man, spoke in full confidence of his father’s goodness and sincerity, and affirmed that in his youth, when he had initiated him in some of his mystical pursuits, he had seen enough to satisfy him that he had discovered many marvellous secrets, and only lacked the means to make them available. The son may not have been altogether an impartial witness, but it would be unfair to judge the father by the standard of the present day.

Dee lived in an age when everybody believed in the occult sciences, and in the power of summoning visitants from the world of shadows by incantations and other mysterious means. Half a century before his death he had been pre-eminent for his learning, his eloquence, and his scientific attainments, and he was undoubtedly one of the great lights of his era. Camden styled him nobilis mathematicus, and he may fairly be accounted the prophet of the arts which Bacon and Newton were afterwards to reveal. A ripe scholar, well skilled in chemistry, mathematics, and mechanics, and the master of the whole circle of the liberal arts as then understood—

He sought and gathered for our use the true.

He was one of the first who accepted the theory of Copernicus, and he successfully performed the labour of correcting the Gregorian calendar. He was, moreover, a good linguist, an earnest antiquary, and a diligent searcher of those records which tend to elucidate the history of the country, and to him is due the credit of first suggesting the formation of a “National Library,” for the preservation of those ancient writings in which lie “the treasures of all antiquity, and the everlasting seeds of continual excellency.” Paradoxical as it may seem, there was with the splendour and universality of his genius much childlike simplicity; and his credulous confiding nature often exposed him to the iniquitous arts of those about him; while his reckless extravagance, his love of ostentatious display, his debts, and his carelessness of the method which brought relief, kept him in continuous disquiet. He was part of the age in which he lived in that he was fond of alchemy, a believer in the divining-rod, and a devout practitioner of the astral science; but it is to be feared that his straitened circumstances sometimes prompted him to have recourse to tricks and artifices that his better judgment condemned. He was a strange mixture of pride and gentleness, of goodness and credulity. He discoursed learnedly with foreign philosophers, tended his little folks in their sicknesses, and soothed them in their childish griefs and sorrows; gazed into the glittering depths of his magic mirror and smiled good temperedly at his shrewish wife’s scoldings; dispensed his hospitalities and gossiped freely with the aristocratic personages who sought his society, and pawned his property to pay for their entertainment; contended with an archbishop and sought peace with the irrepressible Carter and his unruly associates; but we willingly forget the weaknesses and the foibles of the man when we remember the genius and the learning of the philosopher. With all his failings Dee possessed much kindness of heart, and though Manchester may not have been greatly advantaged by the ecclesiastical supervision of the “Wizard Warden,” he was yet, in many respects, much to be preferred to the needy Scotch courtier whom King James appointed as his successor.

BEESTON CASTLE.

CHAPTER VI.
BEESTON CASTLE.

The traveller who has ever journeyed in the “Wild Irishman” between that hive of industry, Crewe, and the ancient city upon the Dee, will have noticed upon his left, midway between the two places, a bold outlier of rock that rises abruptly from the great Cheshire plain, with the ivy-covered remains of an ancient castle perched upon its summit. A better position for a fortress it is difficult to conceive. It looks as if nature had intended it as a place of defence; and evidently Randle Blundeville, the crusader Earl of Chester, thought so, when, in those stormy days in which the Marches were the constant scene of struggle and strife, and

Like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales!

he chose it as the site for one of his border strongholds.

Avoiding, for the nonce, the “Irishman,” we will avail ourselves of the more convenient, if more common-place, “Parliamentary,” as it enables us to alight at Beeston—for that is the place to which our steps are directed, and almost within bowshot of the relic of ancient days, of which we are in search. Beeston is not a town—it can hardly be called a village even, the houses are so few, and neighbourhood there is none. The little unpretentious railway station is innocent of hurry and bustle, and seems almost ashamed of disturbing the rural tranquillity; the Tollemache Arms, a comfortable hostelrie standing below the railway, opens its doors invitingly; a peaceful farmstead or two, surrounded by verdant pastures and fields of ripening corn, with here and there a cleanly whitewashed cottage, half hidden among the trees and hedges, are almost the only habitations we can see.

A few minutes’ walk along a sandy lane, that winds beneath the trees and across the sun-bright meadows, where cattle are pasturing and haymakers are tossing the fragrant grass, brings us to the foot of the castle rock. The huge mass of sandstone lifting its unwieldy form above the surrounding greenery seems to dominate the entire landscape. Few landmarks are more striking, and, as you draw near, the hoary time-worn ruin crowning the summit, and looking almost gay and cheerful in the fresh morning sunlight, reminds you, only that the water is wanting, of those picturesque strongholds that crest the rocky heights along the lonely reaches of the Rhine—

High from its field of air looks down

The eyrie of a vanished race;

Home of the mighty, whose renown

Has passed and left no trace.

On the north-easterly side the hill rises slopingly, but towards the south and west it shoots up abruptly from the plain, presenting a mass of jagged perpendicular rock three hundred and sixty feet in height. Seen from the distance, it looks as if it had been upheaved by some convulsive effort of Nature, and then toppled over, the foundations standing up endways. Keeping to the left, we ascend by a path steep and rough, and stony withal. Brushwood and bracken, and the wild, old, wandering bramble border the way; and now and then a timid sheep rushes out from some shady nook and gazes wonderingly at us as we go by. The turf in places is short and slippery, for the rabbits keep it closely cropped; and were it not for a fragment of jutting rock, or the branch of a tree that occasionally proffers its friendly aid, we should find the ascent at times difficult and toilsome. Little more than half way up we come to the outer line of the fortifications, where a small lodge has been erected, through which we gain admission into the dismantled interior.

The ruin is complete, and at the first glance presents only the appearance of crumbling masses of shapeless masonry, that, having outlived the necessities which called them into existence, time has clothed with saddest beauty. The ivy spreads its roots and clings with fond tenacity, the long grass waves, and the nettles grow in rank profusion; yet the remains are so far perfect that the searching eye of the archæologist can readily discern their purpose, determine the plan, and reconstruct in every detail. The outer ballium, which is pierced by a few embrasures, extends in the form of an irregular semicircle round the sloping sides, and where the cliff is not perpendicular, about five or six acres being comprehended within the area. The entrance is so narrow that only one or two persons can pass through at a time—a feature that indicates the rude and lawless period of its erection, when strength and security were the chief objects aimed at. It has been guarded by a square tower, and the remains of seven other towers or bastions, mostly round, and similar in appearance to the Moorish towers which became so general in England after the return of the barons from the Crusades, occur at irregular intervals. The court itself is a large, rough pasture, broken and uneven. A pair of kangaroos are disporting themselves among the moss-grown fragments, and a few deer are quietly browsing upon the green turf; but there is no picturesque assemblage of ruins, or trace of any previously-existing building, though it was once a busy hive of life and work. Nothing now remains but a few weedy heaps of masonry, the shattered keep, and the small inner bailey which occupies the highest and most inaccessible part of the rock, covering an area an acre in extent.

The keep was formerly protected and is still separated from the outer court by a broad, deep moat, hewn out of the solid rock, that extends round two sides and terminates near its precipitous edge. It is now dry and partly choked with weeds and rubbish, and a path has been made across where formerly a drawbridge only gave access. The great barbican, though roofless and forlorn, is imposing even in its decay, and gives a distinct impression of its former strength and solidity. It was proof against bows and arrows, battering rams, and similar engines of primitive warfare, and, ere “villainous saltpetre had been dug out of the bowels of the harmless earth,” must have been, barring treachery from within, absolutely impregnable. The round towers that flank the entrance are clothed with the greenest and darkest ivy, that mingles with and seems to form part of the ruined mass to which it clings so lovingly, making it more picturesque than it could ever have been in the days of its proud and pristine splendour. The walls are of immense thickness, and on the face of each, near the top, where the ashlar-work has not been destroyed, a kind of arcade ornament may still be discerned. An early English arch unites the two towers, and beneath it we can see the grooves wherein the portcullis used to descend to bar the ingress and egress of doubtful or suspected visitors. The entrance, like that to the outer court, is very narrow; passing through, a few steps cut out of the sandstone rock, and which have been worn by the tread of many generations, lead to the inner court or bailey, environed on two sides by lofty walls, from which project great bastions that have for centuries braved the winter’s wrath and rejoiced in the summer sunshine. The interior is now a vacant space, except for the few fragments of masonry that serve to indicate what once was there. This was the citadel, so to speak. In it was the home of the lordly owner of the castle (and scant and rude enough it must have been), the outer court being used as the quarters for the garrison. Here we are shown the well-house and the famous well from which, in bygone days, the occupants drew their supply of water, and which now forms an object of attraction to wondering visitors. It is a remarkable work, and says much for the perseverance and skill of those who made it. The depth is said to be no less than 366 feet—nearly double that of the well at Carisbrook—the water, it is believed, being level with Beeston Brook, which flows near the foot of the castle rock. A tradition was widely prevalent, and is still believed in many a rustic home in the locality, that a great amount of treasure lies buried at the bottom, having been cast in it during a time of peculiar exigence by one of the earlier lords of Beeston; but the story may be dismissed as resting upon no better foundation than the shaping power of the imagination. There is no water in it, nor has there been for years, owing to the drainage below, and for a long time it was choked with rubbish; but some five-and-thirty or forty years ago it was cleared out to the very bottom, when the only treasures discovered were an old spade and a fox’s head. We peer into the darksome vault, but the gloom is impervious; then the janitor produces a frame with a few lighted candles upon it, which he lets down by a rope and pulley. As it slowly descends the light gradually diminishes until it becomes a mere speck, and we are enabled to form some idea of the amazing depth to which the rock has been excavated. Having done this, he will, if it will add to your pleasure and you are ready to listen, give you his version of Beeston’s history—lead you where nobles and high-born dames have held their banquets; show you the iron rings to which, in bygone days, the troopers fastened their horses; and then relate with circumstantial detail the legend of the lost treasure, and tell you how, long, long ago, a trusty servitor was let down to the bottom of the well in the hope of recovering it, and that when he was wound up again he was speechless, and died before he could reveal the mysteries he had seen.

For the boldness and beauty of its situation Beeston may be fairly said to be unrivalled, and from the wide extent of country it commands it must, in the days of watch and ward, have been admirably adapted either for the purposes of offence or defence. From the summit of the glorious old relic we can sweep the whole arch of the horizon, from the pale blue hills of Wales on the one hand, to the brown heathy wastes that once formed part of the great forest of Macclesfield on the other. The palatinate which boasts itself the Vale Royal of England is usually reckoned a flat county, and this is in a great measure true, for league upon league of broad, flat, fertile meadows spread before us, but the eye as it ranges into the distance passes over a rich variety of undulating country. Above the round-topped woods of Delamere we catch sight of the eminence on which the Saxon city of Eddisbury once stood, and the bold promontories of Frodsham and Halton guarding the shores of the Mersey; eastwards are seen the umbraged heights of Alderley, and further to the right the range of hills that form the barrier of the county, and separate it from the Peak district of Derbyshire; while more to the south, where a cloud of smoke hangs lazily upon the landscape, is Crewe, the great central point of railway enterprise and railway industry. Gleaming in the warm sunshine upon the left we note the stately tower of Chester Cathedral rising proudly above the humbler structures that, like vassals, gather round, and we recall the stormy times when from its walls, on that sad September day, the ill-fated Charles the First, after a fitful gleam of prosperity, saw his gallant cavaliers borne down by the stern soldiers of Cromwell’s army on Rowton Moor, a disaster that turned the fortunes of the King and sealed the fate of Beeston. In rear one can look down the wide estuaries of the Dee and the Mersey, and along the great western horn of Cheshire, as it stretches away towards the Irish Sea. More to the left the mountains of Wales loom darkly and mysteriously, as distant mountains always do, and spread along the line of the horizon until their further summits, softened by the mellowing haze of distance, can hardly be distinguished from the azure dome above; the bold form of Moel Fammau may be seen rising conspicuously, and when the day is clear those who are blessed with a keen eyesight may, it is said, discern even the peak of Snowdon, seeming to touch the far-off western sky.

Glorious is the prospect that spreads around. What a wealth of pastoral loveliness lies before us, everywhere exhibiting the signs of fertility and cultivation. All within the limits is a green and beautiful expanse made up of copse and lea, of level meadow breadths and cattle-dappled pastures, that rejoice in the warm sunshine, with little hamlets and villages and shady lanes, old manor houses and churches—the monuments of the past mingling with the habitations of contemporary life and activity. Natural beauty is everywhere, and the eye is delighted with its variety of extent. After leisurely contemplating the scene the mind is enabled to occupy itself with the details. We can note the exquisite contrasts of colour and the coming and going effects of the cloud-shadows as, wafted by the softest of summer zephyrs, they slowly chase each other over the woods and verdant glades. The slumber of a summer day lies profoundly as a trance upon the scene. The lowing of the kine in the neighbouring meadows, the harsh note of the corncrake, and the soft dreamy call of the cuckoo are the only sounds that break upon the ear. Bunbury twinkles through its screen of leaves far below us, and we can discern the tower of the venerable church where lie the bones of some of the lords of Beeston, and where still may be seen the sumptuous monuments that perpetuate their names. In front, and almost at our feet, is the Chester and Ellesmere Canal, glistening like a line of liquid silver, and the railway, over which the iron horse glides swiftly every day, running parallel with it, types of the past and present modes of travel. The white road that crosses them both leads up to Tarporley, where there is an ancient church (or rather was, for in the last few years it has been almost entirely rebuilt), and several monuments that well deserve inspection. Close by is Utkinton, for many a generation the home of the proud family of the Dones, hereditary chief foresters of Delamere, one of whom, John Done, the husband of that proverbial exemplar of unsurpassable perfection, the fair Lady Done,[25] in 1617 ordered so wisely the sports of James the First, when that monarch took his pleasure and repast in the forest, that, as the author of The Vale Royal tells us, he “freely honoured him with knighthood and graced his house at Utkinton with his presence;” but the house which he graced by his presence was made the scene of revelry and pillage by the soldiers of his son, the hall being plundered, and the plate, jewels, and writings taken away by the Royalist forces shortly after the breaking out of the civil war.

On the western side the view is singularly impressive. The rock is perpendicular, its ruggedness being softened only by the ferns and mosses that have attached themselves to the clefts and crevices, and the shrubs and trees that grow out from the gaping stones. You look down from the giddy height on to the road immediately beneath, where the little homesteads and cottages seem reduced to lilliputian dimensions, and the laden waggon going by looks no bigger than a toy. Carrying the eye round towards the south, the Broxton hills come in view; nearer is the lofty height of Stanner Nab; and then, separated only by a narrow valley, the most prominent feature in the whole landscape, the richly-wooded eminence of Peckforton, surmounted by the castle, with its great round keep and broken and picturesque line of towers and turrets, that Lord Tollemache built some five-and-thirty years ago as a reproduction of the fortified stronghold of the early Edwardian period.

The historical associations of Beeston impart a deeper interest to the beauty of its natural surroundings. Its annals run back to the time of Randle Blundeville—Randle the Good, as he is sometimes called—the most famous of the Cestrian Earls. This Randle succeeded to the earldom on the death of his father, Hugh Cyveliock, in 1187, and shortly afterwards married the Lady Constance, widow of Geoffry Plantagenet, a younger son of Henry II., the mother of the young Prince Arthur whom King John cruelly put to death—a lady from whom he was afterwards divorced. They were turbulent times in which he lived, and he bore his full share in the stirring events that were then occurring; but, though one of the most powerful nobles of the land, his power was generally exercised in the interests of his legitimate sovereign. When Richard the Lion-hearted, returning from his encounters with the infidel in Palestine, was detained a captive in Austria, and the treacherous John, to whom he had committed the care of the kingdom, basely sought to appropriate the crown, Earl Randle and his knights and retainers, with Earl Ferrars and others, besieged his castle of Nottingham, and valorously maintained the cause of the absent King. After Richard’s death, when John had succeeded to the throne, he remained loyal to him as he had done to his predecessor, though he had the courage to rebuke him for violating the wives and daughters of the nobility. Afterwards we find him taking part in that ever memorable council which assembled on the greensward of Runnymede, “encircled by the coronet of Cooper’s Hill,” which secured the rights of the people of England, and the Great Charter that still remains the foundation of their liberties, when—

England’s ancient Barons, clad in arms,

And stern with conquest, from their tyrant King

(Then render’d tame), did challenge and secure

The charter of our freedom.

When that memorable June day had waned—when the Great Charter had been won, and the thoughtful night which followed had passed—when men began to think that the pledges so readily given would be as readily violated, and that concessions extorted could only be maintained by force of arms, Randle Blundeville remained faithful to his faithless King, and defended his cause against the Barons and the Dauphin of France, to whom they had traitorously offered the English crown.

The great Earl was then in the plenitude of his power, and when the tyrant John had paid the penalty of over-indulgence in peaches and new cider, he proved himself a firm and faithful champion of his son, the young King Henry, and, with Earl Pembroke, was mainly instrumental in securing him upon his father’s throne, and by that means releasing England from the dominion of a stranger. When the kingdom had settled into peace, having assumed the cross in fulfilment of a vow he had previously made, the Earl betook himself to the Holy Land:—

To chace the Pagans in those holy fields

Over whose acres walk’d those blessèd feet

Which, many hundred years before, were nail’d

For our advantage on the bitter cross.

He remained absent for about two years, during which time he assisted in the taking of Damietta; and immediately on the return from his crusading expedition he set about the erection of the Castle of Beeston, for the greater security of his palatinate against the incursions of the brave but troublesome Welsh, with whom he had previously had many encounters, bringing to his aid that Saracenic style of architecture he had found so well adapted for defence, and which is so admirably represented in the ivy-coloured walls and bastions of Beeston.

Randle Blundeville was a famous warrior, and withal a mighty castle builder, for, in addition to re-edifying the castle of Deganwy, on the Conway, which had been partially destroyed during the numerous conflicts with Prince Llewelyn, he built the castles of Beeston in Cheshire, and Chartley in Staffordshire. He also founded and endowed the Abbey of Grey Friars, in Coventry, and a religious house on the banks of the Churnet, near Leek, to which latter, at his wife’s desire, he gave the name of Dieu-la-cresse—“May God increase it”—and transferred to it the Cistercian brotherhood of the Abbey of Poulton, near Chester, who had found their home there too circumscribed, and probably uncomfortably near the Welsh Marches—an act of piety he had been directed to perform, as the old monkish legends declare, by his grandfather in a vision. He believed in dreams, and he appears to have had equal faith in the piety of the monks, for it is recorded of him that, being overtaken in a storm at sea when returning from his crusading expedition, and the ship being in danger of sinking, he refused to lend a helping hand in righting it until midnight, when, as he affirmed, the monks of Dieu-la-cresse would be supplicating Heaven on his behalf; and that, consequently, God would then give him strength. The ship was saved, and, as their prayers had evidently availed so much, it may be assumed that the brethren of Dieu-la-cresse were a more than usually righteous fraternity.

The castles of Beeston and Chartley were both commenced in the same year (1220), and to defray the cost of their erection the Earl “took toll throughout all his lordships of all such persons as passed by the same, with any cattel, chaffre, or merchandize.” The reason for the erection of Beeston is not far to seek. The Welsh were troublesome neighbours, for though the Red King and the English-born Henry—the “Lion of Justice,” as he was called—had tried to unite their country with England, they had been neither exterminated nor enslaved, and for long years—

All along the border here

The word was snaffle, spur, and spear.

In these border struggles Earl Randle found himself on one occasion shut up in the castle of Rhuddlan—then called Rothelent—to which he had retreated, and hard pressed by his foes. At this time his constable of Cheshire, that doughty warrior Roger Lacy, baron of Halton, whose fierceness had earned for him the sobriquet of “Hell,” happening to be at Chester, hastily mustered all the beggars, minstrels, debauched men, harlots, and other disorderly characters who were then assembled at the fair, and with this tumultuous company marched to his master’s rescue. The Welsh, who were as much alarmed at the sight of such a multitude as the French were at the sight of Talbot, raised the siege and fled; and the Earl, returning in safety, in reward and in memory of such welcome service, conferred upon his trusty follower the government and licensing of all beggars, vagrants, strollers, and minstrels within the limits of his earldom, a privilege which Lacy in turn bestowed upon his steward, Hugh Dutton; and the Duttons of Dutton, his successors, continued to exercise the right until the passing of the Vagrant Act, a few years ago—the custom being for them or their deputies to ride through the streets of Chester to St. John’s Church every year, with the minstrels of Cheshire playing before them; after which their licenses were renewed. After this adventure, peace was concluded (1222) between the Earl and Llewelyn, Prince of North Wales, which was happily cemented by the marriage in the same year of Randle’s nephew and heir, John Scot, Earl of Huntingdon, with Llewelyn’s daughter Helen.

Randle Blundeville, after having held the earldom for the long period of fifty-two years, died at Wallingford on the 26th Oct. 1232, and was buried at St. Werburg’s, Chester, his heart being deposited in the Abbey of Dieu-la-cresse. Having no issue, his sister’s son, John the Scot, succeeded; but he bore rule only five years, dying in 1237, having, as was commonly believed, been poisoned by his wife, the Welsh princess.

That amiable lady not having borne him any children, his vast possessions should by right have devolved upon his sisters; but King Henry, being unwilling, as he said, “that so great an inheritance should be divided among distaffs,” considerately took the earldom into his own hands, and gave them other lands instead. In this transaction there is little doubt but that the King got the best end of the bargain, though it might have been better for his grandson if the “distaffs” had been left in undisturbed possession of their property; for in that case it is more than probable England would not have had to deplore the defeat at Bannockburn which made Scotland a nation.

Maidens of England, sore may ye mourn,

For your lemans ye have lost at Bannockburn.

Of the sisters of John Scot, Margaret, the eldest, was the grandmother of John Baliol, who became a competitor for the crown of Scotland. Isabella, the second sister, by her marriage with Robert le Brus, the Lord of Annandale, had a grandson—the brave and heroic Robert Bruce—the “Bruce of Bannockburn,” and the idol of the Scottish people.

After Henry the Third had assumed the Earldom of Chester the castle of Beeston was left to the charge of castellans, and the people of Cheshire had a sorry time of it; for David, the son of Prince Llewelyn, endeavoured to cast off the English yoke, and long and bloody were the struggles for freedom on the one hand, and for dominion on the other—the county being overrun and ravaged alternately by friends and enemies until nearly every rood of land was soaked with the blood of the combatants. In the attack made by the King in 1245 the whole borderland was laid waste, and the wyches or salt-pits were destroyed. Eleven years later the county was plundered and desolated by the Welsh; and in the year 1256 the young Prince Edward, to whom Henry had two years previously assigned the Principality, made his first progress into Cheshire, when his castle of Beeston was placed in the charge of Fulco de Orreby. This year was an eventful one, for before its close the Welsh again arose in insurrection, when Prince Edward was compelled to retire; but the King marched an army to his support, wasting the harvest as he advanced, and well-nigh depopulating the county, when, as the ancient chronicler, Matthew Paris, records, “the whole border was reduced into a desert, the inhabitants were cut off by the sword, the castles and houses burnt, the woods felled, and the cattle destroyed by famine.”

The day was not far distant when Beeston was to be wrested from its royal possessor, and find itself garrisoned by the soldiers of a rebellious subject The struggle between the Crown and the Barons had commenced, and was continued under varying circumstances; but the Sovereign was eventually borne down by the union of ambitious nobles. The rival armies met at Lewes, and in that hollow which the railway now traverses, on the 14th of May, 1264, the King saw his army defeated by the valorous Simon De Montfort, Earl of Leicester, aided by the forces of the Welsh Prince Llewelyn, and he himself, with his son Prince Edward and the King of the Romans, made prisoners. The next day a treaty, known as the mise of Lewes, was entered into; but the King and his son were detained as hostages until all matters in dispute should be settled. In this forced peace Edward was compelled, by a deed executed at Woodstock, December 24, 1264, to surrender his Earldom of Chester, and with it his castle of Beeston, to the victorious De Montfort, in whom the administration of the realm was then virtually vested.

The victory was short-lived; but it had a result that will be ever memorable, for immediately after, De Montfort summoned a great council of the nation—the first in which we distinctly recognise the Parliament of England; for he not only called together the barons, prelates, and abbots, but also summoned two knights from each county, two citizens from each city, and two burgesses from each borough. Thus was the democratic element—the foundation of the House of Commons—first introduced; and, as the Poet Laureate sings, England became

A land of settled government,

A land of just and old renown,

Where freedom slowly broadens down,

From precedent to precedent.

De Montfort was now in the fulness of his power; but his elevation was dangerous for himself. His natural and acquired superiority provoked the jealousy of those around him, and brought about his own destruction. As when the light is brightest, so the shadow is ever darkest, and his success was the ultimate cause of his downfall. The Parliament which sprang out of the turbulence of civil war assembled on the 26th January, 1265; and in the month of May following Prince Edward, thanks to the fleetness of his horse, having effected his escape from Hereford, where he had been in “free custody,” placed himself at the head of a numerous army, the loyal barons being speedily in arms. Gloucester, Monmouth, and Worcester, were successively taken; De Montfort’s son was defeated at Kenilworth; and then the victorious Royalists advanced to Evesham, to give battle to the father, who was posted there. The contest, which lasted until night, was marked with unusual ferocity; no quarter was asked or given; the Avon was crimsoned with the blood of the slain; and, to add to the horrors, while the dreadful carnage was going on, the air was darkened, and a storm such as England has rarely witnessed burst over the combatants. Drayton, in his “Polyolbion,” describes the horrors of that dreadful day—

Shrill shouts, and deadly cries, each way the air do fill,

And not a word was heard from either side but “kill!”

The father ’gainst the son, the brother ’gainst the brother,

With gleaves, swords, bills, and pikes were murdering one another.

The full luxurious earth seems surfeited with blood,

Whilst in his uncle’s gore th’ unnatural nephew stood;

Whilst with their charged staves the desperate horsemen meet—

They hear their kinsmen groan under their horses’ feet,

Dead men and weapons broke do on the earth abound;

The drums bedash’d with brains do give a dismal sound!

On the fatal 4th of August, 1265, the narrow bridge at Evesham afforded little chance of escape from the slaughter of Edward’s horsemen, and when the storm was over, and the sun had gone down, the pale moon on that warm summer night glittered on the corslet of the gallant Simon de Montfort, whose mangled body was stiffening upon the gory sward, to be sent off on the morrow to the wretched widow as a testimony of the Royalist success; his eldest son, Henry de Montfort, lay stretched by his side, and but for the determined bravery of a few devoted fellows, who bore his wounded form away upon their shields, Guy, the youngest, would have shared their fate. Such was the ghastly end of one of the lords of Beeston—the champion of English liberties and the originator of our representative Parliament.

When it became known that Prince Edward was in the field, his Cheshire adherents at once took up arms; and on the Sunday following his escape from Hereford James de Audley and Urian de St Pierre possessed themselves of Beeston, and held it in the name of the King; and as soon as the fight at Evesham was ended, the youthful conqueror, with his victorious army, marched proudly through the undulating country and along the great northern road to his Cheshire stronghold with the wounded Guy de Montfort, Humphrey de Bohun, and Henry de Hastings, as captives; and where, on his arrival, Lucas de Tanai, whom the elder De Montfort had made Justiciary of Chester, and Simon, the Abbot of St. Werburg’s, came to surrender the city of Chester, which had then withstood a ten weeks’ siege, and to bespeak the royal clemency for themselves. The whole of De Montfort’s possessions, including the earldom of Chester, and with it the castle of Beeston, were forfeited by his rebellion, and reverted back to the crown; and on the 27th August, twenty-three days after the great battle, the Prince granted a charter, confirming to the barons of Cheshire all the privileges which Randle Blundeville had previously bestowed upon them.

Once more the royal ensign with the golden lions waved above the battlements of Beeston; a garrison was left in charge, but, the country having become tranquillised, the gallant Edward went to win fresh laurels beneath the sunnier skies of Palestine. In 1269 he took the cross at Northampton, and, accompanied by some of the more powerful nobles, set out for the Holy Land, stormed the city of Nazareth, gained several victories over the Moslems, and displayed a personal prowess equal to that of the lion-hearted Richard, and a military skill that was infinitely greater. At Acre he escaped the poisoned dagger of the treacherous Saracen by the devotion of his queen, who sucked the poison from the wound at the risk of her own life—so, at least, the old chroniclers affirm, and we are not inclined to reject so touching a story, even though it may have come to us from a Spanish source. While on his journey homewards he received the tidings of his father’s death, but, instead of returning immediately, he made a triumphal progress through Italy, crossed the Alps, and proceeded to the Court of France, where he narrowly escaped death through the treachery of the Count of Chalons.

On arriving in England he was crowned at Westminster with Eleanor his wife, August 19th, 1274. The hospitalities of his coronation were scarcely over ere he set about the accomplishment of the great scheme he had resolved upon—the union of the whole island of Britain in one compact monarchy—Wales, his old battle-ground, then presenting a tempting opportunity for commencing the work of conquest. Llewelyn, the Welsh prince, though he promised fealty to the English crown, refused to appear at the coronation, whereupon Edward repaired to Chester, summoned his friends, and prepared to march against the Principality.

Beeston becomes once more the scene of bustle and excitement; mail-clad warriors are hurrying to and fro; the pennons of the knights, gay with their distinctive blazonings, flutter in the breeze; lance and spear, and helm and burgonette, gleam brightly in the sunlight—and the echoes of the stern old fortress are again aroused by the sounds of martial preparation; for an army has been levied and all are eager to advance. Llewelyn was summoned to meet the King at Chester, but refused; he was again summoned to attend the Parliament at Westminster, and again he declined to appear; his lands were then declared forfeit, and Edward led his invading host into his territory. Conscious of their inability to withstand their more powerful neighbours in the field, the Welsh retired to the mountain fastnesses, which had many a time and oft enabled their ancestors to hold their own against their Saxon and Norman oppressors; but, Edward having successfully penetrated to the very heart of the country, Llewelyn was compelled to submit to the hard terms the victor thought fitting to impose, which, by the way, left only to the vanquished prince the sovereignty of Anglesey and the district of Snowdon.

Unhappily for Llewelyn, he put faith in the prophecy of Merlin, the native bard and necromancer, which, it is alleged, foretold that he should be the restorer of Brutus’s Empire in Britain. His compatriots chafed under the usurped dominion, and maintained a dogged resistance to the invaders. In hope of the fulfilment of the wizard’s prognostications, Llewelyn availed himself of the fancied security of England to break out into open insurrection. The castle of Hawarden was surprised, and the governor, Roger de Clifford, carried off a prisoner; the border castles of Rhuddlan and Flint were besieged; and then, leading his forces down into the lowlands, the English intruders were driven back across the Marches. Elated by his successes, he then marched into Radnorshire, where, after passing the Wye, his army was defeated by Edward Mortimer, and Llewelyn himself, while bravely endeavouring to retrieve the misfortune, met the death he had so ardently sought for; David, his brother, lord of Denbigh, was at the same time made prisoner, and executed as a traitor. Such was the end of Llewelyn, the great hero of Wales, and her last prince; and with his end expired the government and distinction of the Welsh nation, after long centuries of warfare maintained by its sons for the defence and independence of their homes—

Such were the sons of Cambria’s ancient race—

A race that checked victorious Cæsar, aw’d

Imperial Rome, and forced mankind to own

Superior virtue, Britons only knew,

Or only practised; for they nobly dared

To face oppression; and, where Freedom finds

Her aid invok’d, there will the Briton die!

At this time (1283) Edward held his court at Rhuddlan, and to appease the conquered people hit upon the politic, though dangerous, expedient of promising them for their prince a native of the Principality, who never spoke a word of English, and whose life and conversation no man could impugn. By this bold manœuvre he succeeded in obtaining their submission, and he fulfilled his promise to the very letter; for he removed his Queen Eleanor to Carnarvon, which was then so far completed as to allow of her reception, and there, on the 24th of April, 1284, she gave birth to a son—Edward of Carnarvon, the victim of Berkeley Castle, and the subject of Marlowe’s tragedy—who was created Prince of Wales—a title the heirs to the crown have ever since retained.

The sanguinary extirpation of Cambrian independence, while ultimately a blessing to the native race, was also a good thing for those who dwelt within the borderland of Cheshire, inasmuch as it spared their country from a continuance of the bloodshed and devastation it had been subjected to during the centuries of struggle between the Saxon and the Celt. The land had rest, and for a hundred years or more from that time Beeston is found to occupy but a comparatively small space in the chronicles of the kingdom.

The power wielded by the first Edward fell from the feeble grasp of his son and successor. In the fifth year of that unfortunate monarch’s reign we find the custody of the castle being transferred from John de Serleby to John de Modburly, who appears to have been acting as the deputy of Sir Robert de Holland, the head of the great feudal house of that name in Lancashire, who, in the same year, by the king’s favour, had been appointed his Chief Justice of Chester and custodian of his castles of Chester, Rhuddlan, and Flint, and three years later Holland was re-appointed to the same office. This Sir Robert, who had married a great-granddaughter of that paragon of beauty, if not of chastity, Rosamond Clifford—the “Fair Rosamond” of mediæval romance—founded the Benedictine Priory at Up-Holland, in his own county; he was held in great esteem by Thomas of Woodstock, Earl of Lancaster, the king’s cousin, who made him his secretary, and he was in that earl’s retinue on the occasion of the rising of the barons to remove the De Spencers from the royal councils, for which act his estates were forfeited after the defeat at Boroughbridge in 1222, when the Earl, himself, was made prisoner and conveyed to Pontefract, where, to satisfy the vindictive favourites of the king, he was beheaded.

During the protracted reign of Edward III. and the long French wars, in which the Cheshire men, under the immediate eyes of the king and his son, the Black Prince, won so much renown, several castellans were appointed in succession, though it does not appear that the castle was at any time the scene of active military operations. On the death of Edward, his grandson, Richard, the eldest son of the Black Prince, who was then only eleven years of age, succeeded to the throne, to find, as many others have done, what it is to be—

Left by his sire, too young such loss to know,

Lord of himself, that heritage of woe.

A “heritage of woe” truly, for his reign, from the beginning to its close, was one of continuous anarchy and disturbance. On the 23rd November, 1385, we find him appointing John Cartileche janitor of his castle of Beeston for life, in the room of Sir Alan Cheanie, who had then only lately died. The appointment was made under the king’s seal, and about the same time Richard himself paid a visit to the chief city of his palatinate—the object, no doubt, being to ingratiate himself with his Cheshire friends, and, that being so, it is probable Beeston was on the same occasion graced with his presence. Loyalty to the crown was a strong characteristic of the Cheshire men, a feeling that was no doubt strengthened by the many marks of royal favour their county had received from its earls, in whom they recognised their titular sovereigns; hence the intimate relations which existed between the king and the palatinate. When the Duke of Gloucester assembled a body of men in order that he might retain control of the youthful sovereign, Richard hastened to Chester and called out his loyal Cheshire guard; and when, in 1397, by what in modern times would be called a coup d’état, he determined on overthrowing the regency and recovering the power which Gloucester and his cabal of nobles had deprived him of, and in furtherance of that object had summoned a Parliament to meet him at Westminster in September, he, to guard against any possible resistance on the part of the disaffected nobles, surrounded the house with a guard of two thousand of his Cheshire archers, each wearing as a badge the white hart lodged, the cognisance of his mother, the “Fair Maid of Kent,” which Richard had then adopted.

The power thus regained was wielded neither wisely nor well. On the death of John o’ Gaunt, in 1399, Richard, to replenish his exhausted exchequer, seized his possessions into his own hands, leaving to the banished son of “time-honoured Lancaster,” the youthful Bolingbroke, nothing but the empty title. This arbitrary abuse of power naturally inflamed the resentment of Bolingbroke, who resolved upon accomplishing the king’s dethronement, and it was not long before the opportunity offered for putting his scheme into execution. While the unsuspecting Richard was leading the Cheshire bowmen among the bogs and thickets of Ireland, in order to quell the insurrection and punish the murderers of Mortimer, Bolingbroke, taking advantage of his absence, embarked with a small retinue and landed “upon the naked shore of Ravenspurg,” a place on the Humber, where, at a later date, Edward IV. landed on a similar errand, with an excuse plausible as that of the duke whose exploit he imitated. He quickly mustered a force of 60,000 men; towns and castles surrendered to him; and before Richard could return the invader had virtually made himself master of the kingdom. When he did arrive, there being no army to receive him, seven loyal Cheshire men, John Legh of Booths, Thomas Cholmondely, Ralph Davenport, Adam Bostock, John Done of Utkinton, Thomas Holford, and Thomas Beeston, each with seventy retainers, became his body guard, wearing his cognisance of the white hart upon their shoulders, and keeping watch over him day and night with their battle-axes.

This would appear to have been the occasion when, according to Stow, Beeston was chosen by the king, on account of its strength and the usually loyal feelings of the county, for the custody of his treasures, when jewels and other valuables said to be worth 200,000 marks (£133,333) were deposited in it for safety. The castle was then garrisoned by a force of a hundred men; but it says little for their valour that, without striking a blow, they surrendered it to the victorious heir of Lancaster, who, anticipating Richard’s advance towards his trusty friends in Cheshire, where his power was strongest, and wishing to intercept his communications, had marched through Gloucester, Hereford, and Ludlow to Shrewsbury, crying havoc and destruction to Cheshire and Cheshire men as he went; and who was then at Chester, where he had caused to be beheaded that loyal and loving subject, Sir Piers Legh, the founder of the house of Legh of Lyme—a Cheshire worthy who had been the companion in arms of the Black Prince, and whose name is still perpetuated in the inscription which one of his descendants placed in the Lyme Chapel, in Macclesfield Church—

Here lyethe the bodie of Perkyn a Legh,

That for King Richard the death did die,

Betrayed for righteovsnes;

And the bones of Sir Piers, his Sonne,

That with King Henrie the Fift did wonne

In Paris.

The hapless king, finding his power gone and his castles of Carnarvon, Beaumaris, and Conway destitute of provisions, gave himself up to Percy, Duke of Northumberland, who conveyed him to Flint, whither Bolingbroke repaired from Chester to receive him. Thence the fallen monarch was removed to Chester; but he could only have remained a day or two, for on the 21st August he was at Nantwich, a prisoner on his way to the Tower, having on the morning of that early autumn day passed with his captors beneath the frowning walls of Beeston, so lately lost to him. The close of that sad journey of triumph and humiliation has been thus described by our greatest dramatist:—

Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke—

Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,

Which his aspiring rider seemed to know,

With slow but stately pace kept on his course,

While all tongues cried—“God save thee, Bolingbroke!”

You would have thought the very windows spake,

So many greedy looks of young and old

Through casements darted their desiring eyes

Upon his visage; and that all the walls,

With painted imag’ry, had said at once—

“Jesu preserve thee! Welcome, Bolingbroke!”