On Sheep-street-hill, in the town of Skipton, in Craven, is a
blacksmith’s-shop, commonly called “the parliament-house.” During the
late war it was the resort of all the eccentric characters in the place,
who were in the habit of assembling there for the purpose of talking
over the political events of the day, the knowledge whereof was gleaned
from a daily paper, taken in by Mr. Kitty Cook, the occupier of the
premises, and to the support of which the various members contributed.
One winter’s morning in the year 1814, owing to a very heavy snow, the
mail was detained on its road to the great discomfiture and vexation of
the respectable parliamentary members, who were all as usual at their
posts at the hour of nine. There happened on that morning to be a full
house, and I very well recollect that Tom Holderd, General Bibo, Roger
Bags, Duke Walker, Town Gate Jack, and Bill Cliff of Botany,[132] all of
whom are since dead, were present. After the members had waited a long
time, without the accustomed “folio of four pages” making its
appearance, general Bibo arose and turning to the speaker, who in
pensive melancholy was reclining on the anvil, he thus addressed him:--
“Mr. Speaker, I am convinced that the mail will not arrive to day,
(hear! hear!) and therefore, that the members of this honourable house
may not, at the hour of twelve, which is fast approaching, go home to
their dinners without having something to communicate to their wives and
families, I will, with your permission, relate one of those numerous
legendary tales, with which our romantic district so much abounds--May I
do so?”
Kitty upon this gave the anvil a thundering knock, which was his usual
signal of assent, and the general proceeded to relate the full
particulars, from which is extracted the following
~Legend.~
It was the 14th day of July, in the year 17--, when the corpse of a
villager was interred in the romantic church-yard of Kirby Malhamdale.
The last prayer of the sublime burial service of the English church was
said, and the mourners had taken a last lingering look at the narrow
tenement which enshrined mortality. All had departed, with the exception
of the sexton, a village lad of the name of Kitchen, and a soldier,
whose long, flowing, silvery hair and time-worn frame bespoke a very
advanced age; he was seated on a neighbouring stone. The grave was not
entirely filled up, and a scull, the melancholy remnant of some former
occupier of the same narrow cell, was lying beside it. Kitchen took up
the scull, and gazed on the sockets, eyeless _then_, but which had
contained orbs, that perhaps had reflected the beam sent from beauty’s
eye, glowed with fury on the battle-field, or melted at the tale of
compassion. The old soldier observed the boy, and approaching him said,
“Youth! _that_ belonged to one who died soon after the reign of queen
Mary. His name was Thompson, he was a military man, and as mischievous a
fellow as ever existed--ay, for many a long year he was a plague to
Kirby Malhamdale.”
“Then,” replied the boy, “doubtless his death was a benefit, as by it
the inhabitants of the valley would be rid from a pest.”
“Why, as to that point,” answered the veteran, “I fear you are in the
wrong. Thompson’s reign is not yet finished; ’tis whispered he often
returns and visits the scenes of his childhood, nay, even plays his old
tricks over again. It is by no means improbable, that at this very
instant he is at no great distance, and listening to our conversation.”
“What,” ejaculated the boy, “he will neither rest himself nor allow
other people to do so, the old brute!” and he kicked the scull from him.
“Boy,” said the soldier, “you dare not do that again.”
“Why not?” asked Kitchen, giving it at the same time another kick.
“Kick it again,” said the soldier.
The boy did so.
The veteran smiled grimly, as if pleased with the spirit which the boy
manifested, and said, in a joking way, “Now take up that scull, and say
to it--Let the owner of this meet me at the midnight hour, and invite me
to a banquet spread on yon green stone by his bony fingers--
Come ghost, come devil,
Come good, come evil,
Or let old Thompson himself appear,
For I will partake of his midnight cheer.”[133]
Kitchen, laughing with the glee of a schoolboy, and with the
thoughtlessness incident to youth, repeated the ridiculous lines after
his director, and then leaving the church-yard vaulted over the stile
leading to the school-house, where, rejoining his companions, he quickly
forgot the scene wherein he had been engaged; indeed it impressed him so
little, that he never mentioned the circumstance to a single individual.
The boy at his usual hour of ten retired to rest, and soon fell into a
deep slumber, from which he was roused by some one rattling the latch of
his door, and singing beneath his window. He arose and opened the
casement. It was a calm moonlight night, and he distinctly discerned
the old soldier, who was rapping loudly at the door, and chanting the
elegant stanzas he had repeated at the grave of the villager.
“And what pray now may you be wanting at this time of night?” asked the
boy, wholly undaunted by the strangeness of the visitation. “If you
cannot lie in bed yourself, you ought to allow others to rest.”
“What,” replied the old man, “hast thou so soon forgotten thy promise?”
and he repeated the lines “_Come good, come evil_, &c.”
Kitchen laughed at again hearing the jingle of these ridiculous rhymes,
which to him seemed to be “such as nurses use to frighten babes withal.”
At this the soldier’s countenance assumed a peculiar expression, and the
full gaze of his dark eye, which appeared to glow with something
inexpressibly wild and unearthly, was bent upon the boy, who, as he
encountered it, felt an indescribable sensation steal over him, and
began to repent of his incautious levity. After a short silence the
stranger again addressed him, but in tones so hollow and sepulchral,
that his youthful blood was chilled, and his heart beat strongly and
quickly in his bosom.
“Boy, thy word must be kept! Promises made with the grave are not to be
lightly broken--
“Amidst the cold graves of the coffin’d dead
Is the table deck’d and the banquet spread;
Then haste thee thither without delay,
For nigh is the time, away! away!”
“Then be it as you wish,” said the boy, in some slight degree resuming
his courage; “go; I will follow.” On hearing this the soldier departed,
and Kitchen watched his figure till it was wholly lost in the mists of
the night.
* * * * *
At a short distance from Kirby Malhamdale church, on the banks of the
Aire, was a small cottage, the residence of the Rev. Mr. ----, the
rector of the parish, [General Bibo mentioned his name, but I shall not,
for if I did some of his descendants might address themselves to the
_Table Book_, and contradict the story of their ancestor having been
engaged in so strange an adventure as that contained in the sequel of
this legend.] Mr. ---- had from his earliest years been addicted to
scientific and literary pursuits, and was generally in his study till a
late hour. On this eventful night he was sitting at a table strewed with
divers ancient tomes, intently perusing an old Genevan edition of the
Institutes of John Calvin. While thus employed, and buried in profound
meditation, the awful and death-like stillness was broken, and he was
roused from his reverie by a hurried and violent knocking at the door.
He started from his chair, and rushing out to ascertain the cause of
this strange interruption, beheld Kitchen with a face as pale as a
winding-sheet. “Kitchen, what brings you here at this untimely hour?”
asked the clergyman. The boy was silent, and appeared under the
influence of extreme terror. Mr. ----, on repeating the question, had a
confused and indistinct account given him of all the circumstances. The
relation finished, Mr. ---- looked at the boy, and thus addressed him:
“Yes, I thought some evil would come of your misdeeds; for some time
past your conduct has been very disorderly, you having long set a bad
example to the lads of Malhamdale. But this is no time for upbraiding. I
will accompany you, and together we will abide the result of your rash
engagement.”
Mr. ---- and the boy left the rectory, and proceeded along the road
leading to the church-yard; as they entered the sacred precinct, the
clock of the venerable pile told the hour of midnight. It was a
beautiful night--scarcely a cloud broke the cerulean appearance of the
heavens--countless stars studded heaven’s deep blue vault--the moon was
glowing in her highest lustre, and shed a clear light on the old grey
church tower and the distant hills--scarcely a breeze stirred the trees,
then in their fullest foliage--every inmate of the village-inn[134] was
at rest--there was not a sound, save the murmuring of the lone mountain
river, and the deep-toned baying of the watchful sheep-dog.
Mr. ---- looked around, but, seeing no one, said to the boy, “Surely you
have been dreaming--your tale is some illusion, some chimera of the
brain. The occurrences of the day have been embodied in your visions,
and the over excitement created by the scene at the tomb has worked upon
your imagination.”
“Oh no, sir!” said Kitchen, “but his eyes which glared so fearfully upon
me could not have been a deception. I saw his tall figure, and heard his
hollow sepulchral voice sing those too well-remembered lines,
but--Heavens! did you not see it?” He started, and drawing nearer to the
priest, pointed to the eastern window of the edifice. Mr. ---- looked in
the direction, and saw a dark shadowy form gliding amid the tombstones.
It approached, and as its outline became more distinctly marked, he
recognised the mysterious being described to him in his study by the
terrified boy.--The figure stopped, and looking long and earnestly at
them said, “One! two! How is this? I have one more guest than I invited;
but it matters not, all is ready, follow me--
“Amidst the cold graves of the coffin’d dead,
Is the table deck’d and the banquet spread.”
The figure waved its arm impatiently, and beckoning them to follow moved
on in the precise and measured step of an old soldier. Having reached
the eastern window, it turned the corner of the building, and proceeded
directly to the old green stone, near Thompson’s grave. The thick
branches of an aged yew-tree partially shaded the spot from the silver
moonlight, which was peacefully falling on the neighbouring graves, and
gave to this particular one a more sombre and melancholy character than
the rest. Here was, indeed, a table spread, and its festive preparations
formed a striking contrast with the awful mementos strewed around. Never
in the splendid and baronial halls of De Clifford,[135] never in the
feudal mansion of the Nortons,[136] nor in the refectory of the monks of
Sawley, had a more substantial banquet been spread. Nothing was wanting
there of roast or boiled--the stone was plentifully decked; yet it was a
fearful sight to see, where till now but the earthworm had ever
revelled, a banquet prepared as for revelry. The boy looked on the
stone, and as he gazed on the smoking viands a strange thought crossed
his brow--at what fire were those provisions cooked. The seats placed
around were coffins, and Kitchen every instant seemed to dread lest
their owners should appear, and join the sepulchral banquet. Their
ghostly host having placed himself at the head of the table, motioned
his guests to do the same, and they did so accordingly. Mr. ---- then in
his clerical character rose to ask the accustomed blessing, when he was
interrupted. “It cannot be,” said the stranger as he rose; “I cannot
hear at my board a protestant grace. When I trod the earth as a mortal,
the catholic religion was the religion of the land! It was the blessed
faith of my forefathers, and it was mine. Within those walls I have
often listened to the solemnization of the mass, but now how different!
listen!” He ceased. The moon was overcast by a passing cloud, the great
bell tolled, a screech-owl flew from the tower, lights were seen in the
building, and through one of the windows Mr. ---- beheld distinctly the
bearings of the various hatchments, and a lambent flame playing over the
monument of the Lamberts--music swelled through the aisles, and unseen
beings with voices wilder than the unmeasured notes
Of that strange lyre, whose strings
The genii of the breezes sweep,
chanted not a Gratias agimus, but a De Profundis. All was again still,
and the stranger spoke, “What you have heard is my grace. Is not a De
Profundis the most proper one to be chanted at the banquet of the dead?”
Mr. ----, who was rather an epicure, now glanced his eye over the board,
and finding that that necessary appendage to a good supper, _salt_, was
wanting, said, in an astonished tone, “Why, where’s the _salt_?” when
immediately the stranger and his feast vanished, and of all that
splendid banquet nothing remained, save the mossy stone whereon it was
spread.
* * * * *
Such was the purport of general Bibo’s tale; and why those simple words
had so wondrous an effect has long been a subject of dispute with the
illuminati of Skipton and Malhamdale. Many are the conjectures, but the
most probable one is this,--the spectre on hearing the word _salt_ was
perhaps reminded of the Red Sea, and having, like all sensible ghosts, a
dislike to that awful and tremendous gulf, thought the best way to avoid
being laid there was to make as precipitate a retreat as possible.
* * * * *
Kirby, or as it is frequently called, Kirby _Malhamdale_, from the name
of the beautiful valley in which it is situate, is one of the most
sequestered villages in Craven, and well worthy of the attention of the
tourist, from the loveliness of its surrounding scenery and its elegant
church, which hitherto modern barbarity has left unprofaned by
decorations and ornaments, as churchwardens and parish officers style
those acts of Vandalism, by which too many of the Craven churches have
been spoiled, and on which Dr. Whitaker has animadverted in pretty
severe language. That excellent historian and most amiable man, whose
memory will ever be dear to the inhabitants of Craven, speaking of Kirby
church, says, “It is a large, handsome, and uniform building of red
stone, probably of the age of Henry VII. It has one ornament peculiar,
as far as I recollect, to the churches in Craven, to which the Tempests
were benefactors. Most of the columns have in the west side, facing the
congregation as they turned to the altar, an elegant niche and
tabernacle, once containing the statue of a saint. In the nave lies a
grave-stone, with a cross fleury in high relief, of much greater
antiquity than the present church, and probably covering one of the
canons of Dereham.”[137]
At the west end of the church, on each side of the singer’s gallery, are
two emblematical figures, of modern erection, painted on wood; one of
them, Time with his scythe, and this inscription, “Make use of time;”
the other is a skeleton, with the inscription “Remember death.” With all
due deference to the taste of the parishioners, it is my opinion that
these paintings are both unsuited to a Christian temple, and the sooner
they are removed the better. The gloomy mythology of the Heathens ill
accords with the enlightened theology of Christianity.
At the east end of the church are monumental inscriptions to the memory
of John Lambert, the son, and John Lambert, the grandson of the
well-known general Lambert, of roundhead notoriety. The residence of the
Lamberts was Calton-hall, in the neighbourhood; and at Winterburn, a
village about two miles from Calton, is one of the oldest Independent
chapels in the kingdom, having been erected and endowed by the Lamberts
during the usurpation of Cromwell; it is still in possession of this
once powerful sect, and _was_ a picturesque object: it _had_ something
of sturdy non-conformity in its appearance, but alas! modern barbarism
has been at work on it, and given it the appearance of a respectable
barn. The deacons, who “repaired and beautified” it, ought to place
their names over the door of the chapel, in characters readable at a
mile’s distance, that the traveller may be informed by whom the chapel
erected by the Lamberts was deformed.
I often have lamented, that ministers of religion have so little to do
with the repairs of places of worship. The clergy of all denominations
are, in general, men of cultivated minds and refined tastes, and
certainly better qualified to superintend alterations than country
churchwardens and parish officers, who, though great pretenders to
knowledge, are usually ignorant destroyers of the beauty of the edifices
confided to their care.