There are few spots in Lancashire more likely to have been peopled by
fairies than that portion of the highway which runs along the end of
Penwortham wood.
At all times the locality is very beautiful, but it is especially so
in summer, when the thin line of trees on the one side of the road and
the rustling wood upon the other cast a welcome shade upon the
traveller, who can rest against the old railings, and look down upon a
rich expanse of meadow-land and corn-fields, bounded in the distance
by dim, solemn-looking hills, and over the white farm-houses, snugly
set in the midst of luxurious vegetation. From this vantage-ground a
flight of steps leads down to the well of St. Mary, the water of
which, once renowned for its miraculous efficacy, is as clear as
crystal and of never-ceasing flow.
To this sacred neighbourhood thousands of pilgrims have wended their
way; and although the legend of the holy well has been lost, it is
easy to understand with what superstitious reverence the place would
be approached by those whose faith was of a devout and unquestioning
kind, and what feelings would influence those whose hearts were heavy
with the weight of a great sorrow as they descended the steps worn by
the feet of their countless predecessors.
From the little spring a pathway winds across meadows and through
corn-fields to the sheltered village, and a little further along the
highway a beautiful avenue winds from the old lodge gates to the
ancient church and priory. Wide as is this road it is more than shaded
by the tall trees which tower on each side, their topmost branches
almost interlaced, the sunbeams passing through the green network, and
throwing fantastic gleams of light upon the pathway, along which so
many have been carried to the quiet God's Acre.
At the end of this long and beautiful walk stands the old priory, no
longer occupied by the Benedictines from Evesham, the silvery sound of
whose voices at eventide used to swell across the rippling Ribble;
and, a little to the right of the pile, the Church of St. Mary, with
its background of the Castle Hill.
By the foot of this Ancient British and Roman outlook there is a
little farm-house, with meadow land stretching away to the broad
river; and one night, fifty or sixty years ago, two men, one of whom
was a local 'cow-doctor,' whose duties had compelled him to remain
until a late hour, set out from this dwelling to walk home to the
straggling village of Longton. It was near upon midnight when they
stepped forth, but it was as light as mid-day, the moon shining in all
her beauty, and casting her glamour upon the peaceful scene. So quiet
was it that it seemed as though even the Zephyrs were asleep. There
was not a breath of wind, and not a leaf rustled or a blade of grass
stirred, and had it not been for the sounds of the footsteps of the
two men, who were rapidly ascending the rough cart-track winding up
the side of the hill, all would have been as still as death. The sweet
silence was a fitting one, for in the graveyard by the side of the
lane through which the travellers were passing, and over the low
moss-covered wall of which might be seen the old-fashioned tombstones,
erect like so many sentinels marking the confines of the battle-field
of life, hundreds were sleeping the sleep with which only the music of
the leaves, the sough of the wind, and the sigh of the sea seem in
harmony.
As the two men opened the gate at the corner of the churchyard, the
old clock sounded the first stroke of midnight.
'That's twelve on 'em,' said the oldest of the two.
'Ay, Adam,' said the other, a taller and much younger man. 'Another
day's passin' away, an' it con't dee wi'eaut tellin' everybody; yet
ther's bod few on us as tez onny notice on't, for we connot do to be
towd as wer toime's growin' bod short. I should think as tha dusn't
care to hear th' clock strike, Adam, to judge bith' colour o' thi
toppin', for tha 'rt gerrin' varra wintry lookin'.'