Or this night from thy lordly bed
Thy spirit had passed with the shuddering blast,
With the loud, shrill shriek of the dead!
"Oh! never taste the meat unblessed;
Remember the palmer grey;
Though he wander afar from thy castle gate,
Yet forget not thy feast to-day."
And the pilgrim is gone from that gate alone,
When prayer and vow were said;
And the blessing thenceforth from that house was heard
Ere they broke their daily bread.
[Illustration: THE DULE UPO' DUN]
THE DULE UPO' DUN.
"Wae, wae is me, on soul an' body,
Old Hornie has lifted his paw, man;
An' the carle will come, an' gallop me hame,
An' I maun gae pipe in his ha', man!"
--_Old Ballad._
For the tradition upon which the following tale is founded, the author
is indebted to _The Kaleidoscope_, an interesting weekly miscellany,
published by Messrs Smith and Son at Liverpool.
Barely three miles from Clitheroe, as you enter a small village on the
right of the high road to Gisburne, stands a public-house, having for
its sign the title of our story. On it is depicted his Satanic
majesty, curiously mounted upon a scraggy dun horse, without saddle,
bridle, of any sort of equipments whatsoever--the terrified steed
being off and away at full gallop from the door, where a small
hilarious tailor, with shears and measures, appears to view the
departure of him of the cloven foot with anything but grief or
disapprobation.
The house itself is one of those ancient, gabled, black and white
edifices, now fast disappearing under the giant march of improvement,
which tramples down alike the palace and the cottage, the peasant's
hut and the patrician's dwelling. Many windows, of little
lozenge-shaped panes set in lead, might be seen here in all the
various stages of renovation and decay: some stuffed with clouts,
parti-coloured and various; others, where the work of devastation had
been more complete, were wholly darkened by brick-bats, coble-stones,
and many other ingenious substitutes and expedients to keep out the
weather.
But our tale hath a particular bearing to other and more terrific
days--"the olden time," so fruitful in marvels and extravagances--the
very poetry of the black art; when Satan communed visibly and audibly
with the children of men--thanks to the invokers of relics and the
tellers of beads--and was so familiar and reasonable withal, as to
argue and persuade men touching the propriety of submitting themselves
to him, as rational and intelligent creatures; and even was silly
enough, at times, to suffer himself to be outwitted by the greater
sagacity and address of his intended victims. For proof, we cite the
following veracious narrative, which bears within it every internal
mark of truth, and matter for grave and serious reflection.
"Little Mike," or more properly Michael Waddington, was a merry tailor
of some note in his day, who formerly, that is to say, some eight or
nine score years ago--dwelt in this very tenement, where he followed
his profession, except when enticed by the smell of good liquor to the
village alehouse--the detriment, and even ruin, of many a goodly
piece of raiment, which at times he clipped and shaped in such wise as
redounded but little to the credit of either wearer or artificer. Mike
was more alive to a merry troll and graceless story, in the kitchen of
mine host "at the inn," than to the detail of his own shopboard, with
the implements of his craft about him, making and mending the oddly
assorted adjuncts of the village churls. Such was his liking for
pastime and good company that the greater part of his earnings went
through the tapster's melting pot; and grieved are we, as veritable
chroniclers, to state that it was not until even credit failed him,
that he settled to work for another supply of the elixir vitae--the
pabulum of his being. It may be supposed that matters went on but
indifferently at home, where want and poverty had left indelible
traces of their presence. Matty Waddington, his spouse, would have had
hard work to make both ends meet had she not been able to scrape
together a few pence and broken victuals by selling firewood, and
helping her neighbours with any extra work that was going forward.
Yet, in general, she bore all her troubles and privations with great
patience and good humour--at any rate in the presence of her husband,
who, though an idler and a spendthrift, was, to say the truth, not
viciously disposed towards her, like many beastly sots, but, on the
contrary, he usually behaved with great deference and kindness to his
unfortunate helpmate in all things but that of yielding to his
besetting sin; having an unquenchable thirst for good liquor, which
all his resolutions and vows of amendment could not withstand.
One evening the little hero of our story was at his usual pastime in
the public-house, but his "cup was run low," and his credit still
lower. In fact, both cash and credit were finished; his liquor was
within a short pull from the bottom; and he sat ruminating on the
doleful emergencies to which he was subject, and the horrible spectres
that would assail him on the morrow, in the shape of sundry riven
doublets and hose, beside rents and repairs innumerable, which had
been accumulating for some weeks, to the no small inconvenience and
exposure of their owners and former occupiers.
"I wish I were the squire's footman, or e'en his errand-boy, and could
get a sup of good liquor without riving and tuggin' for't," thought he
aloud. Scarce were the words uttered, when there came a mighty civil
stranger into the company, consisting of village professors of the
arts, such as the barber, the blacksmith, and the bell-ringer,
together with our knight of the iron thimble. The new-comer was
dressed in a respectable suit of black; a wig of the same colour
adorned his wide and ample head, which was again surmounted by a
peaked hat, having a band and buckle above its brim, and a black rose
in front. He looked an elderly and well-ordered gentleman, mighty
spruce, and full of courtesy; and his cane was black as ebony, with a
yellow knob that glittered like gold. He had a huge beaked nose, and a
little black ferrety eye, which almost pierced what it gazed upon.
Every one made way for the stranger, who sat down, not in the full
glare of the fire to be sure, but rather on one side, so that he might
have a distinct view of the company, without being himself subject to
any scrutinising observances.
"Pleasant night abroad," said the new-comer.
"Pleasanter within though," responded every thought.
"It's moonlight, I reckon," said Mike, who was just meditating over
his last draught, and his consequent departure from this bibacious
paradise.
"Nay, friend," said the black gentleman, "but the stars shine out
rarely; and the snow lies so bright and crisp like, ye may see
everything afore ye as plain as Pendle. Landlord, bring me a cup of
the best; and put a little on the fire to warm, with some sugar, for
it's as cold as a raw turnip to one's stomach."
"Humph!" said mine host, testily; "it's a good-for-nothin' belly
that'll not warm cold ale."
"It's good-for-nothin' ale, Giles, thee means, that'll not warm a cowd
belly," said one of the wits of the party, a jolly young blacksmith,
an especial favourite amongst the lasses and good fellows of the
neighbourhood.
"Nay, the dickens!" said another; "Giles Chatburn's ale would warm the
seat of old cloven-foot himsel';" and with that there were roars of
laughing, in which, however, the stranger did not participate. Mike
wondered that so good a joke should not have its due effect upon him;
and many other notable things were said and done which we have neither
space nor inclination to record, but the stranger still maintained his
grave and unaccountable demeanour. Mike ever and anon cast a glance
towards him, and he always observed that the stranger's eye was fixed
upon his own. A dark, bright, burning eye, such as made the recreant
tailor immediately look aside, for he could not endure its brightness.
Mike began to grow restless and uncomfortable. He changed his place,
but the glance of the stranger followed him. It was like the gaze of a
portrait, which, in whatever situation the beholder may be placed, is
always turned towards him. It may readily be supposed that Michael
Waddington, though not averse to being looked at in the ordinary way,
did not relish this continued and searching sort of disposition on the
part of the gentleman in black. Several times he was on the point of
speaking, but his heart always failed him as the word reached his lip.
His liquor was now done, but he was not loth to depart as beforetime;
for at any rate, he should be quit of the annoyance he had so long
endured. He arose with less regret assuredly than usual; and just as
he was passing the doorway he cast a look round over his shoulder, and
beheld the same fixed, unflinching eye gazing on him. He jumped
hastily over the threshold, and was immediately on his road home. He
had not been gone more than a few minutes when he heard a sharp
footstep on the crisp snow behind him. Turning round, he saw the dark
tall peak of the stranger's hat, looking tenfold darker, almost
preternaturally black, on the white background, as he approached. Mike
felt his hair bristling through terror. His knees, usually bent
somewhat inwards, now fairly smote together, so that he could not
accelerate his pace, and the stranger was quickly at his side.
"Thou art travelling homewards, I trow," said he of the black peak.
Mike made some barely intelligible reply. "I know it," returned the
other. "But why art thou leaving so soon?"
"My money's done, an' credit too, for that matter," tardily replied
the tailor.
"And whose fault's that?" returned his companion. "Thou mayest have
riches, and everything else, if thou wilt be advised by me."
Mike stared, as well he might, at the dark figure by his side. The
idea of wealth without labour was perfectly new to him, and he
ventured to ask how this very desirable object might be accomplished.
"Listen. Thou art a poor miserable wretch, and canst hardly earn a
livelihood with all thy toil. Is't not a pleasant thing and a
desirable, however procured, to obtain wealth at will, and every
happiness and delight that man can enjoy?"
Michael's thirsty lips watered at the prospect, notwithstanding his
dread of the black gentleman at his elbow.
"I was once poor and wretched as thou. But I grew wiser,
and--unlimited wealth is now at my command."
There was an awful pause; the stranger apparently wishful to know the
effect of this mysterious communication. The liquorish tailor listened
greedily, expecting to hear of the means whereby his condition would
be so wonderfully amended.
"Hast thou never heard of those who have been helped by the powers of
darkness to"----
"Save us, merci"----
"Hold!" said the peremptory stranger, seizing Mike rudely by the
wrist. "Another such outcry, and I will leave thee to thy seams and
patches; to starve, or linger on, as best thou mayst."
Michael promised obedience, and his companion continued--
"There is no such great harm or wickedness in it as people suppose.
Quite an ordinary sort of proceeding, I assure thee; and such an one
as thou mayst accomplish in a few minutes, with little trouble or
inconvenience."
"Tell me the wondrous secret," said Michael eagerly, who, in the
glowing prospect thus opened out to him, felt all fear of his
companion giving way.
"Well, then; thou mayst say two aves, the creed, and thy paternoster
backwards thrice, and call upon the invisible demon to appear, when he
will tell thee what thou shalt do."
Michael felt a strange thrill come over him at these fearful words. He
looked at his companion, but saw not anything more notable than the
high-peaked hat, and the huge beaked nose, as before. By this time
they were close upon his own threshold, and Michael was just debating
within himself upon the propriety of asking his companion to enter,
when his deliberations were cut short by the other saying he had
business of importance a little farther; and with that he bade him
good night.
Michael spent the remaining hours of darkness in tossing and
rumination; but in the end the gratifying alternative between wealth
and poverty brought his deliberations to a close. He determined to
follow the advice and directions of the stranger. There could be no
harm in it. He only intended to inquire how such wealth might be
possessed; but if in any way diabolical or wicked, he would not need
to have anything further to do in the matter. Thus reasoning, and thus
predetermined how to act, our self-deluded stitcher of seams bent his
way, on the following forenoon, to a solitary place near the river,
where he intended to perform the mighty incantation. Yet, when he
tried to begin, his stomach felt wondrous heavy and oppressed. He
trembled from head to foot, and sat down for some time to recruit his
courage. The words of the stranger emboldened him.
"'Quite an ordinary business,'" said he; and Mike went to work with
his lesson, which he had been conning as he went. Scarcely was the
last word of this impious incantation uttered, when a roaring clap of
thunder burst above him, and the arch enemy of mankind stood before
the panic-stricken tailor.
"Why hast thou summoned me hither?" said the infernal monarch, in a
voice like the rushing wind or the roar of the coming tempest. But
Michael could not speak before the fiend.
"Answer me--and truly," said the demon. This miserable fraction of a
man now fell on his knees, and in a most piteous accent exclaimed--
"Oh! oh! mercy. I did not--I--want--nothing!"
"Base, audacious slave! Thou art telling me an untruth, and thou
knowest it. Show me thy business instantly, or I will carry thee off
to my dominions without further ado."
At this threat the miserable mortal prostrated himself, a tardy
confession being wrung from him.
"Oh! pardon. Thou knowest my poverty and my distress. I want riches,
and--and"----
"Good!" said the demon, with a horrible smile. "'Tis what ye are ever
hankering after. Every child of Adam doth cry with insatiate thirst,
'Give--give!' But hark thee! 'tis thine own fault if thou art not
rich, and that speedily. I will grant thee _three_ wishes: use them as
thou wilt."
Now the rogue was glad when he heard this gracious speech, and in the
fulness of his joy exclaimed--
"Bodikins! but I know what my first wish will be; and I'se not want
other two."
"How knowest thou that?" said the demon, with a look of contumely and
scorn so wild and withering that Michael started back in great terror.
"Before this favour is granted though," continued the fiend, "there is
a small matter by way of preliminary to be settled."
"What is that?" inquired the trembling novice with increasing
disquietude and alarm.
"A contract must be signed, and delivered too."
"A contract! Dear me; and for what?"
"For form's sake merely; no more, I do assure thee--a slight
acknowledgment for the vast benefits I am bound to confer. To wit,
that at the end of seven years thou wilt bear me company."
"Me!" cried the terrified wretch; "nay, then, keep thy gifts to
thyself; I'll none o' them on this condition."
"Wretched fool!" roared the infuriate fiend; at the sound of which the
culprit fairly tumbled backward. "Sign this contract, or thou shalt
accompany me instantly. Ay, this very minute: for know, that every one
who calls on me is delivered into my power; and think thyself well
dealt with when I offer thee an alternative. Thou hast the chance of
wealth, honour, and prosperity if thou sign this bond. If thou do not,
I will have thee whether or no--that's all. What sayest thou?" and the
apostate angel spread forth his dark wings, and seemed as though ready
to pounce upon his unresisting victim.
In a twinkling, Michael decided that it would be much better to sign
the bond and have the possession of riches, with seven years to enjoy
them in, than be dragged off to the burning pit immediately, without
any previous enjoyment whatsoever. Besides, in that seven years who
knew what might turn up in his favour.
"I consent," said he; and the arch-enemy produced his bond. A drop of
blood, squeezed from the hand of his victim, was the medium of this
fearful transfer; and instantly on its execution another clap of
thunder announced the departure of Satan with the price of another
soul in his grasp.
Michael was now alone. He could hardly persuade himself that he had
not been dreaming. He looked at his finger, where a slight wound was
still visible, from which a drop of blood still hung--a terrible
confirmation of his fears.
Returning home, sad and solitary, he attempted to mount to his usual
place, but even this exertion was more than he could accomplish. One
black and burning thought tormented him, and he sat down by his own
cheerless hearth, more cheerless than he had ever felt before. Matty
was preparing dinner; but it was a meagre and homely fare--a little
oaten bread, and one spare collop which had been given her by a
neighbour. Scanty as was the meal, it was better than the humble
viands which sometimes supplied their board. Matty knew not the real
cause of her husband's dumps, supposing it to be the usual workings of
remorse, if not repentance, to which Mike was subject whenever his
pocket was empty and the burning spark in his throat unquenched. She
invited him to partake, but he could not eat. He sat with eyes
half-shut, fixed on the perishing embers, and replied not to the
remonstrances of his dame.
"Why, Mike, I say," cried the kind-hearted woman, "what ails thee?
Cheer up, man, and finish thy collop. Thou mayest fret about it as
thou likes, but thou cannot undo a bad stitch by wishing. If it will
make thee better for time to come, though, I'll not grumble. Come,
come, goodman, if one collop winna content thee, I wish we'd two,
that's all."
Scarce was the last word from her lips, when lo! a savoury and smoking
rasher was laid on the table by some invisible hand. Michael was
roused from his lethargy by this unlucky wish. Darting a terrified
look on the morsel, he cried out--
"Woman, woman! what hast thou done? I wish thou wert far enough for
thy pains."
Immediately she disappeared--whisked off by the same invisible hands;
but whither he could not tell.
"Oh me--oh me!" cried the afflicted tailor at this double mishap;
"what shall I do now? I shall assuredly starve; and yet I've one wish
left. Humph, I'd better be wary in making it though. Best take time to
consider, lest I throw this needlessly after the rest."
Mike could not make up his mind as to what he would have, nor indeed
could he bend down his thoughts steadfastly to any subject. He was in
a continual flutter. His brain was in a whirl. He looked round for
some relief. The house was in sad disorder, and he thought on his
absent wife.
"Dear me," thought he, as he fetched a scrap of wood to the fire, "I
wish Matty were here;" and his wife was immediately at his side.
Mike, now grown desperate, revealed to her the fearful cause of these
disasters, and the utter failure of any beneficial results from the
three wishes.
"We be just as we were," said he, "save that I've sold mysel', body
and soul, to the Evil One!"
Here he began to weep and lament very sore; and his wife was so much
overcome at the recital that she was nigh speechless through the
anguish she endured.
At length her tears began to lose their bitterness.
"It's no use greetin' at this gait," said she; "hie thee to the
parson, Michael, an' see if he canna quit thee o' this bond."
"Verily," said the poor tailor, with a piteous sigh, "that would be
leapin' out o' t' gutter into t' ditch. I should be burnt for a
he-witch an' a limb o' the de'il. I've yet seven years' respite from
torment, an' that would be to throw even these precious morsels away.
E'en let's tarry as we are, an' make the best on't. This comes of
idleness and drink; but if ever I put foot across Giles's doorstone
again, I wish--nay, it's no use wishing now, I've had enough o' sich
thriftless work for a bit. But I'll be sober an' mind my work, and
spend nothing idly, an' who knows but some plan or another may be hit
on to escape."
Now his disconsolate wife was much rejoiced at this determination, and
could not help saying--
"Who knows? perhaps it was for good, Mike, that this distress happened
thee."
He shook his head; but his resolution was made, and he adhered to it
in spite of the sneers and temptations of his former associates, who
often tried to lead him on to the same vicious courses again. He had
received a warning that he never forgot. The memory of it stuck to him
night and day; and he would as soon have thought of thrusting his hand
into the glowing coals as have entered Giles Chatburn's hovel again.
He was truly an altered man, but his wife was the first to feel
benefited by the change. He had plenty of work, and money came in
apace. The house was cleaned and garnished. There was abundance of
victuals, and a jug of their own brewing. He rarely stirred out but to
wait upon his customers, and then he came home as soon as the job was
completed. But there was an appearance of melancholy and dejection
continually about him. He looked wan and dispirited. Time was rapidly
passing by, and the last of the seven years was now ebbing away.
One night, as they were sitting a while after supper, he fetched a
heavy sigh.
"It is but a short time I have to live," said he.
"Nay," said the dame, let's hope that Heaven will not let thee fall a
prey to His enemy and ours. Besides thou hast gotten nothing from him
for thy bargain. It cannot be expected, therefore, that the old
deceiver can claim any recompense."
Mike shook his head, and looked incredulous.
"Sure as there's wind i' Meg's entry he'll come for his own. I've been
considering that I'd best go to the old man that lives in the cave by
Sally. He'll maybe give me some advice how to act when the time
comes."
This suggestion met with his wife's approval; and the next morning
our disconsolate hero was on his way to the "hermit" of the cave. The
holy recluse had been long famed through that region for his kindness
and attention to the wants of those who sought help and counsel; and
Michael thought no harm could come of it, even though he might be
unable to circumvent the designs of the arch-enemy.
His dwelling was by the river-side, in a little hut, the back of
which, the goodman's oratory, was scooped out in a circular form from
the bank.
"Holy father," said the tailor, on entering the cell, "I crave thy
benison."
The anchorite, who was on his knees before a crucifix, did not speak
until he had finished his devotions. He then rose and pronounced the
usual benedictory welcome.
"So far all is well," thought Mike; "I've got one blow at the devil
anyhow."
The holy father was very old, but he was hale and active. His white
silky beard almost touched his girdle, and his sharp though rheumy
eyes peered inquisitively on the person of his guest.
"What is thine errand, my son?" inquired the recluse.
"I have fallen into a grievous temptation, and would crave your
succour and advice."
"Heaven wills it oft, my son, that we fall into divers extremities to
humble us, and to show the folly and weakness of our hearts. What is
thy trouble and thy petition?"
"Alas!" said the other, weeping, "I have been face to face with the
father of lies, and I have suffered much damage therefrom."
"Thou hast not been tampering with forbidden arts, I hope?"
"Truly, that have I, and to my soul's cost, I fear," said the tailor,
with a groan of heartrending despair.
"Thy sin is great, my son; but so likewise is the remedy. Heaven
willeth not a sinner's death, if he turn again to Him with repentance
and contrition of spirit. I trust thou hast not trifled with thy
soul's welfare by taking and using any of the gifts whereby the old
serpent layeth hold on the souls of men?"
"Verily, nay; but he frightened me into the signing of a terrible
bond, wherein I promised, that after seven years were past and gone I
would be his!"