"But he was wary wise in all his way,
And well perceived his deceitful sleight;
No suffered lust his safety to hetray;
So goodly did beguile the _guiler_ of the prey."
--SPENSER.
Ince-hall, the subject of our view, stands about a mile from Wigan, on
the left hand of the high road to Bolton. It is a very conspicuous
object, its ancient and well-preserved front generally attracting the
notice and inquiry of travellers.
About a mile to the south-east stands another place of the same name
once belonging to the Gerards of Bryn. The manor is now the property of
Charles Walmsley, Esq., of Westwood, near Wigan.
The two mansions are sometimes confounded together in topographical
inquiries; and the following story, though told of some former
proprietor of the Ince to which our plate refers, yet, by its title of
the "Manor-house," would seem as though intended for the other and
comparatively less known mansion, the old "Manor-house of Ince," once
inhabited by a family of that name. But the same traditions are often
found connected with localities widely asunder, so that we need not be
surprised at the mistake which gossips have made in this particular
instance.
It is, after all, quite uncertain whether the event occurred here or
not, story-tellers being very apt to fix upon any spot near at hand on
which to fasten their marvellous narratives, and to give them a stronger
hold on the listener's imagination.
The story is supposed to be written or related by the chief actor in the
occurrences arising out of the "Haunted House." The author has thrown
the narrative into this form, as he hopes it will vary the style of the
traditions, and probably give more character and interest to the events
here detailed than they would retain if told by a third person.
The coach set me down at the entrance to a long and unweeded avenue. A
double row of beech-trees saluted me, as I passed, with a rich shower of
wet leaves, and shook their bare arms, growling as the loud sough of the
wind went through their decayed branches. The old house was before me.
Its numerous and irregularly-contrived compartments in front were
streaked in black and white zig-zags--_vandyked_, I think, the fairest
jewels of the creation call this chaste and elegant ornament. It was
near the close of a dark autumnal day, and a mass of gable-ends stood
sharp and erect against the wild and lowering sky. Each of these
pinnacles could once boast of its admired and appropriate ornament--a
little weathercock; but they had cast off their gilded plumage for ever,
and fallen from their high estate, like the once neatly-trimmed mansion
which I was now visiting. A magpie was perched upon a huge stack of
chimneys, his black and white plumage rivalling the mottled edifice at
his feet. Perhaps he was the wraith, the departing vision of the
decaying fabric; an apparition, insubstantial as the honours and
dignities of the ancient and revered house of----!
I looked eagerly at the long, low casements: a faint glimmer was
visible. It proceeded only from the wan reflection of a sickly sunbeam
behind me, struggling through the cleft of a dark hail-cloud. It was the
window where in my boyhood I had often peeped at the town-clock through
my little telescope. There was the nursery chamber, and no wonder that
it was regarded with feelings of the deepest interest. Here the first
dawnings of reason broke in upon my soul; the first faint gleams of
intelligence awakened me from a state of infantine unconsciousness. It
was here that I first drank eagerly of the fresh rills of knowledge;
here my imagination, ardent and unrepressed, first plumed its wings for
flight, and I stepped forth over its threshold into a world long since
tried, and found as unsatisfying and unreal as the false glimmer that
now mocked me from the hall of my fathers.
A truce to sentiment!--I came hither, it may be, for a different
purpose. A temporary gush will occasionally spring up from the first
well-head of our affections. However homely and seemingly ill-adapted,
in outward show and character, for giving birth to those feelings
generally designated by the epithet romantic, the place where we first
breathed, where our ideas were first moulded, formed and assimilated, as
it were, to the condition of the surrounding atmosphere (their very
shape and colour determined by the medium in which they first sprung)
the casual recurrence of a scene like this,--forming part and parcel of
our very existence, and incorporated with the very fabric of our
thoughts,--must, in spite of all subsequent impressions, revive those
feelings, however long they may have been dormant, with a force and
vividness which the bare recollection can never excite.
The garden-gate stood open. The initials of my name, still legible,
appeared rudely carved on the posts--a boyish propensity which most of
us have indulged; and I well remember ministering to its gratification
wherever I durst hazard the experiment, when first initiated into the
mystery of hewing out these important letters with a rusty pen-knife.
Not a creature was stirring; and the nature of the present occupants,
whether sylphs, gnomes, or genii, was a question not at all, as it yet
appeared, in a train for solution. The front door was closed; but, as I
knew every turn and corner about the house, I made no doubt of soon
finding out its inmates, if any of them were in the neighbourhood. I
worked my way through the garden, knee-deep and rank with weed, for the
purpose of reconnoitring the back-offices. I steered pretty cautiously
past what memory, that great dealer in hyperbole, had hitherto generally
contrived to picture as a huge lake--now, to my astonishment, dwindled
into a duck-pond--but not without danger from its slippery margin. It
still reposed under the shadow of the old cherry-tree, once the
harbinger of delight, as the returning season gave intimation of another
bountiful supply of fruit. Its gnarled stump, now stunted and decaying,
had scarcely one token of life upon its scattered branches. Following a
narrow walk, nearly obliterated, I entered a paved court. The first
tramp awoke a train of echoes that seemed as though they had slumbered
since my departure, and now started from their sleep to greet or to
admonish the returning truant. Grass in luxuriant tufts, capriciously
disposed, grew about in large patches. The breeze passed heavily by,
rustling the dark swathe, and murmuring fitfully as it departed.
Desolation seemed to have marked the spot for her own--the grim abode of
solitude and despair. During twenty years' sojourn in a strange land
memory had still, with untiring delight, painted the old mansion in all
its primeval primness and simplicity--fresh as I had left it, full of
buoyancy and delight, to take possession of the paradise which
imagination had created. I had, indeed, been informed that at my
father's death it became the habitation of a stranger; but no
intelligence as to its present condition had ever reached me. Being at
L----, and only some twenty miles distant, I could not resist the
temptation of once more gazing on the old Manor-house, and of comparing
its present aspect with that but too faithfully engrafted on my
recollections. To all appearance the house was tenantless. I tried the
door of a side kitchen or scullery: it was fastened, but the rusty bolts
yielded to no very forcible pressure; and I once more penetrated into
the kitchen, that exhaustless magazine which had furnished ham and eggs,
greens and bacon, with other sundry and necessary condiments, to the
progenitors of our race for at least two centuries. A marvellous
change!--to me it appeared as if wrought in a moment, so recently had
memory reinstated the scenes of my youth in all their pristine
splendour. Now no smoke rolled lazily away from the heavy billet; no
blaze greeted my sight; no savoury steam regaled the sense. Dark,
cheerless, cold,--the long bars emitted no radiance; the hearth unswept,
on which Growler once panted with heat and fatness.
Though night was fast approaching, I could not resist the temptation of
once more exploring the deserted chambers, the scene of many a youthful
frolic. I sprang with reckless facility up the vast staircase. The
shallow steps were not sufficiently accommodating to my impatience, and
I leapt rather than ran, with the intention of paying my first visit to
that _cockaigne_ of childhood, that paradise of little fools--the
nursery. How small, dwindled almost into a span, appeared that once
mighty and almost boundless apartment, every nook of which was a
separate territory, every drawer and cupboard the boundary of another
kingdom! three or four strides brought me to the window;--the broad
church-tower was still visible, peacefully reposing in the dim and heavy
twilight. The evening-bell was tolling: what a host of recollections
were awakened at the sound! Days and hours long forgotten seemed to rise
up at its voice, like the spirits of the departed sweeping by, awful and
indistinct. These impressions soon became more vivid; they rushed on
with greater rapidity: I turned from the window, and was startled at the
sudden moving of a shadow. It was a faint long-drawn figure of myself on
the floor and opposite wall. Ashamed of my fears, I was preparing to
quit the apartment when my attention was arrested by a drawing which I
had once scrawled, and stuck against the wall with all the ardour of a
first achievement. It owed its preservation to an unlucky, but
effectual, contrivance of mine for securing its perpetuity: a
paste-brush, purloined from the kitchen, had made all fast; and the
piece, alike impregnable to assaults or siege, withstood every effort
for its removal. In fact, this could not be accomplished without at the
same time tearing off a portion from the dingy papering of the room, and
leaving a disagreeable void, instead of my sprawling performance. With
the less evil it appeared each succeeding occupant had been contented;
and the drawing had stood its ground in spite of dust and dilapidation.
I felt wishful for the possession of so valuable a memorial of past
exploits. I examined it again and again, but not a single corner
betrayed symptoms of lesion: it stuck bolt upright; and the dun squat
figures portrayed on it appeared to leer at me most provokingly. Not a
slip or tear presented itself as vantage-ground for the projected
attack; and I had no other resource left of gaining possession than what
may be denominated the Cæsarean mode. I accordingly took out my knife,
and commenced operations by cutting out at the same time a portion of
the ornamental papering from the wall commensurate with the picture. I
looked upon it with a sort of superstitious reverence; and I have always
thought that the strong and eager impulse I felt for the possession of
this hideous daub proceeded from a far different source than mere
fondness for the memorials of childhood. Be that as it may, I am a firm
believer in a special Providence; and that, too, as discovered in the
most trivial as well as the most important concerns of life. It was
whilst cutting down upon what seemed like wainscoting, over which the
papering of the room had been laid, that my knife glanced on something
much harder than the rest. Turning aside my spoils, I saw what through
the dusk appeared very like the hinge of a concealed door. My curiosity
was roused, and I made a hasty pull, which at once drew down a mighty
fragment from the wall, consisting of plaster, paper, and rotten canvas;
and some minutes elapsed ere the subsiding cloud of dust enabled me to
discern the _terra incognita_ I had just uncovered. Sure enough there
was a door, and as surely did the spirit of enterprise prompt me to open
it. With difficulty I accomplished my purpose; it yielded at length to
my efforts; but the noise of the half-corroded hinges, grating and
shrieking on their rusty pivots, may be conceived as sufficiently dismal
and appalling. I know not if once at least I did not draw back, or let
go my hold incontinently, as the din "grew long and loud." I own,
without hesitation, that I turned away my head from the opening, as it
became wider and wider at every pull; and it required a considerable
effort before I could summon the requisite courage to look into the gap.
My head seemed as difficult to move as the door. I cannot say that I was
absolutely afraid of ghosts, but I _was_ afraid of a peep from behind
the door--afraid of being frightened! At length, with desperate
boldness, I thrust my head plump into the chasm!
But I was more startled at the noise I had thus produced than by
anything that was visible. As far as the darkness would permit, I
explored the interior, which, after all, was neither more nor less than
a small closet. From what cause it had been shut out from the apartment
to which it had belonged, it were vain to conjecture. All that was
really cognisable to the senses presented itself in the shape of a
shallow recess, some four feet by two, utterly unfurnished, save with
some inches of accumulated dust and rubbish, that made it a work of
great peril to grope out the fact of its otherwise absolute emptiness.
This discovery like many other notable enterprises seemed to lead to
nothing. I stepped out of my den, reeking with spoils which I would much
rather have left undisturbed in their dark recesses.
Preparing for my departure, and a visit to my relation in the nearly
adjoining town, who as yet had no other intimation of my arrival than a
hasty note, to apprise him that I had once more set foot on English
ground, and intended to visit him before my return, I stepped again to
the window. Darkness was fast gathering about me; a heavy scud was
driven rapidly across the heavens, and the wind wailed in short and
mournful gusts past the chamber. The avenue was just visible from the
spot where I stood; and, looking down, I thought I could discern more
than one dark object moving apparently towards the house. It may be
readily conceived that I beheld their approach with an interest by no
means free from apprehension; and it was not long ere two beings, in
human habiliments, were distinctly seen at a short distance from the
gate by which I had entered. Feeling myself an intruder, and not being
very satisfactorily prepared to account for my forcible entry into the
premises, and the injury I had committed on the property of a stranger,
I drew hastily aside, determined to effect a retreat whenever and
wherever it might be in my power. Door and window alternately presented
themselves for the accomplishment of this unpleasant purpose, but before
I could satisfy myself as to which was the more eligible offer, as
doubters generally do contrive it, I lost all chance of availing myself
of either. "_Facilis descensus_"--"Easier in than out"--&c., occurred to
me; and many other classical allusions, much more appropriate than
agreeable. I heard voices and footsteps in the hall. The stairs creaked,
and it was but too evident they were coming, and that with a most
unerring and provoking perseverance. Surely, thought I, these gentry
have noses like the sleuth-hound; and I made no doubt but they would
undeviatingly follow them into the very scene of my labours; and what
excuse could I make for the havoc I had committed? I stood stupefied,
and unable to move. The thoughts of being hauled neck and heels before
the next justice, on a charge of housebreaking, or what not--committed
to prison--tried, perhaps, and--the sequel was more than even
imagination durst conceive. Recoiling in horror from the picture, it was
with something like instinctive desperation that I flew to the little
closet, and shut myself in, with all the speed and precision my fears
would allow. Sure enough the brutes were making the best of their way
into the chamber, and every moment I expected they would track their
victim to his hiding-place. After a few moments of inconceivable agony,
I was relieved at finding from their conversation that no notion was
entertained, at present, of any witness to their proceedings.
"I tell thee, Gilbert, these rusty locks can keep nothing safe. It's but
some few months since we were here, and thou knowest the doors were all
fast. The kitchen door-post is now as rotten as touchwood; no bolt will
fasten it."
"Nail it up,--nail 'em all up," growled Gilbert; "nobody'll live here
now; or else set fire to 't. It'll make a rare bonfire to burn that ugly
old will in."
A boisterous laugh here broke from the remorseless Gilbert. It fell upon
my ear as something with which I had once been disagreeably familiar.
The voice of the first speaker, too, seemed the echo of one that had
been heard in childhood. A friendly chink permitted me to gain the
information I sought; there stood my uncle and his trusty familiar. In
my youth I had contracted a somewhat unaccountable aversion to the
latter personage. I well remembered his downcast grey eye, deprived of
its fellow; and the malignant pleasure he took in thwarting and
disturbing my childish amusements. This prepossessing Cyclop held a
tinder-box, and was preparing to light a match. My uncle's figure I
could not mistake: a score of winters had cast their shadows on his brow
since we had separated; but he still stood as he was wont--tall, erect,
and muscular, though age had slightly drooped his proud forehead; and I
could discern his long-lapped waistcoat somewhat less conspicuous in
front. He was my mother's brother, and the only surviving relation on
whom I had any claim. My fears were set at rest, but curiosity stole
into their place. I felt an irrepressible inclination to watch their
proceedings, though eaves-dropping was a subterfuge that I abhorred. I
should, I am confident--at least I hope so--have immediately discovered
myself, had not a single word which I had overheard prevented me. The
"will" to which they alluded might to me, perhaps, be an object of no
trivial importance.
"I wish with all my heart it were burnt!" said mine uncle.
"The will, or the house?" peevishly retorted Gilbert.
"Both!" cried the other, with an emphasis and expression that made me
tremble.
"If we burn the house, the papers will not rise out of it, depend on 't,
master," continued Gilbert; "and that box in the next closet will not
prove like Goody Blake's salamander."