"_Humph_. Say, what art thou that talk'st of kings and queens?
_K. Hen_. More than I seem, and less than I was born to;
A man at least, for less I should not be;
And men may talk of kings, and why not I?
_Humph_. Ay, but thou talk'st as if thou wert a king.
_K. Hen_, Why, so I am, in mind, and that's enough.
_Humph_. But if thou be a king, where is thy crown?"
--_King Henry VI_.
Waddington Hall, the site of the following legend, says Pennant, "is a
stone house, with some small ancient windows, and a narrow winding
staircase within, now inhabited by several poor families; yet it
formerly gave shelter to a royal guest. The meek usurper, Henry VI.,
after the battle of Hexham, in 1463, was conveyed into this county,
where he was concealed by his vassals for an entire twelvemonth,
notwithstanding the most diligent search was made after him. At length
he was surprised at dinner at Waddington Hall, and taken near Bungerley
Hippingstones in Clitherwood. The account which Leland gives from an
ancient chronicle concurs with the tradition of the country, that he was
deceived--_i.e._ betrayed--by Thomas Talbot, son and heir to Sir Edmund
Talbot, of Bashal, and John his cousin, of Colebry. The house was beset;
but the king found means to get out, ran across the fields below Waddow
Hall, and passed the Ribble, on the stepping-stones, into a wood on the
Lancashire side, called Christian Pightle, but being closely pursued,
was there taken. From hence he was carried to London, in the most
piteous manner, on horseback, with his legs tied to the stirrups. Rymer
has preserved the grant of a reward for this service, of the estates of
Sir Richard Tunstall, a Lancastrian, to Sir James Harrington, by Edward
IV., dated from Westminster, July 9th, 1465."
At that time Waddington belonged to the Tempests, who inherited it by
virtue of the marriage of their ancestor, Sir Roger, in the reign of
Edward I., with Alice, daughter and heiress of Walter de Waddington. An
alliance had just been made between the Tempests and the Talbots. It may
be presumed, that in order to save their estates (which they afterward
were suffered quietly to possess), they agreed with Sir James to give up
the saintly monarch, which was the reason that the latter had the reward
for what the grant calls "his great and laborious diligence in taking
our great traitor and rebel, Henry, lately called Henry VI."
Far different was the conduct of Sir Ralph Pudsey, of Bolton Hall, where
the king was concealed for some months prior to his appearance at
Waddington. Quitting Bolton, probably from some apprehension that his
retreat was in danger of being discovered, he left behind him the
well-known relics which are still shown to the curious. These are a pair
of boots, a pair of gloves, and a spoon. The boots are of fine brown
Spanish leather, lined with deer-skin, tanned with the fur on; about the
ankles is a kind of wadding under the lining, to keep out wet. They have
been fastened by buttons from the ankle to the knee; the feet are
remarkably small (little more than eight inches long); the toes round,
and the soles, where they join to the heel, contracted to less than an
inch in diameter.
The gloves are of the same material, and have the same lining; they
reach up, like women's gloves, to the elbow; but have been occasionally
turned down, with deer-skin outward. The hands are exactly proportioned
to the feet, and not larger than those of a middle-sized woman. In an
age when the habits of the great, in peace as well as war, required
perpetual exertions of bodily strength, this unhappy prince must have
been equally contemptible from corporeal and from mental imbecility.[54]
A well adjoining to Bolton Hall still retains his name. He is said to
have ordered it to be dug and walled round for a bath; and it is much
venerated by the country people to this day, who fancy that many
remarkable cures have been wrought there.
It is not generally recorded that the science of alchemy was much
encouraged by the royal visionary. Though he had commissioned three
adepts to make the precious metals, and had not received any returns,
his credulity remained unshaken, and he issued a pompous grant in favour
of three other alchemists, who boasted that they could not only
transmute metals, but could impart perpetual youth, with unimpaired
powers both of mind and body, by means of a specific called the _Mother
and Queen of Medicines, the Celestial Glory, the Quintessence or Elixir
of Life._ In favour of these "three lovers of the truth, and haters of
deception," as they styled themselves, Henry dispensed with the law
passed by his grandfather, Henry IV., against the undue multiplication
of gold and silver, and empowered them to transmute the precious metals.
This extraordinary commission had the sanction of Parliament; and two
out of the three adepts were the heads of Lancashire families--viz., Sir
Thomas Ashton of Ashton, and Sir Edmund Trafford of Trafford. These
worthy knights obtained a patent for changing metals, 24 Hen. VI. The
philosophers, probably imposing upon themselves as well as others, kept
the king's expectation wound up to the highest pitch; and in the
following year he actually informed his people that the happy hour was
approaching when, by means of the _stone_, he should _be able to pay off
his debts_[55]
With regard to the prophecy or denunciation made by him against the
Talbots, recorded in our legend, Dr Whitaker observes,--"Something like
these hereditary alternations of sense and folly might have happened,
and have given rise to a prophecy fabricated after the event; a real
prediction to this effect would have negatived the words of
Solomon,--'Yea, I have hated all my labour which I had taken under the
sun; because I should leave it unto the man that shall be after me; and
who knoweth whether he shall be a wise man or a fool?'
"This, however, is not the only instance in which Henry is reported to
have displayed that singular faculty, the _Vaticinium Stultorum_."[56]
In 798, this place was noted for the defeat of Wada, the Saxon chief, by
Aldred, king of Northumberland. He was one of the petty princes who
joined the murderers of King Ethelred. After this overthrow he fled to
his castle, on a hill near Whitby, and dying, was interred not far from
the place. Two great pillars, about twelve feet asunder, mark the spot,
and still bear the name of "Wada's Grave."
It was on a bright and glorious summer evening, in the year 1464, while
the red glare of sunset was still in the west, and a wide blush of
purple passed rapidly over the distant fell and the blue and heath-clad
mountain, that a group of labourers were returning from their daily toil
through the forest glades that skirt the broad and beautiful Ribble
below Waddow. Some of them were of that class called hinds, paying the
rents of their little homesteads by stated periods of service allotted
to each; in this respect differing but little from the serfs and
villains of a more remote era, their toil not a whit less irksome,
though their liberty, in name at least, was less under the control and
caprice of their lord.
Two of the peasants loitered considerably behind the rest, seemingly
engrossed by a conversation too interesting or too important for the
ears of their companions. The elder of the speakers was clad in a coarse
woollen doublet; a belt of untanned leather girt his form; and on his
head was a cap of grey felt, without either rim or band. His gait was
heavy and slouching. Strong, tall, and muscular, he stooped
considerably; but less through age and infirmity than from the laborious
nature of his occupations. His companion, younger and more vivacious,
was distinguished by a goodly and well-thriven hump, and by that fulness
and projection of the chest which usually characterise this species of
deformity. His long arms nearly trailed to the ground as he walked; huge
and sprawling, they seemed to have been originally intended as an
attachment to a frame of much more gigantic proportions. His face had
that peculiar form and expression which always, more or less, accompany
this kind of malformation. Wide, large, angular; the chin sharp and
projecting, supported on the breast; the whole head scarcely rivalling
the shoulders in height and obliquity. His disposition was evidently
wayward and irascible, and a keen satirical humour lurked in every line
of his pallid visage; generally at war with his species, and ready to
act on the defensive; snarling whenever he was approached, and always
anticipating gibe and insult from his fellows.
"Weary, weary,--ay, as a tom-fool at a holiday feast," said the
hunchback to his companion. "Spade and axe have I lifted these twenty
years, and what the better am I o' the labour? A groat's worth of wit is
worth a pound o' sweat,' as my dame says. I'll turn pedlar some o' these
days, and lie, and cheat, and sell."
"Ay, Gregory," interrupted the other, "thee'd sell thy own paws, if so
be they'd fetch a groat i' the market; but then, I warrant, the dame at
the hall would lack her henchman at the churn."
"Tut! I care for nought living but my worthless carcase," replied the
hunchback, surveying his own person. "Why should I? there's nought
living that cares for me. Sure as fate, if a' waur dead beside, we'd ha'
curran' baws i' the pot every day. What a murrain is it to this hungry
maw whether Ned Talbot, or Joe Tempest, or any other knave o' the pack,
tumbles into his berth, or is put to bed wi' the shovel, a day sooner or
later. He maun budge some time. Faugh! how I hate your whining--your
cat-a-whisker'd faces, purring and mewling, while parson Pudsay says
grace over the cold carrion; he cares not if it waur hash'd and stew'd
i' purgatory, so that he gets the shrift-money. Out upon't, Ralph, out
upon it! this mattock should delve a' the graves i' the parish, if I
could get a tester more i' my fist."
"Thou murdering tyke! wouldst dig my grave?"
"Ay," shouted Gregory with a grin, displaying a huge double crescent of
white teeth, portals to a gulf, grim, hideous, and insatiable; "ay, for
St Peter's penny."
"And leave me to knock at the gate, and never a doit to pay the porter?"
"Thou shouldst cry and howl till doomsday, though my pouch had the
keeping of a whole congregation of angels.
"Keep out o' my way, cub--unlicked brute!" cried the infuriate Ralph;
"keep back, I say, or I may send thee first on thine errand to St Peter.
Take that, knave, and"--
But the malicious hunchback stepped aside, and the blow, aimed with a
hearty curse at this provoking lump of deformity, fell with a murderous
force upon a writhen stem, which bore witness to the willing disposition
with which the stroke was dealt. Gregory was laughing and mocking all
the while at the impotent wrath of his companion.
"A groat's worth for a penny, I'm not yet boun' for St Peter's blessing,
though, old crump-face!" cried the learing impertinent, one thumb
between his teeth, and the little finger thrust out in its most
expressive form of derision and contempt.
"Hush--softly, prithee," said the offended party, his anger all at once
under the influence of a more powerful feeling. He stood still, in the
attitude of listening, earnestly bending forward with great solicitude
and attention.
He pointed to some object just visible through the arches of the wood,
in the dim twilight.
"There is the grey man o' the mine again, as I live, Gregory; we'd best
turn back, for our companions are gone out of hearing." The terrified
rustic was preparing for immediate flight, but Gregory caught him by the
belt.
"How now! stand to thy ground, man," said he; "I've had speech at him
not long ago. We came upon one another suddenly, to be sure, and I could
not well escape, so I stood still. He did the same, shook his pale and
saintly face, and, with a wave o' the hand, bade me pass on."
"But look thee," replied the other, "I'm bodily certain he walks without
a shadow at his tail. See at that big tree there; why, the boughs bend
before he touches 'em, like as they were stricken wi' the wind. I
declare if the very trees don't step aside as if they're afraid of him.
I'll not tarry here, good man."
Disengaging himself from the other's gripe, Ralph ran through the wood
in an opposite direction, and was soon out of sight. A loud shout from
Gregory followed him as he fled, which only served to quicken his speed;
and the hunchback was left alone. The figure which was the moving cause
of this cowardly apprehension almost immediately disappeared behind a
projecting crag, at the base of which grew a thick skirting of
underwood; but Gregory pursued cautiously in the same direction. He had
heard strange stories of demons guarding heaps of treasure; and it was
currently reported that in former times a mine had been secretly worked
in these parts for fear of discovery; all mines yielding gold and
silver, so as to leave a profit from the working, being considered as
"mines royal," and regarded as the property of the king.[57] Gregory's
prevailing sin was avarice; and oftentimes this vice put on the
appearance of courage, by rendering him daring for its gratification,
though at heart a coward. He thought that if the treasure were once
within his grasp neither man nor demon should regain it.
For a short time past this part of the forest had been commonly reported
as the haunt of a spectre, in the likeness of a man clad in grey
apparel, who by some was supposed to be an impalpable exhalation from a
concealed mine existing in the neighbourhood. It is well known that
these places are generally guarded by some covetous demon, who, though
unable to apply the treasures to their proper use, yet strives to hinder
any one else from gaining possession.
Gregory had once encountered it unexpectedly, face to face, but he did
not then follow--surprise and timidity preventing him. He, however,
resolved that, should another opportunity occur, he would track the
spectre to its haunt, and by that means find out the opening and
situation of the mine.
He now crept slowly towards the crag, behind which the figure had
retired. Looking cautiously round the point, he again saw the dim
spectral form only a few yards distant. Suddenly he heard a low whistle,
and the next moment the mysterious figure had disappeared--not a vestige
could be traced. He thrust his huge head between the boughs for a more
uninterrupted survey, but nothing was seen, save the bare escarpment of
the rock, and the low bushes, behind which the phantom had, a moment
before, been visible. Though somewhat daunted, he crept closer to the
spot, but darkness was fast closing around him, and the search was
fruitless.
"Humph!" said the disappointed treasure-hunter audibly; "daylight and a
stout pole may probe the mystery to the bottom. I'll mark this spot."
"Mark this spot," said another voice at some distance, repeating his
words like an echo. The rock was certainly within "striking distance,"
and it might have been this accident which lent its aid to the delusion.
Gregory could not withstand so apparently supernatural an occurrence. He
took to his heels, driven fairly off the field; nor did he look behind
him until safely entrenched before a blazing fire in the kitchen at
Waddington Hall.
"Out, ill-favoured hound!" said a serving wench, who was stirring a
blubbering mess of porridge for supper. But Gregory was not in the
humour to reply: he sat with one long lean hand under his chin, the
other hung down listlessly to his heels, which were drawn securely under
the stool on which he sat. His thoughts were not on the victuals, though
by long use and instinct his eyes were turned in that direction.
"Thee art ever hankering after the brose, thou greedy churl!" continued
the wench, wishful to goad him on to some intemperate reply.
But Gregory was still silent. At this unwonted lack of discourse, Janet,
who generally contrived to bring his long tongue into exercise, was not
a little astonished. It needed no great wit, any time, to set him
a-grumbling; for neither kind word nor civil speech had he for kith or
kin, for man or maid.
Looking steadfastly towards him, she struck her dark broad fists upon
her hips, and, in a loud and contemptuous laugh, abruptly startled the
cynic from his studies. He eyed her with a grin of malice and vexation.
"Thou she-ape, I wonder what first ye'arn made for; the plague o' both
man and beast,--the worst plague that e'er Pharaoh waur punished wi'.
Screech on; I'll ha' my think out, spite o' thy caterwauling."
"Thou art a precious wonder, Master Crab. Squirt thy verjuice, when thou
art roasting, some other way. I wonder what man-ape thy mother watch'd
i' the breeding. She had been special fond o' children, I bethink me."
"And what knowest thou o' my dame's humours, thou curl-crop vixen?" said
Gregory, unwarily drawn forth again from his taciturnity. "How should
her inclinations be subject to thy knowledge?"
"She rear'd thee!" was the reply.
Two other hinds belonging to the household, who were watching the issue
of the contest, here joined in a loud clamour at the victory; and
Gregory, dogged with baiting, became silent, scowling defiance at his
foe.
Waddington Hall was at that period a building of great antiquity.
Crooks, or great heavy arched timbers, ascending from the ground to the
roof, formed the principal framework of the edifice, not unlike the
inverted hull of some stately ship. The whole dwelling consisted of a
thorough lobby and a hall, with a parlour beyond it, on one side, and
the kitchens and offices on the other. The windows were narrow, scarcely
more than a few inches wide, and, in all probability, not originally
intended to contain glass.
The chimneys and fireplaces were wide and open; the apartments, except
the hall, low, narrow, and inconvenient, divided by partitions of oak,
clumsy, and ill-carved with many strange and uncouth devices. The hall
was, on the right of the entrance, lighted by one long low window; a
massy table stood beneath. The fireplace was on the opposite side,
occupying nearly the whole breadth of the chamber. A screen of wainscot
partitioned off the lobby, carved in panels of grotesque workmanship.
Beyond the hall was the parlour, furnished as usual with an oaken
bedstead, standing upon a ground-floor paved with stone. In this
dormitory, the timbers of which were of gigantic proportions, slept
Master Oliver and Mistress Joan Tempest,--the latter not a little given
to that species of uxorious domination which most wives, when they apply
themselves heartily to its acquisition, rarely fail to usurp.
"Here," says Dr Whitaker (this being the general style of building for
centuries, and scarcely, if at all, deviated from),--"here the first
offspring of our forefathers saw the light; and here too, without a wish
to change their habits, fathers and sons in succession resigned their
breath. It is not unusual to see one of these apartments now transformed
into a modern drawing-room, where a thoughtful mind can scarcely forbear
comparing the past and present,--the spindled frippery of modern
furniture, the frail but elegant apparatus of a tea-table, the general
decorum, the equal absence of everything to afflict or to transport,
with what has been heard, or seen, or felt, within the same walls,---
the logs of oak, the clumsy utensils, and, above all, the tumultuous
scenes of joy or sorrow, called forth, perhaps, by the birth of an
heir, or the death of an husband, in minds little accustomed to restrain
the ebullitions of passion.
"Their system of life was that of domestic economy in perfection.
Occupying large portions of his own domains; working his land by oxen;
fattening the aged, and rearing a constant supply of young ones; growing
his own oats, barley, and sometimes wheat; making his own malt, and
furnished often with kilns for the drying of corn at home, the master
had pleasing occupation in his farm, and his cottagers regular
employment under him. To these operations the high troughs, great
garners and chests, yet remaining, bear faithful witness. Within, the
mistress, her maid-servants, and daughters, were occupied in spinning
flax for the linen of the family, which was woven at home. Cloth, if not
always manufactured out of their own wool, was purchased by wholesale,
and made up into clothes at home also."[58]
This is a true picture of the simple habits of our ancestors, and will
apply, with little variation, to the scene before us.
Here might be seen the carved "armoury,"--the wardrobe, bright, clean,
and even magnificent. On the huge rafters hung their usual store of
dried hams, beef, mutton, and flitches of bacon. In the store-room,
great chests were filled to the brim with oatmeal and flour. All wore
the aspect of plenty, and an hospitality that feared neither want nor
diminution.
In one corner of the hall at Waddington sat Mistress Joan, her only
daughter Elizabeth, and two or three female domestics.
They had been spinning, trolling out the while their country ditties
with great pathos and simplicity.
Being nigh supper-time, the group were just loitering in the twilight
ere they separated for the meal.
"Come, Elizabeth," said her mother, "lay thy gear aside; the
strawberries are in the bowl, and the milk is served. Supper and to bed,
and a brisk nap while morning."
The dame who addressed her was a perfect specimen of the good housewife
in the fifteenth century. She wore a quilted woollen gown, open before,
with pendant sleeves, and a long narrow train; a corset, fitted close to
the body, unto which the petticoats were attached, and a boddice laced
outside. She wore the horned head-dress so fashionable towards the close
of the fourteenth century, and at that time still in use, giving the
head and face no slight resemblance to the ace of hearts. An apron was
tied on with great care, ornamented with embroidery of the preceding
century. Her complexion, was dark but clear, and her eyebrows high and
well-arched. Her mouth was drawn in, raised slightly on one side,--a
conformation more particularly apparent when engaged in scolding the
maids, or in other similar but indispensable occupations.
Her gait was firm, and her person upright. Her age--ungallant historians
we must be--was verging closely upon sixty; yet her hair, turned crisp
and full behind her head-dress, showed slight symptoms of the chill
which hoar and frosty age, sooner or later, never fails to impart.
Elizabeth Tempest was young, but of a staid and temperate aspect, almost
approaching to that of melancholic. Her complexion, pale and sallow; her
eye full, dark, and commanding, though occasionally more languor was on
it than eyes of that colour are wont to express. She wore a long jacket
of russet colour, and a crimson boddice. Her hair, turned back from her
brow, hung in dark heavy ringlets below the neck, which, though not of
alabaster, was exquisitely modelled. In person she was tall and
well-shapen, and her whole manner displayed a mind of no ordinary
proportions. She was well-skilled in household duties, her mother having
an especial desire that her daughter should be as notable and thrifty as
herself in domestic arrangements.
"Elizabeth," or "Elspet," as she was indiscriminately called, cared
little about her reputation touching these important functions. She
could sing most of the wild legendary ballads of the time; her rich full
voice had in it a sadness ravishingly tender and expressive, more akin
to woe, and the deep untold agony of the spirit, than to lightness and
mirth, in which she rarely indulged.
"Give us one of thy ditties ere supper," said the dame, who was just
then laying aside her implements in the work-press. "I wonder thy father
does not return. The roofs of Bashall ring with louder cheer than our
own, I trow. He is playing truant for the nonce, which is dangerous play
at best."
"Is he now at our cousin Talbot's?" inquired the maiden, with a look of
more than ordinary interest.
"If he be not on the way back again," returned the dame, as though
wishful to repress inquiry.
"The woods are not safe so late and alone. Comes he alone, mother?"
"Alone! Ay,--and why spierest thou?" The dame looked wistfully, though
but for a moment, on her daughter; then changing her tone, as if to
recommend a change of subject, she cried--
"Come, ha' done, Elspet; we will wait no longer than grace be said. Now
to thy song."