Читать книгу Legends of Lancashire - Peter Landreth - Страница 4

Table of Contents

A Preface before an Introduction seems sufficiently impudent.

It is like popping our face in at the door for a short reconnoitre, before we introduce ourselves. Be it so!

The Chronicler of the “Legends of Lancashire” has no apology to offer, except to his palsied hands, for taking up the pen. He is not a Paul Pry, appearing before the public, with his perpetual non-intrusion plea. He imagines that his motives for writing the Legends are distinctly enough stated in the following Prospectus.

“Lancashire, of all Counties in England, is the most interesting to the antiquarian. Its rivers once flowed with blood;—its houses were towers, castles, or abbeys;—its men were heroes;—its ladies were witches! But now, what a change! The county is commercial. Where the trumpet of war called Arthur to his victories, the noisy engine is roaring. The fortresses have become factories; the abbeys—workhouses;—the heroes—clerks, merchants, and bankers. The ladies, indeed, profess to be what they were in former ages, and still call themselves ‘Lancashire Witches.’ It may not be safe for the ‘Chronicler,’ aged as he is, to speak lightly of the power of their spells; they may yet be of a deadly nature to him—for witches love revenge. Report says, however, that they cannot use the broomstick on which their ancestresses were accustomed to perform their nightly wanderings in the air; but the Chronicler is not so ungallant as to conclude, that it is because they have broken it over their husbands’ shoulders. The witches of a former age were accustomed, with awful incantations, to mix their drugs:—pooh!—those of this age infuse a cup of comfortable tea—but surely not to chatter scandal over it.

“Alas! the age of chivalry and romance is gone from Lancashire. Its bones are in the tomb of history;—but some are too gay for such grave meditations. Legends alone can bring it to view, amidst all the light of poetry; and their wand of enchantment may call into existence a creation, beautiful yet real.

“The Chronicler of the forthcoming ‘Legends’ undertakes to present his readers with a series upon individuals, events, and places, all connected with a former age. Charles, with cavaliers of every shade:—roundheads, from Cromwell down to his groom:—the old tower, wherein were gallant soldiers and fair ladies:—the field of battle fiercely contested;—all shall appear, described, he flatters himself, with accuracy and faithfulness. He shall never sacrifice historical facts, or characters, to fiction. History, accurately sketched, he believes to be the truest and most beautiful romance, and there is enough of that in Lancashire to dispense with false colour and glitter. Places, dates, and names, as well as characters, shall be accurate.

“He begs leave to say one word of himself. He is an old man, and this he conceives to be an advantage. The torch of tradition is most becoming in a trembling hand; and its light falls with a strange harmony over the white locks of the Chronicler, while he totters on through the regions of the past, long forgotten; and of which he himself seems to be the genius.”

He candidly confesses that he has not yet fulfilled his promise. That could not be done in the first volume. But the next shall be a continuous series of Legends connected with the civil wars, and illustrative of the characters of the opposing leaders. And in these he shall avoid all discussions about the merits of Roundhead and Cavalier. Vandyke might have given immortality to the features of Cromwell, as well as those of Charles, without deciding on the questions—ought Charles to have been beheaded, and was Cromwell an usurper. So the Chronicler undertakes, even in his portraits of leading characters, and in his sketches of events, to steer clear of party spirit. Still the pledge does not prohibit him from weighing the military and other talents of their respective leaders. Should he say that Cromwell, beyond all comparison as a man of genius and a soldier, was above Charles, it must not be inferred that he is a Roundhead. Or should he paint Charles as a more handsome and attractive man than Noll with the wart, he must not be called a Cavalier.

The Chronicler had no such design as has been attributed to him, of “mercilessly blackening the character of Cromwell.” The critic, evidently, had been gazing long upon some very sunny portrait of the Protector, and, therefore, when he came to a more sober one, his eyes being still dazzled, naturally thought it dark and “black.” Besides, really the man of the newspaper must not get deadly angry at the hint that his eyes are none of the best.

That the Chronicler is free from any such design may be seen by the high character which Cromwell sustains in the Legend of “Lancaster Castle.” If it be thought that there is any contradiction between that and the “Battle of Wigan Lane,” it is sufficient to reply, that the Cromwell of 1644, and the Cromwell of 1651 are very different personages indeed. When first he came into notice, none of his enemies could suspect the sincerity of his profession of republican principles, but before the above-mentioned battle, even some of his friends had abandoned their confidence in his honesty.

There now only remains to say a few words regarding the contents of this volume. The Legends are all founded on authenticated traditions, and at the end of the work the documents shall be given. It is singular that the most improbable of them—the “Devil’s Wall,” although a most perfect tradition in all its parts, has never been known beyond the immediate vicinity of Ormskirk. The Legend founded upon it follows the tradition without one deviation except in the name and occupation of Gideon Chiselwig. The wall may still be seen. The “Witches of Furness,” are the only two ladies whom the Chronicler knows, that are unlike to the real Lancashire Witches, and yet, the Legend is true. The neighbourhood of Furness, it may be supposed, could produce a more noble kind of Witchcraft, than the far-famed Pendle-hill. The latter abounds with nothing but witches, the down upon whose lips might have formed the brooms on which they careered through the air, when they had failed to throw their bridle over some sleepy wretch, and transform him into a horse. But a Legend of this kind of witchcraft shall afterwards be given. The “Cross and Lady Mabel,” although founded on the same genealogical account as Mr. Roby’s “Mab’s Cross,” is essentially and altogether different in its details; and besides, gives the tradition of the erection of the cross, which has, hitherto, been unknown. And here the Chronicler returns his thanks to that gentleman for the pleasure which his “Traditions of Lancashire” have afforded him. Lancashire abounds with so many traditions, that five or six Chroniclers might each glean a few volumes. This forms the only excuse for following Mr. Roby.

To the County Press the best thanks of the Chronicler are due, for the high approbation they have bestowed on an anonymous work.