Or THE WONDERFUL CURE OF THE MOTTRAM PARSON.
THERE was a certain John Hyde appointed Vicar of Mottram in the year 1575, who continued to hold the sacred office for over 50 years. He succeeded his father, Sir Nicholas Hyde (the Vicar of Mottram from 1547 to 1575) who was buried in the Chancel of Mottram Church on the 24th day of April, 1575. John Hyde married at Mottram on February 26th, 1575-6, Alice Reddich, of Mottram, by whom he had several children: and after her death on March 21st, 1593-4, he married for a second wife, Ann Hyde, on May 22nd, 1597. In the year 1599 the Parish Registers were transcribed from the old paper books into the parchment volumes now in use, and every page of the transcripts bears the signature of John Hyde. He was also rural dean of Macclesfield.
During a great portion of his life, Parson John Hyde had curates to assist in the discharge of his ministerial duties; this assistance was the more necessary on account of the wide extent of the ancient parish of Mottram, and also because there was a chapel at Woodhead dependent for its ministry upon the mother church at Mottram. The most prominent of these curates was his eldest son, Hamnet Hyde, who, as appears from the Mottram registers, was baptized at Mottram Church on May 14th, 1580, and afterwards settled in the town, marrying there on the 12th day of January, 1601, Joane Greaves, of Mottram, by whom he had three sons, John, Nicholas, and Thomas.
Parson Hyde was of an ancient family of gentry, notable in both Lancashire and Cheshire; being connected with the Hydes of Denton, and the Hydes of Hyde. His great influence, however, was not alone owing to this circumstance, but was rather due to his own attainments and his proved superiority in the matter of learning and wisdom. Hamnet Hyde, his son, inherited his father’s good qualities; he was a man of good parts, was distinguished for his learning, and was withal pious and devout. He made a good curate in every way. He was well liked by the parishioners of Mottram, and was, indeed, well spoken of throughout the whole of the Longdendale country. It should also be added in view of the details of this tradition, that he was a fairly robust man, steady, sober, in no way given to gluttony, and there seemed every prospect of his living to a good old age.
There came a time, however, when good Master Hamnet Hyde was greatly distressed to find a grievous disease slowly yet surely creeping over him. Do what he would, it was impossible to shake the sickness off. Bit by bit the disease grew worse, and the local quacks and surgeons were entirely powerless to stay its course. One by one the local doctors tried, and each one was sorrowfully obliged to confess to failure in the end. “Nothing could be done,” they said; and a complete cure seemed almost hopeless.
Now, not only was Master Hamnet Hyde distressed with this intelligence, and not only did his good wife Dame Joane, weep until her good looks were impaired, but the news also gave great pain throughout the parish. The people took the matter to heart as though the parson was one of their own relations. So greatly was he beloved by the common people that some of them even went so far as to employ charms and other harmless means, whereby they hoped to remove the sickness from which the curate was suffering.
The curate’s condition formed the subject of gossip when the people gathered together about the cross opposite the churchgates after divine service.
“Goodman Shaw,” said one to his neighbour, “what think you of Master Hamnet Hyde to-day?”
The man addressed shook his head sadly before he answered.
“Methinks we shall not have many more sermons from him unless he alters greatly.”
The curate, it should be stated, had preached that morning.
“Thou art right, goodman,” went on the first speaker, “but it comes into my mind that there is one remedy he has not yet tried, which it were worth his while to put to the test. Someone should suggest it to him.”
“And what is that, pray?” “Why, the Royal Touch. Let him visit the King, and be touched for the evil. There was a pedlar called on my dame but yestereen, and he told a great tale of the marvellous cures wrought by His Majesty King James, God bless him. Why should not our curate journey up to London, and get the King to remove his sickness?”
“Why not, indeed. Thou hast spoken wisely.”
It should be mentioned that in those days the cure of disease by the patient being “touched” by the Royal fingers was widely believed in. It was asserted that kings were specially endowed by God with the power of healing by touch; and of all the monarchs who ever ruled in England, none were believed to have received this truly royal gift in such abundance as that Most High and Mighty Prince, James the First.
A suggestion of the sort mentioned by the gossip was not likely, therefore, to be neglected, and accordingly the idea was laid pertinently before the curate, who eventually made up his mind to seek the royal remedy. With this object in view, he mounted his horse, and, attended by his friends, journeyed southward to see the king. Before setting out on the journey, he commended himself to God, for the roads were infested with highwaymen, and it was a perilous venture to travel from Longdendale to London at that time. There was a goodly congregation in the old church at Mottram, and from the heart of every worshipper there went up a fervent prayer for the curate on the occasion of the last service specially held before his departure.
On the morrow the whole village was early astir, for it was known that the curate would that morning set out upon his journey; and a numerous array of villagers gathered in the street before the parson’s door as the hour of departure drew nigh.
MOTTRAM CHURCH AND VILLAGE CROSS.
“Fare thee well, good Master Hamnet,” cried one; “God prosper thy journey.”
“If the king but touch thee thou art surely healed,” said another.
“Look well to thy pistols, parson,” quoth a third. “’Twere a pity not to put to good service the weapons God hath placed in our hands. And, of a truth, there be many rogues upon the road.”
“Be sure the beds whereon thou sleepest are well aired,” put in an old dame. “Nothing aggravates the sickness like a damp bed.”
And so with numerous manifestations of good will, the sturdy Mottram folk sped their parson upon his journey.
Now, after safely passing the many perils of the road, Master Hyde arrived at Greenwich in due course and, securing an audience of the King, was touched by His Majesty upon the 22nd day of May, 1610. There was a crowd of sufferers gathered about the Royal Palace, many of whom, like the curate, had travelled from a distance, and they cried aloud for joy when the King came amongst them. They fell upon their knees before him; and, with a gracious smile and many words of comfort, the monarch passed through the crowd, touching each patient as he passed, and breathing a prayer for their welfare. Immediately the fingers touched the patient, the royal virtue passed into the frame of the sufferer, and he was instantly healed. Then the crowd gave thanks to God and his Majesty, and with glad hearts set out for their homes.
It is needless to dwell long over the homecoming of good Master Hamnet. The news of his return was heralded abroad, and when he entered the village, the people flocked about him, throwing up their caps and cheering lustily, so that he returned like some great conqueror to his own.
After his return, he not only showed his gratitude by rendering public thanks to God for the wonderful cure performed upon him, but in order that future generations might know of the Divine goodness, and the King’s most excellent kindness, he inscribed the following passage in the parish register of Mottram, where it may be read to this day.
“Anno Dni, 1610. Md. that uppon the 22nd daie of Maie, 1610, I, Hamnet Hyde, of Mottram clerke was under the King’s most excellent Matie. his hands (for the evill) and att Greenewiche was healed. On wch. daie three years itt is requyred by his Matie. that the ptie so cured shoulde returne (if God pmitt) to render thanks bothe to God and His Matie.
God save Kinge James, p. me. Hamnettum Hyde, clericum.”
Hamnet Hyde lived several years after this miraculous cure. He died in 1617, and was buried at Mottram on the 3rd January, 1617-18. The entry in the register written by his father is as follows:
“1617-18, January 3rd. Hamnet Hyde, my sonn, buried—.”
Parson John Hyde survived his son Hamnet nearly 20 years, for he continued Vicar of Mottram until the year 1637, being buried on the 17th March in that year. He left direction concerning his burial in his will as follows: “In the name of God. Amen. The 13th February, 1633, I John Hyde, Vicar of Mottram, in the County of Chester, Clerk, being aged. My body to be buried in due and decent manner under the stone where my late father lyeth buryed, in the Chancell of the Parish Church of Mottram, adjoining to the tomb of Mr. John Picton, late parson there,” etc., etc.
It may be added in conclusion that the sovereigns of England claimed and frequently exercised the power of healing certain diseases by touch. The curing of scrofula, or the “King’s Evil,” as it was called, was practised by Henry VII, Henry VIII., and Queen Elizabeth; and was also very extensively carried on by those believers in the “Divine Right” theory—the Stuart Kings. The “cure by touch” was believed in as late as the time of Queen Anne. The “Form of Healing” occurs in the older prayer books, especially those of the 17th century.
THERE is a spot prettily situated near the town of Glossop, known as Mossey Lea. It is notable as having been the home of a great magician, who dwelt there in the olden time, and who was renowned far and wide. He was, perhaps, the most learned and powerful of all magicians who have lived since the days of Merlin, but unfortunately his name has been forgotten. Such is fame.
So renowned was he in his own day, however, that pupils came to him, not only from all parts of England, but even from across the seas. These pupils desired to be inculcated with the mystic lore, and invested with the same degree of skill in the exercise of the magic arts, that their master possessed. Accordingly they left no stone unturned in their efforts after knowledge—that is to say, they were not over-particular as to the means they adopted to secure the end they had in view. They strove to impress upon everyone with whom they came in contact, their vast superiority to ordinary mankind, and generally they proved a big nuisance to the country side.
But there were two of these pupils who were especially curious; they were constantly prying into nooks and corners which were labelled “private”; they were ever meddling with business that did not concern them. By some evil chance, the magician fixed upon these two pupils to act as his agents for the transaction of some business in a town in Staffordshire, and to bring back with them a very remarkable book, which dealt with magic, and which was, moreover, itself endowed with magical powers. Thus the two luckless youths became all unwittingly the heroes of the following Longdendale tradition.
History—as is often the case in these legends of the olden time—has forgotten to record for us the names of the two notable youths, hence we are driven to the necessity of naming them ourselves, in order to distinguish them from each other. So we call one Ralph and the other Walter. It has already been said that they were two curious youths, ever ready to pry into things; and on the night preceding their journey, they indulged in this pastime to the full.
While they were at supper the magician had bidden them to repair to his private chamber ere they retired to rest; and having entered therein, they were treated to the information already recorded—namely, that they would have to make a journey on his behalf, transact some business, and bring back with them a magic book—with the addition of the following piece of advice and warning.
“Look to it that ye heed what I now say,” said the magician; “for by the shades, ’tis a matter of mighty import. Ye shall get the book, and ye shall jealously guard it. On no account shall you open it. More I do not vouchsafe to you, but remember my warning. Open not the book at your peril. Now get ye to rest, for to-morrow you must een start with the rising of the sun.”
The youths left the room looking very solemn and good, with many promises that they would faithfully remember their master’s charges, and what was of more consequence, that they would act upon them. But for all that they did not retire to rest. When they reached the passage leading to their apartment, Ralph said to Walter:
“What thinkest thou of this quest of ours? Is our master treating us fairly in thus keeping secret this matter? We have paid a high fee for tuition in magic, and here he sends us on our first quest, and we are een to know nothing of the mission on which we go.”
“Thou art right,” said Walter. “’Tis most unfair, and methinks our master has in view the acquisition of some potent power. If we engage in the quest, it is but fair we should share the spoil—the knowledge to be gained.”
To which Ralph added, “I am with thee, comrade. And I would know more of this business before I start.”
Here he whispered to his companion, and the latter nodded his head in acquiescence. After which the two stole together in silence to the door of the magician’s room, and in turn set their eyes to the key-hole, whilst their ears drank in every sound.
The magician was seated before a crucible, muttering certain incantations which are as foreign language to the unlearned. But the two students understood the meaning of the sentences quite well, and the result of their eavesdropping appeared to give them satisfaction. When the magician made signs of coming to the end of his labour, they skipped nimbly away, and sought their beds, chuckling triumphantly as they ran.
It is not to the purpose of the legend to dwell upon the incidents of their next day’s journey. Suffice it to say that on that day they were early astir, that they went gaily upon their way, and in due course received the magic book from its owner. Then they set out on their homeward journey, looking very good and innocent until they were well out of sight. But withal both determined to see the inside of that volume before the day was over.
Soon they came to a lonely part of the country, and here they sat down, intending to gratify their curiosity.
“If there is knowledge contained within, then am I determined to drink of the well thereof, and become even one of the wise.”
So spoke Ralph, and Walter also said:
“And I am of a like mind, comrade. So bring hither the book, and let us fall to.”
They placed the thick volume upon their knees, and quickly undid the handsome clasp which held the sides together, when, lo! a veritable earthquake seemed to have come upon the scene. The ground shook, houses tottered, walls and fences fell down, a tremendous whirlwind arose, which uprooted trees and tossed the forest giants about like little wisps of hay. Even the students were terrified at the result of their curiosity, and as for ordinary mortals, why there is no describing the panic in which they were thrown.
When the luckless students recovered from the first shock of astonishment, they could only bemoan their folly in discarding the warning of so potent a magician as their master, and they were filled with dread as to the punishment they would receive when next they stood before him.
“Of a truth we are undone,” said Ralph; “our master will never more trust us.”
“We are like to be beaten to death with the tempest,” said Walter “Who can stay the power of this evil Spirit, that our mad curiosity has thus let loose?”
Now, luckily, the magician no sooner beheld the tempest than he at once divined the cause of this hubbub of the elements, and with commendable promptitude he proceeded with all speed to the spot where the students lay with the magical volume. Arrived there, he pronounced an incantation, and then by magic means known to himself alone, rapidly stilled the tempest, which the ill-timed curiosity of his pupils had brought forth. In the words of the old chronicle, he “laid the evil spirit, commanding him as a punishment to make a rope of sand to reach the sky.”
Which venture no doubt had a salutary effect upon the spirit, for there is no later mention of any similar antics on its part. We may conclude from this circumstance, that the spirit has found the task assigned it as a punishment, greater than it can discharge, and that it is still labouring away at the sand rope, which is not much nearer reaching the sky than it was when the work first begun.
IN olden time Providence often punished the sins of men and women in some remarkable fashion. The divine retribution often followed swiftly upon the violation of the sacred rules of life. We frequently read of profane men and women whose blasphemy has been instantly followed by some paralytic seizure, or who, when guilty, and protesting their innocence have called down heaven’s vengeance on their heads if they were not even then stating the truth, have been at once rendered lifeless by some strange stroke of the divine power. The following story will illustrate this principle.
There was once a parson of Mottram—his name and the date of his holding the benefice are for obvious reasons not mentioned—who had a peculiar wife. In many respects she was a loveable woman, but she possessed a nose formed like a pig’s snout, and she was forced to eat her meals out of a silver trough specially provided for her. How she came to win the affections of the parson, is not known, it might have been that she had riches to make up for her deficiency in beauty of countenance, or it might have been that the parson saw in her compensating charms which were not obvious to the rest of mankind. This tradition only deals with the cause of her strange infirmity.
Her parents were very wealthy; her mother was a haughty dame who worshipped wealth, and looked down on all people who were humble in station. To those wealthier than herself, or whose social standing was above her own, she was most polite and agreeable, and willing to go to any trouble no matter how great, to win their friendship and esteem, but to those who were poor, no matter how estimable they might be in mind, ability, or real worth, she was chilling and distant, and even insolent in bearing. True Christian love and charity were virtues she did not understand. Probably she did not believe in them; at least she did not practice them. No poor man’s blessing ever ascended to heaven on her behalf, for she was never known to bestow a gift willingly upon the needy. So, no doubt, Providence considered that it was necessary she should be taught a severe lesson, that thereby mankind might be led to see that such un-Christian conduct was opposed to the highest rules of life, and could not be practised with benefit and impunity.
One day, to her door, there came an old beggar woman and her children, clearly betokening by their appearances the utmost misery and destitution. Their clothes were all in rags, only just able to hang together, while here and there, through the great rents, the flesh showed bare and cold. Their faces were pinched, and their frames thin and withered from lack of proper food; and nearly all of them were shoeless. Their feet were red and blistered, cut in places by the sharp stones of the wayside.
“A charity, I pray, good lady, for the love of Christ,” said the beggar woman as the lady stood at the door. “Not a bite have we had this day, and we have travelled far. If thou hast children of thine own, take pity upon the starving children of the poor.”
But the haughty dame bade her begone.
“Out on thee, thou vulgar drab,” said she. “Thou art no honest woman, else had thou hadst a husband to provide for thee.”
“My man is dead, lady,” protested the beggar, “and I am left a widow.”
“More likely thou art a harlot, and the children basely begotten. Away with thee from my door, or I will have the constables after thee, and thou shalt be publicly whipped for a low woman.”
Then, losing her temper completely, she called for her serving men.
“Ho, there. Rid me of this pest. Turn out this old sow and her litter, for there is the smell of the stye about them.”
At this outrage the poor woman fled. Some say she called down the vengeance of heaven upon the haughty dame, others state that divine justice asserted itself of its own accord. Be that as it may, the wealthy lady was in due course with child, and she brought forth a daughter having a face shaped like an animal with a pig’s snout thereon, who in after years married the parson of Mottram. Thus did pride and want of charity bring its own reward.
LONGDENDALE has always been noted for the number of its inhabitants devoted to the study of magic arts. Once upon a time, or to give it in the words of an unpublished rhyme (which are quite as indefinite)—
and then the rhyme goes on to describe the hero of the legend—
Coming down to ordinary prose, it will suffice to say that the doctor referred to was a most devoted student of magic, or, as he preferred to put it—“a keen searcher after knowledge”—a local Dr. Faustus in fact. Having tried every ordinary means of increasing his power over his fellow mortals, he finally decided to seek aid of the powers of darkness, and one day he entered into a compact with no less a personage than His Imperial Majesty, Satan, otherwise known as the Devil. The essentials of this agreement may thus be described.
It was night—the black hour of midnight—and the doctor was alone in his magic chamber. He had long desired power sufficient to enable him to accomplish a certain project, and hitherto all means by which he had tried to secure that power, had been of no avail. Blank failure had attended every effort, and at last he had decided to make use of the most certain, yet withal most desperate, agency known to him. In other words, he would call up the Prince of Darkness, and ask his aid. The only thing which troubled the doctor was the thought that the price which Satan would demand, might be much greater than he would care to pay. But, after all, that was something he would have to risk.
He set a lamp burning on the table, and into a small cauldron hung above it, he poured certain liquids, which he mixed with certain evil-looking powders and compounds. Some of the items which he added to this unholy brew, appeared to have once been members of the human frame. But that, of course, was known only to the doctor. When the brew began to simmer, the doctor commenced to mumble certain strange incantations, which he continued with unabated vigour for the best part of an hour, without, however, eliciting any manifestations from the dwellers in the spirit world. At length, however, his patience was rewarded, for the light beneath his cauldron suddenly went out, the mixture within boiled over, and the vapour which rose from it, spread over the room until all the objects therein were hidden as though by a thick black cloud. Then, out of the cloud, came a voice, deep and terrible in tone, which caused the very building to rock as though an earthquake had occurred.
“Why hast thou summoned me from the shades, O mortal, and what dost thou require?”
The doctor gasped with awe, he almost felt afraid to address the dreadful spirit, which his own incantations and rites had brought from the underworld. At length he screwed up sufficient courage to proceed, and said:
“I would have the possession of certain powers, O, thou Dread spirit.”
“And of what nature are they?” asked the spirit.
Whereupon, the worthy doctor commenced a long explanation, into which we need not enter, setting forth his evil desires, and begging the Devil to aid him.
“Thou shalt have all that thou requirest, and more,” said the Devil when the doctor had come to an end of his requests; “that is, providing thou art prepared to pay the price.”
“And the price is?” ventured the doctor, trembling.
“The usual one,” said the Devil. “I have but one price, which all mortals must pay. On a day which I shall name, thou shalt wait upon me, and deliver up thy soul to me.”
“’Tis a stiff price, good Satan,” said the doctor in protest.
“’Tis the only price I will listen to,” said the Devil.
“Then I must een pay it,” said the doctor, seeing that further argument was useless, and, being by this time quite determined to have his desires no matter what the cost. “I agree,” he added. And there and then he signed the bond in blood, with a pen made from a dead man’s bone.
Satan pocketed the bond.
“Thy desires are granted,” said he. “Make the most of thy opportunities. One day I shall surely call upon thee for payment.”
Then, with a burst of mocking laughter, he disappeared.
The doctor seems to have enjoyed the results of the compact until the day drew near for the settlement. Then, indeed, he appears to have repented, But he was by no means a dull-witted individual, and in a happy moment he began to cudgel his brain for some way out of the difficulty—some plan of escape. Before long his face brightened, a gleam of hope shone on it, and at length he seemed to see his way clear. He received the formal summons of Satan with a knowing smile, and when the day at last arrived, set out in good time to keep his unholy tryst.
In the language of the rhyme,
The Devil appeared, seated upon a coal black charger, which was of the purest breed of racing nags kept specially for the Derby Day of the Infernal Regions. Satan was very proud of his horse; he was open to lay any odds on its beating anything in the shape of horse flesh that could be found on earth.
Judge then of the Devil’s surprise when the Longdendale doctor offered to race him. (It should be stated that the doctor had ridden to the place of meeting on a horse which was bred in Longdendale, though the trainer’s name has unfortunately been lost).
At first Satan laughed at the impudence of the proposition, but after some little haggling, he at length agreed to the doctor’s conditions. The conditions were that the Devil was to give the doctor a good start, and that the latter was to have his freedom if he won the race.
“A RUNNING STREAM.”
“I am unduly favouring thee,” said the Devil; “I do not as a rule allow my clients a single minute’s grace when payment falls due, and I do not reckon to let them bargain as to other means of payment. But for all that, I do not see why I should not make merry at thy expense. I am not altogether as black as I am painted. And if it will give thee any comfort to imagine thou hast a chance of escape—why then get on with the race.”
Acting upon the above agreement, a start was made, and the course was along the road now known as Doctor’s Gate. The contest was most exciting. Prose can scarcely do justice to the occasion, but we will endeavour to give some account of the strange contest. The Devil good naturedly conceded a big start, for, of course, he felt quite certain of reaching the winning post first, and when the signal was given he went full cry in pursuit. Away the coursers sped like wind, the doctor riding with grim countenance, and teeth firmly set, ever and anon casting an anxious look behind him, and now looking as anxiously in front. Meanwhile the Devil rode in approved hunting fashion, with many a loud halloa, which made the very mountains shake as though a thunder peal was sounding. His horns projected from his head, his cloven feet did away with the necessity for stirrups, and he lashed the flanks of his coal black charger with his tail in lieu of a whip.
Slowly but surely the Devil gained upon the doctor. Inch by inch the black steed drew nearer the Longdendale hack, until at length the Devil, by leaning over his horse’s head, was able to grasp the tail of the doctor’s horse. With a loud burst of fiendish laughter, Satan began to twist the tail of the Longdendale horse, until at last the poor beast screamed with pain and terror. This greatly amused the Devil, who twisted the tail all the harder, so that the doctor’s horse, goaded almost to madness, plunged along faster than before, and in its fright took a mighty leap into a running stream which dashed brawlingly across the path. All too late Satan saw his danger; he held on to the beast’s tail and tugged with all his might. For a second, the contest hung in the balance, and the result seemed doubtful. But luckily for the doctor, the tail of the horse came off—torn out by the roots—the Devil’s steed fell back on its haunches, and the doctor’s charger plunged safely through the flood, and gained the opposite bank. Then the doctor gave a great shout of triumph, for according to the laws of sorcery—laws which even the Devil must obey—when once the pursued had crossed a running stream, the powers of evil lost all dominion over him.
Thus by a combination of skill, cunning, and good luck, the Longdendale doctor outwitted the Devil. Some profane mortals state that when he found himself victorious, the doctor turned towards the Devil, and put his fingers to his nose as a sign of victory, while the Devil, sorely disgusted, rode off to hell with his tail between his legs, vowing that the mortals of Longdendale would have no place to go to when they died, for they were too bad for heaven, and too clever for hell.
Author’s Note.
The road known as “The Doctor’s Gate”—mentioned in the above story—runs across a portion of Longdendale. In reality it is part of the old Roman road from Melandra Castle, Gamesley, to the Roman station at Brough in the Vale of Hope.
With reference to the main incident of this legend, the following quotation from Sir Walter Scott will be found of interest:—“If you can interpose a brook between you and witches, spectres, or fiends, you are in perfect safety.”
No date is attached to the legend.
IT was an evening in the glad month of June, of the year 1644, and the children of Longdendale were playing games on the smooth green plots before the cottage doors. At one spot not far distant from the site of the old Roman station, Melandra Castle, a group of merry little ones, lads and lassies, were swinging round hand in hand, their sweet young voices chanting an old-time rhyme.
Suddenly there was a shrill cry from one of the girls, and following the direction of her gaze, the children beheld a sight that at first set their young hearts beating sharp with fear. A company of horsemen, wearing wide-brimmed and much befeathered hats, with long hair hanging about their shoulders, rode jauntily past the greensward in the direction of the Carr House Farm. The horsemen were well armed, carrying swords and pistols, and bright steel armour shone dazzling upon their breasts. As the cavalcade moved on, the jingling of stirrups, bits, and harness, made a merry music that was well adapted to the martial scene. The children, though startled at first, soon recovered from their fright, and ran gaily to see the squadron pass by. Curiosity, in their case, got the mastery of fear. For those were what the historians term “stirring times,”—days of war and tumult, of peril and death, of bloodshed and ruin, of suffering and horror; and well the children of Longdendale knew that the quarrel between King Charles and his Parliament had already made sad hearts and weeping eyes, widowed women and orphaned children, even in their own neighbourhood. But the great battles of which they had heard had all been fought at a distance, and, as is well known in the case of war, “distance lends enchantment to the view.” There was something wildly romantic and fascinating to the minds of the children in those great events which were daily transpiring, and about the men who fought in the battles; and so, on the June evening of this story, the children flocked curiously about the horsemen, who were a band of gentlemen cavaliers on their way from Lancashire to join the army of King Charles at York.
Accompanied by the children, the cavaliers rode up to the Carr House Farm, and, at a sign from their leader, dismounted, and, without troubling to ask consent, proceeded to stable their horses, and take possession of the best rooms for their own accommodation. It was not altogether a good mannered proceeding, but then, the people who lived in those days when war was rife, grew accustomed to such violations of the rights of property, and submitted to the indignities with as good a grace as they could assume. They knew full well that if they had not placed upon the table of their very best, the soldiers would have raided the larder and confiscated all the contents. So, in the language of modern days, “they made the best of a bad job.”
One stalwart trooper, throwing the reins of his steed to a comrade, was the first to stride through the farm door, and, as he came, the farmer went bareheaded to greet him,—not altogether without some qualms of doubt and fear.
“Come, good man,” cried the trooper merrily, “show me the way to thy best room, for our leader, Captain Oldfield, rests there this night. And if thou art of the King’s party, set thy wife to work at once, and prepare him a feast right merrily, or if thou be’st of the roundhead faction, why, do the same unwillingly, and be damned to thee.”
History does not tell us which side of the quarrel the farmer favoured, and it does not really matter which, for in any case a visit from the Royalists would be alike unwelcome. If he was a Roundhead, then, as a matter of course, the billeting of a force of Cavaliers was bound to be distasteful; if he were loyal to the King, then against the satisfaction of providing for the King’s troops, must be set the knowledge that the next force of Roundheads that came into the neighbourhood would pay him a visit and demand satisfaction for the favour he had shown their enemies. The farmer made a discreet remark.
“If ye are true men, ye are welcome to such hospitality as I can afford.”
And then he and his servants set about doing with as good a grace as possible that which they knew themselves compelled to do.
But although the soldiers might be unwelcome guests to the farmer and his wife, their coming was by no means received with a bad grace by other members of the household. The maids, in particular, seemed quite glad as they beheld the Cavaliers enter the yard, and what was more remarkable, they made scarcely any attempt to prevent the arms of the fighting-men stealing around their trim-set waists with the coming of the gloaming and the shadows. There were shy giggles and blushes and many a stolen kiss in and about the Carr House Farm that night, before the bugle sounded the hour of rest.
When all the men were inside save the sentries, whose duty it was to give notice of the approach of Roundheads—if any such rebel gentlemen should chance to put in an appearance—the officer in command gathered his soldiers around the oak table in the best room, and seated himself at their head. Captain Oldfield, of Spalding (for such was his name and title), first addressed the company, which included the master and mistress of the farm, and all the pretty maids whose lips so readily lent themselves to a soldier’s kiss. He reminded his hearers of the great sin of fighting against the “Lord’s anointed.”
“For,” said he, “did not God appoint kings and princes and governors, and if they are not to rule their people, wherefore are they created? Therefore it stands to reason that they who oppose the will, and set themselves in array against the authority of good King Charles, are fighting against God, and are likely ere long to suffer grievously from the displeasure of God. And I would especially urge upon ye good people of Longdendale that ye remain loyal and true to His Majesty, and have nothing to do with traitorous rebels who are prompted of the devil. So shall ye escape a felon’s death here and damnation hereafter.”
Then, drawing from his finger a ring set with a large diamond, he continued—
“My stay will doubtless be short, yet would I leave behind a loyal sentiment which shall serve to remind you of your duty toward your royal master.”
Whereupon he advanced to the window, and on one of the little diamond-shaped panes, he scratched the following words in the Latin tongue:—
The task of writing being ended, he then called on all present to fill their cups with the farmer’s best country wine, and drink deep to the sentiment which he had just inscribed.
The men filled their cups and drained them to the dregs, after which they cheered for King Charles. And then the band broke up, the troopers seeking their hard couches, while Captain Oldfield retired to his room with the officers, to discuss their future movements, and to question and gossip with the farmer and such of the loyal gentry of the neighbourhood as had come to greet him on hearing of the arrival of his force.
“And whither march ye, Captain Oldfield?” asked one of the gentlemen of Longdendale, as the talk went on.
“Toward York, Sir Squire,” replied the officer; “To join the King.”
“And how will the fight go? Think you the rebels will attack the city?”
“That I doubt. For Rupert is there, he of the Rhine, a Prince of fire, whose hot blood can never wait in patience for an assault. Rather should I think he will sweep down on the Roundheads before they muster in force sufficient to attack the city. As for the end of the fight, why, look you, I am no prophet. Being in the struggle I do my best, and I take the outcome, be it what it may, as becomes a true soldier. There be some who pretend the seer’s gift of sight so that they can foresee what is to happen, but on such things I set little importance. If the end is evil, why, then, the knowledge of it comes soon enough. And if good, why the joy is all the greater for the waiting.”
The farmer now raised his voice:
“If it please you,” he said, “there is a neighbour woman who possesses the gift of sight. She foretells events in a manner right wonderful. If your worships like, I will e’en summon her before you.”
“Well,” quoth the Cavalier, “I have no objection to witnessing her antics, though I set no store by what she may say. So bring her within; ’twill help the time to pass.”
The farmer left the room, and presently returned, leading in an old beldame, whose withered and bent form seemed scarcely able to stand upright. She leaned heavily upon an old crutch, and her breath came in loud gasps as though she were a prey to asthma.
“What is your will?” she asked, in a fit of coughing. “I am old; could ye not let me rest a’nights without summoning me to make sport at your revels.”
“Come, granny,” said one of the gentlemen, “be not ill-tempered; we would let these good Cavaliers witness a sample of your skill. They ride to York to join the King, and would know what fate awaits them there.”
The old dame laughed shrilly.
“Better had they wait. Evil comes soon enough. Why not drink and be merry while ye may?”
“Why, granny, whence this croaking? What ill-fate seest thou?”
“I see what ye in your pride deem impossible. Ye have just now drunk to the King. Ye have inscribed on the window-pane of this dwelling a prayer for his triumph. And a bonny sentiment it is that ye have written, ye bloody murderers of Englishmen. Upholders of a tyrant, think ye that the powers of the other world will ever smile upon your cause? Not so. Your cause is accursed. Never shall the words of the writing come to pass. King Charles shall perish. So shall ye, his myrmidons. Lo! I see a field of battle. Rupert is there and the army of King Charles—a glorious array without the walls of York. But there cometh Cromwell, the man of iron, his horsemen charge once twice, thrice, and lo! the army of the King is scattered, and the earth is red with blood. I see faces, cold and dead, turned upwards towards the sky. The faces of men slain in the battle. And behold, some of the faces are your faces, For such is your doom. And in the end your King shall perish, and old England shall be free.”
The frame of the old beldame shook as she delivered herself of this tirade, and when she had ended she moved feebly to the door. The company remained still, too awestruck to stay her, and presently she had disappeared. The soldiers soon recovered their spirits, and joked gaily over the occurrence.
But it was destined that the words should come true.
With the first streak of dawn, Captain Oldfield led his men on their long march to the city of York. There on the second day of July, they fought in the Battle of Marston Moor, and, even as the woman had prophesied, most of the band perished in the battle, and Cromwell beat back the King’s army, and England was one step nearer being free.
Author’s Note.
Ralph Bernard Robinson refers to the above legend in the following passage in his little book on Longdendale.
“Opposite, on the other side of the river, is Melandra Castle as the the villagers call it. Some fields here are called in old deeds ‘The Castle Carrs.’ Hard by is an ancient homestead going to ruin called ‘The Carr House.’ This old house has an historical celebrity. A party of Royalists, on their march to Yorkshire before the Battle of Marston Moor, stayed here one night. The name of the Captain, John Oldfield, of Spalding, that of King Charles, and the date (1644), long remained inscribed in Latin, with a diamond ring, on a window-pane of the old dwelling.”
In some way or other, the pane of glass referred to by Robinson became the property of the late A. K. Sidebottom, Esq., J.P., and after his death was purchased at a public auction by my friend, Mr. Robert Hamnett, of Glossop. To the kindness of the last-named gentleman, I am indebted for the loan of the glass, and for various particulars concerning it. When it came into Mr. Hamnett’s possession, it was in two pieces, which, however, have now been cemented together. The pane is the ordinary size of small diamond panes frequently found in cottages of old date, and still largely used in the windows of our churches. The inscription is quite clear, but the glass is badly scratched, as though some sturdy member of the Cromwell faction had done his best to obliterate the Royalist writing without going to the expense of breaking the window.
The inscription is as follows:—