The Lancashire Witches by William Harrison Ainsworth

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Shortly before the procession started the rain ceased, but the air felt
damp and chill, and the roads were inundated. Passing out at the
north-eastern gateway, the gloomy train skirted the south side of the
convent church, and went on in the direction of the village of Whalley.
When near the east end of the holy edifice, the abbot beheld two coffins
borne along, and, on inquiry, learnt that they contained the bodies of
Bess Demdike and Cuthbert Ashbead, who were about to be interred in the
cemetery. At this moment his eye for the first time encountered that of
his implacable foe, and he then discovered that he was to serve as his
executioner.

At first Paslew felt much trouble at this thought, but the feeling
quickly passed away. On reaching Whalley, every door was found closed,
and every window shut; so that the spectacle was lost upon the
inhabitants; and after a brief halt, the cavalcade get out for Wiswall
Hall.

Sprung from an ancient family residing in the neighbourhood Of Whalley,
Abbot Paslew was the second son of Francis Paslew Of Wiswall Hall, a
great gloomy stone mansion, situated at the foot of the south-western
side of Pendle Hill, where his brother Francis still resided. Of a cold
and cautious character, Francis Paslew, second of the name, held aloof
from the insurrection, and when his brother was arrested he wholly
abandoned him. Still the owner of Wiswall had not altogether escaped
suspicion, and it was probably as much with the view of degrading him as
of adding to the abbot's punishment, that the latter was taken to the
hall on the morning of his execution. Be this as it may, the cortege
toiled thither through roads bad in the best of seasons, but now, since
the heavy rain, scarcely passable; and it arrived there in about half an
hour, and drew up on the broad green lawn. Window and door of the hall
were closed; no smoke issued from the heavy pile of chimneys; and to all
outward seeming the place was utterly deserted. In answer to inquiries,
it appeared that Francis Paslew had departed for Northumberland on the
previous day, taking all his household with him.

In earlier years, a quarrel having occurred between the haughty abbot
and the churlish Francis, the brothers rarely met, whence it chanced
that John Paslew had seldom visited the place of his birth of late,
though lying so near to the abbey, and, indeed, forming part of its
ancient dependencies. It was sad to view it now; and yet the house,
gloomy as it was, recalled seasons with which, though they might awaken
regret, no guilty associations were connected. Dark was the hall, and
desolate, but on the fine old trees around it the rooks were settling,
and their loud cawings pleased him, and excited gentle emotions. For a
few moments he grew young again, and forgot why he was there. Fondly
surveying the house, the terraced garden, in which, as a boy, he had so
often strayed, and the park beyond it, where he had chased the deer; his
gaze rose to the cloudy heights of Pendle, springing immediately behind
the mansion, and up which he had frequently climbed. The flood-gates of
memory were opened at once, and a whole tide of long-buried feelings
rushed upon his heart.

From this half-painful, half-pleasurable retrospect he was aroused by
the loud blast of a trumpet, thrice blown. A recapitulation of his
offences, together with his sentence, was read by a herald, after which
the reversed blazonry was fastened upon the door of the hall, just below
a stone escutcheon on which was carved the arms of the family; while the
paper mitre was torn and trampled under foot, the lathen crosier broken
in twain, and the scurril banner hacked in pieces.

While this degrading act was performed, a man in a miller's white garb,
with the hood drawn over his face, forced his way towards the tumbrel,
and while the attention of the guard was otherwise engaged, whispered in
Paslew's ear,

"Ey han failed i' mey scheme, feyther abbut, boh rest assured ey'n
avenge you. Demdike shan ha' mey Sheffield thwittle i' his heart 'efore
he's a day older."

"The wizard has a charm against steel, my son, and indeed is proof
against all weapons forged by men," replied Paslew, who recognised the
voice of Hal o' Nabs, and hoped by this assertion to divert him from his
purpose.

"Ha! say yo so, feythur abbut?" cried Hal. "Then ey'n reach him wi'
summot sacred." And he disappeared.

At this moment, word was given to return, and in half an hour the
cavalcade arrived at the abbey in the same order it had left it.

Though the rain had ceased, heavy clouds still hung overhead,
threatening another deluge, and the aspect of the abbey remained gloomy
as ever. The bell continued to toll; drums were beaten; and trumpets
sounded from the outer and inner gateway, and from the three
quadrangles. The cavalcade drew up in front of the great northern
entrance; and its return being announced within, the two other captives
were brought forth, each fastened upon a hurdle, harnessed to a stout
horse. They looked dead already, so ghastly was the hue of their cheeks.

The abbot's turn came next. Another hurdle was brought forward, and
Demdike advanced to the tumbrel. But Paslew recoiled from his touch, and
sprang to the ground unaided. He was then laid on his back upon the
hurdle, and his hands and feet were bound fast with ropes to the twisted
timbers. While this painful task was roughly performed by the wizard's
two ill-favoured assistants, the crowd of rustics who looked on,
murmured and exhibited such strong tokens of displeasure, that the guard
thought it prudent to keep them off with their halberts. But when all
was done, Demdike motioned to a man standing behind him to advance, and
the person who was wrapped in a russet cloak complied, drew forth an
infant, and held it in such way that the abbot could see it. Paslew
understood what was meant, but he uttered not a word. Demdike then knelt
down beside him, as if ascertaining the security of the cords, and
whispered in his ear:--

"Recall thy malediction, and my dagger shall save thee from the last
indignity."

"Never," replied Paslew; "the curse is irrevocable. But I would not
recall it if I could. As I have said, thy child shall be a witch, and
the mother of witches--but all shall be swept off--all!"

"Hell's torments seize thee!" cried the wizard, furiously.

"Nay, thou hast done thy worst to me," rejoined Paslew, meekly, "thou
canst not harm me beyond the grave. Look to thyself, for even as thou
speakest, thy child is taken from thee."

And so it was. While Demdike knelt beside Paslew, a hand was put forth,
and, before the man who had custody of the infant could prevent it, his
little charge was snatched from him. Thus the abbot saw, though the
wizard perceived it not. The latter instantly sprang to his feet.

"Where is the child?" he demanded of the fellow in the russet cloak.

"It was taken from me by yon tall man who is disappearing through the
gateway," replied the other, in great trepidation.

"Ha! _he_ here!" exclaimed Demdike, regarding the dark figure with a
look of despair. "It is gone from me for ever!"

"Ay, for ever!" echoed the abbot, solemnly.

"But revenge is still left me--revenge!" cried Demdike, with an
infuriated gesture.

"Then glut thyself with it speedily," replied the abbot; "for thy time
here is short."

"I care not if it be," replied Demdike; "I shall live long enough if I
survive thee."

CHAPTER X.--THE HOLEHOUSES.

At this moment the blast of a trumpet resounded from the gateway, and
the Earl of Derby, with the sheriff on his right hand, and Assheton on
the left, and mounted on a richly caparisoned charger, rode forth. He
was preceded by four javelin-men, and followed by two heralds in their
tabards.

To doleful tolling of bells--to solemn music--to plaintive hymn chanted
by monks--to roll of muffled drum at intervals--the sad cortege set
forth. Loud cries from the bystanders marked its departure, and some of
them followed it, but many turned away, unable to endure the sight of
horror about to ensue. Amongst those who went on was Hal o' Nabs, but he
took care to keep out of the way of the guard, though he was little
likely to be recognised, owing to his disguise.

Despite the miserable state of the weather, a great multitude was
assembled at the place of execution, and they watched the approaching
cavalcade with moody curiosity. To prevent disturbance, arquebussiers
were stationed in parties here and there, and a clear course for the
cortege was preserved by two lines of halberdiers with crossed pikes.
But notwithstanding this, much difficulty was experienced in mounting
the hill. Rendered slippery by the wet, and yet more so by the trampling
of the crowd, the road was so bad in places that the horses could
scarcely drag the hurdles up it, and more than one delay occurred. The
stoppages were always denounced by groans, yells, and hootings from the
mob, and these neither the menaces of the Earl of Derby, nor the active
measures of the guard, could repress.

At length, however, the cavalcade reached its destination. Then the
crowd struggled forward, and settled into a dense compact ring, round
the circular railing enclosing the place of execution, within which were
drawn up the Earl of Derby, the sheriff, Assheton, and the principal
gentlemen, together with Demdike and his assistants; the guard forming a
circle three deep round them.

Paslew was first unloosed, and when he stood up, he found Father Smith,
the late prior, beside him, and tenderly embraced him.

"Be of good courage, Father Abbot," said the prior; "a few moments, and
you will be numbered with the just."

"My hope is in the infinite mercy of Heaven, father," replied Paslew,
sighing deeply. "Pray for me at the last."

"Doubt it not," returned the prior, fervently. "I will pray for you now
and ever."

Meanwhile, the bonds of the two other captives were unfastened, but they
were found wholly unable to stand without support. A lofty ladder had
been placed against the central scaffold, and up this Demdike, having
cast off his houppeland, mounted and adjusted the rope. His tall gaunt
figure, fully displayed in his tight-fitting red garb, made him look
like a hideous scarecrow. His appearance was greeted by the mob with a
perfect hurricane of indignant outcries and yells. But he heeded them
not, but calmly pursued his task. Above him wheeled the two ravens, who
had never quitted the place since daybreak, uttering their discordant
cries. When all was done, he descended a few steps, and, taking a black
hood from his girdle to place over the head of his victim, called out in
a voice which had little human in its tone, "I wait for you, John
Paslew."

"Are you ready, Paslew?" demanded the Earl of Derby.

"I am, my lord," replied the abbot. And embracing the prior for the last
time, he added, "_Vale, carissime frater, in aeternum vale! et Dominus
tecum sit in ultionem inimicorum nostrorum_!"

"It is the king's pleasure that you say not a word in your justification
to the mob, Paslew," observed the earl.

"I had no such intention, my lord," replied the abbot.

"Then tarry no longer," said the earl; "if you need aid you shall have
it."

"I require none," replied Paslew, resolutely.

With this he mounted the ladder, with as much firmness and dignity as if
ascending the steps of a tribune.

Hitherto nothing but yells and angry outcries had stunned the ears of
the lookers-on, and several missiles had been hurled at Demdike, some of
which took effect, though without occasioning discomfiture; but when
the abbot appeared above the heads of the guard, the tumult instantly
subsided, and profound silence ensued. Not a breath was drawn by the
spectators. The ravens alone continued their ominous croaking.

Hal o' Nabs, who stood on the outskirts of the ring, saw thus far but he
could bear it no longer, and rushed down the hill. Just as he reached
the level ground, a culverin was fired from the gateway, and the next
moment a loud wailing cry bursting from the mob told that the abbot was
launched into eternity.

Hal would not look back, but went slowly on, and presently afterwards
other horrid sounds dinned in his ears, telling that all was over with
the two other sufferers. Sickened and faint, he leaned against a wall
for support. How long he continued thus, he knew not, but he heard the
cavalcade coming down the hill, and saw the Earl of Derby and his
attendants ride past. Glancing toward the place of execution, Hal then
perceived that the abbot had been cut down, and, rousing himself, he
joined the crowd now rushing towards the gate, and ascertained that the
body of Paslew was to be taken to the convent church, and deposited
there till orders were to be given respecting its interment. He learnt,
also, that the removal of the corpse was intrusted to Demdike. Fired by
this intelligence, and suddenly conceiving a wild project of vengeance,
founded upon what he had heard from the abbot of the wizard being proof
against weapons forged by men, he hurried to the church, entered it, the
door being thrown open, and rushing up to the gallery, contrived to get
out through a window upon the top of the porch, where he secreted
himself behind the great stone statue of Saint Gregory.

The information he had obtained proved correct. Ere long a mournful
train approached the church, and a bier was set down before the porch. A
black hood covered the face of the dead, but the vestments showed that
it was the body of Paslew.

At the head of the bearers was Demdike, and when the body was set down
he advanced towards it, and, removing the hood, gazed at the livid and
distorted features.

"At length I am fully avenged," he said.

"And Abbot Paslew, also," cried a voice above him.

Demdike looked up, but the look was his last, for the ponderous statue
of Saint Gregory de Northbury, launched from its pedestal, fell upon his
head, and crushed him to the ground. A mangled and breathless mass was
taken from beneath the image, and the hands and visage of Paslew were
found spotted with blood dashed from the gory carcass. The author of the
wizard's destruction was suspected, but never found, nor was it
positively known who had done the deed till years after, when Hal o'
Nabs, who meanwhile had married pretty Dorothy Croft, and had been
blessed by numerous offspring in the union, made his last confession,
and then he exhibited no remarkable or becoming penitence for the act,
neither was he refused absolution.

Thus it came to pass that the abbot and his enemy perished together. The
mutilated remains of the wizard were placed in a shell, and huddled into
the grave where his wife had that morning been laid. But no prayer was
said over him. And the superstitious believed that the body was carried
off that very night by the Fiend, and taken to a witch's sabbath in the
ruined tower on Rimington Moor. Certain it was, that the unhallowed
grave was disturbed. The body of Paslew was decently interred in the
north aisle of the parish church of Whalley, beneath a stone with a
Gothic cross sculptured upon it, and bearing the piteous
inscription:--"_Miserere mei_."

But in the belief of the vulgar the abbot did not rest tranquilly. For
many years afterwards a white-robed monastic figure was seen to flit
along the cloisters, pass out at the gate, and disappear with a wailing
cry over the Holehouses. And the same ghostly figure was often seen to
glide through the corridor in the abbot's lodging, and vanish at the
door of the chamber leading to the little oratory. Thus Whalley Abbey
was supposed to be haunted, and few liked to wander through its deserted
cloisters, or ruined church, after dark. The abbot's tragical end was
thus recorded:--

Johannes Paslew: Capitali Effectus Supplicio.
12º Mensis Martii, 1537.

As to the infant, upon whom the abbot's malediction fell, it was
reserved for the dark destinies shadowed forth in the dread anathema he
had uttered: to the development of which the tragic drama about to
follow is devoted, and to which the fate of Abbot Paslew forms a
necessary and fitting prologue. Thus far the veil of the Future may be
drawn aside. That infant and her progeny became the LANCASHIRE WITCHES.

END OF THE INTRODUCTION.

THE LANCASHIRE WITCHES.

BOOK THE FIRST.

Alizon Device.

CHAPTER I.--THE MAY QUEEN.

On a May-day in the early part of the seventeenth century, and a most
lovely May-day, too, admirably adapted to usher in the merriest month of
the year, and seemingly made expressly for the occasion, a wake was held
at Whalley, to which all the neighbouring country folk resorted, and
indeed many of the gentry as well, for in the good old times, when
England was still merry England, a wake had attractions for all classes
alike, and especially in Lancashire; for, with pride I speak it, there
were no lads who, in running, vaulting, wrestling, dancing, or in any
other manly exercise, could compare with the Lancashire lads. In
archery, above all, none could match them; for were not their ancestors
the stout bowmen and billmen whose cloth-yard shafts, and trenchant
weapons, won the day at Flodden? And were they not true sons of their
fathers? And then, I speak it with yet greater pride, there were few, if
any, lasses who could compare in comeliness with the rosy-cheeked,
dark-haired, bright-eyed lasses of Lancashire.

Assemblages of this kind, therefore, where the best specimens of either
sex were to be met with, were sure to be well attended, and in spite of
an enactment passed in the preceding reign of Elizabeth, prohibiting
"piping, playing, bear-baiting, and bull-baiting on the Sabbath-days, or
on any other days, and also superstitious ringing of bells, wakes, and
common feasts," they were not only not interfered with, but rather
encouraged by the higher orders. Indeed, it was well known that the
reigning monarch, James the First, inclined the other way, and, desirous
of checking the growing spirit of Puritanism throughout the kingdom, had
openly expressed himself in favour of honest recreation after evening
prayers and upon holidays; and, furthermore, had declared that he liked
well the spirit of his good subjects in Lancashire, and would not see
them punished for indulging in lawful exercises, but that ere long he
would pay them a visit in one of his progresses, and judge for himself,
and if he found all things as they had been represented to him, he would
grant them still further licence. Meanwhile, this expression of the
royal opinion removed every restriction, and old sports and pastimes,
May-games, Whitsun-ales, and morris-dances, with rush-bearings,
bell-ringings, wakes, and feasts, were as much practised as before the
passing of the obnoxious enactment of Elizabeth. The Puritans and
Precisians discountenanced them, it is true, as much as ever, and would
have put them down, if they could, as savouring of papistry and
idolatry, and some rigid divines thundered against them from the pulpit;
but with the king and the authorities in their favour, the people little
heeded these denunciations against them, and abstained not from any
"honest recreation" whenever a holiday occurred.

If Lancashire was famous for wakes, the wakes of Whalley were famous
even in Lancashire. The men of the district were in general a hardy,
handsome race, of the genuine Saxon breed, and passionately fond of all
kinds of pastime, and the women had their full share of the beauty
indigenous to the soil. Besides, it was a secluded spot, in the heart of
a wild mountainous region, and though occasionally visited by travellers
journeying northward, or by others coming from the opposite direction,
retained a primitive simplicity of manners, and a great partiality for
old customs and habits.

The natural beauties of the place, contrasted with the dreary region
around it, and heightened by the picturesque ruins of the ancient abbey,
part of which, namely, the old abbot's lodgings, had been converted into
a residence by the Asshetons, and was now occupied by Sir Ralph
Assheton, while the other was left to the ravages of time, made it
always an object of attraction to those residing near it; but when on
the May-day in question, there was not only to be a wake, but a May-pole
set on the green, and a rush-bearing with morris-dancers besides,
together with Whitsun-ale at the abbey, crowds flocked to Whalley from
Wiswall, Cold Coates, and Clithero, from Ribchester and Blackburn, from
Padiham and Pendle, and even from places more remote. Not only was John
Lawe's of the Dragon full, but the Chequers, and the Swan also, and the
roadside alehouse to boot. Sir Ralph Assheton had several guests at the
abbey, and others were expected in the course of the day, while Doctor
Ormerod had friends staying with him at the vicarage.

Soon after midnight, on the morning of the festival, many young persons
of the village, of both sexes, had arisen, and, to the sound of horn,
had repaired to the neighbouring woods, and there gathered a vast stock
of green boughs and flowering branches of the sweetly-perfumed hawthorn,
wild roses, and honeysuckle, with baskets of violets, cowslips,
primroses, blue-bells, and other wild flowers, and returning in the same
order they went forth, fashioned the branches into green bowers within
the churchyard, or round about the May-pole set up on the green, and
decorated them afterwards with garlands and crowns of flowers. This
morning ceremonial ought to have been performed without wetting the
feet: but though some pains were taken in the matter, few could achieve
the difficult task, except those carried over the dewy grass by their
lusty swains. On the day before the rushes had been gathered, and the
rush cart piled, shaped, trimmed, and adorned by those experienced in
the task, (and it was one requiring both taste and skill, as will be
seen when the cart itself shall come forth,) while others had borrowed
for its adornment, from the abbey and elsewhere, silver tankards,
drinking-cups, spoons, ladles, brooches, watches, chains, and bracelets,
so as to make an imposing show.

Day was ushered in by a merry peal of bells from the tower of the old
parish church, and the ringers practised all kinds of joyous changes
during the morning, and fired many a clanging volley. The whole village
was early astir; and as these were times when good hours were kept; and
as early rising is a famous sharpener of the appetite, especially when
attended with exercise, so an hour before noon the rustics one and all
sat down to dinner, the strangers being entertained by their friends,
and if they had no friends, throwing themselves upon the general
hospitality. The alehouses were reserved for tippling at a later hour,
for it was then customary for both gentleman and commoner, male as well
as female, as will be more fully shown hereafter, to take their meals at
home, and repair afterwards to houses of public entertainment for wine
or other liquors. Private chambers were, of course, reserved for the
gentry; but not unfrequently the squire and his friends would take their
bottle with the other guests. Such was the invariable practice in the
northern counties in the reign of James the First.

Soon after mid-day, and when the bells began to peal merrily again (for
even ringers must recruit themselves), at a small cottage in the
outskirts of the village, and close to the Calder, whose waters swept
past the trimly kept garden attached to it, two young girls were
employed in attiring a third, who was to represent Maid Marian, or Queen
of May, in the pageant then about to ensue. And, certainly, by sovereign
and prescriptive right of beauty, no one better deserved the high title
and distinction conferred upon her than this fair girl. Lovelier maiden
in the whole county, and however high her degree, than this rustic
damsel, it was impossible to find; and though the becoming and fanciful
costume in which she was decked could not heighten her natural charms,
it certainly displayed them to advantage. Upon her smooth and beautiful
brow sat a gilt crown, while her dark and luxuriant hair, covered behind
with a scarlet coif, embroidered with gold; and tied with yellow, white,
and crimson ribands, but otherwise wholly unconfirmed, swept down
almost to the ground. Slight and fragile, her figure was of such just
proportion that every movement and gesture had an indescribable charm.
The most courtly dame might have envied her fine and taper fingers, and
fancied she could improve them by protecting them against the sun, or by
rendering them snowy white with paste or cosmetic, but this was
questionable; nothing certainly could improve the small foot and
finely-turned ankle, so well displayed in the red hose and smart little
yellow buskin, fringed with gold. A stomacher of scarlet cloth, braided
with yellow lace in cross bars, confined her slender waist. Her robe was
of carnation-coloured silk, with wide sleeves, and the gold-fringed
skirt descended only a little below the knee, like the dress of a modern
Swiss peasant, so as to reveal the exquisite symmetry of her limbs. Over
all she wore a surcoat of azure silk, lined with white, and edged with
gold. In her left hand she held a red pink as an emblem of the season.
So enchanting was her appearance altogether, so fresh the character of
her beauty, so bright the bloom that dyed her lovely checks, that she
might have been taken for a personification of May herself. She was
indeed in the very May of life--the mingling of spring and summer in
womanhood; and the tender blue eyes, bright and clear as diamonds of
purest water, the soft regular features, and the merry mouth, whose
ruddy parted lips ever and anon displayed two rows of pearls, completed
the similitude to the attributes of the jocund month.