Mervyn Clitheroe

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Contents

: BOOK THE FIRST. iar.

1.—Showing how, although I lose my best friend just as I begin lifo, | am fortunate enough to find another friend, together MP CGOU HONG... cere ce Os ect cece nsee terete eens tL! 9—An Account’ of my Schooldays, Schoolfellows, and Schoolmasters—Mr. Abel Cane proves that he zs able to cane— Dr. Lonsdale adopts a different mode of tuition—John Brideoake—-A Bunker’s Hill Hero—A Boy Drowned .....++seeeee : 8,—Containing an Account of my Great-Uncle, John Mobberley, hi Old Dame, and his Farm at Marston ....-. sees errr secre sees 4,—Malpas and I attempt to cross Marston Mere during a hard Frost —An Adventure on the [ce .... cece ce eee cece eee ee ee ence 5.—Consequences of the Adventure on the Tees. 2224 PUR PD Forde

6.—In which I ride round Marston Mere ; meet with some Gipsies in a strange place; and take part at the Twelfth-Night Merry-making in Farmer Shakeshalt’s Barn. ....s-esreeesreeeseeees 7,—Showing how my Uncle Mobberley and I were very painfully surprised on our return Home ......-.essserseeeeeeeees vie velees 8.—A Glance at Cottonborough—Apphia Brideoako .....++++e+: é 9.—Introduces a benevolent Physician and a decayed Gentlewoman..

Book The Second

1.—In which it is probable that I shall forfeit the reader’s good opinion, as I display sad want of temper and great ingratitude, and give my enemies the advantage Over MC .... ..+e 9.—From which it will appear there is some truth in the saying, that the absent are always wronged ......++-ees esters eeeees 8.—Despite Mr. Spring’s advice, I make a scene, and do not improve my position AACACeCn eoveceneces ccee here cece on er ereceseper ee C908

Page

101 110

113 124 vi

CHAP. Page 4.—Recounting my first hostile meeting, and, it is to be eee my A ASREISs viva os 80% sis nace eawin nme ae ad « hee ov gece mee ui sieteemne tne 5.—I renew my Acquaintance with Phaley.ecse ccs Once ti ee! 6.—A Summer Morning in Dunton Park—Sad Intelligence ivaig sat aca aie 7.—I am introduced to an eccentric elderly gentleman, familiarly styled Old Hazy, who, though no conjurer himself, is much addicted to necromantic lore, and has a very enchanting MIGCO Gs clay ss bMS Lee st em sossis © sa drew ete ee Uvdeniees 8.—Of the mysterious bell-ringing ‘at Owlarton Grange -s1ec.< e. 202 9.—How we passed tho rest of the evening at Owlarton Grange .... 212 19.—In which I fanoy that I solve the mystery of the extraordinary bell-ringing 7). «Ja St seats spel ties ot Poaeaery erie 11.—I obtain an insight into John Brideoake’s heart...... pene fs 225 12.—The Legend of Owlarton Grange—My Adventure in the Haunted o57 CRAWL DOE Biase oie. orwis:S ie 053. 5% p the 2\0)0'4% 414,010 509.018 ps ae 13. — Wherein Old Hazy endeavours to persuade mo that I have been deluded by an.Evil Spirit... . scscecceersceectieseegegunernes 254 14 Dogon § Mazon, or, «cf ssode «ue oasen 0.0506 oak a 4 © aut eae 252 15.—What happened in the Orchard of the Mill in Weverham Glen .. oe 207

Book The Third

1,—How the two Wizards of Owlarton Grange raised a Spirit which they did not expect .......

2.—Miss Hazilrigge takes me into her confidenee,, ne woleieie § odtemieeraaiees & 8.—Revelations ...........0cceee. Bile «0N 6 § «le dials ¢ sige spe estan aieeinaee Oe 4.—I give a Rustic Féte at the Mill .. Saintes 08 ore,e-0'9.0' Cum mpioielemie eee 6.—In which I appear in a new Character... ssesecceieeecseeees 315

6.—Showing what success attended the Stratagem .....ceeesseeeee 319 7.—I am worsted, and driven ingloriously from the field............ 825

8.—Mr. Comberbach has Gloomy Forebodings , 327 9.—In which John Brideoake is made acquainted with his Family History by DoctoxMoam hic"). adits le starewusld s orl bene valet . 330 10.—John and I revisit our old School, and pass a few hours i in the Chetham Library—IIl Mines. RE S40, 000 os een on dinnmaeute phimOe 11.—Delamere Forest. . MOTE en Ee eos 12.—The Turf-cutter’s Hut o Lacie’ « Suatwide si dblcAle ale elelnee bwin es qieisiolan e wae ee 13.—The Chase across the Morass .....eccecssee soccssec cocces pias TOOL 14.—The Search for the Body ........sceeeee- wf of9\8 wrewimeine Wyo SLO OE 15.—The Examination er ed the Magistrates ../...i0+sesesse nese s GL OUU 16,—The Thaumaturgus again appears on the BCONO aiocsvens ates we. OFl 17.—Fortune at last favours M@’....sesseeeeeee osecvcedvenemmamemote 18.—The Steeple-Chase....... ©0606 oe cesee afer euns tee se tererecateeaee

197—Once more at the.Grdve Jct cy . UA Ls as tidehelednne a ee eos 20.—At Home at the Anchorite’s oe ees Vane 00) eee eee ee de TOES

LIFE AND ADVENTURES

OF

CHAPTER LI.

Showing how, although I lose my best friend just as I begin life, I am fortunate enough to find another friend, together with a good home.

T am the only son, by his first marriage, of Captain Charles Clitheroe, of Clitheroe, in Lancashire. My mother’s maiden name was Clara Leyburne. She was an orphan, and was brought up by a benevolent lady, a near relation of her own, Mrs. Mervyn, after whom I was named. She was only seventeen when she was united to my father, and extremely beautiful. Ihave but an indistinct recollection of her, but remember she had very dark eyes and very dark hair, and an expression of countenance which I thought angelic. I also remember she talked to me a great deal about my papa, and showed me his picture, telling me how tall and handsome he was, and hoping I should grow up like him. He was a long way off, fighting in India, she said, and sbe didn’t think she should ever see him again; and the thought made her extremely unhappy. She told me I must never be a soldier, as when I went away to the wars I should make those who loved me unhappy. I promised I would not; and on this she pressed me to her bosom, and wept over me: and I wept too for company. She had always looked pale and thin, but she now began to look paler and thinner, and even I noticed the change. Sometimes, casting wistful looks at me, she would say, “ What will become of you, Mervyn, if I leave you?” I told her she mustn’t leave me; but she shook her head despondingly, and said, ‘‘ Alas! I cannot help it.” Soon after this she became very ill, and kept her bed, where I was often taken to see her; and very pretty she looked, though quite white, like a sheet. At such times she would kiss me, and cry over me, One day B

$ LIFR AND ADVENTURES OF when the nurse was carrying me out of the room, she desired her to bring me back, and, raising herself with difficulty—for she was extremely feeble, she placed her hands on my head, and said, “‘ God bless you, my dear Mervyn! Don’t forget mamma when she Is

one. Never desert those who love you, dear. Good-bye, my dearest child.” And, kissing me tenderly, she sank back on the pillow quite exhausted. So Jane, the nurse, hurried me out of the room, for I had begun to cry bitterly.

On that night a circumstance took place for which I could never account, but it has remained graven on my memory, and I pledge myself as to its actual occurrence. I had been put to bed, and was very restless, for there was an unusual agitation and disturbance in the house, and I thought Jane would never come to me. I heard the clock strike several times, and at last it struck one, and soon after that she did make her appearance. I asked her what made her so late, but she didn’t answer me; and seeing I was regarding her inquisitively, for I thought she was crying, she bade me, in a broken voice, go to sleep. 1 tried to do so, but couldn’t; and when Jane got into bed she felt very cold, and wept audibly.

I didn’t like to speak to her, and was, besides, occupied by my own thoughts, which ran involuntarily on my poor mother, and on what she said about leaving me. Just when Jane became more composed, and seemed to be dropping asleep, I distinctly heard three knocks! Yes, three dull, heavy knocks, as if struck with the poker against the back of the fireplace in my mother’s room, which ~ was next to mine.

“Good gracious! what’s that?” exclaimed Jane, starting up in bed. ‘ Did you hear anything, Master Mervyn?”

** To be sure,” I replied; ‘ I heard the knocks plain enough. It must be mamma—she wants something. Go to her, Jane.”

But, to my surprise, Jane, though ordinarily ready to obey the slightest summons from my mother, did not move, but looked petrified with terror.

* What can it be?” she ejaculated, at length. ‘ There’s no one - in the room.”

*No one!” I cried, in alarm. ‘Is mamma gone, then? Has she really left me?”

** Yes—no,” stammered Jane.

“Tl go and see myself,” I said. ‘I’m sure she wants something.” |

“No, no; you mustn’t go, dear,” cried Jane, detaining me. “Your mamma is there, but she wants nothing now, poor thing ! Besides, you can’t get in. The door’s locked. Don’t you see the key there, near the lamp?”

I couldn’t conceive why she had locked poor mamma in her room, and thought it very naughty of ber to stay in bed when she was summoned, and begged hard to be allowed to go myself, though I don’t think I could have unlocked the door if she had let me try. But at last I was persuaded to be quiet, and fell asleep.

My first inquiries next morning were after mamma, and whether the door was unlocked; and Limplored so earnestly to see her, that at last Jane consented.

* You mustn’t make a noise if you go, dear,” she said.

Jane opened the door of the adjoining room very softly, and entered with noiseless footsteps.

«Ts mamma asleep ?” I asked.

* Yes, dear—sound asleep,” Jane replied, in a low tone.

The room appeared dark, for the window-blinds were down, and there was a deathlike stillness about it that frightened me. I looked at Jane, and she seemed frightened too.

The white curtains were drawn closely round the bed. I had never seen them so before. Jane opened them and showed me mamma, apparently fast asleep, and looking paler and prettier than ever. Her dark hair was parted smoothly over her marble forehead, and an angelic smile, which has haunted me ever since, hovered about her parted lips. One arm, very white and very thin, lay out of the covering. Jane held me down to kiss mamma’s cheek. Its icy coldness startled me, and made me cry out.

Jane snatched me away; and, as she closed the door, I said—for I was very much troubled—*“ I hope mamma will waken soon.”

«Alas! dear,” she replied, “she will never waken more.”

My mother was buried in the churchyard of Marston, a small village in Cheshire, where an uncle of my father’s resided, and a fitter resting-place for so gentle a creature could not have been chosen. Often and often have I lingered by that grave, and have thought of its once lovely tenant—of her brief reproachless career—of her devotion to my father, whose long absence broke her heart—of her tenderness to me. Many a bitter tear have I shed there, and many a lamentation uttered; but I never sought it without being cheered and comforted as if by a mother’s love.

My mother was only twenty-three when she died, and I was not five years old at the time. As yet I had never seen my father, nor did 1 see him for years afterwards. My mother was in an interesting condition when he quitted England with his regiment, and was to follow him; but he wrote to say she had better not come out for some months: and when that time expired, he enjoined further delay. Eventually, he directed her to remain at home altogether, and take eare of the boy she had brought him, adding, that he should soon be able to obtain a long furlough, and ee join her in England.

B é

Though heartbroken at the prolonged separatioa, my poor mother could not disobey her husband’s injunctions. Feeling she could not have acted in like manner towards him, she began to fear his affections must be estranged; and the distress occasioned by this idea ended in undermining her already delicate health. But slie never complained ; nor would she allow any intelligence of her illness to be conveyed to my father. Indeed, only three days after her death, and before she was laid in her grave, a letter arrived from him, stating that he had at length obtained a furlough, and trusted to be with her before the expiration of three months. He spoke in ardent terms of the rapturous delight it would afford him to clasp his darling wife again to his bosom, and behold his little boy, of whom she had written him such charming accounts. If this letter had arrived a month sooner, the physician who attended my mother ix her last illness afterwards told me, her life might possibly have been saved. But hope had been utterly extinguished.

Of course the sad tidings were immediately conveyed to my father, and, as he was totally unprepared for them, the shock must have been terrible. How severely he reproached himself, and how bitterly he lamented the loss he had sustained, was evident from his letters on this melancholy occasion. But he gave up all present idea of returning to England, and, making the needful remittances, willingly committed me to the care of Mrs. Mervyn, who had offered to take charge of me.

Iwas too young to feel deeply the irreparable loss I had sustained, and, as Mrs. Mervyn was very kind to me, and her house exceedingly comfortable, 1 soon became quite reconciled and happy. Mrs. Mervyn—for, though a spinster, she had taken brevet rank—was an elderly lady of a most charitable disposition, living at a very pretty place called the Anchorite’s, about three miles from the great manufacturing town of Cottonborough, in Lancashire. She was the descendant of a stanch Jacobite family—her great grandfather, Ambrose Mervyn, having in November, 1715, joined the insurgent army at Penrith, and marched with it to Preston, where, on the surrender of the town to the government generals, he was taken, and, having been particularly zealous in promoting the cause of the Chevalier Saint George, aiding it with funds and followers, was executed, and his head set upon a pike in the market-place at Cottonborough. His son, Stuart Mervyn, who was a boy at the time of this catastrophe, came to a similar end; for, in 1745, he was one of the most zealous supporters of the young chevalier during his progress through Lancashire, and Beatty | a French commission. The memory of these unfortunate persons was warmly cherished by Mrs. Mervyn, who regarded them as martyrs. Their portraits were Ylaced in her bedroom; and this circumstance made me afraid to enter the chamber, thinking it impossible such troubled spirits could rest in their graves. Ambrose Mervyn, in particular, used to inspire me with intense awe, for he was represented as a swarthy, sternlooking fellow, with great searching black eyes, which seemed to follow me about.

Mrs. Mervyn used frequently to talk to me about her Jacobite predecessors ; and, though ordinarily very calm in manner, grew quite excited by the theme, and launched forth into such glowing and enthusiastic descriptions of Prince Charles Edward, that 1 almost wished he was alive still, that I might fight for him like the two brave Mervyns. But her account of their executions shook my desire to be a rebel. She showed me a couple of prints representing the terrible scenes; pointing out in one of them little Stuart, who appeared to be taking an eternal farewell of his father, before the latter submitted himself to the ghastly apparatus of death ; and she told me how Ambrose had then enjoined his son never to forsake the good cause; which dying command was implicitly obeyed, as I have related. I am afraid I unintentionally shocked Mrs. Mervyn’s feelings a good deal by inquiring what became of their heads, and whether she had them preserved in a box.

«No, my dear Mervyn,” she replied very gravely ; “ they are both deposited with the mutilated trunks in our family vault in the old church. You may read the inscription on the monument.”

Mrs. Mervyn was always richly dressed in black, and with remarkable precision and care. She had a grave and somewhat austere aspect, which belied the extreme kindliness of her nature, and but rarely smiled. Nothing strongly excited her, except some matter connected with the bygone Jacobite cause.

Her predilections were exhibited even in her household, almost every member of which came of a Jacobite stock. Her old butler, Mr. Comberbach, numbered two unfortunate adherents to the good cause in his pedigree—imprimis, a great-grandsire, a barber, whose ~ head was barbarously cut off in 1716, and set upon his own pole as an example to all his brethren of the razor and strap not to meddle with affairs of state; and, secondly, a grandsire, who having dressed the prince’s peruke during his stay in Cottonborough, afterwards joined the regiment raised by Colonel Townley, with the intention of avenging his father’s death; but he paid the penalty of his rashness —and a second barber’s head was brought to the block. ‘This similarity of fate between their respective ancestors, formed a link between the mistress and the butler, and consequently Mr. Comberbach was much favoured, and became a very important personage in the establishment at the Anchorite’s. But he was far more blinded and intolerant than his mistress; the spirit of the old barbers burnt within his breast; and he was sometimes rather disloyal in his expressions touching the Hanoverian dynasty. Among his relics he preserved the family powder-puff which had been exercised on the rincely peruke, and the basin from which the august chin had been athered, and which I told him resembled Mambrino’s helmet. When a little exhilarated, which was not unfrequently the case, he would sing old Jacobite songs, and take off a glass to the memory of the last of the unfortunate house of Stuart.

But, notwithstanding his love of good cheer, like his mistress he observed the anniversaries of certain terrible events as rigorous fast-days, and put on mourning as she did. In fact, the house was very dismal altogether on these occasions, and I was glad when they were over; for Mrs. Mervyn moved about like a shade, and would eat nothing, and Mr. Comberbach stalked after her like a grim attendant ghost, and would eat nothing too; and what was worse, would scarcely let me eat anything; while all the rest of the servants followed, or pretended So follow, their example. It was mainly owing to the butler’s exertions that Mrs. Mervyn was so well supplied with Jacobites, He found out Mrs. Chadwick, the housekeeper,—a lineal descendant of a tallow-chandler, whose zeal being inflamed, like one of his own candles, by the Young Chevalier’s arrival in Cottonborough, was afterwards very suddenly snuffed out. He likewise discovered the cook, Molly Bailey, whose great-uncle had kept the Dog Inn when Lord George Murray, the Prince’s secretary, was quartered there, and who possessed some old receipts of dishes that his Highness was known to be fond of, and was, moreover, so skilful in her art, that she was worthy to have been his cook, if he had ever come to the throne, and she had lived in his days. He engaged Hudson, the coachman, who affirmed that his grandfather was the first person that came to the assistance of Sergeant Dickson, when he took the town of Cottonborough, attended only by a drummer and a sutlerwench, and afterwards joined him as a recruit. And Mr. Comberbach likewise unearthed Banks, the gardener, who declared he was a Jacobite every inch; for his “forefaythers” had kept. the little inn at Didsbury, where the Jacobite club used to meet, and drink the “ King over the water.” All the rest had some pretences or other of a like nature to Mrs. Mervyn’s consideration, and she never investigated their claims too narrowly, but rested content with the butler’s assurance of their eligibility. In short, we were all Jacobites, and the common folks nicknamed our place of abode “Jacobites’ Hall.”

And in case I should appear to be a very unworthy member of a house whose party feelings were so decided, but luckily so harmless, I may mention that I had as much right as anybody to call myself a Jacobite, and could boast, like some of them, of having had an ancestor hanged, seeing that my maternal great-grandfather, John Leyburne, was tried at Liverpool at the sanguinary assizes held there in 1716, for his adherence to the Chevalier St. George, and after~ wards executed at Garstang, near which place he had resided,

I easily found out that my father was no ereat favourite with Mrs, Mervyn. She had never approved of the match, and thought his conduct towards his wife wholly inexcusable. Tndeed, and with some jae she laid my mother’s early death at his door. ‘Three years

ater on, when news came from india that he had married again, and, having exchanged into another regiment just sent out, did not mean to return for some time, she declared she was not at all surprised at his proceedings. “He never estimated poor Clara at her true value,” she said—“ never understood her quiet and deep affection. Alas! poor girl, she is now entirely forgotten, and her place supplied by some other thoughtless young creature sent out on speculation for a husband. Well, whoever she may be, for 1 know nothing of her beyond her name, Bertha Honeywood, she has got no great prize, and it is to be hoped may be better treated than her predecessor. Captain Clitheroe seems not only to have forgotten his first wife, but all belonging to her,” she added, looking hard at me ; “it is well that some one was attached to poor orphan Clara, and for her sake will watch over the child she has left behind her.”

Mrs. Mervyn had been always kind to me, but after this news she became even kinder than before. Remittances for my maintenance and education were regularly received from my father, but he expressed no interest whatever concerning me, and entered into no explanations as to his future intentions respecting me.

The Anchorite’s was situated at the foot of a woody eminence, vverlooking the Vale of the Ater, on whose banks it stood. It derived its appellation from an old religious cell, the ruins of which could still be traced in the garden. A shady walk beneath a row of elms led to the brink of the Ater, and on the green sward and slopes were many old trees, probably contemporary with the retreat, and in especial an ancient yew, which must have numbered centuries when the hermit built his cell. Through openings in the grove sheltering the house might be caught glimpses, about three miles off, of the smoke-canopied town of Cottonborough, whose factories had already invaded some of the neighbouring heights commanding the circuitous windings of the river. Though not large, the house was commodious ; comprehending a good sombre-looking dinine-room, wainscoted with oak, and full of dusky oak furniture ; a fine old oak staircase, highly polished; and an admirable library, full of old books. A deeply-embayed window, with stone mullion frames, looked from the library into the garden, and adjoining it was a small octagonal chamber, like an oratory, with windows full of stained glass, emblazoned with the arms of various Lancashire families.

Mrs. Mervyn was very hospitable, but her invitations were chiefly confined to clergymen, and a day seldom passed that one or two reverend gentlemen did not dine with her; and as these excellent members of society are not supposed to despise the good things of the

8 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF Saar ee world, and the dinners at the Anchorite’s were unexceptionable, a refusal was seldom experienced. Mrs. Mervyn had some fine old plate, and on state occasions the sideboard and table blazed with it, but ordinarily her dinners were more comfortable than showy. A clergyman always sat at the foot of the table, and, on the high days just alluded to, perhaps a bishop, or the warden of the Collegiate Church, an archdeacon, or some eminent clerical dignitary, would support her on the right and left. I have already said that she possessed a capital cook in Molly Bailey, whose Prestonpans cutlets, Hanoverian calf‘s head with Nonjuror sauce, baked Derwentwater pike with Brunswick pudding inside, Charles Edward’s jugged hare, Earl of Mar’s game pie, and Sacheverell puffs, were much enjoyed, notwithstanding their designations. Mr. Comberbach took care that the cellar should be well stocked with the finest old port and Madeira (champagne or hock were never given), and as Mrs. Mervyn never stinted her wine, while the reverend gentleman who sat at the bottom of the table was fully aware of her hospitable wishes, and carefully seconded them himself, her guests were always plentifully supplied. The Rev. Barton Lever, the divine in question, was a fellow of the Collegiate Church, and a very estimable, excellent man, a sound scholar, a lover of black-letter books, fond of antiquarian researches, and no mean poet. He officiated as Mrs. Mervyn’s almoner, recommended worthy objects for her bounty, and distributed unostentatiously, as she desired, the large sums devoted by her to charitable uses.

Thus, though in effect an orphan, for my father seemed to care so little about me, that I might almost as well have been without him, I had a very kind friend and a very good home; and I had, besides, some other kind friends and relatives, whom I shall hereafter introduce to the reader.

I must postpone further description of Mrs. Mervyn, till I arrive at the period of my life when I was old enough to understand more fully the excellencies of her character, and was permitted to take part at her hospitable entertainments, and make acquaintance ~vith her guests. Several years must be passed over with the mere mention of their flight. In a word, I may say that the days of my childhood were happy, but dull, for I had few playmates. I was like a boy brought up in a monastery, or like Rasselas in the Happy Valley; for, though I had the run of the house and the garden, [ was not permitted to stray beyond their precincts. Thus, z envied those who had more freedom than I had, and longed for the time when I should be sent to a public school. I had excellent private instruction, but I yearned for the company of other boys; and at Jast, when I was nearly twelve years old, Mrs. Mervyn reluctantly yielded to my wishes, and sent me to the Cottonborough Free Grammar School.

MERVYN CLITHEROE. : A)

But, alas! the gratification of the wish was followed by immediate repentance and regret. Hitherto, I had not been conscious of my own happiness. ‘The knowledge came too late. I would now willingly have gone back to my quiet life and easy studies at the Anchorite’s, but very shame prevented me.