The Lancashire Witches eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 866 pages of information about The Lancashire Witches.

“Thou shalt know before thou diest,” replied the other, with a look of gratified vengeance.  “Farewell, and reflect upon thy fate.”

So saying, he strode towards the door, while the miserable abbot arose, and marching with uncertain steps to a little oratory adjoining, which he himself had built, knelt down before the altar, and strove to pray.


A sad, sad change hath come over the fair Abbey of Whalley.  It knoweth its old masters no longer.  For upwards of two centuries and a half hath the “Blessed Place"[2] grown in beauty and riches.  Seventeen abbots have exercised unbounded hospitality within it, but now they are all gone, save one!—­and he is attainted of felony and treason.  The grave monk walketh no more in the cloisters, nor seeketh his pallet in the dormitory.  Vesper or matin-song resound not as of old within the fine conventual church.  Stripped are the altars of their silver crosses, and the shrines of their votive offerings and saintly relics.  Pyx and chalice, thuribule and vial, golden-headed pastoral staff, and mitre embossed with pearls, candlestick and Christmas ship of silver; salver, basin, and ewer—­all are gone—­the splendid sacristy hath been despoiled.

A sad, sad change hath come over Whalley Abbey.  The libraries, well stored with reverend tomes, have been pillaged, and their contents cast to the flames; and thus long laboured manuscript, the fruit of years of patient industry, with gloriously illuminated missal, are irrecoverably lost.  The large infirmary no longer receiveth the sick; in the locutory sitteth no more the guest.  No longer in the mighty kitchens are prepared the prodigious supply of meats destined for the support of the poor or the entertainment of the traveller.  No kindly porter stands at the gate, to bid the stranger enter and partake of the munificent abbot’s hospitality, but a churlish guard bids him hie away, and menaces him if he tarries with his halbert.  Closed are the buttery-hatches and the pantries; and the daily dole of bread hath ceased.  Closed, also, to the brethren is the refectory.  The cellarer’s office is ended.  The strong ale which he brewed in October, is tapped in March by roystering troopers.  The rich muscadel and malmsey, and the wines of Gascoigne and the Rhine, are no longer quaffed by the abbot and his more honoured guests, but drunk to his destruction by his foes.  The great gallery, a hundred and fifty feet in length, the pride of the abbot’s lodging, and a model of architecture, is filled not with white-robed ecclesiastics, but with an armed earl and his retainers.  Neglected is the little oratory dedicated to Our Lady of Whalley, where night and morn the abbot used to pray.  All the old religious and hospitable uses of the abbey are foregone.  The reverend stillness of the cloisters, scarce broken by the quiet tread of the monks, is now disturbed by armed heel and clank of sword; while in its saintly courts are heard the ribald song, the profane jest, and the angry brawl.  Of the brethren, only those tenanting the cemetery are left.  All else are gone, driven forth, as vagabonds, with stripes and curses, to seek refuge where they may.

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The Lancashire Witches from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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