The Fairy Funeral

There are few spots in Lancashire more likely to have been peopled by
fairies than that portion of the highway which runs along the end of
Penwortham wood.

At all times the locality is very beautiful, but it is especially so
in summer, when the thin line of trees on the one side of the road and
the rustling wood upon the other cast a welcome shade upon the
traveller, who can rest against the old railings, and look down upon a
rich expanse of meadow-land and corn-fields, bounded in the distance
by dim, solemn-looking hills, and over the white farm-houses, snugly
set in the midst of luxurious vegetation. From this vantage-ground a
flight of steps leads down to the well of St. Mary, the water of
which, once renowned for its miraculous efficacy, is as clear as
crystal and of never-ceasing flow.

To this sacred neighbourhood thousands of pilgrims have wended their
way; and although the legend of the holy well has been lost, it is
easy to understand with what superstitious reverence the place would
be approached by those whose faith was of a devout and unquestioning
kind, and what feelings would influence those whose hearts were heavy
with the weight of a great sorrow as they descended the steps worn by
the feet of their countless predecessors.

From the little spring a pathway winds across meadows and through
corn-fields to the sheltered village, and a little further along the
highway a beautiful avenue winds from the old lodge gates to the
ancient church and priory. Wide as is this road it is more than shaded
by the tall trees which tower on each side, their topmost branches
almost interlaced, the sunbeams passing through the green network, and
throwing fantastic gleams of light upon the pathway, along which so
many have been carried to the quiet God's Acre.

At the end of this long and beautiful walk stands the old priory, no
longer occupied by the Benedictines from Evesham, the silvery sound of
whose voices at eventide used to swell across the rippling Ribble;
and, a little to the right of the pile, the Church of St. Mary, with
its background of the Castle Hill.

By the foot of this Ancient British and Roman outlook there is a
little farm-house, with meadow land stretching away to the broad
river; and one night, fifty or sixty years ago, two men, one of whom
was a local 'cow-doctor,' whose duties had compelled him to remain
until a late hour, set out from this dwelling to walk home to the
straggling village of Longton. It was near upon midnight when they
stepped forth, but it was as light as mid-day, the moon shining in all
her beauty, and casting her glamour upon the peaceful scene. So quiet
was it that it seemed as though even the Zephyrs were asleep. There
was not a breath of wind, and not a leaf rustled or a blade of grass
stirred, and had it not been for the sounds of the footsteps of the
two men, who were rapidly ascending the rough cart-track winding up
the side of the hill, all would have been as still as death. The sweet
silence was a fitting one, for in the graveyard by the side of the
lane through which the travellers were passing, and over the low
moss-covered wall of which might be seen the old-fashioned tombstones,
erect like so many sentinels marking the confines of the battle-field
of life, hundreds were sleeping the sleep with which only the music of
the leaves, the sough of the wind, and the sigh of the sea seem in
harmony.

As the two men opened the gate at the corner of the churchyard, the
old clock sounded the first stroke of midnight.

'That's twelve on 'em,' said the oldest of the two.

'Ay, Adam,' said the other, a taller and much younger man. 'Another
day's passin' away, an' it con't dee wi'eaut tellin' everybody; yet
ther's bod few on us as tez onny notice on't, for we connot do to be
towd as wer toime's growin' bod short. I should think as tha dusn't
care to hear th' clock strike, Adam, to judge bith' colour o' thi
toppin', for tha 'rt gerrin' varra wintry lookin'.'

The old man chuckled at this sally, and then said, slowly and drily:--

'Speyk for thisen, Robin--speyk for thisen; an' yet why should ta
speyk at o? Choilt as tha are--an' tha art nobbut a choilt, clivver as
tha fancies thisen--tha 'rt owd enough to mind as it's nod olus th'
grey-heeoded uns as dees th' fost. Th' chickins fo' off th' peeark
mooar oftener nor th' owd brids. Ther's monny an owd tree wi' nobbud a
twothree buds o' green abaat it, to show as it wur yung wonst, as
tha'd hev herd wark to delve up, th' roots bein' so deep i'th' graand;
an' ther's monny a rook o' young-lukkin' uns as tha met poo up as
yezzy as a hondful o' sallet. It teks leetnin' to kill th' owd oak,
but th' fost nippin' woint off th' Martch yon soon puts th' bonnie
spring posies out o' seet. If I'm growin' owd, let's hope I'm roipnin'
as weel. Tha'rt not th' fost bit of a lad as thowt heer baan to last o
th' tothers aat, an' as hed hardly toime to finish his crowin' afoor
th' sexton clapt o honful o' sond i' his meauth.'

This conversation brought the two beyond the gate and some distance
along the avenue, in which the moonlight was somewhat toned by the
thickness of the foliage above, and they were rapidly nearing the
lodge gates, when suddenly the solemn sound of a deep-toned bell
broke the silence. Both men stopped and listened intently.

'That's th' passin'-bell,'{9} said Adam. 'Wodever con be up? I never
knew it rung at this toime o'th' neet afooar.'

'Mek less racket, will ta,' said Robin. 'Led's keep count an' see heaw
owd it is.'

Whilst the bell chimed six-and-twenty both listeners stood almost
breathless, and then Adam said:--

'He's thy age, Robin, chuz who he is.'

'Ther wer no leet i 'th' belfry as wi come by, as I see on,' said the
young man, 'I'd rayther be i' bed nor up theer towlin' ad this toime,
wudn't tha?'

'Yoi,' said Adam. 'But owd Jemmy dusn't care, an' why should he? Hee's
bin amung th' deeod to' long to be freet'nt on 'em neet or day, wake
an' fable as he is. I dar' say hee's fun aat afoor neaw as they'r not
varra rough to dale wi'. Ther's nod mich feightin i'th' bury-hoyle,
beaut ids wi' th' resurrectioners. Bud led's get to'art whoam, lad;
we're loikely enough to larn o abaat it to-morn.'

Without more words they approached the lodge, but to their great
terror, when they were within a few yards from the little dwelling,
the gates noiselessly swung open, the doleful tolling of the
passing-bell being the only sound to be heard. Both men stepped back
affrighted as a little figure clad in raiment of a dark hue, but
wearing a bright red cap, and chanting some mysterious words in a low
musical voice as he walked, stepped into the avenue.

'Ston back, mon,' cried Adam, in a terrified voice--'ston back; it's
th' feeorin; bud they'll not hort tha if tha dusna meddle wi' um.'

The young man forthwith obeyed his aged companion, and standing
together against the trunk of a large tree, they gazed at the
miniature being stepping so lightly over the road, mottled by the
stray moonbeams. It was a dainty little object; but although neither
Adam nor Robin could comprehend the burden of the song it sang, the
unmistakable croon of grief with which each stave ended told the
listeners that the fairy was singing a requiem. The men kept perfectly
silent, and in a little while the figure paused and turned round, as
though in expectation, continuing, however, its mournful notes.
By-and-by the voices of other singers were distinguished, and as they
grew louder the fairy standing in the roadway ceased to render the
verse, and sang only the refrain, and a few minutes afterwards Adam
and Robin saw a marvellous cavalcade pass through the gateway. A
number of figures, closely resembling the one to which their attention
had first been drawn, walked two by two, and behind them others with
their caps in their hands, bore a little black coffin, the lid of
which was drawn down so as to leave a portion of the contents
uncovered. Behind these again others, walking in pairs, completed the
procession. All were singing in inexpressibly mournful tones, pausing
at regular intervals to allow the voice of the one in advance to be
heard, as it chanted the refrain of the song, and when the last couple
had passed into the avenue, the gates closed as noiselessly as they
had opened.

As the bearers of the burden marched past the two watchers, Adam bent
down, and, by the help of a stray gleam of moonlight, saw that there
was a little corpse in the coffin.

'Robin, mi lad,' said he, in a trembling voice and with a scared look,
'it's th' pictur o' thee as they hev i' th' coffin!'

With a gasp of terror the young man also stooped towards the
bearers, and saw clearly enough that the face of the figure borne by
the fairies indeed closely resembled his own, save that it was ghastly
with the pallor and dews of death.

The procession had passed ere he was able to speak, for, already much
affrighted by the appearance of the fairies, the sight of the little
corpse had quite unnerved him. Clinging in a terrified manner to the
old man, he said, in a broken voice--

'It raley wor me, Adam! Dust think it's a warnin', an' I'm abaat to
dee?'

The old man stepped out into the road as he replied--

'It wur a quare seet, Robin, no daat; bud I've sin monny sich i' mi
toime, an' theyne come to nowt i' th' end. Warnin' or not, haaever,'
he added, with strong common sense, 'ther'll be no harm done bi thee
livin' as if it wur one.'

The mournful music of the strange singers and the solemn sound of the
passing bell could still be heard, and the two awe-struck men stood
gazing after the cavalcade.

'It mon be a warnin', again said Robin, 'an' I wish I'd axed um haa
soon I've to dee. Mebbee they'n a towd me.'

'I don't think they wod,' said Adam. 'I've olus heeard as they'r rare
and vext if they'r spokken to. Theyn happen a done tha some lumberment
if tha 'ad axed owt.'

'They could but a kilt mi,' replied Robin, adding, with that grim
humour which so often accompanies despair, 'an' they're buryin' mi
neaw, ar'nod they?' Then in a calm and firm voice he said--'I'm baan
to ax 'em, come wod will. If tha 'rt freetent tha con goo on whoam.'

'Nay, nay,' said Adam warmly, 'I'm nooan scaret. If tha'rt for
catechoizing um, I'll see th' end on it.'

Without further parley the men followed after and soon overtook the
procession, which was just about to enter the old churchyard, the
gates of which, like those of the lodge, swung open apparently of
their own accord, and no sooner did Robin come up with the bearers
than, in a trembling voice, he cried--

'Winnot yo' tell mi haaw lung I've to live?'

There was not any answer to this appeal, the little figure in front
continuing to chant its refrain with even deepened mournfulness.
Imagining that he was the leader of the band, Robin stretched out his
hand and touched him. No sooner had he done this than, with startling
suddenness, the whole cavalcade vanished, the gates banged to with a
loud clang, deep darkness fell upon everything, the wind howled and
moaned round the church and the tombstones in the graveyard, the
branches creaked and groaned overhead, drops of rain pattered upon the
leaves, mutterings of thunder were heard, and a lurid flash of
lightning quivered down the gloomy avenue.

'I towd tha haa it ud be,' said Adam, and Robin simply answered--

'I'm no worse off than befooar. Let's mak' toart whoam; bud say nowt
to aar fowk--it ud nobbut freeten th' wimmin.'

Before the two men reached the lodge gates a terrible storm burst over
them, and through it they made their way to the distant village.

A great change came over Robin, and from being the foremost in every
countryside marlock he became serious and reserved, invariably at the
close of the day's work rambling away, as though anxious to shun
mankind, or else spending the evening at Adam's talking over 'th'
warnin'.' Strange to say, about a month afterwards he fell from a
stack, and after lingering some time, during which he often
deliriously rambled about the events of the dreadful night, he dozed
away, Old Jemmy, the sexton, had another grave to open, and the
grey-headed Adam was one of the bearers who carried Robin's corpse
along the avenue in which they had so short a time before seen the
fairy funeral.{10}