Originally published in Belgravia (John Maxwell) vol.2 #7 (May 1867).
Within half an hour's journey from Manchester is the village of Alderley. It lies in the middle of a fertile plain, and its sides are beautifully wooded with trees of oak, beech, and fir. Its highest point is three thousand feet above the level of the sea, and from its summit lovely views are obtained of the surrounding country. Coming down the hill from the Beacon is a winding path which leads to the Holy Well. What may be the traditional virtues of its water we will not pause to inquire, but place ourselves on the edge of the rock overhanging the well to view the lovely landscape beneath and around, and also to relate to the lovers of legendary lore the story connected with this pleasant locality. The greater part of the property is owned by Lord Stanley of Alderley, whose name is probably more familiar than the legend I am about to recount. Like all such mythical tales, it must of course commence in the usual way.
"Once upon a time," Farmer Marshall set off to Macclesfield fair to sell the white mare on which he rode. His way thither lay through Alderley Edge. It was a dreary day in autumn when he left his house; the wind blew, and the rain fell fast; so fast, that the poor farmer was well-nigh drenched to the skin. At length the storm became so violent, that he reined-in his steed, to look about for some place of shelter; but at the moment that he did so, the mare began to prick up her ears and plunge furiously at sight of a fearful apparition in her path. It was a gaunt dark figure, of most strange aspect, with eyes like balls of fire, beneath bushy eyebrows, which added to the fierceness of their expression. It had long loose white robes, which waved in the wind; whilst the wearer, with uplifted hand, and in a sepulchral voice, thus addressed the horror-stricken man, whose hair fairly stood upright with fear:
"Stranger, attend! and, traveller, hear!
I know what business brought thee here;
I know thine errand, and full well
Thy sordid purpose can I tell:
Thou'dst give thy favourite mare for pelf,
And sell for little more thyself;
But know, thy horse is doom'd to be
Heir to a nobler destiny.
Sell as thou wilt that steed of thine,
Tis fated that the steed be mine;
Yet go—though I can ne'er deceive—
Thy stubbornness will ne'er believe.
Mix with the chapmen all, and try
Who chaffers for her—who will buy;
A vain attempt; but be it so,
And to the purposed market go.
But mark me well: 'tis my behest,
That when the sun sinks in the west,
And ere the moon with silver light
Shall make yon waving pine-tree bright,
Return thou here, and bring thy steed.
Fear not, if here; else fear indeed!
Go, ponder on my firm behest;
But mark the hour, and watch the west."
Scarcely had the last words been uttered when the unearthly form of the speaker vanished, leaving the terrified farmer more dead than alive with fright. He, however, quickly recovered on perceiving no sign of the wizard; and assuring himself of the possession of his mare, he urged her onwards to the fair. There his beautiful Bess obtained her full meed of admiration; but no one offered to buy her. That day and the next passed away without any bid having been made for his beast. He then bethought him that the spell must be upon her and himself alike; and remembering the fatal words, as he watched the sun sink below the horizon, he bade adieu to the crowd, and made for the trysting-place appointed by the wizard. Sure enough there he stood; and commanding the farmer to follow him, he led the way past Stormy Point, which is a few minutes' walk from the well. There his form seemed to expand until it reached a fearful height,
"Whilst with more fire, and brighter, glow'd
His piercing eye—he breathed a spell."
And the yawning earth opened wide her mouth between two iron gates, as if ready to receive its prey. The wizard waved his hand, whereupon the horse plunged violently, throwing its rider to the ground. The poor farmer looked up beseechingly to the enchanter, who promised to give him his powerful protection after having led him past
"innumerable stalls,
Where milk-white steeds, each side by side,
Just like his own, were careful tied;
And close by every steed was found
An arméd man in slumber bound."
On and on they went, passing men and horses innumerable, until they reached the farthest extremity of the cavern, where the farmer seemed to forget for a while his terrors, as his eyes rested with delight on the heaps of gold piled one above another, and by their side a huge iron chest, which the wizard opened, and paying the farmer liberally for his mare, gave him permission to return. This he was unwilling to do without venturing an inquiry as to the meaning of the sleeping warriors and their steeds, which was thus explained by the enchanter:
"These are the cavern'd troops, by Fate
Foredoom'd the guardians of our state.
England's good genius here detains
These arm'd defenders of her plains,
Doom'd to remain till that fell day
When foemen, marshal'd in array,
And feuds intestine shall combine
To seal the ruin of our line.
Thrice lost shall England be, thrice won,
'Twixt dawn of day and setting sun;
Then we, the wondrous cavern'd band,
These mailèd martyrs for the land,
Shall rush resistless on the foe;
And they the power of Cestrians know;
And this all-glorious day be won
By royal George, great George's son.
Then bootless groans shall travellers hear,
Who pass thy forest, Delamere;
Each dabbled wing shall ravens toss,
Perch'd on the blood-stain'd, headless cross.
But peace! maybe another age
Shall write these records on her page!
Begone."
So runs the legend, which goes on to say that the farmer, having obeyed, found himself standing alone on the hill, and the gates fast closed behind him. To endeavour to find the cavern would be a bootless search;
"And till the hour decreed by Fate,
None e'er shall see the iron gate."
It will nevertheless remain as an agreeable retreat from the din of cities, and the favourite resort for pic-nics during the bright summer days. Whilst writing the above legend, I have been struck with its remarkable resemblance to an incident in the career of our old friend Gil Blas. It will be remembered how he went to Salamanca fair to sell his mule; how her progress was impeded by the beggar; how Gil was at length taken to a subterranean home, where was stable-room and provender for twenty horses, &c.; and how he finally escaped the vigilance of the Hermandad.