These humbler classes of boggarts are by turns both useful and troublesome to the farmers of the district where they choose to reside. Syke Lumb Farm, near Blackburn, is reputed to be still visited by one of these anomalous beings, and many of his mad pranks are still talked of and believed in the neighbourhood. When in a good humour, this noted goblin will milk the cows, pull the hay, fodder the cattle, harness the horses, load the carts, and stack the crops. When irritated by the utterance of some unguarded expression or mark of disrespect, either from the farmer or his servants, the cream-mugs are smashed to atoms; no butter can be obtained by churning; the horses and other cattle are turned loose or driven into the woods; two cows will sometimes be found fastened in the same stall; no hay can be pulled from the mow; and all the while the wicked imp sits grinning with delight upon one of the cross-beams in the barn. At other times the horses are unable to draw the empty carts across the farm-yard; if loaded, they are upset; whilst the cattle tremble with fear, not at any visible cause. Nor do the inmates of the house experience any better or gentler usage. During the night the clothes are said to be violently torn from off the beds of the offending parties, whilst invisible hands drag these individuals down the stone stairs by the legs, one step at a time, after a more uncomfortable manner than we need describe. Hothershall Hall, near Ribchester, was formerly the scene of similar exploits; but the goblin is understood to have been "laid" under the roots of a large laurel tree at the end of the house, and will not be able to molest the family so long as the tree exists. It is a common opinion in that part of the country that the roots have to be moistened with milk on certain occasions, in order to prolong its existence, and also to preserve the power of the spell under which the goblin is laid. None but the Roman Catholic priesthood are supposed to have the power of "laying an evil spirit," and hence they have always the honour to be cited in our local legends. Sometimes, too, they have the credit of outwitting the goblins; and many an old farm residence has the reputation of having thus been freed from these imps of darkness till they can spin a rope from the sands of the Ribble. The mansion at Towneley does not escape the imputation of having its "Boggart," although its visits are now limited to once in seven years, when its thirst for vengeance has to be satisfied by the untimely death of one of the residents at the Hall. A Sir John Towneley is supposed to have injured the poor of the district, nearly four hundred years ago, by "laying-in" a considerable portion of common to his park, and, as a punishment for this offence, his soul is said to haunt the scenes of his oppression. The peasantry still aver "that the old knight's spirit, being unable to rest, wanders about the mansion, and may be heard over the very parts taken in, crying, in most piteous tones—
"Be warned! Lay out! Be warned! Lay out!
Around Hore-law and Hollin-hey clough:
To her children give back the widow's cot,
For you and yours there is still enough."[45]
The popular story of "The Boggart Flitting" is common to both Lancashire and Yorkshire; and indeed to most of the nations in the North of Europe.
Of boggarts the Rev. William Thornber observes,[46] that there were several different kinds, having their haunts in that part of the Fylde near Blackpool; as, for instance, the wandering ghost of the homicide or the suicide; that of the steward of injustice, or that of the victim of a cruel murder; again, the lubber-fiends, the horse-boggarts, and the house-boggarts, or industrious, yet mischievous imps, haunting dwellings. He names, "The headless Boggart of White-gate Lane," as a sample of the first class. So was "The Boggart of Staining Hall," near Blackpool, said to be the wandering ghost of a Scotchman who was murdered there near a tree, which has since marked the deed by perfuming the soil around with a sweet odour of thyme. Of another kind were those whose appearance was the forerunner of death in some families. The Walmsleys, of Poulton-le-Fylde, he adds, were haunted by a boggart of this description, always making its appearance with alarming noises before the decease of one of the family.
Of the lubber-fiends, house-boggarts, or brownies, so strikingly described by Milton,[47] Mr. Thornber mentions the ancient one of Rayscar and Inskip, which at times kindly housed the grain, collected the horses, and got them ready for the market; but at other times played the most mischievous pranks. The famous "Boggart of Hackensall Hall" had the appearance of a huge horse, which was very industrious if treated with kindness. Every night it was indulged with a fire, before which it was frequently seen reclining; and when deprived of this indulgence by neglect, it expressed its anger by fearful outcries.
HORNBY PARK MISTRESS AND MARGARET BRACKIN.
The following story is told and believed by some persons in Hornby. The Park Mistress may be supposed to be the ghost of Lady Harrington, who committed murder three hundred years ago. Margaret Brackin was born in 1745, and died in 1795. The dialect is that of the locality:—
"In days that oud folks tell on still,
Meg Brackin went up Windy Bank;
Shou lated kinlin' on the hill,
Till owr t' Lake Mountains t' sun it sank.
Nat lang at efter t' sun was set,
And shou hed fill'd her brat wi' sticks,
Shou sid aside at t' Park wood yett,
A woman stan'in mang the wicks.
T' leaves on t' trees, they owm'ered t' land,
And fadin' was the summer light,
When Marget sid that woman stand
Donn'd like a ghoost o' oor i' white.
Marget was fear'd, but spak and ex'd,
'Hey Missis! let me gang wi' ye,
I hope as that ye'll nut be vext,
But it is gitten dark and dree.'
T' Park Mistress e'en shin'd o' wi' leet;
Shou whyatly cam te Marget's side;
T' gerss didn't bend underneath her feet;
Shou seem'd in t' air te float and glide.
As soon's shou cam whare Marget stood,
Shou gript a tight houd on her hand;
Shou led her first intul t' Park wood,
Then back and forret o' owr t' land.
They kept na road, they kept na path,
They went thro' brackins, scrogs, and briar,
Marget shou soon was out of breath,
But t' lady didn't seem te tire.
They baath com down te Wenning's brink,
And Marget's throat was dry wi' dread,
But shou dursn't ex te stop and drink,
Saa forret still that woman led.
Owr shillar and rough staans they trod,
Intu t' Wenning, then out fra t' stream;
Surlie their walkin' wasn't snod,
T' way they travell'd was naan saa weam.
Marget lous'd t' strings of her brat,
And trail'd it gerss and bushes through,
Till deg'd and damp and wet it gat;
Then suck'd it out for t' cooling dew.
Fra Weaver's Ayr they went up t' wood,
Now gaain' straight and then aslant,
They niver stopt, they niver stood,
But raac'd up t' brow saa rough and brant.
Marget could niver gradely say Where nesht wi' t' ghoost