In a small recess, still deeper in shade than the neighbouring valley where the ruins of Furness Abbey lie, there once arose a well-proportioned mansion, of which, not a vestige is left. And yet, the wand of no magician had summoned it to appear, as a tenant of the retreat, without any materials, and then to depart without a wreck,—for much toil, and many precious coins had been spent in building and adorning it, by the first owners; and on its decay, as much sighing, and as many lamentations, had been wasted by their successors.

Tradition says, that it was erected in the reign of Henry the Eighth, by an Englishman of rank, whose name was Morden. Against his earnest entreaties, his daughter had secluded herself from the world, and taken the veil as a nun in Furness Abbey; but when that religious house was broken up, by royal act, so much attached was she to the spot of her vows, that to gratify her, a family mansion was erected in the vicinity. To this, a considerable extent of ground was added, as territorial possession. The owner became enamoured of the pleasant solitude of such an abode, and so did all his successors, whose feelings were in harmony with the simplicity of the district, and the quiet beauties of its scenery. Time destroys not the works of God, and the brook which trickled beside the porch, still murmured dreams of happiness amidst the nightshade which grew on its banks, or the lillies, which, in its channel, courted its stream, in all their meekness and purity. But time destroys the works of man, and the noble building, towards the end of the sixteenth century, was but a decayed wreck of its former self.

The inmates exhibited a striking contrast to the ruined abode. The echoes did not awake to the slow step of the aged, but to the bounding tread of the young. The wind might rave around in fury, but, at intervals, sweet voices were heard, joining in the music of the heart. Sombre was the light which entered the apartments, but there was no snowy head on which it could fall; shining was every brow, and clustering the ringlets waving thereon. On the rudely-framed seat, by the porch, no old man sat, like a dial, to point out time’s flight, but a beautiful pair, with a little boy sporting before them.

William Morden, and Emily Clifton, were the only survivors of two noble families. The time of our Legend is six years after their marriage, when their love had been pledged and crowned by the birth of a boy. Sweet was their domestic bliss, but darkness and death are prepared to enter upon the scene. The curse of witchcraft is about to fall upon the holy beings, in all its horrors and pollutions. The Chronicler shudders, as tradition leads him to their tragic fate, and as it gleams upon the hellish causes. The fair creatures have, in many a dream, for many a long night, been cradled by his side, in beauty and love. Their voices have whispered to him, their faces have smiled upon him, in the mysteries of sleep. And yet he must now awake them to feel the breath of unearthly enmity and power, withering their souls, while serpents are even twined around their shroud!

On a calm evening, towards the beginning of summer, Emily was seated in the old hall, expecting the arrival of her husband, who had rode out early that day, to hunt, when he entered, with marks of agitation on his countenance.

“William!” she exclaimed, as she arose to embrace him, “thou art sad. It cannot be for want of success in the chase; you would not dare”—and she gave him a playful blow on the cheek with her little hand—“to appear before your wife so sorrowful, and with no better excuse. But, love, you smile not. William, are you wounded? Have you been thrown from your horse?”

“No, Emily,” was the reply, “I am safe, but my horse, in passing the cave of which you are so much afraid, sunk down, as if exhausted, though a moment before, he seemed capable of the greatest exertion. Thus is it,” he continued, as he yielded to his wife, who forced him down to a seat, whilst she leaned over him, “our cattle have died, though green is the meadow on which they grazed. And now, my favourite steed—aye, the very one, Emily, whose neck arched so proudly beneath your gentle touch, after he had borne me to your abode, where I wooed and won you as my bride, is now, I fear, stiffening in death. My servant shook his head, as I left Ranger to his care.”

“Poor Ranger,” interrupted the lady, “he was a proud animal, and spurned acquaintance with others of his kind. Yet, William, dost thou recollect how closely and fondly he trotted by the side of my white pony, on the evening you brought me to your home, and how the kind animals allowed me to be locked in your embrace, although their bridles hung loose? Nay, more, did they not choose a lonely path, with the moon shining all sweetly upon it, through the hushed forest, as if there ought to be nothing known to us, save each other; and that, orphans as we were, with the voices of gone friends, as silent to us as the night, still, there was hope shedding its rays over our common lot? Now both of them may be lost. Still you could have visited me without your steed, and I should, perhaps, have been less coy after your fatigues, and,” she added, as her fair hands played among the curls which shaded her husband’s brow, “I could have come hither without my palfrey, leaning on your arm, William.”

The sorrowful man could not reject the consolation of his beautiful wife. Though unforeseen calamities had gathered thickly upon him, as if there was some direct cause, separate from the general course of Providence, yet every chain of human affection was unbroken; and though his fold was now almost forsaken, on his hearth still moved the beings whom he loved, and not a household god had been thrown down. His little Edward had entered, and was climbing his knee, and hugging his neck,—and could he refuse to be happy? He had regained a portion of his usual gaiety, when his servant entered.

“Master, Ranger is dead! I took the bridle from off his head, and he could no more shew that he was at liberty. There was a strange shriek after he fell down. He licked my hands, and his tongue was black and swollen.”

“Shriek, dost thou say?” returned his master, “I have heard that horses groan when in pain, but that they shriek, I cannot believe.”

“It could not be the horse,” was the reply, “no—no—nor was it a human voice.”

They gazed upon the servant. His tones were low, as if from secret terror, and his countenance was deadly pale. He continued, “I have heard the shriek before, master, when old Margery, who nursed you when a boy—died. She raised her hands, drew herself up on the pillow—as if escaping from some invisible spirit—and sunk down lifeless. The neighbours said, that at that moment the witch of the cave passed the window, with hurried steps.”

Emily Morden looked upon her husband, and took their little boy, and folded him closely in her bosom. Not a word was spoken, but many, many thoughts were theirs. Their fears seemed to recognize in the sweet blue eyes, the calm brow, and the golden locks, signs of a dark fate. The little fellow, however, was unconscious of their feelings, and darted forth to the lawn to pursue the shadows, which were now fast settling, and to gambol with his favourite pet lamb. Soon fatigued with his sports, he leaned upon the tame animal, like a beautiful picture with a pure back ground. At that moment an old woman stood before him. He saw not her dark and hideous features, more frightful because she attempted to smile: he only saw the tempting fruit which she held. He heard not the unearthly tones of her voice, he only distinguished the words, “Shall I give you it?” He felt not the touch of her withered, bony hands, as he received it. He cared not, though these hands were placed upon his brow, as he devoured the fruit. He clapped his hands, and shouted, “Good,—good mamma! give little Edwy more,—more!” Oh! it was horrible to see the beautiful boy playing with a foul hag, hand in hand, cheek to cheek, and to hear him address her, as “kind mamma.” The lamb had fled far over the glen, at her approach—but the boy had even kissed her black and shrivelled lips! He was throwing his arms around her neck, amidst the long locks of white hair, which hung like serpents over it, when he was dragged away by his mother, who had rushed forth with her husband, upon beholding the woman’s familiarities. The hand of William Morden was raised, in fury, to strike the hellish crone, whom he knew to be the witch of the cave, when she disappeared to a short distance, where her form dilated against the faint light of the sky, and then she glared with her blood-red eyes, full upon him. She tossed her hands in the air, then approached a little nearer, and pointed to Emily, while she sung in awful notes—

The still calm all around, allowed every word and tone to be distinctly heard. When she had ended, she gave a shriek of delight, and slowly proceeded in the direction of the cave; at intervals turning round, and raising her arms. All objects around her could not be perceived, still those small malicious eyes sparkled in the gathering twilight, and her voice could be heard muttering.

“Nay, William, follow her not!” exclaimed Emily, as her husband prepared to pursue the witch. But he was now maddened by rage and despair, and he started forward, fully resolved to enter the cave, and brave its unseen and unknown terrors.

She anxiously gazed after him, until his form was altogether lost in the distance. The many tales to which she had listened, of the witch’s power and revenge, were unfolded again, and they seemed scrolls of the future, written with the fate of herself, and all that were dear. She led Edward into the hall, and soon perceived a marvellous change in the boy. At first he was silent, and did not acknowledge the attentions of his mother. He then shrieked in terror, and laughed in joy, alternately. His features were, at times, absolutely hideous, grinning, as if with malice, and then they became more beautiful than a mother’s eye ever beheld.

“Mamma! mamma!” he would exclaim,—and he looked from his mother upon vacancy—“give Edwy more—oh! it is sweet, sweet. Heed not the man, wicked man, who drives you away;—come back to Edwy!”

At length she succeeded in hushing him to rest, and her thoughts were of her husband. Darkness was now over the earth, and she imagined that the hag’s face was gazing in upon her at the casement, but she dared not rise to close it, lest she might disturb the sleeper. Sometimes, too, another form, seen by the moonlight, was there, and the witch dared to embrace the husband, in sight of his trembling wife! Hour after hour passed, and the next would be midnight, and William had not returned. In vain did his faithful servant, whom she had summoned to bear her company, suggest that his master might have refused to leave the cave, until the woman had read the destiny of the family more distinctly.

“Nay, Roger,” she said, “something has befallen your master. Oh! if he should return no more!” and her agony was too deep for tears.

“My lady, fear not. It is said that all those who are bewitched in the cave, have first listened to the love confessions of the old woman’s daughter, and drunk the cup of unearthly beauty. But I will instantly go to the cave.”

Emily was about to urge him to make all possible haste, when he shrieked out, and pointed to her breast; and there her boy was gradually raising up his head, like a serpent, to her face, whilst his eyes gleamed with the most fiendish expression, and his mouth was grinning and distended. For a moment she was silent as the dead, and gazed in horror; but she could not trace a touch of kindness on the young features. All love and beauty, in a moment, had been dashed from them. The boy’s eye never moved from hers, or changed its emotion;—it was slowly meeting hers, in malice. His breath was now close to her cheek!

“Kiss me, kiss me,” were the first words he uttered; but the tones were unknown, and seemed those of a young fiend. With a loud shriek he prepared to dart upon her face. She started from her seat, and threw him on the floor, and there the little monster rolled—gnashing his teeth, and tearing with his hands, in frantic fury. His eyes were of a glassy brightness, and coldness; and foam was on his little black lips. His struggles soon became fainter, and he lay motionless, and apparently lifeless. He then regained his own beauty, but was pale and trembling, as if from an infant dream of evil. His eyes were raised to his mother, and again they were affectionate, as of old.

“Mamma! mamma!” he cried, “take me to your arms, cover me up in your bosom; you wont kill me, mamma? Oh! leave me not here to die!”

There was a mournful upbraiding in the boy’s accents, and his mother burst into tears, and rushed forward to raise him, when, all at once, he sprang from the ground. Again he was changed; his hair stood erect, his mouth was stretched to an unnatural width, and he ran to her, howling like a dog. In a moment the servant struck him down. Bitterly did the mother weep to see her child bleeding on the floor, and yet, she dared not touch him. “He is possessed!” she exclaimed, “aye, that is the fate which the witch foretold!”

“My lady,” said Roger, “pardon me for what I am about to mention. He has been bewitched into a disease which must be fatal to himself, and to all whom he bites. Your security, and that of my master, lies only in his destruction.”

“Never!” was the indignant, but sorrowful reply.

The boy once more regained his own appearance, and called piteously for his mother. He put his little hands to his mouth, and when he gazed upon them, they were all suffused with blood! He burst into tears.

“Mamma, kiss the blood away from my lips. Wipe this love ringlet, or papa wont play with it. Oh! cool my lips. Take the fire out of them. Mamma, mamma! must I die? Who took me out of your bosom, to lie here?”

Every word fell, like a child’s curse, upon the ear of Emily.

“Oh Roger! good Roger,” implored the lady,—“what can be done?”

The boy attempted to rise, but his strength seemed gone, and his head dashed itself violently upon the floor. His mother fell down senseless. Roger rushed from the room, to bring water to sprinkle upon her face. In a moment he returned,—and there a scene was presented to his eyes, which nothing in after-life could curtain from his mind. Both lay lifeless. The countenance of the mother was mangled and bloody, and her boy’s teeth were in her cheek. As soon as she had fallen, the boy had crept to her, under the same infernal influence as before, and, fortunately, she never awoke from insensibility.

Meanwhile let us leave the dead, and follow the living. The reader is not asked to dry his tears after the mournful spectacle, and put off his sackcloth, and don singing robes and smiles, for soon the curtain may be raised from the same scene, to exhibit on the same stage, another victim.

William Morden, when out of the sight of his wife, came in view of the object of his pursuit. Unlike the aged, the hag avoided not the many elevations of sharp rock, on her path. After passing them, for a moment she would linger, and looking back, and howling, motion him, with a wild plunge of her arm, to follow. The scenery became more bleak and desolate, as if nothing in animal or vegetable life could flourish near her abode. Not a sound was heard; her steps were hurried, but silent. They were approaching the cave, which was formed in the old channel of the brook, and which was supposed to be the outlet of a subterraneous passage leading from the abbey into a deep wood, which skirted and concealed the bank. Amidst the trees strange lights seemed to move, and the witch, by their flash, was enabled to expose her malignant and hellish countenance to the gaze of Morden. She stood still and he advanced. From the folds of the cloak in which she was wrapped, she drew her hand, and pointed to a deep ravine, at a short distance from the cave. She muttered some incantations, raised her eyes, as if to invisible agents in the air, and exclaimed, “Slaves! ye know my power! Shew him—shew him what a word, escaping from my lips, has done. Now, fool!” and she grasped his hands for a moment, “gaze there—and tremble.”

Morden started, as lurid lights gleamed in a mass, over him. He stumbled down the declivity, and fell, his head striking against his lifeless steed! Unearthly shrieks of laughter saluted him, and as he sprung to his feet, the witch, surrounded by flames, was waving her arms in fiendish joy. He once more found himself on the path close beside her. All again was darkness, and now he heard the witch enter the cave. He prepared to follow her. The entrance was small, and could only admit him by crawling through. His face came in contact with the jutting rocks, and he imagined that around his neck the hag had placed her hands, to strangle him. He crept in, but saw nothing. No object could be distinguished, until, on a floor far below him, he beheld a few embers burning on the hearth, and a form walking around, and by its shadow intercepting the light. The ground was damp beneath his hands, and the very worms were crawling over them, and thus early claiming connexion, by twining around them the marriage ring of the grave. He knew not how to let himself down into the interior. The light from the embers, meanwhile, was gradually increasing; and at length he recognized the witch rubbing her hands over them. Her head was uncovered, and her long grey locks were flung back from a brow black and wrinkled. He could not remove his eyes from her, and every moment he expected that she would arise, and curse him with her arts. She lighted a taper, and placed it upon a small coffin, and sung a death dirge; at every interval, when she paused for breath, making the most unnatural mirth. The lid of the coffin slowly arose, as she removed the taper, and a beautiful boy raised his face, so pale and deadly, over which golden locks curled, like young spirits. His sweet blue eyes met those of Morden; his little hands were pressed together, and his lisping voice said, mournfully,—“Father!”

Morden sprang down, when, with a wild shriek, the witch turned upon him, and attempted to mimic the tones in which the fond word “father” had been breathed. He prepared to rush upon her, when every limb was powerless. He could not move, and yet all his senses were intensely active and awake. He beheld the coffin again closed, and glad now would he have been, could he have returned to his home, to assure himself of his child’s safety. The witch began some awful and unholy rites, as she lowered the coffin into a hole dug beside the embers, and then over the spot, after her incantations had been muttered, sprung up a mossy tomb-stone, with this inscription,—

She kindled another taper, when a larger coffin seemed to be placed before her by invisible hands. The lid was raised; and there Morden beheld his Emily, as beautiful now, amidst all the horrors of witchery and death, as when that face was revealed in the moonlight, on their nuptial night, slumbering so happily, to gaze upon which he had kept himself awake. But soon the features became clouded and black; aye, and blood—blood was seen upon them, and horrible gashes.

“Embrace her!” exclaimed the witch, “embrace her. How beautiful! What a sweet crimson! Fool! thy wife blushes! fly to her!”

He started forward, and fell upon the coffin, but the lid was closed. A long fit of insensibility was over him. Dreams still more revolting than the realities he had now beheld, kept him bound.

He awoke—but far different was the scene. A sigh which had been nursed in the dream, now found expression, and instantly a movement was heard, in a distant part of the cave; and a female bent over him, and perfumed his burning brow. Wild was the beauty beaming from her eyes; but soft and earthly was the hand which took his. He gazed silently upon her. She seemed scarcely to have entered upon girlhood, and yet Morden thought that she never could have been younger, and never, for the future, could be older. She spoke not; but her lips uttered strange sounds of the most thrilling music. She gently raised and led him to a couch, as soft as dreams. The air around breathed fragrance, and vibrated song. Invisible roses seemed to fall upon his brow and hands. So brilliant, and yet shadowy, was the light, that he could not gaze far around. Light seemed to be a boundary to itself, and no walls intercepted the vision.

“Who art thou?” was the exclamation of Morden, “and where am I? How have I been brought here? This is not the cave to which I came;—and where is the foul witch who so tormented me with her dark spells?”

“There cometh light after darkness,” replied his beautiful companion, “and joy after sorrow. What makes the love of one being so pleasant? Because it is nursed amidst the storms of hate. Love cares not for a palace; to sit, travel, and sleep, amidst gold and diamonds. The tomb is the home where it is most beautiful; and were two mortals, who cling to each other, to dwell there, it would be love’s paradise. As they sat beneath the shade of the cypress, how rapturous would their thoughts and words be; and oh! how true! At eve, as they walked together over graves, how confiding would they be! And at the midnight hour, when the wind howled, and ghosts flitted around them, how sweet the sleep of the two lovers, with a tomb-stone for their pillow!”

Each word thrilled through the soul of Morden.

“Mysterious angel!” he cried, “tell me thy name and abode!”

The young being dismissed the melancholy which, whilst she spoke, had rested on her countenance, and smiled. Her deep blue eyes gazed upon him, and, in the intoxication of the moment, he recollected not his own inquiry. But soon, thoughts of home and Emily, came into his mind, and checked others which were rising. He turned away from her, when she asked,—

“Would’st thou see the past?”

“Yes,” eagerly returned Morden. “Oh! could I once more behold her whom an untimely fate bore from me!”

She took from the table a golden cup, encircled with flowers, and throwing a liquid drop, which she had poured out on her hand, away in the distance; instantly, amidst music, with the bass of a profound calm, there arose before his eyes a strange scene. There were the haunts of his boyhood, the bower in the garden, and even the ivy-covered seat, on which was the plumed cap his mother’s hands had made; the gentle stream, with his book and fishing-rod lying on the bank; and last of all was himself, smiling, the actor in each. A pure mist arose before him, as in the bower he was placing the cap over his shining curls; bright eyes gleamed in it, and as it vanished, there stood his only sister! She appeared to be the gentler type of himself, and sweet was her beauty, though it was the beauty of Genius and Power. The mist descended, and hovered over them, as they were singing the lays of their own happiness, and shrouded both. It once more rolled away. There was seen a mourner, near a rose-scattered grave! The mourner was known to Morden long before he raised his features from the earth:—it was himself, at the grave of his sister!

He started up from the couch, and fell at the feet of his mysterious companion, exclaiming,—

“Perpetuate the scene! Give me boyhood again; give me the lost and the beloved, and I’ll adore you,—aye, love you!”

He arose calmly, after her lips had been pressed to his.

“Drink,” was the reply. “Drink from this cup, Morden, and death shall not separate the brother from the sister. Beautiful she was a month before her sudden end, and that month shall never be enrolled in your existence. Drink,—and the past is written over with every drop of this liquid, on the tablet of your mind, and on the objects of your external senses. Could inanimate things feel its influence—and shall not the mind? Drink!” and the scene again arose, in more thrilling beauty and truth. Sweet and long was the draught, and he returned the cup, empty. Strange sensations shot through his frame, and as strange feelings passed in his mind. Emily, in a moment, was forgotten, and his arms were around his companion, when a shriek was heard, and in place of the fading form of his sister, stood the withered Weird of the Cave! Her daughter, (for such the beautiful witch was,) now coldly repulsed him, and shrunk from his embrace. As soon as he could move his eyes from the hag, he turned round to chide his companion, when he found that she had disappeared. A loud laugh was raised by the old witch, and he pursued her. Darkness fell over the scene, and once more he was near to the dying embers.

“Go home!” exclaimed the hag,—“go home, and die there along with your dead wife and child! It is long past midnight. It is, therefore, meet time that you should go to sleep with them. Home—fool!”

Her words drove Morden almost to madness. He climbed up to the entrance, and as he left the cave, he heard the laugh of the two witches. He rushed along the path. He saw not the lurid lights that flashed around him, from the dark abode which he had left. Terror, shame, and despair, were driving their victim to what he considered as a sanctuary from evil. He was heedless of his steps, and as he stumbled, it but increased his fury; when he felt himself suddenly grasped, and on looking up, recognized his servant Roger.

“Is all well,—is all well, Roger, with your mistress? Speak, man,—speak!”

The servant hesitated, and then replied, “Yes, master!”

“Kind, dear Emily!” exclaimed Morden, “she has sent you to search for me. Nay, Roger, I will outstrip you; and I can delay no longer.—How anxious she will be! Death! no—no—it was but a horrible dream! Yet, Roger,—am I agitated? would my looks frighten Emily? Frighten—oh! no. Not a moment is to be lost,” and he darted forward, and soon, all breathless, reached his abode. He trode up the lawn with as heavy a pace as possible, in order that suspense might be ended, and that she might know of his return, before he appeared. A dim light was in the hall when he entered.

The faithful servant, when he arrived, heard no noise, and although he felt keenly for the woes of his master, did not venture into the hall before morning,—and there was his master lying, with his arms around his wife. He spoke to him;—but he spoke to the dead!

A distant relation laid claim to the dwelling, with the land attached to it; but from the awful scenes in the former, which we have related, it became uninhabited, and was soon an entire ruin; finally even without a wreck.