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 cōn'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.'