His crowded galley brought the dread Viking,
Lust at his prow, and rapine at the helm.
The splendour of Ribchester must have waned rapidly, for after the overthrow of Harold on the red field of Hastings, when the victorious Norman made his great survey of the conquered country, it had become so insignificant as to be accounted a mere village dependent upon Preston, then rising into note. Yet it did not escape the fury of the invading Scot, whose footsteps were everywhere marked with blood and destruction, for in one of those frequent incursions after the defeat at Bannockburn—when, as old Hollinshead tells us, the victorious Bruce marched his army through Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Lancaster to Preston—the miserable inhabitants were driven from their homes, and the place burned to the ground. Subsequently its fortunes revived, and for a time it could boast of having no less than three fairs, an evidence of its increased importance. In the unhappy struggle between Charles the First and his Parliament it was the scene of an encounter (April, 1643) between the Royalist forces, led by the Earl of Derby, and the Parliamentarian levies, commanded by Colonel Shuttleworth, resulting in a victory for the latter; and tradition says that five years later (August, 1648) Cromwell slept at the old white house, opposite the Strand, on the night before the memorable battle of Ribblesdale, and there, with Major-General Ashton, matured the plan of those operations which ere the next setting of the sun had proved fatal to the Duke of Hamilton, and tinged the flowing river with the blood of his Scottish followers as deeply as their ancestors had dyed it with English blood three centuries before. In more peaceful times, when the cotton trade was yet in its infancy, hand-loom weaving flourished, and formed the staple industry; but the day of prosperity has passed, and the place has now dwindled down to the condition of a mean and insignificant country village, old-fashioned in aspect and quiet enough for the grass to grow in the narrow and painfully-ill-paved streets that struggle on towards the river. So lifeless looking is it that were it not for a few loiterers standing about the doorway of the “Bull,” and that we now and then hear the clack of the shuttle, it would seem
Like one vast city of the dead,
Or place where all are dumb.
After long centuries of vicissitude and change, except the shadowy memories of the past, the ancient parish church is almost the only object that remains to arrest the steps of the inquiring wayfarer, and this well deserves examination. Tradition hovers about the place, and tells us that after the conversion of King Edwin, the great missionary Paulinus here proclaimed the glad tidings of salvation, in commemoration of which event the symbol of the Christian’s faith—the cross—was planted, contemporaneously with those in the neighbouring churchyard of Whalley; and that the first “modest house of prayer” was erected on the spot once occupied by the temple of Minerva. The late Canon Raines believed the church at Ribchester was coeval in antiquity with that at Whalley. It is the work of many hands and many separate eras, and, as may be supposed, exhibits many different styles of architecture. The oldest part is undoubtedly the chancel, the windows of which are, for the most part, of the narrow lancet style, showing that it must have been built about the year 1220. Portions of the nave and the north aisle exhibit the rich detail of the Decorated period, and the tower bears evidence that it is of later date, the main features being of Perpendicular character. In the south wall of the chancel is an ancient arched sedilia, with a piscina and credence table attached, and on the north side is a solid block of stone, whereon are carved three heraldic shields bearing the arms of the Hoghtons and some of their alliances. This stone is commonly supposed to be a tomb, but it is more probable that it was intended as a seat in times when only the patron and some of his more influential neighbours were so accommodated, the general body of worshippers standing or kneeling during the services of the Church. The Hoghtons, whose arms it bears, were for generations lords of Ribchester, and one of them, Sir Richard Hoghton, in 1405, founded and endowed the chantry on the north side known as the “Lady Chapel,” in which are still preserved the remains of the ancient altar and piscina.
Our story is told, and we now draw the veil over these grass-grown by-ways of the past. Eighteen centuries have rolled by since Agricola planted his eagles on the northern shores of the Ribble; for 400 years the Roman wrought and ruled; Saxon and Dane and Norman have followed in his wake, and each successive race has left its distinctive peculiarities stamped upon the institutions of the country. In that time kingdoms and empires have risen and passed away, generation after generation has come and gone. The old hills still lift their heads to the breezes of heaven, the stream flows on as of yore, and the sun shines with the same splendour as it shone in those ancient days—but where are they who peopled the busy scene?
They are vanished
Into the air, and what seemed corporal melted.
With Cassius we might exclaim,—