s here perpetrated. The prevailing tradition warrants
our belief. However fanciful and extravagant the filling up of the
picture, common rumour still preserves untouched the general outline.
It is said that, sometime about the thirteenth or fourteenth century,
a wicked uncle destroyed the lawful heirs of this goodly
possession--two orphan children that were left to his care--by
throwing them over a balcony into the moat, that he might seize on the
inheritance. Such is the story which, to this day, retains its hold on
the popular mind; and ever after, it is said, the house was the
reputed haunt of a troubled and angry spirit, until means were taken
for its removal, or rather its expulsion. But upon the inhuman deed
itself we shall not dilate, inasmuch as the period is too remote, and
the events are too vague, for our purpose.

The house built by Bernulf Clegg had passed, with many alterations and
renewals, into the possession of the Ashtons of Little Clegg. About
the year 1620 the present edifice was built by Theophilus Ashton; and
thirty years had scarcely elapsed from its erection to the date of our
story. Though the original dwelling had, with one or two exceptions,
been pulled down, yet symptoms of "the boggart" were still manifest in
the occasional visitations and annoyances to which the inmates were
subject.

The hues of evening were spread out, like a rich tapestry, above and
behind the long unpicturesque line of hills, the lower acclivities of
Blackstonedge, opposite to the stately mansion of Clegg Hall. The
square squat tower of Rochdale Church peered out from the dark trees,
high on its dim eyrie, in the distance, towards the south-west, below
which a wan hazy smoke indicated the site of that thriving and
populous town. To the right, the heavy blue ridge of mountains,
bearing the appropriate name of Blackstonedge, had not yet put on its
cold, grey, neutral tint; but the mass appeared to rise abruptly from
the green enclosures stretching to its base, in strong and beautiful
contrast of colour, such as painters love to express on the mimic
canvas. It was a lovely evening in October; one of Nature's parting
smiles, ere she envelops herself in the horrors and the gloom of
winter. So soft and balmy was the season that the wild flowers
lingered longer than usual in the woods and copses where they dwelt.
In the gardens some of the spring blossoms had already unfolded. The
wallflowers and polyanthuses had looked out