our monumental relics, having almost obliterated
their form, the one by diminishing, and the other by adding to, their
substance.

That Sir William was at the "Holy Wars," must, it is evident, be a
corruption of the story, seeing he was born about the year 1280, ten
years after the last of these unfortunate expeditions. The first
croisade was undertaken by Peter the Hermit, 1095; a second, by Louis
VII of France, 1145; a third, under Richard I of England, 1190; a
fourth, under Philip II of France, 1204; a fifth, under Louis IX,
against Egypt, 1248; and the last, under Louis IX., against Tunis,
where he lost his life, 1270. Consequently, the perpetration of these
"Holy" murders, which it is supposed were to the amount of two hundred
millions of human beings, without the acquisition even of Jerusalem to
the Church, must have ceased ere the birth of our "pilgrim." That he was
at "the wars," however, is pretty certain, but they were nearer home.
The machinations of that powerful noble, Thomas, Earl of Lancaster,
together with the disastrous campaign of Edward II. against the Scots,
are sufficiently important events to account for the long absence of Sir
William Bradshaigh, who is supposed to have been taken prisoner during
these unhappy troubles.

Our engraving represents the cross as it exists at present. Some
attention having been drawn to it of late, we may hope this interesting
relic will be suffered to remain uninjured, and not be subjected any
more to those levelling improvements for which this age is so
distinguished.

In the borough of Wigan, near one of the four gates, called
Standishgate--which gates are now removed, and their places occupied by
some undignified-looking posts called "toll-bars"--stands a ruined stone
cross; in appearance, by no means either interesting or remarkable: it
would scarcely be noticed by a casual observer. Yet to this mean-looking
memorial of our faith is attached an eventful story, at which

"The sad might laugh; the merry weep."

It is a tale of which our brief limits will only allow a rapid sketch.
This we have thrown together in the dramatic and narrative form, a
combination more calculated than any other, we believe, to awaken
attention, and bring forth the subject before the mind with truth and
distinctness.

One stormy night, in the autumn of the year 1324, mine host of the Merry
Maypole, a tavern of great resort by the market-cross in the good
borough of Wigan, was a