Ince-hall, the subject of our view, stands about a mile from Wigan, on the left hand of the high road to Bolton.  It is a very conspicuous object, its ancient and well-preserved front generally attracting the notice and inquiry of travellers.

About a mile to the south-east stands another place of the same name once belonging to the Gerards of Bryn.  The manor is now the property of Charles Walmsley, Esq., of Westwood, near Wigan.

The two mansions are sometimes confounded together in topographical inquiries; and the following story, though told of some former proprietor of the Ince to which our plate refers, yet, by its title of the “Manor-house,” would seem as though intended for the other and comparatively less known mansion, the old “Manor-house of Ince,” once inhabited by a family of that name.  But the same traditions are often found connected with localities widely asunder, so that we need not be surprised at the mistake which gossips have made in this particular instance.

It is, after all, quite uncertain whether the event occurred here or not, story-tellers being very apt to fix upon any spot near at hand on which to fasten their marvellous narratives, and to give them a stronger hold on the listener’s imagination.

The story is supposed to be written or related by the chief actor in the occurrences arising out of the “Haunted House.”  The author has thrown the narrative into this form, as he hopes it will vary the style of the traditions, and probably give more character and interest to the events here detailed than they would retain if told by a third person.

The coach set me down at the entrance to a long and unweeded avenue.  A double row of beech-trees saluted me, as I passed, with a rich shower of wet leaves, and shook their bare arms, growling as the loud sough of the wind went through their decayed branches.  The old house was before me.  Its numerous and irregularly-contrived compartments in front were streaked in black and white zig-zags—­vandyked, I think, the fairest jewels of the creation call this chaste and elegant ornament.  It was near the close of a dark autumnal day, and a mass of gable-ends stood sharp and erect against the wild and lowering sky.  Each of these pinnacles could once boast of its admired and appropriate ornament—­a little weathercock; but they had cast off their gilded plumage for ever, and fallen from their high estate, like the once neatly-trimmed mansion which I was now visiting.  A magpie was perched upon a huge stack of chimneys, his black and white plumage rivalling the mottled edifice at his feet.  Perhaps he was the wraith, the departing vision of the decaying fabric; an apparition, insubstantial as the honours and dignities of the ancient and revered house of——!