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 awakened from a laborious slumber.  The door which opened into a low porch projecting from the thatch, was shaken with a vehemence that threatened some fearful catastrophe.  Giles, no longer able to endure these thundering appeals to his hospitality, desired his wife to ascertain the cause of the disturbance.

“Gramercy!  An’ I be to unlatch for every graceless unthrift that chooses to pummel at Giles Dauber’s wicket, I shall have but sorry bedding wi’ an old husband.”

“Old, quotha!—­Old!  I tell thee, dame, that I’m less by a good score of winters than Dan o’ the higher Wient, when he wed old Simon’s daughter.—­Humph!—­She was a merry and a buxom lass; but thou”—­