We are tempted to conclude this description with the words of John, Lord Muncaster, who himself so greatly contributed to its renovation. Upon being requested to give an outline of its beauties, he replied that it consisted of "wood, park, lawn, valley, river, sea, and mountain." The reason or excuse we give for introducing within our Lancashire series this tradition, of which the occurrences took place in a neighbouring county, is, that the family was originally native to our own. By the village of Pennington, situated about midway between Dalton and Ulverstone, is the Castle Hill, the residence of this family before the Conquest. The area of the castle-yard appears to have been an octagon or a square, with obtuse angles, about forty-five yards in diameter. The south and east sides have been defended by a ditch about ten yards wide, and by a vallum of earth, still visible. There are no vestiges of the ancient building. It stood apparently on the verge of a precipice, at the foot of which flows a brook with great rapidity. The side commands an extensive view of the sea-coast and beacons, and was excellently situated for assembling the dependants in cases of emergency. The name is diversely written in ancient writings, as Penyngton, Penington, Pennington, and in Doomsday Book _Pennegetun_, perhaps from _Pennaig_, in British "a prince or great personage," to which the Saxon termination _tun_ being added, forms Pennegetun, since smoothed into Pennington. PART FIRST. "Come hither, Sir John de Pennington, Come hither, and hearken to me; Nor silver, nor gold, nor ladye-love, Nor broad lands I give unto thee." "I care not for silver, I care not for gold, Nor for broad lands, nor fair ladye; But my honour and troth, and my good broadsword, Are the king's eternally." "Come hither, Sir John, thou art loyal and brave," Again the monarch spake; "In my trouble and thrall, in the hour of pain, Thou pity didst on me take. "The white rose withers on every bough, And the red rose rears its thorn; But many a maid our strife shall rue, And the babe that is yet unborn. "I've charged in the battle with horse and lance, But I've doffed the warrior now; And never again may helmet of steel Bind this burning, aching brow! "Oh, had I been born of a simple churl, And a serving-wench for my mate, I had whistled as blithe as yon knave that sits By Muncaster's Castle gate! "Would that my crown were a bonnet of blue, And my sceptre yon shepherd's crook, I would honour, dominion, and power eschew, In this holy and quiet nook. "For England's crown is a girdle of blood, A traitor is every gem; And a murderer's eye each jewel that lurks In that kingly diadem!