er owner of the skull--1670--it has been conjectured that he
came to the retired village, in which he was buried, after taking an
active part, on the Republican side, in the Civil War; and that seeing
the way in which the bodies of some of them who had acted with him
were treated after the Restoration, he wished to provide against this
in his own case. But, whatever the previous history of this curious
skull, it has at times caused a good deal of trouble, resenting any
proposal to consign it to the earth, for buried it will not be, no
matter how many attempts are made to do so. Strange to say, most of
this class of skulls behave in the same extraordinary fashion. At a
short distance from Turton Tower--one of the most interesting
structures in the neighbourhood of Bolton--is a farmhouse locally
designated Timberbottom, or the Skull House, so called from the
circumstance that two skulls are or were kept there, one of which was
much decayed, whereas the other appeared to have been cut through by a
blow from some sharp instrument. These skulls, it is said, have been
buried many times in the graveyard at Bradshaw Chapel, but they have
always had to be exhumed, and brought back to the farm-house. On one
occasion, they were thrown into the adjacent river, but to no purpose;
for they had to be fished up and restored to their old quarters before
the ghosts of their owners could once more rest in peace.

A popular cause assigned for this strange behaviour on the part of
certain skulls is that their owners met with a violent death, and that
the avenging spirit in this manner annoys the living, reminding us of
Macbeth's words:

"Blood hath been shed ere now, i' the olden time,
Ere human statute purg'd the gentle weal;
Ay, and since too, murders have been performed
Too terrible for the ear; the times have been
That, when the brains were out, the man would die
And there an end; but now they rise again,
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,
And push us from our stools. This is more strange
Than such a murder is."

Hence, a romantic and tragic story is told of two skulls which have
long haunted an old house near Ambleside. It appears that a small
piece of ground, known as Calgrath, was owned by a humble farmer,
named Kraster Cook, and his wife Dorothy. But their little inheritance
was coveted by a wealthy magistrate, Myles Phillipson, who, unable to
induce them to part with it, swore "he'd