The Prophecy of Nixon has so often given a name to the productions of authors of different principles, that it is now almost become a doubt whether such a person ever existed. Passing through Cheshire lately, curiosity led me to inquire what credit these legends bore among the natives: and I was not a little surprised to find with what confidence they related events which have come to pass within the memory of many of the inhabitants; and how strictly they adhered to the notion that he would not fail in the rest. Amongst his number was a namesake and descendant of the same family with this famous idiot, who, at this time lives not far from Vale-Royal, from whom I had mostly what follows, which he said he had often heard his father and other ancient people in the country relate. I also obtained a manuscript copy which seemed to bear the appearance of antiquity.—Mr. Gerrard, Mr. Grimes and many others of the inhabitants of the forest of Delamere very obligingly told me what they knew, and confirmed what was past.

John, or Jonathan Nixon, the father of our prophet was a husbandman who held the lease of a farm from the abbey of Vale-Royal, to this day known by the name of Bark, or Bridge-house in the parish of Over near New-Church, and not far from Vale-Royal, on the forest of Delamere, which house is still kept up and venerated by the natives of Cheshire for nothing else that I could hear of but this extraordinary person’s birth, which took place Whitsuntide, and he was christened by the name of Robert, in the year 1467, about the 7th year of Edward IV.; and from his infancy he was remarkable for a stupidity and invincible ignorance, so that it was with great difficulty his parents could instruct him to drive the team, tend the cattle and such sort of rustic employments.

His parents at their decease left the farm and our Robert very young, to the care of an elder brother with whom he first gave an instance of that foreknowledge which renders his name so famous.

As he was driving the team one day, whilst his brother’s man guided the plough, he pricked an ox so very cruelly with his goad that the plough-holder threatened to acquaint his master; on which Nixon said, the ox should not be his brother’s three days hence; which accordingly happened for a life drooping in the estate, the lord of the manor took the same ox for an heriot. [7]

During his residence here he was chiefly distinguished for his simplicity, seldom spoke, and when he did it was with so rough a voice that it was painful to hear him; he was remarkably satirical, and what he said had generally some prophetic meaning. It was about this time that the monk of Vale-Royal having displeased him he said in an angry tone,

When you the arrow come on high,

Soon a raven’s nest will be;

which is well known to have come to pass in the person of the last abbot of that place, whose name was Harrow. Being called before Sir Thomas Holcroft he was put to death for denying the supremacy of King Henry VIII. Having suppressed the abbey the King gave the domain to this knight and his heirs who bore a raven for their crest.

At another time he told them that Norton and Vale-Royal abbeys should meet on Acton-bridge, a thing at that time looked upon as improbable; yet those two abbeys being pulled down the stones were used for the purpose of repairing the bridge; and what was more improbable still a small thorn growing in the abbey-yard would become its door. We may easily guess no one thought this last would ever come to pass, and especially as it was understood by every one at that time of day that thorns never grew so large; but this shows the uncertain meaning of a prophecy, and that what we understand one way is possibly meant quite different; so it happened in this case, for, at the Reformation the savage ravages under the sanction of religion sought nothing but rapine and plunder to enrich themselves; and under the name of banishing superstition and pulling down idolatry, spared not even the most revered lineaments of antiquity, the most sacred piles, the most noble structures, or most valuable records, books written by our most venerable forefathers and heroic ancestors. Pieces of the nicest paint and figures of the best workmanship being all lost, irrecoverably lost in one common fit of destructive zeal which every hue and cry is too apt to raise in the breast of a hot-headed bigot; whilst the truly religious, honest and learned men regret to this day the loss those destructive times have occasioned. Whilst these reached Vale-Royal, this thorn amongst the rest, being cut down was cast in the door-way, to prevent sheep which grazed in the court from going in.

But

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