LEGENDS
OF
LANCASHIRE.
“Round the fire such Legends go.”
SIR W. SCOTT.
LONDON:
WHITTAKER, AND CO., AVE MARIA LANE,
AND
R. COCKER, MARKET-PLACE, WIGAN.
MDCCCXLI.
TO
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
LADY STANLEY,
THE “LEGENDS OF LANCASHIRE”
ARE,
WITH HER LADYSHIP’S KIND PERMISSION,
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED.
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
The Battle of Wigan Lane 6
The Witches of Furness 69
The Devil’s Wall 91
The Prophetess and the Rebel 155
The Spectre Coach 229
The Cross and Lady Mabel 243
Lancaster Castle 303
PREFACE.
A _Preface_ before an Introduction seems sufficiently impudent.
It is like popping our _face_ in at the door for a short
reconnoitre, before we introduce ourselves. Be it so!
The Chronicler of the “Legends of Lancashire” has no apology to
offer, except to his palsied hands, for taking up the pen. He is
not a Paul Pry, appearing before the public, with his perpetual
non-intrusion plea. He imagines that his motives for writing the
Legends are distinctly enough stated in the following Prospectus.
“Lancashire, of all Counties in England, is the most interesting
to the antiquarian. Its rivers once flowed with blood;--its houses
were towers, castles, or abbeys;--its men were heroes;--its ladies
were witches! But now, what a change! The county is commercial.
Where the trumpet of war called Arthur to his victories, the noisy
engine is roaring. The fortresses have become factories; the
abbeys--workhouses;--the heroes--clerks, merchants, and bankers.
The ladies, indeed, profess to be what they were in former ages,
and still call themselves ‘Lancashire Witches.’ It may not be
safe for the ‘Chronicler,’ aged as he is, to speak lightly of
the power of their spells; they may _yet_ be of a deadly nature
to him--for witches love revenge. Report says, however, that
they cannot use the broomstick on which their ancestresses were
accustomed to perform their nightly wanderings in the air; but the
Chronicler is not so ungallant as to conclude, that it is because
they have broken it over their husbands’ shoulders. The witches
of a former age were accustomed, with awful incantations, to mix
their drugs:--pooh!--those of this age infuse a cup of comfortable
tea--but surely not to chatter scandal over it.
“Alas! the age of chivalry and romance is gone from Lancashire. Its
bones are in the tomb of history;--but some are too gay for such
_grave_ meditations. Legends alone can bring it to view, amidst all
the light of poetry; and their wand of enchantment may call into
existence a creation, beautiful yet real.
“The Chronicler of the forthcoming ‘Legends’ undertakes to present
his readers with a series upon individuals, events, and places,
all connected with a former age. Charles, with cavaliers of every
shade:--roundheads, from Cromwell down to his groom:--the old
tower, wherein were gallant soldiers and fair ladies:--the field
of battle fiercely contested;--all shall appear, described, he
flatters himself, with accuracy and faithfulness. He shall never
sacrifice historical facts, or characters, to fiction. History,
accurately sketched, he believes to be the truest and most
beautiful romance, and there is enough of that in Lancashire to
dispense with false colour and glitter. Places, dates, and names,
as well as characters, shall be accurate.
“He begs leave to say one word of himself. He is an old man, and
this he conceives to be an advantage. The torch of tradition is
most becoming in a trembling hand; and its light falls with a
strange harmony over the white locks of the Chronicler, while he
totters on through the regions of the past, long forgotten; and of
which he himself seems to be the genius.”
He candidly confesses that he has not yet fulfilled his promise.
That could not be done in the first volume. But the next shall be
a continuous series of Legends connected with the civil wars, and
illustrative of the characters of the opposing leaders. And in
these he shall avoid all discussions about the merits of Roundhead
and Cavalier. Vandyke might have given immortality to the features
of Cromwell, as well as those of Charles, without deciding on the
questions--ought Charles to have been beheaded, and was Cromwell
an usurper. So the Chronicler undertakes, even in his portraits
of leading characters, and in his sketches of events, to steer
clear of party spirit. Still the pledge does not prohibit him
from weighing the military and other talents of their respective
leaders. Should he say that Cromwell, beyond all comparison as a
man of genius and a soldier, was above Charles, it must not be
inferred that he is a Roundhead. Or should he paint Charles as a
more handsome and attractive man than Noll with the wart, he must
not be called a Cavalier.
The Chronicler had no such design as has been attributed to him,
of “mercilessly blackening the character of Cromwell.” The critic,
evidently, had been gazing long upon some very sunny portrait
of the Protector, and, therefore, when he came to a more sober
one, his eyes being still dazzled, naturally thought it dark and
“black.” Besides, really the man of the newspaper must not get
deadly angry at the hint that his eyes are none of the best.
That the Chronicler is free from any such design may be seen by the
high character which Cromwell sustains in the Legend of “Lancaster
Castle.” If it be thought that there is any contradiction between
that and the “Battle of Wigan Lane,” it is sufficient to reply,
that the Cromwell of 1644, and the Cromwell of 1651 are very
different personages indeed. When first he came into notice, none
of his enemies could suspect the sincerity of his profession of
republican principles, but before the above-mentioned battle, even
some of his friends had abandoned their confidence in his honesty.
There now only remains to say a few words regarding the contents
of this volume. The Legends are all founded on authenticated
traditions, and at the end of the work the documents shall be
given. It is singular that the most improbable of them--the
“Devil’s Wall,” although a most perfect tradition in all its parts,
has never been known beyond the immediate vicinity of Ormskirk. The
Legend founded upon it follows the tradition without one deviation
except in the name and occupation of Gideon Chiselwig. The wall may
still be seen. The “Witches of Furness,” are the only two ladies
whom the Chronicler knows, that are unlike to the real Lancashire
Witches, and yet, the Legend is true. The neighbourhood of Furness,
it may be supposed, could produce a more noble kind of Witchcraft,
than the far-famed Pendle-hill. The latter abounds with nothing
but witches, the down upon whose lips might have formed the brooms
on which they careered through the air, when they had failed to
throw their bridle over some sleepy wretch, and transform him into
a horse. But a Legend of this kind of witchcraft shall afterwards
be given. The “Cross and Lady Mabel,” although founded on the same
genealogical account as Mr. Roby’s “Mab’s Cross,” is essentially
and altogether different in its details; and besides, gives the
tradition of the erection of the cross, which has, hitherto,
been unknown. And here the Chronicler returns his thanks to that
gentleman for the pleasure which his “Traditions of Lancashire”
have afforded him. Lancashire abounds with so many traditions, that
five or six Chroniclers might each glean a few volumes. This forms
the only excuse for following Mr. Roby.
To the County Press the best thanks of the Chronicler are due, for
the high approbation they have bestowed on an anonymous work.
INTRODUCTION.
The Chronicler of the forthcoming “Legends” is, perhaps, more of
an Antiquary, in disposition and habits, than many whose names
are well known in Societies, which have been formed for objects
of interesting research. He inhabits an old castellated building,
which was both a fortress and a mansion, in some former age. Time
has passed roughly over its proportions: he has even broken the
dial, which marked out his own flight. Still, many relics of the
past are left: and limbs of warlike images, and rude inscriptions,
partly effaced, may yet be seen. The chisel, or even the plaster
of modern art, have never approached its walls. No flower has
sought shelter amidst its mantling ivy:--shelter, it should never
find,--it would instantly be rooted up. Within, no partitions have
been erected, to silence the sacred echoes of the spacious hall.
The spirits of sound, which tenant the dwelling, would take flight
upon the slightest change. No carpet of richest manufacture, has
dared to cover the silent footsteps of the fair and the brave,
who once to the minstrel’s harp, and the sigh of love, trod many
a gallant measure in the dance. The windows on the terrace, when
opened, receive no sound from the distance, save the old echo
of the lover’s lute, greeting the maiden as she listened in her
chamber, with fluttering heart, to the fond tale. When seen from
without, her handkerchief seems to float--the signal of peace and
hope. To the Chronicler, there is no silence in these deserted
scenes. From him, the sixteenth century has never departed. The
echoes are still of merriment and war. Knights and squires,
successful in wooing or fighting, move before him. He mingles,
with the delight of reality, in the banquet and the dance--and
then rushes to the siege and the battle. Could the reader obtain
admission to his apartment he would, as by a flash of lightning,
be favoured with a glance--it might be transient to his eye, but
it could never be darkened in his mind--of olden times. He would
converse with one, who has never lived for modern change, and in
whose white locks, and obsolete dress, he should behold a living
specimen of a former century, as if it had literally descended from
that time. The Chronicler must be excused for speaking of himself.
Who _could_ forbid any of the followers of Cromwell, or Charles,
to arise--the one to recite with solemn countenance and lengthened
drawl; and the other with a dissipated air of pleasant vice--their
respective achievements, whilst their manner, and costume are
thoroughly scanned? What cavalier would ban the Protector, even
Nol with his nose and ominous wart, from again appearing, to
reveal to us those stern and inflexible features, and to discourse
to us, in one of those intricate speeches, which none could
understand,--for, like his own dark and wily spirit, they baffled
all knowledge? Or what republican could say “nay,” as the king’s
court was brought into view, with the handsome, though melancholy
martyr, at its head, surrounded as he was, unfortunately, by
gilded butterflies? In like manner, the Chronicler hopes, that no
one _can_ be inclined to prevent a specimen of these times from
intruding himself, for a little on the attention of his readers.
He is now seated, writing from an inkhorn said to have been
the property of General Fairfax; and leaning on a table, once
heavily laden with a feast, of which royalists and republicans
alike partook, on a day of truce. Other relics of that time are
around him; but there is one dearer than all besides--a lovely
daughter--a descendant, by the mother’s side, of an ancient family
of distinction, from whom Charles II., during his wanderings,
received shelter, and subsequently, assistance to mount the throne.
She sings to him the ballads of other days, and they revive again
in the echo of her music. For her, as well as for her father, this
is but the sixteenth century; and though only in her seventeenth
summer, she rejects all the amusements of more modern times.
He has resolved, out of fondness for the days that are gone, as
well as affection for his daughter, that no lover fresh from
the approbation of his tailor, and the flattery of his mirror,
practised in bows and compliments acquired at the theatre--shall
ever find admission to his beloved Jane. He would sooner give her
to an ourang-outang than a fop. The favoured suitor must, indeed,
be handsome, learned, and brave; he must breathe a song of love
in the good old style, beneath her lattice, when the moon and
stars are shedding their light over the old mansion. Nor must he
be an Antiquary, in the modern sense of the word. He may enter
with the long essay, which he read to the British Association, in
his pocket, peeping out instead of the handkerchief of the dandy;
he may drag behind his name, all the letters of the alphabet, as
honorary titles; the Chronicler shall lead him to the door by
a way, to detail the curiosities of which, must obtain for him
additional laurels. He shall, to a certainty, likewise qualify him
for describing the strength of an oak cudgel. Nor must he be a
silly Poet, a thing distilled of sighs, flames, water, and earth,
who should have lived in the moon to address sonnets to her, and
not on earth, since the envious clouds prevent her from seeing and
reading them, as well as the brown paper of a garret window. Should
any such find his way here, the Chronicler promises to compliment
his head with a salutation from a good round of old England’s beef.
No, no, the favoured suitor must be of a different genus; and his
lute, moreover, must have no resemblance to the sighing guitar of
Venice, or the rude whistle of England. And the Chronicler has
sometimes been of opinion, that his daughter has made the same
resolution. Of late, he has caught the sound of a manly serenade,
and he has observed her blush, and occasionally leave the room.
Nay, he has met her rambling through the adjoining thickets, with
the son of an old friend, whose romance is in the past, and he
has blessed them both. Yes, handsome and talented is ----. He had
written the name, when Jane, looking over his shoulder in womanly
curiosity, beheld it. Shrieking, she immediately snatched the pen
from his hand, and scratched through it the above stroke, and gave
her fond old father a playful blow: yet now she seems thoughtful
and sorry for having violated that dear name, by blotting it, and
is half inclined to rewrite it herself. Fear not! Fate will draw no
such ominous mark over it, and all that binds it to you is love and
happiness.
To confide a secret to the reader, since the last sentence was
written, the Chronicler has received a hint that the proof sheets
of the following “Legends” may be read by his son-in-law! Nay, this
very night, the lovers shall be formally betrothed, over a Bible,
which has been stained by the blood of its former possessor--a holy
martyr--and the sword of an old English patriot shall be placed in
the young man’s hand; therewith to defend religion--a wife--and a
country.
* * * * *
The ceremony is performed, and both press the old man to read the
first Legend. He gives his assent, and, at the same time, orders
chairs to be set for his dear friends, the Public; whom he has
respectfully invited, and whose attention he now humbly craves to
THE LEGEND OF THE BATTLE OF WIGAN LANE.
Few battlements now remain, of one of the best fortified castles
that ever defended Lancashire, and the King. But two centuries ago,
and Houghton Tower, situated at the distance of four miles and a
half to the west of Blackburn, stood proudly, and seemed in itself,
without the assistance of garrison or artillery, to be capable of
maintaining a successful struggle with the power of any enemy. All
around were peaceful vales, where primitive simplicity dwelt; and
often has the traveller, at eve, laid himself down on the green
knolls, beside the gently flowing stream of the classic Darwen,
in order to become as happy as every object near him; to enjoy the
gambols of the lambs frisking about; and to view the milkmaid, as,
with a light step, and a merry heart, she tripped across the glen.
He has then fancied himself, not only retired for ever from the
theatre of war, but likewise from the mart of commerce; and happy
has he been that there was an Eden sacred to his imagination, at
the very time when the face as well as the heart of his country was
blighted by civil strife, and stained by the blood of its own sons,
shed by the murdering hand of their brothers. But suddenly--to
jar upon all the rural sounds by which he was greeted--the shrill
trumpet was heard loud and near, startling the silent echoes of
the green woods on the banks of the river, and on emerging from
the vale, the fortresses of Houghton Tower were seen, dark and
sullen, against the fading light of the sky. The challenge of the
warder, and the fastening of the draw-bridge, were of war, and
entirely dispelled the previous calm. Who could have imagined
that in the bosom of such beautiful vales there could be a mass
of frowning rock, so huge as that on which the castle was built?
or, that amongst a class of venerable patriarchs, distinguished
for simplicity of manners and life, there could be the restless
spirits of war to fortify and maintain it? And yet it seemed to be
a castle of nature’s building, and not of art’s; for tall trees
over-shadowed its turrets, and around its base the Darwen flowed
over its deepest channel.
It had been erected by Sir Thomas Houghton, towards the beginning
of Elizabeth’s reign, and the gallant knight had always supported
a garrison in it, evidently for no other purpose than to fire a
salute, at every anniversary of his birth day. But he died, and
so did his queen: and upon the accession of the learned James to
the throne, folios became the only battlements. His descendant,
Sir Gilbert, was honoured with a visit from that monarch, in
his celebrated “Progress” through Lancashire; and from the
tower of Houghton, the modern Solomon fired his wit from an old
Latin mortar. “Our opinion” said the grave fool and the merry
sage, “whilk hath been kept for some time, as our jester Horace
(the oyster eater should have lived in our court) recommends,
in our desk,”--and here he pointed to his brow, with his usual
self-complacency--“our opinion is,” he continued, “that Houghton
Tower is just like a Scotch pudding--ha!--ha!--Sir Gilbert;--your
castle is a pudding, and you are chief butler, and all your men are
cooks! _We_ say so.”
But another reign brought different scenes. Upon the disputes of
Charles and the Parliament, a strong garrison was again supported
in the tower, and the costly velvet which had decked the “Progress”
of James, through the ponderous gateway, was removed from the
trampling hoof of the war steed. The Parliamentary army besieged
it, but it made a bold defence, until, by accident, the magazine
of powder in the strongest battlement, was ignited; and as the
assailants were making a vigorous effort, all at once three of the
buttresses were blown up, and Cromwell’s troops were masters of
Houghton Tower, having taken all the garrison as prisoners. Their
governor, Sir Gilbert, had fallen in the assault. His son Richard
was heir, and the rightful lord of the tower, but he was confined
in a dungeon, along with his youngest daughter, Anne--for all her
sisters were married. But the wily Cromwell, when he was compelled
to lead his troops to Ireland, secretly advised his officers in the
garrison to give out that they were willing to conspire against
the Parliament, and to return to their allegiance, in order that
he might be privy to every intended movement of the Royalists.
The plot was successful. As soon as Cromwell had departed from
England, (he never had resided in the tower,) this resolution was
made known, and to prove its sincerity, Sir Richard Houghton was
restored to his claims as governor of Houghton Tower, which was
once more considered as a strong-hold of the Royalists; while
virtually it was in the power of spies, who secretly conveyed
all intelligence of any loyal movement which was, or had been
concerting,--to the General.
The scene of our Legend opens in the year 1651, on a beautiful
evening towards the end of August, when the setting rays of the
autumn sun fell, with a luxurious light, on the grey fortresses,
and the floating banner. The fair Anne was walking alone, on the
eastern battlement which overlooked the valley. She was of slight
proportions, and her age could not have exceeded sixteen, though
she was possessed of a mind nobly accomplished, in which genius
and passion were now beginning to develope themselves, in beauty
and power. Her features were eminently noble, and beautiful; yet
changing to every expression, as if they themselves thought and
felt. In one mood, she might have sat to the painter, for a true
image of the laughing and innocent Hebe; one who would have danced
away an immortality in smiles, with no other wreathes than her own
beautiful hair, and no other company than her own thoughts and
love: more gay and gladsome than a child of earth,--the genius of
witchery. In another, for that of Melancholy, her long dark locks
hanging over a face so pale, with the colour and the life of hope
dashed from it, as was hope itself, from her mind. Her form was
moulded in the most perfect symmetry of beauty,--not luxurious, but
spiritual.
The weeds of mourning for her mother, who had died a few months
before, had been thrown aside; but the paleness of her cheeks, and
the tremor of her lips, spoke the sorrow of her heart. Her locks
waved to the breeze. Her eye kindled with enthusiasm, as, quickly
placing her small hand upon her marble brow, she exclaimed, “how
tranquil and how beautiful is earth now. Yonder cottages, with
their ivy porches, around which children are sporting, appear as if
they were the habitations of young spirits. England is blessed in
her cottages--but ah!--in her palaces!--no crown for the sun’s rays
to fall upon! Once the sun gleamed upon the crown placed carelessly
amidst the state ornaments, in the palace:--without, upon the gory
head of the king, which had once been invested by it; and last of
all, upon his headless trunk. Oh! that his son--now returned, might
be blessed with conquest.”
At this moment, her eye was arrested by a reflection of light
in the distance. It was the gleam of arms, from a small body of
soldiers; over whom the banner of Charles was waving.
In her joy, Anne Houghton clasped her hands, and fervently said,
“Thank God! all are not traitors.” She turned round, and met the
searching glance of Colonel Seaton, one of Cromwell’s spies.
“Fair lady--yonder troop is a loyal body. But--” and his
countenance darkened with thought as he spoke,--“they have now
encamped, and three horsemen leave the line, and are galloping in
the direction of the tower. Well--for their reception!”
There seemed to be a concealed meaning in his tones, and in haste
he strode away. Three men were now seen approaching the avenue
which led to the gateway. The foremost seemed to have no armour,
but a sword. He wore no helmet, but a low cap, with a white
plume. He was clad in a mourning garb, and over his left arm his
cloak was flung, as for a shield. Keen was his eye, though he had
evidently passed the meridian of life, and the fair lady of the
tower almost believed that she only stood at a short distance from
him--so quick was its flash. Behind him was a handsome youth,
equipped in light panoply, who seemed fitted either for contesting
the battlefield--or for sighing, not unpitied, in a lady’s bower.
Light was the rein which he passed over his charger, and yet, as
it plunged furiously, the rider sat with indifference. The third
horseman, who seemed altogether absorbed with papers on which he
was glancing, was the most stalwart. His coat of mail was clasped
over a breast, full and prominent, and his horse startled whenever
his mailed hand was placed upon its mane, to urge it forward. His
eye never sought the fortress of the tower, until they had arrived
at the drawbridge--when the warder’s horn sounded the challenge,
and Sir Gilbert appeared on the walls. The first horseman called
out, “The Earl of Derby, with two friends, in the service of
Charles.”
The drawbridge arose instantly, and, as they entered, Sir Richard
gave the Earl a warm welcome. “In mourning, my noble friend? Is the
Countess of Derby in health?”
“Yes,” was the reply--“But I wear these weeds for my late
unfortunate master: and never shall they be exchanged--unless for
a court dress, to appear with my heroic lady, in the palace of his
son.”
“Never,” was the ejaculation of Colonel Seaton, who now bowed his
homage to the loyal nobleman and his companions. The word seemed
ominous--but it was intended to be _more_ than ominous. A tear
trembled in the Earl’s eye, and, although delicate was the hand
which brushed it away, that hand seemed formed for the sword.
“Excuse my weakness,” he added. “Loyalty costs me much; but for
every tear which falls on the ground, that ground shall drink, till
it be glutted, aye, dyed with the enemy’s blood.” This was said in
no threatening tone, but, from its very mildness, was thrilling
with the sternest revenge, and breathing the spirit of the
deadliest resolution; as the still calm, sometimes truly announces
the darkness and fury of the tempest.
“Sir Thomas Tyldesley and a distant relation, whom he calls his
nephew;--dear to me for themselves, as well as for their loyalty,
accompany me,” said Derby, introducing them to Sir Richard; “we
met at Preston, in the royal name, once more to try the cause of
Charles.”
“My sword,” replied Sir Thomas to the praise of the governor, “once
intervened between the king and death; and gladly would I have
intervened myself, to save him from his shameful end. I can do the
same for his son: my nephew will support me,” and he looked with
emotion upon his young relative. They informed Sir Richard, that at
the head of six hundred men, they were on their march to possess
themselves of Wigan, and then to join the army of the king. Colonel
Seaton councilled them to delay their march till the morrow, and
then some of the garrison might be prepared to accompany them.
Meanwhile, he assured them that a messenger should be sent to the
camp, to make known this resolution. He stepped aside to one of his
men, and, in a low and firm voice said, “Mount horse ere another
minute is gone, and meet Colonel Lilbourne, and bid him haste to
seize upon Wigan. Stay--” as he bethought himself, “your course
may be seen at present; in half-an-hour you will be favoured by
the night,--and ride, as from death!” “Perhaps,” he muttered to
himself, as he moved on to join the Earl, “Lilbourne may give them
a welcome, if his friendship be hasty, in these very walls.”
Sir Richard Houghton had now conducted the new comers up to the
battlements, through ponderous arches, and had asked Derby’s
blessing upon his beautiful daughter. Kind was the Earl’s language
to the maiden, as, gently taking her arm, he put it within that of
young Tyldesley; “Let the smiles of beauty always honour and reward
the young and brave royalist!”
“Old soldiers likewise honour the youthful royalist,”--interrupted
Colonel Seaton, who had joined them--“and perhaps high honours
await him on the morrow.” These words were not heard by young
Tyldesley, who was gallantly paying his compliments to the lady.
Her eye never wandered from the ground, even to gaze upon the
handsome cavalier, until they had entered the great hall, and she
was led by him to a seat in the recess, with the casement opening
upon the woody precipices of the tower. She then stole a glance at
him, as he gazed upon the scene without. He seemed agitated with
some remembrance newly awakened. Anne’s eyes were still upon him,
until, at length, he broke from his reverie.
“Excuse my rudeness, fair lady:--the times prevent us from giving
the attention we are proud to show. In the midst of courtesy,
aye, and of tenderer duties, the trumpet calls us away, or some
painful remembrance comes, like a cloud, over our joy. Three
years ago I was cloistered within the walls of Oxford, striving
successfully for literary honours. My sister,--fair and beautiful
as the lady-love of a poet’s dream; and pure as an angel--for she
transformed earth into a holy spot, and then fondly clung to
every flower which grew there, of hope and love--came from home
to visit me. It was towards sunset, in summer, when she entered
my apartment. She rushed not forth to meet me, as was her wont.
She was pale, and her golden ringlets were disordered;--but her
countenance was intensely thoughtful, and she assumed all the
affection of an elder sister, kissed my brow, and asked God to
bless her brother Henry. Cold were her lips, as I fondly pressed
them. I put her hand within my bosom, and encircled her slight
frame with my arm. I begged her to tell me her distress. I had
not a friend to inquire respecting; we were two orphans; and,
therefore, I knew that the causes of her anguish were bound up in
herself. ‘Oh! Eleanor,’ I said, ‘how different is this meeting
from our last; in this very room, when you bounded in, all fondly
and playfully, and gave me a kiss for every medal of honour I had
won.--See,’ and I showed her many which I had won since--‘will
you refuse me a sister’s reward?’ She bent forward--her arms were
twined around my neck, when her head sunk on her bosom. ‘Oh! tell
me!’ I exclaimed with an earnestness almost frantic, ‘why are
you thus disturbed?’ She slowly raised her face, with a strange
expression, and asked, ‘Does a nerve of my frame tremble, brother?
do mine eyes drop one little tear? why, then, should ye suppose me
distressed?’ Here a bell tolled suddenly--it was no requiem for
the dead--but for a noble youth who was shortly to be so.
“She started up, and exclaimed, ‘it is time!--brother, ask me not a
question, but silently accompany me.’
“‘Where?’ I inquired.
“‘To the place of execution!’
“The truth now flashed upon me. She took my arm and we left the
room. It was a beautiful night, so like the present. I lamented the
fate of him who must bid adieu to earth, when it was so lovely,
and on a scaffold! and I longed to know the tie which bound my
sister to him, but I dared not question her. We had already left
the suburbs of Oxford, and the dense crowd was in sight at a short
distance. She broke the silence, ‘Henry, do not hold me, when I
quit your arm; do not, for my mother’s sake. That vow is sacred to
us both!’ We had now reached the place of death. The sun gleamed
upon the block. I thanked God that he was to be beheaded as a
gentleman, and not hanged as a dog. He came upon the scaffold with
a proud step, and a haughty mien. His head was uncovered, and dark
were the beautiful locks, which hung over his neck;--but that head,
which might have lain on my sister’s bosom, was to be as a piece
of wood for the axe of the executioner! My sister never trembled,
but gazed upon him. He started as he looked upon the block! He
approached,--the executioner was about to unbuckle the sword of
the condemned cavalier, when, with a proud glance, he forbade him.
He knelt:--his lips moved in prayer. His eyes fell upon the marks
of military honour on his breast. ‘Sir William,’ he said, ‘thou art
no more.’
“At his name, my sister gave one scream of madness; he started
up at the sound, and his eyes were upon Eleanor. ‘My Eleanor!’
he exclaimed: she rushed to the scaffold; but in a moment he was
bound down to the block, and the axe fell, but not before a loud
shout came from his lips, ‘God save King Charles!’ and there was my
sister kneeling over him, and then attempting to snatch the head
from the executioner, in her frenzy. I sprung forward--I heard a
fall--Eleanor was dead upon the headless trunk! I rushed home with
the lifeless body in my arms, and there pronounced a vow of revenge
upon the rebels, by whom I had lost a sister.
“My books were disregarded, and I joined my brave uncle. But--this
night is the exact type of that awful night! and I--have no sister!”
He buried his face in his hands. In sympathy, tears were flowing
down the cheeks of Anne. He raised his eyes, and blessed her for
one tear shed over the memory of Eleanor. He even ventured to take
her hand--and it was not withdrawn--“Excuse me,” he said, “I
cannot leave the subject soon, as I cannot leave her grave when I
visit it, until the dews are falling upon my prostrate form. It
is sacred. You remind me of her. And will the fair Anne Houghton
refuse to be unto me what my Eleanor was?”
At this moment the warriors entered the hall, and a council was
held, as to their future movements, when Sir Richard bade his
daughter give orders to the domestics for the feast. In an hour the
entertainment was ready, and the hall lighted. Sir Thomas Tyldesley
sat at the table in full armour, and at every movement which he
made, the clang of his armour was heard, amidst the sober mirth
of the feast. Colonel Seaton inadvertently remarked “The Lord’s
people of old were commanded to eat the passover with their staves
in their hands, ready to depart; and his people, now, must eat with
their swords in their hands.”
“Friend,” replied the knight, “that speech savours too much of a
roundhead, who must always be quoting scripture. I once knew one of
them, whom Cromwell advised to read carefully the account of Jael
and Sisera; and after he had done so, he would inquire at every
old woman whom he met, whether she had got such articles as a long
nail, a heavy hammer, and a strong arm; and told her to operate
upon the head of a cavalier, assuring her ‘that the Lord had
delivered all such into her hand,’ and that she would henceforth
be a mother in Israel. No, no, colonel,--I do not say let soldiers
leave piety to monks, but let them, I say, leave sermons, homilies,
and long faces.”
“Well spoken,” said Sir Richard Houghton, “but our friend hates the
roundheads.”
“I do,” replied the Colonel, “God save King Charles.”
At this moment a blast was heard, and Sir Richard arose, when
Seaton again interrupted them. “Keep your seat, worthy knight, and
entertain your guests. I will go and parley with the new comer; it
is the blast of a royalist.” He strode away saying in his heart,
“God save Cromwell.”
In a short time he returned with the stranger, who was of an
athletic frame, altogether destitute of grace, though not of
dignity; for he strode into the hall with a commanding air. His eye
moved restlessly over the forms of the warriors, when the Earl of
Derby started up, with his hand on his sword.
Colonel Seaton stepped between them, “You behold a friend, noble
Earl! the governor of a loyal castle, who has come to deliberate
with Sir Richard Houghton, in reference to their garrison: not
knowing whether they ought to join the King at Worcester, or keep
to their castle.”
The Earl was satisfied, and only remarked that “he had been
deceived by a resemblance.”
The stranger was invited cordially to partake of the cheer; during
which he spoke but little, and yet seemed interested in the
conversation. At length Sir Thomas Tyldesley proposed that a song
should be sung, adding “that amongst royalists there were to be
found the only true poets.”
“Nay, Sir Thomas,” replied the Earl of Derby, “the republicans can
boast of one whose name shall be the boast of our country to latest
ages, whose lays are wild and majestic. When in London, I was
desirous of seeing the man who wrote so bitterly against the king;
expecting to see a fiend in human disguise. His house was mean: I
thought that he surely had not taken bribes, otherwise he might
have lived in a magnificent mansion. As I entered, two females were
writing, and the sound of an organ came from the further end of the
room. I turned there, and beheld a beautiful man, seated behind
the faded hangings, with a countenance so serene and angelic, and
his eyes looking up to heaven, as if his soul was ascending on the
breath of the music. He was dictating to the ladies, who called him
father. He moved not his eyes: his face was pale, but every muscle
seemed to vibrate with thought and feeling. His hair was parted in
front, over a beautifully formed brow, and fell in brown ringlets
over his shoulders. He could not be young--there was so much of
thought:--he could not be old--there was so much of happiness.
‘Dorothy,’ he said, ‘I have given you the last sentence:--subscribe
Joannis Miltonus.’”
“Milton!” exclaimed the stranger with enthusiasm. “John Milton!”
“His daughter,” the Earl continued, “beheld me; they told their
father that an armed stranger was present. His sword was on the
table--he grasped it--but instantly laid it down. ‘He is welcome,
though I cannot see him. All is dark--dark--not even shadows. But
your errand, sir stranger?’--and his sightless orbs seemed to turn
upon me, with the sweetest, and yet most dignified expression. I
dared not announce with what views I had come, but I went close
to his side, and took the hand (it scarcely touched as if it were
human) which was stained with my master’s blood, and I kissed it
in profoundest admiration. I remained for hours, happy, useful
hours. He arose, as I prepared to depart; I yet see his form; I yet
hear his step. He led me to the door, and blessed me. I have often
thought of the interview, and as I passed the Darwen a few hours
ago, I repeated his lines--though they were commemorative of the
king’s defeat,--
‘And Darwen’s streams with blood of Scots embrued.’”
Here the stranger was much moved, and frequently repeated to
himself, “my Milton! my Milton!”
“Yes,” added Sir Thomas Tyldesley, “it was on such a night as this,
three years ago, that Cromwell defeated the Duke of Hamilton.”
“It was,” replied the stranger, averting his gaze.
The conversation now began to turn upon their warlike plans,
and Henry Tyldesley, conceiving that he might be more agreeably
occupied, led Anne to a seat in the recess, where our fair readers,
we doubt not, have been frequently wishing them to be, together and
alone.
Music was heard from the battlements, through the casement; the
moon shed her softening light upon the young hero’s armour, and
he almost fancied that the rays were the fingers of his beautiful
companion. They spoke not, though their eyes had met, and though
the emotions with which they were lighted up, could not be
mistaken. They loved fondly, and to them both it was that holy and
rapturous thing--first love--which is for ever remembered, even
in old age, as something more beautiful and real than a dream of
earth. In war, love is seen only as in a glimpse, yet then it is
most interesting. Does the dove ever appear so much the spirit of
peace and hope, as when her silver wings are seen, like eternal
types of light, through the darkness of the storm, ascending to
heaven? How beautiful then is every flutter! Darkness is over all,
except these wings, and they appear purer and whiter than ever!
Thus is it with love, when it clings, fonder and fonder, in the
midst of danger; and when slender arms twine themselves around the
martial form, as if they could give a charm against wounds and
death, which reach through corslet and shield.
Young Tyldesley had taken her hand, and she had not withdrawn it,
when a shadow was reflected from the casement, at which they sat
within hearing of the Darwen. Anne started, and on turning round
beheld her maid, who motioned her to leave the hall. There was
an unusual earnestness in her manner as she whispered “for God’s
sake--for your own--not a moment’s delay, my lady!”
Her mistress silently obeyed her.
They were now both upon the battlement, at the eastern extremity.
“We are out of hearing,” said the maid, looking cautiously
around; and gazing upon Anne, whispered with terror, “you are
betrayed!--betrayed--and in the power of false hearts, but daring
hands!”
“Never,” replied her mistress with energy, “who dares asperse his
character and motives?--the stranger is true--”
“My young lady thinks of love,” returned her maid,--“but I refer
not to a lover. Nay, blush not; I meant not, that falsehood, either
to his king, or his lady-love, is in the heart of that young and
handsome cavalier; no, he and his companions I could swear over my
dead husband’s bible, are loyal and noble. But the new comer, whom
Colonel Seaton admitted, is a traitor!--nay, start not, my fair
mistress,--and Houghton Tower is now in the hands of Charles the
First’s murderers!”
There was a fearful reality, thrilling in the voice of the
attendant; so different from the gossiping tone, for which she was
somewhat noted.
“Gracious heaven!” exclaimed her mistress, “and are we betrayed? I
doubt the fidelity of Seaton. He had the countenance of an honest
man until this day; but I now fear me, that his heart is deceitful
and villainous. The stranger, too, seemed sullen; still, there was
an expression of cunning. Yet why should we tremble? Let their
heads grace the walls of Houghton Tower!--my father shall see it
done.”
“Hush, hush, my lady,” replied her maid, “other heads than those
of traitors may, ere long, grace the turrets. They are supported
by the garrison. I learned as much from one of the sentinels, and
a high admiration he expressed for the stranger, whom my husband,
heaven rest his soul! would have addressed as an ungainly butcher,
such is the villain’s appearance.”
Here she was interrupted:--she beheld two forms in the distance,
approaching, and she whispered to her mistress, to screen
themselves from view, behind the enormous engine posted on the
battlements. Scarcely had they done so, before they heard steps
near them, and instantly a dead pause was made. A stern voice now
lowly broke upon the silence, and Anne recognized it to be that
of the stranger, only it seemed more authoritative, even in its
whispers. “Is all safe? Is every thing in readiness?”
“Yes,” was the short reply of his companion, Colonel Seaton; but it
was given in an obsequious and reverential tone.
“But Derby, and his companions--”
“Your excellency,” returned Seaton, “they shall be taken care of.
Though the night is not dark, still, dangers beset their way back
to the camp; and since their health is valuable, we must not expose
them beyond the limits of Houghton Tower. We are good nurses, and
are generally able to lull all whom we love, into a long and sound
sleep. Fear not--they are safe;”--and he laughed in scorn.
After a moment’s pause, the stranger replied, “Seaton, you speak
of sleep; let us then think of a bed for them. I have heard of a
deep draw-well in the court; they would not be disturbed there.
’Twill but keep them from a sea of blood, into which, heaven
assisting me, the royalists must soon be plunged, and drowned, like
Pharoah’s host, in the red sea,--aye, red indeed! But, Seaton, see
that these three men do not quit the tower; their troopers shall be
an easy prey--they are sheep without a shepherd.”
“Fear not,” the Colonel again said; “they are safe. They have
been men of blood, and it is but befitting them, that they should
undergo a cleansing. The ruffian Tyldesley pointed out to me some
stains of blood upon his armour--aye, the blood of our companions:
the well shall wash them out. Your excellency shall triumph over
all your enemies.”
“Again,” interrupted his companion, “I charge it upon you. I am not
wont to come unattended, but, at present, I have run every hazard,
encountered every danger, to learn how our cause prospers. The
enemy is in our power. Seaton shall defeat Derby at Houghton Tower,
and his general shall defeat Charles at Worcester.”
The stranger here spoke in a soothing and flattering tone. He added
a few more words, but they were inaudible. The speakers then trod
to and fro, upon the battlements, conversing with each other in
whispers. Sometimes the stamp of the stranger was heard enforcing
his words.
The fair Anne, concealed with her attendant, behind the engine,
had listened in terror to the preceding conversation. She saw that
they were surrounded by the most artful plots, managed by powerful
and experienced agents; that the cause for which she had so long
implored the assistance of heaven, was in the greatest danger;
that her father, and young Tyldesley, whom she did not now blush
to think of as a very dear friend, with his uncle, and Derby,
must perish; and that she herself was at the mercy of stern and
unflinching ruffians. But how could she inform them of treachery,
when the traitors were walking near the place of her concealment?
Every moment seemed an hour; and, perhaps, it was then being
determined that every royalist in the tower, should be dragged by
the garrison, to a disgraceful end! She was almost frantic with
impatience, and she knew, likewise, that one slight movement of her
posture, as well as a whisper, might betray her.
Again the two republicans stood opposite to the place where the
females were concealed, and their conversation could be heard.
“All is safe,” said the stranger. “A few hours will bear me to my
men, assured that no enemy can annoy me in the rear; and before
me is the hungry skeleton of a wandering king. Pity that the
royal fool will not become my groom. He should be fed and clad,
and I might, eventually, raise him to hold my stirrup.” There was
intense mockery in his tones. He continued,--“aye, and when his
time allowed him to sport, I might procure him a gilded staff
for his sceptre, and he might crown himself, with straw from the
manger--the Lord’s anointed!”
Not a smile passed over the face of the speaker, and Seaton,
was silent. The words were too earnest to be taken as humourous
sallies. The stranger resumed,--“He returns again to England. Poor
fool! Nature seems to have _beheaded_ him at his birth! and all
that the Lord’s people can do, is to bury him.” The speaker’s scorn
here seemed to increase, until he became silent. Colonel Seaton
ventured to inquire--
“Your excellency departs early?”
“In a few minutes hence,” was the reply. “I may be suspected;--as
I entered the hall, Derby seemed to recall my features. The dead,
methinks, have a better cause to bear me in memory, than the
living. Yet Derby should recollect me; I once crossed swords with
him, disguised in habit, but not in countenance; and to a singular
incident he owed his safety. He fought bravely, and I should have
dispatched him gallantly, had--but this avails not now. He seems to
know me.”
“Nay,” replied Seaton, “he spoke kindly to you after I explained
the purport of your visit. Let us return to the hall for a little.”
“Why?” asked the stranger proudly;--“to be discovered? and then
the stay of England’s army and England’s freedom would be broken!
No, I mount horse instantly.”
“Your hasty departure may excite suspicion, and frustrate our
schemes.”
“’Tis well. I go to bid them adieu, a long adieu; ’tis probable
that I may never see them more. I am not in the habit of searching
wells, there to renew old acquaintanceship.”
They passed on. Anne started up from her concealment. Not a moment
was to be lost, after the republican disappeared in the distance.
But alas! she could gain admittance to the hall by no other way
than that which they had taken. She reached the hall door,--she
heard her father, in a loud and merry tone of voice, pledge
the health and safety of the stranger. For a moment she stood
irresolute, when Seaton and his companion appeared. “Fair maid,”
said the stranger, “receive my wishes and prayers, as I bid you
adieu.” In a moment he was gone, and she rushed into the hall.
“Speak not! ask no questions, noble warriors!” she exclaimed. “We
are betrayed! Yes, father, that stranger you have harboured as a
guest, is a republican, and Seaton has been acting as his spy. The
garrison are likewise traitors, and from us all escape is cut off--”
“I knew that it was Cromwell,” replied Derby, as he started from
his seat, “but heaven grant that he is not yet beyond our reach;
I’ll die in capturing him! My friends, let us pursue!”
He drew his sword, and every sign of feebleness left his frame.
Attended by his two companions, and the governor, he rushed forth,
exclaiming “treason! treason!”