rolled over mounds, and charged into the river, entirely routing
their array. But soon they were vigorously repulsed by Lilbourne’s
guard, who closely engaged them. After a long struggle, the
gallant royalists made their way to the farthest line of the
enemy. “Again!” was now not only the exclamation of the leaders,
but likewise the war-cry of their men, and they wheeled and dashed
through the centre of the dragoons. Here the scene of battle
widened, the enemy had been driven from their ranks, and the
royalists had left theirs to follow them; and now the fate of the
battle seemed altogether changed. The combat was almost single,
and then six were opposed to one. Derby was unhorsed a second
time, and his brave and faithful servant, who had, in his youth,
followed him from France, fell in warding off some blows from his
master. Lord Widdrington was pursued by a whole rank of dragoons,
and slain on the banks of the Douglas. In vain did the royalists
attempt to rally. Their leaders saw that the battle was lost. The
earl had, himself, received many wounds, and was faint from the
loss of blood. His sword was heavy for his arm, and he could attack
with difficulty, since he was on foot. He stood, for a moment,
bewildered, when he heard Sir Thomas Tyldesley, at the head of
about twenty men, exclaim, “through, or die!” Instantly the brave
knight was in the thickest of the engagement. His plume waved long,
and his arm plunged furiously. At length he fell, pierced by many
weapons, but his head lay proudly in death, upon a heap of those
whom his own hands had slain, forming a monument more lasting than
that which the gratitude of a follower has erected, on the same
spot, to the hero’s memory.
Derby now stood alone:--after great exertions he could only rally a
few men. These persuaded him that he could only die, did he choose
to remain. He perceived then that his death should be in vain, that
it could not change the fate of that day’s battle. They mounted
him on a horse, and scouring over the hedges together, were hotly
pursued to Wigan.
* * * * *
Let us re-visit the field of battle towards sunset of the same
day. All was then still. The departing rays showed the ghastly
countenances of the dead, crowded together promiscuously, without
the distinction of roundhead or cavalier. They lay in such perfect
repose, that Nature seemed to have brought them there, without the
help of man, herself to bury them, with her own funeral rites.
The breeze sighed over them, and occasionally moved some of the
locks, which had escaped from the helmet, and these were thin and
silvery with age, or dark and clustering with youth. Here and
there a venerable head lay naked on the ground. Here and there
young lips were pressed to the cold and bloody sod, in the kisses
of death. Such a scene, at such an hour, when every thought is of
quiet peace, and love, with such a beautiful sun, shedding a mellow
light around, might have given rise to a notion entertained by
the Persians of a former age, that in some sequestered spot, near
to the gentle flowing of a river, the most highly-favoured of our
race shall undergo a transformation, and for days lie on the grass,
apparently dead, even with symptoms of bloody violence, until the
last touch shall have been given to the passive clay; and, amidst
the light and music of heaven resting there alone, with those of
earth, hovering like dreams about them, they shall rise up pure and
lovely spirits, above misery and mortality.
Leaning upon the arm of a servant, who supported with much care,
his halting steps, one of the Parliamentary leaders was now groping
his way through the slain, and occasionally stooping to examine the
features.
It was Sir Richard Houghton. His countenance was pale, bearing
traces of anguish within, more than of bodily fatigue. The
excitement which had sustained him in the engagement, seemed to
be gone. Years of sorrow, since then, might have passed over him,
without producing so great a change. His spirit seemed to have
been more deeply wounded than his body. Long was his search amidst
the slain. As he stooped, a shade of the deepest anxiety was over
his face, but the glow of his eyes showed that he looked for an
enemy, and not for a friend; and as he rose disappointed, his lips
quivered with deadly emotion.
“Nay, nay, ’tis in vain. They have both escaped--uncle and nephew.
And I have left my couch, wounded and sickly, to come and gloat on
my own disappointment. But they must be found, dead or alive!”
“But surely, Sir Richard,” interrupted his servant, “not to-night;
the air is chill.”
“Not for me,” muttered the knight, “revenge will warm it. I feel
not the blast. Is the tempest loud? Why, the night is calm, and
still as the dead; and though it raged as if every sound was the
united shriek of a thousand demons in pain or joy, I could not hear
it. No, no, my soul is on fire; cold!--cold!--mock me not. If my
revenge is not satisfied, I shall lie down here, stripped, naked,
and shelterless, in order that I may be cool.”
“But consider your wounds.”
“Aye!” fiercely answered Sir Richard,--“consider my wounds; a
daughter lost, deceived, polluted;--my hospitality returned by the
foulest treachery. Consider these wounds! aye, and revenge them
too!”
“But still,” returned his follower, “the shades of night are fast
descending. We cannot remain here long.”
No answer was given, and he perceived his leader kneeling over
a heap of bodies. The light was streaming upon that point. An
awful silence ensued, when in a tone which seemed the very voice
of satisfied revenge, Sir Richard exclaimed, “Here is the elder
villain!” He held his face close to the lifeless body of Sir Thomas
Tyldesley. No sound escaped him; but there he gazed, like a mad
spirit, exulting, yet miserable, that the object of his revenge
could not open his eyes, and know his fate. His face was pressed
close to that of the dead, as if the unholy embrace was sweet to
the very senses, and thrilling even through the frame of the aged.
Hate did not prompt him to trample, with profane foot, upon the
unresisting body, or to mar the calmness reposing on the stiff
features, but he even kissed the cold lips in ecstacy, and drew
the head into his bosom. At length he suffered himself to be led
away. “The young man,” after a short silence, he added, “the young
man must be here likewise, and I go not before I have seen him.”
They sought in vain, until reaching the banks of the Douglas, they
stumbled on two bodies, lying at the foot of a tree. They were
those of young Tyldesley and the page. What a shriek of madness
was uttered by the knight, as he recognized in the page, his own
beloved Anne! Her breast was naked, and on it lay the head of her
dead lover, while his arms were encircled around her, as if their
love could never die. Sweet and beautiful was the expression of
her countenance in death. Her dark ringlets were moved by the
breeze from the river, and richly they waved, under the radiant
moon, gleaming through the foliage. Calm they lay, as in the sleep
of love, which a single murmur may disturb, and affection seemed
awaking on their countenances, to assure them of each other’s
safety, and then go to rest. Sir Richard’s grief, was gradually
subsiding and ebbing, but only to feel the barren, dry waste, over
which it had rolled, and the wreck which its waves had borne along.
Without a word, he quietly prepared to sit down on the little mound
where the head of Anne was reposing. The father once more blessed
his child. Attempting to raise her lover’s head, and make them
divided in death, a shudder passed over him, and he again restored
it to its place, and put the cold, stiff arms, even more closely
around Anne, with as much fondness, as if, like a heavenly priest,
he wished to bind them in eternal wedlock. But over such a scene of
sadness we draw the curtain. Long after, that tree marked out the
spot where the young lovers died, in each other’s embrace. It has
now, however, entirely disappeared; but if the Chronicler has drawn
forth from his readers one tear for their fate, they still have a
proud monument.
But softened as was the heart of Sir Richard Houghton, by the fate
of his daughter, the desire of revenge on the Earl of Derby, whom
he regarded as her destroyer, was now inspired above every feeling,
and he formed a resolution of immediately returning to Wigan, and
searching out the earl, who was reported to have found shelter
there, after his flight from the battle.
An hour before midnight, the portly landlord of the Dog Inn, Wigan,
was roused from a comfortable sleep, beside the fire, not by the
cravings of thirst for the contents of a jug, which he held in his
hand, as firmly as if it contained the charm of forgetfulness, and
was the urn from which pleasant dreams vapoured out--but by a loud
knocking at the door.
In those days, the inhabitants of the good town here mentioned,
were not so careful, as they are at present, of the digits of their
visitors, and had not substituted brass or iron knockers. Fair
ladies, however gentle in disposition, were obliged to raise their
hand in a threatening position, and, horror on horrors!--strike the
hard oak. Still the blow was generally given with a strength, of
which their sentimental successors must feel ashamed, and wonder
how they could venture upon such a masculine course of conduct,
degrading the softer sex. What! they will exclaim, did the lily
hand, which ought for ever to have slept amidst perfumes, unless,
when it was raised to the lips of a lover, in his vows, profane
itself by becoming a battering ram!
The Dog Inn, at that time, presented a somewhat different
appearance than it does at present. The part of the building in
front, next to the street, was low, and seemed to be appended,
as a wing or covert, both to the interior and exterior of the
other parts, and was parallel to a line of small shops. Behind,
another story had been added, and there, on a transverse beam,
was placed the dog, which the landlord had, a few days before,
baptized as Jolly, in a good can of ale. The Inn was the resort
of two classes; the one consisting of those who were regularly
thirsty of an evening, in reference to wit and news; and the other,
of those who could only ask for a draught of ale, and then amuse
themselves by rubbing the bottom of the jug round and round a small
circumference, in full view of themselves, after quaffing the
contents. Their merry host could satisfy the appetites of both. But
he displayed a decided preference for the former class; and for
such, the door of admission was the one at the end of the building,
directly leading to the large fire, which generally burned bright
and long, in the hall, and it had been known to be open long after
midnight, to the visitors; while the others had only the honour of
the low one in front, and that not after nine o’clock.
The knocking now made, was at the last-mentioned door. The landlord
awoke, and rubbed his eyes till they opened and expanded to their
proper focus; but they fell first upon the foaming ale in the
tankard, which tempted him to a draught. In the act, however, the
knock was repeated. Still, though his eyes gazed in the direction
of the door, it was also evident that his mouth was not altogether
idle in paying due attention to the liquor.
“Ho! knave!” exclaimed he, as soon as he had obtained liberty of
speech--“a warrior and a roundhead, doubtless! So thou hast not
got a belly-ful of fighting in the lane, but must come to my door!
Why dost not thee speak, Jolly? Last week John Harrison painted
thee alive, and made thee as young as thy mother’s whelp, put thee
upon a beam over the door, to bark at those who might come at
unseemly hours, or for improper purposes, and hung a chain round
thy neck, lest thou might be too outrageous. Not one word, Jolly,
for thy dear master? But,” he added in a whisper, as he went to the
door, “all’s safe!--yes.”
The door opened, and Sir Richard Houghton and his servant entered.
The latter announced the name of his master.
“So,” said the landlord, addressing the knight, as he led him to
a quiet corner, near the fire, “you are the warrior who so nimbly
changed parties to-day? Perhaps you are desirous of changing
occupations likewise, and would be glad to throw off your titles
and dress, for those of an innkeeper. I’faith, your lean face, and
what call you these?” as he pointed to the legs of the knight,
“would thank you for the wisdom of your choice. If so, I am ready
for the barter. There is my apron. Ho--ho--you’ll get a complete
suit out of it, and a winding sheet into the bargain! Be patient,
oh! wise knight--who must be knight no more--for I shall be Sir
John.”
In truth he would have been a worthy successor to the knighthood of
the famous Falstaff, if any super-abundance of wit and fat could
ever embody Shakespeare’s prototype.
“Where,” exclaimed Sir Richard, in a high passion, “where is the
Earl of Derby?--surrender him.”
“So, so,” was the reply, “you are again disposed to return to your
allegiance, and be one of the earl’s party!”
“Surrender him into my hands,” interrupted the knight, in a
soothing tone, “and a large reward shall be yours. You will then
be able to exhibit a golden dog on your escutcheon. Refuse, and a
strict search shall instantly be made, and woe to the wretch, who
has harboured the traitor!”
“Search, brave Dick,” rejoined the merry host, “and I’ll assist
you. Here’s a bottle; can the traitor be within? search,--storm the
castle!” and here he broke it, while the contents were thrown into
the knight’s face. “Is he there, Sir Richard, is he there?”
“To ensure our safety and dignity,” said the enraged knight to his
servant, “give the signal, instantly.” A shrill whistle was made,
and a number of armed men entered.
“Search every corner,” exclaimed Sir Richard “and let the host
beware, lest a sword should search his person.”
“Search my person!” rejoined the landlord, while he swelled himself
out to his fullest dimensions, “Sir Richard, could you walk round
me in less than twenty four hours, and without long rests? you
might as well think of searching the continent of America! Come to
me, before service on Sunday, when I have donned my great coat, and
then search me, or even walk around me, ‘Twould be, as Cromwell’s
servants might say, ‘a sabbath day’s journey.’ My good wife was
just my fellow, and her daily exercise, for some years before she
died, was to walk round me, and brush my coat, and then she went to
rest, satisfied with a day’s hard labour. She was, truly, a help
meet for me, and we became fatter with looking on each other. When
indisposed after travelling to the ale cellar too frequently, she
got me conducted to the chair opposite to her own, and she smiled
so lustily upon me, that I soon recovered. But Sir Richard,” he
added in a solemn tone, “how many gallons of oil, shall I bring
from the cellar, to light you in your search? ha! a lucky thought
now strikes me. Would’st be the better of a quick scented hound?”
“Aye,” exclaimed some voices, “where is he?” “standing over the
door;” was the reply, “shall I bring Jolly?” “if so, it is on the
express condition, that you nail him up, in time for to-morrow. A
ladder, friends; bring me a ladder. But I must keep my hands from
off his hide--not that he will bite--but since he is fresh from the
painter, and may be pleased, in good humour, to mark me with his
wit. A ladder!”--and Richard the Third, even assisted by the lungs
of a modern actor, did not shout forth more lustily for “a horse!
a horse!”
“Regard not the laughing ox,” interrupted the knight, as he
motioned to his men, who stood bewildered at the conduct of the
landlord.
The soldiers commenced their assigned duty, but, Sir Richard
expecting that, every moment, Derby should be apprehended in his
presence, kept his seat, thinking over the orders to be given,
in the event of such a discovery. Perhaps feelings of awe, which
would be awakened by a view of the loyal nobleman, likewise
threw their shadows, amidst other emotions of a sterner nature.
True it is, that he became paler; and the only expression on his
features seemed to be the most abject despair, and misery. Like an
exquisitely moulded image, when the light has expired which gave
the animation of life and thought to its coldness, no longer shows
what, but a moment before, seemed its only natural appearance; so
the events through which the knight had passed, and which served
to give a new character of feeling and action, left not a shade by
which it might be known, that he had been an avenger, a few hours
ago, and a mourner over his last hope.
Meantime the host of the Inn, continued to annoy the men with his
wit. In the most serious voice he would exclaim “He is here;” when
all instantly rushed to the place where he pointed. “Tarry but
a moment till I bring a light--my nose does not shine as a torch
to-night.” He then procured a light, and, as he hurried amongst
them, was sure to bring it into a disagreeable proximity with some
faces, and all that the light could fall upon, was a broken pot,
into which the host peered most anxiously. “Can he be there? I
fancy that I should not remain in it long.”
After many similar tricks, he went to a black cupboard, at the
further end of a small room adjoining, and asked them to inspect it
also. “Can the rebel,” he said, “lurk in the butter?”
From experience, this they thought to be a sufficient reason why
they should not search there.
“Unwieldy bull of Bashan!” exclaimed one of the soldiers; “keep
within thine own enclosures--a prisoner of hope! The avenger may be
nigh!”
“Ha! ha!” retorted the landlord, “where is he? Thankee, friend, for
pointing him out. He will, indeed, avenge my thirst!” and he seized
upon a bottle of ale, which stood solitary upon a shelf. “The
rogue’s a bachelor, friends;--he stood alone; and he is so cross,
that he may well be called ‘cut-throat!’”
After an hour’s search, towards the end of which the landlord had
contrived, first to lull his tongue asleep, and then himself, the
knight commanded the soldiers to desist. They awoke the host, who,
starting to his feet, after a difficult balancing of himself,
looked eagerly around.
“Where is the earl?”--and as he spoke, he approached one of the
men, and bringing a light to bear rather closely upon the grave
countenance of the roundhead,--“is this his lordship? take the
rebel from my house,” and he gave a hearty kick, so far as his
heart could reach, down to his foot. It was in vain to resent the
blow, for the humour of mine host had altogether disarmed them.
But we choose to pass over the details of their unsuccess, not
being desirous that the mournful remembrance connected with
the young and the ill-fated characters of the Legend should be
obliterated from the mind of the reader.
The tyro in Lancashire history knows well, that in that very
cupboard to which the landlord pointed, the earl was concealed; and
that early in the morning he left the Dog Inn, leaving behind him,
as a small token of gratitude for the shelter he had received, a
part of his armour.
“I cannot wear it,” said the jolly landlord, when it was presented
to him, “though you are a warrior, yet, noble earl, you are not a
giant. But it shall be preserved as none of the least of the treats
for a traveller at the Dog Inn.” The earl shook his humble friend
cordially by the hand. Yet even then, wit and light repartee had
not forsaken the host.--“Wont shake a paw with Jolly?”
Over the earl’s countenance, a melancholy smile passed, which was
unseen by mine host, who was not long in resuming, as he stepped
over the threshold and gazed up at the dog--
“Well, well, Jolly will excuse you, and wont even bark; he’s a
sensible dog, and knows, or ought to know, how long your lordship
has been confined in the cupboard. So, you are bound for Worcester?
Well, for my sake, if you meet Cromwell, scratch the ugly wart on
his face. But stay, earl, for a moment; there your horse comes, and
you must take the stirrup cup, from my hands. My wife would have
been proud to have wiped her mouth for a salute, but it is not the
fashion of men, towards each other,” and he ran in, and in a minute
returned with a glass of wine, which the earl took, and quaffed the
contents to the luck of the Dog Inn, Wigan. There was a serious
expression on the landlord’s countenance, not as if it were caused
by the present farewell, but by some remembrance. “It was at this
hour, some years ago, that my wife died, and closed her eyes upon
ale, and a husband. I had broken up the best barrel in the cellar,
and was raising a jug of it to her lips, and I was obliged to drink
it myself.--But excuse me, farewell Derby.”
We pass over the account of the earl’s escape to Worcester, and of
the literal overthrow of all the hopes of the royalists, by that
disastrous battle; of the earl’s capture, and subsequent execution;
all of which, like the rapids of the last act of a tragedy, passed
with heightened and speedy horror to the bloody end.
One thing merely we shall notice, that amongst the names of those
who recommended his lordship to be beheaded, was that of Sir
Richard Houghton.
All historians and biographers have agreed in speaking of that
knight as “the rebel son of a very loyal and worthy father,”--but
they have not thrown light over the circumstances and events which
dethroned Charles and all royalists from his affections. Tradition
gleams upon them with steadiness and fearful distinctness, and the
Chronicler has accurately detailed them.
For the sake of the Antiquarian, who may be desirous of reading
the Inscription on the monument which stands in Wigan Lane, the
Chronicler appends it. In his more youthful days, when passing
through Wigan, by the assistance of a ladder, and his grandmother’s
glasses, he obtained a transcript of it, which he vouches to be
accurate.
[Illustration]
An high Act of Gratitude, which conveys the Memory of
SIR THOMAS TYLDESLEY
To posterity,
Who saved KING CHARLES THE FIRST
as Lieutenant-Colonel at Edge-hill Battle,
After raising Regiments of Horse, Foot, and Dragoons;
And for
The desperate storming of Burton-upon-Trent,
over a bridge of 36 arches,
RECEIVED THE HONOUR OF KNIGHTHOOD.
He afterwards served in all the wars, in great command,
Was Governor of Lichfield,
And followed the fortune of the Crown
through the Three Kingdoms,
And never compounded with the Rebels, though strongly invested;
And on the 25th August, A.D. 1651, was here slain,
Commanding as Major-General under the EARL OF DERBY,
To whom the grateful Erector, ALEXANDER RIGBY, ESQ., was Cornet
And when he was High Sheriff of this County, (A.D. 1679,)
Placed this high obligation on the whole
FAMILY of the TYLDESLEYS.
THE WITCHES OF FURNESS.
In a small recess, still deeper in shade than the neighbouring
valley where the ruins of Furness Abbey lie, there once arose a
well-proportioned mansion, of which, not a vestige is left. And
yet, the wand of no magician had summoned it to appear, as a tenant
of the retreat, without any materials, and then to depart without
a wreck,--for much toil, and many precious coins had been spent in
building and adorning it, by the first owners; and on its decay, as
much sighing, and as many lamentations, had been wasted by their
successors.
Tradition says, that it was erected in the reign of Henry the
Eighth, by an Englishman of rank, whose name was Morden. Against
his earnest entreaties, his daughter had secluded herself from
the world, and taken the veil as a nun in Furness Abbey; but
when that religious house was broken up, by royal act, so much
attached was she to the spot of her vows, that to gratify her, a
family mansion was erected in the vicinity. To this, a considerable
extent of ground was added, as territorial possession. The owner
became enamoured of the pleasant solitude of such an abode, and so
did all his successors, whose feelings were in harmony with the
simplicity of the district, and the quiet beauties of its scenery.
Time destroys not the works of God, and the brook which trickled
beside the porch, still murmured dreams of happiness amidst the
nightshade which grew on its banks, or the lillies, which, in its
channel, courted its stream, in all their meekness and purity. But
time destroys the works of man, and the noble building, towards the
end of the sixteenth century, was but a decayed wreck of its former
self.
The inmates exhibited a striking contrast to the ruined abode.
The echoes did not awake to the slow step of the aged, but to the
bounding tread of the young. The wind might rave around in fury,
but, at intervals, sweet voices were heard, joining in the music
of the heart. Sombre was the light which entered the apartments,
but there was no snowy head on which it could fall; shining was
every brow, and clustering the ringlets waving thereon. On the
rudely-framed seat, by the porch, no old man sat, like a dial, to
point out time’s flight, but a beautiful pair, with a little boy
sporting before them.