Chapter II: Part 2

“Maiden,” said Derby, “thy counsel is good. Let them, moreover, be informed of Seaton’s just death, and should they revolt, it would be at the moment, and then Sir Richard might hang out a signal from the walls, and in a short time my troops would advance to the rescue. Meanwhile, Sir Thomas, it is necessary that we should instantly be at the head of our men, prepared for every emergency. Let us to horse!”

This proposal met the sanction of the warrior. Our young hero, however, turned pale; he was to be torn from the object of his fondest love, never, perhaps, to meet again. He committed his mistress to the care of her attendant, who now appeared.

“Nay,” said Sir Richard. “We part not thus; let my noble guests once more, in the hall, pledge the good old cause. Meanwhile your horses shall be prepared for the way.”

Young Tyldesley, as long as they remained in the hall, looked in vain for Anne to enter. He was obliged to leave without pronouncing farewell.

They had now reached the gateway, where stood their horses. A young page was likewise in waiting, who craved in a low, yet sweet voice, to accompany them, as he was of no use to his fair mistress, and might be the bearer of warlike messages, though a very unwarlike personage himself.

“Does your mistress know of your departure?” asked Sir Thomas Tyldesley.

“Yes,” was the reply.

“Then, nephew, he is but of slender form, and cannot burden your horse. Mount him behind you.”

When all was in readiness, the drawbridge arose, they spurred their horses, the moon shone upon the armed horsemen, and the pale face of the page, who clung fast to Henry Tyldesley, and soon from the tower their march could not be heard.

Sir Richard sat in the hall, considering in what manner he should best break his message to the garrison. Wishing to consult Anne, whom he fondly loved, and whom, young as she was, he used to call his premier, he retired to her private chamber, but she was not there. He was not at first alarmed, because he knew, that on a moonlight night, she was in the habit of walking on the battlements, and enjoying the sweet influences which breathed upon her from so many sources. But after an hour had passed, and still she came not, though she must have known the perplexed state of her father’s mind, occasioned by the strange events which that night had disclosed, he summoned her attendant.

“Where is my daughter?” anxiously asked the knight. The woman was silent, but some secret intelligence seemed lurking on her lips. Sir Richard became enraged; at length, she muttered, “She is not in Houghton Tower.”

“Not in Houghton Tower!” exclaimed the knight, half frenzied. “And she is lost to me! There she was born, there she has lived, the only flower of my hopes and love, which my own heart’s blood would have been willing to cherish; aye! and there she should have died! The little chapel, where she has so often prayed by my side, would have given her a holy grave, and the withered hands of her old father before they were stiff in death, would have gathered a few blossoms, and strewn them over it. She’s gone!--gone!”

The woman stood speechless at the ravings of her master. His mind had always before been calm, as the stillest lake embosomed in a summer glen. Even when his lady died, the composure of a feature was not disturbed. Amidst treachery and private grief he had been unmoved. But now, what agitation amidst the silent thoughts of an old heart! Beautifully was it fabled by the ancients, that should the sleeping waters of Lethe, on whose fair breast, no breeze came to silence the murmur of its loving waves, which were only heard by young spirits revelling there--be stormed into fury by any influence, no trident of Neptune could assuage them. The young, when their hopes are blasted, know nothing of the grief felt by the aged, when their last hope dies, and when winter is over their feelings.

At length Sir Richard recovered himself, so far as to inquire where his daughter was. “She has gone,” was the reply, “with the Earl of Derby. The young horseman has avowed his love for her.”

“Eternal curses on them all!” thundered forth the knight. “Thus it is. These old men have conspired to ruin her. Derby pressed her upon the youth’s notice, and has persuaded her to accompany them. They are pledged against her innocence! aye!” his rage still increasing,--“so have I heard of the unlicensed conduct of cavaliers--but I will be revenged!--and henceforth, I am the bitter enemy of all royalists!” In a moment, passion and love for his daughter had brought him to this conclusion. He invoked curses on Charles. Every prepossession in favour of the cause which he hitherto supported, was gone, and in its place, inflexible and active hate had entered.

He left the hall, and acquainted the garrison,--who, we have seen, were well disposed to Cromwell, with his daughter’s flight, and instantly inspired them with deadly revenge. They all loved Anne; she had listened to the tale of war which the very humblest of them had to recite; and many of them had almost been compelled to acquaint her with the plot of the Parliamentary officers. But at present they were cool enough to observe, that it would neither be prudent nor safe to make a sally upon Derby’s followers, to whom they were inferior in number. It was, therefore, agreed, that at the hour of midnight, fifty men from the tower should accompany Sir Richard Houghton, to join the army of Captain Lilbourne, who was then supposed to be marching from Manchester, to seize on Wigan, and defend it against the royalists. Thus, Sir Richard Houghton, formerly a true, though by no means an active, defender of Charles, became a zealous supporter of Cromwell.

Long before morning had dawned upon the camp, the Earl of Derby was stirring about, and ordering all to be in readiness for departure. No signal had been seen from Houghton Tower. It was, therefore, concluded, that there had been no mutiny in the garrison. In a short time, the trumpet was sounded, and all were mounted, waiting the command to march. Derby rode into the centre, in full armour, accompanied by his faithful servant, a Frenchman, who was proud to behold his master once more arrayed for the field, where he should distinguish himself. Every lock of his dark hair was concealed beneath his steel-front beaver, and the mournful expression usual to his features, was now exchanged for that of sternness. A loud shout was raised for “King Charles and Derby.”

The trumpets sounded, and in triple rank, with the earl in front, and Sir Thomas Tyldesley and his nephew, accompanied by the young page, in the rear, they hastily marched on. Lord Widdrington, and Sir Robert Throgmorton, with a few soldiers, rode in different directions, to give the alarm, should the enemy appear, though that was not considered as at all likely.

The page kept close by young Tyldesley, in the march; yet he spoke little, even when Anne Houghton, his mistress, was introduced to be praised. Upon giving expression to a beautiful and earnest prayer, that Charles might return to his own, young Tyldesley took his hand; it shrunk timidly from his grasp. “Poor page,” and as he spoke, he drew his arm around his slender form, “thou seemest to be but ill nerved for this day’s work. Thou tremblest.”

“I have left many dear friends behind me, and I am here alone.”

“But not unbefriended,” was Tyldesley’s reply. “Keep by me; I will avert danger from thee. Be merry, gentle youth, and thou shalt yet dance a gay measure with your mistress,--when she is my bride.”

“But--” the crimson colour which mantled his features, changing to a deadly paleness as he spoke, “should you fall, what is for me?”

“A safe return to your mistress.”

No answer was given; the page turned away his head, but not before a tear had fallen upon Tyldesley’s hand.

They had now marched for two hours, and the town of Wigan was seen in the distance. As they advanced, the reapers were busy in their quiet occupations, amidst the richly waving crops. The Earl of Derby was, in his own mind, contrasting the joys of peace, with the miseries of war, when, all at once, Lord Widdrington and Sir Thomas Throgmorton were galloping towards him. The earl spurred from the lines, and met them.

“The enemy is approaching--the day must be lost,--they are some thousand strong.”

Derby turned pale at the intelligence. He had hoped to possess Wigan as a strong-hold, until he had cleared a way to Worcester, to join his Sovereign. But his paleness soon fled. “Dost see,” he proudly exclaimed, “these few reapers cutting down whole fields of corn,--and shall we not take courage from them?”

Without ordering a halt, he wheeled round to the Tyldesleys, and announced to them the movements of the enemy.

“They have even taken possession of Wigan,” he said, “the strong-hold of loyalty.” The earl then uncovering his head, looked round upon his troops, and solemnly bade every soldier ask the blessing of the God of battles. The helmet was raised from every head, and every eye was fixed upward, as the small army prayed.

“Let your prayers,” interrupted Derby, “be sincere; and even that youthful page, whose cheek is pale for coming danger, may be nerved to deal havoc among the enemy. Now let the march be sounded, and let us, with all possible haste, scour to Wigan. And when we encounter, as soon we must,--you have children,--there is strength in your arm; you have wives--the thought is worth a hundred swords; you have a king--fight, therefore, in their defence! Less than an hour’s march must bring us front to front with the enemy, and they are reported to be numerous.”

“Front to front!” exclaimed Sir Thomas Tyldesley, “sword to sword! let us meet them!”

“Poor youth,” said Derby, as his eye rested on the pale face of the page, “thou hast neither a soldier’s form nor heart, thou shouldst have remained to amuse thy mistress. And yet” he added, as if entirely absorbed in his own remembrances, “my countess never required such a companion! heaven bless her, and guard her, should I never see her more!”

“Nor does my mistress, noble earl,” replied the page, quickly, while his dark and beautiful eye glowed keenly: “and I too, whatever my form and look may bespeak, am ready to lose a life for my sovereign. I shudder to draw a sword, but I will not shudder to receive it,--aye, in my bosom!”

Never did the most herculean form appear more warlike, than did the youthful speaker. His firmly chiselled mouth was pressed together with a deadly expression of resolve, and the soft eyelash was arched, as if it could slay.

“Bravo,” exclaimed the elder Tyldesley, “a true knight; and yet fair sir, a maiden speaks of bosom,--a hero speaks of heart!”

Unconsciously, at this moment, the page had spurred his steed, which plunged furiously. Like lightning, a slender arm reached over the proud mane--grasped the bridle--and in a moment, he was quiet as before. The strength of a giant horseman, could not have so tamed him. In the suddenness of the motion, the plumed beaver of the rider had fallen, and like some young and beautiful spirit of power, with dark ringlets, curling over a brow of glistening thought and love, and as if quelling the furious tempest, the page leaned forward, on his steed.

“Nay, nay,” said the earl, “spur on, and let us not delay to meet the foe.”

The gallant army marched on rapidly, and in a few minutes, as the sun streamed from the eastern clouds, the rays fell upon Wigan, seen in the distance. Only one sound was borne to the ear, and it was the trampling of horses. “They come,” was the general cry. “On, on,” exclaimed their leader, “let Charles’s banner be unfurled, and soon we shall plant it, to wave over the church tower!”

A few minutes more brought them to the entrance of the town. A strong hedge skirted both sides of the road. The windings were many and abrupt, and the sharp angular view, was over the rocky heights on the banks of the Douglas, and almost suggested the appearance of traitors, so unexpectedly were many of the scenes brought before them. The scenery of the country around, was wild, and marked that here, war would not be out of keeping. Young Tyldesley took his uncle’s hand, to bid him farewell, for now the impression rested on every mind, that from the unusual stillness, the stern sounds of combat might soon be heard. Silence seemed to be the soft whispers of a traitor! secret, but sure. A tear stole down the hardy cheek of the veteran, as he blessed his companion.

“This parting,” he added, “seems ominous. ’Twas thus your gallant father bade me adieu, for the last time. Yet, Harry, another grasp of your hand. Farewell, my brave boy.”

They rode on without exchanging another word, when the young soldier felt himself gently touched, and, on turning round, beheld the page, who, with averted face, said--“Excuse me, but farewell, Harry Tyldesley, should I see you no more.”

“We part not thus, for your mistres’s sake. Ride by my side, and you may command this arm to strike for your safety.”

At this moment the small army heard some half-concealed movement made, behind the hedges, and instantly a close fire of musketry;--only a few were wounded.

“The foe are in ambush!” exclaimed Sir Thomas.

“Nay,” replied the earl, “the greater part are before us,” pointing to a large army which now appeared. “Let us advance. Sir Thomas, take the half of the band, and I shall lead the others. Let a halt be sounded. We can do nothing against those who fire from the hedges. Let us cut through the main body.--A halt!”

Ere the signal had been given, many a brave fellow, had indeed, halted, never more to advance, as a second volley, directed with a steadier aim, was poured in upon them.

Derby, in a moment, was at the head of his detachment. “Soldiers of Charles!” he said, with energetic eloquence, “there are his enemies and yours; and where are your swords? Be mangled--be slain--but yield not. Hear your leader’s vow. Upon this good sword, I swear, that as long as steel can cut, flesh shall wield.--Charge! Upon them! The king! the king!” and they dashed on to meet the enemy.

Colonel Lilbourne, who commanded the enemy, instantly arrayed his men, to bear up against the attack, and a dense square was formed from hedge to hedge, of the regular troops, while the militia of Lancashire and Cheshire were formed into a wing, to close in upon the royalists, when they engaged with the main body.

Derby, with his three hundred men, spurred on with incredible fury, until they found themselves hand to hand with the regular troops. They were instantly surrounded, for the militia wing had wheeled, and now assailed them in the rear. A shout from the Parliamentary army was raised, as the three hundred seemed to be bound in their power, when Sir Thomas Tyldesley, with his men, advanced; and so furious was the onset, that the enemy were literally trodden under foot, and Derby and the knight were riding abreast, at the head of their respective bodies, fighting to cut a passage through the dragoons. Heedless of danger, the royalists followed every direction of their leaders, who, themselves, fought, as well as commanded. They had now almost reached the extremity of Lilbourne’s forces, and bloody was the passage which they had made.

“One effort more,” said the earl to his men, “and all is gained!--On!” The battle raged more furiously--Derby’s sword, at every thrust and plunge, was stained with fresh gore; but, all of a sudden, he stood pale and surprised--for there was Sir Richard Houghton advancing to meet him, from Lilbourne’s guard, with drawn sword. Could he have turned traitor? The earl’s weapon was as ready for a blow, as his heart was for a curse upon a false knight, and instantly they would have crossed swords, had not Derby’s steed been shot from under him, while that of the recreant knight carried his rider beyond him, safe and unharmed. On foot the earl fought with as much execution as when mounted; but his voice could not be heard, as he addressed his men, from amidst the hoofs of the enemy’s horse. An officer of the enemy approached. In a moment he was dragged from the saddle, pierced as he lay on the ground, and as his dying eyes were raised, he beheld Derby mounting his horse. Many blows were then showered upon the gallant nobleman, and some deadly thrusts were made in the direction of his breast, but he seemed to escape unhurt.

The next moment placed Derby at the extremity of the opposing lines. “King Charles and England’s royalty!” was the shout that burst from his lips, and, although it was heard by the enemy, for a few moments they fell back from the single arm of the loyal nobleman. There seemed something supernatural in his bearing, so calm, and yet so furious. Taking advantage of their inactivity, he dashed through the rear. A gleam of sunshine flashed on his armour, and hope entered his soul, as he found himself at the top of the steep and sweeping descent which leads to the town. It was then rocky and precipitous, but his horse never stumbled. For a moment he wheeled round, and no followers were near, except young Tyldesley, and the page. Stern was the expression on the countenance of the former; but the latter, though pale, displayed a heroism still wilder. And yet his sword had not, throughout the battle, been unsheathed, and he had forced a passage without giving a wound.

“Brave page!” exclaimed the earl. “Still, thou oughtest to have used thy sword; thine arm might have sent the blow with power sufficient to wound--aye, to kill!”

At this moment two of the enemy, who had pursued the leader of the royalists, rushed on him. His horse plunged furiously, and turned himself altogether on one of the assailants--thus exposing his rider. Instantly that assailant sprung forward with a loud shout of joy; but that shout was ended in a dying shriek, as the sword of the page passed through his body. The other fell by the earl’s own hand. For a brief space the page looked with something of satisfaction on the blood-stained sword. But as a drop fell upon that small hand, a shudder passed over his frame, and his eye was fixed, with unnatural light, on the spot.

“It is of a foul colour!” he exclaimed. “Good God! and have these fair hands been stained with human blood? What will Anne Houghton,” he added in a low tone, “think of me now?”

“Nay, nay,” hastily replied the earl, “repent not the deed at the sight of blood. I thank thee, brave youth. But now, what movement is to be made? Shall we rush upon Wigan without our followers?”

“I’ll defend the church,” said the page, “as the brave countess defended her home.”

But before Derby had decided--for all that we have related took place in a few moments--a cry arose from his men in the rear, who, overpowered by numbers, could neither fight nor advance. The dragoons, headed by Sir Richard Houghton, had so surrounded them, that they must either surrender, or die to a man. That knight conducted himself most valorously, for, in every enemy who approached, he expected to recognize those whose perfidy (such he thought it) he burned to revenge. At every attempt of the small band of royalists to rally, by shouting “Derby and Tyldesley,” he dealt his blows more fiercely. Still, the royalists did not call for quarter; and soon, in this awful emergency, they heard the voice of Derby cheering them on, as he came to their succour. So sudden was the assault, and so much impetus was given to it, that the enemy, in the terror of the moment, crowded to the hedges, over which many of them leapt their horses. But Sir Richard Houghton kept his station, at the head of a few followers, who remained firm; when his eye, falling upon young Tyldesley, he spurred his horse forward, aiming a blow at his enemy. A shriek, at that moment arising from the page, arrested his arm.

“No! no!” exclaimed Sir Richard, “it cannot be; and yet, so like in sound!” Ere he had uttered these words, his arms were gently grasped by the page; but a follower of the knight soon freed him from the encumbrance, and the wounded youth fell into the arms of Harry Tyldesley, who bore him forth, himself fatally wounded. Bloody was the harvest which the royalists now began to reap, as they charged the fugitives, with impetuous fury. The earl, and his brave fellow-leader, Sir Thomas Tyldesley, met, having literally cut down, and cut through the intervening troops of the enemy. Several officers had been slain, and Sir Richard Houghton had been carried from the field by his men, faint from wounds.

“Again!” was the exclamation of the loyal leaders, as they separated to lead their followers once more to the work of death.

Success attended every blow, and many were the bodies which they 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.

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.

William Morden, and Emily Clifton, were the only survivors of two noble families. The time of our Legend is six years after their marriage, when their love had been pledged and crowned by the birth of a boy. Sweet was their domestic bliss, but darkness and death are prepared to enter upon the scene. The curse of witchcraft is about to fall upon the holy beings, in all its horrors and pollutions. The Chronicler shudders, as tradition leads him to their tragic fate, and as it gleams upon the hellish causes. The fair creatures have, in many a dream, for many a long night, been cradled by his side, in beauty and love. Their voices have whispered to him, their faces have smiled upon him, in the mysteries of sleep. And yet he must now awake them to feel the breath of unearthly enmity and power, withering their souls, while serpents are even twined around their shroud!

On a calm evening, towards the beginning of summer, Emily was seated in the old hall, expecting the arrival of her husband, who had rode out early that day, to hunt, when he entered, with marks of agitation on his countenance.

“William!” she exclaimed, as she arose to embrace him, “thou art sad. It cannot be for want of success in the chase; you would not dare”--and she gave him a playful blow on the cheek with her little hand--“to appear before your wife so sorrowful, and with no better excuse. But, love, you smile not. William, are you wounded? Have you been thrown from your horse?”

“No, Emily,” was the reply, “I am safe, but my horse, in passing the cave of which you are so much afraid, sunk down, as if exhausted, though a moment before, he seemed capable of the greatest exertion. Thus is it,” he continued, as he yielded to his wife, who forced him down to a seat, whilst she leaned over him, “our cattle have died, though green is the meadow on which they grazed. And now, my favourite steed--aye, the very one, Emily, whose neck arched so proudly beneath your gentle touch, after he had borne me to your abode, where I wooed and won you as my bride, is now, I fear, stiffening in death. My servant shook his head, as I left Ranger to his care.”

“Poor Ranger,” interrupted the lady, “he was a proud animal, and spurned acquaintance with others of his kind. Yet, William, dost thou recollect how closely and fondly he trotted by the side of my white pony, on the evening you brought me to your home, and how the kind animals allowed me to be locked in your embrace, although their bridles hung loose? Nay, more, did they not choose a lonely path, with the moon shining all sweetly upon it, through the hushed forest, as if there ought to be nothing known to us, save each other; and that, orphans as we were, with the voices of gone friends, as silent to us as the night, still, there was hope shedding its rays over our common lot? Now both of them may be lost. Still you could have visited me without your steed, and I should, perhaps, have been less coy after your fatigues, and,” she added, as her fair hands played among the curls which shaded her husband’s brow, “I could have come hither without my palfrey, leaning on your arm, William.”

The sorrowful man could not reject the consolation of his beautiful wife. Though unforeseen calamities had gathered thickly upon him, as if there was some direct cause, separate from the general course of Providence, yet every chain of human affection was unbroken; and though his fold was now almost forsaken, on his hearth still moved the beings whom he loved, and not a household god had been thrown down. His little Edward had entered, and was climbing his knee, and hugging his neck,--and could he refuse to be happy? He had regained a portion of his usual gaiety, when his servant entered.

“Master, Ranger is dead! I took the bridle from off his head, and he could no more shew that he was at liberty. There was a strange shriek after he fell down. He licked my hands, and his tongue was black and swollen.”

“Shriek, dost thou say?” returned his master, “I have heard that horses groan when in pain, but that they shriek, I cannot believe.”

“It could not be the horse,” was the reply, “no--no--nor was it a human voice.”

They gazed upon the servant. His tones were low, as if from secret terror, and his countenance was deadly pale. He continued, “I have heard the shriek before, master, when old Margery, who nursed you when a boy--died. She raised her hands, drew herself up on the pillow--as if escaping from some invisible spirit--and sunk down lifeless. The neighbours said, that at that moment the witch of the cave passed the window, with hurried steps.”