Part 4

“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.