Legends of Lancashire 2

Legends of Lancashire 2

Who _could_ forbid any of the followers of Cromwell, or Charles,

to arise--the one to recite with solemn countenance and lengthened

drawl; and the other with a dissipated air of pleasant vice--their

respective achievements, whilst their manner, and costume are

thoroughly scanned? What cavalier would ban the Protector, even

Nol with his nose and ominous wart, from again appearing, to

reveal to us those stern and inflexible features, and to discourse

to us, in one of those intricate speeches, which none could

understand,--for, like his own dark and wily spirit, they baffled

all knowledge? Or what republican could say “nay,” as the king’s

court was brought into view, with the handsome, though melancholy

martyr, at its head, surrounded as he was, unfortunately, by

gilded butterflies? In like manner, the Chronicler hopes, that no

one _can_ be inclined to prevent a specimen of these times from

intruding himself, for a little on the attention of his readers.

 

He is now seated, writing from an inkhorn said to have been

the property of General Fairfax; and leaning on a table, once

heavily laden with a feast, of which royalists and republicans

alike partook, on a day of truce. Other relics of that time are

around him; but there is one dearer than all besides--a lovely

daughter--a descendant, by the mother’s side, of an ancient family

of distinction, from whom Charles II., during his wanderings,

received shelter, and subsequently, assistance to mount the throne.

She sings to him the ballads of other days, and they revive again

in the echo of her music. For her, as well as for her father, this

is but the sixteenth century; and though only in her seventeenth

summer, she rejects all the amusements of more modern times.

He has resolved, out of fondness for the days that are gone, as

well as affection for his daughter, that no lover fresh from

the approbation of his tailor, and the flattery of his mirror,

practised in bows and compliments acquired at the theatre--shall

ever find admission to his beloved Jane. He would sooner give her

to an ourang-outang than a fop. The favoured suitor must, indeed,

be handsome, learned, and brave; he must breathe a song of love

in the good old style, beneath her lattice, when the moon and

stars are shedding their light over the old mansion. Nor must he

be an Antiquary, in the modern sense of the word. He may enter

with the long essay, which he read to the British Association, in

his pocket, peeping out instead of the handkerchief of the dandy;

he may drag behind his name, all the letters of the alphabet, as

honorary titles; the Chronicler shall lead him to the door by

a way, to detail the curiosities of which, must obtain for him

additional laurels. He shall, to a certainty, likewise qualify him

for describing the strength of an oak cudgel. Nor must he be a

silly Poet, a thing distilled of sighs, flames, water, and earth,

who should have lived in the moon to address sonnets to her, and

not on earth, since the envious clouds prevent her from seeing and

reading them, as well as the brown paper of a garret window. Should

any such find his way here, the Chronicler promises to compliment

his head with a salutation from a good round of old England’s beef.

No, no, the favoured suitor must be of a different genus; and his

lute, moreover, must have no resemblance to the sighing guitar of

Venice, or the rude whistle of England. And the Chronicler has

sometimes been of opinion, that his daughter has made the same

resolution. Of late, he has caught the sound of a manly serenade,

and he has observed her blush, and occasionally leave the room.

Nay, he has met her rambling through the adjoining thickets, with

the son of an old friend, whose romance is in the past, and he

has blessed them both. Yes, handsome and talented is ----. He had

written the name, when Jane, looking over his shoulder in womanly

curiosity, beheld it. Shrieking, she immediately snatched the pen

from his hand, and scratched through it the above stroke, and gave

her fond old father a playful blow: yet now she seems thoughtful

and sorry for having violated that dear name, by blotting it, and

is half inclined to rewrite it herself. Fear not! Fate will draw no

such ominous mark over it, and all that binds it to you is love and

happiness.

 

To confide a secret to the reader, since the last sentence was

written, the Chronicler has received a hint that the proof sheets

of the following “Legends” may be read by his son-in-law! Nay, this

very night, the lovers shall be formally betrothed, over a Bible,

which has been stained by the blood of its former possessor--a holy

martyr--and the sword of an old English patriot shall be placed in

the young man’s hand; therewith to defend religion--a wife--and a

country.

 

* * * * *

 

The ceremony is performed, and both press the old man to read the

first Legend. He gives his assent, and, at the same time, orders

chairs to be set for his dear friends, the Public; whom he has

respectfully invited, and whose attention he now humbly craves to

 

 

 

 

THE LEGEND OF THE BATTLE OF WIGAN LANE.

 

 

Few battlements now remain, of one of the best fortified castles

that ever defended Lancashire, and the King. But two centuries ago,

and Houghton Tower, situated at the distance of four miles and a

half to the west of Blackburn, stood proudly, and seemed in itself,

without the assistance of garrison or artillery, to be capable of

maintaining a successful struggle with the power of any enemy. All

around were peaceful vales, where primitive simplicity dwelt; and

often has the traveller, at eve, laid himself down on the green

knolls, beside the gently flowing stream of the classic Darwen,

in order to become as happy as every object near him; to enjoy the

gambols of the lambs frisking about; and to view the milkmaid, as,

with a light step, and a merry heart, she tripped across the glen.

He has then fancied himself, not only retired for ever from the

theatre of war, but likewise from the mart of commerce; and happy

has he been that there was an Eden sacred to his imagination, at

the very time when the face as well as the heart of his country was

blighted by civil strife, and stained by the blood of its own sons,

shed by the murdering hand of their brothers. But suddenly--to

jar upon all the rural sounds by which he was greeted--the shrill

trumpet was heard loud and near, startling the silent echoes of

the green woods on the banks of the river, and on emerging from

the vale, the fortresses of Houghton Tower were seen, dark and

sullen, against the fading light of the sky. The challenge of the

warder, and the fastening of the draw-bridge, were of war, and

entirely dispelled the previous calm. Who could have imagined

that in the bosom of such beautiful vales there could be a mass

of frowning rock, so huge as that on which the castle was built?

or, that amongst a class of venerable patriarchs, distinguished

for simplicity of manners and life, there could be the restless

spirits of war to fortify and maintain it? And yet it seemed to be

a castle of nature’s building, and not of art’s; for tall trees

over-shadowed its turrets, and around its base the Darwen flowed

over its deepest channel.

 

It had been erected by Sir Thomas Houghton, towards the beginning

of Elizabeth’s reign, and the gallant knight had always supported

a garrison in it, evidently for no other purpose than to fire a

salute, at every anniversary of his birth day. But he died, and

so did his queen: and upon the accession of the learned James to

the throne, folios became the only battlements. His descendant,

Sir Gilbert, was honoured with a visit from that monarch, in

his celebrated “Progress” through Lancashire; and from the

tower of Houghton, the modern Solomon fired his wit from an old

Latin mortar. “Our opinion” said the grave fool and the merry

sage, “whilk hath been kept for some time, as our jester Horace

(the oyster eater should have lived in our court) recommends,

in our desk,”--and here he pointed to his brow, with his usual

self-complacency--“our opinion is,” he continued, “that Houghton

Tower is just like a Scotch pudding--ha!--ha!--Sir Gilbert;--your

castle is a pudding, and you are chief butler, and all your men are

cooks! _We_ say so.”

 

But another reign brought different scenes. Upon the disputes of

Charles and the Parliament, a strong garrison was again supported

in the tower, and the costly velvet which had decked the “Progress”

of James, through the ponderous gateway, was removed from the

trampling hoof of the war steed. The Parliamentary army besieged

it, but it made a bold defence, until, by accident, the magazine

of powder in the strongest battlement, was ignited; and as the

assailants were making a vigorous effort, all at once three of the

buttresses were blown up, and Cromwell’s troops were masters of

Houghton Tower, having taken all the garrison as prisoners. Their

governor, Sir Gilbert, had fallen in the assault. His son Richard

was heir, and the rightful lord of the tower, but he was confined

in a dungeon, along with his youngest daughter, Anne--for all her

sisters were married. But the wily Cromwell, when he was compelled

to lead his troops to Ireland, secretly advised his officers in the

garrison to give out that they were willing to conspire against

the Parliament, and to return to their allegiance, in order that

he might be privy to every intended movement of the Royalists.

The plot was successful. As soon as Cromwell had departed from

England, (he never had resided in the tower,) this resolution was

made known, and to prove its sincerity, Sir Richard Houghton was

restored to his claims as governor of Houghton Tower, which was

once more considered as a strong-hold of the Royalists; while

virtually it was in the power of spies, who secretly conveyed

all intelligence of any loyal movement which was, or had been

concerting,--to the General.

 

The scene of our Legend opens in the year 1651, on a beautiful

evening towards the end of August, when the setting rays of the

autumn sun fell, with a luxurious light, on the grey fortresses,

and the floating banner. The fair Anne was walking alone, on the

eastern battlement which overlooked the valley. She was of slight

proportions, and her age could not have exceeded sixteen, though

she was possessed of a mind nobly accomplished, in which genius

and passion were now beginning to develope themselves, in beauty

and power. Her features were eminently noble, and beautiful; yet

changing to every __EXPRESSION__, as if they themselves thought and

felt. In one mood, she might have sat to the painter, for a true

image of the laughing and innocent Hebe; one who would have danced

away an immortality in smiles, with no other wreathes than her own

beautiful hair, and no other company than her own thoughts and

love: more gay and gladsome than a child of earth,--the genius of

witchery. In another, for that of Melancholy, her long dark locks

hanging over a face so pale, with the colour and the life of hope

dashed from it, as was hope itself, from her mind. Her form was

moulded in the most perfect symmetry of beauty,--not luxurious, but

spiritual.

 

The weeds of mourning for her mother, who had died a few months

before, had been thrown aside; but the paleness of her cheeks, and

the tremor of her lips, spoke the sorrow of her heart. Her locks

waved to the breeze. Her eye kindled with enthusiasm, as, quickly

placing her small hand upon her marble brow, she exclaimed, “how

tranquil and how beautiful is earth now. Yonder cottages, with

their ivy porches, around which children are sporting, appear as if

they were the habitations of young spirits. England is blessed in

her cottages--but ah!--in her palaces!--no crown for the sun’s rays

to fall upon! Once the sun gleamed upon the crown placed carelessly

amidst the state ornaments, in the palace:--without, upon the gory

head of the king, which had once been invested by it; and last of

all, upon his headless trunk. Oh! that his son--now returned, might be blessed with conquest.”