Legends of Lancashire 22

Legends of Lancashire 22

His companion, the Duke of Athol, with whom he seemed frequently

to converse as a familiar friend, was tall and muscular. Broad and

commanding was his forehead, seen occasionally as he raised his

bonnet, when the prince mildly gave forth his orders. Long dark

whiskers added to the sternness and fierceness of his countenance,

and large over-hanging eyebrows only seemed to arch in the fiery

keenness of his restless glance, and concentrate it still more

deadly.

 

“Athol,” said the prince, as he beheld the crowd becoming pale and

horror-struck at the broadswords of his Highland troops, “sheath

your weapons.”

 

“Where?” asked the fiery duke. “Where, my prince? In their cowardly

carcasses, and thus let out their base and craven souls? The

English say that those of our nation are cold and heartless. They

should know that the mountain breezes carry on their wings, fire to

the soul. Well, if we are cold, we are keen; aye, as these our good

and true weapons, which they have, at times, tried, if I mistake

not.”

 

“They belie you, and that they know full well. My Scottish

troops--gaze upon them--are furious: a word will fire them, and a

thousand will fail to extinguish the flame. Nay,” he added gently

but firmly, “sheath your swords in their scabbards,--in their

scabbards. The inhabitants are loyal.”

 

The last words, accompanied as they were by the sudden sinking of

the swords into their scabbards, called forth a long and loud shout

from the gazing multitude, though they perceived that at the sound

of the bagpipe, the soldiers often placed their hands upon the

hilt of their swords, as if they could, with difficulty, refrain

from drawing them. The streets were all lined with spectators,

the most of whom seemed to have forgotten their loyalty to the

reigning sovereign. The Chevalier dismounted from his steed, and

marched on foot. Many a fair dame threw pitying looks upon his

form, and, struck with admiration, silently implored a blessing,

and full success upon his romantic endeavours; and as the band

played merrily, “the King shall have his own again,” they chorused

and encored it, with fond eyes, and waving handkerchiefs. He

gallantly bowed to them as he passed on; and thus sent many a

beautiful creature home, to dream of him, and when she awoke, in

the intervals, to wet her pillow with tears, and pray for his

safety. Roses were thrown upon him, from some of the terraces; he

stooped to pick them up, but they were faded, for they were summer

flowers, and had been gathered under the setting sun, many months

before, and he sighed as he thought of his own fortunes. But this

did not prevent him from kissing his hand in return, to those who

had showered them down, and they, of course, thought that they were

much sweeter roses themselves; and perhaps they were. The crowd

enthusiastically cheered him all the way.

 

“Athol, will they be as ready to give me assistance by money, as

they are to proffer their cheers?” asked the prince.

 

“_We_ give our blood,” replied the duke. “We place our heads as

your stepping stones to the throne, which is your rightful seat;

and shall not Englishmen give their money? Appoint a few of the

brave men under my command, as beggars, and trust me, that swords

and dirks in their hands, will levy something considerable. Steel

can find its way through coffers, and, without much ceremony, enter

pockets. Can it not?” and the chieftain smiled darkly.

 

“A freebooter still, Athol, although you have left your native glen

and castle. When shall I be able to make thee a courtier?”

 

“When I shall assist to make thee a king. Nay, noble prince, frown

not upon thy humble and trusty subject. I am a little chafed.

Nevertheless, is it not my duty to assist in making thee a king?”

 

“Thou hast, indeed, a true heart,” answered the Chevalier,

“though thy manners are not exactly so faultless, and may, with

much advantage, be reformed and amended. Nay, frown not in turn.

Montrose, are we yet within sight of our palace?”

 

The marquess, thus addressed, stepped forward, and having paid his

marks of reverence, replied,--

 

“Yes, noble prince. The hundred of our troops, who arrived

yesterday in Manchester are now surrounding it, waiting for your

presence.”

 

It was exactly as he said. In Market-street they stood around the

house of one Dickenson, which was thus converted into a palace,

and afterwards went by the name; though now it has fallen so

low as to become an inn. It had been given out that quarters and

accommodation would be required in the town for ten thousand men,

but now it did not seem, after they were all drawn up, that there

were more than six thousand. Amid loud and hearty acclamations, the

prince and the leaders entered the palace, while some of the troops

kept station and guard without, and the others dispersed themselves

over the town, after they had seen that the pieces of artillery

were in safe keeping.

 

* * * * *

 

The house of Dr. Dawson, who had, lately, altogether retired from

the duties of his profession, stood in a quiet and remote part of

the town. Alice was almost dying, through curiosity, to receive

the latest intelligence. But she could only observe others running

to _know_, and none coming to _tell_, her about the Pretender, and

his entry into Manchester; and this, certainly, was sufficiently

provoking for a young lady. James, her brother, had gone out early

in the morning, and had not returned, so that she had no one

to fret and teaze, but her father; and he was, alas, rather an

irritable toy, for a young lady to sport with.

 

“Alice, you are restless and fatigued in my company. Get thee to

thy looking-glass, you are never weary of being there.”

 

“It has a more pleasant face than you have, dear father, when you

frown,” playfully returned Alice.

 

“There, there,--my children accuse and rebel against me! No matter,

their father is old and infirm. I must bring them up, support them,

only to listen to their impertinence and disobedience. Would that

God had made me childless, or that he had made my children blind

or dumb; or had given them a golden portion each, to support them.

Oh! you look pretty in tears, Alice,--quite irresistible, upon mine

honour. But do not waste them, they are so precious. Pray reserve

some: it will be prudent, Alice, they will all be in good time when

you get a lover!”

 

“Would that he were come!” peevishly exclaimed Alice, “and I should

run off with him, at any hour of the night, and to any place!”

 

“What! without looking in at my bank notes? Eh? Oh! mistress Alice!

And there’s your brother--what can he do?”

 

“He can leave home, and I cannot.”

 

“Yes, he _has_ left home,” said the old man, now beginning to be

affected. “And where is he?”

 

“Ah! dear father, should he have joined the cause of the Pretender!

Oh! how you would repent of the harsh words you have often spoken

to him.”

 

“Dear Alice, _I do repent_ already. Come and kiss your harsh old

father. Look upon the face that you confess to be less pleasing

than your looking glass. Ah, Alice, you are a sly girl.”

 

They at length became impatient, when night came on, and still,

James was absent. They had heard the public crier announce that

a general illumination of the town was to take place, and Alice

thought that her brother might have appeared to assist in the

arrangements. And now, when lights, many and brilliant, arose in

the opposite windows, and crowds were passing in the streets, she

proceeded, with a heavy heart, to give directions to the servants,

and then anxiously sat down at the casement of her own apartment,

not to view any object--save James. Private disappointments,

however small, and in themselves contemptible, are fretted by

public rejoicings; and as the bells rung out a merry peal, and

music walked the streets, she only felt her loneliness the more.

A knocking was heard at the door, and Alice flew down herself, to

open it, and admit her brother to a well spiced scolding; if not

(she was in doubts) to a more violent demonstration of her feelings.

 

It was Katharine Norton, who had come to enjoy the company of her

friend, as her maiden aunt had been so busy in asking questions

at her servants, relative to the Pretender, his dress, and his

general appearance, that she had entirely deserted the parlour for

the kitchen, and her niece was thus left alone.

 

They spoke of James, although Katharine occasionally paused, and

introduced some other subject, lest he might arrive in the midst

of their conversation; and she too well knew, that her mischievous

companion would not scruple to inform him of its nature and

subject; but he came not.

 

“Katharine, what can we do to know where he is? He is not well, or

it is not well with him. Something must have happened. Katharine,

‘_Beware of the Cockade!_’ The prophecy now rises to my mind.

It must be true. I feel that it is. My brother is ardent, and

romantic; and often has he expressed his sympathy with the

unfortunate house of Stuart.”

 

Servants were sent forth to obtain some information concerning

James, and the causes of his strange absence. They returned, only

to tell their disappointment. No one had a tale--save the old

clock, which numbered the minutes and the hours; and although the

minutes seemed to move slowly, the rapid flight of the hours was

surprizing. The loud shouts of the crowd broke in upon the silence;

and the heavy tread of her impatient father, in the adjoining

apartment, fell upon the ear of Alice, but mournfully. She led

her companion into her brother’s study, and playfully threw his

dressing gown over Katharine, that she might behold a diligent

student: but as she met her own gaze in a mirror opposite, she

knew that she was but counterfeiting mirth and happiness. She

placed before her Newton’s Principia, and requested a display of

philosophy and learning, to support the great principle therein

developed, ‘that every particle of matter is attracted by, or

gravitates to, every other particle of matter, with a force

inversely proportional to the squares of their distances.’ “Oh!”

she exclaimed, as she seized upon a letter or two, concealed in the

pages, in which was the hand-writing and signature of her friend,

“so, my brother wishes to transplant beautiful flowers into such

barren fields, that when he is puzzled with problems and themes, he

may be refreshed with questions, and pretty soft confessions, which

he finds no difficulty in understanding? Blush, Katharine, and close the volume.”