Legends of Lancashire 28

Legends of Lancashire 28

“Bless you! Heaven bless you for your efforts, but more as the

husband of my Alice. But--Katharine, how does she endure my

approaching execution?”

 

“She hopes that your pardon will arrive, and she has arranged every

thing for her marriage, on the morrow, when you are set at liberty.

Oh! how must I break the awful truth to her! When I left her an

hour ago, she was singing some of your verses. Her mind seems

to have lost some of its power, for she wandered out alone this

afternoon, to the Common, where, on the morrow, you must die, and

gathered some of the simple daisies, to deck her hair. She protests

that these will be all that her dear James shall know of Kennington

Common!”

 

Sir Hector remained an hour with him, and took his last farewell!

 

The morning came, after a sleepless, restless night. Dawson attired

himself in full uniform, even to the Highland bonnet. At an early

hour the officers entered, and led him, along with eight of his

companions, down to the court yard of the prison. All who were to

suffer, greeted each other kindly, but no one had need to cheer

each other, and inspire them with firmness. For themselves, they

were indifferent to their doom, and were prepared to meet it with

the conciousness of what they considered innocence in a good cause;

but they had relatives, and this clouded their minds. Still they

appeared bold and undaunted.

 

“Townley,” said one to the Colonel, “you were always,--forgive me

for the hint,--fond of dressing your head, when it was about to pop

in at the door of a ball room, to be inspected by the ladies. Now

that it is to be seen more conspicuously, will you not bestow more

attention? There, upon mine honour, that fine curl has left its

sweep.”

 

After finishing breakfast, their chains were struck off, and their

arms pinioned.

 

“Stay,” exclaimed one, “give me the freedom of my hands, to

arrange my neckcloth, that should the Hanoverian Elector himself

be present, I may render the man all possible honours. Help me to

laugh Dawson. Captain, is my neckcloth nice? See,--but here is the

groom of my bedchamber, the master of my wardrobe, he will assist

me.”

 

The Executioner now appeared, with the halters carried behind him.

He was dressed in white, and his black and hideous face, although

of a cadaverous hue, was a striking contrast. Although Dawson

scorned the fear of death, yet life was dear to him for Katharine,

and a shudder passed over his frame, as the executioner approached

him.

 

“Young gentleman,” said the grim official, “your neck is the first

for the halter. But the first shall be last, in order that the

scriptures may be fulfilled, and your heart shall be the last in

being thrown into the flames. Ha! ha!” and he laughed at the awful

blasphemy. With the greatest coolness and composure he removed the

scarf from Dawson’s neck, and was substituting the rope, when he

observed the golden chain, to which was attached the portrait of

Katharine Norton. He raised it.

 

“Young sir,” said he, as he attempted to smile, “shall I remove the

miniature? Pretty, pretty,--the lady smiles so beautifully upon the

rope!”

 

“Touch it not, wretch,” thundered forth Dawson, in tones which

made the barbarian tremble, and interrupted him in his chuckle.

“Never,” he added, “shall the resemblance of her whom I love, be

exposed to a profane gaze.”

 

“Nay,” returned the executioner, “you have no command over it,

young rebel. Your clothes are my property, as soon as I perform my

kind offices to that carcase, and, of course, the miniature amongst

the rest.”

 

“Shall it!” shouted Dawson in a rage. “Never. Officer, remove it

from my neck, and place it on the floor.” His request was granted,

and he ground it to atoms beneath his tread.

 

The prisoners were then brought out, and placed on hurdles,

surrounded by a body of foot guards. There, also, was the

executioner, with a naked scimitar. The “dead march” was now played

by the military, and its music was sad and slow, unlike that which

had roused the courage of the rebels when they assembled under the

standard of the Chevalier. Gradually it swelled, until, towards the

conclusion, it died quietly away, and expressed the true condition

of the prisoners, “who were wearing away to the land of the leal.”

Some of them gaily beat time with their feet, but others would not

counterfeit mirth, although they needed not to counterfeit courage,

for they all possessed it.

 

When they arrived at Kennington Common, they beheld a dense crowd,

for the London mob had assembled, to feast on the horrid spectacle

of hanging, embowelling, burning, and beheading. But as the hurdles

passed them, they were quiet, and some words, as well as many

looks, of commiseration greeted the prisoners. A large pile of

faggots was heaped up close to the gallows, and as they left the

hurdles, and entered the cart from which they were to be turned

off, they were set fire to, and threw a fitful glare over the faces

Of the guards around, as well as those of the prisoners. Colonel

Townley turned to the magistrates, who stood on a small platform,

and asked whether a clergyman had been brought to attend to them.

On being answered in the negative, he exclaimed,--

 

“What mercy is shown to us! You are generous enemies! Morgan, my

good friend, read us appropriate prayers, before we suffer for King

James. Let us die, trusting in God our Saviour. It is well that I

reminded you to bring your book.”

 

His fellow-sufferer began to read in a solemn manner, kneeling, and

with his head uncovered. Not a whisper was heard among the crowd,

but they stood silent, as if hushed by the true spirit of devotion,

and as if the angels, whom the prisoners invoked to surround them

with their fiery cars, would have been frightened away by the

noise and commotion. They were also in the suspense of expectation,

when these religious services should be ended, and the dread signal

given. Then a carriage was seen rapidly approaching.

 

“A pardon! a pardon!” shouted the mob, as they made way, at first

sight. The prisoners’ devotions were interrupted. For a moment

they gazed anxiously, but, as the carriage took its station behind

the dense masses of people, their hopes fell, and once more they

engaged in their religious exercises, but with paler countenances,

and the reader’s voice, at first, was observed to tremble. Dawson

looked up. From the window of the carriage he saw Sir Hector

gazing, and waving his farewell; and beside him was his own

Katharine! A violent shuddering seized him, but, at that moment,

Morgan was repeating the words, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit,”

and now he felt that he had, for ever, done with earthly things.

The signal was given by a loud shout, raised by the prisoners, “God

save King James,” and the cart was driven from beneath them!

 

All the other horrible accompaniments were gone through, and the

executioner, on throwing the heart of Dawson into the flames,

exclaimed, “Long live King George!”

 

The carriage was that of Katharine Norton, and thus, attended

by her aunt and McLean,--who had failed in all their attempts

to dissuade her from witnessing such a scene,--she gazed on

her lover’s tortures to the last. She had seen him suspended,

then stripped, in order that he might be embowelled; and as the

executioner announced that he had performed his office, she clasped

her hands together, and meekly laying her head on the bosom of her

aunt, said,

 

“Dear James, I follow thee.”

 

“Not yet, my Katharine, not yet. Put your throbbing heart to mine,

love.”

 

Throbbing heart! Alas, it throbbed no more! Katharine Norton was

dead! Hector McLean took one hand, to console her, and, as the

other was placed upon the window of the carriage, it was seized by

the blind Prophetess, who now appeared, strangely and unexpectedly,

as before.

 

“Dead! dead!” she exclaimed.

 

At that moment the shouts of the mob frightened the horses, who

dashed furiously away; and the young Prophetess was left a mangled

corpse! Her life was all a mystery--her power of knowing the

future, and her sudden appearance!

 

 

 

 

THE SPECTRE COACH OF LIVERPOOL.

 

 

In one of the squares at the extremity of Liverpool, some sixty

years ago, there resided a young orphan, called Elizabeth

Woodville. She had no relations surviving; her parents had long

been dead, and an only brother, a few weeks previous, had, by

youthful excesses, been brought to an untimely end. The latter

event preyed upon her spirits and constitution, not only from

the mere fact itself of his death, but also from the horrible

circumstances connected with it. He had been conveyed home a

corpse, after his nightly revel; and at the moment when Elizabeth

was dreaming of her parents, in the far off happy land, she was

awoke to listen to the awful tidings, and view their confirmation

in the ghastly features of one who, whatever, and how many his

faults and crimes were, had always loved her. She seemed now to

be alone in the world, with no acquaintances save the flowers

which her fair hands fostered every morning, and the toys of her

brother, when a boy, which were all collected and arranged before

her. There was the pencil, with which he and Arthur Govenloch

alternately sketched her own features, in puerile art; and along

with it were the silken cords which bound her to a seat, when she

was refractory. That seat was still there, with the green faded

cushion, and in it, for hours, she often sat, held by the illusions

of memory. His fishing rod and basket kept their old places, fixed

to the ceiling. Even the marbles of the boy had been preserved, and

she thought of their sports in the garden, and remembered a long

and successful chase, through amidst the trees and over the grass

plot, into the arbour, which Arthur, followed by her brother, had

after her, when she stole away their marbles. His Holy Bible, too,

with the three names inscribed on the fly leaf, lay with its gilt

edges; and she pictured once more to her fancy, the beautiful and

happy sabbath eves, in summer, out on the flowery lawn, when their

young minds drank in the holy words of peace and life. She fondly

hoped that the solemn, yet sweet truths of mercy therein contained,

would have been so strongly impressed upon her brother’s heart,

that all the infidel thoughts which had latterly sprung up, and

effected his temporal ruin, must have failed to uproot them. It

had never been conned by them as a task book, but had always been

opened by them as a holy romance of truth from heaven, pointing

to Eden as the cradle, and the skies as the home, of our race;

with the lovely and the wise Jesus as the hero of every scene,

reflected above or below. Her whole heart was among these objects

of remembrance, and her happiness was in the past. She played

delightfully, and her sweet voice accompanied the harp, but only

the songs and hymns which had pleased her brother, and his friend.

She often thought of that friend. There was only one of the dead

who engrossed all her thoughts, and that one was her brother, even

to the entire exclusion of her parents; and there was only one of

the living, and he was Arthur Govenloch. Since boyhood he had been

in a foreign country, but he had never gone from the affections of Elizabeth Woodville.