Legends of Lancashire
by Peter Landreth · English · Gutenberg #51177 · 503,921 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Legends of Lancashire
Author: Peter Landreth
Release date: February 11, 2016 [eBook #51177]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LEGENDS OF LANCASHIRE ***
LEGENDS
OF
LANCASHIRE.
“Round the fire such Legends go.”
SIR W. SCOTT.
LONDON:
WHITTAKER, AND CO., AVE MARIA LANE,
AND
R. COCKER, MARKET-PLACE, WIGAN.
MDCCCXLI.
TO
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
LADY STANLEY,
THE “LEGENDS OF LANCASHIRE”
ARE,
WITH HER LADYSHIP’S KIND PERMISSION,
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED.
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
The Battle of Wigan Lane 6
The Witches of Furness 69
The Devil’s Wall 91
The Prophetess and the Rebel 155
The Spectre Coach 229
The Cross and Lady Mabel 243
Lancaster Castle 303
PREFACE.
A _Preface_ before an Introduction seems sufficiently impudent.
It is like popping our _face_ in at the door for a short
reconnoitre, before we introduce ourselves. Be it so!
The Chronicler of the “Legends of Lancashire” has no apology to
offer, except to his palsied hands, for taking up the pen. He is
not a Paul Pry, appearing before the public, with his perpetual
non-intrusion plea. He imagines that his motives for writing the
Legends are distinctly enough stated in the following Prospectus.
“Lancashire, of all Counties in England, is the most interesting
to the antiquarian. Its rivers once flowed with blood;--its houses
were towers, castles, or abbeys;--its men were heroes;--its ladies
were witches! But now, what a change! The county is commercial.
Where the trumpet of war called Arthur to his victories, the noisy
engine is roaring. The fortresses have become factories; the
abbeys--workhouses;--the heroes--clerks, merchants, and bankers.
The ladies, indeed, profess to be what they were in former ages,
and still call themselves ‘Lancashire Witches.’ It may not be
safe for the ‘Chronicler,’ aged as he is, to speak lightly of
the power of their spells; they may _yet_ be of a deadly nature
to him--for witches love revenge. Report says, however, that
they cannot use the broomstick on which their ancestresses were
accustomed to perform their nightly wanderings in the air; but the
Chronicler is not so ungallant as to conclude, that it is because
they have broken it over their husbands’ shoulders. The witches
of a former age were accustomed, with awful incantations, to mix
their drugs:--pooh!--those of this age infuse a cup of comfortable
tea--but surely not to chatter scandal over it.
“Alas! the age of chivalry and romance is gone from Lancashire. Its
bones are in the tomb of history;--but some are too gay for such
_grave_ meditations. Legends alone can bring it to view, amidst all
the light of poetry; and their wand of enchantment may call into
existence a creation, beautiful yet real.
“The Chronicler of the forthcoming ‘Legends’ undertakes to present
his readers with a series upon individuals, events, and places,
all connected with a former age. Charles, with cavaliers of every
shade:--roundheads, from Cromwell down to his groom:--the old
tower, wherein were gallant soldiers and fair ladies:--the field
of battle fiercely contested;--all shall appear, described, he
flatters himself, with accuracy and faithfulness. He shall never
sacrifice historical facts, or characters, to fiction. History,
accurately sketched, he believes to be the truest and most
beautiful romance, and there is enough of that in Lancashire to
dispense with false colour and glitter. Places, dates, and names,
as well as characters, shall be accurate.
“He begs leave to say one word of himself. He is an old man, and
this he conceives to be an advantage. The torch of tradition is
most becoming in a trembling hand; and its light falls with a
strange harmony over the white locks of the Chronicler, while he
totters on through the regions of the past, long forgotten; and of
which he himself seems to be the genius.”
He candidly confesses that he has not yet fulfilled his promise.
That could not be done in the first volume. But the next shall be
a continuous series of Legends connected with the civil wars, and
illustrative of the characters of the opposing leaders. And in
these he shall avoid all discussions about the merits of Roundhead
and Cavalier. Vandyke might have given immortality to the features
of Cromwell, as well as those of Charles, without deciding on the
questions--ought Charles to have been beheaded, and was Cromwell
an usurper. So the Chronicler undertakes, even in his portraits
of leading characters, and in his sketches of events, to steer
clear of party spirit. Still the pledge does not prohibit him
from weighing the military and other talents of their respective
leaders. Should he say that Cromwell, beyond all comparison as a
man of genius and a soldier, was above Charles, it must not be
inferred that he is a Roundhead. Or should he paint Charles as a
more handsome and attractive man than Noll with the wart, he must
not be called a Cavalier.
The Chronicler had no such design as has been attributed to him,
of “mercilessly blackening the character of Cromwell.” The critic,
evidently, had been gazing long upon some very sunny portrait
of the Protector, and, therefore, when he came to a more sober
one, his eyes being still dazzled, naturally thought it dark and
“black.” Besides, really the man of the newspaper must not get
deadly angry at the hint that his eyes are none of the best.
That the Chronicler is free from any such design may be seen by the
high character which Cromwell sustains in the Legend of “Lancaster
Castle.” If it be thought that there is any contradiction between
that and the “Battle of Wigan Lane,” it is sufficient to reply,
that the Cromwell of 1644, and the Cromwell of 1651 are very
different personages indeed. When first he came into notice, none
of his enemies could suspect the sincerity of his profession of
republican principles, but before the above-mentioned battle, even
some of his friends had abandoned their confidence in his honesty.
There now only remains to say a few words regarding the contents
of this volume. The Legends are all founded on authenticated
traditions, and at the end of the work the documents shall be
given. It is singular that the most improbable of them--the
“Devil’s Wall,” although a most perfect tradition in all its parts,
has never been known beyond the immediate vicinity of Ormskirk. The
Legend founded upon it follows the tradition without one deviation
except in the name and occupation of Gideon Chiselwig. The wall may
still be seen. The “Witches of Furness,” are the only two ladies
whom the Chronicler knows, that are unlike to the real Lancashire
Witches, and yet, the Legend is true. The neighbourhood of Furness,
it may be supposed, could produce a more noble kind of Witchcraft,
than the far-famed Pendle-hill. The latter abounds with nothing
but witches, the down upon whose lips might have formed the brooms
on which they careered through the air, when they had failed to
throw their bridle over some sleepy wretch, and transform him into
a horse. But a Legend of this kind of witchcraft shall afterwards
be given. The “Cross and Lady Mabel,” although founded on the same
genealogical account as Mr. Roby’s “Mab’s Cross,” is essentially
and altogether different in its details; and besides, gives the
tradition of the erection of the cross, which has, hitherto,
been unknown. And here the Chronicler returns his thanks to that
gentleman for the pleasure which his “Traditions of Lancashire”
have afforded him. Lancashire abounds with so many traditions, that
five or six Chroniclers might each glean a few volumes. This forms
the only excuse for following Mr. Roby.
To the County Press the best thanks of the Chronicler are due, for
the high approbation they have bestowed on an anonymous work.
INTRODUCTION.
The Chronicler of the forthcoming “Legends” is, perhaps, more of
an Antiquary, in disposition and habits, than many whose names
are well known in Societies, which have been formed for objects
of interesting research. He inhabits an old castellated building,
which was both a fortress and a mansion, in some former age. Time
has passed roughly over its proportions: he has even broken the
dial, which marked out his own flight. Still, many relics of the
past are left: and limbs of warlike images, and rude inscriptions,
partly effaced, may yet be seen. The chisel, or even the plaster
of modern art, have never approached its walls. No flower has
sought shelter amidst its mantling ivy:--shelter, it should never
find,--it would instantly be rooted up. Within, no partitions have
been erected, to silence the sacred echoes of the spacious hall.
The spirits of sound, which tenant the dwelling, would take flight
upon the slightest change. No carpet of richest manufacture, has
dared to cover the silent footsteps of the fair and the brave,
who once to the minstrel’s harp, and the sigh of love, trod many
a gallant measure in the dance. The windows on the terrace, when
opened, receive no sound from the distance, save the old echo
of the lover’s lute, greeting the maiden as she listened in her
chamber, with fluttering heart, to the fond tale. When seen from
without, her handkerchief seems to float--the signal of peace and
hope. To the Chronicler, there is no silence in these deserted
scenes. From him, the sixteenth century has never departed. The
echoes are still of merriment and war. Knights and squires,
successful in wooing or fighting, move before him. He mingles,
with the delight of reality, in the banquet and the dance--and
then rushes to the siege and the battle. Could the reader obtain
admission to his apartment he would, as by a flash of lightning,
be favoured with a glance--it might be transient to his eye, but
it could never be darkened in his mind--of olden times. He would
converse with one, who has never lived for modern change, and in
whose white locks, and obsolete dress, he should behold a living
specimen of a former century, as if it had literally descended from
that time. The Chronicler must be excused for speaking of himself.
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.”
At this moment, her eye was arrested by a reflection of light
in the distance. It was the gleam of arms, from a small body of
soldiers; over whom the banner of Charles was waving.
In her joy, Anne Houghton clasped her hands, and fervently said,
“Thank God! all are not traitors.” She turned round, and met the
searching glance of Colonel Seaton, one of Cromwell’s spies.
“Fair lady--yonder troop is a loyal body. But--” and his
countenance darkened with thought as he spoke,--“they have now
encamped, and three horsemen leave the line, and are galloping in
the direction of the tower. Well--for their reception!”
There seemed to be a concealed meaning in his tones, and in haste
he strode away. Three men were now seen approaching the avenue
which led to the gateway. The foremost seemed to have no armour,
but a sword. He wore no helmet, but a low cap, with a white
plume. He was clad in a mourning garb, and over his left arm his
cloak was flung, as for a shield. Keen was his eye, though he had
evidently passed the meridian of life, and the fair lady of the
tower almost believed that she only stood at a short distance from
him--so quick was its flash. Behind him was a handsome youth,
equipped in light panoply, who seemed fitted either for contesting
the battlefield--or for sighing, not unpitied, in a lady’s bower.
Light was the rein which he passed over his charger, and yet, as
it plunged furiously, the rider sat with indifference. The third
horseman, who seemed altogether absorbed with papers on which he
was glancing, was the most stalwart. His coat of mail was clasped
over a breast, full and prominent, and his horse startled whenever
his mailed hand was placed upon its mane, to urge it forward. His
eye never sought the fortress of the tower, until they had arrived
at the drawbridge--when the warder’s horn sounded the challenge,
and Sir Gilbert appeared on the walls. The first horseman called
out, “The Earl of Derby, with two friends, in the service of
Charles.”
The drawbridge arose instantly, and, as they entered, Sir Richard
gave the Earl a warm welcome. “In mourning, my noble friend? Is the
Countess of Derby in health?”
“Yes,” was the reply--“But I wear these weeds for my late
unfortunate master: and never shall they be exchanged--unless for
a court dress, to appear with my heroic lady, in the palace of his
son.”
“Never,” was the ejaculation of Colonel Seaton, who now bowed his
homage to the loyal nobleman and his companions. The word seemed
ominous--but it was intended to be _more_ than ominous. A tear
trembled in the Earl’s eye, and, although delicate was the hand
which brushed it away, that hand seemed formed for the sword.
“Excuse my weakness,” he added. “Loyalty costs me much; but for
every tear which falls on the ground, that ground shall drink, till
it be glutted, aye, dyed with the enemy’s blood.” This was said in
no threatening tone, but, from its very mildness, was thrilling
with the sternest revenge, and breathing the spirit of the
deadliest resolution; as the still calm, sometimes truly announces
the darkness and fury of the tempest.
“Sir Thomas Tyldesley and a distant relation, whom he calls his
nephew;--dear to me for themselves, as well as for their loyalty,
accompany me,” said Derby, introducing them to Sir Richard; “we
met at Preston, in the royal name, once more to try the cause of
Charles.”
“My sword,” replied Sir Thomas to the praise of the governor, “once
intervened between the king and death; and gladly would I have
intervened myself, to save him from his shameful end. I can do the
same for his son: my nephew will support me,” and he looked with
emotion upon his young relative. They informed Sir Richard, that at
the head of six hundred men, they were on their march to possess
themselves of Wigan, and then to join the army of the king. Colonel
Seaton councilled them to delay their march till the morrow, and
then some of the garrison might be prepared to accompany them.
Meanwhile, he assured them that a messenger should be sent to the
camp, to make known this resolution. He stepped aside to one of his
men, and, in a low and firm voice said, “Mount horse ere another
minute is gone, and meet Colonel Lilbourne, and bid him haste to
seize upon Wigan. Stay--” as he bethought himself, “your course
may be seen at present; in half-an-hour you will be favoured by
the night,--and ride, as from death!” “Perhaps,” he muttered to
himself, as he moved on to join the Earl, “Lilbourne may give them
a welcome, if his friendship be hasty, in these very walls.”
Sir Richard Houghton had now conducted the new comers up to the
battlements, through ponderous arches, and had asked Derby’s
blessing upon his beautiful daughter. Kind was the Earl’s language
to the maiden, as, gently taking her arm, he put it within that of
young Tyldesley; “Let the smiles of beauty always honour and reward
the young and brave royalist!”
“Old soldiers likewise honour the youthful royalist,”--interrupted
Colonel Seaton, who had joined them--“and perhaps high honours
await him on the morrow.” These words were not heard by young
Tyldesley, who was gallantly paying his compliments to the lady.
Her eye never wandered from the ground, even to gaze upon the
handsome cavalier, until they had entered the great hall, and she
was led by him to a seat in the recess, with the casement opening
upon the woody precipices of the tower. She then stole a glance at
him, as he gazed upon the scene without. He seemed agitated with
some remembrance newly awakened. Anne’s eyes were still upon him,
until, at length, he broke from his reverie.
“Excuse my rudeness, fair lady:--the times prevent us from giving
the attention we are proud to show. In the midst of courtesy,
aye, and of tenderer duties, the trumpet calls us away, or some
painful remembrance comes, like a cloud, over our joy. Three
years ago I was cloistered within the walls of Oxford, striving
successfully for literary honours. My sister,--fair and beautiful
as the lady-love of a poet’s dream; and pure as an angel--for she
transformed earth into a holy spot, and then fondly clung to
every flower which grew there, of hope and love--came from home
to visit me. It was towards sunset, in summer, when she entered
my apartment. She rushed not forth to meet me, as was her wont.
She was pale, and her golden ringlets were disordered;--but her
countenance was intensely thoughtful, and she assumed all the
affection of an elder sister, kissed my brow, and asked God to
bless her brother Henry. Cold were her lips, as I fondly pressed
them. I put her hand within my bosom, and encircled her slight
frame with my arm. I begged her to tell me her distress. I had
not a friend to inquire respecting; we were two orphans; and,
therefore, I knew that the causes of her anguish were bound up in
herself. ‘Oh! Eleanor,’ I said, ‘how different is this meeting
from our last; in this very room, when you bounded in, all fondly
and playfully, and gave me a kiss for every medal of honour I had
won.--See,’ and I showed her many which I had won since--‘will
you refuse me a sister’s reward?’ She bent forward--her arms were
twined around my neck, when her head sunk on her bosom. ‘Oh! tell
me!’ I exclaimed with an earnestness almost frantic, ‘why are
you thus disturbed?’ She slowly raised her face, with a strange
expression, and asked, ‘Does a nerve of my frame tremble, brother?
do mine eyes drop one little tear? why, then, should ye suppose me
distressed?’ Here a bell tolled suddenly--it was no requiem for
the dead--but for a noble youth who was shortly to be so.
“She started up, and exclaimed, ‘it is time!--brother, ask me not a
question, but silently accompany me.’
“‘Where?’ I inquired.
“‘To the place of execution!’
“The truth now flashed upon me. She took my arm and we left the
room. It was a beautiful night, so like the present. I lamented the
fate of him who must bid adieu to earth, when it was so lovely,
and on a scaffold! and I longed to know the tie which bound my
sister to him, but I dared not question her. We had already left
the suburbs of Oxford, and the dense crowd was in sight at a short
distance. She broke the silence, ‘Henry, do not hold me, when I
quit your arm; do not, for my mother’s sake. That vow is sacred to
us both!’ We had now reached the place of death. The sun gleamed
upon the block. I thanked God that he was to be beheaded as a
gentleman, and not hanged as a dog. He came upon the scaffold with
a proud step, and a haughty mien. His head was uncovered, and dark
were the beautiful locks, which hung over his neck;--but that head,
which might have lain on my sister’s bosom, was to be as a piece
of wood for the axe of the executioner! My sister never trembled,
but gazed upon him. He started as he looked upon the block! He
approached,--the executioner was about to unbuckle the sword of
the condemned cavalier, when, with a proud glance, he forbade him.
He knelt:--his lips moved in prayer. His eyes fell upon the marks
of military honour on his breast. ‘Sir William,’ he said, ‘thou art
no more.’
“At his name, my sister gave one scream of madness; he started
up at the sound, and his eyes were upon Eleanor. ‘My Eleanor!’
he exclaimed: she rushed to the scaffold; but in a moment he was
bound down to the block, and the axe fell, but not before a loud
shout came from his lips, ‘God save King Charles!’ and there was my
sister kneeling over him, and then attempting to snatch the head
from the executioner, in her frenzy. I sprung forward--I heard a
fall--Eleanor was dead upon the headless trunk! I rushed home with
the lifeless body in my arms, and there pronounced a vow of revenge
upon the rebels, by whom I had lost a sister.
“My books were disregarded, and I joined my brave uncle. But--this
night is the exact type of that awful night! and I--have no sister!”
He buried his face in his hands. In sympathy, tears were flowing
down the cheeks of Anne. He raised his eyes, and blessed her for
one tear shed over the memory of Eleanor. He even ventured to take
her hand--and it was not withdrawn--“Excuse me,” he said, “I
cannot leave the subject soon, as I cannot leave her grave when I
visit it, until the dews are falling upon my prostrate form. It
is sacred. You remind me of her. And will the fair Anne Houghton
refuse to be unto me what my Eleanor was?”
At this moment the warriors entered the hall, and a council was
held, as to their future movements, when Sir Richard bade his
daughter give orders to the domestics for the feast. In an hour the
entertainment was ready, and the hall lighted. Sir Thomas Tyldesley
sat at the table in full armour, and at every movement which he
made, the clang of his armour was heard, amidst the sober mirth
of the feast. Colonel Seaton inadvertently remarked “The Lord’s
people of old were commanded to eat the passover with their staves
in their hands, ready to depart; and his people, now, must eat with
their swords in their hands.”
“Friend,” replied the knight, “that speech savours too much of a
roundhead, who must always be quoting scripture. I once knew one of
them, whom Cromwell advised to read carefully the account of Jael
and Sisera; and after he had done so, he would inquire at every
old woman whom he met, whether she had got such articles as a long
nail, a heavy hammer, and a strong arm; and told her to operate
upon the head of a cavalier, assuring her ‘that the Lord had
delivered all such into her hand,’ and that she would henceforth
be a mother in Israel. No, no, colonel,--I do not say let soldiers
leave piety to monks, but let them, I say, leave sermons, homilies,
and long faces.”
“Well spoken,” said Sir Richard Houghton, “but our friend hates the
roundheads.”
“I do,” replied the Colonel, “God save King Charles.”
At this moment a blast was heard, and Sir Richard arose, when
Seaton again interrupted them. “Keep your seat, worthy knight, and
entertain your guests. I will go and parley with the new comer; it
is the blast of a royalist.” He strode away saying in his heart,
“God save Cromwell.”
In a short time he returned with the stranger, who was of an
athletic frame, altogether destitute of grace, though not of
dignity; for he strode into the hall with a commanding air. His eye
moved restlessly over the forms of the warriors, when the Earl of
Derby started up, with his hand on his sword.
Colonel Seaton stepped between them, “You behold a friend, noble
Earl! the governor of a loyal castle, who has come to deliberate
with Sir Richard Houghton, in reference to their garrison: not
knowing whether they ought to join the King at Worcester, or keep
to their castle.”
The Earl was satisfied, and only remarked that “he had been
deceived by a resemblance.”
The stranger was invited cordially to partake of the cheer; during
which he spoke but little, and yet seemed interested in the
conversation. At length Sir Thomas Tyldesley proposed that a song
should be sung, adding “that amongst royalists there were to be
found the only true poets.”
“Nay, Sir Thomas,” replied the Earl of Derby, “the republicans can
boast of one whose name shall be the boast of our country to latest
ages, whose lays are wild and majestic. When in London, I was
desirous of seeing the man who wrote so bitterly against the king;
expecting to see a fiend in human disguise. His house was mean: I
thought that he surely had not taken bribes, otherwise he might
have lived in a magnificent mansion. As I entered, two females were
writing, and the sound of an organ came from the further end of the
room. I turned there, and beheld a beautiful man, seated behind
the faded hangings, with a countenance so serene and angelic, and
his eyes looking up to heaven, as if his soul was ascending on the
breath of the music. He was dictating to the ladies, who called him
father. He moved not his eyes: his face was pale, but every muscle
seemed to vibrate with thought and feeling. His hair was parted in
front, over a beautifully formed brow, and fell in brown ringlets
over his shoulders. He could not be young--there was so much of
thought:--he could not be old--there was so much of happiness.
‘Dorothy,’ he said, ‘I have given you the last sentence:--subscribe
Joannis Miltonus.’”
“Milton!” exclaimed the stranger with enthusiasm. “John Milton!”
“His daughter,” the Earl continued, “beheld me; they told their
father that an armed stranger was present. His sword was on the
table--he grasped it--but instantly laid it down. ‘He is welcome,
though I cannot see him. All is dark--dark--not even shadows. But
your errand, sir stranger?’--and his sightless orbs seemed to turn
upon me, with the sweetest, and yet most dignified expression. I
dared not announce with what views I had come, but I went close
to his side, and took the hand (it scarcely touched as if it were
human) which was stained with my master’s blood, and I kissed it
in profoundest admiration. I remained for hours, happy, useful
hours. He arose, as I prepared to depart; I yet see his form; I yet
hear his step. He led me to the door, and blessed me. I have often
thought of the interview, and as I passed the Darwen a few hours
ago, I repeated his lines--though they were commemorative of the
king’s defeat,--
‘And Darwen’s streams with blood of Scots embrued.’”
Here the stranger was much moved, and frequently repeated to
himself, “my Milton! my Milton!”
“Yes,” added Sir Thomas Tyldesley, “it was on such a night as this,
three years ago, that Cromwell defeated the Duke of Hamilton.”
“It was,” replied the stranger, averting his gaze.
The conversation now began to turn upon their warlike plans,
and Henry Tyldesley, conceiving that he might be more agreeably
occupied, led Anne to a seat in the recess, where our fair readers,
we doubt not, have been frequently wishing them to be, together and
alone.
Music was heard from the battlements, through the casement; the
moon shed her softening light upon the young hero’s armour, and
he almost fancied that the rays were the fingers of his beautiful
companion. They spoke not, though their eyes had met, and though
the emotions with which they were lighted up, could not be
mistaken. They loved fondly, and to them both it was that holy and
rapturous thing--first love--which is for ever remembered, even
in old age, as something more beautiful and real than a dream of
earth. In war, love is seen only as in a glimpse, yet then it is
most interesting. Does the dove ever appear so much the spirit of
peace and hope, as when her silver wings are seen, like eternal
types of light, through the darkness of the storm, ascending to
heaven? How beautiful then is every flutter! Darkness is over all,
except these wings, and they appear purer and whiter than ever!
Thus is it with love, when it clings, fonder and fonder, in the
midst of danger; and when slender arms twine themselves around the
martial form, as if they could give a charm against wounds and
death, which reach through corslet and shield.
Young Tyldesley had taken her hand, and she had not withdrawn it,
when a shadow was reflected from the casement, at which they sat
within hearing of the Darwen. Anne started, and on turning round
beheld her maid, who motioned her to leave the hall. There was
an unusual earnestness in her manner as she whispered “for God’s
sake--for your own--not a moment’s delay, my lady!”
Her mistress silently obeyed her.
They were now both upon the battlement, at the eastern extremity.
“We are out of hearing,” said the maid, looking cautiously
around; and gazing upon Anne, whispered with terror, “you are
betrayed!--betrayed--and in the power of false hearts, but daring
hands!”
“Never,” replied her mistress with energy, “who dares asperse his
character and motives?--the stranger is true--”
“My young lady thinks of love,” returned her maid,--“but I refer
not to a lover. Nay, blush not; I meant not, that falsehood, either
to his king, or his lady-love, is in the heart of that young and
handsome cavalier; no, he and his companions I could swear over my
dead husband’s bible, are loyal and noble. But the new comer, whom
Colonel Seaton admitted, is a traitor!--nay, start not, my fair
mistress,--and Houghton Tower is now in the hands of Charles the
First’s murderers!”
There was a fearful reality, thrilling in the voice of the
attendant; so different from the gossiping tone, for which she was
somewhat noted.
“Gracious heaven!” exclaimed her mistress, “and are we betrayed? I
doubt the fidelity of Seaton. He had the countenance of an honest
man until this day; but I now fear me, that his heart is deceitful
and villainous. The stranger, too, seemed sullen; still, there was
an expression of cunning. Yet why should we tremble? Let their
heads grace the walls of Houghton Tower!--my father shall see it
done.”
“Hush, hush, my lady,” replied her maid, “other heads than those
of traitors may, ere long, grace the turrets. They are supported
by the garrison. I learned as much from one of the sentinels, and
a high admiration he expressed for the stranger, whom my husband,
heaven rest his soul! would have addressed as an ungainly butcher,
such is the villain’s appearance.”
Here she was interrupted:--she beheld two forms in the distance,
approaching, and she whispered to her mistress, to screen
themselves from view, behind the enormous engine posted on the
battlements. Scarcely had they done so, before they heard steps
near them, and instantly a dead pause was made. A stern voice now
lowly broke upon the silence, and Anne recognized it to be that
of the stranger, only it seemed more authoritative, even in its
whispers. “Is all safe? Is every thing in readiness?”
“Yes,” was the short reply of his companion, Colonel Seaton; but it
was given in an obsequious and reverential tone.
“But Derby, and his companions--”
“Your excellency,” returned Seaton, “they shall be taken care of.
Though the night is not dark, still, dangers beset their way back
to the camp; and since their health is valuable, we must not expose
them beyond the limits of Houghton Tower. We are good nurses, and
are generally able to lull all whom we love, into a long and sound
sleep. Fear not--they are safe;”--and he laughed in scorn.
After a moment’s pause, the stranger replied, “Seaton, you speak
of sleep; let us then think of a bed for them. I have heard of a
deep draw-well in the court; they would not be disturbed there.
’Twill but keep them from a sea of blood, into which, heaven
assisting me, the royalists must soon be plunged, and drowned, like
Pharoah’s host, in the red sea,--aye, red indeed! But, Seaton, see
that these three men do not quit the tower; their troopers shall be
an easy prey--they are sheep without a shepherd.”
“Fear not,” the Colonel again said; “they are safe. They have
been men of blood, and it is but befitting them, that they should
undergo a cleansing. The ruffian Tyldesley pointed out to me some
stains of blood upon his armour--aye, the blood of our companions:
the well shall wash them out. Your excellency shall triumph over
all your enemies.”
“Again,” interrupted his companion, “I charge it upon you. I am not
wont to come unattended, but, at present, I have run every hazard,
encountered every danger, to learn how our cause prospers. The
enemy is in our power. Seaton shall defeat Derby at Houghton Tower,
and his general shall defeat Charles at Worcester.”
The stranger here spoke in a soothing and flattering tone. He added
a few more words, but they were inaudible. The speakers then trod
to and fro, upon the battlements, conversing with each other in
whispers. Sometimes the stamp of the stranger was heard enforcing
his words.
The fair Anne, concealed with her attendant, behind the engine,
had listened in terror to the preceding conversation. She saw that
they were surrounded by the most artful plots, managed by powerful
and experienced agents; that the cause for which she had so long
implored the assistance of heaven, was in the greatest danger;
that her father, and young Tyldesley, whom she did not now blush
to think of as a very dear friend, with his uncle, and Derby,
must perish; and that she herself was at the mercy of stern and
unflinching ruffians. But how could she inform them of treachery,
when the traitors were walking near the place of her concealment?
Every moment seemed an hour; and, perhaps, it was then being
determined that every royalist in the tower, should be dragged by
the garrison, to a disgraceful end! She was almost frantic with
impatience, and she knew, likewise, that one slight movement of her
posture, as well as a whisper, might betray her.
Again the two republicans stood opposite to the place where the
females were concealed, and their conversation could be heard.
“All is safe,” said the stranger. “A few hours will bear me to my
men, assured that no enemy can annoy me in the rear; and before
me is the hungry skeleton of a wandering king. Pity that the
royal fool will not become my groom. He should be fed and clad,
and I might, eventually, raise him to hold my stirrup.” There was
intense mockery in his tones. He continued,--“aye, and when his
time allowed him to sport, I might procure him a gilded staff
for his sceptre, and he might crown himself, with straw from the
manger--the Lord’s anointed!”
Not a smile passed over the face of the speaker, and Seaton,
was silent. The words were too earnest to be taken as humourous
sallies. The stranger resumed,--“He returns again to England. Poor
fool! Nature seems to have _beheaded_ him at his birth! and all
that the Lord’s people can do, is to bury him.” The speaker’s scorn
here seemed to increase, until he became silent. Colonel Seaton
ventured to inquire--
“Your excellency departs early?”
“In a few minutes hence,” was the reply. “I may be suspected;--as
I entered the hall, Derby seemed to recall my features. The dead,
methinks, have a better cause to bear me in memory, than the
living. Yet Derby should recollect me; I once crossed swords with
him, disguised in habit, but not in countenance; and to a singular
incident he owed his safety. He fought bravely, and I should have
dispatched him gallantly, had--but this avails not now. He seems to
know me.”
“Nay,” replied Seaton, “he spoke kindly to you after I explained
the purport of your visit. Let us return to the hall for a little.”
“Why?” asked the stranger proudly;--“to be discovered? and then
the stay of England’s army and England’s freedom would be broken!
No, I mount horse instantly.”
“Your hasty departure may excite suspicion, and frustrate our
schemes.”
“’Tis well. I go to bid them adieu, a long adieu; ’tis probable
that I may never see them more. I am not in the habit of searching
wells, there to renew old acquaintanceship.”
They passed on. Anne started up from her concealment. Not a moment
was to be lost, after the republican disappeared in the distance.
But alas! she could gain admittance to the hall by no other way
than that which they had taken. She reached the hall door,--she
heard her father, in a loud and merry tone of voice, pledge
the health and safety of the stranger. For a moment she stood
irresolute, when Seaton and his companion appeared. “Fair maid,”
said the stranger, “receive my wishes and prayers, as I bid you
adieu.” In a moment he was gone, and she rushed into the hall.
“Speak not! ask no questions, noble warriors!” she exclaimed. “We
are betrayed! Yes, father, that stranger you have harboured as a
guest, is a republican, and Seaton has been acting as his spy. The
garrison are likewise traitors, and from us all escape is cut off--”
“I knew that it was Cromwell,” replied Derby, as he started from
his seat, “but heaven grant that he is not yet beyond our reach;
I’ll die in capturing him! My friends, let us pursue!”
He drew his sword, and every sign of feebleness left his frame.
Attended by his two companions, and the governor, he rushed forth,
exclaiming “treason! treason!”
Fiery and impatient were their spirits, and as hasty their
steps. They came within sight of the drawbridge. It was up: and
as they rushed forward, a horseman spurred his steed across it,
and it again fell, and all communication was prevented. Cromwell
had escaped! and in the bitterness of disappointment Derby and
the governor stood bewildered, and thought not of securing the
traitor Seaton. They returned to the hall without perceiving that
Sir Thomas Tyldesley had left them, until the inquiries of Anne
rendered them aware of his absence. When they were alternately
expressing their disappointment at Cromwell’s escape, and their
surprise as to what had befallen the knight, a shriek was heard, as
coming from the nearest turret. Anne exclaimed, “the garrison are
traitors, and they are now slaying Sir Thomas.”
“Nay, lady,” said the earl, “Tyldesley must first become coward,
ere a shriek escape him, though tortured beyond endurance. He would
express triumph even in death. But let us hasten. Fair lady, you
may be safer under our protection than in the hall. Lean on Harry’s
arm, it is the arm of a soldier--come;” and they hastened to the
place whence the noise proceeded. The moon shone full on their
faces, and gave them, to the gaze of each other, a strange mystery.
A step was heard in the distance, and soon Sir Thomas Tyldesley
stood before them, with his naked sword in his hand. He bade them
follow. He halted at the distance of a hundred yards, and raising
up an object which lay motionless, revealed the lifeless body of
Seaton. He tossed it down; and there it lay, with ghastly features,
all marked with blood, turned upon the spectators. A sword was
beside the body: the knight grasped it, and said,--
“The traitor fell by his own weapon. Thrice through the heart I
stabbed him with it, for I would not wound him with a sword which I
received from our late master.”
“He richly deserved a thousand deaths,” ejaculated the governor.
“Richly indeed,” replied Tyldesley, “had all his villainy been
comprehended in this night’s treachery. He lowered the drawbridge,
and while we stood astonished and motionless with anger, attempted
to retreat. I followed him. He muttered to himself, ‘Cromwell is
safe, and now for the mutiny in the garrison.’ He reached the
highest battlements. Rushing past him, I presented myself full
on his path, and ordered him to stand on his defence, or die.
He hesitated; entreated me for his life; wished to be thought a
coward; and yet all the time was cautiously, and, as he thought,
secretly, drawing his sword. He knelt, and then, imagining that I
was bending over him, he made a furious thrust, which I foiled, and
struck his weapon from his hand. Ha! it seems to pollute my hand
as I now grasp it.” The knight approached the walls, and tossed
it over. In its descent it glimmered in the moonshine, and the
bloodstains were seen, until it fell into the river.
He returned, and taking up the body of Seaton, said, “let its
master share the same fate,” and instantly hurled it over, and a
heavy splash was heard.
“So much for a traitor,” said Derby, “but did not the young lady
say that all the garrison were traitors also? What then is to be
done? Let us leave the tower, for if they knew of the murder of
their leader, all our lives would be sacrificed, and my troops
could not advance to the assistance of Charles. What dost thou
advise, Sir Governor?”
“I cannot leave Houghton Tower,” was the reply. “I am its owner,
and must either live or die in it.”
“Perhaps,” interrupted his daughter, “the garrison, since Seaton
is dead, and all other supporters are at a distance, may not openly
rebel for some time.”
“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.
[Illustration]
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.”
Emily Morden looked upon her husband, and took their little boy,
and folded him closely in her bosom. Not a word was spoken, but
many, many thoughts were theirs. Their fears seemed to recognize in
the sweet blue eyes, the calm brow, and the golden locks, signs of
a dark fate. The little fellow, however, was unconscious of their
feelings, and darted forth to the lawn to pursue the shadows, which
were now fast settling, and to gambol with his favourite pet lamb.
Soon fatigued with his sports, he leaned upon the tame animal,
like a beautiful picture with a pure back ground. At that moment
an old woman stood before him. He saw not her dark and hideous
features, more frightful because she attempted to smile: he only
saw the tempting fruit which she held. He heard not the unearthly
tones of her voice, he only distinguished the words, “Shall I give
you it?” He felt not the touch of her withered, bony hands, as he
received it. He cared not, though these hands were placed upon his
brow, as he devoured the fruit. He clapped his hands, and shouted,
“Good,--good mamma! give little Edwy more,--more!” Oh! it was
horrible to see the beautiful boy playing with a foul hag, hand in
hand, cheek to cheek, and to hear him address her, as “kind mamma.”
The lamb had fled far over the glen, at her approach--but the boy
had even kissed her black and shrivelled lips! He was throwing his
arms around her neck, amidst the long locks of white hair, which
hung like serpents over it, when he was dragged away by his mother,
who had rushed forth with her husband, upon beholding the woman’s
familiarities. The hand of William Morden was raised, in fury, to
strike the hellish crone, whom he knew to be the witch of the cave,
when she disappeared to a short distance, where her form dilated
against the faint light of the sky, and then she glared with her
blood-red eyes, full upon him. She tossed her hands in the air,
then approached a little nearer, and pointed to Emily, while she
sung in awful notes--
Has early summer fruit for man?--
No, but for spirits:--yet the boy
Has tasted! and the mother ran
Too late!--too late, to shield her joy--
Embrace him! so have I!
Ere the sun sinks, from him you’ll fly,
Nor press a couch where he may die!
His mouth is sweet; beware his fangs!
Kiss him, he bites in maddest pangs!
The still calm all around, allowed every word and tone to be
distinctly heard. When she had ended, she gave a shriek of delight,
and slowly proceeded in the direction of the cave; at intervals
turning round, and raising her arms. All objects around her could
not be perceived, still those small malicious eyes sparkled in the
gathering twilight, and her voice could be heard muttering.
“Nay, William, follow her not!” exclaimed Emily, as her husband
prepared to pursue the witch. But he was now maddened by rage and
despair, and he started forward, fully resolved to enter the cave,
and brave its unseen and unknown terrors.
She anxiously gazed after him, until his form was altogether lost
in the distance. The many tales to which she had listened, of the
witch’s power and revenge, were unfolded again, and they seemed
scrolls of the future, written with the fate of herself, and all
that were dear. She led Edward into the hall, and soon perceived
a marvellous change in the boy. At first he was silent, and did
not acknowledge the attentions of his mother. He then shrieked in
terror, and laughed in joy, alternately. His features were, at
times, absolutely hideous, grinning, as if with malice, and then
they became more beautiful than a mother’s eye ever beheld.
“Mamma! mamma!” he would exclaim,--and he looked from his mother
upon vacancy--“give Edwy more--oh! it is sweet, sweet. Heed not the
man, wicked man, who drives you away;--come back to Edwy!”
At length she succeeded in hushing him to rest, and her thoughts
were of her husband. Darkness was now over the earth, and she
imagined that the hag’s face was gazing in upon her at the
casement, but she dared not rise to close it, lest she might
disturb the sleeper. Sometimes, too, another form, seen by the
moonlight, was there, and the witch dared to embrace the husband,
in sight of his trembling wife! Hour after hour passed, and the
next would be midnight, and William had not returned. In vain did
his faithful servant, whom she had summoned to bear her company,
suggest that his master might have refused to leave the cave, until
the woman had read the destiny of the family more distinctly.
“Nay, Roger,” she said, “something has befallen your master. Oh! if
he should return no more!” and her agony was too deep for tears.
“My lady, fear not. It is said that all those who are bewitched in
the cave, have first listened to the love confessions of the old
woman’s daughter, and drunk the cup of unearthly beauty. But I will
instantly go to the cave.”
Emily was about to urge him to make all possible haste, when he
shrieked out, and pointed to her breast; and there her boy was
gradually raising up his head, like a serpent, to her face, whilst
his eyes gleamed with the most fiendish expression, and his mouth
was grinning and distended. For a moment she was silent as the
dead, and gazed in horror; but she could not trace a touch of
kindness on the young features. All love and beauty, in a moment,
had been dashed from them. The boy’s eye never moved from hers, or
changed its emotion;--it was slowly meeting hers, in malice. His
breath was now close to her cheek!
“Kiss me, kiss me,” were the first words he uttered; but the tones
were unknown, and seemed those of a young fiend. With a loud
shriek he prepared to dart upon her face. She started from her
seat, and threw him on the floor, and there the little monster
rolled--gnashing his teeth, and tearing with his hands, in frantic
fury. His eyes were of a glassy brightness, and coldness; and foam
was on his little black lips. His struggles soon became fainter,
and he lay motionless, and apparently lifeless. He then regained
his own beauty, but was pale and trembling, as if from an infant
dream of evil. His eyes were raised to his mother, and again they
were affectionate, as of old.
“Mamma! mamma!” he cried, “take me to your arms, cover me up in
your bosom; you wont kill me, mamma? Oh! leave me not here to die!”
There was a mournful upbraiding in the boy’s accents, and his
mother burst into tears, and rushed forward to raise him, when, all
at once, he sprang from the ground. Again he was changed; his hair
stood erect, his mouth was stretched to an unnatural width, and he
ran to her, howling like a dog. In a moment the servant struck him
down. Bitterly did the mother weep to see her child bleeding on the
floor, and yet, she dared not touch him. “He is possessed!” she
exclaimed, “aye, that is the fate which the witch foretold!”
“My lady,” said Roger, “pardon me for what I am about to mention.
He has been bewitched into a disease which must be fatal to
himself, and to all whom he bites. Your security, and that of my
master, lies only in his destruction.”
“Never!” was the indignant, but sorrowful reply.
The boy once more regained his own appearance, and called piteously
for his mother. He put his little hands to his mouth, and when he
gazed upon them, they were all suffused with blood! He burst into
tears.
“Mamma, kiss the blood away from my lips. Wipe this love ringlet,
or papa wont play with it. Oh! cool my lips. Take the fire out of
them. Mamma, mamma! must I die? Who took me out of your bosom, to
lie here?”
Every word fell, like a child’s curse, upon the ear of Emily.
“Oh Roger! good Roger,” implored the lady,--“what can be done?”
The boy attempted to rise, but his strength seemed gone, and his
head dashed itself violently upon the floor. His mother fell down
senseless. Roger rushed from the room, to bring water to sprinkle
upon her face. In a moment he returned,--and there a scene was
presented to his eyes, which nothing in after-life could curtain
from his mind. Both lay lifeless. The countenance of the mother
was mangled and bloody, and her boy’s teeth were in her cheek. As
soon as she had fallen, the boy had crept to her, under the same
infernal influence as before, and, fortunately, she never awoke
from insensibility.
Meanwhile let us leave the dead, and follow the living. The reader
is not asked to dry his tears after the mournful spectacle, and put
off his sackcloth, and don singing robes and smiles, for soon the
curtain may be raised from the same scene, to exhibit on the same
stage, another victim.
William Morden, when out of the sight of his wife, came in view of
the object of his pursuit. Unlike the aged, the hag avoided not the
many elevations of sharp rock, on her path. After passing them, for
a moment she would linger, and looking back, and howling, motion
him, with a wild plunge of her arm, to follow. The scenery became
more bleak and desolate, as if nothing in animal or vegetable life
could flourish near her abode. Not a sound was heard; her steps
were hurried, but silent. They were approaching the cave, which
was formed in the old channel of the brook, and which was supposed
to be the outlet of a subterraneous passage leading from the abbey
into a deep wood, which skirted and concealed the bank. Amidst the
trees strange lights seemed to move, and the witch, by their flash,
was enabled to expose her malignant and hellish countenance to the
gaze of Morden. She stood still and he advanced. From the folds of
the cloak in which she was wrapped, she drew her hand, and pointed
to a deep ravine, at a short distance from the cave. She muttered
some incantations, raised her eyes, as if to invisible agents in
the air, and exclaimed, “Slaves! ye know my power! Shew him--shew
him what a word, escaping from my lips, has done. Now, fool!” and
she grasped his hands for a moment, “gaze there--and tremble.”
Morden started, as lurid lights gleamed in a mass, over him. He
stumbled down the declivity, and fell, his head striking against
his lifeless steed! Unearthly shrieks of laughter saluted him, and
as he sprung to his feet, the witch, surrounded by flames, was
waving her arms in fiendish joy. He once more found himself on the
path close beside her. All again was darkness, and now he heard
the witch enter the cave. He prepared to follow her. The entrance
was small, and could only admit him by crawling through. His face
came in contact with the jutting rocks, and he imagined that around
his neck the hag had placed her hands, to strangle him. He crept
in, but saw nothing. No object could be distinguished, until,
on a floor far below him, he beheld a few embers burning on the
hearth, and a form walking around, and by its shadow intercepting
the light. The ground was damp beneath his hands, and the very
worms were crawling over them, and thus early claiming connexion,
by twining around them the marriage ring of the grave. He knew
not how to let himself down into the interior. The light from
the embers, meanwhile, was gradually increasing; and at length he
recognized the witch rubbing her hands over them. Her head was
uncovered, and her long grey locks were flung back from a brow
black and wrinkled. He could not remove his eyes from her, and
every moment he expected that she would arise, and curse him with
her arts. She lighted a taper, and placed it upon a small coffin,
and sung a death dirge; at every interval, when she paused for
breath, making the most unnatural mirth. The lid of the coffin
slowly arose, as she removed the taper, and a beautiful boy raised
his face, so pale and deadly, over which golden locks curled,
like young spirits. His sweet blue eyes met those of Morden; his
little hands were pressed together, and his lisping voice said,
mournfully,--“Father!”
Morden sprang down, when, with a wild shriek, the witch turned
upon him, and attempted to mimic the tones in which the fond word
“father” had been breathed. He prepared to rush upon her, when
every limb was powerless. He could not move, and yet all his
senses were intensely active and awake. He beheld the coffin again
closed, and glad now would he have been, could he have returned
to his home, to assure himself of his child’s safety. The witch
began some awful and unholy rites, as she lowered the coffin into
a hole dug beside the embers, and then over the spot, after her
incantations had been muttered, sprung up a mossy tomb-stone, with
this inscription,--
Edward Morden,
AGED
FIVE YEARS.
1643.
She kindled another taper, when a larger coffin seemed to be placed
before her by invisible hands. The lid was raised; and there
Morden beheld his Emily, as beautiful now, amidst all the horrors
of witchery and death, as when that face was revealed in the
moonlight, on their nuptial night, slumbering so happily, to gaze
upon which he had kept himself awake. But soon the features became
clouded and black; aye, and blood--blood was seen upon them, and
horrible gashes.
“Embrace her!” exclaimed the witch, “embrace her. How beautiful!
What a sweet crimson! Fool! thy wife blushes! fly to her!”
He started forward, and fell upon the coffin, but the lid was
closed. A long fit of insensibility was over him. Dreams still more
revolting than the realities he had now beheld, kept him bound.
He awoke--but far different was the scene. A sigh which had been
nursed in the dream, now found expression, and instantly a movement
was heard, in a distant part of the cave; and a female bent over
him, and perfumed his burning brow. Wild was the beauty beaming
from her eyes; but soft and earthly was the hand which took his. He
gazed silently upon her. She seemed scarcely to have entered upon
girlhood, and yet Morden thought that she never could have been
younger, and never, for the future, could be older. She spoke not;
but her lips uttered strange sounds of the most thrilling music.
She gently raised and led him to a couch, as soft as dreams. The
air around breathed fragrance, and vibrated song. Invisible roses
seemed to fall upon his brow and hands. So brilliant, and yet
shadowy, was the light, that he could not gaze far around. Light
seemed to be a boundary to itself, and no walls intercepted the
vision.
“Who art thou?” was the exclamation of Morden, “and where am I?
How have I been brought here? This is not the cave to which I
came;--and where is the foul witch who so tormented me with her
dark spells?”
“There cometh light after darkness,” replied his beautiful
companion, “and joy after sorrow. What makes the love of one being
so pleasant? Because it is nursed amidst the storms of hate. Love
cares not for a palace; to sit, travel, and sleep, amidst gold and
diamonds. The tomb is the home where it is most beautiful; and were
two mortals, who cling to each other, to dwell there, it would be
love’s paradise. As they sat beneath the shade of the cypress, how
rapturous would their thoughts and words be; and oh! how true! At
eve, as they walked together over graves, how confiding would they
be! And at the midnight hour, when the wind howled, and ghosts
flitted around them, how sweet the sleep of the two lovers, with a
tomb-stone for their pillow!”
Each word thrilled through the soul of Morden.
“Mysterious angel!” he cried, “tell me thy name and abode!”
The young being dismissed the melancholy which, whilst she spoke,
had rested on her countenance, and smiled. Her deep blue eyes gazed
upon him, and, in the intoxication of the moment, he recollected
not his own inquiry. But soon, thoughts of home and Emily, came
into his mind, and checked others which were rising. He turned away
from her, when she asked,--
“Would’st thou see the past?”
“Yes,” eagerly returned Morden. “Oh! could I once more behold her
whom an untimely fate bore from me!”
She took from the table a golden cup, encircled with flowers, and
throwing a liquid drop, which she had poured out on her hand,
away in the distance; instantly, amidst music, with the bass of a
profound calm, there arose before his eyes a strange scene. There
were the haunts of his boyhood, the bower in the garden, and even
the ivy-covered seat, on which was the plumed cap his mother’s
hands had made; the gentle stream, with his book and fishing-rod
lying on the bank; and last of all was himself, smiling, the actor
in each. A pure mist arose before him, as in the bower he was
placing the cap over his shining curls; bright eyes gleamed in it,
and as it vanished, there stood his only sister! She appeared to be
the gentler type of himself, and sweet was her beauty, though it
was the beauty of Genius and Power. The mist descended, and hovered
over them, as they were singing the lays of their own happiness,
and shrouded both. It once more rolled away. There was seen a
mourner, near a rose-scattered grave! The mourner was known to
Morden long before he raised his features from the earth:--it was
himself, at the grave of his sister!
He started up from the couch, and fell at the feet of his
mysterious companion, exclaiming,--
“Perpetuate the scene! Give me boyhood again; give me the lost and
the beloved, and I’ll adore you,--aye, love you!”
He arose calmly, after her lips had been pressed to his.
“Drink,” was the reply. “Drink from this cup, Morden, and death
shall not separate the brother from the sister. Beautiful she
was a month before her sudden end, and that month shall never be
enrolled in your existence. Drink,--and the past is written over
with every drop of this liquid, on the tablet of your mind, and on
the objects of your external senses. Could inanimate things feel
its influence--and shall not the mind? Drink!” and the scene again
arose, in more thrilling beauty and truth. Sweet and long was the
draught, and he returned the cup, empty. Strange sensations shot
through his frame, and as strange feelings passed in his mind.
Emily, in a moment, was forgotten, and his arms were around his
companion, when a shriek was heard, and in place of the fading form
of his sister, stood the withered Weird of the Cave! Her daughter,
(for such the beautiful witch was,) now coldly repulsed him, and
shrunk from his embrace. As soon as he could move his eyes from the
hag, he turned round to chide his companion, when he found that
she had disappeared. A loud laugh was raised by the old witch, and
he pursued her. Darkness fell over the scene, and once more he was
near to the dying embers.
“Go home!” exclaimed the hag,--“go home, and die there along
with your dead wife and child! It is long past midnight. It is,
therefore, meet time that you should go to sleep with them.
Home--fool!”
Her words drove Morden almost to madness. He climbed up to the
entrance, and as he left the cave, he heard the laugh of the two
witches. He rushed along the path. He saw not the lurid lights that
flashed around him, from the dark abode which he had left. Terror,
shame, and despair, were driving their victim to what he considered
as a sanctuary from evil. He was heedless of his steps, and as he
stumbled, it but increased his fury; when he felt himself suddenly
grasped, and on looking up, recognized his servant Roger.
“Is all well,--is all well, Roger, with your mistress? Speak,
man,--speak!”
The servant hesitated, and then replied, “Yes, master!”
“Kind, dear Emily!” exclaimed Morden, “she has sent you to
search for me. Nay, Roger, I will outstrip you; and I can delay
no longer.--How anxious she will be! Death! no--no--it was but a
horrible dream! Yet, Roger,--am I agitated? would my looks frighten
Emily? Frighten--oh! no. Not a moment is to be lost,” and he darted
forward, and soon, all breathless, reached his abode. He trode up
the lawn with as heavy a pace as possible, in order that suspense
might be ended, and that she might know of his return, before he
appeared. A dim light was in the hall when he entered.
* * * * *
The faithful servant, when he arrived, heard no noise, and although
he felt keenly for the woes of his master, did not venture into the
hall before morning,--and there was his master lying, with his arms
around his wife. He spoke to him;--but he spoke to the dead!
* * * * *
A distant relation laid claim to the dwelling, with the land
attached to it; but from the awful scenes in the former, which we
have related, it became uninhabited, and was soon an entire ruin;
finally even without a wreck.
THE DEVIL’S WALL.
“Jeremiah, read those directions and intimations once more; they
contain no less than a challenge to my valour. Truly his Black
Majesty seems to think that he can toss about the ball of earth for
his amusement; and that there is not a tailor who would venture to
‘measure him.’ Ah! Nick, give me a trial.”
Thus spoke Gideon Chiselwig, tailor, in Ormskirk. Unlike the most
of his brethren belonging to that honourable profession, he could
boast of six feet of perpendicular matter; but conceiving that
even that height was too low a tabernacle for his giant soul, he
fixed to the one extremity a long red nightcap, whilst he made
the other move on tiptoe, much to the mirth of the quizzing old
maids, for which that town is noted. He was never seen with that
upper garment, commonly called a coat; unless to display one of
fashionable cut, which he had just finished; and the absence of
this did not take from Gideon’s stature. Some conjectured that he
knew this; others had seen Mrs. Gideon, at home, arrayed in what,
evidently, had once been a coat; and they jocosely remarked, that
she had altogether monopolized the use of her husband’s apparel,
for now they had seen her with the coat, and Gideon himself had
confessed that she wore the breeches.--He had a vest, but the
pockets were only visited by his hands; silver and gold they had
never weighed; so that to all intents and purposes--the wife wore
the vest also.
Nature, however, had denied him her average allowance of breadth
and thickness, so much so, that in a tour to remarkable places,
during the honey-moon, having entered a museum in the metropolis,
the blushing bride was asked by the keeper, what was the price she
fixed upon the piece of anatomy which she brought. Gideon, did,
indeed, convince the questioner of his mistake, by a powerful and
conclusive argument directed against his head: still people will
suspect, even in the face of ample evidence; and the report had
been afloat, that there was something altogether strange about him.
This only served to give a more singular character to the tailor,
and nothing short of the marvellous in adventure could win his
attention and occupy his thoughts.
Others hinted, that were Mrs. Gideon not to awake him so early;
not to rap his knuckles, when at table he was stretching forth his
hand to help himself; nor yet to allow the poker to fall upon his
toes and corns, when they ventured within a few yards of the fire;
not to compel him to perform the necessary ablutions on a cold
morning, a mile from the house, and then allow the sun, the wind,
or the frost, to dry him; not to confine him, for bedclothes, to a
sheet in winter, and his shirt in summer; nor yet, occasionally,
to exercise her hands, and a stick, upon his body; Gideon would
soon improve in appearance, and, at length, be a rival to the oily
priest. But the old maids (for Mrs. Gideon had formerly been one
of the numerous sisterhood residing there) considered such hints
as morsels of scandal;--and who can, with more propriety, condemn
scandal, than old maids?--and if, in the multitude of councillors
there be safety, their view of the matter, certainly, had every
assurance of being the correct one--that he was killed by too
much fondling and love. Ah! ah! poor Gideon knew better. He had a
scar on his face that he was proud to shew, for he had received
it in honourable combat with a barber;--but he had others, below
the night-cap, and many all over his person, which he was glad to
conceal; for these he received from his wife! At first he resisted
her encroachment upon the rights of man; but soon his noble spirit
disdained to contend with a woman. He had not lost a dram of
courage, and he burned for some supernatural achievement.
His brother Jeremiah was made exactly in the antipodean style. He
was short and round; yet, as he himself pathetically said, when the
doctor, dreading apoplexy, had inquired about his diet, “tears were
his daily food, and misfortunes were the vinegar and salt.” His
eyes, in fact, seemed to have invisible onions always around them.
It was so when he was a babe, and his mother was in the habit of
remarking, that Jeremiah would not be troubled with water in the
head, because it would never stay there. When he entered upon the
profession of a tailor, Gideon had serious doubts that he would but
bring disgrace on it, himself, and all his relations; for, as he
very wisely reasoned, “How could he use the goose?--however hot it
was, in a moment his tears would cool it. And as for his needles--a
hundred would become rusty in a day.” However, Jeremiah passed
his apprenticeship with distinction, and became a partner in his
brother’s shop; where we introduce them, squatted on a large table,
to our readers, at the moment that Gideon had finished the sentence
which opens the Legend.
Jeremiah had in his hand, an old and tattered book, which seemed
to have been read by the feet, and not the eyes. He raised his eyes
from it, as his brother spoke, and poured forth a fresh flood of
tears. “Ah! brother,” he said, “you’ll still be after what leads
to your destruction. I warned you against marriage. On the night
previous, did I not strike you sharply on the ankle, and then upon
the head, and ask you how you could endure to have it repeated a
hundred times, in the whole multiplication table of your life. And
now,” here tears impeded his words, “can I not read about Satan’s
tricks without your wishing--”
“Resolving you mean; nay, Jeremiah, call it resolving to fight him.
I’m sure that he’s in Ormskirk. Yesterday morning, when I came from
washing myself, I traced in the snow a strange hoof to this very
door. There never was such a nunnery of old maids, in which he was
not found wooing them. But--but I’ll make a goose of him--I will!”
concluded the magnanimous tailor.
“A goose! a goose!” exclaimed the simple Jeremiah, in horror,
“he’ll burn our hands, and the cloth. I cannot use him for a goose.
Oh! brother, only say that you will not make him either a needle or
a goose, and I’ll read the words over again.”
“Well, well,” returned Gideon, a little pacified, as well as
elated, by the thought that there was one who really did think
that he was able to turn the devil into a goose, “sweep away your
tears. You’ll find the table cloth near you. Use the dirty corner
twice, and Nelly wont need to wash it.”
Jeremiah followed his brother’s directions, carefully passed the
cloth over his face, and once more fixed his eyes upon the book.
Gideon laid aside a pair of gaiters, which he was making for the
comfort of his wife. The winter was severe--and the doctor, it
seems, had said at the house of some wealthy person that there
would be a great mortality that season, should females not keep
their feet properly warm, and the report had spread through all the
town, and had been pretty well circulated, both by the tailors and
shoemakers. In fact, shoes and gaiters had been exhibited under
the imposing titles of life-preservers. Towards evening the sexton
had been known to look suspiciously upon them, and even openly to
condemn the traffic; but the articles were still in great demand.
Mrs. Gideon’s gaiters being, as we have said, thrown aside, the
tailor settled himself into the posture which was most becoming the
spirit of the reply, which he intended to make to the proposition
now to be propounded, and Jeremiah commenced reading--
“About midnight, let him go out into a wood, wherein there be
divers kinds of trees; let him stand behind a yew, and clapping
his hands together, cry out, come here, James, (such being the
endearing name by which he is known to his friends,) come here.
He shall then perceive a whisper from the top of the tree. Let
him instantly draw around him a magic circle, with the forefinger
of his right hand, lest his devilship, being angry, pettish, or
mischievous, may enter unawares, and suffocate him with his breath.
He must next name the conditions, upon the fulfilment of which, he
surrenders himself as a slave, then and for ever. He may ask any
thing, and his master is bound to perform it, or break the league,
and allow his hoof to be scratched with six pins or needles.”
“I have it!” exclaimed Gideon, “the agreement shall be made
this very night,” and he looked terrible things to a portrait
of Apollyon, which he had torn out of “Pilgrim’s Progress,” and
plastered over the mantel-piece.
But not contented with this manner of defiance, he sprung upon
his toes, hastily drew a needle from his waistcoat, and pinked
the enemy through and through the breast, in spite of scales
and hellish armour. Jeremiah, upon this, could not refrain from
weeping, and cried out, “poor dragon! poor dragon!”
“Poor dragon! Poor, indeed!” returned the doughty conqueror. “But
see, how fierce he looks! The longer I strike, his eyes become
larger, and expand with rage.”
When this announcement was made, Jeremiah quickly drew a circle
around him. This caution was unnecessary; for Gideon, seizing
the picture, threw it to the door, which Mrs. Chiselwig, at that
moment opening, received it full in her face. With a loud shout,
the enraged wife flew at her husband--we cannot say like a dove to
its mate. Nelly had a singular fancy and propensity for squinting;
and her visual organs seemed always, as if chiding nature for the
place which she had given them to occupy, and were just upon the
eve of taking their departure to some back settlements on the head,
as sentinels to guard a large neck-covering, which she wore with
some degree of pride. Jeremiah, who had a mixture of shrewdness
with all his simplicity, had long been of opinion, after careful
observation, comparison, and induction of facts, that squinting
was the property of old maids, and very philosophically, as well
as categorically, gave the following reasons. First--since they
always look back upon age, and, in their own calculations, never
become older, but sometimes younger; why should not their eyes be
in the posterior of their head? Secondly--female eyes ought always
to be in front, when their lips are in danger of being saluted; but
as old maids are not exposed to this danger, such a situation is
not necessary. But be this as it may, there could be no doubt of
the fact, that Mrs. Gideon Chiselwig did squint, and viewed every
thing at right angles. Perhaps she wished to avoid the labour of
her eyes travelling over a large nose. Still, squinting as she did,
she took a tolerably correct aim at the shoulders of her spouse.
In vain did he look pale, in vain did he attempt to kiss her, and
excuse the deed, by affirming that it was purely accidental: all
these circumstances did not stay the uplifted hand, or take away a
grain from its weight. She had frequently complained of being very
delicate, and when the doctor had been called in to feel her pulse
with his finger, poor Gideon wished that he could only feel her
fist with his head, as he must then have come to a very different
conclusion. She could faint, go vulgarly into hysterics, look as
pale as a drooping lily, and speak of consumption:--ah! Gideon knew
that she could likewise strike hard. It was not the mere “ego,”
tripping on his tongue, which said so: every rib, every bone, every
member told the same tale. On this occasion, Nelly did not abate
any of her strength.
“Angel of my life!” Gideon cried out, “desist, oh! Nelly desist!”
“You treat me as an angel, eh? Doff your nightcap then, in an
angel’s presence, and make your lowest bow of reverence.”
Gideon silently obeyed, and very soon had his head scratched to his
wife’s content. We omitted to mention that Nelly’s figure rather
came under the definition of dumpy; so that had Gideon only been
able to read the classics, and to know that the face of man was
made to look towards the skies, or the ceiling, she could not,
without the labour of mounting a high stool, have reached him, so
as to inflict _capital_ punishment.
Meanwhile, Jeremiah’s eyes were moist enough. We have our suspicion
that a _wave_ of Mrs. Chiselwig’s hand deposited a few tears there.
Still, as this phenomenon was by no means unusual, the Chronicler
leaves the point without any further investigation.
After “wholesome severities” had been administered to Gideon by his
wife, she dragged him to a seat beside the fire, where she also
seated herself, and began to examine the evidence of an exculpatory
nature, which the offender had to produce; and to the furtherance
of the ends of justice, called his brother to be jury in the case.
Jeremiah, in his own mind, had some doubts as to the equity of this
course of proceeding: but he was too wise to allow any private
opinion of his to contradict the wish of the judge. He thought,
too, that his brother’s heroism was much too pure and exalted,
since it led him to be passively submissive to the treatment of
his wife, lest he might use his weapons ingloriously, when their
edge was to be turned against Satan; and as he rose from the
table to occupy the jury-box, he was almost tempted to tell both
parties that he would be their mutual second, in a fair combat,
and then strength would be both jury and judge, and fists would
pronounce guilty or not guilty, and register the doom or acquittal
accordingly. But Jeremiah shewed his prudence by being silent. Mrs.
Chiselwig motioned him to his seat, when her eyes fell upon the
gaiters, lying unfinished on the floor.
“So,” she began, “you thought I should not require gaiters after
you had killed me, and had resolved to be thrifty, that you might
tempt some other person to be your wife?”
Gideon, in reply, raised his eyes. We have some doubt as to whether
this movement was expressive of his calling Heaven to witness that
he was innocent of any such design; or of his chiding Heaven, for
not having brought accidents to such a desirable issue.
Mrs. Gideon’s head began to incline a little to her left hand,
which was opened to support it; her breast was heaving against her
right hand; her eyes were rolling in an interesting lack-lustre;
and her face, with the exception of the nose, was pale. These were
symptoms of hysterics. She seemed about to fall from her seat, and
Gideon once thought of helping her to her wish, by removing the
chair from under her, but when he thought over the matter twice,
the idea was abandoned, for Nelly had been known to recover in a
wondrously short time, from her fainting fits. On this occasion she
contented herself with bursting into tears.
“Oh! cruel brute, to be yoked to such a delicate little heart! Why
did I leave the holy state of single life. I might now have been
seated, eating gingerbread as I was when the wretch came with his
proposals!”
Gideon gave a sigh, and thought that even Ormskirk gingerbread
should not tempt him, were he free, to bear her company.
Mrs. Chiselwig continued,--
“Was not my shop the most frequented of any in the town? Those who
could not pay to eat the gingerbread, stood gazing upon it at the
window, and feasted their eyes; those who were my friends, were
allowed to smell it; and those who ate it, thought that they would
never die. Where was the true lover that did not regularly, when
about to visit his sweetheart, buy a little of Nelly’s cake, in
order that he might have an agreeable and pleasant breath?”
“And did not your own true love,” interrupted Gideon in an
appeal overflowing with tenderness, “pay your shop many of such
periodical visits, and did he not, in the slyness of the feeling,
pretend that he was about to visit such and such a damsel, and
then, after swallowing a cake or two, delicately and timidly
ask pardon for the liberty he was about to take, in wishing you
to decide, by allowing him a salute on your own sweet lips,
whether his breath was made agreeable enough? Oh! Nelly, have you
altogether forgot those days?”
At this moment, when he was pursuing his reminiscences, he came
upon one which he passed over in silence. In “those days” to
which he referred, he had his suspicions that Nelly’s decision
was not quite disinterested, for after one salute, and frequently
two salutes, she was of opinion that Gideon’s breath was not
sufficiently flavoured to make it pleasant, and, of course, he was
under the necessity of purchasing a few more cakes of gingerbread.
Then, however, these suspicions were counterbalanced by others,
which whispered, that instead of wishing him to spend his money,
she was only anxious that he should spend his kisses. Woman is
said to be fickle and changeable: but some hold that man, after
marriage, changes his opinion much more than woman, adducing as a
proof, the existence of angels on earth in female form, to which
every unmarried man swears a hundred times, but which no married
man believes. Gideon, accordingly, was not exactly of the same
opinion, in reference to Nelly’s motive for the course of conduct
described, and he recollected many a squint in the direction of his
pocket, confirmatory of the change. This one reminiscence, we have
said, Gideon omitted to suggest to Mrs. Chiselwig, and was about to
wander over others which might tend to warm her towards him, when
Jeremiah waved him to silence, and began,--
“And, madam, you surely have not yet forgot how many times I
entered the shop, and made some purchases?”
“No,” sharply returned Mrs. Chiselwig, “twelve times, and out of
these, five times you left the shop without leaving your money.
One of my reasons for marrying the fool, your brother, was, that I
might not lose your account. But, Jeremiah, finish my gaiters, and
you shall be quit for the interest due to me. So, Mr. Chiselwig,
you thought that I would never use them, but I shall outlive you,
and obtain another husband.”
Jeremiah moved uncomfortably on his seat, but resolved in his own
mind, that _he_ would never be that husband.
“Another husband!” continued Nelly, after thinking over her last
words, “no, no. Why did I leave the virgin state?--oh! why--why?”
Gideon listened eagerly, expecting to hear her assign a reason,
the “why,” and the “wherefore,” for when he asked himself the same
question, he could invent no answer.
“I was a fool--a fool,” she concluded.
Her spouse thought that the same answer would do for him likewise,
and that marriage had coupled them in folly. Mrs. Chiselwig then
left the room to retreat to bed, warning Gideon against making his
appearance there before morning.
The two brothers drew closer to each other, and, in a short time,
our hero was “himself again,” and spoke of undertaking an adventure
with Satan that very night. And the first question to be settled
was, what should Gideon’s apparel be? Some philosophers, perhaps,
will say, that in strict logical arrangement, this ought not to
have been the first question, and that the time and place had prior
claims upon their notice. But, let it be remembered, that the hero
was a tailor.--Jeremiah was decidedly of opinion that Gideon should
not take a coat. “The book,” he argued, “gives directions that
a circle be drawn round your person. Now, should the slightest
movement on your part be made, the skirts of the coat might fly
over the circle, and the enemy might seize them, and thus draw you
from your strong hold of safety, and carry you away.”
It was, therefore agreed upon, _nem. con._ that Gideon should not
take a coat.
“And as for the night cap,” resumed the same subtle reasoner,
“since it is of a red colour, it may remind him of the hot place
which he has left, and then setting him to shiver and tremble, may
give you, his opponent, some advantage.”
This, likewise, was carried unanimously.
The next series of questions was concerning the place. The book
had mentioned a wood, and luckily it occurred to the remembrance
of Gideon, that there was a dark wood, at a short distance
from Ormskirk. But then, all the trees were of fir, and it was
distinctly stated, that the challenger should stand behind a yew.
Here seemed to be an insuperable objection.
By agreement they divided themselves into two committees, to
deliberate upon the matter; and they placed themselves at opposite
sides of the fire, and hid their faces in their hands, lest the
other might know of their opinion. Once, indeed, they had started
from their posture, as they imagined that they heard Nelly’s foot
on the staircase, but as she did not make her appearance, it was
resumed: and certainly the expression of their countenance at that
moment would not have discovered any opinion about the question in
consideration. At length Gideon started from his seat.
“I have it!” he exclaimed, rubbing his brow and scratching his
head, “yes: the priest, towards the conclusion of his discourse
last Sunday, told us that the yew was a type of death. He said that
it was black, and so was death: it grew in the church-yard, and so
did death. Then he stated--”
“Go on, go on,” interrupted Jeremiah impatiently,--“proceed,
brother. I fell asleep over that point.”
“Then he stated,” continued Gideon, “that as the yew was the emblem
of the death of old men, so the cypress, being a much smaller tree,
might, with great propriety, be considered as an emblem of the
death of young men. Now I am a young man, Jeremiah, and the cypress
is, therefore, the tree for me!”
“But is there a cypress in ‘the Rough?’”
“No, no,” was the answer, “remain here for a little, and I will
bring one. Satan can have no objection, unless he be a coward, to
one standing without roots.”
Still Gideon did not leave the house, and some uncomfortable
thoughts were evidently clouding his brow, at least that part of it
which the nightcap left uncovered.
“Should Nelly come down, and find that I am out, she would leave
me to cool all night, on the wrong side of the door. But covered
with glory, from fiendish achievements, could she resist me?”--and
elated with the idea, he looked a few inches taller, and braver by
as many; strode with a martial air twice across the room, and then
strode out. Jeremiah was not fond of adventures: and the truth was,
that he had not asked where his brother was going for the cypress,
lest he should have been answered by another question, “would he
not accompany him?” He himself confessed that he was rather of a
_sedentary_ disposition, and must, therefore, have declined to
leave his chair.
Meanwhile Gideon was threading his way to the churchyard, which
was at a little distance. The priest, it seems, had said, that
should any of his hearers have the curiosity to see a cypress, he
would, when the service was over, shew them one. A few had remained
behind: of whom, some not being very excellent herbists, had
expected to find winter apples there; because, as they reasoned,
the tree was an emblem of death, and the eating of an apple had
brought death into the world. Gideon was not of this class. He
was forced to remain behind, because Mrs. Chiselwig had strictly
enjoined him never to be nearer her on their way home, than a
hundred yards; so that he received the benefit of the priest’s
illustration, and knew exactly the situation of the cypress. He
entered the churchyard, found the spot, and then ascertained that
he had forgot a digging spade. It was dim twilight, but the snow
on the ground made objects, otherwise invisible, to be seen, and
the tailor recognized a form approaching. He at once concluded
that it was the enemy, and took his station, as directed, behind
the cypress. He heard a deep groan, and then a shriek. Nothing
terrified, Gideon called out, in a ferocious tone, “Come, James,
come,” when he received an answer,
“Oh! heaven, save my wits, and my body. Shall I come? No, no; and
yet I cannot run. Something holds me fast.”
Gideon was astonished. The enemy had, in his hearing, breathed a
prayer;--not a pater-noster, indeed, but still a prayer. Soon,
however, his astonishment gave way to his rage, that he would not
come. “Fiend! coward!” Gideon cried out, when he instantly heard
retreating steps. He pursued in the direction of the sounds, and
came up to a form crouching behind a tombstone! The tailor was
collared in a moment, and struck to the ground.
“You are the fiend or ghost who terrified me. I took thee for the
spirit of the strange gentleman, over whose grave the cypress is
planted. Ha! take that, and that,” and as he spoke he made a few
presents to Gideon, which seemed very like blows. “Where are your
confounded life-preservers now? Are they upon you?” and he struck
the tailor’s shins, who, looking up, beheld James Dennis, the
sexton of Ormskirk. We have hinted already that the members of
these two useful professions, during the winter, were not very
amicably disposed towards each other. After Gideon had got upon his
legs, the sexton resumed,--
“You have tried to rob me of my trade, and I have half a mind to
make you atone for it, by putting you into a grave which I have
just dug.”
“Not to night,” interrupted Gideon. “I have a work before me,
to be performed, and I shall not be buried happily till it be
accomplished. Not to night, good sir, for I fight the devil!”
A fit of shivering came over his companion, who was very
superstitious; and it is no comfortable word, that same devil, to
be heard with an atmosphere of darkness, and in a churchyard.
“Oh! oh!” groaned the sexton, “mention it not. The snow falls
heavily, and I often fancy that such is the garb of light, which we
are told he sometimes assumes.”
“Hast thou, friend,” inquired Gideon, “seen the track of his steps
here lately? Snow shews them rarely. Here they are--”
“For goodness sake, do not mention the subject,” interrupted the
sexton, as he trembled anew. The tailor, however, explained all
his warlike intentions to him: stated for what he had come to the
church-yard: and finally, received the assistance of the grave
spade, to uproot the sickly cypress. He left the spot, bearing
it on his shoulders, and the hero of the Eneïd did not stalk
with a prouder air, as he raised the heavenly shield which his
goddess-mother had induced Vulcan to forge for him, than did Gideon
Chiselwig, tailor, in Ormskirk.
The snow continued to fall heavily, and the wind drifted it about
in fury, when, a little before midnight, the two tailors (for
Jeremiah, from fear of Mrs. Chiselwig’s wrath, had thought it best
to accompany his brother) were moving in the direction of the Rough
Wood, situated at a short distance from the town. The priest, it
will be recollected, had termed the cypress black; but it had
now changed colours, and was white enough. Gideon’s nightcap was
still red, for, at his request, Jeremiah took it from the head
repeatedly, and dashed the snow from it, lest it should lose any
of its power, to call up some rather unpleasant sensations in the
mind of Satan. Many were the misfortunes which befel them on the
way; now wandering from their course, and now stumbling into a deep
wreath of snow.
“Gideon’s courage, however, was not to dissolve thereby, and
wearied as he was, by carrying the cypress, and dragging Jeremiah,
he still persevered, and at length reached the entrance of the
wood. They passed on to a convenient station, Jeremiah starting
when large flakes of snow fell upon his face, from the trees.
“No more, no more,” said Gideon, making a halt near to some
overgrown firs, and his voice sounded so hollow, even to himself,
that he almost began to be frightened. “Here is the scene of the
horrible enchantment; Jeremiah, brush my nightcap, whilst I elevate
the cypress on that huge branch.”
“Aye, aye, brother, raise it high. The book said that he would
appear at the top; do not allow him to come too near, for I never
relished sulphur much.”
When all things were in readiness, the nightcap adjusted, and the
cypress fixed, the brave knight of the needle, in a firm voice,
cried out,--
“Come, James, come!”
A flash of lightning gleamed over their heads, and a voice, by no
means musical, though merrily attuned, amidst hollow laughter,
said,--
“Here, Gideon, here.”
As soon as a circle of safe diameter had been described by their
fingers, they looked up. There Jeremiah was fated to behold eyes
of a much deeper red than his own, peering down; moreover with a
less mournful expression. He fell, but had the good sense to fall
within the magic circle, and there he groaned. Gideon was thus
left alone to brave the infernal terrors; and whatsoever some may
say respecting Beelzebub, certainly on this occasion, he did not
appear the handsome and well-favoured gentleman, equipped in boots,
shining so beautifully, that everything is reflected, except his
hoofs,--and perfumed with spices and ointments, to suppress the
strong effluvial sulphur of his person. Nor was he the noble fiend
of Milton, shorn of his glory, as the sun in a partial eclipse:
for we presume that his devilship has the right of proving the
simile false at the hour of midnight. Accordingly, horrible sights
were Gideon’s, and they were ever varying. Now the enemy assumed
some strange mixture of forms,--rolling heads, contorted legs,
and swinging tail: but before a conception could be formed in the
tailor’s mind of what they were, he was altogether changed. Light,
darkness, and smoke, were around him. The cypress leaves rustled to
the movement of his hoofs. Saucer eyes, in the edges of which there
lurked such a malicious wink and twinkle; a mouth, occasionally,
when it could be seen, as wide and black as the pit whence he came,
in which hung a tongue, bright and lurid with a serpent’s poison,
breathing out thence visibly a blue air; naked limbs, around which
a green light flickered, shewing neither skin, muscle, nor bone,
but an indescribable substance: large black hoofs, hanging from
small ancles; all these parts changed, and poor Gideon stared,
perfectly bewildered at the proportions of his opponent. He soon,
however, regained his wonted composure, and broke the silence,--
“Nay, enemy of man, think not thus to confound me, with your
childish tricks. Be a man, Nicholas, and not a fool.” In a moment
around the circle which had been made, a blue flame flashed. The
devil danced on the outside, with the cypress for his stilts. His
face was concealed, and he now wore the garb of a scrivener, with
paper and pens stuck in his belt. He leapt to the ground, and there
he stood, of small stature, but twisting and pliable.
“Gideon Chiselwig,” said the learned clerk, “you are a brave
earth-clod. I am an antiquarian in my small way, and should be glad
of your autograph on this parchment. In my desk at home, I have the
names of great warriors, statesmen, and poets, but am yet denied
the honour of that of a tailor. Mine is a rare and a valuable
museum. Friend, be so kind as to write me ‘Gideon Chiselwig’ here,
in this corner. Now,”--and he unfolded a long roll, and held it
out to Gideon. “Nay, nay, your hands are stiff and cold, with the
blowing of this storm; give me a shake, and I’ll warm them. Tush!
Gideon a coward? Then write me your initials.”
“I came not here,” solemnly returned the tailor, “to sport, but to
fight with you. Prepare for combat, or write on the parchment, a
coward.”
“What! fight without a challenge? Here are the articles; write your
name, and then I must gird myself for battle. Come, the night is
cold--cold--and I shiver.”
“That will be a change, friend, I guess,” interrupted Jeremiah,
who now venturing to raise his head, saw nothing formidable in
the enemy, “I warrant thee, that some of your associates are not
shivering at present. I suppose that during summer, there is not
much rain in your country, and during winter not much frost or
snow.”
No reply was made to the polite address of Jeremiah, but the clerk
had already placed the pen in the hand of Gideon.
“Where is the ink?”
“In your veins; prick them with a needle, or be a coward. Blood is
the challenge to deadly combat.”
“Do all other inks freeze in your country?” again inquired
Jeremiah, and again he received no answer.
Gideon did as he was directed, and wrote his name on the parchment.
He observed that the blood dried as soon as it fell from the pen,
and became indelible.
“Fool! fool!” exclaimed the fiend, with a loud shriek of joy,
“thou art for ever lost. This is a contract that you will be my
servant in hell. Two conditions are granted to you; or, rather, two
deeds to which you may command me. Next night we meet again, and
when morning comes, you are mine. Live a pleasant day to morrow.
Ask two things, and here I have pledged to grant them, or you are
free. The parchment may not be wiped, and cannot be torn!”
This was spoken in a tone so fiendish and exulting, that Gideon’s
heart failed him. He now knew that he was altogether in the power
of the enemy, with only one day to live; and then a horrible
departure from this world; and in the next world such a revolting
service in which he was to be employed. He bent down on his
knees, and clasping his hands in extreme agony and terror, looked
imploringly upon the fiend, and cried out--
“Oh! spare me! I can be of no use to you.”
“More,” was the reply, “than you are to any one on earth. Ah!
Gideon, you’ll make a good member of society there.”
“Nay, nay,” returned Gideon, “I may lie in a hot and black corner
of the pit, like an old woman by the fire, who cannot move about.
I shall do nothing but retch, and cry for water. I could not go on
any errand of yours--could not whisper mischief in any person’s
ear. You might torment me, but I should be utterly unable to serve
you. Oh! spare me!”
“Spare him,” began Jeremiah with averted face. “Had he been a
ruffian, he would have been of essential service in any vacant
situation. But, sir, and I speak with great respect, Gideon would
be the laziest footman in your employ. He could not travel from
your place to Ormskirk in less than a life-time. And then he would
have forgot your messages, and lost your letters, unless they were
put in his nightcap, and that, you know well, could not hold as
many as you require. Gideon Chiselwig an imp of darkness! why a
little infant could cheat him of an apple! Perhaps he would then be
fonder of a snow ball. Ah! he is too simple to be a man, and how
could he be a devil?”
The fiend laughed, and pointing to the name on the parchment,
written with blood, bade Gideon recollect that he was his property,
by contract and consent.
“Oh!” once more ejaculated Gideon, “spare me! What! must I leave--”
“Nelly, you mean? Fear not. I shall bring her to you in good time.
The separation cannot be long.”
“Oh!” resumed the tailor, “must I die,--have my brains dashed out
against the wall, as your victims generally are treated?”
“No, no, Gideon, they shall even then be covered with your
nightcap--”
“To leave my profession, to--”
“No, no,” was the reply, “you shall then make my pantaloons
of many colours. My wages are--but I dare not quote from that
Book.--You understand me, Gideon. You need not shriek: spare your
lungs, as they will have exercise enough, and yet they will not
require sewing and mending. They must last as long as your service,
and that is for ever. I shall never dismiss you for bad conduct,
Gideon. Eternity is the term of the engagement between us. Oh!
eternity!”--and here all the farce and pantomime vanished, as
his form changed into one of lofty power, and his voice thrilled
with eloquence from the remembrance, and the still more intense
anticipation of endless woe. “Oh! Eternity, how vast thou art.
No shore, a boundless sea! No bank, nor yet a little island, on
which the lost can alight, and, for a moment, quit the gulf, and
shake off their pain. The scroll of fate is placed in the hand,
written with woe: long and long may it unfold itself, but the last
roll never comes. Oh! Eternity! thou hast no resting place for
the bright foot of Hope:--yes,” and here Satan assumed the same
appearance as before, “Gideon, our engagement expires only with
eternity: you shall board with me, and have enough of food--not
much ale or water, however, but a great supply of fuel, and that
gratis. But before I depart, name two requests which you may wish
me to fulfil. Would you enjoy power or beauty? They shall be
granted, and the poor tailor may sit on a throne, or at the side of
a beautiful empress. Amidst all, think of the coming night, when
your appetite is about to pall, and how will it be whetted!--Name
two requests.”
Jeremiah started up, so sudden was the advent of the idea in his
mind, and no longer miserable, thinking that Gideon would now
successfully puzzle Satan. He whispered into his brother’s ear,
“Ask for the reformation of Nelly!”
“Well then,” said the tailor addressing the enemy, “the first
condition is, that you thoroughly reform my wife: make her to
love me; to give me due allowance of food, fuel, sleep, and all
necessaries, and not to beat me. She may comb my head, but must
not scratch it. She may kiss, but not bite me. The vinegar must be
taken from her temper, and honey put in. The poker must only be
used for the coals: in short, you have undertaken an impossibility.
You may have made her what she is--but you cannot unmake her.”
“Ah! master Nicholas,” chuckled Jeremiah, who was vain of having
suggested the above condition, “give it up, and confess that you
are an easy simpleton for once. A devil make an angel of a woman!
Ridiculous, quite ridiculous, Nick. You may pare her nails, but
you cannot keep her from scratching. Say no more, give it up and
depart, and carry a globe of snow on your shoulders, to your abode,
to cool some of your friends.”
Lightning flashed over Jeremiah’s head as he finished speaking, and
effectually withered up his wit, as well as his courage. A long
silence ensued, broken by the fiend at last, as he said--
“The condition shall be fulfilled. Your person shall be sacred to
your wife, no more to come in contact with poker or fist, nails
or teeth. She shall supply your grinders with every thing but her
own fingers. As for sleep, you have not much time for that, before
I come to claim you as my slave. And as for fuel, Nelly will seat
you close by the grate, and you may take warm coals in your hand
like boiled potatoes: and do not feel the least anxiety about fuel
hereafter, you shall have great abundance then. Nay, nay, Gideon,
your wife’s temper shall likewise be reformed. Oh! you are a man of
discrimination, and have perceived that it is no easy task which
you have assigned me.--Now name your other condition.”
Gideon then trembled, lest the first condition should be fulfilled,
and thought over some impossibility which he should ask the devil
to perform, as the fulfilment of the second condition.
“Then build me a wall, with stone and mortar, an hour before
daybreak to morrow.”
“Provided there be a thaw.”
“No provisions,” boldly replied Gideon,--“no provisions. And lest
there should be a thaw occasioned by crowds passing, it must not
be built in a thoroughfare, but in a field at some distance from
Ormskirk. It must be four hundred yards in length, and five feet in
height, and all finished in an hour.”
“Why, Nick,” interrupted Jeremiah, whose courage flowed as well
as ebbed, “you will take an hour to bring the sand from the
sand-hills. Besides, no honest man will lend you his horse and
cart.” No answer was returned, and the enemy walked around the
circle once or twice, and then stood full in front of Gideon, while
the parchment, with his name, burned brighter, and more bright. But
the flame did not conceal the blood by which it had been written,
and the form of a heart, weltering amidst the flame, turning in
agony, and guarded by the name.
“The conditions,” Satan exclaimed, “shall be performed, and as
soon as the wall is built, I shall escort you to your future home.
Let this parchment float, till then, before you, in your waking
moments and in your dreams. Accustom your mind to the thought of
thunder, lightning, sounds of an earthquake, the hissing of fiends,
the rolling of a deep unfathomable gulf, and the clutch of this
little, little loving hand,” and he switched out a horrible paw,
scorched, but not burned; for every joint and muscle moved with
inconceivable ease and speed. “Do not think, poor wretch, that you
shall see me then as merry as I have been at present, nor will you
be merry when limb from limb is torn and mangled? Dream of it,--it
must come to pass. A few hours, Gideon, and I meet you: till then,
adieu,” and the fiend vanished. A long track of blue light, and
dark forms hovering near it, marked the course of his flight over
the wood.
As we have been long enough in the cold and bitter storm, and as
all fire and brimstone have disappeared, we do not choose to walk
side by side with the two tailors, on their way back, amidst the
drifting of the snow, which, by this time, had fallen so heavily,
that the way was completely blocked up.
We prefer to enter the residence of the parson, and, seated
opposite to his rosy countenance, note a few observations as
to what was passing there. In a parenthesis, we have already
described the worthy man as fat and oily. Indeed, he was singularly
consistent, for whilst he preached _good living_ to others, he
did not neglect to practice it himself, though, perhaps, he had
a private interpretation of the word, and understood it in a
different sense. He told his hearers that they would, in the end,
feel the advantages resulting from it: and certainly, after fifty
years practice, he looked very comfortable himself. This regimen
had endowed him with size and colour, flesh and paint. He had
been called a light of the church; only, we presume, because his
face, in shape, resembled the moon, though scarcely so pale. Yet,
withall, Dr. Mauncel was mild and benevolent, and one of his best
properties was, that he had a beautiful daughter, who had just
reached her nineteenth winter. Many a sigh had been unconsciously
breathed as Mary leant upon her father’s arm, on their way to
church: and as she knelt in prayer, many a look had been directed
towards her, and lovers envied the vicar for the many caresses he
must receive from such a fair being, and thought what a sanctuary
her presence would make of the very humblest home. The little arch
creature knew this, and flung back her ringlets, that her face
might be seen, and then contrived to make it so demure and grave,
that one might have imagined that a ray of happy, but feverish
love, had never brightened over it. When she smiled, it was always
so friendly, that a deeper sentiment, it was thought, could not
lurk beneath it; and she would extend her hand so frankly, that
no one could venture upon retaining and kissing it,--it felt so
sisterly. And yet, the sweet rogue was in love with her cousin
William, then residing at the Vicarage; and when the good doctor
was paying his addresses either to his meals or his sermon, the
young pair were toying with each other’s hands, and his reverence
had once been startled from his reveries, by a very loud kiss.
We have, strangely enough, omitted to mention that it was
Christmas night on which all the transactions we have recorded of
the tailors, took place; so that lights were still seen in the
vicarage, and a goose, with others of the same genus, was standing
on the table very peaceably, if we except the smoke of their anger,
which was ascending, and, as the vicar facetiously remarked, much
more comfortable where they were, than without, in the fury of the
storm.
“Is all in readiness? Now, nephew, you can fence and carve, bisect
and dissect; but when you reach my age, you will only be able to
devour, decant, or digest. Stay; Mary, bring Rehoboam and Jeroboam,
with all their tribes. Rehoboam was the son of Solomon, and there
is no reason why a wise man should not be fond of him. Come, haste,
Mary, else I shall send William to bring you.”
“Nay, nay, uncle,” said the youth, “to avoid delay, I will go at
once, and chide her so, that she must despatch. Now,--dear Mary,”
and the happy couple ran out of the room together.
“Sly rogues,” chuckled the old man, who saw how matters stood.
Mary, it seems, had been refractory, for it was not until a
considerable length of time had elapsed, that she appeared,
carrying a few glasses, whilst her cousin bore two large bottles,
Rehoboam and Jeroboam.
“Ah! ah!” cried the vicar. “Fie, fie, whence come these blushes,
Mary? Let both of you approach; now kneel; and God bless you, my
dear children! Nephew William, take her hand as a Christmas present
from her father; you have already obtained her heart from herself.”
“Dear, dear uncle,” exclaimed the delighted youth, as he clasped
his relative’s knees with his hands.
“Nay, nay,” the parson interrupted, “put your arms around that
blushing neck. I have long watched you. When you read for the
old man, William, she sat beside you, gazing upon the same book,
and when your locks and cheeks were together, your voice became
agitated, and then she looked innocently into your face. You always
preferred a large folio, and she slipped her little hand in one
side, beneath it, and then you put yours through, to meet hers; and
for hours, the happy father has been delighted with your loves.
Ah! one other remembrance comes upon me. In our evening walk I was
strolling behind you, when a beautiful child left his sister’s
hand, and ran to you, Mary, and climbing up, kissed you once and
again. I was near enough to hear William say, ‘now, cousin, give
me one likewise.’ Ah! rogues, rogues,” and he took them both in
his arms, and hugged them together, when a knocking was heard at
the gate. The vicar started, but the lovers were so happy in each
other, that they had not even heard the noise.
“Some poor traveller seeking shelter from the storm. How the storm
blows without. Hark to that awful howl,” and the good man arose
from the table. He heard the servant open the door, and instantly
a form bounced into the room, all drifted and covered with snow. A
single shake served to discover Mrs. Gideon Chiselwig.
“Oh! doctor,” she exclaimed, in a tone altogether foreign to her
usual voice, “what a dream I have been visited with. The devil has
appeared to me, and shewed my dear husband’s name, affixed to a
contract, that he shall be a slave in hell, from to-morrow night,
henceforth, and for ever. He is then to come and take him from me.
Oh! I have shamefully treated Gideon, and now I love him so much,
that I could die for him. ’Twas but this evening, that I struck
him with these heavy hands. Oh! doctor, what can I do? Is there no
hope?”
Dr. Mauncel was altogether astonished and confounded. The woman
now before him had the repute of a termagent; and yet she spoke
so affectionately, and bitterly upbraided herself, for her former
cruel treatment of her husband. Nor did she appear at all under
the influence of strong drink. “Good woman,” he at length inquired,
“where is your husband?”
“He has gone and sold himself to the devil, for my conduct towards
him. I have made earth miserable, and he would rather live in hell,
than dwell with me any longer. Oh! how I could now love him! My
heart is changed, but it is too late! Yes, yes, it is too late!”
and she wrung her hands in wild agony, tore her hair, and shed more
tears than Jeremiah could have done.
“Mrs. Chiselwig,” returned the vicar, “you have, indeed, been
anything but a dutiful and affectionate wife to your spouse, but
now begin a thorough reformation. It is only a dream of evil with
which you have been visited, and Gideon shall, doubtless, be spared
to you for many a long year yet.”
“It cannot be! Although the storm rages, he is not in the house; he
has gone and sold himself for my shameful conduct. In the afternoon
I forbade him to go to bed, until I should have arisen; nay, more,
I planted these nails in his face and head, as a tender good night
for a dear husband. Ah! wretch that I am, and yet, he patiently
submitted, took the hand which had struck him, so affectionately,
and was making gaiters for the feet which had kicked him.”
“Ah! Mrs. Chiselwig, you were a sad wife,” chimed in the parson.
“What tempted you,” asked Mary Mauncel, “to be cruel to Gideon? He
was always so kind and attentive to you.”
Her cousin William approached, and whispered something which was
inaudible to all others, save Mary herself. She smiled so prettily,
and with such an affectation of malice, as she tossed her head,
and said, “Try me, you are free at present, but have given me the
chain. I’ll rule you, and beat you into the sober obedience of a
husband. You have told me frequently that you were my slave: I
shall shortly prove it.”
“Dear Mary, go on, go on, and tell me what a good little wife you
will make.”
Nelly once more appealed to the vicar, with great earnestness.
“Oh! sir, have you not a charm to be obtained from all those books,
from all your sermons, from all your robes, by which you can break
the contract with the devil. Laugh not; he appeared to me, in
such a form, and uttering such words, that to my dying day I dare
not rehearse them. To-morrow night he comes to claim Gideon! Your
profession is to tame and conquer the enemy. Oh! now exert that
power!”
“To-morrow night; well then, go home, and I will come at noon, and
see what is to be done. Good woman, you have (innocently I grant)
spoiled my supper, for who can eat with the smell of brimstone. I
declare that that goose now appears to me to have hoofs, instead
of claws. Mary, give Mrs. Chiselwig a compliment from Rehoboam,
to cheer her on her way home, through the storm. You’ll find
Gideon, I hope, there before you, and prove that all your fears
have been the baby thoughts of a horrid dream. May you long live
for each other,--and, Nelly, you will shew, by your future course
of conduct, I trust, that you are willing to atone for all the
domestic misery which you confess to have brought upon honest
Gideon. Nay, drink it off, Mrs. Chiselwig; it is warmer than snow,
eh?”
Nelly, after many thanks to the vicar, emptied the glass, and once
more braved the storm.
The walls of the houses were now completely drifted, and not a
footstep had left its trace on the snow-covered streets. What a
lonely feeling is over the soul, when nothing is heard but the deep
gust of the wind, driving the storm before, around, and against us,
and when all objects are being wrapped in winter’s white raiment.
For us, in youth, there never was a greater luxury, than to wander
over the dreary mountain and vale, with the snow pelting on our
face, as it was turned upwards, when not a glimpse of the sky could
meet it; and then, after having become thoroughly exhausted, to
enter some natural cave, or sheepfold, on the waste, and there
seated, gaze around upon bush, bank, and hill, cottages, and woods,
all thatched with white: and even yet, by night, has the old man
taken his staff, and tottered to the hall door, to stand without
the threshold, devoutly uncovering his head, white as winter’s
after December has smoothed it, and looked up, while the snow
fell, sweet and grateful as the kisses of his only child, upon his
dim eyes, and feverish forehead,--and as he entered the room, has
forbidden Jane to wipe away the flakes, for he wished them gently
to weep themselves to death, on his face, in all their virgin
sorrow. Rain, we love thee not, even in thy spring showers, and
must canopy our head to protect it from thy salutations: but Snow,
we uncover it for thy kisses, so pure and soothing. How beautiful
art thou, when the messenger of death; and a holier and a whiter
bed dost thou afford the poor traveller, than could be smoothed
and softened by the hand of his young and beloved wife, in his own
happy abode, where, true as her love in difficulty and trial, burns
the signal of her expectations, through the small lattice, during
the long night, and often trimmed in vain! How gently is he hushed
to sleep, amidst the wreathes of thy purity, unconscious of the
blast. Not a limb aches, and heaven, likewise, bids thee be thy
lover’s shroud and tomb!
Had Mrs. Chiselwig, however, been disposed to apostrophize the
snow, it would have been in very different language; and, perhaps,
the good woman had reason, as she arrived, almost blinded and
senseless, at the door, where stood two figures, whom she instantly
recognized as Gideon and Jeremiah.
“Dear, dear husband!” she exclaimed in raptures, and flung her arms
fondly around his neck, for the first time since marriage, and then
she sobbed. Gideon had started back instinctively, when he beheld
the arms raised, but now he was convinced of Nelly’s affection, and
joined her sobbing. It may be superfluous to add, that Jeremiah’s
sympathetic sluices were not closed on this occasion, and that they
threatened to deluge his person.
“Oh! Gideon, you shudder in my embrace.”
“Aye, aye, I am a lost man, yet now, I feel so happy in your love,
dear Nelly. But I am very, very cold.”
The door was opened, and after entering the house, Nelly was
informed of the exploit in the Rough Wood. She upbraided not, she
only kissed her husband, wept, and looked heart-broken. Gideon
conjured her not to be changed in temper for one day at least, and
still to treat him harshly.
“I could not,” was the affecting reply, “though such conduct were
to save your life. Oh! I feel ashamed of myself. You must, if you
wish me to be happy hereafter, give me as many scratches, kicks,
and angry words, as I have ever given you. Promise me, Gideon.”
Gideon did promise, and as the first-fruits of the vow, kissed her.
They retired not to rest, for, as the husband piteously remarked--
“Dear wife, I cannot, and I should not sleep. I must gaze upon you
as long as I am permitted. I must speak with you as long as my
language is of earth. I must embrace you as long as I am not called
upon to embrace clods, dust, and worms. Ha!” he cried in a frantic
voice, “not that! not that! I am denied burial, and must go, body
and soul, to the dark pit! I shall be mangled, and Jeremiah will
not be allowed to sew me together, into a decent corpse. Oh! oh!”
At length, punctual to his appointment, the vicar came, attended
by his nephew. What was the astonishment of the worthy man, when
he learned that Gideon had fulfilled verbatim his wife’s dream,
and actually sold himself, for better, for worse, to the devil! He
gravely shook his head, and the motion was also communicated to his
paunch, as he remarked--
“I am afraid that the present is a case far beyond my poor skill.
I once, indeed, had the honour of casting out a devil, but he was
a blue devil, and I put his victim into a room by himself, for a
month, and removed a large bottle, after which the man was never
tormented with him again. But this--”
“And you a doctor of the church,” interrupted
Jeremiah--“humph!--with a black coat, professing that you are able
and inclined to fight the devil in his own colours. Now, if you
could fight a blue devil, in a black coat, would you not have a
greater chance of success in fighting a black devil? Had I as many
prayers, homilies, and sermons, Dr. Mauncel, I would instantly
take and pull him by the nose, very much to the lengthening of
his proboscis. Oh! doctor, accompany us to the place of the awful
meeting, and I will carry the Book as your weapon!”
“Yes, yes,” added Mrs. Chiselwig with great earnestness and
simplicity, “and I will carry--what was the name, sir?--Yes,
Rehoboam. I’ll carry Rehoboam for you.”
“He is a dear child, and I could scarcely trust him out of my own
hands.”
But we cannot detail the conversation, many episodes of which were
long prayers, and spiritual maxims, calculated to do anything or
everything, save to overturn and reverse the horrid destiny of
Gideon--the doomed of Satan. None gave consolation, until the
parson’s nephew suggested that it was quite possible, indeed
extremely probable, that the devil would find the building of the
wall a task, by no means easy; and that, for his part, he would be
most willing to take his uncle’s post, and accompany poor Gideon to
the place of rendezvous, and see the wall to be, in mason’s terms,
sufficient and proper, before the Devil could claim a hair of the
tailor’s head. Still, this was not altogether satisfactory, for the
first condition, and that which appeared the most difficult, had
been strictly fulfilled.
As the clock struck every hour, Gideon seemed to hear the fiend
exclaim, “prepare.” His heart vibrated so much, that had it been
skilfully placed in the mechanism, it would have regularly and
accurately moved the pendulum. He counted every shade darkening on
the sky, until night came on; and melancholy, if not poetical, was
his farewell to the glorious sun. He was not altogether ignorant of
figure and trope, to eke out his pathos, as will be seen.
“There thou art, about to disappear for ever from these delighted
eyes, with thy beautiful chariot! That dark cloud is thy coachman,
with a pink-coloured vest. He is now mounting, and in a moment will
be ready to drive thee into the ocean, and wet thy garments, making
them truly uncomfortable for thy tailor, whoever he be, to repair.
He has lighted his pipe of tobacco, and puffs out the smoke to keep
away the sea sickness. His drab great coat is now over him, and he
is exclaiming, ‘all’s right, all’s right.’ ’Tis false, charioteer,
all’s wrong, wrong. Farewell, thou orb of day. I go, where time is
not measured by day--the tailor; and clad by night--his journeyman.
Yet just one other peep; yes, here is thy ray upon my hand. Oh!
Nelly, hast thou a glove to put over my hand, and thus confine
the light for ever to be my hope. Farewell! To-morrow thou again
appearest, but not for me. Perchance, as thou arisest over the
finished wall, thou mayest observe my head as the cope stone. At
morn, how anxiously have I removed the nightcap from my eye to
behold thy charms, O sun! How beautifully dost thou gleam into the
soup, and kindly reveal all the peas and beans which slily lie at
the bottom of the dish. How fondly hast thou loved my needle, and
even danced, with thy hundred feet, upon the point! Farewell!” and
he closed the window and wept.
The speech may contain a little of the ludicrous; not so the
feelings. In vain did Nelly, who had been a little consoled by
the remarks of the parson’s nephew, and who had, therefore, been
able to attend to cookery, set before him food the most savoury,
to tempt his appetite, with what one of the signs elegantly terms
“the real-original-genuine-best Ormskirk gingerbread.” As her hands
spread them on the table, Gideon’s sorrow was renewed, for the
thought struck him, that they would move before him no more. It was
no easy matter for the good man to be resigned to the loss of his
wife, just when she had become so agreeable and affectionate.
Soon Mary Mauncel entered, leaning on the arm of her cousin. She
had tried all her arts to dissuade him from the expedition, and had
even threatened never to speak to him again. And yet, out of pure
love and care for him, and of her own accord, she had come along
with him to Gideon’s house. And never had she spoken so much and
so tenderly, as she did now, cautioning William, for her sake, not
to be rash. Jeremiah shewed them to seats, and because there was a
scarcity of chairs, mounted the table himself. Gideon had watched
the motion.
“Ah! Jeremiah, I have sat there for the last time. Orders shall be
sent, good broad cloth shall be spread out, but no Gideon shall be
there to cut, sew, and mend.”
“Reverse the picture,” added his brother, “and change the scene. A
horrible pit, at the bottom of which--”
“Nay, Jeremiah; do not make me to anticipate it. Young gentleman,
how are your nerves braced for the work? Give me your hand.”
At that moment, however, the lover felt his hand touched, and
detained gently by Mary, so he held out the sinister one to the
tailor.
“Ready, quite ready, Gideon. I shall return with you safe again.
Fear not; you shall not lose Mrs. Chiselwig, nor,” he added in a
whisper to his beautiful companion, “shall I lose Mary Mauncel.”
“Is the night calm?” meekly inquired Nelly, who had some thoughts
of accompanying her husband.
“Beautiful and clear,” was the reply. “The snow is glistening in
the moon’s rays, and not a breath of wind awakes it.”
“Beautiful it is,” added Mary, in a low voice to William, “but for
ghosts, devils, and your folly. How much happier should we have
been together, in the garden.”
Jeremiah’s very acute ear had distinguished these words. “Ah! my
young lady, the open field, where we are to meet the enemy, is much
more romantic than a garden; and you must be happier there, as the
shelter is better. The devil had fled without a place of meeting
being definitely assigned, but I had courage enough to recall him,
and then we agreed upon a spot of ground to the right of Aughton
Moss, and in the direction of Cleives Hills. Garden? No, no, for
were I concealed behind a bush, even in the presence of your
father, the enemy might ask him to bestow the little bird that was
in such a bush, and his reverence, not knowing, might comply, and I
should then be caged. All must be open and exposed.”
“No more,” exclaimed Gideon in agony, after he had returned from
the door, where, for the last minute he had been gazing upon the
moon, “no more must I see thy light, after a few short hours. Ha!
and the candle too. But let me try how I can do without it,” and he
immediately extinguished it. “Horrible darkness; and then I must
for ever put on and take off my clothes, and shave and wash myself
with liquid fire, and eat without a light; yes, eat brimstone and
tempest, without having a candle to shew the mouth. Hush, hush, I
hear some fiend eating. His lips smack.”
Gideon was not wrong in one part of his conjectures, for Mary’s
lover, taking advantage of the light being extinguished, was
attempting to console and pacify her by whispers and kisses. The
clock now struck the hour of eleven, and Nelly lighted the candle,
to prepare the last supper for her husband. Not a word was spoken.
Every countenance was fixed upon the miserable pair. Every little
noise startled them, and then again they were immovable, as gloomy
pictures. The candle flame turned blue. The chimney looked darker
and darker. Shadows flitted upon the wall, in formidable guise.
At length the parson’s nephew proposed that Miss Mauncel, rather
than return to her father, should keep poor Nelly company in their
absence.
“Come, Gideon, come; it is the hour.” What terror these words
inspired in all, save the speaker, who laughed at superstition, and
even at the devil! The tailor’s limbs trembled,--he looked up, and
then hid his face in his hands. Jeremiah brought a long cloak, to
wrap his brother from the cold. All things were adjusted, as for a
criminal on the drop. He was at the door. Nelly gave a shriek;--her
husband heard it not. She embraced and hugged him,--he was passive
in her arms.
“Oh!--he is dead already!” she exclaimed, “he is,--yes!”
But they observed, by the rolling of his eyes, that although his
reason might have fled, his spirit was still in its tabernacle.
Jeremiah shook him, but Gideon responded not. He was dragged forth,
as the hour had already passed, and yet, no farewell was uttered by
him. Nelly’s farewell was a loud, a long, a piercing shriek, as he
was moved over the threshold, and then a longer fainting fit.
The snow crisped beneath their feet, a slight breeze passed over
their heads, and these were the only sounds heard. The hour of
twelve was striking in the town, as they reached the spot assigned.
Gideon now seemed to awake from his insensibility. He attempted to
speak, but words and utterance altogether failed him. The magic
circle was drawn around, and he looked up to summon the enemy of
mankind to fulfil his engagements, when a violent fit of shuddering
seized his limbs, and some thing not less gentle passed over his
soul. The stars above were fiery, and gleaming with malignant
aspect and influence over a mortal’s fate, and around them was a
dull haze, which was interpreted into a shroud. Not that the tailor
was an astrologer, in faith or practice: but there are moments
and circumstances when the orbs of heaven appear as the types of
earth’s history,--as the eyes of fate turned upon individuals,
likewise, with their revelations. He then gazed around. Not a tree
or fence stood near, for a covert; but a desert heath, still more
desolate in its appearance from its snowy covering. The ground,
with its winter’s carpet, was prevented from echoing to footsteps:
and the air seemed, too, as if it were bound up from the vibrations
of sound,--for over all was a dead silence.
William Mauncel was the first who spoke. “Gideon, thou tremblest;
I will take thy duty. Give me the charm by which thou renderest the
devil obedient to thy call. Eh? does he stand upon ceremony? My
good uncle assures us that he frequently pays us a visit when he is
not invited, and that he makes himself such a pleasant fellow, that
we are loth to give him a hint that it is not agreeable for the
time to have his company, much less to shew him to the door. Ah!
ah! Gideon, you were too polite, you gave him your card, with name
and residence, last night. That will make him troublesome. He is a
punctual keeper of his appointments. Now, pray, give me the signal.
Nay, then,” as Gideon’s voice could not be heard, “Jeremiah will
oblige me.”
The substance of the directions was repeated from the old book,
where they had, at first, stimulated the tailor’s courage, to make
him more than a mortal hero. William laughed at the affectionate
terms in which he was to invite the enemy; and began, in as low
and gentle a tone, to say, “Come, James, come,” as he had ever
employed when he had tapped at the window of his uncle’s study,
where his beautiful cousin was, whispering, “come, Mary, come,” in
order that she should trip out and enjoy a moonlight scene, seated
along with him in the arbour. Still the devil was not pleased most
graciously to appear, and William laughed and shouted in full
merriment. He, indeed, believed in the devil’s journeyings to and
fro, over the earth, and in his exertions and plans to obtain
victims by false and almost involuntary contracts; but then he
was not frightened, for as he firmly believed that human skill,
stratagem, and valour might baffle him. Where was the necessity, he
reasoned, of mistaking his black majesty for a gentleman in black;
of using blood instead of ink; of receiving slate stones instead of
golden coins? He also held as a part of his superstitious creed,
the existence of certain old ladies, on whose chins the Lancashire
rains have fallen with such a fructifying influence, as to beard
them “like the pard;” with hands dark and sickly, from the deadly
drugs which they mix over the light of the cauldron, in their cave,
and with decrepid and corrupted forms, as if they were spirits of
another world, and had come to the charnel house, and there clothed
themselves in a body which had begun to be the prey of worms; and
with souls, whose every idea was familiar with the dark fates in
store for earth, and rejoiced in those which were to blast the
happy, and destroy the beautiful. But then, he as firmly held that
their spells might be made to fall impotent upon man. He laughed at
them, and was prepared to scratch them, in their only vulnerable
part,--_above the breath_. In travelling, he cared not though he
should have the company of a ghost, provided it only spoke, and
recounted some horrible deed, as the avenger of which it walked
the earth,--for he hated silence. At home, he would have shook the
devil very frankly and cordially by the hand, had he ever paid him
a visit, and he would have smoked a pipe, or drunk a cup of tea
(had tea then been known) with any witch, in her own abode. Thus
William Mauncel was exceedingly merry in prospect of beholding the
devil, whom he imagined that he could so easily thwart. In a loud
voice, he again exclaimed, “come, James, come,” and instantly a
little man, with the tools of a mason-builder, stood opposite to
Gideon.
“Gideon Chiselwig, give me the dimensions of the wall which I have
contracted to build. You know that it is now an hour from my day
break, and I must finish it, and then claim you. You know me?--or
shall I disclose my features? and assume some of my former tones,
and thus convince you that I am--the devil?”
Gideon trembled still more, and feebly ejaculated, “No, no. I
believe in very deed that thou art my enemy, and, I beseech thee,
give me no further proof.”
“Until,” was the return, “your very existence and employment, as
well as habitation, shall prove it.”
“And that shall never be,” interrupted the vicar’s nephew. “Shew
thyself to us, belch fire and smoke, if you do not wish to pass for
an unskilful conjuror.”
“That would do him good,” remarked Jeremiah, “a good and powerful
vomit would be of essential service. Whenever I have compelled my
food to march too quickly down into my stomach, I am not well until
it has made a hasty retreat back again to head quarters. It is
exactly the same when too much goes at once. Now, I suppose that
you have rather more of fire and smoke than you could wish. In
fact, your throat is said to be worse than a chimney. Would it not,
therefore, be prudent to vomit a little?”
“To be sure it would,” answered young Mauncel, trying to restrain
his laughter, “yet, Jeremiah, he has enough of brimstone to physic
him.”
The earth instantly shook; beneath and around them, they heard the
elements as if contending in the bowels of the earth; fire blazing,
rivers dashing and rolling, and thunder reverberating. Jeremiah
fell down, but very quietly, and lay with his face close to the
ground, if we except his hands, which, somehow or other, intervened
between the snow and his watery countenance. Gideon groaned and
shrieked alternately; and their companion, now, was startled into
silence and paleness, so awful were the signs of the devil’s
presence and power. A low, but deep voice, now came from the mason,
as he approached to the circle.
“Give me your directions, Gideon, as to the place where I shall
commence to raise the wall, and they shall be obeyed. For a time I
am your servant, and am content to be so, for through eternity I
shall be your master: men value every thing by time--devils value
every thing by eternity. And who would not be a servant for such
hire?--an hour’s labour,--and as a compensation for it, a soul to
torment through all eternity! Come, haste, give me the dimensions
of the wall. Eh? have I not reformed Nelly?”
Gideon tremulously answered, that he had given the dimensions last
night.
“True, true,” was the reply, “you did. Gaze, and soon you shall
behold the wall arising, and as the last stone is placed, be ready
to meet your fate; yet,” he soliloquized, as he moved round the
circle, “what have I, in which to carry the sand for the mortar!
I can tear up stones, but I cannot dig for sand, and what can I
procure to convey it from the sand hills! Oh! I see it.”
Jeremiah’s apron had been more valorous than its master, and
boldly, though very unwisely, had ventured to lie down without the
circle, and, in a moment, was seized upon by Satan, who disappeared
with his spoil to a little distance. Then commenced the tearing
up of the stones; and so speedily was this part of the engagement
finished, that Jeremiah remarked, with much warmth in his
approbation, “that the devil would make an excellent quarryman,
and that he must have been employed in digging and building his own
pit.” All the fiends of hell seemed to be let loose, so loud was
the noise, and so wide and deep the shaking. Whenever the stones
were heaved up too large, lightning leapt upon them, and they were
broken into smaller sizes. But what was still more surprising,
a deep smoke arose, and every object, for a short space, was
imperceptible, until it was rolled away by a vivid flash of fire,
furious as a tempest. The ground was no more covered with snow, and
Jeremiah found himself squatted on the mud. The enemy could not be
seen, but all the stones were placed ready for the builder.
“He is gone over the moss,” exclaimed Gideon, “to the sand
hills. Ha! dost thou not, Jeremiah, perceive those wings of fire
fluttering in the distance, away towards the sea? And soon he will
return to finish his undertaking. I have no hopes.”
“Would that his hoofs sunk in the moss,” ejaculated his brother,
“for many a better fellow than he, has met with his fate there. Oh,
brother, sustain your spirits, and your body likewise.”
There was great propriety in the latter admonition of Jeremiah,
for Gideon’s body seemed a little off the perpendicular; and
accordingly he was assisted in removing himself to a tree, which
the sudden thawing of the snow had revealed, and there he was
stationed, leaning against its trunk, while the same precautions
for their safety were adopted as before. Minute after minute passed
on, and still the enemy came not. The stones lay exactly in the
same position. The doomed tailor could now listen, with a slight
portion of faith and hope, to the consolation which young Mauncel
gave; when a slight rustling was heard in the branches of the tree,
and something of a red colour was perceived. All strained their
eyes, but nothing more of shape, colour, size, or essence, could be
learned.
“Ah!” Jeremiah began, “he is fond of trees. How he coiled himself,
as Dr. Mauncel observed, in the tree of knowledge of good and evil,
pointing to the apples, and smacking his own lips! But let him
stay there at present, and hatch a blackbird’s nest, if he be so
inclined. Gideon, you are now safe.”
Scarcely had he finished these words, when a fiery cloud was seen
coming from the direction of the sand hills, and soon Satan stood
before his heap of sand, with a large trowel in his hand, ready
to build the wall. But first he looked around, and descrying the
altered station of the party, walked up to the circle, while his
mouth belched forth fire and smoke.
“Think not,” he exclaimed in a horrible tone, “think not that you
shall escape, although, by your wiles, I have been detained; and
heavier shall be your punishment, for the trouble you have given
me.”
“Do you sweat much?” kindly inquired William Mauncel; “then stand a
little to cool yourself. You have time enough to finish the wall.
Why have you returned so soon? Pray, let us have a friendly chat.”
“Gideon Chiselwig,” continued the fiend, without noticing the words
by which he had been interrupted, “I tell thee that thy doom shall
be much more severe. Rejoice at my momentary disappointment, as I
detail it to you, and then think how much more I shall rejoice over
the torments which it shall cause you, as my subject, for ever. I
placed the first load of sand in your brother’s apron, and flew
away with it--(Gideon, you shall have wings too, in a little,)--but
when passing the moss, the cursed string broke,--”
“Honesty is the best policy, friend,” cooly remarked Jeremiah.
“You are well served for a rogue. You stole away my apron, and you
have received a just recompense. Learn, Nick, to be more honest
for the future, at least on earth. You may escape the clutch of
a magistrate, as you and his worship seem to be on very intimate
terms, but believe me, that sooner or later, vice will be punished.
You know the proverb, I presume, ‘that those who begin with a pin,
may end with an ox,’ and I cannot exactly say, but that this apron
stealing might have brought you into very serious danger. Let it be
an example, Nicholas.”
“Rejoice at present,” was the reply. “Mock me, Gideon, as well as
your brother does, and listen. The strings of the apron broke,--”
“Bad thread, bad thread, Gideon,” again inter
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