Legends of Lancashire. Peter Landreth
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.”
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