“Fr. Thomas Holden, younger son of Gilbert Holden, of Holden, gent., was, in all probability, the last surviving monk.  On the Dissolution he appears to have returned to his native place.  In 1550 we meet with his name as Sir Thomas Holden, curate of Haslingden; and in 1574 he was licensed to the same cure at the metropolitical visitation of Archbishop Grindall, held at Preston, by the style of Thomas Holden, clerk, of sober life and competent learning.  Strange as it may seem, we find the last surviving monk of Whalley a Protestant minister, thirty-seven years after its dissolution!”

It was in the dark month of November, when the brown leaves are fluttering on the ground, when the wind comes mournfully through the bare woods, and the hollow nooks and quiet caves respond with their mystic voice, that two travellers were seen loitering up the grand avenue that swept nobly through the western embattled gateway of Whalley Abbey.  The foremost of them wore a low-crowned cap, simply decorated with a heron’s plume, and a doublet of mulberry-coloured velvet, puffed out capaciously at the shoulders.  Trunk-hose of a goodly diameter, and wide-flapped boots, decorated the lower extremity of his person.  On his left hand he bore a hooded falcon.  The jesses were of crimson and yellow silk, its legs fancifully adorned with little bells fastened by rings of leather.  These made a jingling and dissonant music as it flew, being generally tuned one semitone below another, that they might be the more sonorous considering their small size.  The bearer wore a pair of stout leathern mittens, and he carried a long pole to aid him, as it might seem, in the chase.  His manner bespoke him above the ordinary rank; and his garb, from the minute regulations then existing in regard to dress, showed at any rate his pretensions to nobility.  This proud cavalier was followed by one servant only, who carried a capacious wallet, not over-well replenished with provision, as was apparent from its long lank shape and attenuated proportions.  His master’s cloak was slung on the other shoulder; and his belt displayed some implements that appeared alike formidable as means of offence or defence.

Eventide was then drawing on, but it did not appear that the falcon had been loosed to the game; the usual tokens of success were wanting—­the torn and bloody carcases that marked an abundant sport.  Two or three of the brethren were sitting on a bench in the gateway.  In passing by, the foremost of the strangers hastily addressed his follower.

“Ralph Newcome, plague on thee! hast thou had a call again at the wallet?  Thou guzzling tinder-throat, thy drouth is never slaked!”

Now Ralph, having felt sore oppressed with the weight of sundry leathern bottles, loaves, and wedges of cold meat, had taken especial care to lighten his back and load his stomach whenever the occasion was urgent.  His endeavours had not been without success, for the wallet, as we have seen, hung from his shoulders, long, narrow, and unfurnished, save with the scraps and relics of many a savoury junket.