Sir William was succeeded by Thomas, his son, who had married Anne, daughter of Sir John Atherton, and had issue Robert, his son and heir,[44] and two daughters, Anne and Alice. Anne married Edward Tyldesley, of Tyldesley, with whom the legend, versified by Mr. Peters, and on which Branwell intended to write at greater length, alleges that she eloped. The tradition of this event still lingers at Morley Hall. It is said that when the attachment sprang up between Anne, the eldest daughter of Thomas Leyland, and Edward Tyldesley, the connection was forbidden by the lady's father. It is further said that, regardless of this prohibition, a night was fixed upon for an elopement, and that, when the inmates of the house were buried in sleep, it was arranged she should tie a rope round her waist, the loose end of which she should throw across the moat to Tyldesley, who was to be in waiting, and, with another, should lower herself into the water, and be drawn to the land by him. The legend says this was successfully accomplished, and that the marriage was celebrated before the elopement was known to the family.[45] [44] Inquisition _post mortem_ of Thomas Leyland of the Morleys, co. Lanc., Esq. (Yorkshire lands) taken at Bradford, co. York, 11th Sept., 6 Eliz. [45] 'The White Rose of York,' 1834, pp. 226-229. It is remarkable that, while Thomas Leyland had a legitimate son and heir in Robert Leyland, the manor-house of Morley and its demesnes passed into the family of Tyldesley by marriage alone, as if there had been no such person. There are other stories relating to this family, of wild and weird interest, with which Branwell was acquainted; but this passing allusion is all that the scope of the present work will allow. Of the family of Tyldesley of Morley was the brave Sir Thomas, a major-general in the royal army, who was slain at Wigan on the 25th of August, 1651. To this circumstance Branwell alludes in his poem. The fragment is as follows:-- MORLEY HALL, LEIGH--LANCASHIRE. 'When Life's youth, overcast by gathering clouds Of cares that come like funeral-following crowds, Wearying of that which is, and cannot see A sunbeam burst upon futurity, It tries to cast away the woes that are And borrow brighter joys from times afar. For what our feet tread may have been a road By horses' hoofs pressed 'neath a camel's load; But what we ran across in childhood's hours Were fields, presenting June with May-tide flowers: So what was done and borne, if long ago, Will satisfy our heart, though stained by tears of woe.