U CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY THIS BOOK IS ONE OF A COLLECTION MADE BY BENNO LOEWY 1854-1919 AND BEQUEATHED TO CORNELL UNIVERSITY SSSHg^UWyERSITY LIBRARY _3J924_088003 08™ DATE DUE ^0^^ u-W W* * y ^-< f'/f , ^^\ S (16.) From Lord Winchilsea to the Duke of Wellington. " Suffolk Street, Friday night, eleven, p.m. "My Lord, " I have the honour to acknowledge the receipt of your grace's note. I have already had oc- casion to communicate to your grace, that, under existing circumstances, I did not feel myself in a situation to comply with what was required of me in regard to my puhlic letter. The satisfaction which your grace has demanded, it is of course impossible for me to decline. I have the honour to be, &c. " Winchilsea." The Duke of Wellington and the Earl of Win- chilsea met at the place appointed (Battersea fields), on the following morning. The parties having taken their ground, Lord Winchilsea re- ceived the Duke of Wellington's fire, and fired in the air. After some discussion, the accompanying memorandum was delivered by Lord Falmouth to Sir Henry Hardinge, and accepted by Sir Henry, as a satisfactory reparation to the Duke of Wel- lington : — Memorandum. Having given the Duke of Wellington the usual satisfaction for the affront he conceived m2 244 THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON himself to have received from me, through my public letter of Monday last, and having thus placed myself in a different situation from that in which I stood when his grace communicated with me, through Sir Henry Hardinge and Lord Fal- mouth, on the subject of that letter, before the meeting took place, I do not now hesitate to de- clare, of my own accord, that, in apology, I regret having individually published an opinion which the noble duke states, in his memorandum of yesterday to have charged him with disgraceful and criminal motives in a certain transaction which took place nearly a year ago. I also declare that I shall cause this expression of regret to be inserted in the Standard newspaper, as the same channel through which the letter in question was given to the public." A copy of the preceding correspondence having been sent by Sir Henry Hardinge to the evening papers of the same day, the following memoran- dum was published by Lord Falmouth on Monday the 22nd:— " Lord Falmouth first became concerned in the affair between the Duke of Wellington and Lord Winchilsea shortly before he met sir Henry Har- dinge on the subject, on the evening of Thursday, AND EARL OF WINCHILSEA. 245 the 19th. Until that time, Lord Falmouth knew nothing whatever either of the previous corres- pondence, or of the publication which had led to it, beyond having seen the letter in the Standard newspaper. It may seem material to state, that when Sir Henry called upon Lord Falmouth, at twelve o'clock at night, with the proposal to omit the words affixed to No. 6 in parenthesis, it was after Lord Winchilsea's answer, No. 7, had been shewn to the Duke of Wellington. This point is not quite clear in the publication of Saturday. Immediately after Lord Winchilsea had received his grace's fire, and had fired in the air, Lord Falmouth was the first to propose satisfactory reparation for Lord Winchilsea's publication of his opinion in the Standard newspaper. Lord Falmouth distinctly declared on the ground, that it never was a question with him whether that publication was wrong, but merely whether Lord Winchilsea was in a situation honourably to sub- scribe to the terms proposed, after he (Lord Falmouth, was requested to undertake the business. Before the parties took their ground, Lord Fal- mouth delivered a sealed letter, which he had received from Lord Winchilsea on Friday night, to Sir Henry Hardinge, who returned it after the affair had been settled." 246 THE EAEL OF CHESTER. Randle the third, surnamed Blundeville or Blandeville, and by inheritance Earl of Chester, was one of those characters that romancers delight in, and which they most assuredly never equal when trusting to their own unassisted imagina- tions. He was a valiant and able soldier, for though we find him always engaged in war, he was seldom otherwise than successful ; he was an admirable courtier, for we find him acquiring one parcel of land after the other from the royal bounty ; he was a devout Christian after the fashion of his age, for he made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and built and endowed abbeys ; and finally, he must have been an excellent judge of fish, for we see him giving the king a palfrey for a lamprey, an act which might have excited the admiration of a Lucullus, unless we ought rather to consider it as a courtier-like way of making the king a present. Few in the rank of subjects have been more THE EARL OF CHESTER. 247 highly allied, or have begun life under more fa- vourable auspices. At a very early period of his career, King Henry the Second gave him to wife Constance, the widow of his fourth son, Geoffrey, the daughter and heiress of Conan, king of Little Britain. The regard he bore for his partial master was upon his death transferred undiminished to his son, Richard Cceur de Lion ; or, at least, he shewed the same zealous attention to his interests ; when John, taking advantage of his brother's absence in a German dungeon, would have possessed himself of the Kingdom, Randle joined Earl David, the Scottish King's brother, and Earl Ferrars, and be- sieged him in the castle of Nottingham, which he had garrisoned for the better carrying on of his treasonous designs. How it happened, we know not, but Randle does not appear to have incurred any very lasting resentment on the part of John by this devotion to his brother, for when Richard died we find him obtaining fresh grants and honours from the favour of the new monarch, and well by his services does he seem to have deserved them. He was constantly employed in beating back the Welsh, who in those days proved as dangerous neighbours to England, as the Scots were at a later period. On one occasion they took him so suddenly by surprise, that he was fain to retreat before them to his Castle of Rothelent in Flintshire, which 248 THE EARL OF CHESTER they immediately besieged. Indignant at being thus foiled by an enemy whom he despised for their barbarism, however formidable they might be from courage and numbers, he forthwith sent ofF to his Constable of Cheshire, Roger Lacy, surnamed Hell from his fierce spirit, and com- manded him to collect what force he could on the instant for his relief. The undaunted Hell lost not a moment in executing a commission so much to his taste. It happened to be a fair time at Chester, which, of course, was the occa- sion of the city being filled with a rout of fiddlers, players, cobblers, and debauched persons, both men and women. These he collected for the nonce, and forthwith set out to the assistance of his liege lord, when the Welsh taking fright at the appearance of so numerous a host, raised their siege, and fled without allowing themselves to inquire into the real nature of the force so unex- pectedly brought against them. For this good service the Earl gave his Constable power over all the fiddlers and shoemakers in Chester. The latter retained to himself and his heirs the autho- rity over the shoemakers, but conferred the au- thority of the fiddlers and players upon his steward, who at that period was Dutton of Dut- ton. His heirs have retained their rights up to the present day, in memory whereof upon the THE EARL OF CHESTER. 249 feast of St. John the Baptist, the Lord of Dutton, or his deputy, rides annually in procession through the city to the church of St. John, it being then fair-day, with all the minstrelsy of Cheshire playing before him on their respective instruments. A court is then held, which the latter are bound by their charter to attend; nor have they any right to follow their vocation within Cheshire, or the city of Chester, except by order and license given under the lord's hand, or that of his stewards at this yearly renewal of such privileges. Upon the death of John, the Earl still retained his attachment to the house of Anjou, and had a greater share than any other noble, if we ex- cept Pembroke, in defeating the French dauphin in his attempts upon the throne of England. Nothing short of such determined zeal, assisted by equal prudence and courage, could have up- held the cause of Henry III., who was then no more than a boy of nine years old, and even in his riper years displayed but little capacity for government. The barons in general were as much averse to the son as they had been to the father, and justly fearing that he would follow in the same course of tyranny over the people, they still continued in open revolt, and for a time were determined to extirpate him and all of his blood. With this view they countenanced the claims of m3 250 THE EARL OF CHESTER. the dauphin, Lewis, who thus supported, and having received the homage of the Londoners, marched with Count de Perche and a large body of French troops, towards Lincoln. Faithful to his principles, Randle convened such of the northern barons as were friendly to the house of Anjou, and taking with him the young Henry, ad- vanced in the same direction. Lewis had arrived there about four days before him. An inter- view now took place between them in the great cathedral, when the Count de Perche, irritated to find how little was to be made of him, and des- pising his small stature, exclaimed, sarcastically, " Have we waited all this time for such a little man?— such a dwarf?" To this the Earl indig- nantly replied, " I vow to God and our Lady, whose church this is, that before to-morrow evening I will seem to thee to be stronger, and greater, and taller, than the steeple." In those days, when the feelings of chivalry still prevailed to a considerable extent amongst the nobles of either country, the defiance implied in a speech of this kind was enough to set any true knight in a blaze. The next morning, therefore, Count de Perche, armed on all parts except his head, and leaving Lewis in the cathedral, ad- vanced at the head of his troops, and challenged Randle to the combat. The latter had no sooner THE EARL OP CHESTER. 251 received this invitation than he caused the castle gates to be flung open, and sallied forth with a fury that swept all before him. In a very short time he had slain the Count, and many others, who being of inferior note, the chronicler has not thought it worth his while to record them. He then rushed into the church, and having seized upon Lewis, made him swear by the gospel' and byjthe relics of saints then upon the high altar, to evacuate England directly with his followers; With these conditions, however un- palateable, Lewis found himself obliged to comply ; and, indeed, considering that he was a prisoner in the hands of his exasperated enemies, while his allies were fast falling from him and return- ing to their natural allegiance, he had no cause to complain of their being too severe. When the Earl had thus fulfilled his vow of making himself seem to the enemy " stronger, and greater, and taller than the steeple," he sent for the young Henry, who during the combat had been lying safely in a cow-house that belonged to Bardney Abbey, near Lincoln. He next "set him upon the altar, delivered him seisin of his kingdom, as his inheritance, by a white wand in- stead of a sceptre, doing his homage to him, as did all the rest of the nobility then present." It might have been expected that such services, 252 THE EARL OF CHESTER. so great in themselves and so critically timed, would have secured him a high degree of royal favour. Perhaps they might have done so, but for the ascendancy acquired over Henry's mind by the justiciary, Hubert de Burgh, who had for some time exercised an undue influence in the government, and made himself hateful to many of the most powerful barons. The latter held council together how they might best diminish the power of the favourite, Randle being amongst them, and animated by a spirit yet more bitter than the rest in proportion to the greater firmness of his character. They were on the very point of breaking into open rebellion, when the Church stept in, and by threats of excommunication compelled them to give up their projects. Yet even at this disadvantage, Randle, in the phrase of the bowling green, contrived to turn the ball his own way, and obtained from the fears or the favour of the King a grant for life of a portion of the honour of Richmond. This, however, will scarce exculpate Mother Church, who acted much more politically than gratefully when she directed her thunders against a son so open-handed and so dutiful. We have already observed upon the exceeding bounteousness of his disposition towards churchmen, and we have now to record a fresh instance of it. The monks of Pulton found THE EARL OF CHESTER. 253 themselves in constant danger from the irruptions of the Welsh, who for the most part had very little respect for the ecclesiastical immunities, and considered it no more sinful to plunder a fat abbott, than Robin Hood or any of his merry foresters might have done. Now the monastery of Pulton had been established on the condition of the holy men praying for the souls of the Blundervilles in general, but more especially for the weal of our Randle's grandfather. Hence it happened that when these prayers were frequently interrupted, and in great danger of being broken off altogether, a legend arose of the baron's spirit having appeared in vision to his descendant : " Go," said the supernatural monitor, " go to Cholpesdale, near Leek, where there was formerly a chapel erected to the Virgin. There found an abbey of white monks, and to it remove the monks of Pulton." The next morning the earl communicated this vision to the countess, who exclaimed " Dieux encres" whereupon he caught at the omen, and said the name of the place should be Dieulacres. According to a common and well-known custom of those days, Randle now took the cross and set out for the Holy Land. Of what happened to him in the course of his pilgrimage neither chro- nicle nor legend tell us any thing, till we find him on his return home. In the middle of his voyage 254 THE EARL OF CHESTER. a furious storm overtook the vessel wherein he was sailing. He demanded of the mariners how much it wanted to midnight, and upon their replying, " two hours," he said, " then labour 'till that time, and I trust to God the tempest will cease." The result, however, seemed to deceive his pious con- fidence. As midnight approached, the storm increased so much that the master of the ship came down into his cabin to tell him that he would do well in commending his soul to God, for they were all like to perish. When he heard this he went on deck, and by his example so encouraged the seamen that they renewed their exertions more vigorously than ever, though just before they had been on the point of abandoning themselves to despair. In short, to the great joy and wonder of all, the storm suddenly abated as if by miracle. The next morning it had subsided entirely, leaving only a long heavy swell of the waters, while the sky above was speckled with a few light clouds that scarce interrupted the sun's brightness. When the danger was thus over, and the ship was again running before a favourable wind, the master could not help asking, " why he would not stir to assist them till midnight, telling him that his help was then more than all the mariners in the ship. Quoth he, because my monks and other devout people, who are of mine and my ancestor's foundation, did then rise to sing divine service ; THE EARL OF CHESTER. 255 for that reason, therefore, did I put confidence in their prayers ; and therefore my hope was that God Almighty for their prayers and suffrages would give me such strength as I had not before, and assuage the tempest as I foretold." How much of the earl's real character— his piety and his dauntless spirit, are opened to us in this apparently idle legend ? Again the old chronicles desert us, or time has made free with volumes that should have heen more enduring. But if from this period they are silent in regard to the deeds of the living Randle, they have bequeathed to us some curious informa- tion of what chanced to him when dead. While he was yet upon his death-bed, a multitude of wild, unearthly-looking beings passed the cell of a hermit near Wallingford, who just then was en- joying the evening air in front of his solitary abode. The holy man was alike bold and curious, and though their appearance promised nothing good, he did not hesitate to stop them, and demand who they were and whither they were going ? To this the leader of the party replied with more courtesy than might have been expected from one of his semblance, " We are demons, and we hasten to the death-trial of Earl Randle, to bear testimony to his sins." Far from being staggered by this reply, the hermit besought his informant to return in thirty 256 THE EARL OF CHESTER. days and acquaint him with the result. The com- plaisant demon agreed to do so, and, faithful to his promise, returned at the appointed time to say that the earl had received sentence of condemna- tion ; " but," added he, " the mastiffs of Dieu- ' lacres and the other monasteries yelled so loudly when his sentence was executed, that the depths of hell were scared at the noise, and Satan was obliged to release him. No greater enemy than Earl Randle ever entered the infernal dominions, inasmuch as the orisons offered up for him were the cause of thousands of damned souls being libe- rated from torture, because they had been associ- ated with him in these supplications." And now having conducted the stout earl to the grave, and even beyond it, little more remains but to gather up those fragments which were passedover in the course of our narrative. He was twice married ; once, as we have already noticed, to Constance, the widow of Henry's son, Geoffrey. Being divorced from her he next took to wife Clemence, sister of Geoffrey de Filgiers, in Nor- mandy, and widow to Alan de Dinnam, his taste seeming to incline to relicts. He died on the 28th of October, 1232, when his bowels were entombed at Wallingford.his heart atDelacres,and his body at Chester, — "apud Wallingford deposita sunt viscera sua, cor apud Delacres, corpus apud Cestriam." 257 CALVERLEY, OE CALVERLEY It is not quite two centuries and a half since the tragedy I am about to relate from ancient tradition was enacted ; and yet — to use no very forced or ambiguous metaphor — time has already begun to efface the record, or at least to render some portions of it indistinguishable. As good fortune, however, would have it, the mutilations have occurred only where the) r were of the least consequence, upon some of the detached outworks as we may call them, and not upon the main body of the building. They who unite imagination to the love of antiquity, and are familiar with the more perfect remains of the olden time — if the term " perfect " can with propriety be applied to that which is already under the influence of decay — will easily understand us when we attempt to illustrate this part of our subject, by the example of those beau- tiful ruins, of which, while the outlines still exist, 258 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. the details have perished, or are crumbling around in huge disjointed fragments, amidst docks, and weeds, aud nettles. There yet stand the walls, the highly-ornamented gothic casements, the flying buttresses, the winding staircases ; and yet, how much — and at the same time how little — is wanted to make up the ancient edifice. A groined roof, a few windows of stained glass, an arch restored here, a wall completed there, and the magnificent creation of other days is once again before us. Even so it is with many of the romantic and his- torical traditions that belong to the same period . they have shared a similar fate in coming down to us, more or less mutilated by time, which, like Saturn of old, or the double deity of the east, is at once both creator and destroyer. Thus much by way of preface — a short one, if not a necessary one — for the romancer requires the preluding chord or symphony almost as much as the singer does. The family of Calverley — or, as it is sometimes written, Caverley, perhaps from following a corrupt pronunciation — may be traced up to a very early period, their name having been derived from the place wherein they settled — a township in the West Riding of Yorkshire, about seven miles from Leeds, and three from Bradford. According to the custom of those very warlike and pious times, when fighting and praying were looked upon as CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 259 the principal occupations of life, the Calverleys made frequent donations upon a large scale to the church, and died right gallantly in their harness ; and yet neither the brave nor the bounteous of that name have acquired for it so much celebrity, as one who committed the most atrocious crimes, and ended his career as a malefactor. Indeed, it may be said that the saints and heroes of Calverley are alike forgotten, or at best they are scantily remembered in some dry antiquarian page which few ever read, while our hero, Walter Calverley, figures in blank verse, and has obtained to his own share a much larger space in local history than has been allowed to all the rest of his race from the time when John, called Scoticus, or Scot, from his country, married Lardarina, daughter of Alphonsus Gospatrick, and, in her right, became Lord of Calverley. The father of Walter Calverley dying while the latter was still in his nonage, the minor fell under the guardianship of an old friend of the family. How far this event influenced the future character of the young heir, it would be hard to say ; his guar- dian was according to all accounts a gentleman of un- questioned worth and honour, yet it is seldom seen that a stranger, even with the best intentions, fully supplies the place of a deceased parent. However this may be, Walter was to all appearance a youth 260 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. of the highest promise, sufficiently versed in the accomplishments of the day, well-made, handsome, and — what seems somewhat at variance with his after life — of a steady and even grave demeanour. Hence it was generally augured, that he would he an honour to his father's house, and a credit to his native county ; a point upon which provincials are, for the most part, not a little jealous. Butsomefew, who pretended to look more closely into things, were far from entertaining the same favourable opinions. They saw, or fancied they saw, without exactly accusing him of hypocrisy, that his cha- racter was the very reverse of what it seemed to be ; he was, said they, like a river smoothed over by the ice, but once let the sun rise in its strength to melt the wintry mask, and they would then learn how fierce a torrent it had concealed. These forebodings, however, did not prevent the heir to eight hundred a-year from being an accept- able guest in most families, especially where daughters and sisters were on hand, all as willing to be married, as fathers, mothers, and brothers, could be to get rid of them ; or, as they more delicately phrased it, to see the fair ones settled in life. Thus it fell out, that he was at once the " invited and welcome guest to a gentleman of cheefe note in his country," whose name the old chronicler, so minute in other respects, having CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY 261 omitted to tell us, we shall for the sake of conveni- ence, call him Sir Luke Escholt. This gentleman had an only daughter, Emily, a consideration which , it may be supposed without any lack of charity, had some weight in the more than usual kindness he bestowed upon his youthful visitor, though per- haps we should do him wrong in supposing that he acted upon any definite scheme of entrapping him into an alliance. On these occasions the mo- tives to action are in a certain measure a secret even to ourselves, and, while they most influence our conduct, assume to our minds no precise form, but hold on their course quietly, like the thin stream, whose progress is only visible by the fresher and deeper green of the herbage through which it steals its way. Both Emily and her young guest were at that age when, unless the heart is previously occupied by some other object, it requires little more than constant intercourse to kindle the flames of passion ; and this, in the present case, was not wanting. Lonely walks together at early day, or when the moonlight was on the glades, and the dance often prolonged beyond the midnight hour, soon ripened acquaintance into intimacy, intimacy into liking, and, by a process as rapid as it was natural, liking into love. All this was seen and approved of by the ' politic Sir Luke ; nor was he in the least surprised 262 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. when one day Walter, who had long before se- cured the lady's assent, made a formal proposal to him for his daughter's hand in marriage. " My dear Walter," replied the old gentleman, " so far as I am concerned, I may safely avouch, there is not a man in the whole shire that I would sooner have for a son-in-law than yourself ; but you are not yet of age, or entitled to act in this matter for yourself." " I shall be in six months," interrupted Walter, hastily — " in less than six months." " Be it so : when that day comes we will resume the subject, unless in the meanwhile you should change your mind." " Never !" exclaimed Walter, " Young man," said Sir Luke, laying his hand with much kindness on his shoulder ; " never is a word that comes the readiest to the lips of youth on these occasions ; but, credit my experience, such nevers are too often of short date." " Not with me, sir, I assure you, — on my life* — on my honour. It is impossible for me to change, on a subject like this." " Well, time will shew, and to time we will refer it. When you are of age — your mind still holding— come back to us, and my consent will not, I dare say, be wanting to your "wishes." But Walter was not to be so satisfied. He pressed CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 263 his suit with all the ardour of a young lover ; and although he could not extort from Sir Luke his consent to an immediate marriage in private, which might be afterwards publicly ratified at their own convenience, he prevailed so far over his scruples that he allowed them to exchange pledges, and reciprocally bind themselves to each other. It is even possible that his perseverance might have overcome the old gentleman's last doubts and brought about an instant union, could he have remained there a few days longer ; but affairs of importance made his presence in the capital indis- pensable, and he reluctantly prepared to set out, when, as the chronicler is careful to tell us, " the virtuous gentlewoman danced a loth to depart on his contracted lips ; " or, in plain English, the damsel gave her lover a parting kiss ; the loth to depart being a popular tune in the olden time, and often used by our earlier dramatists to express an unwilling separation. The young heir had not been long in town be- fore the wisdom of Sir Luke's doubts was made apparent, and probably in much less time than he himself had contemplated when he gave the warning. Already in the third week of his abode there, the " never" was forgotten — obliterated by a single glance from a pair of bright eyes as com- pletely as ever the returning tide of the sea washed 264 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. out the wrinkles from the sands, only to leave other impressions in their place. In one evening forgetting his rural beauty, he had fallen desper- ately in love with Philippa Brooke, and the maiden had listened, nothing loth, to his protestations, for, as we before mentioned, Walter possessed all those external qualifications which make young ladies fain, the eyes and ears being generally their counsellors in such matters without any reference to the sober churl, reason. In brief space Philippa was won ; and so far from the course of love never running smooth, as the poet would have us believe, it may be truly said that no ball ever rolled more easily along a bowling-green, than did the ball of love with Walter. Everything, in fact, tended to help on his wishes ; his guardian chanced to be a friend to early marriages, under the idea that they settled a young man in life, and kept him out of mischief; the lady moreover was his own niece ; and the father saw no objection. When therefore Walter, with his characteristic impa- tience, pressed for the immediate celebration of the marriage, few difficulties were thrown in his way, except by the proverbial delay of the law- yers, and even they were induced by certain golden considerations to quicken their usual pace — if not into a positive gallop, at least into a sort of decent trot. CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 265 He thus got married before he had time to change his mind, which with so fickle a temper he most likely wquld have done, had he allowed him- self, or had circumstances forced upon him, any longer probation. Even in those days, when conveyance from one place to another was a work of much time and difficulty, ill news was as proverbial for its speedy travelling as it is amongst ourselves with all the advantage of railways and electric telegraphs ; and these tidings were not slow in reaching Emily. They proved her death-warrant. Yet she indulged in no passionate expressions either of grief or anger on receiving them — it might have been better for her if she had ; for wounds that bleed inwardly are always the most dangerous — but contented herself with saying, while a smile, lighted up her pale features, " I entreat of God to grant both prosperous health and fruitful wealth, both to him and her, though I am sick for his sake." Nor were these mere words, such as.escape from weakness, or which pride uses when it would hide a deeper feeling. She had loved as only woman can love, and the cruel disappointment of her dearest hopes had struck so home, that she faded away like a stricken lily, and died with a rapidity that might have well nigh seemed marvellous. It is common, as we well know, to laugh at the idea VOL. I. N 266 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. of broken hearts, in any case ; and, least of all, from a cause so shadowy and undefined in its nature as that which bears the name of love ; to this it may be replied that our tale is no idle fiction, but one of those dark and terrible pages in the records of human life, which leave far behind them the wildest dreams of the imagina- tion ; when, moreover, we have discovered how it is that the immaterial soul acts upon the material body, in the general wear and tear of our earthly trial, it will be time enough to discuss how the heart may be broken, — and broken too by love. It soon appeared that the friends, who grieved for the premature death of Emily, grieved more naturally than wisely. In a few short months, almost indeed before they had laid the turf upon her head, the character of Calverley began to unfold itself in a way that made the grave seem a happy refuge from his marriage-bed, and shewed the living wife to be much more an object of com- passion than her departed rival. About a week after the marriage, which had been celebrated in London, the young couple took up their abode at Calverley Hall. It was one of those late and beautiful autumns, when the summer brilliance remains still undiminished, and mingles strangely with the symptoms of decay that are the peculiar characteristics of the later season. CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 261 To one who really loved a country life, the scene around must have possessed the deepest interest, and, though unused to anything of the kind, it was not long before this was felt in its fullest extent by Philippa, whose gentle and somewhat romantic nature found an inexpressible charm in the sight of this quiet landscape, which she was henceforth, in right of her husband, to call her own. She felt as if all her previous existence had been a dream, and she was now for the first time transferred to her native element. For some few weeks, Walter appeared to share in the feelings of his beautiful bride ; but then, with as swift a transition as a northern winter bounds into spring, a change took place with him, this better feeling turning into discontent, not to say disgust, and an unappeasable desire for plea- sures of a more exciting kind. The very gentle- ness of Philippa had become tameness and insipidity. In consequence he ran into such riot and excesses of all kinds, that he found himself compelled, first to mortgage one part of his estate, then another ; then he incurred debts, and, finally, he involved some of his best friends in his diffi- culties, by persuading them to become bound for him when his own name had sunk so low in worldly estimation that it would no longer obtain him credit. This, of course, had not been done 268 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. all at once, or even in a very short time ; rapid as is the descent to ruin, it took about four years to bring him to this pass, which, however, when it did come, effectually provided for his future moderation by cutting off all the means of extra- vagance. There was an end to riot, since the sources that fed it were drained and dried up ; the companions of his prosperous hours as naturally falling away from him, as the leaves fall from the trees in autumn. But the moral and physical abstinence forced upon him by this decay of his fortunes, instead of ameliorating his heart, only soured his temper ; he grew morose and sullen, and even savage, much, to the grief of his wife, who still loved him tenderly in spite of all his follies. For a long time her fear of him kept her silent ; at length, in her anxiety to relieve his distress of mind if possible, she took courage, and resolved to try to heal those mental wounds, that from day to day were getting worse, and made him as painful an object to others as to himself. But all her efforts proved unavailing ; the only result was that her rapacious husband, availing himself of the gentle affection of his wife, obtained possession of all her jewels, and at length insisted that she should sell her dowry also. Nor did he at all attempt to gild over this proposal by affecting any intention of using the money, when obtained, OALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 269 for good or useful purposes ; on the contrary, he plainly told her that he loved his own pleasures beyond any other consideration, and intended to employ it in maintaining them. Bitter as the insult was, Philippa would have cheerfully yielded to the sacrifice demanded of her, but the interests of her children would be deeply involved in it, and it required all her strong sense of duty towards a husband, and those lingering remains of affection, which, when once sown in a woman's bosom, is seldom wholly eradicated, to conquer her reluctance to thus depriving them of their natural inheritance. She did, however, bring herself even to this point, and as usual submitting her will to his commands, went to London for the purpose of disposing of her dowry. Upon arriving there her first visit was naturally to the uncle who had formerly been her guardian, and had discharged the office both with kindness and the strictest regard to his ward's interest. The old man received her with unabated affection, though the scrutinizing look with which he examined her ' after the first hearty salutations, brought the blood to her cheeks and even made her tremble. " How is this, my love?" he began; " you have grown thin — you look ill. I have heard many unpleasant rumours, as if your husband did not 270 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. use you well, and there is something in your pale face that confirms them." "Mere slanders, dear uncle, I assure you; Walter is ever kind to me — most kind." " I am glad to hear it — marry, a plague upon those lying tattlers, who must needs spread such false reports, for no good as it seems to themselves, except it be the pleasure they find in doing harm to others. But, however, there is some excuse — some shadow of an excuse, I should rather say — in the present case; for I suppose all these fine tales of neglect and cruelty, and what not, have emanated from his creditors, a class of folks that seldom speak well, or think well, of those who owe them money." " I do not believe he is in debt — that is, so very much in debt," replied Philippa, correcting herself, in the sad conviction that her husband's extrava- gance and consequent difficulties were too much a matter of notoriety to be glossed over. Most certainly her uncle was not deceived even by this qualified denial ; for he shook his head, exclaiming "Not so much in debt, say you? if you really believe that, it's plain your husband does not let his wife into all his secrets — few husbands do, — but I suspect you are playing the good housewife in this matter, and throwing a veil over Walter's follies, just as you would hide a stain or a darn in CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 271 your best carpet. "Well, I don't so much blame you for that; and as it seems he uses you well, I will set off his kindness against his follies, and see what can be done for him. I shan't part with you, though, for the next month or so, — count upon that, niece Philippa, as surely as you do upon the snows of winter ; indeed, it may take so long to arrange things for Walter in the way that I could wish. But mind, you are not to give him the slightest hint of my purpose till all is settled; nothing I dislike so much as tantalizing any one with hopes; if the thing promised is really got, it loses half the pleasure it would otherwise bring from having been expected and waited for; and if it fails, why then there's disappointment added to the annoyances of suspense. So, woman though you be, you must for once hold your tongue — all saws, proverbs, and adages to the contrary not- withstanding." " Rely upon me, dear uncle ; since such is your pleasure, I will not breathe a syllable of your kind intentions to Walter, till you shall bid me." " And that may be sooner than you expect — nay, for aught I know when you go back to the country this same secret may be ripe for telling. In the meanwhile, rest assured I will take such order for Master Calverley as shall continue him in as good estate as the best of his ancestors." 272 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. While Philippa was thus busy in endeavouring to restore the broken fortunes of her husband he was no less busy in dissipating the produce of the jewels she had given him. Riot again filled his sails; and the old companions returned with the seeming return of his prosperity, but ready as before to take wing the moment his means of entertaining them should be exhausted. The supply being moderate where the profuseness was so unbounded, that moment was not long incoming; and when it did, he began to curse his wife for her protracted absence, though till now he had scarcely given her a thought ; or if he did, it was only to congratulate himself that she was away, and to wish he could as easily get rid of her altogether. The feeling of hatred he now entertained for her soon extended itself towards the children; for it is astonishing with what frightful rapidity these ulcers of the mind will spread when once they have been allowed to establish themselves. So intense became his aversion to his whole family that he was no longer able to throw a decent veil over it, but must needs proclaim it to the world ; and on one occasion this led to a hostile encounter with a neighbouring gentleman, who had courage to defend the innocent and absent wife, from the base calumnies of her husband. In the duel, Cal- verley was severely wounded in the arm, and he CALVERLEY OF CALVEKLEY. 273 had scarcely regained the free use of the injured limb, by the time Philippa returned from London, never doubting for a moment that the delight she herself experienced from the result of her journey, would find an immediate echo in the bosom of her husband. She was, however, soon to learn the fallacy of this expectation. His first greeting was — " What ! hast brought me the money ? is your land sold, and at a good rate ? Quick ; why dost not answer me ? you have not come back empty handed — death and darkness ! if you have " " My dear husband " " Dear me no dears '.—the gold — the gold, I say let me hear it ring, let me see it sparkle ! I have lost blood enough through you, she-wolf and devil that you are, and 'tis your gold must pour fresh life into my veins. Why, how the fool stares ! Do I carry an evil eye in my head that you stand there gaping as if I had bewitched you." "You terrify me, Walter." " I shall terrify you more, presently, if the gold is not forthcoming. I hunger for it — I thirst for it, so produce your money-bags, and lose no more time in talking. I'd as leave hear the raven croak from the hollow oak yonder, as list to that tongue of yours." It was with some difficulty that the terrified Philippa could contrive amidst this torrent of n 3 274 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. threats, questions and reproaches, to slip in an explanation of what had passed between herself and her uncle. Much to her surprise, as she pro- gressed in her tale, the brow of Walter, which had been dark enough before, grew black as the blackest midnight. Seeing that she was giving some new offence, though unable to imagine what it could be, the glibness with which she had set out very soon failed her, and her speech became more and more confused every moment, till at last she was brought to a sudden and complete stand-still. Her silence was the cue for Walter to burst out in a greater rage than ever. Spurning the poor creature from him with his foot, he cried in a voice of thunder, "do you say this to me? — to me, Walter Calverley, of Calverley, whose fathers had name and estate in the land when your beggarly race was never heard of — was it for this you went to London ? — to complain of me, God wot, to your fine friends — to tell them how your husband having spent his own had now a mind to your dowry ? aye — and will have it too — do you mark that? — will! or he'll do such things as won't be forgotten in a hurry." " Indeed, dear Walter " " Indeed, dear devil ! — it won't do. 'Sdeath and darkness ! think you I'm such an ass as to put my head under your belt ? to be at the beck CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 275 and call of these same mighty friends of yours — pick up the crumbs that fall from their tables — stand cap in hand to take their orders. — Woman ! " he said, dropping his voice to its lowest yet deepest tones, his whisper being more terrible than his former violence — " woman, I'd kill you— kill you, ere I'd see that day." Shocked and terrified as Philippa felt at such treatment, it was not in her gentle nature to reply to it with anything like harshness. She endea- voured to take his hand, and he snatched it from her she knelt to him, and he was again about to spurn her with his foot, but there was something so mild and loving in the dove's eyes that were upturned to him, something so inexpressibly sweet and winning in the sad smile that played about her lips as made him hesitate to give the intended blow. For a moment, at least, the demon within him had lost his power. There was even an ap- proach to tenderness in the regards he threw upon the gentle suppliant, and he pressed his hand pain- fully to his brow, like one who is endeavouring in the whirl and trouble of his brain to recall some forgotten idea. Philippa saw with the quick apprehension of a woman the better change that had thus come over him, and again attempted to take his hand, which he no longer withheld, though he rather abandoned than gave it to her. 276 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. " Dear Walter," she said, " let me implore you to lay aside all these doubts, as wronging the true love I always have had, and always shall have for you. Heaven knows the words I speak have no fashion of untruth ; my friends indeed are truly possessed that your lands are mortgaged ; they know to whom and for what ; but I entreat you to believe that it was not from me that they had the knowledge. For any difference betwixt yourself and me — which would have more offended them than the mortgaging of your lands — I protest to you as yet they do not even suspect such a thing, having my assurance to the contrary." "Woman!" exclaimed Calverley, "this will not pass with me ; I am not one to accept of fair words for foul deeds, or for the doing nothing. Why sold you not your dowry as I bade you, amd as you promised ? " " Because — it might be the error of my judg- ment — but I thought there was now no need of such a sacrifice, to the injury of our dear children, Who should inherit the land after me." " No need ? " thundered Walter. " I must pray your forgiveness, dear Walter, if I have been wrong ; but indeed, it so seemed to me. My uncle has promised — and he is not a man to break his word when once given — he has pro- mised to release you from all your difficulties, and CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 277 to set you in a higher estate than ever, if you will only submit to be guided by his counsels." There was nothing in this to offend — nothing, in fact, but what ought to have conciliated the most angry spirit, if rightly taken : and yet, innocent as the speech was, it brought back Walter's evil mood. But so it always is when reason and reli- gion yield up the guidance of the human heart to passion ; we know as little what may be the next temper of the person so impelled, as we can guess where the leaf will fall that we see carried away by the whirlwind. Fortunately at this crisis a gentleman from Cambridge sent in to desire a private interview. That he would have cruelly misused her in his then state of mind was most certain, and well if he had not proceeded to worse extremities. A parting blow, so violent as to fling her against the opposite wall, with the blood spurting from her face gave sufficient proof of what might have been expected, had the interview been continued only a few minutes longer. The visitor, who now introduced himself, proved to be a Fellow of Saint John's College, and after the first brief greetings he entered upon a subject least of all calculated to soothe the excited spirit of his host. He had come on the part of Calverley's younger brother, a student at St. John's, and 278 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. universally held in the highest regard, both by equals and superiors, for his many excellent qua- lities. This young man had become security for Walter in a bond for a thousand pounds, which being forfeited, the creditor had entered up judg- ment and flung him into prison, to the utter ruin of all his prospects in life if he did not obtain an immediate release. The hardship of the case was evident, as well as that heavy scandal would fall upon the principal for neglecting to pay the bond and thus causing his brother's ruin, all of which the kind mediator did not fail to lay before him in the liveliest colours. Walter at once saw how the odium of such an affair was likely to blacken his character with the world, already black enough. It might be too that he was moved by affection for his brother, for in the worst nature there is gene- rally some redeeming goodness, as, in the most barren desert, spots are sure to be found of green trees and fresh waters. With a°patience quite foreign to his usual habits, he listened to the admonitions of the stranger, although urged with no little warmth ; and when the latter ended by demanding a categorical reply, he assured him that he was not only sensible of the wrong he had done his brother, but would take instant order for re- pairing it to the very utmost. " Be pleased," he added, " to walk for a short CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 279 space only about my grounds, while I look to what is necessary on this occasion ; you will, I think, find enough to amuse you for the time I shall require ; and yet farther to shorten it, my servant will bring you refreshments in the conservatory, a place that many visitors have thought worth seeing. My brother shall not be in prison many days — nor even hours beyond what may be necessary for your journey home again." The gentleman thanked Walter with much cordiality, and assured him that in fulfilling so natural an obligation he would not only content his own conscience, but greatly advance his repu- tation with the world. " For myself," added the worthy collegian, " I shall account my pains in the business more richly recompensed by this prompt consent, than if I had obtained an award in a suit of my own to double the amount." Upon these terms they parted for the present. Walter now retired to a distant gallery, that he might consider in quiet what it were best for him to do. But the external repose failed to com- municate itself to his mind. Whenever he would have turned his thoughts to the one point in ques- tion, the deeds of the past rose up like spectres, and mingled wildly, as in some mad dance, with his reflections on the future, until he knew not what 280 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. he thought, or whether he thought at all. It was utter darkness and confusion within him, idea crossing and jarring with idea, as wave meets wave when tide and wind are in opposition ; at one moment he was all remorse, at another vindictive rage — now tears, now execrations — this moment he reflected with horror on the ruin and misery in which he had involved his wife and children, the next he cursed them as the causes of all he had suffered, or had yet to suffer, and the prospect did indeed loot gloomily enough. If that state of mind, wherein a man has lost all mastery over his thoughts, be really madness so long as it lasts, then was Walter, in good truth, mad as the wildest poor creature that ever howled to the full moon ; and though it is the custom to talk of crimes committed in cold blood, such things must be reckoned among the rare occurrences of an age. Exhausted by this inward strife, as indeed the firmest brain and the stoutest heart must soon have been, he had sunk into a window-seat, near to which his eldest son was playing. At first the little fellow, on seeing his father where he had not expected to find any one, appeared half inclined to retreat. He drew back a few paces towards the door, still keeping his eye fixed upon Cal- verley, and wondering that he did not speak : but when this had continued some minutes, curiosity CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 281 prevailed so far over other feelings, that he made a timid advance to the centre of the room, and then again halted. Still no notice was taken of him, and encouraged, instead of being daunted, by what might have seemed more likely to have produced the latter effect, he stole softly forward, and, taking his father's hand, said, " O, papa ! how your hand burns ! " What a strange thing is the human heart. The gentle voice of the child, which might have been expected to soothe his troubled spirit, as David's harp stilled the demon in the breast of Saul, had just the contrary effect ; it lashed him into his former fury, and seizing the terrified boy by the throat, he exclaimed, " What devil has brought you hither ? is it to tell me that you must soon starve, and that I have brought you to this pass ? Why, fool, I knew it all without your telling me ; I know how you will beg on the highways for a penny, and cry, God bless you, sirs, for a crust of mouldy bread, or filch the gold from some rich man's pocket — aye, that's the more thriving trade ; better steal than beg. But have a care, young sir; many a man steals his own halter. They'll hang you if they catch you ; and there 's an old prophecy that one of the name of Calverley shall wear a hempen collar. By Heavens ! they shall not say it of you, though." 282 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. The glitter of the steel, which Walter drew forth as he said this, filled tbe child with a vague apprehension of something terrible, though he knew not exactly what, and he began crying and struggling to get away from the clutch of his father. "Poor worm!" exclaimed Walter; "it's all in vain : the bird would as soon find pity from the hawk that has once pursued her. But kiss me first — kiss me, my boy. Why your lips are cold already. There 's a brave boy." And with these words, having kissed the child repeatedly with a sort of frantic affection, he plunged the dagger into his bosom, with so true an aim that the blow cleaved his heart. But no natural fear nor remorse came upon him when he felt the victim lying a dead weight upon his arm, and saw the little head hanging down, its beautiful bright locks all bedabbled with blood. On the contrary, the sight of the crimson stream appeared to have the same effect upon him that it has upon the bull, rousing him to a higher pitch of fury than before, and making him look eagerly around for another sacrifice. " There is more yet of the brood," he exclaimed; "little use in crushing one snake, if we let the rest live. Bastards all — the raven never yet was father to the dove. And say it were not so — say that it is the blood of Calver- CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 283 ley which flows so lustily — what then ? the brother, who has lain under the same heart with me — who has drawn life from the same bosom, must not waste his young days in a prison. I will clear away all obstacles between him and the estate — myself the last. Yes, I swear it, brother, by everything that man most loves, or hates, or fears, you shall be lord of Calverley ; and that you may be so, to work — to work — to work." In this desperate mood he hurried with the dead child in his arms to Philippa's bed-room, where she lay asleep, exhausted by recent illness. A maid servant, who watched for her waking, was nursing a younger boy by the fire. Upon seeing her master rush into the room, his face pale as death, his hands and clothes covered with blood, and the murdered child in his arms, she started up with a cry of horror. Walter immediately dropt his burthen, and catching the other child from her, a struggle ensued between them, during which he inflicted several wounds, only half parried by her efforts to intercept his blows. Finding the strength of the woman likely to prevail over him, for she was young and powerful, while he was feeble by nature, and still more so from dis- sipation, he grasped her by the throat so tightly that she was forced to let go the child, when, by a last exertion of his strength, he managed to fling 284 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. her down the stairs. The noise of her fall awoke Philippa, who had hitherto slept through the scuffle, not soundly indeed, but in that broken slumber, in which tbe near reality makes itself heard and seen in the sleeper's dreams, though perhaps distorted, and mingled with things foreign to it. The first impulse of maternal instinct led her to catch up the wounded child, that lay moan- ing heavily upon the floor ; but Walter, who, after flinging the servant down stairs, had turned back to complete his bloody work, made a sudden dart, and tried to wrest it from her. This occasioned a second struggle no less eagerly maintained than the former had been, in which the mother received several stabs intended for her child, when at last she swooned away from fright, exhaustion, and the loss of blood. Not for a single moment did Walter pause to gaze upon this horrible scene. Yet it was no regret for what he had done, no sympathy with the murdered, nor any fears for himself, that made him fly as if pursued by some demon ; he recol- lected that he had a third child at nurse about ten miles off, and in the fever of his insanity, he conceived that neither his revenge for his wife's supposed unfaithfulness, nor his desire to help his brother could be carried out, so long as one of his family was living. Down the great staircase CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 285 therefore he might almost he said to fling himself, in the hope that his extraordinary speed would outrun the news of what had just happened ; but he suddenly found himself brought to a halt at the bottom, by the servant whom the noise had brought there, and who was now listening to the •maid's story. " Oh, sir ! what have you done ? " exclaimed the man, stopping him. " Done ! " replied Walter, " that which you will never live to see me repent of." With this, he aimed a blow at him with the dagger, which being dexterously warded off, they closed, and he had the good fortune to fling his adversary, but not before he had so mangled him with his spurs in the course of their short wrest- ling, that, when once down, the poor fellow lay rolling upon the ground in agony, unable to get up again. In his way to the stables, whither he now hastened, he was met by the gentleman from Cambridge, who, wondering at his strange plight, and not without some alarm, hoped that nothing unpleasant had happened. " Oh that" replied Walter, " is as men shall see and understand things; for, took you, sir, what shall make some laugh shall make others weep : and again, that which some shall deem 286 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. well and wisely done, shall to others be as a sin and a stumbling-block. But beseech you, sir, go in, where I have taken orders for my brother's business, and will presently resolve you of that and all necessary matters." The collegian, though unable to comprehend the secret meaning of his words, and suspicious of evil, went in as he had been desired, without at- tempting to detain his host by farther questions. Here, however, he found an ample comment on the text that had so much puzzled him. The floor covered with blood, the children and their mother to all appearmce dead, the serving-man still groaning, and unable to move, from the rend- ing and tearing of the spurs, formed a key to the riddle, that hardly needed any help from the ex- planations poured in upon him from all sides, for by this time the uproar had collected the whole family, So completely, however, was every one occupied in telling or hearing, wondering or con- jecturing, that none thought of pursuing the assassin, till it was suggested by the visitor, and then it would have been too late to prevent far- ther mischief, had not Providence interfered. Fully resolved to complete his bloody work by the murder of his remaining child, Calverley set off without the loss of a moment, sparing neither whip nor spur by the way, and was already near CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 287 the spot, when his horse stumbled and threw him. Before he could recover his feet and seize the bridle again, the affrighted animal started off. This gave the advantage to his pursuers, who, while he was slowly limping along from the effects of his fall, overtook him, and, after some opposi- tion on his part, carried him before Sir John Saville, at Howley, one of the Magistrates for the West Riding, Great was this gentleman's sur- prise at seeing a person of Calverley's name and estate in the county brought before him on a criminal charge, and much was it increased when the collegian, as the highest' in rank of the party, and the most capable orator, narrated all that he had just heard or seen, and referred to the testi- mony of the actual eye-witnesses for confirma- tion. During the recital the magistrate could not so far command his feelings, as not to give from time to time unequivocal signs of them by looks and even by broken words, and when the accusers had brought their several versions of the affair to an end, there was as much compassion as there was horror in the manner of his address. You have heard all this, Master Calverley ; have you anything to say in reply ? Can you deny the whole, or any part of it ? or, if true, what cause, — what motive ? — gracious heavens ? it is almost too horrid for belief; and you, whom I 288 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. have known from a boy! Well for your poor father that he did not live to my years. Surely you must have been mad with wine at the time, and repentance of the deed has sobered you again." " Repentance," said Walter, sullenly ; " I re- pent of nothing but that I did not kill the other bastard brat." " Why, Master Calverley, it is your own child you are defaming, your own wife you are slander- ing. Are you man, or devil ? " " You asked the question, and I answered you. I can be silent, if you like that better." ■' I should like best to hear you reply honestly and truly, yet in a manner beeeeming your condi- tion, which may not harden the hearts of men against you. Was this deed the devil's instigation at the moment, or is it long that you have enter- tained the idea of it ? " " So long that I only wonder it was not done and forgotten by this time." " And what moved you thereto ? " " I have already said it ; but you do not like the phrase, and so I have the less occasion to re- peat it.' After a few more questions, which failed in eliciting any fresh matter of importance, he an- nounced his purpose of sending Walter to the new CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 289 gaol at Wakefield, the plague happening just then to rage at York with much violence. For the first time the culprit gave some signs of human feeling, and asked " if he might not be permitted to see his wife ?" " She is too sorely wounded, as appears by the witnesses, to come to you ; and Calverley, you well know, is in the opposite direction to "Wake- field." " Sorely wounded !" repeated Walter, in the tone of one who hears evil tidings for the first time — " sorely wounded ! and perhaps dying ! — you spoke it truly, Sir John ; I have been mad — or it may be I am mad now — I have done enough to make me so." The thrill of horror that went through him as he said this, communicated itself to all around. Sir John, in particular, was deeply affected. He turned to Sir Thomas Bland, who was also in the commission of the peace, and had dropt in during the examination. "How say you, Sir Thomas? may we, think you, comply with Master Calverley's request with- out blemishing our character as magistrates ? " "Why not?" said Sir Thomas; "he will be in sufficient custody, and such being the case, it is no more than Christian charity to oblige him in so small a matter." vol. i. o 290 CA&VERLEY OF CALVERLEY. "I am right glad to hear you say so," replied his hrother magistrate ; " for, be things as they may, I must needs grieve for Master Calverley's condition, and would do anything honestly in my power to amend it. To tell you the truth, neigh- bour," he added in a whisper, " it 's my constant belief that the poor fellow is not in his right mind — not wholly mad, perhaps, but mad by fits and starts." " If it 's no more than that comes to, it won't do him much good with judge or jury," said Sir Thomas in the same tone. " I am afraid not," said the other. And here the co iversation ended, when the prisoner was led off under a strong escort, and a ken as he had desired, to his house at Calverley. It might have been supposed that he would prove no welcome visitant at the house which he had made a house of mourning ; but dearly as Philippa loved her children, when he appeared she forgot the mother in the wife, while as to the wounds he had inflicted on herself they weighed as nothing in the balance against her true affection. With pain and difficulty she raised herself from the couch where they had laid her, and flung her arms about his neck, sobbing as though her heart would break, and unable for several minutes to say anything beyond "Oh, my husband — my dear husband ! " CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 291 " Would that I had indeed deserved such an epithet from your lips," replied "Walter sadly; " I should not then have stood before you, as I do now, a self-condemned criminal, repenting when repentance can no longer avail him. But if I wronged you in my life, at least I will not in my death." The constable, who, contrary to the character usually assigned to such officials, was a shrewd fellow, considered this as an intimation that the prisoner meant to commit suicide, and advancing from the door, where he had hitherto remained, drew near, to be ready in case of the worst — ■ "though how," he said to himself, "Master Cal- verly intends doing such a thing, I can't imagine, seeing that we haven't left him so much as a pen- knife." In the midst of his grief, Walter observed the action, and was at no loss to guess what had caused it. " Do not fear me," he said ; " I have no such intention." "It 's best though to be on the safe side, Master Calverley ; and with your good leave 1 '11 stay where I am. When I 've once lodged you safe in Master Key's house at Wakefield, you can do as you please, or rather as he pleases." Walter was too much beaten down by his new o 2 292 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY; grief to dispute the point any farther, and if 1 he felt a momentary pang at finding himself for the first time in his life thus completely at the will of another, the feeling was completely banished, when he again heard the low moaning voice of his Philippa. " They will not take you from me, will they ? " she murmured. " Alas ! yes, my love ; we must part in a few tainutes, and, I fear, for ever on this side the grave." " Oh, no — they will not — cannot, be so cruel ! For one day — only for one day — I have so much to say to you." "My gentle, loving, Philippa! how could I ever feel otherwise towards you than I do at this moment ? It seems like some horrid dream ; but what realities has it left behind ! " " Give them gold," whispered Philippa ; " my purse is in the oak cabinet with the money I had saved up for William's birth-day to morrow. Oh, my child ! my child ! " "Walter could not reply ; the words seemed well nigh to choke him when he would have uttered them, and even the constable was fain to wipe his eyes with his coat sleeve as he again diew back to allow them greater freedom in conversing. Nearly an hour had passed in this way, so CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 293 agonizing to all parties, the constable feeling too much sympathy with their distress to abridge the interview, when the surgeon, who had been sent for long before, at last made his appearance. With more judgment, though perhaps less feeling, than had been exhibited by the officer of the law, he insisted upon their immediate separation, roundly assuring Walter that if he did not wish to complete the mischief he had begun, he would leave the room instantly. " I must needs," he said, " look to the lady's wounds with as little delay as possible, besides that your presence keeps her in such a state of agitation as may well render all our cares unavail- ing." This blunt protest was not lost upon the con- stable, who, moreover, felt that it was high time to set out for Wakefield. Joining his authority to the rough, but well-meant remonstrances of the surgeon, a separation was effected by some- thing between force and persuasion, in the course of which Philippa fainted, and thus put an end to a scene which was growing inexpressibly distress- ing to all parties. Day followed day — night followed night — all alike dark and cheerless to the prisoner, and ren- dered yet more so by the monotony of suffering. At length came the day of trial, and Walter, who 294 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. had been previously removed to York for that pur- pose, was put to thehar in due course of law, when to the general surprise he refused to plead to his arraignment. It was in vain that the j udge explained to him the horrible penalty of the peine forte et dure, which the law at that period affixed to such contumacy, and that so far from escaping death he would only make it more certain, and in a form more dreadful. To all this he replied, " I am familiar with everything you can urge, my lord ; T know full well that I shall die under lingering tortures, being pressed to death beneath a load of stone or iron, but such pains are as welcome to me as ever were the child-bed throes to the heart of a loving woman ; they are the only atonement I can offer to man or heaven. May they be ac- cepted." " "Why, then, you do acknowledge your crime V said the judge hastily, eager to catch at anything by which the more cruel form of punishment might be avoided. " In that case " " By no means, my Lord," interrupted Walter, without allowing him an opportunity of pro- nouncing judgment ; " when I talked of atone- ment, I said not for what offence ; it might be for deeds ten times worse than any I stand accused of, but which, as the secret of them lies buried in my own bosom, come not within your cognizance." CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 295 , Upon this declaration Calverley was removed from the bar, leaving the people much divided in their opinions upon his conduct. Some considered that he was committing an act of suicide, quite forgetting that he stood a fair chance of being hanged, and thus did no more in refusing to plead than exercise the only ehoice the law allowed him, which was not between life and death, but between a rope and the peine forte et dure. Others took his words in their literal meaning, and believed that he intended these voluntary pains as a sort of catholic penance for his crimes. The wiser few concluded that it was done to save his attainder and prevent the corruption of his blood and con- sequent forfeiture of lands, in case, as there could be little doubt, he was attainted of felony; in other words, they suspected that his object in sub- mitting to so terrible a death, was to save his estate for his surviving son Henry, for if he allowed them to press him to death, as no felony would have been proved against him for want of trial, no forfeiture could be incurred.* * Whittaker in his History of Leeds, denies this. He says> " a copy of the inq. post mortem of this unhappy man has fallen into my hands, from which it appears that Ao. 44 Eliz., the manors of Calverley and Pudsey, with the appurtenances in Calverley, &c, were vested in trust on Sir J. Brorke and others for and during the joint natural lives of W. Calverley, Esq., and Philippa his wife, and after their decease to the use and behoof 296 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. He was now led from court and taken to a cell which had long borne the name of Pompey's parlour, a phrase, no doubt, originally given to it by some sailor convict, and borrowed from the negroes, who are used to give the grave that appella- tion. It is about eighteen feet square, and affords sufficient light to read by, and, though entirely devoted to condemned prisoners, it has the luxury of a fire place. In each corner of this dungeon a strong iron ring was then fixed into the wall, but these have been removed, the horrible punish- ment in which they once aided being now happily obliterated from our law books. Still more ominous of the tragedy to be enacted was the total absence of bed or seat of any kind. It was plain that he, who entered here as a prisoner, had no longer anything to do with the purposes of life ; of Will. Calverley, son and heir apparent, and his heirs male, and so forth. The estate therefore being in strict settlement, could not have been effected by a forfeiture. But the stock upon an estate at that period, when rents were very low, and the owners in consequence occupied the greater part of them, when lands might be bought at ten years' purchase, and cattle were comparatively dear was nearly equal to the value of the stock itself, so that Mr. Calverley had an inducement sufficiently strong to stand mute upon his trial for the benefit of his creditors, whose demands could not otherwise have been satisfied." — Credat Judffius Apella ; that a man should suffer himself to be tortured to death for the benefit of his creditors is an exercise of super- human virtue. Even the liberal Antonio tried every means in his power to escape paying old Shylock his pound of flesh. calverley of calverley. 297 be came but to die, and to die in unutterable tortures. Nothing now was heard in the chamber of death but the murmured exhortations of the divine, who was preparing the unhappy man for another world by bringing him to a proper state of penitence in this. That he speeded well in his sacred office was evident from the calm and even assured look, with which, after about half an hour spent in prayer, the victim submitted himself to his execu- tioners, and desired them to do their duty. It was the only atonement he could offer for the crimes, of whose enormity he had now become fully sensible, and he seemed to feel a pride in the tre- mendous nature of the sacrifice. To his diseased imagination this idea threw a splendour about his crimes that almost made them virtues, and in a great measure reconciled him once again to him- self. At his heart was all the exaltation of a martyr. Being stript to the waist, he was laid upon his back, and a sharp wedge placed under him, while his legs and arms were distended to the utmost by cords passed through the rings in the four corners of the dungeon. The triangular press was then fixed upon him with the point of it to his breast, when its loading was gradually commenced. At first the flushed face of the sufferer, and his o 3 £98 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. broken ejaculations, alone gave any indications of what he was enduring ; but when, after a little while, more weight was added, it was evident that the torture had become insupportable. " Strengthen me, oh Lord," groaned the un- happy creature. " These pangs are dreadful — they are not to be borne ! Water ! water ! — will no kind heart give me to drink ? Death ! oh for death ! — when will it come ? Kill me, kill me. Oh God ! God ! can man be so cruel to his fellow man !" In a few minutes the first throb of intense anguish had passed away, and though the sense of pain still continued sufficiently acute, it was far from being what it had been. The executioner, who watched every sign with the eagerness of one that took a horrid delight in his occupation, again added more weight. Then the shrieks and groans of the poor sufferer became absolutely appalling. The terrified clergyman fell upon his knees in fervent prayer, while the drops of mental agony bedewed his forehead, and his cheeks grew pale as ashes ! The gaoler himself turned away sickening, and pressed his hands to his ears to shut out sounds so frightful ; and the sheriff cried out in tones that seemed to be involuntarily pitched to the screams of the victim, " I can bear this no longer, it must be put an end to." CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. 299 " If you please, sir," said the executioner, with something very like a grin of self-satisfaction on his coarse features, " if you please you can all leave the cell. I'll stay here to take the press oif if he should happen to change his mind and say he'll plead. To morrow, if he should hold out so long, he may have a spoonful of water and a morsel of dry bread, just enough to keep life in him, but nothing more." " Put more weight upon him," said the sheriff hastily. " That would spoil all," replied the fellow, mis- taking the kindly motive of his master, and evidently fancying that he also began to take a pleasure in the business ; " that would spoil all ; the poor devil has got as much as he can bear already, and if we lay on more he'll be sure to give us the slip. Men die so easily ; they han't half the life in them that a cat has." " Do as you are ordered, sirrah," thundered the sheriffi " or give up your office." " As you please," growled the man ; " but I thought it my duty to — " " This instant, scoundrel " With much reluctance the executioner began to obey this order, but without putting himself in any particular hurry. "More! " exclaimed the sheriff; " more! — more yet ! " 300 CALVERLEY OF CALVERLEY. And, impatient of the fellow's slowness, he hini- self laid a heavy stone upon the sufferer, when a crashing of hones was heard, followed hy a hollow stifled groan, — stifled by the gush of blood from the mouth and nostrils, — and all was over. Remember, gentle reader, this is no idle fiction.* So did Walter Calverley sin, so did he atone for it. If his crimes were great, such also was his punishment, and there are few, we think, who will refuse complying with the solemn injunction, now half effaced, upon his tombstone, dDrate prn h " ia t#alt. Calmly. Pray for the soul of Wa\ter Calverley. * The pressing to death took place August 5th, 1604. SOI GRACE O'MALLEY. Many a wild tradition yet lingers in Ballycroy and in the beautiful island of Clare, concerning that Cleopatra of the West, well known as Grania Waile, or Grace O'Malley. She was possessed of a large extent of country, principally in thecounty of Mayo, and her jurisdiction seems to have widely extended into the adjoining counties and over most of the not unfertile but almost inacces- sible islands which border the Atlantic from Donegal to Galway. Here English rule and English laws were almost unknown, an occasional inroad, at long intervals, being all that was at- tempted by the Norman invaders for many cen- turies. Grania Waile therefore appears to have reigned undisturbed ; she was acknowledged and patronised by Queen Elizabeth, a kindred spirit. She built castles ; fitted out fleets ; raised and maintained troops ; and left domains to her de- scendants, now represented by Sir Samuel O'Mal- ley, Bart. 302 GRACE O'MALLEY. An act of this extraordinary woman, as detailed by an ecclesiastic, well known for his ample stock of traditionary lore, deserves to be recorded. The wood of Glann covers a bold promontory, which stretches far into the magnificent Lough Corrib on its western shore. Here, close to the spot where the waters of the lake so far intrude as almost to make an island of the promontory, formerly stood an ancient house of the better class. It was at the bottom of a gentle hollow whose sides were green and verdant, affording sweet pas- turage and productive arable, while the thick wood around and above it, gave shelter from the storm and abundance of useful wood which was cut and manufactured, and then sold in the neighbouring city of Galway, which lies at the southern ex- tremity of the lake. In this house, known by the name of " Annagh," lived a widow woman and her three sons, of whom the two eldest, Roderic and Donald, were tall and handsome, and the younger, Dermod, crippled in one foot, weakly in frame and small of stature. These all laboured in their vocations to support their mother and maintain the respectability of the house, for they laid claim to a respectable lineage though their estate was now but small and their retainers few. Who round the shores of Corrib could excel Roderic at the sail — the oar — the rod or the net ; GRACE O'MALLEY. 303 and who could exceed in swiftness of foot — in skill and boldness in the chase, the fair-haired Donald of the wood ? Dermod had his part too — assisted by old Thady he took the charge of the flock and protected the crops from ravage, and he also occasionally accompanied his brothers to Galway Town in their stout half-deck boat. They were a happy united family, affectionate to one another, dutiful and attentive to their mother, who loved them all tenderly and valued them above all the treasures of the earth. Mixing occasionally in the sports but never in the excesses of their neighbours, they had the reputation of heing above the world, for they always paid ho- nestly for what they had, and never stooped to any mean or sordid action. The widow Fitz- Gerald therefore was counted a happy woman, and so indeed she was. But happiness is not a fee-simple in its possession and is exposed to many flaws. A sky ever unclouded is unknown in this our world. One fine evening early in the autumn, Donald and Dermod were reclining on one of the little rocky headlands that jut into the lake. Scarcely a ripple was upon the water, and the many islands distant and near were more than usually distinct from the extreme clearness of the atmos- phere. The quick eye of Dermod was fixed upon 304 GRACE O'MALLEY. a dark spot afar off which he soon discovered to be a boat making for the shore, but studiously keep- ing to the northward of the Isle of Illaundarrack. " That boat," said he to Donald, " belongs to the dark knight of Inchagoil ; one man rows it and in the stern cowers a female ; I fancy," added he significantly, " I can see her cloak of dark blue." Donald shook his head incredulously, and the dark cloud of sorrow passed over his face. As the boat however neared he gazed more and more eagerly, and now springing upon his feet was quickly lost amid the tangled thickets of the wood of Glann. Arrived at the other side of the penin- sula he unmoored a small boat and skirting close by the shore as if to escape observation, he rowed rapidly into one of the little bays of Currarevagh, and there springing upon the land, climbed a tall cliff, from whence unseen he could command a view of the lake and the country inland. Ere long the boat designated by Dermot as coming from Inchagoil was seen to approach, and stealing quietly under shelter of a range of rocks, a female figure landed after cautiously looking around, and walked rapidly up a narrow vale that seemed to wind into the recesses of the neighbouring mountain. " It is then as I thought," exclaimed Donald. "Eva is paying her annual visit to the mainland that she may perform her devotions at the holy GRACE O'MALLEY. 305 well of St. Cuthbert." The young man descended from his post and rapidly rising the hill beyond soon looked into the little vale, and there close to the sacred well he saw the figure kneeling just where an ancient and decayed ash tree threw its sheltering boughs athwart the bubbling spring. The devotions over, the young man stood at Eva's side, for it was indeed the maiden whom he loved. The meeting on his part was warm and glowing as ardent affection could make it — on her's there was manifest pleasure indeed, but also embarrassment and fear. "Go, Donald," said she in a tone of decision, " remember one year more and the heiress of Inchagoil is her own mistress. Do not think that Eva O'Connor can ever forget the promise she made to Donald Fitz-Gerald when they met in the halls of Doonaa Castle, under the protection of Grania Waile." " I know your truth, Eva," said Donald, " I know that the pledges of former days will with you be ever sacred, but is it true that the knight Mac Moragh, your mother's kinsman, and alas ! your guardian, is resolved you should wed his sister's son, the red-haired Gael of Ardnamurehan ?" " It is too true, Donald," replied Eva sighing, " but he cannot compel me to contract with that beggarly Scot. He is expected ere long, but 1 shall be firm, and if any foul play is intended, I 206 GRACE OMALLEY. will escape to my good godmother and friend the mighty Grace O'Malley. " But how escape ? what means have you un- aided to effect this ? Escape now, Eva, while I am near you, with means ready to conduct and an arm ready to protect you." " Alas ! Donald, I cannot," replied she, casting down her eyes. " It^were not maidenly to commit myself thus to your charge, and besides," said she, starting, "there is danger in our being here. Know you who is in the boat — it is the knight's foster brother O'Ruarke. He it was I suspect who betrayed our meeting here last year, and even now I fear some trap may be laid to detect us. Go therefore, dear Donald, while the path is clear, and trust in my firmness for the future. I have promised." Donald turned pale when he heard the name of O'Ruarke, for he was his deadly foe. He saw at once the danger to himself and Eva, and for her sake determined to retreat while opportunity afforded. He turned, but a warning shriek from Eva and a powerful grasp from behind too late convinced him that the trap was laid, and he had unwittingly fallen into it. Resistance was vain — in a moment he was bound hand and foot, and in an hour's space lodged in the deep dungeon of the old tower of Templenaneeve. GRACE o'mALLEY. 307 " He comes not forth thence," said the gloomy Knight of Inchagoil, " till Eva O'Connor and her broad lands are the property of Ivan Macrae." Dermod, quick in intellect, and ever ready in device, suspecting his brother's intent, had mounted a hill pony and riding by a circuitous path over the intervening mountain had witnessed the whole scene. E-oderic was gone up the lake to the town of Cong. Dermod, therefore, though reluctantly, mentioned the facts to his mother, who was horror- struck at the news. " If O'Ruarke were the man," exclaimed she in an agony, "Donald is surely lost. He will not forget how my poor son chastised him at the fair 011 the hill of Glann." " Eva O'Connor too was at the holy well of St. Cuthbert's," said Dermod musingly, "there is danger to Donald from more than O'Ruarke." " 1 see it all," cried the distracted mother, " oh that Donald had never sojourned that year at Doonaa. He then might never have seen Eva or crossed the black knight." " True," replied Dermod quietly, " but remem- ber dear mother, that Grania Waile is Donald's friend and Eva's god-mother. She will not suffer a hair of their heads to be touched." " How can she help it, my son ?" said the widow bitterly. " How can she know of all this and she 308 GRACE O'MALLEY. at her castle in the Island of Clare ? And if she knew, what power has she on these shores, and iu the islands of Corrib ? The knight would laugh her to scorn." " That is all we ought to wish," said Dermod, "for if the knight defies her power his doom is sealed. We cannot do hetter now that Roderic is away, than to go over to the island and claim liberty for Donald. Come mother — let us not waste time, for it is precious, and may God speed us well." The widow was wont to look up to Dermod's council, and she was often heard to say that what he wanted in body was amply made up in mind. The boat with two rowers was soon ready, and in an hour they were in the small, smooth bay, which is sheltered to the north by the two islets called Burre and Inishannagh. On the western and eastern extremities of Inchagoil the land rises abruptly, terminating in rocky slopes or broken cliffs, and in the centre, overlooking two small bays on opposite sides of the island, stands the old tower of Templenaneeve, " whose birth tradition notes not." As the mother and her crippled son approached the portal they were spied by the knight, who expecting his Scotch kinsman that very day, was pacing the battlements above the great hall, casting his eyes ever and anon over the wide extent of waters around him. GRACE o'MALLEY. 309 " Sir Knight, I pray my son's deliverance," said the widow not humbly but proudly, throwing aside her veil and displaying a countenance yet comely though pale with sorrow and trepidation. " Your errand is a fruitless one," said the knight, ' ' I know not your son." " In the name of Grania Waile, release my brother," cried Dermod. " She will not see him injured, and her power is great." " Grace O'Malley," replied the knight, " has no power here. If she would have the young man, let her dare to fetch him. Begone ! " The widow Fitz-Gerald and her son made no further parley, but hastily regaining their boat, pushed off towards the house of Annagh. It was the feast of St. Michael, and the festive board was spread in the Castle of Doonaa. Grace O'Malley (or as she was oftener called by her own countrymen Grania Waile) was seated on a canopied chair of state in the centre of the table that crossed the hall, on a raised dais. Her attendant maidens occupied the seats on her left, while her more powerful retainers and men of war graced her right, clad in glittering steel, and equally ready for the combat as the feast. She was in form tall and stately, without being graceful — her eye was restless, quick, and piercing — her face comely, but the expression somewhat fierce and decided. 310 GRACE O'MALLEY. There was a bold licence in all she said and did, which would ill become an ordinary personage, but she was of another class. Proud, irritable, and domineering, she could also be kind, gene- rous, and even affectionate — her enemies hated and feared her — her friends seldom forsook her. When it suited her purpose she knew the way to win hearts, and what is more difficult still, to keep them. Her morals, perhaps, were not unex- ceptionable, if, which is not often the case, report spoke truly ; but all stood in awe of one who did not scruple at the means if the end could be gained. In fact, she was well suited, both to the country and to the age in which she lived, and her name has been handed down with honour and respect. The feast was scarcely yet begun when the aged seneschal announced the arrival of a stranger who earnestly entreated an audience. ''He is a beardless youth, crippled, and of small stature," said the seneschal. " I told him your highness would see him on the morrow ; but he will not be denied, and says, his errand is of great import." " Admit him,'' was the speedy answer, and soon Dermod Fitz-Gerald stood on the pavement of the lofty hall. " Your business, youth ?" was the stern demand of the Queen of the West. GRACE O'MALLEY. 311 " The sound of woe resounds through our dwelling," replied Dermod ; " and the widow Fitzgerald, of the house of Annagh, would fain you heard the cry." " What boots it — can my hearing the cry pre- vent the cause ? " " No, mighty princess, it cannot remedy the past, but it may speed well the future." " Well said, young man. Tell me, wherefore, then, the widow's tears ? " " She had three sons, and two are not. The second, Donald, is either dead or languishing in a dungeon, and the eldest, Roderic, was murdered in attempting a release. I alone am left, power- less and a cripple. The widow lays her grief and her wrongs at your feet." " Donald is a brave youth, and Roderic deserved a better fate. But why should I interfere ? He ran his head doubtless into the broil, and his family reap the fruits. 'Tis no business of mine." " Mighty lady, listen for one moment. Eva O'Connor, too, is in danger. Under this very roof she plighted her faith to Donald, but she, too, is under restraint ; and it will go hard with her if she consent not to wed the red haired Gael, Ivan Macrae." " Eva is my god-daughter. She will discover 312 GRACE o'MALLEY. a method, either to foil or avenge such a proceed- ing. Who is the man that dares to stand in her path ? " " Her guardian, the black knight of Inchagoil. He swears my brother shall never see the light of day till Eva and her broad lands are the property of his kinsman, Ivan Macrae." "Well, are they not well matched — two to two ? Eva and Donald have not been taught at Doonaa to suifer wrong or insult from any knight or baron, be he black or white. Comfort, boy — they will match him yet. Go, tell them what I say." "But, Princess, the knight has the upper hand by treachery and foul play. Little can a man do whose thews and sinews are bound with links of iron in the deep recesses of a dark dun- geon, and little will a woman's art or strength avail against grated windows and bars of steel. The knight of Inchagoil fears no one, not even Grrania Waile." " Sayest thou so, boy ? — the proof ? " " His own words in the presence of his people. I heard them. They were addressed to my wretched mother and myself. The words were these : ' Grace O'Malley has no power here. If she would have the young man, let her dare to fetch him.' " " Seneschal, dismiss the youth ; but treat him GRACE O'MALLEY. 313 well, and let him return to-morrow. We will have no further interruption to our night's festivity." The now captive Eva, like an imprisoned bird restless and unhappy, gazed wistfully from her high casement in the old Tower of Inchagoil, hoping, but, alas ! against hope, that some change might release her from her present thraldom. The night was serene and still. The moon, unclouded, shed her silver beams o'er land and water, and the murmur of each gentle wave, as it broke on the sandy bay below, would have made soothing music to a less unhappy ear. As Eva gazed, she could not but feel that the scene before her was one of surpassing loveliness. To the westward the broad lake expanded for several miles, studded with islands till its waves washed the shores of the Connemara mountains, or broke upon the rocky coast of the towering Benleva. Around her were the fertile and undu- lating lands of Inchagoil, with its seven dependent islands once to be her own, but a possession value- less in her eyes, if not shared with Donald Fitz- gerald. Far to the left were seen the bold promontory of Annah and the wood of Glann and there in that dark hollow, was the sacred, but to her fatal, well of St. Cuthbert, all scenes once full of sweet, but now fearful associations. From the great hall below, ever and anon broke forth vol i. p 314 GRACE O'MALLEY. the sounds of revelry and military licence, only stilled when the strings of old Cahan's harp made merry minstrelsie. And now Eva's thoughts dwelt on Donald, and her cheek flushed with indignant grief as she thought of his misery — his dungeon and his chains. The tears coursed each other down her fair cheeks, and her spirit burned when she felt her own helpless condition, and how little power she had to assist him, even in her own domain. Then as the rude voice of the hated Scot was heard above all others in the revel, her very soul revolted, and in the agony of her spirit she clasped the bars of her prison, as though her feeble strength could shake their massive hold. But hark — a signal ! a figure rises from behind that broad buttress and beckons. Eva leaned forth as far as the bars permitted, and soon recognised Dermod, the cripple. " Despair not, lovely Eva," said he in a suppressed voice, " succour is at hand, but you must escape, or evil may first befall. Twist the bar of that casement, and it will give way. There — that is well. Now, fasten this rope which I throw up to the other bar, and I will be with you in an instant." The descent was not great, and with Dermod's assistance, Eva soon touched the ground, and they hurried to the shore, taking a path that led to the western extremity of the island. " A friend waits for you there, Eva," GRACE O'MALLEY. 315 said Dermod, " and we shall soon be safe in the Wood of Glann." The revel was at the highest, and Cahan's harp was at its most joyous stretch when O'Ruarke, the foster brother, rushed into the hall, and bid the music pause. " A stranger is here, and claims hospitality." " Who, or what is he, and by whom accom- panied," said the knight, somewhat sternly. " She gives her name Grania Waile, but better known, she says, to the Knight of Inchagoil, as Grace O'Malley." A black shade passed over the knight's brow, succeeded by a deadly paleness. " O'Ruarke," said he, after a moment's pause, during which it was manifest that his mind laboured with some desperate resolve, " give the illustrious lady welcome," but calling O'Ruarke to his side, he added in a low tone — " detain her for a few moments if you can." Evan Macrae had sprung from his seat, and now whispered busily with his kinsman, after which he disappeared. A deep silence pervaded the hall, and a significant glance passed from one retainer to another when that powerful name was thus announced. " Welcome to our hall, Queen of the Isles," said the knight, advancing to meet the haughty potentate as she entered, attended only by one man-at-arms, with his vizor closed. p 2 316 GRACE O'MALLEY. " For what are we indebted to the honour of this condescending but unexpected visit ? What can a knight do to requite this honour ?" " Nay, Mac Morogh, Black Knight of Incha- goil, there we are at issue. My visit is by invitation, therefore not unexpected." " How lady ?" questioned the knight, his brow darkening. "Do you ask how?" replied she. — " Here I am alone, save this one attendant, and should I come thus but by a knight's invitation ?" " But one attendant ! " echoed the knight, his heart beating high at the welcome intelligence. "But one," replied she, " and I repeat by your invitation, I come. It runs in these words, ' Grace O'Malley has no power here. If she would have the young man, let her dare to fetch him.' This invitation I have accepted, aDd fol- lowing out the terms of it, I demand the young man, Donald Fitzgerald. Free him, and I will accept your hospitality, and depart in peace." " And by what right, Grace O'Malley, do you inter- fere with my concerns ? Begone, I would not willing- ly stain my knighthood by offering injury to a lady." "That you have done already, base knight. Where is Eva O'Connor?" " Far from your custody, and in hands that will know how to retain both her and hers." GRACE O'MALLEY. 317 " Ah ! " exclaimed the knight, as Evan Macrae rushed into the hall, " how now ? — I thought, ere this, you were far away with the prize." " The bird has flown, and is no where to be found," replied the Scot. " But," exclaimed the knight, " Donald Fitz- gerald ? you have not failed there ? " " He is here," said the man-at-arms, throwing up his vizor, and displaying the handsome features of Donald Fitzgerald, " ready and willing to do hattle, and to avenge his wrongs. Come on false knight — a fair field is all I require against the dastardly murderer of my brother." "Seize him, O'Ruarke — down with him, Evan," cried the now furious knight, rising from his seat and drawing his sword, but O'E-uarke's obe- dience cost him his life. There was a moment's pause — the Scot retreated to his kinsman's side, and Grace O'Malley calmly looked on as if stand- ing in her own halls. " Will no one down with that caitiff ? Will no one seize that woman ? " again roared the knight. Not a hand moved, not a voice was heard. Each retainer stood motionless and stiff as marble. " Then to it ourselves, Evan Macrae," said the knight, " and thus let us first avenge O'Ruarke." Evan would have obeyed, but the iron grasp of two retainers withheld him, and the knight found 318 GRACE O'MALLEY. himself confronting Donald Fitzgerald single- handed. The contest was fierce — not long ; the knight, sorely wounded, dropped his sword, and leaned against the wall for support. "Enough," saidJGrace O'Malley; "Donald put up your sword, and do you, base knight, hear me. I well knew your cowardly designs upon Eva, and have long taken measures to defeat them. Think you, false Southron, to enter the lists with me ? And think you the brave men of Inchagoil and Connemara, her own people, were to be the instruments of your tyranny ? That, Sir Knight, was all settled between us ere I set foot within these walls. Through their co-operation, Donald was released, or that Craven Scot would have murdered him when bound in chains. By their assistance Eva O'Connor is now in the House of Annagh, under the protection of her future mother-in-law ; and, had you dared to lay your dastardly hands on me, by their swords your own life would have paid the penalty. Take that meddling Scot," continued she, pointing to the now fear-struck Evan Macrae, " throw him into the lake — he may swim or drown, but if he ever sets foot in Inchagoil again, be it your fault, Donald, if he returns alive. And as for you, Sir Knight of the Black Scarf and Sable Plume, you well deserve the fate you have inflicted upon a GRACE o'MALLEY. 319 better man ; but I bid you begone — a boat awaits you — if you survive this day and venture hither again, Donald Fitzgerald, the lord of this domain will not forget who was his brother's murderer." So ends the tradition. Ages have elapsed, and the Island of Inchagoil, one of the fairest in lovely Erin, is now the home of a Saxon. What still remains of the ancient Tower of Templena- neeve, is carefully preserved, and report says, that ere long it will be renewed in a portion of its former strength and beauty. Close by, are the ruins of the time-honoured pile of St. Patrick. Within] those sacred walls are deposited the remains of Donald Fitzgerald and his wife Eva, and a scarcely legible inscription informs us, that their two sons died, seized of Connemara and Ballycroy, and their daughter, Grace, married Maurice O'Donel, of Doonaa. 320 RODERIC O'CONNOR, THE LAST KING OF IRELAND. The western parts of Ireland, more particulary the Province of Connaught, long maintained an independent attitude with regard to the Norman invaders. It included a very mountainous district, full of noble lakes and rivers, and also of innumer- able islands off the coast, some thickly inhabited by a brave and hardy race. In this district are the two magnificent lakes Lough Corrib and Lough Mask, the former twenty-five miles in length, with an area or superficies of nearly 50,000 acres ; the latter about ten miles long and four broad. The islands on Lough Corrib comprehend nearly 2,000 acres, some of them, as Inchagoil and Inishdoorus, very fertile and beautiful, while others are par- tially covered with wood, or afford valuable pasturage for cattle. The ancient but almost inaccessible pass into Joyce's Country and Con- nemara was through the old town of Cong and over THE LAST KING OF IRELAND, 321 the Maam Mountain — another was by Galway, and more to the north than either was the romantic pass through the Vale of Errive. But Cong, situated on the narrow neck of land which divides Lough Mask from Lough Corrib was a place of considerable importance in the earliest ages of Irish tradition . A situation more beautiful and truly romantic cannot be conceived. Here for many generations was the residence of the Kings of Connaught — here was founded in times too remote to ascertain the date, but believed to be in the seventh century, one of the most splendid abbeys in the island, well denominated, " Sanc- torum Insula;" and it was within its quiet clois- ters and holy recesses that Roderic O'Connor, the last of the Kings of Ireland retired from tumults and from war, and, full of years and honour, died in peace about the year of our Lord 1198. A brief notice of this Prince may not be uninterest- ing, as his history is connected with the first great invasion of Ireland by Richard (son of Gibbert de Clare) surnamed Strongbow, Earl of Strigul and Chepstow. For three centuries or more from 868 a.d., the Irish annals present little but a continued detail of intestine war between the natives and Danes, or as they are better known the Ostmen or Eastmen, In the year 1 162, Der- mod Mac-Morogh was King of Leinster, and on p 3 322 RODERIC O'CONNOR, several occasions was victorious over these invaders. Giraldus de Barri, a contemporary writer, thus describes him : — " He was tall and'great bodie. A valiant and bold warrior in his nation, and by reason of his continual halowing and crieng hoarse in voice. (JEncrebro continuoque belli clamore voce raucisond.) He chose to be feared rather than loved, was a great oppressor of his nobilitie, but a great allowancer of the poor and weak " Manus omnium contra ipsum et ipse contrarius omni." — (Hooker's Translation.) It was the insolence and oppressions of this man which roused the resentment of Roderic O 'Connor, King of Connaught. He invaded the province of Leinster, and the subjects of Dermod Mac-Morogh taking this opportunity to free themselves from his tyrannies, deserted him when he would have led them to battle. Dermod fled and took refuge in England, where throwing himself at the feet of King Henry the Second, he sought his protection, and offered to swear allegiance to him. Henry, who had already meditated the invasion of Ireland, and even procured a Bull from Pope Adrian to authorize the conquest, gladly seized this pretext, and after many delays Richard Strongbow, Earl of Strigul and Chepstow, was authorized to assist in the restoration of the King of Leinster. While the expedition was preparing THE LAST KING OF IRELAND. 323 Dermod, anxious again to behold his native land, even though at a distance, took up his residence at theEpiscopal city of St. David's, where, as Giraldus says — " languishing for a passage he comforted himself as well as he might ; sometime drawing and as it were breathing the air of his country, which he seemed to breathe and smell ; sometimes view- ing and beholding his country which on a fair day a man may ken and descry." Rhys ap Gruffydd, King of South Wales, and David Fitz-Gerald, who was Bishop of St. David's, commiserated the condition of the Irish Prince, and used all their influence to interest others in his cause. Partly at their instigation the following agreement was made with Mac-Morogh — " That Robert Fitz-Stephen, Constable of Aberteivi, or Cardigan, and Maurice Fitz-Gerald should aid and assist him in the recovery of his possessions, and in consideration thereof should receive a grant of the town of Wexford and two cantreds of land adjoining in fee to them and their heirs for ever. In the year 1170, this invasion of Ireland took place — Dermod Mac-Morogh was restored — a treaty was concluded with Roderic O'Connor acknowledging him (Roderic) to be chief monarch of Ireland ; and Wexford and the two cantreds of land were delivered up to Fitz-Stephen. The two Kings, however, secretly agreed that " as soon as 324 RODERIC O'CONNOR, his own people were reduced to good order Mac- Morogh should send home the English and never invite any more to come over." Treacherously and covertly invited, however, by the false King of Leinster, who still in his heart thirsted for vengeance upon Roderic, Strongbow at length landed in Ireland on the vigil of the Feast of St. Bartholomew. He soon got posses- sion of Waterford and Dublin notwithstanding a determined opposition, and from this moment may be dated the downfall of Irish independence. Mac-Morogh not satisfied with reducing his own subjects by means of his English auxiliaries, also turned the same force against those he conceived to be opposed to his proceedings. Reginald, Prince of the Danes at Waterford, and Malachy O'Feolain, Prince of the Decies, and O'Ruarke, Prince of Meath, all fell under the vengeance of this foul traitor to his country. It happened that Roderic O'Connor had the son of Mac-Morogh in his hold as a hostage for the fulfilment of their treaty, and thinking " That as his neighbour's house was set on fire, his own might shortly suffer the some fate," he sent messengers to Mac-Morogh, saying — "Contrary to the order of peace thou hast called together a great multitude of strangers, and as long as thou didst keep thyself in thine own country of Leinster we bare therewith. But as THE LAST KING OF IRELAND. 325 now not caring for thine oath thouhast so insolently passed thy bounds, I am to require thee to retire and withdraw these excurses of strangers or else without fail 1 will cut off thy son's head and send it thee." Mac-Morogh answered, " that he would not de- sist from his enterprise until he had subdued all Connaught, and recovered for himself the mo- narchy of Ireland." Whereupon, Roderic ordered his son's head to be cut off, and sent to him. Soon after, Dermod Mac-Morogh died at Femes. Roderic immediately joined Lawrence O'Toole, Archbishop of Dublin, in forming a powerful coalition of Irish princes against the invaders, and they closely besieged Earl Strongbow and his associates in the city of Dublin. Actuated by despair, however, a determined band of 600 sallied forth early in the morning from the city, direct- ing their attack against the quarters of King Roderic. Taken by surprise, the Irish gave way, and the King narrowly escaped being captured. King Henry, hearing of these successes, resolved himself to visit Ireland, and leaving Milford Ha- ven in the year 1172, landed at Waterford with an army consisting of 500 knights and 4000 sol- diers. On his arrival, Dermod Mac Carthy, King of Cork, voluntarily submitted himself, took the oath of allegiance, and agreed to pay tribute 326 RODERIC O'CONNOR, annually. On his arrival at Cashel, Donald, King of Limerick, did the same, as also Donald Prince of Ossory, and Malachy O'Feolane, Prince of the Decies, and many other powerful men. But the haughty Roderic O'Connor kept aloof, burning with indignation at the cowardice and meanness of these his countrymen, and refused peremp- torily to set foot beyond the Shannon, even to greet the English monarch. To avert, how- ever, the horrors of war, and to spare his people a contest, which, single-handed, he felt was hope- less, he consented to take the oath of allegiance, which was administered by Hugh de Lacy and William Fitz-Adeline. O'Ruarke, Prince of Meath, however, and Donald, Prince of Limerick, still kept the field against the invaders, and Ro- deric O'Connor, joining his forces to theirs, crossed the Shannon, invaded the province of Meath, and devastated the country up to the very walls of Dublin. They then invaded Leinster, but hear- ing that the valiant Norman chief, Reymund, who had just married Basilia, the sister of Earl Strongbow, was marching against them with a large force, Roderic retired into Connaught. Tradition mentions, that, meeting with great in- gratitude from his son, and foreseeing and la- menting the downfall of his country, this bold and consistent prince, who well supported, might have SIR WILLIAM WYNDHAM. 327 secured the independence of Ireland for a time at least, retired to the Abbey of Cong, where, endeavouring to forget the concerns of this life, he busied himself in preparing for another. His memory has been honoured by posterity, and Cong abbey, the place of his retreat, though in ruins, still remains, giving external evidence that it was one of the most splendid piles that adorned " the Island of Saints." SIR WILLIAM WYNDHAM AND THE WHITE HORSE. At the end of the last century, Sir William Wyndham being on his travels through Venice, observed accidentally, as he was passing through St. Mark's Place in his cabriolet, a more than ordinary crowd at one corner of it. On stopping, he found it was a mountebank who had occasioned it, and who was pretending to tell fortunes, con- veying his predictions to the people by means of a long narrow tube of tin, which he lengthened or curtailed at pleasure, as occasion required. Sir William, among others, held up a piece of money, 328 SIB WILLIAM WYNDHAM on which the charlatan immediately directed his tube to the cabriolet, and said to him, very dis- tinctly, in Italian, " Signor Inglese, cavete il bianco cavallo." This circumstance made a very forcible impres- sion upon him, from the recollection that some years before, when very young, having been out at a stag-hunt, in returning home from the sport he found several of the servants at his father's gate standing round a fortune teller, who either was, or pretended to be, both deaf and dumb, and for a small remuneration wrote on the bottom of a trencher, with a piece of chalk, answers to such questions as the servants put to him by the same method. As Sir William rode by, the man made signs to him that he was willing to tell him his fortune as well as the rest, and in good humour he would have complied ; but as he could not recollect any particular question to ask, the man took the trencher, and, writing upon it, gave it back, with these words written legibly, " Beware of a white horse." Sir William smiled at the absurdity, and totally forgot the circumstance, till the coincidence at Venice reminded him of it. He immediately and naturally imagined that the English fortune-teller had made his way over to the continent, where he had found his speech; and he was now curious to know the truth of the AND THE WHITE HORSE. 329 circumstance. Upon inquiry, however, he felt assured that the fellow had never been out of Italy, nor understood any other language than his own. Sir William Wyndham had a great share in the transactions of government during the last four years of Queen Anne's reign, in which a design to restore the son of James II. to the British throne, which his father had forfeited, was un- doubtedly concerted ; and on the arrival of George I. many persons were punished, by being put into prison or sent into banishment. Among the former of those who had entered into this com- bination was Sir William Wyndham, who, in 1715, was committed as a prisoner to the Tower. Over the inner gate were the arms of Great Britain, in which there was then some al- teration to be made, in consequence of the suc- cession of the house of Brunswick ; and as Sir William's chariot was passing through, conveying him to his prison, the painter was at work adding the white horse, which formed the arms of the Elector of Hanover. It struck Sir William forcibly. He immediately recollected the two singular predictions, and mentioned them to the lieutenant of the Tower, then in the chariot with him, and to almost every one who came to see him there during his confinement ; and, although 330 SIR WILLIAM WYNDHAM. probably not inclined to superstition, he looked upon it as a prophecy which was fully accom- plished. But in this he was much mistaken ; for many years after, being out hunting, he had the misfortune to be thrown whilst leaping a ditch, by which accident he broke his neck. He rode upon a white horse. This was the famous statesman and orator, of whom Pope has left an elegant eulogium : — " How can I Pult'ney, Chesterfield forget, While Roman spirit charms and Attic wit! Or Wyndham, just to freedom and the throne, The master of our passions and his own," Sir William's death occurred on the 27th of June, 1740. His son, Charles, succeeded, at the demise of his maternal uncle, Algernon, Duke of Somerset, to the earldom of Egremont. 331 OLD ENGLISH HOSPITALITY. The following account exhibits the grandeur of housekeeping among the English nobles in the time of the Plantagenets, being the debit side of the account of H. Leicester, cofferer to Thomas Earl of Lancaster, containing the amount of all the disbursements relating to domestic ex- penses in the year 1313 (Record of Pontefract), regno Edwardi II. : — £ s. d. To the amount of the charge of pantry, buttery, and kitchen . 3405 To 369 pipes of red wine, and two pipes of white • To all sorts of grocery wares . To 6 barrels of sturgeon To 6000 dried fishes of all sorts To 16141b. of wax, Vermillion, and turpentine .... 314 7 4 To the charge of the Earl's great horses, and servant's wages . 436 4 3 104 17 6 180 17 19 41 6 7 332 OLD ENGLISH HOSPITALITY. £ s. d. To linen for the Earl, his chaplains, and table . . . . 43 17 To 129 dozen of skins of parch- ment, and ink . . . . 4 8 3 To two scarlet cloths for the Earl's use ; one of russet to the Bishop of Angew ; seventy of blue for the knights ; twenty-eight for the 'squires ; fifteen for the clerks ; fifteen for the officers; nineteen for the grooms; five for the archers; four for the minstrels and carpenters, with the sharing and carriage, for the Earl's li- veries at Christmas . . . 460 15 To 7 furs of powdered ermine ; 7 hoods of purple; 395 furs of budge, for the liveries of barons, knights, and clerks, and 123 furs of lamb, bought at Christmas for the 'squires . . . 147 17 8 To 168 yards of russet cloth, and 24 coats for poor men, with money given to the poor on Maundy Thursday . . . 8 16 7 To 65 saffron-coloured cloths for OLD ENGLISH HOSPITALITY. 333 the barons and knights in summer, 12 red cloths for the 'squires, 1 for the officers, and 4 ray cloths for carpets in the hall To 100 pieces of green silk for the knights, 14 budge furs for sur- coats, 13 hoods of budge for the clerks, and 75 furs of lambs for liveries in summer, with canvass and cords to tie them To saddles for the summer liveries To one saddle for the Earl . To several items, the particulars in the account defaced . To horses lost* in service To fees paid to earls, barons, knights and 'squires To gifts to French knights, Countess of Warren, Queen's nurses • 'squires, minstrels, messengers and riders .... To 24 silver dishes, 24 saucers, 24 cups, 1 pair of pater nosters, and 1 silver coffin, all bought this year, when silver was at Is. 8d. per ounce . To several messengers . £ s. d. 345 13 8 72 19 51 6 8 2 241 14 1 8 6 8 623 15 5 92 14 103 5 6 34 19 8 334 OLD ENGLISH HOSPITALITY. £ S. d. To sundry things in the Earl's bed- chamber 5 To several old debts paid this year 88 16 0| To the Countess's disbursements at Pickering 440 5 To 23191b. of tallow candles, and 17801b. of lights, called Paris candles, or white wax candles . 31 14 3 Sum total £7309 12 6£ We may add, for the due appreciation of the foregoing, that silver was then at one shilling and eight-pence per ounce ; so that twelve ounces went to a pound sterling ; by which it does appear, that the sum total expended in that year amounts, in our money, to £2078 17s. 8d., whereby is shewn, that the Earl must have had a prodigious estate, especially considering the vast disparity of the prices of provisions then and now ; therefore, we may justly conclude, that such an estate at present would bring in, at least, £200,000 per ACTRESSES RAISED BY MARRIAGE. The first person among " the gentry," who chose a wife from the stage was Martin Folkes, the antiquary, a man of fortune, who about the year 1713, married Lucretia Bradshaw, the representa- tive of Farquhar's heroines. A contemporary writer styles her " one of the greatest and most promising genii of her time," and assigns " her prudent and exemplary conduct," as the attraction that won the learned antiquary. The next actress, whose husband moved in an elevated rank, was Anastasia Robinson, the singer. The great Lord Peterborough — the hero of the Spanish war — the friend of Pope and Swift, publicly acknowledged Anastasia as his Countess in 1735. In four years after, the Lady Henrietta Herbert, daughter of James, 1st Earl of Waldegrave, and widow of Lord Edward Herbert, bestowed her hand on James Beard, the performer. Subsequently, about the middle of the eighteenth century, Lavinia Best- wick, the original " Polly Peachum," became Duchess of Bolton, The next on record was 336 ACTRESSES RAISED BY MARRIAGE Miss Linley's marriage to Sheridan, one of the most romantic episodes in theatrical unions ; and before the 18th century closed, Elizabeth Farren, a perfect gentlewoman, became Countess of the proudest Earl in England, the representative of the illustrious Stanleys. She was Lord Derby's second consort, and mother of the present Countess of Wilton. In 1807, the beautiful Miss Searle was married to Robert Heathcote, Esq., brother of Sir Gilbert Heathcote, Bart. ; and in the same year Louisa Brunton to the late Earl Craven. Her son is now Earl Craven, and her niece, Mrs. Yates, the actress, still exhibits the dramatic ge- nius of the Brunton family. " The Beggars' Opera " again conferred a coronet ; Mary Catherine Bolton's impersonation of " Polly Peachum " captivated Lord Thurlow. She was married to his lordship in 1813. In more recent times — the most fascina- ting of our actresses, Miss O'Neill wedded Sir William Wrixham Becher, Bart. ; Miss Foote, the Earl of Harrington ; Miss Stephens, the Earl of Essex; Miss Mellon, then Mrs. Coutts, the Duke of St. Albans ; and Mrs. Nisbett, Sir William Boothby, Bart. It has been remarked that the conduct of each one of these ladies in her wedded life was unexceptionable. END OF VOL. I. Myers and Co., Printers, 37, King Street, Covent Garden.