"Marry in thy youth!" This golden truth is writ in one of the "gates,"

or articles of the "Sadder." We know not if the eyes of Jacob Tibs ever

opened upon this questionable axiom; or whether the consciousness of

his own weakness was the load-star which lighted him, "poor darkened

traveller," to the _blessed state_. Be it as it might, Jacob, though

no longer in youth, and in spite of my Uncle Toby's showing that "love

is below a man,"--Jacob took unto himself a wife,--an unquestionable

_better half_, seeing his share was so small in the economy of domestic

life. But at how high a standard Jacob _ought_ to have placed his

happiness,--and marriage is with some supposed to be a good,--he held

it a plague, a sickness long in killing! Jacob, as we have before

stated, married, and from that seed his crops of evil sprung! _The

apple of his eye_, like that of the East, was ashes to his taste. Alas!

that Jacob ever married!

Biddy Tibs, "_who cared for nobody_," was, at the time we write, a

small withered piece of stale old age. In her husband's days,--and they

a bountiful Providence, or rather rope, had shortened; not that he

was hanged, for Jacob was a modest-minded man!--she made up in temper

what she lacked in size; which temper, in the opinion of many, was the

personal property of the devil! And as the most difficult conquest of

Mahomet was that of his wife, so it proved with Jacob, who vainly hoped

that, "as with time and patience the leaf of the mulberry-tree becomes

satin," so might his wife's temper from sour turn to sweet! How little

did Jacob appreciate the constancy of woman!

Jacob Tibs was part owner of a Liverpool West India trader, and of

which he was nominally the captain. But Mrs. T., in this as in all

other instances, was the great "captain's captain:" her lungs--and

never had a speaking-trumpet such lungs--were hurricane-proof! and

the title of "boatswain" was not improperly a sobriquet of this fair

cheapener of sugar, with which the vessel was ostensibly freighted,

though upon occasions she had more slaves than her husband on board;

so that, what with natural and human produce, Jacob climbed a golden

ladder. Tired with a "life of storms," he changed his vessel for a

house, the sea for a quiet town, and might have rested his old age in

peace; but, alas for Jacob! he was married!

Argus is reported to have slept,--can we wonder that Mrs. Tibs's two

eyes for once lost their vigilance, and left her husband the master of

himself, and one day--for that she passed a short distance off; and

Jacob resolved that this drop of comfort should prove a well; and in

truth it _did_, as will be shown. Old Jacob had friends, as who has

not that has anything to give?--and this day--the only one he could

look forward to with a smile since he had been "blessed"--he determined

should prove a golden one; and, spite of the servant-girl's warnings

of "How missus would wop him!" Jacob held a levee,--some dozen sons of

Eve, whose mouths sucked brandy like a sponge,--good old souls of a

good old age, whose modest wants 'bacca and brandy could supply.

Jacob held his levee! but as he boasted no privy purse, no stocking

with a foot of guineas, and no brandy but a bottle two-thirds full,

left by strange accident in the cupboard, what was to be done? For the

first time in his life Jacob was surprised into an act of rebellion;

and with a death-doing hammer in one hand, and a screwdriver in the

other, did Jacob invade the--to him--sanctity of the cellar. The lock

was wrenched, lights were stuck in empty bottles, and Jacob, who in

his young-going days had swilled it with the best, soon verified the

sentiment of Le Sage, that "a reformed drunkard should never be left

in a cellar." Now, whether joy or brandy had to answer for the sin,

we know not; but, certain it is, Jacob got drunk, and measured his

length--he was a tall man--upon the ground. Friends should be our

brothers in affliction; _his_ were true ones, and at happy intervals of

time they sank beside him, completely overcome,--showing how little was

their pride, how great their fellowship!

How long they might have continued in this undeniable state of bliss

would be an useless guess, for the last of Jacob's friends--and he

was no sudden faller-off--had scarcely deposited himself upon the

ground in happy indifference for his clothes, when the cracked-bell

voice of Mrs. Tibs, who had unexpectedly returned, roused the maid

into a consciousness that missus had come home! Domestic contentions

are at no time an interesting theme; and as most of our readers--we

allude to the married portion--have doubtless experienced them in

real life, romance would fall far short of the truth; the single we

advise to marry, and experience will teach them what we here pass

over. When Jacob's better half beheld her bottles empty, her casks

upturned, and her husband, for the first time since he had enjoyed

that felicity, deaf to the music of her voice, a bucket of water from

the well refreshed Jacob to a truth he would willingly have slept in

ignorance of,--that the wife of his bosom was alive, and he started as

a thief would at an opening door. She seized him by the collar, and,

showering the first-fruits of her passion upon him who could so well

appreciate it, the "boatswain" rose within her, and, after bestowing

sundry terms of approbation upon his boon companions, she turned them

out of the house, as the vulgar saying hath it, "with their tails

between their legs." Jacob would have slunk away, but Fortune willed it

otherwise. His "rib" shouted the word of command, "Tack, you lubber,

and be ---- to you!" Jacob recognised the voice,--how could he have

mistaken it?--and waited for orders. Now it so fell out, as Mrs. Tibs

ran for the bucket of water, her cap, in the press of business, caught

by a twig, dropped into the well, and eighteen-pence had been that day

expended in decoration. With the assistance of Nanny the maid, Jacob

was to be wound down in the bucket; and, spite of his appeals to the

contrary, with one foot in the tub, and both hands on the rope, he was

lowered, and half soused in water, until he reached the ribbon treasure

of his wife's head. The cap clutched in one hand, he was raised

dripping by the windlass. Each twist brought him nearer to the top,

when, sorrowful to relate, the rope gave way, and Jacob dropped like

lead into the well; a hollow splash was heard in the water, and Mrs

Tibs stood by in speechless agony. At length her grief found vent, and,

pitching her voice to its shrillest note, she cried, "Oh, my cap!"

Alas for Jacob! his head struck with swingeing force against the

bricks, where to this day the impression may be seen: he fell stunned

into the water, and before aid could be obtained, which Mrs. Tibs did

in less than two hours and a half, Jacob was dead!

Now, though Jacob was dead, he was not buried. A good wife is a jewel

to her husband: what must she be to his mortal remains? Biddy's

affection was too great to allow any but herself to be his undertaker,

and she contracted with a jobbing carpenter for a wooden shell. Jacob

never loved luxuries, and the pride of cloth covered not his outside,

gilt nails syllabled not his virtues. Four ploughmen were hired at a

shilling a-head--half-a-crown they had the uncharity to ask--to be his

bearers, and Jacob was lowered to what he had been for years a stranger

to--a house of peace!

* * * * *

In the city of C----, famous for its antiquities, its cathedral,

and its hop-grounds, is a terrace, commanding an extensive view of

a cattle-market and the road beyond; along which road, one sunny

afternoon, a gentleman, or, for fear of mistakes, we will simply call

him an officer, rode on a piebald horse. Passing along, a certain

window on the terrace attracted his attention, and the officer on the

piebald horse kissed his hand to its fair occupant. Now, it so happened

that Miss Lauretta Birdseye was seated at the very next window, in

the very next house to that on which the officer had bestowed his

attentions; and no sooner was the kiss blown, than slam went the

window! A glazier who was passing felt himself a richer man by at least

three and sixpence. No sooner was the window closed, than--curtains

are always in the way--they were drawn aside, and a face was glued to

the glass, all eyes and wire ringlets. Another kiss from the officer

on the piebald horse. The lady nodded her head, and was thinking of

blushing; but as blushes, like hedge-side roses, are vulgar, and glass

so thick, her prudence whispered her not to be wasteful. As the rider

passed, the window was once more opened, and her head thrust out, to

see what to her was indeed a sight,--a man, as she thought, looking at

her,--when what should she behold at the next window but Laura Dyke,

"that impudent slut," as she said, "looking after the men!" Her modesty

was scandalized, and once more the window descended with a crash!

The following morning Miss Lauretta Birdseye knocked a gentle knock

at the dwelling of Mrs. Tibs, her next-door neighbour. The door was

opened by Laura, who filled the double capacity of drudge and niece

to her loving aunt Biddy Tibs. Since the demise of the late lamented

Jacob, she had led a life of widowhood, no man being found rash

enough to venture where Jacob had trod before. Years had passed, and

Biddy Tibs was old and withered, and her skin, like parchment, hung

dry and shrivelled! The fire of her youth was gone, but the embers

still remained: what her tongue had lost in might it had gained in

bitterness; she stabbed a reputation at each word, and mixed her gall

in every household hive! Such was Biddy Tibs; and, though possessed of

no mean wealth, her avarice clung like birdlime to her. Biddy had a

brother, an honest tradesman: his wife died young, and his children,

for he had two, a boy and a girl, were unto him gold and jewels!

Biddy held up her hands, and called it a tempting of Providence. Long

sickness and misfortunes--for brother Dick had friends--and serving

others, placed him in a debtors' prison! Without means, and lacking

food, Dick asked his sister's aid,--a score of pounds to make him a

man again. Biddy with thousands saw him want on;--saw him, sick and

feeble, die, a prisoner for a friend's debt, and his children without a

roof but heaven! Now, whether Biddy's conscience smote her,--and it was

speculated by some that she possessed that luxury,--we know not; but, a

few weeks after, her servant-girl, for some or for no fault, had been

turned out of doors in the middle of the night; and, as her place must

be supplied, pity came to Biddy's aid, and her niece, an interesting

girl of some sixteen years, was sent for. The boy, Teg, less fortunate,

was left to starve; but he was a shrewd youth, fourteen, and had

a squint eye, a sign of a kind of cunning, and, if a jest may be

pardoned, Teg always looked round the corner. Laura luxuriated in the

waggon; Teg, less fortunate, trudged behind, begging as he went his

food. But charity dwells not on the highway, and Teg's food was mostly

unasked; a turnip diet and a hedge-side bed ended not a youth who was

never born to be choked by indigestion.

Mrs. Tibs took in the girl, for she must have a drudge; Teg had a penny

given him, and the door shut in his face. Teg cried first, then got in

a passion, and, like most people in a pet, quarrelled with his bread

and butter; for he flung the penny through one of the parlour windows,

when, as ill luck would have it, it missed the head of his loving

aunt, and ended the days of a cracked tea-cup. Alas! that charity

should bring evil upon the giver! for, taking the window and cup into

consideration, Biddy's charity cost her shillings, when she had only

intended to bestow a penny.

Teg spat upon her threshold, and went, no one cared or knew whither.

* * * * *

Laura was now eighteen, and opened the door to Miss Lauretta Birdseye,

who looked daggers of indignation,--for Laura was a pretty girl,--and

asked if Mrs. Tibs were at home. Laura's meek answer was, "Yes, Miss

Birdseye; will you walk in?" Lauretta did, and sat in the parlour

_tête-à-tête_ with Mrs. Tibs.

Mrs. Tibs was to the city of C---- what Ariadne's thread was to

Theseus,--the leading-string in all amours, all stolen meetings,

all clandestine marriages. Numberless were the wives and husbands,

maids and bachelors, who through her means had held communion sweet

with objects of their choice. Messages and letters were her peculiar

province; in fact, Biddy Tibs was a post-office in her own person; and

these praiseworthy efforts she exercised not altogether from mercenary

motives, though, to do her justice, her pride never stood in the way

where money was offered: but she loved mischief as a cat loves milk,

and would cheat for nothing, rather than not cheat at all. Now, as the

officer on the piebald horse had kissed his hand, as Lauretta thought,

to her, she could not rest until she had consulted old Tibby, for so

she was called. _There_ at all events she should know all about the

officer, and there, no doubt, the officer would inquire after her; and,

seated opposite old Tibby, the conversation began.

"Do you know, Mrs. Tibs," commenced Lauretta, "I am horrorfied to think

what the girls about here are come to; for _my_ part, you know, I hate

the men!"

"I know you do," chimed in Biddy; "your mother tells everybody so: but

them gals about here have no shame!"

"None!" and Lauretta rose with her subject. "As for those Greyham's

girls, I declare a man can't walk for them; and those Miss Highwaters,

they are no better than they should be, I know. Look how they dress!

and we all know what they have to live upon. And those Miss Cartriges,

with their thick ankles, waddling up and down, and looking after the

men: for _my_ part, I never walk without mother's with me, for those

nasty fellows do look at one so."

Here an indistinct "Hem!" escaped Biddy.

"But I never look at them again, like the girls about here! never!"

Biddy looked at her from under her grey eyes, but said nothing.

"Men," continued Miss B. "are such impudent fellows, especially

military men; and, would you think it? an officer on a piebald horse

actually kissed his hand to me yesterday afternoon!"

Old Tibby looked up with a face full of wonder and infidelity.

"Who would have thought it!" ejaculated Lauretta.

Biddy shook her head as she added, "Who, indeed!"

"But I let him know I wasn't one of those sort of people, for I shut

the window in his face, and I saw him kiss his hand again."

"What! after you had shut the window?" and Biddy looked a note of

interrogation in each eye.

"Oh--I--I saw him through the curtains."

"Ah!" was Tibby's echo. "And--well, I couldn't imagine who it could be

for."

"Who what was for?" inquired Miss B.

"A letter."

"A letter!" and Lauretta's voice fluttered.

"Yes," said Tibby; "but, knowing how much _you hated_ the men, I never

thought of you." Saying which, the old woman fumbled in her pocket,

and, taking a three-cornered note from a whole phalanx of others, read

the inscription,--"To Laura."

"People will call me Laura," said Lauretta, as she seized upon the

note, broke the seal, and read as follows:--"Sweet Laura,--When I saw

you at the window, and kissed my hand,"--twice, Mrs. Tibs,--"need I say

how I wished your rosy lips were near me; but, before many hours, I

trust I shall whisper in your ear the love I feel for my pretty little

angel." Lauretta held her breath till she was red in the face in a vain

endeavour to look celestial. The letter continued:--"And if my sweet

Laura will meet me on the 'Mount,' this evening, I will fly with her

from the misery she now suffers, to love and happiness. Should you not

be there, I shall return to the barracks, and put an immediate end to

the existence of your devoted,

"AUGUSTUS GREEN HORN, Royal Rifle Corps."

Miss Birdseye felt twenty years younger at the intelligence,--for a man

must be in earnest when he threatens to kill himself,--and, with a true

tragedy uplifting of the hands, she exclaimed,

"Mrs. Tibs, I wouldn't have a man's death at my door for a world! No,

Augustus----" Further exclamation was cut short by a sort of titter

outside the parlour-door. Now none knew better than Lauretta Birdseye

how well a keyhole afforded sight and sound; and, throwing the door

suddenly open, she burst into the passage. A hurried footstep on the

stair convinced her of what she knew from experience to be a fact, that

by the time the door is opened the listener gets out of sight.

After sundry comments upon the meanness of listening, Lauretta informed

Mrs. Tibs, who sat like a cat watching a mouse, of her Christian

determination to save human life by sacrificing herself, all loth as

she was, to the officer of the piebald horse!

"It was the first time in her life," as she said, "a man had ever made

an appointment with her,"--who shall question the truth?--and her

delicacy yielded to her philanthropy!

Lauretta determined to go,--and, what is more, without her mother.

* * * * *

The "Mount" alluded to in Augustus Green Horn's letter is a hill

planted round with winding hedges; and the lawn on which it stands

forms the principal promenade of all the little gentry, all the

small-consequence people, their pride stuck like a nosegay in their

button-holes, who look in looks of hot-bed consequence the dignity the

tradesman bows to.

It was a dark evening, and the cathedral clock struck nine as Lauretta

Birdseye passed through the gates of the broad walk. Her horror may be

imagined when she saw servant-maids and others,--who had nothing but

their character to live upon, stealing in and out the trees in loving

paces with--Lauretta shut her eyes--the fellows! 'Prentice boys were

here whispering golden precepts in the ears of willing maids, who, as

servant-maids are not supposed to blush, cried "La!" Lauretta hurried

across the green,--doubtless to escape such infamy,--to the foot of

the "Mount;" a man and some "impudent hussy" were coming down the way

she was to go up,--and, or her eyes deceived her, no less a hussy than

Laura Dyke! who, she shuddered to think, had picked up a new man.

Lauretta heard--or fancied she heard--a titter as they passed; and the

man--he looked very like an officer--laughed outright. Lauretta bridled

in the full virginity of three-and-thirty, and walked up the opposite

side! How long she walked up and down, this side and that side, from

the top to the bottom, and sate "like Patience" on one of the seats at

the top, we will not here describe. Suffice it, after waiting two hours

and three-quarters, a boy, who brought the candles, laid hold of her

in the dark, and, spite of her exertions to the contrary,--Lauretta

was strong and bony,--ravished a kiss! Whether the boy's taste was

not matured, or what, we know not, but he did not offer to repeat his

rashness; and Lauretta, who held kissing a vice, after telling him

"what a rude boy he was," and "hoping he would not do it again," walked

very slowly down the "Mount," waited ten minutes at the bottom, and

then, with a heavy heart went home to bed, strengthened in the truth

that men have no taste, and women no shame!

To her gentle summons on the next morning, Biddy herself opened the

door. Lauretta looked, and so did Biddy as she cried, "What you! then

where's that devil's niece of mine? the jade's been out all night,

and----"

"With some of the fellows, take my word for it. Mrs. Tibs, the age we

live in is a disgrace to our sex--look at _me_!"

"Well, if I do," half screamed the old woman, "I do more than the men

do. And haven't you been carried off after all? Oh! oh!" and Biddy

wheezed and chuckled like an old grey ape.

"Ma'm!" and Lauretta looked a vestal, "I am not aware, ma'm, what you

mean."

"What! not of the officer on the piebald horse?" Biddy's countenance

changed, and she turned white with passion as she added, "And that

beggar's slut of mine, I'll teach her to cross me!" But, as her eye

rested upon Lauretta, her face changed again, and pursed into a

thousand wrinkles as she chuckled, "How long did you wait? Oh! oh!" and

she gloated on the wincing countenance of her next-door neighbour.

"Mrs. Tibs!" and Lauretta spoke with the conscious dignity of a

Cleopatra; "I have had a strange thought about Laura, and I am afraid

we have made a little mistake."

"Mistake!" and Biddy's eyes opened like an owl's.

"Yes; for, after the officer kissed his hand, I opened the window, and

there I saw that good-for-nothing girl of yours looking after him, and

he _might_ have blown his filthy kisses to her; and last night,--I

won't be certain,--but I think I saw her coming down the 'Mount' with a

man, and he looked very like my dear Augus----"

The countenance of Biddy fell, and her skin became lead as she gasped,

"Bat that I was not to see it; that letter was for her after all!"

"Instead of _me_!" and Lauretta waxed wrathful as she added, "She heard

us read it through the key-hole. I thought I heard a titter."

Let us not mistake the passion of Biddy Tibs; it was not the ruin of

her niece grieved her,--no! she could get another servant from the

workhouse; but she had fattened on the idea that, Lucretia as Lauretta

was, she had at length stumbled on a Tarquin!--it was wine and oil to

her heart. But, to find herself cozened, to have hatched the wrong

egg!--her fury knew no bounds. She raved, and--we trust, for the

first time in her life--uttered curses, and in so wild a scream that

neighbours came running to her assistance; when, lashed by her own

temper, the amiable Biddy Tibs fell down in a swoon, having burst a

blood-vessel, and was carried to bed.

Miss Birdseye took the opportunity of informing a room-full of

attentive listeners, "that the shameless hussy, Laura Dyke, had

gone off with a man!" and so great was her horror, that, upon the

butcher-boy's bringing the meat, she wouldn't suffer him to come into

the passage, but kept the door ajar, for fear, as she said, "the fellow

should look at her!"

The sick lion was a baby to Biddy Tibs, and, though _she_ "cared for

nobody," everybody cared for her--last will and testament. Her wealth

had been looked upon by the telescopic eyes of an attentive few, who

brought her--as "trifles show respect"--trifles of the least ambitious

nature; and now, when Biddy was ill, and not likely to last above a day

or two, their consideration knew no bounds. One would bring her--they

were so cooling--some currants, on a cabbage leaf; another, a pot

of jam; a third, an invitation,--if she _could_ go, it would do her

so much good. Biddy was not expected to live the day. But--oh, the

ingratitude of this old creature!--ill as she was, her grey eyes looked

like glass upon them, and twinkled with a cunning light; and in the

course of the day she promised, in no less than six different quarters,

the house she lived in, and a legacy beside. How good are they who

wait upon the sick! but, though sick, Biddy, as the saying is, was

"hard to die," and the doctor was justly surprised, who, after giving

her over the preceding night, found her alive the next morning; and,

notwithstanding she had three doctors, in the space of a few weeks, as

her friends justly lamented, Biddy had cheated the devil, and, what was

of still more consequence, themselves of currants and jam.

In due course of time Mrs. Tibs was restored to health; and not only

left the city of C----, but her loving friends, who looked their last

of Biddy Tibs, "who cared for nobody."

* * * * *

We have now to trace the history of Teg Dyke, who, we before said, was

a shrewd boy, and, like most shrewd children taught by bad example,

he became of the bad the worst. Driven from his aunt's door, without

shelter and without food, Teg turned his steps where chance directed,

and, "with Providence for his guide," before night-fall was some miles

on the London road. Begging or stealing his way, as accident and his

necessity compelled, the poor lad found himself sore-footed, hungry,

hopeless, in the outskirts of London, which then, even more than now,

was a huge nursery for crime,--a living chess-board, and circumstance

the player! Teg was ragged, and none would employ him; begging was so

unprofitable there was no living by it. Without food for two whole days

Teg grew desperate, and, tempted by the smell, stole from the door

of a cook-shop a plateful of savoury tit-bits,--the third lost that

morning; and, in the act of tasting, Teg was detected, seized, and,

by a merciful magistrate sent to the House of Correction. Teg, himself

no sinner, was here shut round by sin. Teg stole a meal, urged by the

crying wants of hunger, and he was here mated with those who held

theft a principle; and, like a bur, he clung to vice, since honesty

had cast him down: and, to say truth, Teg found more fellowship in

a jail, more communion, than in the outer world; for here they took

delight in teaching what they knew without a premium. Where else could

Teg have learnt a trade so cheaply? "The cove was quick and willing,"

and, respecting nothing else,--they must have been rogues,--respected

genius! Genius lies hid in corners; and Teg who, had his aunt not

thrust him from her door, might have become merely an honest man, sent

to jail for stealing what none would give him,--food,--became, with a

little practice, an accomplished thief!

Who shall say Biddy was to blame for shutting her door on so much

depravity? Again, was not her wisdom shown in her behaviour to her

niece? Should she have treated her with the least appearance of

kindness, who, driven like a dog, had the wickedness to stain her

threshold with ingratitude? Had she bestowed a sign of goodness upon

her, she had then deserved it. But, no; she had treated her niece like

a beast of burthen, and how had she returned her affection? Biddy

trembled as she thought of it!

Laura's ingratitude must have risen like a ghost upon her sleepless

eye! What must have been her self-accusation when, deserted by

the Honourable Augustus Green Horn, she found herself not only a

mother, but a beggar, halting in the streets, and with a pale and

stricken countenance suing for bread? Then, indeed, must her aunt's

loving-kindness have come in sweet dreams of the past, and whispered

love and gentleness! But Laura had a callous mind, and, strange to

say, never once felt her deprivation, or she would have sunk beneath

it, as an outcast from society, her freshness gone; her beauty, like

an autumn's leaf, seared, and cast forth unto the winds; her heart

bruised, and her hopes destroyed, she crawled at midnight through

the worst streets of London's worst quarter, the scoff of many, the

despised of all, the debauched victim of any, her child a cripple from

its birth, and in the malignity of a fever dead! And yet Laura, midst

all these evils, wept hot tears; but, what proved she must have been

dead to feeling, she never once thought of the motherly kindness of

Biddy Tibs.

* * * * *

Some years had passed since Biddy turned her back upon the city of

C----, and left a name blushing with its good deeds behind her. She now

lived in a small town in the neighbourhood of the metropolis, where

her riches formed the subject of many an alehouse gossip. But, as old

age fell upon her, the vice of gold came with it, and she lived in a

crazy wooden house, without the fellowship of a breathing thing, and

for the best of reasons. No cat could live upon her fare, and hope to

be alive at the end of the month,--no dog was ever seen to stop at a

bone Biddy threw away; her charity never descended to her garden, nor

did the sparrows,--they knew it would be a waste of time;--and thus she

lived without kin and without kind, no servant being so little a feeder

as to live upon abuse. And it was noted as a peculiar fact, that, the

older she grew, the more evil grew her tongue. Characters fell like

grass before her. Young or old, weak or strong, all felt her lash! And

upon one occasion she made such inroads upon the chastity of two maiden

ladies, sisters, and worthy to be so of the far-famed Irish giant,

that, under pretence of tea and scandal, Biddy could not resist the

temptation; she was induced to pay them a visit. A stream ran through

these maiden sisters' grounds; and lifting Biddy in their arms,--a mere

shuttlecock to two such battledores,--she was gently dropt into the

water, where she enjoyed, what she had been for years a stranger to, a

comfortable wash. So runs the story; and Biddy, vowing vengeance and

the law, which last she obtained, for Biddy was rich, added so much by

her daily tales to their reputations, that in the end she remained sole

mistress of the field,--the maiden ladies leaving Biddy and the town

behind them.

It was a cold November night, the wind howled, and the rain beat

against the windows as Biddy Tibs sat in her room; the night was

without moon or stars, and the sky looked black as the old woman

peered through the window into the garden, and the fields at the back

of her house; the rain fell in streams, and the wind moaned like a

human voice. For an instant she saw, or thought she saw, a light

shoot across the garden. She looked, and looked, and--she closed the

shutters, and sat closer to the fire; and, rocking herself over it in

her chair, mumbled, "Blind eyes that I have!--how should a light get

there? I could see in the dark once like a cat; but now--" and the old

woman rocked over the fire, with her head bent double to the grate. A

rushlight with a long snuff burnt on the table, and the room looked

shadowy and full of forms.

'Twas midnight; but still Biddy sat within her chair, and rocked, and

rocked, and looking at the fire, as cinder after cinder blackened in

the grate, she muttered, and spoke as to herself, "They're none of

my getting,--none of my flesh! Didn't I feed, clothe her?--she ran

away from my roof, and let her want. A night like this will break her

spirit, and teach her what it is to be without one--'twill----" She

paused suddenly, and bent her ear as in the act of listening; her

grey eyes gazed round the room as she said, "It sounded like a door

creaking, or a bolt;" and again she listened. The candle burnt dimly on

the table, and the embers grew darker and darker as Biddy spread her

hands to catch their warmth, and muttered, "At night, one is full of

fancies; it's only the wind;" and, communing with herself, she added,

"I've paid them back their own, and given them lies for lies, and they

hate me for it: but they fear me, too,--that's one comfort,--for they

know I'm rich. Rich--ha! ha! there's a sly cupboard there," and she

pointed to a recess in the wall, where a concealed door stood half

ajar; "there's a nest holds more eggs than they think for; and if I had

liked--but the boy is none of mine--the boy--" A draught of air as from

an opened door made her look round. She sat frozen to her chair as the

figure of a man darkened in the room; a second, masked like his fellow,

stood in the shadow of the door; and Biddy, with a fixed stare, looked

like a corpse, blue-lipped and hollow-eyed. Her chair shook under her,

and her voice came not, though her mouth opened, and her throat worked

as if to scream! The man moved a step; it was electric! Biddy started

to her feet, and with a hollow voice cried "Murder!" The ruffian with

a curse darted at her throat, and, in a hissing whisper between his

teeth, cried, "Quiet, you hag, or I'll settle you!" Biddy, old and

feeble as she was, fastened with both hands upon his, and struggled

in his grip. The mask fell from his face, and with starting eyes

she looked at what seemed to scorch them, uttered a choking scream,

and--Let us draw the curtain.

The next morning speculation was busy that at so late an hour the

shutters of Mrs. Tibs's house remained unopened; she was an early

riser, and now 'twas noon; their knocking obtaining no answer, the door

was forced; and in the back room they found Biddy Tibs upon the ground,

dead, with a handkerchief knotted round her throat. The small cupboard

in the recess was thrown wide open, and her drawers forced; and it was

soon spread over the town that Biddy Tibs was murdered!

A few weeks had passed, and anxious and expectant thousands were seen

moving in a huge mass on the road to Tyburn. A man was to be hanged!

And, as the people have so little recreation, of course the roads were

thronged with delighted crowds, all hastening to the "gallows-tree."

Women yelled their execrations at the head of the pale and shaking

culprit, for he had murdered one of their own sex; and clapped and

shouted as the cart drew from under his clinging feet. Men, "as

it was only for a woman," "thought hanging too bad," and merely

hooted, groaned, and hissed. Indeed, so popular was the excitement,

that ladies--_real_ ones, for they paid guineas for a sight on a

waggon,--waved their handkerchief, and wondered such wretches were

suffered to exist.

As the last struggle of the swinging corpse left him stiff and dead, a

half-clothed and haggard woman asked, in a hoarse and shaking voice,

the name of the murderer.

"What, that 'ere?" was the reply, and a finger pointed to the stripling

figure of the hanging man; "he as murdered his aunt?--why Slashing

Bill, _alias_ Teg Dyke."

A scream--a wild and shrieking scream rang through the air, and Laura

dropt senseless.

The bulk of Mrs. Tibs's property came to her niece, but disease had

left her scarce a shadow of herself. Her eyes looked leaden! Want,

sorrow, and dissipation had writ their blight upon her, and, at the end

of six months,--an apothecary having been frequent in his visits,--poor

Laura was no more!

How different had been the fate of Biddy Tibs had she lent her brother

Dick the score of pounds! Teg would have been an honest tradesman like

himself, Laura a tradesman's wife, Biddy had lived for years, and the

pillow of her death-bed been smoothed by the hands of loving friends.

But, as it was, her brother died from want; Biddy fell, strangled by

her nephew's hand. He had been seen in a taproom, where the wealth of

the old woman who lived at the wooden house was talked of; part was

traced to him; his companion confessed; and Teg died a felon's death;

Laura, from the effects of want and dissipation!

Biddy's property was the subject of a law-suit between two of her

distant relations, which, to the best of our knowledge, remains

unsettled to this day!

In a village churchyard in the neighbourhood of London the grass grows

rank about a tombstone which is still pointed at as the grave of

"_Biddy Tibs, who cared for nobody!_"

H. HOLL.

THE REGATTA.--No. I.

RUN ACROSS CHANNEL.

Once more upon the dark blue water! It is noon,--the sun shines

gloriously; the sea, undulated by a slight swell from the Atlantic,

falls gently on the beach, or breaks upon the beetling precipice which

forms the headland of Rathmore. The wind has almost "sighed itself

to rest," and, coming across the sparkling surface of the ocean in

partial eddies, ruffles it for a moment and passes on. Fainter and

fainter still,--nothing but an occasional cat's-paw is visible, far as

the helmsman's eye can range. The cutter has no longer steerage way;

the folds of the ample mainsail flap heavily as the yacht rolls in the

run of the tide, which, setting rapidly to the eastward, drifts the

unmanageable vessel along a chain of rocky islands, severed by some

tremendous convulsion from the main, to which they had been originally

united.

A more magnificent and a more varied scene than that visible from

the yacht's deck could not be imagined. A-beam lay the grey ruins of

Dunluce, lighted up by a flood of sunshine; the shores of Portrush,

with its scattered bathing-houses, and the highlands of Donegal at the

extreme distance, appeared astern. On the left was an expanse of ocean,

boundless, waveless, beautiful: the sea-gull was idly resting on the

surface, the puffin and the cormorant diving and appearing continually;

while a league off a man-of-war brig, covered to the very trucks with

useless canvass, lay as if she rode at anchor. Beyond the motionless

vessel, the Scottish coast was clearly defined; the bold outline of

the shores of Isla presented itself: and, half lost in the haze, the

cone of Jura showed yet more faintly. On the starboard bow the Giant's

Causeway rose from the water, and with a glass you could trace its

unequal surface of basaltic columns; while right ahead Bengore and

Rathlin completed this mighty panorama.

Nor was the cutter from which this scene was viewed an object void of

interest. She was a vessel of some seventy tons, displaying that beauty

of build and equipment for which modern yachts are so remarkable. The

low black hull was symmetry itself, while the taunt spars and topmast

displayed a cloud of sail, which at a short distance would appear to

require a bark of double the size to carry. Above deck everything was

simple and ship-shape; below, space had been accurately considered,

and not an inch was lost. Nothing could surpass the conveniency of the

cabins, or the elegance with which the fittings and furniture were

designed.

Four hours passed,--not a breath of wind stirred: a deader calm I

never witnessed. We drifted past the Causeway, and, leaving the

dangerous rock of Carrickbannon between us and the flying bridge of

Carrick-a-rede, found ourselves at five o'clock rolling in the sound of

Rathlin, with Churchbay and Ballycastle on either beam.

There is not in calm or storm a nastier piece of water than that which

divides the island from the main. Its currents are most rapid; and,

from the peculiar inequality of the bottom, in calms there is a heavy

and sickening roll, and in storms a cross and dangerous sea. Without

a leading wind, or plenty of it, a vessel finds it difficult to stem

the current; and, in making the attempt with a light breeze, a man is

regularly hung up until a change of tide enables him to slip through.

Judging from the outline of Rathlin, this island must have been

originally disparted from the main; and the whole bottom of the sound

evinces volcanic action. Nothing can be more broken and irregular than

the under surface. At one cast the lead rests at ten, and at the next

it reaches thirty fathoms. Beneath, all seems rifted rocks and endless

caverns, and easily accounts for the short and bubbling sea that flows

above. Everything considered, the loss of life occasioned by the

passage of this sound is trifling. For weeks together all communication

with the main land is frequently totally interrupted; and, until the

weather moderates, the hardiest islander will not dare to venture out.

But as the sea seldom gives up its dead, and the furious under-currents

sweep them far from the place where they perished, many a stranger has

here met his doom, and his fate remained a mystery for ever.

Still the calm continued, the tide was nearly done, and we had the

comfortable alternative of anchoring in Churchbay or drifting back

"to the place from whence we came." It would have vexed a saint, had

there been one on board. Calculating on a speedy and certain passage,

we had postponed our departure until the last hour. On Monday the

regatta would commence; and we should have been in the Clyde the day

before. A breeze for half an hour would have carried us clear of the

tides, and liberated us from this infernal sound; and every man on

board had whistled for it in vain. Dinner was announced, and, wearied

with rolling and flapping, we briskly obeyed the summons. I paused with

my foot within the companion: the master's eye was turned to the brig

outside us; mine followed in the same direction.

"It's coming--phew!" and he gave a low and lengthened whistle, as if

the tardy breeze required encouragement to bring it on. The light duck

in the brig's royals fluttered for a moment, and then blew gently out;

the top-gallant sails filled; presently the lower canvass told that

the wind had reached it. The vessel has steerage way again; the breeze

steals on, curling over the surface of the water, and in a few minutes

we too shall have it.

On it came: the short and lumbering motion of the yacht ceased; she

heeled gently over, and the table swung steadily as with increasing

velocity the vessel displaced the water, and flung it in sparkling

sheets from her bows. Next minute the master's voice gave comfortable

assurance from the skylight--"The breeze was true, and before sunset

there would be plenty of it."

Those who prefer the security of the king's highway to breasting "the

pathless deep," build upon the certainty with which their journeyings

shall terminate, and argue that there is safer dependence in trusting

to post-horses than to the agency of "wanton winds." No doubt there

is; the worst delay will arise from a lost shoe or a broken trace.

The traveller has few contingencies to dread; he will reach the Bear

for breakfast, and the Lion for dinner; and, if he be a borrower from

the night, he will be surely at the Swan, his halting-place, ere the

town-clock has ceased striking and the drum has beaten its _reveille_.

To me that very regularity is not to be endured; the wheels grate over

the same gravel that the thousand which preceded them have pressed

before; the same hedge, the same paling meets the eye; there hangs the

well-remembered sign; that waiter has been there these ten years,--ay,

the same laughing barmaid, and obsequious boots, and bustling hostler,

all with a smile of welcome, cold, mechanical, and insincere; not even

the novelty of a new face among them,--all rooted to their places like

the milestones themselves. Pish! one wearies of the road; it has no

danger, no interest, no excitement. Give me the deep blue water; its

very insecurity has charms for me. Is it calm?--mark yon cloud-bank in

the south! There is wind there, for a thousand! It comes, but right

ahead. No matter; my life for it, it will shift ere morning. Let it but

change a point or two, and we shall lie our course. It comes--and fair

at last, and, rushing forward with augmenting speed, the gallant vessel

disparts the sparkling waters, and the keel cleaves the wave that keel

never cleft before; and objects fade, and objects rise, while, "like

a thing of life," the good ship hurries on. Cold must that spirit be

which owns no elemental influence, nor feels buoyant as the bark that

bears him onward to his destination!

As dinner ended, the altered motion of the yacht announced that we had

rounded Ushet Point, and left the shelter of the island. We were now

in the channel which separates Rathlin from the Scotch coast, and the

cutter felt the rising swell as her sharp bows plunged in the wave,

and flung it aside as if in scorn. The hissing noise with which the

smooth and coppered sides slipped through the yielding waters marked

our increased velocity. Yet we experienced little inconvenience; on the

morocco-cushioned sofa even a Roman might have reclined in comfort.

To every movement of the yacht the table gave an accommodating swing:

fragile porcelain and frail decanter remained there in full security;

and, though the wine-glass was filled to the brim, the rosewood surface

on which it stood was unstained by a single drop. Human luxury cannot

surpass that which a well-appointed yacht affords.

When we left the cabin for the deck, a new scene and a new sky were

presented. Evening was closing in; the light blue clouds of morning

were succeeded by a dark and lowering atmosphere; the wind was

freshening, and it came in partial squalls, accompanied by drizzling

rain. Rathlin, and the Irish highlands were fading fast away, while

the tower on the Mull of Cantire flung its sparkling light over the

dark waters, as if soliciting our approach. Two or three colliers we

had passed, were steering for the Clyde close astern; while a Glasgow

steamer, bound for Derry, came puffing by, and in a short time was lost

in the increasing haze.

Is there on earth or sea an object of more interest or beauty than

that lone building which relieves the benighted voyager from his

uncertainty? In nothing has modern intelligence been more usefully

displayed than in the superior lighting of the British seas. Harbour,

and rock, and shoal, have each their distinguishing beacon; and, when

he once sees the chalk cliffs of his native island, the returning

mariner may count himself at home. Light after light rises from the

murky horizon: there, flaring with the brilliancy of a fixed star;

here, meteor-like, shooting out its stream of fire, and momentarily

disappearing. On, nothing doubting, speeds the adventurous sailor,

until the anchor falls from the bows, and the vessel "safely rides."

The light upon Cantire burns steadily, and in moderate weather it is

visible at the distance of fifteen miles. It stands high, being upwards

of two hundred and thirty feet above the level of the sea. We skirted

the base of the cliff it occupies, and steered for the little island

of Sanna. Momentarily the sea rose, the night grew worse, the dim and

hazy twilight faded away, the wind piped louder, and the rain came down

in torrents. When the weather looked threatening the cutter had been

put under easy canvass, and now a further reduction was required. The

mainsail was double-reefed, the third jib shifted for a smaller one,

all above and below "made snug," and on we hurried.

The night was dark as a witch's cauldron when, rounding Sanna, we

caught the Pladda lights, placed on opposite towers, and bearing

from each other N. and S. It was easy to discover that we had got

the shelter of the land, as the pitching motion of the yacht changed

to a rushing velocity; but, though we found a smoother sea, the wind

freshened, the rain fell with unabated violence, and the breeze,

striking us in sudden gusts as it roared through the openings of the

islands, half-flooded the deck with a boiling sea that broke over the

bows, or forced itself through the lee-scuppers. Anxious to end our

dreary navigation, "Carry on!" was the word, and light after light

rose, and was lost successively. We passed the lights on Cumray; and,

presently, that on Toward, in Dumbarton, minutely revolving, burst

on the sight after its brief eclipse with dazzling brilliancy; while

from the opposite shores of the Frith the beacons of Air and Trune

were now and then distinctly visible. Our last meteor guide told that

our midnight voyage was nearly ended, and the pier-light of Greenock

enabled us to feel our way through a crowd of shipping abreast the

town. "Stand by, for'ard!--let go!" The anchor fell, the chain went

clattering through the hawse-hole; in a few seconds the cutter swung

head to wind, and there we were, safe as in a wet dock!

We descended to the cabin, first discarding our outward coverings at

the foot of the companion ladder. We came down like mermen, distilling

from every limb, water of earth and sky in pretty equal proportions;

but, glory to the Prophet and Macintosh! Flushing petticoats,

pea-jackets, sou'westers, and India-rubber boots, proved garments of

such excellent endurance, notwithstanding a three hours' pitiless

pelting of spray and rain, that we shuffled off our slough, and showed

in good and dry condition, as if we had the while been snug in the

royal mail, or, drier yet, engaged at a meeting of the Temperance

Society. And then came supper,--they _can_ cook in yachts!--and we

had run ninety miles since dinner; and that lobster salad, and those

broiled bones, with the joyous prospect which bottles of varied tint

upon yonder locker-head present, all would make--ay--a teetotaller

himself forswear his vows for ever.

All is snug for the night. The men have shifted their wet clothes,

and, as their supper is preparing, they crowd around the galley fire;

and jest and "laugh suppressed" are audible. What a change these few

brief minutes have effected! To the dreary darkness of a flooded deck,

the luxury of this lighted and luxurious cabin has succeeded. The

wind whistles through the shrouds, the rain falls spattering on the

skylight,--what matter?--_we_ heed them not; they merely recall the

discomfort of the past, which gives a heightened zest to the pleasure

of the passing hour. On rolled "the sandman" Time! the dial's finger

silently pointing at his stealthy course, and warning us to separate.

Presently every sound below was hushed. All felt that repose which

comfort succeeding hardship can best produce. In my own cabin I

listened for a brief space to the growling of the storm; sleep laid his

"leaden mace upon my lids;" I turned indolently in my cot, muttering

with the honest Boatswain in the "Tempest,"

"Blow till thou burst thy wind, if room enough!"

and next moment was "fast as a watchman."

THE KEY OF GRANADA.

"Many of the families of Ghar el Milah are descendants of the Spanish

Moors; and, though none of them have retained any portion of the

language of Spain, yet many still possess the keys of their houses in

Granada and other towns."--_Sir Grenville Temple's "Barbary States."_

I.

I keep the key,--though banish'd

From blest Granada long,

Our glorious race has vanish'd,

Or lives alone in song.

Though strangers in Alhambra

May, idly musing, gaze

On all the dying splendours

That round her ruins blaze;

Those towers had once a home for me,

And still I keep the sacred key!

II.

Alas! my eyes may never

That lovely land behold,

Where many a gentle river

Flows over sands of gold.

The sparkling waves of Darro

For me may flow in vain;

No Moorish foot may wander

In lost, but cherish'd Spain!

Yet once her walls had room for me,

And still I keep the sacred key!

III.

There often comes in slumber

A vision sad and clear,

When through Elvira's portals

Abdalla's hosts appear.

The keys of lost Granada

To other hands are given,

And all the power of ages

One fatal hour has riven!

No name,--no home remains for me,--

But still I keep the sacred key!

GLORVINA, THE MAID OF MEATH.

(_Concluded from Vol. I. page 619._)

The board was spread. He sat at it abstracted for a time. The dead

silence of the place at last recalled him to himself. He was alone! He

sprang from his seat, and darted breathlessly to the outward door! No

one was in sight. Niall heaved a sigh that seemed to rend his breast,

as he wished that the eyes which looked in vain were closed for ever.

He returned to the table of repast; he took a small chain of hair from

his neck; he laid it on the cover that was before him: he approached

the door again. But the keepsake, that had never left its seat for many

a year, was too precious to him to be so discarded. He returned: he

lifted it, and, thrusting it into his bosom, pressed it again and again

to his heart, then again and again to his lips, drinking his own tears,

that fell fast and thick upon the loved and about-to-be-relinquished

token; he looked at it as well as he could through his blinded eyes,

convulsively sobbing forth the name of Glorvina. He made one effort,

as it were a thing which called for all the power of resolution, to

achieve that he desired to accomplish; and, violently casting the gift

of Glorvina down again, he tore himself away!

Oh, the feet which retrace in disappointment the path which they trod

in hope, how they move! Through how different a region do they bear

us--and yet the same! Niall's limbs bore him from the retreat of

Glorvina as if they acted in obedience to a spirit repugnant to his

own. He cast his eyes this way and that way to divert his thoughts from

the subject that engrossed them, and fix them upon the beauties of the

landscape; but there was no landscape there. Mountain, wood, torrent,

river, lake, were obliterated! Nothing was present but Glorvina.

Rich she stood before him in the bursting bloom of young womanhood!

Features, complexion, figure, voice--everything changed; and, oh, with

what enhancing! Her eyes, in which, four years before, sprightliness,

frankness, kindness, and unconsciousness used to shine,--what looked

from them now? New spirits! things of the soul which time brings forth

in season. Expression,--that face of the heart,--the thousand things

that it told in the moment or two that Niall looked upon the face

of Glorvina! A faintness came over the young man; his limbs seemed

suddenly to fail him; he felt as if his respiration were about to stop;

he stood still, he staggered, utter unconsciousness succeeded.

Niall opened his eyes. Slowly recollection returned. He was aware

that he had fainted, but certainly not in the place where he was

reclining,--a bank a few paces from the road. The repulse he had

met with from Glorvina returned to his recollection in full force.

He sighed, and thrust his hand into his bosom to press it to his

overcharged heart. His hand felt something there it did not expect to

meet! It drew forth the token of Glorvina! Niall could scarce believe

his vision. He looked again and again at the precious gift; he pressed

it to his lips; he thrust it into his breast; snatched it thence to

his lips again, and looked at it again; divided between incredulity

and certainty, past agony and present rapture. He looked about him;

no one was in sight. "How came it here?" exclaimed he to himself.

"Glorvina! Glorvina!" he continued, in tender accents, "was it thy

hand that placed it here? Hast thou been near me when I knew it not?

Didst thou follow me in pity,--perhaps, O transporting thought! in

kindness,--guessing from the untasted repast and the abandoned pledge

that Niall had departed in despair? If so, then art thou still my own

Glorvina! then shalt thou yet become the wife of Niall!"

"The wife of Niall!" repeated the echo, and echo after echo took it up.

Niall listened till the last reverberation died away.

"The wife of Niall!" he reiterated, in a yet louder voice, in the tone

of which exultation and joy were mingled.

"The wife of Niall!" cried the voice of the unseen lips.

"Once more, kind spirit!" exclaimed Niall; "once more!"

"Once more!" returned the echo.

"The wife of Niall!" ejaculated the youth, exerting his voice to its

utmost capacity; but he heard not the voice of the echo. The arms of

Glorvina were clasped about his neck, and her bright face was laid upon

his cheek!

"Companion of my childhood!--friend!--brother!" she exclaimed; and

would have gone on, but checked herself, looked in his eyes for a

moment, her forehead and her cheeks one blush, and buried her face in

his breast.

"Glorvina! Glorvina!" was all that Niall could utter in the intervals

of the kisses which he printed thick upon her shining hair. "Glorvina!

Glorvina!"

"Come!" said Glorvina, with a voice of music such as harp never yet

awakened; "come!" and straight led the way to her retreat.

Slow was their gait as they walked side by side, touching each other.

They spake not many words for a time. With the youth all language

seemed to be concentred in the name of Glorvina; in the name of Niall

with the maid. Suddenly Niall paused.

"How many a time," exclaimed Niall, "when I have been miles and miles

away, have I thought of the days when we used to walk thus! only my

arm used then to be around your waist, while yours was laid upon my

shoulder. Are we not the same Niall and Glorvina we were then?" The

maid paused in her turn. She hesitated, but the next second her arm

was on the shoulder of Niall; Niall's arm was again the girdle of

Glorvina's waist. Language began to flow. Glorvina related minutely, as

maiden modesty would permit her, the cause of her secluded retirement

and reported death. As she spake, Niall drew her closer to him, and

she shrank not; he leaned his cheek to hers, and she drew not away;

he drank her breath as it issued in thrilling melody from her lips,

and she breathed it yet more freely; she ceased, and those lips were

in contact with his own, and not compulsively. Simultaneously Niall

and Glorvina paused once more; they gazed--they cast a glance of

thankfulness to heaven--gazed again--and, speechless and motionless,

stood locked in one another's arms.

"Glorvina!" cried a voice.

The maid started and turned. Malachi stood before his daughter, the

bard behind him.

"Niall!" said Malachi. The youth was at the feet of the king. In a

moment the maid was there also. Malachi stood with folded arms, looking

thoughtfully and somewhat sternly down upon the prostrate pair. No one

broke silence for a time.

The bard was the first to speak.

"Malachi," said the bard, "what is so strong as destiny? Whose speed is

so swift? Whose foot is so sure? Who can outrace it, or elude it? Thy

stratagem is found out. The Dane asks for thy fair child, although thou

told'st him she was in the custody of the tomb. If thou showest her

not to him, he will search for her. Niall has come in time. The voice

of the prophetic Psalter has called him hither; he has come to espouse

thy fair child; a bride thou must present her to the Dane. In the feast

must begin the fray; by the fray will the peace be begotten that shall

give safety and repose to the land. Malachi, reach forth thy hands!

Lift thy children from the earth, and take them to thy bosom; and bow

thy head in reverence to Fate!"

The aged king obeyed. He raised Glorvina and Niall from the earth; he

placed his daughter's hand in that of the youth: he extended his arms;

they threw themselves into them.

* * * * *

Bright shone the hall of Malachi at the bridal feast in honour of the

nuptials of Niall and Glorvina; rapturously it rang with the harp and

with the voice of many a minstrel; but the string of the bard was

silent; his thoughts were not at the board; his absent looks rebuked

the hour of mirth and gratulation; watchfulness was in them, and

anxiety, and alarm. Still the mirth halted not, nor slackened. The

king was joyous; on the countenances of Niall and Glorvina sat the

smile of supreme content; the spirits of the guests were quickening

fast with hilarity; and dancing eyes saluted every new visitor as he

entered,--for the gates of the castle were thrown open to all. Suddenly

the eyes of the whole assembly were turned upon the bard. He had

started from his seat, and stood in the attitude of one who listens.

"Hark!" he cried. He was obeyed. The uproar of the banquet subsided

into breathless attention; yet nothing was heard, though the bard stood

listening still. The feast was slowly renewed.

"Cormack," said Malachi, in a tone of mingled good-nature and sarcasm,

"what did you call upon us to listen to?"

"The sound of steps that come!" replied the bard with solemnity, and

slowly resuming his seat.

"It is the steps of thy fingers along the strings then!" rejoined the

king. "Come!--strike! A joyful strain!"

"No joyful strain I strike," said the bard, "till the land shall be

free from him whose footsteps now are turned towards thy threshold, and

shall cross it ere the feast is half gone by."

"No joyful strain thou'lt strike till then!" said the king. "Come, take

thy harp, old man, and show thy skill; and play not the prophet when it

befits thee to be the reveller!"

The bard responded not by word, action, or look, to the command or

request of Malachi. He sat, all expectation, on the watch for something

that his ear was waiting for.

"Nay, then," said the king, "an thou wilt not play the bard, whose

office 'tis, thy master will do it for thee!" and Malachi pushed back

his seat, and reached to the harp, which stood neglected beside the

bard: he drew it towards him; his breast supported it; he extended his

arms, and spread his fingers over the strings. "Now!" said Malachi.

"Now!" said the bard, starting up again, as the harsh blast of a

trumpet arrested the hand of the king on the point of beginning the

strain. Malachi started up too. All were upon their feet; and every eye

was fixed upon the portal of the hall, beneath which stood Turgesius

with a group of attendants.

"He is come!" said the bard. "The feast is not crowned without the

fray! He is come!" he repeated, as Malachi strode from his place, and

with extended hand approached the visitor, who smilingly bowed to his

welcome, and followed him to the head of the board, round which he cast

his eyes till they alighted upon Glorvina. Malachi pointed to the seat

beside himself, as Niall half gave place.

"No!--there!" said Turgesius, pointing to the side of Glorvina. He

approached the place where she sat with a cheek now as white as her

nuptial vest; the person next her mechanically resigned his seat, and

the rover took it.

"The cup!" cried Turgesius. It was handed to him. With kindling eyes he

lifted it, holding it for a second or two at full length; then, turning

his gaze upon the bride, he gave "The health of Glorvina!"

"Glorvina!--Glorvina and Niall!" rang around the board. The Dane

started to his feet, snatching the cup from his lips, that were about

to touch it; and lifting it commandingly on high, "Glorvina!" he

repeated, casting a glance of haughty defiance round him; and, taking

a deep draught, with another glance at the company, sat down, riveting

his eyes upon the bride.

The cloud of wrath overcast the bright face of Niall as he watched the

licentious Dane. Frequently did he start, as upon the point of giving

way to some rash impulse, and then immediately check himself. Now and

then he looked towards the king, and turned away in disappointment to

see that Malachi thought of nothing but the feast, and noted not the

daring gaze which the rover kept bending on his child. He looked round

the board, and saw with satisfaction that he was not the only one in

whom festivity had given place to indignation; and, with the smile

of fixed resolve, he interchanged glances with eyes lighted up with

spirits like his own.

Turgesius plied the cup; and, as he drained it, waxed more and more

audacious. Regardless of the sufferings of the fair maid who sat

lost in confusion, he praised aloud the charms of Glorvina, and gave

utterance to the unholy passion with which they had inspired him.

Nor had he arrived at the limits of his presumption yet. He caught

her delicate hand, and held it in spite of her gentle, remonstrating

resistance. He dared to raise it to his lips, and hold it there,

covering it with kisses, till, the dread of consequences lost in the

dismay of outraged modesty, the royal maid by a sudden effort wrested

it from him, at the same time springing upon her feet with the design

of flying from the board; but the bold stranger, anticipating her, was

up as soon as she, and, grasping her by the rich swell of her white

arms, constrained her from departing.

"No!" cried Turgesius, bending his insolent gaze upon the now burning

face and neck of Glorvina. "No! enchanting one! Thus may not the Dane

be served by the woman that inflames his soul with love," and at the

same moment attempted to throw his arms around her.

"Desist, robber!" thundered forth the voice of Niall, and, at the same

moment, a goblet directed by his unerring aim stretched the Dane upon

the floor. Outcry at once took place of revelry. The attendants of

Turgesius, baring their weapons, rushed in the direction of Niall, but

stopped short at the sight of treble the number of their glaives waving

around him. They looked not for such hinderance. Since the Dane had

got the upper hand, the Irish youth had been forbidden the practice or

wearing of arms. They stopped, and stood irresolute. The voice of the

king restored order.

Malachi had hitherto sat strangely passive. He noted not the distress

of Glorvina, the audacity of the Dane, or the gathering wrath of Niall;

but the act of violence which had just taken place aroused him from his

abstraction. He rose; and, extending his hand, commanded in a voice of

impressive authority that the sword should be sheathed, and the seats

resumed. Then calling to his attendants, he pointed to his prostrate

guest, and signed to them to raise him, assisting them himself, and

giving directions that he should be conveyed to his own chamber, and

laid upon his own couch. This being performed, he motioned to Glorvina

to withdraw from the hall, which she precipitately did, followed by

her bridemaidens and other female friends, and casting an anxious,

commiserating look upon Niall, whose wonder at the meaning of such a

farewell was raised to astonishment, when, turning towards the king, he

encountered the stern, repelling, and indignant gaze of Malachi.

"Niall!" said the king, in a voice of suppressed rage, "depart our

castle! Depart our realms! Withdraw from all alliance with our house!

Our honour has been stained by thee to-night in thy unparalleled

violation of the rights of hospitality. This roof never witnessed

before now, the person of a guest profaned by a blow from its master,

or from its master's friend. Consummation awaits not the rites that

have been performed to-day. The obligation of those rites shall be

dissolved! We mingle blood no further! Thou art henceforward an

alien--an outlaw; and at the peril of thy life thou crossest, after

this, our threshold, or the confines of our rule!" So saying, Malachi

resumed his seat, and sat pointing in the direction of the door. Niall

stood for a moment or two without attempting to move. His countenance,

his limbs, his tongue seemed frozen by dismay and despair. At length

he clasped his hands, and lifting them along with his eyes, to heaven,

turned slowly from the king, and strode from the bridal feast.

Niall felt his cloak twitched as he issued from the portal. It was the

bard, who had quitted the hall before him, and remained waiting for the

young man.

"Niall," said the reverend man, "wilt thou now believe in the song of

Destiny? From the knowledge of the past confide for the future. Hear

what the Psalter saith:--'_The Dane shall rise from the couch, and

shall sit at the feast again; but in the fray that shall follow that

feast, he shall fall to rise no more._' The mountains are lofty in

Moran, my son, where Slieve Dannard sits, with his feet in the sea, his

head in the cloud, and his back to the lake of the lonely shieling.

Turn thy steed thither! Lo, the sound of his feet! He is coming to

receive thee."

One on horseback appeared, leading another steed.

"Mount," cried the bard, "and be ready."

Niall was in the saddle. "Glorvina!" was all he could utter as he wrung

the old man's hand. Several others on horseback came up. They were the

friends of Niall, who had come to the bridal feast.

"Come!" cried one of them.

"Not yet," interposed the bard. "There are more to join you. Hear you

not their horses' feet? You cannot be too many in company. Listen!"

Another came up, and another.

"Spurs!" exclaimed the old man; and the band of friends were in motion,

and away. Little they spoke,--merely what sufficed to concert a plan

for future meetings; and they dropped off one by one as the destination

of each called him from the common track, till three of the party were

all that now remained together,--Niall and two others.

"We may progress softly now," remarked one of his companions. "We have

crossed the boundaries of Meath, and half an hour will bring my lord to

the place where he is to rest."

In the voice of the speaker Niall recognised that of one of the oldest

of Malachi's household.

"The place where I am to rest?" echoed Niall.

"Yes, my lord," rejoined the other. "It has been prepared for you; nor

must you leave it till night sets in again. You will then forward with

all speed till you are met by those who expect you, and will conduct

you to where you must repose again. It will take you four nights to

reach your place of destination, whither I precede you."

"They who foresaw, have provided," said Niall, sighing.

"They have," responded the other.

"Had I been gifted with their reach of sight," exclaimed the young man,

"I should have provided too, and Glorvina were now at my side! I would

not have waited for the bridal feast! I would have borne her away the

moment the holy man had blessed us."

No further word was uttered, till, suddenly striking down a path that

belted a small wood, they came all at once upon a hut, at the door of

which they halted.

"Alight!" said Niall's guide.

Niall alighted, but the other kept his saddle; though his companion,

the third of the riders, had dismounted, unobserved by Niall till now.

"And now, my lord, good night!" said he that remained on horseback.

"The door opens, and light streams from it. You see you are expected. I

leave one to wait upon you while I go forward to make preparations for

your further progress. So, again good night!" added he, putting spurs

to his steed.

Niall entered the hut, the hearth of which was blazing. He threw

himself into a seat before the fire, and looked around him. The door of

an inner apartment was open. He saw that a couch was ready for him,

and such a one as he could hardly expect to meet with, in such an abode.

"Come in!" said the owner of the hut,--an aged woman. "Come in!"

"What's the matter?" inquired Niall.

"Thy companion stands without," replied the dame, "and will not come

in. Come in!" she repeated, but with no better success.

"Come in, friend," said Niall. "Nay," added he, "there is no need of

ceremony here;" and rising, went to the door, and reached his hand

to the other, who hesitatingly took it. "Whoever thou art, we are

companions for the time!" exclaimed Niall; "and, if they have no other

couch for thee, I will even give thee share of my own!"

Niall felt that his companion trembled as he pulled towards him the

hand that he held. A seat, hastily placed, received the figure, which,

but for the now supporting arms of Niall, would have fallen. Niall

quickly threw open the folds of an ample cloak to give the owner air.

What was his amazement to discover the form of a female! His heart

stopped for a second or two at the thought that flashed across him!

Another moment decided a question almost as momentous to him as that

of life or death, when, removing a hat that was slouched over the face

of the stranger, the bridegroom beheld his bride! Niall gazed upon his

Glorvina half-swooning in his arms!

"Revive!--revive, my loved one! My own!--my bride!--my wife!--my

Glorvina!--revive!" rapidly ejaculated Niall. "Not so bright breaks

the sun out of the storm, as thou, sweetest, my vision now! Where, a

moment ago, could I have found, in my soul, hope--comfort--anything

that belongs to happiness?--and, lo! now it overflows, full beyond

measure with content--bliss--transport! Revive, my Glorvina! Speak to

me! Thy form is in my arms! They feel that they surround thee, yet

with a doubt. Assure me 'tis thyself! Pour on my entranced ear the

music of thy rich voice! Convince me that it is indeed reality!--no

dream--no vision--but Glorvina--my own Glorvina encircled within my

arms--enfolded to the breast of Niall!"

Half-suspended animation became suddenly restored; the blood rushed to

the face and neck of the fair bride; she made an effort as if she would

be released from the embrace in which she sat locked, but it resisted

her. She desisted. She fixed her full eyes upon her lover. Affection,

and modesty, and honour, were blended in the gaze which they bent upon

him! The soul of Niall felt subdued. His arms, gradually relaxing their

pressure, fell from the lovely form which they could have held prisoner

for ever. He dropped on his knee at her feet; he caught her hand, and

pressed it to his lips with the fervour and deference of duteous,

idolizing love.

"Niall," said Glorvina, "I am thy bride; I have plighted my troth to

thee! Whatever be my worth,--in person, feature, heart, and mind,--I am

thine!--all thine!--thine, as the hand that now is locked in thy own is

a part of me! Yet--" She faltered, and her eyes fell; and she raised

them not again till she had concluded what she meant to say. "Yet," she

resumed, "I had not left my father's roof this night to follow thee,

but from the dread of outrage when thou wast no longer near me. I came

with thee--unknown to thee--for protection; for by thy side alone I

feel security. I feel I have a right to find it!--nowhere so entitled

to it! nowhere so sure to meet it!"

Glorvina ceased. Niall, still kneeling, kept gazing upon her face,

watching her lids till she would raise them. Slowly she lifted them,

as again and again he breathed her sweet name; till at length her eyes

encountered Niall's, beaming with reverence and love. He drew her

gently towards him. She did not resist. She bowed her fair head till

it rested on his shoulder; her arm half encircled his neck! It was a

moment of unutterable bliss,--yet but a moment! The very next was one

of alarm. The hoofs of a steed were heard. Niall darted towards the

door; his sword flew from its scabbard.

"Who comes?" he exclaimed, in a voice of defiance.

"A friend," replied the horseman; "but a friend who is the forerunner

of foes. You are pursued. I had only a dozen minutes the start of

them,--if so much! Listen to the words of one who loves thee--the

words of Cormack--of the bard. 'Tell him,' said he, 'thus saith the

Psalter:--_The land must obtain her freedom ere the bridegroom his

rights. What the altar shall grant must be enjoyed by means of the

sword!_ Niall must journey on to the lake of the lonely shieling!

Thither shall gather to him the choice and true among the sons of the

land. Them shall he train in arms. Them shall he bring with him to

fetch his bride, long wedded ere a wife. Glorvina must return! Niall

stood confounded; but Glorvina was herself. She rose from her seat. She

approached the door, and listened.

"They are at hand!" she cried. "I hear their trampling. Niall, I am

resolved. 'Tis vain to resist fate. Its hand it is that severs us for

the present. Thy life is in peril if they find thee. I go to meet them.

I will thereby stop pursuit. Farewell!"

Niall heard not. Glorvina reached her hand to the horseman, who helped

her up behind him. Niall saw it not! She extended her white arms

towards him; he moved not. Once more she said farewell, and not a word

did he utter in reply. She departed. Niall took no more note of her

vanishing form, than the post of the door against which he was leaning.

* * * * *

Malachi impatiently awaited the return of those whom he had despatched

in pursuit of his daughter; whose flight, a Dane imposed upon the

confidence of Malachi as a spy, had betrayed to the king. Sternly the

father fixed his eyes upon his child as she entered; but with amazement

encountered looks as firm, as indignant as his own. He forgot the

reproaches that stood ready upon his lips. He gazed, but spake not.

Glorvina broke silence.

"Why hast thou taken back by force," said the maid, "what thou gavest

of free will? To whose custody behoves it thee to give thy child--her

husband's, or the ravisher's? Didst thou not sanction the vow? Didst

thou not say '_amen_' to the blessing? Why are they then of no avail,

and through thee? Did not thy command as a father cease when thou

resignedst me to a husband? Why is it then resumed, and that husband

alive? Did not the holy man pronounce us one? Why stand I here then

in thy castle without him by my side? Love, honour, obedience, did I

swear to render him; why have I been constrained to desert him, and by

the father too who listened to the oath?"

The maiden paused. Malachi remained silent. Yet longer she awaited his

reply; still he spake not.

"Thou hast welcomed in thy hall," she resumed, "whom thou shouldst

have laid dead at thy threshold!" Her eyes now flashed as she spoke.

"Thou hast extended the hand where thou shouldst have opposed the

sword, though thou, and thine, and all allied to thee, had perished by

the sword. Thou, a king, hast made friends with a robber, who, after

stripping thy neighbours, advanced to plunder thee; and holdest that

friendship on at the risk of dishonour to thy child,--whose modesty

was outraged at thy board with impunity from thee to the offender, and

with injury to him who dared resent the wrong. The dread of similar

insult--if not of worse, stronger than the opposition of maiden

reserve, compelled that child--unasked, unexpected, unpermitted--to

fly for protection where protection had been promised, accepted,

and sanctioned, but never experienced yet; and scarce had she found

it when she was wrested from it, and brought back--brought back to

the hall which the spoiler, whom she dreads, is as free to enter as

she! And now--" She broke off. The eyes of Malachi were fixed on the

ground; confusion, and care, and regret, were in his looks; a tear was

trickling down his cheek! The maiden essayed to go on, but could not.

Resolution wavered--it yielded more and more--it melted utterly away;

she rushed towards her father, and fell, kneeling at his feet, and

dissolved into tears. Malachi threw his arms around his child, lifted

her to his breast, and held her there, mingling his tears with hers;

both unconscious that Turgesius had entered the apartment, and stood

glaring upon them.

"She is found then?" said Turgesius. The father and child started, and

withdrew from one another's embrace. "'Tis well!" continued he; "and

now I will speak to thee what I have long borne in my mind to tell

thee. I love thy daughter."

Malachi stared at the Dane. His self-possession seemed to have utterly

left him. Not so was it with Glorvina. She drew her tall and stately

figure up till it towered again, as she stood collected with an

expression of calm scorn upon her brow and lip. Her eyes were cast

coldly down; her arms were folded upon her breast; she moved no more

than a statue.

"I love thy daughter," repeated the Dane impatiently.

"Well?" faltered forth Malachi.

"Well!" echoed the Dane. "Dost thou not comprehend my speech? Is it not

enough to say I love her? Need I tell thee I would _have_ what I love?

Requirest thou such wasting of words? Well, then, I love thy child, and

desire that thou wilt give her to me!"

Malachi mechanically moved his hand in the direction of his belt, but

his sword was not there. He rose--he advanced towards Turgesius--he

fixed upon him a look of fire--his lips trembling, and his cheek

wavering between red and pale, his hands clenched and trembling.

Turgesius in spite of himself drew back a pace.

"Dane," said the king, in the voice of rage suppressed, yet ready

to break forth, "dost thou ask me for the honour of my child? Dost

thou offer to bring shame upon the roof that has given thee welcome,

refreshment, and repose,--the roof of a king!--a king of ancient

line!--a warrior, and thy host!"

Turgesius stood momentarily abashed.

"Thy honour!" at length he cried, "the honour of thy child can stand in

no peril from me--a conqueror who profits wherever he smiles!--whose

favour is honour, wealth, life!" he added emphatically,--"life, without

which wealth and honour are of little avail! Come!" continued he,

suddenly grasping the wrists of the old king as if in cordiality.

"Come! Be no wrath between us! Thy armed men are few, and those less

thy subjects than my slaves! My bands hover on the borders of thy

kingdom; a part of them are here with their master in the very heart

of it. True thou hast said. Thou hast been my host; thou hast received

me as thy friend! I would not thou shouldst turn me into thy foe; for

little, as thou knowest, it would avail thee. Talk not of things that

are only imaginary, but pay heed to those that are real; for it is they

that concern thee most. I love thy daughter. Give her to me, and 'tis

well! Refuse her to me, and it is well still--for I will have her!"

"Not with life in her!" exclaimed the frantic father, suddenly freeing

himself from the hold of the Dane, rushing up to his daughter, plucking

from her hair the large golden pin that held her tresses up, and

pointing it to her heart. Turgesius stood transfixed. Glorvina never

started nor flinched; but leaned her cheek forward upon her father's

breast, looking up in his face and smiling. The king arrested his hand.

The savage stood lost in amaze.

"I thank thee, O my father!" Glorvina at length exclaimed; "thou lovest

indeed thy child! It is destiny, and not thou, that has afflicted her.

But--listen to thy Glorvina. On one condition I consent to leave thy

hall, and present me at the castle of Turgesius to await his pleasure."

"Name it, fair maiden!" cried Turgesius, his eyes sparkling up.

"Twenty fair cousins have I," resumed Glorvina, "whose beauty far

surpasses mine. They shall accompany me to the hold of Turgesius; he

shall compare them with me, and if he finds one among them whom he

prefers, her shall he take as my ransom. I doubt not of their consent.

In ten days we shall present ourselves at his gate. Agrees he to wait

that time, and retire to his hold till it expires? The conqueror of a

king is not unworthy a king's daughter!"

Malachi stared in amaze upon his child. Not so Turgesius. The

countenance of the libertine was lighted up with triumph. "Be it so!"

he exclaimed. "At the expiration of ten days I shall expect thee,

attended as thou promisest; but if thou exceedest the time the half

of another day, thou wilt not blame me, fair one, if I come to fetch

thee?" He then approached Malachi, and taking the hand of the king

without questioning whether it was given or not, shook it. Glorvina's

hand next endured his obtrusive courtesy. He clasped it, raised it

to his audacious lips, kissed it; and, turning exultingly away, with

confident tread strode down the hall, and, summoning his attendants,

departed from the castle.

* * * * *

Ere a week had elapsed, the solitudes of Moran were peopled with the

youth of the adjacent country. From miles they gathered; one spirit

animating the breasts of all, one resolve,--to free the land, or

perish! Readily they placed themselves under the command of Niall.

He had won fame even while yet a boy. Then he had no competitor in

the feats of strength or dexterity; while his ever-modest, generous

bearing, divested defeat of chagrin on the part of the unsuccessful.

Since then, he had sojourned with the Saxon, whose art of warfare

he had thoroughly mastered, trained by the greatest captain of that

nation. With avidity his young countrymen availed themselves of his

instructions, and learned a mode of attack and defence superior to that

they had hitherto known. They practised incessantly the advance, the

retreat, the wheel, the close and open order, the line, and the square,

the use of the javelin, the sword, and the shield. Hour after hour

their numbers swelled. The first quarter of the moon had witnessed the

commencement of their gathering; the fourth looked upon them, a host

prepared, and almost equal to give battle to the Dane.

"Welcome, son of Cuthell!" exclaimed Niall, to a youth who, on a steed

of foam, drew near. "Welcome! You see what a company we have here

to greet you," continued he. "You see how we banquet! You like our

revelry, and are come to make one among us! You are welcome, son of

Cuthell! right welcome!"

The youth gazed with wonder upon the bands that, reclined upon the

borders of the lake of the lonely shieling, were enjoying a moment's

repose in an interval of practice; then, turning upon Niall a look full

of sad import, alighted, took him kindly by the hand, and led him yet

further apart from the companions of his exile.

"Niall!" began the young man, "it is a stout heart that defies the

point of the spear, or the edge of the glaive; but greater is the

fortitude that cowers not before the unseen weapons of misfortune. My

soul is heavy with the tidings that I bring. Shall I speak them? Will

Niall hear them, and not allow his manly spirit to faint?"

"Speak them!" said Niall. "Stay! Whom concern they? The evil thou

wouldst avert hath nearly come to pass. My soul sickens already! To

whom do the tidings relate that demand such preparation? To whom _can_

they relate but to Glorvina?" The head of Niall dropped upon his breast.

"Injury," rejoined the other, "hath ever its solace with the

brave,--revenge!"

"It has!" exclaimed Niall, rearing his head, and directing towards his

friend a glance of fire. "Is the maid in danger, or hath she suffered

wrong? the wedded maid that plighted her troth to Niall: the bride that

has not pressed the bridal couch?"

"The couch that she shall press with another," resumed the young man,

"is spread for her in the castle of Turgesius!" He paused, alarmed at

the looks of Niall, from whose face the blood had fled.

"Go on!" said Niall, after a time, articulating with difficulty; and,

with clenched hands, folding his arms tightly upon his breast. "Go

on!" he repeated, observing that the young man hesitated. "Tell me the

whole! It is worse, I see, than I feared; but go on! Keep nothing from

me!"

"Turgesius has demanded thy bride for his mistress, and Glorvina----"

The son of Cuthell stopped short, as if what was to follow was more

than he had fortitude to give utterance to.

"Has consented?" interrogated Niall, with a look of furious distraction.

"Has consented," rejoined the young man,

Niall stood transfixed for a minute or two; then smote his forehead

fiercely with his hand, groaned, and cast himself upon the earth.

The son of Cuthell left him to himself for a time. He spake not to him

till he saw that his passion had got vent in tears; then he accosted

him.

"Revenge," said he, "stands upon its feet. It braces its arm for the

blow! Not to see thee thus did I spur my steed into foam soon as I

learned the news. Within a month did Glorvina promise to surrender

herself to the arms of the rover. Five days remain unexpired. Up! Call

thy friends around thee! inform them of the wrong, the dishonour that

awaits thee. Ask them to avenge thee. Not a spear but will be grasped;

not a foot but will be ready! You shall march upon the castle of

Malachi. You shall demand your bride. You shall have her!"

Niall sprang from the ground; he hastened towards his bands; his looks

and pace spoke the errand of wrath and impatience. His friends were

on their feet without the summons of his tongue. They simultaneously

closed around him when he drew near, eagerness and inquiry in their

eyes, whose sparkling vouched for spirits that were not slow to kindle.

Niall told what he came to say; no voice replied to him. Silently the

warriors formed themselves into the order of march; then turned their

eyes upon Niall, waiting his command. He raised his sword aloft, and

his eyes went along with it, followed by the eyes of all his little

host. Slowly he bent the knee. Not a knee besides but also kissed the

earth.

"To Meath!" exclaimed Niall, springing up.

"To Meath!" shouted every warrior, as the whole stood erect.

Niall placed himself in the van; he moved on; they followed him.

The last morning of the month lighted up the towers of Malachi; but

gloomy was the brow of their lord. He paced his hall with hurried

steps, every now and then casting an uneasy glance towards the door

that communicated with the interior of the castle. The bard was seated

near the exterior portal, his harp reclining on his breast, his arms

extended across his frame, his fingers spread over its strings. Lively

and loud was the chord that he struck, and bold was the strain that he

began.

"What kind of strain is that?" demanded the king, suddenly stopping,

and directing towards the aged man a look of reproachful displeasure.

"The strain befits the day and the deed," replied the bard, and went on.

"Peace!" commanded Malachi.

"Not till the feet are announced," rejoined the bard, "that bring

the strife which maketh peace;" and he resumed the strain with new,

redoubled fire, nor paused till the portal resounded with the summons

of one impatient for admittance.

The portal opened. Pale and breathless was he that passed in.

"Thy news?" demanded Malachi.

He whom he accosted tried to find utterance, but could not. He had come

in speed; his strength and breath were exhausted. He stood for a minute

or two, tottering; then staggered towards a seat.

"A friend is coming," said the bard; "but he wears the face of a foe.

Nor does he come alone; but prepared to demand what was forbidden;--to

take what was withheld. Niall, with a host of warriors, is at thy gate.

Thy bands that watch thy foe have left thy friend free to approach

thee; but he comes in the form of the avenger."

Scarcely had the bard pronounced the last word when the hall was half

filled with armed men; Niall at their head. Jaded, yet fierce, were his

looks. He strode at once up to the king, and stood silent for a time,

confronting him.

"Niall!" said the king, confounded; and paused.

"Yes," said Niall, "it is I! the son-in-law of thy own election, come

to demand his rights! Where is my bride, king of Meath? Where is thy

daughter? the wedded maid who, denied to the arms of her bridegroom,

has consented to surrender herself to unhallowed embraces! O, Malachi!

accursed was the day when thou gavest welcome to the stranger, whose

summons at thy gate was the knock which he gave with the hilt of his

sword,--was the blast of the horn of war! Low lies the glory of thy

race! From the king of a people art thou shrunk into the minion of a

robber, who, not content with making a mockery of thy crown, brings

openly pollution to thy blood! Where is thy child? Does the roof of her

father still shelter her head? or does she hang it in shame beneath

that of Turgesius? Where is she? Reply, O king, and promptly! for

desperation grasps the weapons that we bring, and which we have sworn

shall receive no sheaths at our hands but the breasts of those who

dishonour us!"

So spake the youth, his glaive in his hand, his frame trembling with

high-wrought passion, his eye flashing, and his cheek on fire with the

hectic of rage, when Glorvina entered the hall.

She did not hang her head; she bore it proudly erect. A tiara of

gems encircled her brow; fair fell a robe of green from her graceful

shoulders. A girdle of gold round her waist confined the folds of

her under-dress, swelling luxuriantly upwards and downwards, and

falling to within an inch of her ankles, each of which a palm of a

moderate span might encircle. She advanced three or four paces into

the apartment, right in the direction of Niall, and then stood still;

still fixing her eyes steadily upon her bridegroom with an expression

in which neither defiance nor deprecation, neither reproach nor fear,

neither recklessness nor shame, but love--all love--was apparent. Niall

scarcely breathed! An awe came over his chafed spirit as he surveyed

his bride. The more he looked, the more the clouds of wrath rolled away

from his soul, until not a vestige of tempest remained. He uttered

tenderly the name of Glorvina. He cast down his eyes in repentant

humility; he approached her, half hesitating, without raising them. He

sank on his knee at her feet; Glorvina recoiled at the posture of her

lover. She extended her shining arms; she caught his hands in hers; she

almost raised him herself from the earth, and vanished with him from

the hall.

* * * * *

The Dane looked from the ramparts at his castle. Twenty of his

chiefs--the choicest--were about him. Expectation was painted in the

looks of all. Their eyes were directed towards the same quarter.

"They come!" at length exclaimed Turgesius. "The maiden hath kept her

word. Yonder they issue from the wood!"

"Those are soldiers!" remarked one.

"Her attendants," rejoined Turgesius; "she comes as a royal maiden

should!"

"Then she is well attended. I'll answer for a hundred spears already;

and more are coming on."

"Let them!" said Turgesius. "Though they double the number, it were but

twenty for each fair virgin, and the princess to go without. Turn out

our bands, that we may receive them with all due courtesy!"

Turgesius and his chiefs descended; they issued from the castle-gate;

the bands of the Dane were drawn up ready to give salutation to the

visitors. The Irish party drew near; they halted within fifty paces of

the walls, and, unfolding their ranks, presented to the eyes of the

Dane, Glorvina and her kinswomen, faithful to the appointment of the

royal maid. All were veiled. Turgesius and his chiefs approached them;

and Glorvina, when they drew near, removed the thick gauze from her

face.

"Chieftain!" she spake, "I am here to keep my word. Conduct us into thy

castle. Compare me there with my kinswomen. If thou findest amongst

them, her whom thou deemest more deserving thy love than I, accept her

in place of me, and let me return to my father."

"Be it so!" said Turgesius, casting a significant glance around him

upon his chiefs; and led the way, Glorvina and her companions following.

They passed into the hall of banquet. Turgesius led Glorvina to the

head of the board, but not to place her there. He turned; and, as she

looked down the chamber along with him, she saw that his chiefs had

likewise entered it, and her respiration became difficult, and a chill

passed over her frame.

"Chiefs!" cried Turgesius, "you see what choice of beauty the bounty of

Malachi has presented to your lord; but he cares not to avail himself

of it. He asks not a damsel even to remove her veil, content with the

charms of the fair Glorvina. Her does he lead to the banquet which has

been prepared for her within. Welcome ye the daughters of Meath! Leave

them no cause to tax the sons of the Dane with want of gallantry."

Turgesius took the hand of Glorvina.

"Stay!" interposed the maid: "the Irish maiden sits not at the banquet

with the glaive in the girdle of the warrior; for the cup engenders

ire as well as mirth, and blood may flow as well as wine. Before my

kinswomen withdraw their veils, let thy chieftains deposit their

weapons without the hall, and each as he returns accept the first

maiden that commits herself to his courtesy, and conduct her to her

seat, nor ask her to remove the guard of modesty till all are in their

places."

The chiefs waited not for the reply of Turgesius. They passed quickly

out of the hall; they returned unarmed. All was performed as Glorvina

prescribed. She waited not for the invitation of Turgesius. Of her own

accord she entered the apartment prepared for the rover and herself.

Closely he followed her. The door was closed after him. He sprang

towards her, and caught her to his breast. She shrieked, and disengaged

herself. Again he approached her; but stopped short at the sight of a

dagger, which gleamed in her hand.

"Listen!" cried Glorvina.

Her injunction was unneeded: sounds, not of revelry but of anguish,

proceeded from the hall, with a noise as of heavy weights cast

violently upon the floor. Turgesius grew pale. His eyes glared with

alarm and inquiry.

"Listen!" again cried the maid. Sounds came from without as though the

storm of battle were on. Turgesius waxed paler still. Surprise and

terror seemed to have bereft him of the power of motion. He shook from

head to foot.

"Behold!" exclaimed Glorvina, as the door of the apartment was burst

open, and Niall presented himself, grasping a reeking brand. The robber

tottered. Life was almost extinct as the youth, twisting his hand in

the grey hairs of Turgesius, dragged him from the apartment to his doom.

Not a Dane survived that day.

A second bridal feast graced the hall of Malachi. Niall and Glorvina

were the bridegroom and the bride. The bard sat beside them with his

harp; but that harp was not silent now, nor sad. No guest unbidden came

to the door of that hall. No fray turned the tide of their revelry.

And when the bright Glorvina retired, with downcast eyes and crimsoned

cheek, the bridegroom himself arose, and, bowing to the king, lifted

the brimming cup, and, having cast his eyes around the board, drank

"TO GLORVINA, THE HEROINE OF MEATH!"

PHELIM O'TOOLE'S

NINE _MUSE_-INGS ON HIS NATIVE COUNTY.

Tune--"_Cruiskeen lawn._"

Let others spend their time

In roaming foreign clime,

To furnish them with rhyme

For books:

They'll never find a scene

Like Wicklow's valleys green,

Wet-nurs'd, the hills between,

With brooks--

Brooks--brooks,--

Wet-nurs'd, the hills between,

With brooks!

_Oh! if I had a station

In that part of creation,

I'd study the first CAWS like rooks--

Rooks--rooks,--

I'd study the first CAWS like rooks!_

II.

Oh! how the Morning loves

To climb the _Sugar-Loaves_,[17]

And purple their dwarf groves

Of heath!

While cottage smoke below

Reflects the bloomy glow,

As up it winds, and slow,

Its wreath--

Wreath--wreath,--

As up it winds, and slow,

Its wreath!

_Oh! how a man does wonder him

When he 'as the big CONE-UNDER-HIM,

And ask'd to guess his home beneath--

'Neath--'neath,--

And ask'd to guess his home beneath!_

III.

And there's the _Dargle_ deep,

Where breezeless waters sleep,

Or down their windings creep

With fear;

Lest, by their pebbly tread,

They shake some lily's head,

And cause, untimely shed,

A tear--

Tear--tear,--

And cause, untimely shed,

A tear!

_Oh! my native Dargle,

Long may you rinse and gargle

Your rocky throat with stream so clear,

Clear--clear,--

Your rocky throat with stream so clear!_

IV.

And there is _Luggalaw_,

A gem without a flaw,

With lake, and glen, and shaw,

So still;

The new moon loves to sip

Its dew with her young lip,

Then takes a ling'ring trip

O'er hill--

Hill--hill,--

Then takes a ling'ring trip

O'er hill!

_Oh! hungry bards might dally

For ever in this valley,

And always get their fancy's fill--

Fill--fill,--

And always get their fancy's fill!_

V.

And there's the "_Divil's Glin_,"

That devil ne'er was in,

Nor anything like sin

To blight:

The Morning hurries there

To scent the myrtle air;

She'd stop, if she might dare,

Till night--

Night--night,--

She'd stop, if she might dare,

Till night!

_Oh! ye glassy streamlets,

That bore the rocks like gimlets,

There's nothing like your crystal bright,

Bright--bright,--

There's nothing like your crystal bright!_

VI.

And there's Ovoca's vale,

And classic Annadale,[18]

Where Psyche's gentle tale

Was told:

Where MOORE'S fam'd waters meet,

And mix a draught more sweet

Than flow'd at Pindus' feet

Of old--

Old--old,--

Than flow'd at Pindus' feet

Of old!

_Oh! all it wants is whiskey

To make it taste more frisky;

Then ev'ry drop would be worth gold--

Gold--gold,--

Then ev'ry drop would be worth gold!_

VII.

And there's the _Waterfall_,

That lulls its summer hall

To sleep with voice as small

As bee's:

But when the winter rills

Burst from the inward hills,

A rock-rent thunder fills

The breeze--

Breeze--breeze,--

A rock-rent thunder fills

The breeze!

_Oh! if the LAND was taught her

To FALL as well as WATER,

How much it would poor tenants please,

Please--please,--

How much it would poor tenants please!_

VIII.

And if you have a mind

For sweet, sad thoughts inclined,

In _Glendalough_ you'll find

Them nigh:--

_Kathleen_ and _Kevin's_ tale

So sorrows that deep vale,

That birds all songless sail

Its sky--

Its sky--sky,--

That birds all songless sail

Its sky!

_Oh! cruel Saint was Kevin

To shun her eyes' blue heaven,

Then drown her in the lake hard by--

By--by,--

Would I have sarved her so?--not I!_

IX.

And there's--But what's the use

Of praising _Scalp_ or _Douce_?--

The wide world can't produce

Such sights:

So I will sing adieu

To Wicklow's hills so blue,

And green vales glittering through

Dim lights--

Lights--lights,--

And green vales glittering through

Dim lights!

_Oh! I could from December

Until the next November

MUSE on this way both days and nights,

Nights--nights,--

MUSE on this way both days and nights!_

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 17: Two hills in the county of Wicklow, so called from their

conical shape.]

[Footnote 18: The residence of the late Mrs. Henry Tighe, the charming

authoress of "Psyche."]

SONG OF THE MONTH. No. X.

=October, 1837.=

I.

You may talk of St. Valentine all his month round,

And discourse about June for some brace of days longer;

But no saint in the Kalendar ever was found,

Throughout the whole year, either merrier or stronger

Than his reverence to whom you must now fill your glass,--

Many years to him, whether tipsy or sober!--

And his name when you've heard, you will let the malt pass,

Singing "Hip, hip, hurrah! here's success to October!"

II.

Were I Dan Maclise, his sweet saintship I'd paint

With his face like John Reeve's, and in each hand a rummer;

And write underneath, "Oh! good luck to the saint

Who comes in the days between winter and summer!"

Yes, the jolly gay chap has well chosen his time,

He is here as the leaves are beginning to yellow,

For he knows it is not when the grapes are in prime

That their juice is most fit for a hearty gay fellow.

III.

And though, without leave from the council or pope,

In Bentley's Miscellany I canonize him

Thus late in the day, still I'm not without hope

There are some who, perhaps, will not wholly despise him:

Tis for such lads as they are, and each jolly lass,

Who can smile on them whether they're tipsy or sober,

That new saints should be made. Come, then, fill up each glass,

And "Hip, hip, hurrah! one cheer more for October!"

THE POISONERS OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.

BY GEORGE HOGARTH.

No. II.

Our Scottish Solomon, King James the First, amongst other instances

of wisdom, was especially addicted to favourites. During his whole

reign he was governed by a succession of minions. His prime favourite,

Buckingham, (the celebrated "Steeny,") was preceded in his affections

by a man little less remarkable, the Earl of Somerset. Robert Carr, a

young man of a respectable Scotch family, appeared at court very soon

after James's accession to the English crown. At a tilting-match, where

the king was present, Carr by an accident was thrown from his horse,

and had his leg broken. The king, who had been struck with his handsome

figure, made him be attended by his own surgeons, visited him daily,

and soon became immoderately fond of his society. The young favourite

did not neglect the means of advancement; before many months were over

he was knighted and made a gentleman of the bedchamber, and from that

time became all-powerful at court. There is a letter from Lord Thomas

Howard to Sir John Harrington, written about the year 1608, which

shows the feelings of the courtiers upon the subject. "Carr," says the

writer, "hath all the favours, as I told you before. The king teacheth

him Latin every morning, and I think some one should teach him English

too; for he is a Scottish lad, and hath much need of better language.

The king doth much covet his presence: the ladies, too, are not behind

hand in their admiration; for, I tell you, good knight, this fellow

is straight-limbed, well-favoured, and smooth-faced, with some sort

of cunning and show of modesty, though, God wot, he well knoweth when

to show his impudence. Your lady is virtuous, and somewhat of a good

housewife; has lived in a court in her time, and I believe you may

venture her forth again; but I know those would not so quietly rest,

were Carr to leer on their wives, as some do perceive, yea, and like it

well too they should be so noticed. If any mischance be to be wished,

'tis breaking a leg in the king's presence; for this fellow owes all

his favour to that bout. I think he hath better reason to speak well of

his own horse than the king's roan jennet. We are almost worn out in

our endeavours to keep pace with this fellow in his duty and labour to

gain favour, but in vain; where it endeth I cannot guess, but honours

are talked of speedily for him." These honours speedily followed, Carr

having been soon afterwards created Viscount Rochester.

Robert, Earl of Essex, the son of the unfortunate favourite of Queen

Elizabeth, had married, in the year 1603, the Lady Frances Howard,

eldest daughter of the Earl of Suffolk. The earl was only fourteen, and

his bride a year younger. Immediately after the marriage the young earl

was sent abroad on his travels, the countess remaining at court,--of

which she was one of the brightest ornaments. Under a form, however,

of singular loveliness, she concealed a mind of not less singular

depravity. When Essex returned, after a few years' absence, he found

her affections quite estranged from him. She had conceived a passion

for the handsome favourite, and received her husband with contemptuous

coldness; while she endeavoured, by her arts and allurements, to

captivate the object of her guilty flame. To these means she added

others more peculiarly characteristic of the age. There was a woman of

the name of Turner, a servant or dependant of the countess's family,

and with whom she appears to have associated much in her childhood and

youth. This woman was of an atrocious character, and soon succeeded in

making her patroness as wicked as herself. Mrs. Turner, as well as the

countess, had an illicit amour; and they were in the habit of resorting

to a Dr. Forman, a celebrated quack and dealer in magic, in order, by

means of love-philters and conjurations, to obtain the objects of their

wishes.

Whether Dr. Forman's charms prevailed, or the countess's own were

sufficient, Rochester was soon caught; and a guilty _liaison_ was

formed between them.

Sir Thomas Overbury was then Lord Rochester's secretary. He was an able

and accomplished man, in the prime of life, of a bold and aspiring

disposition; and, being high in the good graces of the reigning

favourite, appeared to be on the road to political distinction. To

the raw youth, who had had "greatness thrust upon him" so rapidly,

the services of a man of parts and experience were invaluable; and

Overbury, by acting as the guide and counsellor of the favourite,

directed, in a great measure, the movements of majesty itself.

Rochester made Overbury the confidant of his intrigue with Lady Essex;

and the secretary, in order to pay his court to his patron, encouraged

and assisted him in the prosecution of it. He even composed the

_billets-doux_ which the illiterate lover sent to his _inamorata_.

The countess, not content with the clandestine indulgence of her

adulterous passion, now conceived the idea of getting rid of her

husband. The intercourse between her and Rochester had become so

shameless and open that it was loudly talked of by the world; and

it appeared evident that a divorce from her husband, followed by a

marriage with her lover, was the only way to prevent their separation.

The countess, therefore, instituted proceedings against her husband for

a divorce, on grounds to which only a shameless and abandoned woman

could think of resorting. The favourite gained the king's sanction and

support to this scandalous suit; and, after a course of procedure which

is a disgrace to the judicature of that age, a sentence of divorce was

pronounced by judges influenced and intimidated by the king himself,

whose interference was grossly arbitrary and indecent. Within six weeks

after the divorce, Lady Essex was married to Rochester, whom the king

had previously created Earl of Somerset.

While his patron's connexion with Lady Essex was merely an adulterous

intrigue, Overbury had no objection to it; but he seems to have been

shocked and frightened at the idea of Lord Rochester's marrying a

woman of whose atrocious character he was well aware. He, therefore,

earnestly dissuaded Rochester from this marriage. One night, when they

were walking together in the gallery at Whitehall, Overbury made use of

the most earnest remonstrances.

"Well, my lord," he said, "if you do marry that base woman you will

utterly ruin your honour and yourself. You shall never do it by my

advice, or with my consent; and, if you do, you had best look to stand

fast."

"My own legs are strong enough to bear me up," cried Rochester, stung

with such language applied to a woman whose fascinations retained all

their power over him; "but, in faith, I will be even with you for

this." So saying, he flung away in a rage, and left the place. The

conference was terminated with such heat that the words of the speakers

were overheard by persons in an adjoining room, who soon had cause to

remember them.

Rochester allowed his resentment apparently to subside, and treated

his secretary as before. He even requested the king, as a mark of

favour, to appoint Overbury ambassador to Russia. The king complied;

and Overbury accepted the appointment with great alacrity. But this act

of kindness, as it seemed to be, on the part of Somerset, was the first

step to a deep and deadly revenge for the insult to the woman whom he

had resolved to marry, and whose fury he had roused by informing her of

what had passed.

Having allowed Overbury to accept the office which he had procured

for him, Somerset now advised him to decline it. "If you serve as

ambassador," he said, "I shall not be able to do you so much good as if

you remain with me. If you are blamed, or even committed for refusing,"

he added, "never mind: I will take care that you meet with no harm."

Overbury, in an evil hour, listened to this perfidious counsel, sent

his resignation to the king, and was instantly sent to the Tower.

Sent to the Tower for declining to accept an office! Even so. Such was

the "Divine right" of an absolute king, in England, in the seventeenth

century. Without even the shadow, or the accusation, of a crime, Sir

Thomas Overbury was immured in a dungeon, because he declined the

honour of being sent as ambassador to Russia.

This act of tyranny was committed at the instigation of the favourite;

and Overbury, in the Tower, was entirely in the hands of his enemies.

Somerset, in the first place, obtained from the king the dismissal of

the lieutenant of the Tower, and the appointment, in his stead, of Sir

Jervis Elwes, one of Somerset's creatures. One Richard Weston, who had

been shopman to an apothecary, was made under-keeper, and specially

charged with the custody of Overbury. This man had been an agent of

Lady Essex in her secret transactions with Dr. Forman and Mrs. Turner,

and in affording opportunities for her guilty meetings with Lord

Rochester at Mrs. Turner's house, and elsewhere, and was quite ready

to perpetrate any deed of darkness which they might desire. Weston,

thus become Overbury's keeper, confined him so closely that he was

scarcely permitted to see the light of day; and debarred him from all

intercourse with his family, relations, and friends.[19]

The associates in wickedness lost no time in commencing their

operations on their victim, whom they had determined to destroy by

degrees, so as to prevent suspicion. Weston, on the very day he became

Overbury's keeper, administered to him a slow poison, provided by Mrs.

Turner; and, from that time, some poisonous substance was mingled with

every article of food or drink which was given him. "He never ate

white salt," said one of the witnesses on the trials which afterwards

took place, "but there was white arsenic put into it. Once he desired

pig, and Mrs. Turner put into it _lapis costitus_ (lunar caustic). At

another time he had two partridges sent him from the court; and water

and onions being the sauce, Mrs. Turner put in cantharides instead of

pepper; so that there was scarce any thing that he did eat but there

was some poison mixed."

Under such treatment Overbury's constitution (which seems to have been

of extraordinary strength) began to give way. Relying on Rochester's

promise, that his refusal to accept the embassy should bring him to no

harm, he daily expected his release. After remaining in this state for

three or four weeks, he wrote to Rochester, urging him to remember his

promise, and received for answer that "the time would not suffer; but,

as soon as possible might be, he would hasten his delivery;" a promise

which he certainly intended to fulfil, though not in the sense in which

it was meant to be understood. By way of "hastening his delivery,"

Rochester sent him a letter, containing a white powder, which he

desired him to take. "It will," he said, "make you more sick; but fear

not: I will make this a means for your delivery, and the recovery of

your health." Unsuspicious of treachery, Overbury took the powder,

which acted upon him violently, and (as he indeed expected) increased

his sickness. Weston afterwards confessed that it was arsenic.

In this situation Overbury languished for two months, growing worse

and worse. His suspicions being now, to some extent, awakened, he

wrote to Rochester: "Sir,--I wonder you have not yet found means to

effect my delivery; but I remember you said you would be even with me,

and so indeed you are: but, assure yourself, my lord, if you do not

release me, but suffer me thus to die, my blood will be required at

your hands." Overbury appears to have remembered Rochester's threat

that he would be even with him for the manner in which he had spoken of

Lady Essex; but never seems to have dreamed that more was meant than

to punish him by a protracted imprisonment. He therefore was satisfied

with the explanations and excuses sent him by Lord Rochester, who

affected, at the same time, to show the utmost anxiety for his comfort.

He was daily visited by creatures of Lord Rochester and Lady Essex, who

delivered him encouraging messages from Rochester, and pretended to

furnish him with various comforts in the articles of food and drink,

which he could not otherwise have had in the Tower. To gratify a sickly

appetite he expressed a wish for tarts and jellies, which were provided

by Mrs. Turner, and sent to Elwes, the lieutenant of the Tower, to be

given to Overbury, by Lord Rochester and Lady Essex. These sweetmeats

were not poisoned at first; but the poisoned ones were accompanied

by a letter from Lady Essex to Elwes, in which she said, "I was bid

to tell you that in the tarts and jellies there are _letters_, but

in the wine none; and of that you may take yourself, and give your

wife, but, of the other, not. Give him these tarts and jelly this

night, and all shall be well." The meaning of the word, _letters_, is

sufficiently evident; but the countess afterwards removed any doubt

on the subject, by confessing, on her trial, that "by _letters_ she

meant poison." Rochester appears to have been then residing at some

little distance from town; for Lady Essex was the immediate agent in

these transactions, and carried on a correspondence with Rochester on

the subject. In one of his letters to her he expressed his wonder "that

things were not yet despatched;" on which she sent instructions to

Weston to despatch Overbury quickly. Weston's answer was, that he had

already given him as much as would poison twenty men. Still, however,

the victim survived. He was now reduced to extremity; but the patience

of his destroyers was exhausted, and they put an end to his sufferings

by a dose of corrosive sublimate. He died in October 1613, having been

for nearly six months in their hands. His body, carelessly wrapped in a

sheet, was buried in a pit on the very day of his death, without having

been seen by any of his friends, or the holding of a coroner's inquest;

though, as Elwes admitted on his trial, the duty of the lieutenant of

the Tower was, that if any prisoner died there, his body was to be

viewed, and an inquisition taken by the coroner. These circumstances

excited suspicion, and Overbury's relations were persuaded to take

some steps towards the prosecution of an inquiry: but the attempt was

defeated by the power and influence of the noble criminals.

The marriage between Rochester, now Earl of Somerset, and Lady Essex,

took place in February 1614, four months after the close of this

tragedy. It was celebrated with a pomp and splendour more befitting the

nuptials of a prince than those of a subject. The king himself gave

away the bride. A masque, according to the fashion of the times, was

exhibited by the courtiers, and another by the gentlemen of Gray's Inn;

their repugnance to this act of sycophancy having been overcome, it

is said, by the persuasions of Bacon,--a man whose moral deficiencies

formed a strange contrast to his almost superhuman vastness of

intellect. A splendid banquet, too, was given by the City, at which

the king, queen, and all the court, were present. But the public knew

enough of the open profligacy of this brilliant pair to look upon them

with indignation,--a feeling accompanied with abhorrence of the dark

deeds already strongly suspected.

Somerset was now at the height of his greatness; but he no longer

possessed the qualities which had gained him the king's favour. His

appearance and manners underwent a total change. His countenance became

care-worn and haggard; his dress neglected; his manners morose and

gloomy. The alteration was apparent to all; and the king became weary

of one who no longer ministered to his amusement. His majesty had now,

too, found a new favourite,--George Villiers, afterwards the famous

Duke of Buckingham, who gained James's affections by the same means

as Somerset himself had done,--a handsome person, graceful manners,

quick parts, and courtly obsequiousness. These two men became rivals

and enemies. Somerset was universally odious from his arrogance and

rapacity; and Villiers was looked upon with favour as the probable

instrument of his fall. Somerset, now aware of his danger, and

trembling for the discovery of his guilt when he might no longer have

the king for a protector, availed himself of his remaining influence

with James to obtain from him a pardon for all past offences. This

he begged as a safeguard against the consequences of any errors

into which he might have fallen in the high offices which he had

held, and the secret and important affairs with which it had been his

majesty's pleasure to intrust him. Strange to say, the king signed a

document, whereby he pardoned "all manner of treasons, misprisions of

treasons, murders, felonies, and outrages whatsoever, committed, or

to be committed," by Somerset. But, when this deed was carried to the

Lord Chancellor, he absolutely refused to affix the great seal to it,

declaring it to be absolutely illegal. No importunity could prevail on

him to yield; and Somerset remained without the shield with which he

had endeavoured to provide himself.