CHAPTER VIII.

After I had been musing a little while, Mistress Bess ran into the

room, and cried to some one behind her:

"Nan's friend is here, and she is mine too, for we all played in a

garden with her when I was little. Prithee, come and see her." Then

turning to me, but yet holding the handle of the door, she said: "Will

is so unmannerly, I be ashamed of him. He will not so much as show

himself."

"Then, prithee, come alone," I answered. Upon which she came and sat

on my knee, with her arm round my neck, and whispered in mine ear:

"Moll is very sick to-day; will you not see her, Mistress Sherwood?"

"Yea, if so be I have license," I answered; and she, taking me by the

hand, offered to lead me up the stairs to the room where she lay. I,

following her, came to the door of the chamber, but would not enter

till Bess fetched the nurse, who was the same had been at Sherwood

Hall, and who, knowing my name, was glad to see me, and with a curtsey

invited me in. White as a lily was the little face resting on a

pillow, with its blue eyes half shut, and a store of golden hair about

it, which minded me of the glories round angels' heads in my mother's

missal.

"Sweet lamb!" quoth the nurse, as I stooped to kiss the pale forehead.

"She be too good for this world. Ofttimes she doth babble in her sleep

of heaven, and angels, and saints, and a wreath of white roses

wherewith a bright lady will crown her."

"Kiss my lips," the sick child softly whispered, as I bent over her

bed. Which when I did, she asked, "What is your name? I mind your

face." When I answered, "Constance Sherwood," she smiled, as if

remembering where we had met. "I heard my grandam calling me last

night," she said; "I be going to her soon." Then a fit of pain came

on, and I had to leave her. She did go from this world a few days

after; and the nurse then told me her last words had been "Jesu!

Mary!"

That day I did converse again alone with my Lady Surrey after dinner,

and walked in the garden; and when we came in, before I left, she gave

me a purse with some gold pieces in it, which the earl her husband

willed to bestow on Catholics in prison for their faith. For she said

he had so tender and compassionate a spirit, that if he did but hear

of one in distress he would never rest until he had relieved him; and

out of the affection he had for Mr. Martin, who was one while his

tutor, he was favorably inclined toward Catholics, albeit himself

resolved to conform to the queen's religion. When Mistress Ward came

for me, the countess would have her shown into her chamber, and would

not be contented without she ordered her coach to carry us back to

Holborn, that we might take with us the clothes and cordials which she

did bestow upon us for our poor clients. She begged Mrs. Ward's

prayers for his grace, that he might soon be set at liberty; for she

said in a pretty manner, "It must needs be that Almighty God takes

most heed of the prayers of {483} such as visit him in his affliction

in the person of poor prisoners; and she hoped one day to be free to

do so herself." Then she questioned of the wants of those Mistress

Ward had at that time knowledge of; and when she heard in what sore

plight they stood, it did move her to so great compassion, that she

declared it would be now one of her chiefest cares and pleasures in

life to provide conveniences for them. And she besought Mistress Ward

to be a good friend to her with mine aunt, and procure her to permit

of my frequent visits to Howard House, as the Charter House is now

often called: which would be the greatest good she could do her; and

that she would be most glad also if she herself would likewise favor

her sometimes with her company; which, "if it be not for mine own

sake, Mistress Ward," she sweetly said, "let it be for his sake who,

in the person of his afflicted priests, doth need assistance."

When we reached home, we hid what we had brought under our mantles,

and then in Mistress Ward's chamber, where Muriel followed us. When

the door was shut we displayed these jewelled stores before her

pleased eyes, which did beam with joy at the sight.

"Ah, Muriel," cried Mistress Ward, "we have found an Esther in a

palace; and I pray to God there may be other such in this town we ken

not of, who in secret do yet bear affection to the ancient faith."

Muriel said in her slow way: "We must needs go to the Clink to-morrow;

for there is there a priest whose flesh has fallen off his feet by

reason of his long stay in a pestered and infected dungeon. Mr. Roper

told my father of him, and he says the gaoler will let us in if he be

reasonably dealt with."

"We will essay your ointment, Mistress Sherwood," said Mistress Ward,

"if so be you can make it in time."

"I care not if I sit up all night," I cried, "if any one will buy me

the herbs I have need of for the compounding thereof." Which Muriel

said she would prevail on one of the servants to do.

The bell did then ring for supper; and when we were all seated, Kate

was urgent with me for to tell her how my Lady Surrey was dressed;

which I declared to her as follows: "She had on a brown juste au corps

embroidered, with puffed sleeves, and petticoat braided of a deeper

nuance; and on her head a lace cap, and a lace handkerchief on her

bosom."

"And, prithee, what jewels had she on, sweet coz?"

"A long double chain of gold and a brooch of pearls," I answered.

"And his grace of Norfolk is once more removed to the Tower," said Mr.

Congleton sorrowfully. "'Tis like to kill him soon, and so save her

majesty's ministers the pains to bring him to the block. His

physician, Dr. Rhuenbeck, says he is afflicted with the dropsy."

Polly said she had been to visit the Countess of Northumberland, who

was so grievously afflicted at her husband's death, that it was feared

she would fall sick of grief if she had not company to divert her from

her sad thoughts.

"Which I warrant none could effect so well as thee, wench," her father

said; "for, beshrew me, if thou wouldst not make a man laugh on his

way to the scaffold with thy mad talk. And was the poor lady of better

cheer for thy company?"

"Yea, for mine," Polly answered; "or else for M. de la Motte's, who

came in to pay his devoirs to her, for the first time, I take it,

since her lord's death. And after his first speech, which caused her

to weep a little, he did carry on so brisk a discourse as I never

noticed any but a Frenchman able to do. And she was not the worst

pleased with it that the cunning gentleman did interweave it with

anecdotes of the queen's majesty; which, albeit he related them with

gravity, did carry somewhat of ridicule in them. Such as of her

grace's dancing on Sunday before last at Lord Northampton's wedding,

and calling him to witness {484} her paces, so that he might let

monsieur know how high and disposedly she danced; so that he would not

have had cause to complain, in case he had married her, that she was a

boiteuse, as had been maliciously reported of her by the friends of

the Queen of Scots. And also how, some days since, she had flamed out

in great choler when he went to visit her at Hampton Court; and told

him, so loud that all her ladies and officers could hear her

discourse, that Lord North had let her know the queen-mother and the

Duke of Guise had dressed up a buffoon in an English fashion, and

called him a Milor du Nord; and that two female dwarfs had been

likewise dressed up in that queen's chamber, and invited to mimic her,

the queen of England, with great derision and mockery. 'I did assure

her,' M. de la Motte said, 'with my hand on my heart, and such an

aggrieved visage, that she must needs have accepted my words as true,

that Milor North had mistaken the whole intent of what he had

witnessed, from his great ignorance of the French tongue, which did

render him a bad interpreter between princes; for that the

queen-mother did never cease to praise her English majesty's beauty to

her son, and all her good qualities, which greatly appeased her grace,

who desired to be excused if she, likewise out of ignorance of the

French language, had said aught unbecoming touching the queen-mother.'

'Tis a rare dish of fun, fit to set before a king, to hear this

Monsieur Ambassador speak of the queen when none are present but such

as make an idol of her, as some do."

"For my part," said her father, when she paused in her speech, "I

mislike men with double visages and double tongues; and methinks this

monseer hath both, and withal a rare art for what courtiers do call

diplomacy, and plain men lying. His speeches to her majesty be so

fulsome in her praise, as I have heard some say who are at court, and

his flattery so palpable, that they have been ashamed to hear it; but

behind her back he doth disclose her failings with an admirable

slyness."

"If he be sly," answered Polly, "I'll warrant he finds his match in

her majesty."

"Yea," cried Kate, "even as poor Madge Arundell experienced to her

cost."

"Ay," quoth Polly, "she catcheth many poor fish, who little know what

snare is laid for them."

"And how did her highness catch Mistress Arundell?" I asked.

"In this way, coz," quoth Polly: "she doth often ask the ladies round

her chamber, 'If they love to think of marriage?' and the wise ones do

conceal well their liking thereunto, knowing the queen's judgment in

the matter. But pretty, simple Madge Arundell, not knowing so deeply

as her fellows, was asked one day hereof, and said, 'She had thought

much about marriage, if her father did consent to the man she loved.'

'You seem honest, i' fait said the queen; 'I will sue for you your

father.' At which the dam was well pleased; and when father, Sir

Robert Arundell, came court, the queen questioned him his daughter's

marriage, and pressed him to give consent if the match were discreet.

Sir Robert, much astonished, said, 'He never had heard his daughter

had liking to any man; but he would give his free consent to what was

most pleasing to her highness's will and consent.' Then I will do the

rest,' saith the queen. Poor Madge was called in, and told by the

queen that her father had given his free consent. 'Then,' replied the

simple one, 'I shall be happy, an' it please your grace.' 'So thou

shalt; but not to be a fool and marry,' said the queen. 'I have his

consent given to me, and I vow thou shalt never get it in thy

possession. So go-to about thy business. I see thou art a bold one to

own thy foolishness so readily.'"

"Ah me!" cried Kate, "I be glad not to be a maid to her majesty; for I

would not know how to answer her {485} grace if she should ask me a

like question; for if it be bold to say one hath a reasonable desire

to be married, I must needs be bold then, for I would not for two

thousand pounds break Mr. Lacy's heart; and he saith he will die if I

do not marry him. But, Polly, thou wouldst never be at a loss to

answer her majesty."

"No more than Pace her fool," quoth Polly, "who, when she said, as he

entered the room, 'Now we shall hear of our faults,' cried out, 'Where

is the use of speaking of what all the town doth talk of?'"

"The fool should have been whipped," Mistress Ward said.

"For his wisdom, or for his folly, good Mistress Ward?" asked Polly.

"If for wisdom, 'tis hard to beat a man for being wise. If for folly,

to whip a fool for that he doth follow his calling, and as I be the

licensed fool in this house--which I do take to be the highest

exercise of wit in these days, when all is turned upside down--I do

wish you all good-night, and to be no wiser than is good for your

healths, and no more foolish than suffices to lighten the heart;" and

so laughing she ran away, and Kate said in a lamentable voice,

"I would I were foolish, if it lightens the heart."

"Content thee, good Kate," I said; but in so low a voice none did

hear. And she went on,

"Mr. Lacy is gone to Yorkshire for three weeks, which doth make me

more sad than can be thought of."

I smiled; but Muriel, who had not yet oped her lips whilst the others

were talking, rising, kissed her sister, and said, "Thou wilt have,

sweet one, so great a contentment in his letters as will give thee

patience to bear the loss of his good company."

At the which Kate brightened a little. To live with Muriel was a

preachment, as I have often had occasion since to find.

On the first Sunday I was at London, we heard mass at the Portuguese

ambassador's house, whither many Catholics of his acquaintance

resorted for that purpose from our side of the city. In the afternoon

a gentleman, who had travelled day and night from Staffordshire on

some urgent business, brought me a letter from my father, writ only

four days before it came to hand, and about a week after my departure

from home. It was as follows:

"MINE OWN DEAR CHILD,--The bearer of this letter hath promised to do

me the good service to deliver it to thee as soon as he shall reach

London; which, as he did intend to travel day and night, I compute

will be no later than the end of this week, or on Sunday at the

furthest. And for this his civility I do stand greatly indebted to

him; for in these straitened times 'tis no easy matter to get

letters conveyed from one part of the kingdom to another without

danger of discovering that which for the present should rather be

concealed. I received notice two days ago from Mistress Ward's

sister of your good journey and arrival at London; and I thank God,

my very good child, that he has had thee in his holy keeping and

bestowed thee under the roof of my good sister and brother; so that,

with a mind at ease in respect to thee, my dear sole earthly

treasure, I may be free to follow whatever course his providence may

appoint to me, who, albeit unworthy, do aspire to leave all things

to follow him. And indeed he hath already, at the outset of my

wanderings, sweetly disposed events in such wise that chance hath

proved, as it were, the servant of his providence; and, when I did

least look for it, by a divine ordination furnished me, who so short

a time back parted from a dear child, with the company of one who

doth stand to me in lieu of her who, by reason of her tender sex and

age, I am compelled to send from me. For being necessitated, for the

preservation of my life, to make seldom any long stay in one place,

I had need of a youth to ride with me on those frequent journeys,

and keep me company in such places {486} as I may withdraw unto for

quietness and study. So being in Stafford some few days back, I

inquired of the master of the inn where I did lay for one night, if

it were not possible to get in that city a youth to serve me as a

page, whom I said I would maintain as a gentleman if he had

learning, nurture, and behavior becoming such a person. He said his

son, who was a schoolmaster, had a youth for a pupil who carried

virtue in his very countenance; but that he was the child of a

widow, who, he much feared, would not easily be persuaded to part

from him. Thereupon I expressed a great desire to have a sight of

this youth and charged him to deal with his master so that he should

be sent to my lodgings; which, when he came there, lo and behold, I

perceived with no small amazement that he was no other than Edmund

Genings, who straightway ran into my arms, and with much ado

restrained himself from weeping, so greatly was he moved with

conflicting passions of present joy and recollected sorrow at this

our unlooked-for meeting; and truly mine own contentment therein was

in no wise less than his. He told me that his mother's poverty

increasing, she had moved from Lichfield, where it was more bitter

to her, by reason of the affluence in which she had before lived in

that city, to Stafford, where none did know them; and she dwelt in a

mean lodging in a poor sort of manner. And whereas he had desired to

accept the offer of a stranger, with a view to relieve his mother

from the burden of his support, and maybe yield her some assistance

in her straits, he now passionately coveted to throw his fortune

with mine, and to be entered as a page in my service. But though she

had been willing before, from necessity, albeit averse by

inclination, to part with him, when she knew me it seemed awhile

impossible to gain her consent. Methinks she was privy to Edmund's

secret good opinion of Catholic religion, and feared, if he should

live with me, the effect thereof would follow. But her necessities

were so sharp, and likewise her regrets that he should lack

opportunities for his further advance in learning, which she herself

was unable to supply, that at length by long entreaty he prevailed

on her to give him license for that which his heart did prompt him

to desire for his own sake and hers. And when she had given this

consent, but not before, lest it should appear I did seek to bribe

her by such offers to so much condescension as she then evinced, I

proposed to assist her in any way she wished to the bettering of her

fortunes, and said I would do as much whether she suffered her son

to abide with me or no: which did greatly work with her to conceive

a more favorable opinion of me than she had heretofore held, and to

be contented he should remain in my service, as he himself so

greatly desired. After some further discourse, it was resolved that

I should furnish her with so much money as would pay her debts and

carry her to La Rochelle, where her youngest son was with her

brother, who albeit he had met with great losses, would

nevertheless, she felt assured, assist her in her need. Thus has

Edmund become to me less a page than a pupil, less a servant than a

son. I will keep a watchful eye over his actions, whom I already

perceive to be tractable, capable, willing to learn, and altogether

such as his early years did promise he should be. I thank God, who

has given me so great a comfort in the midst of so great trials, and

to this youth in me a father rather than a master, who will ever

deal with him in an honorable and loving manner, both in respect to

his own deserts and to her merits, whose prayers have, I doubt not,

procured this admirable result of what was in no wise designed, but

by God's providence fell out of the asking a simple question in an

inn and of a stranger.

"And now, mine only and very dear child, I commend thee to God's

holy keeping; and I beseech thee to be as mindful of thy duty to him

as thou {487} hast been (and most especially of late) of thine to

me; and imprint in thy heart those words of holy writ, 'Not to fear

those that kill the body, but cannot destroy the soul;' but withal,

in whatever is just and reasonable, and not clearly against Catholic

religion, to observe a most exact obedience to such as stand to thee

at present in place of thy unworthy father, and who, moreover, are

of such virtue and piety as I doubt not would move them rather to

give thee an example how to suffer the loss of all things for Christ

his sake than to offend him by a contrary disposition. I do write to

my good brother by the same convenience to yield him and my sister

humble thanks for their great kindness to me in thee, and send this

written in haste; for I fear I shall not often have means hereafter.

Therefore I desire Almighty God to protect, bless, and establish

thee. So in haste, and _in visceribus Christi_, adieu."

The lively joy I received from this letter was greater than I can

rehearse, for I had now no longer before my eyes the sorrowful vision

of my dear father with none to tend and comfort him in his wanderings;

and no less was my contentment that Edmund, my dearly-loved playmate,

was now within reach of his good instructions, and free to follow that

which I was persuaded his conscience had been prompting him to seek

since he had attained the age of reason.

I note not down in this history the many visits I paid to the Charter

House that autumn, except to notice the growing care Lady Surrey did

take to supply the needs of prisoners and poor people, and how this

brought her into frequent occasions of discourse with Mistress Ward

and Muriel, who nevertheless, as I also had care to observe, kept

these interviews secret, which might have caused suspicion in those

who, albeit Catholic, were ill-disposed to adventure the loss of

worldly advantages by the profession of what Protestants do term

perverse and open papistry. Kate and Polly were of this way of

thinking--prudence was ever the word with them when talk of religion

was ministered in their presence; and they would not keep as much as a

prayer-book in their chambers for fear of evil results. They were

sometimes very urgent with their father for to suffer them to attend

Protestant service, which they said would not hinder them from hearing

mass at convenient times, and saying such prayers as they listed; and

Polly the more so that a young gentleman of good birth and high

breeding, who conformed to the times, had become a suitor for her

hand, and was very strenuous with her on the necessity of such

compliance, which nevertheless her father would not allow of. Much

company came to the house, both Protestant and Catholic; for my aunt,

who was sick at other times, did greatly mend toward the evening. When

I was first in London for some weeks, she kept me with her at such

times in the parlor, and encouraged me to discourse with the visitors;

for she said I had a forwardness and vivacity of speech which, if

practised in conversation, would in time obtain for me as great a

reputation of wit as Polly ever enjoyed. I was nothing loth to study

in this new school, and not slow to improve in it. At the same time I

gave myself greatly to the reading of such books as I found in my

cousins' chambers; amongst which were some M. de la Motte had lent to

Polly, marvellous witty and entertaining, such as _Les Nouvelles de la

Reine de Navarre_ and the _Cents Histoires tragiques;_ and others done

in English out of French by Mr. Thomas Fortescue; and a poem, writ by

one Mr. Edmund Spenser, very beautiful, and which did so much bewitch

me, that I was wont to rise in the night to read it by the light of

the moon at my casement window; and the _Morte d' Arthur_, which Mr.

Hubert Rookwood had willed me to read, whom I met at Bedford, and

which so filled my head with fantastic images and imagined scenes,

that I did, as it were, fall in love with {488} Sir Launcelot, and

would blush if his name were but mentioned, and wax as angry if his

fame were questioned as if he had been a living man, and I in a

foolish manner fond of him.

This continued for some little time, and methinks, had it proceeded

further, I should have received much damage from a mode of life with

so little of discipline in it, and so great incitements to faults and

follies which my nature was prone to, but which my conscience secretly

reproved. And among the many reasons I have to be thankful to Mistress

"Ward, that never-to-be-forgotten friend, whose care restrained me in

these dangerous courses, partly by compulsion through means of her

influence with my aunt and her husband, and partly by such admonitions

and counsel as she favored me with, I reckon amongst the greatest

that, at an age when the will is weak, albeit the impulses be good,

she lent a helping hand to the superior part of my soul to surmount

the evil tendencies which bad example on the one hand, and weak

indulgence on the other, fostered in me, whose virtuous inclinations

had been, up to that time, hedged in by the strong safeguards of

parental watchfulness. She procured that I should not tarry, save for

brief and scanty spaces of time, in my aunt's parlor when she had

visitors, and so contrived that it should be when she herself was

present, who, by wholesome checks and studied separation from the rest

of the company, reduced my forwardness with just restraints such as

became my age. And when she discovered what books I read, oh, with

what fervent and strenuous speech she drove into my soul the edge of a

salutary remorse; with what tearful eyes and pleading voice she

brought before me the memory of my mother's care and my father's love,

which had ever kept me from drinking such empoisoned draughts from the

well-springs of corruption which in our days books of entertainment

too often prove, and if not altogether bad, yet be such as vitiate the

palate and destroy the appetite for higher and purer kinds of mental

sustenance. Sharp was her correction, but withal so seasoned with

tenderness, and a grief the keenness of which I could discern was

heightened by the thought that my two elder cousins (one time her

pupils) should be so drawn aside by the world and its pleasures as to

forget their pious habits, and minister to others the means of such

injury as their own souls had sustained, that every word she uttered

seemed to sink into my heart as if writ with a pen of fire; and mostly

when she thus concluded her discourse:

"There hath been times, Constance, when men, yea and women also, might

play the fool for a while, without so great danger as now, and dally

with idle folly like children who do sport on a smooth lawn nigh to a

running stream, under their parents' eyes, who, if their feet do but

slip, are prompt to retrieve them. But such days are gone by for the

Catholics of this land. I would have thee to bear in mind that 'tis no

common virtue--no convenient religion--faces the rack, the dungeon, and

the rope; that wanton tales and light verses are no _viaticum_ for a

journey beset with such perils. And thou--thou least of all--whose

gentle mother, as thou well knowest, died of a broken heart from the

fear to betray her faith--thou, whose father doth even now gird

himself for a fight, where to win is to die on a scaffold--shouldst

scorn to omit such preparation as may befit thee to live, if it so

please God, or to die, if such be his will, a true member of his holy

Catholic Church. O Constance, it doth grieve me to the heart that thou

shouldst so much as once have risen from thy bed at night to feed thy

mind with the vain words of profane writers, in place of nurturing thy

soul by such reasonable exercises and means as God, through the

teaching of his Church, doth provide for the spiritual growth of his

children, and by prayer and penance make ready for coming conflicts.

Bethink thee of the many holy priests, yea and laymen also, who be in

uneasy {489} dungeons at this time, lying on filthy straw, with chains

on their bruised limbs, but lately racked and tormented for their

religion, whilst thou didst offend God by such wanton conduct. Count

up the times thou hast thus offended; and so many times rise in the

night, my good child, and say the psalm 'Miserere,' through which we

do especially entreat forgiveness for our sins."

I cast myself in her arms, and with many bitter tears lamented my

folly; and did promise her then, and, I thank God, ever after did keep

that promise, whilst I abode under the same roof with her, to read no

books but such as she should warrant me to peruse. Some days after she

procured Mr. Congleton's consent, who also went with us, to carry me

to the Marshalsea, whither she had free access at that time by reason

of her acquaintanceship with the gaoler's wife, who, when a maid, had

been a servant in her family, and who, having been once Catholic, did

willingly assist such prisoners as came there for their religion.

There we saw Mr. Hart, who hath been this long while confined in a

dark cell, with nothing but boards to lie on till Mistress Ward gave

him a counterpane, which she concealed under her shawl, and the gaoler

was prevailed on by his wife not to take from him. He was cruelly

tortured some time since, and condemned to die on the same day as Mr.

Luke Kirby and some others on a like charge, that he did deny the

queen's supremacy in spiritual matters; but he was taken off the

sledge and returned to prison. He did take it very quietly and

patiently; and when Mr. Congleton expressed a hope he might soon be

released from prison, he smiled and said:

"My good friend, my crosses are light and easy; and the being deprived

of all earthly comfort affords a heavenly joy, which maketh my prison

happy, my confinement merciful, my solitude full of blessings. To God,

therefore, be all praise, honor, and glory, for so unspeakable a

benefit bestowed upon his poor, wretched, and unworthy servant."

So did he comfort those who were more grieved for him than he for

himself; and each in turn we did confess; and after I had disburdened

my conscience in such wise that he perceived the temper of my mind,

and where to apply remedies to the dangers the nature of which his

clearsightedness did foresee, he thus addressed me:

"The world, my dear daughter, soon begins to seem insipid, and all its

pleasures grow bitter as gall; all the fine shows and delights it

affords appear empty and good for nothing to such as have tasted the

happiness of conversing with Christ, though it be amidst torments and

tribulations, yea and in the near approach of death itself. This joy

so penetrates the soul, so elevates the spirit, so changes the

affections, that a prison seems not a prison but a paradise, death a

goal long time desired, and the torments which do accompany it jewels

of great price. Take with thee these words, which be the greatest

treasure and the rarest lesson for these times: 'He that loveth his

life in this world shall lose it, and he that hateth it shall find

it;' and remember the devil is always upon the watch. Be you also

watchful. Pray you for me. I have a great confidence that we shall see

one another in heaven, if you keep inviolable the word you have given

to God to be true to his Catholic Church and obedient to its precepts,

and he gives me the grace to attain unto that same blessed end."

These words, like the sower's seed, fell into a field where thorns

oftentimes threatened to choke their effect; but persecution, when it

arose, consumed the thorns as with fire, and the plant, which would

have withered in stony ground, bore fruit in a prepared soil.

As we left the prison, it did happen that, passing by the gaoler's

lodge, I saw him sitting at a table drinking ale with one whose back

was to the door. A suspicion came over me, the most unlikely in the

world, for it was against all credibility, and I had not seen so much

as that person's face; but in the shape of his head and the manner of

{490} his sitting, but for a moment observed, there was a resemblance

to Edmund Genings, the thought of which I could not shake off. When we

were walking home, Mr. Congleton said Mr. Hart had told him that a

short time back a gentleman had been seized, and committed to close

confinement, whom he believed, though he had not attained to the

certainty thereof, to be Mr. Willisden; and if it were so, that much

trouble might ensue to many recusants, by reason of that gentleman

having dealt in matters of great importance to such persons touching

lands and other affairs whereby their fortunes and maybe their lives

might be compromised. On hearing of this, I straightway conceived a

sudden fear lest it should be my father and not Mr. Willisden was

confined in that prison; and the impression I had received touching

the youth who was at table with the gaoler grew so strong in

consequence, that all sorts of fears founded thereon ran through my

mind, for I had often heard how persons did deceive recusants by

feigning themselves to be their friends, and then did denounce them to

the council, and procured their arrest and oftentimes their

condemnation by distorting and false swearing touching the speech they

held with them. One Eliot in particular, who was a man of great

modesty and ingenuity of countenance, so as to defy suspicion (but a

very wicked man in more ways than one, as has been since proved), who

pretended to be Catholic, and when he did suspect any to be a Jesuit,

or a seminary priest, or only a recusant, he would straightway enter

into discourse with him, and in an artful manner cause him to betray

himself; whereupon he was not slow to throw off the mask, whereby

several had been already brought to the rope. And albeit I would not

credit that Edmund should be such a one, the evil of the times was so

great that my heart did misgive me concerning him, if indeed he was

the youth whom I had espied on such familiar terms with that ruffianly

gaoler. I had no rest for some days, lacking the means to discover the

truth of that suspicion; for Mrs. Ward, to whom I did impart it, dared

not adventure again that week to the Marshalsea, by reason of the

gaoler's wife having charged her not to come frequently, for that her

husband had suddenly suspected her to be a recusant, and would by no

means allow of her visits to the prisoners; but that when he was drunk

she could sometimes herself get his keys and let her in, but not too

often. Mr. Congleton would have it the prisoner must be Mr. Willisden

and no other, and took no heed of my fears, which he said had no

reasonable grounds, as I had not so much as seen the features of the

youth I took to be my father's page. But I could by no means be

satisfied, and wept very much; and I mind me how, in the midst of my

tears that evening, my eyes fell on the frontispiece of a volume of

the _Morte d' Arthur_ which had been loosened when the book was in my

chamber, and in which was picture of Sir Launcelot, the present mirror

of my fancy. I had pinned it to my curtain, and jewelled it as a

treasure and fund of foolish musings, even after yielding up, with

promise to read no more therein, the book which had once held it. And

thus were kept alive the fantastic imaginings wherewith I clothed a

creature conceived in a writer's brain, whose nobility was the

offspring of his thoughts and the continual entertainment of mine own.

But, oh, how just did I now find the words of a virtuous friend, and

how childish my folly, when the true sharp edge of present fear

dispersed these vapory clouds, even as the keen blast of a north wind

doth drive away a noxious mist! The sight of the dismal dungeon that

day visited, the pallid features of that true confessor therein

immured, his soul-piercing words, and the apprehensions which were

wringing my heart--banished of a sudden an idle dream engendered by

vain readings and vainer musings, and Sir Launcelot held henceforward

no higher, or not so high, a {491} place in my esteem as the good Sir

Guy of Warwick, or the brave Hector de Valence.

A day or two after, my Lady Surrey sent her coach for me; and I found

her in her dressing-room seated on a couch with her waiting-women and

Mistress Milicent around her, who were displaying a great store of

rich suits and jewels and such-like gear drawn from wardrobes and

closets, the doors of which were thrown open, and little Mistress Bess

was on tiptoe on a stool afore a mirror with a diamond necklace on,

ribbons flaring about her head, and a fan of ostrich-feathers in her

hand.

"Ah, sweet one," said my lady, when I came in, "thou must needs be

surprised at this show of bravery, which ill consorts with the

mourning of our present garb or the grief of our hearts; but, i'

faith, Constance, strange things do come to pass, and such as I would

fain hinder if I could."

"Make ready thine ears for great news, good Constance," cried Bess,

running toward me encumbered with her finery, and tumbling over sundry

pieces of head-gear in her way, to the waiting-woman's no small

discomfiture. "The queen's majesty doth visit upon next Sunday the

Earl and Countess of Surrey; and as her highness cannot endure the

sight of dool, they and their household must needs put it off and

array themselves in their costliest suits; and Nan is to put on her

choicest jewels, and my Lady Bess must be grand too, to salute the

queen."

"Hush, Bessy," said my lady; and leading me into the adjoining

chamber, "'tis hard," quoth she, holding my hand in hers,--"'tis hard

when his grace is in the Tower and in disgrace with her majesty, and

only six weeks since our Moll died, that she must needs visit this

house, where there be none to entertain her highness but his grace's

poor children; 'tis hard, Constance, to be constrained to kiss the

hand which threatens his life who gave my lord his, and mostly to

smile at the queen's jesting, which my Lord Arundel saith we must of

all things take heed to observe, for that she as little can endure

dool in the face as in the dress."

A few tears fell from those sweet eyes upon my hand, which she still

held, and I said, "Comfort you, my sweet lady. It must needs be that

her majesty doth intend favor to his grace through this visit. Her

highness would never be minded to do so much honor to the children if

she did not purpose mercy to the father."

"I would fain believe it were so," said the countess, thoughtfully;

"but my Lord Arundel and my Lady Lumley hold not, I fear, the same

opinion. And I do hear from them that his grace is much troubled

thereat, and hath written to the Earl of Leicester and my Lord

Burleigh to lament the queen's determination to visit his son, who is

not of age to receive her." [Footnote 99]

[Footnote 99: Calendar of State Papers, Domestic Series, 1547 to

1580: "Duke of Norfolk to the Earl of Leicester and Lord Burleigh;

laments the queen's determination to visit his son's house, who is

not of age to receive her."]

"And doth my Lord of Surrey take the matter to heart?"

"My lord's disposition doth incline him to conceive hope where others

see reason to fear," she replied. "He saith he is glad her majesty

should come to this house, and that he will take occasion to petition

her grace to release his father from the Tower; and he hath drawn up

an address to that effect, which is marvellous well expressed; and,

since 'tis written, he makes no more doubt that her majesty will

accede to it than if the upshot was not yet to come, but already past.

And he hath set himself with a skill beyond his years, and altogether

wonderful in one so young, to prepare all things for the queen's

reception; so that when his grandfather did depute my Lord Berkeley

and my Lady Lumley to assist us (he himself being too sick to go out

of his house) in the ordering of the collation in the banqueting-room,

and the music wherewith to greet her highness on her arrival, as well

as the ceremonial to be observed during her visit, they did find that

my lord had so {492} disposedly and with so great taste ordained the

rules to be observed, and the proper setting forth of all things, that

little remained for them to do. And he will have me to be richly

dressed, and to put on the jewels which were his mother's, which,

since her death, have not been worn by the two Duchesses of Norfolk

which did succeed her. Ah me, Mistress Constance, I often wish my lord

and I had been born far from the court, in some quiet country place,

where there are no queens to entertain, and no plots which do bring

nobles into so great dangers."

"Alack," I cried, "dear lady, 'tis not the highest in the land that be

alone to suffer. Their troubles do stand forth in men's eyes; and when

a noble head is imperilled all the world doth know of it; but blood is

spilt in this land, and torments endured, which no pen doth chronicle,

and of which scant mention is made in palaces."

"There is a passion in thy speech," my lady said, "which betrayeth a

secret uneasiness of heart. Hast thou had ill news, my Constance?"

"No news," I answered, "but that which my fears do invent and

whisper;" and then I related to her the cause of my disturbance, which

she sought to allay by kind words, which nevertheless failed to

comfort me.

Before I left she did propose I should come to the Charter House on

the morning of the queen's visit, and bring Mistress Ward and my

cousins also, as it would pleasure them to stand in the gallery and

witness the entertainment, and albeit my heart was heavy, methought it

was an occasion not to be overpast to feast my eyes with the sight of

majesty, and to behold that great queen who doth hold in her hands her

subjects' lives, and who, if she do but nod, like the god of the

heathen which books do speak of, such terrible effects ensue, greater

than can be thought of; and so I gave my lady mine humble thanks, and

also for that she did gift me with a dainty hat and a well-embroidered

suit to wear on that day; which, when Kate saw, she fell into a

wonderful admiration of the pattern, and did set about to get it

copied afore the day of the royal visit to Howard House. As I returned

to Holborn in my lady's coach there was a great crowd in the Cornhill,

and the passage for a while arrested by the number of persons on their

way to what is now called the Royal Exchange, which her majesty was to

visit in the evening. I sat very quietly with mine eyes fixed on the

foot-passengers, not so much looking at their faces as watching their

passage, which, like the running of a river, did seem endless. But at

last it somewhat slackened, and the coach moved on, when, at the

corner of a street, nigh unto a lamp over a shop, which did throw a

light on his face, I beheld Edmund Genings. Oh, how my heart did beat,

and with what a loud cry I did call to the running footmen to stop!

But the noise of the street was so great they did not hear me, and I

saw him turn and pursue his way down another street toward the river.

My good uncle, when he heard I had verily seen my father's new page in

the city, gave more heed to my suspicions, and did promise to go

himself unto the Marshalsea on the next day, and seek to verify the

name of the prisoner Mr. Hart had made mention of.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

------

{493}

From The Cornhill Magazine.

MODERN FALCONRY.

Hunting and hawking were, as every one knows, the great sports of our

forefathers. Angling was but little understood before the time of

Walton and Cotton, and not thoroughly even by those great masters

themselves. In the olden time, the bow and arrow, being scarcely

adapted for fowling, were used almost exclusively against large game,

such as deer; the crossbow was perhaps not a very efficient weapon;

and the art of shooting flying with a fowling-piece may be said to be

of recent invention. It is true that, a couple of hundred years ago,

men (the sportsmen of those days) might have been seen, armed with a

match-lock, or some such wonderful contrivance, crawling toward a

covey of basking partridges, with the intention of shooting them on

the ground; and Dame Juliana Berners, who wrote upon falconry in the

middle of the fifteenth century, invented a fly-rod of such excessive

weight that the strongest salmon-fisher in these days would be

unwilling to wield it. But this was sorry work, and we can well

understand that, of itself, it was very far from satisfying a

sport-loving people. They still held by the old sports. Hunting and

hawking were in their glory when what we now call "shooting" and

"fishing" were scarcely understood at all. Deer were in abundance, and

so was other game, especially if we consider the few people privileged

to kill it. In those days, though not in these, the most sportsmanlike

way was the most profitable; and more quarry could be taken with dogs

and hawks than in any other, and perhaps less legitimate, manner.

Hunting we retain, as our great and national sport, though

circumstances, rather than choice, have led to our exchanging the stag

for the fox. But falconry, the great sport of chivalry, once the

national sport of these islands, has been permitted so nearly to die

out that but few people are aware of its existence amongst us. That it

does still live, however, though under a cloud,--to what extent and in

what manner it is carried out,--it is the purport of this paper to

show.

The causes of the decrease, and almost the loss, of this sport are

obvious enough. Amongst the chief are, the present enclosed state of

the country; the perfection--or what is almost perfection--of modern

gunnery, and of the marksman's skill, and the desire to make large

bags. Add to these, perhaps, the trouble and expense attendant upon

keeping hawks. But the links have at no time absolutely been broken

which, in England, unite falconry in the time of Ethelbert to falconry

of the present day. Lord Orford and Colonel Thornton took them up and

strengthened them at the end of the last, and the beginning of the

present, century. Later still, the Loo Club in Holland saved falconry

from extinction in England, because its English members brought their

falcons to this country, and flew them here. The Barrs, first-rate

Scotch falconers, and John Pells, of Norfolk, helped the course by

training and selling hawks; and a work entitled "Falconry in the

British Isles," published in 1855, together with some chapters which

appeared rather later in one of the leading sporting newspapers (and

were afterward collected in a volume), served to create or encourage a

love for falconry.

It was said that the present Duke of St. Albans, the grand falconer,

would take to the sport _con amore_, and not as a mere form; but this

is very far indeed from being the case. {494} The Maharajah Dhuleep

Singh was perhaps the most considerable falconer of the present day;

and last season but one he killed 119 grouse with his young hawks; but

he has lately given up the greater part of his hawking establishment.

In Ireland there are some good falcons, flown occasionally at herons,

and frequently, and with great success, at other quarry; many officers

in the army are falconers; and, in the wilds of Cheshire, there lives

a poor gentleman who has flown hawks for fifteen years, and contrives,

through the courtesy of his friends, to make a bag on the moors with

his famous grouse-hawk "The Princess," and one or two others.

Those who have been accustomed to regard falconry as entirely a thing

of the past, and the secret of hawk-training as utterly lost as that

of Stonehenge or the Pyramids, will be surprised to hear that there

are, at the present time, hawks in England of such proved excellence,

that it is impossible to conceive even princes in the olden time,

notwithstanding the monstrous prices they are said to have paid for

some falcons, ever possessing better. When a peregrine falcon will

"wait on," as it is called, at the height of a hundred or a hundred

and fifty yards above her master, as he beats the moors for her, and,

when the birds rise, chase them with almost the speed of an arrow;

when she is sure to kill, unless the grouse escapes in cover; when she

will not attempt to "carry" her game, even should a dog run by her,

and when she is ready to fly two or three times in one morning--it can

easily be imagined, even by those who know nothing of falconry, that

she has reached excellence.

And so, in heron-hawking. If a cast of falcons, unhooded at a quarter

of a mile from a passing heron (especially a "light" heron, i. e., a

heron _going_ to feed, and therefore not weighted), capture him in a

wind, and after a two-mile flight, it is difficult to suppose,

_caeteris paribus_, that any hawks could possibly be superior to them.

And, as such hawks as we have described exist, the inevitable

conclusion is, that where falconry is really understood, it is

understood as well as it ever was; or, in other words, that modern

falconry, as far as the perfection of individual hawks is concerned,

is equal to ancient.

Our forefathers, excellent falconers as they were, chose to make a

wonderful mystery of their craft; and when they did publish a book on

the subject of their great sport, its directions could only avail the

gentry of those exclusive times. In examining these books, one is

sometimes almost tempted to doubt whether the writers really offered

the whole of their contents in a spirit of good faith; at any rate,

some of the advice is very startling to modern ears; and no sane man

of the present day would dream of following it. Perhaps the reader

would like an extract. Here, then, is a recipe for a sick hawk,

extracted from _The Gentleman's Recreation_, published 1677: "Take

germander, pelamountain, basil, grummel-seed, and broom-flowers, of

each half an ounce; hyssop, sassafras, polypodium, and horse-mints, of

each a quarter of an ounce, and the like of nutmegs; cubebs, borage,

mummy, mugwort, sage, and the four kinds of mirobolans, of each half

an ounce; of aloes soccotrine the fifth part of an ounce, and of

saffron one whole ounce. To be put into a hen's gut, tied at both

ends." What was supposed to be the effect of this marvellous mixture,

it is somewhat hard to divine; but our modern pharmacopoeia would be

content with a little rhubarb and a few peppercorns. With regard to

food, we are told, in the same work, that cock's flesh is proper for

falcons that are "melancholick;" and that "phlegmatick" birds are to

be treated in a different way--possibly fed on pullets. Were this paper

intended as a notice of ancient, instead of modern falconry, we might

multiply instances to show the extreme _faddiness_ of the old

falconers.

{495}

Simply to _tame_ a hawk is excessively easy. To train it, up to

a certain point, is not at all difficult. But it requires an old and

practised hand to produce a bird of first-rate excellence.

The modern routine of training the peregrine falcon is shortly as

follows: Young birds are procured, generally from Scotland, either

just before they can fly, or just after. They are placed in some

straw, on a platform, in an outhouse, which ought to open to the

southeast. They are furnished each with a large bell (the size of a

very small walnut) for the leg; and each with a couple of jessies

(short straps of leather) for both legs. If they are unable to fly,

the door of the coach-house (or whatever the outhouse may be) should

be left open; but if they have tolerable use of their wings, it will

be necessary to close it for the first few days. They are fed twice a

day with beefsteak--changed, occasionally, for rabbit, rook, or

pigeon; and, if the birds are very young, the food must be cut up

small; but it is improper to take them from the nest until the

feathers have shown themselves thoroughly through the white down. A

lure is then used. This instrument need be nothing more than a forked

and somewhat heavy piece of wood (sometimes covered with leather), to

which is fastened a strap and a couple of pigeons' wings. To this meat

is tied; and the young hawks are encouraged to fly down from their

platform, at the stated feeding times, to take their meals from it,

the falconer either loudly whistling or shouting to them the while.

Presently, and as they become acquainted with the lures, they are

permitted to fly at large for a fortnight or three weeks; and, if the

feeding-times be kept, the lures well furnished with food, and the

shout or whistle employed, the hawks will certainly return when they

are due; unless, indeed, they have been injured or destroyed when from

home, by accident or malice. This flying at liberty is termed "flying

at hack." When the young hawks show any disposition to prey for

themselves (though the heavy bells are intended slightly to delay

this), they are taken up from "hack," either with a small net, or with

the hand. They are then taught to wear the hood, and are carried on

the fist. In a few days they are sufficiently tame to be trusted at

large, and may be flown at young grouse or pigeons, the heavy bells

having been changed for the lightest procurable. At this period great

pains are taken by the falconer to prevent his bird "carrying" her

game; for it is obvious that, were the hawk to move when he approached

her, he would be subject constantly to the greatest trouble and

disappointment. The tales told in books about hawks _bringing_ quarry to

their master are absurd; the falconer must go to his hawk. Such is a

sketch of the training in modern times of the eyas or young bird.

Wild-caught hawks, however, called "haggards," are occasionally used.

These, though excellent for herons and rooks, are not good for

game-hawking, as it is difficult to make them "wait on" about the

falconer, and all game must be flown from the air, and not from the

hood; _i.e._, by a hawk from her pitch, and not from the fist of her

master. Haggards, of course, are never flown at "hack." The tiercel,

or male peregrine, is excellent for partridges and pigeons; but the

female bird only can have a chance with herons, and is to be preferred

also for grouse and rooks.

We have in this country several trained goshawks, which are flown at

rabbits; also sometimes at hares and pheasants. The merlin, too, is

occasionally trained: the present writer flew these beautiful little

birds at larks for years; but gave them up in 1857, and confined

himself entirely to peregrines and goshawks. The sparrow-hawk, the

wildest of hawks, is sometimes used for small birds. The hobby is

hardly to be procured. The Iceland and Greenland falcons are prized,

but are rarely met with.

These large birds are called gerfalcons; and, when very white, and

good in the field, fetched extravagant prices in the old times. They

may now sometimes be procured untrained for L5 or L6 each; but the

peregrine is large enough for the game of this country.

{496}

It may be interesting to know, in something like detail, what a flight

at game, rooks, pigeons, or magpies is like how it is conducted, and

to what extent the sagacity of hawks may be developed. To this end, we

will give a sketch or two of what is being done now, and what will be

done in the game season.

At this season of the year, and in this country, falconers are obliged

to be content with rook, pigeon, or magpie flying. Such quarry is

flown "out of the hood," and not from the air; _i.e._ the hawk,

instead of "waiting on" over the falconer in expectation of quarry

being sprung, is unhooded as it rises, and is cast off from the fist.

At least the only exception to this is when pigeons are thrown from

the hand in order to teach a hawk to "wait on."

It will be understood that, in the following description, the

peregrine is supposed to be used, for a long-winged hawk is necessary

for the flights about to be described, and the merlin is too small to

be depended upon for anything larger than a black-bird, or a young

partridge; though the best females are good for pigeons.

Let us go out to-day, then, and try to kill a rook or two on the

neighboring common. The hawks are in good condition; not indeed as fat

as though they were put up to moult, but with plenty of flesh and

muscle, and wind kept good by almost daily exercise. We have a haggard

tiercel and a haggard falcon; also two eyas falcons; all are up to

their work and have been well entered to rooks. We shall not trouble

ourselves to take out the cadge to-day, for our party is quite strong

enough to carry the hawks on the fist. Only two of us are mounted, a

lady and a gentleman; the rest will run. The lady would carry the

little tiercel, but she is afraid lest she should make a blunder in

unhooding him, as her mare is rather fresh this morning; but her

companion, who has flown many a hawk, willingly takes charge of him.

We are well on the common now; and lo! a black mass on the ground

there, with a few black spots floating over. Hark to the distant

"caw!" A clerical meeting. "Let us give them a bishop, then," says the

bearer of the tiercel, which is called by that name. The wind is from

them to us. The horseman and his companion canter onward; we follow at

a slow run. The horses approach the flock; the black mass becomes

disturbed and rises; the "bishop" is thrown off with a shout of "Hoo,

ha! ha!" and rushes amongst his clergy with even more than episcopal

energy. There is full enough wind; the rooks are soon into it, and

ringing up in a compact body with a pace which, for them, is very

good. His lordship, too, is mounting: he rose in a straight line the

moment he left the fist, but he is now making a large circle to get

above his quarry. He has reached them, but he does not grapple with

the first bird he comes near, though he seems exceedingly close to it.

But there is something so thoroughly systematic in his movements,

something which so suggests a long and deadly experience, that even

the uninitiated of the party feel certain that he is doing the right

thing. He is nearly above them. A rook has left the flock--the very

worst thing he could possibly do for his own sake: he has saved the

bishop the trouble of selection. He makes for some trees in the

distance, but it is inconceivable that he can reach them. There! and

there! Now again! He is clutched at the third stoop, and both birds,

in a deadly embrace, flap and twist to the ground together. The rest

are high in the air, and a long way off.

It must not be considered that this tiercel did not dash at once into

the whole flock because he was afraid to do so. He had no fear

whatever; but nature or experience taught him that a stoop from above

was worth half-a-dozen attempts to fly level and grapple.

"It's poor work after all," said one of the party, who had run for it

notwithstanding; "these brutes can't fly, {497} and it's almost an

insult to a first-rate hawk to unhood him at such quarry. Even the

hawks don't fly with the same dash that one sees when a strong pigeon

is on the wing. Beside, it's spoiling the eyases for game-hawking;

when they ought to be 'waiting on' over grouse, they will be starting

after the first rook that passes."

"My good fellow," answered another, "you _must_ hawk rooks now, or be

content with pigeons, unless you can find magpies (we will try that

presently): there are no herons anywhere near (and I don't know that

the eyases would fly them if there were); and, as for flying a

house-pigeon, which has been brought to the field in a basket, though

I grant the goodness of the flight, I don't see the sport. If we could

find wood-pigeons far enough from trees, I should like that. As for

the game next season, there are not many rooks on the _moors_; and, as

these falcons would fly rooks even if they had not seen them for a

year, I don't think we are losing much by what we are doing. It is

exercise at any rate; and, beside, I assure you that I have seen an

old cock-rook, in a wind like this, live for a mile, before one of the

best falcons in the world, where there was not a single tree to

shelter him."

We are compelled to go some distance before we can see a black

feather; for rooks, once frightened, are very careful; or rather, we

should have been so compelled had it not happened that an old

carrion-crow, perhaps led near the spot by curiosity, is seen passing

at the distance of about two hundred yards. The passage-falcon is

instantly unhooded and cast off; and, as we are now in the

neighborhood of a few scattered trees, it takes ten minutes to kill

him; and a short time, too, for he has "treed" himself some eight or

ten times in spite of our efforts to make him take the open.

Our time is short to-day; but let us get a magpie, if possible, before

we go home. Our fair companion is fully as anxious for the sport as we

are. Only a mile off there is a nice country; large grass fields,

small fences, with a bush here and there. We have reached it. A magpie

has flown from the top of that single tree in the hedgerow, and is

skimming down the field. Off with the young falcons: wait till the

first sees him; now unhood the second. Ah! he sees _them_, and flies

along the side of the hedge. Let us ride and run! Get him out of cover

as fast as possible, while the hawks "wait on" above. Pray, sir, jump

the fence a little lower down, and help to get him out from the other

side. Hoo-ha-ha! there he goes. Well stooped, "Vengeance," and nearly

clutched, "Guinevere," but he has reached the tree in the hedgerow,

and is moving his long tail about in the most absurd manner. A good

smack of the whip, and he is off again. And so we go on for a quarter

of an hour, riding, running, shouting, till "Guinevere" clutches him

just as he is about to enter a clump of trees. Who-whoop!

Such is rook-hawking and magpie-hawking. In an open plain, and on a

tolerably still day, a great number of rooks may be killed with good

hawks. Either eyas or passage-falcons may be used. Last year, one

hundred and fifty-two rooks and two carrion-crows were killed by some

officers, on the finest place for rook-flying in England, with some

passage-hawks and two eyases. In 1863, ninety rooks were killed, near

the same spot, with eyases. Tiercels are better than falcons for

magpie-hawking, as they are unquestionably quicker amongst hedgerows,

and can turn in a smaller compass. One tiercel has been known to kill

eight magpies in a day; but this is extraordinary work.

To prevent confusion, it may be as well to mention here that the term

"haggard" and "passage-hawk" both mean a wild-caught hawk; while

"eyas" signifies a bird taken from the nest or eyrie.

Heron-hawking requires an open country, with a heronry in the

neighborhood. The quarry is flown at generally by passage-hawks; but a

few {498} very good eyases have been found equal to the flight.

Game-hawking is conducted in the following manner: Let us suppose, in

the first instance, that the falconer is living in the immediate

neighborhood of grouse-moors, and that he wishes, on some fine morning

at the end of October or the beginning of November, to show his friend

a flight or two at grouse, without going very far for the sport. The

old pointer is summoned; "The Princess," an eyas falcon in the second

plumage, is hooded; and the walk is commenced.

Now, very early in the season on the moors, and through the whole of

September with partridges, it is better to wait for a point before the

hawk is cast oft, for this saves time, and you know that you have game

under you; but at that period of the season which we have named,

grouse rise the moment man or dog is seen, and you would have a bad

chance indeed were you to fly your hawk out of the hood (_i.e._, from

the fist) at them. The best way is to keep your dog to heel, not to

talk, and, just before you show yourself in some likely place, to

throw up the falcon. When she has reached her pitch, which she will

soon do, hurry the dog on, run, clap your hands, and get the birds up

as soon as may be.

The hill is ascended, "The Princess" is at her pitch--where she would

remain, following her master and "Shot" the pointer, for ten minutes

if necessary. Some minutes pass: an old cock-grouse, put up by a

shepherd-dog, rises a couple of hundred yards off. Hoo-ha-ha-ha! "The

Princess" vanishes from her post, more rapidly than the knights in

"Ivanhoe" left theirs. She does not droop or fly near the ground (she

has had too much experience for that), but almost rises as she shoots

off after him. Had he risen under her, she would have cut him over;

but this is a different affair. They are soon out of sight down the

hill; but a marker has been placed that way. "I think she has killed

him, sir," he shouts presently; "but it's a long way. No, she's coming

back; she must have put him into cover." Up and down hill, it would

take us twenty minutes to get there; and see! she is over our heads,

"waiting on" again, and telling us, as well as she can, to spring

another. A point! how is that?--only that there are some more which

dare not rise because they have seen _her_. "Hi in, 'Shot!'" Again the

falconer's shout startles his friend; again "The Princess" passes

through the air like an arrow. "All right this time, sir," cries the

marker; "I see her with it under yon wall." She has scarcely begun to

eat the head as we reach her. One more flight. She is lifted on the

grouse; the leash is passed through the jesses, and then she is

hooded. Let us rest for ten minutes. Again, she is "waiting on," again

she flies; but this time, though we see the flight for three-quarters

of a mile, the birds top a hill, and we are an hour in finding them.

The grouse, however, is fit for cooking even then; only the head,

neck, and some of the back have vanished: it is plucked nearly as well

as though it had been in the hands of a cook. That will do, and very

good sport, too, considering we had but one hawk. Let us now feed her

up on beef, and hood her.

In the very early part of the season, with grouse, and commonly with

partridges, it is usual (as we have hinted) to wait for a point; the

hawk is then cast off, and the birds are sprung when she has reached

her pitch.

Goshawks, which may be occasionally procured from the Regent's Park

Zoological Gardens, or directly from Sweden or Germany, are considered

by some falconers to be difficult birds to manage. That they are

sulkily disposed is certain; but in hands _accustomed to them_, and

when they are constantly at work, they are exceedingly trustworthy,

even affectionate, and will take as many as eight or ten rabbits in a

day. They are short-winged hawks, and have no chance with anything

faster than a rising pheasant; they are {499} excellent for rabbits,

and a few large ones will sometimes hold a hare. In modern practice

they are never hooded, except in travelling, and are always flown from

the fist, or from some tree in which they may have perched after an

unsuccessful flight.

There are probably, in these islands, about fifteen practical

falconers, three or four of whom are professional; of the latter, John

Pells and the Barrs are well worthy of mention.

John Pells was born at Lowestoft in 1815, and went, when he was

thirteen, with his father to Valkneswaard to take passage-hawks for

the Didlington Subscription Club; so that he was very soon in harness.

The elder Pells commenced his career at the age of eleven, and was in

every respect a perfect falconer; he was presented by Napoleon I. with

a falconer's bag, which is now in possession of the Duke of Leeds. He

died in 1838. The present John Pells has had all possible advantages

in his calling, and has made every use of them. He was falconer to the

Duke of Leeds, to Mr. O'Keeffe, to Mr. E. C. Newcome, to the late Duke

of St. Albans, and now attends to the hawks which the present duke is

bound, either by etiquette or necessity, to maintain. Pells also sells

trained hawks, and gives lessons in the art of falconry. He was at one

time an exceedingly active man, and spent six months in Iceland,

catching Iceland falcons. After enduring a good deal of cold and

fatigue, he brought fifteen of these birds to Brandon, in Norfolk, in

November, 1845. He is now too stout and too gouty for strong exercise,

but his experience is very valuable.

Too much can hardly be said in raise of John and Robert Barr

(brothers). Their father, a gamekeeper in Scotland, taught them, in a

rough way, the rudiments of falconry, They are now, and have been for

a long time, most accomplished falconers, When in the employment of

the Indian prince Dhuleep Singh, John Barr was sent to India to learn

the Indian system of falconry. There is some notion now of his being

placed at the head of a hawking club about to be established in Paris;

and English falconry might well be proud of such a representative.

Beside the Pells and the Barrs, we have Paul Moellen, Gibbs, and

Bots--and one or two more--all good.

In consequence of the great rage for game-preserving which obtains in

the present day, it does not seem unlikely that the peregrine falcon

may, in time, be as thoroughly exterminated in Scotland and Ireland as

the goshawk has already been. At present, however, falconers find no

difficulty in procuring these birds, if they are willing to pay for

them. In a selfish point of view, therefore, they have nothing of

which to complain. But it might become a question, at least of

conscience, whether mankind have the right, though they possibly may

have the power, of blotting out from the face of creation--so long as

there is no danger to human life and limb--any conspicuous type of

strength or of beauty. The kingfisher is sought to be exterminated on

our rivers, the eagle and the falcon on our hills; and it is brought

forward in justification of this slaughter--at least it is brought

forward in effect--that the sportsman's bag and the angler's creel are

of much more importance than the wonderful works of God. To all that

is selfish in these strict preservers of fish and of game it may be

opposed that part of the food of the kingfisher consists in minnows;

that the fry of trout and salmon, when not confined in breeding-boxes,

are rarely procured by this bird, which constantly feeds upon the

larvae of the _Dytiscce_ and _Libelluae_, the real foes of the fry;

that the peregrine falcon, though she undoubtedly kills very many

healthy grouse, purges the moors of diseased ones, and drives away the

egg-stealing birds. And to all that is generous in these martinets of

preservation it may be submitted that true sport has other elements

than those of acquisition and slaughter; that the pleasure of a ramble

on the hills {500} or by the river is sadly dashed if you have struck

out some of the beauty of the landscape; and that the incident of a

flight made by a wild hawk, or the flash of a kingfisher near the

angler's rod, is as lively and as well worth relating as the fall of

an extra grouse to the gun, or the addition of another trout to the

basket.

------

From The Lamp.

ALL-HALLOW EVE; OR, THE TEST OF FUTURITY.

BY ROBERT CURTIS.

CHAPTER I.

I could have wished that the incidents which I am about to describe in

the following tale had taken place in some locality with a less

Celtic, and to English tongues a more pronounceable, name than

_Boher-na-Milthiogue._ I had at first commenced the tale with the word

itself, thus: "Boher-na-Milthiogue, though in a wild and remote part

of Ireland," etc. But I was afraid that, should an English reader take

up and open the book, he would at the very first word slap it together

again between the palms of his hands, saying, "Oh, that is quite

enough for me!" Now, as my English readers have done me vastly good

service on former occasions, I should be sorry to frighten them at the

outset of this new tale; and I have therefore endeavored to lead them

quietly into it. With my Irish friends no such circumlocution would

have been necessary. Perhaps, if I dissever and explain the word, it

may enable even my English readers in some degree to approach a

successful attempt at its pronunciation. I am aware, however, of the

difficulty they experience in this respect, and that their attempts at

some of our easiest names of Irish places are really

laughable--laughable, at least, to our Celtic familiarity with the

correct sound.

_Boher_ is the Irish for "bridge," and _milthiogue_ for a "midge;"

Boher-na-Milthiogue, "the midge's bridge."

There now, if my English friends cannot yet pronounce the word

properly, which I still doubt, they can at least understand what it

means. It were idle, I fear to hope, that they can see any _beauty_ in

it; and yet that it is beautiful there can be no Celtic doubt

whatever.

Perhaps it might have been well to have written thus far in the shape

of a preface; but as nobody nowadays reads prefaces, the matter would

have been as bad as ever. I shall therefore continue now as I had

intended to have commenced at first.

Boher-na-Milthiogue, though in a wild and remote part of Ireland, is

not without a certain degree of natural and romantic beauty, suiting

well the features of the scene in which it lies.

Towering above a fertile and well-cultivated plain frown and smile the

brother and sister mountains of Slieve-dhu and Slieve-bawn, the solid

masonry of whose massive and perpendicular precipices was built by no

human architect. The ponderous and scowling rocks of Slieve-dhu, the

brother, are dark and indistinct; while, separated from it by a narrow

and abrupt ravine, those of Slieve-bawn, the sister, are of a whitish

spotted gray, contrasting cheerfully with those of her gloomy brother.

{501}

There is generally a story in Ireland about mountains or rivers or old

ruins which present any peculiarity of shape or feature. Now it is an

undoubted fact, which any tourist can satisfy himself of, that

although from sixty to a hundred yards asunder, there are huge bumps

upon the side of Slieve-bawn, corresponding to which in every respect

as to size and shape are cavities precisely opposite them in the side

of Slieve-dhu. The story in this case is, that although formerly the

mountains were, like a loving brother and sister, clasped in each

other's arms, they quarrelled one dark night (I believe about the

cause of thunder), when Slieve-dhu in a passion struck his sister a

blow in the face, and staggered her back to where she now stands, too

far for the possibility of reconciliation; and that she, knowing the

superiority of her personal appearance, stands her ground, as a proud

contrast to her savage and unfeeling relative.

Deep straight gullies, worn by the winter floods, mark the sides of

both mountains into compartments, the proportion and regularity of

which might almost be a matter of surprise, looking like huge stripes

down the white dress of Slieve-bawn, while down that of Slieve-dhu

they might be compared to black and purple plaid.

"Far to the north," in the bosom of the minor hills, lies a glittering

lake--glittering when the sun shines; dark, sombre, and almost

imperceptible when the clouds prevail.

The origin of the beautiful name in which the spot itself rejoices I

believe to be this; but why do I say "believe?" It is a self-evident

and well-known fact.

Along the base of Slieve-bawn there runs a narrow _roadeen_, turning

almost at right angles through the ravine already mentioned, and

leading to the flat and populous portion of the country on the other

side of the mountains, and cutting the journey, for any person

requiring to go there, into the sixteenth of the distance by the main

road. In this instance the proverb would not be fulfilled, that "the

longest way round was the shortest way home." Across one of the

winter-torrent beds which runs down the mountain side, almost at the

entrance of the ravine, is a rough-built rustic bridge, at a

considerable elevation from the road below. To those approaching it

from the lower level, it forms a conspicuous and exceedingly

picturesque object, looking not unlike a sort of castellated defence

to the mouth of the narrow pass between the mountains.

This bridge, toward sunset upon a summer's evening, presents a very

curious and (except in that spot) an unusual sight. Whether it arises

from any peculiarity of the herbage in the vicinity, or the fissures

in the mountains, or the crevices in the bridge itself, as calculated

to engender them, it would be hard to say; but it would be impossible

for any arithmetician to compute at the roughest guess the millions,

the billions of small midges which dance in the sunbeams immediately

above and around the bridge, but in no other spot for miles within

view. The singularity of their movements, and the peculiarity of their

distribution in the air, cannot fail to attract the observation of the

most careless beholder. In separate and distinct batches of some

hundreds of millions each, they rise in almost solid masses until they

are lost sight of, as they attain the level of the heathered brow of

the mountain behind them, becoming visible again as they descend into

the bright sunshine that lies upon the white rocks of Slieve-bawn. In

no instance can you perceive individual or scattered midges; each

batch is connected and distinct in itself, sometimes oval, sometimes

almost square, but most frequently in a perfectly round ball. No two

of these batches rise or fall at the same moment. I was fortunate

enough to see them myself upon more than one occasion in high

perfection. They reminded me of large balls thrown up and caught

successively by some distinguished {502} acrobat. During the

performance, a tiny little sharp whir of music fills the atmosphere,

which would almost set you to sleep as you sit on the battlement of

the bridge watching and wondering.

By what law of creation, or what instinct of nature, or, if by

neither, by what union of sympathy the movements of these milthiogues

are governed--for I am certain there are millions of them at the same

work in the same spot this fine summer's evening--would be a curious

and proper study for an entomologist; but I have no time here to do

more than describe the facts, were I even competent to enter into the

inquiry. Fancy say fifty millions of midges in a round ball, so

arranged that, under no suddenness or intricacy of movement, any one

touches another. There is no saying amongst them, "Keep out of my way,

and don't be _pushin'_ me," as Larry Doolan says.

So far, the thing in itself appears miraculous; but when we come to

consider that their motions, upward to a certain point, and downward

to another, are simultaneous, that the slightest turn of their wings

is collectively instantaneous, rendering them at one moment like a

black target, and another turn rendering them almost invisible, all

their movements being as if guided by a single will--we are not only

lost in wonder, but we are perfectly unable to account for or

comprehend it. I have often been surprised, and so, no doubt, may many

of my readers have been, at the regularity of the evolutions of a

flock of stares in the air, where every twist and turn of a few

thousand pairs of wings seemed as if moved by some connecting wire;

but even this fact, surprising as it is, sinks into insignificance

when compared with the movements of these milthiogues.

But putting all these inquiries and considerations aside, the simple

facts recorded have been the origin of the name with which this tale

commences.

CHAPTER II.

Winifred Cavana was an only daughter, indeed an only child. Her

father, old Ned Cavana of Rathcash, had been always a thrifty and

industrious man. During the many years he had been able to attend to

business--and he was an experienced farmer--he had realized a sum of

money, which, in his rank of life and by his less prosperous

neighbors, would be called "unbounded wealth," but which, divested of

that envious exaggeration, was really a comfortable independence for

his declining years, and would one of those days be a handsome

inheritance for his handsome daughter. Not that Ned Cavana intended to

huxter the whole of it up, so that she should not enjoy any of it

until its possession might serve to lighten her grief for his

death--no; should Winny marry some "likely boy," of whom her father

could in every respect approve, she should have six hundred pounds,

R.M.D.; and at his death by which time Ned hoped some of his

grandchildren would make the residue more necessary--she should have

all that he was able to demise, which was no paltry matter. In the

meantime they would live happily and comfortable, not niggardly.

With this view--a distant one, he still hoped--before him, and knowing

that he had already sown a good crop, and reaped a sufficient harvest

to live liberally, die peacefully, and be _berrid dacently_, he had

set a great portion of his land upon a lease during his own life, at

the termination of which it was to revert to his son-in-law, of whose

existence, long before that time, he could have no doubt, and for

whose name a blank had been left in his will, to be filled up in due

time before he died, or, failing that event--not his death, but a

son-in-law--it was left solely to his daughter Winifred.

Winny Cavana was, beyond doubt or question, a very handsome girl and

she knew it. She knew, too, {503} that she was "a catch;" the only one

in that side of the country; and no person wondered at the many

admirers she could boast of, though it was a thing she was never known

to do; nor did she wonder at it herself. Without her six hundred

pounds, Winny could have had scores of "bachelors;" and it was not

very surprising if she was hard to be pleased. Indeed, had Winny

Cavana been penniless, it is possible she would have had a greater

number of open admirers, for her reputed wealth kept many a faint

heart at a distance. It was not to be wondered at either, if a wealthy

country beauty had the name of a coquette, whether she deserved it or

not; nor was it to be expected that she could give unmixed

satisfaction to each of her admirers; and we all know what

censoriousness unsuccessful admiration is likely to cause in a

disappointed heart.

Amongst all those who were said to have entered for the prize of

Winny's heart, Thomas Murdock was the favorite--not with herself, but

the neighbors. At all events he was the "likely boy" whom Winny's

father had in his eye as a husband for his daughter; and in writing

his will, he had lifted his pen from the paper at the blank already

mentioned, and written the name Thomas Murdock in the air, so that, in

case matters turned out as he wished and anticipated, it would fit in

to a nicety.

The townlands of Rathcash and Rathcashmore, upon which the Cavanas and

Murdocks lived, was rather a thickly populated district, and they had

some well-to-do neighbors, beside many who were not quite so

well-to-do, but were yet decent and respectable. There were the Boyds,

the Beattys, and the Brennans, with the Cahils, the Cartys, and the

Clearys beyond them; the Doyles, the Dempseys, and the Dolans not far

off; with the Mulveys, the Mooneys, and the Morans quite close. The

people seemed to live in alphabetical batches in that district, as if

for the convenience of the county cess-collector and his book. Many

others lived still further off, but not so far (in Ireland) as not to

be called neighbors.

Kate Mulvey, one of the nearest neighbors, was a great friend and

companion of Winny's. If Kate had six hundred pounds she could easily

have rivalled Winny's good looks, but she had not six hundred pence;

and notwithstanding her magnificent eyes, her white teeth, and her

glossy brown hair, she could not look within miles as high into the

clouds as Winny could. Still Kate had her admirers, some of whom even

Winny's fondest glance, with all her money, could not betray into

treachery. But it so happened that the person at whom she had thrown

her cap had not (as yet, at least) picked it up.

CHAPTER III.

It was toward the end of October, 1826. There had been an early

spring, and the crops had been got in favorably, and in good time.

There had been "a wet and a windy May;" a warm, bright summer had

succeeded it; and the harvest had been now all gathered in, except the

potatoes, which were in rapid progress of being dug and pitted. It was

a great day for Ireland, let the advocates for "breadstuffs" say what

they will, before the blight and yellow meal had either of them become

familiar with the poor. There were the Cork reds and the cups, the

benefits and the Brown's fancies, for half nothing in every direction,

beside many other sorts of potatoes, bulging up the surface of the

ridges--there were no drills in those days; _mehils_ in almost every

field, with their coats off at the digging-in.

"Bill, don't lane on that boy on the ridge wid you; he's not much more

nor a _gossoon_; give him a start of you."

"_Gossoon aniow_; be gorra, he's as smart a chap on the face of a

ridge as the best of us, Tom."

{504}

"Ay; but don't take it out of him too soon, Bill."

"Work away, boys," said the _gossoon_ in question; "I'll engage I'll

shoulder my loy at the end of the ridge as soon as some of ye that's

spaking."

"It was wan word for the _gossoon_, as he calls him, an' two for

himself, Bill," chimed in the man on the next ridge. "Don't hurry Tom

Nolan; his feet's sore afther all he danced with Nelly Gaffeny last

night."

Here there was a loud and general laugh at poor Tom Nolan's expense,

and the pickers women and girls, with handkerchiefs tied over their

heads looked up with one accord, annoyed that they were too far off to

hear the joke. It was well for one of them that they had not heard it,

for Nelly Gaffeny was amongst them.

"It's many a day, Pat, since you seen the likes of them turned out of

a ridge."

"They bate the world."

"They bang Banagher; and Banagher, they say--"

"Whist, Larry; don't be dhrawing that chap down at all."

"I seen but wan betther the year," said Tim Meaney.

"I say you didn't, nor the sorra take the betther, nor so good."

"Arra, didn't I? I say I did though."

"Where, _avic ma cree?_"

"Beyant at Tony Kilroy's."

"Ay, ay; Tony always had a pet acre on the side of the hill toward the

sun. He has the best bit of land in the parish."

"You may say that, Micky, with your own purty mouth. I led his

_mehil_, come this hollintide will be three years; an' there wasn't a

man of forty of us but turned out eight stone of cup off every ten

yards a a' four-split ridge. Devil a the like of them I ever seen

afore or since."

"Lumpers you mane, Andy; wasn't I there?"

"Is it you, Darby? no, nor the sorra take the foot; we all know where

you were that same year."

"Down in the lower part of Cavan, Phil. In throth, it wasn't cup

potatoes was throublin' him that time; but cups and saucers. He dhrank

a power of tay that harvest, boys."

Here there was another loud laugh, and the women with the

handkerchiefs upon their heads looked up again.

"Well, I brought her home dacent, boys; an' what can ye say to her?"

"Be gor, nothing, Darby avic, but that she's an iligant purty crathur,

and a credit to them that owns her, an' them that reared her."

"The sorra word of lie in that," echoed every man in the _mehil_.

Thus the merry chat and laugh went on in every potato-field. The

women, finding that they had too much to do to enable them to keep

close to the men, and that they were losing the fun, of course got up

a chat for themselves, and took good care to have some loud and hearty

laughs, which made the men in their turn look up, and lean upon their

loys.

Everything about Rathcash and Rathcashmore was prosperous and happy,

and the farmers were cheerful and open-hearted.

"That's grand weather, glory be to God, Ned, for the time of year,"

said Mick Murdock to his neighbor Cavana, who was leaning, with his

arms folded, on a field-gate near the mearing of their two farms. The

farms lay alongside of each other one in the town-land of Rathcash,

and the other in Rathcashmore.

"Couldn't be bet, Mick. I'm upward of forty years stannin' in this

spot, an' I never seen the batin' of it."

"Be gorra, you have a right to be tired, Ned; that's a long stannin'."

"The sorra tired, Mick a _wochal_. You know very well what I mane, an'

you needn't be so sharp. I'd never be tired of the same spot."

"Them's a good score of calves, Ned; God bless you an' them!" said

Mick, making up for his sharpness.

"An' you too, Mick. They are a fine lot of calves, an' all reared

since Candlemas."

{505}

"There's no denying, Ned, but you med the most of that bit of land of

yours."

"'Tis about the same as your own, Mick; an' I think you med as good a

fist of yours."

"Well, maybe so, indeed; but I doubt it is going into worse hands than

what yours will, Ned."

"Why that, Mick?"

"Ah, that Tom of mine is a wild extravagant hero. He doesn't know much

about the value of money, and never paid any attention to farming

business, only what he was obliged to pick up from being with me. He

thinks he'll be rich enough when I'm in my clay, without much work.

An' so he will, Ned, so far as that goes; but it's only of

book-larnin' an' horse-racin' an' coorsin' he's thinkin', by way of

being a sort of gentleman one of those days; but he'll find to his

cost, in the lather end, that there's more wantin' to grow good crops

than 'The Farmer's Calendar of Operations.'"

"He's young, Mick, an' no doubt he'll mend. I hope you don't

discourage him."

"Not at all, Ned. The book-larnin 's all well enough, as far as it

goes, if he'd put the practice along with it, an' be studdy."

"So he will, Mick. His wild-oats will soon be all sown, an' then

you'll see what a chap he'll be."

"Faix, I'd rather see him sowing a crop of yallow Aberdeens, Ned, next

June; an' maybe it's what it's at the Curragh of Kildare he'll be, as

I can hear. My advice to him is to get married to some dacent nice

girl, that id take the wildness out of him, and lay himself down to

business. You know, Ned, he'll have every penny and stick I have in

the world; and the lease of my houlding in Rathcashmore is as good as

an estate at the rent I pay. If he'd give up his meandherin', and take

a dacent liking to them that's fit for him, I'd set him up all at

wanst, an' not be keeping him out of it until I was dead an' berrid."

The above was not a bad feeler, nor was it badly put by old Mick

Murdock to his neighbor. "Them that's fit for him" could hardly be

mistaken; yet there was a certain degree of disparagement of his own

son calculated to conceal his object. It elicited nothing, however,

but a long thoughtful silence upon old Ned Cavana's part, which Mick

was not slow to interpret, and did not wish to interrupt. At last Ned

stood up from the gate, and smoothing down the sleeves of his coat, as

if he supposed they had contracted some dust, he observed, "I'm

afear'd, Mick, you're puttin' the cart before the horse; come until I

show you a few ridges of red apples I'm diggin' out to-day. You'd

think I actially got them carted in, an' threune them upon the ridges:

the like of them I never seen."

And the two old men walked down the lane together.

But Mick Murdock's feeler was not forgotten by either of them. Mick

was as well pleased--perhaps better--that no further discussion took

place upon the subject at the time. He knew Ned Cavana was not a man

to commit himself to a hasty opinion upon any matter, much less upon

one of such importance as was so plainly suggested by his

observations.

Ned Cavana, too, brooded over the conversation in silence, determined

to throw out a feeler of his own to his daughter.

Ned had himself more than once contemplated the possibility as well as

the prudence of a match between Tom Murdock and his daughter. The

union, not of themselves alone, but of the two farms, would almost

make a gentleman of the person holding them. Both farms were held upon

unusually long leases, and at less than one-third of their value. If

joined, there could be no doubt but, with the careful and industrious

management of an experienced man, they would turn in a clear income of

between five and six hundred a year; quite sufficient in that part of

the world to entitle {506} a person of even tolerably good education

to look up to the grand-jury list and a "justice of the pace."

The only question with Ned Cavana was, Did Tom Murdock possess the

attributes required for success in all or any of the above respects?

Ned, although he had taken his part with his father, feared _not_. Ay,

there was another question, Was Winny inclined for him? He feared not

also.

The other old man had not forgotten the feeler he had thrown out

either, nor the thoughtful silence with which it had been received;

for Mick Murdock could not believe that a man of Ned Cavana's

penetration had misunderstood him. Indeed, he was inclined to think

that the same matter might have originated in Ned's own mind, from

some words he had once or twice dropped about poor Winny's prospects

when he was gone, and the suspense it would be to him if she were not

settled in life before that day; "snaffled perhaps by some

good-for-nothing, extravagant fortune-hunter, with a handsome face,

when she had no one to look after her."

There was but one word in the above which Mick thought could be justly

applied to Tom; "extravagant" he undoubtedly was, but he was neither

handsome--at least not handsome enough to be called so as a matter of

course--nor was he good-for-nothing. He was a well-educated sharp

fellow, if he would only lay himself down to business. He was not a

fortune-hunter, for he did not require it; but idleness and

extravagance might make him one in the end. Yet old Mick was by no

means certain that the propriety of a match between these only and

rich children had not suggested itself to his neighbor Ned as well as

to himself. He hoped that if Tom had a "dacent hankerrin' afther" any

one, it was for Winny Cavana; but, like her father, he doubted if the

girl herself was inclined for him. He knew that she was proud and

self-willed. He was determined, however, to follow the matter up, and

throw out another feeler upon the subject to his son.

CHAPTER IV.

It was now the 25th of October, just six days from All-Hallow Eve.

Mick would ask a few of the neighbors to burn nuts and eat apples, and

then, perhaps, he might find out how the wind blew.

"Tom," said he to his son, "I believe this is a good year for nuts."

"Well, father, I met a couple of chaps ere yesterday with their

pockets full of fine brown shellers, coming from Clonard Wood."

"I dare say they are not all gone yet, Tom; an' I wish you would set

them to get us a few pockets full, and we would ask a few of the

neighbors here to burn them on All-Hallow Eve."

"That's easy done, father; I can get three or four quarts by to-morrow

night. Those two very chaps would be glad to earn a few pence for

them; they wanted me to buy what they had; and if I knew your

intentions at the time, I should have done so; but it's not too late.

Who do you intend to ask, father?"

"Why, old Cavana and his daughter, of course, and the Mulveys; in

short, you know, all the neighbors. I won't leave any of them out,

Tom. The Cavanas, you know, are all as wan as ourselves, livin' at the

doore with us; and they're much like us too, Tom, in many respects.

Old Ned is rich, an' has but one child--a very fine girl. I'm old, an'

as rich as what Ned is, and I have but one child; I'll say though

you're to the fore, Tom--a very fine young man."

Old Mick paused. He wanted to see if his son's intelligence was on the

alert. It must have been very dull indeed had it failed to perceive

what his father was driving at; but he was silent.

"That Winny Cavana is a very fine girl, Tom," he continued; "and I

often wonder that a handsome young fellow like you doesn't make more

of her. She'll have six hundred pounds fortune, as round as a hoop;

beside, whoever gets her will fall in for that farm at her {507}

father's death. There's ninety-nine years of it, Tom, just like our

own."

"She's a conceited proud piece of goods, father; and I suspect she

would rather give her six hundred pounds to some _skauhawn_ than to a

man of substance like me."

"Maybe not now. Did you ever thry?"

"No, father, I never did. People don't often hold their face up to the

hail."

"_Na-bockleish_, Tom, she'd do a grate dale for her father, for you

know she must owe everything to him; an' if she vexes him he can cut

her out of her six hundred pounds, and lave the interest in his farm

to any one he likes; and I know what he thinks about you, Tom."

"Ay, and he's so fond of that one that she can twist him round her

finger. Wait now, father, until you see if I'm not up to every twist

and turn of the pair of them."

"But you never seem to spake to her or mind her at all, Tom; and I

know, when I was your age, I always found that the girls liked the man

best that looked afther them most. I'm purty sure too, Tom, that

there's no one afore you there."

"I'm not so sure of that, father. But I'll tell you what it is: I have

not been either blind or idle on what you are talking about; but up to

this moment she seems to scorn me, father; there's the truth for you.

And as for there being no one before me, all I can say is that she

manages, somehow or other, to come out of the chapel-door every Sunday

at the same moment with that whelp, Edward Lennon, from the mountain;

_Emon-a-knock_, as they call him, and as I have heard her call him

herself. Rathcash chapel is not in his parish at all, and I don't know

what brings him there."

"Is it that poor penniless pauper, depending on his day's labor? Ah,

Tom, she's too proud for that."

"Yes, that very fellow; and there's no getting a word with her where

he is."

"Well, Tom, all I can say is this, an' it's to my own son I'm sayin'

it--that if you let that fellow pick up that fine girl with her six

hundred pounds and fall into that rich farm, an' you livin' at the

doore with her, you're not worth staggering-bob broth, with all your

book-larnin' an' good looks, to say nothin' of your manners, Tom

avic." And he left him, saying to himself, "He may put that in his

pocket to balance his knife."

Thus ended what old Murdock commenced as a feeler, but which became

very plain speaking in the end. But the All-Hallow Eve party was to

come off all the same.

A word or two now of comparison, or perhaps, more properly speaking,

of contrast, between these two aspirants to Winny Cavana's favor,

though young Lennon was still more hopeless than the other, from his

position.

Thomas Murdock was more conspicuous for the manliness of his person

than for the beauties of his mind or the amiability of his

disposition. Although manifestly well-looking in a group, take him

singly, and he could not be called very handsome. There was a

suspicious fidgetiness about his green-spotted eyes, as if he feared

you could read his thoughts; and at times, if vexed or opposed, a dark

scowl upon his heavy brow indicated that these thoughts were not

always amiable. This unpleasing peculiarity of expression marred the

good looks which the shape of his face and the fit of his curly black

whiskers unquestionably gave him. In form he was fully six feet high,

and beautifully made. At nineteen years of age he had mastered not

only all the learning which could be attained at a neighboring

national school, but had actually mastered the master himself in more

ways than one, and was considered by the eighty-four youngsters whom

he had outstripped as a prodigy of valor as well as learning. But Tom

turned his schooling to a bad account; it was too superficial, and

served more to set his head astray than to correct his heart; and

there were some respectable {508} persons in the neighborhood who were

not free from doubts that he had already become a parish-patriot, and

joined the Ribbon Society. He was high and overbearing toward his

equals, harsh and unkind to his inferiors, while he was cringing and

sycophantic toward his superiors. There was nothing manly or

straightforward, nothing ingenuous or affectionate, about him. In

fact, if ever a man's temper and disposition justified the opinion

that he had "the two ways" in him, they were those of Thomas Murdock.

His father was a rich farmer, whose land joined that of old Ned

Cavana, of whom he was a contemporary in years, and with whom he had

kept pace in industry and wealth.

Thomas Murdock was an only son, as Winny Cavana was an only daughter,

and the two old men were of the same mind now as regarded the future

lot of their children.

A few words now of Edward Lennon, and we can get on.

He was the eldest of five in the family. They lived upon the

mountain-side in the parish of Shanvilla, about two "short miles" from

the Cavanas and Murdocks. His father and mother were both alive. They

were respectable so far as character and conduct can make people

respectable who are unquestionably poor. Their marriage was what has

been sarcastically, but perhaps not inaptly, called by an English

newspaper a "_potato marriage;_" that is--but no, it will not bear

explanation. The result, however, after many years' struggling, may be

stated. The Lennons had lived, and were still living, in a small

thatched house upon the side of a mountain, with about four acres of

reclaimed ground. It had been reclaimed gradually by the father and

his two sons--for Emon had a younger brother--and they paid little or

no rent for it. The second son and eldest daughter were now at

service, "doin' for theirselves;" and those at home consisted of the

father, the mother, the eldest son, and two younger daughters, mere

children. For the house and garden they paid a small rent, which "a

slip of a pig" was always ready to realize in sufficient time; while a

couple of goats, staggering through the furze, yoked together by the

necks, gave milk to the family.

Edward, though not so well-looking as to the actual cut of his

features, nor so tall by an inch and a half, as our friend Murdock,

was far more agreeable to look upon. There was a confident good-nature

in his countenance which assured you of its reality, and the honesty

of his heart. His figure, from his well-shaped head, which was

beautifully set upon his shoulders, to his small, well-turned feet,

was faultless. In disposition and character young Lennon was a full

distance before the man to whom he was a secret rival, while in talent

and learning he had nothing to fear by a comparison. He had commenced

his education when a mere gossoon at a poor-school with "his turf an'

his read-a-ma-daisy," and as he progressed from A-b-e-l, bel, a man's

name; A-b-l-e, ble, Able, powerful, strong, until finally he could

spell Antitrinitarian pat, he then cut the concern, and was promoted

by his parish-priest--"of whom more anon," as they say to Rathcash

national school, where he soon stood in the class beside Tom Murdock,

and ere a week had passed he "took him down a peg." This, added to his

supposed presumptuous thoughts in the quarter which Tom had considered

almost his exclusive right, sowed the seed of hatred in Murdock's

heart against Lennon, which one day might bear a heavy crop.

That young Lennon was devotedly but secretly attached to Winny Cavana

there was no doubt whatever in his own mind, and there were few who

did not agree with him, although he had "never told his love;" and as

we Irish have leave to say, there was still less that his love was

more disinterested than that of his richer rival. There was another

point upon which there was still less doubt than either, and that was

that Winny Cavana's heart secretly leaned to _"Emon-a-knock,"_ as

{509} young Lennon was familiarly called by all those who knew and

loved him. One exception existed to this cordial recognition of Emon's

good qualities, and that was, as may be anticipated, by Thomas

Murdock, who always called him "_that_ Lennon," and on one occasion,

as we have seen, substituted the word "whelp."

Winny, however, kept her secret in this matter to herself. She knew

her father would go "tanterin' tearin' mad, if he suspected such a

thing." She conscientiously endeavored to hide her preference from

young Lennon himself, knowing that it would only get them both into

trouble. Beside, he had never (yet) shown a decided preference for her

above Kate Mulvey. Whether she succeeded in her endeavors is another

question; women seldom fail where they are in earnest.

It is not considered amongst the class of Irish to which our _dramatis

persona_ belong as any undue familiarity, upon even a very short

acquaintance, for the young persons of both the sexes to call each

other by their Christian names. It is the admitted custom of the

country, and Winny Cavana, rich and proud as she was, made no

exception to the general rule. She even went further, and sometimes

called young Lennon by his pet name. As regarded Tom Murdock, although

she could have wished it otherwise, she would not make herself

particular by acting differently. The first three letters of his name,

coupled with the scowl she had more than once detected on his

countenance, sounded unpleasantly upon her ear, Mur-dock. She always

thought people were going to say murder before the "dock" was out. She

never could think well of him; and although she called him Tom, it was

more to be in keeping with the habit of the country, and as a refuge

from the other name, than from a friendly feeling.

These were the materials upon which the two old men had to work, to

bring about a union of their landed interests and their only children.

CHAPTER V.

The invitations for All-Hallow Eve were forthwith issued in person by

old Murdock, who went from house to house in his Sunday clothes, and

asked all the respectable neighbors in the politest manner. Edward

Lennon, although he could scarcely be called a neighbor, and moreover

was not considered as "belonging to their set," was nevertheless asked

to be of the party. Old Murdock had his reasons for asking him;

although, to tell the truth, he and his son had a difference of

opinion upon the subject. Tom thought to "put a spoke in his wheel,"

but was overruled by the old man, who said it would look as if they

were afraid to bring him and Winny Cavana together; that it was much

better to let the young fellow see at once that he had no chance,

which would no doubt be an easy matter on that night: "it was betther

to _humiliate_ him at wanst."

Tom was ashamed not to acquiesce, but wished nevertheless that he

might have had his own way. Edward Lennon lived too far from the

Murdocks for the old man to go there specifically upon the mission of

invitation; and the moment this difficulty was hinted by his father,

Tom, who was not in the habit of making such offers, was ready at once

to "go over to Shanvilla, and save his father the walk: he would

deliver the message."

There was an anxiety in Tom's manner which betrayed itself; and old

Mick was not the man to _miss_ a thing of the kind.

"No, Tom _a wochal_" he observed, "I won't put such a thramp upon you.

Sure I'll see him a Sunda'; he always comes to our chapel."

"Fitter for him stick to his own," said Tom.

"It answers well this turn, at all events," replied the old man.

Upon the following Sunday he was as good as his word. He watched young

Lennon coming out of the chapel, and asked him, with more cordiality

than Tom, who happened to be by, approved of.

{510}

Had nothing else been necessary to secure an acceptance, the fact of

Tom Murdock being present would have been sufficient. The look which

he caught from under the rim of Tom's hat roused Lennon's pride, and

he accepted the old man's invitation with unhesitating civility.

Lennon on this, as on all Sunday occasions, "was dressed in all his

best;" and that look seemed to say, "I wonder where that fellow got

them clothes, and if they're paid for:" he understood the look very

well. But the clothed were paid for,--perhaps, too, more promptly

than Tom's own; and a better fitting suit, from top to toe, was not to

be met with in the whole parish. A "Caroline hat," smooth and new, set

a wee taste jauntily upon his well-shaped head; a shirt like the

drifted snow, loose at the throat, but buttoned down the breast with

tiny blue buttons round as sweet-pea seeds; a bright plaid waistcoat,

with ditto buttons to match, but a size larger; a pair of

"spic-an'-span" knee-breeches of fine kersey-mere, with

unexceptionable steel buttons and blue silk-ribbon strings, tied to

perfection at the knee; while closely-fitting lamb's-wool long

stockings showed off the shape of a pair of legs which, for symmetry,

looked as if they had been turned in a lathe. Of his feet I have

already spoken; and on this occasion they did not belie what I said.

Old Mick desired Edward Lennon "to bring Phil M'Dermot the smith's son

with him. He was a fine young man, a good dancer, and had mended a

couple of ploughs for him in first-rate style, an' very raisonable,

for the winther plowing."

Tom Murdock did not want for fine clothes, of course. Two or three

suits were at his command; and as this was Sunday, he had one of his

best on. It was "given up to him" by most of the girls that he was the

handsomest and best-dressed man in the parish of Rathcash, and some

would have added Shanvilla; yet he now felt, as he stole envious

glances at young Lennon, that his case with Winny Cavana might not be

altogether a "walk over." All Tom's comparisons and metaphors had

reference to horse-racing.

This little incident, however, cut young Lennon out of his usual few

words with Winny; for, as a girl with a well-regulated mind, she could

not venture to dawdle on the road until old Murdock had done speaking

to Emon: she knew that would be remarked. She had never happened to

see old Murdock speaking to Emon before, and her secret wonder now was

"Could it be possible that he was asking Edward Lennon for All-Hallow

Eve?"

Quite possible, Winny; but you scarcely have time to find out before

you meet him there, for another Sunday will not intervene before the

party.

CHAPTER VI.

The last day of October came round apace, and about six o'clock in the

evening the company began to arrive at old Mick Murdock's. Winny

Cavana and her father took their time. They were near enough to make

their entree at any moment; and Winny had some idea, like her betters,

that it was not genteel to be the first. She now delayed, however, to

the other extreme, and kept her father waiting, under the pretence

that she was finishing her toilet, until, on their arrival, they found

all the guests assembled. Winny flaunted in, leaning upon her father's

arm, "the admired of all admirers." Not being very learned in the

mysteries of the toilet, I shall not attempt to describe the dresses

of the girls upon this occasion, nor the elaborate manner in which

their heads were set out, oiled, and bedizened to an amazing extent,

while the roses above their left ears seemed to have been all culled

from the same tree.

{511}

Altogether there were about sixteen young persons, pretty equally

divided as to boys and girls, beside some--and some only--of their

fathers and mothers. Soon after the arrival of Ned Cavana and his

daughter, who were the guests of the evening, supper was announced,

and there was a general move into the "large parlor," where a long

table was set out with a snow-white cloth, where plates (if not

covers) were laid for at least twenty-four. In the middle of the table

stood a smoking dish of _calcannon_, which appeared to defy them, and

as many more; while at either end was a _raking_ pot of tea, surrounded

with cups and saucers innumerable, with pyramids of cut

bread-and-butter nearly an inch thick.

The company having taken their seats, it was announced by the host

that there were "two goold weddin'-rings in the _calcannon;_" but

whereabouts, of course, no one could tell. He had borrowed them from

two of the married women present, and was bound to restore them; so he

begged of his young friends, for his sake as well as their own, to be

careful not to swallow them. It was too well known what was to be the

lot of the happy finders before that day twelvemonth for him to say

anything upon that part of the subject. He would request of Mrs.

Moran, who had seen more All-Hallow Eves than any woman there

present--he meant no offence--to help the calcannon.

After this little introduction, Mrs. Moran, who by previous

arrangement was sitting opposite the savory volcano, distributed it

with unquestionable impartiality. It was a well-known rule on all such

occasions that no one commenced until all were helped, when a signal

was given, and a simultaneous plunge of spoons took place.

Another rule was that all the married persons should content

themselves with tea and bread-and-butter, in order that none of them

might possibly rob the youngsters of their chance of the ring. Upon

this occasion, however, this restriction had been neatly obviated by

Mrs. Moran's experience in such matters; and there was a _knock-oge_

of the same delicious food without any ring, which she called "the

married dish." The tea was handed up and down from each end of the

table until it met in the middle, and for some time there was a silent

onslaught on the calcannon, washed down now and then by a copious

draught of tea.

"I have it! I have it!" shouted Phil M'Dermott, taking it from between

his teeth and holding it up, while his cheeks deepened three shades

nearer to the color of the rose in Kate Mulvey's hair, nearly

opposite.

"A lucky man," observed Mrs. Moran, methodically, who seemed to be

mistress of the mysteries. "Now for the lucky girl; and lucky

everybody will say she must be."

The words were scarcely finished when Kate Mulvey coughed as if she

were choking; but pulling the other ring from her mouth, she soon

recovered herself, declaring that she had nearly swallowed it.

Matters, as Mrs. Moran thought, had so far gone quite right, and a

hearty quizzing the young couple got; but, to tell the truth, one of

them did not seem to be particularly satisfied with the result. The

attack upon the calcannon from this point waxed very weak, for the

charm was broken, and the tea and bread-and-butter came into play.

Apples and nuts were now laid down in abundance, and the young girls

might be seen picking a couple of pairs of nice nuts out of those on

the plate, as nearly as fancy might suggest, to match the figures of

those whom they were intended to represent upon the bar of the grate.

Almost as if by magic a regiment of nuts in pairs were seen smoking,

and some of them stirring and purring on the flat bar at the bottom of

the grate, which had been swept, and the fire brightened up, for the

purpose. Of course Mrs. Moran insisted upon openly putting down Phil

M'Dermott and Kate Mulvey of the rings; for in general there is a

secrecy observed as to _who_ the _nuts_ are, in order to save {512} the

constant girl from a laugh at the fickleness of her bachelor, should

he go off in a shot from her side, and _vice versa_. And here the

mistress of the mysteries was not at fault. Kate Mulvey, without

either smoking or getting red at one end (which was a good sign), went

off like the report of a pistol, and was actually heard striking

against the door as if to get out. There was a general laugh at Mrs.

Moran's expense, who was told that it was a strong proof in favor of

putting the pairs down secretly.

But Mrs. Moran was too experienced a mistress of her position to be

taken aback, and quietly said, "Not at all, my dears. I have three

times to burn them, if he does not follow her; but he has three

minutes to do so."

As she spoke there was another shot. Phil M'Dermott could not stand

the heat by himself, and was off to the door after Kate Mulvey.

This was a crowning triumph to Mrs. Moran, who quietly put back the

second pair of nuts which she had just selected for another test of

the same couple, and remarked that "it was all right now."