Bentley's Miscellany, Volume II

Ere a week had elapsed, the solitudes of Moran were peopled with the youth of the adjacent country. From miles they gathered; one spirit animating the breasts of all, one resolve, – to free the land, or perish! Readily they placed themselves under the command of Niall. He had won fame even while yet a boy. Then he had no competitor in the feats of strength or dexterity; while his ever-modest, generous bearing, divested defeat of chagrin on the part of the unsuccessful. Since then, he had sojourned with the Saxon, whose art of warfare he had thoroughly mastered, trained by the greatest captain of that nation. With avidity his young countrymen availed themselves of his instructions, and learned a mode of attack and defence superior to that they had hitherto known. They practised incessantly the advance, the retreat, the wheel, the close and open order, the line, and the square, the use of the javelin, the sword, and the shield. Hour after hour their numbers swelled. The first quarter of the moon had witnessed the commencement of their gathering; the fourth looked upon them, a host prepared, and almost equal to give battle to the Dane.

"Welcome, son of Cuthell!" exclaimed Niall, to a youth who, on a steed of foam, drew near. "Welcome! You see what a company we have here to greet you," continued he. "You see how we banquet! You like our revelry, and are come to make one among us! You are welcome, son of Cuthell! right welcome!"

The youth gazed with wonder upon the bands that, reclined upon the borders of the lake of the lonely shieling, were enjoying a moment's repose in an interval of practice; then, turning upon Niall a look full of sad import, alighted, took him kindly by the hand, and led him yet further apart from the companions of his exile.

"Niall!" began the young man, "it is a stout heart that defies the point of the spear, or the edge of the glaive; but greater is the fortitude that cowers not before the unseen weapons of misfortune. My soul is heavy with the tidings that I bring. Shall I speak them? Will Niall hear them, and not allow his manly spirit to faint?"

"Speak them!" said Niall. "Stay! Whom concern they? The evil thou wouldst avert hath nearly come to pass. My soul sickens already! To whom do the tidings relate that demand such preparation? To whom can they relate but to Glorvina?" The head of Niall dropped upon his breast.

"Injury," rejoined the other, "hath ever its solace with the brave, – revenge!"

"It has!" exclaimed Niall, rearing his head, and directing towards his friend a glance of fire. "Is the maid in danger, or hath she suffered wrong? the wedded maid that plighted her troth to Niall: the bride that has not pressed the bridal couch?"

"The couch that she shall press with another," resumed the young man, "is spread for her in the castle of Turgesius!" He paused, alarmed at the looks of Niall, from whose face the blood had fled.

"Go on!" said Niall, after a time, articulating with difficulty; and, with clenched hands, folding his arms tightly upon his breast. "Go on!" he repeated, observing that the young man hesitated. "Tell me the whole! It is worse, I see, than I feared; but go on! Keep nothing from me!"

"Turgesius has demanded thy bride for his mistress, and Glorvina – " The son of Cuthell stopped short, as if what was to follow was more than he had fortitude to give utterance to.

"Has consented?" interrogated Niall, with a look of furious distraction.

"Has consented," rejoined the young man,

Niall stood transfixed for a minute or two; then smote his forehead fiercely with his hand, groaned, and cast himself upon the earth.

The son of Cuthell left him to himself for a time. He spake not to him till he saw that his passion had got vent in tears; then he accosted him.

"Revenge," said he, "stands upon its feet. It braces its arm for the blow! Not to see thee thus did I spur my steed into foam soon as I learned the news. Within a month did Glorvina promise to surrender herself to the arms of the rover. Five days remain unexpired. Up! Call thy friends around thee! inform them of the wrong, the dishonour that awaits thee. Ask them to avenge thee. Not a spear but will be grasped; not a foot but will be ready! You shall march upon the castle of Malachi. You shall demand your bride. You shall have her!"

Niall sprang from the ground; he hastened towards his bands; his looks and pace spoke the errand of wrath and impatience. His friends were on their feet without the summons of his tongue. They simultaneously closed around him when he drew near, eagerness and inquiry in their eyes, whose sparkling vouched for spirits that were not slow to kindle.

Niall told what he came to say; no voice replied to him. Silently the warriors formed themselves into the order of march; then turned their eyes upon Niall, waiting his command. He raised his sword aloft, and his eyes went along with it, followed by the eyes of all his little host. Slowly he bent the knee. Not a knee besides but also kissed the earth.

"To Meath!" exclaimed Niall, springing up.

"To Meath!" shouted every warrior, as the whole stood erect.

Niall placed himself in the van; he moved on; they followed him.

The last morning of the month lighted up the towers of Malachi; but gloomy was the brow of their lord. He paced his hall with hurried steps, every now and then casting an uneasy glance towards the door that communicated with the interior of the castle. The bard was seated near the exterior portal, his harp reclining on his breast, his arms extended across his frame, his fingers spread over its strings. Lively and loud was the chord that he struck, and bold was the strain that he began.

"What kind of strain is that?" demanded the king, suddenly stopping, and directing towards the aged man a look of reproachful displeasure.

"The strain befits the day and the deed," replied the bard, and went on.

"Peace!" commanded Malachi.

"Not till the feet are announced," rejoined the bard, "that bring the strife which maketh peace;" and he resumed the strain with new, redoubled fire, nor paused till the portal resounded with the summons of one impatient for admittance.

The portal opened. Pale and breathless was he that passed in.

"Thy news?" demanded Malachi.

He whom he accosted tried to find utterance, but could not. He had come in speed; his strength and breath were exhausted. He stood for a minute or two, tottering; then staggered towards a seat.

"A friend is coming," said the bard; "but he wears the face of a foe. Nor does he come alone; but prepared to demand what was forbidden; – to take what was withheld. Niall, with a host of warriors, is at thy gate. Thy bands that watch thy foe have left thy friend free to approach thee; but he comes in the form of the avenger."

Scarcely had the bard pronounced the last word when the hall was half filled with armed men; Niall at their head. Jaded, yet fierce, were his looks. He strode at once up to the king, and stood silent for a time, confronting him.

"Niall!" said the king, confounded; and paused.

"Yes," said Niall, "it is I! the son-in-law of thy own election, come to demand his rights! Where is my bride, king of Meath? Where is thy daughter? the wedded maid who, denied to the arms of her bridegroom, has consented to surrender herself to unhallowed embraces! O, Malachi! accursed was the day when thou gavest welcome to the stranger, whose summons at thy gate was the knock which he gave with the hilt of his sword, – was the blast of the horn of war! Low lies the glory of thy race! From the king of a people art thou shrunk into the minion of a robber, who, not content with making a mockery of thy crown, brings openly pollution to thy blood! Where is thy child? Does the roof of her father still shelter her head? or does she hang it in shame beneath that of Turgesius? Where is she? Reply, O king, and promptly! for desperation grasps the weapons that we bring, and which we have sworn shall receive no sheaths at our hands but the breasts of those who dishonour us!"

So spake the youth, his glaive in his hand, his frame trembling with high-wrought passion, his eye flashing, and his cheek on fire with the hectic of rage, when Glorvina entered the hall.

She did not hang her head; she bore it proudly erect. A tiara of gems encircled her brow; fair fell a robe of green from her graceful shoulders. A girdle of gold round her waist confined the folds of her under-dress, swelling luxuriantly upwards and downwards, and falling to within an inch of her ankles, each of which a palm of a moderate span might encircle. She advanced three or four paces into the apartment, right in the direction of Niall, and then stood still; still fixing her eyes steadily upon her bridegroom with an expression in which neither defiance nor deprecation, neither reproach nor fear, neither recklessness nor shame, but love – all love – was apparent. Niall scarcely breathed! An awe came over his chafed spirit as he surveyed his bride. The more he looked, the more the clouds of wrath rolled away from his soul, until not a vestige of tempest remained. He uttered tenderly the name of Glorvina. He cast down his eyes in repentant humility; he approached her, half hesitating, without raising them. He sank on his knee at her feet; Glorvina recoiled at the posture of her lover. She extended her shining arms; she caught his hands in hers; she almost raised him herself from the earth, and vanished with him from the hall.

The Dane looked from the ramparts at his castle. Twenty of his chiefs – the choicest – were about him. Expectation was painted in the looks of all. Their eyes were directed towards the same quarter.

"They come!" at length exclaimed Turgesius. "The maiden hath kept her word. Yonder they issue from the wood!"

"Those are soldiers!" remarked one.

"Her attendants," rejoined Turgesius; "she comes as a royal maiden should!"

"Then she is well attended. I'll answer for a hundred spears already; and more are coming on."

"Let them!" said Turgesius. "Though they double the number, it were but twenty for each fair virgin, and the princess to go without. Turn out our bands, that we may receive them with all due courtesy!"

Turgesius and his chiefs descended; they issued from the castle-gate; the bands of the Dane were drawn up ready to give salutation to the visitors. The Irish party drew near; they halted within fifty paces of the walls, and, unfolding their ranks, presented to the eyes of the Dane, Glorvina and her kinswomen, faithful to the appointment of the royal maid. All were veiled. Turgesius and his chiefs approached them; and Glorvina, when they drew near, removed the thick gauze from her face.

"Chieftain!" she spake, "I am here to keep my word. Conduct us into thy castle. Compare me there with my kinswomen. If thou findest amongst them, her whom thou deemest more deserving thy love than I, accept her in place of me, and let me return to my father."

"Be it so!" said Turgesius, casting a significant glance around him upon his chiefs; and led the way, Glorvina and her companions following.

They passed into the hall of banquet. Turgesius led Glorvina to the head of the board, but not to place her there. He turned; and, as she looked down the chamber along with him, she saw that his chiefs had likewise entered it, and her respiration became difficult, and a chill passed over her frame.

"Chiefs!" cried Turgesius, "you see what choice of beauty the bounty of Malachi has presented to your lord; but he cares not to avail himself of it. He asks not a damsel even to remove her veil, content with the charms of the fair Glorvina. Her does he lead to the banquet which has been prepared for her within. Welcome ye the daughters of Meath! Leave them no cause to tax the sons of the Dane with want of gallantry." Turgesius took the hand of Glorvina.

"Stay!" interposed the maid: "the Irish maiden sits not at the banquet with the glaive in the girdle of the warrior; for the cup engenders ire as well as mirth, and blood may flow as well as wine. Before my kinswomen withdraw their veils, let thy chieftains deposit their weapons without the hall, and each as he returns accept the first maiden that commits herself to his courtesy, and conduct her to her seat, nor ask her to remove the guard of modesty till all are in their places."

The chiefs waited not for the reply of Turgesius. They passed quickly out of the hall; they returned unarmed. All was performed as Glorvina prescribed. She waited not for the invitation of Turgesius. Of her own accord she entered the apartment prepared for the rover and herself. Closely he followed her. The door was closed after him. He sprang towards her, and caught her to his breast. She shrieked, and disengaged herself. Again he approached her; but stopped short at the sight of a dagger, which gleamed in her hand.

"Listen!" cried Glorvina.

Her injunction was unneeded: sounds, not of revelry but of anguish, proceeded from the hall, with a noise as of heavy weights cast violently upon the floor. Turgesius grew pale. His eyes glared with alarm and inquiry.

"Listen!" again cried the maid. Sounds came from without as though the storm of battle were on. Turgesius waxed paler still. Surprise and terror seemed to have bereft him of the power of motion. He shook from head to foot.

"Behold!" exclaimed Glorvina, as the door of the apartment was burst open, and Niall presented himself, grasping a reeking brand. The robber tottered. Life was almost extinct as the youth, twisting his hand in the grey hairs of Turgesius, dragged him from the apartment to his doom.

Not a Dane survived that day.

A second bridal feast graced the hall of Malachi. Niall and Glorvina were the bridegroom and the bride. The bard sat beside them with his harp; but that harp was not silent now, nor sad. No guest unbidden came to the door of that hall. No fray turned the tide of their revelry. And when the bright Glorvina retired, with downcast eyes and crimsoned cheek, the bridegroom himself arose, and, bowing to the king, lifted the brimming cup, and, having cast his eyes around the board, drank

"To Glorvina, the Heroine of Meath!"

PHELIM O'TOOLE'S

NINE MUSE-INGS ON HIS NATIVE COUNTY

Tune – "Cruiskeen lawn."Let others spend their timeIn roaming foreign clime,To furnish them with rhymeFor books:They'll never find a sceneLike Wicklow's valleys green,Wet-nurs'd, the hills between,With brooks —Brooks – brooks, —Wet-nurs'd, the hills between,With brooks!Oh! if I had a stationIn that part of creation,I'd study the first caws like rooks —Rooks – rooks, —I'd study the first caws like rooks!IIOh! how the Morning lovesTo climb the Sugar-Loaves,17And purple their dwarf grovesOf heath!While cottage smoke belowReflects the bloomy glow,As up it winds, and slow,Its wreath —Wreath – wreath, —As up it winds, and slow,Its wreath!Oh! how a man does wonder himWhen he 'as the big cone-under-him,And ask'd to guess his home beneath —'Neath – 'neath, —And ask'd to guess his home beneath!IIIAnd there's the Dargle deep,Where breezeless waters sleep,Or down their windings creepWith fear;Lest, by their pebbly tread,They shake some lily's head,And cause, untimely shed,A tear —Tear – tear, —And cause, untimely shed,A tear!Oh! my native Dargle,Long may you rinse and gargleYour rocky throat with stream so clear,Clear – clear, —Your rocky throat with stream so clear!IVAnd there is Luggalaw,A gem without a flaw,With lake, and glen, and shaw,So still;The new moon loves to sipIts dew with her young lip,Then takes a ling'ring tripO'er hill —Hill – hill, —Then takes a ling'ring tripO'er hill!Oh! hungry bards might dallyFor ever in this valley,And always get their fancy's fill —Fill – fill, —And always get their fancy's fill!VAnd there's the "Divil's Glin,"That devil ne'er was in,Nor anything like sinTo blight:The Morning hurries thereTo scent the myrtle air;She'd stop, if she might dare,Till night —Night – night, —She'd stop, if she might dare,Till night!Oh! ye glassy streamlets,That bore the rocks like gimlets,There's nothing like your crystal bright,Bright – bright, —There's nothing like your crystal bright!VIAnd there's Ovoca's vale,And classic Annadale,18Where Psyche's gentle taleWas told:Where Moore's fam'd waters meet,And mix a draught more sweetThan flow'd at Pindus' feetOf old —Old – old, —Than flow'd at Pindus' feetOf old!Oh! all it wants is whiskeyTo make it taste more frisky;Then ev'ry drop would be worth gold —Gold – gold, —Then ev'ry drop would be worth gold!VIIAnd there's the Waterfall,That lulls its summer hallTo sleep with voice as smallAs bee's:But when the winter rillsBurst from the inward hills,A rock-rent thunder fillsThe breeze —Breeze – breeze, —A rock-rent thunder fillsThe breeze!Oh! if the land was taught herTo fall as well as water,How much it would poor tenants please,Please – please, —How much it would poor tenants please!VIIIAnd if you have a mindFor sweet, sad thoughts inclined,In Glendalough you'll findThem nigh: —Kathleen and Kevin's taleSo sorrows that deep vale,That birds all songless sailIts sky —Its sky – sky, —That birds all songless sailIts sky!Oh! cruel Saint was KevinTo shun her eyes' blue heaven,Then drown her in the lake hard by —By – by, —Would I have sarved her so? – not I!IXAnd there's – But what's the useOf praising Scalp or Douce? —The wide world can't produceSuch sights:So I will sing adieuTo Wicklow's hills so blue,And green vales glittering throughDim lights —Lights – lights, —And green vales glittering throughDim lights!Oh! I could from DecemberUntil the next NovemberMuse on this way both days and nights,Nights – nights, —Muse on this way both days and nights!

SONG OF THE MONTH. No. X

October, 1837IYou may talk of St. Valentine all his month round,And discourse about June for some brace of days longer;But no saint in the Kalendar ever was found,Throughout the whole year, either merrier or strongerThan his reverence to whom you must now fill your glass, —Many years to him, whether tipsy or sober! —And his name when you've heard, you will let the malt pass,Singing "Hip, hip, hurrah! here's success to October!"IIWere I Dan Maclise, his sweet saintship I'd paintWith his face like John Reeve's, and in each hand a rummer;And write underneath, "Oh! good luck to the saintWho comes in the days between winter and summer!"Yes, the jolly gay chap has well chosen his time,He is here as the leaves are beginning to yellow,For he knows it is not when the grapes are in primeThat their juice is most fit for a hearty gay fellow.IIIAnd though, without leave from the council or pope,In Bentley's Miscellany I canonize himThus late in the day, still I'm not without hopeThere are some who, perhaps, will not wholly despise him:Tis for such lads as they are, and each jolly lass,Who can smile on them whether they're tipsy or sober,That new saints should be made. Come, then, fill up each glass,And "Hip, hip, hurrah! one cheer more for October!"

THE POISONERS OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY

BY GEORGE HOGARTHNo. II

Our Scottish Solomon, King James the First, amongst other instances of wisdom, was especially addicted to favourites. During his whole reign he was governed by a succession of minions. His prime favourite, Buckingham, (the celebrated "Steeny,") was preceded in his affections by a man little less remarkable, the Earl of Somerset. Robert Carr, a young man of a respectable Scotch family, appeared at court very soon after James's accession to the English crown. At a tilting-match, where the king was present, Carr by an accident was thrown from his horse, and had his leg broken. The king, who had been struck with his handsome figure, made him be attended by his own surgeons, visited him daily, and soon became immoderately fond of his society. The young favourite did not neglect the means of advancement; before many months were over he was knighted and made a gentleman of the bedchamber, and from that time became all-powerful at court. There is a letter from Lord Thomas Howard to Sir John Harrington, written about the year 1608, which shows the feelings of the courtiers upon the subject. "Carr," says the writer, "hath all the favours, as I told you before. The king teacheth him Latin every morning, and I think some one should teach him English too; for he is a Scottish lad, and hath much need of better language. The king doth much covet his presence: the ladies, too, are not behind hand in their admiration; for, I tell you, good knight, this fellow is straight-limbed, well-favoured, and smooth-faced, with some sort of cunning and show of modesty, though, God wot, he well knoweth when to show his impudence. Your lady is virtuous, and somewhat of a good housewife; has lived in a court in her time, and I believe you may venture her forth again; but I know those would not so quietly rest, were Carr to leer on their wives, as some do perceive, yea, and like it well too they should be so noticed. If any mischance be to be wished, 'tis breaking a leg in the king's presence; for this fellow owes all his favour to that bout. I think he hath better reason to speak well of his own horse than the king's roan jennet. We are almost worn out in our endeavours to keep pace with this fellow in his duty and labour to gain favour, but in vain; where it endeth I cannot guess, but honours are talked of speedily for him." These honours speedily followed, Carr having been soon afterwards created Viscount Rochester.

Robert, Earl of Essex, the son of the unfortunate favourite of Queen Elizabeth, had married, in the year 1603, the Lady Frances Howard, eldest daughter of the Earl of Suffolk. The earl was only fourteen, and his bride a year younger. Immediately after the marriage the young earl was sent abroad on his travels, the countess remaining at court, – of which she was one of the brightest ornaments. Under a form, however, of singular loveliness, she concealed a mind of not less singular depravity. When Essex returned, after a few years' absence, he found her affections quite estranged from him. She had conceived a passion for the handsome favourite, and received her husband with contemptuous coldness; while she endeavoured, by her arts and allurements, to captivate the object of her guilty flame. To these means she added others more peculiarly characteristic of the age. There was a woman of the name of Turner, a servant or dependant of the countess's family, and with whom she appears to have associated much in her childhood and youth. This woman was of an atrocious character, and soon succeeded in making her patroness as wicked as herself. Mrs. Turner, as well as the countess, had an illicit amour; and they were in the habit of resorting to a Dr. Forman, a celebrated quack and dealer in magic, in order, by means of love-philters and conjurations, to obtain the objects of their wishes.

Whether Dr. Forman's charms prevailed, or the countess's own were sufficient, Rochester was soon caught; and a guilty liaison was formed between them.

Sir Thomas Overbury was then Lord Rochester's secretary. He was an able and accomplished man, in the prime of life, of a bold and aspiring disposition; and, being high in the good graces of the reigning favourite, appeared to be on the road to political distinction. To the raw youth, who had had "greatness thrust upon him" so rapidly, the services of a man of parts and experience were invaluable; and Overbury, by acting as the guide and counsellor of the favourite, directed, in a great measure, the movements of majesty itself.

Rochester made Overbury the confidant of his intrigue with Lady Essex; and the secretary, in order to pay his court to his patron, encouraged and assisted him in the prosecution of it. He even composed the billets-doux which the illiterate lover sent to his inamorata.

The countess, not content with the clandestine indulgence of her adulterous passion, now conceived the idea of getting rid of her husband. The intercourse between her and Rochester had become so shameless and open that it was loudly talked of by the world; and it appeared evident that a divorce from her husband, followed by a marriage with her lover, was the only way to prevent their separation. The countess, therefore, instituted proceedings against her husband for a divorce, on grounds to which only a shameless and abandoned woman could think of resorting. The favourite gained the king's sanction and support to this scandalous suit; and, after a course of procedure which is a disgrace to the judicature of that age, a sentence of divorce was pronounced by judges influenced and intimidated by the king himself, whose interference was grossly arbitrary and indecent. Within six weeks after the divorce, Lady Essex was married to Rochester, whom the king had previously created Earl of Somerset.