'Longissime a sapientia sors dissidet
Sed multa perfecit tamen simillima.'
Seldom the traitor, though much haste he make,
Lame-footed vengeance fails to overtake.
The extreme mischief succeeded; first his only son was taken from him by untimely death, and his nephew (the third William, Lord Harrington by his mother's right,) slain at the battle of Wakefield; and immediately after (that his old age might want no kind of misery,) while he waited still and long expected better days, himself was taken (at the battle of St. Alban's,) prisoner, and having now run out his full and long course of nature, could not yet come to the grave in peace, but lost his head; leaving behind him for heir, Cicely, his grandson's daughter; a damsel of tender years, who brought a large and rich inheritance to Thomas Grey, Marquis of Dorset, half-brother, by the mother, to king Edward V."
Wiscombe, although disparked by the Petres, and all the old forest trees swept away; their successors in its possession have in comparatively late years planted the hill-sides of the estate with large breadths of the conifera; these have flourished with great luxuriance, and it would be difficult at present to find a more richly wooded landscape than it exhibits. The different habits of the trees, fringed and interspersed with those of the ordinary species, form a delightful contrast, especially when clothed in all the varying tints that give such charm to the
AUTUMNAL HOURS.
The quiet Autumn hours,—so cool and calm,
When the bright sun hath stayed his blazing wheels,
And o'er the earth there seems to steal a balm,
Of peace full-satisfied, as the heart feels
When after some strong fight, and conquest won,
That brings no grief,—we rest and count the spoil,
Rich with the crowned content of something done,
Forgetful of the conflict and the toil.
How blessed comes each change;—with sobering tints,
The fading flowers have to rich fruitage turned,
The golden leaves lit with faint sunny glints,
Flame mid the dews like patient martyrs burned,—
The robin pipes his lay,—the bee speeds home,—
And o'er the soul a sweet repose doth come.
Shute also became the property of Secretary Petre, "from whom," says the Antiquary, "my father had the howse and park, and dwelled theire duringe his lief, and left it unto mee, and my eldest son John Pole holdeth it from mee"; it is now held by his descendant, the ninth baronet.
Once more we are back in Southleigh churchyard in the Wiscombe valley, from which our footsteps originally set out to thread the mazes of our imperfectly told but eventful history. We look into the little church for traces of Bonville, but nothing is visible, reflecting their memory in this their earliest home. A few years since in clearing the foundations of an old picturesque cottage, not far from the church, some fragments of sculpture, of Perpendicular character, were found, being part of a cornice of rich vine-tracery, together with scrolls, and winged angels holding shields, canopies of niches, panelled shafting, the emblem of St. Luke, &c.,—the colours and gilding still fresh on them. These were apparently portions of the antient reredos, and from their rich character, were probably relics of the taste and munificence of the Bonvilles; or of their last descendant "that devout woman Cecilia, Marchioness of Dorset, Lady de Bonville, and Haryngton," the patron of numerous benefices in Devon, and other counties; and generous benefactor toward the ornamentation, repair, or additions to, the various parish churches in which her extensive possessions were situate. Pleasing remembrances, left to attest her memory, and which still stand out in grateful relief, long after the turbulent scenes of treachery and bloodshed amid which they found their existence, have passed away; for is it not written,—
"The meek shall inherit the land;
And shall delight themselves in the abundance of peace."