THE town of Ilkley, on the Wharfe, now so well known to tourists for the beauty of its situation and the grandeur of the natural scenery surrounding it, and to invalids for the invigorating and restorative qualities of its waters, is a place of very ancient date. It was built and fortified by the proprÆtor, Virius Lupus, in the time of the Emperor Severus, the fortress being situated on a precipitous bank of the Wharfe, and a cohort stationed there. Remains of the intrenchments are still to be seen, and altars, sepulchral stones, and other memorials of the Roman Olicaria have frequently been disinterred. Under the Saxons, too, it was a place of some importance, with a church and priest. In the churchyard there are some remarkable relics of this age, consisting of three stone crosses, with curiously convoluted knots and scroll work. Afterwards it sank into a mere village, but with a grammar school, founded in 1601 by the parishioners, and so remained until recent times, when the fame of its salubrious springs went forth over the land and attracted crowds of fashionable invalids and hypochondriacs.

It was in the latter half of the seventeenth century, when the reign of the Puritans had come to an end, and the "Merry Monarch" had been restored to the throne of the Stuarts, bringing with him the profligate, licentious, and profane manners of the Court of Versailles, that one fine summer's afternoon a party of roysterers, who had been at a cock-fight, burst into the kitchen of the mud-built and thatched alehouse of Ilkley, calling upon Mistress Laycock, the alewife, for sundry flagons of ale wherewith to moisten their throats, parched and dry with halloaing and shouting out bets at the cocking match. The twenty years' rule of the Puritans, with the suppression of sports, theatres, and other amusements, and the substitution of long sermons and long prayers, had produced the natural reaction, and now the people of Ilkley, as in other places, returned with renewed zest to their bull-baiting, dog fights, cudgel matches, and their more innocent amusements of dancing round the maypole, holding yule-feasts and village fairs, and mumming in grotesque masquerade on Plough Monday.

The roysterers who thus boisterously invaded Dame Laycock's kitchen were Tom Heber, a young scapegrace, son of Reginald Heber, a barrister-at-law of the Middle Temple, and an offshoot of the ancient family of Heebeare, who had been settled in Craven for some centuries. He had been brought up in the old gabled and cross-timbered house of his father in Ilkley, had been well educated, and was a clever and accomplished young fellow; moreover, his father had taken him once or twice to London, and he had been a witness of the revels and immoralities of Whitehall, which struck his fancy as being the perfection of human bliss. His companions this afternoon were Will Hudson, the village cobbler, who infinitely preferred swaggering at a bull-baiting to hammering at the lapstone; Walter Pollard, a shoeing smith, whose feats at tossing off the contents of a blackjack were the admiration of his comrades; Jack Smithers, a journeyman flesher, whose dog was the pride of the village for his pluck in tackling any animal of his size or more than his size; and two or three other rapscallions of the village, who were ever foremost in a brawl, and more frequently seen in the purlieus of the alehouse than in pursuit of their proper vocations.

These worthies had now seated themselves on the long-settle which faced a fire of wood on the hearth-stone, over which swung a large cauldron, and called out vociferously for the ale. "Now then, Mother Laycock," shouted Heber, "when is this ale coming?" "The old score's not paid yet, Master Thomas," replied she, from another room, "and I told you that I would not draw another pint until that was paid." "Oh! you won't, won't you; then your crockery shall suffer for your obstinacy; so here goes," and down he dashed an earthenware jug on the floor, upon which she rushed in, and opening a cupboard door, showed a long score chalked against him. "Oh! hang the score," said he, "you know I shall pay you some day; my father cannot be so hard as to keep me entirely without money." "But, Master Thomas, I cannot afford to give such long trust." "Now, Mistress Laycock, you know I am a good customer, and always pay in the long run; is this ale forthcoming?" and down he threw another piece of crockery, adding, "It shall all go if you do not bring the ale." The old dame, terrified at the breakage of her pots, then gave in and produced the ale, adding it to the score on the cupboard door.

The ale jug passed merrily round, and the conversation turned first upon the points of the cock-fight they had been witnessing, and then upon the merits of the competitors in a wrestling match which was coming off the following Sunday. They then began to complain of their scant fortunes, not attributing it at all to their lack of industry in business. "I'll tell you what it is," said Heber, "it's a parlous shame that my father keeps me so short of money." "It is! it is!" echoed his companions. "He has brought me up as a gentleman, and given me a good education, but does not allow me the means to support that position, and I say again that it is cursed shame; but never mind, boys, the time is coming when I shall have plenty of gold to scatter about amongst you, my jolly companions." "Brayvo! brayvo! three cheers for Squire Heber." "Meanwhile," continued he, "it is the best philosophy to make the best of what we have, to enjoy life as much as we can, to dance, and drink, and sing, and fling dull care to the winds. So drink, boys! drink! and I will sing you one of Cowley's new songs which I picked up in London." And he trolled forth—

Of course, the song was rapturously applauded by the listeners, who caught the general sentiment, but were unable to understand the allusions or appreciate the refinement of the language. Suddenly Heber exclaimed—"Lads! a bright thought has flashed across my mind. We want money, and money we must have. Old Alic Squire is well to do, and always has a considerable sum of money by him, and it would be a charity to relieve him of the care and anxiety of keeping it in that lonely house of his. The thing could be easily done. We have but to disguise ourselves, break into his house, take what we require, and leave him to attribute the appropriation, I won't call it theft, to professional burglars." The confederates highly approved of the scheme, and gave a ready assent, after which they arranged a plan of operation, and agreed to carry it into execution three nights hence.

On the appointed evening they assembled at the house of Will, the cobbler, where they donned sundry disguises, armed themselves with cudgels, an axe, a crowbar, and a wooden wedge, and sallied forth into the moonlight. Squire's farmhouse lay at a little distance from the village, shrouded in trees. It was occupied by himself, a widower, and his married daughter, Elizabeth Beecroft; whilst in the barn, on that night, slept one Jane Beanland. The moon was nearly at full, but masses of clouds drifted across its face, obscuring its beams, so that it only shone out at intervals. As they approached the house at midnight a profound silence prevailed; not a dog barked, and it was only broken occasionally by the distant hooting of an owl. A minute or two were only required to force open the door by the application of the wedge and three or four blows of the axe, and Heber, Hudson, and Pollard entered the house, the others remaining outside. The old man had been awakened by the noise of forcing the door open, and he came from his bedroom half-dressed, demanding what they wanted by thus breaking into his house. "Money," was the reply, "and if you do not give it up we shall take it." "I have got no money for you," he answered, and, seizing upon a poker, he stood upon his defence, but was overpowered by a blow on the head, and the robbers then prized open his desk, but found in it not more than fifty shillings, and broke open a cupboard, taking from it a piece of beef, after which they went away, much disappointed at the smallness of their booty. Notwithstanding their disguise, they had been identified, Squire, in his deposition, stating that he recognised Tom Heber by his stature and the softness of his hand, which he felt when struggling with him; Elizabeth, his daughter, whose room they had entered and "nearly smothered her in the bed clothes," also recognised "Mr. Thos. Heber," as one of the party; and Jane Beanland deposed that, as she lay in the barn, she heard the voices of Mr. Thos. Heber, of Holling, and William Hudson, of Ilkley, when they were breaking open the door. Moreover, Elizabeth Longfellow gave evidence that going into the alehouse of Josias Laycock, where Walter Pollard was drinking, she overheard him say, "I am now making Bess Squire's half-crowns fly." They had left behind them also an iron gavelock, a staff, and a wedge, which were identified as having been in their possession a day or two before the crime was committed.

These facts having come to light, warrants were issued for the apprehension of the offenders, and they were brought before Walter Hawkesworth, of Hawkesworth, the nearest magistrate. This gentlemen was a friend of Serjeant Heber, and, knowing Tom well, he expressed his regret at seeing him placed in that situation, who, however, laughingly replied that it was only done for a lark, but the magistrate, after hearing the depositions, with a grave countenance, said "It might be a lark, but at the same time it was a felony, and a serious outrage of the law, and he had no alternative but to commit them to York for trial at the assizes."

They were consequently arraigned at the assizes on a charge of burglary, but escaped the usual severe punishment, partly on the ground that the crime was committed as a frolic, which was the line of defence, partly through family influence, and partly through the powerful agency of money.

It is a remarkable fact that there were then resident in Ilkley two families—the Hebers, of whom was the criminal, and the Longfellows, a member of whom was a witness on the trial against him, and that from them are descended two of the most charming poets of modern times—Reginald Heber, Bishop of Calcutta, author of "Palestine," and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, whose writings are as much admired in England as in his native America.