Presented to the
LIBRARY of the

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO

by

ONTARIO LEGISLATIVE
LIBRARY

LONDON:

HARVEY AND BARTON,

. GRACECHURCH STREET.

RUINS AND OLD TREES,

ASSOCIATED WITH

MEMOEABLE EVENTS IN ENGLISH HISTOEY.

MARY ROBERTS,

AUTHOR OF

"THK PROGRESS Of CREATION, CONSIDERED WITH REFERENCE TO THE
PRESENT CONDITION OF THE EARTH," " CONCHOLOGIST'S COMPANION," &C.

ILLUSTRATIONS FROM DESIGNS BY GILBERT,
ENGRAVED BY FOLKARD.

vi &ljc ©alt of

Old trees have fallen down,

From the sites where they stood of yore,
And now in tower or town

Their names are heard no more.
When they stood in their days of pride,

The Saxon wore his crown,
And oft through the forest wide

The Norman wound his horn ;
But thou in thy beauty's sheen,

Young tree, art rising high,
Thy waving boughs are seen,

Against the clear blue sky.

No dibbling foot of sportive fawn,

In silent glen or glade,
No squirrel bounding o'er the lawn

Thy tender cradle made :
But the poet's eye back glancing,

Can sing of thy natal day,
When the streamlets in light seem'd dancing,

And the woods did their homage pay.

A maiden placed thee, forest tree,

Where thou art standing now,
No care depress'd her thoughts of glee,

No crown was on her brow ;

0afe of ©fratgfoortfj. vii

But she stood, a lov'd and loving one,

By her noble mother's side,
And while that gentle deed was done,

Hearts turn'd to her with pride.

The old memorial trees,

That rise on rock or glen,
Dark years of human sorrow

Are chronicled on them ;
But Chatsworth's young oak springing,

May spread her branches fair,
When nought of sin or sadness

Shall vex the earth or air.

The crowns which God hath given,

Shall press not then as now ;
No sceptre shall be riven,

No care shall cloud the brow.
Victoria ! shielded by His power,
Be thine to triumph in that hour,
Queen of the sea-girt isle ! Not then,
As now, the Queen of suffering men,
But reigning still, beloved and glorious,
O'er sin, and grief, and death victorious.

CONTENTS.

Court.

Ancient Forest — Huts of the Britons on its margin. Roman
S ettlements in the vale country — Destruction of the Danes — Gradual
diminishing of the Forest — Pageant in the days of Richard II. in
honour of his marriage with Anne of Luxemburg — Journey of the
young Queen — Dangers attendant on the way-^- Arrival in London

— Margaret of Silesia, a confidential friend and first-cousin of the
Queen, accompanies her — Death of the Queen — Marriage of Mar-
garet; afterwards that of her Daughter to Sir "William Tyndale

— Anecdote of Piastus, her immediate ancestor, and his elevation
to the throne of Poland — A descendant of Margaret of Silesia con-
cealed for three days and nights in the Yew-tree of Stinchcombe
"Wood — The Burning of his Mansion in the Valley — Reference to
"William Tyndale, the Apostle of the English Reformation, descended
from Margaret — Beautiful Scenery around the remains of the old
Forest, which now bears the name of Stinchcombe Wood — A dilapi-
dated Court-House in the Valley, where the Tyndale family once
resided — Its present condition and past greatness. — Page 1.

&uing of UraDgatc palace,

Scenery before and around the Ruin — Beautiful group of Ches-
nut-trees growing there in the days of Edward I. — Clear Stream of
Water, beside which Lady Jane used to walk — Ruins of the little Mill
mentioned by Leland — Vale of Newtown, Hill and Ruin — Sketch
of Bradgate Palace — Lady Jane's Tower — Concluding Observations
—Poetry.— Page 21.

©afe of (S^ertsttg. (SlenDour's

Battle between Henry IV. and Hotspur — Fall of Hotspur —
Battle witnessed by Owen Glendour from the topmost branches of
the Tree — Return to his Castle in the Vale of Glyndwrdwey — Mode
of "Warfare — Remarks respecting him — Dread entertained by the
English of his possessing supernatural Powers — Anecdote of his
early Life— Beautiful Scenery of Bethgellert— The bard Rhys-Cock
— Stone on which he used to sit — Building of a Church by Henry
IV. in commemoration of the Battle in which Hotspur fell — Present
condition of the Church, and of Glendour's Oak. — Page 31.

¥efo 2Fmg of j&fcelloale.

Historical notice of the Monks of St. Mary's at York, who
took shelter beneath seven Yew-trees — Their sanctity and mode of
life — Conjectures respecting the state of Britain, when the fraternal
Yew-trees first arose from the earth — Hardships endured by the
recluses — The charity of their Abbot to a stranger — Splendid
Abbey of the Fountain.— Page 43.

©alt of p^ofod j&clc. &&e fclagtcfc ©aft.

Contrast between the bleached and skeleton-looking Tree, and
the lawns and thickets by which it is surrounded — History of
Howel Sele — His Fight with his cousin Owen Glendour — His Death,
and the inhuming of him within an hollow Oak — Search made for
the Chieftain by his Vassals — "Weary watchings of his "Widow —
Arrival of Madoc, after many years, at the Castle of the murdered
Chieftain — Telling of Glendour's Death, and how he had charged
him to make known where the body of Howel Sele was concealed —
Working of the Vassals by torch-light, and the discovery of his
Bones. — Page 51.

<JHueen J&at'g Cofocr.

Winfield Castle— Peverel's Tower— Apartment and Tower of
Mary, Queen of Scots — Ruins, when best seen — Heavy Storm
during the Night — Aspect of Nature in the Morning— Old Tree

xi

within sight of Apartments occupied by Queen Mary — Beautiful
Ash growing before her window. — Page 57.

of

Celebrated as a large Tree in the days of King John— Chesnut-
tree preferred among all others by Salvator Rosa — Notice of Penda,
of his son, "Wolfere, and Eva — Wolfere, Governor of Mercia —
Benefactor of the City of Gloucester— Caer Glou, or the Bright
City — Persecutions of the Christians by Penda — Piety of Eva, who
became, on the death of her husband, Abbess of the Nunnery of St.
Peter's — Baptism of Penda. — Page 61.

©afe of lEHersUe. Wallace'* <£afe,

Observations on the aged Tree — Place of its Growth — Sports
and sorrows of Childhood — Assembling of the Village Children,
with young Wallace, under the shade of the Oak of Ellerslie —
Claim of Edward to the fealty of Scotland on the Death of the
young Queen — Advance of his Armies — Cotemporary Events —
Wallace, when grown to manhood, takes up arms against the
English — Joined by his young Companions — Concealed with many
of his Officers, in an hollow of the Oak of Ellerslie, beneath which
they had played in Childhood — Escape to the old Oak of Torwood,
which becomes his head-quarters — Scenery on the banks of the
Carron — Conversation with Bruce - Captivity and Death of Wallace
— Veneration in which his Memory is held by the young People of
Ellerslie — Memorial Spots associated with his Name. — Page 69.

Rebuke of St. Hugh, Bishop of Lincoln, to the Sisters of Godstow
Nunnery — Removal of Rosamond's Hearse from before the Altar —
Her Burial in the Churchyard — Belief of the Nuns respecting her
private Marriage with the King — Sketch of her Life — Interview with
the Queen, and retirement from her bower at Woodstock to God-
stow Nunnery — Her Death — Visit to her Tomb.

Castle near old Sarum, the Residence of the Earl of Salisbury,
surrounded with Downs — Place of Tournament — Funeral of the
Earl, and the mysterious Disappearance of his Daughter, Ela —
Riding forth of Knights in search — Conjecture respecting her Dis-

xii

appearance— Ela's three Uncles— Mo nastry of Bradenstoke— Adven-
tures of an English Knight, William Talbot, in quest of the young
Heiress — His Wanderings in Normandy for the space of two years
—Discovery of the Lady Ela, when gathering Shells on the Sea-
coast— Poetry— Her Return to England, and Marriage with William
Longespe — Attachment of William Longespe to his Brother, King
John, the Companion of his Wanderings, a Friend who never
Deserted him — Wretched Condition of the Country — Founding by
William Longespe of the beautiful Cathedral of Salisbury — Going
abroad of the Earl, with his Royal Nephew, Richard— Disasters
by Land and Sea— Narrow Escape from an Abbey in the Isle of
Rhe— Proposals of Marriage to the Lady Ela by Reimund de Burgh,
during the absence of her Husband — Her scornful Reply — Com-
plaint to King Henry by the Earl on his Return— Apology— Illness
and Death of the Earl— His Funeral— Lady Ela permitted to remain
in free Widowhood— Her Seal and Exercise of the Office of Sheriff
of Wiltshire— Founding of Lacock Nunnery, and the Priory of Hin-
ton — Ela's Retirement from the stately Castle, in which her young
Days had passed to the Society of the Nuns of Lacock— Visit to the
plain Marble Stone that covers the Remains of Lady Ela — Closing
Observations.— Page 91.

iicmaing of JDunmoto ^priori).

Old Church of Dunmow, by whom erected — Tomb of Sir Walter
Bohun, by whom injured — Tomb of the Lady Marian, the wife of
Robinhood— Conjecture respecting the sparing of her Effigy during
the Civil Wars — Early History of Lady Marian — Tournament —
Burning of her Father's Castle — Escape to the Forest — Single
Combat with Prince John — Restoration of Robinhood, the Earl
of Huntingdon, to his estates and honours — Death of Robinhood —
Retiring of his Widow to the Priory of Dunmow — Sending of Sir
Robert de Medeive, with a poisoned Bracelet, by King John, to the
lady— Her Death— Poetry.— Page 119.

Divisions of Great Britain by the Romans — Names given by the
Saxons — Minor Changes and final Partition by command of Alfred
— Origin of marking the respective Boundaries — Gospel-Tree near
an ancient Saxon Town — Going round of the Parishioners — Con-
trast between the aged Tree and the young Flowers that spring
beside it — Concluding Observations. — Page 129.

xi
palace anU t|)c parliament ©afe.

Condition of the ruined Palace— Hiding-place for solitary birds

— The owl, jackdaw, and crow — Once a place of great note— Its
style of building— How guarded— By whom inhabited— Withdraw-
ing of King John from Clipstone Palace to London— Its lonely
appearance when thus deserted — Rumours respecting an Interdict

— Miserable state of the Country — No Burials allowed in Churches,
nor Marriages within the walls— Bells and Images taken down and
laid upon the ground— A Wedding Party— Appearance of Clipstone
Palace when King Edward I. succeeds to the Throne — Improved
condition of the Country — Notice of the lesser Barons and Bur-
gesses — Style of Building much improved — Wise Policy of Edward

— Notice of a fine young Oak growing in Clipstone Park — Parties
made beneath its shade in the days of John — Again in those of
Edward— Grave Company sitting there — Why convened. — Page 135.

&uuuU ^Tillages in tfre jfiffo dForegt.

Desolating of the New Forest — Distress of the Inhabitants —
War declared with France — Departure of the King for Normandy —
Wretched condition of Maine — Burning of Nantes — Illness of Wil-
liam — Bequests to his two Sons — Their unnatural Conduct — Hi*
Death — Poetry — Neglect of his Remains — Interruption to his Fune-
ral — Hunting Party, convened by William Rufus, in Malwood-Keep

— Arrival of a Monk with ill tidings from Gloucester — Accidental
Death of the King — His remains found by a Charcoal-burner, and
carried to Winchester — Interment. — Page 151.

©to ®mg in

Ancient condition of the Country — First emerging of one of the old
Trees from its Acorn cradle — Conjectures as to the People who inha-
bited Britain at the time — Stages of vegetation in all Trees alike —
Contrast between the small beginning, and the grandeur of a full-grown
Tree — Notice of the Forest that covered the greatest part of Mid-
dlesex — Settlement of Llyn-Din, or the Town on the Lake, called
Londinium by the Romans — Draining of the Marshes, and cutting
down of the Forest, embanking of the River and surrounding the
City with a Wall — Gradual progress of Civilization — Increase of the
City — Falling to decay of the old Roman Road that passed through
a portion of Hyde-Park — Contrast between the Past and Present. —
Page 173.

(£ontcnt!5.

Poetry.— Page 187.

of tfje dFrttJ) Common.

No sad associations with the young Beech of the Frith Common — Its
dignity and proportions — Majesty and luxuriance of Forest-trees —
Aggregate effect produced by Woodland Scenery— The Tree which
stands alone can best be understood — Poetry. — Page )VJt / (i&\

©afe of jfcalceg*

The Roots of aged Trees— Sketch of the Oak of Salcey, at different
hours of the day and night — Solemn Aspect of the old Oak when seen
dimly in the clear nights of the summer solstice — Loneliness of its
place of growth — Songs of early Birds — Silent at Noon-day — Sounds
heard at Eventide— Conjectures respecting the old Tree.— Page 207

©to &reeg in

Beauty of Woodland Scenery, superior to all others — Purity and
freshness of the Breezes that sport over wild thyme and short
herbage — The Duke's Walking-stick, and the Seven Sisters — Trees
in Welbeck Park.— Page 213.

Tradition respecting the Queen's Oak — Sketch of the surrounding
Scenery — Inhabitants of Grafton Castle — Marriage of Elizabeth
Woodville to John Gray— Abbey of St. Alban's— Battle fought
beside its walls — John Gray wounded — Visit of Henry VI. to the
dying Youth — Confiscation of his Estates — Return of Elizabeth to
her Father's house— Hunting Visit of Edward IV. to Whitlebury
Chase — Elizabeth intercedes for the restoration of her Husband's
Estates — Frequent meeting of Elizabeth and Edward beneath the
old Oak— Poetry— Marriage at Grafton— Scene in the old Palace of
Reading — Dress of the Queen — Fetes and Tournaments— Corona-
tion of Elizabeth — Count James, of St. Pol, invited to attend —
Meeting of Cicely of York and the Duchess of Bedford, beside the
cradle of their Grandchild— Flight of Edward— Retirement of his
Queen to Sanctuary— Birth of a Prince— Return of the King, with

xv

the Lord Grauthuse — Great Entertainments — Betrothing of the
young Duke of York with Anne Mowbray, infant heiress of
the Duchy of Norfolk, in St. Stephen's Chapel— Scene in the
Sanctuary of "Westminster — Desolate condition of Elizabeth —
Her Conversation with Archbishop Rotherham — Sophistry of
Richard III. — Visit from the Archbishop of Canterbury to the
Queen — Her unwillingness to part with her Son — Fearful Tragedies
succeed — Aged Woman in the Abbey of Bermondsey — Her venerable
appearance, beautiful in its decrepitude — Tolling of the Convent
Bell-*- A small. Boat with the Queen Dowager's Coffin on board, seen
on the River — The Queen's Daughters accompany it to St. George's
Chapel — A few old Men, meanly dressed, light on the Funeral —
Closing Observations.— Page 217.

Court

"I stood in the ruined hall where my ancestors once dwelt. I
asked for the noble owners. Where are they? — and the echo

replied, Where are they ? "

J. J.

IN the midst of the lone forest which shadowed in
ancient times a large portion of the country of the
Dobuni,* and which extended over hill and dale, far as
the distant mountains of the Silures,f and on either
side the river that waters this part of Britain, stood a
solitary yew. On the verge of the forest, and in places
cleared of timber for the purpose, rose the conically-
shaped huts of the natives ; the dwelling of the chieftain
was somewhat larger than the rest, and around it stood
the wattled cabins of his dependents. Their arts were
few and simple, and their habits those of men who were
scarcely advanced beyond a savage state : corn was occa-
sionally cultivated, but in general they lived by hunting,

* Gloucestershire. t South Wales.

B

©ourt

or fed upon the flocks which they pastured in the open
country.

Years passed on, and while the aspect of nature re-
mained the same, all else was changed. This part of
Britain bore no longer the appellation of Dobuni; a
term derived from the British word DufFen, because the
inhabitants frequently resided in places which lay low,
and were sunk under hills. It formed a considerable
portion of Britannia Superior, and along the side of its
beautifully wooded hills, and on its thickly peopled
plains, palaces and forums, extensive military roads,
aqueducts and schools were rapidly erected. The rat-
tling of heavy-laden cars, and the loud sound of the
woodman's axe, with the crash of stately trees, made
way for these improvements. In the course of a few
short years, the country of the Dobuni lost its wild and
forest-like appearance, and far as the eye could reach,
the wide-spread landscape presented objects of fertility
and beauty. The ancient forest was also curtailed of its
grandeur and extent ; and the plain country, whose rank
luxuriant vegetation concealed marshes, on which it was
rarely safe to tread, except in seasons of great drought,
was cleared, and thrown open to the sun, and being
quickly drained, was covered with towns and villages ;
corn-fields and meadows succeeded to a growth of un-
derwood, and sheep and oxen grazed where the wolf had
been. Sounds too, which of all others awaken images
of security and peace — the bleating of sheep along the

3

hills, and the lowing of oxen in the valleys, were heard,
instead of the piercing cries of those wild creatures, when
ranging in quest of prey. Meanwhile the ample river,
whose capricious windings could only be distinguished
from the highest hills, was disclosed to view, by the
clearing away of tangled bushes, and the cutting down
of the huge trees that encroached upon, or shaded
its bright waters. The small skin-boats of the natives,
and the stately galleys of the Romans, glided along its
surface, and commodities of various kinds were brought
from one part of the country to the other.

But the day arrived when the galley was rarely seen
upon the river. When the skin-boats of the natives
ceased to spread abundance along its shores ; when many
large and fair dwellings were deserted ; and when the
rolling of chariots, filled with patrician families, whose
villas had been erected in some of the most beau-
tiful parts of the country, were no longer heard on
the great military road that led from the city of Corinium.
Instead of these, bands of anned men spread over the
land, for the Roman legions were withdrawn, to save the
capital from spoliation, and nothing remained for the un-
happy Britons but servitude or death. The Saxons
came, for such were the strangers called : their looks were
bland, and their flowing vestments, adorned with borders
of many colours, betokened some degree of civilization ;
but war was in their hearts, and soon, where cities had
stood, and peaceful homesteads met the view, all was

B 2

silence and desolation. No curling smoke was seen
among the trees, the watch-dog's bark had ceased, there
were no flocks for him to guard, and only blackened
ruins told of what had been. Gradually, however, a
better state of things arose ; the Saxons contrasted their
past condition, their rude huts on the far off shore, their
precarious mode of life, with the elegances, and the per-
fection in the arts and sciences which they observed in
the homes which they had won. They learned to adopt
the habits and the manners of the Romanized Britons,
and to repair the desolations which they had wrought.
Kingdoms were established, and though war occasionally
prevailed among the chieftains, there were many who
appreciated the blessings, and the security of peace.

Next came the Danes, men of stern countenances and
ruddy hair. War-chiefs, accustomed to a life of rapine —
they knew no pity ; and what the Saxon would have
spared, when first he trod the shores of Britain, they
ruthlessly overthrew. The forest and vale country
around the solitary yew, was grievously infested with
them. They took shelter in the hollows with which this
part of England abounded, and it was difficult to dis-
possess them. Those hollows or little glens were so
deep and narrow, that the rays of the sun frequently did
not enliven them for months together ; yet still some of
the most accessible were brought into cultivation, and
rewarded the industrious husbandman with plentiful
crops of corn and grass. Others remained in their

Jftdfegljam (£ourt. 5

native wildness, and wild indeed they were. Shallow
streams ran through them, and by means of these they
could alone be visited : he who sought to explore their
secret recesses must force his way beside the channel of
the stream ; now stepping from stone to stone amid the
water's splash; now clinging to the branches of the
trees which drooped on either side. But whether wild
or cultivated, there the Danes settled themselves, till
they were driven out in the days of Alfred.

Alfred established his throne in righteousness, and the
country became respectable and happy. Still the tree
grew on, and lifted up its head above the boughs of less
stately trees, for the yew does not attain to its highest
elevation, or rest in the grandeur of its maturity, till five
hundred years have passed away, and when the period
arrived, concerning which I shall have to speak, the tree
was only in its prime.

The forest had encroached upon the precincts of the
fields and meadows, during those disastrous times when
the ground was trod by hostile steps, as if it sought to
recover its ancient rights; but this might not be, and
when peace was restored, the sound of the woodman's
axe was heard again, and the usurping trees fell beneath
its stroke. Then, also, many of those whose ample
branches had long sheltered the margin of the cleared
land, were cut down, to make room for wider clearings ;
and by degrees the noble yew, which had been in the
depth of the dark forest, stood but a little distance from

6

the verge of the common, up which the road led, and
which being kept free from trees was reserved for the
pasturing of sheep. It was covered with short grass and
tufts of wild thyme, round which the bees came hum-
ming ; and gay flowers, fcuch as the bee-orchis, and the
yellow cistus, the pink-eyed pimpernell, and yellow
rocket, grew profusely beside the pathway. From the
summit of the hill extended a noble panoramic view of
hill and dale. Downward, and far as the eye could
reach, a precipitous descent toward the vale countiy was
covered with the trees of the old forest, which had gra-
dually been curtailed of its extent ; towns and villages
varied the plain, through which the river flowed, and the
strong castles of Dursley and Berkeley, of Beverstone and
Brimpsfield, with their ample hunting-grounds, and the
crowding dwellings of those who lived near, were seen at
intervals.

Generations came and went, and successive monarchs
filled the English throne, till the time of Harold, when
on the battle-field of Hastings his noble patrimony
passed into the hands of the proud Norman. Great
changes then took place ; strong castles were erected on
the site of ancient Saxon fortresses, and while seed-time
and harvest did their work, and gradually advanced
and retreated, so gradually did the country emerge from
out the darkness of past ages, and attain an eminence
among the nations of the earth. But as night succeeds
to day, and clouds obscure the cheerful light of the bright

sun, so did war succeed to peace, and ruthless men made
sorrowful the homes of England. When Stephen and
the empress battled for pre-eminence, fell sounds broke
up the quiet of the valleys, and fugitives often sought to
hide themselves in the still close covert of the forest.

A gay pageant passed one day within sight of the noble
yew. Men carrying branches of the beech, and damsels
with flowers in their hands, wound up the road; and with
them came a train of oxen, dragging a large tree, which
had been cut from out the forest. The tree was wreathed
with flowers ; the horns of the oxen too were tastefully
adorned, and when they reached the summit of the hill,
the tree was set up, round which the light-hearted party
danced right merrily. All this was done in honour of
king Richard's marriage. He had sought the sister of
the Emperor Wenceslaus, fair Anne of Luxemburg ; and
when, at length, the final arrangements were adjusted, she
left the palace of her brother, attended by the Duke of
Saxony, and a great number of knights and damsels,
with men-at-arms, and a goodly company, all well
appointed to do her honour. They journeyed through
Brabant to Brussels, where the Duke and Duchess
received the young queen with great respect, and caused
her attendants to be honourably entertained, for the Duke
was her uncle, and he rejoiced much in the prospects of
his niece. Anne expected merely to have spent a few
pleasant days in the society of the Duke and Duchess,
but, when about to leave them, intelligence was brought

8

that twelve large Norman vessels, well equipped, and
filled with armed men, were cruising in the sea between
Calais and Holland, and that, under the pretence of
seizing all who fell into their hands, they were really
waiting for the coming of the lady, whom the king of
France was desirous of getting into his possession, that he
might frustrate the intended alliance between the English
and Germans. The young queen was exceedingly
alarmed at such unexpected intelligence. She remained
in consequence with her uncle and aunt, till the
Lords de Roasselaus and de Bousquehoir, having
been deputed by the Duke to negotiate with the King
of France, obtained passports for the safe conveyance of
Anne and her attendants through his dominions, as far
as Calais, as also for the remanding of the Normans into
port.

The young queen then set forwards, after taking leave
of her august relations and the ladies of the court, who
witnessed her departure with much regret. The Duke
added to her train five hundred spears, and, as she passed
through Ghent and Bruges, the citizens received her with
the utmost honour. Thus she journeyed on, till being
arrived at Gravelines, the earls of Salisbury and Devon-
shire approached to do her homage, with five hundred
spears, and as many archers. They conducted her to
Calais, and, having safely confided her to the care of the
English barons, who were appointed to that honour by
the king, they returned homeward. Great was the joy of

<£ourt. 9

the Londoners, when the train, having passed over the sea
to Dover, came within sight of the city gates. Ladies
of the highest rank were assembled to receive their
queen, all in their best attire, and with them came the
great authorities both of the court and city. The gates
were then thrown open with much solemnity, and Anne of
Luxemburg having been conducted with chivalrous mag-
nificence to the Palace of Westminster, the ceremony of
her marriage was completed on the twentieth day after
Christmas.

Christmas was well kept that year both in town and
country ; but when the trees burst forth into leaf and
beauty, and the contented note of the solitary cuckoo,
was heard in the still forest, the country people thought
that they would rejoice again, and this occasioned the
May-pole to be set up. They did not gather any
branches from the yew, for the yew is a funereal tree,
used to deck the grave of him who has nought to do with
the cheerful scenes of busy life.

With the noble train who entered London came Mar-
garet of Silesia, daughter of the Duke of Theise, and
niece to the King of Bohemia, as the confidential friend,
and first-cousin of the queen. This lady was received
with great distinction, and apartments were assigned her
in the palace, not only on account of her youth, but that
she might enjoy a frequent intercourse with the friend
who was most dear to her. But these halcyon days were
not of long continuance. The queen died at Shene in

B5

10 JJUlltf&am ©ourt.

Surry, and so bitterly did the king bewail her loss, that
he denounced a malediction on the scene of her last ill-
ness, and commanded, in the wildness of his grief, that
not one stone should be left upon another of the palace
where she died. Margaret felt the death of the queen
severely ; she loved her cousin with a sister's love, and
the circumstance of their having left their native land
together, and their being to each other what none else
could be in a foreign country, had formed between them
a bond of no common interest.

The queen deceased without children ; but Margaret
having married a gentleman of the ducal family of Nor-
folk, knight of the garter and standard-bearer of England,
their only child and heiress, Alana, became the wife of
Sir William Tyndale, who was equally respectable in
point of antiquity and alliances. His family possessed
the valuable domain and title of Tyndale in Northum-
berland, so called from the south Tyne, which, rising
in the mountains and moors of Cumberland, waters that
dale, and having joined the north Tyne near Hexham,
falls into the German ocean at Tynmouth. Their
baronial residence rose proudly on an eminence which
commanded the southern banks of the river. It consisted
of a spacious antique quadrangle ; the roof and walls being
of immense strength and thickness, extended in the form
of the letter H ; the whole was defended by a fosse, and
surmounted with four principal towers, in the position of
north and south.

(£oitrt, 11

" That castle rose upon the steep, of the green vale of Tyne ;
While far below, as low they creep,
From pool to eddy dark and deep,
Where alders bend and willows weep,
You hear her streams repine."

The ancestral history of Margaret of Silesia, with that
of her distinguished husband, was of no ordinary kind.
Her paternal ancestors had filled for ten generations the
throne of Poland, and on her mother's side she repre-
sented Winceslaus the Good, nearly the last of the ancient
kings of Bohemia, as also the imperial houses of Luxem-
burg and Austria. Among the distinguished crowd of
those who figured greatly in by-gone days, Piastus is
the one, concerning whom I would briefly speak. His
character, seen only through the twilight of remote anti-
quity, is necessarily involved in great obscurity, but light
enough remains to discover the moral grandeur of its pro-
portions, as well as to justify the curiosity of his descen-
dants.

Ancient Polish chronicles relate concerning him, that
after the tragical catastrophe of Popiel II., when a dread-
ful famine added to the calamities of the country, and
people fell dead in the streets of Cruswitz, that two
angels, in the disguise of pilgrims knocked at the door of
a private citizen, named Piastus, and asked for relief.
The citizen had only a single cask, which contained some
nutritive beverage of the country, remaining in his house,
but he would not refuse to help them, and he invited the
strangers to partake. Charmed with his benevolence,

12

they promised him the vacant throne, at the same time
directing him to open his doors and draw for the relief of
the famished population. He did so, and found his cask
inexhaustible. The assembled crowds, in their trans-
ports, shouted, A miracle ! and with one consent elevated
their benefactor to the sovereignty of Poland.

From this period the history, both of prince and people,
became the subject of authentic narrative. Piastus, like
another Numa, retained in his elevation the virtues
attributed to him in his private life. The Polish nobles,
although accustomed to sanguinary catastrophes, felt their
fierceness subside beneath the sway of a monarch who
reigned only to make his people happy. He died at an
advanced age, beloved, revered, and almost adored by his
subjects; and, after the lapse of nearly a thousand years,
the name of Piastus is yet repeated with affectionate
veneration.

Such is the brief biographical memoranda, which it is
possible to rescue from oblivion, concerning the remote
ancestry of Margaret of Silesia. She came with great
pomp and splendour to the shores of England, and curious
has it been to see, while the stream of time flowed on,
how some of the noble of the earth, her immediate de-
scendants, were upborn upon its billows ; how, in one case,
knights and squires represented an elder branch, sober
citizens a younger, and how, in a third, the lordly line
sunk suddenly beneath the billows.

When the battle of Teuton, in the year 1460, made it

©ourt 13

unsafe for those who adhered to the house of Lancaster to
remain in public, the immediate descendant of Margaret,
in that branch which is associated with the aged yew,
withdrew from his paternal estate and settled in Glouces-
tershire, where he assumed the name of Kitchen. He
married Alicia, daughter and sole heiress of Hunt of
Hunt's Court, in Nibley, by whom he acquired that estate,
and became the grandfather of William Tyndale, who is
justly termed the apostle of the English Reformation.

As the gathering mists of a hot summer evening, when
the sun is set, and dew begins to fall, veil the bold and
prominent landscape, so the obscurity of time has settled
on the Tyndale family. The outlines yet remain : the
establishment of Hugh Tyndale in Gloucestershire,
during the troubles of York and Lancaster, his marriage
with Alicia, and the birth of his three grandsons, John,
William, and Thomas, are events well known ; but whether
Tyndale suffered a long imprisonment in the castle of
Vilvorde, near Louvain in Flanders, during the lifetime
of his parents ; whether days of sorrow and nights of
weariness befell them on his account ; or whether they
were first laid to rest in Nibley churchyard, near which
their mansion stood, is entirely unknown. Be this as it
may, his brother Thomas had much to suffer on his account.
He was abjured for receiving letters, and for remitting
him five marks during his residence in Flanders.

Time went on, and religious animosities gradually
subsided ;, a descendant of Hugh Tyndale purchased

14 J&dPfo&am @ourt

Melksham Court in Stinchcombe, on the verge of all
that remained of the once great forest. It was a beau-
tiful spot, embosomed in trees, and moated according to
the olden fashion, with its terrace-walks and parterres.
There his descendants continued to reside, and their
days seern to have passed tranquilly, till the stormy
reign of Charles I.

The valleys of Gloucestershire lying remote from the
metropolis, and being in many respects almost inac-
cessible, from the steepness of the hills, having also no
great public road near at hand, nor the sea within reach,
had been often spared from much suffering in very
disastrous times ; it was otherwise at the present day.
The forest, one of their great bulwarks, had been cur-
tailed during successive generations, and much of the
moor country having been brought into cultivation,
towns and villages were built, and roads were made from
place to place. This opened a communication with the
thickly peopled parts of Gloucestershire, with such
counties also as lay contiguous : the quiet of the valleys
was therefore broken up, and the cities of Gloucester
and of Worcester, having taken active parts in the
stirring incidents of the time, bands of armed men
overspread the country. Thomas Tyndale, the fifth
in descent from the purchaser of Melksham Court, was
then residing on his patrimonial estate : he married a
lady on her mother's side, of the knightly family of
Poyntz of Iron Acton; but whether — for the mists of time

©ourt. 15

have settled again on the domestic incidents of the
family — whether his lady was deceased, or whether he
had sent her with their young son and four daughters to
a place of greater security, cannot be ascertained.
Certain it is, that seeing a band of armed men ad-
vancing to the house, he fled for shelter into the forest
which skirted his domain. The forest could afford but
little aid in his distress. It was otherwise when its
crowding trees extended further than the eye could
reach, now sinking into the deep, deep glens, whose
circling banks, if such they might be termed, rose far
above its topmost boughs; now ascending those high
banks, and spreading over the vale country, sinking and
rising with the undulations of hill and dale, and, when
the wind howled among the branches, appearing like the
tossing waves of a restless sea. This had been; but
cultivation trenched upon the good green wood ; spaces
were even cleared, and its tall trees, for all the under-
wood was gone, afforded a ready access to whoever liked
to invade its beautiful recesses. One hope for safety
remained to the fugitive, and one only. The yew-tree
stood in all its beauty and luxuriance, near to the
summit of Stinchcombe wood, for such the old forest was
now called, and thither he fled for shelter. He was
seen to leave the house by a band of soldiers, and they
hastened in pursuit of him. They thought that he
would make for the nearest glen, or else that he would
seek to hide himself in some sheltered nook among the

16

trees. Heaven, in its mercy, prevented them from
searching the old tree, whose intermingling branches
formed a close and impervious shelter. Yet they passed,
and repassed, beneath the shade, and their words were
hard to bear. They vowed to have no pity on him, nor
on his children, nor on anything that he possessed ; and
they said, " that if they could discover him in his retreat,
they would hew him small as herbs for a porridge-pot."
Being foiled in their search, they wreacked their ven-
geance on his mansion, and during his dolorous sojourn
of three days and nights in the tree, he saw the burning
of his once happy home, and heard at intervals the
voices of his pursuers, as they sought for him again,
among the glens, and through the secret passes of the
wood. We know not how, nor when the family were
reunited ; nor can I speak concerning the joys and
thankfulness with which they met, for the mists of time
rest on this also.

The yew-tree is still standing; around it are the re-
mains of the old forest, and beside it the wild common,
with its thyme and flowers among the grass. All else
has changed since the days when the noble ancestor of
him who fled for refuge to the ample branches of the
yew, first landed on the English coast. Neither is the
surrounding country such as it was, in the days of
Richard. The castles of Beverstone, of Brimsfield, and
Dursley, whose turrets were seen in ancient times from
the summits of the hill, are fallen to decay, and instead

J&dfegfjam (£ourt 17

of these, modern dwellings, with parks and gardens,
farms and cottages, overspread the country. The
cheerful farm-house, with its lofty rookery, and wide
arable, or ploughed fields, with low fences or gray
stone walls, are prominent features in the southern
portion of the landscape ; as also well-timbered villages,
occasional heaths, and tufted woods, or rather groves.
At the end of summer, the strong colours of the yellow
wheat and glaring poppy are finely contrasted with the
dark hue of the woods ; that hue which becomes deeper
and more sombre, till the night-dews have done their
work, and the autumnal winds begin to blow, and the
dark green leaves are suddenly invested with a splendid
variety of tints, from bright yellow to the deepest orpi-
ment.

On the verge of the old forest extend rural villages
and fertile meadows, high-aspiring elms, shallow brooks,
and wooden bridges, crowding cottages and green laijes,
with here and there a church-spire, or gray tower rising
among the trees. Gentle swells and hollows, where
sheep pasture on the green sward, are seen in another
portion of the landscape, with apple-orchards and small
enclosures; but along the banks of the Severn the
country assumes a different aspect. Its general charac-
teristics are breaks of lawn and thicket, with groves and
stunted pollards, all footed and entangled with briars
and creeping plants.

A dilapidated court-house, overrun with ivy, and

18 J&elfes&am <£ourt.

near it an aged church, may be seen by him who
knows their locality, from the summit of Stinchcombe
hill. The church is the waymark, for the walls of the
old court are low, and it is only when the wind favours
the sight of them, by causing the branches of near trees
to bend beneath its sway, that even the church-tower can
be discerned among the young green foliage of the
spring. The gardens of the once stately mansion are
gone to decay, or else, being overgrown with grass, are
fed upon by cattle; the windows were broken by the
fierceness of the flames when it was set on fire; and
though strong walls, still standing, tell of what has
been, not a trace remains of the great oriel window,
and the roof has long been gone. He who wishes
to trace the former extent of the building may just
discover the foundations in some parts ; but in others,
not even a few scattered stones, sunk deep in the
untrodden grass, would reveal that a mansion had stood
there.

Yet Nibley Court once occupied that spot; there a
happy family dwelt, and busy scenes went on — the
sports of childhood, and the daily incidents of domestic
life. There my ancestors resided. But all are gone,
and scarcely-discovered ruins, which, as regard all gran-
deur of appearance, might have belonged to a barn or
an out-house, alone remain.

The yew-tree still lives, but that also betokens the
lapse of time. Its once ample boughs are few; they

Jftelfegijam (£ourt, 19

yield no shelter now ; the blue sky may be seen through
them ; the stem also teaches that ages have passed away,
since it bore up a noble canopy of mingled boughs. A
rabbit from the warren on the common might run up
the scarred trunk, but it could not find a hiding-place
among the scattered branches.

" This was thy home then, gentle Jane,

This thy green solitude ; — and here
At evening, from thy gleaming pane,

Thine eye oft watch'd the dappled deer,
While the soft sun was in its wane,

Browsing beneath the brooklet clear ;
The brook runs still, the sun sets now,

The trees wave still ; but where art thou ? "

A rocky bank, with scattered sheep, are objects on which
the mind loves to rest. Such is the back-ground of
Bradgate ruin, the birth-place of the beautiful Jane
Grey, the illustrious and ill-fated scion of the house of
Suffolk, concerning whom it was related by one who had
seen and loved her, that even in her eighteenth year she
had the innocence of childhood, the beauty of youth, the
solidity of middle, and the gravity of old age ; the life of
a saint, and yet the death of a malefactor. On that
rocky bank she had often gazed, for though man passes
from his inheritance, and noble dwellings crumble to the
dust, nature changes not. Rude eminences extend

22 ftra&gate palace.

further back, on which the wild rose and sweet-briar
have long fixed themselves, with bramble-bushes, ferns,
and fox-glove; they are skirted by low and romantic
dingles, where sheep pasture, and butterflies sport from
one flower to another. He who approaches the old ruin,
from the little village of Cropston, can hardly picture to
himself that time has done its work in laying low the
ancient palace of the Greys. On the left, stands that
noble group of chesnut-trees, under the shade of which
little Jane used to play ; on the right extends a slate
coppice, intermingled with moss and flowers, in beautiful
contrast with the deep shade of the old chesnuts, the
roots of which are laved by the clear trout-stream,
on which stood a corn-mill in Leland's days; — "that
faire and plentiful springe of water, brought by master
Brok, as a man would judge, agayne the hille, thorough
the lodge, and thereby it dryveth the mylee." The mill
came into decay when the mansion was deserted, and no
one went thither for the grinding of his corn ; some of
the large stones fell into the stream, and interrupted for
a short space the rapid flowing of the water, and among
them grow the water-dock and bulrush, with large river-
weeds and trailing plants. Again it hurries on, dancing
from amid the roots and broken masses of huge stones,
clear and sparkling, and fringed with ferns and flowers,
the delight of Jane, when she used to watch beside it
with Elmer, that " deare friend and schoolmaster, who
taught her so gently and yet so pleasantly, that she

ftratigate palace, 23

thought the time as nothing, while she was with him."
This streamlet laves in its course the once hospitable
mansion of the Greys, and passes from thence into the
fertile meadows of Smithland. Beautiful too is the vale
of Newtown, lonely yet romantic, the favourite resort of
all who delight in the sylvan solitudes of nature — where,
as legends tell, Jane used to walk — with its hill and tower
in the distance, the nearest neighbours of Bradgate Palace,
now, like that, all roofless and deserted. What a contrast,
in its loneliness, to the busy tide of care, ever rolling on, in
the ancestral halls, the towns and villages, that vary the
mighty landscape, which extends before the elevated
solitude, with its aged ruin ! That ruin was dwelt in
once, not by the owl and bat, its sole tenants now, but
by living men and women, who held pleasant intercourse
with the inhabitants of Bradgate Palace ; with dwellers
too, in places, the sites of which, grass has long grown
over, or which the antiquary can hardly trace. Woods
and fields and streamlets are seen from the same high
hill; wide commons and quiet valleys, with dells and
dingles ; and above them extends the glorious dome of
heaven, where light summer-clouds are speeding, and
the bright sun looks down on the lovely scene beneath.

Back to my old ruin — for high hills, and far off scenes,
are not the objects of my search. Back to my old ruin,
which stands alone in its desolation, while all around is
verdurous and joyful. Full shining on it, are the warm
beams of a summer sun, and soft breezes shake the tufts

24 3$ratigatc palace.

of ferns and wallflowers that spring from out the cran-
nies, the rents of ruin, which time has made in the old
walls. Butterflies shut and open their gorgeous wings
on the golden disk of that hright flower, which loves to
fling its friendly mantle over fallen greatness, and now
carpets with luxuriant vegetation the broken pavement,
through the interstices of which its broad leaves rise up.
Birds are singing on the trees, and bees come humming
to gather pollen from the flowers of the noble chesnuts
that droop in all their beauty and luxuriance over the
old ruins. Those who have long ceased from among the
living used to gaze on them, and gather their beautiful
tufts of pyramidical white flowers with which to adorn
the open spaces in the oriel window. They grew here
far back as the reign of Edward, when the great park of
Bradgate, with its circumference of seven miles, came
into the possession of the Earl of Ferrars, for the chesnut
is a tree of long duration, and the stately group is be-
ginning to decline. Little now remains of the once
princely mansion, the palace, large and fair and beau-
tiful, as wrote the historian Fuller. The walls are low
and roofless, broken and dismantled, and scarcely is it
possible to point out the different apartments that once
resounded with cheerful voices. All is still and lonely
now; the tilt-yard is nearly perfect, but none are playing
there; the garden-walls, with their broad terrace- walks,
remain entire, but none are walking there; gray and
yellow lichens, with tufts of moss, dot over the old

33ratigate palace. 25

stones, and so wild and high has grown the grass, that it
looks as if no one had trodden there for ages. A noble
pleasure-ground formerly extended round the mansion,
and beyond it was the spacious park, where the duke and
duchess, the parents of Lady Jane, with all the house-
hold, gentlemen and gentlewomen, used to hunt. Traces
of walks and alleys, and broad spaces for exercise or
pleasure are still visible, though generations have passed
away since the members of the house of Groby sauntered
among them, and the place has much the appearance of
a wilderness ; yet the aspect is not that of total wildness,
of a spot where the hand of man has never been ; indi-
cations everywhere present themselves, that where the
nettle, and the dandelion, with its golden petals and
sphere of down, reign undisturbed, the rose and lily
once grew luxuriantly. The house too, how desolate
and changed ! The earls of Leicester, of Hinton, and of
Ferrars presided here; then came Sir Edward Grey,
Lord Ferrars of Groby, and then the Earl of Hunting-
don. Here also resided the Marquis of Dorset, the
son-in-law of him who wedded the Dowager Queen of
France, Charles Brandon, "cloths of gold and freize,"
as sung the courtly poet, when contrasting his own con-
dition with that of the widowed queen.

" Cloth of freize, be not too bold,
Though thou art matched with cloth of gold ;
Cloth of gold, do not despise,
Though thou art matched with cloth of frieze."

26 23rat>gat* palace.

Tradition points through the dim vista of long ages
to a broken tower, as the one where Lady Jane resided,
and which bears her name. Beside it is a chapel,
wherein are effigies of Lord Grey of Groby, and the
Lady Grey, his wife. The chapel is carefully preserved,
but all else are in ruins : — the tower, the great hall, the
state apartment, the refectory, the tennis-court, nothing
remains of them but lichen-tinted walls, or ruins black
with smoke. Here then, amid lone ruins and green
trees, beside the streamlet's rush and the old grove of
chesnuts, where the lavrock and the titlark, the gold-
finch and the thrush are singing, with no companions
but rejoicing birds and flowers, let me recall the mourn-
ful realities of bygone days.

" Here, in departed days, the gentle maid,

The lovely and the good, with infant glee,
Along the margin of the streamlet play'd,

Or gathered wild flowers 'neath each mossy tree ;
And little recked what cares were her's to be,

While listening to the skylark's soaring lay,
Or merry grasshopper that carolled free,

In verdant haunts, throughout the livelong day,

That beauteous child, as blithe, as sorrowless as they.

" And here, where sighs the summer breeze among

These echoing halls, deserted now and bare,
Oft o'er some tome of ancient lore she hung, —

No student ever since so wondrous fair !
Or lifted up her soul to God in prayer,

And pondered on his verse, of price untold,
Radiant with wisdom's gems beyond compare,

Richer than richest mines of purest gold, —

The star that guides our steps safe to the Saviour's fold.

27

" To fancy's wizard gaze, fleet o'er yon height,
Hunters and hounds tumultuous sweep along ;

And many a lovely dame and youthful knight
Gaily commingle with the stalwarth throng

Of valiant nobles, famed in olden song ;
But not amid them, as they rapid ride,

Is that meek damsel— trained by grievous wrong
Of haughty parents to abase her pride,
Ere yet her lot it was to be more sternly tried.

4 Here from her casement, as she cast a look,

Oft might she mourn their reckless sport to scan ;
And well rejoice to find, in classic book,

Solace, — withdrawn from all that pleasure can
Impart to rude and riot-loving man :

Aye, and when at the banquet, revels ran
To loud extreme, she here was wont to haste,

And marvel at Creation's mighty plan ;
Or with old bards and sages pleasure taste,
Unknown to Folly's crowd, whose days all run to waste
" And thus it was — the child of solitude,

She grew apart, beneath that Father's eye
Who careth for the wild-birds' nestling brood,

And decks the flow'ret with its varied dye ;

Nor, in His presence, had she cause to sigh
For the vain pageants of delusive mirth ;

Trained to uplift her soul, in musing high,
From this dark vale of wretchedness and dearth,
Aloft, above the stars, where angels have their birth.
" Well had she need ! a scaffold was the path

To that abode her soul had often sought ;
Scarce crowned before the stormiest clouds of wrath

Rolled o'er her head, with scathing ruin fraught.

Alas, for human greatness ! it is nought !
And nought she found it, save a deadly snare,

Enchantment, by the evil genii wrought,
Whose diadems conceal the brow of care ;
Whose tissued robes display a lustre false, as fair.

c 2

28 ftratigatc palace.

" Beautiful martyr ! widowed by the hand

That reft thee of thy life, ere yet 'twas thine ;
Thy grave to find beneath a guilty land,

Thou hast no need of gilded niche or shrine !

Fond recollections round thy memory twine —
A sacred halo circles thy brief years ;

'Tis thine, redeemed from sin and death, to shine
Eternally above this world of fears :
Where Christ himself, thy King, hath wiped away all tears.

" Farewell, thou mouldering relic of the past !

An hour unmeetly was not spent with thee :
Events as rapid as the autumn's blast

Have hurried onward, since 'twas thine to see

The fairest flower of England pensively
Expand and blossom 'neath thy rugged shade ;

And here thou stand'st, while circling seasons flee,
A monumental pile of that sweet maid,
Whom men of cruel hands within the charnel laid."

The Author of the Visions of Solitude.

" Survivor sole, and hardly such, of all
That once lived here, thy brethren :
A shatter'd veteran, hollow trunk'd,
And with excoriate forks deformed —
Relic of ages."

SUCH is the Oak of Chertsey, that celebrated tree, over
which the storms of many centuries have passed. The
sunny bank on which it grows is covered with primroses
and cowslips, and among them the little pimpernel and
violet lift up their modest heads. Tufts of eyebright,
with cuckoo-flowers and sweet woodroof, grow also, beside
the hollies and stunted hawthorns, which are seen upon
the common ; their fragrant flowers and green leaves pre-
sent a striking contrast to the time-worn tree ; the one
tells of other days, of ages that have passed since its stately
stem arose in all the grandeur of sylvan majesty; the
other, in their freshness and their loveliness, breathe only
of youth and beauty.

The view is somewhat confined, but the eye that likes
rest on a quiet home-scene finds much in it to admire.

32 (Slentiour'g ©afe.

An ample river winds through green meadows, with trees
on either side, and, in the distance, is a church with its
solitary turret, and rude porch of the olden time. The
gentle murmur of a stream is heard at intervals, and the
sighing of the wind among the branches of the aged oak ;
on high the lark lifts up his song of joy, and the warbling
of birds breaks upon the stillness of the place ; that of the
chaffinch and the throstle, the goldfinch and the linnet,
and the sweet full tone of the contented blackbird. They
much affect this spot, it is so lone, yet cheerful.

Time was when the site of the old tree resounded with
the clang of arms, and rueful sights were seen from its
topmost boughs, for the Oak of Chertsey was then in its
prime; the now rough and quarried bark was smooth and
glossy, and its ample branches sheltered an extensive
space, where sheep could lie down at noon.

A dreadful battle was fought between Henry IV. and
Hotspur a short way off, and scarcely had any battle
occurred in those ages of which the shock was more
terrible. Furious and repeated vollies of " arrowy sleet,"
discharged from the strong bows of Hotspur's archers,
did great execution in the royal army ; they were showered
from a rising ground covered with green sward, on which
the shepherds loved to pasture their flocks, and where the
village children used to gather cowslips and yellow-cups.
But the flocks had been driven off, and the frightened
children were in their homes ; the rising ground was no
place for them. The arrows that were thus furiously

®lenfcour'$ ©afe. 33

discharged did their work, and many fell ; the king's bow-
men were not wanting in return, and the battle raged
with great fury. Henry was in the thickest of the fight,
and his gallant son, who afterwards carried misery and
desolation throughout the fields of France, signalized
himself that day. Percy, too, supported the fame which
he had earned in many a hard-fought battle, and
Douglas, his ancient enemy, though now his friend, still
appeared his rival, amid the horror and confusion of the
scene. He raged through the field in search of the king,
and as Henry, either to elude the vigilance of the enemy,
or to encourage his own men by the belief of his presence
everywhere, had accoutred several captains in the royal
garb, the sword of Douglas rendered this honour fatal
to many. At length the standard of the king, fluttering
high in air, recalled Douglas to the spot, and little heed-
ing the flight of arrows, which rattled on his armour like
hail, nor yet the chosen band who were appointed to
guard the banner, he and his associate Hotspur pierced
their way thither. Henry was thrice unhorsed, and would
have been either taken or slain, had not his men kept
back, with desperate valour, the furious onset of the
assailants, while the Earl of March forced him from the
scene of danger. Yet still they sought him, and having
beaten down his banner, and slain its bearer, with many
of the faithful band appointed to guard the royal flag, vic-
tory began to swerve in favour of the rebel army. But in one
moment a loud voice sounded far and wide over the dread -

c 5

34 (SlenlKwr's ©afe,

ful scene. It proclaimed, " Hotspur is dead," and with
this thrilling cry ended the conflict of the day. Douglas,
was taken prisoner, and there fell, on either side,
near two thousand three hundred gentlemen, beside six
thousand private men.

Owen Glendour heard the shout which proclaimed that
his friend had fallen, for he witnessed the battle from the
top of the lofty oak. He had marched with a large
army to within a mile of Shrewsbury, and if the king had
not proceeded thither with great haste, he would have
joined his friend Hotspur. A broad and rapid river lay
in front, and he pressed on to cross, if possible, before
the beaming helmets, which he saw advancing rapidly
over the plain country, could reach the town. But a
heavy rain had fallen, and the water was exceedingly
high ; the ford at Shelton was, in consequence, impassable,
and the bridge at Shrewsbury was strongly guarded.
Owen Glendour therefore halted. He saw with grief
the forces of Hotspur drawn up in order of battle imme-
diately before him, for he knew that he could lend no
assistance, and, when the next morning dawned, the
armies had joined fight.

Owen Glendour then climbed the large oak ; of which
the topmost branches afforded a full view of the battle-field
and the surrounding country. He saw from thence the
furious onset, and heard the shock of battle ; horses and
men contending, and the dreadful shouts which, rever-
berating from the hollows of the hills, sounded like dis-

<®afe. 35

tant thunder ; he heard, too, the one loud voice which
told that his friend had fallen.

Owen Glendour returned to his castle in the Vale of
Glyndwrdwey : it was situated amid the wildest and the
sternest scenery, beside the torrent's roar, and surrounded
with all the magnificence of rock and fell. There did he
soon assemble to his standard those ardent spirits who
preferred death to slavery, and who vowed that the blue
hills and the pleasant valleys of their fathers' land should
never be subjected to the yoke of a usurper. Daring
adventures, and strange escapes by flood and field, marked
his onward course. The English regarded him with
superstitious dread ; the Welch looked to him as one
possessed of more than mortal power ; and thus during
fifteen years did he resist the aggressions of a monarch,
whose prowess had long been known, the efforts too of a
chivalrous nobility, and a martial people.

Yet Glendour was not designed by nature for a life of
daring hardihood and of murderous intent. He was
amiable and beloved in private life, and, his parents hav-
ing designed him for the bar, he was qualifying himself
as an able lawyer, when intelligence was brought that
Henry IV. had granted a large portion of his paternal
acres to Lord Grey of Rhuthin, that treacherous noble-
man who had long sought to prejudice the king against
him. Owen Glendour closed the book that lay before
him ; he declared that a descendant of the Princes of
Powys was not to be so treated ; and having drawn his

36

sword from out the scabbard, he sheathed it not again
while life remained. A fierce battle, on the banks of the
Evyrnwy, made Lord Grey his prisoner, and the pay-
ment of a thousand marks, with the marriage of his
daughter to that nobleman, alone obtained for him his
liberty.

It was noted that disasters of various kinds attended
the expeditions of King Henry into Wales. The natives
of the country attributed them to the magic powers of
Owen Glendour, whom they believed able to control the
elements, and who, when his men grew faint and weary,
and he himself wished for a short respite from the toils of
war, could pour upon the bands of Henry the fury of the
northern storm. It was said that he could loose the
secret springs of the wild cataract, and cause it to send
forth such a flood of water, that the moors and valleys,
through which the invader had to pass, would seem like
an inland sea. Some believed that he could even summon
the loud thunders from their secret cell, and cause the
forked lightning to strike terror into the stoutest heart;
that in one moment he could not only bring to his
assistance a wild storm from off the hills, but that, when
the beautiful glens and woods appeared in all their loveli-
ness and repose, and every hill was lighted up with a
glorious sunbeam, he could suddenly obscure them with
the darkest shades of night. Thus men thought ; they
saw not, in the strange and terrible calamities which con-
tinually opposed the progress of King Henry, a continua-

'ji ©afe, 37

tion of events which had attended him since the death of
Richard. Richard had been the friend and benefactor of
Glendour ; he had fought for him while living, and now that
he was gone, he sought not only to revenge his death, but
to preserve his native land from the usurpations of a
foreign yoke. He performed, in consequence, such feats
of valour, bore up beneath the pressure of such heavy
trials, and devised such masterly schemes to circumvent
the devices of the enemy, as his countrymen believed
could neither be planned nor achieved by mortal mind
or arm. They knew not the strength and the enthusiasm
which injury and oppression will produce in either.
Excited, therefore, to the highest pitch of feeling, Owen
inspired his men with much of his own energy : aided by
them, he foiled the power of the wary and martial Henry,
and drove him ignominiously from the field. At the
head of his choicest armies, the English king had often
to retreat before a handful of men, whose chief had been
unused to a military life ; and though Glendour and his
adherents were reduced at times to take shelter in caves
and fastnesses, known only to themselves, they emerged
again, and fell with terrible fury on the English, in
moments, too, when they thought themselves most secure
from their aggressions.

Had Glendour lived in peaceful times, he would have
been a poet of no ordinary rank. The bard Rhys Coch,
was his cotemporary and chosen associate in his
days of woes and wanderings. A stone still remains

38 ^lentiour's ©afe.

near Bethgellert, where the bard used to sit and pour
forth the melody of his harp to his own inspiring lays.
There, tradition says, Glendour would sit beside him in
that beloved retreat, where around them was all the stern
majesty of nature, in her darkest, her loneliest, her love-
liest moods. The rapid Gwinan prattled near them
over her rocky bed, laving on one side green meadows,
filled with cowslips and cuckoo-flowers, where cattle feed,
and skirted with groves of oak, and ash, and birch ; on the
other, its bright waters race beside a wild and heathy
tract of moorland, which slopes upward to the very base
of Snowdon, that king of mountains, whose awful brow
is often hidden in the clouds.

The bard, too, had suffered much, and had fled from
cave to cave, and from hill to hill, pursued by the
English forces, who sought to still those bold and pathetic
strains — those deep laments, which aroused his country-
men to fresh deeds of valour against their oppressors.
His enemies were not permitted to accomplish their
designs. He continually eluded their pursuit, and died
at length in peace, amid his beloved haunts of Beth-
gellert.

Here then stands the ancient tree, though reft of its
former greatness. More than four hundred years have
elapsed since Owen Glendour climbed its lofty trunk,
and surveyed the battle-field of Tewksbury ; since his
bannered hosts were stationed round, and he heard the
shout which told him that his friend had fallen.

Glcntiour'g ©afe. 39

From this tree., also, might be heard, in ancient times,
the sound of the workman's hammer, for King Henry
appointed that a chapel should be built, and two priests
placed within it, to pray both morning and evening for
the souls of those who had been slain. Rapidly the
chapel rose, for men thought that they did good service
to their Maker when they wrought in such holy work j
and the chapel, being enlarged in after years, became a
handsome parish church. The condition of the time-worn
tree, and of the church are somewhat similar. The tree
is grown so hollow that it seems to stand on little more
than a circle of bark, yet life still lingers, green leaves
appear in the spring season, and acorns are gathered from
its branches in the autumn. Great part of the once
stately building has likewise fallen to decay ; ivy grows
luxuriantly over the broken walls, and sparrows build their
nests among the matted branches ; but Divine worship is to
this day still carried on in the part that remains entire.
The country people and neighbouring gentry meet there ;
they bear the name of Englishmen, though blending in
themselves varied and dissimilar races — the ancient Briton
and the Roman, the Dane, the Saxon, and the Norman.
But how widely different in their habits and their manners
from those who assisted in building the ancient chapel,
and those who assembled within its walls when the chapel
was completed !

I

of

" Worthy indeed of note
Are those fraternal yews of lone Skelldale,
Joined in one solemn and capacious grove ;
Huge trunks ! and each particular trunk a growth
Of intertwisted fibres serpentine,
Nor uninformed with phantasy, and looks
That threaten the profane ; a pillared shade,
Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue,
By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged
Perennially, beneath whose sable roof
Of boughs, as if for festal purpose decked
With unrejoicing berries, ghostly shapes
May meet at noon-tide : Fear and trembling hope,
Silence and foresight— death the skeleton,
And time the shadow — there to celebrate,
As in a natural temple, scatter'd o'er
With altars undisturb'd of mossy stone,
United worship ; or in mute repose
To lie and listen to the mountain stream."

WORDSWORTH.

THE busy hum of men has long ceased from the spot
where stand the fraternal yew-trees. Ages have passed
away since the illuminator sat intent on his pleasant
labours in the ruin hard by — since he put aside his liquid

44 fcjK ¥cfo=Emj$ o

gold and Tyrian purple, and laid him down to rest in the
burying-place beside the abbey. The copier of manu-
scripts closed his book there, more than five hundred years
ago ; he, too, is gone, and with him all those who lived
while he was living. The abbot, who presided in regal
state ; the brotherhood, in their cowls and gowns ; learned
men, who studied in their quiet cells, and the busy
comers and goers, who worked either in the abbey-fields,
or performed such menial labours as the condition of the
place required — not a trace of them remains : even the
stately monastery is in ruins, but the yew-trees still cast
the shadow of their noble branches on the grassless floor
of red-brown hue. Their history is inseparably connected
with that of the ruined abbey, for they stood in their
present site, and afforded a shelter to its founders, long
before one stone was laid upon another of the stately
building. Those who passed in the days of the Saxon
king, Ethelbald, through the Wolds of Yorkshire, near
Skelldale, in their way to Ripon, might see a company of
men assembled in a wild and romantic spot, watered by
a rivulet, and surrounded with rocks and woods. These
men were monks, who, desiring to imitate the extraordi-
nary sanctity of the Cistercian abbey of Rieval, had with-
drawn from their own monastery of St Mary's at
York, and being sanctioned in their preference by the
archbishop, they retired to this desolate and uncultivated
spot. They had no house to shelter them, nor certainty
of provisions to subsist on ; but, in the depth of the lone

45

valley, stood an aged elm, among the ample branches of
which they erected a straw roof, and this was their only
shelter for some time. But at length the rain fell fast,
and the wind rose high, and they were constrained to
quit the shelter of the elm for that of seven stately yew-
trees, which grew on the south side of the valley, where
a splendid abbey afterwards arose. These trees were of
extraordinary size, for the trunk of one of them measured
twenty-six feet in circumference, at the height of three
feet above the root. Neither history nor tradition have
preserved the knowledge of that period when they first
arose from out the ground. Ages may have passed
since, and countries rose and waned. The yew-trees of
Skelldale may have continued growing even from the
brilliant periods of Thebes and Memphis, when Phoenician
barks traded to the Isle of Tin, and all around them was
one wild impenetrable forest. But the yew-trees were
now in their prime, and beneath them the monks took
shelter by night and by day, from the rain and snow,
and the cold east wind, that swept moaning through the
valley. Thus they lived, drinking at the stream when
thirsty, and allaying their hunger with the bread which
their archbishop sent them from time to time. When
the snow melted from the branches of the sheltering
trees, and the cold east wind was still — when the delicate
yellow blossoms of the yew varied its dark funereal
branches, and bees came humming to gather in the
pollen, they cleared a small spot of ground to serve them

46 EfK ¥cfo=Em0 of

as a garden, and built a wooden chapel. Thus they
passed the first winter, and their piety was noised abroad.
Many repaired to them from distant parts, some for in-
struction, others to join the fraternity ; and as their num-
bers increased, their privations increased also. They
were often reduced to the necessity of eating the leaves
of trees and wild herbs ; but their fortitude did not fail
them, and one day when their stock of provisions con-
sisted of merely two loaves and a half, a passing stranger
asked for a morsel of bread. " Give him a loaf," said
the abbot ; " the Lord will provide." The hope thus
piously expressed, was soon fulfilled, and a cart piled
with bread was seen coming down the rocky pathway, a
present from Eustace Fitz-John, owner of the neigh-
bouring castle of Knaresborough.

Time passed on, and none who witnessed the privations
which the monks of Skelldale endured, could have pictured
to themselves the future greatness of their monastery.
Meanwhile, the garden flourished, and fields were added to
those which they began to cultivate, till at length, wrote one
of the secluses, " We have bread and cheese, butter and
ale, and in time we shall have beef and mutton." He
lamented that the soil was too poor for the growth of
vines ; but he added, " that the garden was well supplied
with pot-herbs." Of these he gave no particular descrip-
tion, but we may presume that they consisted of colewort
and onions, of peas and beans, of spinach, and radishes
with a vegetable called feret, most probably carrot, or

of &feeUftale. 47

perhaps beet, and a variety of sweet-herbs, for such were
in use among the Saxons. At length the privations of
the monks of Skelldale ceased, as also the necessity for
labour. Hugh, Dean of York, bequeathed to them his
wealth, and benefactions having poured in successively,
from different quarters, the abbey became exceedingly
rich in land and cattle, with plate and costly vestments.
A wild and beautiful spot was also bestowed on Fountains
Abbey by the Percy family ; this was Walham Cove,
situated among the hilly and mountainous tracts of the
West- Riding of Yorkshire. It was included in lands
belonging to the manor of Walham, and possessed a
valuable right of fishing in the ample stream that flowed
from out an immense and perpendicular crag of lime-
stone, more than three hundred feet in height, that
stretched across the valley like a magnificent screen.
Thither the monks of Fountains Abbey used to repair ;
thither, too, many of those recluses, who wearied with
fights and forage in foreign lands, sought for rest within
the abbey walls, loved to muse and moralize upon the
passing waters. But they learned not wisdom from them,
nor read in things inanimate, lessons that might have
taught them to retain the habits of their predecessors.
Most of those devoted men, who had sought to worship
their Creator in privacy and stillness, were laid down to
rest. They had laboured with their hands while living,
and thankfully saw the blessings which they sought,
spring from out the earth they cultivated; those who

48 ^c f?*fo.STm$ of

filled their places were not actuated by the same
necessity, and hence the passer-by no longer beheld a
humble cloister, with its garden and low fence, but
instead of this a stately building, the Abbey of the
Fountain, as it was called in reference to the stream that
flowed beside it, fresh and untroubled as when the
monks of St. Mary's first sought the precincts of the
dale. There were many in after years who desired that
their mortal remains might be deposited beneath the abbey
walls, and for this purpose they devised large sums of
money : — some who had been in the deathful career of
storm and siege, and those, the flowers of chivalry, who
had won the prize at tilts and tournaments ; when armed
knight met knight, and high-born ladies gazed on and
awarded the victor's meed. Rest they had not found on
earth, amid the stunning tide of crime and human care, and
they wished that bells might toll for them, and prayers
be said for them, beside the rushing waters of the Skill.
The mental eye, back glancing, through the vista of long
ages, sees at intervals successive funerals slowly pro-
ceeding through the abbey gates. Warriors of the noble

house of Percy borne there. Lord Rieland, one of the

<*•... .v/t
twenty guardians of the Magna Charta, he' who sustained

the shock of arms and cheered on his vassals in the
Barons' wars. He too, Lord Henry de Percy, another
member of that ancient race, who followed in after years
the banner of King Edward into Scotland, was borne by
his tall yeomen to that still and narrow bed which

of

49

receives alike the prince and peasant. Others also
followed, great in their day, and filled while living with
busy schemes, hut of whom, as years were added, scarcely
a trace remained. — Where knees bent in prayer, and the
white-robed priest chanted the high requiem, a broken
stone figure, recumbent on a lichen-dotted stone, points
out a warrior's resting-place ; and perchance a mound
thrown up, with broken slabs of richly-sculptured marble,
indicate that some one who had figured greatly in past
ages lay there ; again, a broken crosier, or a pilgrim's
staff, tell of years spent in wanderings, and in prayer.

--^.

" I mark'd a broad and blasted oak,

Scorched by the lightning's livid glare,
Hollow its stem from, branch to branch,

And all its shrivell'd arms were bare.
E'en to this day, the peasant still,

"With cautious fear, avoids the ground ;
In each wild branch a spectre sees,

And trembles at each rising sound."

How beautiful is this wild spot, with its accompa-
niments of lawn and thicket, with its clear stream, now
prattling over a rocky bed, and now dancing in playful
eddies beside the tufts of grass and yellow flowers, that
skirt the margin of the water ! Innumerable boughs
shut out the distant prospect, and neither a church-spire,
nor curling smoke, ascending from some lone cottage,
betoken the abode of men. In the midst of this fair
spot stands a " caverned, huge, and thunder-blasted
oak;" its dry branches are white with age, the bark has
long since fallen from them, and most impressive is the
contrast which it presents to the lightness and the freshness
of the young green trees among which it stands, as

D2

52 l^otoel &d*'* ©afe

among them, though not of them. Beyond their ver-
durous circle are a variety of romantic dingles, covered
with blackberry-bushes, with moss, and ivy. Gigantic
trees fling the shadow of their noble branches over the
green sward, and the spaces between them are filled, here,
and there, with an exuberant growth of underwood.
The music of almost every feathered songster that
frequents the woods of England is heard 'in this wild
spot ; but except the buzzing of flies that rise in crowds
from the copses, and the pleasant rippling of the stream,
no other sound meets the ear.

The old tree with its bleached and skeleton arms has
a fearful name, and stout of heart must the man be who
would pass within sight of it when the sun is set behind
the hill, and the trees cast their lengthened shadows on
the grass. It is called the ' haunted oak,' the ' spirit's
blasted tree,' or the ' hobgoblin's hollow tree,' and dismal
is the tale to which the name refers.

Howel Sele, whose sad history is associated with this
blasted oak, was lord of the wide domain which extends
around it for many miles. We know not whether his
heart was secretly inclined to espouse the faction of
Henry IV., or whether he loved a life of ease, and
preferred to dwell in his castle-hall, hoping that the
storm which threatened to overwhelm his country might
pass away. Certain it is that Owen Glendour thought
not well of him, and perhaps with reason. He came
not forth to assist in delivering his country from the

ftotoel &elc'* ©afe. 53

aggressions of a foreign enemy ; some even said that he
had been induced to desert her cause, and that he only
waited for an opportunity to avow himself. Others,
whispered, that he looked with a jealous eye on the
generous Glendour ; and that he feared not to speak of
him as the sole leader of a desperate faction, who, if
deprived of their head, had no other hope.

Glendour ' knew that such evil rumours were abroad,
and it seemed as if he wished to set his kinsman at
defiance ; for having taken with him his chosen companion
Madog, he set forth to drive the red deer from the
forest brake, in the domains of the unbending lord of
Nannau. But the lord of Nannau could not brook that
his red deer should be thus vexed and driven, and when
one of these noble animals crossed his path, closely pur-
sued by the fiery Glendour with hound and horn, he
rushed from the forest and summoned his cousin to
single combat. It was a fatal one for Howel ; he fell
on the green sward, in the very place where all is now so
verdurous and joyful, and his corpse was dragged by his
enraged kinsman beneath the tree, whose bare and
sapless branches and high top, bald with dry antiquity,
whose gnarled and rugged trunk, and large projecting
roots are almost fearful in their decay.

The tree was hollow at that time, and the companion
of Glendour having, with his assistance, lifted the corpse
of the unhappy chieftain from off the ground, dropped it
within the oak. This was a ruthless deed, but the

54 ?^otod Dele's ©alt,

natural gentleness of Owen Glendour had been perverted
by the scenes in which he mingled, and by the oppres-
sion that was exercised towards him. He saw only, in
the husband and the father who had fallen by his hand,
one, who, if he favoured not the cause of the usurper,
was yet indifferent to the welfare of his country. He,
therefore, sought not for him Christian burial, in con-
secrated ground.

Glendour could no longer tarry in the domains of the
murdered chieftain, for he knew how greatly Howel was
beloved, and that when the hour of his return was
passed, every glen and forest-path would be sought for
him. Calling to his companion, he hastened back to
his stronghold, Glyndwrdry, where, amid rocks and
waterfalls, and the howling of fierce winds, he passed a
few more unquiet years. The wretched day which
caused him to become a murderer, and deprived Nannau
of her lord, was one of anxiety and grief. Far and
wide did his vassals haste, now down the glen, now in
the depth of the still forest, now scouring over the wide
moor, and now making every rock resound with his
name. But in vain did they hurry along the forest
paths, or dash amid the torrent's roar, or scour over the
wide moor, echo alone answered to their loud shouts.
In vain did the sorrowing wife of Howel look out
through the gloom of evening, and listen for his foot-
steps ; and when the moon shone bright, and louder
sounded the wild torrent, and the whoop of the owl was

footed 5kle'<$ 0afe. 55

heard, did she pace her lonely chamber and strain her
sight through the gathered mist, to see if he was
coming.

The next day, and the next, did the vassals of Nannau
renew their search. Again every glen was visited, and
every forest-walk was traced and retraced ; the base, too,
of every hill was carefully examined, lest the chieftain
should have fallen from some height, which the creeping
bramble and thickly-tangled underwood had concealed.
But no trace of Howel was discovered.

Thus one year succeeded to another, and no tidings
of the chieftain were received, till at length an armed
horseman was seen to urge his weary steed up the hill
that leads to Nannau, from the neighbouring town of
Dolgelly. The rain fell fast, and the wind blew a
perfect hurricane, but he seemed not to heed either the
one or the other, or to spare the horse on which he
rode. The vassals hastened to the castle-gate, and the
lady looked anxiously from the window. Perhaps a
faint hope flashed across her mind that the Lord of
Nannau was returning. But it was not him, although
the stranger brought tidings where he might be found.
He told the lady that the enemy of her house was dead ;
that he in dying, had conjured him to bring to her ear
tidings of her husband, and to make known the dreadful
mystery of his sudden disappearance. He then told
his tale ; for it was Madoc, who came thus late, and he
referred to the blasted oak in confirmation of the truth.

•56 l^otoel

The vassals of Nannau hurried thither, and with them
went Madoc, but he could not bear to see the bringing
forth of him, whom he had helped to sepulchre within its
trunk ; he shrunk from witnessing the awful sight that
was about to be revealed, and plunging into the forest
was soon on the road to Dolgelly. The evening was
far advanced when Madoc reached the castle, and now
the night had closed in. The vassals worked by torch-
light, for such was the lady's command, and their own
eagerness confirmed it. Their strokes fell heavy on the
trunk of the tree, which sounded hollow, and somewhat
of a rattling was heard within, as if of iron and of bones.
Some feared to continue, and truly it was solemn work,
for the night was dark, and the wind exceeding loud,
and the tree stood forth in its sepulchral whiteness, with
its long skeleton-looking and bleached arms, which the
lightning had riven. A few strokes more, and the horrid
mystery was revealed. There stood the skeleton of
Howell ; his right hand grasped a rusty sword, and those
who saw it, well remembered that it had often been
wielded by their chieftain.

-=-**»

Oh! 'tis a strange unearthly sound,

When loud the raging wind rides round

This ruined home of other days ;

The warrior's hoast, the minstrel's praise !

For now the stately pile is low,

And rank the grass and nettles grow,

Where princes sat in regal state,

And bold retainers past the gate. —

The strong old gate, all broken now,

Twin'd with the ivy's matted bough. — M. R.

SUCH is Winfield castle; and its noble oak, the old
oak which bears its name, stands within sight of the
long suite of rooms where Mary Stuart passed nine
years of her sad captivity ; for even nine years, however
passed, teaches many a heavy lesson. Much of grief
and sorrow, and those strange reverses which only
the great may feel in all their fulness and their bit-
terness, had been comprised in the short life of this un-
happy princess, once the Queen of France, then of
Scotland, but at length a prisoner, when she passed
beneath the portcullis of Winfield castle. Other tales

D 5

58 <aueen J&arg'g

of sorrow and endurance, but none more pitiable., were
connected with this old castle : its early history is lost in
the uncertainty of ages ; no one knows who built it, or
why it stands in this wild spot, whether its origin be
Saxon or Danish ; except that its first and oldest name
was given in commemoration of some forgotten vic-
tory. Peverel of the Peak, erected the high tower, with
a portion of the walls, and successive chieftains added
to the structure, till at length the castle came to be
much spoken of for its size and strength. Peverel's
tower still remains, with a part of the old building, but
that portion of it which more than any other awakens
images of bygone days, are the rooms of state, with a
small tower on the wall, where the captive queen re-
sided; tradition says that she used to spend much of her
time in summer on the roof of the tower, watching for
signals from Leonard Dacre, who made many attempts
to procure her liberation, either by force or stratagem.
But the vigilance of the Earl of Shrewsbury was not
readily eluded ; and for nine long years did Mary inhabit
this stern fortress, and watch from her high tower for
succour that never came.

Ruins are best seen in wintry weather, when storms and
thunder are abroad, and the woods are bare of leaves.
Such was the fourteenth of October, when some years
back, the narrator, saw for the first time, that dila-
pidated portion of Winfield castle. The rain had been
exceeding heavy in the night, and the wind blew a per-

ri

(Sliucn |&ar'0 2Foto?r. 59

feet hurricane, making the tall trees groan and sway,
beneath its fury, and driving the autumn leaves in shoals
upon the ground. But the rain had ceased, and the loud
wind was still, except when it came in gusts, moaning
over the wide heath, and around the ancient castle, with
that wailing sound which is heard only in places where
men have dwelt, as if singing the wild requiem of departed
greatness. The skirt of the heavy storm-cloud was seen
retreating in the west, with its grey windy banners ; while,
on high, rolling masses of dark clouds were following
swiftly, as if they feared to be left behind. Now they
were no more seen ; clouds, of a still somewhat stormy
character, succeeded them, hurrying across the heavens,
and changing as they passed, at one moment dark and
threatening, at another light and fleecy; while at intervals
the blue sky appeared, and the sun broke forth gloriously,
causing the earth to look as if it smiled from some inter-
nal consciousness of delight.

The view from the old tree accorded well with the
stonny aspect of the heavens on that day. Full in front
rises the stately keep, with its broken battlements and
rusted portcullis, its strong iron-bossed oaken door, rusted
also on its hinges, brown and broken, with large spaces,
showing the desolate and grass-grown area within. To
the right of the keep extends a high wall, flanked with a
round tower, and then a long sweep of wall, without win-
dows, separated by a strong jutting out from another wall,
wherein are the state apartments which Mary occupied.

60 <auccn J&arg'g

Here stands the tower which bears her name, and from
amid a mass of ruins at the base springs up a beautiful
ash, which rises to the highest story, and waves before her
window. Well might that tree be called Mary's Ash, for
the ash is the Venus of the forest, the most graceful of
all trees, and she was the loveliest of her kind. It seems
to grow there, a living thing, where all else tells of death
and ruin ; a beautiful and appropriate memorial of one
who was the fairest among women, in the days of her
sojourning. Unlike the oak of Winfield, which stands
in its strength, rugged and embossed, with upheaved
roots and strong boughs, fitted to resist the storms of ages ;
standing, perhaps, when Peverel of the Peak, leaving his
stronghold on the summit of the castle-rock, raised here
his tower in a fairer spot, deep forested, with green fields,
and ample hunting grounds. When, too, successive
chieftains enlarged the bold structure, and presided with
all the pomp and splendour of feudal magnificence. But
the ash had no root within the soil when Mary lived
here, — when the Earl of Shrewsbury, his stately dame,
her maidens, and his men-at-arms, inhabited the castle.
The ash sprung up since Mary went away, and now its
leafless branches wave before the window where she used
to watch and weep.

-"-,v'^- ^

t

Cfte Cfte&tut of CorttoortfK

When Eva, the gentle one, eame,

And Sat down in my ample shade ;
And with her was that noble Thane,

The lov'd one of the Saxon maid ;

I call'd to the rustling breeze,
That my boughs might their homage pay ;

While the joyous birds sang from the trees,
And the soaring lark warbled his lay. — M. R.

THE great Chesnut of Tortworth stood where now it
stands, far back as the reign of John, at which period it
bore the name that still distinguishes it among trees of
the same species. It was then in all its grandeur and
luxuriance, and its noble branches cast a deep and
lengthened shade upon the waste beneath, for grass
and flowers do not readily vegetate under the shadow of
the chesnut. But the deer of the forest resorted thither to
feed on the nuts, when shaken from the boughs by autumn
winds; thither, also, troops of wild hogs, which the
Saxons used to pasture in the woods, would gather beside
the tree, and listen for the dropping of the kernels that
fell in their ripeness to the ground.

62 STfrc ©ftegnut of

Had Salvator Rosa been living when the great chesnut
was in its prime, he would have braved the dangers both
of land and sea to have studied its magnificent proportions,
for this is the tree which graces all his landscapes ; it
nourished in the mountains of Calabria, where he painted,
and there he observed it in all its forms, breaking and
disposing of it, in a variety of beautiful shapes, as the
exigences of his compositions required. But Salvator
Rosa was not then living, nor, perhaps, his ancestors for
many generations ; neither was the art of painting deve-
loped in Engiand ; that beautiful art, which transmits to
canvas the glow of an evening sky, and the effects of
foliage when shaken by the wind ; which embodies, within
the space of a few inches, an extent of many miles, with
mingled wood and flood, bold headlands and mountains
fading in the distance, or crowded cities, with their
palaces and schools. Even the Bayeux tapestry, which
chronicled, in after years, events connected with civil
history and domestic misery, presented merely an un-
graceful portraiture of passing events.

The tree had attained nearly to its altitude at that
period of England's sorrows, when the fierce Penda car-
ried war and desolation through some of her fairest pro-
vinces. At this time, also, his son, being appointed
Governor of Mercia, resided with his wife, Eva, at
Glocester, in the centre of his dominions, where many
persecuted persons, who fled from the sword of Penda,
were secretly protected and relieved, for Eva was a

of

63

Christian, and her husband inclined to her faith. Glou-
cester, where they held their court, was a place of great
antiquity. It was one of the twenty-eight cities which
the Britons erected, previous to their conquest by the
Romans, and was called Caer-Glou, or Caer-Gloyw,
which signified, in their language, the bright or splendid
town, from its situation on an eminence at the termina-
tion of the flat and marshy part of the kingdom of
Mercia, and being well watered with an ample river.

Wolfere presided over the dominions which his father
confided to his care, with equal wisdom and considera-
tion ; but within the range of the highest window of his
palace, grievous sights were witnessed at one time, by
those who had the hardihood to look for them. A dread-
ful battle was fought in the neighbourhood of Corinium,
at about twelve miles distant, between the fierce king, for
whom Wolfere ruled, and the King of Wessex. Corinium
was much fallen from its ancient grandeur : it had been,
in former times, the seat of arts and elegance ; Roman
generals lived the'fe, and there Constantine occasionally
resided; but war and time had greatly changed its once
royal aspect, though still a considerable city, and having
within its precincts a store of goods and cattle. Penda
desired to possess them, and the hard victory which he
gained before the walls gave the inhabitants an earnest of
the calamities that awaited them. The consequences of
this great victory were severely felt in the kingdom of
Wessex, and again, throughout the wide expanse of the

64 SHje e&egnut of

Cotswold Hills, and among the beautiful vales of Mercia,
were acted those scenes of misery, which the youths of
that day had shuddered to hear beside the blazing
hearth-stone, when narrated in the winter tales of their
grandfathers.

The victory which Penda had gained, within sight of
his son's palace at Gloucester, was succeeded by the fall
of the brave Oswold, near Oswestry, in Shropshire. The
kingdom of Bernicia was added by his death to the already
extensive dominions of the conqueror, and with the
increase of his territories, increased also the sufferings of
the Christians, whom he persecuted with unwearied
malignity. Penda was born a pagan, and as such he
passed the period of his youth and middle age. Accord-
ing to the custom of his country, he worshipped images
of wood and stone, and joined devoutly in all the unhal-
lowed rites which had been established by his Saxon
ancestors ; like them he believed that demons of good or
ill presided over the fields and groves, and he sought to
obtain the favour of the one, and to conciliate the other,
by such observances and propitiations as the priesthood
had enjoined. To them he was devoutly attached, and
his temper being naturally inclined to seriousness, some-
what too, unyielding, with a strong bias to religion, he
sought to extirpate the Christian faith, which had been
represented to him as tending equally to overthrow the
altars of his ruthless deities, with the throne itself.

But the Saviour, whose disciples he thus ignorantly

(£J)CSnut of Cortfoortfj. 65

persecuted, refused not, on his behalf, the prayers of one
who ceased not to supplicate that he might become a
sharer in the hopes and blessings of which she knew the
value. This was Eva, who has been already mentioned
as the wife of his son, Wolfere, the governor of Mercia.
Men of the present generation, those even who live where
she once lived, have heard little concerning her. Historians
speak rather of crimes and sorrows ; they chronicle what
the great adversary of mankind has achieved to make
nations miserable ; the life spent in quiet duty, the lift-
ing up of the heart in secret prayer, are no themes for
them. But the memorial of Eva is in heaven, her record
is on high, and there is reason to believe that she was
allowed to witness the softening of that rugged temper,
which had occasioned such a variety of wretchedness — to
hear, also, that Penda allowed the preaching of Chris-
tianity in his dominions nearly two years before his death.
It was even said that he was baptized by Bishop Aiden,
with Sigebert, King of the East- Angles.

Eva died in good old age, after presiding for more than
thirty years over the nunnery of St Peter's, at Gloucester.
She retired thither on the death of her husband, and
greatly benefited the abbey to which it was attached, by
causing the revenues to be increased, and by obtaining
the confirmation of former donations. With her terminated
the office of lady Abbess, during the cruel war which suc-
ceeded, between Egbert and the King of Mercia, when the
nuns were forced to depart, and the abbey became deso-

66

late. The roof which had sheltered the remains of for-
mer Abbesses, of Eilburg, who governed the nunnery, both
religiously and prudently, for more than half a century,
and of Kyneburg, the widow of Elred, King of Northum-
berland, was thrown open to the winds of heaven, and
nothing remained of its former splendour but walls black
with smoke, and a few broken effigies.

Neither Wolfere, nor his wife Eva, anticipated that
such would be the fate of the noble abbey which the piety
of former kings had founded, and which the governor of
Mercia sought to enlarge and beautify, because Eva
loved to worship there. The future is in mercy veiled
from the eyes of men ; they could not bear to contem-
plate events that are often close at hand, for though
strength is promised for the day of sorrow, it is not given
before that sorrow comes. Eva went, as she was wont,
on every holy day, to offer prayers, and to present her
gifts within the hallowed walls of St Peter's Abbey, and
Wolfere continued to embellish the noble city that was
confided to his care, by causing many spacious buildings
to be erected both for ornament and use. The city had
suffered greatly in former wars, and he not only rebuilt
such portions of the walls as had been broken down, but
so enlarged and adorned it, that it was soon spoken of as
one of the finest cities in the Heptarchy. Great hospi-
tality was also exercised at his court, and many found a
shelter there, whose homes had been destroyed in the
rage of civil discord.

of ^ortfoortf), 67

The presidency of Wolfere, therefore, over the king-
dom of Mercia; the noble acts which he achieved in
beautifying and enlarging the city of Caer-Glou, and
the quiet, unassuming labours of his wife, Eva, were
cotemporary with the Chesnut of Tortworth when it
first attained its high standing among forest- trees. It
may be, that the venerable ruin, whose decaying trunk
is still surmounted by a few verdant branches, was
looked upon in its day of pride, by Wolfere and Eva.
Tortworth was mentioned, in the time of John, as an
ancient place, and the tree of which we speak was called
the Great Chesnut. It grew within the garden-wall of
the old mansion, and we have no reason to believe that
the site on which it stood, had been recently reclaimed
from the forest.

The old Memorial tree is down ;

But its stirring legend still lives on :
A tale of grief and withering woe,

Of tears that ceased long ago. — M. R.

THE noble Oak of Ellerslie sheltered the birth-place of
Wallace. Centuries have passed since then, and now it
stands in the centre of a small common, time-worn and
reft of all its greatness, a magnificent ruin ; although,
within the memory of man, its ample branches extended
over a Scotch acre of ground. Wallace, and the children
of the village, used to play beneath its shelter : they
would gather acorns for cups and balls, and rest on the
green sward when they were hot and weary.

A poet, perhaps, would tell you that the patriarchal
tree loved to look down on the young " wee things," whose
remotest ancestors — precursors, it may be, of a thousand
generations, to the period concerning which we speak —
had dwelt beside it ; that it liked to screen them from the
noonday heat ; and that, when a sudden shower, driving
furiously from off the hills, made the fondlings haste
beneath its branches, it kept off the heavy rain-drops that
they might not harm the merry crowd. Certain it is that

70 Wallace'*

the village children liked best to play beneath the shade
of the old oak, and that their parents knew where to seek
for the young truants, when they had wandered from
school or home. We can all enter into the feelings of
children, for we have been children ourselves ; we can
remember how the primrose and the cowslip, although
the gathering of them often gained for us both colds and
chidings ; the nest of the hedge-sparrow, or the coming
forth of the white thorn, were things of vast importance ;
what delight the finding of them imparted, and how every
new object powerfully excited the young mind, because
they had all, and each, the charm of novelty We know,
also, that as months and years pass on, somewhat of care
begins to steal across all this joyousness, as the shadow of
a passing cloud obscures a sunny landscape ; that the cares
of every day occurrence — the difficulty of finding bread
for a large young family — the father's weariness after a
day of labour, and the anxious feelings of the mother, are
soon shared in by children. They feel more than
any one imagines who does not vividly remember what
his or her feelings have been in very early life, although
the feelings were not, perhaps, depressed by circumstances
of equal trial. Time goes on, and it is not only home
SOITOWS that engross the mind ; if the days in which they
live, are stormy, and men speak of their country's
wrongs, the striplings aspire to aid in seeking redress ;
and the ardour by which their fathers are excited,
is reflected in them with double vividness. Thus

©afe. 71

it was at the period when Wallace lived. The
thoughts of all were much engrossed by the terrible
condition of the country, and the once playful children,
who used to assemble beneath the Oak of Ellerslie, now
grown up to boyhood, heard from their fathers that the
English army was advancing with all speed towards the
border land. Edward led them on, but he had no right
to the crown of Scotland. Alexander III., who had filled
till lately the now vacant throne, and who had espoused the
sister of Edward, most probably inherited, after a period
of eight hundred years, and through a succession of
males, the sceptre of all the Scottish princes ; of those,
who, although the country had been continually exposed
to such factions and convulsions as are incident to all
barbarous, and to many civilized nations, had governed
her rocks and fastnesses, from a period whose commence-
ment is lost in the obscurity of ages. But the king was
dead ; he had fallen from his horse at Kinghorn, and the
maid of Norway, as she was termed, daughter of Eric, her
king, and his own fair daughter Margaret, was the only re-
presentative of the Scottish dynasty. Alexander had wisely
caused her to be recognized by the states of Scotland, as
the lawful heir of the kingdom, and though an infant and
a foreigner, she was immediately received as such. Mar-
garet was accordingly proclaimed queen, and the disposi-
tions which had been made against the event of Alexander's
death appeared so just and prudent, that no disorders, as
might naturally be apprehended, ensued in the kingdom.

72 Wallace'* <Dafe.

Five guardians, the Bishops of St. Andrew's and Glasgow,
the Earls of Fife and Bucan, and James Steward, were
appointed to take charge of the young princess. These
men, who were distinguished for their talents and inte-
grity, entered peaceably upon the administration, and the
infant queen, under the protection of Edward, her great
uncle, and Eric her father, set forth on her voyage to-
wards Scotland. But either the fatigue attendant on an
expedition by sea, or else, in her young mind, grief at
leaving the companions of her childhood, affected her
health; she suddenly became ill, and died on the passage.
There were sad hearts in Scotland, when the heavy
tidings reached her of the young queen's death ; and
when it was heard by those who met at evening around
the oak of Ellerslie, they looked anxiously one upon the
other, for they knew not what to say ; it seemed to them
that all hope for the weal of Scotland was about to be
extinguished. They knew that Edward was both powerful
and crafty ; that having lately, by force of arms, brought
Wales under subjection, he had designed, by the
marriage of Margaret with his eldest son, to unite the
whole island under one monarchy. With this view he
had dispatched an embassy to the states of Scotland,
when the late king died, and the proposal being favour-
able to the happiness and security of the kingdom, it
was readily assented to. It was even agreed by the five
guardians, that their young sovereign should be educated
at the English court, while they at the same time,

's CDafc. 73

stipulated that Scotland should enjoy her ancient
liberties and customs, and that in case the prince
and Margaret should die without children, the crown of
Scotland should revert to the next heir. The projected
marriage promised well, but the sudden death of the young
princess left only a dismal prospect for the kingdom.
No breaking-out among the people immediately ensued,
for the regency was sufficiently powerful to keep the
crown from sudden spoliation. It was otherwise in the
course of a short time, for several pretenders laid claim
to the vacant throne. The posterity of William, King of
Scotland, the prince who was taken prisoner by Henry
II., being extinct on the death of Margaret, the crown
devolved by natural right to the representatives of
David, Earl of Huntingdon, brother to William, whose
male line being also extinct, left the succession open to
the descendants of his daughters. John Baliol .repre-
sented his maternal ancestor Margaret, one of the
three daughters of the Earl of Huntingdon, married to
Alan, Lord of Galloway ; Robert Bruce of Annandale,
his mother Isabella ; and John Hastings, the lady
Adama, who espoused Henry Lord Hastings. This
last pretended that the kingdom of Scotland, like other
inheritances, was divisible among the three co-heiresses
of the Earl of Huntingdon, and that he, in right of his
mother, was entitled to a third. Baliol and Bruce
spurned at the thought of dismembering the country,
while each asserted the superiority of his own claim.

74 S&allau'g ©afe.

Baliol was sprung from the elder branch, Bruce was one
degree nearer the common stock; if the principle of
representation was regarded, the former had the better
claim ; if consanguinity was considered, the latter was en-
titled to the preference. The sentiments of men were
divided, all the nobility took part with one or other of
the claimants, and the people implicitly followed their
leaders. The different claimants themselves had great
power and numerous retainers in Scotland, and each thought
himself secure of gaining the Scottish throne. The
danger which threatened the country was therefore
iminent. The most thoughtless saw that a furious
civil war would infallibly occur, unless some plan
could be devised for adverting so terrible a calamity ;
and men, high in power, of all parties, and themselves
secretly inclining either to Baliol, or Bruce, or Hastings,
resolved, if possible, to lay aside their mutual differences,
and to agree upon some measure for preserving the
public peace.

Many and lengthened were the discussions which they
held. The best and most obvious method of averting
the threatened calamity, was to prevail upon two of the
contending parties to lay aside their mutual claims.
But this they would not do ; each saw, or fancied that he
saw, the crown of Scotland within his grasp, and he
cared not if it was gained at the cost of a civil war.
Another expedient then occurred to those who sat in
council for the public good. This was the submitting

©afe. 75

of the question to the judgment of King Edward. For
such a measure they had many precedents. The
English king and his barons, in the preceding reign, had
endeavoured to settle their differences by a reference
to the King of France, and the integrity of that monarch
had prevented any of the bad effects which might other-
wise have ensued. The kings of France and Arragon,
and afterwards other princes, had appealed in like
manner to Edward's arbitration, and he had acquitted
himself with honour in his decisions. The parlia-
ment of Scotland, therefore, wishing if possible to pre-
vent the misery attendant on civil discord, and allured
by the great reputation of the English monarch, as well
as by the amicable correspondence which had existed
between the kingdoms, agreed in making a reference to
Edward. Men of probity were chosen as deputies, and
among these, Frazer, Bishop of St. Andrews, left his
quiet home on the plains of Fife, at a short distance from
the German ocean, to undertake a long and perilous ex-
pedition to the English court. They remembered that
her monarch would have stood in the relationship of a
father to their young queen, they had heard much
concerning his integrity and honour, and how he had
kept peace in France and Arragon, and they flattered
themselves that he would now interfere in the affairs
of a sister kingdom, with such authority as none of
the competitors would dare to withstand.

Hope revived in Scotland, and many fondly trusted

E 2

76 Wallace'?} ©afe.

that the heavy cloud which had begun to settle on her
mountains, and threatened to deluge her plains with
wretchedness, would yet pass away.

Men often possess a high character for virtue, because
they have no temptation to act wrong. In the case of
France and Arragon, the remoteness of the states, the great
power of their respective princes, and the little interest which
Edward had on either side, induced him to acquit himself
with strict impartiality in his decisions. It was not so in the
present case, and the temptation was too strong for the
English monarch to resist. He secretly purposed to lay
hold of the present favourable opportunity, and if not to
create, at least to revive, his claim of a feudal supremacy
over Scotland ; a claim which had hitherto lain in the
deepest obscurity, and which, if it had ever been an object
of attention, or had been so much as suspected, would
have prevented the Scottish barons from choosing him
as umpire. Passing by the archives of the empire,
which, had his claim been real, must have afforded nu-
merous records of homage done by the Scottish princes, he
caused the monasteries to be ransacked for old chronicles
and histories of bygone days, and from these every
passage was transcribed which seemed to favour his
pretensions. The amount of all such transcripts, when
taken collectively, merely went to show that the Scots
had occasionally been defeated by the English, and had
concluded peace on disadvantageous terms. It was proved,
indeed, that when the King of Scotland, William, was

77

taken prisoner at the battle of Alnwic, he was con-
strained, for the recovery of his liberty, to swear fealty
to the victor. But even this faint claim to feudal su-
periority on one side, of submission on the other, was
done away by Richard II. That monarch being desirous
to conciliate the friendship of the Scottish king, before
his departure for the Holy Land, renounced the homage,
which he said, in express terms, had been extorted by his
father.

The commissioners soon perceived with dismay, that
all which they could urge against the pretensions of the
English monarch, were utterly unavailing. They heard,
too, that a royal commission had been issued for the fitting
out of a great armament, and intelligence quickly followed
that the army was on its march to Scotland.

Edward and his men-at-arms, reached Norham Castle,
on the southern banks of the Tweed, where he insiduously
invited the Scottish parliament, and all the competitors to
attend him, in order to determine the cause which had
been referred to his arbitration. They came, but not
on equal terms, for the English king brought with him a
large body of warlike men, ready to do his bidding ;
while the parliament found themselves betrayed into a
situation in which it was impossible to make any stand,
for the liberty and independence of their country. One
anxious year for Scotland passed on, while Edward pre-
tended, impartially, to examine the claims of the various
competitors, for nine others had now started. Having

78 S&allace'g ©afe,

thus gained time for the furtherance of his ambitious view,
he pronounced sentence in favour of Baliol. Baliol was,
therefore, placed on the throne of Scotland, with the
shadow merely of royal authority, for many and humiliating
were the concessions which Edward required of the seem-
ing king. They were such as even his mild and yielding
disposition could not brook, and at length, taking advan-
tage of a favourable juncture, he resolved to make a des-
perate effort for the restoration of his rights.

Rumours were soon afloat that an English army was
rapidly advancing, and scarcely was the intelligence
received, than it was also heard that some of the most
powerful among the Scottish nobles, with Robert Bruce,
the father and the son, and the Earls of March and
Angus, foreseeing the ruin of their country from the
concurrence of intestine divisions, and a foreign invasion,
had submitted to the English king. Other rumours fol-
lowed, fraught with distress for Scotland. Some related
that the English troops had actually crossed the Tweed
without opposition, at Coldstream; others that Baliol,
having procured for himself, and for his nation, Pope
Celestine's dispensation from former oaths, renounced
the homage which he had done to England, and was
already at the head of a great army. Some spoke what
they believed, others as they wished ; but there was little
ground for exultation as respected the movements of
the Scotch king. Instead of bringing into the field any
effective force, with which to oppose the encroachments

©afe. 79

of the English, he was constrained to hear of their con-
tinual successes. The castle of Roxborough was taken ;
Edinburgh and Stirling opened their gates to the enemy.
All the southern portions of the country were readily
subdued, and Edward, still better to reduce the northern,
whose rocks and fastnesses afforded some security, sent
for a strong reinforcement of Welch and Irish. These
men, being accustomed to a desultory kind of warfare,
were best fitted to pursue the fugitive Scots into the
recesses of their glens and mountains. The quiet valleys
and the upland solitudes, which had been untrodden by
stranger steps for ages, were visited in consequence, and
hostile men sat down beneath the shade of the old Oak
of Ellerslie.

The spirit of the nation was broken at this period.
Edward marched northward to Aberdeen and Elgin,
without meeting an enemy. No Scotchman approached,
but to pay him homage. Even the bold chieftains, ever
refractory to their own princes, and averse to the restraint
of laws, endeavoured to prevent the devastation of their
mountain homes, by giving the usurper early proofs of
obedience. The bards alone stood firm ; they sung to
the music of their harps the high and moving strains
which, in ancient days, had roused those who heard them
to a pitch of the wildest enthusiasm.

Scotland being thus reduced to a state of seeming
dependence, the English forces generally repassed the
Tweed, although strong garrisons remained in every castle of

80 S&aUace'g ©afc.

importance. They had earned with them that ancient stone,
on which, from the remotest period either of history or of
tradition, the Kings of Scotland received the rite of inaugu-
ration. They believed, on the faith of an ancient prophecy,
that wherever this stone was placed, their nation should
always govern ; it was also treasured up in the minds of men,
among their fondest traditions, that the day would come
when one of Scottish birth should rule over England.
Scone was no longer permitted to retain the true palladium
of their monarchy; it was proudly carried off, and placed in
the palace of Westminster. There was seeming tranquil-
lity throughout Scotland on the day of its removal from
the ancient church at Scone, but the hearts of all who saw
it pass, or who heard of its removal, burned within them.
The deed was spoken off throughout all Scotland. Men
heard of it in the remotest parts ; the chieftain in his
castle-hall, the peasant in his highland hut ; they were
constrained to smother the indignation that glowed within
them, yet they secretly awaited a favourable opportunity
to assert the independence of their country. Baliol, too,
was carried, a prisoner, to London ; his great seal was
broken, and when, after the lapse of two years' confine-
ment in the Tower, he was restored to liberty, it was
with the harsh condition that he should submit to a
voluntary banishment in France. Thither, accordingly,
he retired, and died in a private station.

Scotland, meanwhile, was in a deplorable condi-
tion. Her king was powerless, and the administration

©afe, 81

of the country was in the hands of rapacious men
— of Ormesby, who had been appointed justiciary
by Edward; and Cressingham the treasurer. The
latter had no other object than to amass money by
rapine and injustice; the fonner was notorious for
the rigour and severity of his temper : and both, treating
the Scots as a conquered people, made them sensible
too early of the grievous servitude into which they
had fallen.

William Wallace was now grown to man's estate. His
young companions had grown up also, and the group of
merry children, that had played under the old Oak of
Ellerslie, were now thoughtful men and women ; for the
troubles of the days in which they lived, made even the
young grow thoughtful. The old men wished that
they could wield their good weapons as in days of yore,
for then, they said, stout-hearts that beat beneath the
highland tartan, would not have tamely yielded to become
the vassals of proud England. Their country had once
held, they said, a station among the kingdoms of the
earth, but now she was fallen and degraded ; their king
was taken from them, and mercenary men oppressed the
people with heavy taxes. Thus spoke the old men of
Ellerslie, and such were the thoughts of thousands
throughout the land.

Wallace and his young companions, actuated by that
enthusiasm which the oft-told tale of ancient valour and
present degradation, was calculated to inspire; excited

E5

82 aftfcBut'* ©afc.

also by the conversation of strangers from the north, and
stimulated by the present favourable aspect of affairs, ( for
the English troops were mostly withdrawn to their own
country,) resolved to attempt the desperate enterprise of
delivering their native land from the dominion of
foreigners. Wallace was well-fitted for the purpose. He
was a man of gigantic strength, his nerves were braced
by a youth of hardihood and exercise; he possessed like-
wise ability to bear fatigue, and the utmost severity of
weather. Nor were his mental characteristics less
remarkable. He was endowed with heroic courage, with
disinterested magnanimity, and incredible patience. The
ill conduct of an English officer had provoked him
beyond endurance, and finding himself obnoxious to the
severity of the administration, he fled into the woods
which surrounded his once happy home, and invited to
his banner all those whom their crimes, or misfortunes,
or avowed hatred to the English, had reduced to a like
necessity.

Beginning with small attempts, in which he was uni-
formly successful, Wallace gradually proceeded to momen-
tous enterprises. He was enabled by his knowledge of
the country to ensure a safe retreat whenever it was
needful to hide himself among the morasses and the
mountains; and it was said, that he once concealed him-
self, with three hundred of his men, among the branches
of the aged oak, beneath which he had played in child-
hood. But Ellerslie was not long a place for him, though

'* ©afc. 83

he still loved to linger in its beautiful retreats. They
were too well known to those who sought to take his
life, for the village in which his parents lived, lay not far
distant from one of the strong castles, in which the
English had a garrison. He went, therefore, to Torwood,
in the county of Stirling, and made the giant oak which
stood there his head-quarters. It was believed to be the
largest tree that ever grew in Scotland. Centuries were
chronicled on its venerable trunk, and tradition traced it
to the era of the Druids. The remains of a circle of
unhewn stone were seen within its precincts, and near it
was an ancient causeway. Wallace often slept in its
hollow trunk during his protracted struggles against the
tyranny of Edward, with many of his officers, for the
cavity afforded an ample space.

The old Oak of Torwood was to him a favourite
haunt ; perhaps it was associated in his mind with the one
he had left at Ellerslie : but other, and far-off scenes,
were often the theatre of his most heroic actions, when,
having ensured a retreat from the close pursuit of the
enemy, he collected his dispersed associates, and unex-
pectedly appearing in another quarter, surprised and
routed the unwary English. Such actions soon gained
for him the applause and admiration of his countrymen.
They seemed to vindicate the nation from the ignominy
into which it had fallen, by its tame submission
to a foreign yoke; and although no man of rank ven-
tured as yet to join his party, he was universally

84

spoken of, by all who desired the independence of their
country, as one who promised to realise their most ardent
wishes.

Cambuskenneth, on the opposite banks of the impe-
tuous Forth, became the theatre of a decisive victory,
which seemed about to deliver Scotland from the oppres-
sion of a foreign yoke. Wallace, at this time, stood
alone with a band of faithful men, who adhered to him
in all his struggles and vicissitudes. Earl Warrenne,
whom the king had originally appointed Governor of
Scotland, on the abdication of Baliol, which office he
had relinquished conditionally, from ill health, had crossed
the border-land with an anny of forty thousand men ; he
now sought by the celerity of his armament, and his march,
to compensate for his past negligence in the appointment
of Cressingham and Ormsby. Advancing with incredible
rapidity, he suddenly entered Annandale, and came up
with the Scots at Ervine, before their forces were collected,
and before they had put themselves in a posture of
defence. Many of the nobles being thus unex-
pectedly placed in a great dilemma, thought to save their
estates by submitting to Earl Warrenne. But Wallace,
nothing daunted, awaited his further progress on the
banks of the Forth. Victory declared in his favour, and
the wreck of the invading army, being driven from the
field, made its escape to England.

Had Wallace been permitted to retain the dignity of
regent or guardian of the kingdom, under the captive Baliol,

85

all might yet have been well with Scotland. The elevation
of the patriot chief, though purchased by so great merit,
and such eminent services, was not, however, agreeable to
the nobility ; they could not brook that a private gentle-
man should be raised above them by his rank, still less
by his wisdom and reputation. Wallace himself, sensible
of their jealousies, and fearing for the safety of his
country, resigned his authority, and retained only the
command over that small troop, many of whom had
been his companions in their boyhood days, whose
parents had dwelt with his, beside the Oak of Ellerslie, and
who refused to follow the standard of any other leader.
Nobly, therefore, did he consent to serve under the Steward
of Scotland, and Cummin of Badenoch, into whose hands
the great chieftains had devolved the guardianship of
their country. Meanwhile another army crossed the
Forth, and the two commanders proposed to await its
coining up on the banks of Falkirk river. Wallace was
also there with his chosen band. In this battle the Scots
were worsted, and it seemed to those who heard of it, that
the ruin of Scotland was inevitable.

Wallace, although he continually exposed himself in
the hottest of the fray, was enabled by his military
skill and great presence of mind, to keep his men
together. Retiring behind the Carron, he marched
along the banks of the river, which protected him from
the enemy. The country on either side was wild and
picturesque ; the yellow gorse was in blossom, and the

86

continuous flowers of the heath seemed to shed a purple
light upon the mountains. It was then in all its beauty,
for even the sternest scenes are beautiful when decked in
their summer glory, when gay flowers grow upon the
rocks, and birds and butterflies sport among them. The
heavens above were clear, and the shadows of flying
clouds seemed to set the plain country in motion ; where
the grass grew wild and high, it looked as if innumerable
pigmies were passing swiftly beneath the blades, and
causing them to rock to and fro with their rapid move-
ment. But not a sound was heard, except the heavy
tread of weary men, and the murmur of the river over
its pebbly bed.

Young Bruce, who had given many proofs of aspiring
genius, and who had served hitherto in the English
army, appeared on the opposite bank of the river. While
standing there, and thinking, perhaps, as men are apt to
think, when the loveliness of creation is presented in
striking contrast to scenes of ruin and desolation, he
observed the Scottish chief, who was distinguished as
well by his majestic port, as by the intrepid activity of
his behaviour. Calling out to him, he demanded a short
conference, and having represented to Wallace the fruit-
less and ruinous enterprise in which he was engaged,
he endeavoured to bend his ardent spirit to submission.
He represented the almost hopeless condition of the
country, the prevailing factions among the people, and
the jealousy of the chiefs. He spoke concerning the

(Dafe. 87

wisdom and martial character of Edward, and how
impossible it was that a weak state, deprived of its head,
could long maintain such an unequal warfare. He told
him, that if the love of his country was his motive for
persevering, his obstinacy tended to prolong her woes ;
if he carried his views to personal aggrandisement and
ambition, he might remember from past experience, that
the proud nobles who constituted the aristocracy of
Scotland, had already refused to submit to personal
merit, although the elevation to which that merit
attained had been won by the greatest privations, and
by the consummate skill which had gained for them the
hard-earned victory of Cambuskenneth.

Wallace was not slow to answer. He told young
Bruce, that if he had acted as the champion of his
country, it was solely because no leader had arisen,
beneath whose banner he could lead on his faithful men.
Why was not Bruce himself that leader ? He had
noble birth, and strength ; he was in the vigour of his
days, and yet, although uniting personal merit to dignity
of family, he had been induced to desert the post which
Heaven had assigned him. He told him that the Scots,
possessed of such a head, would gladly assemble to his
standard; that the proud nobles would submit to him,
because he was of more exalted birth than any of them,
being himself of royal descent; and that even now,
though many brave, and some greatly distinguished
men, had fallen on the battle-field at no great distance, and

88 Wallace'* ©afe.

it seemed as if all hope as respects the future weal of
Scotland was about to be extinguished; yet, if the
noble youth to whom he spoke would but arouse him-
self, he might oppose successfully the power and abilities
of Edward. Wallace urged him further to consider, that
the Most High rarely offered a more glorious prize
before the view either of virtue or ambition, than
the acquisition of a crown, with the defence of national
independence. That for his own part, while life remained,
he should regard neither his own ease, nor yet the
hardships to which he was exposed; that Scotland
was dearer to him than the closest ties that entwine
themselves around a brave man's heart, and that he
was determined, as far as in him lay, to prolong, not
her misery, but her independence, and to save her if pos-
sible from receiving the chains of a haughty victor.
Bruce felt that what he said was true. From that moment
he repented of his engagement with Edward, and opening
his eyes to the honourable path, which the noble-minded
Wallace had pointed out to him, he secretly determined
to embrace the cause, however desperate, of his oppressed
country.

Armies met again ; other battles followed, and for two
miserable years did the Scots and English fight hand to
hand for the liberty or subjugation of Scotland. Edward
at length triumphed, and Wallace became his prisoner.
The boy of Ellerslie, he, who in after life thought only to
preserve his country from spoliation ; who was determined,

©afe. 89

amid the general defection, the abrogation of laws and cus-
toms, and the razing of all monuments of antiquity, still to
maintain her independence, was betrayed into Edward's
hands, by a false friend, whom he had made acquainted with
the place of his retreat. He was carried in chains to London,
to be tried as a rebel and a traitor, though he had never
made submission, nor sworn fealty to England, and to be
executed on Tower Hill.

The old Oak of Ellerslie is still standing, and young
children play beneath its shade ; the birds fly in and out,
and around it the life and business of husbandry proceeds,
as if neither grief nor death, had ever visited the beautiful
hills and dales that lie around.

More than five centuries have passed away since
young Wallace played with his companions beside the
tree, and a few short years, subtracted from that period,
since he took shelter with many of his playmates, when
grown up to manhood, among its ample branches. But
though long since barbarously executed, and though his
bones might not be laid to rest in the land which he sought
to save, he is not forgotten in the hallowed spot — the birth-
place of his parents — which he loved above all others. The
children of the village are still taught to lisp his name,
and are carried to hear of him beneath his own old tree.
All his favourite haunts by glen or burn, or up the moun-
tain-side, are fondly traced by the young men and
maidens when their work is done. Here, they say, he
used to sit and listen to the strain of the pibroch, and

90

from off the margin of the little stream he gathered
flowers in his days of childhood. Yonder are the moun-
tains, through the secret passes of which he used to con-
duct his small company of valiant men, when the storm
of war gathered dense and dark, and from which he
rushed like a mountain-torrent on the enemies of his
country. Close at hand, say they, and extending even
to the verge of the common on which stands the village
of Ellerslie, are a few trees of the ancient wood, which
often served for a hiding-place during his rapid alterna-
tions of advance and of retreat, and when in the small
beginnings, which suited best with his youth — with the
youth, too, of his companions — he gave good earnest of
what his single arm might have effected, if secret jea-
lousies and discordant counsels had not undennined his
best.coHoerted -plans- . ... ... -

Oh many a one that weeps alone,

And whom the stern world brushes by,
Has friends whom kings might proudly own,

Though all unseen by mortal eye. — M.R.

"A WAY with (hat unseemly object !" said the stern St.
Hugh, bishop ef Lifteehi, to tke sifters 0f Godstow
Nunnery, whe» he came in \he course of visitation te
their- quiet dwelling aineng the rwrh ttreadows of Evenio&
" Away with tliat-viis^oU object I the-h^tH-se «f o«t; M4*«
wat: a Mlgdalon, is not a ^Miirg spectacle 1^*¥ A ^tiin- ^f
HUBS -to coiik^uplate, IH^' is the front of the hcly altar a

The sisters dared not refuse, and the coffin which con-
tained the remains of Fair Rosamond was removed to the
church-yard. But they said among themselves, that the
stern hishop needed not to have thus harshly judged,
for Rosamond had lived among them for many years,
in the utmost innocence and seclusion. They knew

92 2TfK Nut=^rce of

too, for so tradition tells, though the truth could not
then be safely spoken, that poor Rosamond did not
deserve the harsh aspersions of St. Hugh. It was
believed that King Henry had married her in early life,
but secretly, and without such witnesses as might avail,
to have her constituted queen of England. Henry him-
self, when driven nearly to distraction by the rebellion of
his acknowledged sons, spoke unadvisedly certain words,
that confirmed the belief of the simple-hearted nuns.
He said to one of the sons of Rosamond, who met him
at the head of an armed company, " Thou art my legiti-
mate son; the rest have no claim on me."*

Rosamond was told, most probably by the queen her-
self, of King Henry's conduct, for the queen, having
seen him walking one day in the pleasure-grounds at
Woodstock, with the end of a ball of silk attached to his
spurs, and wondering greatly at the circumstance,
resolved to follow him. She took up the ball, and when
he went away, she followed warily, the silk meanwhile
unwinding, till at length he suddenly disappeared in a
thicket belonging to the celebrated labyrinth of Wood-
stock. The queen went no further, and kept the matter
to herself. She, however, took advantage of his absence
on a distant journey, and having threaded the mazes of
the labyrinth, she began searching the thicket into
which the king had disappeared. Finding a low door
carefully concealed, the queen caused it to be forced
* Lingard.

of &o$cfunonl)'g (Srabe. 93

open, and passing on with a beating heart through a
long, winding, subterraneous passage, she emerged again
into the open air, and following on a little further, she
discovered a lodge, situated in the most retired part of
the forest. Beautiful trees grew round, with a spacious
garden, and a bower, in which a young lady was
seen busily engaged in embroidery. This isolated
fact records merely the circumstance which led to the
finding of Fair Rosamond by Queen Eleanor ; it speaks,
not of the bitter misery of the one, nor the distress
occasioned to the other, nor, most probably, the making
known by Rosamond, in the first moment of her dismay,
that she believed herself the wife of the man who had
entailed such wretchedness upon her. But whatever
might have passed at that interview, its result was, the
retiring of Fair Rosamond from her secret bower to the
nunnery of Godstow, where she passed twenty years of
her weary life, and died when she was forty years of
age, in " the high odour of sanctity." Her grave
remained unclosed, according to the fashion of the times,
but a sort of temporary covering, somewhat resembling
a tent, was raised immediately above it. The coffin and
the tent were both before the altar, and over them was
spread a pall of fair white silk, with tapers burning round,
and richly emblazoned banners waving over. Thus
lying in state, it awaited the erection of a costly monu-
ment, till St. Hugh commanded its expulsion. But the
nuns remembered their poor sister, whom they had laid

94 2TJK Nut-2Tm of Mogamonli's (Sra&e.

to rest in that open grave ; and when the bishop died,
they gathered her bones from out the place of their in-
terment into a bag, which they inclosed in a leather
case, and tenderly deposited before the altar.

The altar has long since been broken, and the place
wherein the memorial tent, with its pall of fair white
silk, was stationed, is roofless now. Instead of tapers
burning round, and emblazoned banners waving over,
springs up a solitary nut-tree — the Nut-tree of Rosa-
mond's grave. It bears a profusion of nuts, but without
kernels, empty as the deceptive pleasures of this world's
pageants. *

And silent too, sad, vacant, and unpeopled, is the
mound on which once stood the castle of William
Longespe, poor Rosamond's eldest son. It was a drear
and treeless elevation, rising over the wide extent of
downs, that were seen spreading far as the eye could
reach ; yet there were glad hearts within, young children
and cheerful voices, the lady Ela and William Longespe,
with their visitors and dependants, and those who came
and went, making that stately castle to seem a royal
residence.

William Longespe was distinguished for his chivalry
and feats of arms, the lady Ela for her mild and benig-
nant virtues. They had married in early life, and her
estates and honours, according to the customs of the
feudal ages, had served to enoble a brave and deserving
* Southey's visit to Godstow nunnery. — CAMDEN.

of &ogamontiV (£rab*. 95

youth, who had no other patrimony than his sword.
Ela was born among the beautiful shades of Amesbury,
whither her mother had retired before her birth. It was
called the ladies' bower, and was appended to the castle
of Salisbury, as that of Woodstock to Oxford castle,
and there her young days passed among trees and
flowers, till, as years passed on, she became the delight
and ornament of her father's court. Earl William stood
high in favour with King Richard. He carried the
dove-surmounted verge, or rod, before that monarch at
his coronation ; and to him was confided the responsible
office of keeping the king's charter, for licensing
tournaments throughout the country.* His titular
castle frowned over the stern ramparts of Sarisbyrig,
where no stream was heard to murmur, nor the
song of birds came remotely on the ear, except the
joyous warble of the soaring lark, or the simple un-
varied note of the whinchat, seeking its insect food
among the thyme hills. But instead of woods and
streams, the castle was surrounded with extensive downs,
covered with short herbage, and in the space where
two valleys obliquely intersected each other, was one
of the five fields, or steads, for the holding of feats of
arms. The field was full in view of the majestic fortress
of old Sarum, and although it seemed as a dip, or rather
hollow in the elevated downs, it afforded ample space
for the combatants and spectators, and those who stood
* Roger de Hoveden.

96 3Hje Nut=^m of JUogamonVg (Srabe.

on the highest point of what — had seats been cut in the
broad slope — might have been termed an amphitheatre,
looked down on the rich and smiling banks of the Avon
and the Nadder, with the venerable towers of Wilton
Abbey.* Here then, were often witnessed the proudest
exhibitions of chivalric enterprise, and often did the
little Ela gaze with awe and wonder from the windows
of her father's castle, on knight and banners, and all the
pomp and pageantry of those heroic games.

Scarcely, however, had Ela attained her eighth year,
when the Earl of Salisbury having died, after a short ill-
ness, she became the orphan heiress of his princely patri-
mony, and an exile ; for scarcely had the banners, and
the scutcheons, and the mutes passed by, and all the
pomp of death went after him to his last resting-place,
than the little Ela suddenly disappeared, and was
nowhere to be found. Some said that her mother
sought her sorrowing; others, that she gave but little
heed, and that while knights and servants rode the
country over, asking questions of all they met, and
exploring every brake and hollow on the ample downs ;
returning ever and anon, either with some hope of
finding the lost child, or else to consult with her lady
mother concerning the next course to pursue ; she alone
seemed as if indifferent to the matter. The countess
had large possessions in Normandy or Champaign, and
it was at length conjectured that the orphan had been
* Hatcher's Account of Salisbury.

Hut^ree of Jfcogamonli'g (Srabe, 97

sent to her relations, lest King Richard should avail
himself of his feudal right, to marry her according to
his will. But such was not the case, though true in
part, as respected her distant home. Ela had three
uncles, of whom the eldest was next heir to the great
possessions of the deceased earl. No historic light
gleams on the biography of these kinsmen, except-
ing that being younger brothers, without patrimony,
and unmarried, they retired into the monastery
of Bradenstoke.* Yet tradition tells, that when the
elder brother heard of Ela's fatherless condition, he
threw aside his cowl, and assumed the cuirass. It
might have been, that often in the silence and the solitude
of that old abbey, when passing its dimly-lighted
cloisters, dark thoughts had worked within him; that
scowling on his books and beads, he had contrasted his
condition as a poor and obscure monk, with the grandeur
and the vast possessions of the earldom of Salisbury.
The pope absolved him from vows of poverty, for thus it
is recorded in the traditions of the place, and forth he
came, a claimant to the honours and the wealth of that
illustrious house. Tradition lingers among old walls
and deserted hearths ; there may be nothing for history
to glean, but her lowlier sister loves to keep alive
the feeble glimmering of her lone lamp, in places from
whence all other light is gone.

Rightly, therefore, did the anxious and affectionate
* The Old Peerage, by Brooke.

F

98 ftfa Nut-ftm of &osamonlT£ (Srabe.

mother of young Ela seek to remove her daughter from
the reach of one whose ambitious and turbulent dispo-
sition might have prompted him to crime. But the
days in which she lived were those of stirring incidents.
A train of gallant troubadours gave life and animation to
the court of lion-hearted Richard, and the mysterious
disappearance of the orphan heiress was with them a
theme of frequent conjecture and resolve. An English
knight, of the name of William Talbot, inspired, it
would seem, by the romantic adventures of the min-
strel Blondel, resolved to find out the place of her con-
cealment. He went forth attired as a pilgrim, with his
staff and cockle-shell, and having landed on the coast of
Normandy, he wandered to and fro, for the space of two
years,* as if in quest of the shrine at which he sought
to pay his vows. There were shrines in the depth of
solitary forests, and to such he bent his way, others in
populous towns, and before them he would duly kneel,
asking questions of those he met, and warily seeking to
discover where the lost one was concealed. At length,
so the poet tells, he saw a maiden, whose English
accent and fair hair denoted her foreign birth, come
forth with her companions from a castle on the coast.
Talbot concealed himself behind a rock, and listened
while the maiden, who was gathering shells from off
the sand, spoke of the far country whence she came.

* Dugdale incorrectly says months, instead of years, a mistake
corrected by Bowles.

of Mosamonfc'g (Srafce. 99

It seemed to him that she gazed wistfully over the
wide sea, and when the dew began to fall, and the bell
tolled out from the grey turret, she looked back from
beneath the postern, as if to catch a last glimpse of the
dim waters. Laying aside his pilgrim dress, he assumed
that of a wandering troubadour, and gained admittance
to the inmates of the castle. He recounted the deeds
of former times, concerning the perils of King Richard,
and how the minstrel Blondel, wandering through storm
and sunshine, had found the prison of his master. He
repeated the wild strain which Blondel had sung before
the old fortress, and the answering melody that re-
sponded from within ; and thus in sentiment, if not in
words, for the thoughts are those of the minstrel Peter
d'Auvergne, the gallant Talbot made known his errand
to the orphan daughter.*

Haste, haste thee, haste, my faithful bird,

O'er the tumbling and tossing sea,
Breathe to my love the sighs you have heard,

And her answer respond to me.

O, the fond bird flew from the green hill's side,

Where blossoming roses blow,
She spread her wing o'er the ocean wide,

While the blue waves danced below.

And the strains which she sang to the evening star,

As it rose o'er the darkling hill,
She pour'd forth again to the lov'd one afar,

By the gush of the flowing rill.

* History of Lacock Abbey. Monsieur de Saint Palage's great
work on the History of Troubadours.

F 2

100 ftf)* Jtut»2Tm of &o$amonl)'$

The lady heard in her lonely bower,

As she gazed on the wandering moon ;
When her pale beams brightened the old grey tower,

Riding now in her highest noon.

Ah ! thou dost not heed my plaintive strain,

For thus the fair bird sang ;
I have flown in my haste o'er the stormy main,

From groves where my music rang.

Where my music rang, when the glow-worm's light

Glimmer'd oft in the darkling glen,
And no sounds were heard 'mid the stilly night,

From the homes, or the haunts of men.

Save from one, who fear'd not the dew nor the damp,

Who told me his true love tale,
As he linger'd alone, by the glow-worm's lamp,

In the depth of the hawthorn dale.

Methinks e'en now, o'er the dewy grass,

All alone on the moonlit plain,
Will his constant step, 'mid the dim light pass,

To list for my answering strain.

And that answering strain the young knight heard,

As he stole from his castle hall,
For the lady breathed low to the faithful bird,

Words of love from her distant thrall.

Thus sung the troubadour, and the maiden longed to see
again the wide downs on which her young eyes had gazed,
for she knew not the thraldom that awaited a rich heiress
in those days of feudal tyranny. The book of Lacock
is silent with regard to the means by which the trou-
badour contrived to bear her off, concerning her perils
by sea or land, or her joyous meeting with her widowed

of &o*amon&'$ Srabe, 101

mother. The book tells merely, that King Richard bestowed
her hand on his brother Longespe, and with it the vast pos-
sessions and the title of the Earl of Salisbury. Longespe was
then a youth, just rising into manhood,* and happy was
it for the orphan heiress that King Richard gave her to
one whom she could love. For it happened not unfre-
quently that great heiresses were married to stern men,
either that their lands might enrich the younger sons of
royalty, or else to repay services that had been rendered
the crown. It is generally conjectured, that Richard
designed the Lady Ela for his brother from the period of his
father's death, when the hostile conduct of her uncle
occasioned the young child to be sent away. His faith-
ful Talbot sought and found her, most probably by the
desire of the king, for he was loyal and experienced, and
in none of the minstrel knights whom he admitted as
companions to the festive board, did King Richard more
unreservedly confide. He was proud, also, to be num-
bered among the devoted friends of the youthful
Longespe, and in after years his name occurs among
the witnesses to several charters given by the earl.f
Whether, therefore, he was a friend of Longespe from
his days of boyhood, or whether he had earned that
friendship by his services in recovering the lovely Ela, cer-
tain it is, that neither his friendship nor his services were
forgotten, and that when Longespe obtained the honours

* Book of Lacock.

t Close Rolls, May 2. Rhymer's Fosdore, 1207.

102 2TfK Kut-^tce of Kogamont)'* CJrabe,

and possessions of the house of Salisbury, Talbot became
an inmate of his castle.*

Ela returned to her father's hall, to the old castle of
Sarum, from which she had looked in her childhood on
the feats of arms that were exhibited in the tournament
arena. But those days had passed, for King John,
who now filled the throne, cared little for jousts or
minstrelsy. His thoughts brooded in sullen mood on
the discontents that were abroad, and on the distracted
condition of the country. Meanwhile the chivalrous
and devoted Longespe accompanied King John, who
went from place to place like the wild Arab, staying
nowhere, ever restless and inconstant. The Lady Ela
occasionally accompanied her husband in his expeditions,
but she preferred the order and dignity of her own well-
regulated household to the migrations of the court. The
earl, too, was often weary of his mode of life, but his
affection to his brother made him willing to relinquish
his home comforts, and if the king was ever sincerely
attached to any human being, it was to the gallant
Longespe. There is little doubt but that his affection for
the earl induced him to erect a tomb to the memory of his
unhappy mother, whose remains had been removed from
the place of their interment ; it was tastefully embossed
with fine brass, and had an inscription around the edge, f

* Book of Lacock.

•j* A most beautiful copy was deposited, and may still be seen, in
the chamber of Records at Salisbury Cathedral.

of i&ogamonfc'g ffirabe, 103

When the differences that existed between the monarch
and his barons arose to a fearful height, and the month
of June witnessed the proud triumph of the rebel chiefs,
and the acquisition of Magna Charta, on the field
of Runnimede, the brother stood unshaken in his fidelity.
Many had transferred their allegiance from the king to
the prevailing party, and John was reduced by an im-
perious necessity to a reluctant and insincere concession ;
but the banners of the Earl of Salisbury* floated in the
camp of his royal kinsman, together with those of the
Earls of Pembroke, Arundel, and Warren. The country
was quiet for a season, but at length disturbances broke
out again. It was no longer safe to venture unattended,
by an armed force, beyond the precincts of the castle,
and the " most dear friend and brother" of the wayward
monarch, shared in the disasters of his reign. At one
time a prisoner,! at another deputed to place garrisons
in the castles of Windsor, Hertford, and Berkhampstead,
and to cut off supplies from the city of London, where the
insurgents had fixed themselves. At length, hardened
by the scenes of misery to which he had been accus-
tomed, his kindlier feelings seemed to be totally ob-
scured. Marching at the head of troops, with the fierce
Falcasius de Breant, the earl imbibed his spirit, and
shared in his enormities. Before them was often a smil-
ing and well-peopled country, behind them a desolate

« Clause Rolls,
f Dugdale, from a MS. Oxon, in Bibl. Bodl. n. 11. f. 177, et 178. p. a.

104

wilderness,* and while the earl and Falcasius were thus
mercilessly occupied, the king's arms spread equal deso-
lation in other parts, till at length the castles of Mount-
sorrel, in Leicestershire, and that of Robert de Ros, in
Yorkshire, alone remained to the insurgent barons. To
this succeeded the coming over of the French king, in
order to assist the barons, the seeming defection of the
earl, the death of John, and the coronation of young
Henry. The country was again at peace, and Longespe
returned to his home and family. With the passing
away of battle scenes, seemed to have passed also the
fierce spirit of the earl. We hear of him as a kind hus-
band and indulgent father, as a bounteous master, and
one who loved to promote good works. The gentle
influence of Lady Ela apparently recalled him to the mood
of better days, as the associating with De Breant had
urged him to deeds of rapine and injustice. The beau-
tiful cathedral of Salisbury was founded by him, and
thither came, at his request, the bishop of the diocese,
with a few earls and barons, and a vast concourse of
people from all parts, on the day appointed for laying
the first stone. Divine service having been performed in
the ancient edifice, the bishop put off his shoes, and
walked in procession with his clergy to the site of the
new foundation, singing the litany as they went. The
bishop then addressed the people, and taking a stone in
his hand, he placed it in the name of Pope Honorius,
* Matt, of Paris. Clause Rolls.

of J&ogamonti's (Srabe. 105

and afterwards another, for the Archbishop of Canterbury.
The fourth was laid by the Earl of Salisbury, the fifth by
the Countess Ela, "a truly praise- worthy woman/' aswrote
William de Wanda, afterwards Dean of Sarum, " because
she was filled with the fear of the Lord." Other stones
were added by a few noblemen, archdeacons, and canons
of the church of Sarum, amidst the acclamations of the
assembled multitude, many of whom wept for joy, and
gladly contributed according to their ability. A negociation
was then pending with the Welch at Tewkesbury, or the
company would have been much larger, but most of the
nobility who passed that way on their return, requested
leave to add each a stone, and some bound themselves
to make contributions for the next seven years.*

To this succeeded the stern and stirring incidents of war,
for King Henry's brother, having recently received the
honour of knighthood, with the earldoms of Cornwall and
Poictou, it was resolved that he should commence his
military career on the plains of Gascony, under the guid-
ance of his uncle, the Earl of Salisbury, and Philip de
Albeney.f Forth, then, they went, with sixty knights
and their attendants, and an army of French and Eng-
lish, and again were homes despoiled, and castles set on
fire, and fields and vineyards trodden down by hostile

•Register of Osmund, among the MSS. of the Cathedral. Narrative,
by William de Wanda, published in the first volume of Wilkins's
Concilia.

f Matt. Paris. Foedera.

F 5

106 ®|)e tfut«3Tro of ftogamouD'a (Sra&e*

steps, till, having achieved the purpose of their preda-
tory warfare, the earl and his companions embarked
for England. But the nights were dark, and October
winds, gathering strength and fierceness from the early
setting in of a long winter, tost their unwieldy ships like
cockle-shells on the face of the deep waters. The chief-
tains despaired of life, as did the bravest of the seamen,
and the earl resolved to throw overboard whatever he
possessed, either of rings, or gold, or silver, rich vest-
ments, or scutcheoned banners, that as he had entered
life unprovided with them, so he might pass in like
manner to his eternal home. But a waxen light, of large
size and brilliancy, was seen by all on board, suddenly
appearing on the summit of the mast, and near it stood a
female of surpassing beauty, who preserved that warning
light, shining in the midnight darkness, from being
extinguished by the wind or rain. Seeing this, the
mariners took courage, and when the day began
to dawn, the violence of the storm abated, a fresh
gale sprung up, and urged the ship onward to the
isle of Rhe, about three miles distant from Rochelle.
As they neared the coast, an old abbey came in sight, and
thither the earl sent messengers on landing, requesting
favour and protection, and that he might remain concealed
from his enemies till a fair wind should admit of his
returning home. To this the abbot gave consent, and
received both the earl and his companions with kindness
and hospitality. But the island was in charge of Savaric

of

107

de Maloleone, who served the French king, and kept
watch over the adjoining coast, and great peril would
have accrued to Earl William, had not two of Maloleone's
retainers gone secretly to the abbey and warned him to
remain no longer, telling him, that unless he left the
island before the following morning, he would be cap-
tured by their comrades, who guarded the island and the
straits. Upon this the earl, after presenting them with
twenty pounds sterling, hastened to the shore, from which
the whole company embarked on a raging sea. They
trusted, as the distance was but short, that they should
speedily gain the English coast, but in this they were
mistaken, and, for three long wintry months, did those
ill-fated men struggle with the raging elements, before
they arrived within sight of land.*

Meanwhile, the Lady Ela hoped from day to day that
the earl might yet return, but, still as weeks past on, and
the storms of winter gathered strength, she began to fear
that his ships had been lost at sea. There were also
other wives and mothers, who suffered as intensely as the
countess, for among the knights and soldiers that accom-
panied him on his perilous undertaking, many had
families at home, who looked wistfully for their return.
But the Lady Ela had trials that especially attended her
high rank and large possessions, for although a matron,
whose age and dignity might have commanded more
respect, she became an object of pursuit to the fortune-
* Matt. Paris.

108 ®fa HuuSTree of l&ogamon&'g (Srabe.

hunters of the court. Hubert de Burgh, who stood high
in favour with Henry III., sought for his nephew the
hand of the widowed countess, and the youth, entering
with a kindred spirit into the interested views of his
ambitious kinsman, prepared for the undertaking. De
Burgh had been twice at Salisbury in attendance on
the king during the earl's perilous voyage,* and
it is therefore not surprising that the future disposal
of the honours and broad lands of the Lady Ela should
have become an object of his speculations. Henry
III. was said to be much afflicted by the supposed death
of the earl, but when De Burgh petitioned that he would
permit his inheritance to pass with the Lady Ela into
his own family, the king readily gave leave, on condition
that the countess could be induced to- consent. The
justiciary, for such was the office of De Burgh, accordingly
dispatched his nephew, on a courser richjy caparisoned,
with knights and squires sumptuously arrayed, that he
might present himself in a distinguished manner before the
countess. But the lady scorned his suit; she heeded
neither his flattering speeches nor large promises, and
she told him, with becoming dignity, that messengers
had arrived from her absent husband, bringing the wel-
come news that he was both safe and well. She added,
further, that if indeed the earl was dead, she would in
no wise receive the nephew of the Justiciary De Burgh as
a second husband. " Therefore," said she, " you may
* William de Wanda's Church History.

of IfUiSamott&'s Sra&c. 109

seek a marriage elsewhere, because you find that you
have come hither in vain." On hearing this, Reimund
de Burgh became exceedingly crest-fallen, and, having
remounted his gaily trapped courser, he hurried from the
castle with his train.*

The earl returned to his home on the fourth of the
ides of January, and went the following day to see the
king, who was then ill at Marlborough. He made a
heavy complaint to his royal nephew, that base men had
been allowed to insult his countess with proffers unworthy
of her. He had been abroad, he said, and suffered much
in the king's service, and it seemed hard that advantage
should be taken of his protracted absence by the Justi-
ciary de Burgh, to send a certain low-bred man, who was
not even, a knight, into the presence of his wife, with the
intention of constraining her to an unlawful marriage, had
she not most nobly repelled him. He added, moreover,
that unless the king caused full reparation to be made by
the justiciary, for so great an outrage, he would himself seek
redress, though it should involve a serious disturbance of
the country. The king, who was greatly rejoiced to see his
uncle, well knowing that he was both powerful and valor-
ous, did not attempt to excuse himself, and the Justiciary
de Burg being present at the interview, wisely resolved

to atone for his misconduct, by confessing that the fault.

rf
rested with him. He besought the earl to pass the mat-

ter over, and to accept, as a proof of his forgiveness,
* History of LacoCk. Matt. Paris.

1 10 2F!je tfit*9m of Mogamonti'g (Srabe.

some fine horses, and other costly gifts. He next
invited the earl to dine with him, who went accordingly
on the day appointed, but being taken ill immediately
after dinner, he was obliged to return home. Rumours
went abroad that poison had been administered, but the
character of De Burgh does not warrant any suspicion of
the kind.* The hardships which the earl sustained
while abroad, with his subsequent agitation, occasioned by
the insult offered to his countess, were sufficient to account
for his sudden illness. Finding himself dying, he sent
for the Bishop of Salisbury, that he might receive in the
confession and viaticum, such blessings as were needful
to one in his condition. The bishop came immediately,
and, when he entered the apartment, bearing with him
the sacred elements, the earl sprung from his bed, and
hastily tying a rough noose about his neck, he threw him-
self weeping upon the floor. He was, he said, a traitor
to the Most High, and could not rise till he had con-
fessed his past sins, and received the communion of the
life-giving sacrament, that he might testify himself to be
the servant of his Creator. He afterwards continued for
some days in prayer, and such acts of penitence as his
faith enjoined, and he then peaceably yielded up his
soul to his Redeemer ; f to Him " who willeth not the
death of a sinner, but rather that he should turn from his
wickedness and live."

The earl died on the seventh of March, 1226, and
* History of Lacock Abbey. f Matt- of Westminster.

of &ogamon&'0 (Srabe. Ill

his corpse, according to the fashion of the age, was
immediately removed to the cathedral of New Sarum.
The day was stormy, and loud gusts of wind, accom-
panied with heavy rain, swept over the open downs, but
still the funeral train went on, with its long, long line
of torches, for it might not be that the corpse of one who
had been so great on earth, should remain from out the
sacred walls of the cathedral which he had founded. It
was about a mile from the castle to the church, and a
multitude of people followed ; some were loud in their
lamentations, others wept silently as they went ; for the
earl had been a kind master, and it seemed hard that he
should so soon be taken from them, who had but just
returned to his home. They remembered, too, that only
eight weeks before, and at the same hour of the day, he
had passed through the wide portals of the magnificent
cathedral to offer praises and thanksgivings for his
preservation and safe return ; that on the very spot
where he was then received in procession by the clergy,
with great demonstrations of joy,* the same company was
coining forth to meet him, who was now being borne a
corpse before them; for the bier was met at the western
door by the bishop and the neighbouring chieftains, with the
cathedral clergy, choristers, and precentor, chanting in
Latin as they passed up the nave, the same funeral
service which is now chanted in English, on occasions
of public funerals within the walls of cathedrals.
* Chron. of W. de Wanda. Wilkin's Concilia, vol. I page 559.

112 Wbt tfut-ftwe of &ogamon&'g ffirabe.

His martial figure of grey marble still reposes on his
tomb, sleeping, as it were, from century to century with
his sword and shield. The features of this son, and
brother, and uncle of kings, are only partially exposed,
through a small aperture in the hood of mail, which
covers his mouth and chin, the eyebrows betoken some-
what of a lofty and impetuous feeling, but the eyes seem
gentle and intelligent.*

The day of death is light, in comparison of its bitter-
ness, with that of the interment. In the former case,
the spirit indeed has passed away, yet the form remains.
The wife, or child, or parent can sit beside the couch,
and gaze on the still unchanged features. But when
the grave has once closed upon the loved one, what
words can tell the utter desolation that presses on
the heart ! Thus felt the Lady Ela, when the last words
of the solemn service ceased, when the sound of footsteps
neared to the grave's edge, and somewhat heavy seemed
to be letting down into the darkness and the depth, —
when her half-averted eye looked for the last time on the
narrow coffin, resting now within the grave, but soon to
be concealed for ever. Lady Ela heeded not the words
of comfort which the pale priest spoke, nor yet the
solemn chanting that burst forth again, as if to bear her
spirit up with holy hopes from out the wretchedness of
her sad lot. But the Lord, in whom she trusted, did
not forsake her, and when she returned to her home,
* Annals and Antiquities of Lacock Abbey.

of &oj$amcmt)'g &rabe, 113

it was with a firm resolve to devote herself to the service
of her Maker, by cherishing the memory of her husband,
and taking care of her large family.

It was happy for the Lady Ela that she was suffered
to remain in free widowhood; that even the powerful
Justiciary de Burgh and his aspiring nephew dared not
molest her. This was an especial favour, and as such
the countess ever regarded it, for ladies of large estates
were rarely permitted to continue single; their lands
and dignities passed by right of inheritance to persons
whom they were often constrained to marry.* Thus, at
the same period of English history, the rich heiress of
Albemarle conferred the title of earl successively on
her three husbands, William .Mandeville, William de
Fortibus, and Baldwin de Betun. The countess, there-
fore, being priviliged to continue in a widowed state,
exercised the office of Sheriff of Wiltshire, and that of
Castellan of Old Sarum, even when her son became of age,
and claimed, by his mother's wish, the investiture of the
earldom; the king his cousin refused it, not in dis-
pleasure, but according to the principles of feudal law ;
and hence it happened, that in consequence of the Lady
Ela's protracted life, the earldom of Salisbury continued
dormant, and as she survived both her son and grandson,
it was never renewed in the house of Longespe. The
great seal with which the countess ratified the many
legal instruments that were required in the administra-
* Book of Lacock Abbey.

114 Eijc 3Cut=2Tm of i&ogamonli'g (Srabc.

tion of her feudal rights is still extant. We may not
perhaps regard it as presenting a portrait of the Countess
Ela, like the effigy of her husband in Salisbury cathe-
dral, but it affords, no doubt, a faithful resemblance of
her noble and dignified bearing, and of her graceful,
though simple costume. Her right hand is on her
breast, her left supports a hawk, the usual symbol of
nobility, her head is covered with a singularly small cap,
possibly, the precursor of the more recent coronet ; her
long hair flows negligently upon her neck, and on either
side the royal lions of Salisbury appear to gaze on her,
like the lions of Spenser's " Fairy Queen," on the deso-
late lady Una.*

Seven years had now elapsed from the time of the
earl's death, during which the countess sedulously ful-
filled the duties of her high condition. Her eldest son,
who was then a minor, married the rich heiress of two
baronies, the daughter of Richard de Caniville, and the
Lady Eustachia.f Richard, Stephen, and Nicholas
were gone forth into the world, and her daughters
Isabella, Petronilla, Ela, and Sola being either married
or of age, the countess thought herself at liberty to
relinquish the arduous duties in which she had hitherto
been engaged, and to devote herself to a secluded life.
Yielding, therefore, to the natural desire of withdrawing
from the busy world, she proceeded to undertake a task

« Annals of Lacock, p. 180.

t Madox's History of the Exchequer, p. 218.

of &ogamonl)'53

that was calculated as much for a season to add to her
employments, as it afterwards contributed to her repose.

River scenery has ever been a passion with me. I
can gaze unwearied on the tranquil flowing of deep, clear
waters, now shaded with old trees, that droop their
branches to the water's edge, and now by rock and
underwood, where roses and wild honeysuckles, harebells,
and primroses mingle their beauty and their fragrance.
Such is the tranquil Avon, passing in gloom and depth,
dark, silent, and unruffled, among rocks and trees ; or
murmuring in its onward course, with that calm sound of
moving waters which seems to tell of peace and solitude. It
is flowing now, through a spacious and level meadow, with
tall elms, and cattle feeding on its margin, and in the
distance, high spiral chimneys appear at intervals among
the trees. They belong to the ancient nunnery of
Lacock, which the Lady Ela founded ; not standing as
many stand, with smokeless chimneys, lone and tenant-
less, over which the creeping ivy and wild wall- flower
seek to hide the rents of ruin, but dwelt in still ; a
place where the living may think of those who are resting
in the cells beneath, who have neither heard the winds
of winter, nor felt the cheering sunbeams for more than
six hundred years.

This spacious and level meadow, with its tall elms and
cattle, was once a glade ; this bright river, now journey-
ing in shade and sunshine along peopled districts, flowed
once in silence and in loneliness through the ancient

116 SFfje NuUSTm of &o0amont)'$ <5rabe.

forests of Chippenham and Melksham. Yonder, and at a
distance over the wide wood, rises the high and lonely
arch of Malmesbmy Abbey, the " august, but melancholy
mother," as the poet Bowles has well observed, with a
poet's feeling, of many a cell or monastery beside the
Avon. Battlements and buttresses, seen far off in the
bright sunshine, point out the remains of Bradenstoke
Abbey, rising among old trees, and seeming to overlook
the river as it winds through the vale and pastures of
Somerford and Christian Malford. Scarcely a vestige
remains of Stanley priory ; its walls are low and roofless,
but the bright blue " forget-me-not," nestling itself
among ferns and foxgloves in the fissures of the walls,
seems to call upon the passenger to remember that men
once thought, and felt, and suffered, where all now is
silent and deserted— an emblem-flower, a living motto,
inscribed on the wrecks of ruin. But Lacock Abbey,
standing on the verge of the spacious and level meadow,
is still inhabited, and its cloisters are fresh, as if they
were just completed, although the arches are hung with
ivy. More than six centuries have passed since the
Countess of Salisbury came, in the year 1232, accom-
panied by such persons as she loved to consort with, to
this remote part of her hereditary domain. The woods
around were bursting into leaf, and the " one word
spoken" of the contented cuckoo was heard at intervals.
It was early in the month of April,* and as yet the
* Book of Lacock.

of Mogamonti's ®rabe. 117

winds were chill, but April was in unison with her past
life, one of storm and sunshine, and now about to close,
as respected this world's turmoils, amid the beautiful
scenes of woodland and of river. Two monasteries were
founded by the countess on that memorable day ; Lacock,
which she designed for her own abode, in which holy
canonesses might dwell, continually and devoutly serving
the Most High ; the other, the priory of Henton, of the
Carthusian order.* It was believed that the countess
in thus founding these religious establishments, desired
to perform the vows of her husband, which he made
during his great perils, when returning from Gascony to
England. A few years more, and the bright sun which
beamed on the day of the foundation of Lacock nunnery,
looked down on a dark marble stone, which men placed,
with heavy hearts, over the remains of its noble foundress.
" As I stood, in a moody day of the declining year," wrote
one, f who has recorded with deep feeling the long- forgotten
history of the Lady Ela, "and thought of her youthful
romantic history, a gleam of pale sunshine struggled
through the dark drapery of ivy, and fell upon the spot.
At the same moment a wintry bird, which had taken
shelter among the branches, piped one small note; no
other sound was heard amid the profound silence of the
place, and as the short note ceased, the gleam faded also."
* Book of Lacock. f Historian of Lacock Abbey.

The old tree, the old tree,

Has fallen long ago ;
But I shall tell of thee, old tree,

As if thou wert standing now.

How thy ample branches spread,

In the days of ruthless John ;
How they waved o'er the silent dead,

When the last dread deed was done.— M. R.

DANCING lights and shadows are playing on the tomb of
Lady Marian.* They are cast by the old tree whose
waving branches, seen through the lofty window, with its
tracery and mullions, grey and time-worn, recall to my
mind the day in which it stood with its brotherhood
beside the little church of Dunmow, when bold Robin-
hood, the outlawed Earl of Huntingdon, passed and
repassed with his lady and their archers through the
green recesses of Sherwood forest. The contiguous
priory was standing then, but this memorial of the olden
time, the present church of Dunmow, fonned merely the
south aisle of a magnificent collegiate church, and of a
* Marian is the legendary name of the Countess of Huntingdon.

120

religious house founded many years before the days of
Robinhood, by the sister of Raef Baynard, who held the
manor in the time of Domesday survey. Far and near
extended a wild forest with its glens and dingles, but farm-
houses are standing now where the wolf used to range,
and a public road passes within sight of the ancient
building, from which it is divided by a corn-field, and
burying-ground, with head-stones worn and lichen-dotted,
and crumbling from long exposure to the weather. How
still and solemn is this place ! Here knees have bent in
prayer for successive generations, and here successive
generations have been laid to rest ; the poor beside the
church — a few of noble birth within the walls. Sir
Walter Bohun is one of these. His plate armour and
leathern shirt indicate that his days were passed in warlike
deeds, and beside him rests his lady, dame Matilda, who
wears the insignia of her courtly rank ; her tiara and lace, her
earrings and her necklace. Their heads repose on cushions,
and their hands are raised in the attitude of prayer. The
effigies of both have suffered ; the legs of Sir Walter are
broken at the knees, and the delicate fret-work of the
lace which adorns his lady has been rudely handled.
Other steps than those which used to tread softly, as
befits a house of prayer, were heard here when this
deed was done. Men, with peaked beards and round
hats, halted beneath the Oak of Dunmow, and they
thought they did good service to their Maker when they
despoiled the old effigies; they, too, have passed from

aOunmcfo i^rtorg. 121

among the living, and though their sojourn occasioned
great distress and terror in the neighbourhood, no trace of
them remains at Dunmow, excepting in the mischief
which they did. Sir James Hallet rests here also, and a
few mural monuments remain upon the walls, but the
one tomb, which of all others is most dear, upon which
the quivering lights and shadows play, and sunbeams
shed a softened radiance, is that of the Lady Marian.
Shielded by a beautiful screen of dark old oak, coeval
with the building, and which separates the nave from
the chancel ; it stands forth in bold relief, a relic of
the olden time, which the convulsions of ages — foreign
wars and civil feuds, have yet spared. The head is
covered with a woollen coif, the neck encircled with a
collar, and a string of pendants falls upon an embroidered
cape; a rich girdle and long robe, with sleeves close to
the wrists, and hands covered with rings further indicate
her rank. Angels were stationed beside the head, and a
dog crouched on either side her feet. But rough hands
marred this tomb also, the angels, who seemed to watch
over the sleeping effigy, were rudely broken, though the
effigy itself was spared. Perhaps the lady who lay within
the tomb was associated with the fondest recollections of
the rebel leader. It maybe, that he had gathered nuts amid
the open spaces of the forest where she dwelt ; before
years of crime and peril had hardened his young
heart, or, perhaps, when sick and restless upon his bed,
his mother might have told him concerning the Lady

G

122 Bunmofo

Marian's woes and wanderings ; how she fled from her
father's castle, when that castle was in flames, and how
bold Robinhood and Little John shielded her from harm.

More than six hundred years have passed away since
a company of monks from the adjacent priory brought
hither the corpse of Lady Marian to inter it within the
church ; since the boughs of the old tree, waving in the
cold night air, cast their uncertain shadows on the long
train of veiled nuns, as they entered by torch-light the"
low arched door-way of the church.

Marian had passed her young days in Baynard castle,
on the borders of Sherwood Forest. Her father, Richard
Fitz Walter, gave a tournament when his daughter attained
her eighteenth year; knights and squires assembled
from all parts; ladies came attired in robes of costly silk ;
and during three whole days, jousts and sports continued
without intermission ; but on the fourth, a stranger, clad
in burnished mail, entered the lists and vanquished the
bravest of his competitors. No one knew whence he
came, but his gallant bearing and handsome countenance,
won the heart of the young queen of that high festival,
and she trembled when she hung the golden chain around
his neck. It was said, too, by those who looked on, that
the mysterious victor was observed to turn pale ; but he
departed as he entered, suddenly and in haste, and the
tramp of his stately steed was heard afar in the still forest.

Prince John was at the banquet, yet he liked not the
noble owner of the castle ; he had no thoughts in common

SSunmofo pviovj). 123

with those of a true and loyal knight, and having been
reproved for some evil expressions he went away in anger,
and vowed revenge. A few short months and the brother of
Fitz Walter departed for the Holy Land, taking with him
a considerable number of his brother's men-at-arms, when
John, watching his opportunity, led on an armed band
against the castle, and slew its owner. Marian fled to
the green forest, where she wandered all the day,
and concealed herself at night among the underwood.
The next day, she met the stranger knight, whom
she had crowned a short time before, when Baynard
castle was in all its pride, and her father presided there.
His burnished coat of mail was laid aside, and a simple
suit of Lincoln green betokened his mode of life. Soothly
did he greet the lady, and told her not to fear, for though
he was Robinhood, the outlawed Earl of Huntingdon,
at the mention of whose name stern warriors trembled
in their halls, and ecclesiastics turned pale, his good
men should shield her well.

Lady Marian laid aside her whimple and her veil, and
the better to conceal herself, put on a light kind of
armour, such as young men wore on days of festival, for
she had not strength to bear the heavy casque and buck-
ler. In this garb she encountered King John, who
called upon her to surrender ; but he who stood before
her was the murderer of her father, and what will not the
recollection of such a deed produce in even the gentlest
bosom ; in one, too, who, perhaps, had not been taught the

G 2

124

blessed precept which teaches to forgive. " Yield," said the
prince, for he knew not the damsel in her strange attire ;
he thought, most probably, that the youth before him was
in the service of the outlaw, and that his command would be
sufficient to enforce obedience. The stranger was not
thus to be subdued, and so firmly did she maintain her
assumed character, that the prince was obliged to with-
draw. John heard that his antagonist was no other than
the young flower of Baynard castle, Marian, whose father
he had slain, and he resolved to be avenged on her
also.

Maid Marian became the wife of Robinhood, arid when
King Richard restored to him his earldom and estates,
she presided in his baronial hall with equal courtesy and
magnificence. John succeeded to the throne on his
brother's death, and then the vengeance which had long
brooded in his sullen breast fell heavy on the earl ; he
was again outlawed, and for many long and weary years
did his fair young wife follow his fortunes. Time, and
the hardships which he endured, had at length weakened the
strength of the bold outlaw. He tried his shafts one
morning, and finding that they neither flew so far, nor so
fast as his strong arm was wont to send them, he resolved
to repair to Kirkley nunnery, where his cousin presided as
prioress. He had heard much of her skill in medicine,
and hoped that she might stay the fever that raged in his
veins. " Thrice welcome, cousin Robert," she said, but
treachery was in her heart, for she bore no good-will to

39unmofo ^rtor, 125

him who plundered both the church and churchmen.
Robert passed through the strong oaken door, but he
returned not again, save as a corpse borne by his tall
bowmen wearily along, to bury beneath some fine trees
near Kirkley.

At this sad period of her life the countess took refuge
in. Dunmow Priory. It stood in a wild and secluded
spot on the borders of Sherwood Forest ; that great forest
to which she had fled for refuge in her young days, and
where her married life had passed. John heard that she
was there, and he rejoiced in the thought of vengeance,
for he remembered their rencounter in years gone by, and
how she had worsted him on that memorable day.
Summoning, therefore, a gallant knight, Robert de
Medeive, common ancestor of the present Earl Manvers,
and of one, to whom we owe this biographic memoranda
of the Lady Marian, he bade him go with all speed to the
Priory of Dunmow, and present to the Countess of
Huntingdon a valuable bracelet, as a token of amity and
reconciliation. Years chequered with much of sorrow
had passed since the fall of Baynard castle; since the
encounter of Marian and the prince in Sherwood Forest ;
perhaps she had learned in her cell, the blessedness and
the duty of forgiveness. Walter had heard concern-
ing the noble lady who thus cordially received him
as an herald from the king — of the sufferings of her young
days, and how the brave Earl Huntingdon had given her
a home when her own fair patrimony was in the hands of

126 liunmofo

strangers. Her bloom, indeed, had faded, together with the
sprightliness which rendered her the darling of her father's
house ; but her noble bearing and matron beauty which
time still spared, caused the rough warrior to gaze on her
with mingled love and admiration. But he wished not
to be thus entangled, and, therefore, bidding her adieu,
he hastened on his way. The way was long and lonely,
now over a wide common ; now through the depth of a
dark forest, beside a rapid streamlet, or through a valley
where high trees drooped on either side, in all the majesty
and luxuriance of uncultivated nature. The knight
looked not on these, however beautiful ; he cared not for
the grandeur or sublimity of the mighty landscape, which
extended at times before him, or the sylvan beauty of
woodland scenery; he thought only of the high-minded
dame to whom he had borne the pledge of amity ; till
at length her image rose before him with an intensity of
feeling that caused him to turn his horse's head, and to
retrace the way which he had come. The day had closed
in before he reached the priory, but the light of many
tapers streamed through the windows of the adjoining
church on the weary knight, and the dirge of death
sounded solemnly through the stillness of the forest.
The priory seemed deserted ; there was no one to answer
his impatient questions ; all were either within the church
or around the door, and thither he too hastened with
trembling steps, for his heart sunk within him. The
chancel was lighted up, and before the curiously carved

SBumnofo rior. 127

screen of dark old oak lay the corpse of the Lady Marian ;
it was covered with flowers according to the fashion of
the age, for as yet this custom of the olden time was not
laid aside. The bracelet was on her wrist; its fier
poison had dried her life's blood, and cankered the flesh
it touched. Her face was ghastly pale, but a heavenly
smile irradiated her fine countenance ; it told that all
within was peace — that even the last dire deed had not
disturbed her thought of heaven. The veiled nuns stood
around — their loud sobs were heard, even the officiating
priests and brothers wept bitterly ; and the " dies irae"
died away on their quivering lips as the warrior entered.
He flung himself upon the bier, and uttered, in the wild-
ness of his anguish, a thousand maledictions on his
wretched head. It was long before he could be removed,
and then he returned neither to the camp nor court. He
relinquished his mail and helmet for the cowl and gown, and
became a faithful brother of the order of St. Augustine.

Peace be with thee, noble lady; a quiet waiting in the
place of rest, whither thy spirit is departed, for the
summons of thy Lord. This earth has changed greatly
since thy young feet trod the precincts of Sherwood
Forest ; the contiguous priory has fallen down, thy
father's castle is still in ruins ; all thy companions in the
hall and cloister have passed from the earth ; and here,
within this venerable relic of the olden time, in the
midst of a field of corn, reposes thy mortal frame.
Lady Marian — Peace be with thee. Rest in hope, till

128

the hour of His coming, who shall awake all those who
sleep in him, and when, to borrow the beautiful language
of inspiration, the groaning creation " shall be delivered
from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty
of the children of God." *

When the Holy One, the Glorious One, returns in might and power,
And the long-oppressed world emerges, from out her darksome hour ;
Her darksome hour of grief, and death, and bitter pain,
When the Holy One, the Blessed One, returns to earth again.

Where the hosts of Satan trod, bright angels shall descend,
And loved ones, and vanished ones, their steps shall hither wend.
They come from the silent land, where they have waited long,
And sweet as mortals never heard shall be their choral song.

We too shall sing with them, for the curse shall pass away,
And earth look brighter far than on her natal day,
When the Lord for whom we waited in glory comes to reign,
And many whom we dearly loved do follow in his train. — M. JR.

* Rom. viii. 21.

Lone, beside the forest rill,

Stands an old tree reft and broken ;
'Neath its scant boughs waving still,

Words of faith and hope were spoken,
In time of dearth and bitter woe,
At least six hundred years ago. — M. R.

BRITAIN was anciently divided into a variety of states,
which bore the names of those who dwelt in them, or
else had reference to some peculiarity of situation or of
climate. When the Romans gained the ascendancy,
they put aside the way-marks of the olden times, and
divided their new territories into Britannia Barbara,
Prima, and Secunda, with such lesser partitions as pleased
them best. Then came the Saxons. They, too, made
changes, and he who returned after some years' absence
to the shores of Britain, sought in vain for the places
which he remembered in early life, and with which the
dearest associations were connected. The plains and
rivers, the hills and valleys, still remained, and above
them extended the blue heavens, for men could not dry

G 5

130

up the fountain of the one, nor vary the aspect of the
other, nor cause the glorious moon and planets to for-
sake their prescribed bounds. All else was changed-
Most of the towns and villages had new names given
them, and from out the chaos of war and time arose the
seven kingdoms of the Saxon Heptarchy. Minor changes
followed, and when Alfred united the whole country
under his paternal sway, he projected a final division of
the kingdom into counties, with well-defined boundaries
and names.

The counties were again divided into parishes, and
then commenced the annual festival of marking the
respective boundaries. This was done by the inha-
bitants, who went round them every year, and stopped at
certain spots, where different ceremonies were performed,
in order that the localities might be impressed on the
memory of the young, as they were attested by the
recollections of the old. Rogation week, or one of the
three days before Holy Thursday, the feast of our
Lord's ascension, was selected for the purpose, at which
time the minister of the parish, accompanied by his
churchwardens and chief parishioners, went round the
boundaries, and stopped at remarkable spots and trees,
where he recited passages in the gospels, and implored
the blessing of the Most High on the fruits of the earth,
beseeching Him to preserve the rights and properties of
the inhabitants, and to keep them in safety. Many a
memorial-tree, thus honoured, earned down the recollec-

131

tion of bygone days to the men of other generations ;
and among these the gospel-beech, which stood at a
short distance from an ancient Saxon town, among the
beautiful beech woods of Gloucestershire, recalled to
mind that ages must have passed since that failing tree,
shadowed with its ample foliage the earth beneath.
Now time-worn and riven, hollow, too, yet throwing out
green leaves in the spring, it marked one of the ex-
tremities of the parish, in its retired coppice on the
rugged side of a wild common, while beside it a stream
gushed forth, and went leaping and sparkling into the
vale below. A variety of flowers grew round the well-
head of the stream, the primrose and the snowdrop, the
yellow daffodil and violet, all young, and fresh, and
lovely, as if in mockery of the time-worn tree. There
stood the parishioners, in their doublets, with heads
uncovered, while the priest recited a few appropriate
sentences from that holy book in which he loved to
instruct them. Playful children, too, were there, young
men and maidens, for on such occasions most of the
parishioners trooped forth, some because they loved
their pastor, and were glad to hear the sacred words that
proceeded from his lips; others because the walk was
pleasant, and to gather the early flowers of the year.
This custom, itself of great antiquity, was conjectured to
be derived from the Pagan feast of Terminalia, the
fabled guardian of fields and landmarks, and the pro-
moter of good fellowship among men. It was adopted

132

by the Christians during a period of calamity and death,
and now a gospel-tree or stone, stands as a memorial in
almost every parish. The site was duly visited from
year to year, and the doing so was attended with circum-
stances of peculiar interest. He who had traced the
boundaries of his parish with manly step, and who with
unwrinkled brow, erect and firm, read the sentences that
breathed of confidence and truth, changed with the
changing years. When a few years had passed by, it
became toil and weariness to him to trace the same rounds.
Those who as playful boys, intent on sport, had been
thrust into the stream that marked in one place the
boundary of the parish, or dragged in another through a
coppice, or driven up a tree as if in anger, to make them
remember the boundaries, were now grave and thoughtful
men, with young striplings beside them. A few years
more, and not one of the grown-up people are left.
The gospel-tree may remain, but of those who stood as
boys or aged men, as young maidens or grave matrons,
beneath its shade, some will be laid down in the narrow
house, and others will not even present a trace of what
they were. Another minister will fill the office of his
predecessor, and even the younger children will be
grown up to manhood. He who then passes through
the village may see old and wrinkled persons looking
from their cottage windows, or seated on the green to
bless the procession. Those aged persons are strangely
altered from what they were. Who may recognise in

133

them, the young men and maidens, who now with joyous
hearts and- unwearied steps, are pressing round the
boundaries !

Thus might have thought and felt the men and
women who first stood beside the gospel-tree when
the experience of a few short years gave them some
little insight into the changes of human life. When
not a trace of that company remained, others stood in
the same place, and many thought the same among
succeeding generations ; content to suffer, and to see
the breaking asunder of every earthly tie, of all that
renders life desirable, while yet the sacred volume
declares to those who read and understand, that the
present state of human wretchedness is not designed to
last for ever.

:

$Uiin0 of Cltpstmte

Where have ye gone, ye statesmen great,
That have left your home so desolate ?
Where have ye vanished, king and peer,
And left what ye liv'd for, lying here ?
Sin can follow where gold may not,
Pictures and books the damp may rot ;
And creepers may hang frail lines of flowers
Down the crevices of ancient towers :
But what hath passed from the soul of mortal,

Be it thought or word of pride,
Hath gone with him through the dim, low portal,

And waiteth by his side.— F. W. FABER.

LITTLE now remains of the old palace where King John
and Edward I. resided. Creeping ivy covers the once
strong walls, and large elder bushes springing from out
the rents which time has made, afford a shelter to such
birds as like to build their nests in solitary places. The
goatsucker is one of these ; you may hear her mournful
voice at night, as if she bewailed and lamented the down-
fall of the once stately building ; the gray owl is also
there; the jackdaw and carrion-crow ; they are never
seen beside the cottage door, or in cheerful apple-or-

136 &ufn* of

chards, covered with blossoms, where the goldfinch and
linnet, the joyous throstle and the bullfinch, love to
nestle. All is lonely here, the long grass which grows
wild and high, around and within the ruin, is rarely
trodden on, and so damp and chill is the feeling of the
place, that the sheep and cattle that graze upon the
common rarely seek it, unless in the hottest 'summer-
day, when they cannot find shelter elsewhere. Yet this
lone and melancholy spot was not always thus deserted :
the broken-down walls encircled a spacious area, within
which was all the life and business, the gladness and
festivity of a palace ; there was the great hall and the
refectory, the chapel, where prayer was duly offered,
the rooms of state, and apartments of various descrip-
tions. Men-at-arms guarded the strong gate by night
and by day, and when its ample doors were opened by
the king's command, a troop of horse might freely pass,
and large companies did come and go, for great hos-
pitality was occasionally exercised in Clipstone palace.

Fancy, that nimble fairy, who calls up the images of
bygone days, who causes men to live again, and re-
people the fair scenes in which they once rejoiced or
suffered ; who builds up the ruined wall, and removes
the unsightly branches which keep off the pleasant sun-
beams, bids the stately palace of Clipstone to stand
forth in all its majesty. Touched by her wand, the
mists of ages have rolled away, and surely a more
goodly building rarely meets the eye.

of eitpstone Palace. 137

The walls are thick, and the embattled parapets pre-
sent a range of towers, each of which are firmly guarded.
The knight or palmer, he who comes in peace or war,
has to pass over a strong drawbridge, and through the
barbican or watch-tower by which the castle is further
strengthened. He sees over his head a portcullis armed
with iron spikes like a harrow, and as he passes through
the long stone passage, he hears the heavy tread of the
guard going their rounds along the high wall, by which
the entrance is flanked on either side. The deep moat
with its heavy and sluggish waters, the inner and outer
ballia, the guard and the portcullis, all and each betoken
that the country is in an unsettled state ; but within the
area on which the castle stands all is bustle and anima-
tion, its ample space contains barracks and residences
for the workmen attached to the palace, together with a
well and chapel, and in the centre stands the keep, where
the king presides, and where his great officers have their
abode. A terrace walk extends around the keep, and
appended to it is a straight bowling-green, where amuse-
ments of various kinds are going on. The old castle
looks gloomy to him who passes by ; it stands an
isolated object, stern and lonely, as if nothing within
or around it, held communion with any living thing.
But such is not the case, for the monarch holds his court
here ; King John, -who has lately come to the throne,
and with him is that kind and gentle lady, his fair
queen, who tries to soften the rugged temper of her

138 &wng of (SHtpgton* palace.

husband. Lords of high degree are invited guests ;
with them are a large company of knights and squires,
and while tilts and tournaments are going on within the
walls, the retainers of the castle are seen coming with
provisions, or else driving both sheep and cattle, for the
demand for them is great. Alms are duly given by the
express desire of the queen, and those who seek for shelter
are hospitably entertained.

In winter, the banquet room is lighted up with
large torches, and a band of minstrels make the castle
resound with their songs and roundelays. You may
hear occasionally the trampling of horses, even when the
company are set at table, and see a number of young
gallants, of knights, too, and minstrels, coming through
the great stone entrance, mounted on steeds richly ca-
parisoned, and clad in fantastic vestments of green and
gold, with high caps and ribands. Thus accoutred, they
ride round the hall, and pay their respects to the assem-
bled guests with such speeches as best please them.
But torches are not needed now, for summer is at its
height. Some converse in the great halls, others mount
to the top of the high keep, where they amuse them-
selves with observing the comers and goers from the
castle, and in watching whether any knights or ladies,
mounted on their palfreys, are coming from afar ;
others go forth to hunt over the wild moor, or to chase
the deer in his forest haunts. Others, again, amuse
themselves with tennis, or foot-ball, or in feats of arms.

ftutn* of ©Hpistone palace, 139

Knights and squires are seen going to and fro, con-
versing on foreign news, or on the valorous achieve-
ments of those with whom they are acquainted.

The queen thinks well of such proceedings, and she
endeavours to promote the kindly intercourse that sub-
sists within the walls. But now they are put aside.
The king is weary of them. The jest and laugh, the
discoursing of the old, and the amusements of the
young, suit not with his turn of mind or the sad condi-
tion of the country. He has other thoughts than those
of gladness and festivity, and growing weary of the
hospitable life which he is constrained to lead at Clip-
stone palace, he has suddenly withdrawn from thence
and gone to London.

Clipstone looks lonely now. The minstrel's harp is
silent, neither knights nor ladies ride forth over the
wild moor, and rarely does any one seek for hospitality
within the walls. A few men-at-anns guard the place,
and you may hear the baying of the watch-dogs at
eveningtide ; but this is rather from impatience than ne-
cessity, for they miss the riders who used to pat their
shaggy heads, and speak to them as they passed.

Sad rumours are afloat, but the place is so remote
that no one knows what to believe. Some say that a
civil war has broken out ; others that the country is laid
under an interdict, that the church doors are to be
closed, and that no one is to be interred in consecrated
ground.

140 &um* of ©Itpgtone palace.

A church may be seen among the trees, beside the
stream where it forms a small cascade that falls with a
pleasant murmur into the vale below. It is a church of
the olden time, with its primitive-looking porch, and
creeping vine. Prayers have been offered there ever
since the days of Alfred, and beside it the villagers have
been laid to rest for successive generations : a few bells
call the people to their matins and vespers, and some
images stand within the walls of the edifice.

Prayers may not be offered now, for the good old
priest has received orders to close the doors, and to take
down the bells. It is sad to see the few images that have
long recalled to recollection the holy lives of those whose
memory they are designed to perpetuate, lying with the
ancient cross upon the ground, and, as if the air itself is
polluted, and may pollute them by its contact, the priest
and his attendants carefully cover them, even from their
own approach and veneration. The bells, too, which used
to ring out, that all might hear and make ready for the
house of prayer, are taken down and placed beside the
grey tower from whence they had long sounded in sea-
sons of gladness or sorrow. No one hears the passing
bell that was wont to call the neighbours to intercede
for him who lay weak and sinking upon his bed.

The living partake of no religious rite, except baptism
to new-born infants and the communion to the dying ;
the dead may not lay in consecrated ground, neither are
words of peace, nor any hallowed ceremony spoken or

of ^Itpstone palace. 141

performed at their obsequies. Graves are opened beside
the public road, on some wild common, or lone forest ;
those who dig them seem filled with more than usual sad-
ness, for they have not yet learned to think that it is a
matter of indifference where their friends are buried.
Strange it is, that in these fearful times any should
think of marrying. Yet such there are, and now a bridal
company is seen passing up the narrow pathway that leads
to the small church. The sun shines as brightly as if all
on earth were happy ; the trees wave in the soft summer
wind, and the butterflies and bees flit from one flower to
another, or rest on the tufts of wild thyme that skirt the
path. But the old people look exceeding sorrowful,
and there are no smiles on the faces of the young. They
stop at the entrance of the churchyard, at the old stile
with its thatched roof, where part of the ceremony is wont
to be performed, and the bride and bridegroom stand
there, as if they almost feared to go on. The sod which
used to be kept so nicely that a weed might not lift up its
head unbidden, has grown long and rank. It overtops
the graves ; and the thistle, and that unsightly weed the
great cow-parsnip, with its sickly-looking flower, has sprung
up in rank luxuriance. The bells are placed beside the
church, and near them the images, and the one old cross
are lying on the ground, covered up in a manner which
cause them to look like corpses waiting for interment.

In a moment the old church and its venerable yew —
the sad bridal company — the bells and images are gone.

142 Mum* of eUpjstone

A new scene presents itself, for more than eighty years
have passed since these things were done, and the aspect
of everything is changed.

Clipstone Palace does not look gloomy now. Altera-
tions have been made, though it is difficult to say how or
where. There is the keep and the bastion, the wall and
moat, but the place looks lighter, the men-at-arms are
not so heavily loaded with armour, and the knights and
ladies wear a lighter and a gayer dress. Their palfreys
are elegantly caparisoned, and they go forth with hawks
upon their wrists, and hounds running by their sides, with
only a few attendants. The dwellings o f the poorer classes
are more comfortable than in the days of John, and they
have around them small enclosures, in which grow pot-
herbs, and fragrant flowers. The country, too, is culti-
vated in many parts, and all look peaceful and contented.

He who surveys the landscape from an eminence,
will observe that houses have been built, which, although
not rising to the dignity of castles, have much of the
ancient baronial style, being strongly moated, and having
the entrance guarded with a portcullis. They consist of a
quadrangle, with a large area in the centre, into which
both sheep and oxen are often driven for greater security
by night. The fields around are in general well attended
to, and large gardens, stocked with fruit and vegetables,
supply not only the wants of the respective families, but
also provides abundance of such medicinal herbs, as is
convenient to have within reach. This style of building

J&uing of <£lip2tone palace. 143

evinces a considerable improvement in society, for during
the insecure condition of the country, when Clipstone
Palace was last brought into view, every baronial residence
was strongly fortified, and scarcely any intermediate
gradations existed between the vassal and his lord, except
in commercial cities. Men had consequently little
inclination to cultivate the arts of peace. The knight or
squire who rode forth fully caparisoned, and armed cap-a-
pie, turned not aside his charger into the recesses of the
forest to gather such beautiful flowers as might grow
therein, when there was danger in his path ; the serf, who
toiled hard to sustain his wife and children, had neither
time nor inclination to seek out, or to plant around his
cabin either the wild rose or the honeysuckle. The
wild rose grew, as now it grows, fragrant and beautiful ;
the honeysuckle, too, and wild flowers of all scents and
hues sprung beside the common, or skirted the thorny
brake ; but the outlaw often lurked among them, and it
was death to him who sought, unarmed or alone, the
beautiful solitude of nature. But now that the country-
is at peace, and the towns and cities contain a class of
persons who grow rich by commerce, and who frequently
obtain in their intercourse with foreign nations, curious
specimens both of art and nature, men begin to lay aside
that dread of their fellow-men which has hitherto caused
them to think most of their personal safety, and to direct
their attention towards improving their own condition.
The dwellings which arose in consequence throughout

144 &utns of (£ltp$toiu palace,

the country, and give the traveller a feeling of security
as he passes beside their gardens, or through the path-
ways which lead across the fields, are inhabited by a class
of men who had no political existence in the days of
John. These are the lesser barons. They originated
with the partition of the great estates which had been
given by the Norman conqueror to his immediate fol-
lowers, and which anciently conferred power on indivi-
dual families. Many of these had escheated to the crown
when the heads of them, having taken part in civil broils,
either fell in battle or fled into foreign lands. The king
then generally parcelled such estates among his courtiers
according to their merits ; others were divided, either to
make provisions for younger children, or partitioned
among coheirs, and hence originated a number of small
estates, which required economy in the management, and
caused the proprietor to remain much at home, where he
occupied himself in cultivating his paternal or appro-
priated acres, and in attending to his cattle.

It is the wise policy of Edward, who resides much at
Clipstone Palace during the pleasant months of summer,
to encourage and protect the lower orders of society. He
is not ignorant concerning the transactions of other days ;
though a long interval has elapsed since the crown was
overawed by the turbulent barons in the days of John ;
since that stern and vindictive monarch sat sullenly
brooding over his sad condition, and devising schemes for
aggrandisement or revenge in the same apartment which

&utm» of ©Itpsitone palace. 145

King Edward enlivens with his presence ; from the
embattled parapets of which he can survey the smiling
and well-peopled landscape.

A fine young oak grew on the west side of Clipstone
Palace in the days of John ; it was noticed at that time
for its girth and height, and was much admired by many
who resided within the park. Parties were assembled
occasionally beneath its shade, and the minstrel would
wake up his harp in a fine summer evening. Those
who loved his lays gathered around him, and while they
listened to the deep music that he poured forth, and to
the thrilling strains by which it was accompanied, the
sun often set below the horizon, and his beams shed a
purple light on the rising ground, while the plain country
and the woods were covered with the mists of evening.
Had the tree a voice, or could its leaves form words
when shaken by the wind, how much of ancient history —
how many tales of loves and woes — of human suffering
and human joys, would be unfolded ! The tree looks
not now as it did then ; somewhat of its grace has passed
away, but there is more of majesty ; the branches are
exceeding ample, and the stem is beginning to be slightly
furrowed. Knights and ladies still sit beneath its shade,
as in the days of John, and the minstrel's harp is awakened
at their bidding, while the same bright sun is setting in
his glory behind the hills, on which the inmates of the
palace looked in bygone days. The same hopes and
joys — the same ties of family and of kindred, were
among them as among those of the present day. Modi-

H

146 &utn$ of IHtpgtone palace.

fied, indeed, by the times in which they lived — by the
hopes or the misgivings of that eventful period, but still
the same in all their bearings, on the weal or woe of
knight or lady, sire or son.

Now there is another company sitting there ; men of
grave countenances and full age. Their plaited ruffs and
satin doublets, their high-crowned hats and plumes,
though reverently laid aside, the richness of their vest-
ments and, above all, their dignified demeanour, show
that they are of high degree. Some have broad and
ample foreheads, furrowed with deep thought; others
seem worn with care ; some again appear to have sustained
the shock of many battles, and among them are a few
with staffs and crosiers, whose countenances denote a
life of prayer and abstraction. This goodly company
are the counsellors of the king, together with the greater
and lesser barons and knights, assembled at his bidding :
they hold a parliament beneath the noble tree, for such
is the royal pleasure. The king presides in state among
them, and right and left, and immediately before him,
seats are placed for those whose rank entitles them to the
pre-eminence, while the burgesses sit apart. They are
deliberating on matters of great importance ; on the
affairs, perhaps, of Scotland ; for the young Queen Mar-
garet is dead, and the king is devising schemes for
obtaining possession of the country. It is a solemn sight
to, see men thus deliberating, as if eternity depended on
their decision, while the very tree beneath which they

iftutns of ©lipgtcwe palace. 147

meet, and the adjacent palace, might teach that human
life is even as a vapour.

Gradually as the mist of ages were dispersed, so gra-
dually do they return. They gather over the assembly,
and cover, as with a light transparent mantle, the palace
with its embattled parapets, and men-at-arms, the moat,
and drawbridge. Fainter and fainter grows the scene;
the king may yet dimly be discerned, and one among the
rest seems speaking with great earnestness; now the
strained eye discerns them no longer. All and each are
concealed from the view. Where stood the noble oak,
and those who were assembled beneath its branches, a
solitary spot of ground, with an aged, riven, and time-
worn tree, alone appears : in the place of a stately palace,
broken ruins meet the eye, and a few straggling sheep
graze beside them.

m ti)t f^eto

" The fire from off the hearth hath fled,
The smoke in air has vanished.
The last, long, lingering look is given ;
The stifled sigh, and the parting groan,
And the sufferers on their way are gone."

THE memorial-tree, from which the arrow of Sir Walter
Tyrrel glanced, and beside which the king lay extended
on the ground, is now exceeding old, and scarcely a trace
remains of its former greatness. It stood in this wild
spot, when the stern decree went forth, which enjoined that
throughout the whole extent of the south-western part of
Hampshire, measuring thirty miles from Salisbury to the
sea, and in circumference at least ninety miles, all trace
of human habitation should be swept away. William
might have indulged his passion for the chase in the
many parks and forests which Anglo-Saxon monarchs
had reserved for the purpose, but he preferred rather to
have a vast hunting-ground for his " superfluous and
insatiate pleasure" in the immediate neighbourhood
of Winchester, his favourite place of residence. The
wide expanse that was thus doomed to inevitable desola-
tion was called Ytene or Ytchtene ; it comprised nume-
rous villages and homesteads, churches, and ancestral

152 &umeU Ftllageg in tfje N*fo

halls, where Saxon families of rank resided, and where an
industrious population followed the daily routine of pas-
turage and husbandry.* A large proportion had been
consequently brought into cultivation ; yet sufficient
still remained to afford a harbour for numerous wild
animals. This part comprised many sylvan spots of
great beauty, with tracts of common land, covered with
the golden blossomed gorse, and tufts of ferns, or else
with short herbage, intermingled with wild thyme.
Noble groups of forest-trees were seen at intervals, with
clear running streams, and masses of huge stones which
projected from among the grass. The sun rose on the
morning of the fatal day in cloudless beauty, and fresh
breezes tempered the heat, which, at harvest-time
is often great; the people were already in the fields,
and the creaking of heavy-laden waggons was heard at
intervals, with the sweeping sound of the rapid sickle.
In a moment the scene was changed. Bands of Norman
soldiers rushed in and drove all before them. They trod
down the standing corn, and commanded the terrified
inhabitants of hall and hut, to depart in haste. More
than one hundred manors, villages, and hamlets were
depopulated, even the churches were thrown down — those
venerated places, where the voice of prayer and thanks-
giving had been heard for generations ; where the young
bride pledged her vows, and where words of peace were
spoken to cheer the hearts of those who laid their friends
* Rapin.

&utnel) FtUagc* in tlje Xcfo jfpoust. 153

to rest beside the walls. He who passed the next day
over the wide waste, saw only ruins black with smoke,
trampled fields, and dismantled churches. Here and
there broken implements of husbandry met the view,
and beside them, not unfrequently, the corpse of him
who had dared to resist the harsh mandate of the Con-
queror. Females, too, had fallen to the earth in their
terror and distress, and young children were in their
death-sleep, among the tufts of flowers where they had
sported the day before. Many stately buildings were
pulled down at once ; others, having their roofs thrown
open, were left to be destroyed by the weather, and
hence it not seldom happened that a stranger, in passing
through a meadow into one of those shady coverts, which
still varied the aspect of the country, forgetting, in the
freshness and the loveliness of all around him, the
terrible undoings of previous days, might see through the
undulating branches of the trees, the walls or roofs of
houses, which looked as if they had escaped the general
ruin. They stood, apparently, in the midst of cultivated
fields, occasionally by the road side, and their pointed
roofe were covered with the vine* or honeysuckle. On a
nearer approach the illusion vanished, not a sound dis-
turbed the silence of the place ; the houses which looked
so inviting when seen at a short distance, showed that the
hand of ruin had done its work. The doors were broken
open, the windows dashed in, the roofs were open to the
winds of heaven, and the little gardens overrun with

H 5

154 ifcuinefc FUlages in tf)c ttftfu

weeds. Large rents appeared in the walls, which were
generally made of wood, neatly plastered, and he who
looked through the breaches saw that tufts of rank grass,
had grown up in the spaces between the stones, with
which the floors were occasionally paved. The ruins of
an antique abbey were often close at hand, with its richly
painted windows, broken through and through; or, per-
haps, the shattered walls of some hospitable dwelling, in
which a Saxon thane had resided. The open space
before the house, where, in summer weather, the family
used to assemble, where the harp was heard, and the
young people amused themselves with sports of various
kinds, was overrun with weeds. There was no print of
footsteps on the grass, no trace that the place had recently
been inhabited; those who once lived there had found
another home ; perhaps the low and silent one which
alone remains for the houseless and the miserable.

It was said of the proud Norman, that he loved wild
beasts as if he had been their father. He enacted laws
for their preservation, which tended to render him
extremely unpopular, and while the slaying of a man
might be atoned for by a moderate compensation, it was
decreed, that whoever should kill a stag or deer, a wild
boar, or even a hare, should be punished with total blind-
ness.* Even the Norman chiefs, who were in general
great lovers of the chase, were prohibited from keeping
sporting dogs on their own estates unless they subjected
* M. Paris.

&umeD Finages in tf)e Jicfo Jfwtt. 155

the poor animals to such a mutilation of their fore-paws
as rendered them unfit for hunting. This enactment
pressed hard upon the Norman and English barons, for
many of them depended chiefly for subsistence on their
bows and nets.

Where the labour of man has ceased, vegetation soon
asserts her empire, and fields, when left to themselves,
become, according to their soil, either wild or stony, or
else covered with a dense growth of underwood, and
tall trees. Such was the case over the wide expanse
which had been rendered desolate ; the spaces of common
ground, with golden blossomed gorse and wild thyme,
continued such as they had been, but trees grew thick
and fast, the beautiful groves became woods in the course
of a short time, and the once cultivated country was
rapidly absorbed in the wilderness portions of Ytchtene.
A vast forest darkened the land, and all trace of ruined
homes and dismantled churches disappeared in many
parts, while in others, either the line of erections might
be traced by the elevation of the soil, or else large
blocks of stone, and here and there a broken arch, or
doorway, long pointed out the site of a church or castle.
Names, too, are even now retained, with the recollection of
their own sad histories. Church-place and Church-moore
seems to mark the solitary spots as the sites of ancient
buildings, where the Anglo-Saxons worshipped and dwelt
in peace, before the stern decree of the unrelenting
conqueror razed the sacred edifices. Thompson's

156 &uhteD Spillage* tn t&e j£efo

Castle recalls to mind, the cheerfulness and hospitality
that presided in an ancestral hall, while the termination
of ham and ton, annexed to many of the woodlands, may
be taken as an evidence that where innumerable boughs
are waving, a thronging population once inhabited.

The memorial-tree, which now stands lone and
seamed, was then a sapling, for such we may conjecture
to have been the case, according to the well-known
longevity of forest-trees. Three events of great inte-
rest are associated with it — the making desolate a wide
extent of country ; the death of the proud Norman, by
whose command the work of ruin was achieved; and
the untimely end of his successor.

Had the history of William I. been written with
reference to his private actions, it might be noticed that
a tissue of domestic sorrows succeeded to the laying
desolate of Ytchtene. His wife Matilda died a few
years after, and his fair daughter Gundreda, the che-
rished one in her father's house, was cut off in the flower
of her youth. He saw with grief the jealousy that sub-
sisted between his sons William and Henry, and during
the time that Duke Robert, his first-born, continued an
exile and a fugitive, Richard, his second son, was gored
to death by a stag, as he was hunting over the wide
expanse which his father had depopulated. Men spoke
of the sad event as a just punishment on him who had
respected neither the lives nor feelings of those who
once had dwelt there. Some said, this is but one;

(Soing afaoal) of William ti)e ©onqucrot. 157

we shall see others of his family to whom the forest will
prove fatal, and they spoke true.

War was declared with France, and a gathering of the
bandit chiefs who had accompanied the king from
Normandy, with their sons, and all who held of him a
fief, was convened at Sarum. Thither, accordingly,
they came, barons and men-at-arms, abbots and then-
vassals, to the number of six thousand, all bound to do
service to the king, and having oaths of homage and
allegiance tended to them in the place of their assem-
bling, that both those who went, and such as remained
behind, might afresh remember to do his bidding.
Sarum was well suited for the purpose, both on account
of its accommodations, and the fine downs by which it
was surrounded. It was anciently a place of considerable
note, at first a Roman station, afterwards the residence
of the Emperor Severus.

When the assembly which had met at Sarum was
dissolved, the king returned to London, whence he
shortly afterwards departed for the continent, taking
with him his two sons, and a " mighty mass of money,"
as wrote one who lived at the time, " piled together for
some great attempt," and followed by the execrations of
his Saxon subjects. The object of the expedition was
expressly to take possession of the city of Mantes, with
a rich territory situated between the Epte and the Oise.
It is needless to speak of the negociations with which
the French king endeavoured to amuse his rival, while

158 Isolation of

he secretly authorized his barons to make excursions on
the frontiers of Normandy ; or of the deadly hatred
which induced William to delay his attack on Maine till
the approach of autumn made his vengeance more
dreadful to the country. The corn was nearly ready for
the sickle, and the grapes hung in ripening clusters on
the vines, when the fierce king ordered his men to
advance on the devoted territory ; when in the bitterness
of his spirit he marched his cavalry through the corn-
fields, and caused his soldiers to tear up the vines and
cut down the pleasant trees. Mantes could offer but
a weak resistance, and the town was set on fire. This
was the last scene of the tragedy in which the Norman
conqueror had acted a conspicuous part ; which com-
menced on the battle-field of Hastings, and ended in
the monastery of St. Gervas. Riding beside the ruined
town, to view the misery which he had wrought, his
horse trod on some hot cinders ; the frightened creature
plunged violently, and the king being unable to retain
his seat, fell to the ground. The injury which he
sustained caused him to be carried in a litter to a
religious house, in the neighbourhood of Rouen, where
his army was encamped, for he could not bear, he said,
the noise of the great city. It was told by those who
were present at the time, that although he at first
preserved much apparent dignity, and conversed calmly
on the events of his past life, and concerning the
vanity of human greatness ; when death drew near,

of 2&illtam, 159

the case was otherwise. He then spoke and felt as a
dying man, who was shortly to appear before the
tribunal of his Maker, there to render an account of all
the deeds which he had done, of all the gifts committed
to his care, of his riches and his power. His hard
heart softened then, and he bitterly bewailed the
cruelties which he had committed. He thought of the
fair city which he had ordered to be set in flames, and
though he could not bring to life the many who
had fallen in the dreadful day of its undoing, nor soothe
the mental anguish which that day had caused, he sent
a messenger in haste with a large sum for the rebuilding
of the monasteries and churches. The noble patrimony
which he had wrested from ill-fated Harold, was con-
sidered with other thoughts than those with which he left
the shores of England. A large sum was also remitted to
the religious houses, that he might obtain remission for the
robberies which he had committed there. Some who
waited beside his couch suggested that whoever sought
for mercy at the hand of the Most High, must show
mercy to his fellow-men, and they entreated him to
remember the unhappy persons who had pined for
many years in their lone prison-houses, shut out from all
the privileges of social life. The fierce king felt that it
was easier to give money for rebuilding churches
than pardon to an enemy ; and it was not till he appre-
handed his last hour to be close at hand, that he gave
orders for releasing the state-prisoners. The Earls of

160 Beijucgtg of tDe IBttng,

Moriar, of Beron, and Ulnot, the brother of Harold,
were accordingly set at liberty ; and the Norman, Roger
Fitz Osborn, formerly Earl of Hereford, with Odo, the
turbulent Bishop of Bayeux, also received permission to
leave their respective prisons, although the king re-
marked with reference to the latter, that by so doing
he was letting loose a firebrand, that might desolate
both England and Normandy.

One morning early, the chief prelates and barons
received a summons to assemble with all haste in the
chamber of the king, who finding his end approach,
desired to finish the settlement of his affairs. They
came accordingly, though the day had not yet dawned,
and found with him his two sons, Henry and William,
who waited impatiently for the declaration of his will.
" I bequeath the duchy of Normandy," said he, " to
my eldest son Robert. As to the crown of England, I
bequeath it to no one, for I did not receive it, like the
duchy of Normandy, from my father, but acquired it by
conquest, and the shedding of blood, with mine own
sword. The succession of that kingdom, I therefore,
leave to the decision of the Almighty. My own most
fervent wish is, that my son William, who has ever
been dutiful to me in all things, may obtain and
prosper in it." " And what do you give me, O
my father ? " impatiently cried Prince Henry, who
had not been mentioned. " Five thousand pounds
weight of silver out of my treasury," was his answer.

cat I;. 161

" But what can I do with five thousand pounds of silver,
if I have neither lands nor a home ? " " Be patient,"
rejoined the king, " and have trust in the Lord ; suffer
thy elder brothers to precede thee — thy time will come
after theirs." On hearing this, Prince Henry hurried
off to secure the silver, which he weighed with great
care, and then provided himself with a strong coffer,
having locks and iron bindings to keep his treasure safe.
William, also, staid no longer by the bed-side of his
dying parent ; he called for his attendants, and hastened
to the coast, that he might pass over without delay to
take possession of his crown. He, whose sword had
made many childless, was thus deserted in his hour of
greatest need by his unnatural sons.

The sun had scarcely risen over the plains of Rouen,
and scarcely had his beams lighted the lofty pinnacles
of the church and abbey, when the conqueror was
roused from his stupor by the sound of the church
bell. Eagerly inquiring what the sound meant, he was
answered that they were tolling the hour of prime,
in the church of St. Mary. On hearing this, he
seemed to revive for a few moments, and then sud-
denly lifting up his hands, he cried aloud, " I recom-
mend my soul to my Lady Mary, the holy mother of
our Lord ! " having thus said, he sunk back and ex-
pired.

What busy meddling thoughts had power
To haunt him e'er that solemn hour,

162 Desertion of i)te Corpse 6g |)te &ttenliantj$,

What broken thoughts of by-gone days,

Visions of youth, and welcome lays,

Lays, that the harp could soothly sound,

When merry steps went pranking round.

And then his father's castle hall,

And sooth and bland the cheerful call,

Of voices lov'd in distant clime,

Were seen and heard at that sad time ;

Lov'd forms did round his pillow bend,

And gentle hands his bidding tend,

The wife and mother by his side,

In bloom of youth and beauty's pride,

His own dear child, Gundreda fair,

With gentle step and smile was there ;

But soon the fitful dream was gone,

The dying man was all alone,

Save that stern men were waiting round,

With cowl and casque, and helm unbound. — M. R.

His last sigh was a signal for a general flight and
scramble. The knights buckled on their spurs, the
priests and doctors, who had passed the night by his
bed-side, made no delay in leaving their wearisome
occupation. " To horse ! to horse ! " resounded through
the monastery, and each one galloped off to his own
home, in order to secure his interests or his property.
A few of the king's servants, and some vassals of minor
rank staid behind, but not to do honour to the poor
remains of him who had been their king. They spoke
loudly and trod heavily, where but a short time before
men would scarcely have dared to whisper ; where the
noiseless step and hushed sound, told the rank and
sufferings of him, whom now the voice of seven thunders

<£ott#tentatton at &ouctt. 163

would not wake. They proceeded without remorse to
rifle the apartment both of anus and silver vessels;
they even took away the linen and royal vestments, and
having hastily packed them in bundles, each man threw
the one, which he secured, upon his steed, and galloped
away like the rest. From six till nine the corpse of the
mighty conqueror lay on the bare boards, with scarcely a
sheet to cover him. One son was gone, the other was
looking to his pelf, his officers and men-at-arms, priests
and doctors had deserted him; the queen, who would
have watched beside his dying couch, and soothed his
restless pillow, who dearly loved him whilst living, and
would not have forsaken him when dead, was herself in
the still grave. His favourite and youngest daughter,
had likewise been laid to rest, and Eleanor, Mar-
garet, Alela, Constance, and Cecilia were far distant.
Here, then, lay the corpse of William in the dismantled
apartment, while the men of Rouen, who were thrown
into the greatest consternation by the event of the king's
death, hurried about the streets, asking news of one
another, or advice concerning the present emergency, or
else busied themselves in hiding such things as were
most valuable. At length the monks and clergy
recollected the condition of the deceased monarch, and
forming a procession, they went with a crucifix and
lighted tapers to pray over the dishonoured body.
The Archbishop of Rouen wished that the interment
should take place at Caen, in preference to his own
city, it being thought most proper that the church of St.

164 .dFuncral of t|)e IBttng.

Stephen, which the king had built, and royally endowed,
should be honoured with his sepulchre. But there was no
one to give orders concerning the obsequies of him who
had been so great on earth ; his sons and brothers,
every relation, and all the chiefs who had shared his
favours were away. Not one was found even to make
inquiry respecting the interment, excepting a poor
knight who lived in the neighbourhood, and who
charged himself with the trouble and expense of the
funeral, " out of his natural good nature, and love of the
Most High." Arrangements were made accordingly,
and the corpse being carried by water to Caen, was re-
ceived by the abbots and monks of St. Stephen, while
the inhabitants of the city, having formed a procession,
headed by the neighbouring ecclesiastics, proceeded
towards the abbey. Suddenly a fire broke out, and
each one, whether priest or layman, running to his home
or monastery to prevent the spreading of the flames, the
brothers of St. Stephen alone remained with the bier.
Onward, then, they went, and there was somewhat of
funereal solemnity in the last sad act, for mitred abbots
in their robes, with bishops and ecclesiastics in their
gowns and cowls, stood within the abbey walls, in order
to receive the corpse. Mass was then performed, the
Bishop of Evreux pronounced a panegyric on him who
had borne the name of Conqueror while living, and who
had done great deeds among his fellow-men, and the
bier on which lay the body of the king, attired in royal
robes, and being in no respect concealed from the view,

funeral of tfj* t&ing, 165

was about to be lowered into the grave, when a stern
voice forbade the interment. " Bishop," it said, " the
man whom you have praised was a robber. The very
ground on which we are standing is mine ; and this is
the site of my father's house. He took it from me by
violence to build this church upon its ruins. I reclaim
it as my right, and in the name of the Most High I
forbid you to bury him there, or to cover him with my
glebe." The man who spoke thus boldly, was Asseline
Fitz -Arthur. He had vainly sought for justice from the
king while living, and he loudly proclaimed the fact of
his injustice and oppression, before his face, when dead.
It seemed fearful to the bystanders, that the funeral
should thus be strangely hindered ; that as at first no
one had cared to bury him, whose pale, shrunk countenance
and lifeless fonn was still upheld above the grave;
when some at length were gathered, who thought to do
him honour, the most were hurried off by an alarm of
fire, and that at the very moment of his interment, even
the solemn act could not proceed in peace. Many
who were present well remembered the pulling down of
Fitz-Arthur's house, and the distress which it occasioned,
and the bishop being assured of the fact, gave his
son, sixty shillings for the grave alone, and engaged to
procure the full value of his land. One moment more,
and the corpse remained among living men; another,
and it disappeared in the darkness of the tomb, and
the remainder of the ceremony being hurried over, the
assembly broke up in haste.

166 Bunting at

" The red king lies in Malwood Keep.
To drive the deer o'er lawn and steep,

He's bound him with the morn ;
His steeds are swift, his hounds are good,

The like in covert or high wood,
"Were never cheered with horn." — W. STEWART ROSE.

Barons and men-at-arms were assembled in Malwood-
Keep, at the invitation of William Rufus, who proposed
to hold a chase, and to follow the red-deer over the wide
hunting-grounds, where once stood the pleasant homes,
which his father had rendered desolate. Prince Henry
was there also, and he who passed at nightfall might
have heard loud shouts of revelry resounding from the
castle, while the bright light which streamed from the
windows, gave a strange effect to the giant shadows, which
the tall trees of the dark forest cast on the greensward.
A loud cry was heard that night which awakened all who
slept, and caused them to start in terror from their beds ;
it came from the king's chamber, whose voice resounding
through the castle, loudly invoked the blessed Virgin,
and called in great fear for lights to be brought imme-
diately. He told those who hastened to his assistance
that he had seen a hideous vision, and he enjoined
them to pass the night at his bed-side, and to divert him
with pleasant converse, lest being left alone, the vision
should appear again. At length the morning began to
dawn, and the forest which had looked so gloomy at
nightfall was gloriously lighted up with the bright
beams of an August sun ; no strange mysterious-looking
shadows caused the passer-by to feel afraid ; but instead

Bunting at J&altoooD=Hfc**p* 167

of these, waving branches gently rustled in the morning
breeze, and the cheerful songs of early birds resounded
from the thickets. William began to prepare for the
chase, and while he was thus employed, an artizan
brought him six new arrows. He praised their work-
manship, and putting aside four for himself, he gave the
other two to Sir Walter Tyrrel, or, as he was often called,
Sir Walter de Poix, from his estates in France, saying,
as he presented them, " Good weapons are due to him,
who knows how to make a right use of them." The
breakfast-tables were plentifully supplied, and those who
sat around them, talked of the expected pleasures of the
chase, while the red king ate and drank even more than
he was wont. Perhaps the fearful vision of the night still
troubled him, and he sought to put aside the recollection ;
for it was observed that his spirits rose at length to the
highest pitch. Malwood-Keep resounded with merriment
as it had done the night before, and the horses were seen
standing ready saddled, with hounds in leashes, and
grooms and huntsmen preparing for the chase. Many
of the younger barons were already mounted, and their
horses were curvetting on the grass, as though they partook
of the impatience of their riders, while every now and then
the blast of the hunter's horn, in the hand of some young
squire, gave notice to those within, that the sun was
already high. All was gaiety and animation, and bois-
terous mirth within and around Malwood-Keep, when a
stranger was seen approaching through the forest, grave,

168 Bunting at J

and yet in haste. He spoke as one who had business of
moment to communicate, and which admitted of no
delay, but his look and voice sufficed to check the
eagerness of those who sought to know whence, and why,
he came. He told the king, when admitted to his
presence, that he had travelled both far and fast ; that
the Norman abbot of St. Peter's at Gloucester had sent
to inform his majesty how greatly he was troubled on
his account, for that one of his monks had dreamed a
dream which foreboded a sudden and awful death to
him. — " To horse ! " hastily exclaimed the king, " Walter
de Poix, do you think that I am one of those fools who
give up their pleasure, or their business, for such matters ?
the man is a true monk, he dreameth for the sake of
money ; give him an hundred pence, and bid him dream
of better fortune to our person."

Forth went the hunting train, and while some rode one
way, some another, according to the manner adopted
in the chase, Sir Walter de Tyrrel, the king's especial
favourite, remained with him, and their dogs hunted
together. They had good sport, and none thought of
returning, although the sun was sinking in the west and
the shadows of the forest-trees began to lengthen on the
grass, at which time an hart came bounding by, between
the king and his companion, who stood concealed in a
thicket. The king drew his bow, but the string broke,
and the arrow took no effect ; the hart being startled at
the sound, paused in his speed, and looked on all sides,
as if doubtful which way to turn. The king, meanwhile

of ftftlltam &ufu*. 169

gazing steadfastly at the creature, raised his bridle-hand
above his eyes, that he might shade them from the
glare of the sun, which now shone almost horizontally
through the forest, and being unprovided with a second
bow, he called out " Shoot Walter, shoot away ! "* Tyrrel
drew his bow, but the arrow went not forth in a straight
line, it glanced against a tree, and struck the king in its
side-course against his breast, which was left exposed
by the raised arm. The fork-head pierced his heart, and in
an instant he expired. No words were spoken, no
prayer passed his lips ; one dismal groan alone was
heard, and the red king lay extended on the grass, f Sir
Walter flew to his side, but he saw that his master was
beyond all human aid, and mounting his horse he has-
tened to the sea-coast, from whence he embarked for
Normandy. He was heard of soan after, as having fled
into the dominions of the French king, and the next
account of him was, that he had gone to the Holy Land.
Popular superstition had long darkened the New
Forest with awful spectres ; it was even said that words
were heard in its deepest solitudes, of awful import,
denouncing vengeance on the Norman and his evil
counsellors. This was not strange, for men could still
remember the driving out of the unoffending population ;
the traces of their dwellings might be seen at intervals,
and many a broken cross denoted where a church had

* Hen. Knyghton.

f A small silver cross of beautiful workmanship was found buried
a few years since, near the fatal tree.

170 $\it of

stood. The human mind naturally recoils from scenes
of horror, and few were bold enough to visit even the
outskirts of the forest, at nightfall, and alone. A son of
Duke Robert was killed while hunting in the forest by a
random arrow, and now again the blood of the Con-
queror was poured on the site of an Anglo-Saxon
church, which the father of him who lay extended on the
earth had pulled down. * Rufus had left the bed-side of his
dying parent while life still lingered, intent only on ob-
taining the English crown ; he even left the care of his
interment to the hands of strangers, for it does not seem
that he at all concerned himself about the matter. Now
then was he also left alone, in the depth of the still forest.
Walter Tyrrel, intent only on effecting his escape, or
else bewildered by the suddenness of the calamity, did
not seek for any one to assist in burying him; his
companions in the chase were eagerly following their
amusement, and chanced not to pass where he was lying.
At length the royal corpse was discovered by a poor
charcoal-burner, who put it, still bleeding, into his cart,
and drove off to Winchester. The intelligence soon
spread, and Henry hastened to seize the treasures that
belonged to the crown, while the knights, who had reas-
sembled at Malwood-Keep, thought only how the accident
might affect themselves ; no one caring to show respect to the
remains of the unhappy monarch, with whom they had
banquetted the evening before. It was afterwards observed

•Mentioned by Walter Hennyngforde, and quoted in Grafton's
Chronicle.

burial of »lltam Mufug.

171

by many, that as the corpse of the Conqueror lay extended
on a hoard, with scarcely a vestment to cover him,
so, by a remarkable coincidence, the body of his
unnatural son, unwashed, without even a mantle, and
hideous to look upon, remained in the cart of the
charcoal-burner till the next day, when it was conveyed
in the same condition to the cathedral church of Win-
chester. There, however, some faint show of respect
was paid to what had been a king : it was interred in
the centre of the choir, where, as wrote the chronicler of
this sad history, many persons looked on, but few
grieved. It was even said by some, that the fall of a
high tower which covered his tomb with ruins, showed
the just displeasure of Heaven against one, who having
deserted his dying parent, sought not to repair the evils
which he had done, who neither acting justly, nor living
righteously, was undeserving of Christian burial.

^TV.

Cije ©Hr Cms in

What are the boasted palaces of man,

Imperial city or triumphal arch,

To the strong oak, that gathers strength from time

To grapple with the storm ? Time watch' d

The blossom on the parent bough. Time sa,w

The acorn loosen from the spray. Time pass'd,

While springing from its swad'ling shell, yon oak,

The cloud-crowned monarch of the woods, up sprang

A royal hero from his nurse's arms.

Time gave it seasons, and time gave it years,

Ages bestow'd, and centuries grudg'd not ;

Time knew the sapling when gay summer's breath

174 ©ID ftrm in

Shook to the roots the infant oak, which after
Tempests moved not. Time hollow'd in its trunk
A tomb for centuries ; and buried there
The epochs of the rise and fall of states,
The fading generations of the world,
The memory of man."

HYDE PARK was covered in ancient times with a dense
growth of tall trees and underwood, which extending
from sea to sea, shaded a large portion of the states of
the Iceni and Trinobantes, the Cantii and the Regni.
But the aspect of external nature has changed since ;
instead of noble trees and all the varied undulations of
innumerable boughs, now gently waving in the breeze of
summer, and now furiously wrought upon by the
northern blast, great London has arisen where all was
wood and swamp, and on the space which still retains
somewhat of the character that once it bore, are all the
accompaniments of a modern park. Clumps of trees,
arranged by the hand of taste, flowering shrubs, and
beautifully tufted groves, delight the eye with their
beauty or their fragrance ; walks and carnage -drives, lead
among them, and through that portion, which bears
especially the name of park, winds a gentle river, which
reflects on its mirror-like waters, green sloping banks,
where cattle graze.

An aged tree grows on the right hand of the road,
beside the river, with its trunk devoid of bark, and cracked
in all directions, the effect of long exposure to the wea-
ther. Its bare and skeleton-looking branches are also

©ID Em* in ?^sDe Parfe, 175

without bark, and beside it stands another tree, the twin
brother of its desolation. These trees are very aged, for
the oldest inhabitant in the neighbourhood remembers to
have seen them in the same condition when he climbed
their trunks, a playful boy in search of the owl's nest ; but
she was too wary to confide her young to so poor a
shelter.

Those who, in their haste, wish to accomplish the
designs which they have proj ected with too precipitate haste,
may derive a moral lesson from these once noble trees.
Each was once enfolded within an auburn nut, a cup and
ball that babes might play with, and which the joyous
squirrel, when seeking her food, might have carried off
with ease; and nibbled in a moment all the delicate
ramifications, and the embryo vastness of the future tree.
Autumnal rains mellowed the ground on which the
acorns were deposited, we know not whether by the hand
of man, or whether, dropping from a bough before the
forest had disappeared from the moor, some skipping deer,
dibbling the soft earth with his pointed hoof, prepared a
receptacle in which the acorns might rest secure, till the
return of spring. Here then lay the auburn nuts.
Leaves reft by the winds of Autumn fell thick and fast
upon the earth, and over them the snow formed a light
covering ; and though the wind howled in its fury, and
the heavy storm raged through the forest, the acorns
remained safe till the winds ceased their contention, and
the storm-clouds passed by. Then did the acorns open

176 <£IU Em* fit

by virtue of that secret and mighty power which re-clothes
the forest-boughs with leaves, and causes the herbless
soil, to be covered with grass and flowers. Two small
lobes first uprose from out the soil, formed with the
exactest symmetry, and being in themselves both thick
and well furnished with pores, they served not only to
shield the small buds that lay between them, but to yield
abundant moisture for the support of their nascent life.
Presently a young leaf emerged from the bud, then
the leaf was pushed upwards by the supporting stem, till
at length other small leaves appeared, and the character
of a tree was gradually assumed. Meanwhile the tender
scions were watered with early dews, and warmed by a
bright sun ; the rain fell on them, and the internal heat
which had preserved life within the acorns, while they
lay embedded in the cold earth, did its work, and the
trees advanced in their growth.

What people inhabited Britain when these things were
being done ? Were they the natives of the island, or were
they Romans, Danes, or Saxons, Picts or Scots ? Did the
rude dwellings of our remotest ancestors skirt the margin
of the forest on the plain country ? did their woad-dyed
chieftains walk beneath the parent trees ; or the Druid
cut with his golden knife, the hallowed misletoe from
their branches ? Were the gentle undulations of hill and
dale varied with palaces and forums ? did the Roman
dwell among them, or were they trod upon by the ruth-
less Dane, or the proud Norman, when the trees attained

in l^gDe ^arfe. 177

to their maturity ? No spirit dwells within their trunks,
as the poets feigned concerning their brethren of Dodona ;
no voice answers to the question. The sighing of the
wind alone is heard among their sapless branches.

Thus much we know, that in all forest-trees the stages
of vegetation are alike. But century after century must
have rolled on, till the giant bulk of the noble trees were
fully developed, till their stately columns, upheld an
ample canopy of spreading boughs, beneath which the
flocks that grazed in the open spaces of the forest might
find a shelter from the storm. Time was, when the settling
of a fly upon the saplings could shake them to the root,
but at this period of their history, a tempest would not disturb
them. The busiest thoughts might find an ample field to
range in, when comparing the small beginnings, with the
matchless grandeur of these once noble trees. How, at
their prime age, the smooth bark, by which they were
enveloped, contained within their girth, wood sufficient to
plank the deck and sides of a large vessel ; how their
tortuous arms would have yielded many a load of timber,
which, if drawn by oxen, might have wearied the pon-
derous creatures, long before they reached the place of
destination, at even a short distance. But, in those ages,
oaks were not hewn down as they now are. Still the
trees grew on, till their moss-cushioned roots upheaved
above the earth, and their smooth trunks, becoming
rugged, were embossed with globose wens. Then
decay began her noiseless work; one atom, and then

i 5

178 ©ID &m* in

another, were silently disjointed from the rest, till at
length a labour was achieved in the breaking down of
these firm trees, which, had it been done by the hand
of man, would have made the wide forest ring. Nothing
now remains of the once gigantic trees, not even the sem-
blance of their ancient selves — nothing but shapeless trunks,
heavy ponderous masses, with here and there a strip of
rugged bark, in the interstices of which, tufts of moss and
pendent ferns have struck their roots. There is nothing
either in the trunks or branches to tempt the woodman's
hatchet, and therefore, the old trees still remain. Their
roots are firmly interlaced in the earth, they clasp the
blocks of stone that lie buried beneath the soil, with
their stout spurs and knotted fangs, while here and there
a projecting mass rises above the scanty herbage, dotted
over with the yellow lichen and little nail wort which
grows on dry walls and rocks. Crooked into every ima-
ginable shape, they still hold their stems erect, memorials
of past ages, revealers of what time has done ; — yea, per-
haps, also what the hand of man has achieved, though the
old trees stand not, as many others, chroniclers connected
with some of those memorable events, which give a date to
history, and are waymarks, which identify the noiseless
steps of time. The winds of many winters have reft off the
giant branches which long since afforded a shelter from the
blast; rovers of the forest — men, perhaps, with bow and
shaft, have burnt them. Some have left, in breaking, a
bleached and splintered stump, but concerning others

t'n p^glie i^arfe. 179

there is no trace even of the branch on which they grew ;
rough bark has grown most probably over it, and moss
and tufted lichens have taken root in the interstices.
Still, life lingers in the worn-out trees, and proofs are not
wanting, that its secret and mighty power is yet working,
though death preponderates. The passer-by sees with as-
tonishment, young green leaves in the interstices of the
quarried bark ; he sees them, but can hardly believe that
the shapeless thing which stands before him has life hidden
where all seems to denote death ; that her sweet force is
equally available in the fun-owed oak, as among the young
green trees of the neighbouring coppice, which sprung, it
may be, from out the earth, a thousand years later, in the
lapse of time.

The old trees are well qualified by age, to teach lessons
of wisdom to hoary men. Had they a voice, they could
discourse much concerning the mutability of things below ;
how nations have risen and waned, while they advanced
to maturity, and of the gradual emerging of a mighty
people from the darkness of past ages, to the highest pitch
of intellectual culture. But this may not be, for the
gifts of speech and reason, of voice and memory, are not
for these ancient tenants of the soil. Leaning against their
mossy trunks, with no prompter, and no hearer, except
the time-worn trees and the calm still scene around me,
let me be myself the oracle, and discourse to mine own
ear, concerning the mutations of past ages.

Here, then, in bye-gone days, stood one vast forest,

180 ©ID Em* in ??£l>c

with its dells and dingles, its clear prattling streams, and
ceaseless murmur of wind among the branches. We
know not that men dwelt within its precincts, or that the
natives of the country, our remotest ancestors, built their
wattled dwellings, or fed their flocks in the open spaces ;
most probably not, for the wild animals that ranged here
were dangerous to contend with. Years went on, and men
clad in skins, and dyed blue with woad, came from the
shores of Gaul. They established themselves in the plain
country which is bounded by the British Channel, and
formed at length a considerable settlement beside the river
that waters this part of Britain. They also threw up bul-
warks, and added to the natural strength of the place by
forming ramparts and sinking fosses. The settlement
was called Llyn-din, or the town on the lake, Llyn being
the British term for a broad expanse of water or lake. It
was appropriately given, for the low grounds on the Surrey
side of the river were often overflowed, as also those that
extend from Wapping marsh to the Isle of Dogs, and still
further, for many miles along the Essex coast. At length,
strangers from another country settled there. They
saw that the land was good, and that the trees which
crowded around the settlement, and shadowed on either
side the current of the river, might be cleared away.
They were men who soon carried into execution the
schemes which they devised, and having enlarged the
place, and raised within it noble buildings, for beauty
and security, they gave it the name of Londinium.

in ^gUe ^arfe. 181

A fort was built, and ships came from a distance, bring-
ing with them the productions of other climes. Then
began the trees of the great forest to fall beneath the axe
of the woodcutter, and the marshy places were brought
into cultivation. Londinium rapidly advanced to the
dignity of a military station ; it even became the capital
of one of the great provinces, into which the Romans
divided Britain.

A spirit of enterprise had ever characterised the polished
people who now gained an ascendency ; not only were
the marshy places in the forest drained for the purpose
of feeding cattle, but the low-ground which lay along the
river, and which, in rainy seasons, presented an unsightly
aspect, was recovered from the waters. Embankments
were thrown up on either side to prevent the encroach-
ments of the tide. They commenced in what are now
St. George's Fields, and continued along the adjoining and
equally shallow marshes, till they terminated in the grand
sea-wall of the deep fens of Essex. Thus, in compara-
tively a short period, those vast tracts of land which
presented, during winter, only a dreary expanse of
troubled waters; in the summer, small stagnant pools,
with a dry crust of mud, and here and there tufts of
rushes, or rank grass, were covered with splendid villas,
and a thronging population.

The giant work of embanking the river was succeeded by
making one of those great military roads which opened a
communication from one end of the island to the other.

182 01D toeg in

This was the old Watling or Gathelin Street : it led from
London to Dover, and was much travelled on by those who
were going to embark for the Imperial city. The making
of the road broke up the quiet of the forest, through an
extent of which it had to pass; nothing was heard but the
crashing of noble trees, and the rattling of cars, heavily
laden with stone and lime ; it was carried within sight of
the old trees, and, having crossed what is now the Oxford
road, at Cumberland-gate, it ran to the west of Westmin-
ster, over the river Thames, and onward into Kent. This
was its broad outline, and the country through which it
lay had been reclaimed either from the forest or the
river. It was exceedingly frequented, and carriages of all
descriptions continually passed and repassed, either in
going to, or else returning from the city.

Londinium was next surrounded with a wall, and a
considerable extent of forest-land was cleared for the pur-
pose of being enclosed within its ample range. It was
said that the mother of Constantine, who liked much to
reside in the rising city, greatly favoured this great work,
and that she urged her son to promote the grandeur and
security of the place. The wall encompassed the city
from right to left. It began at the fort, which occupied
a portion of what is now the Tower, and made a circuit of
nearly two miles, and one furlong. Another wall, strongly
defended with towers and bastions, extended along the
banks of the river, to the distance of one mile, and one
hundred and twenty yards.. The height of the wall was

m »tK atfe. 183

twenty two feet, that of the towers forty feet, and the
space of ground enclosed within the circumference of both
walls, was computed at three hundred and eighty acres.

Thus stood Londinium. Patricians and military offi-
cers, merchants and artificers, resorted thither from all
parts, and there Constantine held his court, with the
splendour of Imperial Rome. A few more years, and the
power of the Romans began to wane, and with it waned
also, the prosperity of the sea-girt isle. Stranger barks
came from the shores of Saxony, and in them armed
men of fierce countenances, who knew little of the
arts of civilized life. What they saw, they conquered,
and the noble city with its palaces and forums, its schools,
of eloquence, and temples for Pagan worship, fell into
their hands. Then might be seen from the old trees the
red glare of the burning city ; but it was again rebuilt, and
though, in after years, the Danes sorely oppressed its
inhabitants, it resumed its high standing as the metro-
polis of Britain ; the seat of arts and commerce ; kings
reigned within its walls, and merchants came from all
parts of the known world, bringing with them the pro-
ductions of other countries, and exciting a spirit of
enquiry and enterprise, throughout all classes of society.

The old trees remained as they were, and London, for
so the city was called at length, increased in might and
power; the swarming population could no longer be
contained within its walls, and the walls were broken
down in consequence. Villages were built in places

184 0fo ®m* in

where, but a few years before, was a dense growth of
underwood, with high trees that cast their lengthened
shadows on the ground. Gradually the city enlarged her
bounds, and those groups of houses which had been called
villages, and which stood in the midst of pleasant fields,
well-watered and reclaimed from the forest, were reached
by lines of streets, and so encroaching were they, that it
was thought advisable to retain some portion of the
ancient forest as a royal park, both for exercise and
ornament. If the trees of the forest could have spoken,
they would have rejoiced at this, but none more than the
old trees, my own memorial trees, these relics of past
ages; though now beginning to decay, long tufts of
lichens having struck their roots into the rough bark, and
many of their noblest branches having been long since
broken by fierce winds, or rovers of the forest. They
nearly stood alone, for very few remained of those which
had grown here, when all around was one wide forest,
one intermingling of shadowing boughs from sea to sea,
or spaces of waste land, untilled and tenantless. The
old Roman road, which had been raised with so much
cost and care, soon fell to decay ; its materials were car-
ried off, and the green sward rapidly extended over that
portion of it which passed through Hyde Park and St.
James's Park. Those who like to tread where the Romans
trod, may yet walk on a small portion of their ancient
route, in the public road leading to Westminster Abbey,
on the side nearest the turnpike.

in ?$)De arfe. 185

The retaining part of the old forest was a desirable
measure, for the advance of London towards this quarter,
was alone restrained by the prescribed boundaries ; and
now the windows of her crowding houses look upon the
trees and grass, and the ceaseless hum of human voices,
which she sends forth from all her hundred gates, is heard
continually, with the mingled sound of rolling carriages,
of heavy waggons, and the trampling of horses' feet.
Magnificent equipages drive along the smoothly gravelled
roads, with which the modern park that extends around
the old tree is intersected. Riders on steeds, such as the
ancient Britons saw not, and even the polished Romans
could hardly have imagined, pass and repass among the
trees, and gaily attired pedestrians walk beneath their
shade. Strange contrast to what has been ! The mental
eye, back glancing through the vista of long ages, still
loves to dwell on the loneliness and the grandeur, on the
gloom and depth of the wide forest : it mourns over the
ages and the generations that have passed away, since the
memorial trees emerged from their cradle in the earth.
Some hand might inscribe on their rough bark that all
is vanity, that the glorious earth was not designed to be
thus made a charnel-house ; but, among those who pass
the aged trees, few would stop their progress, or their
discourse, to read the inscription ; and, among those who
read, fewer, perhaps, would desire that it should be
otherwise.

[Queen Elizabeth is said to have been seated beneath the shade of
Hatfield Oak when she received intelligence of the death of her
sister Mary.]

How dim and indistinct the silent scene !

O'er groves and valleys sleeping mists are spread,
Like a soft silvery mantle ; while the stream,

Scarce heard to flow, steals on its pebbly bed ;
Nor e'en a ripple wakes the silence round,
As if it flowed, perchance, through some enchanted
ground.

But O, the gorgeous tint, the dazzling glow
In the clear west ; for scarce the sun is gone !

That glowing tint doth yet a radiance throw
On the hill-top, while, aye, each old grey stone

Glitters like diamonds 'mid the mountain heath,

While fades, in deep'ning gloom, the sleeping vale
beneath.

188 atfidti ©afe

One lonely spot, which oft, in solemn mood,
Men have gazed on in ages long gone by,

Where stands that relic of the good green wood,
The aged oak, prompting a tear or sigh ;

That lonely spot gleams o'er the misty scene,

Catching the splendour of the dazzling sheen.

And, aye, the lichens that have fixed deep
Their tiny roots within the furrowed bough ;

And one small flower, which still her vigils keep,
The blue forget-me-not, are glowing now,

In characters, methinks, of living flame,

Seeming to print the old oak's massy frame.

It looks as if a bright and sudden beam,

Within that oak, broke forth with fervid ray,

Tinting its old boughs with a golden gleam,
Bright as the deep glow of the parting day ;

Tempting the passer-by to linger still,

Amid the deep'ning gloom that broods o'er dale and
hill.

Ah ! linger still, nor fear the chill night-wind ;

It conies not yet, for scarce the sun is gone !
Each living emblem, speaking to the mind,

May counsel well, and cheer, if reft and lone,
Thy sad thoughts, earthward bend, giving but little heed
To signs of mercy near, waiting each hour of need.

©afe. 189

Men may learn from them, be it joy or pain,
That bids the heart its wonted calm forego,

Sunbeams, or showers, loud wind, or driving rain,
The morning hoar frost, or the dazzling snow,

The small bird, journeying through the pathless skies,

May win dull thought, from earthly care to rise.

It might be, that in such a glowing hour,

When shone the old oak, as with living flame,

While anxious thoughts within her breast had power,
Forth from yon aged hall* a lady came

To meet the freshness of the evening breeze,

Viewless, yet rustling still among the trees.

Oh ! there were hearts within that stately hall,
Though ruined now, that beat with high alarm,

And champing steeds, and warders waiting all

To guard, if need might be, from gathering harm,

And cautious looks, and voices speaking low,

As if they feared an hour of coming woe.

Yes, life or death, eternity or time,

Waited the passing of that anxious day ;

A throne, a prison, much perchance of crime,
Should statesmen battle, each in stern array ;

Should death steal onward through a palace gate,

Warning his victim from her hall of state.

* The Palace of Bishops Hatfield, then a royal residence, where
the Princess Elizabeth resided in a kind of honourable custody,
though still rigorously guarded.

190

The mind back glancing through long ages past,
E'en to the changes in that fitful scene,

Calls forth from out the dim, the lone, the vast,
One act to gaze on, noting what hath been

In dreamy life ; though all we now descry

Seems as a mournful vision sweeping by.

Look then on her, for whom no evening gleam,
Nor soft wind rustling in the young green trees,

Can soothe the wasting grief — the fever'd dream —
The wandering thought, finding but little ease ;

For each fond hope from the sad heart is flown,

Like leaves by autumn winds, all sear'd and gone.

Her hall is lonely now, her throne of state

Strangers may gaze at ; one lone couch of pain

Holdeth her now, and pale care seems to wait
Beside that couch, despite the weeping train

Who vainly seek, with fond officious zeal,

To soothe the rankling grief they may not heal.

Through the dim oriel streams that sunny glow
Which tints the old oak with its parting beam

And one last flush gleams on the cold, damp

brow
Whence life is ebbing, like a fitful dream, —

Too soon for those whom anxious boding fill,

Her weeping train of ladies, watching still.

191

Why watch ye now ? Seven thunders would not wake
That dreaded one — her load of life laid down.

Her sleep is sound. Her stern heart may not ache,
Nor throb the brow that wore a joyless crown;

An instant past a queen. For love or hate,

She cares not now ; waiting at mercy's gate.

Hark to swift footsteps on the dewy grass,
'Mid the dim twilight, for the flush is gone

That lit yon death-couch. Hasting on they pass
To hail, as queen, the lone and captive one.

Captive, and yet a queen ! one moment more

Shall give to her the crown that anxious Mary wore.

3Sm!) of tfre jfntft Common.

" Thrice fifty summers have I stood
In beauteous, leafy solitude,
Since childhood in my rustling bower
First spent its sweet and sportive hour,
Since youthful lovers in my shade
Their vows of truth and honour paid ;
And on my trunk's smooth, glossy frame
Carv'd many a long-forgotten name :
Oh ! by the vows of gentle sound,
First breath'd upon this sacred ground ;
By all that truth hath whisper'd here,
Or beauty heard with willing ear,
As love's own altar honour me,
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree." — ROGERS.

LET him who loves to mark the changes of the seasons,
and to watch the alternations which spring and summer,
autumn and winter, produce in the vegetable kingdom,
stand beside one of those magnificent columns which
spring from out the parent earth, and bear on high a
canopy of branches. Let him choose that season when
the leaves are just beginning to expand, when the
swelling buds assume a reddish tint, and here and there
a young green leaf has unfolded, in all its freshness and
its beauty, as yet unsoiled by a passing atom, or un-
it 2

196 &f)e $wf) of t&« ,dFrtt!) ©ommon.

beaten by a single rain-drop. The clouds, how beautiful
they look, and the deep blue sky above them ! for both
are clearly seen through the ramified branches ; the first,
when driven swiftly by soft breezes from the west ; the
other, in all its grandeur and extent, as when the morn-
ing stars rejoiced together, and it first appeared like a
glorious pavilion based on the distant hills.

Such is the Beech of the Frith Common. It stands
alone in the centre of a beautiful common, covered with
wild flowers and short herbage, and the fragrant thyme,
among which the industrious bee loves to nestle, and to
gather in her harvests. The nest of the skylark is
among the juniper-bushes that skirt the margin of the
common ; its joyous tenant is up in air, warbling and
rejoicing, and making his high home resound with
melody. And well may he rejoice, for he has no
sadness to damp his song, no earth-born cares to bring
him down. But if we seek for one, albeit assigned
to earth, and being unable to soar into mid air, yet
thankful and making the best of her humble lot, list
to the contented cuckoo ; she bids the valley ring with
her note, it is unvaried, and some people would fain say
that it is wearisome; — no such thing, it is the very voice
of spring, telling of sweet flowers and lengthening days,
of soft May showers, and of the coming of wandering
birds from far-off shores, to make glad the fields of
Britain. The Beech of the Frith Common has no voice
with which to swell the chorus that has just begun, and

of t£e $nfy (Common. 197

which increases daily, as first one musician and then
another, conies in aid. But this noble tree is to the
eye what music is to the ear. Look at the stately stem,
how smooth and glossy ; time has not yet furrowed it,
nor has the pendent lichen and gray moss rooted them-
selves in its rough fissures. No records of human crime,
nor human care are chronicled upon its bark, no ruin
stands near on which the woes of ages have gathered and
brood heavy ; no associations connected with the beautiful
tree, of midnight murders and broken hearts, the tears of
orphans and the prayers of oppressed ones, for patience or
for redress. Neither is there any trace upon the common,
that a circle of unhewn stones ever stood within its pre-
cincts, where unhallowed rites were practised, and midnight
incantations uttered ; nor even that the grave of Briton
or of Gaul, of Roman or of Saxon, were made there,
for the turf is smooth as velvet.

Stately stands the tree, the tree beloved of all. The
oak is a majestic tree, the chesnut one of the most
umbrageous of forest trees, the elm rises like a pyramid
of verdure, the ash has its drooping branches, the
maple is celebrated for its light and quivering foliage, but
the beech is the poets' tree, the lovers' tree. Have you
not heard that young men often haunt the forest, and
disfigure the even and silvery bark of beech-trees,
by making them the depositors of the names of their
beloved ones ? " The bark," say they, " conveys a happy
emblem," and while thus employed they please them-

198 2T!)e 33mi) of t$t $n\\> ©ommon.

selves with thinking, that as the letters of the name
increase, so will their love.

Here then stands the beech-tree, in all its dignity and
fair proportions, its firm trunk based in the earth, but
with no knarled roots upheaving the soil around, and
making it unsightly. When the celebrated Smeaton
pondered within himself concerning the possibility of
constructing a building on the Eddystone rock, which
might resist the tremendous violence of contending seas,
which had swept away the previous erections of Win-
stanley and Rudyerd, and left not a stone remaining ;
seas which dash at least two hundred feet above the
rock, and the sound of whose deafening surges resemble
the continuous roar of thunder, his thoughts involuntarily
turned towards the oak. He considered its large
swelling base, which becomes reduced to one third,
occasionally to one half of its original dimensions,
by a gradual and upward tapering of the living shaft,
and it appeared to him that a building might be
erected on the model of the oak, that would be fully able
to resist the action of external violence. Thus thinking,
he projected the light-house of Eddystone, which soon
proved, amid the tremendous fury of contending
elements, that he had not erred in taking nature for
his guide. A beech or elm might have suggested the
same thought, for in the trunk of every forest-tree the
material is so disposed that the greater portion pertains
to the base of the column ; that part, especially, which

fttetfy of tfjc dFritfr Common. 199

rises from the root is thickest, and why is this ? not
only because a tapering column is far more beautiful
than one of equal girth, but because the disturbing
force at the top, acts more powerfully on the lower
sections, than on the higher. It is needful that the base
of the column should be strengthened, and it is equally
unnecessary that the top should be of the same thickness
as the base. Two purposes are consequently answered.
The tree is rendered stronger and more elegant, and a
certain portion of material is given to one part, without
weakening the other. A tree is, therefore, equally
adapted by its construction to resist the fury of the
tempest, of that unseen, yet mighty force which comes
against it, when the fierce northern blast howls through
the forest ; as also the load of snow which often presses
heavily upon its topmost branches.

There is not throughout the vegetable kingdom a more
glorious object than a tree, with its smooth and tapering
trunk, and its canopy of mingling boughs. Who can
estimate correctly the majesty with which it is invested,
or the grace and grandeur of its proportions, and its
bulk ? The finest trees often grow on mountainous
heights, harmonizing with the illimitable expanse of
heaven, or surrounded with the wildest extent of forest
scenery. Their intrinsic bulk is therefore lessened to
the eye, and it is not till they are singled from the sur-
rounding landscape, and subjected to a rule and measure,
that an opinion can be formed with respect to their vast

200 2Tf)e Weetfy of t&e dFtitf) ©ommon.

size and height. Even then, the certainty often fails to
impress the mind, for figures convey but an imperfect
conception of length and breadth, of height and girth.
Some more familiar illustrations are wanting to prove
that many a majestic tree, which is admired among its
sylvan brethren, as the proudest ornament of a park or
forest, is in reality an enormous mass, which the passer-
by would gaze at with awe and admiration, if seen
beside the dwellings and the palaces of men ; or com-
pared with the moving objects which pass and repass in
the streets of a great city. Our native woods often con-
tain noble specimens, of which the bulk is ten or
twelve feet in diameter, a width greater by three feet
than the carriage-way of Fetter lane, near Temple-
bar ; and oaks might be named, on the block of
which two men could thresh without incommoding one
the other. The famous Greendale Oak is pierced by a
road, over which it forms a triumphal arch, higher by
several inches than the poets' postern at Westminster
Abbey. The celebrated table in Dudley Castle which is
formed of a single oaken plank, is longer than the
wooden bridge that crosses the lake in the Regent's
park; and the roof of the great hall of Westminster,
which is spoken of with admiration on account of its
vast span, being unsupported by a single pillar, is little
more than one-third the width of the noble canopy of
waving branches that are upheld by the Worksop Oak.
The massive rafters of the spacious roof rest on strong

33mi) of tfjc Jprttl) CDommon. 201

walls, but the branches of the tree spring from one
common centre. Architects can alone estimate the
excessive purchase which boughs, of at least one hundred
and eighty-nine feet, must have on the trunk into which
they are inserted. Those of the Oak of Ellerslie cover a
Scotch acre of ground ; and in the Three-shire Oak, its
branches drip over an extent of seven hundred and seven
square yards. The tree itself grows in a nook that is
formed by the junction of the three counties of York,
Nottingham, and Derby ; and as the trunk is so con-
structed, being tapering and firmly rooted in the earth,
in order that it may uphold the boughs and repel the
fury of the winds, so are the boughs themselves, made
with an especial reference to the purpose for which
they are designed. They are much thicker at the
place of their insertion in the trunk than at the
extremity; that their tendency to break may thus be
uniform. We owe to this, the graceful waving of
innumerable boughs, here aspiring in airy lightness
above the general mass, and there gracefully feathering
to the ground, the pleasing murmur of their foliage when
rustling in the warm breeze of summer, and the elegant
ramifications which are perceptible in winter. But
whether seen against the clear blue ether of a winter
sky, or presenting a broad and ample breadth of shade ;
whether raged against by a fierce tempest, or having the
foliage gently shaken by playful breezes ; the giant
resistance in one case, or the ceaseless quiver of the

K5

202 •&!)* $*ed) of tf)c Jprit^ Common.

other, owe their power, and their play, to the unseen
members of the mighty column which are buried deep
within the earth. These, though still, are ever working.
Though they cannot move themselves, they move others.
They draw up the moisture of the earth and send it,
by means of a secret influence on an undiscoverable
machinery, which is seen in its effects, though the way
in which it operates is entirely unknown, to fill with life
the smallest leaf that quivers in the sunbeams, or the
tender bud that is not yet emerged from its silken
cradle.

They serve likewise to brace the tree within the earth,
and they vary according to climate and locality. Take
the beech for instance, which flourishes alike in deep
valleys, and on windy hills. When growing in a shel-
tered place the roots are thrown out equally, like rays
diverging from a common centre. When standing on
an eminence or on a plain, exposed to the action of a
wind that blows generally from one quarter, the roots
spread out and grapple the firm soil towards the quarter
from which the wind comes. In this country it is gene-
rally south-west, or west-south-west; hence it happens
that when other causes do not interfere, our native
trees generally incline their heads to the north-east,
and their strongest roots go forth in an opposite direc-
tion, for the evident purpose of holding the tree
firm, when the stonns beat upon it. Trees are, conse-
quently, often uprooted by a sudden squall of wind

of t|)c jFvtti) ©ommon. 203

from the east or north-east, which have withstood the
tempests of ages.

The aggregate effect produced by forest scenery is
magnificent — the deep retiring woodland, the waving of
innumerable branches, the majestic columns which
uphold them, the mingled tints and hues, the dancing
of the lights and shadows on the ground, the long, long
vistas which extend far as the eye can reach, when the
view of external nature is shut out, when there is
neither a green meadow nor distant hill to be seen, nor
even a fence nor railing, nothing which betokens the
hand of man ; but noble trees around, and a magnificent
canopy of mingled boughs ; when not a sound is heard
except the rustling of the wind in the topmost branches, or
perchance the plaintive voice of the ring-dove, which loves
to build her nest in solitary places. But the tree, which
like the Beech of the Frith Common, stands alone, can
best be understood. The mind can rest upon it, and
the eye can embrace its beautiful proportions. Wisdom
may be gained by him who loves to read the ample
page of nature, while musing beneath its branches, for
every leaf is an open book, every tender bud tells much
concerning the goodness of that Being whose beneficence
is equally conspicuous in the smallest, as in the migh-
tiest of created things.

This noble tree grows on a sunny hill side,
And merry birds sing round it all the day long ;

Oh the joy of my childhood, at evening tide,
To sit in its shadow and list the birds' song !

204 ®$t ftml) of tfje ^Fritf) Common.

No sound then was heard but the gush of the rill,
Or the woodpecker tapping some hollow beech-tree ;

While the sun shed his last purple glow on the hill,
And the last hum was heard of the home-loving bee.

But now far away from that sunny hill side,
'Mid the stir and the din of the proud city's throng,

I think, is that tree standing yet in its pride ?
Are the echoes still woke by the merry birds' song ?

They tell me the woodcutter's hatchet was heard,
To thin the tall trees where they drooped o'er the lea ;

But he marr'd not the home of the wandering bird,
The haunt of my childhood, my own beechen-tree.

May peace in the cot of that woodman abide,
And grateful birds sing to him all the day long,

May his steps long be firm on the sunny hill's side,
And echo respond to the voice of his song.

I can think of that tree, where no green trees are seen,
'Mid the city's loud din, for the spirit is free,

And dear to me still is the wild daisied green,
Where thy branches are waving, my own beechen-tree.

" Thou wert a bauble once, a cup and ball,

Which babes might play with, and the thievish jay,
Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd
The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down
Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs,
And all thy embryo vastness at a gulph." — COWPER.

BY virtue of those indices which naturalists discover in
the trunks and boughs of aged trees, it is conjectured
that the autumns of fifteen hundred years have visited
the Oak of Salcey. Standing remote from those frequented
parts of Britain, where a thronging population causes
the increase of buildings and the making of new roads,
protected also by the inland situation of the little forest
by which it is surrounded, the old tree has remained
entire. It stands a living cavern, with an arched
entrance on either side, within whose ample circum-
ference large animals may lie down at noon, and where
the careful shepherd often folds his flock at nightfall.
It measures forty-six feet ten inches at the base, and at

208 &[K j&atcq) ©afe.

one yard from the ground the girth is thirty-nine feet
ten inches.

The knotted roots of the old tree have been laid bare
by time or accidents, or by that living principle which
causes aged trees to unearth their roots, and to raise the
soil into hillocks ; successive storms or the heavy tread
of cattle have worn away the hillocks, and the roots
being left in arches, produce an equally fantastic and
picturesque effect. I have frequently observed the same
peculiarity among the deep beech-woods of Gloucester-
shire ; grass does not generally grow beneath them, yet
in places open to the sun, primroses nestle in the inter-
stices, and long pendent fern-leaves with the nailwort
and forget-me-not grow profusely ; but more commonly
the bare and knarled roots are without verdure, and they
often afford a welcome covert to the wild rabbit, who
makes them the portals of her burrow.

The effect which is thus produced is well deserving the
attention of the artist. The roots of such trees as grow
on high and rugged banks, are occasionally unearthed to
the extent of several feet, while between them, are deep
hollows, running far back, with masses of freestone, and pen-
dent ferns ; and groups of innocent sheep, may be often seen
with their heads projecting beneath the long fibres of the
thickly tangled roots. Pliny relates that in countries sub-
ject to the shock of earthquakes, or where the living prin-
ciple in trees is extremely vigorous, in consequence of soil
or climate, the roots are often raised to a surprising height,

SFfre j&alccg ©afe. 209

that they look like arches, beneath which troops of
cavalry may pass, as through the open and stately
portals of a town.

The venerable tree which has given rise to this
digression, stands in the centre of a grassy area, where
cattle pasture, and though still bearing the name of
forest, the site on which it grows, exhibits little that
would recall to mind, that it was once covered with noble
trees. A few still remain, some apparently of great age,
others in different stages of growth or of decay ; but to
the eye and to the heart, the one which is called by pre-
eminence the Salcey Oak, must be alone.

He who loves to watch the motions of animals, and
the flight of birds ; the passing of summer clouds, and the
gradual advancing and receding of the light ; the aspect
too of nature, when shone upon by the bright warm sun-
beams or at the fall of night, may find much to interest
him in, and around the time-worn tree. Seen dimly in
the dubious nights of the summer solstice, it presents
the aspect of a cavern overgrown with bushes, within
which a flock of sheep are often quietly reposing, or a
cow has laid down to rest, with her little one beside her.
The dew meanwhile is heavy on the grass, and not a
sound is heard. The inmates of the nearest farm-house
are not yet moving, neither is any animal abroad, nor
have the early birds left the boughs on which they rest.
That sound of waters which of all others is the loudest,
when all else is still, which seems to gather strength when

210 3Tf)e &alce Oafe.

the night is deepest, and often causes him who loiters in
the fields to think that he is listening to the congregated
roar of some far-off torrent, when perhaps only a little
streamlet is brawling among the trees; that solemn
sound is not heard here, for no running streams are
close at hand. Nothing then is heard in the silence of
this lone hour, but the rustle of the aspen-leaves, which
are never still, even in the hot nights of summer, when
not a breeze is felt, or the last whoop of the gray owl,
when she hastens to shelter herself in the cavernous old
tree, for that is her favourite abode. The nightingale
does not affect the Oak of Salcey, neither does the lark
love to raise his voice in the midst of the old trees,
where no young copses, covered with wild roses and
honeysuckles, invite him to place his nest among them.
When the day dawns, and objects become visible,
forth come the hare and rabbit from their shady coverts,
and joyous birds from the shelter of trees and bushes.
The early blackbird, nature's sweetest minstrel, sings
loudly that all may hear, and shaking off their slumbers
may be up and doing ; his full strain of melody does
not always wait for the rising of the sun, he rather bids
him welcome on his first appearance. Heralded by his
clear voice, the chorus of singing birds commences.
The lark rises high in air, the thrush and throstle, the
linnet and the goldfinch pour forth such enchanting
notes, as man, with all his science, cannot imitate. The
rays of the bright sun shine into the hollow of the tree,

211

and rouse the innocent sheep which slept there, to pasture
on the fresh grass ; the cattle too are moving, some from
the great oak, others from the coppice-wood, which is
seen at intervals among the trees. The business of the
farm now commences, and the labourers are abroad.
You may, perhaps, chance to see one of them pass this way,
in going to, or returning from the fields, either to gather
in the crops of hay, or corn, or to plough the land ac-
cording to the season of the year. But this is of rare
occurrence, few care to visit the old oak, and the pathway
does not lead across the area by which it is surrounded.

At noon day when the sun is high, how quiet is this
place ! The song-birds are silent, but the hum of
insects is at its height; they float up and down,
and seem to rest on the soft air, as if threading the
mazes of a dance, and then advancing and retreating
with a cease! ess buzz. But when the shadow of the tree
lengthens upon the grass, and the beams of the setting
sun tint its topmost boughs of a golden hue, first one
bird carols, and then another. Then also the breathing
of the oxen, and the brushing sound which they make
in cropping the damp grass, become audible. No one
listens to them at noon, but the deep silence which
begins to steal over the place, when twilight renders the
large objects alone visible, brings the slightest movement
to the ear. At length even such faint sounds are heard
no longer ; the birds cease their songs, and when the
moonbeams shine into the cavern which time has formed

212 &!K j&alccg ©afe.

in the Oak of Salcey, it may be seen that both sheep and
cattle have retired thither.

At one season of the year the oak is beat upon by
heavy rain, and loud winds howl furiously around its
aged head ; at another it is white with snow, or the
hoar frost of winter settles on it. At length green
leaves peep forth from among the fissures of the trunk
and boughs, and the sapling trees are green also.

There is little else to record in connexion with this
aged tree. Peasants may have sheltered their flocks for
ages beneath its canopy of branches, when those branches
were full of sap, and when stately trees stood round in
all their greatness, where now only a grassy area meets
the eye. But no ancient ruins are to be seen by him who
climbs the trunk, nor yet the traces of any city which
might have invited the aggressions of an enemy. We
conjecture, therefore, that a forest, with breaks of lawn and
thicket, and perhaps a common on which the peasant built
his hut, and the homestead arose in peaceful times,
might have extended round the oak of Salcey. The
ground on which we tread presents sufficient indications
that such has been the case. The millfoil-yarrow, the
wild camomile, the gravel birdweed, and stonebasil,
ancient tenants of the soil, which grow only in the
purest air of heaven, on waste land and stony banks, are
seen in company with the wild bluebell and the crested
cowwheat, with which the mower filleth not his hand,
nor he that bindeth sheaves his bosom.

Cms in

" There oft the Muse, what most delights her, sees
Long living galleries of aged trees ;
Bold sons of earth, that lift their arms so high,
As if once more they would invade the sky.
In such green palaces the first kings reign'd,
Slept in their shades, and angels entertain 'd.

214 ©ID £m$ In

With such old counsellors they did advise,

And, by frequenting sacred groves, grew wise.

Free from the impediments of light and noise,

Man, thus retir'd, his noblest thoughts employs." — WALLER.

VALLEYS and cultivated fields, have each their charac-
teristics of richness or of loveliness, but they have
no beauty in comparison with that of woodland scenery.
The wild thyme and moss, the short-cropped herbage,
the tufts of fern and golden-blossomed gorse, that vary
the ground on which we tread ; the solemn depth of the
lone forest, the noble groups of trees that diversify the
open spaces, and the clear streams that flow silently
through the deep soil, bordered with cowslips and wild
marigolds, have all, and each, their own peculiar attrac-
tions. Who has not been sensible when passing among
them of an hilarity of feeling, a delight, which he
has experienced nowhere else, which carries him onward
from one spot to another, now in the midst of trees,
and now again in the open space, as if he could
never weary ? Then, the sweet fresh breezes of the
spring, how pure they are, sporting over the green herb-
age or among the trees. They are not infected with
sighs of human sorrow ; they have not passed beside the
couch of dying men, or through the throng of a great city.
They are sporting now as they sported a thousand years
ago, among the branches of some of the old trees, which
still remain, relics of bygone days, memorials of what
has been. Those breezes are still the same, for the

©to STwg in 2&dfacfe arfe. 215

circumambient fluid, which gives hilarity and freshness to
everything that lives and moves on the surface of the
earth, is not subjected to the unalterable law which seems
impressed on all beside. Earthly things grow old, or
assume some new character. Even the kindred element
of water evaporates, and is replenished by means of rain
or dew; the soil is blown away in dust, and renewed
again by the decay of vegetables. Men cease from off
the earth ; in one day their thoughts perish ; cities which
they have erected, noble structures, destined to last for
ages, crumble silently, or else are overthrown by war or
earthquakes ; but the air, though ever moving, neither
evaporates, nor is susceptible of change. Thus, then,
whether in the character of a whirlwind, or of zephyr ;
whether as a breeze of spring, or tempest from the north,
has it raged or sported in the branches of the stately tree,
which stands among its brethren of the forest, resembling
a noble column, surrounded by crowding houses. It is
termed the Duke's Walking-Stick, but the hand that
would essay to move the shaft from out the place where
it has stood for ages, must be gifted with a power and a
spell, which even the wildest fancy has never yet assigned
to any being of mortal mould ; not even to those giants
of fierce bearing, with whom she loves to people her land
of fiction. The column stands alone, its smooth trunk is
branchless to a giddy height, and its topmost boughs are
higher than the roof of Westminster Abbey at its loftiest
elevation. A tree, with which the branches of no other

216 <felU 2Fm* in

tree can mingle, solitary in the midst of its sylvan
brotherhood, having no communion in its stateliness,
either with the oak, over which long ages have passed, or
with the sapling of yesterday. Thoughts of home and kin-
dred are blended with that other tree, to which the lovers
of forest scenery make a pilgrimage — the seven Sisters,
for such is the name of a contiguous tree, with several
columns, which, upspringing from the same root, are
seen to mingle their leaves and branches. The bird which
confides her nest in spring to the sheltering boughs
of the one, teaches her young to nestle among the opening
leaves of the other ; so closely are they entwined, that a
squirrel would find it difficult to make his way between
them. We know not why the cognomen which distin-
guishes this favourite tree was given, or the period of
its greatest perfection, whether it arose from out the
earth in Saxon or Norman times, or whether seven
ladies of a Ducal family, sisters in birth and love, gave
that fond name to the noble tree, because of its inter-
woven stems.

O Lady ! on thy regal brow

The shades of death are gathered now !

What matter, if in queenly bower,

Was past of life thy fitful hour ?

In cloister gray, where meets at eve

The whispering winds that softly breathe ;

Or, if in leafy glen afar,

To some lone cot the guiding star

Of him, who turn'd with weary feet

Thy joyous answering smile to meet ?

What matter, if in hut or hall,

Was spread o'er thee the funeral pall ;

If mutes and banners waited round,

Or flowrets decked thy simple mound ?

If wrought on earth thy Maker's will,

No meddling fiend shall work thee ill :

O blest thy waiting-place shall be,

Till the grave shall set her captive free,

Through His dear might who came to bless

Man in his utter helplessness.— M. R.

WHAT see you in that old oak more than in any other
tree, except that its trunk is white with age, and that
gray lichens hang in tufts from out the interstices of the
bark ? That tree, stranger, was a silent witness of
scenes long past. It stood when England was rent

L

218 SFiK ©ucen'g

asunder during the fearful contest of the Roses ; and
beside its noble trunk met those, in all the pride of chivalry
and loveliness of beauty, who now are resting from life's
weary pilgrimage beneath the tomb of Quentin Matsys.

Who has not heard concerning the Duchess Dowager
of Bedford, how she left her high estate to wed a simple
squire, and to dwell with him in the beautiful solitude of
her dower castle of Grafton, far from the scene of her
former greatness ! The noble trees that grouped around
the castle wall, mingled with those of the wide forest of
Whittlebury, a royal chase, on the verge of which, and at
no great distance from the castle, stood this aged tree,
then in all the pride of sylvan majesty ; and far as the
eye could reach, extended one vast sweep of woodland
scenery, with breaks of lawn and thicket. The inhabi-
tants of Grafton Castle passed the first years of their
wedded life in comparative obscurity, exercising hospi-
tality, according to the manners of the age, yet keeping
as much as possible apart from the dangers and excite-
ments of public life. At length the necessity of provid-
ing for the elder branches of an increasing family,
rendered it desirable to strengthen their connexions, and
the Duchess of Bedford, whose rank was more exalted
than her fortune, resolved to introduce them at the court
of her friend, Queen Margaret, to whom her eldest
daughter, the beautiful Elizabeth Woodville, was appointed
maid of honour.*

* Hall's Chronicle, p. 365. Parliamentary History. Vol. II. 345.

219

Years passed on, and Elizabeth was united to John
Gray, son and heir to Lord Ferrars of Groby, possessor
of the ancient domain of Bradgate,* by reason of his
descent from Petronilla, daughter of Grantmesnil, one of
the proudest of our Norman nobility. Withdrawn from
her quiet home by the stirring incidents that attended
the fierce contest between the rival houses of York and
Lancaster, Elizabeth accompanied her husband during
the campaign, and shared with him in many of its perils.
It was even said that Queen Margaret persuaded her to
visit king-making Warwick in his camp, under the pre-
tence of requesting some little favour, for the stout earl
was ever kind to her ; but in reality to make observations
relative to the number and condition of his troops. This
was on the eve of the great battle of St. Albans, which
took place at a short distance from the abbey. The
abbey stood, in peaceable times, like a vast granary,
which continually received and gave out its produce,
into which was gathered both corn, and wine, and oil, bar-
ley, and the fruits of the earth, and to which not fewer
than twelve cells and hospitals were appended. And
scarcely was there a forest, chase, or wood throughout the
greatest part of England, which did not in some measure
contribute a supply to the abbey of its timber or venison.
Successive monarchsbanquetted within its walls, and while
the abbots were distinguished for their extensive hospi-
tality, the poor were not forgotten. Thus stood St. Albans,
* Afterwards the home of Lady Jane Gray.

L2

220

often in stormy times a place of refuge, into which the
peasants drove their cattle and were secure, and while the
storm of war raged furiously without, there was safety and
abundance within. But it was not always so, and St. Albans
was sacked more than once. The infuriated followers of
Wat Tyler set fire to the papers and written records of the
abbey, and in after times it was exposed to all the horrors
of civil war, when the rival houses of York and Lancaster
battled close beside its walls, and beneath the floor of our
Lady's chapel rest the remains of many who fought and
fell in those murderous conflicts. Showers and warm
sunbeams contribute their aid ofttimes to repair the
ravages which war has made in the aspect of nature.
The trodden fields were again covered with corn; dwell-
ings which had been set on fire, were speedily rebuilt,
and all went on as before. Tributes of corn, and wine,
and oil, were brought into the abbey, and the poor
and destitute received their daily doles. But men had
not yet learned that war and misery are synonymous.
The second battle of St. Albans, at which the forces of
Queen Margaret were, for a brief space, triumphant, was
deeply felt within the abbey. Wounded men, borne by
their companions from the fray, were continually brought,
in ; and when the battle ceased, it was fearful to hear the
continual tolling of the bell, sounding daily from morn-
ing till night, while the dead were being interred ; if
holding rank among the living, within the precincts of the
monastery, if otherwise, in an adjoining field. * The hus-
* History of St. Albans.

^ueen'g <Dafe. 221

band of Elizabeth Woodville, Gray Lord Ferrars, was then
in the twenty-fifth year of his age. Handsome, valorous,
and intrepid, and devotedly attached to the cause of Henry
VI. ; he was appointed commander of the Red-rose
cavalry, and, while leading on the memorable onset by
which the field was won, he received a mortal wound, of
which he died a few days after, at the village of Colney,
on the twenty-eighth of February 1461.* Henry VI.
visited and endeavoured to console the dying youth, and
sought, with the usual kindliness of his nature, to reconcile
him to the thought of death, by pointing to the only
Refuge, on whom his own hopes rested. Some chro-
niclers relate, that, according to the fashion of the age,
he conferred the honour of knighthood on the wounded
earl, for the sake of his sons, for although his father,
Lord Ferrars, had died two months before, the distracted
condition of the country had prevented the young noble-
man from taking his place in the house of peers. A deep
and rancorous feeling seems to have existed against the
memory of this brave and devoted adherent of King
Henry ; his harmless children, the eldest of whom was
not more than four years of age, were deprived of their
inheritance, and his widow was not permitted to remain
on the family estate ; the fine old mansion, with its broad
lands, was confiscated ; it became the property of another,
who repaired thither to take possession, and with him
his family and dependents, who filled all the offices and
* Whetherastede and Guthrie.

222 *&

places of trust and profit which the adherents of the house
of Gray had hitherto enj oyed. Elizabeth, therefore, sought
again the paternal roof. Sad was the day of her return,
yet she only was changed. The avenue of noble trees
waved in the breeze, fresh and shady as when last she
passed ; the fields, too, looked as green and lovely, and
through them lay the pathway, fringed with wild flowers,
where she had often gathered, with her young companions,
fresh garlands of sweet flowers, with which to bedeck them-
selves. The mansion had not been altered, since the
family returned from court, at the accession of Edward
IV. There was the open door, down the steps of which
the train of sisters had followed their stately mother, when
they set forth a few years before, at the invitation of
Queen Margaret, to visit her court; the eldest, appointed
to be her maid of honour;* the others, with promises of
favour and promotion. They had now returned, for
there was neither favour nor promotion for adherents of
the Red-rose, and Catherine, and Anne, and Mary, were
waiting to receive Elizabeth with blended feelings of joy
and sorrow ; joy, to welcome back their sister ; sorrow,
to see her widow's weeds and orphan children. Time
had not changed them, nor were the faithful servants,
who had seen, a few years back, their young mistress
depart, with tears and blessings, yet broken down.
Here, then, at a short distance from this time-worn
tree, Elizabeth continued to reside in Grafton Castle,
* Parliamentary History. Vol. II. p. 345.

©afe 223

devoted to the education of her sons ; for whom, as well
as for herself, she was dependent on the bounty of her
father.

Edward came at length to hunt in the forest of Whit-
tlebury, for this great forest was a royal chase, abound-
ing with shady coverts and open spaces, where the
fern grew wild and high, and dancing lights and sha-
dows seemed to sport over a wilderness of broken
ground and coppice-wood. Elizabeth heard that he
would pass at a short distance from her mother's dower
castle, and she resolved to wait for him under the
shade of the tall tree, which bears her name. The
mingled sound of hounds and horns, with the trampling
of horses on the green turf, soon reached her ear, and
presently the monarch passed that way with his gal-
lant train of hunters. She was then, for such is the
tradition of the neighbourhood,* with her fatherless
boys, on this very spot, for she had thrown herself on
the ground, and besought him, with many tears, to have
pity on her impoverished and bereaved children. The
sight of beauty in affliction softened the stern heart of
the monarch, while the anxiety of a mother for her chil-
dren seemed to awaken in his heart feelings of kindliness
and compassion, to which he had been long a stranger,
and he raised her from the ground, with assurances of
favour and consideration.

Legends tell, that they met again under the same old
* Baker's Northamptonshire.

224 ®fy <auecn'$ (Safe.

tree, for that Edward seemed to prefer that their inter-
views should take place where he had first seen and loved
the beautiful Elizabeth. History relates that the espousals
were privately solemnised early in the morning of the
first of May 1464, at the town of Grafton, near Stony
Stratford. None were present excepting the Duchess of
Bedford, the priest, and two gentlewomen, with a young
man, who assisted in singing. The priest who wedded
them lies buried before the altar, in the church of the
Minoresses at London-bridge.*

O what a mingled throng are passing now,

As in a mirror, which time seems to hold

For men to gaze in ! Actors in all scenes,

Mingled, and yet distinct, with names on each,

Given by Him who sent them forth to bless

Their homes or kindred — dwelling where they may.

Kings, with their crowned heads, and he who serves —

The anxious tradesman, and the gentle one

Who walks with peace, looking on meads and streams —

Loving the sound of whispering winds at eve,

Of warbling birds, and prattling streams that gush

'Mid flowers and ferns, and green hills meeting round ;

For such are seen, e'en near the deadly fray

Of battle fields, where meet the sire and son.

The Red-rose conquering now— and then the Pale ;

And he, who skulks in forest haunt, or cave

When morning dawns, walks as a chief at eve.

Look, then, at the strange eventful scenes in the life
of Elizabeth Woodville, as they pass before the mental

* Fragment Chronicle, printed by Heane, at the end of the Sprott.
Chronicle.

'g ©afu 225

vision, now in brightness and in beauty, and now in shade
and sadness.

Observe that gallant gentleman, holding a lady by the
hand, in a large and antique apartment, for the scene has
changed from Grafton Castle to the old palace of Reading.
That gentleman is Edward IV., and standing round, are
peers and princes of the realm, adherents of the house of
York, whom the king has convened in council, that he
may present to them the lady Elizabeth as his rightful
queen, — one whom he had wedded because of her
exalted worth, for he could never hope to espouse a
foreign princess, on account of the house of Lancaster,*
The queen is apparently little more than twenty-eight
years of age, and her delicate and modest beauty is not
impaired by either time or sorrow. Her head is encircled
with a high crown of peculiar richness, the numerous
points of which are finished by fleur-de-lis. Rich pearls,
strung in an elaborate pattern, encircle her beautiful
neck, while a small ring, in the middle of her forehead,
divides her pale yellow tresses, which descend in waving curls
of great length and profusion. Her face is exceedingly
fair, and her eyes are timidly cast down. She is royally
attired in a splendid kind of gold brocade, woven in
stripes of blue and gold, of which the wearing is restricted
to the royal reigning family, with a close boddice and tight
sleeves, and ermine robings, turned back over the shoul-
ders, and the whole dress is girded round the waist with

* The Sprott. Chronicle.

L5

226 EiK ^ucen'js <£afe

a crimson scarf. Her skirt is full and flowing, with a
broad ermine border, and a train of many yards in length,
held up by a trainbearer, a fair and gentle-looking
damsel, most probably one of the queen's sisters, who has
gracefully folded the extremity around her arms. A rich
blue satin petticoat is seen beneath the drapery, and
the shoes that peep forth occasionally are of a pointed
form.*

From that old room of state, where stands the fair
young queen, thus regally attired, passes on the pageant
of king and lady, and bearded counsellors, in solemn
pomp, to the stately abbey church of Reading, the lady
led by the young Duke of Clarence, where she is pub-
licly declared queen ; and where having made her offer-
ing, she is receiving the congratulations of the assembled
nobility, among whom, some people say, is the Earl of
Wai-wick. Brilliant fetes and tournaments succeed,
such as have not been seen in England, since the
gorgeous days of Edward III., when he held high state
in Windsor Castle. Elizabeth presides in all, with her
lovely train of sisters, and around them gather, as shep-
herds to " the star of Arcady, or Tyrian cynosure," many a
gallant knight and noble, proud to tilt in honour of
those fair damsels, and to receive from them the prize
that beauty awards to valour. Listen now to the loud hum
that mighty London sends through all her gates, for sights
and sounds of revelry pertain to this bright act in the
* Lives of the Queens of England, by Alice Strickland.

227

life of our sovereign lady. Knights, and citizens, and
throngs of people are filling every street, and crowding
every window. The queen is passing through the city
to her palace of Westminster, in a litter borne on poles,
and supported by stately prancing steeds ; and right arid
left, behind and in advance, ride valiant men, whom
the king has deputed to this honour. The queen has
come from Eltham Palace, where the hawthorn-trees are
all in blossom, and the little birds are singing blithely,
as if to hail their queen on the day of her corona-
tion. And when the train of knights and citizens is
seen passing beneath the lofty portal of the ancient
abbey, sweet sounds greet them, not of joyous birds
that warble their harmonious concerts among the
trees in Eltham park, but deep solemn music, and
glorious human voices chanting in unison ; and thus
welcomed and attended, enters Elizabeth, to pass
forth again a crowned and anointed women. And with
her is Count James, of St. Pol, uncle to the .Duchess of
Bedford, with a hundred knights and their attendants ;
a sovereign prince, and near kinsman of the queen,
whom Charles the Bold had deputed to be present at
the coronation. King Edward desired that the peers of
England and the citizens of London should be assured
that the lady whom he married was worthy, by her high
descent, to share his throne, and he had requested the
French king to induce some of the princes of the house
of Luxemburg to visit England, and claim kindred with

228

his wife. Count James set forth accordingly, for now
that his fair cousin wore a crown, he was proud to acknow-
ledge the connexion. It was otherwise a few years before
with the house of Luxemburg : they had not only chosen
to forget the mother of Elizabeth, because she married a
private gentleman, " though he was the handsomest man
in all England, and the duchess was an exceeding hand-
some gentlewoman." They had not only chosen to
withold their countenance, but had even spoken such
harsh words, that neither the knight nor lady dared to
claim kindred with them on the continent, for the fa-
ther of that same count, who was now in England, would
have slain them both, had they ventured within his reach.
All was now forgotten, and he who looks with the mental
eye through the long, long vista of past ages, may dis-
cern in the dim distance, gorgeous pageants, and tilts
and tournaments, ladies coming forth from their old
Gothic castles to grace the court, with chevaliers of
France and England, each from their baronial residences,
mingling in feats of arms and festivals. And then, beside
the small couch of a fair infant, are seen standing the
haughty Cicely of York, and the royally descended
Jaquetta of Bedford, grandmothers of the young scion,
made friends that day, as they bend with looks of love
over the unconscious sleeping one. Sleep on, fair child,
thy brow shall wear a crown, but weary years of woes
and wanderings are before thee.*
* Monstrelet.

229

The hand of the reaper,

Cuts the ears that are hoary :
But the voice of the weeper,

Wails manhood in glory. — SCOTT.

It is the middle of corn harvest, and reapers are
cutting down the rich brown ears, on the verge of the
great forest, where first met the Lady Elizabeth and
King Edward. All around the Queen's Oak, the oak of
Whittlebury Chase, is one vast joyous solitude of woods
and waters, lonely, yet cheerful ; without any habitation,
yet not unpeopled, for noble antlers are seen emerging
from the brushwood, and joyous birds and butterflies fly in
and out among the trees, or flit from one flower to another.
All is stillness, and beauty, and luxuriance ; and let him
who has found a covert within the woody range, venture
not far away, for there are fearful doings in the land.

Gradually melt away the mists of time, that have
hidden for a while .the court of Westminster, but
the king is not there, nor yet the queen, nor the couch
on which the young child lay; but instead of these,
strange men are seen hurrying from room to room, as if
in quest of plunder. The moon is up, and her pale
beams shine on the white sails of a small vessel, that urges
its way, as in fear, from the shores of Lynn, in Norfolk.*
They shine, likewise, on a mother with three little girls,
and a noble looking dame, the Lady Scrope, who have taken
refuge in a strong and gloomy building at the end of St.
*Hall. Comines.

230 ®fa aucen'* ©afe.

Margaret's church-yard. That lone mother is the beau-
tiful Queen of England, she has fled to sanctuary on the
approach of Warwick's army, for the ship, whose white
sails glisten in the clear cold moonbeams, conveys her
husband abroad in quest of succour. Stern men are
prowling round the gloomy building, but no one dares
to go within, for the queen has registered herself and her
three children, Elizabeth, Mary, and Cicely, and the
Lady Scrope, as inmates of sanctuary. That gloomy
place has sheltered murderers and robbers, men, too,
who were in peril of their lives, for treason against their
king ; but in the present evil times, ladies and young
children often find a home within its walls, when all
other homes are broken up. And thus, all comfortless
and forlorn, is waiting the Queen of England, for the
birth of that fair child, who first saw light within the sanc-
tuary of Westminster.* No distinction is therebetween
the kindred of a prince or peasant, when the crown is put
aside, no royal spell with which to chace away either
want or sorrow. The Queen of England soon began to
be in need, and must have been constrained to surrender
to the army of Queen Margaret, had not provisions been
secretly conveyed to her by a kind-hearted butcher of
the name of Gould, who could not bear, he said, to think
that the lady and her children should be distressed for
lack of food.

* It is conjectured that the prince was born in the Jerusalem
Chamber, which the kind abbot relinquished to the queen.

<£afe. 231

The infant prince is about to be baptized, and this
with no greater ceremony than if he had been a poor
man's child. A poor man's child might have more to
gladden him, smiling faces and fresh air, but around this
son of a throneless monarch are sad countenances and
gloomy walls. No costly gifts are presented, and for
attendants there remain but one or two kind friends,
faithful among faithless thousands. No cloth of gold
adorns the Gothic font of hewn stone, round which the
little band of fond and faithful friends are gathered,
while the sacred ceremony is performed by the sub-prior,
who gives to the young prince the name of his father.
Those who promise for him, poor child, that he shall re-
nounce the pomps and pleasures of the world, when his
noble patrimony seems lost to him, are his grandmother
and the Lady Scrope, that devoted woman, who adheres to
the queen in all her trials. The good abbot, Thomas Mil-
ling, performs the office of godfather, no other man being
either willing or at hand to do the desolate one that service.

Hark now to the sound of cheerful voices. They come
from those who no longer fear to be regarded as
adherents of the house of York. King Edward is
returned, and with him a gallant company of gentlemen
are seen pressing onward to the sanctuary. One mo-
ment more, the bolted doors fly open, and the king and
queen, with their three little girls, are preparing to leave
the sanctuary ; the infant prince, borne in the arms of
his nurse, and his blithe and gladsome sisters, making

232

the old walls resound with their joyous voices. Men
speak much concerning the valorous conduct of Queen
Margaret, and all which she has done and suffered in
order to replace her hushand on the throne. But they
speak more of the gentle Elizabeth ; how she had sat
down in meekness and in patience within the walls of
that dismal place, where murderers and traitors had har-
boured in other times, waiting quietly till it pleased the
Most High to send her better days, sojourning, indeed,
in trouble, heaviness, and sorrow, yet sustaining it as
became a Christian woman, having much to fear, yet
hoping against hope.*

The queen is playing now with her ladies at a courtly
game called the marteaux, while others are amusing
themselves as best befit them, according to the fashion of
the times. King Edward is dancing with the Lady
Elizabeth, his eldest daughter, and all is mirth and
revelry, and joyousness, and well may those rejoice, who
but a few days before knew not where to find a hiding-
place. Who is that stately gentleman, whose dress and
accent bespeak him from foreign parts, on whom all
eyes are turned, and even the king salutes with more
than kingly courtesy ? The Lord of Grauthuse, Louis
of Bruges. At once a nobleman, a merchant, and a
man of letters, acting as deputy in the Low Countries
for his master, Charles the Bold. He received and
welcomed his royal guest, when in the preceding year the
* Fleetwood's Chronicle.

^Bltuen'g ©afe. 233

king fled from Enlgand, with a few attendants, "the
most distressed company of creatures that were ever
seen, for Edward had left his military coat, lined with
martin's fur, with the master of the ship, having no other
means of paying him, and was put on shore in his
waistcoat. Unlike many in those days, who made the
exiles of either faction, whether of the red or paler rose,
pay dearly for their prison-houses, or hard fare, the Lord
of Grauthuse fed and clothed the king and his attendants.
He lent him ships and money, without which he could
not have returned to his family, and afforded him every
facility for making good his landing on the shores of
Britain.* The minstrel has ceased now, and night and
silence pervade the castle. The moon, which looked
down on the white sail of King Edward, passing in its
swiftness and its loneliness over the dark waters, shines
now on the ancient turrets of Windsor Castle, wherein
the king is sleeping. And there, too, his wife and
children, his courtiers and his guards, are resting, and no
sound is heard except the heavy tramp of the warders as
they go their rounds, or perchance the deep bay of some
listening hound, which the leveret's light step on the damp
grass has roused from his slumber.

Morning returns, and the cheerful sights and sounds
of busy life. St. George's Chapel, with its painted
windows and knights' banners are brightening in the

* Narrative of Louis of Bruges, Lord Grauthuse, edited by Sir F.
Madden.

234

sunbeams, while our lady's mass is sung, with the full
harmony of the choristers' sweet voices. The king is
there, Lady Elizabeth and the Lord Grauthuse, for it
seems as if his late deliverance from so much peril had
wrought good thoughts within him.

Again the scene is changed, from the chapel to the
quadrant. The innocent young prince is being earned
by Sir Richard Vaughan. He can hardly speak as yet,
but his chamberlain has taught him to bid the Lord
Grauthuse welcome, who saved his father, and brought
himself from his dolorous birth-place, to enjoy at once his
liberty, and the sun's cheering light. That faithful cham-
berlain who carries the young prince everywhere, after
his father's footsteps, will yet be called upon to act in a
very different scene. He is attending the king and count
from place to place, now in the lodge at Windsor Park,
where the royal family dine together, afterwards through
the garden and vineyard of pleasure, for the king desires
to show his guest the many and varied excellencies of
his kingly dwelling.

Pageants sweep by, and nobles are presiding in halls of
state. See the monarch, too, in his kingly robes, with his
cap of maintenance, and right and left his lords, both
spiritual and temporal. And list to that grave man, who
declares before the king and nobles, the intent and the
desire of the commons, with regard to the queen and Lord
Grauthuse ; upon the one is bestowed all honour and
commendation of her womanly behaviour and great con-

235

stancy during the nation's peril ; to the other, is conveyed
that nation's gratitude for his kindness and humanity to
her sovereign lord, by the king, creating him Earl of
Winchester. And surely the ceremony of that creation
is one of no ordinary interest. The king is passing now
into Whitehall, and thither too goes the queen from her
own apartment, wearing a crown upon her head, with
the young prince in his small robes of state, borne after
her in the arms of Master Vaughan. And thus the
king and queen, and that fair child, proceed through
the abbey church, to the shrine of St. Edward, where
their offerings are presented. Next, in the review of
pageantries and banquet-halls, hunting scenes and revels,
in the beautiful bowers of Eltham Palace, rises from out
the mingled scene, the rich and gorgeous spectacle of the
betrothing of the young Duke of York with Anne Mowbray,
the infant heiress of the duchy of Norfolk. St. Stephen's
chapel is being hung with arras of gold, and men are
employed both day and night in putting up the drapery,
which standing in its richness, must yet be gracefully
arranged in broad folds around the pillars and the
columns. All this is done, and the closed doors are
opened for the entrance of stately ladies and train-
bearers, great lords and their attendants, the beauty and
the chivalry of the house of York. And now the flourish
of loud trumpets and the clang of cymbals announce
the king's approach, and the full quire is pealing forth
its melody of mingled voices and high minstrelsy. The

236 Stye <&u«n'*

king is entering with the young Prince of Wales and
the three princesses, Elizabeth, Mary, and Cicely; the
queen follows, leading the small bridegroom of five years'
old, her brother, Earl Rivers, conducts the baby bride,
who looks awestruck and wondering, at the unusual sights
and sounds. Thus striking its roots deep, with young
scions rising round, stands the red rose of England in
all its richness and luxuriance.

Look at that desolate woman, who is sitting all sorrow-
ful and dismayed on the rushes that strew the floor of a
large and antique apartment. Her long hair, once
her richest ornament, has fallen from beneath her widow's
cap, and flowing in all its wonted beauty, over her slight
form, is resting on the pavement. Fearful scenes have
passed before the view of England's queen since her
proud day in St. Stephen's chapel — her husband's couch
of death, his deep remorse for sins committed or duties
passed over ; his funeral, his empty throne, murder, and
usurpation. There is the sound of many footsteps
treading heavily and in haste, and the putting down of
boxes ; men are seen busy in conveying household stun",
and chests and packages, but that desolate woman does
not seem to heed them — she is thinking only of her sor-
rows, and the dangers that surround her family, for intelli-
gence was brought to her at midnight that the Duke of
Gloucester had intercepted the young king on his way
from Ludlow to the metropolis ; that he had seized his
person, and caused the arrest of her brother, Earl Rivers,

237

and Lord Gray, her son, together with the faithful Vaughan,
who used to carry prince Edward when an infant.*

Bitterly does she lament having listened to the evil
counsellors, who prevented her from placing a strong
escort around the person of her son ; but she remembered,
even in the midst of her exceeding grief, that herself and
her young family had before been saved by taking refuge
in the sanctuary, and she resolved to go thither without
delay. Rising up, therefore, in the midst of the dark
night, she caused her innocent children to be brought to
her, and hastened with them from the palace of West-
minster to the residence of the good abbot. She knew
that if able to keep her second son in safety, it
would ensure the life of the young king ; but she did
not go as heretofore into the ancient sanctuary, for the
whole of the abbey, with its rooms of state and spacious
gardens, was equally privileged, and she felt that she was
welcome. Never yet has the right of sanctuary been
violated, even in the worst of times ; and, perhaps, a ray
of hope is lighting up in the breast of that lone woman ;
but now the door is opening, and the venerable Archbishop
Rotherham, who resides in York-place, beside the abbey,
enters, with a cheerful countenance, and communicates a
message, sent him by Lord Hastings in the night, and
which he believed to be of good import. Bourchier, the
primate, accompanies him, and they come in full cre-
dence of the duke's good faith, who has endeavoured, with
* Cent. Hist Croyl. Sir Thomas More. Hall.

238

much sophistry, to convince the privy council that his
designs are just and honourable.

The queen seeins unwilling to receive their message ;
her just apprehensions are not to be removed by the
hopes which they endeavour to excite. The good arch-
bishop seeks to comfort her by saying that he trusts the
matter is none so sore as she takes it for, and that he is
in good hope, and relieved from fear by the message sent
from the Lord Chamberlain Hastings. " Ah, woe worth
him," replies the queen, " for he is one of them that
labours to destroy me and my children." " Madam,"
rejoins the bishop, " be of good cheer : I do assure you,
if they crown any other king than your son, whom thev
now have with them, we shall, on the morrow, crown his
brother, whom you have with you. And here is the
great seal, which, in likewise, as that noble prince, your
husband, delivered unto me, so here I deliver it unto
you, to the use and behoof of your son.*

This sad scene, like others of joy and sorrow in the
life of poor Elizabeth, is fading from before the view,
but, while it lingers, look well at the spacious hall wherein
the queen has taken refuge, with its circular hearthstone
in the centre, and an opening in the roof above, through
which the smoke escapes in winter. The further end is
nobly screened with oak panelling, laticed at the top, and
having several doors of ancient workmanship, that open
on winding,stairs, leading to numerous small stone cham-
* Sir Thomas More.

239

bers, with cawed windows and stone mullions. There
are also state apartments, of which the walls are covered
with richly carved oak ; an organ-room, and the abbot's
grand reception-room, with its Gothic window of painted
glass, but with such we have no concern.

May, sweet May is come, and the hearth-stone is
decked with green branches and bright flowers ; the birth
of the young day, but withering before its close.
Emblems of the failing hopes of her who sits all desolate
beside them, and with her are two beautiful and serious-
looking maidens, the princesses Elizabeth and Mary,
and four young children, from three to eleven years of
age; Richard, Duke of York, Anne, Catherine, and
Bridget. At one time the terrified children hide in the
folds of their mother's robe ; at another, their cheerful
voices are heard, calling to each other as they run from
room to room; now in the state apartment, and now in
some winding passage, or asking leave to wander forth
among the bees and flowers in the quiet garden of the
abbey. Poor children, your grief is light, and it passes
soon, like an April shower ; bur darker clouds are gather-
ing, and their crushing rain will fall heavily even upon you.

An aged man is seen advancing towards the abbey, and
with him a deputation, apparently of no mean rank. His
robes and crosier denote his dignity, for it is the Arch-
bishop of Canterbury, who is about to pay a visit to the
queen, with a message from the Lord Protector^ who has
placed the young king in the Tower, under the pretence

240

of awaiting his coronation, and who also desires to gain
possession of his brother. A long and stormy debate had
taken place in the star-chamber, close to Elizabeth's
retreat. It was argued there, that men and women might
remain in sanctuary, but that young children had no
need, they being guileless of all crimes that might
affect the state ; that consequently the Duke of Gloucester
might possess himself of his nephew whenever it pleased
him. The archbishop was extremely concerned when he
heard all this, and he preferred his services to speak with
the queen, rather than force should be used.*

The scene has changed from the great hall, with its fresh
flowers around the hearthstone, and its floor strewed
with green rushes, to the great Jerusalem chamber, with
its Gothic window of richly stained and painted glass, its
curious tapestry, and ancient picture of King Richard.
Observe the venerable man, beneath the surface of whose
placid and pale features deep feelings are at work. He
knows not what to say, nor how to prepare the mind of
the poor queen for the stern resolve of the hunchbacked
protector, with regard to the young prince. At length
he began by urging that the king required the company
of his brother, being much cast down for the want of a
playfellow.

" Troweth the protector," replies the queen, (heaven
grant that he may prove a protector,) "that the king
doth lack a playfellow ? Can none be found to play
*Hall.

24 1

with the king but only his brother, who hath no wish to
play because of sickness ? as though princes so young as
they be, could not play without their peers, or children
could not play without their kindred, with whom, for the
most part, they agree worse than with strangers ! " The
archbishop knew not what to say in answer, he liked not
to tell her that the protector was resolved to gain posses-
sion of the young prince, and he waited in the hope that
she might be inclined to accede to his request. At length
the queen, taking her son by the hand, said, in a com-
pressed and solemn tone, " My lord, and all my lords
now present, I will not be so suspicious as to mistrust
your truth. Lo here is this gentleman whom, I doubt not,
would be safely kept by me if I were permitted ; and
well do I know there be some such deadly enemies to my
blood, that if they wist where any lay, they would let it
out if they could. The desire of a kingdom knoweth
no kindred ; brothers have been brothers' bane, and may
the nephews be sure of the uncle ? Each of these chil-
dren are safe while they be asunder; notwithstanding, I
here deliver him, and his brother's life with him, into
your hands, and of you I shall require them before God
and man. Faithful ye be, I wot well, and power ye
have, if ye list, to keep them safe ; but if ye think I fear
too much, yet beware ye fear not too little ! Farewell, my
own sweet son ! God send you good keeping. Let me
kiss you once ere you go, for God knoweth when we shall
kiss together again." Tenderly embracing the afflicted

242

boy, she is seen " weeping bitterly over him, and he too
is weeping as fast in his turn."*

Fearful tragedies are acting now in the dim distance
of time's perspective. They flit before the mental view,
fading, and seeming to appear again ; yet not the same,
though like in, terror and in kind. The shadowy figures
of Hastings, of Gray, and Rivers, are seen passing from
the block, and then the innocent forms of two young
children, emerging from the gloomy range of fortresses
belonging to the Tower. And loud is heard the sobbing,
and the pitiful screams of the poor mother, as she beats
upon her breast, and calls her sweet babes by name ; and,
kneeling down, implores the vengeance of the Just One,
on the guilty head of him who has thus cruelly deprived
her of her sons.

The vaulted door of a spacious room is opening, and
across the furthest end seems flitting a strange succession
of sad scenes — a young child's f funeral passes, and then
a burst of anguish comes remotely to the ear, as if across
wide waters, from a stern man, who yet cannot hide his
sorrow; then a woman's wail, but the wail soon dies
away, and a death scene and a funeral pass in faint
review. J Then the great fight of Bosworth, where a king
is slain, and another takes his crown; a bridal follows
and a coronation.

Thus they pass ; events of other days are shadows now ;

* Hall, 355. Sir Thomas Moore, 358. f Only son of Richard
III. + Death and funeral of Richard's Queen.

©alt, 243

terrible, indeed, at the period of their reality, but when
ended, how soon forgotten ! yet not forgotten by the aged
woman, who is resting, as in a quiet home, within that
spacious room in the Abbey of Bermondsey. It is her
right to be there, for the prior and monks are bound by
their charter to entertain, and that most hospitably, the
representative of their great founder, Clare, Earl of Glou-
cester. Edward VI. was the sole heir of that family, and
the queen dowager is privileged to occupy the nobly
panelled halls, and state-chambers, that are expressly
reserved for the descendants of the founder.*

The waves and billows of life's deepest waters have
passed over that aged woman who is sitting in a richly
carved chair, at the great oriel-window, watching the
summer clouds as they flit over the smiling landscape, and
cast their shadows on the abbey fields. Her venerable
figure, beautiful even in its decrepitude, though not with
the beauty of sunny youth, yet such as the bright ray of
the setting sun sheds over an autumn landscape, recalls
the faint remembrance of a lovely woman who once stood,
with two orphan boys beneath the oak of Whittlebury, to
sue for the restitution of her broad lands, from the gallant
Edward.

Hark to the toll of the convent bell. It is tolling
for Elizabeth Woodville, late Queen Dowager of Eng-
land, and the requiem is being sung, which breathes
peace to the passing spirit. The moon is up, and yet the
* Annals of the Abbey of Bermondsey.

244 Qty <&uccn'j$ ©afe,

night is dark and gloomy, by reason of the heavy clouds
that are rolling past, and he who looks narrowly on the
deep dark waters of the river may discern a small boat
gliding on, with the coffin of the queen on board, and
four attendants, but when the moon shines out you can
distinguish the prior of the Charterhouse by his robes,
with two others in deep mourning, yet without insignia,
by which to designate them, and one female figure. Now
the rowers stop, and the coffin is being carried through
the little park into Windsor Castle, a few torches serving to
guide the bearers, which appear and disappear among
the trees, like the twinkling lights of glow-wonns in the
grass.

Stately figures are kneeling round the coffin, where it
remains for a while, ready to be borne to its last resting-
place, and among the mourners one is discerned in the
dress of anun. Again the coffin is upborne, and the queen's
daughters fall behind, with a train of shadowy forms,
ladies, and earls, and viscounts, moving onward to St.
George's chapel. Strange it seems, that neither plumes
nor scutcheons are to be seen ; that when the dirge
is being sung, the twelve old men, whose office it is
to chant the requiem for the dead, are not even clad in
sable vestments : appearing rather like a dozen old men
indiscriminately and hastily brought together for the
purpose, and permitted to retain the garments of poverty,
in which they were found, and, instead of flambeaux, they
light on the funeral with old torches and torches

2T!)e turn's* ©afe. 245

ends. * Some say, that the queen, when dying, expressed
an earnest wish for a speedy and private funeral. If so,
her request was punctually fulfilled. Yet still it is
remarkable that no more of pomp should appertain to the
obsequies of her who had been Queen of England — that
scutcheons and nodding plumes, and other mourning
tokens, were wanting to distinguish that illustrious one's
last sojourn on earth.

* Arundel MSS. 30. referred to in the Lives of the Queens of
England.

THE END.

Joseph Rickerby, Printer, Sherbourn Lane.

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Also, by the same Author, and adapted to the above,

THE TEACHER'S MANUAL
OF MENTAL ARITHMETIC;

DISPLAYING A SIMPLE METHOD OF

SUCCESSFULLY COMMUNICATING INSTRUCTION IN
THAT MOST USEFUL SCIENCE.

TOGETHER WITH

A KEY TO THE CALCULATIONS.
12mo. cloth lettered. Price 2s.

" An extremely valuable little work. The rules which it gives for solving all
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must be a most desirable hand-book."— Atlas.

HELP TO THE SCHOOLMISTRESS ;

OR,

VILLAGE TEACHING.

BY EMILY TAYLOR.

Author of " Tales of the Saxons," " Tales of the English," &c.
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THE PICTORIAL ENGLISH GRAMMAR.

With One Hundred and Twenty Illustrations by ALFRED CROWQUILL.
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ALLISON'S
FIRST LESSONS IN ENGLISH GRAMMAR.

Price 9d.

Harvey and Dar ton's Publications. 11

THE ENGLISH VOCABULARY,

OR

SPELLING-BOOK;

WITH THE MEANING ATTACHED TO EACH WORD.

Compiled for the Use ofAcbworth School
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LECONS POUR DES ENFANS,
DEPUIS L'AGE DE DEUX ANS JUSQU'A CINQ.

TRADUIT DE L'ANGLAIS DE MADAME BARBAULD.

AVEC CNE INTERPRETATION ANGLAISE.

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A CLASSICAL AND ARCHAEOLOGICAL
DICTIONARY

OF THE

MANNERS, CUSTOMS, LAWS, &C. OF THE CELEBRATED NATIONS
OF ANTIQUITY AND THE MIDDLE AGES.

BY DR. NUTTALL.
8vo. cloth, Price 16s.

AN INTRODUCTION

TO THB

KNOWLEDGE OF BOOK-KEEPING.

BY R. ROE.

8vo. half-bound. Price 3s. 6d.
A Set of Ruled Books, to accompany the above, price 3s.

LECTURES ELEMENTAIRES.

PAR LE COMTE BARDI.

WITH AN 1NTERLINEARY ENGLISH TRANSLATION, ON

HAMILTON! AN SYSTEM.
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12 Harvey and Darton's Publications.

ENGLISH PA RSIN G LESSONS.

BY JAMES GILES.
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THE OLD OAK CHEST;
OR, A BOOK A GREAT TREASURE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF CHARLIE'S DISCOVERIES, &c.
With Cuts, 16mo. cloth gilt. Price 3s. 6d.

" A pretty, amusing, and instructive book, adapted as a parlour-book for little
children."— Sunday School Teacher's Magazine.

WITH ENGRAVINGS AND WOOD-CUT ILLUSTRATIONS.

TALES OF MANY LANDS.

BY MISS M. FRASER TYTLER,

Author of " Tales of the Great and Brave."
Foolscap 8vo. cloth lettered. Price 7s. 6d.

" Sketches of common life, and traits of childish character, intermingled skil-
fully with pictures of foreign scenery and national characteristics; and pathetic
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MY BOY'S FIRST BOOK.

By the Author of •' Tales of the Great and Brave.'
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" A pretty little one for very young children, consisting of a number of tales
full of interest, yet all tending to improve the morals of the youthful reader. We
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BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

MY BOY'S SECOND BOOK.

With fine Cuts. 16mo. cloth. Price 3s. 6d.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

HYMNS AND SKETCHES IN VERSE.

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" These are children's books of a very superior character; and especially the first,
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Harvey and Darton's Publications. 13

OPEN AND SEE;
OR, FIRST READING LESSONS.

BY THE AUTHOR OP " AIDS TO DEVELOPEMENT," &C. &C.

With Twenty-four Engravings on Wood. Price 2s. 6d.

CHILDREN'S MISSION ;

OR,

GREAT WORKS WROUGHT BY WEAK HANDS.

ILLUSTRATED BY THREE TALES :

THE LIGHTHOUSE, THE INCENDIARY, AND MARGARET

SEATON'S VICTORY.
BY GEORGE WARING.

W.TH SIX WOOD ENGRAVINGS FROM DESIGNS BY GILBERT.

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By the Authors of " Original Poems."

RHYMES FOR THE NURSERY.

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" An old friend with a new face, and an open and a gay one too. The large,
clear type invites the young reader to learn the story of the nice little pictures.
These verses for children have never been surpassed, scarcely equalled indeed— for
the happy union of fancy and precept, the simplicity and intelligibility of the
ideas and words, and the fluency and conciseness of the Rhymes. The M'iss Tay-
lors are the best nursery lyrists, after all."— Spectator.

STR A1GHTFOR W A RDNESS
ESSENTIAL TO THE CHRISTIAN.

BY M. A. KELTY.

12mo. cloth lettered. Price Is. 6d.

TRIALS OF STRENGTH,
MORAL AND PHYSICAL.

BY MRS. HARWELL.

Foolscap 8vo. cloth lettered. Price 5s.

" In language, and in everything else, this is a model for juvenile story-books.
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and physical courage."— Metropolitan.

Harvey and Barton's Publications.

ROBINSON CRUSOE.

With Illustrations. 12rao. cloth lettered. Price 5s.
Au 18mo. edition of the same. Price 2s. 6d.

FIVE YEARS OF YOUTH;

OR,

SENSE AND SENTIMENT.

BY HARRIET MARTINEAU,

AUTHOR OF " ILLUSTRATIONS OF POLITICAL ECONOMY," &C. &C.

12mo. cloth lettered. Price 6s.

SELF-DEPENDENCE : A TALE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF " ROSE TALBOT ;" " THB ORPHAN'S CHOICE," &C.

" Confidence then bore thee on ; secure

Either to meet no danger or to find
Matter of glorious trial."

Price 4s. Gd. Foolscap 8vo. Cloth gilt.

" A well \yritten story, inculcating those moral feelings which every parentmust
wish to see his children possess. The volume is a very suitable present for youth,
being both informing and amusing."— Plymouth Herald.

SETMA, THE TURKISH GIRL,

AND

WOODROOF, THE SWEDISH BOY.

TRUE TALES.

BY THE REV. C. G. EARTH.
Foolscap 8vo. Cloth gilt. Price 3s. with Frontispiece.

" The spiritual piety of these tales is above all praise. Much may be learned by
the estimation in which Christianity and her holy ordinances are held by the Turk-
ish Girl; while from the Swedish Boy we have a clear view of the fundamental
truths of Christianity, which will put to confusion many of the crude imaginings
that but too often take the place of true religion. The little volume is admirably
calculated for the perusal of the youth of both sexes."— Cambridge Advertiser.

VARIETY :

A SELECTION OF ANECDOTES, HISTORICAL, BIOGRAPHICAL, AND

MISCELLANEOUS.
BY PRISCILLA WAKEFIELD.

With Plates, 12mo. cloth lettered. Price 5s.

THE CHILD'S BOOK OF OBJECTS.

With Coloured Illustrations. Price 3s. 6d. Cloth fettered.

Harvey and Darton's Publications. 1 5

A NEW DESCRIPTION OF THE EARTH,

CONSIDERED CHIEFLY AS A RESIDENCE FOR MAN-
BY JEFFREYS TAYLOR.
With Plates, 12mo. Price 4s.

By the same Author,

A MONTH IN LONDON;

OB SOME OF ITS

MODERN WONDERS DESCRIBED.

With Plates, 12mo. cloth lettered. Price 4s.

" A description of some of the modern wonders to be seen in the great metro-
polis. The principal objects of which an account is given are the Thames, the
Tunnel, St. Katherine's Docks, Bridges, Gas Lights, Diorama, Colosseum, Re-
gent's Park, Zoological Gardens, British Museum, National Repository, the Ba-
zaars, &c. &c. all of which must be interesting, more particularly to the little folks
in the country." — Edinburgh Advertiser.

FIRESIDE STORIES;

OR,

RECOLLECTIONS OF MY SCHOOLFELLOWS.

THIRD EDITION, WITH THIRTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS.
16mo. cloth lettered, gilt edges. Price 3s. 6d.

ECONOMICAL COOKERY
FOR YOUNG HOUSEKEEPERS.

A new Edition. 12mo. Cloth lettered. Price 2s.

" This is another of those useful volumes, the success of which affords the very
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art of providing them without extravagance ought to be encouraged by all who
feel an interest in the subject."— Atlas.

RURAL SCENES;

OR,

A PEEP INTO THE COUNTRY.

A new and revised Edition, with 8B Cuts. Foolscap 8vo. cloth lettered,
Price 2s. (id.

PEACE IN POVERTY.

BY MARY ANN KELTY.
18mo. sewed. Price Is. 3d.

16 Harvey and Darton's Publications.

CHILDHOOD,

ILLUSTRATED IN A SELECTION FROM THE POETS.

BY H. M. RATH BONE.
Foolscap 8vo. cloth lettered. Price 5s.

CITY SCENES;
OR, A PEEP INTO LONDON

With many Plates, 1 2mo. cloth lettered. Price 3s. 6d.
Or coloured, Price 4s. 6d.

& j&erie£ of 32mo. Boofeg, {Suitable for

In embossed roan, gilt edges.
I.

FRUITS AND FLOWERS.

" The proper culture of thy mind will yield thee more than summer fruits and
flowers." Price 3s. 6d.

II.

THE WHEATSHEAF.

Price 2s. 6d.

FAMILIAR ILLUSTRATIONS
OF THE EVIDENCES OF CHRISTIANITY.

BY MARIA HACK.
18mo. cloth lettered. Price 3s.

HYMNS,
SELECTED FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS,

FOR YOUNG PERSONS.
BY PRISCILLA GURNEY.
32mo cloth, gilt edges. Price 2s. 6d.

LIMED TWIGS TO CATCH YOUNG BIRDS.

By the .Authors of ' Original Poems."
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CHILDREN'S BOOKS,

WITH
ILLUSTRATIONS, AND NEATLY BOUND AND LETTERED.

PRICE SIXPENCE EACH.

PLATES COLOURED.

THE PEOPLE of EUROPE.

THE NATIONS of ASIA.

THE AFRICAN RACE.

THE TRIBES OF AMERICA AND POLYNESIA.

EASY CHAT for very little People.

LONDON SCENES.

SIMPLE STORIES. A very easy Reading Book.

SIMPLE RHYMES on BIRDS and BEASTS.

COUNTRY SCENES.

EMMA and the LITTLE SILK-MAKERS.

NURSERY LESSONS.

SPORTS of CHILDHOOD.

THE CRIES of LONDON.

THE NURSERY PRESENT, or Alphabet of Pictures.

THE RHYMING ALPHABET.

THE WORKSHOP, or Useful Trades.

THE BUSY BEES.

PLATES PLAIN.

BOOK of NOUNS, 64 Plates.

EASY STEPS to LEARNING, Two Parts.

FRANKLIN'S ART of MAKING MONEY PLENTY,

with hieroglyphic Plates.

18

Harvey and Darton's Publications.

INFANT'S CABINET of BIRDS and BEASTS.

LESSONS and TALES for the NURSERY.

MAMMA'S PRESENT of PICTURES.

PEOPLE of all NATIONS, 64 plates.

PICTURES for the NURSERY.

ROBINSON CRUSOE,

TALES for INFANT MINDS.

THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT.

THE PICTURE SHOP.

THE INFANT'S CATECHISM.

PRICE ONE SHILLING EACH

PLATES COLOURED.

COWPER'S NEGRO'S COMPLAINT.

EASY LESSONS for INFANTS.

LET ME LOOK, PAPA ; or, Pictures of Animals.

OPIE'S NEGRO'S LAMENT ; or, the Process of making
Sugar.

THE CHILD'S BOOK of OBJECTS.
THE CHILD'S PICTURE BOOK.
THE LITTLE BOOK OF PRINTS.

PLATES PLAIX.

ANN and JANE, with plates.

A PEEP into NATURE, ditto.

BIBLE STORIES, ditto.

EASY LESSONS in ENGLISH HISTORY.

Harvey and Darton's Publications. 19

HYMNES en PROSE, par M. Barbauld.
INDIVIDUAL INFLUENCE, by M. A. Kelty.
LITTLE ANECDOTES, by M. Mister.
LITTLE TRUTHS, 2 vols., ditto.
MAMMA AND MARY, by M. A. Kelty.
MARTIN AND JAMES.
PRECEPT and EXAMPLE, plates.
POEMS for CHILDREN. By a Lady.
SELECT RHYMES for the NURSERY, ditto.
THE DECOY ; or, an Agreeable Method of teaching- Children
the elementary Parts of English Grammar.
THE RATIONAL EXHIBITION.

PRICE ONE SHILLING AND SIXPENCE EACH

AGNES MERTON ; or, how to lay out Half-a-Sovereign.
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ALICE GRANT : the Two Cousins ; and Fair Day.
DON'T GIVE UP THE SHIP ; or, the Good Son.

ELEMENTARY INSTRUCTION for JUNIOR STU-
DENTS.

FANNY and her MOTHER. A Story.

INFANT STORIES, intended to show that to be Good is
to be Happy.

LITTLE FRANK and other Tales. In Words of one
Syllable.

LUCY UNWIN ; or, Prejudice Reproved, and other Tales.

ORIGINAL POEMS for INFANT MINDS. A new
and revised Edition, in 2 vols.

PRESENCE of MIND and PRIDE. Two Tales. By
PHIEBE BLYTHE. Author of " Alice Grant," &c.

20 Harvey and Dartori s Publications.

RHYMES for the NURSERY. By the Authors of " Ori-
ginal Poems."

SIMPLE HYMNS for YOUNG CHILDREN. By the
Author of the " Parting Gift," &c.

The ORPHAN'S CHOICE. A Tale. By ELIZA
WRIGHT. Author of " Self-Dependence," &c.

The TRUANT SCHOLARS; Kate Rivers; and the Blind
Girl and her Teacher.

VILLAGE SCHOOL-GIRLS. A Tale. By ELIZA
WRIGHT.

WALTER O'NIEL; or, the Pleasure of doing Good.

PRICE TWO SHILLINGS EACH.

A MONTH of ADVENTURES.

A SHORT HISTORY of the OLD and NEW TES-
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BARBAULD'S LECONS POUR DES ENFANS. With
a Vocabulary.

DIARY of a LITTLE DOG. Supposed to be written by
himself.

EAST INDIANS AT SELWOOD; or, the Orphan's
Home. With Illustrations.

GLEANINGS from MANY FIELDS. By the Author
of " Spain and Portugal," &c.

HARRY and WILLIAM ; or the Two Cousins. A Tale.

HENDRY'S HISTORY of GREECE. In Easy Les-
sons. Adapted for Children from Six to Ten years of Age.
ROME, ditto ditto.

HENRI. An interesting Tale. In French. From the
English of F. B. MILLER.

Harvey and Dar ton's Publications. 21

HOW LITTLE HENRY CAME TO THE KNOW-
LEDGE OF GOD. A Tale.

LAPLAND and its REINDEER.

MILL'S MINIATURE HISTORIES, in red leather:—
England, 2 vols — Rome — Greece — Biography of eminent Per-
sons— English Kings — London.

MOTHER'S FABLES IN VERSE, By Authors of
" Original Poems," me. 12 Plates.

POETIC GLEANINGS, from modern Writers. With
some original Pieces. By A GOVERNESS.

ROAD TO LEARNING ; or, Original Lessons in Words
of One and Two Syllables.

ROSE TALBOT. A Tale. By ELIZA WRIGHT.

Author of " Self-Dependence," &c.

SIMPLE TALES on EVERY-DAY SUBJECTS. Plates.
STORIES of AUNT ALICE. By LOUISA F. DIBBIN.
TALES of DISTANT LANDS.

TEACHER'S TREASURE. By MRS. LAMONT. A
Reading-Book for slow Learners. On a novel Plan.

PRICE TWO SHILLINGS AND SIXPENCE EACH.
BEN HOWARD ; or, the Benevolent Pedlar.
COOPER'S HISTORY of ENGLAND.
CHARLES ROSS; or, Truth and Fiction.
GURNEY'S HYMNS for YOUNG PERSONS. Gilt.

HACK'S HARRY BEAUFOY ; or, the Pupil of Nature.
A new Edition, with cuts by LANDSEER.

- STORIES of ANIMALS. First Series. Adapted
for Children from Three to Six years of Age.

Second Series, Six to
Nine years of Age.

A French Translation of each of the above. By M. THUIL-

LIER.

22 Harvey and Dar ton's Publications.

JUVENILE ANECDOTES ; or, Stories of Children. By
P. WAKEFIELD. A new Edition.

LIMED TWIGS. A new Edition. Square IGmo.

PICTURES and POETRY for VERY YOUNG CHIL-
DREN. With coloured plates.

OPEN AND SEE ; or First Reading Lessons.

PRESENT for BOYS and GIRLS. With coloured
plates.

ROBINSON CRUSOE. With fine plates.

RURAL SCENES ; or, A Peep into the Country. A new
and revised Edition.

SANDFORD and MERTON. By THOMAS DAY.
SKETCHES of HUMAN MANNERS. By P. WAKE-

FIELD.

TALES for CHILDREN. In a familiar Style. By MARIA
CRABBE.

TALES OF TRAVEL. By F. B. MILLER. With fine
plates.

TRIMMER'S HISTORY of the OLD and NEW TES-
TAMENTS. Adapted for Children. In French.

The BEE ; a Selection of Poetry. Gilt edges.

The CHILD'S FIRST PICTURE-BOOK. With coloured
plates.

The COTTAGE in the CHALK-PIT. By C. A. MANT.
The LITTLE PRISONER ; or, a Visit to Malta.
The WHEATSHEAF.

Harvey and Darton's Publications. 23

prints antt JHaps in Sheets antJ Bisswtrt.

ILLUSTRATING SCENERY AND COSTUMES IN

DIFFERENT PARTS OF THE WORLD.
In a Mahogany Box, beautifully Coloured and Mounted.
Price £2 12s. 6d.

In Seven Sheets, each containing Thirty Subjects, Price 2s. each.

A SERIES OF COLOURED PRINTS,

ILLUSTRATIVE OF

TWO HUNDRED AND TEN PRINCIPAL EVENTS IN
SCRIPTURE HISTORY,

FROM THK CREATION TO THE CONCLUSION OF THE NEW TESTAMENT
HISTORY.

1. From the Creation to the Death of

Jacob.

2. The History of Joseph and his

Brethren.

Babylonish Captivity.
3- The Life of Moses, and the Journey

of the Israelites from Egypt to the
Promised Land.

4. From the Time of Joshua and the

Judges to the Death of Solomon.

5. From the Division of the King-

doms of Israel and Judah to t

g-
he

6. The Gospel History of Jesus Christ.

7. The Acts of the Apostles.

Either of the above may be had DISSECTED, in a Mahogany Box, Price 7s

On a Sheet, with an Explanatory Card, price 2s.

ENGRAVED GEOMETRICAL FIGURES.

Designed for the exercise of a Class in its First Step in Geometry.

Coloui

3. 6d. C

in a Box, 10s. 6d. Coloured,

FORTY-EIGHT ENGRAVINGS

OF THE

PRINCIPAL EVENTS IN THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND.

24 Harvey and Darton's Publications.

In three broad Sheets, containing 98 Wood- cut Illustrations,
Price Is. each.

HISTORICAL PRINTS,

REPRESENTING SOME OK

THE PRINCIPAL EVENTS IN ENGLISH HISTORY;

With a Brief Chronological Sketch of the Kings of England.

MAPS OF ENGLAND OR EUROPE,

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Sheet, 2s ; Dissected, 10s. 6d.

MAPS OF THE WORLD.

On. a Sheet, 6d. ; Dissected, 5s.; Ditto, large size, 2s. 6d., on a
Sheet ; 10s. 6d. Dissected.

INHABITANTS of the WORLD, on a Sheet, price 6d. ; Dissected,

3s. 6d.

INFANT'S MISCELLANY, ditto, same price.
THE INFANT'S ALPHABET, ditto, ditto.

OUTLINE MAPS

OF THE TWO HEMISPHERES ;

EUROPE AND ENGLAND; THE BRITISH ISLES;
ST. PAUL'S TRAVELS; HOLY LAND;

COUNTRIES MENTIONED IN THE OLD TESTAMENT;
WITH KEYS. BY JOSEPH WOODS.

Price 2s. Coloured, Is. 6d. Plain.

J. Rickerby, Printer, Sherbourn Lane.

n

PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE
CARDS OR SLIPS FROM THIS POCKET

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO LIBRARY

DA Roberts, Mary
660 Ruins and old trees
R6 associated with remarkable
events in English history