,■' t" JBRARY NIVtRSITYOF CALIFORNIA SAN 01 EGO J li-. C^ vL-Jl-JUL Mim a* ®tt Wuij lu^ ' ' '' mi^ .OMiiU ^W!£ LONDON: HARVEY AND DARTON, GRiCECHUKCH STUEET. KUINS AND OLD TREES, ASSOCIATED WITH MEMOEABLE EVENTS IN ENGLISH HISTOEY. MARY ROBERTS, AUTHOR OF THK PROGRESS OP CREATION, CONSIDERED WITH KKFKRENCG TO THK PIIKSENT CONDITION OF THE EARTH," " CONCHOLOGIST'S COMPANION," \C. ILLUSTRATIONS FROM DESIGNS BY GILBERT. ENGRAVED BY FOLKARD. LONDON : JOSEPH RICKERBY, PRTNTER, SHERnOURN-I.ANE. €\)t (B^k oi C!)atsiU)ortI), PLANTED BY HER MAJESTY WHEN PRINCESS VICTORIA. Wave on, ye old memorial trees. In the wintry wind and the smnmer breeze: Beacons ye are of days gone by. Of gi'ief and crime, of the tear and sigh. Ah ! may they never come again. In hut or hall, on hill or plain ! But a young tree is gromng, Where clear streams are flowing ; Its roots are deep in the mother earth. In the parent soil that gave it birth. And its noble boughs are waving high. Meeting the breeze or the summer wind's sigh ; While quivering lights and shadows play On the flowery sod beneath ; And flocks lie down in the heat of day, 'Mid the fragi'ant thyme and heath. a3 'Ef)^ (Bain of ©j)atgfajoit&. Old trees have fallen down. From the sites where they stood of" yore, ^nd 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 ; Z\)e (JDalt of ©batstDortft. 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 houi'. Queen of the sea-girt isle ! Not then, As now, the Queen of suifering men. But reigning still, beloved and glorious. O'er sin, and gi'ief, and death victorious. ■s. CONTENTS. JWelfesSam ©ourt. Ancient Forest — Huts of the Britons on its margin. Roman Settlements 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 WilUam 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. ifluing of UraDgate i^alare. 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. X ©ontentiS. ©alt of ®{)crtses. (Slcnliour'g (J^afe. 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. ¥cto Evet^ of ^fecUHalc. 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. — Par/e 43. ©alt of l^ofocl 5c(c. '2ri)c blastcl) ©afe. 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 — Tellin'j; 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, — Paffe 51. ^uecn ilHarg's ^ofocr. 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 ®ontcnt0. xi within sight of Apartments occupied by Queen Mary — Beautiful Ash growing before lier window. — Page 57. CJjjfgnut of ^orltDortl}. Celebrated as a large Tree in the days of King John— Chesnut- tree preferred among all others by Salvator Rosa — Notice of Pcnda, of his son, Wolfere, and Eva — "VVolfere, 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. — Pa^e 61. ©alt of lEUetsUc. ^Hallacc'S Oafe. 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— Cotcmporary 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. ^jbc Xut=^rec of JiosamonlD's Giabc. 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 Sarura, 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 Di<- xii ©ontcntg. appearance — Ela's three Uncles — Monastry of Bradcnstoke— 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. IJlfinaing of UunmotD ^riorg. 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. ffiogpcl=13cer&. 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 spriijg beside it — Concluding Observations. — Page 129. ©ontcnts. xiii ©lijjStonc palace anl) tl)c parliament (Dafe. 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. JJlutncD 'E^illages in t^e ilcto Jforcgt. 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 — His 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. ©ID Zxtt^ in P^gOe ^arfe. 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. xiv ©ontents. ?^atfielt) ©alt. Poetry.— Prtj?e 187- l^eet'b of tj^c iFrltl) ©ommon. 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 295. ©afe of 5alcc2- The Roots of aged Trees — Sketch of the Oak of Salccy, 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. — Page207 ©ID Zkc^ in SZaiclbccfe l^atk. Beauty of Woodland Scenery, superior to ail 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.— Pw^-e 213. Z\)e a^men'^ ©alt. 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 Contfnts. 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. ^:^ i¥leIM;nm Court. " I stood in the ruined hall where my ancestors once dwelt. I asked for the noble o^\Ticrs. Where are they? — and the echo replied, Where are they ? " 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 Sihu'eSjf 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 pmi)ose, 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 the}' lived by hunting, * Gloucestershire. t South Wales. B 2 iWcIfeg&am ©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 temi derived from the British word Duffen, because the inhabitants frequently resided in places which lay low, and were sunk under hills. It fonned 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 grandem' and extent ; and the plain country, whose rank luxuriant vegetation concealed marshes, on which it was rarely safe to tread, except in seasons of gi'eat 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 secmity and peace — the bleating of sheep along the il*lflUg|)am ©ourt. 3 hills, and the lowing of oxen in tlie valleys, were heard, instead of the piercing cries of those wild creatures, when ranging in quest of prey. IVIeanwhile 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 ot 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 ot the most beau- tiful parts of the country, were no longer heard on the gTeat 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 degi"ee of civilization ; but war was in their hearts, and soon, where cities had stood, and peacefid homesteads met the view, all was B 2 4 iHfliisfjam Court. 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 secmity 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 gi-ievously 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 nan'ow, 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 gi'ass. Others remained in their iIHelfegl)am ©ourt. 5 native wildness, and wild indeed tliey were. Shallow streams ran through them, and by means of these they coidd 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 grandeiu- 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 gi'ound 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 usurjiing 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 iWclfegJiam ©ourt. the verge of the common, up which the road led, and which being kept free from trees was reserved for the pastm-ing of sheep. It was covered with short grass and tufts of wild th^nne, round which the bees came himi- ming; and gay flowers, such as the bee-orchis, and the yellow cistus, the pink-eyed pimpernell, and yellow rocket, gi'ew 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 country was covered with the trees of the old forest, which had gi'a- 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-gi'ounds, 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 Nonnan. 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 eminenc among the nations of the earth. But as night succeeds to day, and clouds obscure the cheerful light of the bright iHcIfesl)am ©ourt. 7 sun, so did war succeed to peace, and ruthless men made soiTOwful 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 carrpng 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 ti'ee was set up, round which the light-hearted party danced right men-ily. All this was done in honour of king Richard's mannage. 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 gi'eat number of knights and damsels, with men-at-arms, and a goodly company, all well appointed to do her honour. They jomneyed through Brabant to Brussels, where the Duke and Duchess received the young queen with great respect, and caused her attendants to be honom'ably 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 0it\U\)m\ ©ourt. that twelve large Noniian vessels, well equipped, and filled with anned men, were cruising in the sea hetween 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 jom-neyed 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 i^clfegj^am ©outt. 9 the Londoners, when the train, liaving 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 witli 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 B D 10 iWclfe^ljam ©ourt. Siiny, 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 gTief, 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 covUd be in a foreign country, had fonned 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 Northmn- 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 Gennan ocean at TA'umouth. 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. ^telk^ljmx (JTourt. 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, witli 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 gi-andeur 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 IL, 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 sti'angers to partake. Charmed with his benevolence, 12 iHcIfesl^am ©ourt. 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 I'epeated with affectionate veneration. Such is the brief biographical memoranda, which it is jjossible 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 ifHcIfesSam ©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 assmned the name of Hitchen. He maiTied Alicia, daughter and sole heiress of Hunt of Hunt's Court, in Nibley, by whom he acquired that estate, and became the gi"andfather of William T;)aidale, who is justly tenned the apostle of the English Reformation. As the gathering mists of a hot siunmer evening, when the sun is set, and dew begins to fall, veil the bold and prominent landscape, so the obscmnty of time has settled on the T^nidale 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, dmnng the lifetime of his parents ; whether days of soitow 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 hadmuch 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 gi'adually subsided ; a descendant of Hugh Tyndale pm'chased 14 iUilelfesj^am ©ourt. Melksham Court in Stinchcombe, on the verge ol" all that remained ol" the once gi-eat forest. It was a beau- tiful spot, embosomed in trees, and moated according to the olden fashion, with its teiTace-walks and jiarteiTes. There his descendants continued to reside, and their days seem to have passed tranquilly, till the stormy reign of Charles I. The valleys of Gloucestershire lying remote I'roni the metropolis, and being in many respects almost inac- cessible, from the steej)ness of the hills, having also no gi'eat 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 bidwarks, 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 I'rom 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 anned men overspread the country. Thomas Tyndale, the fifth in descent from the pm-chaser of Melksham Court, was then residing on his patrimonial estate : he mamed a lady on her mother's side, of the knightly family of Poyntz of Iron Acton; but whether — for the mists of time iWclfeglbam ©ourt. 15 have settled again on the domestic incidents uf the family — whether his lady was deceased, or whether he had sent her with their young son and fom- daughters to a place of gi'eater 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 afTord but little aid in his distress. It was otherwise when its crowding trees extended fmlher than the eye could reach, now sinking into the deep, deep glens, whose circling banks, if such they might be tenned, rose far above its topmost boughs; now ascending those high banks, and spreading over the vale countiy, 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 gi'een wood ; spaces were even cleared, and its tall trees, for all the under- wood was gone, aflforded 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 lie would make for the nearest glen, or else that he would seek to hide himself in some sheltered nook among the 16 l^ldUsIjam ©ouit. trees. Heaven, in its mercy, ])revented them iiom searching the old tree, whose intermingling branches Ibnned a close and impenious shelter. Yet they passed, and i'e})assed, 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 jjossessed ; and they said, " that if they could discover him in his retreat, they would hew him small as herbs for a pomdge-pot." Being foiled in their search, they wTeacked 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 ])ursuers, 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 gi'ass. All else has changed since the days when the noble ancestor ol" him who fled for refuge to the ample branches of the yew, first landed on the English coast. Neither is the sun'ounding 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 iWclfegijam ©outt. 17 of these, modern dwellings, with parks and gardens, fanns and cottages, overspread the country. The cheerful fann-house, with its lofty rookery, and wide arable, or jiloughed 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 smnnier, the strong colom's 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 autmnnal 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 rm-al villages and fertile meadows, high-aspiring elms, shallow brooks, and wooden bridges, crowding cottages and green lanes, with here and there a chmxh-spire, or gi'ay tower rising among the trees. Gentle swells and hollows, where sheep pasture on the green sward, are seen in another portion of the landscajje, 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 wth briars and creeping plants. A dilapidated com't-house, oven'un with ivy, and 18 iWclfe^^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 gi'een foliage of the spring. The gardens of the once stately mansion are gone to decay, or else, being overgrown with gi'ass, are fed ujion 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 gi-ass, would reveal that a mansion had stood there. Yet Nibley Com! 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 iWclfe^bam €ouit. 19 yield no shelter now ; the blue sky may be seen through them ; the stem also teaches that ages have passed awav, since it bore up a noble canopy of mingled boughs. A rabbit from the waiTen on the common might run up the scaiTed tnmk, but it could not find a hiding-place among the scattered branches. f ^**>u\|W' y, .'' .1^1"" Bratigatt ^palarr* " This was thy home then, gentle Jane, This thj' 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 rockv bank, with scattered sheep, are objects on which the mind loves to rest. Such is the back-gi'ound 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 gi'avity of old age ; the life of a saint, and yet the death of a malefactor. On that rocky l>ank 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 DraDgatc palace. fiu'ther 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 gi'oup 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 sjiringe 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 com ; some of the large stones fell into the stream, and inteiTupted for a short space the rapid flowing of the water, and among them gi'ow 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 " deai'e friend and schoolmaster, who taught her so gently and yet so pleasantly, that she l^raligate iJJalncc. 23 thought the time as nothing, while she was with him." This streamlet laves in its course the once hospitahle 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 favomite 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. \Yliat 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 antiquaiy 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 33raligatc ^jJalacc. 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 gi-eatness, and now carpets with luxuriant vegetation the broken pavement, through the interstices of which its broad leaves rise u]). 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 luxmiance over the old ruins. Those who have long ceased from among the living used to gaze on them, and gather their beautiful tufts of p>Tamidical white flowers with which to adorn the open sjiaces in the oriel window. They grew here far back as the reign of Edward, when the great park of Bradgate, with its cu'cmiiference of seven miles, came into the possession of the Earl of Ferrars, for the chesnut is a tree of long duration, and the stately gi-oup 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 teiTace-walks, remain entire, but none are walking there ; gi'ay and yellow lichens, with tufts of moss, dot over the old 93raDgatc palace. 25 stones, and so wild and high has grown tlie grass, that it looks as if" no one had trodden there for ages. A nol)!^ pleasure-giound fonnerly 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 ol 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 gTew luxvmantly. The house too, how desolate and changed ! The earls of Leicester, of Hinton, and of Ferrars presided here ; then came Sir Edward Grey, Lord FeiTars 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 25ral)gatc palace. Tradition points tlirough 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 presented, but all else are in ruins : — the tower, the gi'eat 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 gi-een 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. 23ral)gatc palace. 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. 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 \\-ild-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 foimd 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 IJraligate palate, " 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 : WTiere 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, AVhom men of cruel hands within the charnel laid." The Author of the Visions of Solitude. mw ■«-'Q^ (§Ientiour*g <3iik. " 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 stoniis 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, gi*ow also, beside the hollies and stunted hawthorns, which are seen upon the common ; their fragi'ant flowers and green leaves pre- sent a striking contrast to the time-wom 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 to rest on a quiet home-scene finds much in it to admire. 32 ©kntiout'g (!Da6. 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 sentle munnur 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 quanied 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 ofi', and scarcely had any battle occurred in those ages of which the shock was more temble. Furious and repeated vollies of " arrowy sleet," discharged from the strong bows of Hotspur's archers, did great execution in the royal anny ; 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 aiTows that were thus furiously (ElenDout's (Dafe. 33 discharged did their work, and many fell ; the king's bow- men were not wanting in retmui, 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 appeai'ed 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 everpvhere, had accoutred several captains in the royal garb, the sword of Douglas rendered this honom* fatal to many. At length the standard of the king, fluttering high in air, recalled Douglas to the spot, and little heed- ing the Might of arrows, which rattled on his annour like hail, nor yet the chosen band who were appointed to guard the banner, he and his associate Hotspm* 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 tliey 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 swer\'e in favour of the rebel army. But in one moment a loud voice sounded far and wide over the dread- c 5 34 (!Ilknl)our'g ©alt. 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 gi'eat 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 annies 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 suiTOunding 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- Glcnliour's CDalt. 35 tant thunder ; he heard, too, llie 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, hesidc the torrent's roar, and suiTounded with all the magnificence of rock and fell. There did he soon assemhle to his standard those ardent spirits who prefeiTed 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 sujDerstitious 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 gi-anted 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 56 ffilentjour'g (Safe. 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 man'iage 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 stonn 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 progi-ess of King Henry, a continua- (5lcnt)out's ©afe. 37 lion of events which had attended him since the dcatli ol" Richard. Richard had been the friend and benefactor of Glendouv ; he had fought for him while living, and now tliat he was gone, he sought not only to revenge his death, but to preserve his native land from the usmpations ol" a foreign yoke. He pcrfonned, in consequence, such feats of valour, bore up beneath the pressure of sucli heavy trials, and devised such masterly schemes to cii'cumvent the devices of the enemy, as his country-men believed could neither be planned nor achieved by mortal mind or ann. 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 annies, 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 aggi-essions. 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 ffilcnDout'g ©alt. near Bethgellert, where tlie bard used to sit and pour forth the melody of his haq) 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 oi" 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 gi'oves 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, wiiose awful brow is often hidden in the clouds. The bard, too, had suffered much, and had tied 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 opjDressors. His enemies were not pennitted 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 foi*mer 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. (Slcntout'0 ©alt. 39 From this tree, also, might be heard, in ancient limes, the sound of the worKinan's hammer, for King Henry ap])ointed that a chajiel 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 sei-vice to their Maker when they wrought in such holy work ; 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 gi'own so hollow that it seems to stand on little more than a circle of bark, yet life still lingers, gi'een leaves appear in the spring season, and acorns are gathered fi-om 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 spaiTows build their nests among the matted branches ; but Divine worship is to this day still earned 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 cha])el was completed ! efeir{ Agiwate. €i)t ©ehj'Crres; of J^feelltrak, " 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 temjile, 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 wliere 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 'Elje ¥cto='2rrcc0 of <^6dlDaIe. gold and Tyrian piirjile, and laid him down to rest in the burying-place beside the abbey. The co])ier 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 perfonned 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 gi'assless 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 Zf)e Yeio^Zxeti of ^feclltialf. 45 valley, stood an aged elm, among the am])le branches of which they erected a straw roof, and this was their onh 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 cii'cumference, at the height of three feet above the root. Neither history nor tradition have preseiTed the knowledge of that period when thev first arose from out the gi'ound. Ages may have passed since, and countries rose and waned. The yew-trees of Skelldale may have continued growing e\en from the brilliant periods of Thebes and Mempliis, 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 vaiied its dark funereal branches, and bees came humming to gather in the pollen, they cleared a small spot of gi'ound to serve them 46 ^i)c ¥cfo='2rrcc0 of ^fecUDalc. 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 jirovisions 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 endm-ed, could have pictured to themselves the future gi'eatness 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 gi-owth 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 Ifflje Yeto^lirrccs of ^fecUtialc. 47 perhaps beet, and a variety of sweet-herbs, for such were in use among the Saxons. At length the privations c»f 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 j)late 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 pei-pendicular 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, w^ere laid down to rest. They had labom^ed with their hands while liWng, and thankfully saw the blessings which they sought, spring from out the earth they cultivated ; those who 48 ^\)e |9cto-^rccs of .^{uUlialc. filled their ])laccs 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 puipose 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 funei'als slowly pro- ceeding through the abbey gates. Wannors of the noble house of Percy borne there. Lord Rieland, one of the twenty guardians of the Magna Charta, he who sustained the shock of anns 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 tzrf)e |9cto=^rreg of SfccHtiale. 49 receives alike the prince and peasant. Others also followed, great in their day, and filled while living with busy schemes, but of whom, as years were added, scarcely a trace remained. — Where knees bent in prayer, and the white-robed jjriest 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 throwii 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 pilgiim's staff, tell of years spent in wanderings, and in praver. m0-£ K^^^'Sl-pM |)cituel ^tk*^ (Bnk. " 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 chiu-ch-spu-e, nor cm-ling 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 gi'een trees among which it stands, as D 2 52 ?i?otocl 5clc'0 (Dafe. among them, though not of them. Beyond their ver- durous circle are a variety of romantic dingles, covered with blackbeny-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 anns 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 histor\' 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 prefeiTed 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 aggi'essions of a foreign enemy ; some even said that he had been induced to desert her cause, and that he only waited for an opi)ortunity 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. Glendom* knew that such evil rumom's 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 shoidd be thus vexed and driven, and when one of these noble animals crossed his path, closely pm*- sued by the fiery Glendour with hoimd and horn, he rushed from the forest and smnmoned his cousin to single combat. It w^as a fatal one for Howel ; he fell on the green sward, in the very place where all is now so verdm-ous and joyful, and his corj^se was dragged by his enraged kinsman beneath the tree, whose bare and sapless branches and high top, bald \vith dry antiquity, whose gnarled and rugged trunk, and large projecting roots are almost fearfiU in their decay. The tree was hollow at that time, and the companion of Glendour having, with his assistance, lifted the coi"pse of the unhappy chieftain from off the gi'ound, dropped it within the oak. This was a ruthless deed, but the 54 ?^otocl dele's ©a&. 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 tany in the domains of the murdered chieftain, for he knew how greatly Howel was beloved, and that when the hour of his retm'n was passed, every glen and forest-path would be sought for him. Calling to his companion, he hastened back to his stronghold, Glyndwi'dry, where, amid rocks and waterfalls, and the howling of fierce winds, he passed a few more unquiet years. The wTetched 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 huny 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 sori'owing 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 lieard, did she pace her lonely chamber and strain her siglit 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 Hx)wel 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 ui'ge 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 whei'e 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 refeiTed to the blasted oak in confirmation of the truth. 56 ?i?otoel 5elc'0 vith 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 An-agon, 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 puiposed to lay hold of the present favom'able opportmiity, 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 malhtt'^ ©ufe. 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 1 1 . That monarch being desirous to conciliate the friendship of the Scottish king, before his departm'c for the Holy Land, renounced the homage, vvliich he said, in express tenns, had been extorted by his father. The commissioners soon perceived with dismay, that all which they could m'ge 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-anns, 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 detennine the cause which had been refeiTed to his arbitration. They came, but not on equal tenns, 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 malhce'^ (Safe. 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 shadowmerely 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 junctm'e, he resolved to make a des- perate effort for the restoration of his rights. Rumours were soon afloat that an English anny 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 procm-ed 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 anii}\ 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 aaiallace's CDafe. 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 desultoiy kind of warfare, were best fitted to pm-sue 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 EUerslie. 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 I'estraint of laws, endeavom-ed to prevent the devastation of their mountain homes, by giving the usuqjer early proofs of obedience. The bards alone stood finn ; they sung to the music of their hai'}3S 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 maUatt'^ ©afe. importance. They had canied 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 ujjin 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 j^roudly earned 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, bm'ned 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 favom-able opportunity to assert the independence of their country. Baliol, too, was earned, a prisoner, to London ; his great seal was broken, and when, after the laj^se 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 maWace'a ©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 con([uered peoj)le, made them sensible too early of the gi'ievous servitude into which they had fallen. William Wallace was now grown to man's estate. His young companions had grown ujj also, and the group of merry children, that had played under the old Oak of EUerslie, 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 degi'aded ; their king was taken from them, and mercenary men oppressed the people with heavy taxes. Thus spoke the old men oi' EUerslie, 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 degi-adation, was calculated to inspire; excited £ 5 82 m&\hce'^ ©afe. also by the conversation of strangers from tlie north, and stimulated by the present favourable aspect of afiairs, ( for the English troops were mostly withdrawn to their own country,) resolved to attempt the desperate enterjirise of delivering their native land from the dominion of foreigners Wallace was well-fitted for the pui-jjose. 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- fonnly successful, Wallace gi'adually 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 22laUacc'0 ©afe. 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 j)arents lived, lay not far distant from one of the strong castles, in which the English had a gamson. He went, therefore, to Tonvood, 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, sm-jDrised 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 maWut'^ ©afe. spoken of, by all who desired the independence of their country, as one who promised to realise their most ardent wishes. Cambuskenneth, on the opjiosite 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 faithfiU 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 amiament, and his march, to comj^ensate for his past negligence in the appointment of Cressingham and Onnsby. 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 postm'e 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 progi'ess 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, aetaUacc'^ C^alt. 85 all might yet have been well with Scotland. The elevation of the patriot chief, though purchased by so gi'eat 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 hhnself, 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 Cmnmin 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 coming 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 gi'eat presence of mind, to keep his men together. Retiring behind the Can-on, 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 ma\hce'$ ©alt. 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 gi'ass 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 munnur 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 anny, 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 22lallacc'0 <9afe. 87 wisdom and martial character of Edward, and how impossible it was that a weak state, deprived of its head, coidd 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 canned his views to personal aggi'andisement 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 gi-eatest 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 countr\% 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 dig-nity 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 gi'eatly distinguished men, had fallen on the battle-field at no gieat distance, and 88 Saiallacc'^ ©afe. it seemed as if all \wpe 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 jjath, 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 triumjihed, and Wallace became his prisoner. The boy of EUerslie, he, who in after life thought only to preserve his country from spoliation ; who was detennined. aZtallaccg (Dalt. 89 amid the general defection, the abrogation of laws and cus- toms, and the razing of all monimients 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 earned 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 giief nor death, had ever visited the beautiful hills and dales that lie around. More than five centm'ies 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 plaianates, 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 canied to hear of him beneath his own old tree. All his favourite haunts by glen or burn, or uj) 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 maUate'% C^afe. 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-toiTent 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 ann might have effected, if secret jea- lousies and discordant counsels had not undennined his best concerted plans. THE Nut iffiPMifi Ros o,mo_h l s ijdiav z. 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. "Away with that unseemly object !" said the stern St. Hugh, bishop of Lincobi, to the sisters of Godstow Nunnery, when he came in the course of visitation to their quiet dwelling among the rich meadows of Evenlod. "Away with that unseemly object ! the hearse of one who was a Magdalen, is not a fitting spectacle for a quire of nuns to contemplate, nor is the front of the holy altar a proper place for such an exhibition." 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 bishop 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 ^j^c Kut=^rec of Mogamoul)'^ ©rabe. too, for so tradition tells, though the truth could not then be safely sjjoken, that poor Rosamond did not deserve the harsh asj^ersions 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 anned 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 spm's, and wondering gi-eatly 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 disaj^peared. Finding a low door carefully concealed, the queen caused it to be forced * Lingard. '^ff( Krut=^rcc of Mogamonli's Svabe. 93 open, and passing on with a beating heart through a long, winding, subteiTaneous 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 gi-cw 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 npon 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 gi-ave 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 '^\)e Kut=^rcc of Mo^nmonli'io Giabf. to rest in that open grave ; and when the bishop died, they gathered her bones from out the j)lace of their in- tennent 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 lesidence. William Longespe was distinguished for his chivalry and feats of arms, the lady Ela for her mild and benig- nant virtues. They had maiTied 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. ^j^f-Kut Ztte of l^osamonU'^ ffirabc. Do 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 earned the dove-sm-mounted 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 toui'naments throughout the country.* His titular castle frowned over the stern ramparts of Sarisb\Tig, where no stream was heard to miuinur, 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 th>Tne hills. But instead of woods and streams, the castle was suiTounded 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 anns. 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 ®J)c Kut=^rcc of MosainonD'g ffivabe. 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, \vith the venerable towers of Wilton Abbey.* Here then, were often witnessed the proudest exhibitions of chivalric entei'j:)rise, 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 oi*phan 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 conjectm-ed that the orphan had been * Hatcher's Account of Salisbury. ^1)C Kut=tZricc of Mosamonl)'s ffirafae. 97 sent to her relations, lest King Ricliard should avail himself of his feudal right, to many 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 biogi'aphy of these kinsmen, except- ing that being younger brothers, without patrimony, and mimaiTied, 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 obscm-e monk, with the gi-andeur and the vast possessions of the earldom of Salisbmy. 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 'Efis Kut=^rcc of 3ivosiamonl)'g ffirabc. mother of young Ela seek to remove her daughter from the reach of one whose ambitious and turbulent dispo- sition might have promjited 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 oiphan 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 Nonnandy, he wandered to and fro, for the space of two years,* as if in quest of the shrine at which he sought to jiay 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 coiTected by Bowles. €J)e Nut-'STicc of Mogiamond'g ffirabe. 99 It seemed to hiin that she gazed wistfvilly over the wide sea, and when the dew began to fall, and the bell tolled out from the gi'ey tmTet, 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 fonner 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 oii^han 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 '2rt)c MviU^vee of i^ogamontJ'iS dale. 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 lieed my plaintive strain. For thus the fair bird sang ; I ha-ve 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 fcarVl 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- badom' contrived to bear her off, concerning her perils by sea or land, or her joyous meeting M'ith her widowed ^Ijc NuUlZTrce of MogamonD'si (Srabc. 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 manied to stern men, either that their lands might enrich the younger sons ol' 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 mrreservedly 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 LongesiJe obtained the honours * Book of Lacock. t Close Rolls, May 2. Rhymer's Focdore, 1207. 102 'ST^c Kut-^rfc of l^ogamonli'g Gxtibt. 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 Ai'ab, 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 Longesj^e. 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 intennent ; it was tastefidly embossed with fine brass, and had an inscription around the edge, f • Book of Lacock. t A most beautiful copy was deposited, and may still be seen, in the chamber of Records at Salisbury Cathedral. '^fft jHwWEvet of ilosamonD'^ ffira&c. 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 transfeired 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 Salisbmy* 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 ventm-e imattended, 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 gamsons in the castles of Windsor, Hertford, and Berkliampstead, and to cut off supplies from the city of London, where the insm'gents 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. tDugdale, from a MS. Oxon, in Bibl. Bodl. n. 11. f. 177, et 178. p. a. 104 ^j^cXut^^rcc of ilvosamonl)'^ (Srabe. 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- soiTel, 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 inf] uence of Lady Ela apjjarentl}^ 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 re({uest, 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 perfonned 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. 'Ef)e "NntMxce of Iflogamonli's Curabc. 105 and afterwards another, for the Archbishop of Canterbury, The fourth was laid by the Earl of Salisbmy, the fifth by the Countess Ela, "a truly praise-worthy woman/' as wrote William de Wanda, afterwards Dean of Sarimi, " 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 retui'n, 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 stimng 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 Salisbmy, and Philip de Albeney.f Forth, then, they went, with sixty knights and their attendants, and an anny 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 Cathedi-al. Narrative, by William de Wanda, published in the first volume of Wilkins's Concilia. t Matt. Paris. Foedera. F 5 106 tZT^e tNrut=^rcc of :or. lo7 wc shall see others of his family to whom the forest will ])r()ve 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 rief, was convened at Sarum. Thither, accordingly, they came, barons and men-at-anns, abbots and their 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. 8arum was well suited for the puqjose, both on account of iUs accommodations, and the fine downs by which il was surrounded. It was anciently a place of considerable note, at first a Roman station, afterwards the residence of the Emperor Sever us. 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 wTote 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 temtory situated between the Epte and the Oise. It is needless to speak of the negociations witli which the French king endeavoured to amuse his rival, while 158 SBegoIntton of ifKainc. 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 Nonnan 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 wTought, his horse trod on some hot cinders ; the frightened creature plunged violently, and the king being unable to retain his seat, fell to the gi"ound. The injury which he sustained caused him to be earned in a litter to a religious house, in the neighbom"hood 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. 3Dcat&=bct) t!ri)ougj)t0 of SSXilUam. 159 the case was otherwise. He then spoke and felt as a dying man, who was shortly to a])])ear 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 wi'ested 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 ])ined 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 53f quests Of tfjc Hing. Moriar, of Beron, and Ulnot, the brother of Harold, were accordingly set at liberty ; and the Nonnan, Roger Fitz Osborn, foniierly Earl of Hereford, with Odo, the turbulent Bishop of Bayeux, also received permission to leave their respective jirisons, although the king re- marked with reference to tlie 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 owii 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. ?i?l3 JDcati). 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 tliy elder brothers to precede thee — thy time will come after theirs." On hearing this. Prince Henry huiried off to secure the silver, which he weighed with great care, and then provided himself with a strong cofier, having locks and iron bindings to keep his treasm-e 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 chiu'ch 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 Wmtiion of U^ ®orp$c bg U^ ^ttcnDantg. 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 sei-vants, 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 heavil}-, where but a short time before men would scarcely have dared to whisj^er ; where the noiseless step and hushed sound, told the rank and sufferings of him, whom now the voice of seven thunders ©onsitcrnation at J^oucn. 163 would not wake. They proceeded without remorse to rifle the ajDartment 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 coq^se 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-anns, 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 gi-ave. His favourite and yoimgest daughter, had likewise been laid to rest, and Eleanor, Mai*- 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 jiresent 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 intennent should take place at Caen, in preference to his own city, it being thought most proper that the church of St. 164 ^fpuncval of tijc Iting. 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 intennent, excepting a poor knight who lived in the neighbovu-hood, 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 earned by water to Caen, was re- ceived by the abbots and monks of St. Stephen, while the inhabitants of the city, having fonned 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. Stejihen 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 coii)se. Mass was then perfonned, the Bishop of Evreux pronounced a paneg^Tic 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 resj)ect concealed from the view. iFuncval of tj^c Itlng. 165 was about to be lowered into the gi'ave, when a stern voice forbade the intemicnt. " Bishop," it said, " the man whom you have ]>raised 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 b}' violence to build this church ui)on 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 form 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 alann 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 procm'e the full value of his land. One moment more, and the corjise remained among living men ; another, and it disappeared in the darkness of the tomb, and the remainder of the ceremony being hunied over, the assembly broke up in haste. 166 ?£?unting at iKal&JooD=ltccp. " The red king lies in Malwood Keep. To diive the deer o'er hiwn 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 Rufu.s, 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 Henrv 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 ?j^unttng at ittaltoooD.-lSfcp. 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 TjitcI, 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 pleasiu-es 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 gi'ooms and huntsmen preparing for the chase. Many of the younger barons were already mounted, and their horses were curvetting on thegi'ass,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, giave. 168 ?l?unling at #laltooon--llcep. and yet in haste. He spoke as one who had business of moment to communicate, and which admitted of no delay, but his looli 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 infonn his majesty how gi-eatly he was troubled on his account, for that one of his monks had dreamed a di'eam 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 pleasm'e, 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 Tyirel, 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 bioke, and the an'ow 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 Weatlj of gSailHam Mufus. 169 gazing steadfastly at the creature, raised his bridle-hand above his eyes, that he might shade them from the glare of the sim, which now shone almost horizontally through the forest, and being unprovided with a second bow, he called out " Shoot Walter, shoot away ! "* Tyn-el 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 ann. 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 soon 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, Popidar 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 unoflfending popidation ; the traces of their dwellings might be seen at intervals, and many a broken cross denoted where a church had *IIeii. Knyghton. t A small silver cross of beautiful workmanship was found buried a few years since, near the fatal tree. I 170 dFItgl^t of Matter tJgrrcl. stood. The human mind natm'ally recoils from scenes of hon'or, 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 aiTow, 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 T}TTel, 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 treasiu-es that belonged to the crown, while the knights, who had reas- sembled at Mai wood- 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 Chr onicle. 3burial of Milliam Mufus. 171 by many, that as the corjise of the CoiKiueror lay extended on a board, with scarcely a vestment to cover him, so, by a remarkable coincidence, the body of his mmatural 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 wTote the chronicler of this sad history, many persons looked on, but few gi'ieved. 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 undesendng of Christian burial. Yr^ €\)t ©Xty Creed in l^ptie park, " 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 saw The acorn loosen from the spray. Time pass'd, While springing from its swad'ling shell, yon oak. The cloud-cro^Tied 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 ^rcc5 in T^gDc ^arfe. Shook to the roots the infant oak, which after Tempests moved not. Time hoUow'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 natm'e 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 ujion 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. Cliunps of trees, arranged by the hand of taste, flowering shrubs, and beautifully tufted gToves, delight the eye with their beauty or their fragi-ance ; 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 bai'k, and cracked in all directions, the eflfect of long exposure to the wea- ther. Its bare and skeleton-looking branches are also ©ID Zxet^ in ?i?gUe iJJaife. 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 projected with too precipitate haste, may derive a moral lesson from these once noble trees. Each was once enfolded within an aubm'n nut, a cup and ball that babes might play with, and which the joyous squirrel, when seeking her food, might have carried ofi" with ease; and nibbled in a moment all the delicate ramifications, and the embryo vastness of the future tree. Autumnal rains mellowed the gi'ound 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, j^repared 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 stonn 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 £!De i^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 centmy 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 And 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 gi'andeur of these once noble trees. How, at their prime age, the smooth bark, by which they were enveloped, contained within theii* 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 i5 178 ©lU 'Etttn in ?i?2D0 ^arfe. another, were silently disjointed from the rest, till at length a labour was achieved in the breaking down of these fimi 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 — nothingbut 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 finnly interlaced in the earth, they clasp the blocks of stone that lie bm-ied 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 nailwort 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 wajinarks, 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 OlO tJvcc^ m ?i?aDe iJJarfe. 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 fuiTOwed oak, as among the young green trees of the neighbouring coppice, which sprimg, 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 cidtm*e. 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 OID ^rces in ?i?gl)c i^arfe. with its dells and dingles, its clear prattling streams, and ceaseless munnur 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 Ibrmed 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 tenn 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 earned into execution the schemes which they devised, and having enlarged the })lace, and raised within it noble buildings, for beauty and security, they gave it the name of Londinium. ©ID ^xcen (n l^gDe l^&th. 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 gi-eat 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 becaine 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 tenninated 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, dming winter, only a dreary expanse of troubled waters ; in the smximer, 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 gi-eat military roads which opened a communication from one end of the island to the other. 182 mn ^Kte% in ^^\ie ^arfe. This was the old Watliiig 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 canned within sight of the old trees, and, having crossed what is now the Oxford road, at Cmnberland-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 Constantino, who liked much to reside in the rising city, gi'eatly 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 ©ID ®rc0g (n P?gDc i^arfe. 183 twenty two feet, that of the towers forty feet, and the space of ground enclosed witliin the circumference of hoth walls, was comimted at three hundred and eighty acres. Thus stood Londinium. Patricians and military offi- cers, merchants and artificers, resorted thither from all parts, and there Constantino 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 swaniiing population could no longer be contained within its walls, and the walls were broken down in consequence. Villages were built in places 184 Qm Ztet^ in |t?ytie ^atfe. 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 gi-oups 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 gi'own here, when all around was one wide forest, one intenningling 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 gi-een 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. 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 carnages, 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 progi'ess, or their discourse, to read the inscription ; and, among those who read, fewer, perhaps, would desire that it should be otherwise. '£tIfW (®at< I^atfielti-^afe* [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 gToves 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 0, 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 l^atfielU ©a6. 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, promjjting 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 fuiTowed 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 comes 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. ?l?atficlD ©afe. 189 Men may learn from them, be it joy or pain, That bids the lieart its wonted cahn 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 P?atficlD d^afe. 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 Be-side 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. ?l^atfidD ©afe. 191 Why watch ye now ' Seven thunders would not wako 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 gi-ass, '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 eive to her the crown that anxious Marv wore. *fc *Jeei^ ®^ *' *««6 ®®«^*' €l)t %tHi) of tlK ffviti) Commom " Thrice fifty siimmers 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." — Hogers. Let him wlio loves to mark the changes of the seasons, and to watch the alternations which spring and smnmer, autmnn and winter, produce in the vegetable kingdom, stand beside one of those magnificent colmnns 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- K 2 196 ^itt ^ml} of t\)e iFritIb ©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 fragi'ant 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 biing 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-oflf 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 ^I^e Mtttf) of tj^c iFritj^ CTommon. 197 which increases daily, as first one musician and then another, comes 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 fuiTowed it, nor has the pendent lichen and gray moss rooted them- selves in its rough fi.ssm'es. 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 mm'ders and broken hearts, the tears of or|)hans 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 gi'ave 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 verdm'e, 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 ^fft ^m^ of t!)c iFriti) ©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 finn 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 sm'ges 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 gi'eater jjortion pertains to the base of the column ; that part, especially, which ^f)e i$tec\) of t|)c jftit\) ©ommon. 199 rises from the root is thickest, and why is this i' not only because a tapering cohunn 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 tlie base. Two pui-poses are consequently answered. The ti-ee 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 tojDmost 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 coiTectly 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 Zfft Meed) of tj^e J^titf) ©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 tzr&c Mcedj of tijc ifiitl) ©ommon. 201 walls, but llie branches of the tree spring from one common centre. Architects can alone estimate the excessive pm'chase 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 gi'ows 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 rejiel the fury of the winds, so are the boughs themselves, made with an especial reference to the puii)ose 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 mm-mur 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 K 5 202 mje 33ml) of t\jt ipritjb ©ommon. 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 gi-apple the finn 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 tinn, when the stonns beat upon it. Trees are, conse- quently, often uprooted by a sudden squall of wind Z\)e lUcPcf) of tf)c ifiitb ©ommon. 203 from the east or north-east, which liave withstood the tempests of ages. The aggregate effect produced by forest scenery is magnificent — the deep retiring woodland, the waving of innmnerable branches, the majestic cohnnns which uphoki 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( J^eecb of t\)e JfcttJj ©ommon. 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. C!)e J?>alrep (Buk. " 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 Oakof 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- i'erence large animals may lie down at noon, and where the cai-eful shepherd often folds his flock at nightfall. It measures forty-six feet ten inches at the base, and at 208 ®|be Baltes «fe. 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 stonns 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 buiTow. 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 ofinnocent 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 clhnate, the roots are often raised to a surprising height, ^fft 5alcc8 (IDafe. 209 that they look like arches, beneath which troops of cavalry may pass, as throuf^^h 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 ol" 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 gi'owth 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 warai 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 overgi'own 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 gi'ass, and not a sound is heard. The inmates of the nearest fann-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 ^i)e 5al«s Oafe. the night is deepest, and often causes him who loiters in the fields to think that he is listening to the congi"egated 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 oflT their shunbers 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. ^6e .^altcj) #afe. 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 fann 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 suiTOunded. 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 ceaseless 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 ci'opping 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 bii'ds cease their songs, and when the moonbeams shine into the cavern which time has formed 212 €f)e <^alcca ©alt. 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 gi-een leaves peep forth fi'om among the fissures of the trunk and boughs, and the sapling trees are gi'een 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 gi'assy 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 millfbil-yarrow, the wild camomile, the gi'avel birdweed, and stonebasil, ancient tenants of the soil, which gi'ow 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. d^Itr €vtt^ in Witlhttk park, " 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 frees In aSSelbccfe ^arfe. 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. Tlie 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 maingolds, 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 gi-eat citv. 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 mn ^tm in mdhtcii ^axh. 215 circumambient fluid, whichgives 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 die 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 zephvr ; 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, suiToimded 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 colmnn 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 eiH 'Exm in melhu'k ^arfe. 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 pilgi'image — 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. Wi)t (Bxittn'^ #ak» 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? Wliat 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 move 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 i)ast. It stood when England was rent L 218 Zf)t Cliuccn'0 ©ali. asunder during the fearful contest of the Roses ; and beside its noble trunk met those, in all the pride of cliivalrv and loveliness of beauty, who now are resting from life's weary pilgi'image 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 gi'eat 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. ^bf ^ufcn'0 ^ab. 219 Years passed on, and Elizabeth was united to John Gra\', 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 Nonnan 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 favoiu", 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 gi'eat 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 measiu-e 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 hos]u- tality, the poor were not forgotten. Thus stood St. Albans, * Afterwards the home of Lady Jane Gray. L 2 220 ^\)e ("^uccn'^ (Safe. often in stormy times a place of refuge, into which the peasants drove their cattle and were secure, and while the stonn of war raged furiously without, there was safety and ahundance 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 chaj)el 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 jirecincts of the monastery,if otherwise, in an adjoining field.* The hus- * History of St. Albans. ^f)e ^uccn'g Oafe. 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 V'l. ; 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 FeiTars, 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 • Whethemstede and Guthrie. 222 ^f)c (Queen's (J^afe. ])laces of trust and profit which the adherents of the house of Gray had hitherto enjoyed. 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 comt; 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 fur adherents of the Red-rose, and Catherine, and Anne, and Mary, were waiting to receive Elizabeth with blended feelings of joy and soiTOw ; joy, to welcome back their sister; sorrow, to see her widow's weeds and orjihan 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. ^f)e ^uecn'g ©alt 223 devoted to the education of her sons ; for whom, as well as for herself, she was dependent on the hoiinty of her father. Edward came at length to hunt in the forest of Whit- tlebury, for this gi'eat forest was a royal chase, abound- ing with shady coverts and open spaces, where the fern gi-ew wild and high, and dancing lights and sha- dows seemed to sport over a wilderness of broken ground and copj^iice-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 heait 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 Z\)t