July 26.

[268]Mr. Audley.

She was the mother of the Virgin Mary, and is a saint of great magnitude in the Romish church. Her name is in the church of England calendar, and the almanacs.

There are curious particulars concerning Ann and her husband St. Joachim, in vol. i. col. 1008.

Mean Temperature 63·67.

This is a remarkable incident in the annals of events relating to the memorials of past times.

The Haunted Oak of Nanneu,Near Dolgelly, in Merionethshire.

On the twenty-seventh of July, 1813, sir Richard Colt Hoare, bart., the elegant editor of “Giraldus Cambrensis,” was atNanneu, “the ancient seat of the ancient family of theNanneus,” and now the seat of sir Robert Williams Vaughan, bart. During that day he took a sketch of a venerable oak at that place, within the trunk of which, according to Welsh tradition, the body of Howel Sele, a powerful chieftain residing at Nanneu, was immured by order of his rival Owen Glyndwr. In the night after the sketch was taken, this aged tree fell to the ground. An excellent etching of the venerable baronet’s drawing by Mr. George Cuitt of Chester, perpetuates the portrait of this celebrated oak in its last moments. Theengravingon thenext pageis a mere extract from this masterly etching.

It stood alone, a wither’d oakIts shadow fled, its branches broke;Its riven trunk was knotted round,Its gnarled roots o’erspread the groundHonours that were from tempests won,In generations long since gone,A scanty foliage yet was seen,Wreathing its hoary brows with green,Like to a crown of victoryOn some old warrior’s forehead grey,And, as it stood, it seem’d to speakTo winter winds in murmurs weak,Of times that long had passed it byAnd left it desolate, to sighOf what it was, and seem’d to wail,A shadeless spectre, shapeless, pale.Mrs.Radclife.[269]

Mrs.Radclife.[269]

The charm which compels entrance to Mr. Cuitt’s print within every portfolio of taste, is the management of his point in the representation of the beautiful wood and mountain scenery around the tree, to which the editor of theEvery-Day Bookwould excite curiosity in those who happen to be strangers to the etching. But this gentleman’s fascinating style is independent of the immediate object on which he has exercised it, namely, “the spirit’s Blasted Tree,” an oak of so great fame, that sir Walter Scott celebrates its awful distinction among the descendants of our aboriginal ancestors, by the lines of “Marmion,” affixed to the annexed representation.

Ceubren yr Ellyll,THE SPIRIT’S BLASTED TREE.

All nations have their omens drear,Their legions wild of woe and fear,To Cambria look—the peasant see,Bethink him of Glendowerdy,And shun “the spirit’s Blasted Tree.”Marmion.

All nations have their omens drear,Their legions wild of woe and fear,To Cambria look—the peasant see,Bethink him of Glendowerdy,And shun “the spirit’s Blasted Tree.”

Marmion.

“The spirit’s Blasted Tree” grew in a picturesque part of Wales, abounding with local superstitions and memorials of ancient times. At the distance of a few miles from the beautiful valley ofTal y Lyn, the aspect of the country is peculiarly wild. The hills almost meet at their basis, and change their aspect. Insteadof verdure, they have a general rude and savage appearance. The sides are broken into a thousand forms; some are spiring and sharp pointed; but the greater part project forward, and impend in such a manner as to render the apprehension of their fall tremendous. A few bushes grow among them, but their dusky colour as well as the darkness of the rocks only add horror to the scene. One of the precipices is calledPen y Delyn, from its resemblance to a harp. Another is styledLlam y Lladron, or “the Thieves’ Leap,” from a tradition that thieves were brought there and thrown down. On the left is the rugged and far-famed height ofCader Idris, and beneath it a small lake calledLlyn y tri Graienyn, or “the lake of the Three Grains,” which are three vast rocks tumbled from the neighbouring mountain, which the peasants say were “Three Grains” that had fallen into the shoe of the greatIdris, and which he threw out here, as soon as he felt them hurting his foot.

From thence, by a bad road, Mr. Pennant, in one of his “Tours in Wales,” reachedNanneu. “The way toNanneuis a continual ascent of two miles; and perhaps it is the highest situation of any gentleman’s house in Britain. The estate is covered with fine woods, which clothe all the sides of the dingles for many miles.”

The continuation of Mr. Pennant’s description brings us to our tree as he saw it: “On the road side is a venerable oak in its last stage of decay, and pierced by age into the form of a gothic arch; yet its present growth is twenty-seven feet and a half. The name is very classical,Derwen Ceubren yr Ellyll, ‘the hollow oak, the haunt of demons.’ How often has not warm fancy seen the fairy tribe revel round its trunk! or may not the visionary eye have seen the Hamadryad burst from the bark of its coeval tree.”

The inscription beneath Mr. Cuitt’s print mentions, that when sir Richard Colt Hoare sketched this oak, it was within the kitchen-garden walls of sir Robert W. Vaughan.

“Above Nanneu,” Mr. Pennant mentions “a high rock, with the top incircled with a dike of loose stones: this had been a British post, the station, perhaps, of some tyrant, it being calledMoel Orthrwn, or ‘the Hill of Oppression.’” Mr. Pennant says, the park is “remarkable for its very small but very excellent venison:” an affirmation which may be taken for correct, inasmuch as the tour of an antiquary in such a region greatly assists tasteful discrimination. Within the park Mr. Pennant saw “a mere compost of cinders and ashes,” the ruins of the house of Howel Sele, whose body is alleged to have been buried in “the spirit’s Blasted Tree” by Owen Glyndwr.

Owen Glyndwr, or Glendower, is rendered popular in England by the most popular of our dramatic poets, from whom it may be appropriate to take the outlines of his poetical character, in connection with the legend of Howel Sele’s singular burial.

The first mention of Owen Glyndwr, in the works of our great bard, is in “King Richard II.” by Henry of Lancaster, afterwards king Henry IV. Before he passes over into Wales, he says in the camp atBristol—

————————— Come lords, away,To fight with Glendower and his complices,A while to work, and after, holiday.

This line relating to Glendower, Theobald deemed an interpolation on Shakspeare, and it has been so regarded by some subsequent commentators. We have “Owen Glendower,” however, as one of the dramatis personæ in “Henry IV.” wherein he is first mentioned by the earl of Westmoreland as “the irregular and wild Glendower:” king Henry calls him “the great magician, damn’d Glendower;” Hotspur terms him “great Glendower;” and Falstaff tells princeHenry—

“There’s villainous news abroad—that same mad fellow of the north, Percy; and he of Wales, that gave Amaimon the bastinado—and swore the devil his true liegeman—he is there too; that devil Glendower. Art thou not horribly afraid?”

In the conference between “Glendower” and his adherents, he says to HenryPercy:—

———————Sit good cousin Hotspur:For by that name as oft as LancasterDoth speak of you, his cheeks look pale; and, withA rising sigh, he wisheth you in heaven.Hot.And you in hell, as often as he hearsOwen Glendower spoke of.Glend.I cannot blame him: at my nativityThe front of heaven was full of fiery shapes,Of burning cressets; and—at my birth,The frame and huge foundation of the earthShak’d like a coward——The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes;The goats ran from the mountains, and the herdsWere strangely clamorous to the frighted fields.These signs have mark’d me extraordinary;And all the courses of my life do show,I am not in the roll of common men.Where is he living,—clipp’d in with the sea,That chides the banks of England, Scotland, Wales,—Which calls me pupil, or hath read to me?And bring him out, that is but woman’s son,Can trace me in the tedious ways of art,And hold me pace in deep experiments.—I can call spirits from the vasty deep—I can teach thee, cousin, to command the devil.

On occasion of the chiefs taking leave of their wives, before they separate for battle with the king, Glendower gives proof of his supernatural powers. The wife of Mortimer proposes to soothe her husband by singing to him in her native Welsh, if he will repose himself.

Mort.With all my heart, I’ll sit—Glend.Do so.And those musicians that shall play to you,Hang in the air a thousand leagues from hence;Yet straight they shall be here: sit, and attend.[The music plays.Hot.Now, I perceive, the devil understands Welsh—By’r lady, he’s a good musician.

Without going into the history of Owen Glyndwr, it may be observed that he claimed the throne of Wales, and that the presages which Shakspeare ascribed to his birth, are the legends of old chronicles. Howel Sele, of Nanneu, was his first cousin, yet he adhered to the house of Lancaster, and was therefore opposed to Owen’s pretensions. The abbot of Cymmer, in hopes of reconciling them, brought them together, and apparently effected his purpose. Howel was reckoned the best archer of his day. Owen while walking out with him observed a doe feeding, and told him there was a fine mark for him. Howel bent his bow, and, pretending to aim at the doe, suddenly turned and discharged the arrow full at the breast of Glyndwr, who wearing armour beneath his clothes received no hurt. He seized on Sele for his treachery, burnt his house, and hurried him away from the place; nor was it known how he was disposed of till forty years after, when the skeleton of a large man, such as Howel, was discovered in the hollow of the great oak before described; wherein it was supposed Owen had immured him in reward of his perfidy. While Owen was carrying him off, his rescue was attempted by his relation Gryffydd ap Geoyn of Ganllwyd in Ardudwy, but he was defeated by Owen with great loss of men, and his houses of Berthlwyd and Cefn Coch were reduced toashes.[270]

Sir Walter Scott to illustrate his lines in “Marmion,” inserts, among the notes on that poem, a legendary tale by the rev. George Warrington with thispreface:—

“The event, on which this tale is founded, is preserved by tradition in the family of the Vaughans of Hengwyrt; nor is it entirely lost, even among the common people, who still point out this oak to the passenger. The enmity between the two Welsh chieftains, Howel Sele and Owen Glendwr, was extreme, and marked by vile treachery in the one, and ferocious cruelty in the other. The story is somewhat changed and softened, as more favourable to the characters of the two chiefs, and as better answering the purpose of poetry, by admitting the passion of pity, and a greater degree of sentiment in the description. Some trace of Howel Sele’s mansion was to be seen a few years ago, and may perhaps be still visible in the park of Nanneu, now belonging to sir Robert Vaughan, baronet, in the wild and romantic tracts of Merionethshire. The abbey mentioned passes under two names, Vener and Cymmer. The former is retained, as more generally used.”

THE SPIRIT’S BLASTED TREE.Ceubren yr Ellyll.Through Nannau’s Chace as Howel passed,A chief esteemed both brave and kind,Far distant borne, the stag-hound’s cryCame murmuring on the hollow wind.Starting, he bent an eager ear,—How should the sounds return again?His hounds lay wearied from the chace,And all at home his hunter train.Then sudden anger flash’d his eye,And deep revenge he vowed to takeOn that bold man who dared to forceHis red deer from the forest brake.Unhappy chief! would nought avail,No signs impress thy heart with fear,Thy lady’s dark mysterious dream,Thy warning from the hoary seer?Three ravens gave the note of death,As through mid air they winged their way;Then o’er his head, in rapid flight,They croak,—they scent their destined prey.Ill omened bird! as legends say,Who hast the wonderous power to know,While health fills high the throbbing veins,The fated hour when blood must flow.Blinded by rage alone he passed,Nor sought his ready vassals’ aid:But what his fate lay long unknown,For many an anxious year delayed.A peasant marked his angry eye,He saw him reach the lake’s dark bourne,He saw him near a blasted oak,But never from that hour return.Three days passed o’er, no tidings came;—Where should the chief his steps delay?With wild alarm the servants ran,Yet knew not where to point their way.His vassals ranged the mountain’s height,The covert close, and wide-spread plain;But all in vain their eager search,They ne’er must see their lord again.Yet fancy, in a thousand shapes,Bore to his home the chief once moreSome saw him on high Moel’s top,Some saw him on the winding shore.With wonder fraught the tale went round,Amazement chained the hearer’s tongue;Each peasant felt his own sad loss,Yet fondly o’er the story hung.Oft by the moon’s pale shadowy light,His aged nurse, and steward grey,Would lean to catch the stoned sounds,Or mark the flittering spirit stray.Pale lights on Cader’s rocks were seen,And midnight voices heard to moan;’Twas even said the blasted oak,Convulsive, heaved a hollow groan:And, 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.Ten annual suns had held their course,In summer’s smile, or winter’s storm;The lady shed the widowed tear,As oft she traced his manly form.Yet still to hope her heart would clingAs o’er the mind illusions play,—Of travel fond, perhaps her lordTo distant lands had steered his way.’Twas now November’s cheerless hour,Which drenching rain and clouds deface;Dreary bleak Robell’s tract appeared,And dull and dank each valley’s space.Loud o’er the wier the hoarse flood fell,And dashed the foamy spray on high;The west wind bent the forest tops,And angry frowned the evening sky.A stranger passed Llanelltid’s bourne,His dark-grey steed with sweat besprent,Which, wearied with the lengthened way,Could scarcely gain the hill’s ascent.The portal reached,—the iron bellLoud sounded round the outward wallQuick sprang the warder to the gate,To know what meant the clamorous call.“O! lead me to your lady soon;Say,—it is my sad lot to tell,To clear the fate of that brave knight,She long has proved she loved so well.”Then, as he crossed the spacious hall,The menials look surprise and fear:Still o’er his harp old Modred hung,And touched the notes for griefs worn ear.The lady sat amidst her train;A mellowed sorrow marked her look:Then, asking what his mission meant,The graceful stranger sighed and spoke:—“O could I spread one ray of hope,One moment raise thy soul from woe,Gladly my tongue would tell its tale,My words at ease unfettered flow!“Now, lady, give attention due,The story claims thy full belief:E’en in the worst events of life,Suspense removed is some relief.“Though worn by care, see Madoc here,Great Glyndwr’s friend, thy kindred’s foe,Ah, let his name no anger raise,For now that mighty chief lies low.“E’en from the day, when, chained by fate,By wizard’s dream or potent spell,Lingering from sad Salopia’s field,’Reft ofhisaid the Percy fell:—“E’en from that day misfortune still,As if for violated faith,Pursued him with unwearied stepVindictive still for Hotspur’s death.“Vanquished at length, the Glyndwr fledWhere winds the Wye her devious flood;To find a casual shelter there,In some lone cot, or desert wood.“Clothed in a shepherd’s humble guise,He gained by toil his scanty bread;He who had Cambria’s sceptre borne,And her brave sons to glory led!“To penury extreme, and grief,The chieftain fell a lingering prey;I heard his last few faultering words,Such as with pain I now convey.“‘To Sele’s sad widow bear the taleNor let our horrid secret rest;Give buthiscorse to sacred earth,Then may my parting soul be blest.’—“Dim waxed the eye that fiercely shone,And faint the tongue that proudly spokeAnd weak that arm, still raised to me,Which oft had dealt the mortal stroke.“How could Ithenhis mandate bearOr how his last behest obey?A rebel deemed, with him I fled;With him I shunned the light of day.“Proscribed by Henry’s hostile rage,My country lost, despoiled my land,Desperate, I fled my native soil,And fought on Syria’s distant strand.“O, had thy long lamented lordThe holy cross and banner viewed,Died in the sacred cause! who fellSad victim of a private feud!“Led, by the ardour of the chace,Far distant from his own domain;From where Garthmaelan spreads her shades,The Glyndwr sought the opening plain.“With head aloft, and antlers wide,A red buck roused, then crossed in view,Stung with the sight, and wild with rage,Swift from the wood fierce Howel flew.“With bitter taunt, and keen reproach,He, all impetuous, poured his rage,Reviled the chief as weak in arms,And bade him loud the battle wage.“Glyndwr for once restrained his sword,And, still averse, the fight delays;But softened words, like oil to fire,Made anger more intensely blaze.“They fought; and doubtful long the fray!The Glyndwr gave the fatal wound!Still mournful must my tale proceed,And its last act all dreadful sound.“How could we hope for wished retreatHis eager vassals ranging wide?His bloodhounds’ keen sagacious scent,O’er many a trackless mountain tried?“I marked a broad and blasted oak,Scorched by the lightning’s livid glare;Hollow its stem from branch to root,And all its shrivelled arms were bare.“Be this, I cried, his proper grave!—(The thought in me was deadly sin.)Aloft we raised the hapless chief,And dropped his bleeding corpse within.”A shriek from all the damsels burst,That pierced the vaulted roofs below,While horror-struck the lady stood,A living form of sculptured woe.With stupid stare, and vacant gaze,Full on his face her eyes were cast,Absorbed!—she lost her present grief,And faintly thought of things long past.Like wild-fire o’er the mossy heath,The rumour through the hamlet ran:The peasants crowd at morning dawn,To hear the tale,—behold the man.He led them near the blasted oak,Then, conscious, from the scene withdrew:The peasant’s work with trembling haste,And lay the whitened bones to view!—Back they recoiled!—the right hand still,Contracted, grasped a rusty sword;Which erst in many a battle gleamed,And proudly decked their slaughtered lord.They bore the corse to Vener’s shrine,With holy rites, and prayers addressed;Nine white-robed monks the last dirge sang,And gave the angry spirit rest.

THE SPIRIT’S BLASTED TREE.

Ceubren yr Ellyll.

Through Nannau’s Chace as Howel passed,A chief esteemed both brave and kind,Far distant borne, the stag-hound’s cryCame murmuring on the hollow wind.Starting, he bent an eager ear,—How should the sounds return again?His hounds lay wearied from the chace,And all at home his hunter train.Then sudden anger flash’d his eye,And deep revenge he vowed to takeOn that bold man who dared to forceHis red deer from the forest brake.Unhappy chief! would nought avail,No signs impress thy heart with fear,Thy lady’s dark mysterious dream,Thy warning from the hoary seer?Three ravens gave the note of death,As through mid air they winged their way;Then o’er his head, in rapid flight,They croak,—they scent their destined prey.Ill omened bird! as legends say,Who hast the wonderous power to know,While health fills high the throbbing veins,The fated hour when blood must flow.Blinded by rage alone he passed,Nor sought his ready vassals’ aid:But what his fate lay long unknown,For many an anxious year delayed.A peasant marked his angry eye,He saw him reach the lake’s dark bourne,He saw him near a blasted oak,But never from that hour return.Three days passed o’er, no tidings came;—Where should the chief his steps delay?With wild alarm the servants ran,Yet knew not where to point their way.His vassals ranged the mountain’s height,The covert close, and wide-spread plain;But all in vain their eager search,They ne’er must see their lord again.Yet fancy, in a thousand shapes,Bore to his home the chief once moreSome saw him on high Moel’s top,Some saw him on the winding shore.With wonder fraught the tale went round,Amazement chained the hearer’s tongue;Each peasant felt his own sad loss,Yet fondly o’er the story hung.Oft by the moon’s pale shadowy light,His aged nurse, and steward grey,Would lean to catch the stoned sounds,Or mark the flittering spirit stray.Pale lights on Cader’s rocks were seen,And midnight voices heard to moan;’Twas even said the blasted oak,Convulsive, heaved a hollow groan:And, 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.Ten annual suns had held their course,In summer’s smile, or winter’s storm;The lady shed the widowed tear,As oft she traced his manly form.Yet still to hope her heart would clingAs o’er the mind illusions play,—Of travel fond, perhaps her lordTo distant lands had steered his way.’Twas now November’s cheerless hour,Which drenching rain and clouds deface;Dreary bleak Robell’s tract appeared,And dull and dank each valley’s space.Loud o’er the wier the hoarse flood fell,And dashed the foamy spray on high;The west wind bent the forest tops,And angry frowned the evening sky.A stranger passed Llanelltid’s bourne,His dark-grey steed with sweat besprent,Which, wearied with the lengthened way,Could scarcely gain the hill’s ascent.The portal reached,—the iron bellLoud sounded round the outward wallQuick sprang the warder to the gate,To know what meant the clamorous call.“O! lead me to your lady soon;Say,—it is my sad lot to tell,To clear the fate of that brave knight,She long has proved she loved so well.”Then, as he crossed the spacious hall,The menials look surprise and fear:Still o’er his harp old Modred hung,And touched the notes for griefs worn ear.The lady sat amidst her train;A mellowed sorrow marked her look:Then, asking what his mission meant,The graceful stranger sighed and spoke:—“O could I spread one ray of hope,One moment raise thy soul from woe,Gladly my tongue would tell its tale,My words at ease unfettered flow!“Now, lady, give attention due,The story claims thy full belief:E’en in the worst events of life,Suspense removed is some relief.“Though worn by care, see Madoc here,Great Glyndwr’s friend, thy kindred’s foe,Ah, let his name no anger raise,For now that mighty chief lies low.“E’en from the day, when, chained by fate,By wizard’s dream or potent spell,Lingering from sad Salopia’s field,’Reft ofhisaid the Percy fell:—“E’en from that day misfortune still,As if for violated faith,Pursued him with unwearied stepVindictive still for Hotspur’s death.“Vanquished at length, the Glyndwr fledWhere winds the Wye her devious flood;To find a casual shelter there,In some lone cot, or desert wood.“Clothed in a shepherd’s humble guise,He gained by toil his scanty bread;He who had Cambria’s sceptre borne,And her brave sons to glory led!“To penury extreme, and grief,The chieftain fell a lingering prey;I heard his last few faultering words,Such as with pain I now convey.“‘To Sele’s sad widow bear the taleNor let our horrid secret rest;Give buthiscorse to sacred earth,Then may my parting soul be blest.’—“Dim waxed the eye that fiercely shone,And faint the tongue that proudly spokeAnd weak that arm, still raised to me,Which oft had dealt the mortal stroke.“How could Ithenhis mandate bearOr how his last behest obey?A rebel deemed, with him I fled;With him I shunned the light of day.“Proscribed by Henry’s hostile rage,My country lost, despoiled my land,Desperate, I fled my native soil,And fought on Syria’s distant strand.“O, had thy long lamented lordThe holy cross and banner viewed,Died in the sacred cause! who fellSad victim of a private feud!“Led, by the ardour of the chace,Far distant from his own domain;From where Garthmaelan spreads her shades,The Glyndwr sought the opening plain.“With head aloft, and antlers wide,A red buck roused, then crossed in view,Stung with the sight, and wild with rage,Swift from the wood fierce Howel flew.“With bitter taunt, and keen reproach,He, all impetuous, poured his rage,Reviled the chief as weak in arms,And bade him loud the battle wage.“Glyndwr for once restrained his sword,And, still averse, the fight delays;But softened words, like oil to fire,Made anger more intensely blaze.“They fought; and doubtful long the fray!The Glyndwr gave the fatal wound!Still mournful must my tale proceed,And its last act all dreadful sound.“How could we hope for wished retreatHis eager vassals ranging wide?His bloodhounds’ keen sagacious scent,O’er many a trackless mountain tried?“I marked a broad and blasted oak,Scorched by the lightning’s livid glare;Hollow its stem from branch to root,And all its shrivelled arms were bare.“Be this, I cried, his proper grave!—(The thought in me was deadly sin.)Aloft we raised the hapless chief,And dropped his bleeding corpse within.”A shriek from all the damsels burst,That pierced the vaulted roofs below,While horror-struck the lady stood,A living form of sculptured woe.With stupid stare, and vacant gaze,Full on his face her eyes were cast,Absorbed!—she lost her present grief,And faintly thought of things long past.Like wild-fire o’er the mossy heath,The rumour through the hamlet ran:The peasants crowd at morning dawn,To hear the tale,—behold the man.He led them near the blasted oak,Then, conscious, from the scene withdrew:The peasant’s work with trembling haste,And lay the whitened bones to view!—Back they recoiled!—the right hand still,Contracted, grasped a rusty sword;Which erst in many a battle gleamed,And proudly decked their slaughtered lord.They bore the corse to Vener’s shrine,With holy rites, and prayers addressed;Nine white-robed monks the last dirge sang,And gave the angry spirit rest.

Through Nannau’s Chace as Howel passed,A chief esteemed both brave and kind,Far distant borne, the stag-hound’s cryCame murmuring on the hollow wind.

Starting, he bent an eager ear,—How should the sounds return again?His hounds lay wearied from the chace,And all at home his hunter train.

Then sudden anger flash’d his eye,And deep revenge he vowed to takeOn that bold man who dared to forceHis red deer from the forest brake.

Unhappy chief! would nought avail,No signs impress thy heart with fear,Thy lady’s dark mysterious dream,Thy warning from the hoary seer?

Three ravens gave the note of death,As through mid air they winged their way;Then o’er his head, in rapid flight,They croak,—they scent their destined prey.

Ill omened bird! as legends say,Who hast the wonderous power to know,While health fills high the throbbing veins,The fated hour when blood must flow.

Blinded by rage alone he passed,Nor sought his ready vassals’ aid:But what his fate lay long unknown,For many an anxious year delayed.

A peasant marked his angry eye,He saw him reach the lake’s dark bourne,He saw him near a blasted oak,But never from that hour return.

Three days passed o’er, no tidings came;—Where should the chief his steps delay?With wild alarm the servants ran,Yet knew not where to point their way.

His vassals ranged the mountain’s height,The covert close, and wide-spread plain;But all in vain their eager search,They ne’er must see their lord again.

Yet fancy, in a thousand shapes,Bore to his home the chief once moreSome saw him on high Moel’s top,Some saw him on the winding shore.

With wonder fraught the tale went round,Amazement chained the hearer’s tongue;Each peasant felt his own sad loss,Yet fondly o’er the story hung.

Oft by the moon’s pale shadowy light,His aged nurse, and steward grey,Would lean to catch the stoned sounds,Or mark the flittering spirit stray.

Pale lights on Cader’s rocks were seen,And midnight voices heard to moan;’Twas even said the blasted oak,Convulsive, heaved a hollow groan:

And, 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.

Ten annual suns had held their course,In summer’s smile, or winter’s storm;The lady shed the widowed tear,As oft she traced his manly form.

Yet still to hope her heart would clingAs o’er the mind illusions play,—Of travel fond, perhaps her lordTo distant lands had steered his way.

’Twas now November’s cheerless hour,Which drenching rain and clouds deface;Dreary bleak Robell’s tract appeared,And dull and dank each valley’s space.

Loud o’er the wier the hoarse flood fell,And dashed the foamy spray on high;The west wind bent the forest tops,And angry frowned the evening sky.

A stranger passed Llanelltid’s bourne,His dark-grey steed with sweat besprent,Which, wearied with the lengthened way,Could scarcely gain the hill’s ascent.

The portal reached,—the iron bellLoud sounded round the outward wallQuick sprang the warder to the gate,To know what meant the clamorous call.

“O! lead me to your lady soon;Say,—it is my sad lot to tell,To clear the fate of that brave knight,She long has proved she loved so well.”

Then, as he crossed the spacious hall,The menials look surprise and fear:Still o’er his harp old Modred hung,And touched the notes for griefs worn ear.

The lady sat amidst her train;A mellowed sorrow marked her look:Then, asking what his mission meant,The graceful stranger sighed and spoke:—

“O could I spread one ray of hope,One moment raise thy soul from woe,Gladly my tongue would tell its tale,My words at ease unfettered flow!

“Now, lady, give attention due,The story claims thy full belief:E’en in the worst events of life,Suspense removed is some relief.

“Though worn by care, see Madoc here,Great Glyndwr’s friend, thy kindred’s foe,Ah, let his name no anger raise,For now that mighty chief lies low.

“E’en from the day, when, chained by fate,By wizard’s dream or potent spell,Lingering from sad Salopia’s field,’Reft ofhisaid the Percy fell:—

“E’en from that day misfortune still,As if for violated faith,Pursued him with unwearied stepVindictive still for Hotspur’s death.

“Vanquished at length, the Glyndwr fledWhere winds the Wye her devious flood;To find a casual shelter there,In some lone cot, or desert wood.

“Clothed in a shepherd’s humble guise,He gained by toil his scanty bread;He who had Cambria’s sceptre borne,And her brave sons to glory led!

“To penury extreme, and grief,The chieftain fell a lingering prey;I heard his last few faultering words,Such as with pain I now convey.

“‘To Sele’s sad widow bear the taleNor let our horrid secret rest;Give buthiscorse to sacred earth,Then may my parting soul be blest.’—

“Dim waxed the eye that fiercely shone,And faint the tongue that proudly spokeAnd weak that arm, still raised to me,Which oft had dealt the mortal stroke.

“How could Ithenhis mandate bearOr how his last behest obey?A rebel deemed, with him I fled;With him I shunned the light of day.

“Proscribed by Henry’s hostile rage,My country lost, despoiled my land,Desperate, I fled my native soil,And fought on Syria’s distant strand.

“O, had thy long lamented lordThe holy cross and banner viewed,Died in the sacred cause! who fellSad victim of a private feud!

“Led, by the ardour of the chace,Far distant from his own domain;From where Garthmaelan spreads her shades,The Glyndwr sought the opening plain.

“With head aloft, and antlers wide,A red buck roused, then crossed in view,Stung with the sight, and wild with rage,Swift from the wood fierce Howel flew.

“With bitter taunt, and keen reproach,He, all impetuous, poured his rage,Reviled the chief as weak in arms,And bade him loud the battle wage.

“Glyndwr for once restrained his sword,And, still averse, the fight delays;But softened words, like oil to fire,Made anger more intensely blaze.

“They fought; and doubtful long the fray!The Glyndwr gave the fatal wound!Still mournful must my tale proceed,And its last act all dreadful sound.

“How could we hope for wished retreatHis eager vassals ranging wide?His bloodhounds’ keen sagacious scent,O’er many a trackless mountain tried?

“I marked a broad and blasted oak,Scorched by the lightning’s livid glare;Hollow its stem from branch to root,And all its shrivelled arms were bare.

“Be this, I cried, his proper grave!—(The thought in me was deadly sin.)Aloft we raised the hapless chief,And dropped his bleeding corpse within.”

A shriek from all the damsels burst,That pierced the vaulted roofs below,While horror-struck the lady stood,A living form of sculptured woe.

With stupid stare, and vacant gaze,Full on his face her eyes were cast,Absorbed!—she lost her present grief,And faintly thought of things long past.

Like wild-fire o’er the mossy heath,The rumour through the hamlet ran:The peasants crowd at morning dawn,To hear the tale,—behold the man.

He led them near the blasted oak,Then, conscious, from the scene withdrew:The peasant’s work with trembling haste,And lay the whitened bones to view!—

Back they recoiled!—the right hand still,Contracted, grasped a rusty sword;Which erst in many a battle gleamed,And proudly decked their slaughtered lord.

They bore the corse to Vener’s shrine,With holy rites, and prayers addressed;Nine white-robed monks the last dirge sang,And gave the angry spirit rest.

It must be remembered that the real history of Howel Sele’s death is to be collected from Mr. Pennant’saccountof their sudden feud already related; though he by no means distinctly states whether Glyndwr caused him to be placed in the oak after he had been slain, or “immured” him alive and left him to perish. It is rather to be inferred that he was condemned by his kinsmen to the latter fate. According to Pennant he perished in the year 1402, and we see that his living burial place survived him, pierced and hallowed by the hand of time, upwards of four centuries.

In an elegant volume called “Sylvan Sketches, a companion to the park and the shrubbery, with illustrations from the works of the poets by the author of theFlora Domestica,” there is a delightful assemblage of poetical passages on the oak, with this memorial of a very celebratedone:—

“An oak was planted at Penshurst on the day of sir Philip Sidney’s birth, of which Martyn speaks as standing in his time, and measuring twenty-two feet round. This tree has since beenfelled, it is said bymistake; would it be impossible to make a similarmistakewith regard to themistaker?

“Several of our poets have celebrated this tree: Ben Jonson in his lines to Penshurst,says,—

‘Thou hast thy walks for health as well as sport;Thy mount to which thy Dryads do resort,Where Pan and Bacchus their high seats have made,Beneath the broad beech and the chesnut shade,That taller tree which of a nut was set,At his great birth where all the muses met.There in the writhed bark are cut the namesOf many a sylvan taken with his flames.’

“It is mentioned byWaller:—

‘Go, boy, and carve this passion on the barkOf yonder tree, which stands the sacred markOf noble Sidney’s birth.’

“Southey says, speaking ofPenshurst—

———‘Sidney here was born.Sidney than whom no greater, braver man,His own delightful genius ever feigned,Illustrating the vales of ArcadyWith courteous courage, and with loyal loves.Upon his natal day the acorn hereWas planted; it grew up a stately oak,And in the beauty of its strength it stoodAnd flourished, when its perishable partHad mouldered dust to dust. That stately oakItself hath mouldered now, but Sidney’s nameEndureth in his own immortal works.’

“This tree was frequently called the ‘bare oak,’ by the people of the neighbourhood, from a resemblance it was supposed to bear to the oak which gave name to the county of Berkshire. Tradition says, that when the tenants went to the park gates as it was their custom to do to meet the earl of Leicester, when they visited that castle, they used to adorn their hats with boughs from this tree. Within the hollow of its trunk was a seat which contained five or six persons with ease and convenience.”

We are told that this oak was standing in the fourth century. Isidore affirms that when he was a child in the reign of the emperor Constantius, he was shown a turpentine tree very old, which declared its age by its bulk, as the tree under which Abraham dwelt; that the heathens had a surprising veneration for it, and distinguished it by an honourableappellation.[271]Some affirm that it existed within the last four centuries.

At the dispersion of the Jews under Adrian, about the year 134, “an incredible number of all ages and sexes were sold at the same price as horses, in a very famous fair called the fair of theturpentine tree: whereupon the Jews had an abhorrence for that fair.” St. Jerome mentions the place at which the Jews were sold under the name of “Abraham’s tent;” where, he says, “is kept an annual fair very much frequented.” This place “on Mamre’s fertile plains,” is alleged to have been the spot where Abraham entertained theangels.[272]

Mean Temperature 63·50.

[269]See this lady’s “Posthumous Works,” vol. iv.Stonehengestanza 53, from whence these lines are capriciously altered.[270]Pennant.[271]Bayle, art. Abraham.[272]Bayle, art. Barcochebas.

[269]See this lady’s “Posthumous Works,” vol. iv.Stonehengestanza 53, from whence these lines are capriciously altered.

[270]Pennant.

[271]Bayle, art. Abraham.

[272]Bayle, art. Barcochebas.

The festival of this saint, who was the first bishop of Ardmore, in the county of Waterford, is held on the twenty-fourth of the month. The brief memoir of St. Declan, by Alban Butler, did not seem to require notice of him on that day; but the manner wherein the feast was celebrated in 1826, is so remarkably particularized in an Irish paper, as to claim attention.

St. Declan is represented to have been the friend and companion of St. Patrick, and, according to tradition, Ardmore was an episcopal see, established in the fifth century by St. Declan, who was born in this county, and was of the family of the Desii. He travelled for education to Rome, resided there for some years, was afterwards ordained by the pope, returned to his own country about the year 402, and about that time founded the abbey and was made bishop of Ardmore. He lived to a great age; and his successor, St. Ulthan, was alive in the year 550. A stone, a holy well, and a dormitory, in the churchyard, still bear the name of St. Declan. “St. Declan’s stone” is on the beach; it is a large rock, resting on two others, which elevate it a little above the ground. On the twenty-fourth of July, the festival of the saint, numbers of the lowest class do penance on their bare knees around the stone, and some, withgreat pain and difficulty, creep under it, in expectation thereby of curing or preventing, what it is much more likely to create, rheumatic affections of the back. In the churchyard is the “dormitory of St. Declan,” a small low building, held in great veneration by the people in the neighbourhood, who frequently visit it in order to procure some of the earth, which is supposed to cover the relics of thesaint.[273]

On the twenty-fourth of July, 1826, several thousand persons of all ages and both sexes assembled at Ardmore. The greater part of the extensive strand, which forms the western side of the bay, was literally covered by a dense mass of people. Tents and stands for the sale of whiskey, &c. were placed in parallel rows along the shore; the whole at a distance bore the appearance of a vast encampment. Each tent had its green ensign waving upon high, bearing some patriotic motto. One of large dimensions, which floated in the breeze far above the others, exhibited the words “Villiers Stuart for ever.”

At an early hour, those whom a religious feeling had drawn to the spot, commenced their devotional exercises by passing under the holy rock of St. Declan. The male part of the assemblage were clad in trowsers and shirts, or in shirts alone; the females, in petticoats pinned above the knees, and some of the more devout in chemises only. Two hundred and ninety persons of both sexes thus prepared, knelt at one time indiscriminately around the stone, and passed separately under it to the other side. This was not effected without considerable pain and difficulty, owing to the narrowness of the passage, and the sharpness of the rocks. Stretched at full length on the ground on the face and stomach, each devotee moved forward, as if in the act of swimming, and thus squeezed or dragged themselves through. Upwards of eleven hundred persons of both sexes, in a state of half nudity, were observed to undergo the ceremony in the course of the day. A reverend gentleman, who stood by part of the time, was heard to exclaim, “O, great is their faith.” Several of their reverences passed and re-passed to and from the chapel close by the “holy rock,” during the day. The “holy rock,” of so great veneration, is believed to be endued with miraculous powers. It is said to have been wafted from Rome upon the surface of the ocean, at the period of St. Declan’s founding his church at Ardmore, and to have borne on its top a large bell for the church tower, and vestments for the saint.

At a short distance from this sacred memorial, on a cliff overhanging the sea, is the well of the saint. Thither the crowds repair after the devotions at the rock are ended. Having drank plentifully of its water, they wash their legs and feet in the stream which issues from it, and, telling their beads, sprinkle themselves and their neighbours with the fluid. These performances over, the grave of the patron saint is then resorted to. Hundreds at a time crowded around it, and crush each other in their eagerness to obtain a handful of the earth which is believed to cover the mortal remains of Declan. A woman stood breast high in the grave, and served out a small portion of its clay to each person requiring it, from whom in return she received a penny or halfpenny for the love of the saint. The abode of the saint’s earthly remains has sunk to the depth of nearly four feet, its clay having been scooped away by the finger nails of the pious. A human skull of large dimensions was placed at the head of the tomb, before which the people bowed, believing it to be the identical skull of the tutelar saint.

This visit to St. Declan’s grave completed the devotional exercises of a day held in greater honour than the sabbath, by those who venerate the saint’s name, and worship at his shrine. The tents which throughout the day, from the duties paid to the “patron,” had been thronged with the devotionalists of the morning, resounded from evening till daybreak, with sounds inspired by potations of whiskey; and the scene is so characterised by its reporter as to seemexaggerated.[274]

Mean Temperature 63·65.

[273]Ryland’s History of Waterford.[274]Waterford Mail.

[273]Ryland’s History of Waterford.

[274]Waterford Mail.

On the festival of this saint of the Romish church, a great fair is held at Beaucaire, in Languedoc, to which merchantsand company resort from a great distance round. It is a great mart for smugglers and contraband traders, and is the harvest of the year both to Beaucaire and Tarascon; for, as the former is not large enough to accommodate the influx of people, Tarascon, in Provence, which is separated from it by the Rhone, is generally equally full.

Tarascon, according to a popular tradition, has its name from a terrible beast, a sort of dragon, known by the name of thetarasque, which, in ancient days, infested the neighbourhood, ravaging the country, and killing every thing that came in its way, both man and beast, and eluding every endeavour made to take and destroy it, till St. Martha arrived in the town, and taking compassion on the general distress, went out against the monster, and brought him into the town in chains, when the people fell upon him and slew him.

St. Martha, according to the chronicles of Provence, had fled from her own country in company with her sister Mary Magdalen, her brother Lazarus, and several other saints both male and female. They landed at Marseilles, and immediately spread themselves about the country to preach to the people. It fell to the lot of St. Martha to bend her steps towards Tarascon, where she arrived at the fortunate moment above mentioned. She continued to her dying day particularly to patronise the place, and was at her own request interred there. Her tomb is shown in a subterranean chapel belonging to the principal church. It bears her figure in white marble, as large as life, in a recumbent posture, and is a good piece of sculpture, uninjured by the revolution. In the church a series of paintings represent the escape of St. Martha and her companions from their persecutors, their landing in Provence, and some of their subsequent adventures. She is the patron saint of Tarascon.

It is presumed that the story of a beast ravaging the neighbouring country had its origin in fact; but that instead of a dreadful dragon it was a hyena. Bouche, however, in hisEssai sur l’Histoire de Provence, while he mentions the popular tradition of the dragon, makes no mention of the supposed hyena, which he probably would have done had there been any good ground for believing in its existence.

Be this as it may, the fabulous story of the dragon was the occasion of establishing an annual festival at Tarascon, the reputed origin of which seems no less fabulous than the story itself. According to the tradition, the queen, consort to the reigning sovereign of the country, unaccountably fell into a deep and settled melancholy, from which she could not be roused. She kept herself shut up in her chamber, and would not see or be seen by any one; medicines and amusements were in vain, till the ladies of Tarascon thought of celebrating a festival, which they hoped, from its novelty might impress the mind of their afflicted sovereign.

A figure was made to represent the “tarasque,” with a terrible head, a terrible mouth, with two terrible rows of teeth, wings on its back, and a terrible long tail. At the festival of St. Martha, by whom the “tarasque” was chained, this figure was led about for eight days successively, by eight of the principal ladies in the town, elegantly dressed, and accompanied by a band of music. The procession was followed by an immense concourse of people, in their holyday clothes; and during the progress, alms were collected for the poor. All sorts of gaieties were exhibited; balls, concerts, and shows of every kind—nothing, in short, was omitted to accomplish the purpose for which the festival was instituted.

And her majesty condescended to be amused: that hour her melancholy ceased, and never after returned. Whether the honour of this happy change was wholly due to the procession, or whether the saint might not assist the efforts of the patriotic ladies of Tarascon, by working a miracle in favour of the restoration of the queen’s health, is not on record; but her malady never returned; and the people of Tarascon were so much delighted by the procession of the “tarasque,” that it was determined to make the festival an annual one.

This festival was observed till the revolution; but in “the reign of terror,” the people of Arles, between whom and those of Tarascon a great jealousy and rivalship had for many years subsisted, came in a body to the latter place, and, seizing the “tarasque,” burnt it in the market-place.This piece of petty spite sadly chagrined the Tarasconians. Their “tarasque” was endeared to them by its antiquity, as well as by the amusement it afforded them. For four years the festival of the “tarasque” remained uncelebrated, when an attempt was made to reestablish it; a new “tarasque” was procured by subscription among the people; but this also was seized by the Arletins, and carried over the river to Beaucaire, where it remained ever since.

“However,” said a hostess of Tarascon to Miss Plumptre, “since Buonaparte has happily restored order in France, we are looking forward to better times, and hope before the next festival of St. Martha, to be permitted to reclaim our ‘tarasque,’ and renew the procession.”

“Ah, ladies,” she added, “you have no idea how gay and how happy we all used to be at that time! The rich and the poor, the old and the young, the men and the women, all the same! all laughed, all danced, all sung; there was not a sad face in the town. The ladies were all so emulous of leading the ‘tarasque!’ They were all dressed alike; one was appointed to regulate the dress, and whatever she ordered the rest were obliged to follow. Sometimes the dresses were trimmed with gold or silver, sometimes with lace, so rich, so grand! God knows whether we shall ever see such times again. Ah! it was only because we were so happy that the people of Arles envied us, and had such a spite against us; but they have no reason to envy us now, we have had sorrow enough: ninety-three persons were guillotined here, and you may think what trouble that has spread among a number of families. I myself, ladies, have had my share of sorrow. My husband was not indeed guillotined, but he was obliged to fly the town to avoid it: he never quitted France, but went about from place to place where he was not known, working and picking up a livelihood as well as he could; and it is only since Buonaparte has been first consul that he has ventured to return. Besides, every thing that I had of any value, my linen, my mattresses, my silver spoons and forks, were all taken away by the requisition, and I can only hope to have things comfortably about me again by degrees, if we are so lucky as to get tolerable custom to our inn.” And then she entered upon a long string of apologies for the state of her house. “She was afraid,” she said, “that we should find things very uncomfortable, but it was not in her power to receive ladies and gentlemen as she had been used to do before her misfortunes. A few years hence, if Buonaparte should but live, she hoped, if we should happen to pass that way again, we should see things in a very differentstate.”[275]

“Now,” we perceive in the “Mirror of the Months,” that, “now, on warm evenings after business hours, citizens of all ages grow romantic; the single, wearing away their souls in sighing to the breezes of Brixton-hill, and their soles in getting there; and the married, sipping syllabub in the arbours of White Conduit-house, or cooling themselves with hot rolls and butter at the New River Head.

“Now, too, moved by the same spirit of romance, young patricians, who have not yet been persuaded to banish themselves to the beauty of their paternal groves, fling themselves into funnies, and fatigue theirennuito death, by rowing up the river to Mrs. Grange’s garden, to eat a handful of strawberries in a cup-full of cream.

“Now, adventurous cockneys swim from the Sestos of the Strand stairs to the Abydos of the coal-barge on the opposite shore, and believe that they have been rivalling Lord Byron and Leander—not without wondering, when they find themselves in safety, why the lady for whom the latter performed a similar feat is called the Hero of the story, instead of the Heroine.

“Finally,—now pains-and-pleasure-taking citizens hire cozey cottages for six weeks certain in the Curtain-road, and ask their friends to come and see them ‘in the country.’”

There is a feast celebrated at Hamburg, called the “feast of cherries,” in which troops of children parade the streets with green boughs, ornamented with cherries, to commemorate a victory, obtained in the following manner:—In 1432, the Hussites threatened the city of Hamburg with an immediate destruction, when oneof the citizens, named Wolf, proposed that all the children in the city, from seven to fourteen years of age, should be clad in mourning, and sent as supplicants to the enemy. Procopius Nasus, chief of the Hussites, was so touched with this spectacle, that he received the young supplicants, regaled them with cherries and other fruits, and promised them to spare the city.

The children returned crowned with leaves, holding cherries, and crying “victory!”—and hence, the “feast of cherries” is an annual commemoration of humanefeelings.[276]

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