The presidency of Wolfere, therefore, over the kingdom of Mercia; the

noble acts which he achieved in beautifying and enlarging the city of

Caer-Glou, and the quiet, unassuming labours of his wife, Eva, were

cotemporary with the Chesnut of Tortworth when it first attained its high

standing among forest-trees. It may be, that the venerable ruin, whose

decaying trunk is still surmounted by a few verdant branches, was looked

upon in its day of pride, by Wolfere and Eva. Tortworth was mentioned, in

the time of John, as an ancient place, and the tree of which we speak was

called the Great Chesnut. It grew within the garden-wall of the old

mansion, and we have no reason to believe that the site on which it stood,

had been recently reclaimed from the forest.

[Illustration: WALLACE'S OAK]

Wallace's Oak.

The old Memorial tree is down;

But its stirring legend still lives on:

A tale of grief and withering woe,

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

The noble Oak of Ellerslie sheltered the birth-place of Wallace. Centuries

have passed since then, and now it stands in the centre of a small common,

time-worn and reft of all its greatness, a magnificent ruin; although,

within the memory of man, its ample branches extended over a Scotch acre

of ground. Wallace, and the children of the village, used to play beneath

its shelter: they would gather acorns for cups and balls, and rest on the

green sward when they were hot and weary.

A poet, perhaps, would tell you that the patriarchal tree loved to look

down on the young "wee things," whose remotest ancestors--precursors, it

may be, of a thousand generations, to the period concerning which we

speak--had dwelt beside it; that it liked to screen them from the noonday

heat; and that, when a sudden shower, driving furiously from off the

hills, made the fondlings haste beneath its branches, it kept off the

heavy rain-drops that they might not harm the merry crowd. Certain it is

that the village children liked best to play beneath the shade of the old

oak, and that their parents knew where to seek for the young truants, when

they had wandered from school or home. We can all enter into the feelings

of children, for we have been children ourselves; we can remember how the

primrose and the cowslip, although the gathering of them often gained for

us both colds and chidings; the nest of the hedge-sparrow, or the coming

forth of the white thorn, were things of vast importance; what delight the

finding of them imparted, and how every new object powerfully excited the

young mind, because they had all, and each, the charm of novelty. We know,

also, that as months and years pass on, somewhat of care begins to steal

across all this joyousness, as the shadow of a passing cloud obscures a

sunny landscape; that the cares of every day occurrence--the difficulty of

finding bread for a large young family--the father's weariness after a day

of labour, and the anxious feelings of the mother, are soon shared in by

children. They feel more than any one imagines who does not vividly

remember what his or her feelings have been in very early life, although

the feelings were not, perhaps, depressed by circumstances of equal trial.

Time goes on, and it is not only home sorrows that engross the mind; if

the days in which they live, are stormy, and men speak of their country's

wrongs, the striplings aspire to aid in seeking redress; and the ardour by

which their fathers are excited, is reflected in them with double

vividness. Thus it was at the period when Wallace lived. The thoughts of

all were much engrossed by the terrible condition of the country, and the

once playful children, who used to assemble beneath the Oak of Ellerslie,

now grown up to boyhood, heard from their fathers that the English army

was advancing with all speed towards the border land. Edward led them on,

but he had no right to the crown of Scotland. Alexander III., who had

filled till lately the now vacant throne, and who had espoused the sister

of Edward, most probably inherited, after a period of eight hundred years,

and through a succession of males, the sceptre of all the Scottish

princes; of those, who, although the country had been continually exposed

to such factions and convulsions as are incident to all barbarous, and to

many civilized nations, had governed her rocks and fastnesses, from a

period whose commencement is lost in the obscurity of ages. But the king

was dead; he had fallen from his horse at Kinghorn, and the maid of

Norway, as she was termed, daughter of Eric, her king, and his own fair

daughter Margaret, was the only representative of the Scottish dynasty.

Alexander had wisely caused her to be recognized by the states of

Scotland, as the lawful heir of the kingdom, and though an infant and a

foreigner, she was immediately received as such. Margaret was accordingly

proclaimed queen, and the dispositions which had been made against the

event of Alexander's death appeared so just and prudent, that no

disorders, as might naturally be apprehended, ensued in the kingdom. Five

guardians, the Bishops of St. Andrew's and Glasgow, the Earls of Fife and

Bucan, and James Steward, were appointed to take charge of the young

princess. These men, who were distinguished for their talents and

integrity, entered peaceably upon the administration, and the infant

queen, under the protection of Edward, her great uncle, and Eric her

father, set forth on her voyage towards Scotland. But either the fatigue

attendant on an expedition by sea, or else, in her young mind, grief at

leaving the companions of her childhood, affected her health; she suddenly

became ill, and died on the passage.

There were sad hearts in Scotland, when the heavy tidings reached her of

the young queen's death; and when it was heard by those who met at evening

around the oak of Ellerslie, they looked anxiously one upon the other, for

they knew not what to say; it seemed to them that all hope for the weal of

Scotland was about to be extinguished. They knew that Edward was both

powerful and crafty; that having lately, by force of arms, brought Wales

under subjection, he had designed, by the marriage of Margaret with his

eldest son, to unite the whole island under one monarchy. With this view

he had dispatched an embassy to the states of Scotland, when the late king

died, and the proposal being favourable to the happiness and security of

the kingdom, it was readily assented to. It was even agreed by the five

guardians, that their young sovereign should be educated at the English

court, while they at the same time, stipulated that Scotland should enjoy

her ancient liberties and customs, and that in case the prince and

Margaret should die without children, the crown of Scotland should revert

to the next heir. The projected marriage promised well, but the sudden

death of the young princess left only a dismal prospect for the kingdom.

No breaking-out among the people immediately ensued, for the regency was

sufficiently powerful to keep the crown from sudden spoliation. It was

otherwise in the course of a short time, for several pretenders laid claim

to the vacant throne. The posterity of William, King of Scotland, the

prince who was taken prisoner by Henry II., being extinct on the death of

Margaret, the crown devolved by natural right to the representatives of

David, Earl of Huntingdon, brother to William, whose male line being also

extinct, left the succession open to the descendants of his daughters.

John Baliol represented his maternal ancestor Margaret, one of the three

daughters of the Earl of Huntingdon, married to Alan, Lord of Galloway;

Robert Bruce of Annandale, his mother Isabella; and John Hastings, the

lady Adama, who espoused Henry Lord Hastings. This last pretended that the

kingdom of Scotland, like other inheritances, was divisible among the

three co-heiresses of the Earl of Huntingdon, and that he, in right of his

mother, was entitled to a third. Baliol and Bruce spurned at the thought

of dismembering the country, while each asserted the superiority of his

own claim. Baliol was sprung from the elder branch, Bruce was one degree

nearer the common stock; if the principle of representation was regarded,

the former had the better claim; if consanguinity was considered, the

latter was entitled to the preference. The sentiments of men were divided,

all the nobility took part with one or other of the claimants, and the

people implicitly followed their leaders. The different claimants

themselves had great power and numerous retainers in Scotland, and each

thought himself secure of gaining the Scottish throne. The danger which

threatened the country was therefore iminent. The most thoughtless saw

that a furious civil war would infallibly occur, unless some plan could be

devised for adverting so terrible a calamity; and men, high in power, of

all parties, and themselves secretly inclining either to Baliol, or Bruce,

or Hastings, resolved, if possible, to lay aside their mutual differences,

and to agree upon some measure for preserving the public peace.

Many and lengthened were the discussions which they held. The best and

most obvious method of averting the threatened calamity, was to prevail

upon two of the contending parties to lay aside their mutual claims. But

this they would not do; each saw, or fancied that he saw, the crown of

Scotland within his grasp, and he cared not if it was gained at the cost

of a civil war. Another expedient then occurred to those who sat in

council for the public good. This was the submitting of the question to

the judgment of King Edward. For such a measure they had many precedents.

The English king and his barons, in the preceding reign, had endeavoured

to settle their differences by a reference to the King of France, and the

integrity of that monarch had prevented any of the bad effects which might

otherwise have ensued. The kings of France and Arragon, and afterwards

other princes, had appealed in like manner to Edward's arbitration, and he

had acquitted himself with honour in his decisions. The parliament of

Scotland, therefore, wishing if possible to prevent the misery attendant

on civil discord, and allured by the great reputation of the English

monarch, as well as by the amicable correspondence which had existed

between the kingdoms, agreed in making a reference to Edward. Men of

probity were chosen as deputies, and among these, Frazer, Bishop of St.

Andrews, left his quiet home on the plains of Fife, at a short distance

from the German ocean, to undertake a long and perilous expedition to the

English court. They remembered that her monarch would have stood in the

relationship of a father to their young queen, they had heard much

concerning his integrity and honour, and how he had kept peace in France

and Arragon, and they flattered themselves that he would now interfere in

the affairs of a sister kingdom, with such authority as none of the

competitors would dare to withstand.

Hope revived in Scotland, and many fondly trusted that the heavy cloud

which had begun to settle on her mountains, and threatened to deluge her

plains with wretchedness, would yet pass away.

Men often possess a high character for virtue, because they have no

temptation to act wrong. In the case of France and Arragon, the remoteness

of the states, the great power of their respective princes, and the little

interest which Edward had on either side, induced him to acquit himself

with strict impartiality in his decisions. It was not so in the present

case, and the temptation was too strong for the English monarch to resist.

He secretly purposed to lay hold of the present favourable opportunity,

and if not to create, at least to revive, his claim of a feudal supremacy

over Scotland; a claim which had hitherto lain in the deepest obscurity,

and which, if it had ever been an object of attention, or had been so much

as suspected, would have prevented the Scottish barons from choosing him

as umpire. Passing by the archives of the empire, which, had his claim

been real, must have afforded numerous 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 taken prisoner at the battle of Alnwic, he was

constrained, for the recovery of his liberty, to swear fealty to the

victor. But even this faint claim to feudal superiority on one side, of

submission on the other, was done away by Richard II. That monarch being

desirous to conciliate the friendship of the Scottish king, before his

departure for the Holy Land, renounced the homage, which he said, in

express terms, had been extorted by his father.

The commissioners soon perceived with dismay, that all which they could

urge against the pretensions of the English monarch, were utterly

unavailing. They heard, too, that a royal commission had been issued for

the fitting out of a great armament, and intelligence quickly followed

that the army was on its march to Scotland.

Edward and his men-at-arms, reached Norham Castle, on the southern banks

of the Tweed, where he insiduously invited the Scottish parliament, and

all the competitors to attend him, in order to determine the cause which

had been referred to his arbitration. They came, but not on equal terms,

for the English king brought with him a large body of warlike men, ready

to do his bidding; while the parliament found themselves betrayed into a

situation in which it was impossible to make any stand, for the liberty

and independence of their country. One anxious year for Scotland passed

on, while Edward pretended, impartially, to examine the claims of the

various competitors, for nine others had now started. Having thus gained

time for the furtherance of his ambitious view, he pronounced sentence in

favour of Baliol. Baliol was, therefore, placed on the throne of Scotland,

with the shadow merely of royal authority, for many and humiliating were

the concessions which Edward required of the seeming king. They were such

as even his mild and yielding disposition could not brook, and at length,

taking advantage of a favourable juncture, he resolved to make a desperate

effort for the restoration of his rights.

Rumours were soon afloat that an English army was rapidly advancing, and

scarcely was the intelligence received, than it was also heard that some

of the most powerful among the Scottish nobles, with Robert Bruce, the

father and the son, and the Earls of March and Angus, foreseeing the ruin

of their country from the concurrence of intestine divisions, and a

foreign invasion, had submitted to the English king. Other rumours

followed, fraught with distress for Scotland. Some related that the

English troops had actually crossed the Tweed without opposition, at

Coldstream; others that Baliol, having procured for himself, and for his

nation, Pope Celestine's dispensation from former oaths, renounced the

homage which he had done to England, and was already at the head of a

great army. Some spoke what they believed, others as they wished; but

there was little ground for exultation as respected the movements of the

Scotch king. Instead of bringing into the field any effective force, with

which to oppose the encroachments of the English, he was constrained to

hear of their continual successes. The castle of Roxborough was taken;

Edinburgh and Stirling opened their gates to the enemy. All the southern

portions of the country were readily subdued, and Edward, still better to

reduce the northern, whose rocks and fastnesses afforded some security,

sent for a strong reinforcement of Welch and Irish. These men, being

accustomed to a desultory kind of warfare, were best fitted to pursue the

fugitive Scots into the recesses of their glens and mountains. The quiet

valleys and the upland solitudes, which had been untrodden by stranger

steps for ages, were visited in consequence, and hostile men sat down

beneath the shade of the old Oak of Ellerslie.

The spirit of the nation was broken at this period. Edward marched

northward to Aberdeen and Elgin, without meeting an enemy. No Scotchman

approached, but to pay him homage. Even the bold chieftains, ever

refractory to their own princes, and averse to the restraint of laws,

endeavoured to prevent the devastation of their mountain homes, by giving

the usurper early proofs of obedience. The bards alone stood firm; they

sung to the music of their harps the high and moving strains which, in

ancient days, had roused those who heard them to a pitch of the wildest

enthusiasm.

Scotland being thus reduced to a state of seeming dependence, the English

forces generally repassed the Tweed, although strong garrisons remained in

every castle of importance. They had carried 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 inauguration. They

believed, on the faith of an ancient prophecy, that wherever this stone

was placed, their nation should always govern; it was also treasured up in

the minds of men, among their fondest traditions, that the day would come

when one of Scottish birth should rule over England. Scone was no longer

permitted to retain the true palladium of their monarchy; it was proudly

carried off, and placed in the palace of Westminster. There was seeming

tranquillity throughout Scotland on the day of its removal from the

ancient church at Scone, but the hearts of all who saw it pass, or who

heard of its removal, burned within them. The deed was spoken of

throughout all Scotland. Men heard of it in the remotest parts; the

chieftain in his castle-hall, the peasant in his highland hut; they were

constrained to smother the indignation that glowed within them, yet they

secretly awaited a favourable opportunity to assert the independence of

their country. Baliol, too, was carried, a prisoner, to London; his great

seal was broken, and when, after the lapse of two years' confinement 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 condition. Her king was

powerless, and the administration 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 former was notorious for the

rigour and severity of his temper: and both, treating the Scots as a

conquered people, made them sensible too early of the grievous servitude

into which they had fallen.

William Wallace was now grown to man's estate. His young companions had

grown up also, and the group of merry children, that had played under the

old Oak of Ellerslie, were now thoughtful men and women; for the troubles

of the days in which they lived, made even the young grow thoughtful. The

old men wished that they could wield their good weapons as in days of

yore, for then, they said, stout-hearts that beat beneath the highland

tartan, would not have tamely yielded to become the vassals of proud

England. Their country had once held, they said, a station among the

kingdoms of the earth, but now she was fallen and degraded; their king was

taken from them, and mercenary men oppressed the people with heavy taxes.

Thus spoke the old men of Ellerslie, and such were the thoughts of

thousands throughout the land.

Wallace and his young companions, actuated by that enthusiasm which the

oft-told tale of ancient valour and present degradation, was calculated to

inspire; excited also by the conversation of strangers from the north,

and stimulated by the present favourable aspect of affairs, (for the

English troops were mostly withdrawn to their own country,) resolved to

attempt the desperate enterprise of delivering their native land from the

dominion of foreigners. Wallace was well-fitted for the purpose. He was a

man of gigantic strength, his nerves were braced by a youth of hardihood

and exercise; he possessed likewise 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 uniformly successful,

Wallace gradually proceeded to momentous 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 himself, with three hundred of his men, among

the branches of the aged oak, beneath which he had played in childhood.

But Ellerslie was not long a place for him, though he still loved to

linger in its beautiful retreats. They were too well known to those who

sought to take his life, for the village in which his parents lived, lay

not far distant from one of the strong castles, in which the English had a

garrison. He went, therefore, to Torwood, in the county of Stirling, and

made the giant oak which stood there his head-quarters. It was believed to

be the largest tree that ever grew in Scotland. Centuries were chronicled

on its venerable trunk, and tradition traced it to the era of the Druids.

The remains of a circle of unhewn stone were seen within its precincts,

and near it was an ancient causeway. Wallace often slept in its hollow

trunk during his protracted struggles against the tyranny of Edward, with

many of his officers, for the cavity afforded an ample space.

The old Oak of Torwood was to him a favourite haunt; perhaps it was

associated in his mind with the one he had left at Ellerslie: but other,

and far-off scenes, were often the theatre of his most heroic actions,

when, having ensured a retreat from the close pursuit of the enemy, he

collected his dispersed associates, and unexpectedly appearing in another

quarter, surprised and routed the unwary English. Such actions soon gained

for him the applause and admiration of his countrymen. They seemed to

vindicate the nation from the ignominy into which it had fallen, by its

tame submission to a foreign yoke; and although no man of rank ventured as

yet to join his party, he was universally spoken of, by all who desired

the independence of their country, as one who promised to realise their

most ardent wishes.

Cambuskenneth, on the opposite banks of the impetuous Forth, became the

theatre of a decisive victory, which seemed about to deliver Scotland from

the oppression of a foreign yoke. Wallace, at this time, stood alone with

a band of faithful men, who adhered to him in all his struggles and

vicissitudes. Earl Warrenne, whom the king had originally appointed

Governor of Scotland, on the abdication of Baliol, which office he had

relinquished conditionally, from ill health, had crossed the border-land

with an army of forty thousand men; he now sought by the celerity of his

armament, and his march, to compensate for his past negligence in the

appointment of Cressingham and Ormsby. Advancing with incredible rapidity,

he suddenly entered Annandale, and came up with the Scots at Ervine,

before their forces were collected, and before they had put themselves in

a posture of defence. Many of the nobles being thus unexpectedly placed in

a great dilemma, thought to save their estates by submitting to Earl

Warrenne. But Wallace, nothing daunted, awaited his further progress on

the banks of the Forth. Victory declared in his favour, and the wreck of

the invading army, being driven from the field, made its escape to

England.

Had Wallace been permitted to retain the dignity of regent or guardian of

the kingdom, under the captive Baliol, all might yet have been well with

Scotland. The elevation of the patriot chief, though purchased by so great

merit, and such eminent services, was not, however, agreeable to the

nobility; they could not brook that a private gentleman should be raised

above them by his rank, still less by his wisdom and reputation. Wallace

himself, sensible of their jealousies, and fearing for the safety of his

country, resigned his authority, and retained only the command over that

small troop, many of whom had been his companions in their boyhood days,

whose parents had dwelt with his, beside the Oak of Ellerslie, and who

refused to follow the standard of any other leader. Nobly, therefore, did

he consent to serve under the Steward of Scotland, and Cummin of Badenoch,

into whose hands the great chieftains had devolved the guardianship of

their country. Meanwhile another army crossed the Forth, and the two

commanders proposed to await its 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 great presence of mind, to

keep his men together. Retiring behind the Carron, he marched along the

banks of the river, which protected him from the enemy. The country on

either side was wild and picturesque; the yellow gorse was in blossom, and

the continuous flowers of the heath seemed to shed a purple light upon

the mountains. It was then in all its beauty, for even the sternest scenes

are beautiful when decked in their summer glory, when gay flowers grow

upon the rocks, and birds and butterflies sport among them. The heavens

above were clear, and the shadows of flying clouds seemed to set the plain

country in motion; where the grass grew wild and high, it looked as if

innumerable pigmies were passing swiftly beneath the blades, and causing

them to rock to and fro with their rapid movement. But not a sound was

heard, except the heavy tread of weary men, and the murmur of the river

over its pebbly bed.

Young Bruce, who had given many proofs of aspiring genius, and who had

served hitherto in the English army, appeared on the opposite bank of the

river. While standing there, and thinking, perhaps, as men are apt to

think, when the loveliness of creation is presented in striking contrast

to scenes of ruin and desolation, he observed the Scottish chief, who was

distinguished as well by his majestic port, as by the intrepid activity of

his behaviour. Calling out to him, he demanded a short conference, and

having represented to Wallace the fruitless 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 wisdom and martial character of Edward, and how

impossible it was that a weak state, deprived of its head, could long

maintain such an unequal warfare. He told him, that if the love of his

country was his motive for persevering, his obstinacy tended to prolong

her woes; if he carried his views to personal aggrandisement and ambition,

he might remember from past experience, that the proud nobles who

constituted the aristocracy of Scotland, had already refused to submit to

personal merit, although the elevation to which that merit attained had

been won by the greatest privations, and by the consummate skill which had

gained for them the hard-earned victory of Cambuskenneth.

Wallace was not slow to answer. He told young Bruce, that if he had acted

as the champion of his country, it was solely because no leader had

arisen, beneath whose banner he could lead on his faithful men. Why was

not Bruce himself that leader? He had noble birth, and strength; he was in

the vigour of his days, and yet, although uniting personal merit to

dignity of family, he had been induced to desert the post which Heaven had

assigned him. He told him that the Scots, possessed of such a head, would

gladly assemble to his standard; that the proud nobles would submit to

him, because he was of more exalted birth than any of them, being himself

of royal descent; and that even now, though many brave, and some greatly

distinguished men, had fallen on the battle-field at no great distance,

and it seemed as if all hope as respects the future weal of Scotland was

about to be extinguished; yet, if the noble youth to whom he spoke would

but arouse himself, 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

possible from receiving the chains of a haughty victor. Bruce felt that

what he said was true. From that moment he repented of his engagement with

Edward, and opening his eyes to the honourable path, which the

noble-minded Wallace had pointed out to him, he secretly determined to

embrace the cause, however desperate, of his oppressed country.

Armies met again; other battles followed, and for two miserable years did

the Scots and English fight hand to hand for the liberty or subjugation of

Scotland. Edward at length triumphed, and Wallace became his prisoner. The

boy of Ellerslie, he, who in after life thought only to preserve his

country from spoliation; who was determined, amid the general defection,

the abrogation of laws and customs, and the razing of all monuments of

antiquity, still to maintain her independence, was betrayed into Edward's

hands, by a false friend, whom he had made acquainted with the place of

his retreat. He was carried in chains to London, to be tried as a rebel

and a traitor, though he had never made submission, nor sworn fealty to

England, and to be executed on Tower Hill.

The old Oak of Ellerslie is still standing, and young children play

beneath its shade; the birds fly in and out, and around it the life and

business of husbandry proceeds, as if neither grief nor death, had ever

visited the beautiful hills and dales that lie around.

More than five centuries have passed away since young Wallace played with

his companions beside the tree, and a few short years, subtracted from

that period, since he took shelter with many of his playmates, when grown

up to manhood, among its ample branches. But though long since barbarously

executed, and though his bones might not be laid to rest in the land which

he sought to save, he is not forgotten in the hallowed spot--the

birth-place of his parents--which he loved above all others. The children

of the village are still taught to lisp his name, and are carried to hear

of him beneath his own old tree. All his favourite haunts by glen or burn,

or up the mountain-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 from off the margin of the little stream he

gathered flowers in his days of childhood. Yonder are the mountains,

through the secret passes of which he used to conduct his small company of

valiant men, when the storm of war gathered dense and dark, and from which

he rushed like a mountain-torrent on the enemies of his country. Close at

hand, say they, and extending even to the verge of the common on which

stands the village of Ellerslie, are a few trees of the ancient wood,

which often served for a hiding-place during his rapid alternations of

advance and of retreat, and when in the small beginnings, which suited

best with his youth--with the youth, too, of his companions--he gave good

earnest of what his single arm might have effected, if secret jealousies

and discordant counsels had not undermined his best concerted plans.

[Illustration: THE NUT TREE OR ROSAMOND'S GRAVE.]

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

Lincoln, 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 contained 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 too, for so tradition tells, though the truth

could not then be safely spoken, that poor Rosamond did not deserve the

harsh aspersions of St. Hugh. It was believed that King Henry had married

her in early life, but secretly, and without such witnesses as might

avail, to have her constituted queen of England. Henry himself, when

driven nearly to distraction by the rebellion of his acknowledged sons,

spoke unadvisedly certain words, that confirmed the belief of the

simple-hearted nuns. He said to one of the sons of Rosamond, who met him

at the head of an armed company, "Thou art my legitimate son; the rest

have no claim on me."[3]

Rosamond was told, most probably by the queen herself, of King Henry's

conduct, for the queen, having seen him walking one day in the

pleasure-grounds at Woodstock, with the end of a ball of silk attached to

his spurs, and wondering greatly at the circumstance, resolved to follow

him. She took up the ball, and when he went away, she followed warily, the

silk meanwhile unwinding, till at length he suddenly disappeared in a

thicket belonging to the celebrated labyrinth of Woodstock. The queen went

no further, and kept the matter to herself. She, however, took advantage

of his absence on a distant journey, and having threaded the mazes of the

labyrinth, she began searching the thicket into which the king had

disappeared. Finding a low door carefully concealed, the queen caused it

to be forced open, and passing on with a beating heart, through a long,

winding, subterraneous passage, she emerged again into the open air, and

following on a little further, she discovered a lodge, situated in the

most retired part of the forest. Beautiful trees grew round, with a

spacious garden, and a bower, in which a young lady was seen busily

engaged in embroidery. This isolated fact records merely the circumstance

which led to the finding of Fair Rosamond by Queen Eleanor; it speaks, not

of the bitter misery of the one, nor the distress occasioned to the other,

nor, most probably, the making known by Rosamond, in the first moment of

her dismay, that she believed herself the wife of the man who had entailed

such wretchedness upon her. But whatever might have passed at that

interview, its result was, the retiring of Fair Rosamond from her secret

bower to the nunnery of Godstow, where she passed twenty years of her

weary life, and died when she was forty years of age, in "the high odour

of sanctity." Her grave remained unclosed, according to the fashion of the

times, but a sort of temporary covering, somewhat resembling a tent, was

raised immediately above it. The coffin and the tent were both before the

altar, and over them was spread a pall of fair white silk, with tapers

burning round, and richly emblazoned banners waving over. Thus lying in

state, it awaited the erection of a costly monument, till St. Hugh

commanded its expulsion. But the nuns remembered their poor sister, whom

they had laid to rest in that open grave; and when the bishop died, they

gathered her bones from out the place of their interment 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 Rosamond's grave. It bears

a profusion of nuts, but without kernels, empty as the deceptive pleasures

of this world's pageants.[4]

And silent too, sad, vacant, and unpeopled, is the mound on which once

stood the castle of William Longespé, 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

Longespé, with their visitors and dependants, and those who came and went,

making that stately castle to seem a royal residence.

William Longespé was distinguished for his chivalry and feats of arms, the

lady Ela for her mild and benignant virtues. They had married in early

life, and her estates and honours, according to the customs of the feudal

ages, had served to enoble a brave and deserving youth, who had no other

patrimony than his sword. Ela was born among the beautiful shades of

Amesbury, whither her mother had retired before her birth. It was called

the ladies' bower, and was appended to the castle of Salisbury, as that of

Woodstock to Oxford castle, and there her young days passed among trees

and flowers, till, as years passed on, she became the delight and ornament

of her father's court. Earl William stood high in favour with King

Richard. He carried the dove-surmounted verge, or rod, before that monarch

at his coronation; and to him was confided the responsible office of

keeping the king's charter, for licensing tournaments throughout the

country.[5] His titular castle frowned over the stern ramparts of

Sarisbyrig, where no stream was heard to murmur, nor the song of birds

came remotely on the ear, except the joyous warble of the soaring lark, or

the simple unvaried note of the whinchat, seeking its insect food among

the thyme hills. But instead of woods and streams, the castle was

surrounded with extensive downs, covered with short herbage, and in the

space where two valleys obliquely intersected each other, was one of the

five fields, or steads, for the holding of feats of arms. The field was

full in view of the majestic fortress of old Sarum, and although it seemed

as a dip, or rather hollow in the elevated downs, it afforded ample space

for the combatants and spectators, and those who stood on the highest

point of what--had seats been cut in the broad slope--might have been

termed an amphitheatre, looked down on the rich and smiling banks of the

Avon and the Nadder, with the venerable towers of Wilton Abbey.[6] Here

then, were often witnessed the proudest exhibitions of chivalric

enterprise, and often did the little Ela gaze with awe and wonder from the

windows of her father's castle, on knight and banners, and all the pomp

and pageantry of those heroic games.

Scarcely, however, had Ela attained her eighth year, when the Earl of

Salisbury having died, after a short illness, she became the orphan

heiress of his princely patrimony, and an exile; for scarcely had the

banners, and the scutcheons, and the mutes passed by, and all the pomp of

death went after him to his last resting-place, than the little Ela

suddenly disappeared, and was nowhere to be found. Some said that her

mother sought her sorrowing; others, that she gave but little heed, and

that while knights and servants rode the country over, asking questions of

all they met, and exploring every brake and hollow on the ample downs;

returning ever and anon, either with some hope of finding the lost child,

or else to consult with her lady mother concerning the next course to

pursue; she alone seemed as if indifferent to the matter. The countess had

large possessions in Normandy or Champaign, and it was at length

conjectured that the orphan had been sent to her relations, lest King

Richard should avail himself of his feudal right, to marry her according

to his will. But such was not the case, though true in part, as respected

her distant home. Ela had three uncles, of whom the eldest was next heir

to the great possessions of the deceased earl. No historic light gleams on

the biography of these kinsmen, excepting that being younger brothers,

without patrimony, and unmarried, they retired into the monastery of

Bradenstoke.[7] Yet tradition tells, that when the elder brother heard of

Ela's fatherless condition, he threw aside his cowl, and assumed the

cuirass. It might have been, that often in the silence and the solitude of

that old abbey, when passing its dimly-lighted cloisters, dark thoughts

had worked within him; that scowling on his books and beads, he had

contrasted his condition as a poor and obscure monk, with the grandeur and

the vast possessions of the earldom of Salisbury. The pope absolved him

from vows of poverty, for thus it is recorded in the traditions of the

place, and forth he came, a claimant to the honours and the wealth of that

illustrious house. Tradition lingers among old walls and deserted hearths;

there may be nothing for history to glean, but her lowlier sister loves to

keep alive the feeble glimmering of her lone lamp, in places from whence

all other light is gone.

Rightly, therefore, did the anxious and affectionate mother of young Ela

seek to remove her daughter from the reach of one whose ambitious and

turbulent disposition might have prompted him to crime. But the days in

which she lived were those of stirring incidents. A train of gallant

troubadours gave life and animation to the court of lion-hearted Richard,

and the mysterious disappearance of the orphan heiress was with them a

theme of frequent conjecture and resolve. An English knight, of the name

of William Talbot, inspired, it would seem, by the romantic adventures of

the minstrel Blondel, resolved to find out the place of her concealment.

He went forth attired as a pilgrim, with his staff and cockle-shell, and

having landed on the coast of Normandy, he wandered to and fro, for the

space of two years,[8] as if in quest of the shrine at which he sought to

pay his vows. There were shrines in the depth of solitary forests, and to

such he bent his way, others in populous towns, and before them he would

duly kneel, asking questions of those he met, and warily seeking to

discover where the lost one was concealed. At length, so the poet tells,

he saw a maiden, whose English accent and fair hair denoted her foreign

birth, come forth with her companions from a castle on the coast. Talbot

concealed himself behind a rock, and listened while the maiden, who was

gathering shells from off the sand, spoke of the far country whence she

came. It seemed to him that she gazed wistfully over the wide sea, and

when the dew began to fall, and the bell tolled out from the grey turret,

she looked back from beneath the postern, as if to catch a last glimpse of

the dim waters. Laying aside his pilgrim dress, he assumed that of a

wandering troubadour, and gained admittance to the inmates of the castle.

He recounted the deeds of former times, concerning the perils of King

Richard, and how the minstrel Blondel, wandering through storm and

sunshine, had found the prison of his master. He repeated the wild strain

which Blondel had sung before the old fortress, and the answering melody

that responded from within; and thus in sentiment, if not in words, for

the thoughts are those of the minstrel Peter d'Auvergne, the gallant

Talbot made known his errand to the orphan daughter.[9]

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.

The lady heard in her lonely bower,

As she gazed on the wandering moon;

When her pale beams brightened the old grey tower,

Riding now in her highest noon.

Ah! thou dost not heed my plaintive strain,

For thus the fair bird sang;

I have flown in my haste o'er the stormy main,

From groves where my music rang.

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

Glimmer'd oft in the darkling glen,

And no sounds were heard 'mid the stilly night,

From the homes, or the haunts of men.

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

Who told me his true love tale,

As he linger'd alone, by the glow-worm's lamp,

In the depth of the hawthorn dale.

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

All alone on the moonlit plain,

Will his constant step, 'mid the dim light pass,

To list for my answering strain.

And that answering strain the young knight heard,

As he stole from his castle hall,

For the lady breathed low to the faithful bird,

Words of love from her distant thrall.

Thus sung the troubadour, and the maiden longed to see again the wide

downs on which her young eyes had gazed, for she knew not the thraldom

that awaited a rich heiress in those days of feudal tyranny. The book of

Lacock is silent with regard to the means by which the troubadour

contrived to bear her off, concerning her perils by sea or land, or her

joyous meeting with her widowed mother. The book tells merely, that King

Richard bestowed her hand on his brother Longespé, and with it the vast

possessions and the title of the Earl of Salisbury. Longespé was then a

youth, just rising into manhood,[10] and happy was it for the orphan

heiress that King Richard gave her to one whom she could love. For it

happened not unfrequently that great heiresses were married to stern men,

either that their lands might enrich the younger sons of royalty, or else

to repay services that had been rendered the crown. It is generally

conjectured, that Richard designed the Lady Ela for his brother from the

period of his father's death, when the hostile conduct of her uncle

occasioned the young child to be sent away. His faithful Talbot sought and

found her, most probably by the desire of the king, for he was loyal and

experienced, and in none of the minstrel knights whom he admitted as

companions to the festive board, did King Richard more unreservedly

confide. He was proud, also, to be numbered among the devoted friends of

the youthful Longespé, and in after years his name occurs among the

witnesses to several charters given by the earl.[11] Whether, therefore,

he was a friend of Longespé from his days of boyhood, or whether he had

earned that friendship by his services in recovering the lovely Ela,

certain it is, that neither his friendship nor his services were

forgotten, and that when Longespé obtained the honours and possessions of

the house of Salisbury, Talbot became an inmate of his castle.[12]

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

Longespé accompanied King John, who went from place to place like the wild

Arab, staying nowhere, ever restless and inconstant. The Lady Ela

occasionally accompanied her husband in his expeditions, but she preferred

the order and dignity of her own well-regulated household to the

migrations of the court. The earl, too, was often weary of his mode of

life, but his affection to his brother made him willing to relinquish his

home comforts, and if the king was ever sincerely attached to any human

being, it was to the gallant Longespé. There is little doubt but that his

affection for the earl induced him to erect a tomb to the memory of his

unhappy mother, whose remains had been removed from the place of their

interment; it was tastefully embossed with fine brass, and had an

inscription around the edge.[13] When the differences that existed

between the monarch and his barons arose to a fearful height, and the

month of June witnessed the proud triumph of the rebel chiefs, and the

acquisition of Magna Charta, on the field of Runnimede, the brother stood

unshaken in his fidelity. Many had transferred their allegiance from the

king to the prevailing party, and John was reduced by an imperious

necessity to a reluctant and insincere concession; but the banners of the

Earl of Salisbury[14] floated in the camp of his royal kinsman, together

with those of the Earls of Pembroke, Arundel, and Warren. The country was

quiet for a season, but at length disturbances broke out again. It was no

longer safe to venture unattended, by an armed force, beyond the precincts

of the castle, and the "most dear friend and brother" of the wayward

monarch, shared in the disasters of his reign. At one time a prisoner,[15]

at another deputed to place garrisons in the castles of Windsor, Hertford,

and Berkhampstead, and to cut off supplies from the city of London, where

the insurgents had fixed themselves. At length, hardened by the scenes of

misery to which he had been accustomed, his kindlier feelings seemed to be

totally obscured. 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 smiling and well-peopled country,

behind them a desolate wilderness,[16] and while the earl and Falcasius

were thus mercilessly occupied, the king's arms spread equal desolation in

other parts, till at length the castles of Mountsorrel, 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

Longespé 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 husband and indulgent father, as a bounteous master, and

one who loved to promote good works. The gentle influence of Lady Ela

apparently recalled him to the mood of better days, as the associating

with De Breant had urged him to deeds of rapine and injustice. The

beautiful cathedral of Salisbury was founded by him, and thither came, at

his request, the bishop of the diocese, with a few earls and barons, and a

vast concourse of people from all parts, on the day appointed for laying

the first stone. Divine service having been performed in the ancient

edifice, the bishop put off his shoes, and walked in procession with his

clergy to the site of the new foundation, singing the litany as they went.

The bishop then addressed the people, and taking a stone in his hand, he

placed it in the name of Pope Honorius, and afterwards another, for the

Archbishop of Canterbury. The fourth was laid by the Earl of Salisbury,

the fifth by the Countess Ela, "a truly praise-worthy woman," as wrote

William de Wanda, afterwards Dean of Sarum, "because she was filled with

the fear of the Lord." Other stones were added by a few noblemen,

archdeacons, and canons of the church of Sarum, amidst the acclamations of

the assembled multitude, many of whom wept for joy, and gladly contributed

according to their ability. A negociation was then pending with the Welch

at Tewkesbury, or the company would have been much larger, but most of the

nobility who passed that way on their return, requested leave to add each

a stone, and some bound themselves to make contributions for the next

seven years.[17]

To this succeeded the stern and stirring incidents of war, for King

Henry's brother, having recently received the honour of knighthood, with

the earldoms of Cornwall and Poictou, it was resolved that he should

commence his military career on the plains of Gascony, under the guidance

of his uncle, the Earl of Salisbury, and Philip de Albeney.[18] Forth,

then, they went, with sixty knights and their attendants, and an army of

French and English, and again were homes despoiled, and castles set on

fire, and fields and vineyards trodden down by hostile steps, till,

having achieved the purpose of their predatory warfare, the earl and his

companions embarked for England. But the nights were dark, and October

winds, gathering strength and fierceness from the early setting in of a

long winter, tost their unwieldy ships like cockle-shells on the face of

the deep waters. The chieftains despaired of life, as did the bravest of

the seamen, and the earl resolved to throw overboard whatever he

possessed, either of rings, or gold, or silver, rich vestments, or

scutcheoned banners, that as he had entered life unprovided with them, so

he might pass in like manner to his eternal home. But a waxen light, of

large size and brilliancy, was seen by all on board, suddenly appearing on

the summit of the mast, and near it stood a female of surpassing beauty,

who preserved that warning light, shining in the midnight darkness, from

being extinguished by the wind or rain. Seeing this, the mariners took

courage, and when the day began to dawn, the violence of the storm abated,

a fresh gale sprung up, and urged the ship onward to the isle of Rhé,

about three miles distant from Rochelle. As they neared the coast, an old

abbey came in sight, and thither the earl sent messengers on landing,

requesting favour and protection, and that he might remain concealed from

his enemies till a fair wind should admit of his returning home. To this

the abbot gave consent, and received both the earl and his companions with

kindness and hospitality. But the island was in charge of Savaric de

Maloleone, who served the French king, and kept watch over the adjoining

coast, and great peril would have accrued to Earl William, had not two of

Maloleone's retainers gone secretly to the abbey and warned him to remain

no longer, telling him, that unless he left the island before the

following morning, he would be captured by their comrades, who guarded the

island and the straits. Upon this the earl, after presenting them with

twenty pounds sterling, hastened to the shore, from which the whole

company embarked on a raging sea. They trusted, as the distance was but

short, that they should speedily gain the English coast, but in this they

were mistaken, and, for three long wintry months, did those ill-fated men

struggle with the raging elements, before they arrived within sight of

land.[19]

Meanwhile, the Lady Ela hoped from day to day that the earl might yet

return, but, still as weeks past on, and the storms of winter gathered

strength, she began to fear that his ships had been lost at sea. There

were also other wives and mothers, who suffered as intensely as the

countess, for among the knights and soldiers that accompanied him on his

perilous undertaking, many had families at home, who looked wistfully for

their return. But the Lady Ela had trials that especially attended her

high rank and large possessions, for although a matron, whose age and

dignity might have commanded more respect, she became an object of pursuit

to the fortune-hunters of the court. Hubert de Burgh, who stood high in

favour with Henry III., sought for his nephew the hand of the widowed

countess, and the youth, entering with a kindred spirit into the

interested views of his ambitious kinsman, prepared for the undertaking.

De Burgh had been twice at Salisbury in attendance on the king during the

earl's perilous voyage,[20] and it is therefore not surprising that the

future disposal of the honours and broad lands of the Lady Ela should have

become an object of his speculations. Henry III. was said to be much

afflicted by the supposed death of the earl, but when De Burgh petitioned

that he would permit his inheritance to pass with the Lady Ela into his

own family, the king readily gave leave, on condition that the countess

could be induced to consent. The justiciary, for such was the office of De

Burgh, accordingly dispatched his nephew, on a courser richly caparisoned,

with knights and squires sumptuously arrayed, that he might present

himself in a distinguished manner before the countess. But the lady

scorned his suit; she heeded neither his flattering speeches nor large

promises, and she told him, with becoming dignity, that messengers had

arrived from her absent husband, bringing the welcome news that he was

both safe and well. She added, further, that if indeed the earl was dead,

she would in no wise receive the nephew of the Justiciary De Burgh as a

second husband. "Therefore," said she, "you may seek a marriage

elsewhere, because you find that you have come hither in vain." On hearing

this, Reimund de Burgh became exceedingly crest-fallen, and, having

remounted his gaily trapped courser, he hurried from the castle with his

train.[21]

The earl returned to his home on the fourth of the ides of January, and

went the following day to see the king, who was then ill at Marlborough.

He made a heavy complaint to his royal nephew, that base men had been

allowed to insult his countess with proffers unworthy of her. He had been

abroad, he said, and suffered much in the king's service, and it seemed

hard that advantage should be taken of his protracted absence by the

Justiciary de Burgh, to send a certain low-bred man, who was not even a

knight, into the presence of his wife, with the intention of constraining

her to an unlawful marriage, had she not most nobly repelled him. He

added, moreover, that unless the king caused full reparation to be made by

the justiciary, for so great an outrage, he would himself seek redress,

though it should involve a serious disturbance of the country. The king,

who was greatly rejoiced to see his uncle, well knowing that he was both

powerful and valorous, did not attempt to excuse himself, and the

Justiciary de Burg being present at the interview, wisely resolved to

atone for his misconduct, by confessing that the fault rested with him. He

besought the earl to pass the matter over, and to accept, as a proof of

his forgiveness, some fine horses, and other costly gifts. He next

invited the earl to dine with him, who went accordingly on the day

appointed, but being taken ill immediately after dinner, he was obliged to

return home. Rumours went abroad that poison had been administered, but

the character of De Burgh does not warrant any suspicion of the kind.[22]

The hardships which the earl sustained while abroad, with his subsequent

agitation, occasioned by the insult offered to his countess, were

sufficient to account for his sudden illness. Finding himself dying, he

sent for the Bishop of Salisbury, that he might receive in the confession

and viaticum, such blessings as were needful to one in his condition. The

bishop came immediately, and, when he entered the apartment, bearing with

him the sacred elements, the earl sprung from his bed, and hastily tying a

rough noose about his neck, he threw himself weeping upon the floor. He

was, he said, a traitor to the Most High, and could not rise till he had

confessed his past sins, and received the communion of the life-giving

sacrament, that he might testify himself to be the servant of his Creator.

He afterwards continued for some days in prayer, and such acts of

penitence as his faith enjoined, and he then peaceably yielded up his soul

to his Redeemer;[23] to Him "who willeth not the death of a sinner, but

rather that he should turn from his wickedness and live."

The earl died on the seventh of March, 1226, and his corpse, according to

the fashion of the age, was immediately removed to the cathedral of New

Sarum. The day was stormy, and loud gusts of wind, accompanied with heavy

rain, swept over the open downs, but still the funeral train went on, with

its long, long line of torches, for it might not be that the corpse of one

who had been so great on earth, should remain from out the sacred walls of

the cathedral which he had founded. It was about a mile from the castle to

the church, and a multitude of people followed; some were loud in their

lamentations, others wept silently as they went; for the earl had been a

kind master, and it seemed hard that he should so soon be taken from them,

who had but just returned to his home. They remembered, too, that only

eight weeks before, and at the same hour of the day, he had passed through

the wide portals of the magnificent cathedral to offer praises and

thanksgivings for his preservation and safe return; that on the very spot

where he was then received in procession by the clergy, with great

demonstrations of joy,[24] the same company was coming forth to meet him,

who was now being borne a corpse before them; for the bier was met at the

western door by the bishop and the neighbouring chieftains, with the

cathedral clergy, choristers, and precentor, chanting in Latin as they

passed up the nave, the same funeral service which is now chanted in

English, on occasions of public funerals within the walls of cathedrals.

His martial figure of grey marble still reposes on his tomb, sleeping, as

it were, from century to century with his sword and shield. The features

of this son, and brother, and uncle of kings, are only partially exposed,

through a small aperture in the hood of mail, which covers his mouth and

chin, the eyebrows betoken somewhat of a lofty and impetuous feeling, but

the eyes seem gentle and intelligent.[25]

The day of death is light, in comparison of its bitterness, with that of

the interment. In the former case, the spirit indeed has passed away, yet

the form remains. The wife, or child, or parent can sit beside the couch,

and gaze on the still unchanged features. But when the grave has once

closed upon the loved one, what words can tell the utter desolation that

presses on the heart! Thus felt the Lady Ela, when the last words of the

solemn service ceased, when the sound of footsteps neared to the grave's

edge, and somewhat heavy seemed to be letting down into the darkness and

the depth,--when her half-averted eye looked for the last time on the

narrow coffin, resting now within the grave, but soon to be concealed for

ever. Lady Ela heeded not the words of comfort which the pale priest

spoke, nor yet the solemn chanting that burst forth again, as if to bear

her spirit up with holy hopes from out the wretchedness of her sad lot.

But the Lord, in whom she trusted, did not forsake her, and when she

returned to her home, it was with a firm resolve to devote herself to the

service of her Maker, by cherishing the memory of her husband, and taking

care of her large family.

It was happy for the Lady Ela that she was suffered to remain in free

widowhood; that even the powerful Justiciary de Burgh and his aspiring

nephew dared not molest her. This was an especial favour, and as such the

countess ever regarded it, for ladies of large estates were rarely

permitted to continue single; their lands and dignities passed by right of

inheritance to persons whom they were often constrained to marry.[26]

Thus, at the same period of English history, the rich heiress of Albemarle

conferred the title of earl successively on her three husbands, William

Mandeville, William de Fortibus, and Baldwin de Betun. The countess,

therefore, being priviliged to continue in a widowed state, exercised the

office of Sheriff of Wiltshire, and that of Castellan of Old Sarum, even

when her son became of age, and claimed, by his mother's wish, the

investiture of the earldom; the king his cousin refused it, not in

displeasure, but according to the principles of feudal law; and hence it

happened, that in consequence of the Lady Ela's protracted life, the

earldom of Salisbury continued dormant, and as she survived both her son

and grandson, it was never renewed in the house of Longespé. The great

seal with which the countess ratified the many legal instruments that were

required in the administration of her feudal rights is still extant. We

may not perhaps regard it as presenting a portrait of the Countess Ela,

like the effigy of her husband in Salisbury cathedral, but it affords, no

doubt, a faithful resemblance of her noble and dignified bearing, and of

her graceful, though simple costume. Her right hand is on her breast, her

left supports a hawk, the usual symbol of nobility, her head is covered

with a singularly small cap, possibly, the precursor of the more recent

coronet; her long hair flows negligently upon her neck, and on either side

the royal lions of Salisbury appear to gaze on her, like the lions of

Spenser's "Fairy Queen," on the desolate lady Una.[27]

Seven years had now elapsed from the time of the earl's death, during

which the countess sedulously fulfilled the duties of her high condition.

Her eldest son, who was then a minor, married the rich heiress of two

baronies, the daughter of Richard de Camville, and the Lady Eustachia.[28]

Richard, Stephen, and Nicholas were gone forth into the world, and her

daughters Isabella, Petronilla, Ela, and Sola being either married or of

age, the countess thought herself at liberty to relinquish the arduous

duties in which she had hitherto been engaged, and to devote herself to a

secluded life. Yielding, therefore, to the natural desire of withdrawing

from the busy world, she proceeded to undertake a task that was

calculated as much for a season to add to her employments, as it

afterwards contributed to her repose.

River scenery has ever been a passion with me. I can gaze unwearied on the

tranquil flowing of deep, clear waters, now shaded with old trees, that

droop their branches to the water's edge, and now by rock and underwood,

where roses and wild honeysuckles, harebells, and primroses mingle their

beauty and their fragrance. Such is the tranquil Avon, passing in gloom

and depth, dark, silent, and unruffled, among rocks and trees; or

murmuring in its onward course, with that calm sound of moving waters

which seems to tell of peace and solitude. It is flowing now, through a

spacious and level meadow, with tall elms, and cattle feeding on its

margin, and in the distance, high spiral chimneys appear at intervals

among the trees. They belong to the ancient nunnery of Lacock, which the

Lady Ela founded; not standing as many stand, with smokeless chimneys,

lone and tenantless, over which the creeping ivy and wild wall-flower seek

to hide the rents of ruin, but dwelt in still; a place where the living

may think of those who are resting in the cells beneath, who have neither

heard the winds of winter, nor felt the cheering sunbeams for more than

six hundred years.

This spacious and level meadow, with its tall elms and cattle, was once a

glade; this bright river, now journeying in shade and sunshine along

peopled districts, flowed once in silence and in loneliness through the

ancient forests of Chippenham and Melksham. Yonder, and at a distance

over the wide wood, rises the high and lonely arch of Malmesbury Abbey,

the "august, but melancholy mother," as the poet Bowles has well observed,

with a poet's feeling, of many a cell or monastery beside the Avon.

Battlements and buttresses, seen far off in the bright sunshine, point out

the remains of Bradenstoke Abbey, rising among old trees, and seeming to

overlook the river as it winds through the vale and pastures of Somerford

and Christian Malford. Scarcely a vestige remains of Stanley priory; its

walls are low and roofless, but the bright blue "forget-me-not," nestling

itself among ferns and foxgloves in the fissures of the walls, seems to

call upon the passenger to remember that men once thought, and felt, and

suffered, where all now is silent and deserted--an emblem-flower, a living

motto, inscribed on the wrecks of ruin. But Lacock Abbey, standing on the

verge of the spacious and level meadow, is still inhabited, and its

cloisters are fresh, as if they were just completed, although the arches

are hung with ivy. More than six centuries have passed since the Countess

of Salisbury came, in the year 1232, accompanied by such persons as she

loved to consort with, to this remote part of her hereditary domain. The

woods around were bursting into leaf, and the "one word spoken" of the

contented cuckoo was heard at intervals.

It was early in the month of April,[29] and as yet the winds were chill,

but April was in unison with her past life, one of storm and sunshine, and

now about to close, as respected this world's turmoils, amid the beautiful

scenes of woodland and of river. Two monasteries were founded by the

countess on that memorable day; Lacock, which she designed for her own

abode, in which holy canonesses might dwell, continually and devoutly

serving the Most High; the other, the priory of Henton, of the Carthusian

order.[30] It was believed that the countess in thus founding these

religious establishments, desired to perform the vows of her husband,

which he made during his great perils, when returning from Gascony to

England. A few years more, and the bright sun which beamed on the day of

the foundation of Lacock nunnery, looked down on a dark marble stone,

which men placed, with heavy hearts, over the remains of its noble

foundress. "As I stood, in a moody day of the declining year," wrote

one,[31] who has recorded with deep feeling the long-forgotten history of

the Lady Ela, "and thought of her youthful romantic history, a gleam of

pale sunshine struggled through the dark drapery of ivy, and fell upon the

spot. At the same moment a wintry bird, which had taken shelter among the

branches, piped one small note; no other sound was heard amid the profound

silence of the place, and as the short note ceased, the gleam faded

also."

[Illustration: Dunmow Priory.]

Dunmow Priory.

The old tree, the old tree,

Has fallen long ago;

But I shall tell of thee, old tree,

As if thou wert standing now.

How thy ample branches spread,

In the days of ruthless John;

How they waved o'er the silent dead,

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

Dancing lights and shadows are playing on the tomb of Lady Marian.[32]

They are cast by the old tree whose waving branches, seen through the

lofty window, with its tracery and mullions, grey and time-worn, recall to

my mind the day in which it stood with its brotherhood beside the little

church of Dunmow, when bold Robinhood, the outlawed Earl of Huntingdon,

passed and repassed with his lady and their archers through the green

recesses of Sherwood forest. The contiguous priory was standing then, but

this memorial of the olden time, the present church of Dunmow, formed

merely the south aisle of a magnificent collegiate church, and of a

religious house founded many years before the days of Robinhood, by the

sister of Raef Baynard, who held the manor in the time of Domesday survey.

Far and near extended a wild forest with its glens and dingles, but

farmhouses are standing now where the wolf used to range, and a public

road passes within sight of the ancient building, from which it is divided

by a corn-field, and burying-ground, with head-stones worn and

lichen-dotted, and crumbling from long exposure to the weather. How still

and solemn is this place! Here knees have bent in prayer for successive

generations, and here successive generations have been laid to rest; the

poor beside the church--a few of noble birth within the walls. Sir Walter

Bohun is one of these. His plate armour and leathern shirt indicate that

his days were passed in warlike deeds, and beside him rests his lady, dame

Matilda, who wears the insignia of her courtly rank; her tiara and lace,

her earrings and her necklace. Their heads repose on cushions, and their

hands are raised in the attitude of prayer. The effigies of both have

suffered; the legs of Sir Walter are broken at the knees, and the delicate

fret-work of the lace which adorns his lady has been rudely handled. Other

steps than those which used to tread softly, as befits a house of prayer,

were heard here when this deed was done. Men, with peaked beards and round

hats, halted beneath the Oak of Dunmow, and they thought they did good

service to their Maker when they despoiled the old effigies; they, too,

have passed from among the living, and though their sojourn occasioned

great distress and terror in the neighbourhood, no trace of them remains

at Dunmow, excepting in the mischief which they did. Sir James Hallet

rests here also, and a few mural monuments remain upon the walls, but the

one tomb, which of all others is most dear, upon which the quivering

lights and shadows play, and sunbeams shed a softened radiance, is that of

the Lady Marian. Shielded by a beautiful screen of dark old oak, coeval

with the building, and which separates the nave from the chancel; it

stands forth in bold relief, a relic of the olden time, which the

convulsions of ages--foreign wars and civil feuds, have yet spared. The

head is covered with a woollen coif, the neck encircled with a collar, and

a string of pendants falls upon an embroidered cape; a rich girdle and

long robe, with sleeves close to the wrists, and hands covered with rings

further indicate her rank. Angels were stationed beside the head, and a

dog crouched on either side her feet. But rough hands marred this tomb

also, the angels, who seemed to watch over the sleeping effigy, were

rudely broken, though the effigy itself was spared. Perhaps the lady who

lay within the tomb was associated with the fondest recollections of the

rebel leader. It may be, that he had gathered nuts amid the open spaces of

the forest where she dwelt; before years of crime and peril had hardened

his young heart, or, perhaps, when sick and restless upon his bed, his

mother might have told him concerning the Lady Marian's woes and

wanderings; how she fled from her father's castle, when that castle was in

flames, and how bold Robinhood and Little John shielded her from harm.

More than six hundred years have passed away since a company of monks from

the adjacent priory brought hither the corpse of Lady Marian to inter it

within the church; since the boughs of the old tree, waving in the cold

night air, cast their uncertain shadows on the long train of veiled nuns,

as they entered by torch-light the low arched door-way of the church.

Marian had passed her young days in Baynard castle, on the borders of

Sherwood Forest. Her father, Richard Fitz Walter, gave a tournament when

his daughter attained her eighteenth year; knights and squires assembled

from all parts; ladies came attired in robes of costly silk; and during

three whole days, jousts and sports continued without intermission; but on

the fourth, a stranger, clad in burnished mail, entered the lists and

vanquished the bravest of his competitors. No one knew whence he came, but

his gallant bearing and handsome countenance, won the heart of the young

queen of that high festival, and she trembled when she hung the golden

chain around his neck. It was said, too, by those who looked on, that the

mysterious victor was observed to turn pale; but he departed as he

entered, suddenly and in haste, and the tramp of his stately steed was

heard afar in the still forest.

Prince John was at the banquet, yet he liked not the noble owner of the

castle; he had no thoughts in common with those of a true and loyal

knight, and having been reproved for some evil expressions he went away in

anger, and vowed revenge. A few short months and the brother of Fitz

Walter departed for the Holy Land, taking with him a considerable number

of his brother's men-at-arms, when John, watching his opportunity, led on

an armed band against the castle, and slew its owner. Marian fled to the

green forest, where she wandered all the day, and concealed herself at

night among the underwood. The next day, she met the stranger knight, whom

she had crowned a short time before, when Baynard castle was in all its

pride, and her father presided there. His burnished coat of mail was laid

aside, and a simple suit of Lincoln green betokened his mode of life.

Soothly did he greet the lady, and told her not to fear, for though he was

Robinhood, the outlawed Earl of Huntingdon, at the mention of whose name

stern warriors trembled in their halls, and ecclesiastics turned pale, his

good men should shield her well.

Lady Marian laid aside her whimple and her veil, and the better to conceal

herself, put on a light kind of armour, such as young men wore on days of

festival, for she had not strength to bear the heavy casque and buckler.

In this garb she encountered King John, who called upon her to surrender;

but he who stood before her was the murderer of her father, and what will

not the recollection of such a deed produce in even the gentlest bosom; in

one, too, who, perhaps, had not been taught the blessed precept which

teaches to forgive. "Yield," said the prince, for he knew not the damsel

in her strange attire; he thought, most probably, that the youth before

him was in the service of the outlaw, and that his command would be

sufficient to enforce obedience. The stranger was not thus to be subdued,

and so firmly did she maintain her assumed character, that the prince was

obliged to withdraw. John heard that his antagonist was no other than the

young flower of Baynard castle, Marian, whose father he had slain, and he

resolved to be avenged on her also.

Maid Marian became the wife of Robinhood, and when King Richard restored

to him his earldom and estates, she presided in his baronial hall with

equal courtesy and magnificence. John succeeded to the throne on his

brother's death, and then the vengeance which had long brooded in his

sullen breast fell heavy on the earl; he was again outlawed, and for many

long and weary years did his fair young wife follow his fortunes. Time,

and the hardships which he endured, had at length weakened the strength of

the bold outlaw. He tried his shafts one morning, and finding that they

neither flew so far, nor so fast as his strong arm was wont to send them,

he resolved to repair to Kirkley nunnery, where his cousin presided as

prioress. He had heard much of her skill in medicine, and hoped that she

might stay the fever that raged in his veins. "Thrice welcome, cousin

Robert," she said, but treachery was in her heart, for she bore no

good-will to him who plundered both the church and churchmen. Robert

passed through the strong oaken door, but he returned not again, save as a

corpse borne by his tall bowmen wearily along, to bury beneath some fine

trees near Kirkley.

At this sad period of her life the countess took refuge in Dunmow Priory.

It stood in a wild and secluded spot on the borders of Sherwood Forest;

that great forest to which she had fled for refuge in her young days, and

where her married life had passed. John heard that she was there, and he

rejoiced in the thought of vengeance, for he remembered their rencounter

in years gone by, and how she had worsted him on that memorable day.

Summoning, therefore, a gallant knight, Robert de Medeive, common ancestor

of the present Earl Manvers, and of one, to whom we owe this biographic

memoranda of the Lady Marian, he bade him go with all speed to the Priory

of Dunmow, and present to the Countess of Huntingdon a valuable bracelet,

as a token of amity and reconciliation. Years chequered with much of

sorrow had passed since the fall of Baynard castle; since the encounter of

Marian and the prince in Sherwood Forest; perhaps she had learned in her

cell, the blessedness and the duty of forgiveness. Walter had heard

concerning the noble lady who thus cordially received him as an herald

from the king--of the sufferings of her young days, and how the brave Earl

Huntingdon had given her a home when her own fair patrimony was in the

hands of strangers. Her bloom, indeed, had faded, together with the

sprightliness which rendered her the darling of her father's house; but

her noble bearing and matron beauty which time still spared, caused the

rough warrior to gaze on her with mingled love and admiration. But he

wished not to be thus entangled, and, therefore, bidding her adieu, he

hastened on his way. The way was long and lonely, now over a wide common;

now through the depth of a dark forest, beside a rapid streamlet, or

through a valley where high trees drooped on either side, in all the

majesty and luxuriance of uncultivated nature. The knight looked not on

these, however beautiful; he cared not for the grandeur or sublimity of

the mighty landscape, which extended at times before him, or the sylvan

beauty of woodland scenery; he thought only of the high-minded dame to

whom he had borne the pledge of amity; till at length her image rose

before him with an intensity of feeling that caused him to turn his

horse's head, and to retrace the way which he had come. The day had closed

in before he reached the priory, but the light of many tapers streamed

through the windows of the adjoining church on the weary knight, and the

dirge of death sounded solemnly through the stillness of the forest. The

priory seemed deserted; there was no one to answer his impatient

questions; all were either within the church or around the door, and

thither he too hastened with trembling steps, for his heart sunk within

him. The chancel was lighted up, and before the curiously carved screen

of dark old oak lay the corpse of the Lady Marian; it was covered with

flowers according to the fashion of the age, for as yet this custom of the

olden time was not laid aside. The bracelet was on her wrist; its fiery

poison had dried her life's blood, and cankered the flesh it touched. Her

face was ghastly pale, but a heavenly smile irradiated her fine

countenance; it told that all within was peace--that even the last dire

deed had not disturbed her thought of heaven. The veiled nuns stood

around--their loud sobs were heard, even the officiating priests and

brothers wept bitterly; and the "dies iræ" died away on their quivering

lips as the warrior entered. He flung himself upon the bier, and uttered,

in the wildness of his anguish, a thousand maledictions on his wretched

head. It was long before he could be removed, and then he returned neither

to the camp nor court. He relinquished his mail and helmet for the cowl

and gown, and became a faithful brother of the order of St. Augustine.

Peace be with thee, noble lady; a quiet waiting in the place of rest,

whither thy spirit is departed, for the summons of thy Lord. This earth

has changed greatly since thy young feet trod the precincts of Sherwood

Forest; the contiguous priory has fallen down, thy father's castle is

still in ruins; all thy companions in the hall and cloister have passed

from the earth; and here, within this venerable relic of the olden time,

in the midst of a field of corn, reposes thy mortal frame. Lady

Marian--Peace be with thee. Rest in hope, till the hour of His coming,

who shall awake all those who sleep in him, and when, to borrow the

beautiful language of inspiration, the groaning creation "shall be

delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the

children of God."[33]

"When the Holy One, the Glorious One, returns in might and power,

And the long-oppressed world emerges, from out her darksome hour;

Her darksome hour of grief, and death, and bitter pain,

When the Holy One, the Blessed One, returns to earth again.

Where the hosts of Satan trod, bright angels shall descend,

And loved ones, and vanished ones, their steps shall hither wend.

They come from the silent land, where they have waited long,

And sweet as mortals never heard shall be their choral song.

We too shall sing with them, for the curse shall pass away,

And earth look brighter far than on her natal day,

When the Lord for whom we waited in glory comes to reign,

And many whom we dearly loved do follow in his train."--M. R.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: THE GOSPEL TREE.]

The Gospel-Tree.

Lone, beside the forest rill,

Stands an old tree reft and broken;

'Neath its scant boughs waving still,

Words of faith and hope were spoken,

In time of dearth and bitter woe,

At least six hundred years ago.--M. R.

Britain was anciently divided into a variety of states, which bore the

names of those who dwelt in them, or else had reference to some

peculiarity of situation or of climate. When the Romans gained the

ascendancy, they put aside the way-marks of the olden times, and divided

their new territories into Britannia Barbara, Prima, and Secunda, with

such lesser partitions as pleased them best. Then came the Saxons. They,

too, made changes, and he who returned after some years' absence to the

shores of Britain, sought in vain for the places which he remembered in

early life, and with which the dearest associations were connected. The

plains and rivers, the hills and valleys, still remained, and above them

extended the blue heavens, for men could not dry up the fountain of the

one, nor vary the aspect of the other, nor cause the glorious moon and

planets to forsake their prescribed bounds. All else was changed. Most of

the towns and villages had new names given them, and from out the chaos of

war and time arose the seven kingdoms of the Saxon Heptarchy. Minor

changes followed, and when Alfred united the whole country under his

paternal sway, he projected a final division of the kingdom into counties,

with well-defined boundaries and names.

The counties were again divided into parishes, and then commenced the

annual festival of marking the respective boundaries. This was done by the

inhabitants, who went round them every year, and stopped at certain spots,

where different ceremonies were performed, in order that the localities

might be impressed on the memory of the young, as they were attested by

the recollections of the old. Rogation week, or one of the three days

before Holy Thursday, the feast of our Lord's ascension, was selected for

the purpose, at which time the minister of the parish, accompanied by his

churchwardens and chief parishioners, went round the boundaries, and

stopped at remarkable spots and trees, where he recited passages in the

gospels, and implored the blessing of the Most High on the fruits of the

earth, beseeching Him to preserve the rights and properties of the

inhabitants, and to keep them in safety. Many a memorial-tree, thus

honoured, carried down the recollection of bygone days to the men of

other generations; and among these the gospel-beech, which stood at a

short distance from an ancient Saxon town, among the beautiful beech woods

of Gloucestershire, recalled to mind that ages must have passed since that

failing tree, shadowed with its ample foliage the earth beneath. Now

time-worn and riven, hollow, too, yet throwing out green leaves in the

spring, it marked one of the extremities of the parish, in its retired

coppice on the rugged side of a wild common, while beside it a stream

gushed forth, and went leaping and sparkling into the vale below. A

variety of flowers grew round the well-head of the stream, the primrose

and the snowdrop, the yellow daffodil and violet, all young, and fresh,

and lovely, as if in mockery of the time-worn tree. There stood the

parishioners, in their doublets, with heads uncovered, while the priest

recited a few appropriate sentences from that holy book in which he loved

to instruct them. Playful children, too, were there, young men and

maidens, for on such occasions most of the parishioners trooped forth,

some because they loved their pastor, and were glad to hear the sacred

words that proceeded from his lips; others because the walk was pleasant,

and to gather the early flowers of the year. This custom, itself of great

antiquity, was conjectured to be derived from the Pagan feast of

Terminalia, the fabled guardian of fields and landmarks, and the promoter

of good fellowship among men. It was adopted by the Christians during a

period of calamity and death, and now a gospel-tree or stone, stands as a

memorial in almost every parish. The site was duly visited from year to

year, and the doing so was attended with circumstances of peculiar

interest. He who had traced the boundaries of his parish with manly step,

and who with unwrinkled brow, erect and firm, read the sentences that

breathed of confidence and truth, changed with the changing years. When a

few years had passed by, it became toil and weariness to him to trace the

same rounds. Those who as playful boys, intent on sport, had been thrust

into the stream that marked in one place the boundary of the parish, or

dragged in another through a coppice, or driven up a tree as if in anger,

to make them remember the boundaries, were now grave and thoughtful men,

with young striplings beside them. A few years more, and not one of the

grown-up people are left. The gospel-tree may remain, but of those who

stood as boys or aged men, as young maidens or grave matrons, beneath its

shade, some will be laid down in the narrow house, and others will not

even present a trace of what they were. Another minister will fill the

office of his predecessor, and even the younger children will be grown up

to manhood. He who then passes through the village may see old and

wrinkled persons looking from their cottage windows, or seated on the

green to bless the procession. Those aged persons are strangely altered

from what, they were. Who may recognise in them, the young men and

maidens, who now with joyous hearts and unwearied steps, are pressing

round the boundaries!

Thus might have thought and felt the men and women who first stood beside

the gospel-tree when the experience of a few short years gave them some

little insight into the changes of human life. When not a trace of that

company remained, others stood in the same place, and many thought the

same among succeeding generations; content to suffer, and to see the

breaking asunder of every earthly tie, of all that renders life desirable,

while yet the sacred volume declares to those who read and understand,

that the present state of human wretchedness is not designed to last for

ever.

[Illustration]