be more wretched, vile, and miserable than any creature living; and,
for your wickedness, become more ugly in shape than any living
creature in the world; and one to whom none of reputation would
vouchsafe to send any message; yet she hath thought good to send
thus much to you:--That she be contented you should live, and doth
in no ways wish you death; but to this end, that all the plagues and
miseries that may befal any man may light upon such a caitiff as you
are, and that you should live to have all your friends forsake you;
and without your great repentances, which she looketh not for,
because your life hath been so bad, you will be damned perpetually
in hell-fire."
From this beginning ensued one of the most noted and romantic feuds of
the seventeenth century.
After the death of this outspoken lady--her husband's father had accused
the great Bess of occasionally using the language of Billingsgate--the
Rufford estate passed to the Savile family, her sister-in-law, Lady
Mary Talbot, having married a Lincolnshire baronet of that name. Later,
one of the Savile ladies, wife of Sir William, and daughter of Thomas,
Lord Keeper Coventry, earned lasting fame by her bravery at the siege of
Sheffield Castle. The Saviles were Royalists: in the Bodleian Library
may be seen a letter to Cromwell from a certain unknown person who had
been instructed to take into custody young Sir George and such friends
as might be found at Rufford:--
"Sir George Savill is not at home. We have detained one Mr.
Coventry, who is the Lady Savill's brother, until Sir George shall
appear to yr. highness. He is said to be in London at his house in
Lincolns in field, at the corner of queene streete, called Carlisle
house or Savill house. We can find nobody in his house, that gives
any light, onely we heare that one of his family, Mr. Davison, who
is Tutor to Sir George, was at the meeting, and stayed in the house
till after dinner on fryday (a supposed gathering of Royalists) and
then went away. We cannot yett get him."
This Sir George was created Earl and finally Marquis of Halifax by
Charles the Second, and became one of the leading statesmen of the
seventeenth century. One of his grandsons was the witty Earl of
Chesterfield; another descendant was Henry Carey, the writer and
composer of "Sally in our Alley". On the death of the second marquis,
without male issue, the title became extinct, and the estate with the
Savile baronetcy passed to a somewhat distant kinsman, whose collateral
descendant is present owner of this fine estate, the traditions of which
are almost without parallel in the matter of interest and romantic
colouring.
EDWINSTOWE AND THE OAKS
Of the few trees of distinction pertaining to old Sherwood, perhaps the
most famous, and certainly the least picturesque, is the "Parliament
Oak", which may be seen to the right of the Mansfield road as it
approaches Edwinstowe. To this venerable ruin, which an iron palisading
protects from wanton hands, clings the tradition that Parliaments of
King John and Edward the First met under its shade, the last in October,
1290. Queen Eleanor was ill--she died in the following month at Harby
near Lincoln--and thence was made the most notable funeral progress in
English history.
The country around is tranquil and pleasing; not far away stands the
quaintest of windmills, which must certainly tumble from very weariness
before many years have passed. Above the tops of the closely-planted
trees to the right are to be seen the chimneys of a deserted-looking
building, raised in the early nineteenth century by a Duke of Portland,
in imitation of the Priory Gatehouse at Worksop. This stands at the end
of a fine undulating glade. On the north side are statues of Richard the
First, Allan-a-Dale, and Friar Tuck; on the south, others of Robin Hood,
Maid Marion, and Little John.
[Illustration: EDWINSTOWE]
To the left, one passes through a wicket, and coasts a great wood for
some hundred yards, then turns sharply and soon reaches the "Russian
Cottage", a chalet "put together without nails", near by which is the
well-known "Shambles Oak" or "Robin Hood's Larder", so called because in
its hollow interior once were hooks for the storing of stolen venison.
Unfortunately this fine tree was fired by some holiday-makers years ago,
and to-day there is something pathetic in the valiant greenness of its
scanty leaves. It is like an old, old man who will be brave to the end.
Thence, by passing along the glades of Birkland and following paths
faintly worn--with a chance of straying into strange solitudes--one
comes before long to the "Major Oak"--the most virile of all the ancient
trees. In spite of its iron stays--possibly because of them--it is still
vigorous and hearty, although its age has been estimated at considerably
more than a thousand years. There is something monstrous and uncanny
about this veteran; in its vicinity folk of to-day seem strangely out of
place.
A pleasant old keeper watches it vigilantly, careful that none shall
harm his treasure. He has a curious enough favourite: a fine cock
pheasant which comes to his call--has done so indeed for the last four
years--and daintily accepts plumcake from his hand. Once this bird had a
mate; now he remains a contented widower. The quaintness of the
good-fellowship of man and bird is very pleasant to observe.
The circumference of the "Major Oak" at the height of five feet from the
ground is over thirty feet, and the circumference of its branches is
about two hundred and seventy yards. It was formerly called the "Queen's
Oak", or the "Cockpen", the latter because of a fine breed of gamecocks
that roosted there in the days of a Major Rooke, to whom it owes its
present name. The tree is hollow, and, entering by a narrow
opening--difficult enough for a stout person to negotiate--seventeen or
eighteen may crowd together in the interior. Not far away is another
magnificent tree, less known but almost equally worthy of admiration. It
is called the "Simon Foster Oak", from the fact that a century ago a
person of that name kept his pigs in acorn-time nightly under its
shelter.
Thence Edwinstowe may easily be reached by a path across the green.
Historically the village is of some importance, since, according to
general belief, Edwin, the first Christian King of Northumbria, was
buried there. It is a sleepy, comely place; in winter the warm
colouring of old brick and tile is very pleasant to the wayfarer, whilst
throughout the other seasons the rich little gardens are all gay with
old-fashioned flowers. The church is admirably situated, and has a tall
and graceful spire with grotesque ornaments at the base, which from a
distance bear a fantastical resemblance to roosting birds. In 1679 the
folk of Edwinstowe humbly petitioned for permission to take two hundred
oaks for the repair of the building, and one reads that, seven years
before, the steeple had been beaten down by thunder, and the old body
shaken, and in a very ruinous condition; also that without the king's
charitable help the whole church must absolutely perish. After the
resultory survey, the Surveyors General of the Woods wrote that most of
the trees of Birkland and Bilhagh were decayed, very few of use to the
navy being left. Finally it was decided that such trees might be taken
as were not fit for Government purposes. Strangely enough, neither in
this church nor in its sister of Ollerton are any ancient monuments,
such as one might expect to find in so interesting a neighbourhood. At
the vicarage here lived for some years Dr. E. Cobham Brewer, best known
for his _Dictionary of Phrase and Fable_; whilst in a house that stood
beside the stream lived William--afterwards Sir William--Boothby, the
uncle of pretty Penelope, whose white marble tomb is one of the wonders
of Ashbourne in Peakland.
The birches from which Birkland takes its name are accounted amongst the
finest in the kingdom, and at no time look better than on a sunny
winter's morning, when they present a wonderful symphony of brown and
silver. After crossing Edwinstowe, in a sufficiently dangerous way, the
road continues, with Bilhagh in sight, to Ollerton, where it bridges the
placid Maun. Not far away is a small red quarry, its toy precipice
pierced with the retreats of sand-martins. To the left is Cockglode, the
only large house left in the forest proper--a Georgian place with a fine
avenue of Scots pines. This was the residence of the late Earl of
Liverpool, who, like all his noble neighbours, counted the great Bess of
Hardwick amongst his forbears.
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
_At the Villafield Press, Glasgow, Scotland_
+---------------------------------------------------+
| |
| Transcriber's Note: |
| |
| Spelling and punctuation have been retained as in |
| the original publication. |
+---------------------------------------------------+