Chapter IV: Part 4

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."

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.

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.

Ruins of Clipstone Palace.

Where have ye gone, ye statesmen great,
That have left your home so desolate?
Where have ye vanished, king and peer,
And left what ye liv'd for, lying here?
Sin can follow where gold may not,
Pictures and books the damp may rot;
And creepers may hang frail lines of flowers
Down the crevices of ancient towers:
But what hath passed from the soul of mortal,
Be it thought or word of pride,
Hath gone with him through the dim, low portal,
And waiteth by his side.--F. W. FABER.

Little now remains of the old palace where King John and Edward I. resided. Creeping ivy covers the once strong walls, and large elder bushes springing from out the rents which time has made, afford a shelter to such birds as like to build their nests in solitary places. The goatsucker is one of these; you may hear her mournful voice at night, as if she bewailed and lamented the downfall of the once stately building; the gray owl is also there; the jackdaw and carrion-crow; they are never seen beside the cottage door, or in cheerful apple-orchards, covered with blossoms, where the goldfinch and linnet, the joyous throstle and the bullfinch, love to nestle. All is lonely here, the long grass which grows wild and high, around and within the ruin, is rarely trodden on, and so damp and chill is the feeling of the place, that the sheep and cattle that graze upon the common rarely seek it, unless in the hottest summer-day, when they cannot find shelter elsewhere. Yet this lone and melancholy spot was not always thus deserted: the broken-down walls encircled a spacious area, within which was all the life and business, the gladness and festivity of a palace; there was the great hall and the refectory, the chapel, where prayer was duly offered, the rooms of state, and apartments of various descriptions. Men-at-arms guarded the strong gate by night and by day, and when its ample doors were opened by the king's command, a troop of horse might freely pass, and large companies did come and go, for great hospitality was occasionally exercised in Clipstone palace.

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

The walls are thick, and the embattled parapets present a range of towers, each of which are firmly guarded. The knight or palmer, he who comes in peace or war, has to pass over a strong drawbridge, and through the barbican or watch-tower by which the castle is further strengthened. He sees over his head a portcullis armed with iron spikes like a harrow, and as he passes through the long stone passage, he hears the heavy tread of the guard going their rounds along the high wall, by which the entrance is flanked on either side. The deep moat with its heavy and sluggish waters, the inner and outer ballia, the guard and the portcullis, all and each betoken that the country is in an unsettled state; but within the area on which the castle stands all is bustle and animation, its ample space contains barracks and residences for the workmen attached to the palace, together with a well and chapel, and in the centre stands the keep, where the king presides, and where his great officers have their abode. A terrace walk extends around the keep, and appended to it is a straight bowling-green, where amusements of various kinds are going on. The old castle looks gloomy to him who passes by; it stands an isolated object, stern and lonely, as if nothing within or around it, held communion with any living thing. But such is not the case, for the monarch holds his court here; King John, who has lately come to the throne, and with him is that kind and gentle lady, his fair queen, who tries to soften the rugged temper of her husband. Lords of high degree are invited guests; with them are a large company of knights and squires, and while tilts and tournaments are going on within the walls, the retainers of the castle are seen coming with provisions, or else driving both sheep and cattle, for the demand for them is great. Alms are duly given by the express desire of the queen, and those who seek for shelter are hospitably entertained.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The living partake of no religious rite, except baptism to new-born infants and the communion to the dying; the dead may not lay in consecrated ground, neither are words of peace, nor any hallowed ceremony spoken or performed at their obsequies. Graves are opened beside the public road, on some wild common, or lone forest; those who dig them seem filled with more than usual sadness, for they have not yet learned to think that it is a matter of indifference where their friends are buried. Strange it is, that in these fearful times any should think of marrying. Yet such there are, and now a bridal company is seen passing up the narrow pathway that leads to the small church. The sun shines as brightly as if all on earth were happy; the trees wave in the soft summer wind, and the butterflies and bees flit from one flower to another, or rest on the tufts of wild thyme that skirt the path. But the old people look exceeding sorrowful, and there are no smiles on the faces of the young. They stop at the entrance of the churchyard, at the old stile with its thatched roof, where part of the ceremony is wont to be performed, and the bride and bridegroom stand there, as if they almost feared to go on. The sod which used to be kept so nicely that a weed might not lift up its head unbidden, has grown long and rank. It overtops the graves; and the thistle, and that unsightly weed the great cow-parsnip, with its sickly-looking flower, has sprung up in rank luxuriance. The bells are placed beside the church, and near them the images, and the one old cross are lying on the ground, covered up in a manner which cause them to look like corpses waiting for interment.

In a moment the old church and its venerable yew--the sad bridal company--the bells and images are gone. A new scene presents itself, for more than eighty years have passed since these things were done, and the aspect of everything is changed.

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

He who surveys the landscape from an eminence, will observe that houses have been built, which, although not rising to the dignity of castles, have much of the ancient baronial style, being strongly moated, and having the entrance guarded with a portcullis. They consist of a quadrangle, with a large area in the centre, into which both sheep and oxen are often driven for greater security by night. The fields around are in general well attended to, and large gardens, stocked with fruit and vegetables, supply not only the wants of the respective families, but also provides abundance of such medicinal herbs, as is convenient to have within reach. This style of building evinces a considerable improvement in society, for during the insecure condition of the country, when Clipstone Palace was last brought into view, every baronial residence was strongly fortified, and scarcely any intermediate gradations existed between the vassal and his lord, except in commercial cities. Men had consequently little inclination to cultivate the arts of peace. The knight or squire who rode forth fully caparisoned, and armed cap-à-pie, turned not aside his charger into the recesses of the forest to gather such beautiful flowers as might grow therein, when there was danger in his path; the serf, who toiled hard to sustain his wife and children, had neither time nor inclination to seek out, or to plant around his cabin either the wild rose or the honeysuckle. The wild rose grew, as now it grows, fragrant and beautiful; the honeysuckle, too, and wild flowers of all scents and hues sprung beside the common, or skirted the thorny brake; but the outlaw often lurked among them, and it was death to him who sought, unarmed or alone, the beautiful solitude of nature. But now that the country is at peace, and the towns and cities contain a class of persons who grow rich by commerce, and who frequently obtain in their intercourse with foreign nations, curious specimens both of art and nature, men begin to lay aside that dread of their fellow-men which has hitherto caused them to think most of their personal safety, and to direct their attention towards improving their own condition.

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

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

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

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

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

Ruined Villages in the New Forest.

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