Chapter XL: Part I: 5th May to 13th 8 (2)

She was low in stature, emaciated, and embrowned by age, sun, or toil, as it might be; her lank white hair hung thickly at either side of her face; a short red mantle fell loosely to her knees; under it a green petticoat descended to within some inches of her ankles; and her arms, neck, head, and feet, were bare. There she remained, at the distance of only about twenty yards, her small grey eyes vacantly set on mine; and her brows strenuously knit, but, as I thought, rather to shadow her sight from the sun, than with any expression of anger or agitation. Her look had no meaning in it; no passion, no subject. It communicated nothing with which my heart or thought held any sympathy; yet it was long, and deep, and unwincing. After standing for some time, as if spell-bound by her gaze, I felt conscious of becoming uneasy and superstitious in spite of myself; yet my sensation was rather caused by excitement than by fear, and saluting the strange visitant, I advanced towards her. She stood on a broad slab in the centre of the bed of the stream, but which was now uncovered by the water. I had to step from stone to stone in my approach, and often wind round some unusually gigantic rock that impeded my direct course; one of them was, indeed, so large, that when I came up to it, my view of the old woman was completely impeded. This roused me more: I hastily turned the angle of the rock; looked again for her in the place she had stood--but she was gone.--My eye rapidly glanced round to detect the path she had taken. I could not see her.

Now I became more disturbed. I leaned my back against the rock, and for some moments gazed along the valley. In this situation, my eye was again challenged by her scarlet mantle glittering in the sunlight, at the distance of nearly a quarter of a mile from the spot where she first appeared. She was once more motionless, and evidently looked at me. I grew too nervous to remain stationary, and hurried after her up the stony bed of the stream.

A second time she disappeared; but when I gained her second resting-place, I saw her standing on the outline of the distant mountain, now dwindled almost to the size of a crow, yet, boldly relieved against the back-ground of white clouds, and still manifested to me by her bright red mantle. A moment, and she finally evaded my view, going off at the other side of the mountain. This was not to be borne: I followed, if not courageously, determinedly. By my watch, to which I had the curiosity and presence of mind to refer, it took me a quarter of an hour to win the summit of the hill; and she, an aged woman, feeble and worn, had traversed the same space in much less time. When I stood on the ridge of the hill, and looked abroad over a widely-spreading country, unsheltered by forest, thicket, or any other hiding-place, I beheld her not.

Cabins, or, to use the more poetical name, authorized by the exquisite bard of “O’Connor’s child,” _sheelings_, were now abundantly strewed around me, and men, women, and children, at work in the fields, one and all assured me no such person had, that day, met their notice, and added, it was impossible she could have crossed without becoming visible to them. I never again beheld (excepting in my dreams) that mysterious visitant, nor have ever been able to ascertain who or what she was.

After having spoken to the peasants, I continued my walk, descending the breast of the mountain which faced the valley, but now avoiding the latter, and sauntering against the thready current of the stream, with no other feeling that I can recollect, but an impatience to ascertain its hidden source. It led me all round the base of the hill. I had a book in my pocket, with which I occasionally sat down, in an inviting solitude; when tired of it, I threw pebbles into the water, or traced outlines on the clouds; and the day insensibly lapsed, while I thus rioted in the utter listlessness of, perhaps, a diseased imagination.

Evening fell. I found myself, in its deepest shades, once more on the side of the mountain opposite that which turned towards the valley. I sat upon a small knoll, surrounded by curves and bumps, wild and picturesque in their solitude. I was listening to the shrill call of the plover, which sounded far and faint along the dreary hills, when a vivid glow of lightning, followed by a clattering thundercrash, roused me from my reverie. I was glad to take shelter in one of the cabins, which I have described as rather numerously strewed in that direction.

The poor people received me with an Irish _cead mille phalteagh_--“a hundred thousand welcomes”--and I soon sat in comfort by a blazing turf fire, with eggs, butter, and oaten bread, to serve my need as they might.

The family consisted of an old couple, joint proprietors of my house of refuge; a son and daughter, nearly full grown; and a pale, melancholy-looking girl of about twenty years of age, whom I afterwards understood to be niece to the old man, and since her father’s death, under his protection. From my continued inquiries concerning my witch of the glen, our conversation turned on superstitions generally. With respect to the ancient lady herself, the first opinion seemed to be--“the Lord only knows what she was:”--but a neighbour coming in, and reporting the sudden illness of old Grace Morrissy, who inhabited a lone cabin on the edge of the hill, my anecdote instantly occurred to the auditory, one and all; and now, with alarmed and questioning eyes, fixed on each other, they concluded I had seen her “fetch:” and determined amongst themselves that she was to die before morning.

The “fetch” was not entirely new to me, but I had never before been afforded so good an opportunity of becoming acquainted with its exact nature and extent among the Irish peasantry. I asked questions, therefore, and gathered some--to me--valuable information.

In Ireland, a “fetch” is the supernatural fac-simile of some individual, which comes to ensure to its original a happy longevity, or immediate dissolution; if seen in the morning the one event is predicted; if in the evening, the other.

During the course of my questions, and of the tales and remarks to which they gave rise, I could observe that the pale, silent girl, listened to all that was said with a deep, assenting interest: or, sighing profoundly, contributed only a few melancholy words of confirmation. Once, when she sighed, the old man remarked--“No blame to you, Moggy mavourneen, fur it’s you that lives to know it well, God help you, this blessed night.” To these words she replied with another long-drawn aspiration, a look upwards, and an agitation of feature, which roused my curiosity, if not my sympathy, in no ordinary degree. I hazarded queries, shaped with as much delicacy as I could, and soon learned that she had seen, before his death, the “fetch” of her beloved father. The poor girl was prevailed on to tell her own story; in substance as follows:--

Her father had, for some days, been ill of a fever. On a particular evening, during his illness, she had to visit the house of an acquaintance at a little distance, and for this purpose, chose a short cut across some fields. Scarcely arrived at the stile that led from the first into the second field, she happened to look back, and beheld the figure of her father rapidly advancing in her footsteps. The girl’s fear was, at first, only human; she imagined that, in a paroxysm, her father had broken from those who watched his feverish bed; but as she gazed, a consciousness crept through her, and the action of the vision served to heighten her dread. It shook its head and hand at her in an unnatural manner, as if commanding her to hasten on. She did so. On gaining the second stile, at the limit of the second field, she again summoned courage to look behind, and again saw the apparition standing on the first stile she had crossed, and repeating its terrible gesticulations. Now she ran wildly to the cottage of her friend, and only gained the threshold when she fainted. Having recovered, and related what she saw, a strong party accompanied her by a winding way, back to her father’s house, for they dared not take that one by which she had come. When they arrived, the old man was a corpse; and as her mother had watched the death-struggle during the girl’s short absence, there could be no question of his not having left his bed in the interim.

The man who had come into us, and whom my humble host called “gossip,” now took up the conversation, and related, with mystery and pathos, the appearance to himself of the “fetch” of an only child. He was a widower, though a young man, and he wept during the recital. I took a note of his simple narrative, nearly in his own words; and a rhyming friend has since translated them into metre.

The mother died when the child was born,
And left me her baby to keep;
I rocked its cradle the night and morn,
Or, silent, hung o’er it to weep

’Twas a sickly child through its infancy,
Its cheeks were so ashy pale;
Till it broke from my arms to walk in glee
Out in the sharp fresh gale.

And then my little girl grew strong,
And laughed the hours away;
Or sung me the merry lark’s mountain song,
Which he taught her at break of day.

When she wreathed her hair in thicket bowers,
With the hedge-rose and hare-bell, blue;
I called her my May, in her crown of flowers,
And her smile so soft and new.

And the rose, I thought, never shamed her cheek,
But rosy and rosier made it;
And her eye of blue did more brightly break,
Through the blue-bell that strove to shade it.

One evening I left her asleep in her smiles,
And walked through the mountains, lonely;
I was far from my darling, ah! many long miles,
And I thought of her, and her only;

She darkened my path like a troubled dream,
In that solitude far and drear;
I spoke to my child! but she did not seem
To hearken with human ear;

She only looked with a dead, dead eye,
And a wan, wan cheek of sorrow--
I knew her “fetch!” she was called to die,
And she died upon the morrow.

* * * * *

Our young readers are required to observe that these “Tales of the O’Hara Family” are merely tales, invented to amuse the mind, or create wonder. Yet things of this sort are still believed by ignorant people, and in the dark ages they were credited, or affected to be credited, by those who ought to have known better. Mr. Brand has heaped together a great many of these superstitions.

* * * * *

Besides general notices of death, certain families were reputed to have particular warnings; some by the appearance of a bird, and others by the figure of a tall woman in white, who shrieked about the house. This in Ireland is called the _banshee_, or “the shrieking woman.”

* * * * *

In some of the great families an admonishing demon or genius was supposed to be a visiter. The family of Rothmurchas is alleged to have had the _bodack au dun_, “the ghost of the hill;” and the Kinchardines “the spectre of the bloody hand.” Gartinberg-house was said to have been haunted by Bodach Gartin, and Tulloch Gorms by _Maug Monlack_, or “the girl with the hairy left hand.”

The highlanders, like the Irish, imagined their deaths to have been foretold by the cries of the _benshi_, or “the fairies’ wife,” along the paths that their funerals were to take.

* * * * *

In Wales--the exhalations in churchyards, called corpse candles, denoted coming funerals. Very few of the good people of Carmarthen died without imagining they saw their corpse candles, or death-lights.

In Northumberland, the vulgar saw their _waff_, or “whiff,” as a death token, which is similar to the Scotch _wraith_, or the appearance of a living person to himself or others.

* * * * *

In some parts of Scotland, the “fetch” was called the _fye_. It was observed to a woman in her ninety-ninth year, that she could not long survive. “Aye,” said she, with great indignation, “what _fye-token_ do you see about me?” This is quoted by Brand from the “Statistical Account of Scotland,” vol. xxi. p. 150; and from the same page he cites an anecdote to show with what indifference death is sometimes contemplated.

James Mackie, by trade a wright, was asked by a neighbour for what purpose he had some fine deal in his barn. “It is timber for my coffin,” quoth James. “Sure,” replies the neighbour, “you mean not to make your own coffin. You have neither resolution nor ability for the task.” “Hout away man,” says James, “if I were once begun, I’ll soon ca’t by hand.” The hand, but not the heart, failed him, and he left the task of making it to a younger operator.

This anecdote brought to Mr. Brand’s remembrance what certainly happened in a village in the county of Durham, where it is the etiquette for a person not to go out of the house till the burial of a near relation. An honest simple countryman, whose wife lay a corpse in his house, was seen walking slowly up the village: a neighbour ran to him, and asked “Where in heaven, John, are you going?” “To the joiner’s shop,” said poor John, “to see them make my wife’s coffin; it will be a little diversion for me.”

* * * * *

In Cumberland, _wraiths_ are called _swarths_, and in other places “fetches.” Their business was to appear at the moment preceding the death of the person whose figure they assumed. “Sometimes,” says Brand, “there is a greater interval between the appearance and the death.”

According to Dr. Jamieson, the appearance of the _wraith_ was not to be taken as indicating immediate death, “although, in all cases, it was viewed as a premonition of the disembodied state.” The season of the day wherein it was seen, was understood to presage the time of the person’s departure. If early in the morning, it was a token of long life and even old age; if in the evening, it indicated that death was at hand.

* * * * *

A worthy old lady of exceeding veracity, frequently acquainted the editor of the _Every-Day Book_ with her supposed superhuman sights. They were habitual to her. One of these was of an absent daughter, whom she expected on a visit, but who had not arrived, when she left her chamber to go to a lower part of the house. She was surprised on meeting her on the stairs, for she had not heard the street door opened. She expressed her surprise, the daughter smiled and stood aside to let her mother pass, who naturally as she descended, reached out her hand to rest it on her daughter’s arm as assistance to her step; but the old lady mistook and fell to the bottom of the stairs. In fact her daughter was not there, but at her own home. The old lady lived some years after this, and her daughter survived her; though, according to her mother’s imagination and belief, she ought to have died in a month or two.

* * * * *

In 1823, the editor of this work being mentally disordered from too close application, left home in the afternoon to consult a medical friend, and obtain relief under his extreme depression. In Fleet-street, on the opposite side of the way to where he was walking, he saw a pair of legs devoid of body, which he was persuaded were his own legs, though not at all like them. A few days afterwards when worse in health, he went to the same friend for a similar purpose, and on his way saw himself on precisely the same spot as he had imagined he had seen his legs, but with this difference that the person was entire, and thoroughly a likeness as to feature, form, and dress. The appearance seemed as real as his own existence. The illusion was an effect of disordered imagination.

NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.

Mean Temperature 64·20.

[268] Mr. Audley.

~July 26.~

ST. ANN.

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

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

NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.

Mean Temperature 63·67.

~July 27.~

FALL OF NANNEU OAK.

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

THE HAUNTED OAK OF NANNEU,

_Near Dolgelly, in Merionethshire_.

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

It stood alone, a wither’d oak
Its shadow fled, its branches broke;
Its riven trunk was knotted round,
Its gnarled roots o’erspread the ground
Honours that were from tempests won,
In generations long since gone,
A scanty foliage yet was seen,
Wreathing its hoary brows with green,
Like to a crown of victory
On some old warrior’s forehead grey,
And, as it stood, it seem’d to speak
To winter winds in murmurs weak,
Of times that long had passed it by
And left it desolate, to sigh
Of what it was, and seem’d to wail,
A shadeless spectre, shapeless, pale.

_Mrs. Radclife._[269]

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

THE SPIRIT’S BLASTED TREE.]

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

_Marmion._

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

In the conference between “Glendower” and his adherents, he says to Henry Percy:--

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

THE SPIRIT’S BLASTED TREE.

_Ceubren yr Ellyll._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, to this day, the peasant still,
With cautious fear, avoids the ground;
In each wild branch a spectre sees,
And trembles at each rising sound.

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

Yet still to hope her heart would cling
As o’er the mind illusions play,--
Of travel fond, perhaps her lord
To distant lands had steered his way.

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

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

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

The portal reached,--the iron bell
Loud sounded round the outward wall
Quick sprang the warder to the gate,
To know what meant the clamorous call.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘To Sele’s sad widow bear the tale
Nor let our horrid secret rest;
Give but _his_ corse to sacred earth,
Then may my parting soul be blest.’--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY’S OAK.

In an elegant volume called “_Sylvan Sketches_, a companion to the park and the shrubbery, with illustrations from the works of the poets by the author of the _Flora Domestica_,” there is a delightful assemblage of poetical passages on the oak, with this memorial of a very celebrated one:--

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

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

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

“It is mentioned by Waller:--

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

“Southey says, speaking of Penshurst--

--------‘Sidney here was born.
Sidney than whom no greater, braver man,
His own delightful genius ever feigned,
Illustrating the vales of Arcady
With courteous courage, and with loyal loves.
Upon his natal day the acorn here
Was planted; it grew up a stately oak,
And in the beauty of its strength it stood
And flourished, when its perishable part
Had mouldered dust to dust. That stately oak
Itself hath mouldered now, but Sidney’s name
Endureth in his own immortal works.’

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

THE OAK OF MAMRE.

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

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

NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.

Mean Temperature 63·50.

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

[270] Pennant.

[271] Bayle, art. Abraham.

[272] Bayle, art. Barcochebas.

~July 28.~

ST. DECLAN.

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

_Ardmore and its Patron._

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

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

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

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

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

NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.

Mean Temperature 63·65.

[273] Ryland’s History of Waterford.

[274] Waterford Mail.

~July 29.~

ST. MARTHA.

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

* * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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