AN ENGLISH LADY'S LETTER: by F. D. Udall (London)
PEVENSEY CASTLE is one of the most interesting of all the ancient and historic castles of old England. It was seized by William the Conqueror immediately he landed in the bay close by, and he left a garrison to hold it while he pushed on to Hastings and subsequently to the country round about the "hoar apple tree" mentioned in the Saxon Chronicle, where the decisive engagement with Harold and his army took place. This spot, ever since commemorated in the name of the village—Battle—is some seven miles inland. Harold had taken care to leave a garrison, too, at Pevensey, while he went north, but according to Freeman, William found the place wholly undefended or else with a force totally inadequate to resist the Normans. At all events there appears to have been no resistance offered to the invaders, on that fateful Michael's Eve. The castle and land for miles around eventually became the property of the Conqueror's half-brother.
How old the castle is nobody knows. British coins have been discovered at Pevensey, and it is thought that the place was an ancient British settlement. As to the castle itself, the general opinion is that it was built by the Romans, and the many Roman coins found in its precincts, chiefly of the Constantine family, give support to the theory. In the days of the venerable Bede there was a great forest in these parts, the forest of Anderida, roamed by herds of deer and swine. Pevensey is first mentioned in historical documents in the year 792, when its owner—generous man!—gave it away, together with Hastings, to the Abbey of St. Denis at Paris. Sir John Pelham was appointed Constable of the Castle in the reign of Edward III, and his courageous wife held it during a siege in her husband's absence, in the following reign, in 1399. This lady gives the old ruins an interest of quite another character from their warlike associations by reason of a letter she dispatched to her husband during that siege. He was up in Yorkshire at the time. The letter has come down through the centuries—a brave, sweet, womanly, wifely relic of those early days in "our rough island story." It enjoys the honor of being enshrined in Hallam's Literature of Europe, and well it deserves the distinction. Here is what the lady wrote while the enemy was at the gate.
My dear lord:
I recommend me to your high lordship with heart and body and all my poor might, and with all this I thank you as my dear lord, dearest and best beloved of all earthly lords, I say for me, and thank you, my dear lord, with all this that I say before of your comfortable letter that ye sent me from Pontefract, that come to me on Mary Magdalene day (July 22); for by my troth I was never so glad as when I heard by your letter that ye were strong enough with the grace of God for to keep you from the malice of your enemies. And, dear lord, if it like to your high lordship that as soon as ye might that I might hear of your gracious speed; which God Almighty continue and increase. And, my dear lord, if it like you for to know of my fare, I am here by laid in manner of a siege with the county of Sussex, Surrey, and a great parcel of Kent, so that I may nought out, nor none victuals get me but with much hard. Wherefore, my dear, if it like you by the advice of your wise counsel for to set remedy of the salvation of your castle, and withstand the malice of the shires aforesaid. And also that ye be fully informed of their great malice workers in these shires, which that haves so despitefully wrought to you, and to your castle, to your men, and to your tenants for this country, have yai (sic) wasted for a great while. Farewell, my dear lord; the Holy Trinity you keep from your enemies, and soon send me good tidings of you.
Written at Pevensey in the Castle on St. Jacob day (St. James, July 25) last past,
By your own poor,
J. Pelham.To my true lord.
Lomaland Photo. and Engraving Dept.
RUINS OF PEVENSEY CASTLE
IN THE FOREST
A MAGIC PLACE: A Forest Idyll for Young Folks:
by M. Ginevra Munson
WHO has not felt the inspiring and soothing influence of certain quiet spots? as though the jarring and restless forces of nature were there rendered impotent and the soul could commune freely with the great heart-life of all. The conflicting vibrations of human thought are annulled and nature speaks in whatever language you choose: in song or verse, art or science. How it draws one up to the heights of infinitude to sit in solitude, with eye on the expanse of ocean in which is mirrored all the gorgeous tints and cloud-forms in the sky at sunset; or on mountain heights where no sounds or sights except the blue dome overhead and the distant landscape beneath, can distract the mind from the sense of the invisible Presence that fills all space; or in the depths of a noble forest where the foot of man seldom comes.
It was in such a place as this, surrounded by the elves and fairies of the wood, that Helena, in the company of her father and a few other artist spirits, pitched their tents for summer work in the stillness of the forest; sculptors, painters, poets, musical composers, and writers on various themes, each lived in the quiet and privacy of his own domicile, out of sight or hearing of any other.
Helena was the daughter of a poet and inherited that keen sense of communion with and understanding of nature's moods and voices, but had never before been in such a place as this, having been born near a thriving city. She was devoted to her father, and though only yet in her early teens, showed such appreciation of her father's work that he brought her along with him as a sort of mentor when reading his poems over. Then too, her mother was dead, and he felt it his duty to keep Helena under his own care as much as possible, as she was an only child. Nothing could have made her happier or have been better for her than this forest air and odor of fragrant wood, and her spirits and health responded to it gratefully. While her father was busy she wandered about, making companions of the birds, trees, and other forest-life. The inspiration and magic of the place was so great that she was seized with the desire to express the joy and budding knowledge that stirred within her soul; so without saying anything to her father, she would take out tablet and pencil and sit on a fallen log near the singing brook that ran close by, and write down the daily dialog she heard going on around her. Overhead the trees said to the birds: "Are you happy my pretty ones, fluttering and hopping from twig to branch, pluming your feathers as I sway and swing you about?" "Oh yes, dear trees," twittered the birds, "and we will be diligent in destroying the worms that prey on your beautiful leaves, while we sing to you our thanks for the lacy bowers and secret hiding-places for our nests of young birdlings, who take their first lessons in song from the music of the breeze through your branches"; and then they poured forth a chorus in greater glee than ever.
Up in a high fork of the great spreading top of an oak was a huge nest of dead leaves, from one edge of which peered a pair of bright eyes in a furry gray head, over which curled a bushy gray and white tail. A chattering voice chimed in with the birds: "Dear trees, I too love you, for with your leaves for my nest you provide me a home out of reach of all harm, and you feed me with lovely acorns in such abundance that I can store up enough for the whole round year; but I'm sorry I can return so little back to you, save a grateful heart."
"Oh, thanks, I am safe home," said a bounding cotton-tail rabbit, as he shot into the protecting walls of a hollow log. "What would I do if it were not for the deserted trunk of a tree; and even the live ones sometimes give me a home in a hole in their bodies, quite low enough down for me to jump into, yet too small and deep for intruders to poke their noses in very far."
"Yes, yes, I too," chirped a striped ground squirrel, "owe all my comforts to the trees, and no one can find my cosy nest of pine needles, so fragrant and clean."
An old sly fox ran swiftly by, saying: "O shelter me in your depths, dark forest, for I hear the bay of a hound on the scent of my track," then he jumped the purling stream to cut off the lead of the dog, and sped away.
As Helena glanced down the stream she saw a beaver working away on a pile of logs and heard him murmur: "What would I do if the trees did not furnish me logs for my dam? Nothing else would serve me so well, I am sure, and I only cut down young saplings where they are too crowded to thrive. In turn for the favor I will make the stream deeper so the water will not dry away in hot weather, but will give drink to the tree roots all the year through."
Away in the distance Helena spied the red-brown coat of a deer and heard its call to the fawn. Out from a tangled mass of vines and low swaying branches bounded the spotted young beauty, and answered back: "Here mother-deer, the forest has safely sheltered me, and fed me too on sweet young sassafras shoots. May I now take a run with you?"
Then Helena gazed in the stream at the fishes, who answered her thought: "Yes, we too would perish were it not for the shady pools that reflect the lacy network of the trees that draw down the rain from heaven to fill the stream and keep the water fresh."
Filled with wonder at these voices of the woods, Helena realized that though it seemed so silent it was full of song and happy life, but that the love and harmony of these beings made the magic of the place and filled it with peace and soul-inspiring influences. While she meditated and watched the bees gathering sweets from the fragrant wood-violets and wild-plum blossoms, she heard a voice so startlingly loud that she jumped with surprise. It said "Who? Who? Who——o?" and seemed to come from the very tree tops. While looking up in wonder, Helena saw a great, fluffy cream-colored bird with brownish bars on its wings and a big round head with two enormous yellow eyes, float noiselessly away through the forest. Could that voice have come from the bird? "What did he say 'Who? Who? Who——?' It seemed to question me, asking to whom were all these creatures, as well as myself, beholden? Why, yes, every voice spoke of love for and indebtedness to the trees. They stand here so silently and majestically through ages, affording food, shelter, shade, and protection, for all these other beings whose very lives depend upon them. The dear trees are monarchs over all, yet serve all, standing here with their roots fast in the soil and their heads touching the sun-bright heavens. To us people too, though we may live in cities and never know or think of the forest trees, we could scarcely live without them. Our houses, our furniture, and almost everything that is of use or convenience to us have some wood about them; and then we enjoy the nuts, the fruit, and other kinds of food produced by the trees as much as the squirrels and birds, no doubt. Perhaps these trees bring down from higher regions other forces that feed our souls also—Who? Who Who——o knows?"
"Yes, now I understand," thought Helena, "why the great Initiates, Masters and Saviors of the world, were called 'Trees.' Jesus was called 'the Tree of Life,' and the Initiates spoken of in the Bible, 'the Cedars of Lebanon.' They stand and serve and protect."
Then Helena remembered that she had read in her Scandinavian Mythology that trees were formed from the hair of the giant Ymir, in the creation of the world. "His blood formed the oceans and rivers; his bones the mountains; his teeth the rocks and cliffs; and his hair, the trees." Also that "the universe springs from beneath the branches of the world-tree Yggdrasil, the tree with three roots."
Helena must certainly have been sitting on a branch or root of the tree of wisdom when getting into such a deep strain of thought. The spirit of the forest had awakened her soul to the realization of the fact of Brotherhood in Nature too, the give and take, the unity and inseparable life of the denizens of the wood that made it such a magic place. She also saw why the tree was made a symbol of universal life, for all other life in the world is really somewhat dependable upon the trees.
"No wonder," Helena thought, as she walked back to her father's bungalow, "no wonder there is such magic in the depth of the forest, and that father comes here to get in touch with the soul of things. That is why 'tis said that 'Poetry is the true language of the soul.'"
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