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.
Ceubren yr Ellyll,
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]