Neither Wolfere, nor his wife Eva, anticipated that such would be the fate of the noble abbey which the piety of former kings had founded, and which the governor of Mercia sought to enlarge and beautify, because Eva loved to worship there. The future is in mercy veiled from the eyes of men; they could not bear to contemplate events that are often close at hand, for though strength is promised for the day of sorrow, it is not given before that sorrow comes. Eva went, as she was wont, on every holy day, to offer prayers, and to present her gifts within the hallowed walls of St Peter’s Abbey, and Wolfere continued to embellish the noble city that was confided to his care, by causing many spacious buildings to be erected both for ornament and use. The city had suffered greatly in former wars, and he not only rebuilt such portions of the walls as had been broken down, but so enlarged and adorned it, that it was soon spoken of as one of the finest cities in the Heptarchy. Great hospitality was also exercised at his court, and many found a shelter there, whose homes had been destroyed in the rage of civil discord.
The presidency of Wolfere, therefore, over the kingdom of Mercia; the noble acts which he achieved in beautifying and enlarging the city of Caer-Glou, and the quiet, unassuming labours of his wife, Eva, were cotemporary with the Chesnut of Tortworth when it first attained its high standing among forest-trees. It may be, that the venerable ruin, whose decaying trunk is still surmounted by a few verdant branches, was looked upon in its day of pride, by Wolfere and Eva. Tortworth was mentioned, in the time of John, as an ancient place, and the tree of which we speak was called the Great Chesnut. It grew within the garden-wall of the old mansion, and we have no reason to believe that the site on which it stood, had been recently reclaimed from the forest.
Wallace’s Oak.
| The old Memorial tree is down; But its stirring legend still lives on: A tale of grief and withering woe, Of tears that ceased long ago.—M. R. |
The noble Oak of Ellerslie sheltered the birth-place of Wallace. Centuries have passed since then, and now it stands in the centre of a small common, time-worn and reft of all its greatness, a magnificent ruin; although, within the memory of man, its ample branches extended over a Scotch acre of ground. Wallace, and the children of the village, used to play beneath its shelter: they would gather acorns for cups and balls, and rest on the green sward when they were hot and weary.
A poet, perhaps, would tell you that the patriarchal tree loved to look down on the young “wee things,” whose remotest ancestors—precursors, it may be, of a thousand generations, to the period concerning which we speak—had dwelt beside it; that it liked to screen them from the noonday heat; and that, when a sudden shower, driving furiously from off the hills, made the fondlings haste beneath its branches, it kept off the heavy rain-drops that they might not harm the merry crowd. Certain it is that the village children liked best to play beneath the shade of the old oak, and that their parents knew where to seek for the young truants, when they had wandered from school or home. We can all enter into the feelings of children, for we have been children ourselves; we can remember how the primrose and the cowslip, although the gathering of them often gained for us both colds and chidings; the nest of the hedge-sparrow, or the coming forth of the white thorn, were things of vast importance; what delight the finding of them imparted, and how every new object powerfully excited the young mind, because they had all, and each, the charm of novelty. We know, also, that as months and years pass on, somewhat of care begins to steal across all this joyousness, as the shadow of a passing cloud obscures a sunny landscape; that the cares of every day occurrence—the difficulty of finding bread for a large young family—the father’s weariness after a day of labour, and the anxious feelings of the mother, are soon shared in by children. They feel more than any one imagines who does not vividly remember what his or her feelings have been in very early life, although the feelings were not, perhaps, depressed by circumstances of equal trial. Time goes on, and it is not only home sorrows that engross the mind; if the days in which they live, are stormy, and men speak of their country’s wrongs, the striplings aspire to aid in seeking redress; and the ardour by which their fathers are excited, is reflected in them with double vividness. Thus it was at the period when Wallace lived. The thoughts of all were much engrossed by the terrible condition of the country, and the once playful children, who used to assemble beneath the Oak of Ellerslie, now grown up to boyhood, heard from their fathers that the English army was advancing with all speed towards the border land. Edward led them on, but he had no right to the crown of Scotland. Alexander III., who had filled till lately the now vacant throne, and who had espoused the sister of Edward, most probably inherited, after a period of eight hundred years, and through a succession of males, the sceptre of all the Scottish princes; of those, who, although the country had been continually exposed to such factions and convulsions as are incident to all barbarous, and to many civilized nations, had governed her rocks and fastnesses, from a period whose commencement is lost in the obscurity of ages. But the king was dead; he had fallen from his horse at Kinghorn, and the maid of Norway, as she was termed, daughter of Eric, her king, and his own fair daughter Margaret, was the only representative of the Scottish dynasty. Alexander had wisely caused her to be recognized by the states of Scotland, as the lawful heir of the kingdom, and though an infant and a foreigner, she was immediately received as such. Margaret was accordingly proclaimed queen, and the dispositions which had been made against the event of Alexander’s death appeared so just and prudent, that no disorders, as might naturally be apprehended, ensued in the kingdom. Five guardians, the Bishops of St. Andrew’s and Glasgow, the Earls of Fife and Bucan, and James Steward, were appointed to take charge of the young princess. These men, who were distinguished for their talents and integrity, entered peaceably upon the administration, and the infant queen, under the protection of Edward, her great uncle, and Eric her father, set forth on her voyage towards Scotland. But either the fatigue attendant on an expedition by sea, or else, in her young mind, grief at leaving the companions of her childhood, affected her health; she suddenly became ill, and died on the passage.