The quaint simplicity of the last sentence—so full of meaning—and the lesson it inculcates regarding the authority of Traditions, illustrate in a quiet way the Marquess’s opinions as to those of the Church; and to antiquaries, the aid of tradition is thus very ingeniously recommended. Where authentic history falls short of the mark in researches, the traditions of a castle are entitled to consideration; and in the preceding account of Raglan, it has been our study to combine the two—though not in the sense recommended by the Marquess.
Of Lord Herbert, the following anecdote is recorded:—Some time after he was created Earl of Glamorgan, he received the King’s commission, as we have seen,[303] to proceed to Ireland, and there ascertain what could be done to strengthen the royal cause. Setting out on this expedition, and accompanied, as we are told, by a distinguished retinue of officers, knights, and gentlemen—“all of the red letter”—who had staked life and fortune on the enterprise, his lordship arrived at Caernarvon, where he was to embark for Ireland. Here they were detained a short time; and Glamorgan continuing to receive at his table the loyalist gentlemen of the place, the conversation turned upon some old prophecies, which it was thought were fast reaching their fulfilment. “And particularly one,” said a gentleman of the company. “It is an old Welsh prediction, and says—‘That in these latter times there should come to this very town a magpie, and build her nest in the royal crown; that next a jackdaw should arrive, and beat off the magpie; then a buzzard should appear on the same roost, and drive away the jackdaw; and then there should be seen no crown, but that of thorns, upon the King’s head! Farther, that there should come a band of men from a far country, and take away the thorns, and then the crown should appear again.’”
And thus far, as the townsmen averred, the prophecy had been accomplished; to wit—“Over the gate of Caernarvon Castle, there was a statue of King Edward the First, in full proportion, with a crown upon his head. Well, there did come a magpie, as every one could tell, which built, her nest in the said crown; then came a jackdaw that beat away the magpie, as foretold; and, in like manner, came at last a buzzard, and drove away the jackdaw.” “And all this,” said the worthy townsmen, “we assure your honour to be as true as Holy Writ.”
Hereupon the Earl of Glamorgan, having listened with deep interest to the recital, replied with much animation—“And why may not we, my gallant friends and comrades—why may not we be that band of men from a far country, that shall take away these thorns from the King’s head—first, in type, and then in substance?” And thereupon all concluded themselves to be the men destined for that glorious service. They resolved that, on rising from table, they would satisfy their eyes with the sight, as their ears had already been with the relation, and lend willing and helping hands to disencumber the figure. Nothing else could be thought of; and dinner being ended, the Earl and his company sallied forth to the castle gate, resolved to signalize the day by an act of loyalty that would endear their names to posterity. Looking up, accordingly, with great eagerness to the royal badge, that seemed to implore their assistance, its appearance, sure enough, was in literal accordance with the disordered condition in which crowns are generally left by rival combatants. It was, in fact, quite a heart-breaking sight to see the diadem of England so covered and entangled with thorns, as if artificially platted round the King’s temples.
“Verily,” said one of the nobles present, “never hath mine eye beheld a sadder spectacle!” “The Earl himself, almost frantic with grief and indignation, straightway commanded the nest to be torn down; which was done with every mark of ignominy; and then the company began to breathe again. The materials composing the nest being examined with severe scrutiny, were found to be of white-thorn—a substance whereof never was bird known before to build her nest!”
A thing so unprecedented, both as regards the nest and the material[304] thereof, caused in the beholders a degree of amazement not to be expressed: in memorial whereof, every one present thrust a sprig of thorn in his hatband, and so wore it as a talisman. So far, “in type,” the thorns were removed from the King’s crown—but not “in substance.”
This adventure in Caernarvon being duly narrated to the Marquess at Raglan, he paused for a minute, and then inquired of those about him, “What was the nickname which the Roundheads were wont to give the Bishops?” But there were none about him who could even guess at his meaning; which he perceiving, said, “As I take it, they used to call the Bishops Magpies, whom they reproach for building their nests in the crown; then came the Presbyterian Jackdaws, and beat them out; and the next thing that you shall see will be the Independent Buzzard, which shall drive them away. And who shall come next, God only knows!”
To this solution, one with a Roman nose made answer: “I hope, my lord, that after these men have played their pranks sufficiently, no man hereafter will presume to build his nest in the crown; but I hope there will be a knot of good fellows that may case the King’s head from the pricking of those thorns, and clear the crown from those incumbrances.” Whereupon the Marquess, replying, asked the party who related the story, “What manner of crown it was—of what form—that was upon the King’s head?” The gentleman replied, “A royal crown.” “Ay; but I mean,” rejoined my lord, “was it an open or an imperial crown?” “An open one.” “Oh, then, that was the reason; the King’s crown was too open: had it been close at top, with the Cross overhead have come there to have built their nests; but one thing there is,” said he, in conclusion, “that I mislike in the story, namely, that after they had taken the thorns from the King’s head, they should afterwards wear them in their own hatbands.”[305] This was what no one present could explain to the Marquess’s satisfaction. And Lord Glamorgan’s negotiations in Ireland proved a failure to remove any “thorns from the royal crown.”—So much for a prophecy which shows the superstition and credulity of the times—a credulity which tainted even those who were charged with the highest offices of the state. Yet such—
“The superstitious, idle-headed eld
Received, and did deliver to our age.”
In those days, no fortress surrendered, no castle fell, no band of heroes was discomfited, but in fulfilment of some irresistible “prophecy.”—But here we must close the subject with a few words on the