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. 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, Of what it was, and seem'd to wail, 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. See this lady's "Posthumous Works," vol. iv. Stonehenge stanza 53, from whence these lines are capriciously altered. stead 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. Penuant, 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 VOL. II.—85. 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?" These signs have mark'd me extraordinary ; Which calls me pupil, or hath read to me? Mort. With all my heart, I'll sit- And those musicians that shall play to you, [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 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. 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. Pennant. Unhappy chief! would nought avail, 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 storied 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. 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 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 grief's worn ear. The lady sat amidst her train; A mellowed sorrow marked her look: One moment raise thy soul from woe, The story claims thy full belief: 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. In some lone cot, or desert wood. |