Part 10

King William II., being thus slain, was laid on a cart belonging to one Purkess, and drawn from hence to Winchester, and buried in the Cathedral Church of that city.

III.

That the spot where an event so memorable happened, might not hereafter be unknown, this stone was set up by John Lord Delaware, who has seen the tree growing in this place.

Lord Delaware here asserts plainly that he had seen the Oak-tree; and as he resided much near the place, there is reason to believe that he had other grounds for the assertion besides the mere tradition of the country. That matter, however, rests on his authority.

Gilpin likewise gives us the following account of the Cadenham Oak, in the New Forest, which was remarkable for putting forth its buds in the depth of winter. Cadenham is a village about three miles from Lyndhurst, on the road to Salisbury:--

"Having often heard of this Oak, I took a ride to see it on December 29, 1781. It was pointed out to me among several other Oaks, surrounded by a little forest stream, winding round a knoll on which they stood. It is a tall straight plant, of no great age, and apparently vigorous, except that its top has been injured, from which several branches issue in the form of pollard shoots. It was entirely bare of leaves, as far as I could discern, when I saw it, and undistinguishable from the other Oaks in its neighbourhood, except that its bark seemed rather smoother, occasioned, I apprehended, only by frequent climbing.

"Having had the account of its early budding confirmed on the spot, I engaged one Michael Lawrence, who kept the White Hart, a small alehouse in the neighbourhood, to send me some of the leaves to Vicar's Hill, as soon as they should appear. The man, who had not the least doubt about the matter, kept his word, and sent me several twigs on the morning of January 5, 1782, a few hours after they had been gathered. The leaves were fairly expanded, and about an inch in length. From some of the buds two leaves had unsheathed themselves, but in general only one.

"Through what power in nature this strange premature vegetation is occasioned, I believe no naturalist can explain. I sent some of the leaves to one of the ablest botanists we have, Mr. Lightfoot, author of the _Flora Scotica_, and was in hopes of hearing something satisfactory on the subject. But he is one of those philosophers who are not ashamed of ignorance where attempts at knowledge are mere conjecture. He assured me he neither could account for it in any way, nor did he know of any other instance of premature vegetation, except the Glastonbury thorn. The philosophers of the forest, in the meantime, account for the thing at once, through the influence of old Christmas day, universally believing that the Oak buds on that day, and that only. The same opinion is held with regard to the Glastonbury thorn, by the common people of the west of England. But, without doubt, the vegetation there is gradual, and forwarded or retarded by the mildness or severity of the weather. One of its progeny, which grew in the gardens of the Duchess Dowager of Portland, at Bulstrode, had its flower-buds perfectly formed so early as December 21, 1781, which is fifteen days earlier than it ought to flower, according to the vulgar prejudice.

"This early spring, however, of the Cadenham Oak, is of very short duration. The buds, after unfolding themselves, make no farther progress, but immediately shrink from the season and die. The tree continues torpid, like other deciduous trees, during the remainder of the winter, and vegetates again in the spring, at the usual season. I have seen it in full leaf in the middle of summer, when it appeared, both in its form and foliage, exactly like other Oaks.

"I have been informed that another tree, with the same property of early vegetation, has lately been found near the spot where Rufus's monument stands. If this be the case, it seems in some degree to authenticate the account which Camden gives us of the scene of that prince's death; for he speaks of the premature vegetation of that very tree on which the arrow of Tyrrel glanced, and the tree I now speak of, if it really exist, though I have no sufficient authority for it, might have been a descendant of the old Oak, and hence inherited its virtues.

"It is very probable, however, there may be other Oaks in the forest which may likewise have the property of early vegetation. I have heard it often suspected, that people gather buds from other trees and carry them, on old Christmas day, to the Oak at Cadenham, from whence they pretend to pluck them; for that tree is in such repute, and resorted to annually by so many visitants, that I think it could not easily supply all its votaries without some foreign contributions. Some have accounted for this phenomenon by supposing that leaves have been preserved over the year by being steeped in vinegar. But I am well satisfied this is not the case. Mr. Lightfoot, to whom I sent the leaves, had no such suspicion."

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In the _Salisbury Journal_, January 10, 1781, the following paragraph appeared:--

"In consequence of a report that has prevailed in this country for upwards of two centuries, and which by many has been almost considered as a matter of faith, that the Oak at Cadenham, in the New Forest, shoots forth leaves on every old Christmas day, and that no leaf is ever to be seen on it, either before or after that day, during the winter; a lady, who is now on a visit in this city, and who is attentively curious in every thing relative to art or nature, made a journey to Cadenham on Monday, the 3d instant, purposely to inquire, on the spot, about the production of this famous tree. On her arrival near it, the usual guide was ready to attend her; but on his being desired to climb the Oak, and to search whether there were any leaves then on it, he said it would be to no purpose, but that if she would come on the Wednesday following (Christmas day), she might certainly see thousands. However, he was prevailed on to ascend, and on the first branch which he gathered appeared several fair new leaves, fresh sprouted from the buds, and nearly an inch and a half in length. It may be imagined that the guide was more amazed at this premature production than the lady; for so strong was his belief in the truth of the whole tradition, that he would have pledged his life that not a leaf was to have been discovered on any part of the tree before the usual hour.

"But though the superstitious part of this ancient legend is hence confuted, yet it must be allowed there is something very uncommon and curious in an Oak constantly shooting forth leaves at this unseasonable time of the year, and that the cause of it well deserves the philosophical attention of the botanist. In some years there is no doubt that this Oak may show its first leaves on the Christmas morning, as probably as on a few days before; and this perhaps was the case in the last year, when a gentleman of this neighbourhood, a nice and critical observer, strictly examined the branches, not only on the Christmas morn, but also on the day prior to it. On the first day not a leaf was to be found, but on the following every branch had its complement, though they were then but just shooting from the buds, none of them being more than a quarter of an inch long. The latter part of the story may easily be credited--that no leaves are to be seen on it after Christmas day--as large parties yearly assemble about the Oak on that morning, and regularly strip every appearance of a leaf from it."

At Elderslie, near Paisley, upon a little knoll, there stood, near the end of the last century, the ruins of an Oak, which was supposed to be the largest tree that ever grew in Scotland. The trunk was then wholly decayed and hollow, but it was evident, from what remained, that its diameter could not have been less than eleven or twelve feet. As to its age, we can only conjecture, from some circumstances, that it is most likely a tree of great antiquity. The little knoll whereon it stands is surrounded by a swamp, over which a causeway leads to the tree, or rather to a circle which seems to have run round it. The vestiges of this circle, as well as the causeway, bear a plain resemblance to those works which are commonly attributed to the Druids, so that this tree was probably a scene of worship consecrated by these heathen priests. But the credit of it does not depend on the dubious vestiges of Druid antiquity. In a latter scene of greater importance (if tradition ever be the vehicle of truth) it bore a large share. When the illustrious and renowned hero, William Wallace, roused the spirit of the Scotch nation to oppose the tyranny of Edward, he frequently chose the solitude of Torwood as a place of rendezvous for his army. There he concealed his numbers and his designs, sallying out suddenly on the enemy's garrisons, and retreating as suddenly when he feared to be overpowered. While his army lay in those woods, the Oak which we are now commemorating was commonly his head-quarters. There the hero generally slept, its hollow trunk being sufficiently capacious, not only to afford shelter to himself, but also to many of his followers. This tree has ever since been known by the name of Wallace tree.

In the enclosure known as the Little Park, in Windsor Forest, there is still standing the supposed Oak immortalized by Shakspeare as the scene of Hern the hunter's exploits:--

--An old tale goes, that Hern the hunter, Sometime a keeper here in Windsor Forest, Doth all the winter time, at still of midnight, Walk round about this Oak, with ragged horns; And then he blasts the trees, destroys the cattle, Makes the milch cow yield blood, and shakes a chain In hideous, dreadful manner.

_Merry Wives_, iv. 3.

This tree measures about twenty-four feet in circumference, and is yet vigorous, which somewhat injures its historical credit. For though it is evidently a tree advanced in years, and might well have existed in the time of Elizabeth, it seems too strong and vigorous to have been a proper tree, in that age, for Hern the hunter to have danced round. Fairies, elves, and that generation of people, are universally supposed to select the most ancient and venerable trees to gambol under; and the poet who should describe them dancing under a sapling, would show very little acquaintance with his subject. That this tree could not be called a venerable tree two centuries ago is evident, because it can scarcely assume that character even now. And yet an Oak, in a soil it likes, will continue so many years in a vigorous state, that we must not lay more stress on this argument than it will fairly bear. It may be added, however, in its favour, that a pit, or ditch, is still shown near the tree, as Shakspeare describes it, which may have been preserved with the same veneration as the tree itself.

There is an Oak in the grounds of Sir Gerrard Van Neck, at Heveningham, in Suffolk, which carries us likewise into the times of Elizabeth. But this tree brings its evidence with it--evidence which, if necessary, might carry it into the Saxon times. It is now falling fast into the decline of years, and every year robs it more of its honours. But its trunk, which is thirty-five feet in circumference, still retains its grandeur, though the ornaments of its boughs and foliage are much reduced. But the grandeur of the trunk consists only in appearance; it is a mere shell. In Queen Elizabeth's time it was hollow, and from this circumstance the tree derives the honour of being handed down to posterity. That princess, who from her earliest years loved masculine amusements, used often, it is said, in her youth, to take her stand in this tree and shoot the deer as they passed. From that time it has been known by the name of Queen Elizabeth's Oak.

The Swilcar Oak, in the Forest of Needwood, in Staffordshire, was measured about 1771, and found to be nineteen feet in girth at six feet from the ground; and when measured in 1825 it was twenty-one feet four inches and a half in circumference at the same height from the ground. This proves that the tree is slowly increasing, having gained two feet four inches in fifty-four years, and yet it is known, by historical documents, to be six hundred years old. Though in decay it is still a fine, shapely, characteristic tree. It stands in an open lawn, surrounded by extensive woods. In a poem entitled _Needwood Forest_ the author thus addresses it:--

Hail! stately Oak, whose wrinkled trunk hath stood, Age after age, the sovereign of the wood: You, who have seen a thousand springs unfold Their ravelled buds, and dip their flowers in gold-- Ten thousand times yon moon relight her horn, And that bright eye of evening gild the morn,--

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Yes, stately Oak, thy leaf-wrapped head sublime Ere long must perish in the wrecks of time; Should, o'er thy brow, the thunders harmless break, And thy firm roots in vain the whirlwinds shake, Yet must thou fall. Thy withering glories sunk, Arm after arm shall leave thy mouldering trunk.

The Cowthorpe, or Coltsthorpe Oak, near Wetherby, in Yorkshire, had its principal branch rent off by a storm in the year 1718, when it was accurately measured, and found to contain more than five tons of timber. Previous to this mutilation, its branches are said to have extended over half an acre of ground. At three feet from the ground, this most gigantic of all trees is sixteen yards, or forty-eight feet, and close to the root it is twenty-six yards, or seventy-eight feet, in girth! Its principal limb projects forty-eight feet from the trunk. It is still in wonderful preservation, though its foliage is thin. It has been called the King of the British Sylva, and, indeed, it deserves the title, and proud we may be of such a king.

There were two trees in Yardley Forest, called Gog and Magog, which demand our notice on account of one of them having been celebrated by the muse of Cowper. The scenery in which they stood is hallowed by his shade. He was fond of indulging his melancholy minstrel musings among the woodland scenery there. Gog, the larger of these two Oaks, measured thirty-eight feet round at the roots, and was twenty-eight feet in circumference at three feet from the ground. It was fifty-eight feet high, and contained one thousand six hundred and sixty-eight feet seven inches of solid timber. Magog was only forty-nine feet in height; but its circumference was fifty-four feet four inches at the ground, and thirty-one feet three at three feet high. These two trees were near each other, and although a good deal bared at the top by age, they were very picturesque. We shall quote here the whole of Cowper's Address to the "Yardley Oak"; from which it would appear that only one of them then remained:--

Survivor sole, and hardly such, of all That once lived here, thy brethren, at my birth (Since which I number threescore winters pass'd) A shatter'd veteran, hollow-trunk'd perhaps, As now, and with excoriate forks deform, Relics of ages! Could a mind, imbued With truth from Heaven, created thing adore, I might with reverence kneel, and worship thee. It seems idolatry with some excuse, When our forefather Druids in their Oaks Imagined sanctity. The conscience, yet Unpurified by an authentic act Of amnesty, the meed of blood Divine, Loved not the light; but, gloomy, into gloom Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste Of fruit proscribed, as to a refuge, fled. Thou wast a bauble once; a cup and ball, Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay, Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs, And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. But Fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rains Beneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil Design'd thy cradle; and a skipping deer, With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepared The soft receptacle, in which, secure, Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through. So Fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can, Ye reasoners broad awake, whose busy search Of argument, employ'd too oft amiss, Sifts half the pleasure of sweet life away I Thou fell'st mature; and in the loamy clod, Swelling with vegetative force instinct, Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled Twins, Now stars; two lobes, protruding, pair'd exact; A leaf succeeded, and another leaf; And, all the elements thy puny growth Fostering propitious, thou becamest a twig. Who lived, when thou wast such? O, couldst thou speak, As in Dodona once thy kindred trees Oracular, I would not curious ask The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past. By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, The clock of history, facts and events Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts Recovering, and misstated setting right-- Desperate attempt, till trees shall speak again! Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods; And Time hath made thee what thou art--a cave For owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughs O'erhung the champaign; and the numerous flocks That grazed it, stood beneath that ample cope Uncrowded, yet safe-sheltered from the storm. No flock frequents thee now. Thou hast outlived Thy popularity, and art become (Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing Forgotten, as the foliage of thy youth. While thus through all the stages thou hast push'd Of treeship--first a seedling hid in grass; Then twig; then sapling; and, as century roll'd Slow after century, a giant bulk Of girth enormous, with moss-cushioned root Upheaved above the soil, and sides emboss'd With prominent wens globose--till at the last The rottenness, which time is charged to inflict On other mighty ones, found also thee. What exhibitions various hath the world Witness'd of mutability in all That we account most durable below! Change is the diet on which all subsist, Created changeable, and change at last Destroys them. Skies uncertain now the heat Transmitting cloudless, and the solar beam Now quenching in a boundless sea of clouds-- Calm and alternate storm, moisture and drought, Invigorate by turns the springs of life In all that live--plant, animal, and man-- And in conclusion mar them. Nature's threads, Fine passing thought, ev'n in her coarsest works, Delight in agitation, yet sustain The force that agitates, not unimpaired; But, worn by frequent impulse, to the cause Of their best tone their dissolution owe. Thought cannot spend itself, comparing still The great and little of thy lot, thy growth From almost nullity into a state Of matchless grandeur, and declension thence, Slow, into such magnificent decay. Time was, when, settling on thy leaf, a fly Could shake thee to the root--and time has been When tempests could not. At thy firmest age Thou hadst within thy bole solid contents, That might have ribb'd the sides and plank'd the deck Of some flagg'd admiral; and tortuous arms, The shipwright's darling treasure, didst present To the four-quarter'd winds, robust and bold, Warp'd into tough knee-timber,[1] many a load! But the axe spared thee. In those thriftier days Oaks fell not, hewn by thousands, to supply The bottomless demands of contest, waged For senatorial honours. Thus to Time The task was left to whittle thee away With his sly scythe, whose ever-nibbling edge, Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more, Disjoining from the rest, has, unobserved, Achieved a labour, which had far and wide, By man perform'd, made all the forest ring. Embowell'd now, and of thy ancient self Possessing naught but the scoop'd rind, that seems A huge throat, calling to the clouds for drink, Which it would give in rivulets to thy root-- Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidst The feller's toil, which thou couldst ill requite. Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock, A quarry of stout spurs and knotted fangs, Which, crook'd into a thousand whimsies, clasp The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect. So stands a kingdom, whose foundation yet Fails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid; Though all the superstructure, by the tooth Pulverised of venality, a shell Stands now, and semblance only of itself! Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent them off Long since, and rovers of the forest wild With bow and shaft have burn'd them. Some have left A splinter'd stump, bleach'd to a snowy white; And some, memorial none where once they grew. Tet life still lingers in thee, and puts forth Proof not contemptible of what she can, Even where death predominates. The spring Finds thee not less alive to her sweet force, Than yonder upstarts of the neighbouring wood, So much thy juniors, who their birth received Half a millennium since the date of thine. But since, although well qualified by age To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice May be expected from thee, seated here On thy distorted root, with hearers none, Or prompter, save the scene--I will perform, Myself the oracle, and will discourse In my own ear such matter as I may. One man alone, the father of us all, Drew not his life from woman; never gazed, With mute unconsciousness of what he saw, On all around him; learn'd not by degrees, Nor owed articulation to his ear; But, moulded by his Maker into man At once, upstood intelligent, survey'd All creatures, with precision understood Their purport, uses, properties, assign'd To each his name significant, and, fill'd With love and wisdom, render'd back to Heaven, In praise harmonious, the first air he drew. He was excused the penalties of dull Minority. No tutor charged his hand With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind With problems. History, not wanted yet, Lean'd on her elbow, watching Time, whose course Eventful should supply her with a theme.

[1] Knee-timber is found in the crooked arms of Oak, which, by reason of their distortion, are easily adjusted to the angle formed where the deck and the ship's sides meet.

Montgomery inscribed the following lines under a drawing of the Yardley Oak, celebrated in the preceding quotation from Cowper:--

The sole survivor of a race Of giant Oaks, where once the wood Bang with the battle or the chase, In stern and lonely grandeur stood.

From age to age it slowly spread Its gradual boughs to sun and wind; From age to age its noble head As slowly wither'd and declined.

A thousand years are like a day, When fled;--no longer known than seen; This tree was doom'd to pass away, And be as if it _ne'er_ had been;--

But mournful Cowper, wandering nigh, For rest beneath its shadow came, When, lo! the voice of days gone by Ascended from its hollow frame.

O that the Poet had reveal'd The words of those prophetic strains, Ere death the eternal mystery seal'd ----Yet in his song the Oak remains.

And fresh in undecaying prime, _There_ may it live, beyond the power Of storm and earthquake, Man and Time, Till Nature's conflagration-hour.