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walkers, or drunken men, for their pastime, or if it was a spirit, I cannot tell truly; but it was shewn to me, that an indweller of the town, Mr. Richard Lawson, being evil-disposed, ganging in his gallery-stair foreanent the Cross, hearing this voice proclaiming this summons, thought marvel what it should be, cried on his servant to bring him his purse; and when he had brought him it, he took out a crown, and cast over the stair, saying, “I appeal from that summons, judg. ment, and sentence thereof, and takes me all whole in the mercy of God, and Christ Jesus his son." Verily, the author of this, that caused me write the manner of this summons, was a landed gentleman, who was at that time twenty years of age, and was in the town the time of the said summons; and thereafter, when the field was stricken, he swore to me, there was no man that escaped that was called in this summons, but that one man alone which made his protestation, and appealed from the said summons; but all the lave were perished in the field with the king.'

NOTE LXXVII.

-one of his own ancestry Drove the Monks forth of Coventry. -P. 150.

This relates to the catastrophe of a real Robert de Marmion, in the reign of King Stephen, whom William of Newbury describes with some attributes of my fictitious hero: 'Homo bellicosus, ferocia et astucia fere nullo suo tempore impar.' This Baron, having expelled the Monks from the church of Coventry, was not long of experiencing the divine judgment, as the same monks, no doubt, termed his disaster. Having waged a feudal war with the Earl of Chester, Marmion's horse fell, as he charged in the van of his troop, against a body of the Earl's followers: the rider's thigh being broken by the fall, his head was cut off by a common footsoldier, ere he could receive any succour. The whole story is told by William of Newbury.

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so generally assailed with these missiles, that he constructed, out of the bones with which he was overwhelmed, a very respectable intrenchment, against those who continued the raillery. The dances of the northern warriors round the great fires of pine-trees, are commemorated by Olaus Magnus, who says, they danced with such fury holding each other by the hands, that, if the grasp of any failed, he was pitched into the fire with the velocity of a sling. The sufferer, on such occasions, was instantly plucked out, and obliged to quaff off a certain measure of ale, as a penalty for 'spoiling the king's fire.'

NOTE LXXIX.

On Christmas eve.-P. 152.

In Roman Catholic countries, mass is never said at night, except on Christmas eve. Each of the frolics with which that holyday used to be celebrated, might admit of a long and curious note; but I shall content myself with the following description of Christmas, and his attributes, as personified in one of Ben Jonson's Masques for the Court.

Enter CHRISTMAS, with two or three of the Guard. He is attired in round hose, long stockings, a close doublet, a high-crowned hat, with a brooch, a long thin beard, a truncheon, little ruffs, white shoes, his scarfs and garters tied cross, and his drum beaten before him. The names of his children, with their attires: Miss-Rule, in a velvet cap, with a sprig, a short cloak, great yellow ruff, like a reveller; his torch-bearer bearing a rope, a cheese, and a basket;-Caroll, å long tawny coat, with a red cap, and a flute at his girdle; his torch-bearer carrying a songbook open;-Minc'd-pie, like a fine cook's wife, drest neat, her man carrying a pie, dish, and spoons; Gamboll, like a tumbler, with a hoop and bells; his torch-bearer arm'd with cole-staff, and blinding cloth;-Post and Pair, with a pair-royal of aces in his hat, his garment all done over with pairs and purs; his squire carrying a box, cards, and counters;-New-year's-Gift, in a blue coat, serving-man like, with an orange, and a sprig of rosemary gilt on his head, his hat full of brooches, with a collar of gingerbread; his torch-bearer carrying a march-pain, with a bottle of wine on either arm;-Mumming, in a masquing pied suit, with a visor; his torch-bearer carrying the box, and ringing it-Wassal, like a neat sempster and songster; her page bearing a brown bowl, drest with ribbands, and rosemary, before her;Offering, in a short gown, with a porter's staff in his hand; a wyth borne before him, and a bason, by his torch-bearer;-Baby Cocke, drest like a boy, in a fine long coat, biggin, bib, muckender, and a little dagger; his usher bearing a great cake, with a bean and a pease.'

NOTE LXXX.

Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery.-P. 153.

It seems certain, that the Mummers of England, who (in Northumberland at least) used to go about in disguise to the neighbouring houses, bearing the then useless ploughshare; and the Guisards of Scotland, not yet in total disuse, present, in some indistinct degree, a shadow of the old mysteries, which were the origin of the English drama. In Scotland, (me ipso teste,) we were wont, during my boyhood, to take the characters of the apostles, at least of Peter, Paul, and Judas Iscariot; the first had the keys, the second carried a sword, and the last the bag, in which the dole of our neighbours plumb-cake was deposited. One played a champion, and recited some traditional rhymes; another was

'Alexander, King of Macedon, Who conquer'd all the world but Scotland alone : When he came to Scotland his courage grew cold, To see a little nation courageous and bold.'

These, and many such verses, were repeated, but by rote, and unconnectedly. There was also, occasionally, I believe, a Saint George. In all, there was a confused resemblance of the ancient mysteries, in which the characters of Scripture, the Nine Worthies, and other popular personages, were usually exhibited. It were much to be wished that the Chester Mysteries were published from the MS. in the Museum, with the annotations which a diligent investigator of popular antiquities might still supply. The late acute and valuable antiquary, Mr. Ritson, showed me several memoranda towards such a task, which are probably now dispersed or lost. See, however, his Remarks on Shakspeare, 1783, p. 38.

Since the first edition of Marmion appeared, this subject has received much elucidation from the learned and extensive labours of Mr. Douce; and the Chester Mysteries [edited by J. H. Markland, Esq.] have been printed in a style of great elegance and accuracy (in 1818) by Bensley and Sons, London, for the Roxburghe Club. 1830.

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from Mertoun-House, the seat of the Harden family.

'With amber beard, and flaxen hair,
And reverend apostolic air,
Free of anxiety and care,

Come hither, Christmas-day, and dine;
We'll mix sobriety with wine,
And easy mirth with thoughts divine.
We Christians think it holiday,
On it no sin to feast or play;
Others, in spite, may fast and pray.
No superstition in the use
Our ancestors made of a goose;
Why may not we, as well as they,
Be innocently blithe that day,
On goose or pie, on wine or ale,
And scorn enthusiastic zeal?-

Pray come, and welcome, or plague rott Your friend and landlord, Walter Scott. 'Mr. Walter Scott, Lessuden.

The venerable old gentleman, to whom the lines are addressed, was the brother younger of William Scott of Raeburn. Being the cadet of a cadet of the Harden family, he had very little to lose; yet he contrived to lose the small property he had, by engaging in the civil wars and intrigues of the house of Stuart. His veneration for the exiled family was so great, that he swore he would not shave his beard till they were restored: a mark of attachment, which, I suppose, had been common during Cromwell's usurpation; for, in Cowley's 'Cutter of Coleman Street,' one drunken cavalier upbraids another, that, when he was not able to afford to pay a barber, he affected to wear a beard for the King. I sincerely hope this was not absolutely the original reason of my ancestor's beard; which, as appears from a portrait in the possession of Sir Henry Hay Macdougal, Bart., and another painted for the famous Dr. Pitcairn, was a beard of a most dignified and venerable appearance.

NOTE LXXXII.

The Spirit's Blasted Tree.-P. 154.

I am permitted to illustrate this passage, by inserting Ceubren yr Ellyll, or The Spirit's Blasted Tree,' a legendary tale, by the Reverend George Warrington.

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 character 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 Nannau, now belonging to Sir Robert Vaughan, Baronet, in the wild and romantic tracks 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 Chase, as Howe, pass'd, A chief esteem'd both brave and kind, Far distant borne, the stag-hounds' 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 chase,
And all at home his hunter train.

Then sudden anger flashed his eye,
And deep revenge he vow'd 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 wing'd their way; Then o'er his head, in rapid flight,

They croak,-they scent their destined prey. Ill-omen'd bird! as legends say,

Who hast the wondrous power to know,
While health fills high the throbbing veins,
The fated hour when blood must flow.

Blinded by rage, alone he pass'd,
Nor sought his ready vassals' aid:
But what his fate lay long unknown,
For many an anxious year delay'd.

A peasant mark'd 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 pass'd 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, the 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 Moal's top,

Some saw him on the winding shore.
With wonder fraught the tale went round,
Amazement chain'd 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 flitting 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 storm;
The lady shed the widow'd tear,
As oft she traced his manly form.

Yet still to hope her heart would cling,
As o'er her mind illusions play,-
Of travel fond, perhaps her ford

To distant lands had steer'd his way.

'Twas now November's cheerless hour, Which drenching rain and clouds deface; Dreary bleak Robell's tract appear'd,

And dull and dank each valley's space.

Loud o'er the weir the hoarse flood fell, And dash'd the foaming spray on high; The west wind bent the forest tops,

And angry frown'd the evening sky.

A stranger pass'd Llanelltid's bourne,
His dark-grey steed with sweat besprent,
Which, wearied with the lengthen'd way,
Could scarcely gain the hill's ascent.

The portal reach'd,-the iron bell

Loud sounded round the outward wall;
Quick sprang the warder to the gate,
To know what meant the clam'rous call.
"Olead 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 cross'd the spacious hall,
The menials look surprise and fear;
Still o'er his harp old Modred hung,
And touch'd the notes for grief's worn ear.

The lady sat amidst her train;

A mellow'd sorrow mark'd her look: Then, asking what his mission meant, The graceful stranger sigh'd 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 unfetter'd 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, chain'd 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.

"Vanquish'd 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.

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With stupid stare and vacant gaze,

Full on his face her eyes were cast, Absorb'd 1-she lost her present grief, And faintly thought of things long past.

Like wild-fire o'er a 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 peasants work with trembling haste,
And lay the whiten'd bones to view!-

Back they recoil'd!-the right hand still,
Contracted, grasp'd a rusty sword;
Which erst in many a battle gleam'd,

And proudly deck'd their slaughter'd lord.

They bore the corse to Vener's shrine,
With holy rites and prayers address'd;
Nine white-robed monks the last dirge sang,
And gave the angry spirit rest.'

NOTE LXXXIII.

The Highlander

Will, on a Friday morn, look pale,
If ask'd to tell a fairy tale."-P.154.

The Daoine shi', or Men of Peace, of the Scottish Highlanders, rather resemble the Scandinavian Duergar than the English Fairies. Notwithstanding their name, they are, if not absolutely malevolent, at least peevish, discontented, and apt to do mischief on slight provocation. The belief of their existence is deeply impressed on the Highlanders, who think they are particularly offended at mortals who talk of them, who wear their favourite colour green, or in any respect interfere with their affairs. This is especially to be avoided on Friday, when, whether as dedicated to Venus, with whom, in Germany, this subterraneous people are held nearly connected, or for a more solemn reason, they are more active, and possessed of greater power. Some curious particulars concerning the popular superstitions of the Highlanders may be found in Dr. Graham's Picturesque Sketches of Perth

shire.

NOTE LXXXIV.

The towers of Franchémont.-P. 154.

The journal of the friend to whom the Fourth Canto of the Poem is inscribed, furnished me with the following account of a striking superstition.

'Passed the pretty little village of Franchémont (near Spaw), with the romantic ruins of the old castle of the Counts of that name. The road leads through many delightful vales on a rising ground; at the extremity of one

of them stands the ancient castle, now the subject of many superstitious legends. It is firmly believed by the neighbouring peasantry, that the last Baron of Franchémont deposited, in one of the vaults of the castle, a ponderous chest, containing an immense treasure in gold and silver, which, by some magic spell, was intrusted to the care of the Devil, who is constantly found sitting on the chest in the shape of a huntsman. Any one adventurous enough to touch the chest is instantly seized with the palsy. Upon one occasion, a priest of noted piety was brought to the vault: he used all the arts of exorcism to persuade his infernal majesty to vacate his seat, but in vain; the huntsman remained immovable. At last, moved by the earnestness of the priest, he told him that he would agree to resign the chest, if the exorciser would sign his name with blood. But the priest understood his meaning, and refused, as by that act he would have delivered over his soul to the Devil. Yet if anybody can discover the mystic words used by the person who deposited the treasure, and pronounce them, the fiend must instantly decamp. I had many stories of a similar nature from a peasant, who had himself seen the Devil in the shape of a great cat.'

NOTE LXXXV,

The very form of Hilda fair,
Hovering upon the sunny air,
And smiling on her votaries' prayer.
-P. 156.

I shall only produce one instance more of the great veneration paid to Lady Hilda, which still prevails even in these our days; and that is, the constant opinion that she rendered, and still renders, herself visible, on some occasions, in the Abbey of Streanshalh or Whitby, where she so long resided. At a particular time of the year (viz. in the summer months), at ten or eleven in the forenoon, the sunbeams fall in the inside of the northern part of the choir; and 'tis then that the spectators, who stand on the west side of Whitby churchyard, so as just to see the most northerly part of the abbey pass the north end of Whitby church, imagine they perceive, in one of the highest windows there, the resemblance of a woman arrayed in a shroud. Though we are certain this is only a reflection caused by the splendour of the sunbeams, yet fame reports it, and it is constantly believed among the vulgar, to be an appearance of Lady Hilda in her shroud, or rather in a glorified state; before which I make no doubt, the Papists, even in these our days, offer up their prayers with as much zeal and devotion as before any other image of their most glorified saint.'-CHARLTON'S History of Whitby, p. 33.

NOTE LXXXVI.

the huge and sweeping brand
Which wont of yore, in battle fray,
His foeman's limbs to shred away,
As wood-knife lops the sapling spray.
-P. 159.

The Earl of Angus had strength and personal activity corresponding to his courage. Spens of Kilspindie, a favourite of James IV, having spoken of him lightly, the Earl met him while hawking, and, compelling him to single combat, at one blow cut asunder his thighbone, and killed him on the spot. But ere he could obtain James's pardon for this slaughter, Angus was obliged to yield his castle of Hermitage, in exchange for that of Bothwell, which was some diminution to the family greatness. The sword with which he struck so remarkable a blow, was presented by his descendant James, Earl of Morton, afterwards Regent of Scotland, to Lord Lindesay of the Byres, when he defied Bothwell to single combat on Carberry Hill. See Introduction to the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.

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Let the portcullis fall.-P. 160.

This ebullition of violence in the potent Earl of Angus is not without its example in the real history of the house of Douglas, whose chieftains possessed the ferocity, with the heroic virtues of a savage state. The most curious instance occurred in the case of Maclellan, Tutor of Bombay, who, having refused to acknowledge the pre-eminence claimed by Douglas over the gentlemen and Barons of Galloway, was seized and imprisoned by the Earl, in his castle of the Thrieve, on the borders of Kirkcudbrightshire. Sir Patrick Gray commander of King James the Second's guard, was uncle to the Tutor of Bombay, and obtained from the King a 'sweet letter of supplication,' praying the Earl to deliver his prisoner into Gray's hand. When Sir Patrick arrived at the castle, he was received with all the honour due to a favourite servant of the King's household; but while he was at dinner, the Earl, who suspected his errand, caused his prisoner to be led forth and beheaded. After dinner, Sir Patrick presented the King's letter to the Earl, who received it with great affectation of reverence; and took him by the hand, and led him forth to the green, where the gentleman was lying dead, and showed him the manner, and said, "Sir Patrick, you are come a little too late; yonder is your sister's son lying, but he wants the head: take his body, and do with it what you will."Sir Patrick answered again, with a sore heart,

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