Page:Once a Week June to Dec 1863.pdf/622

612 certainly to remind me. We must begin again: Note thi.i. to remind me.”

“This is,” called out my excited friend, whose eyes were sparkling with delight and expectation. “Go on; you are a trump!”

“These, then, are our additional letters:—)=d, 7=m, β=s, 9=i, λ=o. To remind me i. i. ee. m. death m.h for m. death, I read my death, and i. i. ee, I guess to be, if I feel. So it stands thus:—‘Note.—This is to remind me, if I feel my death nigh, that I had better— ”

I worked on now in silence; Fletcher, leaning his chin on his hands, sat opposite, staring into my face with breathless anxiety. Presently I exclaimed,

“Halves, Mat! I think you said halves!”

“I—I—I—I—my very dear fellow, I—”

“A very excellent man was your uncle; a most exemplary—”

“All right, I know that,” said Fletcher, cutting me short. “Do read the paper, I have a spade and pick on my library table, all ready for work the moment I know where to begin.”

“But, really, he was a man in a thousand, a man of such discretion, such foresight, so much—”

Down came Fletcher’s hand on the desk.

“Do go on!” he cried; and I could see that he was swearing internally; he would have sworn ore rotundo, only that it would have been uncivil, and decidedly improper.

“Very well; you are prepared to hear all!”

“All! by Jove! by Jingo! prepared for everything.”

“Then this is what I read,” said I, taking up my own transcript:—

“Note.—This is to remind, me, if I feel my death nigh, that I had better move to Birmingham, as burials are done cheaper there than here, where the terms of the Necropolis Company are exorbitant.”

Fletcher bounded from his seat. “The old skin-flint! miser! screw!”

“A very estimable and thrifty man, your great-uncle.”

“Confounded old stingy —,” and he slammed the door upon himself and the substantive which designated his uncle.

And now, the very best advice we can give to our readers, is to set to work at once on the simple cypher given near the commencement of this paper, and to find it out.

2em

, Prince of Wales, and representative of its ancient line of kings, married Joan, natural daughter of King John. When they had been some years married Llewellyn unfortunately captured William De Brâose, a Norman noble, who, being related to Llewellyn, was treated by him with all kindness and courtesy. This treatment De Brâose is said to have repaid by an intrigue with the Princess Joan, the wife of Llewellyn; this was discovered, and summary justice inflicted upon the offender; Llewellyn is said to have made a display of the effects of that justice in the manner shown in this Ballad.

It is but right, however, to add that, though the subject of popular rhymes and traditions, the story of the intrigue is denied by authorities worthy of respectful consideration.

By the castle of Llewellyn One age-hollowed oak doth stand, Bearing fruit—no other like it Grows upon Llewellyn’s land.

One huge fruit—’tis centuries vanished Since upon’t an acorn grew; Giant trees have long while perished Which from it their life-sap drew;

Thunder-stricken, jagged and splintered, Cracks and fissures in its side, One arch-rent through which a monarch With unbending plume might ride;

He who climbed its vigorous branches Is the patriarch of a tribe; Him who saw it as a sapling We to ancient days ascribe;

Navies from it have been timbered So long is it since ’twas young;— What strange fruit is that which pendent From one stark bough still is hung?

One huge fruit that sways and gyrates In the night wind to and fro; Sometimes striking on the great trunk With a hollow ringing blow,

Just as if its rind were iron? Strong as cord its stem must be, So great weight and strain upholding,— Fearful fruit for wondrous tree—

Just before the chamber window Where Llewellyn sits alone; He the heir of kings unnumbered, On the shadow of a throne.

Hapless is a race once royal, Ages cannot all efface Ghostly memories whose weird splendours Make subjection seem disgrace.

Mourn a throne, there’s much to mourn for, Though he owns His will who broke From his hand the ancient sceptre By disastrous stroke on stroke.

Still through all his trials looked he Bravely forward,—nought could tame That high spirit fit to wrestle With all ills except with shame.

Ever fronting foes o’erwhelming, Ever ready with his life For his country’s weal and honour, First in council, first in strife.

But who marked him closely noted How a paleness, day by day, Settled on his shrinking visage, And his brown locks turned to gray