1
YORKSHIRE LEGENDS AND TRADITIONS.
YORKSHIRE
%CQcnbB anb ^rabitions
AS TOLD BY HER ANCIENT CHRONICLERS^
HER POETS, AND JOURNALISTS.
BY THE
REV. THOMAS PARKINSON, F.R.HiST.S.,
MEMBER OF THE SURTEES SOCIETY,
THE YORKSHIRE ARCH^,OLOGICAL AND TOPOGRAPHICAL ASSOCIATION,
VICAR OF NORTH OTTERINGTON.
' History hath no page
More brightly lettered of heroic dust,
Or manly worth, or woman's nobleness,
Than thou may'st show ; thou hast nor hill nor dale,
But lives in legend.'
UNIVERSITY j
LONDON :
ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
lVa3N3D
* JVe marked each viemorable scene ^
And held poetic talk betweejt;
Nor hill nor brook %ue paced along^
Bt4t had its legend or its song?
Scott.
INTRODUCTION.
f
Legend, from the Latin legendmn, a thing to be read,
is a word which covers a wide field (even when limited
by the bounds of a single county) for a writer to
undertake to reap, and present the harvest to his
readers. The ordinary acceptance, however, of the
term somewhat further limits it to those stories and
narratives which hang between history and fable, — to
tales of superstition, of marvel, and of credulity.
Very closely connected with legend is another field
of much interest — viz., that of tradition {tradituniy a
thing handed down) ; and to avoid having to draw a
line where the one continually runs into the other, and
so to distinguish between legend and tradition — where
the distinction is often very slight indeed — the author
has joined the two in the title given to this collection,
* Yorkshire Legends and Traditions.' Under this
title the reader will, therefore, find stories and narra-
tives ranging from those which border upon authentic
history, and have undoubtedly fact for their founda-
tion, to others whose origin can only have been
superstition or fable, and many of them handed down
from the mythical gods and heroes of heathen days.
109481
vi J^nitttrtnicftxrn,
While there will be also found a middle class, con-
sisting of relations in which it is possible to perceive
a , centre of fact or historical truth, but rendered in-
definite and indistinct by the halo of mystery or
perversion with which time, or ingenuity, has sur-
rounded it.
Many of the mythical legends, and legends and tradi-
tions of the marvellous, found in Yorkshire, are, of
course, by no means peculiar to the county. On the
contrary, they are — some or other of them — found
related of places and of persons far apart in situation
and time.
Such stories, wherever found, have always had a
fascination for the young; and, told from father to
son, in the long evenings of winter, in the farmhouses
of remote valleys and moorsides, they have formed an
unwritten literature, long before they found embodi-
ments in more permanent forms. They have seized
upon the fancy, and given scope to the imagination, of
men in all ages. Poets and painters especially have
revelled amid the fields of legend and tradition. In
every art-gallery — whether of ancient or modern works
— legends and traditions of every kind are found em-
bodied on canvas of every size ; while many of the
finest poems of our language — such as *The Idylls
of the King,' or * The White Doe of Rylstone ' — owe
their inspiration to Arthurian or local legends or
traditions. The extent to which art and poetry are
thus indebted to legend and tradition will appear to
the reader as he turns over the pages of this collection.
In a great majority of instances, either references
are made to poems, to which the subjects have given
Jntr^trucUxtn. vii
rise, or, as is often the case, the author has allowed
the story to be told in the words of the poets them-
selves.
The writer is not aware of any similar collection
of legends and traditions of his native county having
been made before. He has laid under contribution
almost every variety of source of information. Espe-
cially is he indebted to Dixon's * Stories of Craven
Dales,' and to several local weekly journals — the
Yorkshire Post, Leeds Mercury, and others. The collec-
tion has been growing under his hand for several
years, and by no means exhausts the field. Should
a reading public appreciate and encourage this effort
of bringing together these sheaves from the romance
and the marvellous of this county of * broad acres,'
another wain-load of the same kind, already collected,
will probably be sent forth in due time.
CONTENTS.
I.
LEGENDS AND TRADITIONS CONNECTED WITH THE
EARLY HISTORY OF YORKSHIRE.
PAGE
THE ORIGIN OF THE NAME * YORK ' - - - - I
GREGORY OF ROME AND THE YOUTHS FROM DEIRA - 3
PAULINUS IN NORTHUMBRIA - - - - - 4
THE JORDAN OF ENGLAND - - - - - 7
FOUNDATION OF YORK MINSTER - - - - 7
RAGNAR LODBROG AND CRAKE CASTLE - - - 8
WHY BUERN THE BUSECARLE BROUGHT THE DANES INTO
YORKSHIRE, 867 A.D. - - - - - lO
DEATH OF ELLA, KING OF BERNICIA, NEAR YORK - "14
ELLSWORTH AND ELLE-CEOSS - - - - - I7
THE DANES IN YORKSHIRE AND ST. ALKELDA OF MIDDLE-
HAM - - - - - - - - 19
A NORMAN ARMY STOPPED NEAR NORTHALLERTON BY FEAR
OF ST. CUTHBERT - - - - - - 20
II.
LEGENDS AND TRADITIONS OF ABBEYS AND OF
MONASTIC LIFE.
WHITBY ABBEY ------
ST. HILDA'S WORMS - - -
THE OBEISANCE OF BIRDS - . -
C^EDMON THE POET - - - -
THE HERMIT OF ESKDALE— A BROTHER OF WHITBY
WHITBY ABBEY BELLS - - .. -
FOUNTAINS ABBEY -----
22
23
24
24
27
29
29
(ili:fnii^}xf^*
RIEVAULX ABBEY AND KIRKHAM PRIORY :
WALTER DE ESPEC - - - - - 31
WALTER DE ESPEC AT THE BATTLE OF THE STANDARD 33
A PRIOR OF KIRKHAM'S HORSE - - - 36
THE ABBEY OF MEAUX OR MELSA - - - -37
BOLTON PRIORY - - - - - - 40
FOUNDATION OF THE PRIORY, AND THE BOY OF
EGREMOND - - - - - - 40
'the boy of EGREMOND' - - - - 44
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE - - - 45
BARNOLDSWICK AND KIRKSTALL ABBEYS - - '59
MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN - - - - 62
ORIGIN OF SELBY ABBEY - - - - - 65
THE GRAY PALMER AND HYLDA, THE NUN OF NUN-APPLE-
TON - - - - - - - - 66
ROCHE ABBEY - - - - - - - 70
LEGENDS CONNECTED WITH ST. JOHN OF BEVERLEY - 72
A LEGEND OF WATTON NUNNERY - - '73
PUCH, THE EARL, OF SOUTH BURTON - - - 75
THE TWO SISTERS OF BEVERLEY - - - 76
EARL ADDI'S SERVANT, OF NORTH BURTON - "79
THE SHRINE OF ST. JOHN OF BEVERLEY AND THE PLEDGED
SWORD - - - - - - - 80
LEGENDS CONNECTED WITH ST. WILLIAM OF YORK - - 86
THE BROKEN BRIDGE - - - - - 91
EYES GIVEN TO THE BLIND - - - - 92
THE ORDEAL OF FIRE - - - - '93
SIGHT GIVEN TO A BLIND GIRL - - - 94
THE YOUNG STUDENT - - - - - 95
THE HORN OF ULPHUS - - - - - 96
A LEGEND OF ST. CUTHBERT AND RIPON MONASTERY - lOI
LEGENDS OF ST. ROBERT, THE HERMIT OF KNARESBOROUGH I04
III.
LEGENDS OF SATANIC AGENCY,
THE devil's ARROWS OR BOLTS - - - - II5
SITES OF CHURCHES - - - - - - II9
THUMB-MARKS ON THE HADDOCK - - - - 121
THE DEVIL'S BRIDGE - - - - - - 121
THE devil's APRONFUL - - - - - 1 24
CxrnfctttssE, xi
IV.
BARGEST AND GHOST LEGENDS.
PAGE
THE BARGEST OF THE TROLLER'S GILL - - - 1 26
THE BARGEST, NEAR GRASSINGTON - - - - 1 29
THE BOSKY DIKE BOGGART - - - - - I3I
THE APPEARANCE OF BARGEST A PRESAGE OF DEATH :
THE WISE WOMAN OF LITTONDALE - - - 134
THE GHOST AT TRINITY CHURCH, YORK - - - 140
V.
LEGENDS AND TRADITIONS OF MOTHER SHIPTON
MOTHER SHIPTON— HER BIRTH, LIFE, AND DEATH - - 151
MOTHER SHIPTON'S PROPHECIES - - - 156
THE PROPHECY OF MOTHER SHIPTON IN THE REIGN
OF KING HENRY VIH. - - - - - I58
APOCRYPHAL SAYINGS - - - - - 1 64
VI.
LEGENDS OF DRAGONS AND OTHER SERPENTINE
MONSTERS.
TENURE OF THE MANOR OF SOCKBURN - - - 167
THE SERPENT OF HANDALE - - - - - 168
THE WORM OF SEXHOW - - - - - 169
THE DRAGON OF LOSCHY WOOD - - - - 170
THE SERPENT OF SLINGSBY ----- 172
THE DRAGON OF WANTLEY - - - - - 1 73
VII.
LEGENDS AND TRADITIONS OF BATTLES AND
BATTLE-FIELDS.
THE WHITE BATTLE OF MYTON - - - - 1 78
THE BATTLE OF BOROUGHBRIDGE - - - - 181
THE BATTLE OF WAKEFIELD - - - - - 1 84
THE BATTLE OF TOWTON - - - - - 1 87
THE ROSES OF TOWTON MOOR - - - - I9I
MARSTON MOOR FIGHT - - - - - 1 94
CROMWELL AND SIR R. GRAHAM - - * 195
CROMWELL AT RIPLEY - - - - - 1 96
ANOTHER STORY - - - - - 197
CAPTAIN LISTER; BATTLE OF TADCASTER, 1642 - 1 98
xii €mxitxxt^.
PAGE
*PITY POOR BRADFORD.' A LEGEND OF THE CIVIL WAR
TIMES -------- 198
VIII.
LEGENDS OF WELLS, LAKES, ETC.
THE EBBING AND FLOWING WELL AT GIGGLES WICK - 204
LADY WELLS - - - - - - - 205
ST. HELEN'S WELL ----_. 206
ST. JOHN'S WELL AT HARPHAM - - - _ 207
the drumming -well at harpham-
wordsworth's hart-leap well - - -
THE LEGEND OF SEMERWATER - - - - 214
GORMIRE - - - - - - - 218
- 207
- 209
223
224
IX.
MISCELLANEOUS LEGENDS, ETC.
THE SWINE HARRIE ; OR, 'HOIST ON HIS OWN PETARD' - 219
UPS ALL AND ITS CROCKS OF GOLD - - - - 1l\
HAVERAH PARK. — A LAME LEGEND -
A WILD BOAR LEGEND - - - .
DE LACY AND LORD DACRE'S DAUGHTER - - 225
THE beggar's or LOVER'S BRIDGE AT EGTON - - 227
THE beggar's BRIDGE -----. 228
THE WHITE HORSE OF THE STRID, OR THE THREE SISTERS
OF BEAMSLEY- -_-_._ 229
OSMOTHERLEY - - - - - - - 233
THE GIANT OF SESSAY ------ 235
WADDA OF MULGRAVE, AND BELL, HIS WIFE - _ . 239
: ^..SITYj
LEGENDS OF YORKSHIRE.
I.
LEGENDS AND TRADITIONS CONNECTED WITH THE
EARLY HISTORY OF YORKSHIRE.
The Origin of the name ' York.'
The origin of the name York, or Roman Eboracum,
from which the shire derives its cognomen, is buried in
obscurity, and, like most things obscure, it has gathered
around it many legendary and traditional stories.
The chronicler Geoffrey of Monmouth is responsible
for more than one of these stories. He relates how a
colony of Trojans, under a leader named Brute, con-
quered Albion, and, settling on the Thames, built there
the city of Troja Nova, now London, and gave the new
name Brutaine, or Britain, to the country, about iioo
B.C. The third king, according to the same authority,
of Troja Nova was Mempricus. A son of Mempricus
was named Ebraucus, and he, journeying northwards,
founded the city on the banks of the Ouse, called from
him Kaer-Ebrauc, or the City of Ebraucus. This took
place, says the old writer, * about the time that David
reigned in Judea, Sylvius Latinus in Italy, and that
Gad, Nathan and Asaph prophesied in Israel, w^hich
epoch falls a.m. 2983 or B.C. 983.'
Ebraucus also, we are told, built two other cities in the
north, one said to have been Aldborough, and the other
named * Mount Agned,' or the Mount of Sorrow ; also
*The Maiden's Castle,' but now Edinburgh. He reigned
sixty years, and by twenty wives had twenty sons and
thirty daughters, all of whose names are duly chronicled,
and then died, at an extreme old age, and was buried
in the city which he had founded, and where he had
reigned and flourished so long, Caer-Ebrauc.
Another story, as to the origin of York, is to the
effect that a colony of Gauls settled in Spain, but, being
compelled to move on from there, by the Carthaginians
or Romans, took possession first of Ireland, then of
Central England, and built York, naming the city
Eboracum, from Ebora, a town in Portugal, or from
Ebura in Andalusia, whence they had come.
Another tradition is that the Britons were themselves
the founders of the city, giving it the name of Caer-
Efroc, or the City of the Wild Boars. Efroc, shortened
to Efer, or Evor, and Wic, a retreat or dwelling, being
added, we get Evor-wic or Ebor-wic, hence both
Eboracum and York ('Vor-wic). As confirmation of
this it is added that the Forest of Galtres (Gautes,
wild boars), came up very nearly to the city gates.
There is yet another traditional derivation of the
name. The name of Aldborough, the capital of the
Brigantines, near Boroughbridge, was formerly Iseur,
Latinized Isurium. Near this place two rivers — or
Gilit^ (Bavlu 1|i»i0rii 0f l^uxki&Xixxit,
rather a river and a rivulet — the Ure and the Ouse —
unite, and, taking the name of the smaller, form the
w^ell-known Ouse. In primitive times one of these bore
the name of the Isis, and the other that of the Eure;
and the city founded at the junction was designated
from their united names * Is-eur,' or Isurium. In
course of time Iseur fell into decay and dropped out of
history, while the rising city on the banks of the Ouse,
but a few miles lower down, usurped its name and
place in story. Iseur, in colloquial language, soon for
brevity became ' Yeur,' and this, with the addition of
* Wic,' gave us Yeur-wic and then York'.
In this latter story is probably to be found the germ
of the true origin of the name ; only that it came from
the river Ure directly, and not through Isurium, being
simply 'Ure,' or *Yore/ and ' Wic' The other stories of
the derivation of the name and origin of the city, and
so of the county's designation, must be left to the
reader to give to them the position he pleases in the
region of history, legend, or tradition.
Gregory of Rome and the Youths from Deira.
In the middle of the sixth century, Ella, or Ida, a
leader of the tribe of the Angles, took possession of
what is now Yorkshire and South Durham, and
founded the kingdom of Deira, whose capital stood
probably where Market Weighton or Beverley now
stands. The name Deira, the land of the deer, indi-
cates the condition of the country at that time.
However well known already, it is almost impossible
to omit, in a collection of legends and traditions of
Yorkshire, the story of the Monk Gregory and the
I — 2
youths from Deira in the slave-market at Rome.
Without it, such a collection would be defective.
It was some years after the foundation of the
kingdom of Deira that Gregory, walking through the
slave-market of the Imperial city, had his attention
arrested by the fair complexions, flaxen hair, and well-
formed limbs of certain youths exposed for sale. They
were, what we should now term Yorkshire lads, from
the kingdom of Deira. Gregory paused, and asked
of what race they were ? He was told that they were
Angles. Fond of making a play upon words of a
similar sound, he replied : * Ah ! they are fit to be
made angels. From what province do they come ?*
he continued. * From the kingdom of Deira,' was the
response. ' Ah, then,' said he, * they must be freed
de ira,' that is, from the anger of God. * Who is their
king?' he next inquired. 'Ella,' was the answer.
' Then, indeed, they must be taught to sing Alleluia.'
And from this time, we are told, Gregory determined
to come as a missionary to this country. He was
frustrated in his intention by being raised to be Bishop
of Rome ; but ultimately he sent, under a monk named
Augustine, who was joined by Paulinus, Justus, and
others, a mission, which arrived, not in our own
northern Deira, but in Kent, in 596 a.d.
Paulinus in Northumbria.
Kent and its king soon became Christian, but it
was some thirty years or more before the missionaries
could find the opportunity to enter Yorkshire. The
occasion at last presented itself.
^I|^ €arli| IJtaf^ttK rrf ajtrx^ftslitttc.
Edwin, the young King of Deira, after many vicissi-
tudes, had united to his kingdom the more northern one
of Bernicia, and was now (i.e. 625) first King of North-
umbria. He sought in marriage Ethelburg, a daughter
of the King of Kent. She was, of course, as were her
parents, a Christian. Edwin was yet a heathen ; and
consent to the marriage was only given on the con-
dition that the princess should be accompanied to her
husband's court by a bishop or clergyman to act as
her chaplain, and provide her, and those who accom-
panied her, with the rites of the Christian religion.
It was determined that Paulinus, one of the mis-
sionaries, should thus accompany Ethelburga. This
was in the year 625. Paulinus of course made use
of his opportunities to propagate the Gospel ; and
some two years afterwards the king, moved by a series
of providential deliverances vouchsafed to him, and
by the exhortations of the queen's chaplain, called
together the Witenagemot, or great council of the
kingdom, of Northumbria, to consider this new faith
taught among them.
This council was held at, or in the neighbourhood
of, Market Weighton. Paulinus first preached to the
assembled nobles the doctrines of the Christian faith.
The king then asked each noble in turn what he thought
of these doctrines. The first to reply was Coifi, the high
priest of the god Woden, whose temple was at God-
mundingham, a village close by where they were
assembled. The substance of Coifi's reply was that
he was anxious to know more clearly what the new
doctrines were, for he had long come to the conclusion
that there was no reality or good in the service of the
gods whom they worshipped, and, if the king liked the
new rehgion better, by all means let it be adopted.
The next speaker was a nobleman, who said : * It
seems to me, O king, that this life of ours may be
likened to a bird, which, when you and your nobles are
sitting at supper in your great hall, enters the room by
a lattice at one end, and flying through, passes out
at the opposite end. It comes out of darkness, it
passes through the light and warm room, and out again
into darkness. Whence it came none can say, nor
whither it has gone. So what comes before this life,
and what after it, is enveloped in darkness. If the new
doctrine will tell us anything of it, it is what we
want.'
Others expressed like views, and Coifi again arose
and asked that Paulinus should further explain what he
taught. This Paulinus did; and then the heathen
priest once more got up, and said, * I have long known,
O king, that there was nothing in our religion ; for the
more I sought for good in it, the less I found it. And
here I freely confess that in this new preaching I find
the good which there I could not find. Let us make
haste to abjure and burn the altars which we have
consecrated to such poor purpose.' There and then
the king and nobles accepted the new faith.
* Who,' asked Edwin, ' will set about to destroy the
idols ?' * None so fit as I,' replied Coifi. ' I taught
the people to worship them. I will be the first to
destroy them.' He called for a spear and a war-horse,
both forbidden things to a priest. He mounted, and
galloped up Godmundingham Lane, and rode full tilt at
the temple door. The common people thought him
^JH» C^atjlg ^tsf^mi 0f 2|0rft0Jitri?»
mad. He pierced the door again and again with his
spear, and then called on the persons who had congre-
gated to finish the work of destruction which he had thus
begun. Then they hewed down the doors, and burned
the temple and all that it contained. Now, and for
long, the Parish Church of Godmanham has stood, and
yet stands, on the site of the Temple of Woden.
The Jordan of England.
After Edwin's baptism the work of conversion went
quickly on in all parts of the country. The king had
what we might call a summer residence at Catterick,
in Swaledale. Thither Paulinus, now bishop, fre-
quently accompanied him, and on one occasion, during
a visit of thirty-six days, so says Bede, the bishop spent
the whole of the time catechising the people and bap-
tizing them in the Swale. Ten thousand were baptized
on one day ! On this account the Swale has since
been called in legend and tradition * The Jordan of
England.'
Foundation of York Minster.
On Easter Day, April 12th, a.d. 627, Edwin,
the King of Northumbria, was baptized. The place
selected for the ceremony was what is now the City
of York. There the king built, for the occasion, a
small wooden church, which he caused to be dedicated
to St. Peter. After the ceremony he commanded a
larger one of stone to be commenced on the spot.
This was done, but Edwin, unfortunately, did not live
to finish it, but on that spot has stood a Christian
Church ever since, represented now by the Minster,
still dedicated to St. Peter, and of which all Yorkshire-
men are so justly proud.
Ragnar Lodbrog and Crake Castle.
So far back as the days of the Saxon and the Dane,
there stood, on the well-known prominent hill beyond
Easingwold, the Castle of Crake — or Crec, as it was
then called. Though situated in the Saxon kingdom
of Deira, it belonged, at the time of our story, to Ella,
King of Bernicia, the more northern division of
Northumbria. It had previously been given to St.
Cuthbert, the well-known northern saint, as a resting-
place on his long journey from Lindisfarne to the
south ; but Ella, who had little respect either for
religion or for right, had seized upon it, and converted
it into a fortress in his neighbour's domains, and its
underground dungeons into a prison for those whom
he wished to hide from the world.
About the same period there was reigning in the
Danish islands a noted king named Ragnar Lodbrog.
None of their ancient kings is more celebrated in
Scandinavian poetry than Ragnar. His queen was a
shepherdess, celebrated for beauty and song, whom he
found on the Norwegian mountains. Troubles, how-
ever, arose, and Ragnar was driven from his kingdom.
As was usual in those times, he fitted up a war-ship,
and, with a number of followers such as himself, started
off to find another home, and establish another king-
dom, wherever the fates should lead him. He landed
on the coasts of Bernicia, near Bamborough ; and
before Ella the king could collect his forces to oppose
STJjB <SaxtIiJ s|t0f0xttr 0f ^0rltsfjtr^«
him, he desolated, with the usual ferocity and cruelty
of the Danes, the farmsteads and villages in the
vicinity. Still, according to the notions of the times,
a grand and noble old Dane was he. But at length
Ella came upon his small band with a larger force,
and nearly annihilated it. Ragnar, however, had
not the fortune to fall in the fight. He was taken
prisoner. Ella spared none who had offended him ;
and his royal prisoner he sent off to his remote
inland stronghold at Crake, that he might there wreak
his revenge on the invader of Bernicia, and set an
example of the vengeance which other northern Vikings
might expect if they set foot in Ella's domains. The
dungeon beneath the old castle at Crake was furnished
with snakes, and vipers, and venomous and loathsome
reptiles of every kind, for the purpose of torture and
death. The entrance was a round hole in its roof.
To this the unfortunate Ragnar was brought. He was
divested of his clothing, and then, by means of a rope,
lowered into the horrible pit : then drawn up again for
the gratification of his tormentor, and taunted, and bid
to beg for mercy. Instead of which, he cursed the
Saxon king, and rejoiced in the assurance that those
would come from Denmark who would avenge their
kinsman's cruel death, and slay his oppressor, and that
his own greatest gratification, in the great hereafter,
would be to drink out of the skull of Ella at the
banqueting-tables of Odin in the halls of Valhalla.
With these words on his lips, he was lowered again
into the place of death. And so died the old Scandi-
navian heathen warrior and king in the Castle of
Crake.
Lodbrog's death-song, ascribed usually to Austaga,
his widowed queen, is among the best and most
popular of the Scandinavian sagas, or ancient poetry.
Hinga, and Hubba, and Bruen, his three sons, as the
old warrior had foreseen, avenged his death. They
came with their hordes up the Humber, laid siege to
York, and first defeated Ella's ally, Osbert, and then
Ella himself. One account says they took Ella captive,
and ordered him to be flayed alive. The complete con-
quest of the country followed ; the sceptre of the whole
of Northumbria passed from Saxon to Danish hands.
In this story we have, no doubt, legend, tradition, and
historic truth mingled together, and it requires the
knowledge and acumen of a Freeman or a Stubbs
to disentangle them.
Why Buern the Busecarle brought the Danes
INTO Yorkshire, 867 a.d.
The legend as to the descent of the Danes upon
Northumbria between 862 a.d. and 880 a.d. having
been to revenge the death of Ragnar Lodbrog at the
hands of Ella, king of the northern part of it, is
not the only one accounting for the visits of these
powerful hordes. Gaimar, a metrical chronicler con-
nected with the family of Walter de Espec, the founder
of Kirkham Priory and Rievaulx Abbey, and who wrote
about the middle of the twelfth century, attributes the
incursion of 867 a.d. to a very different cause, arising
out of the gross sensuality and misconduct of Ella's
rival, Osbert, king of such portions of Deira as Ella
had not rent from him.
At this period Northumbria was in a state of civil
war, and consequent lawless condition. The two
kingdoms which constituted it were tearing each
other to pieces. Ethelwulf, the bretwalder, and
his immediate successors in that office, were too
much occupied with defending and consolidating their
more southern domains to interfere much with the
internal strife of the north. Osbert or Osbrith was, at
first, king of the whole of Northumbria. But proving
a hcentious tyrant, a successful rising among his
subjects wrung from him Bernicia, and placed Ella, a
knight of the province, upon the throne of that kingdom.
Then followed years of internecine strife. Part, at
least, of Northern Yorkshire seems to have been added
by Ella to his domains at the expense of Osbrith. The
latter, at last, fortified himself in York. Ella seems to
have been marching from the north to attack him there,
when the approach from the Eastern Counties, and up
the Humber, of the common enemy, the Danes, led
to a truce between them, and then to an agreement to
unite their forces to resist the invaders.
This was the state of matters when the Danish
leaders arrived in the Ouse, and halted to collect their
forces at the town, probably Cawood, on its banks,
where resided Buern the Busecarle. With this brief
introduction the narrative of the chronicler will be
better understood.
The commencement of the story is, of course, some-
what earlier.
Osbert, King of Northumbria, was staying at York.
One day he went to hunt in the forest in the vale of
York. There resided his baron, Buern the Busecarle,
12 ITc^Etttrs antr Cttatrtft^n^ 0f B0t[kaf|tttc,
and at his house the king stayed to dine. The baron,
however, at the time was absent at the sea, for because
of outlaws he was deputed to guard it, but his wife
— a most virtuous and beautiful lady— of whose beauty
the king had heard report, was at home. When the
king arrived he was received with every token of respect
and honour, but he so terribly abused the hospitality of
his vassal as to forcibly violate the lady. He then rode
away to York.
* Buern,' says our chronicler, * was a very noble and
gentle man. Amidst all who frequented the sea, the
land held not a better vassal ; nor in the kingdom in
which he was born was there a man better descended.'
When on his return he saw his wife pale, and feeble,
and thin, and found her so changed from what she was
when he left, he asked what had occurred. She told
him. A touching scene is then recorded, in which the
husband's noble nature is conspicuous. At length he
said, * Since this felon committed this felony, I will
demand that he shall lose his life.' In the morning
the baron set out for York. He found the king among
his nobles. Buern had many powerful relations there.
The king saw him and called him. Then his vassal
defied him, and said, * I defy thee, and restore thee
all ; I will hold nothing of thee ; never will I hold
anything of thee ; here I return to thee thy homage.'
With this he went out of the house, and many noble
barons accompanied him.
Then he held a council with his relations, and com-
plained to them of the shame, and told all how the
king had brought it upon him, and declared that he
would go and, if possible, bring the Danes. His friends
promised him that they would forsake and expel the
king. And this they did so far as to drive him from
the throne of Bernicia, and place Ella instead over
that part of the kingdom. Osbert, however, held on to
Deira, and fortifying himself against Ella in York,
resisted all their efforts to expel him.
The arrival and reception by Buern of the Danes,
and the result, shall be told in Gaimar's (Stephen-
son's translations) own words. They had wintered in
East Anglia, the greater part of which they had
subdued.
* In March, 867 A.D., they mounted themselves upon
the best horses which had belonged to their vassals ;
and several of them went in ships as far as the
Humber ; they raised their sails ; more than twenty
thousand went there on foot. These Danes then
turned, and passed the Humber at Grimsby with
those on foot at the same time ; they had great plenty
of people. Those who were with the ships all went to
York ; both by water and land they waged great war
at York.
* Those who had gone by water then sailed as far as
the Ouse. But directly the sun was hidden the ebb
tide returned ; they then lodged themselves, some on
the water, some in quarters.
* But the knights and barons went to the houses in
the town. The nobleman whose name was Buern
Busecarle lived there. He lodged all the lords very
handsomely with great honour. He had assembled
them thus and brought them from Denmark because
of the shame of his wife, which he anxiously wished to
avenge.*
* Those persons were lodged at Cawood who were in
charge of the ships, but many of the Danes came by
way of Holderness ; they had spoiled the country till
they came near the city ; the ships also came against
it. The king who then held the country was, upon the
day on which they came upon the city, gone into the
woods. But the other king was nigh, and he was
deprived of the keys. When the Danes assailed them
they defended themselves a little, but their defence was
short, for the Danes gained the battle. Then the city
was quickly taken, and there were a great many people
slain. Osbrith, the king, was slain there. Buern, his
enemy, was avenged.'
Death of Ella, King of Bernicia, near York.
At the taking of York, at the death of Osbert, Ella of
Bernicia, his late rival, but now ally against the Danes,
was absent from the city on a hunting expedition. The
chronicler, as translated by the Rev. Joseph Stephen-
son, in the * Church Historians of England,' shall again
tell his own story of the event :
* Ella was in a forest ; he had there taken four
bisons. He was seated at dinner; he heard a man
sound a bell ; he held a little bell in his hand ; it
sounded as clear as a clock. The king begged before
he came that he might have something to eat, for
he asked for it. As the king was sitting at his repast,
he said to a knight, " We have done well to-day ; we
have taken all we have hunted — four bisons and six
kids ; many times we have hunted worse." The blind
man, who sat at a distance, heard him ; then he said a
word which was true : " If you have taken so much in
the wood, you have lost all this country ; the Danes
performed better exploits who have taken York, and
who have killed many barons. Osbreth's enemies have
slain him." The king replied, '' How do you know it ?"
" My sense has shown it to me. As a sign, if you
do not believe me, the son of thy sister, Orrum,
whom you see there, is to be the first killed in the
battle at York ; there will be a great battle ; if you
believe me you will not go forward. And, nevertheless,
it cannot be otherwise ; a king must lose his head."
The king replied, '* Thou hast lied; thou shalt be put in
confinement and be severely treated. If this should
be untrue thou shalt lose thy life ; sorcery has been
thy companion." The bhnd man replied, " I submit to
this ; if this is not the truth, kill me." The king had
him brought with him, and commanded him to be well
guarded. He put his nephew in a very high tower,
that he might be there, and after he had summoned a
guard he promised that he would send for him. The
people of the country assembled, and went with the
king towards York ; they met many of the wounded,
and of the flying, who related all that the diviner had
said ; not in one word had he lied ; and King Ella,
with many great people, rode onwards furiously.
* But the king's nephew, whom he had left up in the
tower, committed a great folly. He took two shields
which he had found, and went to the window ; then
putting his arms into the shields, he thought to fly, but
he came to the earth with a great shock, then fell.
Nevertheless, he escaped unhurt ; not the least was
he the worse for it. He saw a horse, which he quickly
took. A knight was near, holding the horse by the
bridle ; three javelins he had in his hand. Orrum was
no coward ; he on the instant seized the javelins, while
he also took the horse, and, having mounted him, rode
away quickly. The enemy was then near York, and he
spurred the horse, so that he arrived before the
troops had mustered. Within himself he determined,
like a foolish man, to strike the first blow. Into the
rank that advanced first he threw the javelin he held.
It struck a knight, whose mouth it entered, and came
out behind the neck : he could not stand on his feet ;
his body fell lifeless ; it could not be otherwise. He
was a pagan ; he cared nothing for a priest.
* Orrum held another dart, which he lanced on the
other side. He wounded a vile Dane ; so well he
threw he did not miss ; entering his breast, it went
to his heart ; he struck him dead. But as he (Orrum)
wished to turn back, an archer let fly a dart; it
wounded him so under the breast that mortal tidings
reached the heart. The spirit fled, the body fell,
exactly as the blind man had foretold. King Ella, when
he knew this, felt in his heart a grief which he had
never felt before. He cried out with boldness, and
pierced through two of the ranks ; but he did this like
one out of his wits ; he was quite beside himself. The
Danes were on all sides; Ella the king was slain. He
was killed in the field ; few of his companions escaped.
The place at which he was mortally wounded is now
called Elle-croft ; there was a cross towards the west ; it
stood in the midst of England. The English call it
Elle-cross. No Dane had any rest till all this country
north of the Humber was conquered.'
Ellsworth and Elle-cross.
What forest was the one in which, according to the
foregoing story, Ella was hunting when he received the
news of the defeat and death of Osbert, is an interesting
question, and especially so when taken in connection
with the name of Ellsworth, in the forest of Knares-
boro. Mr. William Grainge has brought forward
considerable evidence to show that this Ellsworth
must have been a residence, or hunting-lodge, of King
Ella.
To touch upon this question, and epitomize what Mr.
Grainge has written upon the subject, may trench very
closely upon the region of history rather than belong
to that of Tegend or tradition ; yet it may be pardoned
in this connection.
In the Yorkshire Archaeological and Topographical
Society's journal, page 427, vol. iv., an extract is
given from a MS. in the library of Corpus Christi
College, Cambridge, which states that Earl Ernulph
resided at York near the bridge there, and that his
wife had a property of her own, to which she retired,
when her husband was engaged in his business abroad,
at Beckwida, which was eighteen miles from York ; and
that Ella or Elle, who had been raised to be king, had a
residence which he had constructed and named Elles-
ward, which was about six miles further distant from
York than Beckwida, and in the same direction.
Beckwida may be probably identified with Beckwith,
near Harrogate, the distance fairly corresponding.
While a few miles to the west of Beckwith, and so
more distant from York, is, or was, a hamlet named
2
in Doomsday Book * Elsword - Clifton,' and until
recent times known as Clifton Elsworth, and Clifton-
Cum-Norwood alias Ellsworth. These places are in
what would in the time of Ella be ' forest primeval.'
If this Elsworth, Elsward, or Elswath, was the place at
which Ella's hall stood, it may be taken for tolerably
certain that the forest in which Ella was hunting, and
had taken ' four bison and six kids,^ was the wild
district to the west of Harrogate, afterwards known as
the Royal forest of Knaresboro, and the hall in which
the royal repast was spread, when the blind man with
his bell attracted the royal attention, was this residence
of the king at Ellswarth. The whole circumstances of
the king's hurried ride to York, as related by the
chronicler, imply that he had some considerable dis-
tance to travel before reaching that city, before which he
met his death, or was taken captive, and afterwards
slain.
The chronicler's account of the place where the
king was mortally wounded is, in this connection, some-
what remarkable, and might reward further investiga-
tion. * The Danes were on all sides ; Ella the king
was slain. He was killed in the field, few of his
companions escaped. The place at which he was
mortally wounded is now (1140 a.d.) called Ellecroft ;
there was a cross towards the west : it stood in the
midst of England ; the English call it Ellecross.'
The Danes in Yorkshire and St. Alkelda of
MiDDLEHAM.
* Beneath the shade the Northmen came,
Fixed on each vale a Runic name,
Reared high their altar's rugged stone,
And gave their gods the land they won.'
The Danes were heathen, and v^ith them they
brought their heathenish cruelties. Christians and
Christian institutions were peculiarly obnoxious to
them. Lingard says of them, speaking of the years
immediately following 867 a.d., when they overran
Yorkshire, 'They could conceive no greater pleasure
than to feast their eyes with the flames of villages
which they had plundered, and their ears with the
groans of the captives expiring under the anguish of
torture. Their route was marked by the mangled
carcases of the nuns, the monks, and the priests whom
they had massacred. From the banks of the Ouse to
the river Tyne, the towns, churches, and monasteries
were laid in ashes ; and so complete was their destruction
that succeeding generations could with difficulty trace
the vestiges of their former existence ' (' Anglo-Saxon
Churches,' vol. ii., p. 220).
At this time, and thus, amongst other pious founda-
tions, St. Cuthbert's monastery at Crayke, St. Cedd's
at Lastingham, and St. Hilda's illustrious house at
Whitby were wiped out, though two of them were
afterwards rebuilt.
* It is probably,' says Barker, the historian of Wens-
leydale, ' to this time that the martyrdom of St. Alkelda,
of Middleham, must be assigned.'
2 — 2
Of the history, Hfe, and death of this person very
b'ttle indeed, or nothing, is really known. The churches
of Middleham and Giggleswick are dedicated to her,
showing her to have been in repute at the period in
which they were founded.
Tradition and legend say that she was the daughter
of a Saxon nobleman, and was put to death at Middle-
ham, on account of her Christian faithfulness, by
strangulation, by the Danes. In the east window of
the north aisle of the church at Middleham, her suffer-
ings are said to have been pictured in the glass ; but all
that remained, a few years ago, was a small portion
representing her being strangled by two females, by
means of a napkin twisted round her neck.
* Possibly,' again says Barker, who is also responsible
for the story which follows, * the scene of her suffering
was the site of the present church, or a little to the
west of it, for it is certain that her remains repose
somewhere in the edifice.'
A spring which rises not far off is named St. Alkelda's
w^ell. The water of this fountain was accounted bene-
ficial for weak eyes. Certain fee-farm rents in Middle-
ham are required to be paid upon St. Alkelda's tomb,
and were regularly deposited on a stone table in the
middle of the nave, as also were some annual doles ot
bread, until the stone was removed, within the memory
of some persons recently living.
A Norman Army stopped near Northallerton
BY FEAR OF St. CuTHBERT.
In io6g A.D., Robert Cumin, whom William the
Conqueror had nominated to the Earldom of Nor-
CIi^ (Bavilu 3|i0i0ru of I^XfViUjSitixxti,
thumbria, was put to death, with 700 of his followers,
by his turbulent subjects in the city of Durham.
William sent an army to subdue the revolt, and
avenge the death of his sycophant. * When they were
approaching the town of Northallerton,' writes Roger
of Howden, ' so great a darkness arose that one man
could scarcely perceive his fellow, nor were they able,
by any means, to discover which way to go.' While
in this state of astonishment and bewilderment some
person among them remarked that Durham, the city
to which they were bound, had a powerful patron saint,
St. Cuthbert, who was always an adversary to that
city's adversaries, and none might molest it without
incurring punishment from him. This soon spread
through the army. Though rough soldiers, and inured
to war and cruelty, they were not without superstition.
They concluded the darkness was supernatural, and
attributed it to the interference of the saint, and that
rather than war against him, it would be more prudent
to turn back to York, and there await the further
instructions of William. And so they did. William
had little fear of God, and less of St. Cuthbert, and,
shortly afterwards, came down in person and exacted
a fearful vengeance on these northern -parts, which,
alas ! is matter of sad history rather than of tradition
or legend.
^m
i^-'i'M
XiM
p^^^
II oiig
^^^^^
m
S^'^w
S^
^@^
^^^
^^«
m
g^^Ui^
^B
^^9
II.
LEGENDS AND TRADITIONS OF ABBEYS AND OF
MONASTIC LIFE.
Whitby Abbey.
' Whitby's nuns exulting told,
How to their house three barons bold
Must menial service do ;
While horns blow out a note of shame,
And monks cry, *' Fye upon your name !
In wrath for loss of sylvan game,
St. Hilda's priest ye slew."
This on Ascension Day each year,
While labouring on our harbour pier.
Must Herbert, Bruce, and Percy hear.
They told, how in their convent cell
A Saxon princess once did dwell,
The lovely Edelfled ;
And how, of thousand snakes, each one
Was changed into a coil of stone
When holy Hilda prayed ;
Themselves within their holy ground,
Their stony folds had often found.
They told how sea-fowl's pinions fail.
As over Whitby's towers they sail,
And sinking down, with flutterings faint,
They do their homage to the saint.' — Scott.
Thus lightly with his magic wand has the great
Wizard of the North touched Whitby and its legends.
When in the year 655 a.d. Oswy, the Christian King
of Northumbria, was about to meet in battle Penda,
the heathen tyrant of Mercia, he vowed, so say the
chroniclers, that if he came off victorious he would
dedicate his then infant daughter to a monastic life,
and give twelve estates, or farms, to found religious
houses. The battle, Winwaedfield, was fought, and
Oswy was completely victorious. In fulfilment ot
his vow, he committed his daughter, Ethelfieda, to
the care and training of Hilda, and, having founded
the abbey at Whitby, he translated her thither as its
first abbess. Ethelfleda accompanied her, and ulti-
mately succeeded her as head of the house.
The fame of Whitby — then Streoneshealh, 'the
Bay of the Lighthouse ' — under Hilda is matter of
history.
We are concerned only with legend and tradition.
ST. HILDA'S W^ORMS.
When St. Hilda and her companions took possession
of the new abbey, they were sorely troubled with a large
number of snakes which infested its vicinity. Hilda
prayed that they might all be driven over the sea-
cliffs, and never return. She seconded her prayers
by a vigorous onslaught upon them with a whip. They
fled before her, and, in the haste with which they fled,
they precipitated themselves over the rocks. By the
fall their heads were broken off, or, according to another
version, were cut off by the whip of the saint, and their
bodies, coiling up, became instantly petrified and in
this state some of them are still to be found upon
the sands, and are known as Hilda's worms.
THE OBEISANCE OF BJRDS.
So great was the sanctity of the house of St. Hilda
that the sea-fowls and other birds flying over it might
never pollute it, but were compelled by instinct, or
some other marvellous influence, to drop in their
flight, and thus do lowly obeisance to its hallowed
precincts. The wild goose, however, in its wildest
career, would never fly over the place. So Drayton
writes :
* Over this attractive earth there may no wild goose fly,
But presently they fall from off their wings to earth ;
If this no wonder be, where's there a wonder found ?'
C^DMON THE POET.
In the days when holy Hilda ruled the abbey, there
lived in the vicinity — probably a dependent upon the
house — a cowherd named Csedmon. After the labours
of the day were ended, he and his companions fre-
quently met to enjoy themselves over a horn of beer.
Music was an art cultivated among all classes in Saxon
days, and more especially in the neighbourhood of the
monasteries ; and it appears to have been the custom,
at such convivial meetings as those of C3edmon and
his friends, to pass round the harp to each member of
the company, and each was expected to sing a song to
its accompaniment, for the entertainment of the rest.
This was a great trial to Caedmon, who was unable
mhbviust anlr MtiineiMxt Xif^. 25
to sing, and on such occasions he was accustomed
furtively to sHp from the room before his turn came to
sing, and in solitude to mourn his hard fate.
On one occasion when this occurred he withdrew to
the shed where his oxen were kept, and there, in the
midst of his charge, fell asleep. During his sleep a
vision appeared to him. There stood a man by him,
who, calling him by his name, said, ' Csedmon, sing to
me something.' * Nothing,' said the cowherd, ' can I
sing ; and therefore it is that I have left the company
and come hither.' ' Yet you must sing to me,' con-
tinued the man. Then ' What shall I sing ?' asked
Caedmon. * Sing of the origin of things,' was the
reply. At once he began to do so, and in verse he
sang the praise of the Creator.
When the morning came and he awoke, he remem-
bered the vision and all the words he had sung, and to
them he added many others. He repeated them to his
master, the reeve of the town, who at once took him to
the abbey, and told the story, and revealed the great
gift of song he had received to Hilda, the holy abbess.
She assembled the learned members and the disciples
of her community, and bade Caedmon tell the vision
and sing his verses in their presence. This he did.
They all declared his power a heaven-bestowed gift.
He was taken into the brotherhood ; scripture narratives
and histories were taught him, and he quickly turned
them into the sweet melody of Anglo-Saxon song.
Thus originated Casdmon's poems, to which Milton
owed much, and which stand first, in time, on the
noble roll of English poetry.
Csedmon's death was in keeping with his inspiration
and life. The story of it has been thus told by a local
writer :
* All that Caedmon wrote was to the intent of glorify-
ing God and benefiting man ; " for," says Bede, " he
was a very pious man, and to regular discipline humbly
subjected ;" and his death was worthy of his life. Al-
though apparently still far from his departure, being
able to talk and walk about, he bade his servant pre-
pare a place for him in the hospital of the monastery.
This done, he repaired thither, and conversed cheer-
fully, and jested pleasantly, with some he found there.
Midnight passed ; then he called for the Eucharist.
But as he looked little like dying, the attendants
answered, " What need is to thee of the Eucharist ?
Thy departure is not so near, seeing now thou thus
cheerfully and thus gladly art speaking with us."
*' Nevertheless," said he, *' bring me the Eucharist."
They brought it. Whereupon he, taking it in his
hands, asked " if they had any ill-will toward him ?"
They all said "they were very kindly disposed to
him," and they, in turn, besought him that he should
be kindly disposed toward them all. Then he replied,
" My beloved brethren, I am very kindly disposed to
you, and to ail God's men." Shortly he asked " how
near it was to the hour that the brethren must rise and
sing the nocturns ?" They answered, " It is not far
to that." He said, " It is well ; let us wait the hour."
Then he prayed, and signed himself with Christ's Cross,
and reclined his head on the pillow, and slept for a
little space ; and then, in calm and stillness, passed
away.'
This took place about the year 680 A.D.
MffJjtu^ antr Wltjnen^txt Etf^» 27
THE HERMIT OF ESKDALE — A BROTHER OF WHITBY.
In the twelfth century — so says the story — a monk
of Whitby retired to a hermit's cell, where was also
a small chapel, dependent upon the abbey, in the
woods of Eskdale-side. On Ascension Day, in the
year 1140, three neighbouring nobles — William de
Bruce, of Ugbarnby ; William de Percy, of Snayton ;
and a Herbert or Allotson — met in these woods to
hunt. A large wild boar, being hard pressed by his
pursuers, took refuge in the chapel of the hermitage,
and there, stretching himself out, died of exhaustion.
The hermit immediately on his entry closed the door.
The hounds stood baying before it. The hunters
arrived, and demanded admission. The hermit com-
plied, and opened the door ; and there before them
laid the prey, dead. In a moment of disappointment
and anger, they rushed upon the hermit with their
boar-staves, and mortally wounded him. Afraid at
what they had done, they fled to Scarborough for
sanctuary. Their crime not being privileged, they
were surrendered at the demand of the Abbot of
Whitby, and so stood in danger of the full penalty —
that of death. The wounded hermit, however, while
lingering at the point of death, desired his abbot to
send for the offenders.
They were brought into his presence. ' I am sure to
die of these wounds,' said the sufferer. * Yes,' re-
sponded the abbot, ' and these shall also die for their
crime.' * Not so,' responded the dying man, * for I
freely forgive them my death if they are content to
submit to this penalty for the good of their souls.'
They readily promised to do whatever he imposed
upon them.
He then addressed them thus : * You and yours shall
hold your lands of the Abbot of Whitby and his succes-
sors on these terms. On the eve of Ascension Day you
shall come to the woods of Eskdale-side ; also at sunrise
on the morrow (Ascension Day), the officer of the abbot
shall blow his horn that ye may resort unto him. He shall
deliver unto you, William de Bruce, ten stakes, eleven
stowers, and eleven yadders, to be cut with a knife of
a penny value ; and to you, William de Percy, shall be
assigned one-and-twenty of each sort, to be cut in hke
manner; and to you, AUotson, nine of each sort, also
to be cut in like manner. These you shall take upon
your backs and so carry them to the town of Whitby,
and be there before g o'clock on the same morning.
Each of you shall there set your stakes at low water at
the brim of the sea. Each stake shall be a yard apart,
and ye shall so " yadder " (tether ?) them with your yad-
ders, and stake them on each side with your stowers,
that they shall stand three tides without being removed
by the force of the waves. This ye shall do at the
same hour on this day, every year, to remember you
that you did slay me, and that you may repent you and
do good works. The abbot's officer of Eskdale-side
shall, at the same time, blow " Out on ye ; out on ye ;
out on ye!" for this great crime. If you, or your suc-
cessors, refuse this .service, your lands shall be forfeited
to the abbot or his successors.'
This legend accounts for a ceremony, somewhat
similar, still observed on the sands at Whitby. One
or more poetical versions of it are extant.
WHITBY ABBEY BELLS.
The abbey was suppressed in 1539 a.d., and shortly
afterwards dismantled. The bells were sold, and were
to be conveyed by ship to London. They were duly
placed on board, and, amid the lamentation of the
people, the sails were unfurled and the anchor weighed.
But, lo ! the vessel refused to bear away its sacred
burden. A short distance it moved out into the bay,
and then — on the beautiful, calm summer evening — it
quietly sank beneath the waves; and there under the
waters, at a spot within sight of the abbey ruins, the
bells still remain, and are still heard occasionally, by
the superstitious, rung by invisible hands. The legend
is the subject of a beautiful poem by Mrs. Phillips, who
sings :
' Up from the heart of ocean
The mellow music peals,
Where the sunlight makes its golden path, '
And the sea-mew flits and wheels.
* For many a chequered century,
Untired by flying time,
The bells no human fingers touch
Have rung their hidden chime.'
Fountains Abbey.
In the year 1132 a.d., Richard, the Prior of St. Mary's
Abbey at York, with twelve of his brethren of that
house, partly separated themselves, and partly may be
said to have been expelled, from the brotherhood, on
account of their preferring a stricter rule than the
Benedictine as administered by the somewhat easy-
going Abbot of St. Mary's. They went forth, hardly
knowing whither they went. Archbishop Thurstan
took them, for a time, under his care and protection,
and ultimately he determined to give them land,
whereon to found a monastery, in the valley of the
Skell. He had then a palace at Ripon, and, keeping
Christmas there in 1132, he took the prior and monks
with him, and together they selected the place, described
then as ' a wilderness of rocks and trees,' in the valley
near the hill called How Hill.
Here they were left in the depth of winter. There
was no habitation near. Their only shelter was that
afforded by seven yew trees, two or three of which are
still remaining. In a short time they erected a hut
round the trunk of a large elm-tree, their food being
the bark of the adjoining elms, varied with leaves and
herbs, and their drink water from the neighbouring
springs.
Adopting the Cistercian rule, they were joined by
one or two persons who brought a little property to the
brotherhood, and things improved with them. A better
habitation gradually arose.
While, however, they were still subject to privations,
a traveller one day knocked at the gate, and asked for
food.
* I have none to give you,' said the porter. But the
man seemed weary and hungry, and as he persisted in
begging, in the name of the blessed Saviour, for a loaf
of bread, the porter went to the abbot, and inquired
what he was to do.
* How much bread is there in the house ?' asked the
abbot.
' There are but two loaves and a half, and these are
%libtiU^ antf Minnajstfit Ctfe. 31
wanted for the carpenters and others when they have
finished their day's work.'
* Give the poor man one loaf,' replied the abbot ;
* there will still be one and a half for the workers ; as
for us, God will provide as He sees best.'
This was done. But the straits to which the brother-
hood was put had become known in the vicinity, and
scarcely had this charity been bestowed, when, lo !
there came to the gate of the convent two men with a
cartload of bread, sent as a present for their relief by
Eustace FitzHugh, the lord of Knaresborough Castle.
Better times followed, and Fountains became the
mother of many monastic brotherhoods, and one of
the first abbeys for wealth, grandeur and influence in
the north.
RiEVAULX Abbey and Kirkham Priory.
WALTER DE ESPEC.
* And who's yon chiefe of giante heighte,
And of bulk so huge to see ?'
* Walter Espec is that chiefe's name,
And a potente chiefe is hee.
* Hys stature's large as the mountaine oake,
And eke as stronge hys mighte ;
There's ne'ere a chiefe in alle the Northe
Can dare with hym to fighte.'
Early in the twelfth century lived Walter de Espec,
one of the foremost of the great barons of England,
lord of Helmsley, Kirkham, and of many a fair manor
besides.
By his wife, the Lady Adeline de Espec, he had an
only son — the hope of his house — a fine, manly young
Yorkshireman, fond of the chase and a horse — a very
Nimrod in the one, and a Jehu with the other. He
bore his father's name of Walter.
One morning, about the year 1120 A.D., the Lady
AdeHne had a strange presentiment of danger at hand
to her son. She earnestly endeavoured to induce him
to forego his hunting for that day, and remain with her
at home — but in vain.
In the evening, when the chase was over, a way-
faring man saw the young Lord of Kirkham riding at
a furious pace towards the adjoining village of Firby.
Suddenly, as he was passing a place where a spring of
water gushed from a hill-side, and near which stood a
wayside cross, a wild boar darted across the road in
front of the rider. The horse swerved, and, stumbling,
threw the youth from his seat. His head struck the
stone at the foot of the cross, but one of his feet
remained fixed in the stirrup. The horse, starting
again, dragged him until the foot became detached
from the stirrup, and, at a short distance from where
he fell, young Walter de Espec was taken up dead.
The baron heard the sad news as one * the desire of
whose eyes had been taken away at a stroke.' He
sought consolation and direction from his brother, who
was rector of Garton, and by his advice he determined
that a large portion of his estates should be devoted to
the service of Him who had given and had taken away
— that Christ and His poor should be his heir. Acting
upon this resolution, Walter de Espec founded the
Priory of Kirkham in 1122 a.d., the Abbey of Rievaulx
in 1 13 1 A.D., and that of Warden, in Bedfordshire, in
1136 A.D.
Mhhtu^ antr Mt^naj^ixt life* 33
Kirkham Priory — the ruins of which by the Derwent
foriu a beautiful object, of double interest, when he
knows their origin, to the traveller by railway between
York and Malton — arose on the spot where young De
Espec met his death. The stone that forms the socket
of a broken cross, before the gate-house now remaining,
is the very one (so says our tradition) against which
the youth was hurled ; while the once high altar of the
church of the priory stood on the place where the
lifeless body was taken up.
WALTER DE ESPEC AT THE BATTLE OF THE
STANDARD.
In 1 138 A.D., nobly bearing his sorrow, Walter de
Espec held high command in the English army at the
battle of the Standard, or, as the old writers call it,
* Cuton Moor,' near Northallerton. A monk of Rievaulx
thus describes him at that time : * A man of stature
passing tall, but of limbs well proportioned, and well
fitted to his great height. He had his hair still black,
though he was old and full of days ; his beard was long
and flowing, his forehead wide and noble; his eyes
large and piercing ; his face broad, but well featured ;
and his voice like the sound of a trumpet, setting off the
natural eloquence of his speech with a kind of majesty
of sound.' When De Espec had addressed the army,
and encouraged them not to fear the greater number of
the Scots, he took the hand of the Earl of Albemarle,
the English commander, and said, ' I swear on this
day to conquer or die on the field.' * So swear we all,*
said the barons ; and then the fight began.
3
They conquered, and De Espec survived the battle
some fifteen years. But two years before his death he
retired from the w^orld, and became a monk in the
abbey, which he had founded at Rievaulx, and here, in
1 153, he died and was buried.
These legendary and traditional incidents were seized
upon by the late Archdeacon Churton, and woven
into the following portion of his pretty ballad, ' Walter
Espec'
' Such life was Baron Walter's,
That chief of old renown ;
Lord of the woods of Galtres,
And Cleveland's mountains brown.
* One day he had of glory,
One day to memory dear,
That long in England's story
The listening world shall hear ;
* When he stood midst dead and dying
On Allerton's broad plain ;
Where the bolts from arblasts flying
Drank the blood of Scotland's slain;
* When with eye that never wandered,
And with heart that could not yield,
Fast by the noble standard,
He kept the stubborn field ;
* And his voice amidst the battle
Was heard at every stound.
Above the din and rattle,
Like the silver trumpet's sound. %
* But tell me why that old man
Endured that summer's day.
When many a young and bold man
Was fain to quit the fray ?
* What strong resolve had bound him
To conquer or to die,
While each hardy knight around him
Caught a courage from his eye ?
* That ancient Baron Walter,
His earthly hope was gone,
When he reared the solemn altar,
Beneath the vault of stone.
* Where the silver Derwent wanders,
By woods and meadows green,
Where the pitying muse still ponders.
On things that once have been ;
* He had rear'd the solemn altar,
Beneath the vault of stone,
Resign'd, though his voice might falter,
For he mourned his only son.
* A courage more than mortal's
That day had nerved his hand ;
Angels from heaven's high portals
Would guard his native land.
* 'Twas done ; ere curfew sounded,
The battle-field was red,
And the northern host, confounded,
Left twice five thousand dead.
* Where the Rie its waves of amber
Rolls o'er its bed of stone.
Where the wild deer stray or clamber
The gray rocks all alone ;
3—2
* There an abbey stands — more fair one
No northern vale hath seen ;
That abbey reared the baron,
Those echoing hills between.
' There dwelt the monks, the wan ones,
Who labour, fast, and pray,
Good Bernard's meek companions,
In their cowls and frocks of gray.
* While the moon is on the mountains,
And the moonlit air is still ;
No sound, save of the fountains.
Or the gushing near the mill.
' Now the midnight chant is ended,
And the aisles are dark in shade.
And in chambers long-extended
The convent sons are laid ;
' Gaze softly, where the grating
Gives to view the bed of heath,
There the baron rests, awaiting
The welcome call of death.'
A PRIOR OF KIRKHAM'S HORSE.
A story told by St. Bernard, in the life of Malachy,
Archbishop of Armagh, has a connection with Kirkham,
and may be allowed here a place. It is one of a class
of legends which would excite only ridicule and con-
tempt, were it not that men such as St. Bernard, of
the highest intellect of their days, have solemnly related
them, and probably believed what they have told.
In the city of York there came to wait upon the
Archbishop of Armagh a man of noble parentage.
it&rrci|si antr Mtxnasftc Xif^, 37
William, Prior of the Brothers Regular at Kirkham,
who, seeing that the archbishop had many in his com-
pany, and but few horses to carry them, offered him his
own, only adding that he 'was sorry that it had been
bred a draught-horse, and that its paces were some-
what rough. I would gladly offer you a better,' said
he, * if I had one, but if you will be contented to take
the best I have, it may go with you.' *I accept it most
willingly,' said the prelate, ' because you say that it is
worth little.' Turning then to his attendants, he said,
* Saddle me the horse, for it is a seasonable present,
and it is likely to serve me long.' When saddled, he
mounted it, and though at first he found its pace rough,
after a little time, by a marvellous change, the motion
became pleasant, and as gentle an amble as he
could desire. And that no word that he had spoken
might fall to the ground, the same animal never failed
him for more than eight years. And what made the
miracle more apparent was, that from iron-gray the
horse began to grow white, so that not long after you
could not find a horse more perfectly white than this
had become.
The Abbey of Meaux or Melsa.
Among the monks of Fountains, in the middle of the
twelfth century, there was a certain Adam de Foun-
tains, skilled in the architecture of the period, and
with a strong passion for what we, in our degenerate
days, should call 'bricks and mortar.' William le Gros,
Earl of Albemarle, employed him in the erection of
Vaudrey Abbey, in Lincolnshire. This nobleman hap-
pened one day to remark to his architect, that once he
had vowed to make a pilgrimage to the Holy City, but
his obesity, and his now increasing age, had prevented
him from performing it. Adam promptly suggested
that if he would build another Cistercian monastery it
would do quite as well, for the fulfilment of his vow, as
a tedious journey to Jerusalem. This the earl at once
undertook to do.
The selection of the site upon his extensive estates
was left to the monk. After journeying through them,
about four miles east of Beverley, and seven or eight
miles north of Hull, he came upon a delightful spot,
* embosomed in aged woods, adorned by native pools,
and surrounded by fertile fields.' In the midst of the
charming landscape arose a mound, or hill, called
Mount St. Mary. Here, at the time of the Conquest,
had settled a Norman follower of that monarch, named
Gamel de Meaux, from his native place in France; and
to this, his new home, the same name, Meaux, had
been given. At this place, before the Mount St. Mary,
the monk stopped, and fixing his staff in the earth, he
exclaimed : * This is the place that shall be called the
vineyard of heaven and the gate of life ! Have ye not
heard, my brethren, what the prophet foretold con-
cerning the building of the house of the Lord ? — " In
the last days the mount of the Lord's house shall
be prepared on the top of a hill." These words I have
been revolving all this day in my mind, and now I
find that, by the especial appointment of Providence, a
house of the Lord is to be erected on this very mount.'
The earl, his patron, had fixed previously upon the
spot for a deer-park, and for that object had already
begun its enclosure ; he therefore raised this, as an
objection, to Adam's selection of it for the monastery.
The monk, however, urged the impossibility of altering
what the will of heaven had declared, and he prevailed.
The spot was given for the monastery, and Adam
revelled in the full scope given for his building talents ;
and the 28th of December, 1150 a.d., twelve monks of
Fountains, with Adam at their head, left that abbey
to take possession of the new monastery at Meaux. To
its original name he, its first abbot, added another,
that of Melsa, saying that for the delights of reHgion
which would be practised in it, or, according to another
account, from the sweetness and beauty of the spot
itself, it might be compared unto heaven.
There is a Chronicle of Meatix, supposed to have been
written by Thomas de Burton, igth abbot, and brought
down to 1406 A.D., which contains many curious
records and legends. These relate chiefly to other
parts of the country, rather than to Yorkshire. The
following legendary scraps, however, maybe of interest:
* A certain Jew of Tewkesbury fell into a cesspool on
his Sabbath day, and would not allow himself to be
taken out, in honour to the Sabbath. For a similar
reason Richard de Clare, the lord of the town, would
not permit him to be dragged out on the following day,
being Sunday, out of reverence to his Sabbath ; and so
the Jew died in the pit into which he had fallen.*
Again, * At the beginning of 1349 A.D., during Lent,
six days before Easter Sunday, there occurred an earth-
quake throughout England so great that our monks of
Melsa, while at vespers, on arriving at the verse in the
evening canticle, " He hath put down the mighty from
their seats," were by this earthquake thrown so
violently from their stalls that they all lay prostrate
on the ground.'
This chronicle has been published in three volumes
in the series of chronicles, etc., issued under the direc-
tion of the Master of the Rolls.
Bolton Priory.
Bolton on the Wharfe, with its ruined priory, * which
for picturesque effect has no equal among the northern
houses, perhaps not in the kingdom,' seems to be the
home of legend and tradition, as it has been the paradise
of poets and painters. Turner delighted to paint its
landscapes, and Landseer has depicted the riches of
its parks, its granges, and its waters.
The priory and the legend of its foundation have
provoked the efforts, from Wordsworth downwards, of
poets and verse-writers, more than any other spot or
subject in the county.
FOUNDATION OF THE PRIORY, AND THE BOY OF
EGREMOND.
The legend, which from researches seems very
legendary, of its foundation, in sober prose, is this.
William de Meschines and his wife, the only daughter
and heiress of William de Romille, a friend and partaker
in the bounties of William the Conqueror, founded in
1220 A.D. a house for Augustinian monks at Embsay.
Of their two daughters one, who inherited Craven,
married William FitzDuncan, a nephew of David,
King of Scotland. The only surviving child of this
marriage, the one hope of his proud family, was a
son, born at Egremond Castle, in Cumberland, and,
from this place, popularly denominated *the boy of
Egremond.'
In the year 1251 a.d. the youth was on a hunting
expedition in his mother's Craven domains, and,
accompanied by his companion, came to the romantic
spot on the Wharfe where, with terrible force, the
waters of that river rush through a narrow cleft in the
rocks, known, from the possibility of stepping across it,
as the Strid. With a hound in leash, the boy of
Egremond attempted this foolhardy feat. The hound
suddenly hung back, and dragged backward his master
into the seething channel, where, as many since his day
have done the same, he perished. An affrighted forester
hurried with the sad tidings to the Lady Adeliza, the
youth's now doubly-widowed mother. She read the
story in the dismay of his countenance. She learnt
that she, the heiress of the De Romilles, was childless.
She sought alleviation of her sorrow in works of piety.
In pious memory of her son, she removed the house of
her grandfather's foundation at Embsay to the nearest
suitable spot to the fatal Strid. She increased con-
siderably the endowments, and then, step by step, on
the beautiful spot thus selected, arose in its grandeur
and beauty what is now ' Bolton's mouldering priory.*
The poet Rogers has treated the legend thus :
' Say what remains when hope is fled ?
She answered, "Endless weeping."
For in the herdsman's eye she saw
Who in his shroud was sleeping.
At Embsay rang the matin bell,
The stag was roused on Barden Fell ;
The mingled sounds were swelling, dying,
And down the Wharfe a hern was flying ;
When near the cabin in the wood,
In tartan clad and forest green,
With hound in leash and hawk in hood,
The boy of Egremond was seen.
Blithe was his song, a song of yore ;
But where the rock is rent in two,
And the river rushes through,
His voice was heard no more.
'Twas but a step, the gulf he passed ;
But that step — it was his last !
As through the mist he winged his way,
(A cloud that hovers night and day),
The hound hung back, and back he drew
The master and his merlin too ;
That narrow place of noise and strife ]
Received their little all of Hfe.
And now the matin bell is rung.
The " Miserere " duly sung ;
And holy men in cowl and hood
Are wand'ring up and down the wood, '
But what avail they ?'
Wordsv^orth lays hold of the legend, and in his poem,
* The Force of Prayer,' deals with it more at length, and
more in detail, though perhaps not more successfully
than Rogers. The follow^ing portion contains his
version of the principal incidents :
* " What is good for a bootless bene ?"
With these dark words begins my tale ;
And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring
When prayer is of no avail ?
* " What is good for a bootless bene ?"
The falconer to the lady said ;
And she made answer, " Endless sorrow !"
For she knew that her son was dead.
' She knew it by the falconer's words,
And from the look of the falconer's eye ;
And from the love which was in her soul
For her youthful Romilly.
* Young Romilly through Barden woods
Is ranging high and low ;
And holds a greyhound in a leash,
To let slip upon buck or doe.
The pair have reached that fearful chasm ;
How tempting to bestride !
For lordly Wharfe is there pent in
With rocks on either side.
* This striding-place is called the Strid,
A name which it took of yore ;
A thousand years hath it borne that name,
And shall a thousand more.
* And hither is young Romilly come,
And what may now forbid
That he, perchance for the hundredth time,
Shall bound across the Strid ?
* He sprang in glee, for what cared he
That the river was strong and the rocks were steep ?
But the greyhound in the leash hung back,
And checked him in his leap.
* The boy is in the arms of Wharfe,
And strangled by a merciless force ;
And never more was young Romilly seen
Till he rose a lifeless corse.
* Long, long in darkness did she sit,
And her first words were, *'Let there be
In Bolton, on the field of VVharfe,
A stately priory !"
* The stately priory was reared.
And the Wharfe, as he moved along,
To matins joined a mournful voice,
Nor failed at evensong.'
The number of minor and local poets who have
versified the legend is almost legion, and it is some-
what invidious to make a selection from them. One
poem, entitled * The Boy of Egremond,' and published
in Ingledew's ' Ballads of Yorkshire,' inscribed to John
Bird, will be read with pleasure by those who can turn
to it. Another, given by Dr. Dixon, alludes to the
cruelties inflicted on the inhabitants of Craven by Fitz-
Duncan, the father of the Boy of Egremond. Dr.
Dixon states that it is transcribed from the album kept
at the hotel at Bolton Bridge, and possesses at least
one virtue — that of brevity. From its brevity and
beauty combined it is subjoined :
*THE BOY OF EGREMOND.'
* She looked from the turret — the last beam of day
Was tinting the mountains with golden array ;
The call of the herdsman came up from the dale —
Alas ! — 'twas the only sound borne on the gale.
* She listen'd — all silent — the night-dew fell chill —
No watch-dog bayed welcome — no bugle rang shrill ;
Why comes not the loved, the daring, the strong ?
Go ! ask the wild torrent that murmurs along.
' In the homes of the valleys the childless ones weep ;
Their morning how dreary — how broken their sleep ;
Proud dame of the tyrant, weep with them and deem
If the sword hath its triumph, that so hath the stream.
* The gray monks of Embsay may pray for the dead,
And penance do duly, while mass right is said ;
All bootless the bene is, and tear-drops will fall ;
The voice that is silent earth cannot recall.'
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE.
Very closely connected with Bolton Priory is the
legend of the White Doe of Rylstone. Whitaker, in
his 'History of Craven,' gives the legend or tradition
as follows :
* At this time ' (i.e., towards the^end of the sixteenth
century) ' a white doe, say the aged people of the
neighbourhood, long continued to make a weekly
pilgrimage from Rylstone over the fells to Bolton,
and was constantly found in the abbey churchyard
during divine service, after the close of which she
returned home regularly, as the rest of the congrega-
tion. This incident awakens the fancy. Shall we say
that the soul of one of the Nortons had taken up its
abode in that animal, and was condemned to do
penance for his transgressions against " the lords'
deere " among their ashes ? But for such a spirit the
wild stag would have been a fitter vehicle. Was it not,
then, some fair and injured female, whose name and
history are forgotten ? Had the milk-white doe per-
formed her mysterious pilgrimage from Ettrick Forest
to the precincts of Dryburgh, or Melrose, the elegant
and ingenious editor of the "Border Minstrelsy" would
have wrought it into a beautiful story.'
Wordsworth took up the challenge thus thrown
down by the historian, and, weaving together this
legend of the White Doe with the traditional account of
the part played in ' The Rising in the North ' by the
Nortons of Rylstone, he gave to the world the poem of
* The White Doe of Rylstone ; or, The Fate of the
Nortons.'
Rylstone — the home of the Nortons — is some five or
six miles over the fells from Bolton. The family, at
the time to which the story related, consisted of the
father, * Old Richard Norton,' his nine sons, and their
only sister, ' the gentle Emily.'
The rising in the North took place in 1569 A.D., at
a time when the sufferings, from the dissolution of the
monasteries, especially in these northern counties,
were fresh on men's minds, and the hopes of the
Romanists were turned to Mary of Scotland, as against
the Protestant Elizabeth.
Percy, Earl of Northumberland, and Neville, Earl of
Westmoreland, were at the head of the insurrection.
A proclamation was issued that their object was to
restore the ancient religion, to settle the succession,
and to prevent the destruction of the old nobility. At
Brancepeth they were joined by a large majority of the
gentry, and their retainers, from the Yorkshire dales.
Among the others came Richard Norton, with eight of
his sons, bearing a banner embroidered with the five
wounds of our Lord. The host entered Durham and
desecrated the cathedral, and then advanced south as
far as Clifford Moor, toward York, but changing their
purpose, they turned back to lay siege to Barnard
Castle, held against them, for the queen, by Sir George
Bowes.
The Earl of Sussex, President of the Council in the
North, who lay with the royal forces in York, now
ventured to follow the rebels. The leaders lost heart
and retreated toward the Scottish Border, and then
disbanded what followers remained to them, and thus
left them to the vengeance of Sussex, while they found
refuge in Scotland. Northumberland was, some years
afterwards, betrayed by the Scots to the English, and
beheaded. The Earl of Westmoreland died in exile in
Flanders — the last of the Nevilles, Earls of Westmore-
land. Richard Norton and his eight sons were (accord-
ing to the tradition followed) taken at Barnard Castle,
conveyed to York, and there put to death. Francis,
the eldest son, who had refused to join the rising, was
also slain, leaving the sister — Emily — as the only repre-
sentative of the family.
This is, in outline, the traditional ' fate of the
Nortons,' which, blended with the legend of the White
Doe, becomes the subject of the poem.
The story as related by Wordsworth must, to be
appreciated, be read as written by him ; yet a resume
of his version of it can scarcely be omitted from ' York-
shire Legends,' and may induce some to read, or re-
read, the poem for themselves.
It opens with the gathering, on a Sunday morning,
of the people from the hills and dales around Bolton
to the service in the old church of the abbey — all that
is spared of the once extensive pile. Few more attrac-
tive pictures have been drawn by poet's pen than this :
* From Bolton's old monastic tower
The bells ring loud with gladsome power ;
The sun is bright, the fields are gay,
With people in their best array,
Of stole and doublet, hood and scarf,
Along the banks of crystal Wharfe,
Through the vale retired and lowly,
Trooping to the summons holy.
And, up among the moorlands, see
What sprinklings of blithe company !
Of lasses and of shepherd grooms,
That down the steep hills force their way,
Like cattle through the budded brooms ;
Path, or no path, what care they ?
And thus in joyous mood they hie,
To Bolton's mouldering priory.'
The crowd of countryfolk first gathers in the church-
yard and then passes into the church. And then is
heard
' A hymn which they feel.
For 'tis the sunrise now of zeal.
And faith and hope are in their prime,
In great Eliza's golden time.'
Then silence ensues as the minister proceeds to recite
the other portions of the services :
' A moment ends the fervent din,
And all is hushed, without, within.
The only voice which you can hear
Is the river murmuring near.
When soft ! — the dusky trees between,
And down the path through the open green,
And right across the verdant sod,
Towards the very house of God,
Comes gliding in with lovely gleam,
Comes gliding in serene and slow,
Soft and silent as a dream,
A solitary Doe !
White she is as lily of June,
And beauteous as the silver moon.'
Again the voice of praise is heard within the sacred
house, and, the service over,
* From the temple forth they throng,
And quickly spread themselves abroad,
While each pursues his several road.'
A knot, however, of the departing congregation gathers
at a short distance from the spot where the White
Doe has taken up her accustomed place, and
' Her Sabbath couch has made.'
These start amongst themselves various inquiries and
surmises as to what can be the meaning of the weekly
visits of this solitary animal to the churchyard. First
a mother points her out to her boy —
* Look, there she is, my child ; draw near.
She fears not, wherefore should you fear?
She means no harm.'
He, however, shrinks back and asks :
' But is she truly what she seems ?'
Then an aged man, who has often been a partaker in
the charity of the departed brotherhood, and has heard
eld tales by the convent fire, expounds the legend of
the Abbey's foundation, and expresses his opinion that
the mysterious doe is no less than the troubled spirit
of the Lady Adeliza haunting the spot of her now
desecrated house. Next * a dame of haughty air '
thinks the doe has something to do with the murdered
4
Earl of Pembroke, or with his murderer, John de
Clapham, for oft she loiters near
* A vault where the bodies are buried upright ;
There face to face and hand to hand
The Claphams and Mauliverers stand ;
And, in his place, among son and sire.
Is John de Clapham, that fierce esquire —
A valiant man, a man of dread,
In the ruthless wars of the White and Red —
Who dragged Earl Pembroke from Banbury Church,
And smote off his head on the stones of the porch.'
Finally
' A slender youth, a scholar pale,
From Oxford come to his native dale,'
hath his own conceit with regard to the doe. To him
she is the gracious sprite, or fairy, who attended upon
the shepherd Lord Clifford, in his wanderings in early
life in Cumberland, and his home at Barden,
* And taught him signs and showed him sights
In Craven's dens and Cumbria's heights.'
The knot of listeners who have gathered round, now,
still in uncertainty, disperse,
* And all the assembly own a law
Of orderly respect and awe ;
But see — they vanish one by one,
And last, the doe herself is gone.'
Having thus recorded these questionings and sur-
misings of the neighbours, the poet next proceeds to
enter upon the real subject of his poem, and to give
his story of the White Doe. For the purpose of this
story, he goes back to the time immediately preceding
the rising in the North, when the Nortons — father,
IE&&CJJ0 antr Mtytxaisiiit llx% 51
sons, and the gentle Emily — were dwelling together in
the beloved ancestral home at Rylstone. The banner
of revolt, however, was already prepared, embroidered
against her will, but at her father's request, by Emily.
* That banner, waiting for the call,
Stood quietly still in Rylstone Hall.'
The call came, and the father and eight of his sons
prepared to join the rebel earls. Francis, the eldest
son, who, like his sister, had received the reformed
faith from their now dead mother, refuses to take part
in the expedition, and, with Emily, looks with des-
pairing sorrow upon the enterprise. His object is
misjudged, and he is accused of only wishing to save
the lands from confiscation. One final effort he makes,
before their departure, to persuade his father and
brothers from it, and for this purpose throws himself
at his father's feet, saying —
* 'Tis meet that I endure your scorn,
I am your son, your eldest born ;
But not for lordship or for land,
My father, do I clasp your knees.
The banner touch not, stay your hand —
This multitude of men disband.
And live at home in blissful ease ;
For these my brethren's sake, for me,
And, most of all, for Emily.'
The appeal is in vain. Norton, his sons, and retainers,
depart, and Francis and his sister are left alone. He
cannot, however, endure to remain inactive when his
father and brothers may be in danger. Though he
cannot join with them he follows them, that he may be
at hand when the dreaded disaster comes, to serve
4—2
them as best he may. Whatever of woe may befall
them, he will share it with them. But before departing
on this errand, he tries to prepare the lonely watcher,
left at home, for the worst, and in a final interview he
says :
* O sister, I could prophesy !
The time is come that rings the knell
Of all we loved, and loved so well ;
Hope nothing, I repeat, for we
Are doomed to perish utterly.
The blast will sweep us all away.
One desolation — one decay !'
Then, observing a white doe, which, when a fawn, one
of her younger brothers had brought to her as a present,
and which had become the pet and companion of
Emily, he added :
' Even this creature —
Even she will to her peaceful woods
Return, and to her murmuring floods,
And be in heart and soul the same
She was before she hither came —
Ere she had learned to love us all,
Herself beloved in Rylstone Hall.
But thou, my sister, doomed to be
The last leaf which, by heaven's decree.
Must hang upon a blasted tree ;
If not in vain we've breathed the breath
Together of a purer faith,
* If we like combatants have fared.
And for this issue been prepared —
If thou art beautiful — and youth
And thought endue thee with all truth —
Be strong — be worthy of the grace
Of God, and fill thy destined place —
A soul, by force of sorrows, high
Uplifted to the purest sky
Of undisturbed humanity.'
In the next portion of the poem (Cantos iii. and iv.)
there is a description of the assembling of the rebel
forces at Brancepeth ; of the unfurling of the Norton
banner to be that of the whole army ; an account of
the sacrilege at Durham ; and then of the march
southward.
* Thence marching southward, smooth and free,
They mustered their host at Wetherby,
Full sixteen thousand fair to see ;
The choicest warriors of the North !
But none for undisputed worth
Like those eight sons ; who in a ring,
Each with a lance — erect and tall —
A falchion, and a buckler small,
Stood by their sire, on Clifford Moor,
In youthful beauty flourishing,
To guard the standard which they bore.'
Then comes vacillation and retreat, which brave old
Norton strives hard to arrest. Francis Norton, who,
unarmed, has followed every movement —
* Hath watched the banner from afar,
As shepherds watch a lonely star ' —
once more throws himself before his father, and be-
seeches him to withdraw from the ill-starred enterprise,
but he is only spurned away by the veteran, and
again retires to await the course of events. An already
disorganized assembly, they lay siege to Barnard
Castle. A wild attack is made on the walls. The
aged Norton, supported by his sons, dashes into a
breach :
* The foe from numbers courage drew,
And overpowered the gallant few,
" A rescue for the standard !" cried
The father from within the walls ;
But see, the sacred standard falls ! —
Confusion through the camp spreads wide :
Some fled — and some their fears detained ;
But ere the moon had sunk to rest
In her pale chambers of the west,
Of that rash levy nought remained.'
The Nortons are all taken prisoners. Meanwhile
Emily, with the white doe as her sole companion,
is pining in her lonely watchings in Rylstone Hall.
At last she sends out an old retainer to learn tidings
of her absent ones. In due time he returns,
* That gray-haired man of gentle blood,
Who with her father hath grown old
In friendship, rival hunters they,
And fellow-warriors in their day,
To Rylstone he the tidings brought ;
Then on this place the maid had sought :
And told, as gently as could be,
The end of that sad tragedy.'
* The end of that sad tragedy ' — accepting the tradi-
tional account of the poet, which is in some respects
not historically true — is, that her venerable father and
his eight valiant sons were led to York in chains, and
there condemned to death. Francis still hovered
about them ; and getting access to their prison, re-
ceived there the last command and blessing of his
iair&:eKa antt Munasftc Xifs^* 55
father. The banner — worked by Emily's own hand —
was ordered to be carried, in mockery, before them to
the place of execution. Francis, however, going up,
claimed it as his property, and took it out of the hand
of the soldier that bore it, and, unmolested, escaped
with it through the crowd. His father's last command
to him had been :
* " Hear then," said he, " while I impart,
My son, the last wish of my heart.
The banner strive thou to regain ;
And if the endeavour be not vain.
Bear it to Bolton Priory,
And lay it on St. Mary's shrine —
To wither in the sun and breeze
'Mid those decaying sanctities." '
Having heard this — the old retainer's sad, sad story —
the stricken Emily awaits the coming of Francis, who
is reported thus to have escaped. But —
* Why comes not Francis ? thoughts of love
Should bear him to his sister dear,
With motion fleet as winged dove ;
Yea, like a heavenly messenger.
An angel-guest, should he appear.'
Bearing the banner, which he had snatched from the
mockery and degradation intended, he had hurried
westward toward Bolton,
* And forward with a steady will
He went, and traversed plain and hill.
And up the vale of Wharfe, his way
Pursued ; and on the second day
He reached a summit where his eyes
Could see the towers of Bolton rise ;
There Francis for a moment's space
Made halt — but hark ! a noise behind
Of horsemen at an eager pace !'
The execution of his father and brothers being
over, the authorities at York then recollected how
the banner had been taken from its guardian, and
borne away by its captor. Sir George Bowes, with a
company of horsemen, was hastily sent in pursuit.
On the summit, whence he could see the towers of
Bolton rise, the fugitive was overtaken, and, over-
powered by numbers, he was slain.
The body of Francis lay two days on the wild
moors. On the third day it was discovered by a
forester belonging to the family. He, with others, bore
it to Bolton Abbey for interment, hoping thereby to
spare the gentle Emily the sight of a ghastly corpse.
Unable to rest, however, under her anxiety, she
wanders forth towards the ruined priory.
' She comes, and in the vale hath heard
The funeral dirge ; she sees the knot
Of people, sees them in one spot —
And darting like a wounded bird.
She reached the grave, and with her breast
Upon the ground received the rest —
The consummation, the whole ruth
And sorrow of this final truth.'
Thus now left alone, the last of her ruined house, she
assumes the dress of a pilgrim, and for several years
wanders in places far and wide from Rylstone and
Bolton.
At length she returns, and looks upon her child-
n^Hn^ antr m^nasltc Xtfc* 57
hood's home. Desolation and ruin have done their
work at Rylstone Hall — and the very name of her
family is almost forgotten. She, an unrecognised
stranger, is found seated under an aged, blighted oak,
the sole survivor of a luxuriant grove —
' When with a noise like distant thunder,
A troop of deer come sweeping by;
And, suddenly, behold a wonder !
For, of that band of rushing deer,
A single one in mid career
Hath stopped, and fixed its large, full eye
Upon the Lady Emily.
A doe, most beautiful — clear white,
A radiant creature, silver bright !'
It is her own white doe ! Having for the long years
of its mistress' wandering run wild with its fellows, it
now recognises her, timidly advances, lays its head on
her knees, and looks her in the face.
' The pleading look the lady viewed,
And, by her gushing thoughts subdued.
She melted into tears —
A flood of tears that flowed apace
Upon the happy creature's face.'
Henceforth the two become inseparable companions.
Emily finds a home, or rather homes, among the
humble peasantry of the neighbourhood, who had once
been her father's tenants. Wandering from house to
house among them, now
* A hut, by tufted trees defended.
Where Rylstone brook with Wharfe is blended,'
and then
' Unwooed yet unforbidden
The white doe followed up the vale,
Up to another cottage hidden
In the deep fork of Amerdale ' —
she visits all the spots sacred to other days :
' But most to Bolton's sacred pile,
On favouring nights she loved to go ;
There ranged through cloister, court, and aisle,
Attended by the soft-paced doe.
Nor did she fear in the still moonshine,
To look upon St. Mary's shrine,
Nor on the lonely turf that showed
Where Francis slept in his last abode.'
At length death overtakes the lonely wanderer, and
' In Rylstone church her mortal frame
Was buried by her mother's side.'
The faithful doe long survived its mistress ; and it is
during those years of its survival that, alone, it con-
tinues to frequent those haunts — Bolton Priory at the
hour of service, and the grave of Francis Norton,
where it and its gentle mistress had so often been
found together —
' Haunting the spot with lonely cheer.
Which her dear mistress once held dear ;
Loves most what Emily loved most —
The enclosures of this churchyard ground,
Here wanders like a gliding ghost.
And every Sabbath here is found.*
Such is a mere outline of Wordsworth's version and
rendering of the legend of the white doe, and the
tradition of the fate of the Nortons. Legend and
poetry are blended therein, with all the genius and
skill of one of England's sweetest poets, to form one
of the most delightful poems in the English language.
Barnoldswick and Kirkstall Abbeys.
In 1147 A.D., that prolific mother of holy brotherhoods
— Fountains Abbey — sent out twelve of its monks with
ten of its lay brethren, under Alexander, its prior, to
form the nucleus of a monastery, on a foundation
which Henry de Lacy had laid for them, at Barnolds-
wick in Craven.
This nobleman, Lord of Pontefract, and of estates
said to have extended for ninety miles in Yorkshire
and Lancashire, was afflicted with a dangerous illness,
during which he vowed that, should he recover, he
would * erect an abbey, for monks of the Cistercian
Order, in honour of the most glorious Virgin and
Mother of God, Mary.'
He recovered, and in performance of this, his vow,
he had founded and endowed the House at Barnolds-
wick. But at this place the neighbours — many of
whom had been removed from their homesteads to
make room for the brotherhood — proved inhospitable
as the climate. The monks liked neither. They com-
plained that the situation was bleak, the lands barren,
the seasons late and unfavourable for their crops,
and, moreover, that it was very liable to the depre-
dations of the Scots.
Alexander, the abbot, and his brethren were,
therefore, on the look-out for more agreeable quarters.
6o Xie^entrs antr Cratrttixnts xxf t^oxU^liivit.
The travels of the abbot, on the business of his house,
brought him down the beautiful, fertile, and then
smokeless valley of the Aire. Halting at one of its
richest spots, sheltered by luxuriant woods, and with
openings (felds) of rich meadowlands stretching out by
the river-side, he espied the habitation of a small
brotherhood of hermits. Seleth was the name of their
leader, and he soon stood in the presence of the lordly
Abbot of Barnoldswick. * How came he and his
fraternity,' demanded the abbot, ' to be in possession
of this fertile spot ?' Then Seleth related that, at his
distant home in the south, he had had in his sleep a
vision, and had heard a voice saying, * Arise, Seleth,
and go into the province of York ; and seek there for a
valley called Airedale, and for a place called Kirkstall ;
there shalt thou provide a habitation for me and my
son.' Enquiring, 'Who art thou?' the person who
appeared to him replied, ' I am Mary, and my son is
Jesus of Nazareth.' Thus directed, Seleth related hov>^
he had arisen and journeyed into Yorkshire, and, after
many vicissitudes and wanderings, had arrived in
Airedale, and fixing upon this spot he had learned,
from the shepherds around it, that it was named
Kirkstall. He, therefore, had here erected his humble
abode. For a long time he had dwelt alone, subsisting
on roots and herbs, and the hospitality of the scattered
inhabitants. Then a few others of like spirit to his
own had joined him, and thus had formed the small
community.
* During this reply,* says Whitaker, ' the Abbot of
Barnoldswick sent his eyes around to contemplate the
site and advantages of the place, the beauty of the
E&IritS^ antr Manai^iit Xtfi?. 6i
valley, the river winding through it, the quarries of fine
freestone upon the spot, and the timber trees in the
adjoining woods.' He soon saw that this was a better
place than Barnoldswick, and remembered too that
their patron, De Lacy, was feudal lord of the fee. His
mind was made up. William de Poictou was the
immediate owner under De Lacy, but that need not
stand in the way. The abbot hastened away to Ponte-
fract, and explained to De Lacy all the disadvantages
of Barnoldswick, and all the advantages of the place
inhabited by the hermits, and called Kirkstall. The
grant of the place was soon settled. Seleth and his
companions were disposed of — some by a money pay-
ment, and some (of whom Seleth was one) by in-
corporation into the fraternity of the new owners.
Barnoldswick was abandoned, and in place of the cell
of Seleth the Hermit sprang up, by the munificence of
De Lacy, and under the superintendence of Alexander,
the first abbot, the beautiful and extensive Abbey of
Kirkstall.
The late J. H. Dixon, LL.D., expressed, and ex-
tended to later times, the dream of Seleth, thus —
' The vision of Seleth ! a dream of the night !
A fair river flowed through a valley of light;
Gay flower-spangled meadows were spread o'er the scene,
And the forest birds sang from the ash branches green.
* The vision of Seleth ! a dream of the night !
That stream was as lovely, those heavens as bright ;
But o'er the pure waters a tall abbey frowned,
And the white-vested bedesman was pacing around.
' A vision of Seleth ! a dream of the night !
The lofty-arched chancel in sable was dight ;
Low chanted the monks 'mid the death-bell's drea^l toll ;
And they prayed for the abbot — they prayed for his soul !
* The vision of Seleth ! a dream of the night !
On a desolate ruin the moonbeams shone bright ;
Wild screamed the foul raven, and dark ivy twine
Clung close to the alder, that waved o'er the shrine.'
MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN.
Who does not remember Southey's exquisite and
pathetic ballad, * Mary, the Maid of the Inn ' ? —
* Whose cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight,
As she welcora'd them there with a smile ;
Whose heart was a stranger to childish affright.
And who would walk by the abbey at night
When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.'
The incidents of the ballad are very difficult to fix to
Kirkstall. The author averred that they were true,
and actually occurred at one of the northern abbeys —
either Fiirness or Kirkstall, he could not remember
which. On this ground it has been claimed for Kirk-
stall, and until some other place has proved a better
claim than this Yorkshire abbey, far be it from a
Yorkshireman to refuse it a place among the poetic
legends of the county.
Mary was the maid at an inn near the abbey :
' She loved — and young Richard had settled the day,
And she hop'd to be happy for life ;
But Richard was idle and worthless ; and they
Who knew him would pity poor Mary, and say
That she was too good for his wife.'
Bbtrcjjst antr Munasftc %ift. 63
Two guests had arrived at the inn, and, sitting by the
fire on the dark, stormy autumn night :
* " 'Tis pleasant," cried one, seated by the fire-side,
" To hear the wind whistle without."
" A fine night for the abbey," his comrade replied,
" Methinks a man's courage would now well be tried
Who would wander the ruins about.
* " I, myself, like a schoolboy, should tremble to hear
The hoarse ivy shake over my head ;
And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear.
Some ugly old abbot's grim spirit appear :
For this wind might awaken the dead."
The other replied, that he would lay the wager of
a dinner that Mary would venture to the ruins and
bring from thence
' A bough
From the alder that grows in the aisle.'
'With fearless good humour did Mary comply.'
The rest must be told in the poet's own words :
* O'er the path so well known proceeded the maid.
Where the abbey rose dim on the sight ;
Through the gateway she entered — she felt not afraid,
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and the shade
Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night.
* All around her was silent, save when the rude blast
Howl'd dismally round the old pile ;
Over weed-covered fragments still fearless she pass'd,
And arrived at the innermost ruin at last,
Where the alder-tree grows in the aisle.
* Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near
To hastily gather a bough,
When the sound of a voice seemed to rise on her ear ;
She paused, and she listen'd, all eager to hear,
And her heart panted fearfully now.
* The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head,
She listen'd — nought else could she hear ;
The wind ceased, her heart sunk in her bosom with dread,
For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread
Of footsteps approaching her near.
* Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear,
She crept to conceal herself there ;
That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear,
And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear,
And between them a corpse did they bear.
* Then Mary could feel her heart's blood curdle cold —
Again the rough wind hurried by —
■ It blew off the hat of the one, and behold
Even close to the feet of poor Mary it roU'd ;
She fell, and expected to die.
* " Curse the hat !" he exclaims. " Nay, come on and first hide
The dead body," his comrade replies ;
She beheld them in safety pass on by her side ;
She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied.
And fast through the abbey she flies.
* She ran with wild speed, and rushed in at the door,
She gazed in her terror around ;
Her limbs could support their faint burden no more ;
But exhausted and breathless she sank on the floor,
Unable to utter a sound.
1E&&t|^ avLtf IBunasftc 1-ift* 65
* Ere her pale quivering lips could her story impart,
For a moment the hat met her view;
Her eyes from the object convulsively start,
For, O God ! what cold horror thrilled through her heart,
When the name of her Richard she knew !
* Where the old abbey stands on the common hard by,
His gibbet is now to be seen :
Not far from the inn it engages the eye.
The traveller beholds it, and thinks with a sigh,
Of poor Mary, the maid of the inn.'
Origin of Selby Abbey.
About the time of the Norman conquest of England,
there resided, in the monastery of Autun, in France, a
monk who bore no good character for honesty among
his brethren. To him St. Germanus (so he claimed)
appeared in a vision, and warned him of some ap-
proaching danger to himself from his brother monks.
By night, therefore, he fled from the convent, and took
with him, as a precious relic and talisman, one of the
most sacred possessions of the house — the finger of
the saint (St. Germanus) who had appeared to him.
Many adventures befell the fugitive by sea and by
land ; but at length he found himself off the coast of
Yorkshire. Passing up the Humber, he came to a place
where was a river-bay, much frequented by seals, and
(so says the chronicler) so called Sealby. Here he
landed, and, under a large and spreading oak near the
river-side, he erected a large cross, and deposited by it
his treasured relic, and spent much time in devotion
before them.
One day Hugh, the Norman sheriff of the county,
5
passing up the river, noticed the cross. He made in-
quiries as to the cause of its erection there, and, having
heard the monk's story, on his departure, he left him
his own tent, to be a tabernacle for so precious a relic
as the glorious finger of St. Germanus.
From this beginning sprang the Abbey of Selby.
The Conqueror himself, by his sheriff or otherv^ise,
became greatly interested in it. In 1070 a.d. he
visited the place, and gave lands for the site and en-
dowment of the holy house. Wooden cells were first
built, and then the extensive domestic edifices. The
sheriff's tent was replaced by a worthy church, por-
tions of which still form part of the Abbey Church.
Thus the great abbey, dedicated to St. Mary and St.
Germanus, arose, whose abbot, with the exception of
the abbot of St. Mary's at York, was the only mitred
abbot north of the Trent.
The Gray Palmer and Hylda, the Nun of Nun-
Appleton,
Nun-Appleton, on the Wharfe, once the seat of the
great Parliamentary General Thomas, third Lord Fair-
fax, and now of Sir F. Milner, was formerly the site of
a somewhat important nunnery, dedicated to God and
St. Mary, hence the first syllable of its name. At no
great distance from this convent, and (so says tradi-
tion) connected with it by a subterranean passage, was
an establishment for monks, at Acaster Malbis. Con-
nected with these, the following legend is told :
' In the year 1281 a.d. the Lady Abbess of Nun-
Appleton called the Archbishop of York from his castle
at Cawood to chant High Mass on the eve of St.
IE&&ttll^ antr Mmxa^iit Xtfc, 67
Mark, in order to lay at rest the wandering spirit of
Sister Hylda, which had haunted the convent and
monastery and the adjacent country during seven
long years.
* The peasants fled from the district, for the spirit
appeared to them in their homes, glared at them in
the fields, or floated over their heads in passing the
Wharfe ; and if they attempted to fell a tree in the
woods, a hideous form, in a Cistercian habit, presented
itself, showing a wound in its breast. Now and then
the moving wind would raise the black veil of the
mysterious visitor, and disclose a ghastly countenance
and sunken eyes, the latter raining incessant tears.
* On the eve of the celebration of High Mass, a
tempest, with loud, dismal, and portentous howhngs,
shook the high craggy cliffs above Otley. Fierce and
wild it whirled along the river, and sent levin bolts,
and showered red meteors, over the cloisters of Nun-
Appleton. Rain descended as if the firmament of
heaven were dissolved into rolling tides ; and the
Wharfe, swelling over its banks, washed rocks from
their base, and lofty trees from their far-spreading
roots.
' But now the holy archbishop, in sacred stole, was
before the altar, the veiled sisters of the Virgin
Mary stood by the choir ; the monks of Acaster Malbis
were arranged beyond the fretted pillars of the chapel,
and waited the solemn call of the bell to raise their
voices in hymns of supplication.
' Presently the walls resounded with knocking at the
convent gate. The portress told her beads and crossed
her breast, as she said to herself, while wending to the
5—2
portal, ** There come other pilgrims of Palestine, fore-
told by the dreary ghost of Sister Hylda."
* The lock turned with difficulty. It seemed to deny
admission to the stranger, for the hinges resisted and
creaked horribly against his ingress, but the arm of the
portress forced them to expand, and the Palmer, clad
in gray weeds of penitence, strode within the threshold.
* The roaring thunder burst over his head, blue
lightning flashed around his gigantic figure, and, in a
hoarse, sepulchral voice, he thanked the portress for
her gentle courtesy.
* " By land and sea," said he, " I have proved all
that is terrible in danger, or awful in the strife of war.
My arm wielded the truncheon with gallant King
Richard, the chiefest of the holy rood ; and the Pay-
nims of Acre, with their mighty Soldan, have quaked
in the tumult of our Crusaders. The storm of the Red
Sea, and the rage of open ocean, have rattled in mine
ear. I have crossed burning sands, and met the wild
lords of the desert in shocks of steel ; but never was
my soul so appalled as by the rage of the elements this,
horrible night. To the sinner naught is so fearful as
the working of the Almighty's wrath in our lower
world. I have visited every shrine of penitence and
prayer, to purge the stains of crime from this labouring
bosom. I have trodden each weary step to the Holy
Sepulchre in Palestine. I have knelt to the saints of
Spain, of Italy, and of France. I have mourned before
the shrine of St. Patrick, and every saint of Ireland.
In Scotland I have drunk of every miraculous fount
and holy well ; and, but for the swollen waters of the
Wharfe, I had sought the gray towers of Cawood, or
\
B&lJ]egsc antf IJl^nasfic Xtfc. 69
the fair Abbey of Selby, to crave prayers from the pure
of heart for the worst of transgressors. At holy St.
Thomas's tomb my pilgrimage ends ; but for the
wicked there can be no rest. The pelting hail-blast,
the dark, red flashes of lightning, and the flooded
Wharfe opposed my course. I wandered through the
dark wood. Dire peals of thunder roared among the
groaning oaks, and the ravening he-wolf rushed from
his den across my path — the flame of his eyes showed
his gore-dripping jaws, wide asunder to devour me.
A spectre, more fell than the rage of a savage beast,
drove it away. The croaking raven and ominous
owlet rung a death warning, and the spectre shrieked
in my ear — '' Gray Palmer, thy bed of dark, chill, deep
earth and thy pillow of worms are prepared — thy flesh-
less bride waits to embrace thee."
* Deep sounded the bell.
* " Haste thee, haste thee, holy Palmer," said the
portress, " for the spectre of Sister Hylda bade the
Lady Abbess expect thee. Haste thee to join the
choral swell. Why quakes thy stately form ? Haste
thee — the bell has ceased its solemn invocation."
* Scarcely had the Palmer entered the sanctified
dome of the chapel, when the seven hallowed tapers,
which burned with perpetual blaze before the altar,
expired in blue hissing flashes. The full swelling choir
sunk to awful silence. A gloomy light circled along
the vaulted roof, and Sister Hylda, with her veil thrown
back by her skeleton hand, revealed her well-known
features, but pale, grim, and ghastly, with the hue of
the tomb, as she stood by the Palmer, who was recog-
nised as Friar John.
* The archbishop raised his meek eyes and blanched
countenance to Him that Hveth and reigneth for ever.
The cold dew of horror dropped from his cheeks, but
in aspirations of prayer his courage returned, and, in
adjurations by the name of the Most High, he com-
manded the spectre to tell why she broke the peace of
the faithful ?
* Unearthly groans issued from her colourless lips ;
the dry bones of her wasted carcase rattled, with a
fearful agitation, as thus she spoke :
* " In me behold Sister Hylda, dishonoured, ruined,
murdered by Friar John in the deep penance vault !
He stands by my side, and bends his head lower and
lower in confession of his guilt. I died unconfessed,
and seven years has my troubled and suffering spirit
walked the earth, when all were hushed in peaceful
sleep, but such as the lost Hylda. Your masses have
earned grace for me. I now go to my long rest. Seek
the middle pavement-stone of the vault for the mortal
relics of a soul purified and pardoned by the blood of
the Redeemer. Laud and blessing to His gracious
name for ever."
* Soft strains of melody swelled in the air, and a
bright flame rekindled the holy tapers, but Sister
Hylda and the Palmer vanished, and were never seen
Roche Abbey.
The ruins of Roche Abbey stand in a most
picturesque and beautiful valley, near Sandbeck Park,
in South Yorkshire.
In the year 1147, Durandus, a monk of New Minster,
in Northumberland, accompanied by twelve brother
monks, wandered away from their parent abbey in
search of ' fields and pastures new.' In course of
their wanderings they hit upon this beautiful spot.
Upon a prominent part of the limestone rock they
observed — partly, perhaps, the work of nature and
partly the work of some pious inhabitant of the place —
an image of the Saviour on the cross. This at once
led to the decision that this was the place which
Providence intended to be their new home. Here,
therefore, they settled ; and through the liberality of
the neighbouring lords, soon their beautiful house
arose, and became known as * The House of the
Monks of the Rock ' (de Rupe) ; hence the name of
Roche or Rock.
A very sweet poetical version of the legend has been
made by a living poetess. Miss Lush, a few stanzas
only of which may be quoted ; but the whole ought to
be read :
* To a valley green embowered,
Sentinelled by limestone gray,
Just when Nature's hand had showered
Prodigal her gifts of May,
Came a band of Pilgrim friars at the closing of the day.
' Sunset tints of rose were falling
Every leaf and branch across ;
Suddenly the strangers' calling
Echoed loud as if in loss ;
In the fractured crag before them lay Christ stretched upon the
cross.
* As the sun in golden glory
Shed a nimbus round the head,
And, so runs the monkish story,
Hands and feet were tinged with red,
Slowly spake the holy figure : " Here ye raise My Church," it
said.
* Softly then the vision faded.
But its bidding was fulfilled ;
Maltby's lord the Brothers aided,
Gave the land whereon to build.
So they raised a stately abbey as the Holy Christ had willed.
* Centuries have swiftly fleeted,
Ruined is the sacred pile.
That erstwhile the vision greeted,
Fretted canopy and aisle;
Only Nature in the valley looks up with her ancient smile.
* Now the only incense rising
Is the incense of the flowers,
And the larks, the matins prizing,
Sing them still in morning hours.
While a choral strain at vespers rings through all the leafy
bowers.
Legends connected with St. John of Beverley.
* Oh, come ye from the east, or come ye from the west,
Or bring ye relics from over the sea ;
Or come ye from the shrine of St. James the Divine,
Or St. John of Beverley ?'
Scott.
It is scarcely within the province of a series of
papers on legends and traditions to enter the region
of authentic history, further than is necessary to give
pegs on which to hang the legendary stories.
Of the life of St. John of Beverley, therefore, it must
sufiice to say that he was probably the scion of a noble
Saxon family, and born at Harpham on the Wolds,
about the middle of the seventh century. He v^as
brought up in the school of the prophets of that period
— the Abbey of Whitby, and was afterwards a disciple
of Theodore of Tarsus, Archbishop of Canterbury.
He was elected Bishop of Hexham in 688 a.d., and in
705 A.D. was translated to York, the bishopric of which
he held until 717 a.d., when he retired, and spent the
four remaining years of his life in the monastery which
he had founded at Beverley. Hei;e, too, he was buried,
first in the porch of the monastery; but, after his canon-
ization by Benedict IX., his remains were removed to
the Minster or Abbey Church, where his shrine or tomb
was for long the glory of Beverley.
There are many legendary stories given by Bede,
Foulchard, and other old writers, of wonders per-
formed during his life in the more northern parts of
the country, but the following refer to Yorkshire.
A LEGEND OF WATTON NUNNERY.
Sometime after St. John came to the see of York,
he paid a visit to the nunnery of Watton (Vetadum) in
the East Riding. The abbess was at that time named
Heriburg. ' When we were come thither,' says the old
chronicler, Abbot of Beverley, * and had been received
with great joy by all, the abbess told us that one of the
younger inmates, who was her daughter according to the
flesh, laboured under a very grievous distemper, having
been lately bled in the arm, and, whilst she was engaged
in study, was seized with a sudden violent pain, which
increased so that the wounded arm became worse,
and so much swelled, that it could scarce be grasped
with both hands ; and thus being confined to her bed,
through excess of pain, she seemed about to die very
soon. The abbess entreated the bishop that he would
vouchsafe to go in and give her his blessing ; for that
she believed she would be the better for his blessing, or
if he touched her. He asked when the maiden had
been bled ? and being told that it was the fourth day
of the moon, said, " You did very indiscreetly and un-
skilfully to bleed her on the fourth day of the moon ;
for I remember that Archbishop Theodore, of blessed
memory, said, that bleeding at that time was very
dangerous, when the hght of the moon and the tide
of the ocean is increasing ; and what can I do to the
girl if she is hke to die ?"
* But she still earnestly entreated for her daughter,
whom she dearly loved, and designed to make abbess
in her stead ; and at last she prevailed with him to go
in to her. He accordingly went in, taking me with
him, to the virgin, who lay, as I said, in great anguish;
and her arm was so much swollen that no power of
bending remained in the elbow ; the Bishop stood and
said a prayer over her, and having given his blessing,
went out. Afterwards, as we were sitting at table, at
the usual hour, someone came in and called me out,
saying, *' Quoenburg " (that was the virgin's name)
*' desires you will immediately go back to her." I did
so ; and as I entered, I perceived her countenance
more cheerful, and like one in perfect health. Having
seated myself down by her, she said, *' Would you like
me to ask for something to drink?" "Yes," said I,
a&bejf5 antf Monastic Xifc. 75
" and am very glad if you can." When the cup was
brought, and we had both drunk, she said, " As soon
as the bishop had said the prayer, and given me his
blessing, and had gone out, I immediately began
to mend ; and though I have not yet recovered my
former strength, yet all the pain is quite gone from my
arm, where it was most intense, and from all my body,
as if the bishop had carried it away with him, though
the swelHng of the arm still seems to remain." When
we departed from thence, the cure of the pain in her
limbs was followed by the assuaging of the fearful
swelling.'
PUCH, THE EARL, OF SOUTH BURTON.
The same writer relates another story :
* Not far distant from our monastery (Beverley), i.e.,
about two miles off, was the country house of one
Puch, an earl, whose wife had languished nearly forty
days under an acute disease, insomuch that for three
weeks she could not be carried out of her room. It
happened that the man of God was, at that time,
invited thither, by the same earl, to consecrate a
church ; and when the church was dedicated, the earl
desired him to dine at his house Having, after
some delay, prevailed on him to do so, we went to dine.
The bishop had sent, to the woman who lay sick, some
holy water, which he had consecrated for the dedica-
tion of the church, by one of the brethren, ordering
him to give her some to taste, and to wash the place
where her greatest pain was with some of the water.
This being done, the woman immediately got up in
health, and perceiving that she had not only been
delivered from her tedious disease, but at the same
time had recovered the strength she had lost, she
presented the cup to the bishop and to us, and con-
tinued to serve us with drink, as she had begun, until
dinner was over.'
THE TWO SISTERS OF BEVERLEY.
One, if not two, of the daughters of this Puch, the
earl, entered the convent at Beverley. According to
Poulson, the historian of Beverley, there is in the south
aisle of the Minster an altar tomb placed under a
pinnacled canopy, and covered with a slab of Purbeck
marble, but without any inscription or anything to
lead to a knowledge of the occupant or occupants.
Tradition, however, assigns it to the unmarried
daughters of Earl Puch, who are said to have given
two of the common pastures to the freemen of
Beverley.
In Ingledew's ' Ballads of Yorkshire' there is a
legendary ballad relating to the mysterious appearance,
and disappearance, of these ladies at the convent. The
first, on Christmas Eve, is described thus' :
* The tapers are blazing, the mass is sung,
In the Chapel of Beverley,
And merrily too the bells have rung ;
Tis the eve of our Lord's nativity ;
And the holy maids are kneeling round,
While the moon shines bright on the hallow'd ground.
* Yes, the sky is clear, and the stars are bright,
And the air is hush'd and mild ;
Befitting well the holy night,
When o'er Judah's mountains wild.
The mystic star blazed bright and free,
And sweet rang the heavenly minstrelsy.
* The nuns have risen ; through the cloister dim,
Each seeks her lonely cell,
To pray alone till the morning hymn
On the midnight breeze shall swell ;
And all are gone save two sisters fair,
Who stand in the moonlight silent there.
* Now hand in hand, through the shadowy aisle,
Like airy things they've past,
With noiseless step, and with gentle smile,
And meek eyes heavenward cast ;
Like things too pure upon earth to stay.
They have fled like a vision of light away.'
On the eve of St. John's Day, early in the month of
May, they again return :
' The snows have melted, the fields are green,
The cuckoo singeth aloud.
The flowers are budding, the sunny sheen
Beams bright through the parted cloud,
And maidens are gathering the sweet-breath'd may ;
But these sisters, oh, where are they ?
' And summer is come in rosy pride,
'Tis the eve of the blessed St. John,
And the holy nuns after vespertide,
All forth from the chapel are gone ;
While to taste the cool of the evening hour.
The abbess hath sought the topmost bower.*
From her place in the turret the abbess descries
the two mysterious sisters asleep on the threshold of
the convent door, and —
78 XB,0Ctttrs antr CratrUi0na tyf l^xfvk^iiix^.
* Then again the chapel bell is rung,
And all to the altar repair,
And sweetly the midnight lauds are sung,
By the sainted sisters there ;
While their heaven-taught voices softly rise
Like an incense cloud to the silent skies.
' The maidens have risen, with noiseless tread
They glide o'er the marble floor ;
They seek the abbess with bended head, —
*'Thy blessing we would implore.
Dear mother, for ere the coming day
Shall burst into light, we must hence away."
' The abbess hath lifted her gentle hands.
And the words of peace hath said,
" O vade i7i pacem^^^ — aghast she stands !
Have the innocent spirits fled ?
Yes, side by side, these maidens fair,
Like wreaths of snow in the moonlight there.
* List ! list ! the sweet peal of the convent bells,
They are rung by no earthly hand.
And hark, how the far-ofl" melody swells
Of the joyful angel band,
Who hover around surpassingly bright,
And the chapel is bathed in a rosy light !
* 'Tis o'er ! side by side in the chapel fair
Are the sainted maidens laid ;
With their snowy brow, and their glossy hair.
They look not like the dead !
Fifty summers have come and passed away,
But their loveliness knoweth no decay !
* And many a chaplet of flowers is hung.
And many a bead told there,
And many a hymn of praise is sung,
And many a low-breathed prayer ;
And many a pilgrim bends the knee,
At the shrine of the sisters of Beverley.'
EARL ADDl'S SERVANT, OF NORTH BURTON.
It is, again, related by Bede that St. John of
Beverley was, on another occasion, called to dedicate
a church, built by Earl Addi, at North Burton. 'When
he had performed that duty, he was entreated by the
same earl to go in to one of his servants, who lay
dangerously ill, and, having lost the use of all his
limbs, seemed to be at the point of death; and, indeed,
the coffin had been provided in which to bury him.
The earl urged his entreaties with tears, earnestly
requesting that he should go in and pray for him,
because his life was of great consequence to him,
and he believed that if the bishop would lay his hands
upon him, and give him his blessing, he would amend.
The bishop went in, and, seeing him in a dying condition,
said the prayer with him ; and on going out, said, '' May
you soon recover." Afterwards, when they were sitting
at table, the lad sent to his lord, to desire he would let
him have a cup of wine, for he was thirsty. The earl,
rejoicing that he could drink, sent him a cup, blessed
by the bishop, which, as soon as he had drunk, he
immediately got up, shook off his infirmity, dressed
himself, and going to the bishop, saluted him and the
other guests, saying that he should be glad to eat and
be merry with them. Being ordered, he sat down, ate,
drank, and was merry, as if he had been one of the
company; and living many years after, continued in
the same state of health/
Bishop John died, as has already been said, in
721 A.D., at the monastery he had founded in the great
wood of Deira, called Inderwood, but now Beverley.
Legend has, however, many things to tell of marvels
performed after his death, at his gorgeous shrine in the
Minster, and elsewhere.
The Shrine of St. John of Beverley and the
Pledged Sword.
In 937 A.D., two hundred and sixteen years after
the death of St. John of Beverley, King Athelstane
was on his way to chastise Constantine, King of Scot-
land, for countenance given to Godifed, a pagan Dane;
who had attempted to seize Bernicia. Wulstan was,
at that time. Abbot of Beverley, and a hastily sum-
moned chapter of the brotherhood was held to see if,
by some means, advantage could not be taken of the
king's passage through the county to secure some
benefits to the house. Godruff, the cellarer of the
monastery, propounded a scheme, to which the consent
of the chapter was ultimately given, for this purpose, and
to its proposer was committed its execution. Shortly
after, Godruff, with half a dozen companion monks,
was on his way to meet the king in Lincolnshire.
Surrounded by his chief men, Athelstane was approach-
ing Lincoln at the head of his army. Riding thought-
fully along, he suddenly turned, and, addressing one of
his officers, named Larwulf, said, * Methinks, Larwulf,
ours were a bootless errand unless we propitiate heaven
in our favour.' * Your sentiments, O king, are founded
WitihViU^ antr Monastic Eifc. 8i
on wisdom and piety. Truly it behoves us to march
under the protection of God's saints,' was the reply.
* Then,' said the king, ' this night we rest in Lincoln ;
to-morrow we will devote ourselves in the church
there to fasting and prayer for guidance.' As they
approached the city they suddenly, at a turn in the
road, came upon a group of pilgrims loudly singing.
They were dressed in blue woollen gowns, with leathern
girdles, from which hung earthenware bottles ; san-
dalled feet, heads bare, and with staves in their hands.
* Hold,' exclaimed the king, ' whom have we here ?'
and then, stopping and addressing the pilgrims, he
said, * Whence come ye ? and what is the object of
your anthem ?' Their leader at once stepped forward,
and replied, ' Know, O king, that once we were lame,
bhnd, and afflicted in divers ways, and have been
wandering about from one shrine to another without
obtaining relief, until, by the favour of God, we chanced
to come to that of St. John of Beverlega, where, after
fasting and prayer, we were all, through the interces-
sion of that glorified saint, restored to perfect health
and strength, as thou now seest us, and we are return-
ing to our homes chaunting the praise of our holy
benefactor.' * Wonderful !' exclaimed the king. ' And
was it not, Larwulf, to the house of this holy man at
Beverlega that we granted a charter in the first year
of our reign ?' * It was,' replied the soldier. * And it
was as we were returning from chasing the Danes
beyond the Roman wall that we were hospitably
received at the monastery, and in return you granted
the town of Beverlega sac and soc, and thol and theim,
and exemption from the imposts of other towns.'
6
* I remember,' said Athelstane ; ' and now my mind
is changed. Instead of staying for fasting and prayer
at Lincoln, I will haste on and seek the help of this
St. John of Beverlega, for he appears a great and
powerful saint. Do thou, Geoffrey of Sarum, lead the
army forward to York and there await us ; and thou,
Larwulf, shalt accompany me to Beverlega. And you,
ye reverend pilgrims, accept my thanks for your story,
and take this gift, and erect therewith, in your own
country, an oratory in honour of him who has been to
you so great a benefactor.'
The army marched forward to York ; the king and
his lieutenant proceeded to the shrine at Beverley.
The abbot had been warned of their approach and
welcomed them to a grand banquet.
* Be seated, good father,' said the king, ' for I would
confer with thee awhile.'
The abbot seated himself, and the king told him of
the purpose of his visit to the north, of his encounter
with the pilgrims, and then how, moved by their story,
he had now turned aside to invoke the aid and blessing
of St. John upon his enterprise. Wulstan applauded
the king's wisdom. The king then stated that his
time was short, for he must follow the army to York ;
he proposed, therefore, to visit the shrine, to prostrate
himself and pray before it at midnight, and wished all
the brotherhood, and the loyal men of Beverley, to join
with him. At midnight a grand procession of monks,
choristers, and others entered the holy house with
banners and torches, Larwulf accompanying the king
and carrying his sword reversed. Before the shrine he
prostrated himself and prayed a long prayer, which
the chronicler gives, ending with the customary vow :
* That if success attended his arms, great, and still
more rich, gifts would he make to the church which
enshrined the relics of the saint, and, in pledge thereof,
he would now leave his sword upon the altar to be
redeemed by these princely donations upon his return.'
The banner of St. John was then delivered to Larwulf
to be carried before the king in battle. The procession
returned from the church, and early in the morning
Athelstane started to rejoin his army at York.
Soon after his departure Godruff and his companion
pilgrims returned to the abbey. Godruff, however, did
not long remain, but again departed on a journey to
the north.
It was on the eve of the battle of Brunnanburg.
Where that place is, or was, antiquarians have as yet
been unable to determine. The day had been hot,
and Athelstane and his army had marched far. They
had encamped by the side of a brook or river, and
there, in his tent, lay Athelstane, half awake — half
dreaming — anxious about the morrow. A slight noise
in the tent aroused him, and looking up,
* By the struggling moonbeam's misty light '
he saw dimly a venerable-looking figure, in a white
robe, and with long white hair hanging over his
shoulders, standing near his couch. His first impulse
was to seize his sword. ' Forbear, O king !' cried the
visitant ; * I come not to harm thee, but to grant thee
my blessing. Thy weapon is powerless against me;
reserve it for thy foes beyond the river.' Raising
himself up, the king said, ' Who art thou, and what
6—2
wantest thou ?' * List, O king,' was the reply, * and
be not afraid. I am he whose help thou sought at
Beverlega. Thy prayer is ascended to heaven and
thy petition is granted : lead thy army across the
river to-morrow and victory shall be thine. Farewell !
Ascribe to a higher power than thine own sword thy
success, and forget not thy vow and thy pledge at my
tomb.'
Athelstane looked again, but the figure was gone.
He called the sentinel, and asked who had entered or
left his tent, and was assured that no one had been
near it. The king, therefore, was convinced that he
had seen a vision, and that his visitor had been no one
but St. John himself, and he was now fully at rest as
to the result of the morrow. Nor was he disappointed.
He gained a decisive victory, and the Scots and their
king fled beyond the Tweed, whither Athelstane
followed and compelled submission and homage. He
then returned southward again, and called to redeem
his sword, pledged on the altar at Beverlega. He was
welcomed by the brotherhood, to whom Godruff had
already brought tidings of success. The latter, how-
ever, avoided the royal presence, but one day by
chance the king came upon him. * Who art thou ?'
said the king. ' I thought I knew the features of all
the brethren here by this time.' * I am,' replied the
cellarer, *an humble brother, who has been living in
seclusion by reason of a vow.' * Yet thy features are
familiar to me,' continued the king. * Thou art mar-
vellously like St. John, who appeared to me in vision
on the eve of the battle.' Godruff was a Httle dis-
concerted, but soon was cool enough to reply : * It may
Brrrre^i|0 antr ^^naBfic Xift. 85
be so, my lord, for I am descended from the same
family, and the likeness has been before remarked/
The king was satisfied ; and before his departure he
addressed the abbot and his brethren in redemption
of his pledge in this princely fashion : ' In your
church shall be founded a college of canons, endowed
with ample possessions. It shall be a sanctuary, with
a Fridstool before the altar, as a place of refuge and
safety for debtors and criminals. Four stones, each a
mile distant from this place, shall mark the bounds
of the privileged ground. Your monastery shall be
extended, and revenues increased, and the shrine of
the Blessed John be amongst the most magnificent
in the land.' To the town, also, he granted many and
valuable privileges, and from that time it grew and
flourished.
The monastery and church grew in magnificence
and riches. Gifts poured in to the shrine of St. John,
until it was embellished with gold and precious stones
as few others have exceeded. Pilgrims in thousands,
rich and poor, kings, nobles and peasants, resorted
unto it. The banner of St. John, with those of St.
Wilfrid of Ripon and St. Peter of York, formed the
standard under which the Scots were so disastrously
defeated near Northallerton in 1138 a.d. Even so late
as the fifteenth century its fame, and the fame of the
saint, had by no means diminished. At the battle of
Agincourt (1415 a.d.), St. John was said to have
appeared in the ranks of the English army, sitting
on a white horse, and encouraged the men with many
gracious words. At the same time the relics at
Beverley were moved in sympathy, for on that day
drops of blood exuded from the tomb. Henry V.,
on his return to England, accompanied by his queen,
visited the church to worship at the shrine of the saint
who had so aided in the battle. At length the time
came when the Tudor eagle (or vulture?) swooped
down upon the shrine of St. John, monastery and
college, church and sanctuary, and left but the
beautiful minster — denuded of all that could be borne
away — without even the miserable pittance, left in
other cases, for a parish priest to minister at its altar.
Legends connected v^ith St. William of York.
Though separated in their lives by an interval of
more than four hundred years, some of the legendary
stories connected with St. John of Beverley and
St. William of York are ascribed sometimes to the
one and sometimes to the other, and some stories con-
nected with St. William are, evidently, only amphfied
accounts of similar ones belonging to St. John. The
legends of St. William seem, therefore, naturally to
follow on to those of the older saint.
In 1140 A.D. died Archbishop Thurston of York.
After some difficulty about the choice of his successor,
the Chapter of York, in January of the following year,
elected William Fitz-Herbert, who for ten years, at
least, had been their treasurer. He was a man of noble
family, his father being Count Herbert, treasurer to
Henry I., and his mother a grand-daughter of the
Conqueror and sister to King Stephen. An objection
was raised to the validity of his election, chiefly by the
abbots of the Cistercian monasteries in Yorkshire, and
B&&CJI0 antr WtonaBtit %i% 87
although the king (Stephen) invested him with the
temporahties of the see, and he was duly consecrated
by the English bishops, he failed to obtain more than
a conditional sanction from the pope to his elevation.
After six or seven years of recrimination, the pope,
by his usurped power over the English Church, removed
him from the archbishopric, and ordered the Bishop
of Durham and Chapter of York to elect another man
to fill his place. They nominated two, of whom
Murdac, Abbot of Fountains, was selected by the pope.
Thus Murdac, with the approval of the pope (Eugenius),
but without that of the king, stepped into the northern
primacy. WilHam, however, continued to enjoy the
popular favour, and Murdac found his position any-
thing but a bed of roses. William took refuge with his
uncle, the Bishop of Winchester, residing at one of
whose manors he received all the honours that could
be paid to an archbishop. All classes regarded him,
as an injured man, with affection and compassion. He
lived as much as possible in retirement, spending his
time in study and devotions. Not a murmur or harsh
word against the pope, or others who had wronged
him, escaped his lips. Thus passed the five years that
Murdac held the archbishopric. In 1153 that prelate
died.
The York Chapter again nominated WilHam for his
successor. William hastened to Rome, and this time
with better success. The new pope (Anastatius), moved
by the account of his trials, restored to him the position
of which he had been deprived, and gave him * the
pall.' In the spring of 1154 he returned to take re-
possession of his see. He reached the city of York on
the gth of May, amid the rejoicing of an enormous and
enthusiastic crowd. He was only spared to his people
about a month, for on Trinity Sunday, while minister-
ing at the service in the minster, he was taken ill, and,
after lingering eight days, he died on June 8th. His
death was ascribed, by some, to poison in the sacra-
mental wine, but in all probability it was due to fever.
His body was interred in the nave of the minster.
His meekness, his sufferings, his wrongs, and, finally,
his tragic end, only exalted his memory in the popular
mind.
Many miracles soon were ascribed to him in life, and
to his mediation after death. From his tomb flowed the
holy oil, as from that of John of Beverley, and other
saints.
As yet York had no saint exclusively its own. John
of Beverley had been its bishop, but his shrine was at
Beverley. In 1227 a.d. a movement was made to
obtain the canonization of William. It was, however,
about fifty years later before this was done by Pope
Nicholas III. Perhaps the most magnificent gathering
of royalty, nobles, and ecclesiastics that ever York
minster has witnessed took place on the 8th of
January, 1283 a.d., at the translation of the bones of
the saint from their resting-place in the nave to the
shrine prepared for them behind the high altar.
Edward I. and his queen were present, surrounded
by their court.
From this time, until swept away at the Reforma-
tion, the shrine of St. Wilham occupied a prominent
place in the devotions of the people of the north,
though never so high a one, perhaps, as that of St.
John of Beverley. Legends tell of thirty-six marvels
wrought through him. They are recorded in the
magnificent window known as St. William's window,
in the north aisle of the minster. Only a few of them
need be repeated here; but the following general
remarks by the Rev. J. T. Fowler in his description
(* Yorkshire Archaeological Journal,' vol. iii.) of this
window will be read with interest :
* Among the fifty compartments (of the window)
representing miracles of St. William are several re-
presenting miracles of St. John of Beverley.' . . . The
most probable explanation of this co-mingling seems
to be as follows : ' Until the acquisition of St. William
as patron saint of York, St. John of Beverley, Arch-
bishop of York in the eighth century, held that
position. The right of sanctuary enjoyed by Beverley
at that period, and which gave it another ground of
precedence, was connected with the repose there of
the relics of St. John. On any great emergency the
York clergy were in the habit of going to Beverley,
to appeal in person to the clemency of their patron.'
This is clear, not to mention other instances, from an
account in the 'Acta Sanctorum,' written before the
time of St. William, of the clergy of York, on one
occasion, when there was a great drought, having gone
to Beverley to implore the assistance of St. John.
His feretory was carried in procession ; the sky, before
cloudless and serene, gradually became wild and over-
cast ; rain fell in torrents to refresh the parched earth ;
and the monks went back to York full of praises
towards, and confidence in, their glorious confessor.
Nothing seems more natural, therefore, than that
after the death of St. William and the beginning of
miracles at his tomb, some at least of those of the
earlier saint, with which the people were more familiar,
should have gradually got mixed up with those of the
latter, and, in days when books were few and instruc-
tion chiefly oral, should have become attributed to him.
* It was unreasonable that the saint of the metro-
politan city should be outdone in miracles by the saint
of Beverley, to say nothing of the natural tendency of
later miracles to outshine those that go before. If St.
John of Beverley cured a man of blindness, well, St.
William gave back eyes to a man whose eyes had been
bodily extracted and carried off, none knew where, by
a boy of the name of Hugh. The same kind of thing
happened elsewhere continually. Thus, at Bridlington,
the miracles related of their St. John were as obviously
taken and exaggerated from those of St. William, as
some of the latter were from those of St. John of
Beverley. Did a stone fall on the head of a man in
the presence of St. William, with far greater audacity
it fell upon that of St. John of Bridlington himself.
Did a man fall from a step-ladder, but recover on the
approach of St. William, he fell from the top of a
house, was smashed to pieces, killed, but brought back
to life by the intercession of St. John. Did St. William
once recover a child that had fallen into the Ouse, and
was supposed by the bystanders to be dead, St. John
brought back to life several who had been really dead
for many hours. Did St. William heal one who had
swallowed a harmless frog, St. John restored one who
had swallowed a venomous spider ; and so on. These
examples, which might be greatly multiplied, will tend
to show how earnestly the custodians of the later
shrines laboured to acquire a glory for them surpass-
ing, if it might be, that of the earlier.'
THE BROKEN BRIDGE.
When William, lately restored to his archbishopric,
arrived at York on the 8th of May, 1154 a.d., an
immense and enthusiastic multitude met him. As
they were passing over Ouse Bridge — a wooden
structure in those days — the weight and turbulence
of the crowd caused the fastenings at the end to be
brolcen. The whole structure gave way, and an in-
numerable multitude of ' men, women, and children,'
mingled with harnessed horses, fell in confusion into
the rapid stream where it was deepest. A great cry
of agony arose from the drowning host. * The arch-
bishop, turning towards those who were immersed in
the water, made the sign of the cross over the people
everywhere overwhelmed by the waves, and, dissolved
in tears, offered prayers to God asking deliverance,
that the tempest of the waves might not drown them,
nor the deep swallow them up, nor the gladness of
these men praising God be turned into deadly hurt.'
No sooner was the prayer uttered, than the surging
waters became themselves as a bridge, on which all
who had fallen in were conveyed to the solid ground.
As an old York breviary says :
* Unda ruens populum recipit ruentem,
Et se pontem efficit per omnipotentem.'
Not one person was lost. One chronicle even says, in
order to be very minute : ' Not one was hurt, except
that the leg of a certain horse was broken.' In
memory, it is said, of this miracle was erected the
chapel dedicated to St. William on Ouse Bridge, York,
which was only taken down, on the rebuilding of the
bridge, in very modern times.
The miracle of the broken bridge has been, by a few
ancient writers, claimed for Ferrybridge, or some other
spot in the neighbourhood of Pontefract, and thus
accounting for the somewhat pecuhar name of that
town. Whatever may have been the origin of that
name, modern research has shown that the miracle by
St. William at the broken bridge cannot be appro-
priated to explain it, since charters and other documents
have been found denominating the place ' Pons fractus'
many years before the date of the miracle at York.
EYES GIVEN TO THE BLIND.
To the brief or petition to the pope in 1226, for the
canonization of William of York, we are indebted for
the following legend. A man named Ralph, being
accused of having broken the king's peace, was sub-
jected to trial by wager of battle. His adversary was
named Besing. Ralph was overcome, and in the duel
one of his eyes was put out. As a punishment for his
transgression — now proved by being vanquished in
wager of battle — he was condemned to be deprived
of the other eye. The executioner carried out this
sentence, and a lad named Hugh picked up both eyes
and carried them away. Ralph, being thus unjustly,
as he knew, punished, spent some days in fasting and
prayer, and then came to the tomb of the Blessed
William, and received back two eyes, smaller, and of a
different colour than his former ones, but giving him
again sharp and clear sight.
THE ORDEAL OF FIRE.
The following is a somewhat similar story to the
last one. Two women were charged with having
caused the death of a third person. While in prison
awaiting trial one of the accused died. The other, on
the coming of the king's justices, was brought forth
and charged with the crime. She denied that she had
anything to do with it ; but she was adjudged to make
proof of innocence or guilt by the ordeal, which was
then, according to the custom of the kingdom, that
of taking m her hand a piece of red-hot iron.
This ordeal has been thus described : The iron,
when sufficiently hot, was placed upon a pillar at one
end of a space of nine feet. The accused immediately
grasped the iron in his hand, took three strides to the
other end of the space, threw down the iron, and fled
to an altar appointed, where a priest bound up his
hand in clean white linen cloths, sealed it with the
seal of the church, kept it so sealed for three days, and
at the end of that time opened the cloths. If the
man's hand was then found whole he thanked God ;
but if, on the contrary, a sore was found on the track
of the iron, he was accounted guilty.
In the instance of the woman in the legend, after
she had thus borne the iron, a blister, of about the size
of half a walnut, was found in her hand. Wherefore,
being so burnt by the fire, she was declared guilty and
sentenced to death for the homicide, and delivered
over to the officers for execution. But, before the
sentence was carried out, she obtained permission to
pray, and for this purpose to visit the tomb of the
Blessed WiUiam. Immediately she entered the sacred
space around the tomb, the blister vanished so com-
pletely that no trace of it could be found. This was
reported to the principal justices of the kingdom.
They at once judged the woman absolved and innocent,
and set her at liberty, saying that since God and the
saints had absolved her, neither would they condemn
her. They, however, handed over the justices who
had condemned her to the mercy of the king, * because
they had used false- witness, and given unjust judgment
against her who bore the red-hot iron in the cathedral
church of York before the altar of the Blessed Michael,
whom, and whose hand, the twelve officers, the execu-
tioners, examined and wished to drag from the church
as guilty; but the priest, the keeper of the tomb,
wished to prevent being taken forth, having been cured
by a miracle of the Blessed William.'
SIGHT GIVEN TO A BLIND GIRL.
A young girl of the parish of Leeds, having lost
her sight in early childhood, was for seven years in
total darkness. Led by the hand of a hired guide, she
came to the tomb of St. William, in order that she
might be cured. She remained there a long time in
prayer and weeping. During the holy night of Pente-
cost she lay down to sleep, and, whilst neither quite
awake or fast asleep, there appeared to her one most
beautiful to look upon, having the white hair of an
angel, in comparison with whose raiment snow was
black, fragrant with unspeakable perfumes, who, having
pity on her misery, touched the pupils of her eyes, and,
at the touch of his hand, the darkness of bhndness
cleared away, and for gloomy night was given her
cheerful day. This is said to have taken place on
Whitsunday, June 12th, 1177 A.D., and that Paulinus,
priest of Leeds, and the parishioners, and the mother
of the girl were witnesses to its truth.
Many other such legends are extant and might be
given, such as that of the healing of a paralytic clerk
from Weskburgh ; of a dropsical man from Harewood ;
a dumb girl, daughter of a glazier, from Rokesburgh ;
of a woman poisoned by eating a frog, etc.
The following is of somewhat a different character.
It is represented in a portion of St. William's window,
and ascribed to either that saint or St. John of Beverley.
THE YOUNG STUDENT.
A young scholar once went to Beverley to study
divinity, and charmed the monks there, not less by his
attainments and manners than by his real worth and
industry. The devil, envying his good name and
reputation, set a trap whereby to ensnare him. In
an unhappy hour his eyes rested on the face of a
beautiful virgin of the city, and his heart steadfastly
inclined to her. Day by day his love for her increased
and that for his books diminished, until at last he
became like a horse or mule, in which is no under-
standing, and his beautiful face was spoiled by lean-
ness. Despairing of all other modes of release or cure,
he took himself to the Blessed John, who effectually
released him from the snare of the evil one and restored
him to his accustomed health.
These legendary miracles in the middle ages are,
perhaps, best regarded as somewhat on a par with the
reputed marvels of spiritualism, animal magnetism,
etc., of our own — supposed to be — less superstitious
times. The minds of all classes in those days were
prepared to believe such marvels from such sources;
and when imagination, or hysteria, and possibly, in
some instances, fraud supplied the incidents, the
popular mind believed and propagated them. Is it
quite certain that the popular mind of this nineteenth
century has much room to cast a stone at th,at of those
— in some things certainly — darker ages ?
The Horn of Ulphus.
Among the treasures and curiosities preserved at
York minster is the celebrated horn of Ulphus. This
most interesting relic of the old Saxon, or Danish times,
is really not a horn at all, but a portion of the tusk
of an elephant, about three feet long. Round the
thick end are engraved, with beautiful workmanship,
a number of emblematic figures, in some respects not
unhke those found on Egyptian and Assyrian monu-
ments. The horn was richly mounted with gold, until
it fell into the hands of some of the desecrators of
things ancient and holy at the time of the Common-
wealth, who took it away and appropriated the gold
upon it. Towards the end of the seventeenth century
it was in the hands of Lord Fairfax (Henry), nephew
of the General, and by him was restored, in 1675 a.d.,
to the minster authorities,. They, at the same time,
caused it to be reset with the brass silver-gilt setting
WibbJirrst antr Sil^nasfti: Eifc^. 97
which it now bears, in place of the gold with which
it had been previously adorned.
The legend, or tradition, connected with the horn
is, that a certain Ulphus, son of Thoraldi, was king,
or sub-king, of the western portion of Deira, in the
days when the Danes ruled their Saxon brethren in
these parts. Of Ulphus's four sons, Adelbert, the
eldest, was slain in battle, and the others, even in
their father's lifetime, quarrelled and strove about
the succession to his estates and kingdom. Wearied
by their strife, the aged chieftain at last determined
on a step that would end their disputes, treat them
all alike, and be to the benefit of his dependents,
and that was, to give the whole of his dominions to
the Church. He therefore rode to York, taking with
him his largest drinking-horn, and, filling it with wine,
he went upon his knees before the high altar, there
drank off the contents, and then placed the horn upon
the altar, to be held by the Church as title, in all time,
to all his lands, tenements, and wealth, thus bestowed
upon God and St. Peter. These lands included four
carucates of land in the historical parish of God-
mundham, which now, or lately did, belong to the
Minster.
The legend has been more fully told, and told well,
in the following poetical version of it by Reid Tranmar
in * Legends of York, and other Poems :'
* O'er the wealthy West Deira, in the stormy days of old,
Ulphus reigned, the son of Thorald, wise and merciful and
bold;
But the king was not immortal, tho' of patriarchal mould.
7
98 le^^ntrsE antr €ratrtfi0n35 wf gjuttftslfttr^*
* With the failing weight of Nature bowed his many-wintered
head,
And his sons began to argue who should reign when he were
dead,
While the people wept and murmured; "We shall be
oppressed," they said.
* Now there was a royal maiden, daughter of an elder son,
Adelbert, who died in battle, leaving her — a precious one —
Orphan to his father Ulphus, ere her life was well begun.
* Ulphus troubled very sorely, called on Lady Adelwynne,
Led her to the palace garden, for they often walked therein ;
Praised her lithely-rounded figure, and the whiteness of her
skin :
* Twisted one by one her ringlets, calling her " My little joy !
Blue-eyed, Hke my wife Helena ; how I wish thou wert a boy !"
" Dear my father," said the maiden, " I had wrought you some
annoy :
* Either I had been too timid, for the people of the west,
Loved too much the power of riches, or the idleness of rest ;
Or I might have been a tyrant; dear my father, it is best."
* Round the garden paced the monarch, leaning on the
maiden's arm.
Leaning on her power of loving, charm of every other charm ;
All abrupt ; she stayed and reddened, smitten by a quick
alarm.
* In the woven bower of willow Adelwynne so loved to keep.
Lay, at length, her uncle Kerdic, nerveless in a heavy sleep ;
Near to him a fallen goblet told how he had drunken deep.
* Thro' the woven shade of willow came a line of sunny light,
Touched him with a fiery finger, pointing out the bitter sight —
Oh ! how shame is yet more shameful in the day than in the
night !
%bffviust anh Mtyna^fit Etfi», 99
* Then King Ulphus, son of Thorald, cried — " Is // a son of
mine?
Uprise, thou nidering sluggard ! T/iou to head a Royal line !
Never ! never ! Let us leave him ! Adelwynne, the crown is
thine !"
* But she said, " Not so, my father. Think, my lord, and
turn again.
Were it well that I, a maiden, over Deira-land should reign,
When to wear the crown of Thorald both my uncles yet
remain ?
* " Torfrid comes to-day from hunting ; Edmund from the
north is bound ;
They will meet and ride together. Hark! I hear a bugle
sound !
Good my lord, again be merry. Lo ! an heir is quickly
found."
*Now with mingled men and banners came the companies in
view;
In the van the royal leaders rode together clad in blue ;
By the massy collars all the sons of Ulphus knew.
* Yet, altho' they rode together, not in love the brothers came ;
Torfrid spoke, in words of thunder, things of bitterness and
blame ;
Edmund answered low and quiet, but his eye was all aflame.
* " Coward ! liar ! double-dealer ! thus to win my love from
me!"
Answered Edmund, " O word-smiter, was the world ordained
for thee ?
Is a lady, fair and wealthy, not to please her fancy free ?"
* *' She was mine by true betrothal ere I left the northern land."
" Ha !" said Edmund, inly laughing ; " watchmen by the
treasure stand ;
Now I open hall and coffer with the key of her white hand."
7—2
loo XE,0^ntrs antr ^ratitft^ns of l^axtftsliirie.
* " Mine the gold and mine the tower ; mine the lovely
Gundelheid."
" Take the gold and take the tower ; only give me back my
bride !"
" Nay, my dear and loving brother, yet a little further ride."
* '* Ride a hunting, mighty Torfrid ; let another win the prize.
Gold is sweet, and so are kisses : both are given to the wise."
Answered Torfrid, " I am elder ; wait until the father dies."
' " Oh ! but I will waste thy borders ; every stone shall lie in
blood.
She shall kneel and sue before me, throwing back her silken
hood;
And I will not spare, but slay thee, for revenge is very good."
* This King Ulphus, son of Thorald, heard, and looked upon
the maid.
Where she listened very sadly close beside him in the shade.
"Yea," he said, " I was a father — Adelbert is lowly laid."
'Then she soothed him calm and gently, till he said, "Ah,
maiden fair !
This thy gift of sympathizing, how it is a virtue rare.
Surely thou shalt guide the people ; Adelwynne shall be mine
heir.
* " Kerdic hath no wit but wine-wit ; Torfrid is a son of Cain ;
Edmund is a wily coward, and the dead come not again.
Thou shalt wed thy cousin Edwy, and, by Woden, thou shalt
reign !"
* Blushed the girl from heart to forehead ; " Swear not so, my
lord," she said ;
" What have we to do with Woden ? Surely, since the dead
be dead,
And the living be unworthy, yet there is an heir instead.
mtih^U^ antr Mtineiisitxt Xtf^» loi
* "Give to Christ the land of Deira; let the Church the people
guard j
So they all shall dwell securely, and thy spirit have reward ;
Be not angered ; think upon it, O my father and my lord !"
* " Yea, I will, mine own Rune-maiden ; as thou sayest, it
shall be ;
Adelwynne, my little daughter, better than a son to me ;
In thy face shines out the image of the Lord's prayer visibly."
* So King Ulphus, son of Thorald, knelt before the holy shrine
In the stately York Cathedral, and he quaffed a horn of wine,
Giving unto Christ the kingdom, saying, "This shall be the
sign—
' " Keep my horn, O holy father ; so, from age to age be
known.
Power is a trust from heaven; kings have nothing of their
own ;
Never shall a son unworthy sit upon my father's throne."
* Stranger, when you mark the token, once beset with heavy
gold,
Stripped by avaricious fingers, re-adorned as you behold —
Think upon the gift of Ulphus in the stormy days of old.'
A Legend of St. Cuthbert and Ripon
Monastery.
Eata, Abbot of Melrose, was given, about the year
660 A.D., by Alchfrid, King of Deira, lands at Ripon
whereon to build and maintain a monastic establish-
ment. Taking with him some of the brethren from
Melrose, what is known as * The Old Abbey of
Ripon ' soon sprung up under their hands. Among
the brethren who accompanied Eata from Melrose
was one named Cuthbert, and in the new foundation
Cuthbert was appointed to the office of guest-master.
The legend of his entertaining, in that capacity, an
angel of the Lord cannot be more graphically told
than in the language of Bede, the historian, who has
preserved it :
* On going out early in the morning from the inner
buildings of the monastery to the guest-chamber, he
found a young man sitting there, and supposing he
was mortal, he immediately welcomed him with the
customary forms of kindness. He gave him water
to wash his hands, he himself bathed his feet, he
wiped them with a napkin, and he placed them in
his bosom, humbly chafing them with his hands ;
and he asked him to remain until the third hour of
the day, that he might then be refreshed with food,
lest if he should go on his journey without support,
he should suffer alike from hunger and winter's cold.
For he thought that the stranger had been wearied
with a night journey, as well as by the snowy blasts,
and that he had turned aside there at dawn for the
sake of resting. The other answered that he could
not do so, and said that he must speedily depart, for
the abode to which he was hastening was very far
distant. But Cudberet persevered in his entreaties,
and at last, adjuring him in the Divine name, he obliged
him to stay; and immediately after the prayers of the
hour of tierce were concluded and meal-time was at
hand, he laid the table and offered him food, saying,
" I beseech thee, brother, refresh thyself until I return
from having brought some new bread, for I expect it
is ready baked by this time." But when he returned
he found not the guest whom he had left at table, and.
lE&Ir^Ks aritf Mtyna^ixt Etf^» 103
looking out for the print of his feet, he saw none what-
ever, although a recent fall of snow had covered the
ground, and would very readily have betrayed the
steps of the traveller and pointed out the direction
which he had taken. The man of God, therefore,
greatly amazed, and wondering inwardly at the cir-
cumstance, replaced the table in the inner apartment.
On entering this he forthwith perceived the fragrance
of a marvellous sweet savour, and on looking round
to see whence so sweet an odour arose, he saw
lying beside him three loaves, yet warm, of unwonted
whiteness and beauty. And trembling, he said within
himself, ''1 perceive that this is an angel of God whom
I have received, who has come to feed, and not to
be fed. Lo! he has brought such loaves as this
earth cannot produce, for they surpass lilies in white-
ness, roses in smell, and honey in flavour. Hence it
is clear that they have not sprung from this heavy
earth of ours, but have been brought from the paradise
of Eden. And no marvel that he who enjoys the
eternal bread of Hfe in heaven should refuse to par-
take of earthly food." Wherefore the man of God,
being moved to compunction from having been witness
to so mighty a miracle, was more zealous from that
time forth in the works of virtue, till, with increasing
good deeds, heavenly grace also increased. And from
that time he very often was allowed to see and con-
verse with angels, and when an hungred he was
refreshed with food specially prepared for him by the
Lord.'
I04 €ti^tntfisi antr €vaVttwn^ uf l^tavik^liixt.
Legends of St. Robert, the Hermit of
Knaresborough.
Robert, the hermit of Knaresborough, was a native
of York, born about 1160 a.d., and, after trying a
monk's Hfe at Newminster Abbey, in Northumberland,
he settled down to a hermit's life near Knaresborough.
For many years he lived there, inhabiting, for the
greater part of the time, a cave about one mile to the
south-east of the town, still known as St. Robert's
Cave ; though on two or three occasions, for short
periods, he took up his abode at other spots in the
vicinity.
At first he had for a companion a certain St. Giles —
who, indeed, he found inhabiting the cave at his
coming.
There are three accounts of his life extant : one in
Latin triplets, and probably the work of a monk of
Fountains ; another metrical one, in old English ; and
a third in Latin prose. These are all put under contri-
bution for the following legends, most of which have
already appeared in * Lays and Leaves of the Forest,'
where a full history of the hermit is given.
St. Giles, his companion in the hermitage, soon grew
tired either of the hfe or of his companion, and returned
to his family; and so the old metrical life relates
that
* Longer liked him not that life,
But as a wretch went to his wife ;
As hound that casts off his kit,
And, aye, turns and taketh his vomit.'
Robert also, apparently tired of his dwelling, besought
Wibbtu^ antf ^^nasiic Xifc. 105
from a wealthy lady of the neighbourhood a small
chapel and hermitage known as St. Hilda's, a short
distance from Knaresborough. Thither he removed,
but resided there only about a year ; for, being attacked
by thieves, he thought it best to abandon everything to
them :
* It befell upon a night,
Fell thieves came with main and might ;
His bower they brak, and bare away
His bread, his cheese, his sustenance,
And his poore men's purveyance.
Havand in his mind always.
How God his gospel says,
" If fools pursue you, false and fell,
In a city where you dwell,
Flee unto another than."
Therefore Robert raise and ran,
And sped him unto Spofford town,
To sue God with devocione.'
After a time, however, and after trying to live with
the monks at Hedley, in the parish of Bramham,
but
' On him they raise all in a route.
And bade this blessed man go out,'
he returned to St. Hilda's.
There he was one day sleeping in the flowery grass,
when his mother, who had lately died, appeared to
him :
* A time as St. Robert lay
In a meadow — time of May,
In flowers, slep and in a stede,
Appeared his mother, that was dead,
Pale and wan of hide and hue.'
She told him that, for usury and other sins, she was
suffering great torments, and must continue to do so
until set free through his prayers. This greatly troubled
him, and for a whole year he ceased not to make inter-
cession on her behalf. At the end of that time she
again appeared to him, with a happy and smiling face,
to thank him and announce her deliverance :
' And blissed her bain that made her blithe,
Go ! and, my son, now shall I swithe ;
Wend to wealth that never shall wane ;
Farewell ! I bless thee, blood and bain !'
The hermit was again disturbed at St. Hilda, for
William de Stuteville,
' Lord of that land, both east and west,
Of frith, and field, and of forest,'
was riding through his domains, and came upon
Robert's * honeste halle.' He asked of his attendants,
* Whose was that building ?' They repHed * that it be-
longed to
* Ane hermite, that is perfite,
Robert, that is no rebellour,
A servante of oure Savioure.'
* No,' replied the baron, * not so, but an abettor and
harbourer of thieves.' Then he ordered the place to
be demolished, and the hermit banished from the
forest. The attendants were most unwilling to molest
* the holy hermite,' and delayed to execute the order.
But Stuteville passed the same way a few days after-
wards, and, seeing the buildings yet standing, was mad
with fury, and ordered their instant destruction :
Wihhtu^ ariti SDwnasfic Xtfi?. 107
' Then they durst no langer byde,
But unto Robert's housying hyed,
And dang them down, baith less and maire,
Nothing left they standing there.'
Again by violence deprived of his dwelling, Robert
for some time wandered from place to place in the
forest, but at length returned to the shelter of the cliffs
near Knaresborough — probably not, however, to his
original cave, but to an excavation in the rock, which is
now known as St. Robert's Chapel, and also as the
Chapel of St. Giles.
Here he formed himself a dwelling, at the front of
the cave, by means of stakes and boughs of trees. And
hither
* High and low unto him hyed,
In soth for to be edify ed.'
But again his enemy, the lord of the adjoining castle,
passed that way
* Withe hound, and hawke upon his hand ;'
and, seeing the smoke curling up from Robert's hut,
he again asked, * Who dwelt there ?' The reply was,
* Robert the Hermit.' * What ! that same Robert whom
I not long ago expelled from my forest ?' Again
he was answered, ' It is the same.' Then he sware a
mad oath that he should at once be driven away
again :
* Saying he would his house destroy ;
Wait in a cave, and him annoy ;
Wolves he'd bring, and them employ
Out from his hiding-place.
io8 Cc0i»ntr0 antr CttaMftun^ xrf ilJ^rPtsIjirje.
' Then our Robert, on this hearing,
*' Well, you know," says he, nought fearing,
" Hence no wolf, God-right revering,
Shall ever me displace." '
But the Lord of Knaresborough soon was made to
repent of his temerity in again seeking to disturb the
hermit. In the middle of the following night there
appeared to him a terrible vision. Three men, * blacker
than Ynd,' stood by him in his chamber. Two of
them carried a fearful instrument of torture, and the
third — a tall, pow^erful man — had in his hand two iron
clubs. This man bade the baron rise and take one of
the clubs and defend himself, 'for the wrongs with
which thou spitest the man of God, because I am sent
here to fight thee on his part.'
* Fears the lord — his whole frame shakes,
Horror deep his mind o'ertakes,
Vanished they as he awakes.
Who rushed in wrath to rend him.'
The hermit's dwelling was saved. As soon as the
morning dawned, Stuteville hastened to the cell, and
' In the cavern he low bow'd,
His transgression disallowed.
Gave the land, an owner proud,
To Robert and his guest-friends.'
His enemy's ire was thus turned to the saint's advan-
tage, and henceforth he dwelt at peace with him.
Again the hermit removed — this time from his hut in
front of St. Robert's Chapel to his original cave, some
little distance further down the river. He was about
this time visited by his brother Walter, who had risen
to be Mayor of York, and who caused to be built for
Ubh^U^ antJr ^^nastlc X!fc» 109
him a small chapel in front of the cave, known as the
Chapel of the Holy Cross, the foundations of which are
yet to be seen.
St. Robert here again took to himself a companion —
one named Ivo, said to have been a Jew. But neither
did Ivo and Robert long dwell together in amity, but,
yielding to the temptation of Satan, we are told
* Ivo with Robert soon had strife,
So withdraws from desert life.'
But as he was making haste in his escape, in passing
through a wood he stepped on a rotten bough, which
caused him to fall into a ditch and break his leg.
Robert, being aware of the accident, hastened to the
spot, and, smiling at Ivo's plight, rebuked him for his
fault, and reminded him that ' no one putting his hand
to the plough, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom
of God.' Ivo humbly confessed his error in deserting
his friend, and begged his pardon. Robert bid him —
• Wretched, seek my habitation,
Blessed and free for contemplation,
Long and long God's domination,
Thou by thy prayer hast won.'
He then touched the backslider's leg, and it was re-
stored sound and strong. They never parted more until
Robert died, and were worthy brothers in self-mortifi-
cation.
The wild animals of the forest were completely at
the hermit's beck and call. Once, when collecting
alms, he asked the lord of the forest for a cow. One,
so wild and ferocious that no one dare approach her,
was given him. At once he went after her into the
forest, and, going up to her, put a band round her neck,
and led her home gentle as a lamb. One of the attend-
ants, seeing the animal so easily tamed, proposed to
get her back from the hermit by subtlety. The master
did not approve of the attempt ; nevertheless the man
determined to make it. He went to Robert as a beggar,
with distorted face and counterfeited lameness in both
hands and feet, and telling a piteous tale of wife and
children dying for want, implored him to give him the
cow. * God gave, and God shall have,' was the reply ;
*but it shall be with thee as thou hast feigned.' So
when the counterfeit cripple would have driven off his
prize, he found himself so lame both in hands and feet
that he was unable to move. Seeing this judgment
upon him, the man cried out, * O Robert, thou ser-
vant of God, forgive my trespass and the injury I have
done !' He was instantly forgiven, and the use of his
limbs restored to him. This story, and the following
one, formed the subjects of coloured windows set up in
Knaresborough Church in 1473 A.D., 250 years after
the hermit's death.
Robert suffered great damage by the stags from
Knaresborough Forest breaking down and trampling
his corn and other crops :
' Often stags made fierce attacks,
Cut up cornfields in their tracks ;
All the earth their wildness racks,
Except where each one rests.'
Again Robert went to the lord of the forest, and desired
that they might be restrained. * I give thee full per-
mission,' replied De Stuteville, * to shut them up in
thy barn.'
' Answers he with ill design,
" Christian, shut up the stags as thine,
That with chaunts thou mayest refine
Them yet untam'd by pains." '
Robert, taking a small stick in his hand, proceeded
into the fields, and drove the wild deer into his barn
like so many lambs, and shut them up.
* Seeks he the plain, his barn is filled.
Stags being brought from fields well tilled,
Joining in, as beasts well skilled.
They snort with hallowed chime.'
He then went to inform the baron what he had accom-
plished, and desired to know what next should be done
with them.
Finding that more had been done than was intended,
permission was only given him to retain three of them
for use of oxen to draw his plough. Robert thanked
the donor, and went home and yoked them to his
plough. Their submission and docility at this work
were daily seen and admired by all who passed by.
More than once he had to contend with Satanic
visitants in his cell. One :
* About his house this harlotte hyed,
His devocions he defied ;
All the vessels that he fand
He tyfled and touched them with his hand —
His pott, his panne, his sauce, his fowle,
With his fingers fat and foule.'
The details of these visitations are perhaps better
untold. Suffice it to say, that the visitant was once
driven away by being sprinkled with holy water, once
by the sign of the cross, and finally by the hermit's
' most hallowed staff.'
In 1203 A.D. De Stuteville, lord of the castle and
forest of Knaresborough, died, and for his good deeds
was buried at Fountains Abbey. The charge of these
royal possessions was soon after handed over by King
John to Sir Brian de Lisle, who, proving a great friend
to Robert, induced the king (John) with his Court,
when he came to hunt in the royal forest, to visit him
in his cell. The king came with a great concourse of
nobles. When they entered, the hermit was at prayer,
prostrate before the altar of his chapel. He did not
rise, though aware of the presence and dignity of his
visitors, until De Lisle went to him and whispered,
* Brother Robert, arise quickly ; our lord King John
is here, desirous to see thee.' Then he arose and said,
* Show me which of these is my king.' One of his
peers, * a knight, outpoured much talk, and this be-
side :
* " Ask the king out of his store
Thee to bless this day with more ;
That by his grant here, as before,
You may with yours abide." '
He declined to do so ; but, taking up an ear of corn
from the floor, he addressed the king : ' Art thou able,
O my king, by thy power, to create such an ear as this
out of nothing ?' The king replied he was unable to
do so. * Then there is no king,' answered Robert, * but
the Lord only.' Some of the attendants said, * This
man is mad;' others, * Nay ; he is wiser than we, since
he is the servant of God, in whom is all wisdom.'
John was not offended, but rather pleased at the blunt
BIilrieKa antr Blunasfic Xifc. 113
address of St. Robert, and said to him, * Ask of me
whatever is necessary for thee, and it shall be given.*
* Answered Robert thus the speaker —
" Silver and gold to me, Christ's seeker,
Earthly gifts none can be weaker
To meet our transient need." '
But Ivo, when the king had departed, finding that no
alms had been taken, and mindful also of their suc-
cessors, ran or sent after him, and the king conferred
upon them as much land of the waste in the adjacent
woods, as they could cultivate with one plough, by way
of alms to the poor, and also free liberty to cut and
take firewood and bedding.
St. Robert died September 24th, 12 18 A.D., and after
a quarrel between Ivo, his companion, and the monks
of Fountains about the disposal of his body, it was
buried by Ivo. As he and other brethren committed it
to the tomb, multitudes gathered, from all the country
round, to pay the last honours to one who had been to
them so great a benefactor :
* Crowds are round with cowl and hood.
Poor, and powerful, and good.
Him to mourn in sorrowing mood.
Maids, husbands, widows, seek.
* Who from w^olves our loved homes freed ?
Who for his own did intercede ?
Who with words our souls did feed ?
Thus grieved, they ever speak.
' Ivo next, with greatest care,
Did, with much beside, prepare
(Himself and many a helper there),
In earth our saint to place.'
8
The saint was thus buried where he had desired, in
the Chapel of the Holy Cross, built for him by his
brother, * in a tomb before the altar.'
Many of these legends have been depicted in the
glass of the churches at Knaresborough and elsewhere.
A window of six lights, all filled with scenes from the
life of St. Robert, is still to be seen in Morley Church,
near Derby. From his tomb is said to have issued (as
from that of St. John of Beverley, and others) the holy
oil ; and the shrine was for long — though not, perhaps,
to the extent of some of those of the more notorious
mediaeval saints — a place of pilgrimage for the feeble
and lame, the deaf and blind, in their superstition or
search of healing.
^
1
1
1
III.
LEGENDS OF SATANIC AGENCY.
Legends, attributing marvels in the physical world to
the agency of the powers of evil, are numerous in all
lands. Whatever seemed beyond human power to
accomplish, or was inexplicable as to its origin or
purpose, was, in the middle ages, almost certain to be
set down as a work of the devil, and as such, in
popular tradition, has been handed down to our own
times. And these stories, frequently, still hold their
own against all that the teaching of science, or the
progress of discovery, can say to the contrary.
Legends of this class are numerous in Yorkshire and
elsewhere ; many of them have many characteristics in
common, and often it is evident that one, relating to a
particular place or object, has been appropriated and
applied to other places and objects of like character,
and thus the story has been multiplied many times
over.
A few only of this class of legend will be here related.
The Devil's Arrows or Bolts.
Near to Aldborough, the ancient Ismr of the British,
and Isnrium of the Roman times, and still nearer to
8-2
the more modern town of Boroughbridge, stand three
stone obehsks (formerly there were four), which have in
all historic times taxed the curiosity of observers, and
the ingenuity of inquirers, to account for the manner in
which they have come to be where they are, and for
their original object or purpose.
They are massive stone pillars — calculated to weigh
from 30 to 36 tons each — standing upright in a line
running nearly north and south, the second at the
distance of 66 yards from the first, and the third at
120 yards from the second, each having about two
yards of its base embedded in the earth. They are
known as the Devil's Bolts, or the Devil's Arrows, and
legend thus explains their name, and — what learned
men have yet been unable satisfactorily to do — their
origin and original use also.
In the days when Iseur was the capital of the
Brigantine Kingdom, and the king of that powerful
British tribe reigned in that city, there came thither a
small band of the first Christian missionaries who
visited this country.
They expounded before the king and his nobles their
new doctrine, and exhorted them to forsake their
Druidical gods and become followers of Christ. The
king appointed a conference, at which he would preside,
of his chiefs, the Druids of his kingdom, and the
missionaries. This was held near Roulstone Scar, on
the slope of the Hambleton Hills.
As the discussion was proceeding, and the cause of
the Christian teachers was winning its way, the
assembly was joined by a strange Druid of command-
ing and venerable appearance. At the king's request
X^^vin^B 0f Satanic Ba^^ncg. 117
this stranger took a place among them, and Hstened to
the further exposition of the new faith. He then arose,
and by gibe and taunt and sneer ridiculed the teaching
of the strangers, and upheld the tenets and advantages
of Druidism so effectually that a murmur of applause
ran through the assembly. When he sat down the
king arose and said ; * Venerable priest, thou speakest
well ; thy words are truth. These strangers must now
leave our shores and return to the land whence they
came, for we are unable to accept what they conceive
to be truth.'
Fortunately, however, one of the missionaries had
noticed, as this venerable arch-Druid had raised his
garment somewhat by the earnestness of his action
while speaking, that his feet appeared to be sinking
into the rock on which he stood, and that the hard
stone was partly liquified around them. At once it
flashed upon the observer's mind who the opponent was
with whom they had to deal. He there and then chal-
lenged him as the great arch-fiend — the enemy of all
righteousness — against whom they had been warning
the assembly, and cried in a stern voice : ' Satan, I defy
thee ! In the name of Him whom thou hast reviled,
I command thee to show thyself who thou art, and to
depart to the hell whence thou camest !'
At once he was unmasked, and stood forth in all his
hideousness iTi the sight of all present. Then amid
sulphurous emanations, and the execrations of those
who had so nearly been his dupes, he took his flight.
But, being unable to extricate his feet from the semi-
molten rock on which he stood, he bore away with him
a large mass of that rock adhering to them, until, in
ii8 Uti^tVLtfs anh ®ttaMft0tt» kiX Ifwrftsliltt^.
passing over How Hill, some six or seven miles to the
west of Iseur, the mass became loosened and dropped
to the ground.
Some time afterwards he conceived the idea of
turning to account his late burden, as an instrument
for the annihilation of the now Christian city of IsetLr,
He therefore re-winged his flight to How Hill, cut up
the mass of rock into four large * bolts ' or * arrows,'
and, planting his feet firmly, one on the front and the
other behind the hill, he addressed the doomed town
in the words, which some more mundane being must
have heard, for they have ever since been reported from
mouth to mouth ;
*Borobrigg, Borobrigg,
Keep out of the way,
For Auldboro' town
I'll ding down to-day.'
And then he hurled — we are not told whether Vvith his
hands, after the manner of hurhng a javelin, or as bolts
from a gigantic crossbow, or as arrows from a long
bow — but somehow, he hurled the ponderous stones at
the town. They were all, however, by some means,
intercepted when far short of their goal, and fell, each
in the place it has since occupied, one end firmly
embedding itself in the earth and keeping the rest in
an upright, or nearly upright, position, memorials for
all time of the impotence of Satan's wrath, and of his
intended evil averted from the faithful city.
The similarity of this story to one in Ireland is very
remarkable. Close to the ancient city of Cashel, in
Tipperary, is an enormous isolated mass of rock known
as the Rock of Cashel. Upon it stands some of the
X^0Ctttr» 0f Satanic Wi^tntu* 119
most interesting ruins in that historically interesting
country. At the foot of this rock is a detached portion,
smaller, but weighing many tons, and known as St.
Patrick's Ball, or Arrow.
Far away, some twenty or more miles to the north,
is the lofty range of Slieve-Bloom mountains, in a
prominent peak in the southern part of which is a
large and very noticeable indentation, supposed to
correspond somewhat in outHne with the rock at
Cashel. This peak is called ' The DeviFs Bit, or Bite '
Mountain. The legend is briefly this : The devil on
one occasion in these mountains met with St. Patrick,
and, being worsted in a controversy into which he
entered with him, at his departing he seized with his
teeth in his rage a large portion of the mountain ridge,
and bore it away with him across the rich country to
the south, in his mouth. The saint, thus becoming
aware who his visitor was, seized another and smaller
piece of rock in his hand, and hurled it after his
infernal majesty, and, striking him therewith, caused
him to drop the mass of rock on the rich plain of
Tipperary, where it now constitutes the famous Rock
of Cashel ; while the saint's bolt also remains where it
fell, when it had executed its mission, at the foot of its
larger companion.
Sites of Churches.
A very common legend refers to the endeavours of
Satan to prevent churches from being erected upon
sites objectionable to him.
The legend is found, with slight variations, in many
Yorkshire parishes.
Near Thornton-le-Moor, in the parish of North Otter-
ington, there is a slight eminence, on which, in all
probability, stood at one time an ancient village —
though no trace of either the village or its name
now remains — except the designation of the adjoin-
ing fields as * the Tofts,' and the socket of an old cross
known by the degenerate name of ' Perry Trough.'
At this place, says legend, the parish church was to
have been erected. The stones were brought to the
spot, and the foundations laid, but during the night
they were torn up, and by invisible hands borne away
for more than a mile across the country to North
Otterington. Several times were they brought back
to the site during the daytime, but as often were they
again removed in the night. At last the builders
became weary of the process, and erected the church
at the place indicated at North Otterington, where for
nigh a thousand years it has stood as the old parish
church, dedicated to St. Michael.
A considerable portion of the building now standing
is late Norman, or transitional work, of the date
about 1 120 A.D. Fragments of Saxon crosses have
been found built into the masonry.
An exactly similar legend is found in the adjoining
parish of Leake, accounting for the present remote
situation of the ancient church of that parish. The
intention of the builders, it is said, was to have erected
it on the top of Borrowby Bank, convenient to the
populous village of Borrowby, but their intentions
were frustrated by the same agency, and in the same
manner, as those of the builders of North Otterington
Church.
Htj^mtiSi xrf Safank ^0cnc||. 121
Thumb-Marks on the Haddock.
The two dark marks on the shoulders of the had-
dock are, by the legends of many lands, attributed to
the Evil One; though by another legend the fish is
said to have been the one caught by St. Peter, at his
Divine Master's command, in the Sea of Galilee, and
the marks to have been those of the apostle's finger
and thumb, made in holding the fish while he extracted
the piece of money for the tribute from its mouth.
The Yorkshire legend, however, brings the origin of
the marks nearer home. According to it, the Devil
was the builder of the well-known dangerous ridge
of rocks known as Filey Brigg. As he was proceeding
with this work, he, by chance, dropped his hammer
into the water. Diving, in haste to recover it, he by
mistake seized a haddock instead of the hammer.
Since then the whole species has borne upon its sides
the marks of the infernal hand, and shall so bear them
to the end of time.
The Devil's Bridge.
The highway between Pateley Bridge and Grassing-
ton crosses, in the parish of Burnsall, the deep dell in
which runs the small river Dibb, or Dibble, by a bridge
known in legend as the Devil's Bridge. It might
reasonably be supposed that Deep - dell Bridge, or
Dibble Bridge, was the correct and desirable desig-
nation, but legend and local tradition will by no means
have it so, and account for the less pleasant name
in the following manner.
In the days when Fountain's Abbey was in its prime,
a shoemaker and small tenant of part of the Abbey
lands, named Ralph Calvert, resided at Thorp-sub-
Montem, and journeyed twice a year along this road
to pay his rent to the Abbot, dispose of the fruits of his
six months' handiwork, and return the shoes entrusted
to him on his previous visit for repair, and bring back
with him, on his return, a bag well filled with others
that needed his attention.
The night before setting out, on one of these occa-
sions, he had a fearful dream, in which he struggled
with the devil, who, in this wild, rocky ravine, amid
unpleasant surroundings, endeavoured to thrust Ralph
into a bag, similar to the one in which he carried
his stock-in-trade. This he and his wife feared boded
no good. In the morning, however, he started on his
journey, and duly reached the abbey, assisted at the
service, did his business with the abbot and brethren,
and then started, with his well-filled bag, on his return
homewards. When he arrived near home, in the deep
ravine, where on previous occasions he had found but a
small brook which he could easily ford, he now found a
mountain torrent, through which he only with difficulty
and some danger made his way. Having accomphshed
the passage, he sat down to rest and to dry his wetted
garments. As he sat and contemplated the place, he
could not but recall how exactly it corresponded with
the spot seen in his dream, and at which the author of
evil had tried to bag him. Dwelling on this brought
anything but pleasant thoughts, and to drive them
away, and to divert his mind, he struck up a familiar
song, in which the name of the enemy finds frequent
mention, and the refrain of which was :
' Sing luck-a-down, heigh down,
Ho, down deny.'
Ec^ientr^ tff Satanic %!^mtu* 123
He was unaware of any presence but his own ; but, to
his alarm, another voice than his added a further Hne :
* Tol lol derol, darel dol, dolde deny.'
Ralph thought of his dream. Then he fancied he
saw the shadow of a man on the road ; then from a
projecting corner of a rock he heard a voice reading over
a list of delinquents in the neighbourhood, with whom
he must remonstrate— Ralph's own name among the
rest. Not to be caught eavesdropping Ralph feigned
sleep ; but after a time was aroused by the stranger,
and a long conversation ensued, the upshot of which
was, after they had entered into a compact of friend-
ship, that Satan informed the shoemaker who he was,
and inquired of the alarmed man if there was anything
that he could do for him.
Ralph looked at the swollen torrent, and thought of
the danger he had lately incurred in crossing it, and of
his future journeys that way to the abbey ; and then he
said, * I have heard that you are an able architect ; I
should wish you to build a bridge across this stream ; I
know you can do it.'
* Yes,' replied his visitant, ' I can and will do it.
At the fourth day from this time, come to this spot
and you will be astonished, and you can bring the
whole country-side with you, if you like.'
At nightfall Ralph reached his home at Thorpe, and
related his adventure to his wife, and added, * In spite
of all that is said against him, the Evil One is an
honest gentleman, and I have made him promise to
build a bridge at the Gill Ford on the road to Pateley.
If he fulfils his promise, St. Crispin bless him.'
The news of Ralph's adventure and of the promise
soon spread among the neighbours, and he had no small
amount of village chaif and ridicule to meet before the
eventful Saturday — the fourth day — arrived. At last it
came. Accompanied by thirty or forty of the villagers,
Ralph made his way to the dell, where, on arrival,
picture their astonishment at the sight ! lo, a beautiful
and substantial bridge spanned the abyss ! Surveyor,
and mason, and priest pronounced it to be perfect.
The latter sprinkled it with holy water, caused a cross
to be placed at each approach to it, and then declared
it to be safe for all Christian people to use. So it
remained until the Puritan Minister of Pateley, in the
time of the Commonwealth, discerning the story to
be a Popish legend, caused the protecting crosses to
be removed as idolatrous. After that time, neither
the original builder, nor any other person, seems to
have thought fit to keep the bridge in ' good and ten-
antable ' repair, and in time it fell into so disreputable
and dangerous a condition, that the liberal, and almost
magic -working, native of the parish — Sir William
Craven, Lord Mayor of London in the reign of the ist
James — took the matter in hand, and built upon the old
foundations a more terrestrial, but not less substantial
and enduring, structure.
Still men call it the Devil's Bridge.
The Devil's Apronful.
On the high moors, which separate Nidderdale from
the heads of the Washburn, Dibble, and other tribu-
taries of the Wharfe, are several remarkable peaks and
masses of rock, bearing the names of Nursa Knott,
the Apronful of Stones, the Wig Stones (probably
Xc05ntr0 ijf ^aianit Mg.tntu* 125
meaning, A . Saxon, * War Stones ') Pockstones, Grim-
with Fell, etc.
The Apronful of Stones is a group of rocks heaped
together in delightful confusion, their disorder and
name being thus explained :
Once upon a time — whether when he built the bridge
over the valley, or at some other time, the record saith
not — the Devil was determined to fill up the ravine, or
gill, of the Dibble. For this purpose he was carrying
these enormous crags in his apron, when, too intent
upon his object to properly observe where he placed
his feet, he caught with one foot upon the top of
Nursa Knott, and, stumbling, the strings of the apron
broke, and the contents were thrown upon the ground
as they now appear. It is also said of them that if
any of them, even now, were to be removed, they
would certainly be brought back to their original place
during the succeeding night.
Near the Cow and Calf Rocks, at Ilkley, there are
two groups of crags rejoicing in the names of ' The
Great Apronful ' and ' The Little Apronful,' to both
of which the like legend attaches.
There are many rocks, as at Almas Cliff, the Chevin,
near Otley, the Cow and Calf Rocks, etc., where the
weather-worn holes at the top, or possibly, some of
them, Druidical excavations, somewhat in the shape
of a human foot, are designated the devil's footmarks,
with slightly varying legends ascribed to each.
IV.
BARGEST AND GHOST LEGENDS.
The Pagan's myths through marble lips are spoken,
And ghosts of old beliefs still flit and moan
Round fane and altar, overgrown and broken,
O'er tree-grown barrow and grey ring of stone.'
The Bargest of the Troller's Gill.
This legend belongs to the same neighbourhood
as those of ' The Devil's Bridge ' and * The Devil's
Apronful,' viz., to that of the wild gills, or ravines, which
intersect the bleak moorlands forming the watershed
between the head waters of the tributaries of the
Wharfe and the Nidd. Following up one of the
streams, which murmur or roar through these ravines,
from near the village of Appletreewick, or, as it is
locally called, Aptrick, by Skyreholme, for about two
miles, a deep fissure through the limestone rock is
reached. This is known as the Troller's Gill. A wild,
weird, lonely spot, where after heavy rains the torrent
rushes for half a mile between masses of rock, sixty
^»* seventy feet high and only a few yards apart. The
plaoe has been called the *Gordale of Appletreewick,' as
distinguished from, yet compared with, * The Gordale
I^att0£:at antr 031}usl Xc0Ctttrs. 127
of Malham,' and, compared by some for its grandeur
and gloom — not to the favour of the latter.
In the whole of this neighbourhood, belief in the
bargest, or spectre hound, has held a prominent place
in popular superstition and folklore. The usual form
assumed by this apparition was (is ?) that of a large
dog, with long hair, immense eyes, large as saucers
and bright as fire. Often he dragged with him, fixed
to his feet, or round his neck, a chain, whose clanking,
in the stillness and darkness of night, added much to
the terror which he inspired. Many are the places
which he * haunted,' and many are the legends of his
appearance ; but one of his favourite spots was the
dark Troller's Gill, and the following poetical version
of the legend of his appearance there, to a dare-devil
son of the neighbourhood, is given by the late Dr.
Dixon in his ' Stories of Craven Dales,' and is probably
from his own pen :
* On the steep fell's crest did the moonlight rest,
The beams illumined the dale ;
And a silvery sheen clothed the forest green,
As it swayed to the moaning gale.
* From Burnsall's tower the midnight hour "
Had tolled ; and all was still,
Save the music sweet, to the tiny feet
Of the elfin band, from the fairy land,
That tripped on the rounded hill.
* From his cot he stepped, while the household slept.
And he caroll'd with boisterous glee ;
But he no hied to the green hill side
The fairy train to see.
* He went not to stray with his own dear May
Along by a pine-clad scar :
And loving gaze on the dazzling rays
That shot from the Polar-star.
* On what intent is the TroUer bent ?
And where is the TroUer bound ?
To the horrid gill of the eerie hill,
To call on the Spectre Hound.
* And on did he pass, o'er the dew-bent grass,
While the sweetest perfumes fell
From myriad flowers, where forest bowers
O'ershadow that fairy dell.
* And before his eyes did the dark gill rise,
No moon-ray pierc'd its gloom ;
And his steps around, did the waters sound,
Like a voice from a haunted tomb.
' And there as he stept, a shuddering crept
O'er his frame, scarce known to fear.
For he once did deem the sprite of the stream
Had loudly called " Forbear P^
*■ An aged yew in the rough cliffs grew.
And under its sombre shade,
Did the TroUer rest, while with charms unblest,
He a magic circle made.
* Then thrice did he turn, where the streamers burn,
And thrice did he kiss the ground ;
And with solemn tone in that gill so lone,
He called on the Spectre Hound.
* And a whirlwind swept by and stormy grew the sky,
While the torrent louder roared ;
And a lurid flame o'er the Troller's stalwart frame
From each cleft of the gill was poured.
Bar0^st anir (Blixfistt Ktg^tntist^ 129
* And a dreadful thing from the cliff did spring ;
Its wild bark thrilled around ;
And a fiendish glow flashed forth I trow,
From the eyes of the Spectre Hound.
* When on Barden's height glowed the mountain light,
And borne on the mountain air,
The priory bell did the peasants tell,
'Twas the hour of the matin prayer.
* By shepherd men, where the lurid glen
Doth its rugged jaws expand,
A corse was found, where a dark yew frown'd,
And marks were imprest on the dead man's breast,
But they seemed not by mortal hand.
* In the evening calm a funeral psalm
Slowly stole o'er the woodland scene ;
The hare-bells wave o'er a new-made grave
In Burnsall's churchyard green.
* That funeral psalm in the evening calm,
Which echo'd the dell around,
Was his dirge o'er whose grave blue hare-bells wave.
Who call'd on the Spectre Hound.'
The Bargest, near Grassington.
' His blood did freeze, his brain did burn,
'Twas feared his mind would ne'er return ;
For he was speechless, ghastly, wan,
Like him of whom the story ran,
Who spoke the spectre-hound in Man.'
— Zay of the Last Minstrel.
. Mr. Joseph Lucas, F.G.S., in his ' Studies in Nidder-
dale,' quotes the following racy account, as by * F. W.
9
J.,' in the Leeds Mercury Supplement, February 28th,
1881, of an adventure with this apparition :
* Of this mysterious personage (Bargest) I am able
to give a very particular account, having, only a few
days ago, seen Billy B ^y, who had a full view of it.
* You see, sir,' said Billy, * as how I'd been a-clock-
dressing at Gerston (Grassington), an' I'd stayed
raither lat, an' may-be gitten a lile sup o' spirit, but
I war far from bein' drunk, an' knaw'd everything 't
pass'd. It war about eleven o'clock when I left, an'
war at back end o' t' year ; an' it war a grand neet.
T' mooin war varra breet, an' I nivver seed Rylston
Fell plainer i' a' my life. Now, yo' see, sir, I war
passin' down t' mill loin, an' I heerd summut cum past
me, brush, brush, brush, wi' chains rattlin' a' t' while ;
but I seed nowt ; an' thowt I to mysen', now, this is a
most mortal queer thing. An' I then stuid still, an'
luik'd about me, but I seed nowt at a', nobbut t' two
stane walls on each side o' t' mill loin. Then I heerd
again this brush, brush, brush wi' t' chains ; for, yo'
see, when I stuid still it stopp'd ; an' then, thowt I,
this mun be a Bargest, 'at sae mitch is said about ; an'
I hurried on toward t' wood brig, for they say as how
this Bargest cannot cross a watter ; but, lord, sir, when
I gat ow'r t' brig, I heerd this same thing again ; so it
wud oither hev cross'd t' watter, or gane round by t'
spring head (only thirty miles !). An' then I becom' a
valiant man, for I war a bit freeten'ed afore ; an',
thinks I, I'll turn an hev a peep at this thing. So I
went up Greet Bank towards Linton, an' heerd this
brush, brush, brush wi' t' chains a' t' way, but I seed
nowt ; then it stopp'd a' of a sudden. So I turn'd
%av^t^i antr ©fiusf Et»0^n^«. 131
back to gan hame, but I'd hardly reich'd t' door when
I heerd again this brush, brush, brush, an' t' chains,
going down towards t' HoHn House, an' I follow'd it,
an' t' mooin then shone varra breet, an' I seed it tail!
Then, thowt I, thou owd thing ! I can say I've seen
the' now, so I'll away hame. When I gat to t' door
there wor a girt thing like a sheep, but it war bigger,
liggin' across t' threshold o' t' door, an' it war woolly
like; an', says I, *' Git up," an' it wouldn' git up;
then, says I, " Stir thysel'!" an' it wouldn't stir itsel'.
An' I grew valiant, an' rais'd t' stick to baste it up, an'
then it luiked at me, an' sich oies (eyes) ! they did
glower ! an' war as big as saucers, an' Hke a cruell'd
ball ; first there war a red ring, then a blue one, then
a white one ; an' these rings grew less an' less, till they
cum to a dot I Now, I war nane fear'd on it, tho' it
grinned at me fearfully; an' I kept on sayin', "Git up
an' stir thysel';" an' t' wife heeard as how I were at
t' door, an' she cum to oppen it, an' then this thing gat
up an' walk'd off, for it war more fear'd 0' f wife than
it war 0' me ! An' I call'd wife, an' she said it war V
Bargest, but ah've nivver seed it since; an' that's a
true story.'
The Bosky Dike Boggart.
Near Fewston, in the Forest of Knaresborough, is a
spot named Busky or Bosky Dike — no doubt from the
bushes, locally called * busks ' or * bosks,' with which
the sides of the narrow gill, through which the brook
or dyke runs, were at one time covered. The place
has now been denuded of its bosky appendages, and
has at present no trace of the former dark and gloomy
9—2
132 Uta^ntfB antr Cratttftiyns 0^ a|0ttft»liitt^.
character which made it the haunt of the bargest, or
boggart. Often was he seen, in days of old, promen-
ading, with noiseless step, in the shade of the bushes
and hedges, his long hair hanging from his sides, and
his horrible eyes glaring upon the terrified wayfarer,
and dragging with him his fabled chain. When pur-
sued, he almost invariably disappeared at one particular
place, where a large drain crosses the road. Of late
years he has, however, never been seen. With the
darkness of his haunt he has disappeared here, as else-
where. A village schoolroom was built in 1878 at the
place ; and with the following jeu d' esprit these notices
of Bargest legends, which might be extended to almost
any length, shall close :
The Bosky Dyke, the Bosky Dyke,
Ah ! tread its path with care ;
With silent step haste through its shade,
For ' Bargest ' wanders there !
Since days when ev'ry wood and hill
By Pan or Bel was crowned ;
And ev'ry river, brook, and copse
Some heathen goddess owned,
Since bright the Druid's altar blazed.
And lurid shadows shed.
On Almus Cliff and Brandrith Rocks,
Where human victims bled,
Hag-witches oft, 'neath Bestham oaks,
Have secret revels kept ;
And fairies danced in Clifton Field,
When men unconscious slept.
Dark sprite and ghost of every form,
No man e'er saw the like,
Have played their pranks at midnight hours ^
In haunted Busky Dyke.
?Satt0csf antjr (Bfitx&i Xc^^ntra* 133
There milk-white cats, with eyes of fire,
Have guarded stile and gate ;
And calves and dogs of wondrous shape
Have met the trav'ller late.
And ' Pad-foot ' oft, in shaggy dress,
With many a clanking chain.
Before the astonished rustic's eyes
Has vanished in the drain.
On winter's eve, by bright wood fire,
As winter winds do roar.
And heap the snow on casement higher,
Or beat against the door ;
Long tales are told from sire to son,
In many a forest ingle,
Of rushing sounds and fearful sights
In Busky Dyke's dark dingle.
But lo ! there now, as deftly reared,
As if by magic wands,
In superstition's own domain,
A village schoolroom stands.
Where thickest fell the gloom of night.
And terror held its sway.
Now beams the rising sun of light.
And intellectual day.
Before its beams, its warmth, its power.
Let every phantom melt,
And children's gambols now be heard
Where * fearful bargest ' dwelt.
Yet softly tread, with rev'rent step.
Along the Busky shade ;
There ghosts our fathers feared of old
Will be for ever ' laid.'
134 l^j^entre antr Cttatttftiyns 0f BtJt^ftsIjtxtB.
The appearance of Bargest a presage of
DEATH.
THE WISE WOMAN OF LITTONDALE.
In Hone's * Table Book ' is to be found the following
legendary story :
' In the year 17 — , in a lonely gill not far from
Arncliffe, stood a solitary cottage. A more wretched
habitation the imagination cannot picture. It con-
tained a single apartment, inhabited by an old woman
called Bertha, who was throughout the valley accounted
a wise woman, and a practiser of the " art that none
may name." In the autumn, or rather in the latter
end of the summer, of 17 — , I set out one evening to
visit the cottage of the wise woman. I had never
beheld the interior, and, led on by curiosity and mis-
chief, was determined to see it. Having arrived at the
cottage, I knocked at the gate.
* " Come in," said a voice which I knew to be
Bertha's.
* I entered. The old woman was seated on a three-
legged stool by a turf fire, surrounded by three black
cats and an old sheep-dog.
'"Well," she exclaimed, "what brings you here?
What can have induced you to pay a visit to old
Bertha ?"
* I answered : ** Be not offended. I have never be-
fore this evening viewed the interior of your cottage,
and, wishing to do so, have made this visit. I wished,
also, to see you perform some of your incantations"
3eiVi^tBi anti ([31100! Tt^tn\i»* 135
* I pronounced the last word ironically, and Bertha
observed it, and said :
* " Then you doubt my power, think me an impostor,
and consider my incantations mere jugglery. You may
think otherwise. But sit down by my humble hearth,
and in less than half an hour you shall see such an
instance of my power as I have never hitherto allowed
mortal to witness."
' I obeyed, and approached the fire. I now gazed
around me, and minutely viewed the apartment.
Three stools, an old deal table and a few pans, three
pictures of Merlin, Nostradamus, and Michael Scott, a
cauldron and a sack, with the contents of which I was
unacquainted, formed the whole stock of Bertha.
* The witch, having sat by me a few minutes, rose
and said :
* " Now for our incantations. Behold me, but inter-
rupt me not."
* She then with chalk drew a circle on the floor, and
in the midst of it placed a chafing dish filled with
burning embers. On this she fixed the cauldron,
which she had half filled with water. She then com-
manded me to take my station at the further end of
the circle, which I did accordingly. Bertha then
opened the sack, and, taking from it various ingre-
dients, threw them into the " charmed pot." Amongst
other articles I noticed a skeleton head, bones of
different sizes, and dried carcasses of some small
animals. While thus employed she continued mut-
tering some words in an unknown language ; all I
remember hearing was the word konig. At length the
water boiled, and the witch, presenting me with a glass,
told me to look through it at the cauldron. I did so,
and beheld a figure enveloped in the steam. At the
first glance I knew not what to make of it ; but I soon
recognised the face of N , a friend and intimate
acquaintance. He was dressed in his usual mode,
but seemed unwell and pale. I was astonished, and
trembled. The figure having disappeared, Bertha re-
moved the cauldron and extinguished the fire.
* " Now," said she, " do you doubt my power ? I
have brought before you the form of a person who is
some miles from this place : was there any deception
in the appearance ? I am no impostor, though you
have hitherto regarded me as such."
* She ceased speaking. I hurried to the door, and
said, " Good-night, Bertha."
* " Stop," said she ; "I have not done with you. I will
show you something more wonderful than the appear-
ance of this evening. To-morrow, at midnight, go and
stand upon Arncliffe Bridge, and look at the water on
the left side of it. Nothing will harm you ; fear not."
* " And why should I go to Arncliffe Bridge ? What
end can be answered by it ? The place is lonely ; I
dread to be there at such an hour. May I have a
companion ?"
" No."
*' Why not."
" Because the charm will be broken."
" What charm ?"
" I cannot tell."
" You will not ?"
" I will not give you any further information. Obey
me ; nothing shall harm you."
f UKHV
Sar0^0t antr ©ftusf Xc^ientr^* 137
'"Well, Bertha," I said, "you shall be obeyed. I
believe you would do me no injury. I will repair to
Arncliffe Bridge to-morrow at midnight. Good-night."
* I then left the cottage and returned home. When
I retired to rest I could not sleep — slumber fled my
pillow — and with restless eyes I lay ruminating upon
the strange occurrences at the cottage, and on what I
was to behold on Arncliffe Bridge. Morning dawned.
I arose unrefreshed and fatigued. During the day I
was unable to attend to my business ; my coming
adventure entirely engrossed my mind.
* Night arrived. I repaired to the bridge. Never
shall I forget the scene. It was a lovely night. The
full-orbed moon was sailing peacefully through a clear
blue, cloudless sky, and its beams, like streaks of
silvery lustre, were dancing on the waters of the Skir-
fare ; and the moonlight falling on the hills, formed
them into a variety of fantastic shapes. Here one
might behold the semblance of a ruined abbey, with
towers and spires and Anglo-Saxon and Gothic arches ;
at another place there seemed a castle frowning in
feudal grandeur, with its buttresses, battlements, and
parapets. The stillness which reigned around, broken
only by the murmuring of the stream, the cottages
scattered here and there along its banks, and the
woods wearing an autumnal tinge, all united to com-
pose a scene of calm and perfect beauty. I leaned
against the left battlement of the bridge. I waited a
quarter of an hour, half an hour, an hour ; nothing
appeared. I listened : all was silent. I looked around :
I saw nothing.
* " Surely," I inwardly ejaculated, " I have mistaken
the hour ! No ; it must be midnight. Bertha has
deceived me, fool that I am ! Why have I obeyed the
beldam ?"
* Thus I reasoned. The clock of the neighbouring
church chimed ; I counted the strokes — it was twelve
o'clock. I had mistaken the hour, and resolved to stay
a little longer on the bridge. I resumed my station,
which I had quitted, and gazed on the stream. The
river in that part runs in a clear, still channel, and all
its music dies away. As I looked on the stream I
heard a low, moaning sound, and perceived the water
violently troubled without any apparent cause. The
disturbance having continued a few minutes, ceased,
and the river became calm, and again flowed on in
peacefulness. What could this mean ? Whence came
that low, moaning sound ? What caused the disturb-
ance of the river ? I asked myself these questions
again and again, unable to give them any rational
answer. With a slight indescribable kind of fear I
bent my steps homewards.
' On turning a corner of the lane that led to my father's
house, a huge dog, apparently of the Newfoundland
breed, crossed my path, and looked wistfully on me.
**'Poor fellow!" I exclaimed, "hast thou lost thy
master ? Come home with me, and I will use thee
well till we find him."
* The dog followed me, and when I arrived at my
place of abode I looked for it, but saw no traces of it,
and I conjectured it had found its master.
' On the following morning I repaired again to the
cottage of the witch, and found her, as on the former
occasion, seated by the fire.
3av^tisti antr 05I|tr3t Kt^^tnti^* 139
' " Well, Bertha," I said, " I have obeyed you. I
was yesterday, at midnight, on Arncliffe Bridge."
* " And of what sight were you a witness ?"
* *' I saw nothing except a slight disturbance of the
stream."
* *' I know," said she, " that you saw a disturbance
of the water ; but did you behold nothing more ?"
' " Nothing."
* " Nothing ! Your memory fails you."
' " I forgot. Bertha. As I was proceeding home I
met a Newfoundland dog, which I supposed belonged
to some traveller."
' " That dog," answered Bertha, *' never belonged to
mortal ; no human being is his master. The dog you
saw was Bargest ! You may perhaps have heard of
him ?"
' " I have frequently heard tales of Bargest, but I
never credited them. If the legend of my native hills
be true, a death may be expected to follow his appear-
ance."
' " You are right, and a death will follow his last
night's appearance."
' " Whose death ?"
' " Not yours."
* As Bertha refused to make any further communica-
tion, I left her. In less than three hours after I quitted
her I was informed that my friend N , whose figure
I had seen enveloped in the mist of the cauldron, had
that morning committed suicide by drowning himself
at Arncliffe Bridge, in the very spot where I beheld
the disturbance of the stream.'
I40 X^0iJ,ntr0 anir (2;t[atrtfi0n0 xrf H^iurltelittre,*
The Ghost at Trinity Church, York.
One of the most curious and, as yet, unexplained
illusions, giving us a real ghost in this nineteenth
century, is the now well-known apparition or phantom
nun of Holy Trinity Church, Micklegate, York.
A very full description of the scene on which it
appears, and of the ghost itself, is given in Baring
Gould's * Yorkshire Oddities,' vol. i., to which those
readers who are curious, and would learn more with
regard to it, are referred.
For the purpose of explaining the legends connected
with it, the following descriptions of the apparition, by
three observers, may be quoted.
A writer, * A. B.' writing in 1866, sends to Mr. Baring
Gould an account of what he saw from the gallery at
the west end of the church :
* The east window of the church, I must explain, is
of stained glass. The peculiarity of the apparition is,
that it is seen on the window itself, rather less than
half-way from the bottom, and has much the same
effect as that of a slide drawn through a magic-lantern
when seen on the exhibiting-sheet. The form seen,
I am told invariably, is that of a figure dressed in
white walking across the window, and gives the idea
of someone passing in the churchyard in a surplice.
I say a figure, for the number is generally limited to
one, and I was told that only on Trinity Sunday did
more than one appear, and that then there were three.
But I can vouch for the larger number appearing on
other occasions, as on the day I was there, which was
Bax^tistt antf ©Jursf Xc^x^ntrs. 141
one of the Sundays after Trinity, there were rarely
fewer than three visible.
* Of the three figures, two were evidently those of
women, and the third was a little child. The two
women were very distinct in appearance ; one was tall
and very graceful, and the other middle-sized. We
called the second one the nursemaid, from her evident
care of the child during the absence of the mother,
which relationship we attributed to the tall one, from
the passionate affection she exhibited towards the
child, her caressing it, and the wringing of her hands
over it. I nday add that each figure is perfectly dis-
tinct from the other, and after they have been seen
once or twice are at once recognisable.
' The order of their proceedings, with slight varia-
tions, was this : — The mother came alone from the
north side of the window, and having gone half-way
across, stopped, turned round, and waved her hland
towards the' quarter whence she had come. This
signal was Answered by the entry of the nurse with
the child. Both figures then bent over the child and
seemed to bemoan its fate ; but the taller one was
always the most endearing in her gestures. The
mother then moved towards the other side of the
window, taking the child with her, leaving the nurse
in the centre of the window, from which she gradually
retired towclrds the north corner, whence she had
come, waving her hand, as though making signs of
farewell, as she retreated.
' After some little time she again reappeared, bend-
ing forward and evidently anticipating the return of
the other tv/o, who never failed to reappear from the
142 Ktg^tnti^ antr ^ratrtUxjns xrf l^ovik^^ivit.
south side of the window, where they had disap-
peared.
'The same gestures of despair and distress were
repeated, and then all three retired together to the
north side of the window.
* Usually they appeared during the musical portions
of the service, and especially during one long eight-hne
hymn, when — for the only occasion without the child —
the two women rushed on (in stage phrase), and re-
mained during the whole hymn, making the most frantic
gestures of despair. Indeed, the louder the music in
that hymn, the more carried away with their grief did
they seem to be.'
Another correspondent, * L. S.,' under the date
March, 1874, wrote to Mr. Baring Gould :
* I went many times to the gallery in hopes of seeing
the phenomenon, but was repeatedly disappointed. At
last, one dull day, hopeless for the purpose, as I thought
— rain was falling at the time — I was startled by seeing
something.
'There are two east windows — one on the right,
filled with common green glass, the organ in front of
it. From the outside of this window I saw something
move, and immediately a graceful figure of a girl of
eighteen or twenty years crossed the outside of the
stained east window with a light, free step. She was
entirely covered with a fine lace veil, which, as she
walked and met the air, showed the outline of the head
and figure. The features I could not distinguish, but
could see a shade through the veil where they naturally
would be.
*The veil was of a pure white, flowing back as a
Now wreaths of mist ascending, like holy incense creep,
O'er buttress, hall, and tower, o'er spire and turret steep ;
And through its gauzy curtain the stars a vigil keep.
The breezes sigh a lullaby and — Nature is asleep.'
Then we are told of the arrival of the sacrilegious band
of soldiers from the south thus :
' On Twilight's cheek the rosy flush
Had scarcely turned to gray.
When on the quiet air is borne,
Along the southern way.
The pattering sounds of horses' hoofs
And clink of coat and mail.
And soon a goodly band of knights
The Southern Bar assail ;
The trappings of their jaded steeds
Are dim with dust and soil,
And travel-stain and drooping plume
Their martial splendour spoil ;
But tho' the knights are weary, and
Exhausted is the steed,
They do not stay to rest, but on
Their mission they proceed ;
And soon before the convent gates
The martial cortege stands :
Their leader, thundering at the door,
An entrance there demands.
' The door of iron-studded oak
With blows is nearly down.
The leader urges on his band
With many a curse and frown ;
For he will hold no parley.
No errand will explain.
An entrance for King Henry's band,
An entrance he will gain.
10
146 Xtj^tntisi antr tEratrtfixyns KJf agtyrftslitttt*
Like hungry wolves without the fold,
Where harmless sheep reside,
They fight and clamour, when, behold.
The door swings open wide !
And silence falls like that which fills
The chamber of the dead.
And every man falls back amazed,
And bares his shaggy head ;
For fearless on the threshold stands
A lady all a/one :
The tumult in her woman's heart
Has turned that heart to stone.'
He then describes the fragile but erect form of the
Abbess, barring the way with a firm majesty of mien,
and eyes in which there lives a dangerous light — so
different to her usual appearance.
' For those soft eyes can swim with tears
At any tale of woe,
As oft in pity they have flowed
In days not long ago.
* But now the time has come to bid
Adieu to woman's heart.
For kingly tyranny invades
God's righteous, chosen part.
And shall she aid the crying wrong,
Shall she to robbers bow ?
" Be brave," has always been her theme,
Shall she surrender now ?
No ! let the life that God has given
Be in His service spent.
So there she stands, and straight demands
Their errand and intent'
Sir Ralph, the leader, explains that she and the whole
^ait^cst anXf #I|00f Xtj^tnXfB, 147
sisterhood must at once be ejected from their house,
and demands the keys. The Abbess repHes :
' Sir Knight, you are an Englishman,
I trust a Christian too.
I seek for mercy at your hands,
The feeble woman's due.
It is not for myself I crave
Your courtesy to-night,
But for my helpless fold of sheep,
And for the cause of right.
By soldier's honour, woman's tears,
By every sacred pledge,
I charge you lay not on your soul
The crime of sacrilege.
What ! are my prayers of no avail ?
You bid your men proceed ?
Come, cowards, then ! who crush the weak —
God help us in our need ! —
Come, and this feeble arm of mine
Your progress shall restrain ;
Come, and this heart shall cease to beat
Ere you an entrance gain ;
Come, then, and if with murderous hand
You set my spirit free,
It will not leave you to enjoy
Your blood-bought victory ;
For it will haunt its convent home.
Which God has ever blessed.
But now shall curse, nor suffer here
The heretic to rest ;
And ever shall my form appear
As witness of this deed,
To brand your name with infamy,
So, if you dare — proceed !'
Sir Ralph then laughed a hideous laugh, unsheathed
10 — 2
his blade, and cried, with dreadful oath and shameless
jest :
' " Mad woman, turn aside !"
The lady stood as still as was
The virgin's image white.
" Stand back !" the ruffian cried again,
And clouds obscured the light.
And then the nuns in terror fled,
And on the threshold stone
One figure stood, like angel good,
Amid the fiends — alone.
" Stand back, or die !" he cried again,
The band advanced a pace,
She raised aloft her snowy arm,
And turned to heaven her face.
A pause — the word " Advance " is given —
A rush, a mufiled tread —
A weary sigh — the moon on high —
A holy woman — dead ;
A throng of scared and shrieking nuns —
A band of ruthless men —
, A furious mob without, and yells
Of execration — then
A struggle fierce, and flames that burst
On high with lurid light.
These were the sounds that met the ear,
These were the scenes that froze with fear,
Upon that fatal night.
* Those days have passed and perished.
Three centuries have fled
Since in that stony portal gate
The martyred nun lay dead. ^
* Her name is now forgotten,
Her grave is now unknown ;
And reverent tears no more bedew
Her monumental stone.
Batt0C»f antx ^ii^jsd Htg^^nXiB. 149
* The house she loved is levelled,
The church has seen decay ;
And other worshippers are found
Where once she loved to pray.
* But faithful to her promise,
Thro' all these changing years,
Within those sacred precincts still
The Phantom Nun appears.
' A little form appeareth,
And passeth to and fro ;
And those who see remember how,
Three centuries ago,
' Against the power of tyrants
A noble woman fought ;
And fighting, died, and with her blood
A martyr's glory bought.
* Still in the Church's service
She strives, and never rests ;
For there her shadowy form against
Usurping power protests.
* But when once more the Convent
O'er Ebor's walls shall rise,
And matin-song and vesper-bell
Shall echo to the skies —
* (So says the ancient legend)
Her work will then be done.
And in her honoured grave at last
Shall sleep the Phantom Nun.'
Another and very different legend accounts for the
appearance — not of one woman only, and that a nun —
but of three figures.
It is thus given by Baring Gould's correspondent
* L. S.' :
* The Sunday-school children who sit in the gallery
see the forms so often as to be quite familiar with the
sight, and call them "the mother, nurse, and child."
The legend that I have heard told of it is that a family,
consisting of a father, mother, and only child, lived
here once upon a time. The father died, and was
buried at the east end of the church, under or near
the organ-window. After a while the plague broke
out in York, and carried off the child, and it was buried
outside the city, as those who died of plague were not
allowed to be laid in the churchyards for fear of com-
municating the infection. The mother died afterwards,
and was laid in her husband's grave, and now, as in
her lifetime, continues to visit the grave of her child
and bemoan the separation. The child is brought
from its grave in the plague-pit by the mother and
nurse, and brought to the grave of its father, and then
it is taken back to where it lies outside the walls.'
V.
LEGENDS AND TRADITIONS OF MOTHER SHIPTON.
* O yes ! If any man or woman, in city, town, or country,
can tell any tydings of Agatha Shipton, the daughter of
Solomon Shipton, ditch digger, lately deceased, let them bring
word to the cryer of the village, and they shall be well re-
warded for their pains.' — A Comedy ^ 1660 a.d.
Few names of Yorkshire celebrities have gained more
wide notoriety than that of Mother Shipton. It may
be taken as tolerably certain that such a person was
born in the neighbourhood of Knaresborough, and lived
at the period assigned to her. The legends with regard
to her may be divided into two parts — (i) Those which
give the marvels of her birth, childhood, and life ; (2)
Those which relate to her prophecies.
The most marvellous stories of her parentage and
life appear in a book by Richard Head, gentleman,
published in 1684 A.D., that is, 130 years after the date
usually given of the notorious woman's death. He
states that he obtained them from an ancient manu-
script handed to him by a gentleman, who had it from
one of the dissolved monasteries ; but the statement
is no doubt fictitious.
The stories may have, some of them, lingered in the
neighbourhood, handed down through three or four
152 XK0^ntrs antr tlxiettiiiwn^ 0f l^iyxi^^tiiv^*
generations, and have been gathered up and woven
together by Richard Head ; but far more probably they
are creations of his own brain. However this may be,
the following are a few of them.
The story of her infernal parentage we pass over.
Her mother Agatha died in giving her birth. Such
strange and horrible noises attended her entry into the
world, that the persons present were sorely tempted to
fly from the place. The future hag was as ill-favoured
in her infancy as in her old age. At any rate she
could scarcely have been more repulsive at the end
than she was at the beginning.
* According to the best observation of her,' says the
writer, * take this true but not full account of her
features and body : —
* She was of an indifferent height, but very morose
and big bon'd, her head very long, with very great
goggling but sharp and fiery eyes ; her nose of an
incredible and improportionable length, having in it
many crooks and turnings, adorned with many strange
pimples of divers colors, as red, blue, and mix^t, which
like vapors of brimstone, gave such a lustre to her
affrighted spectators in the dead-time of the night, that
one of them confessed several times, in my hearing, that
her nurse needed no other light to assist her in the per-
formance of her duty. Her cheeks were of a black,
swarthy complexion, much like a mixture of black and
yellow jaundices, wrinkled, shrivelled, and very hollow;
insomuch, that as the ribs of her body, so the impres-
sions of her teeth, were easily to be discerned through
both sides of her face, answering one side to the other,
like the notches in a valley, excepting only two of them,
Cc,0^ntrs antr tlTratrUimtsE xff Mtifi^tjci Slitptxyn* 153
which stood quite out of her mouth, in imitation of the
tuskes of a wild boar, or the tooth of an elephant. . . .
The neck was so strangely distorted that her right
shoulder was forced to be a supporter to her head, it
being prop't up by the help of her chin. : . . . Her legs
were crooked and misshapen. The toes of her feet
looking towards her left side, so that it was very hard
for any person (could she have stood up) to guess which
road she intended to steer her course, because she
never could look that way she resolved to go.'
In due time the infant was put out to nurse, by
the parish, to a poor woman near the town. One day
when the child had been with her about six months,
the woman left the house for a short time, closing the
door after her, and leaving the child within alone.
When she returned she found the door open, and called
some of her neighbours to her assistance, thinking that
thieves were within. When they approached the door,
and were about to enter, they were startled by a noise
in the inner room like a concert of cats, which so
affrighted them, that those who had got in endeavoured
to get out again quicker than they entered. But in
vain, for great long yokes, in the form of a cross, were
put round their necks, so that they could not possibly
flee out. At last, after much struggling and crying out,
the yokes fell off, but in their stead a staff was laid
across their shoulders, upon which an old woman
appeared, sometimes hanging from it by her heels, and
sometimes by her toes. These antics went on for about
half an hour, so that the poor men were never more
tired, and never more pleased, than when they were
allowed to escape from the house. The women did
not fare so well. In an inner room they were compelled
to take hold of the four ends of a cross and dance round,
one after another, until nearly wearied to death ; an
imp, in the shape of a monkey, hanging on to each,
and goading them on with pins whenever they flagged
in the exercise. At length they, too, were allowed
to escape. The occurrence set the whole town in
an uproar. The priest and leading inhabitants con-
sulted as to what was to be done. At length they
resolved to go to the house; but as they came near a
dissension arose as to who should enter first. It was
settled by the priest being put first, and, closely followed
by those who should accompany him, with the greatest
trepidation — quivering and shaking — they crossed the
threshold ; but no sooner had they done so, though the
floor of the house was only an earthen one, than there
was a noise as of a number of men walking over a quan-
tity of stones ; then very sweet musical notes were heard,
but no one knew whence they came. Out rushed par-
son and people pell-mell together. Gathering courage,
they again entered, and searching the house, missed
the child. After examining every corner, one of them
looked up the chimney ; and there, behold, was the
child and cradle, hanging without any support, about
three yards from the ground. They contrived to get
them both down, and encouraging the poor nurse-
woman not to be affrighted, they left the house them-
selves, no wiser than when they entered it.
As the child grew up, the woman's troubles continued.
The greater part of her daily work was to put right in
her house what was, in most mysterious ways, con-
tinually going wrong. The chairs and stools would
tc0Cttbs antr ^vieitfiiixfn^ xyf M^tinn ^Iltpfxtn. 155
frequently march upstairs and down, play at bowls with
trenchers and dishes; sometimes at dinner the meat
would be spirited away before she could secure a bite.
These things seemed greatly to please the future
* Mother Shipton,' who, with one of her monstrous
smiles, usually pacified the nurse with the words : * Be
contented, there is nothing here that will harm you.'
The growing Ursula was next sent to school.
* There,' in the words of the imaginative chronicler,
* her mistress began to instruct her, as other children,
beginning with the cris-cross-row, as they called it,
showing and naming only three or four letters at first,
but, to the amazement and astonishment of her mis-
tress, she exactly pronounced every letter in the
alphabet without teaching. Hereupon her mistress
showed her a primer, which she read as well at first
sight as any in the school, and so proceeded in any
book that was showed her.' At the age of twenty-four
years she was courted, and soon after married, by one
Toby Shipton, of Shipton, near York, and probably
went to live with her husband there, and afterwards at
Dringhouses and other places in the vicinity.
A biographer of the last century (S. Baker) gives a
better account of her than is to be gathered from the
aforegoing legends, but his picture of her personal
appearance is by no means such as to show what
charms won honest Toby for her husband. * She was
born,' says he, ' at Knaresborough, and baptized by the
Abbot of Beverley by the name of Ursula Southeil.
Her stature was larger than common, her body crooked,
her face frightful, but her understanding extraordinary.'
She after this began to grow famous as a fortune-
teller, and for the predictions which she uttered, of
which more anon.
Old age in time grew even upon Mother Shipton. A
long time before her death she foretold the day and the
hour. As the time approached she took a solemn leave
of her admirers and friends, and then, when the time
was come, laid quietly down on her bed and departed,
1561 A.D., in the seventy-sixth year of her age.
A stone monument is said to have been erected to
her memory, by the side of the great North Road,
between Clifton and Shipton, near York, on which she
was represented as a woman upon her knees, with her
hands closed before her, in the attitude of prayer ; and
this epitaph inscribed to her memory :
* Here lyes she who never ly'd,
Whose skill often has been try'd ;
Her prophecies shall still survive,
And ever keep her name alive.'
This monument is unfortunately, or fortunately, as
much a myth as many of the stories of her life. ' The
much mutilated sculptured stone,' says a recent writer,
* was the figure of a warrior in armour, which had been
a recumbent monumental statue. It was probably
brought from the neighbouring abbey of St. Mary, and
placed upright as a boundary stone. It has been re-
moved to the museum of the Yorkshire Philosophical
Society.'
Mother Shipton's Prophecies.
' Of all the pretty pantomimes,
That have been seen or sung in rhime,
Since famous Johnny Rich's times,
There's none like Mother Shipton.
She pleases folks of every class,
She makes her swans and ducklings pass ;
She shows her hog, she shows her ass,
Oh, charming Mother Shipton !
* Near to the famous dropping well,
She first drew breath, as records tell,
And had good beer and ale to sell,
As ever tongue was tipt on ;
Her dropping well itself is seen,
Quaint goblins hobble round their queen,
And little fairies tread the green,
Call'd forth by Mother Shipton.'
Song, 1770 A.D.
The reputed prophecies of this ancient Sybil are
numerous, and there is this peculiarity with regard to
them, that their number and variety seem to be ever
increasing. "Whatever unusual event or extraordinary
occurrence takes place in the vicinit}^ in which she re-
sided, it is certain to be discovered by some person that
Mother Shipton had predicted it. The prediction is
unheard of and unknown, except to the inner con-
sciousness of some ardent disciple of the prophetess,
until the event has fulfilled it, and then up it springs
into life and publicity, to the credulity and amazement
of whoever will receive it.
The earliest collection of the * prophecies ' extant
was printed in 1641 A.D., that is, accepting 1561 a.d.
as the date of her death, about eighty years after the
latest of them could have been uttered.
There is another edition in 1645 A.D., but the two
differ little, and it may be taken for tolerably certain
that these books contain a collection of all the wise
sayings and dark speeches of Mother Shipton, known
eighty years after her death, and that, therefore, any
not among these must be regarded as almost certainly
of other parentage than that of this ancient mother,
and as at least thrice legendary.
The predictions — ancient and modern — of this
wonderful woman have lately been thoroughly investi-
gated by W. H. Harrison, who, in an admirable little
book, to which I am deeply indebted, has published
many of them, and his conclusions with regard to
them. As the copy of the original 'prophecies' —
edition 1641 a.d. — is not voluminous, it is here given,
the spelling being modernized.
THE PROPHECY OF MOTHER SHIPTON IN THE REIGN
OF KING HENRY VIII.
When she heard King Henry VHI. should be King,
and Cardinal Wolsey should be at York, she said that
Cardinal Wolsey should never come to York with the
King ; and the Cardinal hearing, being angry, sent the
Duke of Suffolk, the Lord Percy, and the Lord Darcy
to her, who came with their men disguised to the
King's house, near York, where, leaving their men, they
went to Master Besley at York, and desired him to go
with them to Mother Shipton's house, where, when
they came, they knocked at the door. She said :
* Come in. Master Besley, and those honourable lords
with you.'
Master Besley would have put in the lords before
him, but she said : 'Come in, Master Besley ; you know
the way, but they do not.'
This they thought strange, that she should know
them, and never saw them ; and then they went into
Cie^ttntrs antr ^ViaXfiiirnxSi of Mwtli^r ^liipimi. 159
the house, where there was a great fire, and she bade
them welcome, calHng them all by their names, and
sent for some cakes and ale, and they drank and were
very merry.
* Mother Shipton,' said the Duke, * if you knew
what we come about, you would not make us so
welcome.'
She said the messenger should not be hanged.
* Mother Shipton,' said the Duke, 'you said the
Cardinal should never see York.'
* Yea,' said she ; ' I said he might see York, but
never come at it.'
* But,' said the Duke, * when he comes to York thou
shalt be burned.'
* We shall see that,' said she ; and plucking her
handkerchief off her head, she threw it into the fire,
and it would not burn. Then she took it and put it on
again.
* Now,' said the Duke, * what mean you by this ?'
' If this had burned,' said she, ' I might have
burned.'
* Mother Shipton,' quoth the Duke, 'what think you
of me ?'
* My love,' said she, * the time will come when you
will be as low as I am, and that's a low one, indeed.'
My Lord Percy said : ' What say you of me ?'
* My lord,' said she, ' shoe your horse in the quick,
and you shall do well ; but your body will be buried in
York pavement, and your head shall be stolen from the
bar and carried into France.'
Then said Lord Darcy : ' And what think you of me ?'
She said : ' You have made a great gun ; shoot it off.
i6o Iirt0mtbs antr Ctratrtttiyns xjf Jl^urkslittt^.
for it will do you no good. You are going to war.
You will pain many a man, but you will kill none.'
So they went away.
Not long after the Cardinal came to Cawood, and
going to the top of the tower, he asked where York
was, and how far it was thither, and said that one had
said he should never see York.
* Nay,' said one, ' she said you might see York, but
never come at it.'
He vowed to burn her when he came to York. Then
they showed him York, and told him it was but eight
miles thence. He said he would soon be there ; but,
being sent for by the King, he died on the way to
London, at Leicester, of a laske. And Shipton's wife
said to Master Besley : * Yonder is a fine stall built for
the Cardinal in the Minster of gold, pearl, and precious
stones. Go, and present one of the pillars to King
Henry.' And he did so.
Master Besley, seeing these things fall out as she
had foretold, desired her to tell him some more of her
prophecies.
* Master,' said she, * before that Ouse Bridge and
Trinity Church meet, they shall build on the day and
it shall fall in the night, until they get the highest
stone of Trinity Church, to be the lowest stone of
Ouse Bridge, then the day shall come when the north
shall rue it wondrous sore, but the south shall rue it
for evermore.
* When hares kindle on cold hearth-stones, and lads
shall marry ladies, and bring them home, then shall
you have a year of pining hunger, and then a dearth
without corn.
* A woeful day shall be seen in England, a king and
queen, the first coming of the King of Scots, shall be
at Holgate Town, but he shall not come through the
bar; and when the king of the north shall be at
London Bridge, his tail shall be at Edinburgh.
* After this shall water come over Ouse bridge, and a
windmill shall be set on a tower, and an elm-tree shall
lie at every man's door. At that time women shall
wear great hats and great bands, and when there is a
Lord Mayor at York let him beware of a stab.
* When two knights shall fall out in the castle yard,
they shall never be kindly all their lives after. When
Colton Hagge hath borne seven years' crops of corn,
seven years after you hear news, there shall two judges
go in and out at Mungate (Monkgate) Bar.
* Then wars shall begin in the spring,
Much woe to England it shall bring ;
Then shall the ladies cry, Well away,
That ever we lived to see this day !
Then best for them that have the least, and worst for
them that have the most. You shall not know of the
war over-night, yet you shall have it in the morning ;
and when it comes it shall last three years.
* Between Cadron [Calder] and Aire
Shall be great warfare ;
When all the world is as lost,
It shall be called Christ's crost.
When the battle begins it shall be where crooked-
back'd Richard made his fray. They shall say :
' To warfare for your King,
For half a crown a day ;
But stir not, she will say,
II
To warfare for your King
On pain of hanging.
But stir not, for he that goes to complain,
Shall not come back again.
*The time will come when England shall tremble
and quake for fear of a dead man that shall be heard
to speak ; then will the Dragon give the Bull a great
snap, and when the one is down, they will go to London
town.
* Then there will be a great battle between England
and Scotland, and they shall be pacified for a time.
And when they come to Brammammore (? Bramham
Moor), they fight, and are again pacified for a time.
' Then there will be a great battle at Knavesmore, and
they will be pacified for a while.
' Then there will be a great battle between England
and Scotland at Stoknmore (? Stockton Moor) ; then will
ravens sit on the Cross, and drink as much blood of the
nobles as of the commons. Then woe is me, for
London shall be destroyed for ever after.
^ Then there shall come a woman with one eye, and
she shall tread in many men's blood to the knee, and a
man leaning on a staff by her ; and she shall say to
him, " Who art thou ?" and he shall say, " I am the
King of the Scots." And she shall say, '* Go with me
to my house, for there are three knights ;" and he will
go with her, and stay there three days and three
nights. Then will England be lost ; and they will cry
twice of a day, " England is lost !"
* Then there will be three knights in Petergate, in
York, and the one shall not know of the other. There
shall be a child born in Pomfret with three thumbs.
and those three knights will give him three horses to
hold while they win England ; and all the noble blood
shall be gone but one, and they shall carry him to
Sheriff Hutton Castle, six miles from York, and he
shall die there, and they shall choose there an earl in
the field, and, hanging their horses on a thorn, rue
the time that ever they were born, to see so much
bloodshed.
' Then they will come to York to besiege it, and they
shall keep out three days and three nights, and a penny
loaf shall be within the bar at half-a- crown, and with-
out the bar at a penny. And they will swear if they
w^ill not yield to blow up the town walls. Then they will
let them in, and they will hang up the mayor, sheriffs,
and aldermen, and they will go into Crouch Church :
there will be three knights go in, and but one come out
again; and he will cause proclamation to be made, that
any man may take house, tower, or bower, for twenty-
one years, and whilst the world endurest there shall
never be warfare again, nor any more kings or queens,
but the kingdom shall be governed by the Lords, and
then York shall be London.
' And after this shall be a white harvest of corn gotten
in by women. Then shall be in the north that one
woman shall say unto another, " Mother, I have seen
a man to-day." And for one man there shall be a
thousand women. There shall be a man sitting upon
St. James's Church Hill weeping his fill.
'And after that a ship shall come sailing up the
Thames till it come against London, and the master of
the ship shall weep, and the mariners shall ask him why
he weepeth, seeing he hath made so good a voyage ;
II — 2
1 64 X]^0^ntrs antr €ratt!H0tts wf ^tinUistfiivit.
and he shall say, "Ah ! what a goodly city this was,
none in the world comparable to it, and now there is
scarce left any house that can let us have drink for
our money."
* Unhappy he that lives to see these days,
But happy are the dead, Shipton's wife says.'
These are the whole of the prophecies that are
given by the writer, whose book was printed in 164 1 a.d.
And it is remarkable that the next edition, of 1645 a.d.,
not only contains the same, but also the fulfilment
of them all, except the one about England quaking
for fear of a dead man, and the last one, about the
destruction of London, which is, however, said to have
been fulfilled by the plague of 1666 a.d., though the
time, yet future, of Macaulay's famous New Zealander,
sitting on the ruins of London Bridge, seems to accord
better with the oracle.
APOCRYPHAL SAYINGS.
A few of the very apocryphal and legendary sayings
of Mother Shipton may be mentioned. One,
* When carriages without horses run,
Old England shall be quite undone,'
was never heard of until railways had been intro-
duced and become common in the country. Another
one,
* The village of Few&ton shall down the Washburn go,'
was discovered among the previously unnoticed pro-
phecies of Mrs. Shipton, when, a few years ago, after
the making by the Leeds Corporation of reservoirs
in the Washburn Valley, a landslip took place on the
Ci^0tt«^0 antr STratritt^ns 0f Mtilfitt Sfiipfon, 165
hillside, and a portion of the ancient village was thereby
reduced to ruins.
* The bridge across the Nidd shall tumble down twice,
and on third building stand for ever,' was a prophecy
remembered by some ardent admirers of the prophetess,
as one of her many sayings, after the railway viaduct at
Knaresborough, over the river, had twice fallen, and a
third time been rebuilt in 1848.
But the one which has added most, in late years, to
the ancient mother's fame, is the following, headed :
* An Ancient Prediction, entitled, by popular tradition.
Mother Shipton's Prophecy. Published in 1448, re-
published in 1641 ' :
* Carriages without horses shall go,
And accidents fill the world with woe ;
Around the world thoughts shall fly
In the twinkling of an eye.
* The world upside down shall be,
And gold be found at the root of a tree.
Through hills man shall ride,
And no horse be at his side.
* Under water men shall walk.
Shall ride, shall sleep, shall talk.
In the air men shall be seen
In white, in black, in green.
* Iron in the water shall float
As easily as a wooden boat.
Gold shall be found and shown
In a land that's now not known.
* Fire and water shall wonders do,
England shall at last admit a foe. ' .
The world to an end shall come
In eighteen-hundred-and-eighty-one.'
Unfortunately for the mother's fame, a few inquiring
spirits were sceptical about the authenticity of this pre-
diction. Among other things, the date given as that of
its publication, 1448 a.d., did not at all square with the
usually accepted date of the supposed authoress's birth,
viz., in i486, or forty years after the prophecy was said
to have been published. Consequently a correspon-
dence was started in Notes and Queries^ in 1872, on the
subject, and this resulted in the following note by the
editor of that periodical :
* Mother Shipton's Prophecies. — Mr. Charles
Hindley, of Brighton, in a letter to us, has made a clean
breast of having fabricated the prophecy (quoted above)
with some others, included in his reprint of a cheap
book version, published in 1862 a.d.'
Whether the following belongs to this category I
know not. It is undoubtedly of the same class, and is
nicely, if not delicately, expressed, and corresponds most
accurately with what is now to be seen at Harrogate,
the site of which was, in Mother Shipton's days, a wild
forest table-land, with a boggy, unexplored vale below,
unknown to either science or the world :
• When lords and ladies stinking water soss.
High brigs o' stean the Nidd sal cross,
And a toon be built o' Harrogate Moss.'
Here we take leave of the legendary sibyl and her
sayings. Whether she was the remote but direct
ancestress of our familiar friend, Mr. Punch, or not
(as Mr. Harrison thinks she was), a writer of legend
and tradition must leave to sober archaeologists and
historians to fight out.
VI.
LEGENDS OF DRAGONS AND OTHER SERPENTINE
MONSTERS,
Serpent-worship was one of the earliest and most
prevalent superstitions of the heathen world, and, even
where it has long ceased, relics of it survive in popular
superstitions and legends.
Such are prevalent in almost all countries, yet in
most of the stories there is a great family likeness.
The serpent — whether the ordinary one, or the winged
dragon, or wyvern — is almost always represented as
the terror and devastator of the country around which
it dwells, and is either propitiated by offerings or slain
by some champion knight, whose services, as the de-
liverer and benefactor of the neighbourhood, are per-
petuated by monumental stone, or celebrated in local
song, or both.
TENURE OF THE MANOR OF SOCKBURN.
The river Tees, separating Yorkshire from Durham,
is crossed at Croft by one of the principal bridges
which connect the two counties.
The owner of the neighbouring manor of Sockburn,
held under the bishopric of Durham, is said to be
required, by the terms of his feudal tenure, to meet every
new bishop of that see upon the centre of this bridge,
and there present before him an ancient sword, at the
same time repeating these words : * My Lord Bishop, I
here present before you the falchion wherewith the
champion Conyers slew the worm-dragon, or fiery flying
serpent, which destroyed man, woman, and child, in
memory of which the king then reigning gave him the
manor of Sockburn to hold by this tenure, that upon
the first entrance of every bishop of Durham into the
county, this falchion should be presented.' Upon which
the bishop is supposed to take the weapon into his
hand, and then immediately return it, wishing the Lord
of Sockburn health and long enjoyment of his manor.
For the above, and the following five legends, the
writer is entirely indebted to a paper, entitled ' Serpent
Legends of Yorkshire,' in the Leisure Hour for May,
1878.
THE SERPENT OF HANDALE.
Handale is in the parish of Lofthouse-in-Cleveland.
A small priory of Benedictine nuns was founded there
in 1 133 by William, son of Richard de Percy, no
remains of which now exist. The situation is truly
delightful and picturesque : the sea, only three miles
distant, adds variety to the scene, while the profound
seclusion of the woods, the deep solitude and repose
of the glens, and the quiet and the retirement around,
carry back the thoughts to the remote periods when
* Their bells were heard at evening swelling clear,
By pilgrims wandering o'er the heath-clad hills.'
In ancient times these quiet woods were infested by
a huge serpent, possessed of most singular fascinating
powers, which used to beguile young damsels from the
paths of truth and duty, and afterwards feed on their
dainty Hmbs. At this time there lived in these parts
a brave and gallant youth named Scaw, who felt
greatly incensed at the ravages which the serpent
made among his fair acquaintances, and he determined
to destroy the vile monster, or perish in the attempt.
Therefore, amid the tears and prayers of his friends
and sweethearts, he buckled on his armour, and pro-
ceeded to the serpent's cave. Striking the rock with
his sword, the reptile immediately issued from his den,
breathing fire from his nostrils, and rearing high his
crested head to transfix the bold intruder with his
poisonous sting. Nothing daunted, the young hero
fought bravely, and after a long and severe contest
succeeded in killing the monster. Young Scaw forth-
with married an earl's daughter found in the cave,
and, by his valour, rescued from a cruel death. By
this marriage he obtained vast estates. The wood
where he slew the serpent is called ' Scaw Wood ' to
this day, and the stone coffin in which he was buried
is yet shown near the site of the priory.
THE WORM OF SEXHOW.
Sexhow is a small hamlet or township in the parish
of Rudby, some four miles from the town of Stokesley,
in Cleveland. Upon a round knoll at this place a most
pestilent dragon, or worm, took up its abode; whence
it came, or what was its origin, no one knew. So
voracious was its appetite, that it took the milk of nine
cows daily to satisfy its cravings; but we have not
heard that it required any other kind of food. When
not sufficiently fed, the hissing noise it made alarmed
all the country round about ; and, worse than that, its
breath was so strong as to be absolutely poisonous,
and those who breathed it died. This state of things
was unbearable, and the country was becoming rapidly
depopulated. At length the monster's day of doom
dawned. A knight, clad in complete armour, passed
that way, whose name or country no one knew, and,
after a hard fight, he slew the monster, and left it dead
upon the hill, and then passed on his way. He came,
he fought, he won ; and then he went away. The
inhabitants of the hamlet of Sexhow took the skin of
the monster- worm and suspended it in the church, over
the pew belonging to the hamlet of Sexhow, where it
long remained a trophy of the knight's victory, and of
their own deliverance from the terrible monster.
THE DRAGON OF LOSCHY WOOD.
In the church of Nunnington, in the North Riding
of Yorkshire, is an ancient tomb, surmounted by the
figure of a knight in armour, in a recumbent posture,
the legs crossed, the feet resting against a dog, the
hands apparently clasping a heart, but no inscription
to determine to whom the monument belongs. The
traditional account current in the neighbourhood is
that it is the tomb of Peter Loschy, a famous warrior,
whose last exploit was killing a huge serpent, or
dragon, which infested the country, and had its den
on a wooded eminence called Loschy Hill, near East
Newton, in the parish of Stonegrave.
The details of the combat, as related by tradition,,
are as follows :
Having determined to free the country from the pest,
the redoubted Peter Loschy had a suit of armour pre-
pared, every part of it being covered with razor-blades
set with the edges outwards ; and thus defended,
armed only with his sword, and accompanied by a
faithful dog, he went forth to seek the destroyer, which
he quickly found in a thicket on Loschy Hill.
The dragon, glad of another victim, darted upon
the armed man, notwithstanding a wound from his
sword, and folded itself around his body, intending, no
doubt, as it had often done before, to squeeze its victim
to death, and afterwards to devour it at leisure ; but
in this it was disappointed. The razor-blades were
keen, and pierced it in every part, and it quickly un-
coiled itself again, when, to the great surprise of the
knight, as soon as it rolled on the ground its wounds
instantly healed, and it was strong and vigorous as
ever ; and a long and desperate fight ensued between
the knight and the serpent, without much advantage
to either. At length the sword of the knight severed
a large portion of the serpent, which the dog quickly
snatched up in his mouth, and ran across the valley
with it nearly a mile, and there left it on a hill near
Nunnington Church, and immediately returned to the
scene of combat, and, snatching up another fragment,
cut off in the same manner, conveyed it to the same
place, and returned again and again for other fragments
until they were all removed, the last portion conveyed
being the poisonous head.
The knight, now rejoicing at his victory, stooped to
172 Zt^vintfB anti ©ttatttft^na of a|0rft0l|tr5.
pat and praise his faithful dog ; the latter, overjoyed,
looked up and licked the knight's face, when, sad to
relate, the poison of the serpent imbibed by the dog
was inhaled by the knight, and he fell down dead in
the moment of victory, and the dog also died by the
side of his master.
The villagers buried the body of the knight in Nun-
nington Church, and placed a monument over the
grave, on which were carved the figures of the knight
and his faithful dog, to witness to the truth of the story.
THE SERPENT OF SLINGSBY.
Slingsby, a small parish-town in the North Riding of
Yorkshire, is distinguished for three things : the ruins
of a castle, a maypole, and the tradition of an enormous
serpent. The castle is comparatively modern, but
nevertheless a splendid ruin. The maypole, one among
the dozen yet remaining in Yorkshire, reminds us of a
time for ever passed away. Our business is with the
serpent alone. The road through Slingsby from Hov-
ingham to Malton, instead of proceeding in a direct
hne, to which there is no natural obstacle, made,
until lately altered, a singular and awkward bend to
the right. This deviation was observed by Roger
Dodsworth, the antiquary, and in reply to his inquiries
he received the following story ;
* The tradition is that between Malton and this town
there was some time a serpent, that lived upon prey of
passengers, and which this Wyvill and his dog did kill,
when he received his death-wound. There is a great
hole half a mile from the town, round within, three
yards broad and more, where the serpent lay. In
Bxta00tt3 antr tjtii^v Btxptntinvi Mmx^tvin. 173
which time the street was turned a mile on the south
side, which does still show itself if any takes pains to
survey it.'
This tradition, written down in i6ig by one of the
most painstaking of antiquaries, is current among the
villagers to this day, who yet point out the place where
the serpent had its den, declaring that the said serpent
was a mile in length, and in support of this story point
to the effigies of Wyvill and his dog yet remaining in
their church. Both Wyvill and his dog perished in
the fight or died soon afterwards, and were commemo-
rated by this monument. Dodsworth saw it, and says,
when speaking of Slingsby Church : ' There is in the
choir a monument cross-legged of one of the Wyvills,
at his feet a talbot coursing.'
THE DRAGON OF WANTLEY.
This is sometimes regarded as a legend of this class,
but it is really nothing more than humorous satire. It
is related in a humorous ballad which Dr. Percy, in
his ' Reliques of Antient Poetry,' dates as early as the
seventeenth century. Wortley is in South Yorkshire,
some six miles from Rotherham, and near to it is
Wharncliffe Lodge and Wharncliffe Wood. The local
pronunciation of the name is Wantley. In the reign
of Elizabeth a dispute arose between Mr. Nicholas
Wortley, as lessee, under the rectory of Penistone, of
the great tithes, and some of the inhabitants of the
neighbourhood. His right seems to have been dis-
puted, and Sir Francis Wortley, his successor, rightly
or wrongly, was accused of enforcing payment in a
tyrannical and oppressive manner. The whole of the
inhabitants rose against his exactions, and determined
to find some champion who would take up their cause
against this dragon of Wantley, and put an end to his
rapacity over their crops, and cattle, and ruined homes.
They found one in a man — probably an attorney —
named in the ballad * More of More Hall.' * More
Hall,' says Hunter, * stands in a charming valley near
the Don, and enjoys a luxuriant view of the rocks and
woods of Wharncliffe. It is now (1819) nothing more
than a decent farm-house.' Strictly speaking, there
could not be a * More of More Hall ' in the reign of
Elizabeth, when the contention is said to have occurred,
for the male line of that family became extinct in
Edward VI. 's reign. At the time referred to, the hall
was inhabited by a gentleman of the name of Blount,
^ho, having married an heiress of the elder family,
may have been locally designated * More of More Hall.'
If so, he was the champion who went forth to en-
counter the dragon of Wantley.
The ballad, as well as being a humorous and satirical
description of the legal contest which ensued, is evi-
dently also intended as a burlesque upon some of the
rules of mediaeval chivalry and the doughty deeds of
its knights.
The following is the opening stanza :
* Old stories tell how Hercules
A dragon slew at Lerna,
With seven heads and fourteen eyes,
To see and well discerna ;
But he had a club this dragon to drub,
Or he had ne'er done it I warrant ye ;
But More of More Hall, with nothing at all,
He slew the dragon of Wantley.'
Then follows a description of the monster :
* This dragon had two furious wings,
Each one upon each shoulder,
With a sting in his tail as long as a flail.
Which made him bolder and bolder.
He had long claws, and in his jaws
Four and forty teeth of iron :
With a hide as tough as any buff,
Which did him round environ.'
We have next an account of his ravages throughout
the whole neighbourhood. In one case it is said,
' Devoured he poor children three.
That could not with him grapple ;
And at one sup, he ate them up,
As one would eat an apple.'
This is supposed to allude to the spoliation of the
property of three co-heiresses of a Mr. Bosville, one of
Sir F. Wortley's opponents.
* All sorts of cattle this dragon did eat.
Some say he ate up trees,
And that the forests sure he would
Devour up by degrees ;
For houses and churches were to him geese and turkeys.
He ate up all and left none behind
But some stones^ dear Jack, that he could not crack
Which on the hills you will find.'
The reference to ' some stones ' is to a Mr. Lyonel
Rowlestone, who was chiefly instrumental in calling
in the services of Mr. More, the lawyer.
The dragon's residence was
' In Yorkshire, near fair Rotherham,
The place I know it well ;
Some two or three miles or thereabouts
I vow I cannot tell ;
But there is a hedge just on the hill-edge,
And Matthew's house hard by it ;
O there and then was this dragon's den,
You could not choose but spy it.
* Hard by a furious knight there dwelt,
Of whom all towns did ring.
* These children, as I told, being eat ;
Men, women, girls, and boys,
Sighing and sobbing, came to his lodging.
And made a hideous noise ;
" O save us all, More of More Hall,
Thou peerless knight of these woods ;
Do but slay this dragon, who won't leave us a rag on,
We'll give thee all our goods."
* " Tut, tut," quoth he, " no goods want I ;
But I want, I want in sooth,
A fair maid of sixteen, that's brisk and keen.
With smiles about the mouth ;
Hair black as a sloe, skin white as snow,
With blushes her cheeks adorning.
To anoint me o'er-night, ere I go to fight,
And to dress me in the morning." '
The knight next proceeded to Sheffield town, and
provided himself with the requisite armour, bristling
with spikes in every part. Equipped in this he was
the admiration of, and a wonder to, all the neighbour-
hood, who came forth to see him. Moreover,
* He frighted all, cats, dogs, and all,
Each cow, each horse, and each hog ;
For fear they did flee, for they took him to be
Some strange outlandish hedge-hog.'
His first step against the monster was not a very
knightly one. He hid himself in a well, to which the
dragon was expected to c"ome to drink :
' It is not strength that always wins.
For wit doth strength excel,
Which made our cunning champion
Creep down into a well.'
Thence he was able, covertly, to deal the monster a
blow on the mouth, which made him cry ' Boh !'
The knight was, however, compelled to come forth
from his ambush and stand up in fair fight. The con-
test is then described :
' *' Your words," quoth the dragon, " I don't understand,"
Then to it they fell at all.
Like two wild boars so fierce, if I may
Compare great things with small.
Two days and a night with this dragon did fight
Our champion on the ground ;
Though their strength it was great, their skill it .was neat,
They never had one wound.'
At length, however, the dragon gave the champion
a blow which ' made him to reel ;' but this he re-
turned with a kick with the spiked toe of his boot,
which put an end to the fight and the monster's life.
* " Murder, murder !" the dragon cried,
"Alack, alack, for grief;
Had you but miss'd that place you could
Have done me no mischief."
Then his head he shaked, trembled and quaked,
And down he laid and cried ;
First on one knee, then on back tumbled he.
So groaned and kicked and died.'
12
VII.
LEGENDS AND TRADITIONS OF BATTLES AND
BATTLE-FIELDS.
It is impossible to recite the legends and traditions of
battles and battle-fields without entering more or less
upon the region of more authentic history. The beads
and pearls of legend require to be strung together by,
at least, a thread of historical facts run through them
to make them intelligible, and give them cohesion.
This should, however, be done as sparingly as possible ;
yet often the reader must be left to distinguish for
himself between what is a part of the historical string
holding them together, and what are legends or fables.
The White Battle of Myton.
In 1319 A.D., when the pusillanimous second Edward
was besieging Berwick-on-Tweed, the Scots, under the
Earl of Murray and Lord James Douglas, endeavoured
to cause a diversion by descending, through the north-
west, upon Yorkshire, and, carrying havoc and slaughter
in their path, they penetrated as far as the gates of
York.
William de Melton, the then archbishop, ' a grave
and reverend divine,' together with the Bishop of Ely
Safirea aritf ^aUlt-Mtttn^. 179
and the Abbot of Selby, who, with a large number of
clergy, were on some ecclesiastical occasion then stay-
ing in York, determined to oppose the invaders.
They gathered a number of men — in all about
10,000 — pressing into their service ' all that could
travel ' — husbandman, peasant, ecclesiastic, and citizen
alike. Under the command of the archbishop and the
Bishop of Ely, this ' mixed multitude ' issued from the
city to seek the enemy.
* They did not proceed in battle array, but walked
stealthily through the fields without any uproar, hoping
thereby to take the Scots unawares.' But the canny
Northmen were not to be caught napping; and the
archbishop and his friends — * m^en more fit to pray for
the success of a battle than to fight for it ' — found them
drawn up * in Myton Pasture, near to Swale Water,'
and prepared to receive them. * These men are not men
of war — they are hunters, and will do no good !' cried
the Scots, when they saw their unwarlike approach.
Well, on the eve of St. Matthew's Day (September
30th), 1319, they met. First the Scots feigned retreat
over a wooden bridge that then crossed the Swale at
that place. Being pursued, they tried the effects of
smoke. Setting fire to several hay-stacks, the thick
smoke was driven in the face of the English, and so
blinded them that they could not see where their
enemies were. Allowing them all to get over the
bridge, the Scots then swooped down between it and
them and so cut off their retreat ; then, falling upon
the disorderly rabble, they cut them up without mercy,
and 3,000 were left dead on the field, of whom 300
were * white-robed priests.' They who escaped the
12 — 2
sword only fled to perish in the Swale, and had not
night come on * scarce one Englishman would have
escaped.'
The archbishop and bishop escaped ; but the cross-
bearer of the former either lost his master's pastoral
cross, or hid it, and was then himself slain. It was
found by a husbandman, who had been in hiding
during the mdee, and, rejoicing in his treasure — a
white elephant to him, with which he did not know
what to do — he hid it also in his hut among the
hay. There it remained some time, until, conscience-
stricken, its finder could retain it no longer, so he
took it to York, and returned it into the hands of its
owner.
The site of the * hay-stacks,' whose smoke so puzzled
the ecclesiastics, is still pointed out, on the west side
of the river, by the tradition of the locality. And, on
the same authority, it is said that some of the stones,
which formed the foundation or piers of the old bridge,
were afterwards used in the rebuilding of Myton
Church.
From the command of this'unfortunate English levy
being held by ecclesiastics, and so many of the same
being found in its ranks, the battle has been called * the
White Battle,' or, in derision, ' the Chapter of Myton.'
^aUlm antr BanU-MitlXrsi, i8i
The Battle of Boroughbridge.
This battle took place in the spring of the year 1322.
The second Edward was then on the throne, and
Hugh de Spencer, his unpopular favourite, had just
returned from the banishment enforced by the barons,
and was again in the zenith of his influence over the
weak king. Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, the king's
uncle, and Bohun, Earl of Hereford, raised the
standard of revolt against him, with the object of
ridding him of the De Spencers. They were joined
by many northern noblemen, and among the rest by
John de Mowbray, Lord of Kirby Malzeard, Thirsk,
and Upsall Castles, and of the broad acres still known
as the Vale of Mowbray.
Afraid to meet the king's forces in the Midland
counties, the conspirators were retiring before them
towards Scotland, when Sir Andrew Harcla, Governor
of Carlisle, and Sir Simeon Ward, Sheriff of Yorkshire,
hurriedly gathered a force in the north and intercepted
them at Boroughbridge.
It is not within our province to write history, or to
give a full account of the battle which ensued. We
have to do now only with story and tradition.
The bridge that then spanned the Ure was con-
structed of wood. Bohun, the powerful Earl of
Hereford, led on a body of knights and * mailed
chivalry of England ' to force the passage of the
bridge against the troops of Harcla, who had seized
and held it. A soldier of Harcla's force — said to have
been a Welshman — hid himself among the timbers of
the bridge, and, as Hereford came upon it, he thrust
his long spear through an interstice in the beams
above him, which, entering under the armour of the
earl, so pierced his body that he died on the spot.
Several other of the noblemen of the rebel party were
slain, or severely wounded, and their army was utterly
routed.
A small chapel stood near the spot. To this the
Earl of Lancaster fled for sanctuary, and, flinging
himself before the altar, he cried, * Good Lord, I
render myself to Thee, and put me into Thy mercy.'
It was, however, to no purpose. He was dragged
out and carried a prisoner down the Ouse, by way
of York, to Pontefract — his own castle. There he was
shortly afterwards — in his own hall — brought before
Edward IL, condemned, and on June igth in the
same year beheaded, on what is still called St.
Thomas's Hill, near Pontefract. He is said to have
been canonized, and his shrine to have been a popular
place of pilgrimage, and the scene of several miracles.
John de Mowbray was also taken a prisoner, and
there is little doubt suffered a like fate to his leader.
But tradition tells a somewhat different story as to
his end. It relates that he escaped from the battle,
and, galloping to the north, hoped to have found
refuge in his stronghold on the slope of the Hambleton
Hills, Upsall Castle, near Thirsk. He was, however,
pursued by a troop of the king's forces, who, over-
taking him as he was passing along a lane within sight
of Upsall, seized him, converted the nearest fallen tree
into a block, struck off his head, and, denuding the
body of its rich armour, threw it into the ditch by the
Batutjsi antr Battrjt-3fiertr». 183
lane-side, and hung up the armour, in derision, in a
neighbouring oak.
The lane is still named Chop Head Loaning.
The legend or story has been admirably told in verse
by Mrs. Susan K. Phillips as follows :
* All day long at Boro'bridge the battle swayed and roared,
Where Lancaster and Hereford unsheathed the rebel sword,
* The Ure came glittering plainward all bright with moorland
dews,
But she ran red with gallant blood or ere she met the Ouse.
* For on the gray bridge arches, and by the willowed banks.
Was Hereford's last desperate stand against the Royal ranks.
* And when upon the Welshman's spear poured the life-blood
of De Bohun,
His followers melted from the fray as the tides beneath the
moon.
* From violated sanctuary Earl Lancaster they tore,
The best and bravest of the North to prison doom they bore.
* Fast galloped John de Mowbray from the field of Boro'bridge,
Fast to where Upsall's massive walls nestle by Boltby Ridge ;
* There stanch hearts to the Mowbray would render homage
due.
There bold hearts to the Mowbray give refuge close and true.
' But close upon his traces stern Harcla's riders came.
Eager for traitor Mowbray's head, De Spencer's gold to claim.
' All in the darkening Loaning was the brief unequal fight,
And helpless in fierce foemen's hands stood Mowbray's noble
knight.
*The jury of the battle day all form, as mercy, lacks;
A fallen ash-tree bole the block, a soldier's sword the axe.
* Among the ferns the headless trunk in rough dishonour flung,
The gilded armour on an oak in mockery they hung,
* To rust in summer showers, in winter storms to sway ;
No more to flash the tourney's star, to lead the tossing fray.
* It was five hundred years ago ; calm flows the bright brown
Ure,
Upon her banks the little town stands quiet and secure.
* Who on the bridge at Boro'bridge thinks of that day in March,
When the brave blood of Hereford stained all the dark gray
arch?
* The ancient church where Lancaster fled in his last despair,
How few there be who yet can point and say " It once was
there !"
* Gone shrine, and oak, and Milan mail ; De Mowbray's haughty
race
Have vanished from the land where yet their name marks vale
and chase.
* Yet still tradition treasures up the tales of long ago ;
And still when from Black Hambleton the fierce north-easters
blow,
' The fearful peasant passing by " Chop Head Loaning " hears
The sough of boughs, and clash of steel, fall on his shrinking
ears,
* As on the unseen branches the knightly harness rings
Defiance to the veil that time o'er name and glory flings.'
The Battle of Wakefield.
On December 24th, 1460 a.d., * in the ruthless wars
of the White and Red,' v^as fought the Battle of
Wakefield Green, at which fell Richard Duke of York;
the young Earl of Rutland, in the retreat afterwards,
being slain by Black Clifford. The spots at which
Saftlc0 antr Battle- Jiicrtrs, ' 185
both fell are still pointed out by tradition. That at
which the Duke was slain is close to the old road from
Wakefield to Barnsley, about a mile from Wakefield
Bridge, in a hollow and somewhat boggy piece of
ground. The old historian, Holinshed, relates that
when the victors found his body they subjected it to
much mockery and insult, crowning the head *with
segges and bulrushes, and in derision cried, " Hail,
King without rule ! Hail, King without heritage ! Hail,
Duke and Prince without people !" etc' And then the
order of Queen Margaret was carried out —
* Off with his head, and set it on York Gate,
So York may overlook the town of York.'
The spot where he thus fell, his spirit (says legend)
still haunts. Two large willow-trees, said to have been
there at the time, are there still.
* A headless form, he walks beneath their shade, in
The very witching time of riight
When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to the world.'
A common warning among the villagers of the
vicinity, to anyone who has to pass the spot at that
hour, is, ' Mind t'Duke o' York without his head
doesn't git hod o' thee as thou gans by t'willow-
tree.'
The story of the death of the Earl of Rutland, second
son of the duke, is usually thus given : When the
battle was over. Lord Clifford of Skipton was riding
toward Sandal Castle to rejoin the Queen (Margaret).
He overtook the youth, who had just learned the death
of his father, and was being hurried away by his tutor,
1 86 EE0rntrs antr Cratrifmnsc 0f ^tyxUiSiliivt*
Sir Robert Aspall. Clifford seized the young Earl, who
fell on his knees and begged for mercy.
'Who is he?' asked Clifford.
* He is the son of a prince who is now beyond thy
power,' replied the tutor ; * but I pray you spare him,
for he is too young to do you injury.'
* He is a son of York, and he shall die !' cried
Clifford, at the same time plunging his sword into the
youth, who fell dead at his feet.
' Rutland. O, let me pray before I take my death !
To thee I pray, sweet Clifford, pity me !
Clifford. Such pity as my rapier's point affords.
Rutland. I never did thee harm ; why wilt thou slay me ?
Clifford. Thy father did.
Rutland. But 'twas ere I was born.
Thou hast one son ; for his sake pity me,
Lest in revenge thereof— sith God is just —
He be as miserably slain as I.
Ah, let me live in prison all my days \
And when I give occasion of offence,
Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause.
Clifford. No cause !
Thy father slew my father ; therefore, die.'
Henry VI., Part III., Act. i., s. 3.
For the credit of humanity it is a great relief to add
the remarks of Clements Markham, who has investi-
gated the evidence, upon this story. He says : ' The
most absurd legend relating to the Battle of Wakefield
is that told by Hall and Holinshed, and adopted by
Shakespeare and nearly all modern historians, respect-
ing the death of the Earl of Rutland. Hall says the
young earl was scarcely of the age of twelve years ; and,
on this false foundation, he builds up the ridiculous
Baffles antr ^affl^-Jft^rtra* 187
legend. The fable rests on there being a child. If
there was no child, nothing of the sort can have hap-
pened. Contemporary evidence is simply that, in
retreating after the battle. Lord Clifford killed the
Earl of Rutland on or near Wakefield Bridge.
Edmund (the earl) was in his eighteenth year, and
certainly sold his life dearly on the bridge. Hall's
fable is a slander on Clifford and on the ill-fated young
prince ' (Yorkshire Archceological Society's Journal,
part xxxiii.).
The Battle of Towton.
Towton, the saddest and the most destructive of the
battles between the Houses of York and Lancaster,
was fought on Palm Sunday, March 2gth, 1461 A.D.
The field lay on the side of the little river Cock, a
tributary of the Wharfe, and some two or three miles
from Tadcaster. Here met 100,000 Englishmen —
60,000 Red Rose and 40,000 White — and of these
36,000 are said to have been left dead on the field.
The contest began (says tradition) in a blinding snow-
storm ; no quarter was given ; the newly fallen snow
became crimson with blood ; and intimation of the
terrible nature of the slaughter, taking place two or
three miles away, was given to the inhabitants on the
banks of the Wharfe, as they returned from their
churches that morning, by the waters of that river
being tinged with the crimson flood brought into it by
the more deeply dyed stream of the Cock.
The writer does not know the author of the following
lines, but they so beautifully embody these facts and
traditions that he ventures to quote them :
* Where the red rose and the white rose
In furious battle reel'd ;
And yeomen fought like barons,
And barons died ere yield.
* Where mingling with the snow-storm
The storm of arrows flew,
And York against proud Lancaster
His ranks of spearmen threw.
* Where thunder-like the uproar
Outshook from either side,
As hand to hand they battled
From morn till eventide.
' Where the river ran all gory.
And in hillocks lay the dead,
And seven and thirty thousand
Fell from the white and red.'
Another story, related in the neighbourhood, is that
the inhabitants of Towton had gone to their parish
church at Saxton, and that while they v^ere there
the battle began and prevented them returning, so
that they had to remain in the church the vv^hole of
the day :
* At Saxton Church the rustic peasants met ;
When they returned the willows all were wet
With noble blood — astonished there they stand —
Thousands lie bleeding there on either hand.'
A w^ell-knov^n tradition relates to the death of Lord
Dacres, of Gilsland, whose tomb is yet to be seen in
Saxton Church. When Glover visited the place in
1585 (i.e., 124 years after the battle), the account was
thus related to him : ' Lord Dacres was slaine by a boy
Butilt^ anXi Bafffe-St«Itr»» 189
at Towton Field, which boy shot him out of a burtree-
bush, when he had unclasped his helmet to drink a cup
of wine, in revenge of his father, whom the said lord
had slaine before, which tree hath been remarkable
ever since by the inhabitants, and decayed within this
few years. The place where he was slaine is called the
North Acres, whereupon they have this rhyme :
* The Lord of Dacres
Was slain in the North Acres.'
The place so named, the North Acres, is still, it is
said, pointed out, and still burtree (or elder) bushes
grow near it.
It is said that on a part of the field most remote
from Saxton Richard III. began to erect a chapel, in
order that prayer for the slain might there be made ;
but the completion was prevented by his death. At a
very small distance from the battle-field, and on the
banks of the Cock, stands the small and ancient chapel
of Lede, or Lead, which maybe the one alluded to. It
was formerly extra-parochial, but now is annexed to
the parish of Ryther.
The most beautiful of the legends connected with
the Battle of Towton is that with regard to the rose,
commonly known as the * York and Lancaster rose.'
This rose, whose petals are variegated with mingled
white and red, is said to have sprung up where the
blood of York and Lancaster was so plentifully mingled.
The bush (so it is said) refuses to grow elsewhere.
If transplanted to other soil, it either fades away
or the flowers revert to a single colour — white or
red.
' There is a patch of wild white roses,
That bloom on a battle-field,
Where the rival rose of Lancaster,
Blushed redder still to yield ;
Four hundred years have o'er them shed
Their sunshine and their snow,
But, in spite of plough and harrow.
Every summer there they blow.
Though rudely up to root them,
With hand profane you toil,
The faithful flowers still fondly cluster,
Around the sacred soil ;
Though tenderly transplanted
To the neatest garden gay,
Nor cost nor toil can tempt them
There to live a single day.
* I ponder o'er their blossoms.
And anon my busy brain
With bannered hosts and steel-clad knights
Re-peopled all the plain —
I seemed to hear the lusty cheer
Of the bowmen bold of York,
As they marked how well their cloth-yard shafts
Had done their bloody work ;
And steeds with empty saddles
Came rushing wildly by,
And wounded warriors stagger'd past.
Or only turned to die ;
And the little sparkling river
Was encumbered as of yore,
With ghastly corse of man and horse,
And ran down red with gore.
* I started as I pondered.
For loudly on my ear
Rose indeed a shout like thunder,
A true good English cheer ;
Saffrj^0 antr 3aint-mtUist. 191
And the sound of drum and trumpet
Came rolling up the vale,
And blazoned banners proudly flung
Their glories to the gale ;
But not, oh ! not to battle did
Those banners beckon now —
A baron stood beneath them,
But not with helmed brow.
And Yorkshire yeomen round him thronged,
But not with bow and lance,
And the trumpet only bade them
To the banquet and the dance.
* Again my brain was busy ;
From out those flow'rets fair
A breath arose like incense —
A voice of praise and prayer !
A silver voice that said, "Rejoice !
And bless the God above.
Who has given thee these days to see,
Of peace, and joy, and love.
Oh, never more by English hands
May English blood be shed ;
Oh, never more be strife between
The roses white and red !
The blessed words the shepherds heard.
May we remember still —
" Throughout the world be peace on earth,
And towards man, goodwill.'"—^ i?. Planche.
The legend has called forth many other poetical
versions. The follov^ing pretty one appeared, with the
signature of * R ,' in Blackwood's Magazine many
years ago :
THE ROSES OF TOWTON MOOR.
* Oh, the red and the white rose,
As all the kingdom knows.
192 Jt^i^txitfjsi antr Cratrtfttrns^ Xff B^rltsliir]^.
Were emblems of the foes
In a sad and bloody work,
When old England's noblest blood
Was poured out in a flood,
To quench the burning feud
Of Lancaster and York.
* For then the rival roses,
Worn by the rival houses,
The poor distracted nation
Into rage and frenzy drove ;
Tore the children from the mother,
Tore the sister from the brother.
And the broken-hearted lover
From the lady of his love.
' When the Percys, Veres, and Nevilles
Left their castles, halls, and revels.
To rush like raging devils
* Into the deadly fight ;
And loyalty and reason.
Confounded by the treason
That cast into a prison
The King of yester night.
* Oh, the red and the white rose,
Upon Towton Moor it grows,
And red and white it blows
Upon the swarth for evermore ;
In memorial of the slaughter.
When the red blood ran like water,
And the victors gave no quarter.
In the fight on Towton Moor ;
* When the banners gay were beaming,
And the steel cuirasses gleaming.
And the martial music streaming.
O'er that wide and lonely heath ;
And many a heart was beating,
That dreamed not of retreating,
Which, ere the sun was setting,
Lay still and cold in death ;
* When the snow that fell at morning
Lay as a type and warning,
And stained and streaked with crimson,
Like the roses white and red ;
And filled each thirsty furrow,
With its token of the sorrow,
That wailed for many a morrow,
Through the mansions of the dead.
* And now for twice two hundred years,
When the month of March appears,
All unchecked by plough or shears
Spring the roses red and white ;
Nor can the hand of mortal
Close the subterranean portal
That gives to life immortal
These emblems of the fight.
* And as if they were enchanted,
Not a flower may be transplanted,
From these fatal precincts haunted
By the spirits of the slain ;
For howe'er the root you cherish,
It shall fade away and perish,
When removed from the marish
Of Towton's gory plain.
* But old Britannia now
Wears a rose upon her brow,
That blushing still doth glow,
Like the Queen of all her race —
The rose that blooms victorious,
And, ever bright and glorious,
Shall continue to reign over us
In mercy, love, and grace.'
13
194 Xi?0entr0 rnxXf ^mtfitxxsn^ xif il)0rTtsi|ir2»
Marston Moor Fight.
* Wouldst hear the tale ? On Marston Heath
Met, front to front, the ranks of death ;
Flourished the trumpets fierce, and how
Fired was each eye, and flush'd each brow ;
On either side loud clamours ring,
" God save the cause !" *' God save the King !" '
Scoff.
The details of this battle, which sealed the fate of
the Royal cause in the civil war of the seventeenth
century, are matters of history. Legend and tradition
have, however, several stories to relate.
The well in one of the cottage-gardens, in the village
of Long Marston, is yet known as * Cromwell's Well.''
Here his Roundhead followers quenched their thirst
before the battle, on the hot July day, and hence the
village maidens bore the cooling draughts, in their
milking-pails, to those who remained in martial array
on the neighbouring hill-top.
The lane, still called Moor Lane, leading from the
village to the moor, was the scene of one of the
sharpest struggles in the battle ; and here the belated
villager meets phantom horsemen, headless or blood-
covered, galloping to and fro, as if in the hurry and
heat of battle.
At the western end of the village, says Mr. William
Grainge, the indefatigable Yorkshire topographer, is
Cromwell's Gap, an opening through three fences.
Here no tree will grow. Quicksets have been re-
peatedly planted to fill up this gap, but they have
always withered away, leaving the spaces exactly as
they were before. Tradition's reason is, that here
BMU^ antf BaiiU-MtUnsi, 195
Cromwell's soldiers cut down a number of the flying
Royalists, and since then no tree or shrub will grow on
the blood-stained soil. Another version is, that the
hedges were cut down to make way for the cannon of
the Parliamentary army, in order that they might be
dragged into position on the rising-ground beyond.
The ground once so dishonoured refuses, henceforth, to
support the trees required to take the place of those
removed for so base a purpose. * The curse,' again to
quote Grainge, * or whatever it may be called, only
extends to the wood of the hedges, and does not
include the grass and the nettles, for they grow pro-
fusely in the gaps.'
Another story is that a shot from one of Cromwell's
cannon entered the oven of a farmer named Gill in the
village, as the family bread was baking, and, of course,
wrought havoc therewith.
CROMWELL AND SIR R. GRAHAM.
Sir Richard Graham, of Norton Conyers, dis-
tinguished himself in the battle by acts of great
bravery. When the day was irretrievably lost, and no-
thing was left but for every man to provide for his own
security as best he could. Sir Richard, bleeding from
twenty-six separate wounds, rode away, hoping to
gain his home at Norton Conyers. This he did in the
evening, but being completely exhausted, he was at
once carried to his chamber, where within an hour
he died. Cromwell, for some reason, is said to have
had an inveterate hatred to this gentleman, and when
he found that he had escaped from the field, he
pursued him in person with a troop of horse. When
13—2
he arrived at Norton Conyers he was informed that
Graham was dead, and that the widow was weeping
over the mangled corpse in the chamber of death. Pos-
sibly not satisfied with this answer, he burst into the
chamber — it is said that he even rode his horse up the
wide open staircase, and that the marks of its hoofs
are still visible there, and on the landing — a.nd
found his enemy dead, as he had been told. It might
have been thought that this was enough, but turning
to the troopers who had follov/ed him, he gave them
permission to sack and despoil the house. This they
did so effectually that everything which could not be
carried off was destroyed.
CROMWELL AT RIPLEY.
The same evening, tradition relates, Cromwell, re-
turning from pursuing a party of the Royalists (Sir R.
Graham and his attendants, if the above story be true),
arrived at Ripley, and proposed to stay for the night at
the castle there, the house of the stanch Royalist, Sir
WilHam Ingleby. He sent one of his officers, a rela-
tive of the family, to announce his intention. The
officer was told, by the porter of the gate, that Sir
William was from home, but that his lady was within,
and would receive any message he might wish to be
conveyed to her. The officer sent in his name, and,
obtaining an interview, informed the lady of the castle
of his master's proposal. She at first replied : * No
such traitor shall enter here !' After some persuasion,
and representation of the folly of resistance, she took
her kinsman's advice, and consented to allow the
general to remain for the night.
She received him at the gate of the lodge with a
brace of pistols stuck in her apron-strings, and told
him that she expected that both he and his soldiers
would behave themselves properly while under her
roof. She then led the way to the hall, and, pointing
him to a sofa on which he sat down, she took her place
on another directly opposite to him ; and thus the two,
equally jealous of each other's intentions, passed the
night.
At his departure, in the morning, she observed ' that
it was well for him that he had behaved so peaceably ;
for that, had it been otherwise, he would not have left
the house alive.'
ANOTHER STORY.
Mary, daughter of Sir Francis Trappes, married
Charles Townley, of Townley, in Lancashire, Esq.,
who was killed at the Battle of Marston Moor. During
the engagement she was with her father near Knares-
borough, where she heard of her husband's fate, and
came upon the field, the next morning, to search for his
body, while the attendants of the camp were stripping
and burying the dead. Here she was accosted by a
general officer, to whom she told her melancholy story.
He heard her with great tenderness, but earnestly
desired her to leave the place, where, beside the distress
of witnessing such a scene, she might probably be in-
sulted. She complied, and he called a trooper, who
took her en croupe. On her way to Knaresborough, she
inquired of the man the name of the officer to whose
civility she had been indebted, and learned that it was
Lieutenant-General Cromwell !
CAPTAIN LISTER : BATTLE OF TADCASTER, 1642.
At this battle, December 7th, 1642, between the
Royalist forces of the Duke of Newcastle and the
Parliamentarians under Lord Fairfax and his son, fell
Captain Lister, a member of the Craven family of that
name, and was interred in the churchyard at Tad-
caster.
Thoresby, in his * Ducatus Leodiensis,' relates the
tradition that the son of Captain Lister, some years
after the battle, was passing through the town, and,
seeing the sexton digging a grave in the churchyard,
he asked if he could tell him where the captain was
buried. The man took up a skull, which he had just
thrown out of the grave, and declared it was the skull
of Captain Lister. On examination, a bullet-hole was
found in it.
This incident so affected young Lister that lie be-
came ill and died a few hours afterwards.
t Pity poor Bradford.' A legend of the civil
W^AR TIMES.
The Earl of Newcastle, commandant of the Royal
forces, was besieging Bradford, in which he had shut
up a portion of the Parliamentary army under Sir
Thomas Fairfax. The old writer of *A Genuine
Account of the sore Calamities that befell Bradford in
the time of the Civil War,* himself an eye-witness of
the state of things in the town, says :
* In [the meantime the enemy (the Duke of New-
castle and his Royalists) took the opportunity of a
parley to remove their cannon, and brought them
' Sattkix anty BafftiJ-J^fcrtr^* 199
nearer the town, and fixed them in a certain place
called Goodman's End, directly against the heart of
the town, and surrounding us on every side with horse
and foot, so it was almost impossible for a single
person to escape. Nor could the troops within the
town act on the defensive for want of ammunition,
w^hich they had lost in their last defeat at Adwalton ;
nor had they a single match but such as were made
of twisted cords dipped in oil. Oh ! that dreadful and
never-to-be-forgotten night, which was mostly spent in
firing those deadly engines upon us ; so that the blaze
issuing therefrom appeared like lightning from heaven,
the elements being, as it were, on fire, and the loud
roaring of the cannon resembling the mighty thunders
of the sky ! This same night Sir Thomas Fairfax and
the forces in his command cut their way through the
besiegers and escaped from the town, thus leaving it
more utterly at the Royalists' mercy.
* Now, reader, here stop — stop for a moment —
pause, and suppose thyself in the like dilemma.
Words cannot express, thoughts cannot imagine —
nay, art itself is not able to paint out the calamities
and woeful distresses with which we are now over-
whelmed withal ! Every countenance overspread with
sorrow; every house overwhelmed with grief; husbands
lamenting over their families ; women wringing their
hands in despair; children shrieking, crying, and
clinging to their parents ; Death, in all his dreadful
forms and frightful aspects, stalking in every street
and every corner ! In short, horror, despair, and
destruction united their efforts to spread devastation
and complete our ruin !
' What are all oar former calamities in comparison
to these ? Before there were some glimmering hopes
of mercy from the enemy, but now they are fled — fled
in every appearance. Our foes were exasperated with
the opposition they had met with from us, but especially
the cruel death by which the Earl of Newport's son
fell by our unwary townsmen. For, behold ! imme-
diately orders were issued out to the soldiers by the
Earl of Newcastle, their commander, that the next
morning they should put to the sword every man,
woman, and child, without regard to age, sex, or
distinction whatsoever.'
The night before this sentence was to be carried
out, the Earl of Newcastle was sleeping at Boiling, or
Bowling, Hall. In the midst of the night a lady, clad
in white gauzy garments from head to foot, entered the
duke's bedroom, several times pulled the clothes from
his bed, and then, when he was thoroughly aroused
and trembling with fear, cried out with a lamentable
voice, ' Pity poor Bradford ! pity poor Bradford !' and
then noiselessly departed.
* How far,' writes the narrator, * this was true I
submit it to others to determine. But this much I
must affirm, that the hand of Providence never more
conspicuously appeared in our favour, for, lo ! imme-
diately the earl countermanded the former order, and
forbade the death of any person whatsoever, except
only such as made resistance. Thus from a state of
anguish and despair, we, who were but just ready to
be swallowed up, by the wonderful providence of the
Almighty, were reprieved as criminals from the rack.
See what a surprising change immediately takes place :
^aitltja axiti Bams-^itJC^^.
201
the countenances of those, who were but just before
overspread with horror and despair, begin in some
measure to resume their former gaiety and cheerful-
ness — a general joy and gladness diffused itself through
every breast ; the hearts of those, who were ere now
overv/helmed with sorrow, are now big with praise and
thanksgiving to God for the wonderful and surprising
deliverance brought about in their favour.'
VIII.
LEGENDS OF WELLS, LAKES, ETC.
Springs and wells of water have, in all lands and in
all ages, been greatly valued, and in some regarded
with a feeling of veneration little, if at all, short of
worship. They have yielded their treasure to the
sustenance and refreshment of man and beast, as age
after age of the world's history has passed along, and
have been centres around which village story and
gossip have gathered for generation after generation.
Little wonder, therefore, is it that legends and tradi-
tions abound concerning them. These are often
extremely local, and therefore little known. The
names alone, however, suggest much. The memory
of the mythical gods, satyrs, and nymphs of the
ancient heathen times lingers in a few, as in Thors-kil
or Thors-well, in the parish of Burnsall ; and in the
almost universal declaration — by which not over-wise
parents seek to deter children from playing in
dangerous proximity to a well — that at the bottom,
under the water, dwells a mysterious being, usually
named Jenny Green-teeth or Peg-o'-the-Well, who will
certainly drag into the water any child who approaches
too near to it.
Xc0£ntrs ijf Wtll^^ Xafic0, (Bit, 203
The tokens of mediaeval reverence for wells are
abundant. The names of the saints to whom the wells
were dedicated yet cling to them. * There is scarcely a
well of consequence in the United Kingdom,' says the
editor of * Lancashire Folk-lore,' * which has not been
solemnly dedicated to some saint in the Roman
calendar.' Thus in Yorkshire we have Our Lady's
Well or Lady Well, St. Helen's Well (very numerous),
St. Margaret's Well at Burnsall, St. Bridget's Well
near Ripon, St. Mungo's Well at Copgrove, St. John's
Well at Beverley, St. Alkelda's Well at Middleham,
etc. Dr. Whitaker remarks that the wells of Craven,
which bear the names of saints, are invariably presided
over by females, as was the case with wells under the
pagan ritual, in which nymphs exclusively enjoyed the
same honour.
Remnants of well-worship existed in Craven about
the middle of the last century, when it was the custom
on Sunday evenings for the young people to assemble
and drink the waters mingled with sugar. This custom
w^as particularly observed at St. Helen's Well at
Eshton, and at Rouland Well, betwixt Rilstone and
Hetton. * These harmless and pleasing observances,'
says the doctor, * are now lost, and nothing better has
been introduced into their place. It is, perhaps, as
innocent at such hours of relaxation to drink water,
even from a consecrated spring, as to swallow the
poison of British distilleries at a public-house.'
Other wells there are whose designations preserve
the names of owners, or historical personages, in olden
times, as Ketel's (a Saxon nobleman) Well (Kettlewell),
and the many Robin Hood's Wells ; while the names
204 XB^JJU^sf anXf ZviaVxVwn^ of "BxtxiiBlftViC.
of many others, as Beggar's-gill Well in Grasswood,
near Kettlewell, the Drumming Well at Harpham, the
Tailor's Well at Beverley, etc., preserve some topo-
graphical peculiarity or story, of more or less interest
in local history, tradition, or folk-lore.
THE EBBING AND FLOWING WELL AT GIGGLESWICK.
About a mile from Settle, on the road leading
towards Clapham, and at the foot of the high lime-
stone cliff known as Giggleswick Scar, is the famous
ebbing and flowing well. The water in this well
periodically ebbs and flows, at longer or shorter
intervals, according to the quantity running at the
time. Sometimes the phenomenon takes place several
times in the course of an hour, the water rising and
sinking over a depth of several inches, and sometimes
only once in the course of several hours. At one time
it was thought there was some subterranean connec-
tion between the waters of this well and those of the
ocean, and that the ebbing and flowing of the tides led
to the rise and fall of the waters of the well. This is
an improbable and unsatisfactory explanation. The
true one is probably to be found in a system of natural
syphons in the limestone rock. The theory that such
is the case has been well worked out by a gentleman
of the locality, whose name the v/riter is sorry he does
not remember. Legend, however, has its own ex-
planation, and this was admirably given by quaint
Michael Drayton in his * Polyolbion,' nearly 300 years
ago (1573-1631).
* In all my spacious tract, let them, so wise, survey
My Ribble's rising banks, their worst, and let tliem say,
At Giggleswick, where I a fountain can you show,
That eight times in a day is said to ebb and flow.
Who sometime was a nymph, and in the mountains high
Of Craven, whose blue heads for caps put on the sky,
Amongst th' Oreads there, and Sylvans made abode
(It was ere human foot upon those hills had trod).
Of all the mountain kind, and, since she was most fair,
It was a Satyr's chance to see lier silver hair
Flow loosely at her back, as up a cliffe she clame,
Her beauties noting well, her features, and her frame.
And after her he goes ; which when she did espy,
Before him like the wind the nimble nymph doth fly ;
They hurry down the rocks, o'er hill and dale they drive ;
To take her he doth strain, t'outstrip him she doth strive,
As one his kind that knew, and greatly feared his rape,
And to the topick gods by praying to escape,
They turned her to a spring, which as she then did pant,
When wearied with her course her breath grew wondrous scant.
Even as the fearful nymph, then thick and short did blow.
Now made by them a spring, so doth she ebb and flow.'
LADY WELLS.
' Our Lady Wells,' that is, wells dedicated to the
Virgin, are numerous in the cotintry. One at Thresh-
iield, near Linton, in Craven, has the attribute of
being a place of safe refuge from all supernatural
visitants — hobgoblins and the Hke.
Dr. Dixon (* Stories of Craven Dales 'j relates the
story of a native, on his way home late at night from
the public-house, being a spectator of some perform-
ances of Pam, the Threshfield Ghost, and his imps.
Unfortunately the secret spectator sneezed, and then,
in homely phrase, * he had to run for it,' and only
escaped condign punishment at the hands of the
sprites by taking refuge in the very middle of ' Our
Lady's Well,' which they durst not approach. They,
however, waited at such a distance as was permitted
them, and kept their victim, nearly up to his neck in
the cold water, until the crowing of the cock announced
that the hour for their departure had arrived, when
they fled, but not without vowing how severely they
would punish him, if he ever again was caught eaves-
dropping at their parties.
At Thirsk, again, is a Lady Well. An old historian
of the town says, * In the marsh near the church flows
a spring of pure and excellent water, commonly called
Lady Well, doubtless a name of no modern description.*
He also gives the following doggerel lines :
* Inspired by Greece's hallowed spring,
Blandusia's fount let Horace sing ;
Whilst, favour'd by no music, I tell
How much I love sweet Lady Well.
' Amidst the willow shades obscure,
From age to age her stream runs pure ;
Yet has no seer aris'n to tell
The bliss that flows from Lady Well.
* Save that in those dark distant days,
When superstition dimm'd truth's rays,
The monk promulged from his cell
That virtue dwelt in Lady Well'
ST. HELEN'S WELL.
There are more St. Helens than one, but the one to
whom the many Yorkshire wells are supposed to be
dedicated was Helen, or Helena, the mother of Con-
stantine the Great, who was by birth a Yorkshire lady.
Xc^cutJS 0f WtU^i Xaltcsf, ^tc» 207
or rather a British lad}', from the neighbourhood of
Eboracum. The waters of many of the wells bearings
her name seem to have been deemed a specific for sore
and weak eyes. This was the case with the one near
Gargrave. Whitaker states that in his time votive
offerings, such as ribbons and other decorative articles,
were commonly to be seen tied to the bushes near these
wells.
ST. JOHN'S WELL AT HARPHAM.
At Harpham, in the East Riding of Yorkshire, there
is a well dedicated to St. John of Beverley, who is said
to have been born in this village, and to have wrought
many miracles through the virtue of the waters of this
well. It is still believed to possess the power of sub-
duing the wildest and fiercest animals. William of
Malmesbury relates that in his time the most rabid
bull, when brought to its waters, became quiet as
the gentlest lamb.
THE DRUMMING WELL AT HARPHAM.
At the same village there is, in a field near the church,
another well called the Drumming Well, to which
appertains the following story, for which the writer is
indebted to the Leeds Mercury.
About the time of the second or third Edward, — when
all che young men of the country were required to be
practised in the use of the bow, and for that purpose
public * butts ' were found connected with almost every
village, and occasionally * field-days ' for the display of
archery were held, attended by gentry and peasant
alike — the old manor house near this well at Harpham
was the residence of the family of St. Quintin. In the
village lived a widow, reputed to be somewhat 'un-
canny,' named Molly Hewson. She had an only son,
Tom Hewson, who had been taken into the family at
the manor; and the squire, struck with his soldierly
qualities, had appointed him trainer and drummer to
the village band of archers.
A grand field-day of these took place in the well-field,
in front of the manor house. A large company was
assembled, and the sports were at their height, the
squire and his lady looking on with the rest. But one
young rustic proving more than usually stupid in the
use of his bow, the squire made a rush forward to
chastise him. Tom, the drummer, happened to be
standing in his way, and near the well. St. Quintin
accidentally ran against him and sent him staggering
backward, and tripping, he fell head foremost down the
well. Some time elapsed before he could be extricated,
and when this was effected the 3^outh was dead. The
news spread quickly, and soon his mother appeared upon
the scene. At first she was frantic, casting herself upon
his body, and could not realize — though she had been
warned of the danger of this spot to her son — that he
was dead. Suddenly she rose up and stood, with up-
right mien, outstretched arm, and stern composure,
before the squire. She remained silent awhile, glaring
upon him with dilated eyes, while the awe-stricken
bystanders gazed upon her as if she were some super-
natural being. At length she broke the silence, and, in
a sepulchral tone of voice, exclaimed — * Squire St.
Quintin, you were the friend of my boy, and would still
have been his friend but for this calamitous mishap.
Kt^trntfjst 0f l!J)^na, Xaftcs, €fc. 209
You intended not his death, but from your hand his
death has come. Know, then, that through all future
ages, whenever a St. Quintin, Lord of Harpham, is
about to pass from life, my poor boy shall beat his
drum at the bottom of this fatal well ; it is I — the wise
woman, the seer of the future — that say it.'
The body was removed and buried; and from that
time, so long as the old race of St. Quintin lasted,
on the evening preceding the death of the head of the
house, the rat-tat of Tom's drum was heard in the well
by those who listened for it.
WORDSWORTH'S HART-LEAP WELL.
This well, situated near the road leading from
Richmond in Swaledale to Askrigg in Wensley-
dale, has been immortalized by Wordsworth's ver-
sion of the legend, according to which it receives its
name.
In the early morning of a long summer's day, in the
far-off mediaeval times, a blithe company of ladies,
lords, knights, and esquires of Wensleydale assembled
to hunt the deer. A noble hart soon led them merrily
up the dale. For hour after hour they followed ; but
as the day began to wane, and still the chase continued,
one after another fell away, until a solitary knight (Sir
Walter) alone was left, with two or three of the dogs,
on the trail of the hunted beast. The rest must be
told in the poet's own words :
* The knight halloed, he chid, and cheered them on,
With suppliant gestures and upbraiding stern ;
But breath and eyesight fail ; and one by one
The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern.
14
' Where is the throng, the tumult of the race ?
The bugles that so joyfully were blown ?
This chase it looks not like an earthly chase ;
Sir Walter and the hart are left alone.
* The poor hart toils along the mountain-side ;
I will not stop to tell how far he fled,
Nor will I mention by what death he died ;
But now the knight beholds him lying dead.
* Dismounting then he leans against a thorn ;
He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy ;
He neither smacked his whip nor blew his horn.
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.
* Upon his side the hart was lying stretched ;
His nose half-touched a spring beneath a hill ;
And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched
The waters of the spring were trembling still.
* And now, too happy for repose or rest
(Was never man in such a joyful case !),
Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west,
And gazed and gazed upon the darling place.
* And climbing up the hill — it was at least
Nine roods of sheer ascent — Sir Walter found
Three several hoof-marks, which the hunted beast
Had left imprinted on the verdant ground.
* Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, " Till now
Such sight was never seen by living eyes ;
Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow
Down to the very fountain where he lies.
* " I'll build a pleasure-house upon this spot,
And a small arbour make for rural joy ;
'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot,
A place of love for damsels that are coy.
Xc0rnti0 0f jH)cns, Cakes, C^lc, 211
* " A cunning artist will I have to frame
A basin for that fountain in the dell !
And they who do make mention of the same,
From this day forth, shall call it Hart Leap Well.
* '* And, gallant brute ! to make thy praises known,
Another monument shall here be raised ;
Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn stone.
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed.
* " Till the foundations of the mountains fail
My mansion with its arbour shall endure.
The joy of them who till the fields of Swale,
And them who dwell among the woods of Ure."
* Ere thrice the moon into her port had steered,
A cup of stone received the living well.
Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared,
And built a house of pleasure in the dell.
* And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall,
With trailing plants and trees were intertwined, —
Which soon composed a little sylvan hall,
A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.
* And thither wlien the summer days were long,
Sir Walter journey'd with his paramour ;
And with the dancers and the minstrel's song.
Made merriment within that pleasant bower.
* The knight. Sir Walter, died in course of time,
And his bones lie in his paternal vale, —
But there is matter for a second rhyme.
And I to this would add another tale.*
The 'second rhyme,' containing the sequel to the
story, is perhaps, as a poetical effort and version of the
legend, more beautiful than the story itself, and as
14 — 2
exhibiting Wordsworth's sensitiveness to the cruelties
of the chase, and as recording local tradition and
superstition, cannot, though somewhat lengthy, be
omitted here.
The poet is supposed to visit the place when many
years have passed away since
' The knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time.'
He thus recounts what he saw and heard :
* As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair,
It chanced that I saw, standing in a dell,
Three aspens at three corners of a square ;
And one, not four yards distance, near a well.
* What this imported I could ill divine ;
And, pulling now my rein, the horse to stop,
I saw three pillars standing in a line,
The last stone pillar on a dark hill-top.
* The trees were gray, with neither arms nor head ;
Half wasted the square mound of tawny green ;
So that you just might say, as then I said,
" Here in old time the hand of man hath been."
* I looked upon the hill both far and near,
More doleful place did never eye survey ;
It seemed as if the spring-time came not here,
And Nature here were willing to decay.
* I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost,
When one who was in shepherd's garb attired
Came up the hollow : him did I accost.
And what this place might be I then inquired.
* The shepherd stopped, and that same story told
Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed.
*' A jolly place," said he, "in times of old ;
But something ails it now ; the spot is curst.
* " You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood —
Some say that they are beeches, other elms —
These were the bower ; and here a mansion stood,
The finest palace of a hundred realms !
* " The arbour does its own condition tell ;
You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream ;
But as to the great lodge ! you might as well
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
* " There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep,
Will wet his lips within that cup of stone ;
And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep,
This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.
' " Some say that here a murder lias been done.
And blood cries out for blood ; but for my part,
I've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun,
That it was all for that unhappy hart.
* " What thoughts must through the creature's brain have
passed !
Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep.
Are but three bounds — and look, sir, at this last,
O master ! it has been a cruel leap.
' " For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race,
And in my simple mind we cannot tell
What cause the hart might have to love this place,
And come and make his death-bed near the well.
* ** Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank,
Lulled by this fountain in the summer-tide ;
This water was, perhaps, the first he drank.
When he had wandered from his mother's side.
* " In April, here beneath the scented thorn,
He heard the birds their morning carols sing ;
And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born
Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.
214 taj^tnXf^ anXf ZxaWimiSi xjf ^vxk^iixnt.
* " But now here's neither grass nor pleasant shade,
The sun on drearier hollow never shone ;
So will it be, as I have often said,
Till trees, and stones, and fountain all are gone."
' " Gray-headed shepherd, thou hast spoken well ;
Small difference lies between thy creed and mine
This beast not unobserved by Nature fell ;
His death was mourned by sympathy divine.
* " One lesson, shepherd, let us two divide,
Taught both by what she shows and what conceals,
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride,
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels." '
THE LEGEND OF SEMERWATER.
The legend of a town suddenly engulfed by water,
and the site of it henceforth becoming a lake, is
common in both the Old and the New World. Its
remote origin is probably to be found in the Scripture
narrative of the destruction of the cities of the plain,
and the formation thereby of the Dead Sea.
Of two Yorkshire lakes at least the story is told —
viz., Semerwater, or Simmerwater, in Wensleydale, and
Gormire, near Thirsk.
A few miles above the well-known Aysgarth Force,
on the river Ure, there enters that river, on its southern
bank, a tributary called the Bain. Ascending this river
for two or three miles, the lake Semerwater is reached.
It occupies a wild, solitary spot among the mountains, —
Addleborough, 1,565 feet above the sea-level, and The
Stake, 1,840 feet, towering above it. It is about three
miles in circumference. Opening out at its upper end.
between the mountains, are three deep, rugged ravines
— Raydale, Bardale, and Cragdale — down each of.
which pours a mountain torrent. On a calm summer's
day, the lake is an embodiment of the ideas of peace
and repose, in retirement from the world ; but when
the floods descend from the surrounding moors and
mountains, and the western winds rush down the
ravines at its head, its waters rise many feet in an in-
credibly short time, and it becomes truly * a troubled
sea,' and vast volumes of its waters, being driven over
its eastern bank, flood the lowlands of the valley
beneath.
The legend as to its formation is thus told :
In the spot, which it now occupies, there once stood
a town of considerable size. Under the guise of a poor
beggar-man, ragged, hungry, and old, there came an
angel to the town. He begged from door to door
until he had visited every house, but found commisera-
tion and relief at none. As he left it, just outside the
town, he came upon a humble cottage inhabited by an
aged and poverty-stricken couple. To them he re-
peated his tale of want. Immediately they asked him
to enter their humble dwelling, and they brought forth
for him the best they had — bread and milk and cheese.
After he had appeased his hunger he thanked and
blessed them, and at their sohcitation passed the night
under their roof. At his departure in the morning he
stood by his friends' abode, and, looking back over the
hard-hearted, uncharitable town, lifted up his hands
and repeated the following lines :
* Semerwater rise ! Semerwater sink !
And swallow the town, all save this house,
Where they gave me meat and drink.'
No sooner said than done. The waters of the valley
rose ; the town sunk and disappeared beneath them.
But as they approached the hospitable cottage, * there
their proud waves were stayed ;' and even yet a small
old house near the lower end of the lake is pointed out
as all that is left of the once flourishing town. To
some eyes — those of persons gifted with second, or
double sight, it is presumed — the roofs and chimneys
of the other houses at the bottom are visible through
the waters. Perhaps some reader, who visits the place,
may be able thus to detect them.
This legend, as several other of our Yorkshire
legends, has been, with a little variation in detail,
beautifully embalmed in our county's poetry by Susan
K. Phillips in the following verses :
* At the base of mighty Addlebro' fair glimmers Seamer Water,
Where the dales send many a stalwart son, and many a soft-
eyed daughter,
To linger 'neath the larches, and watch the bright becks leap,
From Ray dale and from Bardale, to their home in Seamer
deep.
* Deep in the heart of Wensleydale fair Seamer Water lies.
Where the lark springs up to carol in the pale blue northern
skies ;
Where the trout and bream are leaping, where the silvery
willows quiver.
Where long-haired birches wave their locks when June's soft
breezes shiver.
* And yet eight hundred years ago, ere ever Conan gave
The meadow lands where Byland monks built Jervaulx's stately
nave,
The traveller scaling Addlebro' gazed from the summit there
On towers, and streets, and guarded walls, that girt a city fair.
Ec0cntrs ixf WsiU^^ UaUt^i (Bit. 217
* One summer eve the sinking sun shone fall on Whitefeli Foss,
As an aged man strove wearily the brawling stream to cross^
As through romantic Cragdale he tottered feebly on,
And sought for rest and welcome from hearts that gave him
none.
* At priestly door, at serf's low hut, at baron's lordly hall,
He prayed for food and shelter, and prayed in vain to all.
Till old, and worn, and lonely, the cruel streets he left,
And crawled into a lowly cot, hid in the mountain's cleft.
* " For the sake of Christ, I pray you for charity," he said,
The peasant brought his cup of milk, he brought his crust of
bread,
And shared his scanty pittance with the wanderer who came
To ask for human mercy in the God of mercy's name.
* The old man ate and drank, and lo, his form and aspect
seemed
To change before the peasant's eyes as unto one who dreamed ;
Right royally he trod the floor, right royally he spoke —
" My blessing on the homestead where the bread of life I
broke."
* Out on the steep hillside he strode, he raised his staff on high.
He shook it where the sleeping town lay 'neath the evening
sky.
" I call thee, Seamer Water, rise fast, rise deep, rise free,
*Whelm all except the little house that fed and sheltered me !"
* And fast rose Seamer Water in answer to his word,
From beck, and foss, and tribute-stream, the floods obedient
poured.
And all the air seemed booming with a mighty funeral knell,
'Mid shriek, and shout, and frantic prayer, to earth the peasant
fell.
* And when at sunrise painfully he roused him from his swoon,
His cot stood safe, and from his side his awful guest had gone,
2i8 Cc0cntis antr Cratriftuna rrf ^^aviUisiiixxit.
But where at eve the city proud stood busy, strong, and gay,
Fair Seamer Water glittered to hail the wakening day.
* It is eight hundred years ago, and legends dim and fade,
But still men say at Hallowe'en, beneath the larches' shade,
Whoso in Seamer Water at sunset gazes down,
Sees town, and street, and battlement — the shadow of the
town.'
GORMIRE.
The legend as to Gormire — a small lake romantically
situated on the slope of the Hambleton Hills, at the
foot of Whitestone Cliff, a few miles from the town of
Thirsk — is in many respects similar to that of Seamer-
water. Here once stood a populous town ; but, in
this case, the calamity which destroyed it was an
earthquake. In a moment, by a convulsion of the
^arth, an abyss in the mountain-side was opened,
and into it sank the whole population, with houses and
all that belonged to them. Soon a body of water,
unfathomable and bottomless^ rolled over the spot ;
though, in spite of this marvellous condition of the
lake, ' it is asserted that the tops of the houses, and
the desolate chimneys, are sometimes visible to the
astonished eyes of the visitor who embarks upon
these mysterious waters.'
IX.
MISCELLANEOUS LEGENDS, ETC.
The Swine Harrie; or, 'Hoist on his own
Petard.*
There is a legend, common to many parts of Eng-
land and to other countries also, which describes how
the theft of an animal was visited upon the thief by
means of his victim. In some places the animal was
a deer, in another a dog, and in America even a
corpse.
In Yorkshire it was a pig or swine. On the side of
Pinnow Hill, in Lothersdale, is a field called Swine
Harrie. * To harrie ' means, in the language of these
northern parts, to hunt with the object of theft or
plunder ; so that the name * Swine Harrie ' indicates a
place at which such a theft of swine was committed.
The legend connected with it is this :
In far-off days a man, having stolen a pig, was
leading it home in the dead of night by a string.
Crossing this field, he came to one of the high stone
walls common in the neighbourhood, over which was a
stile formed by two ladders, one placed on each side of
the wall, and united at the top. Over this it was neces-
sary to lift his prize. Therefore, taking the pig in his
arms, and throwing the loose end of the string over his
shoulder, he ascended the ladder ; but when at the top
the animal, plunging, slipped from his arms over the
wall, and, losing his foothold on the steps, he also fell
— the swine on the one side, and the thief on the
other — and, the string having become entangled round
his neck, both were suspended thereby. In the morn-
ing they were thus found — the man dead.
In Charnwood Forest there is the same legend, only
there the animal was a deer ; and the place at which
the tragedy occurred is yet known as Deadman's Stone.
The following are the chief parts of a poetical version
of the story, quoted by the late Dr. Dixon in * Tales
of Craven Dales ':
* John of Oxley had watched on the round Cat Hill,
He had " harried " all Timber Wood ;
Each rabbit and hare said " Ha ! ha !" to his snare,
But the venison, he knew, was good.
* A herd was resting beneath the broad oak
(The ranger, he knew, was a-bed) ;
One shaft he drew on his well-tried yew,
And a gallant hart lay dead.
* He tied its legs, and he hoisted his prize,
And he toiled over Lubcloud Brow ;
He reached the tall stone standing out alone —
Standing then as it standeth now.
* With his back to the stone, he rested his load.
And he chuckled with glee to think.
That the rest of the way on the down-hill lay,
And his wife would have spiced the drink.
* The " rest of the way " John Oxley ne'er trod
That ale was untouched by him ;
Mi^tiiUan^XfUiSi Eieg^ntr^, €lr, 221
In the morning gray there were looks that way,
But the mountain mists were dim.
* Days past — he came not — his children play'd —
And wept — then gamboll'd again ;
They saw with surprise their mother's wet eyes
Were still on the hills — in vain.
* A swineherd was passing o'er Great Ives Head,
When he noticed a motionless man ;
He shouted in vain — no reply could he gain —
So he down to the gray stone ran.
* There was Oxley's corpse on one side the stone.
On the other the down-hanging deer ;
The burden had slipp'd, and his neck it had nipped — ■
He was hang'd by his prize — all was clear.
* The gallows still stands upon Shepeshed high lands
As a mark for the poachers to own,
How the wicked will get within their own net,
And 'tis called " The Gray Hangman's Stone."
Upsall and its Crocks of Gold.
High up on a spur of the Hambleton Hills, over-
looking the great Vale of York and the hills beyond it,
and the whole country, from York into the county of
Durham, stands the small village of Upsall. The old
castle, of which scarcely a fragment remains, was in
olden times a stronghold and favourite residence of the
Scroopes. The modern * castle,' the seat of Captain
Turton, standing near the site of the old one, is one of
the palatial houses of Yorkshire. The name is a Scan-
dinavian one, and in many aspects an interesting and
remarkable one. * Even,' writes a learned Dane
(Worsaal), ' the name of one of the most important
sacrificial places in the Scandinavian north is to be
found in Yorkshire, in Upsall (from Upsalier), the
High Halls.'
Well, * at the village of Upsall resided many years
ago,' writes Mr. William Grainge in his admirable
'History of the Vale of Mowbray,' *a man who
dreamed, on three nights successively, that if he went
to London Bridge he would hear of something greatly
to his advantage. He went, travelling the whole dis-
tance from Upsall to London on foot. Having arrived
there, he took up his station on the bridge, where he
waited until his patience was nearly exhausted, and the
idea that he had acted a very foolish part began to rise
in his mind. At length he was accosted by a Quaker,
who kindly inquired what he was waiting there so long
for. After some hesitation he told his dreams. The
Quaker laughed at his simplicity, and told him that he
had had that night a very curious dream himself, which
was, that if he went and dug under a certain bush in
Upsall Castle Yard, in Yorkshire, he would find a pot
of gold; but he did not know where Upsall was, and
inquired of the countryman if he knew ? Seeing some
advantage in secrecy, he pleaded ignorance of the
locality, and then, thinking his business in London was
completed, returned immediately home, dug beneath
the bush, and there found a pot filled with gold, and on
the cover an inscription he did not understand. The
pot and the cover were, however, preserved at the
village inn, where one day a bearded stranger, like a
Jew, made his appearance, saw the pot, and read the
inscription, the plain English of which was :
' '* Look lower — where this stood
Is another twice as good."
j!llisccUaue0U55 Xcaciitra, (Bit* 223
The man of Upsall, hearing this, resumed his spade,
returned to the bush, dug deeper, and found another
pot filled with gold, far more valuable than the first.
On the second pot the inscription of the first was
repeated. Encouraged by this, he dug deeper still,
and found another yet more valuable.
* This story has been related of other places, but
Upsall appears to have as good a claim to it as any
other. Here we have the constant tradition of the
inhabitants, and the identical bush yet remains beneath
which the treasure was found — an old elder bush, near
the north-west corner of the ruins.'
Haverah Park. — A Lame Legend.
Some five or six miles to the west of Knaresborough,
in the heart of what was once the Royal Forest, is a
district, consisting of several farms, named Haverah
Park, and which for two centuries has belonged to the
Ingilbys of Ripley Castle.
This place was probably at one time an enclosed
area, or ' park,' within the forest, for the better preser-
vation of the deer and the convenience of hunting, and
derived its name from Haie, a hedge or fence, and wray
or roe, a kind of deer ; thus meaning — Haie-wra — the
fenced place, or enclosure, for deer.
But legend and philology are often widely at variance
And so in this case, for the former thus accounts for
the name of the park :
There was, in the days when the great John o' Gaunt
was lord of the Forest of Knaresborough, a certain man
named Havera, a cripple, whose only means of progress
was by the help of crutches. This man had the good
fortune one day to meet with the great lord as he was
hunting in the forest.
* My lord,' said the cripple, ' I crave of your bounty
permission to enclose a small quantity of land, by
tillage of which I may obtain sustenance/
The prince acceded to the request, and made a grant
in the following terms :
* I, John o' Gaunt,
Do give and do grant,
To thee, Havera,
As much of my ground
As thou canst hop round
In a long summer's day.'
Havera gladly accepted these terms, saw that his
crutches were in good order, and, selecting Barnaby
Day (June nth), one of the longest in the year, pro-
ceeded to his task. Commencing at sunrise, and
hopping away without cessation until sunset, he so
nearly completed the circuit of what is now the park
that, just as the orb of day was disappearing below the
western horizon, he was able to throw one of his
crutches to the point whence he started, before the
sun totally disappeared, and thus to surround, and
win for himself, the district which has ever since borne
his name — Haverah Park.
A WILD BOAR LEGEND.
There is another legend connected with Haverah
Park.
Two patches of woodland, on the southern side
of the valley (in the Park), bear the names of High
MtBttUantimxjst Xc^ttttrs, €ft. 225
and Low Boarholes, and to one of them the following
legend attaches itself:
Once upon a time (unfortunately, the exact time is
not given) a king of England was hunting in the forest,
and, becoming separated from his retinue, was attacked
in this dell by an old wild boar, which, having seized in
its mouth the weapon of the royal hunter, snatched it
from his hand, and, proceeding to follow up this advan-
tage, was in a fair way to putting an end to the reign
of an English sovereign, when, by chance, one of the
attendant knights came on the scene, and, attacking
the animal vigorously with his boar-spear, succeeded
in killing it, and so delivered the life of his monarch
from imminent danger. The name of this knight was
Ingilby, and, as a token of royal gratitude to him and
his descendants for ever, the King granted the park in
which the occurrence took place.
To the family of Ingilby the lands certainly now
belong ; but their tenure of them, unfortunately for the
legend, only dates from the time of Charles II., when
wild boars had been long extinct.
* The whole story,' remarks Mr. William Grainge,
* is a myth — probably a stray shaft from the long-
bow of some former forester.'
DE LACY AND LORD DACRE'S DAUGHTER.
The following legendary ballad relates to the same
place, and is from the pen of the late Stephen Fawcett,
a local poet of considerable power. De Lacy's know-
ledge of the place may have been due to some of the
hunting expeditions in the Royal Park.
15
* ** Where art thou going, sweet shepherdess,
Whe^e art thou going so early ?"
" My flocks I feed in Haverah's Mead,
When the dew is shining clearly."
' " Drops of dew, on starry blue.
Never knew such beauty ;
Haverah's maid 1 came not to wed,
But love has conquered duty."
* " Ride on, ride on, De Lacy bold,
I trust no traitorous lover ;
My low degree were shame to thee —
I fear thou art a rover !"
* " Lord Dacre's child I will not wed,
By Heaven I've sworn already ;
Of castle, town, and dale and down.
Thou only shalt be lady."
* " Ride on, ride on," she archly cried,
" For I soothly vow and fairly.
No shepherdess shalt thou caress,
Shouldst love her e'er so dearly.
* " Lord Dacre is a gruesome carle,
To ruth and fear a stranger ;
But wizards say, * Love bears no nay.'
So be thine the shame and danger."
* He merrily placed her on his steed,
Tripped like a page beside her,
With glancing stream, and dew-drop beam,
Merrily glanced the rider.
He placed her on his palfrey proud,
And sought a hermit's dwelling.
Where kneeling he in sanctity
His rosary was telling.
miteenanexntst Xc0cutr0, d^tc. 227
* The hermit rose and wedded them,
O'er holy missal bending,
Sweet strains of love from Haverah's Grove,
On morning wing ascending.
* " Thou art beguiled," she cried, " De Lacy,"
As in his arms he caught her ;
" Thy oath and word are broke, false lord —
I am Lord Dacre's daughter."
* De Lacy gazed, confused, amazed,
Upon the lovely speaker ;
And the captive now was led to bow
Before the great Lord Dacre.'
The Beggar's or Lover's Bridge at Egton.
At Egton, near Whitby, the river Esk is spanned by
a bridge known, in popular parlance, as the Beggar's
Bridge, and also as the Lover's Bridge. The story of
the origin of the former name is that a certain man,
named Thomas Ferrers, a beggar, either born at
Egton or coming into the neighbourhood in early
life, was crossing the river, when swollen, at this place
by means of the stepping-stones, which then afforded
the only means of crossing, and, falling in, was
nearly drowned. He then made a vow that, if he
should ever have the means to do so, he would build
a bridge at the spot for the convenience and safety
of all future wayfarers. He journeyed to Hull, and^in
that town, in the course of time, rose to riches and
eminence. Nor did he forget his vow. He built a
good bridge of one large and elegant arch, on which are
inscribed his initials and the date, 1621 a.d. Hence
arose the name of the Beggar's Bridge. In Trinity
15—2
228 Xje^initra antr Crabiti^ns rrf il^orka(|ir0.
Church, Hull, there is a large monument to the
memory of Alderman Thomas Ferrers and his wife,
showing the date of the death of this benefactor to
his county to have been in 1631 a.d.
The other name. Lover's Bridge, is explained in the
following portion of a version of the legend by Mrs.
George Dawson, and given in * Ballads of Yorkshire,*
edited by Ingledew. It bears, however, the heading
THE BEGGAR'S BRIDGE.
* The dalesmen say that their light archway
Is due to an Egton man,
Whose love was tried by a 'whelming tide.
I heard the tale in its native vale,
And thus the legend ran :
* " Why lingers my loved one ? Oh, why does he roam
On the last winter evening that hails him at home?
He promised to see me once more ere he went,
But the long rays of gloaming all lonely I've spent.
The stones at the fording no longer I see ;
Ah ! the darkness of night has concealed them from me !"
* The maiden of Glaisdale sat lonely at eve,
And the cold, stormy night saw her hopelessly grieve ;
But when she looked forth from her casement at morn, '
The maiden of Glaisdale was truly forlorn !
For the stones were engulfed where she looked for them last.
By the deep swollen Esk, that rolled rapidly past ;
And vainly she strove, with her tear-bedimmed eye,
The pathway she gazed on last night to descry.
' Her lover had come to the brink of the tide,
And to stem its swift current repeatedly tried;
But the rough whirling eddy still swept him ashore,
And relentlessly bade him attempt it no more.
M'tJdittiiUntyfUB Xi?0tnirs, (Bit. 229
Exhausted, he climbed the steep side of the brae,
And looked up the dale ere he turned him away ;
Ah ! from her far window a light flickered dim,
And he knew she was faithfully watching for him.
* " I go seek my fortune, love,
In a far, far distant land,
And without thy parting blessing, love,
I am forced to quit the strand.
* " But over Arncliff's brow, my love,
I see thy twinkling light ;
And when deeper waters part us, love,
'Twill be my beacon bright.
* " If fortune ever favour me,
St. Hilda, hear my vow !
No lover again in my native plain
Shall be thwarted as I am now.
* " One day I'll come to claim my bride
As a worthy and wealthy man ;
And my well-earned gold shall raise a bridge
Across this torrent's span."
* The rover came back from a far-distant land,
And he claimed of the maiden her long-promised hand ;
But he built, ere he won her, the bridge of his vow.
And the lovers of Egton pass over it now.'
The White Horse of the Strid, or the Three
Sisters of Beamsley.
There is a tradition connected with the Strid, near
Bolton Bridge, on the river Wharfe, that on the
morning of the May-day preceding any fatal accident
in that river, a spectral white horse, the steed of the
queen of the fairies, is to be seen arising from the
spray and mist around the foaming cataract. The
following legend of three sisters, co-heiresses of
Beamsley Hall, each, while watching for the fairy
steed, expressing the desire she would wish to realize
by the magic of the fairy's wand, and after the appear-
ance to them of the mystic white horse perish-
ing in the waters, is founded upon this tradition.
Beamsley, or, as it was anciently spelt, * Bethmeslie,'
is a hamlet and scattered township near Bolton
Bridge. Its hall, at the foot of Howber Hill, often
called Beamsley Beacon, was the home of the Mau-
leverer family from the time of the Conquest to the
fourteenth century, when it passed by marriage to the
Claphams.
Both these families are buried in the same vault
in the Abbey Church at Bolton, and it is of them that
Wordsworth writes :
* Pass, pass who will yon chantry door,
And, through the chink in the fractured floor,
Look down, and see a grisly sight ;
A vault where the bodies are buried upright !
There, face to face, and hand to hand,
The Claphams and Mauleverers stand ;
And in his place, among son and sire,
Is John de Clapham, that fierce esquire —
A valiant man, and a man of dread
In the ruthless wars of the White and Red ;
Who dragged Earl Pembroke from Banbury Church,
And smote off his head on the stones of the porch.'
To one or other of these two families it must be
supposed that the three sisters of the legend belonged.
The beautiful verses embodying the legend * originally
appeared,' says Dr. Dixon, ' in The Etiropean Magazine,
from whence they were transferred to the " Poetic
Album " of Alaric Watts. They are said to be from
MiBttllantiCfnsi X^cnir^, €fc. 231
the pen of a lady, a native of York, but who was long
located in Craven.'
* " Oh, sisters, hasten we on our way —
The Wharfe is wide and strong ;
Our father alone in his hall will say,
*My daughters linger long.'
Yet, tarry awhile in the yellow moonlight,
And each shall see her own true knight.
* " For now in her boat of an acorn-shell
The fairy queen may be.
She dives in a water-spider's bell
To keep her revelry ;
We'll drop a thistle's beard in the tide —
*Twill serve for bridles when fairies ride ;
And she who shall first her white horse see
Shall be the heiress of Bethmeslie."
* Then Jeanette spoke with her eyes of light :
" Oh, if I had fairy power,
I would change this elm to a gallant knight,
And this gray rock to a bower !
Our dwelling should be behind a screen
Of blossoming alders and laurustine ;
Our hives should tempt the wild bees all.
And the swallows love our eaves,
For the eglantine should tuft our wall,
And cover their nests with leaves ;
The spindle's wool should lie unspun.
And our lambs lie safe in the summer's sun,
While the merry bells ring for my knight and me,
Farewell to the halls of Bethmeslie."
* Then Annette shook her golden hair :
" If I had power and will,
These rocks should change to marble rare.
And the oaks should leave the hill.
To build a dome of prouder height
Than ever yet rose in the morning light,
And every one of these slender reeds
Should be a page in green,
To lead and deck my berry-brown steeds
And call my greyhounds in ;
These lilies should all be ladies gay,
To weave the pearls for my silk array,
And none but a princely knight should see
Smiles in the lady of Bethmeslie."
* Then softly said their sister May :
" I would ask neither spell nor wand,
For better I prize this white rose spray
Plucked by my father's hand ;
And little I heed the knight to see
Who seeks the heiress of Bethmeslie !
Yet would I give one of these roses white
If the fairy queen would ride
Safe o'er this flood ere the dead of night,
And bear us by her side ;
And then with her wing let her lift the latch
Of my father's gate, and his slumbers watch.
And touch his eyes with her glow-worm gleam,
Till he sees and blesses us in his dream !"
* The night winds howled o'er Bolton Strid,
The flood was dark and drear ;
And thro' it swam the Fairy Queen's steed,
The Lady May to bear ;
And that milk-white steed was seen to skim
Like a flash of the moon on the water's brim.
The morning came, and the winds were tame.
The flood slept on the shore ;
But the sisters three of Bethmeslie
Returned to its hall no more.
Wlii&ttiUntttm^ Cr^cuirs, Cfc. 233
' Now under the shade of its ruined wall
A thorn grows lonely, bare and tall ;
And there a weak and weeping weed
Seems on its rugged stem to feed ;
The shepherds sit in the green recess,
And call them Pride and Idleness.
But there the root of a white rose-tree
Still blooms at the gate of Bethmeslie.
' Woe to the maid that on morn of May
Shall see that White Horse rise ;
The hope of her heart shall pass away
As the foam of his nostrils flies,
Unless to her father's knees she brings,
The white rose-tree's first offerings.
There is no dew from summer skies
Has power like the drop from a father's eyes ;
And if on her cheek that tear of bliss
Shall mingle with his holy kiss,
The bloom of her cheek shall blessed be
As the fairy rose of Bethmeslie.'
OSMOTHERLEY.
At a distance of seven miles from Northallerton, up
in the Cleveland hillside, is a village named Osmother-
ley. The name, in all probability, is derived from an
early owner named ' Osmund,' and * ley,' a field or
meadow ; and thus means the field of Osmund. Legend,
however, tells a different story.
Osmund, says the story, was King of Northumbria.
He and his queen had an only child, named Oswy, the
heir of his kingdom.
The augurs, or wise men, were consulted at the
child's birth as to its future fortunes. They united in
234 Cc0rutr3e anlr CttatrUiuns wf l^urftsljto.
declaring that when the child arrived at a certain age
— even naming the day — it would be drowned. The
princess, its mother, was determined to prevent such a
catastrophe, and as the time approached she fled with
the boy to the top of Osnaberg, now better known as
Roseberry Topping. Here — far away, as she thought,
from any watery depths — she awaited the passing of
the fatal day. But, overcome by heat and fatigue, she
fell asleep, and the young prince wandered away from
her side, until he came to a small spring of water,
issuing from the mountain-side, and forming a small
well.
A local poet, J. W. Ord, has beautifully told the
sequel :
' Then weary of his dalliance,
He sought the grassy mound,
Plucked oft the azure harebell.
The foxglove tapering round;
And then, oh, lovely vision ! '
Beneath the mountain-brow,
A fountain, clear, enchanting,
With heaven's own colours true.'
Reflected in the clear blue water the child saw his own
image, and, in the vain endeavour to grasp it, fell into
the well.
* What is't that fills with wonder
The laughing cherub's eyes ?
Why clap his hands with rapture ?
Why crows he with surprise ?
Within that crystal mirror
He views a lovely form —
Cheeks fair as summer weather —
Locks beauteous as the morn.
l^i^tcUantiJtts. tt^txitts, (Bit. 235
* And wondrous — still more wondrous —
While beckoning it to come,
It with equal love entreats him
Into its watery home : —
Oh, fear ! oh, dread ! — he clasps it —
One cry — and all is o'er ;
The treacherous spring enfolds him —
Prince Oswy is no more.'
The anxious princess, his mother, on awaking, traced
his footsteps to the spot ; and here, in the small moun-
tain pool, with scarcely sufficient water to cover his
body, she found her drowned child. The pool is still
known as Oswy's Well. His body was in due course
borne to the neighbouring churchyard, whither the
afflicted mother, killed by grief, was soon afterwards
also borne, and laid by his side.
Henceforth the place of their burial was designated —
as the place where Oswy-by-his-mother-lay — Osmother-
ley. The heads of mother and child, carved in stone,
are said to be seen still at the east end of the church
of the village.
The Giant of Sessay.
The family who owned Sessay from early times to
the days of Henry VII. was that of the Darells.
The heirs-male of this family failed in the reign of
that king, and the heiress of all the broad lands
and manors was a daughter — a strong-minded young
vv^oman, named Joan Darell.
About the same time a strange monster began to
haunt the woods around the village. He was a huge
brute in human form — legs like elephants' legs, arms of
a corresponding size, a face most fierce to look upon,
with only one eye, placed in the midst of his forehead ;
a mouth large as a lion's, and garnished with teeth as
long as the prongs of a hayfork. His only clothing was
a cow's hide fastened across his breast, and with the
hair outwards ; while over his shoulder he usually
carried a stout young tree, torn up by the roots, as a
club for offence and defence. Now and then he made
the woods ring with demoniacal laughter ; now and
then with savage, unearthly growls.
Like most giants of olden times, he had a ravenous
appetite, and daily he visited the farmers' herds and
walked off with a choice heifer or fat ox under his arm,
devouring it raw in his forest-cave, which was strewed
with bones and horns, etc. If he wanted a change of
diet, he paid a visit to the neighbouring miller and left
him poorer by a sack of meal, drawn with his long arm
through the mill-window. This he took to his cave,
and, mixing it in a large trough, with the blood of the
animals he had stolen, he ate the porridge thus made
with a wonderful relish. But, worst of all, if he wanted
a very choice morse], he would carry off a delicate
young maiden from some village home, or a child from
the cradle.
This was no pleasant neighbour to have, and the in-
habitants, more than once, banded themselves together
to destroy him ; but all their efforts came to nothing.
Either they could not succeed in tracking him to his
den, or, if they did, the way in which he showed his
enormous teeth, roared out his unearthly growls, or
played with the young tree he carried in his hand, had
such an effect that his would-be assailants made them-
selves scarce quicker than they came.
tl)l0ccnancxjus Ec^cnt^a, (Bit. 237
About this time there came a gallant young soldier,
who had taken an active part, and done wonderful
things, in the wars abroad — Guy, son of Sir John
D'Aunay (or Dawnay), of Cowick Castle, in South
Yorkshire — to pay a visit to Joan Darell, the daughter
of his father's old friend at Sessay. He found her
occupied in the multifarious business of her large
estate and household. One of her difficulties was that
of inducing any of her woodmen to go to the woods
for the necessary timber for the fuel and repairs. She
was trying to persuade one so to do when Dawnay
arrived.
* I have heard,' said he, * of this monster who so
terrifies your servants, and devours your tenants' cattle,
and even their children. Is it indeed true ?'
' Alas !' she replied, * only too true 1 But come in
and take refreshments.'
Now, young Dawnay had come on an errand at
which many young men evince a good deal of nervous-
ness, and beating about the bush. But he went directly
to the point, and told the strong-minded spinster, the
heiress of all the broad acres of the Darells, that he
thought a union of the property of the Darells and
Dawnays would serve to build up a great family estate.
Would she wed him, and so effect this desirable pur-
pose ?
She admired his honesty, and consented on one
condition, to prove that he deserved to mate with the
last of the Darells.
' Name the condition,' said he. ' I will undertake
the task, whatever it may be.'
She replied : * Slay the monster who is desolating
238 Xc^Eutrs autr (Erat»ttt0Ufi uf IJavhaljttte^.
our fields and spreading such lamentation and woe
over the village. Rid us of this brute, and my hand is
yours.'
* Willingly will I try/ was the response ; * and if I
fall, I shall fall in a good cause.'
* See, there comes the giant !' cried the lady, looking
through the window and seeing the monster stalking
out of the wood, with his club over his shoulder,
towards the mill.
* Truly he is a fearful adversary !' exclaimed the
champion, as he joined her at the window and pro-
ceeded to buckle on his sword.
On went the giant towards the mill, evidently bent
on fetching his usual sack of meal. The miller saw
him and trembled, but took no steps to protect his
property. The mill was one of those the top of which,
with sails, turns on a pivot with the wind. Suddenly,
as the giant was drawing the sack out of the window,
the wind changed, and swept the sails round to the side
on which he was. Round came the arms, or sails, and
one of them, catching the monster on the head, sent
him stunned on his back to the ground. Young Sir
Guy saw his opportunity, ran up, and, before the giant
recovered his senses, drove his sword through the
brute's one eye into his brain.
There were great rejoicings in all the country round.
Next day an immense trench was dug, and the enor-
mous carcase rolled into it and buried, amid shouts of
blessing upon the deliverer.
Not many weeks afterwards the bells of Sessay rang
merrily at the wedding of Joan Darell and young Sir
Guy Dawnay — from whom, I suppose, is descended
^tscttUani?0u» Xcgieutis, (Btt. 239
the respected family of that name, which still, I
believe, owns the place.
Now, if this story could be investigated, and traced
back step by step to its origin, I have no doubt but
that it would be found to be another illustration of the
well-known story of ' The Three Crows.'
Either the giant was nothing more than some
robber-chief who took up his abode in forest fastnesses
and preyed upon the neighbouring inhabitants, or he
was some village tyrant who oppressed and annoyed
his neighbours, and was got rid of by the Dawnay or
some other family of influence ; or else — most probable
of all, from certain circumstances narrated in the story
— he was some unpopular rival for the hand of the
heiress of Sessay, and was vanquished, in both love and
war, by the more favoured Sir Guy.
I do not suppose the Giant of Sessay was anything
worse than one of these ; yet popular dislike, and the
additions of many repetitions of the story, have made
him into the monster I have described.
Wadda of Mulgrave, and Bell, his wife.
Mulgrave Castle — the seat of the Marquis of Nor-
manby — stands in the parish of Lythe, and three or
four miles to the north-west of Whitby. * At no great
distance,' says a writer of the earlier part of the cen-
tury, *from the present elegant mansion stand the
ruins of an ancient castle, built, according to Camden,
200 years before the Conquest.' Leland thus notices
it : * Mongrave Castle standeth on a craggy hille, and
on eche side of it is a hill, far higher than that whereon
the castle standeth. The north hille on the top of it
hath certain stones, commonely caulid Wadde's Grave,
whom the people there say to have bene a gigant, and
owner of Mongrave.' Wadda, or, as the old writer
calls him, Wadde, must have been a marvellous person !
A Saxon duke, * a gigant,' with Bell his * gigant ' wife,
the builder of old Mulgrave Castle, Pickering Castle,
etc., he is said to have been, and what beyond, who
shall say ?
One account says that he lived about the end of the
eighth, and to the middle of the ninth century, and was
one of the conspirators by whom Ethelred, King of
Northumberland, was murdered (796 a.d.), and that, to
better secure himself against the king's friends, he
built, or very much strengthened, the castle at Mul-
grave. In building this castle, and that at Pickering,
some twenty-two or three miles apart, Wadda and his
giantess wife divided the labour — one working at Mul-
grave, while the other was busy at Pickering. Un-
fortunately they had but one hammer for the use of both.
This inconvenience, however, was considerably modified
by their great physical powers enabhng them to perform
a feat which must put all modern athletes to the blush.
As the hammer was required, at Mulgrave or at Picker-
ing, they threw it backwards and forwards across the
country, the only precaution necessary being that the
one throwing it should shout to the other to be ready
to catch it !
The Roman road, too, which crosses this part of the
country, is named Wadde's Causeway, and was formed
by them (so says the story) for the convenience of Bell
crossing the moor to milk her cow — Wadda doing the
paving while his wife brought the stones in her apron.
^)tocUanc0U0 Xc0entr0, ^u, 241
This occasionally gave way, and the contents falling
upon* the ground, and Bell disdaining to gather them
up again, formed those large heaps of stones yet to be
met with among the ling in the neighbourhood. This
worthy couple had a son, also called Wadde or Wadda,
whose strength was equally as marvellous as that of
his parents. One day, when yet little more than an
infant, being impatient for his mother's breast, while
she was away milking her cow near Swart Hole, he
seized an enormous stone, and, in a most unfilial
manner, hurled it at her across the valley, and struck
her with great violence. She, however, was little hurt,
yet so great was the violence with which she was struck
that a considerable indentation was made in the stone !
This stone remained, so again says the legend, a testi-
mony to the young Wadde's infant prowess, until a few
years ago, when it was broken up to mend the highways.
One of the rib bones of one of Bell's cows, equal in
size to a jawbone of a whale, is said to have been
formerly preserved at Mulgrave.
Wadda (and Bell too, it is presumed), being mortal,
at length died, and was buried on the hill alluded to by
Leland, near his castle of Mulgrave, where tv/o upright
stones standing, some years ago, on the spot, twelve
feet apart, marked the head and foot of his grave.
Whether one or both of them be there now or not
the writer knoweth not.
16
INDEX
A.
Abbeys, Legends and Traditions of,
22
Alkelda, St. , 19
churches dedicated to, 10
martyrdom of, 20
Well of, 10, 203
Arncliff, Bridge of, 136
Arrows, the Devil's, 115
Athelstane, the King, 80
Augustine, St., mission of, 4
B.
Bargest, etc., Legends of, 126
Baring-Gould, Rev. S., 'Yorkshire
Oddities,' 140-142, 150
Barnoldswick Abbey, 59
Battles and Battle-fields, Legends,
etc., of, 178
Beamsley, the Three Sisters of, 229
Beggar's Bridge, the, 227
Beverley, St. John of. Legends of, 72
shrine of, 80
the Two Sisters of, 76
Blind, eyes given to, 92
sight given to, 92
Boar, Wild, Legend, 224
Boiling Hall, Legend of, 200
Bolton Priory, Legends, etc., of, 40
Boroughbridge Battle, Legend of, 181
Bosky, or Busky Dyke, IBoggard of.
Bosky, or Busky Dyke, schoolroom
at, 132
Bradford, siege of, 198
• Pity Poor Bradford,' 198
Bridge, the Broken, at York, 91
Britain, origin of name, i
' Brute the ''frojan, i
Brunnanburg, the Battle of, 83
Buern the Busecarle, 10
Burton, North, Earl Addi's servant of,
79
Burton, South, Puch, the Earl of, 75
C.
Caedmon, the Poet, Legend of, 24
Cash el, the rock of, 119
Churches, sites of, legends of, 119
Claphams, the burial of, 50
Clifford, the Blackfaced, 186
Clifton-cum-Norwood, 18
Coifi, the Druid Arch-priest, 5
Cow, wild, subdued, 109
Crake Castle, Legend of, 8
Crocks of gold, 221
Cromwell, Oliver, and Sir R. Graham
19s
Cromwell, Oliver, at Ripley Castle,
196
Cromwell, Oliver, a story of Marston
Moor, 197
Cuthbert, St., and Ripon Monastery,
lOI
Cuthbert, St., fear of, 21
D.
Dacre, Lord, of Gilsland, 188
daughter of, 225
Danes, the, in Yorkshire, 10
Darrell, family of, 235
Dawnay, family of, 235
Death, presnge of, 134
De Espec, Walter, 31
at Battle of the Standard, 33
Deira, land of, 35
De Lacy, a ballad, 225
De Stuteville, William, 106
Devil's, the, arrows, 115
Apronful, 124
Bite, 119
Bridge, i2T
Dibb, or Dibble, the river, 121
Dixon, Dr., 'The Boy of Egremond,'
44
Dixon, Dr. , * The Vision of Seleth,' 61
Dragons, etc.. Legends of, 167
Drumming Well, the, of Harpham,
207
Jx(tf^x.
243
Eboracum, traditions as to origin,
1-3
Ebraucus, i
Edwin, King of Northumbria, 5
Egremond, the Boy of, 40-44
Ella, King of Bernicia, 10
death of, 14
Elle-Cross, 17
Ellsworth, 17
Egton, the Beggar's Bridge at, 227
Eskdale, the Hermit of, 27
F.
Filey Brigg, Legend as to Haddocks,
121
Fire, the ordeal of, 93
Fountains, the Abbey of, Legends,
etc., of, 29
G.
Giant, the, of Sessay, 235
Giggleswick, the Ebbing and Flowing
Well of, 204
Giles, St., Chapel of, 107
Gill Ford, the, 123
Gormire, Legend of, 218
Graham, Sir R. , and Cromwell, 195
Grassington, the Bargest near, 129
Gregory and the Youths of Deira, 3
Grim with Fell, 125
H.
Haddock, the Thumb-mark on, 121
Handale, the Serpent of, 168
Harpham, the Wells at, 207
Hart-leap Well, the, 209
Haverah Park —
a Lame Legend, 223
a Wild Boar Legend, 224
De Lacy and Lord Dacre's
daughter, 225
Heathen Temple at Godmundham, 6
Hedley, the monks of, 105
Helen, St. , Well of, 203, 206
Hermit, the, of Eskdale, 27
Hermit, St. Robert the, 104
Hilda, St., Worms of, 23
Obeisance of Birds to, 24
Horse, the White, of the Strid, 229
Hylda, St., the Hermitage of, 105
Hylda, the Nun of Nun-Appleton, 66
L
Ilkley, Cow and Calf Rocks near, 125
Iseur, 3, 116
Ivo, the Jew, 109
J.
John, St., of Beverley, miracles o.*", 72
Well of, 207
Jordan, the, of England, 7
K.
Kaer-Ebrauc, i
Kirkham Priory, Legends, etc., of, 31
Kirkham, Prior of, the horse of, 36
Kirkstall Abbey, Legends, etc. , of, 59
' The Vision of Seleth,' 61
Knaresbrough, St. Robert of, Legends
of, 104
L>
Lady, Our, Wells of, 205
Lady Well at Thirsk, 206
Lakes, etc.. Legends, etc., of, 202
Lame Legend, a, 223
Lancaster, Thomas. Earl of, i8i, 1S2
Leake Church, site of, 120
Lister, Captain, and the gravedigger,
198
Littondale, the Wise Woman of, 134
Loaning, Chop Head, poem of, 183
Loschy Wood, the Dragon of, 170
Lovers' Bridge, the, 227
Lucas, Mr. Joseph, F.G.S., 129
M.
Margaret, St., Well of, 203
' Mary, the Maid of the Inn,' 62
Marston Moor Fight, Traditions, etc.,
of, 194
Marston Moor Fight, Oliver Cromwell
and Sir R. Graham, 195
Marston Moor Fight, Oliver Crom-
well at Ripley, 196
Marston Moor Fight, another story
of, 197
Mauleverers, the burials of, 50
Meaux or Melsa Abbey, Legend of,
37
Meaux or Melsa Abbey, Chronicle of,
39
Miscellaneous Legends, etc., 219
Monmouth, Geoffrey of, i
' Mother Shipton, Legends, etc. , of, 151
Death of, 156
Apocryphal Sayings of, 164
Prophecies of, 156
Mulgrave, Wadda, the giant of, 239
Mungo, St., Well of, 203
My ton. Battle of, 178
N.
Nortons, the fate of, 46
Northallerton, an army stopped near,
21
Northumbria, the conversion of, 5
Nun-Appleton, Hylda, the nun ot, 65
Nunnington Church, 171
Nursa Knot, rocks, 124
O.
Ord, J. W., ballad by, 234
Osbert, King of Northumbria, it
16 — 2
244
J^ntrtx*
Osmotherley, Legend of, 233
Osnaburg, mountain, 234
Otterington, North, site of churcli, 120
Ould, E. A, , poem by, 144
P.
Palmer, the Grey, Legend of, 66
PauHnus, St. , in Northumbria, 4
PhiUips, Mrs. S. K., poems by, 183,
216
Pockstones, rocks, 125
Q.
Qnintin, St., family of, and the
Drumming Well, 208
R.
Ragnar Lodbrog, Legend of, 8
Rievaulx Abbey, Legends, etc., of, 31
Ripley Castle and Oliver Cromwell,
196
Ripon, Monastery of, and St. Cuth-
bert, loi
Rising in the North, the, 46
Robert, St., of Knaresborough,
Legends of, 104
Robert, St., of Knaresborough,
chapel of, 107
Robert, St., of Knaresborough, cave
of, 109
Robert, St., of Knaresborough, death
of, 113
Roche Abbey, Legend of, 70
Rogers, poem by, 41
Roseberry Topping, mountain, 234
Roulstone Scar, 116
Rutland, Edmund, Earl of. 184,
Rylstone, White Doe of, 45
S.
Satanic Agency, Legends of, 115
Saxton Church, 188
Selby Abbey, Legend of, 65
Seleth the Hermit, the Vision of, 6x
Semerwater, Legends of, 214
Sessay, the Giant of, 62
Sexhow, the Worm of, 169
Shipton, Mother, Legends, etc., of,
151
Shipton, Mother, Apocryphal Sayings
of, 164
Shipton, Mother, death of, 156
Prophecies of, 156
Slingsby, the Serpent of, 172
Sockburn, the tenure of the Manor of,
166
Southey's * Mary, the Maid of the
Inn/ 62
Stags, tamed, no
Standard, the Battle of, 33
Strid, the Boy of Egremond at the, 41
the White Horse of the, 229
Student, the young, 95
Swale, the river, 7
Swine Harrie, the, 219
Sword,, the pledged, 80
Tadcaster, the Battle of, 198
Thirsk, the Lady Well at, 206
Thorpe-sub-Montem, hamlet of, 122
Towton, Battle of, 187
Red and White Roses, Legend
of, 189
Towton, Red and White Roses,
ballads of, 190, 191
Traumar Reid, Legends of York by^
97
Troller's Gill, the Bargest of, 126
U.
Ulphus, the Horn of, 96
Upsall, Castle of, 181 -183
the Crocks of Gold of, 221
W.
Wadda, the Giantjof Mulgrave, 239
Wakefield, the Battle of, 184
Wantley, the Dragon of, 173
ballad of, 174
Watton Nunnery, Legend of, 73
Wells, Legends, etc., of, 200
dedicated to Saints, 203
Lady, 205
Well, the Ebbing and Flowing, 204
St. Helen's, 206
the Hart-leap, 209
the Drumming, 207
St. John's, 207
Worship, 203
Whitby Abbey, Legends, etc., of, 22
the bells of, 29
Wigstones, rocks, 124
William, St., of York, Legends, etc.,.
of, 86
William, St., of York, window^f, 89
Winwaedfield, fight of, 23
Wordsworth's * Force of Prayer.' 42
' White Doe of Rylstone,' 45
' Hart-leap Well," 209
Y.
York, the Broken Bridge at, 91
Minster, foundation of, 7
Origin of the name, i
Ghost at Trinity Church, 14a
Richard, Duke of, 184
St. William of. 86
Yorkshire, Early History of, i
Elliot Stock, Paiet nosier Rorv, London.
\X
•^NlVfRs/TY ■
HOME USE
CIRCULATION DEPARTMENT
MAIN LIBRARY
This book is due on the last date stamped below.
1 -month loans may be renewed by calling 642-3405.
6-month loans may be recharged by bringing books
to Circulation Desk.
Renewals and recharges may be made 4 days prior
to due date.
ALL BOOKS ARE SUBJECT TO RECALL 7 DAYS
AFTER DATE CHECKED OUT.
m
u b rabyuIeoh^^
MAR 2476
AUTDO fSC Cf R r FES ^ ' 9 3
LD21 — A-40m-5,'74
(R8191I.)
General Library
University of California
Berkeley
r
'*^>^-tc.6
U.C.BERKELEY LIBRARIES
II
CD^5ssb7a^
mi
109481