GR W2 W5 ■-\ ' ■ Ai Ai 8 7 5 1 1 .LEGENDS I ' OF 1 WESTMORLAND I AND THE ■ LAKE DISTRICT SECOND EDITION. J8RARY \ S-ht takes his charg-er, the horseman his brand, The servant his halberd, — but victory frowns, Till forward come archers who win her bright crowns ; Then she twines her gay laurel leaves, worthy a queen, Eound the pledges of love — fixed in bonnets of green. SECOND EPOCH.— PAET II. The song had not died away ere a crowd rushed for- ward to accept the challenge. The targets were pre- pared ; the arrows flew with a truth to their aim which elicited shouts of applause even at that age. The numher of competitors gradually diminished, as each vanquished bowman withdrew from the conflict. The distance of the target was gradually lengthened, — and at last Godfrej', Thornborough, Reginald, and Ley- burne were the remaining rivals. The interest of the assembly was now intense. As each arrow winged its way, the silence was deathlike, and as it struck the target, a shout like the sound of many waters ascended to the sky. Reginald and Thornborough were van- quished. Again the distance was re-measured, and Godfrey and Leyburne were the sole competitors. How carefully each then examined his bow, how narrowly did he prove his shaft. Godfrey's arrow, amid the tempest of applause, pierced the very centre of the tar- get, with a ringing sound which betokened its force. Leyburne followed. Breathless expectation awaited the result. To mend the aim seemed impossible. BURNESIDE HALL. 59 No! Roger's shaft struck the arrow standing in the target, and split it in twain. The old castle echoed the shouts of the spectators, which were reverberated by the rocks of Kendal Fell, and the bowman saw that Helen was pleased. He was delighted — felt that he must now win the da}"^, for Godfrej' had shot his last arrow. What was to be done? The judges awarded a fresh trial. Roger offered his quiver to his rival. It was not at hand ; at last a retainer brought it for- ward, and presented a shaft to his master. Roger, with a careless air, handed the rest to Bellingham. His arm wavered slightly, but the arrow obeyed the practised eye, and pierced the target. Godfrey was now confident — every arrow that he had sped had been nearer the bull's eye than the one flown before. Straight started the shaft for the goal ; the bowstring rung music to his brother archers, and a murmur of triumph was heard, when the arrow scintillated, diverg- ed, and fell short of the mark. The feather had been loosened, and, like the rudder of a ship, had misguided the arrow's course. The murmur of triumph was turned to one of dissatisfaction, and the mutter of " dishonourable malice" overspread the field. The judges had, however, decreed that the trial was over. Leyburne received the prize from Alice Parr, who gave it heedlessly, and he could detect no smile on Helen's lip. The thought of vengeance pierced his soul. The invited guests retired to the castle, in whose lofty hall they enjoyed the hospitalit}' of their worthy host. Gaietj'^ should have been there, but it was half repressed. Yet few were happier than Godfrej' — his feelings were not easily disturbed. Helen was ban- tered with her early prospect of giving a similar enter- tainment, as mistress of Cunswick. Reginald heard it — pitied his cousin, but there was no chance of avert- H 60 BITENESIDE HALL. ing the engagement — and, notwithstanding his in- creased dislike of Le3-biirne, he himself had no inten- tion of interfering xvith the contest. Still, as he watched her light-heartedness and Leyburne's brood- ing brow, he mourned over the decree that was about to give so tender a lamb to the protection of the wolf. When the companj' had dispersed, Eeginald rode leisurely home, attended by a single servant. The midnight bell had tolled. It was dark, but his horse took the well-known path fearlessly, and Reginald, unheeding the reins, was buried in contemplation. Presently he heard the tramp of horses' feet rapidly approaching. " 'Tis onlj' the drunken peasants hast- ening homewards," he muttered to himself. The shriek of his attendant, and the start of his own horse, however, made him, a moment after, instinctivel}' draw sword, and immediately three horsemen were around him. Two conducted the attack, while the third held aloof, watching the event. Skilled in the science of defence, Reginald speedily wounded one, and his sword had drunk the life-blood of the other, when the third, with the ferocity of rage, attacked him with adroitness and force. 'Twas an equal contest, but the arm of Duckett began to fail, and he would soon have fallen, had not the sound of voices been heard. The assailant turned his horse and disappeared, but not until Regi- nald's sword had pierced his side, which, on wheeling round, had been exposed, unguarded to attack. When the parties, whose voices had dismayed the assailants, appearing, Reginald was grieved to find his own at- tendant slain. One assassin lay dead on the ground, the other was missing. Morning, however, found him at a short distance, having expired from his wounds. Who was he who had escaped ? The night was too BURNESIDE HALL. 61 dark for Reginald to answer this. Besides, he had also been severely wounded, and delirium had rendered him utterly unconscious of what had occurred. Strange to say, Leyburne had also been attacked on his waj' home from the Castle, and narrowly escaped with his life. He gave a particular description of the villains ■who assailed him, and the road where it had occurred was sodden with blood, but no discovery could be made. The dead bodies of the men who assailed Duckett were hung on gibbets on Castlehow Hill. Numbers crowded to see them. A few recognised them as individuals who supported themselves among the hills bj' killing game, or helping themselves, where thej'^ could do it safely, to the domestic game around the barns of the yeomanry. They had been observed amidst the crowds attending the sports, but no other information could be elicited. Time sped on. Sir Allan had paid many visits to Reginald, who was fast recovering. Some- times Helen accompanied her father, and the attend- ants ever said her visits were better medicine. God- frey was Leyburne's visitor, whose wounds had festered, and were still in an unhealthy state. Deep mj'stery still veiled the assassins. By Whitsuntide, Reginald had been able to get over to Burneside Hall a few times, when he expressed to Sir Allan his intention to visit his old friend Walter Strickland, whose kind attentions he had experienced in his illness. The considerate uncle, unwilling as j'et to let him take the ride alone, volunteered his company. From Grayrigg Hall they skirted the common of Hay Fell to its end, passed down by the then sequestered habitation of Natland Hall, forward to where a narrow arch spanned the Kent. Reginald had never seen the spot since childhood, and as his spirited horse could hardly be persuaded to cross the unbuttressed bridge, 62 BURNESIDE HALL. he dismounted, while the groom led it over. Duckett had seen the beauties of foreign lands. It might be that a sick chamber doubly enhances the loveliness of scenerj'— it might be that he loved, with filial love, his native vale, but certainly he then thought that no 8cene more striking had ever met his view. Below the bridge, the trees in a wood hung their shadowy branches over the stream, which moved stilly and black as Tartarus, in the narrow channel which it had hewn for itself out of the limestone rock. It was the personification of gloom. Above, the river came roll- ing on playfully, until it dashed itself in a cataract, and all its youthful vigour was cofiined in the death- like darkness below the arch. Reginald was rivetted with the scene ; he crossed the bridge, and, to see it more perfectly, ascended the western bank. He bad not gone far when he was at- tracted by a natural cavern in the rock, into which the water flowed in flood time. He looked into the opening at the top, and was startled at the sight of a human form, apparentl)' lifeless. It was the body of a man advanced in life, but without a symptom of decay. His exclamation of surprise called around him Sir Allan and his attendants. " Praise to the Blessed Virgin !" exclaimed Bel- lingham. " Who could have thought that my hands should ever again have smoothed the brow of the friend of my boyhood, or placed the sign of the cross on the threshold of Cunswick Hall." It was the body of Sir Charles Leyburne. Marvel- lous to relate (as if to fulfil the prediction that foretold that he would be laid in the tomb of his fathers), time had produced no change. Directions were given to have the corpse properly BURNESIDE HALL. 63 carried to Burneside Hall, as it was deemed inexpedient in Roger's state of health, suddenly to inform him of the body's being found. Much to Helen's discomfort, Godfrey, his father and Duckett, would not obej"^ her summons that evening to supper. They were in their council chamber. "I cannot, I won't believe it," uttered Godfrey. " Would to heaven it were not so," added his father. "I concur with you, sir, in that wish," replied Regi- nald, "but I fear the testimony is too good to be dis- puted." " We will see for ourselves," said Godfrey, and start- ed up. Lights were provided, and they proceeded into the chamber, where in feudal state the body of the deceased lay. Sir Allan wept, as the light glancing on the face imparted a smile to the countenance of his deceased friend. He was roused, however, by Rupert's cry, — " May the curse of Cain light upon him !" The cloth had been withdrawn from the right breast of the dead, and there was the wound of a poniard. "Caution," said Reginald, "'tis a fearful thing to charge the murder of a father on his son ; perhaps the wound may have been produced in the course of the body down the. river; but I see your father can bear the scene no longer ; let us retire, and after sup- per concert suitable measures." Leyburne's wounds had not improved under the care of the leech who attended him. His agitated and dis- appointed feelings at the postponement of his marriage with Helen were increasing his fever, and preventing his recovery. Father Leonard, the priest of All-Hal- low's Chapel, had been to see him, and had appointed a time for confession more than once, but Roger had always been unusually ill. His servants were begin- 64 BURNESIDE HALL. ning to be anxious about him, and his incoherent ex- pressions had frequently startled them. One old man who had sat up to be ready at his call, had been alarm- ed with conversation going forward at night, when no visitor was present. The other attendants disbelieved it, but the old man held to his tale. 'Twas the day after the late conversation at Burne- side Hall, that Bellingham and Duckett proceeded to visit Roger, to announce the finding of his father's body. They were shown into his room ; it was a large oak wains-coated apartment. The narrow windows, shaded by a purple damask curtain, added to the gloom ; so that at first they could scarcely distinguish the invalid. He lay on an ancient oaken bedstead, hung with crimson Louvaine cloth. Its many posts stood on the floor apart from the bed, at whose head the shield of the Leyburnes was carved and emblazoned. Roger received them with apparent warmth, but care marked his countenance. On learning the discovery of the body, he asked, " Did the finders commit it in its putrified state again to the river ?" and his features expressed dismay when he learned that his supposition was incorrect. At last Sir Allan informed him of the wound on the breast. Leyburne expressed surprise, and immediately asked when they proposed to entomb the corpse. Bellingham replied that it ill became the honour of the family to have a hurried funeral — and that the body ought to remain in state for visitors to see, and for the priests to come and say masses over it. When Roger heard the word "mass," his face be- came livid, his hands grasped each other, he uttered some incoherent expressions, and at last called loudlj- — " A priest for my soul, for my soul." A messenger BURNESIDE HALL. 65 was immediately despatched for Father Leonard ; a few minutes saw him returned, with a solemn-looking stranger monk, whom he had met coming on the very errand of seeing Roger. The stranger was tall and of striking figure. The rigidity of his features expressed severe penance. His deeply-furrowed hrow overhung coal-hlack and brilliant 93^68. Age was not e.xpressed in his projecting eye-brows, nor in the long and sable beard which descended to his girdle. He saluted Roger on entering. " Well son," a " concern for thy soul has brought me far to see thee." " Welcome, father," replied the suffering man. " Sirs," said the monk, addressing Bellingham and Reginald, " our interview with our dying son is sacred." They were about to retire, when Leyburne, raising himself with unusual energy in his bed, exclaimed, ■with looks of haggard despair and derision : — "Let them abide here, father; I will tell them all- Aye, go you Duckett to her who loves you — I know she loves you ; — how she smiled on j'ou at Shrovetide, although her faith was plighted to another ! Go and tell her that to win her I have condemned my soul." The monk's brow seemed to flash with a smile — it was momentary. "Yes," proceeded the now almost frantic Leyburne, " I see it now — his white hair in the darkness of night, — and I hear now the old man as he cried, ' Roger, am I not your father ?' — but the gold, the price of her hand, was dearer than mj' father ;— the gold — yes, the gold. His body is found did they saj' ? — with the stamp of my dagger in his heart ! Tell her all ; and let the curse of a dying man rest No ! no ! I cannot curse her rest on his own soul," muttered the poor wretch, as he sank exhausted on his bed. 66 BURNESIDE HALL. The monk turned to Sir Allen and his companion ■with a glance and a sternness that made them start. " Ye have heard the confession of our son. I must now apply ihe awful rites which the dying may share." " Not yet," exclaimed Leyburne, arousing from his death-like exhaustion, — " Reginald, it was I that bribed thy assassins, and wounded thyself. Would that thy life's blood had escaped from the gash ! But thy arm was too strong, and my blood needed no new assailant to ensanguine the ground where I was said to be at- tacked. Oh ! that even now I could reach thee" — and he clutched a dagger from the head of the bed, and struck the air in the direction where Duckett sat. He was exhausted. Sir Allan and Duckett needed but a look from the monk, and they retired. Both were petrified. Loud words were heard from Roger's room soon after they left. " Not yet — not yet," were uttered in pierc- ing tones — then all was still. Long they sat, for the exit or summons of the monk. Death-like silence pervaded the house. The evening closed in. At last Gilpin, who was in attendance upon his lord, exclaimed, " By my faith, the monk and the sinner will want a light." He seized a lamp, and knocked at the door ; there was no answer, though the knock was thrice repeated. The others had gathered around him ; he burst it open — a blue flame seemed for a moment to encircle them all. It illumined the apartment, and they saw Ley- burne lying dead on his bed, his own hand holding the dagger which still remained in his side. The contor- tions of his face were horrible. But the monk — who was he ? All looked around, but in vain. A cold chill crept over the group. Only Sir BUENESIDE HALL. 67 Allan whispered to himself, " Aye," he said, "never ■will I be over-reached even by a cowl-covered head." "We need not describe how Sir Charles was buried with honours at Wensleydale ; nor how the cursed bones of his son whitened the wild scar, and how his ghost visited the ledge of rocks that overh ung Cuns- wick Hall. Neither need we detail the prayers which ascended from Helen to the blessed Virgin, whom she continued to thank for her deliverance from the grasp of the wolf, — until she began fervently to beseech a blessing on her now almost constart visitor, the noble-minded Sir Reginald. Note. — The place of Sir Charles Leyburne's murder is called "Carlan Steps" to this day. (68) BERNARD GILPIN, OF KENTMERE 'HALL " Enquire I pray thee of the former age, and prepare thy- self to the search of their fathers : . . . shall not they teach thee, and tell thee, and utter words out of their heart ?" Job, viii. 8, 10. INTRODUCTION. I had been conning over the lights and shadows of Papal History ; and had derived much both of plea- sure and instruction from my speculation — such in- struction and delight as always accompany our con- templation of a masterly painting, filled with charac- ters and costume which we are satisfied had once an existence in all their pompous and picturesque reality, but which, while we gaze, recal forcibly to our minds the despotic and lawless power and passions amid which these realities had their being and sustenance, and which at the same time arouse within us a con- sciousness of security and a feeling of thankfulness that this antiquary-beloved state of things has passed away for ever, and that notwithstanding the many dis- parities which still exist, the general condition of man- kind has been materially benefitted by the change. History — thus ran my cogitations — History with a consideration to the advancement of social happiness, BERNARD GILPIN. 69 possesses more than the fascinations of romance. Our conviction of the truth of what we read gives it all the value, without imposing upon us the humiliation in- flicted by a formal moral lesson. The knowledge that we are unravelling the clue of that strange labyrinth through which humanitj' has struggled to its present stage, fully supplies the place of imagery, and not only rivets our attention, but fills us with emotion and awe. With what sensations of humbled vanity and sub- dued selfishness do we muse and marvel over the in- structive secrets which History, beyond all other book- lore, has to disclose. The strength and the weakness of heart, the majesty and littleness of mind, — the con- tradictions and utter inexplicability of character that pervade or constitute mankind, laid bare and exposed as they are in every teeming page, if thej' do not make lis more in love with our fellows, at least render us more tolerant and charitable towards the frailties and errors of one another. Nor is this all. Our nature becomes purified by the knowledge we attain of the insufficiency or worthlessness of vain pursuits. The toils, the anxieties, the meannesses of ambition, con- trasted with their humiliating results — satiety, disap- pointment, misanthropy or despair — pass in review be- fore us with the convincing vividness of experience. We cannot in the closet be dazzled or misled by the ignis fatuii of greatness or glory, — whose rays indeed seldom extend beyond the circumscribed circle of the passing pageant ; but — the praise and envy, and malig- nity of contemporaries having ceased to bias our judgment, — the Standard substitute^ is that of wisdom, virtue, and utility, which are the sole tests of Fame ; and whatsoever reputation shrinks from these tests, can boast of nothing better or higher than notoriety. 70 BERNARD GILPI5. History teaches us to examine our capabilities as well as our impulses. It dissipates our unctious no- tions that there may come on earth a reign of universal peace and happiness ; but, while it convinces us that life in every stage and rank is only a scene of proba- tion and endurance, it imparts to us the salutary know- ledge that half our misery is of our gratuitous making. The evils of our existence, which we are so fain to shift from our own shoulders, and attribute to the errors of government, the injustice of society, or the aberrations of Fate, are too often the effects of our own want of energj' or perseverance, of our insatiable love of change, our constitutional dissatisfaction, or the perverseness, envy, or uncharitableness of our hearts. Were proper scrutiny applied to our dispositions — our capacities for perfectibilitj', — were we to institute comparisons be- tween ourselves and those who have gone before us, and left their lives a study to mankind, we should root "the old woman" from our fevered bosoms, and arise from our studies, better, wiser, and more con- tented beings. And History is not destitute either of those other and more universal attractions which seduce persons to squander their susceptibilities on fiction and romance. There are quiet nooks in Historj', recalling all that was best of our youthful lives and affections, — all that our manhood's hopes and wishes tend to ; — scenes redolent of beauty and joj^ and peace and tenderness, — with pleasant faces looking out upon us in our researches, such as we feel we already love and long to be familiar with hereafter. And then, too, there glide before us visions of stern and dark and haughtj' visages, — souls scathed and fiery, tossed by tempestuous passions, or maddened with the excitements or remorse of crime. The Drama is not more replete with gorgeous illu- BERNARD GILPIN. 71 sions, than is History with the varied characters and incidents which makes us read and pause, resume and wonder. And the History I had heen reading — that strangest of all the strange chapters in the annals of humanity 1 The terrible reality of the'boldly limned, picture wrought as it was of the apparently dissonant elements of power and imbecility, magnificence and abjectness, meekness and pride, generous devotedness and superstitious cru- elty, which at all periods, and in all countries, have, more or less, distinguished the Catholic hierarchy, and yet allowed it to acquire and maintain an almost super- human influence over men's minds — had impressed me with a kind of haunted feeling, such as occasionally remains with and overcomes us, after a dream, which, notwithstanding our reason and manhood, we can scarcely avoid regarding as ominous of some impend- ing danger. There is a degree of mystery and awe, a something more subtle and spiritualized than belongs to mere worldly considerations connected with almost every event in the rise and progress of Christianity ; and more especially with regard to the Church of Eome ; — that link, which, however we may deprecate its abuses or deplore its errors, seems still to bind us to the apostolic age, and thus to preserve unbroken a chain of communication with divinity itself. With all that legislation or reformation has effected, we cannot help occasionally looking back upon the " scarlet lady of Babylon," our mother, as upon a giantess — wounded and maimed and prostrate indeed, but not mortally wounded — in the struggle to maintain her ancient authority over us ; and as one who is in a condition not too hopeless to admit a probability of renewing, at some future day, her ancient struggle to our dis- comfiture. We need only turn to the schism which 72 BERNARD GILPIN. within the last two or three years has arisen among the legally constituted authorities of the church of England, concerning the revival of obsolete observ- ances, for a confirmation of the existence of such a possibility ; and this is supported by our statute-book, through the lapse of three hundred years. Exclu- sions, specialities, and abjurations of divers kinds, have been and are resorted to, instead of reason and conviction, to suppress and keep down the indomitable spirit and perseverance of the adherents of Papacy ; and yet Papacy has nowhere been extinguished ; but has continued and will continue for ages to supply abundant springs both of religious and political action. I had taken up the volume which led to these reflec- tions with a desire to discover the well-head, and to trace, as distinctly as I might, the noteless streams which after many wanderings and windings, after overleaping the barriers and obstacles by which their course and progress were in every direction opposed, united at a point, and formed the great torrent of the Keformation. It was evening. The sun had gone down, and twi- light was deepening over the neighbouring hills — dis- cernible from the window at which I was sitting — ere I had ceased to read ; but at length the gathering dusk had rendered the tracing of words an operation of pain, and I laid down my book. The moon had al- ready risen, pale and lustreless, as she always appears when rising early on a winter's evening, over the pure white crests of the snow-crowned mountains. But graduall}' she grew brighter and brighter, and as the stars, her dazzling hand-maidens, " man's heavenly friends," sprang forth rapidlj', one after another, to cheer her with their brightness and beauty, I needed no other than the soft light which gleamed through BERNARD GILPIX. 73 my casement. More would have disturbed me, and been out of character with my musings, which were of a sober, dim, and monastic hue, like the events over which I had been poring. My mood was that of a waking dream or reverie, in which at first the present and the past were indistinctly blended ; but by degrees, as the familiar things of everyday life, by which I was surrounded, faded from mj' corporeal vision, the scenes of bygone ages grew more vivid and impressive before my mind's eye. The distant hills — bathed in the clear moonlight, and standing out in relief against the grey, monotonous wintry sky, assumed the forms of ancient abbeys and cathedrals — their sharp peaks or broader summits answering for pinnacles and turrets, and their lower masses — here catching a faint raj'^ of light, and there enveloped in impenetrable shadow — correspond- ing with cloisters and buttresses ; with nave and aisles, and chantries and chapels. Thus my existence was thrown back, as it were, for a space, into the days of feudalism ; and I lived among the men whose names have been sounded through the world as those of saints and martyrs, heroes, and cham- pions ; or scourges, heretics, and fiends. I remained upon the scene, however, an undazzled looker-on, with- out the slightest inclination to become a partisan. The contests of the Reformers and Conservatives of old, like those of the same classes in the present day, appeared to partake too strongly of the fierce spirit of faction, and to be influenced too greatly by personal prejudice and predeliction to become otherwise attractive than to the curiosity of a stranger. Accusation and recrimina- tion, the magnifying of the petty interests of individuals into matters of paramount importance to the kingdom ; the sophisms and fallacies of philosophers ; the invec- tives of priests, and the abject humiliation of the masses, 74 BERNARD GILPIX. then — as now — were the staple of controversy. Before ideas of self-aggrandisement, and party victory, every other consideration was abased. Neither priest nor layman was wholly untainted by barbarism and selfish- ness, or was free from the vices of avarice and ambi- tion. Each was struggling for domination rather than freedom ; and the questions of personal liberty and free thought which gradually intermingled in the contest, were superinduced upon the discussion, without having originally formed part of it. The feudal nobles had protected and defended the church against the tyranny of royalty, until both priests and nobles had humbled the power of the crown, and established for themselves laws which restrained and controlled the sceptre ; but the patronage of the military barons and knights was scarcelj'- less oppressive than the exactions of kings ; and the clergy were compelled, after a renewal of strife, to have recourse to the burgesses, and even to the bondmen, to become their champions. This was the beginning of democracy, not in England alone, but throughout Europe. It would be tedious to enumerate or describe the men who passed in quick and fleeting review before me, with mailed limbs, flashing swords, copes, mitres, sacerdotal robes, and buff' jerkins ; or the scenes which arose of war and devastation, of cruelty and oppression, in which the spear, the stake and faggot, the dungeon and the gallows formed conspicuous objects. The question, however, had arisen which neither persecution could suppress, nor power smother — Should the mind and creed of man be subject to the will of his fellow-man, whatever his wealth or rank, under the order of things which was crumbling into dust ? Learning, science and art, were developed in proportion as the people emerged from the thraldom which had been inflicted BERNARD GILPIN. 7o upon them by successive conquests ; and they began to be aware of their power and influence, from the stern necessities for insurrection imposed upon them bj' the despotism which sought still to retain them as serfs. A period of confusion ensued — of passion and licence, of civil war and party broil. In England the contests of the white and the red rose had loosened the bonds of the labourer, and stricken from the hand of the aristocrat the fetters with which his humbler neigh- bours had been bound. The Parliament had arisen superior to the crown, and a King — King Henry VII. — had been appointed bj'' parliamentary election — so at least the Statute, which confirms his nomination, avouches. When such had become the power of opinion in matters of government, the church which had been extending its power and wealth to a point of enormity during the reign of terror, could not hope to escape with its plunder, or retain its prerogatives. Wickliff, though he had gone to his grave, and been nicknamed a heretic after his death, had not preached unwisely or in vain. He had sown the seeds of free thought, and, ■with the restoration of order, these took root, and grew and expanded, the lights of reformation arose one after another to enlighten the prevailing mental and moral darkness. Their .growth was slow, it is true, but learn- ing had hitherto been restricted to a class, and the de- velopment of intellect must always more or less depend upon contact with congenial intellect. Heresy, there- fore, acquired to be a giant in its might, before it avowed its faith or objects. Among the number of those who were thus succes- sively called before me, my mind recognised and attach- ed itself to one individual, from whose life and actions I gathered the history of the great change under which, in the sixteenth century, the existing Church of Eng- 76 BERNARD GILPIN. land sprung into being. It was Bernard Gilpin, of Kentmere, whose zeal, simplicitj^ unaffected piety, and goodness of heart, gained for him among his contem- poraries, and has embalmed for all time — the title of THE Northern Apostle. CHAPTER I. The good seeds of Church Reformation in England were sown prior to the reign of Richard the Second, and the doctrines promulgated bj' John Ball, the " hedge priest," as old Chroniclers contemptuouslj- call him, who ofi&ciated as chaplain to the enterprise of Wat Tyler, fir procuring the enfranchisement of the serfs of the kingdom, were substantiallj' the same doctrines as were afterwards maintained b)' Martin Luther, John Huss, Erasmus, Calvin, and John Knox — namelj', that faith could not be regulated by human law, that reli- gious supremacy was human in its origin and institution, and consequentlj' not infallible, and that as the State creed had been created bj'^ Statute, so it might and ought to be destroyed. In the reign of Henrj' the Fourth a long struggle took place between the Barons and the wealthy Monastic orders, concerning the ap- propriation of church property to alien priests — men who not only did not preach to the people, but did not understand the ver)' language of the country from which they derived their revenues, and never set foot upon English soil — a contest which in the reign of Henry the Fifth produced a dissolution and confiscation of the property of the foreign priories and monasteries throughout the realm. The reign of Henry the Sixth was too turbulent to admit of much progress towards BERNARD GILPIN. 77 Eeformation of any kind ; and the monarch himself was too superstitious, and too much the slave of his own confessors and chaplains, to desire that the work which had been commenced should go forward. He attributed, indeed, a part of his own misfortunes, and those of the nation, to the fancied wrongs which had been done by his predecessors to the Pope and the clergy ; and had he dared, he would willingl}' have receded. The reign of Edward the Fourth was alter- nately a stage of fierce strife, and degrading voluptu- ousness. The professors of religion as well as others were pampered or abased, according as they ministered to or opposed the power and pleasures of the king ; and the consequence was that the religious orders gen- erall)'' sunk into the most abject state of mental and moral depravity. The picture which has been drawn by divines of their own age, who had more conscience than the mass, of their ignorance, indolence, sensuality, and hypocrisy, is too gross and revolting to be repeated in the present age. Under Edward the Fifth and Richard the Third, too little time was allowed for in- vestigation or thought ; but the talents of the latter, tj'rant as he has been represented to us, were turned at once towards the subject of the public vices which revelled undisguised among the courtiers and nobles bj' whom he was surrounded on his accession ; and he made at once an effort to restore order and decorum. The prudent, cautious, and avaricious Henry the Seventh it was who first cast a longing eye upon the broad lands, and well-stored coffers of the priesthood ; and began to prepare the popular mind for the seizure which he meditated. Commissions and enquiries were sent forth in every direction to ascertain the mode of life and duties of the monks, nuns, and secular clergy ; with the injunction, more especially, to bring back a 78 BERNARD GILPIN. true account of their incomes and benefices. Confisca- tion and forfeitures ensued — -gradually indeed, and al- most imperceptibly, except to the King's Treasurer — whose hoards of gold and silver were greater at the Monarch's death than had ever been amassed in the vaults of the Royal Exchequer before ; and than ever have been seen there since. Henry the Eighth had originally been educated for the Church, and had in his youth, perhaps, some prejudices in favour of the profession he was to have followed ; but he loved plea- sure, and the indulgence of his own will, better than church or religion ; so that when his father's money chests had been emptied, and no more could be raised by direct taxation without driving the people to re- bellion, he turned his eye towards the rich pastures in which, had his brother Arthur lived and reigned, it was intended that he should have fattened. In the plenitude of his self-will and self-sufiBciency he had defended the Church against those who had attacked it upon points of doctrine and observance. Here he had found it invulnerable ; but its superabundant wealth, while he was poor, offered an irresistible temp- tation to the sensualist. Arguments against any sect marked out for plunder need never be wanting. " Abominable lusts and vices" were discovered in pro- fusion, by men paid specially to seek them out ; and whose rewards appear to have been proportioned to the enormities they severally brought to light. The no- bility and wealthy commoners of the kingdom at first marvelled in silence at this strange backsliding of the " Faith's Defender," and then asked what it portended, but, on being told that they were to share the booty with the royal robber, they gave a ready assent to the spoliation. The poor alone had nothing to gain by the Reformation; and the poor alone consequently BERNARD GILPIN. 19 were the opponents of the measures of the Court — at- tracted by its new and golden light of " virtue, piety, and sound religion." In the year 1536, no less than three hundred and sevent5'-six abbeys, priories, mon- astries, and chantries were accordingly suppressed, and their possessions and effects of all kinds vested in the crown. It was a rich harvest, and satisfied all but the priesthood and the people. The latter, indeed, instead of being grateful for such excessive care for the health of their souls, broke out into open rebellion ; and threatened a premature democratic revolution. They had been used to have recourse to the religious houses, instead of hospitals and workhouses — instead of soup-kitchens and infirmaries ; and whatever excesses might have been discovered by strangers, deputed ex- pressly to act as spies and informers, the humble neiijhbours of the monks had not been able to discover in the lives of their benefactors, the grievous errors and wickedness which had led to their being beggared at a blow — by Act of Parliament. Means, however, were found " to amuse the people by specious pro- mises," and when the)' were appeased and had dis- persed, six hundred and fiftj' three other monasteries were dissolved and appropriated. Thus the so-called Reformation proceeded year bj' year, till the end of the reign of Bloated Henr}^ the Tyrant. The consequences were such as might have been foreseen. The rich livings which had been in posses- sion of the monks who had appointed priests to per- form the duties of the Church and administer the rites of religion, were now left without pastors. This is ad- mitted in one of the Acts of Parliament passed in the first year of the reign of the boy King, Edward the Sixth, which states explicitly — " That many parish churches, through divers causes, were so much decay- 80 BERNARD GILPIN. ed that their revenues and profits were not above the clear yearly value of six and twenty shillings and eight-pence, and were not a competent living for a good curate ; yea, and no person would take the cure." "The pretence," saj^s a pamphlet of the period, believ- ed to have been written by Latimer, Bishop of Worces- ter, who afterwards suflfered at the stake for his daring heresy, — " the pretence for dissolving the religious houses was to amend what was amiss in them. It was far amiss that a great part of the lands which were given to bring up learned men that might be preachers, to keep hospitality and to give alms to the poor, should be spent upon a few superstitious Monks, who gave not forty pounds in alms, when they should have given two hundred. It was amiss that Monks should have par- sonages in their hands, and deal but the twelfth part thereof to the poor, and preach but once a j'ear to them that paid the tithes of the parsonage. It was amiss that they scarcelj', among twenty, set one sufiicient Vicar to preach for the tithes that they received. But see how what was amiss is amended, for all the goodly pretence. It is amended even as the devil amended his dame's leg, (as it is in the proverb), — when he should have set it right, he brake it quite in pieces. The Monks gave two little alms, and set unable per- sons many times in their benefices. But now where twenty pounds were given yearly to the poor in more than one hundred places in England, is not one meal's meat given. This is a fair amendment. Where they had always one or other Vicar that preached or hired others to preach, now there is no Vicar at all. But the farmer is Vicar and Parson altogether ; and an old cast- away Monk or Friar, who can hardly say his matins, is hired for twenty or thirty shillings a-year, meat and drink, — yea, in some places for meat and drink BERNARD GILPIX. 81 alone, without wages. I know, and not I alone, but twenty thousand men know that more than five hundred vicarages are thus well and gospelly served at this time in England." The poor clerg^^, it is added, in an ac- knowledged sermon of Latimer's, being kept to sorry pittances, were forced to put themselves into gentle- men's houses, and there serve as cleiks of the kitchen, surveyors, receivers or the like ; or to follow some trade or manual occupation in the character of publi- cans, tailors, carpenters, or shoemakers ; and many of those who officiated as curates could scarcely read. Such was the state of the Reformed Church of Eng- land when Bernard Gilpin began his ministry. This great and good man was born at Kentmere Hall, in the year 1517. He was the fourth son of Ed- win Gilpin, of an ancient and honourable house, which had been distinguished — according to Bishop Carleton, his biographer, so earl}' as the reign of King John, or according to Dr. Burn, the Historian of Westmorland, ■who has diligently traced the pedigree of the family — in the reign of king Edward the Third, for public ser- vices. The fame of the race, however, began and end- ed with Bernard, so that it would be useless to raise questions upon heraldic points concerning his gene- alogy. It is enough that the position of his ancestors was so far advantageous that it afforded him the means of education and leisure for reflection, without which he could have done little towards purifying the estab- lishment to which he attached himself, or for the ad- vancement of that pure religion of which he became the most exemplary minister of his age. It was to him an advantage of no small consequence that he was born among the quiet hills of the North — among the mountains, and lakes, and valleys, into which the maddening excitements of faction, and the 82 BERNARD GILPIN. influence of Court intrigue seldom penetrated. He had been taught from childhood to look upon war as a scourge to mankind. He had lost an uncle — William Gilpin— in the battle of Bosworth Field, which gave to England a new race of Sovereigns ; less fierce, it may be, than the old Plantagenets, but not less determined to maintain the power and prerogatives of the crown ; and with dispositions to substitute money for blood in extortion from their subjects. The country itself had not sobered down entirely into peace from the long war of succession ; but theoretical and speculative opinions had taken the place of active strife and contention. The Reformation of the Church — the power of parlia- ment—the right of the people to personal freedom, and of the nobles to maintain private feuds and armies of vassals — were questions which were agitated in every hall and homestead ; and awakened thoughts and re- flections which had never before been discussed except by the discontented and disloyal. Bernard Gilpin, while yet a child, had begun to think of these things. His mother — a gentle being — a daughter of the house of Layton, of Dalemain — had earlj' inspired him with a love for the beauties of na- ture, and a reverence for the laws of nature's God, which inculcated peace, the exercise of reason, humility, mere)', and charity. He had wandered on the mar- gin of the lakelet which meanders beside his native spot — had climbed the mountains which overshadow the hall in which he drew bis first breath, and lisped his earliest accents — had looked up to the sun and the stars in their courses — had listened to the roundelaj' of the rustic — shepherd and dalesman — and to the songs of birds, and they had all harmonized with his aspira- tions for the dominion of universal love and harmony. But when he turned to those who should have been the BERNARD GILPIN. 83 promoters and teachers of peace and good will among men, he discovered one of the great errors of that and the succeeding age. The priests were not ministers of the Gospel ; but professional preachers. When less than six years old — a plaj'ful hoy about his mother's knee — he gave indication of the strength of his perception and reason ; and of that detestation of hypocrisy and mammon-worship which influenced his future life. A wandering friar, in the thread-bare mantle of his order, begirt with cord and cross, and sandal-footed, appeared one Saturday evening at Kentmere Hall, to crave shelter and hospitality for the night. His garb alone — to omit all conside ration of the universal hospi- tality of the"age — ensured his welcome ; and the seat of honour beside the blazing hearth was at once accorded to the reverend stranger. He was a man stricken in years, and the few locks that still lingered on his temi^les below the tonsure were white and venerable ; but his quick and restless grej' eye twinkled with mirth ; and he had ever a jest or a merry tale upon his lips. Bernard, among the other inmates of his father's man- sion, listened with wonder and delight to the strange stories and incidents of travel with which the holy father garnished his discourse ; and beheld with no less astonishment the marvellous strength of his appetite and head, as his platter and cup were from time to time replenished at supper. The pious man was learned in the history of the court and the city — had lived in the camp, and been in lands beyond the sea, where a degree of pomp and splendour exceeding the marvels of fairy- land, as set forth in English song and legend, were maintained, both by priest and laymen ; and on these he dwelt with a zest no other subject seemed to excite. If he spoke little of the precepts of Christianity, and the 84 BERNARD GILPIN. miracles by which the will of God had been manifested in the first ages, he dwelt with zeal and earnestness upon the wealth which adorned the shrines of the saints, the virtue of relics, and the power and state of the Pope and Cardinals, in the city of St. Peter. And still he talked, and feasted, and drank till the sun had sunk over the hills ; and still Bernard Gilpin sat on his low stool beside his mother's knee, and listened and believ- ed. The good priest, however, was incapable of work- ing a miracle to counteract the potency of the ale and spiced sack which he consumed. His accents gradually came more trippingly from his tongue, and his jests were blended with snatches of song — at which the good dame Gilpin held down her head, and the friar alone laughed with glee. Bernard remarked the change of tone and manner of his instructor, and ceased to be edi- fied by tales which he could not comprehend ; and on being presently afterwards taken to his couch for the night, he enquired the cause of the priest's aberrations. It was a new idea — a subject for new reflection — to him that a man should lose his reason, have his very powers of speech paralysed, and utter falsehood as truth under the influence of drink ; but he had learned that it was so, and the lesson was not forgotten. The sabbath morn broke clear and calm upon the lake and mountains, and the rays of the summer sun glancing through the stained windows of the ancient hall, glowed with rainbow hues like the plumes of angels' wings. Bernard Gilpin was up, and arrayed, with the lark, and was basking in the sunlight, when the friar, long before awakened, made his appearance, with trembling hand, unsteady step, feverish lips, and cheeks and eyes flushed and swollen. The child, who had been so inquisitive on the preceding eve, was now moody, and made little response to the caresses which BERNARD GILPIN. 85 were lavigbed on him ; but took his breakfast and pre- pared for the religious service of the morning with more of sullenness than was natural to one so young, so gay, and so light-hearted. " Gluttony, debauchery, drunkenness" — the special vices of the day, were the burden of the friar's sermon in the- little manorial chapel. The man who uttered the denunciations of heaven's wrath against those who indulged in these vices, was unabashed and unmoved, except by the vehemence of his own language and gestures ; but the most attentive of his auditors was a child, and he wept. "Why weep, my son?" said the mother of that ruddy boy. " O'a! mother," said Bernard, " Can I refrain from grieving at the punishment this man has invoked on his own head ?" Dame Gilpin pressed her kerchief to the mouth of her child, and kissed his pale clear forehead. CHAPTER 11. It need not be told again that the education of Bernard Gilpin had commenced while he was yet an infant. The lessons of his mother had sunk deeper in his heart than the formal orations of schoolmen ; and Kentmere Hall was not without its librar}' of missals and chronicles, of sweet poetrj', and scarcely less poetical divinity. The priesthood, bad as many of its members undoubtedly were, had great and honourable names in its ranks ; and these had wandered abroad and preached to the feelings and reason of their fol- 86 BERNARD GILPIN. lowers, and had loft traces of their labours in every quarter into which the soft and genial warmth of Christianity had penetrated. Bernard had learned therefore both to think and to read ; and ere he had emerged from childhood, or was able to wind the bugle- horn of his father — or to wield the heavy broadsword of that father, — he was a marvel to the few cottigers and mountaineers bj' whom the surrounding land and vales were tenanted. He could tell them " like a book, or a friar," of the saints and martyrs who had main- tained the truths revealed by the prophets and evan- gelists even to the death — could relate to them the wonders performed by the old crusaders — by the kings and barons and knights, who had half depopulated England by their feuds ; and could instruct them con- cerning the origin of border quarrels and family ani- mosities, of which, though the effects of ill-will had been transmitted through many generations of neigh- bouring chiefs, and remained still rife in the production of evil passions, all other traces had perished and been forgotten. Thus Bernard was generally looked upon as des- tined for the priesthood, before he or those who had power to dispose of him had thought of choosing the path of his future life ; and it was to this direction from without, perchance, no less than to his native piety, his studious habits, and his being a younger son of a substantial, though bj'' no means wealthy, house, that the Church of England was indebted for its bright- est and purest ornaments. He had long learned to esteem himself as undergoing a noviciate for the min- istry, and his parents had fostered his prepossession for that pursuit, till ho fell into the bosom of the church, as if he had been, religiously and specially, dedicated to it from his birth. BERNARD GILPIN. 87 His sisters — he had three — wept when their kind brother was parted from them to proceed to Oxford, the proudest of our universities ; but far — far from the mountains and woodland of Kentmere ; much farther than, in these good and safe roads — of steam and rail- way's, can be easily calculated ; seeing that we reckon distance rather by time and difficulties than by miles. Bernard was still a boy — he was only sixteen— and he might forget or grow estranged, among the crowd of students by whom he would in future be surrounded, from those who were nearest and dearest to him. It was wholly uncertain when or how seldom tidings of his welfare might reach his home ; and it was equally un- certain where his future lot in the great world, on which he was about to enter, might be cast. Bernard himself, though buoj^ed by hopes which he could not define, felt sad, and the tear stole from his blue eye and trickled down his cheek as he pressed the trembling hand of his mother, and marked the quiver- ing of her lip and the gathering moisture on her eye- lid. He had, however, a word of comfort — drawn from holy writ — for all who pressed around to share his farewell ; and after many caresses, manj' promises respecting his future conduct, and many partings, he tore himself from the assembled group, mounted the pony that was to carry him to Kendal, and urged for- ward after his father, who had gone before towards the foot of the lake, and had already reached the road leading to Staveley. There was a fond look towards the square old tower in which he had so long been nestled in safety and in love, as he rounded the dipping corners of the hills where the Kent flows downward, over its rugged bed, towards the sea ; and then the scene of home set upon him, like the glory of a summer Sabbath to the overladen peasant of the plains. 88 BERNARD GILPIN. It would be tedious to relate the particulars of a love journey, barren, as his was, of adventure. From Kendal he and his father journeyed by easj' stages, to- wards the place of their destination ; keeping company as long as their road lay in the same direction, with the caravan of pack-horses and carriers which at that period was wont to start for London every week, ex- cept at the worst periods of winter, with the celebrated woollen cloths for which Kendal and its neighbour- hood were then, and for ages before, famous through- out England ; and when their diversitj' of route parted the travellers, the Gilpins took the best accommoda- tion which offered, and wended on, with other mer- chants, for bad characters were not scarce in those days, towards the seat of learning whither thej"^ were bound, and where they arrived about ten days after quitting the Hall at Kentmere head. The youth soon attracted notice at Queen's College, by his assiduitj', his studious and persevering habits, and by the gravity and gentleness of his manners — so diflferent from the usual ruffling of young men eager for attention and applause, for triumph and distinction. He carried the palm from manj^ competitors, but he claimed no victorj', and escaped the enmitj^ and malig- nity of his felloivs. He was anxious only to learn, and be convinced, and in turn to instruct. and convince others; and as he could not be turned aside from the pursuit of knowledge by the quibbles and disputation, upon frivolous points, and questions of verbal criticism which then constituted the chief exercises of college life, his mind grew more expanded and his brain better stored than most of his contemporaries ; in- somuch that as soon as he was technicall}' entitled to literary honours, he was removed from his own col- lege to a better foundation— that of Christ Church— in BERNARD GILPIN. 89 compliment to and as a reward for his attainments and industry. "We shall not seek to follow him minutely through this portion of his career. The great questions of King Henr}' the Eighth's necessities, and of his long-desired divorce from Queen Katherine of Aragon, had raised other and more important questions, concerning the reformation of the Church, than Henr}' himself had contemplated, when he sought to rid himself of Papal supremacj' and a wife, and to clutch the revenues of the monastic establishments throughout his kingdom. The superstitions of Rome, with regard to her sacra- ments — her adoration of images, her traditions, her mysteries — veiled in a language, strange to those who sought a knowledge of the Divinitj' through his ac- knowledged word — had provoked the research of, and drawn from his cell the bold and acute Erasmus ; and thought had begun to open the flood-gates of light, and to dispel many of the mere chimeras of prejudice and custom. The reformation, despite the oft-exerted authority of the crown to stay its progress, went for- ward and prospered — gaining proselytes among the good and the learned wherever the stim'ng opinions of Reformers could find fair access. And when Henry was taken to his account, the councillors of his young successor gave a new impulse to enquiry, and led, as free enquiry always must, to the detection, exposure, and denunciation of new errors and abuses. Bernard Gilpin, bred as he had been among good and pious Catholics — a communicant of the Romish Church, and looking with reverence upon ordinances which, ere he was born, had the sanction of many ages and of many good men, was not among the first to renounce the tenets he had once held sacred. If he doubted in Bome things, he felt that he needed conviction of the 90 BERNARD GILPLV. falsehood or fraud of others ; and he was none of those who might bo disposed to forsake a creed because it was old and tame ; and embrace a new faith because of its daring novelty. He examined for himself. He even disputed with Peter Martyr publiclj' in defence of the doctrines they had mutuallj' held in j'outh ; but new facts being gradually unfolded to him he eventually quitted the Mass-book of the ancient hierarchj' for the book of Common Prayer, as set forth by the ministers of young Edward. A period of danger ensued. King Edward died — the Lady Jane Gre)'' was stricken down at a blow, and Queen Mary ascended the throne, a determined bigot, resolved to quell the dissensions which had arisen in the kingdom on matters of religion, and with a spirit and energy which made light of all opposition to her sovereign will. During the persecutions which followed, Bernard Gilpin was absent upon the continent, visiting in turn Mechlin, Antwerp, Ghent, Brussels, Louvain, and other places, where those who had been active in the reformation were then congregated as in a monas- tery — some merely to avoid the stake which had been prepared for them in their own land, and others the better to prepare for fulfilling their high mission of promoting the growth of truth and sound christianitj'', by study, meditation, and the agency of literature in places remote from scenes of mental distraction and the terrors of a domestic inquisition. Gilpin, hawever, had not fled because of danger, approaching or impending — he had been previously appointed to a living by his maternal uncle — Cuthbert Tonstal, Bishop of Durham, and had, resigned this, on being requested by the same relative to proceed to Germany or Paris, to superintend the printing of some books of divinity which the Bishop had composed ; and which it was neither safe nor con- BERNARD GILPIN. 91 venient for him to print in England, where opinions were so dissonant, and presses and printers so scarce. This had been towards the end of the reign of Edward ; and consequently before the protestant persecution had commenced. At the beginning of the reign of Mary indeed, Tonstal had sought to recall him to England, for the purpose of conferring upon him promotion in the Diocese over which the aged, but not very orthodox or consistent prelate, still presided. Bernard hesitated for some time — he was absent about three years —but at length, before the death of Mary, or the fires of Smithfield and elsewhere had been quenched, he deter- mined to return to his native land, and to take part in the fierce struggle then existing. Tt was in vain that the risk he ran— the dangers he was certain to encounter — the impolicy — the madness of the step he meditated, were pointed out to him — and depicted in their most fearful — most appalling colours. He saw that religion — the cause he had espoused — was likely to suffer in the absence of so manj'- of its best defenders ; and he re- solved to brave all perils for the sake of performing what he conceived to be his duty as a priest and a christian. With the prayers and blessings of many to whom ho had endeared himself during his long sojourn among strangers, he embarked from France to enter upon a career, as full of high and noble enterprise, and of ad- venturous incident, as most of the narratives which we read concerning the exploits of heroes of romance. But we must not enter upon this relation at the close of a chapter. 92 BERNARD GILPIN. CHAPTER III. After visiting once more his family and friends at Kentmere, and renewing his acquaintance with the scenes which had been endeared to him by early recol- lections, and by the afFoctions of his childhood, Bernard Gilpin took leave again of those familiar haunts, to enter upon his dangerous ministry. The only protec- tion on which he had now to rely against the enemies of truth who abounded in the kingdom during the troubled reign of Marj-, was that of his divine master. Tonstal, his uncle, though willing to serve and, per- haps, to shield him, under ordinary circumstances, was unequal to the task of preserving his integrity un- blemished against the allurements and menaces of power, in an age of almost universal corruption, and though no persecutor himself, he sometimes permitted persecution in order to screen himself fi-om the accusa- tion of favouring heresy. Feeling, however, that he was sustained from on high, Gilpin faltered not, but at once began, in his church of Easingdon, to preach to the congregation entrusted to his charge, the doctrine of Salvation, through repentance and faith. No reserve, — no traditions of papacy; — no mincing of the gospel to mould its tenets to the support of human institutions, marred his zeal or restrained his eloquence. He denounced the popular vices which had been pam- pered by the priesthood, because they were profitable, — refused to accept, or to allow those who came to him for absolution from sin or crime to profit by offerings at the altar by way of atonement for their misdeeds ; and by such a stern and novel course, he naturally enough roused against himself all the wealthy and BERNARD GILPIN. 93 powerful of the laitj^ and nearly all the ecclesiastics, among whom the fame of his doings and sayings was diffused. " He is heretical," exclaimed one, who was desirous of wandering on in the beaten track, and making the most of his profession. " He is an enemy to the church," cried another, " a scandalizer of the clergy ; and a teacher of the doc- trines of the son of perdition. He must be cited before the tribunal of the bishop, and compelled to recant his errors, or he must die as a foe to religion." From the storm that had thus gathered around him the good easy bishop found it easier to remove than to defend his nephew ; he accordinglj'^ bestowed on him the rectory of Houghton-le-Spring, in lieu of the living of Easingdon, and warned him, when he entered upon it, that unless he pursued the course pursued by others, and conformed to the observances of those who sought their personal safety and comfort, he would " live and die a beggar." He failed, however, to convince his auditor that the duty of a priest was regulated by the conveniences and self-seekings^ of the worldly minded. Trials therefore awaited him in his new residence, and for these he prepared with the devotion of one who stakes his life upon his conduct, and holds an immortal, dearer than an earthly, reward. The parish of Houghton was one of the most exten- sive in the north of England. It comprised fourteen villages, the entire population of which were in a con- dition of such semi-barbarous ignorance as we can at this daj^ form a conception of only bj' comparing them with the inhabitants of our most remote mountains and glens, where tourists never venture, and high roads and regular communications are unknown. The Christianity of these wilds was still mingled with the Pagan super- 94 BERNARD GILPIN. stition ■which it ought to have supplanted ; and the strange tenets of Woden and Thor, of the Druidical times, and of the daj-s of the Fairy creed, and of witch- craft, were as firmly impressed upon the minds of the people as the history of our Lord's life and death for the redemption of man. The high ceremonials of papacj'' were more regarded than the essentials of faith ; and that preacher was most popular among his congre- gation who would dole forgiveness to them for the lowest consideration in current coin. Of the strange, wild state of the country, and the general barbarism of the age, a tolerable notion may be formed from the fact that at the time Bernard Gilpin entered upon his ministry, the very proclamations of Henry the Eighth and Edward the Sixth for a change in the form of worship had not been heard of, even by many of the northern clergj-. Gilpin at once became a marvel to his flock, who saw in him for the first time a teacher of the tidings of eternity, who disdained to profit by public vice and immorality. They crowded about him as they had never thronged to hear any pastor before. They list- ened to his words, and were awakened as from a dream to new life. " It is an apostle restored to us, after the lapse of ages," said thej', who had derived new consciousness, and been elevated and reformed through the new sense of responsibility thus imparted to them. " Say, rather," replied the indolent priests, upon whose character and conduct the life of the rector of Houghton was a standing reproach, " he is a disciple of antichrist, and a minister of dissension and heresy." Again, the anger, and envy, and hatred of those who sought to extinguish the light of free enquiry in the human mind were excited against the bold teacher of BERNARD GILPIN. 95 gospel truths ; and articles of accusation were again prepared against him in the hope that he might be brought to the stake. And this time they sought to make surer work than formerly. Instead of citing the good priest before Tonstal of Durham, his impeach- ment was laid before the wily and remorseless Bonner bishop of London, and Grand Inquisitor of England. " The heretic," said this fierce zealot, on reading the charges against Gilpin, "shall expiate his errors in Smithfield, within a fortnight." The news of his intended fate did not surprise Ber- nard. He had long been prepared for the worst, and when urged to flee in order to avert the doom already pronounced against him, he sternlj^ refused, seeing that by so doing he should be in some sort denying his faith, and confessing the weakness and errors of his ministration. " If it be proper that I be delivered from my ene- mies," he said, " and the enemies of truth, the God whom I have served —how inefficiently soever — is able, and will take his own means to deliver me. If not, my body will but form another torch to light the nation to a knowledge of the true creed." "But," replied Airey, his faithful and favourite steward and almoner, " the means of escape are in your power ; and David himself hesitated not to avail himself of more than one opportunity to avoid the wrath of Saul." " The faith and ministry of David were not called in question. Will," replied the preacher, "or he would have braved the worst. He scrupled not to encounter a giant when the welfare of God's chosen people required an exertion of individual courage and endurance." " A temporary concealment at least," rejoined Airey, " might be resorted to. You have friends 96 BERNARD GILPIN. among the neighbouring dales to whom 5'ou might en- trust your safety, without foregoing your accustomed duties." " I have long looked for this hour of trial, Will," said Gilpin, " and will not now shrink from it. Let, therefore, my funeral garments be made ready, that it may be seen at the stake that I have made due and decent preparation for the crowning scene of my la- bours." Airey argued no longer. He felt that the calmness and strength of his master were derived from the purity of his heart and mind, and from his firm trust in the righteousness and Providence of the Almighty. A long funeral gown was made for the expectant martyr, who, during the few daj's of freedom that he was permitted to enjoy between that period and the date of his apprehension hy Bonner, preached as usual and dispensed his hospitality with his customary cheer- fulness. The mournful gloom which rested on the brows of his auditors, and the increased earnestness with which they listened to his exhortations, alone in- dicated that anything was likely to interrupt the sere- nity of that genial springtime of Christian piety and benevolence. When the messengers came to convey him to Lon- don, thej' had not far to seek. He was in the midst of the school-house which he had himself erected and en- dowed for the purpose of teaching the children of his parishioners the knowledge of themselves and their Creator. His pupils clung around him when they learned that he was a prisoner, and many a bold heart and sturdy hand was stirred to resist the authority of his captors ; but a word from the good priest silenced and subdued all but their tears and lamentations, which would not be restrained when they knew that he BERNARD GILPIN. 97 whom they loved and revered as a father was to be torn from them, to undergo an ignominious punishment, for having been to them and others the instrument of so much good. With the men and women of the villages and hamlets through which the cortege passed, there was more difficultj^, however, than with the children. The news of his arrest circulated with the rapidity of a battle-call for the resistance of Border foraj'ers ; and crowds gathered by the road side, and implored permis- sion from the prisoner to rescue him and destroy his oppressors. The road was lined for miles with these suppliants, thronging before and behind in such num- bers, as occasionally to block the mountain passes, and to render impassable the fords through which the pro- cession must needs proceed on its way ; and sorely were the agents of Bonner afraid, when they heard the deep and bitter muttered curses of the multitude, breathed alike against the bigot Queen and her hated agents of persecution. It was in the firm and mild expostula- tions of their victim alone that they were indebted for their lives : — but this, instead of inspiring them with feelings of gratitude and veneration, served but to in- crease their hatred and their thirst for vengeance. To possess such abounding love was worse than either treason or heresy :— it added the malice of fear and humiliation to the ordinary rancour of bigot zeal. Scarcely, however, had the prisoner and his conduc- tors reached the confines of Yorkshire ere an accident put a stop for some days to their journey. Descending a steep hill, the horse which Gilpin rode stumbled and fell, and the rider being precipitated to the earth, was taken up with a fractured leg. It was in vain that the inquisitors vented imprecations upon both horse and prisoner. Had they attempted to proceed, their victim would, in all probability, have eluded the flames which 98 BERNARD GILPIN. were prspared for him, bj' a premature death on the road. They conveyed him therefore to the nearest town, and procured assistance to set his broken limb. They could not forbear taunting him, however, with what had befallen, as an instance of the divine displea- sure against his heres}', and a punishment in addition to that which awaited him. He merely replied, with forbearance and resignation, " That nothing can happen to man but through the permission of God, who does all things for the good of his creatures." "And j'our broken leg," said Ley ton, a familiar and panderer of Bonner, " that, of course, was meant for your special benefit ?" "I do not doubt it." •' The stake in Smithfield, too, has been erected for your good ?" " If God so wills it." "You will be a brave martyr, m)' master," retorted Ley ton, " till you come to the pile of faggots. There, however, I have seen some of your kidne)' quail, as the curling smoke and flame have blackened their delicate limbs." " My trust," said Bernard, " is in Him who suffered for the truth, and endured every indignitj-, in Judea. He condescended to suffer for the sins of others. Why should I flinch from a chastisement inflicted for my own?" " Hear him, and note down his words," said Leyton, " he blasphemes." The protection on which Gilpin had relied, however, was not withdrawn from him. While awaiting to re- cover his strength sufficiently to pursue his journey, the joyful news was spread through the kingdom, with ringing of bells and lighting of bonfires, that Queen BERNARD GILPIN. 99 Mary was dead, and that Elizabeth had been proclaim- ed amid the acclamations of a people rejoicing in their deliverance. When the intelligence was brought to the bedside of Bernard Gilpin, the good pastor, raising himself on his arm upon his couch, mildl}' rebuked his persecutors by saying, " Did I not saj' that nothing could happen to us, but what is intended for our good ?" The inquisitors, one by one, slunk away from the chamber of their rescued victim, until the good man was left alone to thank Heaven for his deliverance, and to meditate upon the future prospects of untrammelled religion in England. CHAPTEEj IV. On his return to Houghton-le-Spring, after having been rescued, as it were, from the very foot of the stake, Bernard Gilpin was received wherever he came rather as a victor returned from conquest, than as a poor preacher, liberated from persecution. By Bernard alone the matter was treated as one unworthy to be considered a triumph. He had deemed it, as he deemed almost every event of his life, an act of probation, in which he had been sustained by Providence, not to swell his pride, but to fill him with gratitude, and en- due him with strength for new trials. He rejoiced, therefore, only inasmuch as he had been enabled to resist the strong temptation of betraying his trust ; and he renewed his labours at once, after reaching home, with increased zeal and diligence. M 100 BERNARD GILPIN. The fame of Gilpin had necessarily spread far be- yond the wild scene of his pastoral charge ; and now that a Queen, holding a different faith to her prede- cessor — a faith, indeed, which was considered as the very opposite of papacy — was upon the throne, sur- rounded by new Ministers, anxious to remodel all things, and to forward the cause of Reform as far as it could possibly be urged — without infringing the Divine right prerogatives of Majesty — those who had been the objects of persecution, of odium, or even of suspicion, in the last reign — without any very discrim- inating regard, in all cases, to respective merit, were naturally selected as the recipients of royal favours and rewards. Bernard was thus chosen by Lord Bur- leigh, to whom he had become known during the reign of Edward the Sixth, as one who deserved promotion. The Bishop of Carlisle, among others had conscien- tiously maintained his creed — notwithstanding that it was derived from Eome — through evil as well as good report, and in the midst of difficulty and danger, as firmly and consistently as when the smiles of fortune had cheered him as his professor. It was not the policy of Elizabeth or her council to leave power or patronage in the hands of men of this bold and independent stamp. The faith of a bishop must necessarily be that of the Sovereign for the time being ; and they only, who, like the Vicar of Bray, could accommodate their consciences to every fleeting change of " the gospel according to law," might entertain a reasonable hope of holding their ministry longer than their doctrines should continue to be fashionable, as those of the Court. The learned prelate of Carlisle, as one of the non-conforming clergj', was deprived of his mitre, and the diocese was tendered to Bernard Gilpin, " be- cause he was a North countryman, and had been en- BERNARD GILPIN. 101 dangered on account of his stedfast adherence to the principles of the Reformed Church." But the offer was declined. Gilpin had, in fact, attached himself to his flock and to his duties by ties which might not he easily sun- dered, and " the Northern Apostle" did right to reject "the bubble reputation" for the substantial and glori- ous wreath of fame. Shortlj' after his rejection of the " throne" of Car- lisle, the patience and fortitude of Father Bernard were again severely tested ; not on this occasion by temptation to his own profit, but by wrong and out- rage — and the opportunity — so difficult to withstand — of avenging himself upon his enemies. The earls of Northumberland and Westmorland, prompted by their zeal for the Catholic cause, which appeared to have become desperate, rose in arms for the purpose of obtaining fi-eedom for the exercise of their religious rites, if not of restoring the supremacy of their wor- ship. The outbreak was supported by the populace ; for in most parts of the country the cause of papacy involved the rights of the poor, and had the entire sympathies of all classes, except those who had been really converted from the ancient errors. The time was one of trouble and commotion through the entire north. Castles, villages, and towns be- came a prey to enthusiastic rebels, who marched with banners displayed, bearing embroidered chalices, crosses, and even the image of our Saviour crucified. Barnard Castle surrendered, Durham was sacked, mass was chanted once more in the churches ; and bigotry and ravage stalked through the country. The usual quiet and secluded parish of Houghton was not suffered to escape during the excitement and con- fusion ; and there, the harvest being just over, the 102 BERNAKD GILPIX. bams and granaries full, and the fields and meadows ■well stocked with the fat cattle of autumn, " what had been designed," to use the graphic lans:uage of an old historian, "to spread a winter's gladness through the country, was, in a few daj^s, wasted by the remorseless rabble." What could one man do to arrest the pro- gress of such calamities ? Bernard Gilpin merely op- posed remonstrance and prayer to outrage ; but even that seems to have had its effect in staying the hand of rapine ; for, beyond his immediate neighbourhood the people and their possessions were left unharmed by the malcontents. In the day of retribution, however, the voice of the good man was not uplifted in vain. The Earl of Sussex being sent with a strong army to quell the revolt, soon dispersed the enthusiasts, and Sir Greorge Bowes, placed at the head of a Special Commission to try the offenders, acknowledged that what mercy he showed to delinquents — small as it was — was at the instance of the rector of Houghton, who had implored him to spare the people, " who, being exceedingly ignorant, had been seduced from their al- legiance by idle stories, and led to believe that they had taken arms in behalf of the coerced Queen, as well as of their ancient privileges and the right of worshipping as their fathers had worshipped for genera- tions." To estimate aright the many benefits which flowed from the teaching of Gilpin, it may be necessary to revert to the state and customs of the country when he first entered upon his cure. He had, in the first place, some diSiculty in finding a person for his clerk, who was able to read — writing was out of the question. The Sunday was the princi- pal market daj' of his parishioners, and the church porch, even during the hours of service, was the mart BERNARD GILPIN. 103 of itinerant pedlars and dealers ; while at festival times, lords of misrule, boy-bishops, morris dancers and masquers were accustomed to enter the church with music, song and jest, to perform their mj'sterious mummeries in the presence of the whole congregation. On one occasion, it is reported that he sent word to a neighbouring village of his intention to preach there on a certain day set apart for a holidu)' ; when, on pre- senting himself at the church doors, he found them locked, and after tarrying for half an hour, ascertained that it was Robin Hood's day — and that the whole parish had gone forth to gather garlands and perform their May-day sports. " I was fain, therefore," said Bernard, "to give place to Robin; and let the tidings of salvation wait for a more convenient season." At another time, while journeying, as was his frequent custom, through the least accessible vales, and among the glens and mountains of the border land, having pre- viously given notice of his intention to preach there, he found on his appearance at the homely church of Rothbury, that a crowd had collected, not so much to hear his doctrines, as to witness a tumult which was likely to ensue between two rival factions. An heredit- ary feud had subsisted between the inhabitants of Tyne- dale and of Redesdale, which nothing had been able to abate at former meetings but blood. They were now drawn up in array in the small church-yard, eyeing each other with the gloom of deadly hate and fury ; but each maintaining profound silence. The church doors were opened, and the parties stationed themselves on different sides of the church, still facing each other, and ranged in order as prepared to make, or resist, an onset, on the slightest signal. All were armed with dirks, swords, and javelins ; and ever and anon, at the pauses of the preacher's discourse, the weapons were clashed 104 BERNARD GILPIN. in defiance. It was a strange, wild scene. The ani- mosities of men, blended with a thirst for knowledge of the way of life :— hostilities in the ver}'' sanctuary of peace and mercy! As the clang of arms grew louder from time to time, Gilpin found himself compelled to notice the unseemly' conduct of the parties ; who, rever- encing his character, and impressed b}' his exhortations, promised to abstain from violence at least till the service was concluded. He resumed his sermon, in- veighed against the savage feuds of barbarous ages, and so strongly dwelt upon their mutual responsibilities, and shewed the inestimable benefits of forbearance and kindness, without the exercise of which, faith in redemption could be but a name, that, in the end, the chiefs on either side consented to abandon all thoughts of hostilit)" during his stay in the country, and to en- deavour, in the meantime, to settle their differences without recourse to anj^ future appeal to arms. It was about the same period also, and in the same uncivilised tract that on going one Sunday to church, he perceived a large concourse of persons gathered around a yew-tree which stood beside the church porch. A glove was hanging from a branch, and armed men were standing near to watch it. The priest made earnest enquiries concerning the meaning of what he saw, and was informed by the sexton that the glove had been placed there as a challenge to whoever should dare to take it down. "Give it me," said the preacher without hesitation. "Not I, indeed," replied the sexton — " I dare not." "I must have it nevertheless," rejoined Bernard; and reaching it from the bough, he thrust it at once into his bosom. No one ventured to molest or question him ; and the service was concluded ere the matter was again alluded BERNARD GILPIN. 105 to ; ■when taking the signal of challenge from his vest and exhibiting it to his congregation, he exclaimed, " I hear that one among you hath hanged up this glove in token of defiance to his fellows, even at the threshold of the house of the Lord. Behold I have taken it down." The challengers, abashed, sought his council in the vestry room, on his descending from the pulpit, and promised to relinquish the rude custom which had given him offence. So great was the esteem in which his piety, charity, and goodness were held that the very thieves of the borders — and the population were nearly all cattle- lifters, and out-laws by practice, if not so proclaimed by the Border Wardens — abstained from committing depredations upon his property. CHAPTER V. — CONCLUSION. We hasten to close our narrative of the Life of the Northern Apostle, which has grown on our hands to a much greater length than we contemplated, and has consequently become proportionably tedious to our readers and ourselves. The following, which has reference to the magnitude of his labours as a pastor, is from a letter of his own to a friend : — "I am at present," he says, "much charged with business, or rather overcharged. I am first greatly burdened about seeing the lands made sure to the schools, which are not so yet, and are in great danger to be lost, if God should call me afore they are assured. Moreover, I have assigned to preach twelve sermons at other parishes, beside my own; and likewise am 106 BERNARD GILPIN. earnestly looked for at a number of parishes in Nor- thumberland, more than I can visit. Besides, I am continuall}' encumbered with many guests and acquaint- ances, whom I may not well refuse. And often I am called upon by many of my parishioners to set them at one when thej' cannot agree. And every day I am sore charged and troubled with many servants and workfolks, which is no small trouble to me ; for the buildings and reparations in this wide house will never have an end." As an instance of the stern determination with which his resolves were carried out, the following anecdote has frequently been related : — Grilpin was sent for one day by Barnes, bishop of Durham, who required him to preach a visitation sermon on the following Sunday. He begged to be excused, on account of being then about to perform his usual journey to Tynedale and Eedesdale ; but the bishop, instead of admitting his apology, suspended him from preaching, for non-com- pliance with his mandate. The bishop, however, unable to justify himself for so harsh and hastj' a step, subse- quently sent for him ; and many of the clergy being assembled at Chester-le-Street, the place of meeting, he was ordered to preach before the conclave. He stated that he had come wholly unprepared, and urged that he was suspended. His suspension was forthwith removed, and he eventually complied. Instead of a courtly sermon, however, as was probably expected, Gilpin, who knew of the abuses practised in the diocese, the ecclesiastical jurisdiction of which was little better than a plea for the sale of canonical indulgences, in- veighed more especially against the vices of the clergy. " God hath exalted you," he said to the prelate, " to be the bishop of this diocese, and requireth an account of your government thereof. A reformation of all those BERNAKD GILPIN. 107 matters which are amiss in this church, ia expected at your hands. And now, lest perhaps, while it is appa- rent that so many enormities are committed everj'- where, your lordship should make answer, that j'ou had no notice of them given you, and that these things never came to your knowledge, hehold I bring these things to your knowledge this daJ^ Say not, then, that these crimes have been committed by the fault of others without j'our knowledge ; for whatever either yourself shall do in person, or suffer through your con- nivance to be done by others, is wholly j'our own. Therefore, in the presence of God, his angels, and men, I pronounce you to be the author of all these evils : yea, and in that strict daj"- of general account, I will be a witness to testifj' against you, that all these things have come to j^our knowledge by my means ; and all these men shall bear witness thereof, who have heard me speak unto you this day." This freedom alarmed every one. As Mr Gilpin went out of the church, his friends gathered round him, kindly reproaching him, with tears, for what he had done, and saying, that the bishop had now got that ad- vantage over him which he had long sought after ; and if he had injured him before without provocation, what would he do now, when so greatly exasperated ? Mr Gilpin walked on, gently keeping them off with his hand, and assuring them that if his discourse should do the service he intended by it, he was regardless what the consequence might be to himself. During that day nothing else was talked of. Every one commended what had been said, but was appre- hensive for the speaker. Those about the bishop waited in silent expectation, to see his resentment break out. After dinner Mr Gilpin went up to the bishop to pay his compliments to him, before he went home. " Sir," 108 BERNARD GILPIN. said the bishop, " I propose to wait upon you home my- self." This he accordingly did ; and as soon as Mr Gilpin had carried him into a parlour, the hishop turned suddenly round, and seizing him eagerly by the hand, said, " Father Gilpin, I acknowledge you are fitter to be the bishop of Durham than I am to be parson of this church of yours. I ask forgiveness for past inju- ries. Forgive me, father. I know you have enemies; but while I live bishop of Durham, be secure, none of them shall cause you any further trouble." About the beginning of February, 1583, Bernard found that his end was approaching. He ordered him- self to be raised in his bed ; and his friends, acquaint- ance, and dependants to be called in. He first sent for the poor, and beckoning them to his bed-side, he told them, he found he was going out of the world ; he hoped they would be his witnesses at the great day that he had endeavoured to do his duty among them ; and he prayed God to remember them after he was gone. He would not have them weep for him ; if ever he had told them anything good, he would have them remember that in his stead. Above all things, he ex- horted them to fear God, and keep his commandments ; telling them, if they would do this, they could never be left comfortless. He next ordered his scholars to be called in : to them he likewise made a short speech, reminding them, that this was their time, if they had any desire to qualify themselves for being of use in the world ; that learning was well worth their attention, but virtue was much more so. He next exhorted his servants ; and then sent for several persons, who had not heretofore profited by his advice according to his wishes, and upon whom he ima- gined his dying words might have a better efi'ect. His BERNARD GILPIN. 109 speech began to falter before he had finished his ex- hortations. The remaining hours of his life he spent in prayer and broken conversations with some select friends, mentioning often the consolations of Christi- anity — declaring they were the only true ones ; that nothing else could bring a man peace at the last. He died upon the fourth of March, 1583, in the sixty-sixth year of his age." The following appropriate close to the biography of this good man is extracted from the Visits to Remarkable Places, published some time ago bj' Mr Wm. Howit: — " The fame of Bernard Gilpin had, from my earliest youth, been in my mind one of the most golden and sunshiny fabrics, that are built of wonder, love, and veneration, in the heart of childhood, by reading or by story of what is great, and picturesque, and beautiful. The idea which lived in my imagination of him, firm and glowing as my imagination itself, was of a tall and venerable old man, wandering over vast heaths and moorlands with his Bible in his hand, ready to con- front the marauder in his way, and awe him with a word of heaven's truth; to sit down by the swift stream of his northern valleys, and in language of peace and afi'ection, and divine hope, with the solitary fisherman, till he forgot his angle, and let his line float idly on the water, his thoughts having flown far into the regions of paradise ; to sit, too, by the wayside-well and the village cross, and hear the troubles of weary wayfarers, and then comfort and relieve them ; to enter farms and cottages, and be recognised and received as the prophets and apostles of old, with sighs and courtesies, and a running to and fro to cover the table for his refresh- ment, and spread the news of his arrival. I see him stand with his hand on the head of some lovely child speaking to its companions on the village green, with 110 BERNARD GILPIN. the bright eye and smiling countenance of a most child«-like benevolence, and blessing them all in his heart. I see him too in the more solemn hours and duties of his office and his life ; now sitting by the bed of crime and of coming death, combating despair, and teaching the affrighted wretch where onlj' in the whole gloomy hemisphere the e3'e of mercy glanced through the clouds ; now rebuking the fierce brawlers and scorners of the savage haunts that he visited ; and now from some antiquated pulpit, or steps of an ancient grange, pouring over the wandering crowd the elo- quence of the heart and the news of Heaven. Perhaps the name — Apostle, gave no small vividness to those ideas ; and as years advanced, I learned to love his memory, too, for the grandeur and fortitude of mind which made him bold and faithful against those world- ly influences, of whose seductive or daunting potency a child has no conception." (Ill) THE STEAMONGATE BAEGHAIST. "I saw it as plainly as ever these eyes beheld the moon at Martinmas," exclaimed Michael Mason, as he rushed into the guard room, situated at the gate on the north side of what is now called Stramongate Bridge. " What was it you saw, you loon ? Surely the beast with two horns must have been encountered by your gaping ej^es," said old Denzil Masterman, roused from his slumber by the hurried entrance of his coad- jutor. " 'Twas the lady in white," answered the still trembling warder. " Nay, now 'an it be that thou are yet bleached by this white lady, cheer thee up with this jack of good Kendal ale ; and Denzil poured out into a leathern mug a stream of the sparkling beverage. Michael seemed to imbibe fresh courage, but we trow it was more from the companionship of his fellows, than the liquor he had swallowed. B}^ this time the third of the group had been awakened, and Maurice Bateman was urging Michael to describe what he had seen. "Well," said Michael, " my watch having expired, I was coming back, and, passing that creaking sign of 112 THE STRAMONGATE BARGHAIST. the Dun Horse, whicli hangs half way across the street, just hy the narrow entry where old Giles Kemp used to dye and shear his cloth, when turning round at hearing what I thought to he a dog barking, I saw a beautiful lady, with a robe white as snow floating in the air, going down the passage. I followed. She seemed to sail over the ground, and before I could overtake her, at the Kent side, she vanished into air." "And if 1 had been there," said Maurice, "my feet would as soon have followed the trail of a wolf, as have gone after such a vision. It is no' lucky, Michael. You may go to Father Leonard's chair as soon as you like, and mind and confess all your sins." "Hold," said old Denzil, "you are foolish lads — you forget that it's time to take the round ; and the men with the pack horses wanted calling at two o'clock. If we are too late for them, we shall lose our bottle of sack ; and if I mistake not, neither of you, boys, will be out again to-night, without more courage than your own." The two younger guards seemed loth to brave the blast or the barghaist, so the sturdy old Masterman added, " Well, it must e'en be that my grey beard is not so taking to ladies in white, as the down on the cheeks of you youngsters. Stay you here, therefore, and when I return, I will tell you a tale about this same damsel, which few know but myself." Maurice and Michael thought Denzil long in return- ing. At last, however, he came, and having despatched the packmen's bottle of sack around the fire on the hearth, the old man, turning to Michael, said — " I think you heard a dog barking, did you not ?" " Aye," replied Michael, " but I did not see one, only I fancied I spied a dark shadow following the THE STRAMONGATE BARGHAIST. 113 lady's footsteps, from which came several times a hol- low hark ; and as she disappeared, there floated to me on the gust which followed, a dismal moan." " 'Tis the very same," said Denzil ; " you have been favoured with what few have seen ; and ill betide me if your sweetheart does not give you a hearty amen ■when 5'ou shew her the wedding ring. But I promised you my tale, lads. My father was as good a soul as ever wore "Westmorland grey. Poor man, he was eighty seven when he died, and but a short while be- fore that event, he called me to his bedside, and said, * Now Denzil, I have often thought I would give you a history of my life.' This he proceeded to do ; it was a most eventful one, and amongst other things he re- lated the following : — " I was for ten years a servant with old Sir Arthur Wilson ; he who lived in the Black-hall, Strickland- gate, as good a master as ever paid wages. The poor often blessed him, and his sweet daughter. Mistress Edith — sure there never was a better heart, or a bonnier eye, than she had. Often have I watched her helping the old man to walk. Even when his weight was fit to drag her down, he would have no other assistant. And she nursed him with as much care, as the hen nurses her young, and when his last hour came, she closed his eyes with her own hands. "Alas, for her — the sod had not covered her father's bones, when her uncle Nicholas came down from the south, to act as executor, and shewed, by the will, that he was to have all the management. But there were those, nevertheless, who whispered that Father Gervase had mentioned on his death-bed (which took place just prior to the death of the old man) that Sir Arthur had wished the priest to make his will for him, and that in that will he had left all to his daughter, 114 THE STRAMONGATE BARGHAIST. ■with a proviso that if she should have no children, the property should go to the Abbey at Shap. Nay, it was said that some smouldering fragments of parchment were found among the embers on the hearth in the library at Black-hall, after the uncle came down, and many thought that the new will produced by Nicholas was, to say the best of it, unlike the old one. But be that as it may, the poor j'oung lady soon found out that her uncle Wilson was not like her father, good Sir Arthur. For he had not been long at Kendal, when his son came to join him, as rough and wordly a rogue as the countrj'^ could breed. Nay, I doubt whether he was even born in the fair County of West- morland. He made love to Edith, but her gentle spirit shunned such a roystering husband ; and like the fawn of the mountains, she fled from the idea of contact with the young man. Her uncle was grieved; and after much persuasion told her at last that she must either make up her mind to marrj' her cousin Mark, or be content to take the veil. " Edith, of the twain, would gladly have preferred the latter, but wherefore was she to be compelled ? She resolved to ask who had authority to force her to sacrifice herself to Mark, or to embrace the alternative of perpetual seclusion from societ}'. The inquiry of the simple-hearted girl was met with a frowning brow, and an angry reply. Her uncle said that her father's will enabled him to enforce the sacrifice he demanded, and nothing but compliance would satisfy the obliga- tion. Edith thought to herself how little her father would have been pleased with Mark, and felt assured that his will must have been falsified ; but, alas ! she had no friend to consult with, or to guide her, and no course but a compulsory one appeared open to her. At length her uncle, wearied with her stupidity and THE STRAMONGATE BARGHAIST. 115 obstinacy, as he termed it, limited the lovely orphan to a term of four weeks to decide, at the end of which she was either to give her hand to his son, or to adopt the austerities of a religious life. Already was the month well nigh expired, and no hope of deliverance or prospect of evading her fate ap- peared. One anchor only was left, namely, the inter- position of the gallant Ralph Thornburgh. This nobla cavalier had followed the Clifford to the wars of Spain, and ere his departure, with the sanction of her father, Ralph and Edith had naturally pledged their troth he- fore father Gervase, to be faithful unto death. On her father's decease, Edith had written to Thornburgh, and had been hourly expecting him, — or, at least a reply from him, to avert, she knew not how, her threatened fate. She dared not mention this to her uncle, as she knew it would aggravate his wrath. Quickly flew the allotted month. The last day but one had arrived, when Edith, whose life was sinking from anxiety, sent her waiting maid to ask me to see her. She said, ' You have been faithful to my father, will you be so to me ?' My blood tingled in my veins as I laid my hand on my heart, and swore that my life should go for her's. '"Well,' said she, 'provide, then, a companion, and take me and my maid to Shap Abbey, at twelve o'clock to-night.' I readily promised what was required, and kept my word. At early dawn, therefore, we knocked at the door of the venerable pile. The Abbot, a friend of the late Sir Arthur's, was astonished at Edith's early visit. She threw herself at his knees, imploring his protection. She and her maid were lodged with the porter, not being admitted into the holy edifice. The Abbot and monks in conclave soon determined that whatever their o 116 THE STRAMONGATE BARGHAIST. suspicions might be, thej^ could not withdraw her from the care of her uncle ; hut that she should be safely accommodated at Bampton Grange with the wife of the steward of their beautiful possessions, until measures might be taken as to finally disposing of her. Nicholas having ascertained the place of his niece's refuge, after having searched vainly for some time, came with his son fretting and fuming to the Abbey. Neither the sacredness of the place, nor the venerable Abbot, could control the ire of the irascible Wilsons. At last the brotherhood consented to surrender. Edith at the expiration of two months to embrace a religious life ; and in the meantime she was to prepare for so solemn a dedication of herself to the service of Holy Church. Frequently would Edith now watch the path down the valley, in the hope of seeing young Thornburgh, but in vain, — until at last she doubted his faith, and hope gave place to despair. Still she would often re- call their hours of sweet intercourse, and his imagined death would overwhelm her. Days passed thus, and Edith tried to reconcile her- self to her fate ; but a loathing of the future would overspread her soul, when she gazed in memory on the handsome features and noble bearing of her beloved Thornburgh, — and heard the soft tones of his voice, as he had uttered at parting, * Farewell, darling, faithful- ness is embossed on my sword belt ; and the same word is engraven on my soul. The one is for my honour, the other is for mine Edith.' The two months expired, without tidings having been received of Thornburgh — but Nicholas remembered the hour to a fraction. The morn had risen with unclouded splendour, as the sunlit shadow coloured the tomb- stones of lady abbesses with the hues wherewith it was THE STRAMONGATE BARGHAIST. 117 dyed ia passing through the gorgeously stained win- dows of the chapel of the Nunnery, that stands on the banks of the Eden near to Kirkoswald. The altar was studded with waxen tapers ; wreathes of flowers hung on every projection in the sacred edifice , the floor was matted with new rushes, and every countenance pre- sent awaited with anxiety the entrance of her who was to be immolated for life in the order of St. Agnes. Then rose upon the ear the voice of subdued melody, as the solemn procession marched up the aisle to the altar : — Hark ! a voice from heaven descending, Clothed with majesty and love, Bids all nations lowly bending-, Yield their hearts to God above. Thus the red-cross-knight, on hearing Cries for aid from Judah's fanes, From his bridal altar tearing. Seeks God's foes on eastern plains: Thus the blood-sprent victor, feeling Crowns and conquests all are vain, Finds the cloister's calm, a healing Sacred balm for soul-felt pain. Thus the vestal maiden, seeing In the Lamb a thousand charms. Home and earthly friendships fleeing. Yields her life to Jesu's arms. Lowly waiteth now before thee — ' Lord of Heaven — a virgin bride, While on earth, may she adore thee, And in bliss reign at thy side. Yes, and Edith was there, clothed in beautiful array. The floral ofl'erings of her companions had been twined into garlands round the victim ; and her own gems were lustrous in her golden hair. But why was the lovely one herself so pallid ? Care, disappointment, and persecution had driven the blood from her wasted and death-like cheeks. 118 THE STRAMONGATE BARGHAIST. The ceremony proceeded — the flowers were removed from the offering. Next the senior sister took the con- secrated scissors to cut off her golden tresses, but her hand trembled and she started back, terrified by the thundering knocking at the chapel- door, sounds which had succeeded to the rapid and heavy rattle of hoofs. In rushed, in frantic haste, a mail-clad warrior, whose whole appearance evinced the speed of his jour- ney. His hand grasped his sword, as he hurried up the aisle, and in impetuous language he cried, as he faced "Wilson, — ' 'Nicholas "Wilson, I charge thee as a traitor and a villain, in presence of these sisters — witnesses for God — " " Hold, thou impious man," said the Lady Abbess, " it becometh not us to hear such profane words in this sacred building." "Pardon, holy Mother," replied the warrior, "my tongue saith not what, on ordeal, mj' sword shall not prove." A shriek rose from the altar— the voice of the knight, though subdued to the lowest murm.ur that rage and excitement could brook, had betrayed him, and with a cry of " Oh God, 'tis Ralph," Edith sunk on the ground. "Forgive this youth," said Nicholas Wilson, advanc- ing to the Abbess, "he knows not what he does; but let not his interference prevent the conclusion of the solemn rites in which we are engaged." Ralph heard him not — his iron arm was supporting the lovelj' form of his betrothed — and his raised visor showed the intensitj' of agony with which he gazed on the lifeless figure. The sisters advanced to bear her to their apartments. The two Wilsons, with wrathful countenances, approached Thornburgh, and upbraided him with his audacitj'. His spirit shrunk from the encounter of reproach — not words but deeds, were then THE STRAMONGATE BARGHAIST. 119 his motto. He threw down his gage, and addressing them said, " Take that up, and I pledge mj-self hefore this solemn assembly to prove j-e both villains, cowards, and traitors, and if ye deny it now, ye lie in your throats." Neither father nor son replied. Summoned before the Lady Abbess, with intense interest, she obtained the information, that as soon as he had received one of Edith's letters, the first having never reached him, he hurried homeward, covered with honours from the hard foughten fields of Grenada — where he had been engaged with the infidel Moors. Reaching Kendal, new tidings had almost maddened him ; he knew but one way to avert the fate of his betrothed, and that was to prove her plighted vow to himself. He hastened to the apartment of Father Gervase, which had been dis- used ever since that good old man's death ; and there, making strict search for what he knew to have been once dopo.sited in the keeping of the priest, he discovered in an oaken chest a duplicate of the document he sought, with th.e signatures of the parties, and the priest's attestation affixed. With these, moreover, he discovered instructions for a will, in Sir Arthur's own hand writing, from which Father Gervase had evident- ly drawn the real will, which had undoubtedlj' been destroj'ed by Nicholas. With these documents he had ridden like the hurricane, dreading that he would be too late to avert the sacrifice. Hearing these irrefrag- able proofs, the Abbess permitted him to see Edith, ■whom proper means had restored to consciousness. Too cowardly to assert their valour, and unable to prove their integrity, the Wilsons sneaked away from the country, while Ealph and Edith, united in holy matrimonj', became examples of domestic happiness. They resided alternately at Selside Hall and the Black 120 THE STRAMOXGATE BARGHAIST. Hall, their respective inheritances, being renowned at each for their hospitality and charitJ^ To follow the history of Nicholas Wilson and his son Mark. — The one was carried off by the plague, and the younger lived as an outcast and vagabond, having exhausted his means by proiiigacy and sin. But one hope remained to him, which was that Edith might die in child birth, and ere that event, which being shortly expected should take place, he resolved to go disguised to the abode of peace and joy, and see for himself. Arrived at Kendal, he was irritated to learn that his hopes to succeed as heir to the pi-opertj' of the Wilsons, would, probably, in the common course of events, be frustrated, and his wicked soul brooded with disappoint- ed rage. 'Twas late one evening, when Edith received a mes- sage that a dying old man wanted consolation and sus- tenance. Ever open to the cry of the needy, Edith put on her robes for visiting the sick applicant ; her maidens in vain dissuaded her, urging that her husband was absent, and her health was delicate. She replied that she was bound to pitj' others, as she hoped to get pity in Heaven. On arriving at the cottage where the sick man lay (which was near to the Kent Side, at the foot of Kemp's yard), a large ugl}' black dog opposed her entrance. " Down, Kick, down," said the sick man with a feeble voice. The man had a dark coun- tenance, not much furrowed, with a white beard that seemed to have weathered at least four score winters. After hearing his tale, and giving him some refreshing food which she had brought with her, she was about to return when the decrepid patient started up, seized a dagger, and aimed a blow at his angel-like visitor. Edith, terrified, rushed out, but in vain. The dagger was too true to its aim, and she fell lifeless. The THE STRAMONGATE BARGIIAIST. 121 assassin disappeared. I cannot describe the agony of her friends. Next day I and others heard that the dog had been seen in the neighbourhood ; we tracked it, and among the bushes in Gilling-grove, we found the aged miscreant. He crouched, like a criminal and dastard as he was, before us, and was seized, — while his dog skulked, growling and whining, like a demon, bj^ his side. Divested of his disguise, he, to our amaze- ment, proved to be Mark Wilson. The law soon afterwards claimed and had its due, and the wretch was hung near the spot where his vile crime was perpetrated. His gibbet has scarcely been removed a dozen years. The moment his life ceased, the dog, who was still his constant attendant and friend, gave a horrible j'elling howl and disappeared. Since that time the form of Edith has occasionally been seen, with the spirit of Mark in the form of a black dog, compelled to follow her ; and as oft as he passes the place bj' the water side, where his felon frame rotted in irons, he is doomed to suffer again the agony of dying. The brave Ralph Thornburgh, Edith's disconsolate husband, entered the monaster}' of Shap, and occupied the remainder of his days in pious meditation and alms-giving." Black Hall, Stricklandgate. — This ancient mansion, the residence of the Wilsons for many generations, still remains, though shorn of nearly every vestige of its former importance, having been completely modernized by the in- troduction of sash windows, &c., about fift)'-two years ago. It stands on the east side of Stricklandgate, its only notice- able featiu'e, exteriorly, at present being a massive, cu'cular, limekiln-looking stack of chimneys ; and is now a busy brush 122 THE STRAMOXGATE BARGHAIST. manufactory, in the occupation of Mr. Rainforth. Hodgson. — Henry Wilson, Esq., Kendal's First Alderman (a.d, 1575-6), presented to the Corporation two splendid silver flagons, or drinking cups, engraved ■with his name and a suitable inscription: these, together with some other plate, their successors sometime during the "dark ages" of art — to their eternal disgrace be it spoken — exchanged for a set of trumpery candlesticks ! ! The flagons, when fllled to the brim with spiced wine, smoking hot (as the custom was in those dear old times), would, we may be sure, figure pro- minently in this "his Worship's haU so old" on many a civic gathering of Harry the First, his " Brethi-en, and Assistants." (123) THE RAID OF PRINCE CHARLES. AN INCIDENT OF 1745. The peaceful town of Kendal had been for several weeks kept in a constant state of alarm. Daily ac- counts from the north had threatened it with an early- visit from the rebellious Highlanders, led on by Prince Charles Edward Stuart. The fall of Carlisle, and the inactivity of General Wade at Newcastle, at length decided the uncertainty ; and at two o'clock on the afternoon of the 22nd of November, 1745, the first divi- sion of the Scottish army entered Kendal. The population, who crowded out to behold the in- vaders — for curiosity was as active here then as now — were astonished to find them far less savage in aspect than they had apprehended. So fearful indeed had been the rumours of the barbarous character of the Caterans, that most of the respectable inhabitants had sent away the females of their families into the remotest and most sequestered valleys. The body that now entered, it is true, consisted main- ly of the Lowland regiments, whose accoutrements were tolerably complete, and such as wore the kilt were gentlemen of the clans Alpine and Glengary, who made a remarkably warlike appearance. But far dif- ferent were the arms of the division that followed next day ; hundreds possessing only a club, a scythe, or a dirk. The appearance of the first noble-looking Gaels in- spired the Kendalians with a feeling of respect for them, 124 RAID OF PRINCE CHARLES. and for their chieftains, and many a soft eye that peep- ed from behind a half-closed shutter, looked a second time at the manly forms of these intrepid mountaineers, marching to the shrill tones of their native pibroch. Quarters were soon found for the division, and their orderly behaviour gained for them the sympathy of their hosts. Their manners, however, were little in unison with English habits, and many curious circum- stances occurred. We are told of one bold fellow who, remarking the sparing measure given by the maid-at- tendant, out of the mustard-pot, to his fellows, took it from her hand, and with evident gusto exclaimed, " Her nainsel mun hae muckle o' what is sae gude." A spoonful followed into his mouth and his nasal organs, and ludicrous contortions soon manifested the sufifering which his ignorant greediness had self-inflicted. Yet, although such instances of simplicitj' awakened the kind interest of the townspeople, the remains of ancient border hatred towards the Scots was too strong to per- mit any co-operation with them on the part of the peo- ple of Kendal. A few were found, nevertheless, who could not blind their eyes to the strong claims of the Stuarts — regarding the government as an hereditary, divine-right possession — to the British throne ; and it was in the house of one of this class that young Ronald Macdonald found himself quartered. Descended from an ancient clan, Ronald possessed all the patriarchal nobility of soul which distinguished the true Highland gentleman. Nephew to the head of his house, he was beloved by his followers, and upon the rising, in favour of the Stuarts, he had got a major's commission in the army which was organised for the expulsion of the family of Guelph from Britain. He had not before visited England, but a two years' cam- paign in the French service had made him acquainted KAID OF PRINCE CHARLES. 125 with the rules of war, and with the refined habits of polite life. It was with perfect ease and dignity, there- fore, that he returned the salutations of his host, who welcomed him to a venerable looking house in the low part of Highgate. The elderly gentleman, for such his host was, bore every appearance of having seen military service ; and the amputated arm, with the vacant coat-sleeve suspended by a cord from his collar, testified that he had been present and mingled in the strife wherein broad-swords had dealt blows of death. With this veteran Ronald soon found himself at home; nor were his feelings less pleasurable when his host's daughter, the only child of a beloved but departed wife, descended into the parlour to preside over the ample tea-table, at a meal to which the young major, after his march from Penrith, did full justice. The evening pibroch summoned Ronald at an early hour to the inspection of his followers ; and his absence was a time of serious consultation on the part of his host and daughter, as to whether they could confide their sentiments to the j'oung chieftain. As the Scots were to march early on the morrow, Macdonald soon returned, having seen his orderly followers dismissed to their rest. For himself, the interesting company into which chance had thrown him, prevented his seek- ing repose, and the lengthening hours of night only made the conversation and intercourse of the trio more mutually delightful. Supper being ended, the aged host poured out a bumper of claret, passed the bottle to his guest, and then, with a solemn inclination of his head, drank to the health of "The King." Ronald joined, giving to the toast what in his view was its legitimate meaning, and proposed returning the salutation by filling his glass to his fair hostess. 126 RAID OF PRINCE CHARLES. " No, no, my dear Sir," said her father, " she and I had resolved not to disclose our opinions to you, but your conversation has overcome mj' prejudices, and I cannot longer refrain from claiming my right to give another pledge, in which Bertha will be more glad to join than receive j'our compliment." He then uttered with earnest devotion, in which his daughter heartily joined, " Prosperitj' to the Prince, on his pathway to Koyal Westminster." Their guest was astonished : but he recovered his surprise in time to form the thii'd in a festive prayer, as hearty as ever was breathed by a loyal subject for an adored sovereign. We cannot detail the explanations which followed this avowal of fealty to a common liege lord. Eonald's spirit was kindled within him, as his host detailed to him the history of the campaign which he had under- taken when quite a boy, in the memorable rising of 1715. Perhaps Ronald's emotions were increased by the presence of one of nature's fairest forms. Bertha's was the loveliness of young womanhood, and her beauty was not that of expression only. Every feature was marked and refined. She was tall, but not masculine ; an aristocratic air and dignity reigned in her every movement, and the partly foreign and partly English st3'le of her attire, combined to adorn a figure which might have vied with the models of early Greece. She was an object fit to be revered by the afifectionate de- votion of a kindred soul ; and the stranger, while he admired, could not but be amazed that such talent and such loveliness should be found in so humble a dwell- ing. The bugle of the cavalry broke on the ears of the trio, ere Ronald had been willing to seek his bed, and at three o'clock the chilly air of a November morn- ing hung like dew upon his heated brow. RAID OF PRINCE CHARLES. 127 The march was commenced, and the clashing of claymores, the sound of the pipes, the military pass- word, and the busy hum of the mustering troops, amid which he had to marshal his own division, were so sud- den a transition that Ronald could hardly believe that the hours of his sojourn in Kendal had been anything but a dream. In general he was particular in noticing the country, but as he marched that day, nought at- tracted his thoughts but the absorbing and yet bewil- dering remembrance of his last night's quarters. The inhabitants of Kendal, favourably impressed with the first of their visitors, viewed with no dread the arrival of the second division, and as the Chevalier St. George rode up the street, his royal air and manly mien were welcomed by some huzzas, while the hat of manj' a gazer was doffed as he passed. No accession, however, was gained to his forces during the Sunday which the Prince spent in the town, although the im- pression in his favour was strengthened by his be- haviour, and by that of his officers, who attended the church to hear the sermon of Mr Crackanthorpe, the master of the grammar school (Dr. Symonds, the Vicar, having fled from fear), where they gave very liberally, both of gold and silver, to the collection for the poor, at that time regularly made by persons standing beside the door with pewter plates. Greatly to the disappointment of the Paul Prys, whose watchful eyes were on the alert, even at this early era of our history, no one was 'spied in communication with the invaders. One, more persevering than the rest, would have it, however, that the stranger gentle- man with one arm was seen entering the large house in Stricklandgate, (now — 1868 — occupied by E. Busher, Esq.,) where the young Prince abode during his stay. We will not accompany Ilon;ild in his adventures 128 RAID OF PRINCE CHARLES. throughout the remaining course of that ill-fated expe- dition, during which Preston, Manchester, and Derby saw tlic troops advance and retreat, with a feeling ap- proaching to indifference. We will not do more than allude to Charles Edward's unwillingness to turn hack, which was as difficult to overcome as that of many of his dauntless leaders, foremost amongst whom was Eonald, who little brooked retreating before he had measured his broadsword with the weapons of the Hanoverian troops. Still his heart was not unmoved as he bethought him of once again occupying quarters under that venerable roof, in bonnj^ Westmorland, where he had been so hospitablj^ entertained. After the last division of Charles Edward's troops had marched southward through Kendal, the usual quietness of the place was resumed, interrupted only by an occasional detachment of Highlanders following the Prince into Lancashire. The rumour of Ronald's host having been in communication with the Pretender had not, however, been forgotten ; and it was singular how it became more or less a matter of conver.sation, accord- ing as the intervals were longer or shorter between the passing of the several detachments of Highlanders through the town. When, however, the Kendal trades- men had received intelligence from their correspondents in London, — and a letter from the banking-house of (Smith and Co., to a manufacturing firm, communicated the first tidings, — that the Duke of Cumbei-land with an arm)' of Hessian and other German troops had land- ed, and were proceeding to give battle to the Scottish forces ; and when this news had been confirmed by a letter from a Kendal manufacturer, who, from the state of the country, had been cooped up at Chester with his goods, afraid to trust himself abroad, and who gave the further information that the Scots troops had begun a RAID OF PRINCE CHARLES. 129 homeward march, then it was that rumour and suspi- cion got head, and the authorities began to agitate the question, whether the stranger gentleman, with one arm, should not be put under arrest. The Mayor thought that such a step would be most desirable, as it would show to the reigning monarch the loyalty of the Corporation. Such zeal against all sedition and privy conspirac}' on their part might probublj' obtain further valuable additions to their charter. He said that hia counsel was given purelj' for the honour and safety of the realm ; and he did not say that his " lady mayoress" had whispered behind the curtain that loyalty was sometimes rewarded with knighthood, and that Sir John Shaw would sound remarkably well. We stronglj' opine that the sage advice of this worthy and unambitious couple would have been followed, but for the intervention of the town-clerk, a most important functionary — like all town-clerks, by the way — who might, on this occasion, have claimed the merit of being saviour to his town ; for had so decided a step been taken, in addition to the subsequent attack upon the retreating army, we question, whether the Scots would not have thought themselves bound to return the com- pliment by pillaging the place. It was the opinion — and his advice accorded with that — of this right arm of the body corporate, that, as yet, the decisive battle had not been fought, and that, perchance, the Prince might still win the day, as he had done at Preston-Pans : in which case, he argued, the worthy municipal dignitaries of Kendal might have to pay heavy fines for imprisoning one of his adherents, and at any rate, under the most favourable circum- stances attending the progress of the Duke of Cumber- land, the defeated arm)' must return through Kendal ; and however his worshipful the Mayor might be willing 130 RAID OF PRINCE CHARLES. to risk his own life for the reigning royal famil)', he, himself, like Falstaff, deemed " discretion the better part of valour." Therefore, he submitted, it would ho more prudent, as well as more consistent with their dut}' to their neighbours, to await the tide of events, and take that course onlj' which would ensure the safety of the members of the Corporation, whose lives, — and he said it verj' humbly, — were essential to the prosperitj' of their native town, and for that reason worth the lives of all the inhabitants together. Although such was eventually the decision of the authorities, some of the inhabitants, more officious than wise, deemed it needful to send sundr}' secret letters to the Government in London (of which the Mayor him- self afterwards acknowledged his cognizance), drawing their attention to a certain suspicious individual resid- ing in the neighbourhood. Some said that envy at the admiration which Bertha's charms were obtaining from the hcaux of the town, aggravated the loyalty of the very numerous class of maiden ladies who then re- sided in Kendal, and whose persevering insinuations fomented in no small degree the antipathy felt towards the damsel and her father. Through a friend at Court, the obnoxious individual soon became aware of these letters, as well as of the lurking intention to arrest him without form of law, and it was with utter consternation, that early one morning, "his worshipful" received tidings of the sudden disappearance of the stranger and his daughter. Those who love better to superintend the business of their neighbours than their own, were now more busy than ever. Even they who before had hinted that the one-armed gentleman was hardlj' dealt b}' in the sus- picions cast upon him, prudently affected to have'been always convinced in their own minds that he would RAID OF PRINCE CHARLES. 131 turn out to bo nothing bettor than a traitor. A thou- sand circumstances, before unnoticed and perfectly harmless in themselves, were remembered as damning proofs of his guilt, and even the Mayor, whenever he met the town-clerk, looked askance, and thought with grief that " Sir John" was now a visionary and hopeless phantom. On Saturday, the 14th of December, news was re- ceived of the speedy approach of the rebels, in full re- treat. It was the market-day when the first division entered the town, and many of the country people were then assembled on their ordinarj' business, be- sides numbers whom the proclamation of the Lord Lieutenant had summoned to obstruct the retreat of the Chevalier's army. As the Duke of Perth's carriage drove in, accom- panied by a hundred hussars, just at that part of the town where the Newbiggin narrowed the street into two channels, a shot from a window struck and killed one of his servants. The man fell to the ground, and his horse was immediately seized by some individual who galloped oiT with it, and -escaped both detection and pursuit. Perhaps the thief thought that the spoil of war was no robbery, when he afterwards found a large sum of money in the portmanteau fastened to the saddle of the horse. But the Duke of Perth, irritated by this attack, instructed his cavalry to return the fire, by way of intimidation — taking care however that the discharge should produce no other effect than that of ruflling the placid, motionless wintry air around. Still the defiance was sufiicicnt to arouse the ire of those who were gathered in the streets ; and fresh provocation having been given, the hussars could not be restrained from a second discharge of their carbines, when one individual fell dead on the spot, Q 132 RAID OF PRINCE CHARLES. and some others were more or less wounded. This dispersed the multitude, and the Duke's detach- ment proceeded onward, and took up their quar- ters. The bodies of the poor fellow who was slain and of those who subsequently died of their injuries, it maj' be added, wore afterwards interred in the grave-yard of the Parish Church, near the river, where a tomb- stone was erected at the public expense to commemorate the event. Before night the main arm}' of the Scots arrived. Their anger was naturally aroused by the tidings of the attack which had been made upon Perth's troop, and they threatened destruction to the town. Their feelings probably had been soured by the compulsion of an unwilling retreat ; and hence the conduct of the people of Kendal was in their eyes more base than it might otherwise have appeared, and so was declared to call for vengeance. Lord Elcho, being commissioned by the Chevalier to settle the mode of retribution, on him the Corporation now waited to endeavour to avert or mitigate their punishment. He met them in the Moot Hall, and it was galling indeed to the municipal dignitaries to be- come suppliants in the arena of their own greatness. With the best grace they could assume, however, they told his Lordship that the attack had been made by country people, over whom the officers of the town had no control ; and they very humbly prayed, that " his Royal Highness the Prince" would mercifully pass over the offence. It was heart-rending work for Mr John Shaw to give the appellation of royalty to the "Pretender." Alas! thought he, after this I shall never see the gleam of the sword of knighthood wav- ing over my head — Mrs. John Shaw will certainly never be "my lady!" and henceforth I shall be the RAID OF PRINCE CHARLES. 133 victim of conjugal «nblessedness. With much en- treaty the body corporate — carrying their cocked-hats in the most orderly manner under their arms — besought Lord Elcho to commute their punishment into a money fine. When, however, five hundred pounds was de- manded, the whole corporation, town-clerk and all, lifted up their hands in such amazement, that Elcho could hardly believe that the town itself possessed five hundred pence. Most plaintively did "his Worship" assure "his Lordship" that they were but a set of poor cloth- weav- ers, skinners, and tanners ; and that so heavy a sum could hardly be raised in the whole county — so barren was it and sterile ; that they were bounded by moor- lands on every side, and that with difficulty could they obtain a single hundred guineas. Wearied at last with the tedious details of corporate poverty submitted to him, Lord Elcho decided that the town should pay one hundred and fifty guineas. The mayor and his companions begged hard for two days to raise the money, hoping, doubtless, that in the mean- time the chapter of accidents would produce some turn in their favour. The request, almost against expecta- tion, was granted ; for as the rear-guard was following, they, it was foreseen, could receive the amount. The next day, accordinglj% the rear-guard, commanded by Lord George Murray and Colonel Roy Stuart, with the soldiers of the Glengary clan, and some of the artillery, entered the town. The penalty was of course then de- manded, but it was not without hard pressure that the worthy burgesses could be prevailed on to contribute their quota; nor then without making several deduc- tions touching sundry pairs of shoes, which had been taken, warm from the feet of the townspeople, by the Highlanders, who were much in want of that article of 134 RAID OF PRINCE CHARLES. apparel. At last, however, tb* whole sum of one hundred and fifty golden guineas was counted down to the rigorous "rebels," and the troops prepared to pursue, on the morrow, their cheerless route to the North. Ronald's feelings were of no common character as he quitted Kendal early on the morning of Wednesday, the 18th of December. The affairs which he had been required to superintend had demanded much attention, during his staj' in the town, but his engagements had not prevented him frond seeking his former quarters, ■where, to his dismay, he learned that Bertha and her father had left. He ascertained that their principles had been the cause of their departure, but to conjecture the place of their retreat was in vain. Wherefore did the casual acquaintance that had taken place, now so powerfully influence his feelings ? The reciprocal interest which he and his host felt for the fortunes of the Stuarts, could not be the only cause; — many surrounded him with whom he held those feel- ings in common ; yet no sentiment, beyond that actuat- ing ordinary compatriots was the result. Could it be that Eonald now experienced the power of Bertha's beauty and intelligence? Could it be that he was sensible to a communion of heart during their brief intercourse, and that already a free-masonrj', so to call it, of feeling had been established between them ? Was it that he not only loved, but dreamed that he was also beloved ? Weary and long seemed his wanderings that day over the barren fells of Shap. The troops he command- ed were depressed in spirit. Theirs was a retreat with- out the excitement of an enemy immediately in the rear, and the solitariness of the march, much of which was before sunrise, while it seemed to remind them of RAID OF PRINCE CHARLES. 135 their native heath-land, left them also at leisure to re- flect, with dismay, on the past and on the future. The group of respectable houses which constituted the village of Shap, formed a pleasant break upon their thoughts. Here they stayed awhile for rest tind re- freshment, and to gather up the stragglers of a preced- ing division, who had been detained by the breaking down of some of the ammunition waggons. Unquiet and thoughtful, Eonald strolled out of the village to rest himself, apart from his companions. He had sat down on a stone near a farm house, when he saw a figure aiiproaching him. He looked up vacantly, and, in reply to an enquiry for news, briefly said, that the troops were marching to Carlisle. He was eflfectually aroused, however, by the stranger saying, " Glengary, do you know me ?" Yes — he knew that voice on the instant — the tones — familiar as those of a father —belonged to his Kendal host. Honald grasped the old man's hand, and eagerly in- quired where he and Bertha had chosen their conceal- ment. " In this neighbourhood," said the gentleman, adding that he had only ventured out for the purpose of obtain- ing, if possible, some direct intelligence respecting the retreat, concerning which he had heard most confused accounts. Ronald asked after Bertha's health ; he wished also to send her a message, but his tongue faltered, — the pibroch told him that the troops were about to resume their march ; and, feeling as if they were about to part for ever, he clasped her father's hand, with a heartfelt " God bless }'0u," and hastened away to disguise his feelings, and to resume his wonted composure before rejoining his followers, among whom he felt that his looks of abstraction and care had already l36 RAID OF PRINCE CHARLES. dififused feelings of gloomj' discouragement. He would gladlj' have returned to join the fugitives in their hiding place, and have thrown the future to the winds ; but his honour, his prince, and his clan required his devo- tion, and he resolved to banish all remembrance of the vision, which for awhile had entranced him. Moreover, events were thickening around him, which absorbed his whole man ; for an officer who had been left with a small company of cavalry at Kendal to await tidings of their pursuers, galloped up soon after their departure from Shap, to announce the speedily expected arrival of the advanced guard of the pursuing army. The effect produced on the Highland army b}^ the intelligence of the near approach of their pursuers was marvellous. It was like the announcement of game to the hunter. Each man grasped his claymore as if to be sure it was at his side, and the merry jest, the cheer- ful Jacobite song, and expressions of renewed confidence now rang fi'om man to man. To Ronald the tidings were most opportune. The sudden, and as he supposed, final termination of his acquaintanceship with Bertha, imparted to him a feeling of reckless valour, and he now wished only for a soldier's honourable grave, as if nothing else were worth living lor. Very shortly the chasseurs of Kingston's regiment were seen approaching, and nothing prevented the Scots being attacked but their firm phalanx, and the steady order of their march. On the open moor, or the elevated grounds, or wheresoever the cavalry had a chance of taking them in flank, small detachments were separated, who covered the advance of the main body, until the whole had passed onward. In this service Ronald and his followers were peculiarly conspicuous. They often waited till the cavalry were almost within gunshot, who durst not charge the levelled muskets of RAID OF PRINCE CHARLES. 137 the Highlanders, standing, as firm as their own red deer, at hay. In this way was the march conducted until evening. Lord George Murray had received from the Chevalier directions to join the main army at Penrith, as speedily as possihle. He had sent Colonel Eoy Stuart to the Prince to ask for a reinforcement to keep the King's troops in check. He saw the necessity of this step, and though unsupported, he immediately resolved to take up his ground, and face his pursuers. The favourahle opportunitj' of arresting the advance of the foe soon occurred ; — the hamlet of Clifton was found to he occupied hy some local militia, hastily as- semhled to oppose the retreat. These fled at first sight of the Scots. Lord George, at once seeing the advant- ages of this locality, placed his troops, amounting, with the addition of straggling detachments, to ahout one thousand men, along the hedges from the church down to the Park wall of Lowther Castle. Ronald and a part of the Glengary regiment were stationed where the Park wall almost ahuts upon the road. Silence pervaded the scene, except when the blast bore on its wings the sound of distant horsemen. The clouds hurried rapidly athwart the sky, sometimes veiling the moon in darkness, and then as suddenly opening a passage for her beams to shine with the brilliancy of daylight. The clans were now going to enjoy what they had long desired, and the stillness of night daunt- ed not their courage. Their general went from station to station, and in reply to his whispered inquiry of " Ready ?" he everywhere met with the determined answer of " Aye, sir, musket and broad-sword." As a sudden gleam of moonshine was faintly dying away, Murray perceived the figures of dismounted dragoons advancing through the fields and along the 138 RAID OF PRINCE CHARLES. road. Ho knew that for the riiQ;hlandcrs it was necessary that they should he the assailants. Ho waited hut a moment, every hrcath was held, only the measur- ed tread of the dragoons was hoard. They halted, as if to inspect the position of the foe. At that juncture, Murraj' called to the Blacphersons and Stuarts to ad- vance. The order was barely uttered, when the blaze of fire from the advancing columns disclosed their formidable number. Ere the peal had died away, Murray shouted " Claymore !" — that war cry which to the Highlanders means death to the knife — and un- sheathing his own, he dashed forward at the head of his troops upon the enemy below. The shock was tremendous ; the dragoons in vain tried to hold their ground, for the northern broad- swords crushed their helmets, and gave fearful death- wound.s at a stroke. The Macdonalds saw their leader heading the attack, vrith Ronald at his right hand. The chieftain of Glengary was now attacked by a horseman, whose position gave him many advantages, and he would soon have perished, had not Ronald drawn upon himself the attention of the mounted assail- ant, who was now aided by two dragoons. The con- flict was unequal, and Ronald fell covered with wounds, but not till the enemy had been driven, in all directions, off the field, and his assailants themselves had shared his fate, being cut down by the men of his own clan, who had seen their major fall. The night had now become darker than ever. Rain began to fall fast, and having repulsed this body of pursuers, amounting to nearly four thousand cavalry. Lord George immediately drew off his forces towards Penrith, leaving the honour- ed dead and wounded upon the field. We must now recur to Ronald's Kendal host, who after his interview near Shap, speedilj' returned to a RAID OF PRINCE CHARLES. 139 farm house in Rossgill, where Bertha was awaiting his intelligence. Distressed as she had been at the retreat of the Scots army, her apprehensions were fearfully increased by the dread that a few hours would bring on a conflict between the parties. Her anxietj'' was more intolera- ble from knowing that she could not help her friends, and she burst into tears, with the exclamation, " Father, would to God that your arm had been pre- served until this day, or that j'ou could inspire me with your spirit, then the Prince M'ould have had another defender against those murderous Hanoverians." The distant approach of a foraging part)' from the troops who were now passing through fShap, warned Bertha and her father of their need to leave the house to which they had onh' come that day for information. They hastened their departure, therefore, to a more remote retreat, and had jjassed the foot of Knipe Scar ere they heard the distant sound of musketry fired into the bushes by the troopers, lest any Scots should be lurking amongst them. AVhile Bertha shud- dered, the reports seemed to act upon her father as the sound of the trumpet does upen the war-horse. He stopped his steed, turned to his daughter, and said, " I must — I will— help them." Yainly she persuaded him to stay. At last she said, "You cannot fight, but you may administer re- lief to the wounded and dying. Pledge me not to go into the field, and to take Roger, and then I will say Go, and God speed you." To this her father at last consented, and turning his horse's head, he with his servant sought the pass to the high road over the Scar, while Bertha, giving rein to her ponj', galloped homeward to their quiet resting place. R 140 RAID OF PRINCE CHARLES. Onward however sped her father, following, on the high ground, the march of the royal troops, and when evening closed in, he was still pursuing his way. He had nearly arrived at Clifton, when heavy peals of musketrj' told him that the ranks were engaged. He put spurs to his horse, and we doubt whether his ardour would not have led him into the affray, had not the quick and confused arrival of mingled foot and horse given him notice of the retreat. The open ground, along the height, afforded him a road towards the scene of action, and rejoicing in the victory which he perceived had been gained by the Scots, he left his horse with his servant, and proceeded to the spot on foot. In the darkness, the groans of the wounded guided him aright. The armies had retreated in contrary directions, and only a few country people were now on the ground, attempting to remove those who were not yet dead. The sufferers who wore the tartan seemed to excite no compassion ; to these the benevolent stranger turned. A group of bodies lay in a part where the trampled and furrowed field bespoke the thickest of the conflict. There he found an of&cer lying under a horse, his clenched fist still grasping the mane, which he had seized on receiving his death wound. And here was a dragoon, supported by the same horse, with rage depicted in his countenance, as he still retained his position, that of fencing off a blow, although a cut upon his left shoulder to his very heart had nearly severed his arm from his body. It was the stroke of one of the Glengary clan. Alas ! thought the veteran soldier, hen are no wounded, for the contest has been too stern to leave any alive. A lurid light, as the moon shone through a dense cloud while he uttered these words, opened to his view so horrible an expression in the face of the dead dragoon, that he BAID OF rEINCE CHARLES. 141 started back. With his change of position, his eye caught a glance of the tartan of the clan Glengarj'. Ronald rushed upon his memorj', and looking upon the face of the object before him, he recognised the body of the young major. " Ah !" thought he, " this is a couch meet for a warrior — the foe for his pillow, the ensign of the enemy for his shroud (for he found that was wrapped around him, as if having won it, he clung to it till the last), and the heavens themselves in mourning for the brave!" But, was it possible that life was still remaining ! did that breast heave a sigh — that forehead so cold, did it still beat — that eye, was it open in mere vacant fi,x:edness ? The visitor thought so, but as he anxiously gazed by the dim light on his wounded friend, he could hardly believe it. Bertha had hastened homeward along the rugged path at the foot of the mountains, which overhang the north-west side of Hawes Water. As the evening closed in, the road became scarcely discernible, but her steed knew the waj', and he safely wound around those mighty rocks, which time and winter storms had hurled from the impending cliffs down to the very water's edge. As she passed over a humble bridge at the entrance into Mardale, the voice of a hound bayed a welcome, and she soon found herself in the sequestered abode which sheltered her parent and herself. Reader, have you ever visited Mardale Green ? If not, our feeble description will convey an inadequate idea of the solemnity of its wild grandeur. At the base of almost perpendicular mountains, lie a few acres of mossy sward, cut off from the neighbouring vale of Bampton or Hawes Water, by a rugged rock called Chapel Hill. Standing in this secluded spot, the eye can detect no means of exit. A small chapel, one of 142 RAID OF PRINCE CHARLES. those humble temples which adorn our remote districts, erects its ancient tower at the southern corner of that shut-up scene. At a farm house not far from the church, was the dwelling in which Bertha and her parent felt secure. On reaching her home, her first business was to pre- pare for her parent's return. The kind family with whom they lived, had been indebted to her father for the life of one of its members, and their attachment knew no bounds. Bertha had at all times free access to the hall, whose ample chimney, open to the roof, and peat fire on the hearth, bespoke the home of the old Westmorland statesman ; but a small room shut off from this, enabled her to enjoy privacy. It was in this closed sort of apartment, adorned with little more than Bertha's books, her harp, and her paintings of scenes in the neighbourhood, that she awaited her father's return, having prepared for him a blazing fire and warm refreshment. She had two or three times consulted with farmer Mounsey, as to the length of time needed to go even to Penrith, and when hour after hour passed beyond the period stated, and her father and his attendant returned not, filial anxiety was stretched to the utmost. No one in the house re- tired to rest. Twelve and then one o'clock were sounded bj' the ancient clock. Often did the murmur of the wind induce Bertha to run to the door, thinking it was the sound of the absent ones, but the cold gust of the north rushed in and chilled her very soul. At one o'clock two of the sons set out to meet their lodger. They took the pathway over Fordindale, greatly ap- prehensive that they should find the absentees wound- ed, if not killed, at the foot of some cliff of the rugged Blenerhasset. Bertha grew more timid and nervous, until at last a RAID OF PRINCE CHARLES. 14;^ well-known footstep delighted her ear ; she rushed out, and fell into her father's arms. Coming to the light, she saw he was jaded and weary, and that his garment was stained with blood. Bertha's eyes recovered their brilliancy, as she glanced proudly upon his bi'ow, and said, " I see that my father's arm has again been raised for the honour of his Prince." "No, my love," he replied, "the stain j^ou have dis- covered is the blood of the brave youth, who ate of our bread and drank of our cup, and whom I have again brought for refuge under our roof." Bertha started back, crying " Can it be Ronald F' Her father briefly explained all ; a couch was pre- pared, and soon the wounded and insensible Glengary, accompanied by Eoe;er and the two Mounseys, was brought to the door, borne on a sort of litter made of cloaks, suspended between the two horses. The rugged path, which it was necessary to take for fear of dis- covery, and the care of the wounded, had made the journey from Clifton very difficult. We need not dwell on the care which the j'oung chieftain received under that roof, nor on the secrecy maintained bj' every one in the family, nor on the im- provement which the patient made, who was now long- ing to thank Bertha for the many comforts provided bj' a thoughtful but unseen hand. It was one evening in January when Ronald, for the first time, left his bed-chamber, and joined Bertha and her father in their little sitting-room. He had changed his garments to those of a Westmorland dalesman, for the purpose of securitj^, and this metamorphosis, and much more his pallid countenance and debilitated ap- pearance, would have prevented a recognition by his nearest connections. Despite the cold tempest beating 144 RAID OF riUiNCJ': ciiarles. outside their dwelling, the waters of a hundred cata- racts foaming down the mountain sides, and the snow, their best guardian, lying in deep and impassable drifts on every hand, Ronald's countenance, as the cheerful conversation proceeded in that snug little apartment, began to assume its usual animation, and his eye its wonted brilliancj', while he described, with all the warmth of unchecked love for the Prince and his cause, the bravery of the clans at Clifton. Bertha listened with emotions of pity and loyaltj', and would gladly have continued the conversation, but her father, fearing excitement for the youth in his then delicate state, suggested an early withdrawal to rest, proposing that they should first' hear one of Bertha's songs. She took her harp without any affectation of diffi- dence, and began — Bright bloom' d the heath on the brow of the mountain, And sweet was the incense it raised to the sky ; Sparkling and strong was the rush of the fountain. But lo ! the heath withers — the fountain is dry. Where is the banner that waved o'er the moorland ? And where are the broad-swords that circled it round ? Where are the thousands that rushed down the foreland, Heart-loyal and true, to the pibroch's brave sound .^ Alas ! for the gloaming has shadowed their glory — Has dimmed the bright prospects that greeted our eye, And the sunlight which shnmk from a field dark and gory, Leaves a night drear and starless to curtain our sky. But weep not, loved Albyn, for morning is dawning, Thy sons ever faithful, and loyal and brave, Choose the dark gulf of death in its dread horror yawning, Their pathway to glory, — than live as the slave. What ! though for a moment the foeman has speeded, His days are all numbered — his wraith has shone red ; What, though for a while the true Prince is unheeded. The radiance of hoj)e is still over him shed ! What, though if the bird to its own rocky eyrie, Hath winged all undaunted its heavenward flight ; What, though the proud ocean wave, restless, unweary, Retreats from the strand where it broke in its luiffht. RAID OF PRINCE CHARLES. 145 The eagle returns again fresh from his fastness, And sweeps from the clouds, unrepelled, on his prey ; The ocean re-rolls on the beach in its vastness, Nor mortal nor rock its stern coming can stay. So the night of our sorrow shall dawn into morning, The heather re-bloom o'er the moorland and lea, And the crown of a kingdom its true hoir adorning. Shall gladden the gallant, the loyal and free. * * * * * * Spring time had now awakened the snow-drops from their wintry bed — the snow was gradually disappearing, and with the advance of the season, Ronald's strength was by degrees becoming restored. Many a consulta- tion had been held by the fugitives respecting the way for him to rejoin his clan. Since the fight at Clifton, thej' had only procured one newspaper, in which he was numbered with the dead. Fear of discovery, and latterly the snow, had prevented any intercourse with the world ; and Ronald was entirely ignorant of the proceedings in the North. A brilliant morning, towards the end of March, at last arrived ; the grass was shooting up, and the green leaves of the earliest trees were peeping forth, when Ronald and Bertha, having strolled out, found them- selves upon the summit of Chapel Hill. The day became stUl, and, for the season, sultry. A bright blue sky was above them, while a dense mass of cloud gradually overspread Naddle forest, throwing an awfully black shadow over that side of the lake, which elsewhere was a perfect calm of emerald hue. They gazed with admiration upon the scene ; Ronald with intense interest, for a messenger had been sent to Penrith to obtain as much information as possible, in order that final arrangements might be made for his departure. Perhaps it might be the last time that he should be alone with Bertha, and he could not resist confessing to her the pain which tho thought gave him. 146 RAID OF PRIXCE CHARLES. She told him that now the field of honour was his — that if prosperity awaited their cause, possibly they might again meet, and added, with the coolness of de- termined resolve, " Let the rightful heir be again driven from his inheritance, and this bosom shall not be defiled by breathing the atmosphere of so faithless a land." Eonald earnestly urged a similar determination on his part. His heart beat hurriedlj^, and he felt the fatigue of the walk, and the excitement of the inter- view, acting upon his brain. Bertha marked his flushed cheeks and his pallid brow now dewed with perspira- tion, and she thought how little fit he was to encounter the hardships of a campaign. Her feelings overcame her, and with tears of affectionate interest, her noble heart confessed its womanhood, as she replied, scarcely- knowing what she said — " God grant that we maj' meet again." Ronald grasped her hand, pressed it to his lips and to his heart, while he vowed to be hers for ever. The sudden flash of distant lightning aroused them to observe the turmoil of the elements. The cloud on the east side of the lake had spread southwards until the whole of Knipe Scar seemed but one curtain of blackness, while around their own sheltering moun- tains darkness was fast gathering. Another flash was like a hand writing characters of light on the escarp- ment of the Scar, and the thunder pealed from the mountains of Crossfell. It was high time to hasten home, although the sky overhead was yet a deep azure, but ere they had descended half waj' down the Chapel Hill, clouds overspread all the heavens. The air felt like the breath of a furnace. Suddenlj' a flash gleamed immediately above them, and straight their own moun- tains sent forth the note of thunder, — it was rever- berated by a thousand echoes, — and then the hollow RAID OF PRINCE CHARLES. 147 sound rumbled up the narrow glens and ravines until it was lost in a distant grumbling over Hill-bell and Harter-fell. • Ronald knew the Highlands well, yet never had he seen aught like this. The black clouds seemed to rest on the peaks of the mountains ; beneath them, in the inequalities of the ridges, light peeped through in singular patches. The basin-like valley was itself a picture of gloom, only here and there a lingering snow- drift retaining its whiteness. The rugged brows of the hills looked more fearful than ever, and the waterfalls murmured with a hoarser sound. Another flash blazed like the burst of a volcano, — it seemed to rive the clouds in twain, and as the ball of fire struck a projecting cliff, the mass gave way, and tumbled down the mountain side : but the crash of its fall was lost in the tremendous peal which followed. The ancient hills seemed shaken to their foundations. Down each gull}' rushed a current of wind like a hur- ricane. Rain-drops and hailstones came pouring down, and before Ronald and Bertha could reach home their garments were as wet as if they had been soaked in the lake. The account of the victorj' of the Prince at Falkirk greeted their return, and stimulated Ronald to a hasty departure ; but that night found him in a high fever produced by being heated and then suddenly chilled. Delirium succeeded, under which Bertha was the subject of his incoherent expressions, and it was her care alone, he said, which restored him to health and to the disastrous intelligence of the battle of Culloden, consummating the utter hopelessness of the cause of the Stuarts. We will not follow up the butchery which ensued after that hard fought engagement ; nor enumerate the victims whose blood was poured out to atone for 148 RAID OF PRINCE CHARLES. their errors. The doom of the traitor awaited not only those who had followed the Chevalier's standard in that expedition, hut the heroes of 1715 were also condemned when captured. Spies, informers, and hrihes, ensnared many a fugitive in his secret abode of imagined security. It was late one evening in August 1746, that three persons clothed in the garb of Westmorland peasants, entered the Bull Inn, in Aldgate, London. A few days sufficed them to make their preparations for departure to the Continent ; a friend in office procured them passports, and the Friday evening arrived upon which a vessel was to sail to Boulogne. The parties had already shipped their luggage, and were walking quietly to the wharf in order to go on board before the bustle of weighing anchor. They had reached the London-docks when JRonald, one of the three, unfor- tunately stumbled against an individual who seemed wrapt in his own thoughts. Ronald's Scotch accent, in asking pardon, attracted the persons attention, who then recognized that the attire of all the three was the costume of his own county. The incongruity of the language with the garb led him to notice them more particularlj', and then, lifting up his hands, he exclaimed, as he looked upon Bertha and her father, — " Good God, it is them !" His countenance was remembered at once by the two as that of the quondam Mayor of Kendal, from whose persecution they had already suifered. They therefore hastened forward to the good ship " Marie," and went on board, but not before Mr John Shaw, who had followed them, had noticed their destination. It was singular enough that this worthy personage should now be in London at the recommendation, to use the mildest word, which infers a peremptory com- RAID OF PRINCE CHARLES. 149 mand — of Mrs Shaw, who had been grievously vexed at not obtaining her hoped for title. She had, by the force of constant pecking, at last induced " her dear John" to go to town to seek some remuneration for his loyal services. His applications had, alas ! been all treated with disdain, and he was meditating some other resource, to avert the wrath of his wife, when he met Bertha and her father, which was, in his opinion, an undoubted God-send. At eight o'clock the ship " Marie" left the quay with her passengers, who now deemed themselves safe, and the vessel was swiftly going down the broad Thames with the tide, when she was hailed by a boat which followed them rapidly, having on board some officers of justice, amongst whom was Shaw, standing up, and bawling out lustily, " stop the ship." The helmsman of the boat requested him to sit down, but elevating the warrant of arrest as if it were the patent of his promotion, he answered " Hold your peace, I shall be a baronet soon." Alas, for him ! his august personality had so ob- structed the sight of the steersman, that a large fishing smack bore down upon them unpcrceived, and before the boat could avoid her, and just as the captain of the "Marie" Was about to shorten sail, the unfortun- ate Shaw, with boat and crew, wore run down by the smack. The warrant was washed down the river, but the would-be baronet and crew were extricated. The former was half dead with terror, and was most glad to hurry to a warm bed in his own quarters at the Pig and Whistle, in Cannon-row, Westminster. The captain of the "Marie" upon observing the accident, waited for no further orders, but made the best of his way, having, as it was suspected, little in- 1.50 RAID OF PRINCE CHARLES clination to sufiFcr the revenue officers to test too minutely the quality of his cargo. Here our history must have concluded, had not a pedestrian tourist from Kendal, in the year 1821, been surprised to see standing at the Brown Cow in Mardale, a gentleman's carriage. So unusual a sight, as the I'oad from Bampton to the head of the lake would hardly admit of more than a cart, roused his curiosity. He found that it belonged to a venerable French officer, wearing the Cross of the Legion of Honour, ■who was accompanied by a fine looking female of middle age. On inquiring of their servant more par- ticulars, he learned that the gentleman was visiting the place where his parents had once resided, and where his father was wounded. Further investigation, with a drop of the native, loosened the servant's tongue, who proved to be a High- lander, and informed our tourist that the parents of the officer above alluded to, were Glengarj^ and Bertha, and that this stranger was the only surviving offspring of their marriage. It appeared that on taking refuge in France, Ronald had entered the French service, and that his son, following his father's fate, after a series of cam- paigns under Napoleon, had been raised to the highest military rank, and even obtained the title of Duke and the Baton of a Marshal of the Empire. Thus, he was enabled to visit, in companj' ■with his daughter, that Mardale and those Clifton heights, of which, when a youth, he had heard such romantic histories. Our tourist believes the servant also told him that Bertha's father was a yoimger brother of Lord Derwentwater's; but of this he is not confident, only he remembers distinctly that the officer said that Bertha's name was Eatcliffe, which makes such a pre- sumption verj' probable. (151) DUNMAIL RAISE. CHAPTER I. " That pile of stones, Heaped over brave King Dunmail's bones ; He who had once supreme command, Last King- of rocky Cumberland ; His bones and those of all his power, Slain here in a disastrous hour !" WOKDSWORTH. Although the summer had not fully waned, the weather had set in cold and tempestuous as at the close of autumn. The mountain rills were swollen by fre- quent showers ; the tarns had overflowed their ordin- ary bounds ; and the mountain slopes were penetrated with moisture, yielding like a sponge to the pressure of the wild deer, or of the venturous hunter who sought to pursue them into the pathless thickets studding alike the hills and the dales of rugged Westmorland. Night had descended over Potter Fell ; and as the starless darkness closed around, the croak of the wood- owl, the flapping of the bat, and the occasional hoarse, deep bark of the wolf, prowling in search of prej'', were echoed discordantly from the crags and peaks that bounded the horizon. It was a wild and lonely scene. Man had scarcely yet asserted his reign over the bleak region— having contented himself with forming here and there a road through the most favoured tracts, in order to connect the more profitable domains of Cum- 152 DUNMAIL RAISE. bria and Scotland with the fertile South : — j'ct man was not wholly wanting there, even in that hour of gloom and desolation. The wild bulls, grazing in the meads that rise from the margin of the Kent at Burne- side, were startled at their pasture, and turned away from the duskj- figures and low muttei-ing voices of two human prowlers, wending their way towards the hills, as if anxious to avoid the haunts and to escape the ob- servation of other men. As these night- wanderers proceeded — heedless of the pelting of the mingled hail and rain, and the muttered thunder which growled around the neigh- bouring mountain tops — they seemed absorbed in con- versation. "I tell thee, Leolf," said the taller personage, who, from his tone, seemed accustomed to command, " that I will seek no shelter more till I be avenged on the Atheling, who, bj- treacherous wiles, has obtained a victory over mj^ brave people, and has disposed of my realm as if it were a thing of spoil or of ran- som." " It is thine, my lord," said the person addressed, " to will, and thy servant's to obey. But yet, if I might urge it, there still be true hearts to whom j'our safety might be entrusted. Men who would form a rampart around you with their bosoms, and who would spend the last life-drop to restore to you the sceptre which has been wrested from j-our hand — would you but permit them to be informed of )-our retreat, and to displaj' your confidence in their fidelity." " Nay, Leolf — thou judgest of others bj' thyself. The accursed Saxon has overthrown our altars, and with his potent ale has debauched the minds and faith of our friends and followers, till safety no longer remains in the land of our fathers." DUNMAIL RAISE. 153 " Then," argued Leolf, " let us flee at onco. Among the hold and hospitahle Gael of the far North, you will find a secure home until hotter daj's shall enable j'ou to descend to your native valleys, and to sweep your foes from the hill side, as the eagle expels the fox- brood which has dared to encroach upon the precincts of its e3Tie." " I have said," replied the chief speaker : — " In thee alone have I hope for deliverance. To thy hand and thy skill I would trust much, and will trust ; such, in- deed, is my burning for vengeance, that to rid my country from the presence of these proud and cruel Saxons, I could endure a thousand-fold the misery and degradation which have been heaped upon me. Thou, then, shalt be my messenger — take my signet as thy voucher. I will pursue my wanderings alone, whilst thou, returning to the peopled dales, shalt gather the sentiments, and re-inspire with thoughts and hopes of freedom, such still loyal Britons as aspire to be free from the base bondage of the conqueror." " But ere I fulfil this mission, my lord, maj' I not see thee bestowed in the shieling of some trusty Cum- brian." " Have I not said, Leolf, that no roof shall shelter me more till I have vengeance ?" " Be it so, then. Sire. I will depart with the first rays of the morning's sun." " Depart at once. Thou knowest every turn of these wild hills and valleys, and, making thy way through the darkness, thou wilt appear, by the morrow, as if from heaven, among those who wilt at least be glad to learn that the price set upon our heads by King Edmund has as yet been in vain to purchase our blood." It is almost needless to say that the speakers in 154 DUNMAIL RAISE. this dialogue were Dunmail, King of Cambria, and his faithful attendant Leolf, who had been brought up be- side him from boyhood ; and who, through every stage of fortune had followed him and been his staj', when nobler friends had sought individual safety in flight or submission. The King, after having taken part in the great battle of Brunnaburgh against Athelstane, had made his peace with the conqueror, and after his death had lived for a while in friendship and good under- standing with his successor, Edmund the Atheling ; but the latter, an ambitious and treacherous prince, remembering the stern opposition encountered by his father, had gathered an army, about the year 942, among the Wolds of Yorkshire, giving out that he meditated an attack upon Malcolm, King of Scotland, and when he had succeeded thus in lulling to sleep all suspicion in the mind of the Cumbrian mon- arch, he poured his desolating host upon the dales of Westmorland and Cumberland, and reduced Dunmail to the condition of an exile and outlaw in the very heart of his own domains. A. price had been set upon the Prince's head-^his capital had been laid waste — the Druid priests of his realm had been remorselessly massacred, and his people had been enthralled as bond- men to the victorious Saxons. Dunmail had since wandered among the moors and mountains of his na- tive regions — still hoping, against hope, that an op- portunity would arise to call his hardj' followers once more to arms, and enable them to assert the independ- ence of their children and their soil ; and though at first he had been attended bj"- nobles and courtiers, bound to him by the sacred ties of kindred and of gratitude, ere many weeks had passed, he found him- self alone with his cupbearer — a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth. He found no difficulties in sustaining life. DUNMAIL RAISE. 155 The red deer, birds of all kinds, and fish were abundant ; and the clefts of the rocks and caverns of the glens af- forded ample shelter to one who knew nothing of, or despised the luxuries of delicate fare, of goodlj' houses, and of the splendid attire which had been introduced into the country originally by the Eonaans, and which had been adopted, and even rendered more sumptuous, by the sensual Saxons. The King, it will be readily supposed, however, was not content. His queen and children had escaped into the kingdom of Strathclyde — but they were at a distance from him ; and he, who had been accustomed to obedi- ence from a realm, was compelled to shun the face of the meanest hind, lest he should be betrayed and given up to an ignominious death, from the hands of the hos- tile stranger. Leolf, therefore, had acquired a sort of ascendancy over his mind ; and his constant urgency to undertake some bold and desperate step was at last successful. The cup-bearer having arranged a future and earlj^ meeting, departed; and Dunmail, amid the darkness of that gusty September night, stood desolate among the hills. He turned, as his last follower quitted him, and straining his eyes for a moment to watch his course through the thick gloom, bethought him of the number who had gone from his side, since the ebb of his fortune, to return no more. A pang shot through his brain, and a sigh followed ; but, those over, he resumed his onward waj' up the fell — the storm gradually subsiding as he proceeded, till the muttering thunder sunk upon his ear, and a death-like stillness succeeded. Then the stars, one by one, came forth, twinkling the more brightly for that they had been veiled for a time, and gemming the deep blue of asther, as golden cressets gem an imperial robe. 156 DUNMAIL RAISE. On the top of the fell, amid a grove of dwarf oak, surrounded with a thicket of hirch and ash and hasel, and studded here and there with a dark-yew, or an ancient holly-bush, there stood a Druid temple, unde- faced hj the spoiler — a small, rural sanctuarj', hearing, as has been said by a modern author, such relation to Stonehenge, and the larger monuments of ancient British worship in England, " that a rural chapel hears to a stately church, or to one of our noble cathedrals." At the present day, nothing but the unhewn stones which formed the inner circle of the temple, with the sanctuarj^ of justice, remain ; but even these cannot fail to impress the beholder with some reverence for the devotion which led his ancestors, established in the wilderness, to remember the duties they owed to the Creator and Governor of all things, and to paj' Him, even in the desert, as it were, such homage as consisted with their knowledge — unenlightened by revelation. Thither Dunmail bent his steps — without design or motive, save that the presence of a familiar and vener- ated object always has a magnetic attraction for such as feel desolate of heart. He paused amid the mystic circle, and breathing a prayer to the Lord of Immortal- ity, whose attributes the earliest priests of Britain had taught in greater purity than either their pagan or semi-christian siiccessors, sat down within the sanctum to meditate upon the events which had crowded into the few past months of his existence, and upon the prospects of the future. He knew not how time passed while thus revolving the bitterness of his fate ; but ere he had apparently rested long, his attention was suddenly awakened by a dazzling gleam of light, which, diffusing itself through- out the temple, softened gradually into a bright halo, in the midst of which he perceived a beautiful female DUNMAIL RAISE. 157 in the snow-white garb of a Druidess, advancing to- wards him with an attitude of benediction. The heart of the King was filled with awe. He felt that the vision was superhuman, and he knew not what it boded. " Whj' art thou here, Dunmail ?" asked the appari- tion. " Why here alone and waking, when other men are housed and asleep ? "Need I answer?" replied the King. " Thou who hast recognised me at first sight cannot require to be told that I have been driven from mj' throne, to become a joint tenant of the wildernss with the eagle and the wolf." "Alas, that it should be so," said the sweet and gentle voice of the Druidess. "But thou hast well withstood thine hour of trial in adversity, and brighter da3'S shall dawn upon thy realm and people." The monarch bowed in silence ; for he perceived that the vision was prophetic. " But thou hast much to achieve," continued the female ; " and must have aid in the enterprise. Tell me, then, what would' st thou exchange for thine own deliverance, and for the restoration of thy country's freedom r" " Even such," said the prince, " as prosperity should yield to me, vpithout injury to others — provided it com- promised nothing of my regal duties, or my people's right." " And should I truly promise to restore to thee thy sceptre, and to bring destruction upon thine enemies, would'st thou follow the counsels I might hereafter whisper into thine ear, when thou shouldest be reseated amid thy flatterers in thy palace festal hall ? " My faith— my life shall be thy pledge." " It is accepted, prince." So saying the Druidess drew from her hand a ring, 158 DUNMAIL RAISE. and placed it on the finger of the fugitive, at the same time, taking from his neck a small golden ornament, which in youth had been bestowed upon him bj"^ the Queen, his mother. "When thou shalt again behold this sign," said the female, exhibiting before him the golden amulet, " and shalt be reminded of this night, be sure that the fulfil- ment of thy promises will be required." " But stay," exclaimed Dunmail, seeing that the figure with which he had been talking was about to retire from the circle — " Sta)', I conjure thee, and tell me " The form was enveloped in bright light, and had dis- appeared from his gaze ere he could finish his entreaty. He started to his feet, but stumbled in attempting to rush forward, and when he had recovered himself, nothing was visible but the hoar trees and the moss- grown stones, that formed the Druid's circle, around him, and the paling stars of morning overhead. CHAPTER II. The exertions of Leolf to arouse his still patriotic, though defeated, countrj^men, were not made in vain. The news that the King was still alive and in the midst of them, and the consciousness of outrage and wrong, daily inflicted by the victorious Saxons, whose sole object in retaining the land, seemed to be to ruin and desolate it, kindled the enthusiasm and loyal attachment of the dalesmen and mountaineers to a pitch of frenzy, which indeed could scarcely be re- strained until measures might be concerted for such a general rising against the oppressor as might secure DUXMAIL RAISE. 159 success to the enterprise. Everywhere new life and energ}'' were displayed, as the returning hope dawned that Cumbria was about to re-assert her ancient inde- pendence, and that the hated Saxons would be speedily expelled. Dunmail was not long left in ignorance of the favour- able disposition of his people ; but, deprived of the counsel of his faithful and considerate Leolf, he had less prudence, less patient endurance, and less necessary reserve than before ; and thus, more than once, he narrowly escaped betrayal into the hands of his foes. He had at all times been accustomed to implicit obedi- ence, and though the circumstances by which he was surrounded required that he should now lay aside his habit of command, he was unable to descend with becoming grace from the sphere of regality to that of common life, which it was absolutely necessary for him to assume, until the moment when the realization of his high projects should no longer be a question of doubtful speculation. As he traversed the mountain region which surrounds the magnificent lake of Windermere, he was sudden- ly startled one evening by the .ippearance of an armed Saxon soldier immediately in his path. He clutched the dirk which hung concealed within his vest, and demanded the purpose of the intruder. "Thou art a Briton and a stranger," replied the soldier, in the mixed dialect which then prevailed in those districts of England and Scotland, where the near neighbourhood of men whose native languages were entirely different, rendered a common tongue necessary for the purposes of daily intercourse. " A stranger it seems, or despiser of the law which declares the life of a Cumbrian forfeit, should he raise arms against a Saxon freeman." 160 DUN MAIL RAISE. " You speak bolcll}'," .said the king — his lip curling with mingled rage and disdain — " but I would not stain my weapon with base blood. Stand back, and let me pass." ♦ The Saxon was immovable, save that he placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword, or seax, the weapon from which the Saxon name had been originallj'' de- rived. He surveyed his adversary for an instant from head to foot, then suddenlj' springing forward to close upon him unawares, he exclaimed :— " I know thee now tyrant. There is a price upon thy head. Thou art mj' captive." Dunmail answered not, but sustaining the shock of his opponent's onset firmly, and parrying the blow aimed at him, he clenched his hand upon the soldier's neck, and sought to deprive him of power by mere muscular exertion. In the struggle, however, he dropped his dagger, and seeking to recover it gave his assailant such advantage, that in an instant he lay prostrate upon the moss-grown earth. " Yield, or thou diest," cried the soldier. The king, his voice choked with shame and indigna- tion, was unable, even had he been desirous, to rejjly. "Thou art he," continued the exulting Saxon, "whose name for the last few days has been bruited through glen and valley, and echoed over mountain and moor, as the saviour, that was to be, of conquered Cumbria. Look thy last. King Dunmail, as thy friends still call thee, upon the bright sun above thee, and be- think of a brief prayer to thy God, for thine hopes and aspirations end here." The foot of the hostile warrior was upon the breast of the monarch, and his sword was at his throat, when, rushing from behind a crag that jutted into the narrow pass in which the encounter had taken place, a damsi 1, DUNMAIL RAISE. 161 j'oung, beautiful, light of foot, and inspired by feelings compounded of terror and devotion, appeared upon the scene, and casting herself upon her knees beside the king, implored the victor for mercj'' to his captive. " Nay," said the ruthless savage, " I have fallen upon a double prize. I was in search of thee, fair runaway, when I lighted upon this wingless eagle. I will e'en despatch him first, and then turn to dry thy tears." " Dastard !'' cried the maiden, with vehemence, at the same time starting to her feet ; " Is it not enough that our homesteads are plundered, and our fields laid waste b}' the spoiler ; but must rapine and violence crush at once the prince and the peasant?" The poniard, which had been dropped by Dunmail, struck her sight. Quick as thought she seized it, and ere the Saxon could prepare to ward the blow, plunged it to the haft in his back. The soldier fell with a groan to the earth, writhing beneath the mortal agony with which he had been stricken. There was no time to lose. The British maiden and the monarch, taking a route known only to those who had been accustomed from childhood to tread the intricate windings of the Westmorland hills and dales, hastened to a place of safety in Patterdale ; where they soon learned that the wounded Saxon had lived long enough to indicate to some of his countrymen the direction taken by Dun- mail and his fair rescuer, to arouse pursuit, and to elicit the most solemn vows of vengeance. Humour, with her thousand tongues, was busy in every direc- tion. The whole country was disturbed. Here the Saxons were gathering, at the sound of the bugle, to hunt the still enfranchised lion in his lair ; and amid the remote dales, there were musteriugs of the Cumbrian warriors, eager for freedom, and thirsting for renown. 162 nrxMAii, raise. Three daj's passed thus, when on a secret intimation from Leolf, who amid every difficulty and danger, had contrived to do his mission warily, and to avert any direct suspicion, on the part of the enemy, from him- self, the beacon was lighted upon Scafell, and, extend- ing thence to Penrith, to Carlisle, to Orton, to Whin- fell, and to Helme Cragg, the whole population took arms, and, marching forth in array, soon joined their forces, and offered battle to their recent masters. Songs of liberty, and shouts of patriotic ardour rang then from every rock and hill. The heriban — or gath- ering call— sped as if borne on the fleet-winged winds, over mountain, lake, morass, and scaur ; and none neglected the appeal who was able to wield a spear, a bow, a sword, or a dirk. ' Insult and oppression — plunder and violation, had filled every heart with re- vengeful valour, and nerved every arm with gigantic might. It was the cause of his home, of his parents, and his children — of all that was nearest and dearest to every man — aj'e, and to every woman, of the land. The rising was decisive. The Saxons, unprepared for such determined opposition, hastened to retire into the more settled and amicable counties of York and Lancaster, without hazarding a blow, and Dunmail, ere fourteen daj's had elapsed from the time of his de- liverance from death bj' the golden-haired maiden of Patterdale — long afterwards celebrated by the native poets of the north, the Lakists of the olden time, as the fair Guonoline — was reseated in regal pomp upon the throne of his fathers, in his palace at Appleby — not then, as now, a place of minor importance, but one of the first of northern towns in extent, in population, and in wealth. The King, elated with success, however, was more DUNMAIL RAISE. 163 imprudent now that prosperity had returned to him, than he had been in adversity. Leolf, his faithful at- tendant, it is true, was by his side, and ceased not to counsel him right, even to the risk of offending by his freedom, when he saw that things were done amiss ; but Leolf was no longer the sole companion and con- fidant of his master ; and other influence had obtained the ascendancy over the mind of Dunmail, which led him not unfrequently from the path of rectitude and of duty. He remembered the service of the beautiful Gruonoline, not merely with such gratitude as he ought undoubtedly to have entertained towards a deliverer-; but a more questionable feeling arose within his breast, when, in the presence of his assembled chiefs, he seated her amid them, and placed upon her brow the golden circlet of nobility. He loved her — if the name of love ought to be profaned by being applied to a passion which, as well according to the notions of that period, he those of the present da}', was held to be impure ; and he sought occasion from day to daj', to repudiate the wife of his youth — the mother of his children — in order to make room upon his throne for a younger and more beautiful bride. Hence coldness, disputes, and finally, a deadly feud arose between the King of Cumbria, and the Sovereign of Strathclyde, the brother of his Queen. In the war which followed, no advantage accrued to either partj', but resources which ought to have been husbanded, were wasted, the interests of thekingdom were neglected or sacrificed, and the Cumbrians, seeing that thej' were involved in ceaseless broils, grew discontented and dis- affected. Still the Queen|maintained her cheerless place upon the throne, and Guonoline, unconscious perhaps of the mischief her charms had wrought, lived peace- fully among her native hills, and sang the songs V 164 DUXMAIL RAISE. which she had been accustomed to sing from happy childhood. Since he had been smitten with his fatal passion for the youthful Guonoline, everj'thing had sped worse than formerly with Dunmail and his people. The pub- lic interests were neglected ; justice, so far as its ad- ministration depended upon the King, was delayed ; and, through the evil example of the Sovereign, the forms, and, as an almost necessary consequence, the essentials of religion were abandoned, or remembered only to be derided and scorned— an offence which, however we may scoff at the Druidical worship in these days, was, at the period of which we are speaking, calculated to produce as great an extent of public mis- chief as infidelity and vice among those who are still looked up to by the bulk of the population, under the Christian Dispensation. It was in vain that the faith- ful Leolf, from time to time, warned his master of the growing prevalence of evil throughout the land, where wrong stalked abroad unpunished, and outrage passed unavenged. The mind of Dunmail was absorbed by one sole object. For that, could such steps have secured the gratification of his wishes, he would willingly have relinquished his throne, and foresworn his race and country. The bright eye of Guonoline acted upon him as a spell, which he could neither break nor flee from. It held him, like a desperate man brooding on revenge, from effort or care, while the thought of compassing the burning desire within him by turns allured and consumed his soul. At length, when the well- nursed tortures of his guilty mind had goaded him to exertion, he resolved on a project which promised to compensate for the agonies he had undergone. He summoned his court and council to an assembly at " merry Carlisle," to DUNMAIL RAISE. 165 deliberate upon the state and disorders of the kingdom, and to devise means of successfully opposing all future attempts of the Saxons, concerning a threatened in- vasion from whom reports were already rife among the Cumbrian dalesmen. The moment seemed propitious. The King had devised a scheme for carrying off the object of his love while her father and friends should be at a distance from home in the service of the State ; and, as if the stars themselves had conspired to favour him, Guonoline herself, unasked and unexpected, at- tended the great national meeting, at which it was generally believed her country's fate was to be decid- ed. She had thus, as it were, thrown herself into the path of destruction, and courted the doom which had been prepared for her. The heart of Dunmail leaped within him, his hand trembled, his cheek was blanched, his lips were parch- ed, and his brain grew dizzy, as he placed her beside him on the hill of justice, where the chiefs and people met to assist at a solemn celebration of religious rites before entering upon the secular duties of the assem- bly. The thought crossed him ever and anon, as the lightning flashes through a mountain-pass, that, ere a few short hours had elapsed, the maiden, who was the delight and envy of all eyes, would be his — his without compromising his regal dignitj', or subjecting him to the censures of those who constituted his world — and without the knowledge, the meddling, or the scandal of parents, nobles, or priests. The ceremonies of that day were a blank to the King. The feast with which it closed was scarcely tasted. The songs of the bards, inciting to spirit-stirring deeds of arms, and holding forth the promise of a blessed immortalitj' to all who should worthily acquit themselves in behalf of their altars and their homes, 166 DUNMAIL RAISE. fell upon his listless ears, for the first time, as sounds that but prolonged the tedious hours till Guonoline should be made to listen to, if not to approve the pas- sion her beauty and heroism had inspired in the breast of her Sovereign. Never did the sun linger so long in his descent, or the shades of twilight gather so slowly as on that sum- mer's eve. All was in readiness to bear away the un- conscious damsel — guards, horses, changes of raiment, and a bower of security upon the shelving banks of the Eden — yet still the daylight loitered on the hills, and the festivities were continued. Guonoline herself was happy. Guileless as a fawn amid the impenetrable glades of the forest, she meditated no evil, and there- fore suspected none ; but sat amid the courtly group, who honoured her for the sake of their monarch's favour, ■with the same artless simplicity as when, excited by feelings of loyalty and justice, she had sprung from her lurking place to the rescue of the King from the hands of the ruffian who had been her own pursuer ; and when she retired from the scene in company with those for whom her exploit on that occasion had procured the rank of nobility, it was with feelings of thankfulness that she had been permitted to become an important instrument in the deliverance of her country, of honest pride at enjoying the esteem and gratitude of the King, and of security with regard to the future, inasmuch as she relied upon the protection of that Providence which had hitherto shielded her, her kinsfolk and friends, and the hills and valleys which she loved. The night had scarcely enveloped the neighbouring mountains in thick darkness — a moonless night of June had been purposely chosen for the assembly — ere Dun- mail, finding that, save the watchful sentinels whom he had himself nominated for their respective posts, all had DUNMAIL RAISE. 167 retired to rest, stole forth from his palace in the infant city of Carlisle to see that his plans were efficiently carried into execution. He walked warily towards the earthen ramparts near which his intended victim had been lodged, when suddenly a light, like that from a burning censor, streamed upon his face, and for a moment dazzled his vision, when recovering himself, and looking up, he perceived that he was confronted by a stranger, attired like one of his own guards. He in- stantly accosted the stranger with the watchword which had been communicated to those only admitted to share his secret : — "Dunmail?" "Guonoline," was the ready reply, and the King, satisfied that there was no cause for apprehension, not- withstanding that the person of the soldier was un- known to him, was about to pass on, when the figure more authoritatively interposed : — " Stay King," it said, in tones which betokened a habit of command, " I have sought for thee, and must now be heard." "Thy name?" asked Dunmail. " My business," answered the soldier, " concerns thy crown, thy kingdom, and thy life. The treacherous purpose for which thj' selected guards are arrayed, and thou art here is known to me." " And darest thou, hind, presume to interfere in what thy King has willed?" "For thy sake, for the sake of Guonoline, whom thou would' st betraj- to infamy, and for the sake of Cumbria, the last faint hope of the ancient race of Britain, I would dare the vengeance of more powerful hands and subtler heads than thine." The King put to his mouth a small whistle which depended from his baldrick, and blew a long, shrill 168 DUNMAIL RAISE. blast which, piercing the heavy night air, returned in dull echoes upon the ear. "It is vain to call for aid," resumed the soldier, " thy minions will not step between thee and me, and thou, perforce, shalt list to my mission." There was that in the manner and accents of the stranger which filled Dunmail, King as he was, with a sense of fear and inferiority ; and his arm being at the same moment gently seized, he followed without fur- ther question or resistance to a remote turret, which from its appearance might have been an abandoned watch-tower. All that passed in this lonely chamber was never told : but it was whispered in after years — one knows not how such whispers get into circulation, revealing as they often do the most secret thoughts and acts of men, euch as one never would voluntarily have entrusted to human being — that the King was there reminded of the night when he had sat abandoned and desolate amid the Druid circle on Potter-fell, of the promises he had then made to the fair vision which appeared to him, of his restoration to the throne from which he had been driven, and of the pledge — his life — with which he had bound his vow to follow the counsels of his de- liverer, when his country should resume its independ- ence. The King still hesitating as though in doubt, the stranger returned to him the golden amulet which had been taken from his neck for a sign of his ac- quiescence ; and demanded a final and irrevocable answer to the conditions which had been offered for his acceptance. " Ask — demand anything, but the surrender of Guonoline," said Dunmail. " Why should my king- dom's peace or people's happiness be staked upon the thwarting of every hope or wish that is dear to me ?"' DUNMAIL RAISE. 169 " He that administers the law must himself be clear from the crimes which justice requires him to condemn and punish. This passion must be curbed and cured ; and Guonoline be left at freedom and in purity. Speak King; it is no idle sacrifice that is required from thee." " I cannot subdue in my heart the love that the maiden has inspired." " It will not warm thee in the grave," said the stern soldier. " Nor will the passions which have agonised and maddened me on earth, swell there within my veins," replied the King. "You refuse, then." " Give me but a day for reflection." *' Thou hast had months of meditation, and ere an- other dawn thy foul purposes would be accomplished. Besides other considerations urge for resolve. Decide at once." " I cannot relinquish the idol which I have so long worshipped." "Enough! The token of severeignty upon thy finger — the talisman of thy success — is broken and destroyed, and the throne of Cumbria has departed from the lineage of King Dunmail." Scarcely had this denunciation been uttered ere a shout as from the whole multitude then lodged within the palace or fortified station of Carlisle, arose upon the air, and the sound of armed men hurrying hither and thither, bearing torches and talking in brief and broken sentences, came indistinctlj' and like the echoes of a distant crowd, to murmur through the broken walls. Dunmail was terror-stricken, and, straining his eye-balls to penetrate the gloom, now rendered more palpable around the ruined tower by the flickering of 170 DUNMATL RAISE. small lights, he sought the occasion of the unexpected tumult. There was nothing, however, to indicate what had befallen. He turned for an explanation to his recent monitor; but the stranger had disappeared without noise or sign, and left no trace or note of his having been ever present, save on the memory of the bewildered King. The latter stood aghast with horror and despair for a moment, then rushing forth, soon ascertained that a messenger had just brought in in. telligence of a new descent of the Saxons, who had captured and sacked the town of Kendal, and were preparing again to overrun the kingdom. The mon- arch had been sought in every direction, and, being found, a hasty council was summoned to devise mea- sures to meet the emergency ; but the wassail of the evening was no fit induction to the midnight debate. Ill-concerted plans were adopted — a gathering of the clans of Cumbria was ordered ; and the King disposed his scarcelj'^ willing forces once more to meet the foe. It would be idle to do more than trace the course of events which ended in the overthrow of the last of the British Kingdoms. Dunmail, his mind distracted bj-^ the vision which had warned him of his coming doom, was totally unfitted for the crisis; yet feeling that, though he might fall in the conflict, Ijis people's free- dom might be secured, he made such hasty arrange- ments as he could for vigorous exertion, and advanced across the moors and through the mountain defiles of Cumberland, to offer battle to the host of Edmund. Near the foot of Helvellyn, however, a spot where the mountain rises abruptly, rent as it were from the neighb)Ouring hills by some long-forgotten convulsion of nature, and a narrow pass is formed by the severed rocks, his followers were surprised by a sudden onset of the foe, who having been better informed of his DUNMAIL RAISE. 171 movements than he of theirs, had planted an ambuscade upon the jutting crags, among the ravines and dells, and on the wood-crowned acclivities around, and now descended like a torrent, freed from the obstruction of a winter's frost, to overwhelm and destroy him. The battle was stern and sanguinarj% but it was brief. The King, who lacked neither the pride nor the courage of a hero, fell in the midst of his warriors, sword in hand, and rout and carnage were scattered far and wide through the beautiful pastoral valleys and dales of Westmorland and Cumberland. From end to end the Kingdom was pillaged and despoiled; and when it could yield no more to the ruthless victors, Edmund, the Saxon Monarch, bestowed the crown as a token of amity and a pledge of peace upon his friend and kins- man, Malcolm, King of Scotland. Dunmail himself, and the flower of his chivalry, were buried where they fell, and a huge cairn or heap of stones was raised to honour their manes by the peasants of the surrounding district, who still loved their memory as the last link in the chain of British freedom. This tumulus still exists ; and the herdsmen of the neighbourhood, in whose minds tradition has consecrated the great battle that gave their land to the Saxon, relate, in the long dark evenings of winter, round their cottage firesides, the unhappy love and disastrous end of this misguided Monarch ; and some- times when the wind rages among the rocky hills, and the blinding sleet drives along the ground, it is said that the phantom of the King may yet be seen pur- suing a beautiful maiden, arrayed in white, who ever and anon seems placed within his grasp, but who, as he stretches his hand to seize her, vanishes in a snow wreath. The fate of Guonoline is involved in obscurity. V 172 DUNMAIL RAISE. When the shout arose which announced to the King at Carlisle that his foes had entered his dominion, a stranger — vested like a Druidess — entered her sleeping chamber, and apprizing her of impending danger which demanded instant flight, led her forth, and, placing her on a fleet horse, bade her speed towards the Scottish border. It is believed that she afterwards became the wife of a Celtic Chief beyond the Tweed, and that her descendants still exist among the noblest of the British peerage, — but this our legend saith not for certain. The deeds and end of the true-hearted Leolf deserve a record of their own. (173) LEOLF, THE AYENGER. [At the close of the Legend entitled Bunmail Raise, it was said, " The deeds and end of the true-hearted Leolf deserve a record of their own." The following brief narrative completes the story of that faithful friend and adherent of the " last King of Rocky Cum- berland."] When Dunmail perished at the foot of Helvellyn, he left two sons, Leoline and Hoel, both lads of tender age — too young to renew the struggle which had ended in their father's fall, but still old enough to give un- easiness to the victor, and to form rall3'ing points to such of the conquered Cumbrians as might disdain to bow to the Saxon yoke. These princes it was the first care of Leolf, when he saw that the fortunes of his monarch on the field were irretrievable, to bear away to a place of concealment among the mountains ; hoping to be enabled, ere long, to escape with them to the friendly borders of Strathclyde, whence, on some future opportunity, thej^ might emerge to claim the crown and kingdom which the fate of war had now wrested from their grasp. The Castle of Pendragon, however — remote, secluded, and strong as it was — was no place of security against 174 LEOLF, THE AVENGER. the minions of the remorseless Edmund, who, stealthily tracing the vale of Eden with his iron-clad Saxons, came upon the fortress hefore its inmates were prepared for effective resistance, and capturing the sons of Dun- mail, put out their ej'es in sheer wantonness, and retained them in his court among his buffoons and minstrels, to minister to his pleasures. The cup of affliction which had been forced upon the Britons was full. Some of the inhabitants fled to the fastnesses of Wales ; others sought refuge in Scotland ; a few found means to pass over into Ireland and to Britany, and a remnant accepted the grace of their Saxon lords, and became serfs of the soil in the beautiful valleys which beforetime they had cultivated as freemen and pro- prietors. Leolf, the royal cupbearer, put on the garb of a Saxon, entered into the service of King Edmund, and watched for the moment when, by one stroke, he might avenge his sovereign, his princes and his country. Day by day he wrought in secret to injure the oppressors of his land. Was there a Saxon who needed aid, Leolf would remove from him even the possibility of assist- ance. If disaffection crept into his household, and among his bond- vassals, Leolf would foment the hatred and fury of the conflicting parties, until violence and bloodshed should ensue. The lawless he directed to the homesteads of the wealthy, that their pride might be humbled, and their joj' dashed from their lips. He covertly leagued himself with the daring and desperate, both of his own countrymen and of the Danish and Saxon people, whom discontent or crime urged to defy the laws, or to seek the destruction of the King and his race. And at last, on being detected as the accom- plice of some daring freebooters, who sought to secure the person of the King as he was journeying ffom Car- LEOLF, THE AVENGER. 175 lisle through the forest of Inglewood, he was driven to the woods, and forced to embrace for himself the life of an outlaw. He now formed around him a band of armed Britons, which, increasing from day to day in numbers and prowess, soon spread terror and dismay around the countrj''. The Saxons were nowhere secure but in their fastnesses. Their cattle were driven away, their vas- sals decoyed from their service, their houses and gra- naries fired in the dead of night, and even their castles stormed and sacked in the broad glare of the sun-light. The King, who had returned to the South to exhibit the Trophies of his northern conquest before the eyes of the burghers of London, on hearing of the exploits of Leolf and his companions, was seized with rage and frenzy, and swore never to rest till he had extirpated the unconquerable Cumbrian race. He speedily gathered his forces ; and about the middle of April hastened northwards to put his threats in execution — promulgat- ing his heribaii in every town and district through which he marched, in order to augment his power, by calling to his standard all the chiefs and people who owed him fealty and service, that by their aid his ven- geance might be more signal and complete. In those early times, however, a journey to the North was not accomplished so speedily as it is in these days. There were no roads save those which the Romans had left on their withdrawal from Briton ; and delays took place at everj^ stage in the collection of food and forage : so that it was not till near the end of May that Ed- mund "the Magnificent" had reached the centre of his dominions. At a small town on the borders of Staffordshire he halted on the feast of St. Augustine — the 26th of May — to commemorate the introduction of Christianitv 176 LEOLF, THE AVENGER. among the Anglo-Saxons. Wassail filled his camp on the occasion, and debauchery, for which the Saxons were notorious among nations, and in which the sensual clergy of the period mingled with a zest not inferior to that of the soldiery, constituted the chief source of en- joyment to all. Minstrelsy and rude jesting filled the intervals of what was intended for, and considerd a solemn festival ; and an almost universal licence pre- vailed among the rugged warriors and retainers, who thronged the town. The King, inflated with the pride of his pomp and power, sat upon the throne, which formed part of his baggage in all his expeditions, with one of the sons of Dunmail lying on the rushes at his feet, and forming his regal footstool. The other youth — Prince Leoline — had sunk beneath the tyranny of his task-masters, and left his history a blank. It was a strange, wild scene — magnificently rude and incomprehensible as the spirit-peopled halls of Valhalla, wherein the pirate sea- kings and their followers — notwithstanding the mission and preaching of the good Augustine, were still be- lieved, bj' their semi-barbarous descendants, to hold high carousals, and to drink strong ale and mead from the skulls of their vanquished foes. Suddenly a stranger minstrel arose in the midst of the royal assemblj', and touching the small rustic harp which was slung from his shoulder, swept the strings and drew forth a prelude of surpassing tenderness and harmony. The mirth and revelry were hushed. The jest died on the lips of the bufifoon ; the wine-cups and ale-horns, were replaced upon the rough oaken tables, and all eyes were at once turned upon the musician, who thus commenced his measured hut unrhymed lay :— " I had a dream — a dream of another world. I sat LEOLF, THE AVENGER. 177 at summer's dawn, in the hall where Odin reigns, and saw his chiefs preparing for the reception of those who should be slain in battle. " I aroused the heroes with the tones of mj' harp, and bade them arrange the benches, and prepare the drinking cups for the reception of a king of their own lineage. " ' Whence comes he ?' exclaimed Woden. ' From the Isle of the slaughtered Britons,' I replied. ' 'Tis for Edmund, the proud, the magnificent. Arise, war- riors, and go forth to meet and welcome him.' " * And why,' asked Odin, the powerful, ' should the coming of King Edmund give joy to the dwellers in the land of spirits ?' ' Know ye not,' I exclaimed, ' that he hath stained his sword with blood — with the blood of babes and of women — that the grey hairs of the aged still cling to the heft of his seax, and bear tes- timony to his valour.' " ' Hail to thee — hail to thee, Edmund !' shouted the pirate wraiths aloud. ' Enter, brave warrior, among the host who wear kingly crowns !' " A murmur ran through the crowd, swelling louder and louder as the minstrel proceeded ; and ere he had well concluded bis strain, a hundred dirks were gleam- ing over the table — a hundred angry voices were raised to drown the treasonable song. The King started from his throne inflamed with rage and maddened with wine. He snatched a sword fi'omthethane who sat nearest him, and rushed towards the undaunted minstrel, when his foot-bearer, prince Hoel, springing up, exclaimed in terror, "Touch him not, I conjure you. King ! 'Tis Leolf, my guardian!" "Leolf — the outlaw!" was instantly echoed through the hall, and borne onward with shouts through the gathering crowd without. 178 LEOLF, THE AVENGER. "Aj'e, Leolf the Avenger!" coolly responded the undaunted minstrel ; " come to demand atonement for the blood of his murdered sovereign and kins- men." The chiefs and warriors retreated a few paces from before the bold and resolute Cumbrian, whose prowess had come to be celebrated through the entire length and breadth of the kingdom. " Seize him, and bear him to an instant death of tor- ture," cried Edmund, his eye-balls swollen, and his lips quivering with fury. A Saxon earl advanced to execute the command ; but he was felled with a single blow of the Briton's clenched hand, and lay sprawling in agony among the rushes which covered the floor of earth. None other ventured to brave the wrath of the " robber" — as Leolf was called. The King himself rushed forward to secure the in- truder, and seizing him by his long hair, endeavoured to dash him to the ground. Leolf, however, had more muscular strength and more skill in wrestling than the King ; and Edmund, instead of the outlaw, was over- thrown in the struggle. No one sought to interpose ; for surprise and awe had stricken all the beholders with a kind of stupor ; and, ere they could recover from their surprise, Leolf had drawn forth a dagger — previously concealed in the folds of his plaid— and plunged it, with a loud exulting cry, into the mon- arch's heart. A yell of execration arose from the Saxon throng ; and a moment afterwards, Leolf lay stretched beside his foe, pierced with a hundred wounds from the weapons of the guards and courtiers in the midst of whom his vengeance had been execut- ed. His end, however, was accomplished. Edmund, in the flower of his age, and the spring-tide of his LEOLF, THE AVENGER. 179 power and ambition, had been brought to the grave, and the Avenger could die content with the re- flection that he had saved his country from the desolation veith which it had been threatened; know- ing, as he did, that from the wrath of the imbecile Edred, who was destined to succeed his brother on the Saxon throne, less was to be feared by his enemies than by his friends. Concerning the fate of Prince Hoel, both history and tradition are alike silent. RAWDON BRIGGS LliE, PRINTER, FINKLE-ST., KEXD.VL. UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 875 101 8